K Writes Stuff

Feysand lover, Azriel simp Ao3: queenoffeysand

[queenoffeysand]

Masterlist

I guess were doing this

f=fluff a=angst AO3

Feysand

It's heavier to breathe, thinking of you A,F -- Why I don't think of you Fixing What You Broke- Masterlist A,F The End A

Feysand and Nyx

Nyx Starts his Pet Obsession F

Nyx

I need all of you to hold on to so we don't fade away-Masterlist F,A,Unfinished

Nyx staying up late HC

Azriel

Azriel gets caught in an embarrassing situation F

[the-darkestminds]

Autumn’s Shadow: Chapter 30

Azriel lifted his head and gazed miserably across the alcove, watching the light dance over the water. Sol paddled happily in a circle, flicking droplets in incandescent arcs with each wag of his tail—pure contentment. 

If only it were that simple.

He just… gods, everything had been so damn hard lately—living without his shadows, dealing with the constant, growing pain in his wings, finding his footing in a body that no longer felt like his own… 

Even things with Eris had been difficult, though certainly improved, and maybe Azriel had hoped, naively, that this one thing could’ve come easily to him—that it could’ve been a much-needed moment of relief, perhaps even joy, instead of yet another battle. 

Azriel was tired of fighting. 

He was tired.

Thank you to the extremely kind and talented @werehorsebite for bringing this scene to life 🥹 I love it so much!! I was so excited to see that you were doing commissions and I had so much fun seeing your process! Thank you 🖤🖤🖤🥰

Tag List: @unanswered-stars @futurehunt @jules-writes-stories @christeareads @chunkypossum @talibunny30 @fieldofdaisiies @mistandmemories @neciebee @molcat07 @that-girl-reading @fourteentrout @iftheshoef1tz @g00seg1rl @buffy-vanserra @jolenes-library @astro-h0e-4azris @alexof90s @pippsmcgee @makinglongwordsslutty @wrraccountant @eatsbooks @ysmtttty @palomita-de-la-sangre @ejkreader @stargazingmellon @vanserreneity @skies-for-eyes-trees-for-knees @jir67 @theiudices @werehorsebite

[velarisdusk]

Vindicated

Feyre Archeron x Rhysand

word count: 2,252 author's note: i dont usually recommend listening to a song with my fics, but i found this one recently and it inspired this chapter. maybe listen to it after tho idk. it's by dashboard confessional ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

“What the fuck do you want, Rhysand?”

The words hit like a door slammed in his face. 

Rhys froze with the phone still pressed to his ear, elbow braced on the kitchen counter like it might help keep him upright. The apartment was too quiet—no amps humming, no crowd noise bleeding through concrete, no bodies pressed close and shouting his name back at him. Just the low buzz of the fridge, the distant rush of traffic below, and the city breathing outside his window. 

“Wow,” he said lightly, reflexively. “Come on, Fey. I make one joke and now I’m ‘Rhysand’?”

On the other end of the line, Feyre stood in her bathroom with the door shut and the light too bright. Her purse lay abandoned on the counter, keys spilled beside it. She hadn’t even taken her shoes off yet. One heel dug into the tile as if she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded. 

“A joke?” she said. “You publicly humiliated me.”

Rhys’ mouth curved on instinct, the ghost of a grin he hadn’t quite been able to kill yet. 

“Okay,” he said, pushing off the counter. “That feels a little dramatic.”

A beat. 

In the mirror, Feyre stared at herself. Mascara smeared beneath both eyes, blackened and wet, the sharp liner she’d spent so long perfecting reduced to a mess she didn’t recognize. Her lips parted, then pressed together. 

“You humiliated me,” she said again. Same words. No rise in her voice, no crack. “Fifty million fucking calls, I expected an apology at least.”

Rhys shifted his weight, rolling his shoulder like he was shaking off a cramp. He crossed the kitchen once, then doubled back, phone still tight in his hand. “I played a song,” he said. “A dumb one. The crowd ate it up. You know how this works.”

“Oh, I know exactly how this works,” Feyre scoffed. She reached for a makeup wipe, dragged it hard beneath one eye. “You used me as part of the show.”

“That’s not fair,” he replied, still calm, still smiling into the phone. “You’re not some ditz. You know the difference between a performance and real life.”

“Do I?” she asked quietly. 

The grin faltered—not gone yet, but thinning around the edges. 

“You said my name,” she went on. “You looked straight at us both and said it.”

Rhys exhaled through his nose, half laugh, half scoff. “Come on. I tweaked a lyric in a song.”

“You weaponized it.”

“It’s punk,” he shot back. “That’s kind of the point.”

“The point,” Feyre said, and now there was something sharper threading through her voice, “is that you decided how my night would end without asking me.”

He straightened, fingers flexing around the phone, twitching like they still expected the weight of a microphone. The spaces between her words pressed in, wrong in a way the noise from a crowd never was. 

“You think I didn’t see what he was doing?” he said, a little more defensive now. “He was screaming at you—”

“Yeah,” she snapped, yanking another wipe from the packet, scrubbing harder than necessary. “We were fighting. That tends to happen.”

“Does you flinching like you’re bracing for a hit tend to happen too?”

Feyre froze, wipe pressed to her cheek. In the mirror, her eyes flicked up—bright, furious, wet. She lowered her hand slowly. 

Across the city, Rhys stared at the counter again, jaw tightening as if to physically keep himself from taking it back. The adrenaline that had carried him offstage was curdling into something heavier now, settling behind his ribs. 

“I wasn’t going to stand there and pretend I didn’t care,” he said. 

“So instead you made sure everyone knew.”

“You’re acting like I dragged you on stage and cucked him then and there.”

“God,” Feyre said, laughing sharply. “You’re ridiculous! I can’t even have a serious conversation with you.”

“You want me to be serious?” Rhys snapped. “Fine. Are you telling me you’d rather I let him grab you like that? Watch you shrink in on yourself like—”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t have teeth,” he said stiffly. “Like you’re something that needs handling. Like—like you don’t have the power to end it. You just keep choosing not to, and he’s taking that choice as permission.”

Feyre’s hand trembled as she set the wipe down. Her breathing went shallow, quick. She gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles ached. 

Rhys dragged a hand down his face, exhaled hard, then straightened. Whatever hesitation had flickered through him died there. “Because if you did,” he went on, pushing now, reckless, “you’d have to admit it’s over. And we both know you hate being the one to pull the trigger.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing about why I stay,” Feyre said, her voice low and shaking with fury.

Rhys scoffed. “Then enlighten me.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” she snapped. “Don’t stand there and act like you’ve cracked me open, like you’ve got some privileged insight just because you were watching from a stage.”

“I wasn’t just watching,” he shot back. “I’ve been paying attention. There’s a difference.”

“No,” Feyre said, heat finally breaking through. She turned away from the mirror, pacing the length of the bathroom, now-bare feet slapping against the tile. “There isn’t. You saw what you wanted to see.”

“You’re telling me I imagined the way you flinched when he grabbed you?”

“I’m telling you it’s none of your fucking business!”

“It became my business that time I took your shirt off and found all those bruises,” Rhys yelled back, his fist coming down on the counter with a sharp crack. A glass near the sink rattled, chiming softly after, too fragile for the volume in his voice. “When I watched you go back to him and take it like you didn’t have any other option—”

“Stop saying that!” Feyre shouted. “Stop acting like I’m trapped!”

“Then why the hell do you keep going back?”

“Because it’s my choice!” she screamed. “Because I get to decide when something ends, not you—”

“And what,” his voice rose even more, “you’re just waiting for the right moment? For him to finally cross some imaginary line bad enough that you can justify it to yourself?”

“That’s not what this is about!”

“Then what is it about, Feyre?”

She stopped pacing. Her chest heaved. She glanced at her reflection again—at the ruined makeup, the anger carved into her face. 

“It’s about you!” she screamed. “It’s about the fact that you saw me as something you wanted and decided that gave you a right to it.”

“That’s bullshit—”

“No,” she cut in, voice breaking sharp. “You didn’t do this because you were scared for me. You did it because you couldn’t stand that I wasn’t choosing you.”

Rhys went still, breath caught halfway in, every restless movement in him shutting off at once like a switch had been flipped.  

“Feyre, that’s not—”

“You said my name,” she growled. “You didn’t say it to protect me, you said it to claim me.”

The word hung between them, ugly and unavoidable.

“That’s not what that was,” Rhys snapped. “Don’t put that on me—I said his name too, by the way, or did you conveniently forget that?”

“The hell I won't,” Feyre yelled back. “Because you made sure he heard it. You made sure everyone did.”

“I was trying to make a point to him—”

“You were marking territory. You were standing on a stage with a microphone and telling everyone that I was yours.”

“I never said that!” Rhys shouted. 

“You didn’t have to.” Feyre’s voice cut sharp. “You stood there and said my name like it was a fucking challenge.”

“That’s not what—”

“You knew exactly what you were doing! You knew he’d hear it. You knew I’d hear it. And you didn’t care!”

He let out a harsh laugh. “I did care. I do. That’s the whole goddamn point.”

“No,” she shot back. “You cared about winning.”

Rhys laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Winning? This isn’t a game.”

“Then why did you turn it into one?” she yelled. “Why did you need an audience? Why did you need him to lose in front of everyone?”

“Because he deserved it,” Rhys fired back. “Because he doesn’t get to—”

“—to what?” Feyre shouted. “Touch me? Look at me? Exist in the same room as me without you staking a claim?”

“I wasn’t staking a claim!”

“Then stop acting like you were entitled to the outcome!”

“I saw him grab you!” Rhys roared. “I saw the way you went still!”

“And you decided that made you the authority,” Feyre said wryly. “You decided that meant you knew better than me.”

Rhys’ breath came hard through the line. “You’re twisting this.”

“No,” Feyre breathed. “I’m saying it plainly. You didn’t protect me. You claimed me.”

Silence flared—stretched thin, vibrating.

Feyre dragged both hands through her hair, stared at her shoes on the tile floor, at the sink, the mirror, the woman staring back at her who looked exhausted and furious and done. 

“And you don’t get to do that,” she went on, voice shaking now, sharp and dangerous, “and then tell me you didn’t mean anything by it.”

Rhys swallowed. Then—wrongly, fatally—

“But he gets to beat on you and tell you he didn’t mean anything by it, and that’s okay, right?”

The second the words landed, his stomach dropped.

“Fey...” he started too fast, already knowing he’d gone too far.

She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her reflection was eerily calm. She reached for a clean towel, pressed it under her eyes, dabbed a couple of times. 

When she spoke again, her voice was steady.

“We broke up, you know.” 

His breath caught.

“You got what you wanted. Like always. Congratulations,” she said flatly.

“Fey, wait, that’s not—”

“Stop fucking calling me, Rhys.”

The line went dead. 

He stood alone in the kitchen, phone still pressed to his ear, the quiet rushing back in and leaving him with nowhere to put the noise. 

