#n: rose

[myscentarchive]

Mon Guerlain (Our Impression) - Oil Perfumery

Inspired by Guerlain's Mon Guerlain

Top: Lavender, Bergamot Heart: Iris, Jasmine Sambac (Arabian Jasmine), Rose Base: Tahitian Vanilla, Coumarin, Australian Sandalwood, Licorice, Benzoin, Patchouli

Fragrance Oil Feminine

Physicals

10 mL roller ball

[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

(Completed) Series Masterlist | 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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@melissat1254

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azriel tag list 🫶🏻:@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder  @mortqlprojections @ushijima-stits @honethatty12

[bleedingpetal]

[negativegrl]

shirts that go hard: rock n' roll edition

part 2 here

[lesbianviolet]

you'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you, or something like that

[sweetpeaaquarius]

I'm new to your site and have only read a few of your stories so far, but I liked them all. You write really beautifully and portray the characters very well. So I just have to make a request. About Azriel (love your latest Az fic 😍) My idea is that Azriel has given up on finding someone and doesn't want to get involved with anyone anymore because he's afraid she'll eventually get a mate. But then he finally found her, his mate. and also the Inner Circle is so happy for him (they noticed how alone Azriel was sometimes) and are also totally enthusiastic about her. the request would be a good mix of angsty and fluffy. And maybe some spice in the end where she shows him her dark side and what shows the IC that they will not have peace any time soon. because they are kinky🤭

His to Lose

Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader

Summary: Azriel has long accepted solitude as his constant, letting shadows guide him instead of hope. A routine mission, meant to be simple, becomes anything but when an unexpected encounter challenges everything he thought he knew about control, connection, and himself. As lines blur and the bond deepens, he finds himself slipping into the role of being a mate before either of them are ready to claim it.

Warnings: nsfw, smut,  teasing, unprotected sex, slight exhibitionism, emotional vulnerability,  slow burn romance, gentle angst (focus on self-worth), jealousy, flirty flighting, touch-starved Azreil

Word count: 11,440

Series: His to Lose - Part 1, Part 2

Author’s Note: One word: Obsessed. I spent two full days writing, rewriting, and rereading this nonstop until my brain turned to mush. I truly hope I captured your request the way you imagined, because I completely fell in love with this piece. There’s still a part of me that thinks I could’ve done it better, but here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved creating it!

Azriel had long given up on finding his mate, the one soul destined by fate to match his own. 

He had spent centuries praying to the Mother, to gods and forgotten goddesses, pleading for his other half. For a sign. For something.

He searched. He waited. He hoped.

After Morrigan, after Elain, after Gwyn, all of whom had found their paths, their peace, their purpose without him, he ceased hoping.

He couldn’t keep doing it.

Now, all he had were shame-tinted memories. A blur of encounters, mouths, hands, eyes that never looked past the surface. Fleeting touches that felt wrong. Distractions he couldn’t even pretend brought comfort.

False hope, dressed in sweat and shadow.

Still, in the quiet hours, when the world was still and the silence crept in, he wondered.

Had he done something to deserve this?

Did a sin in a lifetime ago curse him to this ache?

To stand just outside of joy, always watching and always aching.

To be the one who craves, and never the one who is loved.

He’d imagined it sometimes, what it would feel like if the moment arrived. If the bond snapped into place, sudden and sure.

If someone entered his life not like a storm, but as a quiet gift. 

Someone who didn’t flinch at the silence. 

Who didn’t try to fix the shadows, but sat within them.

Who didn’t recoil from the pain, but saw it, and stayed.

He told himself he deserved this.

The silence.

The cold bed.

The hollow gazes from lovers who only wanted his title, his power, or a story to tell.

Not him. Never him.

He accepted it, the idea that he would always be alone.

Until he met her.

A mission that should have been forgettable, just decoding ancient wards, nothing more. 

The meeting point Rhys had chosen was quiet, tucked between shadowed cliffs. Azriel felt the familiar high of anticipation as his boots hit the ground.

Then he saw her.

The moment their eyes met across the clearing, something inside him stilled, and then shattered.

The bond didn’t click neatly into place. It struck like lightning. Made his body hum. Made his chest tighten, his heart stutter, his mind blur.

Her gaze softened. Her head tilted, just slightly.

She felt it too.

He wondered if it was as overwhelming for her, if her hands trembled like his did.

She stood there in her pale blue-grey robes, fabric softly billowing with the breeze. A priestess. Tasked with helping decode ancient wards carved into old Illyrian stone. Her eyes were deep, dark brown, like still water concealing centuries beneath its surface.

“My mate,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You’re my mate.”

She said nothing at first. Just stared at him. Her dark hair twisted into intricate braids that shimmered in the shadows of the forest.

She swallowed, straightened, and said, “We have an assignment.”

Azriel didn’t respond right away.

He just stood there, heart pounding in the silence she left between them. We have an assignment.

That was it. No recognition. No panic. No joy. No acknowledgment of the world-altering truth he’d just spoken aloud.

The shadows around him shifted, restless with the weight of it. He pushed them back. Pushed himself back, because she was right, there was an assignment, and she had given him no invitation to go further.

So he followed.

They moved in silence through the jagged cliffs, scanning the worn stone for sigils and wards carved into the rock, ancient magic pulsing just beneath the surface. She moved with a quiet grace, every motion efficient, her fingers trailing over glyphs like she was reading them through touch alone.

Azriel pretended to study the cliffs, but he watched her instead.

The way she tilted her head as she translated ancient Fae words.

The way she frowned when she found something out of place.

The way her power hummed beneath her skin was controlled, focused, and sharp.

He had known her for minutes, yet he knew her. Felt her like a second heartbeat. Like a truth he had waited centuries to hear.

She felt it too; he could see it in the way her eyes drifted to him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. In the way her sentences faltered, just slightly, when their gazes caught.

Still, she kept her distance. Professional. Measured. Cool, but not unkind. Cautious.

He understood, because if she felt even a fraction of what he did, then her world had just shifted beneath her feet. Whatever walls she’d built to survive, whatever life she’d carefully crafted with steady hands had changed.

So he gave her space. Offered silence, soft glances, and nothing more.

They worked until the last light of day stretched long across the warded stones. Golden sun poured like honey over the hills, and she moved with quiet efficiency, rolling up her notes, brushing her braid over one shoulder, already turning toward the path.

Azriel watched her for a long moment, then said softly, before he could think better of it. “Will you come back with me?”

She stopped and turned.

Her eyes met his, dark, unreadable in the fading light. Like deep water, still and ancient, and hiding something beneath the surface.

“To the House of Wind,” he said, clarifying. “Just for now. For safety. For rest. I won’t ask anything of you. I just…”

He faltered. His voice roughened.

“I don’t want you walking back to the temple alone. I don’t want you to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched long enough for shame to creep in, for fear to grip his chest, for doubt to whisper that he’d overstepped.

“They talk about you,” she murmured. “The priestesses.”

Azriel said nothing. The silence stretched between them, taut and fraying.

“They call you the Shadowsinger.” Her voice was quiet, but it cut through him like steel wrapped in silk. “Say you don’t talk much, but you always get your message across.”

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked softly. “A message?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, suddenly, like she couldn’t bear to stay in the space they’d created.

The last of the faelight blinked along the path, but the shadows clung to her, hungry and heavy, as she stepped into the trees.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “Let me fly you there. That walk will take over an hour.”

She didn’t stop, but she slowed.

Her shoulders tensed, her steps faltered, but she didn’t turn back.

“I don’t need saving,” she said, the wind almost swallowed the words.

Azriel stood there, shadows curling at his feet, restless as caged wings.

He could have let her go, but the bond inside him was drawn taut as wire, strung across something sharp, ready to snap.

“I don’t want to save you,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

She stopped.

The forest held still.

“I just wanted to make sure you get there safe. That’s all.”

She turned then, slowly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were still hard, but something else flickered behind them, small and flickering.

“Fine,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “But no talking.”

Azriel’s heart splintered a little more.

“No talking,” he promised.

He held out his hand. She stared at it, hesitating, then brushed her fingers against his palm, uncertain, like they weren’t quite sure if they belonged there.

He gathered her gently, lifting her without a word.

The change in her was immediate. Her body went stiff, breath shallow and fast, hands gripping his shoulders, not out of closeness, but control. Fear.

Not of him.

Of this. Of flying. Of trusting. Of being this high above the ground with a stranger who claimed fate had tied them together.

Azriel didn’t speak. He shifted just enough to give her space, ensuring she didn’t feel trapped. His shadows curled behind her, soft and silent, like a net she didn’t realise she could fall into.

He flew slower than usual. Smooth. Controlled. Gliding through the currents rather than slicing through them.

Still, he felt her heartbeat hammering against his chest, fast and erratic.

“I won’t drop you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “I promise.”

She didn’t respond.

Her face remained tucked against his chest, not for closeness, but necessity. Her breath still came uneven, and when a downdraft hit and they dipped slightly, she yelped, her nails digging into his leathers.

He held her a little closer.

They landed softly a few meters from the temple gates. Still, her arms stayed wrapped around him, like she couldn’t quite let go.

“You’re safe now,” he said, lowering her until her boots touched grass.

 She didn’t relax. If anything, she pulled back like his touch burned. Her spine went stiff again as she stepped away.

“Thank you,” she said, voice thin. 

She pushed hair from her face, adjusted the braid at her shoulder, then pulled the scroll of notes from her satchel and held it out to him.

“The High Lord will be pleased with the translation,” she said briskly. “Though there’s more. The context isn’t quite right. I think whoever inscribed these misrepresented their origin, ”

She began to ramble. Not nervously, not exactly.

Just fast.

As if the words were a shield, she knew how to wield.

Azriel let her. Let her talk, point at symbols, unfold parchment, but he wasn’t listening because somewhere along the way, he stopped looking at the parchment and started watching her mouth.

She noticed.

Her voice slowed. Her brow creased.

“You’re not listening,” she said, tone flat.

Azriel blinked once. “I think it’ll be easier if you told him yourself.”

She exhaled sharply. “You just want me to let you hold me again.”

He didn’t deny it.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, but only because I doubt you’d survive repeating the translation without butchering it.”

She stepped in close again.

Azriel lowered instinctively, his arms rising to meet her as she looped hers around his neck.

He held her more gently this time. Her breath caught at the thought of leaving the ground again, and her pulse was racing so quickly he could hear it.

One hand settled at the small of her back. The other cradled her head.

This time, he flew slower than before. Steadier. Every motion smooth, every beat of his wings deliberate.

She didn’t tremble, but he felt the tension in her bones.

The sky stretched deep and dark above them, moonlight pouring over the clouds like silver ink. Neither of them spoke.

The bond thrummed. Not demanding. Just present. Soft and pulsing between them like a new heartbeat.

At last, the House of Wind came into view. Ancient. Vast. Carved into the mountain like something sleeping and sacred.

“We’re almost there,” Azriel whispered.

She stirred, lifting her head just enough to glance over his shoulder. Azriel loosened his hold slightly, allowing her the space to shift and take in the sight of his home.

He felt it, the moment her breath caught.

The House shimmered like faelight sealed in crystal, casting soft gold across moonstone terraces and sweeping archways. Vines trailed from balcony railings, blooming even under the starlight. It was vast. Majestic. Terrifying.

She said nothing.

Azriel angled them toward the quietest landing, a small balcony off the library wing, far from the noise of the main halls. As they descended, her grip around his neck tightened. When her boots touched warm marble, she didn’t move.

Not at first.

He didn’t rush her. He simply waited, only stepping back when her arms finally dropped away.

She stood there in silence, eyes sweeping across the towering arches and spiral staircases, catching on every flicker of light and stretch of shadow like she expected something to leap out.

“This isn’t what I thought a fortress would be,” she murmured. “Cold. Brutal.”

“It is,” Azriel replied. “But it’s also my home.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned slowly, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Then came footsteps.

She tensed beside him.

“It’s alright,” Azriel said, his voice low, steady. “It’s just the Inner Circle.”

“The Inner Circle,” she repeated, the words unfamiliar on her tongue.

It was Azriel’s moment to prepare her, to warn her about how overwhelming his family could be, but the footsteps were already growing louder.

Rhysand appeared first, tall and composed, power wrapped in elegance. Feyre walked beside him, calm and observant. Cassian followed, his smirk already forming.

Azriel shifted subtly in front of her, not to hide her, but to buffer her from their attention.

Rhys’s violet eyes swept over him, then settled on her. Recognition sparked.

“Azriel,” Rhys said slowly. “Who’s your friend?”

She peeked out from behind Azriel’s shoulder, and for a heartbeat, Rhysand’s expression sharpened.

“Oh. You’re Y/N, the priestess from the temple. The one helping with the transcriptions. Did something happen?”

“I am,” she replied, her voice clear but tight. She stepped forward and dipped into a low, practised bow. “We completed the transcription, but Azriel thought it would be better if I delivered the findings myself. Some of it is more complex than we expected.”

Azriel didn’t miss the tremor in her fingers or how she clutched the scroll, not just for the words it held, but because it was the only thing in this room that was familiar. Nor did he miss how his shadows hovered nearby, curling softly around her shoulders as if they knew she needed it.

Rhys nodded, casting Azriel a look that clearly said: We’ll talk later.

Aloud, the High Lord just smiled, smooth and welcoming. “Then let’s speak in my office. You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ll have a room prepared.”

She bowed again, this time to both Rhys and Feyre. “Thank you, my High Lord, and High Lady.”

“Please,” Rhys said gently. “Call me Rhys. This is my mate, Feyre.” He gestured to her, then to Cassian. “And that is Cassian.”

Azriel saw it coming the moment Cassian’s gaze flicked from her to him, then back again. That grin curling on his face, charming, reckless, meant only one thing.

Cassian smirked. “Hello, beautiful.”

She looked to Azriel instantly, seeking something. Reassurance. Permission. A shield.

Azriel’s voice cut in before she could answer, low and sharp. “Cassian.”

Cassian paused, then raised his hands in mock surrender, but the grin stayed.

Only then did she move, stepping closer to Azriel as she followed them down the hall. Her grip on the scroll remained tight. Her posture was stiff, and every time Rhys glanced back, she flinched.

They reached the double doors of Rhys’s office. He opened them with a flick of power. As the shadows peeled away, she paused at the threshold and looked to Azriel.

A silent request.

Come with me.

He followed without hesitation.

Rhys, watching them closely, said nothing, but Azriel saw it, the glint of understanding in his eyes.

The doors shut with a soft thud behind them. Rhysand crossed the room and summoned chairs from the shadows with a wave.

“Please,” he said, gesturing.

Azriel didn’t sit, but she did, perched on the edge of the seat like it might vanish beneath her. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flinch, but Azriel saw it, the way she tucked her feet under her chair to anchor herself, the way her hand clutched the scroll like it was a shield.

Rhys waited patiently.

“I translated the western sigils along the cliff,” she began, voice low and even. “They’re more than wards. They tell a story. Fragmented, but intentional.”

Azriel stood beside her, hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wasn’t watching the scroll.

He was watching her.

The way her lips moved. The concentration in her eyes. How her fingers, stained with ink, traced each glyph with care and confidence.

Something about it made the bond hum low in his chest, insistent and steady, like it already knew what he wasn’t ready to admit.

With each line she spoke, her voice grew stronger. She forgot the room. Forgot who was listening. She just existed.

Brilliant. Unafraid.

She looked windswept, her braid loosening at the edges, skin kissed golden by sun and sky. Azriel’s hands twitched at the thought of touching her.

Rhysand asked a quiet question about the sigils, something about age, structure, or Court alignment.

She answered before he could finish. Eager.

“It predates the Courts,” she said, angling the scroll.“The structure is later, but the script is—Look here—”

Azriel stepped forward. Not for the scroll. For her voice.

“The symbol here,” she explained, “is mirrored in the fourth line of the southern wall’s carvings. It’s repeated, but the tense shifts. When that happens, the meaning changes, from protection… to memory.”

Azriel blinked. “Memory?”

Her head turned toward him. Caught off guard, a little breathless.

“Yes. It’s a mnemonic sigil. It only activates when remembered aloud or with intent. The magic is tied to remembrance. That’s the anchor.”

He nodded, though he barely heard the words. Her voice, measured, intelligent, full of quiet excitement, wrapped around him like a spell.

The bond tugged, a subtle pull beneath his ribs. His shadows drifted toward her. Not pressing. Just drawn.

“That’s rare magic,” Rhys said, intrigued.

“It’s forgotten magic,” she replied. “It wasn’t meant to last, but it did.”

Azriel nearly smiled, nearly reached for her.

Instead, he watched, shadows coiling low at his feet like they were fascinated, too. 

She turned back to the scroll, pointing at the glyphs, warnings of dormant power, spells that still dreamed beneath the stone. Magic that lingered like breath in the silence. Even Rhysand leaned forward, drawn in.

She was brilliant. 

So quietly brilliant that she didn’t seem to know it, and Azriel watched her like she had caught starlight in her hands and offered it to the world without hesitation. 

