#Azriel x You

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Five

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

Warnings: training, sparring and weapon use, severe overthinking, longing, brief use of recreational drugs (lovely 'mirthroot')

Word Count: 7.1k

Part Four

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Even in the early hours, the heat was suffocating. 

You’d been half-tempted to cancel on Mor, to crawl back under the covers and enjoy the blissful cool of your room. But you knew better. Mor would’ve winnowed straight into your bedroom, dragged you out of bed, and reminded you that you’d made a promise. 

So now, here you were, on the training grounds, sweat already collecting at your brow, watching Azriel and Cassian spar on the far side.

Both of the males were dressed in their usual head-to-toe leathers, though Cassian seemed just as bothered by the weather as you. You’d noticed he’d trained shirtless more often lately, something you attributed to the presence of his mate, but today he was fully covered. It probably had something to do with the steady, focused gaze Az held. Something to be cautious of. Wary. 

Unlike his brother, Azriel’s expression was detached, as if the sun didn’t touch him at all— like he was completely unbothered by the sweltering heat. His wings shifted slightly against the back of his leathers, but that was the extent of his discomfort, if any. 

You’d never visited Illyria in the summer months, never experienced the full brutality of its heat. Perhaps it was there, under that oppressive sun, that Azriel had learned to manage heat in such attire. But, then again, Az was entirely too skilled at masking what he actually felt.

Something about him, now before you, made you want to continue staring—his wings, the way his body moved with the smoothness of a predator, the effortless strength in the curve of his form. Lately, everything about Azriel had been doing that— distracting you. Overwhelming you. Calling to you like a siren song. His voice, his smile, the way he moved.

A laugh from Mor pulled you from your thoughts.

"It’s a shame the healing balm worked so well," Her voice teased from behind you. You turned at the sound, watching as she tossed a sword from one hand to the other with an ease that was almost poetic. "Seeing you turned me into a softie, you know.  All those bruises and that pouty face— I had to go easy because I felt bad for you.”

You snorted, catching the blade she tossed your way. "Oh, so that’s the only reason I beat you last week? Because you were going easy on me?"

Her grin widened. “Yeah. But Runa got too many hits on you. You’re rusty. So maybe I’m not doing you any favors by going easy." She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe Cassian’s been going too easy on you, too."

“Or maybe,” you shot back, stepping into the ring, “I was just going easy on a citizen.”

Mor’s laugh was loud and unapologetic as she followed you. "You’re saying that like you didn’t know exactly who she was when you threw the first punch."

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you squared up to her. “Okay, can we maybe stop reminiscing over my recent regrettable actions? Please?”

“Never.” She slid into a stance with ease. “But if you beat me, I’ll stop laughing about it for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“That’s all you’ll get, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, lips still curved in a grin. “Fine. Deal.”

And then, without hesitation, Mor lunged. Your blades collided with a sharp ring, the sound vibrating up your arms. You let the adrenaline of the fight pull you out of your thoughts, focusing on the female in front of you.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that before anything else, Morrigan was a warrior. Graceful, clever, and impossibly skilled. The kind of fighter who didn’t rely on brute strength but on speed, precision, and an uncanny ability to read her opponent. Skills she’d learnt to outmaneuver and beat males that may have been twice her size, twice her age. And if you looked hard enough, past her glittering makeup and the plethora of gold jewelry she adorned, you’d notice the scars scattered across her body, small slices from knives and swords that didn’t have enough time to heal during the first war. 

Mor didn’t hold back, her strikes coming faster, sharper, until your muscles burned from the effort of keeping up.

From across the ring, Cassian’s booming laugh carried over, followed by what sounded like a gruff remark from Azriel. You glanced over almost instinctively, your eyes following the movement of Az’s shadows. They twisted around him, stretching into the shaded spaces between Cassian’s body and the ground, curling around the general’s feet in an attempt to constrict his movements.

Mor’s grin widened as she caught your sword mid-swing. “You’re distracted,” she said.

You twisted to break free, stubbornly meeting her gaze. “Am not.”

You tried to return to the rhythm of the fight, but Mor was right. You were distracted. Every glance in Azriel’s direction made your heart race, your mind spiral. Even from across the yard, you could feel the heat of his presence. It threw you off balance. And before you knew it, Mor disarmed you, sending you crashing to the ground with a grunt.

“Like I said,” she hummed, smirking as she extended a hand to help you up. “Distracted.”

“Maybe a bit.” You winced, rolling your shoulders as you stood straight. “I have too much on my mind. I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Mor tilted her head. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head, wiping at the sweat on your brow. “That’s the last thing I want to do, actually.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you before she nodded. “Well, we just got some new weapons last week—I’ve been dying to test them out.”

You raised a brow. “What kind of weapons?”

Mor shrugged. “Not sure. Rhys says they’re lighter. I think you’ll like them.” She grabbed your discarded sword, tossing both it and hers onto the rack with ease. “You’re too cautious for a regular sword anyway. You don’t like getting hit.”

“No one likes getting hit.”

“True,” she said, laughing slightly as she bumped your shoulder. “But you’re smart about it. Always letting them exhaust themselves first.”

“Go get them,” you nodded to her. “I want to try them out.”

Mor grinned. “Good. Then I can start kicking your ass with them, too.”

She turned to leave, and you watched her go, ready to grab some water. But then, just as you were about to turn, you felt it—a presence behind you. You knew it in your bones, from the soft breeze you swore his shadows danced in, that it was Azriel. Still, when you turned and saw him standing there, you felt unprepared, like something in your chest tightened, hot and sharp, like heartburn. You shoved it down, burying it deeper, just like you had been doing all week.

He raised an eyebrow at you.  “You’re really gonna let her beat you like that?”

You ran a hand over your face, trying to settle your racing pulse. “What can I say, it’s been an off couple of weeks.”

It was hard not to notice how close he stood, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, pushing the air around you in a way that made it harder to breathe.

“Yeah,” Azriel glanced at you, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Are you okay? I mean, now?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just hot. Overwhelmed.”

He studied you, his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something else behind it. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You can’t possibly be comfortable,” you said, gesturing at his leathers. “Aren’t you boiling alive?”

Azriel tilted his head as if considering your question, then replied evenly, “I’m alright.”

“You’re lying,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “You have to be.”

That earned you a faint smile, a quick twitch of his lips that you might have missed if you weren’t already watching him too closely.

“You’re welcome to try them on,” he said smoothly. “See how they feel.”

You blinked, a small flutter echoing in your chest at the teasing edge in his voice. You frowned and said to him, “I’m wearing the exact same thing as you.”

“Mine are different.” His smile tugged again. “They’re cooling leathers.”

“Really? That's a thing?”

The look he gave you— a mix of amusement and something else— told you everything you needed to know. You scowled at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “You’re messing with me.”

When your eyes met his again, they were practically glowing in amusement. He shrugged, and his shadows seemed to dance with the motion— still clinging close to him, hiding from the sun, but seemingly content despite it. He gave you a quick, warm smile— as if he were afraid for the rest of the public to see.

“I am,” he replied, leaning closer. “My leathers are, sadly, just as basic as yours.”

The sunlight caught in his hair when he stood like this, painting it with faint golden streaks. Along with your growing frustration at the heat, your stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sight of him. You fanned your face with one hand, trying to ignore the ache building in your chest. You blamed the sun for making it tight. 

You suddenly became aware of your presentation—of the disheveled way you must have looked. Your hair had fallen loose during the sparring with Mor, strands clinging to the sweat at your neck, a messy halo around your face. You reached back, gathering it in both hands, attempting to tighten the hold of your hair tie. As you twisted it around, the elastic snapped, the sharp sting of it flicking against your skin.

“Shit.”

A quiet sigh left you as the broken tie dangled uselessly from your fingers. Of course. As if you didn’t already feel like disaster enough. You pushed your hair back again, fingers combing through the tangled strands, debating whether to leave it down or try to secure it with something else.

You realized, quickly, that perhaps this small inconvenience was a blessing in disguise— a reason to walk away from the conversation, to regain control of your scattered thoughts. You opened your mouth to excuse yourself, to say you needed to go put your hair up, but before you could, Azriel spoke.

“Wait.”

You paused, turning back toward him as he reached into one of the hidden pockets of his leathers. When he pulled out a hair tie, your eyebrows shot up.

“What—”

Azriel’s expression was uncharacteristically sheepish as he handed it over. “You always wear the same one. I noticed the band was wearing out. It was only a matter of time before it broke.”

“You… noticed that?”

His shadows shifted around him, curling between you two, and he subtly gestured toward them with his chin. “They did.”

Your fingers closed around the band as you stared at him. “So you’ve been carrying this around just in case?”

He nodded and you blinked at him, unsure if you should laugh or melt into the floor. “That… is very considerate of you.”

Az glanced at you, quiet for a moment, before he replied. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to snap and pick a fight with someone because you're overstimulated with your hair clinging to your skin. I’m just trying to protect the public.”

You rolled your eyes at that, though the thought of your family endlessly reminding you of your actions over the past few weeks made the corners of your mouth twitch. The infamous calm you’d prided yourself on—gone. You’d be hearing about your fight with a citizen for at least the next century.

“Shut up,” you said, but your heart still stuttered painfully. “But, also, thank you,” you added, focusing on twisting your hair into a knot to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Better?”

Your throat felt tight as you looked up once more, meeting his molten gaze. “Yeah,” you said. “Better.”

Azriel nodded, stepping back to give you space again. But you caught the faint curve of his lips, the small, quiet smile that made your chest ache.

You felt some relief as the wind ruffled your now-updo, but your thoughts circled.

Azriel had proven to be a male of his word. He’d spent the past two weeks showing you, in every way he could, that he was sorry. It wasn’t loud or showy—Azriel never was—but his apology seeped into the small, thoughtful things he did. Helping with reports, lighting your room’s fireplace when it got too cold. Nothing demanding, but everything that proved he was trying.

It almost felt normal again, like you and Azriel had fallen back into your usual rhythm. Your routine. 

Almost.

“Good luck,” Azriel said, nodding toward where Mor was returning with the new weapons. He leaned in slowly, his shadows drifting between your shoulders, curling in the pocket of shadow created by your closeness. “And, if you want… we can go flying afterward. To celebrate you beating Mor.”

The idea of being so close to him, of having him hold you to his chest, feeling his heartbeat against yours as he carried you, made your stomach churn, made you feel nauseous. Nervous. But you nodded anyway, smiled like it was just another plan, like old times. It felt tight. Diplomatic. 

“Okay,” you managed to say.

Azriel smiled, and you heard Mor’s voice asking what you were conspiratorially talking about. You didn’t answer, didn’t bother to pay attention if Azriel answered, either. The new, sleek steel weapons she’d returned with felt different in your hands. Lighter, faster. Mor had been right—these suited you better. But it didn’t matter. You were too lost in your head, too tangled in your thoughts.

Even if Mor had kept her eyes closed, she still would’ve won the next fight. You weren’t focused enough to stand a chance. There was a brief, confused look in her eyes when she realized how easily she’d taken you down once again.  But she didn’t press, not even as you yielded for the day and ran home, slipping into a cool bath with the hope that it would clear your mind of everything that tainted it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You stacked the last of the reports on the living room table, smoothing your palm over the top page before grabbing a scrap of parchment.

Rhys—went through the latest proposals and highlighted the ones most viable. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stuck the note on the pile and stepped back, scanning the work you’d spent the past few weeks compiling.

Rhysand would be by later to go over them with Azriel—discussions about Hewn City’s reformation efforts, the best way to bridge the centuries-old divide between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams. You’d done your best to outline a path forward, to present the grievances of its citizens in a way Rhysand could use to negotiate.

Your fingers drummed idly against the edge of the table before you caught sight of your wrist. The small hair tie sat there, snug against your skin. And although it was nothing, just a simple band, it felt as if it were burning. You weren’t sure why you were still wearing it—why it wasn’t in a pocket or left in your room, ready to be summoned when needed. You ran your fingers over it, jaw clenching as frustration rose in you, sudden and sharp.

At what, exactly? You didn’t know.

You did know, however, that it was likely related to Azriel.

You’d been avoiding him since the other day at training. Since he’d given you the small elastic now circling your wrist.

It wasn’t intentional, not really, but you’d been thinking too much. Feeling too much. Uncomfortable in your own skin, hyperaware of yourself and Azriel in ways that made your stomach twist. Like pressing against a tender bruise.

The anger you’d been holding onto—the indignation that had burned hot and bright in the aftermath of your fight—faded much faster than you’d expected. You still wanted to be angry, to hold onto the grudge that felt like armor, but Azriel made it impossible. His kindness had chafed against you, rubbing away at the edges of your resentment till all that was left was an overly aware sense of him. Of his presence, his care. His devotion to something as simple as your forgiveness. 

You’d forgiven him within a week, had taken all of his baked goods with open arms, had expressed appreciation for the times his shadows brought you snacks during your late nights with Rhys and Feyre, going over negotiation plans for the reformation efforts. 

But Azriel was being too nice now. Too thoughtful. Too much. And it was starting to wear you down.

You were noticing him in ways that felt deeper, heavier, and far more dangerous. It was overwhelming, this shift in perspective—like seeing him in a new light that illuminated details you’d never thought to look at before. The slope of his shoulders, the way he always seemed to be aware of you, even when he wasn’t looking at you. You felt blinded, too rushed to adjust to this new, backlit version of Azriel.

It stressed you out— made you want to sit down and create a list, sort through the pros and cons like some sort of strategy meeting. Analyze the feelings bubbling in your chest until you could pin them down and find the most equitable, profitable, and logical path forward. The right direction to take.

Realistically, you should wait it out. Let the feelings settle and fade before they could complicate the beautiful, solid friendship you’d built over centuries. You weren’t even sure what you were feeling. You couldn’t risk something so vital over emotions you didn’t fully understand.

The front door clicked open.

You turned at the sound of footsteps, eyes falling on Azriel’s figure as he stepped inside. His hair was a little mussed, dark strands sticking to his forehead like he’d flown through the midday heat. A faint flush tinted his cheeks, and for a moment, you wondered if the sun was still blazing in the midsky—if the warmth on his face was from exertion or simply the sun pressing down on him.

He took two large strides before his hazel eyes landed on you. His expression shifted, then, brightened, as if he hadn’t expected to find you here. The soft tug at the corners of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite, was enough to send your pulse into a sharp, erratic rhythm.

“Hey,” he said, lightly. “You’re home.”

“That I am.” You smiled and met his eyes. “Hi.”

He hesitated for a moment, then stepped farther into the room, something small and wrapped in plain paper in his hand.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have something for you,” he said, holding it out to you.

You blinked, glancing between him and the package. “What is it?”

“Some tea,” he said, his gaze flickering to yours before darting away. “For sleep.”

“For sleep?” you repeated, taking the package carefully, his shadows greeting you with a gentle circle around your wrists.

Azriel nodded, his hand falling to his side. “I noticed the other day. When you were sparring with Mor. You were leaning more on your left. You do that when you’re tired.”

Your chest tightened, your fingers curling instinctively around the package. “It was that noticeable?”

“Yeah,” he said. “ To me at least. I thought this might help.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, the simple thoughtfulness of it wrapping around you like a weight you weren’t ready to carry. You opened the package carefully, revealing a small tin filled with pouches of tea. You swallowed, staring down at the item in your hands.

“Thank you. This is…” You trailed off, your voice failing you. “This is really sweet, Az.”

“Let me know if it helps,” he said, shifting his weight slightly, his wings twitching behind him. “If you like it, I’ll get more.” He gave a small, almost tentative, smile. “Or maybe I’ll try it myself.”

You nodded, clutching the package tighter. “Okay. Yeah. I will.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. You turned, intending to step away, to put some distance between you and the sudden awkwardness settling in your chest. But as you moved past him, Azriel stepped closer, just enough that the space between you disappeared. For a moment, you were not quite touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of night-chilled air and cedar.

And then his hand caught yours. When you glanced back at him, his expression had softened, a sense of concern flickering in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low, intimate. Like he was sharing a secret despite you both being the only ones in the room. 

Your breath caught. You could see the faint crease in his brow, the way his gaze searched your face like he was trying to find his answer there, in your features. “Yeah,” you said quietly, even though your heart was pounding.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. His thumb brushed over your skin absentmindedly, as it usually did when he soothed you on bad days. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt now, how aware it made you of his touch. “Are we okay?”

You blinked, frowning at his words. “Yeah, of course. Why would you ask that?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I just…I feel like I’ve barely seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” you replied quickly, but the excuse felt hollow even as you said it. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, but something in his tone made you think he didn’t believe you. After a moment, he added, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” you said after a pause, and it was the truth. You weren’t angry at Azriel, not anymore. It had completely faded, morphed into something else entirely.

You felt guilty about how you'd been acting, how you'd resorted to avoiding him in an effort to make yourself feel better. Because, despite you telling him otherwise, you knew Azriel was interpreting your distance as proof that you were still mad. 

Azriel nodded, but his expression didn’t quite relax. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “But you’d tell me, right? If something was wrong?”

“Of course.”

His gaze softened further, his eyes almost pleading. “Because I always want to know,” he said quietly. “If something’s wrong. I want to know.”

You couldn’t breathe. His hand was still on yours, his thumb brushing soft, slow circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. You were going to vomit. You were going to be sick. You had to leave. You had to get out of here before you did something reckless, before you said something you couldn’t take back.

“I know, Az. But, I should… I need to go,” you said, stepping back and gently pulling your hand from his. “I have a lot of errands to run.”

Azriel blinked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Oh. Okay.”

You clutched the package tighter to your chest, avoiding his gaze as you backed toward the door. “Thanks again for this. Really.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stopped, nodding instead. “Let me know if it helps.”

You nodded quickly, forcing a tight, polite smile before slipping out of the room.

When you made it upstairs, you grabbed a coat, barely paying attention to which one, and were out of the townhouse before you had the chance to run into Azriel again. You didn’t know where you were going—only that it needed to be away from him.

For a strange, fleeting moment, you found yourself wishing you were angry at him again. Wishing he was being stubborn and unfair instead of sweet and thoughtful. It had been easier then, even when it hurt, because at least you’d known how to deal with it.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris buzzed with midday energy, alive with movement and the sounds of life. The streets teemed with couples strolling hand in hand, children darting between legs, their laughter woven into the hum of conversation. You wove through it all in a haze, your mind spinning like a top. For a brief moment, you scowled at the love surrounding you—wondering if it had always been this prevalent, this visible, this... everywhere.

You hadn’t come up with a plan since leaving the townhouse, still unsure of where you were going—or if you even wanted to go anywhere at all. All you knew was that you needed to keep moving. Moving meant you were occupied. And being occupied meant you could at least try to ignore the noise—both the loud thoughts and the feelings twisting inside you. But no matter how fast you walked, how hard you tried to lose yourself in the busy streets, the fluttering in your chest wouldn't let you forget.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what it meant, even as you fought with everything you had to deny it. But maybe... maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe Selene had gotten into your head and now you were overthinking everything—reading too much into Azriel’s kindness, his care. You’d seen it before, convincing yourself of something that wasn’t true, spiraling until you couldn’t trust your own judgment.

You didn’t see the person you bumped into until it was too late. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking yourself from your thoughts, but when you looked up—

“Oh,” you said, startled. You blinked at the male before you. “Hello.”

The golden light caught his hair—a rich, burnished brown that framed sharp, handsome features. Made them seem almost celestial.

Adrin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, two small dimples forming at his cheeks. “Y/n. Hello.”

“Adrin,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No harm done,” he said easily. His tone was light, but there was a flicker of concern as he studied your face. “Are you…doing all right? I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, nodding. “It's a long story. But everything is okay.”

Adrin tilted his head, and although the smile was still there— that warm welcoming smile— his brows drew together slightly. “You seem…bothered. Long day?”

You huffed a small laugh, rubbing absentmindedly at your chest. “Something like that.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I know the feeling. It’s been one of those days for me, too. I was about to try and make it better—clear my head a little.” He hesitated, then added, “You could join me, if you’d like.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, no, I don’t want to interrupt your plans—”

“You wouldn’t be.” He was quick to shake his head. “Really. I’d like the company.”

You hesitated. Thought through the idea. You liked Adrin. And while you wanted to run—hide away, retreat into the quiet of your own mind—you knew it would only make your thoughts spiral faster. But being around your family, or anyone who might see through you immediately, made you itch with unease.

Maybe this was exactly what you needed. The chance to be with someone who wouldn’t pry, someone who seemed genuine in his invitation.

“Sure, yeah. What are you thinking?”

Adrin’s lips twitched into a small grin. “I might have just the thing we both need.”

An hour later, you found yourself at his apartment, stretched out on his balcony overlooking the city. The air was cooler here, quieter, the noise of the streets below softened into a distant hum. The smell of mirthroot curled in the space between you, something so distinctly warm and earthy.

You breathed it in, already feeling lighter, like you were melting into your chair—but in a good way, not like earlier, when the heat had pressed against you relentlessly.

You took a slow pull from the rolled mirthroot stick Adrin had handed you. For the first time that day, your shoulders eased.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

You exhaled slowly, watching the plume of smoke dissipate into the air. A soft laugh escaped you.  

“Oh yeah. I kind of forgot how much I like mirthroot. This is dangerous.”

Adrin chuckled, and you glanced over at him, watching as his lips curved into a lopsided smile—only one dimple visible now. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You tilted your head, studying him further. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be into this,” you said, gesturing to the rolled stick in your hand.

His brows furrowed. “Why's that?”

You shrugged, still smiling, your face warm—not from embarrassment, but from the pleasant haze settling over you. “I don’t know. You’re from the Dawn Court. You’re a healer. You just seem disciplined. Like, above this.”

Adrin let out a full, rich laugh, the sound making your grin widen. “Please. Let’s go through that again. I come from Dawn. I’m a male healer. A pacifist, even.”

You paused, letting his words replay in your mind before it finally clicked.

“So it makes total sense,” you said, correcting yourself.

Adrin nodded sagely, and another small round of laughter followed, easy and unhurried. You realized how much you liked that about him. That his presence wasn’t demanding. That he let things be light. Maybe that was why it was always easy to converse with him whenever you’d stopped by Madjas. 

You inhaled again, letting yourself sink further into the feeling, into the rare quiet of your thoughts. Even now, though, even floating, something tugged at you. Some part of you that refused to be fully untethered. The rational side of your mind begged for a break from the relentless circling of your thoughts, but you shoved the worst of them away, opting instead to focus on the ones that didn’t hurt.

“Hey,” you said suddenly. “Can I ask you a really weird question?”

“Sure.” Adrin straightened slightly, tossing you a quick glance as he brought his mirthroot to his lips.

You hesitated, but the mirth haze had worked through your nerves, made you bolder, more loose lipped. “Do you have a crush on me?”

He choked on his next inhale, coughing before looking at you, eyes wide. “Sorry?”

“Nevermind. That was weird. Sorry,” you said quickly, looking away, waving it off. “Forget I said anything.”

But he shook his head, smiling faintly as he leaned in slightly. “No, it’s okay. I’ve always appreciated how forward you are. Honest. It’s refreshing.”

You blinked at him. “Really?”

He nodded. Then he paused for a moment, contemplating.  “If you’re asking if I find you attractive, the answer is yes. I think you’re beautiful.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I wouldn’t say I have a crush on you. That feels… shallow. I don’t know you enough to call it that. It would be liking the idea of you. I don’t like doing that.”

His honesty was just as refreshing as he claimed yours to be. It loosened something in your chest—some small guilt that had settled when Mor first suggested you go out with him. Guilt at the idea that someone you’d grown to enjoy might want something from you that you couldn’t give.

If only everyone was this articulate. If only Az—

You shoved the thought away and exhaled slowly. “That’s… a really nice answer.”

Adrin smiled again, but this time, it was smaller, softer. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head. “It doesn’t.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I have no expectations here. I enjoy the friendship we’ve built—if you’d call it that.”

“Of course I would,” you said softly. A small chuckle escaped your lips as you raised your rolled mirthroot and nodded toward the one between his fingers. “And if I didn’t consider you a friend before, you’re definitely one now.”

Adrin’s laugh rang out, warm and melodic, filling the space between you. It was soothing, like the sound itself carried the calm of his healing touch.

You settled into a comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of conversation lingering between you as you both watched the city below. But then, without warning, your mind wandered once more.

This time, it drifted toward the upcoming event Rhys was hosting—a formal gathering to show appreciation for allies and those who’d supported him. At his own home, too. A gesture of humility. You could already picture the glittering decorations in the River House, the couples dressed to the nines, gliding together in effortless, practiced harmony.

Usually, those scenes didn’t bother you.

You’d never minded attending events alone, enjoying the freedom to slip in and out of conversations as you pleased. But now, the thought of walking into that hall, of watching so many people in love around you… It grated. And you knew exactly why. Azriel’s words, his reasoning for changing while dating Selene—how everyone was falling in love, moving on—echoed in your mind, and you hated how tightly they clung to you.

They’d made you feel like something was wrong with you for not actively seeking out love. For being content with being single. Alone.

You glanced at Adrin.

“Adrin,” you said, clearing your throat. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“I don’t believe so. Why?”

“There’s an event—Rhysand is hosting. It’s an appreciation for those who help him. I was wondering if you’d want to come with me. Considering everything you’ve done to help Madja… and us.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his expression before he smiled. “Really?”

You nodded, waiting and watching him as he thought through his answer.

“The company of a friend is always nice for events,” he said finally.

Your heart stilled at his use of the word "friend.” It felt reassuring. Safe. A reminder that he truly didn’t hold any expectations, just as he’d said only a few minutes prior.

“Yes,” you replied softly, a small smile curling your lips. “It always is.”

“I’d be honored to go. Thank you for the invite, Y/n. I’ve never been to big events like that.”

You laughed lightly. “If you keep letting me smoke your mirthroot, you can come to every event with me forever.”

He grinned, shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead in an effortlessly charming way. “Is that what I’ve become now? A drug dealer and a friend in one?”

“Yes,” you teased. “A breath of fresh air, really.”

You both fell into another comfortable pause, settling into the easy rhythm of each other’s presence. You wondered what was going on inside Adrin’s mind. His eyes had grown distant, like he was retreating into his thoughts. He had mentioned having a long day too. You hoped he was feeling better now, just as you were, that perhaps your company had offered him what his had offered you—a reprieve.

Adrin reminded you of someone else in your life. Someone with teal eyes and the same easy, friendly humor. You smiled at the fleeting thought that crossed your mind, something quick and bright, like a shooting star.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s meeting with Rhysand had taken longer than expected, forcing both males to venture to the Hewn City itself. By the time he returned home, the city of Velaris was already asleep.

Azriel felt conflicted as he passed by your door, his shadows lingering just long enough to confirm that you were safe and asleep in bed. He was relieved, glad that you were finally getting the rest you needed, but a deep, quiet disappointment gnawed at him.

He was planning to catch you one last time today—to talk, even for a moment. To tell you about the meeting with Rhys and how brilliant your plans were, how he was praising them despite you not being there to bask in the compliments. He knew you loved the feedback, knew you loved hearing how your hard work paid off. It always did.

But Azriel knew, even then, the conversation would feel off.

Things had felt off since the night he apologized—and even his shadows had confirmed it wasn’t just in his mind. That he wasn’t simply overthinking.

You’d said you weren’t mad anymore, that you two were okay. But Azriel still felt, still knew, that something was wrong. 

Things weren’t normal. They weren’t hostile, and Azriel was beyond thankful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. You seemed to be hesitating around him. It gutted him to think that he had made you wary, made you overthink how you acted around him. He’d stripped himself of his own comfort.

Azriel stepped into his room slowly, feeling the weight of the day begin to catch up with him the moment he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the frame as he let the quiet settle around him.

The familiar emptiness of the room greeted him. His dresser was bare, the surface wiped clean once again. Mor had, strangely excitedly, offered to clear it out for him when she first learned about Selene’s betrayal. Despite the anger simmering inside him, Azriel had made her promise not to take any drastic measures—he didn’t want her to engage with Selene at all. Mor had reluctantly agreed.

Azriel took a few more steps into the room, and with each movement, the exhaustion that had been nagging him all day seemed to settle more heavily on his shoulders—his body was sore, his mind buzzing with a thousand half-thoughts.

His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the edge of the bed, his hands moving to rub his face, fingers dragging through the mess of his hair.

Azriel hadn’t placed all the items Selene moved, the minimal decorations he owned, back where they belonged yet. But he opened his bedside table and grabbed the one thing he was thinking about—the strange clay creation of him you’d made.

His mind wandered to the night he cleaned your wounds and apologized.

He’d traced the change back to that moment.

Azriel didn’t know why he felt disappointed, why he had expected something different from that interaction. He’d apologized, finally, as he’d intended to—though too late, he told himself, because you’d gotten hurt. But you had accepted it, had looked at him with that same softness he’d come to admire, and accepted it. You’d cracked a joke. You both laughed. It had felt simple again, natural, like Azriel had finally found his way back to himself. But something in him sank when he’d said that one line—when he said he didn’t know why he’d entertained the idea that you’d ever have feelings for him.

He wasn’t sure why, but it tasted so wrong—sour, like something rotten.

He let himself sink further into his thoughts.

Azriel had never seen himself as lovable. At least, not in the way everyone else was. 

From the moment he was thrown into that dungeon as a boy, he’d believed he deserved every punishment, every scar, every moment of suffering. The people who should have loved him—the people who were supposed to care—had only taught him he was a burden, something broken and unwanted.

When he left that darkness behind, it followed him, reshaping him into something sharp and unrelenting. A weapon. He became what was needed, what a High Lord required, committing acts that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He wore those deeds like armor, each one another layer of the male he thought he had to be.

Love, he assumed, had to be just as hard. How could it not be? He was unworthy of the softness others found so easily. While Rhysand, Cassian, Amren, and Mor managed to find it, to hold onto it despite their own sins, Azriel had only ever known heartbreak.

So he told himself that love—for him—would never be simple. It would require blood, pain, sacrifice, and suffering. He thought love needed to ache in his chest, leaving him hollow and desperate, clawing for scraps of something he couldn’t quite hold. That it had to be fought for with every ounce of strength he had. And maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Something had changed, though, regarding how he thought about love. 

His fingers brushed the rough edges of the clay figure in his palm. It was uneven and messy, painted in smudges that bled into each other. The proportions were laughably off—the wings crooked, the body too long—but it fit perfectly in his hand nonetheless.

He held it carefully, turning it over as his chest tightened. You’d made this for him, drunk off your ass and laughing with the others, your hands coated in clay. You’d sculpted a miniature version of him without a second thought.

And though it wasn’t a gift, though you hadn’t even mentioned it after that night, Azriel kept it. Kept it somewhere safe, somewhere he could easily grab it and remind himself that if someone as kind as you could love him, care for him the way you did, then he must not be as awful as his mind often tried to convince him he was.

You’d seen the worst of him—all the jagged edges and dark, unspoken parts. He was the softest with you, a side of himself he never showed anyone else, but somehow also the worst. You’d heard the things he’d done, seen him caked in blood that wasn’t his, and still, you had sculpted him. Still, you thought of him when you were having fun.

Azriel had begun to realize that, in reality, love seemed to be… patient. Gentle.

The love his family had found was hard at times, yes, and needed to be fought for, like everything important. But it was kind. Natural.

And so Azriel thought long and hard, the clay figure resting warm in his hand, his shadows curling and twisting softly around him. They whispered your name, over and over, like a quiet, delicate prayer.

And that was when everything clicked into place.

That deep longing he felt to see you, that comfort he found in your presence, the ability to be open, bare, seen, and unafraid—

That feeling was love.

He was in love with you.

And he suddenly couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: hey yall.... how we feeling?????

so like im invested. and also i kinda love Adrin like yesss gimme a stoner healer man who respects a persons boundaries and doesnt crush on the idea of them before knowing them!!!

and yesss for azriel being in love!!! hes gonna be struggling with this new realization, fighting the Voices in the corner of his room and being jealous over things he doesn’t need to be jealous over. mmmmmm delicious

i do believe….there may only be one (1) part left 🫢

as always— thank you for reading 🫶🏻

and don’t forget your daily clicks for palestine !

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

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@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @motheroffae @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @yesiamthatwierd @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

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@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[tarotsoul]

ghost in the wind — part four

summary: struggling to get a grip on your newfound power, azriel is the only one your magic allows close. and there’s no stopping either of you when you spend the night alone together.

warnings: grieving, mentions of death, swearing, kissing, teasing, fingering, dirty talk, shadow play (hehe)

word count: 6.7k

series masterlist

Lucien Vanserra knew not to question his mate when she demanded they left for Velaris immediately. Two days of travelling. He had not asked questions—had not doubted his mate’s worry and vision, not even for a moment. 

Elain saw the blast before it occurred. She felt the earth quake beneath her feet, felt the soil and life around her stand still. A power had been awoken. A power so fierce it had shook the lands of even the Day Court. 

She had known of your presence in Prythian. Feyre had sent word to her, promised it had been nothing to worry about, that Nesta had taken you away from Rafe and that you were finally safe. 

Safe. 

That feeling in her stomach promised anything but safety. Two days of travelling. Two days of no rest. And despite her seering abilities, despite the far future she had already glimpsed, nothing could have prepared her for what greeted her arrival.

While Velaris remained as beautiful as ever, as busy and bustling as it had before she and Lucien left to travel just over a year ago…there was nothing but desolation in the air. Every breath was hard to inhale, every step on cobblestones and patchy soil a struggle to walk. 

Something was very, very wrong. 

Those suspicions were confirmed the moment she stepped foot into the River House. An eerie silence settled as soon as she passed the threshold of her High Lord and Lady’s home. Lucien could sense it, too. The hairs on the back of his neck spiked the further he walked through the grand abode. 

Rhysand met them in the foyer, a grave and wanton look to his handsome features. Elain did not apologise as she pushed past him and made for her two sisters. Both stricken with tears and pure dread. Elain struggled to loose a breath, struggled to come to terms with the energy that invaded her. 

“I came as soon as I felt it.” 

Feyre met her gaze, eyes lined with grief. Elain took a step closer. “Where is she?”

Nesta sniffled, raised her head and kept her chin high. But Elain knew her sister, knew she was close to crumbling all over again. She could not speak, could not open her mouth in fear of what animalistic cry might break through. 

Feyre spoke instead. “She’s upstairs, Azriel will not leave her side.” 

Azriel, yes. Elain had seen those visions, too. 

A question rose on the tip of her tongue, one she never considered she’d ever have to ask. She felt Lucien’s presence as he neared, a comforting hand reaching to caress her arm in comfort. She melted into it, though unlike usual, he was not able to settle the dread in her chest. 

“Her heart stopped beating after the blast,” Rhysand spoke softly as he entered the room, reaching for his mate. “However, Madja believes her soul is still in her body. She thinks Y/N is still fighting, despite all else suggesting otherwise.” 

Elain blinked back her tears. It was never supposed to have gone this way. You were never supposed to have died. 

“Madja is looking into some remedies, into the history of your mothers bloodline. For now, all we can do is wait. She has taken samples of blood and hair from Nesta and Feyre, there are no magical markers that match with Y/N’s, though if you’re willing, we’d like to test yours, just to be safe.”

Elain allowed her head to dip in acceptance, though the movement was completely subconscious. This would not be the end of you. Could not be the end. Not after everything Elain had peeked in the future. 

Azriel had not left your side in two days. The moment the blast settled, he shot through the skies to reach you. He did not expect to find that stone mountain covered in soil and tulips.  He did not expect to find your cold, lifeless body collapsed above the rubble.

He had never felt such fear, such despair. And the moment you were laid in his bed, in his room at the River House, he had not left your side. Not for food, water or rest. Not for anything. 

He stayed when Madja came to assess you, when she took samples of your blood and hair, when she smoothed a salve over the marred skin of the crescent moon on your chest. He stayed when Mor came to brush your hair and paint your fingernails. He stayed when Nesta came to read to you, when Feyre laid beside you and prayed. 

He could not leave that room, could not leave your side. 

And when Madja had returned that morning, with a hopeful gleam in her eye that she may have found something to help, he still would not allow himself to hope. 

Fear crippled every ounce of his being. Fear of speaking his hopes into existence, that the mother could be cruel to deny him. So he kept his hope buried deep. So deep that his soul latched onto it and called out to you. 

The taste of your lips still lingered on his, your scent still wrapped around him. But Azriel could not bring himself to touch you, could not dare a feel of your cold skin. Your heart had stopped beating, your chest had stopped rising. 

But he would not allow the idea of your death to linger in his mind. He could feel you, somehow, somewhere. And deep in his soul, he begged for you to hold on, to use whatever power you had to come back.

A gentle knock sounded on the bedroom door, Azriel did not need to turn to know it was Elain. Though he could not scent Lucien beside her. 

She moved like a gentle breeze, every step light and hesitant. He knew how hard it had been for everyone, for your cousins. He wanted to allow Elain a moment alone with you, as he wanted with the others, but just as before, his soul would not allow his leave. 

“Hello, Elain.”

His voice, so cold and distant. It had been a long time since he had addressed her in such a tone. She bowed her head in greeting and took a seat on the other side of your bed. He didn’t watch her, neither did his shadows. Both he and those wisps of darkness fixated on your unmoving body. 

Elain reached for your hand, a breath parting from her pink lips. “She’s cold.”

Azriel closed his eyes, tried to shut out the anguish he wanted to cry. He remained in silence, so did Elain. They sat unmoving, watching you. 

Until Elain spoke again. 

“I have seen a field of tulips. Where the air is fresh and the soil is rich.” Always speaking in cryptic words, nothing ever as simple as it should be. “I have seen what lay beyond the forest. There is a promise of something stronger than I have ever felt. Something soul-binding.” 

Elain did not look at Azriel as she spoke, she did not take her eyes away from you. Uncurling your hand, she placed three seeds in your palm and then curled it shut tight, her fist caressing yours. 

“Did you know that green tulips symbolise hope and rebirth?” She turned to him then, her face void of any emotion. “Brown tulips symbolise resilience and commitment.” Her eyes wandered to Azriel’s scarred hands that sat in his lap.

He watched the middle Archeron for a moment, his mind processing the words she spoke. He watched her gaze travel to your spare hand, the one that seemed to reach for him, palm open in invitation. 

His mind screamed not to touch you, not to hurt his heart like that. But his soul. His soul ached to feel you once more. 

Against his better judgement, he allowed a shaky hand to reach yours—skin cold and lifeless as he held you again. Azriel bit back a cry, willed the tears not to fall. His shadows followed their masters lead, snaking around your fingers and wrist and up your arms. 

Elain removed her hand, her eyes fixated on your fist of seeds. It was then that she opened your palm, and right before their eyes, the seeds bloomed into tulips. One green, one brown, one white. And your chest heaved its first breath in two days. 

Time stopped, Azriel froze. 

And your eyes blinked open. 

The air kissed your skin in a way you had never experienced before. The green of the grass was more vibrant than ever, the fluttering of a robin's wings like music to your ears. The river flowed softly, a hum of a sweet lullaby that soothed your soul. 

This is what it was supposed to feel like. The power, the magic. Was this how you were destined to live? To be one with the earth and feel its life beneath your feet? 

You felt their eyes on you from feet away, felt the way they itched to approach, to hold and soothe you. Elain had been the one to keep everyone back, to allow you a moment to breathe again. 

You felt no pain, no sorrow. 

They had followed you out of the River House and toward the embankment, allowed you a moment to let your magic flow. A sweet relief, to touch the soil and watch the buds of flora bloom. 

Though, you had no control. You did not wield your power to plant in the soil, you did not ask for lily pads to perch on the gentle waters surface. You had no control, but you would. You would find a way to harness it, to wield it. 

Another breath, your final moment alone. You turned to the others, to their hopeful faces and a smile began to stretch across your lips. 

Cassian was the first one to grin, the first one to step forward to join you. But his sudden movement startled something in your gut. And a root of sharp thorns shot from the soil and dared to pierce through Cassian’s brown skin. 

He jumped back, eyes wide and your lips parted in shock. You had not meant to do that, had no thought to hurt Cassian. Your magic acted on impulse, to protect you. 

He stepped back again, hands in the air in surrender. Rhysand watched with a tilted gaze, watched when the vine of thorns sunk back into the ground. 

So your magic would not allow others to approach you uninvited. Perhaps if you approached them instead. 

Your steps were slow, cautious. You held your breath in an attempt to hold down the power that begged to course through your veins. 

You dared another look at your friends. 

“It’s okay,” Mor smiled. “Take your time.” 

Another deep breath, another step. One foot in front of the other, your teeth gritting to keep the power at bay. Three feet away from them, you took another deep breath. This time to calm your racing heart. 

“I have no control over it.” 

Rhysand offered a gentle smile. “That’s to be expected. How do you feel?” 

Your eyes flittered between them all, lingering a moment too long on Azriel before you gazed at the world around you. A tilt upturned your lips. 

