#Lord Devlon drabble

[thisblogisaboutabook]

When the Lightsinger Calls (I Hear a Symphony)

An Azriel Drabble

Azriel daydreams of his mate -Inspired by ‘I Hear a Symphony’ by Cody Fry

I used to hear a simple song.

The warm winds of summer blew through the Illyrian mountains as Azriel sat sprawled on a thick branch fifty feet in the air, one leather covered leg dangling as the other stretched across the branch, his back resting against the trunk of an old Oak tree.

Cassian had been butting heads with Devlon for hours. Same shit, different day as they heatedly negotiated new terms for the training of Illyrian females. Devlon, of course, remained as stubborn as an ass. Even after decades of his bullshit, it never failed to chafe Azriel’s nerves that they were under the regime of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history yet had to make nice with stuck-in-their-ways pricks like him. Today in particular had left Azriel feeling less than giving.

Cassian booted Azriel out of negotiations in record time, which admittedly, was likely for the best. Azriel’s dominant stance, deadly gaze, and violent whirling shadows were not best suited for these futile attempts of “sweet talking” Devlon out of his deeply rooted misogyny. If Azriel had his way Truth Teller would do all the talking, but diplomacy unfortunately took precedence.

He may have put up more of a fight when storming out of the Camp Lord’s office had Cassian’s weapon of choice today not had a unique way of toeing that line between diplomacy and force in a way that even Truth Teller could not. No blood spillage necessary, though, Azriel thought with a smirk, the weapon could do just that as well.

The warmth of the suns rays shining through the rustling leaves and the scratch of bark lightly grazing the sensitive membranes of his wings - hitting those spots he could never quite reach - had Azriel drifting off into a light dream state.

As he began to doze, shadows hummed around him, the whistling breeze mixing in with their whirring as they sensed for any incoming threats.

Blending in with their simple song, the creek nearby babbled with the sounds of trickling water, crickets chirped beneath rocks below.

His thoughts became more vivid as his conscience drifted deeper into sleep.

His jaw ticked, wings jerking slightly as he dreamed glimpses of deep red coating his marred skin from the countless souls he’d drawn blood from, lifeless bodies scattered across bloody battlefields, dark cells, the bright flare of roaring fire scalding a child’s hands, his shadows melody becoming broken as they attempted to soothe their master.

The melody became lighter as the flame in his dreams became flashes of light, blurred glimpses of a lovely face appearing in and out of his dreams. A soft laugh intertwined itself with his shadows, the solemn hymn becoming lighter, with vibrant bursts of energy leaving his heart fluttering. More images of the ethereal face flickered through his mind, soft blush dusted cheeks, a radiant white smile, supple fingers tracing the muscles of his chest, plush lips on bare skin, all appearing to the beat of the rising staccato. His lips quirked upward in his sleep as his guard dropped lower and lower and the melody continued growing louder, building into the crescendo of the loveliest symphony he’d heard yet, even in Prythian’s most renowned concert halls.

The music filled Azriel’s entire being, leaving him light as shadow, his flaws forging themselves from ugly into something beautiful, something worthy, as the melody carried his soul toward the light.

Just as his body began to slump out of the tree a sing-song voice brighter than day awoke him. “Careful, Shadowsinger. One might think you’re sleeping on the job.”

He looked down to his beautiful mate, the face his dream had called him to. “My little Lightsinger, did you give Devlon hell?”

She beamed. “Worked a little on him. The girls get seven more hours per week and Cass or I can do spot checks whenever we please. I’ll push for more when we meet again in a few months.”

“That’s my girl.” His eyes shone with the pride filling his chest as he launched out of the tree and swept her off her feet.

“Let’s go home.” She whispered, pressing a kiss to his nose. Azriel only blushed and did just as his lady said, the two falling into companionable silence as her light and his shadow mingled in harmony the entire flight back to Velaris.

And now I hear a symphony.

———————————————-

#Azriel #gwynriel #Azriel x reader #Lightsinger #shadowsinger #reader insert #acotar #sarah j maas #drabble #acotar drabble #acotar oneshot #a court of thorns and roses #can be read as Gwynriel or Reader insert #do you all think Gwyn is a lightsinger? i hope she is #I’m pro Gwynriel #I’m pro Elriel #I’m also pro Azris #I’m pro Elucien #they should all just get married and live a happy little poly life and also invite me #Spotify

[velidewrites]

Frozen || Feysand Drabble

Let me pull you out of your nightmares.

Word Count: 1310

When Rhys returned from Illyria, the entirety of the second floor hallway was covered by a sheet of ice.

