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serpentandlily · 6 months ago

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Beneath the Ashes (I/II) - Azriel x Reader

Beneath the Ashes Part I - Azriel x Illyrian!Reader

Summary: Azriel finally finds the girl he’s been looking for all these years—his mate. But unfortunately for him, his mate happens to be an Illyrian who, upset over the fact that he’s turned his back on his own people, wants nothing to do with him. (Enemies to lovers vibes, angst)

a/n: based on this REQUEST. This is going to be a two part story because I kind of went a little too hard writing this haha. Thank you for your request and the inspiration! (Also I know a lot of you asked to be on a taglist for this story but since it’s only 2 parts I’m not gonna make one)

warnings: misogyny, sexism

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Part I of II

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Azriel was not happy, to say the least. Not as he landed on the cold, hard ground of one of the Illyrian war camps in the northern region of the mountains. He internally cursed at Cassian for still being on his mating honeymoon with Nesta because now he was being forced to do things Cass would normally be in charge of—primarily dealing with the Illyrians.

It wasn't a secret that Azriel hated Illyria and all its people. Hated that he came from such a barbaric, backwards culture. He knew Cass was trying to do all he could to break the traditions Illyrians held, but Azriel had always told him they were a lost cause. If he could never see these damn mountains again, he'd consider it a blessing.

But, evidently, that was not a blessing he'd be allowed—at least, not until Cassian returned. For now, he was the one who was being sent out on these missions by his High Lord.

Rhys had gotten word that some commotion was happening in the camp that had its people up in arms about something. He had asked Azriel to go check it out and who was he to turn down a request from his brother? So here he was. He was just hoping to get this over with soon.

He had tried sending his shadows ahead of time to collect intel, but they had been acting weird ever since they returned to him. They had swarmed him with their cryptic messages.

Beautiful.

Our master must see.��

Permission to kill, master?

Needless to say, Azriel had no fucking idea what any of that meant. He had given them no such permission to kill, at least, not until he could see for himself what was transpiring here.

He was passing by the training rings, ignoring the stares of the brutes who were working out and sparring within them, when he heard several sets of loud voices. He quickened his pace, following the voices into the residential section of the camp until he finally beheld what was causing the commotion.

Three males were on the porch of one of the cabins, restraining a female Illyrian, who was thrashing around like a wildcat, screaming, "Let me go, you assholes!"

Another male Azriel recognized as the War Lord of the camp was standing on the steps leading up to the small cabin, arms crossed and a sneer on his face. A male next to him was holding a blubbering Illyrian toddler, whose arms were outstretched towards the female with tears pouring down her chubby cheeks.

None of them had noticed him yet which Azriel used to his advantage. His shadows were already wailing when he let them loose. They spiraled towards the group, swirling around the males holding the female and yanking them away from her. All of their heads snapped in Azriel's direction except for the female. She tumbled to the ground but quickly scrambled to get up and rushed towards the male next to the War Lord, not even sparing a glance at what had caused the males to unleash her.

She went to grab the little girl from the male holding her but was quickly held back by the War Lord with a growl. The War Lord twisted her arms behind her back, holding her in place, but his glare was firmly set on Azriel.

Azriel's face displayed no emotions as he stalked forward, his hand ghosting over Truth-Teller.

"Shadowsinger," the War Lord bit out in greeting. The other males quickly got to their feet and stood at attention.

"Silas," Azriel said, not bothering to address him properly which made the male bristle, "Care to explain what is happening here?"

"None of your business, Shadowsinger," Silas hissed. "I have it under control."

"Doesn't seem like it," Azriel replied, coolly.

The female was still trying to break out of Silas's grip, cursing under her breath. He tightened his hold on her, causing her to hiss in pain as he twisted her wrists in his hands. Azriel's shadows seemed to hiss in response, poised to attack as soon as Azriel gave them permission.

Azriel's gaze fell on the female, noting the frustrated tears in her eyes. It seemed like there had been a scuffle. Her hair was half falling out of her braid, she had scrape marks on one of her cheeks, and a bruise was beginning to form on her jaw. One of her wings was flared out proudly while the other drooped to the floor at a weird angle. His fists clenched at the sight and when she finally looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, the breath was completely knocked out of his lungs.

Despite her tattered appearance, she was single-handedly the most beautiful female he had ever laid eyes on. He stood frozen for a moment, taken aback before he shook himself out of the spell she seemed to cast on him, realizing how inappropriate of a time it was to be ogling her.

"Let her go, Silas," Azriel commanded in a dark voice.

"I don't take orders from you," Silas spat out. "Besides, this female has been breaking the law for months now. We're taking her into custody."

"Fuck you," the female barked out, stomping on Silas's foot. The male cursed and went to strike her on the back of her head but Azriel's shadow caught his wrist in their grasp before he could.

"I said," Azriel growled, lowly, causing the males to shift in place, "Let her go."

"Fine," Silas sneered, though a tiny bit of fear flashed in his dark eyes. He pushed her to the ground in front of him. She was quick to spring back to her feet and rush towards the toddler who was still screeching. The male could hardly keep hold of the little girl.

"Let the babe go, too," Azriel snapped. The male scoffed but set the little girl down. She immediately ran to the female who bent down with her arms wide open, catching the little girl and standing with her firmly on her hip. The little girl's cries quieted down and she buried her small face in the female's neck.

"Would anyone like to tell me what the hell is going on here?" Azriel snarled, taking another step closer. Half the males mirrored his step back and he fought the urge to chuckle.

"Like I said," Silas snapped, "This female has been breaking the law—”

“What law?” Azriel asked, firmly.

“Females are not permitted to live alone nor own houses,” Silas barked out. “She has ignored our warnings—”

“My father left the cabin to me in his will!” The female shouted, causing the small toddler in her arms to whimper. She stroked the girl's hair, shushing her. “It belongs to me.”

“I don’t care what your father promised you,” Silas growled. “It is against the law for you to be living here alone. You must surrender the cabin and go live in the barracks with the other unwed females of marrying age. Your sister will be placed under the care of the matron.”

