SJM Romance Week

Hot bodies press against Feyre as she twists through the crowd, the sound of the music pounding through the floorboards and shaking her bones.

It’s nice - even if it borders on too much. Almost like a strong heartbeat, one to fill in while hers has fluttered and threatened to stutter out.

All she has to do is breathe.

Even in the sweaty, crowded main room at a club called Rita’s, the smooth marble bar is cool as she leans against it.

The streets of Velaris had been busy and twisting as she walked here, forgetting every path Rhys had shown her earlier this afternoon. Wandering, she would stop occasionally to put the sea to her back and look up the incline to those rows of copper-roofed townhomes, just to make sure she could find her way back.

The thought of somehow asking Rhys to come save her in the middle of the night, after he had flown off so decisively, was too mortifying to contemplate.

Everything here is immaculate - rich and enticing. Smooth and luscious, the lights warm, the humming glow of magic potions and rare bottles floating in glass behind them.

The bartender’s in front of her - grey skin the color of a sea storm, deep black hair, curls clustered against her scalp and forming around two small horns. The noise of a thousand conversations surround her, the croon of the singer a pulse underneath it all.

“What’ll you have?”

Feyre freezes. It feels like it took everything just to walk out of the townhouse to make it here, slipping out the front door quietly after Rhys had flown off.

Yesterday, she had slept in her bedroom at Spring, Tamlin down the hall, a ring on her finger.

She hadn’t been able to face the soft quiet of that new, unfamiliar bed - the townhouse so empty and silent. So she had left, still in her dinner gown, grabbing an overlarge black coat that smelled like Rhys on the way out.

The bartender raises her brow, eyeing the crowd forming around her.

What does she want? At the pulse of the room she remembers the sensations of being human - sweet, summer-red fae wine on her tongue - and then the warm haze, the embrace of oblivion.

It makes her a little sick, but at least it’s a feeling.

“Um, elderberry wine, please.”

The woman uncorks a bottle and pours with a flourish, gold flecks in the liquid, the sweet scent making her mouth water.

She hasn’t felt anything in weeks. Not beyond that sucking void - and the sickly feeling that everything was wrong. Lost.

Maybe she can feel something here.

It’ll be this place if it’s anywhere - alive and pounding with music, filled with skin and sweat and the scent of sweet smoke and burning herbs and desire.

The wine is red, sweet. Rich but it doesn’t hit her in that heady, overwhelming way - not as it did when she was human. She sniffs it, takes another deep gulp.

The woman watches her with a curious look. “You’re the one visiting with the High Lord, right?”

It seems silly to deny it, when she’s draped in his coat. Feyre nods.

“I’ll bill it to his tab. You can let him know.” She looks over her shoulder, nodding.

Oh, fuck.

Gripping the wine glass tight, Feyre turns around.

It’s not as if she doesn’t want to see him. The things he told her today, the things she told him, seeing him with his family - everything she thought she knew about Rhys is in question. She still has a million of them pressed on her tongue.

And she did sneak out of his home and wander into his secret city, without a word, just hours after she nearly blew the Spring court manor to pieces. It’s understandable that he would come looking for her.

Still, her heart beats fast as his perfect features come into view.

The next gulp of wine goes down easier, something in her blood becoming warm.

“This is wretched, we should’ve found a cave or something.”

”A cave or something? We’re stranded within acres of grasslands, you dense bat.” Eris’s tone personified ire, he was so tired of Azriel’s thoughtless statements.

“Whatever.” He grumbled. Eris wasn’t even sure the male was conscience, his eyelids dimmed and his voice had an automated strain.

“I’ll take the bed.” Eris announced, aiming for finality but Azriel’s bugging eyes proved a fight was incoming.

“You’ll take a fist to the fist before that would ever happen, don’t be delirious, dickwad.” Azriel retorted, tone soaked in ire. He threw out a stiff arm in front of Eris’s chest.

Eris looked down to the corded forearm in his path, wondering if the dumbass would want a sleeve to match his hand. “Move, I’m in no mood to quibble.” Or murder.