“I feel like I can finally breathe. I can feel everything in the soil. It’s like the trees are whispering to me, like the birds are singing.”

You looked back to Rhys, to Feyre. “How am I even alive?” 

Feyre dared a step closer, and you willed your power to understand she would not harm you. None of them would. 

“Madja is looking into it. For now, you need to take it easy. The smallest thing could make your power spiral or act out.” She looked between her family, returning her gaze to you. 

“Perhaps it would be best if only one of us remained by your side, for now. Maybe we can test to see who your magic doesn’t see as a threat.” 

“Well clearly I’m out of the picture,” Cassian mumbled, scuffing his feet against the grass. 

You considered Feyre’s suggestion, perhaps it would be the safest way for now. One step would be enough to see if your power responded, one step enough to create distance just in case. 

“Okay, yeah let’s do that.” 

Feyre took a step first, hesitant but with a gentle and excited smile. Her emotions were palpable, you could feel the relief that you were alive, the excitement of the prospect of you having a newfound strength. 

No one could ever take advantage of you again. 

But your power did not allow Feyre another step closer. It wrapped vines around her ankles, keeping her in place. She did not move, her calmness did not falter. You pinched your eyes shut, begged and pleaded for your magic to release her. 

And after a few moments, it did. 

Feyre returned to her previous position, and Rhysand cleared his throat as he took his turn. 

Your power did not allow him closer. It did not allow Mor, or Elain. Nor Lucien or Nesta. It left only Azriel. And your heart thudded wildly in your chest. 

You met his molten gaze, and you could feel the taste of his lips on yours again. Azriel did not move to begin with, he instead sent a lone shadow to reach you slowly. 

Your magic flickered, but it did not attack. When the shadow weaved through your hair, daisies sprouted in their wake. You didn’t notice Azriel step closer, did not notice until the toes of his boots were just a foot from you and you finally met his gaze again. 

Your breathing hitched, throat tightening. Something stirred in your gut, a simmering feeling of relief and comfort and something you felt far too often in your life. 

Shame. 

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to hold it back if it’s too much.” 

You blinked, only now realising that you didn’t need to hold your power back. It was settled deep within you, no longer begging for a release. 

“I’m not.” You shook your head.

His gaze searched your face, shadows touching your hair. He trailed his eyes down your neck, to your chest where he fixated on that marred area of flesh for just a moment. Hazel eyes snapped back to yours. 

It was as though your beauty had been amplified tenfold. Your skin glowed, a lightness in your posture by no longer having such a heavy weight on your shoulders. And your eyes, your eyes gleamed with something he’d never seen before. 

Azriel’s chest tightened. 

He cleared his throat. “Madja is looking for something to help you learn control. The more we understand your magic, the easier it’ll be.” 

You nodded, did not dare to break his gaze. Azriel took another step closer. Just a shuffle of his feet. The toes of his shoes nearly touched yours. 

“Don’t be afraid of it,” he advised. “Your power is part of you. If you accept it as such, it’ll yield itself quicker.” 

Another nod. Another blink. 

A gentle breeze brushed past you, wafting his scent through your senses. Pine and wood and parchment. Mint and a gentle kiss of cinnamon. 

You breathed again. 

Madja had stopped by to check on you later that afternoon, taking another sample of your blood and hair and asking an abundance of questions you did your best to answer. Your magic had not let her get very close and when she’d pierced your skin with the needle, it took every ounce of self-restraint to keep that power at bay. 

Even for just a few moments, it had exhausted you. 

Dinner had gone as well as it could. You’d sat at the furthest end of the table, Azriel close beside you but still allowing you some breathing space. 

You’d suggested it would be safer for Nyx not to attend, having no control over your power, you would not allow him to be in the same room as you. Not until you harnessed it more. 

Your magic flared up twice. Once when Lucien offered you a dish of potatoes. And again when Cassian laughed a little too loudly at something Rhys said. Vines had twisted their way around the legs of the table, creeping over the surface as they slithered to reach the Illyrian. 

Azriel placed a hand over yours, his eyes demanding your gaze. “It’s okay,” he reassured softly. And that power began to retreat. 

You offered Cassian an apologetic look, though you were certain the warrior was beginning to feel a little targeted. He’d brushed it off, waving a hand and stuffing another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. 

As the night drew to a close, that familiar feeling of discomfort began to bubble in your stomach. The thought of going back to the House of Wind deflated you, suffocated you. 

Away from nature, it no longer at the tips of your fingers. You did not want to be confined to the House in the mountains, despite how much it had begun to feel like a home. 

Azriel must have noticed as such, because he titled his head to catch your gaze. “Would you like to stay at the townhouse tonight?”

Your eyes widened marginally. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I don’t want to intrude in anyone else's home.” 

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “You wouldn’t be intruding. Ever.” There was no room for discussion in his tone. He pulled back slightly, shrugging a shoulder. “Besides, it’s usually empty. I stay there when Nesta and Cassian are…louder than usual.”

A snort slipped past your lips at the innuendo and Azriel had to ignore the way it warmed something in his chest. You’d grown to learn just how loud your cousin and her mate could be. Perhaps the townhouse would be a sweet reprieve from that, too. 

Azriel watched the couple quietly, clearing his throat. “Plus, they’ve been drinking,” his voice lowered to a soft whisper, “I can promise you a restless sleep at the House tonight.” 

Another breathy laugh slipped off your tongue and Azriel’s eyes twinkled at the sound. Perhaps it was selfish of him to try and convince you to stay at the townhouse. With him and only him. But your power would not let others get closer to you, and he wanted to offer at least one night of peace and comfort. 

Especially after all you’d endured. 

You bid your family goodnight from a distance, Mor blowing kisses to you across the table and Rhysand reminding you to reach out if anything feels wrong. 

The walk from the Riverhouse to the townhouse was a short one, though you enjoyed it nonetheless. Walking beside Azriel as the moon lit your way was nothing short of beautiful, and you did not miss the way his shadows intertwined with your fingers. 

“Nuala and Cerridwen have brought some of your things to the townhouse,” Azriel said softly beside you, a lone shadow whispering in his ear. 

You offered him a grateful smile, making a mental note to thank the twins whenever you next saw them. Azriel’s lip quirked. “They’ve run you a bubble bath, too.”

Your smile stretched to a grin. 

By the time you reached the townhouse, you could smell the lavender oils the twins had used for your bath. Azriel led you into the foyer and a sense of warmth surrounded you. 

The townhouse was beautiful. Portraits and trinkets hung on the walls, soft glows of gold and greens as the lamps reflected off the plants. Thick but worn rugs on the floor. You took a breath, your shoulders relaxing. 

This felt like home. 

Azriel closed the door behind you both and his shadows slinked up the stairs and out of sight. He pressed a very gentle hand to the small of your back. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.” 

He guided you with that same hand just above your coxis, up the stairs and to the left and down the hall. It was a large landing, three or four doors that you could see on this side of the townhouse. You wondered how many other rooms were on the other side of the stairs. 

You followed the lavender trail, stopping short outside a door and Azriel turned the knob and pushed it open. This room was much smaller than yours at the House, but Gods was it cosy. 

A four poster bed in the centre of the room, two slim dressers either side, a high-back armchair in the corner with a little bookcase beside it. And to the left of that, was an open door that led to a private bathing chamber. 

You couldn’t help the smile that pulled on your lips. Nor could you help the feeling of comfort that blanketed you. 

Azriel cleared his throat. “I’ll let you bathe and get settled. My room is just opposite yours if you need anything.” He pointed to the door behind you both. 

You thanked him, watched him disappear into his own room before you closed the door and made your way to the bathroom. 

The water soothed every muscle in your body, seeping into your pores and nourishing your skin. A fresh night slip had been left folded on the counter by the sink, a new bamboo toothbrush and a small basket filled with your favourite moisturisers, oils and balms. 

After an hour of scrubbing and soaking, you dried and dressed, applied your creams and combed through your hair. It had been a long time since you’d taken such care of yourself, since you felt relaxed enough to take your time. 

You could not shake how much this townhouse felt like home to you. 

Scrunching your wet hair softly with a cotton towel, you padded into your bedroom when a knock sounded on the door. You didn’t need to open it to know who it was, Azriel had already informed you it would just be the two of you at the townhouse tonight. 

“Come in,” you called over your shoulder. 

But nothing could have prepared Azriel for what he walked into. Your back to him, your tiny night slip barely passing your ass, your wet hair pulled over your shoulder as he took note of your shoulder blades. 

Such a simple thing should not have affected him the way it did. His shadows pinched the mugs of tea from his hands and floated them to a nightstand, returning to their masters shoulders just as you turned to greet them. 

Azriel was no longer wearing his leathers, now adored in a pair of grey sweatpants and a dark blue knitted sweater. It was unusual to see him in something other than black, in something so relaxed. 

But Gods, was he beautiful. His hair was slightly damp and mussed from his own bath. He cleared his throat, pointing to the nightstand. “I brought tea.” Azriel was nervous, you could sense it. Smell it. 

He stood in the centre of the room, large wings tucked close to his back. You almost frowned at the sight and the comment slipped before you could stop it. “Do you feel uncomfortable around me?”

Azriel’s own brows pinched at that. “No, of course not. Quite the opposite, actually.” He tilted his head, taking a slow step forward. “Why?” 

A familiar surge of magic bubbled in the pit of your stomach. Not out of fear or anxiety, and it was not the same as before when it tried to protect you. No. This was different, this felt electric. Excited. 

You shrugged, jutting your chin to the dark membrane. “Your wings. They’re tight against your back.”

Azrie’s shoulders sagged slightly, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his full lips. But he couldn’t bring himself to admit he was uptight because your nipples were pearled and almost cutting through the very thin silk of your slip.

“You’re quite observant,” he noted, “I’m not uncomfortable around you, Y/N. I enjoy your company, your presence. I was trying to give you some space. This room isn’t very big, I didn’t want your power to feel suffocated.” 

Your head tilted at that. “You could never make me feel suffocated, Azriel. I enjoy your company and presence, too.”

His smile grew broader, a row of white teeth gleaming at you and you had no control when your face mirrored his. His heart thumped in his chest at the sight, at the way a sweet scent of lavender and jasmine wafted through the air. 

“You know that night…in the library?” Azriel did not need to ask to know which evening you were referring to. It took every ounce of self-control not to kiss you that night. Only for you to peck his lips in a hasty goodbye just two days later. 

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. 

Your brows furrowed just slightly. “You said you’d come to my room later so we could talk.” He nodded once more, his mind having already replayed every interaction he’d ever shared with you. 

“Can we do that now?” You fiddled with your fingers. “Talk, I mean. If you don’t have other commitments.”

Azriel would drop any prior engagements to spend the night with you. And by the way he gazed into your eyes, it was as though he was silently begging you to understand that. 

He did not need to speak or nod, for you only motioned to your bed and he got the hint. Azriel sat with his wings sprawled across the headboard.

He swallowed thickly, watching you tuck your legs beneath your body, the night slip doing very little to keep you covered. His mind would not stop racing, his shadows would not stop whispering. Dirty thoughts of what you were wearing beneath. If you were wearing anything at all. 

Azriel struggled to stifle his arousal. 

His shadows moved to reach you, caressing every inch of bare skin they could find. A giggle fell from your lips, warmth coating your flesh. 

Azriel could not help himself. “You’re so beautiful when you smile.”

Your grin grew, brows raising, eyes finally meeting his. “Only when I smile?” You teased, a newfound feeling of ease settling in every part of your body. 

He was pleasantly surprised by your response and dared lean a little closer. This was easy, talking with you. “You’re always beautiful. I’ve always thought so.”

You had expected a teasing retort back, not something so sincere and…well…romantic. Your smile faded slightly, a breath stuck in your throat. You swallowed around it. “You have?” 

Azriel nodded. You took in a breath, allowing him to reach for you. His wings spread behind him, drooping just enough to show he did, indeed, feel relaxed around you. He reached for you, tucking hair behind your now pointed ear. 

Your soul began to hum, content and blissful under Azriel’s keen but gentle touch. No male had ever called you beautiful before. No male had ever looked at you the way he was. As though he was besotted, as though he had never seen anything so wonderful in his life before. 

“I had every intention of coming to you that night.” His voice was rough, his tone gentle. It scratched an itch somewhere deep in your core. “Had Rhys not sent me on that mission, I would’ve been there, I would have told you.”

“Told me what?” you breathed. 

He swallowed, his scarred hand cupping the soft skin of your jaw as his thumb smoothed over the apple of your cheek. It took everything in you to fight the fluttering of your eyes. 

“That no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about you. The moment you crossed that wall, you consumed every part of me.” 

Your breathing staggered, your core pulsed. 

“I know you’ve only been here a short time, but I can no longer pretend that I’m not drawn to you. That I don’t crave your touch.” Shadows slinked your skin again, curling at the nape of your neck and imitating a scratching at your scalp. 

Your lips parted, chest heaving. Azriel’s eyes fluttered closed at the scent that oozed from you. Sweet arousal consumed him, dared to drag him under. 

He loosed a breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.” 

Your body felt like it was on fire, an excitement you had never once felt before. Your chest ached, your thighs trembled. And you knew if you parted your legs, you’d find a pool of wetness dribbling from your core.

No part of you felt guilty for it. No part of you tried to deny your body what it craved. Your soul sung to his, your body shifting closer. His hand on your face trailed down to caress your neck, lower to graze your collarbone, then lower again to skim over the marred flesh of your mark. 

Your eyes fluttered closed, a shaky breath sounding from you. You wanted him, needed him. That power surged in the pit of your stomach, desperate. You breathed deeply, the air thicker than before, and full of something you had never once scented. 

It was Azriel’s scent, only stronger. A raw and unfiltered scent that stirred the coil in your gut. Eyes fluttering open, they landed on his lap—on the girth that grew beneath the grey of his sweatpants. 

You swallowed thickly, chest heaving. You began to stir, hips shifting and brows knitted. “Az…” You were breathless, almost panting and his jaw clenched. 

“It’s okay,” he ground out. His fingers toyed with the thin strap of your slip, goosebumps erecting across your skin as his shadows caressed your arms and neck. Your head lulled to the side, eyes hooded. 

“Touch me,” you pleaded through a broken whisper. 

His jaw clenched again, his pupils blown and wings outstretched and tight. He did not move, did not look away. You reached for his wrist, daring to guide his hand over your full breast, over the perk of your nipple. 

A soft moan slipped past your lips. You had never felt arousal like it. Had never felt so needy that you’d resort to begging. Never had you expected to end up in such a state. You never had for Rafe. But this was Azriel. And everything about Azriel was intoxicating. 

With your hand over his, you encouraged him to grope you, to feel you. Azriel allowed you to guide him, would allow you to set the pace so long as you were comfortable and sure. So long as he made you feel good. 

The strap of your gown slipped down your arm, and you tugged the other down along with it. A low growl sounded from the back of Azriel’s throat. He was losing whatever control he had left. And you were desperate to see him snap. 

You shuffled closer on your knees, almost settling in his lap when you pulled his hand away from your breast and allowed the slip to fall past your chest, baring yourself to him. His eyes remained on yours, his chest rising and falling but you did not look away. 

If you want something, despite how wrong that desire may feel at first, take it.

But nothing about this felt wrong. No part of this felt like it wasn’t supposed to be. You did not feel unworthy beneath his gaze, you did not feel guilty for giving into your desires. 

Because the way Azriel looked at you, the way his gaze shifted to your chest, the way his eyes fluttered closed and he inhaled your arousal so deeply…you knew he wanted this just as badly as you did. 

With his eyes still closed, Aziel blindly reached for your hips and dragged you into his lap. A gasp escaped you, your legs parting to wrap around his waist and your soaked cunt sat over his throbbing cock. 

Your fingers tangled in his midnight hair, his head tilting as his breath ghosted your clavicle. Your nipples hardened, back arched. And he swiped his tongue over a pearled nub before suckling it into his warm mouth. 

You arched into him, tugging at his hair and rolling your hips against his. Azriel’s grip on your hips tightened, but he did not control you. He allowed you to move at your own pace, allowed you to decide how far you wanted this to go. 

You tugged at his hair, beckoning him to look at you. He pulled off your breast, eyes blown with a look of undeniable hunger. You stared at him for a moment, basked in his dark gaze and the feel of him pulsing beneath you. 

The weight of your position did not feel heavy, you did not want to stop. But you did not want to rush. You wanted to savour this—him. You wanted to take your time, wanted to understand how sex and intimacy was supposed to feel like. 

And Azriel could read as much in just your eyes alone. He leaned close, noses brushing as his lips ghosted yours. “I don’t need to use my cock to bring you pleasure,” he whispered, enveloping your lips in a searing kiss. 

Azriel’s hands travelled from your hips, up your waist and to your chest, kneading your breasts and pinching at your nipples. You hummed into his mouth, allowing his tongue to massage yours. 

“Let me show you how good it can be. How it’s supposed to feel.”

Your brain felt like it was overgrown in blooms, unable to do anything but nod and hand him the reins. Your magic grew excited, flora sprouting in your damp hair with every kiss he littered down your jaw and neck. 

“Turn around for me.” Azriel helped guide your body to how he wanted you, sat between his parted legs, your back to his chest and his lips breezing against the shell of your ear. 

“Good girl.” 

You were royally fucked. 

He let his hands travel down your covered stomach, fingers reaching for the soft skin of your thighs. You welcomed every touch, basked in the rough skin of his scarred hands. You could hardly breath, so pent up in anticipation. 

Azriel nipped at your ear. “Can you spread your legs for me, baby?” 

A pathetic mewl sounded from your throat and you found yourself nodding obediently and spreading your thighs for him. Azriel’s shadows wrapped around your thighs, down your legs and ankles and slithered back up again. A few rushed back to him, whispering their findings to their master. 

Dripping. Excited. Delicious. 

Azriel took a laboured breath to steady himself, his cock pressing into your ass. He let his hands grip your waist, fingers reaching the hem of your slip and bunching it in a strong fist.

He pulled it away, exposing your sopping heat and your head lulled back against his shoulder. “Can I touch you?” You nodded before he even finished his question, your legs spreading wider for him. 

Azriel snuck a hand between your thighs, cupping your sex as your arousal coated him. His deft fingers rubbed teasingly through your slick folds, spreading the wetness across your entire cunt. 

A shuddered breath escaped you. “Please.” 

With clenched teeth, Azriel appeased you, reaching up to your clit and pressing the pad of his middle finger against it. A gasp slipped from your mouth, his finger rubbing right circles on that puffy bud. 

Rafe had never once touched your clit. 

Your hips bucked into his hand and Azriel began to rub faster. But it wasn’t enough. The pressure built in your lower stomach, a feeling only you had been able to get yourself to, and even then never passed. 

Azriel could sense your need and replaced his finger with his thumb and reached lower. A single digit probed your fluttering hole, swirling in arousal before slowly sinking between your walls. 

You hummed in pleasure, eyes closing as he curled his finger against a spongy spot. Your hips rolled, chest heaving. You had never felt anything so exhilarating in your life. Azriel added a second finger, stretching your cunt deliciously. 

“Gods, Az…” you couldn’t find the words to describe what he was doing to you—how he was making you feel. He hummed, nuzzling his nose up your neck and latching his lips to your jaw; kissing and licking and biting. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N. Look how well you’re taking me.”

Azriel’s praise went to your head, your heart, your cunt. You could feel him everywhere. Shadows pinched at your nipples, Az’s hand working tirelessly against your core. Your hips rolled to meet his movements, your legs shook as he curled and scissored. 

You had never imagined it to feel this way. 

You rolled your head back, lips parted as you blindly searched for his. Azriel met you in a searing kiss, his tongue licking the insides of your mouth as you fought to meet his pace. 

Then the shaking started, and the small whimpers and moans turned to cries as you bucked against him. Azriel only kissed you harder, fucked you harder. The sound of his fingers pummeling your cunt were obscene, wet and loud and spurring you toward the edge. 

Your stomach pinched, coiled. A wave of uncontrollable pleasure and power coursed through your very being as you cried out into his mouth. Azriel did not relent his pace, did not offer a moment's reprieve. 

He worked you through it, pumping and pinching, sucking and biting. That tight rope in your abdomen snapped, your jaw slacking and eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Azriel watched as you came around his fingers, his own release coating his pants as you clenched around him and cried and thrashed. He had never seen anything so fucking beautiful before in his life. 

Your chest heaved, legs trembling. And a flurry of petals rained down on your bodies, clinging to the sheen of sweat on your skin. Azriel reluctantly removed his hand, guiding fingers to his mouth to finally reward himself with a taste. 

He regretted it the moment he did it. Because now he did not know how to live without that taste on his tongue for the rest of his life. His cock hardened again at the thought of tasting you properly. 

Azriel gazed down at you, fluttering lashes and flushed skin. You were catching your breath, unable to speak a coherent sentence. He leaned down to kiss your mouth slowly, your lips mirroring his. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you crave it once more. 

“You doing okay?” He asked gently. 

You hummed, chasing his lips when he tried to pull away. Azriel chuckled at your eagerness, he’d given you a taste and now you were hungry for more. 

“Not tonight,” he told you. 

You couldn’t help the frown, but Azriel planted a kiss to your brow and rested his forehead on yours. 

“I don’t want you to rush yourself into these things. You have consumed me, Y/N. There’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.” 

A tether tugged at your soul, so light you almost missed it. But your magic had responded, wrapping itself around that thin piece of string and humming in approval. 

“You have no idea how scared I was when we found you in the mountains,” he whispered solemnly. “I thought you were gone.” 

You strained your neck to look at him, at the silver that lined those molten honey eyes. Your hand reached for his face, fingers gently striking the stumbled skin of his cheek. 

“I’m okay,” you reassured him. “Different, now…yes. But this is who I’m supposed to be. I have to believe the Mother intended for it to be this way.”

He hummed, and that feeling tugged slightly once more—a little harder this time. Your gut, most likely, butterflies. 

“I won’t let you do something so foolish again.” 

Your head fell back against Azriel’s chest, his shadows working to cover your exposed body again before they tugged the blanket over you. 

And there, in his arms, you became someone else. Someone you were always fated to be. 

a/n: okay so i got slightly carried away with the teasing between az and y/n so it ended up a bit longer that the other parts BUT the next part is a very big one and potentially the last :(((( but even if it is, i have some ideas to do some check in fics with them in the future!

if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a like and reblog, your feedback is always appreciated <3

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[fieldofdaisiies]

Hold Me In Your Arms, I Need Your Love

Azriel x Reader; just a little comfort fic for Azriel, no warnings.

You knew it the moment you opened the door. You knew that he needed to be in your arms tonight, to be held, but what you didn’t know was how broken he truly was after that mission. How much the mission he had been on had destroyed him and shredded his heart apart.

Azriel stumbles through the door, blood—hopefully not his own—still coating his hands and his Illyrian leathers. "Y/N, I…" he begins, but his voice breaks, his strong mask shattering the moment his arms wrap around you and he pulls you close.

You curl your own arms around his broad torso, holding him gently. His whole body is trembling, shaking so hard you can feel it in your bones. "It’s alright," you whisper against his neck, your palms placed gently on his back. "I’m here. I got you."

He clings to you as if you are his lifeline, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. You can feel the weight of his pain, of what he has experienced, and it breaks your heart to see him like this. You hold him tighter, hoping to offer some comfort, some comfort in the midst of his anguish. You become his anchor, a place of comfort, all the strength he needs to keep going and fighting against the demons in his mind that have formed during the mission. 

Minutes pass, but you stay there, wrapped in each other's arms, the world around you forgotten. Slowly, his trembling begins to ease, his breathing becoming more even, as if your presence alone is enough to calm him down. 

You feel a small hint of relief bloom in your heart and press a gentle kiss to his temple, murmuring soft words of comfort, letting him know that he is not alone anymore, that you are here for him, with him.

And only after another few minutes, you decide that it's alright to step away. Only as much as is needed to gently guide him to the couch, supporting him as he walks, never leaving his side, his weight heavy on you.

"Come here,“ you tell him as you help him sit down, ensuring he is comfortable with his large wings. Azriel lets himself sink into the cushions, his shoulders slouching as he lifts his gaze to you.

"Should I run you a bath?“ you ask softly.

"I would just like to lie down. Can I bathe tomorrow?“ Azriel asks, his voice so terribly hoarse and you nod. Of course, it would be alright.

"But at least, let’s get you out of these." Carefully you help him slip out of  his jacket, easing it off his shoulders, the fabric stained and stiff with dried blood. You will wash it for him tomorrow.

Not because you are the female and some of the Night Court citizens still think it’s a female’s duty to do so, but because you want to. You want to help him and be there for him and not let him be reminded of his mission again once he has to wash his clothes.

You place the jacket on the floor behind the couch, before you crouch down in front of him and unlace his boots, then slide them off and set them aside as well. 

Next you unbuckles his belt—it’s something that would always make him make a dirty remark, or at least smirk. Not this time. Tonight he only smiles weakly as he watches you remove his belt. 

"Now, you may lift your hips for me, Az,“ you tell him with a small, and tiny mischievous smile, knowing it will ease the tension a little more. It’s something he has said to you too many times already—always under different circumstances however. 

Azriel hums lowly as he follows your lead and a bit of colour returns to his face, to his cheeks. You help him out of his trousers, always mindful of any injuries. When he is left only in his underwear, you brush your fingers over his skin, making sure there are no too big wounds that need to be taken care of immediately. But he seems alright, except for a few, small scratches there’s no injury on his body. 

For a moment, you have to leave him alone, Azriel’s empty eyes and his pout following you all the way to the bathroom where you collect a basin of warm water and a soft washcloth. 

You dip the washcloth into the basin, wringing out the excess water, then you move the cloth over his exposed skin, making sure all the blood and grime is washed off, your movements calm and deliberate.

Carefully you clean his arms, his scarred hands before rinsing the cloth again, making sure it remains clean as you continue on to his face, his hair. 

As you wipe it across his cheek, and brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, you ask, "Do you want to talk about it? The mission.“

Azriel gives his head a soft shake, and catches your hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses your palm. "Not yet. I just want to be here with you, Y/N. In your arms.“

Sometimes he can’t talk about the missions or the job he had to do immediately. Sometimes it takes him hours, or even days to process everything and of course, you give him this time. You want him to open up and talk to you, but you would never push him or force him to do so. He should always take as much time as he needs.

You dip your chin in acknowledgement, then dry his skin with a soft towel, before you have to leave him alone again for a bit to dispose of the dirty water and cloths.

When you return to him, you notice he is already fighting against his sleepiness, his lids fluttering closed every now and then. You quickly wrap a soft blanket around him, tucking it gently around him, always mindful of his wings and as you sit down beside him, you pull him to you. 

"I’m so glad to have you back, Az," you whisper against his now damp hair, pecking the top of his head quickly. "I missed you.“

Azriel snuggles into your chest and blows out a long breath. "You have no idea how much I missed you, my love. And how much I needed this."

You gently brush your fingers through his hair before you shift on the couch, so he can lay down on top of you, his face softly pressed against your cleavage.

“Every night I thought about you, about wanting to hold you in my arms, wanting to fall asleep with you in my arms.” 

Azriel is normally not one to talk much, so when he does you know he really means every little word he says, wants you to hear and know it. You know he often wants to make up for the time missed, the time you could have spent together hadn’t he been on a mission, although you always assure him that he doesn’t need to make up for it. That he doesn’t need to apologise–it’s his job, his duty, and you would never blame him for it.

“I did too,” you honestly tell him, letting your fingers dance down to the nape of his neck and even further down between his shoulder blades. You will massage his back tomorrow, you tell yourself when you feel the tension in his muscles.

“But now I have you back and everything is good.”

He hums and his breath is warm against your skin, tickling you a little. 

Moving your hand up again, you gently run your fingers through his hair. With a loud sigh, Azriel nestles more into you, his breathing slowing as he begins to drift off. The large Illyrian is not a light-weight but having him rest or sleep on top of you is simply a wonderful feeling, one you would never want to miss. It’s like a tight embrace, a big and warm hug and you love it.

You can feel how his body begins to relax more and more as he gives himself to the peace and comfort you provide him with. Finally he can calm down. 

And so he does, slowly falling asleep on top of you, your hands still caressing his hair.  And right before he truly enters the land of dreams, his eyes already tightly shut, his lips on your skin, he mumbles, “I love you, Y/N. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to … me…”

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tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @cadiawrites @bookishbroadwaybish @tele86 @fuckingsimp4azriel @kissesfromnovalie

[peachesofteal]

MELOS (PART THREE)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part two here / Melos masterlist Azriel/female reader - 6.6k words - AO3 Tags - 18+ mdni, explicit content, hurt/comfort, caretaking, possessive behavior, usual warning for Azriel's self loathing. Brief suicidal ideation. Azriel willing to rip anyone to shreds for threatening his mate, complicated IC dynamics, Amren sucks. Oral sex - fem receiving, little bit of edging, Dom/sub undertones, praise kink. canon compliant.

Fear.

It slams into him, shakes the bond so violently he almost drops out of the sky, forces him off course over the jagged peak of Illyria, urging him to follow the intensity of your panic towards Velaris. Gone is his assignment, his contact awaiting his visit, his work. One objective rises above it all.

You. 

The Palace of Bone and Salt is in shambles, but he hardly notices. Somewhere it registers in the back of his mind there’s been a quake, there are injuries, damage, but none of it matters.

The only thing that matters is his mate in front of him, trembling, eyes wide and glazed over, blood trickling down your face and blooming across your ribs. There’s a roaring sound between his ears, dread and rage and agony all compounding into a mounting explosion, and for a moment, he worries he might level the city for its crime of harming you.

Feyre is tense, and Cassian watches him warily. “What happened?”

“We found her under there,” he points to a dilapidated merchant’s stall, his stomach roiling at the sight of it, heavy stone counter cracked in half, wood and glass scattered across the ground, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

Not shock. Trapped in memories.

There’s a haunted look in your eye, a flicker of nightmares.

His brave girl. 

He holds himself at bay, holds himself back from shooting into the sky with you cradled to his chest, carrying you as fast as the wind will allow to Madja, or pulling you into a cloud of shadow so he can arrive uninvited in her living room.

“She needs a healer.” His jaw has never been clenched so tight. The smell of your blood is making him sick.

“We know,” Feyre tries to reassure him, but at the same time angles her body to block his path. Cassian shakes his head, because he knows, just as Feyre should, standing between a male and his mate is a very bad idea. He loves Feyre, but his affection for her is nothing compared to what he feels for you, and her behavior in this moment, is reckless. “Az,” she tries to caution him, tone pitching low, serious, “maybe you should back-“

Remove her, the shadows snap, she is in our way.

“You need a healer.” He pretends she doesn’t exist, pushes his anger as far away as he can manage, and addresses you instead. You shake your head.

“I need to go. Home. I need to go… home.” Cassian snorts. Azriel wonders if it’s possible to break his jaw in one punch.

You’re slipping, unsteady on your feet, going somewhere in your mind he cannot follow and his panic ratches upward as he says your name and you don’t respond.

“Feyre,” Cassian murmurs, “step back.” She stiffens, but listens, and he surges forward, unable to keep away any longer.

His heart sings as he cups your cheek. It’s the first time he’s touched you since his hands brought you harm, and he chokes on a breath as you lean into his touch, satin against scars. “Look at me,” he soothes, trying to draw you back to the present, but it’s a losing battle. You’re going to pass out, and you’re scared, he can read it all so clearly, scared to slip away in the dark, scared to succumb to the nightmare in your mind. “It’s okay.” I’m here, he wants to scream, you’re not alone. You fist his shirt and blink like you’re trying to clear the fog from your head, but it’s not enough.

In one moment, you’re here, you’re with him.

And in the next, you’re collapsing in his arms.

Time is so fickle.

There’s not enough of it now. For so long, his existence was a plague, an endless agony rife with shame, a life undeserving. He dreamt, multiple times, of falling out of the sky and into the Sidra, sinking to the bottom and letting the cold water fill his lungs. He never wanted more, not truly. He had no need for time.

Now, it’s all he wants. More time for more chances to tell you how sorry he is and kneel at your feet, beg you for forgiveness. More time to know you. To love you. Time to learn your likes and dislikes, what makes your nose wrinkle, what adds a skip to your step. Time to take you flying, to trek through the forest with you on an endless scavenger hunt, watch as you bite your lip and furrow your brow at Moonflower’s worktable.

If the Mother would give him another chance. 

If you would.

Time is fickle, because for months, he’s begged it to slow down, and now, he’s pleading with it to speed up, bring him to the moment where you wake.

Madja assured him you would make a full recovery within a day or two. She left a healing salve for the gash in your side, and some sleeping draught in case you were too uncomfortable to rest. You were exhausted, she told him, far weaker than she was comfortable with, body and magic wrung dry.

“Try to get her to eat something,” she said, “and then make sure she sleeps. She needs it. A lot of it.” 

The guilt is insurmountable. It chews away at his insides, burrows itself deep beneath his skin like a disease, rotting his flesh and mind. All he sees is your face, terrified, tormented, first in his dungeon and again, in the Palace. He sees you shuddering amongst the ruin, eyes rolling back in your head, collapsing in his arms. He can still hear your gasps, your pleas from that night, the steady thump of your heart slowing as he took your air, again and again. It’s these memories, these moments igniting in his chest, pain so visceral it aches, the agony of his mate’s suffering tearing him apart from the inside out. No matter the end of his story, of yours, there will always be this cordolium within him, this stark regret plaguing his every step. You’re so beautiful it possesses the power to break him, a strange, beautiful creature, breathtaking from the tip of your nose to the depths of your mind, and he’s a monster, lurking in your nightmares.

A beauty, and a beast.

You whimper and twitch in the blankets, hands fisted, limbs stiff. “Shhh,” he strokes the apple of your cheek. He's been able to settle you somehow, lull you back to peace thanks to the music spinning between your soul and his, threads knitting around the frail, fledging bond, pushing you to take comfort in him as you rest. It's more than he could ever ask for. “You’re okay, sweet girl. You’re safe.” Your sleep has been fitful, at best, and he wonders if he’s the one haunting you, or something else.

He's still in the chair beside the bed when you begin to blink groggily, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. You’re clouded with confusion, echoes of apprehension strumming down the bond, and he meets it, tempering it with reassurance in hope it reaches the other side. “Hey,” he murmurs, holding perfectly still like you’re a small animal and he’s the predator determined not to spook you as you push up onto your elbows with a groan. “Careful. The wound in your side is pretty raw.”

“Where am I?” you croak, and he reaches for the glass of water waiting on the table.

“My house. I didn’t think you’d take kindly to me breaking into yours.” Mostly true. He can’t deny there’s a warm hum of satisfaction purring in his chest at having you here, in his bed, safe within his walls, and he was too unsettled by the thought of bringing you to the River House, or the House of Wind, even though Feyre tried to insist.

Over the course of his life, Azriel’s loyalty, his dedication to his family, his court, has been instinctual, engrained in him down to the core, and his drive to protect his loved ones, Velaris, has been one of his defining features for centuries.

But this instinct has now shifted to you, and you are still an unknown to his High Lord.

“You brought me to your house…” You glance around, unsure. He knows how it seems. A venomous trap laid by him to ensnare you, to hold you here, by his side, forever. A way to feed poison into your veins, stun you, paralyze you, so he can steal you away, shield you from the world.

“You needed a healer, and rest. This was the logical option." You hold his gaze. It’s one of those instances, one of many, where there’s nothing else but you and him, nothing else that matters, nothing that even comes close. He wishes they could last forever. “I had to make sure you’re okay.” He braces for your wrath, the tart, sweet contrast of a raspberry, pinching the pockets of his cheeks and rolling across his tongue. He had a taste of it in the Middle, with the swamp, and now he craves it. Your fight, your cunning. Clever witchling. 

Your expression sours at the salve. “How bad is it?”

“A piece of marble crushed your ribs, and the jagged edge ripped your skin open. Madja says you’ll be healed in a day, but your body is exhausted and slowing the process. She left a sleep tonic, if you need it.” He murmurs, walking the line of too much and too little delicately, desperate to avoid crushing this fragile truce.

You shift, wincing, small yelp slipping free from between your teeth, and he stills you, brushing his hand along your arm before he can stop himself. “Easy.” The touch is electric, a live wire arcing through the room, crackling in the air, and he draws away out of fear, worry he’ll startle you. “We should get you home,” he says softly, and you nod. He won’t try to force it, push this farther. You won’t be comfortable here, and he’s cradling this burgeoning peace, fanning its flame, encouraging it to grow, trying to keep from ruining it. Working at something he's not sure he can achieve. 

“Yeah I… I think that’s a good idea.” You sit up slowly, leaning to one side to alleviate the pressure on your ribs. “How far is it? To my house?” He frowns.

“Far. We’re on the other side of the city. Do you think you can winnow?”

“I don’t know.” You try to wriggle closer to the side of the bed, but it’s fleeting, and your shoulders slump with defeat.

“I can take you, if you’d like.” You glance at his wings.  

“With those?”

“No, I wouldn’t fly with you in this cold.”

“With the shadows then.” You look down at your lap, and the weight of his choices crash like a wave upon his shoulders. The last time he took you through shadow, it was to the chamber, and then back. He swallows.

“It’s the quickest way.” You fix your gaze across the room, sweeping over his dresser, the nook lined with bookshelves and overstuffed velvet chairs, the chest of weapons on the opposite side. Charcoal grey drapes frame the floor to ceiling windows, aquamarine and citrine refracting through the stained-glass onto the deep, nearly black, green walls and polished wide plank wood floors.

“This is your room.” Your fingertips glide across the sheets, black satin, and his cheeks grow hot. 

“Yes.”

“It fits you.” Your lips tilt into the thinnest crescent moon, something akin to a tiny smile, and optimism soars in his heart.

You hold out your hand, the tattoo a mirror to his, the ink and magic of salvation, his contrition, the thing he now bows to, idolatrously.

Without it, he’d be lost.

You take a long, deep breath and uncurl your fingers, opening your palm. The small sliver of trust knocking his entire existence askew.

The meaning of this-

This trust you deign to place in him now, when you’re vulnerable, when your magic is feeble and your physical strength is sapped, is an infinitesimal gift, divinity defying all.

Unworthy. Another thing you’re giving him that he’s unworthy of.

The threads sing, weaving notes together, highs and lows, one side of a fugue, one side still waiting.

Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you graze your fingertips against his. “You’ll take me home then?”

He’s not sure he can leave you here.

She’s in pain, the shadows bemoan as they carefully flutter at your ankles. You’re too fatigued to notice, too busy contemplating the stairs with trepidation. Climbing them is a daunting task, one he fears you may fail. You’re hurting, completely exhausted, and he’s powerless. He can’t fix it or take it away, like everything else that’s happened. Your eyes are nearly dead, drained, and the shadows flitter around you anxiously. She cannot hold herself up. 

I know.                                                                   

“Can I help you up the stairs?” You shake your head vehemently, and like you’re trying to prove something, attempt to take the first step on shaky legs, gripping tight to the banister like it will keep you steady.

Your knees give out immediately, and his self-restraint vanishes. He lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, petrichor and oakmoss flooding his senses, and you don't even flinch. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, “let me help.”

“I’m tired,” you whisper, voice smaller than he’s ever heard, and he tightens his hold.

“I know. Let’s get you into bed, alright?” Weak limbed and limp, you slump against him, giving yourself over. More trust, more of these things he does not deserve. 

“Madja said your bandage won’t need to be changed before you’re healed, so you won’t have to worry about that tomorrow.” He carefully guides you back against your pillows, trying to ignore how caring for you, holding you, being here with you ignites a swath of feelings in him, possessiveness, protective instincts, obsession. Devotion. The rage, the hatred, the darkness haunting him slips into silence, drowned out by the music, the melody overtaking all.

“Okay,” you mumble, trailing off into a yawn as you squint at him. He wants to stay right here, sitting on the edge of your bed, his hip against your thigh, the neutral, barely there contact chasing off the stygian sullenness waiting to welcome him back to its embrace.

Don’t push it. 

He stands. You follow the movement, head tipping back, exposing your throat. Such a vulnerable place, one he greatly wants to drag his lips across. “I’ll let you sleep.” He says instead, stifling the pleasure surging in his blood at the way your eyes track him. He swears he seems a flicker of sadness there, but it’s gone before he can truly process it, hold on it, commit it to memory. When you don’t say anything else, he nods, drawing a sable shroud around his shoulders, readying to step into-

“Azriel,” he freezes, catching your gaze, “thank you.”

“Of course.” He’d do anything for you, little witch. Anything you asked. 

“I’ll see you next week?” There’s a tinge of trepidation on your tongue but it’s not fear. It’s uncertainty. His lips lift into a smile, a genuine one, one that only exists around you.

“Next week.”

He’s summoned almost immediately, and arrives in Rhys’ office to find an audience of his brother and Feyre, Amren, Cassian. The only one missing is Mor.

