Summary: Kaz Brekker is pragmatic, cold and calculated in every situation. Maybe that’s why it’s baffling him that watching one of his crows suffer is bringing back so many unpleasant memories.
Warnings: reader does NOT die, vector oh yeah, Kaz is an asshole, but he’s OUR asshole, also dashes of alcohol/day drinking in this one
A/N: hey everyone 🌞 we all don’t hate me because I took nearly a year to get this second part up right? RIGHT???
It’s no secret, nor has he ever claimed it to be; he dislikes overzealous buyers, callous men, the guilty grin Jesper shoots him when he knows he’s fucked up a heist.
He dislikes when he runs out of ink, when his books are out of order on his shelf, when a thread comes loose on his favourite gloves and he has to bear the feeling of cold air on his fingers.
But this stupid, useless feeling bubbling between his ribs?
“You mean to tell me she’s not any better? At all?”
“Since the last time you asked me, approximately-“ Nina makes a show of checking the clock, and then stares blankly at Kaz. “-twelve minutes ago? No, funnily enough.”
His gloved hands clench around the top of his cane, blood still embedded deep in the grooves and fine patterns of the crow’s head. He’d barely waited a moment since hearing Jesper’s report to storm right down to the pier and let that vile man know exactly what happens when you mess with one of his crows.
‘It’s dealt with.’ Is all he’d said to Jesper, who’d pretended not to look slightly alarmed at the scraggly pouch of coins on the table, and who’d later whisper to Wylan about the body found on the shore, beaten beyond recognition.
She’d looked just about dead when she’d arrived. Limp as a damp petal, hair plastered to her face, skin bloated and clammy, and that bloody arm, the catalyst for this all, was hanging limp across her stomach.
She’d looked like a corpse. Not just that. She’d looked like Jordie.
Jordie, Jordie, Jordie. Kaz remembers the drips of feverish water rolling off his lashes, the blue tinge of his mouth. That sight had haunted every night Kaz could force himself to sleep through.
So if his spitfire dies from this? From Kaz’s dismissal, his harsh rejection? She’ll join Jordie in his dreams, following him to the end of his days.
“Kaz.” Nina’s voice is firm, snapping him out of his stupor. “You know what she’s like. I give her two days before she’s up and ruling the roost again, no doubt kicking her feet up on your furniture and pissing you off.”
He looks at her for a moment, unsure whether he can look at Y/N’s unconscious form for much longer.
And then he leaves. Shoulders straight, brow set, polished shoes tapping against wooden floors.
Nina Zenik downs another shot of whiskey, the sharp liquid burning her throat. Jesper gapes at her from behind the bar. Wylan sits next to her, counting something on his fingers. Then, he shakes his head. “No, no. You’re messing with us. That’ll be thirteen hours Kaz spent by Y/N’s bedside. That’s impossible.”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thirteen hours yesterday, and nearly fifteen today. I’ve caught him going through business papers with her. He grumbles about idiots, and then when she doesn’t respond, he calls her one too.”
Jesper tuts, patting his chest where his heart is. “My oh my. He’s in love.”
“Who’s in love?” Inej slides onto the bar, quiet as a mouse. Matthias, significantly less quiet, wrinkles up his nose, moving the whiskey bottle away from Nina. Jesper grins at her, puckering his lips. “Kaz.”
Matthias looks scandalised. Inej blinks, looking at the others. “You didn’t know? He’s been in love with Y/N for ages.”
Silence echoes amongst them. Nina abandons her shot glass, and takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. She heaves, and points an accusing finger at Inej. “At what point…” She coughs. Wylan pats her back. “…were you planning on telling us this?”
Inej shrugs. “It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? He calls her ‘spitfire’ like it’s a curse and a blessing all at once. They stay up together for hours in complete silence, because they don’t need to say anything. Haven’t you seen the way their eyes always find each other’s in a busy room?”
“You’re a poet, Ghafa.” Jesper croons. Wylan swats at him.
“But- he is Kaz. Kaz. The Kaz who threatened to beat me with my own spine the other day because I broke a painting frame.” Matthias leans on the bar.
Nina throws her hands up, squeezing her eyes shut. “This is a metaphor. Love comes to us all, no matter how… spine-beatingly stubborn you are.”
Matthias deadpans. “You’re drunk.”
“What makes you say that!?”
“Because that’s an allegory, Nina. Not a metaphor.”
“I don’t pay you all to sit around and ponder language terms, you know.” Comes Kaz’s stern voice. Jesper yelps, ducking under the counter. Their boss’ brows pinch together, looking upon his crows.
“You’re all insufferable.”
Nina holds up the whiskey bottle in gratitude. “And you’re the moron who hired us. Cheers to that.”