She was brighter than him, brighter than anyone he had ever known, and something like pride bloomed sharp in his chest, a feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Her eyes flicked to him now and then, searching for something he couldn’t name. Something he feared he couldn’t give. 

Then it struck him how lovely she was. Not just in the way her hair caught the light or the way she smiled when she found something new in the scroll, but in the way she existed. Gentle. Steady. A comfort.

A comfort he didn’t deserve.

When she finally rolled the parchment closed, ink smudging her fingertips, her shoulders stiffened, as if she remembered where she was. Who was she speaking to.

She bowed again, softer. “I hope it was useful.”

Rhysand inclined his head, thoughtful. “More than. Thank you.”

She looked at Azriel then, her eyes searching his, uncertain and almost seeking approval. He stepped forward, feeling the bond stir faintly in his chest, a warmth he hadn’t deserved.

“You did perfectly,” he said, voice low.

She exhaled, just slightly.

Rhys looked between them, quiet and calculating. Azriel recognised that expression. He’d seen it on his brother’s face for centuries. It meant I know. This time, it was laced with something that made Azriel want to fade into shadow.

“There are more wards deeper in the Illyrian caves. You’ll keep working on them. Together," Rhys said calmly.

“Of course, my—” she caught herself, “Rhys.”

Azriel said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice, but he stayed close, his shadows brushing along her back, an instinct he couldn’t stop, a tether he didn’t understand.

“You’re welcome to stay here during the assignment,” Rhys said to her. “Everything you need will be made available. Azriel knows the libraries. I’ll inform your High Priestess that you’ve been reassigned, for as long as necessary.”

He turned to Azriel. “You’ll continue training the Valkyries with Cassian. Y/N, you're welcome to join if you choose.”

“My lord,” she said quietly, worry flickering behind her eyes, “there’s no need for all this…”

“I’m not demanding anything,” Rhys replied, kind but firm. “I’m offering. You’ve earned it. Think on it overnight.”

She hesitated. Her gaze shifted sideways, towards Azriel. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” he said quietly.

She exhaled slowly, tension slipping just slightly from her frame. 

“Thank you, Rhys,” she said quietly, stepping closer to Azriel without even realising it.

He opened the door and let her slip through. But before he followed, he caught Rhysand’s gaze. One glance. A look that said, “Be careful,” more than anything else.

The hallway was quiet, washed in soft golden light. Faelight drifted lazily overhead, glowing gently along the polished stone.

They walked in silence. She stayed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, her steps steady but uncertain, like someone testing the depth of still water before diving in.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. His presence was all he could offer her, and even that seemed excessive. The bond softly pulsed, quiet but steady. He tried not to notice it. Not to want.

When he looked at her, he saw the exhaustion deep in her eyes, not just tiredness but years of shrinking herself, contained, as if safety was always conditional.

The House opened a door near the end of the hall.

“Your room,” he said softly. “Mine’s down the hall. If you need anything...” He cleared his throat. “Just knock. Dinner will be ready soon. I can walk you down.”

She paused in the doorway, eyes fixed on the candlelit room, then turned to him.

“Stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

Azriel’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Of course,” he said.

The room was quiet and peaceful. A breeze lifted the gauzy curtains at the balcony doors. She walked slowly, her fingers brushing the wood and velvet, then sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

Azriel hovered near the doorway, wings folded close. His shadows were steady now, circling his ankles like guards protecting him from the fear of rejection.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she said, her voice careful. Hesitant.

“You’re not,” Azriel replied, gentler than before. “I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.”

She nodded, but he saw the flicker in her hands, the nervous curl of her fingers.

A pause.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“You’re the spymaster. The shadowsinger.” Her brow furrowed. “I’ve heard stories, but what does that actually mean?”

He exhaled slowly, stepped into the room, and settled into the chair across from her.

“It means I hear things others don’t. I see what people try to hide. I go where I’m needed, even when no one wants to admit the need is there.”

She watched him closely.

“It sounds lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked away, jaw tightening, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

“It is,” he admitted. “But it’s the only place I’ve ever fit. Sometimes it’s easier to be the ghost in the room than the one trying to be seen. They understand that I need the shadows to feel like I belong.”

“Like Rhysand.”

Azriel nodded. “And Cassian. Feyre. Mor. They’re my family.” 

His eyes drifted back to her. The question caught in his throat, clumsy and uncertain, but he asked anyway, “You avoided looking at Rhys tonight. Was it him or his power?”

She paused.

“Both,” she whispered. “He reminded me of what I’ve tried to forget. That sort of power isn’t always kind.”

Azriel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Rhysand is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. Still, I understand. Power has teeth. Even when it means well.”

She nodded slowly, then was quiet for a moment, her gaze falling to the floor. 

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, and she seemed to be considering her words carefully before she spoke. 

“Are you angry with the Mother?”

Azriel blinked, his normally carefully neutral expression shifting, confusion, then concern softening his features.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his chest tightening with each breath.

“That I’m your mate,” she said, still watching her feet swing gently from the edge of the bed. “A stranger.”

Silence followed the end of her sentence. 

A sharp, sudden fury flared in Azriel’s chest. Not at her, but at the thought that she believed she was unworthy of him.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, a cold sound that made her lift her head, startled, meeting his eyes at last.

“I have prayed to the Mother for my mate for centuries,” he said, voice rough, almost trembling. “And now that I’ve met you, I want to fall to my knees and thank her. The Cauldron. The Mother. You.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came, just a stillness.

“You’re not a stranger,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re mine.”

The bond shimmered between them, an invisible tether, but undeniable like a heartbeat echoing through them both.

“I don’t need time to believe that,” he added, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll give you as much of it as you need.”

Her eyes were wide and glassy, something fragile and unspoken flickering within them. “Thank you,” she whispered.

A soft bell chimed through the quiet room.

“Dinner’s ready,” Azriel said, reluctantly breaking the moment.

“Should I change?” she asked, glancing down at the fitted robes that clung to her like a second skin.

Azriel’s eyes followed her movement. His shadows curled tighter around him, as if they too noticed how easily she’d settled into his space. How quickly she’d become the only thing in it.

“No,” he said, eyes snapping back to hers. “You look beautiful.”

Her lips parted again, surprise, maybe, or something deeper. Then she turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity’s mirror and froze.

A horrified sound escaped her throat. “You were going to let me meet the inner circle looking like this?”

Azriel blinked. “Like what?”

She spun toward the bathing chamber, hands flying to the wind-tossed braids tangled atop her head. “Like a half-blown thistle in the middle of a storm,” she muttered. “Cauldron boil me—”

He followed, lingering in the doorway as she fumbled at the intricate, now-messy braids. Her hair, a rich, silky brown, had loosened into chaotic waves that still somehow managed to look radiant, and still, she scowled at it.

“Azriel,” she said, and his name on her lips felt like a blessing. He straightened. Every nerve ending alive.

“Help me.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a command. Clear. Firm. Completely unfazed by the fact that they were barely more than strangers.

He stepped behind her as she leaned forward over the marble vanity. His hands, glowing faintly with blue siphon light, reached toward her hair.

The strands slid between his gloved fingers like silk. He tried to focus on the knots, the soft, silky feel of the strands, anything but the way her scent now surrounded him, soft, wild, and maddeningly sweet, like wildflowers after a storm.

She stilled beneath his touch. Slowly, unknowingly, she began to lean into it.

He worked with delicate precision, fingers grazing the nape of her neck as he unravelled each braid. Her breath hitched once so softly it could’ve been imagined, but then she bit her lip, as if catching a sound before it could escape.

His jaw tightened.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed softly, reluctant, as his fingers brushed through the last few strands.

He lingered.

Just a moment too long.

Then she stepped back, lifting her hood, hair now cascading in soft waves down to her waist. She studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied.

Azriel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She shifted slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror, and there it was again, that quiet, unspoken look, as if she’d already lived inside his bones long before they’d met.

His voice was low, reverent. “You’re… breathtaking.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened, like maybe she would’ve said the same.

Somehow, it seemed like they’d done this a hundred times before, stood like this. Touched like this. As if the bond had always been there, waiting.

As if this moment had been written into the lines of their skin.

The walk to the dining room was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Azriel stayed close, not touching, but near enough that his presence felt like armour.

The House lit the halls in warm gold, shadows trailing them like whispers. He could feel her tension, the faint stiffness in her shoulders.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She glanced up, wide eyes flicking to his face. There was a question on her lips, but before she could ask, they crossed the threshold into the dining room.

Voices. Laughter. The clink of silverware and glass.

Then silence.

Eight pairs of eyes turned to her.

She paled.

Azriel instinctively shifted, placing himself slightly in front of her, not shielding, but ready. A silent message: she’s not a curiosity.

Before he could speak, Mor stood and crossed the room, all warmth and velvet.

“I’m Morrigan,” she said, her voice all velvet and strength. “Call me Mor.”

“Y/N,” his mate replied. Soft. Controlled.

Azriel noted the tension in her posture, but she didn’t shy away.

Mor led her into the room gently, introducing her to the others, and Azriel watched his shadows trail after her, drawn not by command but by instinct.

Across the table, Rhys and Cassian shared grins, knowing and teasing. He ignored them and headed for the wine decanter. He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for her.

She was already seated between Mor and Amren when he came back, her hood down, face revealed. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her robes.

She glanced up at him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Azriel’s fingers briefly brushed her shoulder, grounding her or maybe him. Then he took his seat opposite her, next to Feyre and Rhys, who were watching him like they didn’t recognise him.

Conversation resumed, cautiously at first. Mor and Amren flanked her like shields, sunlight and steel. To his surprise, Elain leaned forward, asking a soft question about her robes. 

She responded calmly about her role in the temple, explaining how she’d be staying to study the mountain’s wards and ancient script. Her voice remained steady, but Azriel could sense the frayed edge through the bond. She was coping, but just.

“I mentioned to Nesta,” Rhys said casually, “that you might be interested in Valkyrie training.”

Across the table, Nesta, who had barely spared a glance at her until now, perked up, eyes narrowing not with scepticism, but something closer to interest.

“Oh?” Nesta leaned forward slightly, wine glass in hand. “You’ve trained before?”

“Some,” his mate replied, lips curving just a bit. “I don’t want to intrude… but I wouldn’t mind learning more.”

Nesta’s eyes brightened, not mocking or challenging, but engaged. Azriel blinked, surprised by how warm Nesta’s tone was, how different this was from the usual ice she wore like armour.

“Well,” Nesta said, voice edged with something almost like approval, “we train every morning. You’re welcome to join us.”

Azriel lifted a brow. Cassian did too. Neither of them missed it, Nesta Archeron being friendly on a first meeting.

His mate hesitated for only a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

Nesta gave a single approving nod and turned back to her water.

Azriel leaned back, trying not to stare, but Cassian was already smirking behind his glass.

What in the Mother’s name was happening tonight?

Then she glanced toward Azriel. Just a flick of her eyes, but he saw the tension behind them, the subtle wear, the quiet strain.

He gave her what he could. Not a touch, not a word, just his shadows, curling beneath the table and brushing lightly against her fingers.

She welcomed them.

Let them twine through her fingers like silk. Her eyes dropped to them briefly, as if she could see them, feel them in some deeper way. She twirled her fingers, letting the threads of darkness dance between them.

Then, she smiled. Maybe at something Mor had said, but her gaze always found his again, as it always did.

As if it needed to.

As if he needed her to look at him that way.

Azriel leaned forward and silently refilled her glass before his own, ignoring the stares and smirks it earned him. When new dishes were passed around, he reached for them first, sliding them closer to her, gesturing with just his eyes to the ones she might want.

She responded in kind: subtle glances, small nods or shakes of her head. A private language they hadn’t learned, but already knew.

As the evening wore on and conversation turned mellow with wine-sweetened fatigue, chairs scraped softly against the stone floor. Laughter grew quieter, warmer. Slowly, the others drifted deeper into the House of Wind.

Azriel stood, glancing once at Cassian, who was smirking.

He crossed to her, where she sat beside Mor with the last sip of wine cradled in her hand. He brushed a finger over her shoulder.

Her head turned, cheeks flushed. “More wine, or...?”

“I think I need rest,” she said softly, rising.

Mor leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Azriel didn’t catch the words, but he saw the flush in her cheeks and how she didn’t look at him after.

Together, they gave their thank-yous and slipped from the room, the whispers and curious glances following behind them.

Azriel stayed close beside her. Not touching, but near enough that their hands brushed now and then.

“I think they like you,” he said.

She huffed a soft laugh. “I think I survived.”

“You did more than that. Nesta invited you to train. That’s her version of a love letter.”

Her laugh came again, softer this time, unguarded. God, that sound he’d memorise if he could.

They reached her room. The door opened quietly, candlelight flickering inside already. His shadows moved with her now, as if she called to them.

She paused in the doorway, turning slowly. Hesitation flickered in her eyes, and he could almost see the thoughts shifting behind them, quiet and uncertain.

Azriel tilted his head, voice low. “Tell me. I can feel it, you want to say something.”

Her eyes flicked to his, uncertain. “I just…” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to be this. For you. A mate.” She swallowed. “I don’t know how not to mess it up.”

His heart fluttered, not out of fear, but recognition. He’d felt that way before, too, like he might mess it up before it even started.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said, stepping closer. “There’s no version of you I was waiting for. You’re it. Already.”

She looked up, eyes wide and wary. “But you’re Azriel, The Spymaster. The Shadowsinger.” 

She paused before continuing. “I don’t know who I am without the Temple, without the priestesses. I don’t know if that’s enough for someone like you.”

He didn’t answer right away. How could he explain that most days, he still felt like he was trying to earn his place? Even now, standing here with her, he doubted himself.

“I don’t expect you to have answers,” he said gently. “I’m still learning too.”

The bond between them thrummed, soft and steady, like it was listening.

“If you need time,” he added, quieter now, “I’ll wait. If you need space, I’ll give it. But if you ever need to leave…” His voice caught. “Just tell me first.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with everything unsaid.

“I’m not going to leave,” she whispered.

His eyes didn’t waver. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

She nodded, the corner of her mouth lifting to a near smile. 

“Goodnight, Azriel.”

He hesitated. His shadows curled tighter at his feet. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, gently, final. Still, the bond tugged at him through the wood. Faint. Present.

He lingered a moment longer, hand clenched at his side, as if letting go of her entirely might unravel something inside him. 

He turned, and there Rhysand stood at the end of the hall, cloaked in darkness. 

Azriel expected him, walked towards him, and stopped a few paces away.

“You waited,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys crossed his arms. “Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d let that dinner end without a conversation?”

Azriel said nothing.

They walked away from her door, into the hush of the House.

Rhys glanced sideways at him, all High Lord calm and brotherly patience. “So?”

Azriel didn’t look away. “She’s my mate.”

The words rang out like a vow. As if speaking them made them real, permanent.

Rhys nodded slowly. No surprise. Only understanding in his eyes.

“I figured,” he said.

Azriel exhaled. “It snapped into place like lightning, and now it hums in my bones. Like I’ve known her forever.”

“And her?”

“She’s scared,” Azriel said. “But I think she trusts me.”

Rhys studied him for a long moment. Then a small smile curved his mouth.

“She’ll be good for you. That dinner—” he shook his head. “It’s the most alive I’ve seen you in years. I hope she stays.”

Azriel nodded, voice quiet. “I hope so, too.”

A moment went by before Rhys slapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Get some rest, brother. You’ve waited a long time for this.”

Azriel gave a tight nod and turned to leave, but he already knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with every thread of the bond still humming with her name.

The sunrise over Vallaris painted the sky in soft gold and muted lavender. He stood at his window, arms crossed, shadows curling at his feet. Sleep had evaded him for days, but with her now under this roof, he doubted it would return anytime soon.

He’d risen early, earlier than usual. Arranged for the twins to deliver breakfast to her room: fresh pastries, fruits, strong coffee, and a selection of books he thought she might like. He didn’t expect her to join them for training, not yet. He wanted her to rest. To settle in. To feel safe.

So when Nesta asked where she was, voice sharp with expectation, Azriel’s only answer had been, “She needs time.”

Cassian gave Nesta a pointed look, and the subject was dropped.

The training ring filled slowly. Gwyn arrived first, followed by Roslin, Ilana, Deirdre, and Ananke. Then Emerie, quiet and focused, took her place beside Nesta.

They greeted him politely. Soft smiles. Gwyn gave him the same warm look she always did. Once, that smile might have meant something. Now, he could barely hold it.

He hardly noticed any of them, because in his mind, she was still curled in bed, maybe reading or sleeping. He hoped she was resting. Hoped she liked the books. Hoped she knew he was thinking of her, always.

He didn’t expect the sound of footsteps behind him. Didn’t expect the soft scent of her, flowers and something warmer, carried on the wind. Then she was beside him.

Dressed in flowing midnight-blue Night Court robes, the hem brushing the training mat. Her hair was half-pinned, half-tousled from sleep. A steaming mug of coffee in her hands.

She didn’t speak right away, just sipped her coffee and looked out over the ring like she’d been there all her life.

