#poly!cazriel

“She’d have an easier time sleeping if she’d just come here,” he sighs helplessly, eliciting an echoing sigh from Azriel. 

“We have to give her time, Cass. This has to be her choice,” Azriel murmurs, feeling just as helpless as Cassian but being far more practiced in the art of self restraint. 

“She’s struggling,” Cassian mutters near petulantly. 

“C’mere.”

Cassian shifts over from his side of the bed and—though he’s bigger than Azriel—manages to tuck himself into the Shadowsinger’s side. 

The two of them breathe the other in until the cadence of their hearts and lungs begin to synchronize. 

And then, the still, silent room is interrupted by a knock at the door. 

A knock so quiet, so tentative, that the males may not have heard it had they been asleep or doing much more than breathing. 

Our mate, Azriel’s shadows supply, seeing the Spymaster remove himself from his Illyrian mate to answer the door. 

You stand there with palpable trepidation in a matching set of sleep shorts and t-shirt, wringing your hands together as you try (and fail) to meet his gaze. 

Cassian murmurs your name as he appears behind Azriel and places a gentle hand to the Shadowsinger’s waist; touch tentative as though warring over whether to depend on Azriel’s stability or shove him aside and pull you in. 

“Are you alright?” Azriel asks quietly, keeping his hands glued to his side though he allows his shadows to take stock of you. 

You swallow thickly and rub your lips together, eyes fixed on the edge of the rug in their room. “I can’t sleep.” 

Azriel lets out a sympathetic sound. 

“We know,” Cassian admits; not harsh, but pointed. Azriel elbows him when you wince. 

“Do you want to come in?”

Azriel’s question causes the bond to thrum with hesitancy and caution, your nervous eyes darting towards the large, mussed bed that the Illyrians recently vacated. 

She’s not ready, the shadows translate, though Cassian manages to get the jist despite being entirely shadowless. 

A thunk sounds to the end of the room, and both males turn to find the House has deposited a sofa large enough for one, wingless fae to sleep comfortably on. 

“We’ll set you up, sweetheart,” Cassian tells you, turning back towards the room in silent invitation. 

Azriel’s invitation is more overt, stepping aside and swinging a hand out to welcome you in. 

Your eyes track Cassian—currently shirtless, back muscles accentuated by the silvery light of the moon through the windows—as he piles the sofa with various pillows and blankets that the two males kicked off hours ago after growing warm. 

“Will you be warm enough? With the window open,” Azriel asks, unsure whether the way you have your arms wrapped around your body is due to your wariness or the temperature. 

“Do you want a sweater?” Cassian chimes in before you can answer. 

A shiver runs through you which he accepts as an answer in and of itself. 

“I’ll get one for you,” Azriel decides, gesturing towards the sofa in a silent encouragement to sit while he turns to rifle through their dresser. 

He returns to find you perched on the edge of the sofa as if not entirely sure you should be here, not entirely sure you aren’t about to be asked to leave. 

“Arms up,” Azriel instructs gently, helping ease the oversized sweater over your head. He reaches behind you once you’ve slid your arms in to clip the wing slats shut so you don’t catch a draft. 

Your breath hitches. 

“Are you alright?” Cassian hums then as Azriel takes a step back, noticing the way your eyes shine in the moonlight. 

You clear your throat and blink past the tears. “Yeah, yes. I think so.” 

“Do you think you’ll be able to rest comfortably here?” 

You manage to look up at Azriel at that, and he once again gets the feeling you’re waiting for him to yell at you for something; waiting for him to tell you to get out. 

He sends a pulse of warmth down the bond and watches your eyes close at the sensation. 

“I think so,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” Cassian whispers in kind, coming up behind Azriel and hooking his chin over his shoulder as though holding Azriel will make up for not being able to hold you. 

Yet, Azriel’s mind unhelpfully and hopefully supplies. 