He quiets himself. Hides everything inside, pulls the shadows close, reinforces the walls around his mind. “What is it?”

“What is it?” Rhys hisses, anger flashing through the room’s thickened fog of magic. “What is it?” Azriel slips into the mask, the one he perfected long ago, and crosses his arms. A mirror image of the father he hated.

“Your mate is a witch.” He looks to Cassian, who shakes his head. He didn’t do it, didn’t betray the secret, this turbulent reality.

It was bad enough they discovered he had a mate in the first place, but disappearing for two weeks, without communication, has its consequences, and he has a hard time denying Feyre anything. When she asked where he had been, what had caused him to leave so suddenly without word, everything came out.

Almost everything. 

“She’s not a witch, her mother was.”

“So she’s only half a witch,” Amren says drily, rolling her eyes. The shadows rumble, rankle with rage. 

“I could smell it, Az, but she’s done nothing wrong. We don’t want to interrogate her.” Feyre looks at him with sympathy, and he only regards her with that same cool stare. Rhys who appears to be of a different mind, snarls at him.

“You will bring her to me, immediately, and I will determine what kind of-“

“No. She is none of your concern.” He will not play this game. He will not give Rhys a single second with you, if this is his intention.

“She is a witch, living in my Court!”

“And do you not trust my ability to evaluate a threat?” It takes everything, everything he has, to keep his tone measured. Cassian’s eyes dart between the two of them and then clears his throat.

“He tortured her, Rhys.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, “he is blinded by a mating bond.” He turns his attention back to Azriel, raw power crackling through the air between them. “You will bring her to me, or I will retrieve her myself, and you will not like what happens if I do.”

The room explodes in shadow. Midnight closes in from all sides, climbing the walls, crawling across the floor.

The bond thirsts for battle and blood, for his brother’s head, and Azriel’s vision tunnels, soaked in crimson, in wrath, malevolence worthy of a smote god.

Amren stands. Cassian takes a step forward.

“You would threaten my mate? Is this what we’ve come to?” He’s descended past reason now, encased in an icy coffin of fury, and his siphons gleam, the killing power inside him salivating at the potential for violence. For destruction.

His people are monsters, and so shall he be. 

To protect you, to protect his mate, he’d become anything, a brute, a nightmare, it makes no difference.

“Az, let’s-“

“Cassian.” He seethes, refusing to take his eyes from Rhys, “while you may be more amenable to how your mate is treated by our brother, I am not.” Guilt flashes in Rhys’ gaze, and a breath catches in Feyre’s throat with a small, strangled sound.

“This is ridiculous. Just bring the girl and be done with it.” Amren snorts, casually inspecting her fingernails to appear as if she’s unaffected, but Azriel knows better. The shadows know her heart, her truths, how she mourns the loss of what she once was, how she loathes the fact that she’s High Fae. How she’s all too aware of her weakened state, hiding behind her posturing and assumed infinite wisdom that's slowly becoming irrelevant. Like her.

“Amren. Shut up.” Cassian bites out, his siphons casting a rubied glow around the room, mixing with Azriel’s cobalt blue, painting them together into deep purple hues.

“You will never touch my mate, Rhys. Never.” His brother’s face sparks with surprise and then his lip curls.

“Or what?”

“Rhys!” Feyre whips towards him, horror and disappointment settled into the furrow of her brow. “This is enough.” She looks at Azriel. “We trust your judgement Az, of course we do, and Rhys forgets I met her in the Palace saving a child’s life.” She hisses, her own power pulsing between the brothers, creating a physical barrier.

It’s not wrapped tight to Azriel, but to Rhys.

It seems his brother has been outranked.

We can break it, the shadows croon.

No. 

This is his family, dysfunctional as it may be, as tumultuous it may be, they are still his.

Rhys is still his brother. His High Lord.

“Let’s take a breath, cool off.” Feyre coaxes, nudging at the fortress of Azriel’s mind. Go. I will speak to him.

Don’t bother. 

He will listen to reason, just… give it some time. 

He spares Rhys one more glance as his wings flex and shakes his head. “I am disappointed in you, brother. I had hoped by now you would have learned from your mistakes.”

He expects another challenge of some sort. “No swamp today?”

“No swamp.” You lead him to your workspace in the back of Moonflower, a light, airy space with shelves and shelves full of herbs, flowers, plants growing from glass jars, and hunk of rocks, precious metals, strips of steel haphazardly tucked beside them, all chaotic, all disorganized. Like your home, it’s fitting. “I figured you could hang out with me while I work.” It’s a trial in its own way, daring him to protest, to vanish, to be bored by you, disinterested.

He won’t. He’d never.

“What are you making?” The table is full of stuff. Books, a mortar and pestle, a brass scale. There’s a long, sharp knife next to a thick stalk of something purple that smells like lemon, flanked by two glass beakers, and a heaping pile of salt. A raised metal circle holds a sphere over open flame, its contents a cyan rich liquid just on the cusp of a boil.

“Today I’m trying to finish a batch of contraceptive tea, and a cleanser.”

“A cleanser?”

“It’s an elixir that pulls poison from the body. All the healers in Velaris keep it stocked. Works well for a hangover too.” You bless him with another smile, the second one today, and he tucks it away for when sleep struggles to come and he needs something to cling to.

You pin him with assessing eyes. Anything could roll from your tongue, a question, a request to fulfill the bargain, a demand to never see him again, and the precipice is agony. He wonders if this is how it would be to fall without wings, drop out of the sky and plummet towards the mountains, jump from a cliff and crash into the sea. Would his heart pound the same, lungs scream the same? Would he experience peace, the same he feels in your presence, would his past flash before his eyes, would his family, or you? Conflict shivers from behind your walls towards him, twisting through the bond. “You owe me an explanation, and while I… I do need to hear it, desperately... there are other things that weigh on me. The fact that you know well enough about me but I know very little about you." You draw a pattern through the heap of salt, suddenly distant. It passes, and you blow out a long breath. "Azriel… who are you?” He frowns.

“I am… the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, I’m-“

“No. What are you, if not those things, the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster. Who are you?”

“I…” the answer doesn’t come and there’s suddenly a nest of cotton muffling sound and thought, spinning tangled webs throughout his brain. Who is he? 

“I'm clever,” you lift your nose and smirk, tracing the rim of the glass beaker to make low whistle tones, “and a friend. I make a very good honeysuckle whiskey cocktail, and I love to read. I’m a hunter too, of fungi and moss, the occasional crystal. I'm an alchemist, I balance nature and magic. I’m a daughter.” Your voice hitches on the last word, vowels pulled apart at the edges, longing lingering on your lips. It pains you. Another puzzle in the long list of surprises, another riddle you’ve posed without an answer, a truth he struggles to find. “Try,” you whisper, ever watchful.

“I’m a bastard.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the stain upon his life since the day he was born. “And an Illyrian,” a brute, a monster, “I’m exceptionally skilled at causing pain and killing. I am warrior, a fighter. I have turned suffering into art. I am…” he doesn’t look at you. You’re the only thing capable of making him feel real fear, fear of your pain or suffering or anguish, the fear of your rejection, the fear of your disgust, and he can’t bring himself to see it on your face. “I am alone.” He braces for the pity, the same sharp sympathy given to him by his family.

“Well. Those are awful.” His gaze snaps to yours. You’re aggravated, and curious.

Always curious, our girl. 

She is, isn’t she? 

“You’re a brother, aren’t you? And an uncle?” He nods. “So, not alone. And you’re a bastard, probably mocked for it, hurt for it, but here you are, so I imagine you’re perseverant, strong. Strong in the physical sense too.” You peek at his shoulders, his arms, traveling down his chest before redirecting your attention to his face, somewhat abashed. “U-um, you’re-“

“Clever. Like you.”  

“Clever, like me. Brave too, I think, and probably devoted, loyal, considering your line of work.”

“Yes,” he whispers, symphony rising, notes colliding with perfect pitch, ringing in ears, a celestial rhythm waiting for the crescendo to match.

“Loved.” It’s a blazing star shooting across the sky, a buttery sweet sentiment melting in his mouth, loved.

“You didn’t list it for yourself.”

“Because it didn’t belong.” Loved? You don’t consider yourself loved?

“Why?”

“Because there is no one left. I am a good friend, a great one, but my secret prevents others from being a good friend to me. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly.” It crashes into him, the severity of your words. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly. 

Is he known? Truly known? Is he loved? 

Molten silver bubbles over from the sphere to a beaker, polychrome and pearl trickling down the sides, sizzling into a powder at the bottom. “Ah!” You jerk away from the table, bringing your hand to your chest, and he goes cold, shadows vibrating.

“What?” He’s around the corner and in front of you immediately,  

“It’s nothing, the silver just dripped on me.” You burned yourself. His chest tightens. 

“Let me see.” He cradles your hand in his, shadows quivering around your fingertip as he pulls you over to the tap. He turns the handle to the right temperature, cool but not cold, before putting your blistered skin under the spigot. If he’s fast enough, he can stop it from scarring, stop it from marring your lovely skin, prevent it from being with you for the rest of your life. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” You’re not looking at the water splashing down into the copper sink, or the burn. Instead, you're studying him, contemplating, considering.

“Do you have any cream here? Or maybe one of the salves you make...” He trails off, trying to think about what he’s seen in the shop out front, but everything he means to ask dies in his throat when you wrap your other hand around his.

“I’m okay, Azriel.” Right. Of course you are. It’s a small burn, not even the width of your fingertip. Suddenly, he feels very, very foolish, exposed, and he ties a cloak of obsidian around his shoulders, pulling the tendrils down around his forearms.

“Sorry, I-“

“I know.” You caress the shadows curling around his elbow, dancing through them with grace, inspecting, studying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper, and his throat tightens.

“There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” You shake your head.

“There is… there has to be because I should you hate you, shouldn’t I?”

“You should.” You should do more than hate him, you should fear him, detest him, run from him.

“But I don’t. I don’t hate you, I’m not scared, and I don’t think it’s the safety net of the bargain. I don’t… I don’t understand it. I’m not frightened of you, but I am… I’m frightened of this.” Your palm flattens over your heart. He should tell you; he should confess-

but then he could lose you. 

“I should tell you to leave, but all I want to tell you is you’re not alone.” He tries to dig his heels into the ground against the magnetism dragging him downward, farther and farther until he’s holding your face, nearly nose to nose, counting your breaths, each speck in your irises. Decision and indecision hums down the bond, an endless tug of war you fight, a battle he wants so badly to win for you. You push up onto your tiptoes- 

and then crash your lips to his. 

It’s hungry, lush, teeming with life like your beloved forest. You unknowingly push it all through the bond, desire, confusion, worry, each feeling a chord, a note, trying to complete the song. He’s losing himself in it, veering off the path and diving headfirst into the unknown, too incensed to think for a moment before he wrests his discipline back into place.

Stop.

Control.

He rests his forehead against yours as he draws a measured breath.

His. He’ll show you what it means. To be his.

“You are perfect,” he presses a ghostly kiss to the corner of your mouth, “brilliant, kind, brave. You are far more than I deserve, a blessing I never knew could exist. A goddess I would worship my entire life.” An endless pool of hesitance and longing eddies in your eyes, a paradox he knows too well, and he prepares to step away, disappear, run. 

But you reach for him with a whisper.

“Worship me then.”

Fervor. Frenzy. It all explodes, detonates through him to you, whipping down the bond again and again, madness ebbing at the edge of his mind.

His. His, his, his. 

The two of you collide, and he’s rough, unintentionally, but it’s met blow for blow in a distorted dance, hands, fingers, mouths everywhere, his tongue against yours. It’s not enough, your touch under his shirt, traveling up to his shoulders, a leisurely stroll becoming a hectic sprint, encouraging him, knitting your fingers in his hair, nipping at his jaw. He plucks the ribbon tying the neckline of your dress together, your breasts spilling out into his hands.

“Azriel,” you’re whimpering, rolling your hips against the thigh he’s nudged between your legs, shivering as drags his thumbs across your nipples and follows with his teeth, sharp for the sweet, “don’t tease.”

Wild one. 

The shadows sweep everything off the worktable, and he lays you back, hiking the skirt up over your belly, dragging soft kisses on your skin beneath your navel as he spreads your knees wide, wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, exposing a pair of black panties, weeping pussy waiting for him underneath.

He has no patience and twists his fingers in the hem, tearing the fabric away from your body. “Cauldron,” he murmurs, running his knuckles up and down your seam, enjoying how you shiver each time he teases a little pressure against your clit. “Look at you-  beautiful everywhere.” Dawn in a drizzle, your scent makes his mouth water, and his cock aches, painfully heavy. This is not about him, it’s about you, as all things are now.

He'll have plenty of time, he prays, plenty of time inside you, plenty of time to bury his cock in your slick, warm cunt. 

He kneels. Kneels at the altar, kneels for you. This is veneration, the cleansing of his soul. He’ll make himself worthy, through fire, through ash.

You, you, it’s all you. 

The bond is insatiable, it shrieks like a banshee in the night, his side slamming against yours again and again, hungry and hunting, trying to crash through the sky-high brambles blocking its path.

His. His. Hishishishis- 

“Azriel,” you whimper, practically vibrating, fidgeting on the table, fingers gripping the edge. You go taut as he pulls your thighs over his shoulders and leans in to finally put his mouth on you, tasting, flicking his tongue over your swollen pearl. He’s too broad between your knees, the width of him leaving you completely exposed, every nerve ending on display, every drop of dew ready for him to drink. The size difference is startling, pleasing, and he rumbles his approval into your cunt, tracing your clit with a pointed tongue.

He wants to make you come so badly, but the fiend in him wants to play. “Can you take a finger?” You manage to rasp out a yes, and he feeds you one, unable to look at away at how you clench around it, pressing up past the knuckle, making you sing for him. “That’s it,” he works slowly, pushing and pulling as you arch on the table, toes curling against his shoulder blades, digging into his flesh, “good girl.” You’re tight, tight enough a second finger fills you, tight enough you squeak a little when he kicks them upward, searching for the spot, the one likely to make to go limp.

“Az,” you tug at his hair, and he kisses your pussy, mouth soaked, almost drowning in silken sap, fresh rain, salted earth, the strange and beautiful taste of you.

“Just a bit more,” he finds the textured velvet space and strokes, pinning your hip to the table with his free hand. “There it is, be still,” he croons, pleased when you listen, stammering something like yes and please, panting between syllables. Your nails scratch against the wood, walls clutching his fingers as you writhe, greedy, insatiable, wild as nature intended you to be.

He circles your clit with his tongue and your knees instinctively try to jolt closed, but he shakes his head, correcting you, commanding or coaching, lines too blurred to tell the difference. “Keep your legs open, sweet girl, nice and wide for me so I can make you come.”

 “P-please, please.” Your spine arches and you grip the hand on your hip tight, rising to the crest of the wave he knows is about to crash down. He balances you there, just on the swell, pushing harder on the spot inside you, listening to the way your breath catches. “Ah, fuck, it’s t-too much-” you kick your feet and hiccup, head rolled to the side, eyes wide and brighter than the full moon, tears starting to gather on your lashes.

He'll eat you alive, lick you clean right to the bone, inhale you. Swallow you. Keep you inside himself forever, keep you safe and sheltered. Hidden away.  

“I know, I know,” he coos. Normally he’d make you wait, drag it out until you were a mess far past this while he edged you into madness, but now is not the right time, the right moment.

Still. His blood yearns for it. For your tears, for the way you’d cry as he bounced you on his cock, as his body buried yours into his mattress, as he split you open, fucked you full of his cum.

But for now, this will have to do.

“Poor thing. Does it ache, sweetheart? Do you need to come?”

“Y-yeah, I need it please… I need… I need you.” I need you. If this is all he gets, if this is all he’s earned and it crumbles afterwards, he’ll hold onto those words, treasuring them with his last breath. I need you. He kisses your thigh and then sweeps over your clit, licking and lapping, coaxing your release until you break apart, clapping a hand over your mouth to smother your strangled scream. He praises you- my good girl, look at you, did so well, so perfect- and wrings every last drop of it from your body, only rising from between your legs once you’ve stopped twitching.

Your face is slack, sloped in a small delirious smile, and he licks his fingers clean, kisses the inside of your knee. “Are you with me?”

“Mhmm.” You try to hop down and end up stumbling forward, face planting directly into his chest. His arms come around you on instinct, cupping the back of your head, cradling it, skimming his nose along your hair and breathing as deep as he can, filling his lungs with forest and fauna, fresh snow in the twilight of the first winters day.

Don’t let go, don’t.

Everything in him is warm, at peace. Idyllic.

Your hand creeps across his thigh. “I can…”

“No,” he pulls your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss to each one, slowly, savoring, “not today.”  An easy smile spreads across his face at the sight of your blown pupils, swollen lips, but the bond thrums with confusion, unease.

“Do you not want me to…”

“I want to have you in any way conceivable, witchling,” he strokes your cheek, “but not here.” Your worktable is in shambles, and as if you forgot, you grimace and huff, pulling away. “I can help-“

“No, it’s fine.” The things scattered to each end begin to arrange themselves, finding their rightful places, glass beakers and molten silver, crushed bundles of herbs and finely ground powders all returning to how they were as if nothing ever happened, tinge of damp foliage and peeling birch rolling around you in a cloud.

“Neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” you protest, affronted, and his stomach drops.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ The side of your mouth quirks playfully, and he closes the gap, curls an arm around your waist as you place your palms on his chest, laughing. Just the brief sound of your happiness might kill him, stop his heart. He finds the curve of your ass instinctively and squeezes, kneads the flesh hard enough you suck in a sharp breath.

“Little brat.” He could take you right now. He wants to. Flip your dress up all over again and bend you over the table, pressing your cheek to the wood and kicking your legs open. You’d still be wet, wanting, pussy swollen and tight, milking his cock as he made you come on it until you couldn’t hold yourself up any longer.

Not now. 

This, whatever this is, this step forward, this rebuilding of what could have been, is fragile, so incredibly tenuous it terrifies him. A small light trying to swell in a sea of sombrous fog, fighting for a chance to shine.

Anything could snuff it out.

“Our next… meeting won’t be until the very end of next week.” The sun is setting over the city, bathing it in a spectrum of opalescence orange-gold streaked with violet, it’s beauty paling in comparison to the brilliance of yours.

“Why?”

“I’m travelling.”  A ripple of tension cascades along his spine. He planned other things for this conversation, hoped to broach the subject of the Solstice ball and ask you to accompany him, but now…

“Where?” The bond rumbles in apprehension, echoing from both sides, his wings rustling in response.

“Spring.” Absolutely not.

“No.” You glare at him.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

“I’m aware.” He should soften his tone, tread carefully, but the monster inside, the one fused to the bond overrides sensibility, caution, showing his true colors. Brute. Bastard. Illyrian. 

“I-“

“I’ll go with you.” Balance. You sigh.

“I am fine on my own, Azriel.”

“I know.” But he’s not. “As you said earlier, I still owe you an explanation.” That gives you pause, your scrutiny harsh and piercing, more lethal than the fine point of a blade.

Finally, you acquiesce with a nod. “You do.”

“Let’s use that time for it then.” Please. He’s always pleading, digging a deeper hole, dragging himself across broken glass.

The bond is tightrope, one strung from his soul to yours. He tugs it towards his side, trying to drag yours from the vadon, flush your indecipherable thoughts free from the forest of your mind.

Eventually, your hard-bitten expression turns conciliatory and though you cross your arms in front of your chest, you bite out an agreement, teeth gnashed, defiance glittering in your gaze.

“Fine.”

[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part five

Pairing: Eris x Azriel x reader | WC: 6k | warnings: general angst, canon violence, blood, loose medical stuff that likely doesn’t make sense

Summary: avoiding Azriel only works for so long when he uses Rhysand to get you to see Eris one more time. You’re more than shocked when your meeting is ambushed, wounds making you reconsider things.

A/N: we’re insecure, and we don’t know what for! Anyway please enjoy 💕

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After Azriel had left you in the bathroom, you stood there for what had to have been hours, the last remnants of his warmth clinging to the air around you. You had never felt so alone, his rejection an intense sting you were certain branded your soul.

Your chest felt heavy with his presence. At some point in the night you had finally figured out how to shut him out. The iron was heavy as it shackled your heart, cutting off the mate who was supposed to protect you, not knowing he was who you needed protection from.

Sleep didn’t come to you that night and it was a battle the next night to sleep for even a few hours. Your mind felt stale and stagnated, yearning for the fixation that was his journals. Azriel had given the most recent one to you just before rejecting you, not even having the chance to crack the spine yet. His confession that Eris was above you still stung too much.

You spent most of your time outside of work now laying in bed, unable to stop your thoughts from analyzing every angle of your entire relationship with Azriel. You hardly slept, no idea how much time had passed in the stillness of your grief.

Rotting in bed was an option both Nesta and the House did not appreciate - the latter stopped giving you full meals, the former making her way into your room this afternoon informing you that you would be seen at dinner so she had proof you were alive and eating.

The last people you wanted to see were happily mated couples, practically rubbing their mateship in your face just by existing. The Mother was surely testing you in some way, and you weren’t sure if you could handle the outcome of failing.

You had left your room one singular night during your solitude. The moon had been bright through the windows as you snuck to the library, leaving a note for Clotho to deliver a book on failed mating bonds to your room in the House of Wind.

It was an unusual request, but you knew Clotho would do it. You spent many nights in the library pouring over textbooks, dropping off various sweets for Clotho and the other priestesses in offering and thanks for their help.

By the next afternoon the book was on your bedside table, placed there by the house no doubt to ease your embarrassment from the nosey eyes of Cassian. Now the book on broken bonds sat on top of the last journal you had gotten from Azriel, taunting you with your future within its pages.

They were all going to find out eventually that Azriel had rejected you, but that left you in an even more impossible situation. Reaching out for comfort from your friends meant Azriel’s secret mating with Eris became public knowledge. No matter how mad or upset you were with the both of them, that was a line you refused to cross.

Would Nesta and Cassian kick you out? If Azriel didn’t want you, surely you’ve lost the friendships you’ve made the past few years with his family?

Maybe you’ll move to Spring. Tamlin surely won’t notice if you just picked a spot and built a house.

You put your head in your hands, wanting to claw the possibilities out to find which one would save you from this grief.

Your self imposed isolation hadn’t kept you safe from seeing Azriel. You had asked Cassian to fly you home from work, a job he did with delight. You avoided dinners, changed your entire schedule to maximize your potential to avoid him.

And yet you’d pass him in the hallway, see him in the stairs, and find him in the kitchen. He was everywhere, each appearance only pissing you off further. Every time you ignored him, even going so far as to bump him with your shoulder when passing by.

But he never said anything. Just looked in your direction, his eyes not catching the light like they used to. His shadows don’t even follow you around anymore. They clung to Azriel like a second skin as if holding him upright.

Were you a failure? Had any other fae had such a short mating? Was it even truly a mating?

Your anger had been simmering for a while, but now as you descended the steps to dinner, your rage was palpable, nearly carrying it with you like Azriel does with his shadows. You craved it, needed it to hold you through seeing him, having to pretend he hasn’t laughed in the face of the Mother and carved out your heart.

But your anger was for naught as you approached the dining room. Azriel wasn’t there amongst the faces of his family, a rarity for the House of Wind. Usually dinners consisted of Nesta, Cassian, and Azriel, but tonight Rhys and Feyre were in attendance, a small Nyx situated on Feyre’s left.

Your fury tampered down, taking it off the heat and letting it cool down as you walked in, all eyes turning to you.

“Just in time! Now can we eat, Nes?” Cassian was impatient, his fork already in hand, clearly waiting for the second you showed up.

“Let her sit down first, Cassian.” Rhysand laughed. “Or perhaps you’re going to gnaw on her legs, hm?”

The growl of Cassian’s stomach rippled through the air, his body’s own testament to the discomfort it felt.

“Go ahead and dig in, I wouldn’t want Cassian to starve.” Cassian let out a ‘thank you’ between mouthfuls as you sat across from Nesta. She watched as you sat, her eyes tracking as you picked up the tongs to plate your food. She didn’t relax until you began eating, and even then it was only enough for her to eat.

You watched her watch you, confused about her intensity, not even paying attention to Rhys and Feyre’s light teasing of each other.

It was wonderful that they had happiness with each other. Good for them. You stabbed your chicken with a bit more force, chewing slowly, putting on a show for whatever Nesta was watching for.

“Azriel should be back in time tomorrow.” It was almost comical how quickly your ears tuned into the conversation at his name.

“In time for what? What’s going on tomorrow?” It was the first words you had spoken, and you didn’t notice the glances they all shot to each other. Rhys turned his attention to you, violet eyes kind as he spoke.

“You and Azriel will be seeing Eris tomorrow.”

“We are?” The incredulity of your tone could be heard from streets away, other family dinners halting at the annoyed tone that floated on the breeze.

“Yes, he told me Eris is quite chatty with you. Azriel left word that Eris had something important to share and that it was urgent the two of you met with him.”

You blinked a few times, trying to push your anger aside to make way for the bewilderment. Had Eris called for this? Or was it Azriel, finally wishing to put an end to this?

Your heart hammered, the string around it pulsating tighter, worried it would be broken and left unraveled to slosh around inside your chest for eternity.

“Maybe Eris likes you.” Cassian made kissing sounds at you. Your eyes remained fixed on Rhysand, as if the longer you looked the more answers you’d get. He tilted his head, the slight caress of a claw tapping onto your mental shields the only thing to get you out of your trance.

“Don’t be gross, Cass.” Feyre chided despite her giggles. “I don’t think he’s capable of enjoying anything.”

“Eris likes fresh blood.”

“So did Amren.”

“Rhys, I’m not sure if I should go.” You broke up their joking, finally responding to Rhys’s prodding. You were pleading with your High Lord, trying to make him understand you can’t.

“I know he’s a bit much, but if Azriel’s right and Eris has some soft spot for you, it’d be in our best interest to exploit it.”

How far Cassian had been from the truth. Eris would delight in nothing more than ripping out your arteries with his teeth.

You nodded silently, looking back to your plate, pushing the peas around. You don’t say another word, you’re not even keeping watch of Nesta before retiring for the evening.

-

Rhysand hadn’t given you a time to expect to leave, so you spent the morning working with Madja, telling her you’d have to leave at noon to attend to some affairs Rhysand had asked of you. The older fae was annoyed, her wrinkles deepening, but she kept her mouth shut before walking off, muttering something about young males in power.

A few patients had come in, mostly to have previous injuries checked for an all clear. The cold snap in Velaris had left several fae slipping on ice, many twisted ankles keeping you busy the past few weeks.

You left promptly at noon, saying goodbye to Madja before heading out. Seeing your most recent patients had you checking every step for ice, ensuring sure footing before fully putting your weight down as you headed to the end of the road, already seeing the tips of Cassian’s wings.

You bundled yourself in your coat, burying your face into your scarf as you began mentally preparing yourself for seeing Azriel. Eris you could handle - he was cruel, but manageable. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. But Azriel kept popping in and out, handling you delicately and with care before shattering you unexpectedly. Your heart was beating faster at the thought of seeing him, while also sinking deep into your stomach.

Your eyes followed the cobblestones, being mindful of any patches of ice, too busy to notice until you were right in front of him that it wasn’t Cassian you had seen. His blue chest siphon m was the first thing you saw, a soft expletive leaving your lips before you could stop it.

“Hello to you too.”

You finally looked up, his shadows peeking out from the collar of his leathers, tracing up his neck in beautiful patterns. You nodded in greeting.

“Where’s Cassian?”

“We’re heading straight for Spring, so I told him I could come by and get you.”

It was painfully silent as the two of you stood there, Azriel’s head moving constantly to try to catch your eye. His annoyance flared up in your chest, and you were too absorbed in it to shut it down.

“Talk to me.” His voice was pleading, but with a sharp edge.

“I don’t want to.” Your tone was petulant, a childishness to it that was uncommon.

“Why not?”

“You’ve made your opinion of me very clear. Besides, don’t you need Eris’s permission to talk to me first?” He sighed, the siphon on his chest glowing slightly. “Surely he’ll be upset you had to hold onto me to winnow here. Maybe he’ll have soap on hand to scrub your hands of me once and for all.”

“You’re being childish.”

“Can we just get this over with? I know why we’re here and I don’t exactly want to linger for a long time.”

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at the curtness in your tone, but you couldn’t be bothered with niceties anymore. You were exhausted of chasing after him, begging for his attention, just for it to always be on Eris. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could move on.

He reached his hands out, gently scooping you into his arms. You took care not to dive nose first into his neck like last time, not wanting his scent to overpower you or make you spiral further.

The bond inside of you was rattling in your ribcage, desperate for you to fight, to snark, to do something to get Azriel’s attention. But you blocked it out, only looking ahead for the entirety of the flight.

The two of you landed in the familiar spot, an earthy scent clinging to the air. The spot was empty, and you felt Azriel’s stomach drop in disappointment at the knowledge through the bond. Your hand rubbed across your face before you quickly tampered down the bond, not wanting to know how they’re feeling about this.

The two of you waited for several minutes. The chittering of the forest was loud, heightening the awkward silence. It was so green and bright in Spring, the plant growth nearly blinding after the intense snowfall Night had been experiencing.

You felt Azriel’s eyes on you, hazel irises unwilling to depart from your form. Your name was a soft exhale from his lips, a pleading tone that would have sent past you spiraling. It only furthered your resolve.

“Don’t do that. I’m only here out of duty to Rhysand. My High Lord asked this of me, and frankly, it’ll likely be the last time Eris ever sees me.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m done. Clearly the Mother was wrong and clearly you and Eris both know that. It’s just taken me until now to figure that out myself.”

“That’s not true.”

You finally looked at him. Your beautiful, beautiful mate, who had always been so kind to you. He had been nothing more than a charade, a carefully crafted story to deter from his actual mate. You straightened your shoulders to gather your words, trying to voice your exact thoughts.

“No, Azriel. I’m done being your second choice, I’m done being strung along. I don’t want that for me, and as my mate, you shouldn’t want it either. So treat me with the respect I deserve and recognize I’m only here because of Rhys’s asking. You and Eris have made your opinions of me very clear.”

Azriel opened his mouth, but rage flew from yours. The dam had broken, and now a flood was headed directly for the shadowsinger.

“Was it just so I wouldn’t say anything about you and Eris? Was that why you kept stringing me along? Keep your precious bond between you and Eris, keep it to yourselves, I no longer want any part of it.” It felt incredible to say the words aloud, to try to get the point across. But his face twisted with anger, his wings twitching behind him.

“You were never just a secret keeper. You’re my friend, you’re important to me. I told you about Eris in an effort to show you something! I’m trying to reprioritize, but it’s hard.”

For the first time in ages, a shadow moved from Azriel’s body, swirling around you. You were too caught up to notice the little thing, its attempts to calm you down failing.

“Azriel, when have you ever prioritized me? Every time something happens, you’re gone.”

“What do you want me to do? Eris is my mate.”

“And what am I?”

The question cut through Azriel, slicing between his ribs, the pain fracturing through his chest. He didn’t get a chance to reply before Eris materialized in the woods.

Eris was in more regal attire now, a vest covering his tunic that was likely thousands of hours of embroidery. The stiff collar made his jawline seem sharper, his features even more cutting in such regalia. Eris blended into the trees, making the natural world bend a knee to his beauty.

“I see the two of you are incapable of leaving me alone.” He didn’t even look at the pair of you, looking instead at his manicured nails. Filed to a point, the red polish made it look as if blood were dripping from his fingertips.

“Eris, stop.”

“It’s fine, Azriel. I came on your invitation, after all. What is this most pressing matter?”

“We need to talk.”

“Think of that all by yourself?”

“Shut up, Eris. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know anything going on in your life as of late.”

You looked up, surprised at that tidbit. Maybe you weren’t the only one uncertain of where you stood with the shadowsinger.

“I’m trying to figure it out, Eris.” Azriel’s words were icy, coming from some deep, dark depths of himself.

“What is there to figure out?”

The pause after Eris’s question was too still. The forest was quiet, all birdsong gone. Not even insect chittering to fill the gaps. The world was still outside of the three of you. You looked up into the canopy above you, a chill going down your spine.

“Azriel, I asked you-“

The sound that cut off Eris was a quick burst of wind as an arrow came whizzing past. Azriel was the first to move, pushing you onto the ground, his body laying on top of yours, sheltering you. You pushed against him, trying to get up, trying to see, but he wasn’t budging. Panic flooded you as his wings formed a cocoon around the two of you, what should have been a womb of safety felt more like a cage.

Wood splintered as arrows hit trees, impossible to tell how many fae were targeting the three of you. It sounded like hundreds of arrows, each whizzing past at speeds that could easily kill.

Your breathing quickened as a new worry overtook you: had Azriel been shot? Was he injured?

And where was Eris?

Azriel grunted into your ear, his body jolting. His arms cradled your head, not even a slither of light coming through. This darkness was so different from the one that followed Azriel. It felt nearly suffocating, not even his shadows pittered about in it. It felt cold and hopeless

You could hear the roar of flames beyond the shelter of Azriel’s body, the crackling getting closer to the pair of you. Sweating and breathing heavy, it felt like Azriel’s body weighed even more. You tried to push him off again, but your ragged breathing made it even harder.

Something reached through Azriel’s body, a warm touch gripping your wrist. A flicker of light made it through, not enough for you to see anymore than a blinding white. Suddenly the world shifted, the mud beneath you hardening into wood floors. Azriel’s body was heavier now, his weight digging into you.

“Push.” A muffled voice came from somewhere beyond Azriel, nearly muffled by his body. Fear struck through you - was this whoever had ambushed you? Was Azriel the intended target and you were simply a bystander?

Or was Eris the target, carted off to some court while they dealt with the witnesses?

Despite the panic, your heart tugged in the direction of the voice, practically guiding your arms to push Azriel from you. As you did, more and more light filtered to your eyes, his shadows clinging tight to his body, securing their master’s wounds.

Pale hands wrapped around Azriel’s torso, and you thought you’d never be so happy to see the ring clad fingers of the Vanserra. It took a moment, but Eris was able to lift Azriel enough for you to crawl out from beneath him.

You glanced over Eris, the only injury to be seen were cuts on his face and arms. Relief flooded you at the sight of him, your breaths still shallow. You felt the adrenaline coursing through your veins, only speeding up with the lack of danger. The cabin was dark around you, the place seeming more empty than when you were here last.

“Aren’t you a healer?” Eris had been speaking to you for several moments by this point, his words a buzzing you couldn’t make out until now.

“Yes.”

“Then help him.”

You were frozen, unable to do anything other than look at your hands. You had never been in combat before - during the Battle of Hybern you had been left in the city to run the clinic, the only one left behind.

Azriel’s blood was on your hands, sinking into your skin. Are your bones marked red now?

“Useless.” Eris was a wildfire, moving quickly down the hall before coming back, his arms full of tonics and bandages. The sight snapped you back, your thoughts coming in full force at what to do. You stood, moving quickly to stop Eris.

“Stop, you need to give him some pain medication first.” You rifled through the bottles and bits, each of Azriel’s labored breaths making your heart sink further and further.

“No, we need the arrows out of his back, they’re killing him.”

“I can give him some medicine to manage the pain first. Removing the arrows will mean we’ll have to act quick to stop the blood. It’s better to give him something for the pain now.” Your voice took a sharp edge, the commanding tone of someone in charge. “Then we take out the arrows in his wings.”

Eris’s face was hard as he looked toward you, no doubt hating you even more. Azriel dove to protect you - his state now should have been you. You found the bottle you needed, it’s not as strong as you’d like, but it’s the best you can do.

“Azriel, you have to swallow this.” Your hand gently caressed his cheek, letting him know someone was there. He slowly opened his mouth, allowing you to pour the purple liquid down it. The grimace he made almost made you laugh, like this were any other time, having him eat something unappetizing because Nesta had made it.

Fire stung at your fingers, but you ignored Eris as Azriel finished the potion.

“Okay, we need to trim off the tops of the arrows so we can pull them out more easily. Eris, find a knife and use your fire to sterilize it.”

He started to open his mouth, but you leveled him with a stare that had him quickly closing it.

“Are you going to waste our time by second guessing everything I tell you? If you bothered to let Azriel tell you anything you would know I work directly beneath the court’s healer and am quite competent.”

Eris’s sharp canines protruded from his mouth, a low growl emitting from him, but no more protests as he heated a knife.

“Az, we’re going to cut off the arrow heads and remove them from your wings. Can you stretch your wings out for me?” You rubbed your thumb across his cheek, trying to offer any tenderness he could hold onto.

He nodded so softly you hardly noticed it, his wing unfurling ever so slowly. It didn’t extend fully, but he got about three fourths of the way there.

“I’m going to help you stretch it out this last bit, okay? I need to see all of your wings to help.” You sent a light pulse of what you hoped was soothing down the bond before closing it off again, bending to rest on your knees as you sat in front of his left wing.

Several arrows had pierced through the delicate membrane, but only four remained caught in his wings. You swallowed down your guilt - it wasn’t what Azriel needed now. He needed Madja’s apprentice, not his rejected mate right now. You took a deep breath before extending his wing further, ignoring Azriel’s groans of pain.

“Eris, hold his wing taut.” The uncertainty slipped off like a second skin, making way for the commanding presence you took on for the care of your patients. Once Eris had his wing, you took the hot knife from his hand, quickly and methodically snipping off the heads of the arrows, making sure to hold the base to keep it stabilized before pulling each one out.

You pulled the wood slowly, trying to keep the wood from grazing his skin again. Each arrow went into a pile behind you until his left wing was clean of them, the holes they left the only reminder of them. The two of you repeated the process for his right wing, this one only having three arrows in it, the extraction going much more quickly.

“Is he still awake?” Eris shuffled before a grunt of agreement came from Azriel.

“Azriel, we have to move to the arrows on your back. It’s going to hurt, but we’re going to move fast.” You looked back to the bottles of potions Eris had found, searching for anything that could help Azriel clot faster or sanitize the wounds.

“Why didn’t we do his back first? It’s worse and the arrows are draining him.”

“Because I’m not sure how much blood he’s going to lose. It was a 50/50 gamble, either way.”

“A gamble? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Of course I know what I’m doing, Eris! I’m dealing with a squabbling family member who thinks they know better and are keeping me from my job. My job right now is to save his life, not argue with you over semantics. Now either shut up or get out.”

You don’t even watch to see his response, your attention solely on Azriel again. Your hands worked of their own accord, rubbing potions across his back, careful around the protruding arrows. You eventually looked up to find Eris just staring at you.

“Have him drink this.”

Eris took the vial, coaxing it down Azriel’s throat, murmuring softly to the shadowsinger.

“Do you have any towels or rags? We’ll need as many as you have.” Your hands felt down his back, his skin riddled with scars, each one telling a story. You couldn’t fixate on them - how the small nick by his third rib was made by steel a little over a century ago. The sideways gash across his fourth vertebrae made from a carbon blade roughly twenty years prior.

You focused on his current wounds, pinpointing how far the arrows have lodged themselves. You closed your eyes, feeling for his body. A path unfurled in your mind’s eye, following the layers of tissue and muscle the arrow penetrated.

Both arrows avoided the soft, delicate organs housed in his chest, but the longer they stayed inside, the likelihood they’d cause more damage to him.

“Eris, as I remove the arrows, I need you to immediately place rags on the wound. The arrow didn’t pierce any organs, but it cut through several veins. Is Azriel still awake?”

“Yes,” it came out as a croak, so different from Eris’s usual snark and calm.

Eris was ready as you pulled the arrow out, quick and unflinching. A spurt of blood followed the arrow, shooting onto you before Eris covered the wound.

“I can either move onto the next one or start trying to close this one up.” You were muttering to yourself, trying to decide on a course of action.

“The faebane in the arrowhead will make his healing take longer, it’d be better to pull it out.”

The faebane from the arrows was already swimming through Azriel’s bloodstream, but Eris was right - the sooner it comes out, the better for Azriel. You nodded to Eris.

“Right. Keep holding pressure while I pull this other one out. Then we’ll switch sides and I’ll start working on healing him.”

The second arrow was much messier, Eris’s rags darkening with blood much more quickly. The air held a copper tang that was getting stronger by the minute, your concern rising with it.

“Eris, do you know how to count heartbeats?” You don’t even watch for a response before you start explaining. “Count how many times his heart beats for a minute, and then keep repeating. After a few times you’ll know if his heart rate is steady or not.”

You focused on one wound at a time, magic making its way through Azriel’s skin, slowly stitching up the path of destruction the arrowhead forged. It was slow work, his body fighting against the faebane with every breath.

Every ten minutes or so you made Eris help Azriel drink water, hoping the fluids will help wash out the toxin. Each time he did, he’d also make a call out of Azriel’s heart rate.

Azriel remained unconscious, his heart rate changing drastically every few minutes. It had dropped quickly a time or two, causing Eris to panic, but Azriel’s heart rate never got below a threshold, always staying where it could manage.

