Thank you so much to everyone who participated in SJM Romance Week 2026! Instead of one big masterlist, weâve compiled them into smaller roundups for each day of the event. Happy Valentineâs Day, and see you all next year! âĄ
He had regretted letting Nesta drag him to this bar from the moment he stepped inside. He didnât like the music, wasnât in the mood, and on top of that, he knew sheâd invited Eris. He didnât think he was capable of pretending he wasnât miserable at the sight of him walking in hand in hand with Tamlin, if they both accepted the invitation.
But she had insisted.
âItâs my birthday. Have a drink, give me one dance, and I promise you can leave before midnight, Cinderella.â
So here he was, sitting at the bar nursing an overly sweet cocktail, casting subtle glances toward the entrance every few minutes and hoping the alcohol would do something to improve his mood.
Half an hour later, however, Eris arrivedâmercifully alone.
Devastatingly handsome as always, dressed in dark blue trousers that made his legs look endless, and a shirt that clung to him like a second skin.
Azriel very much wished he hadnât been caught staring.
After greeting Nesta and the rest of the group gathered on the dance floor, Eris spotted him and made his way over, sliding onto the stool beside him. It had been two years since heâd come back from abroad. One year since Azriel had last seen him. Himâand his boyfriend.
And yet, conversation flowed as easily as ever. His sharp wit hadnât changed, nor had that voice capable of turning even the dullest topic into something Azriel could listen to for hours.
âWhereâs Tamlin?â Azriel finally asked, taking a sip of his drink and trying to sound casual. Not like he was dying to know whether Eris was still with him.
He wouldâve liked to say that didnât spark a small flicker of satisfaction, but that wouldâve been a lie. That was Tamlinâs loss. Azriel ran his tongue over his lips and nodded, their eyes meeting briefly.
âIâm sorry.â
Erisâs laugh made something strange twist in his chest. Or maybe it was his stomach, some swell of anticipation he didnât want to address.
âNo, youâre not.â
Azriel smiled sheepishly. âNo, Iâm not.â He cleared his throat. âIâm not sorry it ended. I just⊠Iâm sorry if he hurt you.â
His ex hummed softly, looking away first. For a moment, the only sounds were the music and their friendsâ voices in the background. And yet, it felt like they were the only two people in the roomâalone in their own quiet orbit. It had always been that way. As if the world dimmed when they were together.
âHe didnât,â Eris said after a moment. âHurt me. I think we both knew it wasnât going anywhere.â
Why?
Did you miss me?
Did you think about me as much as I thought about you?
âI saw Elain and Gwyn when I came in. They wereââ
âTogether.â Azriel stated nonchalantly. He was happy for them. Grateful Elain had ended things early enough that theyâd salvaged their friendship. She was a good friend.
Eris glanced sideways at him, gauging his reaction.
Neither of them seemed willing to bring up the last time theyâd seen each other before Eris left, years agoâeven though it was the only thing either of them could think about.
At some point, theyâd drifted closer. Their arms nearly brushing, their legs definitely touching. A tension hung between them, thick and fragile, and the only way to break it would be honesty.
âYou know,â Azriel said, offering him a genuine smile, eyes gleaming with something almost mischievous, âI still think youâre the most interesting person in any room.â
âI canât believe that worked on me the first time. What was I thinking?â Eris was smiling too. His hand rested barely an inch from Azrielâs.
Eris swallowed when, finally, Azriel let his fingers find his hand.
âIâm sorry.â Eris turned to face him fully, finding hazel eyes already looking. âIâreally thought it was for the best.â
Azriel remembered their goodbye with perfect clarity. Eris listing every reason they shouldnât stay together. Saying he didnât want Azriel waiting for him. That long distance wouldnât work. Azriel had been too hurtâand far too proudâto tell him he didnât care about any of the carefully constructed reasons.
âIt didnât change anything,â Azriel said quietly. At Erisâs confused look, he clarified, âBeing apart. It didnât change how I felt about you.â
A thousand unspoken words passed between them in a single glance. An entire conversation, a world of meaning only the other could decipher.
When Eris stood, Azrielâs heart droppedâuntil he noticed the hand extended toward him.
âDo you want to dance?â
He took it without hesitation, without caring about anything else except following him onto the dance floor. Somehow, he knew this was the beginning of something extraordinary.
Thank you to everyone who participated in SJM Romance Week 2026! This is a last call for any lingering posts before we publish our final daily round up and the overall masterlist â€ïžâđ„
I don't know, but it's late, so I'm taking you home
Read on AO3!
Chapter One - The First Date
Chapter Two - The Second Date
@sjmromanceweek - Free Day!
Chapter Summary: Nesta lands herself on a second date with Cassian, but it's because its convenient for her. No feelings attached from this siren!
âš @dustjacketdraws âš
Check out Bats' art here!!!