“Like hell I’m leaving her under the care of that female! You’re just going to have her wings clipped and force her to do grueling chores all day! She stays with me!”

“You are out of line! I knew your father wasn’t raising the two of you right. Ever since your mother passed away—”

“Don’t you dare say another word about my parents!”

The War Lord lunged towards the female with a growl but Azriel shadowed between them, unsheathing Truth-Teller and pressing it against the male’s throat.

“Lay a hand on her and I’ll gut you right here in front of all of your brutes,” Azriel snarled.

Silas stepped back with a scoff. “You want to stick your nose in our business? Fine, then she’s your problem. I expect her out of this house by the end of today, Shadowsinger, or there will be worse consequences.”

He stormed away, his entourage trailing behind him while sending glares to the female. Azriel waited until they were out of view before he turned to look at the female but she was gone from next to him, already walking up the steps to the cabin with the babe—her sister—on her hip.

Azriel went to follow her but she stormed into the cabin and slammed the door in his face before he could so much as utter a single word. He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before he knocked on the door. When Rhys had mentioned a problem happening in this camp, he hadn't expected to deal with something like this. It would’ve been much easier if it had been a problem he could solve with his fists.

When she didn't answer, he knocked harder—nearly causing the door to shutter.

It flung open a second later, a seething female behind it. "I already told those assholes I'm not leaving. If you're here to tell me to pack up and move, you can kiss my ass."

Azriel had to stop his lips from twitching into an amused smirk at her words. He wasn't used to dealing with female Illyrians that had attitudes. Most of them kept their heads down and stayed quiet. His mother had been like that....

"I'm not here to tell you that," Azriel answered. "May I come inside?"

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms and staring him down. He found himself even more amused at how she was trying to intimidate him. Most fae avoided him and his gaze. But a female, whose head barely reached his shoulders, seemed to be completely unfazed by him.

"No, you may not," she snapped. "Anything you need to say to me can be said perfectly fine from where you're standing."

“Can I at least bring a healer to come check out your injuries?” He eyed the scrapes on her face, the bruise and her drooping wing. Azriel’s chest ached at the sight and anger pulsed under his skin. He wanted to turn around and go rip those males apart limb by limb for laying a hand on her.

“I don’t need your help, shadowsinger,” she spat out.

"Fine," Azriel sighed. "I was sent by the High Lord because there's been reports of someone here causing disarray. I'm going to assume that someone is you."

She shrugged, nonchalantly, her eyes flickering between his own and the shadows swirling around him that wouldn't shut up about how beautiful she was, how brave....They were singing her praise. It confused him. His shadows had never acted like this before.

When she failed to answer, Azriel cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “Will you answer my question?”

“Aren’t you the spymaster?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Shouldn’t you be able to gather intel yourself and not rely on a lowly Illyrian female?”

“A lowly Illyrian female?” Azriel raised an eyebrow at her crass words towards herself.

“Isn’t that how you and all the High Lord’s dogs view us?” Her tone was biting, her eyes filled with hate.

Azriel shifted, at a loss for words. He was used to being met with hostility by the Illyrians, but never usually from the females themselves. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

It was a lousy response, but he truly had no idea what to say. She scoffed, rolling her eyes at him and moved from the doorway, grasping the door.

“Even if I could help you, I wouldn’t care enough to do so,” she snapped. “Now, if that is all, you can kindly escort yourself off my property, shadowsinger. Thank you.”

The door slammed in his face a second later.

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Azriel returned a few hours later with a letter from the High Lord in his hands. He stormed through the camp, once again ignoring all the glares sent his way. He pushed his way inside the main war tent where Silas was sitting at his desk, twirling a dagger in his hands. His dark eyes looked up at him as he walked in, narrowing.

“You’re back,” Silas said, voice dripping with disdain. “I noticed that the female has still not been relocated from the cabin.”

Azriel strode forward and slammed the letter down on his desk. Silas’s eyes dipped down to it, quickly reading the short message before he looked back up at Azriel with a sneer. “What is this?”

“A notice from the High Lord and Lady,” Azriel answered, face unreadable. “Any laws that forbid a female from living alone or owning property are hereby revoked. This repeal shall be set in motion immediately.”

"I can read just fine, Shadowsinger," Silas snapped. "I meant what the fuck is this? Does Rhysand think he can just snap his fingers and remove laws that have been around for centuries? I refuse to allow this."

"You'll address the High Lord properly or I'll cut your tongue out for your disrespect," Azriel growled. "The High Lord and High Lady can do whatever they want. You will abide by these new laws or your title of War Lord in this camp will be revoked."

Silas looked like he wanted to say more, a vein in his forehead pulsing, but he only tightened his hands into fists and let out a long breath. "Very well then, Shadowsinger. I assume you've already informed Y/n of this?"

"Y/n?"

Silas smirked. "You ran to tattle on us to the High Lord and didn't even know the name of the bitch you—"

Before anything else could come out of the War Lord's mouth, Azriel stalked forward and kicked his desk over, causing both Silas and all his paperwork and trinkets to smash on the floor. The War Lord let out a pathetic gasp in fear, scrambling to his feet and pressing himself against the back of the tent.

"Talk about her like that again," Azriel snarled. "And I'll rip out your throat."

Silas quickly tried to school his composure but Azriel could still see the lingering terror in his eyes. Silas straightened out his leathers before glaring at him. "It's nice to see the Illyrian is still in you after all this time, Shadowsinger. Once a brute, always a brute—isn't that what you like to say?"

Azriel felt his pulse spike at Silas's words. He hated being reminded that he was Illyrian, even more so being compared to the worst of them. He wasn’t even sure why such rage had sparked in him in the first place. Silas's lips twitched into a smirk as he saw the way his words striked through him. But Azriel didn't wait around to hear what else the asshole had to say, letting his raging shadows swoop him into their darkness.

