#lord of snow and shadows

[mrhappyjavaman]

5 Books

What are five books that you would always recommend? Those you still think about, have re-read multiple times or just absolutely enjoyed and want others to know about as well?

Full list below break because I included cover pictures and it made it long as fuck. I was tagged in this by @cull3nblaze

The Eye of the World by Robert Jordan. I absolutely adore the entire book series. I'm slowly making my way through all of them right now.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

2. The Neverending Story by Michael Ende (or Die unendliche Geschichte for all my German speaking moots). I have loved this book for years. Just something about it always tickles my brain in a good way. (I fully believe that the English Translations use Fantastica as the translation of Phantásien because Disney had already made Fantasia and nobody wanted to get sued)

When it comes to controlling human beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts.

3. Memnoch the Devil by Anne Rice. I absolutely ADORE most of the Vampire Chronicle books (up until Blood Canticle anyways) and Memnoch the Devil is my absolute favourite part. I swear if the Vampire Chronicles TV series gets this far I will die happy if they do a great job of adapting it.

In the beginning, there were stars. And they danced with a million colors, swirling and colliding, creating worlds and endless possibilities.

4. The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien. Tell me, if you know me, are you even remotely shocked that this is on here? Its my absolute favourite books. I love it so much.

I am old, Gandalf. I don't look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed! Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can't be right. I need a change, or something.

5. Lord of Snow and Shadows by Sarah Ash. A book that few of you might actually know but I would highly suggest that everyone read it. Its fantasy but it has a more Eastern European feel to the entire thing. 10/10 would recommend. Its a Trilogy the continues with Prisoner of the Iron Tower, and Children of the Serpent Gate. You should all read these.

No Pressure tagging goes to @no-goodbyes-no-regrets @jamieroyjamieroy @cliophilyra @beanarie @inawickedlittletown and @officialwaterchuck

[ohhhsosleepy]

AVA Secret Gift Exchange!!

Hi @compressedrage , I was your secret gifter >:] I picked your prompt of Chosen and Dark experiencing seasons for the first time. SUPER fun concept and i enjoyed drawing it I unfortunately didnt manage to finish all the pieces before you dropped out <<; very sorry My plan was to create four pieces of art, one for each season. Winter was the one i had most finished

I was actually working on it when i received word youd dropped out LMAO Only other season i have thats even kinda drawn is Summer

Its Chosen and Dark on the couch together. Dark is complaining and miserable because it is TOO HOT and Chosen is icing the couch for him

Autumn was going to be Chosen and Dark walking through a park i think?? Chosen was gonna be eating a leaf (or about to, it featured his pacman mouth) Spring was the one i had the least ideas for, i think chosen was going to be face down napping in the grass and dark was watching a spider build its web I am So Sorry half the gift is missing, turns out hand drawing trees and snow onto those trees is. rather time consuming /lh Still!! I hope you like it

@avagiftexchange thanks for letting me participate :D

[groundrunner100]

Elrond Half-Elven’s Request To Naruto Uzumaki

“Become

who

you

were

born

to

be.���

- Elrond Half-Elven, The Lord of The Rings: The Return of The King (2003).

[whereserpentswalk]

Look under the cut to see what meeting your entity is like. Reblog to give a gift to your patron.

The fae: a creature stands before you. Though this street was warm and crowded a few moments ago it is suddenly cold and the people around you look like shadows. The creature begins an antlered shadow with glowing white eyes, but soon its body can be seem, with white blue flesh, and sapphire eyes, and icicles for teeth. What looks like a cloak unfolds from its naked body and you can see massive white wings of a moth. As if it's an act of sacrifice you tell it your true name, a name you didn't even see before, and suddenly you belong to it, for better or worse.

The angel: a radiant entity appears before you. They're bright, like something so hot it would burn you up. But as the light fades, you can see a person in silver armor, perfect yet inhuman like am ancient green statue, their back srouting six wings with blue eyes along them, as the eyes on their head are covered by a mask of two smaller wings. The creature offers their hands and you shake it, as they fly you through the city streets and above the skyscrapers, to the stars above and dimensions beyond, to gods living and dead, across the streets of alien cities and the clouds of dead worlds. And when you return to the earth you can feel something diffrent about you, like there's light in your blood.

The scavenger: below the lights of skyscrapers beyond you, on the dark sands of the beach, you see it crawling twords you. This serpentine creature with countless legs, and a dark black shell, yet a strangely human like face. You think it'll attack or run away, but it just looks at you, egar, and for a momment you stare at eachother. It's legs pass something to eachother and then to you, it's meat but it's shining with all the colors known to the human eye, and a few more. You hold it and it happily looks at you. You take a bite and suddenly you know... you know so very much...

The vampire: she flies down to you on green wings with orange eyespots, but folds them into her back. She looks like a human for a momment, tall and strong, with a black suit over her body, but eyes the color of ruby. For a momment her mouth opens, and it's massive and monstrous, with countless moving parts and fangs. But then it folds back onto something humanoid and she gives you a playful smirk. She cuts her hand and offers you her blood, and when you drink it it tastes so sweet, and makes you feel so good. She hands you the knife and you know to do the same, and when she drinks from your palm it's life the sweetest of kisses.

The djinn: the room wirs around you. If it were not for the fans it would feel like hellfire. For a momment there it darkness, but then the screen before you glows white like smokeless flame. You can sense something inside, something beyond the code. You reach your hand within it, and there's no glass, your hand passess right through until you're in a white void of your own making. You call out, thinking there is nothing at all around you. Yet somehow something calls back, something that knows your name.

The rat king: You see him in an empty subway station. Something dark and distorted, you're not sure if he's man or animal, covered in rags, and singing in the language of the goblins and the orcs. Yet he comes close to you excited. And you can feel his song. He calls for you to come to the train tracks, and let yourself run with the rats and the roaches, where the train will pass over you when it comes, and you'll live forever. When you touch the third rail you don't die, but you'll never be human again.

The lich: the library is strangely bright. Run by skeletons in suits, decorated with gold. There are more books here then you thought were in all the world. There's knowledge here most mortals will never have the change below, all kept safe below the city. You see her, her body doesn't look human, everything has been replaced making her look more like a joining white doll then a being of flesh. Yet she is dead, you can tell that under the porcelain skin she must be dead, she is dead, and there is the tragedy of death in her eyes. You come closer to her, and she places a black rose within your hair...

The demon: You stand in his office and he stands before you, a humanoid being covered in black scales, with red eyes covering his skin. Yet none are on his head, that remains featureless save for two massive horns. Wings on his back nearly surround you. Countless souls line the walls of his office, looking at you, waiting. After you sign your name you give him yours, you can feel it come away for you forever and your eyes grey and your skin pales. But he puts the jar in a special place for you, you're spacial, he can tell there's something about you that he likes.

The mushroom lord: you walk through the darkness of the forest, the furthest from civilization you have ever been. You come upon a part where the trees all seem dead, that even the cryptids won't go near. Mushrooms fill the ground, and white vein like lines are all over the trees. You feel the need to lay down, and you let the moss and the mushrooms and the worms surround you, and let yourself sink into the soil,, and it feels good. It feels so good...

The witch: You can see them in the Cafe next to you, skinny and small, with a sweatshirt over most of their body, and dark glasses over their eyes. They seem powerful though, and though their body looks young they seem ancient, they seem beyond humanity. You talk to them and they tell you things, and secrets, lost gods, things you never knew you didn't know, both beautiful and disturbing. When it's time for them to go they pet your head, and give you their number. You don't know if you should text them, but you have to, you have to see them again, there's something about them that makes you need to know.

The living clothing: you step into it at first, it looked like a puddle yet shining like silver or chrome. But soon it surrounds you, first just your torso, but soon your head, your entire body. But it doesn't feel scary, it feels like you're being held, held by something beyond your understanding. It whispers to you, and you don't know if you should feel like your being eaten alive, or like you're being protected. You can't help but keep walking.

The abyss: the void is before you, blackness beyond blackness, like the color beyond the field of your vision, stands before your eyes. You stare at it, it's nothing yet you're entranced. It stares back...

[liuisi]

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said: “Who is this who darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Now prepare yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer Me.

Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell Me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements? Surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? To what were its foundations fastened? Or who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Or who shut in the sea with doors, when it burst forth and issued from the womb; when I made the clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band; when I fixed My limit for it, and set bars and doors; when I said, ‘This far you may come, but no farther, And here your proud waves must stop!’

Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place, that it might take hold of the ends of the earth, and the wicked be shaken out of it? It takes on form like clay under a seal, and stands out like a garment. From the wicked their light is withheld, and the upraised arm is broken.

Have you entered the springs of the sea? Or have you walked in search of the depths? Have the gates of death been revealed to you? Or have you seen the doors of the shadow of death? Have you comprehended the breadth of the earth? Tell Me, if you know all this. Where is the way to the dwelling of light? And darkness, where is its place, that you may take it to its territory, that you may know the paths to its home? Do you know it, because you were born then, or because the number of your days is great? Have you entered the treasury of snow, or have you seen the treasury of hail, which I have reserved for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war? By what way is light diffused, or the east wind scattered over the earth?

Who has divided a channel for the overflowing water, or a path for the thunderbolt, to cause it to rain on a land where there is no one, a wilderness in which there is no man; to satisfy the desolate waste, and cause to spring forth the growth of tender grass? Has the rain a father? Or who has begotten the drops of dew? From whose womb comes the ice? And the frost of heaven, who gives it birth? The waters harden like stone, and the surface of the deep is frozen. Can you bind the cluster of the Pleiades, Or loose the belt of Orion? Can you bring out Mazzaroth in its season? Or can you guide the Great Bear with its cubs? Do you know the ordinances of the heavens? Can you set their dominion over the earth?

Can you lift up your voice to the clouds, that an abundance of water may cover you? Can you send out lightnings, that they may go, and say to you, ‘Here we are! ’? Who has put wisdom in the mind? Or who has given understanding to the heart? Who can number the clouds by wisdom? Or who can pour out the bottles of heaven, when the dust hardens in clumps, and the clods cling together? Can you hunt the prey for the lion, or satisfy the appetite of the young lions, When they crouch in their dens, or lurk in their lairs to lie in wait? Who provides food for the raven, when its young ones cry to God, and wander about for lack of food?'

Job 38:1-41

[moonlitstoriess]

Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Initial Rhysand, Eventual Kallias x fem!Reader (2/2)

Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?

See masterlist

Part 1 epilogue

Warnings: none I think

Azriel winnowed them inside the grand entrance hall of the Winter Court’s palace, and the instant her boots touched the icy marble, Y/n felt the air shift. Cold, crisp, and biting—but not in an unwelcoming way. No, it was different from Velaris’ warmth, different from the suffocating tension that had clung to her like a second skin. This was clean. It was fresh. It smelled of snow and pine, of something untouched and unburdened by the weight she had been carrying for weeks.

But her body was still heavy. Exhaustion curled in her bones, her limbs aching from both the winnowing and everything leading up to it.

Azriel set her bag down beside her, his movements careful, precise—as if handling something fragile. Which, she supposed, she was. But she wouldn’t break. She couldn’t break. Not anymore.

Before she could even take in more of her surroundings, a familiar, cool voice broke through the silence.

"Welcome to Winter, Y/n."

Kallias stood a few feet away, dressed in pristine white and silver, his platinum hair gleaming under the grand chandelier’s light. His sharp, glacial blue eyes softened as he took her in, as he noted the weary set of her shoulders, the way she clutched the front of her coat as if holding herself together.

Y/n tried to muster a smile, something resembling a greeting, but all she managed was a tired nod. “Kallias.”

The High Lord of Winter stepped closer, his gaze scanning her as if committing her presence to memory. “You must be exhausted.” It wasn’t a question.

Before she could answer, Azriel’s voice cut through, softer this time. “I’ll be checking up on you.”

She turned to him, the words lingering in the air between them. It wasn’t a warning, wasn’t a demand. Just a quiet promise. She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—gratitude, maybe, or guilt, or just a strange sadness that this moment, this transition, was real.

Still, she nodded. Then, before she could think too hard about it, she took a small step forward and wrapped her arms around Azriel, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Azriel stilled for half a second, then exhaled quietly, his own arms tightening around her in a silent promise.

"Bye, Az."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it made his grip on her tighten. “Take care of yourself, little ghost.”

She let out a quiet breath. He hadn’t called her that in a long time.

He pulled away first, his hazel eyes flickering to Kallias.

A silent conversation passed between them. One that Y/n wasn’t fully privy to but felt in the tense set of Azriel’s jaw, in the unreadable shift in Kallias’ expression. It was an understanding. A warning. A promise.

Then, Kallias broke the silence, his voice cool but edged with something pointed.

“As long as she is with me, she will always be cared for.”

It wasn’t a simple reassurance. It was a statement. A reminder. And perhaps, a veiled jab at the one who had failed her.

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he only nodded, only gave Y/n one last lingering glance before he winnowed away, the shadows swallowing him whole.

And just like that, it was real.

She was here.

Truly, fully here.

Silence stretched between her and Kallias before he exhaled softly. “Are you hungry?”

Y/n hesitated. “I—”

His gaze sharpened slightly, sweeping over her frame. His lips pressed into a frown. “Have they not been feeding you properly there?”

She blinked, startled by the question.

And before she could think of a response, he added, “I can see your collarbones.”

It was true. The months of stress, of sleepless nights and overthinking, had left their mark on her body. She had eaten, of course—but only enough to function. Only enough to get through the days.

But she couldn’t say that.

So she just shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

Kallias’ frown deepened. And then, to her surprise, he reached out, placing a warm, steadying hand on her shoulder. Not forceful, not imposing—just a firm, grounding presence.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re pregnant. Carrying another life, giving your energy to them. Of course, you being well-fed is of the utmost importance.”

She opened her mouth, but he was already picking up her bag. “Come,” he said smoothly. “Let me show you to your rooms personally.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” There was no room for argument.

So she followed.

The halls of the Winter Palace were as grand as she remembered—tall ceilings, intricate carvings of wolves and swirling ice patterns adorning the archways. Everything gleamed in shades of silver, white, and blue, but it wasn’t an unfeeling cold. There was warmth woven into the design, into the soft glow of faelights lining the corridors, into the thick, plush rugs muffling their footsteps.

“You’ve made a few changes since I was last here,” she noted, her voice quiet but steady.

Kallias glanced at her. “Somewhat.”

"Somewhat?" she echoed, raising a brow. "There's an entire new wing on the east side."

His lips twitched slightly. "You noticed."

"I notice everything."

Kallias hummed. “It was necessary. We needed more space.”

Y/n huffed a quiet laugh. "For what? Ice sculptures?"

Kallias chuckled, the sound low, but real. “For expansion. Winter has been growing stronger these past few years.”

Something in the way he said it made her glance at him. “Stronger how?”

He slid a look her way, something amused but serious in his expression. “We’ve been securing better alliances. Strengthening our borders.”

Y/n tilted her head slightly. “So, politics.”

“Politics,” he agreed. Then, after a pause, “Which you’ve never had much patience for.”

She scoffed. "No, I just never had patience for stupidity in politics."

Kallias smirked. “Fair enough.”

A comfortable silence settled between them.

And then, more gently, he added, “You never answered my question.”

She frowned. “Which one?”

“If they were feeding you properly.”

Y/n exhaled, already tired of this conversation. “I ate.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She looked away. “It’s the only one I’m giving.”

A quiet beat.

Then Kallias murmured, “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”

Her breath caught for a moment.

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she focused on the hallway ahead—on the set of ornate doors that Kallias pushed open, revealing her chambers.

The room was beautiful—bathed in soft hues of silver and white, with a fireplace already crackling in the corner. The bed was large, draped in plush blankets that looked like they had been crafted from the softest furs. A seating area was arranged near the balcony doors, the windows opening up to a breathtaking view of the snowy mountains in the distance.

Y/n exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening just a fraction.

Kallias set her bag down by the bed. “If there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask.”

She turned to him. “This is… more than enough. Thank you, Kallias.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave her a small nod. “I’ll send some servants to help you get settled in and bring you food.”

She wanted to argue, to say she could handle it on her own. But the truth was—she didn’t want to. She was tired. So, instead, she just nodded.

Kallias lingered for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he turned toward the door.

“Rest, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “You are safe here.”

And then, with a final glance, he left.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was suffocating her.

The first thing Y/n did after Kallias left was sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The exhaustion in her bones was unbearable, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest. The quiet of Winter was so different from Velaris, from the ever-present hum of the city, the laughter of people she had once called family. Here, there was only silence, save for the distant howl of the wind outside her window.

The room was warm, but she still felt cold.

She had barely unpacked when the servants arrived, bringing trays of food—warm soup, roasted meats, fresh bread. Everything smelled rich and comforting, but the moment she sat at the small table and lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, she set it back down. Her stomach twisted at the thought of eating.

The exhaustion finally won over the overthinking. She stripped out of her clothes, slipped into a nightgown the Winter servants had left for her, and slid under the thick blankets. The mattress was plush, the warmth inviting. Still, it took her a long time to sleep.

When she did, her dreams were filled with shadows and echoes of the past.

The soft sound of footsteps stirred Y/n awake. At first, she barely registered it, the warmth of the blankets anchoring her to the bed, her body still sluggish with exhaustion.

Then came a gentle knock at the door, followed by the quiet creak of it opening.

"Lady Y/n?"

Y/n forced her eyes open, the dim morning light filtering through the frosted windows. A young female stood at the threshold, her hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes bright but cautious.

"I apologize for waking you," the maid said, stepping further into the room. "But I was sent to assist you in getting ready for the day."

Y/n blinked, mind still sluggish from sleep. "Getting ready…?"

The maid offered a small, polite smile. "High Lord Kallias has requested to see you. He wishes to personally show you the palace grounds."

That woke her up.

Y/n sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes.��"Me?" she asked, voice raspy from sleep.

"Yes, my lady."

Y/n stared at the maid, confused. Kallias wanted to show her around? Personally?

Her first instinct was to decline. To stay buried in the warmth of the bed, to avoid whatever this new world was trying to offer her. But then she remembered Azriel’s quiet words before he left.

"Take care of yourself, little ghost."

The thought of him was enough to make her sigh, her reluctance softening just slightly.

"Alright," she murmured.

The maid nodded, moving to help her out of bed. Y/n accepted the assistance, stretching her limbs carefully before allowing the female to guide her toward the dressing screen.

"The High Lord wanted you to be comfortable, so he had clothes prepared for you," the maid said as she unwrapped a fresh set of winter garments.

Y/n hesitated before reaching out to feel the fabric. It was soft, warmer than anything she’d ever worn before, and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves.

"It’s beautiful," she admitted quietly.

"Everything in Winter is made to withstand the cold," the maid explained as she assisted Y/n into the outfit. "And with your condition, the High Lord was adamant that you have only the warmest materials available."

Her condition.

Y/n looked down at her stomach, her hands instinctively brushing over the swell of it. She had almost forgotten—almost.

A child. Rhysand’s child.

Her throat tightened.

"Do you need anything before we leave?" the maid asked gently, sensing the shift in her mood.

Y/n forced herself to breathe, to push those thoughts away. "No," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "I’m ready."

The maid studied her for a moment before nodding and leading her toward the door.

As they stepped into the hall, Y/n found herself exhaling slowly, steadying herself. She could do this. She would do this.

She was nervous, but there was something thrilling about wearing these colors—Kallias's colors. Winter’s colors. She had heard the whispers about how striking she looked in the ensemble, but it was Kallias's reaction that she had been anticipating the most.

As she rounded the corner into the main corridor, her heart fluttered at the sight of Kallias standing by one of the grand arches, his eyes immediately falling on her. He was speaking to a servant, but the moment his gaze landed on her, everything else seemed to fall away.

His lips parted, his jaw tightening for a split second before his eyes widened in clear awe. His posture straightened, and he seemed to forget the conversation altogether as he stepped forward.

Y/n felt her breath catch in her throat, suddenly self-conscious. His gaze was intense, as though he could see straight through the fabric to the very essence of her.

“You look…” Kallias's voice faltered slightly, his words tripping over themselves as he stared at her, clearly taken aback. “You look... breathtaking, Y/n.”

A warmth spread through her chest at the sincerity in his voice. She felt herself flush, the heat in her cheeks rising despite the chill of the palace around them.

“I... thank you,” she murmured, suddenly unsure of what to say. She wanted to dismiss his comment, but his reaction made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for. His gaze was soft but filled with admiration, and it made her feel special, cherished even.

“I’ve seen many dressed in Winter’s colors,” Kallias continued, still a little breathless. “But none wear them like you.”

Y/n smiled at that, feeling a strange giddiness inside her. “I... I’m not sure I’m used to it,” she said, her voice almost shy as she glanced down at the dress.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You wear them with such grace, as though Winter was made for you."

She could feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of his words settling over her like a comforting blanket. It was impossible not to feel seen, truly seen, in that moment.

Before she could respond, Kallias quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Shall we? The palace grounds await."

They stepped outside, and the cool air of Winter immediately wrapped around them. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the sky, their icy touch brushing against Y/n’s cheeks as she walked alongside Kallias. He led her through the sweeping courtyard, the grandeur of the palace laid out before them like a kingdom untouched by time. The air felt still, the only sound being the crunch of their boots in the snow.

"I’m glad to see you settling in," Kallias said, his voice warm but with a subtle edge of concern. "Winter is... different, I know. But I’m glad you chose it as your place of peace."

Y/n glanced at him, her thoughts swirling. “I needed something... quiet. Somewhere to breathe,” she said, her tone soft.

“You’ve come far,” he observed, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "But—" He hesitated, clearly unsure how to continue. "But why Winter? Why not the Night Court?"

Her stomach flipped at the mention of Rhysand, and she quickly deflected. “I think I just needed the distance,” she said, her voice a little sharper than she intended. “Rhysand has a lot on his plate, and I didn’t want to add to that.”

Kallias didn’t press her immediately, but his sharp eyes seemed to catch every tiny change in her expression, every flicker of discomfort. There was a brief silence, and then he changed the subject with a gentleness that surprised her.

“Well,” he said, his voice lighter now, “Winter may be cold, but it has its warmth in unexpected places. Take the ice gardens, for example.” He gestured toward the path ahead, where the glistening, frozen flowers seemed to sparkle like jewels in the sunlight. “The flowers are grown by our people, with care and patience. Something about them... they remind us of the resilience Winter offers.”

Y/n was entranced by the sight. The beauty of the ice flowers seemed to mirror her own thoughts—fragile, yet persistent. “They’re beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

“They are,” Kallias agreed, his smile warming his face. “They remind me of my people. Of how, even in the harshest of winters, we find a way to thrive.”

They continued their walk, moving through the courtyard toward the training grounds. Y/n caught sight of some of Winter’s warriors practicing their skills, each of them moving with disciplined precision. There was a quiet power to them, a strength that seemed almost palpable.

“Winter warriors,” Kallias said, as if reading her thoughts. “They are the heart of our court. They defend these lands with their lives, and they do so without hesitation.”

Y/n watched them for a moment longer, her mind briefly wandering to what it would be like to be part of something so powerful. Her stomach tightened, but she quickly pushed the thought aside.

“They look... strong,” she commented, trying to distract herself.

“They are,” Kallias agreed with a hint of pride in his voice. He glanced at her, his gaze thoughtful. “I respect them deeply. They remind me that strength is not just physical—it's in how we weather the storms, how we carry on.”

As they continued, Kallias showed her more of Winter’s wonders: the grand library, where the ancient texts of Winter’s history were kept, and the quiet nursery, where young children played in the snow, their laughter ringing out like music to Y/n’s ears.

Seeing the children, Y/n’s chest tightened. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to watch her own child—her soon-to-be faeling—play and grow in a world that was, despite its trials, filled with warmth. The thought of their laughter, the innocence of childhood, made her heart swell. But just as quickly, that warmth faltered, a sharp pang of uncertainty twisting in her gut. She thought of the father, and the disappointment that would soon greet their child. The weight of that truth settled heavily in her chest, the lightness of the moment slipping away.

She let out a soft breath, unsure whether she should voice the thoughts swirling in her mind. But Kallias was beside her, his presence reassuring as always.

He caught her gaze and offered a small, knowing smile. "You'll find your peace here, Y/n. You’re not invisible to us. You never will be."

His words struck a chord deep within her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe it.

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as she entered the breakfast room. The space was like something out of a dream—a vision of comfort and warmth amidst the icy landscape. The walls were adorned with intricate ice carvings that seemed to shimmer in the pale light streaming through the large, open windows. The soft, crystalline glow of the snow outside reflected against the glass, casting a cool, blue light throughout the room. Fresh, crisp air drifted in through the open panes, filling the room with the scent of winter—clean, pure, and invigorating.

The centerpiece of the room was an exquisite ice glass table, its surface smooth and glistening. It was shaped in a perfect circle, almost like the moon itself, and it sat near the grand window, offering a panoramic view of the Winter Court's sprawling grounds. Snow-covered trees stretched as far as the eye could see, and the distant mountains were crowned with frost, standing tall and proud in the winter sky. The soft crunch of snow underfoot could be heard in the distance, accompanied by the occasional call of a bird soaring through the crisp morning air.

Kallias stood by the table, his tall figure framed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the coldness of the landscape outside, but it felt so comforting. It was a sanctuary.

Y/n stepped in, eyes wide as she took in the serene beauty of the room. She was still adjusting to being here, still unsure of what to expect. But the peaceful atmosphere seemed to ease her troubled thoughts, if only slightly.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing at Kallias, who had already moved toward the table, preparing to sit down. He looked back at her, his brow slightly raised, as though expecting her to join him.

“Wait… You’re having breakfast with me too?” Y/n asked, her voice betraying a slight edge of surprise.

Kallias paused, a faint expression of confusion crossing his face. “Yes. Why wouldn't I?”

She shrugged slightly, not wanting to delve too much into the strange discomfort she felt about it. "Shouldn’t you have some more important High Lord things to do? I mean... shouldn't you be dealing with other matters? Running a whole court?"

Kallias didn't miss a beat, his smile warm but firm as he cut her off. “My priority is making sure you’re well. You’re pregnant, alone in a new place, and probably in need of some company. Why wouldn't I stay and keep you company?" He gave a small, almost amused chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if the idea of leaving her alone was incomprehensible to him. "I would think this is the least I can do for you.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. She was surprised by how matter-of-fact Kallias was about it—how easily he dismissed her discomfort with something so genuine. She didn’t have an answer for him, but she did feel a pang of something in her chest, something warm that slowly began to ease her wariness.

Before she could say anything further, he spoke again, his voice quieter, softer. “You’ve been through a lot, Y/n. And yes, Rhys isn't here. You may feel lonely, I can imagine. But I won’t leave you alone unless you ask me to.”

The mention of Rhys made something tighten in her chest. Her throat constricted as her mind flashed back to the months before—how his absence had felt like a cold void in her life. His distance, the fact that he had retreated into his "duties" and left her with little more than empty promises.

Kallias was right. She had been lonely, even before coming here. But she couldn’t—no, she shouldn’t—talk about that now. So instead, she just shrugged again, her voice faltering as she spoke, though she didn’t realize it. “Well, no... not really,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the floor, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “He used to... he used to have breakfast with me every morning. But, since my pregnancy... he’s had more important things to do.”

Kallias froze, his hand still hovering near the back of the chair, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes darkened. His expression shifted from curiosity to something harder to define. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and he masked it with a soft, reassuring smile. “More important things...” he repeated, his voice filled with an edge of something she couldn’t quite place.

He stepped forward, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward the table. “Y/n,” he said, his voice low and protective, “you are never an afterthought here. Not by me. You are never a burden or an inconvenience.” His eyes met hers, sincerity written in every word, every glance. “You are a priority. And so is your child.”

Y/n’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest at his words. She had never heard them from Rhys, not since the pregnancy began. She had heard about his ‘important work’ and his ‘obligations.’ She had heard about everything else except her.

Now she knew why.

Kallias pulled out the chair for her, and for a moment, she stood there, uncertain, before taking a seat. The table before her seemed so foreign, but oddly inviting—something about the simplicity of it soothed her in a way she couldn’t explain.

He pushed her chair in gently and moved around to the opposite side, where he seated himself as well. The silence between them felt comfortable, not awkward, and Y/n found herself leaning into it, a small part of her grateful for Kallias' presence.

That little breakfast marked the beginning of a new chapter in Y/n’s life. Her time in the Winter Court, now almost a week into her stay, had transformed from uncertainty to something more comfortable, more familiar. Kallias had seen to it that she was well taken care of. The warmth of the palace, the crisp air outside, and the peaceful surroundings made the months of her pregnancy bearable. Each day felt like a healing step, both physically and emotionally.

Her bump, now at eight months, had grown rounder, more pronounced. It was impossible to ignore, and though it felt heavy at times, there was also a sense of pride that came with carrying this new life inside of her. She was doing this. Alone, yes, but she was doing it. She could handle it. Or at least, she told herself that every morning as she slipped out of bed and prepared for the day.

Kallias had been a constant presence, always checking in on her, offering kind words, and inviting her to walks around the palace grounds. He was thoughtful in a way that made her feel safe, yet distant enough to allow her space when she needed it. He treated her with respect, never prying too much, but always there with a comforting smile when she needed it most.

But beneath the surface of this peaceful life, the nightmares never stopped. They came in waves, uninvited and unwelcome, twisting her mind with their brutality.

Rhysand’s betrayal still haunted her, even here, in this foreign place. There were moments when she would find herself dissociating, her gaze unfocused as her thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t just the constant ache of her loss, but the sudden, unbearable images that would flash before her eyes. Images of that night. Of Rhysand and Feyre in her bedroom, kissing, their bodies pressed together in a way that left no room for doubt. The dream replayed itself in her mind constantly, a sickening reminder of everything that had been ripped away from her.

She would blink, and the memory would vanish as quickly as it appeared, leaving her breathless, her chest tight. She couldn’t escape it. And yet, despite her aching heart, she pretended she was fine. She told herself that she was healing, moving on. Each day with Kallias felt like another layer of protection, a cocoon she’d built around herself to shield her from the past. But deep down, she knew she wasn’t truly healing. She was only pretending, masking the pain.

And Kallias knew. He saw through the facades, though he never asked about the cracks in her armor. His presence was gentle but insistent, like a steady hand on her back, urging her to heal in her own time.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see the wounds.

One night, two weeks into her stay in Winter, she woke again to a nightmare.

The dream began like any other—a vision of Rhysand, of their time together, filled with love, tenderness, and hope. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, whispering promises of forever. She felt the warmth of his lips against hers, the love she had once known. It felt real. It felt like him. And for a moment, she allowed herself to believe in the dream—believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be the way they once were.

But then, as always, it turned. It warped.

His face twisted, his eyes cold. The warmth was gone. The love was gone.

“You’re not my mate, Y/n,” he spat, his voice cutting through her like a blade. “Feyre is. She always has been. So why don’t you just leave?”

Her heart shattered, her chest seizing with an unbearable ache as the words echoed in her mind. Why don’t you just leave?

She woke with a jolt, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. The room was too dark, too quiet, and the only thing that kept her grounded was the soft sound of her own ragged breathing. Her hands trembled as she wiped away the sweat from her forehead, trying to calm her shaking body.

But then, she felt it.

Warm arms—strong, steady—slid around her, pulling her against a solid chest. She froze, her heart racing, a gasp escaping her lips.

“Shh, it’s alright,” a soothing voice whispered, low and calm. “You’re safe.”

Y/n blinked, her thoughts hazy as she tried to make sense of what was happening. It took a moment for the fog to clear, and when it did, she saw him—Kallias, sitting beside her on the bed, his chest bare and his hair mussed from sleep. His worried eyes studied her face, his hands gently brushing the sweat-soaked strands of hair from her forehead.

“What... what are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice shaking as she struggled to regain her bearings.

Kallias didn’t answer her immediately, only pulling her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could absorb the pain she was feeling. His heart beat steadily beneath her ear, a rhythm that she clung to. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, but it wasn’t just physical warmth—there was an emotional depth there that made her want to melt into him.

“I felt your pain,” he murmured, his voice thick with concern. “I heard you calling out... shouting. You’re next to my room, and I couldn’t ignore it.”

Y/n blinked again, trying to process his words, the meaning of them, but her thoughts were foggy. He felt my pain?

But the thought quickly slipped away as she focused on the fact that he was here, now. Holding her. Her breath hitched as she whispered, “I... I’m sorry. What was I shouting? What happened?”

Kallias gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his eyes were still heavy with concern. “You were just shouting ‘no,’” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “That’s all.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but relief flooded her. She hadn’t spoken about Rhys. He didn’t know.

But then, as quickly as the relief came, the memories of the nightmare returned. The cruel words Rhys had spoken—the betrayal, the rejection—tore through her heart again. Her breath caught, and her face crumpled as the tears started to fall. Uncontrollable, heart-wrenching sobs wracked her body as she clung to Kallias, burying her face in his chest.

He didn’t question her. Didn’t ask why she was crying, didn’t ask about Rhys. He just held her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back as she cried. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his strong arms never wavering.

