d e v o n
art blog(derogatory)
Peter Solarz
Stranger Things
cherry valley forever
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oozey mess
shark vs the universe
KIROKAZE
macklin celebrini has autism
Not today Justin
trying on a metaphor
ojovivo
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
NASA
taylor price
tannertan36
Origami Around
No title available
seen from United States
seen from Serbia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from United States
seen from Japan
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seen from Georgia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Thailand
seen from Iraq
seen from Belgium
@mellophoned
favourite movies: twister (1996)
Bill and Jo Harding, advanced storm chasers on the brink of divorce, must join together to create an advanced weather alert system by putting themselves in the cross-hairs of extremely violent tornadoes.
#i love this movie more than words can explain (via @bonojour)
death penalty
Nidaime doodle
Devils never cry
how it feels to refer to men’s “pecs” as their tits
The Hundredth Dawn - 4
✶ Pairing: Azriel x Reader
✶ Summary: A century ago, the Night Court didn’t just lose Rhysand’s sister—she was taken, claimed by an old bargain no one dares to name out loud. Now she’s back, with a smile too calm and a power that lives in the dark between sleep and truth, the kind that can soothe a mind or rewrite it. Rhys wants to protect what he once let go, while Azriel finds himself unravelling at the sight of her, because some storms don’t just arrive—they make you realize you were never really looking up at all.
✶ A/N: heyyyy, later than i promised but next part here we are! we got some court of nightmare action this ch 👀
⇐ Part 3 | masterlist
────────♢★✶⋆✶★♢────────
Night in Velaris didn’t howl.
It hummed, low beneath the River House’s eaves, the Sidra catching moonlight like spilled ink. The city below breathed lantern-glow and quiet laughter, and for a few stolen hours the world pretended it wasn’t built on crowns and threats and bargains that never truly died.
They sat on the balcony because old habits clung harder than grief. A table too small for Cassian’s knees. Wine that wasn’t ceremonial. Bread and sharp cheese no one would admit they wanted. Night air with a familiar bite that made her lungs ache in a way that felt like home.
Cassian started passing things out like he was feeding a camp: bread, cheese, olives, a small bowl of something sweet that smelled faintly of orange.
“Eat,” he demanded, thrusting a plate toward her. “You’ve been back for, what, a few days? And you’ve already tried to martyr yourself into a diplomatic scandal. That requires food.”
She took the plate because arguing would only make him louder. “If I’m going to cause international tension, I’d rather do it hungry.”
Cassian’s laugh boomed. “Rhys, she’s your sister.”
Rhys’s mouth quirked. “I know.”
Cassian slumped into a chair, wings flaring once before settling. “I forgot what it was like having another mouth in the family that could cut me.”
She lifted her brows. “You’ve had plenty.”
“Those don’t count,” Cassian said solemnly, pointing at Rhys. “He’s cheating. He’s had five hundred years to practice sounding smug.”
Rhys lifted his cup in salute. “And I’ve used every one.”
Azriel sat on the arm of the chair opposite, posture loose in a way that never quite became relaxed. His attention wasn’t on her—never invasive—but she could feel the quiet awareness of him like a shadow at her back. The way he tracked exits even here. The way his gaze flicked from streetlight to rooftop to the shimmer of the river.
He didn’t belong to peace.
He protected it.
Rhys poured wine without asking. The liquid caught starlight as it arced into each cup.
Cassian raised his glass now, grinning like a boy again. “To the fact that we made it to adulthood without Rhys murdering me.”
Rhys leaned back in his chair. “That implies I never tried.”
Cassian clutched his heart. “You did try. Repeatedly. You threatened to winnow me into the Sidra.”
Rhys’s mouth quirked. “I threatened to winnow you into the sewers.”
“That was one time,” Cassian protested. “And in my defense, I was sixteen and you’d hidden my sword.”
“I hid your sword,” Rhys drawled, “because you’d challenged every male in the training ring and then tried to fight the cook.”
Cassian sat up, scandalized. “She started it.”
She laughed despite herself.
Not wide. Not unguarded.
But real enough that Cassian’s grin turned triumphant, like he’d wrestled laughter out of her through sheer force of will.
“There,” Cassian declared, pointing at her. “See? Proof. Feyre owes me five gold marks.”
Rhys’s mouth quirked. “Feyre doesn’t bet against you. She just watches you lose with moral superiority.”
“I am wounded,” Cassian announced.
“Don’t get excited,” she said. “It was wind, not a laugh.”
Azriel made a quiet sound from his place to the side—maybe amusement, maybe the ghost of it—and it was so quiet that if she hadn’t been watching him, she would’ve missed it entirely.
She pretended she hadn’t heard.
Let the moment pass.
Because some things—tiny, rare—were too fragile to touch with bare hands.
Rhys poured himself another drink, then tilted the bottle toward her. “More?”
She glanced at the cup in her hands. It was mostly untouched, warmth trapped between her palms. “If I say no, will you turn it into a speech about hydration and feelings.”
Rhys’s eyes gleamed. “I could.”
Cassian groaned theatrically. “Do not encourage him. He starts sounding like your mother and then we all suffer.”
The words landed too easily.
Too familiar.
For a heartbeat, the air on the balcony shifted—like the world remembered her mother existed and couldn’t decide whether to speak her name.
Rhys’s fingers tightened around the bottle.
He didn’t say anything.
Cassian, oblivious or choosing to be, went on—because that was Cassian’s gift and his flaw. He charged at the world like it could be wrestled into something manageable.
He leaned back, gaze drifting over the city lights below. “Velaris still feels ridiculous,” he said, softer now. “Sometimes I look at it and I can’t believe it’s real.”
Rhys’s jaw flexed once. “It’s real.”
“I know,” Cassian said, quick. “I’m not—” He waved a hand, searching for words he didn’t normally need. “It’s just… there were years where it was only you and your mother’s lessons and how you used to sneak me into the library when Rhys locked it.”
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “You were never locked out of the library.”
“I was locked out of her corner,” Cassian corrected. “The one with the maps. The one she claimed as her territory like a little—” he paused, caught himself, and his smile shifted—softer, sadder. “Like a little general.”
Something tight threaded through her chest.
Because it was true.
He had been smaller then, but she had always liked maps. Always liked routes. Always liked understanding a battlefield before she stepped onto it.
Rhys’s gaze slid to her hands. To the way she held her cup. To the way her fingers never quite stilled.
He didn’t speak.
Cassian kept going, because Cassian couldn’t stand silence when it felt like grief.
“You used to threaten me,” Cassian said, voice lightening again on instinct. “Remember? You’d tell me if I touched your maps you’d poison my dinner.”
She stared at him. “I never said poison.”
Cassian blinked. “You absolutely said poison.”
She took a sip. “I said I’d make you regret it.”
Azriel’s voice slid in, quiet as a blade. “You said you’d cut his hair in his sleep.”
Cassian’s mouth fell open. “TRAITOR.”
Azriel’s mouth didn’t quite smile, but his eyes did—brief, faint. “It was effective.”
Cassian jabbed a finger at him. “You remember because you were always hiding in the rafters like a creep.”
“I was on watch,” Azriel replied blandly.
“You were eavesdropping.”
“I was on watch,” Azriel repeated, unbothered.
She found herself looking at him—at the way he sat half in shadow even on a balcony washed in starlight, at the way he spoke like he didn’t spend language unless it mattered.
And for a heartbeat, something about it felt like… old times.
Not in the sense of innocence.
In the sense of familiarity.
A rhythm she hadn’t realized she still remembered from their childhood.
Something she hadn’t realized she’d missed.
Cassian leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, gaze sweeping over them all. “It’s strange,” he said, quieter. “To be sitting here like this.”
Rhys’s tone went careful. “Strange.”
Cassian nodded. “Because it makes me remember other nights. Before everything got—” He paused, searching. “Before everything got… complicated.”
The word complicated was too gentle for what had happened.
Cassian kept going.
“Or when Rhys got in trouble because you—” Cassian leaned back, grinning at her now, caught by the memory. “You snuck out.” He sighed. “You always were the worst influence.”
“I was not a delinquent.”
Cassian grinned. “You were worse. You were the one who made sure we didn’t get caught.”
Azriel’s shadows stirred, faint amusement brushing the air like a whisper—like even they remembered those years, remembered the particular sort of trouble that had never been reckless, only… clever.
Rhys’s mouth quirked. “She was never caught because she never did anything that could be traced.”
Cassian pointed at Rhys like he’d been vindicated. “Exactly. She wasn’t a delinquent. She was an architect.”
She snorted. “You’re romanticizing my refusal to babysit you.”
Cassian laughed, loud enough that the sound rolled off the balcony and down into the city like it belonged there. Like they belonged there. Like the last century hadn’t happened.
For a few minutes, it did feel like old times.
Not in the way that pretended nothing had changed.
In the way that admitted they had all survived long enough to sit in the same circle again, wine between them, the river below, and the world—briefly—kept at a distance.
Cassian reached for the cheese, tore a piece off with his fingers, and kept talking as if he couldn’t stop—like if he paused, the silence would remember what lived inside it.
“You were the one,” he said, mouth full, “who’d shove me behind a pillar when your mother walked in, and then you’d stand there all innocent and start asking her about treaties.”
She rolled her eyes. “I did not use treaties as distraction.”
Rhys’s brows rose. “You absolutely did.”
Azriel’s voice came quiet, almost dry. “You also used court gossip.”
Cassian choked on a laugh. “Yes! She’d be like—” he pitched his voice higher, a poor imitation that still somehow hit the cadence, “Did you hear Lady Solstice’s betrothal fell apart because she—”
“Stop,” she said flatly, heat creeping into her cheeks.
Cassian slapped the table, delighted. “And then your mother would get invested, and Az would be lurking in the shadows like a grim little judge, and I’d escape with my life.”
Rhys’s gaze flicked to Azriel, and for a heartbeat there was something warm there—something that didn’t have teeth. “He always listened. Even then.”
Azriel didn’t deny it. Didn’t claim innocence.
He just lifted his cup slightly, as if to say: I was there.
Cassian’s grin softened, and for a moment he looked… younger. Less like the general who laughed at blood. More like the boy who’d been welcomed into a family he hadn’t known he needed.
“And then…” Cassian’s voice shifted without him seeming to notice—softness creeping in like mist. His fingers tightened on the cheese. He stared at it like it might save him from having to look up. “And then… after…”
He hesitated, and the pause was the dangerous part.
“After you were…” Cassian swallowed. “Gone.”
The word was a hook.
Gone.
Not dead. Not lost. Not taken.
The way you said it when you didn’t want the shape of the truth in your mouth.
Cassian’s gaze flicked to Rhys—quick, uncertain—and then back to her like he was trying to bridge a gap he didn’t know how to cross.
“It was quieter,” Cassian admitted. “The house. The city. Rhys tried to pretend it wasn’t, but—”
Rhys’s posture went so still it looked carved. Like the night itself had poured into him and hardened.
Cassian barreled forward anyway, because softness terrified him more than battle.
“I used to think,” Cassian said slowly, “that if we just—if we just waited long enough, someone would—”
His voice caught.
“Fix it,” she finished softly, before he could.
The air tightened.
Cassian’s gaze dropped to his hands. “I’m not good at…” He exhaled, frustrated, like he was angry at his own throat. “I’m not good at saying things right.”
“You’re doing fine,” she said quietly—because he was, because the fact that he was trying mattered more than elegance.
Cassian looked up at her then, and his eyes were too earnest. Too open.
“I’m sorry,” Cassian said. “For what happened. For what—” His jaw worked, like he was forcing the words through teeth clenched around rage. “For the fact that it ever—”
Rhys’s voice cut in.
Smooth. Casual. Too casual.
Like he was severing a thread before it could tighten.
“Tell me,” Rhys said, too casual, “how many times did you fall on your ass today in the ring, Cassian?”
And for a heartbeat, she hated Rhys for it—hated the way he could end things like he was pulling a curtain.
Then she realized Rhys’s hand was gripping the arm of his chair hard enough the wood creaked.
Because Rhys wasn’t cutting Cassian off for Cassian.
He was cutting him off for her.
For the way her breathing had gone too shallow.
For the way her fingers had gone white around her glass.