He’d nearly slipped on the stairs earlier, though he played it off as his mind playing tricks on him, worn out after what must have been hours of pointless debate with the winged warlords. Even Cassian, endless in his patience when dealing with their less-than-progressive perspectives, was practically fuming at the end when Devlon suggested a change in Illyria’s governance, going as far as shooting a grimace at his High Lord.

It was late, and Rhysand simply did not care anymore. Devlon was a problem for another day—perhaps when Nesta returned from the mortal lands. He had a feeling having the eldest Archeron at his side would prompt a much more effective conversation.

He should have ended the meeting the moment he’d realised they were going nowhere. It was well past midnight now, and he longed to be in bed with his mate tucked into his arms. She, too, had been overworking herself lately, and he knew the Illyrian conflict was weighing on her heart just as much.

The River House was quiet when he’d entered—Nyx, Cauldron bless him, was as peaceful a newborn as they came, sleeping through the night soundly in the nursery his mother had painted for him. It was Rhys’s favourite room in the house—he would sometimes wander there aimlessly, content to do nothing but sit on the plush carpets they’d ordered from Sangravah and watch the star-flecked walls. Somehow, Feyre had made the paint glisten without using any magic—as though the love she bore for their family had been enough to bring the mural to life. Every time he watched it, it settled something restless within him—something that, less often now that the war was over, would tug at the corner of his mind and whisper this was all a dream. A dream he’d never, ever deserved.

The door to the nursery was the only one that wasn’t coated by frost, the polished wood gleaming under the moonlight that peered through the windows instead. Everything else, though—the doors, the walls, the floor—were scraped by those icy claws, radiating cold. Rhys’s chest tightened—he knew perfectly well what that cold meant.

He’d learned to understand her magic the way he understood her soul—beautiful and entwined with his own the way shadows swirled between the stars. Sometimes, lost in a deep slumber, she would unleash them—velvety tendrils of the night, pooling around their bed. That darkness soothed him—told him she was at peace, her mind drifting calmly into the cloudless sky. At other times, she would burst with sunlight, bright enough to make the darkest of nights appear like daytime. He knew what that light meant, too—her dreams were ones of passion, of deepest, burning desire. On those nights, he’d lean down to brush his lips against her bare shoulder, her neck, her jaw, until they were captured by own, soft lips. On those nights, he drank in her taste like the sweetest nectar, drinking in her scent of lilac and pear as though it were the only air keeping him alive.

There were nights, though, when she engulfed the room in her flames. Real, living flames, licking at their bedframe, their nightstands, threatening to swallow them whole unless appeased by the flick of Rhysand’s own magic. Those flames told him she was angry—that even in her dreams, she sought revenge for everything that had been done to her. To him. To all of them.

He’d wake her up, then, asking for only one thing—to wait for the rising sun, for the clarity it brought as it lifted the misty fog of the night. If she still sought vengeance, even under its light, he would take her wherever she wanted to be—would watch her do what she needed to do, and rage along with her.

Tonight, there was no fire to be seen—and, perhaps for the very first time, Rhysand wished there was. Because he knew what that ice meant, too.

Fear.

Solid and unrelenting, almost impossible to crack. Freezing her heart, her mind, her soul—his soul, too, for they were truly one and the same.

Rhysand practically lunged into the room, the ice nearly yielding under the weight of the darkness gathering at his feet.

It all crashed into him the moment he opened the door.

His breath was knocked out of him, the cold tightening its grip on his lungs. He hadn’t gone into her mind uninvited since he’d taught her how to build her own mental shields—since then, they’d let each other’s thoughts flow down the bond, guided by their love and nothing else. This…this was different. That glaring fear took a brief hold in his chest as Feyre’s nightmares slammed into him, as if they could no longer be contained by her head alone, pushing feelings, images, memories into his.

The screams of twin Ravens, deep beneath the library as a creature of nightmares tore them apart, tore them to nothing. Cassian’s shredded wings as he laid unconscious on the table, his face drained of blood. Elain’s skin, raw and peeling under Hybern’s enchanted chains. Nesta’s head dipping under the murky water of the Cauldron. The Suriel’s body, lifeless and unmoving, Helion’s cloak draped over its form.

Rhysand’s body, colder than the ice around them as Feyre hovered over it, screaming.

Tears poured down her face, so heavy with salt and pain that they all but carved a path into her freckled cheeks. She had never showed him—not that part. Not the raw evidence of her anguish, one she never should have borne. It dripped onto his chest as she pressed her forehead to where his heart laid, soundless, and cried.