“Try to rest, love,” Azriel murmurs, daring to reach out and brush a thumb along your hairline before reluctantly pulling away. 

Cassian’s less tactful though equally as gentle, leaning around Azriel and bending down to cup your jaw with a steady hand as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

Azriel’s pretty sure the only reason Cassian manages to pry himself away from you is because Azriel forces him to, but the two of them find comfort in listening to the sound of you getting cozy on the sofa as they climb back into bed, now wide awake themselves at the prospect of having you here, in their room, with them. 

The bond—once vibrating with constant nerves—falls quiet and leaves Azriel’s chest feeling peculiarly hollow without it, seeing both males turning to find you with your eyes already closed and a peaceful expression on your face.

Your breathing evens out a few minutes later. 

You wake up in the morning better rested than you have in…well…maybe ever, if you’re being entirely honest with yourself. 

It’s been five weeks of this; of sleepless nights and tossing and turning, managing to fall into a fitful sleep only to wake up in a cold sweat and never feeling rested. 

You suck in a deep, grounding breath and sink further into your bed.

No, not your bed. 

Not your bed, not your room…not your blankets or pillows or sweater or-

You wrench your eyes open, sinking further into your certified nest and pulling up the blankets to your nose when you notice a massive shadow moving across the room.

No, not a shadow; Cassian.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he greets as he pulls a shirt over his head, winking at you when he notices you watching. “Did you sleep well?” 

Your cheeks burn as you watch him reach behind his massive wings and clip his shirt together before he moves his attention to strapping on his training leathers.

You don’t realize he’s waiting for a response—can’t remember what he asked in the first place—until he’s standing in front of you with a divot between his brows.

“What?” you murmur from behind your blanket. 

“Did you sleep okay?” 

You’re not sure why he bothers asking. He likely already knows that you did; probably had to listen to you snoring from his and his mate’s bed all night. 

You offer him a tentative nod, eyes darting towards movement on the other side of the room when you nearly squeak in surprise. 

Azriel exits the attached bathroom with one towel resting sinfully low on his hips while he rubs at his hair with another, entirely ignorant to the way your mouth runs dry at the broad expanse of his tattooed chest and arms.

The smirk on Cassian’s face informs you that he is not ignorant to the way your mouth runs dry. 

“Like what you see, do you?”

“Did you sleep alright?” Azriel chimes in, not even looking over as he drops his towel—is that a male’s ass?—and makes to get dressed. You force your (now wide) eyes back to a grinning Cassian.

“She slept very well,” Cassian supplies for you, grin widening when you narrow your eyes at him. “She was just saying she’d like to come to training with us.”

“What?” you all but squawk, seeing Azriel finally turn his attention towards you, shirt in hand instead of on his body like a fucking sadist. 

“You wanna come to training?”

You quickly shake your head no. 

“It’s fun,” Cassian sing-songs, looking over his shoulder to confirm that Azriel’s distracted by his leathers before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “If you come, I can convince him to remove his shirt while he’s sparring. It’s quite a sight to behold.”

You suck in a breath, the fabric of the blanket pressed to your nose smelling strongly of your the mates and finding your heart traitorously evening out. 

“I don’t know how to fight,” you admit quietly. 

“I don’t want you to fight,” Azriel announces then, eyes flicking towards Cassian as though surprised by the words he just uttered himself. Cassian huffs a laugh at him.

“No, no. No fighting for you, sweets. We’ll fight; your job is to sit there and look pretty.” 

You hum noncommittally, audibly unconvinced as you recall the borrowed sweater you’re wearing and the thin sleep shorts you padded down the hallway in. 

The sound of fabric shifting finds the three of you turning to find the House supplying you with a comfortable pair of leggings and thick socks. 

“I guess that settles it then,” Cassian cheers, standing and pressing a quick, bordering aggressive kiss to the crown of your head before heading towards the door. “See you out there!” 