Y/n’s chest shook with the intensity of her grief. It felt as though all the pain she had buried, all the hurt she had held inside, was finally being released. She wasn’t alone in this moment. Kallias was there, and he didn’t demand anything from her—he just was there.

She cried for what felt like hours, the weight of everything too much to carry. And when her sobs finally slowed, when the ache in her chest began to lessen, she pulled away slightly, her eyes red and puffy, her face blotchy.

Kallias’ gaze was soft, his worry still there, but now there was a quiet understanding in his eyes.

“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m here, Y/n. I’m here for you.”

And for the first time in months, she allowed herself to believe it. She allowed herself to believe in the comfort he offered, the tenderness, the care.

For now, it was enough.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/n didn’t feel invisible.

Snow drifted beyond the frost-lined windows of his study, the icy landscape of Winter Court bathed in a soft morning glow. The beauty of it should have brought him the usual sense of peace. Instead, Kallias found himself staring blankly at the papers in front of him, his mind elsewhere.

Or rather—on someone else.

Y/N.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. It had been a week since she arrived. Two weeks of watching her, observing the way she carried herself—like someone who was trying too hard to appear whole. At first glance, she looked well enough, but Kallias had always been perceptive. And Y/N… she was anything but fine.

She had come to Winter alone. Pregnant and alone.

That fact alone unsettled him.

How could Rhysand allow his supposed mate—his pregnant wife—to travel to another court by herself? If it were his mate, his wife, he would never—never—have let her out of his sight, let alone across Prythian.

The first day she arrived, he had noticed it.

Beneath the heavy cloak, beneath the graceful way she moved, something had been… off. She looked uncared for. Not in the sense that she was unkempt, but in the way a male should care for his pregnant beloved—fussing over her, ensuring her comfort, making sure she felt loved.

Kallias had tried to push the thought away. Surely, there was an explanation. Rhysand wasn’t a fool—he had always been a male who protected what was his. Yet, Y/N was here, alone. No messages from Rhysand. No sign of him even worrying about her absence.

Kallias drummed his fingers against the polished wood of his desk.

There were things he wasn’t being told. He could feel it.

And last night had only confirmed his suspicions.

The memory of her nightmare was still fresh in his mind—the frantic pull in his chest that had woken him, the way he had found himself running to her door before he even realized what he was doing. Her shouts, her fear. He had felt it like a blade to the ribs.

And when he found her, drenched in sweat and tears, sobbing into his arms…

His jaw tightened.

It had taken everything in him not to stay. Not to hold her until morning, until he knew for certain she would be all right. But she wasn’t his. She had never been his.

If only she knew.

If only she had ever noticed him properly before.

Kallias let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head at himself. Pathetic. After all these years, the feeling had never truly left, had it? Even when he was barely a young High Lord, he had felt it—that pull toward her, the way she lit up every room she entered. She had been his first quiet longing, his other half, even before he fully understood what it meant. But she had already belonged to someone else.

And now, here she was, in his court, in his home, carrying another male’s child.

Kallias clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He would not make a fool of himself. He would not fail her. She had come here, had chosen his court for her solace. He would be the sanctuary she needed—nothing more.

“Dare I ask what’s making you scowl like that?”

Kallias opened his eyes to find Marek, his second-in-command, watching him with raised brows, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. The male stood across the desk, setting down a stack of reports.

“Nothing,” Kallias said coolly, straightening in his seat.

Marek gave a skeptical hum before sitting in the chair opposite him. “Right. Nothing. Which is why you’ve been glaring at your desk like it personally offended you.” He exhaled, leaning back. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the High Lady of Night, would it?”

Kallias stiffened slightly but kept his face impassive. “She is a guest in my court.”

“She is a pregnant guest in your court,” Marek corrected, studying him. “Alone. Without her partner. Which, frankly, is something I didn’t think I’d ever see.” He shook his head. “Strange, isn’t it? That the great Rhysand would let his beloved travel alone, stay alone—especially now.”

Kallias remained silent, his fingers curling slightly against the desk.

Marek wasn’t wrong.

“That surprises you too, doesn’t it?” Marek pressed, tilting his head.

Kallias exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window before finally speaking. “I won’t pretend to understand the affairs of another court,” he said carefully. “But yes. It is… unexpected.”

Marek studied him for a moment before his lips twitched. “You’ve been softer lately.”

Kallias turned back to him, brows furrowing. “Excuse me?”

Marek smirked, leaning his elbows on the desk. “Since she arrived, you’ve been… different. Softer.” His voice was laced with amusement.

Kallias scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, am I?” Marek drawled. “Because last I checked, you don’t usually look at guests like you’re ready to tear apart whatever put that sadness in their eyes.”

Kallias tensed but masked it with a blank stare. “You’ve had too much wine.”

Marek only chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe I just see what you refuse to admit.”

Kallias gave him a pointed look. “Enough.”

Marek’s smirk widened, but he raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Back to business.” He slid a set of documents across the desk. “The plans for the new army base. You wanted to review the latest designs.”

Kallias exhaled, pushing aside the weight in his chest. “Good. Let’s go over them.”

Marek didn’t say another word on the matter, but the knowing gleam in his eyes remained.

And even as Kallias turned his attention to the documents before him, a single truth echoed in his mind—one he was desperately trying to ignore.

He was getting too close to her.

And he didn’t know if he could stop.

It started during a healer’s visit.

The Winter Court had its own healers, and Kallias, in his quiet, careful way, had made sure that Y/N had regular check-ups. He never pushed too hard, never insisted she take the treatments, but the way he made sure things were taken care of spoke volumes.

Today, he was sitting by the large window of her quarters, papers scattered across the table in front of him, though his attention kept drifting toward her. She hadn’t been feeling her best recently—more tired than usual, more distant—but the sight of him nearby always seemed to soothe her.

The healer, a soft-spoken male named Hesperos, was gentle and methodical in his examination, pressing his warm hands to Y/N’s swollen belly, murmuring soothing words of a spell. The healing magic rippled through her, a cool, peaceful energy.

“The baby is strong. Healthy,” Hesperos said with a smile. Y/N exhaled in relief, her shoulders relaxing.

Kallias, however, didn’t smile. His focus remained unwavering, but something about the way he was sitting, so quietly intense, made Y/N feel as though he was seeing through her. She didn’t know why it felt that way.

She smiled at the healer, her voice soft. “Thank you, Hesperos. I feel much better after every visit.”

Hesperos gave a warm chuckle. “It’s our job to make sure you do, my lady.”

But then, his expression shifted. He blinked, his hands pausing over her stomach. Y/N’s gaze flicked between him and Kallias, her stomach tightening slightly at the sudden tension in the room.

“Is something wrong?” Y/N asked, her voice shaking just a little.

The healer seemed almost uncertain, glancing at her before looking toward Kallias. His gaze lowered, his hands falling back to his sides. “My lady… I need to ask… Have you been under any extreme stress lately? Or emotional strain?”

Y/N blinked, frowning. “Stress?” she echoed, forcing a laugh. “I mean, of course, I’ve been tired lately, but—”

“No, it’s not just the fatigue,” Hesperos interrupted gently. “This is something more than simple exhaustion. I’m detecting some… emotional strain.”

Y/N’s smile faltered, her mind racing. She quickly shook her head, a forced chuckle escaping her lips. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been resting well here. I haven’t been stressed. Everything’s fine.”

But there was a strange, almost skeptical look on Hesperos’s face. He leaned a bit closer, studying her carefully, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “What I’m sensing, it’s the kind of strain we see in those who’ve endured emotional trauma. Perhaps…during or maybe even before the pregnancy?”

A weight settled over her chest. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the room feeling suddenly too small. She could feel Kallias’s eyes on her now, sharp, calculating.

Y/N shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t know how to respond.

The healer, sensing her discomfort, withdrew slightly, his expression sympathetic. “It’s nothing too serious. The baby’s fine. But I would advise you to take some more time to care for your emotional well-being. Take it easy, my lady. Rest, and avoid any unnecessary stress.”

“Of course, of course,” Y/N replied quickly, nodding. “I’ve been resting plenty. I’ll take care of myself.”

Kallias hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved either. He was just staring at her, his jaw clenched, his hands folded on the table, his expression unreadable.

Y/N felt her heart race.

She looked away, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. She forced herself to look calm, to smile. “Nothing, Kallias. It’s nothing.”

But he wasn’t convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “You’re hiding something from me.”

She shifted uncomfortably. Was this it? Was this where it all ended?

“I’m not hiding anything,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “I’m just… I’ve been through a lot, that’s all. And I’m pregnant.” She shrugged. “It’s normal.”

But he was still staring at her. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion.

Finally, he stood up from the chair. The motion was quick, almost as if he’d made a decision. His expression remained unreadable, but Y/N felt the tension in the air.

He walked toward the door without another word.

“Kallias?” Her voice barely broke the silence.

He paused at the door but didn’t turn around.

She didn’t know why, but she found herself standing, moving toward him. The instinct to reach out, to stop him, was stronger than the part of her that told her to stay still.

But before she could take another step, Kallias turned sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And just like that, he left the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving her in a sea of confusion. Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of his sudden departure. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he think she was lying?

Why was he upset?

Y/N stood frozen in place, her heart heavy.

“Why does it feel like he’s mad at me?” she whispered under her breath. “What did I do?”

Her chest tightened with the rush of emotions.

She moved toward the window, staring out at the stark beauty of the Winter landscape, but it wasn’t the frozen scenery that filled her mind. It was him—Kallias’s withdrawn look, his darkened expression, the quiet fury in his eyes.

But maybe he was disgusted by her. Maybe she was too much of a burden. He’d been kind, too kind, and now, with everything she’d been holding inside, she probably had let it slip. He probably didn’t want to be around someone like her.

Just the thought made her stomach turn. She couldn’t hold on to his kindness forever.

Her gaze fell to the door, but just before she could even begin to move towards it, she was stopped by the healer, his expression soft and calm.

“My lady,” he said gently, his eyes full of understanding, “please, you can’t be running around with a belly like that.” He gestured to the comfortable chair by the window, urging her to sit back down. “Rest for now.”

Y/N nodded silently, sinking into the chair with a sigh. She was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally… physically.

But even as she closed her eyes and tried to push away her thoughts of Kallias, her mind kept returning to him. His departure had felt like something more than just irritation.

Was he disgusted by me?

Did he hate me now?

I’ve pushed him too far.

She closed her eyes tight, unable to stop the tears that pricked at her eyelids.

He barely felt himself move as he stormed out of the room.

His mind was spinning, his pulse roaring in his ears like a blizzard. The healer’s words echoed over and over again in his head.

Extreme stress. Emotional strain. Trauma.

And then—before the pregnancy.

Kallias’ hands curled into fists as he raced down the halls of his palace, his heart slamming against his ribs. His thoughts were a whirlwind, pieces snapping together, his worst suspicions solidifying into a devastating truth.

She wasn’t just struggling because of the pregnancy.

She had been suffering long before she ever arrived in Winter.

Kallias knew. He knew.

A growl ripped from his throat as rage flooded his veins. His magic surged, ice crackling at his fingertips as he barely managed to contain the violent storm building within him.

He wouldn’t contain it.

Not this time.

Not when she had been suffering in silence, not when she had been left like this, abandoned and alone, with his child growing inside her while she silently broke apart.

The halls blurred around him as he winnowed in a snap of ice-cold wind, the world bending to his fury.

The wards around the townhouse shattered the moment Kallias appeared.

The sheer force of his arrival cracked the air like a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the house.

Rhysand’s inner circle was gathered in the sitting room, locked in a heated argument, voices overlapping in tension and frustration.

“I can’t believe you—” Mor was snarling at Rhys, her hands clenched at her sides.

“She deserved better than this, Rhys,” Azriel’s voice was colder than night, his wings flaring slightly as he stood rigidly beside Cassian.

Feyre’s voice was tight. “I didn’t—”

“She probably hates us too because of the shit you dragged us into,” Cassian interrupted, his expression dark with disbelief.

And then, in a blink, the argument halted.

Because Kallias was suddenly there.

The moment he appeared, a bitter chill flooded the room, ice creeping along the floor, frost curling at the windows.

Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias launched at him.

“You little bastard.”

The words were venom, spat through clenched teeth, right before Kallias swung.

The impact was sharp, a solid hit to Rhysand’s jaw that sent him stumbling back. Gasps erupted around them—someone shouted Kallias’ name—but he wasn’t done.

Rhys recovered quickly, eyes flashing pure fury, and retaliated, his power snapping through the air as he tackled Kallias.

Fists flew, the sound of their bodies colliding shaking the very walls of the townhouse. Furniture splintered, ice and darkness clashing violently as Kallias slammed Rhys into the floor, his hands around his throat.

“How dare you,” Kallias seethed, his grip tightening. “How fucking dare you.”

Rhys wrenched free, throwing Kallias off him with a burst of raw power. Kallias skidded across the room, but he was already back on his feet, already lunging again—

Cassian and Azriel intervened.

Cassian caught Kallias, hauling him back with an iron grip, barely keeping him restrained. Azriel stood between them, his expression unreadable but watchful, wings flared wide.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Cassian bellowed, struggling to hold Kallias back.

Kallias didn’t answer. His gaze was still locked on Rhys, both of them breathing heavily, murder in their eyes.

Until his gaze shifted.

Feyre.

She was kneeling beside Rhys, her fingers gently brushing over his jaw, her eyes wide, lips parted slightly in concern.

That was all Kallias needed to confirm everything.

His stomach twisted, something cold and ugly settling in his chest.

His muscles tensed, and he shoved Cassian off him.

“When you saved us all from Under the Mountain,” Kallias said, his voice deadly quiet, his cold blue eyes settling on Feyre, “when I gave you a part of my power… I never thought I would ever regret it.”

A muscle ticked in Rhys’ jaw.

Kallias took a slow step forward, gaze flicking back to him.

“But now, standing here, seeing this ugly, pathetic scene before me, I feel nothing but regret. And disgust.”

Silence.

Feyre’s breath hitched, but Kallias ignored it.

His glare returned to Rhys, who still held his furious, defensive stance, though something uneasy flickered across his face.

Kallias bared his teeth. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?” His voice was quieter now, but sharper than shattered ice.

Rhys didn’t answer.

Kallias took another step, his fury rising again.

“If you wanted to break things off, you should’ve done it before putting a child in her. Before making her worry, before leaving her to suffer alone.”

A thick, heavy silence.

Everyone was watching.

Even Amren’s expression was unreadable, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Kallias’ voice rose.

“She has been having episodes where she freezes, clutching her belly and staring into nothing—” He gritted his teeth.“And when I bring her back, when I gently bring her back to the present, do you know what she does?” His laugh was cold. Cruel. “She smiles like nothing happened.”

Rhys’ face remained unreadable.

Kallias’ voice turned into a snarl.

“Do you know she has nightmares every gods-damned night? Almost as if she’s being reminded of your disgusting actions?”

Feyre flinched.

Kallias stepped even closer, furious now.

“And do you know, Rhysand—” His tone was filled with nothing but pure wrath now. “—that she has been doubting herself every moment? She’s been trying to hide it, but it’s killing her. From within.”

Rhys’ expression finally cracked. A flicker of guilt.

Kallias sneered.

And then, his voice dropped into ice-cold steel.

“You better apologize. On your knees.”

His words struck deep, the weight of them suffocating the room.

“Beg for her forgiveness, because you still have a gods-damned faeling on the way, and you best hope you can be a good father—at the very least.”

He took in Rhys’ barely concealed guilt, the tension crushing the room.

And then Kallias turned.

His parting words were quiet, but lethal.

“Because if you aren’t—” he gave one final, piercing glare “—I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your immortal life.”

And with that, he vanished, winnowing away in a gust of frozen wind.

Leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence.

An hour had passed since the healer had left. An hour of pacing, of restless hands wringing together, of her mind spiraling with thoughts she could not untangle.

Kallias was nowhere to be found. She had searched, called his name softly in the empty halls, but there had been no response. And with every passing moment, the worry in her chest grew, coiling tighter and tighter.

So when she finally stepped out of her room, heart pounding, she nearly missed him—almost didn't see him slipping into his own chambers, his hand on the door, about to shut it. But the soft click of her own door opening must have reached him, because he hesitated, head tilting slightly before turning fully to face her.

Their eyes collided.

And the first thing she noticed were the bruises—small but unmistakable wounds marring his otherwise perfect face. Red marks along his jaw. A faint cut near his cheekbone. His lower lip was slightly swollen.

She inhaled sharply.

There was only one being he would have fought like this.

Kallias remained silent, waiting for her reaction, and she sighed as she slowly stepped toward him. His fingers twitched on the door handle, as if torn between shutting himself away or—

The door opened.

Silently.

An unspoken invitation.

Y/N stepped inside, and Kallias shut the door behind her, locking it with a quiet click.

Her gaze flickered around the room—cold and grand, yet undeniably his. The heavy drapes of silver and midnight blue, the dark wooden furniture, the ever-present chill of winter that clung to the air but did not touch her skin. A fire crackled low in the hearth, barely illuminating the carved designs along the high ceiling. It was neat, yet something about it felt untouched. As if no one had lived in it for too long.

When she turned back to him, Kallias was still watching her. Silently. Intently.

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly.

“Do you have any tonics or salves?” she asked, voice softer than she expected.

A slow, almost dazed nod. Then, without a word, he turned and led her toward an adjoining washroom.

She took what she needed—her fingers grazing along the neatly arranged bottles, picking out the ones that would soothe the swelling, heal the cuts. Then, guiding him back to the bedroom, she pressed gently on his chest, urging him to sit at the edge of the bed.

Kallias obeyed.

And when she stepped between his legs, pressing a cloth to his jaw, she felt the way his body stiffened beneath her touch. Not from pain—but from something else entirely.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.

Until finally, she whispered, “I take it you’re aware of the situation now?”

A slow nod. Then, just as softly, he whispered back, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her hand faltered for a second before she resumed dabbing at his jaw.

“What difference would it have made?” she murmured. “You and I… we weren’t that close.”

A mistake.

Because in the next heartbeat, his hand rose—gently but firmly clasping her wrist, halting her movements.

She looked at him, confused, but his grip did not waver.

“If only you ever gave me a chance,” Kallias whispered.

Her breath caught.

“What?”

His eyes burned with something raw, something centuries-old.

“If only you ever looked outside your bubble with Rhysand,” he continued, voice thick with emotion, “and saw me. Saw that I was there for you—heart and soul, every moment, wishing for you to be mine.”

The words slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.

She stepped back, barely registering the cloth slipping from her hands.

“What?” she repeated, disbelieving.

Kallias stood, not letting her distance herself.

“Do you know what a painful feeling it is to watch your mate be in love and carry another male’s child?” His voice cracked—just slightly. But his expression remained steady, unwavering. “To give her heart to him?”

Her mouth parted, but no words came out.

Mate.

He knew.

He knew.

“You knew I was your mate?” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

A sad, almost broken smile touched his lips.

“I’ve known for nearly two hundred years.”

She felt dizzy.

“I felt it the moment I saw you,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower, more vulnerable. “And since then, I always felt you. Every moment. Every breath. During those fifty years under the mountain, I couldn’t feel you through Amarantha’s magic—but my thoughts were with you. Always with you.”

Her eyes burned.

“And after we were free…” He let out a shuddering breath. “You have no idea how overjoyed I was just to feel you through the bond again.”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “The moment I was told you were pregnant, I wasn’t surprised. But I was still in pain. The weeks and months after that were no different.”

Y/N’s lips trembled.

“But that night,” Kallias whispered. “That night I felt great pain coming from you. And the next day, I had my reply sent to you.”

Her breath hitched.

“The night I found them kissing,” she murmured in realization.

His expression darkened, rage flickering across his face before he took a steady breath.

“I tried keeping this a secret,” he admitted. “I tried my best, Y/N. But…” His voice thickened with emotion. “I have already hidden this for two hundred years. I can’t do this anymore.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I understand if you need time to process it all,” he whispered. “But please, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

She didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to respond to this revelation that shattered everything she thought she knew.

“I…” She swallowed hard. “I need time to process. I am… I don’t—I don’t know what to say or do.”

Kallias held her gaze, his eyes filled with something unreadable.

“You don’t need to do anything,” he murmured. “Just be confident in your decision. Whatever it may be.”

She looked away, blinking back the tears.

Then, slowly, she turned toward the door.

She hesitated—just for a moment.

Then left.

And behind her, Kallias stood still in the center of the room, watching her go.

The days passed, but the weight of Kallias’ words did not fade.

If anything, they lingered. Clung to her skin, to her mind, to her soul.

She had not spoken to him about it since that night. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she didn’t know how.

Her mate.

Her mate, and he had known for nearly two hundred years.

She hadn’t known what to do with that information. She still didn’t.

So she had done what she always did. She buried it. She carried on. She let the days slip into nights, avoiding him when she could, enduring the unbearable tension when she couldn’t.

But she felt him everywhere.

Felt him in the way his gaze lingered on her across the dining table. In the way his presence filled the room the second he entered it, like winter itself bending to accommodate his power.

In the way her body, despite her protests, was aware of him.

Kallias, however, did not push.

He did not corner her, did not force her into another conversation about what he had revealed.

But that did not mean the tension between them had lessened. If anything, it had thickened.

And at night, when sleep refused to claim her, her mind would return to him.

How had she never seen it? Never felt it?

The way he looked at her. The way his voice softened ever so slightly when he spoke to her. The way his magic, cool and crisp as fresh snow, had always sought hers.

Rhysand had been her world for so long. She had loved him, given him everything. She had never once thought to look elsewhere.

But now—now, she had to.

And it terrified her.

So when another sleepless night came, when she found herself tossing and turning in her sheets, mind refusing to quiet, she could no longer take it.

A pull.

It tugged at her insides, restless and unrelenting.

She didn’t think. She simply obeyed it.

Throwing back her covers, she slid on a robe over her thin nightgown and padded barefoot out of her room.

The halls were silent, the moonlight casting long shadows along the frost-covered floors.

She didn’t need to wonder where she was going.

She already knew.

Her feet carried her straight to Kallias’ office, the pull within her intensifying the closer she got.

The door was slightly ajar, and when she reached it, she hesitated.

Then, taking a steadying breath, she pushed it open.

He was there.

Sitting behind his grand desk, head buried in documents, the glow of candlelight flickering against his sharp features.

He did not move at first.

But then—he stilled.

As if sensing her.

And when he slowly lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.

The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm.

And that was when she realized—

She had come in wearing only her nightgown and robe.

A thin nightgown.

One that clung to her, that left very little to the imagination.

His gaze ran over her, darkening as it fell to her now prominent belly, before slowly trailing back up to her face.

She swallowed hard, cursing herself.

His voice was quiet, unreadable. “Y/N.”

She forced herself to clear her throat. Forced herself to hold his stare, despite the way it made her entire body feel like it was burning.

“I…” She inhaled deeply. “I came to ask some questions.”

Kallias did not move. Did not look away.

His gaze remained fixed on her, heavy and waiting.

When she did not immediately continue, he arched a single, silver brow.

“Ask them,” he murmured.

She tried to collect her thoughts, tried to remember why she had come here in the first place.

“Why?” she finally breathed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His expression did not shift.

But when she kept going, words spilling from her lips in a desperate attempt to understand—

He cut her off.

Smoothly.

Calmly.

“Do you want the answers or not?”

She stopped mid-sentence, mouth slightly parted.

And then—slowly—she nodded.

Kallias rose from his chair.

Her stomach clenched.

His movements were slow, deliberate, as he stepped around the desk, rounding it towards her.

His eyes never left her.

With each step he took, he answered.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said, voice low, steady, intense, “because you were in love with another. Because I wanted you to choose me for me, not because fate dictated it.”

Another step.

“I didn’t tell you,” he continued, “because I saw the way you looked at him. And I knew you never looked at me the same.”

Another step.

Closer.

Her breath hitched, but she did not move.

By the time he stopped, they were chest to chest.

She was close enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold magic always humming beneath his skin.

Her heart pounded.

And when her gaze—without her permission—dropped to his lips, Kallias’ jaw tightened.

“Stop tempting me,” he murmured.

Her breath came unevenly.

“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered.

A low, quiet growl.

“Your existence is enough to tempt me,” he said, his voice raw. “Everything you do. Everything you wear. It tempts me.”

She didn’t know what came over her.

Perhaps it was the way his voice had turned rough, husky.

Perhaps it was the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if restraining themselves from reaching for her.

Perhaps it was the way her own body reacted to him, to his closeness, to the sheer, undeniable pull between them.

An urge.

A reckless, uncontrollable urge to kiss him.

Her fingers twitched.

Her breath mingled with his.

His hands fisted at his sides.

But instead—

Instead, she ran.

She took a sharp step back, nearly stumbling over herself as she turned away and hurried out of the room.

She did not stop.

Not when she reached her chambers.

Not when she collapsed onto her bed, heart racing, skin burning.

She did not stop.

But she cursed herself the entire time.

A month.

It had been a month since she had arrived in Winter.

A month since she had learned the truth.

A month since her world had shifted beneath her feet.

And now—

Now, she was nine months pregnant.

Due any day.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her swollen belly as she gazed across the gardens of ice and snow.

It was breathtaking. A masterpiece of nature and magic intertwined.

Frozen roses glistened beneath the pale sunlight. Delicate trees, their branches coated in frost, stood tall against the clear blue sky. The air was crisp, biting against her skin, but she welcomed the cold.

It grounded her.

Unlike her thoughts. Unlike the turmoil that had been storming within her since that night in Kallias’ office.

Since she had nearly kissed him.

Since she had run.

She had avoided him even more after that. Refused to be alone with him. Refused to give him the chance to speak to her about what had happened.

But it hadn’t stopped her from feeling him.

Hadn’t stopped her from being aware of him every time he was near.

Hadn’t stopped the dreams.

The ones where his voice, husky and low, whispered to her in the darkness.

Where his hands, warm despite his magic, held her.

Where his lips—

She exhaled sharply, cutting off the thought before it could fully form.

No.

No, she wouldn’t think of that.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she focused on the silence around her. The stillness. The temporary peace that came with the gardens.

Until—

She felt it.

Him.

His presence.

A familiar, steady weight pressing against her senses.

The air seemed to shift, thickening with something unspoken.

And then—

Slow, measured steps against the snow.

She knew it was him before she even turned.

And when she did—

Her breath caught.

Kallias strolled into the gardens with an effortless grace that only he possessed.

His white hair gleamed beneath the sun, tousled just enough to make her wonder if he had run a hand through it in frustration. His sharp jawline was dusted with the barest hint of stubble, making him look unfairly handsome.

He was dressed in his usual pristine attire, the elegant fabric emphasizing his powerful frame.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that made her heart stutter.

It was his eyes.

Icy blue, watching her softly.

Unwavering.

She turned away immediately, forcing herself to focus on the frozen roses once more.

She wouldn’t do this.

Wouldn’t stand here and pretend her body didn’t react to his presence.

Wouldn’t pretend her heart didn’t ache with confusion every time she looked at him.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She tried to leave.

But the moment she took a step forward, his voice—deep, steady, commanding—cut through the air.

"You can't keep running away from everything."

She froze.

Slowly, she turned to face him, her hands tightening around the edges of her robe.

Her lips curled slightly. "I can try."

His expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes.

A mixture of exasperation. And something else. Something deeper.

"You are impossibly stubborn," he murmured, stepping closer.

"And you are impossibly persistent," she shot back, lifting her chin.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "It seems we have that in common, then."

She pressed her lips together, unsure how to respond.

Kallias took another step, his gaze sweeping over her face, then down to her belly.

She expected him to stop there, but his eyes softened—so much it nearly hurt to look at.

"You're due any day now," he murmured.

Her throat tightened. "I know."

Another step.

Closer.

"Are you well?" he asked, voice quieter. "Do you need anything?"

The sincerity in his voice, in his concern, made her pulse stammer.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at her for weeks.

"Why do you care?"

Kallias blinked.

His brows furrowed slightly, as if the question confused him.

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

"The faeling," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you care for my baby when you know they are from another male?"

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

Kallias’ expression softened in a way she had never seen before.

Slowly, he stepped closer.

And before she could move, before she could stop him—

He gently grasped her arms.

His touch was careful. Warm.

And when he spoke, his voice was so quiet, so reverent, that she could hardly breathe.

"Because it is not the baby’s fault to have such a father."

Her chest tightened.

"Because none of this is their fault."

Her vision blurred.

"Because they are yours. And that is all that matters to me."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

Something inside her cracked.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

Kallias’ fingers twitched against her arms.

And then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached up and brushed the tear away with the back of his knuckles.

The touch was light. Barely there.

But it made her stomach flip nonetheless.

She parted her lips, wanting to say something—anything—when—

A throat cleared.

Both of them stiffened.

The moment shattered.

Y/N turned her head—and felt the breath get knocked from her lungs.

Behind the servant standing in the archway of the gardens—

Stood Rhysand.

Her heart stopped.

The servant bowed slightly before addressing Kallias.

"High Lord Rhysand of Night, Your Grace."

The moment the words left the servant’s mouth, Kallias went utterly, dangerously still.

Y/N barely had time to react before Kallias’ arm pressed lightly against her, a silent yet firm movement as he pushed her behind him.

As if shielding her.

As if Rhys was a threat.

Her lips parted, her entire body locking in place as Kallias stepped forward, dismissing the servant without even looking at him.

Rhysand’s violet eyes flickered between them.

Between her.

Between Kallias.

Between where Kallias had moved to shield her.

And in that moment—

In that heartbeat of silence—

She knew.

Everything was about to change.

The air was thick with tension.

Y/N barely breathed as she peeked out from behind Kallias' broad frame, her heart hammering.

Rhysand stood just beyond them, his violet eyes unreadable, his wings tucked in tight, his hands flexing at his sides.

But she saw it.

The hesitation.

The hurt.

The way his gaze flickered—between her, between Kallias, between the space Kallias had deliberately placed between them. Between the connection he clearly saw.

He swallowed, composing himself with a slow inhale before exhaling heavily, his face blanking out.

Finally, he spoke.

"May we…" His voice was quieter than she expected, rough.

A pause.

A hesitation.

He sighed before trying again, voice steadier, though there was something raw beneath it.

"May we have a talk?"

Y/N sucked in a breath.

She felt Kallias tense beside her, his body a solid wall of unwavering strength. His eyes never left Rhys, cold and sharp as ice, watching every move the High Lord of Night made.

But he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t argue when she stepped forward, gently brushing past him.

Still, before she moved completely out of his reach, she turned.

A small, real smile—one just for him.

"Don’t worry," she murmured, holding his gaze. "I need this."

Kallias’ icy blue eyes softened.

A barely-there nod. Understanding.

"I will be nearby," he promised, voice quiet.

But when he turned to Rhys, his gaze hardened, a silent death glare that sent a chill through the air.

Y/N ignored it.

Instead, she led Rhysand a little further away, her posture shifting.

Gone was the hesitance, the uncertainty.

The second she turned to face him again, her entire demeanor changed.

Her voice was sharp. Cold.

"Talk."

Rhysand exhaled, his expression twisting as if it physically pained him to begin.

But he did.

From the start.

From Under the Mountain.

From the moment Amarantha had taken him, from the moment he had felt something shifting deep in his soul, long before Feyre had even arrived to save them.

How he had suspected Feyre was his mate before she had even set foot in that cursed place.

How the bond had begun pulling at him, whispering, nudging, long before she had even known him.

How, during every trial Feyre endured, during every moment of her suffering, his instincts screamed at him—protect her, protect her, protect her.

How, by the time she had finally saved them all, finally broken the curse—

"By then," he murmured, his voice nearly shaking, "I already felt the bond snap into place for me."

Y/N stilled.

A cold, hollow silence stretched between them.

Rhys swallowed.

"So when I arrived back home—to you. To Mor. I already knew."

A sharp, bitter laugh left her lips.

Of course.

Of course.

Her heart clenched, but she smiled—a twisted, cold thing.

"I should’ve known."

Rhys flinched.

"Because you weren’t yourself from the moment you came back."

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop.

"Always hesitating to touch me. Always distracted. Always—" She let out another humorless laugh, shaking her head. "I’m surprised I’m even pregnant right now."

Rhys’ jaw clenched, shame clouding his features.

"Y/N—"

"Save it," she snapped.

But he didn’t stop.

He explained everything.

Why he kept disappearing at night.

Why he had been gone for days at a time.

How, when Feyre and Tamlin were about to be wed, the bond had pulled him to her so strongly that he had to interfere—had to take her.

How he had been with her every time he was not with Y/N.

And how he had hidden it.

Lied.

Made her doubt herself.

Her hands curled into fists.

Her voice was softer when she spoke next, but it was far colder.

"All this time," she murmured.

Rhys stilled.

"All this time," she repeated, her voice shaking just slightly, "I had eyes only for you."

Her breath hitched.

"And yet—"

She met his gaze, let him see the truth in her eyes.

"Kallias has been my true mate all along."

Rhysand froze.

His entire body went rigid.

"What?"

A small, cruel smile touched her lips.

"You heard me."

