lili-of-the-wildfire - Tumblr blog

lili-of-the-wildfire · 16 days ago

Text

One Kiss - Azriel x Reader

Valkyrie/Spy!Reader

Summary: One kiss gives you and Azriel the push you apparently needed. Warnings: Fluff Word count: 3k

“It was one kiss. Stop making such a big deal about it.” You said as you rushed over the training grounds of the House of Wind, followed by Nesta, who had begun tracking you like a blood hound the second Cassian dropped you on the balcony.

One. Damned. Kiss. One kiss with Azriel, two days ago and all hell broke loose. At least for Nesta. Had you been pining after him for years? Had you been hopelessly in love with him? Yes. But you knew he didn't feel the same way about you, even if he had kissed you. It was in the heat of the moment, you were sure. Maybe a couple of weeks ago that kiss would have gotten you to believe he actually felt something for you, too. But ever since Nesta had told you that the only reason he wasn't still panting after Elain, was that Rhys had forbidden him from it... No. You were not going to be a placeholder for anybody to be discarded afterwards. Nesta was still hot on your heels, Cassian, Azriel, Gwyn and Emerie already waited by the training rings for the morning briefing. You halted mid-walk, just far away enough for the others not to hear you and pivoted, glaring at Nesta. “It was hard enough for me coming to training today, I love you, I really do, you are my best friend– but you need to let it go. Right now.”

Nesta stopped in her tracks and narrowed her silver eyes at you like weapons. She took a deep breath, obviously knowing that you were right, but still having trouble accepting it– typical. “Fine,” she muttered, her shoulders slumping slightly as she resigned herself to the inevitable. “I'll drop it. But–” she added, a sly grin creeping onto her face, “You can't expect me to give up on my favorite couple so easily. You two are endgame. Everybody knows that, but you.”

Lips parted, ready to shoot a sharp retort, but Nesta already stalked past you and off to the others. Inhale. Exhale. This was going to be fine. All you had to do was go through a few hours of training, that's it. You had formed a plan during breakfast that morning– pick any partner for sparring but Azriel. Shouldn't be that hard. But as your thoughts wandered off, Cassian found Nesta and Gwyn already warmed up with Emerie. You cursed under your breath, seeing Azriel walk towards you.

Azriel had been watching your interaction with Nesta from across the field, his unrelenting stare had flicked between the two of you and he could most likely sense the tension that was radiating off of you like a beacon, and the way you tried to avoid looking at him probably only confirmed it. Gods damned spymaster. “Trouble?” He inquired, his deep voice sending every nerve ending in your body into overdrive and you wanted to claw your skin right off your bones.

“No, it's all good.”

He cocked his head to the side and his shadows swirled around him like wisps, inspecting you. He could read you better than anyone else, so lying was futile. “Doesn't seem that way. You have been avoiding me for two days.”

Crossing your arms in front of your chest to keep from fumbling around with your fingers, you cleared your throat and surprisingly held his piercing gaze, too. “I was busy.”

“Busy with what?” He asked, studying you in that way he always did, making you feel like you were being peeled away piece by piece until all that was left was your very core.

“I really don't see how that is any of your business.”

He took a step closer, shadows reaching out to brush against your skin, slithering over you like black silk. “It became my business when you decided to avoid me.” He was right. Gods, he was always so damned right about everything. And so infuriatingly handsome during it.

But you did not crumble like you desperately wanted, instead stood up just a bit straighter and said, “I am. Not. Avoiding. You.”

He was towering over you, close enough that you could feel the heat from his body and see the flecks of amber in his hazel eyes. The scent of night-chilled mist and cedar enveloped you, threatening to cloud your mind, making you want to melt into him, to close the distance and– no. Stop this. Before he could disarm you even further, you quickly added, “Look, can we please just move along and get this training over with?”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “No.” Damn him. “We need to talk about what happened. Ignoring it will only make this worse.”

“I think ignoring it will make it go away just fine.”

“I think you're lying. To both me, and yourself.”

“What is it you want from me, Azriel?”

“The truth.” He said simply. “It is clear that you're avoiding me because of that kiss, so either tell me the reason why or I will find out myself and you're not going to like that.”

Frustration built up in your chest, flaring like a torch, forming into something nastier, fueled by the feelings you had for him that lingered in every fiber of your being. “That kiss was a moment of weakness. I'm avoiding you, so that it doesn't happen again.”

He stilled, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth. “A moment of weakness? Is that what that was to you?”

You knew that lying was the cowardly choice, but your heart was too guarded and you were too scared. So instead you decided to deny it. The usual technique. Placeholder. The word crossed your mind over and over again and it took you shaking your head to get out of those vile thoughts. You walked a few steps towards the training ring and began wrapping your wrists and knuckles. “Let's just get this over with.”

He watched you, not like the friend you'd come to love in a very unfriendly way, but like the spymaster who knew everything about everyone. “Fine,” he said and stepped close enough to lean down, whispering into your ear, and every blood cell in your body exploded. Gods, how you wanted him to touch you, to kiss you again, to– “But this isn't over.”

Azriel stepped past you into the ring and patiently waited for you to finish wrapping. The look in his eyes clearly told you that today was going to be a rough sparring session. You took a few deep breaths to steady yourself, trying to calm the rapid thundering of your heart, but it was useless. The way Azriel was eyeing you had your mind all fuzzy and you cursed yourself for not finding another partner. “Alright, let's–”

You started, but Azriel leaped at you before you finished. With a practiced move, courtesy of his countless hours of training, you dodged him before his dagger could slide through the first layer of your leathers. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

He didn't reply, already on the move again, his shadows shifting around him like a cloud of death, trying to distract you. He went for your side this time, his blade slashing with a swift precision and although you knew he was holding back, that he'd never actually hurt you, you'd never seen him this out of his usual iron clad control. Another swipe, a sidestep, the whooshing sound of the blade close to your ear. Azriel moved even faster, not giving you time to catch your breath as he attacked from every angle, a whirlwind of knives and darkness. The grace with which he effortlessly manoeuvred his perfectly toned body... Damn it all to the pits of hell, it was the sexiest thing you'd ever seen. “Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?” A pathetic attempt to buy yourself some time.

“The kiss.” He lunged again, the blade aimed at your leg, but you jumped over it just in time. He was playing with you, the bastard, keeping the dagger so close to your skin that you could practically feel the cold metal biting you, but never actually touching you. “Do you regret it?” He asked again, and his voice, Gods, that velvet voice…

“Yes.” You replied breathlessly and it wasn't really a lie. Had you enjoyed the kiss? Obviously. But all it had done was make you fall harder and you couldn't afford that, your heart already barely carried the weight of your feelings for him. Placeholder. Rhys had forbidden him from pursuing Elain. Placeholder, you reminded yourself.

Another swift attack, a move so elegant, it was more poetry than combat. His shadows swarmed around you both like swirling gossamer skirts, so beautiful. Your eyes were locked tight and his breaths came fast and heavy, just like yours. “Liar.”

You wiped your sweaty forehead with the back of your gloved hand. “This is bullshit.” Two steps and you were exiting the training ring, bolting towards the House of Wind. If you had to hide in there until training was over and Cassian could fly you down, so be it.

Azriel easily caught up with you, one smooth grab from behind and the next thing you knew, his arms wrapped around your middle and you were thrown over his shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Taking you somewhere we can talk in peace.” He said, making his way into the house, striding quickly through the sitting room and down the hallway, towards the door you knew belonged to the office he used. You thrashed against his ceaseless hold, but every attempt was wholly ineffective.

“I don't want to talk to you, I want you to leave me alone!”

“Too bad.” Azriel used the hand that wasn't grabbing your wild legs to push the door open, closing it again right away with a casual backwards kick of his boot. He lowered you onto a dark, leather armchair that was big enough for him and his wings, while reading mission reports from his spies. “I am done playing this game with you. Why are you acting like that kiss didn't mean anything?” The question came out a lot softer than you expected. Azriel crouched down before you, carefully placing a palm on each of your knees and your naive, stupid heart had the audacity to clench.

Placeholder. Your mind echoed again, tickling every insecurity you ever brawled with and you stayed eerily silent, not trusting your mouth to talk, when his presence so easily blurred every coherent thought in your head.

“You're killing me here.” It sounded an awful lot like begging and the desperation in his voice made you finally look at him.

Azriel's thumbs moved in circles over the leathers above your knee. “Nesta told me that Rhys ordered you to stop pursuing Elain any further a couple of months ago.” As soon as you had said it out loud, tears brimmed your eyes and you cursed yourself inwardly for not being able to keep it together. He sighed at your confession, letting his head drop for a moment, shaking it, as if your words finally brought him the clarity he needed.

“I haven't felt anything for Elain in a long time.” He explained calmly.

“But if Rhys hadn't told you to stay away from her–”

“But he did. So it doesn't matter. I'm sure you have ex-lovers, too. And there are a thousand different ways those relationships could have gone, had a few minor or major things been different. And yet, you're not with them anymore. You're sitting here. With me.” He answered and leaned forward to cup your face in his hands.

“If Elain were to enter this office, right now. And ask for a shot with you–” Gods, you knew how immature the question was, but you needed to know, needed to be certain that he would prefer you over her.

“I'd turn her down in a heartbeat.” He said firmly, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, wiping away a stubborn tear that refused to cease its fall.

“I need you to be absolutely sure of that.”

“I am.” He paused and sighed, his hands still framing your face. “And this is the one and only time I want to have this discussion with you. So get it off your chest– now. Ask me whatever you need to ask, I will give you total honesty. And then we move on from this.”

That actually seemed like a good deal. “Did you love her?”

His gaze, piercing and calm, bore into your own with sincerity. “Not the way you think.”

“It's a simple yes or no question.”

“No.” He insisted, his hands sliding down to your shoulders. “Not like I love you.”

Oh gods. Did he just–? No. You couldn't get distracted, not right now, even if every miniscule piece of your soul screamed for you to hop straight into his arms.

“Did you fuck her?”

“No. I didn't.” Azriel, the spymaster– the shadowsinger who knew every secret and kept or exposed them like a weapon sharper than his daggers. The man who could tell any lie without blinking, was now being completely and utterly honest with you, let you question him even. Somehow, that made you fall a little more in love with him right on the spot.

“And did you want to live happily ever after and make a bunch of winged shadow babies with her?” The question came out much sharper and more petty than you wanted.

He smirked. The bastard actually smirked. The smirk you loved and cherished so much, because you only ever saw it on rare occasions like this, when he decided to play along. “I admit it, after centuries of brooding, I had finally decided on the ideal life goal: making a bunch of powerful, winged shadow babies with Elain Archeron. You have uncovered my deepest, darkest ambitions.”

A death glare that almost burned a hole straight through his head shot from your narrowed eyes. “Is that funny to you?”

His grin did not waver in the least, and, gods, his eyes gleamed with mischief and even his shadows seemed to chuckle. “A little.”

“I'm glad I'm able to contribute to your amusement.”

“You always do,” he quipped and it was as if the mood had officially shifted. More relaxed, like you had finally gotten the answers you needed for the time being. “Now that you have all that off your chest, can I say a few things?”

A nod.

And he did not hesitate. “I love you, you infuriating, stubborn fool. And I have to admit, the thought of spending a few hundred years locked up in bed with you, creating a swarm of winged shadow babies–” He laughed quietly at your outraged expression. “–sounds like heaven.”

That fucking heart of yours basically showed you the middle finger and walked right out of your chest and over to Azriel to offer itself to him, and despite your persistence... you finally gave in, sliding from the armchair straight into him, your arms around his neck, pulling yourself into the tightest embrace, as if your life depended on clinging to him. Azriel hummed in approval, pulling your legs over his kneeling thighs and brushing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I'm sorry I'm so difficult.” You whispered against his lips. “And I'm sorry I avoided you.”

“I love that you're difficult. Keeps me on my toes.” He drawled, the hand on your hip stroking the smooth leather of your sparring clothes. You inhaled deeply, taking in the scent that had followed you even in your dreams.

And his mouth, gods, his mouth. It was the most perfect one in existence, you were convinced. His lips, so soft and determined and his tongue moved in sync with yours, exactly how you'd always imagined.

When all oxygen had drained from your body, you pulled away, panting and disheveled, eyes pondering over every little part of his immaculate, beautiful face. “You didn't deserve how shitty I was.”

“You were upset and you were confused. And I didn't exactly try to explain myself, either.” He said and lifted a hand, tracing your jawline with the pad of his thumb.

Then he stood up, holding you up by the back of your thighs, your legs locking behind him as he walked over to the huge oak wood desk across the room. Your ass met the lacquered surface of the desk when he leaned forward and pressed kisses along the column of your throat, taking his time to savour you, his hands mapping every curve and valley of your body. Nimble fingers slowly began opening your leathers, his eyes meeting yours, clearly asking for permission and the glimmer in your gaze must have been answer enough for him.

A few hours later, or maybe days, or had it been weeks? You didn't know anymore, all sense of time and space had left your head somewhere between the orgasms you'd stopped counting. Azriel was sprawled out on his office floor, you halfway draped atop him, drawing circles around every muscle of his toned stomach.

“We missed dinner.” He mumbled into your hair.

“Fuck dinner.”

“Such refined language.” He teased, lightly swatting your ass and chuckling when you squeaked.

“I remember you clearly stating how much you liked my filthy mouth only minutes ago.”

“I did, didn't I?” Azriel purred, too content to argue with your legs entangled with his, hair a mess, lips buzzing from the shared kisses.

You stayed like that in perfect bliss, just a little longer, before the floor became too uncomfortable and your throat was so dry you felt like you were swallowing glass. Azriel gently disentangled himself from you, dark wings flexing behind him, before his fingers wrapped around your hip, carefully helping you up into a sitting position. Oh and he was definitely eyeing your bare form again. “Food. Water. Bath.” You hummed, brain clouded in a perfect after sex daze.

“Sounds like a plan.” He said and rose from the floor, scooping you into his arms with a cocky grin.

Taglist: @impossibelle @loving-and-dreaming @firebirdsalvatore @lilah-asteria @caticorn61 @babypeapoddd @babypeapoddd @talesofadragon @celestiallovers17 @kmc1989 @starsinyourseyes @azrielsmate3 @readallaboutit

Let me know if you'd like to get tagged in any of my series, one shots, specific characters or everything! ✨

1K notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 18 days ago

Text

Catch me at the Low Tide Library getting book recommendations from the clams.

400 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 19 days ago

Text

A Road Well Traveled (Azriel x Reader)

Part 1

Word Count: 1902 Warnings: None, I think

It was a quiet night, the wind blowing softly through your hair as you walked around the city, enjoying the beautiful scenes of Velaris as you passed by. It's been a long time since you’ve been here, after all. You stop in your tracks as the way was blocked by a dark figure covered in shadows.

"A bit lost, are you?" says the suave voice of Azriel, his wings tucked in tight behind him, hazel eyes honed in on your form. You grin slowly, eyes trailing up the shadowsinger’s familiar form. "I'm never truly lost," you reply smoothly, bright eyes meeting his gaze.

He chuckles lightly, amused by your reply as he leans against a wall, his shadows billowing around him like a cloak. "Oh, you never change, do you?" he drawled in a low, velvety tone, his gaze roaming over you leisurely. "Hello, to you too, Azriel," you laughed, dropping your lightly packed bag at your feet.

Azriel's lips quirk upward into a smirk as he leans against the wall, observing you in quiet amusement. "You know," he says, "the last time I saw you, you were about ready to kick my ass for some reason." You hum, tapping your chin in thought. "I can come up with a reason now, if you prefer. Or, you can walk yourself over here and give an old friend a hug," you offer with a slow, teasing grin.

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "An old friend, huh?" He pushes off the wall and crosses the distance between you in a few easy strides. He scoops you into an embrace, his strong arms encircling you tightly.

You squeal happily, arms circling around his neck and holding him just as tight. "It's been too long," you sigh into his shoulder, your feet kicking in the air like a small child. Azriel's arms tighten around you as he chuckles, his cheek brushing against your hair. "Much too long," he agrees, savoring the feeling of your body against his. "I've missed you, you know."

You lean into him, savoring the familiar body against yours just as much, his shadows snaking around you in greeting. "I've missed you more," you breathe out, and you're sure that you mean it. After everything that’s happened, you couldn’t imagine staying away from Azriel any longer.

Azriel presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand sliding through your hair. "There's no need for a contest," he murmurs with a smirk. When did he adapt Rhysand’s charm? You think idly for a moment, wondering if he truly has changed that much since you’ve been gone. No, surely he’s always been this way. If you remembered anything, it was Azriel’s heart stopping smile, not easily won by others. If you were lucky enough to be graced by its appearance, then you were a precious and rare sort. His shadows dance around you, twining affectionately between the two of you as if they, too, missed you.

You huff a laugh, leaning back to meet his gaze. "Don't let Cassian hear you say that. How is the big brute anyway?" You inquire, studying his facial features without stepping out of his arms. You took the chance to scan his features.

His bronze skin was darker and as flawless as the last time you’d had seen him, his Illyrian tattoos peaking around the collar of his training leathers. The elegant planes of his face seemed sculpted and defined, you guessed it must have been from age. His inky black hair had grown longer too, the bottoms now curling around his rounded ears. Of course you noted the new sporadic scars that littered what you could see of his powerful body.

Azriel's smirk turns into a genuine smile as he thinks of his friend. "Cassian is doing well. The same as ever, getting into trouble and causing havoc wherever he goes." He runs his thumb along your cheek, his gaze intent on your face, as if he's trying to commit every detail to memory. "Although he did mention he missed your delightful company," he adds teasingly.

You roll your eyes and step out of his hold, fixing your hair. "Of course, who wouldn't?" You send a wink his way, giggling in delight as shadowy strands wrap around your wrist.

Azriel chuckles, his gaze lingering on your wrist as the shadowy strands twine themselves around it. He takes a step closer, eyeing the possessive gesture of his shadows with amusement. Leaning in, he murmurs near your ear, "My shadows are still quite fond of you, it seems."

"As they usually are. Really, Azriel, you should treat them better," you tease, your fingers dancing through the dark strands, still absolutely mesmerized by the mischievous shadows as the day you first saw them.

Azriel's lips twitch in a small smirk as he watches your fingers run through his shadows. "Oh, I treat them just fine," he retorts, his gaze shifting to your fingers as they move across the tendrils. "Although, they might disagree with me if you keep doing that. They might just want to claim you for themselves."

"I'd cherish them forever," you grin up at him, dropping your hand to your side and reclaiming your bag off the street. "Now, are we going to catch up out here, or, are you going to show a lady to our High Lord's home?" you raise your eyebrows, watching him and waiting expectantly.

Azriel chuckles, his gaze still fixated on the shadows that lingered on your wrist. "Of course, my lady," he says, the title rolling off his tongue smoothly. He gestured for you to walk ahead, the tendrils of his shadows reluctantly sliding away from you as he followed at your side.

You set an easy pace, following his guidance throughout your former city. "So, what have I missed?" You try to ask lightly, as if you hadn’t disappeared in the middle of the night without any warning.

Azriel walks beside you , his gaze sweeping over the familiar streets of Velaris as he begins recounting what you’ve missed. "Well, Feyre and Rhys have been married for a few years now. Their little one is growing more mischievous day by day."

He glances at you, a small smile on his face. "Cassian finally found himself a mate, too. Though it's a constant struggle between them, as it always is with Cassian." You cast a sideways glance at him in surprise. "Is it this Nesta I've heard so much about? Feyre's older sister?" While away, you’ve heard whispers of the human turned High Fae, once engaged to Spring’s High Lord, now married and sharing power with Night Court’s High Lord. In addition, her older sisters’ being dragged into the middle of the Hybern mess and now High Fae as well. You were happy for Rhys, glad he had found someone to settle down with. A mate no less.

Azriel nods, his gaze focused on the road before you. "Yes, indeed. Nesta and Cassian are an... interesting pair, to say the least." A sly smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances at you. "They seem to be constantly at each other's throats. I've never seen Cassian so riled up because of a female."

"It appears the Archeron’s are fascinating females," you breathe out, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "And, you? Have you found yourself a pretty female to settle down with?" You ask innocently, though the tightness in your chest might say otherwise. You pushed the feeling to the side, hoping one of your closest friends had found his happiness.

Azriel's steps falter for a brief moment, his expression remaining carefully neutral as he looks at you. He takes a moment before replying, a hint of melancholy in his eyes that he quickly buries. "No, I haven't," he says quietly, his gaze returning to the path in front of him.

You glance away, your heart aching for him but can't stop the hope threading throughout your chest, leaving a bittersweet taste on your tongue. "You'll find someone, Az," you say quietly, eyes focusing as you near what you recognize as the Townhouse.

Azriel's jaw tightens, his gaze flickering to you briefly before looking away. "Perhaps one day," he murmurs, the tone of indifference masking the quiet ache in his heart. He stops in front of the Townhouse, gesturing for you to approach it first. "After you," he says politely, shoving his hands into his pockets.

You pause, looking up at the building that held such fond memories of your life with your friends and family. Even the darkest parts of your past seemed easier to look back on with time. Taking a deep, centering breath, you move forward and turn the door knob. The entrance way looks the same as you remembered, crossing the threshold and putting your bag by the door, a habit you’ve learned through your travels, though you doubt you’ll have to make a hasty escape. You hope, anyway.

Azriel follows you into the Townhouse, closing the door behind him. The shadows that billowed around him fade into obscurity, blending into the corners of the room, as he watches you study the familiar surroundings. He leans against the wall, his gaze fixed on your form as you take in everything around you. "It hasn't changed much," he comments quietly, his eyes roaming over you.

You hum in agreement, a nervous energy filling you at the thought of seeing the rest of your family. "Maybe I should come back during the day. It's late," you offer weakly, glancing towards the door behind you. Thoughts of them not taking your sudden reappearance well settles over you. You couldn’t handle seeing them hate the sight of you. Not after what you’ve done to survive the last few years.

Azriel's gaze sharpens as he sees the hesitation on your face. He moves away from the wall, standing closer to you, towering over your form. "Is there something bothering you?" he asks in a low tone, his gaze searching your face. You look up, meeting his worried gaze. "It's not that, Az," you start quietly, glancing back towards where you can hear chatter and laughter, coming from the dining room. They must still have their family dinners. You weren't sure if luck was on your side, or not. "It's just been a while," you worried, your fingers twisting themselves in front of you, another habit you found hard to break.

Hazel eyes flicker towards the dining room, his expression hardening ever so slightly when he realizes where the noise is coming from. He looks back at you, noting the worry in your expression, the way your fingers twist together. He steps closer, his hands gently enveloping yours, stilling the nervous movement. "You don't have to do this tonight," he murmurs, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand.

Azriel had always been your solid ground, keeping you steady and strong in the face of whatever opponent they were pointing at. Tonight, your opponents were your family, and you weren't sure that his steady and scarred hands could keep you together this time. Before you can say anything or move, a figure rounded the corner, a surprised gasp hitting your ears. Mor breathed your name softly out into the room, and suddenly it was too late to run.

A/N: This is my first story posted here, so I'm a little nervous.

Dividers by diviniyae

175 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 20 days ago

Text

Oh yeah. Yep. Uh huh. This is exactly what I needed, I’m so obsessed with this

YOU'RE THE ONE (TO MAKE ME LOSE MY MIND) ✦ AZRIEL

✦ SUMMARY: Azriel prided himself on restraint—on silence, shadows, and secrets. But you, with your unshaken confidence and maddening obliviousness, were testing every last thread of his sanity. As chaos ensues, the Shadowsinger realizes one thing: he might be doomed.

✦ WORD COUNT: 1.2K

✦ WARNINGS: crack fic, archeron!sister (briefly mentioned), miscommunication, angsty fluff and humor (maybe??), obliviousness, azriel is stressed and about to have an aneurysm—azriel fanart by harleetattoos

✦ MAY'S RADIO: this was a fun little experiment 😅 azzie boy is a certified swiftie™ 😆 i hope this is somewhere close to what you had in mind, lili bestie! -> based on this post by @lili-of-the-wildfire 🖤

< back to general masterlist

Azriel was losing his damn mind.

He had spent centuries perfecting the art of self-control—of mastering his shadows, his emotions, his very existence. But this? This was unraveling him at the seams.

And he was at his limits.

Not the normal limit, like when Cassian got a little too rowdy or Rhysand smirked a little too much. No. This was a whole new brand of suffering.

Since the moment you were thrown into the Cauldron, he had kept his distance—watching, waiting, giving you space to adjust to your new life, to the Night Court, to him. Knowing how difficult it was for your sisters, knowing that maybe you needed time to grieve what you lost.

But you—you seemed fine.

You smiled, you laughed, you trained with Cassian and traded insults with Rhys, you asked Mor endless questions about the best places to visit in Velaris. You were fine.

Except Azriel knew that wasn’t true.

Because he felt it—the crackling in the air whenever he was near you, the way your emotions bled into his own, even when you weren’t looking at him. The bond—the one you were blissfully ignorant of—was there, thrumming between you.

And it was killing him.

Because you didn’t know.

You were testing him in ways he never thought possible.

Which was why you were currently sitting across from him at the dining table, casually eating a pastry, completely unbothered by the fact that every time you so much as breathed, the bond between you screamed at him.

“I was thinking,” you said, licking a crumb from your finger, completely unaware of the way Azriel’s eyes tracked the movement, “maybe I should go to the Winter Court for a while. Just to clear my head, see more of Prythian, you know?”

Azriel’s fork snapped in half.

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

No. No, he was not okay.

“You can’t,” he said, voice tight.

Your brows knitted together. “What do you mean, I can’t?”

“You can’t just—” He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t just leave. You belong here.”

You scoffed. “I belong nowhere, Azriel. That’s kind of the problem.”

He exhaled sharply. “You belong with me.”

“Excuse me?,” your expression twisted in confusion. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

Azriel exhaled sharply through his nose. He had planned to do this delicately, to ease you into it, to find the right words—

That plan was dead.

“You’re my mate.” he rasped, voice strained.

“…Okay?”

Silence.

Azriel just stared at you. His mind short-circuited so violently that his shadows actually stopped moving.

“…Okay?” he repeated, his voice an octave higher than usual.

You shifted on your seat. “Yeah? You seem really stressed about it, though.”

His eye twitched. His shadows twitched. Everything twitched.

Cauldron boil him, you had no idea what it meant.

He inhaled sharply, his wings flaring slightly. “Do you understand what that means?”

You folded your arms. “Is it, like, a fae kink? I mean, I don’t judg–” You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm?”

A FAE K—?

He had seen battle. He had been tortured. He had infiltrated enemy territory and survived things that would make even Cassian cry. But this? This was what was going to kill him.

“I—No,” he choked, rubbing his temples like he could physically press the stress out of his skull. “It’s not a kink. It’s a bond. The mating bond.”.

You hummed, swishing the tea in your cup thoughtfully. “Right. So, like… what does that mean, exactly?”

“You don’t know,” he whispered to himself. “You don’t know. No one told you.” He let out a breath that sounded like a mix between a groan and a whimper. “I’m going to kill Rhys.”

His shadows curled and twisted like they were also on the verge of a complete breakdown. “It means we’re soulmates. Destined. Bound by the Cauldron itself. You’re mine.”

You blinked. “I what?”

“You. Are. My. Mate,” he repeated, slower this time, as if you were a particularly dense trainee.

You tilted your head. “So… like an arranged marriage?”

Azriel made a sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a sob. His hands were shaking.

“No,” he gritted out. “It’s deeper than that.”

You frowned. “Like a super intense best friendship?”

“I—NO.”

You hear someone wheezing, barely holding their laughter in—then, moments later, a crash followed by a yelp.

You turned just in time to see a figure darting away, a blur of wings and siphons.

Cassian.

Azriel’s shadows had found him eavesdropping—and, judging by the way he stumbled, they had made sure he regretted it.

Azriel’s eye twitched. He’d deal with him later.

“Was that…? Is he okay?” you asked, glancing toward the door.

Azriel exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He’ll live,” he muttered, clearly deciding that his brother’s suffering was not his current priority.

Instead, he turned back to you, inhaling deeply, speaking very slowly. “The bond ties our souls together. It means you’re meant to be with me. It’s why you feel drawn to me.”

Your face scrunched in thought. “Oh.” A pause. “I do feel really attracted to you.”

Azriel’s heart stopped. His wings tensed.

Finally. Finally, you were understanding—

“I thought it was just, you know… female hysteria.”

Azriel.exe stopped working.

You gestured vaguely. “Like, I figured I just had a stupidly big crush on you. Thought maybe it was the trauma or the near-death experience. But the mating bond? That makes so much sense.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Wow, I really thought I was just—”

Azriel inhaled sharply. Fine. If words weren’t getting through to you, maybe this would.

He reached deep into himself and gave the bond a firm tug.

You gasped. A shiver shot down your spine, warmth curling in your chest like liquid sunlight. Your breath hitched, and—Cauldron damn him—you gasped, eyes going huge and then giggled.

Azriel felt his soul crack in half.

You blinked at him, eyes wide with wonder. “Wait, what was that?!” Then, catching the look on his face—his pinched expression and the slight tension in his shoulders—, you gasped again, pointing at him accusingly. “Was that you?!”

Before he could respond, you beamed, wiggling excitedly in your seat. “Oh my gods—do that again. That tickled.”

Azriel was going to pass out. Or throw himself off a balcony. Maybe both.

“I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it nearly bruised. “You—You don’t just have a crush on me. That feeling? That’s the bond. The Cauldron literally forged us for each other.”

Your smile faltered and you squinted at him. “Are you sure?”

Azriel’s grip on reality was slipping.

“Yes.”

“…Huh.” You sipped your tea. “Neat.”

Azriel’s vision blurred. He was on the verge of blacking out.

Cassian’s laughter echoed from the hallway.

Azriel snarled. “Go away, Cassian.”

More laughter. Then a whispered, “I cannot wait to tell Rhys.”

Azriel inhaled so sharply his chest ached. He turned back to you, shadows writhing. “You do understand what this means, right?”

You smiled. “Of course I do.”

Azriel exhaled in relief.

Then—

“Anyway, as I was saying—I think I’d still like to visit the Winter Court and maybe then the beaches in Summer.” You smiled dreamily. “I could get a nice tan. A little vitamin D never hurt anyone, right?”

Azriel dropped his head onto the table so hard he thought he might develop a second brain injury to match the first one you’d unknowingly given him.

< back to general masterlist

#you’re an icon you’re a legend you are The Moment

1K notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 23 days ago

Text

Need a crack fic where reader was thrown in the cauldron with the other sisters and has to live in the night court and Azriel is BIG stressing bc she’s his MATE (!!!) and doesn’t know it but the pressure finally gets to him and he crashes out and confesses that she’s his mate and she’s like “🤨…okay… anyways, as I was saying—” bc nobody has explained mates to her so it means absolutely nothing to her and azriel genuinely has a DSM-5 Moment

#azriel x reader #azriel #acotar #whole time she just thinks she has a superbly FAT crush on him #come to find out that’s the mating bond that she just mistook for female hysteria

224 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 23 days ago

Text

Haunting Relations | Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel's half-brothers show up to settle an old debt, and his love is caught in the crossfire.

A/N: Currently clearing out my plethora of WIPs. Once again rushed the ending because that’s my brand at this point.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: major angst, blood, (somewhat graphic) violence, (side character) death, misogyny, language, mentions of torture

The sun was low in the sky as Y/N closed the door to her friend’s café, a bag filled with a few scarce baked goods slung over her shoulder.

With spring lurking just around the corner, it seemed the people of Velaris had rediscovered their sweet tooth, leaving Josephine’s lavish displays entirely sold out. And yet, Y/N had managed to snatch a few cherry faetarts just before closing time. They were Azriel's favourite.

Her heart beat faster at the prospect of seeing him; of spending the night with him in the apartment he owned by the Sidra, just a few blocks down from where her own home lay.

They spent most of their nights at her place, what with Azriel's apartment being more of a scarcely furnished refuge than a home. He'd told her once that he'd only bought it for the rare times he needed to get away from the House of Wind or the townhouse—needed to get away from his family.

She'd thought it funny at first, the need for a third home, but she got it now. He'd wanted a place just for himself. It had touched her when he'd offered her a key. A key to his safe space.

Tonight, she'd surprise him. She knew he'd get home from a mission that had demanded his presence on the continent for the last seven days. Just an hour prior, he'd sent a shadow ahead to let her know that he'd crossed back into Prythian safely which meant that, given the time it usually took him to debrief his missions with Rhys, he'd most likely be back home within the hour—if he wasn’t already.

She was cautious in opening the door, but she couldn't hear anything inside, and so she took a step into the living room.

Empty.

As empty as the adjoining kitchen.

A blanket had been haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch, and Azriel's spare boots sat in a neat pair by the front door. There was the vase of tulips she'd left on his table last week—their heads still standing proudly thanks to the shimmering powder she’d bought in town and mixed in with the water.

Everything seemed normal.

And yet … it didn't.

She couldn’t say if it was something in the air, something in the eery silence that seeped through the apartment that rose the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, but before she had the chance to investigate, a hand was pressed over her mouth, the cool edge of a blade held to the delicate curve of her throat.

The bag with her faetarts hit the ground as she gasped.

She felt a pull in the very pit of her stomach and from one moment to the next, the room shifted, and she found herself winnowed to the bedroom separated from the rest of the apartment by a short flight of stairs.

Her insides twisted at the image before her, her muscles freezing at the voice in her ear.

"Won't you look at this pretty little thing, Az," it hummed, sticky hot breath licking down the side of her neck. "You didn't tell us we'd be getting company."

On the floor of his bedroom, Azriel knelt—wings hanging limp from his back, and wrists shackled before him. She felt the presence of faebane in her very bones and at once, her mind grew dizzy with realisation.

