Tune Tales

Writing is my main form of escape.

My ask box is currently open so you can escape too.

Prompt List

Here is a list of current fandoms and characters I write for:

A Court of Thrones and Roses

Rhysand

Azriel

Cassian

Eris

Fourth Wing

Xaden

Garrick

Bodhi

Dain

Ridoc

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A continuation of my 'Moments' series with Eris.

Authors Note: Pre-established relationship below. No major warnings. Inspired by random moments and not in particular order. Enjoy!

Things had been...off, for a few weeks now.

Not in a loud, obvious way. Eris is never obvious unless he wants to be.

It starts small.

Hushed conversation with his advisors and council members that instantly quieten upon your approach.

Meetings that apparently finish, yet no one but you leaves.

Then the letters begin. Or rather, the lack of them.

You're suddenly not allowed to look over the private correspondence in his office to help with any disputes or ongoing negotiations.

The little notes he used to leave for you in margins of council reports, sharp handwriting softened only for you. Gone.

When you ask, he says he's busy.

When you press, he kisses your forehead like a dismissal.

Then, you're completely barred from two High Lord council meetings in a row.

Officially, the reason being you're 'not required.'

Unofficially, it feels like being shut out of your own life.

You try not to let it get to you. You really do.

But after several weeks of this behaviour, you're starting to get worried. Starting to feel rejected.

You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, turning it over in your mind.

He's High Lord now. He has more options now.

And the thought that he might be...preparing to unmake what you are - quietly, carefully and behind closed doors - sits in your chest like a stone.

You might've been mates, but that didn't mean the doubt wouldn't start creeping in considering his strange behaviour.

Eris finally comes to you one day without announcement. You notice him standing in the doorway of the library, tension clear in his stature as he tries to mask it as indifference.

His expression is unreadable. That familiar Autumn calm that never quite tells you whether you're safe or already in trouble.

"Come with me," he says simply.

It isn't a request.

He doesn't wait for you. Just turns and walks away, leaving you no choice but to follow.

The forest outside the palace is deep Autumn incarnate - burning golds, copper red leaves whispering underfoot as you walk. There's a path you don't recognise, despite the hours you've spent with Eris in these woods, lit faintly by hovering flame-lanterns that bob with magic.

You glance at him as you walk.

"Is this another meeting I've been conveniently excluded from?" You ask lightly, but it comes out sharper than intended.

Eris doesn't look at you immediately, which makes your stomach twist.

"No," he says at last. "This is something else."

That's all he gives you.

You swallow harshly, trying to keep your temper at bay.

After a few minutes walking, the trees open up.

A clearing you don't remember ever visiting appears in front of you. A long table set beneath the canopy, draped in deep Autumn silk. Candles flickering in glass that looks like it was spun from melted amber. Food you recognise as your favourites - too specific to be coincidence.

And flowers. So many flowers everywhere. In vases and strung from the trees.

You stop walking.

"...Eris, what is this?"

He finally turns to you fully now, reaching for your hand and pulling you further into the clearing.

Something in his expression shifts - he's not distant, or cold, or evasive.

He's tense. His grip is just a fraction too tight.

You glance at him, trying to read him, but his expression is still carefully neutral.

"...Eris," you say softly, "you're starting to worry me."

That gets a reaction.

A small one - but you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours before he releases you entirely, stepping away like he suddenly needs the space to think.

He turns his back to you briefly, dragging a hand through his hair - completely at odds with the composed High Lord the rest of the court sees.

That's when your stomach drops.

Because that - that is frightening to you.

"I had a speech prepared," he mutters.

You blink. "A speech?"

"Yes." A pause. "It was...significantly more coherent than whatever this is about to become."

Your confusion only deepens.

"...Eris, what-"

He turns back to you.

And whatever mask he had been wearing, drops. There's something exposed in his expression, raw and uncertain.

It steals the rest of the questions from your throat.

"I've not been avoiding you on purpose," he says, voice lower now, steadier only by effort. "I've been preparing this. Planning it. Making certain that when I asked-" He stops himself, exhales, and starts again.

"I wanted to make sure when I asked this, it is not done carelessly."

Your heart stumbles.

Asked...?

He takes a step closer.

"I am not my father," he says, and there's a quiet intensity to it now. "And I will not rule the way he did. I will not build a court on fear, or silence, or power hoarded so tightly it poisons everything it touches."

You stare at him, caught between confusion and something much deeper.

"I need someone beside me who challenges me," he continues. "Who sees what I do not. Who the people trust - not because they must, but because they choose to."

His voice softens.

"You are already that."

Your chest tightens.

"I have watched you with them," he says. "With the court. With those who have nothing to gain from flattering you. They listen to you. They believe in you."

A beat.

"And so do I."

His voice carries more certain with each word spoken, but still edged with vulnerability.

"I do not want you standing behind me," he says. "Or beside me in name alone, just because you're my mate. I want you with me in power. In choice. In every decision that shapes what this court becomes."

He hesitates as he gauges your expression.

"I want to give you that authority," he says quietly. "Not as a gift. Not as something that can be taken back. But because you deserve it."

His voice dips.

"Because I-"

He stops. Swallows. And tries again.

"Because I love you."

The words land between you, soft and devastating all at once.

"And I will not risk losing you to a role that diminishes you because of me," he adds, barely above a murmur now. "Or to a future where you feel...secondary."

Your vision starts to blur.

"I want you as my equal," Eris says. "My equal in every way possible. My partner. My-"

He exhales sharply.

"My High Lady."

Silence. Complete, echoing silence.

Because you're just...staring at him.

Frozen. Processing everything he just said. Processing everything you thought the past few weeks meant.

When you became Eris's mate and he ascended to become the High Lord of the Autumn Court, that automatically made you the Lady of Autumn. Not High Lady.

Call it tradition, semantics or the patriarchy - whatever.

It never bothered you and was not a titled you had ever asked Eris for, or ever expected.

Feyre Cursebreaker was High Lady of the Night Court because Rhysand had anointed her as such, not just because they were married. She was the first High Lady ever and was something you applauded the Night Court for.

But, you had never even imagined for a moment that Eris would suggest you taking the same mantel.

The silence continues.

Eris's expression shifts.

"...You're not speaking," he says carefully.

You still don't.

Your brain is still catching up. Your heart is somewhere in your throat. Your emotions have apparently decided to completely abandon structure.

"...If this is your way of refusing," he adds, a little more tightly now, "I would prefer you did it directly."

That jolts something in you.

And then-

You laugh.

It breaks out of you suddenly, uncontrollably, half-hysterical and completely unfiltered.

Eris blinks in confusion.

"...I fail to see the humour in this moment."

But you can't stop.

Because now the tears are coming too - actual tears, spilling over as you cover your mouth, shaking your head at him - at your own stupidity.

"You-" you try, breathless, laughing, "-you absolute-"

You can't even finish the sentence.

He's staring at you now, fully thrown off balance.

"...Have I misjudged this entirely?" He asks, and there's real concern creeping in now. "Because if so, I-"

"I thought you were breaking up with me!"

That stops him.

"...What."

You're still laughing, wiping your eyes, stepping towards him now.

"The meetings, the disappearing, the secrecy - I thought you were preparing some formal rejection speech," you manage. "I've been mentally preparing for you to politely end our relationship in the most High Lord way possible-"

"But we're mates," Eris splutters, attempting desperately to understand how your mind could have concluded what it did. "How could you think that?"

"Because of how you've been acting, you dimwit!"

"I've been busy planning your coronation," he says flatly.

"I didn't know that!"

You laugh again, softer now, a little watery as you reach him, taking his face in your hands.

"You're so-" you shake your head, smiling through the tears, "-you're so unbelievably sweet."

Eris winces, unable to determine if you were gently rejecting his proposal or not. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, but not all of it.

"So," he says carefully, searching your face now, "is that...a yes?"

You lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.

It's answer enough - but you pull back just long enough to say it properly.

"Yes."

Relief hits him in a way that he doesn't even try to hide.

His hands immediately come to your waist, firm and grounding, anchoring himself to you.

"Are you sure? You're still crying," he murmurs, just to be certain.

You tearily laugh, brushing your nose against his as his fingers come to cup your cheeks, gently brushing under your eyes to catch the tears.

"Yes, Eris."

His face lights up. And then he kisses you again - deeper this time, steadier, like the world had finally settled back into place.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice lower and certain now in a way it hadn't been moments before.

"My High Lady," he says.

Eris returns late.

That, in itself, isn’t unusual.

What is unusual is the silence.

Normally, even exhausted, even after difficult border negotiations or council disputes, there’s a certain presence to him when he enters your rooms. Controlled but unmistakable. You always feel him before you see him.

Tonight, the air feels wrong. Too careful.

You look up from where you’re sitting near the fire just as the doors open.

Eris steps inside. Beautiful as ever. Composed as ever.

And immediately, every instinct in you sharpens.

Because he’s holding himself too straight.

One shoulder slightly tighter than the other. His movements measured with unnatural precision, like every step is calculated.

Like he’s hiding pain.

You slowly set your book aside.

“…What happened?”

His gaze flicks to you briefly before he begins removing his gloves.

“Nothing of consequence.”

Ah.

So he’s injured.

You stand.

Eris notices instantly and gives you a look that already says he knows exactly where this is going.

“You’re limping,” you say.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I assure you—”

“You favour your left side when walking,” you cut in, crossing toward him. “Your breathing is shallow, and you haven’t looked directly at me once since entering the room.”

That finally gets his attention.

“…When have you ever been this observant?” He tires to tease.

But you're not having it. “You’re wounded.”

“I am fine.”

You stop directly in front of him now, unimpressed. “Eris.”

He exhales quietly through his nose—the sound of a male realising he’s lost this battle before it’s properly begun.

“It’s minor.”

“Show me.”

“It does not require—”

“Show me.”

A long pause.

Then, with the weary resignation of someone who knows resistance is futile, Eris shrugs off his coat.

And you immediately spot the blood.

Your stomach twists.

Not because it’s catastrophic—it isn’t. But there’s enough of it soaking through the dark fabric beneath his ribs to make irritation flare hot and immediate.

“You said it was minor!”

“It is minor.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

“A technicality.”

You stare at him.

He has the audacity to look faintly pleased with himself.

“Sit down,” you order.

“…You’re angry.”

“Yes, I’m angry!”

Something suspiciously fond flickers through his expression at that, which only annoys you more.

“You do not get to look smug while actively bleeding on my carpet.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re glowing with smugness.”

Nevertheless, he sits.

Slowly.

And despite your irritation, concern floods through you at the tiny wince he tries—and fails—to suppress as he lowers himself into the chair near the fire.

Your anger softens immediately around the edges.

“…Idiot,” you mutter.

Eris watches you quietly as you fetch water and clean cloths, your movements brisk with practiced efficiency.

“You should have told me.”

“I intended to.”

“When? After you collapsed?”

“Don't be ridic—”

You turn sharply enough that he lifts a hand slightly in surrender.

“Perhaps,” he says carefully, “slightly before that.”

You narrow your eyes at him before kneeling in front of the chair.

“Move your hand.”

“It truly isn’t severe.”

“Eris.”

He obeys this time.

The wound is along his side, not deep enough to truly frighten you but ugly enough to make your chest ache. The skin around it is bruised, blood dried dark against pale skin.

You’re gentler after that. Still annoyed, but gentle.

Eris goes oddly still as you begin cleaning the injury, your fingers careful, your touch light despite the lecture you clearly still intend to deliver.

“You are the High Lord of Autumn,” you murmur as you work. “You cannot simply ignore injuries because you find them inconvenient.”

“I did not ignore it.”

“You've been back for hours now, in meetings'—”

“I attended one meeting.”

“It was three hours long.”

He falls silent.

Because you’re right. Again.

You dab at the wound a little more firmly than necessary.

He hisses quietly.

“Oh, now you feel pain?”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I am absolutely not.”

“You’ve become very authoritative.”

You glance up at him sharply. “Would you prefer I let you slowly bleed to death in peace?”

A pause.

“…No.”

You resume cleaning the wound, muttering under your breath about stubborn males and catastrophic decision-making skills.

And the entire time, Eris watches you.

Not annoyed, or defensive. Just watching. There’s something soft in his expression now. Quietly affectionate in a way he rarely lets anyone see.

Because despite the scolding, despite the exasperation, your hands never stop being gentle.

You smooth salve carefully over bruised skin. You check his stitches twice. You keep brushing your fingers lightly against his side afterwards, like reassurance disguised as practicality.

“You frightened me,” you admit eventually, voice quieter now.

That wipes the amusement from his face instantly.

“I apologise.”

And unlike earlier, there’s no teasing in it. Just sincerity.

You sigh softly, tying off the fresh bandaging.

“I know.”

Eris reaches for you then, fingers brushing your wrist lightly.

“I did not want to worry you.”

“I'll always worry,” you murmur. “That’s part of loving someone.”

Something in his expression shifts at that.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss briefly against his forehead before standing.

“Come on.”

His brows lift slightly. “Where are we going?”

“To bed.”

“…It’s barely evening.”

“And you were stabbed.”

“A minor detail.”

You level him with a look.

Eris, incredibly powerful High Lord of Autumn, sighs like a deeply put-upon male and allows you to pull him to his feet.

Later, tucked beneath warm blankets, the room dim except for the firelight flickering softly across the walls, Eris looks far less like a feared High Lord.