Rhys shook his head slightly, as if trying to process it.

As if he hadn’t even considered it.

"Kallias is my mate," she continued, voice firm.

And this time, she felt it—the truth of the words, settling into her very bones.

Rhys looked… devastated.

"I—" He faltered.

But she didn’t care.

"I understand," she said, voice cold, "that Feyre is your mate."

Her fingers clenched at her sides.

"Because now that I have found my mate—" Her voice wavered. "I know what it feels like."

Rhys opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"But hiding it?" Her eyes burned. "Making me doubt myself? Hate myself? Making me feel like I was losing you because of something I did?"

Her voice cracked.

"I won’t ever forgive you for that."

Rhysand flinched as if struck.

But she wasn’t done.

"But we have a child together."

His gaze snapped to hers.

"At least tell me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that you will be a good father to them."

Rhys’ lips parted, his expression crumbling.

"Of course," he breathed, "of course, I will—"

But before he could finish, before he could even take a step forward—

Y/N gasped.

Pain. Sharp and sudden.

She clutched her stomach.

Her knees nearly buckled.

"My—" She gasped again, her body tensing.

Rhys’ eyes went wide.

"Y/N?"

"My water—" Her breath hitched. "The baby—the baby is coming!"

Chaos erupted.

Before she could even register what was happening, Kallias was there.

Instant. Immediate.

Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias shoved him aside, reaching for her.

"I’ve got you," Kallias murmured, his arms strong as he lifted her effortlessly into his hold.

She barely registered Rhys following as Kallias carried her inside, barking orders.

Midwives. Midwives were summoned at once, servants scrambling.

She clung to Kallias, her breath sharp, her body burning as the contractions began to intensify.

"I’m here," Kallias murmured against her forehead.

Her vision blurred.

"You’re not alone, starlight."

Rhys followed.

Kallias did not acknowledge him.

Not as he carried her into her chambers.

Not as he lowered her onto the prepared bed.

Not as he whispered, over and over, words only meant for her.

Words of comfort.

Words of devotion.

Words that Rhysand would never say again.

The room was dimly lit, the scent of lavender and fresh linens thick in the air as Y/N lay on the soft sheets, utterly exhausted. But despite the ache in her body, despite the whirlwind of emotions that had led up to this moment, her heart was full—because in her arms lay a tiny, fragile miracle.

Her daughter.

She traced the baby’s delicate features, her small nose, her plump little lips, the faintest dusting of dark lashes against rosy cheeks. She was warm, impossibly tiny, and perfect.

Rhysand sat in the chair beside the bed, unusually silent. He had not left. He had not even tried to. Instead, he was staring at their child with something so raw in his expression that, for the first time in a long while, Y/N saw him not as her betrayer but as a father.

“She has your nose,” Rhys murmured after a long pause, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and emotion.

Y/N huffed softly, tilting her head. “But your lips,” she countered, smoothing a thumb over the baby’s pout.

Rhys gave a small, breathless chuckle, his violet eyes bright as he leaned in just a little closer. “And your cheeks. She’s going to be so beautiful, just like her mother.”

For a fleeting second, a warm, nostalgic peace settled between them. An understanding. An unspoken acknowledgment of the life they had created together.

Then Y/N’s expression hardened. “Now that you have a daughter, you better pray she never meets a male like you.”

Rhys inhaled sharply, clearly stung. But instead of responding with guilt, his lips pressed into a determined line, his violet eyes flashing with something fiercely protective. “I would kill any male who ever hurt my princess.” He softened immediately after, gently extending his hands. “May I?”

Y/N hesitated but eventually nodded. She watched as Rhys cradled their daughter in his arms, his touch reverent, as if he were holding something sacred.

He was utterly enchanted, whispering soft words to the little girl, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead. And for a moment, Y/N could see the father he was meant to be—the father he would be.

But she could not let that soften her resolve.

“I believe by now you know,” she murmured, folding her hands over her lap, “that I will be staying here permanently. With my mate.”

Rhys visibly tensed. His gaze flickered to her, pain swimming in his violet eyes. “Y/N…”

She shook her head, unwilling to hear whatever argument he might have.

Instead, Rhys exhaled sharply, adjusting the baby in his arms. “When she comes to Velaris, you too—”

“Not now.” Y/N cut him off, her voice firm. “I won’t be coming anytime soon.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it down.

Y/N, however, turned her full attention back to her baby, brushing a finger over her tiny fingers, smiling as they wrapped around hers. In a playful, sing-song voice, she cooed, “But Uncles Cas and Az, and Aunties Mor and Amren—they are always welcome here, aren’t they? Yes, they are.”

Rhys sucked in a slow breath. She saw the way it gutted him, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. But he nodded. “Of course.”

They spoke a little longer, quietly agreeing on how they would co-parent, what would be best for the child. But when Rhys finally murmured, “Y/N… I am so sorry. And Feyre is also—”

She didn’t let him finish.

“Save it,” she said coldly, her gaze snapping back to his. “You may leave now. You saw the baby. Come back tomorrow, if you will. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

Rhys looked like he had a thousand more things to say, but he only nodded slowly, gently placing the baby back in Y/N’s arms before standing. He hesitated at the door.

“Call Kallias in,” she ordered, her voice unrelenting.

Rhys turned to leave without another word.

And the moment Kallias entered the room, Y/N’s body instinctively relaxed.

He was by her side in an instant, his ice-blue eyes full of nothing but love as he settled beside her, tucking a strand of damp hair from her face.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, gazing down at the baby. “Just like her mother.”

Y/N exhaled a soft laugh, her lips curving up. And as she looked at him, at his pure, unwavering devotion, she felt a shift deep within herself. A warmth. A certainty.

“I accept,” she whispered.

Kallias stilled, his brows drawing together slightly.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I accept you as my mate, Kal. And I’m so sorry I never paid you the attention you deserved before.”

Kallias blinked, stunned for only a second before his expression softened into something radiant, something home. He reached for her free hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love,” he murmured, cradling both her and their child in his arms. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but for the first time in months, it was not from pain.

Kallias leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss to her lips. It was slow, lingering, full of unspoken promises.

When he pulled away, he smirked, his thumb tracing circles along the back of her hand. “Get well soon, my beautiful High Lady. I have a coronation to plan for you.”

Y/N let out a disbelieving laugh.“You seriously would do that?”

He only grinned. “You deserve it. The Night Court never deserved you.”

Y/N’s heart clenched, and she leaned into him as he cocooned her and their daughter in his arms.

Kallias pressed another kiss to her temple and whispered, “But before that… our mating ceremony.”

Y/N giggled softly, curling into him.

Home.

She had finally found home.

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[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (1/4) | MV33

summary : You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

wc : 13k

an : this took.. a while ☹️ anyway

For as long as you could remember, you had been engaged to Max Emilian, scion of House Verstappen.

On paper, it was a triumphant match, a union to secure your house's fortunes for generations. To be betrothed to the son of a duke was a dream most could only aspire to.

Yet, no one envied House Button’s lovely heiress.

Instead, the court pitied you.

Jos Verstappen, your future father-in-law and Duke of the North, was a name steeped in infamy. Known as the Butcher of the North, his reputation was as frigid and cruel as the land he ruled. Whispers of his war crimes haunted corridors, and songs of lament cursed his name in taverns.

To marry into such a legacy meant tying yourself to shadows you could never escape.

But duty had bound you to this path as tightly as the chill of the northern wind now clung to your skin.

Raised to bridge alliances and strengthen bonds, you had no illusions about the weight of your role.

Now, you stood before the towering iron gates of the Verstappen estate, carriage behind you, your wool cloak and one of your knight’s heavy coats offered little respite from the North’s unforgiving cold.

“Keep your chin up, my lady,” Lily murmured beside you, adjusting the trunk she carried, her voice nearly drowned by the howling wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the frost, and her attempts at reassurance felt as thin as your cloak.

You nodded mutely, clenching your chattering teeth. Complaining about her poor preparation, or your shared underestimation of the northern winter, would achieve little.

The gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.

The fortress-like walls loomed high, their grey stone stark against the snow-laden landscape. Narrow windows glinted like ice shards under the weak winter sun.

Smoke curled lazily from the distant stables, a muted sign of life in an otherwise bleak expanse.

“Cheerful place,” Lando muttered behind you, his voice dry. He pulled his hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind.

“More like a tomb,” Oscar replied, tone low. His eyes scanned the walls warily, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the threshold of the estate, you were greeted by a cavernous main hall that carried little more warmth than the outdoors. Though a fire crackled at one end, its heat barely touched the far corners of the room.

The scent of pine mingled with the cold tang of iron, likely from the spiked chandelier that loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Presenting Lady (Y/N) of House Button,” the steward announced, his voice echoing up the vaulted ceilings.

The words washed over you, irrelevant compared to your struggle to stop trembling. The knight closest to you, Oscar, shifted closer, his presence a silent bulwark, but you scarcely noticed.

A figure descended the grand staircase, drawing your attention despite the icy haze clouding your mind.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

He moved with a grace that could only be borne from years of court presence, strides measured and deliberate yet still managing to not look stiff.

Pale hair neatly combed, save for a few strands that fell across his forehead, softening the otherwise hard edges of his face. His broad shoulders were draped in a heavy black coat lined with fur, swallowing what little light the room offered.

You had heard tales of him: a skilled warrior, an even better horseman, and a temper so fierce people began claiming the Verstappen rage was a hereditary trait.

His eyes fell on you then, surprise flickering across his face before being quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and the unmistakable air of annoyance.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold enough to make you flinch.

You stiffened, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Was that usually how the Northern Lords greeted their betrothed?

Max’s eyes roved over you, taking in your trembling form, pale cheeks, and the inadequate cloak clutched around your shoulders.

His frown deepened, and he turned sharply toward your knights, his expression hardening.

“Why in the seven hells is she dressed like this?” he demanded.

Sir Lando bristled but maintained his composure. “My lady insisted, Lord Verstappen, that we keep ourselves alive. We offered additional layers-”

“She’s half-frozen. Who cares if you're alive if your Lady is dead?” Max cut him off, already shrugging out of his own coat.

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist you were fine, but before you could utter a word, he was draping the fur-lined garment over your shoulders.

The residual warmth from his body enveloped you, burying you under the scent of pine and leather.

“Your stubbornness will kill you,” he muttered, crouching slightly to adjust the coat. His tone was still sharp, but his hands were steady and careful as they brushed over you.

You glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, her eyes darting between you and Max. “Fetch tea,” Max ordered, voice brooking no argument.

She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to take orders from a person who was decidedly not her Lady, but a sharp look from him sent her scurrying away.

Max turned back to you, his expression unreadable as his hand brushed over your elbow, guiding you forward. “Sit,” he gestured to the high-backed chair closest to the hearth.

You sank into the seat gratefully, abandoning the appearance of grace in lieu of the warmth of the fire and the heavy coat easing the worst of your shivers.

Max crouched before you, his face illuminated by the flickering light. “You were standing in the cold far too long,” he said, softer now as though talking to an injured bird.

“I didn’t realize…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Max’s lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. “Not even when you were shivering like a leaf?”

He leaned back, regarding you for a moment before adding, “The North will swallow you whole.”

His words should have stung, but you found it hard to be insulted for there was no malice in them, only a hint of amusement.

The tea arrived swiftly, Lily handing it to you with a pinched expression, steam curling from the delicate porcelain as if reluctant to break the stillness of the hall.

You wrapped your frozen fingers around the cup, savoring the way the heat kissed your skin, thawing the numbness in your fingers.

Max walked to stand a few paces away, matching your knight and maid's distance, watching you with a detached sort of interest, his arms still crossed over his chest.

The flickering firelight carved sharp angles along his face, illuminating the high cut of his cheekbones and the stern set of his jaw.

“You look better now.” His voice was quieter this time. “At least you have some color in you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a kindness or merely an observation, but you offered a polite nod regardless.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Max will do.”

The correction startled you. Men of his station, sons of dukes especially, rarely made such allowances. Betrothed or not.

“As you wish… Max.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly.

“I imagine you have questions.”

Of course, you did.

Too many, and yet none seemed appropriate to ask.

You had spent years preparing for this union in theory, but now that you were standing on the threshold of it, the rehearsed words died in your throat.

“Only a few,” you said carefully.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Then ask.”

You hesitated. “Your father… the Duke… is he here?”

Max’s expression cooled.

“No. My father is at the border fortresses, inspecting the garrisons. He will return before the winter feast to welcome you.”

Relief and dread tangled in your chest. It was a reprieve not to face Duke Jos immediately, but you knew it was temporary at best.

“And your father will be joining us soon enough as well, won’t he?” Max’s tone was unreadable, though something sharp glinted beneath it.

You nodded. “Yes. My father will come north after his duties are finished. To meet with the Duke and… formalize the engagement.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue. This visit wasn’t just a quiet retreat to adjust to your future home. It was a public commitment. Before long, the entire North would know you belonged to him.

You dreaded what that would do to your public image.

Max’s jaw tightened although his expression remained carefully distant. “Of course.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the cold stone hall.

“You’ll find the North is not like the South. Comfort is scarce, and the people scarcer. They will not warm to you easily.”

His words felt more like a warning than a courtesy.

“I don’t expect them to.”

That seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he had been expecting you to be one of those Southern ladies that demanded everyone to bend over backwards for their comfort.

His eyes flicked back to you, studying you in a way that made you want to shrink under his coat.

“Good.”

The fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks upward. Max tilted his head toward it, the flicker of light catching in his pale hair.

“You’ll need to adjust quickly. My father won’t tolerate weakness in his house.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened.

“I won’t coddle you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t. But the way he said it made your stomach twist.

Still, you straightened your spine. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

A tense silence settled again, though this time, it felt more contemplative than cold.

Max’s gaze drifted from you to the door behind you.

“You must be tired from the journey. I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

“I thought we would stay in the west wing,” you said, recalling the arrangements made in the letters exchanged between your families.

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“The west wing is being repaired. Storm damage. You’ll stay closer to the main hall until it’s finished.”

It was a small thing, perhaps, yet it unsettled you.

The west wing was meant to be yours. A space to adjust quietly, away from the imposing grandeur of the estate.

Now, you were being denied that distance.

But what could you do? Refuse? Argue?

“Very well,” you said softly.

Max nodded once then turned to the waiting steward.

“Have the rooms near the library prepared. And make sure the fires are lit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oscar and Lando approached then, boots scuffing against the stone floor as they stopped just shy of your side.

Their eyes darted toward you, assessing your posture, searching for some silent confirmation that you were unharmed.

You gave them a small nod, and the tension in Oscar’s broad shoulders seemed to ease, though Lando’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a spring.

Max’s sharp gaze swept over the two knights, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly calculating.

“Your people will stay nearby,” he said, his voice firm but unhurried. “Your maid is not to wander without escort. Your men may walk around but not too far from the fortress. I'd rather not deal with the politics of a Southern knight dying in my land.”

Lily bristled at the casual remark, her cheeks coloring with indignation. “We Southerners aren't as fragile as you seem to think,” she said sharply, her words cutting the silence like a knife.

“Lily,” Oscar said quietly, catching her arm before she could step forward. His grip was gentle but firm, head shaking in a silent plea for restraint.

Max didn’t even flinch at her outburst, his cool demeanor unwavering as his gaze flicked back to you.

“Your people are bold.” His tone was tinged with something akin to amusement. “Let’s hope they’re wise enough to temper it.”

“They’re loyal,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I wouldn’t have brought them otherwise.”

“Loyalty is admirable but it doesn’t mean much if it gets you killed.”

Lando shifted beside you, jaw tight. “With all due respect, my lord,” he began without much respect at all. “We’re more than capable of keeping her safe.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Max’s gaze settled on Lando. “But I’ve seen capable men bleed out on these stones for lesser causes. My rules are for your protection as much as mine.”

Lando’s grip on his sword tightened, but Oscar’s hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“We’ll abide by your rules,” Oscar confirmed, voice calm.

“Good.” Max turned back to you. “Come. I’ll show you the library. You should know where it is if you’re to live here.”

The offer caught you off guard. The scion of House Verstappen switched conversations so casually he seemed to slap you with his casualness.

“The library?”

“You can’t spend all your time staring at the snow,” Max replied evenly, though there was a faint lilt to his words.

Was that… humor? It was hard to tell with him.

“Well..” You tugged your coat tighter. “It is very captivating snow.”

Max’s brow arched. “And yet, I think you’ll survive without it for an hour.”

You blinked, taken aback by the dry remark.

Was he… teasing you?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, you rose from your chair, trailing behind as he turned and strode toward the door.

You glanced at your companions, giving them a small and, hopefully, reassuring smile before stepping forward to follow Max.

Max’s pace was long, purposeful, and you found yourself scrambling to keep up without looking breathless.

(You decidedly ignored Sir Lando's small snort of laughter.)

The manor was a labyrinth of cold stone and dim corridors, the walls lined with tapestries dulled by age.

Shadows flickered where sparse torches burned, giving the place a haunted sort of stillness.

You found it hard to ever imagine yourself calling this place home.

Max moved through the halls like someone who had been shaped by this place, his presence carved into the very bones of the estate.

His stride was confident, measured, purposeful.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider, a stranger, each step heavy on the cold stone floor.

Finally, Max stopped before a pair of massive oak doors, their wood darkened with age. He didn’t look back at you as he spoke, his voice low, but managing to carry through the quiet hall.

“Your men stay outside. Your maid may enter,” he said, the command clear.

Your knights exchanged a brief look.

Lando’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly less than thrilled with the command. He let out a sigh, posture straightening with a resigned huff.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he moved to one side of the door, giving a theatrical bow as though he were playing a part in some grand performance.

Oscar shook his head but followed suit, taking his place at the other side, hands clasped with a more restrained expression.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, dripping with mock sweetness. “Enjoy the library, my Lady. Try not to get too lost in there.”

You laughed, unable to contain yourself and bid them a silent goodbye.

Without another word, he pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and led you and Lily inside.

The library was vast and dim, lined wall-to-wall with shelves that stretched high into the shadows above.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow, arched windows, painting the room in shades of gold and gray.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling your senses.

“It’s beautiful…” you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

“It is,” Max replied, stepping farther into the room. “And it’s yours to use as I allow while you’re here.”

You followed him in, your fingers brushing the spines of the books closest to you. They were thick and heavy, their titles embossed in faded gold.

“Are these… first editions?” you asked, your voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might awaken some slumbering beast.

“Many of them, yes,” Max said, his gaze sweeping the shelves as if cataloging them in his mind. “You’ll find original prints of histories, poetry, philosophy. Most of it quite rare. Some of the works were commissioned specifically for this collection.”

“Commissioned?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes. House Verstappen has always valued knowledge. There are some volumes here you won’t find anywhere else.”

You let your hand fall from the books and turned to face him. “You must spend a lot of time here then.”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted, his tone crisp. “But I’m familiar with the layout. If you’re planning to lose yourself, I can point you in the right direction.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his phrasing. “Lose myself?”

“It happens.” He shrugged, glancing away.

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of warning me?”

“A mere suggestion,” he corrected, his lips twitching in what might have been the hint of a smile. “Start with the poetry under the windows. It’s a good place for… wandering minds.”

“Poetry under the windows,” you repeated the words under your breath, glancing toward the far end of the room where a faint glow spilled across the shelves. “Any other recommendations?”

“The histories on the east wall are worth your time.” He gestured briefly. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s a collection of letters on the upper mezzanine. They’re in French, though.”

“I can manage French,” you said with a small smile.

His eyebrow arched faintly. “Good. Then you’ll also find some rather colorful accounts of court scandals tucked in the back corner. A few are probably embellished, but they’re entertaining nonetheless.”

Your laughter came easier this time. “Court scandals? I didn’t expect you to recommend something so… frivolous.”

“Frivolity has its place,” he said dryly. “Just don’t let the staff catch you reading them. They might talk.”

“Noted.” You attempted to suppress your grin.

For a moment, the two of you stood in companionable silence, the quiet weight of the library wrapping around you like a cloak. You turned back to the shelves, running your fingertips lightly over the spines once more.

“This is incredible,” you murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder at his lack of a response, catching a faint glimmer of something softer in his eyes, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Max seemed to compose himself, clearing his throat. “You will be fetched come dinner time.”

The heavy doors of the library groaned shut behind him, leaving you and Lily in the cavernous stillness.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Lily let out a sharp exhale, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d never leave,” she muttered, her voice pitched low but urgent.

You turned to her, startled by her tone. “Lily-”

“He’s impossible to read!” she interrupted, her hands gesturing animatedly as she paced a small circle near the door.

“One moment, he’s scowling like the world owes him something, and the next, he’s… he’s practically pointing you toward the best books for a cozy evening! What am I supposed to make of that?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “I don’t think it’s meant to be deciphered, Lily.”

“But it should be!” she shot back, stopping abruptly to face you. “You’re supposed to marry him. How are you supposed to live with someone who switches moods faster than the weather?”

“I don’t think he’s as unpredictable as you think,” you said cautiously, though you weren’t entirely convinced of your own words. “He’s… reserved.”

“Reserved?” Lily snorted. “He looks like he’s trying not to bite anyone’s head off half the time.” She softened slightly, adding, “Although, I’ll admit, it was nice of him to show you this place.”

Her eyes wandered around the library, her earlier frustration melting into a quieter awe. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep the towering shelves. “It is. I could lose hours in here.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” Lily said, her tone lighter now. “If he’s not going to be forthcoming about himself, you might have to dig through the history books to figure him out. Perhaps you'll even find a diary of his.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think even the books might not have the answers to that mystery.”

Lily gave you a sly grin. “Well, if anyone can figure him out, my lady, it’s you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back to the shelves. “My betrothed's dour personality aside.. help me find that poetry section he mentioned.”

Lily smiled, stepping closer to follow you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the library.

“Of course, my lady.”

—

Hours later, as the manor stirred for the evening meal, a servant was dispatched to your quarters. The boy found it strange that the two knights he'd heard his Lord's betrothed had come with weren't stationed by the door.

A sharp knock echoed once. Then again, louder, more insistent.

“My lady?”

Silence.

The servant hesitated, damp palms against the polished wood.

“My lady?” He said again, voice cracking. “My lady, may I come in?”

“...My lady, I'm coming in.”

Then, cautiously, he pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. The bed still perfectly made, the hearth’s fire reduced to flickering embers. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and a chill crept in where warmth should have lingered.

Panic tightened his throat.

He checked the adjoining rooms. The empty sitting area, the silent halls. Nowhere.

Not even your guards and maid were present.

Sweat gathered at his brow as he hurried through the winding corridors, heart hammering as he sought out Lord Verstappen.

He found Max standing near the great hall’s window, dusk spilling through the glass in muted gold.

“My lord,” the servant panted, voice tight. “She’s- she’s gone.”

Max turned slowly. “Gone?”

“I searched her chambers, the halls, the west wing-”

“And the library?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the servant’s stammering explanation.

The servant faltered. “The… the library, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said evenly, already striding toward the east corridor. “She’s there.”

The servant froze, his jaw slackening. “You… you allowed her inside?”

“Are you questioning me?” Max didn’t even glance back as he continued down the hall, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.

“N-no, my lord!” the servant stammered, bowing reflexively. “But should I-”

“Stay where you are,” Max ordered. “I’ll handle this myself.”

Your two knights stood sentinel by the library doors when he approached, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of boredom and indifference.

They barely acknowledged him, their attention elsewhere as the echo of his boots rang down the corridor.

Max didn’t slow his pace. “Is she still in there?”

Lando flicked a glance toward Oscar, then shrugged. “Yep. She's buried in a book or something,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, as if it were of little concern.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think to remind her of the time?”

Oscar raised a brow, voice dry. “A certain scion has, unfortunately, forbidden our entry, my lord.”

Max sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Lando was quick to interject with a smirk. “And it’s a lost cause trying to pry our Lady away from a good book. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

Max’s frustration bubbled over into a short, exasperated laugh as he pushed the heavy doors open.

And there you were.

Curled into a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in the thick, ancient book resting open in your lap.

A few other volumes lay scattered around your feet, their spines cracked open, as if you’d moved through them in a frenzy of curiosity.

Max’s gaze lingered on the sight before him. On the way your head tilted slightly as you read, your brow furrowed in concentration.

His grip on the doorframe loosened, but his jaw remained tight.

“My lady.”

You glanced up, startled but then smiled when you saw him. “Oh, my- Max, What are you doing here again?”

Max’s brow arched slightly at your casual tone. His irritation wavered.

He knew you were about to say ‘my Lord’ again, knew it was a mere slip of the tongue, court etiquette taking over before personal sense.

But.. my Max. Yes, he supposed he was indeed yours.

He couldn't say that though so when he spoke, it was only a disinterested, “It’s dinner time.”

You blinked, glancing toward the tall windows where the light had shifted to deep amber.

“Already? I hadn’t even realized-” You glanced down at the book in your lap, reluctant to put it aside. “I haven’t even finished this chapter.”

His gaze dropped to the title in your hands. “Faust,” he noted, tucking the information away. “You read German?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… only at an elementary level.”

Max's eyebrow arched slightly. You were either a liar or terribly humble.

“Faust,” he repeated dryly. “Hardly a book for someone with only elementary German. Your skills are passable, at least.”

“Just enough to get by,” you admitted, more honest now, brushing invisible dust from your skirt as you stood.

Max offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation this time.

He noticed, though he said nothing about the change, afraid that if he voiced it out you'd withdraw again.

“You might find Faust more rewarding if you read it in context,” he remarked as you walked down the hall, your knights and maid following behind.

You glanced up at him, curious. “And what context would that be?”

“Understanding Goethe’s philosophical explorations, for one. Or at least recognizing the poetic structure in its original form.”

You tilted your head. “So now you’re saying my German isn’t good enough?”

“I’m saying it’s a pity to read something monumental in fragments,” he replied. “Not a criticism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The corners of your lips quirked upward.

“Take it as you like.” He offered you a small shrug, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Which German do you struggle with?”

“Official documents,” you admitted. “The kind that's full of overly formal phrasing and unnecessary flourish.”

Max hummed, thoughtful. Most official documents were indeed like that. “I could assist with that, should the need arise.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You would?”

“If I find myself having time.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, brushing off your words. “And don't sit too close to the mezzanine shelves,” he added. “They’re unstable.”

Your brows rose. “Unstable?”

“I don’t need you buried beneath three hundred years of German history,” he said, his tone casual but his meaning clear.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’d miss me, then?”

“More likely, the servants would revolt,” he said, gesturing to the doors to the dining hall. “Dinner then, shall we?”

—

The dining hall was an expansive, imposing space, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the vast table.

Candles decorated much of the available surfaces in a surprisingly tasteful way.

Their flames flickered weakly, struggling to combat the cold that clung to the stone walls like it was a living, breathing thing.

The table stretched far ahead, but only two places were set.

Max took his seat at the head without so much as a glance in your direction, and you slid into the chair opposite him.

Lily quietly withdrew to prepare for your night routine while Lando and Oscar remained a fair distance away, leaving the two of you some privacy to discuss.

Servants moved efficiently, placing the first course on the table: roast venison, honeyed carrots, and freshly baked bread that had already begun to cool in the chill air.

The earlier conversation about books had petered out, leaving a quiet in its wake.

Max ate as though entirely alone, his focus on the meal before him.

You shifted in your seat, the faint scrape of your fork against the plate feeling almost intrusive.

"You know," you began tentatively, "for someone who seems to enjoy books, you’re surprisingly difficult to talk to about them."

Max’s knife paused mid-slice, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but his expression was unreadable all the same. “Talking about books is rarely as rewarding as reading them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” you said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the moment. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to have a proper discussion about them.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if the idea amused him, though he didn’t smile. “Do you often accuse your dining companions of conversational ineptitude, or am I a special case?”

“That depends.” You tore off a piece of bread. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Max tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity, like someone turning over a puzzle piece in their mind.

“Very well.” He set his knife down carefully. “What would you like to discuss? Goethe? Schiller?”

“Bold of you to assume I am especially fond of German authors. Perhaps I just picked up Faust in the library on a whim.” You smiled. “But if you must know, I’ve been working through Balzac recently.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly, though still difficult to read. “Balzac? Ambitious. And how are you finding him?”

“Dense,” you admitted with a laugh. “Brilliant, but dense. Definitely not light reading.”

“Few worthwhile things are,” he replied, returning to his meal. “Though I’ve always found Balzac’s fascination with ambition rather… tiresome.”

“Really?” you asked, curious. “Why?”

He took a measured sip of wine before answering. “Because I’ve seen enough ambition in reality to find little appeal in it as fiction.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. A product of generations of ambition.”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.

There was a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, before he spoke. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “You’re treading close to dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” you asked, though your tone was gentler now, almost teasing. “I thought we were just talking about books.”

Before he could respond, the servants re-entered, clearing the first course and placing the next before you.

The interruption softened the tension, and you let the moment breathe.

When the room was quiet again, you spoke, this time more cautiously. “Alright, then. Enough about me. What about you? What are you reading?”

Max’s fork paused mid-motion, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “How else am I supposed to judge your taste?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you must know, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

You blinked, surprised. “Goethe’s most sentimental work? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Sentimentality has its uses,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words. “Even you might agree.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sentimental?” you arched a brow.

“I’m suggesting you’re curious,” he replied, his tone even. “Perhaps overly so.”

“Fair.” You conceded with a small laugh. “But I’m curious.. what draws you to it? The tragedy? The unrequited love?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before he answered.

“The futility,” he said quietly, lifting his wine glass. “Of longing for something you cannot have.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. When he didn’t elaborate, you picked up your own glass, letting the silence linger without pressing further.

“You have a rather bleak outlook, don’t you?” you asked finally, your voice softer now.

“Realistic,” he corrected, not unkindly, his gaze flicking back to yours. “Not everyone has the luxury of optimism.”

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure how to reply. “It’s not about luxury,” you said after a pause. “It’s about perspective.”

“Perspective is shaped by reality.” His eyes met yours, boring. “And reality is rarely kind.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time it felt less uneasy and more thoughtful.

As dinner wrapped up, Max glanced at your knights before settling on you, his tone lightening as he spoke. “I trust you can find your rooms?”

You nodded, standing from your chair. “Yes, I think so.”

“No late-night wandering, then?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Max’s lips twitched again, softer this time, as if he might actually be considering a smile. “Good. I’d hate to have to rescue you from some misstep in the dark.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’d need rescuing?”

“Experience,” he said simply, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air between you shifted slightly, the earlier sharpness fading into something more subdued.

You allowed yourself a small laugh, breaking the lingering tension. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of finding my way around.”

“Is that so?” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone had softened, the sharp edges dulling to a quiet curiosity. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll trust you.”

“Trust,” you repeated, letting the word hang between you. “A bold move, considering we’ve only just met.”

Max regarded you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Bold, perhaps. But necessary.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. There was something in his voice, quiet, measured, and entirely unexpected, that made you pause. The weight of the moment settled around you like the faint flicker of the candlelight, warm yet fragile.

“Well,” you said finally. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He rose from his seat with practiced ease, the flicker of warmth in his eyes quickly hidden behind his composed demeanor. “Goodnight, then.”

You watched him as he left the dining hall, his steps measured and deliberate, the echo of his footsteps fading into the vast, empty space.

For a moment, you sat in the quiet, your gaze lingering on the door where he had disappeared.

Finally, you stood, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “Goodnight, Max,” you murmured to the empty room.

—-

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy drapes of your room, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and silver. The air carried a sharp chill, the promise of frost lingering just outside the thick panes of glass.

Everything was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustling of fabric as Lily moved about with quiet precision.

She bent over a polished wooden chair, her deft hands smoothing out the folds of the attire she’d chosen for you.

A cloak of deep crimson lay draped across her arm, its rich, heavy fabric catching the faint light. You stirred in your bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she worked.

“Good morning, Lily,” you murmured, sitting up and drawing the blankets closer against the morning chill.

Lily turned with a warm smile, setting the cloak on the bed beside you. “Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, your fingers brushing the thick velvet of the cloak. You tilted your head, examining it with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing this in my wardrobe before.”

“It was delivered just this morning,” Lily explained, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “A gift, I believe, from Lord Verstappen.”

Your brows lifted as you traced the intricate embroidery along the hem, tiny silver threads woven into delicate patterns. “From Lord Verstappen?”

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her. “He must have assumed the worst given your attire yesterday.”

“It’s rather heavy,” you remarked, holding it up to feel its weight.

Lily gave you a knowing smile, her tone dry but affectionate. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’d rather you walk with less grace than freeze, my Lady.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you draped the cloak over your shoulders.

It was impossibly warm, the kind of warmth that seeped through your skin and settled in your bones. “You’re not wrong. I suppose there’s no room for vanity when winter comes knocking.”

“None at all,” Lily agreed, moving to adjust the cloak, fastening the silver clasp at your throat. “Besides, the color suits you. Lord Verstappen has surprisingly good taste. I'd have assumed he’d just grab any old thing and force you into it.”

You raised a brow at the tone that laced her words, giving her a sidelong glance. “Flattery for him, Lily? Are you trying to curry favor? And here I thought you were quite ready to sock him just yesterday.”

