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A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs — Part Two

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: After a family dinner leaves him feeling more alone than comforted, Azriel finds himself at your shop once more. He's unsure why he’s come again—only that something in him, and in his shadows, is drawn to you.

Warnings: some self-deprecation, envy, loneliness, insomnia, fluff, fun, deep introspection, az and his relationship with his shadows

Word Count: 4.3k

Part One | Series Masterlist |

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Step Two: Learn the Language of the Dark

Sleep does not come when called, nor does it linger where it feels watched. It prefers to arrive unnoticed, slipping in through the cracks of an unguarded mind. If you search for it too directly, you may find it has disappeared entirely.

The trick is patience. Let the dark settle. Listen to the quiet things—the crackling of a fire, the rhythm of your own breathing, the steady pulse of something unseen. Do not demand sleep’s presence. Let it believe it has found you first.

— (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 27)

Azriel tried his best to control himself.

Truly— he did. But a few nights later, around half past two, Az found himself outside of your shop once more.

He hadn’t planned to come here. Had told himself he wouldn’t. But the moment he left the River House, he knew he wouldn’t be going home. He couldn’t bring himself to. He knew that tonight, even more than usual, the townhome would feel like a mausoleum. A place for something long dead. And he would be the only ghost haunting it.

Family dinner had been nice. Better than he’d expected. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them all until he was sitting at the table, feeling that familiar warmth and laughter fill the space. Their happiness made him happy. Being surrounded by them should’ve been enough. And for a little while, it was.

But Azriel had never been good at enough.

Even as he sat there, listening, speaking when prompted, he could feel it creeping in—that itch under his skin, the restless, bitter twist of something ugly. He’d wanted to stay. He’d wanted to soak in their presence, as if he could steal a little of their light and make it his own. And yet, the longer he sat there, the more he wanted to bolt. Like some feral thing backed into a corner, too proud to ask for space but too tired to keep pretending.

After dinner, his shadows had heard Nesta. Had curled around the sound of her voice, quiet and careful as she asked Feyre how she did it—how she managed being a mother. He pulled them back before they could hear more. Before the words could break and he’d hear an admission of fear that wasn’t intended for his ears.

Azriel left the room, but the next was no better. Mor and Emerie were huddled near the bassinet, soft laughter between them, cooing at the newest addition to the family—Wren, all dark hair and violet eyes, bright and powerful, just like her father’s. Rhys was in the room next door, speaking in that same hushed tone Feyre had used, Cassian listening just as carefully. Family planning. Words of advice from one parent to another one, soon-to-be.

Azriel stood there, staring at them, feeling like something separate. Something apart.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he couldn’t just be happy for them without feeling like he was standing in the cold, pressing his palm to a window, watching something he could never touch. Selfish, for letting his own misery take up so much space in his chest when he should’ve just enjoyed the evening.

It was his own fault, anyway. His own doing.

So he left.

He had been too tired—too sleepless—to fight the urge to go somewhere else. He let his shadows lead him through the streets, through the hush of Velaris at night, until they curled around the door of your shop.

The bell above the door chimed as Azriel stepped inside. A soft, lilting sound, delicate against the quiet. He stilled beneath it, looking up, his shadows stirring at the noise. The brass caught the low glow of candlelight, swaying gently from where it had been fastened to the frame.

“It’s new."

Your voice brought his attention back down. You stood behind the counter, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hair barely held together with a crooked pin, as if you'd meant to fix it but got distracted. There was something easy about the way you smiled—amused, but not unkind.

“It was a gift, I think," you said, glancing up at it. “Someone left it outside.”

Azriel knew that. He was the one who left it there. A gift, in theory. A selfish comfort in truth. A bell above the door made it safer for you. And if it gave him even a fraction of peace, knowing you’d loudly hear should anyone come inside, well—he wouldn’t think too hard about that. A wisp of shadow curled toward you, drawn by what Azriel could only assume was the warmth in your voice, before he managed to reign it back in.

He cleared his throat. “It's nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Company.

But Azriel didn’t say that.

“Another candle,” he said instead. “The one you gave me last time.”

Your brows lifted, something flickering behind your gaze—curiosity, maybe. “Are you starting a collection?”