“So don’t, and get comfortable on the floor.” Azriel gruffed, a scowl twisting his plush lips as he stared down Eris.

“The floor? I’d sooner fuck my brother, not to imply you’d understand the oddity of that,” he snided.

“Y’know, you spend a lot of time thinking of fucking Cassian, maybe I should do you a favor and let him kn—YOWFUCK!”

Eris knocked the breath from both their lungs as he knocked the Shadowsinger to the scummy planks. “I’d fuck a hole in these floors before one of your kind.” Eris seethed, his hands bracing Azriel’s thrashing, muscled shoulders.

“But your dick may get lost in the cracks!” Azriel warned urgently.

“Your blood is about to get lost in the cracks, you batshit bastard cunt,” Eris’s vision was scarlet, his knuckles whitened by his grip on the male’s shoulders—shoulders that Eris reluctantly recognized to be buffer than any he’d seen.

“Ya’kiss your Father’s boot with that mouth?” Azriel spat.

“And your mother,” Eris returns the vitriol.

Azriel’s eyes widened, he threw his full weight from his shoulder and sent Eris flying onto his back a few feet to the left. Eris and the floor groaned.

Azriel’s form shuffling led Eris to cast a thin wall of flame to gatekeep the shitty excuse of a bed.

“So what, neither of us get to be comfortable?” Azriel muttered after a creaking thump signified his resignation.

“That’s right.” Eris nodded, his pout was sure to forever engrave his face.

“You’re fucking ridicoulous, Eris.”

“Stuff a dirty sock in it.”

Plank divider by me lmao

Azris pookies: @the-darkestminds @astro-h0e-4azris @jules-writes-stories @thesourcabbage @iftheshoef1tz @mistandmemories @makinglongwordsslutty @buffy-vanserra @pippsmcgee @queercontrarian @ysmtttty @shadowsandlint @3xolara @natasharomxnov @icey--stars @sharkpotato @kittiness12 @chunkypossum @nightsandflamess @ejkreader @brunetterebel010 @olenvasynyt @unanswered-stars @wovendreamscapes @skies-for-eyes-trees-for-knees @missblack22 @sunstar-drabbles @jolenes-library @clarranam @wrraccountant @futurehunt @greenvelvetcouture @theiudices @molcat07 @jir67 @vanserreneity @lizzo78 @werehorsebite @stargazingmellon @plumita-d-la-sangre @talibunny30 😌

“My sisters, Nesta and Elain Archeron,” Feyre eventually said by way of introduction. Gods, even her voice sounded different — smoother, more melodic. Nothing that would ever be mistaken for mere mortals. “Nesta, Elain — these are my friends from the Night Court.”

“Welcome,” Nesta said back through gritted teeth.

“Pleased to meet you,” Elain replied much more charmingly. “We had the staff prepare dinner before we sent them away, so we can eat any—”

“What are your names?” Nesta asked flatly. She’d heard that knowing a faerie’s true name meant you wielded power over them, but Nesta was rapidly realizing how little she knew about faeries like these.

“Oh! My apologies,” Feyre answered. “This is Rhysand, Azriel, and—”

“Cassandra, General of the Night Court’s armies,” the faerie woman interrupted, practically sauntering over to Nesta and holding out her hand with a smirk. “But you can call me Cass.”

“I will do no such thing,” Nesta said back icily. She glared at Cass’ outstretched hand until the other woman pulled it back.

Cass just laughed as she returned her hand to the hilt of her sword, and Nesta pretended like the sound of her laughter wasn’t lovely. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nesta snapped, willing the blood not to rush to her face at the word. “Don’t you have manners on your side of the wall?”

Cass’ hazel eyes lit up like Nesta had given her the greatest news she’d ever heard, and Nesta wasn’t surprised to see a massive smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth immediately. “Not really. Maybe you can show me some—”

“That’s enough, Cass,” Rhys said from where he was standing behind Cass. “Let’s show our hostesses some respect.”

“I doubt you can even spell that,” Nesta hissed under her breath, refusing to be intimidated by how close Cass was standing to her. She’d always thought herself a tall woman, but having to look up at Cass made her feel small in an infuriating way.