She couldn’t feel him—not like she usually could. There was still the usual thrum of the bond, buried and muted just enough to justify the distance between Prythian and the continent, but she hadn’t even questioned when it hadn’t gotten stronger upon his return … how could she not have noticed?

Nausea washed over her, and she did her best not to make a sound at the state of her mate, but when she caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, her knees wobbled. He wasn't wearing his Siphons, wasn't wearing his leathers. Evidently, he'd been ambushed in the comfort of his home, and blood was running from a wound on his temple, dripping down his chin to sully his shirt. His shadows where nowhere to be seen—driven away by the faebane as well.

Behind Azriel, dagger in hand, stood an Illyrian. Huge, black wings protruded from his back, and at the sight, confusion shot through her. Why would an Illyrian attack one of their own?

He kept his fingers buried in Azriel's hair, hand clenched into a tight fist as he pulled his head back far enough to bare his throat, and for one horrifying second, Y/N thought he'd slide his dagger across it. But all he did was sneer.

"Don't be shy. Tell us who our guest is." His voice was smooth as velvet but cold as the frozen grounds of the Winter Court.

"Nobody of importance," Azriel said, and Y/N was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. Almost detached.

The Illyrian gave a snort. "That's convincing." With a nod of his chin, he seemed to signal the man holding the blade to Y/N’s throat, as he soon slid his hand off her mouth to tangle his fingers in her hair instead.

From the corner of her eye, she could see yet another pair of wings looming over her. Another Illyrian, then. She twisted her head in disgust when wet lips appeared on her cheek, warm breath washing over her at the words he all but whispered into her skin.

"Go ahead, beautiful. Tell us who you are."

She had to swallow thickly to muster the courage to speak, but when she did, she spoke the first name that came to mind, cringing at the quiver in her voice.

"Jesminda. I— … I clean here sometimes."

At her words, the Illyrian behind Azriel began to hoot. "You have a cleaner? My, my, things really have turned around for you, brother dearest."

It hit her like a brick, then. The resemblance. The dark hair, the eyes, the tilt of their jaw—all traits inherited by the same father. Her heart sank at the realisation, at the memories Azriel had shared with her, the implication of their presence.

Azriel's half-brothers.

The cruel bastards that had poured oil over his hands to see what would happen if one were to mix his enhanced healing with fire.

Her teeth clenched despite her best efforts, her throat suddenly dry as a desert, her words scratchy as she clung to her lie. "I didn't think anyone would be home at this time of day."

The brother who still held her pressed to his front gave a soft hum, and she could hear the way he inhaled deeply, the warm tip of his nose pressing deeper into her cheek. She could see the way his lashes fluttered from the corner of her eye.

“You smell delicious, sweetheart,” he growled against her, before turning to look at Azriel. "But how come I can smell you all over her?"

She could hear the smirk in his voice.

He knew they were lying.

Azriel rolled his eyes, and part of her stung at the ease with which the next words rolled off his tongue, something akin to annoyance dripping from each syllable. "I fucked her a couple of times. She’s of no relevance. Let her leave and get on with it."

She knew he was putting on a show of course, but still, those weren't necessarily words she enjoyed hearing from her mate. Especially not if they sounded so ... convincing.

The Illyrian behind her shifted his grip, turning her in his arms until she saw herself confronted with another face so similar to Azriel's, yet so much colder in its expression.

He pulled her head a bit further back and lifted the tip of his dagger to scape across her bottom lip. A sense of contemplation lay in his eyes. "Was she any good?"

She had to fight not to bury her knee in his groin for this question alone, but the blade was still much too close for her liking.

"Why don't you find out?" she heard herself say, her voice husky with the way he was bending back her head, her heart beating rapidly with the attempt to feign courage.

A grin appeared on his face at that, and she hated how much it resembled Azriel's. How was it possible to resent one version of a smile while loving the other so dearly?

"Perhaps I'll take you home with me after we're done here," he drawled, attention flickering down her body as his tongue shot out to wet his lips. "I've always had a weakness for High Fae cunt." His eyes focussed back on her face, and the hunger that lay in them had her stomach churn. "They're nice and tight to an Illyrian cock."

She forced her breathing to calm, forced her lids to lower into a sultry expression, while praying to the Gods that it would work. "We could test the theory right now."

For one glorious second, she thought that her plan was truly successful. That with a bit of luck, he'd take her to the next room. She'd only need him distracted for a second and perhaps she'd be able to plunge the dagger into his neck.

But her sorry excuse for a plan collapsed in on itself as he leaned closer, his lips finding the shell of her ear. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, beautiful," he hummed, his next words causing her spine to grow rigid. "I can smell a mating bond from a mile away."

"Dain," the annoyed voice of the other Illyrian sounded from behind her, and Y/N clenched her teeth when she was turned back around to face Azriel. He was still doing his best to keep his expression schooled into careful indifference, but she could see the flicker of anger at Dain's hands on her. "Are we spending our entire day here so you can fuck around with some faerie? Just kill her and be done with it."

Azriel's jaw clenched at his half-brother's words, and to Y/N's misery, she wasn't the only one who noticed.

Dain chuckled darkly. "I will have you know that you are talking about your sister-in-law, Fen."

Interest sparked in the second brother's face, and Azriel's eyes slipped closed for a fleeting second.

"No way," Fen chortled. "Azzie really found someone to ride him. You know what, good for you, brother."

"What do you want?" Azriel ground out through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving Dain.

"Well, we heard you've been doing quite well over here, what with sucking up to the High Lord and all. We wanted to see if you'd be open to sharing your new fortune with your family."

"Family," Azriel scoffed. "Go fuck yourself."

Dain tut-tutted. "Is that really how you want to speak to me while I have my hands on your pretty little mate?"

The hand that wasn't holding a dagger slipped from her hair, and when a firm grip landed on her breast, she flinched, and without thinking, she drew back her hand and slapped him across the face.

Surprise entered Dain's expression, and when Fen began to laugh, Dain joined in, all the while watching as Y/N, now freed from his grip, scurried back a few steps.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go, as Dain was blocking the only door, and she wasn't keen on jumping out a window.

"Look at you, sweetheart," Dain drawled as he stalked after her. "Feisty little thing, aren't you? Good thing we have just the cure for that. Az can tell you all about it."

She didn't know what he was talking about, but suddenly, he reached out for a nearby lamp and flung it at her. For a second, she thought it would hit her square in the face, but when it burst on the wall behind her, sending her into a full-body flinch, she realised that he hadn't truly been aiming for her.

The momentary distraction was enough for Dain to catch up with her, his grip on her hair much tighter this time, and when he gripped her wrists in one large hand to stop her from hitting him, she heard Azriel snarl.

"You rotten bastard—"

"There's only one bastard in this room, Azzie," Fen interrupted, delight in his voice. "And it's not us."

Grim realisation shot through her when Dain dragged her to the wall and took his hand from her hair to pick up the broken remains of the lamp with the tip of his dagger—remains that were oozing oil.

"Dain," Azriel growled behind them, struggling against Fen’s grip on him. "I swear to the Cauldron, I will skin you alive."

But Dain wasn't listening. He lifted the lamp, held it over the wrists he kept locked in a grip tight enough to bruise, and watched as the lamp oil poured over her hands.

"Don't worry, darling," he purred, his grin drawing dimples to the surface of his cheeks. "It'll sting for a bit, but it will pass. And then you two will match. Fun, right?"

"What do you want?" she asked now, surprised at the steady tone of her voice, though her heart thumped loudly in her ears.

"From you?" Dain tilted his head. "Nothing. Well, nothing much. I'm still keen on finding out if Az settled for a mediocre fuck, but other than that, there's not much you have to offer."

"I have money," she said. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

"Well, yes and no," Dain said. "We do enjoy tormenting little Azzie."

She swallowed thickly, her eyes flickering to Azriel as the oil slicked her skin. There was clear fury edged into every corner of his face now, though she spotted the panic beneath—panic as she’d never seen on him.

Turning back to face his brother, she frantically searched for something to offer, something that would be valuable enough to draw his attention elsewhere.

But nothing came, and she watched in horror as Dain shoved his free hand deep into the pocket of his leathers, soon producing a little matchbox for her heart to stop its rhythm for a fleeting second. Once again, she attempted to draw back, but despite the oil, his grip was unrelenting.

“Please,” she heard herself breathe, her voice cracking as he shoved open the box with one hand. “Please, I—… I could—”

“Dain, I will do anything,” Azriel interrupted, his tone firm, though a pleading note had entered his voice that had her eyes dart back to her mate. She’d never heard him like that. The shadowsinger, spymaster of the night court, feared in all of Prythian … was terrified.

Azriel’s jaw was clenched as his eyes flickered between her hands and her face, his chest heaving with the grip Fen still kept on his hair, his head tilted back.

“I will do anything. I will give … anything,” Azriel said, eyes wide and desperate as he struggled against his brother’s grip. “Just let her go.”

Dain offered her a smirk with his back still turned on his brothers, but he schooled his expression into careful boredom before he turned to face Azriel.

“Interesting thing, mating bonds,” he hummed, tilting his head as he beheld Azriel kneeling on the ground with his expression wild and his muscles tense. “They’re supposed to give you all this power, make you feel invincible, create offspring ready to conquer the world, and yet …” Turning back to face Y/N, an ugly sneer entered his face. “And yet here you are, offering everything you have for the person who is evidently your biggest weakness. Interesting, is it not? The power one holds if one controls the shadowsinger’s mate.”

He spat those last words as though they were filthy, as though they tasted bitter on his tongue, and her heart cramped at the look in Azriel’s eyes. Because Dain was right. There was nothing he couldn’t make Azriel do as long as he had her.

“So, to make things interesting,” Dain said, now grinning openly as he plucked a match from its box with surprising ease, hiding the box in his palm as he expertly flicked the little stick against the wall for a flame to spark from its red tipped end.

She stared wide-eyed at the flame before her, ears droning with the rapid beat of her heart as Azriel fought harder against Fen’s grip, a thin line of blood trickling down his neck where he pressed too hard against the blade at his throat.

“Dain.” Azriel’s voice broke as he formed his half-brother’s name. “Please.”

“Please,” she echoed, to which Dain leaned closer with a mocking raise of his brows.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I couldn’t hear you over Azzie’s begging. What did you say, sweetheart?”

She felt her bottom lip wobble, felt the indignity of it all deep in her bones, where it mixed with her fear until it threatened to consume her.

“Please, I—”

But Dain had already dropped the burning match.

Azriel was dying.

He was sure of it. This is what dying felt like.

His chest was caving in on itself, his lungs halting all together, and he watched in horror as the match fell and the world slowed to a stop.

She’d burn.

She’d burn right in front of him.

She’d scream and cry and plead for it to stop, for the pain to stop, for mercy—just as he had when his own hands had burned at only eight years old.

And he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help her.

The air would fill with the scent of her burned flesh, and he’d have no choice but to endure.

He reached for his power, desperate in the call for his shadows, but the faebane was still clouding his senses, weighing down on his limbs and clogging his veins. The shackles on his wrists were drenched with it—enough to numb his every sense.

But Azriel forced himself further, pushed through the thick fog hiding his powers, pleading for something to answer. Anything.

And finally—a flickering shadow.

It was small, tiny, barely big enough to do anything at all.

But big enough to drench a flame.

The shadow shot forward, wrapping around the tip of the match as it fell, and when it bounced off her hands, it fell to the ground without a spark having ignited the oil on her skin.

Azriel might have thrown up with relief if it hadn’t been for Fen’s thick fingers tangled in his hair, tearing at the roots.

Dain stood with a crease between his brow, and for a long moment, all was still.

It was then that Azriel realised something, and he could see the realisation spark in her wide, terrified eyes as well.

In order to pull the matchbox from his pocket, Dain had sheathed his dagger at his side. And then, when he dropped the match, he’d taken his other hand off her to avoid catching on fire himself.

Which meant Dain wasn’t touching her, wasn’t restraining her. She was free.

Y/N met Azriel’s gaze then and when his eyes flickered down to the broken remains of the lamp at her feet, an unspoken plan formed between them. A plan forged between mates in the short duration of no more than a second.

At once, Azriel threw himself back against Fen with all his might. It wasn’t enough to push him to the ground, but it was enough to have him stagger, and certainly enough to draw Dain’s attention.

Azriel’s eldest half-brother sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

“See, Azzie, the fire was really me being kind, and now you went and ruined it,” Dain said, a cruel spark flickering in his eye. “I will have you know that there are much more fun ways to torment your little mate. Perhaps I should have you watch while I f—”

“What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Azriel spat, though he already knew the answer to that question. He’d spent his childhood contemplating it only to come to the conclusion that he’d done absolutely nothing to deserve their abuse. The only thing he’d ever done, the only thing he was ever guilty of was the seemingly unforgivable trait of having been born an illegitimate child.

But he needed to distract them, needed their sole attention on him to give her more time. He needed to play into their hatred for him, which was easy enough. They weren’t here for her after all, not really.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Y/N frantically wipe the oil off her hands, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Dain for even a second.

“You want to know what you’ve done to us?” Fen asked from behind Azriel, his tone almost amused. “I’d say being born was the first offence.”

Dain bared his teeth in a menacing smile. “And it is our duty to never let you forget it.”

It was then that everything happened at once.

With their sole attention on Azriel, neither of his brothers had noticed Y/N pick up a sharp piece of the broken lamp’s casing, pulling the sleeve of her dress over her hand to protect herself against the sharp edges of the glass.

They hadn’t noticed her nearing Dain, hadn’t noticed the loud beating of her heart as she attempted to gather all the courage she could muster.

They’d been so taken by their hatred, so excited by the idea of breaking Azriel’s spirit by breaking that of his love that they hadn’t noticed that very love plunge the shard she carried deep into the side of Dain’s neck.

At once, the Illyrian’s expression fell, a wet gurgling sound breaking from his throat as he lifted his hands to frantically tug on the glass. But she’d done good. She’d done so good.

As she staggered backwards, watching with a horrified expression as Dain slowly drowned on his own blood, Fen took his dagger off Azriel’s throat, to storm towards his brother and catch him as he fell, lowering him to the ground with surprising gentleness.

It only took Fen a second to register the extent of the damage she’d done, and at once, his flaming eyes shot to her, indescribable fury twisting his words.

“You filthy little whore,” he roared, fists shaking with rage. “I will break every bone in your body for this. You will be begging for death once I am through with you.”

It was Fen’s first step towards his mate that finally forced Azriel’s aching body into action.

Pushing forwards on wobbly legs, he threw his entire weight on Fen and finally—finally—he went down, hitting the ground hard with Azriel landing on top and his dagger clattering to the ground.

Every inch of Azriel’s body was burning with faebane but he knew she wouldn’t make it out if he failed now. He knew Fen would do unspeakable things to her for what she’d done to Dain, knew that if he lost now, he’d condemn the love of his life to a fate worse than death.

And so Azriel pushed on, shackled hands finding Fen’s throat and pushing down hard to cut off his air supply.

But he was weakened, and Fen was not, and after the initial shock of the impact, his fists came up to hit the side of Azriel’s body over and over again, knuckles burying themselves in his flesh, cracking his ribs, hitting his kidneys.

Azriel pressed on, fingers aching with the grip he maintained on Fen’s throat, legs fighting hard to stay seated on the Illyrian’s chest as his half-brother’s wings thrashed wildly.

Fen and Dain had always been bigger than him, but Azriel was the spymaster of this court, and he hadn’t gained the title for nothing.

Azriel was strong. He’d grown much stronger than his half-brothers, and even as the faebane caused his scarred fingers to cramp, he clenched his teeth and endured.

It was ironic, really. After all, his half-brothers had been the ones to teach him to endure. They had tormented and tortured him throughout most of his childhood, and as Azriel watched the life slowly drain from Fen’s eyes, his punches weakening with every second Azriel kept his hands on his throat, he felt a grim satisfaction at the fact that they found their end through the very hands they’d scarred centuries ago.

Azriel only realised that Fen had stopped fighting, his eyes open and glassy, when chocked sobs reached his ears. At once, his head turned to find Y/N sunken against the wall furthest away from both bodies.

For one gruelling moment, Azriel thought she was crying because she’d seen his true colours, because he’d killed in front of her. It was only after a few long seconds that he realised her wide eyes were focussed elsewhere.

Dain’s chest was still heaving with chopped breaths, though blood was steadily seeping from the wound in his neck, staining the floorboards. He was dying, but he was not yet dead as the shard was blocking a large portion of his wound.

“Y/N,” Azriel croaked, wincing when he moved off Fen to realise the damage his brother had done to his ribs. “Y/N, my love. They put the key over there on the windowsill. I need you to unlock my cuffs.”

Her eyes flickered briefly to him, before focussing on the windowsill, but it took yet another log moment before she slowly rose to shaking legs and padded over to the window.

Tears were streaming down her face, silent now, but once she’d unlocked Azriel’s shackles with shaking fingers—the relief of the faebane almost instant—he forced his body past her when all he really wanted to do was hold her. But he was running out of time.

Taking Dain’s dagger from its sheath, he looked down at his dying half-brother.

She hadn’t plunged the shard as deep as he’d thought, hadn’t ended it as quickly. This would be a slow, painful death, but despite the agony he must feel, Dain’s eyes were burning with hatred as they locked on to his loathed bastard brother.

What a fitting way to end things as they’d started, Azriel thought to himself.

In one quick motion, he slid the dagger’s blade across Dain’s throat before letting it clank to the ground once more.

Silence settled like a blanket then, interrupted by only the uneven pattern of her breathing.

Turning, Azriel raised his hands to her cheeks, jaw clenching with the relief of touching her, of knowing that she was okay.

“You didn’t kill him,” he head himself say, his tone urgent, his gaze holding hers. “You didn’t end his life. I did.”

He felt her attempt to shake her head, though his palms held her face steady. The sight of her wide, hopeless eyes nearly tore him apart. The thought that his cruel brothers had broken something within his beautiful, gentle, innocent mate that had always been so distinctly her almost shattering him. He couldn’t let her carry this.

“You did not kill him, Y/N. He would have survived if I hadn’t ended it. His faerie blood would have healed him.” Azriel swallowed thickly. “I promise you. You did not kill him, my love.”

And yet, he could tell in the depth of her grief-stricken eyes, that a piece of her had shattered, nonetheless.

974 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 23 days ago

Text

AFTERGLOW

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: A sequel part to Flirting, which follows our dear reader (an archivist from Day Court) and the events post-hook-up with Azriel. Don’t worry, his busybody family could never be too sidetracked with running their court to prevent them getting involved in his love life– and, thanks to the properties of transference, yours! Have you stumbled upon something real here with him? Or will it be over before it’s begun? Only Azriel’s shadowy attachment style and maladaptive coping mechanisms will tell! Spoiler: the sex is good.

read part one on tumblr here

A/N: From the bottom of my heart, what the fuck was I doing when I started writing this fic in the second person present tense. Copy editing this was a nightmare. I am completely demoralized. The only thing that can cure me? Your comments and kudos, baby!

Content Warnings: porn with plot, kinda switches between your POVS, female reader, Rhys and Cass and Mor being dickheads (affectionate), smut (featuring aftercare <3), mutual masturbation, thigh riding, unprotected PIV sex, explicit language, alcohol, yearning, idiots to lovers, no use of Y/N

Disclaimers: 1. I’m woman enough to admit that I don’t know how the magic system works in this universe. Who has what powers? None of my business. Yet, somehow, this same author spent an hour researching exactly how people with penises like to masturbate. And that’s showbiz, baby! 2. It’s also not my business where these people live. I haven’t read ACOSF yet so I have no idea where they’re all supposed live so just pretend Az has his own place and they all share a house too idk the river house is new and confusing to me kthxbyeeee

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~14k

Read on AO3

It’s surprisingly domestic, how the morning unfolds in a post-coital haze, breathy moans lapsing into quiet conversation about pillow preferences and the day's looming demands. You’re seriously so glad you went dancing last night, especially since your fun solo night out was cut short in favor of mind blowing sex with Azriel. The male lies beside you, your body tucked into his arm on his massive bed, the pair of you lingering after another round of bliss. You’re reluctant to emerge from your shared cocoon, but you know you can’t stay forever.

“I don’t know about you, but this is my ideal morning,” Azriel comments lazily.

You murmur something noncommittal.

He raises himself up on one arm to look at you, affronted. You see the disbelief in his poised face, his quiet accusation: How could it get better than this? It’s sharp enough to uncover your grin as you answer:

“A bath?” you propose.

Azriel presses a kiss to your temple before grumbling his way out from under the covers.

“Anything for my esteemed guest,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m so honored,” you say, eyes rolling behind his back as he disappears into the washroom.

“I saw that!” he calls from inside.

You give him a rude gesture from your place under his sheets, and you hear his chuckle echoing through the open doorway as he draws you a bath. Even his laughter sounds like a whispered secret. You treasure the sound, storing it away in your memory.

You’re half hoping he’ll join you in the bath, but he leaves you to wash alone once you finally emerge from his bed. Water sluices across your form as you cleanse yourself of the hard earned sweat and stain. While the stickiness washes away, the warmth of your experience remains; an invisible mark at odds with the pale bruises blooming on your chest and thighs. His soap smells of citrus and cedar, a salty scrub that rejuvenates your flesh and invigorates your senses. It was the scent you’d caught in his pillows as you’d been pressed into them this morning. You wipe the images from your mind, clearing your head with some effort.

When you emerge from your much needed bath, wrapped in a towel, you find your things laid out neatly for you atop his fresh sheets. You pick up an oversized shirt included in the pile. Your brow arches in silent question towards the male currently fussing with dirty sheets. Thankfully, he’s donned some undershorts, so you could expect to keep it together for at least a full conversation.

“I couldn’t find your shirt,” Azriel confesses, apologetic. He tells you that he looked all over his room while you were bathing, to no avail.

“Aren’t you a spy? I can’t believe you couldn't track it down,” you laugh as you slip into his tunic. It smells clean, and you’re a little put out that it doesn’t have his aroma. He throws a pillow at you, and you barely catch it before it smacks you in the face. His pout only makes you laugh harder.

He apologizes again about your top, but as you slip your skirt back on, you remind him that you weren’t protesting last night when he threw it gods know where. His ears burn as he imagines it falling out the window, landing somewhere in the city below, perhaps much to some stranger’s confusion.

“Not that it would be out of character for this place, with Rhys and Feyre being the way they are,” he concludes, cracking you up again.

You come to stand before him, in your odd new outfit, short tight skirt and long baggy shirt. Now that you’re dressed, you aren’t sure of what comes next. So far, he’s directed your morning routine, and you’re suddenly dreading the inevitable moment when you have to leave. His eyes are taking you in, and you have no idea how his heart stutters at the sight of you, freshly bathed in his soap and dressed in his clothing. He has half a mind to take you back to bed, if Rhys hadn’t just been in his head reminding him of their upcoming morning appointment.

Before you can ask him what the plan is, your stomach growls loudly, demanding.

You curse your traitorous stomach as you walk through the grand halls alone in search of a meal, disoriented since he’d kissed your temple again right after dispatching you to the kitchen. He’d offered to get the two of you food, but you told him he should bathe first. Truth be told, you just needed a moment to get your bearings. This morning was far more normal than you were expecting, and it unnerved you how easily you’d fallen into a mock domestic routine with the warrior.

Soon enough, you find a well stocked kitchen, exactly where Azriel had explained it would be. You shouldn’t be surprised that his directions were so clear, given the male’s strategic mind.

You do find yourself surprised, however, that he’s allowing you to wander unchaperoned and barefoot through his court’s inner dwelling. The thought had warmth blooming in your chest as you set water to boil on the stove before looking around for some proper kind of tea.

Before you know it, you’ve lost yourself to snooping through the full cabinets, inspecting jars and baskets of dry goods as you assemble your small feast. As an archivist, you can’t help admiring neat collections of any kind. You’re as endlessly fascinated with the contents of cabinets as you are with stacks of manuscripts.

The distraction is why you don’t notice the approaching footsteps until a sarcastic voice calls you out of your reverie.

“Az? Is that you?”

You freeze your snacking at the unfamiliar male voice in the hallway.

“What the hell, brother. So tell me why you tapped out earlier than anyone last night– without saying goodbye, might I add– and yet you’re the only one late to training this–” the voice cuts off as he finally spots you through the door frame.

“Oh,” the Illyrian stumbles before quickly recovering, “Hello.” A boyish smile breaks upon his face as he takes in your state, dressed in his brother’s shirt over a skintight skirt.

“You’re not Azriel,” he observes keenly.

He offers you a wide grin, which you return sheepishly at first but then with real humor.

“No, I’m not,” you laugh, realizing this must be Cassian. You introduce yourself briefly before adding, “He’ll probably be late this morning.”

“I bet he will be,” Cassian quips, but before he can question you further, you excuse yourself with your tea while it's still hot.

“It’s nice to meet you!” he calls after you, your name ringing down the corridor.

Cassian shakes his head once you leave, speechless for a moment before he contacts Rhys. You won’t believe this! he projects excitedly, thrilled to have some gossip on his brooding brother for once.

You can’t hide your giddy blush when you return to Azriel’s room to eat. He takes the tea with quiet thanks, laughing at the mischief you’d gotten up to in his absence, and even more so at your impression of Cassian. His chest warms at your brief brush with his family. You enjoy a peaceful meal sitting in his chair by the window while he tidies his already very clean room, noting how fastidious he is in his motions as he dresses and styles his hair for the day.

Once he’s run out of ways to drag out his morning routine, he turns to you with a serious but soft expression.

“Can I see you again?” Azriel asks. If all logic didn’t defy it, you’d say he sounds nervous. “Perhaps on a real date?”

“A date?” you ask coyly. You don’t bother to hide your smug delight at his words, feeling like you’ve just won a prize. “Yeah, I think I’d like that. A lot.”

His resulting smile is so bright– for a second it transports you back to the grand archival library in Day court, where you’d soak up the blinding noon light that would stream in through the tall arched windows. You could always rely on its warmth for a reprieve from your dusty, tedious tasks. You imagine Az must feel similarly in this moment for his shadowy expression to break with such radiance.

It calms your sorrow at leaving the brilliant palace, confident that you might very well see it again soon. You enjoy this flight more, as he carefully maneuvers through the city’s sky, the journey less disorienting in the daylight. He leaves you on the steps of your accommodations near the library with a lingering kiss and a promise to see you again the next night.

Once he leaves, your mind goes into overdrive, cataloguing all that had occurred and trying to figure out what exactly drew you together. If there was any sort of common thread, it was invisible, but you felt its undeniable pull all the same.

You’d have to do some further research, you decide, on Illyrians, and on shadowsingers. And perhaps on sex positions with winged fae. And maybe you should buy a new going out top… though you certainly wouldn’t be returning this new one anytime soon, you think, smoothing Azriel’s shirt down as you step inside your little place.

You happily plan your list of tasks and activities, unaware of the shadows that slip inside after you, ready to report back to their master, who is equally anticipating your next meeting, even as he arrives unforgivably late to training, only to face the torment of his nosy family.

Azriel bears their prying questions and bold threats with characteristic stoicism, cracking only to say that they’d better play nice, offering scalding threats of his own lest they scare you off. Deep down, he thinks with pride that you could probably actually handle them in their full chaos.

After all, he’d felt something shake loose in his chest this morning as he’d laid watching your sleeping form. He recalls how he’d felt last night, when you were backlit and glowing above him. The magnetism that had sparked, a gravity he stepped into fearlessly when in battle, that now gave him pause. Later, when he had a moment, he would examine it more intently, but even at this glance, he felt it strongly.

He swallows his smile as he falls into the motions of sparring with Rhys, feeling that familiar thrill. He’s found a real contender in you, he should have known it from the moment he saw you squaring up back at the club. Azriel can’t wait to see things through with you.

Hours later, recalling that excitement feels like mockery, as he ponders what one possibly does for a first– second?– date. He curses himself for having such a premature reaction, rather than applying a more rational process to the situation. He’d met you once. He told himself he hardly knew you.

But even as he had that thought, he brought to mind all he’d absorbed about you. Your life in Day, your dedication to your people, your reverence for things of antiquity. His mind wandered to your shared experience, how he’d seen you come alive and undone under his touch. Your small reactions, your fixation on his wings, your quickness to humor. He couldn’t convince himself that he didn’t know you at all. Still, surely many fae knew you better than he could, after just one night.

The thought fills him with an ugly emotion; he didn’t like that someone else might know you better than he. Azriel scolds himself for his juvenile envy. He hadn’t earned special intimacy with you. Yet , he amends.

He is a master of spies, and foremost of a scarce population who could wield shadows as easily as any blade, and the trusted right hand of the most formidable High Lord in history. Even in his own right, he is one of the most powerful Illyrians in existence, he reminds himself as he sets to the task of planning your date.

Azriel is determined to show you a good time. He thinks back to how organic, how right your brief time together at Rita’s had felt.

How badly could this go?

✸✸✸

“You’re an idiot. I knew you were an asshole, but honestly Az, I hadn’t pegged you as an idiot,” Cassian scoffs, his raven locks shaking derisively. “I don’t know why I expected better.”

Azriel just glares at him. He should have known it was a mistake to come to Cassian for advice.

He looks to Rhys, hoping to find more level headed counsel. The three of them were cooling down from their morning sparring the night after his much anticipated date with you, ransacking the kitchen to refuel. Unfortunately, Rhys’ expression isn’t encouraging, the High Lord barely concealing his amusement.

Azriel sighs, supplicating the ceiling for better guidance. He knows that their strenuous exercises aren’t solely to blame for the distant throbbing in his skull.

“Quit it with the hysterics,” Rhys teases.

Azriel levels him with a stare, his shoulders tense and his shadows in pandemonium.

Rhys sighs, relenting, “So, you were saying you took her out to dinner?” he prompts diplomatically.

Azriel nods. He had picked you up about an hour after you’d gotten out of work for the day. You’d been elegantly arrayed, but still casual, since you weren’t sure what he had planned. Your wide smile upon seeing him had left him winded as you’d taken in his generous physique. He’d been drinking you in too, and the sight of those same chunky boots on your feet had had him smirking.

You’d playfully bared your teeth as you laid your hand on his waiting arm. “See something you like, soldier?” you’d teased.

“Very much so,” he’d responded honestly.

His candor had struck you off balance with more punch than any sweet talk or sass could have packed. His eyes held the same intensity that they’d burned with the other night; the same intensity that you’d started to doubt in your memory, thinking you must have imagined it in your blissed out daze.

“You clean up nice, too,” you’d recovered.

He’d mirrored your blush then, his red dusted cheeks relaxing you as he’d guided the two of you along the Sidra into the center of town.

The restaurant had been nice, not too nice, but comfortable and intimate. You’d been thrilled with the menu, the seafood more exotic and the spices more daring than what you told him you were used to back in Day. Perhaps he should have commented more of his own thoughts, but he was so satisfied just to listen to your chatter.

“Dinner was good,” Azriel shares.

Rhys and Cassian share a look at that. They were probably holding a conversation mentally on the side, analyzing and strategizing.

“Well, don’t bore us with the details,” Rhys prompts sarcastically.

Azriel swallows his retort, reminding himself that these were his brothers. As much as they pissed him off, they were his family, and they wanted the best for him. They wanted him to be happy.

“What else do you want to know?!” he groans.

“Did you fuck her?” Cassian deadpans.

Azriel just sputters in response. He is quickly losing faith that his brothers will be any help, if that was the best Cass could do.

“No!” Azriel balks.

“What do you mean no!” Rhys shouts, as Cassian curses and shakes his head more, this time hiding his face in his hands.

“I mean, we… we did sleep together that first night,” Azriel amends, with a meaningful look at Cassian, who stops snickering. “But not last night.”

“Why the hell not?” Cassian demands.

“Is that all you can think about?” Az hedges. He honestly didn’t know why you hadn’t slept together again. He had certainly wanted to. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do for another chance to taste you, to take you back to his place– his real place this time, not the House of Wind– get you in his bed and run his hands over your thighs, and up, up, to brush his thumb through your soaking folds–

“Brother! You’re one to talk, you’re the one going stupid at the thought of her right now!” Cass’s accusation has him cursing and forcing his mind back to this maddening conversation.

Rhys regards him with a knowing look which does little to comfort him. The two males across the counter share another meaningful glance. Azriel runs his hand through his hair, he was going to lose his mind if they kept up their silent conversation.

I’m right here, assholes, he projects into their minds down the bridges Rhys had established centuries ago. Typically, they reserved their use for business, but clearly the High Lord and his Commander had no qualms using their privileged mental bridge to serve their busybody purposes.

Rhys has the decency to cringe, but Cassian dismisses his insult with the ease of one perfectly aware of his gold certified status as an ass.

“What did you do to her, Az?” Cass scorns.

“Okay. So dinner was good. That’s a good start,” Rhys interjects, suddenly playing the diplomat again as his brothers’ fists begin to curl. “What did the two of you talk about?” he prompts helplessly.

“Just… things.”

Cassian swears again at Azriel’s curt response, and even as his temper flares, Azriel sees how weak his answer is. “Okay! Okay. We… Well, she talked about her life back in Day. I asked her a lot about her work, and how their recovery efforts are progressing.”

Rhys nods, encouraging him.

“And I asked how she felt about the security of Day, since a myriad of threats remain unchecked, after everything, and since they don’t discriminate between courts but could affect any of us-”

Cassian groans, and Rhys winces.

“What! She cares about her people, I was trying to be attentive!” Az defends.

“Brother. It sounds like you were doing recon,” Rhys gently explains.

Az opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You grilled her about the status of her court’s border security,” Cass adds bluntly.

“I did not… grill her,” Azriel manages. “I just… fuck. Fuck!” he lets out. “Damn it! I was asking her about her interests,” he helplessly repeats.

Cassian and Rhys just look at him with pity.