Mostly because you’ve effectively bundled him into bed against his will.

“You're hovering,” he informs you quietly.

“Must I remind you that you were bleeding through your clothes earlier.”

“One sleeve.”

“You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, watching you settle beside him, “you remain here.”

You huff softly but slide closer anyway, one hand threading gently through his hair.

The reaction is immediate. Subtle to anyone else, but you feel it—the way tension eases from him inch by inch beneath your touch.

His eyes close briefly.

“You like being fussed over,” you accuse softly.

“That is an entirely baseless accusation.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair again.

Eris practically melts into the pillow.

Your lips twitch.

“I am injured,” he says with dignity. “I deserve sympathy.”

You laugh quietly then, the sound softening the room further as you take his hand beneath the blankets, intertwining your fingers carefully.

His thumb brushes lazily against your knuckles.

“You cannot keep doing this,” you murmur after a while. “Pushing yourself until you collapse.”

“I won’t collapse.”

“You know what I mean.”

A long pause settles between you.

Then, quieter: “…I am still learning,” he admits.

That pulls at your heart more than the injury itself.

You shift closer, brushing hair back from his face.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

His gaze lifts to yours, vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“I know,” he says softly. "I'm lucky to have you."

The first thing Eris notices is the colour.

Not you. Not the decor in the room. Not the gathered nobility filling the great hall of the Autumn Court.

The colour.

Deep crimson silk wrapped around your shoulders, threaded with gold so subtle it catches only when the firelight hits it. Autumn Court colours. His colours.

And for a full second—

Eris forgets how to breathe.

The hall continues around him uninterrupted, unaware that their High Lord has just internally short-circuited at the top of the dais.

Because you are not from Autumn.

You were born to another court, raised beneath different skies, different customs, different loyalties. Wearing another court’s colours—his colours—like this, publicly, intentionally…

It means something.

No.

It means everything.

Conversation still hums through the hall, but it’s beginning to shift now. You can feel it. Nobles noticing. Glances flicking toward you, then toward Eris.

Whispers beginning like sparks catching flame.

You knew they would. That was rather the point.

Your gaze finds Eris across the room.

And gods, the look on his face almost undoes you.

He’s staring. In a way that feels almost dangerous. Openly staring with his mouth slightly open.

You’d expected surprise, maybe even satisfaction.

Not this.

Not the way his composure looks one poorly timed breath away from collapsing entirely.

Slowly, you descend the staircase toward him.

The room grows quieter with every step.

By the time you reach the bottom, half the court is pretending not to openly watch.

Eris still hasn’t spoken.

You tilt your head slightly. “You look distressed.”

That finally jolts him back into motion.

“Distressed,” he repeats faintly, eyes dragging slowly over the Autumn colours wrapped around your body again. “Is certainly one word for it.”

A small smile pulls at your mouth. “Do you dislike it?”

His gaze snaps to yours so fast it almost makes you laugh.

“Dislike it?”

His voice lowers.

“You walk into my court dressed in my colours like a declaration before every noble in Autumn and ask if I dislike it?”

Heat curls warmly in your chest.

You step closer, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his jacket. “I thought subtlety was overrated.”

Eris makes a sound low in his throat that does very concerning things to your pulse.

Around you, the whispers are absolutely spreading now because everyone knows what this means.

No ceremony yet. No official mating rites.

But this?

This is a claim. A choice. A public alignment.

You are standing in the Autumn Court wrapped in the colours of its High Lord and effectively telling every person present exactly where you belong.

Eris’s hand settles suddenly against your waist.

Firmly and possessive enough to make several nearby lords immediately look elsewhere.

“You planned this,” he murmurs.

You blink innocently. “Planned what?”

His fingers tighten slightly.

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You ambushed me.”

“And yet,” you say sweetly, “you seem pleased about it.”

That finally cracks something in him. Not fully, but enough.

Enough that you see the exact moment restraint becomes significantly more difficult for him.

Gods.

The rest of the evening becomes nearly unbearable for him.

Not because of court.

Because of you. Because every time he looks at you, you’re still wearing his colours. Still carrying his court on your skin like you were made for it.

He cannot focus at all.

You notice immediately, of course.

The way he keeps touching you. A hand at the small of your back. Fingers brushing your wrist. His gaze lingering too long whenever you speak.

At one point, you catch him staring openly from across the room during a conversation with another lord, looking genuinely distracted before he realises he’s been caught.

You smile at him over the rim of your wine glass.

Eris nearly looks offended by how affected he is.

It only gets worse when one of the older Autumn nobles approaches you with a knowing smile and says:

“You wear our colours beautifully, my lady.”

The possessive pride that flashes across Eris’s face at our almost sends you into cardiac arrest.

By the time the dancing starts, he’s hanging onto the last threads of his composure.

You know because his hand around yours feels too tight. Because his eyes are darker now. Because when he pulls you into the dance floor, it’s less invitation and more inevitability.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur as he guides you through the dance.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s never good.”

His gaze lowers to your mouth briefly.

“No,” he agrees. “Not tonight.”

Heat blooms low in your stomach.

“You truly had no warning for me?” he asks after a moment.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You’ve nearly killed me.”

You laugh softly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You are wearing my colours in front of my entire court.”

“Yes.”

“You are effectively announcing yourself as mine.”

The words send warmth flooding through you.

You lift your chin slightly. “Does that upset you?”

Eris looks at you like he might actually lose his mind. Then he leans down just enough for only you to hear:

“I’m trying very hard not to drag you out of this room.”

Oh.

Oh, that does things to you.

Your smile turns dangerously pleased. “Trying hard?”

“Exceptionally.”

You laugh softly, brushing closer during the dance on purpose now, and Eris exhales slowly like a male being tested by the gods themselves.

The rest of the court quickly becomes irrelevant after that.

Because every glance from him grows hungrier. Every touch more deliberate.

Until eventually—

inevitably—

he’s done pretending.

One moment you’re finishing a conversation with another noble.

The next, Eris is suddenly at your side, taking your hand.

“We’re leaving.”

You blink innocently. “Are we?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an order.”

His eyes flick once over the crimson silk wrapped around you. “It is.”

You barely suppress a smile as he leads you from the hall far too quickly for a male attempting dignity.

The second the doors close behind you and the corridor falls empty he’s on you.

One hand at your waist, the other cupping your jaw as he kisses you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

“You,” he murmurs against your mouth, sounding genuinely overwhelmed, “are a menace.”

You laugh softly into the kiss. “You loved it.”

“I am still loving it,” he says immediately.

His hands slide over the Autumn colours again like he still can’t quite believe you chose to wear them.

“To every member of my court,” he says, voice rougher now, “you stood there and told them exactly who you belong to.”

You meet his gaze steadily. “Yes,” you say softly. “I did.”

Something hot and possessive flashes in his expression at that.

Then his fingers tighten in the fabric at your waist.

“Good,” he says darkly.

And with that, the High Lord of Autumn promptly abandons the rest of the evening to take you upstairs and very thoroughly remove his colours from your body himself.

Snow in Velaris feels different from snow anywhere else.

Softer somehow.

The entire city glows beneath it, lights twinkling against white-covered rooftops while music and laughter drift through the streets in anticipation of Solstice. Even the Sidra looks gentler tonight, dark water reflecting gold lanternlight like scattered stars.

You stand on the townhouse balcony wrapped in one of Eris’s heavy Autumn Court cloaks, watching snow fall steadily over the city below.

“It’s disgustingly picturesque,” Eris mutters beside you.

You smile into your wine. “You’re just jealous your court looks perpetually haunted.”

“Our court has atmosphere.”

“It has fog and unresolved trauma.”

Eris gives you a deeply unimpressed look just as the balcony doors slide open behind you.

“Good,” Cassian announces immediately. “You’re both dressed already.”

You turn slowly. “Why does that sound threatening?”

Cassian’s grin widens.

Behind him, Feyre appears significantly less innocent than usual, which is somehow more alarming.

“It’s snowing,” she says brightly.

“That is generally how winter works,” Eris replies dryly.

Rhysand strolls outside next, looking entirely too relaxed for someone clearly involved in whatever this is.

“We thought,” he says carefully, “that before tomorrow’s meetings, everyone could benefit from… recreation.”

Eris narrows his eyes instantly. “Recreation? I think we'll pass.”

Azriel, lingering near the doorway, wisely says nothing at all.

“Eris, don't be rude. You don’t even know what it is,” you point out.

“I know Cassian is smiling like that,” Eris replies. “Which tells me enough.”

Cassian places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“You’ll recover.”

Feyre links her arm through yours before either of you can escape.

“Come on,” she says. “You can’t visit Velaris during Solstice and not experience proper snow.”

“That sentence,” Eris says darkly, “sounds deeply manipulative.”

“You’re already outnumbered,” Rhys informs him pleasantly.

Eris looks at you.

You, unfortunately, are already smiling.

Traitorously.

He sighs the sigh of a male abandoned by fate itself.

The walk down into the gardens begins peacefully enough.

Snow crunches beneath your boots, cold air biting pleasantly at your cheeks while Velaris glitters around you. Feyre chatters beside you about Solstice traditions while Cassian keeps attempting to kick snow at Azriel, who avoids every attempt with terrifying ease.

Eris remains at your side the entire time, gloved hand warm against the small of your back.

“This,” he says quietly as the others move ahead slightly, “is suspiciously pleasant.”

You grin up at him. “Trying to be optimistic?”

“No. Preparing for disaster.”

You laugh softly.

And then—

A snowball hits Rhys directly in the side of the head.

Silence.

Everyone freezes.

Slowly, Rhys turns.

Feyre stands several feet away looking entirely too innocent.

Cassian immediately folds in half laughing.

“Oh, that was a mistake,” Rhys murmurs.

“Oh, absolutely,” Feyre agrees.

Then she launches another snowball directly at him and runs.

Chaos erupts instantly.

Cassian roars with delight and immediately joins the violence. Rhys retaliates with alarming precision. Azriel, after approximately thirty seconds of resistance, quietly starts participating too—and somehow proves horrifyingly accurate.

You’re laughing before you can stop yourself, ducking as snow flies past your head.

“This is barbaric,” Eris mutters beside you.

A snowball slams into his shoulder.

He looks down at the snow dusting his black coat with deep displeasure, then back up slowly.

Cassian pales slightly. “Uh oh.”

But Eris merely brushes the snow away with elegant annoyance.

“This,” he says flatly, “is precisely why I avoid winter activities.”

You stare at him. “You’re not joining?”

“No.”

Another snowball narrowly misses his head.

“I am a High Lord.”

“You're being boring.”

“I am being dignified.”

“You’re standing in the middle of a snowball fight like a disapproving parent.”

“That is because all of you have the self-control of feral animals.”

You laugh, already bending to scoop up snow yourself.

“Oh, come on,” you tease, packing snow between your gloved hands. “Live a little.”

“I already do.”

“That’s debatable.”

You toss your snowball directly at Feyre. It explodes against her arm.

She gasps dramatically. “Traitor!”

“You started it!”

Eris watches you with poorly concealed fondness as you dart away laughing before Feyre can retaliate.

“You see?” you call over your shoulder to him. “It’s fun!”

“You look freezing.”

“I’m thriving!”

Cassian appears beside Eris suddenly, breathing hard from laughing.

“You know,” he says conversationally, “if you joined in, she’d probably be impressed.”

Eris gives him a long look. “I would rather walk barefoot through the Hewn City.”

Cassian grins. “Scared you’ll lose?”

“I don’t participate in unwinnable games.”

“Oh, he thinks he’d lose,” Rhys calls from across the garden.

“I heard that.”

“You were meant to!”

Eris narrows his eyes slightly, but still doesn’t move even as another snowball catches him lightly in the chest and as Feyre deliberately pelts snow at his boots while darting past him.

He simply stands there in growing judgmental irritation while the rest of you descend further into chaos.

Until—

It happens entirely by accident.

Cassian hurls a snowball at Rhys.

Rhys dodges.

Azriel, traitor that he is, ducks at the exact wrong moment.

And suddenly—

The snowball flies directly toward you, straight into your face.

Cold explodes across your skin.

You gasp in shock, stumbling backward, hands flying instinctively to wipe snow from your eyes while Feyre immediately folds over laughing.

“Oh gods,” she wheezes. “I’m so sorry—that was perfect—”

You’re laughing too, startled more than hurt—

—but the entire garden goes quiet anyway.

Because Eris has gone still. The kind of stillness that immediately signals danger.

Cassian slowly lowers his arm.

“…In my defence,” he starts carefully, “that was not intentional.”

Eris turns his head.

Snow still dusts the front of your cloak while you blink watery-eyed through laughter.

And something in Eris’s expression changes instantly.

Not anger exactly. Worse. Focused vengeance.

“You hit her in the face.”

“I tried to hit Rhys,” Cassian corrects nervously.

“You hit her.”

“It was collateral damage!”

Eris looks at you. “You’re cold.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Eris, it’s snow.”

“You were attacked.”

“Oh no,” Rhys mutters quietly. “He’s snapped.”

Because suddenly Eris bends, scoops up snow and with terrifying precision launches a snowball directly into Cassian’s chest hard enough to nearly knock the Illyrian backward.

The entire garden erupts.

“There he is!” Feyre shouts delightedly.

Cassian splutters dramatically. “You son of a—”

Another snowball hits him before he can finish.