He stepped out of the shadows and onto the porch of the cabin he had been at earlier. He took several breaths, trying to calm himself before gently knocking on the door. After no one answered for a moment, he lifted his fist to knock again but the door was pulled open, leaving his hand to hover in the air. He dropped it to his side, narrowing his eyebrows as he was met with no one.

"Hewwo."

Azriel nearly jumped in fright before his gaze dropped to the toddler that stood in the doorway. It was the little girl from earlier, Y/n's sister. He swallowed harshly, eyes darting around the foyer of the cabin in hopes that her sister would pop out any second but no one came. He wasn't good with children, and wasn't used to being around them. Nyx was the only child he had ever really been around and he was still a baby.

Azriel sighed and crouched down on his haunches, making him more eye level for the little girl. Her shoulder length hair was the same color as her sister’s, her eyes too. The resemblance between the two of them was undeniable.

"Hello there," Azriel said as gently as he could. "Is your sister home by any chance?"

“Mhm,” the little girl hummed, busy watching the swirling shadows all around him.

"Do you think you can go get her for me?"

She shook her head no, her hair bobbing with the motion.

"Why not?" Azriel asked, keeping his voice light.

"Cause I'll get in trouble," she said with a little lisp. "Mm not 'pposed to open the door."

Azriel smiled at her, trying to appear friendly. He was surprised that she didn't seem scared of him or his shadows, as most kids were. "Don't worry, I won't tell her you opened the door for me. It can be our little secret."

She looked to be contemplating his promise, her little nose scrunched up. One of his shadows whisked forward and started swirling around her tiny frame. To Azriel's surprise, the little girl giggled, swiping her hand around to try and catch it.

"Suri, what are you—Get away from her!"

Y/n came thundering down the hall, yanking her sister away from the doorframe. Azriel stood to his full height, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as she glared at him before turning to look down at her sister.

"Suri, go to your room."

"No," Suri pouted, crossing her little arms. "I wanna play with the shadows."

Azriel's lips twitched. This was quite possibly the first time a child had ever seemed anything but scared of his shadows. It was oddly endearing.

"Go to your room," Y/n commanded in a stronger voice. "Now."

Suri stomped her foot but did as she was told, disappearing from his view.

"What are you doing back here?" She hissed, once her sister was gone.

Azriel pulled out the other parchment paper he had brought with him, the same notice he had given Silas. He held it out for her. "I came to deliver this."

She took the paper from him, glancing at him suspiciously. Azriel watched as her pretty doe eyes scanned the parchment, reading Rhysand's elegant script. To his surprise, she started to chuckle to herself. She handed it back to him, her face twisted into a mocking smirk.

"Do you honestly think this is going to stop them from trying to kick me out of this house?" She asked him, sarcastically. His eyebrows furrowed. "I'm guessing you're going to patrol this camp for a week or two to make sure they're adhering to the notice and then you'll wipe your hands clean of this all, pretending the High Lord solved everything. But you know the day you stop showing up here, Silas will be at my doorstep."

"I can assure you that we'll do everything we can to make sure all the WarLords follow these new laws," Azriel said, his face unreadable and his voice detached. She shook her head with a smile that lacked any warmth. “I promise you that.”

"Right," she drawled out, "Well, thank you so much for your help, shadowsinger."

She went to shut the door but Azriel stuck his hand out, catching it before she could. His gaze fell to her drooping wing, still bent at an awkward angle. "Please, let me bring a healer to attend to your wing."

Her wing could heal on her own. It would probably only take a day or two, but just seeing it made Azriel's chest ache. He knew the pain she must be in.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend like you care about my wings."

"I've broken a wing before, too," he explained. "I know how much it hurts. Please, let me help you."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Do you want to know the difference between my wings and your's, shadowsinger? Your wings healed. You get to fly. Mine will never heal."

Azriel's gaze dropped back to her wings, now noticing the two scars—clipped. Her wings had been clipped. His heart dropped into his stomach, rage bubbling to the surface instead.

"Who?" he growled, his voice ice cold.

"Like I said," she bit out, "Don't pretend like you care."

"I do care," Azriel replied, fists clenching. And it was true, he did. Wing clipping was a heinous crime, one that had been outlawed since Rhys was sworn in as the High Lord of the Night Court. Of course, sometimes the practice of wing clipping still took place in remote camps that slipped through the cracks. "Wing clipping has been forbidden since—"

"I am well aware that wing clipping is forbidden," she snapped. "But like your stupid little notice, no one cares. And the High lord and all of his cronies, you included, Shadowsinger, have made it very clear that you don't either."

"We do care," Azriel argued. "We do. But we cannot keep watch of all the camps at all times. We rely on people reporting it—"

"Oh, spare me from hearing your excuses," she cut him off with a growl. "Do you want to know who did this to me? Here's a clue—go look in the High Lord's desk for a letter addressed from me. I've been sending one every single day for the past six years so there's bound to be at least one still around."

"Six...six years?" Azriel questioned, quietly. "You've been sending a letter every day for six years and not one of them was ever answered?"

Sure, Rhysand had been gone for fifty years, of course and the rest of them had been unable to leave Velaris thanks to him. Then, they had been busy with the war and didn’t have time to deal with inner court problems. But it had been two years since then and she was still sending letters. Letters looking for justice for what happened to her. Letters gone unanswered.

"Not a single one," she huffed.

"Y/n...I am so sorry—"

"Save it," she barked out. "Now, if we're done here, I'd like you to leave."

"Please, let me help you—"

Azriel choked in surprise as something within snapped. He couldn’t breath, taking a single step back as a golden thread weaved its way through the space between him and the female standing before him.

Before his brain could even process what just happened, the door was slammed in his face. But Azriel stood frozen on her porch. Frozen in shock because he had finally found his mate. After all these years, he had finally found the person he had been searching for.

And she absolutely hated him.

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Your wing had healed enough by the next morning that you could lift it off the ground, though it was rather painful to do so. Your pride made you suck it up, not wanting to go to the healer and have anyone touch your wings. No one had laid a hand on your wings since the day they were clipped and you wanted to keep it that way.