He presses an equally aggressive kiss to Azriel’s cheek—to which the Shadowsinger pretends to be disturbed by—before exiting the room.

Then, Azriel tentatively adds, “If you’re comfortable there, you don’t need to join us.” 

You get the feeling he’s a touch embarrassed. Shy, even. “If you need more rest, you’re welcome to stay here. Stay as long as you want.” 

You rub your lips together and sit up on the sofa, blanket pooling on your lap. “It’d be okay? If I came?”

Azriel’s wings twitch behind him, sitting higher as he grins at you. “Of course, we’d love for you to come.”

You try to smile back and then nod at your blanket. “Okay, I’ll be up shortly.”

Dimples appear on Azriel’s cheeks as his smile grows, eyes darting down to your chest. 

“And keep the sweater,” he says as he heads towards the door. “It looks much better on you.”

“I was fine Cass, honest.” You appreciated how worried your friends were but sometimes they could be over dramatic. Especially Cassian. 

“You must be freezing,” Azriel says, freeing you from Cassian’s hold. He slips off your gloves cupping his hands around yours to heat them. “A little,” you giggle at Azriel’s touch. Heat flooding your cheeks at the way he looks at you with such care and gentleness. “Let’s get you warmed up then.” Az rests a scarred hand on your lower back to guide you towards your room for the next few days. 

Cassian opens the door ushering you inside. A fire is already burning bright in the small hearth of the guest room and soft fur blankets are piled on the end of the bed. Your bag rests on a foot stool by the dresser waiting for you to unpack thanks to Mor. 

“Here, let me help,” Azriel unbuttons your coat, sliding it off along with your hat and scarf. All of which are wet from the snow storm outside. Cassian wordlessly strides over to your bag to dig out fresh warm clothes for you. They reluctantly leave you to get settled for a bit since Rhys called them away.  

You climb under the covers still violently shivering from your walk. A knock sounds on the door as you pull a blanket around your shoulders, Az and Cass poke their heads in. “We just wanted to check on you before our next meeting.” Cass says. “And we brought you something.” Az holds up a pair of dark, thick wool socks, the ones you have always been jealous of because they seem so warm. 

Azriel kneels next to your bed gesturing for you to turn to him. You let him slip the socks on your feet as you try to bite back a smile. “Thank you,” you whisper. “You’re welcome.” Az says, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. You wished his lips lingered. That his hands weren’t afraid to caress you. You look up at him with bright eyes as the heat fades from your cheeks. 

Cassian ruffles your hair, his large hand lingering comfortably on the back of your head. You hold back from leaning into his grasp. His hand slips from your hair and he longingly looks at his palm. 

Instead of saying anything, Cassian wraps the abandoned blanket snug around your shoulders, and pulls the down blanket, along with two throws over your lap. “Can we get you anything?” Your eyes quickly dart to the book poking out of your bag but you feel too bad to ask for it. Azriel notices as well as his shadows. The little wisps transport it from your bag to your lap making you smile. 

“Warm up, love. We’ll check on you before dinner.” You nod at them as they leave, wishing they would stay and cuddle you. You’ve had dreams where you’re squished between them–some dreams less innocent than others. One day, maybe, you’ll get the courage to say something when you’re not cold and pathetic looking. 

Azriel and Cassian couldn’t focus to save their lives. Their minds focused on you. 

Are you warm yet? Your hands and face were so pale and cold it made them worry. Should they have called for a healer to check you over? 

Too many questions ran through their heads as Rhys and Kal discussed borders and other High Lord duties they could commiserate in. 