He scowls, accepting that the dinner conversation was perhaps not as free flowing as things had been at Rita’s. Still, he’d have sworn that you’d enjoyed the evening. He looks up at his brothers, desperation written on his face. “What do I do?”

“Did you make plans to see each other again?” Cass asks hesitantly, a rare sign that he’s taking this seriously after all.

“No,” Azriel admits, “but she did say she’d like to see me again,” he adds, much to his brothers’ relief.

Rhys claps his hands together, capturing their attention, his shoulders squaring as he assumes his role as their sovereign strategist. “Alright. We can work with that,” he claims. “How do we go from here? What are the facts?”

“First, we have established that Az is an idiot,” Cassian chirps helpfully.

“Right,” Rhys confirms, and Azriel just rubs his temples. This was just like their young days at the training camp, only without the license to punch Cassian for mouthing off. “What else?”

“She wants to see him again.” Azriel opens his eyes and flashes a grateful smile at his brother, who ruins the moment by adding suggestively- ”Or at least she wants to see part of him again.”

Rhys sighs, mentally reaching out to Feyre to tell her that she’ll have to handle their mid-morning appointments solo. Everything okay? she responds. He replies wordlessly with the scene in front of him, his brothers bickering over their breakfast, Cass creating an impressively explicit insult with a chocolate pastry and Az returning in kind.

By the afternoon though, the three males have come up with a respectable plan to salvage Azriel’s tenuous connection with you.

✸✸✸

You’re surprised when you see a shadow slip along the stacks toward your spot barricaded in a corner of the Night Court’s library, poring over some dense tomes. They’re full of oblique explanations that reference texts that are equally inaccessible, even to you in your expertise. You’d just about decided it was time for a break when you see the shadow approach.

It curls around your hand in an affectionate welcome. As warmth flares in your chest, a note materializes, a welcomely legible message compared to the books you’d been buried in. You look around, despite the silent and largely empty library.

No one is present to witness your blush as you lightly stroke the first line. The note is addressed to your name in a neat script.

I’m writing with regard to my concern that you’ve had too grand an impression of my court , it reads. You can hear Azriel’s wry tone in the clear letters.

First the high class of Rita’s, then the dizzying heights of Velaris’ fine dining last night. You smile at his dry, self deprecating words. Your heart thunders as you continue reading.

I’d like to amend this most grievous picture with a far less elegant evening. Would you be available to join me for dinner tonight? Same time, and meet me at my place instead.

Please respond at your leisure. I would very much like to see you again–

–He’s included an address and signed merely with an initial, a sloping A , that you trace as you mull over his words.

His place? That last line too, I would very much like to see you again , seems less neat than the rest of his writing, almost hastily scrawled. As if it had been an afterthought. Or as if he’d been nervous to pen it?

You shake your head at his shadow twirling around your wrist, the messenger seemingly in no rush. You’d been confused after your date with the shadowsinger, and now even more so. He wanted to see you again.

The date last night hadn’t been bad. You’d certainly had worse experiences.

He had shown up right on time to pick you up from your doorstep, sweetly admiring you as you’d shakily locked up your place. When you’d caught his hungry gaze, that still novel thrill had shot through you, and you couldn’t help your smile. You’d been excited, and that feeling remained sparkling in your chest as you’d wound your way through the city towards the spot he’d picked out.

The meal you’d shared had been amazing, you were impressed with the whole affair. Azriel had looked indecently handsome in a soft black tunic and sleek charcoal pants, his siphons simmering ultramarine. You’d noticed he wore heavier leather boots…

“Nice boots,” you’d complemented with a small smirk.

“Thank you,” he had spoken sincerely, without marking your innuendo.

You’d meant it as a small temperature check, delicately referencing your previous frenzied hook up where you’d neglected to take off your shoes for the first couple rounds.

Either Azriel had missed your meaning, or he was establishing a boundary. You didn’t imagine the spymaster missed much, so you took it as an indication that he didn’t want to explicitly discuss what had happened between you.

Even that was confusing, since his eyes had still gravitated towards your lips, followed the movements of your throat, and beheld you with a ferocity you couldn’t tear yourself away from.

You held your tongue, though, about the research you’d done on how to get freaky with a winged individual. Honestly, that was probably for the best, you reflect, given how your sources were anecdotal at best. But damn! You’d done your due diligence, and you were hoping it would come in handy eventually.

Azriel had been kind to the staff, who did their best to conceal how unnerved they were by his presence. He’d been perfectly well mannered, you’d enjoyed picking his mind about court security and his entertaining stories about his family. Overall, it had felt like your conversation at Rita’s, free flowing and comfortable. You trace the evening in your mind now, finding it more complex than the books you’d been dissecting all morning.

You were used to speaking your mind, so you had planned to tell him directly that you’d like him to fuck you again, please and thank you .

And when he hadn’t responded to your lingering touches, or your meaningful looks, you figured it was the same pattern as last time; where his respectful attitude demanded he unleash his passion only slowly and incrementally as the night progressed. After he’d walked you home and you’d told him what a great time you’d had at dinner, you’d even gone so far as to invite him up to your place.

But he had declined.

The male who you thought had been undressing you with his eyes the whole way back had dodged your invitation, citing an early morning. You’d been so blindsided that you’d just accepted it.

Azriel had kissed you then, confusing you more as his hot mouth worked yours in a riveting connection. Then he had simply pulled away, his hazel eyes molten in the dark.

“I’d like to see you again.”

You cringe, recalling your words to him as he’d bade you good night. But he had seemed to practically preen at that, his shadows making lazy, arrogant circles around the horns at the apex of his wings.

So, all things considered, perhaps this note before you shouldn’t be a total surprise.

You’ll just have to talk directly with him, you reason. And the best way to do that will be to see him in person tonight. You briefly pen your enthusiastic agreement to send off with the shadow before returning to your work, heart a little lighter.

Azriel smiles as his shadow appears, depositing his note with your neat reply.

I look forward to seeing you tonight. Should I wear my boots? He laughs, spine tingling at his memory of you and those godsdamned shoes. He makes a note to remember to take them off of you tonight. If he’s so lucky…

✸✸✸

Azriel considers himself luckier than he deserves when you actually show up at his place that evening. You look resplendent, he thinks, starlight dusting your hair. Much to his embarrassment, his shadows swarm you the instant he opens his front door to your confident knock. He silently curses them and wills them to behave.

“They say hello, as well,” he says after greeting you.

“Hello to you too, then, you handsome little devils,” you flirt shamelessly with his shadows.

“Don’t encourage them,” Az chides affectionately, watching them as they double back to twirl in your hair and brush along your cheek. “They’re insufferable enough as is.”

You just laugh at their antics, flattered by their attention.

Quite frankly, you’re charmed. You couldn’t find any information on shadowsingers in your brief search on the topic. You aren’t sure how they work or how they speak to him, but you do know that you like them. The more you interact with them, you can sense their personality.

“You look beautiful,” he offers.

He takes your jacket, manners impeccable as he crisply hangs it on the back of his door.

“Thank you,” you blush, slyly admiring his wings as he’s turned away. “You don’t look half bad yourself.”

You’re fooling no one. Azriel looks good. Really good. He’s handsome enough to win a best dressed contest naked, but this outfit works for him too. His sleek vest is a deep green, the first hint of color you’ve seen on him. It complements his eyes well, bringing out their gold. You’re enjoying his exposed forearms too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

You had caught the faint scent of citrus and cedar as you’d brushed past him to step inside. Your body is activated by the scent, recalling how it had lingered on his pillows. Overwhelmed by the pleasant picture, you swallow the memory.

Before he can catch you checking him out, you catch a mouthwatering aroma.

“Did you cook?”

His bashful look has your heart melting as he leads you to his kitchen. Indeed, the male had cooked a glorious meal. The dishes themselves aren’t particularly rich fare, but the volume is definitely more than two can pack away. He's gone all out.

As you marvel at his production, it strikes you how surreal this is, how extraordinary. You’re here. In his kitchen. The famed shadowsinger has made you roast fowl from scratch.

To distract yourself from the absurdity of the picture, you focus on the details. There's herbs tied up in bundles hanging from his shelves. You get a glance inside one cabinet as he grabs a bottle of wine, and, unsurprisingly, their contents are very neat.

“I’m impressed.”

“That’s the general idea,” he winks as he pours you a nice glass.

This was one step of his preparation for the evening. One key element of a winning battle was the location, situating your forces in the most optimal position. Now, his simple task is to figure out how to build a beautiful, long lasting relationship with a brilliant female out of a fancy goose carcass and herb potatoes. He grits his teeth. The night isn’t nearly over yet.

You accept the drink with thanks.

“So, this is your place?”

Azriel just nods.

“So, did you rent that palace temporarily, or?” you try again.

“Oh, that was the House of Wind.”

You raise your eyebrows at the lack of explanation. “It sure was windy.”

He catches your question then, “Oh- sorry, yes. It’s essentially our, that is, the court members’, public house-” he launches into the explanation you’d been looking for.

You’d imagined he would be more comfortable in his own home, but he seems uneasy. The male remains as inscrutable as ever. You hadn’t realized how much you usually rely on nonverbal cues to read people. He is so reserved– by training– and also obscured– literally, by shadows.

As you chat amiably about the city and its organization and his confusing housing situation, he leads you to his sitting room. You were surprised at your nerves even as you converse easily, typically you weren’t so easily ruffled. Then again, it’s been a while since you’d been so swept up by someone.

“It’s nice,” you say, looking around the room.

“Yeah? You like it?”

“Yeah,” you nod. It’s cozier than the palace was, the sweeping views exchanged for a comfortable and surprisingly cheerful atmosphere. The furniture is cushy, but practical, sturdy.

“I know it’s not much like the palace,” he reads your mind.

“No, I like that it's cozier. I just don’t know how you fit in the door,” you joke, gesturing vaguely at his scale, between his muscled form and looming wings. He laughs at that, and you banter back and forth about what a pity it is that there’s such a lack of Illyrian sized accommodations. Your shared laughter fades into a silence only broken by the crack of logs burning slowly in his hearth, crumbling voicelessly into embers.

You let the moment stretch, taking the moment to appreciate the relaxed evening ahead of you, unwinding from your long day at work.

Azriel, meanwhile, is counting the remaining threads of his sanity on one hand. Give him a fistfight. Give him an enemy regime to infiltrate. But gods save him from making conversation with a female he likes. He thought the relaxed setting would be more casual, but his chest is still tight as he tries to behave normally. Maybe this was a bad idea…

The pleasant silence continues to grate on Azriel, until he crumbles. “We can eat whenever,” he says, breaking the spell. He curses himself for his cowardice, sidestepping whatever was growing in the lingering quiet between you.

“This is nice, though,” you say into your wine, undeterred. It really is good stuff. You aren’t a sommelier but you know a drinkable vintage when it hits your tongue.

“Yeah,” he relaxes somewhat into the couch next to you again.

Hazel eyes meet yours, the fire from the hearth flickering in their reflection. You really are enjoying the peaceful atmosphere with him. His hair is styled a little differently than you remember, the waves flopping in a charming swoop across his forehead rather than brushed back. Your gaze dips to his lips, damp with wine. His pupils expand almost imperceptibly as they track the movement, like prey scenting a threat.

A loud knock interrupts your mooning.

Azriel frowns, one of his shadows streaking off to investigate the front door. His scowl deepens before his scout even returns, as the knocking continues, adamant.

“One moment,” Azriel says reluctantly, with an apologetic look as he stands. You nod, your attention on his tense form, his wings obscuring the door as he whips it open.

“What are you doing here?” you hear Azriel hiss.

“Rhys has no good wine left,” Cassian whines as he brushes past Azriel at the door. “Oh, hello again!” he says to you with a winning smile as he emerges from the entryway, somehow edging around the imposing shadowsinger.

“Hi,” you say quietly, but not weakly, looking to Azriel for your cues. His face is unreadable, a dark storm clouding his features once more.

“Wait up, you brute!” a female voice speaks, and Azriel’s face darkens further as a stunning female pushes her way in. You recognize her from the bar, she was one of the group Az had pointed out as his family. Mor , her name surfaces in your mind. She was the one who brought them all to Rita’s frequently.

You could guess why she might prefer that particular spot, as her eyes rake over you. She flicks her hair flirtatiously.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says boldly, extending a hand as you rise from Azriel’s couch, making your way to join them at the front of the room. You tell her your name, and she flashes you a smile, all teeth as she bites her lip.

“Mor,” she offers.

“Yes– it’s nice to meet you officially. Azriel has told me a bit about all of you,” you admit.

“Really?” she says with genuine interest, looking at the shadowsinger curiously. Her mind seems to be working at top speed as she takes in the two of you, him sulking by the open door and you standing comfortably by the entryway to his sitting area, your glass of wine by his couch half empty.

“Yes, well,” Azriel begins, trying to reel in his invading family, “we were just about to eat, so–”

“Yes, why don’t you join us!” you suggest. You miss Cassian’s shit eating grin and Azriel’s shocked expression as you turn to Mor.

“We would hate to intrude,” Cassian lies. He’s schooled his face into one of total propriety, a convincing facade only to you.

“No, it’ll be fun!” you encourage, finally looking to Azriel.

You feel bad to take charge, but he is giving you no clues. Welcoming his family seems like a safe play. Even if they were crashing your date, you would be lying if you said you weren’t curious to get to know them after the bits and pieces Az has shared.

Plus, you’d seen the way his eyes had flashed with alarm when you’d glanced at his lips. Maybe he’d be glad of the diversion...

“If you insist,” Cassian drawls at the same time as Mor asks “What’s that smell?”

You grab her arm cheerfully to lead her into the kitchen, eagerly sharing about the enticing meal Az had prepared.

Azriel grabs Cassian, holding him hostage in the entryway as the two females disappear into his home. “This was not the plan!” he spits in a furious whisper.

“It wasn’t your plan,” Cassian corrects in his most infuriating tone: superiority.

Azriel just growls at him as they move inside, shooting him a look that says Don’t fuck this up for me .

Cassian’s silent reply comes with mock innocence, Who, me?

Azriel’s lethal retort is snuffed out as he registers your laugh from around the corner. “Be nice!” is all Az manages before he steps into the kitchen to investigate what potentially devastating story Mor is telling to make you laugh like that. Why did Cassian think that he needed babysitting?

His anger bluffs as he takes in your red face, your grinning laughter directed at him. He can’t bring himself to feel upset when you’re giggling like a fool in his kitchen.

“Did you really steal this wine from Amren on a dare?” you wheeze gleefully, hefting the open bottle with newfound interest.

He mirrors your grin, “What kind of spy would I be if I admitted to it?”

You and Mor squeal at his response, she starts yelling at him that Of course he did it, he could never back down from a dare , and Cassian is laughing now too, butting in to tell you his side of the story, to explain his most elegantly devised dare, as Mor slaps his chest and reminds him about the many shots that had contributed to its flawed design. Azriel takes in the scene, so chaotic and so not what he had planned. You catch his eye from across the small room, your eyes shining with mirth.

You seem perfectly at home, pouring two extra glasses of wine for your unexpected guests. He shakes his head affectionately, surrendering to the new program for the evening.

As he sets the table for you and his family, he tries to remember why he was so angry just moments ago. That fire has faded to warmth, calm radiating from his chest at the familiar scene before him.

Cassian seats himself first, and then Mor insists on sitting next to you, so Azriel ends up facing you across the table. You give him a small smile, a brief look meant just for him, as his brother piles food onto his plate with gusto. You see Azriel swallow his annoyance, his face betraying that he’d cooked those fucking rosemary potatoes for you, not Cass. They’re passed to you next, and you see him relax as you dish yourself a generous portion. As the dishes rotate, the smell of the simple feast nears heavenly.

The chatter pitches higher too, Cassian asking you about Day and Mor describing the miracle that must have resulted in Azriel’s culinary art. Question after question is posed to you, apparently they find you as fascinating as you find them.

This is nothing like you’d pictured, you think, as insults and compliments are exchanged around you. And you had pictured it, what meeting Azriel’s family would be like. What else were you supposed to do with yourself last night, having been declined sex after a nice date?

It had been a clunky vision, more so based on your experiences with the formal dinners you’d attended for work than with meeting a partner’s friends and family.

You’d struggled to picture how you could possibly connect with his inner circle, elite as they were. The daydream had been promptly abandoned after you’d failed to conjure anything remotely pleasant. Azriel was always charming as ever in the imagined scenarios, but you’d not factored in the wholly unpretentious warmth he has with his closest friends.

You see that tenderness now as he rolls his eyes at the two imposing faeries, the pair of them representing a significant part of his family. A memory flashes in your mind at the sight, a memory of tenderness when he’d been admiring you in bed that morning a handful of days ago. But they'd all known each other for centuries. You’d known him for a handful of days. Was it foolish of you to dream that you’d earn a place in his world? You thought of the small case of belongings you’d brought with you from Day. Suddenly, it felt paltry, lacking, especially as you pictured your friends and work back at home.

But who cares if your presence here is inconsequential in the long run? It matters to you that you are here now, and you’re pretty sure it matters to Azriel. You reaffix your smile, deciding to enjoy the moment you’re in.

“Azriel is a total ladykiller,” Mor cackles, and you regret having zoned out during this particular story. Azriel snorts at her words, but you blush at their partial truth.

“Yeah,” Cassian catches your attention by speaking your name in a questioning tone, “Can you fight?”

“Only verbally,” you confess, a little nervous to admit it to your current company of seasoned warriors.

Cassian grunts in acknowledgement, nonjudgmental. He narrows his eyes, humor dissipating as he assesses you. “We can work with that,” he decides, suddenly sounding serious. “I can teach you the basics, but Azriel might want to show you the more advanced maneuvers himself,” he says with a wink.

Azriel blushes and glares at the innuendo, while Mor laughs around her bite. Yet the depth behind Cassian’s proposal strikes you. His offer assumes that you’ll be sticking around.

“I’d like that,” you accept, smiling at the general next to you.

Azriel feels his chest go weightless at your words, like he’s soaring high above the atmosphere. He flashes his brother a grateful look before clearing his throat.

“Don’t go easy on her, Cass. She’s lying,” Azriel warns, with a mischievous glance at you. Your shadowsinger has certainly lost whatever hesitation he had earlier, his bold words matching his newfound audacity. “She was totally squaring up with some dipshit at Rita’s before I intervened.”

You gape at him as Cass and Mor squawk. The two of them launch into an intense interrogation, demanding the full story.

As you recall the evening in question, you feel yourself precariously close to an embarrassing blush. The mortal blow comes when Azriel laughs, the sound noon-bright and ringing, buzzing loud as gossip.

Eventually, after several more glasses of wine, with empty plates to match, Azriel disentangles you from Mor and Cassian’s endless chatter. You’re reluctant to see your new friends leave, and the amused male only successfully ushers them out after you make Cassian swear to keep his promise to teach you to fight. Content, you wish everyone a good night and thank them for their warm welcome to the Night Court.

Once the door closes, Azriel heaves out a good natured sigh.

“What were you and Mor whispering about just now?” you pry, still giddy in the wake of your departed company. You liked them a lot, and you like who Azriel became around them, as laid-back as a seasoned spy could be.

“She was telling me how my head might end up on a pike if I don’t watch myself,” he responds drily, and you notice him rub his temple harshly with a knuckle.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out.

His brows furrow, “Why?”

“I totally invited them to stay when it wasn’t my place,” you explain, shaking your head in regret. “Did I totally ruin our date?”

“Well I ruined the last one,” he says with humor, “so it was your turn.”

“What? No you didn't!” you defend him.

You’re shocked by his candid words. The date had been a bit awkward at the end, but it wasn’t a disaster in your eyes.

“Yes, I did.”

“What do you mean?” you search as you walk back into the kitchen to start cleaning up, “Like how we didn’t have sex?” Azriel chokes, his humor vanishing as you continue, “I was going to ask about that, but I figured it was a topic we should address privately.”

“Thank you for that small mercy,” he recovers. His shadows betray his agitation, floating jerkily around his shoulders in a confused dance.

You realize with a start that he’s nervous. The war hardened fighter is unnerved by a conversation about sex.

You’d really meant to ask earlier, but it wasn’t going to happen in front of Cass and Mor. The conversation at dinner had been enthusiastic and expansive, lighthearted at every turn. You’d assumed its levity was due to the fact that you were new, unfamiliar company. Now, seeing Azriel fight demons to self-reflect, you wonder if he ever really opens up to anyone, even his closest family members.

In all fairness, you aren’t exactly thrilled to talk about it either. You're nervous too, painfully aware that there’s an obvious explanation as to why he didn’t sleep with you again.

The male sighs again at your inquisitive look, his hands scrubbing over his face like he can wipe away his confusion. His brows furrow. “I honestly don’t know why we didn’t,” he says quietly.

You’re surprised at his answer. You’d expected more substance.

“I wanted to, you know,” you admit, pride be damned. If you were going out, you wanted to leave all your cards on the table.

“Really?” He mirrors your surprise. “I did too. I wanted you so badly, it scared me.”

You look at the battle scarred warrior, unimpressed. Even slouching, which he never did, he would still stand at least a good head above you.

You ask with disbelief, “ I scared you ?”

“Well… not exactly like that,” he explains, and he reaches out carefully to grasp your hand in his large palm. “I guess I was being… cautious. I wanted to be respectful.”

His words shatter something fledgling in your heart. That was practically code for I’m trying to be nice, I don’t want to lead you on .

“Oh.” You drop his hand, bracing yourself for the dreaded sting of rejection.

As he sees your expression harden, Azriel curses himself inwardly. This isn’t going the way he’d strategized it at all. His forehead creases as he desperately tries to remember the points he and his brothers had mapped out to help him with this exact conversation. Maybe Cassian was right to spare him from being alone with you, if he’s fucked it up this quickly.

Azriel thinks back to the previous night, when he had declined your invitation to come upstairs. He’d seen the chill on your face, a chill from his own closed door. You hadn’t pushed his boundaries. Rhys had pointed out to him that from his behavior, you probably couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Hell, even from inside his own head, Azriel was struggling to work out his thoughts.

The gravity of his attraction to you is concerning. It was a dangerous thing, the weight of it as great and terrible as a sword in his hands.

He wants your affection, he realizes. The trouble is: asking the spymaster to share his innermost secrets is like asking a busybody to keep just one. It went against his nature.

He pictures you as you were when he first saw you, gearing up for a fight at Rita’s. You’d been fearsome as ever, confronting the challenge rather than running. He wills himself the same bravery. He is a fearsome warrior, he absolutely refuses to allow mere emotion to make him a coward.

“I need you to understand something,” Azriel breathes, his wings tight as his expression. “I can’t do this if it’s just sex.”

You set down a dish heavily, your once sun-soaked heart breaking.

“If you, uh, don’t want this, that’s, that’s fine. I respect that,” you affirm, even as you’re reeling.

But then Azriel is shaking his head and wiping under your eyes, which you belatedly realize with embarrassment must mean that you’re crying. He’s trying to tell you how he feels and you’re crying on him. Gods! Get it together! you berate yourself.

“No, no, no. Angel, look at me,” Azriel panics. You meet his gaze, and you see a tenderness there, as ripe and sweet as the summer plums you used to pick with your mother as a child. “Shit, I’m doing this all wrong,” he curses.

“I can’t do casual,” he confesses, head still shaking, eyes gone glossy.

“That’s okay, I get it if you don’t want this–”

“No! No, you don’t get it,” he interrupts, swearing and speaking your name with exasperated affection. “I do want this. I want you .”

You gasp, teeth kissing the air as he continues.

“I want you. You said it wasn’t your place to invite them to stay tonight, but I want it to be your place. Fuck, I want to see you every day. I want to come home to you, and to know you’re waiting for me when I’m gone. And some days I want to wait for you too, and get jealous of the books you spend your time with.”

You try to say something clever like What the fuck? or Huh? but you’re too shocked to do much more than stare open mouthed as he lays out his emotions for you. At least you’ve stopped crying.

Azriel is looking at you as if you were personally responsible for every ounce of goodness he’s ever witnessed. It scares the shit out of you. How could he say all that? He doesn’t even know you. It doesn’t help that three seconds ago you thought he was going to kick you out.

“Why me?” you finally manage.

“I’ve never felt this way before,” he says, unblinking.

In a total inversion of all Azriel had ever known, he felt an overwhelming impulse to bare his soul to you. You’d never been scared of him, even when he’d put on his most frightening persona at the bar. You’d taken his identity in stride, you’d even used it to flirt.

He wants you to know him, he realizes. All of him. Even the darkest parts, the cruel, mean pieces with which he wouldn’t want to burden anyone but himself. For some unknown reason, at this moment, he can think of no greater honor than your involvement in his world, his reality, ugly as it may be. He hopes you’ll want it.

He takes your hand and places it on his heart, gripping it over his chest. When he speaks, his voice is ragged, tender and raw.

“You must know. You burn me,” Azriel confesses. “Surely you feel how you burn me.”

What you feel is your heart in your throat, pulsing erratically at his words. The naked truth on his face frightens you.

Your free hand reaches out to caress his high cheekbone as your mind whirls. His eyes close at the contact, his lips parted in silent prayer.

“I feel it too.”

When your thumb brushes the edge of his bottom lip, those hazel eyes flutter open again. The energy between you is thicker than it was moments ago, something fresh set smoldering in his gaze. His chest heaves under your other palm.

“You do?” he gasps, and you nod, words failing under the enormity of your emotion.

He’s equally choked up, so he opts for actions instead, pulling you against him to capture your lips in a messy kiss. It’s all wine-breath and teeth, but it’s perfect.

Your uncontrollable smile forces you to break away, and when you do he’s smiling at you just the same. His joy is infectious. For a long moment, you just smile at each other like fools, breathing each other's air in the sacred ambiance of the dim kitchen light. You linger in the quiet awe in the wake of your confessions.

When your mouths reconnect, the kiss turns feverish. It’s insatiable, your desire for him, as you suck his tongue, earning a satisfying whine from the hulking Illyrian.

“Shit,” he groans as he lifts you.

You gasp as your weight shifts off your feet, and he sets you against his counter before reconnecting your panting mouths. The insufferable Illyrian pushes one of his thighs between your legs, capturing your muffled groans with his warm mouth, tonguing away your soft cries.

“Make me yours,” you whisper.

“Shit, baby, I think I’d do anything you ask if you say it just like that,” he whines against your mouth.

He pulls away, standing between your legs like it's a place of special honor.

“Bedroom?” he begs, shining with unchecked joy.

“Yes,” you eagerly agree. “We can break in the kitchen counter later.” His laughter rattles down the hallway as he carries you to his room.

Once you’re through the doorway, his movements pause. A tender note hums to life amidst the excitement of your newfound connection. There’s a tender look on his face as he regards you with equal parts lust and affection. It’s a serious step for him, to have you here in his most personal place.

You’re distracted by the new space as soon as he sets you down, fascinated with his room– his personal room, not the one kept for him at the House of Wind. It’s sparsely decorated, too, but there’s knick knacks and weapons lying around in characteristically organized fashion.

“A lot of weapons…” you comment, humor bubbling up from your delight at the novelty of his affection and attention.

There’s several swords on the wall, artfully placed in the columns between windows, and knives and spears are displayed in tasteful and accessible ways. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was compensating for something. Is that a halberd? you think. The last time you saw a halberd was in an illustration on an ancient manuscript.

“What do you do for work again?” you joke.

He laughs, “I’m afraid the tools come with the trade.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that, but, I mean, seriously. That one?” You gesture above the balcony doors, where a grossly oversized sword rests. “Come on, Az!”

“Come on, I bet your place is full of books!” he counters.

You just scoff, so he knows he’s right.

“Come here,” he says, fondly. “You can inspect my quarters later, you freak.”

“Your freak,” you correct.

“My freak,” he agrees.

With that, Azriel grabs your waist, and pulls you in for a sumptuous kiss. The wine on his tongue goes right to your head, while the warmth of him goes due south. You pull away to tug meaningfully at his shirt, but he just follows to place expert kisses along your jaw. His work is so severe that you gasp–

“Shit, Az, I'm not paying you!”

“Are you calling me a whore?” he answers playfully, unfastening his shirt at the back under his wings. He sucks on his teeth, pulling away to look you in the eyes. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually. The payment didn’t go through last time–”

“Oh, no–”

“–yeah, so if you could, perhaps, pay in hard gold this time, that would be–”

“Ah, okay. Could you do a payment plan?–” the two of you banter while he shrugs off his vest. You relish the view of his exposed chest.

He plays into your shameless ogling, flexing to show off his whorling tattoos and the dark hairs trailing down beyond his leathers. The faelights surrounding the room cast a glow through the thin membrane of his wings, softly limning his form with warmth. You laugh at his peep show, but the sound is pitchy with your arousal. The toned male blushes. His easy humor may have returned, but vestiges of his shy personality still remain.

You whistle softly, continuing to torture him with your attention. His blush deepens impossibly. He’s just so easy to tease, and when he reacts like that, it's easier still to justify.

“Your turn,” he says, voice gravelly.

“What first?” you muse suggestively, smoothing down your dress.

“Boots,” he chooses.

Before you can toe them off, Azriel sinks suddenly to the floor. The sight of him on his knees before you sends a thrill up your spine.

Azriel, this most fearsome Illyrian, is totally surrendered to you. Heat throbs through your abdomen at the sight. He’s looking up at you through his lashes, his throat bobbing in anticipation as he pants below you. You haven’t even touched him yet, but his passion is evident, his eyes wild.

He gently grabs the back of your shins. “May I?”

“Please.”

He effortlessly unlaces your boots with capable hands.

“I’m surprised you want them off,” you tease as he grasps your hands to steady you as you step out of them.

“You look so sexy in them,” he agrees. “I am making a real sacrifice here, for your comfort.” His hand skims up the back of your calf, brushing your dress over your knee with his thumb. He places a kiss directly on your knee, heat flaring in your stomach at the soft brush.

“You look sexy in this too,” he compliments. His eyes never leave yours as he hauls himself up, you dress falling back to cover your legs.

“Would you be mad if I asked you to take it off?” His tone is toying, but his eyes are pools of hot desire.

“Don’t be an ass,” you rasp, mad only with anticipation.

Azriel slips two fingers under the straps on your shoulders, kissing your chest as he tugs them down your arms. You’re honestly impressed that he finds the hidden zipper at your side. Nothing escapes him, does it?

His hands come to brush along your freshly exposed skin, whispering praises into your hot flesh. After he peels off your dress with zeal, you raise a finger in warning.

“Be careful with that. I actually want it back!”

“I promise I won’t lose it this time.”

“Your promise is nothing to me! You never found my shirt, huh?”

“No,” he confesses with an exaggerated air of regret, blowing out his lips in sympathy. Your eyes narrow at his suspicious behavior.

“How do I know that you didn’t just steal it like a creep so you could jack off with it or something?” you say with mock sensuality.

“I wish,” he hums, thumbing the discarded material of your shimmering dress as if you’ve given him a brilliant idea. “Honestly, that would have helped me out the other night.”

Azriel freezes, his eyes widening as he realizes his slip. Your grin mirrors his horror at his admission. A dull ache blooms anew below your stomach.

“Did you touch yourself to the thought of me?” you breathe.

“Maybe.”

His voice is thick even as he squirms under your riveted look. His wings flutter briefly before relaxing as he spots the excitement on your flushed face.

“Fuck,” you groan. “That's hot. Please don’t be embarrassed, that’s so flattering!”

Your words do nothing to prevent the hot flush spreading across his cheeks and chest. You push him to the bed, giggling when he falls onto the cushions dramatically before unceremoniously shucking off his pants.

He makes grabby hands at you, and you melt at the sight of him, disheveled and unarmed, and as excited as you were. He pulls you towards him, bringing you to rest on his bare thigh.

You kiss his sternum, looking up at him through your lashes.

“I want you to show me.”

Azriel pauses, and his breathing goes a little uneven.

“Show you?” he repeats, his eyes blown out as you rub encouraging circles into his shoulder from your perch on his thigh.

“I want you to touch yourself,” you purr. “Show me how you like it.”

His brows twitch, his eyes going predatory under heavy lids.

“It might be your last opportunity for a while, since I’m gonna be pretty fucking jealous of that hand if it steals too much time in my territory,” you admit with a meaningful glance towards his crotch.

He laughs at that, but it doesn’t dampen the flame in his vision.

“Okay,” he murmurs devilishly. “Get comfortable.”

It will be a cold day in hell when Azriel denies such a request from you.

He makes a show of shifting to rest comfortably against the cushions, his wings extending lazily to drape across the pillows and trailing to the floor. The wide expanse of his chest shines in the low faelight, his swirling tattoos prominent even in the dimness. The hard ridges of his muscles contract rhythmically in time with his powerful lungs. His nipples are hard, he shivers in the slight chill as he rubs a hand through his dark hair, tugging roughly.

You come to rest just above his knee on his left thigh, essentially kneeling in the center of his bed. The slight contact has you boiling as you watch him trail a hand along his torso, one hand still teasing his hair. Your focus trails his toned abdomen down to his prominent arousal.

“Well you won’t have to use your imagination, like I did, for the first part,” he begins lowly, “because, if you must know, I was already this hard before I could get out of my leathers.”

If you weren’t dripping already, you are now. You’d been joking earlier, but this show really was worth some hard gold. Anyone would kill to see the fearsome Illyrian splayed out like this.

Azriel hisses as he strokes slowly down his abs, his chest rising and falling in a tortured cadence. After some time stimulating himself in this way, his moans become breathy.

With one hand, he deftly pulls himself out of his undershorts, and you can’t help yourself from reaching out to slide them a little further down his hips. Your mouth falls open at the sight of his sharp hip bones and the delicious stretch leading to the base of his heavy cock.

Its red tip bobs temptingly at your knee, but you restrain yourself. You shift slightly, looking for some relief, and your knee accidentally brushes the edge of his wing. His hips buck involuntarily, a whine falling from his lips at the contact.