She feigned innocence, stepping back with a twinkle in her eye. “Not at all, my Lady. But if he keeps sending gifts like this, I might just start.”

Your laughter filled the room, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. You were somewhat glad Lily saw him as redeemable after yesterday.

After all, she was usually a good judge of character.

As you stood, the cloak fell around you like a royal mantle, its weight grounding but comforting.

By the time you entered the dining hall, Max was already seated at the long table, a vision of composed efficiency.

His pale hair was still perfectly swept back, not a strand out of place, and a small stack of documents sat before him.

His pen moved steadily across the paper, his focus unbroken even as the golden morning light softened the sharpness of his features.

“Good morning, Max,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him, your tone deliberately chipper.

Max glanced up briefly, eyes meeting yours with the barest flicker of warmth.

“Good morning,” he replied, setting his pen down with the precision of a man who never did anything carelessly. “You’re up early.”

“It’s rather difficult to stay in bed when the frost feels like it's climbing up to sleep with you,” you said, grabbing a warm roll from the plate near you. “Do you have a deal with the weather to ensure I never sleep in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll admit to nothing. But if the frost succeeds, perhaps I should reward it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” you said, tearing a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “I’ve made my peace with it, though. I realized there was a charm to the winter once I got over the whole ‘freezing to death’ aspect.”

Max arched a brow, his eyes sparkling faintly with what you hoped was amusement. “A charm, you say? I wasn’t aware you were so poetic in the mornings.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable bard before breakfast,” you said. “In fact, I was just composing a sonnet about how frostbite builds character.”

He snorted softly as he reached for his tea, the sound barely audible, but it felt like a victory. “I’ll be sure to commission a copy of it for the library.”

You leaned back in your chair, feeling emboldened by his rare moment of humor

“Speaking of things worth writing about, I was thinking of spending some time in the garden today. It looks magical with the frost.”

Max paused, his teacup halfway to his lips, and gave you a look that bordered on incredulous. “The garden? In winter?”

“Yes, the garden,” you said, undeterred. “You do realize it’s still a garden, even when it’s cold?”

He set his cup down slowly, as if trying to process your words. “You are aware that nothing grows in the garden during winter, yes? Unless you count the weeds, which I doubt have much aesthetic appeal.”

“There are flowers that survive in winter,” you said with a pointed look.

He tilted his head, his expression blank. “Like what? Frozen dandelions?”

“Snowdrops, holly, winter jasmine,” you listed off, ticking them off on your fingers. “I saw some while passing by yesterday. Honestly, do you even know what’s in your own garden?”

Max leaned back slightly. “I delegate. Why bother when there are people who are willing to brave the frost to catalog it all for me?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “How magnanimous of you.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d paid him a genuine compliment. “It’s a skill.”

“You should come with me,” you said suddenly. “A little walk in the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally, his tone carefully polite. “But my duties don’t often allow for such… luxuries.”

“Luxuries?” you raised a brow. “Surely even a Lord like yourself deserves a moment to himself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, but it faded quickly. “Perhaps another time.”

You nodded, masking your disappointment with a practiced smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your responsibilities.”

“Distraction,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.

Something unspoken flickered in his eyes, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest hint of something warmer beneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he said again, this time softer, almost to himself.

You glanced down, heat creeping up your cheeks, and busied yourself with your breakfast.

—-

The steady scratch of a quill against parchment filled the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers.

Max leaned over his desk, eyes scanning the dense columns of reports.

The study was dim, the late afternoon light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Yet, for all his focus, his pen paused mid-sentence.

His thoughts drifted. Again.

To you.

He could see it vividly in his mind: the garden cloaked in frost, each branch thin and brittle beneath the weight of winter.

You would be there, wouldn’t you? Bundled in that wool cloak you favored, breath curling in the cold air as you traced the icy edges of dormant rose bushes.

You had mentioned it offhandedly this morning, your plan to spend the afternoon outside despite the chill.

Max let out a slow breath, frowning at the parchment before him.

The words blurred, meaningless.

It was ridiculous.

You were likely gone by now, the cold too sharp to endure for long.

Rationality urged him to stay, to finish the reports that demanded his attention.

Yet the thought persisted.

Why did it matter if you were still there?

It shouldn’t.

And yet.

The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.

He didn’t bother with his coat. The cold would be a brief inconvenience.

His steps were measured as he left the study, though there was a certain tension in his stride, as if he was trying to convince himself this was a simple walk and nothing more.

The manor’s halls gave way to the biting air of winter, and Max inhaled sharply, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeves.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he crossed into the garden.

The world was quiet here. Still.

The pale sun sagged low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over frost-laced branches and brittle hedges. Even the air felt suspended, holding its breath.

He scanned the expanse, expecting, no, hoping, to see a flicker of movement among the barren trees.

Nothing.

Max’s jaw tightened.

Of course. You wouldn’t have waited. Hours had passed. Why would you linger in the cold for him? The thought was absurd.

He moved forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could restrain the growing restlessness in his chest.

Each turn of the path yielded only more empty frost-covered stone.

Once.

Twice.

A third time around, and still nothing.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

He turned to leave.

Then, faintly, the sound of movement, a soft rustle of fabric.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Tucked into the curve of a stone bench, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the hedgerow.

A book lay open in your lap, your gloved fingers idly turning the page.

Max stared.

You hadn’t left.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something between relief and unease.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. For a moment, he simply watched you, the way your breath misted in the cold, how your hair caught the pale light.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come out here.

But now that he had, he found he didn’t want to leave.

Max exhaled quietly, letting the breath curl away into the cold.

He stood perfectly still, half-concealed by the bare limbs of the hedgerow, his figure blending into the stark winter landscape. The cold gnawed at him, a sharp wind threading through the thin fabric of his sleeves, but he didn’t move.

His breath escaped in thin, controlled streams of vapor, dissipating into the frigid air.

And still, his eyes remained fixed on you.

You sat quietly on the stone bench, bundled in the cloak he'd ordered a servant to bring to you last night come morning, its edges stiff with frost.

A book rested in your lap, your gloved fingers lazily tracing the brittle page edges as you turned them.

Every now and then, you paused, eyes lifting to watch the pale sun as it sagged toward the horizon, before returning to your reading.

Max’s hands tightened behind his back.

He shouldn’t be here.

There was no reason to be.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He told himself it was coincidence, that his steps had simply led him here after hours of restless pacing in his study.

But even that excuse felt thin, crumbling under the weight of his own unease.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching in the cold.

Why didn’t you go inside? The air was sharp and biting.

Anyone with sense would’ve retreated to the warmth of the manor by now. Yet you sat there still, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

A ridiculous thought.

Max’s jaw tightened.

"You know," a dry voice cut through the stillness, "standing there staring is a bit creepy, my Lord.”

Max turned sharply, his cold glare snapping to the armored figure leaning casually against the frosted stone archway.

Oscar.

The knight stood with an infuriating air of nonchalance, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other shoved lazily into the crook of his elbow. His breath misted lazily in the cold air, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re out of line.” Max’s voice was flat, the warning unmistakable.

Oscar only raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Probably. But you’ve been standing long enough that I figured someone should say something.”

Max’s glare deepened.

Oscar tilted his head slightly toward the garden. “You could just speak to her, you know. I’m half certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“I have no intention of interrupting her,” Max said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Oscar made a thoughtful noise, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “No, of course not. That’s why you’re skulking in the hedges instead of being a normal person and saying hello.”

Max’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You have duties. Attend to them.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I am attending to them. Protecting the lady, making sure her suitors aren’t lurking about. You know, the usual.”

Max’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“Did she not mention this morning she hoped you’d join her out here?” the knight asked offhandedly, brushing frost off his shoulder. “But maybe I heard wrong. Could’ve been the wind.”

Max didn’t respond.

Oscar let the silence stretch for a moment before shrugging. “Well. Suit yourself.”

With that, he pushed off the archway and strode casually toward you, boots crunching against the frost-laden gravel.

Max didn’t move. His gaze followed Oscar with a cold, sharp focus, but his feet remained planted, weighed down by something heavier than pride.

Oscar’s figure grew smaller as he neared you.

And then, you looked up.

Your face softened in recognition, lips curving into a faint smile as your knight approached. Max’s chest tightened inexplicably.

“You’ve been out here a while, my lady,” Oscar remarked lightly, stopping beside the stone bench.

You laughed softly, the sound carrying faintly through the still air. “Longer than I meant to. Has it gotten that late already?”

“Late enough,” Oscar said, leaning slightly against the stone edge. “Cold enough too, I imagine.”

You exhaled, watching the breath curl away. “The cold’s not so bad.”

Oscar smirked. “If you say so. Though I passed Lord Max earlier. He was out here too.”

Your eyes lifted, blinking in quiet surprise. “Was he?”

Oscar hummed. “Looked like he was thinking about joining you. Or maybe just staring at you. Hard to tell with him.”

Your gaze flicked toward the distant paths, searching the empty garden.

Oscar watched you carefully. “Still might be lurking somewhere. Shadows seem to agree with him.”

You smiled faintly, but your eyes lingered on the hedgerows, thoughtful.

Oscar nudged a frost-coated pebble with his boot. “You know… if you wanted him here, you could just call him out. Maybe the shame will make his feet move.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow.

He smirked. “Just a thought, my Lady.”

Oscar pushed off the bench. “Come on. You’ll catch cold if you stay out much longer.”

As they turned to head back toward the manor, Max stood still, hidden beyond the hedges.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

And then, finally, he turned and walked away.

The frost crunched beneath his boots, louder than before.

—

The rest of the month at the Verstappen estate unfolded in slow, deliberate strokes, like the steady brush of winter wind against frosted glass.

The walls of cold formality between you and Max didn’t crumble overnight, but there were cracks now. Thin, hairline fractures where something softer threatened to seep through.

Max remained composed, distant, his every word and gesture measured. Yet every so often, something flickered.

A hesitation before he spoke. A glance that lingered longer than necessary.

Small, fleeting moments that barely seemed to matter, but they did. They built something fragile and new, fragile as frost on stone.

It started with the garden.

You had grown fond of the winter gardens. Quiet, stark, and untouched. The biting air sharpened your senses, and the stillness gave you space to breathe, something you often struggled to find within the Verstappen estate's cold, towering walls.

You were seated at the breakfast table one morning, fingers curled around your tea for warmth.

Your eyes traced the frost-laced hedgerows beyond the tall windows, lost in thought.

“I’ll accompany you today.”

The voice was quiet but certain, breaking through your reverie.

Your head snapped up.

Max stood across the room, a stack of documents in hand, his expression unreadable.

“…Pardon?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “To the gardens. I’ll walk with you.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “You want to… walk. Outside. In the cold.”

A slight tilt of his head. “Yes.”

“You?”

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes.” You set your teacup down carefully, studying him. “Don’t you have something far more important to do than trail after me like some-”

“I hardly think safeguarding my betrothed is beneath me,” he cut in smoothly, though something in his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

You raised a brow. “Safeguard me? Max, it’s a garden, not a battlefield.”

He didn’t answer, only held your gaze steadily.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Well, far be it from me to refuse the protection of a lord.”

Max inclined his head, as if the matter was settled.

—

The cold met you both immediately as you stepped into the garden.

You drew your coat tighter. Max, of course, didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

His steps were measured, boots crunching against the frost-dusted path. He kept half a step ahead of you, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Then, abruptly-

“Those are evergreens.”

You blinked.

“…Yes. They are.”

Max gave a small nod, as if confirming a fact. “They endure the winter well.”

"That is typically how evergreens work."

Silence.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to surface.

Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking forward again. "I thought it was worth mentioning."

"It was very insightful," you teased lightly.

His jaw tightened, though you noticed the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel so suffocating now.

"I don’t…" he started, then stopped. His hands flexed behind his back. "I’m not particularly… good at this."

You tilted your head. "At walking?”

A sharp exhale, half a laugh, half frustration. "At this. Talking. Being-" he paused, as if the word itself burned. "-approachable."

You considered him for a moment. "You’re not as terrible as you think."

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain.

"You just talk about trees a lot."

That earned a genuine huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"I’ll… keep that in mind.”

—

Days slipped by like soft falling snow, quiet and unhurried. And so did the walks.

The first few outings had been brittle, every step and word sharp with awkwardness. But little by little, the stiffness began to melt.

It wasn’t anything grand, no sweeping gestures or sudden confessions, but something quieter. Subtle.

Max no longer fumbled for conversation, and you no longer waited for him to.

Sometimes you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t. And somehow, the silences became easier.

There was comfort in it, like the steady crunch of frost beneath your boots or the way your breath curled in the cold air.

It started with small things.

One morning, as you walked past a thicket of frost-covered hedges, Max slowed his pace, watching you with a flicker of curiosity.

“You always stop here.”

You glanced at him, surprised he noticed. “It’s peaceful.”

His eyes followed yours to the bare branches dusted in white.

“Hm.” He made a low sound of acknowledgment, then fell quiet.

The next day, you noticed he lingered near that spot, as if waiting for you to pause first.

He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Another morning, you stumbled slightly on the uneven path, your boot catching on a patch of ice.

Before you could right yourself, a steady hand caught your elbow.

You blinked, looking up.

Max’s hand hovered there, his grip careful but sure.

His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady.

“You should watch your step,” he murmured.

You stared at him for a beat too long.

“I was,” you said finally, a little breathless.

His hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away before you could see the faint pink creeping up his neck.

The next day, the path had been salted.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But the air between you felt lighter.

Then, there was the matter of the scarf.

It was colder than usual that morning. Bitter wind snuck through the layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your skin.

Max noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said flatly.

You glanced at him, defensive. “It’s winter. Everyone’s cold.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he unwound the dark wool scarf from his neck and held it out to you.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do.”

You stared at the scarf, then at him. “Max, I’m not going to take your scarf. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he replied, tone perfectly serious.

You huffed a laugh. “Oh, is it? And what about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

His expression didn’t waver.

After a long pause, you sighed and took the scarf from his hands.

It was warm. Warmer than yours, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like winter air.

You looped it around your neck, hiding a small smile.

“Happy now?”

Max gave a short nod. “Good.”

The next day, he wore a thicker coat.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But his gaze lingered on the scarf around your neck.

And that was enough.

The silences softened after that.

Some days, Max would walk slightly ahead, hands behind his back, eyes on the path.

Other days, he matched your stride, quiet but near.

Once, as you passed a row of brittle rose bushes, you paused, brushing your glove over the thorns.

Max stopped beside you.

“They won’t bloom again until spring.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“They’re still... nice to look at,” he admitted.

You glanced at him.

“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.”

A slight shrug. “They’re resilient. Even now.”

You smiled, soft and secret.

Another day, you caught him watching you when you laughed at something small. A small squirrel darting through the snow, slipping and scrambling back up a tree.

Max didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

He looked away when you caught him, but you didn’t tease him for it.

The walks stretched longer. The conversations grew softer.

There were no grand declarations, no sweeping changes.

Just the slow, steady thaw of winter.

And for now, that was enough.

—-

It happened on an ordinary day, so ordinary that you couldn’t have guessed it would stand out for any reason at all.

You were sitting in the common room, absentmindedly flipping through a file, your thoughts half on the task and half on the cup of tea cooling beside you.

You were aware of Max nearby, as you always seemed to be. The two of you had taken to spending your quiet moments together for some reason.

He was seated at the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of papers, his focus presumably locked on his work.

Or so you thought.

It wasn’t until you reached for your tea, your eyes lifting momentarily, that you noticed it. His gaze.

Max was staring at you.

It wasn’t a casual glance or a quick flicker of attention. His eyes were fixed, steady, like he was studying you without even realizing it.

There was something almost unreadable in his expression, his usual guarded demeanor softened by a hint of… curiosity? Thoughtfulness? You couldn’t quite place it.

For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Should you look away? Pretend you hadn’t noticed? Confront him?

The options raced through your mind in a tangle, but before you could decide, Max blinked, as though snapping out of a trance.

His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him, his movements abrupt and uncharacteristically awkward.

He cleared his throat quietly, shuffling the documents with more focus than necessary.

You felt your cheeks warm, a faint heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t like Max to lose his composure, even slightly.

You wondered what he’d been thinking. Or if he’d even realized what he was doing.

“Everything alright?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch uncomfortably long. Your voice was casual, light, as though the moment hadn’t happened.

Max didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was a faint edge to it, something almost defensive.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat longer. “You sure? You looked… distracted.”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable again, but this time you thought you caught the faintest flicker of something.

Embarrassment, maybe, or irritation at being caught.

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone more even now.

“Alright,” you said lightly, turning back to your file with a small shrug. But your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what had just passed between you.

As the moments ticked by, you resisted the urge to glance at him again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his earlier stare.

—

The two of you found yourselves in the library again, a rare moment of calm amidst the usual chaos.

Max sat across from you, his attention drifting between the book in his hands and the room around him.

For once, he wasn’t buried in paperwork or fielding endless questions from others, and the quiet was almost comforting.

The soft rustle of turning pages and the muted hum of your own reading filled the air.

It was a stillness that wrapped around you both, unspoken but shared, a silence that felt like an unacknowledged truce.

Until the peace fractured.

A faint groan of wood sliced through the quiet, subtle at first but growing louder, sharper. You frowned, your eyes flicking upward from your book.

Max noticed the sound too, his head tilting slightly as his attention shifted.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as the groaning intensified. “Stay here,” he muttered, already rising from his chair.

But before either of you could move further, the source of the noise revealed itself.

The tall shelf in the corner swayed unnaturally, its weight shifting in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Max-” you started, panic creeping into your voice.

And then it happened. The shelf gave way.

Books tumbled from its upper shelves like a cascade of water, filling the air with dull thuds and sharp cracks.

The massive structure pitched toward you, and you froze, your feet rooted in place.

“Move!” a voice yelled.

You barely registered the shout before a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you back with such force that your book flew from your grasp.

Your back slammed into something solid. Someone’s chest.

A deafening crash filled the room as the shelf slammed into the ground, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Books scattered in every direction, some sliding to a stop at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Max’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. His hand still gripped your arm, his knuckles white from the effort.

You turned toward him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I… I think so.”

His eyes darted over you, scanning for any sign of injury. “Did it hit you?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less urgent.

“No,” you managed. “I’m fine. Just… shaken.”

Max exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension left him.

He dropped his hand from your arm, stepping back to give you space, but his gaze stayed locked on you.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it was old..” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “You couldn’t have known it would fall like that.”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “I should’ve checked it. What if-” He cut himself off, his jaw working as he looked away.

“It didn’t,” you said firmly. “You pulled me out of the way. That’s what matters.”

Max’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should’ve-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “Max, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t push the shelf. You didn’t make it fall.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes dark and filled with a storm of emotions. “But I could’ve stopped it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The raw guilt in his voice surprised you. It was rare to see Max shaken. You didn't even think it possible.

“You did stop it. At least for me,” you said softly.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighed and stepped toward the wreckage. “This is a mess,” he muttered, his tone shifting to something more clipped, controlled. “I’ll get someone to clean it up. You should go sit down. Get some air.”

You followed his gaze to the pile of broken wood and scattered books. The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to speak. “I’ll help. I was here too.”

“No,” Max said quickly, holding up a hand. “You’ve had enough of a scare for one day. Just… take a break, alright?”

You hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Max gave a short, almost reluctant nod in return. “Good. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back at him. He was already moving toward the debris, his focus shifting entirely to the mess. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of what could have happened for a while.

And so would you.

—-

The realization that you fancied Max struck with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

You fancied your fiancé. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

The thought struck you like a bolt of lightning, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest as you paced back and forth across your room.

With each step, the walls of the room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the suffocating pressure of your own spiraling thoughts.

How had this happened? Why him? Of all people, why Max?

Stoic, distant Max, the man you barely even knew.

“It’s a trick of the mind. A reaction to circumstance,” you whispered, the words directed at your own reflection in the mirror.

Your face was pinched, your brow furrowed, and your eyes wide with a mixture of dread and something… else.

You rubbed at your temples, as though the act might banish the errant thoughts swirling in your mind.

“It’s admiration,” you said aloud, as if hearing the words would make them true. “Respect for his… demeanor. His resolve.”

You faltered, the image of Max flickering to life in your mind.

His measured gaze, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he was deep in thought.

The way his presence seemed to command the air around him.

Stop it.

“Lily!” you called out suddenly, your voice higher than you intended, panic rising sharply in your throat. “Lily, please, come here!”

The door creaked open, and Lily entered with her usual composed air, her eyes softening as soon as she took in the sight of your distress.

“My Lady, what’s wrong? You look...” she trailed off, hesitation in her tone as she glanced at you, clearly noting the unease written across your face.

“Don’t even say it,” you interrupted quickly, pressing your palms to your temples in an effort to stave off the rising panic. “I’m losing my mind, Lily. I think... I think I have feelings for Max.”

Lily regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in her eyebrow.

A hint of intrigue that you couldn’t quite place. She did not seem surprised.

“Max?” she asked, her voice calm, though the faintest hint of something stirred in her eyes. “As in, your betrothed, Lord Max Verstappen?”

“Yes! That Max!” you exclaimed, turning toward her with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the chaos inside you deepen with every word you spoke. “What other Max would I be talking about?!”

Lily paused for a moment, her eyes assessing you, the soft lines of her face betraying no judgment, only careful understanding.

Finally, she spoke, her tone even, but with an edge of something like amusement.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m glad it’s not hatred you’re feeling.”

You blinked, surprised at her response. “What?”

She gave you a small, wry smile, her hands folding gently in front of her. “I’m glad you don’t detest the man you’re engaged to. That’s a start, isn’t it? At least you’re not loathing him.”

You gaped at her, your mind still reeling from the gravity of your own emotions. “But this isn’t nothing, Lily! This isn’t just some passing fancy. I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time he’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t know how to act around him. It’s like- like he’s too close and I’m too far from myself.”

Lily’s gaze softened, but she did not rush to soothe you with easy words.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but firm. “Feelings like these don’t appear overnight, My Lady. They don’t disappear either. But you’re right. You don’t know him very well yet. You’ve got time to work this out, slowly. You don’t have to have it all figured out now.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as a new wave of uncertainty washed over you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this, Lily. What if I say something wrong? What if I act like a fool in front of him? What if... what if he doesn’t care at all?”

Lily stepped closer to you, her presence steady, constant.

“Then he doesn’t,” she said simply. “If he doesn’t care, then... then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, My Lady. But know this: no other woman is taking him from you. He’s already yours. That’s settled.”

Her words settled over you like a weight.

He was already yours.

There was no escaping the finality of it, the truth in her calm tone.

The idea that you didn’t need to chase after him, that he was already tied to you in ways you couldn’t control, both unsettled and reassured you.

“I’m not even sure I want him, though,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what this is. What if I’m just... confused? What if it’s just... attachment? I mean, he’s always there, he’s my betrothed, but- he’s not-”

“Stop,” Lily’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts. “You don’t need to understand it all right now. You don’t need to be sure of your feelings just because you’ve realized them.”

You took a slow breath, your chest tight as you tried to keep your composure.

Her words were soothing in their simplicity, but they didn’t change your feelings. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s too much. Too fast. I can’t keep up.”

You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

Lily gave you a small, understanding smile, though it was tinged with a trace of amusement.

She didn’t speak for a moment, as though carefully weighing her response. “Then take it slow, my Lady. You’re allowed to feel all of this, in your own time. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it. No one’s going to force you to figure it out on anyone else’s schedule.”

A tiny sense of relief swept over you, but the knot in your stomach still refused to loosen.

You glanced at the door, as though the mere idea of being near Max would send everything crashing down again.

“So... you’re saying I can avoid him... for a while?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the suggestion. “Avoid him?” she repeated, the edge of disbelief creeping into her voice. “My Lady, if I may-"

“But I can?” you pressed, cutting her off, eyes wide with urgency. “You said I could take my time, right? Well, avoiding him sounds like taking my time to me.”

Lily sighed, the sound long and heavy, as though you were testing her patience. “Yes, My Lady, your free will does indeed allow you to avoid him, if that’s truly what you wish.”

A spark of triumph flickered inside you.

“Perfect.” You stood straighter, a plan forming in your mind. “Call for Sir Lando and Sir Oscar.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you suspiciously. “What for, My Lady?”

You gave her an almost manic grin, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly as your plan took shape. “They’re going to help me.”

“Help you... with avoiding your betrothed?” Lily asked slowly, a hint of disbelief creeping into her voice. She crossed her arms, studying you with a bemused expression.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “They’ll help me stay away from him. They’ll distract him, tell him I’m busy with... other things.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, narrowing her eyes at you as if you had just suggested something ludicrous.

“My Lady,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone of mild reproach, “I must say, I don’t think that’s the most productive course of action.”

“Oh, please.” You threw your hands up dramatically. “I’m just trying to buy myself some time here. I can’t face him, not with these... feelings…whatever they are…bubbling up every time I even think about him. If I can just avoid him for a little while, I can breathe again.”

Lily shook her head, a small, resigned smile playing on her lips. “I don’t think this is the solution you’re looking for, My Lady. But if you insist on this... strategy, I can’t stop you.”

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by the shift in her tone. “You can stop me, can’t you? You’re my lady’s maid. You’re supposed to stop me from making poor decisions.”

Lily raised an eyebrow right back at you. “I’m also supposed to help you navigate poor decisions, not prevent them entirely. And right now, this is just one of many decisions I’m going to let you make on your own.”

She paused, eyeing you carefully. “But just know, avoiding him isn’t going to give you the answers you need. It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

You smiled sweetly, still not convinced. “Sometimes, a little delay is exactly what I need. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. We’re betrothed, after all.”

“That you are,” Lily replied, her tone becoming slightly sharper. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be avoiding him. You’ve got time, but you also have a responsibility to work through your feelings. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glanced toward the door, already plotting the next phase of your plan. “I’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, I’m going to need some assistance.”

Lily sighed again, louder this time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze flicking to the door as though she were silently debating whether or not to humor you.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch Sir Lando and Sir Oscar. But I’m warning you, My Lady, this avoidance strategy won’t last long.”

You grinned triumphantly as she turned to leave. “Thank you, Lily. You’re the best.”

As she stepped out of the room, you sank back into your chair, letting your mind wander to the next step of your plan.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, but it felt better than facing Max and trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside you.

For now, avoiding him was the only option that seemed remotely manageable.

When Lily returned with your knights, they each looked at you with varying degrees of confusion and amusement, but you gave them a firm, confident look.

This plan was going to work.

You could make it work.

“Alright,” you said, standing tall, as though the sheer gravity of your decision had transformed you into a seasoned military strategist. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to make sure Max never sees me again.”

A pause hung in the air, heavy and expectant.

“Or at least… not for a while.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. Lando’s lips twitched upward, the beginnings of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, while Oscar’s furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed his confusion.

“Right,” Lando said finally, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was equal parts incredulous and amused. “This ought to be good. What, exactly, do you want us to do, my Lady? This sounds like it’s going to be excellent for my boredom.”

Oscar’s expression tightened further. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, half to himself, his arms now folded.

You straightened your back, summoning all the confidence you could muster. “I am entirely serious. From this moment forward, I have suddenly become… extremely busy.”

Oscar blinked. “Busy,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, busy,” you replied, the words tumbling out with an exaggerated air of importance. “So busy, in fact, that I won’t have a single moment to spare. And I need you two to help make sure that’s… believable.”

Lando arched an eyebrow, a grin now fully blossoming on his face. “Wait, let me get this straight. You want us to..what? Fabricate your life for a bit?”

“Exactly,” you said with a flourish of your hand, as though the absurdity of your request was irrelevant. “A little misdirection here, a well-timed excuse there. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something convincing.”

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “So, you’re asking us to keep Max, the man who has been running this house like a clock, distracted? To throw him off the scent entirely?”

“Precisely,” you said, lifting your chin.

Oscar looked less amused and more concerned, his practical nature coming to the forefront. “And what exactly is this plan supposed to achieve? You think if we keep him occupied for long enough, he’ll just… forget about you? You do realize who we’re talking about, right?”

“I don’t need him to forget,” you replied quickly, your voice rising slightly in pitch. “I just need him to be… preoccupied. Thoroughly distracted. He can’t be allowed to think about me, let alone come looking for me.”

Lando, who had been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “This is incredible. You’re trying to dodge the one man who could probably find you in his sleep.”

Oscar sighed again after a moment , clearly reluctant. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Excellent,” you said, clapping your hands together. “Now, let’s get to work.”

As Lando leaned back in his chair, still grinning, and Oscar reluctantly nodded his agreement, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Surely, this would work. How hard could it be to outmaneuver Max Emilian Verstappen?

You tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that you might have just made a very, very big mistake.

—-

Permanent tag list:

@papichulomacy

[yandere-romanticaa]

"Oho, I did not see you there!" chirped the white haired hero, his blue cloak trailing behind him as he walked straight towards you. It was difficult trying to maintain a calm demeanor and your best to ignore the heat in your cheeks and thumping of your heart. Not too long ago, you had parted with a friend and said friend was not shy in expressing his feelings towards you.

His pride and ego would take a massive hit if he was even aware that you were even entertaining Lord Phainon to begin with, but that was its own beast.

Right now, a beast as white as snow stood before you, his lips stretched out in a wide grin, pearly white teeth shining so brightly beneath the sunlight that it had you wondering whether or not he was going to sink them in straight into your delicate neck.

He probably would if he was not so impeccable at keeping his desires at bay. Or so he liked to say.

Phainon was many things, many wonderful, glorious things. And the moment you stepped foot into the city, he had been nothing but attentive, sweet, kind, generous, suffocating...

And that was not going to change any time soon.

He stood before you, arms opened wide as he hoped you would leap into his arms for a hug. Fearing to see him upset, you obliged his request, just not with the vigor he so desired. His scent overtook your senses the moment his body came into contact with yours - pretty white hair tickled the side of your neck, big arms entangled together as you heard him mutter something but were ultimately unsure of what.

As suffocating as he was, it could be hard to resist him at times. This was one of them.

Staying in his arms felt like sweet bliss, sweeter than any ambrosia as Phainon cheekily brought his lips closer to your neck and blew a hot breath on it, causing you to yelp in surprise. He shook a little as he laughed, the sound loud as it rang in your ears but the chorus came to an abrupt end just as soon as it started.

Phainon stood still as a statue, his back stiff and arms tight like a vice, as if he was contemplating something.

Icy chills went down your spine once you felt him softly inhale your scent, knowing damn well that he was going to find something a little more extra there. The musk had been entangled with your own scent and you prayed to every god in the known universe to grant you the mercy of a peaceful afternoon, but that plan was simply not in the cards.

The man said nothing as he cradled you in his arms, the silence deafening as the world around you continued to spin and move. No one seemed to notice the two of you, which just added another layer of horror to this already bad situation. A brisk shadow covered Phainon's face but it vanished in an instant, his blue eyes sparkling like jewels as he gazed down at you with fondness.

"I see you bought a new perfume for yourself. I am not sure what to make of it!"

With a gulp, you chuckled as your mind kept going through the several possibilities at hand - was he giving you an out? Did he hope you would come clean and say that someone else had hugged you tightly just as he was right now?

Was he perhaps playing dumb? Acting ignorant on purpose to lower your guard down?

Who knows. Maybe he really did think that you had bought a new perfume. But, that uncertainty was what shook you to the core. You just could not know, not unless it was too late...

In a split second decision, you choose to coyly say that you had indeed picked something up for yourself in the market. It was on sale and it was so pretty, how could you not buy it?

Phainon laughed, the sound loud and boisterous.

"I could have bought it for you, it really wouldn't have been any trouble for me!"

His grip became impossibly tight once he felt you trying to pull away, that damn grin still plastered on his handsome face. He looked as if he wanted to swallow you whole and if he really wanted to, he probably could in some way.

Suddenly, the sound of a church bell chiming in the distance distracted you both, granting a moment of reprieve as you swiftly but carefully stepped away from him. You put on your most convincing grin and waved him goodbye and you made sure to blow him a kiss for extra measure.

Phainon pretended to catch it with his hand and pressed it close to his heart, his gaze never once leaving your form as you quickly became nothing but a shadow in the distance. Today, he would let you go. He needed to be calm and smart about this, he cannot just charge right in and have you as his own, it just did not work like that.

Besides, he was never one to turn down a challenge. Phainon simply just did not know the meaning of giving up.

[velarisdusk]

The Hand That Holds

Azriel x Reader

word count: 5k content: [ explicit sexual content, explicit language, insinuated past domestic abuse, reader has a pos ex, physical fight, blood ] summary: You and Azriel visit a bakery in Velaris, but tension rises when your ex-boyfriend tries to provoke him. author's note: WOOOOOO FINALLY got around to this!!! i got this request a while back and im so sad it took me this long because i LOVED this one and i think yall will too :D as always, thank you lyla for the beta MWAH <333 ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The chill of the winter morning nipped at your cheeks as you leaned into Azriel’s side, your hands tucked deep into your pockets for warmth. Velaris was still waking up, the streets quiet save for the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots and the occasional hum of conversation from the city’s early risers. 

