Summary: Feyre is introduced to the last member of the Inner Circle and see’s a new side of Azriel that changes everything.
Author’s Note: Based in ACOMAF. No warnings and no further comments apart from to say I am obsessed with this man.
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Dinner at the House of Wind was a quiet, uneasy thing.
Feyre sits at the long mahogany table, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet, eyes flicking toward the male at the head of the table - Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court - but trying so very hard not to look for too long.
Rhysand is distracted tonight. His gaze keeps darting toward the window, toward the city beyond, as though he’s waiting for something - or someone. Even Mor seems to notice, though she hides her curiosity behind a playful smirk and another sip of wine as Cassian continues to boisterously regale a tale of how he managed to knock Azriel on his ass during training once.
Azriel doesn’t say much, as normal. His shadows whisper faintly, coiling around his shoulders like ribbons of smoke. His hazel eyes remain fixed on Rhys - assessing, patient - he seemed to have picked up on Rhys’s restlessness too.
And then Rhys’s head tilts, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Without explanation, he rises, his chair scraping softly against the floor. “Don’t eat without me,” he says lightly, wings rustling as he vanishes into the night with a ripple of darkness.
Feyre blinks. “Where did he-“
“Who knows, but I’m not waiting for him to eat!” Cassian grins as he reaches forward toward a plate of meat.
But before she can ask more, the doors open again at the far side of the room.
Rhys strides in, laughter in his eyes. And beside him - gods, beside him walks a High Fae woman of such dark, yet illuminating beauty the air itself seems to pause as she walks in.
Her hair is a dark, silken brown, falling in waves over a silver-threaded gown that catches the candlelight like spun starlight. There’s an elegant grace to her posture, warmth in her eyes - and something else. Power. The faint shimmer of magic trails behind her, not flame, not light - starlight, soft and shimmering, dancing over her skin and making her almost glow fainting.
Feyre’s chest tightens unexpectedly.
Rhys guides her in with his hand at her back, pride shining in every line of him. He looks…happy. Almost boyish, in a way Feyre has never seen. He looks down at her, leans down to whisper in her ear as they approach the table and smiles so warmly that Feyre has to look away.
Jealously coils low in Feyre’s stomach - hot, sharp and stupid. She sips her drink, trying to keep her emotions at bay and act nonchalant. She had no reason to feel jealous, she was to marry Tamlin, but she couldn’t shake the feeling as it settled in her gut.
Rhys leans forward as they come to a stop at the head of the table, where Feyre then takes note of the empty chair to Rhys’s left, as she sits in the chair direct to his right. He clears his throat, “Feyre, this is (Y/N). Our court emissary. The reason half the other courts don’t currently want me dead.”
Feyre swallows harshly, before opening her mouth to greet her, but the words die as Azriel moves.
The Spymaster, usually silent and unreadable, is suddenly gone from his chair. One heartbeat he was sitting in his seat, the next he’s across the room, shadows scattering like startled birds.
He catches her - you - around the waist, sweeping you off your feet with such fierce, unguarded relief that it steals the air from the room. Your twinkling laugh echoes around the room before it’s smothered by his lips crashing onto yours.
It isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, reverent, weeks of longing pulled into a single breathless moment. His wing flare slightly behind him, and the starlight in your hair twinkles as his shadows swirl around you both in delight, before twining through your hair restlessly yet playfully.
You laugh again as you part, now breathless. “You’re supposed to let me say hello first in front of guests.”
Azriel’s answering smile is small, stunned but beaming - a look Feyre had not seen on him before. “You’re back early.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” you stated.
Behind them, Rhys is smirking like a cat, mischief in his eyes.
“And what a surprise it is!” Mor cheers, as the next moment she too has left her seat in favour of greeting you. Cassian also follows.
Feyre’s pulse stutters at the clear happiness and excitement that sweeps around the room at your arrival. She looks from Rhys’s knowing grin to Azriel’s rare, blazing expression and feels foolish for the twist of jealousy still sitting low in her belly. Even Amren looks somewhat pleased, but remains in her seat swirling the blood red liquid inside around.
Rhys’s gaze finds her then - sharp, amused and impossibly kind. You thought she was mine, his expression says.
Aloud, he adds, “Feyre, this is one of my oldest friends and most trusted allies. And Azriel’s wife if his greeting wasn’t too telling.”
The word lands like a spark in the room. Feyre blinks, her face warming, embarrassment curling through her chest.
Azriel doesn’t seem to notice anyone else. He’s still holding you, not letting you go even as Mor and Cassian wrap you up into warm hugs of greeting. Rhys sits before leaning back in his chair as he watches, looking entirely pleased with himself.
Dinner resumed - eventually.
After the initial shock of Azriel’s unabashed display of affection, the room had shifted into a warm hum of laughter and conversation. The missing piece now back in place. Even Feyre, still reeling slightly, found herself smiling when Cassian teased Azriel about ‘making a scene’.
But Feyre couldn’t help noticing it - how Azriel had changed.
The shadows that always seemed to curl tightly around him now moved lazily, softer, more at ease. His shoulders were no longer tense. His expression - that usual mask of cool observation - had been replaced by something alive, something human.
His hand never strayed far from yours, your hands lightly entwined as you both ate and drank with one hand. When you had to use both hands, his hand retreated under the table instead - to your thigh, Feyre thought - or thrown over the back of your chair. His fingers lightly tracing circles on your shoulder as he listened to you regale the group on your latest trip. And every time you looked at him - every time your bright eyes met his - he smiled.
Feyre had never seen Azriel smile like that.
Down the table, Mor was laughing at something you said, nearly spilling her wine as you grinned back. Feyre could see the affection between you two clearly.
And for the first time, Feyre understood what Rhys meant when he’d said they were a family.
Rhys caught her watching. His mouth curved in that small, knowing way of his, but he said nothing - just poured her another glass of wine before leaning in to whisper something into your ear that made you roll your eyes.
Feyre cleared her throat softly, glancing toward you and Azriel. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, voice light and hesitant, “How long have you two been together?”
Azriel’s shadows stirred, as if embarrassed on his behalf as a light pink colouring appeared at the top of his ears. But you only smiled, fingers laced with his on top of the table.
“Almost two centuries now,” you said easily. “Though I’m sure Az would argue it’s longer.”
His lips twitched. “That’s because it is.”
You laugh softly. “He counts from the day we first met. I was still living in the Hewn City, trying to convince anyone who would listen that I was qualified enough to represent the Night Court.”
“Convince me?” Rhys drawled from the head of the table. “You had me wrapped around your finger the moment you dismantled Kier’s entire argument in three sentences on why he needed additional funding for his new ballroom.”
Feyre blinked, startled. You only smiled modestly, shaking your head. “He was being dramatic.”
The table erupted in laughter, the easy kind that came from centuries of shared trust and ridiculous stories. Even Amren’s lips curved faintly.
Feyre watched it all - the teasing, the warmth, the way you leaned into Azriel’s side when he murmured something too low for anyone else to hear. And something in her chest eased.
These people - this court - were nothing like what she’d been told.
There was power here, yes. But more than that, there was belonging and family.
Feyre found herself smiling at you. “You’re the emissary, Rhys said? You handle the other courts?”
You nodded. “Mostly diplomacy, sometimes trade. I try to make sure Rhys doesn’t start a war every time someone insults his wingspan.”
“Once,” Rhys protests mildly.
“Twice,” you corrected, smirking. “You forget that Autumn Court dinner.”
Feyre laughed before she could stop herself. You turned your attention to her fully then - your gaze soft, warm as candlelight. “You’ve had to navigate enough politics yourself whilst staying in the Spring Court, haven't you?”
Feyre blinked, caught off guard by your gentle insight. “I…guess so.”
“Then you’ll fit in here,” you said simply.
Something in the way you said it - quiet, sincere - made Feyre’s throat tighten. There was no flattery in your tone, no hidden motive. Just kindness and truth.
And in that moment, watching you and Azriel share a look that glowed brighter than the stars, Feyre finally saw it - the heart of this place.
It wasn’t power or politics or even Rhysand’s charm that held it together. It was all of you. The bonds between friends, between lovers, between souls who have chosen each other despite everything the world has taken from them.
For the first time, Feyre thought she might choose them, too.
When she glanced at Rhysand again, his eyes were already on her - quiet, watchful, as though he could hear the shift in her heart.
Feyre only nodded once, more to herself than him.
She would help them. Whatever it took. Against Hybern, against the King, against the world itself - she would stand with the Night Court.
Because now she understood what they were fighting for.
🫶🏻summary: you and azriel decided to tell your friends the news at dinner. nyx decided he wants to help.