He held your gaze. “It's all gone. I loved it that much.”

A slow tilt of your head. A look that said you didn’t believe him. But you smiled anyway, making your way around the counter. “Okay. I have some new ones as well, if you’d like to try them?”

Azriel nodded in agreement and you guided him through the shop, showing him the new additions to your collection. He noticed all the subtle changes in arrangement since the last time he’d been here—the way the dried herbs hanging from the rafters had shifted, a new assortment of small trinkets tucked near the register, the faintest scent of something floral and unfamiliar woven into the air.

You excused yourself momentarily to greet a few customers, welcoming them inside with the same gentle ease you had with him. Azriel, left to his own devices, felt a brief temptation to slip away. Not out of disinterest, but guilt. He was taking up your time, and despite the comfort of your presence, he knew better than to linger where he wasn’t wanted.

His shadows disagreed. They remained close, lingering in the pockets of candlelit corners, curling against the floorboards like smoke. One drifted toward the counter where you stood, its edges flickering as if continuously reaching for you. Surely, if there had been any signs of discomfort that Az had missed, his shadows would have alerted him. They hadn’t. The only murmurings they’d offered him were small observations, whispers about you and your creations.

Besides, you didn’t seem like the type of fae to entertain something you weren’t invested in. If he was overstaying his welcome, he was sure you’d let him know.

It wasn’t like he was wasting your time.

Azriel planned on buying as many candles as you’d let him. To make up for the free one you’d given him and to pay, without you even knowing, for the pleasure of your company. Which, now that it was voiced in his mind, sounded a lot more strange than he anticipated.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. His wings shifted slightly behind him, careful not to knock over anything fragile. He’d been so focused on the small, grounding motions—keeping his hands from brushing against too many things, keeping his wings tucked, keeping himself small—that he hadn’t noticed anything else.

“Oh,” you murmured, glancing toward the front window. “It’s storming.”

Azriel looked up, following your gaze. The sky had darkened, thick clouds swirling low over the city, and a soft, rhythmic patter of rain had begun to tap against the glass. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

You looked at him.

He didn’t know why, but something about the way your expression shifted made his throat feel tight. He could see you thinking, watch the thought settle behind your eyes before you voiced it aloud.

“Nights like these are a rare occurrence for me.”

Azriel blinked. “How so?”

You gave him a smile—small, slightly lopsided. Then, without answering, you brushed past him, moving toward the entrance of the shop. Azriel didn’t mean to indulge, but he did, just slightly, inhaling your scent as it breezed past him. It settled somewhere deep inside him. He hadn’t realized a smell could do that—that it could sink into him like a tangible thing.

He watched as you flipped the wooden sign on your door, turning the lock with a quiet click.

“I close,” you said, spinning back to face him. “And I work in the back.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you tilted your head toward the doorway leading deeper into the shop and started walking. You didn’t look back as you called, “Are you coming?”

Azriel hesitated.

He had already been forming the words to excuse himself, to say something polite but firm— Oh, no, it’s—

But he stopped.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Come on,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You can’t leave in this weather.”

Azriel had traveled in much worse conditions—in blizzards so thick they stole the breath from his lungs, in hailstorms that left bruises even on his wings. A normal Velaris rainstorm was nothing to him. If anything, it was comforting. Familiar.

But he didn’t tell you that.

Instead, he exhaled, glancing once more at the window, at the downpour streaking against the glass.

And then—

“Alright,” he said. The shadows at his feet swirled, shifting toward the doorway, clearly happy with his choice. He could practically feel their pleased chattering, the happy vibrations they sometimes created.

You gave a small, satisfied nod before turning on your heel and disappearing into the back room. Azriel followed.

The space was different from the shop—warmer, lived-in. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of dried herbs, glass bottles filled with rich oils, and neatly arranged wicks. A long worktable sat in the center of the room, its surface covered in wax molds, candles in various stages of completion, and an array of handwritten notes scattered between them.

At the far end of the room, a narrow spiral staircase curled upward, disappearing out of sight. Azriel’s gaze lingered on it briefly. A way to your living space, he assumed.