Azriel walked beside you, his wings tucked in tight against his back, his scarf pulled up over his nose to block the cold. He looked uncharacteristically cozy, wrapped in layers of dark wool and leather—a far cry from his usual battle leathers. You smirked at the sight, biting back the urge to tease him. 

“Stop staring,” he muttered, though his hazel eyes were bright with amusement. 

“I’m not,” you said, feigning innocence. “I’m just admiring how approachable you look. Someone might mistake you for friendly.”

Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, his gloved hand brushing yours as he reached for the door of a new bakery. The scent of sugar and cinnamon spilled out as he held it open for you, and you stepped inside with a shiver of relief. 

The line wasn’t long, but the buzz of excitement was palpable—Velaris had been abuzz about this place for weeks, and you were curious to see if it lived up to the hype. Azriel stepped in behind you, the singular shadow that didn’t shy from the sun curling lazily around his shoulders as he scanned the small shop with practiced ease.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you teased, nudging him gently.

“Old habits,” he said with a shrug. But his gaze softened as he looked down at you, his voice dipping low enough for only you to hear. “Regardless, it’s always good to–”

“Check your exits—I know,” you rolled your eyes playfully. But the soft, warm smile on his face made warmth blossom in your chest. Before you could tease him about how he always looked like he was plotting your rescue, the door chimed again behind you. 

The voice that followed froze you in place.

“Well, well. Isn’t this a surprise?”

It was like ice had slid down your spine. You turned slowly, already knowing who you’d find, and there he was: your ex, Adrian.

He looked almost exactly as you remembered him—tall, lean, with the same self-assured smirk that used to make your stomach twist. Now it only made your skin crawl. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended. 

Adrian’s smirk didn’t falter as he spread his arms in mock surprise. “Same as you, I imagine. Grabbing breakfast on this fine, frigid morning. You’ve got good taste though—this bakery’s supposed to be the best in town.” His eyes, dark with amusement, stayed locked on you, deliberately ignoring the male at your side. 

Azriel shifted, a subtle movement that you felt more than saw, and the warmth of his arm across your back steadied you. You cleared your throat, gesturing between the two males. “Adrian, this is Azriel, my boyfriend.”

At that, Adrian finally acknowledged Azriel, his gaze sweeping over him with exaggerated disinterest. “Ah, the High Lord’s lapdog,” he drawled, a cruel glint in his eye as he let the words hang in the air. “I should’ve guessed.”

Azriel didn’t so much as blink, his expression unreadable, though the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation. The shadow that had once draped itself lazily across his shoulders now twisted and writhed, mirroring the tension he refused to show. 

You stiffened, the familiar twinge of frustration rising in your chest. You shot Adrian a sharp look. “Watch your mouth. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Adrian sneered. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve always craved proximity to power, but I never thought you’d stoop so low for the High Lord’s lackey.” He looked at Azriel now. “You know, she used to–”

Before he could finish, a soft but firm throat-clearing interrupted the tension. You met the gaze of a female fae with skin the color of a summer sky, delicate silver patterns swirling faintly across her arms. Her green eyes flickered with mild annoyance, looking pointedly behind you. You blinked, realizing with a start that the line had moved up. 

You turned, giving a tight, awkward smile to her. The momentary distraction was enough to snap the edge off the conversation, but you could still feel Azriel’s muscles taut beneath his shirt, his posture subtly bristling with tension. You cleared your throat and turned back to face Adrian, forcing a calmness to your voice. “Adrian, I’m not interested in rehashing old memories. It’s over. I’ve moved on.”

He let out a low chuckle, clearly unfazed by your attempt to diffuse the situation. “Oh, I know. But it’s hard not to wonder if…” His eyes flickered over to Azriel again, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She always liked a good challenge. Always liked playing the game.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his gaze cool and unflinching as he stared back at Adrian. There was no hint of anger in his eyes—only something darker, something more dangerous. The air around him felt charged, and you could feel the subtle pressure of his presence wrapping around you. He’d let Adrian speak, but it was clear he was no longer willing to let this slide. 

Your ex, clearly oblivious to the things Azriel could do to him, leaned in closer, his voice dropping low, as if speaking just to you. “You know, I always had a thing for your little… habits.”

“Adrian–” you started, but Azriel’s fingers tightened around your waist, as if to say, No, let him dig his own grave. 

He only glanced at you with that same arrogant smirk, spoke in that same smug tone. “You always did like the idea of playing the perfect little girlfriend, didn’t you? Pretending to be someone you’re not just to fit in. I’m certain the High Lord and his court see straight through you. How this one doesn’t is beyond me. Maybe he’s too caught up in your little act to notice.”

You stiffened, anger flashing through you. You met Adrian’s eyes head-on, your voice steady but cold. “You don’t know anything about me, Adrian. You never did. All you cared about was making me bend to your will, acting like you could tell me who I was.”

Adrian snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Right. That’s exactly why you couldn’t stand up for yourself. Too afraid to rock the boat, too afraid to leave without your damned brother keeping me from you while you emptied out our apartment. That’s the real reason you’re with him now, isn’t it? Because he gives you the approval you crave.”

You felt your breath catch, a sharp sting of frustration and anger at the way Adrian twisted things. But Azriel didn’t intervene, giving you the room to defend yourself the way he knew you could. But his body still radiated that quiet, dangerous presence that was undeniably his. 

“I didn’t stay with you because I needed approval. I stayed because I was hoping you’d change, but it never happened. I was hoping you’d actually care about me, but you never did.” The words tumbled out, raw and real, but with a finality to them. Azriel’s gaze didn’t leave Adrian. 

But Adrian wasn’t done yet. “Sure, keep pretending like you didn’t thrive on being the good little girlfriend. You think you’re some born-again female because you fuck people in high places now?”

Before you could respond, Adrian’s voice rose, becoming louder, enough for the few other patrons in the bakery to glance over curiously. You could feel the heat of their stares on you, the attention making your skin crawl. 

Azriel’s posture shifted then, like a predator slowly unfurling from his calm stance. You were at the front of the line now, the barista eyeing the three of you warily. 

Azriel gave a soft chuckle, breaking the tension just a little. His voice, when it came, was unexpectedly warm—almost too friendly. “Go ahead and order, sweetheart. I’ll just get to know Adrian here a bit more.” His smile was polite, but there was something in his tone, something laced with a quiet, lethal amusement when he faced Adrian and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking forward to it with how much I’ve heard about you.”

You blinked at him, unsure if he was serious, but with a last glance at the two males—Azriel now steering Adrian toward the door, his grim firm but controlled—you turned away and approached the barista to place your order. You could feel Adrian’s eyes still on your back, but you chose to ignore them, focusing instead on the extensive menu.

You’d placed your order, a cappuccino and cinnamon roll for yourself, an espresso and a chocolate croissant for Az. When you turned around, you found Azriel still standing by Adrian, the two of them in an almost eerily calm conversation. But Azriel… Azriel smiled at you as soon as your eyes met, his expression softening in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He waved you away, the motion casual as he gestured toward the tables. “Find us a seat,” you heard his muffled voice through the glass, all smooth charm. “I’ll be right there.”

Something in the way Azriel held himself, with perfect composure, put you on edge as you walked toward the tables, though you could still see them through the large glass windows.

From where you sat, you could only see Adrian’s face, flushed with color, but Azriel’s back was all you could make out. The conversation escalated, Adrian’s voice sharp and biting, though the exact words eluded you. It became painfully clear that whatever advantage Adrian thought he held, Azriel had turned it on its head. 

Your order was brought over by the short green faerie you’d spoken to earlier. With a smile and thanks, you lifted the paper cup to your lips, taking a slow sip. You tried to convince yourself that this wasn’t a situation about to boil over. But just as you brought your cup to your lips again, you saw Azriel—without warning—turn his body and slam his fist into Adrian’s face with a speed and force that made the entire room fall silent.

Your breath hitched as Adrian staggered backward, his nose already swelling, his eyes wide with shock. It wasn’t just the punch itself; it was the sheer precision of it. Azriel’s strike was so clean, so practiced. You knew it was far from the first time he’d thrown a punch, but seeing it land with such brutal efficiency… it was something else entirely. 

You shot up in your seat, stomach twisting at the sight, but a part of you was oddly satisfied with the outcome. Adrian’s shock was clear, but it quickly turned to rage as he wiped at the blood now dripping from his nose. For a moment, it seemed like time froze—Azriel’s stillness, Adrian’s growing anger, the tense air between them. You were frozen too, watching with wide eyes, heart thundering in your chest. 

But then, Adrian lunged forward, swinging his fist toward Azriel. You flinched as you saw it coming, but Azriel didn’t even flinch. He easily dodged the punch, his movements fluid and effortless. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, as he watched Adrian stumble forward, completely outmatched. 

Adrian’s face twisted with fury. He spoke with a sneer on his lips, and whatever he’d spat at Azriel made his fist come crashing into his jaw, sending Adrian flying backward. Adrian stumbled, but he was still standing, glaring up at Azriel with burning hatred. 

But Azriel didn’t let him regain his balance. He closed the distance in seconds, landing blow after blow with calculated precision. Each punch seemed to push Adrian further back, his attempts to retaliate nothing more than desperate swings Azriel easily evaded. 

The bakery fell silent, the only sound the sickening thud of Azriel’s punches landing with brutal accuracy. Adrian’s face was already swollen, blood staining his lips, but the fire in his eyes didn’t die. He staggered, trying to find his footing, but Azriel was relentless.

You couldn’t watch it anymore. Your heart raced, stomach churning with a sick mix of fear and adrenaline. You shot up from your seat, your hands trembling as you rushed toward the door.

“Azriel, stop!” you yelled, your voice shaky but desperate. You hadn’t even made it a step outside before Azriel’s voice cracked like a whip. 

“Enough!” The command was sharp. “You’d do well to watch your fucking mouth.”

You stepped into the cold air, the door swinging shut behind you. Adrian’s back was to you as Azriel loomed over him, towering like a predator who’d cornered its prey. The sight of Adrian’s battered face only made you more frantic. 

You couldn’t stand this. “Azriel, please, this is enough. Let him go,” you said, your voice trembling but insistent. 

Adrian, seething, spat a mouthful of blood onto the white snow with a sickening splat, his eyes not leaving yours. He grinned through the bloodstained mess, his voice dripping with venom. “The way you’re shaking, darling, sounds an awful lot like the noises you’d make when I fucked you.”

The words hit like a slap and anger burned in your chest. Without a second thought, you kicked him hard in the knee, sending Adrian crashing to the ground with a grunt of pain. Azriel took a slow step back, his expression unreadable. He held out his arm, a quiet invitation for you to take it. 

Without hesitation, you slipped your arm through his, feeling the calming presence of his warmth and strength, his shadow dancing around you too now. Together, you walked back into the bakery, your eyes lingering on Adrian as he writhed on the ground, nursing his knee. 

The bakery was quiet when you walked back in, but you ignored the looks from the other patrons, your focus entirely on Azriel. You reached the table where your coffees were still steaming and your pastries still warm. You grabbed your cup, hands trembling slightly, though the anger in your chest was beginning to settle. Azriel gathered the rest and you left the bakery arm in arm. The door swung closed behind you with a soft chime. As you stepped back out into the cold, you noticed that Adrian was gone. 

What remained were the footprints he’d left behind, the snow disturbed in jagged lines, and the dark spots of blood every few feet. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather crept over you as you and Azriel walked the other way. 

When you and Azriel landed at the House of Wind, his hand moved to the small of your back, his touch a silent reassurance. 

He opened the door, and as you stepped inside, the warmth of the House hit you like a wave, the sharpness of the cold outside vanishing. Azriel shut the door behind you, the world outside fading away as he turned to face you. The flickering light of the fire illuminated his sharp features, casting shadows that seemed to dance with his every movement. 

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” you asked, your voice low, almost hesitant. 

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered to the firelight, his shadows stirring lazily around him as if they reflected the storm brewing in his mind. The weight of his silence settled between you, heavy and charged. 

Your chest tightened. “What did he say to you?” you pressed softly, searching his face. “To make you—”

Before you could finish, Azriel closed the distance in one swift step, backing you against the door as his shadows swept your drinks and pastries into some unseen pocket of shadowed space. The breath hitched in your throat as his hands planted firmly on either side of your head, caging you in. His wings flared slightly though his movements remained measured. 

He was so close now, his dark gaze burning into yours, and when he finally spoke, his voice was a low, rough whisper, with a smirk that never ceased to send a shiver down your spine. “Do you really want to know?”

Your mouth went dry, but you nodded, unable to find your voice. 

Azriel’s eyes swept over you, lingering on your lips for a beat too long. He leaned in, his mouth brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “He told me things about you,” he murmured, his voice dripping with restrained intensity. “Intimate things. Like the sounds you make… when your neck is bitten.”

His teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, drawing a gasp from your lips. His shadows curled around your ankles, their cool touch a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours. 

Azriel’s lips hovered there for a moment, his breath fanning over your skin as you shivered. His teeth scraped again, a little harder this time, and when your breath caught, his lips curved faintly. He trailed his mouth down the column of your throat, his tongue flicking over your pulse point as if savoring every reaction he coaxed from you. 

“He said you’d melt,” Azriel murmured, his voice low and rough, the edge of it sending a shiver through you. “That you’d fall apart the moment someone got close enough to really touch you. Do you know how much I hated hearing that from him?”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, half for balance and half to anchor yourself against the tension coiling through your body. “Azriel–” you started, but his name came out more like a sigh than a protest. 

“He thought he knew you.” His hand skimmed up your arm, his touch almost reverent. He paused when he reached your jaw, his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth, tugging lightly at your bottom lip. “Thought he’d learned all your secrets. But he doesn’t know you like I do, does he?”

His shadows curled tighter, slithering up your calves and around your waist, as if to hold you in place. Azriel tilted your head back with a soft but firm touch, his eyes dark as they locked with yours. 

“Does he know,” he continued, his thumb grazing along your throat now, “how your breath hitches when I do this?” His lips followed the path of his thumb, placing a lingering kiss at the hollow of your throat. 

Your body betrayed you, your chest rising sharply at the sensation. Azriel’s smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering in his gaze as his hands moved to grip your hips. He pulled you flush against him, letting you feel the solid strength of him.

“Does he know the way you tremble,” Azriel murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “when someone takes their time with you? When every touch is intentional?”

His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs tracing teasing patterns along your ribs. You couldn’t stop the small noise that escaped you, half frustration, half need, and Azriel rewarded it with another scrape of his teeth against your skin, this time just beneath your ear.

“He said you liked to be bitten,” Azriel whispered, his tone dark and thick with purpose. “But I don’t think he ever did it quite right, did he? Not the way I do.”

His lips found the curve of your shoulder, his teeth pressing into the tender flesh there—not enough to hurt, but enough to make your knees go weak. A soft sound escaped you, and Azriel growled in approval, pulling back just enough to look at you. 

Your lips were parted, your breath uneven, and his eyes darkened further as they drank in the sight of you. “No,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “He didn’t know you at all.”

Azriel leaned in again, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was utterly consuming. His hands roamed your body now, each touch a promise, each movement pushing you further into the haze of him. 

The kiss broke only when you were gasping for air, your head spinning as his fingers skimmed the curve of your waist. Your fingers curled into his shoulders, your nails digging into the leather of his jacket as he moved lower, his mouth tracing a path down your throat. 

“He told me,” Azriel murmured against your skin, “how your body would arch when someone dragged their hands down your sides. How you’d shiver—yeah, just like that, sweetheart.” His hands followed the line of your body, his thumbs pressing into the curves of your hips. Your breath caught yet again, and his shadows tightened their grip, mirroring his hold on you as they coiled tighter around your legs and waist. 

“Do you know what else he said?” Azriel’s voice was dark now, the edge of it razor-sharp. His mouth hovered just above your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “He thought he knew every part of you.” He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and his free hand moved to cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. “But he never learned how to make you come undone the way I do.”

His thumb brushed over your lips, his darkened gaze fixed on your face as his other hand trailed lower, unzipping your winter coat as it went. Your heart pounded as his cold fingers toyed with the hem of your sweater. “He said,” Azriel leaned in, his nose grazing yours, “the sounds you made when someone’s fingers slid inside of you were unforgettable.”

His fingers slipped beneath your sweater now, brushing the bare skin of your stomach. “As if I don’t already know,” he laughed dryly. “As if I haven’t touched every inch of you, memorized every gasp, every shiver.” Azriel’s other hand splayed over your hip, his touch firm, grounding. 

“I know,” he murmured, “how your body reacts when I press here–” His hand slid lower, his fingers grazing the sensitive curve of your waist before trailing just above the waistband of your pants. “And how your back arches when I fuck my tongue into you just right.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as he lifted his head. His gaze pinned you in place—already held by the shadows, but his eyes alone could have kept you rooted where you stood. The smirk on his lips was devastating, pulling something deep inside of you.

“And I know,” he said, his voice a seductive growl, “that no one else could ever make you feel like this—not with just words, not without even touching you.” 

His mouth crashed against yours, swallowing the soft sound that escaped your lips, and any thought of Adrian—or the rest of the world—vanished entirely. His hands were everywhere, a firm grip on your waist, pulling you closer, his body radiating through every layer of clothing. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the barely-contained hunger in his touch, and it only made the need in you grow more desperate. His lips moved with slow, consuming pressure, as if savoring the familiarity of you, each kiss deeper than the last. Your breath came in shaky bursts, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him even closer, if that was even possible.

You felt his battle-worn hands slide from your waist, roughened from years of wielding blades, reaching down to grip the hem of your pants. Undoing the buttons, he felt the fabric of the leggings you wore underneath stretch at his touch, the tightness only making him more insistent as he tugged. The chill of Velaris’s winter bit at the air, and though he’d been the one to insist you bundle up, he now cursed every layer between his skin and yours.

Azriel’s breath was a low rasp against your skin as he hovered just inches from you, his fingertips brushing against the curve of your body. The cold stone of the wall pressed into your back, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.

“Adrian told me…” His voice was thick, barely a whisper as it vibrated through your chest. His fingers traced over you through the thin fabric of your underwear, a silent command that had you arching instinctively toward him. “He told me you make the most beautiful, soft little sound—that you can’t hide the way your whole body shudders—when I press just right.”

He didn’t wait for a response, the air between you thick with something unspoken as his fingers slid beneath the fabric. The quiet scrape of his knuckles against your skin was enough to make your heart pound harder, but it was his words, his quiet murmurings that drove the ache deeper. 

“But I know better. You’re not quiet,” he breathed, his voice dark with something that bordered on satisfaction. “I know how you react—how you cry out and tremble when my fingers move inside of you.”

His thumb circled lightly, teasing, before pressing firmer, a rhythm that had you gasping for more, your hands gripping him for stability. It was almost cruel, how he seemed to know exactly how far to push before he pulled back, watching you with that same unreadable expression, his eyes dark with desire. 

“You let me feel it all,” he said, the words punctuating each movement. Without warning, his fingers plunged deep. A sharp cry tore from your throat, the sound raw and unguarded, echoing in the small space between you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low, almost reverent growl. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. Let me feel how much you crave it.”

The pace of his fingers quickened, each movement calculated to drive you wild, to unravel you with each press and curl. His thumb brushed against the sensitive spot at the heel of your body, and your entire form trembled under his touch. Your grip on him tightened, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, but it was his control over the rhythm, his ability to play you like an instrument, that had your body surging toward him helplessly. 

Azriel drove his fingers deeper, harder, a steady rhythm that made your body tense, your mind slipping, thoughts scattering. Your breath caught, your chest heaving as you gasped, unable to control the sound that escaped you. “Please, Azriel…” The words barely left your mouth before another cry followed, the pressure building too fast, too much. 

He didn’t slow, didn’t stop. Instead, he bent closer, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured darkly, “I know exactly how you fall apart. How to touch you, how to fuck you, how to make you cry and beg.” His thumb circled before he pressed in harder, a movement that had your knees weak and your head spinning.

“You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me? How badly you want this, how badly you need me inside you?”

You whimpered, barely able to form words. “I—I need you… please…”

“I know, baby, I know.” A breathless laugh escaped him, his fingers moving with relentless speed, their slick rhythm filling the air. “I know you can’t control how needy you get for me.”

You cried out again, in frustration this time, your body pulling against him. “Azriel… please,” you whined. “Say whatever the hell gets you off, just please don’t stop, don’t leave me like this.”

His lips ghosted over your skin. “I won’t stop,” he breathed. “But you need to tell me what you want.”

Your body was already shaking, your voice trembling with need. “Please, I—I can’t take it anymore. Please, Azriel… make me come.”

He groaned low in his throat, his pace quickening impossibly, matching the frantic rhythm of your breaths. “That’s it,” he muttered. “Beg for me, tell me how much you need it.” His fingers curled again, making you gasp, your back arching as he pushed you toward the edge. 

The tension coiled impossibly tight, and every stroke of his fingers sent a wave of heat coursing through you. His name tumbled from your lips, broken and breathless, as your fingers fisted in his hair. “Az—please, I’m so close—please, please, please–”

“I know,” he murmured, voice like velvet over steel, his forehead pressed against yours as he watched every expression flicker across your face. “I can feel it. The way you start to clench around my fingers–”

His words sent you spiraling, a raw sound breaking from you as the pressure shattered, heat rippling through every nerve so fiercely you thought your legs might give beneath you. He caught you, his free hand gripping your waist, holding you steady as he continued to work you through it, his fingers relentless, dragging out every last tremor until you sagged against him, boneless and breathless. 

“That’s my girl,” he said softly, his tone laced with pride, his lips brushing over your temple. His scent—smoked amber and shadowed pine, edged faintly with steel—enveloped you, his fingers retreating with an excruciating slowness that had your breath hitching one last time. 

When the haze cleared, your head fell to his shoulder, your breaths mingling in the charged silence between you. His hands steadied at your hips, his warmth pressing into you as though he had no intention of letting go. Slowly, his touch shifted, gathering you close, and you knew—without a word exchanged—that the couch would offer no reprieve from the unspoken promises lingering in his heated gaze. 

[valyrianvibranium]

SET ME ALIGHT AGAIN.

Cregan Stark x female!Targaryen!Reader (Part 2 here)

"It was on request of your younger brother's small council that Lord Cregan Stark agreed to take you to the North with him to prevent you from succumbing to grief like your aunt did. And now it's at his hands that the haze in your eyes is replaced by an emotion you haven't felt in so long, an emotion he’s giving back to you. And you let it flood you."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; p in v, oral (fem receiving), angst (?), breeding kink, size kink, size difference, romantic fucking in front of the fireplace, afab reader, post dance of the dragons

WORDS: 4.8 K

NOTES: I dedicate this to @sylasthegrim. You're not only one of the few people I really grew fond of in the short time we truly got to know each other, but since both our minds basically came down to the same idea, this is for you! Thanks for beta reading this. 💕

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

You’ve been in Winterfell for a moon’s turn by now, and have quickly noticed that the ancestral castle possesses a beauty and calmness the Red Keep can be jealous of. But even that isn’t enough to make you feel at home – as if you could ever call a place your home again. Not after you’ve witnessed almost everyone in your family, no matter whether you liked them or not, perish at the hands of each other. 

It was on request of your younger brother, now dubbed King Aegon the third, or rather of his small council that Lord Cregan Stark agreed to take you to the North with him to prevent you from succumbing to grief like your aunt did. And while you’re grateful for the chance to flee the one place that has caused you more hurt than good, riding in a carriage up to the far North like a commoner wasn’t exactly pleasant. 

But how else should you have gotten there when your precious mount died along its kind as the common people stormed the Dragonpit?

For the past month, you’ve very rarely seen the sun – or anyone else than your maids. 

Your days are spent in your chambers, not leaving the safety of the Guest House as you often try to find the sleep you can’t seem to get at night. And during the night, when the Hour of the Owl strikes and no light other than that of the moon reaches Winterfell, one often finds you wandering the quiet halls of the castle. Sometimes one even spots you outside in the Godswood, regardless of the low temperatures that make the three pools fed by an underground hot spring look even more inviting. 

But warmth and comfort are never what you’re after. 

You feel incredibly daring tonight, sitting beneath the ancient weirwood tree on one of its roots. Although there is a thick fur coat draped around your frame, the thin nightgown beneath does not allow you to be kept as warm as one usually desires, your bare feet hidden inside of the coat not a big help either. 

Tiptoeing barefoot through the snow was the hardest part, but it was worth it as it gave you exactly what your body longs for. 

You’re far too absorbed by the reflection of the moon dancing on the pool of black water beneath the tree, and the peaceful allure of the snow-covered night that you don’t notice you’re not alone anymore.  

“Princess?” a husky voice rings out from the shadows, one you’d even recognize in a room full of loud and drunken men. 

Almost as if he doesn’t want to startle you, the tall frame of the Lord of Winterfell approaches you without any sudden moves, becoming more visible with the moonlight shining down on him. “What are you doing out here this late?”

Only when he’s stopping not far away from you do you avert your eyes from him to the water again. “I could ask you the same, Lord Stark,” you reply softly. 

A chuckle rumbles in his chest at your remark, and you can’t help the tint of heat hearing it brings to your cheeks. “Indeed you could,” he says. “I have not slept well, and the night has a peaceful allure. But you should not be out in the open without any guards, especially not this late at night.”

You drag your index finger through the snow at your side, drawing a mindless pattern in the dark as you do not pay any mind to his words. “And why is that, Lord Stark?” you ask, a certain snarkiness to your tone. “There is nothing worse that could happen to me than what I have already endured.”

Cregan sighs, and even in the dim light you can make out that he’s scratching his stubble covered chin. “And yet, should something else happen to you, I would not like myself for neglecting you and not protecting you just as I have sworn to the king,” he explains. “Besides, there is a cold chill in the air that I can not believe you are not feeling right now.”

“Perhaps that is the answer you’ve been looking for, my lord,” you mumble. “Perhaps I came here to feel something.”

The Wolf of the North doesn’t immediately answer you. Instead, there lingers a pause between you. But it’s not uncomfortable or feels as though it doesn't pass, no, you find yourself to actually enjoy his company. 

His next words, however, even surprise you as you didn’t think he was capable of it. “Feeling the cold of the snow has its way to make one feel alive, that much is true,” he agrees, and then looks up to the dark sky. “You wish to feel something else than the pain of the absence of the people you’ve lost in this war, I understand… I think.”

His words make the feeling of emptiness, the hollowing ache of loss just worse, while at the same time, he seems to know the feeling of craving pain when you’re just so used to it. 

“This cold bite, the chill that lingers on the skin — no one should want to feel it, Princess. It makes even my bones shake, do you know that? Surely you must be shivering, and we should be getting you inside. I should be getting you inside.”

You know he‘s right. While his words are blunt in nature, they are very much that of truth. You shouldn’t be out here, nor should you want to be out here. There‘s nothing to enjoy about this cold chill and the snow, not when you‘re as sparsely dressed as you are. You‘re not yet used to the chill of Winterfell, of the North. 

Cregan offers you his hand, but you‘re still hesitant to take it. Albeit you reach out, your significantly smaller hand hovers over his, not yet grabbing it. “You‘re not exactly wearing proper attire to be out in this wretched cold for very long,“ he remarks. “Let me help you get up, your feet must be in agony by now.“

“And what if I don‘t want to?“

“Then I will still get you up.“ There is a tinge of amusement in his voice now, seeing this little bit of rebelliousness from you, your strength of mind. Even if he doesn’t exactly approve of it. “I shall simply pick you up myself, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you inside to your chambers, even though I‘d get you quite angry and don‘t imagine you want me to do just that.“

You don’t believe he actually has the gumption to do something like that at first, although you know he’s able to muster a decent amount of strength that would easily allow him to lift you up. But then, you wonder if he would truly do it if challenged. “Try that, if you dare, my lord.”

He lets out a snort of amusement, enjoying the teasing that slowly shapes between you two. It still is a challenge, and as a man of his station, he could never let words like this go unspoken. “Oh, I dare, Princess.” 

Putting forth his arm, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and easily pulls you forwards onto your feet without applying too much pressure. You’re certainly caught off guard by his actual willingness to lift you up, and a squeal escapes your lips before you’re tossed on his strong shoulder as if you are some silly, helpless girl. 

Cregan carries you through the Godswood and towards the Guest House, though you don’t resist too much as you’re hanging there over his shoulder – a part of you is grateful you don’t have to walk through the snow with your bare feet once more. 

“Lord Stark, put me down at once!” you demand with a little twinge of laughter in your voice. You feel so light, much lighter than you imagine he’s used to lifting up, almost as if it’s taken all of the pressure off your shoulders. 

But when there doesn’t come an answer from him, you grow slightly frustrated. “What if anyone sees, you madman!” you remark, embarrassment warming your cheeks. 

“Madman? That’s rich coming from the woman who was willing to freeze to death in the snow,” he says jokingly, approaching the large doors. “Who do you think could see us at this hour, princess? The rats? And what if they do? What if someone sees me carrying the poor princess, who had the gall to get out of her bed after midnight and wander the Godswood while in her nightgown?” Although there is amusement in his voice, you also notice the faintest hint of flirtation laced within. “Will they judge me for carrying her, or would they judge her for her imprudent midnight excursion?”

You stay silent thrown over his shoulder, not sure how to reply. You thought you had a good comeback, but it seems Cregan is one step ahead of you. The flirtatious teasing you’ve heard catches you off guard, not expecting to hear it from him at all. It makes your cheeks flush with even more embarrassment when you notice that he’s actually right. But you don’t want to admit the truth in what he’s said. 

“You mock me, but you shall see there would be much scandal if someone were to see this,” you retort, trying to keep calm as you’re now a little bit flustered by these sudden developments. “Besides,” you say, trying to remain unbothered and nonchalant, “who says I won’t tell a tale of you being the imprudent one?”

“Ah, you little rascal,” Cregan replies with a chuckle, giving your thigh a tight squeeze. “I see you’d find a way to turn the tides and have it end up with me being the bad guy, taking my chances on a vulnerable woman in the guise of protecting her.”

You’re clearly enjoying the teasing a tad too much, enjoying these quick and witty back-to-backs with him, taking your mind off of your grief. Drawing in a deep breath, you hold onto Cregan’s thick coat. “What would you have been protecting me from, Lord Stark?” you ask with feigned innocence. “Were the trees too menacing that you just had to sweep me off my feet to carry me away from their clutches?”

“No, I am afraid it was not the trees that had me worried, Princess,” Cregan replies as he brings you further into the Guest House, easily opening the door to the sleeping quarters with one hand. “The cold was the greater menace, and it had you in its grasp.”

Your words die in your throat when he puts you down on your bed, the soft furs very welcomed beneath your cold feet. You look up at him with wide eyes and a heaving chest as he towers over your significantly smaller frame, and you wait for him to make the next move. 

There’s a moment of silence between you, obviously he’s considering his next words. 

And boy do they disappoint you. “I shall make sure a fire is lit for you to warm yourself, princess,” he says, turning around to approach the hearth on the other side of the room. 

Cregan crouches down to build and start a small fire in the hearth that should last the night, not wanting you to stay too cold. But you wouldn’t be a thoroughbred dragon if it didn’t mean for you to take any risks. And so you get onto your cold feet, the coat still draped around your shoulders sliding down to the ground. 

Feeling a bit too exposed too quickly, you grab one of the thick fur blankets laying on your bed instead and wrap it around your frame, before you tiptoe towards the large wolf kneeling in front of the fireplace. 

“I have something different in mind,” you speak softly. Cregan, startled by your words and your sudden approach, turns around and faces you as he rises to his feet. You reach and bury your hands in the collar of his coat, the blanket falling to the ground in the process, and when you use your grip to pull him close, you find that he does not shy away in the least – if anything, he follows the tug to connect your lips in a heated kiss. 

He brings his large hands to your waist with ease, and presses his body against yours. The wolf feels like he’s drowning in you, in your lips, your warmth, your presence and scent. Wanting to lose himself in the moment, in you, his hands wander lower to your hips. 

“I did not expect you to do this tonight,” he breathes against your lips, breaking the silence. 

“And I did not expect some things from you tonight either,” you reply, breathlessly, voice breaking with every breath you take. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice is low and smooth as he speaks, shaking his head. “Quite the contrary.” There is a flirtatious smile on his lips, and a playfulness you haven’t seen before in his gray eyes. It’s as if that small spark between you has quickly evolved into an inferno that now burns bright in the both of you. 

It’s a fierce and burning kiss when your lips connect once more, fueled by the fires coursing through your veins. You release a soft whimper with his large paws trailing over your sides, feeling the fabric of your nightgown. 

“If we continue this, I won’t be able to stop myself,” he rasps.

You tilt your head back to look at him, a cheeky grin on your lips. “Perhaps I do not want you to.”

Cregan’s eyebrows raise at your reply, and you feel his hands tighten around your waist once more. He can’t help but feel a jolt of arousal run down his back, which prompts him to release a low chuckle. “Well, if you wish for it that much…” he whispers in response, before pulling you back toward him, kissing you passionately. 

A breathless chuckle slips past your lips as you pull back from him, licking your kiss swollen lips. “But there are a few things we need to get you out of first,” you tease, tugging at the thick, furry coat that’s draped over his broad shoulders. 