The bell above the boutique jewelry store door jangled sweetly as Cassian and Azriel pushed it open. Cassian felt entirely too large to be such a small room littered with delicate displays and glass tabletops. He curved his shoulder in, trying to make his frame take up less space. Azriel instantly noticed and rolled his eyes at him.  “Come on, you’re being ridiculous.” “What if I knock something over, Az? I don’t want to break anything!” Cassian hissed in a half-whisper as Azriel pushed him further into the shop, letting the door swing shut behind them.  “Then don’t break anything, Cass!”  “But—” Az turned on him. “No buts. We’re doing this, and we’re doing it together okay?” Cassian couldn't help the smirk that lifted up the side of his lips. “I love it when you get bossy.”  “I know you do,” Az responded, the feral glint Cassian recognized all too well shining in his eye. “So be a good boy, don’t knock anything over, help me pick a ring, and we can get home to play.”  His breathing picked up, chest heaving as Cassian tried to control his response to Azriel using those words on him. “You can’t do that to me in public,” he said, moving his hand in front of his obviously tenting pants.  Az leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. “I can, and I will. You love it.”  “I do,” Cassian responded with a smile, his lips brushing Azriel’s as he spoke. 

Finish the fic here.

“Our pretty girl loves to cry for us, doesn’t she?” Cassian cooed, crouching next to you. Ropes bound your arms, tied off to a bolt coming from the floor, forcing you to kneel for them or bend yourself over backwards. A gag kept you from spitting at them, a lesson they’d learned early on in these little scenes, even if it did tend to bring some delightful results for you. Mainly, being fucked until you saw stars, and then more. There were two of them, after all. 

Untying you from the floor, but not releasing your arms, Cassian threw you back on the bed. Your arms crushed beneath you as you landed on your back, wiggling yourself up to sit. Others hands grabbed you from behind, pushing you back down onto the soft bed, your body sunk in, even more so as Cassian straddled your hips. You assumed Azriel must be behind you. 

You babbled something incomprehensible through the gag, and felt rough fingers reach around behind your head, heard the a snap, and felt the ball loosen, giving you leave to speak again. 

It didn’t last long. The world flipped, your vision blurring for a second as you landed on your stomach, hands wrapped around the back of you head, tugging you forward and down. You gagged as Azriel hit the back of your throat, peeking up through your lashes to see his head tilted back to the ceiling, as if he was praying to the gods. The arch of his neck, his tan skin, was enticing enough you were tempted to rise up and bite it. 

Quickly, you were distracted. Pressure behind you as Cassian slid into you, coming home with a groan. Bodies met in a mix of pleasure dancing the delicious edge of pain, of sin and sweetness. 

Every thrust of Cassian’s shoved you deeper onto Azriel, they worked you in tandem. 

Your eyes burnt as he hit the back of your throat again, you barely swallowing back your gag. 

Tears built and burrowed over, dripping onto the white duvet cover, staining in. 

“Look at this Cass,” Az gripped the back of your hair, tugging you off him and twisting you to face him. The other male paused, buried deep inside of you. “Our pretty girl is crying for us.” 

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“Can you do something, please?” Rhysand asked him earlier that day. 

“What would you have me do, Rhys? I can hardly throw her over my shoulder and march her out of the library,” Cassian sneered in return. 

His response was met with an incredulous brow and a smarmy once over. “Are those muscles just for show, brother?”

Cassian’s siphons flared indignantly causing Rhysand to sigh.

“Listen, I know she’s down there doing research for me, but she’s hardly taken a moment to eat or sleep or, like, breathe,” the High Lord explained tiredly, as though your over-working exhausted him. “I was sort of hoping that, you know… as her mate…” 

Rhysand didn’t finish that thought, Cassian didn’t need him too. 

While Cassian and Azriel have made some progress with you, you’ve been warming up to them at a glacial pace and Cassian hardly thinks he’s the one who will finally be successful in extricating you from the library.

Feyre’s already tried, Gwyn and Nesta too; what can Cassian possibly do that three females can’t?

Still, you’re his mate, and he’s yours, and he should—at least try to—take care of you.

If he’s unsuccessful, maybe Azriel will have more luck tonight once he’s back from his mission. 

With a small prayer to the Mother, Cassian braves the library beneath the House of Wind and begs the Cauldron that you’re not currently bumping elbows with Bryaxis. 