You got ready for the day, putting on one of your mother's old white, chemise dresses. It fell to the top of your boots, swishing around your ankles. You layered a dark blue skirt over it before putting on a front lace-up corset. You grimaced as you did up the buttons under your injured wings before you tightened the corset until it fit snuggly. Lastly, you threw on a cloak. It was snowing outside today and the last thing you needed was to freeze to death.

You stepped in the hallway, the cabin quiet. You went to wake up Suri to get her ready for the day. Normally she was still asleep, so you were surprised when you heard her voice the closer you got to the door to her bedroom.

"Bad doggy," she babbled, her voice muffled through the door. "You can't go in there."

Your eyes widened, realizing she was talking to someone or something. You quickly slammed her door open, eyes darting around in concern. Suri jumped as her door banged open, spinning around on her bed to look at you. A small shadow wisped behind her, like it was hiding.

"Suri?" You questioned. "Who were you talking to?"

"Issy!" Suri sang out, jumping off her bed in her little pajamas. She still called you issy, unable to pronounce your name easily or the word sister. "The doggy came back!"

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "The what?"

The shadow darted out from behind Suri, swirling around her and causing the little girl to giggle, "Doggy!"

Your eyes narrowed. One of Azriel's shadows had not only lingered behind, but had been staying with your baby sister. You felt your pulse spike with anger. As if it could sense your emotions, the shadow stopped swirling around and instead pressed itself on the floor like it was bashful and guilty.

You scoffed, "Go back to your master! We don't want you here."

The shadow wisped upwards, disappearing through the ceiling. A realization had you clenching your fists. Suri pouted. "Issy, you scared the doggy away!"

"That was not a dog—" you cut yourself off with a sigh. "Suri, go brush your teeth and your hair while I get breakfast ready, okay?"

"No," Suri grumbled, her tiny nose twitching. "Not unless you get doggy back!"

"If you do as I say, I'll make you strawberry pancakes for breakfast."

"Strawb'rry pancakies!" Suri squealed, the shadow momentarily forgotten. Satisfied with your deal, your sister rushed off to get ready. You left her to it, stalking outside through the backdoor. You walked a few paces away from the cabin, staring up at the roof, using a hand to block the rising sun from your eyes.

"I know you're up there!" you shouted. "Don't bother trying to hide!"

Footsteps were heard and then there was Azriel, peering down at you from his perch on your roof. His annoyingly beautiful face was near unreadable, his hair in a bit of disarray like he'd ran his hand through it one too many times. Dark circles were underneath his hazel eyes and those familiar shadows were whirling around him.

"Why are you on my roof?" You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Good morning, Y/n," Azriel said, his voice low and husky from disuse through the night. "I've been keeping watch. I wanted to make sure none of those males would bother you again."

"I already told you I don't need or want your help, Shadowsinger! Now get the fuck off my roof," you snarled at him. You didn't want him here. You didn't want his stupid shadows near you or Suri either. Besides, since when did he care what happened to you or any other Illyrian females? He had turned his back on his own people the day he ran off to the High Lord's perfect little city, pretending like he wasn't one of you, wasn't Illyrian.

Easy for him. He was a male that could get siphons to use his powers correctly, a male who hadn't been forced down and clipped. He could fly wherever he wanted, go wherever he wanted. He had money and resources you wouldn't even bother dreaming for. Azriel could wipe his hands clean and pretend like he hadn't been born in these mountains and hadn't left anyone behind to suffer when he left.

It was one thing to escape this brutalizing, barbaric way of living. It was another to gain power and influence within the court and not bother to help your own people. Azriel was a traitor and he could go to hell for all you cared.

You hated him for it. Hated him and all of his friends. Hated the High Lord and Lady who did little to help anyone here. Hated the General for leading your father to his death in the war. You hated them all.

Azriel let out a quiet sigh. "I know you don't need my help, but I... I can't just leave knowing those males might come back and hurt you again. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it."

"I don't care about your stupid promises," you bit back. "Get off my roof and go home, Azriel. You're not wanted here."

"I know you hate me and I know we've all let you down," Azriel replied, guilt shimmering in his eyes. "I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to you, Y/n. I promise."

"Again with the promises! Your words mean nothing to me," you grumbled, tossing your hands in the air. "I don't have time for this. You know what? You want to spend all of eternity sitting on my roof, you go ahead! But I would really appreciate it if you would just fuck off!"

You didn't bother waiting for his response, storming back into your house and slamming the door shut behind you.

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A week went by and Azriel kept watch over you the entire time. Every day you would walk outside and peer up at the roof to see him perched there, oftentimes twirling his dagger in his hand lazily. He'd give you a small smile that looked more like a grimace and you'd roll your eyes and go back inside.

You hated that some part of you did feel better knowing he was there. You knew his reputation and you knew none of the males in this camp would bother you as long as he was there. But it still infuriated you to see his face every morning. To see him shake the snow off his wings. To see him glare down at everyone in your camp like you were all beneath him.

You especially hated how much Suri had come to love his shadows, always chasing them down the hallways of the cabin. You just wanted him gone.

And it seemed like you got your wish two weeks later.

It was nighttime, the house quiet now that you'd coaxed Suri into going to bed. You were getting ready for bed yourself, dressed in a nightgown and putting out the fire when a series of soft knocks caught your attention. You frowned, pausing to look at the door. Who would be coming by at this time? Certainly no one good.

You were debating on ignoring it when a dark shadow whisked its way underneath the door.

"Y/n," Azriel called out. "It's just me."

You rolled your eyes and opened your door, knowing he wouldn't leave until you did so.

"What?" You eyed him, taking in his disheveled appearance. You wondered how he survived spending the night in the snow. Just the small draft that came in from opening the door had you shivering. You hugged yourself, your hair blowing gently in the ice cold breeze.

Azriel seemed at a loss for words for a second, his eyes roaming down your body before he met your gaze. His cheeks turned a bit pink as you raised an eyebrow at him. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the motion.