Eris moves with terrifying efficiency after that.

Not chaotic like the others. Strategic. Calculated. Like a military commander discovering a new battlefield.

“Oh, this is worse,” Rhys says as Eris narrowly misses him with another brutal shot. “He’s tactical.”

“You dragged me into this,” Eris replies coolly while already preparing another snowball. “Now you suffer the consequences.”

You’re crying laughing now because he’s so intense about it.

“You’re enjoying yourself!” you accuse as he catches your wrist and pulls you behind him to avoid Feyre’s attack.

“I'm retaliating.”

“It was an accident!”

“That changes nothing.”

Cassian yelps as Azriel finally joins Eris’s side without warning.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Cassian protests. “You can’t team up with the shadowsinger!”

“We already did,” Azriel says calmly.

Another snowball smacks Cassian directly in the mouth.

You collapse against Eris laughing helplessly while he steadies you automatically with one arm around your waist, still somehow maintaining perfect aim with the other.

“You’re terrifying,” you tell him.

“And yet,” he murmurs smoothly, eyes following Cassian’s attempted escape route, “you encouraged this.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“You wanted participation.”

Another perfect throw.

Direct hit. Cassian falls into a snowbank dramatically.

“You created a monster!” Feyre shouts at you through laughter.

Rhys watches Eris nail Azriel with a retaliatory shot and shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this competitive.”

“I don’t think he’s ever seen himself this competitive,” you reply.

As if hearing you, Eris glances back.

Snow clings lightly to his dark hair now, his cheeks faintly flushed from cold, eyes brighter than usual—and gods, he looks unfairly beautiful like this.

Then another snowball clips your shoulder.

Eris turns back around immediately.

“Who threw that.”

Cassian points at Rhys instantly. “Him.”

“Traitor!” Rhys barks.

Eris starts toward them with the terrifying calm of a male who has chosen violence fully and enthusiastically.

You watch him go, helplessly smiling.

Because somewhere between the snow and the laughter and the complete abandonment of dignity—

Eris Vanserra is actually having fun.

And judging by the absolutely ruthless way he tackles Cassian into another snowbank moments later—

he may never emotionally recover from it.

Dinner at the River House had started pleasantly enough.

Warm light spilled across the long table, music drifting softly from somewhere deeper in the house while snow fell steadily beyond the windows. Solstice decorations glittered everywhere—gold and silver woven through evergreen branches, candles flickering low between plates and glasses of wine.

Relaxed. Easy.

The sort of evening that had become strangely normal between your court and the Night Court.

You sat beside Eris near the centre of the table, one of his hands resting lazily against your knee beneath the tablecloth while Cassian loudly argued with Rhys over some military strategy no one else cared about anymore.

Nesta, seated across from you, looked deeply unimpressed.

“You lost because your plan was terrible,” she said flatly.

“My plan was brilliant.”

“Your soldiers fell into a ravine.”

Cassian pointed accusingly. “Because someone moved the markers.”

“You should account for environmental hazards.”

“You cheated.”

Nesta smirked into her wine.

Beside you, Eris murmured quietly, “I do enjoy her quips.”

Cassian, unfortunately, overheard that.

“Careful,” he warned dramatically. “People might think you're still disappointed she picked me and not you.”

The table goes quiet for approximately half a second.

Then Cassian grins, not realising the bomb he had just dropped.

“Actually,” he continues, leaning back in his chair, “he offered Rhys practically anything for her hand before he became High Lord.”

You blink.

Across the table, Nesta slowly lowers her wine glass.

And beside you, Eris goes completely motionless.

Cassian is still talking, oblivious. “I mean, obviously she chose me in the end—”

“Cassian,” Feyre interrupts carefully.

But it’s too late now.

Because the words have already landed.

You turn your head slowly toward Eris.

“…You tried to marry Nesta?”

Eris looks like he’s been abruptly stabbed.

“It was political,” he says immediately.

Cassian laughs. “That male was ready to start trading state secrets—”

“Cassian,” Rhys says sharply this time.

But again, too late.

The damage is done.

And suddenly Eris looks genuinely panicked.

Not annoyed. Not defensive. Panicked.

Because you’ve gone quiet.

Not dramatically upset. Not angry.

Just quiet.

You glance briefly toward Nesta, whose expression has shifted into something wary now too, before looking back down at your wine.

“Oh,” you say softly.

That single word seems to absolutely destroy him.

The rest of dinner continues somehow, conversation awkwardly dragging itself back to life around the table, but Eris barely speaks again.

And every time you glance at him, he looks worse.

Because in his mind, he’s already lost.

Later, the River House is quieter.

Most of the others have drifted elsewhere—to the sitting room, the balcony, the kitchen in Cassian’s case because apparently he’s still hungry after consuming enough food for three grown Illyrians.

You end up near the back hallway with Nesta, lingering beside one of the tall windows overlooking the snow-covered gardens.

“…He looks ill,” Nesta says bluntly.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I noticed.”

“He’s been glaring at Cassian for twenty minutes.”

“That also seems fair.”

Nesta studies you for a moment. “You’re not upset.”

It isn’t a question.

You shake your head lightly. “Not really.”

A pause.

Then, honest: “Just surprised.”

Nesta nods slowly, understanding immediately.

Before either of you can say more, footsteps approach.

Eris.

You turn—and genuinely, your heart aches a little at the expression on his face.

Careful. Uncertain. Tense beneath the composure he’s clearly forcing into place.

His eyes flick briefly toward Nesta before settling on you.

“…May I have a moment alone with you?”

The politeness alone tells you how nervous he is.

Nesta notices too. Her brows lift slightly before she looks at you knowingly.

Then, incredibly, she smirks at Eris. Actually smirks.

“Well,” she says casually, stepping away, “this should be interesting.”

Eris looks like he might combust.

Nesta only winks at you as she leaves.

The second she disappears down the hallway, silence settles between you.

Eris looks at you for one long moment before speaking.

“I should have told you.”

The words come immediately.

No hesitation. No excuse.

“I did not intend for you to hear it like that.”

You lean lightly against the window behind you, watching him quietly.

Eris takes another step closer.

“It was before you,” he says carefully. “Before the bond snapped. Before I knew—”

“I know.”

“But you still should have heard it from me.”

There’s genuine distress beneath the calm tone now.

“I would never intentionally hide something important from you.”

“You didn’t,” you say softly.

“I did.”

“You just… didn’t think it mattered anymore.”

That makes him falter slightly. Because that’s exactly what happened.

Eris exhales quietly, dragging a hand through his hair.

“It was political at first,” he admits. “Then respect. Admiration.” A pause. “Nesta is extraordinary.”

You smile faintly. “She is.”

“But it was never this,” he says immediately, stepping closer again. “Never what exists between us.”

You stay quiet.

And gods, it absolutely unravels him.

“I should have told you,” he says again, lower this time. “If you’re angry, I understand. If you wish to yell at me, I deserve it. Cauldron, I’ll get on my knees if—”

That startles a laugh out of you.

Eris stops mid-sentence.

You look up at him finally, properly meeting his eyes, smiling.

“…Eris.”

He looks deeply confused by your reaction.

You reach for his hand slowly, threading your fingers through his.

“Who is your mate?”

His brow furrows immediately, like this is somehow a trick question.

“You are.”

“Exactly.”

He stares at you.

You squeeze his hand gently.

“How can I be angry that you had feelings for someone before we found each other?” you ask softly. “I’m not threatened by Nesta. And I’m certainly not angry at you for almost marrying someone before you even knew I existed.”

Something in him loosens all at once.

Not fully, but enough that you physically see the relief hit him.

“You truly aren’t upset?”

“No.”

You smile a little more teasingly then.

“Though I do think it’s funny that both you and Cassian fell a little bit in love with the same terrifying female.”

That finally earns a quiet huff of laughter from him.

Small and relieved.

Eris steps closer then, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he still isn’t entirely convinced this conversation hasn’t ruined him somehow.

“There could never be anyone else,” he says quietly. The sincerity in it steals your breath for a moment. “Not after you.”

Your expression softens instantly.

You lift a hand to his face, brushing your thumb lightly along his cheek.

“You don’t have to sound so devastated by the idea.”

“I was,” he admits without hesitation. “For the last hour, I was entirely convinced I’d destroyed this.”

Your chest tightens painfully with affection.

“You idiot,” you murmur fondly.

“Probably.”

Then you kiss him.

Soft at first. Reassuring.

But the second Eris realises you truly aren’t angry—that you’re here, touching him, kissing him like nothing between you has changed—something deeper breaks loose in him.

His hands tighten at your waist and he kisses you back hard enough to make your pulse stumble, all that restrained panic and relief pouring straight into it.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I love you,” he says quietly.

You smile immediately. “I know.”

“No,” he murmurs, still looking a little wrecked from the emotional ordeal. “I don’t think you understand. I would have genuinely begged.”

You laugh softly, brushing another kiss against his mouth.

“Good thing I saved you the humiliation, then.”

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A collection of more moments with Azriel.

Authors Note: No warnings below. Self-established relationship with our favourite Shadowsinger. Moments inspired by mundane things and everyday life. In no particular order. I hope you enjoy 🖤

The first time it happened, you didn’t think much of it.

You were curled against Azriel on the balcony of your room at the River House, wrapped in a blanket against the evening chill while the city glittered below.

For the first time in a while, it was just the two of you.

No missions. No meetings. No emergencies.

His arm rested lazily around your waist, wings tucked loosely behind him as you sat half between his legs, your head resting against his shoulder while he absently traced patterns against your hand.

It was peaceful.

Rarely, wonderfully peaceful.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

His fingers stilled briefly against yours.

“So did I.”

You tilted your head to look at him, smiling faintly. “You know, normal couples probably see each other more than once every few days.”

“We’re very busy people.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.”

A small flicker of amusement crossed his face.

Then—

A knock sounded against your bedroom door.

You both froze.

You were immediately annoyed.

Cassian’s muffled voice carried through the door. “Az! Rhys needs you downstairs.”

You let your head fall dramatically against Azriel’s shoulder.

“No,” you called back instantly.

Silence.

Then Cassian's voice comes through again. “…That wasn’t Azriel.”

“No,” you said louder. “And I meant it.”

Azriel’s chest moved once beneath your cheek in a quiet laugh.

“I guess you should go,” you muttered bitterly.

“I’ll come back,” he promised softly, pressing a kiss to your temple before reluctantly standing. “We’ll continue this later.”

You pointed a warning finger at him. “You said that yesterday.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You’re very convincing for a liar.”

That earned you another soft laugh before he disappeared inside.

You waited.

And waited.

And sometime around midnight—

You fell asleep alone on the balcony sofa.

The second interruption happened two days later.

You’d cornered him in the library this time.

Azriel had barely stepped inside after returning from a mission before you’d followed him in, shut the door behind you, and crossed your arms.

“You,” you informed him, “owe me time.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

He stepped closer slowly. “That sounds serious.”

“It is serious.”

“You’re very intimidating.”

“I know.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

Then you grabbed the front of his leathers and kissed him before he could say anything else.

The soft sound he made against your mouth was deeply satisfying. His hands immediately found your waist, pulling you against him like instinct.

Finally.

Finally—

A sharp knock rattled the door.

You both ignored it.

You involuntarily gasped as your back met one of the bookshelves, giving Azriel access to swipe his tongue into your mouth as he pressed into you.

Another knock.

Louder.

Then—

“Azriel? Uncle Cassian said you’re hiding.”

You closed your eyes.

Azriel dropped his forehead against yours with a sigh.

Little Nyx knocked again. “I found you. Open the door!”

You whispered, horrified, “He’s learning.”

Azriel actually laughed this time. A real one. Warm and low.

“We'll finish this later,” he murmured against your forehead.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last time.”

“And this time I still mean it.”

“You’re impossible.”

His hands slid briefly up your back. “You love me anyway.”

Unfortunately, he was correct.

Later never came.

Because somehow every single time you got him alone someone needed him.

Rhysand wanted reports.

Cassian wanted sparring.

Mor needed help with something diplomatic.

Amren apparently “required” Azriel to reach something on a shelf despite being perfectly capable of winnowing.

At one point, you were nearly certain they were doing it deliberately.

Especially after catching Cassian smirking one evening when Rhys interrupted dinner.

You pointed at him immediately. “You’re involved.”

Cassian looked delighted. “In what?”

“This conspiracy against my happiness.”

Azriel nearly choked on his drink.

By the end of the week—

You snapped.

It happened in the River House.

You’d finally managed an uninterrupted evening together for the first time in what felt like weeks.

You'd had dinner and a few glasses of wine and now Azriel was nestled between your parted legs, pressing you into the cushions.

He'd barely settled properly against you, his hands slipped beneath your shirt , your back arching as he fumbled with your bra strap when—

A knock sounded at the door.

You didn’t move.

Neither did Azriel.

Another knock.

Then Rhys’s voice:

“Az?”

Your eye twitched.

Azriel sighed softly. “I’ll be quick.”

“No.”

He blinked down at you.

You sat up slowly and far too calmly. “Absolutely not.”

Another knock.

“Az, I just need—”

You stood and marched across the room, before you yanked the door open.

Rhysand stood there mid-sentence.

You smiled up at him far too sweetly. “No.”

Rhys blinked once. “…No?”

“No,” you repeated pleasantly. “You cannot have him.”

