dr. donna diddadog

Azriel's stomach explodes.

That's certainly what it feels like- it goes all liquified, it melts and drops to his feet as he analyzes the waves of your smell coming off of Cassian and finds despair hidden beneath the faint hints of jasmine that you exude.

"What?" Azriel breathes, his voice less vicious now. He's caught off-guard, his shadows suspended blankly, his wings held at an awkward half-mast at the thought of you crying. At the thought of it being because of him.

He doesn't hate you. Far from it- every time Cassian brings you around he feels like he might die if you don't look at him. And every time you do look at him he's so busy dying that he can barely get his words out, and he's made a fool of himself so many times that he resorts to fleeing, staying just out of sight and letting his shadows report back to him.

She's pretty, they inform him, and she smells nice, and she smiles at us. She and Cassian go for walks- join, Master, join?

Azriel does not join, and his shadows mess up his hair for it. But he can't be around you, not without tripping over his words or wanting to kill Cassian, so he stays away.

"She thinks you hate her. And I don't blame her-" Cassian scoffs, still in Azriel's space as his eyes flare with irritation, "You're more broody than normal whenever she's here. All you do is glare at her, and when she tries talking to you you spit out these one word answers like you can't be bothered to really talk to her, and then you stalk out like she's personally offended you by asking how your day is going. I'm over it- I know you're a quiet guy, Az, but this is mean. And she's been hesitant to come around lately, because she swears you don't like her and I've been defending you, you know?" Cassian sneers, "I've been telling her that you're not as scary as you seem, that you just need time to get to know someone before you're comfortable around them but the fact is that she's never done anything to you and you act like she's ruined your day the second she sets foot in the house. I'm over it, Azriel," Cassian's teeth gleam in the low lights of the kitchen, bared like he'll go for Azriel's jugular if the man doesn't fix this, "I need to know why you're such a dick to her all the time."

"I'm not- I'm not." Azriel stammers, ready to explain himself at first, then firm and standoffish as he ducks out of Cassian's range, stalking a few steps towards the staircase. His shadows are agitated, distressed and begging him to go help you even if he's got no right, "I don't hate her. I'm sorry-" He has to physically force down the way that his voice wants to fracture, "I'm sorry if she's upset. I didn't mean to make her feel that way."

"Bullshit." Cassian barks, "Stop it. Tell me why."

"Why what? Why I made her cry? I didn't mean to."

"Tell me why you hate her."

"I don't hate her!" Azriel's siphons blaze, and his breath comes out ragged from his heaving chest, "Tell her I don't hate her. Tell her I'm sorry."

"No." Cassian advances on him again, and Azriel considers the very real possibility of coming to blows with his brother in the kitchen, "Tell her yourself- but not before you tell me why you're doing this to her."

"I'm not doing anything to her," Azriel's teeth are clenched again, so hard his jaw aches as his words bleed through them, "I have no problem with her."

"Well you certainly have a problem with something," Cassian laughs dryly, "What are you glaring at, if not her? Why do you run off anytime she's in the same room as you, why won't you say more than a word to her?"

"I can't-" Azriel heaves, his nostrils flaring, his wings tense and his shadows restless.

"You have to." Cassian's fists clench, "I've just spent the last twenty minutes holding her while she sobbed about the way you treat her, so you have to tell me why you're doing this."

Azriel's eyes slam shut at the image, his shadows swarming him like leeches at the thought of causing you so much distress. There's panic rising in him, because Cassian has him cornered and his brother knows him too well for Azriel to be able to lie to him. But he can't tell him the truth- he can't voice his feelings because they're pointless.

You don't feel the same way about him. There's no way you could- Azriel considers himself completely removed from things like romance. Sure, the ladies down at the pleasure houses will entertain him for a night- he's got muscles and tattoos and dark, curly hair. But closeness, adoration, time and thought and care? That's not something he gets, not something anyone rewards him because he won't let himself get his hopes up enough to ask for them.

So admitting his feelings now will only get him laughed at by Cassian, and he's certain that after tonight, whether you hear about his feelings for you or not, you won't be returning.

But Cassian's waiting, arms crossed and stance ready for a fight, and Azriel feels white hot shame burn at his cheeks as he repeats, "I don't hate her, Cass."

It's earnest. It's defeated, and markedly different from the vitriol he's been spewing at Cassian since they'd begun arguing. His brother takes note- his eyes narrow, then soften, and his shoulders slump slightly.

"What's going on, Azriel?" Cassian asks, his voice pleading, "I- I don't like this. I don't like it when my friends are fighting- especially because I don't know why. What'd she do to you?"

"Nothing." Azriel sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, his shadows swarming his arms and begging him to let them help him disappear. "She's done nothing, and I'm sorry for making things awkward."

"I just want to know why," Cassian repeats, and Azriel sighs again, the breath heavy and tortured, "Azriel- you can tell me. You know you can tell me anything. Why won't you tell me?"

Azriel's eyes are clenched shut, but he feels Cassian's hand land on his arm, squeezing firmly. It's not aggressive, not like how they'd begun. Now it's secure, and Azriel's achingly sad eyes flutter open to meet Cassian's.

"She's lovely." Azriel breathes, "Really, she is. I have nothing against her, and you- you two can spend all the time in the world together, really. You're perfect for each other- you have the same sense of humor and you can talk for hours. And that's perfect, so- so you should keep seeing her. Please tell her I'm sorry, and- and don't stop seeing her on my account. I'll stay out of your way."

"Azriel," Cassian murmurs, his voice so thick with pity that Azriel's gut roils. He'd tried not to admit his feelings but his brother knows him too well- and it's that pity in Cassian's voice he'd been trying to avoid at all costs. He knows it's stupid of him. He knows he's got no chance, that he's destined to a life of watching the people he loves look at anyone else but him and it's why he'd tried so hard to keep his feelings a secret. But Cassian's too clever, and Azriel can't look his brother in the eyes, instead choosing to zone out at the tile floor.

"Azriel," Cassian repeats, firmer this time, and squeezes his arm harder. He shakes the man lightly, "Hey, don't do that. You- you could have just said something. I could have set you up-!" Cassian scoffs, "Azriel, do you like her?"

"It doesn't matter." Azriel says flatly.

"It does," Cassian grins, and Azriel notes that his brother's laughter is breathless, relived, almost, but not mocking, "You- you were glaring at me, weren't you? And- mother above, you're so hopeless you couldn't even talk to her. You don't hate her, you love her," Cassian's wings flutter, "Az, this is amazing. Brother- you should tell her! Please, it would be perfect. Two of my best friends- go tell her, Az, go!"

All of a sudden Cassian is dragging him towards the balcony, Azriel's heels immediately digging into the plush carpet of the living room for purchase, "No- Cassian, no, she doesn't feel the same!"

"How would you even know?" Cassian retorts, "You never talk to her. And she cares enough about you to be crying because she thought you hated her-" The man stiffens, and Azriel slips out of his grasp, "Fuck, she's still crying."

"What?" Azriel backs himself into the kitchen island, safely away from the doors to the balcony.

"I was coming to get her water," Cassian shakes his head, still looking like he'd won the lottery, much to Azriel's chagrin, "Go- you take it to her, brother, go tell her how you feel."

"No, I can't." Azriel balks, but Cassian manhandles him again, grabbing him by the arms and forcing him back across the foyer. Azriel strains, but his godsdamned shadows are on Cassian's side, and help lug the spymaster towards the balcony. A cluster of them even pillage the cabinets for a water glass, and fill it nearly to the brim before knocking it into the side of Azriel's head insistently.

"You have to!" Cassian begs, "Please, brother, you owe her this. For making her cry."

Azriel wants to comfort you, sure. He'd actually never like to hear about you ever crying again, if he could manage that. But he's not the right man for the job, especially not if he's expected to spill his guts. He's certain that won't fix things, and he's had enough pity for one evening.

"Cassian, I- I can't tell her," Azriel clings to the balcony doors, holding them shut like he'll die if he lets go, "Please- please just let me go."

Cassian stops fighting him, hands going limp at his sides. There's more fucking pity in his eyes, and Azriel recoils but it's no use- Cassian grabs his face in both hands and jostles it about until Azriel's looking him in the eyes.

"Azriel." Cassian starts, "You fucked up. You have to be the one to fix it. I'm not going to force you to tell her how you feel, okay? But I think you should. I told you- she cares. She was distraught at the idea of you hating her. That's got to count for something, don't you think? Even if you don't want to confess your intense, undying love for her," He jiggles Azriel's face in his palms again, "You'd better think up a convincing enough lie as to why you act this way. You fucked up, you fix it." Cassian repeats, patting Azriel's cheek twice before letting his face go, "Take her some water, brother, and don't come inside until everything's resolved."

Azriel's going to kill his shadows for the way they open the door behind him, giving Cassian the opportunity to push him outside before he can regain his bearings. The doors snap shut before he can scramble back inside, and Cassian locks them while looking him dead in the eyes. Azriel's heart sinks- he spots you in his periphery, sitting on the edge of the balcony with your feet hanging off of the edge, shoulders slumped and head tucked to your chest. His own chest aches, and he clutches at your glass of water so hard he's surprised it doesn't shatter.

"I thought you'd forgotten about me," You laugh weakly, your voice mottled by tears that Azriel's heart squeezes at. He doesn't realize he hasn't responded until you turn curiously, your eyes widening as you find him and not Cassian standing behind you.

"Oh," You groan, burying your face in your hands, "I told him not to involve you."

Words consistently fail Azriel around you, and now is no different. But for once he lets his heart lead instead of his head, and his feet beeline for you. He finds himself planted beside you on the edge of the balcony, his foot knocking gently into yours where they dangle side by side over the gardens.

He passes your water over, nudging the glass against your hand. You peer through your fingers at it, sighing miserably before taking it and sipping it with dry lips.

"I'm sorry." You say, when your voice is less cracked from you tears, "For whatever I did to bug you. I can't figure it out- I just know you don't like me. Can you..." You gulp, taking another sip of water like it's liquor, "Can you tell me? I want to fix it. I don't like causing problems between you and Cassian."

"You didn't do anything." Azriel manages, his shadows thickening and crowding around your shoulders like a massive blanket.

You whine, such a sad sound that Azriel bites the inside of his cheek so that he doesn't reach for you. The despair is so evident on your face, in the way that your shoulders are slumped lifelessly, in the rasp to your voice. He wishes he could fix it- he can't even talk to you, but he wishes he could tuck you into his chest and wipe your tears.

"I know I did something. I know you don't like me." You insist, and the words come from Azriel's mouth before he can rephrase them.

"I do like you. I like you, a- a lot, I l-"

You peer pleadingly up at him, and this time it's his heart that explodes.

"Did I make you uncomfortable?" You ask, your lips pursing like you're trying to hold in another sob, "When- when I tried talking to you? I was trying to be casual, I- I just think I creeped you out and I'm sorry."

You look so impossibly soft in the moonlight that Azriel's hands actually itch with the urge to hold you. He can't speak, he can't think, he can barely breathe while you sit beside him, and you continue talking like you can't stop.

"I didn't want Cassian to catch on but I was just so desperate for you to actually talk to me that I probably went too far and weirded you out and I'm so sorry-" Your shoulders tighten with a sob, one that you keep silent, and Azriel tastes copper against his cheek.

"You- you didn't," Azriel murmurs, "What?"

"I'm sorry," You repeat miserably, "It was so dumb of me to think that you might- and I'm sorry Cassian bothered you, you shouldn't have to deal with me and my stupid feelings. You didn't ask for any of this, and I completely understand if you want nothing to do with me, but..."

This time it's not a sob that cuts you off, but one of Azriel's shadows. It slides over your mouth, no real pressure there, but a shock enough to break you out of your rambling. It settles there for just long enough to catch your attention, then flits to its master's ear to hiss, do it, say it!

"Don't," Azriel's flying blind, his brain whirring a million miles an hour to keep up with his rapidly beating heart, "Don't apologize. You've never made me uncomfortable. I should be apologizing to you- I'm so sorry," He breathes shakily, "Are you- are you alright?"

"I'm fine," You scrub at your face, sniffling wearily, "I- I just want to know what I did to make you hate me."

"I swear I don't hate you," Azriel croons, the noise almost a whimper, "I like you- a lot, actually. That's- it doesn't matter, but I don't hate you. And you've never made me uncomfortable- what do you mean?"

You throw your head back, looking at the heavens above for guidance, "I think I was trying to flirt with you. And I think I was really bad at it, and I don't even know why I tried in the first place because you're miles out of my fucking league, and-"

Azriel's hands shackle your wrists, tight and urgent as his eyes blow wide.

"You were flirting?" He asks, his voice strained and too-tight.

"Yes," You whisper, breathless and ashamed.

"With me?" He confirms, and you nod miserably.

"Like..." Azriel prompts, and you groan, trying to twist out of his unrelenting grip.

"Don't make me say it!"

"But I was- no," He shakes his head, his hair whipping in the cool night breeze, "That doesn't make any sense. Because I think I was trying to flirt with you, too, and-"

"What?" You level him with a defeated stare, "You were flirting with me?"

"Well-" Azriel stammers, breathing ragged, "I don't think I was any good at it, either. I didn't know-"

"You ran away from me!" You turn towards him, your brows scrunching together in an expression that gives Azriel the terrifyingly intense urge to kiss it, "And you wouldn't talk to me, and you kept glaring at me."

"I was glaring at Cassian," Azriel groans, "Because he couldn't keep his hands off of you for two seconds. And- and you never told me you were flirting with me! You just said hello!"

"Because it's all you stuck around for! I wasn't going to lead with, 'kiss me on the mouth', now, was I?"

Azriel's brows raise, and your cheeks flame red hot.

"You should've." Azriel huffs, "This would have been a whole lot easier. You really..." His voice weakens, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart clench, "With me?"

"Of course, with you," You scoff out a laugh, wiping at sticky tear tracks on your cheeks, "You're a catch, Azriel. Granted, I've had to find out secondhand, because you wouldn't be in a room with me for more than a minute before now, but-"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He squeezes your arms, hands relocating to find your own and squeeze them instead, "Will- do you still want to...?"

"Do- do you want to?" You ask, hesitantly grasping his hands back, "Because- I'd really understand if not. I'm not trying to guilt trip you into anything, and-" One of Azriel's shadows slips over his ear, drowning out your ramblings, kiss her on the mouth, Master, like she said!

Despite his previous ire at his shadows, he realizes now that they hadn't led him astray once. He takes their advice now, and slips his hands out of your own, gripping the sides of your face with them and leaning towards you to plant his lips on yours.

Whatever pitiful excuses you'd been trying to make are swallowed up by Azriel's plush mouth, along with a whimper that comes from your throat when you realize what he's done. It's a soft kiss, a sweet one, because you've both been through enough tonight, and he has no desire to amp things up again. He just wants to stay like this, lips pressed against each other, noses grazing, foreheads flush, hearts beating in time.

He only breaks off for air, and as he breathes heavily mere inches from your face, kissing you is all he can think about anyways. He gives you your own time to heave oxygen back into your lungs, but he has to shut his eyes, because if he sees your mouth, he'll kiss it again- he knows he will. He has to physically concentrate on not putting his lips back on yours, and when he feels your fingers curl around his chin he lets out a whimper of his own.

"Cassian's watching," You hum, and your breath fans over his face in a wave of warmth that sends a shiver down his spine in the cool night air, "Do you want to go back inside?"

"No," Azriel shakes his head once, careful not to dislodge your touch from his chin, "Can we- stay? Unless you're cold, or uncomfortable sitting on the ledge, or-"

"You're such a lightweight," Cassian grins, watching you nearly spill your third glass of wine as you dramatically slump against Rhysand's shoulder. The House of Wind's balcony stretches endlessly around you, Velaris twinkling below like scattered stardust, and your head feels deliciously warm; partly from the alcohol, partly from the way Rhys's fingers lazily trace circles on your bare thigh where your dress has ridden up.

Azriel, ever the quiet observer, refills your glass without comment, shadows curling playfully around the bottle's neck as he does.

"She's not a lightweight," he murmurs, though his lips twitch when you hiccup in agreement. "She's just… committed to enjoying herself."

And you are enjoying yourself -- too much, maybe. The night had started innocently enough: dinner, which you'd thanked Rhysand for, as you'd had a really great time. The conversations you always liked, filled with so much laughter at Cassian's terrible jokes, Rhys's smooth teasing, Azriel's occasional dry remarks that somehow always landed perfectly -- the best one tonight was about Cassian’s brain operating in self-drive whenever you were around.

But now, hours later, the air between the four of you feels charged again, as it always did when nights like these came to an end; syrupy-slow and thicker than the pineapple juice that you'd had during breakfast.

"You know," Rhys murmurs, his breath warm against your ear as his hand drifts higher up your thigh. "If you keep making those little noises every time I touch you, they're going to get ideas." He nods toward Cassian and Azriel, both of whom are watching with entirely too much interest.

Cassian’s grin sharpens, his wings rustling as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. You cock an eyebrow, slowly setting down your glass.

“Oh, we already have ideas, and plenty of time to act on them,” he purrs, the low timbre of his voice curling around you. “But I’m curious -- what kind of ideas is she having?”

His gaze flicks to you, dark and molten in those chocolatey-chip brown eyes, and you swear the wine in your veins turns to liquid heat.

Azriel’s shadows slither across the marbled balcony floor, wrapping around your ankle in a possessive caress as he leans back in his chair, the picture of lazy dominance.

“She’s thinking,” he says, voice like velvet over steel, “that Rhys isn’t the only one who knows how to… turn the lights on, inside of that, beautiful, hmm... house of hers.”