“You didn’t wake me,” she said, eyes finally meeting his.

“I didn’t want to rush you,” he replied, voice quiet.

There was a pause. Something gentle flickered between them.

“I liked the books,” she said, a little softer.

“I hoped you would.”

She sat on the bench just beside him, her shoulder brushing his thigh for the briefest moment. Across the ring, Nesta offered a short wave. She returned it with a warm smile that looked far too familiar for someone who’d only met them the day before.

Cassian glanced at Azriel from across the mats. Said nothing, just offered him a knowing look.

Azriel didn’t return it. He couldn’t. Not when she was sitting beside him like this, as though her presence hadn’t tilted the ground he stood on.

He turned slightly, just enough that his shadows shifted between them, reaching, gently. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her hand, still wrapped around the mug, brushed against them like she welcomed them. She welcomed him.

For a moment, Azriel thought, if this was what mornings would look like with her, even just sometimes, it might undo him in a way nothing else ever had.

She didn’t move for a while. Just sat beside him, warm coffee in hand, her gaze calm as she watched the priestesses begin their stretches. There was no tension in her posture, but Azriel noticed how her eyes lingered, quietly studying Nesta’s form, the way Emerie adjusted her stance, how Gwyn corrected Deirdre’s alignment with a subtle gesture.

She was watching closely. Not idly.

After a few minutes, she leaned down and opened the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Inside, a worn book rested between a notebook and a pen, one of the texts he’d asked the twins to bring from the library. Something on ancient wardings. She balanced it easily in her lap, thumbing the corner of a page before looking up again.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” she said softly, sensing his attention. “But I thought I’d at least observe.”

“You’re never in the way,” Azriel replied without hesitation, barely above a whisper.

She gave him a quiet look at that. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise. Just something softer, and she nodded once, accepting the words like they were a promise.

Azriel turned back to the ring, but he didn’t stop noticing her, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how she absently underlined phrases in her notebook with graceful, practised strokes, how her attention flickered now and then to the footwork being demonstrated in the ring. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words she read. Every so often, her brow furrowed in thought, and she’d scribble something in the margin.

He couldn’t help himself.

Between giving instructions, correcting Nesta’s balance, and helping Gwyn adjust her grip, his gaze always drifted back to her. Sitting quietly, not demanding space or attention, and yet commanding it all the same.

At one point, Gwyn stumbled, distracted by something Roslin said, and Azriel stepped forward to catch her arm before she could fall. She laughed, flushed, thanking him.

From the edge of the ring, he felt it: a flicker of emotion. Subtle. So small.

His mate’s shoulders had tensed ever so slightly, and the page she’d been turning froze beneath her fingers. A blink later, she resumed reading, her expression the picture of serenity.

He knew her already. Felt her through the bond, and what he sensed now was something sharp and subtle, pressed down beneath that gentle exterior.

Jealousy.

It was faint and fleeting. Not born of possessiveness, but of uncertainty. Of not knowing yet where she stood, of watching others smile at him and wondering if they had smiled like that before.

He didn’t comment or draw attention.

Instead, as the rotation changed and the priestesses paired off, Azriel stepped out of the ring and moved toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, but he knelt in front of the bench, hands resting lightly on his thighs, careful not to crowd her.

“I can train you if you want,” he asked softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly. She studied him, not guarded, but thoughtful. “Tomorrow,” she said after a pause. “I want to watch a little more today.”

He nodded and stood to go, but just before he turned, her fingers grazed his. A light touch, brief. Intentional.

That was enough. Enough to steady him, enough to make his heart pound and for the bond to sing. 

Later, during the drills, he caught glimpses of her watching intently, brows furrowed, her gaze flicking between him and the priestesses. She absently chewed on the end of her pen, scribbling something in the margins of her book. 

Then, suddenly, she stood up. The book still in one hand, her mug left on the bench. She walked up the stairs silently.

Azriel’s heart stuttered. A sharp, unwelcome rush of panic surged through him. 

Had she misunderstood something? 

Was he already too much for her to handle, or not enough?

Was it jealousy after all? Discomfort? Regret?

The questions arrived in waves, quick and relentless. Doubts crept up from the dark corners of his mind, dragging with them that old, gnawing fear that he wasn’t what she needed. That he had never been. That he would never be enough.

Still, he moved through the motions: correcting stances, guiding rhythm, catching missteps, but a part of him remained anchored to that bench. To the place where her mug sat cooling in the morning sun. To the space she’d just left behind.

When the training finally finished, the priestesses and others stretched and chuckled, lingering in their small groups, but Azriel didn’t hang around. He quickly muttered a goodbye and headed inside without looking back.

He found one of the twins in the corridor, who smiled knowingly and pointed towards the library.

Azriel slowed as he reached the open door, his shadows curling out before him, brushing the corners of the room.

She sat curled in one of the velvet armchairs, the book open across her knees, lips moving silently as she read. Her pen hovered above the page, pausing now and then to scribble something in the margins.

Relief spilled through him like water over parched stone.

He stepped inside.

“You found something,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

She looked up, startled, before nodding. The book rested open on her lap, her finger still holding her place.

“Yes. It’s old, but fascinating.” She hesitated, then held it up slightly, more to herself than him. “Some of the texts Rhysand keeps in here reference protective rituals, symbols I’ve never seen before.”

She shook her head. “I think some were meant to shield more than just the body. The soul, maybe.”

A soft smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, dry and a little sharp. “That’s why I left. Not because of the priestesses sending you flirty smiles… though that was educational.”

His lips parted slightly, caught off guard.

“You noticed,” he said after a beat, eyes narrowing, not with anger, but with fear.

“I notice everything,” she murmured, turning another page with a gentle flick. “Especially when people look at you like they’ve done it before.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. The shadows behind him shifted slightly, unsettled, but he didn’t speak.

She didn’t meet his gaze again. Just said, “I didn’t leave because I was jealous. I left because I’m not ready to figure out what it means to sit there while people touch you like they have permission.”

Azriel stood still for a long moment, reading between her words, what she was saying and what she wasn’t. Then he moved closer, slowly, and sank into the chair across from her, his hands resting on his thighs.

“You don’t have to figure it out right away,” he said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing playful or soft in them, just wary quiet, a storm that hadn’t made landfall yet.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s still hard to watch.”

That truth sat between them, raw and unpolished. He didn’t try to smooth it over.

After a long silence, she added, “I found some of the symbols again, similar to ones etched on a stone at my temple. I don’t know how they connect yet, but there’s something here. Something old and forgotten.”

His throat worked. “You want help?”

She hesitated, then she slowly closed the book and set it beside her. “Maybe. When I know more.”

He nodded, accepting the boundary, not pushing. Not yet.

“If you want to train tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be on the mats at dawn.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in mock consideration. “You’ll have to wake me,” she said, voice light but edged with challenge. “And I expect the pastries and coffee again.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Noted.”

A moment passed between them. Quiet. Comfortable. Then he nodded toward the book beside her.

“I’ll let you read,” he said, voice softer now. “Come find me if you need anything. I’ll be somewhere in the House, and if I leave, I’ll come say goodbye.”

Her gaze lifted again, catching his in that steady, unreadable way she had. She didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just watched as he turned and walked away, and he felt the weight of her eyes on his back until the library doors closed behind him.

A few hours passed.

He’d spent them in the sitting room, trying, and failing, not to listen to Morrigan and Cassian go on about her.

“She’s perfect for you, Azriel,” Mor was saying, practically glowing with delight. “Truly. After everything, you deserve this. She’s strong, clever and just soft enough to make you loosen up a little.”

Cassian let out a low laugh, feet kicked up on the table as he nursed his drink. “You’ve been brooding for centuries, brother. She smiles at you once, and you hand her the moon.”

Azriel said nothing, merely sat, stone-faced, twirling his glass. It didn’t stop them; in fact, his silence seemed to encourage them.

“I mean, do you remember the way you passed her that platter last night at dinner?” Mor said, mimicking his deep, solemn voice with exaggerated dramatics. “Take this, my mate, the love of my soul—”

Cassian cut in with a laugh, clutching his chest. “You’re so beautiful. I’ve waited through centuries of pain and shadows just for this moment—”

Azriel gave them both a deadpan look. “Are you finished?”

They weren’t. Of course, they weren’t. They had been waiting for this just as long as he had.

Cassian launched into some unsolicited advice about wooing, which quickly derailed into an entirely too vivid recounting of his and Nesta’s two-week-long frenzy, complete with gesturing and far too much detail about positions Azriel never wanted associated with his brother-in-arms.

A quiet laugh, unmistakably divine, echoed from the doorway.

Azriel’s heart seized.

He turned sharply, shadows coiling at his back, and there she was. Leaning against the doorframe, books cradled in her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said dryly, voice full of poorly-concealed laughter, “for those beautiful images of you and Nesta, Cassian. Truly. I can’t wait to ask her how she feels about you sharing that particular position.”

Cassian paled on the spot. Mor nearly choked on her drink.

She strode toward them slowly, unhurried, graceful despite the smirk still curling her lips. Azriel remained frozen on the couch, spine straight, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not when every word felt like it might come out too raw.

Then, with a quiet certainty that undid him more than any sharp remark ever could, she perched on the armrest beside him. Close enough for her scent to wrap around him like something intimate, familiar.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder. Light, tentative, almost nothing, but it was enough to make his chest ache.

Something inside him eased, slowly and warily, but it eased. Every tightly-wound nerve tensed with the contact. That strange, fragile hope, the one that had been quietly growing in the corners of his chest every hour since they met, stirred again.

She didn’t look at him directly. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere ahead, as if she hadn’t just broken down the walls around him with nothing more than a few steps and a featherlight touch.

If anything, he leaned into it, just slightly, instinctively, drawn to her warmth without meaning to or knowing how to pull back.

He must not have been as discreet as he thought. Across the room, Mor and Cassian were both watching with matching expressions: Cassian, smug; Mor, practically glowing.

Their eyes darted to her hand, still resting lightly on his shoulder, and to the way his shoulder now pressed slightly against her hip. 

Azriel ignored them and didn’t care. 

He’d take any touch from her that he could.

The Next Morning

Azriel stood in the doorway of her room, balancing a tray in one hand. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up, mixing with the warmth of honey-glazed pastries and the faintest hint of cinnamon. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

She was still curled in bed, tangled in sheets, with her hair a soft riot around her face, as the early morning light sliced through the curtains in gold bands. He allowed himself a quick look, just a moment longer than he should have.

He cleared his throat, quiet but firm. 

“You said I’d have to wake you.” She stirred, a sleepy noise slipping from her lips. Her eyes blinked open slowly, still foggy with sleep, then focused on him and the tray in his hands.

A lazy, satisfied smile curled at her lips. “You actually brought the coffee.”

“And the pastries,” he said, crossing the room to set the tray beside her. 

She propped herself up on one elbow, accepting the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed. He tried not to dwell on it, but the bond bloomed in his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”

“I remembered.”

She arched a brow at that but said nothing more. Instead, she sipped her coffee and reached for a piece of pastry, her expression unreadable and still soft with sleep.

After a few bites, she glanced at him over the rim of her mug. “You really expect me to train before sunrise?”

“You said you wanted to,” he replied, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “But if you’ve changed your mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupted, already tossing the sheets aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

Azriel’s breath caught as she sat there, slowly finishing the pastry, dressed in a navy silk camisole edged with lace, with the matching shorts riding high on her thighs from sleep. He looked away before his gaze could linger, instead fixing it on the early light stretching across the window, though the image of her remained in his mind. 

When she appeared again a few minutes later, dressed in tight Illyrian leathers, boots half-laced, and hair pulled back, it nearly took his breath away. The leathers hugged her like a second skin, every line and curve clearly visible in the dim morning light. She held her mug with both hands, cradling it for warmth, her cheeks still flushed from sleep, but her eyes sharper now.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. His cheeks flushed with heat, and from the small, amused twist of her lips, he knew she saw it.

The bond stirred, low and steady like a distant drumbeat, always there, just under the surface.

He didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of her, his gloved hands moving without thought as he tied her bootlaces with quiet care.

As he finished, fingers brushing the leather, something shifted.

Her hand slid into his hair, light, uncertain, instinctive.

He froze.

The touch was so gentle he might’ve imagined it, but then it lingered, her fingers threading slowly through the strands like it was second nature.

She stilled, maybe realising what she’d done.

“I—sorry,” she mumbled, hand starting to pull away.

His voice came quickly, quiet but sure. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at her, still kneeling, with the morning sun behind her like a soft halo, as if she were the goddess who answered his prayers. 

His voice dropped, steady now. “I like it. When you touch me.”

Her lips parted, a flush rising to her cheeks, and still, she didn’t step back.

“I like having my hair played with,” she admitted, almost shyly, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

Then, more slowly this time, she reached again, fingers slipping into his hair with greater intent. She tugged gently, testing. Azriel exhaled, barely a sound, but it made her smile.

When she finally let him go, the warmth of her touch stayed like an echo on his skin. He rose slowly, not rushing the moment or looking away. She held her mug close to her chest now, but her eyes searched his, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, as if afraid she’d gone too far.

Azriel shook his head once. “You don’t have to be. You’re here. You’re trying.”

A moment passed between them.

He met her eyes. “Ready?”

She nodded.

Together, they stepped into the quiet hallway, toward the sparring ring, the early light painting soft gold across the floor. Their shoulders brushed, just barely.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy or awkward; it was theirs.

The morning air was crisp as they stepped onto the training ring, the stone beneath their feet cool from the night. Dawn had only just broken, casting soft gold light over the courtyard. It was quiet, no Cassian, no priestesses, just the two of them and the hush that came with early hours.

Azriel watched her roll her shoulders, stretching out her limbs with ease. The leathers hugged her frame, each movement revealing toned strength beneath soft curves. His eyes traced her without permission, heat coiling low in his gut before he forced himself to look away, guilt creeping in quickly behind the desire.

She bent low into a stretch, hips rolling, body fluid, and he realised, a little too late, that looking away wasn’t helping much either.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, watching her fold into a stretch.

She glanced up, eyes wide like he’d caught her red-handed. “A little. I’m just copying what the priestesses did yesterday.”

Azriel’s brow lifted. “Right,” he said dryly, because the priestesses certainly didn’t do that hip roll.

When she stood, her eyes sparkled with something sharp. He narrowed his gaze. “Get into stance,” he said.

She did.

Immediately, his suspicion sharpened, perfect foot placement, relaxed shoulders, and a steady, precise centre of balance.

“You’ve trained in the Day Court,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

She smirked but said nothing, just watched him, steady and calm.

“I know that stance,” he continued. “I have a contact in Day who moves exactly like that. If I’m right, your next move is—”

He lunged.

She ducked low, wrapping an arm around his forearm and spinning inward. Her fist stopped just millimetres from his face, close enough for him to feel the heat of her skin.

He smirked, looking from her first at his nose to those dark eyes staring at him with a false innocence. 

“I should have known,” he said as she released him, stepping back.

“What, that I’m from Day? That I haven’t just been a priestess.” she teased, a lazy grin on her face as they started to circle each other. “Or that I could give you a good knock on the arse?"

His eyes narrowed, that smirk turning into a grin as he whispered, “both.” 

They moved instantly. Their sparring became quick, smooth, with strikes, dodges, and counters flowing like a dance, one neither had choreographed, but both instinctively knew. Each punch was faster than the last, testing, probing.

Azriel ducked a roundhouse and moved in close, gripping her wrist and twisting her arm softly behind her. But before he could pin her, she drove her elbow back into his ribs and broke free. Her laugh was low, breathless, buzzing with excitement.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he growled, circling again.

“I was being polite,” she shot back, panting slightly now. Sweat glistened at her temples.

He moved in again, silent, steady, a predator’s grace. Close enough to feel the rush of her breath against his cheek, to smell the heat rising off her skin: sweat, salt, something sweet and wild that drove him mad.

She blocked him, forearms crossing fast, colliding with his chest in a clash of controlled force. The contact rang through them both like a strike of lightning. Their bodies met with a thud, chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing hard from the momentum.

Neither of them moved.

Her eyes locked on his. Her breath hitched. His hands were still on her arms, tight enough to feel the tension beneath her skin. The space between them thinned until it wasn’t space at all, just heat and thunder and tension strung tight enough to snap.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Azriel felt the shift deep in his chest, like gravity, like inevitability.

“I thought this was sparring,” she breathed, voice gone soft and smoky, like it had been scraped raw by restraint.

“It was,” he murmured, his voice nearly hoarse.

A heartbeat passed.

Then she fisted his leather and dragged him down to her.

The kiss wasn’t a question; it was devotion.

It was molten. Desperate. Their mouths collided in a tangled mess of teeth and tongue, breath and desire. Her back pressed softly against the training ring wall, but she didn’t stop; she welcomed the force. Welcomed him.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and anchoring her there. Her hands were everywhere, slipping beneath his leathers and spreading across the heat of his bare back. Her nails dug in just enough to make him growl into her mouth.