The sun had set at some point, the cabin surrounded by darkness. Your hands ached from stillness, your joints crying out to move even just a little, but you refused, remaining steadfast. You were a conduit for the magic that lived inside you, magic that was slowly stitching Azriel back together again.

“Here.” Eris sat next to you, holding the cup of water before your face. You hadn’t heard him move, too focused on Azriel. You shook your head, pointedly looking down to your hands.

“I can’t.”

“I can help you.” You looked to find a new expression on his face, something you’re not sure anyone had ever seen on the male. As much as cruelty sharpened his cheekbones, the softness of his eyes made him nearly blinding in the moonlight. You nodded, unable to speak. He held the cup up to your lips, the cold liquid refreshing as it trailed down your throat. Your hands remained on Azriel, but you gulped down the entire cup, not realizing just how parched you were.

Eris pulled the cup away, settling in next to you. More time passed, all of it a blur as you kept your focus on Azriel. Neither of you spoke. Azriel’s face was pale, from blood loss or his shadows having gone missing, you’re not sure.

You slumped back against the couch, rolling your stiff neck. Azriel’s wounds weren’t perfectly healed, but your magic had repaired his blood vessels enough to allow you a break.

It was easy to get swept up in healing - you have a focus, a goal. You know what steps to take next. But as Azriel’s breathing remained strong and steady, yours became shallow. The reality of the day hitting you all at once, Eris’s warmth from next to you making you feel claustrophobic.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Your words were quiet, not much louder than Azriel’s breathing. He was still so close to you, his eyes closed as he laid there. He looked so peaceful.

A month ago you would have salivated at the idea of touching him for hours, but now the smell of his blood made you want to throw up the contents of your stomach.

“He’s yours, Eris. I can’t - you won. I’ll go away, move to the continent to be as far away as possible.” A soft confession that had been lingering in the back of your mind the whole day. You were foolish to believe you could best Eris, completely underestimating the deep well Azriel and Eris’s mating bond ran to.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“You despise me. If you feel anything like I do, you want me gone.”

Eris was still, his heat nearly unbearable despite the distance between you two. It was so hard to breathe around him, as if he were drawing in all the air for himself.

“He doesn’t want me. I’m tired of fighting for his attention when his mind always goes back to you. He was my friend for so long, and the fact he can just toy with me like this.. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

All you could hear was Eris’s breathing, but you knew he was listening.

“He was my friend and now I’m- well, I don’t know what I am. He’s going to pick you, Eris. He doesn’t want me.”

The confession you had been holding so tight slipped from your tongue like silk. The words sent the bond in your chest into a chorus of screams, their agony the perfect soundtrack to your turmoil.

“Say the word and he’s yours.”

For once, Eris was quiet, no words coming from his mouth. He only shook his head, the movement so precise and imperceptible you thought you dreamt it. You looked back at Azriel, needing to prepare to winnow the two of you away.

Coated in his blood, you had to leave sooner rather than later - Rhysand is surely on the cusp of worry, and there was only so much explaining you could do without forfeiting the cabin.

You watched Eris as you grabbed Azriel’s hands, his eyes reflecting all the hurt you’ve felt the past few weeks. Eris was the easy choice to be mad at - you were tied to Azriel, Eris was just some male tethered to the other end of your mate. But watching him keep his gaze on Azriel, some part of your anger to the redhead cracked, allowing the words to come from you.

“I’ll bring him back to you. He’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

Eris’s face hardened as the world blurred, your grip on Azriel strong as the ground gave out beneath you, the wood flooring exchanged for the hard stone of the House of Wind. The two words followed you through space and time, ringing in your ears.

Those two words broke you completely, every ounce of sorrow and pain breaking through. There were no soft cries, only guttural wailing.

It was Nesta you saw first, having followed the loud commotion throughout the house. She found you gripping Azriel, softly crying out to him before she pulled deep in her chest to get Cassian’s attention.

She crouched next to you, wrapping her arms around your shoulder as fat tears rolled down your face.

The bond cried out in pain, practically pleading with you to change your decision, but you knew it was the right choice. Once he healed enough, you’d sever it. You had to. Someone had to put an end to the madness, and you could do what Azriel couldn’t.

Azriel almost died because of this stupid arrangement.

Too lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice when Cassian or Rhysand arrived, their voices indistinguishable to the inner anguish you felt. You were exhausted, your soul crying out in pain. You swore you could hear tiny cries echoing how you felt.

Through the thick fog of your thoughts, you heard Cassian’s voice clear as a bell.

“I bet Eris is behind this. Bastard tricked us.” You crouched over Azriel, becoming even more defensive of the Illyrian. It was a ridiculous stance, trying to shield him from his brother, but you couldn’t help it.

“It wasn’t Eris.” It came out more as a snarl that sent Cassian reeling back. “I don’t know who, but they- it was bad and- Eris winnowed us away to some clearing.”

Your pleas were gut wrenching, anger dissipating and making way for what you had pushed too far down to heal him.

“Azriel’s bandaged.”

“Eris left and got us supplies. He came back for us. He wouldn’t do this, you have to believe me.” You were sobbing now, clutching Azriel’s arm to your chest like that would fix everything. Your breaths were quick, bringing in enough air to sob once more.

“He didn’t - and Azriel-“ arms wrapped you from behind, gently pulling you into their embrace. The smell of leather and sweat enveloped you, Cassian’s strong arms slowly pulling you from Azriel.

You were blubbering now, mostly cries of Eris’s name over and over. You were scared and full of guilt for Azriel, but your mind kept playing that tender moment between Eris and Azriel over and over again. Your heart cried out for the redhead, a deep well of sadness that you had to pull him away from his mate.

Footsteps retreated away from you, but you reached out, clinging to Azriel’s sleeve to remind yourself he was still there.

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A/N: if you’ve read this far, just know I’m a bit on the fence about this part so don’t be mean to me 🔫

[dont-look-its-embarrassing]

Inner Ace

This summary is a bit long winded, so I apologize for the pre-read to the actual story, it just gives a lot of contexts to where I am going to start the story off.

Summary: When the Archerons where all but banished to the forests, struck with bad luck and poverty from their once luxurious lifestyle, there was one person who cared how the family survived. Y/n. Having always lived on the edge of society and just above starving from her forever grieving mother and recently vacated father, she learned to keep her life afloat. Running into a young Feyre in the woods, almost mistaking her for the wind, elder (although only by a couple years) Y/n took her under her wing and became the mentor and sister that she never knew despite the two of them that shared her name. When Feyre was taken by the Fae, Y/n was distraught, waiting and searching the border every day during her hunts. That is, until one day there is a knock on her door, behind it stood the very woman she ever considered family, but she isn't alone, and why are her ears pointy? Who are these men with wings? Why can she not look away from one of them?

Warnings: slight swearing, Nesta AND Elaine SLANDER (sorry you cannot have one without the other), slight anxiety, alcohol mention, family reuniting fluffy feelings, (almost) instant attraction (Idk if this is a warning but some people don't like it moving quick), slow burn (to an actual established romance)

I do want to make this a series, as I adore the thought of Feyre having a best friend before the IC who taught her the ropes. Plus, there could be a fun little spin and some angst with a potential mate that is SO low hanging fruit to me.

Enjoy!!

The wind howled outside the thin walls of Y/n's home. The slight chill in the air despite being housed within them made her shiver and shift herself towards the kindling fire in the quaint fireplace in her living room.

It was bitter out when Y/n heard a knock come from her front door. Not expecting company, she had figured it was Elaine with some other excuse to get her to sway Nesta into doing some task. Responding with a small “Coming” she hustled to the door. 

Who she opened it to was not who was expected, but only someone she had prayed every day to see again.

“Feyre?” Her voice shook and she swore she saw a small shadow dart out of the corner of her eye. Blaming it on the still boiling water for the food she had yet to make in the kitchen, she dismissed it.

“Hey Y/n.” The smile that overtook Y/n's face as with a motion of open arms, her best friend all but launched herself into her embrace. The strength in which Feyre landed made Y/n take a step to steady themselves, but she didn't think twice to return the embrace.

“Oh thank the gods." her voice was a whisper as Y/n's habit of stroking the younger girls' hair picked up. Although, it seemed to have missed a couple inches as instead of meeting the crown of her head, her hand landed at the back of her skull. "I thought I would never see you again.” The last breath of air in her lungs followed this exclamation, followed by inhaling as much of the girl as she could. 

“Didn’t have faith I would make it back huh?” Feyre raised a brow before hearing a small chuckle. When that corrupt Fae had taken Feyre, he had allowed her a simple visit once (to y/n's knowledge, she never trusted Feyre's sisters to tell her the truth about her visits). Through this, Y/n was unable to see her best friend even the off chance she would come back over the border. From the mouth of the middle sister, Elaine, Feyre had asked them to send message that she was okay and not to worry as she would see Y/n soon. This was before the Archerons gained the financial backing of the very Fae that stole Feyre. It was a jarring image of a once fragile Elaine (although still beautiful) now adorned in clean and well sewn dress. The whole situation was still sour in Y/n's mouth.

“Not even. I knew you would get out, don’t discredit my teaching skills like that.” Pulling back from Y/n, Feyre couldn’t help the smile that took over her features, as if analyzing the girl's condition, before embracing the Y/n once again.

When returning to the oddly taller Feyre's embrace, a slight brush of skin coming from the girl upon Y/n's cheek startled her slightly. Only then did Y/n take note of the small physical change her friend had adorned. 

“Woah there," She pulled away turning Feyre's head to the side while scaling her appendage with confusion, " you are going to poke my eye out with this.”

Lightly flicking the now sharpened ear Feyre took in a breath, turning her head back and taking her wrist, gently pulling it down to rest still intertwined by her side. Sensing the slight nervousness from Feyre, Y/n pulled her inside fully positioning herself to begin closing the door, scanning the area to make sure nobody had seen her best friend enter.

“They kind of suit you Fey, but I do expect a full explanation." The breath Feyre held released and an easy smile lifted her face once again. She knew Y/n would still be on her side. The countless days they spent together, the things they learned together, the secrets they share. Feyre's body visibly relaxed realizing that despite all that her best friend had heard and experienced with Fae, she truly just cared that Feyre was okay. "Although, if you plan on going outside, I demand you take the hood I made for our hunts. The bigger one. I don't need any nosey neighbor seeing you and coming for your head with a spike.

“Of course.”  The door shut behind them before the Feyre realized as she lost her train of thought and why she was truly here. Quickly, as if the little lock clicking switched her brain back to focus, she rushed out a quick, “I have a favor to ask.” 

“Anything, you know that.” Y/n slightly scorned as she turned away to go heat up some drinks for the two of them in the kitchen. Seriously, she didn’t care about the trouble; she was just happy her friend was back and healthy (although the new appendages did have her at a bit of a loss). Feyre smiled before making way over to the small living room, sitting down on one of the now plush seats that sat around the fire. It was updated from when she last remembered this room. Back then it was colder, less like home, but the little decorative flares of Y/n brought the small and impoverished place to life.

“Me and some friends have to try and talk to my sisters into helping us win a war,” She stated. Rip the band aid off and all.

“Don’t see how they are going to be much help.” Y/n couldn’t help but mutter but given the slightly scorning glare from Feyre she raised her hands in submission. “Just saying’.” 

“As I was saying, a few of my friends need to rest for the night before going over there. Is it okay if we take a couple days and stay here whilst we try and figure out how this is all going to work?” Y/n smiled before setting a cup of warmed tea beside her friend.

"Are they..." Y/n didn't know how to go about asking without making it sound like her best friend was a monster now, but Feyre understood once she trailed off.

"Yes." Looking off to the side Y/n watched as her best friend's face bloomed into a smile she thought only reserved for when they were together. As if Y/n's heart couldn't get any warmer. "I do have to add though, they have some extra... Attributes."

Y/n quirked her brow in question, but if their heritage was any louder than Feyre's in front of her, if word got out that she willingly let them in, it wouldn't end well.

To put it bluntly, Fey was asking something of her that could get her maimed, tortured and killed.

“Of course.” She replied without much else behind her reasoning aside from the love she had for who asked her. Feyre’s friends were hers (despite the rather ominous implication of attributes) and she lived with loyalty for the girl. Plus, she had an inkling one of the reasons Feyre looked so happy and healthy was from these ‘friends’ so she didn’t mind as much.

Without missing a beat, the fae girl looked to Y/n with warmth and took a drink of her warmed beverage.

“I missed you.” Feyre spoke as another knock sounded at the door. 

“Have they been outside this whole time?!" The possibility of the 'friends' being seen while waiting outside the house sent Y/n into a flurry of motion to open the door again. With her Feyre chuckling behind her. Without so much a glance to who she was inviting in, Y/n had ushered them in quickly. “In, in! It’s cold and I don't need the town coming for my head sooner rather than later.” 

The girl didn’t even give herself time to process that two of them had wings and the third no doubted was simply hiding them as his stature imitated the other two.

Shutting the door, a beat of silence passed over the house as she truly looked at each man.

There where Fae in her house... Three rather large male Fae.

The attributes comment made sense now.

Y/n took a shaky breath with a wavering 'okay~' to follow before darting off to the small kitchen to prep herself and provide some hospitality to the newfound friends of Feyre.

Only for a second however, for she returned with three more mugs of the warm drink that Feyre was already halfway done with. 

“These are for you.” Y/n emphasized keeping her voice steady as she handed them the steaming beverage. One of them had glanced at Feyre in a slight question as she raised her mug towards him.

"It's better than I remembered actually." Feyre's statement had Y/n glancing over to her but assumed that the conversation between them had taken place a time ago. He had taken a sip with the assurance and nodded in appreciation at the beverage.

"Thank you." His voice was smooth, that with his partnered purple eyes, Y/n had shrunk slightly under his gaze. Although it was nice of him to show an appreciation. The other two next had also nodded along, Y/n didn't see them take a swig but assumed they had tried it as well.

“Please, sit and make yourself comfortable.” The human girl mentioned to the couches and took the opportunity to analyze more closely the people in her house. The one who talked was the shortest, but not by much. His stature was also the leanest, but she doubted it meant any lack of strength with the way his posture stood. Following him was one of the winged ones. Taller, in fact looking over him again Y/n believed him to be the tallest of the bunch. He was the strongest looking out of the three, with longer hair and red stones adorning his attire. The final man to take a seat seemed to be the most reluctant to do so. Adorned with blue stones that seemed to pulse with his slight nerves that Y/n spotted above his brow bone, she imagined he was just as hesitant as she was. His gaze was unwavering as he briefly met Y/n's, the color hazel had her lost in them. However, that wasn't the only thing that caught her attention, but the silk tendrils of what looked like smoke that wove through the air around him. Even in the sheer moments it took for them to situate themselves, Y/n found herself engrossed in watching the way they danced through the air.

It was then she realized she wasn't scared of them, at least not that one

As they placed themselves, Y/n met eyes with her best friend once more, catching the furrowed expression on Feyre's face as she attempted to read her. Upon catching Y/n's eyes trailing the last male, that notorious shit eating grin spread over her face but hid it with the ceramic mug still in her hands.

Y/n narrowed her eyes at the girl.

As they sat, purple eyes were next to Feyre, red stone guy in the middle and blue man closest to her on the homemade seating. Luckily, she had made another seat not too long ago when she was sick and couldn't hunt for the week, this was where she situated herself. Although, it didn't help that the most distracting man was sat not a couple feet away from her. Not that she minded, just the slight breeze of the darkness countered the heat of the being which already had her attention drawn over to him in curiosity. As the men with wings shifted the tug of nerves in her chest seemed to relax when he specifically folded his wings slightly behind himself to make room on the couch. If he caught her staring at him, he didn't make any motion in showing her.

“Normally we wouldn’t just crash into a place like this unexpectedly, but we thought the best idea was to configure what was going to happen these next few days.” The wingless one started, breaking the ice quickly and efficiently. Y/n nodded along and offered a small smile but glad that she didn't have to start the conversation with such strong presences in the room.

“That's understandable.” Y/n offered a small nod as she caught Feyre's gaze. One thing the Archeron girl knew for sure was that Y/n didn't want to step on any toes or speak out of turn. This was a new area for her despite how these males where family now to Feyre. So, as Feyre watched Y/n look towards her with a slight ask for an introduction all she could do was nod and allow her to initiate it herself.

Trial by fire and all that. Feyre knew she would be fine but a part of her couldn't help but glean with amusement as she had never seen her best friend so hesitant. Just as she knew she would, the human girl spoke up.

"I'm sorry, but what are your names?" Y/n had tried with all her being to keep her head about her and steady her vocal cords. For this however she suffered the price of being quiet. "I don't want to be rude and refer to you by your colors."

"Colors?" The red stoned one inquired. It wasn't taunting or teasing, but simply curious and slightly amused in tone. Without so much as opening up her mouth to speak, Y/n pointed a hesitantly to the man closest to hers' stone on his hand.

An almost silent chuckle from the said man next to her caused a small heat to run its course to her face before she sipped her drink quickly to cover the color that followed. It wasn’t unnoticed by Feyre who all but whipped her head to her and looked between the two of them. Her eyes widened and shot a look back at the wingless man, again that same smirk adorned her face. He seemed to nod her way before starting. It sent Y/n into a small spiral.

“I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court." The breath was caught in Y/n's throat. "Here you have Cassian, my lead general for my armies,” mentioning towards the red rock male accompanied by a small wave by the man. He seemed to try and break the ice slightly by offering a large grin towards the girl, “and Azriel, my Spymaster.” 

The weight of who exactly sat in her little house sat heavily on Y/n's shoulders. These weren't just Fae; these people were important and extremely powerful.

The nerves that were settling tidal waved her body again. However, with or without her knowledge, a slight breeze against her ankle had her thoughts disrupted and nerves paused as her attention was taken back to the more broodish male next to her. His eyes seemed to have been gaging her reaction prior to her catching him as he held the gaze for a moment. Y/n was thankful for the reprieve as she still let herself linger on his outline.

The Spymaster slightly bowed his head in her direction and she did it back out of pure instinct to brush off the ogling she had obviously been doing. Without noticing a small hand brushed Rhys across the room to assess the building curiosity and tension of the two.

Without Y/n's knowledge, during Feyre's time in the night court, she had recalled memories of Y/n and her while telling her new family about the few happy memories she had back in the human lands. The males in the room had all known about the human best friend prior, even holding her in a very high regard through the love and care that she had for their now high lady. As Feyre had gone more in depth with these memories, conversations over wine and late-night chats with the inner court had taken place, most of these concluding that Y/n would not only be an asset amongst them but someone's (specifically a silent-type spymaster) favorite person to talk to.

Feyre had insisted behind closed doors to her mate that the two would be a match made by the gods. Seeing them in person, Rhys couldn't help but agree.

Their personalities eerily matched, the strength. Hells, even their outward looks matched each other.

Taking a breath, the human girl let the conversation continue.

"It is a pleasure to meet all of you." Going on out on a limb Y/n had cleared her throat, "Any friend of Feyre is a friend of mine so please make yourselves at home and I will add more servings to dinner tonight.” Quickly, Y/n excused herself before she could make a fool out of herself once again with her eyes towards a certain man. She opened the pantry to grab some of the preserved meat to begin a marinade and placed it on the counter.

More hushed whispers made its way into the room from no doubt her friend poking for information, but Y/n paid no mind and allowed herself to become engrossed in the work ahead of her upon realizing that she would need to go out before the sun set any further to get some more supplies for the week as her stock was not enough as is.

In the other room, the high lady was all but giddy.

“What was that?” Feyre asked towards the shadowsinger. The lot turned to look at Azriel, all expecting some sort of answer.

"I don't know what you mean." Bluntly put, he didn't. To go more in depth with the strangeness of the past couple minutes, he had tacked it up to the budding affections for the woman based on the loving stories he had heard from Feyre, nothing more. Although the others where not convinced in the slightest.

"She seems sweet, hesitant, but sweet." He attempted to take the attention away from himself before Rhys knocked back the rest of the tea in his mug. 

“Keep telling yourself that.” He smirked and turned towards his mate. Cassian, ever so clueless, gave a shrug and turned towards Feyre as well.

“I agree though, she is nice.” He began, “I thought humans hated us.” 

“They do, you will see that when you meet my sisters and evidentially the queens.” Feyre began, also playing with the homemade ceramic cup as she had finished moments ago. “Y/n is different. She doesn’t judge and is loyal to no end. If you three showed up without me asking for help she probably would've shot you," Cassian winced but nodded at the image, "however she has made it clear growing up together that anyone that gained my trust has gained hers.” 

"Well, hopefully we can all gain another ally here in the human lands. Give someone Azriel can bunk with when he's over here." The smug tone in Rhys's voice was obvious. The Spymaster stiffened in his spot at the inclination and tease but relaxed upon hearing the girl return from the kitchen, realizing she had most likely not heard the comment. Although, he didn't understand why he was so on edge around the female.

“Now I don’t have that many bedrooms, and by that many I mean I have two. You four should be able to fit fine as long as a pair of you share, there are only three beds.” The human girl began sitting down ever so slightly closer, to who she now knows as Azriel, and then continued. “I’ll be down here on the couch so you all can have your privacy.” 

The aspect of the girl before him sleeping on an uncomfortable plush chair didn’t jive the best with Azriel as he watched Cassian turn towards her and give one of his show stopping smiles with a small ‘Thanks’ to follow. She returned it and then looked towards Rhys offering herself slightly. She seemed more confident now, settled with the information that had been piled onto her prior.

“If you guys want some privacy, I can go make myself busy for a couple hours. I need to see if there is any migration in the hunt this year so I can start curing it. The sun is setting soon so I need to go sooner rather than later” Feyre turned towards her with a confused startle, one that Y/n took as her calling her out on trying to leave. "I just need to be gone for a bit, it'll give you all time and me time to make sure you also weren't found." She attempted to assure, but that wasn't what had Feyre so obviously now upset.

“You still hunt?” The girl knew the dangers of the woods just outside the door purely because Y/n had taught her such, but why would she still need to exert herself and put herself in danger, Feyre didn't know. She was still young, older than Feyre had been prior to meeting Rhys yes, but why she would willingly still put herself at risk was a loss to the group. All of them had the understanding that a specific high lord was supposed to provide for the loved ones of Feyre. Call it protective instinct, but they had grown slightly attached to the girl, even more so now that they had officially met. "Y/n, why would you still go out and hunt. I mean I know you like your time and I this house holds memories, so I see why you stayed despite it all..." Y/n had tilted her head in question, taking a moment as Feyre continued to speak. "But you taught me yourself, it isn't safe out there and to put yourself in danger unnecessarily seems reckless."

It clicked with Y/n upon hearing her best friend finish her thoughts. The hunch that she had about the Fae and Feyre's sister's status came back into her mind as all her theories about her being left for the wolves (figuratively and literally) were confirmed. Sighing, Y/n placed her bow around her back, looking to Feyre with warmth. She had to try and break this gently as not to further ruin the strained relationship amongst her sisters.

“The Fae you bargained with said he would provide for your family, loved ones...” All tension left her as understanding emanated through her pores, it was almost palpable. He didn't know why, but as she met Feyre’s eyes made Azriel’s heart throb, “I’m not blood related Feyre.” 

"That shouldn't have mattered. I said family and loved ones. The aid that came to Elain and Nesta should've been extended to you as well." A small wince ricocheted off Y/n's features, but she schooled it back quickly as to not enrage the fae woman more.

"They needed it more."

The realization upon the girl's face crushed Y/n slightly and she backtracked quickly. 

“Don’t worry though! It’s not like I had any family to care for since everyone left so my sources weren't drained as much,” She winced as almost all eyes turned to her as she was not helping her case, “Hunting isn’t too bad lately and I have some leftover stock when I need it.” 

“He didn’t help you. They didn't help you...” Y/n chuckled before pure disbelief rooted from Feyre’s. “Ace, I am so sorry. I thought you would be involved in the aid or that they would make sure you got some, I didn’t mean for you to be left-” 

The nickname pulled strings within Y/n's heart, all the while everyone in the room had felt theirs crack and fill with flames towards the high lord of spring and the blood relatives of Feyre.

“Angel, it’s okay. To be honest it didn’t register with me either until the riches came for your family and I was left.” The boys glanced towards the human girl, one looked prolonged and had an urge to send her a comforting word despite his confused mentality. Rhys sensed the distress his mate still felt as she watched Y/n try to break the awkwardness as she slipped the bow off her shoulders and picked up her quiver. All the while Azriel couldn’t control the small lick of shadows that wrapped around her ankle and gently rippled towards her in a comforting manner, pulling her gently back to the sitting room and hearth.

“What is this?” She questioned before reaching out and having another small tendril wrap around her wrist and lay in her palm almost as if looking at her. The swirl of the black and what seemed to be a small abyss entrapped her attention as an Illyrian held his breath in a slight surprise. “Well, hello.” 

The shadow rippled towards her and ran up her arm slowly as she murmured at how pretty it looked. Y/n didn't truly know to what extent the fae's hearing could go as if she did, she most likely would have kept her mouth shut about the beauty of the wisp. Heat had flushed Azriel's ears, subtle enough to hide, but not enough for him to ignore the stir in his chest. Normally, Az would pull the darkness back, not allow them to roam as freely as not to scare someone by accident. However, with the girl's soft expression from her moment with Feyre, and the gentleness that she held her hands out to cup the shadow. He couldn’t help but allow the shadow to explore and settle before the girl’s ear. He allowed the shadows at his back whisper everything they found about her as they did their assessment.

Genuine. Gentle. Keep. We like. We like. Soft. We like.

For a human, Y/n was beautiful, effortlessly so. Azriel didn't need his shadows to tell him that much.

Y/n didn't know if this was offensive to partake in or just a normal weeknight occurrence with the dark tendrils. She had glanced at Feyre from across the room but couldn't catch her eye as she seemed lost in thought.

A breath in her ear startled Y/n so much she jumped. Someone had whispered in her ear, but taking count of everyone as they were, nobody stood next to her. Y/n naturally queried her head and listened further as to hear it again if it decided to repeat its' actions.

“Is it talking to you?” Cassian prompted, almost awestruck. The human gave a quick shake of her head, still remaining quiet.

"No, no. I don't think so anyway." Turning her head back to them again she shrugged, "It just felt like someone breathed against my ear."

"They are cool aren't they?" Feyre goaded from across the room. "When I first met them I couldn't help but want to know more."

"Feyre darling, when you first met them, Cass had to assure you they didn't bite..." A small thwack sounded in the room as Cassian laughed at the memory and now narrowed eyes of the High Lord to his lady.

“They are soft.” She muttered back, not truly focused on the now appeased atmosphere. “They feel soft.” A sigh escaped Azriel in a twisted sense of relief. However, without realizing it, that one breath costed him a split second of control on the wisps as a larger bunch followed the single to where it stood wrapped around the nape of Y/n's neck. As a physical reaction, he had attempted to grab it back, but to no avail.

Y/n had frozen, looking at the Spymaster in a slightly panicked fashion.

"This isn't going to like..." Y/n winced again but deadpanned her features to bring a little humor into the situation, "...kill me, right? I don't think they make headstones explaining 'death by mist' here."

Cassian and Feyre had let out a laugh at the image while Rhys let a smile reach his eyes. As for Azriel, all the poor male could do was shake his head, not trusting his voice. As he watched her, he could've sworn there was a twinkle within her eye at the darkness that normally shrouded him.

It did bring a sense of peace to himself and satisfy an urge he didn’t know he had.

“These things talk to you?" The question rung out of Y/n with confidence. Whatever nerves she had prior with the bunch seeming to truly run from her body. Rhys looked towards the shadow singer in confirmation, while again, Azriel simply nodded his head. This girl truly had him lost for words.

“Well do you all have a name?” The question was not asked towards the bunch in front of Y/n. No, Y/n believed to ask the wisps that were at Az's beck and call if they had a name. Azriel cocked his head. Did she just ask if the shadows had a name? The smile that spread over Azriel's face was almost contagious. A small giggle fascinated him from his thoughts and Y/n noted the ripple of dark that now snuck fully away from the winged man she was undeniably but in denial about being attracted to. 

“Is that a weird question?"

"No, not at all." Az tried to play it off, his image was on the line here.

"His shadows are basically an extension of himself Y/n." Cassian slung an arm around the back of the seat to turn more towards her. "It's his 'emotions and unconscious thoughts' type stuff that controls them if he doesn't think about it."

"Oh." Her face flushed. "Oops."

"Don't worry about it." It was rushed, but the assurance hit Y/n as she offered a smile.

“Az, I think your shadows have a new favorite.” Azriel shot Cassian a glare before slightly softening towards the girl. For some reason, he didn’t mind the slight intrusion. The aspect of her being close to something that could protect her and be with her no matter what eased an instinctual itch that he could only remember feeling towards his High lady upon her ascension. This ran deeper, but the itch was there, nonetheless.

“I’m glad you like them." Another small lick of the tendril eased its way behind her ear as the rest slinked back towards the spymaster and he immediately found himself focusing on questioning what they talked about and why they reacted to her in such a way.

Warm. Sneaking glances. Hope.

Busy bodies.

“Oh, they definitely have a new favorite.” Rhys couldn’t help but give a smirk towards Y/n before standing and asking where the rooms were for the night, he wished to wash up from their journey. Jumping, Y/n had corrected herself before reaching for the door, adjusting to the leftover sunlight of the forest.

“Of course! Where are my manners? It's up those stairs and to the left for you two.” She turned to Feyre, “You get my room. You know how to work the bath.” 

Grateful, Feyre bowed slightly and sent a wink before following the man up the stairs. 

“You two are getting the guest room, there are two beds which should fit,” She shot a look towards the massive wings behind them, “most of you.” 

Cassian laughed. 

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed! I am going to hopefully continue this with little inserts throughout the story to keep it interesting. I had a whole years' worth of one-shots that I am trying to re-vamp to this plot line, but if anyone has any requests do let me know! I don't have anything on my page about requests, but my inbox is open if anyone wants to shoot one my way.

[mellowmusings]

Pretty Princesses | fluff

Azriel x reader A/N- thank you so much for a 100 followers love you all so much, this is the best birthday present ever <33 also my requests are open for a 100 followers celebration so ask away and let me know if you wanna be tagged also i stole inspo from the rocks video Warnings- none just a lot of fluff

Azriel was a force of nature. A warrior whose name sent shivers through the spines of enemies and allies alike. The darkness clung to him, not as a curse, but as an extension of his very being. His mastery over the shadows was unparalleled, his blades quicker than the eye could track. No one controlled him, no one commanded him—except perhaps Rhysand, but even then, it was a tenuous thing, a bond of trust rather than obedience.

There wasn’t a battlefield he hadn’t conquered, a war he hadn’t outlived. The mere mention of his name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who opposed him. He was lethal, ruthless, a whisper of death carried on the wind. But time, it seemed, was the one thing even the great Shadowsinger could not fight.

Three Centuries Later

The once-feared warrior now sat cross-legged on a plush rug in the middle of his home, his usually sharp, scarred hands now adorned with glittery rings and sticky, colorful paint. His daughters, twin toddling whirlwinds of mischief and delight, were giggling as they draped him in layers of fabric, a tiara slightly too small perched atop his head.

“Papa, you have to drink your tea,” the older of the two, barely three years old, declared with all the authority of a queen addressing her court. She held out a tiny teacup filled with absolutely nothing, but her golden-brown eyes—so much like her mother’s—shimmered with expectation.

Azriel, the mighty warrior, the deadly Shadowsinger, lifted the cup delicately between his fingers, took an exaggerated sip, and sighed as if it were the finest wine in all of Prythian. “Exquisite, my lady,” he said gravely, bowing his head slightly. “A most delightful brew.”

The younger one, barely two and still unsteady on her chubby feet, clapped her hands in delight. “More tea, Papa!” she insisted, lifting her own cup towards him. A tiny stuffed bear sat in her lap, watching with button-eyed approval.

From the doorway, you watched it all unfold, barely holding back laughter. Your husband—your terrifying, untouchable, deadly husband—was currently covered in pink and purple scarves, fake pearls draped around his neck, and a large butterfly sticker plastered to his forehead. And yet, he looked more content than you had ever seen him.

Azriel caught your eye, his shadows curling lazily around him, brushing against his daughters like affectionate pets. There was warmth in his gaze, a depth of love that no one else had ever been privy to.

“You dare laugh at a princess?” he rumbled, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him.

You grinned, stepping into the room. “Not at a princess,” you corrected, moving to press a kiss to his cheek. “Just at my husband, the prettiest warrior in all of Prythian.”

Your daughters squealed with glee at the declaration, their little hands eagerly adding more adornments to their father’s unwilling but unresisting form. Azriel simply sighed, resigned, and let them.

The feared Shadowsinger, tamer of shadows, wielder of truth and steel, had been utterly and completely conquered by two tiny, giggling girls.

“Papa, you need more sparkles!” your eldest announced, furrowing her tiny brows in concentration as she grabbed a small container of shimmery powder from her collection of “makeup.”

Azriel arched a brow, but he did not protest as she dusted his cheeks with the glitter. Instead, he feigned a dramatic gasp, touching his face. “I feel positively radiant,” he declared, making both girls shriek with laughter.

The younger one, now sitting snugly in his lap, reached up with her tiny fingers and patted his cheek. “Pretty Papa,” she murmured approvingly.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter anymore, stepping forward and taking a seat beside him. “I think they’ve truly transformed you,” you mused, reaching up to gently adjust his tiara. “The mighty Shadowsinger, reduced to a glittering spectacle.”

Azriel hummed in agreement, leaning in slightly as you ran your fingers through his dark hair. “And yet, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

Your heart swelled at his words, at the sheer adoration in his voice as he looked at his daughters. These two little girls had him wrapped around their fingers, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Papa, we have one more thing,” your eldest declared, grabbing something from her toy chest. She and her sister exchanged a mischievous look before presenting it with a flourish—a pair of delicate, pastel wings meant for playing dress-up.

Azriel blinked, glancing at the small, feathery appendages. “You wish to give me wings?” he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.

The younger one nodded eagerly. “Pretty wings, like Mama’s!”

You stifled a laugh as you saw the seriousness in their eyes, their tiny hands already fastening the wings to his back. And just like that, the mighty warrior who had once been feared across battlefields now sat, utterly regal, in a tiara, scarves, glitter, and a pair of tiny, pastel fairy wings.

Azriel sighed dramatically. “I have been defeated.”

Your daughters cheered, climbing into his lap to hug him, their tiny arms wrapping around their “pretty princess” of a father.

You simply smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I think you’ve won, actually.”

And as Azriel sat there, holding his daughters close, his shadows curling around all three of you, he knew without a doubt—you were right. @anarchiii @darkbloodsly @sunnyspycat @er1023 @clementine111002 @buubblles @onebadassunicorn @donnadiddadog @ren-ni @lilah-asteria @rcarbo1 @tele86 @sillyfreakfanparty @sopheeg @secretlyhers @isa1b2h3 @readinshadows @thesunloveschips @generalmoonpolice @kathren1sky-blog @willowpains @theravenpheonix26

[aalxrose]

Gosh, this is so sweet 😭

These Moments We Share

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Warnings: pure fluff, not proofread

Word Count: ~0,7K

Notes: I have a bit of writer's block so I wrote this little drabble in hopes that it will help a bit with it. I got the idea from #57 on this list.

Azriel had just came home from what you assume was a particularly tiring meeting with the High Lord and Lady, the famed warrior barely sparing you a greeting before striping his clothes off and laying down on your shared bed, easily finding his way between your legs, resting his head on your chest as he let out a heavy sigh, eyes closing immediately as if he had been dreaming of this moment all day.

You bite back a chuckle and start carding your fingers through his hair slowly, a smile spreading on your lips when he starts purring, wings falling heavily on the bed at your sides. The book you had been reading easily put to the side in favor of paying attention to your mate.

If someone had told you a few years ago that you would end up in this situation you probably would have laughed in their faces. Azriel was such a guarded male, always hiding behind his shadows and putting on a mask for the world to see, that it still felt surreal to see him let all of his walls down, allowing you to see all of him.

You could have never imagined that he'd be so needy either, even after years of friendship. No one would believe you if you told them how he lay on top of you now, large body tucked between your thighs, head resting on your chest, or if you told them about the soft sounds escaping him as your fingers played with his dark curls, the gentle puffs of air hitting your skin as he relaxed and his breathing deepened, but you were more than happy to keep it a secret, selfishly unwilling to share it with anyone.

“What is it?”

Azriel's words bring you out of your thoughts, a tingly feeling spreading through your body as you felt the rambling of his chest against your torso as he talked.

“Your hair's soft,” you murmur, one of your hands moving to rest on the back of his neck.

He lets out an unconvinced hum, knowing you were just changing the subject but letting you get away with it as he always did, nuzzling further into your chest before confessing, “I've been stealing your conditioner.”

“I know,” you chuckle, “you smell like strawberries.”

He shakes his head, lifting himself until his face is hovering over yours, smiling down at the pout that tugs at your bottom lip, missing his weight on you already.

“‘Smell like you.”

There's no time for you to appreciate the way your heart stutters in your chest at his soft words, whispered so beautifully in that low voice of his, before his lips meet yours, the world disappearing around you.

His scarred hands move under your nightgown, holding onto your waist as your arms find their way around his neck, pulling each other impossibly closer. You find it hard to pull away from him, moving to leave gentle pecks across his cheek when his lips abandon yours, a chuckle escaping him and an overwhelming amount of love rushing through from his side of the bond.

“It's late,” he sighs, laying down on his side, a strong arm wrapped around you as he moves you with him, not wanting you to stop your gentle assault on him.

You give him one last kiss, tasting his lips one last time before nodding and settling against his body. “We should go to sleep,” you whisper against his warm skin, “I was only waiting for you to come home.”

Azriel nuzzles into your cheek, hugging you even closer to him until it's impossible to see where he ends and you begin, dropping his wing over your body too as his shadows hide both of you from the world. Sleep already tugging at your eyelids now that you're surrounded by his warmth and scent. This moment couldn't be more perfect.

“Good night, Az.”

“Good night, my love.”

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 11

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6.7k

Trigger warning; mention of clipping, violence, blood

notes; Hey hey hey, back with this hmm hmm special chapter, surprisingly (or not hehe) I truly enjoyed writing thing one (I'm sorry y/n). Well I'm not going to spoil anything but I hope that you will enjoy that one. Also I had a question because I'm already writing the following chapters, would you rather have a long chapter or two different (with one posted one day and the other the day after) ? Well you guys tell me because i'm struggling a bit haha. See you soon, love you ! (I love soooooo much your comments btw <33333)

Links; part 10

The last day at the palace was filled with bittersweet goodbyes and heartfelt promises. Each healer expressed their gratitude, their voices tinged with emotion as they pledged to stay in touch and continue the work you had all started. Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, clasped your hand firmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with determination. “Keep pushing forward, Y/N. You always manage to lead us to the right path.”

Even Rordan, the reserved healer from the Autumn Court, offered a rare smile. “We’ll hold up our end of the agreement. Stay safe.”

Amara pulled you into a quick hug, her hazel eyes soft with concern. “Don’t let the weight of it all crush you, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

Lila from the Spring Court, ever vibrant, waved energetically. “Don’t stay away so long this time, alright?”

Lastly, Telyan gave you a steady nod. “The Dawn Court is always open to you. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

The warmth of their words stayed with you as you made your way back to your room to gather your belongings. The setting sun painted the city in hues of gold and orange, casting long shadows across the polished floors. As you finished packing, you paused by the window, drawn to the breathtaking view of Solterra one last time. The bustling city was beginning to quiet, the glow of its lights preparing to welcome the night.

A soft knock on the door startled you, and Azriel stepped inside, his presence commanding yet quiet. His gaze flickered to you and then to the window, where dark clouds were rolling over the distant horizon. “It looks like the Peregrins’ warning was accurate,” he murmured, his voice low. “The winds will be rough on the usual route.”

You nodded, your eyes lingering on the storm clouds. “It’s going to be a detour by the sea, then. Let’s hope it’s calmer there.”

Azriel joined you by the window, both of you staring at the ominous clouds in silence. The moment felt heavy, but not unpleasant. The bond hummed faintly in the background, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“Ready to go?” Azriel finally asked.

“Almost,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Let’s head to the entrance.”

The two of you made your way through the palace’s grand corridors to the main entrance, where Thesan was waiting. His warm smile greeted you, and he stepped forward to clasp your hand. “Safe travels, Y/N. I trust you’ll keep us updated.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile. “Thank you for everything, Thesan.”

His gaze flickered to Azriel, and he extended his hand to him as well. “Safe travels to you too, Shadowsinger. And thank you for watching over her.”

Azriel nodded, his expression polite but distant. “It’s my duty.”

