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tadpolesonalgae · 1 year ago

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Azriel x Reader: Mystery Of Love

A/N: I want to write more soft!Azriel because honestly 🥲

Summary: Things between Night and Spring have been on the mend over the past centuries, yet despite the steady improvement, the shadowsinger finds himself longing to return to Spring for the chance to visit the Court seamstress

Visual Prompt here!

Azriel suppresses a grin as he watches Cass’ nose twitch, the General no doubt pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He catches the shit-eating glint in his eye, sending a glower to the Spymaster, knowing exactly what he’s subtly gloating over.

Rhys turns away from Feyre, sending a glare over his shoulder, sensing that his brothers were up to something, “keep yourselves out of trouble.” Azriel sends a shadows skating up his brother’s back, making Cass shift, “I’m serious, Cassian. Don’t get kicked out of this Court too,” Rhys adds, sending a serious look to him as he places his hand on Feyre’s lower back, guiding her down the hall.

Cassian mutters something under his breath, before turning and punching his brother in the arm, “enough of your underhanded tricks. We’re supposed to be on the same side here.” Azriel allows the corners of his mouth to curl upward, “I’d rather not have a partner who’s sneezing all over me.” His retort makes Cassian scowl, but there’s a playful glint in his eye, “fine, but you’ll be the one having our High Lady scold you for that,” the General calls as he moves after the two figures, pretending to be on his way to snitch on his brother.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Azriel calls after him. He hears the faint sounds of Cass mimicking his words, making jabbering gestures with his hands as he rounds the corner, leaving Az to himself.

He schools his features into neutrality, turning to glance out through the archways, noticing how the sun is dancing across the lush greenery. His eyes catch on a familiar female carrying a heavy-looking basket inside, stacked with earth-toned fabrics. She seems to be struggling, making his mouth tilt upward.

Turning away, his gaze drags across the large expanse of meadow, casting over the forests fencing the mansion in. On the surface it appears open, flushed with life, until the breeze nips a little too hard, or the flora grows a little too thick, showing more thorns than petals. He can see how easily the land could turn into a cage.

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You wobble up the steps, hauling the basket with you until you reach your designated work room. It’s a marvellously open room on the third floor of the mansion, your windows overlooking the sprawling fields, a perfect view of how the lands merge into luscious forest, ripe with greenery and pigment.

Setting the fabrics down on the armrest, you flop down beside them, resting in the afternoon sun that’s spilling through the window. You’re on the verge of nodding off when a voice echoes through the room, “so hardworking.”

You release an audible groan, mouth twisting into a grin as you lift yourself from the chaise longue, spotting the male leaning against the doorframe. “You have a habit of catching me in the wrong moments,” you complain, moving to a sitting position, “and I’m beginning to think it’s intentional, Spymaster.”

His eyes sparkle as he enters the room, walking over to where you’re half sitting, half lounging. “Or maybe you never actually work,” he shoots back, eyes sweeping across your studio. “I get plenty of work done!” You snap, indignantly, “that’s why I’m the favoured seamstress in this Court.” You bat your eyelashes at him.

He knows you’re being modest. At four hundred and twenty-three, you’re most likely the favoured in the land.

You sit up straight, “wait. I have an idea for your next gift, but I need your measurements.” He raises an eyebrow in suspicion, the mention of your so-called ‘gifts’ making him wary. “What do you have planned for me this time?” He drawls, putting on an air of defeat as he moves over to where you’re sat.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now. Would it?” You grin, unfurling a measuring tape from your pocket and brandishing it. He merely sighs, a glimmer of life sparking in his hazel eyes, “do your worst.”

“I think you’re going to regret that,” you reply, moving behind him. He tenses, realising what it is you’re after. His wings tense, skin pulling taut over his shoulders as the muscles contract with apprehension, muscle rippling across his back with the movement.

You stop shy of his back, “I can estimate, if you’re too…” scared? Nervous? Shy? “I mean, I understand they’re sensitive.” You take a step back for him to know exactly where you are, “it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable.” His gaze latches onto yours as he looks over his shoulders, expression unreadable.

“You try anything funny I’ll cut you down where you stand,” he settles on, mouth curling up at the sides though there’s a sinister tone that has your tongue drying. It takes a moment for you to formulate a response, not really having expected him to allow you this opportunity. You smile, cheekily, “yes sir.”

You work in silence, save for the occasional request for Azriel to shift his wings to different positions, which he follows exceptionally. There are a few times your tape doesn’t span long enough; you have to press the marking fabric against his skin to note where to restart. Each time you give him a heads up along with a free invitation to veto at any time. He just nods along with your requests, indulging your curiosity each time until you’ve completed your measurements.