Behind you, Azriel had gone completely silent, watching the scene unfold with amusement and not doing a thing to stop it.

Rhys glanced over your shoulder slowly, shooting Azriel a baffled look, then back to you.

“…You realise you’re speaking to your High Lord.”

“And you,” you replied, “are interrupting date night.”

A dangerous grin spread across Rhys’s face. “Oh, so date night trumps High Lord business?”

“You’ve all stolen him from me all week,” you continued. “I’m reclaiming him.”

Behind you a very suspicious choking sound came from Azriel.

Rhys leaned casually against the doorway now, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“You’re reclaiming him?”

“Yes.”

“Like an object?”

You considered this. “More like a very overworked emotional support bat.”

Rhys looked delighted. “Cauldron save me, why don’t you have a little patience? Good things come to those who wait.”

“I lost patience three interruptions ago.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“I am saying something now.”

A pause.

"I just need him for a minute—"

"Rhys, if I don't get laid tonight I will burn this house down."

Rhys blinked.

Then lifted both hands in surrender. “You know what? Fair enough.”

You snorted. “That’s it?”

“I’m not stupid enough to come between a fed-up mate and the male she hasn’t seen properly in weeks.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said,” Azriel informed him from the sofa.

Rhys ignored him entirely, looking back at you with open amusement.

“For the record,” he said, “Cassian owes me five marks. He said you’d snap yesterday.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I knew it was deliberate.”

Rhys grinned, then wisely left before you could throw something at him.

The door clicked shut and silence settled.

You turned slowly.

Azriel was still sitting on the sofa staring at you, pure amusement flickering across his face.

“What?” you asked defensively.

“You called me an emotional support bat.”

“You left out the important part of that sentence.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Which was?”

You crossed your arms.

“That you’re mine tonight.”

The amusement vanished instantly.

Azriel stood slowly, a familiar heated look in his eyes, and you got the sudden impression you had turned into pray.

He crossed the room quickly until he was directly in front of you again, large hands settling on your waist.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low with unmistakable satisfaction, “I think that might be the most possessive thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Heat rushed to your face.

“They all drove me to it.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“No?”

“No.”

Then he leaned down slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“And for the record,” he murmured softly, “I was already planning on spending the rest of the night with you.”

"Thank the Mother," you declared.

Azriel's amused chuckle was swallowed by your lips latching back onto his.

The first note arrived three days after Azriel left.

You didn’t even notice it at first.

You were half-asleep at the kitchen table in the River House, staring miserably into your tea while rain tapped softly against the windows. The house was quiet for once—everyone else still asleep—and the silence only seemed to make his absence louder.

You hated missions.

Hated them.

Not because you doubted Azriel’s skill.

Never that.

But because when he was gone, it felt like someone had quietly removed a piece of you.

You sighed softly, rubbing tiredly at your eyes.

And froze.

Something cool brushed against your wrist.

One of Azriel’s shadows curled lazily around your hand.

You blinked at it.

“…Hello to you too.”

The shadow twitched once—

Then dropped something into your lap.

A tiny folded piece of paper.

Your breath caught immediately.

Slowly, carefully, you unfolded it.

Three words greeted you in familiar, slanted handwriting.

Make sure you eat properly.

You stared at the note.

Then at the shadow.

Then back at the note.

And despite yourself—

A laugh escaped you.

Quiet and disbelieving.

“He sent you all this way just to bully me?”

The shadow curled almost smugly around your wrist.

You smiled so suddenly it almost hurt.

The notes kept coming after that.

They were never predictable and never announced.

Sometimes they appeared tucked into your books.

Sometimes beneath your teacup.

Once, one of his shadows dropped a folded note directly onto your face while you were trying to nap.

You unfolded it with deep suspicion.

Don’t sleep on the sofa again or you’ll hurt your back.

You sat upright immediately, glaring at the shadow hovering above you.

“You’re spying on me.”

The shadow swayed innocently.

“You absolutely are.”

Another note appeared in your lap.

Yes.

You gasped.

“You traitors.”

The shadows seemed deeply unrepentant.

The worst part, or perhaps the best, was how Azriel the notes were.

Short. Minimal. But somehow still devastatingly sweet and thoughtful.

Wear the warmer coat today.

Missed you at dinner.

Cassian put too much salt on the eggs. Don’t let him cook unsupervised.

Go to sleep.

That one arrived at nearly two in the morning after you’d been sitting awake in bed restlessly turning pages without absorbing a single word.

You stared at it for a long moment.

Then muttered toward the ceiling:

“You’re both annoying.”

The shadows curled happily around your shoulders.

Weeks passed, the mission dragging on longer than expected.

And though the bond still hummed steadily beneath your ribs, there were moments where the distance ached.

Moments where you’d reach across the bed in the middle of the night only to find cold sheets.

Moments where you’d hear a laugh in the street that sounded vaguely like him and your chest would tighten before you could stop it.

The notes became your favourite part of the day and somehow Azriel always knew where you were and what was going on.

He was the Spymaster after all.

It was comforting, knowing despite him being across Prythian, you were still on his mind.

The rest of the Inner Circle soon became accustomed to a note being dropped into your lap at random times.

Feyre caught you smiling down at one particular note over breakfast. She leaned against the kitchen counter, smirking slightly.

“You know,” she mused, “normal people usually write full love letters.”

You immediately covered the note with your hand. “It’s private.”

“That defensive, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes.

Feyre laughed softly. “What did this one say?”

You hesitated, then reluctantly slid the note across the counter.

She unfolded it and immediately burst out laughing.

Stop glaring at Rhys. He’s enjoying it.

You buried your face in your hands. “He can see me glaring from another court?!”

“Apparently,” Feyre said, still laughing.

You groaned. “I hate him.”

“You adore him.”

Unfortunately—

She was correct.

The final note came nearly a month after he’d left.

You were standing on the balcony outside your bedroom, wrapped in one of Azriel’s sweaters while the evening wind curled around you.

You were restless again. Missing him desperately.

One of his shadows drifted silently from the dark.

You smiled faintly before it even reached you. “There you are.”

The shadow brushed your cheek softly, then placed a folded note into your hand.

Your chest tightened immediately because this one felt different somehow.

You unfolded it slowly.

There were only four words.

Turn around, sweetheart.

You stopped breathing.

Then spun.

And there he was.

Standing in the doorway behind you.

Tired. Windblown. Beautiful.

Home.

You made a small, broken sound that you’d absolutely deny later before practically throwing yourself at him.

Azriel caught you easily, arms wrapping around you with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

“There you are,” he murmured against your hair.

You clung to him harder. “You took too long.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been gone for weeks.”

“I know.”

“You sent your shadows to emotionally torment me.”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. “They said you liked the notes.”

You pulled back just enough to glare at him. “I’m starting to think your shadows like gossip.”

“They absolutely gossip.”

You huffed softly, though it melted quickly when his hand slid up your back slowly, carefully, like he was reassuring himself you were really there.

Gods, you’d missed him.

Azriel rested his forehead against yours with a soft exhale.

“I missed you.”

They were simple words, but they hit harder than any grand declaration ever could.

You swallowed thickly. “…I missed you too.”

A small silence settled between you.

Comfortable and warm.

Then you narrowed your eyes slightly.

“Did you really send a shadow across Prythian just to tell me to stop glaring at Rhys?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched faintly. “I didn’t want our High Lord to burst into flames.”

You laughed then, for what felt like the first time since he’d left.

And Azriel watched you like he’d missed the sound most of all.

Velaris was melting.

There was no other explanation for it.

The city had been trapped beneath an oppressive heatwave for nearly a week now, and every day somehow felt hotter than the last.

Even the Sidra looked exhausted.

You certainly were.

Which was why, when Azriel finally returned from yet another meeting with Rhys, he found you sprawled dramatically across the bathroom floor.

You were defeated.

The cool stone tiles had become your refuge hours ago.

You were lying flat on your back, one arm flung over your eyes, wearing what could generously be described as the bare minimum necessary to maintain your dignity.

A damp cloth rested across your stomach. Another had fallen onto the floor beside you.

The room was silent.

Until the door opened and Azriel stepped inside. He stopped and stared.

A beat passed.

"...What are you doing?"

Without moving, you answered:

"Waiting for death."

Silence.

Azriel released a slow exhale, the kind he reserved for Cassian.

"I see."

"It was nice knowing you."

"You said that yesterday."

"I meant it yesterday."

You heard him set something down on the counter, followed by footsteps.

Then—

His shadow fell across your face.

You cracked one eye open.

Azriel was standing over you, arms folded, looking entirely too composed for someone who wasn't currently being boiled alive.

His dark hair was slightly mussed from the heat. His skin was glowing with a light sheen of sweat which only accentuated his golden skin. His sleeves were rolled up.

And somehow he still looked perfectly comfortable and incredibly attractive.

You hated him.

"I assume Rhys kept you trapped for three hours discussing important High Lord things?"

"Four."

You groaned dramatically. “Was he trying to kill you?”

A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. "You've become very dramatic."

"I’ve always been dramatic."

He snorted in response. “Have you been lying on the floor since I left?”

"It's the only place in the house that isn't actively trying to kill me."

Azriel looked down at you. "...Did you try opening a window?"

You slowly lowered your arm and stared at him.

The betrayal. The audacity.

"The air outside is hot."

"Fair point."

You glared at him, then replaced your arm over your eyes.

Your conversation was clearly over.

Several moments passed. You expected him to leave.

Instead—

The room suddenly darkened.

The bright afternoon sunlight vanished from the walls. The temperature dropped almost immediately. A cool sensation brushed across your skin.

You froze, before slowly peeking out from beneath your arm.

His shadows. Dozens of them.

They drifted lazily through the room, covering the windows, pooling across the ceiling, cooling the air as they moved. Another brushed gently across your bare shoulder.

Cool. Blessedly cool.

You nearly cried. "Oh."

A second shadow slid across your forehead.

You sighed so deeply it was almost embarrassing. "Marry me."

Azriel snorted. "I already did."

"Do it again."

One of the shadows curled smugly around your wrist.

You grabbed it immediately, holding it against your face. "Oh, that's nice."

Azriel watched the entire display completely expressionless, except for the unmistakable amusement in his eyes.

"You know," he said, "most people would simply ask for help."

"I did."

"You informed me you were dying."

"Same thing."

Within minutes, the bathroom had become significantly cooler. You were no longer contemplating your own demise, which was a nice change.

Azriel eventually lowered himself to sit beside you against the vanity.

One knee bent, watching you still spread across the floor. Despite the cooling temperature of the room you still refused to move.

"You can get up now."

"No."

"The room is cool."

"I'm too comfy.”

His shadows continued brushing over your skin, cooling every spot they touched. You were beginning to understand why they were so smug all the time.

This was incredible.

"Oh, I understand why you keep them around now."

"They're useful."

"They're magical."

Another brushed against your cheek.

You smiled.

Then—

A horrible realization struck.

Your eyes snapped open. "Wait."

Azriel immediately looked concerned. "What?"

You sat upright and pointed at him. "Why didn't you do this sooner?"

A long pause followed.

Then—

"Because you never asked."

You stared.

You’d of throttled him in that moment if only you were guaranteed to keep his shadows.

Something was wrong. You knew it. Not seriously wrong. Just...wrong.

For three days now everything had irritated you.

Everything.

The weather was too warm. Your clothes felt uncomfortable. People were too loud. The tea tasted wrong.

Someone had moved one of the books in your sitting room and you had genuinely considered declaring war over it.

The worst part?

You knew you were being unreasonable. You just couldn't stop.

Unfortunately for him, the first victim had been Cassian.

"You've stolen my knife."

Cassian blinked. "What?"

"My knife."

"What knife?"

"The little silver one."

The entire dining table went silent.

Cassian looked genuinely confused. "I've never touched your knife."

You narrowed your eyes. "Sounds exactly like something a knife thief would say."

Mor immediately buried her face in her hands. Rhys started laughing. Cassian looked deeply offended.

Azriel sat beside you quietly eating breakfast watching. The way one watched a storm approaching from very far away.

The second victim was Rhys.

He'd made the mistake of casually mentioning he thought a painting looked better in a different room.

You'd stared at him for a solid ten seconds before saying:

"You're wrong."

And walking away.

Rhys was still talking about it two days later.

The third victim was Azriel.

Mostly because he was always there.

People always took their feelings out on those closest to them, which unfortunately meant he got the majority of your nonsense.

"Where's my sweater?"

Azriel looked up from the report he was reading. "Which sweater?"

"The blue one."

"You left it in the townhouse."

You stared at him, immediately suspicious. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

A pause.

"...I watched you leave it there."

"Oh."

Silence.

Then—

"Well why didn't you bring it home?"

Azriel blinked.

Once, slowly.

You blinked back.

Then immediately realised that wasn't fair. "...I’m sorry."

The next day was somehow worse.

You were emotional. Exhausted. Annoyed. Hungry. Not hungry. Sad. Angry.

All at once.

At one point you nearly cried because the bakery had sold out of your favourite pastries.

At another point you snapped at a shadow for floating too close to your face. The shadows had looked deeply hurt and you'd apologised immediately.

By the evening of the third day even Azriel was beginning to look concerned.

Not annoyed. Concerned.

Which somehow made you feel worse.

You sat curled in the sitting room, blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the warm weather.

Azriel settled beside you quietly.