Cassian barked a laugh, grateful for the redirect. “Once.”
Rhys’s brows rose. “Only once?”
Cassian glared. “Twice. But the second time doesn’t count because Nesta—”
“You got distracted,” Rhys supplied, and the amusement in his eyes was real, but there was something beneath it—something sharp with relief. Like he’d successfully steered the ship away from rocks no one wanted to name.
Cassian groaned. “She stared at me, Rhys. Like I was a poor decision she regretted making.”
Azriel’s mouth twitched. “Sounds accurate.”
Rhys’s gaze slid to her—not asking, not pushing, just… checking, the way a brother checks for blood after a fight he pretends he didn’t hear.
She kept her expression composed.
Kept her heart tucked away.
And the conversation did what it always used to do when it got too close to the truth: it drifted.
They talked about the city—about the latest ridiculous thing someone had painted on a wall down by the river, about the merchants arguing over winter spices, about Cassian being banned from a baker’s shop for “allegedly” eating a tray of pastries meant for a wedding party.
Cassian insisted it had been an act of charity.
Azriel, unhelpfully, corrected him: “It was theft.”
Cassian glowered. “You’re so fun at parties.”
Azriel’s gaze flicked to her then, brief and unreadable, and for a heartbeat she felt… seen.
Not coddled.
Not handled.
Seen.
It wasn’t softness.
It was attention—quiet, precise, like he was mapping the woman she’d become and realizing he didn’t know how to predict her anymore.
Cassian stretched, wings rolling. “All right,” he declared, standing with the theatrics of a male who wanted to leave without acknowledging that he’d said something real. “I’m going to bed. Before I accidentally start confessing feelings again and Rhys throws me into the Sidra.”
Rhys’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sleep well.”
Cassian paused by her chair—hesitated, then leaned in just close enough that his voice went lower.
“I meant it,” he said, rougher now. “The apology.”
She met his gaze. Let him see that it landed. That it mattered.
“I know,” she said softly.
Cassian nodded once, hard like he was sealing something shut, then clapped Rhys on the shoulder and sauntered inside as if he hadn’t just cracked open a wound and shown it to the air.
Azriel rose next.
Not hurried. Not lingering.
He set his cup down untouched, gaze flicking briefly to Rhys—silent question, silent check-in—then to her.
His eyes were dark in the starlight, unreadable and sharp and… different, somehow, after the ring. After the argument that hadn’t happened, the truths that had been allowed to stand.
Something in his gaze paused on her face like he was trying to memorize it without admitting he was looking.
Then his attention dropped—quick, disciplined—to her hands.
The cup between them.
As if he didn’t trust what noticing did to him.
“Goodnight,” Azriel said.
It wasn’t warm.
It wasn’t cold.
It was… careful.
Like he was teaching himself a new way to exist around her.
“Goodnight,” she replied, equally careful.
His shadows slid after him, reluctant as they left the balcony, and for a heartbeat, the space he vacated felt… louder.
Rhys watched him go, then exhaled through his nose.
“You cut him off,” she said.
Rhys’s brows rose. “Excuse me?”
“You cut Cassian off,” she corrected, voice mild. “When he almost said something that mattered.”
Rhys’s gaze sharpened—not defensive yet, but alert. “I didn’t want—”
“Me to be upset?” she supplied.
Rhys’s mouth tightened. His eyes went distant for the faintest second—like he was thinking of a hundred wrong choices and trying to pick a better one.
“I didn’t want tonight to turn into… that,” he admitted.
Her laugh was quiet, humorless. “Into what.”
Into the century.
Into their mother.
Into the bargain.
Rhys’s fingers flexed on the armrest. “Into a fight.”
“I don’t fight for sport,” she said softly. “Only for truth.”
Then—so faint, so quick—his shoulders sank a fraction.
“I’m trying,” Rhys said, and the words sounded like they hurt.
She didn’t let the softness in. Not fully.
But she didn’t stab him for it either.
Silence settled.
Just two siblings sitting in the dark with too much history stacked between them like stones.
The Sidra whispered below.
She stared at it for a long moment, then said quietly, “I heard about Under the Mountain.”
Rhys went utterly still.
Even the air felt like it pulled tight.
His face remained composed, but his power shifted like something braced under pressure.
She didn’t look away.
Just… offered the truth like a hand held out in the dark.
“I heard,” she repeated, “what she did to you.”
Rhys’s throat bobbed once. He stared out at the river like it was safer than looking at her.
“It’s done,” he said.
The words were clipped. Final.
A door slammed from the inside.
She let it sit for a beat, then said, “And yet here we still are.”
Rhys’s jaw flexed.
His gaze flicked to her—young, for a heartbeat, stripped of polish. “You don’t need to carry that for me.”
“I’m not carrying it,” she replied. “I’m naming it. You endured.”
His eyes narrowed, wary, because he’d spent so long being the one who held everyone else’s horrors that someone naming his felt like trespass.
She kept her voice even. “I’m not asking you to recount it,” she added. “I was gone, and you were here, and I wasn’t the only one who survived a cage.”
Rhys’s mouth tightened. “That wasn’t—”
“It was,” she said, gentle and sharp. “Even if you won. Even if you saved everyone. You still had to endure.”
For a long moment, he didn’t speak.
Then, quietly, he said, “It’s strange.”
She waited.
Rhys’s voice came out rough. “To hear you say it like that. Like you can see it.”
“I can,” she said simply.
Rhys swallowed. His fingers curled, then loosened. The fight in him—always the fight—strained against vulnerability like it was an enemy.
He forced himself to look at her fully.
“You shouldn’t have to be the one who understands,” he said.
Her chest tightened.
“You shouldn’t have had to be the one who endured,” she replied.
Rhys’s throat worked.
Then his mouth twisted into something that tried to be a smile and failed.
“I’m fine,” he said, and the lie was so practiced it almost sounded like truth.
She didn’t call him on it.
Not tonight.
Because there would be other nights.
Because she was tired of ripping open wounds just to prove they bled.
So she only said, softer, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Rhys let out a slow breath.
Then his mouth quirked faintly—pained humor, the kind he used when he didn’t know what else to do.
“Look at us,” he murmured. “Being… functional.”
She huffed a laugh. “Don’t get excited. It’s a temporary condition.”
Rhys’s eyes warmed a fraction.
And in that small warmth, she felt something dangerous:
Hope.
Not bright. Not naive.
But there, anyway—like a candle stubbornly refusing to go out.
She stared at it until it made her uneasy.
So she stood.
“I’m going to sleep,” she said.
Rhys nodded. “Good. You should.”
She finished her wine.
Set the cup down.
And went inside—back to her room, back to the quiet.
Back to the dangerous part of the night where dreams waited like doors.
⸻
Sleep came slow.
Her room was too familiar and not familiar enough—shadows in the corners arranged differently, the bed too soft compared to stone, the air too clean. The River House smelled like citrus and rain and velvet safety.
Safety she didn’t trust.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her body to remember it didn’t need to be on watch.
Eventually—too tired to fight herself—she let her eyes close.
And dream took her like a tide.
⸻
At first, she didn’t realize she’d slipped.
The world formed in that peculiar way dreams did: too bright at the edges, too sharp at the center. Sound muffled as if wrapped in cloth. Movement slower, like everything was wading through syrup.
She stood in a hall that wasn’t the River House.
Stone—dark, wet, ancient. Torches that burned with greenish flame.
Under the Mountain.
She knew she wasn’t there—not truly. But the hall still turned her stomach. She was watching, caught in someone else’s memory, unable to move or speak. A ghost in someone else’s cage.
Rhys walked ahead of her.
Not the Rhys of the balcony. Not the Rhys of Velaris.
This Rhys moved like a blade held to someone’s throat—beautiful, controlled, lethal, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.
His hands were behind his back as he approached a throne carved from bone and darkness.
And on it—
Amarantha, lounging like a queen who’d never earned anything but took it anyway. Red hair spilling over her shoulders like blood, a goblet in hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Rhys bowed.
Deep.
The sight punched the breath from her lungs, even though she wasn’t the one being forced.
Even though she knew this was memory, dream, echo.
The humiliation of it still landed like a blow.
She tried to move—tried to step forward, to speak, to do something—
Her body didn’t obey.
She was weightless. Unseen.
A ghost in someone else’s cage.
Amarantha spoke, lips curling, but the words came muffled, warped, like she was underwater. Something about loyalty. Something about entertainment. Something about the bargain that held Rhys’s throat in her palm.
Rhys lifted his face, still smiling.
Still playing.
Still dying inside it.
Her stomach dropped.
Because the way he moved was the way she’d been trained to move.
Performance as survival.
Seduction as weapon.
Control as the only thing you could still call yours.
And there—there—
For the briefest moment, his eyes flicked away from Amarantha’s face.
Not toward her.
Toward the darkness in the corner of the hall.
Toward a place no one else looked.
Like he could feel something watching.
Her.
A sharp jolt went through her.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Rhys’s gaze—dream-gaze—snagged on the air where she hovered and held.
Not seeing. Not truly.
But sensing.
As if her mind had brushed his without meaning to.
Her throat closed.
This wasn’t a dream meant for her.
This wasn’t something she had any right to witness.
Her mind had slipped—careless, stupid, too comfortable in a house that didn’t demand constant vigilance—and she had fallen straight into his worst nightmares like a thief.
Get out.
She tried to wrench herself free.
The room resisted, sticky as tar.
Rhys’s eyes flicked again—sharp, sudden—like he sensed the disturbance.
Like he felt her trying to tear away.
For a heartbeat, his gaze pinned the air.
Pinned her.
Not seeing her face.
But knowing something was there.
His mouth tightened.
And in that fraction, the dream delivered something raw:
Rhys’s exhaustion.
Rhys’s fury.
Rhys’s shame.
The weight of a crown pressed into his skull until he thought it would crack.
She yanked.
Hard.
The world snapped—
⸻
She bolted upright in bed, lungs heaving, sheets twisted around her legs like restraints.
Her room was dark.
Silent.
Safe.
Her heart didn’t care.
Her pulse thundered like she’d run for miles.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, fingers trembling.
“Idiot,” she whispered to herself.
Not because the dream had been horrifying—though it was.
Because she had intruded.
Because she had slipped into his mind the way she’d slipped into others before.
Not out of malice.
Out of carelessness.
And carelessness was how you became dangerous.
Her stomach turned again.
Home made her soft.
Family made her forget, for half a heartbeat, that her mind was a blade too.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, bare feet on cool wood.
Her reflection in the dark window looked like a ghost.
She stared at herself.
“Never again,” she murmured.
Her voice didn’t shake.
Her hands did.
She clenched them until they steadied.
Then she went back to bed and lay there until morning, eyes open, listening to the River House breathe.
⸻
Morning came bright, infuriatingly normal.
Sunlight spilled across the breakfast table. The city outside continued existing as if no one had threatened to chain her to a Crown Prince.
They gathered again—Inner Circle orbiting around tension like it was gravity.
Mor arrived with a storm in her eyes.
“The Court of Nightmares knows,” Mor said without preamble.
Rhys’s head lifted, gaze sharpening. “Already?”
Mor threw herself into a chair like she’d like to throw someone else off a balcony instead. “Rumor spreads faster down there than rot. And rot is fast.”
Cassian’s brows rose. “They think she’s actually back?”
Mor’s gaze flicked to her—quick, assessing, protective. “They think she’s either back or dead, and they’re placing bets on which would benefit them more.”
“How charming,” she said dryly.
Mor’s mouth tightened. “They’re also… talking.”
Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes gleaming. “Of course they are.”
Mor’s jaw clenched. “They’re saying if she’s returned weakened, it’s an opportunity.”
Rhys’s power stirred, dark and sharp, like a beast shifting in its sleep.
Feyre’s hand landed on his arm—gentle warning.
“She’s not weakened,” Cassian muttered, but the anger in his voice was protective enough to bruise.
Mor’s eyes remained hard. “They don’t know that.”
Rhys’s gaze slid to her. “We can ignore them.”
“We shouldn’t,” she said calmly.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
She met his gaze without blinking. “Yes.”
Amren’s smile turned razor-thin. “Interesting.”
Mor stared. “What are you—”
She set her cup down, deliberate. “If they’re going to speculate, let them do it where we can see their faces.”