“Shit, baby,” he cries. He hasn’t even touched himself, but his dick is straining against his stomach.

“Sorry,” you say weakly.

“Liar,” he growls, seeing the hunger in your gaze.

You shrug, unapologetic. Let him see what he did to you. It was his funeral at the moment.

He was focused on you, indeed, eyes roving around your naked form as he flexed his thigh beneath you. You start to circle your hips, your breasts bouncing with the sudden movement, until you hear him hum in pleasure. He was getting off from the vibration.

“Don’t cheat,” you scold.

He just whines, reluctantly stopping his thigh flexes.

“Good boy. I’d hate to have to punish you, baby,” you warn.

You meant it playfully, but his breathing falters and his wings twitch. Interesting. You file the information away for another time.

His fingers catch your attention as they come to play with the soft underbelly of his cock, just under the head. He used two fingers to rub small circles on the tender flesh. The spot was right where it had landed on your tongue when you’d taken him in your mouth briefly the other night. Again, interesting.

“This- this is supposed to be erotic,” Azriel struggles, “and you’re studying me like, like…”

“You’re a very compelling study,” you inform him in your most sensual voice as he struggles to speak.

“Fuck,” he says, “don’t tease me.”

But you see the effect your praise has on him. His fingers finally circle his length fully, pulling short strokes at the head. The whimper that falls from your lips would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so melodic in company with his grunts and moans. His expression is so unguarded, lit as it is by ecstasy.

“You’re doing so good for me,” you murmur.

The shadow singer's back arches off the bed at one particularly harsh tug, his rhythm never faltering. His accuracy is almost uncanny. He must have honed the art of his pleasure with the same rigor and precision as the rest of his work. The test of the room fades as your focus is wholly captured by the male sighing below you. You’re obsessed with the unholy picture of his hand wrapped around his cock.

His shadows shift along his wings in time with his strokes. Sluggishly, you realize they must be stimulating him as well. The thought renders the ache at your core unbearable.

Even through his euphoria, Azriel is receptive to your every expression. He sees your frustration.

“What do you need, angel,” he hums.

You respond reflexively, your hips grinding into his thick thigh. Your face heats as you register the motion. It was just what you needed, though. You certainly didn't want him to stop what he was doing, his fist pumping wickedly.

“Go on then,” he purrs.

The desire in his eyes encourages you to resume the motion, rocking your pelvis against the solid muscle of his thigh.

“You look so perfect,” he praises.

“And you’re sex incarnate, Az.”

You position yourself further up his thigh, balancing on your shins as your knees brush his wingtips again. You’re rewarded with a throaty groan for your flirting. The sight and vibration of your riding his thigh has the male slowing his hand, and gripping at the base of his cock. You’re not faring any better.

You brace yourself against his chest with your arms, both of you sensitive to the barest touch. The slight pressure on his chest has him hurtling towards the edge again. As he holds off his own strokes, he sends his shadows towards your form, your makeshift rules be damned.

The sighs you breathe are far from a complaint. His shadows lick up your form with tender phantom touches, and you feel the pleasure build in your core. Your rhythm starts to slip as you chase your release. His sculpted thigh should not be making you feel this good, but you start to see stars and you know the male can’t be fully mortal.

“That’s it, baby, let go,” he pants, as enthralled with your euphoria as he is with his own.

You barely register his praises as your orgasm shatters you, his shadows licking along with the pleasure racing through your body. As the waves wrack you, he drinks in your scrunched features, the soft cavity of your gasping mouth. You meet his eyes as you hurtle over the edge, the image of his carnal devotion seared into your mind. It would be unnerving if it wasn’t such a reflection of your own feral interior.

“That was so hot,” Azriel praises.

“Pervert. You were supposed to be giving me a show,” you pant, frowning as you catch your breath.

“I think I gave you a proper show, if that was your reaction.”

He’s earned a smug attitude, you figure. Your vision is still a little blurry, but you feel his shadows and fingers rubbing soothing patterns along your upper thighs. A different warmth blooms as you cool down from your blistering orgasm.

As you marvel at the intimacy of his gestures, Azriel’s head is clearing enough to fully appreciate the sight of you in his bed.

He had been on the brink of the most mind blowing orgasm of his life, yet he doesn’t even care about the urgency he’s feeling from his dick as he commits the image of you in his room to memory. It feels so right to have you here, just like it felt right to share a drink with you at Rita’s, and to sit down for a meal with you with his family.

Azriel reflects on the thought he’d had days ago, how he’s fallen into the gravity of powers like this before, but never in such blissful hues. His mind flashes back to battles he’s fought, the enemies he’s faced. Every time, the contact of such powers results in a brief conflict, a decisive end. The conclusion is inevitable; the force of the challenge undeniable in its strength and direction. This attraction, though. What to make of it?

The intensity is similar– his current adrenaline certainly feels like he’s just seen someone draw a sword, but it’s different. Your power was a challenge, but an invitation too.

The feeling is like the gravity in his gut at the beginning of a flight, when he’s leaping off of a cliff, that brief tension borne in the short moment between the stability of the ground and the strength of his wings. The feeling is prolonged, like he’s suspended there with you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind it so much, with you there, caught up in it just as much as he is. Besides, he’s tired of keeping everyone at arm’s length, he decides. He’s always loved flying, even if he came to it later than the others. Why should love be any different?

“Can you fuck me now?”

Your unsubtle words break his delicate reverie. Oh, he’s in serious trouble, he thinks as he sees you bite your lip.

“I’m not going to last,” he warns.

“Same here,” you admit. You were already feeling overstimulated, you doubt you’ll last long at his pace. “I want to feel you though.”

He presses a messy kiss to your mouth, savoring the moment. You’re just as unhurried, glad to linger in any moment with the gorgeous male below you. Strong hands guide you to straddle his hips, his legs bent slightly to support your lower back as he leans against the headboard.

When he finally enters you, he groans lowly.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

Your response is garbled by your euphoria. What you feel is euphoric relief, his cock filling you with a satisfying burn. Despite his size, the pain is minimal, your wetness helping him slide in easily. He grips your forearms, bringing your hands to anchor on his shoulders.

“It’s like you were made for me,” he slurs, delirious already.

The position is intimate. As he begins to rock you over his hips, your focus falls to explore the stunning male. Azriel is so fucked out already, raw from having edged himself earlier. His body is slick with perspiration, his face set in concentration, eyes blown out. Your hands on his shoulders are broiling with his heat.

His dark hair falls limply against the cushions, and his wings are hanging loosely, like he has no extra stamina to hold his posture. He meets your gaze, and the eye contact somehow feels even more intimate than the position you’re in. He seems entranced. The agony on his face is underscored by his attention fixed on your every move. It's like he’s seeing your soul, plucking the thread of your need and following it faithfully.

Using his broad shoulders as leverage, you start to fuck yourself on him. You’re rewarded with a stuttering groan as his hips thrust in time to meet you. Your head falls back in pleasure when your clit is ground deliciously against the coarse hair at the base of his pelvis as you bounce on him. Between his thick cock and his hard abdomen, you're perfectly stimulated.

The room becomes thick with the heat and scent of your sex. All of your senses are riveted to the male below you, to the pleasure being delivered to your core. Soft sighs and deep groans fill the air as you fuck at an agonizing pace.

His hands release their death grip on your hips, moving to explore your thighs and chest. The rough sensation of his hands over your skin is fuel to the fire of your appetite.

Desperate for somewhere to release your energy, you lean forward to connect your mouths. He hums in delight at the sudden kiss. You taste his sweat and his fervor, and it’s intoxicating.

When you pull away, his lips are shining with spit. Azriel looks like a male possessed.

“Shit, angel. Can we do this, like… all the time?” he begs.

“We haven’t even– even finished, and you’re– you’re thinking about doing it again?” you manage.

“Can you blame me?” he retorts. He emphasizes his words with a particularly vicious thrust that has you gasping.

“Please,” you cry. “We had better do this often.”

“ Awesome ,” he cheers breathlessly with a small smile to himself.

Your heart sputters at the sweetly boyish comment. Here he was, inside you, and he was excited at the idea of fucking you again later. It isn't just your body either, which was a major plus, but he likes you . Earlier he’d confessed that he wants more than sex. He wants to bring you into his life in a more serious way too.

You envision yourself bringing some belongings here, working at the library during the day, dining with Azriel and his family in the evenings. And at night, he would bring you here, to his bed, where he would ravish you. You relax into his body further as you realize you’ll have many opportunities to fuck him. He’d gotten excited earlier when you’d suggested some kinkier things. And, sure, he’d laughed when you’d joked about fucking in the kitchen, but he’d not seemed opposed.

“Are you with me?”

You blink, coming back to the present. If you were going to blame him for getting excited about future sexual escapades in the middle of fucking, you were guilty too. Thankfully, your body kept up the rhythm on reflex, cause you were just miles away in a diaphanous dream of your mutual future.

“There she is,” he smiles at you fondly as he rocks you mercilessly onto his cock.

His stamina was impressive. Despite your fatigue, arousal has your body pulsing with adrenaline. The familiar pressure mounts in your abdomen as you grind onto him.

As he eases your pleasure along, he’s transfixed by the sight of your bodies meeting, your hips swallowing him into your soaking hole. The feeling of your nails scraping at his scalp plunges him further into rapture, the slight sting heightening his sensitivity.

“I’m close,” you warn him.

“I’m with you, angel,” he pants. “Come on, baby.”

You abandon your bouncing to grind selfishly against him, chasing your bliss. He’s content with the debauched sight and the warmth of you around him. When your hand tugs his hair again, his dick twitches. Then your fisted knuckles brush his wings ever so delicately and his hips lurch, his shadows rioting.

Azriel is dangerously on the edge, but he’s determined to watch you unravel first, his competitive and generous spirits united under his indecent desire to see you come undone. Even as he appears depraved, he feels devoted. Your ecstasy was his own.

One last delicious shift of his cock scraping your walls, and your release staggers you. Your eyes flutter shut as crystalized bliss shatters over you. His scent envelops you, the salt of sweat mixing with tangy citrus. It transports you to a realm of bliss, where the only presence is yours and his, a delicious meeting of your senses.

The agonizing image of your ecstasy has him spilling inside you, his whines cresting as he climaxes. His teeth scrape yours in a sloppy openmouthed kiss. You ride out your orgasms, hips jerking erratically, waves of pleasure ebbing languidly.

You’re left with a warm buzz, even the discomfort of your stickiness feels rather like sweetness as you take in the glorious male. When your eyes catch, his lips curl into a smile. Your heart skips a beat at the tender sight of him spent and glowing beneath you. His shadows bleed into the cushions, baring him to you completely.

“Can I lie down?”

“Please,” he shifts to help you off of him.

You hiss as he slips out of you. “Sorry,” he mumbles, concerned.

“You’re good.”

“Are you okay?” His shadows rove over you, assessing for damage, and he winces at the mess between your thighs. You laugh at his concern, waving it off.

“I feel great. Just overstimulated,” you assure him as you curl into his pillows, your muscles grateful for the break. He nods and kisses your temple. The gesture is endearing, even as your thighs burn. You pull him down to rest next to you.

His eyes never leave yours, monitoring your movements and drinking in the image of you snuggled into his bed. You reach out to trace his features, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. It isn’t uncomfortable, you’re just so overloaded already; you aren’t sure you can handle its palpable energy. His skin is soft under your fingers, the fleshiness of his sharp face surprising you. Azriel hums under your soothing touch.

The unmistakable sentiment in his gaze has you melting into the comfort of his cushions, utterly relaxed. After all the uncertainty of the past few days, the surety of this moment is crisp, intoxicating. Nothing was guaranteed, of course, but you like your odds with him. You'd never been one to back down from a challenge.

“I thought you were going to ask me to leave,” you confess into the tender silence of the aftermath.

He frowns. “When?”

“Before,” you explain. “Right before you told me how you felt.”

He groans, regret clouding his features. “I’m so sorry. I haven’t made things easy for you. I definitely didn’t want you to leave.”

You shrug. You’re here now, what was passed is past. “You’re worth a little torture.”

“Why did you think that?” he asks, ignoring your lighthearted response. He avoids your eyes, fidgeting absently with the edge of the duvet.

“Well,” you begin, unsure of how honest to be. You opt for full truth, the words rushing out of you. “You didn’t fuck me! I was throwing eyes at you all night and things were going well–”

“Things were going well? Do you really think that?” he interrupts. “‘Cause Cass said I ‘grilled you on border security’.”

You snort at his air quotes.

“Well, yeah,” you frown, recalling the conversation, “but only after I asked you about how recovery efforts were going here, which is kind of a killjoy topic anyways.”

“We suck at this,” he decides brightly.

“Excuse you!” you leap to defend yourself. “I'm amazing at this– anyways! Totally not the point. You didn’t respond to my hints, so I thought maybe you’d changed your mind, and that you weren’t into me.”

Azriel shakes his head, and his rough fingers tenderly brush your hair away from your face.

“You were way off target, cause I’m totally into you. Remind me never to hire you for intelligence,” he teases, the words affectionate.

“In my defense, you are kind of hard to read,” you admit.

He hums, not denying it.

“Holy shit! See? I was just about to tell you off and you slithered out of it!” you look at him, equally impressed and incredulous at his evasive skills.

Now it's his turn to be unnerved, clearly caught out by your acute perception. You’re satisfied with yourself.

“Wow. Okay, I'll take it back, you’re hired,” he dodges. You don’t take the bait. His words make you think about his long career in intelligence. Suddenly, it makes perfect sense how he struggles with expressing himself verbally. He knew firsthand what the wrong words falling into the wrong ears could do. Pair that with whatever other… unique emotional baggage he has going on… shit. He’s probably actually very well adjusted, given everything he’s experienced.

Shit. She’s good , he thinks as you watch him silently. It was a classic technique, one he used often in interrogations.

He sighs. “Alright. So you may have picked up that I’m… guarded.”

“ No ,” you say with sarcasm.

“ Yes ," he laughs, before groaning and sitting up to look you in the eyes as he continues. “I’m sorry I wasn't upfront about how I felt. Like I said, I can't do casual. So I didn't know what I was doing. I was trying to protect myself from, well, doing what I did, and spilling my guts to you.”

“You were very brave to do that,” you tell him seriously.

He rolls his eyes.

“No, I mean it,” you press, suddenly sure of your recent revelation, desperate to assure him. “I’m glad you decided to trust me. I’m honored.”

You really are. Every glimpse you’ve gotten into his inner world has only deepened your affection for him. Strangely, you feel like you fit into his world, as new as it all is to you.

Occasionally in your work, you would come across a book from the archives, and it would be just what you needed for your project, even though you hadn’t known it had existed. What a thrill it always was, to find a gift in the world, unasked for and unplanned. The same sweet serendipity floods your senses now, as Azriel’s eyes shine with emotion.

“I might need you to be patient with me,” he whispers, like the words are too dangerous to handle in the open.

“Of course. Whatever you need,” you promise him.

With that, you press a kiss to his lips, thick with feeling.

His hand grips your jaw, holding you there to convey the depth of his adoration. He strokes your face fondly.

You pull him close, and he envelops you in his strong arms and soft wings. You lay there for a while, nestled in the security of his warmth.

“Bath?” he offers eventually.

You hum thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’m too tired to move.”

“I’ll carry you.”

A luxurious soak later, Azriel slips one of his shirts over your clean, drowsy form. Drained as you are, you keep yourself awake to watch him towel his hair dry from your place on his duvet.

You exhale abruptly, and his attention fixes on your drawn brows. You raise them as you finally ask the question you’ve been deliberating.

“I was just thinking… you have libraries here, right?” you search meaningfully.

“Yes, we do,” he answers casually, lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. “There’s one just down the hall, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Why do you ask?” Azriel continues coyly, coming to stand before you. “Are you thinking of settling down here, or something?”

“I said, huh ?” you repeat. Does he have a home library? Oh, you’re a goner.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

You shake your head in amusement. “You are so full of secrets,” you accuse.

“Full of surprises,” he corrects, rewarding you with a wide grin.

You wonder if you’d ever reach the last of them, you muse as the lovesick Illyrian moves to make good on his words. You imagine you never will, but it sounds like a nice fate to die trying.

After all, it seems like you’ll be needing a new hobby, now that you’ll have to give up recreational flirting. Azriel is happy to keep you occupied.

✸✸✸

Later, when the night was deep, the stars shining brightly with the soft promise of new beginnings, Azriel remembers a threat that he needs to make good on.

I’m gonna fucking kill you guys , Azriel projects to Rhys and Cassian. You’ll never see me coming. It will be long, and painful. NEVER mess with my plans – never again!

Well! Rhys' response arrives instantly, dripping with sarcasm. That sure was a delayed reaction… I hope you’ve had a productive evening.

Cassian’s reply is more direct. You’re welcome, brother dearest!

Despite his vexation with his brothers, Azriel smiles into the dark, content as he is to have you in his arms. He thinks dimly of your face under the flashing lights at Rita’s, how close he had come to losing his nerve to speak to you, how grateful he’d been to have an excuse to talk to you, and how foolish he’d felt when he left you alone on your doorstep after your last date.

His racing mind quiets as he traces your features, sleeping soundly in his bed. He has no intention of letting you go this time.

A/N: I hope y’all enjoyed!! I really fell in love with these two. It was so fun crafting their dynamic in part one, I had to expand the plot a little to allow their connection to develop more in this one. Sorry to make you read like 9k of plot and banter before the sexy part!

Here’s a little of my thought process behind this part 2: The more I thought about it, I just realized Azriel can’t do casual relationships.

In the books, it’s heavily implied that he pined after Mor for centuries, so like he’s a truly long-suffering loverboy. It would actually be so out of character for him to casually date. Even if he were to turn a new leaf and pursue someone, he's too guarded, too high profile to be comfortable with just a fling. If he’s in, he’s all in.

So I was like how do we break the ice? I imagined that Cass and Rhys could sense how invested he was in Reader, and that they knew he’d flounder in his attempts to approach it casually. Devotion and quiet intensity are just so key to Azriel’s personality. I wanted to explore what it would look like if he felt the green light from someone - personally I think it would unlock some of his private nature and allow him to safely express his feelings (which we see him try for the first time here!). Normally, I don't like it when fics have a love confession after one whole date, but in this case it just felt right.

Not to write a thesis and spend hours critically thinking so that my premises perfectly align to support my porn with plot LOL just girly things :)

589 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 26 days ago

Text

A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has spent weeks watching the light from your shop burn long into the night. Tonight, when sleep refuses him once again, he finally follows it.

Warnings: Az's mental state is not the greatest aka self-deprication, envy, loneliness, insomnia… but also a growing cruuuush!!

Word Count: 3.9k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Step One: Find the Light

Every insomniac has a lighthouse — some flickering glow that keeps them tethered through the long, unbroken dark. It might be the streetlamp outside your window. The low burn of coals in the hearth. The lonely glint of a candlelit window across the city. It will not always be the brightest light. But it will be the one you cannot stop looking at.

— (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 14)

Azriel never slept.

Not really, not the way the others did.

He’d gotten used to it over the centuries, the way his mind, despite being fraught with exhaustion, never seemed to leave him alone. When he was younger, he used to think it was a blessing —in some weird, twisted way.

His ability to remain constantly thinking, worrying, conjuring up every thought he could, occupied him. Kept him company. That, along with his shadows, made him feel less alone. Even if it made him miserable.

Because at least then, he was miserable with company—of his own making, of course.

But lately, it had been worse.

It wasn't just the exhaustion anymore. Not just the restless hum beneath his skin that never truly faded. It was something else, something much heavier.

His shadows felt it, too. They lingered closer than usual, curling over his shoulders, tugging at his wrists—searching for something they couldn’t name. Herding him toward sleep he never took. They were restless, too. Tired in a way that wasn’t natural.

Tonight was no different. Sitting in bed was proving to be pointless. He was too exhausted to untangle everything he felt, anyway. It was all muddled together now—the anxiety, the anger, the fear, the stress. Heavy and dark, pressing into his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Like something had cracked inside him. Like he was suffocating beneath the weight of his own life.

He exhaled sharply and glanced toward the window. The sky outside was clear. He stared at it for a few moments.

Then, like always, Az moved.

The roof was where he ended up on nights like this. Perched above the world, half-hidden in the shadows, he could watch the city without being seen. He tried not to think about the joke Mor had made once—that he looked like some strange gargoyle up here. She wasn't entirely wrong.

But he couldn't shake the habit. Something about it made him almost feel like a child again. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Didn't care enough to think about it too long.

Azriel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, scanning the quiet streets below.

He thought he would get used to the silence. After all, Az liked his solitude.

But with everyone else moved on, living in their own spaces, the townhouse was too still. Too empty. He missed the sounds of life filling the space. The steady heartbeats. The familiar voices. The laughter of his family drifting from different rooms. Sure, he didn’t always join in, but he liked knowing they were there. Liked knowing they were safe.

Without them, the loneliness settled in his bones.

On nights when the ache felt unbearable, when the silence stretched too long, too empty—he hated how bitter it made him. Hated that he wished his family felt it too. Wished they were just as alone, just as lost, so he wouldn’t be the only one.

And then he’d hate himself for it. The thought made him sick. Made him ashamed.

It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He didn’t mean it, either. He knew that, too.

But it was getting harder to tell which version of himself was real—the one who loved his family enough to encourage them moving on, or the one who resented being left behind. The one that seethed with loneliness.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

He tilted his head back, staring at the night sky. A few birds—maybe bats, though Az wasn't sure—flew overhead, their dark shapes cutting across the stars. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to just fly. To fly without a destination, without a place to go. Just fly, and be free, and not have to think about anything at all.

Great. He was jealous of a fucking bird.

Azriel huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head, and let his gaze drift back down. The city stretched before him, lanterns faintly glowing along the cobbled streets.

It was there again.

A single shop, its light still flickering in the dark.

He’d noticed it before. He knew the shop, too—a small candle store tucked between the narrow alleys, the one he passed by more often than he should. He’d seen you through the windows, tending to customers, organizing shelves. You weren’t a stranger, not exactly. He knew your name. Your business. And yet, he didn't know you.

He wanted to, though. Strangely enough, he did.

Because every night, long past reason, your light was still on.

And every night he found himself looking for it. Searching for that small, flickering glow in the dark.

It was curiosity at first. A distraction. Something to focus on when the silence became too much. But then he started wondering. About you. About why you stayed up so late, what kept you there when the rest of the city had long since gone to sleep.

Perhaps it was selfish of him to be grateful that someone else was as sleepless as he was. But he was. He was grateful that within the past few heavy and lonely months, you had kept him company without even realizing it.

Azriel stared at the light for a few more moments.

And then, before his mind could catch up—

He was moving once again.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The city was different at this hour. Liminal. Caught between worlds. Azriel liked it like this, when it was neither awake nor asleep. When it was just existing—silent and undisturbed.

And yet, as he walked, that quiet was not as comforting as it should've been.

Because he noticed, now, how much darker some streets were. How the silence didn't feel like peace and safety.

When he reached your shop, he stopped.

The door was open.

Not just unlocked, but open. The sign hanging in the window still read: OPEN.

His brows furrowed. That was dangerous. Reckless. Did anyone else know you were here, alone in the dead of night? Was there someone inside with you?

Anything could happen.

He hated that thought.

Hated it because it was true. Because his city was not as safe as it should be. Because if he—the Night Court’s Spymaster, its protector—could think such a thing in the middle of Velaris, then what did that say about him?

What did that say about what he had failed to protect?

His jaw tightened. His shadows shifted. He thought about leaving. Thought about stepping away before he made this mean something it didn't.

Then the door moved.

A figure stepped out—a male, hunched over slightly, shoulders drawn. There was something shaken in his expression, something raw. His eyes flicked to Azriel, widening slightly in recognition before his gaze dropped in silent understanding. He nodded—just once—before slipping into the night.

Azriel watched him go. Then turned back to the open door.

And stepped inside.

The shop was warmer than he expected, its air thick with scent—layers of them, pressing in from all sides. Sweet, sharp, earthy, floral. It should've been overwhelming. Usually, it would've been. Azriel got overwhelmed quicker these days.

Instead, it felt comforting. Welcoming.

And, for just a moment, Azriel forgot that outside was still cold. Still dark. Still waiting.

He stood in the entrance for a few more seconds. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, if he was waiting for anything at all. All he knew was that your light stayed on long after every other window in Velaris had gone dark— and something about that made him feel connected to you.

A small thud pulled his attention.

And, for another moment, Azriel forgot how to move.

You were there, at a small front counter, and you were beautiful.

Not in the way that all beautiful things were, but in a way that felt undeniable. A certain kind of beauty that made his body stop. Made his mind stutter.

It was a stupid reaction from him, really. He'd seen you before in passing, had walked past this place nearly a hundred times. He knew, on paper, who you were. And yet—

He had never seen you like this. In the dead of night, surrounded by sleepy fae lights and the smell of a thousand memories.

He forced himself to look away, feeling a timid sense of embarrassment burning under his skin. He did the only thing he could think to do, then. He wandered.

The store wasn't a large space by any means, but Az made a show of studying it, drifting through the narrow isles, letting the scents shift around him. He tucked his wings in tight, careful not to knock over any of the delicate glass jars and candles. He knew his luck well enough to know that if something could be broken, it would be.

His shadows stirred with his movements, tugging at him like restless children eager to explore. Az let himself indulge, just slightly, as his fingers trailed over the shelves' edges.

Az reeled them in when they spread out too far.

Usually, he felt guilty for how little rest they got, how they tried to match his own sleeplessness. Even after all these centuries, he wasn’t quite sure how they slept, if they needed it the way he did. But tonight, they were quieter. Slower. And for once, he was grateful. It made it easier to keep them close, to keep himself contained.

Azriel stopped in front of a small display of candles.

They weren’t perfect. The wax wasn’t always smooth, some wicks sat slightly off-center, and a few had tiny air bubbles trapped beneath the surface. But they were beautiful. The glass containers varied—some clear, others tinted amber or deep green. A few were housed in pottery, the edges slightly uneven, the glaze catching the dim light in soft, imperfect ripples.

The labels on each were equally beautiful: handwritten in careful script, some adorned with pressed flowers or gold foil.

He could tell that care has been put into them. None of them had been made to look exactly like the next. Something in his chest ached at that. In awe, maybe. In envy, too. He wasn't sure why. He didn't question it, though. He was envious of everything recently. Bitter.

Slow, gentle tendrils of shadow ghosted across the shelf, slipping over the carefully arranged candles, tracing the delicate script on their labels. They curled against the wall before settling over one in particular.

Az picked it up.

He wasn't sure why he did. There was no real reason to smell any candle—nothing but the simple truth that he was stalling. That he wasn't quite ready to leave, that standing here doing nothing was more conspicuous than pretending to browse.

So he lifted the candle to his nose.

And immediately regretted it.

The scent that filled his lungs was atrocious.

Something rotting, something sour, something deeply wrong. Like burnt hair and spoiled fruit and the sharp tang of metal. He nearly recoiled— nearly.

Years of his duties had taught him how to keep his face unreadable. He was grateful for that training now, for those unrealistic expectations he'd set upon himself. He didn't need to see his reflection to know there was no hint of his disgust in his face.

There could be a trace in his eyes, maybe. His mother always said they were rather expressive. It was why he didn't hold eye contact as long as his brothers.

But no one was looking at his eyes now.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered the candle.

And glanced at the shelf.

There was no visible label. No indication of what, exactly, he had just inhaled. Only his shadows, spread across the wall still. Although they sensed his distress, they were utterly unhelpful — a few lone wisps coiling around him in amusement, their edges twitching with silent laughter.

He exhaled sharply. From across the room, he heard the sound of something else. The sound of you—soft laughter, just barely contained.

He glanced up to you already watching him, a knowing look in your eyes. He willed himself to look away, quicky placing the candle back on the shelf, pulling his hands away from view. But seconds later, he felt you approach him, felt the warmth of your presence stretch out like he was sat near a fire.

You cleared your throat. Gently, elegantly, like you were afraid to spook him. He took a deep breath, focused his control on his shadows, and turned to look at you.

You titled your head. "So? What do you think?"

He offered you a tight, polite smile— if you could even call it that. In reality, it was a tiny tug at the corner of his lips. Just movement enough to show he was not a threat, movement enough to not seem rude.

"It's lovely," Azriel said, lying.

"Really?"

"Yes."

You paused. Watched him too closely. Then, with what seemed to be barely contained amusement, you said, "Would you like to buy it? I'm having a sale."

There was a beat of hesitation. He should've said no. He knew this. He had no use for any candles, let alone ones that stirred up a gag reflex he never knew he had. But he couldn't. It would be rude, to enter your shop, to touch all of its offerings, and not buy something — right?

His shadows curled around his ear, whispering their betrayal in a hushed murmur.

Must buy. Sweet. Perfect.

Another wisp twined around his wrist, prodding at his fingers, amused. It appeared him and his shadows had different definitions of what perfect smelled like.

"I would," Azriel said.

"Really?"

"I have some people in my life who love scents like this."

You furrowed a brow, the corners of your lips tilting into a hesitant smile. There was something so alive about the way your features moved. Animated, shifting, vibrant. He wished Feyre was here—if only to memorize your face and paint it later. Capture whatever it was that made you feel so… present. "You do?"

He didn't, but Azriel nodded anyway.

"That's interesting."

Azriel immediately regretted speaking. There was a right and a wrong answer, it seemed. And he knew, from the glint in your eye, that his answer was wrong.

You plucked the candle from the shelf, turning it between your fingers before giving him a slow, knowing smile. “Because this one is specifically designed to be awful.”

His brows lifted slightly. He glanced back at the shelf, at the small section his shadows had now uncovered—an area filled with other unlabeled candles, their scents likely just as offensive. And there, right above them, a small carved sign: For Particular Noses and Mischievous Reasons.

Azriel exhaled through his nose. His shadows curled around him in clear amusement. Traitors.

They whispered back, gleeful and smug. Mischievous reasons, yes.

“They’re kind of oddly specific,” you admitted, setting the candle back down. “People like to use them as jokes, but sometimes they sell—people have weird cravings. You’d be surprised what some fae miss from their old lives. Even the gross stuff. I think it's sweet, in a way.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes drifting back to you.

You didn’t sleep.

He knew that, of course, from the days spent watching your light from across the city.

But he could see it now, even more clearly than before. The faint shadows beneath your eyes, the way your movements were just a little too slow, too careful, as if you were running on borrowed energy. He knew that feeling well.

It was strange. He hated the way exhaustion looked on himself. It made him feel weary, tired, unapproachable. Unattractive. But on you…

He was inclined to say it was pretty — and that it was wrong. Wrong that you were awake only at night, that you were tucked away in this tiny shop, unseen by most of the world. It felt almost sinful that the daylight, and those who thrived in it, couldn't witness you like this.

Azriel shifted his weight, forcing the thought from his mind.

It was just the lack of sleep making him strangely soft, uncharacteristically fond of a stranger. He needed to fix his image now before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

“You don’t have to get that one,” you murmured, your fingertips brushing over the candles like they were something precious.

Azriel had seen lovers touch each other with less fondness. A strange, twisting thing settled in his chest at the thought—because he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like that.

He suddenly felt like an intruder in a place meant for softer things than him.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “I liked it.”

You pressed your lips together, amused. He was making a fool out of himself, this he was sure of. But he didn't mind. You looked at him. Said nothing. Just looked.

Az was suddenly very aware of himself. Of the way his fingers curled against his sides, of the way he was standing too stiffly, too awkwardly. He felt on display.

His shadows betrayed him first—darting toward you, reaching, playful. He clenched his fists, willing them back before they could weave themselves around your wrist or through your hair. They had never done that before, not without his command. He had to fight them. Maybe himself, too.

You turned, slowly walking and scanning the shelves until you plucked something from one of the quieter, more tucked-away sections.

Azriel barely noticed at first. His mind was elsewhere—distracted, unmoored. The scent of you lingered in the air, something soft, something warm, and his shadows—traitorous things—drifted toward it. Like they wanted to pull it apart, understand it, memorize it. He only just managed to reel them back in before you turned.

You held the candle out to him.

He stepped toward you. “What is it?”

“Something I think you’d like.”

He hesitated before taking it, siphons glowing faintly as his fingers brushed against yours. He stilled.

He hated how much they stood out in places like this, how the gleam of them felt unnatural against the warm, quiet glow of the shop. He never took them off. Never would. He wondered if you thought it was strange.

If you did, you didn’t show it. You didn’t even glance at them, didn’t react to the scars on his hands. Your fingers didn’t flinch against his.

You didn’t seem to notice at all.

But Azriel did. He always did.

He looked at the object in his hand.

It was a small thing, carefully crafted like all the others, and the glass was warm from where your fingers had been. He turned it over, reading the handwritten label. The written scent was unfamiliar, but when he lifted the lid and breathed it in, something settled inside him.

It was subtle. The first thing he caught was something clean, airy—like the hush of the sky just before dawn. Then something deeper, warmer. A hint of cedarwood, maybe. And beneath it all, the faintest trace of something he couldn't quite name—something like parchment, like ink that settled into the pages of a well-worn book.

It smelled… quiet.

Reminded him of early mornings in the House of Wind before anyone else was awake. Of sitting in the dim glow of faelight, tracing his fingers over old maps during times of peace, his shadows curled lazily at his feet. It smelled like the moments he let himself pause.

There hadn't been many of those recently.

“One of my favorites,” you said softly. “I call it Stillness.”

He swallowed, carefully put the lid back on, and met your eyes. "I can see why. I like it."

You smiled at him. It was a shy smile, much more reserved than your other reactions. "Yeah?"

Azriel nodded. Meant it, this time, as he said, "It's lovely."

For a moment, everything slowed as he held your gaze.

His chest felt too tight, his shadows too still. He cleared his throat.