[eatsbooks]

original character masterlist

emile vanserra second-born son of amalia vanserra and beron vanserra; mate and husband to adonia vanserra; autumn court spymaster and lord ⟡ why is he like that ⟡ adile ⟢ jealousy and inferiority ⟡ the bed slave incident ⟢ one-shot (warnings for noncon, violence, murder)

carmine vanserra third-born son of amalia vanserra and beron vanserra; betrothed of kirsi virtanen; winter court emissary and autumn court lord ⟡ why is he like that ⟡ kirmine

silas vanserra (♱) fourth-born son of amalia vanserra and beron vanserra; twin and carranam to marius vanserra; autumn court lord

marius vanserra fifth-born son of amalia vanserra and beron vanserra; twin and carranam to silas vanserra; paramour of adonia vanserra; autumn court lord ⟡ why is he like that ⟡ maronia ⟢ first time ⟢ down bad ⟢ close call ⟡ silas

ronan vanserra (♱) sixth-born son of amalia vanserra and beron vanserra; autumn court soldier

adonia vanserra, née castelet first-born daughter of karine castelet and luvon castelet; mate and wife to emile vanserra; paramour of marius vanserra ⟡ why is she like that

iphigenia belrose (♱) first-born daughter of elodie belrose and barrett belrose; favored bed slave of beron vanserra ⟡ art by @queercontrarian ⟡ art by @olenvasynyt ⟡ art by @mt-jupiter ⟡ why is she like that ⟡ vanrose ⟢ plucked fresh (warnings for dubcon, rough handling) ⟢ lick it better + commentary (warnings for noncon) ⟢ indulgence (warnings for dubcon, drugged sex) ⟡ tamgenia ⟢ renascence (multi-chapter)

kirsi virtanen first-born daughter of tytti virtanen♱ and urho virtanen♱; lady of the sulatta province of the winter court, the winter border with autumn; betrothed of carmine vanserra

vera crisedus daughter of dolion crisedus and iridia crisedus♱; mate to eris vanserra (and sometimes also azriel) ⟡ art by @onigiripurr ⟡ mythos ⟡ verazris ⟡ veris ⟢ meeting eris ⟡ vezriel ⟡ under the same moon (main verse) ⟡ the darker the fruit, the sweeter (alternate verse)

incubating original characters

ophelia vanserra first-born daughter of eris vanserra; twin to milo vanserra; a lady of the autumn court

milo vanserra first-born son of eris vanserra; twin to ophelia vanserra; heir to the autumn throne

[climbthemountain2020]

If There Was Ever A Doubt - Heated Rivalry

Heated Rivalry | Shane x Ilya | Oneshot | Ao3

Two years post-The Long Game, Shane and Ilya are living the life they always dreamed of. But sometimes, the nightmares catch up to Ilya. Shane knows how much Ilya sacrificed to give them this life. Now, he wants to give Ilya something in return. Spoiler warning! If you have only watched the show and not read through The Long Game, there will be spoilers ahead! Bless the lovely @acourtofladydeath for always beta reading and idea bouncing with me! Love spanning multiple fandoms with you <3 And thank you @wilde-knight for handling all my Canada questions :)

Shane

Shane opened his eyes to the familiar slanted wood ceilings, the glossy finish of them glowing with the reflection of the bathroom night light in the dark. On the dresser, the clock flashed 6:03. It wasn’t much before Shane normally woke up—even in the off-season, he found it hard to sleep in anymore. Out of the bay windows and over the lake, he could see the sky beginning to fade from dark blue into swaths of light purple.

The mumbling beside him told him what had woken him.

Against his side, Ilya’s warm arm twitched, the sensation of his skin on Shane’s giving him immediate goosebumps. He wasn’t sure how long he’d continue to always react to him this way, but two years out from their marriage Shane was happy to see it still happened every time they brushed against each other.

Shane didn’t like touch, but he always craved Ilya’s.

In the quiet morning, there was only the sound of Ilya’s deep breathing. Shane stole the opportunity to look at him in the dim light. Over a decade later, he still thought he was the most handsome man he might have ever seen—especially when he slept.

For one, he wasn’t running his mouth. But the way his lips fell open just slightly with sleep left him with a boyish look that he so infrequently held awake. It was helped by the tousled curls that fell softly over his forehead. 

Shane knew it was a privilege to see him this way—the way so few others had ever gotten to. His heart thumped pathetically and he smiled, almost hearing Ilya’s voice in his head. 

“You are such a romantic for me, Hollander, yes?” 

How bad was it that, now, he could predict the teasing that his husband would lob on him down to the inflection, even when he wasn’t conscious.

Shane took another look, and decided against waking Ilya. He’d been up late—not even back in bed before Shane had fallen asleep last night—working on something in the garage. He wouldn’t let him see it, so Shane was already assuming he’d bought something for their upcoming anniversary despite their no gifts agreement. Either that, or he was preparing to purchase another dog for them.

As though she’d heard his thoughts, the tip-tap of Anya’s feet came across the wood floors into the room, muting once they hit the carpet and jumped onto Shane’s legs. He pet her, scratching behind the ears as she settled between them, plopping her chin down onto her paws. He’d seen the way Ilya had been browsing pet adoption sites lately, though he’d kept quiet. He’d found over the years that what Ilya wanted most was companionship. Plus, Shane loved Anya. He wouldn’t mind having a buddy for her around, another personality in the house for them to love.

He’d just decided to get up and start breakfast—maybe french toast for Ilya—when he heard the murmuring again. Beside him, Ilya’s legs shifted restlessly again. Then, Shane heard it.

“Мама.” Ilya’s voice was quiet, but strained. He didn’t open his eyes.

Ilya was having another nightmare.

Shane shifted, torn between wanting to wake him to save him from the heartbreak he knew would be incoming and the grief that would occur if he pulled him from the dreams too early.

“Пойдем со мной. Я хочу, чтобы ты с ним познакомился.”

Come with me. I want you to meet him.

Shane’s Russian was almost passable now, though it had taken a while to get there. When they’d officially moved in together and Shane had first noticed Ilya having nightmares, he’d written some of the phrases down, the sadness so heavy in his chest as he’d badly translated the scribbled words the next day. 

Now, there was no need. It didn’t make hearing the words any less painful. Without the added barrier of needing to write them down and translate them later, the words pierced him in real time, each one harder to hear than the last.

Ilya stirred again, his brow furrowing, face sad somehow even with eyes closed.

“Как бы мне хотелось, чтобы ты был здесь.”

I wish you were here. 

Shane lay back down, his arm coming softly across Ilya’s stomach, holding him without waking him. His husband had been a deep sleeper since they’d first shared a bed, but Shane thought the touch, on some level, would let him know he wasn’t alone.

“Не уходи. Пожалуйста, мама.”

Don't go. Please, mama.

The words were smooth, falling like poetry from Ilya’s lips, but each one tore a hole through Shane. He knew that Ilya would always grieve his mother, knew that there was no fixing this. Shane’s own mom went out of her way to spend time with Ilya, even one-on-one, and Ilya had told him more than once how much it meant to him. But there was no filling the chasm that had been left behind when Irina had died. 

Ilya’s body twitched a bit, writhing as though trying to fight some inescapable pain before deflating onto the bed again, the sadness so clear in his posture even laying down. Anya lifted her head to look, concern painted in her eyes too. Shane reached his other hand down to lay on her back. To show he had them both. That he could comfort them both, even if he couldn’t fix it.

“Прости, мама. Прости, я не могу вернуться домой.”

I'm sorry Mama. I'm sorry, I can't come home.

It was the same nightmare every time. He’d get to see his mother in his dreams, but the cost was that he always woke knowing he never would again. That she’d never meet Shane. That he could never visit her grave, never be close to her again.

Shane had never forgotten the fight he and Ilya had before they’d come out publicly.

“I already chose you, Hollander.” 

Shane had thought he meant hockey, meant moving. But it was so much more than that. He’d given up everything to be with Shane, including the ability to ever go back to Moscow when they came out.

He’d never gotten to even say goodbye since the news broke so abruptly.

Shane closed his eyes and tucked his nose against Ilya’s shoulder, breathing him in. The guilt and shame of that year and Shane not understanding what Ilya was going through still ate at him like acid when he thought about it, even though they’d long since talked about it and moved on. Even though things were okay now.

But the truth was that Ilya had always given more, even from the start. Even when it hadn’t seemed that way. 

Ilya didn’t miss Moscow, and Shane knew that. But his mother was there. He’d never visit her again, never set foot on Russian soil. Shane’s eyes burned. Beneath him, Ilya’s breathing had calmed, his heartbeat back to baseline. Anya’s head rested on Ilya’s shin, and his face had smoothed back to the peace of sleep.

Ilya had given everything up for this, and Shane loved him so much sometimes that it hurt.

As he lay close, the sun beginning to rise in earnest and splashing the walls and the trees beyond the window with color, an idea began to form in Shane’s mind.

Did he have time? He could certainly find the resources. He didn’t think it would be overstepping, but Shane didn’t always know for sure.

Pieces flew together as he lay on Ilya’s chest, each step forming in his mind like puzzle pieces that had just been waiting to build something. Waiting for Shane to think of it.

He couldn't give Ilya his mother back, but perhaps he could give Ilya the comfort he'd always given Shane. 

He slipped quietly and slowly out from beneath the covers, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and padding into the kitchen.

His mom would be awake by now, and she always knew how to help. He swiped open her messages. 

Mom, I have an idea. Are you up?

+++

Ilya

Ilya watched as the trees blurred outside the window of the car.

“It’s been nice weather so far this summer, yeah?” David asked, pulling Ilya’s attention off the reflections on the lake’s surface as they passed.

“Yeah, it’s good. Has been hotter this year than I remember.” It was true. Though he had mostly adjusted to summers in Canada, it was still hotter than he was used to. The air was always heavier, and when he would run, he would sweat buckets.

David nodded, turning down the street and away from the shimmering lake. “Hey, thanks for helping me out today. I know Shane and Yuna had that…thing.”

David was almost as bad at lying as Shane was. Still, Ilya had enjoyed their day.

“Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed the lunch.” David had texted early this morning, asking if Ilya might help him pick up some lumber and, in exchange, David would treat him to lunch. They’d gone to Mary Brown’s Chicken—David’s choice, but not really, since Ilya knew David knew it was his favorite.

Ilya smiled to himself. He had never really known family like this—had never had a father figure who even pretended to care for him past what he could gain in terms of pride or name. It was his reminder to never take days like today for granted.

Even if he had a suspicion that he was being lied to.

“I had great time, David. Thank you for the lunch.”

As they turned back down the final street to the cottage, the lake came back into sight, sun streaming across the lapping surface and sending the reflections up against the dark pines around it. 

“Nah, don’t mention it. I know how much you like that place.” He patted the steering wheel once for good measure. “And I always appreciate the company. And the help.” He pointed up to the truck bed where they’d put in the lumber. “Body’s not quite what it used to be, so I’ll take all the help I can get.”

Ilya nodded, testing the waters as they pulled up to the cottage, noting Shane’s car still in the driveway as it had been all morning. “Where did Yuna say the PR event was today?”

David’s cheeks tinged pink, his throat clearing, and Ilya held back a grin. David was keeping secrets for his son, Ilya just wasn’t sure what they were yet. 

“I, ah, I can’t be certain. Yuna just said that they’d be back this afternoon. She’s the one who suggested I ask you for help!” His enthusiasm was a little too much, and Ilya decided to show him mercy rather than keep prying. Shane’s secrets would come out in due time. 

“Well, more fried chicken for us, ah?” 

David nodded, looking relieved as they parked. 

“You are sure you do not need me to help you unload at the house?” Yuna and David lived just a few minutes further down the road—the cabin that Shane had gone to growing up only a short drive up the lakeside.

“Nah, I’ve got it from here. Just that loading and unloading and making it all the way over the store that gets me.” 

Ilya nodded again, pulling the door to the truck open and climbing out. Before going up the steps, he turned back. “Thanks again, David. Was good day.” 

David smiled back, patting the old metal frame of the driver’s side window twice before pulling out of the gravel drive. As Ilya climbed the stairs to their porch, he took out his phone to Google whatever PR event Shane had today. He was entirely unsurprised to find nothing on the public schedule.

“You are a scoundrel, Hollander,” he laughed, sliding his key into the lock and hearing Anya’s skittering footsteps on the wood floors inside to greet him. She wound between his legs as he pushed into the house and secured the door behind him.

“Да, да. Привет, Любимая,” he cooed as she barked once, lifting her head so he’d pet her. She didn’t need to ask twice. Ilya had never had pets growing up, had never known how unconditionally he might love an animal. Every day now, it was a great feat to not fill his house with all the puppies he saw on the online ads who did not have homes.

