I only pray, don’t fall away from me (Oneshot, 3.5k words) 🤍💙
The world feels like it’s falling apart around you, but Azriel finally comes home and helps you hold all the pieces together.
Drink dry the river Lethe (Tattoo Artist!Azriel, Modern AU, Mini Series, Coming Soon)
Say yes to heaven (Oneshot, 1k words) 💖
You find the bed empty upon waking up. Bundled in your blanket, you head out to find Lucien and demand that he warm you up.
Would that I (Coming Soon)
Only if for a night (Coming Soon)
All I want (Oneshot, 4.4k words) 💙💖
When Nesta Archeron dropped into Cassian life with the cataclysmic force of silver wildfire, you took one look at them and knew you missed your chance. There’s no fighting against a mating bond. But that hasn’t stopped the memory of him from haunting you since.
Except there he is, decades later, just across the room, watching you watch him
Half algorithm, half deity (Mafia AU) 💙🔥
You try to date other people, but in truth you’ve only ever wanted Eris Vanserra.
Hunger (Vampire!Eris, Coming Soon)
After Eris Vanserra dethrones his father, peace between your two warring kingdoms is finally a possibility. The price, however, is your freedom.
@cheruib referencing someday I'll love ocean vuong by ocean vuong// ?// ?// @ashstfu // @flowerais-archive // ?// the orange by wendy cope// love in the heart of everything; the correspondence between vladimir mayakovsky & lili brik, 1915-1930// @stuckinapril // winnie the pooh by a.a. milne// on my own, niall horan// @shhhitsfine // niall.breen.comics on instagram// @selfhealingmoments
heyy, how are you?? i just wanted to say, i love you and your writing. you are one of the best people i have come across and i love you. if you ever feel bad about your writing, just know that only you can put that story out there so NEVER GIVE UP!! hehe okay bye ily 🤭😘
hello! Thank you so much for checking up on me 💙 I really do appreciate it. I hope life has been treating you kindly as well 🫂
I hate it when I talk wistfully about the ancient world and then people are like “you wouldn’t survive back then” yeah obviously I would die immediately but do you think achilles would be able to survive in the modern world if he had to send one polite email? no
paring: Suguru Geto x reader
summary: Prince Satoru Gojo sends his trusted general, and friend, across the kingdom to retrieve the girl who saved him when he was a boy. You loathe the idea of having your life uprooted on the whim of some faraway prince, and General Suguru Geto is determined to see through his prince's command, by whatever means.
word count: 4.7k
warnings: AFAB reader, more pining and angst, kissing, vaginal fingering, p in v unprotected because this is a medieval au
author's note: I am reading through the manga and enjoying knitting other characters into my story. Only 3 chapters to go!
Chapter VI - If I Am With You
With Mimiko gone, there was only the option to walk the day away, until you finally spotted the gold light pouring through the streets of Shiba, the early evening already thrumming with the combination of music and laughter. Suguru pushed through the noise, the saddle bags thrown over his shoulder and Nanako glinting from his backside. You followed after, holding onto your satchel, your stomach groaning at the savory smells of cooked goods and ale that was crisp in the autumn air.
The town was brimming from some celebration, and every room was booked for the night. Your steps grew heavy with the dull ache for a proper bath and a bed where you could sleep for a hundred years, when the name Kento Nanami mentioned entered your weary mind.
“Who is Yuki?”
There was the flicker of something that was tucked beneath his mastered stoicism, though the same rose tones flushed over–just as it did when her name was first spoken. It pulsed a curiosity anew that tugged at your heart, begging to ask him, but you remained silent. You noticed the shift in his demeanor when you came to the town’s border, a hesitation from Suguru and his eyes flitting over before carving inconvenient pathways through the crowds.
It was also the first time he had not directly addressed one of your questions. Instead, he paused and watched you for a moment, your exhaustion evident. Suguru sighed softly and reached for your hand.
The gesture swept away your mind, lost with how your palm fit within his, and you allowed the warmth of his touch to guide your steps. Together, you weaved through the festivities, pushing through under you came to a villa that was decorated with men and women, dressed in their finery, leering over the veranda bannister to tease the possible patrons drunkenly waltzing by.
You could feel the weight of their collective gaze turning to you and Suguru, a tittering excitement that could not be missed–the general has returned!
Your eyebrow arched at Suguru, but he would not look back at you.
He was watching the woman who walked out to greet the commotion, aglow under the manmade lights and wearing a rich, silk gown tailored to her athletic figure. Her manicured hands held an unlit kiseru, toying with it.
“Suguru Geto,” she said with a curl to her rosy lips, “you have been sorely missed.”
Yuki Tsukumo was the madame and the matriarch of Shiba. Her crown was her golden hair that spilled down her backside, cut to frame her heart shaped face. She seemed to lord over from the top steps, her eyes dancing over you both. “Have you come to celebrate?”
Suguru sighed again. “I admit, I was not even aware there was a reason to.” He did not balk under her gaze and his smirk returned. “The days have been lost to me.”
Another woman in red moved forward, lighting a match as Yuki pinched her fingers around the mouthpiece, her lips pulling a cloud of smoke. “Autumn has begun, or whatever excuse they wish to make so they can drink out in my streets.”
His eyes did not stray. “You will have to excuse us then, as we have been preoccupied by the command of my prince.”
“I was wondering if that was dealt with.” As she looked you over, you were determined to hold her gaze. “Are you the one Gojo has chosen? You have my sympathies.”
It seemed almost patronizing and her words burned through you, simmering to the tips of your ears. She stepped down, closer, unbothered by your silence, and looked back to Suguru. “Why are you here?”
“We need a place to stay tonight, Yuki,” he admitted.
“Oh Geto, as you can see, we are very busy,” she giggled, more smoke spilling, “but I am certain any one of my bawds would happily welcome you back into their bed.”