"I need to leave for a few days," Azriel finally said. "The High Lord is sending me on a small mission. I...I would feel a lot better if you'd let me take you and your sister somewhere else while I'm gone. I can set the two of you up in a nice inn or tavern in Velaris. Or you could stay at my personal residence. Just for a few days."

You stared at him utterly perplexed. "You're...you're joking, right?"

He shook his head looking dead serious. "No, Y/n, I'm not. I worry what will happen if I'm not here to watch over you. Please, just...just let me help. It might be nice for Suri to take her to Velaris and let her see the city."

"You're out of your mind," you hissed. "I'm not leaving my house and certainly not with you. I already told you I don't need your help."

You went to shut the door but Azriel reached out and grabbed it before you could.

"Please, I just want to help—"

“Azriel, I have survived here on my own for the past two years since my father died in the war,” you growled. “You can't sit on my roof forever. If you truly wanted to fix things, you would've done so centuries ago. So just leave, Azriel. And don't bother coming back."

“I do care,” Azriel pleaded. “Please—”

"I am not leaving," you snapped. "I am not letting those stupid males run me from my own home. I don't know why you even care! And stop with the whole 'I promised you' thing. You don’t even know me!”

He opened his mouth to say something else but you slammed the door shut in his face. You locked the deadbolt before letting out a sigh.

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Azriel was worried. Worried and scared and angry. Worried that Silas and his goons would bother his mate while he was gone. Scared that they’d hurt her. And angry at just the thought of that. His chest ached as he thought about his mate and her clear hatred towards him. He couldn’t blame her for it. She was right. He had abandoned Illyria a long time ago.

But that needed to change. He needed that to change. Not just for his mate’s sake but for her sister, for Nyx, for all the females and children whose lives were awful because of the males in charge of all their camps.

She had been the wake up call he needed. He had the privilege of being a male in Illyria. He got to keep his wings. Got to work at having a different life then the one he was born into. His mate hadn’t had those opportunities. She was flightless, stuck to the ground and stuck in her miserable camp.

Azriel wanted nothing more than to just grab her and her sister and get them far away from Illyria. To bring them to his apartment in Velaris where he could take care of them, could keep them safe.

But his mate didn’t trust him.

He would do anything to prove himself to her. Prove that he did care for her and all the other Illyrian females. No matter how much hate he was met with, he’d keep crawling back until he earned her forgiveness and a chance to give her a better life.

She deserved that more than anything. Not just because she was his mate but because she had been so strong all these years, standing up to males twice her size and keeping her sister’s wings from being mutilated like hers had been. She didn’t choose to be Illyrian anymore than he did.

And Gods, he wanted her to stop hating him. He wanted her to give him a chance. Just one chance to show her what she truly deserved. He had learned so much about her by just watching her this week and he knew that no other female would come close to capturing his heart and attention the way she had in just that short span of time he’d known her.

Azriel knew he didn’t deserve her or her forgiveness. He knew she was too good for him. Too beautiful, too pure of heart. He could see that just by the way she took care of her sister and the other females in her village, despite the torment it brought her from the males.

He let out a sigh, his eyes still locked on the camp of Autumn Soldiers. He was doing a reconnaissance mission. Beron was up to something again and these soldiers had been spotted on the coast.

It had been two days since he left his mate and so far, nothing had been unknowingly sent down the bond except for her normal moods she fluctuated with during the day.

He just needed to finish this mission and rush back to Velaris to drop off his report to Rhysand before he could get back to her. He normally liked to take his time on his missions but this was quite possibly the first time he ever had a want to get back faster. He was hoping to sneak into the River House and set his report on Rhys's desk without seeing anyone. He'd been ignoring and skipping family dinners for the past week and knew they'd have a lot to say about it.

Azriel faltered as a wave of fear crashed through him. No, not fear. Terror. Unbridled terror and then pain. He sucked in a breath, nearly falling from the tree he was perched in. He was frozen for a second before he realized what was happening---his mate was in danger.

It took him less than a second to decide to abandon the mission and shadow all the way back to the Illyrian mountains. Azriel let out a curse when he stepped out of the shadows in front of his mate's cabin to see it covered in flames. Someone had set it on fire and it was quickly crumbling under the flames. His heart was beating in his chest as he strained his ears to make sure no one was inside.

But then the most heart-stopping, chill inducing sound was heard ringing through the camp.

His mate's screams.

He sprinted towards the sound, his boots pounding against the cold hard ground. It led him to the town center where a crowd had formed, males hollering and shouting encouragement at whatever was happening.

Azriel pushed his way through the crowd, shoving aside male after male until he reached the front. His heart dropped in his stomach as he beheld what was happening before him.

His mate on her knees, holding up the tatters of her shirt to maintain her dignity. Silas standing behind with a whip in hand, raising it in the air again. Blood all over the white snow around his mate, staining it red. Tear streaks running down his mate's face, her beautiful face pale and twisted in pain. One of Silas's commanders holding a crying and screaming Suri, her tiny fists pounding on his chest.

Azriel wished he knew what happened next. Wished he had this memory to look back on whenever he remembered the rage he felt. But one second he was standing there staring at his mate in horror and the next second, he was surrounded by dead bodies with Truth-teller in his hand dripping with blood. The camp had fallen silent and his ears were ringing, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

Suri had been dropped in the chaos and had rushed towards her sister, throwing her small arms around her neck as she sobbed.

And his mate.

His beautiful mate was staring right at him, eyes wide from witnessing the carnage he had just unleashed in this camp. Silas laid dead behind her, his shadows still ravaging his body. Slit throats, broken necks on all the other males that laid dead at his feet. But his mate was looking at him.

Azriel took a step towards her, watching her carefully as she weakly wrapped an arm around her sister's body while her eyes never left his. And he knew the mating bond had just snapped for her, could see the realization in her eyes.

"N-no," she stammered out, her voice cracking. "No. Not you. Not...Not you! Anyone but you!"