His phone chimed in his pocket, and Ilya smiled. It was the special one he saved only for Shane, so he always knew when it was him.

You home? 

Ilya nearly laughed at Shane’s clipped message. Even through a text, he could practically feel the tension in Shane’s body, which could mean only one thing: Shane had caved and bought an anniversary gift for him.

The two had mutually decided to not get each other any gifts, despite it being their two year anniversary. They were planning to spend a week in Prince Edward Island, and had agreed that would be plenty. Now, as Ilya typed his confirmation back, he felt less bad about the massive new workout machine he’d bought for Shane and been hiding in the garage for weeks. Additionally, the specially curated eight-course, macro-friendly meal he’d reserved for them on the island seemed like a much better idea.

Yes. I am at home. Why are you not at home? He texted back.

“Tricky, tricky, Hollander,” he whispered, closing his phone and taking Anya out to the backyard. He stood on the porch while she ran around, the herding ball he’d bought her last month bouncing around the yard while she chased it. Behind her, the light sparkled over the lake and Ilya paused to take it in. He would never tire of this view, of this life. He was so glad they spent the off-season here—so fortunate that he was able to call this place his home. So fortunate…in so many ways that he almost couldn’t believe it sometimes.

When he remembered how life felt, even just a few years ago, it seemed impossible to him. Like he was looking at the life of someone else. Things weren’t perfect—no one’s life was—but when he measured the happiness he felt now, he knew without a doubt it was the most at peace he’d ever been. The most loved.

He sat and stretched out in the Adirondack chair, his spine popping as he did. It was the off season, but there would be another soon. How much longer would he do this? What else would he even do if he didn’t do this? Hockey was all he’d known for so much of his life, and though part of him thought with how much he loved summers, that he would love a downshift. Another part of him wondered what his worth might be outside of the sport.

He stopped himself. That was a negative generalization. Galina had taught him to catch those and work through the logic of them. Shane did not love him for his hockey. They had met because of hockey. It was a gift, but not his only one.

He breathed deep, the summer air filled with pine. 

Perhaps there was a bigger adventure coming next. Perhaps, he and Shane would continue the talk they kept halfway bringing up then skirting around about having children. Both of them wanted it—both of them were unsure. 

He’d never really considered before what he’d be like as a parent, and he had no clue if he would be any good. But Ilya thought he was very good at loving Shane, and very good at loving Anya. He thought he could be very good at loving someone else, too. 

He had no real experience with children, other than Hayden and Jackie’s, who he adored, though he’d never admit it. Whenever they left the house, a disaster in their wake, Ilya had started to find he missed the sound, the house full of laughter and loud joy. That, he thought, he could do. Even if his own house had never ever felt that way. 

Any climbed the steps of the porch, nudging him with her nose to go back in. 

“Alright, alright. Пришло время ужина. Time for dinner.”

She recognized the word dinner, both in Russian and in English, and hustled through the door. His phone chimed again just as he poured her food, and Shane’s text lit up the screen.

I’ll be back soon. From the PR event.

“Such a horrendous liar,” Ilya laughed, rolling his eyes but sending a thumbs up in return with the message See you soon. Ilya’s interest was piqued. 

Shane’s surprises were never really surprises, but they were always enough to warm what Ilya had once thought would always be an icy space where a heart belonged. He was a horrible liar, but his gift giving skills were something Ilya would always be both in awe of and grateful for.

It was only a few more minutes before Ilya heard the front door open, Anya’s routine repeating as she came to greet Shane as she had Ilya. He hadn’t needed to wait, because he’d watched on the Ring camera as Shane had, oddly enough, emerged from the woods.

“Hey,” Shane said breathlessly as Ilya took him in. Even in his loose shorts and foundation tee, he thought he was stunning. He wanted to put his hands on him.

“How was your PR event in the forest?” he asked, grinning. Shane stammered, red highlighted his freckled cheekbones.

God, but he loved him. He didn’t give him time to dig himself a deeper hole, simply coming forward and kissing him instead. Every kiss still felt electric, like they were back in 2014, spending months apart between seeing each other, even though they’d been in each other's arms this morning.

“Listen, I know our anniversary isn't for a week, and we said no gifts, but I may have—”

“You don't say,” Ilya deadpanned. Shane rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Okay, well come on.” He pulled back, walking to the back door and holding it open for Ilya.

“My gift is in the woods? Is it your PR event?” Shane shoved him playfully as the door shut behind them, leaving the two to walk across the yard and down to the path near the woods where they sometimes did morning runs together.

“You will finally kill me, Hollander?” he asked, knowing the grammar wasn’t quite right, but letting the question hang anyway. His English wasn’t always perfect, but Shane had made it a point to tell him how much he loved Ilya’s accented English over and over. If he’d done it to make Ilya feel better, he’d succeeded.

Shane laughed, shaking his head as he took Ilya’s hand and led him further down the path. All this land that bordered this section of the lake was theirs, almost all the way up to the turn in the road. When Shane had purchased it years ago, he’d wanted privacy, and that privacy had made such a difference in the days before they were out. This place had always felt like a sanctuary to Ilya, even when things were hard, and he felt that peace every time he ran on these wooded paths.

He and Shane bumped together as they walked, their bodies finding each other as often as they could. One bump turned into another, both picking up the pace and walking faster until Ilya took off, shoving Shane lightly before running ahead on the path.

“It’s not—it’s not a race, Ilya!” But there was laughter in his voice. They were like this often, the spark of competition never really dying between them. And Ilya loved how evenly matched they were. Ilya would always win, of course, but Shane always gave him a close run.

Today, Shane was on his heels—no complaints or banter, almost like he seemed happy to let Ilya lead. Was this part of his gift?

They were approaching the familiar clearing that came right before the path split, one direction to the road and the other to the water. But Ilya didn’t have time to decide which path to take, because today, the clearing held something different. He stopped so hard the dirt flew up in front of him, Shane colliding with his back at the abruptness, hands warm on his skin.

Today, there was something in the familiar clearing that wasn’t there before. He’d run this path a thousand times, but never—never had he…

Ilya stepped forward slowly, then again. His body leaned in as though it was functioning on its own. 

A small stone, a burst of flowers, the sun shining down and framing it perfectly.

His breath caught so violently at the recognition that he almost choked.

“What is this?” His voice was a cracked whisper, the emotion a fist around his throat.

He stepped closer, closer again, bending down to touch the name carved into marble. It was so familiar. It had been so long.

“Shane.” The name was a sob, his own voice nearly unrecognizable. It was exactly the same. Exactly. The name, the carvings, the stone itself. The chip in the upper corner. It had devastated Ilya when he’d seen it the first time, his finger running over it over and over again as though he could fix it with touch alone.

But here, now, it was familiar. It was the only piece of Russia he ever truly missed.

This headstone was in much better condition, covered in bright flowers that he would never have found in Moscow. They were bright, the way she deserved, and Ilya could suddenly feel the tears on his face. 

Ирина Розанова

Мать. Жена. Любимая.

“How?” He was crying in earnest now—he didn’t care. Shane had seen him cry plenty, the only one who he ever really let see him this way. 

“I called in a few favors. Vanya was home for the off season. Moscow wasn’t very far from him, and he took a day trip. I asked if he’d take a lot of pictures, and he did.”

Fuck, Vanya. He was always so kind. He understood what Russia was like, and they’d become fast friends because of it. He didn’t ask much about his summers, and Vanya didn’t offer. He had to know how strange the distance felt—he knew the situation—knew how Russia treated people like Ilya and Shane.

“I took the pictures and had a replica made. I don’t know how close it looks...”

How could Ilya possibly explain to him that it looked so much like it that it was the closest he’d felt to his mother since she died. That having her here, in this place that felt like peace, at the happiest he’d ever been in his life, was a gift like he had never experienced.

“Obviously, it isn't the same as having her here, but I thought you might find some comfort—” But Ilya was launching into Shane, their bodies colliding as he held him like he might disappear. Held him like he’d just given him something he thought he’d never have again. He felt Shane’s arms soften around him, holding him back tightly.

“You are everything. Everything, Shane, do you hear me?” He pulled back just enough to kiss him, his cooling tears smearing over freckles. Shane pressed his thumbs gently beneath Ilya’s eyes, brushing carefully.

“I’m sorry if this is overstepping—”

“Is not overstepping.” He kissed Shane on the cheek, pressing it a beat longer than normal, before turning back to the stone, crouching slowly, reverently, and reaching back out to touch it again. It felt unreal as he traced the letters, like she could be here.

“She would like this.” He finally found the words, though they, too caught in his throat. “She loved the forest. Loved the quiet places.” He laughed, but it shook. “She would love you, too.”

It wasn’t the first time he had told Shane that, but Ilya truly believed it. Irina had been a soft but strong force, quiet but fierce. He thought she would recognize that in Shane, be impressed with his competitive nature and ferocious loyalty.

“You think so?”

“She would say you are too thin, probably,” Ilya responded as he felt Shane come to sit on the ground at his side. “She was the first person to really care about me. To show me what love was supposed to look like.” 

Ilya knew how hard she must have tried to hang on.

“She sounds like she was a smart, wonderful woman.”

“She was,” Ilya said fondly. Then, more softly, “She would be so happy I am loved.”

Shane wordlessly sank against him, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching. Above them, a cool breeze moved through the trees, the lake lapping at the shore just beyond where they sat. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the grief inside Ilya didn’t feel as heavy. It felt almost like it had finally been given its own place to sit, to take it from his shoulders.

Ilya leaned his head against Shane’s, closing his eyes and breathing in. He imagined coming here, leaving flowers, bringing Anya. He had a flash of, maybe one day, explaining to someone small and curious who Irina Rozanova had been, why she mattered so much. The thought brought the stinging tears back to his eyes.

When they finally stood, Ilya brushed his fingers over the chip in the stone one more time before stepping back. It was perfect.

“Thank you,” Ilya said, steady now. The words still weren’t enough, but they were true. “This means more than you could ever know.”

Shane squeezed his hand.

“Even if you broke our no-gifts rule,” Ilya laughed.

“You’re telling me that the giant structure badly covered by a blanket in our garage right now isn’t doing that?” He tugged Ilya back toward the house. The walk back was slower, both of them quiet, hands entwined.

And if there ever was a doubt, Ilya thought, as the sun filtered through the trees and Shane bumped his shoulder on purpose, it had been answered a long time ago.

[ninthcircleofprythian]

An Aquired Taste

Azriel/Eris Vanserra

Word Count - 3096

Warnings - two boys kissin', azriel really doesn't know what to say, a singular Heated Rivalry reference

Author's Note - IT'S TIME! The time is finally here my darling @frostystarlight . It is I, your secret santa! And this is your gift for the @acotargiftexchange . Just a couple idiots in love. When you originally picked the Eris you wanted (as compared to candy) and chose licorice, I have to admit my first thought was "Azriel hates licorice." (I dunno, its just one of my silly headcanons lol). So I took it an ran with it and decided, "ok but what if he learns to love it..." and this was the result. I hope you enjoy it because Santa knows you've been awfully good this year and you deserve it!

Divider courtesy of @pixopix

Drowning out the noises around him, Azriel focused his attention on his target. The sounds of the crowd bled away into a low hum in his ears, nearly extinguished by the slow drum of his heartbeat. He was unconcerned with bystanders and their conversations. He was singularly focused on what he was here for. 

Hazel eyes tracked the person of interest through the throng of shoppers. The market square, while usually lively and well traveled, was filled to capacity this close to Solstice. The vendors were packed side by side lining the cobblestone streets and fae of all varieties jostled about. This wasn’t the sort of mission he normally took on. He was too recognizable within the bounds of Velaris making it impossible to keep his cover outside of bleeding into the shadows. This mission was of personal importance however. 