“You’re welcome to come find out,” Cass replied with a wink.

Nesta didn’t bother dignifying that with a response, instead turning over her shoulder and storming off toward the dining room. “Enough. Dinner is ready to be served.”

Nesta didn’t need to stand around arguing with that ridiculous, rude, irritating bat. She just needed to get through this dinner, and then she could retire to her room to never think about that woman again.

At least, that’s how she thought the evening — and the rest of her life — would go.

You level him with a look of mild dissatisfaction. Despising, and unimaginably unimpressed. 

The Spymaster holds your gaze without looking the slightest bit ashamed of himself. 

“You want me,” you say, slowly, “to pretend to be your date, for the sake of appearances at your little inner-circle get-together?” You can’t tell for whose sake you’re repeating the request—your own, to process the out-of-place attitude of his ask, or his, so he’ll register the mistake and realise he’s got his sources mixed up, and you’re not in fact the one whom he’s on close-enough terms with to make such a discourteous request to. 

The Shadowsinger nods. “That’s correct.”

You stare at him, unblinking.

The book on your desk snaps closed, dust puffing as you get to your feet. “Azriel, get out. You can return when you’ve a request that will honour my time, and my personhood.” 

Azriel lifts a brow, boots remaining solid upon the ground. "You’re not going to ask what I’m offering in exchange?”

You pin him with a hard look. “I said: Get out.”

There’s the briefest glint of something in his eyes, but it’s vanished too quick for you to discern. 

Azriel yields a few steps, backing up to rest his weight against the workbench in your studio. He crosses one ankle over the other, the heel of each of his palms sat casually atop the bench’s lip. Wings shift at his back, mindful of the bottled plants and herbs packing the upper shelves. They’re glass trinkets and conical flasks, not exactly precious in their contents but fragile nonetheless. 

“You owe me,” the Spymaster reminds, expression neutral, but sharp. “Did you forget?”

“You can’t call in a favour like that.” 

“It’s mine to call in,” Azriel replies. 

“It’s inappropriate,” you hold. “And unprofessional.” 

“It’s what you agreed to.” 

Your jaw works. Distain stirring along the length of your spine. “I didn’t realise you were a male of such ragged morals.” 

“Asking a friend for a favour is proof of ragged morals?” 

“Is this a favour, or a debt?” 

Azriel keeps to himself for a while, holding your gaze. He inclines his head by a fraction. “Would you honour my request without the pressure of a debt?” 

“So you acknowledge you’re forcing me into complicity.” 

He looks at you. Not quite in earnest. “Would you?”

“Of course not. My talents lie in poisons, not in prostitution.” 

“I’m not asking for prostitution,” he replies dryly, “All I’m requesting is company, for the duration of a single night.” When your expression of distaste deepens, Azriel sighs. “Amiable company, appropriate for a family dinner.” 

You stare at him for a long while, weighing the merits of holding to your demand of his immediate departure. With measured breaths, you lean forward, spreading your fingertips out across the surface of your desk. “You mentioned approaching with something to offer in return?”

The barest quirk of his brow betrays amusement, before it’s vanished. He reclaims those initial steps he had yielded, as well as a few others, pausing not far from your desk. You incline your chin to look at him, jaw holding loyal to your displeasure. “You’ve been seeking passage to the Winter Court for some time now, haven’t you?” 

For over two years, to be more precise, but the strength of their borders has only increased since the fall of the High Queen. Gaining approval for a temporary residence has been next to impossible—none of this aided by the tenuous alliance between courts that only suffered beneath the tyranny of that half-century. 

You try not to betray anything in your gaze, “it's true I’ve an interest in visiting Winter territory. You could guarantee sanctioned passage across the border?” 

“I could guarantee safe passage as well as approved temporary residence for a duration of two days.” 

“Only two?” 

A wry smile twists the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t realise you were in a position to bargain with me.” 

“I’m not bargaining,” you reply. “Merely putting feelers out for what your limits are.” 