"Bad day?" he asked gently.

You stared at the wall. "...Maybe."

A pause.

"Did I do something?"

The question was so careful it made your chest hurt. You immediately looked at him. "What?"

His expression remained calm, but you knew him, knew the tiny shifts. The uncertainty. The concern.

"You've been upset for a few days."

Oh.

Oh gods.

Now you felt awful.

"You didn't do anything."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay."

You frowned. "Why would you think you did?"

Azriel shot you a look. A very pointed look.

You thought back over the last three days.

The sweater incident. The knife incident. The fact you'd accused him of breathing too loudly yesterday.

...

Fair.

You shook your head. “I’m just having a few off days I suppose.”

Azriel wasn’t sure he believed you, but when you snuggled into his side he allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security.

The breaking point came the next morning over something truly ridiculous.

You dropped your toast.

That's it.

That was the entire event.

Your breakfast slipped from your fingers and landed butter-side down on the kitchen floor.

You stared.

The toast stared back.

And suddenly—

Your eyes filled with tears. "Oh gods."

Azriel looked up from across the kitchen, immediately alarmed. "What happened?"

You pointed to the toast, speechless. He followed your finger.

A pause.

Then very slowly, everything seemed to click into place and understanding dawned on his face.

You watched him connect the dots in real time.

The mood swings. The crying. The irritation. The random emotional disasters.

His eyes widened slightly.

Then—

A tiny smile appeared.

You gasped. "Don't smile at me like that."

His smile grew. Not mocking, just knowing.

You burst into tears anyway. "I wanted that toast."

"I know."

"It was a going to be a really good piece of toast."

"I know."

"It landed butter-side down."

Azriel bit the inside of his cheek, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

You pointed at him accusingly. "You're smiling."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm trying not to."

That was somehow the wrong answer.

Fresh tears appeared.

Azriel immediately stood and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around you before you could spiral any further.

You buried your face in his chest, absolutely mortified. "I hate everything."

"I know."

"I don't even know why I'm crying."

"I think I do."

You froze, before slowly pulling back.

Then—

Realisation hit you like a freight train.

Your cycle.

You hadn't checked. Hadn't thought about it. But now that you did, the timing made perfect sense.

The emotions. The crankiness. The irrational anger. The toast tragedy.

"Oh."

Azriel nodded once. "Oh."

You stared at him. Then groaned loudly and hid your face again.

"This is so embarrassing."

His arms tightened around you.

"It really isn't."

"I accused Cassian of stealing a knife."

"You did."

"I told Rhys he was wrong and walked away."

"You did."

"I got emotional over bread."

A pause.

Then—

"To be fair," Azriel said carefully, "it looked like a good piece of toast."

You laughed. A watery, reluctant laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Victory.

Azriel looked deeply pleased with himself.

"You knew?" you asked suspiciously.

"Yesterday."

"Yesterday?!"

"I wasn't entirely sure."

"You let me continue embarrassing myself?”

"Would you have listened to me if I tried to tell you?"

You opened your mouth, before immediately closing it.

No you wouldn't.

Azriel chuckled at the look on your face.

For the first time all week, you felt like yourself again and not like you were going insane.

Mostly.

You were blessed to have a mate like Azriel who understood you even better than you knew yourself sometimes.

Without another word he immediately replaced your toast and insisted on carrying you back to the sofa afterwards because:

"You're clearly having a difficult time."

To which you replied:

"Don't make me cry again."

And Azriel, very wisely, stopped talking and simply kissed the top of your head instead.

"You are impossible."

Azriel looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You've said that six times."

"Because it's true."

The Shadowsinger simply shrugged, which somehow made it worse.

You rolled your shoulders, shifting your stance and immediately launched at him again, for approximately the tenth time.

And for approximately the tenth time Azriel effortlessly sidestepped and you stumbled past him.

"Stop doing that," you growled.

"I'm sparring."

"You're mocking me."

His mouth twitched. "You asked me to teach you."

"I asked you to spar."

"You asked me to go easy."

"I didn't mean this easy."

That earned you an actual huff of laughter. The sound immediately made your annoyance worse.

The training ring was empty except for the two of you. It was early enough that nobody else had arrived yet. Which was fortunate because your dignity had already suffered enough.

You wiped sweat from your forehead and glared.

Azriel remained infuriatingly calm. He wasn't even breathing hard.

Meanwhile you felt like you were fighting a mountain. A very attractive mountain, which was somehow even more irritating.

"How are you this strong?"

Azriel blinked.

Then looked down at himself as if checking. "I train."

You stared. "That's your answer?"

"It is."

"I train and yet when I hit you it's like punching a wall."

"You hit surprisingly hard."

You narrowed your eyes. "That was a pity comment."

"It was encouragement."

"It was pity."

A pause.

“Maybe a little."

You made an offended noise. Azriel looked seconds away from laughing.

Three minutes later—

You were losing again.

You managed one decent strike. Azriel blocked it.

You tried another. Blocked.

Another. Blocked.

Then suddenly, the world tilted.

A practiced sweep of his leg. A shift of his weight. You landed on your back in the dirt.

Again.

You stared up at the sky in silence. Something in you finally snapped. Not in anger, but in inspiration and a terrible, evil idea appeared.

You remained perfectly still.

Azriel frowned when you failed to get back up. “Sweetheart?"

No response.

You turned your face away and allowed a very small sniffle to escape. Azriel's entire posture changed instantly.

All amusement vanished and was replaced by immediate concern. "Hey."

You almost felt guilty.

Almost.

You sniffled again a little louder.

"Oh gods."

The words left him before he could stop them.

You heard him quickly move towards you, then suddenly Azriel was crouching beside you with one knee in the dirt and his hands hovering uncertainly.

"Did I hurt you?"

His voice had dropped completely. The teasing gone. The training forgotten. Pure concern laced his words.

You kept your face hidden, shoulders shaking slightly.

Azriel looked increasingly alarmed. "Sweetheart?"

Another sniffle.

His hand finally settled carefully on your shoulder. "Talk to me."

The guilt almost got you then. Almost, but you were committed now.

The second he leaned closer—

You struck.

Fast.

A sharp twist. A grab of his wrist. A pull.

The move wasn't perfect. It wouldn't have worked if he'd been expecting it. But he wasn't, because he was busy worrying about you.

Suddenly Azriel found himself flat on his back staring at the sky. Your knee planted firmly against his chest. A dagger pressed triumphantly against his throat.

Silence.

You grinned down at him.

Victorious. Glorious.

"Yield."

For one heartbeat, Azriel simply stared at you.

Then realisation slowly dawned and his eyes narrowed. You watched the exact moment he connected all the pieces.

The fake tears. The sniffles. The dramatic collapse. The ill-directed concern.

A beat.

Then—

His head fell back against the dirt and he laughed loudly.

You looked deeply pleased with yourself. "I win."

"You cheated."

"I won."

"You cheated."

"You yielded."

"I absolutely did not."

You pressed the dagger closer. "Sounds like yielding."

Azriel looked up at you still smiling and trapped beneath you and unmoving. Both of you knew he could reverse the situation in less than a second, but he simply wasn't bothering.

"You played me."

You bit your lip to try and hide your guilty face. "I had to try and win somehow."

"You pretended to cry."

You beamed. "Genius, right?"

Azriel huffed in a reluctant agreement.

"You know," he said after a moment, "most people try improving their technique."

"I did improve my technique."

"Emotional manipulation isn't a technique."

"It worked."

"It worked because I thought you were hurt."

You softened slightly at that.

Because he had immediately and without hesitation come to your side. The second he thought you'd been injured he'd forgotten the entire spar.

Forgotten winning. Forgotten training. Everything. Just to make sure you were alright.

Your chest warmed, even if you absolutely weren't admitting that right now.

"Sounds like a weakness to me."

Azriel's eyes sparkled dangerously. "Oh?"

You immediately realised your mistake.

Because suddenly, the world flipped.

You yelped.

The dagger vanished and before you knew it, you were the one flat on your back. Azriel hovering above you now.

One hand pinning your wrist gently against the dirt. The other braced beside your head. His legs trapping yours against the ground as he pinned you with his body weight. The smirk on his face was deeply unfair.

"There."

You glared.

He looked delighted. "Now I win."

"That doesn't count."

"It absolutely counts."

"You cheated."

His brows lifted. "Five minutes ago you were pretending to cry."

"Different."

"How?"

You thought about it, then pointed out:

"Because mine worked."

Azriel laughed again. Warm and genuine.

The sound made your indignation wobble immediately.

You glared up at him, or at least tried to. It was difficult when he was looking at you like that.

Far too amused. Far too pleased with himself. Slightly heated.

"You know," you said, trying for dignity, "I had you."

"Of course you did, sweetheart."

The admission and honesty behind it caught you off guard.

Your annoyance faltered.

Azriel's expression softened slightly as he looked down at you. "You also scared ten years off my life."

A tiny flicker of guilt surfaced. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm a little sorry."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "A little?"

"A very little."

The corners of his mouth twitched.

Then, before you could come up with another argument, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, you narrowed your eyes.

You were not falling for his distraction tactics.

"I still won."

"You did."

You paused. "...Really?"

"No."

You smacked his shoulder.

His laughter followed you all the way across the training ring as he let you get to your feet with a sharp smack to your ass.

You playfully glared over your shoulder at him.

You were going to wipe that smirk off his face.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."

Authors Note: Thank you so much! I am just as obsessed with this man <3

It had always been uncomplicated with Garrick.

At least, that’s what the two of you pretended.

No promises. No labels.

Just him showing up at your door late at night with that lazy grin that always made your stomach flip, and you letting him in every single time.

It was easier that way.

Because Garrick had already graduated.

Because you still had another year at Basgiath.

Because riders died all the time, and getting attached to someone too deeply felt dangerously stupid.

And several other reasons you told yourself after the third time.

So instead, you settled into this strange in-between.

Friends who touched each other too much.

Who kissed like they had something to prove.

Who kept finding excuses to come back.

And now, with whispers of unrest spreading through Navarre and tension hanging thick through the college halls, everything feels sharper somehow.

The incoming threat of the attack hangs heavy in the air, tangled up with the choking stench of fear. Riders, healers and infantry cadets move through the halls with sharp, chaotic energy.

Like everyone suddenly understands how fragile everything really is and that tomorrow might not be guaranteed.

You’re standing on one of the outer balconies overlooking Basgiath when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“You’re hiding.”

Garrick’s voice slides over your skin warm and familiar.

You lean against the stone railing. “Maybe I just wanted five minutes where nobody’s panicking.”

He hums softly in agreement before stepping beside you.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The wind catches his dark hair, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He looks stressed, worried and tired, more tired than you’ve ever seen him.

Something twists painfully in your chest.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

His eyes flick toward you.

“Now I am.”

You roll your eyes a little, but your pulse betrays you.

Because that look in his eyes—

Gods.

It’s too intense. Too serious.

Before you can think better of it, you step closer and fix the crooked collar of his jacket, brushing your fingers over the worn leather.

“You should try and get some sleep before it starts,” you murmur.

His hand catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

The touch is careful, almost hesitant, which is so unlike Garrick that it immediately makes your stomach tighten.

“What?” you whisper.

He stares at you for a long moment, jaw tense like he’s fighting with himself.

Then quietly—

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

The world seems to stop around you.

No sounds. No wind.

Nothing except the way he’s looking at you like he’s finally saying something he’s been holding back for far too long.

You let out a soft disbelieving laugh, mostly because your heart is suddenly trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Garrick…”

“I mean it.”

“You don’t have to say that because everything’s about to go to shit.”

His brows pull together immediately. “That’s what you think this is?”

“I think,” you say carefully, trying and failing to keep your voice steady, “that people say reckless things before battles.”

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there.

“I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your throat goes dry.

“You’re serious?”

He actually looks offended.

“Completely and utterly gone.”

You shake your head faintly, overwhelmed. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

The words come out smaller than you intended.

More vulnerable.

Because the truth is, Garrick has always had this terrifying ability to make you want things you promised yourself not to want.

Something in his expression softens instantly.

Then he steps closer.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

Close enough that your breathing tangles together as you raise your head to meet his eye as he towers over you.

“I mean it,” he says again, quieter this time. “I mean every fucking word.”

Your heart stutters violently.

"I just kept telling myself not to say it because the timing’s shit and you deserve more than whatever this has been. But every time I've had to walk away from you, it's almost killed me."

His forehead rests lightly against yours.

"And I'll be damned if I don't tell you now, right before thing's are about to go to shit. I may never get another chance—"

Garrick's suddenly voice catches and he takes a deep breath and stops and watches your face to gauge your reaction.

“You’re an asshole for doing this to me,” you whisper weakly.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “Doing what?”

“Making me fall in love with you back.”

A soft laugh escapes him, but there’s something emotional underneath it.

“Let me make up for it then.”

Then his hand slides up to cup your jaw.

And when he kisses you—

Gods.

There’s nothing casual about it.

Nothing teasing or half-hearted like all the stolen kisses before this.

This kiss feels devastatingly deliberate.

Like he’s trying to pour every unspoken feeling into it.

His mouth moves against yours slowly at first, almost careful, before the restraint breaks completely when he feels you kiss him back. He kisses you deeper, more desperate, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him.

You make a small sound against his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his jacket.

He kisses you like he means it, like he’s been wanting to do this properly for a very long time.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing harder.

