Azriel

💙||Sparring with your mate

Young Azriel

Young Az (9 years old)

Young Azriel

Young Az

Illyrian Camp

🗻🦇||Illyrian Camp

Azriel and Eris

💙🧡||Enemies to lovers + 1?

Azriel

💙||Azriel and your sons

Azriel

💙|| Enemies with Benefits

Azriel

Bassist Azriel 🎸

Anjou

He's upset

Azriel

💙||Lift up

Azriel

💙||Bad with feelings

Azriel

💙|| Nightmares

Azriel

💙||Appearances

Azriel

💙|| Lazy Mornings

Illyrian mate

Illyrian Mate||🦇

Fenix Vanserra

🧡||A Vanserra brother

Balthazar ACOTAR

Winning the Rite||🗻 (Mate or not idc)

Azriel

💙|| Lover Boy

Ridoc Gamlyn

🤎|| "Paul"- Big Thief

Ridoc Gamlyn

The wind off the cliffs is sharp tonight, cold enough to sting, but Ridoc doesn’t seem to notice as he sits on the stone ledge overlooking the dark sprawl of Basgiath. He doesn’t crack a joke when you approach. That alone tells you something’s wrong. “You’re going to freeze,” you say softly. “Yeah.” His voice is calm, distant. “Probably deserve it.” You sit beside him anyway, shoulder brushing his. The dragons are restless below, distant rumbles echoing through the night like thunder that never quite breaks. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then Ridoc exhales, slow and shaky. “Everyone thinks I’m fearless,” he says. “Or stupid. Sometimes both.” You glance at him, surprised by the rawness in his tone. “They don’t see this part,” he continues. “They don’t see how every night I count the faces that didn’t make it back. Or how I keep wondering when my luck runs out.” He swallows, jaw tightening. “I joke because if I don’t,” he admits, “I think I’d fall apart.” The wind tugs at his hair, lifting it just enough to expose the scar near his temple—the one he never talks about. “You’re still here,” you say gently. “That matters.” Ridoc lets out a quiet laugh, humorless this time. “Is that enough, though? Being alive when better riders aren’t?” You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lace your fingers with his, grounding, real. “I think,” you say slowly, “that the fact you care this much is the reason you are still here.” He looks at you then—really looks at you—and his eyes are shining, not with mischief, but with something fragile and unguarded. “I don’t want to die as a punchline,” he whispers. “I want to mean something.” Your grip tightens. “You already do.” For a moment, he leans into you, forehead resting against your shoulder. Just breathing. Just existing. When he finally pulls back, the familiar crooked smile returns—but it’s softer now. Earned. “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” You smile. “Your secret’s safe, Gamlyn.” He squeezes your hand once more before standing, squaring his shoulders toward the dark like he’s ready to face it again. But this time, he doesn’t do it alone.