The implication hangs in the air, thick and sweet, and your breath catches when Rhysand’s fingers dig into your thigh just enough to make you squirm.

You’re giggling at his words, your slurred ones coming out as the thought threaded itself together like the seams of the comfy couch just inside.

“Hmm hm hm… and, did you want the house tour?” You hiccup, grinning up at Cassian as he stands, his calloused thumb brushing your cheek as he gazes down at you.

“I’ll be sure to be your hot tour guide.”

Azriel sets his glass down on the marble side table with a rather heavy hand, drawing all the attention to him as he stares back at you beneath raised brows.

“Cocky, are we tonight?”

Cassian extends a hand, palm upturned, an unspoken invitation. When you slide your fingers into his, he tugs you forward — off Rhys’s lap, and into the open space between them all, pulling you toward the couch he’d been lounging on just moments ago.

You swallow once, feigning confidence despite your glassy stare.

“I’m just so proud of my design.”

Rhys’s chuckle is a dark promise as he rises, circling behind you, his hands skimming your hips.

"I quite enjoy your design as well, darling."

You giggle, not shy at all thanks to all the damned wine you'd had throughout the night.

"Well.. I mean, my house could be... your, house, too," you drawled, eyes not really focusing on one male, though the implication applied to any of the three. “What’s mine is now yours.”

“You’ve been teasing us all night,” Rhys murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “This little dress, the way you laugh, your filthy words, the way you look beneath the dim moonlight-”

His tongue flicks against the delicate skin of your throat, and you shudder, goosebumps erupting across your skin. “It’s high time to return the favor, pretty girl.”

You gasp as Rhys’s teeth graze your neck, his hands tightening possessively on your hips while Cassian’s fingers grip yours. The sudden shift from playful teasing to this simmering intensity makes your head spin more than the wine ever could.

Azriel rises soundlessly from his chair, shadows pooling at his feet like spilled ink as he steps closer, his gaze locked on yours as he prowls closer, ever the predator in the night.

“Tell me,” Cassian murmurs, his free hand sliding up your bare arm, rough fingertips igniting sparks wherever they touch. “What exactly were you expecting when you wore this dress tonight?”

His thumb brushes the delicate strap of your dress, and you don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to your face when your breath hitches. “Because if it was this,” he growls, tugging you flush against him, “you’re fucking brilliant.”

Rhys’s laugh is a dark hum against your shoulder as his hands slide around to your stomach, fingers splaying against your ribs.

“She’s always brilliant,” he purrs, lips trailing up the column of your throat. “Aren’t you, darling?”

His fingers dip lower, teasing the hem of your dress, and you arch back into him with a whimper.

Azriel’s shadows coil around your waist, pulling you gently but insistently toward him until you’re caged between the three of them. He doesn’t speak at first — he doesn’t need to. The way his gaze drops to your lips, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s restraining himself, says enough.

When he finally touches you, it’s with a gentleness that steals your breath, his knuckles brushing your cheekbone before quickly threading through your hair.

“Maybe if we treat our princess nicely,” he said darkly, smirking as you squeezed your thighs together. “She’ll show us her first, second, and third floor.”

The moment Azriel’s fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back just enough for his lips to hover over yours, the world narrows to the hitch of his breath, the way his shadows tighten around your waist like a second set of hands. You don’t get the chance to close the distance; Cassian’s grip on your wrist tugs you backward, his chest a solid wall against your spine as he nips at your shoulder.

“Greedy,” he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel his smirk. “But I think Rhys was right; you owe us a little reciprocity.”

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It hadn't taken long for the High Lord to winnow the group back to his chambers. In fact, when you arrived, you could've sworn he had planned for the night to end this way all along; his room was dimly lit, nothing but candlesticks aglow along the outer walls. His silk sheets were perfectly folded, that wasn't unusual; however, the fluffy, pink, pillows from your bed were.

Ever the gentleman, knowing what would bring you the most comfort; he must’ve planned for you to stay in his chambers, following whatever was to happen next.

You could barely collect your thoughts, head still spinning from the winnowing to register the two winged bats slowly undressing before you. What brought you back to the present was your High Lord himself.

Rhys’s chuckle is low, a ripple through the air as he steps around to face you, his violet eyes glinting with something predatory. His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down just enough to make you gasp.

“Open,” he commands, and the moment you do, he slips two fingers into your mouth, his gaze locked on yours as you suck instinctively. The groan that tears from Cassian’s throat is almost as satisfying as the way Azriel’s shadows find and then tighten possessively around your thighs, hiking your dress up another inch than they had out on the balcony.

You don’t realize you’ve reached again for Azriel until his hand catches yours mid-air, intertwining your fingers with a grip that’s heart-warmingly tender. His other hand slides up your thigh as he takes his place beside you once more, his touch agonizingly slow, as if memorizing every inch of you.

When his fingers finally brush the soaked lace of your panties, your knees nearly buckle -- but Rhysand's arm bands around your waist, holding you upright.

“Look at you,” Azriel murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart for us.”

Rhys withdraws his fingers with a wet pop, trailing them down your chin, your throat, until they dip beneath the neckline of your dress.

“You are falling apart,” he agrees, his voice rough. “And, you haven't even given us this, tour, yet.”

His fingers twist around the delicate fabric, and with a single, sharp tug, the front of your dress splits open, baring you to the chilled air of his quarters; and to all three of the Illyrian's hungry stares. Rhysand’s violet eyes turn to indigo, Cassian’s nostrils flare as he takes in the bare sight of you, and Azriel’s shadows coil tighter around your thighs like they’re trying to claim you before the others do.

You should feel exposed, vulnerable, but all you feel is wanted, and by the Gods it’s fucking intoxicating.

“Fuck, look at her,” Rhysand growls, his free hand skimming up your side, his fingertips pausing just beneath your bare breast.

“Been imagining this all damned night.”

Your eyes flutter as you register Cassian, sprawled out on Rhysands bed just out of reach. He'd taken to watching his friends touch you as he touched himself, his hand dragging over his thick cock as your nipples pebbled beneath his charged gaze.

“Imagining?” Azriel murmurs, his lips curling against your shoulder as he presses a gentle kiss to your skin. “I know what she looks like when she comes. I remember every little sound she makes.”

And then, Azriel’s fingers finally, finally slip beneath the ruined fabric of your panties, and the first brush of his touch against your slick heat has your knees wobbling. Rhysand's arm still around your waist is the only thing keeping you upright as Azriel’s shadows slither higher, diving between your folds to keep you spread just enough for his fingers to plunge deeper.

“Tell me, tour guide,” Azriel murmurs, his voice rough as his thumb circles your clit, slow and deliberate. "Have you since changed your mind from our last little rendevous and ... decided that you would perhaps allow your house guests to enter through both your front and your back door?"

The question is a trap, and you know it; but the way Rhys’s hands tighten as he kneads your breasts, the way Azriel's teeth scrape your skin delicately with every word, makes it impossible to even form a single coherent thought.

“Oh... fuck,” you gasp, arching into Azriel’s touch as his fingers slide inside you, curling just right. "I... I can't... I can't take it..."

Cassian’s laugh is a dark, satisfied thing from the mattress just steps away, his palm working his cock faster. “Knew it,” he mutters, his breaths becoming heavy as he fists his cock. “Little fucking tease 's only gonna let one of us fuck at a time.”

Azriel’s fingers withdraw abruptly, leaving you gasping, and the sudden emptiness is almost cruel. Before you can protest, Rhys’s hands slide down to your waist, guiding you as he pulls you toward the bed, toward not his lap, no, but his brother's.

Rhys’s smirk is pure sin as he drags a finger through the slickness between your thighs, then brings it to his lips before turning you away from Cassian, pushing your ass back into his lap, right up against his hard cock as he leaned up on his hands, excited by the new position.

“Sweeter than a damned fruit, I swear it,” he murmurs, licking it clean with deliberate slowness.

“But not sweet enough.”

Your brow furrows as Cassian's hands grip your hips, lifting you effortlessly up a few inches as his cock slides forward, slowly dragging through your wet folds before notching his tip at your entrance.

Azriel steps forward, his shadows still wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread open as Cassian slowly lowers you down, inch by inch, onto his awaiting cock. A small sound of amusement draws from your throat as he keeps going, filling you completely until you're sat comletely in his lap, your ass flush with his pelvis.

"Holy... holyfuckinggods-"

Cassian's words blur together before he looses it completely, lifting you up swiftly and slamming you back down on his dick, forcing his length up into you all at once. You squeak, your jaw dropping as your cunt works to adjust to accomodate his large size so fast -- but this male is familiar with how you like it.

In fact, all three of them are.

Azriel drops to his knees before you, his gaze focused on where Cassian's cock fucks up into your pretty, pink cunt with such force that has you whining mere seconds after he's just begun. Smirking, he runs a gentle, scarred hand up your calf, up your thigh, all the way up toward the apex of your thighs... before he leans in.

"Mmm, you want me to eat this pretty pussy while Cassian fucks it? Is that what you want, princess?"

Your eyes roll back at Azriel's filthy words combined with the sensation of Cassian's cock ramming into you, a guttural groan slipping past your puffy lips at the new idea. Azriel takes this as a yes, as he leans in slowly at first, licking gently at your buzzing clit.

Whimpering, you can't help but to look down and watch, enjoing the view of the Shadowsinger on his knees, his tongue on your cunt and his brother's cock in it all at once. What made it even better was when his fingers wrapped around his own massive length, tugging on it as he sucked on you with the expression nothing short of pure bliss written all over his face.

Rhys’s hand in your hair comes as a surprise when he jerks your gaze up to look at him, standing just beside where Azriel is kneeling before the bed. His grin is cruel, looking more and more like the feared High Lord of the Night Court than you'd ever seen before.

"You mentioned three floors, beautiful," he purred, cock already in hand. "And I happen to quite enjoy the top."

You didn't wait for instruction this time as your lips parted, tongue lolling out flat in invitation. Rhysand chuckled, his free hand gripping lightly at your throat; the act sent a flutter through your already nearly overstimulated pussy.

"Good girl," he praised, tapping his cock on your tongue. You welcomed the velvety smooth skin, never denying the feel of your High Lord on your tongue -- then again, this wasn't your first rodeo with these three.

Rhysand sighed as his hips began to move, not fucking around with any sort of foreplay. You could appreciate that the male knew what he wanted, and took pride in it that you were able to get him there. His tip grazed the back of your throat once, twice, and you coughed aroung him, the sound drawing another low groan from him that you reveled in.

"You taste even better than I remembered," Azriel growled against your heat, his breath hot and wet. His voice vibrated against your clit, his lips working in time with Cassian's quick thrusts.

"You're takng us so well," Rhys murmurs, his thumb brushing your lower lip as tears prick as your eyes. You choke out a sob, your nails digging into Cassian's abs where you struggle to hold yourself upright. But Rhys just smirks, shoving his cock deeper down your throat.

"That’s it, darling," he murmurs. "Let us ruin you. Completely fucking ruin you."

"Yes, please -- I w-wanna... cum…. just want you to… c-come in-s-side-"

"Fuck," Cassian growls, his breaths quick as his thrusts grow frantic. "You’re clenching so fucking hard, baby. Like this pussy was especially made for me." The obscene sound of his cock sliding in and out of you only proves his point, and you cry out around Rhys' length as Azriel sucks your clit between his lips, nearly sending you over the edge.

"Feels so fucking good, letting me fuck your little throat like this," Rhys praises, his fingers tightening in your hair. "You're gonna let me fill this fucking throat, hm? Going to let me cum here, while you milk Cassian's cock, is that right?"

A single tear slips free, a silent plea for release that has Rhysand tipping over his own edge. His brows furrow as he growls, pushing your nose to his pelvis before his warm, liquid-gold seed slipped down your throat like silk.

And like a good girl, you swallowed every last drop before he pulled out, admiring the beautiful, ruined mess he made that was still staring right up at him.

"Fuck... ohhhh fuck fuck fuck," Cassian called, his hipps stuttering. You sucked in a breath, your back arching as his cock twitched inside of you, his cum painting your walls white. His fingers gripped at your hips as he held you flush against his lap, admiring the way your plush ass rested right in his view as he drained himself within your perfect cunt.

The scream doesn't have time to leave your throat before you raise up off Cassian's cock, Azriel lifting to his knees in time to press his throbbing tip to your leaking core. He paints your folds in his seed, clear liquid mixing with Cassian's white that had begun to leak out -- and now yours, gently spurting from you with every overstimulated clench of your core.

All three watched in awe as your cum splashed Azriel's cock, his fingers stilling as he took in the new sight. Your chest heaved with the aftershocks, thighs violently trembling as you looked up at Az and Rhys, ever the portrait of beautiful disaster. Cassian's hands were warm behind you as he guided you to lie back against him, not subjecting you to holding yourself up against his abdomen any longer.

It's silent for only a moment before you realized in your still wine-drunken, post-sex stupor that you'd blacked out, eyes closing as you lie comfortably against Cassian's chest. He of course hadn't minded; he'd begun stroking your hair, his other arm wrapping around your waist as you lie atop him.

Rhysand returned with a cloth a moment later, saying nothing as he leaned in to clean you up, ever the gentleman. You accepted the help, never embarassed, never in front of these three.

"Well... I can't say I didn't enjoy that," Azriel said softly, a slight chuckle in his voice. Cassian's soft rumble of laughter beneath your back had your eyes fluttering open for only a moment, and you caught Azriel staring down at you once more.

"We always enjoy it," Rhys corrected, fussing over the strewn about clothes on his floor and finding a place for the clean-up cloth. "However, that time was phenominal. When did you even learn to do that? Hopefully we weren't too reckless with you."

You yawned slowly, your back arching as you turned, nuzzling further into Cassian's chest. Azriel had slipped back into his undergarments and casually took a place on Cassian's right, the way your face was turned; and still, he lie admiring you as though you were the very moon in the night sky.

"Not too rough," you sleepily promised. "N'besides... been t'Madja s'many times now that sh'probly has me insured or somethn."

Rhysand's delicate laughter and a final dip of the mattress was the last thing you remembered before deep, peaceful sleep enveloped you at last.

Clutching your wine glass in twitching fingers, you directed your attention to Feyre and the babbling Illyrian babe in her lap. Things always seemed so effortless for her in this world, but that wasn’t true, and you knew it. Still, you found yourself envying her mateship and the ease with which love found her. It may have been a journey, but Rhys was clear with his intentions, and the mating bond cemented that. 

Even Nesta, harsh and unrelenting as she was, had a sure bond that she could rely on. And then there was Elain, finding her way with Lucien in minute acts that all meant something to both of them. You had tried to chalk your feelings for Azriel up to jealousy or seeking a partner in a paired-up family, but those were surface-level excuses. The way your heart raced in his presence, the spark that lit up your skin each time you touched—those were not symptoms of pure loneliness. 

But you were sure he would think it was desperation if you pursued him. He was the only single male out of the fae you knew, and you knew so few people in this world. If you started professing your love for him, waxing poetic about the simple way he smiled, you knew the pitying look of rejection would come soon after. He would wince slightly and run his hand along the side of your head as he so often did, and then he would say that he didn’t see you that way. That you were new and unexciting and a responsibility above all else—his High Lady’s sister that needed help adjusting to life as fae. 

He hadn’t exactly shown interest in you. He had been kind and attentive and bordering on adoring, but that was just how he treated his family. You’d seen it. You were not going to be the pathetic little thing chasing after him in the wake of a war. Things were at peace now, and he didn’t need to be bogged down with the toll of rejecting you. 

Still, you sighed as you watched him enjoy his night. You bit the inside of your cheek and choked down another glass of the fae wine you could barely stomach. Your sisters asked you questions about your training with Madja, and you answered them, allowing the ring on your pinky to dig into the skin of your palm. When Azriel had given it to you, sliding it onto your smallest finger, you had been elated, feeling light and dizzy with affection. You felt foolish wearing it now. 

You couldn’t take it off. Azriel seemed to look for it whenever he saw you, eyes going from your face to your hands as if on instinct. He would touch it sometimes—when he flew you over the city or took things from your hands to carry instead. You would feel his thumb brush the metal embossed with twines of azure stone and think something was there, but then he would offer you a polite smile and simply walk beside you. He would blush and laugh with Mor, but he would only smile with you. 

Pity. It was pity, surely. 

You had clung to him for weeks after being Made. Something about him brought you comfort in a newly abrasive world, so he allowed you to follow him around and you accepted his touches with greed. It had all been ordered. Rhys had surely ordered his Spymaster to ensure his mate’s sister was properly cared for, but you hadn’t been thinking about the implications at the time, pathetically seeking him out under the pretense of a genuine connection. And sure, Azriel was not cruel. He thought of you as family and cared for you as such. But your feelings were yours alone. 

“Shall I take you back? Or would you like to sleep here?” 

You startled at the sound of his voice, Azriel suddenly at the back of your chair. The room had dimmed in conversation, with Rhys and Feyre gone to put Nyx to bed and Mor only muttering short sentences in low tones that had Cassian nodding in agreement. Elain had all but vanished from the table, and Nesta was facing the fire to capture its warmth. You had missed the shift as your thoughts ran rampant. 

Your chair creaked as Azriel leaned against it, mouth closer to your ear. “Are you alright?” 

You blinked and tilted your head slightly to show you were attentive to his words. “I’m fine. Just tired.” 

Azriel hummed. “So would you like to stay?” 

Staying at the Riverhouse would mean distance from Azriel. And you could walk to the clinic in the morning rather than depending on him to fly you down. That was good. 