You moved through the space with the same ease you had in the shop, lighting a few candles as you went, their soft glow adding a golden warmth to the dimming room. His own shadows shifted in response, mirroring the flickering dance of the candlelight. He hadn’t seen them so animated in a while. So playful, almost.

Azriel settled into a chair near the worktable, and exhaled slowly. It was nice, he realized. The quiet. The scent of wax and herbs. The gentle crackle of the wick as one of your candles burned.

For the first time all night, he felt no desire to flee.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The rain had only grown heavier, rattling against the windows as Azriel watched you work, cataloging each movement with a quiet, deep interest. His shadows coiled lazily at his shoulders, watching just as intently as he did. Every now and then, one of them would curl toward your hands, retreating just before it could brush your fingers.

Azriel had never given much thought to how candles were made, had never given much thought to candles at all, really. He was learning, however, that it was an intricate process—more than just wax and wick. There was something patient in the way you measured things, in the way your hands moved with an ease that could only come from repetition. It reminded him, strangely, of sharpening a blade.

“It has to be centered,” you explained, adjusting the wick with deft fingers. “Or it won’t burn evenly. And you don’t want the wax to cool too fast, or it’ll crack.”

He nodded, storing the information away.

The wax melted down into liquid gold, shimmering under the dim light. He recognized the stillness in your hands, the same kind he practiced when honing an edge to perfection—waiting for the right moment, for the right feeling. And then, just when it seemed right, you poured. The wax slid into the glass containers in smooth, curling ribbons, and Azriel swore it pulsed for a second before settling. Glowed. Just for a moment, he thought he saw the faintest shimmer at your fingertips, like embers beneath your skin.

Then came the oils. A few drops of something dark, something rich, something sharp. He watched them sink in, curling and shifting. “Some oils don’t mix easily,” you murmured, taking notice of his extreme focus on their movement. “You have to convince them.”

Azriel glanced at the tiny vials on the table, their labels handwritten in looping script. “Convince them?”

Some scents work together naturally. Others take some persuasion.” You tapped one of the vials. “Bergamot plays nice. Cinnamon is stubborn. If you add too much, it overwhelms everything else.”

That caught his interest. It felt familiar. The wrong amount of pressure could make or break a blade. Too much force, and steel became brittle. Too little, and it dulled before it ever truly became sharp. He stored the information away— another note added to the mental archive of things he was learning about you.

One of his shadows curled along his wrist, then flicked toward the bottles, hovering over them like it was considering. Another slithered across the table, weaving between the vials before retreating back into the folds of his wings. You traced their movements with a pointed gaze.

“They’re curious things, aren’t they?”

“It’s part of their nature,” Az offered, almost sheepishly.

“All things must have hobbies,” you hummed. “Do they ever sleep?”

His lips parted slightly. It wasn’t a question he’d ever been asked before.

They rested, yes. Pulled back into him like a tide receding from shore, still present but quieter, subdued. If that counted as sleep, then maybe. But Azriel didn’t know sleep well himself—had never been able to slip into it easily, to surrender the way others did. So who was he to define what sleep was, really?

"I think they rest," he said slowly. One of the shadows drifted toward you, stopping just shy of your fingers. Hovering, like it was waiting for permission. "But I don't know if it's sleep. I’m not sure I’ve been the best example. My habits aren’t exactly… restful."

The shadow between you wavered, flickering like a flame. The corners of your lips quirked, just slightly, in response. A small smile of enjoyment, maybe, Azriel thought. Of awe, his shadows confirmed.

Your gaze dropped to your hand, where a trail of dried wax clung to your fingers in pale, ridged streaks. You rubbed your thumb along one, absentmindedly, then turned your palm upward. Open. Still. An invitation, Azriel realized.

Then—slowly—they came.

They circled your hand like they were learning it—one loop, then another—before slipping gently around your fingers, brushing along your wrist. Like smoke, yes. But warmer. Almost reverent. As if they recognized something in you.

And for a moment, Azriel felt strangely vulnerable.

It was rare to see this—a core part of himself, his very being—so open with someone he barely knew. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? You were still, in many ways, a stranger. And yet… his shadows were drawn to you. He was drawn to you. That openness—they granted it freely. And Azriel, without even realizing, had let them.