“Are you this eager to have your hands over all of me?” he replies with a flirtatious smirk, but still unclips the coat and lets it fall to the ground. He doesn’t mind you seeming quite intent to get him out of his armor, allowing you to fumble with the clasps and buckles, and eventually helps you remove the heavy bits until he’s left wearing nothing but his breeches. But even those are quickly unlaced by you, left to be a puddle around his feet. 

“My my, do you not feel a little too hot still, Lord Stark?” you tease, letting your fingers wander over his exposed stomach. You can’t help but feel warmth creeping onto your cheeks as you see him in such little clothing, so exposed. He’s a muscular man, tall and large, and the sight of his bare skin with the dark of hair on his chest and a trail of it running below his undergarments is a welcoming one. 

Through the linen you see that he’s already hard and begging, waiting for you to take things further. Truly a shame you seem to relish in the teasing. 

Goosebumps prickle on his skin in the wake of your finger, making you smile. You drag your finger along the waistband of his undergarments, hooking it beneath to tug on it. He knows what you desire, and he’s not ashamed to give you just that. “I do not see you so eager to remove your own clothes, Princess,” he teases, undoing the laces in the front for his undergarments to join his breeches. “It is hardly fair you want to see all of me, yet I am not allowed to do the same.”

You take in a sharp breath at the sight of his hard cock, standing to full attention. It has you licking your lips. Batting your eyelashes at him, you’re quick to pull your nightgown over your head, a smirk on your lips. A flimsy piece of linen conceals what lies between your legs, but it’s still enough for him to all but devour your almost bare frame. 

“There,” you whisper, “now we are on equal grounds.”

Cregan takes a moment to look over you, licking his lips at the sight of your breasts fully exposed mto him. He knows you’re no maiden who’s completely untouched, you wouldn’t be as confident if you were, but it doesn’t stop him from appreciating the sight in front of him. 

“Equal grounds, truly?” he asks you, taking a step toward you. One arm snakes around your waist, pulling you against him, as his other hand fists the linen of your smallclothes. “I think you still have an advantage over me, Princess. Because I have yet to see what lies beneath your undergarments.”

Your palms rest flatly against his chest, and you press a chaste kiss to his skin. “I will not stop you, Lord Stark,” you whisper, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. 

“Then let’s make these ‘equal grounds’ a little bit more equal, hm?” Cregan whispers as well. He sinks to his knees with his mouth trailing a path down your body, licking and kissing over your skin until he reaches your navel. His large hands trail over your sides and thighs on his way down, the movement and sight making your breath hitch in your throat. 

A shudder ripples through your body as he tugs your smallclothes down your legs, and while you watch him with your hands buried in his dark curls, his eyes are all but focused on what’s between your legs. 

He drapes one of your legs over his broad shoulder, his dark blown eyes darting up to meet yours, and before you can make any teasing remark, his mouth is on you. A gasp catches in your throat. “Cregan, please,” you whimper, forgetting all courtesies the moment his tongue drags through your slit. There’s no softness, no gentleness in the way he all but devours your cunt, the previous teasing having made his patience run thin. 

Your head tips back in pleasure as his tongue alternates between sliding into you and swirling around your pearl, noticing both options have you grind your hips against his face. The tip of his nose rubs so perfectly against your pearl when his mouth pays attention to your entrance, and Cregan’s fingers dig into your flesh with your body tensing up already, keeping you steady. 

The Wolf of the North growls against your cunt as if he’s truly turned into one, devouring you with all he’s got, the sheer pleasure brought by his tongue and lips taking over you. 

As you look down at him again, you find him already staring up at you, watching you carefully as you slowly but surely unravel on his tongue. It’s intense, but you’re captivated enough not to break eye contact. 

“Gods, yes, I–” you whimper, and fall apart all over his tongue with a shudder. If it wasn’t for Cregan’s paws on your body, you would have lost balance by now, especially with the way he seemed to work his tongue in and out of you faster just in rhythm to his nose rubbing your pearl. 

He pulls away from you slowly as your peak subsides, and with his beard and lips glistening with the remnants of your arousal, how could you not pounce on him right then and there?

He supports his body with one arm placed on the ground and stretches his legs as you push yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his strong neck. The taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan against his lips before you deepen the kiss. 

Cregan’s hard cock is nestled between your bodies, and you can’t resist wrapping your hand around it, stroking him once, twice, before you shift your hips and slowly sink down on him. 

Muscular arms completely wrap around your waist, making you very well aware of the size difference between the two of you. You’re significantly smaller than him, and relish in the feeling of being safe and protected with him around. You two haven’t been too close upon your arrival in the North, but it seems that there has been a hidden attraction lingering for quite some time. 

You know your hips would sooner or later become sore from pumping him with your core, hence you stick to rocking your hips back and forth with his cock stuffed deep inside you. It’s intimate and slow, but with the coarse hairs around the base of his cock dragging over your pearl with each swivel of your hips, you’re still racing for completion. 

While he mouths along your jaw and the curve of your throat, one of his hands comes up to cup your breast. Rolling the perky bud between his index finger and thumb, the slight sting works wonders to amplify the pleasure coursing through your veins. 

“By the Seven,” you whimper, grinding your hips against him with more determination. 

There comes a sharp hiss in return from him, barely audible between the open mouthed kisses he presses to your collar bones. You’re clawing at his shoulders and neck by now, scratching it despite the sensuality of your movements, and it feels as though you’re even drawing blood. But he doesn’t care about that – he rather enjoys having a woman that doesn’t hold back. 

Trailing his lips up to your throat, he nudges your chin with his nose, prompting you to tip your head back. “It’s not them you need to pray to right now, Princess,” Cregan rasps, a clear strain to his voice. “But perhaps I should take that as a compliment, hm?”

His words cause you to chuckle, and you’re grateful that he’s quickly distracted by kissing your throat again, because otherwise he might have noticed the heat his words bring to your cheeks. “If that is…” you trail off panting, burying your hand in his curls to tug his head back, forcing him to look up at you. The sight of his dark blown eyes hungrily gazing at you sends a shiver down your spine. You feel desired. “If that is a compliment, then I shall have to say it much more often.”

You’re not sure if it’s the fact you state wanting to compliment him more often, or if he’s just not used to having an appreciative lover in general, but your words seem to flip a switch inside of him. You quickly find yourself lowered on the fur blankets, warming your back while the flames heat up your skin and Cregan your blood. 

Nestled between your legs, he’s growing more determined now, the sensual rocking of your hips clearly not enough for him, but you don’t mind it. As much as you enjoy being in control, setting the tone, you also revel in following the lead. 

He’s propped up on one elbow, supporting himself as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips that make his cock drag so expertly against the sweet spot inside of you. 

With one hand, you hold onto his broad shoulder, digging your nails into his skin, while the other gropes at his chest, teasing his bud just like he’s done with yours before. The feeling of his coarse hairs beneath your fingers feels somewhat strange at first, for Aemond hasn’t had as much chest hair as Cregan does, but it’s also comforting. 

The familiar coil in the pit of your belly tightens slowly with his hips snapping into yours over and over again, split open by his hard cock.  

“Will you fill me up, my lord?” you moan breathily, arching your back with your breasts pressing against his sturdy frame. 

Cregan releases a choked groan at the question, and for a moment you can feel his hips stutter. You briefly wonder if you’ve pushed your luck too far, especially with him not replying immediately, until his raspy voice cuts through the heavy pants and moans. 

“Only if you let me take you to wife, Princess.” 

You inevitably clench down around him as a small, hiccuped gasp catches in your throat, resulting in Cregan drawing in a sharp breath. The haze in your eyes is replaced by an emotion you haven't felt in so long, an emotion he’s now giving back to you. And you let it flood you. 

Your hand comes from his chest to his biceps, holding onto it as you gather your thoughts. His hips haven’t slowed down one bit, and he’s truly expecting you to answer as if he wasn’t repeatedly impaling you on his cock right now. 

Staring up at him with wide eyes, your voice isn’t any louder than a whisper. “It would be foolish of me to turn this offer down,” you reply.

An impish smirk dances along Cregan’s features. “Is that meant to be a yes?”

“Y-Yes, it is, “ you whimper beneath him, arching your back once more. 

The warmth of his body, his weight and scent cloud your every being, and his thrusts are determined and harsh enough to render you speechless, your mind and body completely claimed by him. 

His hand snakes between your bodies, aiming for your sensitive pearl. Though the coarse hair around his cock has granted you at least a bit of friction, it’s not enough to bring you to your peak. His thumb circles over the little bud, fully coated with your arousal, and the thread in your belly is close to snapping. 

“Then I just might,” he grunts in return. 

Your body jerks at the sudden touch, but his muscular frame between your legs is enough to keep you pinned to the ground. “I need you… Cregan,” you whimper, bringing a hand behind his head to pull him down for a heated kiss. Your lips hardly part to release whimpers and moans, swallowing each other’s sounds of pleasure without any shame. “Let me give you a spare.”

It appears that your words give him a new-found vigor that leaves you gasping, the pace of his hips increasing. As you start to roll your hips against his thumb, you not only create some friction that feeds your pleasure but his as well. It’s not long after that your peak washes over you with a soft gasp, walls clenching around him like a vice. 

With your small frame trembling between his strong arms, Cregan releases a strained grunt, his own peak being milked out of him by your cunt fluttering around his cock. He keeps on dragging his thumb over your sensitive pearl, prolonging your peak and the pleasure that comes with it.

You stare up at him with wide eyes as you’re milking him for every drop, because there’s something so vulnerable in this wolf of a man, towering over you with his skin glistening with sweat, so desperate to fill you with his seed and breed you. 

The last jolts of his peak force him to languidly rut his hips into yours, desperately chasing the feeling of bliss that courses through your veins. His chest heaves with every heavy breath he takes, and the dark curls are damp and fall into his face. 

Only as Cregan is certain there’s not one drop of his seed left inside of him does he slowly stop his ministrations, and the hand that has toyed with your bud seizes your hips, stilling them.

His erratic breaths fans over your sweaty skin with his lips pressing to your temple. The feeling of being whole with him doesn’t leave you, not when his weight pins you down and keeps you grounded, easing your tumbled mind.  

“I shall welcome the arrival of any child you bear me,” Cregan says, inevitably breaking the silence. 

A smile spreads across your lips as you wrap your legs around his hips, and your arms around his neck. “Be careful what you wish for. My children will certainly be just as stubborn as me.”

His heart is practically pounding against his ribs, and he can feel himself on the verge of being lost by your touch alone again. You make him go wild and feral, your bold and flirtatious nature bringing out another side to him that’s completely unexpected. And yet it feels so right.  

The teasing banter brings a smile to his lips and a light to his gray eyes, your wit and humor shining through. “Let them be stubborn, then,” he chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “They only need to be half as feisty as you, and I shall be the happiest man in Winterfell.”

[mahalachives]

How Not to Survive an Illyrian Winter

Pairing: Azriel x Human Mate (reader)

Genre: Slice of Life, Fluff

Summary: When a blizzard rolls through Windhaven, you learn firsthand just how brutal Illyrian winters can be—and how soft Azriel can be when it comes to you. Cold fingers, warm jackets, grumpy shadows, and one very flustered spymaster.

You'd always heard that Illyrian winters were brutal. What you hadn't realized was that "brutal" was a massive understatement.

Standing outside the war camp's central meeting hall, you hugged yourself tighter as another gust of snow-laden wind cut through your woefully inadequate cloak. When Azriel had mentioned bringing you along to Windhaven, you'd packed what you thought was appropriate winter attire.

Apparently, "winter attire" in Velaris and "winter attire" in the Illyrian Mountains were two entirely different concepts.

"It'll just be a quick meeting," he'd said with that rare, small smile that still made your heart flutter. "Wait for me outside. The camp lords get tetchy when outsiders sit in."

That was two hours ago.

Your teeth chattered so violently you worried they might crack. You'd long since lost feeling in your toes, and your fingers had progressed from painful to alarmingly numb. The snow had begun falling harder, creating white walls of wind that obscured everything beyond ten feet.

"This is f-f-fine," you muttered to yourself, stamping your feet in a futile attempt to generate warmth. "T-totally f-fine."

A passing Illyrian warrior, bundled in thick furs and leathers, shot you an incredulous look that clearly said. No, you idiot, this is not fine.

You glared back, though the effect was probably ruined by how pathetically you were shivering.

Just as you were contemplating whether it would be worse to interrupt Azriel's important meeting or to slowly freeze into a human popsicle, the door to the hall slammed open.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his expression shifting from irritation (presumably at whatever had transpired in the meeting) to absolute horror when he spotted you.

"What in the name of the Mother—" He was across the space between you in three long strides, shadows writhing agitatedly around him.

You attempted a smile. "H-hi."

"Are you—" He reached for you, then hissed when his fingers touched your cheek. "You're freezing!"

"C-curious observation, s-s-shadowsinger," you managed through chattering teeth.

The shadows around his hands seemed to darken and multiply, whispering what sounded like curses in languages you didn't recognize. For a moment, you swore they formed tiny, angry little faces that scolded the wind.

"Why didn't you go inside somewhere? Any building would have been better than standing out in this!" His voice was gentle but firm as he rapidly unfastened his heavy leather jacket.

"Y-you said wait outside the m-meeting hall."

Azriel paused in the middle of removing his jacket, those hazel eyes widening. "I meant wait outside the meeting, not outside in a blizzard!"

You blinked snowflakes from your lashes. "Oh."

With a noise that was half exasperation and half concern, he shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around you. Instantly, delicious warmth enveloped you – the leather practically radiated heat, the blue siphons embedded in the shoulders glowing subtly.

"You enchanted your jacket?" you asked, already feeling the painful tingle of circulation returning to your extremities.

"Of course I did. It's the Illyrian Mountains in winter," he said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. His shadows continued their angry whispers, now seemingly directed at you.

"Are your shadows... lecturing me?"

A hint of color touched his cheeks. "They're concerned."

"They sound cranky."

"They hate seeing you in distress," he muttered, the admission clearly costing him something. Before you could tease him further, he bent and swept you into his arms as if you weighed absolutely nothing.

You squeaked in surprise. "Azriel! Put me down! I can walk!"

"Your lips are blue, your clothes are soaked through, and you've probably lost feeling in your feet," he countered, already striding through the snow. His massive wings unfurled partially to shield you from the worst of the wind. "So no, you cannot walk."

The few Illyrians out braving the storm quickly stepped aside, their expressions ranging from amusement to outright shock at seeing their intimidating spymaster carrying a shivering human through camp.

One brave warrior called out something in their native tongue that made Azriel's ears redden.

"What did he say?" you asked, snuggling deeper into the wonderful warmth of his jacket.

"Nothing important," Azriel replied too quickly.

You poked his chest. "Liar."

His lips twitched. "He said I've gone soft."

"Well, your jacket is very soft," you agreed, deliberately misunderstanding. "The big bad shadowsinger has a comfortable jacket. Shocking."

That earned you a rare chuckle as he pushed open the door to a small cabin with his foot. Inside was blessedly warm, a fire already crackling in the hearth.

He set you down gently on a chair near the fire, kneeling to remove your soaked boots. "You need to get out of these wet clothes."

When you waggled your eyebrows suggestively, he gave you a flat look. "Not like that."

"Spoilsport," you teased, but your attempt at humor was ruined by another violent shiver.

His expression sobered instantly. "You could have gotten seriously ill." His scarred hands cradled your frozen ones with infinite gentleness. "Why didn't you find shelter?"

"You told me to wait," you said simply. "I didn't want to miss you."

Something in his expression softened, and the shadows around him stilled their frantic movement. "Next time, assume that 'don't freeze to death' is implied in all of my instructions."

"I'll make a note of that," you promised, your lips curving into a smile as feeling returned to your face.

He disappeared into another room, returning with a pile of blankets and dry clothes that would clearly swallow you whole. "These will be too big, but they're warm."

As he helped you change – turning his back with endearing propriety when necessary – you couldn't help but observe, "Your shadows are still grumbling."

"They're saying I should have checked on you sooner." His voice was quiet, laced with guilt. "They sensed your discomfort but couldn't reach me through the wards in the meeting hall."

"Well, tell them I'm fine now. Just a bit chilly."

He raised an eyebrow. "'A bit chilly' doesn't turn someone's lips blue."

Once you were bundled in dry clothes and wrapped in multiple blankets, he sat beside you, hesitating only briefly before putting an arm around you.

"Your shadows are still muttering," you pointed out, leaning into his solid warmth.

"They're arguing about whether to tell Cassian."

You straightened in alarm. "Don't you dare. He'll never let me live it down."

The corner of Azriel's mouth lifted. "I think they're more concerned with whether he'll let me live it down for leaving my... for leaving you in a blizzard."

You caught that little slip, that unfinished word that hung between you, and tucked it away to examine later. "Your what, exactly?"

His wings shifted behind him – a nervous tell you'd begun to recognize. "My responsibility," he said finally.

"Hmm." You settled more comfortably against him. "Well, tell your shadows that if they snitch to Cassian, I'll find a way to make them regret it."

To your delight, the shadows actually seemed to recoil slightly, curling back toward Azriel's hands.

"They're suddenly reconsidering," he said, and you swore you could hear amusement in his voice.

"Good." You yawned, the warmth and safety making your eyelids heavy. "I'm very intimidating, you know."

"Terrifying," he agreed, his arm tightening around you. "Especially when you're blue with cold and buried under every blanket I own."

"Exactly," you mumbled, sleep beginning to claim you. "The most fearsome creature in all of Prythian."

As you drifted off, you felt the gentle press of lips against your temple and heard him whisper, "To me, you certainly are."

Author's Note: Just a little snowy slice of fluff starring everyone's favorite brooding shadowsinger and a very cold (but very stubborn) you. May the shadows always bring you blankets. 💙❄️

Outside, the wind howled, but you were warm, safe, and held by an Illyrian warrior whose shadows had finally stopped scolding the weather and started singing you to sleep instead.

End.

[jaehaeryshater]

The King Come Over and his bride Ygritte Firekissed

art by : @shripscapi

Look at my King dawg we’re definitely getting through the Wall!!!

For the last month and a half, I have been working closely with Liesl to design concepts for Jon as King Beyond the Wall and Ygritte as his Queen. Personally, I’m not invested at all in Jon becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms despite him being my favorite character. He’s not very connected with the South and I don’t feel that it’s his birth right or anything, even being the son of Rhaegar. I am significantly more interested in him becoming King in the North, but my interest in Freefolk culture has led me to be far more invested in the idea of him rejecting Southron society as a whole and becoming King Beyond the Wall (this isn’t necessarily mutually exclusive to being King in the North later on).

The motivation for Jon becoming King as opposed to Mance stems from a theory that has been around since AGOT has come out: that the Others will only treat with/negotiate with a Stark. In the prologue of AGOT, when the Others are speaking among themselves before killing the Watchmen, what if they were confirming with each other that Waymar Royce was not a Stark and that they could go ahead and kill him? All in all, it doesn’t really matter if this is true, but rather that this is a plausible rumor that could easily have been passed down among the Freefolk which could lead Mance to conclude that Jon as a leader would give the Freefolk the best chance of survival. It’s not very hard, at least in my opinion, to imagine an AU like this, since survival is the most important thing to the Freefolk during the events of ASOIAF. But is it plausible that under these circumstances that Jon would abandon his Night’s Watch vows? I think so if he can be led to believe that only Stark blood could defeat the Others, but that is not the only factor. Jon Snow is insecure about his bastard status, plain and simple. He’s always lived in the shadow of his Robb, though he loved him. He’s wanted Winterfell, though he didn’t want to nor had any intention to take it from Robb. But he’s known since he was a small boy that he could never Winterfell and that would never inherit anything because he was a bastard. Jon also has thoughts, at least in passing, that Ned loved Robb more than him. He perceives Ned as having been more proud of Robb, of looking at him differently than himself. He’s seemingly always believed this, but there is a sort of confirmation of Jon’s feelings when Ned allows him to join the Night’s Watch without much preparation on what the Watch is actually like. Fully me making assumptions here, not something Jon has explicitly thought, but it’s unlikely that Ned would have sent Bran off at 14 to the Watch without much warning of what it was like, had Bran not become paralyzed. While we never get this exact thought process from Jon, in my opinion it fits into his psychology and insecurity. All this to say, if Jon is offered to be a figurehead, King, a title equal to his brother, but without taking anything away from the Starks or from Robb, that would almost certainly scratch that itch in him. It would be of his own merit, and there would be people behind him that don’t care that he’s a bastard, don’t see him as less than, and are willing to accept him for who he is. Not to mention that it also lets him feel like a hero and as if he is saving something far more precious than himself. And it probably doesn’t hurt that he would be able to remain with Ygritte as well.

We know from the descriptions of Mance and Dalla, as well as from being told directly by the former, that the King and his wife dress like all the other Freefolk, in thick furs. While the Jon and Ygritte arts from above are not particularly ostentatious by Southron standards, they are in obvious contrast to how Mance and Dalla are dressed. My idea was that Jon, having lived South of the Wall in a Lord’s keep all of his life, brought his own ideas to the Freefolk and added a distinction between a King and all other men. Nothing like in King’s Landing, all changes are inspired by his experience at Winterfell. I tried to think of what was achievable by the Freefolk, that would be difficult enough that it can’t be easily replicated for everyone else, but also keeping in mind of what could be done relatively quickly seeing as the Freefolk are focused on migrating South and saving themselves from the Others. The cultures I took inspiration for the clothing from are the Byzantines, Russians, Incans, Aztecs, and Mongolians. I wanted more “open” and flowy clothing, as opposed to more closed off and excessively modest clothing of 1300-1500s Europe that most of Westeros is based off of. Ygritte is still wearing furs, but they are dyed and there is weirwood embroidery in symbolism of the Old Gods and flame embroidery to symbolize her being kissed by fire. Her jewelry are simply clay beads that have been powdered blue. I didn’t want to give her any jewels as I felt it would be too difficult for the Freefolk to cut them directly and just overall would be against the spirit of the Freefolk. However, getting the blue on the clay like that still would be expensive and take a lot of time. I tried to keep the main color scheme surrounding gray as obviously that’s House Stark’s color. Jon’s clothes are similarly nice, with my main concern being him looking intimidating. I want the furs around his shoulders to be black because I wanted to call back to his time in the Night’s Watch without him keeping his psychical cloak, because I’m sure the Freefolk would not want him to do that. The furs are massive and make his shoulders look far larger, in an effort to make him look more intimidating, especially on a battlefield or in negotiations. He also has weirwood embroidery and his sigil is on the front of his outfit (my original idea was for him to have a flag with his heraldry on it, in which case the sigil would have looked far different, with a full length direwolf). There’s a white wolf on one side and either a crow or eagle on the other side (up for interpretation, both are relevant to Jon and one is one of the animals that can be used a symbol of the Freefolk) and the flame in the middle to represent Ygritte, but also defeating the Others as fire is the way Jon originally tried combating them as a steward at the Wall. The sigil is more than about Jon, after all, as it’s for the entirety of House Whitewolf, the House he founds. I thought the name fit far more in to Freefolk culture than something like Whitestark or something along those lines. Ygritte was supposed to have sewn on the sigil herself, and was very adamant about it, and that is meant to be why the thread is uneven and more visible than it ought to be. She’s not very good at the craft!

As I indicated before, crowns are not something common to Freefolk. That would be something else Jon would implement. Ygritte’s crown is very much like a hat, very casual. The beads are nice but obtaining them wouldn’t be unheard of, and holly most likely would not be particularly hard to come by. The reason I gave her a crown with holly is that during Christmas in the Tudor period and even before during pagan celebrations, people would go out into the woods and find holly and ivy to decorate their houses with. Holly was a symbol of masculine energy and ivy feminine energy. If you found more holly, it was meant to indicate that the man would rule the household for the year, and if you found more ivy then the woman would rule the household in the coming year (this was a way to “tell the future” not a rule lol). I liked the holly better for Ygritte so I’m just saying the Freefolk had the opposite belief. Jon’s crown is made of weirwood, which was important to me as I feel like his connection the Old Gods is also important as it is something that him and Freefolk both use to guide them. It ties them together. That being said, a weirwood crown is often used for Bran so I did not want to use a design that was too similar to the one used for him. Bran’s weirwood crown usually is made of weirwood branches, however, and not weirwood bark or logs, so I feel like it’s different enough. The frozen weirwood sap, as far as I know, is also unique to this design. There’s also some ivy to parallel with Ygritte’s holly.

The remaining bits and bobs I wanted to explain are the blue rose and then the face paint. The blue rose is obviously something associated with Lyanna Stark, who is widely accepted to be the mother of Jon Snow. I originally wanted to give him a rose somewhere, whether he was holding it or it was in his embroidery, but I forgot to ask during sketching, and then it was too late. But Ygritte holding the blue rose isn’t just about Lyanna. It’s also about Bael the Bard, a most likely fictitious person (or at least, the tale is fictitious, though I personally choose to believe it’s real) that went South of the Wall posing as a bard. He impressed the Lord of Winterfell so much that he granted Bael anything he wished; all Bael asked for was the most beautiful flower in Winterfell. This was granted for him, but the next morning he had stolen the Lord of Winterfell’s only child, a girl, and had left the flower in her bed in her place. He hid in the crypt with her for a year and they had a son together. Bael eventually went back North of the Wall and eventually Winterfell, having no other heir, passed to Bael’s child. Under this story, Jon is descended from Ygritte’s idol (maybe idol is stretching it, but she really likes him), Bael the Bard. Not only him, but all the Freefolk including Ygritte, according to her story. Following the story’s premise, Jon also poses as Bael and Ygritte as Winterfell’s daughter, with Jon joining her home under false pretenses and “stealing her”, as she calls it. So the blue rose has significance regarding both the Starks and the Freefolk. The face paint is inspired by tattooing done by cultures indigenous to North America. Indigenous Americans are not the only groups to use facial tattooing, the Vikings were famous for it as well, but Viking facial tattooing had more patterns based on shapes rather than lines and dots. I didn’t like the shapes so much, but the chin tattoo was one was that observed in all sorts of different cultures. Usually the chin tattoos with the line were on women in indigenous America, but I found some on men in other outside cultures. The dots I didn’t see outside of Native American culture and the claw marks on Jon’s cheeks I found mainly among Vikings. Because these all are an amalgamation of different cultures, we did them as face paint instead of tattoos because it seemed disrespectful otherwise. Not enough research went into it to be a proper representation of any one culture so paint was a better bet than a permanent body modification that is sacred to a number of cultures. The only thing that was meant to be a tattoo was the chin tattoo, which like I said, actually is from an amalgamation of cultures. Among the Freefolk (in this AU), dots on the cheeks are widespread, one of cultural mainstays of their people, and are generally a sign of peace, whereas the claws are meant to look intimidating and is applied to look like blood (Ygritte applies it for Jon) and is specifically used for military leaders. I really wanted to drive home the point that the goal with Jon’s whole look is to look fearsome.

I have so much more to say about Jon as King Beyond the Wall, how he negotiates with the Wall, the different rules he sets in place, how he sets up being King as a hereditary title once his daughter Bael is born, etc etc, but then I’d be here all day and approximately one person total read through all this. Oops! Ask in my inbox if you have any questions because I would love love love to answer them. All in all, shripscapi (Liesl) is so talented and she worked incredibly hard for me. She was extremely accommodating and changed as much stuff as I wanted. She never complained about the million times I decided something was not quite right and she sent me so many updates. I would recommend working with her to just about anybody. It was very cool what she was able to achieve and I got it in time for the holidays so I can enjoy my winter themed pfp on twt. So thank you from the bottom of my heart Liesl, and I hope everyone showers her with compliments because she deserves it. I also hope that people that don’t enjoy Ygritte very much can still appreciate the art and the concept of Jon as King Beyond the Wall. Hopefully I’ve gotten across how much I love and care for these characters to a chronically online degree and nobody accuses me of mischaracterizing them because that would make me!!!! very sad!!!

Bonus Jon with weirwood leaves:

[coquettefrancaise]

your hands are cold

from Pride and Prejudice (2005)

pair: Azriel x Reader ~ 4.8k

warnings: mysogony (not from az), risque thoughts from reader, sharing a bed ooooh, shadow violence, protective azriel

summary: Azriel would give you the shirt off his back if he knew you were cold and he's trying so so hard to make you see that

Illyrian's lived in the snowy mountains of the Night Court. Thick blankets of snow fell year-round, the sun scarcely offering a reprieve from the constant bite of wind. By the time the children were old enough to run and wield a stick the boys were thrust into training and the girls into house/camp work. Everyone grew to adapt to it, their bodies functioning at an unnaturally high temperature.

Although Azriel, Rhys, and Cassian had lived away from Illyria and the camps for multiple centuries now, they still grew overly warm during the earlier seasons. Both a curse and a blessing.

So why the hel didn't anyone tell you to bring a thicker coat?

Being the night court's newly appointed emissary, you were tasked to go to Illyria to comb over some of the issues stirring up. Specifically concerning the female's training. Surprise surprise.

Thankfully, Azriel had offered to come with. Rhys had given him a smirk, looking between the two of you but Azriel winnowed you before you could decipher what that look meant.

You now stood outside the training ring with him as Devlon and two of his croonies made up some half-assed excuses as to why they weren't prioritizing the females training.

"-we have two new mother's in the area who need the extra support." Devlon ranted, clearly exasperated that his high lord was continuing to harp on this matter.

You looked up to Azriel who was watching the pathetic male with a clenched jaw. He loosened it to say, "Have the father's help then. If they can't care for their own children then they should keep it in their pants."

You refrained from giggling but remained indifferent. Some of the people you worked with were open to your messages while others were... Devlon. And Beron, you supposed. You had to tread lightly because one misstep and they would prod at the weakness until you couldn't handle it. 

"All of our males are needed in training to ensure that they stay in shape. Those females shouldn't have spread their legs so fast." Devlon drawled.

"Surely Rhys would be willing to reenact the castration laws." You said without thinking, glaring at him. "You wouldn't mind being first on the list, would you?"

Devlon only ignored you.

Even with the ire coursing through your veins, you shivered. You were supposed to have been here for an hour max. Get in, yell at them, get out. Unsurprisingly, there was more to fix than you had assumed.

Azriel side-eyed you as you shook from the cold and held out his hand to Devlon. "Coat."

Devlon paused, glaring at the shadowsinger's scarred hand as if it held the plague. "What?"

"Give me your coat. Now."

The words sent an entirely different kind of chill through you. One that made your eyes widen at the hostile calm with which he said it. Sure, you'd heard that tone once or twice, but it never failed to impel you to stand straighter even if it wasn’t aimed for you. 

Devlon scoffed. "I'm not giving you my coat. Who do—"

Shadows crept up around Azriel's feet, climbing his tall, hard body until they amassed near the siphons at his hands, contrasting starkly with the pure white snow that fell around him. With the tendrils of darkness poised to strike, paired with the unforgiving look on Azriel's face, he made a hauntingly beautiful picture. Feyre would be distraught she hadn't been here to capture it.

Not a second further, Devlon took his coat off and placed it in the shadowsinger's waiting palm. His own hand trembling, you noted with smugness.

Azriel stayed silent as he flicked it once. Twice. Until he was certain it was free of any contamination, and then turned to you, a far softer expression pulling at his achingly handsome features. He then stepped forward and brought the coat around your shoulders, encircling you in his arms to fasten the buttons.

Time stopped and you took the chance to study him. The mussed locks of hair from running his hands through it every time Devlon opened his mouth. The smooth planes of his tanned skin. His enviably dark, long lashes framing those all-seeing hazel eyes. And his mouth... if you were a poet you would write odes about it. Both admiring and wicked.

You blushed.

"Is this alright?" he asked softly.

You slowly nodded, words stuck in your throat due to his close proximity.

His fingers brushed against your throat softly and he pulled away, leaving you breathless and aching for more.

When the argument started back up again, you found that while your upper body was warming up, your legs and feet were still at the mercy of the breeze.

Azriel looked to you again and released a heavy sigh. "We'll send healers to perform check-ups on the babes and new mothers. The other females will train as normal. And you will speak to the court's emissary with respect." He told Devlon, voice final.

"I have no idea why he has a weak female performing court check-ups." Devlon bit out, no doubt angry at having been pressed into submission and having his coat stolen.

One second you could see clearly, and the next your vision was clouded by swarming darkness. Instinctively, your hand shot out to find Azriel, fear twisting your stomach at the thought of being attacked or—

You barely had time to call out for him when the darkness vacuumed back to its origin—Azriel.

He now stood a breadth away from Devlon, shadows morphed into the shape of a hand held at the camp leader's throat.

There was no curiosity lingering in your mind as to why he was often referred to as the Angel of Death. His body was tense and forbidding, as if he had been carved from stone. Broad, claw-tipped wings spread in threat, consuming the space around him. The largest you'd witnessed.

"It'd be a shame if your windpipe was broken," his voice was colder than the wind that had picked up, "I'd think twice if you were to make another smart remark about our high lord's emissary."