Azriel was whipped. He was so completely gone that Cassian had started teasing him again, but the Shadowsinger hadn't even tried to deny it. And why would he?
He had been whipped the exact moment the mating bond snapped into place between the two of you. Honestly, he had been whipped this entire time—ever since you pulled him into your orbit and wrapped him securely around your pinky finger. But learning that you were carrying his child? That made Azriel truly, utterly, and unapologetically whipped all over again.
"I think we should tell them," you said one night, as Azriel's fingers slowly traced across your stomach.
He had developed a habit of doing it since the day you told him you were pregnant. Like he still can’t believe there’s a little life forming under your heart.
Azriel nodded, though only because he didn't want to burst the bubble the two of you were living inside.
Call him overprotective and jealous, but he wished this knowledge was only his and yours.
Your little life.
Your little secret.
But Madja and Feyre already knew anyway. So, you finally agreed it was time to tell the rest of the Inner Circle at dinner.
—-
"Ah, you look so beautiful!" Feyre said, coming over to hug you tightly. A huge smile was plastered across her face as she looked up at Azriel. "Come in, dinner's ready."
Azriel took your cloak and hung it up next to the front door. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "You're nervous."
He was. He was so fucking nervous. Anxiety had never really been on his radar before, but right now, it was all he could feel.
"Are you not?" he asked in a low voice.
"I am, but it's a happy nervous," you giggled.
Gods, she's so beautiful and radiant, he thought, trying—and failing—to stabilize his racing heartbeat.
He stepped further into the River House, his pace slow as he watched your back while you practically bounced on your toes toward the others. But the tension broke the moment you greeted Rhysand, who was holding Nyx. The toddler practically launched himself into your arms with a loud, happy shriek.
"Oh!" you laughed, your eyes widening in surprise. "Well hello, you chunky baby."
Azriel was internally screaming, breaking into a nervous sweat at the sight on his right.
Nyx had apparently decided that sitting in his own highchair during dinner was out of the question. Instead, he occupied your lap, insisting on eating from your plate and immediately snoozing the moment he was full. The toddler's grip on your sleeve was so fiercely tight that any attempt to gently peel him away would have been completely useless.
You, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind at all.
Azriel, however, was fighting off an existential crisis because the view was just so overwhelmingly wholesome. He couldn't even remember eating his own dinner; he had spent the entire evening captivated by the sight of you eating, feeding Nyx, and cradling the boy as he drifted off to sleep in your arms.
He couldn’t even remember responding to any remark or question thrown his way.
He couldn't help but imagine this exact scene with his own baby. How he would want his Mom, how he’d want him - to hold, carry, protect, and watch over their own little one.
Azriel's heart leaped into his throat the moment you turned and looked at him. You looked so content. Happy. Completely at ease.
You were entirely ready to be a mother. And looking at you now, Azriel couldn't help but be a little more excited about becoming a Dad.
"He's never been quite this clingy before," Rhysand’s contemplative voice suddenly snapped Azriel out of his thoughts. Rhys was watching his son sleep peacefully in your arms.
"Yeah, I wonder why," Feyre chimed in with a knowing smirk, tossing a quick wink in your direction.
You bit your lower lip, trying your best to hide the excited smile breaking across your face.
"We kind of want to tell you guys something," you announced suddenly, throwing a shy glance toward Azriel.
He slowly but surely smiled, giving you a reassuring nod as he draped his arm securely over your shoulders.
"Aww, look how he's just staring up at her," Mor cooed, looking down at Nyx. The little boy had just decided to wake up in your lap.
And indeed, he looked completely in awe as he gazed up at you. You couldn't help but laugh.
"You might just be his first-ever crush," Cassian joked, which immediately earned him a fierce death glare from Azriel.
"You know what's happening, don't you?" you softly asked Nyx, reaching out to brush a stray lock of unruly hair away from his forehead.
Nyx just beamed back up at you, his smile all gummy and drooly.
A sudden gasp broke the silence.
Rhysand had actually gasped. His violet eyes were wide with shock, but they were already beginning to twinkle with pure joy.
"Holy gods," he breathed. He turned, pointing a finger down at Nyx. "He feels it." He looked up, his gaze locking onto Feyre.
Feyre simply nodded, her joyful smile shining.
"What?" Cassian asked, looking around the table completely dumbfounded by everyone's shocked, knowing expressions.
"I'm pregnant," you replied.
"Oh my gods," Cassian whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Azriel.
"Oh my gods! How did it happen?" He surged out of his chair, startling Nyx slightly as he jumped a little in your lap.
"How do you think it happened, dumbass?" you laughed, smacking him playfully upside the head as he rounded the table to squeeze the both of you.
"Az, my brother, you actually know how to use your magic stick!" Cassian beamed, entirely unbothered by the swat.
"It's not a stick," you muttered under your breath.
Azriel shot you a warning glance, which you met with a teasing smile.
"I feel faint," Cassian continues to be dramatic. He immediately bombarded you with questions.
"How far along are you? Do you have any cravings yet? Morning sickness? Any weird food and smell sensitivities?"
"Cass, it's not your baby," Rhysand chimed in, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, it is! I'm going to be an uncle again!" Cassian declared proudly, throwing his arms around Azriel and hugging him tightly.
“You'll be a fantastic dad, Az. You took care of me and were always there for me. I know you're gonna take good care of your own baby, too,” Cassian murmurs against your mate’s shoulder.
Your eyes immediately tear up.
Azriel visibly tensed at first, but as the weight of Cassian's words truly sunk in, he relaxed and melted into the tight hug.
"Thank you, brother," Azriel said, his voice thick with emotions.
Everyone made their way over the two of you, enveloping you into hugs so tight and warm, tour heart squeezed inside your chest.
But it was Rhysand's quiet words that completely tore through your defenses.
"Thank you for making my brother happy."
You looked at your beautiful mate, this strong, fierce and loyal man, who keeps on bringing down to your knees, who makes your heart beat wildly.
Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.
A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.
She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.
A slow-burn, fated-mates romance filled with witty banter, embarrassing public incidents, and the undeniable pull of a bond neither of them can fight forever.
For fans of enemies-to-lovers, reluctant soulmates, and the most exasperated Shadowsinger in Prythian.
Part 1: The Meet Cute
Part 2: Fate is a Menace
Part 3: The Art of Avoidance (and the Shadowsinger Who Outplayed It)
Part 4: This Isn't How I Die… Right?
Part 5: Azriel, Please—There Are Easier Ways to Say You Like Me
Summary: Cassian dares Azriel to call Y/N a “good girl,” and the River House descends into chaos.
a/n: Y/N has shadows and starlight powers because why not?🤭 This tid-bit of info will make sense as you read.
Masterlist
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The late afternoon sun slanted lazily through the windows of the River House, bathing the living room in golden light. The air hummed with quiet conversation and the soft clinking of glasses, the occasional flutter of faelight drifting near the ceiling like drowsy stars. Velaris stretched peacefully outside the tall windows, but inside, the Inner Circle was gathered in their usual chaotic harmony.
Cassian was draped across one of the oversized couches like a lounging mountain, one foot on the coffee table, sipping from a glass of something amber. Nesta was curled beside him, her legs tucked under her as she read, pretending to ignore him—but everyone could see the slight curve to her lips at whatever nonsense he’d just said.
Rhys was stretched on another couch, Feyre leaning against his side as they shared a blanket, her sketchpad resting on her knees. She was absently doodling swirls of starlight and wings, her free hand curled around Rhysand’s fingers. Mor sat on the floor nearby, polishing her nails with a spell that shimmered gold and green with every flick of her hand. Elain, quiet but present, was perched in a window seat with a tray of tea, and Lucien lounged beside her, one arm slung lazily over the backrest as they chatted in low tones.
Amren reclined in a dark armchair, looking like a cat in the sun, sipping a goblet of something no one dared ask about, eyes half-lidded but sharp as ever.
Azriel sat in an armchair near the fireplace, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders like smoke. He had a book in his lap, unopened, because his attention kept flickering toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.
That was where Y/N was.
They could hear her moving, her bare feet padding softly across the tile, cabinet doors opening and shutting, and an unmistakably muttered, “Where the fuck are the cheesy things?” drifting into the room.
Azriel’s lips quirked at that—barely—but the others noticed.
Cassian saw it first. And grinned like a predator spotting prey.
“Hey, Az,” Cassian said loudly, his voice a low drawl. “I dare you to call Y/N a good girl when she walks back in.”
The room went still for a beat.
Azriel’s shadows recoiled, like startled birds.
Feyre choked on her tea. Mor burst out laughing. Nesta looked up sharply, her brows lifting. Even Amren cracked one glowing eye open, clearly intrigued.