With that, the two of you stepped outside, the crisp evening air brushing against your skin. The city stretched out before you, the pale light of the moon casting an ethereal glow over its winding streets and gleaming spires. Azriel turned to you, his gaze steady. “Ready?”

You nodded, though the prospect of being carried by him again made your stomach flutter with nerves. “Ready.”

He scooped you up with practiced ease, his strong arms securing you against his chest. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection neither of you spoke of. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the sensation of the wind rushing past as Azriel launched into the sky.

The flight was calm despite the warnings, the gentle light of the moon illuminating the path ahead. The vast expanse of the sea shimmered to your left, its waves glinting silver under the celestial glow. Night had fully fallen by the time you broke the silence.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said softly, your voice carried effortlessly over the wind.

“It is,” Azriel agreed, his tone contemplative. “More than I expected.”

The two of you flew in silence for a while longer, his steady heartbeat under your ear a soothing rhythm. The bond hummed again, but you pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to let it complicate this moment.

When Azriel adjusted his grip slightly, you glanced up at him, catching the faint flicker of a smile on his face as he gazed out over the sea. It was a rare sight, one that made your own lips curve upward despite the tension that had lingered between you.

For now, the world below and the open sky above were enough.

The flight had been calm, serene even, with the moonlight casting its ethereal glow over the endless expanse of the sea below. But just as you were about to comment on how peaceful it was, the first crack of thunder echoed through the sky. The world seemed to shift.

A storm rolled in with a ferocity that took your breath away. The wind howled, whipping rain against your skin in icy sheets, and the sea below churned violently, its waves reaching toward the heavens in jagged crests.

“Azriel...” you began, your voice unsteady as you glanced at him. “Is this—”

And then, everything stopped.

Azriel’s wings, which had been beating powerfully just moments before, froze mid-stroke. The storm itself paused—a thunderclap suspended in the sky, waves frozen mid-crash. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening.

Your heart hammered in your chest as a bone-deep chill swept over you. A presence, ancient and suffocating, made the air feel impossibly heavy. You glanced over Azriel’s shoulder, and your breath caught.

There, in the distance, was a figure—no, a cloud, a mass of shadows and darkness so pure it seemed to absorb all light around it. It wasn’t just death—it was the embodiment of it. The aura it emitted was a promise of annihilation, and your very soul seemed to recoil in its presence.

You wanted to scream, to shake Azriel, to do anything to break whatever spell had gripped the world. But before you could act, you saw something else—arrows. They were suspended in midair, dozens of them, all aimed directly at you and Azriel.

Panic set in. You reached out to Azriel, shaking him desperately. “Azriel! Wake up! Please!” But he remained still, unresponsive, his wings unmoving as though he were a statue.

Your powers surged within you, raw and untamed. You didn’t know how to control them fully, but you didn’t care. A flash of light erupted from your hands, desperate and unrefined, and suddenly, the world roared back to life.

The arrows hurtled toward you with deadly precision, slicing through the air. You barely had time to think. Your hand darted to Azriel’s side, pulling one of his swords free. The blade felt foreign in your hand, but you didn’t hesitate.

You swung with all your might, deflecting the first arrow with a desperate clang that vibrated through your entire arm. The second arrow grazed your shoulder, pain searing as blood blossomed against your skin. The third arrow you managed to divert just inches from Azriel’s wing.

Azriel’s body jolted as time resumed, and his wings beat frantically, his shadows exploding outward in a frenzy. His head whipped around to you, confusion and alarm etched across his face as he took in your disheveled state and the arrows that clattered into the sea below.

“What the—” Azriel began, his instincts kicking in as his shadows swirled defensively around both of you. “What’s happening?”

Azriel’s voice snapped into focus as you both realized the barrage wasn’t over. “Hold on!” he shouted, his wings beating frantically to dodge the incoming arrows. “We need to go down, now!”

You didn’t hesitate, gripping his shoulder to balance yourself as he angled sharply downward, the wind howling past you both. But the next volley of arrows was relentless. Two found their mark, piercing Azriel’s shoulder and causing him to let out a guttural growl of pain. One scraped across your cheek, leaving a sharp sting, before another embedded itself in your shoulder, the force nearly knocking you loose.

The shock of the impact made your body jerk, and you gasped, clutching at Azriel as he faltered in the air. “Y/N!” he called, his voice strained with both pain and desperation, but his hold slipped as your strength gave out.

You fell.

The rush of air around you was deafening, the world spinning wildly as you plummeted. Pain bloomed in your back as three arrows found their mark, their sharp points slicing through muscle and bone. You screamed as your body twisted uncontrollably in freefall. Above, Azriel’s shout of panic was drowned out by the roar of the storm, and you saw him struggling to stabilize himself. An arrow tore through one of his wings, the force sending him spiraling after you.

The sea rushed up to meet you, and the impact stole every ounce of air from your lungs. You plunged deep into the icy water, your body screaming in protest as the salt stung your wounds. The weight of the arrows and the force of the fall left you disoriented, the dark depths pulling at you as you struggled to make sense of up and down.

Forcing your limbs to move, you clawed your way toward the surface, your chest burning with the need for air. You broke through with a gasp, the storm still raging above. Waves crashed violently around you, and the rain made it almost impossible to see.

“Azriel!” you called, your voice hoarse and barely audible over the tempest. A moment later, he surfaced a few feet away, his wings dragging heavily in the water. His face was pale, his expression both pained and frantic as he swam toward you.

“You—are you—” His words were broken by gasps for air, his golden eyes scanning you with a mixture of fear and determination. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” you managed, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll survive.” You gestured weakly toward his shoulder and the ragged tear in his wing. “But you—”

“Fucking faebane arrows,” Azriel spat, his tone laced with frustration as he glanced at his injuries. His shadows flickered weakly around him, their usual strength noticeably absent. “They’ve nullified everything. I can’t... I can’t fly.”

Before either of you could say more, a monstrous wave rose behind you, its crest curling ominously as it towered over your heads. “Azriel!” you screamed, the sound ripping from your throat as the wave crashed down with brutal force.

The impact was like being slammed by stone. Water closed over you, spinning you in its unforgiving depths. When you finally surfaced again, coughing and gasping, you were farther from Azriel than before.

“Y/N!” His voice carried over the storm, laced with urgency. He was swimming toward you, his strokes powerful despite his injuries.

You fought to stay afloat, the pain in your back making every movement a struggle. “Azriel!” you called, your voice weak but determined as you tried to close the distance between you.

The storm showed no mercy, the waves tossing you both like rag dolls. When you finally managed to get close enough, you saw the fear etched into Azriel’s face. It mirrored your own.

“We’re not getting out of this,” he said, his voice low and grim as the sea surged between you. “Not like this.”

“We will,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. “We have to.”

But the storm’s ferocity didn’t waver, and the reality of your situation settled like a weight in your chest. With no magic, no wings, and no sign of land in sight, the vast, chaotic ocean seemed determined to claim you both.

The relentless assault of smaller waves battered you both, sapping what little strength you had left. Your muscles burned, and every gasp for air felt heavier than the last. Azriel was barely keeping himself afloat, his wings dragging in the water like dead weights. And then, beyond the churning sea, you saw it: a massive wave rising like a wall of destruction, its shadow swallowing everything in its path.

Azriel followed your gaze, and you saw it in his eyes—the change. It wasn’t just fear of the wave’s size or its inevitability. It was something deeper, rawer. A realization, perhaps, that this might be the end. That you might both die here, together. Or maybe it was something more—a dawning understanding of what you were to him. His mate.

But there was no time to dwell. You reached out, grabbing his hand as tightly as you could, your fingers trembling with exhaustion and urgency. “Azriel,” you said, your voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “Look at me.”

His gaze snapped to yours, the golden glow of his eyes filled with turmoil. You pulled him closer, your hand clutching his with desperate strength as you pressed your foreheads together.

“Trust me,” you whispered, your breath mingling with his. His shadows flickered weakly around you, their touch almost hesitant, as if they, too, feared what was coming. You closed your eyes and began to recite, the ancient words of power tumbling from your lips like a prayer. The language was old, older than you could comprehend, its cadence resonating with something primal, something greater than yourself.

Azriel’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch hesitant but grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your hair. His wings twitched weakly in the water, but he stayed focused on you, on your voice.

You began to speak, the ancient words spilling from your lips like a song, like a plea. The language was unfamiliar even to you—something buried deep within, rising now in your moment of need.

The words trembled with power, the sound resonating in the air around you, vibrating through your very bones. Azriel held you tighter, his hand now spanning the small of your back, pulling you closer against him as though to shield you from what was coming.

Azriel tried to keep his focus on you, his hands gripping your arms for stability. But the thunderous sound of the approaching wave was deafening, and the force of its presence was palpable, pressing against the air itself. He could feel it nearing, every second stretching unbearably long. His instincts screamed at him to turn, to face the incoming force, but you held him steady, anchoring him with your voice and your touch.

“Don’t look away,” you murmured, your words a promise as your free hand rested against his cheek, grounding him further. The wave loomed over you both now, its height so monstrous it seemed to touch the heavens. Azriel’s eyes darted toward the towering wall of water, and you saw his grip on you tighten—not in fear of the wave, but in fear of losing you.

His shadows curling weakly around both of you in an almost protective embrace. The wave loomed, impossibly large, and for a moment, you thought you’d failed. You could feel Azriel tense, his wings attempting to fold around you both even in their weakened state.

But then, just as the wave began its descent, the power surged through you. The words reached their crescendo, and the light of the moon flared, not as a shield, but as a portal.

A flash—a blinding, all-encompassing glow—and the icy embrace of the storm disappeared. The roar of the wave faded, replaced by silence and stillness. You and Azriel were gone, ripped from the sea’s grasp, leaving only moonlight in your wake.

The town house was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the chill of the winter night outside. The scent of roasted meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The Inner Circle was gathered around the dining table, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a sense of home.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Rhysand. “So, when are they coming back?” he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. “It’s been days now.”

Rhysand, seated at the head of the table with Feyre beside him, swirled his wine thoughtfully before taking a sip. “They should be on their way back to Prythian by now,” he replied, though his tone wasn’t as confident as his words.

Mor, who was perched on the edge of her chair, arched a golden brow. “Should be? What do you mean, should be?”

Rhys sighed, setting his glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. “I haven’t been able to reach Azriel,” he admitted. “His mental shields are still up, and I can’t get a clear sense of where they are.”

Feyre frowned, her fork hovering over her plate. “That’s... unusual for him.”

“It is,” Rhys agreed, his violet eyes flicking to Cassian. “But Azriel is nothing if not careful. They’re likely taking their time or dealing with unforeseen delays. The journey from the Dawn Court isn’t exactly quick.”

Cassian snorted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Unforeseen delays, huh? I’d bet my wings they’ve found some trouble along the way. Knowing Az, he’s probably brooding about something, and Y/N is too busy trying to keep him in check.”

Mor chuckled softly, though her eyes reflected a glimmer of concern. “I wouldn’t be surprised. That male has a talent for finding trouble—or letting it find him.”

Amren, who had been silent up until now, set her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trouble or not, Y/N is more than capable of handling herself. From what I’ve seen, she’s sharper than most. If anything, I’d wager Azriel is the one who’ll be struggling to keep up.”

Cassian grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to that. Poor Az, stuck with someone who doesn’t let him get away with his usual brooding nonsense.”

Feyre couldn’t help but smile at the banter, though her fingers brushed against Rhysand’s under the table in silent reassurance. “Still,” she said softly, “I hope they’re okay. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he refocused on the group. “They’re both strong. If anyone can handle the unexpected, it’s Azriel and Y/N.”

Mor leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “I just hope they’re not killing each other,” she quipped. “Or, you know, that Az hasn’t scared her off with his silent brooding routine.”

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. “If anyone could out-brood Azriel, it’s probably Y/N.”

The table erupted in laughter, though the undercurrent of concern remained. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Feyre caught Rhys’s eye, her own filled with a quiet question. Rhysand gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his thoughts lingered on Azriel and Y/N, his mind brushing against the night’s stars as he silently hoped for their safe return.

The lively warmth of the town house was shattered in an instant. Rhysand shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. The easy conversation and laughter ceased as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Everything on the table vanished—a soundless flash of magic clearing plates, glasses, and food from sight.

In the same moment, a deafening crash echoed through the room. From above, two figures fell, slamming into the now-empty table and shattering it into pieces.

Y/N landed first, sprawled atop Azriel, both of them drenched to the bone, seawater pooling around them. Their chests heaved as they struggled for breath, their bodies trembling. Y/N pushed herself off Azriel weakly, staggering to her feet before abruptly doubling over to vomit a mix of seawater and blood onto the floor.

Azriel remained on the ground, gasping but visibly more stable than her. His wings were tense but intact, though blood seeped from arrows embedded in his shoulders and arms. He coughed, spitting water onto the floor as he tried to sit up.

Cassian surged forward, his voice a low growl of concern. “What the hell happened?”

Y/N, barely steady on her feet, turned her head, her voice raw and hoarse as she rasped, “Madja... Call Madja.”

Feyre moved immediately, her face pale but focused. Before she could leave, Y/N weakly caught her hand, murmuring a list of plants she needed. “Feyre... There’s no time. From the garden—fetch what I need to start the healing.”

Feyre nodded without hesitation and bolted out of the room.

Y/N stumbled toward Azriel, her trembling hands faintly glowing with healing magic. But before she could reach him, her knees buckled. Cassian was there in an instant, catching her just before she hit the ground.

“Y/N, stop!” Cassian growled, his voice filled with panic. “You’re worse off than he is.”

“Doesn’t... matter,” she rasped, trying to push him off and weakly reaching toward Azriel. “He needs—”

Cassian held her firmly, his face a mask of alarm. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, though her head lolled to the side, her strength draining rapidly.

Azriel, sitting up now, looked over at her with wide, alarmed eyes. “Y/N,” he croaked, his voice breaking. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Mor knelt beside Azriel, carefully inspecting the arrows in his shoulders and arm, while Rhysand stood frozen for a heartbeat, his expression betraying the fear he usually masked so well.

Madja burst into the room moments later, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos. The instant she saw Y/N, her expression hardened. “Mother above,” she murmured, rushing to her.

“Start with him,” Y/N wheezed, gesturing weakly toward Azriel. “I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Madja snapped, kneeling beside her. Her hands moved deftly over Y/N, assessing her condition with a precision that belied her worry. “You’re barely conscious. Don’t even think about giving me orders.”

Azriel, still struggling to his feet, waved Mor away weakly. “I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice strained but steady. His golden eyes locked onto Y/N, and despite the blood trickling down his arm, his focus was entirely on her. “Take care of her.”

Madja glared at him briefly. “Sit. Down,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Amid the chaos, Y/N’s defiant voice broke through. “Azriel... Is he—”

“I’m fine,” Azriel interrupted sharply, his voice firm. “You’re not.”

Madja growled under her breath, barking instructions to Rhysand to reinforce the room’s protective wards and to Feyre, who had just returned with an armful of plants. Cassian held Y/N steady as Madja worked to stabilize her, and Mor hovered close, ensuring that Azriel didn’t try to move too much.

The tension in the room was thick as they fought to manage the injuries and exhaustion. Every glance exchanged between the Inner Circle was filled with unspoken worry, their usual composure shaken.

“You both have a death wish,” Cassian muttered, though his grip on Y/N was firm and protective.

And as Madja’s magic flared to life, it became clear that survival was only the first step in a much longer battle.

Madja knelt beside you, her sharp gaze scanning the damage. Her hands hovered over the arrows lodged in your back, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Go see Azriel,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Madja’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with irritation. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re losing too much blood, and if you weren’t in this state, I’d slap you for suggesting something so foolish.”

You coughed weakly, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Just... take the arrows out and put me under the stars. I’ll be fine.”

Madja’s eyes narrowed, her exasperation palpable. “If you die because of that nonsense, I swear I’ll bring you back just to kill you again.”

She began assessing the arrows embedded in your back, her movements precise but brisk. “Can I remove your top?” she asked, her voice softening slightly.

You nodded, the movement weak. “Go ahead.”

As Madja carefully eased the fabric away, the pain lanced through you, but it wasn’t what made you tense. The moment your back was fully exposed, you felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Even without seeing them, you knew Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian had seen the scars. The room seemed to hold its breath as their silence deepened.

Their reactions were palpable—Rhys’s grip on his magic tightened, the faint hum of power crackling in the air. Cassian let out a sharp exhale, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with something much darker. Feyre’s sharp intake of breath carried the weight of her empathy, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhys.

Madja worked quickly, her hands steady as she muttered incantations under her breath to stem the bleeding. You clenched your teeth, the pain threatening to pull you under, but you forced yourself to stay conscious just a moment longer.

“Tell them,” you murmured, your voice slurring slightly. “Tell them what happened.”

Madja’s gaze flickered to yours, her expression unreadable, but she nodded once, her attention returning to her task.

Azriel stood frozen nearby, his shadows writhing in agitation. His face was pale, his usually composed features betraying the turmoil within him. His golden eyes flicked between you and the others, but it was clear that his focus was on you.

When Madja pulled the last arrow free, your body shuddered, and the darkness pressing at the edges of your vision began to consume you.

Madja straightened, brushing a hand across her brow. “She needs to be somewhere she can rest and heal without interruption.” 

After hesitating for only a moment Azriel told her “Let me take her to my room. It’s the closest” 

"You will do no such thing Azriel let me take her” Cassian tried to stop him. 

“No, please, no” with confusion the general let him do so. 

His shadows curled around you protectively as he carefully lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your body limp against him, your breaths shallow but steady. The sight of you like this sent a pang through his chest, but he buried it, focusing on the task at hand.

As he carried you upstairs, his mind was a storm. The bond that had hummed quietly between you since Solterra now roared with clarity, overwhelming him. You were his mate—and he hadn’t seen it until now. And the sight of you, broken and bleeding, was almost more than he could bear.

When they reached his room, Madja followed close behind, already giving him instructions. “Lay her down gently, and I’ll finish tending to her wounds.”

Azriel placed you carefully on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. As Madja worked, he lingered nearby, his golden eyes never leaving your face. The scars on your back, the fresh wounds, the exhaustion etched into your features—it was all too much. His shadows coiled around his shoulders, mirroring the storm within him.

When Madja finished stabilizing you, she turned to Azriel, her expression softening for the first time. “She’ll need time to recover, but she’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Azriel nodded, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Madja patted his arm gently before gathering her supplies and leaving the room. 

After coming back in the living room of the townhouse, Azriel sat at the edge of the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, wings drooping with exhaustion. His soaked clothing clung to his frame, and blood still oozed from the punctures left by the arrows, though Madja worked quickly to close the wounds.

Rhysand stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the tension radiating off him palpable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he considered his words. “You should ask her,” he finally said, his voice gruff. “Everything was fine. The storm came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t the weather that was the problem.”

Rhys’s violet eyes darkened, his power flickering faintly around him. “Then what was?”

Azriel exhaled sharply, frustration evident. “We were flying. The storm was manageable until...” His golden eyes lifted to Rhys. “Until the arrows came. Y/N moved out of position suddenly—I didn’t understand why at first—but then she was deviating arrows midair. One clipped me, and the next thing I knew, we were falling into the sea.”

Cassian, who had been silently listening, stepped closer. “Arrows?” he repeated, his voice heavy with concern. “You’re saying someone attacked you in the middle of a storm?”

Azriel nodded, his shadows curling tightly around his shoulders. “The attack wasn’t random. Whoever it was... they knew we’d be there.”

Rhys’s face grew even grimmer. “Koshiev.” The name hung in the air like a curse. He glanced at Azriel, his expression unreadable. “Even if you were caught in the crossfire, this attack wasn’t for you, Azriel. It was for her.”

Azriel’s gaze sharpened, and his hands curled into fists. “Why would Koshiev target her? She’s not a warrior. She’s—”

“She’s more than you realize,” Madja interjected, not lifting her eyes from her work. She sealed the wound in Azriel’s shoulder with precise movements, her tone calm but carrying an edge of urgency. “Do you have any idea the influence she has? The help she’s provided?”

Cassian frowned, glancing between them. “We know she’s a gifted healer, but why would that put her in Koshiev’s sights?”

Madja straightened, her hands pausing over her tools. She glanced at Rhys and then back to Azriel. “Over the last century, many of the continent’s most deadly diseases have been stopped in their tracks because of her. She’s discovered cures where others saw none, saved lives on scales most can’t even imagine. To a being like Koshiev, who thrives on death, fear, and chaos, she’s a threat. A formidable one.”

Azriel’s shoulders stiffened, his mind racing. “But that doesn’t explain—”

“It’s not just what she does,” Madja interrupted, her voice softer now. “It’s what she is.”

Rhys’s brows furrowed, his focus narrowing on Madja. “What do you mean? What is she?”

Madja hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the staircase where you rested. “It’s... complicated,” she said carefully. “But suffice it to say, she’s not an ordinary healer. Her connection to the stars, the moon, to the light—it’s something ancient, something powerful. Something that beings like Koshiev despise and fear.”

Azriel sat back, his gaze fixed on Madja as if searching for answers in her words. His mind reeled with the implications, his thoughts a storm of emotions—fear, frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Rhysand’s expression darkened further, his hands tightening into fists. “If Koshiev sees her as a threat, then we’ll need to protect her. More than we already have.”

“She’s not going to make it easy,” Madja said with a wry smile. “That woman has a will stronger than steel. But for now, she needs rest. And so do you,” she added, fixing Azriel with a pointed look.

Azriel didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts lingered on you, on the weight of what Madja had said, and on the realization that the attack tonight had been meant for you. He rose from the chair, his wings drooping slightly but his stance firm. “She’ll be safe,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a steely determination.

Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm. “Damn right she will.”

But even as the conversation shifted, Azriel couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in his chest—the knowledge that Koshiev’s shadow loomed closer than ever.

Cassian leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly as he stared at the empty space where you had been carried upstairs. His voice broke the silence, low and heavy. “The scars on her back... are they what I think they are?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes darkening as he glanced away. He didn’t need to hear the answer; he already knew. His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, betraying the tension he felt.

Madja sighed, her hands stilling over her tools as she met Cassian’s gaze directly. “Yes. She was clipped.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, palpable and suffocating. Rhysand straightened, his violet eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and confusion. “Clipped?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “How? When?”

Madja leaned back in her chair, her expression weary. “It’s a long story, but if you’re asking how it’s possible... it happened when she was young. Very young.” She hesitated, her gaze softening. “I first met Y/N when she was six, maybe seven years old. Her parents had just died in the aftermath of the war. She was left alone, one of the many orphans wandering Prythian at the time.”

Cassian frowned, his grip on his arms tightening. “She’s from Velaris right?”

Madja nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t a kind childhood. She ended up in one of the only orphanages we had here. I... I wanted to adopt her, but I couldn’t.”

Rhysand’s gaze narrowed, his tone gentler now. “Why not?”

Madja exhaled slowly, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “Because I could barely take care of myself. The war had taken everything from us—our peace, our sleep, our stability. I couldn’t bring a child into that chaos, no matter how much I wanted to. But I could teach her.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped back to her, the flicker of surprise evident despite his stoic expression.

“I taught her to heal,” Madja continued, her voice softer now, tinged with something almost maternal. “She was brilliant at it. Gifted, really. Even as a child, she had this... this innate understanding of life, of how to mend it. Time passed, and she grew stronger. Wiser. By the time she was seventy-two, she was already a better healer than many twice her age.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “So what happened?”

Madja’s expression darkened, her voice lowering. “She went to Illyria.”

The tension in the room spiked immediately. Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides, and Cassian and Rhysand exchanged wary glances.

“She wanted to visit her parents’ tomb,” Madja said. “To pay her respects. But... it didn’t go as planned. I don’t need to describe the scene to you. You’ve seen what happens to half-Illyrians or even regular Illyrian females who return to those camps.” Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on. “They clipped her. Left her for dead in the snow.”

Rhysand’s power surged faintly, the lamps flickering as he struggled to contain his fury. “They clipped a healer?” His voice was deadly quiet, his rage barely restrained. “And left her to die?”

Madja nodded, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “She did die.”

Cassian’s breath hitched, and even Azriel stiffened. “What?” Cassian whispered, his voice hoarse. “But—”

“But she came back,” Madja interrupted, her voice steady now. “The Mother brought her back. And with that gift, she was given powers unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Powers tied to the stars, the moon and the sun themselves.”

Azriel’s shadows stilled, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fury still simmering beneath the surface. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” he demanded.

Madja’s gaze hardened. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell. And it still isn’t. But perhaps now you’ll understand why Koshiev might see her as a threat. She’s not just a healer. She’s a force of life itself, blessed by the mother and that terrifies beings like him.”

Silence fell over the room, the weight of Madja’s words sinking into each of them. Cassian broke it first, his voice quieter now. “And she’s carried all of this... alone?”

Madja’s eyes softened. “Not entirely alone. But yes, for the most part.”

Azriel sat back in his chair, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the injustice you had suffered, awe at the strength it must have taken to survive, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to confront.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice resolute. “Then we protect her. Whatever it takes.”

Madja nodded, her expression resolute. “She’s not one to ask for help. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around him protectively, his voice low but firm. “She’ll have it.”

The office was bathed in the dim glow of Velaris’s nightlights, the rhythmic scratch of Rhysand’s pen the only sound as he finished his missive to Thesan. Azriel sat in a chair across from him, his posture rigid but his mind clearly elsewhere. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes in a spare room at the townhouse, but the physical comfort did little to soothe the storm raging within him. His thoughts spun, caught between the weight of your injuries, the attack, and the seismic realization that you were his mate.

His mate.

The words felt heavy and unfamiliar, both a revelation and a burden. You. The healer who had worked tirelessly by his side. The one who had challenged him, comforted him, and stood unwavering even in the face of Koshiev’s deadly arrows.

Rhysand’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but heavy with guilt. “Azriel.”

Azriel lifted his gaze, his expression impassive. Rhys set his pen down, turning his full attention to his brother.

“I was wrong,” Rhysand admitted, his tone raw. “What I said to you before... it was cruel, thoughtless. You’re my brother, and you’ve stood by me through everything. You didn’t deserve that.”

Azriel inclined his head, acknowledging the apology but saying nothing. Rhysand studied him, his regret clear in his eyes. “I know words don’t undo the damage. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to mend what I’ve broken.”

“It’s fine,” Azriel said softly, though his voice lacked conviction. He gave a brief nod, more out of obligation than genuine acceptance. Both of them knew that wounds like these took time to heal, if they ever fully could.

A silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Finally, Azriel broke it, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s my mate.”

Rhysand froze for a beat, then slowly leaned back in his chair. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips, though it was far from mocking. “I know.”

Azriel frowned, his shadows curling tighter around him. “You knew?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.

Rhysand’s smile softened. “It wasn’t hard to see, Az. The way she looks at you... it’s the same way I used to look at Feyre when she had no idea we were bonded. Y/N did an incredible job masking it, I’ll give her that. But I’ve been in her shoes. I know what it looks like.”

Azriel’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rhysand’s gaze turned serious, his voice calm but pointed. “Would it have mattered? Look at how you’ve been with Elain. Do you think Y/N would have told you when she saw you pining for someone else?”

Azriel’s heart clenched, the memory of all those moments with you suddenly taking on a new, painful clarity. Rhysand continued, his tone gentler now. “Why do you think it took me so long with Feyre? I wouldn’t have told her while she was still talking to me about how in love she thought she was with Tamlin. It would have been cruel.”

And then the full weight of it hit Azriel. He had asked you, his mate, for advice about Elain—another woman. You had listened, offered him wisdom, and concealed the pain of your bond so flawlessly that he had never suspected a thing.

A knot of guilt and self-loathing twisted in his chest. He had done a terrible thing.

Azriel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. His shadows swirled restlessly around him, mirroring the turmoil within. Rhysand watched him silently for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t know,” Rhys said softly. “And she never wanted you to feel obligated. But you know now, Az. What you do with that knowledge... that’s up to you.”

Azriel lifted his head, his golden eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Rhysand.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “You might not feel like it now. But that’s not for you to decide, is it? It’s hers. Just... don’t wait too long to figure it out. Bonds don’t wait forever.”

Azriel nodded faintly, though the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. The image of you—wounded, determined, and selfless—lingered in his mind, a reminder of the strength and grace you had shown even when it must have cost you everything.

And now, he realized, it was his turn to figure out what came next.

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[tovibeornottovibe]

Oil and Fire

Azriel x Priestess!Fem!OC

Azriel finds Thea training up in the House of Wind after a family dinner and a sleepless night. There's comfort in knowing that the only thing that will ever change between them is that their feelings will fade. Pining for someone you'll never have has its perks. [5.1k words :0]

warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault, angst, az is angry and horny and doesn't know where to put all of that, questionable coping mechanisms, spiteful, vengeful violence

Prefer to read on Ao3?

It’s strange. Azriel remembers exactly what the fire and oil on his skin had felt like. Still knows the smell of his own burning flesh. Can taste the acrid smoke on his tongue. He can bring it to mind vividly in the same way that Rhys can’t when he tries to think of the scent of Amarantha’s sweat, or the hideous tautness of her skin touching his. He'd forgotten, and Azriel said that he maybe should be glad for it, that he didn’t know. Rhys told him that his head fabricated it anyway. It’s a kind of inescapable torture, and they had only ever discussed it once. Only between each other during a sleepless night a few weeks after he came back from Under the Mountain.

Azriel had been there. It was sealed but he slipped past the wards in shadow. Easy. Her decaying corpse was still there, torn in pieces and laying in pools of dried blood. From where he had been standing, peering over her, her brutalised body seemed rather too small, fragile, even. Rhys would have begged him not to come here, but he had to have it confirmed. She was still dead; just a collection of bones and meat and broken nerves, her mind no longer ticking. The knife Rhys had used to try and kill her was still there too, snapped in half. He had pocketed it and it sits in a drawer in his room in the House of Wind.

In the middle of the throne room, the one that was and is too similar to the one in the Hewn City, he could feel where the world trembled. A crack in the way the air moved. Where Feyre had died and been reborn. His shadows had hugged his body and urged him to move on. 

Before, he had lobbied Nuala and Cerridwen for as much information they could bear to give him, but, really, he was here for one thing: to remove the traces of Rhys from this place, to cleanse it of his presence, so he knew where Rhys’ chambers had been and how little time he had spent in them. He knew the place Amarantha had kept him confined and how his brother used to preen to protect himself. This, Azriel knows, is the bitterest kind of revenge he could have gotten. Revenge after the fact. Because he can’t revive Amarantha just to kill her again. Can’t have her in the dungeons of the Court of Nightmares, the ones that her own dungeons were such a pale imitation of, and slowly drain the life out of her for years and years and years, can’t break her bones or let her blood or starve her of air. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it. Rhys does too. Feyre and Cassian and Mor and Amren. They all think about it. The cruel satisfaction of it.

He had gone to Rhys’ chambers first, but they were mostly bare. Sickeningly, they were undoubtedly his. Black bed sheets still on the mattress, tucked in the way that his mother used to do it, and pillows arranged specifically in the way he liked them. The wardrobe and the drawers were empty, but under the bed there was a dagger that he had never used. Azriel still has it, but it’s in the moonstone palace. The bed was not big enough to accommodate wings, and it brings him relief even now that Amarantha never coaxed them out of his brother, that she did not remember that they had met in the First War and that she had already seen them. He had stripped the bed and burnt the sheets in the fireplace. It had purged the lingering scent of salt and citrus.

It must have been with a particular, wretched callousness, he thought as he left them smouldering, that she had provided him a room with no windows.

Amarantha’s rooms were opulent and reminded Azriel of the High Lord’s bedroom in the moonstone palace. She had, of course, been there only once, but that wing is blocked off now. Feyre had stayed in that place without knowing that, and Azriel thinks that it’s wrong of them to not tell her all these years later. 

More had been in her chambers than in Rhys’: personal effects, dresses, jewellery, and scraps of fabric that had belonged to Rhys’ shirts. Azriel had dragged every piece of furniture, every pearl and diamond, all the pictures on the walls and all the decanters of liquor, did it with his bare hands instead of his shadows so he would feel the weight of them properly, out of the door and piled them in the throne room. By the time he was done, there was not a single thing of hers left. Pettily and aware that it made no difference, he had thrown the parts of her on the pyre too and set it alight. For hours, he watched it burn until it was just ash, each part indistinguishable from the rest, and revelled in the gentle violence of the act.

Then he’d doused the vestiges of her room in oil and did the same, the thought of removing every physical reminder of her overwhelming even his spiking fear at holding a can of oil in his scarred hands.

He’d gone out in the early morning and returned to Velaris in the middle of the night, had planned to sit on the terrace of the town house to make sure Rhys didn’t accidentally hurt himself if he woke from a nightmare. The ones they all knew he had and have since stopped pretending they had never noticed. Mor, as it happened, had been planning the same, and was already lounging on a deck chair with a glass of something strong when he landed.

A flicker of concern, curiosity maybe, had come across her face. 

“You smell like smoke,” she’d said. 

His voice rasping and quiet, he’d replied, “I know.”

And they spent the rest of the night in silence, praying that Rhys wouldn’t wake up until the morning.

So, though the question “What are you thinking about?” had been asked innocently, Az can’t give a truthful answer, can’t even give half of one, can’t obscure the fact that he had been thinking about the way he had seen Amarantha’s skin shrivel and flake away, or that walking into her rooms had made him feel ill. He gives a noncommittal shrug and says, “Just thinking.” Nesta leaves him alone after that.

He waits until his family starts to retire for the night. It had been the first family dinner where they were all there for a while, and the first he had managed to sit through and actually enjoy for the majority of the time since the end of the last war. Elain and Lucien go first, then Cassian and Nesta, Amren and Varian, and then Feyre, Nyx, and Rhys. Rhys who smiled and laughed throughout the night and so rarely now holds that haunting emptiness in his violet eyes. All Feyre has to do is touch him and he brightens. He hears Nyx babble and he softens. And he deserves it.

Just he and Mor remain, and once upon a time, he would have relished it, savoured the attention and the cadence of her voice, but he doesn’t anymore, and she knows that as well as he does. She knocks back the last of her wine and offers him a smile. It is odd that his heart doesn’t lurch because of it. He feels the keen absence of the five-century-long instinct. With a clap at his shoulder as she walks past, she tells him to get some sleep. He scoffs and she looks at him with something like pity.

Picking where to sleep tonight is an issue. Though Rhys and Feyre would never begrudge him for staying here, in the river house, it always feels like intruding, not like the town house used to be, where they all used it and owned it. This was their home, built and designed for them. Cassian and Nesta will be fucking in the House of Wind; sleep there will be impossible. He dares not go to the town house, not while Elain and Lucien are there and they can still hardly tolerate each other. Mor will go to Windhaven tonight, straight to Emerie’s house. He knows that because he checked where she was sneaking off to and the invasion of privacy doesn’t bother him. It is his job to know things, even about the Inner Circle. If she hadn’t wanted him to find out, she would have thwarted him properly.

Still deciding, he tips back his drink, lets it slide down his throat, and stands, stretching out his wings until he feels them start to strain, then a little more until it hurts. He snaps them back and they ache. 

Summer nights in Velaris are warm, pleasantly so, and the breeze ruffles through the curls in his hair as he flies. Though he doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind, the natural movement of his wings takes him along the Sidra and towards the docks, where he settles atop one of the spires which mark the shoreline for passing ships. From here, the city shines, brimming with energy even as the moon reaches the height of its journey across the sky. Sailors and dockworkers are already up, loading cargo, laughing, drinking. He watches, unseen up in the room where the faelight shines out to sea, and makes sure to think about nothing at all.

By the time he makes it to the House of Wind, the sun is coming up and bathing the balconies in fleeting pinks and oranges, and the idea of sleep is entirely lost to him. He hesitates outside his door, his hand hovering over the doorknob, and he wonders what good it would do him to sit and stew at his desk. He could work, read reports and scratch out orders to his spies, probably should, but he’s in the kind of mood that would make him suggest that they cause some chaos just to see what would happen, to poke holes in the defences of other Courts just in case they ever needed to exploit them. Rhys doesn’t know he does that sometimes, and he would certainly order him not to, but what he can’t stop won’t kill him.

His shadows call him to the rooftop, to the training pit, and he takes it to mean that they want him to let off some steam, for him to physically calm himself down. He’s wrong, though, and he knows they fooled him on purpose. They meddle when he would rather they didn’t.

Up there, hitting perfect strike after perfect strike after perfect strike against the third training dummy of the session—the rest splintered and broken by her feet—is a priestess with her dark brown curls tied up like usual: Hemithea, but she hates the name, so they call her Thea. As soon as he walks through the archway and sees her there, draped in light blue training clothes which let her manoeuvre easily, he knows he can’t just turn around and leave because she’ll bring it up next time they train and he’ll have to explain himself anyway. She’s stubborn like that.

Instead, he settles himself near the weapons rack, finds tape, and wraps his hands for something to do, like he plans to train. And he watches her, lies to himself that it’s to assess her form and her grip on the blade, but it isn’t. It’s because he enjoys it and he’s too selfish to make himself look away. She’s probably aware of that. Subtlety too is lost to him this morning.

She doesn’t acknowledge him until she’s broken the dummy and sweat has only just started to percolate on her terra-cotta dark skin. That, he reasons, is why it is so mesmerising to watch her train. The utter efficiency in her hits, the skillful conservation of energy that will serve her well, the way she uses momentum and footwork and balance to wring strength from her body far above what her build should allow. Had she been born into some warrior race, as an Illyrian or a Peregryn, she would have been a natural fighter. The best of them. Az is convinced of it. This, too, while an undeniable fact, is a lie he tells himself for why he finds her captivating, so he won’t feel guilty for letting his mind wander and think about a priestess from the library when he’s in bed and throbbing need pulls over his skin.

She knows that he looks because sometimes she catches him and looks back. He knows that when he spars with Cassian she rakes her gaze over him and enjoys it when he wins. She winks at him when she floors someone and the both of them hoard the contact they get when, at the end of training, she always asks him to practice swordplay with her without a hint of innuendo in her lilting tone. 

Neither of them are going to do anything about it. It just is what it is, and that’s fine. Mostly. He’d never presume she wants anything more than they already have.

The worst of it is that he can’t tell himself it’s just a physical thing. He likes Thea. He likes her voice and her laugh and he enjoys being in her company. He likes it if he can make her skin flush, either from the exhaustion of sparring or by whispering something lowly to her in the breaks. 

He likes the sheer ruthlessness of the way she trains and the fact that she doesn’t hide it. They’re too similar in that way. Truly, she is a kind person, gentle with the other priestesses and never impatient like even Gwyn was on occasion. She listens and does things because they’re the right things to do. Has a generous, calming soul. But she also takes pleasure in making him bleed. The power of that. He’s content to give it to her whenever she asks, but he makes her work for it. Sometimes, it’s a necessary thing to release the pent up ache, the anger it takes to get to that point, and he understands that better than anyone.

Kinship is probably an apt word for what he feels for her, and the only one he’s willing to consciously consider. Self-preservation at its finest. Lying to himself is simpler and he can sit in the knowledge that the only thing that will ever change between them is that whatever it is they feel will fade. Preserving their little cocoon of temporary longing is important to him. He has no intentions of ruining it by overthinking.

Chest heaving, she turns to him, raises a shaped brow, and asks, “Any pointers?”

He can’t even think of something plausible. Her stance is exact, her rhythm precise, and her movement accurate. If she wanted to, and he thinks it’s somewhat strange that she doesn’t, she could cut the Valkyrie’s ribbon in a heartbeat. He starts to stretch and catches her glance downwards. “If you keep training instead of sleeping,” he says, “you’re going to exhaust yourself.”

She huffs a laugh, the sound ringing through him like a bell, and shakes her head. “You’re one to talk.” He doesn’t answer and doesn’t need to; they both know she’s right.

As she exits the ring, she very casually kicks the ruined training dummies out of the way and onto the deck, where the House promptly clears them for her. Azriel makes an effort not to dwell on how attractive he finds it when she does things like that with a sword in her hand. She goes to put it back in the weapons rack, but he’s already moved to haul a punching bag into the ring so they can’t linger in each other’s presence, because he’s not sure he has the capacity to catch the scent of her (Strawberries, and something else he hasn’t determined yet.) and not do something stupid.

He starts hitting the bag and she sits at the edge of the ring to warm down like usual. There’s comfort in the routine of it, in knowing what will come next. She’s going to ask him a question, maybe something personal, or something innocuous, and he might respond or stay quiet, depending. Then, he’ll ask her one and she’ll do the same, though she answers more often than him. He tends to ask her about whatever it is she’s reading so he can listen to her ramble. It’s more soothing than he cares to admit.