Cassian blinked. “You want to go down there.”
“I want them to see me,” she corrected.
Rhys’s voice went dangerously smooth. “Absolutely not.”
She tilted her head, the same way she had with the letter. The same steady, maddening calm.
“My blood runs through that court too, Rhys,” she said softly. “Whether you like it or not.”
Rhys’s jaw ticked.
Feyre’s gaze flicked between them, tension tightening her shoulders.
Mor’s expression hardened, defensive. “It’s not your court.”
She looked at Mor then, really looked.
Not unkindly.
But without flinching from truth.
“Isn’t it,” she murmured.
Mor opened her mouth—
A knock at the door cut through the morning like a blade.
A servant entered, bearing a sealed letter on a tray. Wax, crest—foreign, polished.
Montesere.
Amren’s eyes brightened with predatory interest as Rhys took it.
Rhys broke the seal.
Read.
His face tightened.
Then he looked up, eyes dark.
“They want to meet,” Rhys said.
Her pulse didn’t quicken. Her mind did.
“Of course they do,” she replied.
Rhys’s gaze sharpened. “They suggest neutral ground. They suggest—”
She leaned forward slightly. “Hewn City,” she said before he could finish.
Rhys went still. “No.”
She smiled faintly. “Yes.”
Mor’s face went white with fury. “Don’t.”
Cassian looked between them like he’d like to flee the room. “Why there.”
“Because it’s a spectacle,” she said simply. “Because it reminds Montesere what the Night Court looks like when it wants to be feared. And it reminds the Court of Nightmares that I’m not a rumor.”
Amren tapped a nail against her cup. “And because if Montesere is hiding something, they’ll behave differently under an audience that understands cruelty.”
Feyre’s brows knit. “That’s… a gamble.”
“So is refusing them,” she said.
Rhys’s gaze burned. “You want to walk into Hewn City not one week after—”
He stopped.
The words unsaid were louder than anything spoken.
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
She only said, “You keep it like a threat, Rhys. Let it threaten someone useful.”
Mor’s voice went sharp. “You don’t understand what it is down there.”
She turned to Mor, calm as a blade. “Don’t condescend to me, Mor. I grew up here too.”
Mor stiffened.
Cassian’s mouth opened, then closed.
Nesta, silent at the edge of the room, watched like she was cataloging each fracture line.
Azriel hadn’t spoken.
Not yet.
But his gaze was on her, steady and dark, like he was already seeing the argument before it happened.
Finally, Rhys exhaled through his nose, sharp.
“Fine,” Rhys said, the word scraped raw. “We go.”
Mor swore under her breath.
Cassian let out a long exhale like he’d been holding it since breakfast.
Amren smiled like she’d just been handed a knife.
Azriel’s shadows went still.
And Azriel—
Azriel’s gaze sharpened in a way she’d come to recognize as attention.
Not pity. Not caution.
Interest, edged with something else.
It made her skin prickle.
She ignored it.
⸻
Azriel had dressed without thinking about it.
Black. Always black. A blade of a jacket fitted close, weapons where they belonged, every buckle checked twice out of habit rather than anxiety. He told himself it was routine. Told himself the tightness under his ribs was just the looming performance of Hewn City—just strategy, just control.
His shadows didn’t buy it.
They had been restless since dawn, curling around his ankles like wary smoke, drifting toward hallways as if they could smell rot through stone. Hewn City called to them in a language they understood too well: old cruelty, old bargains, old hunger dressed as tradition. They pressed against the River House’s calm like it was a lie that could crack.
He waited in the hall with the others as the house gathered itself into quiet readiness.
Watched Rhys adjust his cuffs like a male putting on a mask.
Watched Feyre’s jaw set as she stepped into her role, bright and unflinching.
Watched Cassian pace—too loud, too ready to break something simply to prove he could.
And then she came out.
Azriel’s shadows went still.
Not frozen—attentive, the way predators go quiet when something worth tracking crosses their path.
They dressed like they were going to war.
Because they were.
But her—
She dressed as if she was returning to a place she had once survived.
No plunging neckline. No ornamental lace.
Something practical, severe: deep charcoal fabric that clung close enough not to catch on claws, high collar, long sleeves, subtle silver fastenings like tiny armor plates. A slit for movement, boots beneath.
Her hair was pinned back.
As if she didn’t want anyone down there to have the satisfaction of grabbing it.
Azriel didn’t stare.
He didn’t let his gaze linger in any way that could be mistaken for admiration—didn’t give himself that indulgence, didn’t give her the burden of it.
But something in him shifted anyway, minute and undeniable—like the sight of her dressed for Hewn City recalibrated his understanding of what she was capable of.
Not a girl returning home.
A woman walking back into a den with her throat bared on purpose, daring the teeth to try.
His shadows curled closer.
Hungry. Protective. Uncertain.
Rhys’s attention snapped to her.
“Stay close,” Rhys ordered.
She arched a brow. “Is that a command or a request.”
Rhys’s eyes flashed. “It’s me trying not to kill anyone.”
She smiled faintly. “Good luck.”
⸻
The doors opened.
Not swung—parted, slow and ceremonial, as if the mountain itself enjoyed the pause. As if Hewn City wanted them to feel the threshold like a line of teeth.
Cold rushed out first—damp stone, metal, the mineral bite of underground air—and then the rest of it hit her: perfume too sweet to hide sweat, laughter too low to be joy, magic threaded through the room like wire.
The throne room was exactly as she remembered.
That was the problem.
Glittering black stretched wide beneath a ceiling lost to shadow. Torches burned too steady. Music drifted—slow, decadent, wrong—its notes curling into the air like smoke meant to lull prey into forgetting it was prey.
And the people—
Courtiers lounged like predators at leisure, jewels flashing at throats like trophies, skin bared in the old Hewn City way. Not sensual. Not truly.
Strategic.
An offering and a warning in the same breath.
Servants pressed against the walls like part of the architecture—heads bowed, shoulders tight, eyes trained on the floor. Every so often, one would flinch at a passing glance, a stray hand, a laugh that sharpened into cruelty.
She heard it the way she used to hear it as a girl—without looking.
A whispered insult that wasn’t meant to be subtle. A faint gasp swallowed too quickly. The soft clink of a chain someone tried to hide beneath silk.
Her throat tightened.
Not with fear.
With that old, hot disappointment that came from returning to a place you’d prayed would change simply because time had passed.
Time had passed.
Hewn City had not.
She stepped forward anyway, boots silent on stone, each step measured.
Fear lived here like it paid rent.
It seeped from the walls.
It clung to the air.
It made even the laughter sound… careful.
Rhys paused on the threshold.
Not for show. Not fully.
His face smoothed into a cruel sort of elegance. His eyes went darker, brighter. His power settled behind his ribs like a sleeping beast that everyone in this city remembered waking before.
Beside him, Feyre’s expression cooled into something carved. Not unkind—controlled. Her shoulders squared. Her chin lifted. High Lady, yes, but here that meant she had to look like she could turn bone to dust with a thought and not lose her appetite.
Then Rhys stepped forward.
And the Court of Nightmares rose to meet him.
A hush rippled outward as Rhys entered.
Not reverence.
Instinct.
Like animals going still when the forest’s oldest predator walks through.
Rhys’s smile unfurled—slow, elegant, lethal.
“My delightful court,” he drawled, voice carrying without effort, silk over steel. “How charming of you to gather so quickly.”
A few courtiers laughed—bright, eager, false.
Rhys let it stretch, let it sour.
“Try to make it convincing next time,” he said mildly.
The laughter died mid-breath.
Feyre’s gaze swept the room—cool, assessing, merciless in its stillness. When she spoke, it was quieter than Rhys’s voice, and somehow that made it sharper.
“We’ve missed you,” she said, lips curving just enough to resemble kindness. “Or perhaps we’ve merely missed having an excuse to remind you what happens when you grow careless.”
Someone shifted. Someone swallowed.
Someone looked down at their hands like they feared what might be read there.
The two of them took their thrones with practiced ease, like they’d never been anything else.
Thrones carved from obsidian and bone rose on the dais—black glass and shadowed angles that made the seated look larger than life. Rhys settled into his like a lounging panther. Feyre sat beside him, chin lifted, gaze a blade.
And then Rhys lifted a hand, palm turned outward in a gesture that looked casual and felt like a command.
“And now,” he said, voice turning sweet with menace, “a novelty.”
His eyes slid—slow, deliberate—to her.
He didn’t soften the introduction. He wouldn’t. Not here.
“You remember my sister,” Rhys purred, as if the name was a rumor he enjoyed watching them choke on. “The one you’ve all whispered about for a century. The one you presumed you’d never have to look in the eye again.”
A ripple moved through the room—curiosity sharpening into hunger, fear tightening like a hand around a throat.
Rhys continued, lazy cruelty in every syllable. “She’s returned.”
A beat.
“And she wanted to see,” Rhys said, smile bright, “whether you’ve learned anything while she was gone.”
He gestured.
A simple motion.
And the court’s attention snapped onto her like a net.
She stepped forward.
Not to center stage. Not to Rhys’s side like an accessory. Not behind him like a secret.
A fraction above the Inner Circle’s line—placed deliberately. Close enough that the room understood she was theirs. Far enough that it understood she was not owned.
They studied her like a story they wanted to decide the ending of.
She gave them none.
Her clothing was not scandal. Not softness. Not a gown meant to distract from the fact she was standing in a pit of teeth.
It was severe in its simplicity—dark fabric, clean lines, nothing fluttering. Armor made of restraint and intention. Something that said I am not here to seduce your attention. I am here to survive it.
The air tasted of metal.
The music kept playing, slow and wrong.
She let her gaze drift—not searching for allies, not pleading with her eyes, not offering warmth like a hand outstretched.
She simply looked.
At a servant pressed against the wall, shoulders tight, knuckles raw as if scrubbed too hard.
At a noble’s hand gripping a wrist just a little too possessively, not hidden—displayed.
At a young female with painted lips and vacant eyes, laughing at something that didn’t reach her skin.
At the way fear moved through this room like it had a pulse.
At the way the rot was not accidental—it was curated, preserved, fed.
A heat coiled low in her ribs.
Not anger, not yet—something older, sharper: the visceral, bone-deep awareness of a place that taught itself to stay cruel because cruelty was the only currency that spent.
She heard murmurs slide through the crowd.
She breathed in once.
Grounded herself in the weight of her own body, the steadiness of her heartbeat, the familiar discipline of not letting a room decide what she felt.
Then she spoke.
Her voice carried without force. Not sweet. Not loud. Not theatrical.
Just clear enough that no one could pretend they hadn’t heard.
“I’m not here to entertain you,” she said, gaze sweeping the court like a slow blade. “And I’m not here to make you comfortable.”
A hush tightened.
Even the music seemed to falter—like the musicians had noticed the room grow teeth.
She continued, calm as winter water.
“I’ve been gone long enough for some of you to turn me into a rumor you could shape to your liking.” Her eyes flicked—just once—to the darker corners, to the faces that watched without daring to step forward. “A warning. A lesson. A convenient absence.”
She paused, let the silence stretch thin.
“Here is the inconvenient truth,” she said softly. “I exist. I returned.”
The court shifted.
She let her gaze linger on the servants against the walls. Not with pity—Rhys’s old warning still sat at the back of her throat, sour and familiar. Not with rescue in her eyes.
With recognition.
With the kind of seeing that didn’t ask for thanks.
Her voice didn’t soften.
But something in it turned colder, more precise.
“If any of you have mistaken time for permission,” she said, “correct yourselves.”
A pulse of silence.
Then Rhys’s laughter slid through it—pleasant, amused, cruel in the way Hewn City understood.
“Very good,” Rhys drawled, as if she were a weapon he’d sharpened and decided to display. “She hasn’t lost her edge.”
Feyre’s gaze stayed on the court, expression unreadable. A queen playing monster because the room demanded it.
And she watched them—Rhys and Feyre—wearing their personas so seamlessly it made something in her chest tighten in a way that was not fear and not sorrow, but something jagged and strange. Like watching someone set a fire in their own house and call it strategy.
A bitterness rose, quiet but insistent.
A memory of clean air.
Of Velaris sunlight.
Of people laughing without flinching.