The Cauldron has some pity on Cassian, it seems, which finds him locating you on the very first floor.

You’re so engrossed in whatever you’re working on that you don’t notice Cassian’s approach despite the mating bond, despite the fact that he’s not exactly an easy male to miss, despite the way he nearly upends an entire stack of books with his wings on his way over. 

“I’ve heard you’re due for a break,” he says as quietly as he can manage, wincing when he still manages to startle the ever loving shit out of you. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, your hand rising to splay beneath your throat as you try to still your racing heart.

“You scared me,” is all you manage to say.

Cassian chuckles albeit apologetically. “I can see that. Sorry, sweetheart.”

“S’okay,” you manage as you roughly rub at your face as though trying to rouse yourself back into action. “Did you need something?”

Did Cassian need something? Uhm, yeah, for his gorgeous little mate to see the light for a few minutes or, you know, eat and sleep like a normal person. 

“I was wondering if you had time to grab something to eat with me,” he settles on, raising a brow when you wince halfway through his sentence.

“I…I’m really quite busy,” you try carefully, gaze pointed at the spread of books and parchment across your table as though it might vanish should you lift your eyes from it. 

“Yeah?” Cassian hums thoughtfully. “You’ve been at this for a while, right?”

You sigh. “I… guess, but, I really think I’m onto something here.”

“I’m sure you are, you’re a brilliant fae,” he allows, wishing beyond measure that Azriel was here to help; he’d be so much better at this right now. “You still need to eat, though.”

And just like that, whatever progress Cassian thought he was making with you vanishes, finding you rolling your eyes in frustration. 

“Did Nesta send you?”

“What? No, I-”

“Because I told her I’m fine; I was already sitting when it happened and-” But whatever happened while you were sitting remains a mystery to Cassian when you fall silent, doing a double take before staring at the male with wide eyes. 

“What happened?” you almost whisper.

What happened? What happened, indeed; you’re the one who stopped the story halfway through.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead of potentially starting a fight with you. You're a bit all over the place; whether that’s due to exhaustion, hunger, or stress, Cassian’s not entirely sure. He’s kind of afraid to find out.

“You’re hurt,” you explain, hand rising slightly from your side as though it itches to reach out but won’t commit to the action.

Honestly, Cassian almost laughs; he’d all but forgotten about the incident until you brought it up. 

Gwyn’s face was priceless at sparring this morning after successfully landing a blow to Cassian’s cheek, immediately falling into hysterics over it. 

The Illyrian eventually had to command the priestess to stop apologizing to him; she did exactly what she was supposed to do, and she did it well.

So well, in fact, that it managed to cut the skin and is producing a decent bruise. 

It’ll be gone by tomorrow, maybe even later tonight if he soaks in a nice bath with healing salts.

He almost tells you as much until he realizes that your hand still hovers between the two of you, until he realizes that you’ve looked away from your workspace for the longest stretch of time in Cauldron knows how long. 

Until he realizes that he might be onto something.

“Training incident,” Cassian explains with a put upon forlorn expression. Your brows furrow even deeper; a sign of his success. 

“Does it hurt terribly?” you murmur then, leaning to the side in order to get a better look, hand still hovering—just begging to be held—though Cassian doesn’t dare take it in his yet; doesn’t dare shock you out of whatever trance his mottled skin has you under. 

Truthfully, it doesn’t hurt at all. It hurt minutely when it happened—no one tell Gwyn or Rhysand, though; Gwyn will go on another apology tour and Rhysand will definitely laugh at him—and he long forgot it happened by the time he came looking for you.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.

“It has a heartbeat,” he lies, almost feeling bad about the small, pitiful sound you let out at that. 

“Cassian…” you hum mournfully. “You should ice it.”

“Yeah?” he asks you, daring a small smile. “Az is usually in charge of that, but he’s out on a mission.”

