A very large Illyrian - Elriel 🦇🌸
Word count : 1k2
✍🏻Summary : Elain and Azriel are not as discrete as they thought they were. Nesta is Nesta - she just knows. ( can you tell I suck at summary ?)
🌸 Anyway - Likes, reblog, and feedback are much much appreciated !
Elain lay tangled in the sheets, her breath uneven as Azriel finally drew back - though not far, close enough that his taste still clung to her lips. His hand hovered near her hip, fingers drawing slow, absent circles on her skin. His shadows moved lazily around her, tracing the paths their master took shortly before.
“We should get dressed,” she whispered, shifting to sit up. Her hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and the world beyond her room - family dinner, polite conversation, masks and pretending - felt unbearably sharp.
He sighed, a deep exhale fully encompassing his wish to stay there for the night, forever. “Right.” His voice felt raw in the quiet, as if every careful word they’d shared between them had to vanish completely before the evening began.
“I smell like you,” she said, her fingers brushing the edge of the sheet, as if grounding herself in something real. Azriel looked at her, his gaze soft but unreadable. “It’s my second favorite smell in the world.” Elain paused at that “What’s the first? The smell of my chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven?” she teased. “That’s a strong third, but no. Your scent on me is actually my favorite.” Her breath caught, though she didn’t let it show. “Someone’s getting romantic.”
A few seconds passed in silence between them.
Then he pressed his lips to her forehead. “We can’t stay like this.” He let the words hang between them - a quiet admission he hated to make. He hated even more what came next. He wasn’t lying when he said his favorite scent these days was the way their smells mingled - how hers lingered to his skin, making his head spin and his heart race.
Elain stood, her robe slipping off one shoulder. He saw the quiet ache in her eyes. The same impossible pull.
“No. We can’t.” She moved toward the small door leading to the bathing room and paused just before stepping through. “I’ll go first.”
Water hissed softly over the marble as Elain lowered herself into the pale, creamy basin. Jasmine and lavender oils floated on the surface, meant to mask the fading scents of cedar and leather still lingering on her skin. The House of Wind had cleverly designed the bath so water would rain gently from above, cascading over her hair and shoulders and easing the tension in her muscles. The soothing flow calming her, a quiet anchor before the night’s coming chaos.
Outside the door, Azriel stood, muscles coiled, shadows flickering at his sides like restless whispers. He could still catch her scent, soft and faint, but it was now overpowered by the lavender soap she was likely using. In her bathroom, her soap sat by the bath, while his was tucked away in the cabinet. In his own bathroom, it was the opposite : his soap next to the bath, and hers hidden in the cabinet. He’d have to switch to the soap tucked away in her cabinet - the same one he kept in his own bathroom.
Elain stepped out of the bath, a plush towel wrapped around her, skin still pink from the heat. She moved quietly across the marble floor, steam curling around her ankles as she reached for the door. When it opened, Azriel looked up - and went still.
She stood framed in the soft light, steam drifting around her like mist. Her damp curls clung to her shoulders and back, water trailing down her arms and legs in slow, glistening paths. The towel hugged her form, and her flushed skin glowed with warmth. She tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear, eyes meeting his. “Your turn,” she said, voice low, threaded with quiet affection.
Azriel was already perched at the edge of her bed, head tilted up to look at her, his expression unreadable - except for the faint curve at the corner of his lips. The sun had nearly set, which meant it was almost time to head to the River House for dinner. Elain would go first, as always, alongside Cassian and Nesta. Azriel would come later, slipping in with some excuse about a late report from one of his spies. A rehearsed scene they’d used more than once.
He stood, pressing a kiss to her temple before disappearing into the attached bathroom, his leathers abandoned in a heap on the chaise.
As he stepped into the bath after her, body tense beneath the spray, he let the water cascade over him in silence, scrubbing away the residue of stolen touches, the intimacy of the afternoon. He closed his eyes, tasting her name on his lips, and allowed himself one slow inhale, filling his lungs.
Elain moved to her vanity, towel still wrapped around her chest, fingers rifling through her jewelry for something simple that wouldn’t draw attention. The room held a faint trace of him, despite the open window and the lavender oils from her bath. She picked up a brush, running it slowly through her damp hair, before starting to slip into the deep blue dress she’d laid out earlier.
And that was exactly when her bedroom door flew open.
“Elain!” Nesta’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “What are you planning to - oh.”
Elain, halfway into her dress, yelped, stumbling back and clutching the bodice to her chest. “Nesta! What are you doing?!”
Her sister leaned casually against the doorframe, eyes quickly scanning the room, taking in the mess. Her brows lifted.
“I came to ask what you’re wearing to dinner,” she said with mock innocence. “But now I see the dress isn’t the most urgent decision you’ve made today.”
Elain opened her mouth to respond - then the sound hit them.
Water. Still running.
Nesta’s gaze sharpened.
“Elain,” she said flatly, “is someone in your bath?”
Elain blinked, starting to laugh nervously. “I - uh - I think I forgot to turn the faucet off.”
Nesta slowly turned her head, eyes taking in the evidence: tossed pillows, a lacy undergarment flung across the floor, and most damning of all : the pile of distinctly Illyrian leathers on her chaise, blue siphons catching the candlelight, alongside a legendary blade.
The splashing stopped. Silence fell like a curtain.
“Is that…” Nesta tilted her head, “a dagger?”
Elain stared at Truth-teller as if seeing it for the first time. “It might… be.”
“Elain,” Nesta said slowly, “is there a very large Illyrian in your bathroom right now?”
She buried her face in her hands. “Please go away.”
Nesta grinned. “Absolutely not.”
And just then - because the Cauldron clearly had a cruel sense of humor - the bathroom door slowly opened. Azriel stepped out, one towel slung low around his hips.
He froze. Nesta froze. Elain may have whispered a silent prayer to die.
“Oh,” Nesta said calmly. “Hello, Az.”
Azriel glanced down at the towel, then at Elain, then back to Nesta. “I thought she was alone,” he said evenly. Internally, he was scolding himself. How in hell did the spymaster of the Night Court not notice a new person in her room? He was probably still dazzled by his time with Elain, as usual.
“She was,” Nesta replied. “Then I came to ask about her dress. Which… seems futile now.”
And as if the situation wasn’t catastrophic enough already, the booming voice of Cassian called up from below. “Nesta! Elain! Are you two ready or what?”
Still looking at Azriel, Nesta raised her voice just enough to carry. “Just a minute! Elain’s… freshening up.”
She turned on her heel, brushing past Elain with a smirk and a pointed look that said: Ten minutes. I’m waiting downstairs. Figure it out.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Elain buried her face in Azriel’s bare chest and groaned. Dinner promised to be interesting.
This was so adorable, I could cry. 🥹