Thank you to @acourtofladydeath for betaing this chapter!
I may have gotten a little carried away with creating outfits for the characters we met throughout the story! Under the cut you'll see the outfits featured in chapter one!
AN: This is my first time writing a modern au for any fandom so Iâm sorry if the Easter eggs were too obvious or overdone. I had fun adding them where I could. This was also largely a self indulgent fic that features topics of biology, plants, and mushrooms! Please let me know any thoughts or feelings, because they are always welcome!
Read me on a03
Summary:
After two failed relationships, Elain tried- she really did- to ignore Feyreâs friend. It didnât matter that he was her type or what sheâd imagine would be the product of the sun.
So, why does her sister think coming along on a sight seeing trip around Velaris with them would be a good idea?
Or
The two times Elain found love and the one time someone else found her.
Summary: After leaving the Spring Court and spending her first day in Velaris, Feyre can't face the endless quiet of a bedroom alone. She wanders out into the city and comes upon a bustling club - Rita's, where she decides to chase oblivion and some slip of happiness in a glass. Unfortunately for her, Rhysand decides to join her.
For @sjmromanceweek Day 7!
All the love to @lady-bluebird-luv who helped me turn this around and @corruptedclarity for the last minute beta read!
Happy Valentine's loves!!! This has been in my drafts forever and it was time to pull the trigger. I have been a little obsessed with Rita's fics lately and also thinking about those moments of Feyre and Rhys dealing with their old relationship folding into the new and how little we get...so have fun with some Feyre getting drunk for totally valid depression reasons. I hope you enjoy!
Read on AO3 and a snippet under the cut:
Hot bodies press against Feyre as she twists through the crowd, the sound of the music pounding through the floorboards and shaking her bones.
Itâs nice - even if it borders on too much. Almost like a strong heartbeat, one to fill in while hers has fluttered and threatened to stutter out.
All she has to do is breathe.
Even in the sweaty, crowded main room at a club called Ritaâs, the smooth marble bar is cool as she leans against it.
The streets of Velaris had been busy and twisting as she walked here, forgetting every path Rhys had shown her earlier this afternoon. Wandering, she would stop occasionally to put the sea to her back and look up the incline to those rows of copper-roofed townhomes, just to make sure she could find her way back.
The thought of somehow asking Rhys to come save her in the middle of the night, after he had flown off so decisively, was too mortifying to contemplate.
Everything here is immaculate - rich and enticing. Smooth and luscious, the lights warm, the humming glow of magic potions and rare bottles floating in glass behind them.
The bartenderâs in front of her - grey skin the color of a sea storm, deep black hair, curls clustered against her scalp and forming around two small horns. The noise of a thousand conversations surround her, the croon of the singer a pulse underneath it all.
âWhatâll you have?â
Feyre freezes. It feels like it took everything just to walk out of the townhouse to make it here, slipping out the front door quietly after Rhys had flown off.
Yesterday, she had slept in her bedroom at Spring, Tamlin down the hall, a ring on her finger.
She hadnât been able to face the soft quiet of that new, unfamiliar bed - the townhouse so empty and silent. So she had left, still in her dinner gown, grabbing an overlarge black coat that smelled like Rhys on the way out.
The bartender raises her brow, eyeing the crowd forming around her.
What does she want? At the pulse of the room she remembers the sensations of being human - sweet, summer-red fae wine on her tongue - and then the warm haze, the embrace of oblivion.
It makes her a little sick, but at least itâs a feeling.
âUm, elderberry wine, please.â
The woman uncorks a bottle and pours with a flourish, gold flecks in the liquid, the sweet scent making her mouth water.
She hasnât felt anything in weeks. Not beyond that sucking void - and the sickly feeling that everything was wrong. Lost.
Maybe she can feel something here.
Itâll be this place if itâs anywhere - alive and pounding with music, filled with skin and sweat and the scent of sweet smoke and burning herbs and desire.
The wine is red, sweet. Rich but it doesnât hit her in that heady, overwhelming way - not as it did when she was human. She sniffs it, takes another deep gulp.
The woman watches her with a curious look. âYouâre the one visiting with the High Lord, right?â
It seems silly to deny it, when sheâs draped in his coat. Feyre nods.
âIâll bill it to his tab. You can let him know.â She looks over her shoulder, nodding.
Oh, fuck.
Gripping the wine glass tight, Feyre turns around.
Itâs not as if she doesnât want to see him. The things he told her today, the things she told him, seeing him with his family - everything she thought she knew about Rhys is in question. She still has a million of them pressed on her tongue.
And she did sneak out of his home and wander into his secret city, without a word, just hours after she nearly blew the Spring court manor to pieces. Itâs understandable that he would come looking for her.
Still, her heart beats fast as his perfect features come into view.