Your chest falls at Cassian’s predicament but your hand finally rises, daring a delicate, barely there touch to the purpling skin under his eye. 

He’s glad Azriel’s end of the bond is shut while the Shadowsinger works, Cassian’s almost embarrassed at the acrobatics his heart does in his chest at the show of affection. 

“Can you help me, maybe?” he ventures then, words barely above a breath as your eyes trace his face. 

Your hand stills on his face but doesn’t retreat. 

“Please?” he doubles down. Honestly, Cassian’s not above getting on his knees and begging you if that’s what it takes. 

You make a noncommittal sound, looking back over your shoulder at your work.

He speaks again before you can argue. “Clotho will make sure no one touches it,” he tells you quickly, winking over your head at the priestess who looks up from her book at the sound of her name. 

Cassian doesn’t really give you a chance to reply let alone argue. He gently takes your hand in his larger one and starts leading you in the direction of the exit. 

Rhysand must’ve been right; you must be exhausted. You’re completely listless as you let him guide you out of the library, you nearly fall asleep as he flies you up the the House of Wind, and you barely manage to hold the ice against Cassian’s cheek while he plies you with grapes and a few bites of cheese before finally collapsing in exhaustion on his and Azriel’s bed.

Surprise, Azriel’s shadows inform him as he trudges through the now dark and quiet home, the male having long missed dinner and saying goodnight to everyone before the House finally shut down for the evening. 

Azriel’s fresh from a mission, which means he’s sore and tired and desperate for a wash and definitely not in the mood for his shadows’ secrecy. 

Azriel does not want to be surprised, does not appreciate surprises; surprises in his line of work usually mean injury—or worse. 

So, he’s tense as shit by the time he finally shoulders his way into his and Cassian’s shared room when he stills; first at the scent, and then at the sight. 

You’re snuggled into Cassian’s side—your boots discarded on the floor near Azriel’s side of the bed—and dutifully tucked in under the covers as Cassian draws delicate lines up and down your upper arm with a loving finger. 

Asleep. 

Surprise! his shadows cheer again as they flee forwards to investigate his mates.

“What’s this?” he asks Cassian quietly as he shucks off his own boots and moves to perch on your his edge of the bed.

“Turns out you and our troublesome little mate have something in common,” Cassian taunts, pausing in his caress of you only for Azriel to draw a tender line of his own. 

“Your stories can put both of us to sleep?” Azriel teases in return, smirking when Cassian flicks him before returning to his ministrations. 

“She works too hard,” he explains pointedly. “Wouldn’t take a break. Feyre, Nesta, and Gwyn all tried; Rhys finally asked me to check on her.” 

Hasn’t slept in twenty-seven hours, Azriel’s shadows fill him in. Stubborn girl. 

“How’d you manage to convince her?” Azriel asks then as he brushes a few baby hairs from your hairline; you let out a shuddering sigh. 

“Magic,” Cassian tells him. 

He got hurt in training, his shadows tattle.

“Are you sure it’s not because of that shiner you’re sporting?” he supplies. 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Cassian denies haughtily. “Although, you should probably expect a round of apologies from a certain priestess tomorrow for—quote—marring your poor mate’s face.”

Azriel huffs a laugh and feels his wings sinking behind him, beginning to relax at finally being home, at finally being reunited with the other pieces of his soul. 

“Missed you,” Cassian murmurs then, continuing when Azriel responds with a pulse of warmth down the bond. “Mission was okay?”

“It was okay,” Azriel supplies noncomitally; he’s never been one to talk much about his missions, and finds the idea of discussing the dark reality of his line of work in your presence all that much more offensive. 

The sound of water running steals Azriel’s attention and he watches a few of his shadows leave the attached bathroom.

He almost regrets wanting to bathe when sitting here in bed with both of his mates is the alternative. 

“Go wash up,” Cassian encourages him, clearly clocking Azriel’s hesitation. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Azriel sighs. “With my luck, I’ll get back and she’ll be on the couch again, or worse; in her room.” 