And then this—this underground theater where cruelty passed for tradition and fear passed for order.
She kept her face calm.
Keir approached.
Of course he did.
He moved like he owned the room, velvet and rings and a smile that had never learned humility. His eyes skimmed Rhys, lingered on Feyre with contempt, then slid to her like he was weighing a rumor in his hand.
“Well,” Keir purred, voice like oil, “look what the mountain coughed back up.”
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
She only regarded him like he was something unpleasant someone had tracked in on their boot.
Rhys’s smile sharpened. “Keir.”
Keir’s gaze stayed on her. “I heard you returned.”
Her mouth curved—barely. Not a smile. A warning that didn’t bother to dress itself as one.
“You hear many things,” she said, voice mild. “Most of them rot before they become truth.”
A few quiet laughs—nervous, eager—died when no one else joined them.
“Ah,” Keir said, “so you’ve learned to speak like Rhysand.”
She tilted her head. “Perhaps.”
Keir’s smile thinned, irritation flashing.
She didn’t press. Didn’t escalate. Didn’t perform cruelty for his audience.
Instead, she let her gaze drift past him—to the room he fed, the fear he maintained, the way servants held their bodies like they were braced for impact.
And that heat in her ribs tightened.
Keir opened his mouth again, eager to pull a spectacle out of her—
Rhys cut across him, voice smooth as a blade. “You will show respect.”
Keir’s gaze flicked to Rhys, recalculating, then back to her.
She held his stare for a beat.
Then turned away from him entirely.
Not because she feared him.
Because she refused to let him decide where her attention went.
She stepped back into stillness, letting Rhys and Feyre resume the theater the court craved—the cruel greetings, the sharpened pleasantries, the reminders that the High Lord’s favor was not mercy but leash.
And as she stood there, a fraction above the Inner Circle’s line, she kept noticing everything.
The way a servant flinched when a goblet shattered.
The way laughter always came a half-breath too late, as if everyone was waiting to see what expression would keep them safe.
Her fingers flexed once at her side.
In the shadows near the dais, Azriel’s gaze tracked her with that same quiet intent.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Just… alert.
As if he, too, could feel the pressure building inside her.
As if he understood, in the way only someone fluent in restraint ever could, that the most dangerous moment wasn’t when a person screamed—
It was when they stayed quiet long enough for the truth to sharpen itself into something clean.
⸻
They moved with purpose—out of the throne room’s roar, out of Keir’s lingering gaze, out of the press of courtiers who could taste tension like blood in the air.
A narrow passage opened behind a carved archway. It led to a waiting chamber: a bare table, high-backed chairs.
The door shut behind them with a heavy, final sound.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Rhys stood near the threshold, jaw tight, breathing measured. Feyre hovered close.
Mor paced once, like a caged blade.
Cassian exhaled, rough. “Well,” he muttered, trying for light and landing somewhere near grim, “if nothing else, it’s nice to know this place is as charming as ever.”
His attempt at humor died on the torches’ flicker.
On the damp cold seeping from the walls.
On the way the stone seemed to remember every scream it had swallowed.
“We’re waiting,” she murmured, gaze sliding to the stone wall like it might answer her, “in a place that hasn’t changed in a century.”
Rhys’s head snapped toward her. “What is that supposed to mean.”
She huffed a laugh—more breath than sound. “It means some things don’t change,” she said, and the words came out sharper, hotter, like they’d been grinding in her teeth for hours, “no matter how many thrones you polish upstairs.”
Rhys’s mouth tightened. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” she echoed, incredulous, and the fury in her finally bared its teeth.
Mor’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t change overnight.”
“It doesn’t change at all,” she snapped, and the heat in her voice startled even her, because it wasn’t rage, not really.
Rhys’s voice dropped into that controlled, lethal tone that had ended wars. “Watch your tone.”
She stepped closer, sudden as a strike. “No.”
The single syllable cracked like bone.
Feyre’s breath hitched.
Cassian’s hands lifted higher, helpless. “Hey—”
“Not now,” she snapped without looking at him, and Cassian actually shut his mouth.
Rhys’s eyes flashed. “You think you can walk into Hewn and fix it with righteous anger?”
“I think,” she said, voice rising, “that you’ve had five hundred years to do anything other than point at this place and say, ‘See? This is why you obey me.’”
Mor’s expression tightened. “That’s not what he’s doing.”
“Isn’t it?” she shot back, turning on Mor with a brightness that was almost feral. “Isn’t it exactly what it is? A threat preserved like a trophy. Rot curated like a weapon.”
Rhys’s expression hardened. “You’re being naive.”
The word hit like a slap.
Naive.
Like she hadn’t survived a hundred years of careful cruelty. Like she hadn’t learned politics in rooms where a wrong word meant someone died.
Her laugh was sharp and ugly. “Naive,” she repeated, and her eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “That’s your favorite shield, isn’t it? If you call me naive, you don’t have to answer me.”
Rhys’s nostrils flared. “I don’t have to justify every decision to you.”
“You do,” she said, voice shaking now—not with fear, with rage. “You do when you keep a city of people in chains and call it strategy.”
Rhys’s jaw flexed. “You have no idea what it takes to hold a court together.”
“I know what it takes,” she cut in, voice like a blade. “I did it with my hands tied behind my back and a knife at my throat.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched.
And in the tightness of his expression—his refusal to look at the walls, at the rot, at the people he kept caged here to keep the rest of Prythian in line—something in her chest twisted.
Because she did love him.
She loved him like you loved the river that raised you—beautiful, powerful, capable of drowning you without meaning to.
And that love was exactly why it infuriated her.
Because she knew—knew—what he was capable of.
She’d watched him build Velaris from ash and stubborn hope. She’d watched him choose tenderness when cruelty would have been easier. She’d watched him become a better male in the way only a truly terrifying male could: by deciding to be.
So seeing Hewn City still bleeding felt like a betrayal of his own potential.
Rhys’s gaze burned. “This isn’t a storybook. You can’t rip out a rotten foundation without the entire structure collapsing.”
“And have you actually tried?” she demanded, and the words broke out of her like she’d been holding them behind her teeth for years. “Have you taken a single action to help or change this place, Rhys?”
The room went tight, breath held.
Even Cassian stopped moving.
Mor’s eyes widened—warning.
Rhys’s power simmered, heavy in the stone.
Rhys didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
And in that half-second of silence, it was there—clear as a wound.
No.
Not really.
Not in any way that cost him something.
Her chest tightened so hard it ached.
“You haven’t,” she said, voice low, vibrating with fury. “You haven’t done anything that matters. Not one thing that risks your precious balance.”
Rhys’s eyes flashed. “Balance keeps Velaris safe.”
“And Hewn City?” she snapped. “Illyria? The children down here who are still being taught that pain is love and obedience is survival?”
Mor’s voice went sharp. “Stop.”
She whirled on Mor again, incandescent. “What, Mor?” she demanded. “Defend him harder. Maybe the stone will start shining.”
Mor’s face tightened, fury and grief braided together. “You don’t get to—”
“You were a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares,” she interrupted, voice rising. “That’s what you like to say. That’s the story you tell when people pity you.”
Mor’s eyes flashed. “Because it’s true.”
“And you think you were the only one Morrigan?” she flung back, bitter. “The only dreamer? You think you were the only girl down here who deserved to be rescued?”
Mor went pale, breath catching.
Cassian surged forward again—voice pleading, panicked. “Okay—okay, that’s enough, that’s—”
Rhys’s voice hit the chamber like a hammer.
“Enough.”
The High Lord voice.
Commanding. Absolute. A force that would have dropped courtiers to their knees.
It should have made her recoil.
It didn’t.
She didn’t move. Didn’t bow. Didn’t flinch.
She smiled, small, sharp, all teeth.
“You don’t get to use that on me,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”
Rhys’s power flared, dark, furious, making the torches sputter. The stone seemed to vibrate under it.
Feyre’s hand tightened on Rhys’s arm, her voice quiet with warning. “Rhys.”
Cassian swore under his breath.
Mor’s hands trembled.
Nesta, leaning against the wall like she’d been carved there, watched with an expression so still it was almost merciless.
Azriel’s shadows pressed closer to his boots.
Tense.
Listening.
Rhys stepped closer, eyes blazing. “You think I enjoy this? You think I keep Hewn City like this because I want to?”
She laughed, low and bitter. “No,” she said. “I think you keep it because it’s useful.”
Rhys’s nostrils flared. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to stop hiding behind that,” she snarled, and it was the first time her restraint slipped hard enough to show teeth. “I’m asking you to stop calling it impossible when you haven’t even bled for the attempt.”
She pointed—not at the corridor, but at the weight behind it.
“You have the power to change Illyria and Hewn City,” she said, voice shaking now—not with fear, with fury held too long. “But you let them linger as proof of what you could do, instead of what you will do.”
Rhys’s expression turned razor-sharp. “You want me to start a civil war.”
“I want you to stop pretending cruelty is necessary,” she shot back. “I want you to stop calling rot balance.”
Mor’s voice cracked, sharp with pain. “You don’t understand what it costs!”
Her eyes snapped to Mor—raw, furious, unyielding. “Then tell me,” she demanded. “Because all I see is cages. Different shapes. Same purpose.”
Rhys’s eyes flashed. “This is not the same as what happened to you.”
Her laugh turned ugly. “Isn’t it?”
Rhys went very still.
Feyre’s hand flew to her mouth like she could catch the words before they fell and broke something permanent.
Cassian’s expression tightened, helpless—caught between loyalty and empathy and a desperate need to keep the floorboards from splintering under all of them.
Nesta’s gaze didn’t waver.
Azriel’s shadows went utterly still, like even they were holding their breath.
She stepped closer to Rhys until there was only a breath between them.
Her voice dropped—dangerous because it wasn’t loud.
“Under the Mountain,” she said softly, and watched Rhys’s face tighten like she’d struck him. “You played monster to keep people alive.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched hard enough it looked like it hurt.
“You tell yourself it was necessary,” she continued, voice trembling with old rage, “that you had no choice.”
Rhys’s eyes burned. “Don’t go there.”
She smiled, sharp as glass. “And you think that makes you different from the court that kept me?”
Rhys’s power surged.
The chamber shook.
Dust drifted from the ceiling like pale snow.
Cassian lunged forward instinctively, reaching for the moment the way he reached for every fight—trying to get between them, trying to break the collision—
Azriel moved like shadow snapping into shape.
He didn’t grab Cassian. Didn’t restrain him with force.
He simply stepped into his path and lifted a hand—small, controlled. A quiet stop.
Cassian froze, jaw working, eyes flicking to Azriel like really?
Azriel didn’t look away.
His gaze said everything Cassian didn’t want to hear:
Let it happen. She has a point. And Rhys needs to hear it.
Rhys’s voice came out like a growl. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking you to try,” she said, and for the first time the steel cracked enough to show the raw beneath. “Because I look at this place and I see the same logic that sent me away.”
Rhys flinched.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Because it was.
Feyre whispered, “Rhys…”
Rhys’s gaze flicked to Feyre—pain, love, warning—then back to her.
His voice went quiet. Dangerous. “You think it’s easy,” he said. “You think you can walk into a place like this and fix it with righteousness.”
“I think you haven’t even attempted to,” she shot back, and the words came out almost shaking. “I think you’ve convinced yourself doing nothing is mercy.”
Mor’s voice went brittle. “That’s not fair.”
She turned to Mor again—eyes bright, jaw tight—and her voice softened just a fraction. Not because she was backing down. Because she was telling the truth.
“I don’t care if it’s fair,” she said. “I care if it’s right.”
Nesta’s voice cut through the tension, flat as a blade laid on stone.
“She’s right,” Nesta said.
All eyes flicked to her.
Nesta didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. She just looked at Rhys with the same cool, brutal honesty she always maintained.
“You keep a place like this,” Nesta said, “because fear is easier than trust.”
Mor’s gaze snapped to her, furious. “Nesta—”
Nesta didn’t look at Mor. “And you,” she added, gaze sliding to Mor without warmth, “defend it because it’s less painful than admitting you deserved better and were lucky enough to get it.”
Mor’s breath caught like she’d been punched.
Cassian’s face did something helpless and pained, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a lie strong enough.