“Yes. That would be best.” 

“I’ll walk you back then.” 

He always walked you to your room—all the way there. He never came in, always content to stop at the door, but he never did anything less. Even now, when he would leave for his own room at the House miles away, he was offering to take you down the hall. It was too much. You’d become too much. 

“That’s okay,” you breathed out, finally turning your head to look at him. Your faces were only inches apart, and you had to catch your breath at the closeness. “I’ll find my way.” 

Something unusual flashed across his expression, quickly righted with a soft smile. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“It’s just down the hall, Azriel. I doubt I’ll get lost.” 

He blinked, looking between your eyes before clearing his throat slightly and standing straight. You used the opportunity to push out from the table, trying to ignore his guiding hands. “Right, of course,” he nodded. He looked lost for a moment, standing before you. His wings twitched as you looked over his shoulder to the joining hall. “I’ll—goodnight, then. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight, Azriel.” 

~~

Distancing yourself from Azriel after your dinner revelation was not an easy task. You hadn’t realized how much you’d intertwined your life with his, and the realization was enough to make you cringe. He was a whole person with a life before you, and now you were reliant on him for so many things. 

So, you tried to make your own way. You stopped asking to stay at the House so you could walk wherever you needed. You asked passersby for directions instead of waiting for Azriel to tell you where shops and restaurants were located. You even tried making friends, talking more with the patrons of the clinic to… be more independent—separate, even, from Azriel and your newly grown family. 

You figured he would appreciate the effort. He was probably so tired of guiding you everywhere, of keeping polite smiles on his face as you droned on about your new life and let him fly you around Velaris. And he probably loved that he finally got his overcoat back. He had let you borrow it several weeks ago, placing the Illyrian-forged threads over your shoulders when you asked him to go flying in the middle of the night. 

He had told you how much it meant to him that night as he buttoned it up to your neck. His mother had hand-woven it when he came of age, he had told you, and he had saved it ever since. You might not have understood why a coat was of so much importance, but you understood that you were hogging it. That he had let you borrow it on a cold night, and then you had practically commandeered his prize possession. He always insisted you wear it when he would fly you around, but he was just being polite. 

The thought grated on you. 

“What?” Azriel asked, mouth slightly agape as you gently placed the coat in his stiff hands. 

“I—Thank you for letting me borrow it for so long. I should have returned it ages ago. I was being greedy with it,” you tried to joke, pressing it further into his grasp. 

Azriel remained frozen. His eyes flicked down to the material now in his hands and then back up to you. “I don’t—I don’t think I understand. You don’t like it?” 

A flash of confusion struck you, but maybe he assumed you weren’t going to give it back? “What? No, Azriel, it’s a wonderful coat. Honestly, the softest, warmest thing I’ve ever put on. I just… I know it’s important to you. I’ll wear my own when I need you to take me somewhere. Although I think I’ve been doing well getting around by myself. I’ve been trying to learn Velaris’ layout, and I think I almost got it.” 

Azriel finally moved, curling the coat closer to his chest. He wet his lips before shooting his gaze down to your hands. Finding some semblance of an answer there, he nodded once, mostly to himself. “I’ve noticed that. Have you enjoyed exploring the city?” 

No. You enjoyed exploring it with him. “Yes, very much. The people of Velaris are very helpful with directions.” 

Azriel hummed, rubbing his fingers along the sleeve of the coat. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll look forward to you enjoying flying again, though.” 

“Yes, well, I never stopped enjoying that. I’ll try to space it out more, though—maybe get Cassian or Rhys to lug me around every once in a while.” 

“Why?” 

An unmistakable inflection of hurt trailed in his tone. Wonderful, now you were offending him. “Oh! Well, just to take some of that off of you. I know you’re very busy, and I’ve needed a lot of help for a long while.” 

“Take…what off of me?” he asked, words slow and lingering. 

“Um, the responsibility? Again, I know how busy you are. And I know it’s taken me a while to adjust, but I think I've got it now. At least, I’ve got it more than I used to,” you tried joking again, a dry laugh rocking you back on your heels. 

“Responsibility,” Azriel repeated.

“Right,” you affirmed. “Now you can spend more time on other things.” 

“Such as?” 

You clicked your tongue, glancing up at the ceiling as if there were answers there. “I don’t know. What did you do before I was around?” 

Azriel’s brows came together. He shook his head slightly as if you were partially insane. “I don’t think… I didn’t think you wanted to talk about that yet.” 

Maybe you were partially insane. You thought you were having one conversation, but it seemed Azriel was having another. What did that mean? Maybe his life was far easier before you started forcing him into tasks and stealing his clothes? And you weren’t ready just yet to hear that? He really thought you were unstable then. 

You laughed, despite that thought, brushing a hand through the air casually. “Come on, Az. You obviously had a life before me. Multiple lives, if we go on human terms. I’m sure you had several hobbies that didn’t include taking me places.” 

And now he looked uncomfortable. Azriel folded his coat onto his arm, and his mouth twisted before he let out a sigh. “There were pleasure houses, obviously. A few relationships, although they do not seem important in the slightest now.” 

You choked on air, clearing your throat as Azriel itched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling himself. Nothing was up there, but both of you were sure looking. “Oh,” you squeaked out. 

“The relationships are in the distant past. The—well, the casual things are more recent, though nothing after I met you, obviously.” 

Your mind was doing flips, bashing jarringly against your skull as Azriel looked at you with an almost concerned discomfort. When you said hobbies, you thought he would share that he used to train more or had a secret joy for puzzles. You had not expected a brief overview of his sexual partners, but Azriel looked about ready to give you a list if you asked. To dive deeper into the topic you were about to melt into a puddle over. 

This was what you were really holding him back from, then. 

He wanted to go to pleasure houses, but you were taking up all of that time. 

When you remained silent, Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I know things were different for you. You were human. I’ve learned of the demands and expectations of human women, so that’s why we’ve been going slo—” 

Your ears were ringing as he spoke. You clutched your hands together and interrupted him. “Right, yes, different for humans. And not alive as long, obviously. Less time for hobbies.” 

“I don’t mind. I don’t care about that,” he offered slowly. You weren’t even sure what he was talking about. Another beat of silence, and then, in the most usure voice you had heard from him, Azriel asked, “Is that okay?” 

Was it okay for him to go back to pleasure houses? To seek out intimacy? Who were you to decide that for him? “Of course,” you blinked, raising a hand to your forehead. “I’m—I’m going to go rest, I think. Long day.” 

“Alright,” Azriel simply replied, left standing in the hall. 

~~

You missed him, which was terribly awful in the worst ways. 

Not only had he made it abundantly clear that he was setting his sights on other women, but he was being extra nice now, probably fearing for the worst now that you were aware he was going to be spending his newfound time… doing other things.

He asked you to accompany him to dinner every night this week. You turned him down each time, but he still asked, a casual hope ringing in his words. He arrived at the Riverhouse every morning, ready to walk you to the clinic even though you assured him you were okay to go alone. He didn’t bring his coat back, but he grabbed your own from the closet by the door and had it open for you on each of those mornings. 

And his wings were doing strange things. When you would come to the door, he would spread them just a few inches wider, seeking your eyes as they roved over the exposed veins. He opened them behind you as you walked, almost ushering you closer to him on the streets of Velaris. They seemed to ruffle when he sat beside you at dinner, in the sitting room, when he caught you reading and joined you on the couch. It was almost imperceptible, but the sound was becoming soothing, and that was dangerous. 

You were reading too much into things, acting crazy again, and so, you distanced yourself more when you started to notice the patterns. And then you missed him because of it. 

He noticed. You were sure he noticed. You could only turn him down so many times before he began to question the change. 

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked after two weeks of your eyes flitting away from him. 

“What? Of course not.” 

“You’re avoiding me.” 

“I’m not.” 

Azriel took you by surprise then, kneeling by the chair you were nestled into. “You are. Tell me what I did.” 

Such a picture of devotion made you squirm. You unraveled your legs from under you and sat eye-level with the Shadowsinger’s form. “Nothing, Az. Remember, I told you I was trying to be more self-sufficient. Give you more time back.”

“Is this because of our conversation a few weeks ago? Because I only told you because it’s important to understand my history as my—” 

You quickly shook your head, not wanting another recount of his love life. Not when you weren’t part of it. “Nothing like that, I swear.” 

Cassian chose that moment to enter the small library, a decision that was both your downfall and eventual salvation, as time would reveal. 

“Whoa. Hey,” Cassian cautioned, eyeing a kneeling Azriel. “Something going on?” 

“Nothing,” you quipped, feeling Azriel’s eyes still glued to your face as it heated and turned to Cassian. “What are you doing here? Feyre said you were at the camps until next week.” 

“Yeah, well, got sick of the camps,” he replied, brow raised when Azriel reluctantly rose from the ground and stiffly turned. 

“Glad you’re back then.” 

“Thanks for the warm welcome, sweetheart.” Cassian kicked back into a far chair, the air still heavy. “Anyone have plans tonight? I feel like going out.” 

Azriel cleared his throat, fingers flexing with shadows that twined between them. “I believe Mor is going to Rita’s. But I have… business tonight.” 

“Business, huh?” Cassian smirked, flicking his gaze over to you in a quick motion. 

“Cassian,” Azriel warned, but it was too late. Something ugly and hot gripped your throat, making it impossible to swallow.

This was it. This was what you wanted. He was finally free from you, and his words tonight were only a semblance of guilt for leaving you when you asked him to. But it wasn’t fair to hold him in your grasp when he didn’t want to be there. When you were a duty to him. 

He needed to know that it was okay to move on from the responsibility of you, so you steeled yourself and swallowed down the searing pain in your chest that felt like it was yanking at you when you were resolute in your next words. 

 “Sorry, Cass, I’m not free either. I’m going on a date.”

Azriel felt his expression fall against his will, another sign of the alcohol in his system. He grabbed your hand instead of your knee, rubbing the knuckles. You bit the inside of your cheek and squeezed your eyes shut.

"You won't tell me?" Azriel asked, hurt seeping through. You told him everything. Especially when you were drunk. Your hair was a mess, and you were coated in sparkles and remnants of starfall, and you always told him everything. You were his best friend.

"Will you let me take you home?" he asked instead of prying. He wanted to pry.

You shook your head again, and a deep sigh escaped him. He waited a beat, and when you opened your eyes, your gaze shot to his neck. Something burned right where you were looking. He couldn't remember why.

"I—" you started, and Azriel perked up. "I don't want to be friends anymore."

A strange sound escaped Azriel's throat. He jutted back as if you'd pushed him and gripped your hand tighter as if on instinct. You weren't crying anymore, a look of determination now rigid in your expression, and he hated that he wished you might start crying again. He could comfort you; he knew how to do that. He did not know how to be pushed out of your life.

"You don't—" he began, unsure what he was even going to say next. But you cut him off again, tears still wet on your cheeks as you straightened your posture.

"I don't want to be friends with you anymore, Azriel."

"You don't mean that," came his immediate reply. "You're drunk. What have I—Have I done something to upset you?"

"Yes, you have," you slurred, swaying as your determination fought against your balance. "You were... You were dancing with that woman. Her lipstain is on your neck—did you know? You've upset me a great deal."

He should definitely be sober. Azriel reached up to swipe at his neck and came away with a sickeningly pink hue. He had barely remembered that happening. It must have been when he spotted you walking back to the table.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered out, wiping the offending substance on his pant leg. "Do you know her? I didn't mean—"

"I don't want you dancing with any woman. Whether or not I know her. It's—It's unacceptable!"

You were crying again, and Azriel wanted to wipe the tears as they fell, but he was still reeling over the notion that you wanted nothing to do with him. That, and he didn't think you would let him touch you with his now clean fingers, the reminder of the lipstain still so prevalent.

"I apologize. I won't do it again. You're right, I should have just stayed with you, but you seemed like you were having a good time and I didn't want to—"

"I said I don't want to be friends. Aren't you hearing me?"

Azriel swallowed, the action hurting him. He flinched and dropped your hand, wiping his palms down the front of his thighs. He nodded, and then nodded again, but you let out a disgruntled sound and jerked his face up in unsteady hands. It was only a second later, and your lips were on his, equally as unsteady, clearly a drunken kiss, but then you pulled away, and your eyes looked clear.

"As in, I want more. So no more dancing with other women, is that clear?"

When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.

In a magic house.

You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.

~ ~ ~

A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.

You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.

“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.

You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.

You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.

“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”

You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”

Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.

Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”

You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe. 

The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.

Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.

It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.

“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.

You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”

Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”

Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”

“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”

You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”

“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.

You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.

Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness. 

“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”

“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged. 

Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—

Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”

“Clean.”

Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”

His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.

His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”

You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.

“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.

You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”

Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.

You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”

He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?

Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.

But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.

Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—

He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”

Azriel would never. You knew that. 

You knew that.

A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured.

The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.

“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”

Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat. 

“What?” Azriel asked softly.

“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.

You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”

“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”

“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.

But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.

“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.

“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.

You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.

“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”

You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.

And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.

“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin. 

This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.

You were human.

And he—

He was—

He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.

You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”

You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.

His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.

Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.

You could pretend to have him tonight.

You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.

The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater. 

Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.

“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.

It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.

Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.

You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.

“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.

When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”

His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.

“I’m not leaving,” he assured.

He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.

Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.

Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.

You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.

He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.

This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”

“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”

You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.

~ ~ ~

Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.

Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.

Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.

You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”

You never drank. Okay, that was a lie. You sometimes drank; occasionally and only on special occasions.

Why you had decided that the Wayne Enterprises Human Resources Valentine’s Day Party was a special occasion, you didn’t know. It definitely didn’t have anything to do with your recent breakup. Definitely not. But you were at least three champagne flutes in and you were pretty sure you had told your boss that her dress made her butt look great. The HR gods had to be scowling down at you. Or maybe up at you.

You tipped back the current flute in your hand, attempting to catch the last few drops. Sober you was going to regret this so bad. You caught sight of a waiter with a tray of bubbly and downed the rest, all thoughts of your definite killer morning hangover gone. You downed the rest, ready to switch your glass. You picked up your pace, ducking under the new senior manager and his wife, and oh — she smelt really good, like cherries or vanilla or maybe both and for a second you considered abandoning your quest for champagne just to ask what scent she was wearing when an arm pulled you slightly back.

You shrieked, jumping back, earning you more than a few stares. Thank god your flute was empty or else whomever was behind you would have gotten a full face of pear champagne.

“Woah there,” a voice whispered softly in your ear. The presumed strangers hand snaked over yours, grabbing your flute. “Four glasses is enough, don’t you think?”

You spun around so fast — which wasn’t the best idea considering the amount of champagne you had consumed — the stranger had to steady you. Oh my god. That wasn’t a stranger. That was Jason Todd. He certainly wasn't in the friend category but he was definitely a Met Enough Times For It To Be Embarrassing To Be Drunk Around acquaintance. So not a stranger. Also very hot. Very very hot. If Marlon Brando, Tom Selleck, and Pierce Brosnan all had one giant amalgamation baby, it would look like Jason Todd. Oh and a young Gary Cooper. Geez Louise, you really needed to start watching movies made in the 21st century.

An incoherent stream of words fell out of your mouth. You cleared your throat. “Um. Hello.”

Was that your voice? It sounded awfully nasally.

His eyes sparkled with amusement but you didn’t miss the slight crinkle of concern near his eyelids. Wow, drunk you was surprisingly perceptive. Your HR skills were still intact and getting put to use. Maybe all that student debt was worth it.

“Hi,” he parroted back, a gentle smile resting on his lips.

You squeaked. “I’m not drunk.” Okay, maybe it wasn’t worth it. Damn you, First National Bank of Gotham.

Jason let out a low chuckle under his breath. His right eyebrow slightly raised up.

“I’m not!” you repeated, stomping your heel against the floor, resulting in a little clack. Ow! Why in the world were you wearing heels? The soles of your feet were practically crying out in pain. Would it be weird if you took them off? In reference to your heels, not the soles of your feet. Taking off the soles of your feet? Hah! With Jason holding your flute, both of your hands were free. You slightly leaned forward, resting your right arm on his left shoulder, your left hand reaching behind you to yank off your heel.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “What’re you doing?” His free arm came to rest on your hip. Consciously or subconsciously, you didn’t know but it made for great support.

“Can’t you see.” you grunted out. “My feet hurt. So I’m-” you paused to undo the strap, which doing backwards was more difficult than you had expected. “Taking,” another pause. “Off.” you loosened the strap through the buckle. “My heel!” you exclaimed triumphantly, raising your shoe occupied arm in the air.

As soon as your heel whipped back, it collided directly into the tray of a cater-waiter. A metallic clang! rang out and the tray flipped forwards while the waiter stumbled backwards. A flock of pinwheels came hurtling towards you, narrowly missed by Jason yanking you out of the way. But your success was futile — a lone pinwheel landed into the bodice of an older woman, producing a shriek that one could only describe as bloodcurdling. The woman leaped back and then, before you could blink, a domino of people tumbled and fell, and then you tumbled and fell, and now there was a very warm, very heavy man sprawled across you. And then the flute shattered.

“Okay, maybe a little drunk.” you quietly mumbled.

“I’m going to get fired!” you wailed.

Jason came over to wrap a blanket around you. “You’re not going to get fired.” he said matter-of-fact, tucking in the folds of the blanket. Maybe if he swaddled you tight enough, his apartment wouldn’t face the same wrath as the 14th floor of the Wayne Enterprises building.

You continued to babble, “I am! I totally am! I’m going to get fired and I’m going to have a gazillion student loans and I’m going to have to move in with my cousin who lives in Star City!”