Elain blinked in quiet horror. Lucien looked like someone had lit a match under his chair.
Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a second.
“That’s low,” he muttered, but his voice betrayed the flicker of interest. Mischief.
Cassian leaned in, devilish. “Come on, brother. She melts when you say it. Like a dying star. She forgets her name. For science.”
“You’re an idiot,” Azriel replied, but he was already shifting, the barest smile tugging at his lips.
Cassian’s eyes glinted with glee. “For the record, I dare you.”
From the kitchen came the crinkling sound of a bag being triumphantly torn open. And a triumphant, “Aha!”
Y/N stepped into the doorway, holding a bag of some cheesy snack triumphantly, her hair catching the sunlight, shadows trailing behind her like a cloak, starlight dancing in her eyes.
And Azriel, cool as ever, looked up at her from his chair and said—soft and low, like a forbidden promise, the kind of voice that could make anyone forget the world—
“Good girl.”
Y/N froze.
The snack bag slipped slightly in her fingers.
The world—no, the entire house—held its breath.
Her pupils dilated. Her chest rose sharply with a breath. Knees buckled just a little. A flush crept up her cheeks, slow and deep. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Cassian exploded into laughter. “CAUGHT!”
Nesta threw a pillow at him.
Mor squealed. “She’s literally blushing! Az, do it again—do it again!”
Feyre nearly dropped her sketchpad as she laughed. Rhysand looked vaguely scandalized. Amren smirked over the rim of her goblet.
Azriel… was already on his feet, stalking toward Y/N like a shadow come to life, all dark promise and slow steps, his smirk lazy, knowing.
Y/N stood there like someone had unplugged her brain, cheesy snack bag clutched in one limp hand, completely undone by two words.
“Stars,” she muttered, barely audible. “That’s not fair.”
He stopped just in front of her, dipped his head until their mouths almost touched, and whispered once more, like a gift and a curse—
Not with that voice in her ear. Not when his hand slid around her waist with the barest pressure, fingers splaying possessively over her hip. Not when his shadows curled around her ankles and calves like warm silk, winding upward in slow, teasing spirals. Her knees gave a telltale wobble, and she might’ve leaned into him more than she meant to.
Azriel tilted his head, studying her with that impossibly focused gaze, the one that said he saw everything—every blush, every flicker of breath, every tremble she couldn’t quite hide.
“You dropped your snack,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek, but there was laughter in his tone now. Teasing. Dangerous.
Y/N’s voice was a whisper, scandalized and aroused and helpless all at once. “You’re evil.”
Cassian, from the couch: “Confirmed. Absolute menace. But we love him anyway.”
Rhys groaned into Feyre’s hair. “We need to start setting rules for these gatherings. Like no weaponized mating rituals in the living room.”
Mor was wiping tears from her eyes, still giggling. “Can’t believe how fast her soul left her body. Az, what did you do to her?”
“I said two words,” Azriel said innocently, though his hands hadn’t left Y/N’s waist.
“That you said them,” Feyre pointed out, grinning. “Big difference. If Cassian said it, she’d punch him.”
“True,” Y/N muttered, finding her voice again as she blinked up at her mate, trying to gather her strength. “You’re the only one allowed to say that.”
Azriel’s smirk deepened, pure male satisfaction.
“Say it again and I swear I will melt into the floor,” she whispered, half a warning, half a dare.
He leaned closer, and it was ridiculous—how even his breath on her skin made her insides twist.
But he didn’t say it again. No, instead he brushed a kiss just beneath her ear and murmured something else, something private, only for her—
And whatever he said made her clutch his shirt and mutter something in a language none of them understood. Her accent had thickened, her cheeks were flaming, and her shadows were writhing like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.
Azriel just smiled.
Lucien raised a brow from his seat. “I think we just witnessed the mating equivalent of a death blow.”
Elain looked down into her teacup, face burning.
Cassian was howling with laughter. “She short-circuited! You broke her! Y/N, you good?”
Y/N slowly turned her head over Azriel’s shoulder and leveled Cassian with a look of pure venom—except her lips were twitching upward at the corners.
“I’m going to shove cheesy snacks into your mouth until you shut up.”
“Promising me snacks? That’s not the threat you think it is.”
Azriel sighed, then bent down and retrieved the snack bag from the floor, brushing it off before pressing it into her hands. “Here. For your trouble.”
She squinted at him. “If you say it again in that voice, I will not survive the night.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
“Azriel.”
But she was laughing now, flushed and glowing in that way she always got around him—like starlight blooming just beneath her skin. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple and led her back toward the couch, one hand still at her waist, and she let him.
The others watched them settle onto the floor near the hearth, Y/N leaning into Azriel’s side with the snack bag in her lap, still looking vaguely dazed. Azriel passed her one of the cheesy crisps like she was the queen of Prythian and this was some sacred offering.
Cassian, watching them with exaggerated horror: “We just enabled something truly terrible.”
Nesta: “Good. Now shut up.”
And as laughter filled the room once again, Y/N whispered, only loud enough for Azriel to hear, “I like being your good girl.”
Azriel didn’t say a word.
But his shadows swirled with contentment, and his smile—slow and secret—could’ve set the whole house on fire.
Cassian leaned back against the couch like a smug, overgrown cat, swirling the remains of his drink in his glass. He was watching Y/N and Azriel with that all-too-familiar gleam in his hazel eyes—the one that usually meant trouble was brewing.
Y/N was still nestled beside Azriel near the hearth, curled into his side, her legs tucked beneath her, munching on a cheesy crisp like it was the last edible thing in Prythian. Her cheeks were finally losing some of their deep blush, her breathing mostly even again.
Cassian clearly decided that peace had lasted too long.
With a slow, sly grin, he said to the room—loudly enough that everyone could hear, especially the couple in question—
“Now I’m just curious what her reaction would be if Az said, ‘on your knees.’”
Silence.
Actual, stunned silence.
Rhys choked on air.
Feyre gasped, her eyes wide as dinner plates.
Mor made a noise that was half-squeal, half-scream. “CASSIAN!”
Elain made a soft, scandalized squeak and buried her face in her hands. Lucien immediately reached for his drink, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m not drunk enough for this.”
Nesta didn’t look up from her book, but her lips twitched as if she were biting back a laugh. “Gods, you’re such a shit-stirrer.”
Azriel didn’t even blink.
Y/N?
Y/N went completely still.
The kind of still that said every system in her body had shut down and restarted in a blaze of chaotic what the fuck.
Her hand froze halfway to her mouth, cheesy crisp inches from her lips. Her pupils dilated so fast it was like someone flipped a switch. She made a small, choked sound and looked at Azriel like he’d somehow already said it.
And Azriel… gods-damned Azriel…
The corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly. Slowly. Like he was very aware of her reaction—and storing it for later use.
He said nothing.
But his shadows purred.
Y/N slowly turned her head toward Cassian, blinking like someone had just slapped her with a lightning bolt.
“Do you want to die?” she asked sweetly.
Cassian threw his head back and cackled. “Stars, it’s even worse than I thought! You didn’t even say it and she nearly melted into the floor!”
“Cass,” Azriel said, voice low and dangerous—not angry, but possessive, like a quiet warning growl. “Keep talking, and I’ll give her that command right here.”
Y/N made another helpless noise, turning red from her collarbones up.
Mor was dying, absolutely shrieking. “I can’t! I can’t—Az, if you say it I swear I’ll combust!”
Rhys, rubbing his temples like a father who’s lost control of his children: “Someone—anyone—please stop this. Elain looks like she might faint.”
Lucien reached over and gently moved Elain’s teacup away from her lap before something catastrophic could happen.
Meanwhile, Y/N was clutching Azriel’s shirt now, her head buried against his shoulder like she could hide from the conversation—but her body betrayed her. The way her legs shifted, the arch in her back, the way her shadows curled tight around her thighs—
Azriel bent his head close, and whispered something only she could hear. Her gasp was audible.
Cassian, watching the whole thing unfold like a delighted villain, grinned ear to ear. “Yup. That’s going in the record book.”
Nesta rolled her eyes. “You have a record book?”
He waggled his brows. “I do now.”
Y/N finally peeked up from Azriel’s shoulder, her voice hoarse but steady. “I hope you know that when I recover from this, I’m kicking your ass.”
Cassian smirked. “Fair. But worth it.”
Azriel ran his hand slowly down her spine, a look of dark promise in his eyes.
And he murmured—not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but enough to make her shiver—
“Later.”
Y/N didn’t make a sound.
She just melted. Again.
And Cassian lost his mind.
“YOU GUYS! YOU’RE GONNA KILL HER! STOP!”
Azriel just smiled. And this time… even Rhys looked a little afraid.