The next gulp of wine goes down easier, something in her blood becoming warm.
ROYAL SCANDAL! High King of Avallen Marries Commoner!
Is she human or mystery Vanir? Find out on page 4!
Bride rumored to be connected to human terrorist groups. "Fuck off," His Majesty commented on allegations.
(News headlines all over Midgard)
@sjmromanceweek
Crescent City taglist under the cut (let me know if you'd like on/off đ)
Summary: On their way to the continent to conduct some shady business on Rhysandâs behalf, Eris and Azrielâestranged prophetized-to-be-matesâencounter only one bed with two exhausted bodies.
A/N: Im incredibly late to @sjmromanceweek and ik this isnât all that romantic of a drabble because it is azris mid enemies stage encountering the one bed scenario lol, pls pardon my slight buffoonery. I will be posting more today (the rhystamcien, which keeps autocorrecting to histamine) and I wrote a tamris piece but.. i ended up incorporating it into my rhystamcien long fic lmao, mb gang, đ§ââïžđȘż enjoy these 500 words my lovely flock đđ«Ą
The cosmos were comedically talented to a dire extent.
Fateâs facetious ways resulted in Eris crammed into a dingy room that reeked of stale ale and rotten fish, not a foot away from the overly dramatic aura of Nightâs Shadowsinger to boot.
He was stuck between a brooding warrior and whatâs certain to be an absurdly uncomfortable mattressâif a plank of wood clad in a thin cotton sheet thatâd seen better days before their voyage could even be dubbed such.
âThis is wretched, we shouldâve found a cave or something.â
âA cave or something? Weâre stranded within acres of grasslands, you dense bat.â Erisâs tone personified ire, he was so tired of Azrielâs thoughtless statements.
âWhatever.â He grumbled. Eris wasnât even sure the male was conscience, his eyelids dimmed and his voice had an automated strain.
âIâll take the bed.â Eris announced, aiming for finality but Azrielâs bugging eyes proved a fight was incoming.
âYouâll take a fist to the fist before that would ever happen, donât be delirious, dickwad.â Azriel retorted, tone soaked in ire. He threw out a stiff arm in front of Erisâs chest.
Eris looked down to the corded forearm in his path, wondering if the dumbass would want a sleeve to match his hand. âMove, Iâm in no mood to quibble.â Or murder.
âSo donât, and get comfortable on the floor.â Azriel gruffed, a scowl twisting his plush lips as he stared down Eris.
âThe floor? Iâd sooner fuck my brother, not to imply youâd understand the oddity of that,â he snided.
âYâknow, you spend a lot of time thinking of fucking Cassian, maybe I should do you a favor and let him knâYOWFUCK!â
Eris knocked the breath from both their lungs as he knocked the Shadowsinger to the scummy planks. âIâd fuck a hole in these floors before one of your kind.â Eris seethed, his hands bracing Azrielâs thrashing, muscled shoulders.
âBut your dick may get lost in the cracks!â Azriel warned urgently.
âYour blood is about to get lost in the cracks, you batshit bastard cunt,â Erisâs vision was scarlet, his knuckles whitened by his grip on the maleâs shouldersâshoulders that Eris reluctantly recognized to be buffer than any heâd seen.
âYaâkiss your Fatherâs boot with that mouth?â Azriel spat.
âAnd your mother,â Eris returns the vitriol.
Azrielâs eyes widened, he threw his full weight from his shoulder and sent Eris flying onto his back a few feet to the left. Eris and the floor groaned.
Azrielâs form shuffling led Eris to cast a thin wall of flame to gatekeep the shitty excuse of a bed.
âSo what, neither of us get to be comfortable?â Azriel muttered after a creaking thump signified his resignation.
âThatâs right.â Eris nodded, his pout was sure to forever engrave his face.
WLW nessian kinda MAF snippet where Nesta gets distracted by the giant general lady's arms
something short and sweet for @sjmromanceweek free day! this has been sitting in my inbox for ??? so I hope you enjoy friend!!
Nesta couldnât help but stare at Feyreâs⊠friends, her years of lessons the only thing stopping her mouth from dropping at the sight of the only other woman in their group. She was easily the largest woman Nesta had ever seen, her powerful body packed with muscle in a way Nesta didnât know was possible, and she wielded a massive sword along with what must have been extremely heavy leather armor. Her dark, curly hair stopped abruptly at her shoulders, which led to a pair of arms so huge Nesta couldnât help but wonder how easily she could carry Nesta.
Not that it mattered. Nesta wasnât going anywhere near this woman, no matter how curious she may have been about the wings standing tall above her head or the whorls of tattoos that were inked into her brown skin.
She was so different than any woman Nesta had ever seen in the human lands that it was as though her mind couldnât comprehend quite what she was seeing. As if the tattoos and muscles werenât enough, she had the loudest voice Nesta had ever heard, and she swore in front of company to boot.