His jaw ticked, but his smirk remained. “We are only needing a place to rest for the night. Gojo is expecting us.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Very well,” and she clucked her tongue, a shift to command, looking over her shoulder with the wave of her hand to summon the woman in red, as well as a man you had not noticed before. She then began to list off instructions that sparked lift into her staff surrounding her.
The man was first to action, tall and fit, with a searing desperation to remain unseen amongst the whores surrounding him, but rapt to Yuki, his dark eyes only holding for her. “Choso,” –he brightened with his name– “be a dear and find the general a change of clothes.”
“I also want a bath prepared for each of my guests,” her rose eyes watched the flutter of girls dividing to tend to the task, before settling back onto the remaining woman; her attention drawled over Suguru, glossy. “I want you to escort her to the bathhouse and make sure the room has been readied by the time they have finished–forgive me, Geto, but I only have one room to spare.” Yuki smirked before she sharpened onto the woman’s scowl. “Don’t pout. It is unbecoming.”
Her dismissal set you in motion, pulling you inside the brothel and splitting from Suguru, his hand reluctant to let you go as Choso let him away. Your legs were numb to follow up the stairs, your mind whirling from the tobacco and the incense burning, from the words still echoing in your head–
You have been sorely missed.
You clutched onto your satchel, walking up the staircase that curved around. The woman you followed was busty with a voluptuous spill from her dress. Her hooded eyes cast over the railing, admiring Suguru and Choso as they walked away, before her gaze settled onto you, her grin cutting through on her painted lips.
“The general is just as handsome as I remember him,” she began, her tone dripping with implication. “Do you not agree?”
Of course you did–it was written plain across your face for anyone to see. Your gait shifted to match her slowed-down pace, an unease prickling your skin as her eyes continued to flit over you. “He has filled out some from what I remember. More definition,” she continued with her coy sneer. “I wonder, is he still just as insatiable?”
“I–” you swallowed and it clawed down your throat. “He and I… we are not together in that way.”
You were aware of the differences between his life and your own, but it was now something that was palpable, perfumed, in front of you and you were choking on it. She had you pinned as a simpleton from the north, dressed in rags and swept away with the fantasy of General Suguru Geto because of how your hands interlaced with his.
Stupid, you blinked, desperate to keep your tears from falling.
“Oh, my mistake,” she continued her feign sincerity that raked through you “I had only assumed, but perhaps I should try and persuade him to my bed, allowing you the room to yourself?”
The favor offered left you raw, flustered, unable to respond, but thankfully a door opened to see the girls from before filling a porcelain tub. A rich aroma wafted through the air of rose and lavender and eucalyptus, grounding you.
“You may do whatever you wish.” Your words were tight, and you pushed past her, stepping through the door.
They moved to leave you alone; you tore away your tattered clothes to disappear into the milk bath, slipping beneath the petals floating above for a scream that bubbled to the surface.
Simpleton or not, you held no aversion to sex but understood that whatever traffic came through your small village could not compare to the promiscuity that seemed well known of General Suguru Geto. That thought did not bother you–in truth, you loathed how it enticed you further–but what gnawed through your bones to drag your heavy heart into the pit of your stomach was the realization of the abyss that existed between your worlds.
That you could never satisfy.
Not that it even mattered.
In less than two days, you would turn down the proposal of Prince Gojo and return to the north, or wherever your silver would allow you to reinstate and build your life again. And Suguru would remain, his devotion a detriment.
And that was what rattled through you, splintering into your chest: that Suguru would no longer be in your life, and what was worse was you could not remember how it was before him.
Stupid! You groaned, pressing your palms to cover your eyes, the fruitless wish that you would have just let Gojo drown.
A sharp knock on the door pulled you from your misery. “Come in?” you asked, slipping to hide yourself beneath the water’s white surface.
Yuki entered with a bundle of plum silk. “I have found something clean for you to wear,” she announced, moving to hang it behind the dressing screen.
Before you could stop it, your mind thought of how the color would complement his eyes, and you wished you could drain away with the bathwater. “Thank you.”
She did not leave, but moved towards the dresser, a clink of glass as she pinched some of the hair thin tobacco to pack into her pipe before lighting it. Smoke trailing with her steps as she moved to open the wooden shutters, allowing the celebration to faintly pour in, exhaling the blue hue of smoke back into the night.
“How long have you known the general?”
Yuki smirked as if she had been expecting the question. “A very long time, back to when Gojo would slip away from his mother and drag Geto along.” She took another drag, seating herself on the window ledge and looked over at you. “I found I could empathize with the prince. And besides, the pair of them left quite the impression.”
Of course they did. You wilted at her words, but chose to ask her something else. “What do you mean that you could empathize with the prince?”
She tilted her head to appraise you, pleased with your question and happy to share. She was an esteemed lady of the court and one of the queen’s favorites. A favorable match had been made, but Yuki found that she loathed the man on sight. Perhaps it was because her father overindulged her shrewd mind, but she could not stomach being wasted on a man who had to interest in anything she had to say; he only wished for a gilded decoration.
So she left.
“Shiba was nothing more than a little village,” she smiled with the memory. “I had a villa built to serve as a reprieve. I pulled in traders passing through for Hoshi. Then, one day, the prince showed up and relished in my whores.” She glowed with her business savvy. “And here we are.”
Relished. “Did they come often?”
“They returned frequent enough.” She took another drag, smoke pouring from her painted lips. “They were insatiable, really.”
Insatiable. Another word that gutted you. “Did…” you licked your lips, pulling the courage to ask, “did they have their favorites?”
Your mind returned to the woman in red while Yuki thought for a moment. “Gojo did, but no one seemed to hold Geto’s attention, just whatever happened to pass by. But I will say that whenever the pair would show, everyone was desperate to catch the general’s eye.”
You appreciated her blunt honesty. It needed to be said, the reaffirmation that no one could solely satiate the general… that you were nothing more than passing memory that glimmered in his amethyst eyes.
You changed the subject. “Thank you again for your hospitality, though I assume that he will probably find somewhere else to sleep tonight.” You were not bitter, but wounded.