Your forehead falls against his.

“You picked a hell of a time to tell me,” you murmur.

His thumb brushes softly across your cheek.

“The possibility of losing you tends to put things into perspective.”

Emotion swells painfully in your chest.

So instead of saying anything, you kiss him again.

And this time, when Garrick smiles against your mouth, you realise neither of you are pretending anymore.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Don't shut me out."

Authors Note: Ugh I love this scenario especially with our favourite Wingleader! There's nothing than a soft and comforting shadow daddy. Hopefully I did it justice and gave you exactly what you wanted <3

The first night, Xaden thinks you just need space.

The second night he starts to worry.

By the third, he’s ready to start a fight.

Because you haven’t slept properly since the challenge with the flier.

The challenge where tensions between the riders and the fliers finally spilled over, exploded in a violent confrontation and one particularly boisterous flier tried to fight dirty against you.

You haven’t eaten more than a few bites.

You've barely spoken.

And worst of all, you won’t let him near you.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

Every time he reaches for you, you pull away like his touch burns.

Every time he asks if you’re alright, you say the same thing in that empty, distant voice:

“I’m fine.”

Lie.

He knows it. You know it, but neither of you acknowledge it.

Tonight, he finds you sitting on the floor beside the bed in your shared room in Aretia, knees drawn to your chest, staring blankly at the wall.

You don’t even notice he’s entered at first and that alone terrifies him. He's so used to your eyes automatically finding his and lighting up at the simple sight of him.

His jaw tightens slightly.

“Did you eat today?”

Nothing.

The shadows around his feet stir restlessly as he closes the door behind him.

“Sweetheart.”

Your expression flickers at the nickname.

Barely, but enough for him to see.

Slowly, carefully, he crouches a few feet in front of you—not too close. Not pushing.

Not yet.

“You can keep pretending you’re okay,” he says quietly, “but I know you.”

Your throat bobs once before you look away and that hurts him more than yelling would’ve.

Because you’ve never looked at him like this before.

Like you’re hiding. Like you’re ashamed.

Xaden exhales slowly through his nose, forcing patience into himself.

“Talk to me.”

Silence.

The fire crackles softly behind him.

Outside, distant voices echo through Aretia, but inside this room it feels like the world has stopped breathing.

Finally, after several moments, quietly—

“I can still see his face.”

The words are so soft he almost misses them.

Something inside him immediately aches.

You swallow hard, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I close my eyes and I see him hitting the ground.” Your voice shakes slightly now. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were defending yourself.”

“I killed him.”

The crack in your voice nearly destroys him.

You finally look at him then, and the devastation in your expression hits like a physical blow.

“He looked scared,” you whisper. “Right at the end, he looked scared and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Xaden’s chest tightens painfully.

You curl tighter into yourself, fingers trembling slightly where they grip your sleeves.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

Xaden moves before he even consciously decides to.

Slowly. Carefully.

He kneels directly in front of you now.

“You don’t get to carry this alone.”

Immediately, your expression shutters again. Your instinct to retreat and bury the guilt that's been threatening to choke you for days now.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said—”

“I know what you said.” His voice sharpens slightly—not angry, but firm enough to stop you. “And I’m telling you I don’t believe you.”

Your eyes sting instantly at the sudden intensity in his voice.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit shakily. “You’ve all killed people before. The marked ones, the riders—everyone just keeps moving and I—” your breathing catches painfully “—I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Xaden’s face softens so immediately it almost undoes you completely.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The gentleness in his voice is worse than pity.

You look away again quickly before he can see the tears gathering.

Too late.

“Look at me.”

You shake your head.

“Please.”

That’s what gets you.

Not command. Not pressure. But pleading.

Please.

Reluctantly, you lift your gaze.

His expression nearly breaks your heart.

There’s no judgment there.

No disappointment. Only concern. Only love.

“You think there’s something wrong with you because you’re devastated after taking a life?” he asks quietly.

You blink hard. “I shouldn’t feel this weak.”

His brows draw together immediately. “Weak?”

“You all handle it.”

“No,” he says firmly. “We survive it.”

That lands hard enough to make you still.

Xaden shifts closer carefully, slow enough to give you time to pull away.

You don’t.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says softly. “The fact that this hurts means you’re still you. It means you still care. Do you understand how rare that is here?”

A tear finally slips down your cheek.

“I can’t stop seeing it.”

“I know.”

Another tear follows.

“I can’t sleep.”

“I know.”

“I feel sick all the time.”

“I know.”

His voice never changes, never hardens. It just stays steady and warm and heartbreakingly patient.

And somehow that makes the tears worse.

“I didn’t want to kill him,” you whisper brokenly.

Xaden’s expression crumples slightly at the words.

“I know you didn’t.”

The sob that escapes you then sounds almost startled, like you’d been fighting it for days and your body finally gave up.

Immediately, Xaden closes the remaining distance between you.

One hand slides gently to the back of your neck while the other pulls you into his chest carefully, giving you every opportunity to resist.

You don’t.

You fold into him so suddenly it almost knocks the breath from him.

“There you go,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

And that nearly destroys you completely.

Because you didn’t realise how exhausted you were from holding yourself together until he said it.

Your hands clutch tightly at his shirt while the sobs finally come properly, harsh and uneven against his chest.

Xaden just holds you through all of it.

No judgment. No lectures.

Just steady warmth and grounding pressure and his hand smoothing repeatedly through your hair.

“You don’t have to shut me out,” he says quietly after a while.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I didn’t know how to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to do it perfectly.”

Another shaky breath leaves you.

“I thought if I said it out loud it would become real.”

Xaden’s arms tighten around you slightly.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “it was already real. You don’t have to survive it alone on top of that.”

You cry harder at that, because that’s exactly what you’ve been trying to do.

Carry it alone. Punish yourself alone. Mourn alone.

Xaden presses a kiss gently into your hairline.

“Have you eaten anything today?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

His jaw tightens faintly. “Okay.”

You sniff weakly. “…Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“That tone says otherwise.”

Despite everything, you feel the faintest shift in his chest like he’s suppressing a relieved laugh because you’re finally talking properly.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

Before you can protest, he carefully shifts, lifting you up from the floor entirely.

You let out a tiny startled sound. “Xaden—”

“Nope.”

“I can walk.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

Normally you’d argue harder, but tonight you just bury your face into his neck instead.

His expression softens instantly.

He carries you to the bed, settling you carefully against the pillows before pulling the blankets over you.

“You’re going to eat something,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s unfortunate for you because I already asked someone to bring food.”

You blink at him. “You did?”

“I’ve been worried for three days,” he says flatly. “Of course I did.”

Your chest aches painfully at the quiet honesty of it.

He sits beside you then, one hand still resting against your leg like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there.

“You’re going to sleep tonight too.”

“I don’t want to dream.”

Something flickers across his face then.

Understanding.

Without a word, he shifts further into the bed beside you and opens an arm toward you automatically.

An invitation.

You hesitate for only a second before moving into him.

Immediately, his arm wraps tightly around you, pulling you fully against his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

And for the first time since the challenge you finally believe you might survive this too.

Because you know you have Xaden by your side.

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "I didn't ask you to come" and "I'm not leaving you".

The first thing Xaden noticed when he lands in the clearing is that something feels wrong.

Too quiet. Too still.

The shadows at his feet stir uneasily as he slides from Sgaeyl’s back, scanning the tree line automatically for the small group of fliers he was scheduled to meet for the first time.

Everything looks normal.

And that’s exactly why his instincts sharpen.

Then—

The air suddenly shifts, the sounds of flapping wings and a familiar dragon lands behind him.

Xaden closes his eyes, slowly, like he’s asking the gods for strength.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

You hop down from your dragon looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

“Hi.”

His stare could level buildings.

“You followed me?”

You shrug casually, already walking toward him. “Technically I tracked you.”

“That is not better.”

“It’s a little better.”

“It’s significantly worse.”

Xaden lowers his voice as you stop in front of him, conscious of who could be listening. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Backing you up.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“No,” you agree easily. “You snuck out alone in the middle of the night like a suspicious little criminal instead.”

His jaw tightens. “Because this mission was supposed to stay quiet.”

“And it still is.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“And you couldn’t?”

“That’s different.”

You snort immediately. “Right. Of course. Because you’re apparently immortal now.”

His eyes narrow.

Yours narrow right back.

Gods, he’s furious.

Not cold furious either—the dangerous kind. The kind fuelled entirely by fear and protectiveness whenever you're in danger.

You soften slightly.

“Xaden,” you say quieter this time, “I’m here now.”

“That’s the problem.”

But despite the words, his gaze sweeps over you automatically, checking for injuries, checking that you’re really alright. And when he finds none some tiny fraction of tension leaves his shoulders.

Barely noticeable, but you catch it.

The standoff lasts exactly three seconds before a twig snaps within the trees and a small group of fliers begin edging into the clearing.

Too late to send you away now.

The drop itself goes smoothly.

Almost suspiciously smoothly considering you were effectively committing treason and working with your enemies.

The crates get transferred quickly, routes confirmed, information exchanged. Xaden remains guarded the entire time, all sharp focus and controlled authority, but every so often his gaze flicks toward you anyway.

Making sure you’re still there. Making sure you’re safe.

At one point, when negotiations stall briefly, one of the younger fliers edges closer to you and murmurs quietly:

“He always this terrifying?”

You glance toward Xaden, who’s currently staring down another flier you vaguely overheard him calling Syrena, hard enough that anyone else would have bolted in the other direction already.

“…Pretty much.”

“And you followed him here willingly?”

“Questionable decision-making is kind of my thing.”

The flier snorts.

Across the clearing, Xaden notices, and somehow looks annoyed about that too.

By the time everything’s finished and the fliers depart, the tension has mostly faded from the night air.

Mostly.

Xaden is still sulking.

You walk beside him toward your dragons, fighting a smile.

“You know,” you say casually, “for someone who survived the mission completely unharmed, you’re being incredibly dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

“You’ve spoken approximately seven words to me in the last hour.”

“That was intentional.”

“There it is.”

He shoots you a flat look.

You grin, which does not help his mood. “You cannot seriously still be angry.”

“I absolutely can.”

“But nothing even went wrong.”

“That’s not the point.”

You sigh dramatically. “Gods, you sound so serious.”

“I’m going to leave you here if you don't stop.”

“No, you won’t.”

Xaden only huffs, knowing you were correct.

You laugh outright at that, bumping lightly into his arm as you reach your dragons.

He catches your wrist immediately before you can pull away.

The movement is automatic.

Possessive. Protective.

His expression shifts slightly then, some of the frustration finally cracking enough for something more honest to slip through.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says quieter this time.

“But?”

He narrows his eyes instantly. “There is no but.”

“There’s absolutely a but.”

“There is not.”

You just wait, because you know him, know the exact look he gets when he’s losing an argument internally.

And there it is.

A tiny exhale. A reluctant glance away.

“…It was useful having you here, I guess.”

Victory.

Your grin spreads immediately. “Useful?”

“Don’t make it worse.”

“You liked having backup.”

“I tolerated having backup.”

“You were comforted by my presence.”

“I was stressed by your presence.”

“But secretly reassured.”

He groans softly. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

You beam at him. “And yet?”

His gaze flicks back to yours, warm now despite himself. Hopelessly fond underneath all the irritation.

“…And yet,” he mutters reluctantly, “I was glad you were here.”

The words hit you right in the chest, because Xaden doesn’t admit things like that easily.

Your expression softens immediately.

“See,” you tease gently, “that wasn’t so hard.”

“It was horrible actually.”

You laugh quietly, stepping closer.

His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, but his other hand rises to sit comfortably on your waist.

“You know,” you murmur, “you don’t always have to do things alone.”

His jaw tightens faintly at that. “I know.”

“You act like backup is a personal insult.”

“Because usually it is.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “You’re impossible.”

“So are you.”

A beat passes.

Then, predictably his expression hardens again.

“You’re still not doing this again.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“I can try.”

“You literally just admitted you were glad I came.”

“I’m allowed to be glad and furious simultaneously.”

“That seems unhealthy.”

“That sounds like a problem for future me.”

You snort.

He steps closer then, lowering his voice. “Next time I bring Garrick. Or Bodhi.”

“Oh, so they’re allowed but I’m not?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sexist.”

“It's protective boyfriend instinct.”

You laugh again, but his hand tightens slightly around yours before you can step away completely.

The humour in his expression fades just enough for something more vulnerable to show through.

“I don't like it when you put yourself in more danger than necessary,” he admits quietly.

There it is. The real reason.

Not anger. Never really anger, but fear.

Your chest softens immediately.

You step fully into his space this time, reaching up to smooth your hand along his jaw.

“I’m okay.”

“You might not have been if things had gone wrong.”

“But I was and things didn't go wrong.”

His eyes close briefly at your touch, tension flickering across his face again.

“I’m not leaving you,” you say softly. "Not to face danger on your own."

His gaze snaps back to yours instantly.

Something fierce flashes there. Something emotional enough that it almost catches him off guard.

Then he exhales quietly through his nose and leans his forehead briefly against yours.

“…That’s exactly the problem,” he mutters.

He presses a kiss to your forehead before reluctantly letting you go to mount your dragon.

And despite all the sulking and glaring and angry boyfriend lectures—

Xaden sleeps better at night knowing you're always beside him.