Nesta told herself she was only watching the other woman so intently to keep an eye on her. None of these faeries that Feyre brought to their door seemed particularly trustworthy, but especially not that one. She seemed like trouble, and Nesta had always been good at staying away from that.
âMy sisters, Nesta and Elain Archeron,â Feyre eventually said by way of introduction. Gods, even her voice sounded different â smoother, more melodic. Nothing that would ever be mistaken for mere mortals. âNesta, Elain â these are my friends from the Night Court.â
âWelcome,â Nesta said back through gritted teeth.
âPleased to meet you,â Elain replied much more charmingly. âWe had the staff prepare dinner before we sent them away, so we can eat anyââ
âWhat are your names?â Nesta asked flatly. Sheâd heard that knowing a faerieâs true name meant you wielded power over them, but Nesta was rapidly realizing how little she knew about faeries like these.
âOh! My apologies,â Feyre answered. âThis is Rhysand, Azriel, andââ
âCassandra, General of the Night Courtâs armies,â the faerie woman interrupted, practically sauntering over to Nesta and holding out her hand with a smirk. âBut you can call me Cass.â
âI will do no such thing,â Nesta said back icily. She glared at Cassâ outstretched hand until the other woman pulled it back.
Cass just laughed as she returned her hand to the hilt of her sword, and Nesta pretended like the sound of her laughter wasnât lovely. âWhatever you say, sweetheart.â
âDonât call me that,â Nesta snapped, willing the blood not to rush to her face at the word. âDonât you have manners on your side of the wall?â
Cassâ hazel eyes lit up like Nesta had given her the greatest news sheâd ever heard, and Nesta wasnât surprised to see a massive smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth immediately. âNot really. Maybe you can show me someââ
âThatâs enough, Cass,â Rhys said from where he was standing behind Cass. âLetâs show our hostesses some respect.â
âI doubt you can even spell that,â Nesta hissed under her breath, refusing to be intimidated by how close Cass was standing to her. Sheâd always thought herself a tall woman, but having to look up at Cass made her feel small in an infuriating way.
âYouâre welcome to come find out,â Cass replied with a wink.
Nesta didnât bother dignifying that with a response, instead turning over her shoulder and storming off toward the dining room. âEnough. Dinner is ready to be served.â
Nesta didnât need to stand around arguing with that ridiculous, rude, irritating bat. She just needed to get through this dinner, and then she could retire to her room to never think about that woman again.
At least, thatâs how she thought the evening â and the rest of her life â would go.
a/n: pretty sure I started working on this last summerâmanaged to get it finished for the last day of @sjmromanceweek !! Happy valentines!!
summary: Azriel needs a date; you owe him a favour. Problem solved.
warnings: fake-dating, unrequited pining (Az)
word count:Â 3,533
~~~~
You level him with a look of mild dissatisfaction. Despising, and unimaginably unimpressed.Â
The Spymaster holds your gaze without looking the slightest bit ashamed of himself.Â
âYou want me,â you say, slowly, âto pretend to be your date, for the sake of appearances at your little inner-circle get-together?â You canât tell for whose sake youâre repeating the requestâyour own, to process the out-of-place attitude of his ask, or his, so heâll register the mistake and realise heâs got his sources mixed up, and youâre not in fact the one whom heâs on close-enough terms with to make such a discourteous request to.Â
The Shadowsinger nods. âThatâs correct.â
You stare at him, unblinking.