“Perhaps.” Her rose eyes glittered. “But that does not mean you cannot have your own fun tonight.”
The warm bath blotched your skin, crimson exploding across your features. “I do not want–”
“The festival,” Yuki interrupted you, her laughter filling the room. “There will be vendors and dancing and fireworks. You should come with me and see all that Shiba has to offer.”
+ + + +
By the time you finished bathing, Yuki called for more girls to come and help you get dressed. Silk was wrapped around to fit your form, flowing with your steps. Your hair was braided back to the nape, allowing the rest to fall and dry in the cool air. Scented oils were touched to the curve of your neck and wrists, a rose tint to your lips.
You walked downstairs to see Yuki awaiting, the man named Choso shadowing her. Her mirthful eyes washed over you and stopped at your feet. “The boots will make it easier for me to navigate through the crowds,” you argued before she spoke a word.
Her eyes glittered. “You are prettier than any of my girls,” she announced, reaching for your hand and pulling you to follow.
Shiba was magical at night. Vendors were lined with their sweets and treats and different liquors on display while dancers floated through, their streamers trailing behind their graceful steps in synchrony to the music lilting above. The silver of the moon was halted by the shining amber arc created from the lamps and torches lit. People paused with a child-like wonder and rosy cheeks, watching the fireworks bursting above between the song interludes.
Choso was quiet, a shadow that followed after Yuki. She pulled to lead, pausing at each booth to smile at the compliments poured over her and accept whatever gift presented. You indulged with a taste of everything, anything she placed in your hands with a plum wine to wash it down.
Benches were placed to sit and spectate. You seated yourself next to Yuki, untying the cloth to share the yaki-garu, peeling the chestnuts to taste. Choso remained standing, ever watchful, ever devoted, though his shyness melted once Yuki finally settled her eyes onto him. As another dance recital began, she looked at you before she decided to pull him away for a stolen moment.
You remained seated, smiling, savoring the memory of the night, allowing it to embed into your bones. It would be something you pulled when you were old and gray, a recollection retrieved with a sweet sigh and smile.
It was your name that pulled you back, cutting through, sharp and distinct. Your head snapped to see Suguru, his height above the villagers as he pushed towards you. His face was twisted, but not with the anger to match his tone, but a fear, a desperation you had never seen before.
“I have been searching everywhere for you.” His voice was rasped and you stood up, the chestnuts falling to the ground as he reached for you. “You cannot just take off like that. What if something would have happened–”
“But nothing happened,” you found yourself snapping, wrenching from his hold. Your agitation twisted on your face, spilling hot from your tongue. “I just assumed that you wished for time to socialize, as you seem so very popular in Shiba.”
He steeled his jaw, but did not touch you again. “I would not think you would damn me for my past actions.”
Always a statement, and never a question, but either way, he seemed wounded. It was not what you wanted, but you could not stop. “I did not want to keep you from whatever your… insatiable appetite desired.”
He pushed closer, spilling into your space, his arms reserved at his sides and his purple eyes sparked with the light around. “You are stubborn to a fault, and every thought that enters your head will spill off your tongue. You have isolated yourself in a way that I wonder if you are refusing Satoru solely because you cannot allow anyone to become close to you.”
It rattled your bones with a fury that seared to the surface. “I was trying to be considerate of what you wanted.” Your tone was biting, spurred by the busty woman from earlier–I should try and persuade him to my bed. “Was it not what you wanted?”
Amethyst pierced through you, holding you still. “I asked you this before, but,” his voice was low, pulling you in, gooseflesh rippling up your backside. “What do you want?”
You sputtered. “I asked you first!”
“No,” he corrected, his insufferable smirk curling back onto his lips. “You did not ask me anything, but only made assumptions.”
“You always brim with this arrogance that you have bordered around you, walling off everyone.” You could not answer him, not with the desperation burning through you, torn between taking a step away or a step closer towards him. Suguru just watched you. “I ask you questions because I only wished to know you, but still you hold things to your chest. And your sense of duty is your excuse to keep anyone from coming close to you.”
He dared to step closer, and you felt his heat pooling off of him. Any anger hinted from before was gone, his eyes scraping across the surface to pull apart your words. He was the moon and you were the tide, helpless with your highs and lows to be determined with whatever he would say.
“I will ask you one more time,” –his voice was for you to hear alone, whisking the noise around you away– “what do you want?”
The time you shared with Suguru came through flashes, memories also embedded, pouring a molten courage over to command you. It sparked with the words from Runa–he would never try anything.
You stepped closer, your fingers trembling to hold onto his forearms, anchoring yourself to push onto your tiptoes, to touch your lips to his own. His mouth was soft and warm and it shuddered through you, your mind screaming for him to pull you in and never let you go.
He held still and the moment stretched into an eternity, unreciprocated, shattering when your feet touched the ground again. Suguru was stunned, still watching you.
And you ran.
Your embarrassment burned bright, igniting into your soles, your boots allowing your steps to grab onto the earth and propel yourself back towards the villa. Your mind continued to scream–you kissed him, you kissed Suguru, and it was everything you could admit you wanted, but your dilemma festered alongside a sense of indigeneity: it was something only you clearly wanted.
You left Suguru behind, rooted by that damnable devotion.
That thought shattered through you, shards of the fantasy that had been building now dug into you, encouraging you to flee. You ran until you saw the brothel, inside to closed doors to entertain paying patrons while the rest was emptied to enjoy the celebration.
Your lungs burned as you continued up the stairs, your hand following the railing that wrapped upwards. Your clumsy steps returned you to the room that was prepared and you closed the door, your backside barring against as you sunk to the floor, struggling to catch your breath.
I have to leave, your mind tacked together your next actions, adrenaline flaring a white nonsense in your mind, I will find Gojo and the queen and I will release him from this damn errands, and then I will leave and never, ever return–
There was a knock on the door that vibrated through you, pinning you to the oak floor. It did not falter and you groaned to stand, wiping your face with your sleeve, preparing to greet Yuki, or perhaps Choso, wondering where the hell you had run off to.