He made his way over to his kitchen to grab a mug from the cabinet. Your tirade still continued,“I mean who even likes Star City!”

“Hot Chocolate?” he asked.

You paused to look over at him, wide-eyed, as if only now realizing where you were. “Okay.”

It was silent as he poured the hot chocolate into the mugs. One for you and one for him (he figured whisky wasn’t appropriate for the moment at hand). He made sure yours had extra marshmallows.

Your voice was small when you finally spoke up again. Thank god, because he had found the silence unnerving. He liked your chatter, regardless of the fact that most of it had been panicking and complaining so far. “Is this where you live?” It was one of the places he lived, yeah. But Jason wasn’t in the habit of explaining the safe houses he required as a vigilante to pretty human resources employees who worked for his kind-of-fathers company.

“Mhm,” he nodded. Mugs in hand, he kicked the cabinet door shut, making his way over to the couch.

“Thank you,” you beamed up at him, extending out your hand. His heart gave a little thud at the way you were looking at him. Like he had just gone to the ends of the Earth and back for you, instead of simply offering hot chocolate.

“Be careful,” he said. “It’s hot.”

You wrapped your hands around the mug for warmth as Jason scooted next to you.

“I know.” you giggled.

He turned to look at you, an expression of bemusement settling on his face.

You wiggled your eyebrows at him. “I can handle hot.”

He let out a soft chuckle under his breath. “Okay.” He gave you a light barely-there pat on your back.

You gave him a fixed look. “What, you don’t think I can?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Jason propped his sock clad feet on the coffee table. “Drink your hot chocolate.”

“I am!” you exasperated. He could hear the contents of your mug slosh around.

He reached over to gently extract the mug from your overly animated hands, setting it on the corner of the coffee table farthest away from you.

“Hey!” you protested. “I was drinking that!”

He glanced over to see the marshmallows piled high as ever.

This was not how he was planning on spending his one free night.

“It’ll be really quick, you can just drop off the paperwork before you go out. Promise.” Tim had said.

And now here he was. Not Noonan’s Bar in all of its dingy glory but his decoy apartment. With a drunk Wayne Enterprises employee who he had met a total of four times before this incident. He wasn’t exceedingly upset about the derailment of his plans. Just slightly disgruntled.

On his way back from Tim’s office, the elevator had stopped at the 14th floor and the woman who was getting off asked for his assistance in carrying the table that she was balancing. What was he supposed to do, say no? Then he proceeded to see you flitting around, looking more inebriated than one should be at an office party. And what was he supposed to do about that, not be concerned?

Your voice piped up, snapping him out of his self-deprecating train of thought. “Can you take off my bra?” Now he was the one who almost splashed hot chocolate on himself.

“What?” Was that his voice? Good lord, it sounded like he had just swallowed razor blades.

You flopped onto his shoulder. “My bra.” you repeated, your voice slightly muffled. “My boobs hurt.” And then you paused to snicker over the word boobs.

Jason blinked. And then he blinked again. “Oh. I don’t know,” He trailed off. He hadn’t taken off a sober woman’s bra in a while. Let alone a drunk woman.

“Please.” you whined. “I can’t reach over and do it myself. I don’t even know where my back is.” You waved your arm behind you.

His gaze softened. “Can I give you a ride home? And if you don’t have anyone there then I can help you.”

“Oh. I- um. I don’t really live in my apartment right now.” you squeaked into the side of his arm.

Jason’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Why not?”

You let out a long sigh, pushing away from him and flopping onto the pillows at the corner of the couch. Was it weird that he missed you leaning on the side of him?

“Well,” you began, remedying the lack of you near him by propping your legs over his and onto his lap.

“I had a boyfriend. We were pre-engaged. Like engaged to be engaged, y’know.” you said, as if that made all the sense in the world. He nodded along. “Do you know I used to work at SunDollar?” you continued.

“What? Is that part of the story?” he asked.

“No. I just remembered.” you grinned at him. “But back to my story. So one day I came home and —” You paused.

“And what?”

“I don’t feel like telling the long version anymore.”

Without even noticing, his hand had come over to slightly massage the soles of your feet. “Then why don’t you tell me the short one?” he suggested.

You stared at him like he had just given you the greatest idea in the world. “Okay,” you nodded solemnly as if you were amazed at his genius. “I’m staying with a friend right now because my boyfriend was sleeping with somebody else who wasn’t me so I broke off the pre-engagement and the possible future engagement and the whole relationship and now I’m trying to move all my stuff out because we used to live in the same apartment. Together.”

He took a moment to process the plethora of words that had just fallen out of your mouth.

“Oh and I can’t go back to my friend's place because she and her girlfriend are going to have sex.” you concluded.

“That bastard.” he swore, his anger thinly veiled.

“Um no. He’s not a bastard. His parents are married. He wasn’t born out of wedlock.” And Jason had no idea on how to respond to that.

“But his dad is cheating on his mom. I found out by accident and he told me not to tell even though I just told you. So maybe it’s genetic? The cheating, not the telling.”

Jason could only stare. And then he guffawed. And guffawed loudly.

“Hey! Don’t laugh!”

He threaded his hand through yours to lift you up from your previous position, bringing you close, his arm draping around your shoulder.

“No, no, I’m not laughing at you babe.” The endearment slipped out without notice as his laughter slowly faded out. He turned to look at you, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle.

“For what?” you asked openly.

“For everything you just told me.”

“Oh. That’s okay, you didn’t do anything.” you said matter-of-fact.

“I know. But I can still be sorry.” And when he had the time he’d like to put that guy's balls in a blender.

“Hmmm.” you pondered over that. “That’s very wise. Has anybody ever told you that you’re very wise?” Not particularly, no, he thought to himself.

“Thank you,” Jason’s voice was soft. “Do I have your permission to be wise again?”

You rapidly nodded.

“I think,” he began to pull himself along with you — your hands were still laced together— up from the couch. “That maybe you should stay here tonight. Since you have no place to go. But mostly because you’re very drunk.”

“Really?” you gasped. “Because that was kind of maybe what I was thinking.”

His eyes crinkled with laughter. “What would you have done if I hadn’t asked you?”

The both of you were standing now, your connected hands gently swinging back and forth.

“I don’t know.” you said honestly. “Back to my actual apartment I think.”

Though his posture remained relaxed, Jason’s expression quickly sobered. “No. With your douchebag of an ex hanging around? I don’t think so.”

You didn’t seem to be too bothered by his blunt statement. “Can I have water please?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure.” He stepped away from you, grabbing the mugs before he made his way into the kitchen. “Do you want to finish your hot chocolate?” Or technically start.

You didn’t respond, grabbing the mug to gulp back the now cooled beverage. You handed it back to him, only having drunk a quarter of it. “I wanted the marshmallows.” you said bashfully.

He grinned at you. “My room’s on the left. I’ll bring you your water.” He turned towards the kitchen.

“Are we going to have sex?”

Jason spun back so fast, he was shocked the mugs didn’t collide together.

“What? No! No. No. No.” he uttered rapidly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Did he seem like a creep by offering you his bed? Because he meant it in a polite way. Not in a pervy way.

“I was trying to say that you could sleep in my bed. Instead of the couch.” Jason cleared his throat.

“Okay. Maybe another time.” you remarked breezily before turning away.

Jason blinked. A what? Another what! And fuck, you were already gone before he could tell you where his sleep shirts were.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“You may enter!” you announced in the who-knows-from-where accent you were attempting.

“Hi.” Jason approached the bed, handing you the glass of water.

You leaned against the headboard, already under the sheets. Jason’s bed was really comfortable. And soft. And it smelled really nice.

“Thank you.” You raised the glass to your lips and — ahhhh — it was nice and cold but not too cold, just the right amount of cold.

You could see him perched on the corner of the bed through the corner of your eyes.

“Woah, woah.” you heard Jason say, harkening back to earlier. “Not too fast.” His hand flittered at the bottom of the glass, slightly pulling it away from you.

“Sorry,” you gulped. “It was really good water.”

He set the glass down on the side table, resulting in a little clink!

He slightly cocked his head toward you. “Sorry to ask but — what are you wearing under there?”

“Ah-ha!” you exclaimed, poking at his chest with your finger. Woah mama, that was solid.

“Didn’t you say no sex? No take-backsies!”

He looked startled again. He was kind of like a lost grizzly bear. Awww.

“Because I didn’t get the chance to tell you where my sleep clothes were.”

You gave him a squint, poking his chest again. “Heh. Whatever you say Mister.”

His hand came to grab your roaming finger.

“If you must know,” you flopped back against the pillows. “My dress.”

“I have a pair of sweatpants and a shirt you can wear.” he answered, getting off the bed. He opened the dresser against his wall, coming back to place the clothes on the bed. At least he didn’t throw them at you.

Your hand enclosed around his wrist. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t just throw your clothes at a girl and leave y’know.” You shook your head in faux disappointment.

He gave you a puzzling smile. “I’m going to let you change.”

With a grunt, you managed to push the heavy blanket off of yourself. You shifted so your back faced him. “Hello! My dress.” You turned your head towards him. “I can’t take it off myself.”

You heard him mumble something under his breath. You pushed your hair to the side of your neck, slightly wiggling your back. His hands slightly brushed the nape of your neck.

“Why do you have a zipper and buttons?” He sounded perplexed.

“It’s big button.” You shook your head. “A truly corrupt industry they are.”

You could hear him softly chuckle. His hands were gentle, almost as if he were handling something delicate; precious cargo.

Mmmmm. His hands were warm. Calloused and rough — but still impossibly tender. Your eyes fluttered at the light sensation of his hands carefully moving down your back. Each time a button popped free you could feel the slight press of his fingers against your bare skin — right before he moved on the next button. You couldn’t help but slightly lean into him.

“Hope you’re still awake.” He said. “I still have to tackle the zipper.”

“Sorry.” Your voice was groggy.

“It’s alright. Move back a bit, okay?”

“Okay.” Instead of scooting yourself away from, you simply angled your back forward.

He let out a soft laugh.

You could feel cool air welcoming your back as he began to unzip.

“All done.” He gave your shoulder a quick pat.

Your voice was muffled in the sheets. “Bra?”

He let out a deep exhale. “Okay. But just know I don’t have any intentions of being untoward.”

“Can you untoward my bra strap?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

You heard the three snaps and the constriction of your bra loosened. You couldn’t help but groan into the sheets. His hand on your back tensed.

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” you praised, sighing in relief.

His hand loosened. “Better?”

“So much better.” you sighed. “Thank you. Again.”

The bed gave a groan as he turned to stand up. “Do you want more water?”

“Yes, please.” you answered gratefully.

“Okay. I’ll let you change and come back with some more water.”

“Okay.” you repeated. You pulled yourself up as you heard him leave the room, the door closing with a soft thud. You grabbed the shirt he had left on the corner of the bed.

It would probably be smart to get up and change. You didn’t feel very smart right now.

You wiggled the dress towards your legs and yanked off your bra, dropping them both on the floor in a pile. The shirt was excessively large with the words Rosen Brother’s Deli sprawled across it. Was that the place in Down River? Eh. You’d look it up later. If you managed to remember. You pulled the shirt over your head, letting it fall over you. Hmm. It didn’t smell like rye bread or pastrami. A good sign. You reached for the sweatpants. Black and nondescript, no deli logo to be found.

“All good?” Jason asked through the door.

“Yes!” you answered.

He cursed. “Why did you say you were all good?” He gestured his head towards your half clothed leg sticking out of the sheet.

“I’m pulling them on.” you exasperated. “It’s very hard to do lying under the blankets.”

“Why didn’t you just get up?” He set the glass of water on the side table.

“Because I didn’t want to.” you responded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His eyes crinkled in mirth. “I’m going to bed. Anything you need before I go?”

“Yeah. Where are you going?”

He looked at you in confusion. “To the couch?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” He looked as lost as ever.

“Why aren’t you sleeping here?” you patted the bed.

He pursed his lips. “Because I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“You already said that. Just sleep here. I want you here. You’re nice. So you should stay.”

Jason let out a chuckle of disbelief.

“Plus, I just got my pants on. Or your pants on. Which are on my legs now. So our pants. Heh. We’re pant parents.”

He came to sit on the edge of the bed again, his hand coming to rest over yours. “You’re sweet. But you don’t make a very good argument.”

“I work in HR. We fix arguments. Or at least we try to.”

He moved past your statement. “You should sleep.” His thumb was now rubbing back and forth over your hand. “You’re going to have a killer headache tomorrow.”

You let out a wobbly exhale. “I know. I don’t want to think about it right now.”

“Sleep tight.” he patted your hand, rising once again.

“Please.” Your voice was small. He looked over at you, practically swallowed by the blankets. “Can you stay? Just for a minute. Or maybe two. Or three or four. Even five if you’d like. I know I’d like.”

He worried at his lip, before turning his head away. “Fine Dr. Seuss. I’ll stay. But only for five minutes. Got it?”

“Sir, yes sir.” you gave the spot next to you a heavy smack. “When did you change? And why did you call me Dr. Suess?”

He didn’t respond to your line of questioning as he settled over — rather than under — the sheets, crossing his arms across his chest. He flicked the night lamp off. “Five minutes,” he repeated. “That’s it.”

“I told you. I got it.” Your voice was muffled as you buried yourself deeper into the sheets.

It was quiet for about thirty seconds. “Jason?”

“Yeah?” He sounded tired.

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

You heard his breath hitch. But he didn’t respond.

You repeated yourself. “Jason?”

He hummed in acknowledgment.

“Did you hear me?”

The mattress shifted as he rolled on his side to face you.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft again.

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

He left your question unanswered again but this time you didn’t follow up, accepting his silence.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling your eyelids get heavy. You didn’t know how much time had passed before you spoke again. “Goodnight Jason. I’ll see you in the morning.” Your voice was sleepy.

“Goodnight. See you in the morning.” he said, his words matching yours.

And when you woke up — with a killer headache, just like Jason had said — a pair of arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you close. Hah! Five minutes your ass.

yay, she’s all done! i had written like two paragraphs of this back in december originally wanting it to be a holiday story but then i got distracted by something or the other and this fic fell on the back burner. i haven’t properly proof read this yet so watch out for the plethora of grammatical errors littered around — and if something is really egregious, let me know and i’ll fix it!

bonus! every location mentioned in this fic — Noonan’s Bar, Sundollar Coffee, and Rosen’s Brother Deli in Down River — all canonically exist within comic continuity!

engagement and feedback is always encouraged! it motivates me to write more and helps me know what and what not to do when it comes to my writing!

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@kqinoraswrites

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Clutching your wine glass in twitching fingers, you directed your attention to Feyre and the babbling Illyrian babe in her lap. Things always seemed so effortless for her in this world, but that wasn’t true, and you knew it. Still, you found yourself envying her mateship and the ease with which love found her. It may have been a journey, but Rhys was clear with his intentions, and the mating bond cemented that. 

Even Nesta, harsh and unrelenting as she was, had a sure bond that she could rely on. And then there was Elain, finding her way with Lucien in minute acts that all meant something to both of them. You had tried to chalk your feelings for Azriel up to jealousy or seeking a partner in a paired-up family, but those were surface-level excuses. The way your heart raced in his presence, the spark that lit up your skin each time you touched—those were not symptoms of pure loneliness. 

But you were sure he would think it was desperation if you pursued him. He was the only single male out of the fae you knew, and you knew so few people in this world. If you started professing your love for him, waxing poetic about the simple way he smiled, you knew the pitying look of rejection would come soon after. He would wince slightly and run his hand along the side of your head as he so often did, and then he would say that he didn’t see you that way. That you were new and unexciting and a responsibility above all else—his High Lady’s sister that needed help adjusting to life as fae. 

He hadn’t exactly shown interest in you. He had been kind and attentive and bordering on adoring, but that was just how he treated his family. You’d seen it. You were not going to be the pathetic little thing chasing after him in the wake of a war. Things were at peace now, and he didn’t need to be bogged down with the toll of rejecting you. 

Still, you sighed as you watched him enjoy his night. You bit the inside of your cheek and choked down another glass of the fae wine you could barely stomach. Your sisters asked you questions about your training with Madja, and you answered them, allowing the ring on your pinky to dig into the skin of your palm. When Azriel had given it to you, sliding it onto your smallest finger, you had been elated, feeling light and dizzy with affection. You felt foolish wearing it now. 

You couldn’t take it off. Azriel seemed to look for it whenever he saw you, eyes going from your face to your hands as if on instinct. He would touch it sometimes—when he flew you over the city or took things from your hands to carry instead. You would feel his thumb brush the metal embossed with twines of azure stone and think something was there, but then he would offer you a polite smile and simply walk beside you. He would blush and laugh with Mor, but he would only smile with you. 

Pity. It was pity, surely. 

You had clung to him for weeks after being Made. Something about him brought you comfort in a newly abrasive world, so he allowed you to follow him around and you accepted his touches with greed. It had all been ordered. Rhys had surely ordered his Spymaster to ensure his mate’s sister was properly cared for, but you hadn’t been thinking about the implications at the time, pathetically seeking him out under the pretense of a genuine connection. And sure, Azriel was not cruel. He thought of you as family and cared for you as such. But your feelings were yours alone. 

“Shall I take you back? Or would you like to sleep here?” 

You startled at the sound of his voice, Azriel suddenly at the back of your chair. The room had dimmed in conversation, with Rhys and Feyre gone to put Nyx to bed and Mor only muttering short sentences in low tones that had Cassian nodding in agreement. Elain had all but vanished from the table, and Nesta was facing the fire to capture its warmth. You had missed the shift as your thoughts ran rampant. 