But, of course, he was not done.
Because Azriel never let go of an advantage once he had it—and right now, Y/N was flushed, breathless, barely hanging on to the frayed remains of her composure. Cassian’s comment had been the match, but Azriel? Azriel was the flame.
The Shadowsinger reached lazily into the snack bag still resting in Y/N’s lap, pulled out one of the crisps—one of those curled, golden cheesy ones—and held it between his fingers.
Completely casual. Like he hadn’t just whispered promises into her ear. Like he wasn’t still the reason her entire nervous system was currently short-circuiting.
Then, ever so innocently, he turned to her and murmured—
“Open your mouth for me.”
The room went dead silent.
Again.
Feyre’s jaw dropped.
Mor screamed.
Cassian made a wheezing sound and nearly fell off the couch.
Lucien covered his face with his hands and muttered something like, “Oh, for the love of—”
Even Amren, lounging in a chair like some ancient, unimpressed cat, raised a single dark brow.
Y/N?
Y/N made a sound that could only be described as a high-pitched whimper.
Her spine straightened like she’d just been electrocuted, and her hands flew up as if she didn’t know whether to push him away or drag him closer. Her mouth opened—and then promptly snapped shut again, eyes wide in horror at her own reaction.
Azriel blinked at her, all innocence. “What? It’s a snack.”
Liar.
Y/N was staring at the chip like it was the One Ring and she was about to fall to her doom.
“Y-you…” she tried. “You know what you’re doing.”
Azriel tilted his head. “I’m feeding you.”
Cassian, clutching his stomach, howled. “Oh my gods, she doesn’t know whether to eat it or beg.”
Nesta muttered, “I swear if he keeps this up, she’s going to ascend to another plane.”
Mor flung a pillow at Azriel. “Stop corrupting her!”
“Too late,” Y/N whispered, eyes still locked on her mate.
She was vibrating. Her shadows were wrapped tight around her legs again, her starlight flickering faintly along her fingers like her powers couldn’t figure out how to help her.
Azriel leaned in, his voice velvet and low, and added with that damn smirk—
“Be a good girl and open up.”
Y/N made a strangled sound and obeyed before she could think. Mouth open, eyes dazed, spine arching slightly like every cell in her body had been commanded.
He placed the chip on her tongue with gentle, devastating precision.
She didn’t even taste it.
Cassian died.
Dropped off the couch entirely.
Nesta didn’t bother catching him.
Rhys buried his face in Feyre’s lap and moaned. “Make it stop, please, make it stop—”
Elain looked like she was experiencing a crisis. Lucien had gone utterly still beside her, wide-eyed. Mor was wheezing through her laughter.
Y/N, eyes fluttering closed around the cheesy crisp, finally swallowed, then slumped back against Azriel’s shoulder, absolutely done.
“I hate you,” she mumbled.
Azriel just brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, utterly unrepentant.
“No, you don’t.”
And stars help her—
He was right.
Azriel, the insufferable, beautiful bastard, glanced down at his fingers—now dusted with that unmistakable cheesy orange powder from the crisp he’d just fed her. He inspected them with a faint smirk, clearly considering his next move.
Y/N, still recovering, was half-sprawled against his side, her mind mush, her pride in shambles. Her heart was racing, her skin still flushed. One little command and she’d folded like wet parchment.
So, of course, of course he wasn’t done.
Without a word, he lifted his hand—the one with the cheesy dust—and held two fingers in front of her lips, tilting them slightly in offering.
And then, in that dark, low murmur that somehow sounded like a kiss laced with sin—
“Clean my fingers for me, sweetheart.”
Cassian let out an actual scream. Mor shrieked with laughter and nearly fell off the couch.
Feyre smacked Rhys on the arm to stop his uncontrollable snorting. Elain made a noise that may have been a gasp—or a gasped prayer. Lucien had gone completely still again, one eye twitching.
Nesta was watching now, intrigued. “I want to see if she combusts.”
Y/N stared at Azriel’s fingers like they were the gates to Hel. Her lips parted—reflex—and then she slapped a hand over her own mouth.
“Azriel!” she squeaked behind her fingers, eyes wide with shock, heat flooding her cheeks again. “You can’t just—in front of everyone—”
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just kept his hand out, that smug little tilt to his mouth.
“I’m just asking for help,” he said, utterly innocent. “You made me touch those chips. Now I’m all messy.”
Cassian, choking on laughter: “This is torture. I didn’t know watching someone descend into horny chaos could be this entertaining.”
Mor couldn’t breathe. “She’s gonna spontaneously ascend. Like full fae goddess mode, just out of sheer flustered thirst.”
Y/N, trembling with internal conflict, very slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. Her eyes were locked on Azriel’s, pupils dilated, lips parted, and her voice came out as a whisper:
“…You’re going to pay for this.”
Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Gladly.”
And gods help her—
She leaned forward.
Just the barest brush of her tongue over his fingertips, her eyes fluttering shut like she hated herself for it—and also maybe wanted to crawl into his lap and never leave again.
The moment her tongue touched his skin, his shadows shuddered.
Azriel inhaled through his nose like he’d just been handed every fantasy he’d never dared admit aloud.
Cassian actually collapsed, face-down on the floor, sob-laughing.
Rhys sat up and pointed a warning finger. “No one is allowed to say another word for the rest of the evening.”
Mor was crying. “It’s too late! They’ve corrupted this space forever!”
Y/N leaned back again, cheeks aflame, and buried her face in Azriel’s shoulder with a muffled groan.
“You’re evil,” she muttered.
Azriel wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head, his voice velvet and pure satisfaction.
“You love it.”
Cassian was still on the floor, pounding the hardwood with his fist like this was the greatest entertainment Velaris had ever known. “I take it back—this is better than sparring. Someone bring popcorn. No—cheesy crisps. Give me the cheesy crisps. I want to see what happens if I hold out my fingers.”
Azriel didn’t even look at him. “Try it and lose them.”
Y/N was vibrating in place, her face buried in Azriel’s neck, clearly trying to become one with his shadows to escape the utter humiliation and arousal that had consumed her.
Feyre had thrown a pillow at Rhys. “You’re the High Lord, do something!”
Rhys looked entirely too amused for someone supposedly in control. “This is divine punishment. For all of us.”
Lucien muttered, “I feel like I’m intruding on some very private mating ritual.”
Elain was pink, sipping her tea with trembling hands, her eyes so wide they looked like they’d never close again.
Amren hadn’t moved. “Honestly, I want to see how far this goes. My money’s on Y/N throwing Azriel through the wall before the hour’s done.”
Nesta, still cool and unreadable, just said, “I’ll help patch the wall when it happens.”
Azriel turned to Y/N, still cradling her like she was precious—and absolutely wrecked.
He tilted her chin up just enough to see her eyes, voice low and wicked.
“Still hungry, love?”
Y/N blinked up at him, her voice a whisper. “You are cruel.”
Cassian, from the floor: “He is! Isn’t it amazing? It’s like watching a temple girl be corrupted by the darkest male in existence—”
He paused. “Wait. That’s kinda what’s happening.”
Mor was crying again. “Y/N’s going to explode, and I’m not missing it.”
Y/N—desperate for payback—finally pushed herself upright. Her shadows flickered, starlight trailing her fingertips as she glared at Cassian.
“Oh, you think you’re safe?” she said, voice still breathy but gaining strength. “You want chaos? Fine.”
She pointed a single glowing finger at him. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I will say something to Nesta that will leave you begging.”
Cassian’s smugness vanished instantly.
His head snapped toward Nesta. “She’s bluffing.”
Nesta looked up slowly, like a lioness stirring in the sun. “She’s not.”
Cassian’s eyes went wide. “Y/N. Y/N. We’re friends. Friends.”
Y/N, voice sweet and laced with vengeance: “Then be quiet, General.”
Everyone howled.
Cassian threw a pillow at her. She caught it mid-air, shadows snatching it and gently setting it down beside her.
Azriel was beaming. Actually smiling, proud and delighted.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured in her ear.
Y/N melted. Again. “Gods-dammit—Azriel—!”
“Language,” he whispered, far too amused.
Feyre buried her face in her hands. “We’re never having a normal night again.”
Rhys sighed dramatically. “There’s no such thing as ‘normal’ when your brother’s sex voice ruins the entire living room.”
Azriel looked entirely unbothered. “Not my fault she’s obedient.”
Y/N shrieked.
Lucien spit out his wine.
Cassian groaned. “I will never get that image out of my mind.”
Amren sipped her bloodwine and muttered, “Good. Maybe next time you’ll think before daring the Shadowsinger to speak.”
Y/N launched a pillow at Azriel’s face.