The bright sheen of burnished copper flashed among the crowd before disappearing again. The cool mist of shadowy darkness enveloped over his Illyrian frame before swallowing him whole inside. Within a moment, Azriel materialized in the dark mouth of an alley. Sharp sounds of children's laughter cracked through his awareness before he drowned out the background distractions once more. Wings tucked and shadows cloaking, he positioned himself against the damp brick of the neighboring shop. This newest vantage point opened up onto the heart of the square, centered directly into the dead end loop of produce and sweets vendors. 

“Az?” Rhys’ voice boomed inside his head. “Where are you?”

“I’m busy.” Slamming the gates of his mind closed before his High Lord could question him further. 

Azriel visually scanned over the crowd, easily finding who he was looking for. Eyes narrowed and laser focused, he watched and waited. What he was waiting for, he wasn’t entirely sure himself. A tell. A minor slip. Some indication that this aching premonition in his chest was right. He would know it when he saw it. 

This mission was not sanctioned by his brother but Azriel had learned that sometimes it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Especially when he knew that permission would not have been granted in this case. Rhysand had come to reluctantly trust Eris Vanserra. Bargains and business and whatever else had transpired between them outside of Azriel’s knowledge, Rhysand had come to believe that having Eris on their side was an asset. Az however believed that allowing him to roam freely among the streets of Velaris was a mistake and he was intent on proving it. 

He tracked the prince of Autumn’s movements carefully. Tall and lithe, Eris moved with a natural grace that set Azriel’s teeth on edge. He was dressed far more casually than he had been earlier at his meeting with the Night Court. Gone were the frills and vestiges of court royalty, replaced with the soft pile of a knitted sweater and tailored pants. A small leather satchel hung from his side, tucked discreetly under the well worn cloak draped over his shoulders. 

Even Eris’ face appeared softer. Perhaps it was the loose unbound curtain of red drifting down to his shoulders. Brows no longer pinched, cheekbones still refined but less sharp. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he leaned over the wares of a sweets vendor and Azriel's heart skipped. The pale slender throat on display, heat flooded Azriel's face before hot anger followed. A throat he's already wrapped his hand around in anger. Every wrongdoing of Eris Vanserra flashed heavily in his mind. Azriel's palms itched at the memory as he clenched his fists at his side. 

How dare he flit about his city so unassuming, playing tourist. If only everyone around this square knew what predator lurked among them. Azriel felt a low rumble of a growl building in his chest. At some silent command, a lone shadow shot out of the alleyway and into the crowd.

“Looking for anything particular?” The vendor greeted.

“I was just parsing through your licorice selection,” Eris replied idylly.

“We grow the root ourselves! Largest selection in the city.”

Eris smirked at the males obvious peddling. “I’m actually looking for something in particular. A soft licorice coated in sea salt. It’s surprisingly uncommon to find and unfortunately one of my favorites.”

The errant shadow relayed the conversation and it sounded inside Az’s head, much like his connection with Rhys. Azriel frowned at the mention of licorice. His eyes narrowed further as he inspected Eris at the stall as if the news of his preferred treat somehow confirmed whatever sinister beliefs he had of the Autumn prince. He thought of his own hatred of the foul candy and the knot in his chest tightened further at the evidence that his hatred was justified. 

“Ahhh,” the vendor sighed. “An uncommon taste indeed, some would say acquired.” With a twinkle in his eye the vendor turned and plucked a smaller crate from the side table of the booth. 

Azriel watched as Eris’ amber eyes briefly widened. 

The vendor plucked the paper wrapped piece from the crate. “A sample?”

Eris accepted and untwisted the ends of the wrapper. His hands slowed as Azriel’s heart sped up. Carefully, nimbly, Eris’s elegant fingers unrolled the soft treat and grasped it between finger and thumb. His rosy lips parted and ever so slowly unfurled his pink tongue. His amber eyes snapped to the corner of the tablecloth drifting in the breeze, making direct eye contact with the errant shadow hiding there as he winked and pulled the sweet into his mouth.

“I hope the bat saw that,” he mused inwardly, scanning the periphery for every shadowy spot that the Illyrian might be skulking. Eris didn’t need to spot him, he knew he was there. He would show himself in good time. He could practically hear the pounding of Azriel’s heart from here. That same heavy thudding rhythm that he had felt against his hand and he scrabbled for breath beneath the weight of him at the High Lord’s meeting. 

Eris repressed the memory in his mind, savoring the rich bloom of the sweet in his mouth. As the vendor scooped the candies into a bag, Eris refrained from turning and scanning the crowd. That nagging ache in his chest, that feeling of being watched, had dissipated. He chose to believe that was a good thing. 

Having paid, he stashed his purchase into the satchel at his side. Not even a full step into the milling crowd again and there was a brief swirling of air between the booths. He didn’t even glance sideways as he smirked knowingly. 

“What are you doing here, Eris?” Azriel nearly growled, cold fury wafted from him.

Eris took a cleansing breath, a smirk still proudly displayed upon his fine lips. “I seem to remember being invited here by your High Lord,” he intoned. “Or did you miss that bit of information as well?”

Az’s wings twitched with agitation at the dig. Rhys had indeed invited Eris here to Night Court and then promptly barred himself and Cassian from being part of the meeting. Whatever had been discussed behind closed doors was still a mystery to him and Eris knew it. 

“This appears to be outside the bounds of an official meeting,” Az growled. 

Turning to face his opponent, Eris’s smirk grew into a full fledged grin. Amber eyes glittering with feral delight. “I was unaware there were restrictions to my travel, Spymaster. Is this the part where you drag me off to some dungeon?”

The thought had crossed Azriel’s mind on more than one occasion. Capturing this meddling fire fae and torturing him for information, seeking some kind of justice for Mor, watching the flame sputter out in his beguiling eyes. He thought of it quite often in fact. Mostly alone in his room in the quiet of night, hand palming his rigid cock. 

The question lingered between them unanswered, Azriel still looming unmoving. 

“Do I at least get some sort of Last Rites? A final drink perhaps?” Eris questioned coyly. “If I’m going to be held prisoner for some minor infraction, the least you could do is let me be drunk.” 

Azriel shook his head in confusion, eyes narrowed upon Eris and his angular face. Before he could utter a word, Eris laid his slender hand upon the sleeve of his training leathers and the world went dark. 

The clinking of glasses sounded in his ears before anything came into view. Azriel didn’t recognize where they were at all. Turning his head side to side he surveyed the room, a dark and elegant taproom it seemed. All dark wood and hushed voices, smoke lingering above a pair of males sitting in a corner booth, one of them smoking a pipe. His shadows had abandoned him the second they arrived, zooming through the darkened corners and inspecting for danger. 

Eris slid himself onto the stool to his left, cozying up to the empty bar counter and signalling across the bar with a tap of his fingers.

“Where the fuck are we?” 

“Autumn Court of course,” Eris replied without even looking his way. “You didn’t really think I’d choose some Night Court swill for my final drink, did you?”

Once again, Azriel didn’t answer. It was at this moment he realized he had lost control of the situation. What he had planned on doing when he revealed himself to Eris in the market square, he didn’t know, and now he was courts away from home. He could winnow himself this instant. Return to Velaris unscathed and embarrassed, never to speak of this again. But as he swiveled his gaze to the male at the bar, posture loose and demeanor confident, he couldn’t find the will to leave. 

Eris slid the second of the heavy bottomed whiskey glasses across the bar in Az’s direction. An invitation. His shadows had returned without any news of danger or strife. Clenching his hands at his sides and rolling his shoulders, Azriel forced himself into feigned cordiality. He was rather curious about Eris's intentions. 

Tipping his glass, Eris clicked it against the one still sitting upon the bar top. “Cheers,” he said as he brought his own drink to his lips. Azriel didn’t bother taking a seat, stepping closer to the bar and snatching the glass up. He threw his head back and the drink burned its way down his throat. Hot and pleasant in equal measure with a touch of something smoky. 

“It’s meant to be savored,” Eris quipped as he tapped the bar again to signal for another drink. “This isn’t the sort of drivel you toss back in those brothels you frequent.” 

Before Azriel could reply, another glass slid his way. “Sip it,” Eris commanded, his voice smoky as the air around them. “Let it linger on your tongue. Once you get past the burn it really mellows out nicely.”

Azriel listened to direction, much easier than he probably should have, but something about the dark quiet of this place and the intriguing male beside him lulled his hyperawareness to a dull hum. Even his shadows had settled, tucked along the ridge of his wings, still and quiet. 

He sipped, holding the burning liquid on his tongue, rolling it from side to side as the fire dissipated and a smoky flavor bloomed. Cinnamon and a hint of fig followed, with a touch of honey. Eris watched the Spymaster’s face intently as he studied the notes and swallowed. 

“See?”

Azriel nodded in agreement before letting a measure of silence pass. “What were you doing in Velaris earlier?” Azriel questioned, staring down at his glass. 

“As I said, I was invited on official–,”

“You know what I mean, Vanserra,” Az snapped, turning his head toward him with a searing glare. No answer followed, nothing but that aggravating smirk. 

“Mor hates when you visit,” he declared, hoping idly to push Eris into enough irritation to give him a reason to leave.

“Mor hates her father too but that doesn’t stop his access to your fabled city,” Eris responded coolly as he took another sip.

Azriel had nothing else to say to that. Despite his complicated feelings about Mor and her history, this wasn’t the time. The silence settled between them, surprisingly easy and calm. The animosity Azriel had felt following Eris through the city streets had evaporated and yet he still couldn't bring himself to just winnow home. Whatever this was felt companionable and quaint. A pang of melancholy hit Az square in the chest. 

The knock of an empty glass on the bar top broke through his reverie. “Well,” Eris started as he eased himself from the stool. “I’ve had my final drink. I suppose now is when I surrender.” 

He faced Azriel again with that aggravating smirk, one eyebrow cocked in jest. Az stood straighter, clearly faking a confidence he didn’t feel. Eris couldn’t actually be serious about surrender to capture could he? He stood stock still a moment, gauging the amber eyes before him and trying to read past their mischievous sparkle. But Eris didn’t back down.

“If you insist,” Az said as he reached for Eris’s arm and for a split second he swore he could have felt a tremor pass through the Autumn prince’s limb.

Eris wasn’t wholly surprised when they didn’t materialize into some dingy basement room. He was however taken aback by the choice of location. The massive room was even less lit than the taproom, the outer walls hidden fully in darkness. Only the large square middle of the room was lit by streams of neon fae light dancing slowly through the air. Drumbeats pulsed from the stage to their right and Eris took in the sights from where they stood. Fae of all shapes and colors and sizes were dancing, some in groups and some alone or in pairs. All of them undulating to the slow rhythm of the band. 

The corner of Eris’s mouth tipped up in a sly grin. “Not exactly the torture I was expecting but torture none the less.”

Azriel couldn’t help the twitch at the corner of his own lips. “It’s not like you can’t dance. I’ve seen you on the floor before,” he jested. 

Eris threw his head back and laughed. A full and surprised laugh. His copper hair slipped down his back and exposed his bobbing throat. Azriel’s first instinct was to lean in and taste it. 

Shaken by his own thoughts, he turned and abruptly made his way to the edge of the dance floor. Calming his racing heart he centered his breathing, letting the beat of the drums pulse over his skin. This was his go to when he couldn’t stand the oppressive thoughts of his own mind anymore. Where he escaped when couldn’t stand the heavy weight of his friends and their well meaning platitudes. Right now, he couldn't stand to face the male behind him or the realization of why he had brought Eris here. Closing his eyes, Azriel just listened. He took in the music around him and let everything else melt away. He wasn’t sure exactly how long it took him to ease his way to the dance floor, all he knew was that for just this moment, everything felt right.