Rhys’s eyes flashed with something like rage—at her, at himself, at the world that demanded sacrifice from children and called it necessity.
He took a step closer.
She didn’t move. Didn’t yield.
Their power—his darkness, her whatever-it-was she kept leashed—pressed together like two storms meeting.
For a heartbeat she didn’t know which of them would break first.
Then—
Footsteps.
Fast. Controlled.
A servant appeared at the end of the corridor, face pale, eyes wide.
“My High Lord,” the servant stammered, bowing low, “the delegation has arrived.”
Silence snapped into place like a blade sheathed.
Rhys’s power clamped down so hard the torches steadied, flames suddenly obedient.
Mor wiped at her cheek like she hadn’t noticed tears there.
Cassian exhaled like he’d been drowning.
Nesta’s gaze flicked to her—quiet, sharp, understanding.
Azriel’s eyes stayed on her.
Not soft.
But intense in that way that made her skin prickle—like he’d just watched her do something dangerous and couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.
Rhys turned slowly toward the servant, face carved into High Lord cold.
“Bring them,” Rhys said.
Then he looked back at her—one beat, long enough to carry a thousand unspoken things.
She only lifted her chin and turned toward the corridor’s mouth—toward the sound of approaching footsteps, polished and foreign.
Montesere had come.
A/N: ngl having her blow up at rhys was INCREDIBLY satisyfing for me to write, who's excited to meet the crown prince next ch (and some more az pov heh) 👀👀 as always thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed this one, please let me know your thoughts!! ❤️❤️ love y'all
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@xadenswhore @jasmineee05 @griffincorn @immortaliaslane @alelapulema @breemitch15 @plants-w0rld @supernatural-love14 @appalost @do-nut25 @lizbiz011 @haneybby @sjejejjej @mossy-fool @sleepybesson @bellatrix-lestrange5 @the-silent-thunder @giovax @winchesterslullaby @alienmotel
Illyrian Mating Season
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Azriel x f!reader
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.3k
𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲: smut
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬:
mutual pining, friends to lovers, az is in heat, tiniest bitta gore, mating bond, heavy on the creampie, FITA, breeding kink, & cum play
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:
Trouble finds you when your Illyrian friends are away, and just as you’re about to meet your fate, the shadowsinger comes to save you. But now you have an entirely new issue at hand— he’s near-feral and in the peak of his heat, and you’ve both reached your breaking point.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞:
I don’t… have any words to explain myself. Do Illyrians have a mating season? Not that we know of. Does Az have a breeding kink? SJM hasn’t explicitly said anything, but… I’d like to imagine so, yes. At least, in this fic, I sure know he does ;)
･ ゜゜・．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･
ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ: ʙʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ ꜱɪᴘʜᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴇʀᴛɪꜰʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ 18 ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴏʀ. ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ.
･ ゜゜・．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡ ･ ゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･
‘...Warm liquid splattered across the side of your face.
A sickening thud sounded before you and a gust of air and dirt washed over your trembling form. You held your breath, your arms still up in defense.
Another second passed before you slowly chanced a look… only to find a tall, winged figure looming over you, deathly silent. You could see the violent glint in his eyes even from your position on the ground, the sapphire of his siphons shimmering in the moonlight. They only reflected the light from the sky, not from the use of his power— no, he hadn’t needed to tap into that imposing, law-defying reserve— not in order to rip the ulf’s head clean off its shoulders; his brute strength had been enough for that…’
– - – - – - – - –
Four long days had passed since the Illyrians had left for the harsh mountains of their native lands, and in their absence, a quiet unease had settled into the House of Wind.
Family dinners had initially been amusing— with Nyx thoroughly enjoying the undivided attention of all who stayed behind. But the house still felt too empty without the three males’ presence— perhaps one in particular, for you. Ultimately, you’d dismissed yourself to the quaint little cottage you kept at the edge of Velaris in attempt to escape the longing that lurked in your heart, and the void left by the absence of a certain hazel-eyed male.
The place was stationed on a hill atop a sleepy meadow, a stone wall curbing the property and the twinkling lights of the city on the horizon on one side, the other a breathtaking view of the sea. You liked to come here for reprieve every now and then— a haven from the bustling city and the busybodies that were your friends. It had been quite some time since you last visited; your friendship with the Night Court’s “Inner Circle” had grown stronger than ever lately, and as the newest addition to their little group as in-house healer, you found yourself rarely leaving the residences they often frequented.
The cottage was just as you’d left it, if not a bit overgrown; the grasses and various plants from your garden climbing over the trellises and fences, leaves spread wide and stems heavy with luscious crops. A little slice of peace; the perfect place for your solitude.
The only person you had ever brought here was Azriel.
You had been in the heart of the city with him, in search of presents for Starfall many months in advance. You’d told the Spymaster that you had to stop somewhere else before returning to the House of Wind. You insisted that you’d manage yourself, that he didn’t need to accompany you. But he was equally as firm in joining you on the errand– finally resorting to mention the thousands of stairs that you’d have to face if you split ways.
So, he came along with you to your humble home, quiet and observant as you guided him down the winding cobble path, through the garden, and inside the quaint walls. He had given few words of acknowledgement, but he did seem satisfied to gather another scrap of information about you, for you’d caught him examining the framed art and dried flowers that adorned the walls, even going so far as to peek into your ceramic cookie jar when he thought you were busy in the other room. That night you’d hidden your small smile as he tucked you into his chest and shot into the sky, content that he found your residence intriguing.
Azriel– the male that plagued your thoughts, the elusive shadowsinger. He who was content to observe instead of join the conversation, the one who was absent half of the time as his spymaster duties so often kept him busy. Always you noticed his presence when he had the time to entertain a social gathering, always you would meander over to his side to greet him. And always would he return the gesture, saying hello with a soft smile and kindness in his warm, hazel eyes. It was a look you cherished; one that sent butterflies fumbling in your stomach and warmth trickling into your cheeks. A look that you hoped was reserved just for you.
It was only natural you had grown feelings for him. How could you not? He was the kindest, most intelligent, and by far downright sexiest male you’d ever grown close to. Even his scent of cool cedar, of a needled forest just revitalized by heavy rain drove you wild, your crush in the male was irrefutable. And by Gods, when he stood next to you. He completely towered over you, those massive wings high and proud behind his strong back. Any interaction with him always reminded you that he was in exquisite shape, too… and that he would be perfectly capable of both protecting you and having his absolute way with you at any moment he so wished.
Unfortunately, such enamor for the male only made his current absence harder to withstand. Especially under such circumstances.
Your thoughts constantly wandered to him, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was with someone right now— how many he had already taken in just the short time he and his brothers had been away. All because it was Illyrian mating season; a rare event that occurred only once every three hundred years or so, when for one week, hormones would rage in all sexes of the warrior race and the camps would inevitably become— as Mor had so eloquently put it— an all-out fuckfest.
The very camps the trio had flown off to just days ago.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and pointed your attention back to the meager meal you were making. Your stomach was painfully empty, but the idea of eating was completely lackluster, even as you sliced the plump tomatoes you had gathered on your way in with careful precision. Hunger had evaded you recently, with the queasiness that took hold of you at the notion of your beloved’s cock balls-deep inside of another.
You knew you didn’t really have the right to feel such things… Azriel had never explicitly said or done anything to suggest he desired you, and you liked to think you kept your crush a secret which only you were privy to. But he was, after all, the spymaster of the court; a centuries-old being— it was certainly possible that he was indeed aware of your feelings and simply did not return them.
Nonetheless, you hoped that he felt some similar sentiment for you– there were times when it would be just the two of you that stayed up after everyone else retired for the night, full of smirks and jokes and undivided attention. Times when you would wear something tight and sleek, and you swore you could feel his eyes burning into your curves… only to find them elsewhere when you turned to face him. And all the times he would take you as his sparring partner during the training that he insisted you take under his instruction, when he would best you and hold you there for a moment, the tip of his blade or his fist just brushing you, hazel hues locked to your gaze.
But that was all conjecture. He hadn’t once done anything beyond that for you to think his rare lingering touches and stares truly meant anything. And then, there were always rumors that he had his fair share of lovers. But that wasn’t surprising— he was one of the most handsome males in Prythian, and a powerful, mysterious one at that. It was to be expected that various fae threw themselves at his feet, legs spread and ready for the taking.
Frustration hit the bottom of your barren stomach, and you sighed as you grabbed a knife from the wooden block on the counter. You made your way to the garden at the back of the cottage to collect some extra herbs. Surely some food could help your spirits lift from the gloom they’d settled into, so long as you were able to force yourself to chew and swallow. You tried your best to rid your thoughts of the shadowsinger as you pushed the door open and wandered into the yard.
A few sconces were lit around the perimeter of the home, a lonely lamp post flickering at the end of the stone path that wound through the garden. A cluster of spindly trees loomed further on in the distance, their murky shadows nearly blending with the otherwise dark night sky. You hadn’t realized it had gotten so late; stars shone through the clouds above, their light barely reaching the moist blades of grass that tickled your bare feet. You took a second to admire their blazing brilliance; even just a short distance from the city, their dazzling glow seemed brighter.
Finally finding the plant you had been searching for, you crouched down and rubbed your fingers on the leaves, its earthy scent releasing into the air. You took a deep breath of it, savoring the pleasant, spicy aroma… until your eyes opened wide and you froze, limbs going stiff.
That smell… it was of rotten flesh and matted fur. It was…
A twig snapped behind you, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up straight. Fear shot down your throat to form a tight ball in your gut, your fingers tightly gripping the puny paring knife that would be your only weapon to defend yourself.
The ulf lunged forward at the same moment you whirled around, the tip of your knife now raised as you struck across where you hoped its throat would be.
But an emaciated, leathery arm was outstretched there, and it let out a terrible cry as you plunged the blade into the limb. Almost instantly it had struck you with its other hand, sending you flying into the cottage wall.
Your breath whooshed out of you as you collided with the rough stone bricks, your ears ringing as your skull smacked into the arm you threw up to take the brunt of the blow. Your vision shook as you sat there stunned, the doubled image of the furry beast before you merging into one just as it lept toward you.
You rolled forward, tucking out of range from the assault, narrowly missing its gnarled teeth, canines glinting in the starlight.
Just as you got your feet under you and you braced your legs to shoot up into a run, its wretched claws sank into your exposed ankle.
Your scream pierced the silence of the empty meadow, pain racing up your leg as the terrifying creature dragged you toward it, digging deep enough to scrape bone.
Tears flooded your vision but you forced them away, focusing all your strength into a kick across the creature's muzzle, and a second one straight to the neck. The impact summoned a garbled wheeze from the ulf, and it released you as it stumbled back in recoil.
You scooted back on the grass, shaking and one hand covering your fresh wound, the other reaching out blindly behind you in search of whatever you could use— something you could throw at it, stab it— anything. Your blood began to spill onto the dirt beneath you, a dark trail smearing the grass as you kept moving backward. With it was the fragile hope of defeating the beast, as though all the grueling hours of training were leaking out of you along with the scarlet.
Your wide, fear-filled eyes would not leave the terrifying beast, tracking its every movement. You took in its horrifying face, its filthy lip that curled back at you and those wicked eyes that locked onto you as it regained its bearings.
Your brain screamed into your subconscious, a desperate plea that would reach no one. Help! Please, oh Gods, help me!
There was nothing you could use to defend yourself— your tiny knife was still lodged in its flesh, and the only thing you’d managed to grab from behind you was an unripe carrot from the soil. The ulf seemed to realize it had you, for it sat back on its gnarled haunches and pounced for you.
This was it.
You closed your eyes, a whimper leaving you as you braced for impact, wishing for a quick and painless death.
A high-pitched whine. And a horrible ripping sound.
Warm liquid splattered across the side of your face.
A sickening thud sounded before you and a gust of air and dirt washed over your trembling form. You held your breath, your arms still up in defense.
Another second passed before you slowly chanced a look… only to find a tall, winged figure looming over you, deathly silent. You could see the violent glint in his eyes even from your position on the ground, the sapphire glow of his siphons shimmering in the moonlight. They only reflected the light from the sky, not from the use of his power— no, he hadn’t needed to tap into that imposing, law-defying reserve— not in order to rip the ulf’s head clean off its shoulders; his brute strength had been enough for that. The rest of the beast’s decapitated body was slumped on the soil just a foot away from you, black blood oozing into a pool that slowly crept outward.