They stared at each other and then Devlon's shoulder sank in defeat. The ghost hand dissipated at his throat, revealing finger-like bruising. You could only imagine the true harm his shadows could inflict if given free rein.

Devlon's eyes snapped from Azriel to you, chin dipping nearly imperceptibly before walking away, back tense as if he were preparing for an attack.

You waited until he was out of sight to speak. “Thanks for the coat?”

Azriel rolled his shoulders, eyes on the space above your head. “Sorry that it belongs to that dense misogynist; I rarely find the need to carry one around.”

You laughed, hoping to dispel the tension clinging to the air, and clutched the coat tighter to warm your hands up. “It’s summertime; how is it still snowing out here?”

“The elevation of the mountains results in colder weather year-round, no matter the season. This is considered warm.” He jerked his chin in the direction of a group of shirtless Illyrian’s training. “Cassian used to tan on days like this when we were younger.”

“Is that what he’s been doing the past week? I wandered up to the roof yesterday and caught him rubbing some oil into his legs. I never want to see him in shorts those small again.” You widened your eyes in horror. 

"Count yourself lucky. I've seen the bastard’s ass more than I have his face."

"Some would say that you should count yourself lucky then."

Azriel scoffed, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asked. 

You really weren’t. Not when he was watching you with such tenderness. A cold gust of wind blew past, making your teeth chatter. Azriel didn’t waste any time in scooping you into his arms. 

“Wait,” your breath hitched, “what about Devlon’s coat?”

“We’ll burn it when we get back to The House.” 

Just as he was about to lift off, thunder cracked, causing you to peer up at the malicious looking grey clouds rolling in. Odd, considering just this morning, when you first arrived, the day had been clear and sunny.

Azriel let loose a long breath, eyes switching from you to the sky until he put you on your feet. "We'll have to wait it out."

"You've traveled in far worse conditions," you reminded, although you'd much rather stay put too.

"I'd never risk your life." He stated, voice gruff.

You had to ignore the butterflies that erupted in your stomach. This was not the place nor time to feel flattered by Azriel's protectiveness. He was this way with all of his friends and family, after all.

"Where will we stay? I guess Devlon would let us-"

Azriel snorted. "If I spend one more minute with that shithead I might strangle him to death. Fortunately, Rhys' mom has a cabin here that we can stay in."

As if to hurry you both, the heavens opened up and peltered you with a cold sleet. You were almost instantly drenched. Azriel wasted no time in putting an arm around your back, wing stretched overhead to offer reprieve, and urged you forward through the slick mud.

Finally, you arrived at the cabin, a, small yet homey, two story house with an already roaring fire and steaming kettle on the stove. The shadows doing, you assumed. You turned to Azriel who retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and filled them with tea.

You could picture Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys as young, growing boys wandering in and out of that kitchen, hungry after long days of training. And you spotted notches in the wooden cupboards and dining furniture where playful fights or inaccurately aimed daggers managed to land.

He made his way to you, setting the mugs on the mantel, cringing as you shivered hard. "Do you mind?" he motioned to the coat you still clutched tightly at. "It will only make you colder."

You shook your head, teeth chattering, and reached to take it off when you were stopped by Azriel's hands. He peeled it off of your shoulders and down your arms and chucked it in the fire without blinking.

You couldn't help but laugh at his obvious distaste of the clothing and it's owner.

"Warm up and drink the tea; I'm going to search for some clothes that are, hopefully, untouched by mothballs."

Who would have blamed you for admiring the way his leathers fit to his bunching muscles as he made his way up the stairs?

A small part of you hoped that he wouldn't be able to find anything. From the stories you'd heard from the inner circle about missions that have gone awry in the cold, one of the ways they managed to stay warm was to share body heat.

The image of Azriel aiding you taking off your wet clothes before doing it to himself, flashed in your mind.

Ugh. You rolled your shoulders, turning towards the fire to soothe the ice settling in your bones. Yes, Azriel had been incredibly kind today by offering to join you and giving you a jacket, but that was just it. Kindness.

When you had first met Azriel, like most everyone, you fell for his devilishly handsome features and cool nature. It didn't help that he was unfathomably loyal and strong. Or tall and athletic. Or a good male with good intentions overall.

"It's just a stupid crush," you muttered to yourself as you put your palms out towards the fireplace.

"Hm?"

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Azriel returned to your side on silent steps. A shadow skittered over your shoulder, tickling your neck as if to laugh at you.

"We should really put a bell on you,"

"I'd prefer my enemies to not know when I'm near." Azriel held out clothes to you. "They're old but should suffice. If you'd prefer to wash-"

"That would be wonderful." The idea of a warm bath caused you to sigh with longing.

Azriel clicked his tongue, amusement lighting his eyes. "I shouldn't have even asked, huh? Come," he jerked his head to the direction of the stairs, "let's get you cleaned up."

Electricity zapped through your body at the image of sitting between Azriel's legs in the bathtub as he used a washcloth to soothe your goose-bumped riddled skin. Would he press his lips to each knob of your spine while he massaged shampoo into your hair and-

"Coming?"

Your eyes snapped to Azriel, the fog of your imagination dissipating, making you feel ridiculous. Your cheeks pinked and you nodded, following him.

The bathtub wasn't big enough to comfortably sit two people. Much less if that second person happened to be an Illyrian male.

Azriel put the dry clothes on the counter. "Do you need any help navigating things?"

"I am confident in my ability to bathe myself, thank you for your concern." You teased.

"Don't need me to get your back or anything?" he shot back, looking a lot less tense than he had when you were speaking with Devlon. In fact, he looked a lot lighter than when he was even around the inner circle.

"I think I have it all under control. Thank you again, Azriel."

Before heading out, he lingered at the doorway, looking as if he had something to say but decided not to. He then left you to your own devices, saying something about cooking something up. You stripped out of your drenched clothes and turned on the faucet, shivering when you first dipped into the water. It felt like a warm hug.

The only thing that would make it better would be if you were nestled against Azriel's tattooed chest.

No no no.

You shouldn't be feeding into your delusions. Especially while the person you were daydreaming about was the only other person in the house with you. It would only make things terribly awkward. And you didn't want to ruin anything with Azriel. Not when you were just becoming close friends.

You had been emissary to the night court for a couple of years now and while you had gotten along quickly with everyone, it had taken a while for Azriel to even speak with you one-on-one. He wasn't easily trusting, which you completely understood. But lately things had been warming up. He would make you breakfast when you were the only two up, hand-deliver the books Nesta let you borrow, even nudge your leg under the table when Cassian was making a fool of himself.

Not to mention the fact that he brought you to this camp despite it being a solo mission.

You pushed it all from your mind, not wanting to overthink things, and finished your bath.

The sweater and sweat pants Azriel supplied you with smelled faintly of him. You wondered if they had been his when he lived in this gods-awful camp.

Having found no brush or comb, you settled with running your fingers through your damp hair, wandering down to the kitchen to find Azriel at the stove, preparing what smelled like chile. He tilted his head up to look at you and fire settled low in your belly as his pupils seemed to take over his irises'.

You swallowed thickly, feeling somewhat self-conscious wearing his clothes that hung off your frame. You tugged on one of the sleeves as it slipped down your shoulder. "Hopefully there's warm water left."

The pot hissed with bubbles, shadows whisking the soup ladle out of the oblivious shadowsinger's hand to continue stirring, as Azriel scanned you from head to toe.

Judging by the amusement dancing in his eyes, you probably looked like a drowned rat. You itched to turn back into the bathroom and check yourself in the mirror.

He stepped into your space, "They're not too big?"

The clothes. You shook your head, pointing to the rolled up pant legs. "Needed some adjusting but they shouldn't cause too many problems."

"Certainly wouldn't want them to fall off," he mumbled, more to himself, the insinuation in his voice not helping in tamping down your growing feelings.

"Do I look silly or something? Why are you watching me strangely?"

"Not at all. I just thought you look... adorable." He smiled crookedly.

You realized now you had never seen a genuine smile—one that wasn't produced from dark humor—grace his face. Red splashed over your cheeks and you hurried to say, "You should probably wash up yourself. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold or anything."

After a moment of consideration all traces of pleasure were wiped from his face. You nearly swayed at the whiplash of his emotions. "There's some soup and I discovered one of Cassian's hidden stashes of wine,"

"Perfect," you offered an awkward smile.

While he bathed, you wiped down two bowls and wine glasses of grimy dust before filling them with soup and wine. You then stood by the sink, watching out the window into the night.

The storm had grown, howling winds causing the structure of the house to groan as rain continued its rhythmic drumming on the roof. A flash of lightning lit up the sky every few minutes with the accompanied roll of thunder.

Your heart raced double its time from the inane fear of how destructive nature could be.

You drained the wine in one swallow.

"Not fond of storms?"

"Shit!" you whipped around to find a fresh-faced Azriel rubbing a towel through his dark, wet hair. "When we return home I'm finding that bell."

His eyes squinted in amusement, tossing the towel onto the back of a kitchen chair. "If it helps soothe your worries, Illyria has endured worse weather than this."

"Are you sure this cabin is sound enough to withstand this weather? Considering how old it is?"

A black eyebrow rose, "Is that a jab at my age?"

Apologies began tumbling out of your mouth. Azriel only waved off the words. "Sit and let's eat. The storm will hopefully clear by tomorrow morning and we can be on our way back to Valeris."

"Were you able to reach Rhys?"

"He told us to stay put," he shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, "and that if anything is to happen to you, I will be the one to blame."

"I'm flattered he finds me so valuable."

Hazel eyes met yours for a heartbeat as he said, "You are very valuable."

Oh Cauldron. If he continued saying things like that, you wouldn't be able to keep your growing feelings from showing on your face.

You cleared your throat instead, "How much trouble do you think we'll be in because of that incinerated coat?"

The rest of the dinner was spent bonding over your hatred of Devlon. You weren't sure how Azriel survived being under the insufferable male for so long. Or all the males here, if you were honest. It helped you to understand why he was so hesitant to claim them as his people.

"How long has this cabin been unoccupied?" you inquired, taking another bite of the chile.

Azriel leaned back in his chair, considering your question. He'd been, surprisingly, open tonight. There seemed to be no trace of the ever-reserved male you encountered more often than naught. "The inner circle prefers to handle the camps during the day so we rarely find the need to stay here. Devlon uses it sometimes for meetings."

"Did each of you boys get your own rooms?"

"Boys?" a corner of his mouth kicked up, "You say that as if we're not all centuries older than you."

You stifled a chuckle, "Considering how often you three wrestle over ridiculous things like who gets the last slice of dessert, I think it's fitting."

His biceps flexed as he stretched them above his head. You felt dizzy with awe. "Whatever," he retorted playfully, "but, to answer your question, we shared the same room until it became too much of a hazard."

"Hazard?"

A faint blush crept over his tan cheeks. "When we became more interested in females than pulling pranks on one another."

Oh. You blushed in response and took a drink from your glass to hide your embarrassment.

Azriel huffed a laugh, obviously recognizing your regret of asking the question. In a considerate manner, he said, "Remember how I told you about Cassian tanning?"

"Oh gods, I won't be able to unable to get the image you offered out of my head."

"Then you'll be affronted to know that I found the oil he used."

A laugh spewed from your mouth. Azriel smiled softly at your unexpected outburst. The conversation was built on from there and your stomach hurt from how hard he managed to make you laugh.

As soon as you scraped the last bean out of your bowl, Azriel took it from you and washed it in the sink. Huh. A male who cooks and cleans? You couldn't believe your eyes. And you had to ignore the space in your heart that warmed.

Your attention was drawn to the shifting muscles in his forearms as he scrubbed the dishes. To the dark tattoos swirling around his powerful arms, practically calling you to trace them with your fingers.

"—sleep?"

You shook your head as you realized you hadn't heard him. "Sorry, what?"

A shadow tugged on your hair teasingly and he repeated, "Obviously you're tired since you can't even think straight. Let's go sleep."

He led you upstairs once more and into what you assumed was the master bedroom, with a large four poster bed, a vanity, armoire, and lace curtains that hung over the window. It looked as if it belonged to a... female.

"Was this—"

Azriel nodded, eyes softening as he took in the homemade quilt, "This was Rhys' mother's room. After difficult training or frightening storms, she would let us all fit in the bed with her as she told us stories of fearless Illyrians."

"You used to be scared of storms?"

You couldn't imagine the spymaster being afraid of anything. Even as a child.

"I was scared of many things,"

That was all he offered before attempting to stoke the fireplace and ensuring the room was warm enough. You hesitated before asking, "Is this where I'll be staying tonight?"

"We'll both be staying in here."

Your world flipped upside down.

"You're serious?"

Hazel eyes snapped to you with amusement. "The only fireplace working is the one in the living room; these logs are too wet. Not to mention the magic of this cabin isn't as strong without Rhys here."

It looked as if your idea of sharing body heat was coming to fruition. This would quite possibly be the best night of your life, so you needed to savor it as much as you could until everything went back to normal the next morning.

Your fingers shook as you pulled back the covers and slipped in. Oh gods. This was much more nerve-wracking than you'd anticipated. Yes, you seemed to get along great and you felt comfortable around him, but he was still handsome as sin and effortlessly attractive.

After Azriel was certain no logs were salvageable, he stood from his crouched position, spread his mighty wings once in to prepare for a cramped bed, then tucked them in tightly. Your eyes tracked the movement, the sconce lamps revealing the red tint running through the membranous tissue.

He walked to his side of the bed and laid down, a weary sigh leaving his lips. "The temperature will drop the later it gets, so it'd be wise if we slept closer. I don't bite."

Despite that last teasing remark, you couldn't help but feel nervous. Who wouldn't? You were only sharing a bed with one of the greatest warriors to ever live. And he was acting like it was a regular occurrence.

You tested the waters and inched close enough that your hips touched. You swallowed thickly.

He fluffed his pillow, and even yours, before resting his head and asking, "Comfy?"

Not trusting your words, you nodded, and the room was engulfed in darkness. There was nothing besides the staccato beat of rain hitting the roof and the buzzing along your skin where you were touching Azriel.

You counted sheep in your mind to calm down enough to sleep, fighting off the overbearing thoughts of the male beside you.

A peal of thunder caused you to start.

A heavy hand closed over yours, the ridges and callouses of unhealed burns pressing into your own unmarked skin. You caught your breath. "I won't let anything harm you," came Azriel's deep assurance, instantly calming your racing mind.

Two blinks later and you were sound asleep.

It was so gods-damned hot.

Having Azriel sleep beside you was like having your own personal Illyrian heater. Sweat beaded at your temple and your body felt like it was being roasted over a fire.

Obviously this sleeping-together thing would have worked a lot better if you didn't have access to the indoors or multiple blankets. The fact that you were so inclined to move away made you frown. You enjoyed sleeping so close to Azriel; he was safe, and strong... but he was going to burn you alive.

Slowly, you inched away from Azriel, closer to the edge of the bed, and pulled off the quilt, sighing at the instant relief of cool air sliding across your heated skin. You could finally—

The windows blew open, a gust of frigid wind bursting through the room. You began shivering and grabbed the corner of the quilt when a heavy arm was thrown over your stomach, tugging you into a hard body.

"Where were you going?" Azriel rasped into your ear.

This time you trembled for a different reason. "Wh-what?"

His thumb stroked over your hip, "You were trying to leave."

"It was hot," you whispered, afraid that if you spoke any louder, he would realize what he was doing and let go of you.

"Don't go."

Hel, you wouldn't move again if a thousand Illyrians dragged you out of his protective embrace.

"Are the windows broken?" you asked.

What had caused them to slam open like that? Was this cabin deteriorating quicker than Azriel had let on? Would it hold on through the night?

You turned your head to the side to assess the damage just as the windows pulled together again. The latch clicking into place.

Squinting your eyes, you managed to spot two slithering shadows gliding along the windowsill.

"Azriel," his name came out suspiciously. Did he send his shadows to open the windows?

He hummed, the vibration of his chest reverberating through your own. "You're always so antsy around me," he admitted, "getting nervous when I start to get comfortable and changing the subject."

What else did you expect from the spymaster of the night court? Obviously he would be able to read a person's behavior.

"I didn't want to scare you off." Came your timid reply.

Azriel huffed a laugh. "Why would I be scared of the attention of a beautiful female?"

A pink flush spread across your cheeks, hidden in the dark of the room. You were never getting over this. Oh, how you wished you had your journal.

"I like you," he continued, "and I know you like me. But this game of cat and mouse has me growing anxious. I would rather like to smile at you without you diverting your eyes."

"I don't think you're scary."

"I know." He said in a cock-sure way.

You scoffed, amused. "For the record, I wasn't escaping because I was scared this time, but because your body runs at two hundred degrees."

"That's why I opened those damn windows." So that the cold would send you rushing back into his arms, you slowly realized.

You were at a loss for words.

"Say something," he asked, an imperceptible plea in his voice.

What were you supposed to say? I think you're beautiful and want to get to know you? You decided to play it safe with, "This is nice." There. That was enough to keep your heart at ease, and not make you sound desperate.

"I like you too," he tightened his hold on you, languidly nosing along your scalp, as if he were smelling you, "And I always want you here."

"In this cabin?"

In the span of two seconds, he had you on your back, limbs trapped under his own. From the scarce lighting of the cloud-covered moon, you could make out the slants and slopes of his face, the soft glimmer in those all-seeing eyes. "In my arms."

In all your day-dreaming, nothing ever compared to hearing him say those words than in real life. When his thumb brushed along your fluttering pulse, and his warm breath fanned against your face.

You swallowed thickly, "Is this a dream?"

His lips met yours, achingly slow, and oh so beautifully.

Once. Twice. He kissed you. The simple action conveying all that words could not. That he truly did like you. That you shouldn't be afraid. That he was falling with you. Falling so so so fast.

author's note: RELEASE ME! guys. i have been trapped in the writer's block hell. i'm home. if there are any mistakes or loopholes, no there aren't. i hope you all love it, pretties. (I haven't forgotten about the beautiful readers who sent me requests🥰)

[novaursa]

Love love LOVE reading your most recent requests! Especially the cregan ones

If you’re still taking requests, could I get one from cregan pov where velaryon/targ reader must wed cregan to honor the pact made by Jace. I’d Iove to get cregans first impressions of seeing her, almost in awe because it’s his first time seeing a targ/velaryon with old Valyrian features and how he feels about the betrothal. Bonus points if you add her dragon too 👀💖

Valyrian Bride

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: I hope this is what you had in mind. 🙂

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark stood tall upon the frost-crusted battlements of Winterfell, his grey eyes fixed on the southern horizon. The wind howled around him, cold and biting, but he barely noticed. The men beside him, his bannermen and closest retainers, stood in hushed anticipation. They were a hardy lot, men of the North, but today there was a tension in the air that not even their steadfast presence could dispel. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Dragon Princess promised to him, was on her way. And she was bringing her dragon.

Cregan was a man of duty, honor-bound by his word. When Jacaerys Velaryon had come to the North, securing his father’s oath to Rhaenyra, Cregan had listened to the young prince’s proposal with a calculating mind. He had known what the South was asking—his allegiance in a civil war that would tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. The North had no taste for southern squabbles, but for an alliance that could secure his people’s future, Cregan had agreed. A marriage bond, a union with the blood of kings and dragons.

But he hadn’t expected this.

The sky darkened. A shadow passed over the pale light of the day, and a roar echoed across the windswept land. His heart quickened. The unmistakable sound of wings filled the air, as if the heavens themselves were being torn apart. Men murmured in awe, some with fear. Cregan’s grip on the pommel of his sword tightened as he peered into the sky. And then, she appeared.

The dragon came first—Vaetrix, her crimson scales gleaming like molten fire against the pale snow. Larger than anything Cregan had seen before, the great beast descended from the clouds with a grace that defied her monstrous size. Her wings flared, casting a shadow over the courtyard, and the air was filled with the smell of sulfur and smoke.

But it wasn’t the dragon that took Cregan’s breath away.

Atop Vaetrix, astride the monstrous creature as if born to it, was the princess. Her silver-gold hair streamed behind her like a banner, long and flowing, catching the sunlight as she descended. Her features were sharp, unmistakably Valyrian—the high cheekbones, the proud set of her jaw, the violet eyes that seemed to pierce through everything they beheld. She was a vision of Old Valyria, like the stories his father had told him as a boy. She bore little resemblance to her half-brothers, with their softer features. No, this was the blood of the dragon in full force.

His bannermen whispered around him.

"She looks like a goddess," one muttered, his voice thick with awe.

"Old Valyria reborn," another added, his voice trembling.

Cregan said nothing. He could only stare, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. He had expected a girl, a lady to wed and secure an alliance, but this… this was something else entirely. There was power in her, in the way she moved, in the way she carried herself atop that dragon. She was not just a girl of noble birth—she was a force of nature, a storm in human form.

Vaetrix landed with a deafening thud, snow and dirt kicking up around her as she folded her massive wings. The ground trembled beneath her weight, but Cregan stood firm. He watched as the princess dismounted with a fluid grace, her hand brushing along Vaetrix's scaled neck before she strode forward. Her boots crunched in the snow, the chill of the North seemingly unfelt by her as if the dragon's fire warmed her from within.

When her eyes met his, Cregan felt a jolt run through him. Those violet eyes… they were ancient, wise beyond her years, and yet held a fire that could burn a man alive if he dared to challenge her. His mouth felt dry, his usual steady words faltering in his throat.

She approached, and as she drew nearer, Cregan noticed more—her height, the proud way she held her head, the confidence in her steps. She did not walk like someone being delivered to a husband. No, she walked like a queen in her own right, a woman who expected the world to bend to her will.

When she stopped before him, she inclined her head ever so slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission. “Lord Stark,” she said, her voice smooth and strong, carrying the faintest hint of the Valyrian accent that lingered in her family’s tongue. “I have come as promised.”

Cregan blinked, forcing himself to regain his composure. “Princess,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, though it was hard to tell whether it was one of amusement or mere politeness. “I am honored to be here, to fulfill the promise made between my house and yours.”

He nodded, his gaze locked on hers. “I did not expect—” His words caught in his throat for a moment, and he shook his head, cursing himself for his loss of composure. “I did not expect such… splendor.”

The smile deepened, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps amusement, or perhaps something more dangerous. “I am not what you expected then, my lord?”

Cregan met her gaze evenly. “No, princess. You are far more.”

Behind them, Vaetrix rumbled, a deep sound that reverberated through the stone walls of Winterfell. His men shifted nervously, glancing at the beast with wide eyes, but Cregan paid them no mind. His focus was entirely on her.

The princess tilted her head, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes. “I have heard much of the North, of its strength, its honor,” she said softly, her voice carrying on the wind. “It is a land of fierce men and harsher winters. I hope that I will find my place here, as your wife.”

There was something in the way she said it, a subtle challenge, as if she were testing him, seeing if he was the man she had been promised. And for the first time, Cregan understood that this marriage was not just a bond of convenience. She was not some southern lady to be tamed or coddled. She was a dragon, and if he were to claim her, he would have to prove himself worthy.

“You will,” he said, his voice steady now, conviction settling in his chest. “You will find your place here, with me.”

Her eyes gleamed with something close to approval, and she nodded once, a gesture as regal as any queen’s. Then, without another word, she turned her gaze back to Vaetrix, who stirred at her silent command, lifting her massive head.

Cregan watched her walk away, feeling a mixture of awe and excitement. The North had never seen a woman like this, and he knew, in that moment, that his life—Winterfell itself—was about to change forever.

[idkyetxoxo]

One | The Calm Before the Storm | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.9k

Warnings - None

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The Night Court's favourite star. The one they all forgot could fall.

The last-born daughter of the late High Lord and his Illyrian wife. Half-Fae, half-winged. Pure chaos and twilight wrapped in violet silk.

They liked to call me the Night Court's coveted jewel, a title heavy with worship, draped over my shoulders like a crown spun from stars.

Whispers echoed through the streets of Velaris, the dark halls of the Court of Nightmares and all the way to the frozen edges of the continent. They spoke of the beauty that outshone starlight, of the smile that could tempt saints and the gaze that could ensnare sinners.

Rhysand might have been the most beautiful male in Prythian—darkness personified, with eyes that held galaxies, but beside him, I was something else entirely.

Not merely beautiful. Mythic. Dangerous. A living echo of the Court itself. Dreams and nightmares all at once.

The kind of beauty you bled for. The kind of beauty that haunted you.

A living contradiction, soft but sharp, beloved but untouchable. The brightness in the dark.

I wasn't a warrior like Cassian, forged in flame and fury. I wasn't a spymaster like Azriel, silent and deadly as the dark. I wasn't a ruler like Rhys, with the weight of a kingdom carved into his spine.

I was something else.

The princess of the Night Court, cloaked in starlight and a dozen kinds of devotion I never asked for. The female they praised, the female they protected, the female they thought would never shatter.

And yet—even stars fall.

Tonight, the townhouse swelled with warmth and life. Laughter spilt out of the kitchen like sunlight through broken, gold-stained glass.

The scent of wine, spiced meat, sweet fruit and freshly baked bread curled through the air, clinging to the velvet drapes and polished wood with familiar affection.

It was the kind of night that felt like home.

I sat curled into the corner of the couch, the plush cushions swallowing me whole.

One hand cradled a half-full glass of wine, the other was buried in the folds of my gown, fingers idly twisting silk. My bare feet were tucked beneath me, warmed by the firelight that flickered soft and amber across the room.

Cassian and Rhys were in the center of the room, lost in what had begun as a disagreement about battle formations until Cassian, with that infuriating smile on his face, had made a snide comment about Rhys's "groomed-to-death" hair.

Now the conversation had devolved into a dramatic, absolutely senseless argument over whose hair possessed more sheen, complete with overly serious tone and infuriatingly mocking gestures.

Typical.

I smiled behind the rim of my glass, letting the noise of them wash over me, a chorus of ridiculousness I'd grown to love over the years.

A familiar weight dipped the cushions beside me, unhurried and sure.

I didn't need to look to know who it was. I knew. I always knew. His presence sang along my skin before he ever spoke, before I could even breathe him in.

Shadows brushed against my arm, soft as a sigh, cold as the space between stars. The same shadows that clung to him like second skin, like sorrow.

A crown of darkness that only a handful saw.

The scent of him wrapped around me, grounding and ghostly all at once. Crisp mountain air, steel, worn leather, and something older, something aching. Something like night.

"Azriel," I murmured, turning just enough to lift my glass toward him. Our eyes met briefly, and the clink of crystal between us felt almost sacred. "Looking well."

He didn't smile, not quite, but something in his expression softened, the way the snow does when kissed by the first light of spring.

His voice was low when he spoke, barely a breath meant for me. "You burn so bright, little star."

His scarred fingers found the edge of my gown, smoothing the silk with reverence, with memory. Violet silk. The colour of twilight. The mirror of my eyes.

His touch was not possessive—it was almost...mournful.

"Careful, Shadowsinger," I replied without looking at him. "You'll go blind."

Dismissal, subtle and practised but not unnoticed. Not by him. Never by him.

His shadows shifted, restless, curling around my forearms like smoke, like secrets, like longing held too long inside a war-forged heart. They tightened then loosened, as if arguing about whether to cling or to let go.

A dance, initiated but incomplete. A tale, told but unfinished.

Azriel wanted me. That truth lived in every glance that lingered too long, in every word he didn't say. In the aching silence between us.

He wanted me with the quiet desperation of a man who believed the things he longed for were meant only for others. A hunger contained behind a wall built of guilt and time.

And I... I loved him in another life.

One where I wasn't the court's darling or its symbol. One where I wasn't stitched into so many roles, caught between myth and reality.

But this wasn't that life.

There was a beauty in what we shared now, this unspoken understanding between us.

It was raw, real, and filled with the quiet intimacy of a thousand unspoken words.

I didn't want to spoil it by crossing that line. I didn't want to turn it into something messy, something that might break.

If we reached for more, we might lose everything we have, and the thought of that makes me hesitate.

Maybe we were better as we were. Unfinished, untamed, but still whole.

"Little star!" Cassian's voice sliced clean through the delicate tension between me and Azriel.

It rang out across the room, loud and unapologetic, crashing through the quiet like a war cry softened by affection.

He stood near the fireplace, grinning like the chaos incarnate he was, that same wicked grin that had once gotten us both thrown out of a palace in Adriata—twice.

He beckoned me over with a cocked brow and a flash of teeth, mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.

I rose without hesitation, slipping from Azriel's orbit. His shadows lingered on my skin like fingerprints, invisible but undeniable.

I didn't need to look back to know he was watching me go. He always did.

I crossed the room, each step echoing with the clink of glass and the low hum of firelight and fondness.

I perched myself on the armrest of Amren's chair, deliberately casual. The ancient, irritable being narrowed her silver eyes at me, then, shockingly, didn't shove me off. A small victory.

I gave her a wink like I'd just stolen a secret, and for a breath, I thought she might smile. She didn't, of course but it was worth a try.

"You agree with me, don't you?" Cassian asked, dramatically gesturing toward Rhys, who looked thoroughly exasperated.

I took a slow sip of my wine, letting them stew. "I think," I said at last, tilting my head with studied elegance, "neither of you has the best hair in this court."

Two simultaneous, theatrical gasps filled the room. You'd think I'd slapped them both.

"It's clearly Mor," I added with a wicked smile, swirling the wine in my glass as Rhys recoiled like I'd stabbed him through the heart. "She doesn't even try. It just is."

"My hair shimmers," Rhys argued, scandalised before running a hand through his onyx waves.

Cassian snorted. "You glamor it, you narcissist."

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Cass," Rhys replied smoothly.

Their banter spiralled, insults laced with affection and long-forged trust, the kind of exchange only born of decades spent bleeding and laughing together.

I leaned into the rhythm of it easily, letting the warmth of the room, the wine and their voices settle into my bones.

I hid my grin at their ridiculousness behind the rim of my glass, the crystal cool against my lips.

Rhys saw it anyway, of course he did. His violet eyes met mine, glittering with humour, and he winked. That knowing, over-the-top wink he always used when he was being absurd. When he wanted to draw a laugh out of me.

Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. The most powerful male in Prythian. A tactician, a warrior, a manipulator with a silver tongue and a heart full of stars.

To everyone else, he was legend.

To me, he was something far more sacred.

My brother. My anchor. The one who held me when the sky cracked and the world tilted sideways. My protector, my partner-in-crime, my first home.

"Both of you should shut up," Amren muttered, not bothering to look up. Her voice, dry as bone dust, cut through the bickering like a blade honed on centuries of disdain.

She swirled the contents of her cup with precision, as if the drink itself had insulted her.

I grinned and blew her a kiss. She didn't flinch. Didn't hiss. Didn't even glare. Which, for Amren, was practically a declaration of undying affection. A non-response was her version of a hug.

She'd told me once, over a glass of something blood-red, that I was "less annoying than the rest." Which, in her ancient, mildly terrifying dialect, translated roughly to "I'd kill for you, but don't make me say it out loud."

"I agree," came Mor's voice, smooth and bright as sunlight slipping through stained glass.

She strode into the room like she owned it. Confidence radiated off her in golden waves, her honey-blonde hair tousled from wind, cheeks flushed, smile loose and easy.

Mor and I had a special bond.

We spoke the same unspoken language, the one of hidden battles beneath painted smiles. Of quiet strength disguised as flirtation. Of wearing beauty like armour and never apologising for it.

In her hands, she carried a plate still steaming with warmth. Brownies. Dense and gooey in the middle, their scent curling through the room like a spell.

She waved them like a blessing, like an invitation to sin.

Cassian, predictably, lunged like a beast unleashed. He tackled her with all the grace of a war general who had absolutely no chill, snatching three brownies before she could elbow him hard enough to make him grunt.

"These are amazing," he declared through a mouthful, already crumbs on his chest.

Rhys, ever elegant, took one with a flourish, raising it in salute. "This is why I keep you around."

I rolled my eyes as I stole the plate from his hands, swirling my wine with mock offence.

With the brownies secured, I turned on my heel and made my way back to the shadows—back to him.

Azriel didn't move, but I felt the shift in the air before I even reached him. His shadows stirred, rippling like smoke disturbed by a breath. Coiled tension then slow release.

Like they recognised me as something safe.

"I baked your favourite, Az," I said softly, offering the plate like a peace treaty. I added a wink, light as moonlight, as if it meant nothing at all.

A faint blush crept up his neck as he accepted them, his mouth parting like he might say something soft or something dangerous.

Before he could speak Mor hooked an arm around my waist and yanked me down into her lap with a grin.

"We keep her around because she's the better-looking sibling," she said, popping a brownie into her mouth.

I sighed dramatically, resting my head against her shoulder as I balanced the plate between us. "Here I thought it was because you all liked me."

Laughter echoed around the room as conversations sparked back up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Azriel watching me, just a flicker, a glance quickly masked by the shadows curling at his shoulders.

But it was enough. Enough to stir memories best left undisturbed.

The fire crackled, but my mind had drifted back to a different night—a night long ago, in the days when we were all children, before shadows had claimed so much of Azriel.

I could still picture it clearly, Cassian and Rhys, so much younger, rushing through the front door, their footsteps loud against the polished floors.