But instead, you opened to see Suguru.
His chest was heaving, his arms spread open and posted on both sides of the door frame to hold himself up. His hair was disheveled, windswept, and red stained his pale skin in blotches. He looked at you, his eyes bright, his smirk spreading across his sharp jaw. “You are,” he said between breaths, “faster than you look.”
Your eyes widened. “Suguru…”
He pushed through, reaching to pull you in with the tide, and you allowed yourself to be swept away, melting against his chest. He tilted his chin to reclaim your mouth with vigor, the heat from his palms burning through your silk as one hand followed your lower back to pull you closer, his other following up the curve of your spine and holding onto the nape of your neck, devouring you.
Your heart sang, screaming as he pulled the air from your lungs. You wrapped your arms around his neck, desperate to be even closer, and he responded, his arms curling around your waist and lifting you enough for wide steps to walk you backwards until you felt the edge of the bed pressing into the back of your calves.
Only then did Suguru break away from you, his mouth moving along your jawline back to the soft divot below your ear, his exhale tickling and his teeth nipping at your pulse. Your skin rose in response from a warmth that poured into your core, calling for him.
“Suguru,” you breathed, taking in his sweat that mixed sinfully with the soap you gifted him, that heady scent that seized through you.
“I’m here,” he murmured against your skin, pushing until you melted back into the mattress. He moved on top of you, his knee nudging your thighs apart to slot himself between. “I will not let you run away again.”
You blinked. He was teasing you, even now–!
You opened your mouth to respond but he captured your lips again, his tongue curling to taste you, the sweetness from the chestnuts and wine. He found a rhythm that made you moan, and he pressed against you with a delicious weight that made your body burn.
He smiled through the kiss as your fingers combed through his hair, pouring your passion into him. His fingers moved to peel away the top layer of silk until it puddled beneath you, pausing to admire how your curves pressed against the slip, how your nipples pebbled beneath. His tongue wet his lips. “Where do you want me to kiss you?”
“Anywhere,” you reached for his collar, helping him pull his tunic over his head, the obsidian spill of his hair falling on his bare shoulders. “Everywhere,” you whispered with a kiss to his lips.
Black swallowed the color of his eyes, his head dipping to place open-mouth kisses to your skin that was showing, pulling a heat that simmered to the surface.
You writhed, you burned, you begged, “Suguru,” but he returned to swallow your sounds with another kiss that slow, searching, fluttering through your veins; your head was spinning.
His fingers pulled at your hem to help you remove the silk slip. You were bare beneath him and his mouth moved over to worship your curves, a soft touch of his lips and tongue to taste.
You gasped at the sensation and he pushed closer, coming up to find your lips while his fingers followed back to the divot between your thighs and slipping between your silken folds. Pleasure bloomed from his touch, his fingers searching until the softest sounds began to spill from your lips.
He hummed into your mouth, his lips curling with his kiss. His touch was bold, sparking through you with his heedful circular motion against your bundle of nerves.
It thrilled you. “Please, Suguru,” you gasped.
“Not yet,” he murmured, his velvet voice tickling your skin. He kissed you again, his lips trailing beneath your jaw as his fingers continued to pull a pleasure that threatened to spill. You whined and Suguru shifted his weight, his hand moving with the craftful curl of his finger that pressed deep, sparking something that shimmered bright before your eyes.
Your moan spilled loud and lewd from your kiss-swollen lips, your eyes glassy as he added another finger to the slick, sinful tandem, pumping in-and-out of you. It trilled the length of your spine, fluttering, pulling you towards a precipice that shuddered throughout.
It was his kiss that followed that served as the catalyst, tipping you over to fall into the white-hot pleasure that wrenched the air from your lungs. He did not stop, but whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his fingers coaxing you through your peak while your heart stuttered against your chest, tears pearling in the corners of your eyes.
Suguru pressed another kiss to your cheek, grounding you again, and you looked over to watch him retrieve his hand, his tongue cleaning his fingers and his smirk returning to his mouth. It was a salacious pulse that spilled onto the sheets, and you grabbed for him, pulling him close for your tangy taste that now stained his lips.
Your fingers trembled to follow the smooth plains of his chest, tracing the scars that carved silver against his skin. Your touch stumbled down towards his heavy press against his slacks, and you paused, blushing at his size.
He caught your elbow, he pulled you close. “We go with your pace,” he promised, kissing your lips, your cheek. “I am in no hurry.”
You pushed him to lay back, helping to loosen the laces, and his thumbs hooked in the waistband to pull them lower. It was your turn to admire his chiseled chest and abdomen, the lines that cut into his hips.
Suguru helped move you to straddle him, your plush thighs caging him to the bed and his length flushed, pressing upwards against his stomach. He pushed up to wrap his arm around your waist, the other pressed back to balance on the bed. He buried his face into your chest with soft kisses that tickled.
You squirmed, your arousal spilling, and moved to lift your hips. He moved his other arm around to help line himself with your entrance, and you were slow, shaking to ease yourself onto him; Suguru molded into you, pressing against your seams.
He held onto you, his face pressing into your neck with a loan groan that reverberated throughout. You grasped at his shoulders, panting, adjusting to his girth. Suguru tilted his head up to look at you, the same careful consideration as always, and you kissed him.
It rekindled your pleasure, your boldness that burned for him, and you slowly rocked your hips against him. He groaned again, falling back onto the bed, his large hands dimpling to hold onto your hips. His neck bobbed as he watched you, a rose dusting on his cheeks that spilled onto his neck and chest; you relished his reaction when your thighs squeezed, your pace quickening.
His hands encouraged your movement, and his hips lifted to meet with your motion. You felt it building again, curling at the base of your spine, a flutter of your walls around him. His palm moved to the inside of your thigh, until his thumb could press into you with the same circular motion as before that allowed the stars to burst bright before your eyes.