Her mind works in ways his never could. She understands anything and everything. He’s always interested if she tells him about something informative, some scientific concept that she explains in terms that he’s sure anyone could understand without being condescending. In fact, he doesn’t think she knows the meaning of the word. What really makes him tick is when she manages to philosophize fiction. The phrase “I understand the notion of sexual liberation through smut, but Sellyn Drake really is an abomination to literature,” sticks out in his head and makes him laugh at inopportune times. Her subsequent “If you tell Nesta I said that, I swear to the gods, Azriel—!” even more so.

But he always asks second, so he keeps his fists working while he waits.

It takes a while, but she shuffles to a more comfortable position where she’s sitting behind him. He wonders if she’s watching him like he watches her, or if she’s actually studying his form, or perhaps looking for weaknesses. That little, depraved part of him that he keeps quiet desperately hopes it’s the former.

He hears her take a breath.

“Who gave you the scars on your hands?” she asks, and it’s a miracle she can’t see his face. Az had known that she would ask him one of these days, but it still shakes him a little. 

A carefully, cleverly worded question which allows him to give an answer lacking in detail without outright refusing her one. His punches don’t falter as he thinks about whether or not he’s going to reply at all. He could leave it with the truth, not provide any more, and she wouldn’t push it. She never does. 

“...My half-brothers did,” he says, striking the punching bag harshly enough that a jolt shoots through his arm.

“Why?”

A beat. Another punch. The bag’s starting to creak under the weight of them.

“Because they hated me,” he says, “and they were cruel.” He can practically sense the frown on her face as she tries to work out why that would be, so he puts her out of her misery and continues, unsure of why but feeling the urge to do it anyway. “I was evidence of my father’s affair, and his wife didn’t want him to take responsibility for me but he did, so she had me constrained under his keep with my wings bound. Her sons took after her, and wanted to know whether Illyrian healing would hold up against oil and fire.”

For a moment, it’s only the sounds of him hitting the bag that sound across the space between them, but she doesn’t let the silence stretch out for very long. In her voice when she speaks, it’s not pity, it’s a kind of contained, roiling rage, and he finds that more gratifying than he should. 

“How old were you?”

Thea knows, of course, that he had gone to Windhaven at eleven.

“Eight,” he replies.

And she stays quiet until he stops moving, knowing that if he kept going his knuckles were going to start bleeding, and self-destruction isn’t what he’s after today. He steadies the bag as it sags.

“Are they dead?” she asks.

When he turns, he sees her staring up at him, still angry. “Yes,” he says simply and unhooks the bag.

She nods. “Good.”

It is. He remembers that day vividly too, and thinks it’s fitting that he had them begging for their lives as they died in the cold. Their voices are clearer in his head than he wants them to be sometimes.

As he throws the bag out of the ring and the House whisks it away, he wonders how he’s going to follow that up, whether to diffuse the tension, ask something light-hearted, but even as the words come to mind, that question dies on his tongue. It’s a self-indulgent impulse, what he does ask, done because he’s curious and wants to know. Maybe it’s because he cares for her too, maybe he wants to get angry on her behalf, but he doesn’t think talking about it will help, in the same way that reliving what happened to him does nothing anymore.

He sits a little ways from her and starts peeling the tape off his hands, his wings splaying out behind him. She tracks the movement. Finally, the scent of her gets carried on the wind to him, and he lets himself inhale and bask in it.

Something floral, he thinks. Roses, maybe. Strawberries and roses.

Then he says, more bluntly than he had planned to, “What happened to you?” and she understands what it is he’s referring to.

Exchanging trauma isn’t where he thought his morning was going, but it’s where he is. She doesn’t owe him a response, and he won’t ask again after this, but anything else seemed unsuitable, maybe a bit disingenuous. He knows parts of her story, that she hails from the Summer Court and walked to the Day Court before Mor found her and brought her to the city more than a century ago. It’s also no secret that the priestesses in the library, terribly, share a common experience, so he figures that’ll be something she’ll tell him, if she answers.

A wry smile comes across her lips. It does him no harm to acknowledge that he looks at her lips more often than could be considered friendly. “Is this payback for my question?” she asks drily, and it’s good-natured, but still serious.

“You know it isn’t,” he says, realising that it probably sounded like it was, moving onto his other hand and taking the tape off that one too.

Thea purses her lips and looks away.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but she shoots him a glare and he clamps his mouth shut, lets her settle.

“In Summer,” she says, “priestesses do more than officiate ceremonies and perform rituals, they’re scholars, a bit like here. That’s why I decided to become one, not for any particular religious feeling, Mother forgive me. I lived in a temple not far from Dodecana—,” the city where the royal family spent the summer months, “—did research, spoke with other devotees to the Powers that Be, you know? I liked it there. Liked being in the temple and reading and just, it was nice.” She accents the words with another small smile, but Az’s heart starts to sink. 

“One day, after a sermon, I think it was on the natural world and the Solstice that was coming up, a male came up to me and he seemed nice so we chatted for a bit. He was interesting. I don’t know how long he’d been in the Court, but he was tall, kind of handsome, had this dark hair and I clocked him as being from the Night Court pretty quickly because he had a bargain tattoo on his wrist right here.” She taps her forearm where he could see the veins in her wrist. It’s a common place for tattoos of that kind to appear. “Anyway. He started telling me about where he was from because I was curious, and he said he was from ‘a city amongst the stars’ which fascinated me. So every so often, he would come and talk to me and I’d learn a bit more about him and this nameless city of his.

“I guess I liked him. Or, I don’t know, I was too young and too naive to get suspicious.” A mirthless grimace flashes across her eyes. “I basically let him walk me into the main chamber of the temple alone and he assaulted me on the altar.” 

Azriel had guessed it as soon as she’d mentioned him, but the revelation hits him like a kick to the chest anyway, the very specific violation of it. The nauseating purposefulness of befriending her before defiling her, if the act wasn’t sickening enough; the invasion of a place so important for her; the taking of safety that it provided. Anger doesn’t begin to cover it. The sensation that washes over him is thick, corrosive, and he’s sure she can see it on his face like he can see how she remembers every part of what happened to her all too well.

“I healed,” she says, and the emphasis makes Azriel feel ill. “Couldn’t stand to stay there so I just got up and left in the middle of the night, which, in hindsight, was stupid but… it was what I did. I started walking and kept going until I reached the border for the Winter Court and on the way I formed a plan. Promised myself some things. I swore that I would never, ever, let something like that happen to me again, and I told myself that I would find him, find him and his ‘city amongst the stars’ all the way up in the Night Court where, as far as I was aware, everyone was a brutal rapist who’d hurt me for even looking at them, and I would kill him. Burn his fucking city and everyone in it. Obviously—” she looks at him and the harshness in her tone softens, “—I’ve no plans to set Velaris on fire, but I was angry and hated myself and let that push me because the other option was…” She trails off, but Az fills in the gaps himself. The other option was giving up.

“I got lucky, honestly,” she continues, leaving how she had gotten through The Middle unsaid, which, knowing the horrors that exist there, Azriel thinks must have somehow been worse than everything else. It takes more than bravery to cross it unscathed. If she hadn’t been sitting in front of him, he would have called it impossible without divine intervention. “I’d made it to the Day Court and I was trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get over the Myrmidons when I collided with Mor in the middle of Rhodes. Why she was in Day, I don’t know, but she practically dragged me to the palace and made me eat because I probably looked like I was dying. She asked me what a priestess from the Summer Court was doing there and I told her everything.”

“You told Mor you were going to kill a member of the Court?”

She nods. “I thought lying to The Morrigan was probably a bad idea. And I didn’t have a lot left to lose.” A sobering confession. “She made me swear that I’d keep what I’d learnt about the city a secret, then offered to take me there, to help me find him and—the way she phrased it was ‘give him what he deserves’.

“She must have cleared it with Rhys because I didn’t meet with him until afterwards, but we found him. He lived in one of the flats near the Palace of Hoof and Leaf and I asked him why he did it. He gave me some excuse about how I led him on, but I think he did it just because he could.” He thinks she’s probably right, and he’s not sure if that makes it better or worse, if that even matters. 

“So, I slit his throat and that was the end of it.” Relief, more than shock, Az realises, is what thunders through him as she speaks with a kind of vicious triumph. “Rhys told me I could stay here and I did. And, there you have it. Other than Rhys and Mor, you’re the only one who knows all that.”

He swallows. He wants her to know that he doesn’t pity her, she doesn’t want that and doesn’t need it, but that he appreciates it, her trust in him and the strength it took to reveal it all, so he says, “I’ll count myself lucky.” 

Thea looses a lofty laugh that shudders and the weight on her shoulders drops. “Take it to your grave, yeah?”

Of course. Nothing they ever talk about here, when it’s just the two of them, gets told to anyone else. Not even Rhys could get him to spill her secrets, and she does the same for him. “I swear it,” he says, hand on his heart, half-joking to make her laugh, but mostly devotedly serious.

She rolls her eyes at him and, though it happens rather too quickly to be fully genuine, it pleases him to see her shake the past off her features. Back to being Thea. Everyday Thea. Not that he doesn’t want to know the other Thea, it's just… he despises it when she’s upset or something’s clearly getting her down and that’s not a selfish thing. It’s because he wants her to be happy. Because, in spite of all the complicated feelings and emotions that pass between them, she is his friend, one of the few he has, and there’s comfort in the fact that that won’t change either.

All it takes is a second, one tiny, precious second, and their little bubble gets broken by Cassian shouting his name through the hall and up to the training ring. 

“Thought he was still asleep,” Az grumbles, glancing back at the entranceway.

The shout comes again and the moment is truly gone. 

“I think that’s my cue,” she laughs, standing, stretching. When she passes by him, she ruffles his hair; she thinks messing with it annoys him, but he actually relishes the feel of it. Thinks about her hand in his hair a lot. It’s harmless, really.

Before she crosses the threshold and goes back to the library, she tosses a wave over her shoulder and calls out, “See you, Az!”

It’s too soon for his liking. He’s got too much he wants to say to her, too much that he still has to work out, but all of it’s too sincere, too deep for the atmosphere, and he doesn’t know what else he has that would make her look back or stay a while longer. So he calls “See you,” back and finishes unwrapping his hand, having gone idle as he listened to her. 

He takes a breath. Two. Lingers where he sits for a bit, then goes off to find Cassian.

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends?

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

Warnings: some wine sipping, gossiping, angst, miscommunication, friend fighting, jealousy (but no one realizes), az being defensive and blind

Word Count: 5k

Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

“It’s not that I don’t like her.”

The words tasted as false as they were, and you grimaced the moment they slipped out, already bracing for the look Mor would throw your way. True to form, she didn’t disappoint, her expression halfway between amusement and exasperation.

A defeated sigh escaped as you accepted the glass of wine she offered, watching as she filled her own nearly to the brim.

“You’re better than me, then,” she hummed, settling back onto the couch across from you. “Because I don’t like her.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t like many people nowadays.”

She shrugged, casual as ever, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “True. I’m not exactly lining up for any peace medals, am I?”

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair. “I just… have this odd feeling about her, you know?”

Mor tilted her head, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I know. She drags Az around on a leash.”

You were tempted to say something about the irony in her words—remind her, in a loving manner, that she might've been guilty of that once upon a time, too. But you decided against it. She wasn't wrong.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid move in slow, mesmerizing circles. The feeling wasn’t new; it had been there since the first time you’d met her. Azriel’s new girlfriend Selene was perfectly fine—charming, even. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Like a faint hum in the background of a quiet room, just irritating enough to notice but not enough to prove anything was wrong.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

You glanced up, finding Mor’s bright brown eyes sharp and focused on you, the lazy humor of a moment ago gone.

“I doubt he’ll listen,” you admitted, resting the bottom of your glass on your thigh. “He didn’t listen to you.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

Mor raised a brow like she wanted to argue, but she only sighed in response. “He’s been so weird about his love life. Gwyn didn’t work out. Elain’s probably the happiest out of all of us. Maybe he’s treading lightly.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though you weren’t convinced.

Azriel had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways since everything had settled—since everyone had paired off and fallen in love. Everyone except you. And him.

You were fine with your situation, content in the quiet steadiness of your life. Azriel wasn’t. You knew it. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. So much of his self-worth was tangled up in whether he believed himself worthy of love. And the absence of it—of a solid, undeniable love in his life, of a partner, of a potential bond—seemed to weigh on him. To him, it wasn’t just an empty space; it was a failure.

You’d almost go as far as to say he’d become desperate, living in the shadows and watching his brothers experience loves so profound they might as well have been plucked from stories meant to inspire poets and dreamers.

Mating bonds were rare. You reminded yourself of that often. Your family was just an anomaly, their luck skewed impossibly high. But logic wasn’t enough to soothe Azriel, and it certainly wouldn’t stop him from chasing it. He was obsessive. Stubborn.

Nothing you said or did could change his perspective.

Mor’s voice pulled you out of your head again. “Speak of the devil,” she sang out. “Hi, Elain.”

Your gaze snapped up to the doorway, finding Elain standing just beyond the archway. She looked like a spooked deer, frozen in place with that polite smile you’d come to recognize as her default around company she hadn’t fully warmed up to yet.

“We were just talking about Azriel’s unfortunate romantic history,” Mor said smoothly. You glanced at Elain for her reaction.

It had taken time for that particular history to fade. Maybe it was appropriate to joke about now, but you personally would’ve waited a few more years before bringing it up so flippantly. Mor, however, had little patience for such niceties.

Elain’s expression didn’t shift beyond a faint flicker in her eyes, and you realized how much her composure had improved over the years. Then again, it had been a while since she and Lucien had found each other for good—long enough for their bond to solidify and for them to leave for the Day Court after their mating ceremony.

A twinge of jealousy sparked in you before you brushed it aside.

“We’re just gossiping in general. Want to join us?” you asked, gesturing to the chair beside you. Plush and inviting, it mirrored the one you sat on. “Unless Lucien is waiting for you upstairs?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed crimson. 

“Lucien’s still with Feyre, catching up,” she said, stepping further into the room. “What are you drinking?”

Mor reached for the bottle on the table, plucking it up and turning it in her hand to read the label.

“Something good and expensive,” she replied, with a half-hearted air of indulgence, before tilting her head at Elain with a faint grin.

“It’s from Rhys’s rather gluttonous collection,” you said, sensing Elain’s hesitation. “It won’t be missed at all.”

She smiled at that. “I’d love some.”

“There are a lot of glasses in that cabinet,” you said, pointing to the wood door with ornate carvings. “Grab whichever one you’d like.”

Mor sat up straighter, scooting herself back into the pillows behind her. You hummed, impressed, at her ability to hold both her full wine glass and the bottle without so much as a wobble.

You hadn’t spent much time with Elain one-on-one. Emissary duties had kept you busy during the years the Archeron sisters had adjusted to their new lives. But you liked Elain, from what you’d seen. She had a kind heart. She also had a sharp humor that surfaced at the oddest moments, usually when she and Lucien were whispering in corners, conspiratorial before seamlessly rejoining whatever social event they were at like they’d never left.

Elain returned and sat down with her chosen glass—a delicate crystal piece that gleamed in the soft light. Mor went to fill it instantly. 

“Can I ask why you were discussing Azriel’s romantic life?” Elain asked. Her voice was smooth, certain. No hesitation.

It didn’t faze her anymore, you realized—being such a strange, pivotal turning point in Azriel’s past experiences. She’d made peace with it, the way immortality seemed to demand. Time softened the edges of even the messiest situations, turning them into stories you could recount with startling detachment. Almost humorous, really.

Because how else could you explain being casual about the fact that your best friend had almost allowed his pride—and arrogance—and, somehow simultaneously, his insecurity—to lead him into a blood duel over Elain’s affections? A blood duel.

But now, it was just… something to write off. A distant memory, softened by the years and Lucien’s easy confidence. Lucien was better than you. You would’ve held that grudge against Azriel for many more years—long enough to make it a point of pride. But then again, Lucien had won everything he wanted in the end. He had the girl, the bond, the certainty that whatever lingering rivalry Azriel might feel was entirely one-sided.

It wasn’t important enough for Lucien to waste any more energy on.

You exchanged a glance with Mor, who arched a brow, clearly just as amused by Elain’s openness.

“Y/n doesn’t like his new girlfriend,” Mor said.

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t either.”

“True,” Mor agreed easily. She looked to Elain. “We don’t like her.”

“For clarification,” you said firmly, “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mor laughed, sipping her wine with an amused grin.

Your face fell flat. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied breezily. “But if you get a bad feeling about someone, that’s usually dislike.”

You resisted the urge to scowl, already turning over the guilt in your mind. You didn’t want to be that person—the kind who dismissed another female off the bat. Maybe your gut was wrong this time. Maybe her smile had reached her eyes, and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe her tone hadn’t been as assessing as you remembered, and you were projecting. You wanted to like her. You wanted to be happy for Azriel.

But he didn’t seem happy. He seemed distracted. Busy. Not himself.

And not the kind of busy you’d seen before—the methodical, obsessive focus he funneled into work or training. This was different, scattered in a way you couldn’t quite pin down. It had made sense in the beginning, when things were new and exciting, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. He’d started missing things—small things at first, like sparring sessions or those late-night conversations you, Mor, and him would have when you couldn’t sleep. Then came the bigger things. He’d stopped being able to review external court updates with you, even when those meetings were critical for your diplomatic roles.

Azriel had always been the one you could count on. Out of everyone, you considered him your closest friend—even more than Mor, though you’d never admit it out loud. But now it seemed like every time you made plans, Selene needed him more.

And then there was how fast it was all moving. Too fast. At a recent family dinner, she’d casually mentioned that she and Azriel could move in together—offhand, like it was the most obvious next step. Something about leaving the townhouse behind, creating a space with décor that matched her aesthetic. Azriel had just stayed quiet, looked at her like she’d just proposed the most brilliant idea in existence.

You noticed he did that. The way he looked at her. The way he’d looked at Elain and Gwyn back when they were seeing each other. It weirded you out—that tendency to put the people he saw as romantic interests on a pedestal, as though they were flawless. As though they were something he didn’t deserve.

You knew where it came from. That deep-rooted insecurity that even centuries hadn’t managed to erase. He didn’t see it, the way he wore himself down trying to prove his worth to people who, for the most part, had already accepted him. But you saw it. You always had.

And it made it harder to like Selene. To trust her intentions. Maybe that was unfair, but you couldn’t help but feel like she was just taking—taking all the parts of Azriel that used to be all of yours to share, and twisting them into something else. Something that didn’t include his family.

Still, you wanted to try. To let go of the gnawing irritation in your chest and convince yourself it didn’t matter. If she made him happy—truly happy—then none of it should matter. You were adamant on ensuring that you didn’t turn into the stereotypical overbearing female best friend.

Elain tapped her glass lightly. “Lucien doesn’t like her.”

You blinked back into reality. “Really?”

She nodded, a beat passing before she added, “To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

Mor leaned forward, grinning like she’d been handed a stack of gold. You almost wished Amren was here to bask in the moment. Amren didn’t like Azriel’s girlfriend, either. Maybe your family really was as unwelcoming as people claimed. Or maybe Selene simply brought out another level of scrutiny. The thought of either option made you feel bad— gross. 

“Why?” Mor asked.

“She was dismissive toward Lucien. And,” Elain hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, “She seemed… entitled, I suppose. Especially with Azriel. Like she expected him to accommodate her every whim.”

You frowned, turning over her words. “I’m sure she was just nervous. We can be an intimidating group. Maybe she just needs time to settle in. We just want Az to be happy, right? So, if she makes him happy, then I’m absolutely fine with her.”

The silence that followed was thick. For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Something weird.

“Are you?” Elain asked, her tone sincere.

“Are you?” Mor echoed at the same time, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You shot Mor a glare, but she only raised her brows and sipped her wine again, infuriatingly unbothered. Exhaling, you willed yourself to meet Elain’s gaze.

“I am,” you said, trying for conviction. “Really.”

Elain pursed her lips. Her gaze shifted to Mor, lingering longer than you liked, and then back to you.

“Alright,” she hummed. “I guess I was wrong.”

You stilled. Elain reclined deeper into her seat, accepting a refill from Mor. Her wine glass remained only half-full compared to yours and Mor’s.

Curiosity burned. You leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “What do I mean about what?”

“You said you guess you were wrong. What does that mean?”

Mor’s gaze bored into the side of your face. Any second now, you were sure she’d make some quip about how bothered you were. But you weren’t bothered. Just curious.

Elain swirled her wine, watching the light catch the liquid. “I’m not sure. Things feel off. Like something’s coming. Az needs help with it, I think.”

You froze. “Off? Like—how?”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “But I feel it. In my chest. My visions sometimes do that. That’s why I asked.”

Well, that unsettled you. You glanced at Mor, whose amused grin had fallen into something more contemplative.

It seemed you might need to have a conversation with Azriel after all.

“I don’t like that,” you admitted, your nose crinkling. 

“I think I heard him get back earlier. Go talk to him,” Mor said, her tone gentler now, though a hint of mischief lingered in her eyes. You didn’t read too much into that. Mor’s eyes tended to be expressive. She also tended to be mischievous when her blood was primarily red wine. 

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe just to check in.”

Elain nodded. “Just to check in,” she echoed, almost reassuring.

“Have fun,” Mor added, her grin returning just enough to be annoying, but not enough to distract you from the unease curling in your chest.

You didn’t respond, instead taking another slow sip of your drink. The glass clinked softly as you set it down on the table before you made your way upstairs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Mor turned to Elain. “Did you really feel something that unsettling?”

Elain let out a laugh. “No,” she said lightly. “I completely made that up. But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Mor’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Seconds later, her head tilted back in a laugh just as vibrant as it was unapologetic.

“Genius,” she declared, raising her glass in mock salute.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk upstairs was quiet.

The townhome, in general, was quieter nowadays. Aside from the times others came to visit—like Lucien and Elain—only you and Azriel lived here full time.

When you reached Azriel’s bedroom door, your steps faltered for a moment. There was a hesitation in you that hadn't existed before. You raised your hand to knock, but the action felt more awkward than usual. It made you sad, momentarily, that you hesitated. You never second-guessed yourself with Azriel. You wanted to tread carefully in this new era of his life, though. You didn’t want to overstep, to become a nuisance. But whatever this was—whatever had unsettled Elain enough to mention it—you needed to know. Azriel had always been a constant for you, and if something felt “off,” you wanted to understand why.

Your knuckles rapped lightly on the door. “Az?” 

Inside, you heard the shuffle of movement, followed by his low, familiar voice. “Come in.”

You didn’t see Azriel immediately, but the smell of soap and the damp air told you that he recently showered. Shadows slithered across the floor, comfortable and excited, exploring the familiar confines of his room.

You greeted the tendrils as you usually did, letting them brush against your legs as you flopped onto his bed. The bed, like everything else in his room, was simple: plain black sheets, no extravagant pillows, just the bare necessities. It used to drive you mad, the emptiness of it all.  But what was in his room spoke volumes—— bare walls except for a dagger mount on one side, a small uncluttered desk with a well-worn sharpening stone. 

Azriel exiting the bathroom pulled your attention, your eyes settling on him as he rubbed his wet hair thoroughly with a towel. He shook his head slightly, wet curls bouncing onto his forehead, and met your gaze. His eyes flicked to where you lay, scanning your body. He nodded toward your feet.

“C’mon,” he almost whined. “No shoes on the bed.”

You looked down at yourself, grimacing as you realized that your shoes were, indeed, on his clean comforter. A simple set of house slippers, so nothing entirely too dirty, but it had completely slipped your mind. Very comfortable shoes, you noted, maybe you’d get Feyre a pair as a solstice gift.

“Oh whoops,” you said with an apologetic smile. “My bad, clean freak.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the quirk of his lips anyways.

For a moment, the old sense of comfort settled over you. But then, a thought crept in—the thought that maybe you shouldn’t lie on his bed like this anymore. It had been fine before, but now… now it felt different. He had someone else in his life. It wasn’t weird, exactly, but it was a little inappropriate.

You sat up straighter.

“Did you and Mor grow tired of rehashing the same centuries old gossip?” He teased.

You snorted, watching as his shadows flitted above his shoulders. They were amused, laughing in their own way. “Never,” you responded, pushing yourself off his bed. You were drawn to the otherside of his room, to the simple dresser against the wall. “Elain joined us this time.”

Your back was to him, but you had a feeling that the momentary silence, the stillness that you felt, was a knee-jerk reaction from Azriel—something reminiscent of embarrassment, shame, or guilt at her name. But all he responded was, “Oh?”

“I like her,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kinda wish I spent more time with her…”

You paused, your words trailing off quietly as you took in the small details before you. 

Azriel’s dresser had always been the one surface he decorated, not because he cared for decoration, but because it was the only surface large enough to hold anything. Over the years, it had become a quiet testament to the things that mattered to him: a mix of Solstice and birthday gifts, trinkets you’d both collected on missions and trips. You liked seeing what had changed, what had been added. It gave you a glimpse into where Azriel had been, who had been with him. 

Lately, there had been more—more trinkets, more oddities that stood in stark contrast to the weapons displayed elsewhere, the ones mostly hidden away in his closet. A macaroni necklace from Nyx. A horribly made clay version of him you’d created during a drunken pottery night with Feyre, Mor, and Amren.

But now, the dresser was foreign. The once familiar surface had been wiped clean, replaced by delicate perfume bottles, jewelry that looked too fine to be his, and a candle that smelled—oddly—like the puke of a flower faerie. Some of it was new. Most of it was hers.

Azriel’s presence had vanished from his own furniture entirely.

“Huh.”

“What?” Azriel asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I see you’ve decorated more.”

Azriel tilted his head, and a few of his shadows slithered down his body, crossing the room to pool around your ankles. “I guess,” he said. “Selene said my room needed more life.”

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along the ceramic jewelry dish, the cool surface sending a strange chill through your skin. The shadows flickered over your hand, almost as if they were inspecting it too. They moved with purpose, then slowly obscured it, hiding it from view.

You frowned, confused.

Azriel, still silent, was rifling through his closet. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as he moved, but he said nothing. The shadows returned to his side as you turned to look at him.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Now, Azriel barely spared you a glance.

“Yeah. Meeting Selene,” he replied simply.

After a few seconds of silence, Azriel turned his head and properly held your gaze. “Why? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you responded with a casual wave of your hand, but Elain’s words echoed in your mind. You cleared your throat. “Well, actually, no. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

He frowned, standing up straighter, his wings flexing with the motion. “Is it something serious?”

You paused, carefully filtering through your words. “No, just something that’s been on my mind.”

Azriel studied you, doubt flickering in his hazel eyes. It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was reading you too easily. He probably didn’t believe you, not entirely—but he nodded anyway. His lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. “Raincheck then?”

You mirrored his smile, though it felt thin. “Yeah, sure. We can talk tomorrow, once we’re back from the Hewn City.”

Azriel stilled. The way his gaze dropped to the floor and lingered felt like a guilty dog, an animal caught in an act forbidden. “Shit,” he said, his tone cautious. “I can’t go.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Seriously? Az, Rhys is expecting an update.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere enough. It didn’t matter. “But you can handle it on your own, you know this.” 

“Are you serious?” you said, the hurt slipping out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to deal with Keir alone.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Rhys, but Selene’s been wanting to—”

“Never mind,” you cut him off, shaking your head. You forced a smile. “Have fun tonight. And tomorrow.”

Azriel scanned your face. After another moment of silence, he sighed.

“Okay, what is it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You clearly have something on your mind. Tell me.”

You hesitated, holding his gaze. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Selene.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened instantly. He looked away, his tongue running across his teeth as he shook his head. “Not you too. Don’t be like this.”

Your frown deepened, offended by the immediate shift in tone. “Be like what? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

He met your eyes again, his stare almost challenging. “We both know what you’re going to say.”

“Do we?”

“First Mor, then Nesta, and now you.” His voice was sharp, but not loud. “Should I be concerned that the females in my life are so quick to rally against my girlfriend?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to mirror his pose. “Well, yeah, Az. Maybe you should be.”

He rolled his eyes, the shadows at his feet flickering with the motion. “Fine. What do you want to tell me, then?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. Azriel had always been good at looking through you, unraveling thoughts you hadn’t fully formed yet. And now, under the weight of his sharp gaze, you felt exposed.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Something flickered in his expression, quick and fleeting—too fast for you to decipher. For the first time in a long while, Azriel felt unreadable, like he’d drawn a curtain between himself and you. “Really?” he asked, his tone tight, almost incredulous.

You faltered, a small thread of doubt weaving its way through your resolve. Was he happy? Would he even tell you if he wasn’t?

“Yes, really,” you replied, a defensive edge creeping into your voice. “You’ve been distant lately. Running around at her beck and call. None of us know her. I want to understand what’s going on with you. I want to understand her.”

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his gaze hardening.

“I want to make sure this is the kind of relationship you want,” you finished, quieter now.

The room fell into silence, heavy and still. Azriel watched you as if he was turning your words over and over in his mind. You waited, unsure of what to expect—if anything at all.

“I wouldn’t be in a relationship I didn’t want. Can we drop it, please.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What a strange, dismissive answer. It bothered you— bothered you more than anything he’d ever told you before. 

“Az, I just don’t want you to change who you are for someone. You don’t need to cater to her every whim.”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tighter around his boots. “I’m her boyfriend. I do what she asks.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the scoff that slipped out. Azriel had never been so clipped with you. “That’s not the definition of a boyfriend. That’s the definition of a bitch.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his wings flaring in irritation. “Excuse me?”  His voice cut through the room. “Do you really think I’m some incompetent love-sick loser?”

“I think you stop seeing flaws in the people you love.”

The words hung between you, heavier than you’d anticipated. A small part of you wondered if “love” was the word Azriel would use to describe his feelings for her. Another part worried that he didn’t correct you.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he snapped. “I can clearly see that you’re being unfair. Quick to judge, much like Mor. That’s a flaw.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, “You know what I meant. The people you’re infatuated with—”

“Where is this sudden concern coming from?” he interrupted, his shadows now beginning to curl between you like restless mediators, unsure where to settle. “Are you trying to cause issues?”

Something ran hot through your body.

“Seriously? I’m talking to you about this because I care. Because Elain had some cryptic feeling about you—”

“Elain is involved in this conversation, too?” His voice dripped with frustration now. “Gods, Y/n, should I send word for Gwyn while we’re at it? Get her opinion?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You took an authoritative step forward.  “I’ve never judged you. I’ve always tried to support you and your messy love life, no matter how complicated. Don’t you trust me, Azriel? As a friend?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows flickering uncertainly, still deciding whether to retreat or rise.

You gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You’ve erased all traces of your family—of you, of us. Where did you even put—”

“Oh, gods.” Azriel’s voice broke through, and for a moment, you thought he might crumble. His wings folded, and his hand dragged across his face, the weight of his exhaustion sinking in. “She was right.”

You froze. “What?”

Azriel met your gaze, his eyes hesitant for a heartbeat before turning sharp. “About you. Selene said you were jealous. That you had feelings for me.”

The words hit like a slap, and your world tilted on its axis. “What?” you asked again, your voice breaking on the word. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he had misspoken.

“I told her she was wrong. But now…” He let the sentence hang in the air, searching your face for something that maybe wasn’t even there.

“Now, what?” Your voice rose, tinged with anger. “You think I’m here because I’m jealous? Because I have some… crush on you?”

His wings flared slightly at your tone, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t know. It’s just—why else would you care so much about this?”

Your stomach twisted, a deep, cold ache settling there. “Why else?” you repeated, the words bitter on your tongue. “Because I care about you, Azriel. Because you’ve been my friend for centuries. Are you seriously confused about this?” 

For a moment, Azriel’s expression faltered, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he said, “I didn’t ask you to care about my love life.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped, stepping closer. “That’s what friends do. But you’re standing there, letting her perception of me—someone who doesn’t even know me—warp your judgment. You’ve known me longer than that. Or at least, I thought you did. And the fact that you’d entertain this—” You stopped, shaking your head. “It’s insulting.”

Azriel said nothing. He just stood there, shadows now curling tighter around him. 

You had no idea how this conversation had gotten away from you, no idea how it turned into this—where this defensiveness, this anger, had come from. This wasn’t Azriel. Loyal, overly so. Impulsive. Protective. 

Or maybe it was. Maybe that loyalty was directed at someone else now—someone who clearly saw you as something threatening. You’d never been on the other side of Azriel before. Never thought you’d see the day. The realization hit like a slap to the face, leaving you shocked, stunned, a pit opening in your stomach that felt too deep to climb out of.

“You know what? Forget it.” You stepped back, the fight draining out of you all at once.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Really? That’s it?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so bitter. “Yeah,” you said, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

You turned for the door, hand on the handle, but paused. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and pointed, a petty jab that felt equal parts satisfying and hollow. “Make sure to lock this door when you leave—I’d hate to accidentally stumble back in and throw myself at you.”

Azriel stiffened, his wings snapping taut behind him. For a brief second, you thought he might say something, anything. But he didn’t.

You closed the door behind you with a heavy thud.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: no one tell them they probs have feelings for each other bc they’ll probably fight you (also elains moment is so self indulgent bc i would totally be making shit up based off my powers. like yeah actually you can’t be mean to be :/ powers are saying you’ll die if you are)

Part Two

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

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@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

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azriel tag list 🫶🏻:@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder  @mortqlprojections @ushijima-stits @honethatty12

[kathren1sky-blog]

Ok...ok... I like some angst ... And a lot of crying.... But we really need to know they are on the other side TOGETHER!!!!

hello, can you do somehting angsty with azriel x reader?? please

in another life, azriel's waiting

azriel x reader

very angsty

The tea must be ready.

You head to the kitchen, pausing by the window; winter is finally here. Snow paints Velaris’ mountains with the purest shade of white, as if illustrated by The High Lady herself.

You feel the pot with your hands—it burns, of course, but you touch it again, just in case.

It still burns.

You sigh, walking to the cabinet. Where are the mittens? You look and look and look. I should tidy this, you think to yourself, realizing they aren’t there.

By the firewood reserve! You had used them to avoid splinters, yes.

You almost run to the door, the need for tea getting serious. And when your hand is on the knob—a knock.

What? It’s well deep into the night…

Another knock, stronger.

And another, desperate.

You summon all your courage. “Hello?”

Whoever is on the other side of your door speaks no word but knocks again, now almost inaudibly. And then you hear the sound of something falling—someone falling.

You take a trembling breath… and you open the door.

A male. A winged male is on the floor. Eyes closed and… hurt, bleeding.

“Oh, gods—”

“Hello,” he whimpers, low enough that you have to kneel to hear his words.

“Are you alrig— You are not alright,” you cry as your hands move frenetically anywhere on his body but never truly touch—fearing you’ll make it all worse.

“Good eye,” he mumbles lowly, a faint smile on his trembling lips.

Oh, Cauldron boil you, he is mad. Dying and mad—just what you needed to end the day.

“What—what can I do?” you ask, scanning his closing eyes for the answer.

They pry open at the desperation in your voice, meeting yours, pleading and crystal-wet. “Can you just… keep me company?”

His voice is so low, so broken… you look for his hand and take it in yours.

“Let me get you inside. I’ll try to… do something,” you plead. You are not willing to let this male die. You will not let him surrender to his imminent death.

He shakes his head faintly. “There’s nothing to be done.”

You follow the path a tear takes down his beautiful face.

“No,” you cry. “Please, let me at least try. I have a nursing kit. I can—”

“It’s poison,” he murmurs, signaling weakly with his chin to the deadly cut on his stomach. “The blade was poisoned.”

You are frozen in place, your eyes blinking and blinking, hoping at some point you will open them and find yourself awake from the nightmare that this is.

Your shaky voice tries to ask, “How long?” You cannot pronounce the words out loud.

How long until you die?

He frailly moves his head to face you fully. You observe his face… he looks almost at peace now, bravely accepting his fate.

In the honesty in his eyes, the life swimming out of his parted lips; you wonder if this is a male you could have known in another life. Maybe even loved.

“Not long.”

Instantly, your hand travels to his cheek, and he leans into the warmth of it.

Who would’ve told him death would be so warm and peaceful? Who would’ve told him it would have a face so beautiful?

Don’t die, you want to say. Please don’t die.

“Let me get you inside,” you try again, not knowing what to say anymore. “To the fire.”

He doesn’t answer, just looks deep into your eyes, as if finding his remnant life there.

“Please,” you plead.

You don’t want him to die here. Cold and bloody and trembling.

You don’t want him to die at all.

Without a word, he moves his right arm with difficulty to your hand. You are quick to take it and, with all your strength, place it on your shoulder to raise him.

“Just five more steps,” you reassure, closing the door when you meet the warmth of your home.

He walks on unsteady feet. But he walks.

And at last, you are by the fireplace. Delicately, you help him lay on your couch, gently guiding his head to rest on the side.

You kneel in front of him again, wiping your tears away, trying to calm your quick breaths.

You have to look calm, you have to make this easier for him.

“Better?” you murmur, trying to smile.

He opens his tired eyes and takes his time observing your lips. As if copying you, he matches your little smile. “Better.”

You cannot help but move your hand to draw circles on his burning temple. Your other hand holding his hand—his scarred hand, you now realize.

How much pain has this male gone through in his life? How many evils have his eyes seen? How many wounds has his body suffered?

Maybe it isn’t the best thing to ask, but curiosity and hate for unfairness have you asking, “What happened?”

He blinks slowly, taking in your question. Flashes of pain paint his hazel eyes, and you instantly regret making him remember whatever he had been through.

“Forget it,” you say, moving your hand down to his cheek, making him meet your eyes. “What’s your name?”

He weakly tries to sit up, moving his hand to yours to keep it on his face. You take a mental note of not moving it elsewhere. Of not going elsewhere—ever, away from his side.

“Azriel,” he finally says, as if it’s impossible for him to pronounce the word.

Is he thinking the same as you? That who he is won’t be alive for much longer? That he—Azriel—is going to die? Cease to exist?

You feel more tears running down your cheeks, and at the sight, he moves his hand to wipe them away softly.

Does he have a family? A loved one you should write to when he—

“It’s okay,” he whispers, as if you were the one having to hear it. “What’s your name?”

You take heart and meet his eyes. “Y/N.”

At the sound of it, a big smile blooms on his face. “Y/N,” he echoes. “It’s beautiful.”

You cannot contain the sob that escapes you, moving to hug him as his injuries let you. You had never been close to death. Never had seen the unfairness of life deserting someone.

“It’s okay,” he says again and again as you cry, hidden in the curve of his neck.

When he starts stroking your back feebly, you will your eyes to find his face. He looks down at you, trying to show you it truly is okay with his childish smile.

“I’m glad I’m here with you, Y/N,” he says, and though you wouldn’t have believed him in any other circumstance, you do now. You do because his eyes tell you the truth.

“I’m glad, too,” you mutter through tears, because only imagining Azriel out there, having to die alone, bleeding on the snow, with no one to hold his hand and caress his crying face—it breaks your heart.

“Do you think there’s another life?” he asks, still lost in the depths of your eyes.

You don’t have to lie, for the truth finds your lips quickly. “Yes. I believe there is something better, something kinder and softer after the cruelness of this world.”

A silent tear slides close to his faint, trembling smile. His eyes, at last, look elsewhere in wonder, as if he is picturing this life you described. “Sounds great.”

You nod weakly, hoping he turns to look at you again.

Please don’t go. Don’t go yet.

“It’s a pity, though,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes. “That I won’t find you there.”

Another sob breaks through you. “But you will. Someday you will. I promise, Azriel.”

Your words seem to bring him peace, his eyes blinking each time slower, his breaths turning unhurried.

“I’ll be waiting for you, Y/N,” he whispers at last.

You don’t have time to reply before his eyes close.

-Charcaters by Sarah J Maas

azriel masterlist

a/n: probably one of my favourite fics i've written. i'm now taking writing more seriously and, i think you can tell with this one, or at least, i hope, so. have a good day, loves :))

[florencemtrash]

He Feels Safe With You — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel's sleeping habits begin to worry you, but after a conversation with Cassian, you realize you've misinterpreted the entire situation.

Warnings: Major fluff. Like tooth-rotting sweetness. Sleepy Az.

Author's note: I should be sleeping because I have work tomorrow but instead I've chosen to write this oneshot and I have no regrets.

It was starting to become a problem now. 

You cocked your head to the side, cradling a cup of tea in your hands and watching Azriel as he continued to sleep soundly in your bed. You had the windows cracked open and the early Autumn breeze swirled indoors with the scent of lavender, bergamot, and the strawberry jam you’d slathered over your toast. You checked the time once again on the glossy marble clock face. The arrow-shaped hour hand clicked ever closer to 11am, the minute hand close to overtaking its competitor. 

10:55am and Azriel was still asleep. 

The sheets clustered loose and low around his waist, mimicking the curling of his shadows up and down the ridges of his spine and across the delicate membrane of his wings. His wings hung loose and relaxed, stretching off the edges of your bed and caressing the floor with a lover’s touch. You blushed at the sight. When you and Azriel had first started courting each other three years ago, you’d thought through the mechanics of housing an Illyrian warrior in your bed — should you buy a new bed frame and mattress? Did you even have space for it in your apartment? The answer had been no to both, and yet Azriel loved when your daytime activities ended here instead of at the townhouse. If he cared about having to walk sideways to avoid the bookshelves in the halls or having to crouch to avoid the overhang above the staircase, he didn’t mention it. 