Eris watched from the sidelines. His eyes tracked the limber movements of the warrior on the floor, wings tucked and always conscious of those around him, even with his eyes closed. It almost reminded him of his hounds bounding through the woods. If he could stop the hastening of time and watch them in slow motion, Eris felt it would look a lot like Azriel right now. Twisting around tree trunks and over branches, winding their way through dense forest. As one song bled into two and then three, Eris pushed himself from the table he had been leaning on and approached the floor.

Azriel didn’t seem to be aware of his presence. If he was, he didn’t show it. Lost in the music and movement of his own body, he continued dancing. His face no longer pinched in intense concentration or ire, Eris couldn’t help but find him beautiful. Slipping between other fae, he joined the crowd. 

A few moments passed, both dancing in each other's periphery, not worried about anything else but this moment. It was only when Az spun to face him that Eris noticed his surprise at seeing him there. 

“The last time you saw me dance,” Eris raised his voice above the music. “I was vying for the hand of Feyre’s sister. Tell me Spymaster…who’s hand am I vying for now?”

Azriel stilled for the briefest of moments, hand dropping back down to his sides. His mouth didn’t move in answer, but his body picked back up quickly, swaying to the music as he stepped closer to Eris. Not one to back down, Eris met him in the middle. Their chests nearly touching as they matched each other's rhythm. The misty shadows that always accompanied Azriel now drifted lazily between them, occasionally twirling themselves over Eris’s exposed wrists. 

First it was the drift of a hand against Eris’s side. Then it was the nudge of a hip as Eris stepped in closer. In a matter of minutes their bodies were pressed together, dancing in tandem.

“Are you going to take me to bed or not?” Eris questioned, his eyes glittering and half lidded. 

“We didn’t even kiss,” Az pointed out, hands drifting to his hips and pulling Eris closer.

“Let’s change that then.”

Azriel gave himself over to instinct as he leaned down the few inches down to Eris’s upturned face. This time his palms itched for a different reason, scarred hand gliding over silky skin, he wrapped his hand around Eris’s slender throat and pulled gently. One teasing lick to his plush bottom lip and Eris opened freely and matched his energy. 

The first taste was lingering smoke from the earlier whiskey, but as Azriel continued exploring he tasted the salty licorice he had watched Eris eat. He stroked along that same wet tongue he had seen envelope the sweet. It tasted earthy and pleasantly bitter, not at all like the pungent and acrid taste he had believed he hated. 

He pulled his head back and met Eris’s gaze, surprised to find he had buried his scarred hand into his hair. Eris’s hands gripped along the front of his tunic at his chest. 

“Let’s go,” Az managed to speak with a croak.

Gone was the aggravating smirk, replaced with the relaxed confidence. “Lead the way.”

general taglist - @prythianpages @nocasdatsgay @secret-third-thing @whisperingmidnights @chairofchaos

@lilah-asteria @c-starstuff-man0 @mybestfriendmademe @pit-and-the-pen

@lady-of-tearshed @daycourtofficial

[tsaheylu-addict]

oh I hate seeing them fight!

*new clip*

[queenoffeysand]

The End

A/N: Hope you enjoy this, everything positive is always appreciated!

Word Count: 1,493

AO3 Link

Masterlist

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTERS DEATH

Tired.

Everyone was tired.

You could tell by Cassian and Azriel’s posture, the slack of light in Mor and Rhys’ eyes, by her own lack of magic and energy.

It had been a long two years with division in the inner circle between a Spymaster and a High Lord, a General and a High Lady, a Second and a Third, and finally between the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court. 

There had also been division within Prynthian between Day and Night, Winter and Summer, Autumn and Spring, and between Dawn and the newly formed and discovered Dusk court. 

The sky was dark with despair or weather, no one really knew, but it reflected the despair among the soldiers across the fields fighting a civil war they had no part of besides relaying the messages of their lords. 

The rain started pouring from the dark and cloudy sky, the cold drops were the first thing she felt besides the weight on her shoulders and the despair of her kids dying in the war that never should have started. 

The broken family that once called themselves an inner circle was standing in a circle, all analyzing each other, all analyzing themselves in front of the people they once called family, none had talked civilly to each other since before the war started, all divided on who they should support and whether or not to fight in battles that weren’t their own. 

Everyone thought words were impossible until Cassian’s hoarse voice spoke first, with tears beginning to form in his eyes, “What do we do now?” Everyone’s bleak and broken eyes all looked to him, looking at him for leadership. “There is nothing left, for anybody, there are broken bodies lining the streets and roads of every town, city, and countryside-”

“Cassian, just stop.” Her own voice surprised her with how strong it sounded, how unbroken, now matter how hoarse with the screaming over her children’s bodies. 

She saw his shoulders cave back in, the confidence he had slowly mustered going back down again. Then she saw Rhys start to say something, and his was the last voice she wanted to hear. “No, just no, Rhys.”

She started slowly walking through the circle, back to her tent, or what was left of it. She barely felt the wounds that she knew she had, based on the tingling feeling in her calf and head. She heard other steps behind her, other people moving around and shuffling, but she still couldn’t bring herself to care. Her loves, her entire heart, had been shredded today.

“Mom”

The voice made her stop in her tracks, she didn’t dare look behind her.

“Mommy”

The tears started making their way down her face.

“Mom, please”

The desperation in the voice, the voice of her eldest son, had never sounded so hopeless in his 50 years of life. 

Feyre wanted to turn around, so desperately she wanted to turn around, but she knew this was all a trick, if she turned around, if she saw her son, she would die in this nightmare.

But then the louder voices started, “Feyre, Feyre!” She couldn’t recognize the voice, but knew it was familiar, it sounded like home, or whatever home should sound like. 

Another voice started yelling, “Mom, MOM!” All the voices started overlapping in her head, like a buzzing fly never getting out of your face. “STOP!” The silence was for one second, maybe two, before the voices started screaming again, more frantically than the last time. 

She felt a blast of cold cover her, her world no longer the brazen battlefield with a broken family as the only survivors, but darkness surrounded her, there was no light, but she was not alone, someone stood across from her, someone with piercing blue eyes, so blue they looked violet, a strong jaw, and lean, but with muscle. She knew this person, knew they shared something important with how he looked at her, but she couldn't remember what. 

“Feyre”

The man finally talked, the desperation in his voice clear, “Come home, wake up”

“Okay, I’m tired”

“We know you’re tired, just take my hand and I’ll bring you home.”

Feyre moved to take his hand, but all of a sudden there was a clear wall dividing them, the stranger’s features morphing into someone else, someone who looked kind of like her, but also looked like the stranger who had disappeared. 

“Mom”

“I know you.” Feyre was bewildered at what was happening, she knew the people were real, important people in her life, but the landscape, where they were, was not. 

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know where we’re at, but I do know you have to get us out of here, you have to wake up.” The man, boy, stranger, the person was holding out his hand as the man before him did, but this time when she went to take his hand, the clear wall didn’t form, the path clear as their hands touched each other. 

A spark of magic happened, her once cold body now burning up, burning the clothes off her body. 

But now she could tell she was lying in a bed, the sheets and blankets strewn about across her body, and the voices had started again. 

“Feyre!”

“Mom!”

“Feyre!”

“Mom!”

The voices went back and forth, rising in panic with every breath.

A hand was touching her shoulder, “Feyre, we need you to wake up, please wake up and look me in the eyes.”

She started to try to say something, but as soon as she did the pain was unbearable, the heat making her convulse, but her muscles were too frozen to do anything. Warm hands moved her on her side, supporting her head as she started to heave over the edge. Her eyes were still closed, still unsure of where she was at and who was touching her. 

*******

The only thing Rhys felt was his mate’s despair through the bond as he helped her turn over on the bed, clear she couldn’t do it herself. She was moaning, clearly in pain, her skin was too hot, burning the clothes off of her, burning the bed beneath her, but she didn’t seem able to move, the one time she tried, her muscles started seizing, as if something had frozen them into place. 

“Feyre! Please wake up, open your eyes.” The tears had started running down his face a while ago, probably as soon as his children had walked into his room. Deciding that her skin was too hot, her pale and fair skin too flushed, he carried to the bath where there was already cool water waiting for her. 

The water sizzled as soon as he put Feyre fully in the water, a marker to how hot her skin truly was, and looking down at his own hands he saw blisters on blisters on where they had made contact with Feyre’s hot skin. 

The cold water seemed to wake her up, the difference in temperature doing the trick to wake her from her nightmares. 

It was clear she was trying to speak but everytime she opened her mouth, she heaved over the lip of the bath onto the tile below.

“Darling, just stay still, okay?”

His Feyre, his mate, could barely respond with a moan, her eyes still not opening, her fair skin still flushed with heat. He couldn’t even comfort her with how hot her skin was still burning. 

“Has she woken up yet?” A voice he had watched and heard grow up now stood in the doorway of the bathroom, nervous and anxious to see his mom so helpless, overtaken by her own mind or some sickness. 

“Not yet, but can you send someone to go get Madja, after that I want you back in here.” His voice was stronger than it had been, knowing his son needed some strength to lean on.

His son was back in less than five minutes, but in those five minutes, Feyre’s condition had gone from bad to worse, and Rhys felt the mating bond slipping from his soul. “No no no no no no no, Feyre, come back! Fight whatever this is!” With the slipping of his mating bond he also felt the bargain Feyre and him had made after the war with Hybern, to never leave each other, to not live while the other died, start to burn into his skin. 

With what little strength he had left, all of it dying with Feyre, he brought his hand to his son’s and told him,”Nyx, you are your mother and I’s heart, you will be High Lord after this night and you will do a wonderful job at it, you will have the council of your uncles and aunts, and other High Lords. We love you.” The last of Rhys' strength died in his last three words, as he and his mate fell into the afterworld together.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

[skittlebot]

Hat Rules

When her sisters drag her to a rodeo, Feyre never expects to catch the champion bull rider’s hat, but then he tells her to keep it, all reckless grins and easy charm. She doesn’t understand why everyone stares when she puts it on… not until she sees him later that night and learns the cowboy rules... and what happens when you break them.

1/2 Chapters | E | In Progress

I was watching tik toks before my class this morning, and I saw an edit of the longest ride, and I NEEDED a cowboy Rhys fic, so naturally, this is what y'all get. Also, I kinda just wanted an excuse to add some of the photos I took in my darkroom class for the moodboard, because how could I not add my sweet baby horsie in there? This was thrown together in a day while neglecting my schoolwork, so hopefully it's not tooo bad lol!

[idkyetxoxo]

Starlight | Rhysand | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Rhysand x reader

Summary - Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court. Power and starlight. Made of dreams and devotion. His mate, strong and radiant, the only one who could match him heart for heart.

What began with a wish and a bond became something far greater—family.

From labour beneath a sky of falling stars to sleepless nights, first words, magical mishaps, and tiny hands clutching his own—they grow, they stumble, they love.

He thought he knew what love was. Then he held his daughter.

A story of stars and lullabies, of magic and parenthood, of a warrior learning the bravest thing he could be was gentle.

He was their sky. They were his stars.

Tags - new parents, family dynamics, fluff and feels, Rhysand as a dad, Cass and Azriel as uncles, wholesome chaos, tender moments

Contents -

✩ One

✩ Two

✩ Three

✩ Four

✩ Five

✩ Six

✩ Seven

✩ Eight

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Basically, this is Rhysand and reader vs. the magical chaos of first-time parenthood. Expect all the sleepless nights, soft moments, baby giggles, teething disasters, and occasional "oh no, the baby is winnowing again" panic.

Each part jumps forward in time—starting from the day of the birth, then a week later, a month later, and so on (just like I did in "Little Shadow" for Azriel—aka the fic that inspired this one).

It's equal parts fluff, feelings, and "someone grab her before she eats that."

And I will FINALLY be using the permanent taglists so anybody who has asked to be on everything ACOTAR or Rhysand will automatically be tagged for this!!