You nearly cried from the euphoria that twisted through you, pulsing and clenching tight to pull Suguru after, his brow furrowed with a guttural groan. Your head was empty and he pushed up to catch you, holding you until your heart settled, until your breathing was an exchange with his inhale to your exhale.
“Move for me.” He pressed a kiss to your hairline, pulling away. You rolled onto your side to watch him pour water from the basin and wrung out a cloth, returning to clean the sticky spill between your thighs.
You giggled with his concentration, his careful touch. He blew softly against your skin and it rose in response. “That tickles!”
He was still flushed, his smile boyish. “I know.”
He wiped himself off before he returned to the bed. Suguru then pulled you against his chest, the bare entanglement of limbs knitting into one another and holding you close like before, until your heartbeats found a familiar rhythm with one another, until your breathing was an intimate exchange.
Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried
Previous part | Masterlist
“How the fuck did she get that invitation?”
Azriel ran his hands through his hair as Rhys stomped into the House of Wind, his landing incredibly agitated. Azriel followed behind, remaining quiet as his brother yelled to no one in particular.
“Hello to you too, Rhys. Lovely weather we’re having.”
Rhys held up a hand in warning, the Lord of Bloodshed shrugging in response. “Now is not the time, Cassian. Someone invited my sister to a ball and I have no idea how they knew she was here, let alone who it was.”
Cassian shot up onto his feet, losing the look of amusement on his face, Nesta’s legs that were in his lap dropping as he stood. “What are you talking about?”
Rhys ground his teeth, spitting out, “apparently someone gave her an invitation to the Hewn City’s ball that’s at the end of the week.” He pulled the invitation you had handed over from his jacket, putting it into Cassian’s hands.
“Oh no, princess goes to a ball. Whatever will we do?” Nesta’s voice bordered on annoyance as she continued flipping through pages, underwhelmed at the discussion at hand.
Rhys stretched a hand out before quickly clenching it into a fist, stretching his fingers out again before balling them up. He repeated the motion a few times, desperate to keep his anger in check.
“No, Nesta, it is not that simple.”
“Are you sure?”
Rhysand took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure. This is a terrible idea and I don’t like any part of this.”
“She should be allowed to go where she wants.”
“I’m her brother, Azriel is her mate. I think we will decide what is best for her.”
If the ringing in Azriel’s ears would subside, he would have found humor in the looks Rhys was receiving from the Archerons.
“You’re too close to the situation, Rhys.” Feyre’s voice was raising with Rhys’s, matching his agitation.
“You’re damn right I am. We lost her once and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize losing her again.”
Feyre gawked. “A surefire way to lose her is by denying a reasonable request.”
“What is reasonable about going to Hewn City?”
“That doesn’t matter - she wants to go.”
Nesta cut through their argument, her tone sharp. “It looks as if she’s trying to do the things she was expected to do as a princess, except she doesn’t have the memories to know that’s why she’s gravitating toward it. Maybe if someone told her-”
“No.” Rhys was quick to cut her off. “Absolutely not. No one tells her.”
Nesta put her book down, moving to face Rhys. “She’s been in Velaris for weeks, Cassian still isn’t allowed to see her. What’s your plan? What if she never gets her memories back?”
Azriel stood silently, watching Rhysand and Nesta argue. He didn’t know what to do. It had been weeks of agony, his every thought revolving around you and how to tell you and how to fix everything. Azriel and Rhys argued frequently over it. He desperately wanted to tell you, and he would defy Rhys.
He didn’t care. Damn Rhys being High Lord.
You were his mate.
But everytime he tried, just on the tip of his tongue, his words would stall, one thought creeping in over and over again: what if you don’t remember? What if he tells you and you merely laughed at him? What if he lost you once more?
He couldn’t handle it, so he hadn’t told you. He felt like a coward. He was a coward. He tuned out Nesta and Rhys’s argument, uncaring of what they wanted.
He can’t give you back your memories, but he’ll give you the only thing you’ve really asked for.
-
Azriel stood in the entranceway of the River House, his shadows slightly agitated around him as he paced back and forth.
“You look nervous.”
Cassian’s gruff voice did little to soothe Azriel’s nerves.
“Something’s off about this, Cassian. I can’t figure it out.” Questions raced through his mind. Who had invited you? Did they know who you truly were? Why? Why? Why?
You had been vague about the male who invited you, and Rhysand grew even more annoyed at his inability to clear through the web of your mind.
The shadowsinger was dressed in a black fitted suit, his jacket cropped to show off his trim waist, tattoos peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. Blue embroidery adorned the edges of his sleeves and his lapel. Cassian was similarly dressed up, but his shirt was unbuttoned much deeper than Azriel’s was, showing off his large chest.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Az.”
At his brother’s words, he turned quickly to see Cassian bouncing his leg, stopping the action at Azriel’s gaze. He held up a scarred hand, pointing. “You’re the nervous one.”
Cassian scrunched his eyebrows in mock confusion, a look Azriel had seen thousands of times over the centuries. “Me? Nervous? Don’t be ridiculous, Azriel.”
The shadowsinger approached his brother, leaning down to look him in the eye. Cassian leaned back on the couch, spreading his legs out further to avoid Azriel’s gaze.
“You’re scared she won’t like you, hmm?”
Cassian spluttered out a string of nonsense, looking sheepishly at anything except Azriel. “Don’t be ridiculous Cassian. She never liked you, why would that change now?”
Cassian gave a dry, exaggerated laugh. “Ha ha, you’re so funny Azriel. Perhaps you should join the circus.”
“And perhaps you should-”
The words died on his tongue as one of his shadows pulled his ear harshly, nearly snapping his neck at the angle they brought his head to. The pain didn’t register to him as the breath was knocked from his lungs at the sight of you.