A sound of approving amusement hums in his chest. “Two days is all I can guarantee,” he says, with a tone that implies a further possibility. You narrow your eyes, wary of accepting a deal with unspoken parameters. It’s a roll of the dice—a circumstance you can’t hold against him if two days does indeed turn out to be the limit. 

You press your tongue to the inside of your cheek. Breathe in through your nose. “There’s no one else you could use for this favour?” 

“No."

You raise a single, skeptical brow. “I doubt that.” 

After a second his lips quirk at their corners. “I’m flattered. But you’re the only credible option.” 

“Somehow I find that difficult to believe.” 

“You don’t have to believe it,” Azriel replies, mouth flattening to neutrality though some degree of amusement still lingers in his eyes. “Do we have a deal?” 

“Do I have a choice?”

Azriel raises a brow. “I’m offering you safe passage over Winter Court borders for nothing in return.”

“You’re forcing me to lie to trusted and valued clients. To people I respect.” 

“Is it a lie if no one finds out?” 

You push your tongue against the backs of your lower teeth. Sometimes you forget there’s good reason he’s Spymaster. 

“When is it?”

“I’ll pick you up three hours after you close. Wear whatever you like, there’s no dress code. In the event you want to buy something new,” Azriel adds, upon seeing you open your mouth to protest, “feel free to. I’ll cover whatever you deem necessary.” 

You purse your lips. “This is on top of the Winter Court trip?”

A wry smile flickers at the edges of his mouth. “This is part of our deal. Winter Court is a bonus.” 

At his words, you straighten, easing a breath into your lungs. Smooth out a wrinkle in the fitted skirt of your dress. “You should arrive an hour earlier. You can come through the side entrance.” 

“Okay.”

“So that we can discuss out timeline. Figure out how to field potential questions from your family.” 

“Good idea.” 

You give him an irritated glance. 

“I’ll see you at seven, then,” Azriel says, making no comment on your expression. 

Part of you wants to snap at him to not be late as he turns to leave, to at least honour the time he’s taking from you, but—of course he will. He’s Azriel. If there’s one thing the two of you have in common, it’s the prized value of punctuality within a professional setting.

~~~~

Azriel had expected the worst. 

Rule number one- no matter how much planning is done, no mater how much information is gathered, inevitably something will go wrong. Something unaccounted for. 

There is an explicitly positive correlation between the importance of a mission and the likelihood of that something occurring. 

It’s not an ideal start, but the best he could plausibly hope for. She’ll be there at seven. 

He’d not dared consider how things might progress after the initial proposition was accepted. Undertaking missions are external things. Neutral and objective. Employing the particular skillset he’s honed as Spymaster and misappropriating it in pursuit of his personal desires—overall the outcome will have a lesser gravity than that of the everyday affairs he handles, and yet they’ve a magnitude all of their own. A level of significance found only in managing matters unique to those of having personal consequence. 

Will she see fit to purchase something new? It’s likely she’ll remain loyal to her usual wardrobe, but he can’t discard the possibility entirely. They’ve come to an agreement of sorts, but it’s up to her how she’ll comply—whether that will take the form of her regular attire, or something…else. Whatever her choice, he’ll have her company for an evening. 

Granted it won’t be private in the way that would have been most beneficial, but—the best he could plausibly hope for. 

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, that black part that remains wild and disobedient to his better judgement conjures a dream. A dark dress of poisoned ivy, cadmium red lipstick sprinkled with arsenic, leaves of deadly nightshade and caladium wreathing her hair. 

Even as toxicity embodied he would gladly take her in his arms. 

Azriel swallows, taking in a deep breath. Flexing his fingers. 

Professional. 

She wants this kept professional. 

~~~~

The clock’s elegant, golden arms point south almost unanimously—you’ve half an hour to prepare. 

Sighing, you depart from your eyeglass, shutting away the slide you’d been inspecting. Most, if not all, of your clothing would be appropriate for an evening out dining. And yet this isn’t just any evening. This is a task. A job, of sorts. You ponder your wardrobe on the way upstairs—perhaps jewellery and cosmetics will be enough to suitably amplify yourself. The desired look being refined, but not up-tight. Professional, but casual. Someone who has ‘your best interests at heart’, and not their own. 