Three hours ago you’d woken up beneath the gentle weight of his wings, untangled yourself from Azriel’s greedy limbs, and crept down the stairs to your kitchen, bleary eyed but well rested. But that was three hours ago! Since then you’d brushed your teeth, washed your face, and eaten breakfast, and still the Shadowsinger hadn’t stirred. You were beginning to question whether he truly was the Spymaster of the Night Court as you sat in your velvet chair and admired your lover. You traced all the subtle movements of his body as he muddled through dreams you could only wonder at — the creasing of his brow, the slack line of his lips as he breathed, the twitching of his fingertips as he reached for some phantom object. 

The clock struck eleven and you sighed, gathering your plates but leaving Azriel’s pile of toast, butter, and honey alone. You also left the teapot and its mismatched cup, blowing magic over its lid in a silent command to keep its contents hot until Azriel awoke. 

“I’ll be down in the shop,” you whispered to his shadows, trusting that they would relay the message when their master finally decided to grace the daytime with his presence. 

One by one, shadows slipped off Azriel’s skin, curling around your ankles and wrists in a silent plea to stay. You shook them off like one might a needy child, promising you’d only be two floors down. 

The artists’ corner in Velaris was an eclectic array of compact townhouses, each outwardly dressed in their unique, dazzling finery. Your townhouse was squished between a painting studio and a luthier’s. The painting studio’s owner seemed intent on changing the color of the wooden sidings every other day and the drawings scribbled over the windows every other week. Today it was periwinkle blue to match the hydrangeas overflowing from the window boxes. 

You nodded in approval as you flipped the apothecary sign over from “Much apologies, please try another time” to “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” The blue would match your tulip yellow sidings and the clean white accents of the luthier’s. Last week it had been red and that had looked gods-awful. 

You busied yourself in the shop, crushing up lavender and herbs and boiling mugwort in fire-stained glassware in between flurries of customers until the medicinal stench in the air grew thick and strong. You were used to it by now. It smelled clean. Like home. 

You were finishing tying up a bundle of teabags when Cassian came in carrying a sturdy wooden box under one arm like it weighed five pounds instead of fifty. You snapped out the wrinkles of a cloth bag, dropping the teabags and five vials of sleep serum for the nightingale-winged nymph in front of you. 

“Four feathers and three strands of hair, as we bargained for,” you said, sliding the bag across the counter. 

The nymph nodded in approval, extending out a wing and shoving her fingers into the pillowy softness. She tested for loose feathers ready to pull.

“You’re a godsend, Y/n, has anyone ever told you that?” She pulled out three feathers, closed her wing, and started testing the feathers on the other side. “Finnigan’s was asking me for ten. Ten! Can you believe that? If I hadn’t found you in time I’d have been reduced to a plucked chicken.” She was much less precious about her mousey brown hair and yanked out three strands at random. “Oops, you get an extra strand today,” she sang, dropping the feathers and hair into the jars you held out. 

“Well it’s a good thing you found me then, Moricka.” 

“Honestly! I understand he’s got a large studio space he’s renting in the thick of the Palace, and even I will admit the ambiance is rather professional—” 

Cassian raised his brow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred lips as he continued to stand motionless in the doorway. It was true your space was more… homey than Finnigan’s, but your expertise shined in intimate spaces. You liked the control and the familiarity that came from running a smaller business and you wouldn’t give it up for the world. 

“But I do think the success is getting to his head. You both studied under Lady Madja so I don’t see why—” 

You nodded absentmindedly. It was always like this with Moricka. The songbird in her made it difficult for her to stop talking, but at least her voice was pleasant. 

She threw her hands up in the air before finally catching wind of another presence in the room. Cassian waved at her with a wink and an orange blush creeped onto her full cheeks. He tended to have that effect on fae with his towering size and the wild beauty of his chiseled jaw and smattering of scars over his cheeks and brow. 

“Oh… oh dear, I didn’t realize you had another customer. Oh my goodness I’ve been talking your ear off all this time and you’ve been too kind to say anything. You’re a godsend, Y/n. A godsend! I don’t know what I would do without you, although I should really be letting you go now.” She grabbed her things and sidestepped the range of Cassian’s wings, trying and failing now to gawk. “I’ll see you soon enough again I’m sure.” 

“I’ll be here.” You sighed in relief when the doorbell rang behind her petite frame, the inoffensive smile you offered all your customers sliding off your face like oil on water. Cassian chuckled, dropping the box onto the countertop with a dull thud. 

“Long day?” 

You pulled out a stepstool and began rummaging around through the box, pulling out jars of squid ink, bark trimmings, buttons, and one particularly nasty jar containing a large eye suspended in yellow goo. “It’s not even three.” 

“Did I stutter?”

You tapped the glass and the eye swiveled around to look at you, pupil enlarging and constricting with a stutter. “Yes, yes very good,” you muttered your praise and Cassian fought hard not to shiver. He had a stomach for a great many things, but some of the specimens you handled tested his resilience.

“Thank you for bringing all of this. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble.” 

“Perhaps you could do the same for me and tell me where my brother is? I’ve been looking for him all day.” Cassian leaned forward on the counter, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Are you holding him hostage, Y/n? Are you using your feminine powers to bring the poor male to his knees? I must admit, I didn’t imagine you as the kind capable of kidnapping. Or shadow-napping, shall we say?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m hardly holding him hostage.” You gestured down the hallway past the bookshelves and the cases of empty glassware where the light from the staircase glowed like an iron eye. “He’s upstairs sleeping.” 

Cassian furrowed his brows, stepping around and past you. He kept his wings tucked closer to his shoulder blades, careful not to upset the cramped organization you maintained in your shop. 

He smirked. “Still? Are you sure you didn't work your feminine powers last night?” 

You glanced out the store window. A few fae lingered outside the coffee shop across the street clutching takeaway boxes against their chest as they chatted and sipped their drinks. The street was otherwise empty. For now, you wouldn’t have to deal with any customers. 

You looked back at Cassian. “I actually wanted to ask you about that.”

His brows furrowed. “About feminine powers?” He'd meant that as a joke.

“Gods, Cassian let that go.” You wrung your hands. “I wanted to ask if Azriel was alright? Has he seemed… normal to you?”

“I don’t know, has he?” Cassian lowered his voice, sinking into one of the stools by the clear glass medicine cabinet. “From what I can tell he seems well. Happy.” 

Although happy was an understatement. Ever since you’d stumbled into their lives with Madja’s accolades and your wry humor, Azriel had been a goner. You’d pulled emotions from him as deftly as a spinster with a pile of wool, reduced him to a reverential, lovesick mess, and imbued his existence with a color not even Feyre could mix up. Which made it all the more confusing why you looked so nervous.

“You’ve seen more of him than I have, Y/n.” Cassian said. He braced his elbows against his knees, turning serious. The faint bags under his hazel eyes hinted at sleepless nights spent fussing over Neera. It was their fault really, any daughter of Nesta and Cassian was destined to be restless and particular.

“He just… he’s been sleeping more. Falling into bed early, but waking up late. Sometimes we’ll be reading together or just existing side by side and when I turn to face him, he’s dead asleep on the couch.” 

Cassian’s lips twitched, slowly stretching into a smile. You plucked a hemp bag off one of the wall shelves at random, tossing its contents into a mortar and beginning to grind just so you could have something to do with your hands. 

“At first I brushed it off, but it’s gotten to a point where I’ll be talking to him — mindless things, but regardless — and I’ll catch him dozing off. He’s always very apologetic after but I…” The mortar and pestle clattered to a stop. “I worry that he’s growing bored of me. Or that he’s sick in a way I can’t help.” 

“Y/n.” There was a smile in Cassian’s voice, and indeed when you looked at him, his teeth were glistening in the soft afternoon haze. His eyes shined knowingly, as if the answer were obvious.

You paused. “Yes?”

“He feels safe with you.” 

You blinked once. Twice. 

“Pardon?” 

Cassian tipped back in his seat, knocking his head against the cabinet with a rattle of jars and glass as he laughed. “He’s sleeping so much because he feels safe with you. It’s probably why he prefers to spend time here instead of at the townhouse and why he’s still dead asleep while we’re sitting here gossiping about him. Three years ago you couldn’t even whisper his name in a crowded room without him appearing from the shadows as if summoned.” 

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh... I see.” 

Cassian was grinning. “Y/n, I promise you he’s not bored of you. Azriel sleeping is a good thing. The gods know he could use more rest. I think he might be the worst of us when it comes to taking care of ourselves.” 

Something about Cassian’s words had a crack splintering in your chest. You knew about his past. You knew of the horrors burned into the ruined skin of his hands and the weight his duties deposited on his shoulders.

And here you’d been worried over him sleeping past noon. 

Shadows slipped down the stairs, pooling around your feet in a neat circle and kissing the exposed skin of your ankles. Azriel followed closely behind, still wearing his rumpled hair and pants and a shirt he’d hastily shoved his neck and arms into. He hadn’t even buttoned up the slits below his wings, opting to let the fabric swing free and loose and expose flashes of skin as he walked. 

He jutted his chin out in acknowledgement of Cassian and then folded himself over your back, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and dropping his face into the crook of your neck where he breathed in the scent of lemon and lavender and medicine. 

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” he said, frowning. There was a slur to his words.

“It’s past three, brother.” 

Azriel snapped his head up in surprise, squinting at the window and the afternoon sunlight streaking in. The pale cobblestones shone like they’d been drenched in honey. 

“What?” 

Cassian rolled his eyes, patting Azriel’s back fondly and mussing up your hair before walking towards the door. He flipped the sign from “You’ve caught us! We’re open!” to “Much apologies, please try another time.” 

“Goodnight, you two!" He called from over his back. "Remember we’re meeting at Rhys’s for dinner tonight.” He turned, bracing his arms against the top of the doorway and leaning forward like he meant to share a secret. “8pm sharp. Don’t be too late or we’ll get the wrong idea about what you two are up to.” He winked, then whistled down the street, letting the door close on its own behind him. 

Azriel sighed, going back to nuzzling his face in your neck. He peppered the sensitive skin there with kisses. 

“Will you be coming back upstairs then?” He murmured hopefully. "Now that you're finished with work?"

You bit your lip and decided rather quickly that the world would not end because you closed a few hours early. 

You led him up the stairs, past the kitchen and living room on the second floor, and then up to the third floor — your bedroom. The window was still open, the hustle and bustle of the city and the smell of coffee from across the street wafting in. Steam no longer poured from the lip of the teapot, so you knew Azriel had had something to drink, and where you’d left toast on his plate this morning lay only crumbs. 

Azriel dropped to his knees, untying your laces and helping you out of your boots. Then he straightened and tugged at the belt loops of your trousers, silently asking for permission before unbuttoning them and sliding them off your legs. Your shirt, then his shirt, and then his trousers joined the pile of crumpled clothing on the floor.

He gently pushed you back onto the bed, falling face first after you with a sigh. This was his favorite position to sleep in — you comfortable on your back and him laying with his hips slotted in between your legs and his head resting over your heart. 

You sank your fingers into his velvety, black hair. His hums of satisfaction flowed through your body, lighting every nerve with a comforting buzz. 

“Azriel?” You asked him, before sleep could finally claim him once more. 

“Hmmm?” 

“Do you feel safe with me?” 

He pressed his face further into the soft flesh of your chest, bringing his arms up and around your waist before allowing his wings to do the same. The thin membranes glowed red as hot coals, blocking out the most offensive rays of light from outside. 

“When I am with you, I forget that I was ever that boy whose hands got burned. When I am with you, the hundreds of years I spent feeling alone and worthless in this world melt away into nothing. When I am with you — when I am in this place that smells and feels so strongly of you — I can imagine a future that is good and pure and perfect.” He sighed deeply, seemingly ignorant to the pounding of your heart and the waves of feeling flooding your system. “So yes, my love — my Y/n — I do feel safe with you.”

“I feel safe with you too,” you murmured. “I love you, Azriel.” 

You kissed the crown of his head, earning one last smile and a slurred, “I love you, Y/n,” before his jaw went slack and the room went silent save for the mixing of your breaths and the stirring of shadows.

[prythianpages]

Be Patient | Azriel x Reader

summary: After the mating bond snaps, Azriel follows you to the Day Court, where he spends seven days patiently longing after you.

warnings: fluff, mild angst bc of Az pining and lowkey being a menace in day court and reader being a little dense, also this is really long, 11K, my longest one shot ever...

note: This is a part two to Be Safe but can be read as a stand alone too. Huge shoutout to @stormhearty , @daycourtofficial & @thecrowesnest13 & the sweet overexcited anon who helped me with this! This is set pre-ACOTAR events and I realized my mistake in naming Helion as High Lord because I think he became High Lord UTM? so for this fic's sake, let's just assume he was already High Lord..

Mate. 

The realization crashes over Azriel like a tidal wave. It’s almost suffocating. Mine, the bond in his chest roars. Protect. The emotions swell, fueled by his shadows whispering and urging him on to go and keep you safe. Because who better to do so than him?

Before he knows it, he’s following you into Day Court, his shadows swallowing his form until Mor’s and Cassian’s laughter are distant echoes.

Piercing violet eyes greet him as soon as he steps out from his shadows, blocking his view. It’s almost as if he had been expecting Azriel. Talons rake across the shields of his mind and Azriel reluctantly lets him in. Go back, Rhysand asserts, holding the shadowsinger’s gaze.

I can’t, he nearly growls in his mind. 

The thought of leaving you, not being by your side is insufferable. It’s this very thought that has some of his shadows dancing toward you, the shadow curled around his ear whispering to him about your whereabouts. You stand, a couple of feet away, speaking with Helion. You’re completely oblivious to the two Illyrian males glaring at one another.

What do you mean you can’t? Rhysand doesn’t even attempt to hide the irritation in his tone.

Azriel then shows Rhysand what happened just moments ago. The mating bond snapping into place right as you were winnowing away. He leaves out the part where Cassian and Mor had been teasing him but he suspects Rhysand was aware of that.

Rhysand lets out a sigh, running a hand down the length of his face. What appears to be exhaustion tears through his features before he leans in toward the taller male. “Really?” He whispers in an exasperated hush. “Right now?

Azriel falters with a huff, his head following the direction his shadows had gone. It’s only when his gaze lands on you that it softens. “You say it like I had a choice.” 

But boy is he glad it is you.

”Fine,” Rhysand sighs after a long moment of silence. He knows he can’t do anything about it, the determination in the Shadowsinger’s eyes burning bright. He’d fear going against the Cauldron if he did. “You can stay. But—“ he lifts a jewel adorned finger in warning“—you distract her—“

Azriel’s head turns back to Rhysand and there’s a frown on his face. ”I don’t distract her.”

”Please,” Rhysand chuckles in disbelief. “Listen, I’m happy for you. Truly. But we didn’t come all this way for nothing and I need her to be able to focus. She can’t even think properly around you and if she finds out you’re her–”

“She thinks about me?”

Rhysand shuts his mouth with a withering stare.

Azriel’s shadows are then whispering madly, coercing him to turn his attention back to you. You’re giggling and smiling at Helion, cheeks flushed with a blush. Azriel flushes too but for an entirely different reason. Helion has your hand in his, amber eyes holding you captive, as he’s slowly lifting it up to his lips. 

Shadows are coiling softly around your wrist and before Helion can kiss your hand, your hand is being pulled away from his. Helion’s brows furrow, hand falling to his side as one lone shadow floats in front of him. He is not fluent in shadows but the way it writhes at him gives one clear message.  

”Oh, hi!”

Azriel watches, taking note of the small fond smile that forms on your face as you recognize the dark tendrils wrapped around your arm. Your eyes find him almost immediately and then you’re walking toward him.   

“Azriel, what are you doing here?”

“Shadowsinger,” Helion purrs in greeting, a pleased smirk on his face that grows at Azriel’s indifferent nod. “I was not aware you were coming too.”

Rhysand places a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft, black leather. Don’t say anything. Rhysand warns in his mind. We’ll talk somewhere else.

Rhysand forces a charming smile onto his face and Helion’s eyes flicker with interest. “I apologize for the short notice but Azriel is here to… escort y/n.”

“Escort?”

Both you and Helion say in unison. Though Helion’s tone carries mirth, yours carries shock. Confusion clouds your features, worry flickering in your wide eyes. Rhysand must’ve eased your mind, for Azriel feels the tension leave your muscles shortly afterwards. Still, you inch closer to him, as if seeking the comfort of his presence. He instinctively mirrors your movement, the blue siphons on his leathers brushing against your arm and gleaming in response.

 “You offend me, Rhys. I’ve welcomed you to my court with no ill intention.” Helion chides, though his voice is light with humor.

“y/n here is just very precious to us,” Rhysand says, choosing his words carefully. “I hope you can understand.”

Azriel’s shadows whisper the details of the scene around him, noting the apologetic look Rhysand sends to Helion. The High Lord of Day chuckles, but Azriel’s focus remains steadfastly on you. You turn to him with a questioning smile and he returns your smile, the warmth in his hazel eyes answering your unspoken question.

“I can see why,” comes Helion’s response, gaze lingering on you with an appreciative gleam.

Azriel’s head whips fast toward the High Lord of the Day Court and another sigh escapes Rhysand.

**

“Seven days. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s seven days too long, Rhys.”

Rhysand falters back, appalled by those words. He lets out a small laugh.  “Too long? Seven days is too long but a whole century wasn’t?”

“It hasn’t been a century,” Azriel hisses and Rhysand raises his brows. “It’s been eighty nine years. Besides, it’s different now.”

You’re his mate now.  

The mating bond had snapped into place with such force that he was still reeling from its impact. It was as if every emotion of his was amplified, sending a startling quiver through those golden threads in his chest. Jealousy jerked the most. It’s why every few seconds, his gaze flickered towards the hall you had disappeared into with the High Lord known for his scandalous appetites. One of his shadows had stayed with you and though he knew it would come back if Helion tried anything, it did nothing to ease him. He should be beside you right now. Not beside Rhysand, who seemed keen on keeping you from him.

“You saw the way she looked at you when you arrived.”

Azriel turned back to Rhysand, that image of you reappearing in his mind from Rhysand’s perspective. Surprise had flickered across your features, but like a passing storm cloud, it swiftly gave way to brightness. Your eyes sparkled, your lips curved into a fond smile. Without hesitation, you left Helion's side, drawn instinctively toward Azriel.  It was as if nothing else mattered but him, as if there was no one else in the world but you two.

The bond in his chest sings in delight because overriding all other emotions swirling madly around, there is love.

Azriel had loved you long before the bond’s sudden manifestation. His feelings had grown silently over the years, nurtured through shared moments and unspoken gestures. He knew he had to confess his feelings to you–something that had been eating at him for years. Eighty nine years to be exact, as he pointed out just a moment ago.

But fear always held him back.

Fear that he had mistaken your kindness for something more. Fear that he would ruin the decades of friendship you two had built. Fear that you loved him but not enough to see past his scars.

He realizes now how ridiculous those fears sound.

The kindness you harbored for him was not the same kindness you showed others. Your friendship was strong and precious, something he would fiercely protect no matter what. Your hand always sought his, never showing disgust towards the marred roughness of his own. You had even dedicated so much of your time to researching Prythian’s herbs and treatment for burns, working with Madja to make a special concoction–a soothing balm to alleviate the inevitable pains. 

By the Mother, he was a fool and it took the bond snapping into place to realize it.

“Yes. You both are.”

Now, the golden threads in his chest urged him to confess, to bridge that small lingering distance between you–

“But you can’t. Not now.”

“Get out of my head,” Azriel snaps, glaring at his brother.

“Well, I can’t help it if you’re thinking so loudly,” Rhysand replies, a touch defensively. “Look, y/n has been looking forward to this trip so much. If you tell her about the bond, it will consume her every thought and cloud that brilliant mind of hers. I know this is selfish of me but I need her to be focused and you to be patient.”

Azriel’s glare wavers. He knows how much this trip means to you. It was the first time Rhysand was entrusting a task upon you outside of the Night Court’s borders. Getting to see the magnificent library of the Day Court was also all your bibliophile heart could talk about. His desire to protect you and respect your focus battled fiercely with his yearning to tell you about the bond.

“Seven days?”

“Seven days,” Rhysand confirms, the tension easing from his face. “Then, she’s all yours. Just be patient.”

Azriel scoffs. “I’ll be so patient.”

But as they both join you and Helion for dinner, something tells Rhysand that this is going to be a long week.

**

Helion had hosted an extravagant feast for you all last night, even bringing out his finest, aged whiskey to celebrate. He had toasted it to Azriel, the surprise guest, with a cheeky wink. When his flirtatious efforts went ignored, Helion had turned his affections toward you. A notion that left Azriel seething and Rhysand on guard.

After dinner, Helion had given you a brief tour of the palace and introduced you to the fae you encountered along the way. To Azriel’s relief, the room he’d be staying in was right across from yours. His shadows had eagerly scouted the halls and both your rooms, becoming attuned to every creak and sound as an extra measure of safety. They fell asleep before he did and were the ones to wake him up when they heard you shuffling around your room.

As Azriel laces his leathers, the dark tendrils rush toward his door, peeking out underneath. It seems they are just as eager as he is to see you.

“Good morning!” You chirp happily, practically buzzing with excitement as you greet him at his door. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” A lie. Your joy is so contagious it’s easy to mask his exhaustion, his smile matching yours. “Did you?” 

He had, in fact, not slept well.

How could he when his anxiety began to gnaw at him? Because what if you grew tired of waiting for him within these seven days and gave into Helion’s charm? Each time he closed his eyes, his mind flashed with images of you reciprocating Helion’s advances, and sneaking off into his chambers in the middle of the night...

You give a noncommittal hum in response, pulling him out of his inner turmoil and bring him back to you.

 “I’m really glad you’re here, Az.”

Azriel’s shadows mirror your enthusiasm. A faint blush takes over his cheeks as you grasp his hand to tug him along with you. “Rhys has private business to attend to with Helion and I did not want to do this alone,” you say, waving your bucket list in the air with your free hand.

Of course, you had a list of things you’d like to do in Day. It instilled another fear into Azriel because what if you fell in love with Day and refused to go back to Night? He eyes all the bullet points on that list of yours and refuses to let himself make that fear come true.

Anything you loved here, he would make sure to remind you that the Night Court could do better.

“And who better to spend the day with than my loyal shadowsinger, right?” You remark with a playful glint in your eye.

“Right,” Azriel replies and there’s a brightness in his heart at your words. My loyal shadowsinger. His shadows dance in agreement.

But there is one thing the Night Court can’t replicate, a truth he reluctantly acknowledges as you both step outside into the warmth of the sun. 

A radiant smile breaks out on your face as you bask in the bright sunlight. Its golden glow kisses your skin, highlighting every feature he adores.

His leathers are not meant for this type of weather. He can feel himself growing hot, his shadows already endlessly working to keep him cool. Though you were dressed in something lighter than him, a pale blue dress, some of them flit toward you to do the same.

Azriel allows you to pull him along, savoring the feel of your hand in his. The cobblestone streets of the Day Court’s market are narrow, flanked by vibrant stalls and lively vendors. He tucks his wings tightly against his back to avoid brushing against the bustling crowd. His grip on your hand is firm. He tells himself it’s to ensure he doesn’t lose you amidst the sea of fae, but deep down, he has no intention of ever letting go.

Your first stop is a quaint little shop that, according to your research, sells the best espresso in Prythian. Azriel prefers his coffee black but you convince him to try Day’s specialty, a honey lavender latte. 

You watch him, awaiting his response.

“I hate it,” he tells you, though it’s surprisingly good. Really good.  “Velaris has better coffee.”

You take your drink back with a shrug as you head to your next stop. The flower market. As you stroll through the market stalls, you point out a cluster of flowers, your voice tinged with excitement as you describe their origins and meanings. You’re like a living encyclopedia and Azriel has always admired this about you. He asks you more questions, even if he already has the answers. Just so that he can see the light in your eyes dance with every word you speak.

A beautiful pink blossom catches his eyes as he’s read about it before, already familiar with its meaning. An idea sparks into his mind. Maybe, if he starts dropping hints, it’d make his impending confession go smoother. He tugs on your hand gently. “And this one?”

“It’s a pink camelia. A symbol of love, adoration and longing.”

He tosses a coin to the merchant and then picks the prettiest pink camelia among the bunch. He tucks it behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. The shadows that cling to him, hiding from the sun, peek out from above his shoulders, stirring in anticipation as you look up at Azriel and smile.

“y/n, I–”

His words hang in the air, the tendrils too distracted by you to notice the merchant approaching. Suddenly, a hand appears between you both, golden bracelets dangling before your eyes. “A pretty bracelet for the pretty lady?” the fae male asks. “They’re one of a kind!”

Your eyes widen as you take in the shimmering jewelry. “How much?”

“Ten coins,” the merchant replies, but as his eyes roam over you, he adds, “But for you, five.”

“Okay,” you agree, not having the heart to say no.

You reach for one of the gold bracelets, its chain holding a gleaming sun made of amber in the center. Before you can even open your coin purse, Azriel shoves ten coins into the merchant’s awaiting hand, his glare sending the man skittering away.

“Thank you,” you say to Azriel, struggling to clasp the bracelet around your wrist. Azriel gestures for you to let him help, and you do, watching the subtle furrow of his brow as he fastens the hook. “But why did you give him ten coins? He said five…”

“I didn’t,” Azriel lies smoothly for the second time this morning, and when your eyes narrow in suspicion, he simply smiles and tilts his head toward the right. “Shouldn’t we be heading to the art gallery if we want to make it to the water fountain show in time?”

That gets you going.

Your hold on his hand tightens as you lead the way to the art gallery. There, you’re captivated by the various amounts of artwork from Day, one of them being a very detailed and very naked sculpture of Helion. Azriel can’t help but remind you of the beauty of the Rainbow of Velaris, tugging you along, using the water fountain show as an excuse to get you to leave quicker. 

Afterwards, you visit a bookstore and many other stores, discovering that the bracelet on your wrist was not one-of-a-kind. They are available in various stores, each offering different variations. Instead of feeling disappointed, you find one specially for Azriel. Its chain is silver, adorned with a glimmering moon made from moonstone, a perfect complement to your amber sun.

By the time you both return to the palace, the sky is painted with hues of twilight, signaling it’s almost dinner time. 

“Thank you for helping me carry all my stuff,” you say with a sheepish grin, glancing at the bags scattered on your floor, most of them filled with gifts for the rest of the inner circle members since they couldn’t come along.

“Of course,” Azriel replies with a soft smile, his eyes warm. He had refused to let you lift a finger.

Standing on your tip-toes, you aim to kiss his cheek but underestimate the height difference, your lips landing on his jaw instead. The touch has the same effect. Azriel blushes, his wings twitching slightly, and his shadows snicker behind him. He hopes you can't hear them.

“Are you sure–” he clears his throat “–are you sure you don’t need help packing them up too?”

Your eyes light up and then you’re pulling him into your room. Unfortunately, no more kisses came from that. However, the shared smiles and easy conversation made it all worth it.

Be patient, he reminds himself. But he can't help but think of the golden threads unraveling in his chest, giving them an experimental tug. There’s no response, yet he hopes that yours will entwine with his any day now, binding you together forever.

**

As the golden, morning light of the Day Court bathes the grand hall, Azriel waits for you to enter the place where you'd have breakfast together. When he hears your approaching footsteps, he turns.

Suddenly, he finds himself unable to think. Unable to breathe, even.  

 You were beautiful. He was well aware of this, always has been. But today, you were absolutely stunning, like a goddess descended from the heavens. 

The dress you wore was different from your usual Night court dresses and though it screamed Day court fashion, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to care. The delicate ivory, flowing fabric draped elegantly over your body. His eyes trace every detail of the dress, from the plunging neckline to the high slits that reveal the soft and inviting skin of your legs. There’s a tightness in his throat when he catches a glimpse of the gold garter adorning your thigh.

“Good morning,” you greet him with a smile, a hint of shyness in your eyes despite the boldness of the dress.

"Morning," he barely manages to say.

“Good morning indeed,” Helion purrs as he appears behind you, Rhysand at his side.

Azriel, captivated by your beauty, barely registered the expression on Helion's face. Meanwhile, his shadows moved with a protective instinct, delicately brushing against your legs as if to shield you from Helion's lingering gaze. 

As you approach him, Azriel's heart continues to hammer against his chest. He musters up a smile. Though small, it’s full of admiration and awe. 

Helion chuckles. “My oh my, Rhysand. I did not know your Shadowsinger was capable of smiling.”

Rhysand lets out an amused exhale. His tone is light but it carries a subtle warning. “He’s capable of many things, including patience.”

A muscle feathers in Azriel’s jaw as he falls into step with you. He doesn’t notice the small frown that takes over your features. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice sweet despite the slightly sour expression on his face.

You shake your head in protest. “You look all hot and bothered.”

Azriel chokes on his spit. “Excuse me?”

“You’re already sweating,” you explain to him, reaching up with your free hand to brush his dark curls away from his forehead. His wings flutter in response to the surprise touch. “And it’s barely morning. Come on, you’re not wearing those leathers today. I’m sure Helion left some clothes for you too.”

Azriel heats up at the mention of Helion’s name, his mind briefly flickering to the thought of the High Lord leaving such a dress for you. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it further as you tug him back toward the room he’s staying in, mumbling about how Azriel has a death wish for wearing such thick clothing in the Day Court.

But it’s the High Lord of the Day Court who has a death wish, Azriel thinks.

“We won’t be long!” You call over your shoulder to Rhysand and Helion, who both give a dismissive wave.

Helion shakes his head in amusement. “Are they always like this?”

Rhysand lets out a snort. “Unfortunately.”

“Come. Let us have a drink. I believe we’re in very much need of one.”

“This early in the morning?”

“My friend, have you not had orange juice and champagne? Such a lovely, delightful combination. I call it a mimosa…”

**

Back in Azriel's room, you rummage through the clothes Helion had left for him. His eyes soften as you continue to fuss over him. Though he complains about it, he secretly loves when you fuss over him. He has to peel his gaze away from you when you bend down to pick up a top, his thoughts threatening to drift elsewhere if he doesn't.

Hot. Bothered. His shadows repeat your words from earlier to him and he eyes them with a glare.

Despite Helion’s wish for Azriel to wear a toga like he proudly does, Azriel is relieved at what you picked out for him. He’s also touched that you know him well enough to pick something close to his taste.  “Here,” you say, holding up a pair of loose fitting dark trousers and a sheen, flowy white top with a deep v neck similar to the one of your dress. “This will be perfect for today.”

“Fine,” Azriel murmurs, reluctantly taking the garments from you. Your fingers brush against his, sending a spark through him.

“I trust you can dress yourself from here,” you tease, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder.

Azriel lets out a scoff, resisting the urge to reply with a roguish remark. He quickly changes into the clothes you picked out for him, not wanting to cut into your breakfast time any more than necessary. Today is a busy day for you, as you will spend most of it in the library, researching all about the death gods for an assignment Rhysand gave you.

When he steps out of the room, your eyes light up as they look over his body. His muscles flex instinctively when your gaze lingers on the tattoos swirling on his chest. You blink, and with a smile say, “Radiant.”

Azriel feels the blood rush to his neck. He’s received many compliments before but never something as bright as “radiant.”  He suddenly yearns to hear more–only if they come from your pretty lips.

“Y/n, have I ever told you how much I—” Your eyebrows raise in curiosity, and he loses his resolve, Rhysand’s warning echoing in his head. “—appreciate you…”

Those were not the words Azriel had intended, and he lets out a defeated breath. Yet, your smile does not falter. Instead, you hook your arm through his, beaming up at him as you guide him through the halls.

“I believe you have but please, enlighten me again…”

**

Helion’s gaze fixes on you and Azriel as you finally joined them for breakfast. Dressed in resplendent Day Court fashion, the two of you look ravishing, and Helion cannot decide who is more captivating–you or the stoic shadowsinger at your side. 

His affections have always met a brick wall with the Illyrian male. So naturally, when another pretty face shows up at his court, he focuses all his attention on you. He savors your sweet reactions and Azriel’s jealous ones, sensing more between you two. He’s determined to unravel it.

After breakfast, Helion sidles up beside you, flashing a charming smile. “Allow me to admire you more closely, Lady Y/n,” he says, his voice smooth and rich as he extends his hand.

Azriel’s jaw clenches, his shadows swirling restlessly when you take Helion’s hand. Helion’s smile widens, and then he gestures for you to spin. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

You gasp, eyes widening in delight and cheeks tinting with a delicate blush. “You know Shakespeare?”

“Know it? I live it.” Helion responds. “I have his original copies in my personal library. You can come take a look, if you’d like. Just give me a day to…organize things.”

Azriel’s eyes narrow, not liking the intonation in the High Lord’s voice. Helion can feel that primal instinct–the possessiveness Azriel feels for you–simmering beneath the surface. His eyes widen slightly in acknowledgement and then he’s turning to Rhysand.

"Helion,” Rhysand drawls, confirming his suspicions. “As y/n’s escort, you're making Azriel's shadows rather restless.”

Helion laughs, a rich, melodious sound that fills the room. "I can't help it if your historian is so captivating, Rhysand," he says, winking at you and delighting in the response it shakes from Azriel.

**

Azriel falls into step behind you as Helion guides you all toward the magnificent library of the Day Court. Sunlight streams through towering windows, casting rainbows across the marble floors. You had praised it as the biggest and most beautiful library in all of Prythian. As Azriel stands in front of the entrance, he reluctantly acknowledges that none of the libraries in the Night Court could come close if this is just how the entrance looks.

As Azriel moves to step inside with you, Rhysand stops him.

"What are you doing?" Azriel huffs, peering over Rhysand's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the awed expression on your face as Helion talks to you. "I'm Y/n's escort, remember?"

“There’s no need for one in the library. You’ll only be a distraction here.” Rhysand replies and sensing his apprehension, he adds. “She’ll be safe here. I promise.”

“But–”

“No,” Rhysand interrupts and Azriel’s gaze hardens. A playful glint dances in Rhysand’s violet eyes. “Go take a walk, a cold shower or perhaps, read up on some poetry.”

 With that, Rhysand enters the library, motioning for the guards to shut the door. As the door closes, a single dark tendril manages to slide through. 

I don’t resort to poetry, Azriel thinks bitterly and he swears he hears Rhysand’s chuckle in his mind.

**

That night, during dinner, Helion took all your attention as the two of you quoted and mused over poetry, Rhysand chiming in occasionally. Azriel remained silent, a muscle ticking at his jaw.

The following morning, Azriel didn’t get a chance to speak to you much either. You and Rhysand were deep in discussion, strategizing how to tackle the vast array of books about the old gods. Azriel hadn’t even finished his coffee when you abruptly stood from your seat, mouth still full of food, and hurried off towards the library. The golden threads buried deep in his chest stirred with your passion.

So while you spent your day in the library, engrossed in your research, Azriel decided to spend his day doing his own research. He had his shadows sneak into your room and retrieve one of the poetry books he is certain you bought with you. You read one every night before bed.

Azriel reads some of the poems, engraving the words into his memory, just in case. He ends up falling asleep in his room, the lack of sleep finally catching up to him. His shadows stir him awake, hours later, pointing to the clock hanging across from him. It’s almost dinner time so Azriel freshens up and then makes his way toward the library. 

“Hey, you,” you greet Azriel happily, two of his shadows trailing behind you, as you step out of the library. The second one had joined you this morning as the first one had been feeling lonely. “I think they like me better than you.”

“Keep them,” Azriel shrugs. When you're not looking, he gives them a knowing nod, though his voice feigns annoyance. “Traitors.”

“What did you do today?” You ask, falling into step beside him as you two walk toward the dining hall. “Anything interesting?”

“I learned something.”

“Yeah?”

Azriel turns to you, his expression serious as he clears his throat. "She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright... uh, meet in her something…eyes…?"

You blink at him, confusion furrowing your brow. "Something eyes?"

Before Azriel can explain, Helion chimes in, that cheeky grin plastered on his face. "It's 'Meet in her aspect and her eyes,’" he corrects smoothly, his eyes twinkling with amusement, as he beckons for you to take your seats.

Azriel shoots a glare at Helion and Rhysand kicks him under the table in warning. Helion chuckles, unfazed by the death stare coming from Azriel as he continues. 

“She walks in beauty, like the night. Of Cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light, which heaven to gaudy day denies.”

“Oh, Lord Byron!” you say in recognition, turning to Azriel with a look that soothes his embarrassment. “She Walks in Beauty. What a lovely poem. Did you know it was one of my favorites?”

“I didn’t,” Azriel replies casually, though inwardly his heart races and his shadows race to cover the blush delicately tinting his neck. Of course he knew it was your favorite. You had scribbled hearts all over the page in your book. “I just liked it and thought I’d share it with you.”

Your smile widens, touched by his gesture. “I thought you didn’t fancy poetry, Az.”

“I thought the same,” Rhysand says, eyes narrowing at Azriel.

"I'm full of surprises," Azriel says dryly, meeting Rhysand's gaze evenly.

“Well, let’s hope it’s the last of your surprises.”

“I believe I also have some of Lord Byron’s works. How about I finally show you my personal library after dinner?” Helion speaks, directing all attention back to him.

Azriel opens his mouth to protest, not liking the inviting gaze in the High Lord’s eyes, but Helion interjects smoothly. “No worries, escort, ” Helion says, his grin widening. “I’ll take good care of y/n.”

Azriel sulks, a bitter taste in his mouth from Helion’s effortless charm throughout dinner. He tries his best to keep you from leaving, insisting you try every single dessert laid out on the table. Barely halfway through, you slump back in your chair, claiming you can’t eat another bite without bursting.

His ears perk up and he sends a small prayer to the Mother that your full stomach dissuades you from visiting Helion’s personal library, his own stomach not being able to handle the thought. Tonight, it seems The Mother does not favor him. When Helion offers you his arm, you take it excitedly, oblivious to the sulking Shadowsinger you left behind. 

Rhysand laughs, finding amusement in the entire situation, while Azriel shoots him a cold stare. If Rhysand hadn’t ordered Azriel to keep the truth of the bond from you until after your trip here, you wouldn't be alone with Helion now. 

Yet, Azriel can't help but bitterly reflect that if he had only been upfront about his feelings from the start, he wouldn’t be tormented by such longing now, the bond in his chest roaring at the thought of you with another male.

“I think y/n is more than capable of handling a flirtatious High Lord.”

Azriel’s lips twitch into a brief, reluctant smile. “She is. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Cheer up, Az,” Rhysand teases, lifting his glass in a mock-toast to his friend. “There’s always more poetry to practice. Or perhaps, you should stick to brooding. You’re much better at that.”

“Pass the whiskey,” Azriel replies tersely, his lips pressing into a tight line.

“Patience is a virtue, Az.”

“So is silence.”

**

You’re swooning, over the moon, after exploring Helion’s personal library. He showed you his special editions of Lord Byron’s and Shakespeare’s works, allowing you to take one back to your room with you to read. You clutch the book to your chest, humming softly to yourself.

When you reach the hallway, you linger there for a moment, sparing a glance toward Azriel’s room. The night is still young and you’re surprised to see no light seeping through the door. Has he gone to bed already? Worry knits your brows as you wonder if he’s okay. He has been acting strange since he arrived. He had quoted poetry at you for Cauldron’s sake!

You walk toward his door and knock. There’s no answer so you knock again. “Az?”

You frown when you’re met with silence and your hands itch to open the door but you hesitate. He could either be asleep, out flying or out training. He had been eyeing the training grounds of Day during Helion’s tour.

With a sigh, you step into your room and decide to get ready for bed, making a mental note to check up on him in the morning. The day had been long and filled with unexpected twists and tomorrow would only bring another long day. Your eyes were tired from reading so much fine print.

As you're fluffing your pillows, you hear the sound of heavy, booted footsteps. Your mind wanders to Azriel but it can’t be. His steps were always quiet, silenced by his shadows. There’s a pause in the steps and a brief moment of stillness.

Abruptly, your door swings open and you let out a small gasp.

You watch as Azriel stumbles in, your heart flying to your chest in relief. His usually graceful steps falter as if the weight of his massive wings is too much to bear. Shadows cling to his wrists, doing their best to keep their master steady.

A look of pleasant surprise softens his features when he spots you, his hazel eyes widening at the sight of you in your nightgown. He brings a hand up to his neck, rubbing it in an attempt to make the flush spreading across his cheeks go away.

“Y/n,” he hiccups with a pleased grin. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, stifling a laugh at his adorable state. “This is my room.”