Ridoc Gamlyn

The infirmary is quiet in the way only Basgiath ever is—tense, watchful, waiting for something to go wrong. Ridoc sits on the edge of the cot, shirt half-laced, knuckles scraped raw. He should be joking. He always is after missions like this—alive, reckless, defiant. But tonight, he won’t meet your eyes. “You should be resting,” you say gently. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.” You step closer anyway, carefully cleaning the blood from his hands. He flinches—not from pain, but from how tender you are with him. That’s when he finally looks up. And gods, his expression makes your chest ache. “I thought I lost you,” he says quietly. No grin. No clever remark. Just truth, laid bare. “When the ridge collapsed and I couldn’t see you—” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t breathe.” Your hands still. Ridoc laughs once, soft and shaky. “That’s usually my cue to make a joke. Say something stupid. Pretend it didn’t scare the hell out of me.” He shakes his head. “But I’m tired of pretending.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile. “I like you,” he says. Then he exhales sharply. “No. That’s a lie. I—” His fingers curl into the blankets. “I love you. And that terrifies me more than dragons, venin, or dying in some glorious, idiotic way.” Your heart pounds. “I don’t love quietly,” he continues, eyes shining. “I love like everything could be taken away tomorrow. And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s reckless. But when I thought you were gone, all the jokes in the world couldn’t save me from that.” You reach for him, thumbs brushing his cheeks, grounding him. “I don’t want to be the guy people remember for laughs alone,” Ridoc whispers. “I want to be someone you choose. Someone who stays.” His forehead drops against yours, breath uneven. “So if you don’t feel the same, tell me now. I’ll survive it. I always do.” You kiss him before he can finish the thought. It’s soft at first—uncertain, reverent—like you’re both afraid the moment might shatter if you move too fast. His hands come up slowly, as if asking permission, resting at your waist when you don’t pull away. When you finally part, his eyes are wide. Vulnerable. Hopeful. “You idiot,” you whisper. “I’ve been choosing you for a long time.” Ridoc laughs then—but it’s broken with emotion, relief crashing through him all at once. He pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re real. Like you’re staying. “Okay,” he breathes against your hair. “Okay. I can work with that.” And for once, he doesn’t joke about tomorrow.

Travis

*You and Travis go back and forth a lot. You both liked eachother, but sometimes he'd distance himself, and would avoid you.* *You couldn't find him anywhere, and even being around his family, he avoided you. His cousin, a younger girl named Leah lay on your bed, talking with you.*

Caelin

The rain had been falling since dawn—soft, patient, the kind Elowen called thinking rain. Caelir stood at the open hearth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, coaxing warmth from a bed of ash without flame. The embers obeyed him reluctantly, glowing just enough to heat the stone kettle suspended above them. Outside, mist clung to the windows like breath. “Papa,” Lyssara said from the floor, where she lay on her stomach with parchment spread everywhere, “Aerin says I can’t name the fox.” Aerin didn’t look up from the table where he was carefully repairing a cracked bowl with thin strands of magic. “I said you shouldn’t name something that might leave.” Lyssara scowled. The clouds outside darkened in sympathy. Caelir glanced over his shoulder. “If you name it,” he said mildly, “it’s already yours.” Aerin sighed the way only someone far too young to sound that old could. “That’s not how—” Elowen padded in from the rain-damp doorway, hair loose, feet bare, the hem of her dress dark with water. She smelled like wet leaves and stone. Without a word, she set a basket of herbs on the counter and reached for Caelir’s hands. Ash streaked his fingers. She cupped them, cool magic seeping into his skin. The faint black veins along his wrists faded, receding like a tide pulling back. “You didn’t wake me,” she said softly. “You needed rest,” he replied. Her mouth curved—not a smile, exactly. She kissed his knuckles anyway. Behind them, Kaelith burst in through the door at full speed, soaked and grinning, a trail of mud and tiny green shoots following his steps. “I found a salamander,” he announced. “It followed me home.” Aerin looked up sharply. “What kind of salamander?” Kaelith thought. “The warm kind.” Caelir closed his eyes. “Define warm.” The hearth popped. A small, glowing creature scuttled from behind Kaelith’s boot, leaving faint scorch marks on the stone before Elowen crouched and whispered to it. Rain pooled around her fingers, gentle and firm. “No burning inside,” she murmured. The salamander chirped and curled into a harmless, ember-dim coil. Lyssara clapped. Thunder rumbled faintly overhead, pleased. Elowen straightened and looked at all of them—muddy child, anxious child, stormy child, and the male still bleeding ash into the cracks of the world. “Lunch,” she said. “Before the house decides to grow another tree indoors.” Caelir moved without thinking, slipping an arm around her waist as she passed. She leaned into him, just slightly. For a moment, the vale was quiet. No courts. No ash screaming in his veins. No prophecies. Just rain on stone, children arguing softly, and a home that had chosen them back. And for Caelir Vaenros—who had once believed peace was a lie—that was the most dangerous magic of all.