Frowning, you open your armoire, examining the expanse of predominantly black clothing. A few stripes of white, a dip into dark blue, something with a lace sleeve and collar, another something with a velvet bodice… A set of golden buttons along a cuff, a silver zip in the shape of a rabbit’s foot… Would appearing in your usual uniform appear too suspect? Too formal for a supposed partnership? Or would it be understandably inline with your outer appearances? 

Brows crease further, and you push them away with your fingers, soothing out the knotting skin.

Curse him for putting you in this position. 

Curse yourself for allowing it to happen. 

Pride be damned, you’ve not spent centuries of your life in dedication to botany and biology to be taken advantage of as a female. Not cultivated your experiences and knowledge in pursuit of more to be used for anything other than the skills you’ve refined. 

It nags beneath your skin, pricking at the back of your mind. —He’s Spymaster. He should know better; no amount of questioning could bring doubt to your conscious. 

This arrangement is the equivalent of using an axe as a door-wedge. 

~~~~

“Are you sure about this?” 

The question is shoved from his chest before thought has time to capture it.

“You put in the request, Spymaster,” she reminds, tone hushed but clipped, lipstick in hand. “Between the two of us, I’ve more at stake. Discovery for you results in a few jokes here and there; discovery for me results in a fundamental loss of trust and respect I have earned.” Her eyes flick up, meeting his own, wielding the lipstick like a scalpel. “You wanted credible. This is going to be credible.”

“Nobody’s going to see it,” he mumbles. She really is…close. This space is too cramped for both of them. Stuffy, with two people inside. “You don’t think anyone’s going to see it,” she corrects. “Unbutton your shirt.”

There’s a remaining fraction of ire still glittering in her eyes, despite the neutral expression she’s had sealed on her face since his arrival. It’s enough of an edge to convince him not to push, if he’s attempting to squirm his way into her good graces. Which—appears to be going objectively poorly. 

Azriel undoes the two uppermost buttons of his shirt. When he moves for the third, she clicks her tongue. His hands fall away, stepping back against the edge of the countertop, allowing his palms to rest at its lip. 

“You have enough room?” Azriel asks. 

She raises a brow and steps into the part of his legs, focus shifting to the intended target. Azriel prays that in trying to keep his breathing even he doesn’t overcompensate and cease breathing entirely. It’s been a long while since he’s risked making such a fool of himself. 

“Keep still,” she murmurs, and he can—he feels the result of her instruction less than a moment later against the side of his throat. 

Icy fingers pin the draping fabric of his collar apart as she pats the pigmented stick to her lips, moving forward. Azriel gazes at the ceiling, fingers curling around the counter’s ledge. Skin receptors fritz a second before she makes contact, stamping the dark imprint of her mouth atop the black ink looping his chest. 

The pounding vertigo of soaring through a mist-filled ravine fuels his body, wings giving an involuntary start. 

It’s over before it starts, and she steps back to examine the mark. To his benefit or to his mercy, she seems satisfied, and he’s foolish enough to relax. 

As if she’d be so quick to finish him. 

Azriel tracks the hand that collects a miniature glass bottle from one of the mounted wooden shelves. She uncaps it, and offers it to him. “What do you think?”

He sizes up the container, bracing for the concentrated scent of perfume before taking a tentative inhale. It’s as recognisable as his brother’s shade of violet; as recognisable as the specific hue of ruby red blazing through a low-laying cloud. An unexpected gut-punch, within the squeezing press of her territory. 

Bergamot and vanilla custard, a hint of tonka bean, notes of roasted hazelnut. Bright, warmly spiced, with a subtle, smoky sweetness. 

“You wear this,” Azriel speaks through his daze, eyes inexplicably drawn to her own, through no permission of his. Bright, warmly spiced, with a subtle, smoky sweetness. “It’s nice.”

A twitch of her brows is her only reaction, but his wits fail him. He has no read on her. 

She reaches for a second bottle. “What about this?”

“What reason are you asking for?” Azriel diverts, keenly guarding the scent still circulating in his lungs. She levels him with quiet, like she’s waiting for something to click. Giving him a chance to catch up. 

He fails her test, the timer run out, and she shifts her weight to one hip. “I’m going to put it on you.” 

Half his body’s blood fully evaporates right then and there, leaving him in a wash of cool dizziness. “Where?”

Her eyes wander. “Neck. Wrists.” Her attention trails lower…pausing, deliberating…before flicking back up. “Maybe your waistband.” 

Those missing pints of blood return in full force, pulsing and pounding through his veins. It’s a trial of discipline not to react. Not to let heat rush to his skin, or curve down his spine. 

Azriel shakes his head, in need of recovery. 

Her eyes narrow. “Why not?”

Azriel searches for an excuse. Faltering, fumbling, and failing. Her eyes have already connected to his open collar, and he barely has fight left in him as she takes gentle hold of the fabric and draws herself near, inhaling the heat from his skin. 

His knuckles whiten.

She withdraws, processing. Splaying her fingers across the fabric of his collar. “You’re wearing cologne.”

“I am.” His voice is weak. 

“You never wear cologne.” 

He doesn’t wear cologne. 

He’s Spymaster. 

Like shadow, he is defined by his absence. 

Azriel cannot risk leaving so much as a trace of himself. And yet earlier this evening he’d sought out the grey tin he’d purchased more than a few years ago. Bought it because they had been working together. Bought it because the desire to impress her had been simmering for a while. 

Bought it because at that time, hope could not have become a lethal dose. 

“This will be the first time they’ll meet you as my partner,” Azriel says. Then after a moment of hesitation, he adds, “and the first time they’ll meet me as yours.” 

If she doubts him, she lets him get away with it. She retreats, and the rest of the world fills the space she’s left. “Do you have the fragrance with you?” 

His eyes recalibrate, compensating for the flood of information surrounding her, previously forgotten. “No,” he answers. Then, “I can fetch it.” 

She hums in response—neutral, but he knows her well enough to hear the strain of dissatisfaction.

He’s foolish for trying to match her. He should have known she would have plans of her own. Ones far better than his fumbling attempts at pleasing her.