He caught it one-handed, grinning. “You missed.”
Her voice came out in a growl, low and breathy.
“I never miss.”
Everyone froze.
Cassian: “Oh, she’s fighting back now.”
Nesta closed her book. “Let her.”
Azriel leaned in again, a challenge in his eyes, his voice practically dripping shadow and seduction.
“Then prove it, little star.”
And just like that—
That was it.
Y/N snapped.
With a strangled sound—something between a shriek and a gasp of pure exasperated sexual frustration—she launched herself fully into Azriel’s lap.
Azriel barely had time to blink before—
WHUMP.
A pillow hit him square in the face.
Then again.
WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.
“Y/N—” he choked, trying to grab her wrists. “Y/N—”
She straddled him, knees on either side of his thighs, hair wild and falling into her face, eyes blazing, and just kept hitting him with the pillow.
“You. Smug. Bastard. That. Voice. Is. A. Warcrime!”
WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.
Azriel’s shadows scattered in shock, clearly not sure whether to defend him or help Y/N.
Cassian was on his back on the floor, kicking his legs in hysterical laughter. “She snapped, I told you! She SNAPPED!”
Nesta smirked, folding her arms. “I like her more every day.”
Feyre was howling now, clinging to Rhys who looked like he’d aged ten years in the last five minutes. “I don’t even know who I’m rooting for anymore!”
Lucien murmured to Elain, “Should we look away?”
Elain: “I want to…but I can’t.”
Mor had completely lost it, tears running down her cheeks. “This is the best night of my life. I’m going to commission Feyre to paint this.”
Azriel had given up trying to stop her. He just sat there, letting her rain down justice, biting back laughter—though his shadows were trembling, and his smile was only growing wider the more she attacked.
“Mercy,” he said finally, shielding his face with one hand, catching the pillow with the other. “I surrender.”
“You do not!” Y/N shouted, WHACKING him again. “You think you can just ruin my brain in front of everyone and get away with it?!”
“Technically, you climbed into my lap,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
WHACK.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
WHACK.
“You’re not allowed to be hot and smug at the same time!”
Azriel caught the pillow again and suddenly flipped them, faster than anyone could react. Y/N gasped as her back hit the cushions beneath him, the pillow pinned between them, his body covering hers. Shadows coiled around them like a barrier, separating them from the howling laughter around the room.
He leaned close, nose brushing hers.
His voice, damn him, dropped again—
“You like me best like this.”
Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers fisted in the front of his shirt.
Cassian yelled from the floor, “STOP! I’M TOO YOUNG TO BE EXPOSED TO THIS MUCH TENSION!”
Amren stood and dusted off her pants. “Alright. That’s enough. If they start dry-humping on this couch, I’m burning the place down.”
Azriel looked at her without moving. “We’d at least move to the guest room.”
WHACK. The pillow hit him one more time.
Y/N, face flushed and breathless, just stared up at him and muttered:
“…You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Azriel’s grin was all teeth and shadows.
“We both know that’s a lie.”
And every single person in that living room just lost it.
Y/N made a noise—a sound that wasn’t even a word, more like the wail of someone at the very edge of sanity and desire. A feral, strangled growl of pure exasperated chaos.
Then—
Her hands flew up.
And she wrapped them around Azriel’s throat.
Not tight—just enough to shake him.
Azriel let it happen.
His head bobbed slightly as she rattled him like a goblet of wine she was about to shatter. “I hate you!” she half-snarled, half-whimpered, glaring into his stupidly beautiful, smug, night-kissed face.
Azriel didn’t fight back. Just sat there on top of her with that infuriating little smirk tugging at his lips, shadows dancing gleefully behind him like they lived for this exact brand of foreplay.
“You are insufferable,” she hissed, still shaking him, face flushed, heart pounding.
Azriel blinked at her, calm as ever, and asked in the softest, silkiest voice:
“Harder?”
Cassian screamed. “I’M GOING TO ASCEND. AZRIEL’S KINKY. I CALLED IT. I KNEW IT.”
Feyre launched a pillow at him. Rhys tackled him with another.
Lucien actually choked on air and wheezed, “Is this what mating bonds are supposed to be like? Is this…normal?!”
Mor fell off the couch this time, full-on cackling.
Elain had gone completely still, blinking very slowly like her brain was buffering.
Nesta looked like she’d just been handed her favorite wine and a front-row seat to the greatest soap opera in Prythian. “I’m learning things I can never unlearn.”
Y/N released his throat with a groan of utter despair and let her arms flop back down against the cushions.
Azriel, absolutely pleased with himself, leaned down again until his nose brushed hers, shadows still coiling like smug little bastards.
“Finished?” he asked, voice all dark silk.
Y/N stared up at him with narrowed eyes and a trembling lip.
“…No,” she said.
Then she pulled him down by the collar and bit his jaw.
Azriel groaned, low and sharp, the kind that made everyone in the room turn to stone.
Cassian’s voice, faint: “I don’t know if I’m scared or impressed or—actually, no, I’m just scared.”
Rhys looked like he wanted to bury himself in the floor. “Mother above. Take me now.”
Amren drained her glass and muttered, “I told you. We should’ve just let her kill him that day.”
Mor was wheezing, pointing at Azriel. “He’s not even pretending to be cool anymore!”
Azriel, who was now half-lost in Y/N’s hair, let out a satisfied sigh against her ear.
“Still sleeping on the couch?” he murmured.
Y/N’s voice came out breathless, dangerous.
“You’re lucky I don’t banish you to the Illyrian mountains.”
Azriel nuzzled her. “You’d miss me by sundown.”
And Y/N—poor, flustered, still-fuming Y/N—just groaned again and muttered:
“Mother help me, I would.”
The entire Inner Circle groaned in unison.
Cassian had dragged a blanket off the couch and was now dramatically wrapping himself in it, rocking back and forth on the floor like a war survivor. “They’re saying the cutest filth to each other. I can’t live like this. I can’t go on. I need therapy. I need a temple. I need to bathe in salt.”
Nesta kicked him lightly. “You’re the one who started this.”
“I didn’t know it would become a religious experience!” he shot back, clutching the blanket tighter. “He whispered ‘harder’ while being choked—I can never look him in the eyes again.”
Feyre had officially surrendered, head in Rhys’s lap as she weakly muttered, “This is our house. Our house. We have a child. A toddler. We had dinner here an hour ago.”
Rhys was staring blankly at the ceiling. “We should burn the furniture.”
Azriel had not moved.
Still straddling Y/N, his chest rising and falling a bit faster now, jaw still tingling from where she’d bitten him. His shadows rolled lazily over her hips, slipping under the hem of her shirt like they knew no shame, brushing her skin like they were claiming her all over again.
Y/N glared up at him, cheeks burning, breath coming fast.
“I will get revenge for this,” she hissed. “This humiliation. This entire performance.”
Azriel only smiled, infuriatingly calm. “Then I look forward to it.”
WHUMP.
She hit him in the chest with the pillow again.
WHUMP.
He caught it and held it there, pinning her hands beneath his, voice low.
“Or you could surrender now. I’ll go easy on you… maybe.”
Her eyes blazed.
“You want surrender?” she whispered.
And then—in front of everyone—she arched up and bit his collarbone.
Azriel made a sound that could only be described as a choked growl, his wings flaring just a bit, shadows suddenly swirling like a storm.
Mor shrieked. “OH MY GODS.”
Cassian threw the blanket over his entire head. “I’M DEAD. BURY ME WITH HONOR.”
Lucien stood up and announced, “I’m going to go walk into the Sidra and never come back.”
Elain, softly: “I didn’t even know Fae could blush that much.”
Amren just stood, hands on her hips, and said, “Someone bring the child. Let him see what he must never become.”
Azriel looked like he was this close to losing every last shred of composure. His fingers curled around Y/N’s hips, grip possessive, eyes glowing faintly gold in the low light.
Y/N’s voice was a purr now, dangerous and smug. “Still think I’m the one surrendering?”
Azriel blinked down at her—and then, in the most unbothered voice possible, purred back:
“I’m letting you win.”
Y/N howled in rage and launched the pillow at his head again.
Mor collapsed in screaming laughter.
Cassian rolled onto his side and yelled into the floor:
“WHEN THEY GET MARRIED WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE.”
Nesta, dry as bone, replied, “Good. Maybe then we’ll have peace.”
And Feyre just reached for the wine bottle with one trembling hand.
“…I need three glasses just to forget tonight even happened.”
Azriel was laughing now—an actual full-on laugh, rare and wicked and infuriatingly attractive, his head tilted back slightly as Y/N shoved at his chest again, huffing like a dragon about to breathe literal star fire.