Taglist:

I love the prompt list and was wondering if you could write something for Cassian with 5. “You remembered?”. Keep up the amazing work!! <3

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You remembered".

Authors Note: Thank you so much! Cassian is such a loveable teddy bear, so I really enjoyed writing this one. Hope you also enjoy!

The House is quiet when you return.

Too quiet.

You pause just inside the doorway, brows knitting slightly as you slip your boots off.

“Cassian?” you call.

No answer.

Which is suspicious. Very suspicious for the 6'5 Illyrian.

You step further inside carefully.

The lights are low.

Soft music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, and there’s a smell in the air—something sweet, rich, familiar.

Your confusion only deepens.

“Cassian?”

Still nothing.

Then—

“Kitchen.”

You blink.

You smile to yourself, sensing something different about tonight.

You follow the sound of his voice, rounding the corner—

And stop dead.

Candles flicker across every surface.

Not extravagant. Not overdone. Just enough to cast everything in gold.

The table is set. Dinner already waiting.

And Cassian is standing there looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“Well?” he asks immediately, spreading his arms slightly. “Impressed?”

You stare at him.

Then at the table.

Then at him again.

“…Did you cook?”

His expression turns defensive. “I had supervision.”

You laugh softly despite yourself. You bite your lip to keep your giddy smile at bay, a faint colouring to your cheeks as you take the effort he's taken in awe.

And that’s when you notice it.

Sitting near your plate.

A tiny vase.

Inside it, a cluster of pale blue wildflowers.

Your breath catches.

Cassian notices instantly.

His cocky expression falters slightly. “You okay?”

You move closer slowly, almost cautiously, eyes fixed on the flowers.

Tiny. Delicate. Beautiful.

“You remembered?” you ask quietly.

Cassian’s brow furrows like the answer should be obvious.

“Of course I remembered.”

Your throat tightens immediately.

Because it wasn’t just the flowers.

It was these flowers.

The ones you’d pointed out months ago during a flight through the mountains. The ones that only bloomed for a few weeks each year. You’d stopped to admire them for all of thirty seconds before moving on.

You hadn’t even thought he was listening.

“They only grow near the northern ridges,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“And it’s freezing there right now.”

Cassian shrugs one shoulder casually, but you know him well enough to catch the slight stiffness in the movement.

“You flew all the way out there?”

“You liked them.”

Like that explained everything. Like there was no question he would.

Your eyes sting instantly.

Cassian notices in horror.

“Oh gods.”

You laugh weakly as tears suddenly spill over.

“No, no, sweetheart—don’t cry—”

“I’m not trying to!”

Cassian is around the table in seconds.

Large hands immediately cupping your face, concern written all over him.

“You’re crying,” he says helplessly.

“You remembered the flowers,” you whisper, which only seems to confuse him more.

“Obviously I remembered the flowers.”

That somehow makes it worse.

A soft, embarrassed sob escapes you and Cassian looks genuinely alarmed now.

“Hey,” he says quickly, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes. “Hey, none of that.”

You laugh through your tears.

“You flew into the mountains in winter for flowers.”

“You make it sound dramatic.”

“It is dramatic!”

“You cried last week because I brought you your favorite pastry.”

“It was thoughtful!”

“You’re proving my point!”

You smack lightly at his chest.

He catches your wrist immediately, pressing a kiss into your knuckles before pulling you against him.

"I can't believe you did all this."

“Of course I did,” he murmurs softly as you hide your face against his chest.

You cling to him, still sniffling.

Cassian wraps his arms tightly around you, chin resting atop your head.

“You really didn’t think I’d remember?” he asks quietly after a moment.

You shrug weakly against him.

“It was months ago.”

“So?”

“You barely stopped walking.”

“I always listen to you.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly starts the tears all over again.

Cassian immediately senses it.

“Absolutely not,” he warns gently. “No more crying.”

“You’re too sweet,” you mumble into his shirt.

He snorts softly. “Don’t let the others hear you say that. I’ve got a reputation.”

You smile against him.

He tilts your chin up carefully, brushing away the last traces of tears with impossibly gentle hands.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs warmly.

He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips.

You look at him properly as he pulls away.

At the quiet pride in his expression. The softness he only ever shows so openly with you.

And your chest aches with it.

“You remembered,” you say again, quieter this time.

Cassian smiles like this was the easiest thing in the world.

“Always.”

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're shaking."

The wind in the Illyrian camps is different from the rest of Prythian.

Sharper. Crueler.

It cuts straight through leathers and skin and bone until even breathing starts to ache.

By the time night falls, you’re exhausted.

The day had been long—training females who still flinched every time they made a mistake, quietly correcting stances when the males nearby muttered disapproval, pretending not to notice the glares burning into your back.

Cassian had been gone most of the afternoon, dragged from one meeting to another with camp lords and commanders already testing his patience.

You’d told him you’d be fine.

Now, standing alone in the small house assigned to you both, you’re beginning to regret that.

The fire crackles weakly in the hearth.

You’re still cold.

You sit curled near the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t help nearly enough, fingers tucked under your arms as you stare numbly into the flames.

Your body won’t stop trembling.

You’re so tired you don’t even realize the door has opened until—

“Sweetheart?”

Cassian’s concerned voice.

You look up slowly.

His expression changes the second he sees you.

“Gods,” he mutters, crossing the room instantly. “You’re shaking.”

You try for a smile. “It’s freezing here.”

“That bad?”

You nod once.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes sweeping over you—checking for injury first, instinctively.

Then he kneels in front of you, large hands immediately finding your arms.

His palms are warm. So deliciously warm that you let out a small breath at the contact.

“How long have you been like this?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. A while.”

His frown deepens. “You should’ve sent for me.”

“You were busy.”

“I don’t care.”

The answer comes too fast. Too firm.

His thumbs rub gently up and down your arms, trying to coax warmth back into them.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I noticed.”

That finally gets the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

“Smart mouth.”

You would grin back if your teeth weren’t threatening to chatter.

Cassian notices immediately and his face softens.

“Oh, honey.”

Before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him effortlessly.

You make a small sound of surprise as he sits first—then drags you directly into his lap, wrapping the blanket fully around both of you.

Warmth engulfs you instantly.

Cassian’s chest at your back. His wings curving forward around you like shields. His arms tight around your middle.

You practically melt against him.

“There,” he murmurs against your hair. “Better?”

“A little.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek.

“You worked too hard today.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, but I’m built for this weather.”

You snort weakly. “Show off.”

He huffs a soft laugh, tightening his hold slightly when another shiver runs through you. Without another word, one hand slips beneath the blanket to take yours.

Your fingers are ice cold.

Cassian actually winces.

“Gods above.”

He brings your hand to his mouth immediately, breathing warm air over your knuckles before pressing kisses to your fingertips one by one.

You blink, heart squeezing painfully.

“Cass…”

“What?” he murmurs, still rubbing warmth back into your hands. “Can’t have my girl freezing to death on me.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re dramatic enough that I can’t be sure.”

You elbow him weakly.

He catches your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your palm this time.

"You know, there is a quicker way I can get you warmed up..."

You snort. "Does it involve less clothes?"

Cassian's grin turns positively wicked. "Maybe."

You roll your eyes, though it lacks any real bite when you’re still curled against him beneath the blanket, half frozen and entirely too comfortable in his lap.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around your waist, “you continue to keep me around.”

“Debatable.”

Cassian laughs before he says softly, “Come here."

As if you aren’t already practically inside his ribcage.

He shifts you more fully against him until you’re completely tucked into his chest, your legs draped over his, wings cocooning you both from the draft slipping through the old cabin walls.

His chin rests lightly on your shoulder.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now.

Steady. Safe.

“Meetings go badly?” you ask quietly after a moment.

Cassian groans dramatically into your hair.

“The worst males alive,” he mutters. “I considered throwing at least three of them off the mountain.”

You laugh softly.

“There she is,” he says immediately, smiling against your skin. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

You relax further into him.

Another shiver passes through you, smaller this time.

Cassian notices anyway.

He rubs his hands firmly along your arms beneath the blanket before pressing another kiss behind your ear.

“Still cold?”

“Not as much.”

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably.

The fire crackles.

Snow taps softly against the windows.

And Cassian just holds you.

No teasing now. No games. Just warmth and steady affection poured into every touch.

After a while, he murmurs quietly:

“You know I’d leave every meeting in Prythian if you needed me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“And next time,” he adds, voice gentler still, “tell me sooner.”

You tilt your head slightly, brushing your nose against his jaw.

“Yes, General.”

He snorts softly.

Then pulls the blanket tighter around you both anyway—

Like he can shield you from the cold through sheer stubbornness alone.

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You have no sense of self-preservation."

Authors Note: I chose to go with Brennan on this one as we need more Brennan appreciation!

The healers’ quarters are nearly empty by the time you find him.

The battle ended hours ago, but Brennan is still standing in the center of the infirmary with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands glowing gold as another rider groans beneath his touch.

You pause in the doorway.

He looks exhausted.

Not ordinary tired—drained. Pale beneath the freckles dusting his face, shoulders tense, movements slower than usual. There’s sweat at his temples and a faint tremor in his hands every time the glow fades between patients.

And still, he says, “Next.”

“Brennan.”

He barely glances up. “One minute.”

“That’s what you said hours ago.”

Violet had wisely sought you out after Brennan kept continually ignoring her gentle demands to rest. If there was anyone he would listen to, it was you.

The healer beside him wisely slips away while Brennan finishes mending a cracked rib. The second the rider leaves, another injured cadet limps forward.

Brennan lifts his glowing hands again.

You step directly between them.

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “Move.”

“No.”

“People need help.”

“And you can barely stand.”

“I’m fine.”

You stare at him flatly. “You’re swaying.”

“I’m not—”

He sways.

Only slightly, but enough.

Your expression softens instantly.

“Brennan,” you say quietly.

He exhales hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “There are still wounded.”

“And there will be more wounded if you collapse from burnout.”

“They need me.”

“So do I.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes finally lift fully to yours, exhaustion cracking through the stubbornness.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “You need to look after yourself better.”

A tired huff of laughter escapes him. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

His glow flickers faintly again, unstable now, and your stomach twists.

Without another word, you reach for his wrists, gently forcing his hands down.

“That’s enough.”

“I can keep going.”

“No,” you say softly. “You could. That’s the problem.”

For a moment he just looks at you, worn thin and quietly miserable beneath all the composure.

Then, finally, he lets himself lean into you.

You guide him to sit on the edge of one of the cots, kneeling in front of him as your hands slide up into his hair, brushing damp strands back from his forehead.

His eyes close immediately.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“You run into collapsing buildings. Ignore injuries. Drain yourself half to death healing strangers.”

“They aren’t strangers.”

“You know what I mean.”

His hands settle automatically at your waist, grounding himself there.

You brush your thumb over the dark circles beneath his eyes. “You really have no sense of self preservation.”

This time, when he opens his eyes, something softer lives there.

“No,” he says quietly. “Mine just disappears whenever it comes to you.”

Your breath catches.

He watches your expression change and gives the faintest, tired smile.

“You ask me to stop,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your hip gently, “and I stop. Everyone else in this place would have had to physically restrain me.”

“That was my next plan.”

He laughs softly at that—weak, exhausted, but real.

You lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment before nodding once.

“Okay.”

And when he stands, unsteady from overusing his signet, he reaches for your hand immediately—like even now, exhausted down to the bone, he still needs the reassurance that you’re there.

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(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're beautiful" and "I could stay like this forever."

The first thing you become aware of is warmth.

Not the heavy suffocating kind, but the deep, comfortable warmth of Garrick wrapped around you like he’d spent the entire night trying to shield you from the cold.

One of his arms is draped across your waist, the other tucked beneath your pillow. His chest rises steadily against your back, slow and even with sleep.

For once, there are no bells ringing for formation.

No sparring challenge waiting to bruise you black and blue.

No assignments. No patrols. No pressure clawing at your ribs.

Just him.

You blink slowly at the soft morning light spilling through the curtains and shift slightly beneath the blankets.

Immediately, the arm around your waist tightens.

“Don’t,” Garrick mumbles sleepily against the back of your neck.

A laugh escapes you. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Hm.” His voice is rough with sleep. “Good.”

You turn carefully in his arms until you’re facing him, and your heart does that stupid little stutter it always does when you really look at him.

His dark hair is a mess, flattened on one side from sleep. There’s still the faint crease of exhaustion beneath his eyes from the last few weeks of training and missions, but relaxed like this—soft and half-awake—he looks younger somehow.

Content.

His eyes crack open slowly, immediately finding yours. And then he smiles.

Not the cocky grin he wears around everyone else. Not the teasing smirk.

This one is small. Sleepy. Real. Like it belongs only to you.

Your chest aches with affection.

“What?” you whisper.

His gaze drifts lazily across your face like he’s memorising you all over again. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat floods your cheeks instantly.

“Garrick—”

“No, seriously.” His thumb brushes softly across your cheekbone. “I wake up next to you and it’s unfair how beautiful you are first thing in the morning.”

You snort quietly. “I look half dead.”

“You look perfect.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach twist pleasantly.

You hide your face against his chest with a groan. “You’re a liar.”

His laugh rumbles beneath your ear, low and warm.

His fingers slip into your hair, gently scratching against your scalp while silence settles between you again—comfortable and quiet.