You looked so beautiful as you stood in the entryway smiling at him. He took in a quick breath, stealing himself at the dress you chose. Centuries ago, Mor had helped him go through the clothes at your shared home, the dresses going into storage to prevent moths or any other creatures from destroying the materials. Mor had gone yesterday to pull some of the dresses from storage and helped pick out several of your dresses that she thought would be perfect for this occasion, leaving them in your room when you had been out earlier.
Azriel would never know what compelled you to pick the dress that you did - a beautiful, deep black material, a tight bodice that flowed past your hips, flaring out to allow the wearer to walk more easily. Dark blue flowered appliques were sewn across the torso and down the skirt. The last time you wore it, he had twirled you, the blur of the flowers resembling his shadows in the dark.
He wasn’t sure if putting your hair up was some subconscious memory of the way a piece had fallen out moments before your mating ceremony, Azriel’s hands tucking it away into the braid atop your head.
If he closed his eyes, he could feel the heat from that night. How warm it was from all the candles, how the moonlight peeked in through the skylights.
The only thing missing was your wings.
“Um, hi.” He had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even registered your approach. “Are you Azriel’s other brother?”
Cassian stood at your question, denying your outstretched hand in favor of wrapping his arms around you and twirling you around.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m Cassian.”
You swayed on your feet, slightly dizzy from Cassian’s twirling. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you do that everytime you see someone you know? Or just when you’re meeting someone for the first time?”
Azriel watched the question knock Cassian off balance, raising a hand to his chest like he had been struck. “It’s how I greet fae that I know I’ll like.”
Your smile was wide taking him in. “And how do you know that?”
“Because anyone my brother likes is someone I have to know.”
Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried
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You spent the next few nights plagued with nightmares. All flashes of images that made little to no sense, a roaring of water in your ears as you slept until you jolted awake. You were sure the whole house could feel your terror, the dreams so vivid it was hard to tell where they ended and your waking hours began. You couldn’t shake the image of the male, that split second you had seen him coming back to haunt your dreams over the week.
Your lessons with Feyre continued, Azriel’s presence during them a constant whenever he was available. Lessons were much smoother when he was around, it was easier to focus and calm yourself. Anytime he was gone, your thoughts made their way to the mystery male, your nervousness seeping into her until she would end the lesson.
Feyre helped paint the male, but something felt off in the depiction. He didn’t look right. It didn’t help that no one - Feyre, Rhys, or Azriel - had ever seen him. She made several attempts, all subject to different facial features that kept changing in your dreams, making his face hazy.
It wasn’t all despair, though. You had actually intentionally implanted a feeling into Feyre the other day, converting her happiness into anger for a flicker.
It was incredible.
Between the training and your nightmares, your days were very draining, your afternoons full of naps and most of your evenings spent curled up in the library, the couch before the fireplace becoming a place of comfort very quickly. After dinner each night you had Azriel fly you to the library, a nightly ritual you had grown quite fond of. He somehow always knew exactly when you wanted to return back to the river house, the flight back most nights almost lulling you to sleep.
Azriel had dropped you off tonight, telling you there was a chance someone else might have to retrieve you. You nodded, understanding that maybe his official job wasn’t to ferry you around, but unable to stop the disappointment you felt at potentially not seeing him.
You made the usual route to your corner, greeting Clotho as you passed her. The path was familiar to you, passing shelves to get to your favorite spot. What you didn’t expect was to find an envelope on the couch addressed to ‘Birdie’. You looked around, unsure if anyone else would sit here. You had assumed not - the books you had gathered yesterday were still in the neat piles you had left them in, too tired to return them before leaving.
You tucked the letter away into a book after opening it, somehow the contents felt scandalous, opting to wait to ask Feyre about it later.
Azriel returned after your nightly reading, looking incredibly tired as he flew you through the skies, but his demeanor was the same as it was when he had dropped you off.
“Az?” You had to raise your voice enough to be heard over the wind.
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?”
He hummed in response, clearly thinking on how to respond.
“A lot’s just weighing on my mind.” You looked at his jawline, watching his mouth move as he spoke. Every night being this close to his face, you always had a few moments where you were in awe of just how beautiful he was.
“If you ever want someone to unload some of it onto, I’m pretty strong.”
You kept watching him, chuckling a bit at the quizzical look on his face. “Because you said a lot was weighing on your mind?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes looking so open it made you want to confess about your nightmares. How every night was a flurry of images all laying on top of each other, a muddling of sounds that had you swearing you could make out his voice amongst the crowd.
But you kept that to yourself, focusing on how his arms felt around you instead.
“Just wondering how the village is managing without you there.”
A look you can’t discern passes over his face. “I’m sure anyone you’ve left behind feels your absence.”
The rest of the flight was a peaceful silence. When you and Azriel had landed, Rhys and Feyre quickly met the two of you telling you that dinner was ready. The four of you moved to the dining room, the scuffing of chairs against the floor as you all took your seats. A few moments of silverware clattering as your plates were loaded. Feyre and Azriel mindlessly chattered as you and Rhys discussed a rematch of chess.
The routine of the past few weeks allowed you to feel so comfortable, so at ease with these fae. Something you’ve never really had before.
You blame the comforting atmosphere on the words that slipped out of your mouth.
“I got invited to a ball.”
Silverware clattered, Rhys’s fork stuck in midair as he was about to take a bite. It was like the air in the room had been sucked out - everyone’s attention was on you, and somehow you knew it was the wrong thing to say.
“Who invited you?” You pulled out the invitation, feeling so much like an admonished schoolgirl as you passed it to Rhysand who nearly snatched it from your grasp, the fork abandoned on his plate.
“I’m not sure, I found it where I usually sit in the library.”
“How can you be sure it was for you?”
“It was addressed to me.” You could feel the swirls in Rhys’s chest, so much fear and concern spinning around inside of him. Was it because of this? You had been too wrapped up in Azriel’s company when you sat down to notice how everyone else felt.
You turned, your gaze catching on Azriel. He was deadly still, not saying anything, gaze stuck on you. You tried to see how he felt about this, searching deep in his chest for how he felt, but you were met with a quiet void of rage. It started blurring your vision, red creeping in through the edges, the anger crawling up inside of your chest.