The book on your desk snaps closed, dust puffing as you get to your feet. âAzriel, get out. You can return when youâve a request that will honour my time, and my personhood.âÂ
Azriel lifts a brow, boots remaining solid upon the ground. "Youâre not going to ask what Iâm offering in exchange?â
You pin him with a hard look. âI said: Get out.â
Thereâs the briefest glint of something in his eyes, but itâs vanished too quick for you to discern.Â
Azriel yields a few steps, backing up to rest his weight against the workbench in your studio. He crosses one ankle over the other, the heel of each of his palms sat casually atop the benchâs lip. Wings shift at his back, mindful of the bottled plants and herbs packing the upper shelves. Theyâre glass trinkets and conical flasks, not exactly precious in their contents but fragile nonetheless.Â
âYou owe me,â the Spymaster reminds, expression neutral, but sharp. âDid you forget?â
âYou canât call in a favour like that.âÂ
âItâs mine to call in,â Azriel replies.Â
âItâs inappropriate,â you hold. âAnd unprofessional.âÂ
âItâs what you agreed to.âÂ
Your jaw works. Distain stirring along the length of your spine. âI didnât realise you were a male of such ragged morals.âÂ
âAsking a friend for a favour is proof of ragged morals?âÂ
âIs this a favour, or a debt?âÂ
Azriel keeps to himself for a while, holding your gaze. He inclines his head by a fraction. âWould you honour my request without the pressure of a debt?âÂ
âSo you acknowledge youâre forcing me into complicity.âÂ
He looks at you. Not quite in earnest. âWould you?â
âOf course not. My talents lie in poisons, not in prostitution.âÂ
âIâm not asking for prostitution,â he replies dryly, âAll Iâm requesting is company, for the duration of a single night.â When your expression of distaste deepens, Azriel sighs. âAmiable company, appropriate for a family dinner.âÂ
You stare at him for a long while, weighing the merits of holding to your demand of his immediate departure. With measured breaths, you lean forward, spreading your fingertips out across the surface of your desk. âYou mentioned approaching with something to offer in return?â
The barest quirk of his brow betrays amusement, before itâs vanished. He reclaims those initial steps he had yielded, as well as a few others, pausing not far from your desk. You incline your chin to look at him, jaw holding loyal to your displeasure. âYouâve been seeking passage to the Winter Court for some time now, havenât you?âÂ
For over two years, to be more precise, but the strength of their borders has only increased since the fall of the High Queen. Gaining approval for a temporary residence has been next to impossibleânone of this aided by the tenuous alliance between courts that only suffered beneath the tyranny of that half-century.Â
You try not to betray anything in your gaze, âit's true Iâve an interest in visiting Winter territory. You could guarantee sanctioned passage across the border?âÂ
âI could guarantee safe passage as well as approved temporary residence for a duration of two days.âÂ
âOnly two?âÂ
A wry smile twists the corner of his mouth. âI didnât realise you were in a position to bargain with me.âÂ
âIâm not bargaining,â you reply. âMerely putting feelers out for what your limits are.âÂ
A sound of approving amusement hums in his chest. âTwo days is all I can guarantee,â he says, with a tone that implies a further possibility. You narrow your eyes, wary of accepting a deal with unspoken parameters. Itâs a roll of the diceâa circumstance you canât hold against him if two days does indeed turn out to be the limit.Â
You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. Breathe in through your nose. âThereâs no one else you could use for this favour?âÂ
âNo."
You raise a single, skeptical brow. âI doubt that.âÂ
After a second his lips quirk at their corners. âIâm flattered. But youâre the only credible option.âÂ
âSomehow I find that difficult to believe.âÂ
âYou donât have to believe it,â Azriel replies, mouth flattening to neutrality though some degree of amusement still lingers in his eyes. âDo we have a deal?âÂ
âDo I have a choice?â
Azriel raises a brow. âIâm offering you safe passage over Winter Court borders for nothing in return.â
âYouâre forcing me to lie to trusted and valued clients. To people I respect.âÂ
âIs it a lie if no one finds out?âÂ
You push your tongue against the backs of your lower teeth. Sometimes you forget thereâs good reason heâs Spymaster.Â
âWhen is it?â
âIâll pick you up three hours after you close. Wear whatever you like, thereâs no dress code. In the event you want to buy something new,â Azriel adds, upon seeing you open your mouth to protest, âfeel free to. Iâll cover whatever you deem necessary.âÂ
You purse your lips. âThis is on top of the Winter Court trip?â
A wry smile flickers at the edges of his mouth. âThis is part of our deal. Winter Court is a bonus.âÂ
At his words, you straighten, easing a breath into your lungs. Smooth out a wrinkle in the fitted skirt of your dress. âYou should arrive an hour earlier. You can come through the side entrance.âÂ
âOkay.â
âSo that we can discuss out timeline. Figure out how to field potential questions from your family.âÂ
âGood idea.âÂ
You give him an irritated glance.Â
âIâll see you at seven, then,â Azriel says, making no comment on your expression.Â
Part of you wants to snap at him to not be late as he turns to leave, to at least honour the time heâs taking from you, butâof course he will. Heâs Azriel. If thereâs one thing the two of you have in common, itâs the prized value of punctuality within a professional setting.