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3

[idkyetxoxo]

A Fine Line | Azriel | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Azriel x reader (Bodyguard Azriel x Actress/Singer Reader)

Summary - She's the industry's golden girl—talented, beautiful, and heartbreakingly lonely beneath the spotlight. Everyone wants a piece of her fame, but no one seems to want her.

Azriel is her new bodyguard—stoic, disciplined, and absolutely off-limits. His job is simple, keep her safe. His mistake is caring too much.

From the moment they meet, they clash. She pushes boundaries, he enforces them. But when danger creeps too close and the walls around them start to crumble, their careful distance turns into something raw, forbidden, and impossible to ignore.

What begins as protection spirals into obsession, and in a world where every glance is caught on camera, falling in love might just be the most dangerous scandal of all.

Tags - bodyguard x celebrity AU, forbidden romance, tension and longing, forced proximity, yearning

Contents -

⟡ One

⟡ Two

⟡ Three

⟡ Four

⟡ Five

⟡ Six

⟡ Seven

⟡ Eight

⟡ Nine

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

The idea for this hit me on my way to work and I swear I've been itching to write it ever since. I've had sm fun planning it out. Honestly, it's the first story in a while that's made me genuinely excited to sit down and finish it :)

I decided to make reader both an actress and a singer, I already have a mafia AU with Azriel where she's a popstar (I PROMISE I'll post that one someday... it just keeps getting bumped by other fics). Giving her the actress angle here has added some chef's kiss jealousy and drama that I'm obsessed with x

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3

[pellucid-constellations]

Entanglement

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had been pulling away. You thought it was from stress. His busy schedule. From being tired. Anything but what you assumed you saw in the street that evening. Anything but that.  

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Angst!!, mentions of cheating/infidelity, miscommunication (you guys have to trust me here)

a/n: Hiiii angsty time :p More parts to come if you're interested hehe love you thank you for reading!!!! mwah :* (happy ending also)

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to ignore the sweltering ache in your head. He hadn’t meant that—you were sure. Tears were dried on your cheeks and your chest hurt and you were sure Azriel hadn’t meant that. 

A shaky breath escaped the constriction of your throat. Just ten minutes ago, you’d felt fine. Happy, even. Azriel had told you he’d be home for dinner, and you spent hours on the meal. He’d been busier lately, tasked with more work than he should have been with Rhysand’s son just being born. So, you spent hours on dinner and hoped he’d be able to relax after. 

He hadn’t. 

He hadn’t even eaten the dinner.

The shift in him had been so sudden it was startling. You leaned against the counter with your hand against your chest, remembering how he’d snapped at you. Remembering the flicker of… vitriol that clashed with his usually adoring features. He’d never looked at you like that. 

“I was thinking, after, we could take a bath together. Maybe we—” 

“I will not. Don’t even suggest that.” 

The words still rang in your ears. His expression shifted to confusion, and then anger again. He’d stood abruptly, knocking his freshly poured glass of wine across the tablecloth, and took one step towards you. And then stalked away and left the house. 

It was the stress. It had to be. Azriel had been your mate for decades—promised you lifetimes full of devotion. He’d lived up to every promise, and you acted in tandem. You just needed to pull more weight now. To shoulder the relationship as he struggled. 

You cleaned up the kitchen and the dining room. You tossed the tablecloth, not wanting the reminder even if it was salvageable. You took a bath—alone—and then lay in bed as the clock in the sitting room ticked on, and you remained alone.

He probably stayed in the House of Wind. 

Everything around you felt cold, but you ignored it. 

The next morning, you were tired and felt like a hollow version of yourself, but you pressed against it. The day continued as it always did, and you worked as you always did. There were no tugs across the bond, but you had come to expect that recently; when Azriel was as busy as he was, it was often a simple livewire between you—untouched, but present. 

You ran your thoughts along its flowing energy, only for them to bounce off the glowing air. 

Fine. That was fine. 

Sometimes, Azriel closed his side of the bond entirely. It was a distraction for him, he had told you once. He loved you so much that he needed to close it off when he was working. Only when he was deep in work. And then he would open it back up and make up for lost time. 

Your lips trembled slightly as you pressed them into a tight line. 

This was temporary. 

He was stressed, and you were not. 

The probability that Azriel would come home tonight and apologize and hold you close was unfathomably high. Even when you had small arguments—even when you were the one in the wrong—you always made up in the same way. He always assured you that there was never anything that could come between you. You were never mad at each other for more than a day. 

Was he mad at you? 

You couldn’t trace a reason back. Azriel had been busy, yes, but you hadn’t said anything—hadn’t pushed him to come home sooner or give you more attention. You didn’t have to, because these periods were always temporary. 

But, unlike the typical busy seasons of your life, Azriel had never looked at you like he had last night.

You released another aching sigh and tapped your fingers against the archive shelves. Your job was peaceful, and you enjoyed the extended alone time, but it also gave you far too much time to overthink. Staying locked up in the small space with no windows and too little ventilation probably didn’t help your racing thoughts, either. 

Mor would help. 

Azriel wouldn’t be home right now to solve this, anyway.

You locked up the archive and dusted yourself off. The air struck your face as you ascended the stairs. It was chilling and invigorating all at once, and it mixed with the melancholy feeling inside of you, causing nausea to form. 

Mor would definitely help. She would tell you you were being ridiculous, remind you of how sickening Azriel acted around you, and ply you with alcohol. And then you would go home, and Azriel would be there. Everything would feel okay again.  

The walk to your friend's home was cut short by the sound of laughter. It had been a while since you heard the sound so robust, but there was no mistaking the tone of your mate’s joy. It made your heart skip several beats, and your feet felt lighter as you chased the sound. Your mind had forgotten the strife associated with him as you rounded the corner and saw Azriel leaning casually against the apothecary shop’s wall, his wings flared slightly. 

You blinked, and your mouth formed a smile without your knowledge. It had always been easy to smile around him. Easier, too, when he looked so happy. 

Your lips parted to speak when a second sound trickled through the air. There was someone beside him. You’d completely missed her upon first glance, too enraptured by the gleam in your mate’s eye. By the spark of ease he had lost over the past few weeks. 

She was unmistakably beautiful, with dark hair glittering past her shoulders and framing the smock covering her chest. Her eyes were a striking green that remained trained on Azriel as you stood hidden by the corner of the street. She laughed, and he laughed back as she lightly touched his shoulder. His wings flared out again. 

You’d seen her once, you thought. She owned the apothecary that they stood before now. She’d offered you a serum for Azriel’s wings at the time, remembering who your mate was even as you’d entered the shop seeking a remedy for something completely unrelated. You’d declined gratefully, and that was the end of it. 

You hadn’t been back, and you couldn’t remember Azriel saying he needed to go to an apothecary. 

Another laugh, and you snapped your gaze back to the pair in the street. Brick and stone indented Azriel’s shoulder as he leaned just an inch closer to her, and all good feelings—everything that had made you feel lighter at the sound of his laugh—instantly evaporated. You bit hard into your bottom lip as Azriel’s siphons shone against the waning evening light, watching his shadows seem to pull back. They strained against his feet on the ground, and he lazily ticked his fingers and made them inch back. 

The apothecary owner giggled and knelt down, entranced by their antics. They didn’t move towards her, and that was the only thing to bring you a sliver of comfort tonight. 

You swallowed back the rising thickness of your throat, spinning on your heel and heading…somewhere. The route to Mor’s was murky now, and you weren’t even sure you had the words to express how you felt. 

He’d been so angry last night, so abrasive. And then, with that stranger, he was calm. Laughing. Enjoying himself. He’d closed his side of the bond. He wasn’t even working. He’d closed it simply because he hadn’t wanted to feel it. 

The thought struck you, and you had to pause. Your jaw trembled as the familiar burn of tears entered your eyes.

What was happening? 

There were no signs leading up to this. Nyx had been born only three months prior, and things had just started to settle. Azriel’s workload was still heavy, but reportedly dwindling by Rhysand’s account. Just last week, Azriel had come home from several days of work in a row and kissed you and asked if he could make dinner beside you. He had whispered in your ear how much he missed you and stayed up with you even though he was exhausted. 

And now… 

You briefly considered that you were going to be sick. 

You stared down at your shoes and tried to focus on how the breeze felt against your skin. Carrying more weight in the relationship was still the goal, wasn’t it? Maybe you were being too hasty. That beautiful woman hadn’t done anything inherently wrong, and neither had Azriel. 

They were only talking, right?

You ignored the twinge in your chest that echoed cautions about lying to yourself, and looked up to the orange-reflecting clouds, willing the tears to dry in your waterline. 

You’d follow your original plan—go to Mors, feel better, go home. 

Your plans were squandered again when Mor caught you before you made it to her house. 

“Y/n! This is great. I was going to call for Azriel to get you from that tiny, hovel of an archive and bring you to the townhouse. We’re all getting together for dinner now that Feyre feels up for it.” 

Your smile felt off as you offered it, but Mor was too focused on linking her arm with yours. “My archive is not a hovel,” you remarked, unsure if those were the first words you had spoken aloud today. 

Mor rolled her eyes and shot out a laugh. “Not even a window in there. Azriel worries about your lack of sun, you know. When you first got together, he asked Amren countless questions about the feasibility of adding natural light to that place. She insisted it would ruin the artifacts.” 

“It would. I don’t have candles down there either. Or too much wind.” 

Mor tsked. “A wonder you don’t shrivel up.” 

Mor was working. She was making you feel better, and you desperately tried to overwrite the joyful laughter from earlier with her witty recount of her trip to Summer last week. It worked. A little. Until you followed her into the townhouse to see that Azriel had already arrived, his posture relaxed once more as he sat beside Cassian. 

When you walked into his line of sight, you felt temporary relief when he looked at you as he usually did. His expression softened, he leaned forward as if to get up, and then his face tinged a bit somber as if remembering the fight last night. His eyes were open for that small moment, but then they soured just as quickly. He looked you up and down and leaned back against the cushions, wings pressed in tight.

No one else seemed to notice. Mor dragged you across the room to pour you wine—a small mercy—and Cassian continued his tale of something you couldn’t focus on. 

You needed more time. He was still upset about last night. Maybe at you, maybe at himself. Maybe he thought you were angry at him and wanted to give you space. 

You thought about the apothecary owner touching his shoulder and soured yourself, sinking into the chair Mor had placed you in and gulping down your wine. 

And then—dinner. 

Azriel did not sit beside you. Cassian and Elain had taken the chairs on either side, each offering to give their place up for Azriel, but he gave them a small smile and waved them off. “I’ll see her all night,” he had offered, ignoring the strange looks he received around the table. 

You focused your attention on Feyre. On the baby held in her lap. On Rhysand and the adoring smiles he was offering his family. The High Lord and Lady offered another thank you to the room, promising time to relax and extra gifts for winter solstice that everyone pretended to deny and claim they didn’t need. You acted normally and pretended not to feel Azriel’s gaze on you throughout the meal. 

It was reassuring at first. He watched you openly as you spoke, looked for your needs as he always had, and responded in kind with each observation—he passed you the water, informed you what plates had the things you didn’t like, shot his gaze to you eagerly when you laughed. He stared at you like he loved you still, and that made sense to you. That was meaningful. 

But, sometimes, he looked at you like he was confused. You would say something about your day, about the archive, and he would look lost, brows furrowed as he squinted his eyes. He would look around, bored. He would grimace and hide it. You were sure no one else knew Azriel’s expression as you did—and no one was looking as closely as you were.

The entire time, the bond remained closed. 

You couldn’t feel what he felt to understand him more. 

Maybe he was still angry at you. Maybe he was going through the motions of the night to not be suspicious. Maybe… he just wanted to say he was sorry, and you were freaking out. 

You considered closing your side of the bond halfway through the night, a stroke of pettiness flaming in you as he looked confused again. As he confused you. 