Cassian snorts at the Shadowsinger’s petulance. “She barely stayed awake on the flight up here. Besides, I’m pretty sure she was about to tell me that she passed out in the library—I know, we’ll have to ask Nesta for more details—before I dragged her out of there.

“Trust me,” he explains easily. “She’s not going anywhere.” 

Azriel relents, giving Cassian a quick peck and then pressing a much gentler one to your temple before making his way to the bathroom. 

Azriel takes the world's quickest bath that evening and makes the executive decision that he and you will be taking the day off tomorrow.

Then there’s the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian; General of the Illyrian armies and fearsome Illyrian warrior. He hides his ferocity behind charming smiles and boisterous laughs, but he’s a mountain of a male and has the scars, tattoos, and sharp edges to twist a tale of centuries spent perfecting the craft of warfare and battle. 

And if Feyre’s being entirely honest, you might be the scariest of the bunch. You possess the same, slippery tongue of your older brother, the same daemati abilities without the familiar feeling of talons requesting entry—you can be in and out of someone’s mind without anyone being any the wiser—and while you seem ever the Princess of the Night Court (polished, poised, dutifully decorated and diplomatic), your eyes shine with a mirth and hostility that promises pain to anyone who dares to underestimate you. 

No one dares to underestimate you. 

The last male who dared to underestimate you ended up without his head which was then so lovingly sent to the Spring Court back when Feyre was still human. 

So, it’s safe to say that Feyre knows just how ruthless, cunning, and fearsome the three of you can be; worse when the three of you show up to the underbelly of the Night Court together.

Yet she still finds herself surprised, still finds herself swallowing nervously on terrible males' behalves when they find themselves under the weight of your combined glares. 

You can relax, Feyre darling, Rhysand drawls playfully in her mind, face impassive despite his teasing tone. They’re not here to question you. 

Thank the Cauldron, Feyre huffs silently, straining to keep her face the perfect picture of passive distaste. 

Would you two shut it, you hiss then with a playful glint in your eye for your brother and your sister-in-law, though it has the added effect of putting the fear of Mother into the male on his knees at the foot of the dais. I’m cooking here. 

Stop playing with your food and be done with it, Rhysand sighs. I’m getting bored.

You really weren’t required here, brother, Cassian adds with a smirk, the expression friendly though probably looking hostile under the current circumstances. I’d say your understudy has it covered.

Oh, I have no doubt she could have handled this herself, Rhysand allows. But if I had given her free reign, we may not have gotten her back in time for dinner.

Oh, you guys are just no fun, you whine.

“Wrap this up,” Rhysand responds aloud, finding the disgusting excuse of a male at your feet to swallow thickly. 

“My Lady, I beg of you-”

“Is that what your victims did, Dorian?” you hum sweetly, circling him like a predator with its prey. “Did they beg you to spare their lives? Did they plead for your mercy?”

You pause behind him, bending down to whisper into his ear. “Did you give it to them?”

The desperate sob that escapes him is answer enough, finding your eyes flicking to Azriel. 

With a quick, barely perceptible nod of your head, Azriel’s shadows envelop the male and deprive him of oxygen, snuffing the life out of him in the blink of an eye. 

“Awe,” Cassian whines then. “I thought it was my turn.” 

“Boy, you leave too big a mess to clean up for you to have turns,” Amren spits impatiently. “Quit whining.” 

“But…Y/N’s messy too…” he tries, jutting his lips out in hopes of finding a single ally amongst the Inner Circle. 

Feyre thinks he might find one in Azriel who approaches him and places a loving hand on his broad shoulder. 

“Yeah, but she’s cute, Cass,” he murmurs, proving Feyre wrong. 

The group has hardly fully winnowed into the Moonstone Palace when Amren is groaning again.