Your chair creaked as Azriel leaned against it, mouth closer to your ear. “Are you alright?” 

You blinked and tilted your head slightly to show you were attentive to his words. “I’m fine. Just tired.” 

Azriel hummed. “So would you like to stay?” 

Staying at the Riverhouse would mean distance from Azriel. And you could walk to the clinic in the morning rather than depending on him to fly you down. That was good. 

“Yes. That would be best.” 

“I’ll walk you back then.” 

He always walked you to your room—all the way there. He never came in, always content to stop at the door, but he never did anything less. Even now, when he would leave for his own room at the House miles away, he was offering to take you down the hall. It was too much. You’d become too much. 

“That’s okay,” you breathed out, finally turning your head to look at him. Your faces were only inches apart, and you had to catch your breath at the closeness. “I’ll find my way.” 

Something unusual flashed across his expression, quickly righted with a soft smile. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“It’s just down the hall, Azriel. I doubt I’ll get lost.” 

He blinked, looking between your eyes before clearing his throat slightly and standing straight. You used the opportunity to push out from the table, trying to ignore his guiding hands. “Right, of course,” he nodded. He looked lost for a moment, standing before you. His wings twitched as you looked over his shoulder to the joining hall. “I’ll—goodnight, then. Sleep well.” 

“Goodnight, Azriel.” 

~~

Distancing yourself from Azriel after your dinner revelation was not an easy task. You hadn’t realized how much you’d intertwined your life with his, and the realization was enough to make you cringe. He was a whole person with a life before you, and now you were reliant on him for so many things. 

So, you tried to make your own way. You stopped asking to stay at the House so you could walk wherever you needed. You asked passersby for directions instead of waiting for Azriel to tell you where shops and restaurants were located. You even tried making friends, talking more with the patrons of the clinic to… be more independent—separate, even, from Azriel and your newly grown family. 

You figured he would appreciate the effort. He was probably so tired of guiding you everywhere, of keeping polite smiles on his face as you droned on about your new life and let him fly you around Velaris. And he probably loved that he finally got his overcoat back. He had let you borrow it several weeks ago, placing the Illyrian-forged threads over your shoulders when you asked him to go flying in the middle of the night. 

He had told you how much it meant to him that night as he buttoned it up to your neck. His mother had hand-woven it when he came of age, he had told you, and he had saved it ever since. You might not have understood why a coat was of so much importance, but you understood that you were hogging it. That he had let you borrow it on a cold night, and then you had practically commandeered his prize possession. He always insisted you wear it when he would fly you around, but he was just being polite. 

The thought grated on you. 

“What?” Azriel asked, mouth slightly agape as you gently placed the coat in his stiff hands. 

“I—Thank you for letting me borrow it for so long. I should have returned it ages ago. I was being greedy with it,” you tried to joke, pressing it further into his grasp. 

Azriel remained frozen. His eyes flicked down to the material now in his hands and then back up to you. “I don’t—I don’t think I understand. You don’t like it?” 

A flash of confusion struck you, but maybe he assumed you weren’t going to give it back? “What? No, Azriel, it’s a wonderful coat. Honestly, the softest, warmest thing I’ve ever put on. I just… I know it’s important to you. I’ll wear my own when I need you to take me somewhere. Although I think I’ve been doing well getting around by myself. I’ve been trying to learn Velaris’ layout, and I think I almost got it.” 

Azriel finally moved, curling the coat closer to his chest. He wet his lips before shooting his gaze down to your hands. Finding some semblance of an answer there, he nodded once, mostly to himself. “I’ve noticed that. Have you enjoyed exploring the city?” 

No. You enjoyed exploring it with him. “Yes, very much. The people of Velaris are very helpful with directions.” 

Azriel hummed, rubbing his fingers along the sleeve of the coat. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’ll look forward to you enjoying flying again, though.” 

“Yes, well, I never stopped enjoying that. I’ll try to space it out more, though—maybe get Cassian or Rhys to lug me around every once in a while.” 

“Why?” 

An unmistakable inflection of hurt trailed in his tone. Wonderful, now you were offending him. “Oh! Well, just to take some of that off of you. I know you’re very busy, and I’ve needed a lot of help for a long while.” 

“Take…what off of me?” he asked, words slow and lingering. 

“Um, the responsibility? Again, I know how busy you are. And I know it’s taken me a while to adjust, but I think I've got it now. At least, I’ve got it more than I used to,” you tried joking again, a dry laugh rocking you back on your heels. 

“Responsibility,” Azriel repeated.

“Right,” you affirmed. “Now you can spend more time on other things.” 

“Such as?” 

You clicked your tongue, glancing up at the ceiling as if there were answers there. “I don’t know. What did you do before I was around?” 

Azriel’s brows came together. He shook his head slightly as if you were partially insane. “I don’t think… I didn’t think you wanted to talk about that yet.” 

Maybe you were partially insane. You thought you were having one conversation, but it seemed Azriel was having another. What did that mean? Maybe his life was far easier before you started forcing him into tasks and stealing his clothes? And you weren’t ready just yet to hear that? He really thought you were unstable then. 

You laughed, despite that thought, brushing a hand through the air casually. “Come on, Az. You obviously had a life before me. Multiple lives, if we go on human terms. I’m sure you had several hobbies that didn’t include taking me places.” 

And now he looked uncomfortable. Azriel folded his coat onto his arm, and his mouth twisted before he let out a sigh. “There were pleasure houses, obviously. A few relationships, although they do not seem important in the slightest now.” 

You choked on air, clearing your throat as Azriel itched his jaw and looked up at the ceiling himself. Nothing was up there, but both of you were sure looking. “Oh,” you squeaked out. 

“The relationships are in the distant past. The—well, the casual things are more recent, though nothing after I met you, obviously.” 

Your mind was doing flips, bashing jarringly against your skull as Azriel looked at you with an almost concerned discomfort. When you said hobbies, you thought he would share that he used to train more or had a secret joy for puzzles. You had not expected a brief overview of his sexual partners, but Azriel looked about ready to give you a list if you asked. To dive deeper into the topic you were about to melt into a puddle over. 

This was what you were really holding him back from, then. 

He wanted to go to pleasure houses, but you were taking up all of that time. 

When you remained silent, Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I know things were different for you. You were human. I’ve learned of the demands and expectations of human women, so that’s why we’ve been going slo—” 

Your ears were ringing as he spoke. You clutched your hands together and interrupted him. “Right, yes, different for humans. And not alive as long, obviously. Less time for hobbies.” 

“I don’t mind. I don’t care about that,” he offered slowly. You weren’t even sure what he was talking about. Another beat of silence, and then, in the most usure voice you had heard from him, Azriel asked, “Is that okay?” 

Was it okay for him to go back to pleasure houses? To seek out intimacy? Who were you to decide that for him? “Of course,” you blinked, raising a hand to your forehead. “I’m—I’m going to go rest, I think. Long day.” 

“Alright,” Azriel simply replied, left standing in the hall. 

~~

You missed him, which was terribly awful in the worst ways. 

Not only had he made it abundantly clear that he was setting his sights on other women, but he was being extra nice now, probably fearing for the worst now that you were aware he was going to be spending his newfound time… doing other things.

He asked you to accompany him to dinner every night this week. You turned him down each time, but he still asked, a casual hope ringing in his words. He arrived at the Riverhouse every morning, ready to walk you to the clinic even though you assured him you were okay to go alone. He didn’t bring his coat back, but he grabbed your own from the closet by the door and had it open for you on each of those mornings. 

And his wings were doing strange things. When you would come to the door, he would spread them just a few inches wider, seeking your eyes as they roved over the exposed veins. He opened them behind you as you walked, almost ushering you closer to him on the streets of Velaris. They seemed to ruffle when he sat beside you at dinner, in the sitting room, when he caught you reading and joined you on the couch. It was almost imperceptible, but the sound was becoming soothing, and that was dangerous. 

You were reading too much into things, acting crazy again, and so, you distanced yourself more when you started to notice the patterns. And then you missed him because of it. 

He noticed. You were sure he noticed. You could only turn him down so many times before he began to question the change. 

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked after two weeks of your eyes flitting away from him. 

“What? Of course not.” 

“You’re avoiding me.” 

“I’m not.” 

Azriel took you by surprise then, kneeling by the chair you were nestled into. “You are. Tell me what I did.” 

Such a picture of devotion made you squirm. You unraveled your legs from under you and sat eye-level with the Shadowsinger’s form. “Nothing, Az. Remember, I told you I was trying to be more self-sufficient. Give you more time back.”

“Is this because of our conversation a few weeks ago? Because I only told you because it’s important to understand my history as my—” 

You quickly shook your head, not wanting another recount of his love life. Not when you weren’t part of it. “Nothing like that, I swear.” 

Cassian chose that moment to enter the small library, a decision that was both your downfall and eventual salvation, as time would reveal. 

“Whoa. Hey,” Cassian cautioned, eyeing a kneeling Azriel. “Something going on?” 

“Nothing,” you quipped, feeling Azriel’s eyes still glued to your face as it heated and turned to Cassian. “What are you doing here? Feyre said you were at the camps until next week.” 

“Yeah, well, got sick of the camps,” he replied, brow raised when Azriel reluctantly rose from the ground and stiffly turned. 

“Glad you’re back then.” 

“Thanks for the warm welcome, sweetheart.” Cassian kicked back into a far chair, the air still heavy. “Anyone have plans tonight? I feel like going out.” 

Azriel cleared his throat, fingers flexing with shadows that twined between them. “I believe Mor is going to Rita’s. But I have… business tonight.” 

“Business, huh?” Cassian smirked, flicking his gaze over to you in a quick motion. 

“Cassian,” Azriel warned, but it was too late. Something ugly and hot gripped your throat, making it impossible to swallow.

This was it. This was what you wanted. He was finally free from you, and his words tonight were only a semblance of guilt for leaving you when you asked him to. But it wasn’t fair to hold him in your grasp when he didn’t want to be there. When you were a duty to him. 

He needed to know that it was okay to move on from the responsibility of you, so you steeled yourself and swallowed down the searing pain in your chest that felt like it was yanking at you when you were resolute in your next words. 

 “Sorry, Cass, I’m not free either. I’m going on a date.”

You shook off the thoughts—both of finding a date and of being with someone who wasn’t Azriel. It would take a lot more than a simple whim to get over him, and although disheartening, that revelation was crucial. You needed to move on. You needed to stop reading into every small move he made. He was just nice, just giving to his family. 

Frustration and tiredness gripped you next, so you set course for the Sidra. You figured the lapping tide would calm your mind and ground you, and when you plopped onto the first bench you could find, you found your suspicions were correct. Closing your eyes, you let the water take over. 

It wasn’t until you started to notice the chill under your legs that the air shifted. You could tell it wasn’t Azriel instantly, something about the movement of the air not feeling like him. Instead, the swish of wings caused you to snap your eyes open to find Cassian standing before you, his arms crossed over his chest and his brow raised in silent accusation. 

“That was cruel,” he said, tone not unkind. “You’re not cruel. Not on purpose. What did he do to make you so upset?” 

He did several things to make you upset, but they all sounded childish, even in your head—childish and not even his fault. But you weren’t even sure what Cassian was referring to, so you started with that. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Cassian sighed like he was getting ready for a long night. He tugged at the seams of his pants and sat beside you on the bench. “Come on. Don’t be like that. Tell me why you said you have a date when you’re sitting by yourself right now.” 

It was your turn to sigh. You leaned back and looked out to the Sidra instead of at Cassian’s patient gaze. “Don’t make me talk about it. It’s bad enough that you’ve caught me in my lie.” 

“Yeah, no offense, but I didn’t actually think you had a date.” 

You huffed out a humorless laugh. “Am I really that pathetic?” 

“Well… No,” Cassian slowly replied. “But I never thought you would do that to Az. And I’m sure he doesn’t think that either. But it hurt him to hear you say that, and I guess I’m trying to understand why you did. Like I said, you’re not cruel.” 

Something felt like it was running in circles in your head. You kept your arms crossed over your chest, but craned your neck to look at Cassian again, trying to find answers in his features. You found only open searching from your friend. 

You shook your head slightly. “I did it to protect myself,” you stated obviously. “I needed to let him go, and he needed to know that I would be fine without his constant attentiveness. It’s never been fair to him.”

For all of his gusto in entering this conversation, Cassian now stared at you with an utterly blank expression.  Not even his wings twitched as you both looked at each other. Cassian had his arm hooked over the back of the bench, and it looked to be cemented there as he processed your words. 

Feeling uncomfortable in the silence, you continued. “I’ve been his responsibility ever since I was Made, and it’s not fair that my feelings have kept him trapped for longer than he’s needed to be. I’m so grateful that he’s been here for me while I’ve been getting adjusted, but I’m adjusted now, and he needs to start living again.” 

Another pause. Cassian turned your words over in his head. “Your feelings?” 

“Of course that would be the only thing you catch—Yes, Cassian, I have feelings for Azriel. But you and I both know that’s ridiculous.” 

He blinked. Something close to irritation stirred in your gut. 

“You think—” Cassian began, before stopping himself and moving back on the bench slightly. “You—But Azriel… and you—” 

You followed each sentence he uttered, only for them to trail off. Some of the irritation mingled with embarrassment within you, and you clenched your jaw, gripping the stone beneath you. “Yes, Cassian, I know it’s very hard to believe and probably quite a comical thought, but if you could gather your words that would be very appreciated.” 

Cassian muttered a silent ‘comical?’ to himself that made you raise your brows, but the Illyrian seemed to finally land on a solid thought and quickly reached out to shake your hand. Your wrist flapped in his grip. 

“You’re wearing this,” he started, forefinger tapping the ring on your pinky. 

“Yes? And? It was a sweet gift,” you offered. 

“It has—the siphons.” 

“It has what?” 

“The blue. It’s part of the siphon Azriel wears on his chest. The underside.”

You looked away for a moment, searching the surroundings for nothing. “Why on Earth would he put that in there?” 

Cassian gave you an incredulous look. “What about the flying cloak?” 

“What about the what?” You jerked your head back slightly, now completely and utterly lost. “You mean the coat Azriel was letting me wear when he flew me places?” 

“No, the cloak. It’s tradition. His mother—” Cassian cut himself off again, releasing your hand finally. He’d been shaking it around since he started talking, and you were glad to have it back. You clutched your fingers in towards your chest and stared at your friend, suddenly worried about his sanity as he squinted his eyes up at a passing cloud. 

“Cass, are you alright? I don’t—I’m confused.” 

“You’re confused,” Cassian nodded to himself, words final. He remained squinting at the sky. 

“Right. So, can you explain this psychotic break to me, or am I meant to pick up on context clues or…” 

Cassian suddenly stood, the wind taken up by his wings startling a small screech from your lungs. You followed him up on pure instinct, and the Illyrian grabbed both of your shoulders. “Come on then.” 

“Come on? Come on, where? Cassian, I still don’t—Cassian!” Your questions were lost to a scream as Cassian practically shoved you into his arms and took to the sky. You pushed your face into his chest and felt the cool whips of night drive into your skin, missing the “cloak” Cassian was going on about on this impromptu journey. 

Your one saving grace was the view of the ring on your finger as you flew. It seemed to shine against the wind, sparking bright blue with each gust against the stone. The color warmed on your skin, a small comfort in the otherwise jarring flight. Just as quickly as you took off, Cassian deposited you on the balcony of the House of Wind. He marched forward instantly, leaving you in the dust with more questions than answers. 

Now you were trapped. You shifted your weight onto your heels and accepted defeat without putting up much of a fight, rolling your eyes at Cassian’s retreating form. There was a fleeting second you considered taking the stairs back down to Velaris, but your legs were all but frozen, and you were hoping to give Cassian a piece of your mind. You had almost forgotten about your disastrous night with Azriel. That was, until your gracious sister alerted you to her soothing presence. 

“I take it you figured it out?” Nesta drawled, snapping her book shut, her rigid posture hidden behind a rather tall chaise. 

“Figured what out?” you tiredly sighed, rounding the room to sit beside her. You watched her eyes dart up to the ceiling in the same way Cassian’s had just minutes ago. The only difference was that hers looked markedly less confused and entirely more agitated. 

“Absolutely no one listens to me in this family,” she hissed to herself before turning to you. “Do you remember when you confided in Feyre about loving Azriel?” 

You reared back, gripping Nesta’s arm in alarm. “Keep your voice down. What is the matter with you? And yes, I remember confiding that in her. Something I will never do again, it seems.” 

“Enough dramatics. Do you remember what she said?” 

“Of course not, Nesta. That was months ago and I was half-delirious on fae wine.” 

Nesta was looking up the ceiling again, counting something, maybe, or just sitting in her breaths. She jutted her jaw to the side and then dipped her finger along her neck to snag on a chain there. With a quick tug, a ring fell from behind her bodice, dangling from the gold it was looped to. 

“Look,” she ordered. “I have the same ring you do. Only different in one way.” 

You examined the red twining along the edges. “Okay?” 

“Feyre has one as well.” 

“A welcome gift?” 

Nesta’s eye twitched. “Elain does not have one.” You stared blankly back at her until she stood from the chaise and took her book with her. “I swear you were not this dumb when we were children.” 

“Nesta!” you called out, offence lining your tone. 

Your sister did not even look over her shoulder. “If you cannot put together the pieces, save for your lack of self-worth, then I do not have the time for this. Open your eyes to how he looks at you, I swear.” 

Her last words were filled with such exasperation that you felt chastised. You slumped back into the chaise and chewed on your lip, running over the jarring events of the evening. You certainly were not turned in early with a warm drink and a book as you had planned. No, instead, you were analyzing how Azriel last looked at you, using lingering crumbs to put anything together. 