~~~~
Azriel had expected the worst.Â
Rule number one- no matter how much planning is done, no mater how much information is gathered, inevitably something will go wrong. Something unaccounted for.Â
There is an explicitly positive correlation between the importance of a mission and the likelihood of that something occurring.Â
Itâs not an ideal start, but the best he could plausibly hope for. Sheâll be there at seven.Â
Heâd not dared consider how things might progress after the initial proposition was accepted. Undertaking missions are external things. Neutral and objective. Employing the particular skillset heâs honed as Spymaster and misappropriating it in pursuit of his personal desiresâoverall the outcome will have a lesser gravity than that of the everyday affairs he handles, and yet theyâve a magnitude all of their own. A level of significance found only in managing matters unique to those of having personal consequence.Â
Will she see fit to purchase something new? Itâs likely sheâll remain loyal to her usual wardrobe, but he canât discard the possibility entirely. Theyâve come to an agreement of sorts, but itâs up to her how sheâll complyâwhether that will take the form of her regular attire, or somethingâŠelse. Whatever her choice, heâll have her company for an evening.Â
Granted it wonât be private in the way that would have been most beneficial, butâthe best he could plausibly hope for.Â
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that black part that remains wild and disobedient to his better judgement conjures a dream. A dark dress of poisoned ivy, cadmium red lipstick sprinkled with arsenic, leaves of deadly nightshade and caladium wreathing her hair.Â
Even as toxicity embodied he would gladly take her in his arms.Â
Azriel swallows, taking in a deep breath. Flexing his fingers.Â
Professional.Â
She wants this kept professional.Â
~~~~
The clockâs elegant, golden arms point south almost unanimouslyâyouâve half an hour to prepare.Â
Sighing, you depart from your eyeglass, shutting away the slide youâd been inspecting. Most, if not all, of your clothing would be appropriate for an evening out dining. And yet this isnât just any evening. This is a task. A job, of sorts. You ponder your wardrobe on the way upstairsâperhaps jewellery and cosmetics will be enough to suitably amplify yourself. The desired look being refined, but not up-tight. Professional, but casual. Someone who has âyour best interests at heartâ, and not their own.Â
Frowning, you open your armoire, examining the expanse of predominantly black clothing. A few stripes of white, a dip into dark blue, something with a lace sleeve and collar, another something with a velvet bodice⊠A set of golden buttons along a cuff, a silver zip in the shape of a rabbitâs foot⊠Would appearing in your usual uniform appear too suspect? Too formal for a supposed partnership? Or would it be understandably inline with your outer appearances?Â
Brows crease further, and you push them away with your fingers, soothing out the knotting skin.
Curse him for putting you in this position.Â
Curse yourself for allowing it to happen.Â
Pride be damned, youâve not spent centuries of your life in dedication to botany and biology to be taken advantage of as a female. Not cultivated your experiences and knowledge in pursuit of more to be used for anything other than the skills youâve refined.Â
It nags beneath your skin, pricking at the back of your mind. âHeâs Spymaster. He should know better; no amount of questioning could bring doubt to your conscious.Â
This arrangement is the equivalent of using an axe as a door-wedge.Â
~~~~
âAre you sure about this?âÂ
The question is shoved from his chest before thought has time to capture it.
âYou put in the request, Spymaster,â she reminds, tone hushed but clipped, lipstick in hand. âBetween the two of us, Iâve more at stake. Discovery for you results in a few jokes here and there; discovery for me results in a fundamental loss of trust and respect I have earned.â Her eyes flick up, meeting his own, wielding the lipstick like a scalpel. âYou wanted credible. This is going to be credible.â
âNobodyâs going to see it,â he mumbles. She really isâŠclose. This space is too cramped for both of them. Stuffy, with two people inside. âYou donât think anyoneâs going to see it,â she corrects. âUnbutton your shirt.â
Thereâs a remaining fraction of ire still glittering in her eyes, despite the neutral expression sheâs had sealed on her face since his arrival. Itâs enough of an edge to convince him not to push, if heâs attempting to squirm his way into her good graces. Whichâappears to be going objectively poorly.Â
Azriel undoes the two uppermost buttons of his shirt. When he moves for the third, she clicks her tongue. His hands fall away, stepping back against the edge of the countertop, allowing his palms to rest at its lip.Â
âYou have enough room?â Azriel asks.Â
She raises a brow and steps into the part of his legs, focus shifting to the intended target. Azriel prays that in trying to keep his breathing even he doesnât overcompensate and cease breathing entirely. Itâs been a long while since heâs risked making such a fool of himself.Â
âKeep still,â she murmurs, and he canâhe feels the result of her instruction less than a moment later against the side of his throat.Â
Icy fingers pin the draping fabric of his collar apart as she pats the pigmented stick to her lips, moving forward. Azriel gazes at the ceiling, fingers curling around the counterâs ledge. Skin receptors fritz a second before she makes contact, stamping the dark imprint of her mouth atop the black ink looping his chest.Â