It quickly dissipated as you felt something cool brush your ankle, looking down to find one of the shadows that usually held tightly to Azriel’s body was now looping itself around your calf. It carried a chill with it, leaving goosebumps in the wake of its touch. But it was so comforting, it felt like a soft kiss to your leg.
“Do you want to go?”
Your head snapped out of the trance of the shadow at Feyre’s question, missing the way Rhys’s jaw ticked at his mate’s question.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been to a ball, and I imagine once I go back to my village I won’t have many options.”
Your eyes on Feyre failed to notice the matching crestfallen looks on Rhysand and Azriel’s faces.
“The Hewn City is a terrible place.”
You turned to Rhys, a hard look in his eye.
“I think I can make my own judgments, thank you. One of the reasons I left Illyria was to see other places, and I’d like to see Hewn City.”
Azriel and Rhys looked to one another, their eyes locked in a gaze, neither looking happy.
“And if something happens, that will be my own lesson to learn.”
Rhysand opened his mouth as if to say more, but he quickly looked to Feyre, the two locked in intense eye contact, as if having a silent argument. Azriel refused to look at you, keeping his gaze on Rhysand and Feyre’s animated faces.
Rhysand quickly snapped his head back to you. “Fine,” Rhys gritted through his teeth, as if he were agreeing to a sudden amputation. “But you will attend with us, and you are to go nowhere in the Hewn City unescorted. Understood?”
You debated on the optics of arguing - on one hand, his demands felt incredibly overbearing and unreasonable, but on the other, you didn’t know the Hewn City or its inhabitants, and if his rules meant you were able to see it just with the company of Azriel or Feyre, you couldn’t complain too much.
summary: azriel comes home after a long mission, injured and in search for the comfort of his mate arms.
warnings: nudity(? injuries
word count: 2.5k
english isnt my fist language ladies🥶 soo forgive any possible mistake. To this point I don’t know if I should do maybe a masterlist? 👀
Your heart skips a beat in anticipation, the weariness of the night instantly forgotten as you cross the room to open the door. But the moment you do, that spark of enthusiasm is extinguished, replaced by a deep concern that stabs into you like a dagger, twisting and squeezing your heart.
Azriel stands there, his dark figure outlined against the dimness of the hallway, but it’s his condition that makes the air catch in your lungs. His shadows are agitated, swirling around him with a restlessness that reflects the turmoil within him—they don’t come to greet you as they usually do, they don’t disappear. The blood, mostly dried but still visible, runs from a wound on his brow, trailing down his face to his chin. The smell of iron, mixed with his own scent, is unmistakable. Anxiety has scarred, large hands, and it squeezes your stomach.
“Azriel...” you whisper, the anguish clear in your voice.
But the instant his honeyed eyes meet yours, his expression shifts. The sharp edges soften so as not to cut you, the intensity of his gaze mitigated by something far more tender. With a gentleness that contrasts with his appearance, he brings his hand to your cheek and cups it, his thumb tracing a soft path along your skin.
You lean into his touch, and your eyes flutter closed for just a fraction of a second, your own hand landing on his, as if you could keep that gentle touch there forever. The warmth of his hand is a balm, but not enough to quell the worry growing inside you.
Azriel steps forward, and you remain where you are, and you don’t know how you survived two weeks without seeing him, when the closeness you now share feels like oxygen, you’d suffocate if he stepped away.
You see the conflict in his gaze as you tilt your head back to look at him, the self-loathing he has for worrying you this way. Then, without warning, he dips his head and presses a kiss to your forehead as he opens his side of your bond, which had been closed for those two weeks. The touch of his lips is so soft that you barely feel it, but the intent is clear.
He was fine. He was here. And he doesn’t push you away, he doesn’t shut you out.
But you can’t bear to see him like this, broken, hurt. Ignoring the knot forming in your throat, you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a desperate hug. His reaction is immediate: a gasp of pain escapes his lips.
You pull away instantly, your brow furrowing into a grimace of anguish. “I’m sorry,” you say, your voice breaking, your hands trembling as you lower them to your sides. But he doesn’t let you pull away any more than necessary, his hand still on your cheek, his gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that makes you tremble.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, his body clearly exhausted, and you, without wasting a second, hurry to fetch a bucket of hot water and a cloth. The urgency to care for him, to heal each of his wounds, drives you beyond your own fatigue.
When you return to his side, cloth in hand, you prepare to clean the blood from his face, but Azriel, with that dexterity and strength that never seems to leave him, surprises you. Before you can react, he pulls you onto his lap, your thighs pressed against his hips.
“Azriel,” you protest softly, but there’s no real force in your words. Not when his gaze is so close, when his hands keep you in the only place where both of you can breathe easily.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your lips. “Let me hold you... just for a moment.”
And even though you know you should be focused on tending to his wounds, on making sure he’s not more hurt than he appears, you surrender to the warmth of his body for a second.
The warmth of Azriel’s body, wrapped around yours, feels like you’re finally fitting a missing piece into a puzzle. His hands grip your hips as if he fears you might pull away from him at any moment, and the thought seems ridiculous in your mind, all you want is to let him hold you. But the wound on his brow, the dried blood staining his face, pulls you back to reality.
You’re torn between staying like this, lost in the safety of his embrace, and the urgency to tend to his wounds. The weight of the worry is so intense you can barely stand it. You slide a hand along his cheek, brushing aside a loose strand of his dark hair, and refocus on the task at hand.
“Let me clean this,” you whisper, lifting the warm, damp cloth to his face.
Azriel watches you, his dark eyes shining with a mix of emotions you can’t quite decipher. But he doesn’t resist; he simply stays still as you gently clean the blood from his brow, revealing the small but deep wound beneath. Each movement is slow, careful, as if you fear any additional pressure could cause him more pain. Though even if you did, he wouldn’t react.