No one ever really understood how deeply they were tied to him—how it wasn’t just power or convenience. It was identity. Intimacy. Letting them roam like this, show interest, was the closest thing to baring his chest and asking not to be wounded.

“They like you,” he said quietly.

Your head lifted. “With that tone,” you murmured, “I’m tempted to believe they don’t like many people.”

“They don’t.”

You blinked—just once—and he swore he saw something shift in your face. A flicker of surprise. Maybe even a hint of color across your cheeks. You looked down, almost shyly, as the shadows wound another lazy circle around your wrist.

You pulled your hand back slowly, and his shadows slipped away like they’d been summoned home—one vanishing into the curl of his wing, the other folding back beneath the table like a ripple disappearing into still water.

You cleared your throat. “So, what about you?”

Az blinked. “What about me?”

You smiled, just a little. “What does a Shadowsinger do for fun?” Then, with a slight tilt of your head, “Besides keep his shadows company?”

Azriel liked the wording you used.

There were times he felt… guilty about them. His shadows. As if he had trapped them in his orbit, as if they deserved more than to be tethered to him. They were brilliant creatures—strange and knowing in ways even he couldn’t fully understand—and they’d chosen to protect him. He used to wonder if they would have preferred someone kinder, someone softer. If they were ever disappointed by the male he had become.

But the way you said it—as though he was the one devoted to them, made him glow. Just a bit. Because he was. They were him. The best parts of him, he liked to think.

A lone tendril wrapped briefly around his wrist before retreating. A soothing motion— a silent reassurance. Azriel shook his head. “Not much.”

You nodded, as if that was answer enough. And maybe it was.

But as he sat there, watching the wax cool and the storm roll on outside, he wondered if he liked that answer at all.

Azriel wasn’t sure who he was if he wasn’t needed—wasn’t sure if he was anything at all.

He was a protector first and foremost. At least, he liked to think so. It was one of the only good things he could say about himself. That, and a brother. A son. A friend. Those were good titles, too. They gave him purpose.

He was a warrior, as well. That title was heavier, stained with blood he couldn’t always see but always felt— thick between his fingers, stuck beneath his nails. He was a Spymaster. He had duties, priorities, an expectation to shield his court from unseen threats. And that was what he was good at. He’d learned how to enjoy it, in some twisted way.

But it wasn’t like he had hobbies. Not really.

There were things he found joy in, once. Music, mostly. But he never indulged. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just another thing wrong with him, another flaw added to a list that never stopped growing.

Maybe it was because it felt wrong— felt wrong to have things that brought him joy and peace. Things he didn’t think he deserved.

Or maybe it was something else.

Azriel didn’t like being bad at things. He didn’t like falling short. If he wasn’t the best, what was the point? What was he worth? He wanted to prove to people he was worthy, strong. Important. And maybe, in some childish way, he was afraid of loving something he wasn’t perfect at. Afraid of failing at something that wasn’t life or death but still meant something. Afraid of finding something that was his and losing it anyway.

Because Azriel lost things. That was what he did.

It was why he was suspicious by nature, why he questioned every good thing that fell into his hands. His family never seemed to understand.

You’re not in that cell anymore, Az. It’s okay to let people in.

They didn’t get it. Not truly. Not even Mor.

Because Azriel was always in that cell. Every time things got hard, every time he fell into his bad habits again, he was there. Eight years old. Small and angry and afraid. A caged thing with no way out but violence.

That suspicion bled into everything. Even the idea of having something that was his. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself with it. What if he let his guard down? What if it made him weak? Distracted? What if someone he loved suffered for it?

But sitting across from you, watching the way your fingers brushed the rim of a cooling candle, Azriel let himself think—just for a moment—of the things he did enjoy. The things that could be his, even if he never let them be.

“I like to draw,” he said before he even registered the words.

You looked up, brows slightly raised. He blinked.

Then, quieter—like he had to ease himself into it—he added, “Sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You stopped, the candle in your hands forgotten as you looked at him. Really looked at him. And Azriel thought he could get used to this—the way you focused on him so intently, so openly, as if he were worth paying attention to. As if he weren’t something to be endured or feared, but something worth knowing.

“What got you into it?”