“I’m dreading returning,” he admits when you set the tape down, jotting down each measurement you took into your notebook, catching a glance at some designs you have sketched on previous pages. Your brow curves in sad curiosity, “why’s that?” A grin twinkles in his eyes, lips curving, “to see whatever you’ll have created.”

A huff of relieved laughter escapes your mouth, smiling to yourself as you shut your notebook, “and here I thought you were enjoying my company.” You move across the room to where you keep your fabrics, “how foolish of me.”

Azriel watches you with dilated pupils as you riffle through the materials, pulling a few scraps from the mix then returning to him, “what do you think of these?”

He arches a brow, “I’m going to need a little more guidance?” Your lips quirk up at the edges, “how do they feel? Too heavy? Too thick? Not breathable?” You prompt making his own lips lift.

“For what?”

Your eyes skip upwards to his as you make an innocent look, feigning ignorance, “oh, I don’t know… your skin? Maybe your wings?”

His grin widens, nodding his head conspiratorially, “I see.” Then he frowns, “actually, I don’t. Why do you need to know how the fabric feels in regard to my wings?” You widen your eyes slightly, pouting as if you’re clueless, glancing away from him and pulling your hands behind your back, as if to hide the evidence. He just sighs again, holding his hands out to sort through the fabric, testing each of them out.

“I like this one,” he settles on, “it feels stretchy, and heavy, but not so it would be uncomfortable.”

“I’ll make sure not to use that one,” you quip, taking the fabric from his hands, fingers brushing for a moment.

Azriel watches you return to your work bench, wondering if your hands are also tingling.

“Should I be concerned over your sudden fascination with my wings?” He speaks after having silently crept upon you. You jump, turning with a scowl on your face. You jab your finger at him, “first of all, never do that again.” You make to set your hands against his chest, then think better of it, choosing to simply shoo him away, “secondly, stop peeking over my shoulder. I have classified information in this notebook. I can’t be letting the Spymaster have a free flash.”

He allows you to walk him backward, “so I should be worried?” You keep an eye out to make sure there’s nothing he could slip on as you guide him back to the sofa, “presumptuous to think the classified information is about you and not other clientele.” Your eyes latch onto one another the moment he reaches the sofa. Your hands skim his shoulders and he allows himself to sit, looking up at you who’s between his legs.

“And no. You don’t have anything to worry about,” your tack on, turning away, “though I’ve been known to lie, on occasion.” His hand circles your wrist firmly, pulling you back to him. A smile breaks across your face as a matching one graces his features. “Sorry, that was in poor taste,” you snicker, seeing his expression. “It’s for a decent project, I swear.”

He lifts a brow to tell you he doesn’t believe you, “you’re sure it wasn’t for personal gain?” He taunts softly, his thumb brushing circles into your skin. It takes you a moment to piece the dots together, but when you do, a laugh breaks from you. You hold a single hand up in defeat, “fine. You caught me. Can’t believe you saw through my master plan so easily.”

He smiles back at you, playing along, “well, I am the Spymaster. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“And yet you let me take your measurements anyway,” you drawl, pretending to think, letting the implication hang in the air.

His smiles fades as he meets your gaze. “I did.”

The skin beneath his thumb tingles, your clothes feeling stuffy and heavy beneath his gaze. You suck in a breath, “good to know.” There’s a pause, and you wonder if it feels as long for him as it does for you. “Anyway,” you break the silence, “how’s the Night Court treating you?”

He huffs a laugh, rich and deep. You want to feed on it forever, wake up to it and bathe in it. “Not as well as you, apparently,” he casts a pointed glance across your room that’s emptier than usual, devoid of the usually highly decorated mannequins that support your various designs. “Ugh, you know I work. You just come in at the worst times.” He gives you a look that tells you he doesn’t believe a word of it, making you huff.

“You know, with all the gifts I make you, you should know how hard I work,” you snap, mouth tipping at the edges into a tell-tale smile. His features are a mask of neutrality as he gazes up at you, “I think it shows the amount of free-time you have on your hands,” he drawls, a smirk twisting the corners of his lips. You scoff, “and I think it shows I care. But if you’d like me to stop, you need only say the word,” you taunt, raising a brow expectantly.

He huffs a soft laugh, your blood heating at the sound, body lightening, “I would never dream of depriving myself of your luxuries,” he flirts, making you roll your eyes.

“One day, Shadowsinger,” you grin, “one day I’ll create something so obnoxiously beautiful even your endless patience won’t be enough to overcome it.”