You still hadn’t taken a breath as your gaze flicked back up the male before you— only to then realize he was shirtless. The ridges of his muscles stood out in contrast between shadows and starlight and he stared down at you, practically fuming where he stood, icy rage billowing down broad shoulders. His toned torso glittered with sweat, dark whorls of ink dancing across tan, firm skin. You wondered what he had been doing in order to glisten with exertion like so; he had killed the ulf with such ease that certainly the perspiration couldn’t have been from that.
The cool caress of shadows at your ankle managed to pull your attention, sparing a glance at the tendrils that fussed over the scarlet trickling through your digits. They wiggled beneath your fingers and you gasped as they turned colder, binding around your skin. A soothing calm seeped through the limb, and you finally dared to breathe again.
Azriel still had yet to say a word, observing as you slowly shifted to sit on your knees, unsheathing the kitchen knife from the ulf’s corpse. He seemed fine, almost– perhaps if you didn’t know him so well, he could’ve gotten away with such a judgment. But you could see how his hands were clenched into pale-knuckled fists, see that his breath was forced, coming out in clipped, ragged pants. The male was as stiff as a board, braced as though he was ready for flight or fight.
You’d never witnessed an Illyrian during their mating season– not many had. It was a sacred event that the race liked to keep to themselves, cooped up in their camps and locked away, not to be disturbed. Amren had told you of an elders’ tale that claimed that once, an army had tried to attack an Illyrian settlement during the season, thinking the warriors would be vulnerable… only to find that the winged race was tenfold more vicious and bloodthirsty, and had decimated the offenders with abhorrent devastation, leaving no survivors before returning to their ritual. It was said the race was only capable of two things during the season: fighting and fucking.
Now as you examined the male, you could imagine the fable holding some truth.
The shadowsinger was visibly pumped– even in the dark, you could tell that his muscles were bigger, making his already-impressive frame even more intimidating. Pure power and testosterone pulsed off of him, weighing down the air with cedar musk. The silhouette of his massive wings loomed behind his shoulders, making him appear even larger as you studied him from below. To any other, it would be a terrifying view to behold. But all you felt was security; absolute safety in his presence.
“Are you alright?” Azriel finally rumbled. His voice was deep, gravely as if he’d just woken up. Maybe it was another physical side effect of his current predicament.
You pushed yourself up from the ground and stood on fawn legs. “I think so..,” you said, taking a tentative step.
It took that full step for you to realize that the shadow tourniquet only numbed your pain— it did nothing to heal your wound. You whimpered and tumbled forward, mortification flooding your cheeks as soon as you began your descent.
But you never touched the grass.
In an instant, Azriel’s corded arms were wrapped around you, and you were pulled snug into his chest. You gasped at the same time he groaned, his skin a thousand degrees where it touched yours. Heat burst in your cheeks at the sound, your eyes going wide.
Not a second passed before you were off of him, his hands planted firmly at your arms’ side, thrusting you as far away from himself as possible. His head hung down toward the ground, silky locks falling into soft waves that shielded his face from you. You noted the way he panted, fingers like steel digging into your skin.
“Um… are you alright, Az?” you asked, observing the tremble that reverberated throughout his tense body.
Something akin to a growl tumbled out of him.
“I’m fine,” he replied, voice clipped and his eyes still fixed on the grass at his feet.
Maybe it was stupid to be toeing the line with him when he was in such a state… but you couldn’t help it. He had saved you from a nasty fate, he had come for you even when he was under such stress, when he was so far away. You weren’t quite sure how he knew you were in danger when he was so very far away in the Illyrian mountains— though you had an inkling. If maybe somehow… perhaps the two of you were…
You swallowed.
Reaching for him, your fingers stretched out before they met his stubbled jaw. The male stilled, unable to fight himself and pull away. His shaky exhale washed over your exposed collar, something stirring low in your stomach.
“I can’t be here,” Azriel said, his voice hard yet soft somehow. His eyes flickered toward your lips before he scrunched them closed, his form taut and coiled, like a snake ready to strike.
His statement made your heart deflate, your hand falling to your side. You crossed your arm over your middle, rubbing your forearm awkwardly. “Right, I… I’m sorry for interrupting you, you must’ve been…” you gulped, “… busy.”
Hazel flew up to meet your gaze but you wouldn’t look at him. Instead he took in the way your brow was slightly furrowed, a ghost of a pout on your pretty, pink lips.
“I wasn’t …” he paused, tongue parting his mouth. “Don’t apologize. I’ll always come for you,” the male vowed, fixing you with his intense stare.
Butterflies swarmed your stomach at his promise, your cheeks fuzzy with sudden emotion. Wordlessly Azriel closed the distance between you and you froze, wide eyes locked on his close face. And then your feet were swept out from under you and your body was secure in Azriel’s embrace, your head snug against his naked chest.
You didn’t miss the low inhale from the male, your heart racing at his attempt to subtly take in your scent. Your core throbbed and you blushed at the intensity of your body’s response to his. Never had you been up against his bare chest like this… the proximity made you dizzy, your fingers tingling with the urge to explore every inch of him. His skin was so warm– or maybe that was yours, feeling hot wherever you directly touched him. And whose heartbeat was thumping like crazy up against your chest?
Azriel stalked his way inside your home, feet heavy and strides rushed, but careful not to hit you on the doorway. His wings tucked in as he entered the kitchen, and you swallowed at his large silhouette. His head was only a short distance from the ceiling, the apex of his wings nearly dragging against the plaster.
“Did you get… taller?” you peeped up as he gently deposited you on the edge of the sturdy wooden table in the middle of your kitchen, large, scarred hands making sure you were balanced before they drew back.
Shadows slithered off into all directions, melting into the darkness of your dimly lit home. You watched them disappear before you looked at the male once again, only to find his gaze already trained on you.
“Yes,” was his curt reply, hazel tearing off of you as shadows supplied the first aid kit from beneath your bathroom sink cabinet into his waiting hands.
“Oh,” was all you could muster, not quite sure what to make of that.
Your eyes followed long, agile fingers as he opened the kit, rifling through the gauze and bandages. He wordlessly handed you one of the little vials of tonic that would help with the pain and speed up the healing process. Popping the little cork off the bottle, you tipped your head back and gulped down its bitter contents without protest.
Azriel was silent save for his burning gaze and heavy breathing. Even if you couldn’t hear his labored breaths, you could see he was somewhat off by the way his firm chest muscles heaved.
“It’s because of the season,” he explained, voice rough. His wings shuddered and then let loose a brief shake— the claws that lined each joint flexing inward. You shivered as you studied them, imagining the talons would slice through flesh like water, the hooked tips glinting with the promise of pain.
You had to admit, there was something remarkable about just how deadly the male before you truly was… and even more so in his current state. Your eyes wandered to his lean forearms when he uncapped a metal tin of salve, mesmerized by the way his veins bulged with the smallest exertion.
What else could those fingers do?
Your tongue poked out to wet the seam of your lips, just at the same time you turned to look at him. Hazel was ablaze and focused entirely on you, the corner of his eye twitching as his hands turned to fists.
“Don’t,” he warned, tone hard and unwavering.
You swallowed, wincing as he smeared the paste onto your oozing gash. A rough thumb smoothed over the adjacent skin as if to apologize for the fleeting pain, skilled hands wrapping your ankle in bandages with practiced precision.
“Don’t what?” you asked, your voice not sounding your own. The overwhelming terror that had filled you just minutes ago was completely dissipated now; washed away and drowned under fresh waves of desire.
Azriel ripped the gauze from the roll with ease, taking care not to pull too tight as he finished the job with a little bow. The male shook his head, trying to clear the lustful fog that permeated the usual disciplined walls he threw up whenever he was around you.
“If you’re okay now, I have to leave,” he said through clenched teeth, each second spent in your presence making his fight all the harder. There was no venom in his voice— but it was hard, and heavy. His words seemed empty– his body remaining still before you, a scarred hand lingering on your leg.
“Can you stay? Please?” you said, tilting your chin up so you could look him in the eye, giving him your best attempt at demurity. Normally you would never be so bold, but this was far from usual circumstances.
Azriel flashed his teeth at you in what could’ve intended to be a grin, but it came off as more of a grimace, shaking his head. He removed his hand from you, retreating a step. Shadows slowly gathered toward him, and panic flashed in your chest.
“I can’t,” is all he replied with, darkness melting into the edge of his silhouette.
“Why?” Your spine went straight, pushing yourself up to sit upright and face him fully. “Is there… someone waiting for you?” You wanted so badly to sound strong, accusatory… but it only came out as hurt, your words soft.
“No,” he denied instantly, some unknown emotion making his wings flap with indignation behind him, making scrolls scatter around the room, tiny herb jars rattling at the force. Neither of you paid them any mind. “There’s no one. I can’t—” he huffed, turning his face to the side, eyes falling to the floor. He continued, his voice low, “I’ve been alone this season.”
Relief exploded through your body, warmth blooming at his admission. He hadn’t been with anyone else? Worry quickly weaved its way into your heart— why hadn’t he been acting on his instincts? He’d been fighting his desires for the last four days? Wouldn't refraining from… fulfilling his urges have repercussions?
You frowned, taking in the sight of the male before you. He was clearly a divine specimen– there was no way that the other Illyrians simply didn’t want him. And wasn’t he supposed to be filled with an insatiable lust right now; a hunger, a need to fuck anyone who so much as looked at him? You thought harder about what you knew of the season, about the little scraps of knowledge you had discovered deep in the library catalogs.
During mating season, Illyrians are filled with an immutable need to procreate, to extend a lineage with as many partners as possible. Hormones skyrocket within the race and their thirst can only be calmed through physical exertion. Some activities may provide relief, such as violence or self-stimulation, but ultimately, the urge may only be temporarily quelled by sexual intercourse. The only circumstance an Illyrian may abstain from such primal needs is through the recognition of the mating bond. Only through such unparalleled devotion may an Illyrian remain loyal during the mating season, either choosing to spend their rut in solely their mating bed, or in extremely rare cases, solitude.
Your heart felt funny, your stomach flying up into your throat. Wasn’t it possible that Azriel was… your mate? No– because he wouldn’t keep such knowledge from you… not if he knew. But then, if he was truly alone, then it was clear that he knew he had a mate. He had come running to your call when you mentally cried out into the abyss, when you hadn’t even known who you were calling to, if anyone could hear you.
But Azriel heard you. And he had rushed here to save you, even in such a state.
“Then stay,” you said simply, hands coming to lay behind either of your hips on the table.
The shadowsinger bared his teeth, a growl ripping through him that shuddered your core. Your invitation was testing him– you were pushing him too far, and you had the audacity to bat your eyelashes at him while doing so. He was just barely shaking, muscles so tight with restraint that he looked to be in physical pain. “Can’t you see that I’m losing my fucking mind at the sight of you? I can’t control myself right now,” he groaned hoarsely, sweat lining his temple.
You leaned forward, excitement sparking as his eyes immediately flew to the bit of cleavage that was revealed with the motion. Slowly, you spread your legs, your fingers trailing your inner thigh. Your face felt on fire— every part of you did. This was so uncharacteristically bold of you; the two of you had been walking on the eggshells of your attraction for so long now.
But you couldn’t look away from him, couldn't stop yourself from tempting him. You were tired of the games, tired of the questions, of the chase. You wanted him.
You wanted him now.
Your heart felt like it was beating a thousand times a minute as his gaze fixed on the apex of your legs, and you whispered, “So lose control.”
Azriel’s eyes widened, jumping to your face as shock flooded them. His shadows didn’t need to be told twice, immediately twirling around your feet and crawling up your parted legs. He stepped back after a moment of buffering, his shadows seeming to shriek with protest as he yanked them back, withdrawing further away from you.
“No— I could hurt you. This is not how this is supposed to go, we—“ he huffed, fists curled and muscles wound tight. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
You melted inside, his sentiment sending warmth echoing through you like the wake of a stone plunged into placid water. He had thought about the two of you being together before? The pieces of the puzzle were all falling into place, your doubts dissolving by the second.