Azriel didn’t want to tell you the truth—that once his eyes had adjusted to the dark of his childhood cell, he’d learned to draw shapes in the dirt of the cement floor. That he’d sketch the things he wanted, as if bringing them to life in the dust could make them real. It started small—a circle for the sun, a smiley face, crude and uneven. But as the years dragged on, his drawings became more intricate, more desperate. They were the only thing in that cell he could control.

Later, when he was older, he’d picked it up again—not for his mind, exactly, but for his hands.

He’d spent years watching Rhysand and Cassian write with ease, moving ink across parchment like it was nothing, and he’d envied them. Envied the way their hands obeyed without hesitation. His had been ruined before he even had the chance. But Azriel couldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t. He’d forced himself to practice in the dead of night, scrawling his name over and over again until his fingers ached. Until he could hold a pen without his grip faltering.

And then, in rare, fleeting moments, he’d find himself drawing again. Not to prove anything. Not to fix what had been broken. Just to capture something. The slant of a roof from where he was perched. The outline of a hand, a face, a familiar silhouette lost in the crowd. Sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d feel something close to satisfaction. A flicker of something childlike and untainted.

And then, like always, he’d snuff it out.

“Just something I picked up,” Az finally answered.

“I’m jealous. I’m shit at drawing.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “That's why I don’t have a logo.”

Azriel exhaled something that might’ve been amusement. Not quite a laugh, but something close enough. He tucked that information away, curious as to why it made his mind perk up, why he suddenly had the urge to pick up a pen, to find a loose scrap of parchment.

“Well, I’m not any good.”

“That’s what the best of them say. I can tell you’re great.”

He frowned slightly. “How?”

“Your eyes,” you said simply. “The artistic ones always have lovely eyes.”

A blush crept up Azriel’s neck, settling at the tips of his ears. It had been a long time since something so simple had affected him like this.

He used to worry that he looked too much like his father—harsh lines and jagged edges, equal parts anger and spite. A face built for scowls, for war. But he had his mother’s eyes. He was grateful for that. Had always been. It was the one thing about himself he had never resented.

“I guess you’ll have to see,” he said, and the tone of his own voice caught him off guard. Lighter. Almost teasing. It was… flirty. More than he’d been in a while.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so at ease—why he let himself lean into it. It wasn’t that Azriel didn’t flirt; he did, though not as often now as he once had. And he was damned good at it. Even he could admit that.

But it was never like this.

Never with someone who could make him blush in return. Never in a moment that felt this close, this quiet. This real.

You raised an amused brow. “Does this mean you’re going to show me your work?”

Azriel gave you a gentle, half smile. A sweet thing that pulled at the small dimples on his cheek. “Maybe.”

Something glinted in your eyes. Something warm and gold, identical to the light Azriel had seen flow into the candle you’d made. “I can take a maybe,” you said.

Azriel stored that image of you away in his mind, too.

The rest of the night passed easily.

Azriel watched as you poured more wax, as you tested scents and told him about the customers that would take these candles home.

You turned it into a game, making him guess the notes of each scent. You smiled when he got it right, laughed in surprise when he was spot on about its name. It made him feel like a thief, stealing those moments—the way your eyes lit up, the way your grin tugged at your cheeks—and tucking them away like something precious. Like they weren’t his to have, but he’d take them anyway.

He didn’t tell you the truth. That after centuries of broken noses, scent was a muddled thing for him. That it wasn’t instinct or skill, but the creeping tendrils of his shadows coiling at your hands, ghosting over glass, whispering the answers to him. He had no plan on telling you, either. He was too enamored with the way you looked at him, too selfish to give it up.

The storm didn’t let up until the early hours of the morning, rain easing into mist as the sun crept over the horizon. Azriel didn’t leave until you unlocked the shop doors, until the first customer walked in as if on cue. And by the time he made his way home, breathing in the damp, earthy scent of a freshly washed world—a scent he knew without help—he realized he’d forgotten how lonely he’d felt before he stepped into your shop.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: me rising from the dead to give you a tender slow burn hehe. this series is lowk my stress reliever/my excuse to dig deep into az's mind. my energy has been nonexistent recently so hopefully this isn't ass

i hope everyone is doing amazing <3 love u mwuah

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