~~~~

You dab the rolling ball to either side of your throat, gently applying the fragrance. “Your family,” you ask, swiping the miniature bottle across your wrists, “how much have you told them?”

Azriel is resting his weight on the edge of your counter, taking up an inordinate amount of space in the washroom. He makes a habit of shifting the dimensions of whichever room he enters. 

“Not much,” Azriel answers. 

“So how long have we been together?” You ask, examining the viridian shimmer dusting your eyelids. They look like they match, but it’s difficult to tell after a while. You shift your attention to the dewy gloss on your lips. Normally it would be matte black, but for the sake of the lipstick mark you’d settled for a sticky, dark purple. 

“They’ve not asked for a date.”

“We’ll say a few months. That’s a reasonable length to keep a fresh relationship quiet.” You run your attention over your reflection. Incline your head. Tilt to the left. Tilt to the right. Face straight on. 

There’s a slight smudge of lipstick beneath the bow of your lower lip. 

Another day you would have corrected it. But it’s the implication to the mark on his chest, so it will stay. It’s too slight a mark to even likely to be noticed, any how.

“Sounds good,” Azriel confirms, and you turn your attention to him. The Shadowsinger is in all-black as usual, though he’s forgone the upper half of his training leathers. You’ve not seen him in linen before, but the dark shade is familiar enough. 

You glance back to the mirror—shimmering eyeshadow doesn’t exactly read as formal. And while you’ve kept your style of dress in line with your regular attire, the added spark is…something extra. For a special occasion.

You turn on the male. “How do I look?” 

Azriel was already studying before the question was posed. Typical Spymaster. 

Sharp eyes travel from the finely woven strands of your plait, over the golden jewellery decorating your ears, throat, and wrists, down the length of your matching black dress to the sturdy leather boots at your feet. For comfort.

He takes his time travelling back up, and you wait for his assessment. 