Azriel could feel her dread pouring down the bond amidst the pain and terror she felt. He felt his heart crack in his chest, heard his shadows wailing as they too felt her pain and sorrow.

But his broken heart at finding his mate and hearing that she didn't want him was not important in this moment. Not as his mate's eyes rolled to the back of her head and she slumped to the ground.

Azriel rushed forward, scooping both his unconscious mate in his arms and her crying sister before disappearing in a whirl of screaming shadows.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #illyrian #illyrians

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almostfoxglove · 3 months ago

Text

GOING DOWN

an I'LL CARRY YOU one shot

written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.3k TROPE: #14 Trapped in an elevator CW: Claustrophobia, description of a panic attack, excessive alcohol consumption, characters kiss while very drunk but they're in love and desperately down, so much yearning.

SUMMARY: You and Javier get stuck in an elevator after a New Years party.

Takes place within the timeline of part II (characters are 25) - I recommend reading the first and second installments for these characters to make sense (so sorry).

READ GOING DOWN ON AO3.

part I & II | series masterlist | series on ao3 | main masterlist

Tonight the moon hangs like a cardboard set piece painted in icy blues. The whole sky awash with strange and opaque cover, giving the streets of Laredo a backdrop befitting the theatrics of one year’s death and another year’s birth. Probably won’t see the fireworks with all these clouds, but you don’t mind. Not when you’re already three shots deep—still yet to make it to the party—with Javier leaning against you on the sidewalk. “Should wear sequins more often,” he smirks, his breath sparkling against your cheek, carbonating the air. “Suits you.”

You roll your eyes, knock your elbow into his ribs, and send him stumbling a few steps back as you stride ahead, hands quickly skirting down the front of your dress. Hopeless, really. Even if the breeze were to settle, there’s no way you don’t accidentally flash someone tonight. No way you haven’t flashed half the people the two of you have wandered past already, staring up at each brooding apartment tower trying to make sense of the shadowed building numbers in the dark.

You’re getting closer now, you think. Just a block or so to go.

“Cabrón,” you chide, as Javier jogs up to fall into step with you again. Those long legs—always agile, strutting around like some loose-hipped wildcat. You can huff and speed-walk all you like, but there’s no world in which he doesn’t catch up with that smirk haunting the corner of your eye. That flint that hisses in his gaze, the spark before a fire. Twenty-five, the new year looming. Dressed up for some party neither of you care enough about to show up on time for, forget trying to remember the name of who’s hosting. Someone from college. Who knows. All that matters is the glimmer of it all: a whole night of liquor and music and clothes you’d never wear anyplace else and Javier—Javier, right here, choosing you all night.

A frog for a heart, you croak at the thought. One part guilt and another terror: how glad you are that Lorraine is off in Houston for the holidays, leaving him with no one to celebrate with but you.

But the real trouble isn’t guilt or fear—the trouble is that he doesn’t look troubled. He doesn’t look like his girlfriend isn’t here, like he’s missing anyone. Doesn’t look the slightest bit disappointed to be wandering around the city all night with you.

Sighing, Javier exhumes two cigarettes from his jacket pocket—a blazer you found at a thrift store together that fits him villainously, so snug in the shoulders—and pinches both filters between his lips to light from the cup of his hand and his wheezing lighter. You cross your arms, feigning that your attention is pinned solely on the passing buildings that slap down the long shadows through which you stride, and wait for him to hold one out to you.

He smirks as you take it, his smooth cheeks hollowing with a drag. He’s started to grow a mustache and it still looks silly to you, that dark slash across his cupid’s bow that seven years ago he let you kiss. It’ll suit him in a matter of weeks. In a matter of months, you’ll no longer remember what his face was like without it. Or you will, but you wouldn’t ever choose to go back.

“Told you we went too far, baby,” Javier says now, watching as you take your first long breath, kissing lipstick to the filter graced first by his mouth.

You shake your head, slip the cigarette to your hand, and point it at the crosswalk up ahead. “S’that one,” you tell him, blowing smoke from the corner of your mouth.

Without needing to say, you fall into make-believe—some echo of being children together, a habit neither of you care to kick—and at the stoop of the apartment building Javier swoops around you, cigarette clinging to his bottom lip, and yanks open the glassy front door with a little bow. “After you,” he smirks, his dark eyes slinking to your bare legs as you pass.

“Qué caballero,” you reply.

Gold light in the lobby, a doorman standing guard behind a matte black desk. The elevator slips down to greet you with a graceful whoosh.

Javier whistles as you thumb the topmost button. Penthouse. “Fancy,” he says.

“Parents must be rich,” you agree.

He’s beautiful, like always. Cheeks blushing from the brisk night air. An eternity of him reflects in the glossy elevator mirrors as you rise—a long queue of his blazered shoulders, his throat bobbing as he swallows, his wide hand passing the cigarette back to his lips. Between you, fronds of smoke rise like the spines of ferns. A forest of your indulgence, the way you pretend. It’s not invisible, how he watches you with interest, hardly bothering to hide the glimpses he claims of your hips, your collarbones, the straps balanced on your shoulders. The pain of your friendship is not that Javier doesn’t see you—it’s that he does. Always has, from the very first day.

It’s that he sees you, and doesn’t want you.

You aren’t Lorraine.

Now his brows pinch together, forming that worried bracket above his nose. It feels as if you’ve been rising for hours, but that could be the liquor sponging things, making them blur. Minutes and hours that too easily appear the same. “Tell me,” he says, reading you. Around him, the mermaid-color of your dress sparkles, drags out in the infinite reflections, but you can never see your own face—the angle is wrong—so you don’t know what you look like to him. How worried, how afraid, how convincing.

A grin for him alone, the private kind. Your lips pulling at one corner as you drink down smoke with a nod. “Don’t think I’m drunk enough,” you admit, and Javier huffs softly, shaking his head in disbelief.