Azriel’s eyes widened, surprised he had actually just revealed that to you. A faint blush dusted his tanned cheeks, and he closed and opened his mouth, shocked at his own confession. The inner battle with his raging hormones had made his iron-clad restraints weak; letting words slip from his tongue that had been lingering there for so fucking long.
You slid off the table and took a step forward, palms open at your sides as if he were a wild animal that could be scared off at the slightest wrong move. “Az, you’re right,” you said, eyes fixed on his. “This was supposed to happen a long fucking time ago.”
The male gaped and blinked, hazel eyes wide as they raked over your advancing form.
You drank him in, too— gaze lingering on the sizable bulge that jerked in longing beneath his pants. You pursed your lips, salivating at the thought of what laid beneath. You chanced another step.
“Fuck,” he swore, his breath ragged. He licked his lips, pecs heaving with every labored pant. “Y/n please, you can’t— you don’t know what you’re doing, I’m not myself right now, I don’t want to hurt you.”
You smiled softly. Didn’t he see? “You won’t, Azriel. I trust you…”
“You shouldn’t,” he said, protests growing weaker with every second. You could tell his resolve was slipping, his shadows inching closer to you, stretching for another taste of your skin.
Azriel twitched when your hand met the hot, inked skin of his chest, throwing his head back as he swallowed a moan. His hormones were wild with the season’s influence, heavy pheromones permeating the air with infectious lust. It was becoming unbearable to be this close to you without pressing you against the nearest surface and plunging into the tight heat that was surely slickening between your legs. Kept fingernails dug into the palm of his hands as he clung desperately to the last thread of his composure.
“Please, Az,” you murmured, lips finally touching the column of his throat, as high up as you could reach, just beneath his jaw. “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you for another second.” Your tongue poked out to taste him, salt and musk ambrosial on your taste buds.
This time, the male didn’t hold back his moan, instead letting it fill the heavy kitchen air and making butterflies explode in your stomach. The sound sent a rush to your core and you clenched hard, fingernails digging into his flesh.
You squeaked when scarred hands gripped you and flung you back onto the kitchen table, hard enough to concuss. But there was only shock, no pain; for Azriel cushioned the impact, an arm curling around your waist and hand cushioning the back of your skull so you didn’t slam your head— the male fluidly moved with you, ending up pressed above you chest to chest. Your body thrummed with anticipation, excitement bursting forth in your veins.
Now you’d done it.
The last scrap of his restraint had been ripped away and now you were in for the fuck of your life. You blinked in stupor, but Azriel left no time to waste. Hazel was blown wild as he stared down at you, pinning your wrists with each of his large hands.
“Trust this,” he asserted, rutting your clothed sexes together. You gasped, the hard, huge length of him shocking even through the clothes between you, your eyes growing wide as they met his burning hazel gaze. “I am steel for you. Only you.”
His hot tongue lashed out to claim your neck, full lips joining to mark the divot between your clavicle and shoulder. The intensity made you keen, your head tossing to the side as you screwed your eyes shut and sang for him, hips rocking up against his. You could feel your panties wet with slick, his savage behavior making your body throb, readying itself for his taking.
This was insane. There was nothing that could compare to this— the need, the depravity of this, of him.
You could hardly believe that he had come for you, had saved you. Was this the gratitude every maiden in peril felt, or was this something more? Something much more? From the way the male was possessively claiming your skin with his mouth, your heart leapt into your throat, stomach twisting with hope.
But you couldn’t dwell on it, his fingers quickly traveling to the front of your blouse and promptly ripping the seam down your middle. Buttons clattered all around you on the floor below, your breasts spilling out for his eyes to devour. His mouth followed, lips quickly catching a nipple and sucking you in, nose poking into your flesh as he drowned himself in your supple skin.
Your back arched as you mewled, lashes flying shut and digits flying to curl into his hair. Soft onyx locks twisted between your fingers and you couldn’t help the grin that sprouted as he moaned your name into your skin— you weren’t the only one lost in the throes of pleasure.
You couldn’t slow for a second, couldn’t stop— he was hard as rock beneath his leathers, every piece of him lined with lean muscle. But the part of him that melted your brain most was his cock; you could feel it reaching for you, the thick outline of it pressing against your core through the layers. It made you ache, intolerably so— your pussy stirring as you imagined what that length would feel like stretching you out and filling you to the brim. Your hands reached out before you could even comprehend what you were doing.
Azriel roared when your fingers landed on the stiff forearms of his wings, his front surging forward and rutting into yours. The surprise in his gaze quickly morphed to voracity and your body shook in response, your legs spreading to curl around his waist and draw his lower half closer. You squeezed the hard appendages, fingertips sliding down to rub closer to the joints.
Shadows swarmed the pair of you and you cried at their cold touch, having forgotten them completely. But they were sure to remind you of their abilities, and you’d never underestimate them again. One second you were engulfed by darkness and the next, you were completely bare, your nakedness on full display for the shadowsinger’s ferocious gaze to drink up. The tendrils lashed out and snatched your hands from his wings, growing taught around your wrists and holding them down atop the table.
All you could see was his piercing eyes taking in every inch of the sight before him, his shadows covering his body as the silhouette of his massive wings hung high and dark behind him. Obsidian swirls curled into his hair and licked upon his skin, blending easily with the dark whirls of ink that marked his frame.
Your mind was now wholly consumed with lust; the utter primality with which he was treating you made your core stir like nothing else. Your hips wriggled as you waited for him to touch you, but immediately the shadows strapped you firm against the tabletop, your ankles dragging to the corners to expose your most intimate part right before his eyes.
Heat burst into your cheeks, embarrassment blooming in your chest at the exposure. But you saw the way Azriel’s face twisted when his eyes traveled down from your face, down past your tits and your navel and down until they fixed on your pink, glistening hole. Thick brows furrowed and you could practically see the steam from his heavy exhale, his pupils dilating til you swore his gaze had been engulfed by shadow too.
And then all you could see were the wicked talons that crested the tips of his wings, because the male fell to his knees and shoved his face directly into your cunt.
You cried out, body ringing taut when his nose shoved into your clit. The heat of his tongue flat against your entrance drew a subsequent moan out from the depths of your lungs, fingernails digging into the lacquered wood beneath you.
Azriel took you into his mouth and you melted as his guttural moan vibrated through you, your body tingling all the way to your toes. His stubble tickled your thighs as he nudged deeper, drowning himself in your essence. He dove into you without holding back, tracing your slit with precise flicks of that wicked tongue and then slipping the warm muscle inside your quivering hole. The lower half of his face was soon coated in your slick, and with every movement of his, only more wetness leaked out of you for him to savor.
Scarred hands curled around the tops of your thighs, calloused fingertips digging into soft flesh. They spread your legs wider, broad shoulders coming to hold you open as he ravaged you, pulling you closer so that no space remained between the pair of you.
You sobbed when his tongue finally trailed from your entrance, following your folds the short distance to your clit. He growled into your center in response to your garbled noise, lips taking hostage of the sensitive little pearl. Your skull smacked hard wood as your head flew back, but you didn’t care— Azriel’s hands had wandered from your thighs to your hips, slipping underneath to grab handfuls of your plush bottom. His fingers dug into the meat of your ass, pulling you apart so he could shove his face even deeper into your cunt.
“Aha– oh, Az– fuck!” you moaned as he ate you mercilessly, your limbs still held prisoner by taut shadows. No matter how hard you struggled, the void would not give– if you could only hear the things they whispered to their master, if you could only know how happy they were to assist him in his plight…
Azriel groaned against your soaked pussy, the sound echoing in waves of pleasure that rippled through your body. Your legs had begun to shake, fingers curling into fists that couldn’t grab him but desperately wanted to. It should’ve been shameful, the way you were already racing toward an orgasm. He knew just what to do to you, knew exactly how to deliver you right to ecstasy’s doorstep.
And then he drew back.
You had just enough time to open your eyes and look at him to protest, lips already forming your displeasure. But instead, you clocked him as he stood, your eyes falling from his sizzling stare down his contoured, tattooed torso… down to that delicious V that tapered down narrow hips, the ink adorning the lines of his body until—
You gasped, gaze wide. His cock stood upright— tall, thick, swollen, and hard as… steel. A translucent trail of his lust trailed down the vein that bulged along the underside, a sticky bead dripping slowly off the pink tip. Fuck, had such a marvel been within reach all this time?
Your hole clenched in welcome.
Blush stained your cheeks as the male caught the movement, a devilish smirk curling at the corner of his lip. You whimpered when he stepped closer, the tip of him nudging through your glistening folds. Azriel sighed, gripping the base of himself and rubbing the two of you together. Your cries were music to his ears, your hips flexing against the shadows to try and trace yourself onto the thick length of him.
“Oh Gods, you’re perfect,” he murmured, a hand coming to cup one of your breasts in his palm, thumbing over the hardened nipple there. Your name drifted out of him as he loosed a shallow thrust, the very tip of him dipping into your soaked opening.
You wailed when his hips drew back and he slid back in with ease, half of him disappearing inside of you. How he had slipped inside of you so easily, you couldn’t know– you were wetter than you’d ever been, yes, but his manhood was also almost too big– you didn't know if it would fit all the way inside. Your head fell back against the table once more, your quick breaths making your chest rise and fall, your breasts heaving with the action.
The shadowsinger watched the movement, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Only once he heard your sob did he realize he had thrust in all the way, and your eyes had rolled back as your body strained underneath him. You looked so angelic like that, with your cunt wrung tight and wet around all of him, your curves making both his wings and his cock twitch with anticipation.
He gave another tentative thrust, the last shred of sanity slipping from his brain as your walls hugged him, his body trembling. He’d been able to hold out on his own for the last few days by pleasuring himself, but that was leagues away from this. The inside of you was completely soaked for him, and the heat of you squeezing around him made the last of his resolve melt away into nothingness.
You could see the moment his control really slipped— his hazel gaze bleeding black on the edges. His grip tightened, fingertips digging into your flesh like claws as he gathered your hips closer to him, so your ass rested right on the edge of the table. Excitement and a little fear burst forth in your stomach as intensity radiated off of the male, the scent of his outright arousal heavy in the air.
Suddenly his hips snapped forward, and you couldn’t stop the shriek that spilled out of you. Azriel moaned too, louder than you’d imagined he would in your fantasies. Every inch of him was nestled inside of you and that was no ordinary feat. Your cunt throbbed with the thought, more of your essence oozing out for him.
Azriel didn’t waste a drop of it, finding a rhythm that buried himself to the hilt inside you with ease thanks to your ample slick. Huge, magnificent wings trembled behind him, a sign of just how strung out he was in his current state.
“Ugh, fuck— Goddess, you’re a goddess,” he praised, gaze fixed on the bounce of your tits as he rammed into you again and again.
His name fell from your lips as you panted, your hole stretched wide around the base of him. Each stroke had your mind melting, sweat starting to cling to your skin as you trembled at the intensity of the pleasure. You watched his massive cock slide in and out of you, your slick coating the inside of your thighs as you greedily took in every thrust.
“I can’t, ahh I can’t, I can’t—“ Azriel chanted, his abs clenched so hard you couldn’t help but watch sweat drip down the valleys between the prominent muscles.
Suddenly his thumb found its way to your clit and began to glide over the little nub with great generosity. You wailed and clamped onto him harder, your climax racing forth as his hips continued to slap wetly against yours.
“Cum,” he ordered, voice clipped and full of unshakable authority. The sheer dominance radiating off of the male above you was palpable, your body bending to his command. “Be a good girl for me and cum on my cock. Y’want me to cum in this pretty pussy baby? C’mon, cum and milk it out of me, good girl— oh fuck yes—“
Your cunt went tight around him and you cried out as stars flooded your vision, your orgasm hurtling into you, his filthy words sending you over the edge. Pure ecstasy pulsed through your entirety as you came, your walls pulsing as they ached for his imminent release. You felt like your entire body was aflame, and yet that was nothing compared to the heat glowing in your chest, a foreign, welcome weight presenting itself, a rope to hold onto as you nearly lost yourself in the throes of pleasure.