His shadows jumped at the sound, gently scattering like birds startled from a perch. It made him feel better—that they, too, had been stuck in some strange, lingering moment. That it wasn’t just him.

"I'll take this one."

You led him to the counter, and he watched as you carefully wrapped the candle in brown paper. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a few coins, but before he could set them down, you shook your head.

“It’s on the house.”

He frowned. “No, that’s—”

“It’s on the house,” you repeated, "Consider it an apology gift, for not offering the proper warning regarding my more…unique scents."

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something conspiratorial, something soft. "I saw your face. I'm just happy I didn't have to clean vomit off my floor."

Azriel's ears burned. He was suddenly very grateful his hair had grown out some, that the longer strands covered the worst of it. He looked down, collected himself for a brief moment, and then met your eyes once more.

“You’re welcome to come by anytime. I appreciate the company.” You slid the package toward him, gaze flicking to his shadows. Your lips twitched, just slightly, as you added, "In all the forms that they may come in."

His shadows preened at the words, swirling a little closer to you, begging to brush against your wrist like a cat seeking affection.

He didn't know why that made his heart stutter.

Maybe it was because most people ignored them. Or feared them. Or spoke about them in hushed tones, like they were something to be managed, tolerated.

You acknowledged them. Spoke to them like they were something welcome, something natural. And they responded to you, drawn in, pleased. As if they liked being seen by you. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

With a small nod, Az murmured, “Thank you.”

And then he left.

When he got home, Azriel placed the candle on his bedside table.

He didn't light it. Couldn't bring himself to, for some strange, aching reason. He only lifted it to his nose, breathed in its scent, and let it settle into his lungs.

For once, the weight in his chest felt manageable.

He thought about that first awful candle. Thought about the small smile you'd given him, how you'd let him flounder in his own forced politeness before revealing the joke.

In the quiet of his room, Az exhaled a quiet breath. Something close to a laugh. An almost-smile accompanied it.

He wondered if you could make candles that were even worse— if he could somehow commission a magical candle that smelled different to two halves of one whole. A sweet and sultry vanilla scent for Nesta that could bleed into rotten milk and dirty clothes whenever Cassian smelled it himself.

That gave him another almost-smile.

He didn't sleep. He didn't expect to. But when he laid down, shadows stirring beside him, falling into their gentle rhythm of rest, he didn't feel so sad anymore.

Whatever this was, this quiet, weightless feeling—it was close enough to peace for now.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: new mini series that’s already planned out!!! yippe!!! something about this series makes my heart warm. trust me when i say they’re so so so sweet. what do yall think 🥹

creating a taglist for this series tonight, lmk if you’d like to be added <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered

@feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier

1K notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 26 days ago

Text

What the Tides Bring In

Any sailor worth their salt will tell you, if you can help it, never sail into a storm. Unluckily for you and your crewmates, you had no other choice. Not with Summer Court brigantines firing heavily at your backside in hot pursuit.

You’d sailed for days, your pursuers never far behind, proving just how grievous an error your theft had been.

The storm ahead of you was your only hope of escaping the consequences of your piracy with your lives, even if it posed a significant risk to said lives on its own.

You’d escaped your High Lord’s punishment, but at what cost?

It had been a mistake. That was your foremost coherent thought as a twenty foot wall of water raised over the bow of your ship, hanging there for several seconds as if giving you and the crew a few moments to pray to the Mother and Cauldron alike should you have chosen. Then all at once, like the maw of some great beast, it descended, swallowing the ship, your crewmates and you, whole.

You were lost, swirling around in a vortex of wood, bodies and dark surging water. In what little light you had to see by, you could have sworn you saw thin trails of blood amongst the dark brine. Whether it was yours or someone else’s you couldn’t say, nor had you the time to find out as lack of air and heavy limbs brought you closer and closer to unconsciousness with each passing second.

In your last seconds of wakefulness, you pushed against the bruising nature of the currents and the greedy depths below you, struggling for the surface.

Your body burned until it didn’t. Until you didn’t see or feel anything anymore.

The first thing you became aware of was your aching chest. You coughed, sputtering out lungfuls of water, emptying yourself onto soft dark sand. You were freezing, your hair and clothes sticking to you as you shivered and shook. Tiny slivers all along your body burned as your awareness turned to the salt water entering what must have been tens of cuts along your skin. You gritted your teeth against the pain and blinked your eyes open as you attempted to prop yourself up with your elbow. Your vision remained bleary and unfocused as your arm gave out beneath you and you thudded to the sand again.

You couldn’t make it out but something was above you. A shadow, a figure of some kind, their unerring attention fixed on you like an anchor. Instincts surged in you to eliminate the threat, defend yourself, but even if your sword was still at your side, you lacked the strength, focus and vision to wield it. That didn’t stop you from snarling as you attempted to move to your feet. You propped yourself up, higher this time despite your quaking, bleeding arms. You couldn’t seem to get your legs to cooperate, your state making everything slow and sluggish.

Your upper body wobbled and then fell, your head having shifted slightly. You fell with your skull crashing the small distance down to a rock on the beach below you. If the exhaustion, fatigue and battered weakness of your body weren’t enough to knock you out cold, then your head impacting that stony surface did the trick.

The next time you awoke, you were much drier. It was also much darker where you were, it took you a handful of moments to realize your eyes were even open. Your cuts stung less, you felt faint weights over most of them. Bandages.

Squinting, you could see several feet from you, a lantern glowing with faelight, next to a door. Perfect. Whatever kindness had been bestowed upon you, you were vaguely, halfheartedly grateful for it, but it was time you were leaving.

You moved to stand and tripped, a rattle sounding as you stumbled.

No, you thought, that couldn’t be right.

You inched forward before attempting to stand again, stopped by another rattle as you felt resistance at your wrists.

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” You whispered, tugging and pulling, confirming your worst suspicions. The cold iron - though not deadly to you like the human settlements way to the south seemed to think - was still unpleasant as you realized you were manacled and chained to the wall behind you.

“You can stop, it won’t do you any good,” came a voice low in a deadly whisper.

The rattling of your chains stopped as you squinted in the dark for the source of the voice. You found nothing but were rewarded with a deep chuckle at your confusion. Despite yourself and your situation - whatever it may be - you found you liked the sound.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a quarry of mine knock themselves out before, so I suppose I should thank you for the assistance,” the male voice said. It was slightly gravely, as if the owner didn’t use it very often.

You glared into the darkness, tugging your chains defiantly. You might not have had any of your tools available to you, but you were still a pirate. Still formidable, still a Fae not to be underestimated. “Let me go, or you’ll wish you had.”

Boots scuffed slowly, deliberately, closer to you as the male ground out a, “No.”

You growled back, pushing forward in defiance only to be stopped short again by the chain holding your arms behind your back.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness you could make out his shape. Tall, imposing, nothing different than any other male twice your size you’ve dealt with. Except, of course, for the massive black wings jutting from his back. No matter, you’d beaten males larger than him. Wings were nothing, if anything they were just another extremity to be used against him. If he wanted to intimidate you, he’d have to try harder than that.

As he approached the light, an odd thing happened. It didn’t seem to reach his face, the darkness in the room keeping it concealed.

“You are going to tell me everything you know,” he said.

“You and what army?” you bit back.

The shadows almost immediately pulled back from his face, swirling and lapping across his shoulders and wings. Information clicked in your mind rapidly.

Shadowsinger.

Not just any shadowsinger. The shadowsinger. You’d sailed long enough. You must have washed up somewhere in The Night Court. That was why you were here. What the masses of Prythian knew about The Night Court was as varied as it was terrible but one thing many had heard about was the Illyrian monster the High Lord Rhysand loosed on his enemies and trespassers. You being one of said trespassers now.

Azriel seemed to recognize your recognition and tilted his head, ever so slightly, to the side.

“Play nice,” he said slowly as his shadows pooled slowly around the room, some coming to slink around you, “and nobody has to get hurt.”

You sneered at the threat but stayed quiet, swallowing the thousands of tongue-lashing retorts your brain supplied nigh instantaneously at his tone.

“How did you arrive here?” he asked. A simple, boring and inconsequential question. The answer was likely obvious from the state you’d been found in. What made this shore so special for that to be his most pressing concern? Like you said, stupid question, so you ignored it.

Your eyes flicked around the room, years of experience in situations like this one prompting you to search for tools or avenues of escape.

Azriel growled and surged forward, pulling a seemingly favored knife from its sheath. He balled the fabric of your clothing at one shoulder and pulled you closer to him, slotting the dagger under your chin and tilting your head up to look at him. His wings flared up and out, blocking your vision of the rest of the room.

By all accounts, you should have been terrified. After what occurred to you, the unknown fates of those who had been in your company, and the reputation of the male before you, you ought to have been quaking in your boots. A lesser Fae likely would have. But not you.

You huffed a laugh, glancing slowly up the knife to his face with a slow spreading smirk. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” you said huskily, snickering when he froze.

You had often enjoyed making males uncomfortable, especially in situations like this one. You watched him try to school his expression into the grim mask he had presented to you previously and found yourself enjoying the hints at flusteredness you’d managed to find. The legendary spymaster of the Night Court unsettled just for you.

On that particular thought, you felt something shift, a twist in your chest as warmth you had not felt before twirled around your heart. You looked at the now composed, if not slightly frustrated spymaster, the male seemingly no further affected by your words beyond that initial reaction. Unaware of the revelation you’d just unfortunately come to.

Mate.

Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.

a/n: First fic on the account! So excited! Feel free to let me know what you thought! I may continue this one if the mood strikes me! Have a nice evening!

206 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 27 days ago

Text

bound by fear

a/n: this was a request! (sorry I've been mia)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: physical and emotional abuse by a parental figure (alluded to and described), anxiety, violence, misogyny, language

note this fic is a bit heavier than my usual. please take care of yourselves if this could be triggering for you - this is not meant to romanticize trauma, but I think sometimes fics that include these topics can be a comfort for some <3

word count: 9.2k

synopsis: You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

You never wanted a mate. A mate was the last thing you ever wanted for yourself, after escaping from your wretched father. You never wanted another male in your life, controlling every decision, every thought, every breath that you made. You couldn’t have a mate.

Mates were rare, you had told yourself. It was unlikely that you would ever come across yours. It was an irrational fear, really. Especially once you fled from your camp—once you found an isolated cottage hidden deep in the Illyrian Steppes, miles away from any Illyrian camp.

It was a dilapidated thing when you stumbled across it, but it protected you from the unforgiving cold of Illyria and the wet snow that seeped through your clothes. It was the first place you felt safe, once the adrenaline had ebbed away and the oxygen returned to your lungs.

You made the place your own. Months passed, and the previous owner never showed. Eventually, you worked up the nerve to venture into the closest camp, and in a rare bout of luck, you befriended a female who owned a shop on the outskirts of the territory. She gave you any supplies and food you needed in exchange for tailoring. It was the only skill you had to your name.

Two years passed with the same, monotonous routine. It was admittedly a lonely life. Sometimes you longed for friends, for companionship, for family—then you remembered what family could look like, and decided you much preferred your solitary existence. Perhaps one day you could leave this mountain, seek refuge in a new court, and build an entirely new life for yourself. For now, though, you would stay put in your cottage, in your forest, and relish in the peaceful life you had found after nearly three decades of torture.

That was your plan.

Then you met him.

~ ~ ~

Two Months Ago

You thanked the Mother every day for bestowing the gift of nature to this world. The trees, the snow, the skittering and chirping animals that hid amongst the brush and tree canopies—they all provided you with a comfort that you were certain you would have gone insane without. Every day, you walked through the surrounding forest, absorbing the sounds and smells and the kiss of fresh air on your skin. All little joys you never had before.

It took months before you had the courage to amble around so freely. Months where you barely left your little cottage, a shell of a female that was terrified of discovery. You eventually ran out of food, though, the non-perishables left behind by the previous occupant long gone. You had not escaped your father just to die at the hands of starvation, so you bundled yourself in whatever clothes and scraps of fabric you could find in old drawers to make yourself appear larger, then trekked to the nearest camp. You befriended a local shopkeeper who knew all too well the cruelty of Illyrian males, and she swore to do whatever she could to help you stay hidden.

You never asked her name, and you never offered yours. It felt too dangerous—too personal. You were grateful for her help, but you couldn’t risk attachment. She couldn’t risk catching the wrath of an arrogant male.

She is the one that suggested that you take walks. To explore nature in a way you never could before. To take another slice of newfound freedom.

Your daily walks became a ritual. They were yours, and this forest was your home, and no one was around for miles to threaten you or scream at you. No one was around to hurt you. You felt safe in a way you never knew was possible, even if the fear that your father would one day find you still lingered.

The cold was biting today, and you almost skipped your walk all together, but decided against it. You had weathered far worse than some cold air, and your Illyrian skin was acclimated to the bitter weather. There was no reason to skip it.

Something was nagging at you though, the entire time you were out. There was an ache in the center of your chest, a dull anxiety, or anticipation, thrumming up and down your core. You rubbed at your chest as you took a step up to your cottage, the weight of your foot making the old wooden staircase creak.

An unfamiliar scent hit you, and you froze. There was cedar, which wouldn’t be all that unusual in the middle of the forest, but it was so potent, and it was mixed with salt. How you imagined the sea must smell.

Someone was here. Someone was in your home.

The door flew open, and towering in the doorframe was an Illyrian male, with blue siphons adorning his body. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and the breath was knocked from your lungs when that achy tension inside your chest snapped. The male stumbled slightly, his hand coming up to clutch his chest, and you knew he felt it too.

The mating bond.

It was unmistakable. The bond had snapped, and this male in front of you was your mate. This Illyrian male, that had invaded your home.

You took off running. You didn’t know where you were going, but you weren’t going anywhere with him. Your father must have sent him, and the Mother had a cruel and twisted sense of humor for binding you to him. The snow crunched beneath your feet, a likely beacon for the male to follow if he was determined, but you couldn’t care.

You couldn’t stop moving. Even as branches and twigs slapped at your skin, as snow fell into your hair, clinging to your eyelashes and mixing with your hot and silent tears. This couldn’t be happening to you. You were finally free. You were finally settling down.

You would rather die than succumb to the fate of an Illyrian male’s mate.

Something—someone—grabbed your arm, yanking you to an abrupt halt. You twisted to face your attacker, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with the male. Your mate.

His grip was firm, and it only tightened when you tried to break away.

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Soft. It made you falter.

You still tugged at his grip, trying to break free, but it was no use. “Like you don’t know,” you spat.

You waited for the inevitable blow, for the retaliation, but it never came. He simply stared at you, his brow slightly furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. “Is someone following you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, tugging at your arm again. “You.”

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, you realized. Nearly honey in the sunlight. You swallowed hard, averting your gaze as the little confidence you had wavered.

“How long have you been living in my safe house?”

Your eyes snapped back to him, your mouth going dry. “Yours?” you croaked.

He nodded slowly. “I’m particularly interested in how you broke through the wards.”

You shook your head. “I—I didn’t,” you stuttered. “I swear. I didn’t. I just found it, and it seemed abandoned. I’m sorry. Please—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his face inexplicably softening, and your words died in your throat.

“Let me go,” you demanded, but the words fell flat as your voice wavered.

His grip loosened, but not enough that you could run off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he swore quietly.

You were trembling. Your entire body was shaking as you stared at him in disbelief. He was lying. He had to be. He was trying to coax you into a false-sense of security, to convince you to let your guard fall, and then he would sink his fingers into you. He would drag you back to that camp, to your father, perhaps. Maybe he would drag you back to his home, and make you answer to his every whim.

“What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was so gentle it made you shiver.

You still didn’t answer. He surely knew your name already, but in case he didn’t, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him.

“My name is Azriel,” he continued, unphased by your silence. The name made you falter, as if you recognized it somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. “I work for the High Lord.”

You blinked at him, brain turning fuzzy. “The Shadowsinger?” you croaked, an entirely new chill of fear running up your spine.

“Yes.”

“Where are your shadows, then?”

“Away.”

You stared at him, the very axis of your world tilting beneath you as you stood before your mate. Your mate, that worked for the High Lord of Night. The Shadowsinger, who was feared across Prythian, and hated amongst Illyrians. You didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Azriel let you go, and the anger that flooded his eyes as he dropped your wrist made your stomach lurch. He stood and watched you tremble before him, the snow seeping into your boots as fresh flakes stuck to your lashes. Fear sunk its claws deeper into your core with every second that passed and he left your desperate question unanswered.

Then he just vanished. His body was swallowed whole by a swarm of dark shadows that came and went as easily as the breeze. The knowledge that he could winnow, that he could appear anywhere at any time he wanted made your stomach churn.

You stood there in a daze as the snow fell around you and branches creaked in the wind. The sun was creeping below the horizon, and your legs started carrying you toward your cottage before you could even begin to fully process the situation you were in.

You tripped on one of the old wooden steps as you climbed to the porch, the snow biting at the bare skin of your hands you used to catch yourself. A single sob fell from your lips as you pushed yourself back up, forcing yourself to move inside and out of the bitter cold. You frantically started packing your belongings, parceling out what you would take, what you would have to leave behind, all while a chasm grew in your chest. The entire time you felt like someone was watching you. A sixth sense screaming at you that you were not alone.

It had been years since you felt such panic, a bone-deep fear that would haunt you for months. It was such a sick and icy feeling that left you pain-stakingly numb, so numb that as the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself slumping to the floor in front of the crackling fire you couldn’t remember feeding. Silent tears fell down your cheeks as you sat there motionlessly, letting the minutes tick by and the odds of him coming back for you grow.

You had a mate. An Illyrian was your mate. One of the most powerful males in Prythian was your mate. There would be no escaping him. You could try to run and hide in another court, but you had no doubt that he would find you before you crossed the border. Probably before you even left Illyria.

Defeat and exhaustion weighed you down, your body sagging as the last of your fight faded out. Somehow, sleep managed to claim you, and you laid there on the floor until morning, when a soft and persistent knocking dragged you back to consciousness.

The fire still burned before you, the flames flickering as the wood crackled and popped. Your head snapped toward the door as the knocking continued. Dread swam in your stomach as you realized who must be on the other side of the door. In all your time living here, you had never had a visitor.

You debated making a run for it. Jumping through a side window with nothing but the clothes on your back. You weren’t sure your useless wings could fit through the frame though, and you would likely freeze to death if you somehow managed to escape him.

You slowly walked toward the door on shaky legs, your hand trembling as you let it hover over the lock. The knocking stopped. You couldn’t understand what sort of game he was playing. He had made it clear last night that he could just waltz into your home at his leisure. Your home, that was never really yours.

“I know you’re there,” his soft voice startled you. His voice was muffled through the door, but it still made your heart race. “Please,” he begged as you stared at the wooden door. “Please, can I talk to you?”

He sounded almost desperate. Your mind spun as you processed his request—his request, not a demand. Not a threat. You stumbled as heat pulsed in the center of your chest. It was unsettling, feeling the physical pull the mating bond had on you, practically screaming at you to go to this male.

You shakily unlatched the lock, feeling sick as you unexplainably opened the door for this male. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, his breath seeming to catch in his throat as he stared at you. Your grip tightened on the door.

He was dressed in plain clothes. Black boots, black pants, and a navy sweater. You could still make out the matching glows of the two siphons on his wrist, but the other five were gone. His wings tucked in tighter as you took him in, and your face burned as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Hello,” he said quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. You couldn’t imagine it as the natural cadence of this Illyrian warrior, the Spymaster of Night Court.

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your face impassive as your resolve wavered. “What do you want?”

Azriel’s face was calm and unflinching. “What is your name?” he asked, again.

As much as you wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened, you knew that was not an option. Your soul was tied to this male on your porch, you had been living on his property for years—there was no escaping from this. “Y/N.”

He repeated your name softly, and you hated the tug you felt in your chest as the syllables fell from his lips. You hated that warmth that flooded your skin as his eyes glanced over you briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You have blood on your sleeve,” he observed quietly.

Your gaze fell to the fabric around your wrist, splotches of blood staining the dirty fabric. You could only imagine how disheveled you truly looked. The thought did nothing to quell your nerves. He likely didn’t want a mate that looked so poorly, whose hair was unbrushed and clothes were muddied. You didn’t care what he thought of you—but the thought of already angering the male you might be shackled to for eternity made you faint. You were certain you had done enough damage last night.

Mother above, this was really happening. You really had a mate. You were a fool to think your newfound freedom would last.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice making you flinch. You stared at him in disbelief as his eyes assessed you with seemingly genuine concern.

“What?” you rasped.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, his eyes slightly wider as they met yours. “Do you need a healer?”

You let go of the door to cover your blood stained wrist, your heart pounding against your ribcage. A healer. He would take you to a healer? You had never been allowed to visit one. Even if you had…your camp’s healer was a male. You would have rather died than to try to seek the help of another wretched Illyrian male.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he said, “My name is Azriel.”

You blinked. “I know.”

His throat bobbed, and he glanced away. “Last night was…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

His face was soft, and his shoulders fell slightly as answered, “I just want to know you.”

~ ~ ~

Present

You didn’t believe Azriel when he told you all he wanted was the chance to know you. All he wanted was to have a conversation. Once a week. Nothing more. It was ludicrous. Insane.

At first, he wanted you to come to Velaris—but as soon as he uttered the words, you panicked and started begging him to leave you be, to not take you away, and he let it go. He swore up and down that he would never take you anywhere or make you do anything you didn’t want.

His promises fell on deaf ears. You were no fool. You had seen too much, endured too much, to ever believe such frilly promises from a male.

Except, two months had passed, and his promises remained unbroken. He let you stay in the cottage, and he showed you how to activate certain wards and enchantments that had apparently been at your disposal this entire time. For two years you had been chopping wood in the snowy forest when the damned cottage could apparently feed the fire itself.

Azriel came by every week like clockwork. The same day and time, and for only an hour. He never entered without your permission, even if it was technically his cottage that you had staked a claim to. The first couple of weeks were wrought with stiff and awkward silence, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he filled your pantry and medicine cabinets, cleaned the fireplace, swept the floor—all things that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself—but he did them anyway.

The third week your resolve snapped. Your anxiety ignited into a fiery rage that had you snapping at the male who had decided to make you soup, of all things.

“When will you grow tired of these games?” you snapped.

Azriel briefly tensed, his wings twitching slightly before folding in tight behind his back. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his face sincere as he said softly. “I'm not playing any games.”

You scoffed. “Then when will your patience grow thin? How many more weeks before you just take what you want? Before you drag me to that city of yours so I can play the part of the pretty mate to the High Lord’s Spymaster?”

Azriel slowly sat the spoon down on the counter, letting the soup simmer on the stove as he turned to face you. His eyes were hard as they looked at you, his jaw clenched tight. The look made your stomach fall, your heart pounding as you took a timid step back, cursing yourself for such a foolish outburst.

His eyes immediately softened when you moved away, and he didn’t make any effort to go near you. “I will never force you—”

You grit your teeth. “So you’ve said.”

“And I will say it again, and again, and again. However many times you need to hear it.”

He always said the right thing. It was infuriating. Although, even now, weeks after the bond had snapped and thrusted him into your life, you still didn’t believe him—and yet, you had started to anticipate his visits, rather than dread them. You had started to see them as a nuisance, instead of a threat.

He was due for a visit today, and he was late. The sun had moved past its apex in the sky, and the light was starting to filter in through the west windows. You ignored the unease you felt in your stomach with every minute that passed and he didn’t show. You told yourself you would be glad if he spared you of this week’s visit. Perhaps, he had given up on you entirely.

You couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest, though, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that was bubbling deep in your core.

You jumped when three knocks sounded on your door, and you instinctively moved to answer it. The band wrapped around your lungs loosened when you saw Azriel standing on your porch, looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he greeted breathlessly. You moved to the side to let him in, and you shut the door behind him as he toed off his boots that were unusually caked in mud. His leathers had matching streaks painted across them, and there were dried flakes of it caked to the dark strands of his hair.

“Are you okay?”

Azriel appeared as startled by your question as you were. You didn’t know what compelled you to ask him that, why you would even care, but for some reason, you did.

He blinked slowly, his lips parting slightly before finally answering softly, “Yes, I am.”

You swallowed hard, looking away toward the fire.

“My nephew started flying today,” he explained. “Unexpectedly, and he had an accident.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Yes,” he said, voice still soft. “He is.”

You nodded slightly, dragging your eyes back to meet his. His eyes were already glued to you, and you forgot how to breathe for a second as you stood there under his gaze. The air felt charged and heavy as you stood there before each other, as if lightning was about to strike and shake you to your core. It was alluring. Intoxicating. Then something squeezed inside your chest and it felt like someone curled a finger around your rib, coaxing you toward the male in front of you, and a new wave of terror doused whatever delusion you had danced with momentarily.

You took a step back, and Azriel’s face fell slightly before he caught it. “Can I clean up?” he asked, breaking the tense silence as he pointed behind him to the tiny bathroom.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. He quickly disappeared inside the tiny room, and you didn’t breathe until you heard the door click shut.

You slumped onto the wooden dining chair beside you, your hands rubbing at your temples as your stomach churned with anxiety. You hated this. You hated that the Mother was so cruel. How could you have a mate? Had you not suffered enough? Were the last two years the only taste of freedom you would ever get?

You knew your time left in this cottage was ticking. The minutes you had left to cling to your last dredges of independence were slipping through your fingers. Every time you looked at Azriel, every week he showed up on your doorstep, you were reminded that this was temporary. The life you had started to build for yourself was no longer yours.

And every time that damned bond linking the two of you together for eternity tugged at your chest, it made you want to scream. You had briefly thought about rejecting the bond. About severing the “gift” bestowed upon you by the Mother in two. Every time you did, though, it felt like an axe to your chest. You couldn’t stomach being bonded to an Illyrian male, but you weren’t sure you could survive cleaving the bond either.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Azriel stepped out with damp hair and a clean face, but his leathers were still muddied. He seemed to hesitate in the doorway, and it was unlike every other time he had been here, when he moved around your home with purpose and confidence—fixing things and stocking your pantry and needlessly stoking your fire. He looked almost…boyish.

He took a small step forward. “I need to ask you something,” he started. You folded your hands in your lap, your palms turning clammy. He glanced at the chair next to yours—the only other chair at the table—then back at you. You thought it might be a silent question, but you weren’t sure.

He tentatively moved for the chair, his eyes watching you, and when you made no move to stop him, he pulled it out from the table. He sat a bit awkwardly, his frame far too large for the wooden seat, and his wings bumped into the table as they unfurled and then snapped shut while he shifted around. The sight of his wings moving so gracefully made your heart hurt. It had been a very long time since you appreciated the beauty of Illyrian wings, since you witnessed their elegant strength without fearing it.

Without fear. The thought made your heart tumble, and you stared at the male beside you in disbelief and reluctant awe. This was the closest he had been to you since that night in the forest. If you could still stretch your wings, they would no doubt bump into his.

“How much do you know about mating bonds?”

His words were like ice water over your head. Your breathing turned labored and shaky as you met his eyes hesitantly. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. You hated that a small part of you liked seeing him like this—so normal, even if he still wore his leathers and siphons. “Humor me, please.”

You suddenly felt foolish and naive. What was there to know about a mating bond? “I—” your mouth was dry as you searched for the right words “—I don’t know. I guess it’s eternal? Chosen by the Mother and honored above all other bonds.”

His face was unflinching as his eyes roved over you, your skin tingling in the wake of his gaze. “What else?” he asked.

You blinked. There was more? You shifted nervously in your chair, tucking your hands between your thighs as you thought of what else he wanted you to say. “I suppose it means I belong to you,” you added quietly, avoiding his gaze as the acidic words dripped off your tongue. You might as well have set the last scraps of your freedom on fire.

“That’s not—” Azriel started hurriedly, and you looked up to see his wide and slightly panicked eyes, “—That’s not what I meant.”

His shoulders slumped forward a bit as he looked at you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his leathers were stretched tight over his thighs as he rubbed his scarred palms over them. It of course was not the first time you had noticed the scars lining his flesh, but something inside you ached at the sight of them this time. You found yourself wanting to know who did that to him—then, a more terrifying thought creeped in, and you wondered what he might have done to provoke them.

How much blood was on his hands? How old was he? How long had he been fighting and killing for this court? How long had he served as fodder for faeries’ nightmares and horror stories?

“Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you out of your spiral, and your heart started racing as you met his eyes. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Gods, what had he been saying? You should have been paying attention. How long had your thoughts been wandering?

His eyes were sad as he told you, “I need to leave.”

You blinked, the daze you had faded into clearing from your vision. “Why?” you asked, voice unexpectedly gravelly.

His eyes flitted over your face, searching for something. “Rhys needs me to do something for him,” was his vague response.

You swallowed, nodding once as your eyes stayed glued to him. The setting sun illuminated his tan skin beautifully—it was nearly glowing. His eyes were bright and honeyed, if not a little glossy. His hair was slowly drying in soft waves, the strands falling slightly over his forehead. And his lips. Mother, his lips were soft and pink and—

“Y/N,” Azriel said again, and your face heated as you were once again yanked from your thoughts. Panic clutched you again, and your chair screeched against the floor as you stood up quickly. You scrambled away from him, leaning against the kitchen counter as you folded your arms across your chest.

Azriel’s lips were parted as he stared at you, and you wished he would stop. You wished he would leave, and never come back. You wished these confusing and conflicting thoughts would stop plaguing you. You wished you didn’t find yourself attracted to this male who was your mate. This Illyrian male that terrified you to your core, no matter how pretty he was or how softly he spoke to you.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt alongside the snow outside your cabin, and never face this new fate that had been bestowed upon you—because despite all of the fear and anger you had toward this male, toward the mating bond that wound your soul to his—you didn’t actually want Azriel to disappear. You didn’t want him to abandon you. You didn’t want him to hate you, despite your desperate and icy attempts to push him away. It was all so fucking confusing.

“The mating bond,” you rasped, and the words seemed to rattle around inside you. It was the first you had ever spoken of it, ever outwardly acknowledged its existence. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

Azriel stood slowly from his chair, but he made no move closer to you. His face was solemn as he said, “Yes, I—” He swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I do. I will—but I have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure what to make of the wave of rejection you felt at his words. Two months ago, two weeks ago, you would have rejoiced he was leaving early. Now, it left you feeling cold and untethered.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He lingered beside the table for another moment, as if he was hesitating. Then his shadows swarmed around him, and they swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in your cottage, and for the first time you resented the solitude that you once cherished.

~ ~ ~

The sun had set and the moon had long ago taken its place since Azriel had inexplicably rattled you and then left you in a whirlwind of shadows. You had replayed your conversation over and over in your head, and every time it left you even more anxious and confused.

The heat from the fire warmed your skin as you watched the flames flicker in front of you. You weren’t sure how long you had sat there on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you as you sat alone—your thoughts and the orange flames your only company. You should have gone to bed. It was late, and you were exhausted, but there was a part of you that wanted to wait—that wanted to see if Azriel would return, however unlikely it was.

A knock on the door made your head snap toward it. For a brief moment you felt relief—relief that Azriel had come back. Then ice slowly spread through your veins, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door. That was not Azriel on the other side.

You didn’t know how you could possibly know it wasn’t him. You just knew in your core it wasn’t. Azriel made you nervous. You were always on edge around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were always waiting for him to snap and treat you how every other Illyrian male you had encountered did.

This feeling was different. There was some primal part of you screaming “Danger!” and “Fucking run!” but you were frozen to your couch. You had never felt that when Azriel visited. You had not felt true and imminent danger in two years. It was not your mate standing on your doorstep.

The next knock made you flinch, and it was louder, more impatient. Panic was taking over, and your legs felt numb as you finally rose from the couch, but you just stood there and stared at the door. You had nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run, no way out except through the front door where your past sat waiting to tear you apart and drag your pieces back with them.

The wards. Azriel said this place was protected by wards. They should keep whoever it was out, right? The next round of pounding shook the door on its hinges, though, and your momentary confidence suddenly dwindled.

The heavy pounding didn’t stop. It only grew more and more persistent, more violent, until the force made the entire cabin tremble. “Open this fucking door!”

That voice flooded your veins with acid. You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your nightmares. It haunted you everywhere you went.

Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep waiting for Azriel, and this was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. Your stomach flipped inside out when he banged on the door so hard the windows rattled.

This was real. Your father on the other side of your door was real, and you were still fucking frozen in place as he screamed and pounded. You shakily reached for the dagger that had rested on your mantel since you first found the cottage. The black metal was warm from the fire, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in your palm. You didn’t know how to use it—how to properly defend yourself—but it was more than you ever had before.

“I will burn this place to the damn ground!” He screamed, his voice rough and feral. “Don’t think I won’t watch you burn with it! Open the door you worthless bitch!” He started kicking the door, and your heart stopped when you heard the wood splinter.

You had no doubt he would burn you alive in this place. Maybe the wards would protect you. Maybe they would fend off any flames he lit. Maybe they would keep him out when he inevitably broke the door down. Maybe they wouldn’t.

You should have asked Azriel more questions. You should have asked him just how safe you were here. You should have asked him how to wield the damned blade that must have been his that you now clutched uselessly at your side. You should have asked him—

“You knew it was only a matter of time before someone made you my fucking problem again,” he spat. “A fucking embarrassment. Maybe I should just burn you to ash.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat, and your lungs were paralyzed. Azriel. Did Azriel—did he tell you father where you were? You couldn’t fucking breathe. You never told him where you came from, who you were hiding from, but it wouldn’t be hard for the Spymaster to figure out. He had cut your visit short today. He had given you some vague excuse for why he had to leave—was this why?

Your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sob that escaped your lips. The skin of your cheeks was damp with silent tears, and you looked at the window to the right of you. There was no other option. You couldn’t stay here.