He had already been looking at you when you said you had a date, his gaze tracking your voice the second you opened your mouth. He always seemed to do that, so attentive in the way he listened to others. You remembered how he had started listening with rapt attention, gaze flickering down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes. There had been nothing assuming there, no expectations; he always watched you like he was simply there to listen, to be there and let you be heard. 

And then you had said it, and things shifted. His expression flashed; his jaw had twitched. He had already been looking at you, but it seemed he somehow lost the sight of your face because he was quickly refocusing, brow curling uncomfortably. When you thought back on it now, he had looked… hurt? Lost? Your initial assumption was relief, but that had been a terrible conclusion. That had been an unfair judgment and you were now left wondering how many assumptions you had been making. 

Because you had never really asked him, had you? You had always seen yourself as an unwanted burden he was too kind to brush off, but maybe you hadn’t been unwanted, not at first. And maybe you inserted your opinion of yourself too rashly in your relationship with Azriel. Maybe he liked the responsibility, and you thought you knew what was best for him. 

Maybe you loved him too much to be selfish, and that was the problem. 

Or maybe… 

Could he love you? Was that the point Nesta was making with the rings? 

An idiotic thought, even for you. And you were being called dumb and confused quite a lot today. 

Your racing conclusions were cut off by yet another presence entering your space, but this time, you knew it to be Azriel. You could hear the gentle undercurrent of his shadows and just knew it was him as if by some instinct. Steeling yourself, you turned your gaze up to meet the Shadowsinger. 

And you looked at him—you stared up at him as he looked at you. 

He looked strained, at odds with himself. 

“Cassian said we needed to talk,” Azriel offered, this being the third time he opened his mouth to speak. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted space. I left because I thought you did.” 

You didn’t move from your seat. His shadows swarmed beneath your feet, unwilling to listen to their master. “Space for what?” you almost whispered. 

He raised his brows, shifting his gaze to the floor. “To think, I suppose. I’ve made you angry, done something to ruin this. I didn’t want to make it worse.” 

The picture was falling apart again. You’d finally pieced something together after Nesta’s words, but this was not lining up with your conclusion. You stood, taking a few steps towards the Shadowsinger. 

“Why would you think that, Az? I’m not mad at you.” 

“Why would I—Y/n, you’ve been avoiding me for weeks now. You hardly speak to me unless I prompt you. You don’t stay at the House.” 

“I wanted to let you have your life back,” you earnestly replied. “It’s probably what Cassian wanted us to speak about. But then… he said I was confused and maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was pushing my thoughts onto you and you didn’t want so much space.” 

“I want no space,” Azriel affirmed. He took a step forward and met you in the middle of the room. “And my life—there is no life I would want back. My life now is… you are everything to me.” 

That gave you pause—a stunning, all-encompassing pause. You felt your eyes widen and your mouth fall open, but nothing could stop your reaction. Several of your conclusions, your assumptions, somersaulted in your mind. 

“What?” you whispered. 

Azriel shook his head, reaching a tentative hand out to cup your jaw. “I’ve tried to be subtle, to go slow, but you have to know. If you’re thinking I want space from you, then I haven’t made this known enough. You know that I love you. Tell me how to show—” 

“You love me?” you blurted out, lost in the soft touch on your cheek and still more alert than you’ve ever been. 

Azriel’s expression morphed into hurt again. “Of course I love you. That’s why we’ve been courting. To take things slower until you were ready.” 

“Courting?” 

The hurt was wiped clean. Azriel’s brows came together, his next words sounding punched from his lungs. “Yes, angel. Courting. Since Starfall.” 

You temporarily spun at the name, but you had no time to focus on that. “Since Starfall?” you gaped, once again offering nothing but repetition. 

Still holding you in his hands, Azriel searched every inch of your face. He didn’t let you go, but you felt his grip reposition as if to ground himself. He ducked an inch lower to fully catch your wide eyes. 

“Did you—not know?” 

You gave the slightest shake of your head. “You never…” 

The air in the room shifted again, and Azriel was clearly panicking. He bit into his lip and searched your features again, looking for something to make sense of this. It was a mirror of your last few weeks. You wanted to provide him with some comfort, but nothing came to mind. 

“The ring,” Azriel finally landed on, tilting your chin up with his thumbs. “I gave it to you then. I-I told you I wanted you to keep it close, as I would keep the other piece.” 

“You said that?” you asked, trying to remember his words after he had slid it on your finger. Everything had been a blur of giddiness. 

“Yes. I told you it would always guide you back to me. You—I haven’t seen you take it off since. It was a courting gift.”

“I thought it was a normal gift.”

Azriel’s expression widened. “Illyrians always give it to their partners. We have it made when we meet.” 

“You had this made for me when we met? In the human lands?” His nod was hurried and disjointed. “But I—I didn’t know that.” 

Azriel’s panic increased. He ran his hands down from your jaw to rest at the back of your neck. “The jacket,” he quipped. “You accepted it. You wore it everywhere I took you.” 

“To keep warm!” you exclaimed, feelings of hysteria taking over. “I thought you were letting me borrow it for convenience!” 

“It’s a tradition—the flying cloak. Illyrian men are meant to take their partners everywhere. We guide them. The cloak goes along with that. I had it tailored into a coat for you to be more comfortable.” 

Breath escaped your lungs. “Cassian called it a cloak,” you said to no one, pulling yourself out of his hands to pace the room. You moved your palm to your forehead. “Am I—am I missing anything else?” 

Azriel stared back at you with a beseeching expression, hands limp at his sides. His shadows were swarming, some batting at his head, and his wings were pulled tight against his back. Not sprawled out for you to see. They were always out for you. 

“Just… small things,” he spoke quietly into the air between you. “But, I had thought you knew. I thought—” 

Silence blanketed the air, your pacing now taking up less room. You went one way and then the other, your hand on your chest as you tried to quell the pressure there. It was aching somewhat, but you also couldn’t catch your breath and your world was turning upside down. 

So many things you had missed. So much confusion and heartache and this was all right in front of you. But how were you supposed to know? How were you meant to understand the idiosyncrasies of Illyrian traditions when you were still discovering how your ears worked, for God's sake? 

Azriel loved you. 

He was standing before you and telling you he loved you, that he had been loving you, and you were blind to it all. You were too caught up in your doubt and confusion to see it. 

You finally stilled, fingers curling into your palms as you faced the man before you. He had been watching you, and something settled when you caught his eye—when you stopped looking like you were about to bolt. 

And then realization struck him. He frowned. “But you asked about my history. You asked about my life before you.” He was grasping at straws himself, trying to find hints that maybe you knew all along. But he was not going to like this answer. 

You pressed your lips together. “I was asking you about your hobbies, Azriel. I was trying to tell you to do more things you enjoyed instead of watching over me.” 

“Things I enjoyed?” he almost deadpanned. 

“Yes.” 

“And I told you I went to pleasure houses.” 

“Yes, Azriel.” 

An agonized sound left him. Azriel covered his face with his hands and then moved them to his hair, tugging at the roots. “Gods, I—I am so sorry. I thought you were asking about my romantic history.” 

You shrugged slightly, unable to offer anything beyond that. He couldn’t know that it had hurt beyond belief then, because it was silly to acknowledge that now. You had only been hurt because he hadn’t been yours, but that wasn’t even true. This pain and hurt had been of your own creation, spurred on by your lack of insight. 

Azriel seemed to catch onto your train of thought. He cast his woes aside and leaned down to find your gaze from across the room. “This is not your fault. This is entirely my fault. I should have been clearer with my intentions. I should have known this was confusing. Nesta mentioned it, but I thought—” You pressed your nails into your hands until they hurt. “—I thought it was clear how much I adore you.” 

You let out a breath, trying to release some of this tension within you. It didn’t work. Obviously it didn’t work. How were you so blind? So caught up in menial things? 

The rush of hearing those words from Azriel warred with the feeling of incompetence at your confusion, leading to a silence that you didn’t realize you were maintaining. Azriel caught it, though. He caught everything when it came to you. 

“Do you…” At the broken sound of hesitance in his voice, you shot your wandering gaze back to him. “Do you not want me? Is that why you’ve encouraged me to… get my life back?” 

He said the last few words through gritted teeth, and everything fell apart. All of your confusion and frustration and hurt. The world felt lighter, as if you might pass out.

“Azriel, of course I want you. I have wanted you since I met you. I thought you didn’t want me,” you explained, watching the way his shoulder slumped. 

“That’s insane,” he muttered. 

“It wasn’t. It made sense to me. I thought I was a burden to you. I thought Rhys was making you help me.” 

“I asked to help you. I begged him to let it be me.” 

“I didn’t know that.” 

“I know,” Azriel softly replied. He found you again near the fire, taking careful steps to capture your hands in his. He raised them and kissed the ring against your skin. “I know.” 

You looked at him with a fondness you reserved for when his back was turned, finally feeling free to put it on display. He winced as if it hurt him to see, and knowing what you knew now, you were sure it did. Because while you had been pining after him, he had been seeking affection. Searching for even a morsel in a one-sided relationship. 

So much wasted time. 

“Why have you never tried to kiss me?” you asked when he began tracing the contour of your jaw. “Perhaps that would have made things clearer.” 

Azriel smiled softly, the expression a tinge forlorn. He tilted his head to gaze at you fully. “I told you—I was willing to take things as slow as you needed me to. To be subtle, even when it was hard to do so.” 

“Is that why Feyre and Nesta didn’t have the… courting period?” 

Azriel tucked your hair back with gentle fingers. “They had entirely different circumstances, but yes. I was doing things the more traditional way to give you more time to adjust. I didn’t want to scare you.” 

“I’m not scared.” 

“Will you let me start again, then? Let me show you how I love you?” 

You were going to say yes. Even so, you reminded him, “I’ve been so confused, Azriel.” 

“I know,” he whispered again, his nose now nudging yours. “I know and I want to fix it. Let me fix it.” 

You placed your hand over his heart, the ring on your finger clicking against his siphon. “Okay,” you whispered. 

And he kissed you, then.

Your chest lit up with a foreign glow, and he kissed you harder. 

his hand tightens in your hair, holding you still as he begins to fuck your mouth. its gentle, still, despite his fervor. a part of you strangely wants him to use you more. to let him be a little mean.

too focused on the pleasure building inside you, you don't notice jason moving until he's behind you. he rests a hand on your back, his thumb brushing against your spine in a slow, soothing motion.

"easy, baby," he says, softly. "you know the drill."

you let jason guide your head, surrendering control to him as his fingers tangle in your hair. your cunt flutters in anticipation as he pushes you back onto dick's cock, prompting you you take him deeper this time. the tip hits the back of your throat, pulling a gag from your mouth, but jason doesn't let you pull back.

"breathe through your nose," he murmurs. "you can take it."

you try, focusing on breathing through your nose as you relax your throat. the gagging sensation fades, allowing you to feel dick's cock pulsing in your throat. every vein and ridge, overwhelming in the best way.

dick groans, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. "shit," he breathes. "she's deep-throating me. look at her."

jason only hums in response, his focus entirely on you. a hand still on your head, guiding your movements, setting a slow steady rhythm. he pushes you forward, then pulls you back. it occurs to you that, in this moment, you're practically a vessel. a delicate tool for their pleasure, a way to relieve their shared stress.

you don't mind. you don't mind at all.

you let jason take over completely, becoming passive in his hands, enjoying the feel of both of them around you. his thumb has continued its gentle brush against your spine. a beautiful, stark contrast to the rough way he's using your mouth.

prompted by your own greed, you reach a hand to dick's balls, willing him to come. wanting to taste him, to collect your reward as jason continues your movements. your fingers cup him as your other hand wanders to jason's crotch. he's rock-hard, cock straining against the fabric. you can practically feel the pulse of his blood.

his breath hitches, hand tightening in your hair, but he doesn't stop guiding your head. if anything, his movements become more controlled. pleasurable. you know he's watching you. he hasn't stopped.

"you're doing so well," he says. "taking him so deep. making him feel so good."

and then he guides you faster, his movements becoming more urgent.

"i'm close. so fucking close." dick groans, his hips shifting forward. "keep doing that. just like that."

you moan, appreciatively, at the praise. his balls draw up tight in your hand and you squeeze them gently, then more firmly, willing him to come.

you want it. you want to taste him. you want to feel him spill down your throat. dick's hips jerk forward, his cock hitting the back of your throat.

"fuck," he gasps. "i'm gonna—"

and then hes coming, his cock pulsing in your throat. the taste of him floods your mouth as you swallow, your throat working around him, taking everything he gives you.

jason pulls you back, his hand still in your hair. you're gasping for air, lips swollen, eyes watering. you're half aware of the saliva dripping from your chin.

jason looks looks at you, his beautiful eyes intense. "good girl," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "you took him so well."

you soften at the words, leaning further into him, and your core clenches as he leans in closer, his voice edged with promise:

"my turn."

About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?

The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.

Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot. 

—

You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.

“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it. 

Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.

You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.

“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.

“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”

In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.

However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.

There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."

So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss. 

It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.

“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.

“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”

Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?

“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.

There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.

Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”

You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.

Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.

Everything you thought was wrong.

At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization. 

This isn’t him talking about his shifts.

“You haven’t told the others, right?”

This isn’t about work at all.

“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”

This was about his family.

Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.

You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted. 

At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.

Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.

Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.

Bruce Wayne.

With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.

You found articles.

Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.

Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.

Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.

With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…

However, this might be worth investigating. 

At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”

You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.

—

Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations. 

You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.

Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.

You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter! 

The driver absolutely lost it. 

You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.

So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley. 

Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.

Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.

Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.

Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.

“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.

The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you. 

The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.

It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes. 

“What—” He calls out.

You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”

It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.

“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”

You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”

He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.

You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”

He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.

“Do you—”

“How did—”

You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.” 

He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”

Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.” 

You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.

However, it’s Red Hood.

While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.

“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.

“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.

You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses. 

“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.

The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.” 

Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”

“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.

You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?

A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…

You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.

—

Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.

His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same. 

Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.

Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.

“Do you want to meet my family?”

You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”

He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.

Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”

You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.

He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.

You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.

Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.

Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone. 

“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object. 

He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”

You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”

“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.

“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”

You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you. 

“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”

You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”

His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”

“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”

“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”

Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”

“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”

He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”

You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”

“Yeah?” He smirks at you.

“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.

—

“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”

“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”

Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.

You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”

Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.

At your entrance, the room goes silent. 

You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch. 

The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.

Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.

What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.

You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.

This is Batman.

Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.

The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.

Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.

You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.

“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely. 

You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.

You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.

“Does she know?”

Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support. 

“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.

Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”

The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.

Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”

Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.

Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”

Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair. 

Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.

Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”

Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”

Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”

Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”

“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.

“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.

“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.

“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”

Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”

“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take. 

“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight. 

Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.

You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.

As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason? 

“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.

“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.

Jason

Holy shit.

You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect. 

A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?

You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.

“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.

He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.

“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.

His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”

You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.

“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.

Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.” 

You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”

He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”

You smirk, “The perfect idea.”

“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.

“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.

“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”

His eyes soften, “I know.”

—

red hood merch

red hood keychain

red hood figure

You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.

You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this. 

You add it to the cart.

“You’re still up?” 

Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.

He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”

“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.

You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.

“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”

You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again. 

You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”

He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”

You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas. 

You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.

Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.

You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face. 

Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.

You buy it.

“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head. 

Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”

He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.

You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”

—

Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family. 

It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.

“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays. 

You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”

Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”

“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”

There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.

“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”

He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”

“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.

“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.

“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.

“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.

You never drove home so fast.

Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway. 

You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.

Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.

Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.

“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?

“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved. 

Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.

“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”

He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues  “… Is it for me?”

You grin, “Perhaps.” 

He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.

You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.

“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.

You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.

It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.

Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.

You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.

Perhaps he was too scared to tell you? 

It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him. 

You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.

Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.

—

“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.

A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.

So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls. 

You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.

You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.

He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.” 

You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).

He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.

You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.

“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.

You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”

“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.

“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”

He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”

“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face. 

He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”

An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”

“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”

He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?” 

“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.

His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.” 

You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.

Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.

As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.

“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”

“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.

“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”

There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.

Thankfully you aren’t first again. 

Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.

You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.

You had to be strong.

When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.

Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you. 

Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp. 

It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point. 

“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.

Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.” 

“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.

Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.

You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise. 

You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.

He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.

Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction. 

“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.

Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.

“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. 

“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!” 

“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.

“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly. 

Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him. 

He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”

“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch. 

Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”

You grin at him, not offering an answer. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.

He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.

Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.

The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.

Yeah, you know.

Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.

Everybody.

Loses.

Their.

Mind.

Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.

Then you turn to Bruce.

The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.

Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.

A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.

You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.

“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.

You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”

Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”

You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”

He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—” 

“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”

His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.

You know he is Red Hood. 

“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks. 

You nod, “I know.” You repeat.

He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”

“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.

His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”

You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.

He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”

You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”

Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”

Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”

You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”

You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”

He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”

You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand. 

He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”

You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”

He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”

You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.” 

“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.

“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.

“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.

The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did. 

“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.

You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.

“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.

“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.

You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.

He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”

Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.” 

He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.” 

-> Fatson Todd Bonus Fic

ㅤ

A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao. Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type. Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve/happy holidays to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!

Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!

Because Azriel’s hair was doing that thing.

Loose and mussed, still a bit damp from the rain, one stubborn curl flopping onto his forehead no matter how many times he shoved it back. Couple that with rolled sleeves, relaxed mouth, faint line of concentration between his brows—

Pathetic, she thought to herself, fond and exasperated. You’ve seen him covered in blood and you’re undone by a curl.