“Azriel—” she gasped, breaking for air as his mouth found the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. His breath scorched her skin, lips dragging with reverence, with hunger.

His restraint shattered. In a flash of movement, he spun her to the mat, his body following hers like gravity, like fate. One hand grabbed her wrists above her head, the other slid beneath her leathers to spread wide over her waist, possessive, claiming.

She laughed beneath him, breathless and wild, eyes full of heat. Her legs wrapped around his hips like instinct.

“You like this?” she murmured, brushing her mouth over his. “Me on my back while you pretend you’re still in control?”

He huffed a dark, amused sound against her jaw. “You’ve been in control since the moment I met you.”

Her teeth grazed his earlobe. “I knew it.”

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, kissing her again, deeper this time, demanding. His body rocked into hers, their hips grinding in time, and she gasped into his mouth.

“You like it when I fight you,” she breathed.

“I like it when you lose,” he shot back, biting her lip until she moaned.

Her fingers had already found the buckles of his leathers, fevered and sure, undoing them with trembling hands. His own hand slipped beneath her waistband, his fingers grazing soft skin, heat gathering where they made contact. She arched into him, her mouth open and wanting.

Every sound she made was etched into him.

His name was whispered like a secret.

The gasp when he kissed just below her navel.

The whisper of “Don’t stop,” as she rolled her hips, her body pliant beneath his, every inch begging for more.

His shadows wrapped around them protectively, dark silk brushing her wrists, her thighs, making her shiver in his grasp. There was no one else in the world, only this. Her. Them.

“God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, voice frayed and reverent, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone.

She dragged him closer with a whimper, one leg hooking around him tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, anchoring.

He was lost in her, utterly, blissfully lost.

His shadows slid around her wrists again, not binding, but holding. Cradling. As if they, too, didn’t want to let go.

Azriel whispered against her lips, “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her legs tightening around his waist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, then down, down her neck, across the delicate skin beneath her jaw, the edge of her collarbone. Each touch was a vow. His hand, warm and calloused, slipped beneath her shirt again, sliding higher this time, until she arched into his palm with a gasp.

She was fire beneath him, burning, beautiful, real.

Her hands moved too, pushing his leathers down his shoulders, dragging fingertips along the planes of his chest, learning him like a map. Her touch made him shiver, his restraint unravelling thread by thread.

There was no distance now. No armour. No roles.

Only Azriel and his mate, the woman who had undone him completely.

Their breaths mingled, their limbs tangled. Clothing became an afterthought, pulled aside, pushed down, discarded in silence and gasps and hurried touches. He worshipped every inch of her skin he revealed, every sound she made etched into his soul.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was slow, careful.

They both gasped, then stilled.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails biting in, and his forehead dropped to hers, eyes squeezed shut, as though even this was too much, too perfect.

“You’re okay?” he breathed.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. Azriel…”

Her voice broke on his name.

He moved then, rhythm building in a slow, devastating tempo that left her trembling beneath him. Their bodies moved together, not frantic, but with a deep anchoring. Their eyes never strayed. Every thrust, every moan, every whispered name was soaked in meaning.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a surrender.

It was two souls who had spent too long alone, finally finding their match in the dark.

His shadows curled around their joined hands, a silent echo of everything they weren’t saying aloud.

When she came undone, it was quiet, her back arched, her mouth parting in a gasp that was only his. Azriel followed with a broken sound against her skin, his grip tightening like he was afraid she might vanish, but she didn’t.

When the world finally stilled, he lay there above her, inside her, his forehead resting against hers.

Their breathing slowed. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his spine.

Then, the creak of a door.

A dramatic, drawn-out whistle.

“Well, well, well,” came Cassian’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “Here I was, thinking you two would eventually get around to it, but on the training mat, Az? Really?”

Azriel froze, chest heaving, his wing immediately wrapping them in a cocoon of darkness, shielding her naked body from Cassian’s eyes.

Her head thunked back against the mat with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Azriel didn’t move, still half-draped over her, both of them very much naked.

Cassian stepped further into the ring, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You know, I always suspected you were a little filthy under all that brooding, brother. But this? This is a new level.”

Azriel exhaled a slow, murderous breath. “Cassian…”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Cassian said cheerfully, already turning back toward the exit. “Rhys is going to die when he hears about this.”

The door shut behind him with a final click.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then her soft, stunned laughter broke the stillness.

Azriel dropped his forehead to her collarbone and groaned.

“We are never living this down,” she whispered, breath still short, cheeks flushed.

“No,” he muttered. “We are not.”

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered on her lips.

Azriel hadn’t moved; his forehead still rested on her collarbone, his breath ghosting across her skin, steadying. She could feel the war waging in him. Embarrassment. Restraint. A flicker of uncertainty.

She lifted her hand, brushing fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, slow and gentle. “It’s just Cassian,” she whispered. “He’ll forget it by breakfast.”

Azriel huffed a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No, he won’t. He’ll tell everyone by breakfast.”

Her smile curved against his cheek. “Let him.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, and the moment he did, the heat returned, low and aching. Her eyes were still heavy with need. Her lips, still parted, kiss-bruised and soft. Her body, still curled around his, craving him.

Still wanting.

God, so did he.

Still, neither of them moved, because she was still beneath him, still burning, still wanting, and so was he.

“Where were we?” she said, lifting her hips in a not-so-subtle reminder.

Azriel growled, mouth returning to hers. “Right here.”

The rest of the world disappeared again.

[ginpotts]

DOCTOR WHO 1.11 ✧ boom town

the gang's all here 🌌🔥

[oftmtftss]

[myscentarchive]

Gourmand White Flowers - dossier

Inspired by Viktor&Rolf's Flowerbomb

Top: Bergamot, Green Tea, Freesia, Berries Heart: White Flowers, Orchid, Rose Base: Musk, Patchouli, Caramel, Vanilla

Eau de Parfum Feminine

Gourmand White Flowers (inspired by Viktor&Rolf's Flowerbomb) offers a sparkle of green tea, berries, caramel, and vanilla notes that play with orchid, jasmine, and rose. The fragrance trail is an intriguing woody orris accord that entwines with the floral heart.

Warm and feminine, Gourmand White Flowers (our impression of Viktor&Rolf's Flowerbomb) succeeds at being both sweet and sexy, with a powdery veil that offers sophistication to the gourmand notes.

Physicals

2 mL spray

[dumb-ster-fire]

His Unholy Voice

Azriel x mate!reader

Summary: Cassian dares Azriel to call Y/N a “good girl,” and the River House descends into chaos.

a/n: Y/N has shadows and starlight powers because why not?🤭 This tid-bit of info will make sense as you read.

Masterlist

———————————————————————————

The late afternoon sun slanted lazily through the windows of the River House, bathing the living room in golden light. The air hummed with quiet conversation and the soft clinking of glasses, the occasional flutter of faelight drifting near the ceiling like drowsy stars. Velaris stretched peacefully outside the tall windows, but inside, the Inner Circle was gathered in their usual chaotic harmony.

Cassian was draped across one of the oversized couches like a lounging mountain, one foot on the coffee table, sipping from a glass of something amber. Nesta was curled beside him, her legs tucked under her as she read, pretending to ignore him—but everyone could see the slight curve to her lips at whatever nonsense he’d just said.

Rhys was stretched on another couch, Feyre leaning against his side as they shared a blanket, her sketchpad resting on her knees. She was absently doodling swirls of starlight and wings, her free hand curled around Rhysand’s fingers. Mor sat on the floor nearby, polishing her nails with a spell that shimmered gold and green with every flick of her hand. Elain, quiet but present, was perched in a window seat with a tray of tea, and Lucien lounged beside her, one arm slung lazily over the backrest as they chatted in low tones.

Amren reclined in a dark armchair, looking like a cat in the sun, sipping a goblet of something no one dared ask about, eyes half-lidded but sharp as ever.

Azriel sat in an armchair near the fireplace, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders like smoke. He had a book in his lap, unopened, because his attention kept flickering toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen.

That was where Y/N was.

They could hear her moving, her bare feet padding softly across the tile, cabinet doors opening and shutting, and an unmistakably muttered, “Where the fuck are the cheesy things?” drifting into the room.

Azriel’s lips quirked at that—barely—but the others noticed.

Cassian saw it first. And grinned like a predator spotting prey.

“Hey, Az,” Cassian said loudly, his voice a low drawl. “I dare you to call Y/N a good girl when she walks back in.”

The room went still for a beat.

Azriel’s shadows recoiled, like startled birds.

Feyre choked on her tea. Mor burst out laughing. Nesta looked up sharply, her brows lifting. Even Amren cracked one glowing eye open, clearly intrigued.

Elain blinked in quiet horror. Lucien looked like someone had lit a match under his chair.

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a second.

“That’s low,” he muttered, but his voice betrayed the flicker of interest. Mischief.

Cassian leaned in, devilish. “Come on, brother. She melts when you say it. Like a dying star. She forgets her name. For science.”

“You’re an idiot,” Azriel replied, but he was already shifting, the barest smile tugging at his lips.

Cassian’s eyes glinted with glee. “For the record, I dare you.”

From the kitchen came the crinkling sound of a bag being triumphantly torn open. And a triumphant, “Aha!”

Y/N stepped into the doorway, holding a bag of some cheesy snack triumphantly, her hair catching the sunlight, shadows trailing behind her like a cloak, starlight dancing in her eyes.

And Azriel, cool as ever, looked up at her from his chair and said—soft and low, like a forbidden promise, the kind of voice that could make anyone forget the world—

“Good girl.”

Y/N froze.

The snack bag slipped slightly in her fingers.

The world—no, the entire house—held its breath.

Her pupils dilated. Her chest rose sharply with a breath. Knees buckled just a little. A flush crept up her cheeks, slow and deep. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Cassian exploded into laughter. “CAUGHT!”

Nesta threw a pillow at him.

Mor squealed. “She’s literally blushing! Az, do it again—do it again!”

Feyre nearly dropped her sketchpad as she laughed. Rhysand looked vaguely scandalized. Amren smirked over the rim of her goblet.

Azriel… was already on his feet, stalking toward Y/N like a shadow come to life, all dark promise and slow steps, his smirk lazy, knowing.

Y/N stood there like someone had unplugged her brain, cheesy snack bag clutched in one limp hand, completely undone by two words.

“Stars,” she muttered, barely audible. “That’s not fair.”

He stopped just in front of her, dipped his head until their mouths almost touched, and whispered once more, like a gift and a curse—

“Good girl.”

The snack bag hit the floor.

Chaos erupted in the living room behind them.

But Y/N only had eyes for Azriel, and he for her.

Cassian, somewhere behind them, crowed: “Best. Dare. Ever.”

Y/N didn’t stand a chance.

Not with that voice in her ear. Not when his hand slid around her waist with the barest pressure, fingers splaying possessively over her hip. Not when his shadows curled around her ankles and calves like warm silk, winding upward in slow, teasing spirals. Her knees gave a telltale wobble, and she might’ve leaned into him more than she meant to.

Azriel tilted his head, studying her with that impossibly focused gaze, the one that said he saw everything—every blush, every flicker of breath, every tremble she couldn’t quite hide.

“You dropped your snack,” he murmured, his lips brushing her cheek, but there was laughter in his tone now. Teasing. Dangerous.

Y/N’s voice was a whisper, scandalized and aroused and helpless all at once. “You’re evil.”

Cassian, from the couch: “Confirmed. Absolute menace. But we love him anyway.”

Rhys groaned into Feyre’s hair. “We need to start setting rules for these gatherings. Like no weaponized mating rituals in the living room.”

Mor was wiping tears from her eyes, still giggling. “Can’t believe how fast her soul left her body. Az, what did you do to her?”

“I said two words,” Azriel said innocently, though his hands hadn’t left Y/N’s waist.

“That you said them,” Feyre pointed out, grinning. “Big difference. If Cassian said it, she’d punch him.”

“True,” Y/N muttered, finding her voice again as she blinked up at her mate, trying to gather her strength. “You’re the only one allowed to say that.”

Azriel’s smirk deepened, pure male satisfaction.

“Say it again and I swear I will melt into the floor,” she whispered, half a warning, half a dare.

He leaned closer, and it was ridiculous—how even his breath on her skin made her insides twist.

But he didn’t say it again. No, instead he brushed a kiss just beneath her ear and murmured something else, something private, only for her—

And whatever he said made her clutch his shirt and mutter something in a language none of them understood. Her accent had thickened, her cheeks were flaming, and her shadows were writhing like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Azriel just smiled.

Lucien raised a brow from his seat. “I think we just witnessed the mating equivalent of a death blow.”

Elain looked down into her teacup, face burning.

Cassian was howling with laughter. “She short-circuited! You broke her! Y/N, you good?”

Y/N slowly turned her head over Azriel’s shoulder and leveled Cassian with a look of pure venom—except her lips were twitching upward at the corners.

“I’m going to shove cheesy snacks into your mouth until you shut up.”

“Promising me snacks? That’s not the threat you think it is.”

Azriel sighed, then bent down and retrieved the snack bag from the floor, brushing it off before pressing it into her hands. “Here. For your trouble.”

She squinted at him. “If you say it again in that voice, I will not survive the night.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“Azriel.”

But she was laughing now, flushed and glowing in that way she always got around him—like starlight blooming just beneath her skin. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple and led her back toward the couch, one hand still at her waist, and she let him.

The others watched them settle onto the floor near the hearth, Y/N leaning into Azriel’s side with the snack bag in her lap, still looking vaguely dazed. Azriel passed her one of the cheesy crisps like she was the queen of Prythian and this was some sacred offering.

Cassian, watching them with exaggerated horror: “We just enabled something truly terrible.”

Nesta: “Good. Now shut up.”

And as laughter filled the room once again, Y/N whispered, only loud enough for Azriel to hear, “I like being your good girl.”

Azriel didn’t say a word.

But his shadows swirled with contentment, and his smile—slow and secret—could’ve set the whole house on fire.

Cassian leaned back against the couch like a smug, overgrown cat, swirling the remains of his drink in his glass. He was watching Y/N and Azriel with that all-too-familiar gleam in his hazel eyes—the one that usually meant trouble was brewing.

Y/N was still nestled beside Azriel near the hearth, curled into his side, her legs tucked beneath her, munching on a cheesy crisp like it was the last edible thing in Prythian. Her cheeks were finally losing some of their deep blush, her breathing mostly even again.

Cassian clearly decided that peace had lasted too long.

With a slow, sly grin, he said to the room—loudly enough that everyone could hear, especially the couple in question—

“Now I’m just curious what her reaction would be if Az said, ‘on your knees.’”

Silence.

Actual, stunned silence.

Rhys choked on air.

Feyre gasped, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

Mor made a noise that was half-squeal, half-scream. “CASSIAN!”

Elain made a soft, scandalized squeak and buried her face in her hands. Lucien immediately reached for his drink, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Nesta didn’t look up from her book, but her lips twitched as if she were biting back a laugh. “Gods, you’re such a shit-stirrer.”

Azriel didn’t even blink.

Y/N?

Y/N went completely still.

The kind of still that said every system in her body had shut down and restarted in a blaze of chaotic what the fuck.

Her hand froze halfway to her mouth, cheesy crisp inches from her lips. Her pupils dilated so fast it was like someone flipped a switch. She made a small, choked sound and looked at Azriel like he’d somehow already said it.

And Azriel… gods-damned Azriel…

The corner of his mouth lifted. Just slightly. Slowly. Like he was very aware of her reaction—and storing it for later use.

He said nothing.

But his shadows purred.

Y/N slowly turned her head toward Cassian, blinking like someone had just slapped her with a lightning bolt.

“Do you want to die?” she asked sweetly.

Cassian threw his head back and cackled. “Stars, it’s even worse than I thought! You didn’t even say it and she nearly melted into the floor!”

“Cass,” Azriel said, voice low and dangerous—not angry, but possessive, like a quiet warning growl. “Keep talking, and I’ll give her that command right here.”

Y/N made another helpless noise, turning red from her collarbones up.

Mor was dying, absolutely shrieking. “I can’t! I can’t—Az, if you say it I swear I’ll combust!”

Rhys, rubbing his temples like a father who’s lost control of his children: “Someone—anyone—please stop this. Elain looks like she might faint.”

Lucien reached over and gently moved Elain’s teacup away from her lap before something catastrophic could happen.

Meanwhile, Y/N was clutching Azriel’s shirt now, her head buried against his shoulder like she could hide from the conversation—but her body betrayed her. The way her legs shifted, the arch in her back, the way her shadows curled tight around her thighs—

Azriel bent his head close, and whispered something only she could hear. Her gasp was audible.

Cassian, watching the whole thing unfold like a delighted villain, grinned ear to ear. “Yup. That’s going in the record book.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “You have a record book?”

He waggled his brows. “I do now.”

Y/N finally peeked up from Azriel’s shoulder, her voice hoarse but steady. “I hope you know that when I recover from this, I’m kicking your ass.”

Cassian smirked. “Fair. But worth it.”

Azriel ran his hand slowly down her spine, a look of dark promise in his eyes.