The pounding vertigo of soaring through a mist-filled ravine fuels his body, wings giving an involuntary start.Â
Itâs over before it starts, and she steps back to examine the mark. To his benefit or to his mercy, she seems satisfied, and heâs foolish enough to relax.Â
As if sheâd be so quick to finish him.Â
Azriel tracks the hand that collects a miniature glass bottle from one of the mounted wooden shelves. She uncaps it, and offers it to him. âWhat do you think?â
He sizes up the container, bracing for the concentrated scent of perfume before taking a tentative inhale. Itâs as recognisable as his brotherâs shade of violet; as recognisable as the specific hue of ruby red blazing through a low-laying cloud. An unexpected gut-punch, within the squeezing press of her territory.Â
Bergamot and vanilla custard, a hint of tonka bean, notes of roasted hazelnut. Bright, warmly spiced, with a subtle, smoky sweetness.Â
âYou wear this,â Azriel speaks through his daze, eyes inexplicably drawn to her own, through no permission of his. Bright, warmly spiced, with a subtle, smoky sweetness. âItâs nice.â
A twitch of her brows is her only reaction, but his wits fail him. He has no read on her.Â
She reaches for a second bottle. âWhat about this?â
âWhat reason are you asking for?â Azriel diverts, keenly guarding the scent still circulating in his lungs. She levels him with quiet, like sheâs waiting for something to click. Giving him a chance to catch up.Â
He fails her test, the timer run out, and she shifts her weight to one hip. âIâm going to put it on you.âÂ
Half his bodyâs blood fully evaporates right then and there, leaving him in a wash of cool dizziness. âWhere?â
Her eyes wander. âNeck. Wrists.â Her attention trails lowerâŠpausing, deliberatingâŠbefore flicking back up. âMaybe your waistband.âÂ
Those missing pints of blood return in full force, pulsing and pounding through his veins. Itâs a trial of discipline not to react. Not to let heat rush to his skin, or curve down his spine.Â
Azriel shakes his head, in need of recovery.Â
Her eyes narrow. âWhy not?â
Azriel searches for an excuse. Faltering, fumbling, and failing. Her eyes have already connected to his open collar, and he barely has fight left in him as she takes gentle hold of the fabric and draws herself near, inhaling the heat from his skin.Â
His knuckles whiten.
She withdraws, processing. Splaying her fingers across the fabric of his collar. âYouâre wearing cologne.â
âI am.â His voice is weak.Â
âYou never wear cologne.âÂ
He doesnât wear cologne.Â
Heâs Spymaster.Â
Like shadow, he is defined by his absence.Â
Azriel cannot risk leaving so much as a trace of himself. And yet earlier this evening heâd sought out the grey tin heâd purchased more than a few years ago. Bought it because they had been working together. Bought it because the desire to impress her had been simmering for a while.Â
Bought it because at that time, hope could not have become a lethal dose.Â
âThis will be the first time theyâll meet you as my partner,â Azriel says. Then after a moment of hesitation, he adds, âand the first time theyâll meet me as yours.âÂ
If she doubts him, she lets him get away with it. She retreats, and the rest of the world fills the space sheâs left. âDo you have the fragrance with you?âÂ
His eyes recalibrate, compensating for the flood of information surrounding her, previously forgotten. âNo,â he answers. Then, âI can fetch it.âÂ
She hums in responseâneutral, but he knows her well enough to hear the strain of dissatisfaction.
Heâs foolish for trying to match her. He should have known she would have plans of her own. Ones far better than his fumbling attempts at pleasing her.
~~~~
You dab the rolling ball to either side of your throat, gently applying the fragrance. âYour family,â you ask, swiping the miniature bottle across your wrists, âhow much have you told them?â
Azriel is resting his weight on the edge of your counter, taking up an inordinate amount of space in the washroom. He makes a habit of shifting the dimensions of whichever room he enters.Â
âNot much,â Azriel answers.Â
âSo how long have we been together?â You ask, examining the viridian shimmer dusting your eyelids. They look like they match, but itâs difficult to tell after a while. You shift your attention to the dewy gloss on your lips. Normally it would be matte black, but for the sake of the lipstick mark youâd settled for a sticky, dark purple.Â
âTheyâve not asked for a date.â
âWeâll say a few months. Thatâs a reasonable length to keep a fresh relationship quiet.â You run your attention over your reflection. Incline your head. Tilt to the left. Tilt to the right. Face straight on.Â
Thereâs a slight smudge of lipstick beneath the bow of your lower lip.Â
Another day you would have corrected it. But itâs the implication to the mark on his chest, so it will stay. Itâs too slight a mark to even likely to be noticed, any how.
âSounds good,â Azriel confirms, and you turn your attention to him. The Shadowsinger is in all-black as usual, though heâs forgone the upper half of his training leathers. Youâve not seen him in linen before, but the dark shade is familiar enough.Â
You glance back to the mirrorâshimmering eyeshadow doesnât exactly read as formal. And while youâve kept your style of dress in line with your regular attire, the added spark isâŠsomething extra. For a special occasion.
You turn on the male. âHow do I look?âÂ
Azriel was already studying before the question was posed. Typical Spymaster.Â
Sharp eyes travel from the finely woven strands of your plait, over the golden jewellery decorating your ears, throat, and wrists, down the length of your matching black dress to the sturdy leather boots at your feet. For comfort.