In that nightmare, no one appeared at her side, a kernel of light in the open palm of their hand.

Feyre just…kept on crying.

His heart—his real heart, living and breathing—strained inside of him, and even his blood seemed to thicken in his veins. He pushed through the cold, a frigid breeze now howling above her sleeping form, prickling his eyes, his face. He didn’t care—he just needed to get to her, now.

She jerked when his hand laid on her shoulder, warm against her frosted skin. He crawled into the bed, summoning his wings and spreading them wide—wide enough to wrap around her entirely, to shelter her from the wind, its icy needles now shooting into their leathery shield. It didn’t bother him—he barely noticed it, his focus solely on her shivering body, the swirling tattoos on her forearms, as if panicking over the scene playing out before them.

His hand slid to her lower back, pressing her closer into him, letting her bury her face in the crook of his neck—letting her feel the life beating inside him, inside both of them, the life beaming throughout the house they’d built together. He rubbed her back in slow, gentle circles, letting his darkness brush the loose strands of golden-brown hair from her face as he leaned down to graze his lips against her own. 

Her tattoos stopped swirling. The wind dissipated into the midnight air.

Rhys kissed his mate again. Then again. And again—that last kiss longer, deeper, letting his warmth sink into her.

The cold stopped shivering down her spine, and he felt her lean into his touch. He did not stop his hand’s gentle pace on her tense body, or the soft kisses he was now pressing to her freckles, treating each one like a dimming star he needed to pour life into.

He did not stop until her breath settled, and her heartbeat melted into his.

Only then did he finally sleep.

#feysand drabble #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

[hlizr50]

Here's a nice little drabble (an ACTUAL drabble) for Gwynriel Weeks Day 2: Training/Missions!

Azriel's POV of the Blood Rite Qualifier!!!

Read on AO3

Word Count: 499

Azriel was agitated, and his shadows were twitchy, as well. He believed in these three females with all of his heart; hell, he believed in Gwyn enough to cover all of them.

But inviting Lord Devlon and his second was a mistake.

Knowing that Devlon and his antiquated values and vicious sneers were anywhere near Gwyn put him on edge. So he made it his singular goal to focus on the tresses that were shining like copper in the sun.

It wasn’t difficult to keep his attention centered on the fiery priestess. Watching Gwyneth Berdara work was a sight to behold. She was a godsdamned drill sergeant, but she was incredible - a warrior goddess. Her eyes glinted with feral delight as she wiped blood from the corner of her mouth, her grimace only coming away smudged with dirt instead. She was so stubborn, beautifully persistent. She and Nesta and Emerie had been toiling at the obstacle course for two months to the day, as well as facing everything that training had thrown at them. The three of them had become an unbreakable unit, a sisterhood that reminded him so much of himself, Cassian, and Rhys in their days in the Illyrian camps.

Gwyn gave a sharp battle cry as she pulled herself over one final barricade and threw herself over the top, gracefully landing and barrel-rolling to ease the impact against the ground.

And then she was in front of him, eyes blazing as her shoulders heaved with her shuddering breaths and she grinned up at him and Cassian from her crouched position just across the finish line. She lifted a dirty, battered hand - palm up - as her smile widened and her teal depths glinted.

“Well?”

Gods, she was fucking magnificent. It didn’t matter that she was covered in filth and sweat, with tendrils of hair sticking to her brow. She was utterly, indescribably beautiful, and it took everything he had to keep his jaw from dropping before he spoke his casual words. 

“You already have your prize. You just passed the Blood Rite Qualifier. Congratulations.” This time it was Gwyn who was stunned, numbly accepting the shadowsinger’s assistance to rise to her feet.

“That was why you invited them?” The priestess looked toward the lip of the pit, and Azriel followed her gaze. Devlon looked furious, and nothing could thrill the spymaster more than knowing that it was Gwyn and her unit that had put the lord in such a sour state.

She was nothing short of incredible; everything about her. It made something seize in his chest when he considered how far she’d come from the terrified young priestess he’d found in Sangravah. His heart swelled with pride and awe, and that spark returned behind his sternum. Gwyneth Berdara was lovely. Beautiful.

But if Azriel had hoped to keep his growing affection for the irreverent warrior a secret - particularly from his own cold, stubborn heart - it was a battle he was sure he could no longer win.

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#gwynriel weeks 2023 #gwynriel week 2023 #gwynrielweeks2023 #gwynrielweek2023 #gwynriel #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #gwyneth berdara #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x gwyn #gwyn x azriel #Az POV of the Blood Rite Qualifier #Azriel is smitten