And he murmured—not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but enough to make her shiver—

“Later.”

Y/N didn’t make a sound.

She just melted. Again.

And Cassian lost his mind.

“YOU GUYS! YOU’RE GONNA KILL HER! STOP!”

Azriel just smiled. And this time… even Rhys looked a little afraid.

But, of course, he was not done.

Because Azriel never let go of an advantage once he had it—and right now, Y/N was flushed, breathless, barely hanging on to the frayed remains of her composure. Cassian’s comment had been the match, but Azriel? Azriel was the flame.

The Shadowsinger reached lazily into the snack bag still resting in Y/N’s lap, pulled out one of the crisps—one of those curled, golden cheesy ones—and held it between his fingers.

Completely casual. Like he hadn’t just whispered promises into her ear. Like he wasn’t still the reason her entire nervous system was currently short-circuiting.

Then, ever so innocently, he turned to her and murmured—

“Open your mouth for me.”

The room went dead silent.

Again.

Feyre’s jaw dropped.

Mor screamed.

Cassian made a wheezing sound and nearly fell off the couch.

Lucien covered his face with his hands and muttered something like, “Oh, for the love of—”

Even Amren, lounging in a chair like some ancient, unimpressed cat, raised a single dark brow.

Y/N?

Y/N made a sound that could only be described as a high-pitched whimper.

Her spine straightened like she’d just been electrocuted, and her hands flew up as if she didn’t know whether to push him away or drag him closer. Her mouth opened—and then promptly snapped shut again, eyes wide in horror at her own reaction.

Azriel blinked at her, all innocence. “What? It’s a snack.”

Liar.

Y/N was staring at the chip like it was the One Ring and she was about to fall to her doom.

“Y-you…” she tried. “You know what you’re doing.”

Azriel tilted his head. “I’m feeding you.”

Cassian, clutching his stomach, howled. “Oh my gods, she doesn’t know whether to eat it or beg.”

Nesta muttered, “I swear if he keeps this up, she’s going to ascend to another plane.”

Mor flung a pillow at Azriel. “Stop corrupting her!”

“Too late,” Y/N whispered, eyes still locked on her mate.

She was vibrating. Her shadows were wrapped tight around her legs again, her starlight flickering faintly along her fingers like her powers couldn’t figure out how to help her.

Azriel leaned in, his voice velvet and low, and added with that damn smirk—

“Be a good girl and open up.”

Y/N made a strangled sound and obeyed before she could think. Mouth open, eyes dazed, spine arching slightly like every cell in her body had been commanded.

He placed the chip on her tongue with gentle, devastating precision.

She didn’t even taste it.

Cassian died.

Dropped off the couch entirely.

Nesta didn’t bother catching him.

Rhys buried his face in Feyre’s lap and moaned. “Make it stop, please, make it stop—”

Elain looked like she was experiencing a crisis. Lucien had gone utterly still beside her, wide-eyed. Mor was wheezing through her laughter.

Y/N, eyes fluttering closed around the cheesy crisp, finally swallowed, then slumped back against Azriel’s shoulder, absolutely done.

“I hate you,” she mumbled.

Azriel just brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, utterly unrepentant.

“No, you don’t.”

And stars help her—

He was right.

Azriel, the insufferable, beautiful bastard, glanced down at his fingers—now dusted with that unmistakable cheesy orange powder from the crisp he’d just fed her. He inspected them with a faint smirk, clearly considering his next move.

Y/N, still recovering, was half-sprawled against his side, her mind mush, her pride in shambles. Her heart was racing, her skin still flushed. One little command and she’d folded like wet parchment.

So, of course, of course he wasn’t done.

Without a word, he lifted his hand—the one with the cheesy dust—and held two fingers in front of her lips, tilting them slightly in offering.

And then, in that dark, low murmur that somehow sounded like a kiss laced with sin—

“Clean my fingers for me, sweetheart.”

Cassian let out an actual scream. Mor shrieked with laughter and nearly fell off the couch.

Feyre smacked Rhys on the arm to stop his uncontrollable snorting. Elain made a noise that may have been a gasp—or a gasped prayer. Lucien had gone completely still again, one eye twitching.

Nesta was watching now, intrigued. “I want to see if she combusts.”

Y/N stared at Azriel’s fingers like they were the gates to Hel. Her lips parted—reflex—and then she slapped a hand over her own mouth.

“Azriel!” she squeaked behind her fingers, eyes wide with shock, heat flooding her cheeks again. “You can’t just—in front of everyone—”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just kept his hand out, that smug little tilt to his mouth.

“I’m just asking for help,” he said, utterly innocent. “You made me touch those chips. Now I’m all messy.”

Cassian, choking on laughter: “This is torture. I didn’t know watching someone descend into horny chaos could be this entertaining.”

Mor couldn’t breathe. “She’s gonna spontaneously ascend. Like full fae goddess mode, just out of sheer flustered thirst.”

Y/N, trembling with internal conflict, very slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. Her eyes were locked on Azriel’s, pupils dilated, lips parted, and her voice came out as a whisper:

“…You’re going to pay for this.”

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Gladly.”

And gods help her—

She leaned forward.

Just the barest brush of her tongue over his fingertips, her eyes fluttering shut like she hated herself for it—and also maybe wanted to crawl into his lap and never leave again.

The moment her tongue touched his skin, his shadows shuddered.

Azriel inhaled through his nose like he’d just been handed every fantasy he’d never dared admit aloud.

Cassian actually collapsed, face-down on the floor, sob-laughing.

Rhys sat up and pointed a warning finger. “No one is allowed to say another word for the rest of the evening.”

Mor was crying. “It’s too late! They’ve corrupted this space forever!”

Y/N leaned back again, cheeks aflame, and buried her face in Azriel’s shoulder with a muffled groan.

“You’re evil,” she muttered.

Azriel wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head, his voice velvet and pure satisfaction.

“You love it.”

Cassian was still on the floor, pounding the hardwood with his fist like this was the greatest entertainment Velaris had ever known. “I take it back—this is better than sparring. Someone bring popcorn. No—cheesy crisps. Give me the cheesy crisps. I want to see what happens if I hold out my fingers.”

Azriel didn’t even look at him. “Try it and lose them.”

Y/N was vibrating in place, her face buried in Azriel’s neck, clearly trying to become one with his shadows to escape the utter humiliation and arousal that had consumed her.

Feyre had thrown a pillow at Rhys. “You’re the High Lord, do something!”

Rhys looked entirely too amused for someone supposedly in control. “This is divine punishment. For all of us.”

Lucien muttered, “I feel like I’m intruding on some very private mating ritual.”

Elain was pink, sipping her tea with trembling hands, her eyes so wide they looked like they’d never close again.

Amren hadn’t moved. “Honestly, I want to see how far this goes. My money’s on Y/N throwing Azriel through the wall before the hour’s done.”

Nesta, still cool and unreadable, just said, “I’ll help patch the wall when it happens.”

Azriel turned to Y/N, still cradling her like she was precious—and absolutely wrecked.

He tilted her chin up just enough to see her eyes, voice low and wicked.

“Still hungry, love?”

Y/N blinked up at him, her voice a whisper. “You are cruel.”

Cassian, from the floor: “He is! Isn’t it amazing? It’s like watching a temple girl be corrupted by the darkest male in existence—”

He paused. “Wait. That’s kinda what’s happening.”

Mor was crying again. “Y/N’s going to explode, and I’m not missing it.”

Y/N—desperate for payback—finally pushed herself upright. Her shadows flickered, starlight trailing her fingertips as she glared at Cassian.

“Oh, you think you’re safe?” she said, voice still breathy but gaining strength. “You want chaos? Fine.”

She pointed a single glowing finger at him. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I will say something to Nesta that will leave you begging.”

Cassian’s smugness vanished instantly.

His head snapped toward Nesta. “She’s bluffing.”

Nesta looked up slowly, like a lioness stirring in the sun. “She’s not.”

Cassian’s eyes went wide. “Y/N. Y/N. We’re friends. Friends.”

Y/N, voice sweet and laced with vengeance: “Then be quiet, General.”

Everyone howled.

Cassian threw a pillow at her. She caught it mid-air, shadows snatching it and gently setting it down beside her.

Azriel was beaming. Actually smiling, proud and delighted.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured in her ear.

Y/N melted. Again. “Gods-dammit—Azriel—!”

“Language,” he whispered, far too amused.

Feyre buried her face in her hands. “We’re never having a normal night again.”

Rhys sighed dramatically. “There’s no such thing as ‘normal’ when your brother’s sex voice ruins the entire living room.”

Azriel looked entirely unbothered. “Not my fault she’s obedient.”

Y/N shrieked.

Lucien spit out his wine.

Cassian groaned. “I will never get that image out of my mind.”

Amren sipped her bloodwine and muttered, “Good. Maybe next time you’ll think before daring the Shadowsinger to speak.”

Y/N launched a pillow at Azriel’s face.

He caught it one-handed, grinning. “You missed.”

Her voice came out in a growl, low and breathy.

“I never miss.”

Everyone froze.

Cassian: “Oh, she’s fighting back now.”

Nesta closed her book. “Let her.”

Azriel leaned in again, a challenge in his eyes, his voice practically dripping shadow and seduction.

“Then prove it, little star.”

And just like that—

That was it.

Y/N snapped.

With a strangled sound—something between a shriek and a gasp of pure exasperated sexual frustration—she launched herself fully into Azriel’s lap.

Azriel barely had time to blink before—

WHUMP.

A pillow hit him square in the face.

Then again.

WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.

“Y/N—” he choked, trying to grab her wrists. “Y/N—”

She straddled him, knees on either side of his thighs, hair wild and falling into her face, eyes blazing, and just kept hitting him with the pillow.

“You. Smug. Bastard. That. Voice. Is. A. Warcrime!”

WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.

Azriel’s shadows scattered in shock, clearly not sure whether to defend him or help Y/N.

Cassian was on his back on the floor, kicking his legs in hysterical laughter. “She snapped, I told you! She SNAPPED!”

Nesta smirked, folding her arms. “I like her more every day.”

Feyre was howling now, clinging to Rhys who looked like he’d aged ten years in the last five minutes. “I don’t even know who I’m rooting for anymore!”

Lucien murmured to Elain, “Should we look away?”

Elain: “I want to…but I can’t.”

Mor had completely lost it, tears running down her cheeks. “This is the best night of my life. I’m going to commission Feyre to paint this.”

Azriel had given up trying to stop her. He just sat there, letting her rain down justice, biting back laughter—though his shadows were trembling, and his smile was only growing wider the more she attacked.

“Mercy,” he said finally, shielding his face with one hand, catching the pillow with the other. “I surrender.”

“You do not!” Y/N shouted, WHACKING him again. “You think you can just ruin my brain in front of everyone and get away with it?!”

“Technically, you climbed into my lap,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

WHACK.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

WHACK.

“You’re not allowed to be hot and smug at the same time!”

Azriel caught the pillow again and suddenly flipped them, faster than anyone could react. Y/N gasped as her back hit the cushions beneath him, the pillow pinned between them, his body covering hers. Shadows coiled around them like a barrier, separating them from the howling laughter around the room.

He leaned close, nose brushing hers.

His voice, damn him, dropped again—

“You like me best like this.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers fisted in the front of his shirt.

Cassian yelled from the floor, “STOP! I’M TOO YOUNG TO BE EXPOSED TO THIS MUCH TENSION!”

Amren stood and dusted off her pants. “Alright. That’s enough. If they start dry-humping on this couch, I’m burning the place down.”

Azriel looked at her without moving. “We’d at least move to the guest room.”

WHACK. The pillow hit him one more time.

Y/N, face flushed and breathless, just stared up at him and muttered:

“…You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Azriel’s grin was all teeth and shadows.

“We both know that’s a lie.”

And every single person in that living room just lost it.

Y/N made a noise—a sound that wasn’t even a word, more like the wail of someone at the very edge of sanity and desire. A feral, strangled growl of pure exasperated chaos.

Then—

Her hands flew up.

And she wrapped them around Azriel’s throat.

Not tight—just enough to shake him.

Azriel let it happen.

His head bobbed slightly as she rattled him like a goblet of wine she was about to shatter. “I hate you!” she half-snarled, half-whimpered, glaring into his stupidly beautiful, smug, night-kissed face.

Azriel didn’t fight back. Just sat there on top of her with that infuriating little smirk tugging at his lips, shadows dancing gleefully behind him like they lived for this exact brand of foreplay.

“You are insufferable,” she hissed, still shaking him, face flushed, heart pounding.

Azriel blinked at her, calm as ever, and asked in the softest, silkiest voice:

“Harder?”

Cassian screamed. “I’M GOING TO ASCEND. AZRIEL’S KINKY. I CALLED IT. I KNEW IT.”

Feyre launched a pillow at him. Rhys tackled him with another.

Lucien actually choked on air and wheezed, “Is this what mating bonds are supposed to be like? Is this…normal?!”

Mor fell off the couch this time, full-on cackling.

Elain had gone completely still, blinking very slowly like her brain was buffering.

Nesta looked like she’d just been handed her favorite wine and a front-row seat to the greatest soap opera in Prythian. “I’m learning things I can never unlearn.”

Y/N released his throat with a groan of utter despair and let her arms flop back down against the cushions.

Azriel, absolutely pleased with himself, leaned down again until his nose brushed hers, shadows still coiling like smug little bastards.

“Finished?” he asked, voice all dark silk.

Y/N stared up at him with narrowed eyes and a trembling lip.

“…No,” she said.

Then she pulled him down by the collar and bit his jaw.

Azriel groaned, low and sharp, the kind that made everyone in the room turn to stone.

Cassian’s voice, faint: “I don’t know if I’m scared or impressed or—actually, no, I’m just scared.”

Rhys looked like he wanted to bury himself in the floor. “Mother above. Take me now.”

Amren drained her glass and muttered, “I told you. We should’ve just let her kill him that day.”

Mor was wheezing, pointing at Azriel. “He’s not even pretending to be cool anymore!”

Azriel, who was now half-lost in Y/N’s hair, let out a satisfied sigh against her ear.

“Still sleeping on the couch?” he murmured.

Y/N’s voice came out breathless, dangerous.

“You’re lucky I don’t banish you to the Illyrian mountains.”

Azriel nuzzled her. “You’d miss me by sundown.”

And Y/N—poor, flustered, still-fuming Y/N—just groaned again and muttered:

“Mother help me, I would.”

The entire Inner Circle groaned in unison.

Cassian had dragged a blanket off the couch and was now dramatically wrapping himself in it, rocking back and forth on the floor like a war survivor. “They’re saying the cutest filth to each other. I can’t live like this. I can’t go on. I need therapy. I need a temple. I need to bathe in salt.”

Nesta kicked him lightly. “You’re the one who started this.”

“I didn’t know it would become a religious experience!” he shot back, clutching the blanket tighter. “He whispered ‘harder’ while being choked—I can never look him in the eyes again.”

Feyre had officially surrendered, head in Rhys’s lap as she weakly muttered, “This is our house. Our house. We have a child. A toddler. We had dinner here an hour ago.”

Rhys was staring blankly at the ceiling. “We should burn the furniture.”

Azriel had not moved.

Still straddling Y/N, his chest rising and falling a bit faster now, jaw still tingling from where she’d bitten him. His shadows rolled lazily over her hips, slipping under the hem of her shirt like they knew no shame, brushing her skin like they were claiming her all over again.

Y/N glared up at him, cheeks burning, breath coming fast.

“I will get revenge for this,” she hissed. “This humiliation. This entire performance.”

Azriel only smiled, infuriatingly calm. “Then I look forward to it.”

WHUMP.

She hit him in the chest with the pillow again.

WHUMP.

He caught it and held it there, pinning her hands beneath his, voice low.

“Or you could surrender now. I’ll go easy on you… maybe.”

Her eyes blazed.

“You want surrender?” she whispered.

And then—in front of everyone—she arched up and bit his collarbone.

Azriel made a sound that could only be described as a choked growl, his wings flaring just a bit, shadows suddenly swirling like a storm.

Mor shrieked. “OH MY GODS.”

Cassian threw the blanket over his entire head. “I’M DEAD. BURY ME WITH HONOR.”

Lucien stood up and announced, “I’m going to go walk into the Sidra and never come back.”

Elain, softly: “I didn’t even know Fae could blush that much.”

Amren just stood, hands on her hips, and said, “Someone bring the child. Let him see what he must never become.”

Azriel looked like he was this close to losing every last shred of composure. His fingers curled around Y/N’s hips, grip possessive, eyes glowing faintly gold in the low light.

Y/N’s voice was a purr now, dangerous and smug. “Still think I’m the one surrendering?”

Azriel blinked down at her—and then, in the most unbothered voice possible, purred back:

“I’m letting you win.”

Y/N howled in rage and launched the pillow at his head again.

Mor collapsed in screaming laughter.

Cassian rolled onto his side and yelled into the floor:

“WHEN THEY GET MARRIED WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE.”

Nesta, dry as bone, replied, “Good. Maybe then we’ll have peace.”