The amount of concentrated black must have affected his vision. His pupils are a fraction larger when they return to your own, and there’s an unfamiliar note in his vanilla-black voice as he answers. “Deadly.” 

~~~~

Strands of hair lift and waver in the faint breeze, goaded free of the plait you’d taken care to weave before dinner. Which had gone…well. Satisfactory, even.

Azriel had seemed normal when the meal commenced—quiet as usual—but as the night progressed he’d become…relaxed. At ease. It had soothed your own tensions, the inch or so that had set itself between you at the night’s start, vanished by its end.

It had been a good feeling, you decide. Pride at having succeeded at a task you’d deemed a struggle. Azriel had put his arm around you as you’d retired for the evening, and you’d stepped into his side the moment he turned. As if that was normal.

It’s an understatement to say he’s good at what he does.

“Do you think they believed it?” You ask, eyeing the cobbles ahead. The scent of spices floats on the wind, and you grow hungry in spite of your filled stomach.

“No.” Azriel answers. “But I think they’ll want to, so, yes.” You glance at him sideward, keeping to the meandering pace. “What do you mean by that?”

Azriel sighs, running a hand through his hair. Dark, and soft. You’d felt the ends brushing your cheek when the group had sojourned to the living room, and the two of you had taken to each other’s side.

“I mean, my brothers are happy,” he responds, redirecting your attention. “They want the same for me.”

You frown. “The High Lord and the General are both mated, are they not?” Azriel gives a nod of his head, dark against the glittering night sky. You glance further along the path, the turning for your home not far off.

From those words, their tone… Azriel’s more relaxed than he usually allows himself to be, and it seems a weight is showing.

The turn for your building is up ahead.

“Do you have a timeline for Winter Court?” You inquire.

Azriel huffs a laugh. “Not a precise date. Sometime within the next fortnight, I’d expect.”

Your brows raise involuntarily. That’s prompt.

You draw to a stop at the turning, and the edges of his mouth are curved. “A deal’s a deal. You look surprised.”

You shake it off. “I’m not surprised. Like you said, a deal’s a deal.” You glance down the alley, spotting your door. You look back at him, giving a nod of your head.

“You know where to find me, when the dates are settled.”

Azriel nods his head, and you turn for your door.

You’d not realised how cold the night was.

~~~~

Jurian's hair is SO HARD TO DRAW (for me) because I just did not have the right colors for it AND I didn't really.... know what it looked like. Yeah I still don't like how it looks which only means! I have to draw him more! (Or not at all... yeah not at all works too)

Anyways yeah fun piece all in all :) I just did not have the time nor energy to properly finish it ://

Taglist time!!

Art gen: @irithiadourden @chunkypossum @makinglongwordsslutty @stargazingmellon

The studio is bathed in that particular quality of fading winter light that makes everything feel suspended, with amber lamps fighting against the blue-grey dusk pressing at the windows. Emerie arranges her materials with the ritual precision she’s developed over six months of Tuesday evenings: vine charcoal on the left, compressed sticks in gradations from soft to hard in the middle, pencils to the right, and her kneaded eraser within easy reach. The newsprint pad rests at an angle on her easel, its surface pristine and waiting for her to put down the first line.

Around her, the other artists settle into their stations with the comfortable rustling of familiarity. Gwyneth, who always brings jasmine tea in a thermos. Helion, who hums under his breath while he works. The studio smells of fixative and old wood, turpentine and the faint mustiness of the building’s bones.

Their usual model—Beron, a retired postal worker with kind eyes and a body that maps the gentle erosions of time—hasn’t arrived yet. Emerie uncaps her water bottle, takes a sip, and stretches her fingers. She’s been looking forward to this all day, to the meditative focus of translating three-dimensional form into lines and shadow, to the way her mind goes quiet when her hand is moving.

The instructor, Nuan, emerges from her office and claps twice. “Listen up, everyone. Beron’s down with the flu, poor thing. Fortunately, we were able to find a new model for tonight, so let’s give her a warm welcome and our full attention.”

The changing room door opens.

Emerie’s hand freezes halfway to her charcoal.

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