He gently massages your hips, his hands appreciating the curve, and his eyes drop to your neck, lingering there, clean skin with no marks, the irrefutable proof that he’s been away for a while, because you always bore some hidden hickey or bite marks on your neck. Azriel was possessive, and he didn’t hide it. You could almost swear that he’s holding himself back from burying his face in the junction of your neck and shoulder.
It’s in that moment, as you slide the cloth along his skin with the utmost delicacy, that you feel a tug in your left shoulder. It’s barely noticeable at first, so you ignore it, but as you continue, the pain becomes sharper, a twinge that makes you catch your breath. You try to ignore it again, focusing on Azriel, but he notices. Of course, he notices.
His brow furrows, and the concern deepens in his features. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you closer to his body. Just slightly. “What’s wrong with your arm?” His voice is low, but there’s no hiding the insistence in it.
“It’s nothing important,” you try to say, attempting to sound convincing as you avert your gaze, turning your attention back to his wound. But Azriel isn’t someone who accepts evasions, and before you can continue, his hand catches yours, stopping you in your tracks.
“Don’t lie to me.”
You sigh, knowing you can’t hide the truth from him. “Training was a bit tougher today,” you confess, trying to sound nonchalant, but the worry in his face forces you to go on. “Gwyn threw a bad punch, and… well, my shoulder has been hurting since then.”
The shadow of a tense muscle appears in his jaw, and you can see him struggling to stay calm. His eyes darken with a mix of guilt and anger, not toward you, but toward the situation. His hand slides from your hip to your left shoulder, with a touch so gentle it almost breaks you completely. It had taken you a long time to accept his gentle touches without bursting into tears.
“You should have told me earlier,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper as his fingers caress the sore area. “You could have hurt yourself more.”
You almost let out a sarcastic comment. When it’s him training you, you end up even more sore.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” you choose to respond, your voice just as low, but he shakes his head before you can finish.
“I worry more if you don’t tell me.”
You fall silent, letting his words sink in, feeling the truth in them. But as the weight of his concern and the warmth of his touch envelop you, a spark of resistance ignites within you, a reminder that you’re not someone who simply stands by, even when it comes to him.
“Azriel…” you begin, but he interrupts you, his voice low but determined.
“Let me handle this,” he says, his gaze fixed on yours, and you can see the exhaustion behind his firmness, the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Yet, something in his tone, in the way he asks you to lean on him, provokes an unexpected reaction in you. It’s not just concern; it’s the guilt that seems to consume him, the need to do something, anything, to feel less powerless. It frustrates you, it’s not his duty to take care of you, especially not when you’re the one trying to take care of him.
“What if I don’t want to?” You respond softly, the challenge subtle but clear in your voice. Azriel blinks, the only sign of surprise he allows to show, but he doesn’t release his grip on your hips.
“Why should you carry everything? Why is it always you who has to protect me, who has to take care of everyone?” you continue, your words soft but laden with a weight you know he understands. He doesn’t just take care of you, he takes care of his entire family. And not just by protecting his Court—he’s always there for anyone who needs him. A solid rock you can lean on. “You worry so much about me, about everyone, but who worries about you, Azriel? Who takes care of you?”
The silence that follows is dense, heavy with unspoken emotions. Azriel lowers his gaze for a moment, his shadows fluttering restlessly around the two of you, around him, appearing from where they had hidden, only to disappear again. And you know, after long hours of studying their patterns, that his shadows are around him when they feel the need to protect him; they hide when he’s completely and utterly safe. When he lifts his head again, there’s something different in his eyes, something vulnerable that he rarely lets others see.
“I don’t know how,” he admits, turning his gaze away, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it.
It hurts to hear him say that, but it also fills you with a new determination, a need to show him that he’s not alone. Gently, you place your hand over his, the one still resting on your hip, and squeeze it firmly.
“Then we’ll learn together,” you say, and there’s a promise in those words, a promise that you won’t let him face this burden alone. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Azriel. You don’t have to be the shield and the sword all the time. Sometimes… sometimes it’s enough just to be you.”
The silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s a silence filled with understanding, with a tacit agreement that both of you have reached. Azriel nods slightly, accepting the truth you’ve laid before him, though it’s still hard for him to let go of that control he values so much.
With a sigh, he leans forward, his forehead touching yours, and in that contact, you feel the tension in his body ease just a little. “I need you,” he murmurs, the confession a barely audible whisper between you, but it hits you with the force of a gale. “I need you more than I can bear sometimes.”
The knot in your chest tightens, but instead of speaking, you decide to show him that you understand. Sliding your hands up to his neck, you bring his lips to yours in a soft kiss, but one loaded with all the emotions you don’t need to verbalize. Azriel responds with restrained urgency, as if that kiss were an anchor in the middle of a storm threatening to sweep him away.
When you finally pull apart, you stay there, looking at him, seeing the internal battle playing out in his eyes. Without saying another word, you move, sliding off his lap and pulling his hand to get him to stand with you. Although his brow furrows in confusion, he doesn’t resist.
You lead him to the bathroom, to the tub where the water is still warm. Without releasing his hand, you start undressing him, your fingers deftly undoing his clothes while his eyes remain fixed on you, a mix of surprise and something more shining in them. It’s not a gesture of desire, not now, but an act of care. Of showing him that he can let go, that it’s okay to trust you to be the one to take care of him for once.
Azriel doesn’t say anything, but he lets you proceed, his breathing uneven as you guide him into the tub, helping him into the water. Only then do you join him, carefully getting into the tub, sitting behind him, and pulling him toward you, his back against your chest, being mindful of his wings.
For a moment, both of you remain silent, the water enveloping you in a warm embrace, your hands gently caressing his arms as you feel his body finally begin to relax against yours. And then, in the safe haven you’ve created for him without even realizing it, Azriel lets all his barriers fall, resting his head on your shoulder, closing his eyes as a deep, almost relieved sigh escapes his lips.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur softly. “I’ve got you.”