And Feyre just reached for the wine bottle with one trembling hand.

“…I need three glasses just to forget tonight even happened.”

Azriel was laughing now—an actual full-on laugh, rare and wicked and infuriatingly attractive, his head tilted back slightly as Y/N shoved at his chest again, huffing like a dragon about to breathe literal star fire.

“You’re not letting me win,” she snapped, trying to sit up—only for him to lean down again and trap her with his body, his smirk infuriatingly close.

“Oh, but I am,” he purred, his voice brushing over her skin like velvet wrapped in shadows. “Letting you think you have the upper hand… while I enjoy the view.”

Y/N’s eyes blazed. “You are unbelievable.”

“And yet…” Azriel hummed, brushing his nose lightly along her jaw, just enough to make her entire soul glitch, “you’re still under me.”

There was a pause.

And then—Y/N’s voice went low and dangerous, her accent cutting through like a blade of silk.

“Fine.”

She grinned slowly.

“Let me show you what I do to people who underestimate me.”

Everyone in the room simultaneously—

“OH MY GODS.”

Cassian, muffled under his blanket: “SHE’S GONNA DOM HIM I KNEW IT—”

Feyre was openly drinking from the wine bottle now. “Rhys, portal me to Hewn City. I’d rather deal with Keir.”

Rhys, wide-eyed, whispered, “They’re worse than us.”

Mor was gone, rolling off the couch, clutching her ribs. “I can’t. I can’t—this is the best mating bond I’ve ever witnessed—how are they not combusting?!”

Nesta gave a sharp nod. “I give them ten minutes before they disappear upstairs.”

“Five,” Amren said flatly. “Three if he says anything else in that voice.”

Lucien had left the room. Vanished. There was no trace of him. Smart man.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around Y/N’s waist, amused and pleased, while she leaned up again and whispered something in his ear—inaudible to the others, but it made his breath hitch, his hands tighten around her hips, his wings flex like he was very suddenly and urgently remembering he had a mate, and that she was his.

Cassian peeked out from under his blanket. “Did she just—did she say something or—did his soul just exit his body?”

Azriel was still for a heartbeat. Two.

Then he stood.

Effortlessly. With Y/N still in his arms.

She let out a very pleased, smug hum, arms twining around his neck, chin perched on his shoulder.

“Don’t wait up,” she said sweetly over his shoulder.

Cassian dramatically fell back onto the rug. “THEY’RE LEAVING. THEY’RE DOING THE THING. ABANDON SHIP.”

Rhys, cradling a glass of wine now, muttered, “I am the High Lord. I should be able to kick people out of my house.”

“Should being the key word,” Feyre muttered, pouring herself another glass and handing one to Nesta.

Amren raised her empty glass. “May the walls stay standing.”

“Unlikely,” Mor replied, still giggling. “But we’ll have fun guessing what breaks first.”

And with that, Azriel and Y/N disappeared up the stairs, shadows curling behind them like curtains closing on a performance that had left the audience in awe, horror, and unholy amounts of secondhand arousal.

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Three

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Azriel’s attempts at an apology fall short, Cassian’s advice backfires, and confrontations force both you and Azriel to face uncomfortable truths—though not the same ones.

Warnings: angst. a heavy grudge, a male incapable of owning up to his mistakes, a well-meaning but wrong-steering best friend, verbal fighting, physical fighting, brief mentions of blood

Word Count: 8.5k

this was going to be two parts but... for the drama, ive decided to offer a feast and not just a meal

Part Two ┃ Series Masterlist ┃ Part Four

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel hadn’t meant to let it sit for this long. 

His shadows had been needling him for days, hissing reminders at the edge of his mind: Fix this. He intended to. He just didn’t know how. There were too many eyes on him now, too many people that expected his great, grand apology. 

It was hard to focus on anything else.  Even when he was with Selene, her words barely touched him. His mind was consumed by the unease that gnawed at him, the constant pull of you, somewhere, still angry over what had happened.

Azriel wanted to ask Selene about her words. Why they’d taken root in his mind, why he’d echoed them back to you. But he didn’t. He let Selene talk, smiled when she asked for his opinion, and tried to let the softness of her lips on his drown out the unease.

He didn’t know exactly why it felt so much harder with you— felt harder to argue, felt even harder to apologize. Everything else in his life, every delicate situation, every broken, jagged thing, he could attempt to handle with steady hands. But you—every time he stepped near you lately, it felt like stepping onto unstable ground. One wrong move, and everything shifted beneath him.

His shadows had made sure to remind him, trailing after you through the house, feeding him fragments of your clipped words to Mor, the slam of a cabinet door when you thought no one was paying attention. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore, curling around his ears like smoke, whispering your whereabouts.

He’d tried small things—leaving you treats, a smoothie for breakfast, or a croissant on a plate with your name carefully written on a napkin. But every time he returned to check, they were untouched. Once, he found the croissant flattened and crumpled, as if you’d squeezed it with a tight fist before tossing it back onto the plate. His shadows confirmed you were angry that night, their murmurs suggesting no coincidence in your evening spent with Mor.

Since then, every instinct told him to stay away and retreat, to wait until he’d figured out the right thing to say instead of stumbling through this mess. But waiting had gotten him here, hadn’t it? And now he was scrambling to undo weeks of silence. He thought, maybe, he should have something written out. Something properly planned, so that he knew what he wanted to tell you. But every time he thought about what to say, his mind came up blank. After hours of failure, he’d convinced himself that, with you, it would come naturally. It always had.

Or, at least, that’s what he kept repeating as he made his way downstairs, finding you in the kitchen.

You didn’t look up right away, but you knew he was there. 

“Are you sure you want to be in here without a chaperone?” you said, slicing into an apple slowly. “What if something happens?”

Shadows swirled around his shoulders. Angry, they whispered. As if he didn’t already know.

“Stop,” Azriel said. “Can we just... stop with the comments. Please.”

“Why?” You said, finally tossing a glance his way. “Is it bothering you?”

The look on your face was nothing like he expected. It wasn’t just anger. It was exhaustion, too. He didn’t like it, the way the shadows under your eyes and the stiffness in your shoulders spoke louder than anything you’d said to him in days. Didn’t like that he’d probably been the one to put that exhaustion there.

“Yes,” Azriel finally responded. “It is bothering me.”

You let out a laugh, something low and humorless, and it twisted in his chest. Should he  apologize for making you lose sleep, too? He’d already failed at the rest of it—what was one more thing to add to the pile?

Azriel cleared his throat. “Can we talk?”

“Now you want to talk?”

His fists clenched at his sides. The familiar burn of frustration, the heat of guilt, rose up his throat.  “How was I supposed to talk to you before when you’d just ignore me or say something snarky and leave?”

You stilled at his words and Azriel was almost tempted to embrace the small flicker of relief he felt. He should have apologized sooner, yes, but you had been avoiding him fervently. He convinced himself he wouldn’t have been able to apologize before now, anyways. 

“Okay,” you said, setting the knife down and leaning against the counter. “Well, I’m here now. So what do you want to say?”

Azriel’s eyes flicked to the knife instinctively. It was far enough from your hand that he probably didn’t need to worry. Probably. Not that he thought you’d do anything—though there was that one time Cassian had nearly stabbed him with a butter knife. He’d been significantly less angry than you were now. The memory did nothing to ease Azriel’s nerves. He pushed the image away.

This was it—his chance to fix things. To say all the things he’d been rehearsing in his head. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he found himself saying, “How was the meeting with Keir?”

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to grab them out of the air and shove them back down his throat.  He could see it in the way your expression shifted—something sharp and disbelieving cutting across your face. Azriel didn’t need his shadows to tell him he’d screwed up again. The words had barely landed, and already he was bracing for the fallout.

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

Azriel froze. His shadows curled tighter around him. Stupid, stupid. He swallowed, desperately trying to correct it. There was no going back. “Rhys said I should expect some tension at the next meeting. I wanted the full picture.”

“The full picture?” You repeated darkly.  “Well the full picture wasn’t great, Azriel. Because you weren’t there. And because I was pissed—because of you.”

Azriel nodded, swallowing hard. Idiot. “Right. I shouldn’t have asked that. I should’ve—” He stopped himself. No, he couldn’t fix that now. He needed to focus on what mattered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally, the words leaving his mouth like rocks tumbling down a hill. He hated the way it sounded—weak, like he didn’t mean it. But he did. He just didn’t know how to make you believe it. Azriel continued, the apology already unraveling in his head. “For how you feel.”

“Oh,” you said softly, but there was a thick sarcasm in your voice. “You’re sorry for how I feel?”

Azriel rushed to correct himself. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” You shook your head, letting out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Do you even know what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you sorry for?”

Azriel cursed himself for the hundredth time. Why was this so hard?

Because it was you, he heard his own voice reply, because he couldn’t bear the thought of failing you again. He knew he was failing—knew it in the sharp edge of your voice and the way your eyes narrowed every time he opened his mouth. And still, the right thing to say stayed maddeningly out of reach.

“I’m sorry that your feelings got hurt.”

His shadows slowly loosened, trailing down his body like they didn’t want to be associated with him anymore. He didn’t blame them. You blinked slowly at him, that look of exhaustion softening your features.

“That’s not an apology, Azriel. That’s—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “You know what? Nevermind.”

Azriel was transported back to the night of the fight, remembering how you’d said similar words then, too. He tried to salvage it again, but you were already moving, wiping the cutting board with a hurried motion. You didn’t notice as your apple, barely sliced, rolled off the counter’s edge. His shadows were there almost instantly, catching the fruit before it fell.

You reached out, and for a brief moment, your shoulders softened as you grabbed it from their hold.

“Where are you going?” Azriel asked. He wondered if his voice sounded as desperate as he felt. As frustrated.

“To train with Cassian,” you replied, still not looking at him. Your hand paused on the counter, and you glanced over your shoulder. “Do you think I should stop by Nesta first? Make sure she’s okay with me being around her mate? I wouldn’t want to ruin their relationship too.”

Azriel’s chest tightened. “Can we stop this?”

“No,” you replied swiftly, and Az could have sworn he heard a crack in your voice. 

And then the silence stretched. You ate the small slices of apple as you put things away, the quiet dragging on as he stood there, still unable to speak. Finally, you stopped and looked at him. He tried to offer a smile, something to soften the weight in the air. But you just frowned.

“Did you expect to wait this out? Wait until I got over it?”

Azriel shook his head, his voice low. “No. I never thought that. I just—”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You stared at him for a long moment, like you were seeing him for the first time, and the disappointment in your gaze made his chest feel tight. He should have been able to find the right words. But it didn’t matter anymore, not in this moment, not as you let out a small, bitter laugh, nodding as if something inside you had finally broken. 

“Always so afraid of saying the wrong thing that you never say the right one.”

Azriel opened his mouth, desperate to correct himself, to make it right, but the words just wouldn’t come. He had never considered that before—at least, not with you. He’d never thought he needed to say the right things, never cared enough to learn how.

“I never realized how much of an asshole you could be,” you said, with a final, almost dismissive glance. “I guess some females are into that.”

And then you were gone.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Training couldn’t have come at a better time.

You needed to hit something—needed to feel that release. Not in a petty, frustrated way, like slamming your fist into a wall, but in the desperate, raw way that left you aching. It was the only way to escape your frustration and, maybe, remind yourself that you were still you, despite how Azriel made you feel.

And for a while, it worked.

Cassian had spent centuries mastering the language of battle, the unspoken rhythm of war. He could read the tension in a stance, spot when someone's body didn’t follow through with the mind’s intentions. He didn’t get enough credit for it, you thought, his ability to read someone without words. He was looking at you now, with that critical eye, head tilted slightly, like he was waiting for you to crack. 

“Alright,” Cassian grunted as he parried another strike. “What’s on your mind?”

You ducked beneath his swing. “Nothing,” you said, deflecting the question with a swipe of your sword. Too fast, too aggressive.

Cassian dodged it easily, raising a brow. “Right. Because ‘nothing’ is exactly what makes you swing like you’re trying to decapitate me.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but you didn’t laugh. You weren’t in the mood for his teasing, no matter how good-natured it was.

“It’s nothing. Seriously.”

He rested the flat of his blade against his shoulder.  “Come on, spit it out before you take my head off for real. I’ll pester you all day.”

You sighed, pacing a few steps away. He’d wait. He definitely would. And there wasn’t much point in pretending anymore—he clearly knew you weren’t fine. Continuing to train like this was useless when your head was so unfocused. Avoiding the topic wasn’t helping either. At this point, everyone knew what was going on. Hell, they all seemed more bothered by it than Azriel.

Still, you’d been dodging these conversations. Talking about it felt...stupid. Saying it out loud would make it real—all the messy, painful feelings you’d been shoving down would be out there, staring back at you like some pitiful mirror. Your conversation with Azriel this morning had only made your bitterness stronger.

But Cassian was watching you, expecting, and it was nice, in a way. Having someone care this much. Maybe it would be easier to talk to him. Mor had helped, sure, but her comfort recently came in the form of dragging Azriel through the dirt. It didn’t actually solve anything.

"It’s this stupid thing with Az," you muttered finally. "I’m starting to feel like he doesn’t actually care about me." 

Cassian leaned on the hilt of his sword. “Well, that’s not true.”

You leveled him with a stare, your body tensing as a surge of frustration ran through you, hot and heavy. “It isn’t? He talked to me for the first time today and didn’t even apologize. Not properly. Just asked about Keir.”

Cassian’s expression softened. “He gets wrapped up in his own head about things. Probably just embarrassed, you know? Doesn’t know how to approach the situation.”

You’d run that possibility through your mind a hundred times. Mor had even said it herself. But it didn’t help with the ache, the anger. It was hard to believe your spymaster—so fearless, so eager to throw himself into the fire—was struggling to talk to a friend. Out of all the hard things Azriel had done, surely a simple apology wasn’t beyond him. You’d forgiven him for so much, had let things go because he was your friend. But you were tired of letting it go. He had the perfect opportunity to apologize, to properly acknowledge how he’d hurt you, and he hadn’t taken it.

“Embarrassed by what? Accusing his friend of something so absurd?”

Cassian tilted his head in subtle agreement, like he too thought the word absurd was right for the situation. “I think Az doesn’t want to be seen as...whatever he thinks people see him as. Like he’s incompetent in love. Or that he can’t handle his shit.” He rolled his shoulders, sighing. “He’s defensive. When he’s cornered, he reacts badly. It’s not about you, Y/n. You know that, right?”

You knew that. Of course you did. But it didn’t feel like a proper explanation this time. It didn’t feel like enough.

“But it feels like it is about me. He listened to her. He took her word, over mine." Your fists clenched involuntarily. "And the way he acted—like I wasn’t worth considering, like my opinion doesn’t matter. I’ve known him for centuries. She—" You paused, taking a breath, "She’s barely been in his life. And he immediately assumes that my care for him is because I just want something from him. That it’s some selfish, self-serving thing. His whole job is to see through lies, Cass. He didn’t even second-guess her.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t actually see it like that. He probably just reacted out of instinct. It’s Azriel, Y/n, he’s complicated. "

“Shit, Cass, way to play sides.”

Cassian sighed, stepping closer. “I’m not playing sides. I’m trying to help. Az makes stupid decisions. Half the time, I don’t think he even understands why. I don’t want you driving yourself crazy trying to figure it out. It’s not worth it.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” you snapped. “Just wait it out? Move on? That’s not happening.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, and guilt pricked at the edges of your conscience. This wasn’t Cassian’s fault—he didn’t have to ask, didn’t have to care. But lately, your anger over everything—over Az—felt like a thorn lodged so deeply under your skin that the irritation seeped into everything. You were struggling to control it.

It was a small blessing there weren’t any court matters to handle for the time being. Rhys was likely still preoccupied with Keir’s incessant whining about your last outburst.

Still, it felt like acid rising in your throat, a bitter burn you couldn’t swallow down, even as Cassian opened his mouth to respond. The words were spilling out of you before he could say anything.

“I’m not even mad about this one fight anymore,” you started, the grip on your sword slipping as your fingers unfurled. The blade clattered to the ground, the sound loud enough to make Cassian flinch. “It’s everything. All of it. He never apologizes for anything—have you noticed that? Like, ever. And I’ve let it slide because that’s just Azriel, right? Quiet, brooding Azriel, who’s somehow above—”

Cassian raised a palm out. “Alright, alright, stop,” he said. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy. It’s not worth it.”

You exhaled sharply, realizing you were halfway to a full-blown rant.

He stepped closer, giving you a knowing look. “Listen, you can’t force him to apologize properly. You just...can’t. You have to let him come to it on his own.”

Your teeth clenched. “I shouldn’t have to.”

Cassian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I agree. Believe me, I agree. But until he figures his shit out, maybe we focus on what you can change.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What else is bothering you?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It would be easier to list what isn’t bothering me right now.”

Cassian tilted his head again, considering. “Does it bother you that Selene sees you as competition?”

You blew a strand of hair out of your face. Did it bother you?