Just as the elevator pings, its silver door sweeping open in welcome, he glides up to hang one long arm around your neck, pulling you against his chest as you walk out into the party. There’s that hearth, that home which you’d know in any dark: a smell that has over the years imprinted itself onto your very bones—cigarette smoke and skin, the bergamot in his cologne. Javier nudges his lips against your temple, the still sharp prickle of his mustache scraping your skin, and mumbles, “We’ll fix it.”

He almost never lies to you and this is no exception. The party—already knee-deep into raucous chaos in your absence—is electric inside, a hive of buzzing streamers and proud balloons doomed to wilt by morning. Everywhere are dresses like yours, sequins and sparkles and slashes at the leg, but no one looks like Javier. There’s no competition, never has been. Every other man here in a nice shirt is just some guy you forget between shots and glasses of champagne.

Several of which you and Javier drink, always from just one glass. The mark of his lips melding with the mark of yours on a plastic flute. Not once all night does he wander off and leave you on your own; there is always something of his somewhere on you. A hand brushing stray locks behind your ear, his bicep settling against yours as you rest against the kitchen island, a palm laid over your spine when he leans in to hear you over the party’s din. Briefly he’ll entertain conversation with someone if they approach—the host of the party with glitter on her cheeks; someone’s cousin who’s heard all about him, somehow; a pretty thing from his psychology class—but never with his full attention and never for long.

Soon the drinks shimmer in your bodies—and yes, you feel it too in his. Like you share just one sometimes, like a cigarette.

“Come, cariño,” Javier says, two songs from midnight.

Fixed like he promised, you feel just drunk enough to let him whirl you into the crowded living room where two walls open onto balconies that look out over the wintered city. There’s that blue moon again, no less barren than usual at its outpost in the sky but somehow painted, you think, dressed up for the occasion. Then Javier pulls you against him, hips already swaying, his forehead damp against yours as you start to dance, and all thoughts of the world beyond him evaporate.

Though you’re a terrible dancer—every bit as left-footed as he is lithe—it feels as if the parquet floor is a sheet of ice on which you skate, never faltering nor in danger of falling so long as you can feel his hands. “See?” comes his voice, the press of his lips to your ear over the caw of music pulsing from the walls. “You’re not so bad.”

His eyes crinkling at the corners when the hand at your back presses you closer, presses you against him: a change in choreography he makes no announcement for, but you don’t mind. You can press your cheek against his collarbone like this, nose notched against his throat, and breathe him in. Imagining he’s yours as the crowd chants its countdown—riotous in its build and yet you’d swear that you’re alone. That it’s just you and him, this body you know so well.

“Must be drunker than you look, baby,” you reply, grinning mostly to his chest, one hand drawing lazy patterns over the nape of his neck and the other planted over his speeding heart, beneath his. Your voice sluggish, drowsy. You’re drunker than you look, too.

Why else would you touch him like this, where people can see. People that for all you know, know Lorraine.

Javier’s chest shakes with a laugh you can’t quite hear over the sudden thunder of fireworks disrupting the sky. Neither of you look up for midnight; you don’t kiss. You just sway and sway and pretend until he ghosts his lips over the top of your head, mumbling let’s go home into your hair.

Something he’s said a thousand times before, somehow transformed. To your champagne-stained ears, it sounds brand new.

A thief in those sinful slacks, thighs rigid beneath their taper, Javier takes your hand and winds you between strangers, snatching an opened bottle of champagne off a table without breaking his easy stride. Somehow the elevator appears in an instant, as if it’s waited all night for the two of you to slip out early. Javier smacks the lobby button and the door slinks closed, muffling the cries for a newborn year as he tips the champagne bottle to his lips. A slug of liquid crystal slipping from the corner of his mouth, over the curve of his chin, down the slope of his neck.

How you long to lick it from his skin. To redo that night in your dorm room seven years ago, show him how much better you are now. How much more you want him.

But you’ll compromise; you always do. You settle for taking the bottle and swigging your share of the gold. As you swallow, chin tilted to watch the floor number shrink above the buttoned panel, the light in the elevator flickers, but you write it off as a long, drunken blink.

Javier bristles beside you. “Did you feel—” he starts to say, cut off by a groan in the walls, a sudden stutter.

The glossy elevator buckets in an instant. Your stomach flips like you’re going to be sick. You’re not sure exactly how it happens, but your eyes slam shut and the heat of his body clamps over yours like a shield in the darkness, one hand holding your head in the safe hollow of his neck as you plummet.

You think you might scream.

Then with a jolt the world comes to a screeching halt. The elevator stills and you open your eyes, lashes fluttering against Javier’s skin. The moment he feels you move, both his hands cradle your face, his pupils blown black by fear. “Are you—shit, are you okay?” he asks, his voice scrubbed hoarse. Maybe he was the one who screamed. Maybe you’re not sure whose body you felt that in.

Nodding, you swallow. “Are you?”

He nods. “Think—” voice gone again as he cranes over one shoulder, refusing to let go of your face. “Think we’re stuck.”

Your eyes round, owlish in their panic. Not panic for you, though.

Panic for him.

Already his hands have begun to stutter on your cheeks. Not pulling away, only trembling—the first shivers before a quake. “Hey, hey, baby,” you say quickly, letting the champagne bottle drop from your hand to pull his face back to yours until you’re mirrors of each other: two sets of hands framing two sets of cheeks. “Just look at me. It’s gonna—gonna move soon.”

You have no idea if the bottle shattered when it hit the floor, but neither of you dare look down.

Because Javier is a child again, regressing years in a second, terror black and leaking in his eyes. You know what he’s thinking about, what he’s remembering: sixth grade, brand new to your elementary hallways. How you once found him shut away in someone’s locker at recess—screaming his throat raw and bloody while everyone played outside, fists pummeling the inside of the metal door—still new enough at school to draw attention. You’d had to kick the lock to break him free, and he’d collapsed in a wheeze of panic at your feet, one hand coming out to grab your ankle in sheer desperation, his body curled tiny and terrified.