Azriel’s expression morphs, his eyebrows furrowing and a slight pout forming on his lips. “Didn’t get to spend the day with you,” he mutters, his voice tinged with frustration as he sways slightly. “Or night… you spent it with Helion instead.”

You can’t help but giggle. “Are you jealous, Az?”

Another hiccup. “Maybe.”

Your stomach flutters at the way he admits it so openly. The two of you have always had a playful, flirty dynamic. It had never gone beyond exchanged glances and lingering touches, though. Azriel never let it, and a part of you feared it was because he was too kind to reject you outright. Now, you begin to wonder if you had misinterpreted the situation all along.

“Well, it’s still night,” you tell him, “And you’re here with me now.”

“I am,” Azriel acknowledges with a hint of surprise, as if realizing it anew. “And I know poetry too…”

 He straightens up, attempting to appear serious again despite the slight slur in his words. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height... uh, something about sight, I think?”

Did he somehow know this was another of your favorites? It seems unlikely. In all the years you've known him, Azriel has never shown interest in poetry. Or at least up until two hours ago. You should check his forehead. What if he was coming down with something?

Instead, you clear your throat and help him out.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height. My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight. For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee–” your voice wavers at the look Azriel gives you, his hazel eyes shining with an emotion that threatens to weaken your knees. “–to the level of every day’s. Most quiet need, by sun and candle light…”

“I love thee too,” Azriel breathes, holding your gaze and stepping closer to you. “Freely–purely…no, freely as men strive for fight.”

“Right,” you correct with a laugh. “Freely as men strive for right.”

Azriel’s pout deepens, yet there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “Don’t laugh at me,” he mumbles.

He continues to make his way toward you and you hold out your arms, worried he’ll lose his battle with balance. He ends up slumping face-first onto your bed, his wings splaying out behind him. “Can I stay here? Just for a little bit. I missed you all day.”

“Yeah,” you reply with a soft smile. You missed him too. “But can you make room for me on my bed?”

“Mmm,” Azriel hums, turning on his side. He pats at the space right in front of him, his shadows moving to rest behind him to give you space. “Come here, my pretty historian.”

You feel a rush of warmth course through you, momentarily flustered by the nickname. Looking at Azriel, you hesitate. It wouldn’t be the first time you two shared a bed but it’d be the first time you’d share one in a bed not meant to accommodate for Illyrian wings. 

Maybe, it’s best if you help him to his room. Your eyes look toward his shadows and you notice them slowly curling around his back as if going to sleep themselves. They would be no help and neither would Rhys as you were sure he was sharing his night with a pretty fae or two. And you would definitely not be able to carry Azriel back to his room on your own.

So when Azriel pats the bed again, you join him. He frowns when you don’t nestle against him as he wished. Instead, you slip under the covers, resting on your side to face him fully. He adjusts to mirror your position, close enough that you feel his warm breath, noses and hands brushing against each other.

“You smell good,” he says, eyes half-lidded. “Marry me?”

You smile, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his face. “Is that all it takes to marry you? To smell good?”

Azriel’s eyes flutter close, a contented sigh escaping him. “I’d marry you, even if you didn’t smell good,” he says, his words mumbled but filled with affection.

Your heart swells and you lean in to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, feeling exhaustion come over you when Azriel yawns. 

“Goodnight, Az.”

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he murmurs, already drifting off to sleep, a peaceful smile on his face. “My sweet, pretty ma–”

A shadow, one of the ones that have taken a liking to you, crawls over you and rushes to Azriel, curling around his mouth to silence him. You are too tired to think about it, simply letting sleep claim you in each other’s comforting presence.

**

Azriel wakes up with a soft groan, still enveloped by your scent. His shadows stir as he does and he hesitates opening his eyes, not ready to face the aftermath of his drunken state. The impending headache is already breaking the surface. When he opens his eyes, he finds you missing. His worry is eased when one of his shadows brings a small piece of paper to him.

He shifts, moving into a sitting position. One hand rubs at his head while the other takes the note you left for him. 

To my star breaking poet, you looked too peaceful to wake. I left some water, tea and bread on the nightstand. Enjoy.

-your pretty historian

His lips tug up into a smile. He turns his head, finding the drinks and food you left for him. He doesn’t dare touch them though, despite the bond in his chest yearning for him to. He then searches for the clock in your room and his eyes widen. It’s past noon. Azriel has never slept this late or felt so rested, especially after a night of heavy drinking. 

Taking a deep breath, he allows himself to fall back onto the bed, running his hands through his hair and pulling on it. He lingers there a moment longer before finally rising and heading to his room to bathe and get ready for the day. Knowing you'll be in the library all day, he wonders what to do with himself, having given up on poetry after his unsuccessful attempts.

**

Azriel makes himself busy by wandering the palace, feeling a bit uneasy walking so freely in the open. He’s so accustomed to blending into the shadows that this exposure feels unnatural. His shadows cling to him, hiding beneath his cloak, equally uncomfortable with the brightness. The day is cooler, so he’s donned his leathers, a small part of him hoping you'll fuss over him again when you see him.

He visits the markets, but they seem less vibrant without you by his side. He then goes to the training grounds of Day, catching up with his missed training and releasing his pent up frustrations with a training dummy. Upon returning to the palace and washing up, he heads towards the library. Though he can’t enter, he knows there are small tables and padded chairs just outside. He found you there during one of your breaks yesterday, so he sits at one of the tables, hoping you'll come again.

A newspaper rests on the table before him, so he picks it up to pass the time. After reading through it twice, he moves to a different table with a chess set, his shadows engaging him in a game. After losing to them three times, he leans back with a sigh. He really should’ve brought some of his unfinished reports to work on.

Overcome with the bond, he had followed you without hesitation, not anticipating that Rhysand would keep him from telling you about it. He didn't have a plan, so while he wasn't happy about it, at least it gave him time to come up with one. The minute you’d go back to Night, Azriel was set on visiting your favorite restaurant and making reservations. He’d surprise you with a day full of your favorites, ending it with his confession, where he hoped you would accept him. 

It was one thing to love him back. Another to accept him as your mate.

Before he knows it, the sun begins to set, his shadows buzzing with life as darkness takes over. You still haven’t stepped out of the library. He wonders if you've eaten or had enough water. One of his shadows slips out from underneath the library doors and flutters back to him. It reports that the other shadow, still with you, helped you reach for books and turn pages. It had even wanted to brush your hair back when it fell loose from your tie but was met with an invisible force. High Lord, the shadow hissed and he realizes Rhysand knew him better than he thought. That unwanted chaperone…

When he learns you've skipped lunch, his worry deepens. He paces back and forth in front of the grand doors, his heart aching with the intensity of the bond. Every instinct within him urges him to protect and care for you. Unable to hold back any longer, he takes advantage of the darkening sky and slips into the library.

The shadow that had reported to him leads the way, darting ahead. His other shadows eagerly rush forward, reaching you before he does. They greet the lone shadow that had stayed by your side like long-lost friends reuniting.

Azriel’s heart calms when he finds you asleep, slumped over a desk and surrounded by a mountain of books. You're curled into yourself, goosebumps forming on the exposed skin of your arms. He gently removes his cloak from his leathers and drapes it over you.

You instinctively snuggle deeper into the cloak, half asleep. “Smells s’good,” you murmur, and the bond in his chest tightens.

He gently removes your glasses, the ones you wear when doing prolonged near work, and places them carefully into one of his pockets. There’s a faint glimmer surrounding you and he’s relieved that whatever barrier Rhyand had placed upon you was weakening by the second. Almost like clockwork. He easily breaks through the magic shield, blue siphons gleaming. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his shadows sighing in response.

His touch lingers on your face, thumb ghosting over your cheek.  “It’s time for dinner.”

You let out a groan in protest, not wanting to move from your spot.

“You need to eat, Y/n,” he whispers softly. “And then, you can go to bed.”

You blink sleepily at him. “Will you carry me?”

“Of course.”

As he lifts you into his arms, your warmth and the scent of your hair envelop him. The bond in his chest thrums with joy, his shadows harmonizing in response.

Three more days, he reminds himself. Three more days until he can finally speak of the feelings swelling in his heart. Be patient…

**

After another day of researching death gods, your mind feels heavy with overwhelming knowledge. Exhausted, you keep to yourself during dinner. You can feel Azriel’s worry, can feel the way the shadows that linger in your presence caress the back of your neck in an attempt to ease you. Rhysand slips into your mind and after assuring him you were just tired and had a headache, he lets you excuse yourself. Helion, ever the caring and doting High Lord, sends you off to bed with a tea to soothe your headache.

You’re quick to wash up and change into your nightgown, slipping under the warm covers with the tea Helion gave you in hand. It has a rich floral scent and as you take your first sip, it brings instant relief to the dull ache in your head. When you’re done, you place the empty cup onto your nightstand and lay down, closing your eyes.

You find yourself trapped in a dark, oppressive forest. 

The trees are twisted and gnarled, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. In the distance, you hear the sinister laugh of Koschei, the death god who you've learned loves to trap women. His voice is a chilling whisper, echoing through the trees, “You cannot escape me.”

Suddenly, the scene shifts, and you’re back in the Court of Nightmares, having to suffer through another court affair. Your hair is pulled so tight into a bun and the corset of your dress barely gives any room to breathe properly. The oppressive atmosphere presses down on you, taking even more of your breath away. You’re standing before your father, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“You will marry Lord Berbrooke.”

“No,” you whisper, eyes widening in fear as Lord Berbrooke appears at your father’s side. Your hands reach for your father’s arms, a desperate attempt to stay with him instead of leaving. You’d much rather continue to endure a life of neglect and solitude than a life that promised violence and bruises.

“Grandfather wouldn’t want this.”

Your father yanks his arm out of your grip, staring you down with a glare. “Your grandfather is dead. It does not matter what he wants.”

Fear grips you as Lord Berbrooke steps closer, a predatory smile on his face. You try to run, but your feet are rooted to the spot. He laughs, the sound chilling you to the bone. It morphs into the sinister laugh from earlier. Lord Berbrooke’s face flickers and shifts, morphing between his own and what your mind imagines of Koschei.

Panic surges through you, and you cry out for help, but your voice is swallowed by the darkness.

You wake up in a cold sweat, heart racing and breaths coming in ragged gasps. Goosebumps prick your skin as the sinister laugh echoes in your mind, refusing to fade. Panic grips you, and without a second thought, you throw off the covers and rush out of your room, desperate to escape the haunting sound that seems to follow you.

**

Something deep in his chest stirs, flooding him with unease. The bond. Something is wrong. Azriel’s head instinctively turns to his door, shadows sensing your presence in the hallway. Though small and quiet, he can hear your pacing and sense your hesitation as you face his door.

Azriel rushes to the door immediately and opens it. Concern etches on his face as he takes in your trembling form, the way your hands are covering your ears and eyes stricken with pure fear.

His hands reach for yours, gently removing them from your ears. Your eyes remain frantic, scanning over him, as if trying to discern if he is real or not. Without another word, Azriel pulls you into his arms, the familiar warmth and scent of him grounding you.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he murmurs. His hands rub soothing circles on your back, and you cling to him.

“I had a nightmare,” you whisper, pulling back slightly and looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “About Koschei, and then I was back in the Court of Nightmares. My father… Lord Berbrooke…”

Azriel’s eyes darken with anger and protectiveness. You don’t need to say any more for him to understand. “You’re safe now,” he says firmly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His words and the strength of his embrace begin to calm the storm inside you. You bury your face in his chest, taking in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Can I stay with you?”

“Always.” Azriel answers and then he’s guiding you into his room.

He helps you to his bed, tucking you under the covers before carefully settling on the other side. You nestle closer into his chest, your head finding its place against his heart again. His chin rests atop your head and neither of you speak for a while.

“Thank you,” you breathe, voice heavy with emotion.

Azriel knows your thankfulness extends beyond tonight. He had been the one to save you from that dreadful fate that night in the Court of Nightmares. He had been the one to bring to Rhysand’s attention of your grandfather’s forged will, helping you search for the real one. And when Rhysand had moved you to Velaris, Azriel had been your first friend.

“Do you feel better or would you like me to make you–”

“I feel better,” you interrupt, not wanting him to leave, even if it's to make you another tea. “Just your presence is enough,” you confess quietly. “You have a way of making me feel safe and at peace, Az.”

At those words, Azriel feels like he might burst with emotion. He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.  If only you knew…

**

As you walk through the library of the Day Court, you take one last look around, letting your gaze sweep over the grand space. The high, arched windows allow streams of the setting sun to filter in, casting a warm glow on the polished marble floors. There are rows upon rows of polished wooden shelves and books of every size and color line them, their spines creating a mosaic of knowledge and history. The scent of parchment and old leather, is one you’ll always hold dear.

Tonight is your last night here. A trail of shadows follows you, blending into the shafts of the light and shadows cast by the towering bookshelves. Rhysand, lounging in the entrance of the library, notices the once unusual sight that has now become routine.. 

“What are you, a Shadowsinger now?” he quips.

You glance back, catching a glimpse of Azriel’s shadows entwined with your own. They’ve become increasingly protective of you lately, always trailing close, whether you're heading to the library or simply going about your day. What you hadn’t noticed until now was how their numbers had grown since last night.

“I’ve never seen his shadows act like that,” Rhysand comments.

“Oh really?” 

Rhysand nods, a glint dancing in his eyes. He gives a small wave to one of the tendrils peeking over your shoulder, lips curving upwards when it cowers away.  “They usually stick to him, rarely leaving his side. It seems you’ve captured their interest as you’ve captured their master’s.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks at his implication. “I guess they like me,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.

Rhysand’s grin turns knowing. “It’s more than that, Y/n. Azriel’s shadows are an extension of his will. They’re drawn to what he cares about most.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words. “I suppose I should thank them for showing me such care.”

Rhysand chuckles. “Or thank Azriel.”

**

Rhysand’s words linger with you throughout the evening, much like Azriel’s shadows. A spark of hope blooms in your chest, daring to blossom into something more. You knew Azriel cared for you, but caring for others was in his nature. That’s who he was—caring and protective.

You glance at the shadows caressing your arms, a pensive frown tugging at your lips. In all the years you’ve known him, you had never seen his shadows linger on Rhysand or Cassian. Or Mor, who you were so sure held the Shadowsinger’s affections. 

You recall the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the rare smiles he reserved only for you, the protective glances he shot your way whenever danger was near. Your heart races as the pieces start to fit together, a mixture of shock and elation coursing through your veins. Dare you hope that the man you had loved in secret for so long might feel the same?

The idea seems almost too good to be true, and yet…his shadows were here, with you, wrapped around your fingers. Quite literally. 

You look down at the shadows twining with your fingers, a small, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. For the first time, you allow yourself to entertain the possibility. 

With this newfound hope, you head toward the Day Court’s kitchen. 

After praising the chef one night, he invited you to his kitchen, offering to teach you how to prepare some of the Day Court’s delicacies. Eager to express your gratitude to Azriel for always being there for you and to Helion for being a gracious host, you decide to finally take up on the chef’s offer. Perhaps, you can even sneak in some of Azriel’s favorites into tonight’s menu.

**

As it was the last night of your stay, Helion had invited close friends and other allies of his court, filling the grand dining hall with laughter and conversation. You quietly took your seat across from Rhysand and beside Azriel, murmuring a soft greeting. Helion winks at you and the shadow around your arm tenses.

The High Lord of Day stands from his seat, at the head of the table. He raises his glass with a broad grin. “A toast to the Night Court, our cherished guests. It has been an honor to host you all, and I sincerely hope we may have the pleasure of your return soon.”

Everyone at the table raises their glasses, including Azriel—though only after a nudge from you. His expression remains flat and dry as he lifts his glass. You clink yours against his with a teasing glint in your eyes, coaxing a small smile from his lips.

Helion takes a seat and with a wave of his hand, tonight’s feast materializes in front of you. There’s a slight raise in Rhysand’s brow, betraying his mild surprise. Every single platter–from the appetizers to dessert seems to be a perfect blend of Day and Night delicacies with the names to match. There’s the bruschetta, the bread slices topped with sun-ripened tomatoes, fresh basil and a hint of night garlic. Then, there’s the spinach artichoke dip made from sun-infused spinach, blended with moon-cheese and served with nightshade vegetables.

Rhysand looks up, turning to Helion. “Compliments to the chef.”

Helion’s eyes twinkle with delight as he meets your gaze.  “And y/n,” he says. “She collaborated with the chef to create tonight’s dinner.”

You smile, a touch of pride warming your cheeks as you look around the table. However, the smile quickly fades when you hear a sudden spluttering. It’s Azriel. He spit his food out, his face a mask of horror and conflict. 

“Azriel?” you ask in concern.

He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I’m not hungry,” he mutters, his voice suddenly tight.

Your face flushes and a nervous laugh escapes you.  “Relax, it’s not poison,” you joke, trying to lighten the mood. But your attempt falls flat. 

“I’m not hungry,” he repeats more forcefully, then turns and leaves the room, his movements stiff and tense.

Your eyes begin to sting with unshed tears, the hurt and confusion overwhelming you. You slump back into your chair. “I don’t think I’m hungry either,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Rhysand nudges your foot from under the table. “Don’t mind him,” he says softly, violet eyes filled with sympathy. “Please, eat. You’ve worked so hard on this.”

You nod, trying to muster the strength to lift your fork, but the sting of Azriel’s rejection is too much. You push the food around your plate, your appetite completely gone. The evening that had started with such promise now feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by whatever tension has now befallen between you and Azriel. 

In the corridor outside the dining hall, Azriel leans against the wall, his heart pounding. He knows he’s hurt you, but the thought of unintentionally accepting the bond is too much for him to bear. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The guilt gnaws at him, a constant reminder of the fragile line he’s been walking.

One more night, he reminds himself. One more night and then he can tell you everything.

He can only hope you don’t already hate him for tonight.

**

Tossing and turning, you let out a long breath as you stare up at the ceiling. Your stomach grumbles, reminding you that you hadn’t indulged in the dinner you had put so much effort into crafting. How could you, when the one person you made it for refused to have even a bite? 

His reaction had been as clear as day. Repulsed.

Now, doubts flood your mind. What if you've completely misread everything? The shadows beside you, initially a source of comfort, were beginning to stir unsettling thoughts in you. Maybe Azriel sent them not because he cared so deeply for you but out of obligation and pity?

You're not a High Lord like Rhysand, nor a warrior like Cassian or Mor who fought in the war. You’re just a noblewoman from the Court of Nightmares who fled from a forced marriage. How typical and utterly helpless. That’s what you’ve been since you met Azriel.  It shouldn’t have shocked you that he followed you into Day Court. 

Any hope that had blossomed in your heart now withers. You were a fool to even entertain the thought. You’ve known Azriel for almost a century and in those years, he’s never hinted at seeing you as anything more than a friend so why would it change now?

Throwing off the covers, you sit up abruptly, gaze flickering towards the door. The urge to confront him grips you fiercely. He did not have to return your feelings but he didn’t have to hurt your feelings so harshly by spitting out your food. You had to settle whatever this was now, even if it left you broken-hearted. 

Without bothering to change out of your nightwear, you leap from your bed. The shadows on your bed stir awake and your footsteps quicken, fearing his shadows would reach him before you could.

They beat you to it, even going as far as opening the door for you, allowing you to barge into his room. You’re not surprised to see Azriel wide awake. His shadows must’ve warned him beforehand. He sits on his bed, already facing you and you hate the way your gaze falls to his bare chest. Your eyes trail up the intricate tattoos etched there, slowly making your way up.

The words catch in your throat. You’re nervous. A foreign feeling around Azriel. It makes you want nothing more than to turn and run out the door. His shadows shut the door behind you as if sensing your thoughts.

You refuse to meet his eyes, fearing what you’d find in those hazel depths. “You hate me don’t you?”

The words tumble out unexpectedly, sending a chilling shiver through you. His gaze flickers downward, catching the way you nervously fidget with your fingers, before lifting with intent and searching for your eyes. 

“What?”

The sound that leaves Azriel borders on what sounds like amusement, and you cringe, turning your head away. Tears prick your eyes, his shadows rushing to wipe them away gently, coaxing your gaze back to their master. When his eyes meet yours, all you see is concern. 

A strange sensation creeps along your ribcage as he stands from the bed, stepping closer to you.

“I don’t hate you.” Azriel states firmly and when his words don’t soothe you as he expected they would, he frowns. His hands replace the shadows brushing against your face. “What makes you think that? What’s wrong?”

“I should be asking you that question,” you laugh humorlessly, casting your gaze down. “Something has gotten into you. You’ve been acting so differently, and at first, I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought as I seem to be wrong every time–”

“It does matter. Tell me.” 

It’s now or never. Your throat tightens as you muster the courage—the last bit you have, having used most of it to barge into his room. 

“We’ve been walking a fine line, you and I. For decades. Almost a century... And now, I realize you’ve simply been too kind to reject me. I’m sorry if running to you after that nightmare was too much, but did you have to spit out my food? I would’ve preferred if you’d just told me you didn't like me instead of showing me.”

“You’re not making any sense right now.” Azriel says.

“Neither are you.” You shoot back.

“I don’t hate you,” Azriel repeats, hurt flashing across his face at the thought of making you feel that way.

“You spit out my food in front of everyone, Az.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

You feel Azriel’s hand tense against your face. “I can’t say.”

Your breath hitches, and you take a couple of steps back, removing his hands from you. “Because you hate me.”

Azriel’s eyes shut tightly for a moment, his head turning toward the window. He feels the faint warmth of the rising sun and inhales deeply. There’s something burning bright in his eyes when he looks at you again.

“Because you are my mate.”

Mate.

A vulnerable shakiness accompanies the word. The words hang in the air, heavy and shocking. The feeling teasing at your ribcage begins to crawl upwards. Your heart skips a beat as it meets your chest, awakening something deep inside you that you hadn’t realized you had.

Mate.

“I’m your what?” You gasp, your heart pounding in your chest as the golden threads of fate begin to unravel.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” Azriel approaches slowly, his expression tense and cautious. “You’re my mate. The bond snapped as you were winnowing away. That’s why I followed after you. I wanted to tell you, but Rhysand asked me not to. At least not until we were done here.”

Your racing heart sinks into your stomach. More tears well up in your eyes, blurring your vision.  “So you don’t want me as your mate either…”

“No,” Azriel’s eyebrows knit together so hard you worry they’ll stick, shadows swirling around him like storm clouds. His hand reaches out for you but you take a step back.  “I’m happy it’s you. Relieved. I’ve loved you for so long...”

Your tears fall freely and he takes another deep breath, wings shuddering along with the timber of his voice. “Gods, do you know how agonizing these past days have been for me? Watching you fall in love with this court, with—” He hesitates, unable to say his name “—it’s High Lord.”

His words ignite a spark within you, fanning the hope that had begun to take root in your chest.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fall in love with this court," you begin and Azriel gives a subtle wince, looking away from you. "But Day is not my home."

Slowly, Azriel looks back at you, and a torrent of emotions floods over you. You're uncertain if they are yours or his, as the bond between you surges like a turbulent river.

“The Night Court is. That’s where my family is. That’s where you are. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Not even Prythian’s best library.”

Azriel’s eyes soften and when he takes a step forward, you don’t step back. A glimmer of hope lights up his features.  “And what of it’s High Lord?”

“He’s nice but he’s not you.” You say with a soft smile. “I love you and only you.”

Azriel cups your face in his hands, leaning his forehead against yours. The smile that breaks out on his rivals the brilliance of the rising run behind him. “I’ve admired you, desired you for so long…I just didn’t want to rush you and when the bond snapped, I feared it’d overwhelm you."

You look up at him, the raw honesty in his eyes reflecting your own emotions. “So, what now?”

Azriel brushes the last tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and reverent. “Be mine?”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer.

“Always.”

And then you kiss him, the bond between you shimmering and glittering. A tangible, golden connection intensifying with every heartbeat.

a/n: I don't like the way I ended this 😭 not my best tbh, I just feel like it was missing something. I honestly wasn't expecting the high demand for a part two to Be Safe so I hope you enjoyed some of this as much as the first part. Anyway, here's a little meme I had made for this fic while I was procrastinating on finishing it.

here's a bonus scene.

tag list (tagged all those who commented and reblogged with tags, in case you wanted to read more. sorry if I missed some!): @jswizzlewrites , @hellodarling1357, @fxckmiup, @pricklepearbloom,

@tothestarsandwhateverend, @mika-no-sekai-blog, @cherryjain17, @illyrian-dreamer,

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@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human

[itsswritten]

Cauldron-born

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: When an unexplainable energy pulls the Inner Circle to barge into the Day court, they're all shocked at what they find. But it's Azriel who can't help wonder if his dreams have finally been answered.

Part 2

“I hadn’t meant to hide this from you Rhysand,” Helion’s usual warm tone was replaced with something sterner, bolder— unwavering.

A breeze pulled on your skirt, the floaty material rippling under the wind. It was always warm in Day, but now, with the appearance of uninvited guests, there was a coldness in the air you hadn’t experienced before.

A bite that pulled at your skin raising goosebumps across your arms.

You guessed this reaction wasn’t a rare occurrence when facing the Night Courts Inner Circle.

Helion shifted his weight, his body stood in front of yours in a protective manner. A nervousness emitted from his energy, an emotion that actually seemed strange to even be associated with him. 

Helion wasn’t the nervous type. Charming and flirtatious, bold and defiant— not nervous.

Helion pushed his shoulders back, his stance flexing against the shadowy group that had just arrived. 

They had shaken him. 

Perhaps you were naive to think these people wouldn’t, naive to believe you could live your life quietly. Slip through the cracks. Go unnoticed. No you were not destined for that, as much as your dear friend may have wanted that for you.

So if a quiet life was not meant to be, then you would at least claim it as yours. 

With a light step you moved from behind Helion to his side, coming into full view of the group who had appeared unannounced in the courtyard. Your hand came to Helion’s gently, giving him a soft squeeze and light smile that stretched to your eyes.

How they had gotten through Day Courts shields didn’t come as a surprise really. Helion had divulged how powerful the High Lord of the Night Court was. That if he really wanted to take them all down, then Helion suspected in that unrelenting pit of power Rhys probably could.

But despite this power, Rhys had never ravaged control over the land. Helion was fond of Rhys and his family, they were allies. Perhaps he would even consider them friendly.

And yet Helion hadn’t told them about you.

Energies and rhythms rippling from their bodies, all with their own melody of colours unique to them floated toward you. Your eyes scanned over their features quickly, reading their expressions, the tight lines their faces made before one look pulled you to a hasty stop.

A hazel lock held you tightly as a males gaze ensnared you. 

Golden rays broke through a midnight blue aura, trapping you in a moment that seemed to expand and retract all at once. He was the most beautiful male you’d ever laid eyes on, and it took every ounce of will power to pull your gaze from his.

There was a simmering at the pit of your stomach, something familiar and warm, and you swore you could hear singing—

“She is like us.” A girl from the back of the crowd spoke, beautiful and sweet. Elain, you assumed. Her aura, one that resembled sunlight radiating in golden flicks. If you hadn’t known who she was you’d had assumed she was a Day court resident from her glow alone.

Elain stepped forward, another girl stepping beside her as if they’d both been pulled by the same magnetic pulse to the front of the group.

This girl. This girl was Nesta. You were sure of it. That silver flickering aura licked at her skin, an energy so similar and yet so different to her sisters.

“Hm..no not exactly like us…” Elain seemed to mutter, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes scanning you as she tried to get a read, try and decipher what had pulled her here in the first place. 

Why you had pulled them here.

“Something other.” Nesta spoke.

You don’t think she’d actually intended for it to sound so venomous, but the words had snapped like poison. You noticed how for a split second there was a softeness in her energy. Whether she was regretful of her tone or not, you had flinched at the word.

Other.

Hm. Perhaps that was the best way to describe you.

Elain glanced at her sister, her face not changing as she digested Nesta’s words. There was a shuffling behind them, only slight and small. Would barely be noticeable if it wasn’t so hard for you not to notice.

Him.

His scarred fingers twitched at his sides, shadows swirling around them as they peered over those giant black membranes that were drawn in at his back. A tattoo creeped up the side of his neck, peeking through his shirt as you followed up to his jaw. Black leather’s covered his body, blue siphons shimmering under the setting sun. You tried so hard not to let your eyes wander back, but as though you had no control you gaze landed on his again. 

Only to find he was already staring.

Azriel.

Helion had mentioned him to you before and you recalled how you had rolled the name a few times in your mouth. The name feeling so foreign and familiar all at once.

“Not cauldron-made, no not quite.” Elain had turned her attention back to you.

You had stepped forward now, stepped out from the shadow of Helion.

Stepped out to face what you had been avoiding. 

“You are Cauldron-born.” 

✵

“Would you like to join us for some tea?” Your response had been after Elain’s heavy statement.

Your words coming out in a flurry to cut through the heaviness in the air. Despite being outside it felt stifling. Several eyes piercing into you. You could almost hear the way they were trying to decipher you— breakdown what Elain had said. 

You hadn’t allowed them the time. Quickly offering them tea, as you glanced at the small set up you and Helion had come to the courtyard to enjoy.

It was only a matter of moments before more furniture was erected and began the awkward silence while the piping pot of tea began to simmer to a cool.

Your hands were scrunched up in your skirt, fists full of fabric on your lap being an obvious tell of unease to those who knew what to look for. A strained smile was forced to your lips, expression light and brows arched in apprehension as you watched the uninvited guests silently take sips of tea. 

With a quick sideways glance you gave Helion a nervous smile, your lips wobbling as you took a sharp inhale. Helion responded with a gentle pat of your head, his large hand coming to ruffle your hair while a lazy smiled adorned his lips.

His energy finally shifting to one you recognised more, warm and teasing. He was relaxed again. Whatever shock the inner circle had originally caused, Helion now seemed...somewhat nonchalant.

That should have been reassuring, but the tension in your muscles didn't want to relax.

“This is y/n,” Helion finally spoke, addressing the people who had barged into his court. 

At the revelation of a name, the inner circle cast their attention solely on you. 

“These are my friends y/n, I’ve told you about them already. We had anticipated your arrival at some point,” he continued giving a knowing look to Rhys.

Your eyes scanned the expressions of the five people in front of you. 

Rhys, Amren, Nesta, Elain and of course Azriel. Not the whole inner circle, no there were members missing. But Helion had done such a great job at explaining them to you, that it really wasn’t difficult to figure out who was who.

“It’s l-lovely to meet you all,” you managed out, voice falling softer than you had hoped. Your own eyes gently moving across them all before flitting to the shadowy presence that remained stood behind the Night Courts High Lord. 

Azriel.

Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

You couldn’t seem to stop yourself from looking, among all the noise he sung the sweetest. His energy, amongst those swirling smoke coloured tendrils was the most beautiful display you had ever seen. Not the most powerful by any means, Rhysand and Helion’s outshone his aura in many ways but his was the most enticing— at least to you.

Composure wasn’t something Azriel usually lacked, but after hearing the softness of your voice fill the warm evening air he had to collect himself entirely.

From the moment he’d set his eyes on you, he couldn’t ignore the feeling in the depths of his chest. Maybe if you hadn’t been the cause of it, he’d have assumed there was something wrong with his heart. 

Azriel noticed the way your fingers nervously picked at your skirt, fists tight with the material as you sat up straight beside Helion. As if your posture would bring a confidence you were clearly lacking. 

He could sense it, your unease, nervousness. Picked up on it before even his shadows could whisper it to him.

Nervous, nervous, nervous.

He blinked them away. He already knew. 

Pretty. 

Another whispered. He already knew that too.

Pretty was putting it plainly though. You were breathtaking. 

Azriel wanted to reassure you. Comfort the anxiety he could tell you were drowning in. It was such a strange sensation, to feel this connection so deeply with someone he’d never met before, that Azriel couldn’t help but question why.

Azriel allowed himself to consider that perhaps something he’d been dreaming of for so long was finally his. 

That feeling, the ache in his chest you caused— was almost painfully lovely. He swore this was exactly how his brothers had described it to him.

Azriel found himself allowing the smallest curve spread to the edge of his lips, a gentle, secret smile. Just for you.

A smile that softened your own forced expression to something more relaxed and genuine. 

For a moment it felt as though it was just you two. The noise and vibrations of everyone else seemed to fade. An embrace of cobalt and hazel filling you with a warmth that felt so familiar.

“But Elain is correct. Y/n is cauldron-born.” Helion’s voice broke the trance you both seemed to be in.

Your nervousness from before simmering hotter.

“It cannot be,” Amren declared, disbelief tinging her tone as her gaze pierced into you.

“You think I lie?” Helion challenged. 

“How do you know for sure?” Rhys pressed back, an uncertainty in his tone.

“Because I know you all feel it too,” Helion’s voice was deep, a gleam in his eye as he turned to you proudly.

“She is the Mother’s daughter.” 

A statement. Even more bold than Elain’s settled a silence across the courtyard. This time it wasn’t stifling, their energy shifting to something of awe, admiration and then devotion.

In one quick movement a figure dropped to their knees. Head pressing to the cool stone ground.

Amren had bowed before your feet. 

And Amren bowed to no one.

a/n: Okay I know this a whole lot more of elusive-ness and I'm sorry, I just thought sharing this little bit more is better than nothing at all. I wanted to flesh this first out properly so here's the full part one! I've been so swamped with work and inspiration struck this evening so I quickly wrote this in my notes. I promise I will eventually finish it, even if it's just little updates here and there. I'm hoping maybe 2 more parts, so it'll be a nice little mini-series!

I also took it upon myself to try and tag everyone who commented and reblogged because you all seemed very invested so didn't want you to miss this installment even if it is tiny<3

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria

CB tags: @hannzoaks @je-suis-prest-rachel @awkardnerd @cleverzonkwombatsludge @faerieboismh @glitterypirateduck @paradisebabey @jesskidding3 @searchingforbucky @beardburnsupersoldiers @chubby-unicornz @toxicsociety17-blog g @sapphenaa @starsidesigh @kalistaangelsbane @bookishthoughtss @pit-and-the-pen

[utterlyazriel]

featherlight touch

a/n: and what if i said surprise smut. what then :) my soft launch of the fact i can and do write smut... <3 word count: easy peasy barely over 1k-squeezy synopsis: Given particular knowledge, you try something new. wing!fic

Your knees sink into the black satin sheets of Azriel’s bed and you sigh contently.

Across the room at the window, the curtain is haphazardly drawn, letting in a curious ray of moonlight. A dim glow lights the room.

You’re thankful for it now—the moonlight allowing you to drink in the sight beneath you with a ravenous gaze. Thighs straddling across his hips, you take in Azriel under you with, what can only be described as, ardent hunger.

But, well, it’s not often enough you get to be on top, after all.

Azriel’s wings splay out on the bed, gloriously on display. His scarred hands rest easily on your waist. His hazel eyes, narrowed in a suspicious way, are focused entirely on you. He, as always, looks devastatingly handsome.

“I’m not sure if I like the look of that look.” He comments slyly, shifting his head to flick a stray curl back from his eyes.

His hands on your waist give a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure you that he’s only teasing. His shadows lurk, traversing the rumpled bedsheets with a lazy designation, unbothered.

“Oh, hush,” you respond. “As if I haven’t been on the receiving end of this before.”

At the mere mention of your reversed positions, Azriel grins, even as a hot glow takes to his cheeks. The dusty rose colour sets a warm spark off in your chest and the heat wastes no time heading south, between your thighs.

Your relationship with Azriel is of the newer side, despite how long you've actually known each other. Long time friends, eventually, finally turned lovers.

But these new steps forward together, getting to know each other in an entirely new way—it's still enough to make Azriel fluster. Centuries old he is but a bashful shyness still remains, if only you can coax it out.

Bringing you back to the moment, Azriel squeezes your waist again, one hand shifting across your skin, his thumb dipping closer to your waistband.

“I don’t know what you mean,” He says, even as his satisfied smile gives him away. He watches closely as you pluck up his large hand and move it back to your waist, the message clear. He's not in charge tonight.

“Y’know,” you say, voice softer suddenly.

You haven’t let go on his hand. As you speak, you let your fingers travel down his veined and chiseled forearm slowly. “I learnt something today. From Feyre.”

Azriel watches you intently, the very feel of your skin across his enough to make him shudder in muted pleasure. No one touches him like you do.

Goosebumps break out along his arm as your hand reaches his bulging bicep and you drag your nails across it lightly.

“Is that so?”

Despite all his body betrays him, Azriel is a master at keeping his face and voice cool and calm. You smile at the sight of it, goaded on by his unwavering voice, and let your hand linger, resting on his collarbone.

“What did she tell you?” Azriel asks, his dark brows raising.

Purposefully, you shift your hips an inch, grinding against his own. Azriel barely manages to hide the grunt it pulls from him, his fingers flexing against your waist as if he’s resisting something more.

“She told me,” You say, dragging out the words, sultry and low.

Your hand begins to move, tracing the line of his defined chest and feeling it heave slightly beneath your touch. Tantalisingly slow, you let it trail down, skimming across his toned stomach where you pause.

“That if I ask you nicely, there’s a certain spot—”

Your teasing, trailing touch moves sideways, dipping down his ribcage and nearing his wings. They rustle against the sheets, a minuscule motion, that you hope is in what’s anticipation.

If what Feyre said is true...

Moving slow, so there’s time for him to interrupt you, you reach down and hover your hand over the delicate membrane of his wings.

Intentions clear, your eyes dart to Azriel’s to check.

Pupils blow wide, the ring of hazel you love so much barely visible, Azriel looks debauched before you've even begun. His hands are stilled on your waist and his cheeks are that same glowing scarlet. After a beat it becomes clear he’s waiting, not stopping you.

Grinning, you take your cue.

Brushing your fingers gently across a section of his wings, the reaction is instantaneous.

Azriel shudders, his whole body shivering as a strangled breath passes through his clenched jaw, his eyes fluttering closed. The hands on your waist constrict, tightening his grip, and beneath you his hips shift up, into you.

The shape of him, pulsating and hot, suddenly feels much firmer than before.

“She’s—right.” The words come out in two stilted breaths, Azriel’s chest rising and falling a little faster now as he fights to compose himself. His eyes open, heavier lidded than they were a moment ago. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Is she?" Your voice is lilted in mock uncertainty, given away by your mischievous grin. "I think I better check again."

This time, instead of a small brush, you try something bolder. Two fingers on either side of a prominent vein, you draw a delicate stripe up his wing.

Azriel whines— a soft, pitiful noise that leaks out through his clenched teeth. It melts into a soft groan as his whole body shifts, his hips shoving up, seemingly out of his control. His hands pull you down at the time, dragging you forward against his hardness.

Something fiercely hot simmers in your gut, both at the friction and his glorious reaction. He's been fucking holding out on you.

"I don't know, I'm still not sure..." You continue, far too delighted to abuse your newfound knowledge.

Stroking another soft line up his wing, this time you're rewarded with a needy whimper. His chest arches up, his head thrown back lightly—nearly writhing in pleasure from just a few touches.

"Oh, Az," You murmur, half consoling and half wicked. His screwed up eyes take a moment to find yours and you relish the panting of his chest. The rosiness of his cheeks has spread, crawling down his neck and beginning along his toned chest.

"This your plan?" He says, but it's nowhere near that unwavering voice from earlier, raspy and on the way to ruined. "To—" He takes a sharp inhale as your nail scrapes the membrane again. "—to tease me all night?"

You're impressed he's got the words out, given the sight of him. His hair looks messier now. Paired with his heaving chest and eyes bright with lust, he looks downright sinful.

"Doesn't sound too bad a plan to me." You say, letting your hips draw forward, then back, the smallest rocking motion against him.

Azriel hisses, his large, scarred hands threatening to bruise your hips with how tight they grip them. He makes no attempt to stop you though.

"What do you think?"

You purposefully retract your hand, hovering it over his wing, and watch his face. Wings are very personal to Fae and Azriel letting you touch his own, in such an intimate way, was not lost on you.

You don't want to overstep, even if you do desperately want to see what happens if you stroke once, twice, three times in a row. Gods do you want to watch him fall apart beneath you, whimpering and whining through it all.

"I think you're a temptress," Azriel says, breathless. His eyes, heavy with desire, give away his answer. A grin spreads across your face, devious and enamoured all at once.

"A temptress you'll let have her way with you?"

"Depen—ah," His voice shudders into another whimper as you touch your fingertip back to his velvety wing, drawing a small circle.

Eyes crushing closed, it takes another moment for him to catch his breath before he speaks again, breath ragged. "Mother above..."

His wing, the one you've been taunting, rustles against the bed. It lifts up an inch before flapping down in an almost impatient motion. Like a cat, wagging its tail. Azriel wets his lips again, their skin cherried and plush.

"Alright," He says, faux begrudgingly. His eagerness is given away by another impatient rustle of his wing and the throbbing length of him, pressing firmly up against you.

His gives your waist another squeeze and then lets go, letting his arms fall lax to his side. Trusting you completely.

"Have your way with me."