“I suppose until then, you’ll just have to keep trying. But I assure you, your efforts are in vain, dear seamstress. My patience is indeed endless, and your humour is boundless. Overall, your company is a pleasant bonus with every sojourn I must take down to this wretched Court.”

Your mouth drops open.

He cocks a brow expectantly, and you snort a laugh. “I have absolutely zero idea what you just said, but screw you.”

His lips tilt, “I confessed to enjoying your company, my lady.” He brings your knuckles to his glorious mouth, pressing a kiss to the pockmarked skin from your time spent as a seamstress. “‘My lady’ indeed,” you snap, but not pulling your hand away, “you’re cunning with your words, Shadowsinger. But I’m aware of the tactical benefits to flattery and so refuse to trust a single word that comes from your gilded tongue.” You smile, satisfied.

A wicked smirk dances over his elysian mouth, “my gilded tongue can do more than just flatter, my lady.”

You cock a skeptical brow, “pray tell.”

He grins, “as silver-tipped it is, words will not suffice for my talents. They’re practicalities that must be demonstrated.” This time your brow dips in concentration as you attempt to match him, “I do hate to confess my loss, but you’ve quite confused me with your courtier’s mouth.”

His thumb brushes cheekily over the knuckles of your fingers, your eyes following helplessly, “this is my form of retribution - your form of payment - for every so-called ‘gift’ you have created.”

You shake your head, brows curving, “oh for goodness sake! I can hardly understand a word when you speak like that. It does my head in.”

He laughs at your frustration, “then I have served my purpose.”

“Your purpose is to boggle my mind?” You retort, one hand lifting to the side of your head as you pretend to massage and ache from your skin. A grin breaks on your mouth, despite your stoic attempts to conceal it. “My purpose,” he repeats, thumb stilling, “is to bring a smile to your face.”

This time you don’t laugh, or attempt to brush him off. A flush lifts your cheeks as you look down at him, sizing him up, “do you mean that, Azriel?”

“I would not lie to a lady as noble as yourself,” he mocks, a teasing lilt to his pleasurable voice. You purse your lips at his reply before smoothly lowering yourself to his lap, settling over one of his thighs, leaning against the solid warmth of his chest.

With the proximity you’re able to feel his breath catch, his hand tightening over yours as you allow the connection. “One word,” you remind him, gazing up into his hazel eyes, “and I will stop entirely.” You shift further against him when he remains quiet, taking you in silently as if afraid you’ll turn in a fright at the slightest of movements. Utterly ridiculous, really.

“One word, Azriel,” you breathe, words brushing over his mouth, “and we can pretend this was all part of the jest.” Your hand unlatches from his in favour of pressing against his chest, sloping over the broad framework of his shoulders. Your own breath stutters a bit when his hands drop to your waist, one settling at the small of your back, dangerously low. Should anyone walk in at that moment, it would look positively scandalous.

“I’ll conceal everything, if that’s what you’d prefer,” you murmur over his lips, “even from you, spymaster.”

“Never.” The words are dragged from his throat, roughly spilling from his mouth as his fingers press into the soft fabric of your clothes. A small smile graces your features, before you’re gently pushing against him, mouth catching over his.

It’s hesitant, both of you curious to see how the events will unfold. His lips feel like heated silk beneath your own, pillowy and plump as you move against him. You pull away, eyes latching onto his before he leans forward, capturing your mouth again with his own, his hand supporting your back as you’re taken by surprise.

A faint moan slips from your mouth to his, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he pulls you against him, tongue pushing in as he tastes you. He groans when your fingers thread in his inky hair, fingers brushing delicately over his skin, oscillating in smooth, reassuring patterns.

When you eventually manage to untangle yourself from his mouth, you’re panting, staring into his hazy eyes that clear as the set on your own. “Gilded tongue indeed,” you pant, softly, tracing smooth marks in his silky hair. A glint of mischief shines in his hazel eyes, “I aim only to please, my lady.”

“Would you like to know how to further delight me, then?” You breathe, unable to remove you eyes from his own. “Gods, tell me.”

“Touch me as you wish to be touched,” you whisper, “I want to learn what excites you, Azriel. I want to become your necessity and your indulgence.”

Your forehead presses to his own, hands coming round to cup his jaw, pulling back as you tilt his head. “Please, let me love you,” you breathe, uttering that silent prayer you have kept so securely, “allow me this one desire.”

His eyes are pools of reflection, mirroring the adoration you know has revealed itself to him. The male nods, a slight coil of satisfaction settling in your lower belly at reducing him to actions.

He kisses the answer into your mouth, reverence flowing with every press of his tongue, every brush of his fingertips, every steady beat of his heart. He gives all of it to you.

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