You closed it for only a second, but Azriel had shot wide eyes in your direction so quickly that you broke down the wall you formed without a second thought. He let out a breath when you did, but looked away. 

And kept his side locked away. 

When you went home that night, Azriel held your coat out and guided your arms through it. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head that lingered longer than usual, and squeezed your hand in his as he held it. He kept it against him, cradling it against his chest as he led you out of the townhouse and onto the street. He said goodbye to everyone and kept you in his hand, against his heart, as you left together. 

And, still, your bond remained empty. 

There were a few minutes of silent walking as you were led home. The sound of your feet on stone echoed against his shadows as they looped around your figure and glued themselves to you, needy, even as you ignored them in favor of the pit forming in your gut. 

“I—I’m sorry we fought,” Azriel said, sounding as if his teeth were gritted as he spoke. 

The sound shocked you. You blinked up at him to find his features hard. “Um, it’s okay. I’ve… just been worried about you, Az.” 

Azriel closed his eyes and breathed out of his nose. He kept walking. “I’m fine.” 

“I know that. I know that things have been busier and you’ve been stressed. I get it—” 

“You don’t get it,” he relayed abruptly. The tone was reminiscent of last night. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “You can’t understand.” 

“Okay,” you replied slowly. You’d come to a stop in the street now, facing him and hands still intertwined. You stared up, searching him, but his eyes were unopened. “I don’t get it, then. That’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine. I can’t—” 

You reached up for his jaw, but he rushed out of the touch, turning his head.

Panic crept along your lungs. “Help me get it,” you quickly demanded. “I want to get it, Az. I—we’re always here for each other. Even if… if you’ve done something you feel like you can’t tell me.” 

You wanted to throw up as soon as you said it. In all honesty, the thought of Azriel being unfaithful was something you couldn’t handle. You said you’d always be there, but the memory of him on the street earlier cut through you like a knife, and you weren’t sure how you’d react if he laid something bare right now. You weren’t even sure if you were strong enough to form the thought fully, so the fact that you’d voiced a version of your worries out loud surprised you. 

Azriel winced, but his eyes remained closed. 

“Look at me. Please,” you practically begged. Your hands swung uselessly at your side, shadows replacing where Azriel’s fingers once were, and you begged for something so simple. Your next thought escaped your mouth. “Are you with someone else?” 

That had his eyes blowing wide the way they had been when you closed the bond. He was shaking his head as if you were insane, fingers twitching as if to reach for you, but not closing the distance. “Of course not. How could you—I would never.” 

You bit into your lip, the skin there raw. “Well, I just… you were so mad at me last night. You were mean. You’re never… mean, Azriel.” 

His hands spasmed between you. “I know. I’m sorry. I—” Azriel sighed until his shoulders slumped. He moved his flexing fingers up to the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could explain this to you. I just—I can’t.” 

“What? That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“I’m trying to figure this out. Just, please, give me time, angel.” 

The soft way he said the word made your chest ache. You went to touch him again, and something flashed on his face. He tore back and caught himself with an ungraceful step. You watched as he stared down at his trembling hands, and you watched him look back up to find your obviously hurt expression. 

“What is going on?” you stressed. “What do you need to figure out? Is it… is it me? Are you—does this have to do with that apothecary?” 

“Don’t—” he snapped, eyes flashing. He calmed himself, and you felt yourself break. “I told you I need time. Please, give me time.” 

“It is about her,” you whispered, fingers covering your mouth. Your lips trembled and the tears you’d been fighting off all day betrayed you as they streaked down your cheeks. “Oh Gods, you—you’re not sure about me anymore. That’s it, isn’t it?” 

It felt as if your body was caving in on itself. You took a step back, and then another. Your heel caught on something and you jerked yourself away when Azriel reached out to steady you. Breath was leaving you somehow, but the only thing you were aware of were the deep, unsteady inhales that hurt as they entered your body. 

Azriel said nothing. You looked up at him with a blurry gaze, his face marred by the tears in your eyes, and he looked as broken as you felt. But he said nothing. His mouth opened and his shadows swarmed you, but he said nothing. 

“I—I can’t be here,” you gasped out. “I can’t—I have to—” 

“Please,” Azriel desperately called, but you didn’t know what he was asking for. He said your name and it hurt, but he didn’t move towards you as you ran. And ran. And ran.

[highladyemi-deactivated20251223]

friends don’t kiss like that

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 2.6k

summary: best friends since your freshman year of college, you and az are thick as thieves. you have always had a tiny crush on him, but your fear of ruining the friendship has effectively stopped you from seeing him as anything but a friend. that is, until a soft kiss in a dark corner of a quiet library changes everything. also— this is cheesy as hell I’M SORRY

READER

Studying for midterms was supposed to be stressful. All around campus you caught sight of other students in similar zombie-like states, powered by caffeine and anxiety. You yourself had been prepared for a stress-filled all-nighter at the library. But then your coffee ended up sitting on the table, going fully cold, as you found another way to stay awake: Azriel.

You hadn’t expected to talk to anyone at the library, so you’d felt slightly embarrassed when a light tap on your bun had you looking up and right into the soft hazel eyes of your best friend. You were clad in the all-nighter uniform (baggy sweatpants, old hoodie, messy bun, glasses, dark circles under your eyes, and slippers with fluffy socks), but it was okay because he was similarly dressed. You smiled sleepily up at him and he asked “is this seat taken?”, making you grin and shake your head as he pulled out the chair.

Now you sit there, soaking in his warmth, trying not to get too distracted by his presence as he pulls out his own books and notes. Every now and then he glances at you, and you nudge his shoulder with yours playfully, which makes him smile and flash that devastating dimple at you. You study in silence for a couple of hours, taking sips of your lukewarm coffee, and blinking furiously at the sleep trying to drag you down. Just as you start to feel that you’re about to lose the battle, a scrap of paper slides towards your notebook.

You look up and grin and the smile he gives back is nothing short of dazzling. You check the ‘yes’ box and he nods before getting up and stretching his arms over his head, tilting to the sides as he does. You try really hard not to look at the sliver of tan skin that is revealed when his hoodie shifts up with his movements and choose to instead focus on digging for your wallet in your bag.

See, you have a teeny tiny, little problem: you’re secretly in love with your best friend.

When you met Azriel your freshman year at college—three years ago—you had no idea that the handsome but shy, quiet guy you met at the library was actually a secret goofball that would quickly become your best friend. Many, many movies in your dorms, library sessions, late night food runs, and surprisingly hard goodbyes for breaks later, Azriel was your favorite person in the world. And you would not change a single thing. At least that’s what you told yourself whenever the thought would come up that maybe you could be something more than friends. But nothing in this world could ever make you risk your friendship with him. Not even the possibility of something more. You could not imagine losing him over anything, especially not a failed attempt at something more.

You walk back with your snacks, and you start heading towards the table but he catches the fabric of your hoodie in his hand and pulls you towards the large bookshelves towards the back of the building instead.

“If I see another journal right now, I might lose it,” he murmurs as you follow him down row after row of bookshelves.

He stops at one point and sits right there on the floor, looking up at you and patting the spot next to him. You set your snacks down and are about to sit when he says, “wait, wait,” and you watch as he slips his hoodie off, folds it into a neat square, and sets it down next to him. “Okay, now sit,” he pats the makeshift pillow.

“I’m not sitting on your hoodie, Az!” you whisper scream, mortified.

“The floor is kind of hard,” he says, mock-thoughtfully, tapping his chin slowly, and then grins. "Just sit, ___,” he taps the hoodie again and you give in.

“I’m taking it with me,” you mutter as you adjust yourself, turning to frown at him and find him watching you with a slight tint of pink on his cheeks. “To wash! I’m not stealing your precious hoodie, I know you love this thing.” He wore the hoodie a lot, now that you thought about it, he almost always had it with him when the two of you hung out.

“Sure, right,” he said, smiling as he turned back to reach for his snacks.

You sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, thinking about your midterm and how you were pretty sure you were ready for it, but it didn’t hurt to go over the information one more time just to make sure. You ate the last bit of your snack as you mentally went over the information and planned your morning now that it was looking like you might not get much sleep until after your class. You were so lost in your own mind that you did not notice Azriel sliding his palms over his pants, or the way he looked around, or the way he closed his eyes as if collecting his thoughts, loosing a shaky breath.

Suddenly you remember something, “Hey did—” you turn your face to look at him and he’s right there. Your lips brush over his, and they are so ridiculously soft you don’t immediately move away. But then you’re pulling back, feeling your face heat furiously, “Oh my god, Az I’m so sorry, I—” you shake your head.

He watches you for a second as you babble nervously about how you didn’t realize you’d gotten so close and how you’re so sorry, but then his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. The press of his lips to yours is gentle, a soft touch as he skims your mouth with his. Your lips part slightly, and his tongue licks at your top lip softly. You give in, finally, and kiss him back. You pour all the feelings you’ve tried to hide into the kiss, letting him see how you have always felt about him. As he cradles your face in his hands and leans in even closer you think to yourself that you’ve never been kissed so tenderly before.

AZRIEL

It’s been two days since that night at the library and Azriel is about ready to crawl out of his skin. He had finally taken the leap, deciding that the possibility of everything with you was worth any possible risk of failure. He had been so nervous when he lead you to that spot in the library, and had worried that your hair would be caught in his sweaty palms and he’d ruin the moment. But he did it. He leaned in and kissed you; he put all his cards on the table with that kiss. And he had felt as if he were flying as you kissed him back.

And then you apologized. A lot.

He tried not to feel crushed as you apologized for the kiss as if he hadn’t been the one to lean into you, as if he hadn’t been a willing participant. He knew that he had been playing the long game this entire time, he knew there was a very real possibility that you would be too scared of ruining the friendship to try for more with him. He knew all of that because he felt the same but also because he just knew you. Or so he had thought.

That night, after you said goodbye (refusing to take the hoodie he purposefully took with him everywhere in hopes that you’d one day keep it) he decided he would give you all the time you needed to process the kiss. He tried to remember that now, as he paced in his room and thought about what to do. He desperately wanted to find you, to ask how you were, to see if he had gambled it all and lost, but he was afraid. He could admit that to himself now. He was afraid the kiss had cost him everything, that it had cost him you.

Two hours later, clad in his lucky (or unlucky, he supposed) hoodie, he steps out of his dorms, unable to take it any longer. He walks everywhere, searching the entire campus (or so it feels) for you, but he just can’t find you. At some point it starts to rain, and he is glad he brought his hoodie for reasons unrelating to you— for once. He is getting ready to give up when an idea hits him. It’s a long shot, but as he makes his way to the library he is more and more sure that he is right. He wipes his shoes at the entrance hurriedly, and walks down row after row of bookshelves feeling more and more nervous that he could be wrong. He’d been wrong about the kiss, after all. When he reaches the final turn, he closes his eyes for a moment before stepping into the aisle.

And there you are.

You’re sitting with your back against the shelves, legs drawn up in front of you, reading a book. He feels a wave of annoyance wash over him at the fact that you are sitting there, reading, while he has been out of his mind for the last two days. He takes a step towards you, ready to express his frustration, when he sees a tear slip from the tip of your nose and land on the book. He feels his heart crack in half at the sight— did he do that to you?

He walks towards you, stopping just next to where you’re sitting and whispers, “Is this seat taken?”

You look up at him, sniffle, and shake your head. He sits next to you and you’re both silent for several minutes. He considers his words very carefully, the last thing he wants is to hurt you even more. He opens his mouth to speak several times only to close it again. What could he possibly say?

“We’re okay, Az,” you whisper, voice slightly scratchy— probably from all the crying.

He looks down at his hands, “it doesn’t feel okay.”

You look up at him then, eyes shiny with unshed tears, “I’m so sorry about that.”