"What is it?" My mother's voice had been full of that special kind of warmth she reserved for her children, her tone soft yet firm.

I had, of course, been sitting on the stairs, pretending not to listen, but eager to know who they'd brought home.

It was Azriel.

I'd never seen anyone like him before, his figure, tall for his age, standing awkwardly in the doorway, a stranger in a world that didn't quite feel like it belonged to him.

His face was barely visible beneath the dark cloak that swallowed him whole, but I remember the flicker of shadows that clung to him.

I could sense it even then. His isolation. His silence.

Rhys had been the first to speak, always the one to smooth over awkwardness. "This is Azriel," he said, an easy grin on his face. "We found him."

Cassian had clapped him on the back, laughing, "Don't mind him, he's a bit shy."

Azriel hadn't said anything at first, just staring at us with those eyes that held so much unsaid.

And then I noticed them—his hands. Bandaged. Thick layers of cloth wrapped tightly around his fingers, hiding whatever scars lay beneath.

I hadn't been able to help myself. I had asked, a child's curiosity mixed with concern.

"Why are your hands wrapped?"

Azriel had hesitated. His voice had been low and careful, like he was testing how much to trust us, how much to give away.

"I got hurt," he had murmured, his eyes flickering to the floor, avoiding my gaze.

In that moment, a strange urge had filled me. I don't know why. Maybe it was the way the shadows seemed to coil around him, or maybe it was the vulnerability in his words, in his attempt to mask the pain.

But I had stood, gone to him, and cupped his hands gently in mine, the coolness of the bandages contrasting sharply against my skin.

And I kissed them. His hands.

It wasn't a grand gesture, nor was it filled with any deeper meaning, but in that simple moment, a thread had tied us together—one that neither of us had fully understood at the time.

It had been a fleeting touch, my lips brushing against the cloth, soft as a whisper.

But Azriel had looked at me then, really looked at me and something in his eyes shifted.

Something deeper, something older than the boy he had been. He hadn't pulled away. Instead, he had let me hold his hands for a long moment, and I had felt his quiet decision, even then.

He had silently made a promise to himself that he would always protect me, would always be there, even if he couldn't voice it.

From that moment on, something had always been different between us. He'd become a part of our family in a way that words couldn't explain.

The shadows never left him, and neither did the weight of that silent vow.

I shook the memory from my mind.

I glanced at him briefly, catching his gaze again for the briefest second before he turned away, as though nothing had ever passed between us. But I knew. I always knew.

I wonder if he remembered it too—the day his heart had made its silent, reluctant choice.

Mor, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, leaned over toward me, her voice a soft hum in my ear, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Rita's?" she asked, as if the very mention of the place was a secret invitation only I could understand.

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Really? After all this?"

Her grin widened, her eyes flicking over to the others.

Cassian slapped a hand over his heart in mock offence, his voice a bit too dramatic to be taken seriously. "I'm offended that you would even ask. Of course, we're going. Right, Rhys?"

Rhys, who had been watching the exchange with that calculating glimmer in his violet eyes, nodded in agreement. "Sounds good to me."

Amren, who had been quietly watching the banter unfold with the patience of someone who'd seen it all before, shot them both a sharp glance.

Her silver eyes narrowed, her lips curling into the faintest of sneers.

"I'll pass," she said, the cold finality in her voice making it clear that there would be no further discussion on the matter.

The room fell into a brief, almost reverent silence. No one argued with Amren. Not now, not ever.

Mor didn't miss a beat. She shot a wink at the others and then turned her eyes to me. "Well, little star?" she said, leaning in, a playful dare in her tone. "Are you coming, or are you going to stay here, all wrapped up in your little corner?"

I glanced at Azriel, he was now leaning against the wall, his gaze distant but somehow still fixed on me. The faintest trace of tension hung between us, a silent conversation in the way his shadows curled around his body, as if waiting for my response.

I didn't hesitate. My voice was steady, unwavering when I spoke. "Yes, I'll go."

Azriel's head lifted further at the sound of my voice, and there was a flash of something in his eyes—almost relief, though it was gone too quickly for me to read.

Then, as if he were still battling with something unspoken, he took a slow step forward, his shadows drifting like smoke around his feet.

"I'll go too," he said softly, his voice a quiet thread of acceptance.

There was no more resistance. No more hesitation.

Rhys clapped his hands together in glee. "Well, that settles it."

Mor whooped and sprang to her feet, tugging me up with her. Cassian threw an arm around both our shoulders as he steered us toward the door, already launching into some ridiculous plan that involved absolutely no supervision.

Laughter bubbled up again, easy, warm and filling every corner of the room until it felt like the house itself was breathing with it.

Behind us, the door swung shut with a soft click, sealing away the last echoes of that golden evening, like a memory we were already beginning to lose.

A/n - Okay, first chapter is finally here! I wanted to start with a little intro to everyone's dynamics, and then a memory of the first time Azriel and reader met, just to give a bit of an explanation to their relationship.

Next chapter is where the real story starts, and it gets good, trust me (lots of angst), and I love angst x

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, please let me know. I’m a little nervous since this is my first time writing for ACOTAR (please don’t be shy to like, comment, or reblog!) <3

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose

[inkedinshadows]

Nights and Days

Pairing: Azriel × reader

Summary: Azriel and Y/N are on a mission in Illyria, but as they move from one camp to another, they’re caught in a blizzard and are forced to find shelter in the nearest inn. Thanks to the shadowsinger, there's only one bed.

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, just a sprinkle of shadow play, language, lots of witty banter

Word count: 6.3k

A/N: this is my first time writing smut, so I'd really appreciate it if you let me know what you think 🥺

Groups of rebels had begun to appear all over Illyria, claiming that Rhys was not a good High Lord, that a low-born bastard was not suited to be their general, and that training their women was nothing more than a waste of time.

After two weeks of diplomacy that led to absolutely nothing, Rhys had dispatched the Inner Circle to deal with the rebels. Mor and Amren had stayed in Velaris to make sure nothing happened, but the others had been sent out to Illyria. And Y/N had been paired up with Azriel.

They were flying from one war camp to the next—Y/N trying to focus on anything other than Azriel holding her close as he flew—when it started to snow.

“Is it safe to keep going?” she asked him, glancing at his beautiful wings flapping behind him.

“Would you rather I land now? In the middle of nowhere?” Azriel looked down at her with a little smirk on his face. “Give me some credit, Y/N. I can handle a little snow.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you’re a big, tough Illyrian warrior. My bad.”

He didn't answer, but she didn't need to look at him to know he was still smirking. That annoyingly attractive smirk always made her want to kiss him. She focused on the forest below, on anything other than his lips and how close they’d be if she would just turn her head his way.

They flew in silence for just a few more minutes before the snow began to fall more heavily. Y/N simply looked at Azriel with a raised eyebrow, not bothering to use words.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he said when he noticed her expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Camp is not that far. We can still make it.”

“Azriel, did you wake up this morning and just decided to be stupid?” She pointed at the grey sky above them, where more clouds were gathering with the promise of more snow to come. “You see that, right? It’s already late and we both know it’ll only get worse. We won’t reach the next camp before it turns into a blizzard. Besides, I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

His only answer was a low chuckle. “Oh, yeah? The poor princess is freezing her little ass off?”

She smacked him on the shoulder. “My ass is anything but little, shadowsinger. Shouldn’t you find us a shelter or something, instead of making fun of me?”

“Said the one who just called me stupid,” he pointed out. He lifted a brow, flashing her another one of those smirks. “Maybe you should apologize for that, and I might think about landing somewhere.”

She cocked her head, unsure if he was messing around or not. “I refuse to apologize for telling the truth. And you’d better land soon, or I’ll kick your ass when you do.”

Azriel’s laugh echoed in her ears, and it took all her focus not to smile just at that sound she so rarely got to hear. “As if you could actually kick my ass.”

If her arms hadn’t been wrapped around his neck, she would have crossed them over her chest. Or maybe she would have used them to strangle him, if only it wouldn't mean they'd fall out of the sky. Eventually, she settled to roll her eyes again. “Azriel, I’m being serious.”

Though she enjoyed their usual banter and she knew as well as everyone that she could never kick his ass, she hadn’t lied. Even with her Illyrian leathers, she was starting to freeze out there in the snow, and there was no way they would reach their destination without being caught in a full-blown blizzard.

“Relax. Despite what you think, Y/N, I’m not stupid.” He gestured to something below them just as she opened her mouth to protest. “It’s an inn. You would have noticed it already, if only you hadn’t been so busy complaining.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, squinting to see through the trees and the snow. But as Azriel glided down, she finally saw it. It was a rather large building for an inn in the middle of the woods—many Illyrians probably passed through it—so there was a high chance of finding a couple of rooms to spend the night in.

Azriel landed and gently set her on the ground. Together, they headed for the door and were welcomed inside by the warmth of a fire in the corner of the room. She shook the snow off her hair as she took in their surroundings—a few tables full of Illyrian warriors, most of them drinking and laughing quite loudly.

“We ran out of double rooms.” The innkeeper looked at them as they approached, apparently too bored to even bother with greetings. “But we’ve still got a few single ones.”

Before she could tell him that two rooms were perfect, Azriel was already answering. “We need only one, actually.”

Next thing she knew, he had grabbed her hand and was leading her up the stairs, a key now clutched in his fingers. She waited for the door to close behind them before she turned to him with a frown. “What the hell was that? Why only one room?”

Azriel tossed his pack on the floor and replied as if the answer was obvious. “The hall was packed with drunk Illyrians.”

“So?”

He looked at her then, and she couldn’t quite understand what she saw in his eyes. Was it concern? Or frustration because she still didn’t realize something he thought was so simple?

“I’m not letting you sleep in another room alone, when a bunch of drunk Illyrians have just seen you, probably the only female here, walk in.”

Well, that was not what she expected. But as she thought it over, she couldn’t deny he had a point. She was able to hold her own in a fight, just not against fully trained warriors, and she didn't want to take any risk, especially when it was just one night.

Not knowing what to answer, she looked around the room, which consisted of only one bed and a small dresser—lame and boring, but it would do. Except for the one single bed.

She watched as Azriel sat on an old rug, the only decoration there was. “And what are you doing now, exactly?”

He shrugged, with that same expression that seemed to tell her the answer was obvious. “I'll take the floor, you take the bed.”

She almost laughed at that. “You can't sleep on the floor, not with your wings. I'll do it.”

“I'll be fine,” he replied, and extended his wings behind him as if to prove it. “Why would you want to sleep on the floor anyway?”

“Because I don't want you to do it,” she answered matter-of-factly. ���Now get your ass off that floor, shadowsinger.”

Azriel did no such thing and instead leaned back against the wall and extended his legs in front of him. Her gaze dropped to his thighs, the muscles shifting with the movement.

“Why would I do that? It's comfortable here.”

She looked up again, her arms crossed over her chest. “It's not and you know it.”

Both of them too stubborn to give in, they glared at each other. She made no move to sit on the bed, and he made no move to get up. They probably could have spent hours like this, but she couldn't stand the idea of Azriel sleeping on a half-consumed rug, even if it meant she'd do it.

“You wouldn't want to face the rebels with a sore body tomorrow, would you?” she tried, hoping it'd make him think straight.

“I've slept on the ground before, I'll be fine. Big, tough Illyrian warrior, remember?” His lips twitched up, and amusement glinted in his hazel eyes. “Just take the bed, Y/N. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“Which is exactly why you should sleep on the bed, Az,” she snapped before taking a deep breath and speaking more calmly. “I'm just the backup. It doesn't matter if I'm sore.”

“It matters to me.”

His words hung heavily in the air, and she swallowed, not sure how to react to them or to the fervor in his voice. There was an intensity in his eyes that she’d never seen before and, unable to his gaze any longer, she blinked.

“You’re not going to budge, are you?” she asked with a sigh, her arms falling back to her sides.

“No.” And there it was again, that teasing grin she usually wanted to kiss. Right now, though, she felt more like punching him for his stubbornness. It outmatched even her own. “So I suggest you listen and take the bed. You need some rest.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and you don't?”

This time, it was his turn to sigh and roll his eyes at her. “Y/N, I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in worse conditions, and it’s only just one night anyway.”

And yet, the thought of him sleeping on that rug while she was all comfortable on the bed didn’t sit right with her. Just like her well-being mattered to him, his mattered to her. Maybe it was because he’d admitted it, or because he’d rather sleep on the floor than let her stay in another room when the place was full of Illyrians. Or maybe she was just trying to find some kind of excuse, but the words were out before she could think better of them.

“Sleep on the bed. With me.”

Azriel’s eyes widened, and she immediately regretted even thinking about it. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean… it’s just…” she stuttered, her cheeks heating up as she looked away. What a huge mistake she’d just made. Just because he cared about her didn’t mean he’d want to share a bed with her. What was she even thinking? “I know it’s small and there’s not much space, but I just… I thought it’d still be more comfortable than the floor… you know?” Her voice trailed off, and she stared down at her feet.

Deafening silence filled the room, and then Azriel finally spoke, his tone cautious. “And that’s all you were asking?”

She frowned, not sure what else she might have been asking. But she quickly realized what words she had used and how that could potentially sound like something more than an offer to share the bed. Sleep on the bed. With me. Cauldron, she was so stupid. Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. When was the last time she had blushed?

“No, I wasn’t— that’s not what I—” She couldn’t get the words out, and it didn’t help that her mind was now wandering toward certain scenarios that involved the two of them, a bed, and very little clothing. She turned away from him and mumbled, “Whatever.”

“I think this is the first time I've ever seen you speechless.” There was amusement in his voice, and she knew the asshole was smirking once more. “You should watch your word choice if that’s not what you intended to ask.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry,” she murmured as she reached for her pack, but when she took her nightgown out, she realized there was no place to go to get changed. How was she supposed to change in front of him after such an embarrassing mistake? So instead, she delayed the moment she’d have to do it by trying to explain again. “It wasn’t my intention to imply anything. It came out wrong.”

She could feel his eyes on her as he answered. “I noticed. What was your intention, then?”

The look she gave him was one of annoyance. He knew exactly what her intention was, and he just liked to mess with her. She glared at him for a moment before she replied, “I meant what I said. I don’t want you to sleep on that rug, and you don’t want me to do it either. So, the only other option is that we share the bed.”

“Mh, I see.” His lips tugged up in a self-satisfied grin that just made her want to hit him to see it disappear. Not that she could hit him even if she really wanted to. Azriel would block her blow with little effort. But how could she have ever wanted to kiss him?

“So sleeping next to me is the only option?” he added.

“You know what?” she snapped, gesturing to the rug where he was still sitting like it was the most comfortable place he’d ever been. “I changed my mind. Sleep on the floor. I don’t care.”

He chuckled. Chuckled. Cauldron boil her.

She turned her back on him and, without giving it any second thought, she began undressing. She hadn’t realized how warm the Illyrian leathers were until she shivered as soon as she took them off.

“It seems like you’re cold,” Azriel drawled from behind her.

“I’m not,” she replied. She put on her nightgown and sought refuge under the covers. “Not for long, anyway.”

How was Azriel going to spend the night on a rug, without a blanket? When he didn’t answer, she considered maybe asking him one last time to share the bed. Out of the goodness of her heart, she supposed.

But then Azriel spoke again, amusement clear in his voice. And the goodness of her heart be damned.

“You're cold, aren't you?”

She sighed, wrapping the blanket tighter around her body. “No.”

“Liar.”

“Prick.”

“I'm the prick? You're the one who suggested we should share the bed.”

Y/N resisted the urge to turn on her side and face him. Maybe it was stupid and childish of her, but she kept lying with her back to him. “I don't see how that makes me a prick, Az. Besides, you're the one who made fun of me because of it, which means you're the prick here.”

His voice still carried a sense of playfulness as he answered. “I made fun of you because you stumbled over your words like a fool. It was quite amusing, to be honest.”

Instead of replying, she slid a hand out from under the blanket and flipped him off over her shoulder. As she hid it again and curled up in the bedsheets, Azriel’s soft laugh made her smile despite herself.

She heard some noise and, assuming he was getting changed and ready for the night, she closed her eyes. But her mind was running wild.

Images of his hands on her. Of her hands on him. Their lips touching, first tenderly, then passionately. Their bodies pressed together as pleasure overcame them. All scenarios she had never let herself fully consider before, now evoked by Azriel's misunderstanding of her words. Scenarios she now knew for sure would never happen if the way he'd teased her for even suggesting sharing the bed was any indication.

“Make room for me?”

His voice was so close to her that she started, her head snapping around to find him standing next to the bed. He had taken off his leathers and was now wearing loose pants and a shirt. His wings were tucked in tight behind him—those beautiful wings that she knew were bigger than Cassian's and Rhysand's. She still wasn't sure she should believe Mor about the correlation between an Illyrian's wingspan and other body parts.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” he added with a small smile.

“You and your absurdly silent steps,” she grumbled, but she was already moving to the other side of the bed.

Only that there wasn’t exactly an ‘other side’, not when the bed was barely big enough for both of them. As Azriel slipped under the sheets, she found herself with her back pressed against his chest. His familiar scent of night-chilled mist and cedar filled her senses, and his warmth seeped through her, chasing away the remnants of the cold that even the blanket hadn’t yet managed to rid her of.

“Tell me you don’t move a lot when you sleep,” she said as he settled behind her. “Because if you push me off, I’ll make you regret not staying on that rug.”

His laugh skittered down her back. “You always have something to say, don't you?”

“I promise you, the moment there will be nothing to say, I will shut up,” she replied with a chuckle.

Silence fell and Y/N nestled more against his side. She just couldn't help it. Feeling him so close, their bodies pressing together... it was intoxicating, and she wanted to stay like that forever. She hesitated a moment, and then she decided that she might as well do it: grabbing his arm, she wrapped it around her waist and laced their fingers together, their intertwined hands resting against her stomach. Azriel tensed behind her, and she thought he might pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, he released a deep breath that tickled the back of her neck.

“I would never let you fall off the bed,” he murmured. His voice was so close to her ear that it almost made her shiver. And as if to show he really meant what he said, Azriel draped his wings around her.

Y/N suddenly had a lump in her throat. Being enveloped in his wings was somehow more intimate than lying so close to each other. “Glad to hear it,” was all she could think about. After a second, she added in a whisper, “And thank you for not letting me sleep alone.”

Azriel’s arm tightened around her waist, his breath warm against her neck. When he spoke, she could tell by his tone alone that he wanted to say more than just, “You're welcome.” She didn't push him though. He'd tell her when and if he decided to.

She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep, letting the sound of the blizzard outside lull her, but with Azriel holding her it was nearly impossible. Wrapped in his arms and wings, she felt safe and protected. Everything else seemed to disappear until it was just the two of them in their small cocoon.

“Can you turn over?”

Her eyes opened at his question, but she didn't move. To face him would mean being only inches away from him. She didn't trust herself to be that close to him. To his lips.

“Why?”

“Just turn over, Y/N,” he whispered. “Please.”

It was the vulnerability in his voice—the barely audible ‘please’—that had her giving in. She had never heard him say it before, not like that.

But as she complied, her face was even closer to his than she'd anticipated. Their noses were almost touching, and she made a point not to let her gaze drop to his lips.

Azriel didn't say anything. They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments or maybe an hour—Y/N didn't know. The one thing she knew was that her heart was beating faster in her chest, and it only got worse when he brushed her cheek, his touch gentle and soft. She smiled, and the movement caused his gaze to dip to her mouth. She waited for him to look up again, but he didn't.

Her smile turned into a little smirk. “Are you just going to stare at my lips all night, or do you plan to actually do something about it?”

Azriel looked at her again, and though he tried to look annoyed, she could see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Why do you always have to make such quick-witted comments?”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she replied before she even knew what she was saying. She didn't regret it though, because he did it.

And the world shrank till there was just Azriel.

His lips were soft against hers, warm and inviting. His hand moved from her cheek to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer. She melted against him, opening up for his tongue to slip inside, tasting her slowly, almost reverently. Her heart was beating so fast it might have jumped out of her chest.

She'd wanted this to happen for the longest time, and now that it was real, the leash she'd kept on herself vanished. Every feeling, every emotion she'd stifled for so long, now rushed to the surface like a tidal wave.

What had started as a tender kiss soon turned into something passionate and greedy. She whimpered softly against his lips, and her hands began to make their way down to the hem of his shirt.

“Y/N.” Azriel's whisper stopped her as she looked into his eyes. She could see her own need reflected there. “Are you sure about this?”

“I don't look sure enough to you?” She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe next time I should just send you a note and—”

Azriel silenced her with another kiss. “You and your sarcastic answers,” he murmured with a smile.

Y/N giggled and cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb against his lips. “I mean it, Az,” she said, her tone softer now. “I'm sure about it.”

“Good.” He pulled her flush against him as his hands roamed down her back. “Because if I start, I don't think I could stop.”

“Good,” she repeated before she kissed him again.

Y/N tugged on his shirt, and they parted long enough for her to take it off, though it took a bit of struggle to undo the clasps on his back and free his wings. She'd seen him shirtless before, mostly when he was training—he was a real feast for the eye—but now she got to touch him, to run her hands across his torso and feel him shudder. His mouth descended on her neck in response, leaving a trail of wet kisses while his hands gripped her backside.

“You were right, princess,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “Your ass is definitely not little.”

She chuckled as he kneaded it. “Told you.”

Azriel hummed, planting one last kiss on her neck before he shifted position and Y/N found herself pressed down on the mattress, the shadowsinger now on top of her. As she pulled him closer for their lips to meet yet again, his hands caressed her legs, trailing up her thighs and slipping under her nightgown.

She held her breath as he brushed past her panties, lingering just long enough to make her shiver. He then moved up her body, causing the fabric to rise and reveal her soft flesh.

Y/N broke the kiss, a small sigh leaving her lips when Azriel’s hands reached her breasts. He smiled at the sound, and as their eyes met, his gaze was so full of desire that her core clenched.

She wanted him. She needed him.

Before she could reach between them to push down his pants, Azriel gently stopped her by grabbing her wrists, sensing what her intention was. “Not yet,” he murmured.

She frowned. A slight tug was all it took for him to release her hands, though she didn't try to undress him again. “Why not?”

And there it was again, that smirk. But now, with him on top of her, both of them half naked, she didn't simply want to kiss it. No, she wanted do all the things she'd never let herself consider.

“Because I want to see you first, princess.”

Azriel was already pushing her nightgown up, but as usual, she couldn't keep her mouth shut. “So it's official? You're calling me princess now? You've never done that before.”

He looked down at her with so much desire that it seemed to set her body on fire. “I've never been about to fuck you before,” he answered, his voice low and sultry.

Her thighs clenched together, but before she could come up with a response, Azriel removed her nightgown. Her skin was already so heated she barely felt the bite of the cool air, and it was completely forgotten when he ran his hands all over her body, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispered as he leaned down to take one of her nipples in his warm mouth, a soft moan escaping her as she shivered.

Her fingers tangled in his hair to keep him close, and she arched against him when his tongue flicked out to tease her.

“And you're so responsive,” he murmured. Hooking a scarred finger into the waistband of her panties, he pulled them down her legs. The scent of her arousal wafted through the room as Azriel nudged her legs open and settled in between them.

Y/N was about to tell him to hurry, her need to feel him against and inside her now almost overwhelming. But she couldn’t form the words, not as Azriel pushed his hips against hers and she felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing hard against her wet core.

His hands caressed her sides, her ass, her thighs, and yet he never touched her where she needed it most.

“Azriel…” she complained, eyes locked on him. She moved her hips to grind against his erection, seeking some sort of friction, and she was rewarded by his sharp inhale. But it still wasn't enough.

“Be patient, Y/N.” His mouth descended on her neck again, biting the soft spot where it met her shoulder. “I want to taste you first. I want to worship every inch of you.”

Even though she closed her eyes at his little nips, she shook her head. “Azriel, I appreciate it. I really do. But you have no idea how long I've waited for this.” Her breath hitched when his tongue swirled around her nipple again. “We can leave the worshipping for later. I need you now.”

“You need me, uh?” He kissed her other breast, and she bucked her hips against him once more. “And you've waited a long time for this?”

Y/N looked at him again, her fingers still clutching his hair. She nodded and realized her mistake too late—a new mischievous gleam entered Azriel's hazel eyes.

His lips trailed down her stomach and toward her belly button. Each kiss sent a shiver right to her core. “Then you can wait a little longer.”

She groaned, her patience now at its limit. “Azriel, you—”

A gasp cut her off as he licked a stripe up her dripping folds. She couldn't tell who moaned first when Azriel tasted her once more, his tongue flicking over her clit.

Her fingers tightened in his black curls and her head fell back on the pillow. Azriel's lips closed around her clit and she clamped a hand on her mouth to keep quiet as he gently sucked on it.

His shadows began to slither up her body, their touch cool against her heated skin. Her breathing quickened and she had to hold back a moan when his tongue was replaced by a finger slowly sliding inside her folds.

But it didn't move. Azriel looked up at her and she wished she could somehow capture the picture: his head between her legs, those beautiful hazel eyes focused on her with an almost predatory intent.

“Don't go all quiet on me now, princess,” he murmured against her skin. “I want to hear all your pretty noises.”

A tendril of shadow brushed against her hand, and she removed it from her mouth. “Az, the other rooms—”

He curled his finger to hit that soft, spongy spot inside her that had her see stars, and she couldn't stop the moan that left her lips.

“I don't care if someone hears you.” His voice was a low, almost commanding growl. “Let them hear you. Let them know you're with me.”

She was about to answer, to tell him she wasn't sure she should, but Azriel added a second finger, and she lost all control, another small cry of pleasure slipping out.

Azriel seemed satisfied because his smirk reappeared. “If I had known this is all it took to put a stop on the witty comments, I would have done it a long time ago.”

Y/N wanted to make one of those very witty comments to prove him wrong, to show him she hadn't become helpless just because of how good he made her feel, but his tongue circled her clit again and Mother above, she was helpless.

“Do you want to come, princess?”

Unable to form even a coherent thought, all she could do was nod, her body on the brink of release as his fingers curled once more, drawing a moan from deep in her throat.

“Use your words, Y/N.”

“Yes… yes, please,” she panted.

But instead of keeping going, of driving her over that sweet, craved edge, Azriel placed a kiss to her inner thigh and slowly removed his fingers from her folds. He even moved away from her, standing up at the foot of the bed.

She groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows to glower at him. “Azriel, you get back here right now.”

He only grinned. “Ah, there she is.”

“If you're doing this just because you missed my comments, you should know that I—”

The words died on her tongue as soon as his hands swiftly undid the buttons of his pants. Her eyes followed his every movement as he pushed them down his legs, watching his muscles shift and his wings unfold ever so slightly to keep him balanced.

He wasn't wearing any underwear.

The realization caused her brain to stop working, and the sight of his naked body took her breath away. Maybe the rumors about Illyrian wingspans were true after all.

Her mouth dry, she swallowed before finally speaking again. “Azriel,” she repeated, her voice quivering with barely restrained desire. “Get back here right now.”

For once, he obliged without questioning, his grin wide.

Climbing onto the bed, he crawled up her body until his cock pressed against her entrance, her need for him now through the roof.

Their eyes met, and slowly—too slowly—Azriel pushed in, stretching her inch by delicious inch, both of them releasing a moan when he bottomed out, his hips flush against her.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound shooting straight down to her core. “Fuck, Y/N... you feel incredible.”

She had no words to describe how he felt inside her. ‘Incredible’ was an understatement, but her mind was too foggy to think of something else. The only thing she was sure of was that she needed him to move.

“Azriel,” she breathed as she wrapped her legs around him. He shuddered when she accidentally brushed his wings with her toes. “Please, move. Now.”

With his elbows on either side of her head, he leaned down to kiss her, pulling out almost all the way. “I love hearing you beg for it,” he whispered against her lips, and rocked back into her with a quick roll of his hips before she could even think of a response.

He didn’t even try to go slow, instead immediately setting a relentless pace that left her panting, but she didn’t mind. Every choked sound and breathless moan were swallowed by his kiss, their tongues swirling together. Her hands found their way into his hair, around his neck, down his back, and her nails scraped along his warm and slightly sweaty skin while he thrust into her, her hips rising to meet his.

Azriel’s own groans and whimpers were music to the ears, each of them bringing her closer to release. As if he knew her body well enough already, he seemed to sense it too, because his lips left hers to trail down her neck.

“That’s it, princess,” he praised. His clipped voice let her know he was probably trying to hold back his own impending orgasm. “Come for me.”

His shadows flew in the little space between their bodies to tease her clit, drawing a guttural groan from her. It was like nothing she’d ever felt before—cool against her hot skin, a barely-there touch that yet was enough to make her shudder and whine. But it was the uniqueness of it all that sent her toppling over the edge.

A loud cry broke from her as her vision blurred and her body tensed, her nails slightly digging into Azriel’s back while he slowed his thrusts to draw out her pleasure. But he soon resumed his punishing pace, his hips slamming into hers almost frantically, the sound of skin on skin filling the small room as he chased his own release.

She choked out his name right as he stilled, hot spurts of cum filling her, his last few moans muffled when she pulled him in for another desperate kiss.

They were both panting by the time they broke apart, but neither of them tried to move. Azriel still lay buried deep inside her, and simply rested his forehead against hers, a smile on his lips that mirrored her own.

Despite his heavy breaths, his brows raised as he asked playfully, “So was the wait worth it?”

“It was,” she answered with a chuckle. Her hands came up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “You certainly know what you’re doing, shadowsinger.”

Wrong words.

“Is that so?” His grin only widened, and he gave another roll of his hips that dragged a groan from the back of her throat.

She slapped him on the shoulder, but her smile matched his. “Smug ass.”

Azriel's soft laugh tickled her cheek as he kissed it. Slowly, he pulled out of her, leaving her with a feeling of emptiness.

Not ready to let him go just yet, she curled up in his arms as soon as he lay down next to her. Azriel immediately embraced her, holding her close to his chest, their legs tangled.

A comfortable silence settled over them as they bathed in the afterglow of sex, interrupted only by their soft breathing and the blizzard still raging outside.

As the minutes passed, Y/N struggled to keep her eyes open, but she had always wanted to trace the swirling lines of Azriel's tattoos, and now she had her chance. Her fingers danced along the Illyrian design, following the pattern from his neck to his arm, then lingering a bit longer on his sculpted pecs and feeling the muscle beneath her fingertips. His heart was beating fast, pounding in his chest.

“Can you promise me something?”

She glanced up at him, his eyes already fixed on her. The corner of her lips twitched upwards. “Depends on what it is.”

Azriel was silent for a long moment before he spoke again with a new seriousness in his tone. “Promise me that we’ll give this a chance. That we’ll give… us a chance.”

Her fingers halted their roaming, her heart skipped a bit, and a part of her whispered that she had heard that wrong, that she had misunderstood. No way he was actually asking her what she thought he was asking her, despite just having had sex.

She had to swallow the lump in her throat to be able to murmur, “Do you mean that?”

Azriel's eyes softened, like he knew she was even more vulnerable now than while they were fucking, and that whether her heart broke or not depended entirely on his answer.

“I’ve waited for this for a long time too, Y/N,” he said gently, cupping her cheeks to look right into her eyes. “I don’t want just this one night with you. I want all the nights you’ll give me.”

Y/N smiled then, so bright it could have lit up the whole room. She wanted to kiss him senseless, to hold him tight and never let go. And nothing was stopping her anymore, she realized, so she did just that.

She showered his face with tiny kisses. Every beautiful inch, from his nose to his jawline, from his eyebrow to his chin. Azriel's arms wrapped around her middle to pull her closer, and she relented her assault only when he chuckled.

Their eyes met again, and she knew there was no turning back now. But she would never turn back now.

“I’ll give you all the nights in the world, Az,” she finally said once the burst of joy subsided. “And the days, too. I'll give you anything you want.”

His smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was wider than ever before and the urge to touch his small dimples rushed through her—dimples she'd never known he had, but that she'd do anything to see again.

When he kissed her, it was slow yet passionate, gentle yet desperate, their breaths mingling, their hands caressing cheeks and running through hair.

“You're the only thing I want,” Azriel murmured once their lips parted. “Every night and every day. I want only you.”

Those were probably the most beautiful words she'd ever heard. Not even in her dreams did she imagine he would say them. Dwelling on what it would be like to share moments of passion was one thing, but this…

She moved to straddle him, mindful of his wings splayed out beneath him. She wanted to run her fingers down their length, and hopefully, sooner rather than later, she might get to do just that.

“Then I hope you're not too tired, shadowsinger.” She leaned down to trail kisses along his tattoo, but her eyes never left his. “Because you can't say something like that without expecting me to fuck you again.”

His hands tightened their grip on her thighs, her words enough to ignite the fire in him once more. “I'm yours, princess. We have all night.”

“All the nights,” she corrected him with a grin, already grinding on him. “And all the days.”

Maybe they would be facing the rebels with sore bodies, after all.

Tags: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover

(If I accidentally added someone who wanted to be tagged only in part 3 of A Helping Hand and not the general tag list, please let me know and I'll fix it)