The world is too bright when your eyes crack open again. You hiss at the sunlight, hand lurching up to block it from your vision. The laugh you hear is bright, a snort that no doubt belongs to your dear Nina, and clears through the fog brewing in your weary mind.
“Well that’s a pleasant greeting. I’ve missed you too, darling. Stay put, I’ll shut those curtains.” You feel the plush of her lips against your temple as she bustles to relieve you of your temporary blindness.
“Flirting with me so soon? Not even recovered…” You’re not even sure if the words come out right; your teeth feel dry and your tongue feels like lead. Still, Nina graces you with a laugh, and sits next to you.
You force your eyelids apart once more, blinking once, twice, thrice. You’re in your room, but it smells medicinal, and you cough.
Nina props you up like a doll, grinning. “Breathe it in, sunshine. Those are some pricey herbs you’re whiffing. Don’t let Kaz’s precious money go to waste.”
You almost laugh at her words, and you want to make a snide comment about how much of Kaz’s money you spend on the daily anyhow. But the sound of his name makes your eyes widen, and you gasp. “Kaz-“
Nina’s face pales. She cradles your face, gently urging you back down. You hadn’t even realised you’d shot up. “Hey- hey, easy now. You’re alright. Kaz is here. He’s not angry with you.”
“Kaz-“ You wheeze again. She nods.
“I know. You’ve got plenty of time to hash it out with him, I promise. But as for right now, we need to get you back up to speed. D’you think you can get up?”
“She’s not having vodka for breakfast, Jesper.” Inej scolds, nimble fingers weaving through your hair. “She’s been unconscious for two weeks.”
Jesper waves the bottle like he’s trying to sell it to you for more than it’s worth. “But it’s Ravkan vodka. Straight from… Ravka.”
You laugh. You’ve missed this, you think. You’re not entirely sure what’s real and what isn’t anymore, so you spoon another mouthful of broth into your lips. It’s good. Hot and salty.
“Men.” Nina grumbles, despite the fact she’s perched in Matthias’ thigh, fingers tracing his pulse point. You laugh again and again, as if the sound could bring you back to who you were before this whole ordeal.
The rush of water in your ears, the flood of saltwater in your nose, the desperate gasp for air-
You push your bowl away. Jesper winks, slides the bottle of Ravkan vodka to you, and takes your bowl away.
You look down at your fingers, at your arm in its sling, fashioned from one of Nina’s scarves and a splint Wylan had molded out of a metal wire or two.
Pain, so much pain. Your arm burns, limp with your panic, and you want it to move. Saints, why won’t it move!? Please, can’t anyone see you-
The click of a cane happens twice before it stops so quickly the room falls into a cacophonous silence. Everyone stares at the doorway. Your gut churns, but musters up the courage to will you to turn your head as well.
Kaz. He’s lost sleep. You can see it in the twitch of his eye and the clench of his jaw. He stares at you like you’re something from a dream, or is it a nightmare?
The clock on the wall ticks for an uncomfortable amount of time before he swallows, and moves for the stairs. “Rest. We’ll need you back to normal for the heist I’ve got in the works.”
No one moves as he ascends the stairs. Click. Click. Click. Tick. Tock. Tick-
Once the door to his office slams, and the lack of care in his dark eyes finally hits you, you bite back tears, and knock back a good amount of Jesper’s Ravkan vodka.
Summary: Kaz Brekker and Y/N L/N are thick as thieves. Literally. Having worked together since childhood, they understand each other to a level that almost frightens the other crows… so what happens when they have an argument?
Warnings: Mentions of the menagerie and Kaz’s broken leg, reader’s arm gets broken, reader is a pain in the ass but we love her because same, reader takes a nice little swim
A/N: this is (I think) my first time writing for Kaz ???? he’s so broody so this was so different for me lol. Also this is my third post in three days idk what’s going on
Your feet are light, a spring in your step as you pad into the Crow Club, grinning. Immediately, Nina is tutting at you, but you shush her, and set down the string of diamonds Kaz had asked for, as well as the official certificate from their maker. “Your majesty’s gems, as per his humble request.” You curtsy mockingly to Kaz, who shoots you a look, and inspects your findings.
You still remember the day you met Kaz.
Your father is discussing business with Jakob Hertzoon, and you’re curled up on the floor, playing with dollies Hertzoon’s daughter Saskia had left behind. Footsteps enter your line of vision, and then big brown eyes are blinking at you. He points to the dolls. “Yours?” You shake your head. He sits cross-legged in front of you.
His head tips up as a taller boy wanders into Hertzoon’s living room. He grins a toothy smile at you, pointing. “That’s my brother Jordie.” Then he thrusts his hand out, chin tipped up. “And I’m Kaz.”