Azriel had believed her instantly—disregarded you with a swiftness that stung. He’d accused you of selfishness, of something you’d never been with him. But Selene’s opinion of you, the thoughts she’d planted in his mind, those bothered you too. You hadn’t realized it until now.

She didn’t know you.

And yet, her words had curled under your skin, sitting heavy and raw, making you ache in a quiet, tired way. Worse, they’d made you overthink every interaction with Azriel since. You’d spent so much of your life trying to be the diplomat, choosing empathy even when it sucked—when it drained you. You wanted to like Selene—gods, you wanted to like the people Azriel cared for, even when it felt impossible. But she hadn’t even given you the time of day.

“I don’t like that I’ve been vilified somehow,” you admitted with a frown. “I don’t want to feel like I’m fighting for his attention or validation. It’s not like that.”

Cassian gave a small, knowing smile. “I know it’s not.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not.” 

He paused, clearly mulling something over, then asked, “Do you want to hear what I think?”

You gave him a wary look. “I feel like you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Correct,” he said, grinning. Then he sobered. “Az aside...I think Selene’s reaction makes sense.”

You blinked at him, incredulous. Was he serious right now? A sharp heat rose in your chest. “Okay, well, that’s clearly choosing sides—”

“Hear me out,” Cassian said quickly. “I mean, look at you, Y/n. I’d be jealous of you too if I were her. You’re beautiful, smart, someone Azriel deeply cares for. Hell, I’d probably be a mess.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “So, because I’m so wonderful, I’m responsible for her insecurities?” you asked dryly, arching a brow.

Cassian shook his head. “No. What I’m saying is that this might be the one aspect of the situation you can change. The one thing you have control over. Maybe talking to her would help. Clear the air.”

You mulled over his suggestion. Maybe he had a point. Maybe talking to Selene would help. Not just to ease the tension, but to give Azriel room to come to you—to clear the air between you both. If you did this—if you took the first step—maybe he’d finally take you seriously. Apologize for dismissing you so easily, so carelessly. You could find a way to move on, comfortably, with Selene in his life. Right?

It wasn’t like the situation could get any worse.

"Okay," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "Yeah. Maybe I’ll talk to her."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Cassian was waiting for Azriel as he stepped out of the townhome, his massive frame leaning against the railing. One glance at the general was enough to confirm it: Cassian wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries. No—Cassian stood with his arms crossed, his wings partially flared, exuding the barely-contained anger Azriel recognized all too well.

“We need to talk,” Cassian said.

Azriel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He tightened his fists, shadows curling around them instinctively, obscuring his hands from view. Not now. Not tonight. He had no energy for this—not for Cassian’s righteousness or whatever lecture he’d come prepared to deliver.

“I’m not in the mood, Cass,” he said flatly, brushing past him.

“Too bad.” Cassian stepped into his path, blocking him with ease. “I didn’t endure an hour of Mor yelling at me for you to decide you can’t have a conversation.”

Azriel paused, his brow furrowing. “Why was Mor yelling at you?”

Cassian crossed his arms. “Because of you.”

“Great,” Az muttered. “What have I done now?”

“I gave Y/n some advice that, in hindsight, wasn’t great. Mor made the situation a lot clearer for me. Now I’m here to make sure you clean up your mess before anyone else slips.”

The mention of your name made Azriel’s chest ache in a way that felt too raw. He’d told himself he wouldn’t think about you tonight—not your voice, not your expression when he’d spoken to you this morning. But here was Cassian, dragging it all to the surface like a wound being forced open.

“I don’t think this is any of your concern,” Azriel said coldly, stepping around Cassian in a last-ditch effort to leave.

Cassian didn’t budge, spinning on his heel and following. “It is my concern because you’re my friend. And Y/n is my friend.”

Azriel could feel his shadows tighten their hold, whispering, urging him to end this. He wasn’t sure if they meant the conversation with Cassian or the situation entirely. Azriel could only control one of those.

“Cass, leave it alone,” he said, his voice low, barely masking the warning there.

“No,” Cassian responded immediately. “You did something shitty and you need to own up to it, Az.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened. “Sometimes friends fight,” he ground out. “Sometimes we get on each other’s nerves, like you’re getting on mine now. It’ll settle.”

“This isn’t going to ‘settle.’” Cassian’s voice rose. “You didn’t just get on her nerves—you offended her.”

The words hit harder than Azriel had anticipated.

“Because the idea of having feelings for me is so offensive? Am I that repulsive?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, the question jagged, biting. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure where it had come from. 

Cassian blinked, his anger giving way to confusion for a moment before his brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about? Don’t twist this into something it isn’t.”

Azriel’s chest tightened, a sudden rush of heat creeping up his neck. His outburst had come from nowhere, and now, Cassian’s eyes were full of confusion and something else—something close to pity. Azriel felt small under it, a flush of embarrassment prickling down his body. He wanted to look away, to escape.

He needed to leave.

Think later. Process later. Just get out of here.

Azriel squared his shoulders, forcing himself to meet Cassian’s gaze with as much indifference as he could muster. “Are you done now? Selene is waiting for me.”

Cassian stepped closer, his wings flaring in frustration. “Selene can deal with a few lost minutes of Azriel time. We’re talking.”

“No,” Azriel said, voice flat, his gaze turning icy. “You’re talking. I’m leaving.”

He moved to step past Cassian, but the larger male blocked him again.

“Is this some weird self-pity thing?” Cassian demanded, his tone growing sharper. “Thinking you’re not worth being forgiven so you don’t even try?”

Those words hit a nerve. 

Azriel’s anger sparked instantly, snapping through his ribs like a whip. He couldn’t decide if it was directed at Cassian or himself. But Cassian didn’t understand. None of them did.

“Cass, just let it go.”

“No,” Cassian shot back. “You always do this. You make decisions that are selfish. You push people away because you think it’s easier, and it’s not. It’s bullshit.”

It wasn’t easier—it was never easier. But what was Azriel supposed to say? That it was better than risking more damage? That every decision he made, no matter how distant or cold, was the only way he knew how to protect the people he cared about?

“Cassian—”

The slap came out of nowhere.

Azriel’s head snapped to the side, his shadows scattering in shock before reforming around him. Slowly, he turned back to Cassian, his eyes blazing.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” Cassian said flatly. “Must’ve been the wind.”

Azriel’s lip curled. He opened his mouth to respond, but a second slap landed, harder this time.

“Would you stop that?” Azriel growled, his wings flaring slightly, the shadows around him vibrating with his tone. “Don’t touch me.”

Cassian stepped closer. “Why?” he asked, mockingly. “This is what you deserve, right? If you’re so terrible.”

The third slap was the breaking point.

Azriel’s fist flew, connecting with Cassian’s jaw in a blur of movement. The force sent Cassian stumbling back a step, but he recovered quickly, his retaliation swift—a sharp uppercut to Azriel’s ribs.

They fought like brothers—wild, messy. Not about technique, but about something else. Azriel wasn’t sure why Cassian needed this release, but he could feel it—the desperate need behind every punch. And Azriel… Azriel didn’t realize it at first, but he needed it too.

He was an Illyrian, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise. Fighting cleared his mind. Whatever Cassian was trying to achieve, whatever he needed to prove, it was working.

Azriel barely registered the sting of each hit. The ache in his ribs, the burn in his muscles—it all blurred into the same tight, unrelenting pressure in his chest. Like there was no room left for air, for thought, for the gnawing guilt that had dug its claws into him and refused to let go. Cassian tackled him to the ground, pinning him, both of them struggling for breath.

“This is stupid!”

“I agree,” Azriel spat, shoving him off. “Get off me.”

“No, you!” Cassian said, pushing himself to his feet. “You’re stupid.”

Azriel sat up slowly, chest heaving as his shadows curled protectively around him. 

Cassian shook his head, wiping blood from his lip. “You’re better than this, Az. So be better and properly fuckin’ apologize. If not for you, for me—so my mate will stop glaring at me every time I say your name.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the ground, the weight of Cassian’s words sinking into him like a slow burn. His fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Offered nothing. 

Cassian didn’t stop. “Gods know Y/n has done enough for you. Put up with enough. We’ve all done shitty things. But you know what? You take the hit, you own it, and you try to be better. You can’t lead with self-loathing forever.”

Azriel sat there longer than necessary, long after Cassian had walked away. People passed by—some casting glances his way, most not bothering to look at all—but he didn’t move. Didn’t feel the flicker of shame he might’ve once felt at sitting there, bloodied and bruised, shadows curling restlessly around him.

The sting in his cheekbone from Cassian’s knuckles pulsed dully, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the gnawing thoughts taking root.

Maybe it wasn’t the fear of you rejecting his apology that held him back. Maybe it was the fear that you wouldn’t.

That you’d accept it. 

That somehow, he’d manage to make it up to you. That things would settle for a while, until he inevitably did something worse. Something irreparable.

He was terrified of succeeding—of pulling you back in, of you continuing to see something in him that he wasn’t. That you’d keep believing in this illusion, this version of him he’d somehow convinced you existed.

For centuries, it felt like he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable—waiting for you to see him as he truly was. And if he made this right, if you forgave him, it would only give him more time to fail you again.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You were walking without a proper destination in mind.

You’d never been to it, but Azriel had once mentioned that Selene worked at a flower shop near the Palace of Thread and Jewels. He’d first run into her on one of his free days, when he’d stopped by a few of his favorite parts in the city.

This area made sense. It was near his usual route, tucked away in a cozy corner of the city. As the scent of flowers suddenly enveloped you, you heard Selene’s unmistakable voice. Relief surged through you; you’d found the right place. 

You thought back to your conversation with Cassian. You knew you weren’t in the wrong, that this current visit wasn’t expected of you. But it was something you could control. You’d wanted to get to know Selene better anyway. You prepared yourself, putting on a smile and stepping towards the door, but then—

“I mean, is he really worth all that effort?”

This was a voice you didn’t recognize. It curled around you, something about it making your stomach clench. 

A small sigh. “Azriel?”

This time, the voice belonged to Selene. You froze, rooted to the spot. Any inclination to quit eavesdropping washed away at the sound of his name. You felt a tightness in your chest—an almost primal urge to run in there, to stop the conversation before it even began. 

“Yeah,” the second voice pressed, “He’s a freak, Sel. Hot, sure, but a total freak. And so intense all the time.”

For a moment, there was silence. And then, Selene’s voice, almost reluctant, like she was holding back. “Well—”

Her friend interrupted. “And those shadows? Don’t they freak you out?”

A sound of disgust, maybe a shiver, followed her words. Something cold rushed through you, crawling beneath your skin, and for a moment, you didn’t know whether you wanted to shout or run. Or maybe both. Anger churned in your gut, and the calm, composed facade you’d been carefully maintaining on the walk here began to crack, slipping away piece by piece. 

“Hey, knock it off,” Selene replied, her voice soft.  “He surprises you. He’s sweet. He makes me happy.”

Her friend snorted. “Has it been an ego boost for you, then?”

“I mean, yeah,” Selene admitted quietly. “But that’s not all of it. Things with him actually aren’t… great right now. He canceled on me again tonight. I think it’s because he had some kind of fight with Y/n.”

The mention of your name stole the breath from your chest, and your body constricted almost involuntarily. 

Her friend’s voice was full of disbelief as she asked, “He actually told you?”

“No,” Selene said softly, “I—I heard them. I feel really bad, but…”

The next sound was unmistakable—the sharp intake of breath from her friend, a squeal of sorts.

“Did you actually use the listening charm I gave you? You little min—”

Something snapped in you as the words registered. A listening charm. A strange, gross invasion of privacy. And to think you had felt bad standing here, eavesdropping on their conversation in a public store, of all places. You’d been this close to giving her the benefit of the doubt.

You stormed into the shop, the door slamming behind you, and both voices froze. You barely registered Selene’s friend’s wide-eyed realization, the quiet “Oh shit” leaving her lips as she turned toward Selene.

Your focus was on Selene—on her and no one else. She stood there, an image of calm beauty that twisted something deep inside you—a type of beauty that felt somehow wrong, as if it were too polished, too perfect, for the situation. Her dark hair framed her face, her delicate features still and pale as she stared at you. The color drained from her face the moment your gaze locked with hers.

“Do you want to explain what I just heard?” you asked, your voice tight, sharp, biting. “Or should I just tell you what I’ve gathered?”

Silence. 

Her friend opened her mouth to protest, “I don’t think you have any right coming in here and—”

“I think this is a conversation for me and Selene,” you said coldly, not bothering to spare her a glance. 

Selene blinked a few times before she turned her head and offered her friend a small, almost reluctant nod.

“You should go,” she told her quietly. “And put the closed sign on the door, please.”

Her friend hesitated, but with a final glance in your direction, she walked out, the soft click of the door behind her leaving the two of you alone. You didn’t miss the way she’d muttered under her breath as she left, a quiet but very clear “Bitch.”

“Y/n,” Selene said after another moment of silence, her voice tentative, like she was trying to find the right words. “I didn’t know that you were here.”

“Clearly.”

Selene’s movements were stiff, awkward as she fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, like she didn’t know what to do with her hands now that she was trapped in this uncomfortable moment.  “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t think that matters anymore,” you replied. “I asked you a question. I’d like to know what I just overheard.”

Selene’s ears flushed pink, a deep red that spread across her neck, as she took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

You could feel your patience unraveling. Of course she didn’t know what to say. She’d been caught in the act. There was no excuse for this.

“You listened to us,” you snapped, the words bitter in your mouth. “You spied on Azriel. Do you just want to skip ahead to how you justify it?”

Her face paled, and for a moment, she looked younger—small, almost fragile. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Oh please.” The frustration boiled over, flooding your veins with anger you hadn’t realized was possible. Anything you’d felt before this moment paled in comparison. You shouldn’t have asked her to explain. You already knew whatever she said would only make things worse, would only add fuel to the fire that was your growing irritation.

This is stupid. This is ridiculous. How did you get roped into this?

“I know it was wrong!” she said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I know, okay? I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have let Runa convince me it was a good idea. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

That had to be the worst excuse you’d ever heard. It wasn’t just the stupidity of it that pissed you off—it was the weakness of it, the desperation in her voice that made you want to scream.  Azriel must be blind. Had he really been so wrapped up in whatever bubble he’d built around her that he couldn’t see the cracks? Was he so fucking love-blind that this—this—was what he was left with?

“What else to do? About what? Surely any other solution would have been better.”

She let out a deep sigh and her shoulders sagged with the motion. “I really like him,  Y/n.”

You snorted, a sound of genuine amusement—more out of sheer disbelief than anything else. You couldn’t help it. “Alright,” you said, dismissing her with a wave of your hand, not buying it for a second. “Don’t start.”

“I do,” Selene said, her voice more insistent now. “I think I might even love him. But it’s hard.”

You shot her an unimpressed look. 

Her voice was louder, more frantic, as she continued. “Azriel doesn’t talk about anything—anything real.”

You didn’t bother hiding the scoff. “Bullshit. Az talks. You just have to be patient. Communicate like a normal fucking partner.”

Her frustration flashed across her face, the defensive crossing of her arms only making her look more like a child. “Do you think I didn’t try that? He doesn’t tell me anything. Not really. He keeps everything locked up so tight—he barely even looks at me sometimes. What was I supposed to do?”

“Maybe not violate his privacy?” 

“You don’t get it.” Her hands trembled as she gestured at you. “He doesn’t talk to me like he talks to you. Do you know what it’s like to be the one he’s supposed to care about but feel like you’re always on the outside? Like there’s this wall between us that I can’t get through, but somehow you can?”

You should’ve walked away then. The urge to just let her talk herself into a hole was strong. But you didn’t.

“You’ve been dating him for a few months,” you said, crossing your arms, your stance slightly defensive. “We’ve been friends for centuries. You can’t expect him to open up to you completely overnight.”

“That’s not the point!” she snapped, her voice rising, a crack of desperation leaking through. For a fleeting second, you almost felt bad for her. A tug of sympathy.

“Then what the hell is the point?” you demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re just looking for someone to blame. And for some reason, that someone is me. Are you seriously trying to imply I'm somehow responsible for you spying on him?”

Selene flinched, but she didn’t back down. You had to give her credit for that.  “No. I—I don’t know,” she mumbled, her hand tugging at her hair in jerky movements, like she was trying to yank the thoughts from her mind. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t think—I just… I didn’t want to lose him. I thought if I could figure out what was going on, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could stop feeling like…”

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m always on the outside. Like I’m never going to be enough.”

A part of you wanted to snap back at her, to remind her that this wasn’t a justification, that none of this made it okay. But something about her voice—broken, raw, like a crack that had been growing for too long—slowed your response. Your anger faltered.

“I know it’s insane,” she added, “I know it was wrong, and I feel awful about it. But I didn’t know what else to do. It feels like i’m competing with someone who’s known him longer, who gets to see parts of him I never will. How am I supposed to make space for myself?”

“Still not a good enough excuse,” you bit out. “You can’t just violate his privacy because you’re insecure.”

Selene took a deep breath and met your gaze. There was no fight in them anymore. “Please, just go. Run off and tell Azriel everything. I know you’re probably excited to.”