Azriel moaned and pushed all the way inside of you as he met his own climax. Hot streams of his seed spurted out of his throbbing cock, deep into your womb and your eyes rolled back at the heat that blossomed there. You could feel yourself filling with him— he just kept shaking and throbbing and moaning as more and more emptied out of him. Days of just barely scraping by the mating season had left him with balls painfully full and now all you could do was ride out the waves of your shared orgasm as he filled you to the brim. Sweet relief washed through Azriel’s overheated body– emanating from where the base of his cock nestled deep inside of you. With every spurt of release, that insatiable need within him extinguished until he nearly fell on top of you, shaky arms braced to catch himself.
His face fit into your neck, labored breaths cascading over your hot skin. Tremendous leathery wings draped down over his shoulders, his rough hands coming to wrap around the back of your neck and your waist, pressing your bodies together with great care. You hummed with satiety and pressed a soft kiss to his temple, floating back to the ground from your ecstasy. Your hands now released from his shadowy binds, one combed through his silky hair while the other found the divot of his spine, fingers trailing over his dampened skin in soothing motions.
For the first time in days, Azriel’s mind was clear. His eyes opened wide as he came to his senses. He had just taken full advantage of you– he was balls-deep inside of you, and you were full of his seed. His breath began to quicken, his just-calmed mind now gaining speed as the full extent of his actions now hit him.
Slowly he retreated from the solace of your embrace, just enough to catch your eye. “Y/n, I–” he began but you wouldn’t let him.
You wouldn’t let him regret this when you were still here, in the best moment of your life, the intensity of the fresh golden thread between your hearts glowing and filling your body with unbridled joy.
“I love you, Azriel,” you declared, hands coming to hold his sculpted jaw, thumbs drifting over his cheeks and chin. You imagined the tether in your mind, taking hold of it and tugging, like you were pulling your chests impossibly closer.
Surprise flooded his gaze, his brow high as his parted lips ticked up into a sideways grin. His hazel eyes softened as they roamed your face, like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He breathed out your name, voice soft as a feather, his fingers stroking your neck tenderly.
“My mate,” you whispered and Azriel visibly shuddered, long eyelashes kissing his cheeks as he closed his eyes and smiled bigger than you’d ever seen. It was the most breathtaking sight, him smiling like that– and your heart felt so full, knowing that you were the cause behind it.
The male tucked his face back into your shoulder and gathered your body flush to his, cradling you even closer than before, pressing every piece of you together as close as possible. “My mate,” he echoed, deep voice almost a purr, his happiness rippling over the bond in loud, unapologetic swells.
You pulled his hair just enough for him to lean back and see eye to eye again, sharing a loving look before your lips met. Sparks rushed through your body, his lips slotting between yours and your noses brushing together. You drew back to catch your breath, but Azriel leaned in and captured your mouth once more, unwilling to part with you for even a moment. You gasped and his tongue glided in, meeting yours with a wild tenderness you’d never experienced before. Your tongues brushed together and you couldn’t fight the small moan that crept out of you, your body moving on its own volition to roll your hips against his.
Azriel moaned back, and your cheeks flushed with heat as you felt his hard cock twitch inside of you– you hadn’t realized he’d never softened, even after that law-defying orgasm. You could feel his essence leaking from you– his member taking up so much space inside you, there was barely any room for his cum to remain within your walls.
You seemed to be on the same page, for he stepped back and you both watched as he unsheathed his thick length from you. Finally he removed himself and your hole clenched at the emptiness. Your cheeks became hot as you witnessed a river of his thick, white cum rush out, the sheer amount of it so much that the stream swiftly became a puddle that spilled over the table’s edge and onto the floor.
The sight only made you hungry for more, your bottom lip taken prisoner between your teeth. You caught Azriel’s equally-desirous gaze, throwing one more glance at his cream-covered cock before you flipped yourself over, your palms and knees now resting flat on the tabletop, careful to keep your injured ankle dangling off the table.
Your male growled at the invitation, immediately closing the distance between you two. His hands took hold of your ass, so large that his fingers could grip the curve of the soft flesh and his thumbs spread your raw pussy open at the same time. You whined as you felt more of him leak out, trailing over your clit and down your thighs.
Azriel moaned at the sight, dipping a thumb into his spend and inside your cunt, enjoying the feeling of your aching walls throbbing around him. You panted and bucked back against him, desperate for more. Now that you’d had a taste of his cock, and his cum… nothing else would suffice. The Illyrian complied with your needs– his cock already hard and dripping with precum again, the sight of you too much. The lust from his hormones was already starting to build again– or maybe that was the fresh acknowledgment of the bond– he didn’t know, nor care.
You keened when the searing tip of him pressed against your entrance once more, spread wide so he could watch your pussy swallow every inch he offered. He slipped inside just as easily as before, both of you letting out a long moan in harmony as your ass met his hips, cock hot and hard inside your throbbing walls. The stretch of him was so utterly delicious, you couldn’t stop yourself from bouncing back onto him just to feel it again, and then again.
Azriel threw his head back and allowed himself to revel in the pleasure as you set a steady pace, pussy greedily gobbling up every inch of his incredible length. You whimpered at the sensation of his tip prodding deep, deep within you– a spot you didn’t know existed revealing the very apex of your vulnerability, your pleasure.
The noises you let loose as you sat back onto him each time you never knew you could make– the feeling of your bodies becoming one unlike anything you could have imagined. Your mate was just as deep in the tides of euphoria as you, rough hands steady as he guided you back and forth on his cock. You didn’t know how long you’d last, how long you’d been fucking back onto him, didn’t even know your name. All you could feel was pleasure, your mate, his pleasure, your bond.
You felt that knot tightening in your stomach again.
You cried out when you felt his thumb rove over your asshole, pressing firmly against you as he took control, his other hand holding your hips in place so he could set a punishing pace. The digit slipped inside and your eyes widened, the stretch foreign but oh so welcome. You started to shake, your orgasm nearing as he thrust hard and deep.
Azriel panted as he watched you take him, the curve of your spine bent just right, your ass up and his hands on you– in you. Your soft little body taking his hard large one so well– fuck, he could feel your climax coming through the bond and that only catalyzed his own. Words evaded him this time, your emotions mingling with his along with his Illyrian hormones; everything felt that much stronger– overwhelming. He was so close– he needed you to cum, needed you to milk him again, his mate.
Shadows slithered up onto the table and twirled around your nipples, and you tensed, crying out at the surprise stimulation. The whirls then curled around your thighs and met your poor swollen clit, the cool sensation the final straw as you clenched down and came hard.
You screamed his name, your orgasm barreling through you like never before. Your ears rang, your vision flashing white and your chest hot– searingly hot– so, so hot, and then–
Azriel cried out as he came too, pressing into you ‘til he was balls-deep, emptying into the depths of your womb. Your mate’s ecstasy careened over the fresh bond, and paired with the shadows that kept on caressing you, you sobbed as you came again, not even recovered from your initial orgasm.
Your entirety felt as though it had been dunked under complete and utter bliss. Pure pleasure totally consumed you, leaving you totally helpless with no choice but to feel everything.
Azriel struggled with the same intensity behind you, cock still pumping into you even if he had nothing left to give. His great wings shivered with ecstasy, eyes rolled back, fingertips digging into your soft flesh for dear life as he whimpered.
Eventually the earth materialized beneath you and you all but collapsed onto the table. Azriel let out a grunt of agreement, chest still rising and falling in exertion. His hand left your ass and gripped the base of him as he pulled out, watching as his seed followed, dripping onto the table once more. There was not nearly as much as before, yet still a decent amount came out. He bit his lip, tracing the outline of your soiled cunt with the head of his swollen cock, studying your pink intimacy as your body quivered.
It was unnatural that he already felt the smallest itch to go again— but his cock had been rock hard since the season started and he doubted he would ever soften now that you had recognized him as your mate. At least now his body felt his own; the need to procreate fed and tamed, for how long, he didn’t know.
Suddenly cool shadows enveloped the pair of you before depositing you both upon your bed in the adjacent room. Your head hit the pillow and you moaned in delight, exhaustion taking root in your core.
Azriel lay beside you, face to face, a small smile on his lips as he watched your eyelids fight to stay open. You shivered and scooched closer to him, and he curled an arm around you, happy to comb a hand through your hair and hold you close. His shadows pulled a thin blanket over you, meandering across your exposed shoulder and hair with a calm kind of joy.
“Rest now, my little mate,” he murmured, savoring the beat of your heart so close to his, the feeling of your warm breath against his chest. “You’ll need your strength if we’re to survive the rest of the season...”
⤷ masterlist
‘Tis the damn season
Been awhile since I’ve posted anything Hunger Games and I wanted to draw Rue and Katniss 🥺🥺🥺
Blue GOAT 💙
Red GOAT ❤️
How could I resist? It’s not the exact angle, but my nerve cells are dead anyway
Filling colours - Tomas (Squad Miche).
I have never seen him in the aot fandom, because he did not have as much screen time. I guess it was just two scenes throughout the anime, I don't even know at what point he died. But the fact remains that he was a member of squad Miche, so here is my attempt at fleshing out his personality. Also, Tomas is cute af.
Summary: Tomas lost the people closest to him to some unimaginable brutality. He's sad but its going to be okay.
Warnings: Death, Grief, blood.
It was late afternoon and the innermost districts of Paradis were shaken to the core. The fight between the two intelligent titans had resulted in a large number of casualties. The pastor himself was standing a couple meters away when his followers got crushed. Unfortunately, they were about the receive what was perhaps the worst news for their kind.
A soldier, exhausted to his bones, rode into the district. He looked more disheveled than usual, worry evident in his features. Tomas bore the news of wall Rose's breach. He and Nanaba were the youngest in the squad, but his innocent and somewhat shy demeanour made him appear younger.
The scouts sprung into action right after the announcement was made, rushing to aid their trapped comrades. The cadets had rushed ahead without their gears at Nanaba's command. It was too late though, a lot of people had died, including the everyone close to Tomas. All they could retrieve were the mangled bodies of Lynne and Henning under the rubble of Utgard castle.
"She was ...talking about her father.." Connie's response made him wince.
He had been helping her cope with the shell shock of her childhood.
"It's okay, I'll always be there." Tomas had given her a promise after coaxing her out from one of her previous episodes.
"Oh what would we do without Tomas!" Miche would comment whenever he resolved the squabbles between Lynne and Gelgar. Their personalities just did not mesh together. The squad leader's comment was often followed by a pat on the back, which, albeit hard to admit had sent Tomas face first into the ground a few times.
And now his squad leader was gone forever, he knew after he saw a faint pool of blood near the quarters Miche had rushed to. It was big enough to indicate a slow, painful death, if only Gelgar had followed him.
"Don't think about it, and I don't think Gelgar could have been of any help." The lance corporal's ridiculous, insensitive comment riled him up.
"Just how CAN you say that?!" It was the first time Tomas raised his voice at a superior.
"Connie, can you repeat Gelgar's last words again for the crybaby here?"
"Forget it, its fine. I am alright. I apologize for having wasted your time captain." Tomas tried to put enthusiasm into the salute, but he couldn’t. He resigned to the dormitory and silently cried into the pillow, wondering whether it would make a difference if he quit the scout regiment. To most people, he was too soft to be a soldier, to be a man. He still wasn't sure why Miche had picked him to be in the squad.
This wasn't the first time he was struggling to keep his resolve alive, but it was certainly the worst of them all. See, the squad leader wasn't there to reassure him anymore. Henning and Gelgar would no longer come to distract him with alcohol and board games. Except for Lynne's little Lily sapling on the window sill, Tomas was truly alone, it was bad and was going to get worse.
As the last remaining member of Miche's squad, he was to deliver each member's belongings to their respective families and put an end to the chapter of his team..or former team.
Erwin would assign him to a different squad once his current duties were finished. He hoped to find a family once again, but it was very unlikely.
Things were going to be grim for the rest of his life, which fortunately was not that long. Unbeknownst to him, he would join his found family in the afterlife soon. Until then, they all would watch over him, grateful for all the times he had been the glue that still held them together.
Son of Sparda
yeeeey I finally can show this art I did for a zine
Third poster is up!! The Sparda family is now complete with no other than our beloved pizza guy 🍕
Rebellion is too chunky to fit properly so I had to tweak the composition a lil bit,, (it's 4 am pls have mercy on me)