“You’re not letting me win,” she snapped, trying to sit up—only for him to lean down again and trap her with his body, his smirk infuriatingly close.
“Oh, but I am,” he purred, his voice brushing over her skin like velvet wrapped in shadows. “Letting you think you have the upper hand… while I enjoy the view.”
Y/N’s eyes blazed. “You are unbelievable.”
“And yet…” Azriel hummed, brushing his nose lightly along her jaw, just enough to make her entire soul glitch, “you’re still under me.”
There was a pause.
And then—Y/N’s voice went low and dangerous, her accent cutting through like a blade of silk.
“Fine.”
She grinned slowly.
“Let me show you what I do to people who underestimate me.”
Everyone in the room simultaneously—
“OH MY GODS.”
Cassian, muffled under his blanket: “SHE’S GONNA DOM HIM I KNEW IT—”
Feyre was openly drinking from the wine bottle now. “Rhys, portal me to Hewn City. I’d rather deal with Keir.”
Rhys, wide-eyed, whispered, “They’re worse than us.”
Mor was gone, rolling off the couch, clutching her ribs. “I can’t. I can’t—this is the best mating bond I’ve ever witnessed—how are they not combusting?!”
Nesta gave a sharp nod. “I give them ten minutes before they disappear upstairs.”
“Five,” Amren said flatly. “Three if he says anything else in that voice.”
Lucien had left the room. Vanished. There was no trace of him. Smart man.
Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around Y/N’s waist, amused and pleased, while she leaned up again and whispered something in his ear—inaudible to the others, but it made his breath hitch, his hands tighten around her hips, his wings flex like he was very suddenly and urgently remembering he had a mate, and that she was his.
Cassian peeked out from under his blanket. “Did she just—did she say something or—did his soul just exit his body?”
Azriel was still for a heartbeat. Two.
Then he stood.
Effortlessly. With Y/N still in his arms.
She let out a very pleased, smug hum, arms twining around his neck, chin perched on his shoulder.
“Don’t wait up,” she said sweetly over his shoulder.
Cassian dramatically fell back onto the rug. “THEY’RE LEAVING. THEY’RE DOING THE THING. ABANDON SHIP.”
Rhys, cradling a glass of wine now, muttered, “I am the High Lord. I should be able to kick people out of my house.”
“Should being the key word,” Feyre muttered, pouring herself another glass and handing one to Nesta.
Amren raised her empty glass. “May the walls stay standing.”
“Unlikely,” Mor replied, still giggling. “But we’ll have fun guessing what breaks first.”
And with that, Azriel and Y/N disappeared up the stairs, shadows curling behind them like curtains closing on a performance that had left the audience in awe, horror, and unholy amounts of secondhand arousal.
Summary - She only wanted one night—no strings, no promises, just a little fun with the pretty girl from the app. But when her date turns out to be Feyre and her husband Rhysand, everything she thought she agreed to spins out of control.
One night becomes something she can't escape, chance encounters, lingering touches, and messages that start to feel like something more.
She keeps running, insisting it's casual—because falling for two people who already belong to each other can only end in heartbreak.
But Feyre paints her into art, Rhys looks at her like she's already his, and suddenly it's not just chemistry anymore.
It's connection. It's terrifying. It's real.
Tags - modern AU, polyamory, emotional tension, accidental love, found connection, fear of falling
Contents -
✴︎ One | A Table for Three | 2.8k words
✴︎ Two | Inescapable | 2.1k words
✴︎ Three | Static in the Air | 2.8k words
✴︎ Four | The Muse | 2.1k words
✴︎ Five | Falling Into Place | 2k words
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This fic was another request and it is on the shorter side because the prompt wasn't very detailed—but I hope it still delivers!
This is the first time EVER since I began writing (about seven/eight years ago) that I'm writing a story with another female as one of the love interests. I just wasn't sure I could ever do it justice, but the request called for it, and I gave it my all. Please be gentle, I've poured my absolute best into this :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
Summary: Reader is a bit oblivious to Cassian’s flirtations, so Cassian has to go the extra mile to prove he truly wants her.
Warnings: Cassian probably makes some suggestive jokes somewhere in here, but it’s all fluff! :)
4.6k words.
"I brought coffee," I announce as I step into the studio's warm embrace, the door swinging shut behind me to keep the morning chill at bay. I balance the two cups in one hand, the other cradling the new set of paints Feyre had asked me to pick up this morning.
"Back here!" Feyre's voice carries from the storage room, muffled slightly by the rustling of cardboard.
I follow the sound, stepping into the small back area where she's surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. She exhales in relief as she rushes up to me, taking her coffee with eager hands.
"You're a lifesaver," she groans, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. "Thank you."
I set the paints down, glancing at the boxes. "I thought the shipments were too heavy to unload?"
Feyre hums around her coffee, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I had help—"
Before she can finish, a figure stalks through the doorway, his presence effortlessly filling the space. A box—one that Feyre and I together had struggled to move—rests in his arms like it weighs nothing.
"This should be the last one," the male says, setting it down with casual ease.
His voice is deep, rough-edged in a way that demands attention. I take in the broad cut of his shoulders, the way his wings shift behind him, arching slightly as he straightens. And then I see his face—hazel eyes rich as molten gold, a scar cutting through his dark brow, and a mouth curled into an easy, knowing smile. He's ruggedly handsome, but not in that delicate, ethereal way most High Fae are. No, he's something else entirely—something solid, real.
"Help from Cassian," Feyre finishes, amusement lacing her tone.
The name stiles me immediately, and I was a fool for not immediately putting it together the second I saw him. Cassian. Lord of Bloodshed.
He turns his gaze to me, openly assessing, and I take the opportunity to do the same. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he's mapping every detail—filing it away for later.
"I didn't know we'd have company," I say, forcing my focus back to the present. "I would've brought another coffee."
Cassian huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, no need. I've been up for hours." His voice carries the same warmth as his grin, rough yet inviting. "But that's a kind gesture."
I nod, offering a small smile in return.
"I don't believe you two have officially met," Feyre chimes in, shifting her attention between us. "Cass, this is my very talented friend. She keeps this place running."
"She gives me too much credit," I say, shaking my head.
Cassian, however, tilts his head, his expression unreadable. "I doubt that." The certainty in his tone knocks something loose in my chest.
"This is Cassian," Feyre continues, grinning. "Rhys' brother and the best guy to call for lifting heavy things."
Cassian makes a sound of protest. "Don't forget hilarious, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—I mean, the list goes on."
I huff a quiet laugh as he extends his hand.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cassian." I smile as I take his hand.
His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, his grip firm but not overwhelming.
"Likewise, sweetheart." His smirk deepens, and before I can pull away, his thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand—a touch so fleeting, so deliberate, that I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he winks, a quick, knowing thing, before finally releasing me.
I swallow, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. I've heard the stories from Feyre, how when she originally arrived in the night court she may as well have ended up with Cassian with his relentless flirting. He's joking, I remind myself. That's just how he is.
Cassian dusts his hands off on his leathers before flashing me an easy grin. "You must be the one keeping Feyre sane around here."
I huff a quiet laugh, setting down the paints. "I do my best. But she keeps me busy."
"She does that," he muses, glancing at Feyre. "Though I didn't realize she had such a beautiful assistant."
I blink at him, caught off guard. "Oh—I'm not really her assistant. More like a glorified errand runner."
Feyre scoffs. "That is not true."
Cassian's gaze flicks back to me, assessing. "You're an artist too, then?"
I nod while shucking off my winter coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. "That's the idea."
His grin widens. "Now I'm definitely going to start hanging around more. I could use a few painting tips."
Feyre snorts. "You paint?"
"Not yet," he says, unbothered. "But I'm a fast learner. And I've always appreciated a good work of art."
Something about the way he says it, about the way his hazel eyes flick over me like he's taking his time, makes my stomach flutter.
But before I can respond, he flashes me a smirk, turning back to Feyre. "Anyway, mission accomplished. Boxes are in, and I fully expect my reward."
"Which is?" Feyre asks dryly.
Cassian smirks. "Your eternal gratitude. And maybe a good bottle of whiskey, if Rhys is feeling generous."
Feyre rolls her eyes, but I can't help my smile.
"How about next time we need your help, you'll be the first one we call?" I suggest, noticing Feyre's playful disinterest in rewarding him for being a good friend.
Cassian grins like I've just made his day. "Oh, sweetheart. You can call me anytime."
His voice drops just enough to send an odd warmth curling through my stomach. But before I can overthink it, he turns toward the door.
Cassian turns slightly, glancing at me and Feyre. "I'll be seeing you around, hopefully." He directs at me. "See you for dinner, Feyre."