One of the shadows slid from his wrist and brushed her ankle beneath the table, like it had heard her. Like it was smirking.

She nudged it with her foot. Traitor.

“Stop tormenting my mate,” Az said mildly, eyes still on the dagger. The shadow flicked away, chastened.

She huffed. “Bold of you to assume they’re not obeying my orders.”

He glanced up at that, mouth twitching.

“Oh?” he said, turning the blade to catch the last slant of sun, checking for imperfections. “Are you the one who told them to tangle my bootlaces earlier?”

She lifted her book a little closer to her face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He dipped his head, but the edge of his mouth lifted a bit more. The bond between them hummed, that quiet, steady warmth he’d become in her mind. Not overwhelming, never a demand—just there. Like the knowledge of her own heartbeat.

She peeked over the pages.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

He snorted.

“Today was… irritating,” he admitted. “A lot of waiting on rooftops while other people argued inside.”

“Your least favorite activity,” she said. “Listening to people talk.”

“Listening to people talk badly,” he corrected. “If they’re going to lie, they should at least be interesting about it.”

She smiled, shut her book, and pushed her chair closer with a vowel-soft scrape.

“Anything worth the bruised ears?” she asked.

“Not particularly.” He set the whetstone down, wiping the blade with a cloth. “Day Court emissaries. Arguments about border trade, who’s responsible for what patrol, whether Koschei is a shared threat or simply our problem—” He broke off, catching himself before his mood truly soured. “Helion was there.”

“Ah.” She tipped her head. “How many times did he flirt with you?”

Az scoffed. “He flirted with Cassian. I got… commentary.”

She grinned. “And what pearls of wisdom did the Day Court’s most dramatic peacock bestow today?”

He leaned back, stretching his legs under the table until his boot nudged her bare foot.

“Helion says,” Az intoned, mimicking the High Lord’s rich, amused drawl, “‘If Rhys insists on sending his shadow into my sunlight, the least he could do is accompany it with proper food and drink.’”

She laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

“He’s impossible,” Az said, but there was no real heat to it. “He did host us, though. Apparently the ‘border trade talks’ were simply an excuse for him to show off a new vineyard.”

She perked up. “There was wine and you didn’t bring me any?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Do you want the rest of this report or are we pivoting to your greed?”

“Rude. Continue.”

He rolled his eyes, then softened.

“There was… a spread,” he said slowly. “Food from each court. Helion’s idea of diplomacy, I suppose. He had these flatbreads—Day Court specialty. Very particular spices, you could taste the heat in the olive oil.” His mouth twitched, remembering. “I didn’t get to actually sit and eat. Rhys wanted me watching the room.”

“Of course he did,” she murmured.

“I did steal a bite in the kitchen afterward.” He shot her a faintly guilty look. “Don’t tell him.”

“Traitor,” she said, but there was a smile in it. “Was it good?”

“Annoyingly,” he admitted. “Same with a pastry from Dawn. They had these twisted things with sugar and some sort of citrus glaze. I almost got away with a whole one before Mor appeared and declared she could smell cheating from three rooms away.”

She shook her head, biting back a laugh.

“You spend your life saving the world,” she said, “and your High Lady’s cousin is policing your pastry intake.”

“That’s the real tyranny,” he deadpanned.

“Any Summer Court delicacies?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“Some sort of fruit custard thing,” he said. “Looked good.” Then, more offhand, gaze drifting back out over the city— “I’ve flown over the Dawn Court a hundred times. Summer too. Never actually sat down to eat in either of them. Day I only ever see from rooftops or neutral halls.”

He didn’t put any particular weight on it. Just a dry observation, tossed out like so many others.

But something in her chest went very still.

She watched his profile. The fading light caught on his cheekbone, on the small scar at the edge of his mouth that she loved tracing with her thumb. His eyes were on the horizon, where the last smear of sunset bled into night. Shadows curled around his wrists again, restless in the pause.

“You’ve never…” she started, then stopped, making herself keep her tone light. “You’ve never stayed? After missions, I mean. To see anything else.”

“Staying makes you predictable,” he said simply. “Predictable gets you dead.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of her chair.

“Even now?” she pressed. “With Rhys openly allied, with courts that welcome you?”

His mouth twitched with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Old habits,” he said quietly. “Besides, someone has to come home and cook for you.”

She swatted his arm with the back of her hand.

“I can cook,” she lied.

His brows climbed, slow and disbelieving.

“The last time you touched a pan, the House of Wind put up wards,” he said. “It was one time,” she muttered.

“It was three times,” he corrected. “And the third one was soup. I still don’t know how you burned it.”

She refused to dignify that with a response.

Instead, she watched the way his gaze kept skipping away from her when she tried to meet it, out to the far-off mountains and back again, as if his eyes were drawn to distance out of sheer muscle memory.

“Az,” she said, a little softer. “You know you’re… allowed, don’t you?”

He frowned faintly. “Allowed to what?”

“To land,” she said. “To sit down somewhere that isn’t a war room. To look at a place you didn’t map for an ambush and just… taste it. Touch it. Exist in it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, once.

“I know,” he said. “In theory.”

“In practice?”

He hesitated.

“In practice,” he said lightly, “I forget.”

Her chest ached. Gods, she hated how matter-of-fact he could be about the places he’d never gotten to be anything but a blade.

That was when she knew.

Not gifts. Not weapons. Not anything that would feel like repayment or obligation.

Solstice.

A night when it was allowed to stop.

She reached across the table and took his hand.

“You’re home now,” she said. “At least half the time. Someone should remind you.”

He squeezed her fingers, warm and rough and real.

“You do,” he said simply.

She smiled at him, aching.

You see the world for us, she thought. Someone should bring some of it back to you.

She’d been thinking about it since the Solstice candles went up in the city. About gifts, and how none of the material ones felt right. About how the one thing he never had was time—or taste—or permission.

An idea slotted quietly into place. It had the sharp, decisive click of a blade sheathing. Something inside her said, Yes. This.

She held his gaze a second longer, then let her mouth tilt into something teasing.

“Next time Helion complains about lack of snacks,” she said, “tell him to send recipes instead. Maybe I’ll oblige him.”

Azriel snorted. “The Day Court would collapse.”

“You have so little faith,” she said loftily, ignoring the way his fingers squeezed hers again, affection curling warm in the bond. “Go be useful and stab things tomorrow. I’ll… think about dessert diplomacy.”

“Those words together terrify me,” he said.

She only smiled wider.

⸻

Two days later, Helion walked straight into a trap.

Not the kind he was used to—no wards snapping shut, no shadows binding his wrists. Just a letter.

It arrived on a slant of afternoon sunlight, borne on a soft flare of Day Court magic: a neat envelope that appeared in the air above Rhys’s desk and drifted down with entirely too much flourish.

Rhys cracked the seal, skimmed, and groaned.

“She’s asking you for what?” Cassian demanded, hanging upside down off the sofa, wings flopped out like a bat.

Rhys dropped the letter on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Recipes,” he said, sounding both pained and amused. “From each court. Specifically: ‘the kind of food you would serve someone you… actually like, but aren’t trying to impress with a seven-course political performance.’”

Cassian barked a laugh.

“Mother save us,” he said. “She’s going domestic.”

“She bolded the ‘not for Rhys’ part,” Mor observed, leaning over the desk to peer at the letter. “‘And don’t tell Azriel.’ Twice.”

Rhys rubbed his face.

“Of course she did.”

Cassian’s grin shifted—still wicked, but softer at the edges, like something in him had clicked into place.

“Oh,” he mused, suddenly thoughtful. “It’s for Solstice, isn’t it.”

The room stilled.

Rhys’s eyes lifted from the paper, violet gaze going distant for half a heartbeat—like he was seeing not the words, but the intent behind them. Like he could already picture it: flour on hands, stubborn silence, the whole thing done quietly on purpose because she knew Azriel would bolt from anything that looked like too much affection without a reason.

“I suppose so,” Rhys said softly.

Mor’s mouth curved, slow and delighted.

“Oh, that’s—” she breathed, as if savoring the idea. “That’s actually… devastating.”

“It’s manipulative,” Amren remarked from her chair by the window, wine glass tilted toward her mouth. Her eyes gleamed with entirely too much satisfaction. “In the best way.”

Nesta, half-asleep in the corner chair with a book on her lap, didn’t even look up—just said, flat and exact:

“If any of you ruin this, I will kill you.”

Cassian’s laugh choked into something almost reverent.

“Gods,” he whispered, still hanging upside down like a ridiculous gargoyle, “she’s going to make him sit down and eat a meal like a normal person.”

Mor flicked his forehead as she passed, and Cassian yelped in protest.

“And he’s going to look at her like she hung the stars,” Mor said, grinning, “and he won’t even understand why until it’s too late.”

Rhys exhaled, staring at the letter like it was both a battle plan and a blessing.

“We keep this quiet,” he said.

Mor’s grin turned wolfish. “Obviously.”

Amren lifted her glass in a small, solemn toast. “To secrecy. And baked goods.”

Cassian flipped himself upright in one smooth motion, wings snapping open with sudden purpose like he’d been given a battlefield objective.

“Oh, this is sacred,” he declared. “I will die before I let Azriel sniff this out.”

Nesta’s gaze finally lifted, sharp as a blade.

“You won’t have to,” she said. “Because if he finds out, it’ll be because you told him, and then you’ll die anyway.”

Cassian clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

Rhys ignored him, raising his voice just enough to the empty air—because if Helion could send mail with theatrical flair, he could certainly listen in.

“Fine,” Rhys called. “Helion, if you can hear this, send her the good ones. And if you drag me into any culinary disaster, I will personally unleash Nesta on your library.”

Nesta bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.

The air warmed, just a little—sunlight kissing the room from nowhere at all. A flicker of laughter brushed the back of Rhys’s mind, along with the faint sound of turning pages and Helion’s amused drawl:

Gladly.

⸻

The kitchens of the House of Wind were not used to entertaining others.

Not her, anyway.

They were accustomed to Feyre occasionally wandering in to steal fruit or ask how to recreate something. To Rhys appearing at odd hours to make his own tea. To Cassian raiding their stores and being swatted away with wooden spoons.

They were prepared for Azriel, quiet and competent, sleeves rolled, moving around their domain like an extra shadow as he diced onions and stirred sauces with a care that made them mutter in appreciation.

They were not prepared for her—hair skewered up with a dagger, expression grimly intent, striding into the doorway and announcing:

“I need you to teach me how not to burn everything.”

Every cook, assistant, and kitchen maid froze.

One of the older cooks, a broad-shouldered female with flour on her cheek, set down her rolling pin slowly.

“My Lady,” she said carefully. “Is something… wrong with the House?”

She blinked.

“What? No.” Then, remembering her last attempt at toast: “Probably. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She marched to the nearest table, slapped a stack of parchment down.

“I have recipes,” she declared. “From Helion himself. And from Thesan. And from… whoever runs the Summer Court’s kitchens. I need one thing from each of them, good enough that Azriel will recognize the region just by taste and immediately regret every time he only saw the place from a rooftop instead of a dinner table.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Also,” she added, “this is a one-time miracle. Maybe two. So enjoy it while it lasts.”

A younger cook made a faint choking noise.

The older female—Miris, she remembered Az mentioning—recovered first.

“Unbelievable mates,” Miris murmured, somewhere between horrified and delighted. She shoved her rolling pin into a bowl, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped forward. “All right then. Hand me those.”

She slid the recipes over.

Miris scanned the first page, lips moving silently over Helion’s dramatic script.

“Of course he phrases it like a seduction,” Miris muttered. “All right. Day Court flatbread—doable. Needs time to rise. We’ll start with that. Then… Dawn Court twist pastries. Hm. Tricky. A lot of folding. You’ll hate it.”

“I already hate it,” she said cheerfully.

Miris’ mouth twitched.

“That’s the spirit.” She slapped her hands on the table. “You lot! Clear that counter. We’re teaching the lady how not to poison her male.”

A flurry of motion answered.

Within minutes, she was up to her forearms in flour, glowering at a lump of dough that refused to cooperate.

“This is stupid,” she muttered, trying to knead and mostly just shoving. “Why does anyone do this voluntarily?”

“Because some of us like to eat,” Miris said dryly, guiding her hands into a proper rhythm. “Don’t attack it. You’re coaxing it. Like shadows. Or diplomats.”

“That is an insult to my magic,” she said, but she adjusted her pressure, feeling the dough slowly smooth under her palms. “How long does this need to… sit?”

“Until it doubles,” Miris said. “Like your regret.”

She blinked. Then snorted, helplessly.

“I like you,” she said.

Miris shrugged. “I’d be more flattered if you weren’t currently massacring my flour supply.”

The first batch of twist pastries burned.

She stared at the smoking tray, hands planted on her hips, jaw clenched.

“You did something wrong,” Amren observed from her perch on the counter, swinging small bare feet and sipping wine like this was a theatre performance. “Which is convenient, because that’s your specialty.”

She turned her head slowly.

“Say that again,” she said, “and I will personally bake you into the next tray.”

Amren’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

“At least your temper is consistent,” she said. “Helion will be pleased.”

Miris swatted both of them with a dish towel.

“Less squabbling, more learning,” she snapped. “You over-cranked the oven. Again. You can’t intimidate yeast.”

She muttered something dark and reached for more flour.

⸻

It took three days before she produced a batch of flatbread that Miris deemed acceptable.

“Acceptable,” Miris said, tearing off a piece and chewing thoughtfully. “Not perfect. But it’ll do. The herbs are right. The char is good. It tastes like Day.”

Sweat cooling on the back of her neck, she leaned on the counter and blew a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Az likes ‘acceptable,’” she said. “He thinks it’s high praise. ‘Good’ makes him suspicious.”

“That’s because he knows that’s what you call deeply stupid risks,” Amren said, finishing her second piece. “This is better than acceptable.”

She blinked at her.

“Thank you,” she said, a little startled.

“Don’t get used to it,” Amren said.

The Summer Court dessert involved caramel.

She discovered, two burns and one pan of scorched sugar later, that she hated caramel with a passion that felt almost personal.

“You have to watch it,” Miris chided, guiding her back to the stove. “You can’t just wander off and pick fights with ghosts in your head because you’re bored.”

“I wasn’t bored,” she protested. “I was strategizing.”

“Strategize with your eyes open,” Miris snapped. “When it goes from pale gold to amber, you add the cream. Not before, not five years after. Pay attention.”

She did.

She gritted her teeth, watched the sugar melt and bubble, felt sweat bead at her temples from the heat. When it finally hit that precise shade—like good whiskey, like all the sunsets Azriel never watched from ground level—she poured the cream in carefully and did not flinch when it hissed and spat.

“Better,” Miris said, approving. “You’re learning.”

“It’s like handling Rhys,” she muttered. “Too much heat and he does something dramatic.”

“We heard that,” Rhys’s voice called from the doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Rhys stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching her with a look she couldn’t immediately categorize. Somewhere between amusement and something like… fondness.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “This is a classified mission.”

“Of course,” he said solemnly. “I will now forget everything I’ve seen, including the fact that you have caramel on your cheek.”

She swiped at her face with the back of her wrist.

Miris smacked her hand away and dabbed it clean with a cloth, muttering about children.

Rhys took a few steps into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.

“Smells like every treaty negotiation I’ve ever been to,” he said. “And the aftermath.”

“Try this,” Miris ordered, thrusting a spoon at him.

He tasted. His brows shot up.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “That’s… very good.”

“She made it,” Miris said.

Rhys’s gaze swung back to her, sharply curious.

“You did,” he said slowly.

She lifted one shoulder.

“With heavy supervision,” she said. Then pointed a caramel-coated spoon at him. “And before you say something sentimental—if you tell Azriel any of this before Solstice, I will leak your most embarrassing dreams at the next family dinner.”

Rhys smiled, small and genuine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You seem very… determined.”

“Determined is one word,” Amren muttered. “Obsessed is another.”

She ignored her.

Rhys lingered a heartbeat longer, studying her flour-dusted hair, the burn reddening on her wrist, the absolute ferocity with which she watched the saucepan.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to fix everything for him.”

She went still.

“This isn’t fixing,” she said, not looking up. “This is… giving.”

He held her gaze for a moment when she finally glanced up, violet eyes soft.

“All right,” he said. “Carry on, then.”

He left with a spoonful of caramel and a secret he would keep like a blade at his ribs.

⸻

By the time the Night Court stew was simmering in a heavy pot, the whole kitchen staff was conspiring.

They timed their own work around hers, sliding ingredients under her hands before she had to ask, gently nudging her away from the knife block when her frustration made her too careless.

Someone—she suspected the House of Wind—put a little ceramic jar of salve on the counter after her second burn, lid tied with a ribbon the exact shade of Azriel’s siphons.

She pretended not to notice. Used it anyway.

On the fourth evening, Miris leaned both hands on the table and surveyed their work.

“All right,” she said. “We have flatbreads that won’t embarrass the Day Court. Dawn twists that won’t shame a baker. A Summer custard that Helion would probably proposition. And stew like my grandmother made. That’s four.”

“Winter,” she said, staring at the spread. “We’re missing Winter.”

Miris snorted. “You expect to master Winter Court cuisine in a week? No. You can serve him spiced tea and pretend.”

She considered. Then nodded.

“Tea I can do,” she said.

Amren sniffed.

“I’m amazed you still have eyebrows,” she said. “Never mind competency.”

She picked up a towel, balled it up, and lobbed it at her.

Amren caught it with two fingers, lips curving.