Her words stung more than they should have.

“Why do you say it like that?” you asked, “Like I’m thrilled to ruin your relationship?”

Selene’s eyes flickered with something sharp. “Aren’t you?”

For a second, you almost wished you could be. Almost.

“No,” you said firmly. “I would never do that to Azriel. I’m not your competition. I’m his friend. I came here to give you the benefit of the doubt because I wanted you two to be happy. But this? This is…” You trailed off, unable to even finish the thought, because it was too much—everything about it felt wrong.

“Crazy?” Selene finished bitterly, shaking her head. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know how it looks. But like I said, you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to care about someone so much that you start losing sight of yourself. I think about him, about how much I care about him, and all my instincts go out the window. ”

Selene had always existed a certain way in your mind.

Azriel had seemed lighter when he first mentioned her, a softness in his voice that you hadn’t heard in years. And you’d been happy for him—thrilled, even, at the idea of someone bringing him a bit of joy. You’d wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, wanted to believe that she could be good for him. You were excited to meet her.

But then Az started to change.

The more he changed, the more Selene shifted in your mind, too. She became untouchable, an image conjured more from your worry than from anything real. You imagined her as someone clingy, someone who demanded all of his attention and made him forget the people who loved him first. Someone full of herself, reveling in the power she had over him.

And then you’d met her.

She wasn’t what you’d expected—though not in the way that might have changed your mind. She wasn’t warm or open, wasn’t eager to charm or connect with Azriel’s family. Instead, she’d clung to him like a second skin, her hands always on his arm, her smile reserved only for him. And maybe it was unfair, but you hadn’t liked the way she’d looked at you, hadn’t liked the guarded, wary edge to her voice when she spoke.

You’d trusted your gut, let it guide you through the uncertainty. And when things fell apart—when the argument between you and Az finally erupted—Selene’s image had shifted again.

She became a villain in your mind, a figure painted in sharp, unforgiving lines. It was easier that way. Easier to picture her whispering in Azriel’s ear, twisting his thoughts, pulling him further away from you. You’d built her into someone cruel, someone who reveled in the divide she’d caused.

But now, standing before her, you saw something else entirely.

Selene didn’t look cruel. She didn’t look smug or victorious. If anything, she looked fragile. There was an unease in her posture, a vulnerability in the way her hands fidgeted at her sides. The guardedness was still there, but it felt more like armor than arrogance.

And for the first time, you questioned how much of the image you’d built of her was real—and how much of it was your own fear, your own concern for Azriel, projected onto her.

“Why did you tell Azriel that I had feelings for him?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you weren’t sure where they came from—but somehow, they lifted a deep weight off your chest.

Her brows furrowed, genuine confusion crossing her face. "What?"

“Why did you tell him that you thought I had feelings for him?”

“I wanted to see what he’d do,” she admitted. 

Disbelief tightened in your chest.  “So you lied to him for fun?”

She shook her head. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes,” you said, the word bitten out, “You told him I had feelings for him.”

“Because you do,” she answered, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, like she understood your feelings better than you did. And for a second—a stupid, fleeting second—you almost believed her.

Selene’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what a female in love with him looks like,” she said quietly,  her voice soft in a way it wasn’t before. “I see it every day when I look in the mirror.”

Something inside you twisted painfully, a knot of emotions you couldn’t untangle fast enough. You focused on the irritation. 

“Am I wrong?” she continued. “Is he the best part of your day? Do you look forward to talking to him? Can you tell him things you’d never tell anyone else? Do you save bits of good food just so he can try it?”

Your throat felt tight, the words stuck somewhere between anger and disbelief. How had this conversation managed to spin so completely?

The breath you took felt jagged, like your lungs couldn’t quite expand all the way. “That’s not true,” you said. “Azriel and I… We’re friends. That’s all. We’ve been friends for centuries. That’s just—what happens when you’ve known someone that long.”

For a moment, you thought she might apologize, or at least reconsider. Her expression faltered, but instead, she just stared at you.

“Do you really believe that?”

When you didn’t reply, Selene blinked, cleared her throat, and turned away from you, leaning against the counter with a sigh. “This is so pathetic,” she muttered, her voice tinged with bitter amusement. “I’m standing here, basically pushing you to him.”

A sigh slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You hesitated, torn between frustration and a strange sympathy. Against every instinct telling you to be petty, a part of you felt bad for her. She cared about Azriel. Deeply. You were certain of it— unsure of how you knew, but you were certain nonetheless. There was no malice in her voice, just insecurity and raw, unspoken fear.

You hated that you could sense it, but you couldn't ignore it either. You could almost hear Amren in your ear, urging you to walk away, and Mor's voice reminding you that Selene didn’t deserve your kindness. But somehow, you couldn't bring yourself to leave. If Azriel saw something worth loving in Selene, maybe you did too.

“Okay, well, don’t do that,” you muttered, taking a step closer. The urge to comfort her was almost overwhelming—to show her that maybe she could learn and grow from this. “You need to talk to Az, Selene. Just sit down, be open—”

“Stop. Don’t be nice to me,” she snapped, spinning to face you. Her voice was sharp.

She moved as if to push you away, but hadn’t realized how close you’d stepped. The edge of her bracelet caught your cheek, and the sharp sting of metal cut straight through it.

Selene froze, her eyes widening as she took in the line of blood blooming on your cheek. “Oh my gods,” she whispered, her hands hovering uselessly. “I—I didn’t mean—”

You stepped back further, your hand still on your cheek, blood warm against your fingertips. 

This seemed about right, you thought bitterly to yourself. This is what happens when you try to be the bigger person. You were gonna kill Cassian. You were going to wring his godsdamned neck.

Selene’s voice became a rush of apologies, each one more frantic than the last, but your attention was already slipping away. Your gaze fell to the bracelet on her wrist. The metal gleamed, twisting slightly with every motion of her hand. You recognized it instantly.

Azriel had a similar one in his room. On his dresser.

“Is that how you did it?” you asked, pointing to her wrist.

Selene’s face drained of color, guilt flooding her expression. She nodded slowly, her hands shaking as she removed the bracelet and held it out to you, eyes wide and full of regret.

You took it from her fingers and, just for a moment, you almost let yourself fall back into the anger, the hurt. But you didn’t. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself before shaking your head.

“I’m sorry,” Selene whispered, voice breaking. “I really am. I was— I was just desperate. And Runa kept pushing, and—”

You cut her off with a sharp shake of your head, locking eyes with her. Her voice faded, but it didn’t matter anymore. “You’re not terrible, Selene. But you have terrible friends.”

You turned to leave but paused at the door, glancing back over your shoulder. “I suggest you find new ones.”

You tried to steady yourself as you stepped into the bustling streets of Velaris. The bracelet in your hand was cold against your palm, and the sting of the cut on your cheek throbbed with each beat of your pulse. Everything inside you felt scrambled—emotions tangled, confusion still clouding your mind.

The shuffle of footsteps broke through your fog. You looked up, just in time to hear a sharp voice.

“Ouch, that looks like it stung.” A small chuckle. “Although I’m sure you’re excited to have a reason for the Shadowsinger to tend to you.”

You scanned her. “Runa, right?”

She smirked, crossing her arms. “Yeah, that's me.”

Without hesitation, you found yourself saying, “You gave your friend some hurtful advice.”

Runa shrugged nonchalantly, almost amused. “Oops.”

You held your tongue for a moment, your irritation intensifying the longer you looked at her. Unlike Selene, who had managed to evoke some sympathy, Runa didn’t even come close. She shifted, as if waiting for you to bite.

The silence stretched before she finally broke it with a snide laugh. “Honestly, Selene’s better off without that freak of a boyfriend. She doesn’t need to be wrapped up with shitty court politicians.”

Something in you snapped. Maybe it was the words, maybe it was the whirlwind of emotions from the last half hour, but your patience with her was gone. You inhaled sharply, trying to steady your temper, and placed the bracelet in your pocket.

“Do you know who I am?”

Runa raised an eyebrow, the slightest trace of mockery in her smile. “Uh, yeah. You're an emissary or something, right?” She waved her hand dismissively, as if it didn’t matter.

You closed the distance between you in a few long strides. “Good,” you said, letting the word settle in the air. “I want you to remember that when you report.”

Runa looked confused, her smug attitude faltering. “Report what?” 

You smiled. And then you punched her in the face. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: fun fact, this was the 6th draft of this!! and this felt like the way to go with the story....gives me some options to exploree. its also so long bc i wanted to keep all the fun scenes together tehehe sorry yall i got carried away

but selene....selene...selene... how i thought about her for a bit. i wanted to avoid making selene a caricature of a soulless mean jealous girl, i think it makes it somehow worse and even better to write knowing she was just incredibly insecure and misguided by people she trusted...doesn’t make anythinggg she did okay but

we out here rly testing our reader with a selene like villain rn. tehehe

also....time to imagine rhys holding nyx on his lap as he tells reader that shes in trouble for fighting a citizen in the open mf streets. rhys was so smug and now he’s like damn…wait a min… our public imagine SUCKSS

thank you for reading!!<3

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

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[rafecameronssl4t]

Happy house || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: just a cute fic of the Cameron family being one big happy family and infatuated with you and Rafe’s daughter 🥰

Warnings: breastfeeding (?) apart from that this is all fluff

Word count: 1388

A/n: this was so cute to write 🥹🥹 loved writing the fact that the Cameron family is tight-knit and love one another

MASTERLIST (dad!rafe au masterlist)

divider be @yoonitos

“Got everything?” Rafe glanced back at you, his hands full with bags laden with mostly Mabel’s things. You hummed contentedly, one hand gently adjusting the bucket hat on Mabel’s head while her plushy little hands playfully reached for your face, her giggles filling the air.

“We’re not late are we?” You called out as the two of you boarded the Cameron’s luxurious yacht. “Hmm? Not really, they can wait,” Rafe grinned, glancing around as you shook your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “They’re here! They’re here!” Wheezie’s voice echoed excitedly from above deck, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps rushing towards you.

You shared an amused glance with Rafe as he shook his head affectionately. “Wheezie, slow down!” Sarah’s voice called out in a mixture of exasperation and amusement, just before Wheezie came bounding around the corner, closely followed by Sarah, Rose, and Ward.

“Hey!” You greeted them warmly, arms open for hugs all around. Wheezie and Ward gravitated towards you and Mabel, their faces lighting up at the sight of the youngest Cameron family member.

Wheezie squealed, bouncing up and down in excitement as she gently pinched Mabel’s cheek. “Hey, easy there,” Rafe interjected firmly, earning a glare from his younger sister, though you couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s okay, Rafe, she’s being gentle,” you reassured him with an affectionate smile, his protective nature endearing as always. “Wanna take her, dad?” you offered to Ward, who nodded eagerly. “May I?” he asked softly, reaching out to cradle Mabel in his arms.

“Of course you can, she’s your granddaughter,” you chuckled, leaning in closer as Mabel reached out to Ward, her little arms outstretched in anticipation. You moved closer to Rafe’s side, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice low with admiration as he whispered, “They all look so happy.”

Jesus, Sarah. Stop shoving your phone in her face,” Rafe groaned, his tone edged with mild annoyance as he watched Sarah snap yet another 0.5 photo of Mabel. You couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the sight, knowing that it was always Sarah’s candid photos of Mabel that Rafe eventually looked back on with a chuckle.

“Send them to me,” you mouthed to Sarah, who winked in response, both of you giggling like schoolgirls. “What are you giggling about, hmm?” Rafe asked, looking down at you with a smile, his irritation quickly fading. “Nothing, nothing,” you said, your smile widening. “Just excited to get to the island and have lunch together as a family again.”

Rafe’s smile softened, appreciating how much you valued these family moments. Before he could say more, Rose chimed in, glancing at her watch. “Okay, I think we should move this upstairs, don’t you think?” she suggested. Everyone agreed, and the group began making their way up to the spacious upper deck. The Bahamas sun was bright overhead, casting a warm glow over the yacht.

“You know, if you ever need a babysitter, I’m right here,” Wheezie offered, linking her arm through yours as you ascended the stairs. She batted her eyelashes playfully, making you giggle at her antics. Rafe, close behind, scoffed. “Yeah, as if I’m letting you look after my kid by yourself.”

Wheezie rolled her eyes dramatically. “And why not?” Rafe gave her an incredulous look. “Remember the time you almost burnt down the house because you wanted to heat up chicken nuggets in the microwave?” Wheezie huffs, “That’s not fair!” She protests, her cheeks flushing. “I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to put metal in the microwave!”

Your jaw dropped in mock horror as you imagined the scene. “Exactly,” Rafe said, patting Wheezie’s head with a teasing smile. “You’re not looking after Mabel by yourself. End of story.” He walked away, leaving Wheezie pouting with her arms folded. You squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Maybe you can help out when I’m around,” you suggested, trying to lift her spirits. Wheezie perked up a bit, her eyes brightening at the idea. “Deal!” she said, grinning.

~

“Guys! You have to tan with me, the UV rays are insane right now!” Sarah called out from one of the outdoor loungers, her phone in hand as she checked the weather app. “I’ll be right there!” you shouted back, finishing up changing Mabel’s clothes. You handed her to Rose and Ward, who eagerly took over entertaining their granddaughter with coos and smiles.

Rafe trailed behind you, intrigued by the idea of getting some sun. He settled next to you on the lounger, stretching out and letting the warmth of the sun wash over him.“How are your boobs not saggy?” Sarah suddenly blurted out as she watches you tie up your hair, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Sarah!” Rafe hissed, shooting her a disapproving look.“Shit, sorry. Is that a bad thing to ask?” Sarah’s face flushed slightly, realizing the bluntness of her question. You couldn’t help but laugh, finding the situation amusing. Sarah joined in, her laughter a bit more nervous.

“I’m just asking. All my friends said that your boobs begin to sag because your baby is always sucking on them,” she explained, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Which one of your friends has a fucking baby at your age?” Rafe interjected, his expression one of pure disbelief.

“None of them. They were just saying that,” Sarah shrugged nonchalantly. You giggled, reaching over to rub sunscreen on Rafe’s face where he’d missed a spot. “I think it’s different for everyone. I mean, I hope mine don’t sag,” you said, glancing down at your chest and giving them a light, playful touch.

“You have such nice tits, it’s really unfair, ” Sarah sighed dramatically, leaning back and closing her eyes against the sun. Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m putting my AirPods in,” he announced, inserting them with a huff as you and Sarah chuckled.

~

“Mabel, come here,” Rafe clapped his hands with a gentle yet encouraging tone. Mabel babbled happily, steadying herself before taking a few small, determined steps towards you and Rafe; you were nestled against his chest as you cheered her on.

“Keep coming, sweetie,” you cooed softly, your hands ready to catch her. Eventually, Mabel reached you and crashed into your waiting arms with a squeal. You kissed her chubby cheek affectionately, “Good job, baby girl!” You lifted her up in the air, as she squealed with joy.

Rafe took the moment to take a photo, capturing the pure happiness on both your faces. As Rafe looked through the many photos already taken, you couldn’t help but notice how Mabel lingered close to your chest.

“Are you hungry, bels?” You asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. Glancing at your phone, you noticed it was about time for Mabel’s next feeding.

With Rafe still focused on his phone, a small smile gracing his lips as he looked through the photos of you and Mabel, you adjusted your bikini top and began to nurse Mabel.

Noticing the quietness, Rafe briefly looks down, his eyes widening slightly. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered under his breath, quickly reaching behind him to grab his shirt.

“What? Mabel was hungry,” you said innocently, as Mabel peers up to the both of you. Rafe didn’t mind you breastfeeding in public, if his baby girl was hungry, she was hungry. But he always made sure to help you cover up with a blanket when you puly down your top, his protective instincts kicking in.

Rafe’s gaze darted around, making sure no one was watching. “You should’ve let me know beforehand so I could’ve helped you cover up,” he murmured, adjusting the shirt and to peek at Mabel.

You chuckled softly, appreciating his concern and love. Mabel watched the two of you with wide, curious eyes as she nursed contentedly. "Next time I will," you assured him, reaching over to pat his thigh affectionately.

yourusername

Liked by itssarahcameron, christoper_thorton, rosejcameron and 85,208 others

@/rafemfcameron we’ve got the cutest baby 🥰

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rafemfcameron: damn right mamas

↘️ eloise_cameron: I just puked 🤢

↘️ rafemfcameron: throwing u off the boat

itssarahcameron: SQUISHY

↘️ rafemfcameron: are you calling my kid fat?

↘️ yourusername: HAHAHAHAHA

christoper_thorton: guys let me babysit her again

↘️ yourusername: you tried offering her one of your brownies top….

↘️ rafemfcameron: im sorry, he did what?

[starfruitssmoothie]

this meme with guns n roses (OG under the cut)

[paonsin]

Hello, I'm back after a quite long rest help, argenthill again. It's terribly hot in Ukraine right now and I spend my days just trying not to burn 🙂‍↕️

[velharn]

Typical dialogue of the Knight of Beauty and the Galaxy Cowboy.