You find yourself giggling, taking his hand and shaking it eagerly. “And I’m Y/N.”
Despite all that has happened, all that has become of you and Kaz Rietveld, you’ll never forget the bright-eyed boy who’d been so eager to make your acquaintance.
“Very good, spitfire.” Kaz drawls affirmatively, brows furrowed in that analysing way you’ve seen him do so often. The nickname came from a time you once took on an Inferni, and ended up with burnt clothes and singed hair, spitting out ash. Kaz had found it terribly funny, of course he had-
“And now your arm?” He looks up at you, gaze scrutinising. You stare at him, fighting the urge to gape. You open your mouth to speak. He cuts you off.
“You walked in with it tucked behind your back, and handed me your findings with your left hand, when you always give it to me with your right, so your other can rest on your hip. Show me your arm, Y/N.”
You shoot a wary look to Nina, who holds her hands up in surrender, and then to Jesper, who’s barely hiding a snort, and then you brace yourself, and hold out your arm.
You’d taken a nasty tumble jumping from the building, the alarms blaring and the guards shouting, and you’d landed hard on your right arm. You’d ran after that, not even taking a moment to dwell on it, though, now looking at it, you’re starting to feel a bit woozy.
The bone at your elbow is sticking out at an odd angle, the flesh around it swelling and turning an unnatural shade of purple.
Kaz is on his feet instantly, shooting you a look that to anyone would be nothing but scalding, but you can detect the worry brewing beneath it. “Nina.” He says sharply, and immediately, she rushes to you, gently urging you into a chair and kneeling by your injured arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ you mouth to Kaz. He ignores you.
His gloved hand trails over the table, tapping rhythmically, the other gripping his cane. “Tomorrow,” He announces, “I’m going to need someone to break into Pekka’s office and plant these in a sufficient spot, as well as lead a trail for the stadwatch to find.”
You look up at him, and shrug with the arm that isn’t being healed by your trusty heartrender friend. “I’ll do it. I know that office better than anyone.” You grin at Jesper, who shoots you a wink and twirls a gun. “I’ll bust right in there, plant those suckers, and-“
“You won’t, because you won’t be going.” Kaz’s voice is stern. Final.
You stare at him. This mission has your name written all over it, surely. He doesn’t meet your gaze. “You’re injured, and you’ve exerted yourself. I’ll send Inej.”
“You’re kidding.” You stare at him, and stand, despite Nina’s protests. “Kaz, tell me you’re kidding.”
“Have you known me to kid, Y/N?” He scans the certificate on the table. Your fist clenches.
“Come on. You can’t be serious. Kaz, I’ll be fine. I’ll have Nina set my arm, and I’ll sleep. This mission will be a piece of cake for me.”
“Are you doubting Inej’s talents?” He tuts. He’s being mean.
“Of course not.” You snarl, walking closer. “Are you doubting mine?”
Everyone has gone silent, watching the exchange. They’ve never seen you and Kaz argue, not when you’re usually so close. Is that why Kaz can’t look you in the eye?
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Answer the question.”
He only huffs, leather-clad hand flexing around the crow-head of the cane. “I don’t doubt you, Y/N. You know that, don’t be foolish. But you’re injured, and you’ve had a long day. You’ll have Nina set your arm, and you’ll sleep, as you said, and then you’ll rest until you’re back on your feet again.”
“I am fine!” You shout.
“Your arm is broken, Y/N! You are a liability!”
“For fuck’s sake, look at me!” You snap, slamming your left hand onto the table. His words sting. His doubt stings more.
Slowly, silently, he looks up at you, glaring at you from under his eyelashes. For a few moments, you could hear a pin drop. Nina has a hand clamped over her mouth, and Wylan has one clamped over his eyes. Jesper is chugging another glass of whiskey. Matthias is quietly watching the exchange, eyes flitting to Inej, who’s perched on the stairs, face peeking through the bannisters.
“Y/N.” His voice is harsh, cold. “You’re not going on that mission whether you like it or not. You’re not a child. Stop acting like one. Leave.”
You stare at him for a long minute, trying desperately to fight back the hot tears pricking at your lashline. You swallow, and scoff, barely able to choke out a response. “Gladly.” Is all you can manage, and you storm out, boots thunking against the floor.
You’ve been walking since, marching through the streets of Ketterdam like someone has a death wish, though you’re not sure whether it’s one of the many people you have a vendetta against, or yourself.
You’re angry, of course you are, frustrated with being rendered useless by someone you held so close and dear to your heart-
This is what this is about. You’re upset. Almost a decade of friendship and this is how he repays you. The logical part of your brain is telling you that he was correct, that he’s only trying to protect you and ensure you have a safe recovery. The emotional part of your brain tells it to shut up.