“Don’t burn the hall down,” she said lightly. “It would upset the House.”

⸻

On the night before Solstice, she sent Azriel with Cassian to inspect a new batch of recruits at an Illyrian camp.

Cassian had grinned like a wolf when she’d asked him to keep Azriel out until sunset.

“Finally letting me help you with your evil schemes,” he’d said. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Just don’t get him killed,” she’d answered. “I need him back in one piece by sundown.”

Cassian had sobered, just a little.

“Always,” he’d said.

She waited until Azriel was fastening his bracers—calm, efficient, entirely unaware he was about to be professionally deceived.

She stepped into him, smoothed her hands down the front of his jacket as if she were merely fixing a crease. As if her pulse wasn’t doing something reckless.

“I thought,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her, “we could have a quiet meal together before we rejoin the family for gift opening.”

Something softened in his face at that—relief, almost. Like quiet sounded like home.

“All right,” he said, leaning in to kiss her once—brief, warm, familiar. “I’ll be back.”

Cassian grinned like a conspirator.

⸻

Now, as the sky over Velaris slid from lavender to deep blue, the House of Wind’s kitchen was quiet.

Most of the pots had been washed. The counters had been wiped down. Miris had shooed everyone out hours ago, muttering something about Solstice madness and mates with no business being near ovens.

She stood in the doorway to their sitting room, pressing her palms down the front of the dress she’d changed into.

Not for him. For herself.

It was simple, as her clothes went. Soft and dark, with sleeves pushed up to her forearms so she could still move easily. Her hair she’d left down, curls falling around her shoulders—Azriel liked it that way. She had a thin burn line on one wrist, fading to pink thanks to the salve, and a smear of flour she’d missed near her temple.

The room smelled like every court she could reach without leaving home.

On the low table sat the flatbread, steaming gently in a covered dish, brushed with herbs and oil. Next to it, a plate of Dawn Court twists, sugar glinting in the lamplight. The stew waited in a pot on a trivet, rich and dark, scent of wine and rosemary curling upward. A shallow dish of Summer fruit slices and pale custard rested in a bowl of cool water to keep it from setting too fast.

She’d laid two plates. Two cups. A small pot of Winter-spiced tea sat ready, cinnamon and clove and orange peel drifting up in gentle clouds.

Her stomach swooped.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. You’ve commanded armies. You’ve stared down kings. It’s just dinner.

It wasn’t just dinner.

It was Solstice.

Solstice gave people permission.

A night when softness wasn’t suspicious. When small gestures were tradition. When you could give someone warmth and call it custom instead of need.

So she’d chosen this.

Not an ambush. Not a grand revelation. Just… a quiet dinner tucked neatly into the evening before they went to the River House to exchange gifts with their family.

Something that belonged only to him.

Something that said: you don’t have to earn this.

She heard the soft thud of boots in the outer hall before she felt his familiar presence in the bond, tired but intact, dragging across her awareness like a hand pressing to her shoulder.

She exhaled.

The door opened.

Azriel stepped in, shoulders tense, armor dusty, hair more disordered than when he’d left. Shadows slipped in around his heels and curled toward her like hounds scenting home.

He halted on the threshold.

His gaze flicked from her—barefoot, casual dress, flour on her temple—to the table.

Heat. Spice. Bread. Sugar.

His brows drew together.

“Did the House enslave a chef I don’t know about?” he asked slowly.

She swallowed a laugh, nerves making it come out a bit high.

“No,” she said. “I… cooked.”

He went very still.

“You… what?” he said.

She lifted her chin.

“I know it’s shocking,” she said. “Try to keep your horror contained.”

His eyes softened. “You didn’t have to.”

She answered truthfully.

“You never stop,” she said softly. “And Solstice is the one night you’re allowed to.”

He stared at her for another heartbeat. Then his gaze dropped to her wrist.

“Is that a burn?” he asked, voice low.

She glanced down. The line was faint now, barely more than a blush against her skin, but his eyes caught it like it was a fresh wound.

“It’s old,” she said quickly. “Well. A few days. It’s fine.”

He crossed the room in three strides.

Gently—like she was made of glass and not someone who could crack stone with her bare hands—he took her hand in his. Turned her wrist. His thumb brushed the mark.

“You did that… here?” he asked, eyes flicking toward the kitchen.

“Yes,” she said, trying for dry. “The oven and I had a disagreement.”

He did not smile.

Instead, he lifted her wrist and pressed his mouth, very softly, to the faded burn.

Something in her chest clenched.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice rougher now. “Any of this.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s… sort of the point.”

His eyes met hers, dark and searching.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed.

“A minor experiment in… geographical fairness,” she said. Then, because she needed him to understand—because she’d chosen Solstice for a reason, and she wanted the meaning to land gently, not like a knife—she added, quieter: “It’s a Solstice gift. Before we go to the River House. Just… for you.”

Azriel went so still it was frightening.

Not the stillness of a warrior about to strike.

The stillness of someone trying not to break in half.

“Sit,” she said softly, because his eyes looked like they’d stopped knowing where to rest. “Please.”

He hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself onto the cushion by the low table. The movement clearly cost him—his shoulders had that post-camp ache, the one that meant he’d been sparring longer than he should have, pushing too hard in too-thin air.

As he leaned back against the sofa, shadows settling around him, she found her hands steadier than she expected.

She uncovered the flatbread first. Steam rushed up, carrying the sharp, bright scent of herbs, the deeper warmth of baked dough.

Azriel inhaled, eyes widening a fraction.

“That smells like—” He cut himself off, frowning as if he didn’t want to assume.

“Day,” she supplied. “Or… as close as we’re going to get without importing Helion’s entire kitchen.”

He looked up at her sharply.

“You asked him,” he said.

“Technically, I threatened him,” she said. “Then he gave me recipes.”

His mouth twitched.

She tore off a piece of bread and held it out.

“Try it,” she said. “If it’s terrible, I’ll… blame Helion.”

He took it carefully, fingertips brushing hers.

He bit.

Chewed.

His eyes closed.

For a moment, everything else in the room—her heartbeat, the candles, the faint murmur of Velaris far below—fell back, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

He swallowed.

“This is… good,” he said, opening his eyes.

She exhaled, tension she hadn’t even known she was holding easing a fraction.

“Acceptable?” she asked.

He huffed. “Better than acceptable.”

She filed that away with a small, fierce flare of satisfaction.

“From here on,” she said, reaching for the next dish, “no one falls in love with this but you. I nearly burned down Miris’ kitchen for those.”

He blinked. “Miris let you in her kitchen?”

“Miris conscripted me,” she said. “She said she’d lost a bet.”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite process that.

She placed the plate of Dawn twists down, sugar catching the candlelight.

“These,” she said, “are apparently the Dawn Court’s answer to peace treaties.”

He stared.

“You made twist pastries,” he said faintly.

“With heavy supervision,” she said. “And threats of violence from Amren if I ruined another batch.”

“Amren was there?” he demanded, baffled.

“Mostly to heckle,” she said. “Rhys tried one and didn’t die, if that helps.”

His eyes darted between her and the food.

“You’ve never spent this much time in a kitchen without muttering about assassination,” he said slowly.

She popped a piece of twist in her own mouth to avoid answering, sugar melting on her tongue. It actually tasted… right. Bright citrus, soft dough, a hint of something floral she’d argued with Miris about for an hour.

He reached for one more cautiously, like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

She pretended to misunderstand.

“They need to rest before we eat them?” she said. “Too late. I’m starving.”

“How long,” he said again, softer, “have you been doing this?”

She hesitated.

“Four days,” she said. “Off and on. It’s fine.”

“Four days,” he repeated. “Training. Meetings. Patrol. And then… this.”

“It’s not like I was out killing kings,” she said. “I was… learning how not to burn caramel.”

He set the pastry down carefully.

She swallowed.

“You said,” she managed, “you’d flown over the Dawn Court a hundred times and never sat down to eat there. Same with Summer. And Day.” Her throat felt oddly tight. “You said you only saw them from rooftops.”

He stared at her, face unreadable.

“So I thought,” she went on, words tumbling now because if she stopped she might not start again, “that maybe, just once, you could taste them from somewhere that isn’t a battlefield. Or the… rafters.”

His jaw worked.

“You did all this,” he said, “because of a throwaway complaint?”

“This isn’t because you complained,” she said. “This is because you… never got the choice. You kept going back to the sky for us.” Her voice dropped. “And Solstice is about coming back down. Coming home.”

Silence.

He looked back at the table.

At the flatbread, steaming gently. At the twists. At the stew pot she hadn’t even unveiled yet. At the custard dish, condensation beading on the glass.

“You… cooked this,” he said again, like he needed to keep saying it until it sank in. “All of it.”

“With heavy supervision,” she said. “And minor arson. Don’t ask.”

He made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a gasp.

“Show me,” he said roughly. “All of it.”

So she did.

She ladled out stew first, rich and dark, pouring it into his bowl. The scent of wine and slow-cooked meat and herbs filled the room.

“Night,” she said. “Miris’ recipe. She says her grandmother used to feed their entire street with this and a crust of bread.”

He brought the bowl to his face and inhaled, eyes closing again.

It smelled like home. Like winter nights in Velaris when the world was quiet and safe for once. Like something he’d never had in his mother’s house, in that cold, unforgiving camp: a meal meant to fill and comfort, not just keep alive.

He tasted. His shadows went still, as if listening.

“Stars,” he whispered.

Her heart tripped.

“Too much salt?” she asked, half-nervous, half-teasing.

“Perfect,” he said. “It tastes like—” He shook his head, searching. “Like sitting at the River House table when everyone’s already bickering about dessert.”

She smiled.

He ate in silence for a few moments, slow and deliberate, as if each bite was something to be cataloged, examined, committed to memory.

Between bowls, she poured the tea.

“Winter Court approximation,” she said. “We’re guessing, but Amren said the spices were right.”

He sniffed the steam, eyes softening.

“I’ve never been to Winter,” he said. “Rhys doesn’t like the cold.”

“Then this is Winter now,” she said. “Here. In this room.”

He looked at her over the rim of the cup.

“Do you even like cooking?” he asked quietly.

She snorted.

“I hate cooking,” she said honestly. “It’s tedious and everything takes longer than it should and you can’t stab dough to make it cooperate. Miris tried to ban me yesterday.”

“Then why?” he asked.

“Because you’ve spent five hundred years being sent places as a weapon,” she said, voice low and steady. “And I… wanted to give you one night where the world came to you for something else.”

His throat bobbed.

He set his bowl down, fingers trembling just enough that she noticed.

“You can’t just say things like that over stew,” he said, barely above a whisper.

She frowned, suddenly unsure.

“Is it too much?” she asked. “I didn’t want it to be some… grand gesture. I just—”

“It’s not too much,” he cut in. “It’s—” He broke off, exhaling hard. “No one’s ever… done this. For me.”

“You’ve had home-cooked meals before,” she said. “You cook.”

“That’s different,” he said. “Cooking for others is easy. It’s… practical. Efficient. It keeps people alive. But this…” He gestured helplessly at the table. “This is… indulgent. It’s just for me.”

“Not just,” she said. “I’m going to eat that custard before you if you don’t pull yourself together.”

He let out a breath that shook.

“I love you,” he said.

It wasn’t new. He’d said it before. She’d felt it every day since he’d learned how to give it shape.

But here, with flour on her temple and burns on her wrist and a table full of things she’d wrestled into existence because he’d once confessed to never having them—it landed in a new way.

“You’re allowed to have nice things,” she said quietly. “Not because you earned them with blood. Just because you exist.”

His eyes went bright, shine catching in the low light.

“Do you know,” he said hoarsely, “how many times I’ve flown over those courts, looking down at their lights, thinking… none of that is for you?”

Her breath hitched.

“I always saw myself as… the knife the Night Court uses,” he said, words loosening as if some dam had cracked. “Needed, sometimes. Effective. But not… the kind of person who sits at a warm table and eats food someone made just because they thought of me in a market. That was always for other people. The ones who didn’t do what I’ve done. The ones who get to be… people.”

She stepped around the table, something like fury and grief tangling in her chest.

“You are a person,” she said, kneeling in front of him so he had to look at her, so he couldn’t duck his head and fold in on himself. “You are mine.”

His lip trembled.

“I know that now,” he whispered. “When I’m with you, when I’m here. But there are… old parts of me that don’t. That see the world and think: you’re the shadow at the edge, not the one who sits in the sun.”

“Then we’ll keep correcting them,” she said fiercely. “With food and bad baking and… whatever else it takes.”

He huffed a watery laugh that turned into a sound suspiciously close to a sob.

She reached up and cupped his face, thumbs skimming over the scars he’d once hated.

“It’s not payment,” she said. “This isn’t… gratitude for missions or a reward for surviving. This is just… me, thinking of you, and wanting you to know there are parts of the world that are sweet and warm and yours.”

He closed his eyes briefly, lashes damp.

“You went to all this trouble,” he murmured, “for a feeling I didn’t even know I was missing.”

“That’s what love is, unfortunately,” she said, lightening her tone because his eyes were dangerously close to spilling over. “Terrible return on investment, very high risk.”

He laughed again, actually laughed, shoulders shaking.

A tear slipped free anyway.

She wiped it away with her thumb.

“Eat your custard,” she said, voice soft. “Before I change my mind and feed it to Rhys.”

He sniffed, half-amused, half-raw.

“I will stab Rhys,” he said, “if he touches this custard.”

“There he is,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “My murderous little bat.”

They ate the rest more slowly.

He savored each bite as if mapping a new land—not for weaknesses, for once, but for surprises. The way the flatbread crackled at the edges. The stickiness of the sugar glaze on the Dawn twists. The cool slide of custard under summer fruit.

Halfway through, she realized he was watching her more than the food.

“What?” she asked, tongue flicking out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of her mouth.

His gaze tracked it.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “what it means that you did this. That you chose Solstice for it.”

“I have a vague idea,” she said.

He shook his head, searching for words.

“You built me a world,” he said slowly. “On a table. One where I wasn’t… required to be anything. Just… someone you thought of. Someone you went to war with dough for.”

“Dough started it,” she said.

He smiled, crooked and aching.

“I don’t… cry,” he said, almost in disbelief.

“You do,” she said gently. “Sometimes. When it’s safe.”

“It feels… safe,” he admitted. “With you. Here. Even when I’m tired and… not entirely myself. I walk in and it’s…” He gestured again, helpless. “Warm. It smells like things that have nothing to do with blood. The first thing I see is you.”

Her eyes pricked.

“That was the plan,” she said softly. “We’ve been to enough war rooms. We deserve… this.”

Her eyes stung. Annoying.

“We should go soon,” she said quietly, nodding toward the clock. “Family will start gifts soon.”

His hand tightened on hers.

“In a minute,” he said.

He set his spoon down, reached for her, fingers hooking in the fabric of her dress. He tugged, wordless.

She went willingly, climbing into his lap, curling in sideways so her knees bracketed his hip. His arms came around her automatically, like they’d been waiting for the excuse.

He buried his face in her shoulder, breath fierce against her neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw. “For this. For… seeing the parts of me that don’t know how to ask.”

She closed her eyes and held him, one hand in his hair, the other pressed to his back.

“Thank you,” she murmured back, “for coming home.”

“Happy Solstice,” he whispered, voice rough.

Her breath caught.

She leaned in, kissed his hair—right where that stubborn curl had fallen earlier.

“Happy Solstice,” she murmured back. “You’re home.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, the tea cooled. The candles burned lower. The House of Wind sighed contentedly around them, floorboards and walls settling like an old beast going to sleep.

At some point, he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You know,” he said, voice steadier now, “if you ever decide to do this again, you can ask for help.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“That defeats the point,” she said. “This was… from me.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And next time, I’d like to be greedy enough to help. To stand beside you at a stove and get flour on my nose. To be part of the making, not just the one receiving.”

She considered.

“Maybe,” she said. “If you promise to let me badly chop something for you one day.”

He smiled.

“Deal,” he said.

She traced the curve of his mouth with her fingertip.

“How does it feel?” she asked, teasing now, because she could feel the bond humming with something lighter, brighter. “To be on the receiving end of a ridiculous gesture?”

He huffed.

“Humbling,” he said. “Overwhelming. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It makes me want to give you the world back,” he said softly. “Piece by piece. Every court, every sky, every pastry you burned for me. It makes me want to be better. Not for what I do. For who I am when I’m with you.”

Her eyes stung again, annoyingly.

“You already are,” she said.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, then leaned in and kissed her.

It was not a hungry kiss, not like the ones they shared in doorways and shadows and stolen corners. This was slow, deep, almost reverent. Tasting of herbs and sugar and all the things they’d just shared, all the things they hadn’t had names for until now.

When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, he whispered:

“You’re never allowed to say you’re bad at cooking again.”

She snorted lightly.

“I almost set your kitchen on fire,” she reminded him.

“You gave me a life I never thought I’d touch,” he replied. “Flour and burns and all.”

She closed her eyes.

“Then next time,” she said softly, “we’ll burn it together.”

His fingers tightened, just once, in the fabric of her dress.

“Next time,” he agreed.

The city glittered below. The wind moved through the open balcony door, cool and gentle. For the first time in a very long time, the male who had flown above so many courts and never landed for himself lay still and full and loved in his own.

And the female who had been made for war pressed a kiss to his hair and thought, fiercely:

This. This is also what we fought for.

Not just peace in treaties and borders. But nights like this.

Bread and sugar and the quiet miracle of watching him realize, bite by bite, that he was allowed to taste a world that wasn’t just made of blood.

Happy Solstice, my love.

—