And just like that, he's gone, leaving only the scent of wind and cracking embers in his wake.
I shake my head, amused, as I turn back to Feyre—only to find her already watching me over the rim of her coffee cup.
"What?"
She only smirks, taking a slow sip. "Nothing."
I frown but brush it off, reaching for the new paints.
Cassian was just being friendly. That's all.
Right?
—
From that moment on, Cassian made every excuse to come to the studio. Half the time, he didn't even bother with a valid reason—just threw out a casual "I was in town" when, in reality, he always was. Velaris wasn't nearly as big as he made it out to be.
The bell above the door rang, and I didn't need to look up to know whose footsteps were approaching behind me.
"Is that supposed to be a bird?" Cassian mused, leaning over my shoulder.
I scoffed, shoving his face away. "It's a dog, and you know it."
He chuckled, easily dodging my half-hearted push and settling right back beside me. "Mmm. If you say so." His wings rustled as he peered at my work again, this time with something softer in his expression. "It's amazing, sweetheart. You're so damn talented."
The sincerity in his voice made my stomach flutter. I tilted my head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the rare note of awe in his tone.
That awe melted into something else—something warm and teasing—as he placed both hands on my shoulders and started kneading gently.
I nearly groaned on the spot. "Gods, you're perfect at that." I exhaled, practically melting under his touch.
Cassian hummed, his thumbs working expertly over the knots in my shoulders.
I sighed blissfully, rolling my shoulders into his hands. "You should've been a healer."
He chuckled, his breath fanning against my ear. "I'd rather just take care of you, sweetheart."
I smiled, tilting my head further into his touch, completely missing the way his fingers stilled for a beat before continuing their slow, deliberate strokes.
"You really are tense," he murmured, pressing into the tight muscles just beneath my neck. "Is this what happens when you spend all day hunched over, painting little dogs that look like birds?"
I smacked his arm lightly. "If you're going to insult my work, at least pretend to be subtle about it."
"Who said anything about insulting?" His thumbs dug in a little deeper, his voice dropping just enough to make my skin heat. "I love watching you work. All focused, biting your lip, completely lost in it."
I wrinkled my nose. "That makes me sound like some kind of absent-minded hermit."
Cassian grinned. "A very cute absent-minded hermit."
I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Cassian."
"That's funny because I feel like it's getting me everywhere," he mused, his hands still kneading at my shoulders. "You're practically purring."
"I am not purring," I argued, though I made no move to stop him.
"Cassian, stop distracting my employees!" Feyre's voice rang from the back room, laced with exasperation.
Cassian smirked, straightening up from where he'd been massaging my shoulders. "Employee," he corrected with a lazy grin. "And I'm motivating her."
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, a phantom pressure I refused to dwell on.
He chuckled, stepping back, stretching in that way that made every muscle in his absurdly broad body flex just enough to be noticed. His wings flared slightly, shifting behind him like an afterthought before he shot me another smirk. "I'll let you get back to it, sweetheart." Then, with a slow tilt of his head—"Unless you'd rather take a break and let me keep working these magic hands?"
My breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to scoff. "No," I said, ignoring the small blush creeping up my neck. "But... could I ask you a favor?"
Cassian perked up instantly, arms folding over his chest. "Anything, gorgeous."
I hesitated, suddenly second-guessing myself, but forged ahead. "I need to paint an anatomical feature I've been studying. I have a few reference images, but..." I swallowed, glancing at his wings. "I was hoping I could use you as a live model?"
His brows lifted, hazel eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My wings?"
I nodded. "Your wings are far more magnificent than the sketches in my book."
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded—how appreciative they were—and my face went hot.
Cassian, of course, took full advantage. His wings stretched slightly as if preening under the attention. "You just trying to get me shirtless, sweetheart?"
A very unhelpful image flashed in my head—of him, shirtless, all sculpted muscle and golden skin, wings fanned out behind him in the studio's soft light.
"No!" I blurted, before catching myself. "I mean—it's just for the wings."
Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Only teasing, sweetheart. I'd love to."
I exhaled in relief. "Good. Are you free tomorrow?"
He tilted his head, grinning. "I'm here whenever you want me."
Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.
I bit my lower lip slightly, nodding. "Thank you."
"I wouldn't thank me so fast," he mused, gaze flicking to me with unmistakable mischief. "You owe me after this."
I narrowed my eyes. "Owe you what?"
Cassian made a show of looking away, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. "Haven't decided yet," he hummed, lips twitching. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll think of something."
I huffed, waving him off. "Go bother someone else, Cassian."
He gave a dramatic bow, smirk firmly in place. "As you wish."
And with that, he sauntered off, wings twitching ever so slightly as he disappeared into the back of the studio—leaving Feyre standing there, watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes.
I turned back to my canvas, heat still prickling my skin.
—
I wasn't nervous.
There was no reason to be nervous.
It was just a painting. Just a model session. Nothing different from the dozens I'd done before.
Except, of course, this time the model was Cassian. And he was currently standing in the doorway of the studio, a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"Told you I'd be here whenever you wanted me."
I cleared my throat, turning away quickly to gather my supplies. "Yes, well, I'd rather not have students knocking over easels trying to get a look at you, so we're setting up in the back."
He let out a low chuckle as he followed me. "What, afraid they'll get distracted?"
I rolled my eyes. "No, but I know you will."
"Fair point."
Once we stepped into the back room—where there were no prying eyes or interruptions—I pointed to the stool in the center of the space. "Sit there, facing away from me."
Cassian obeyed, but not before flashing me a smirk. "Getting bossy already?"
I ignored him, busying myself with setting up my canvas. "You can take off your shirt now."
"Damn, sweetheart—at least buy me dinner first."
I froze mid-motion, whipping my head around. "That's not—I didn't—"
Cassian just laughed, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his collar. In one smooth motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table.
I regretted looking.
Because Mother above.
Cassian was made of solid muscle—thick, powerful shoulders, his back broad and sculpted as if the Cauldron had taken extra care in crafting every ridge, every dip, every inch of him. His wings, folded neatly against his back, only added to the sheer size of him.
I swallowed hard, thankful beyond belief that he was facing away.
"You good back there?" Cassian teased.
"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly.
I turned my attention to his wings. The pose needed to be just right—relaxed but natural, something that would emphasize their power without looking stiff or unnatural. I stepped forward, lifting my hands, then hesitated.
"Can I touch?" I asked softly, if there was one thing I learned from studying Illyrian anatomy it's that their wings were sensitive, sacred.
Cassian went still.
For a moment, there was silence. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—his breath hitched.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. "Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.
I exhaled slowly before pressing my fingertips to the strong, leathery membrane of his wing. Warmth radiated from him, the muscle beneath my touch twitching slightly as I carefully adjusted his positioning.
It was... exhilarating, in a way. To be granted access to something so personal.
I stepped back to assess the placement. "Are they too heavy to hold like that?"
Cassian laughed. "That's adorable."
I frowned. "What?"
"Sweetheart, these wings have carried me through battle, through storms, through the Illyrian mountains at full speed. I think I can manage to hold them still for a few hours."
I huffed. "Fine. But will you be able to sit still?"
That earned me another chuckle, this one softer. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"
I shook my head and finally picked up my pencil, settling in front of my canvas.
"Alright," I murmured to myself, letting my nerves melt away as I focused on the work ahead. "Let's begin."
The soft scratch of pencil against canvas filled the room, steady, rhythmic—an anchor keeping me grounded as I worked.
I started with the shape of his wings, mapping out their vast expanse, the way they framed his body like an extension of his very presence. The leather stretched taut over powerful muscle, lined with delicate veins and faint, nearly imperceptible scars.
I shouldn't have been staring so intently.
I shouldn't have been so utterly captivated by every detail of him.
And yet, as I let my pencil glide over the page, shaping the curve of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the corded muscles of his back... I couldn't stop.
He's just a model. Just another subject.
Then why did my fingers tremble slightly when I shaded the deep ridges of his scars? Why did my chest tighten at the thought of what he must have endured to earn them?
Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his shoulders, his wings twitching.
I snapped out of my daze, scowling. "Sit still."
He huffed a laugh. "I don't think I've ever sat this still in my entire life."
I hummed in response, refocusing. Carefully, I traced the lines of his back, the contours of muscle that spoke of centuries of battle, of training, of dedication. My gaze flicked up to his wings again, and a quiet sigh escaped me.
"What's that sound for?" he asked, the amusement clear in his voice.
I hesitated, then admitted, "They really are beautiful, you know."
Cassian stilled for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you actually like having me here."
I rolled my eyes. "You act like I don't."
Silence.
A pause, just long enough to make my stomach flutter with uncertainty.
Then, "Good. I like being here."