That might as well have been yesterday. That’s how clearly you remember what it felt like to fall to the hallway floor and drag him into your arms until he could breathe. No one ever messed with him again, and you still don’t know who did it. Javier’s never been a snitch unless it does someone good, and telling you wouldn’t have done him anything.

Was it that moment that started everything? This thing that you have that you can’t replicate.

You can’t really say.

Now you feel Javier’s heart slamming against his ribs as if it’s slamming against yours. You’ve wondered if anyone else ever feels this connected to someone—so entwined that their fear can poison your veins. That their heart can beat in your chest.

You’ve wondered if you’ll ever feel it with anyone else.

You’ve wondered if he feels it with Lorraine.

“Just look at me,” you say again, as Javier’s chest begins to rabbit. Thumbs softly stroking his cheeks as he stands against you, looking down with his lips dropped open in his daze. The railing on the elevator wall biting into the small of your back. “Just look at me, it’s okay.”

His next inhale comes in a gasp, shattered and glassy. Letting his forehead drop against yours, Javier blinks and blinks and blinks with no brown left in his eyes. The champagne is making this harder—the act of being steady—but you do your best to claw back his swelling alarm. This little box, however glossy and infinite in its reflections, must feel like a coffin to him, like a locker. Something smaller than a tomb.

“Baby, it’s gonna move, okay? Gonna move soon I promise, just breathe, Javi baby, just breathe—”

Every shudder in him rips a chasm through you.

Is this even helping, you wonder, or is this hurting.

Maybe you aren’t the comfort to him that he is to you.

Meanwhile the elevator stays exactly where it is, suspended somewhere between two floors. Who knows how long he’s gonna have to wait for someone to kick you both free. How hideous a thing it is to watch his once warm eyes go timorous and cold, his grip tightening on your face.

You’re drunk. You don’t know the right thing to do, so you do the first thing that comes to you—the thing you hope might make him hold his breath long enough to snare it—and bull your mouth against his. A crash of lips and teeth punched between two gasps in which you scramble to wind your arms around his shoulders, pressing the whole of your body against him in some desperate, besotted ploy for his salvation.

You’re breaking a promise. One time—that’s what he’d said in freshman year, but here you are kissing him again.

The way he takes to you would bowl you over if this were any other place, any other time. If you were sober. Instead it comes heaven-sent and unquestioned, a whole-body relief: the way Javier’s arms snap around your ribs and waist and crush you to him, pinning you to the wall.

It is a fever dream, a plague—the touch of death. How seven years gone it is still, amidst his panic, the best anyone has ever kissed you. All champagne and his sweet mouth, the shudder of his breath as he matches it to yours.

“It’s okay,” you mumble to him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes that are—in the dim light of the elevator—still two tunnels into child-like dread.

You thumb his cheeks, his chin, his stupid mustache, and Javier shakes his head. “M’drunk,” he says, closing his eyes.

“I know, baby. Me too.”

“M’not gonna—” a short gasp, the kindling building again. “Don’t think m’gonna remember this.”

What else is there to do but nod? He’s right, after all—that’s the feeling you have. That when the elevator moves and you’re back on earth again, stumbled or taxied back to his or your apartment, that daylight will swallow this away. The new sun will rise and this will vanish. You won’t remember kissing. He won’t remember the panic, the elevator stopping. It’ll just be hangovers the way you’ve always done them—cheap coffee and greasy hashbrowns and cigarettes, Javier’s head on your lap or on your chest all day in bed, your hand in his unruly, bed-swept hair. All of this forgotten.

Or you will forget, at least.

Javier will remember—though not at first. Not for a while. It’ll take him a whole year, in fact, to recall this moment. Next New Year’s Eve, he’ll be in The Last Man Standing with Lorraine on his arm and she’ll look up at him just before the sweaty patrons cry HAPPY NEW YEAR— all Texas sunshine and everything he oughta want in the palm of his hand.

And in the last moment before she leans in, Javier will look out beyond her shoulder and catch your eye across the bar by what he’ll tell himself is an accident. You’ll be working, handing tequila sours to some dumbfuck who doesn’t have a shot in hell with you but is gonna slip his number to you anyway, and like you can feel him watching you’ll look up and stop Javier’s heart. It’ll come back in fragments, sure. But there’ll be no fighting it. You in that sequinned dress that made Javier feel like the whole world fucking flipped the second he saw it, scratching your fingernails through his hair and saying,

“It’s okay, I know, just kiss me, baby. Just breathe with me, and it’s gonna move soon. It’s okay.”

And kissing you in an instant, his whole body stammering until your tongue tastes his—then the elevator that just moments ago was pinching in triples in size. Everything, even the shake of his lungs falls quiet, and all that matters in the whole world is you kissing him like you’re saving his life.

You were. Saving him, that is. He’ll recall too a glance at his watch when you at last stepped out onto the barren street at twenty three past midnight. That’s how long you kissed him—twenty-three minutes—without break or pause or falter, without asking for a breath. Just because he needed it, and you knew. Because you saw.

Yes, he’ll remember just before Lorraine kisses him at the last tear of the calendar, and you’ll just smile behind your bar in that black apron, already busy serving up your next half-mixed cocktail, clueless to the year before.

And Javier will lie to you, just this once, when he takes it to his grave.

dividers by @thecutestgrotto - tag list & some mutuals!

@pedritosgfreal @thundermartini @guiltyasdave @jolapeno @reluctanthalfwayoptimism

@myownwholewildworld @sunnytuliptime @indiegirlunited @anoverwhelmingdin @beezusvreeland

@perotovar @pedgito @harriedandharassed @casssiopeia @sweetpascal

@noisynightmarepoetry @pedritosgfreal @theoraekenslover @luxurychristmaspudding @kyberblade

@itsokbbygrl @wannab-urs @milla-frenchy @yopossum @encasedinobsidian

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena narcos #javier pena x you #javier peña x reader #javier pena fanfic #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #roll a trope challenge #almostfoxglove #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #myfics #series: illcarryyou #fic: goingdown

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