Outside, you can faintly hear distant movement somewhere beyond the dormitory windows, but neither of you make any move to get up.

After a while, Garrick shifts lower into the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re practically sprawled across his chest.

“This,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep, “is exactly where you belong.”

Your heart melts a little more.

“Oh really?”

“Mhm."

“And what if I had productive plans today?”

He opens one eye. “You?”

You smack his chest weakly.

He grins. “Why are you always so cruel to me?”

“You started it.”

His hands slide lazily up and down your back beneath his shirt—the one you stole weeks ago and never gave back.

“Stay here today,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head. “In bed?”

“All day.”

You laugh softly. “Garrick, we’ll rot.”

“That’s fine.”

“We should probably eat at some point.”

“We’ll survive.”

“You say that now, but in six hours you’ll be dramatic about starving to death.”

“I can suffer through it if it means I get to keep holding you.”

Your expression softens.

Gods, this male.

You brush your fingers through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his forehead.

“I think,” you say carefully, “I could manage staying in bed all day with you.”

His entire face lights up like you’ve handed him the greatest gift imaginable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The grin he gives you is devastatingly handsome.

Then he pulls you impossibly closer until your legs tangle together beneath the blankets and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmurs against your skin.

And wrapped up in his arms, warm and adored and safe, you think maybe you could too.

Taglist:

with protective Azriel!!!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You almost got yourself killed!"

The battle was over, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air thick enough to choke on.

Your ears rang.

Somewhere in the distance, soldiers shouted for healers. Metal scraped against stone. Wings thundered overhead as Illyrians landed across the ruined field, but all of it sounded muffled—far away beneath the frantic pounding of your heart.

Because Azriel was on his knees.

Blood soaked through the side of his leathers, one hand braced against the ground while shadows writhed violently around him, unsettled and feral. He looked pale beneath the splatters of dirt and ash, his breathing shallow.

And all you could see—over and over again—was the moment he'd shoved you out of the way.

The moment that spear which had been meant for you had skewered through his side.

You reached him before he could stand properly.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Your voice cracked so sharply it startled even you.

Azriel blinked up at you.

You had never shouted at him. Not once. Not in all the time he'd known you.

Around you, a few nearby soldiers very wisely pretended not to listen.

“You almost got yourself killed!” you snapped.

The words tore out of you far louder than intended, shaking with panic more than anger. Your hands grabbed fistfuls of his leathers as though you needed physical proof he was still there.

“You—” Your breath hitched violently. “You threw yourself in front of it.”

Azriel’s expression shifted then. The surprise faded, replaced by something softer. Something worried.

"Why would you do that?!"

His face tightened slightly, as though he didn't understand why that part upset you.

“It was going to hit you,” he said quietly.

The sheer simplicity of it nearly broke you.

Your vision blurred. “So your solution was to die instead?”

“I wasn’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that!”

Your voice cracked again, and that—more than the shouting—seemed to hit him.

Because suddenly Azriel was moving despite the obvious pain, rising just enough to reach for you.

But you got there first.

You practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he staggered a little from the force of it, and then he was holding you just as fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored around your waist.

You were violently trembling.

Azriel felt it immediately and his entire body softened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

The tenderness in his voice shattered the last of your composure.

“I thought—” Your words dissolved into a shaky breath against his neck. “I thought I was watching you die.”

Azriel went completely still.

The shadows around him quieted instantly, settling low and calm for the first time since the battle ended.

You buried your face against him harder, clutching at the back of his leathers. “Don’t do that to me,” you whispered brokenly. “Please don’t do that to me.”

His arms tightened.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

And Azriel almost never apologized for battlefield decisions.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears mixing with soot on your cheeks. “You scared me half to death.”

Something anguished flickered across his face then.

Not from his injury, but from you hurting. He hadn't even thought when he'd acted, it had been purely been protective instinct.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully, reverently, as though he hated every tear he found there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him at that. Tired. Disbelieving.

You glared at him through wet eyes, which only made his expression soften further.

Then his forehead rested against yours.

“You are my life,” he said quietly.

The words wrapped around your battered heart and squeezed.

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Every instinct I have is built around protecting you.”

“But not at the cost of you,” you whispered fiercely.

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing that hurt him more than the wound in his side.

“You don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “If something happened to you—”

“You think I’d survive losing you?”

That finally made him open his eyes.

Real shock crossed his face then. Genuine, vulnerable shock.

You cupped his face with trembling hands. “Azriel, I love you. If you had died in front of me tonight…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t even know what would’ve been left of me after.”

For a moment he simply stared at you.

Like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

Then he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate. Relieved.

His hands framed your face like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of terror and love and gratitude into it.

Alive.

He was alive.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.

“Don't worry sweetheart, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured against your lips.

You let out a watery laugh. “Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then he tucked you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into your hair while his shadows curled lazily around both of you at last.

Safe.

Together.

Exactly where he intended to stay.

Taglist:

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're impossible to argue with when you look at me like that" and "Have you even been listening to me?"

The infirmary at Basgiath smells like burnt cloth, antiseptic, and exhaustion.

You hate it.

Mostly because being here means you pushed too far.

Again.

The healers move around you in practiced motions, checking burns along your forearms and the strain damage from completely overextending your signet during the sparring challenge. One of them keeps talking to you—something about magical depletion and stress on your body—but it all blurs together into background noise.

Because Xaden hasn’t said a single word.

Not one.

He stands near the foot of your bed, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set hard enough to crack stone.

Watching. Waiting. Fuming.

And somehow that’s worse.

You risk a glance toward him just as one of the healers sighs dramatically.

“She’s lucky she stopped when she did.”

Xaden’s expression darkens immediately.

You wince.

The healer continues, entirely oblivious to the death glare aimed at the back of their head. “Another minute pushing that hard and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

Silence.

Then—

“We’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

Absolutely not.

“I’m fine,” you immediately protest.

“No, you’re not,” the healer says flatly.

“I can walk.”

“You almost burned yourself out.”

“Yeah, almost.”

That earns you a look. Not from the healer.

From Xaden.

Gods.

You’d rather fight a wyvern barehanded.

The healer finally leaves after another round of instructions, giving Xaden a polite nod on the way out that he barely acknowledges.

And then the door closes and you’re alone.

The silence stretches.

You pick nervously at the blanket over your lap. “So…”

Nothing.

Xaden stares at you for another long second before dragging a hand down his face.

“You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

There it is.

You exhale quietly. “Xaden—”

“No.” He cuts you off immediately, finally pushing away from the wall. “No, because I specifically told you not to overdo it.”

“I had it under control.”

His laugh is sharp and completely humourless. “Really? Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like you were about to collapse in the middle of the ring.”

You look away.

Wrong move.

“Have you even been listening to me?” he asks, frustration rising again.

“I am listening.”

“Then why do you keep doing this?” He gestures sharply toward you, toward the burns, toward the infirmary around you. “Why do you insist on pushing yourself past your limits every single time?”

“I just wanted to prove—”

“You don’t need to prove anything.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand.” His voice cracks louder this time, emotion slipping through the control he’s clearly been clinging to. “I watched you nearly destroy yourself because you’re too stubborn to stop when you’re hurting.”

Your throat tightens.

Not because he’s yelling, but because he sounds scared.

Actually scared.

“I told you to stop,” he continues, pacing once now, agitated energy pouring off him. “And you looked me dead in the eye and kept going anyway.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You stare down at your hands in an attempt to hide the fact.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

But he’s still going.

“You could’ve seriously hurt yourself. Do you have any idea what that would’ve done to me?” He stops pacing long enough to look at you properly. “Gods, you’re impossible sometimes.”

You blink quickly.

Once.

Twice.

Your vision blurs.

Because now that the adrenaline is gone and the healers are gone and it’s just him, all that’s left is embarrassment and humiliation.

You pushed too far in front of everyone. You lost control. And now Xaden’s upset with you on top of it.

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it.

The effect is immediate.

Xaden stops mid-sentence.

“…Hey.”

His entire expression changes in an instant, anger vanishing so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

You scrub at your face immediately, mortified. “I’m fine.”

He gives you a pointed look, softened at the edges. “No you're not.”

“I said I’m—”

Another tear escapes.

Xaden’s face softens immediately, all sharp edges melting into concern as he crosses the room in seconds.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart—”

“I know it was stupid,” you say quickly, voice wobbling despite your best efforts. “I know I pushed too hard, and everyone saw, and now I’m stuck in here and—”

“Look at me.”

Gentle.

So gentle it makes your chest ache.

You reluctantly lift your gaze.

The frustration is gone from his expression now, replaced entirely by worry and something painfully affectionate.

“You’re hurt,” he says softly. “I’m upset because you scared me. Not because I’m angry at you.”

You sniff weakly. “You sounded angry.”

“I was angry.” His hand comes up to brush away another tear with his thumb. “For about five seconds. Then you started crying and apparently I lost the ability to function.”

A watery laugh escapes you despite yourself.

“There it is,” he murmurs immediately, relief flickering across his face like he’d been waiting for that sound.

“I just feel stupid,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull together instantly. “For what? Getting hurt during training?” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t make you stupid.”

“I should’ve listened to you.”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

You glare weakly through your tears.

His mouth twitches.

“You’re impossible to argue with when you look at me like that,” he mutters.

You let out another tiny laugh, shoulders finally loosening slightly.

You can literally see him relax the second he hears it.

His hand slides gently into your hair, smoothing it back from your face.

“You don’t have to push yourself until you break for anyone,” he says quietly. “Not for the professors. Not for the other cadets. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens again—but this time for a different reason.

“I just wanted to keep up.”

His expression softens even further somehow.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you’ve never once been something I had to drag behind me.”

Your eyes sting all over again.

“Oh gods,” he mutters affectionately. “Don’t start crying again.”

“You’re being nice to me.”

“That’s usually how this relationship works, yes.”

You huff out a weak laugh and immediately lean into him when he opens his arms.

He pulls you close carefully, mindful of the burns, one hand cradling the back of your head against his chest.

“You scared me,” he admits quietly into your hair. “I know you hate when I get overprotective, but seeing you like that…” He exhales shakily. “I can’t lose you.”

Your arms tighten around him immediately. “You won’t.”

“I’d prefer not to test that.”

A small silence settles between you then.

Warm. Safe.

His fingers continue combing gently through your hair while your breathing slowly evens out against him.

Eventually, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he says firmly.

You groan softly. “Xaden—”

“Nope. Not negotiating.”

“I hate infirmaries.”

“I know.”

“They smell weird.”

“I know.”

“The beds are uncomfortable.”

“I know.”

You tip your head back just enough to look up at him. “You’re staying too then.”

That catches him off guard for half a second.

Then his expression softens into something unbearably fond.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Course I am.”

Because there was never really another option.

Not for Xaden.

Not when it comes to you.

Taglist:

Feel free to request a scenario using one of the prompts below with your favourite character:

“You’re impossible to argue with when you look at me like that.”

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

“You’re going to bed even if I have to carry you.”

“Have you even been listening to me?”

“You remembered?”

“You came back.”

“I said I’d protect you.”

“Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“You scared me.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault.”

“I can’t lose you too.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I knew you’d come.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Get behind me.”

“Who did this to you?”

“You should see yourself right now.”

“You’re not seriously jealous.”

“You were flirting with them.”

“I hate seeing you with someone else.”

“You look good in my clothes.”

“Don’t move.”

“You’re warm.”

“Stay.”

“You can sleep here tonight.”

“I trust you.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s you.”

“You remembered my favourite.”

“You noticed that?”

“I wasn’t going to let you go alone.”

“You followed me?”

“I had to make sure you were safe.”

“That was reckless.”

“You almost got yourself killed.”

“You came for me?”

“I always will.”

“There's my favourite person.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“Take my hand.”

“You are very obviously not fine.”

“Don’t shut me out.”

“You matter to me.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“We’ll figure it out together.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

“You make me nervous.”

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re safe here.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Come here.”

“You remembered?”

“Did you really think you could get away with it?”

“I could stay like this forever.”

“Take it.”

“You did all this for me?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No, I’m trying not to kiss you.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I think this is what happiness feels like.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Kill me now.”

“I thought you hated me.”

“That’s a HUGE problem.”

“I shouldn’t want you like this.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You make me feel reckless.”

“You make me feel safe.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Why are you late?”

“You can’t keep saving me.”

“Watch this...”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know what you did last night.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You remembered my order?”

“Hey, don't do that!”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“Only when it comes to you.”

“I thought I lost you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“You really have no sense of self-preservation.”

“You smiled.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You’re softer than you pretend to be.”

“Careful.”

“Is that a threat?”

Hey everyone!

My ‘Moments’ series is like my little baby and I love seeing things or finding inspiration in little mundane moments in life and imagine what that would be like with our favourite men. I am so happy and grateful for all the comments and support I’ve received on all of them so far.

That being said, do you guys want more ‘Moments’ or something different and longer/more in-depth. Just general moments or something more specific? I’ve been considering doing themed ‘Moments’, for example around pregnancy/parenthood, different emotions like ‘Moments of jealousy or love’ etc. Comment below if you’d like that!

Is there someone in particular you’d like to see more of? You’ll notice I’ve added Liam from FW below, as I’m considering adding him to my portfolio… But you tell me what you want and I shall deliver!

I’ve put a poll below, so happy voting! 🥰 Depending on the results I shall release them in that order, so may the best man win!