I pressed my lips together, pretending that warmth hadn't bloomed in my chest at his words. Pretending that I wasn't getting lost in the strong, elegant lines of his body.
I dipped my brush into the paint, moving on from the sketch to the first careful strokes of color.
Cassian's voice broke through the quiet. "You know, if you wanted a full anatomy study, you could've just asked."
I blinked, pulling back slightly. "...What?"
He turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "You're painting my back, too, aren't you?"
My cheeks heated. "Well—yes, but—"
"Seems unfair to only get half the view."
I huffed. "I don't need the full view, Cassian."
His smirk deepened. "That's a shame. I'd be a very cooperative model."
I nearly choked on air. "Just—shut up and sit still."
He laughed, the sound warm and rich, settling in my bones.
I shouldn't have been enjoying this so much.
I shouldn't have been admiring the golden-brown glow of his skin, the way the light cast soft shadows over the planes of his back. I shouldn't have let my eyes linger on the scars that marred him—proof of all he had endured, of everything he had survived.
And I certainly shouldn't have wished that all his teasing, all his flirtation, was anything more than just casual banter.
Cassian was like this with everyone.
Wasn't he?
I was not going to let Cassian distract me.
Even if he was currently sprawled in front of me, shirtless, his wings stretched just so, his body the most stunning thing I'd ever painted.
Even if his words curled around me like smoke, warm and teasing, making my thoughts race in ways they shouldn't.
I swallowed hard and turned my attention back to the canvas, forcing myself to focus.
I just had to finish the painting.
And ignore the way my heart had begun to beat just a little too fast.
The rhythmic strokes of my brush filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of bristles against canvas and the steady sound of Cassian's breathing.
Nearly an hour has passed, and to his credit, he'd been holding still remarkably well. Mostly.
"You're awfully quiet back there, sweetheart," Cassian mused, his voice carrying just the hint of a smirk. "Not getting bored, are you?"
I huffed, dipping my brush into a deeper shade of pigment. "I'm working, Cassian."
"I am your work right now."
I rolled my eyes. "And you're a very high-maintenance subject."
Cassian chuckled. "I prefer engaging. You should be thanking me, really. Keeps things from getting dull."
I let out a soft laugh despite myself. "You're half-naked in front of me, Cassian. Things aren't exactly dull."
Silence.
A beat too long.
I froze as I realized what I'd just said.
Cassian's wings twitched. Then, "Well, well."
I groaned. "Forget I said that."
"Oh, absolutely not." He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the smug curve of his lips. "You just admitted to being entertained by me. I'm savoring this moment."
"I said forget it."
"Nope. It's mine now."
I sighed, glaring at the canvas like it had personally wronged me.
Cassian chuckled again but thankfully let it drop, settling back into his position.
A few minutes passed in something almost resembling peace. I worked on layering in the first washes of color, the warm tones of his skin against the deeper hues of his wings.
Then—"So, do I get a say in how I'm portrayed?"
I lifted a brow. "Are you worried about artistic liberties?"
"A little."
I fought back a smile. "I could make you look very dramatic, if that's what you're asking. Add some storm clouds in the background. Maybe a tragic tear rolling down your face."
Cassian snorted. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not be mistaken for some brooding, tortured soul."
I hummed. "That is Azriel's aesthetic."
"Exactly. We can't both have it."
"I don't know," I mused. "I think it could work. Maybe a single candle for dramatic lighting—"
"Absolutely not."
I grinned, but before I could make another remark, Cassian stretched, his wings flexing slightly before tucking back into place. The movement was so fluid, so casual—so utterly him.
I quickly went in with another light sketch, wanting to capture the way his muscles moved, the effortless strength in his frame.
"You still with me back there?" he teased, amusement lacing his voice.
"Yes, Cassian. Some of us are capable of focusing."
"Some of us just don't need to focus that hard to admire what's in front of us."
I frowned slightly, not quite catching his meaning. "What?"
He chuckled. "Nothing, sweetheart."
I shook my head, deciding not to press it.
"Alright," I finally said, leaning back to study my work. "I have the basics down. You can put your shirt back on now."
Cassian made a low, exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd need me to pose for a few more hours."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't sound too heartbroken. I will be making you sit for another session later."
His grin was wicked. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"
"Shut up and put your shirt on, Cassian."
He laughed, grabbing his discarded shirt—but the knowing look in his eyes told me that he'd be holding onto this moment for a long time.
And for some reason, I didn't mind one bit.
—
Cassian came in for many sessions after that.
I probably could've finished the painting on my own after the first few sittings, but he insisted I get all the colors right, all the details perfect. And, well... I wasn't exactly going to complain about having him shirtless in front of me for hours on end.
So, day after day, he showed up, sauntering into the studio with that insufferable smirk, stretching his wings like he owned the place. And I let him, indulged him—indulged myself—until the painting was finally finished, until there was no reason for him to sit for me anymore.
The thought left a strange hollowness in my chest, but I ignored it, focusing instead on adding the final highlights to his wings.
Cassian shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders.
I glanced up. "Getting restless?"
He grinned. "You gonna keep me trapped here all day, sweetheart?"
I smirked. "You're free to go anytime." I glanced at the painting. "But you'd be leaving unfinished art behind, and that would just be tragic."
Even though all I had left to add was a small, near-invisible highlight, I liked the idea of keeping him there just a little longer.
Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll sit still for you a little longer."
Something in the way he said it—for you—sent a ripple of warmth through me, but I shoved it aside. I exhaled, finally setting my brush down.
"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're officially free."
Cassian groaned dramatically, standing and rolling his neck. "Finally." He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he slung it over his shoulder, turning toward me with that insufferable smirk. "Is it done?"
I turned the easel slightly toward him.
It was hard to admire my own work. After staring at it for so long in every unfinished form, I wasn't sure if I loved it or if I just loved the image I had painted. But I could say I was proud of it. That was enough.
Cassian stepped closer, blinking at the still-wet canvas. His brows lifted, his mouth parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't crack a joke, didn't smirk like he usually did.
I shifted under his gaze. "Well?"
He inhaled, slow. "Sweetheart..." He sounded almost reverent. "It's... it's beautiful."
A laugh bubbled from my lips. "You're only saying that because it's you I painted."
"No—I mean, I am beautiful, but this is... magnificent." His voice was softer than usual, quieter.
Something flickered in his eyes as he turned toward me, something warm and fond. It was enough to make my stomach flip.
I swallowed. "Thanks, Cass."
His grin returned. "Proud of yourself?"
I nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I am."
His wings twitched. "Good. You should be."
A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment, the weight of his words pressing into me in a way I wasn't sure how to handle.
Then Cassian cleared his throat, stretching his arms over his head. "Now that it's finished..."
Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of anticipation down my spine.
He grinned. "...About my favor?"
I groaned. "You actually kept track of that?"
Cassian scoffed. "Sweetheart, I'd never forget a promise like that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing me like he was scheming. "And I know exactly what I want."
A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.
And for some reason, my stomach flipped all over again.
I raised a brow, waiting.
Cassian took a step forward. Then another.
My stomach flipped. "Okay?"
"I want you to go out with me."
I blinked. "What?"
His smirk deepened. "That's my favor. You and me. A date."
I stared at him, sure I'd misheard. "You're joking."
"Nope."
My heart did something strange, something uneven, and I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Cassian, you flirt with everyone."
"Not like this." His voice was quieter now. Steady.
I swallowed. "But—you're just messing with me. You've been messing with me this whole time."
Cassian sighed, running a hand down his face. "Gods, you're impossible." Before I could react, he stepped closer, hands coming up to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.
My breath hitched.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting my chin up slightly. "Listen to me. I have not spent weeks finding every excuse under the sun to come here, sitting shirtless for hours just so you'd look at me, calling in a whole-ass favor just to take you out—just to mess with you."
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
Cassian's thumbs brushed against my skin again, his hazel eyes locked on mine. "I like you. I want you. And I swear to the Gods, if I have to spell it out anymore, I'm going to start carving it into the damn walls."
I let out a breathless laugh, my face burning. "You're serious."
His lips curled. "Took you long enough."
I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I—"
"Just say yes, sweetheart," he murmured, voice teasing, but there was something else in his gaze—something warm, something steady. Something real.
I swallowed hard. Yes."
Cassian grinned. "Good choice."
His hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before he pulled back, grabbing his shirt off his shoulder and throwing it on. He shot me one last smirk as he backed toward the door.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow after your class."
And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there—heart racing, mind spinning, trying to process the fact that Cassian had actually just asked me out.
That all this time, he hadn't been messing with me at all.
Feyre was going to laugh at me for not catching on sooner when I tell her.