Your body’s movements were driven by pure adrenaline as you swung the window open, pulling it roughly to break it from its hinges, leaving the frame fully open for you to climb through. The glass shattered on the ground as it fell from your grasp and you shimmied through the too small frame. Your wings snagged on the wood of the cabin, and you yanked them free with a stifled yelp of pain as they were pinched and scraped against the worn wood.

You knew your father had to have heard you. You knew he would likely catch you, but you didn’t have to make it easy for him. You took off running toward the forest, your feet quickly going numb from the snow that seeped through the thin fabric covering them.

There was a sick sense of deja vu that washed over you as you ran between pine trees and shrubs, branches smacking and scratching at your skin. The Mother really did have a sick and twisted sense of humor.

Pain ricocheted up your nose and bloomed under your eyes. You were no longer running. You weren’t standing. Your cheek was pressed against hard stone and your palms were outstretched in front of you, caked in dirt and blood. A heavy weight lifted from your back, only for a more intense pressure to replace it at the center of your back. You let out a wheeze as the air was forced from your lungs.

A disgustingly familiar hand yanked your head up by your hair, and another gripped either side of your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were as cold and vile as you remembered. He was the epitome of evil. You thanked the Cauldron you took after your mother, and your own face didn’t remind you of the monster leering at you now.

He tugged at your hair, snapping your neck back even farther as his boot still pressed into your spine. You thought he might snap you in two right there.

Your eyes caught on the blade scattered beside you, too far away to even think about grabbing it.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he seethed, spit pelting your face. “Do you know what you cost me?” he screamed.

“First your mother embarrassed me when she was too weak to survive birth. Her only purpose, and she couldn’t even fulfill it. Then she left me with a pathetic and disrespectful runt of a daughter. No son to make me proud.” The punch shocked you, and you felt your mouth fill with an all too familiar metallic taste. Your cheek throbbed as he yanked on your hair again. “Then she runs away. Abandons her camp and responsibilities. Fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend you were dead, because you were so lousy at covering your tracks, Illyrians across camps said they had seen you.”

A tiny, microscopic ounce of pride nestled in your chest. You had only ever been to one camp. The shopkeeper and you had planted seeds of doubtful but not implausible rumors of your whereabouts to specific patrons of hers—you wanted to be everywhere and nowhere—and it had worked.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, and he kicked you in the ribs, rolling you onto your back and into the frozen earth. The next blow resounded with a sickening crack that left you gasping and wheezing through your tears. You hoped he killed you. If this was your fate, you would rather die now than face an eternity in his hands. In his hands, that your mate had dropped you into.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he straddled your hips, his weight a crushing force on top of your injuries. You hated him. You despised him for taking everything from you. He reached for the blade behind your head, and you held your breath as you waited for the blow. You expected him to go for your heart. Instead, he dragged the blade down the delicate membrane of your wing, leaving the skin in tatters as he repeated the motion.

The scream that left you was blood-curdling. You had never felt such pain. You had never experienced such all-consuming agony. You thought you might die from it—from the agonizing violation.

Then he was gone. One moment his weight was searing against your skin, and the next he was gone. A guttural grunt of pain had you weakly turning your head, and you could barely make out the sight of two figures fighting in the snow. Your vision swam as you watched them, as you watched one male land blow after blow to the one lying in the snow. Then they vanished into the shadows, and you thought you might join them.

~ ~ ~

Fingers on your jaw had you jerking from your daze, your vision clearing slightly to focus on the male hovering over you. You twisted away from him, screaming in both terror and pain as everything hurt. The touch fell away, and you squeezed your eyes shut again, tears falling as you sobbed and shook in the blood-stained snow.

“Y/N—”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please—don’t. Leave me. Leave me alone. Please!” you begged, eyes snapping open again when he touched your hip. “Please!” you screamed. “I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the male said, his voice sounding strangled. Your eyes snagged on his scarred hands hovering tentatively over your body. Azriel.

You sobbed harder. “I’m sorry,” you weeped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are stuck with me, I’m sorry—but please—please don’t take me back there.” You gasped through your tears and pain. “Please don’t leave me with him,” you cried, your entire body shaking. “I will do anything—”

“He will never touch you again,” Azriel growled, and you swore a tear ran down his cheek. You might have been hallucinating. “I promise.”

You stared at him—stared and stared as you shook and cried before him, desperate for a reprieve from this pain. His arms slid under your legs and back, and you screamed as your ribs shifted and your wings dragged against the ground. “Stop!” you cried. “Please, don’t—Azriel, please, I’m begging you. I will do anything, I swear—”

“Sweetheart,” the word was strangled as it fell from his lips, but his grip didn’t loosen. He stood slowly with you thrashing and crying in his arms. “You’re safe, I promise. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then please,” you whimpered, “Leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it isn’t safe, and you need a healer.”

“No,” you gasped. “No healers.” You couldn’t handle another male touching you, leering at you, prodding at you while you laid broken and vulnerable.

“She won’t hurt you,” he soothed. “I swear it.”

She. A female healer?

“Close your eyes,” he murmured gently, and a warmth slowly seeped into your frozen core as you stared into his eyes.

You don’t know why you listened to him. You don’t know why all of the fight in your body had suddenly dissipated as he held you in his arms, or why you let your head loll against his chest as exhaustion took over your senses, and your eyes fluttered shut. Featherlight whisps brushed against your cheeks and arms, gentle phantom-like touches tracing up and down the gashes in your wings.

You slowly opened your eyes when warmth washed over your skin and you felt Azriel walking. You were in someone’s home. A home—unlike anything you had ever seen. There were paintings adorning the walls and carpets lining the wooden floors. A fire crackled in the room Azriel carried you past, and he slowly maneuvered the two of you up a smooth wooden staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice was so embarrassingly weak. You were weak, and fragile, and an embarrassment. What was the Mother thinking, giving the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, you as his mate. You were still trembling and frozen to your core, yet your entire body was ablaze with pain. You were helpless in Azriel’s arms, and as his fingers dug a little tighter into your skin, you realized you were truly at this male’s mercy. It was terrifying.

His grip immediately loosened. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered—begged—as he climbed the final step. “You never need to be scared with me.” He moved down the hallway as he said, “You’re in Velaris. My home. You’re safe here.”

Don’t be scared. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.

His words swam around and around in your head as he carried you through an open doorway, and sat you gently on the bed. You wanted to believe him. Everything inside of you wanted to accept Azriel as your mate, to relish in his touch and presence, but everything you had endured at the hands of other Illyrian males—of your father—had you ready to leap out of another window to make a run for it.

You flinched as you watched the blood and mud on your clothes and skin seep into the clean bedspread beneath you. “The bed—”

“I don’t care about the damned bed,” Azriel nearly growled.

You nodded, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you tried to swallow the anxiety and fear still bubbling in your core. The room was spinning a bit, and you faintly recognized the brush of something cool against your cheek as a dark tendril of shadow flitted from you to Azriel.

Azriel had one hand gripping yours while the other was wrapped firmly around your forearm, his strength alone keeping you upright. It was probably for the best. You weren’t sure you would ever get back up if you lied down right now. You couldn’t fathom the pain you would be in if you put pressure on your ribs or your wing.

“Madja will be here soon,” he said softly, and you absently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back gently. A beat of tense silence passed, and you stared blankly at the wall in front of you, replaying the night on a loop in your head. “Y/N,” Azriel started, “who was he?”

Azriel’s tone told you he already knew the answer to his question—he just needed you to confirm it. There was no point hiding it anymore, and you were fairly certain he was the one who led him straight to you anyway. “My father,” you rasped. “How did he find me?” You forced yourself to meet his eyes, to watch them for any flicker of a tell, of emotion, that gave away what he had done.

His throat bobbed. “I don’t know.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you relished in the gentle touch before recoiling, pulling you hand away. His hand fell to his side, but the one keeping you upright stayed on your arm. You supposed it would make sense for a spymaster to be a flawless liar.

“Then how did you know he was there?” you asked, and you braced yourself for the inevitable anger—braced yourself for the blow he would deliver for such an insolent accusation after he had saved you—even if he was the reason you needed saving.

Azriel stiffened, and you glanced at his face that had gone pale. “I felt your panic,” he said quietly. “Your terror—” You sucked in a sharp breath when his hand fell away and his shadows replaced him, the inky black tendrils holding you up.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised gently, his eyes glossy in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. “They would never hurt you—I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I don’t know how your father found you. I don’t know how he got through the damned wards.”

Your face flushed at that, shame dragging sharp claws down your back. “I ran.”

Azriel shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. He should never have been able to even see the cottage, let alone step a foot on the porch.” His eyes snapped to you, the hazel of his irises warming slightly. “This was not your fault. You did the right thing by running.”

Another wave of excruciating pain washed over you, and the shadows surrounding you somehow`` held you up as your body tried to fold over. A whimper escaped your lips, and new tears started to fall as your body started to wake up. The adrenaline was fading, and you were quickly reacquainted with an entirely new awareness of the pain your body was in.

Azriel’s face twisted as if he felt your pain alongside you, and even in your delirium, in your mind-numbing agony, your mind snagged on something he said. “My terror,” you gasped. “What do you mean you felt it?”

Azriel seemed to be using all his restraint not to touch you. “I felt it through the bond,” he murmured, albeit reluctantly. As if now was too inconvenient for him to be having this conversation, but he kept speaking, perhaps to distract you. “I’ve never felt such undiluted terror, Y/N.” His words were whisper-soft, and his eyes still shined with pain. “I’ve always felt your fear around me—it’s not uncommon—but this? This was terrifying. It made my heart stop dead. And your pain,” His voice cracked. “As soon as I felt your pain, as soon as I realized something was wrong, I left. I left in the middle of a meeting with Rhys and tens of Illyrian camp lords because all I could feel was my mate hurt, possibly dying—and I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hand finally reached for you again, his knuckles barely grazing the bruised and bloody skin of your cheek. Your head was spinning, from both pain and confusion as you struggled to make sense of his words—make sense of him feeling you through this, this bond—you didn’t know what to say.

His touch fell away as quickly as it came. “You never have to be mine. If you never want that, it’s okay. It’s your choice. Always.” That made your heart clench, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t think of much else besides the pain radiating across every part of your body. “But I’m yours.” Tears fell down both of your cheeks, and you absently wondered if you had ever seen a male cry. If you had ever witnessed a male show such vulnerability and tenderness. “I will always be yours. I am devoted to you—and I will always protect you, I swear it.”

The door swung open then, and another Illyrian male appeared in the doorway, moving briskly toward your bed. His eyes met yours, and your entire body tensed, your muscles screaming in agony as your panicked mind grasped for some way to defend yourself. Azriel’s wings flared out and he stepped forward, effectively blocking the male from your sight, and you from his. “Cassian,” he growled.

“Feyre is getting Madja,” the male said hurriedly. “They should be here any minute.” There was a pause, then the male asked Azriel softly, “What can I do?”

Azriel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned to look at you over his shoulder. You could only imagine how pathetic you looked. You were in tatters and bloodied and shaking like a leaf and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t move. If this male lunged for you, it would be over. There would be no defending yourself.

Azriel turned back toward the male. “You need to leave,” he gritted out. “And get Nesta—please.”

The door clicked shut softly behind the male, and Azriel’s wings folded back in as he turned to face you. You stared at him wide-eyed and shaking. You had so many questions, so many fears, but you couldn’t find the words—the strength—to speak them.

“That was Cassian,” Azriel murmured. “My brother. He would never hurt you. No one here will hurt you.”

He kept making the same promises, kept saying the same words, and you wanted to believe him. Mother, you wanted it more than anything. His eyes drifted away from you, focusing on the wing splayed out beside you. The injured wing, that was starting to shake more than the rest of you. A new fear leached into your brain. Would you lose your wings? They were useless but they were still yours. They were still a part of you. You couldn’t—the thought of having a permanent reminder of your father’s cruelty made your stomach twist.

“Not long ago,” Azriel said softly, his voice slicing through your panic, “Cassian’s wings were in tatters. Ribbons. I thought he might never fly again—but Madja healed him. You would never know now that the fate of his wings was in peril, besides some faint scarring. She’ll heal you, too.”

As if his words summoned her, an elderly female came rushing into the room, the door flying open on its hinges. She pushed Azriel to the side fearlessly, and you stared at her dumbly as she dropped an armful of supplies next to you on the bed. She completely ignored the swarm of shadows around you, pushing you to lay back on the bed. You screamed as your ribs shifted and your wing throbbed, and a low growl came from beside you.

Azriel had Madja’s wrist in his hand, his eyes glowing with something feral, but there was no fear or pain on the healer’s face. “Shadowsinger,” she said calmly, her voice even and steady. “Let me do my job.”

Regret flooded his face, and he immediately dropped her wrist. Madja started ruffling through her belongings, and you grit your teeth as nausea clutched at your throat. You would not throw up. You weren’t sure you could survive the pain that would accompany it.

Your head snapped up as Madja took scissors to the hem of your dress, cutting a quick and uneven line up the center. Panic took over you, and this time you were the one to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?” you asked frantically.

“I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”

“No,” you rushed out. Not with him here. You couldn’t. He couldn’t see you like that. You would have rather laid on hot coals than laid there naked and injured in front of a male—in front of Azriel.

Madja followed your involuntary glance to Azriel, and something like morose understanding softened her wrinkled face. Her head turned to Azriel, who was watching the two of you with wide eyes. “You need to leave,” she told him.

Azriel’s hackles instantly raised. “Excuse me?”

“Leave,” Madja repeated, her voice holding no room for argument.

“I am not leaving my mate—”

“Az,” another feminine voice said from the doorway, snagging Azriel’s attention. Her voice was cool and steady, not unlike her eyes or stature as she moved toward the three of you. “Go wait in the hall.”

He glanced at you again, but you couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be right outside,” he swore quietly, and you knew he was looking at you, knew he was promising you that he wasn’t leaving. The unusual but familiar warmth that inexplicably soothed a tiny piece of your battered soul reaffirmed his words. You didn’t understand how he did that. You didn’t understand a lot.

“Go,” the female said again as Madja resumed cutting at your dress. The door shut softly behind him, and you listened for his footsteps, listened for his breathing and his heartbeat, and a tear fell down your cheek as you heard them, unwavering outside the door.

You never wanted a mate. It terrified you, being bound to another male for eternity. You feared him. You couldn’t even stand him being in the same room as you while a healer tended to your wounds—and yet, the thought of him leaving terrified you more.

You were frightened by having a mate—but you couldn’t deny that in the two months you had known him, Azriel had never made you feel the way your father did, not even the first night you met him. You thought you might even feel safe, knowing he was outside, that he would come if you called.

That is what truly frightened you, you thought, more than anything.

~ ~ ~

a/n: might do a part 2 with reader's healing?

724 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 28 days ago

Text

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - I Word Count: 7.7k A/N: The drama is a slow build up. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next

And as simply as that, as simply as if you were not on your deathbed, not near the gates of the afterlife, not slipping in and out of wakefulness for hours at a time while glancing at the stars, trying to read them, trying to understand past their whispers.

"Be strong."

"Don’t let go."

"Live."

As if your body had not nearly torn itself apart to bring her into the world—

A year and a half passed by.

It was slow at first.

The kind of slowness that stretched infinitely, where days bled into nights, where every breath was a struggle, where the aching in your bones was a reminder that you had survived when you should not have.

The nights were the worst. The stillness. The memories that crept in when you were too exhausted to keep them at bay.

You had died that night.

Had felt the pull of something beyond this world, had heard the soft murmurs of the stars, had felt the presence of the Mother, cradling you in the liminal space between life and death.

"Not yet." The words had been so soft, like the brush of a gentle breeze against your skin. "Not yet, my dear sweet child. You have not finished your role. For who else shall guide death than the twilight between?"

Then—nothing. Only that whispered truth, before you had been wrenched back into the land of the living. Back into the world of pain, of struggle, of breath that came too raggedly, of a body that struggled to hold itself.

The stars outside your window had confirmed it had not been a dream. They had blinked back at you, watching, waiting, and through their silent, celestial song, they had left you with one more message.

"You’ve been granted the gift you have longed for."

For days, you had turned those words over and over in your mind, searching for meaning. Not once did the stars align with an answer to this.

At first, you had thought it meant her—the tiny child that slept beside you, her breath soft against the night air. But Estella had never been longed for—not in the way the stars had implied.

No, you had not longed for her, because she had never been expected, never planned. She had been a possibility, a future spoken of in hushed tones between you and Rhys, those long, winding conversations that stretched through the dark, where you had imagined what could be.

Your head against his chest, his fingers gliding through your hair, the slow, absentminded movements soothing in their intimacy. Body aching in the best possible manner, muscles spent, breath still uneven, skin brushed raw from the hours before.

The world had been silent then, the walls of your shared bedchamber cocooning you in warmth, in peace, in the kind of safety that only came when there was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and starlight.

His heartbeat had been a melody beneath your cheek, a rhythm you had learned by memory, one that had held you in reality more times than you could count.

"One day," you had murmured, your fingers tracing idle circles over his chest, over the inked swirls of his tattoos. "One day, perhaps. But not now."

Rhys had only hummed, his lips brushing over your temple, his free hand smoothing along the curve of your spine.

"No rush, my love," he had whispered, voice rich with affection, with promise. "We have all the time in the world."

And at the time, you had believed it.

Rhys had always been content to wait, to want what you wanted, to trust that time would bring whatever it was meant to.

To bring his kin into a world that was more peace than war, more light than shadow.

Time must have laughed at you both.

It must have found it funny, too, when the healers had to fight you to rest. "Milady, it will take time for you to heal."

Time.

It was a sick joke, a whispered cruelty wrapped in kindness. You had spent years wielding your body like a weapon, pushing it beyond its limits, enduring pain that would have broken lesser beings.

Fit to be a lady of the Court. Fit to be the wife of a High Lord, according to the last ruler of the Night Court—because his son would have nothing less than perfection.

And yet, it had been this—this moment of creation, of bringing life into the world—that had nearly ruined you. That had left you so fragile, so weak, that even now, the memory of those first days felt like a fever dream.

Vassa had laid beside you on the bed, cradling the infant you could not hold, because you did not have the strength. Her voice had been soft, wry, but her eyes had glimmered with something close to worry. "Time must be your worst enemy currently."

She hadn’t been wrong.

If only you had your magic during that time. Maybe a week at most—and you would have been fine. Would have been able to stand, to move, to breathe without feeling like your bones were barely holding together. Would have been able to hold your child yourself.

But the pain had not completely left, even a year and a half later. It lingered, a constant companion, whispering its reminders with every slow step, every deep breath. You still could not reach for the well of power that had once sang beneath your skin, could not even grasp at the echoes of what had once made you strong.

Not until today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows was pale and cool, the room silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the otherwise still morning. You reached for your teacup, fingers trembling slightly, feeling the familiar press of porcelain against your palm.

Then—

Magic.

Not a whisper.

Not a flicker.

But a surge, a roaring current flooding through you like it had never left. Like Amarantha had never taken it.

The teacup slipped from your hand, crashing against the floor with a violent shatter, tea splattering across the intricate carpets. But you hardly heard it.

Because magic—your magic—returned to you.

It was a rush of heat, of life, pulsing beneath your skin, sparking in the air around you. You felt your heart lurch in your chest, a tremor running down your spine. A thousand tiny flickers of power curled around your fingertips.

It was the feeling of wholeness.

Of being complete.

As if a missing piece of yourself had finally been restored, as if the emptiness you had carried for so long had been nothing more than a cruel illusion.

And then—the aftermath began.

The doors to your suite within the castle in Scythia flew open, slamming against the stone walls with a deafening crack. But you were already on your feet—

Or at least, you tried to be.

A stumble, a sudden gasp as your body struggled to process the sudden, overwhelming power mixed with previous pain.

A winged Fae stood at the threshold, staring at you in stunned disbelief.

They had seen it. Had felt it.

Your body had flickered—winnowed.

And you had not been the only one.

The corridors erupted in shouts. Fae cried, some fell to their knees, others threw their heads back in laughter, in relief. Because the magic had not just returned to you. It had returned to everyone. The land, the air, the very walls of the castle hummed with power.

It was back.

And the days that followed brought the truth in waves of stunned disbelief.

Amarantha was dead.

The Bitch Queen had been slain.

And Prythian was freed—No longer a land of endless torment.

It was too much.

So much that, instead of collapsing into a chair, you found yourself on the floor, legs barely able to hold you. There had been murmurs of what came next. The Fae who had lived in exile for nearly twenty-three years whispered amongst themselves, voices uncertain.

But it was not your voice that broke the silence.

It was hers.

Estella.

Sweet, fierce Estella, with her long, silken black hair, her star-flecked eyes that had never once let you forget who her father was.

She sat on the rug beside you, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your dress. And then, in that small, quiet voice, she asked the question you had not yet dared to.

"Mama, are we leaving?"

The room stilled.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into fists against your lap. Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

Would you return to the lands that had been stolen from you? Would you uproot the lives that had been built here, in the quiet sanctuary of the human lands, where these Fae had rebuilt something resembling peace?

Who was to say that the courts of Prythian would accept them back? Who was to say that Rhysand would forgive you?

You had left him. You had vanished. He had lived through hell while you had hidden away, while you had raised his daughter in secret.

Would he hate you for it? Would he curse your name?

It was suffocating, crushing.

But it was Vassa who unknowingly made the decision for all of them.

The human queen who had stood by you, who had fought beside you, who had claimed these exiled Fae as her own.

She turned, back straight, chin lifted, her voice unwavering.

"I would never abandon any of you. For you are citizens of my land. And if you choose, you will continue to be part of my people."

There was silence. Then—murmurs. Soft, uncertain, but threaded with relief.

Because no one would be cast out. Because no one would be forced to return to a land they no longer knew.

And you—

You could no longer pretend that the answer had not been forming in your heart from the moment Estella had spoken.

How could you abandon the people you had brought here? How could you ignore what the Bone Carver had told you all those years ago?

The words that had haunted you since the moment they were spoken. The decision that had sent you fleeing from Under the Mountain, taking who you could, slipping through the cracks of Prythian’s destruction into the quiet, forgotten safety of the human lands.

The decision that had made you leave him.

The Bone Carver had not hesitated, had not softened the blow of the truth. "You are not his, not bound to his soul, Starseer"

Starseer. A title of one who was blessed, one who had been taught to read the celestial language woven through the heavens.

A gift—and a curse.

For the stars did not lie.

You had stared at him then, at the version of yourself staring back—your younger self, the child you had once been, the form he had always decided to wear in your presence. His head tilted, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

"How odd." The words had been murmured more to himself than to you, but they had still struck a target. "There will be another who comes to claim it. You are but a temporary replacement."

The breath had left your lungs.

"But he does love you."

You had not realized how much you had needed to hear those words until they were spoken aloud, until the truth of them settled into the marrow of your bones. "Does your High Lord even know you’ve come here? That you have opened the doors with his blood?" The Bone Carver had paused then, waiting, but you had not answered.

You could not answer.

Because Rhys did not know. Did not know that you had stolen a piece of him.

That the doors to the Bone Carver’s prison had only opened because you had offered the magic tied to him. The silence had stretched, your shoulders trembling as fat tears dripped onto the stone floor, pooling at your feet.

You had clenched your jaw, had fought to compose yourself—

This was unbecoming of you. Unbecoming of the Lady of the Night.

But the Bone Carver had only watched. Had waited.

And then, with something like curiosity curling in his voice, he had murmured—

"You have known this. You’ve read this in the stars. I am only confirming what you already suspected. It is why you declined when the High Lord tried to instate you as High Lady."

Because it had never been yours.

Had never been meant for you.

Not truly.

"I do not understand," the Bone Carver mused. "Why are you crying?"

You had not known how to answer. Had not known how to articulate the emptiness that had clawed its way inside your chest. So you had spoken the only truth you knew.

"I am heartbroken."

And the Bone Carver had been intrigued.

Had tilted his head again, had narrowed his dark, endless eyes as if peering into something only he could see.

Then he smiled. Not in mockery. Not in cruelty.

But with fascination.

And he had asked you questions.

Questions about the way grief sat inside your ribs like a living, breathing thing.

Questions about how love could still remain when it was destined to be severed.

Questions about how it felt to be temporary.

As if he had never experienced what you had in that moment. As if he had never known what it meant to love something he could never truly have.

And maybe—maybe, in his own twisted way, he hadn’t.

But you had.

The Bone Carver had left you with one simple request. "Do not come back. Do not come save me. I do not want it."

Whatever that had meant. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was a mercy.

But then—before you had turned to leave that cold prison, before you had sealed the doors once more—

He had said one last thing.

A whisper, soft as wind through a graveyard.

"Well, I think I would like to see her just once."

A pause. A tilt of his head. "Bring her when you can. The Princess of Night."

You had not spoken. Had only met his gaze—your own gaze, the one he had stolen from your past—and let his words settle. And as you had turned to leave, his final words had echoed, curling around you like fate itself.

"The stars align when they see fit. And be sure to take the vial with you when you run."

Centuries had passed since that day.

Centuries since those words had been uttered.

~ ~ ~

The council’s decision had been unanimous. They would stay in Scythia. The Lady of Night would officially be brought onto Vassa’s personal council, a bridge between Human and Fae.

Not completely public, but enough. Enough for whispers to start. Enough for the neighboring lands to hear the rumors. There would be an official ceremony when you returned.

If you returned.

“Will you be all right alone?” Vassa muttered, shifting the little Fae on her hip. Estella let out a tired yawn, her small hands curling against the fabric of Vassa’s cloak.

You smiled, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder.

"Will you be all right when the other human queens find out you have a High Fae on your council?" you countered.

Vassa’s eyes gleamed. “They may shove their condescension up their asses.”

You snorted, reaching for Estella as she all but melted into your arms, nestling her face into the crook of your neck.

“I will be fine,” you said softly. "I leave my people in your care."

"As far as I'm concerned, they are my people now as well. Come home quickly."

And with that—

You winnowed away.

~ ~ ~

For the first time in fifty years, you stepped onto the lands of the Night Court. Not Velaris. Not the City of Starlight.

But to the heart of the Western Isles. To a prison carved into rock and time. The air was freezing. A barren, forgotten place. The worst place in existence. A place where no child should go.

And yet—here you were.

Estella had been bundled so tightly in furs, wrapped securely against your back, that you envied the way she had drifted into sleep. She had not stirred once during the climb. Not even when the wind moaned through the empty crags, howling like a wounded beast.

You swallowed hard, shoving your growing unease into the back of your mind.

By the time you reached the top, you swore—you swore—you would never come here again. Not for the Carver. Not for anyone. Your fingers curled around the pendant hanging beneath your tunic, the small vial of blood hidden within its hollowed center.

The last thing you had of the High Lord. The last thing you had stolen. You had taken the Bone Carver’s advice seriously.

And thank the Mother for it.

The walk through the tunnels was familiar. Even in the dark. Even in the silence. Even as the walls themselves seemed to breathe, to hum with an energy that did not belong to this world.

You didn’t even have to say the first word.

"You brought her."

A voice.

A whisper of a voice that should not have carried so far, that should not have slithered into your bones like a memory.

And as always, he looked like you. A child’s version of you.

Eyes flickering. Small hands curled at his sides. Lips parting, as if tasting something new in the air.

And for the first time, the Bone Carver smiled.

"It has been too long," he mused, tilting his head, that eerily familiar gaze raking over you like he could see beneath your skin. "I've missed our talks. Tell me you brought me a good bone."

The words curled around the cold stone walls, lazy, indulgent. You barely had time to react before your fingers twitched, before you tossed the small bag through the wards of his cell.

Bones. Human bones. A gift. A bargain. The bones of the last Queen of Scythia. Vassa had struggled to part with them. Had stood over them for days, conflicted, torn.

But in the end, she had given them to you. Because Vassa understood what few did—the price of power. This was your price.

The Bone Carver made a pleased sound as he knelt, delicate fingers brushing over the bones, arranging them with slow, meticulous reverence.

Then he spoke again. "I’ve heard the High Lord might be on his way shortly."

Your heart froze. The words slammed into your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your lips parted, your mind raced, a thousand responses forming at once—

But before you could reply, the small body strapped to your back stirred. A warm little hand pressed against your shoulder. A tiny, sleep-filled voice mumbled—

"Mama?"

"I'd like to see her," he whispered. "And then I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

Your jaw tightened.

"I brought her here for you," you replied, shifting the little Fae in your arms, adjusting your grip, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're the one who asked to see her."

A flash of surprise flickered across the Carver’s face—your face. The child he had chosen to wear as a mockery, a challenge.

He had not expected that answer.

"I didn’t think you would come here just for that," he admitted. "But you have always been full of surprises."

His gaze slid to the child in your arms.

And when he spoke, his voice was soft, too soft.

"She is a mirror image of your husband," he mused. "But is that something to call him still—"

A pause.

A long, terrible pause.

"—when he thinks you are dead? When another has entered his life?"

You licked your lips, "I—"

"You need not say anything, Just listen." And so, you did. To his story. A story you had already heard whispers of in the human lands. A story of a mortal girl. The Cursebreaker. "And she will have the place you never sought. The title he wanted you to have. The title everyone will bow before."

Your fingers gripped instinctively around Estella. But the Bone Carver wasn’t finished.

"Understand—she is not you. And you are very special to your people, just as she will be. They think you are with the Mother, in an immortal land. They grieve for you. Your death is a pawn on the board. And once I tell you what I am about to, turn your head away. Do not come back. Do not break your own heart again."

It was a stupid hope. A fool’s dream. It didn’t take a genius to understand what the Bone Carver wasn’t saying. That the Cursebreaker was Rhysand’s mate.

That whatever love had once bound you to him, was nothing now.

Your lips parted.

And when you spoke—

Your voice so small.

"Okay."

~ ~ ~

No one needed to know. No one needed to know anything the Bone Carver had said. Estella had not understood, had only asked in that small, curious voice, “Hybern?”—her little head tilting in that way she often did when trying to understand something far beyond her years.

And like that, you stepped away from the impending war. It was not your business. It had nothing to do with the Fae under your protection. And it certainly had nothing to do with your daughter.

Or so you kept trying to tell yourself.

Trying.

Lying.

Pretending.

"I do not think you should go." The words left your lips in a murmur, barely more than breath, as you sat at the council table within Scythia’s castle.

The other advisors had long since left. Only you and Vassa remained.

Vassa leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, her reddish-golden hair gleaming in the light.

"And I told you not to go to Prythian alone two months ago," she mused, voice mockingly casual. "Looks like we’re both really bad at listening."

You lifted a brow. "Your attitude is unbecoming, Your Highness." A calm counter. A quiet warning. A stare that had made Estella second-guess her actions more times than you could count.

But Vassa was not Estella. And she was not easily cowed. Instead, she only smirked. "So is pretending you’re not already halfway out the door."

Silence. Tension, coiling too tight. Because Vassa knew. Of course she knew. She had known you too long, had seen the way your hands clenched when war was spoken of, the way your body braced when whispers of Hybern began to spread.

She had seen the way you shut your eyes too tightly at night, as if willing yourself not to dream of the past. And she had not asked you once about what the Bone Carver had said.

Because she already knew how this would end. But she had still waited. Still let you lie to yourself.

"Jurian is likely unstable, Vas." Your voice was firmer now, your patience fraying. "He was tortured by Amarantha for centuries. He hates Fae. Why would he be working with the King of Hybern? This is a trap."

Vassa did not waver.

Instead, she sighed, leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the polished wood of the council table. "And this is why you are on my council. The other Queens call me a used fool. A puppet. But I trust you. That’s why I have to go. We’ll find nothing out if I stay here. And I can trust my people in your hands while I’m gone."

Her lips quirked slightly, a ghost of amusement curling at the edges. "Besides—" she added, voice light, but her gaze sharp as steel— "you fought beside Jurian during the war. I’m sure I can use the stories you told me to my advantage."

Your stomach twisted. Because she was right. Because Vassa was a Queen—but she was also a soldier in her own making. And she had already made her decision.

But that did not mean you had to like it. "Be careful, Vas."

Your voice was quiet. A whisper. A prayer.

Because even Human Queens were not untouchable.

~ ~ ~

If screaming was an option, you would have been cursing the Mother herself. But Estella was asleep in your lap, her small face pressed against your ribs, her soft breaths a rhythm against the rising tide of your frustration. So instead—

You turned your rage to paper. To the endless parchments and reports, the tangled web of alliances and betrayals, the half-finished letters and too many maps scattered across your desk.

Trying to figure out something. Anything. Because the next time you saw Vassa—

It would be the biggest I told you so moment in history.

Five months. Five fucking months. That’s how long you had been ruling in her stead, sitting at the head of her council while the other advisors whispered of war.

That’s how long it had been since Vassa was betrayed.

Since she had been sold by the other Human Queens—the very ones who had sat in these halls, who had smiled at her across lavish feasts, who had once called her sister.

Five months since you had taken control, since you had held the council back from calling a war at this outrage. A fight—

One you were heavily leaning toward. Because there were only so many polite letters you could send. Only so much diplomatic restraint you could exercise when the rest of the Queens had assumed Scythia would crumble.

That without Vassa, the country would fall in line. That the people would bow. That the "Long-eared Fae vermin"—as they so eloquently put it—would finally be put in their place.

They had been wrong. So very, very wrong. Because Scythia did not kneel. Because its people—Human and Fae alike—had flourished beneath Vassa’s reign. Because the same Fae they had sought to cast out were the very ones who had:

Restored the land’s agriculture. Created a functioning plumbing system. Reinforced the city with magical wards and barriers.

And so much more.

They had called Scythia a lost kingdom.

But Scythia was thriving.

And you were not going to let them take that away. Not from the sacrifices that Vassa and her mother had made. Not from everything you had built together.

Not even when your dreams had turned strange—

Some nights, it was Amarantha’s laughter, slithering through your mind like poison, her red lips curling, her nails digging into your flesh as she whispered your name like a promise of ruin.