He frowns, closing his hands into fists, “Stop apologizing, ___.” His words come out harsher than he intends them to, but his frustration has reached a breaking point.

“Well I am sorry, Azriel!” Your voice is slightly too loud for a library and you look around to make sure nobody heard.

“I’m not!” The words thunder out of him and you stare at him, blinking large owl eyes. “I’m not sorry, ___. I will never be sorry about anything with you.”

You blink fast, looking down at your own hands and he briefly wonders if he had ruined things even more. But then you take a deep breath, “I’m not sorry I kissed you.” The words land with a thud between you. “I’m sorry it ruined our friendship. I—” another deep breath, “I care about you so much, Az. You’re my best friend.” Your voice cracks and you close your eyes tight.

“We’re still best friends, why would that ever have to change?”

“Friends don’t kiss like that, Azriel,” you look back up at him then and he tries not to shiver at the sound of his name on your lips. He loves when you say his full name like that.

“How do they kiss?” I’d like to try that way, he holds the rest of the sentence in.

You frown at him and he smiles, unable to keep it in at how adorable you look when you’re mad at him. Which, why were you mad again? You keep speaking as if you were the one that initiated the kiss. Did— did you not realize that he kissed you?

“Azriel! I’m serious!” You whisper scream through gritted teeth and he smiles even bigger, realizing that this is a misunderstanding.

“I am too, sweetheart,” he purrs and is rewarded by a gorgeous pink blush that colors your face.

You stare at him again, “who are you and what did you do to my shy best friend?”

“___,” he gathers his courage, apparently already ready to risk what’s left of his heart, “I kissed you.”

Your blush deepens, “I know that. I mean what could you do once I was alread—”

He shook his head, “no, listen to me. I. Kissed. You.”

You stare, surprise and realization clear on your face, “You— what?”

He takes a shaky breath and one final leap of faith as he says, “___ I love you.” You blink. “Okay, I know I’ve told you that before already. What I mean is, I am in love with you. I have been in love with you since the very first moment I saw you here in this library, before I even talked to you. These last three years have been both amazing and absolute hell because I have been wanting to kiss you this entire time and no moment ever seemed right. I mean, how do you know at what moment is the right one to kiss your best friend?”

He stops to take a breath but right at that moment you lean in and press your lips to his. He kisses you without restraints now, tasting you, and you respond with equal fierceness.

You pull back, breathing hard, your lips swollen from his kiss, and whisper, “I don’t know, but that felt like the right time?” It comes out as a question and he answers by looking down at your mouth again and leaning back in for more.

You kiss for an almost shameful amount of time, tucked into that quiet corner. After a while he asks if you’re cold and you finally say yes, so he strips off his hoodie and gets an immense amount of pleasure from watching you slip into it. He kisses you one more time, sliding his tongue against yours in a now well-practiced move that has his stomach flip, and then moves to stand, offering his hand to help you up.

He walks you to your dorm room, holding your hand the entire way, and once outside you turn to look at him, and he tries not to panic at the trace of fear in your eyes as you bite your lip and avert your gaze.

“Az,” you whisper, “I— I’m so scared.”

Understanding washes over him, and he steps closer, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m scared too, ___. But I think I would be more scared if I went the rest of my life never knowing what this feels like, holding you in my arms, kissing you… I’m afraid of losing you.”

“What if,” your lip wobbles, “what if we still lose, Az. What if something goes,” a sigh, “wrong?”

“I tried to convince myself that I would rather have you as a friend than risk trying for something more. But honestly, both of those options would destroy me. You are worth every single risk, every ounce of fear and possible pain. You are worth figuring this out. To me.”

You bite your bottom lip and he waits patiently for your answer. Praying you take that leap, but preparing himself in case you don’t. You stay like that, biting your lip and deep in thought for several minutes, and he keeps his arms around you afraid you’ll bolt if he so much as shifts his weight. Suddenly you look up, a soft smile on your lips and a playful glint in your eye, he smiles back tentatively.

You reach for the door of your dorm, “Come, I want to show you something.” You take his hand and drag him into the room. “Nesta’s not here by the way.”

He smiles, “So what did you wanna show me?”

You walk up to him, stand on tiptoes to wrap your arms around his neck and whisper, “this is how friends kiss.”

[dogsarethebest312]

You'll be Sleeping With the Fishes Before You Know You're Drowning

Day 6 of @officialfeysandweek! Prompt: Family

Did I completely change what fic I was writing thanks to The Life of a Showgirl? Yes, yes I did.

I'd planned on this being a one-shot like the others. But I wasn't able to finish it in time due to the last-minute change, so I'll be posting the second chapter at a later date.

Rating: Mature

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairings: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand

Characters: Rhysand, Feyre Archeron, Feyre Archeron's Father

Warnings: MCD, gun violence, poisoning, murder, patricide, loss of family

Summary: Emyr Archeron was the head of one of the three most powerful crime families in Prythian. One day, he chose to take in an orphan from the streets. He cared for the young man, promising him revenge against those who wronged him.

This was his undoing.

[dogsarethebest312]

Darling, Let's Run, Run From it All

Day 5 of @officialfeysandweek! Prompt: Traveling

Rating: General Audiences

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairings: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand

Characters: Rhysand, Feyre Archeron

Warnings: none

Summary: Rhysand Ardella did everything in his power to keep his wife happy. He also did everything in his power to help her expand her art portfolio. So when he sees her getting burned out, Rhys decides it’s time for a change of scenery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@augustwritingchallenge: Camping

[astra-aeterna]

it's @officialfeysandweek so obviously i had to celebrate

all the stars in the moonlit sky

read day 1: lavender haze on Ao3 or below the cut

It had taken years upon years—a few decades, really—for Feyre to recover enough from Nyx's birth to even think about trying for another child. Physically, sure, she'd been miraculously fine, and she'll never be able to thank Nesta enough for that. Mentally, though, things were sensitive for a while.

She loves her son. More than anything else in the world, she loves her son and the beautiful, intelligent child that he's grown into. Getting the privilege to watch him slowly grow from a babe to a teen is nothing less than a miracle. (Though she still hasn't adjusted to the rate at which the fae age. Nyx is the first fae child she's known in childhood, and their development is slowed slightly from the human rate that she's been accustomed to. Not nearly as slow as they age, thankfully, or thirty years past Nyx's birth he might still be prepubescent. But he's just coming into his own as a young adult.)

Feyre loves her life.

That didn't stop her from practically begging Rhys for another child.

Nyx is so perfect, she said. He's beautiful and wonderful and a piece of both of us and I want… I want another, Rhys.

He had responded by throwing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed to start trying then and there, contraceptive brew that was still in her system for that next week be damned.

And perhaps she really is Cauldron-blessed, her Making and mate and powers and perfect first son aside, because it's been maybe a year of them trying when she feels the first telltale stirrings of life within her.

She feels it, of course, while Rhys is on a week-long trip to Illyria with Nyx to oversee the training of new camp lords, ones that are as against wing-clipping and pro-training females as her mate himself. As much as she misses him, wishes he was here to tell right now immediately, the time gives her a chance to prepare a creative announcement—and have Mor and Amren arrange for them to take a vacation to the Summer Court to have some much needed uninterrupted time together before the new baby arrives.

A prickle of guilt rises within her at the knowledge that her mate, the love of her life, the father of her child, is not the first person she tells.

It'll be worth it, she reminds herself, to see the look of amazement on his face.

And it is.

When he winnows to the entrance of the River House and greets Feyre mind-to-mind, a mental talon scraping sensually down her adamant walls, she beckons him to her. She's standing in Nyx's former nursery, staring down the new, second mural on the wall adjacent to the first.

"Feyre, darling," he says from behind her, low and awestruck. "Do you have something to tell me?"

She grins, turning to face him with her hands cupping her still-flat belly. There's already silver lining his eyes. "I'm pregnant, Rhys."

Before she can so much as blink, she's wrapped in his arms, trembling with pure joy. After a week away, she relishes in the way her mate's scent floods her nostrils, salt and citrus and jasmine surrounding her in comfort; buries her face into the fine fabric of his jacket and burrows into the warmth of his body. His huge hands cover her back, tugging her impossibly closer. When he finally speaks again, his voice is rough with emotion.

"I don't know what I did in my life to bless me with such wonders."

"You were you, Rhys," Feyre murmurs, shifting in his hold to look up at him, finding his piercing violet eyes shining with unshed tears, a galaxy's worth of stars swirling in their depths. "I'm the blessed one, to have ended up here with you, and Nyx, and now this new little life…"

Her own eyes fill with tears, blurring the vision of her beautiful mate as he leans down to kiss her, capturing her lips with his own in a sweet, intimate kiss.

My darling Feyre, he murmurs in her mind, pushing all of his love and adoration down the bond until she's overflowing with it, no room for anything but him and the love that they share. You are nothing short of a miracle and I will forever be in awe of you. Queen of Nightmares, Princess of Carrion, Cursebreaker. My High Lady, my mate, my wife, my greatest love. Mother of my children. Feyre Archeron. There is no mantle you do not wear well.

It does not escape her that he names her as the last mantle. Her family name is a mantle of sorts, or, it had been. Being an Archeron has not felt like a burden in quite a few years. I love you, Rhys. More than this world. More than you could ever begin to imagine.

He cups her cheeks in his hands, staring down at her with those beautiful, star-flecked eyes, his perfect, slightly crooked smile blooming wide on his lips. Her mate. Her forever.

There is no thought to it when Feyre surges up onto her tiptoes to kiss him once again, unable to be close enough, to express enough of her love for him.

Rhys kisses her back with all the controlled burn of the stars, hot and focused and blindingly bright. The beast of scales and feathers and talons that dwells beneath his skin purrs in her mind as it nuzzles up to her adamantine walls, settling happily against the barrier as Rhys slips his tongue along her lower lip to deepen the kiss for an indulgent moment. All too soon, he pulls away.

Thankfully, he doesn't go far. He stays with her body pressed against his, as close as they can be without slipping under each other's skin. A featherlight kiss drops to her forehead as she feels the soft disturbance of his deep inhale, and Feyre knows he's memorizing the new scent of this pregnancy. Her own, which she doesn't recognize but has been told is reminiscent of lilac and pear, with something new twined beneath. Their child, too small to have made a significant impact just yet, but she can just barely scent, fresh and clean and warm; something so uniquely newborn.

Another deep inhale, a sigh of contentment.

"I promise you," he begins out loud, voice thick with tears. "I promise you, Feyre, that I will do better this time. Be better."

"Just don't keep things from me, and we'll be fine," she repeats calmly, unwilling to ruin this sweetest of moments by rehashing an argument they've already resolved.

"I love you. And our son. And our babe… who I can't wait to meet."

His broad hand pats her abdomen, unchanged since before the conception, with gentle reverence the likes he rarely shows.

And Feyre can't help but snort in amusement. "You're going to have to wait, love. There's barely a shape to them yet."

A dramatic groan from her dramatic mate. But he doesn't complain. He just presses another sweet kiss to her forehead and wraps her back up in his arms. Held, secured, safe. There is nowhere she would ever rather be than pressed against Rhys like this, chaste but intimate—for he reads her in a way that she thought she should fear.

To be known by Rhys is to be loved more deeply than she imagined possible, Feyre knows. She wouldn't trade it for the world.

[littedidyouknow]

@officialfeysandweek - Day 1

"What do you want to be when we grow up?" "I want to fly and reach the stars." A part of him already knew it—as enamored as he’d always been of the stars, Feyre had been, too. Still, in the quiet of his bedroom—and in the comfort of his space-patterned bedsheets and in the reassurance of his star-filled wallpaper, he asked, his smile soft and his voice teasing, "Like a bird?" Feyre had giggled—all nine years old and white teeth of her. "No. Like an Astronaut."

1/3 - Read on Ao3.