“What is her problem now?” she asks, a sharp chin jutting towards you as you step out of your shoes and pout at Cassian. 

Rhysand laughs. “She wants uppies.” 

“My feet hurt!” you bemoan, arms in the air as you tilt your head enticingly at one of your mates. 

Feyre’s not sure why you go through the trouble of putting on a show, it’s not as though she’s ever seen either male deny you anything you’ve asked of them. 

“Awe, sweetheart,” Cassian pouts in response. “Is it hard work sitting there and looking pretty?” 

“She did circle that male at least, what? Three times?” Azriel allows playfully.

“Exhausting,” you agree emphatically, pout dissolving when Cassian’s laughter causes a smile to bloom across your face.

The general dutifully hauls you up and throws you over his shoulder, eliciting a squeal of joy from your lips.

“Better?” Azriel asks as he falls into step behind Cassian, grinning at you as you peek at him around Cassian’s wing.

“Almost,” you agree, puckering your lips in ask. 

Once again, Feyre’s not sure why you put on such theatrics; she can’t imagine a reality where Azriel doesn’t immediately reach for you, stabilizing your face between two gloved hands and pressing a kiss to your lips in answer. 

“Are you offering to carry her?” Cassian asks then, turning around suddenly and causing you to shriek as the world spins around you. 

“No, that’s your job.” 

“But what if my feet hurt?”

“You’ve got wings, prick,” Azriel huffs. 

Feyre holds her breath, wondering if you’ll react to the reminder that you too once had wings that were so violently ripped from you.

“He’s so mean to me, babe,” Cassian complains to you, pulling you off of his shoulder in favour of holding you bridal style so that you can witness the theatric hurt on his face. 

You beam at him. 

Rhysand lets out a breath as though he too was worried about your feelings, distracting Feyre long enough for her to be surprised when Cassian lets out a strangled yelp. 

“You’re a fuckin’ prick, Az! I could’ve dropped her!” he complains as he flaps his wings in an attempt to shoo Azriel’s shadows away from him; the idiot had been tickling the general of the Illyrian armies. 

Feyre really can’t believe it’s you three that strike fear in mortals and fae across Prythian. 

“Do not wake her up if she’s asleep,” he warns severely as they head towards their wing of the house. 

Cassian, the bastard, scoffs. “She’s not going to be asleep, Az.”

“Cassian…”

“I won’t. By the Cauldron, you fuss too much.”

Thankfully—or unfortunately, Azriel supposes; there’s still time for this to go sideways—you aren’t asleep, but you are curled up on the day bed by the open windows with a book in your hand, entirely engrossed in whatever story you’ve immersed yourself in.

And once again, your mates really couldn’t be more different. 

Where Azriel pauses, wishing to commit the sight of you at peace and content to memory, Cassian begins to scheme all the different ways he can ruin it. 

Azriel tries tugging on the bond—hard—to no avail; Cassian’s officially on the prowl.

You’re ignorant to the diabolical plans of one of your mates, the prick sneaking over to you out of your line of sight and—as Azriel has already noted—you’re completely lost in your book.

And then, Cassian leaps. 

But the leap is accompanied by a powerful flap of his wings which sees him taking on more air than a male his size has any business doing indoors before he dive bombs you. 

You barely manage a squeal before you’re completely enveloped by the larger than life Lord of Bloodshed.

“Cassian, I swear to the Mother if you crush our mate-”

“I’m not crushing our mate!” he huffs, his (weak) argument muffled from where his face is now hidden in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Azriel directs at you instead, not trusting Cassian in the slightest. 

“I’m okay,” you groan theatrically, though Azriel doesn’t doubt that the brute has rested more of his weight on you than he ought to. 

“Do you want me to remove him?” Azriel asks then, a smirk dancing on his lips when you take your time to consider your answer.

“No,” you reply eventually, the faintest question mark present in your single-syllable response causing your voice to lilt up gently, which roughly translates to but don’t stray too far, just in case.