Other nights, it was an ash dagger in your grip, an ash arrow, your hands trembling as you drove them forward—except you never saw where they landed, never saw who they struck down.

And then, there were the other dreams.

Gentle ones.

A painting of a night sky, Velaris stretching endlessly in the distance, the scent of salt and citrus on the wind. A melody played by musicians, familiar, aching—one that left you waking with tears on your cheeks, your chest hollow, empty.

A song from home.

And still, you endured.

Even when you had felt the wall break—the ancient border between human and fae lands shattering—there had been no room for panic. The only proper reaction had been to send those from the Day Court to create wards, an alarm system of sorts for the outer villages.

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts, so focused on the battle to come, that you hadn’t noticed the way Estella was stirring in your lap. Hadn’t noticed the sleepy flutter of her violet-streaked eyes until—

She let out a small, sleepy sigh, her warm little body shifting closer, her hands curling into the fabric of your clothes.

"Mama?" she mumbled, her voice soft with sleep.

Your heart softened instantly, the stress in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you ran a gentle hand through her hair.

"I'm here, sweetling," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She blinked up at you, her eyes—his eyes—filled with quiet trust.

"Bad dream?" you asked softly.

Estella shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Vas is home…" A small, sure voice.

The words barely had time to sink in before the doors to the council room slammed open.

"I—There—Mi’lady—" the guard was panting, his armor disheveled, his wide eyes wild with shock. "There was a firebird—an army—and then—the firebird changed into Queen Vassa!"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

From the corner of your vision, beyond the guard—

A figure stepped through. And you let out a cry. Your hands trembled as you set Estella down, as your body moved before your mind could even catch up.

You ran. Across the council chamber, across the space that had felt too big without her in it.

And when you reached her—

When you threw your arms around the human queen—

"You are okay." The words ripped out of you, raw and relieved, your grip tightening as if to confirm she was real. Vassa let out a breathless laugh, but the emotions in her eyes told you everything.

That it had been close. That she had barely escaped at all. Then—she let you go.

And before you could say another word, she turned, kneeling to sweep Estella into a hug. The little Fae squealed, tiny fingers gripping Vassa’s cloak, burying her face against her.

"Please," Vassa grinned, pressing a kiss to Estella’s hair before standing again. "I cannot be kept down."

You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair.

"What happened?" you demanded, scanning her as if she might vanish again. Vassa sighed, rolling her shoulders.

"I cannot stay long," she admitted. "I came to make sure everything was running smoothly—not that I doubted you, Lady of the Night."

A teasing smirk. One you didn’t return. Because there was something else there. A weariness that had not been there before.

"Vassa."

A warning. A question.

Her expression sobered. "Koschei released me—temporarily," she said. "Only to aid in this war. Against Hybern. It seems even that cursed lake-dwelling bastard does not want a kingdom under the King’s rule."

Your stomach twisted. "Released you?"

Vassa nodded, but not in victory. "By day, I am still a firebird. By night, I am myself."

A temporary reprieve. A trap wrapped in kindness.

"The war is coming," she said. "And I have been sent to fight in it."

A small curse escaped your lips before you could stop it. Then—you talked. Spoke of technicalities, of plans, of what needed to be done. Of how Vassa wanted to avoid war with the other Queens—for now.

"But if they come onto my land," she murmured, a flicker of fire in her gaze, "Teach them a lesson."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Because you agreed. Because Scythia had already suffered enough betrayals. The next time someone dared to cross these borders—They would not leave unscathed.

A knock at the door. Vassa arched a brow, but didn’t hesitate. "Enter."

The door swung open. And your heart stopped. Because the first thing you saw was a human.

But the second—

The second was a High Fae.

And Lucien Vanserra looked as if he had seen a ghost. His amber eye widened, his mouth parting slightly, the scar at the corner of his lip pulling tight.

He stared. At you. Like he had just seen the dead rise.

~ ~ ~

If Estella hadn’t been perched happily in Vassa’s lap, you might have taken her to her room. Might have put her to bed just to avoid this whole conversation. But she was wide awake, tucked safely against the human queen, completely oblivious to what was happening in this room.

To the way Lucien Vanserra had not stopped staring. To the way his face was pale, his amber eye flickering with a dozen emotions too quick to name. You could’ve ignored the human man beside him, except—

Except his name had slipped out somewhere in conversation.

Archeron.

It had taken a long moment for the pieces to click into place. And when they had—

When you had realized who he was—

The Cursebreaker’s father.

The father of your husband’s mate. The man whose daughter had taken the place you had once stood in.

Your husband—

The man who was not really your husband anymore, because he had married another. It had to be by the grace of the Mother herself that you managed to stay composed. That you did not let your breath hitch, did not let your hands shake. You could have a moment later. When Estella wasn’t here to see.

But Vassa knew. She knew by the way your posture had stiffened, by the way your fingers had curled too tightly into the fabric of your skirts. By the way your face betrayed nothing at all.

Lucien exhaled, raking a hand through his hair before finally speaking. "We were told you were killed by the Weaver." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it.

Something uncertain. Something disbelieving. His gaze flickered over you, still unable to reconcile what he was seeing. Like he was seeing a ghost. Like he was waiting for you to vanish.

"And the Fae that disappeared with you?" he asked. "Are they—?"

"All alive and accounted for," you answered softly.

His expression shifted. And you wondered—

Who was he asking about? Because it hadn’t just been Night Court Fae who had fled with you.

There had been Autumn Court Fae.

And Spring Court Fae.

Fae from every court.

The ones who had joined at the last minute, when the plan had been pushed forward, when there had been no time for regrets. When there had only been one chance to escape.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over you again—and then down. To the small figure in Vassa’s lap.

To Estella.

And every instinct in you screamed. A warning. A threat. A demand. Your muscles tensed, your fingers twitching as if ready to strike, to shield, to protect.

Because you knew what he was thinking. What he was seeing. And Lucien hesitated. "She has to be—" He stopped. Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because the truth was too large to be contained in mere words.

"How is this possible?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Does Rhysand know—?"

"No." The answer came fast. Too fast. A blade against his throat. His good eye widened. But you were already moving, already speaking, each word carved from iron. "And no one will." A promise. A warning. "So I will make this threat as plainly as I can."

The room went still. Lucien held your gaze—and flinched.

"If you so much as tell a soul she exists," you said, voice quiet, lethal, "I will remind you why I have been feared. Why people assume my bargains take souls. Why I was betrothed to the son of a High Lord beyond looks.” A beat. "I will skin you in a way that makes Amarantha look like child's play. Do you understand?"

His throat bobbed. Before he could speak—

Vassa sighed. "Yeah, you say anything about Estella and I don’t think divine intervention is going to help you."

Lucien let out a slow breath, his hands curling at his sides, his jaw tight. But he nodded. "Will you be coming with us?"

The words were carefully spoken. Measured. Expectant.

The Queen snorted loudly. Then—she turned to you. That knowing, sarcastic smirk already curling on her lips. "Yes, will you be coming with us to defeat Hybern again?"

You knew why she was being like this. Because as much as Vassa adored Estella—

She had never quite forgiven you. For almost dying. For the trauma that still lived on that day. For the unknown risk that came with a child who had been sealed in time.

And so you said it—

A single word, quiet, firm.

"No."

Both Lucien and Mr. Archeron blinked. Like they couldn't quite process your words. Like the idea of you—you—not taking the battlefield was impossible.

"I can skin a single Fae with enough effort," you admitted, voice unapologetic, "however, I’ve never fully recovered from giving birth to that one."

You inclined your head toward the sleepy-looking child. "My body is still healing from everything that happened. So I cannot fight. No matter how much I might want to."

The words tasted bitter. Because they were true. They were a reminder of what had been stolen from you.

"I will be here to oversee things until Vassa returns home."

But you had not left them empty-handed. There were weapons, forged and warded with magic, enough for a small siege should it come to full-on war with the neighboring lands.

Vassa had been most entertained by your preparations. And Mr. Archeron—he had been watching you closely. Putting pieces together. Understanding, perhaps for the first time, why you were not just respected—

But feared.

You had also offered your Fae—those who had volunteered to go with them, to war. Even as you gave your blessing, the warning curled in the back of your mind.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting them go. Because it only took one slip. One whisper. One survivor making it back to Prythian—

And the truth would come crashing into the light.

At the time, you had believed it was worth the risk. You had believed it was a gesture made in good faith when news of the war’s end reached your ears. When you learned that Hybern had fallen, that the wall was no more, that the High Lords had stood together and won.

It had seemed like the final chapter of a life you had long since stepped away from.

But now—

Now you weren’t so sure.

Not with who Vassa had brought back. Not with the way Jurian was standing in front of you, blinking, his expression utterly unreadable. Not when his lips twitched, his eyes flashed, and suddenly—

He started laughing. A deep, wheezing sound, raw and disbelieving. Vassa sighed heavily beside you, rubbing her temples as if she already regretted bringing him here. But you couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t stop the way your body tensed, couldn’t quiet the pulse of old memories surging in your chest.

The man who had refused to believe that humans and Fae could ever truly coexist. A man who had once been an enemy. A man who had stood on the same side of a war. A man who would have watched the rest of the Fae burn, but at least would have given you a quick death. Not quite a friend, not quite someone you could trust with your life. But a comrade, maybe.

And now, with him standing before you, laughing like he knew something you didn’t—

You had the sinking feeling that it was far from over.

Jurian dragged a hand down his face, still chuckling, before finally speaking. "Holy hell." He let out another breathless laugh, shaking his head. "So you aren’t dead after all."

His grin widened, knowing, as his eyes dragged over you, taking in every unchanged detail. Or maybe—maybe there were some changed details he was noting.

"I thought the rumors were insane, but here you are—standing right in front of me." He let out a low whistle. "Fucking hell, this is going to send a shockwave through Prythian."

Your jaw tightened. "Glad to see your dramatics never fail. Maybe a surprise, but no shockwave, that’s for sure."

"On the contrary," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I have a feeling some people would be very, very interested to know you’re still breathing."

Your hands itched to summon magic, to do something—anything—to wipe that damn smirk from his face. At the very least, to hit him, just once, for old times’ sake. He always knew how to get under your skin, like an annoying little brother who had perfected the art of making you want to strangle him.

The only other person who could come close to that talent was Cassian—and even that was a far-off shot.

"As amusing as seeing this go down would be," Vassa interrupted, clapping her hands together abruptly, "I only have hours left."

She did.

You had already been given the rundown of the war—the losses (you did not miss the way Vassa’s eyes saddened when she mentioned that Mr. Archeron had died), the almost-losses that you didn’t want to acknowledge, and the entire meeting that had taken place after the war. "Which brings me to say—" Vassa continued smoothly, "Jurian has accepted my offer to come to my court and will be assisting you in my duties."

You blinked. "Excuse me—" you blurted, completely flabbergasted.

Vassa lifted a hand, cutting off any protest before it could form.

"IF," she stressed, "you need any extra help."

"It’ll be just like old times." Jurian snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You scoffed. "Yes, because we are gutting enemy soldiers instead of making sure this country runs smoothly," you snapped back sarcastically.

"You say that now, but let’s see how long you last before you start wanting to gut a few politicians."

“I’ve lasted hundreds of years as Lady of the Night Court. And these past months here. What do I need your help with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tapped his chin, the gesture exaggerated, teasing. “Maybe when the High Lord of Dawn comes. Or when Day arrives. They’ve expressed quite a bit of interest in Vassa’s court, after all.” His eyes gleamed, like a knife catching the light. “Or, gods forbid, when the High Lord and Lady of Night arrive, seeking whatever political alliance serves their interests.”

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to show it.

Then, as if he were merely remarking on the weather, Jurian added, “Though I can only imagine how you’ll feel seeing your husband with his new bride.”

Your pulse stilled.

The room stilled.

Jurian just shrugged, as if he were merely remarking on the sky. “I don’t recall either of you formally dissolving your marriage, but I suppose death does that, doesn’t it?”

Silence.

The room was so silent. Your chest ached in a way you hadn’t prepared for. He had done that on purpose. He had wanted a reaction. Had wanted to see if the ghost of Rhysand’s love still lingered in you.

And it did. But that didn’t mean you would let him have the satisfaction. Your lips parted before common sense could catch up.

"I guess it’ll feel like seeing Drakon with Miryam," you mused, voice quiet, the kind of soft that preceded a storm. And then, you smiled, just enough to make it mocking. "But at least I knew my ex loved me, even when I was at my worst." A beat. Jurian’s smirk froze. "A monster, as she called you. Right? I can’t recall."

You knew how to draw blood even without a weapon.

The whole situation was a complicated matter, one that had once ignited a fight between you and Rhys long ago. You had drawn a line. Had refused to see Drakon or Miryam again, but had sworn—sworn—to keep their existence a secret.

Jurian’s expression flickered—just for a second.

But then—he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I’m so glad you never change," he muttered, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. Then—his eyes flickered with something else. Something calculating. "I figured you did after being told you didn’t fight anymore, though. Why is that—?"

Before the question could even be finished, the doors slammed open. Jurian barely had time to react before a tiny figure barreled through.

You didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to check. The timing was impeccable. Standing in the threshold, her dark hair mussed from sleep, her tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.

“You are supposed to be in bed, Estella.” Vassa laughed as the little fae ran into her open arms.

"Because of that." You pointed at the child, your tone flat, resigned, as if Estella’s existence alone was enough explanation.

Jurian blinked once.

Twice.

Then he snorted. "No."

"Yeah."

"You are messing with me."

"There is living evidence."

His lips curled into something wicked. "Oh, the drama you could start." A slow grin stretched across his face, his eyes flickering with delight. "Did he know?"

Your expression didn’t shift. "No."

"No?" Jurian echoed, blinking again. "As in, not at all? Not even the slightest clue?"

"Not even the slightest. I didn’t even know."

He let out a low whistle, stepping back as if he needed a moment to process the absolute madness of the situation.

"So let me get this straight—" he counted on his fingers, dramatically. "You disappeared. You let the world believe you were dead. And in all that time, Rhysand had not the faintest idea that you were carrying his kid?"

You exhaled slowly, your patience thinning. "Yes, Jurian. That is exactly what I just said."

"Fucking hell." He let out a giddy laugh, pacing a few steps. "And here I thought my return to the living was going to be boring."

Vassa sighed loudly, shifting Estella slightly in her arms, brushing the child’s hair away from her face as she sleepily blinked up at Jurian.

"You do realize," Jurian continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "that if Rhysand ever finds out, it will be the single greatest meltdown Prythian has ever witnessed?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course, you knew.

If he ever saw Estella—

There would be no undoing it.

But before you could shut Jurian up, he turned back to you, grinning like a fox that had just stumbled upon an unguarded henhouse.

"So, tell me," he purred, "who else knows? Or am I the lucky first?"

Your fingers twitched.

Because the list was short.

Vassa.

Lucien.

A handful of trusted Fae in Scythia.

And now—Jurian.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." He grinned wider, too wide, before slinging an arm over your shoulder. "I just need to know how many people will be in attendance when Rhysand inevitably finds out and absolutely loses his shit."

You shoved him off.

"You will say nothing."

"I make no promises."

"Jurian."

"Relax." He held up his hands innocently, though his smile said otherwise. "Your secret is safe with me. Who would I even tell?"

Your jaw tightened.

Vassa shook her head.

And Estella—still half-asleep—let out a tiny huff, looking between the two of you before mumbling, "Too loud."

"That’s your kid, all right." Jurian snickered.

You sighed, rubbing your temple.

This was going to be a nightmare.

137 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 28 days ago

Text

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - Ø Word Count: 2.4k A/N: Do I know where I’m going with this series? No, not a clue. But I had a dream about this and decided to make it a series. I’m aiming for around 15 parts, but who knows? Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Next

What was regret?

A cruel trick of the mind? A wound that festered despite the years?

Was this something you regretted doing?

The answer was simple.

No.

Not now. Not in a million years.

Not even as you looked upon the child nestled against your chest—your daughter, your blood, the spitting image of her father. Not even as your heart rattled like a caged bird in your ribs, as the room spun, as the taste of iron filled your mouth.

She was here. Finally, she was here.

And she would never see him.

Not while she ruled. Not while the Bitch Queen sat atop her stolen throne, choking Prythian in a grip of blood and bone and hollow, endless suffering.

Would this child even know her mother?

Perhaps not.

Not while you bled out on the floor of this home, hidden away in the depths of human lands that still whispered with old magic, where mist curled like ghostly fingers through the cracks in the wood and windows. Not while the Fae you had fought for, had nearly died for, hovered above you, their panic a distant hum beneath the ragged sound of your breathing.

The child against your chest stirred, wiggling against the blood-soaked fabric of your dress. She whimpered, her tiny hands grasping at nothing, and when her eyes finally opened—

And the stars blinked back at you.

Violet, deep and endless, like the midnight sky over Velaris. Like his.

Rhysand’s eyes.

A sob wrenched itself from your throat, as raw as the wounds along your skin, as the jagged remains of what could have been.

The eyes of the man you had loved.

The eyes of the man you had left behind for his own good.

The truth of the last twenty years since the great escape settled upon you, no longer an abstraction, no longer distant. It was here. Now. Wrapping around your throat like a noose, crushing your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. You had saved who you could. The ones you had pulled from Under the Mountain, the ones who had trusted you to lead them to safety.

The ones you had knelt before a death god for.

This was her doing.

The Weaver.

Stryga had known. She had known before you had even suspected.

She had felt the magic coil within you before you ever realized that the aching exhaustion, the odd pull of your body, was not from the life you were forced to endure at Amarantha’s side.

And for nothing more than her amusement, for some twisted game only she understood, she had sealed your womb—had locked your daughter in time, preventing her from being born when she was meant to be.

A blessing and a curse.

You had been carrying her all these years.

All these years.

A world where her father was nothing more than a beautifully painted mask, a High Lord forced to play the role of Amarantha’s whore.

A world where you were a ghost, a traitor, a woman who had run and run and run, who had spilled blood across these lands in a desperate attempt to save even a handful of lives.

A world where you had not been his mate.

The thought burned.

Not because you had once hoped for more. Not because you had let yourself believe, in those stolen nights beneath the stars, that maybe, just maybe, you had been enough.

No.

The child against your chest whimpered, as if she, too, could feel the way your mind turned, the way your thoughts splintered into jagged edges of what now? what now? what now?

And your mind reeled back—

Back twenty-one years ago.

When you had sat on your knees before the Weaver, a death god wrapped in darkness, your heart a war drum against your ribs.

You had needed her help.

Would’ve done anything for the Fae waiting outside that decrepit cabin, those who had fled with you, who had trusted you to lead them to freedom.

Even if it meant offering your life in exchange.

Even if it meant offering more than that.

Her shadow loomed over you.

“How many?”

The Weaver’s voice was a rasp, curling around the edges of the dimly lit room like the hands of something waiting.

You had to hurry.

Had to move.

Amarantha would find out soon enough. She would send her creatures for you, for the Fae you had smuggled away. And she would make him—Rhys—deliver the killing blow himself.

She would make him kill his own wife.

Would make him watch as the life drained from your body. Would make him stand over you, blood on his hands, and smile.

But it would not be real. You knew that.

He would not smile because he wanted to. He would smile because he had to.

Because the alternative—showing even a fraction of what he felt, of what he had felt, of what he might still feel—would be a death sentence for him, too.

The Weaver crouched lower, “You do not have time to stall, child. How many?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

The question shouldn’t have confused you. It should have been obvious. You wondered if Stryga was asking how many had been saved.

Or how many had to die for this moment to come to pass.

Or maybe how many you would be willing to give to the Death god in order to save the rest.

“What?” The word whispered past your lips, barely more than breath.

Stryga only tilted her head, her lips curling in something that was not quite amusement, not quite pity. “How many years?”

“I-”

“Pick,” she ordered. Her voice did not rise, did not demand. It did not need to. “Unless,” she murmured, “you wish to face the monsters she’s sent for you.”

Amarantha.

Your mind raced.

Fuck. She had found out. Shit. Shit.

Panic clawed at your throat, clawed at the edges of your ribs like a wild animal trapped in too small a space.

“Twenty!”

A whisper. A curse. A plea.

The Weaver’s white, pupil-less eyes gleamed.

And then—

Then she had smiled. A slow, knowing thing.

The Weaver had touched your chest, right above your collarbone and you felt the burn of magic.

And twenty years later to the day, you would come to understand the truth of her question.

When you had felt the shift of magic. And a week later, you had found yourself hurling into a bucket.

Pregnant.

You had gawked, then laughed at the healer, telling him to check again. And he had confirmed it. Again.

If that hadn’t shocked everyone, then the first whispered question had.

Who had you slept with?

Rumors had spread like wildfire, swirling through this little hidden court of Fae who had already thought you some kind of savior. And now—now they thought you a prophet.

At least, until you pieced together what Stryga had done.

But what did all of that matter now?

Your body swayed dangerously. The loss of blood had finally caught up, the edges of your vision darkening, flickering, your breath coming shallower, sharper.

A coo pulled you back, an anchor in the rising tide of oblivion.

You blinked sluggishly, barely aware of the way your arms tightened instinctively around the small bundle. The door creaked open. Hushed voices. The sound of hurried footsteps, too heavy to belong to the Fae you had gathered around you.

You could not leave this beautiful child unprotected.

You could not leave her undefended.

A voice—your name, called once.

Twice.

And with much effort, your gaze tore from the sleeping face nestled against you and flickered toward the human woman standing in front of you.

Eyes like the sea before a storm, wide and filled with panic.

Vassa.

Or—Her Majesty, the Sixth Queen of the Mortal Lands.

A mouth full.

You swallowed thickly, pain curling through you in vicious waves.

"Hello, Vassa—" Your voice came weaker than you wanted, more breath than sound. You forced your lips into a faint smile. "Er—your majesty. I apologize for the unsightly appearance."

It felt like it took too long for the words to spill past your lips, your tongue thick in your mouth.

“I could care less.” The Queen of Scythia murmured, eyes darting between you and the child, looking just as panicked as the court of Fae surrounding you. “You cannot die. You are not allowed.”

Oh, this sweet child.

Vassa was still so young, still fresh off her own grief, still learning what it meant to rule with a mother buried beneath the earth and a father unworthy of her name.

You had grieved the loss of her mother, too. The Queen who had dreamed of a better world. The woman who had taken your hand in secret, who had whispered a bargain that had become your salvation.

And in turn, you had been hers.

Your hand lifted, shaking, brushing over Vassa’s cheek.

She may not have been your daughter by blood.

But you had watched this child come into the world, had held her when her mother was too busy, had been there when she took her first steps, when she spoke her first words.

Vassa caught your hand with both of hers, pressing it tightly against her face.

“You cannot leave me,” she whispered as if she was a child again.

You exhaled shakily. "I need you to bargain something with me."

A plea, a desperate rasp, and then your gaze turned toward the others in the room.

The council of Fae that governed this secret part of the world, the ones you had given everything for. A city built in shadows, a sanctuary where the lost could thrive, untouched by war.

A secret.

Just like Velaris.

The thought of the Court of Dreams and Starlight pushed fresh tears down your face, the weight of it all settling into your bones.

“I need you all to bargain something for me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, stretching across the room like a shroud.

Your breaths were uneven.

“If I return to the Mother tonight, if I pass the gates to the immortal land—" your voice hitched, but you forced yourself to go on, "do not let her forget me."

Silence.

Vassa’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Do not let her forget who she is,” you continued, your words slower, heavier. “But teach her kindness as I have tried to show you all. Teach her to be fierce and loyal, and love her in the way that I would. For she is dear.”

Your eyes flickered down to the infant, still sleeping despite the tension pressing against the air, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of your dress.

“And she was wanted more than she could ever know.” A tear slipped down your cheek, staining the small blanket. Bloodstained. Everything was bloodstained.

“Let her be happy.”

Your throat ached, your chest constricting.

You looked at each of them, your expression hardening despite the exhaustion on you.

“Swear it.”

A ripple of something ancient passed through the room. A promise yet to be spoken, but already sealed in the space between heartbeats.

Vassa’s lips parted. The Fae around you shifted, exchanging looks, but there was no hesitation.

No refusal.

Only quiet acceptance.

And then—one by one, they pressed their hands over their hearts.

A vow written into the very marrow of this city.

And as the magic of it settled over the room, you allowed your body to sag, your strength finally slipping.

The bargain had been struck.

And when the burning began, you did not flinch.

But they did.

The Queen, the healers, the warriors, the Fae who had stood beside you all these years—they felt it. A power curling into their very bones, into the depths of their skin.

A mark of magic.

They shuddered as the bond settled into place, as the vow etched itself permanently into flesh.

For making a bargain with anyone in the Night Court meant a mark that would never fade, never be erased, a reminder written in the language of power itself.

And making a bargain with the Lady of the Night—

That meant something else entirely.

Something beautiful.

Something claiming.

You had heard the whispers before, the stories that spread like smoke through Prythian. That those who bore the marks of your bargains were not merely bound, but claimed.

That their souls—their very essence—had been sold to you, had been tied to something far more than a mere promise.

And perhaps that was true.

Perhaps, if anyone saw the shimmering marks curling over their skin, the elegant, starlit script of a promise sealed beneath a dark sky, they would know—

They would know they belonged to you.

Or so many believed. You let them think it. Perhaps, for the first time, it was not entirely untrue.

A soft cry broke through the silence.

The child. Your daughter.

You allowed her to be moved from your arms, to be taken by sure hands as the healers rushed forward. Barely noticing the whispered orders, the rustling of fabric, the touch of cool fingers pressing against your wrist, your throat, checking—

Checking if there was anything left to save.

But you only listened to the quiet coos of the child, the way her small hands grasped at the air, searching for something unseen.

You had done what you could.

And for the first time in twenty years—

You let yourself rest.

Then a voice. Distant. Soft. Familiar.

A call back to the world of the living.

“What is her name?”

Vassa’s voice barely registered, a whisper through the haze pulling you under.

But still—still, you smiled. For there was only one name you could give her. Only one name that did not require discussion.

A name that Rhysand would have approved of.

A name the Inner Court would have accepted without question.

A name written in fate itself.

Your lips parted, the words fragile as a breath of wind.

A name of stars.

A name of dreams.

A name that meant light in the darkness.

A name that—no matter how many years passed—Rhysand would know was his.

"Estella."

127 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 28 days ago

Text

Strawberry Sweet

── Azriel x Fem!Witch/Fae Hybrid Reader

also featuring platonic best friend! cassian x reader, and platonic best friend! rhysand x reader

I ~ INTRODUCTIONS ── PART TWO ── TABLE OF CONTENTS

based on [THESE] lyrics

obviously not book canon. references to battles that didn’t happen in the books, ooc inner circle, etc… 🤷🏻‍♀️ no use of y/n but i do use she / her. no descriptions other than reader being shorter than all 3 bat boys. reader is also able to winnow.

When you first met Azriel, you were sure he hated you.

With the rest of the inner circle, it had been easy. You met the High Lord first after saving his life, and you remembered the day like it happened yesterday.

Rhysand had taken to the skies one night, flying over Velaris and looking down at everything below. An ambush on Day Court had all the high lords on edge, with the message that the attackers weren’t finished being loud and clear. He knew it was bad when Helion reached out personally.

When he was attacked, it was 5 against 1. He ended up plummeting nearly 1,000 feet. As luck would have it, you were just returning home from a very late night trip to the markets.

Ever the quick thinker, you snapped your fingers, and all of your purchased goods floated into your home and all put themselves in their proper place. Then you turned your attention to the man falling from the sky. You held out a hand, and a blue light so dark that they almost resembled shadows, flowed from your palm and slowed the man’s descent just before he hit the ground.

You used your other hand to turn you both invisible until you were able to get him into your home.

To keep a long story short, because that was a tale for another time, it took a lot longer to heal him than you thought. You don’t know how much time passed, all you know is that it was completely dark outside when he fell but when you finished, you could see the sun was about to rise.

Rhysand woke up not long after you finished healing his wings.

You anticipated the first question he asked, so you beat him to it. Giving him a brief version, you explained that you were half witch, half fae. You didn’t explain your family history, or how you came to live alone. There was a sense of relief when he didn’t ask more questions, though you could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to.

“Not that I don’t love hosting you, but shouldn’t you be going? I’d imagine a lot of people are worried about you.”

You felt him trying to get into your mind, and wished you could’ve taken a picture of his face when you told him that wouldn’t be possible unless you allowed it. Centuries of practice ensured that even the strongest mind reader wouldn’t be able to access your thoughts so easily.

When he finally felt strong enough to stand, you followed closely behind him as he headed to the door.

“I’m not officially a healer, obviously, but if you ever need help, you may return. I only ask that you don’t tell anyone that I’m here. If word gets to the wrong person—”

“I won’t tell a soul, you have my word. You’ve saved my life, and I owe you a debt far greater than anything I could pay you.”

You shook your head and insisted you didn’t need, or want, money.

“Well if there’s ever anything you need, no matter how big the request, please come find me.”

“Thank you, High Lord. I will keep that in mind.”

He managed a small smile. “You used magic to stitch part of my wings back together, please, at least call me Rhys. Or Rhysand if it makes you more comfortable.”

You nodded and after he thanked you again for saving his life, and after you said you did it because you wanted to help and not because you wanted something, he took to the skies. You wondered if you’d ever see him again.

But there was still a war going on, and you shouldn’t have been that surprised when he returned a few weeks later. What did surprise you, and even made you a little angry, was that he had not 1, but 2 people with him. Not living under a rock, you recognized them right away. And this was how you ended up meeting Cassian and Nesta.

That anger disappeared when you saw just how injured Cassian was. He could barely stand, even Nesta was having to help keep him upright.

Turning around, you went back into your home and snapped your fingers. Seconds later, everything on your dining table lay in neat piles on the floor. You were thankful that you’d opted for a larger table, and don’t think he would’ve fit on your bed.

You got to work healing him the moment Rhys set him down on the table. Although you worked fast in an attempt to ease his pain, it was clear he was still in a lot of it.

“I need to put him to sleep. He has broken bones and I promise none of you want him awake when I put them back in place.” You looked up at Nesta then, and for the first time since entering your home, her gaze left her mates, and she looked at you.

Unable to speak, she only nodded, silently giving you permission. He was out not long after that, and you worked for another 2 hours until you were satisfied that he’d be alright.

Nesta finally spoke up then, asking if you were going to wake him up. You explained that while putting him to sleep was fairly easy, you didn’t think it was the best idea to wake him up. That required going deep into his mind and wandering around until you found the part of it where he was waiting. That act in itself would give you access to every thought and memory that Cassian has ever had, and you didn’t like to do that to anyone without their explicit permission.

After explaining that it wouldn’t be long before he woke up on his own, as you redid one of Cassian’s bandages, you noticed Nesta give Rhys a look. He only shook his head and whispered that he trusted you.

You were right as you knew you would be, and it was just 10 minutes later that the general of the Night Court was opening his eyes and sitting up.

“Why… am I on a table??”

Nesta hated showing any sign of being vulnerable, so none were more shocked than Rhys and Cassian when she walked over to you and pulled you in for a hug.

“Thank you,” she spoke softly. “I don’t know how we can repay you.”

You smiled when the 2 of you stepped apart. “No payment is needed, or wanted. I promise—” It felt like all the air left your body when Cassian took his turn with a hug, only he lifted you off of the ground and seemed to be trying to squeeze the life out of you.

“Cass, I happen to like her and would appreciate you not killing her.”

“Sorry! Just, you know, thanks for saving my life.“

After they left , all repeatedly thanking you on their way out, you wondered if what just happened was some sort of fever dream.

Over the next few months, the 3 would occasionally pop in, but all for different reasons. Rhys was still fascinated by you being half witch, half fae. All he wanted to do was sit and ask questions, and he’d hang on to every word you spoke as you answered. Cassian, who insisted you call him Cass, did come to you for healing. But for ‘injuries’ he very much could’ve handled on his own. He healed faster than a normal human, but you lost count of the amount of times you opened your door, or he opened it and barged in, telling you about a paper cut or the smallest bruise.

The first time Nesta came to visit, and you greeted her with “Lady Nesta”, you almost laughed at the daggers she sent your way. You quickly learned it was just Nesta, or Nes. During her second visit, the subject of fighting somehow came up. You mentioned your basic knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, but that you wished you were more advanced, or at least knew how to fight with a weapon. Ever since then, she’d come to visit at least once a week to try and convince you to join her on training with the Valkyries.

“I don’t know that I’d actually be any good,” you admitted, adding on that you were so used to fighting with your powers that you genuinely couldn’t remember what it was like to do so without them.

A month of pestering persuading had you finally agreeing to sit in on a training session with the Valkyries. And that was how you came to meet Azriel.

The following day, Nesta showed up at your front door bright and early. Well not bright, since the sun had yet to even rise, but with how you felt as you slowly got dressed, you knew it was definitely early. She assured you that Valkyries didn’t always train so early, but she wanted to get some one-on-one training with you.

After a brief discussion in which she promises you’ll end up having fun, you ask if all of her family will be training. She says no, with the Valkyries it’s usually only her and Cass. Rhys occasionally pops his head in to observe, but has been busy with everything going on so not so much lately.

“Oh I forgot you haven’t met everyone yet. Feyre, my sister and Rhys’ mate, prefers to train solo so you probably won’t see her today. Then there’s Azriel, he used to train with us a lot, well help train the women, but Rhys has been sending him out a lot lately. What with everyone being on edge from the attacks, we’re all eager to find out who’s behind it all.”

She explains where to go and you take her hand, winnowing you both to the training grounds.

“There she is!” You jump a little at Cass’ voice. He’s all the way on the other side of the room, but so loud that it’s as if he’s right next to you. He puts down a stack of papers and quickly makes his way over to you and Nesta. “You’re just in time, look.” He holds up his hand, showing you the tiniest of paper cuts on his left index finger.