He takes his time travelling back up, and you wait for his assessment.Â
The amount of concentrated black must have affected his vision. His pupils are a fraction larger when they return to your own, and thereâs an unfamiliar note in his vanilla-black voice as he answers. âDeadly.âÂ
~~~~
Strands of hair lift and waver in the faint breeze, goaded free of the plait youâd taken care to weave before dinner. Which had goneâŠwell. Satisfactory, even.
Azriel had seemed normal when the meal commencedâquiet as usualâbut as the night progressed heâd becomeâŠrelaxed. At ease. It had soothed your own tensions, the inch or so that had set itself between you at the nightâs start, vanished by its end.
It had been a good feeling, you decide. Pride at having succeeded at a task youâd deemed a struggle. Azriel had put his arm around you as youâd retired for the evening, and youâd stepped into his side the moment he turned. As if that was normal.
Itâs an understatement to say heâs good at what he does.
âDo you think they believed it?â You ask, eyeing the cobbles ahead. The scent of spices floats on the wind, and you grow hungry in spite of your filled stomach.
âNo.â Azriel answers. âBut I think theyâll want to, so, yes.â You glance at him sideward, keeping to the meandering pace. âWhat do you mean by that?â
Azriel sighs, running a hand through his hair. Dark, and soft. Youâd felt the ends brushing your cheek when the group had sojourned to the living room, and the two of you had taken to each otherâs side.
âI mean, my brothers are happy,â he responds, redirecting your attention. âThey want the same for me.â
You frown. âThe High Lord and the General are both mated, are they not?â Azriel gives a nod of his head, dark against the glittering night sky. You glance further along the path, the turning for your home not far off.
From those words, their tone⊠Azrielâs more relaxed than he usually allows himself to be, and it seems a weight is showing.
The turn for your building is up ahead.
âDo you have a timeline for Winter Court?â You inquire.
Azriel huffs a laugh. âNot a precise date. Sometime within the next fortnight, Iâd expect.â
Your brows raise involuntarily. Thatâs prompt.
You draw to a stop at the turning, and the edges of his mouth are curved. âA dealâs a deal. You look surprised.â
You shake it off. âIâm not surprised. Like you said, a dealâs a deal.â You glance down the alley, spotting your door. You look back at him, giving a nod of your head.
âYou know where to find me, when the dates are settled.â
Happy Valentines Day to my best friend and real life soul mate @the-lonelybarricade. This song is about us. I love you dearly- the Feysand is just a bonus treat
And thank you to @redreart for drawing this for me. Your talent is unmatched and I'm deeply grateful.
Happy Valentine's day! Aaand also the free day of @sjmromanceweek :3 here's the iconic Band of Exiles!! I love them so much AUGH
They're moving into a new house together :]]]]]]
(Taglists + ramblings + refs below the belt)
Jurian's hair is SO HARD TO DRAW (for me) because I just did not have the right colors for it AND I didn't really.... know what it looked like. Yeah I still don't like how it looks which only means! I have to draw him more! (Or not at all... yeah not at all works too)
Anyways yeah fun piece all in all :) I just did not have the time nor energy to properly finish it ://
Taglist time!!
Art gen: @irithiadourden @chunkypossum @makinglongwordsslutty @stargazingmellon
@sjmromanceweek day seven is here! We made it! What better way to celebrate Valentineâs Day than with some Nemerie. Emerie has taken the same art class every Tuesday evening for months. Itâs her moment to decompress. Until a new model walks inâŠ
Let me know if youâd like to be added to or taken off the taglist!
âââââ
Snippet below the cut:
The studio is bathed in that particular quality of fading winter light that makes everything feel suspended, with amber lamps fighting against the blue-grey dusk pressing at the windows. Emerie arranges her materials with the ritual precision sheâs developed over six months of Tuesday evenings: vine charcoal on the left, compressed sticks in gradations from soft to hard in the middle, pencils to the right, and her kneaded eraser within easy reach. The newsprint pad rests at an angle on her easel, its surface pristine and waiting for her to put down the first line.
Around her, the other artists settle into their stations with the comfortable rustling of familiarity. Gwyneth, who always brings jasmine tea in a thermos. Helion, who hums under his breath while he works. The studio smells of fixative and old wood, turpentine and the faint mustiness of the buildingâs bones.
Their usual modelâBeron, a retired postal worker with kind eyes and a body that maps the gentle erosions of timeâhasnât arrived yet. Emerie uncaps her water bottle, takes a sip, and stretches her fingers. Sheâs been looking forward to this all day, to the meditative focus of translating three-dimensional form into lines and shadow, to the way her mind goes quiet when her hand is moving.
The instructor, Nuan, emerges from her office and claps twice. âListen up, everyone. Beronâs down with the flu, poor thing. Fortunately, we were able to find a new model for tonight, so letâs give her a warm welcome and our full attention.â