You can’t help but laugh as you take his hand in yours and use your powers to close the cut.

Nesta shakes her head. “For a warrior, you sure are a big baby.” She turns to you, “you can just tell him to suck it up next time.”

Cass gasps, putting his hands on his face. “She’d never do that! At least she cares about me.”

“Do I really though?” You tilt you head.

“Hey! Just for that I’m not going easy on you today.”

“Wait you’re training me?”

“I’m going to take that as wait really! Wow I’m so lucky Cassian the general of the Night Court is training me. Now chop chop, let’s go!” He gently pushes you towards one of the larger mats on the ground.

You turn back to Nesta, who only shrugs and mouths good luck, before joining the other women.

Much like when you were focused on healing Rhys and Cass, time goes by in a blur. Before you know it, you’ve managed to knock Cass onto his back for the third time. You look at a clock nearby and find that nearly 2 hours have gone by.

“Woo!” The 2 of you stop and turn towards the door and see Feyre leaning against the door frame, clapping as she calls out your name and shouts his congratulations.

Cass rolls his eyes, but smiles when you hold out a hand to help him to his feet. “You kicked my ass today, I’d be a little upset if I wasn’t so impressed.”

When you use your powers to immediately dry all of your sweat, you’re happy you get to use your powers for more mundane things like this.

“Ahem!”

Now it’s you turn to roll your eyes. Still, you face one of your hands towards Cass, and he’s also dry just a few seconds later.

“Thank you,” he gives a dramatic bow before telling you all he’s going to go shower.

Before you can ask why he made you do that if he was just planning to shower anyway, Feyre finally approaches you and Nesta. You become aware of how affectionate the inner circle can be, when Feyre pulls you in for a hug, not saying anything for a moment.

“You saved Rhys, I owe you everything. Thank you,” she whispers.

“I promise, you don’t owe me a thing,” you shake your head. “I’m just happy he ended up falling outside of my home. If it had been anywhere else I wouldn’t have seen it, or I wouldn’t have been able to slow his fall.”

Cass pops his head back in the room. “Anyone know if Az is coming by to train later? I couldn’t get a hold of him earlier.”

Feyre nods, “he got back less than an hour ago, I think he told Rhys he’d be by here at some point. Oh, never mind.”

The last part of her sentence comes when she looks toward the door, this time towards the ground. You watch as what looks like a series of small clouds slowly makes their way towards you. Upon closer inspection, you realize they’re shadows.

“Azriel is a shadowsinger, right?” When Nesta nods, you continue. “Do they often travel like this without him?”

“No,” Feyre watches them get closer. “I mean they can if he sends them somewhere but I don’t see why he’d send them here when he knows it’s only us…”

When the shadows finally reach you, they move faster as if they’re excited. One makes its way to the top of your head, swirling around your face. It’s a cool, almost ticklish sensation. Another weaves its way around your legs, while the last one circles your hands, as if it can sense the power you hold.

Healer.

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean I guess technically yes, among other things. But I’m still working on my healing abilities so—” You look up to find Nesta, Feyre, and Cass all staring at you. “What?”

Cass just stares at you, now with his mouth open in shock.

“We didn’t say anything…”

“Wait did — were you talking to the shadows??”

Now you were confused. “Yes… it asked, well it said I was a healer and I was just explaining—”

“You can understand them?!”

“I… they don’t speak to all of you?” You watched in amazement as the shadows continued to explore you.

Cass finally breaks his silence. “No. We’ve never heard them say anything. How the hell…”

Magic. Friend.

You smile. Holding your hands out and palms facing up, you produce 2 dark blue clouds a lot similar in appearance to the shadows. They swarm your clouds, but return to you once they realize that they’re not real shadows.

Feyre observes this, a small smile on her face. “Interesting.”

All at once, 2 of the 3 shadows stop their movements, then quickly make their way back out of the room. A minute later, the shadowsinger himself enters the room.

“Dude!” Cass began to make his way towards his brother, but Nesta elbows him in the ribs as she grabs his arm to keep him in place.

When Azriel looks at you, he freezes. He can only stand and watch as the shadow that remained in the room continues to move between your hands and your head. But when you look up at him, your first thought is that you’ve somehow offended him with your actions, so you drop your hands and step back, closer to Nesta.

The lone shadow finally returns to Azriel, hovering around his right ear. You wish you could hear what it’s telling him.

You’re further embarrassed when all Azriel does is quickly look away from you before he asks Cass to speak to him.

Once the 2 men are out of the room, you voice your concerns out loud. “I should apologize when Azriel comes back in.”

Nesta looks at you, clearly confused. “What, why would you apologize? You haven’t done anything.”

“I just… I don’t think he liked that his shadows were paying so much attention to me. I don’t know if he heard me speaking to one but I don’t want to offend him or cause any trouble.”

Feyre’s expression softened. She replaced Nesta at your side, and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “That’s just Azriel, at least with someone he isn’t familiar with yet. It’s not often we bring anyone new around. He just needs time.”

You didn’t stay much longer after that, chatting to the 2 Archeron sisters for only a few more minutes before making an excuse to leave. It was obvious why you were in such a rush, but you were grateful that neither woman tried to persuade you to stay.

When you finally winnowed back to your home, you forced yourself to take a shower before collapsing onto your bed. Maybe a nap was what you needed.

You couldn’t help but think about Azriel. Everyone else was quick to warm up to you, and you still thought that you offended him by how you interacted with his shadows.

As you lay there and waited for sleep to pull you under, you wondered if he’d end up hating you.

what a shitty place to end it hahdjdnsdkc BUT part 2 picks up right where this leaves off! if i kept going we’d end the chapter at like 6k which is too long for my liking.

TAGLIST ── FULL! If you want to be notified when I post for this story, follow my backup which i’ll tag in a comment, and make sure you turn notifications on.

469 notes · View notes

lili-of-the-wildfire · 28 days ago

Text

have you ever tried this one?

azriel x innocent!reader

summary: azriel is very experienced in the romance department and you're not. well, that is until you're introduced to the world of nesta's favorite book genre and everything changes.

warnings: horny!az x innocent!reader!!!, shadow bondage, praise kink, PIV, mentions of smutty books, mentions of nessian’s unintentional exhibitionism, size kink/big dick az, overstimulation, orgasm denial

word count: 6.1k

Curled up on the loveseat next to the fireplace at the far end of your reading room at the House of Wind, you’re too entranced by the book in front of you to notice the two Illyrians who sneak in.

It isn’t until a shadow swirls around your wrist that you’re broken from your trance, which is quickly followed by the book in your hands being snatched up quickly.

“Hey!” you cry out with a frown as your eyes finally come up to meet your mate’s as he stands in front of you next to Cassian, as he smirks down at the book he stole from your grasp. “I just got to the best part.”

“Ohh, are they about to fuck?” Cassian chuckles, snatching the book from Azriel’s hand to skim the page you’re on.

“N—No,” you say sheepishly with a furrowed brow, sitting up quickly as your cheeks flush red at his question. “They just admitted their feelings for each other and kissed.”

Cassian frowns over at you as he finishes reading the page, visibly disappointed by the lack of steaminess in your book. “You’re a very different reader than Nes is.” he remarks, handing you the book once again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you question innocently.

“I mean, the books she reads…they’re very detailed if you know what I mean.” the male retorts with a smirk, “They really get her going, and I thank the Cauldron for them every day.”

You open your mouth to ask him more, but your mate plopping down next to you on the loveseat stops you in your tracks.

“Ignore him, sweetheart.” he says softly, pulling your legs into his lap as he massages your calves gently. “He’s being crude.”

“Yeah, sure.” Cassian chuckles, grinning wildly. “If you really wanna know about them, you can ask Nesta. She’d be happy to introduce you to the world of highly inappropriate books anytime.”

Azriel shoots Cassian a warning glare as your blush deepens, your eyes wide with curiosity as the male throws his hands up in defeat before retreating from the room. Before you can say anything on the matter, Azriel reaches a hand up to stroke your cheek, leaning over to kiss your forehead simultaneously.

“Did you have a good day, love?” he says in a quiet voice to change the subject, thumb running along your cheek while smiling at you.

“Pretty good,” you mumble, forgetting about your book once more in favor of climbing up into your mate’s lap. “Just spent most of the day reading and napping by the fire.”

“Hmm, just pretty good? That sounds like your idea of a perfect day.” he hums against the soft skin of your neck, trailing kisses along the smooth expanse.

“I am on my second book of the day, so it’s been pretty successful if I do say so myself.” you giggle, running your hands through his hair while leaning into his touch. His hand running along your thigh, toying with the hem of your dress makes you shiver, your hips involuntarily leaning into his as you do. “H—How was your day?” you question, trying to ignore how flustered he makes you feel.

“Boring, I missed you too much.” he murmurs shortly, breathing in your scent as he leans in to nip at your neck, his hands holding your hips in place when you unconsciously grind yours against his. “Thought about coming home and spending all day with you instead of being stuck in Windhaven.”

You giggle when his teeth graze your neck, skin heating as drinks you in. “Missed you too, Azzy.” you say quietly while reaching for his face, your hand hooking under his chin to pull his lips away from your neck and up to your own.

Your lips are plush and warm against his as you run your fingers through his hair. A small whimper sounds as he tugs at your bottom lip with his teeth, surprised by the eagerness from the male. The tiny noise is enough to drive Azriel wild, but he controls himself for your sake. He wants nothing more than to rip the little sage cotton dress you’re wearing to shreds and pull you onto his cock, to have you ride his length until you’re a crying mess, but he makes no such advances.

Though the two of you have been mated for over three years now, you’re still as shy as the day he met you, still just as meek when it comes to sex as you were on the day he first kissed you. Sure, you’d bedded males prior to being with Azriel, but you’d never actually been with someone who took the time to make sure you were taken care of first. You’d never even experienced an orgasm before being with him, so the world of sex was essentially brand new once you’d accepted the bond. Azriel was worlds more experienced than you and you knew it, but he never minded taking things slow, not with you. He enjoyed taking his time and taking in every single inch of you, enjoyed making sure you were satisfied and drawing those sweet little sounds out of your pretty little lips when you’d cum for him.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about doing more for your mate, you knew he was always holding back with you, knew he was treating you like a fragile doll that was ready to break. You’d been fine with that for quite a while, but things had changed recently. Within the last few weeks, you’d craved more and more from him, craved the rough touch and sharp tongue you knew were hidden behind that sweet facade he always put on for you. You didn’t want him to hold back anymore. But in all reality, you didn’t know how to reciprocate and make things interesting for him, so you stuck with your simple, basic manners of affection for now.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when one of Azriel’s hands snakes from your waist towards your breast, groping at it through the thin cloth of your dress. You gasp against his lips and he chuckles, thumb rolling along your pebbled nipple gently.

“A–Az…” you mutter as you pull away from the kiss, your cheeks flushing a deep shade of maroon, “We–We can’t, not in here…”

As much as you wanted to, you’d never done anything like this in any place other than in your shared bed. You’d be downright embarrassed if someone caught you in such a public place…that was the fuzzy feeling in your chest that you were feeling right now, embarrassment, wasn’t it?

“Hmm, why not?” he says, feigning a frown as he peers at you with darkening hazel eyes, “It is your reading room, after all. You should be able to do whatever you want in your own room.”

Azriel typically stopped as soon as you expressed your apprehension to him, but he could feel the heat radiating from your body, could smell the arousal on you as he teased you. He knew you well, he knew you wanted this just as much as him.

“Az,” you say with a breathless giggle, burying your face in his shoulder as he tries to coax it out of you.

“What love?” he coos, gently angling his hips up into yours to earn a strained moan from you, “Just tell me what you want. We can do whatever you want.”

Before you can even think about what you really want, there’s a harsh knock against the threshold of the open door. “Dinner, lovebirds.” Nesta says bluntly, walking past the room without another word.

There’s still the ghost of a smirk on Azriel’s lips as you look up at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as you think about even getting caught in your mate’s lap in the reading room. He leans over then to kiss you quickly before pulling the two of you to your feet, shadows smoothing out the skirts of your dress as his fingers intertwine with yours.

“We’ll finish this conversation later, hmm?” he murmurs, smiling down at you sweetly as you nod feverishly, trying to compose yourself before making your way downstairs.

_______________________________

You decide to change up your lounging location the next day, opting to read in the drawing room of the House of Wind instead of your private quarters, in hopes that you’ll get the courage to stop Nesta if she makes her way downstairs.

If you were being honest, you hadn’t stopped thinking about Cassian’s suggestion from the day before, about him telling you to ask his mate about the world of highly inappropriate books.

Sure, the books you read were fun, but from the looks of it, the books that Nesta read were highly influential in her love life, and Cassian definitely benefited from her reading them. The thought of the time you’d accidentally walked into the kitchen one evening for a midnight snack and had actually run into the two of them tangled in each other came to your mind when you thought of it. How Cassian had Nesta bent over the kitchen island, one large hand gripping the meat of her ass while the other was snaked around her neck as he pounded into her mercilessly from behind. How you remembered him muttering extremely foul words in her ear, mumbling about ‘Is this how they did it in the book, huh? Is this how you wanted me?’.

You thanked the Cauldron that neither of them had seen you that night, and that you were able to slip out of the room before you were heard. But that didn’t mean that the vision wasn’t etched into your brain and didn’t replay in your thoughts every once in a while.

Luckily for you, Nesta did decide to make her way to the drawing room in the early afternoon, a handful of her infamous books in hand. She silently sits on the loveseat opposite to you, offering you company in your reading time.

“I’ve never seen you reading down here,” she remarks bluntly before opening one of her books, raising her brow at you when you give her a shy smile.

“I just thought I’d switch it up today, I’ve been cooped up in my reading room for a while.” you say as nonchalantly as possible, though it’s not a complete lie, you had been meaning to find a new reading spot for a few weeks now.

Nesta sees right through the thinly-veiled half lie, a smirk playing on her lips. It’s then that you know that Cassian definitely told her about your reaction to his suggestion.

“Are you sure that’s all? You sure you weren’t waiting for me to come downstairs too?” she implores, sharp eyes honed in on your wide ones. “A little bat might’ve told me that you’re potentially interested in some…new reading material.”

You flush at her words, cheeks hot as she gives you a knowing smirk. Your silence is enough for her to know your true answer, so she takes the opportunity to extend two of the books to you. Hesitantly, you take them, placing them in your lap as you study the titles–Fire and Desire and Cloaked in Shadows–before looking back up at her. Nesta looks at you expectantly, as if she’s waiting for you to open them and test the waters.

You carefully open Fire and Desire to a random page, and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head at the words.

“Gods, look at that,” Manon moaned, sharp nails trailing along the swell of her new pet’s peaked nipple, “look how well you take my fingers, such a needy slut.”

The girl whines desperately, bucking her hips wildly as Manon adds another finger and circles her clit with her thumb. The witch kisses down her neck, leaving bruising marks along the exposed skin so everyone knows she’s hers, that she’s theirs.

“P–Please, Masters, I’m so–so close.” she begs, eyes welling up with tears as she stares at the witch; she’s desperate for release, but she can’t get there until they say so.

“What do you think, princeling?” Manon says in a teasing tone after feigning contemplation, fingers never relenting in the female’s dripping cunt.

Dorian stands behind the females, a smirk on his lips as he watches, hands falling onto the girls’ hips to press his ever-hard length against her. A half-surprised gasp falls from her lips when the prince’s hand grips her throat, squeezing lightly as she grinds back against his cock.

“I think she’s earned her right to cum, but, not just yet.” he says with a smirk, Manon grins wickedly at him as his free hand travels to the girl’s ass, “I think I want her to cum while you continue to finger her sweet cunt and I’ll take her in the ass–”

“Oh–that one’s mine.” Nesta’s words pull you from your trance, snatching the book from your hands hastily. “Sorry, I meant to give you this one instead.” she says with a wry chuckle, handing you another one called The Archer’s Attraction. “That one and Cloaked in Shadows are much more beginner friendly. Still very heated, but much better for your tastes.”

You’re almost too flustered to open the other books, but your interest is well past piqued now. So, you opt to flip to a random page of The Archer’s Attraction to see if this one is any better.

Luna is straddling Enos’ chest, hips bucking in overstimulation as he tugs her further and further up his body until she’s hovering over his mouth. His tongue lashes out then, licking a stripe up her core to make her shout in pleasure. He smirks up at her, lips glistening with her arousal as his fingers slide through her folds to lazily pump into her.

Tears shine in her eyes as she tries to free her hands that are bound behind her back, writhing under his touch.

“I know, I know it, sweetheart.” he coos condescendingly, rubbing soothing circles on her hip as she quietly begs for him to let up. “Is it too much? The little slut can’t take it anymore?”

She thinks for a moment, silent turmoil in her mind as she thinks through her next words. She wants nothing more than for him to keep going, but she needs his cock more than anything. Needs him to pound into her and take full control, she needs more than his tongue and his fingers.

“N–Need you, Enos.” she whines, pouting down at the dark-eyed male.

“Has your brain gone to mush with just two orgasms?” he chuckles, “ Silly little girl, you have me right here, and I’ll give you what you want after I take what I want from you, okay?”

Luna nods quickly, hips jerking when his fingers begin their slow attack on her core.

“Good girl, now sit on my face and cum one more time and I’ll give you my cock.”

You can feel Nesta’s smirk before you even look up from the novel, all too aware of the tiniest gasp you let out upon reading the last sentence. This time, the gasp wasn’t from true shock, but from intrigue instead.

“Is that one more your speed?” she laughs as you close the book, you meekly nod at the female, “Well good, it’s yours to keep if you want it. Read away, I’m sure Az will be more than happy to oblige if you find anything you enjoy in there.”

Nesta immediately turns back to her own book, leaving you to read in silence next to her. Instead of asking one of the million questions you have floating through your mind at the moment, you decide to open The Archer’s Attraction to the first page and begin reading. You’re almost immediately hooked, the romance and tension between the two main characters draws your hopeless romantic heart in as soon as you’re through the first chapter.

There’s definitely not a lack of heated scenes throughout the book, and each one leaves you with blushed cheeks and an ache in your stomach. The dominant personality of the male, Enos, is what really gets you, though. Each scene with him and Luna has you desperate for more of his foul mouth. Your mind races as you think of what it would be like for Azriel to talk to you like that, to let him take control and let him degrade you if he wants to.

The majority of the day slips away from you quickly as you finish the book at record speed, desperate to feed the burning desire in the pit of your stomach with each turning page.

By the time you reach the last page, the sun is low in the sky and the drawing room is dimly lit only by fae lights littered around the ceiling. Nesta is still deeply engrossed in her own book on the opposite couch when you look up, but looks up soon after with a knowing grin.

“How was it?” she questions with a raised brow, shutting her own book after stuffing the bookmark in.

“So good,” you giggle, setting The Archer’s Attraction on the table next to her other books.

“Oh, keep it. Re-read it as many times as you’d like.” she offers with a smirk. “And if you grow tired of those two in the next day or need some more inspiration, my personal library is open to you at any time. You know where to find it.”

You smile at the silver-eyed woman while mumbling a thanks to her, and she actually shoots you a genuine smile in return before turning back to her own book.

You excuse yourself quietly after that, slipping from the drawing room to make your way up to your bedroom with your new books in hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire as you set the books down on your bedside, mind racing as you think about all of the new and exciting things you want to try with your mate.

To distract yourself while you wait for him to return, you nearly float into the en-suite bathroom to prepare for bed. Excitement flows through you while you brush your hair and clean up. At some point during your flurry of emotions, you inevitably tug on that bond connecting your soul to Azriel’s, and he in turn tugs back as you’ve finished changing into your favorite silk slip and are curling up under the covers.

One of his shadows slithers into the bedroom then, snaking up your arm and toward your ear. Home late, trouble in Autumn. Don’t wait up, the shadow whispers to you. Your excitement stills then, sadness replacing the warmth in your chest since he won’t be home for quite a while.

You know to heed the shadow’s warning and decide not to wait up for him, knowing he might not even be home until dawn if things go awry with Beron. So, you nestle into the blankets and try your best not to think about the arousal swirling in your stomach as you attempt to fall asleep.

_______________________________

Moonlight filters in through the window as you feel the bed dip behind you, a sign that your beloved mate is finally home. You aren’t sure if what time it is, but know it’s sometime in the dead of night when you peer outside. An arm snakes around your waist slowly then and you groan lightly, rolling over in Azriel’s arms to face him.

He frowns down at you then as your tired eyes begin to flutter open, obviously disappointed in himself for not being able to sneak in successfully without waking you.

“Az…” you mumble, reaching a hand up to stroke his cheek gently.

“Shh, sweetheart. I’m sorry I woke you.” he coos, his own hand resting on the curve of your hip as you inch closer to him. “Go back to sleep, love.”

You only whine in protest then, becoming all too aware of the pit of arousal that’s been brewing in your gut since the morning. Your arms weakly push at him and he chuckles quietly, adjusting to where he’s laying flat on his back for you. It’s not an unusual sleepy request from you, as you often sleep on top of the large male’s chest when you’ve missed him.

You don’t lazily flop down on his chest like you usually do, though. Instead, you straddle his hips and pull yourself up to his lips, kissing him slowly. Azriel’s brow furrows as you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the tired kiss without a word of explanation. Your hips are pressed firmly against his as you grind into him, making the male grunt in surprise at the feeling.

“Sweetness, what are you doing?” he murmurs against your lips, hands falling subconsciously onto your hips to keep you in place on his lap.

“Need you, Az.” you almost whimper as your hands snake towards the waistband of his boxers. It’s in this moment that you thank the Cauldron that he doesn’t like to sleep in anything other than underwear.

“Need me?” he questions, one side of his mouth quirking up in a smirk as you sit yourself up to look at him properly, waiting for his approval before hastily tugging his boxers off. The look in your eyes is tired but desperate, one he hasn’t seen from you in a while. He can smell the arousal swirling around you as you stare down at him, your lips pulling into the slightest pout as you nod. “Alright, I guess I can’t say no to that when I left you alone all night.”

Your eyes flicker with excitement as he speaks, need roiling deep within your stomach again. He grips your hips more firmly then, attempting to roll you off of him so he can put you onto the bed underneath him, but you don’t budge. He raises a brow at you, but doesn’t protest as he watches closely as your hands finally push the waistband of his boxers down enough to free his cock. In your time mated to the male, you’d never been on top, never ridden him before. You’d always been afraid that the new position might hurt, that you might fuck something up. But after reading about it, you couldn’t get the image of riding his cock out of your mind, feeling so full of him as you cry out his name, it’s the only thing in your brain. You need this.

Azriel props himself up on his elbows while you stare down at his cock, eyes wide with need as you fist the length slowly. You’ve always struggled to take his full, thick length, so you know it’s going to be a challenge to ride him, but you’re up for it.

“Let me get you prepped first, sweetheart.” he suggests, knowing the inner turmoil in your eyes too well.

You shake your head adamantly at his words, pouting up at him. “Need you now, Az.” you retort, essentially begging to ride him as you continue to stroke his hard cock.

“Are you sure you want it like this?” He questions, groaning when you squeeze the length perfectly in response before nodding weakly at you before moving to sit up slowly. “Let me at least help you then, okay?” he says, adjusting the two of you so you’d be able to easily slide down on his length while using his upper body to balance, his back resting against the headboard.

You’re silent as Azriel guides you back onto his lap, watching closely as you grip his cock to line it up with your core. You look up at him when you slide the tip between your dripping folds, revelling in the way he nearly growls when you tease him. A small, yet devious smile is on your face before you begin to sink onto his length, gasping as he fills you perfectly.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Azriel grunts, hands holding your hips like a vice as he slowly pushes you down onto him. “That’s it, love. Fuck, you feel so good.”

It takes almost a full minute for you to get fully sheathed onto his large cock, tears pricking your eyes as you bottom out, feeling so fucking full but so fucking good.

“Hey, hey,” he says quickly when he notices the tears in the corners of your eyes, hands falling from your hips to cup your cheeks as he frowns, “are you okay, sweetness? Is it too much?”

“N–No,” you say firmly, raising your hips slowly to ride his length. “It—I feel so full. It feels so—so good.”

Azriel watches you with wonder-filled eyes as you start to bounce on his lap, unable to hold back the moans that fall from your lips as you do. He’s quick to wonder what’s gotten into you, what made you so needy today while he was gone. But he doesn’t dare to ask in case he ruins the moment. He lets you take the lead, enjoying the view.

“So tight, sweetheart. Your sweet cunt feels so good, squeezing my cock so perfectly.” he praises in a low voice, eyes clouded with lust as his hands wander over your body slowly.

Your glassy, tear-brimmed eyes light up at his praise, as if his words spur you on even more, and you speed up your hips. You look down between your bodies, core clenching as you watch Azriel’s cock sliding into you easily with every bound. As you stare, his hand comes into view as it slides between your legs, finding your clit with ease to heighten your pleasure. A hedonistic sob leaves your lips then, making Azriel chuckle at your reaction.

“G—Gods, Az.” you whimper, whipping your head up to look at him again, noting how his hazel eyes have gone nearly black with lust. “F—Feels so good. Wanna—Wanna cum on your cock like this.”

A smirk passes over Azriel’s face as you continue to whine and buck your hips frantically, watching you with rapt fascination. He’s never seen you act like this in your time together, and he’s especially shocked that you all but pounced on him as soon as he entered the room this evening.

“Good girl, such a good girl for me.” he says experimentally in a low voice, watching your face for your reaction. His words seem to spur you on even more, you grip his shoulders like a vice as you pick up your pace on his length, babbling under your breath in between moans.

“Look at you, riding my cock so well. Should’ve had you do this a long time ago, sweetness.” he praises, continuing his assault on your clit as you stare at him with wide, glassy eyes. “You gonna cum on my cock like this, sweetheart? Gonna be a good slut and take my cum?”

Your hips stutter almost imperceptibly before picking back up again, shocked by his foul words and the way they make your stomach churn with desire.

“Y–Yes, want you to fill me up, Az.” you whine.

“Keep riding me like this and I’ll fill you up soon enough, love.” he mumbles with a smirk while moving his hands to grip your waist, guiding you to move even quicker up and down his length.

You whimper at the loss of pressure on your clit, but a gasp of surprise falls from your lips when you feel a cold, wispy tendril make its way to your core to replace its master’s fingers. Your heart races as you look down to see shadows snaking around your midsection and between your thighs, focusing on your clit as Azriel pulls you down onto his cock frantically. He’d never let his shadows participate in the bedroom with you, so the sudden sensation is enough to send you tumbling straight to the edge.

“That’s it, sweetness.” Az groans, a smirk plastered on his face as he stares at you, “Such a good girl, so tight around my cock. I know you’re close, love, go ahead and make a mess of my cock.”

His words of praise are your undoing, finally letting the pleasure roiling in your gut come to a head. You let out a loud shout of pleasure as your walls flutter around his cock, hips stuttering as Azriel continues to guide you along his length. The male continues to murmur words of praise as you come down from your high, refusing to let you out of his grip as you squirm against him.

“Just a little longer, love.” he coos as he watches you writhe in his lap. “Just–Just give me a second and I’ll give you what you need from me.”

Your eyes are wide and brimming with tears of pleasure as you stare at your mate, watching as something animalistic takes over as he adjusts you on top of him. He situates you to where you don’t have to move up and down anymore, opting to thrust up into your dripping cunt to reach his own high. One of his hands reaches for your clit once more, rubbing tight circles against it as he holds you in place with his other hand. You try to squirm out of his touch then, overstimulation sending a jolt of electricity to your core, but his firm grip doesn’t let you budge.

“A–Az!” you cry out, taking in the details of his face as he stares at you with lust-filled eyes. “I–I can’t.”

“Do you want my cum, sweetness?” he questions, never breaking as he searches your eyes for any sign of true hesitation but finding none when you nod at him quickly. “Then you’ll take what I give you and cum with me like a good little girl, alright?”

You’d truly made something snap within Azriel by riding him tonight, forever changing your dynamic for the better it seemed. The look in his eyes is domineering but still filled with awe, watching as you nod feverishly at his request. A deep chuckle falls from his lips and arousal swirls in your stomach all over again.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” he coaxes, pressing his fingers into your clit again, “I know you’re close again, so cum with me, baby.”

A loud shout of pleasure falls from your lips as the first wave of your second orgasm washes over you, while Azriel shudders beneath you. His grip on your waist forces you down finally, fully sheathed on his length as his release coats your fluttering walls.

“Good girl, that’s it, take everything I give you.” Azriel praises, pupils blown as he stares at you intently, taking in every detail of your pleasure-filled expression. “Such a good girl for me.”

Once his grip on your waist loosens, you collapse onto Azriel’s chest with a loud whimper. He continues to coo in your ear as you come down from your high, his hands rubbing soothing circles along your back as you fight sleep on top of him.

You don’t know how long it’s truly been when your eyes flutter open again, but you’re no longer in your mate’s lap, but lying face down on the bed as he runs a wet cloth between your thighs to clean you up while continuing to murmur praises to you. He slides into the bed next to you after finishing his cleanup, pulling you against his side when he sees you look up at him.

“Hi,” he says in a low voice, one hand coming up to smooth your hair down.

“Hi,” you reply softly, nuzzling into his side.

“Wanna talk about what just happened?” he suggests, a small smirk playing on his lips.

“No, not tonight.” you giggle, a blissful smile on your lips as you rest your head on his chest and let your eyes flutter closed. “That’s a conversation for another time when I’m not out of it like I am right now.”

“Alright, love.” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Rest up.”

_______________________________

Everything about your relationship with Azriel changes after that night, and it’s definitely for the better.

You become damn near insatiable, which makes sense considering you’ve continued to read Nesta’s books instead of your own for the entire week. Every book inspires you to try something new with your mate, who never complains, only takes it in stride as he watches you turn into someone just as horny as him.

Azriel has never experienced anything like this sudden switch-up in his five hundred years, but he definitely cannot complain.

He’s gotten to fuck you in the shower, pounded into you while you bent over the arm of the chaise in your reading room, ate you out on the kitchen counter in the middle of the night, fingered you at the dining table on an evening that it was only you two, and even had you crawl under his desk to cockwarm him with your sweet mouth while he was working late one night.

To say he’s been pleasantly surprised by your eagerness would be an understatement, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t questioned the reasoning behind it at all. The question has been eating away at him slowly, but he hasn’t found the perfect time to ask until right now.

Currently, you’re laying in your shared bed, hands bound behind your back with shadows as your face is buried in the sheets, your ass in the air as he stands behind you.

Azriel has been edging you for a good hour at this point, but only because you asked him to, you wanted to try it out.

Your thighs are shaking, tears brimming in your eyes as you crane your neck to look at the male behind you. His eyes are dark with lust as he looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips while one hand reaches for your core, fingers swirling against your clit at an agonizingly slow pace.

“A–Az,” you whimper, trembling under his touch, “P–Please, I–I need to–to cum, please.”

“Yeah? My little slut has had enough?” he coos in a demeaning tone, chuckling darkly as you nod feverishly at him. “Alright, you poor thing. I’ll let you cum on my cock if you tell me something, okay?”

You nod again, eager to do anything to please your mate now. You look at him expectantly with wide, glassy eyes, waiting for his question.

“What’s made you so insatiable this week, huh?” Azriel questions in a low voice, sliding two fingers into your heat with ease while twisting his hand so his thumb can stroke your clit. “What’s gotten into you? Last week, you were my shy sweetheart, but you’ve turned into a horny little bunny this week. What changed, sweetness?”

“I–I, fuck.” you whine, hips bucking involuntarily as you squeeze your eyes shut to focus on anything other than Azriel’s fingers pumping into you. “I–I started reading some of Nesta’s b–books and got–got inspired.”

“Is that so?” he chuckles, his fingers coming to a halt buried deep in your cunt makes you cry out in frustration. “Have I helped you fulfill your fantasies about some of those horny little scenes you’ve been reading about?”

“Y–Yes!” you whine, pressing your hips into his hand as he stays still behind you. “Y–You definitely have.”

“Next time, I’ll have to have you read your favorite scenes to me and see how well I can help recreate them for you, yeah?” he teases, finally pulling his fingers from your heat as he positions himself between your thighs, “But right now, I think you’ve been teased enough and deserve your reward. Cum on my cock whenever you’re ready, sweetness.”

A sob falls from your lips as his cock finally nudges into you, your whole body shaking from the pent-up pleasure. You nearly black out when he bottoms out, one hand snaking around to tease your clit as you cry beneath him.

It doesn’t take you long to reach your high, especially after being teased mercilessly for over an hour now. Your walls flutter around his cock, making Azriel groan, following close behind you in his own release, being so turned on by the process of edging you that it takes him all of ten strokes with you milking his cock to coat your walls with his cum.

“F–Fuck, sweetheart.” he groans as you both come down from your high, pulling out of you slowly as you all but collapse onto the bed when his shadows release you from their hold. “Who would’ve thought you being my little bookworm would pay off so well?”

A small giggle falls from your lips as he leans down to kiss your cheek.

“There’s plenty more where this came from, don’t worry.” you say tiredly as he pulls you into his chest and peppers your face with kisses.

“Can’t wait, sweetness.”

tag list: @dreamloud4610 @angelbunny222 @bookishbishhh @fanficscuziranout @Buckingforbuckybarnes @thefandomplace @feyretopia @mad-hatters-lover @kissesfromnovalie @mulledwinetea @saltedcoffeescotch @mrsjna @chillymountsjess @azriels-human @messageforthesmallestman @delphinefour04 @kbear8863 @secretsicanthideanymore @randomgurl2326 @shushsstuff @caitm19-blog @eeniemeenie @esahintzkanen @lafawndiaries @homeslices @juliebluehufflepuff @portkeytomyworld @ashjade19 @wildfloweroutlaw @lilah-asteria @dreamsandatars24

1K notes · View notes