You end up on the harbour, toes touching the edge of the pier, eyes closing as you breathe in the Ketterdam air, filled with smoke and secrecy. You’re drowning in your heartache, miserable from your fight with Kaz. You don’t fight often. You bicker over books and drinks, but you don’t fight. You’re his strongest soldier, his fiercest friend, his right-hand-woman when times get tough.
“‘ello there, pretty.” The voice from behind you is raspy, like coal scraping against stone. You turn quickly, left hand moving to your dagger.
The man is scraggly, ugly - one of Pekka’s men, it’s clear to see. He grins at you with crooked teeth. “Well, well, well. ‘ave I caught myself a mermaid or what?”
You glare at him. “You’d do well to leave me be.” You tip your chin up, and his eyes narrow at you.
“I’ve seen your face before. Tell me where I’ve seen it.”
“Not at the Menagerie, I’ll tell you that much. Leave me be.” You hiss, and bare your dagger, positioning yourself to disguise your injured arm. You knew you should’ve let Nina patch it up before you ran.
The man goes quiet. And then he chuckles, low and hoarse. “Oh, but I ‘ave seen your face. You’re one of Brekker’s, aren’t you? His little whore.”
You snarl, twirling your dagger, holding it to his neck. “Careful what you say to me. I didn’t get into Brekker’s gang without being good at my job.”
A lie. You blackmailed Kaz with an embarrassing crush he had on a coalsmith’s daughter if he didn’t let you into the little club he was creating.
“We’ll call ourselves the crows.” He declares. You’re both fourteen. His leg is outstretched, wrapped up as it heals from his nasty fall. One of the healers says he’ll never walk the same. Your own knees are pulled up to your chest. You squint at him. “Crows? Seriously?” He glares at you. You miss the days when he’d smile so often. “It’s symbolic, spitfire.” “Of what? Teenage angst?” He kicks you with his good foot. You laugh.
You glower at the man, who chuckles and holds his hands up, taking a step back. “A’right, a’right. You got me there, pretty.”
But just as you nod and tuck your dagger away, he sneers at you. “But if you’re so good at your job, pretty, why are you sporting a broken arm?”
You don’t have time to comprehend what he’s just said. Not as he lurches forward, yanks on your bad arm, and uses it to slam against your chest.
A scream of Kaz’s name barely leaves your lips before your senses are overtaken by the cold, salty depths of the Ketterdam sea.
“Boss!?” Jesper pants, eyes wide, hands on his knees.
Kaz is, understandably, in a foul mood. He was only trying to look after you, because it’s not an unknown fact that you don’t even look after yourself. He glares at Jesper. “Have you never been taught to knock?”
“Not the time for niceties, Kaz.” He heaves, and stands up straight. Kaz surveys him. His fingers are twitching. His eyes are glassy. His throat bobs. The Bastard stands.
“Jesper?”
“Kaz.” He croaks. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
Summary: A discussion between Rhys and Feyre regarding the interesting dynamic between their friends.
Warnings: Reader is a certified yapper and drinks wine, mention of Feyre’s life after the Spring Court, Feyre MEANS WELL I PROMISE don’t hate my girl 😔
A/N: in my acotar era icl girlies. I write for almost everyone so pls send requests if you have any 😛
“They’re so different.” Is the first thing Feyre can think to blurt, tilting her head at the couple, eyes narrowed, not in scrutiny, rather in… curiosity. Rhys chuckles, petting her hand. She’s not wrong.
Azriel and Y/N couldn’t be less alike. She hails from the Summer Court, all flowing hair and bright eyes and beams of light in her smile and her words. She’s sunshine in a jar, or perhaps in a bottle of lemonade, prone to bubbling and fizzing whenever she deems it necessary. Azriel is all brooding looks and closed lips. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His shadows swirl around the armchair he’s sitting in. They weave around his mate’s limbs, playing with her hair as she chatters.
She’s curled up on his lap, kicking her feet, yapping on and on and on about this and that and who knows what. Azriel watches her, not a trace of boredom in his features, just watching her face and her mouth as she babbles on and on.
Y/N is one of the first people Feyre met upon coming to the Night Court. She’d been thin, depressed, a shell of herself, and Y/N had come right up to her, holding her hands and beaming, telling her just how strong she was. She hadn’t judged her when she’d bawled. She’d make food, and insist Feyre to be the first to try it, because ‘You’re the guest, sweet pea!’. Feyre hadn’t realised it at the time, but Y/N had done it on purpose, something she only noticed when spotting her triumphant smile upon Feyre gaining weight again.
She was sunshine. Complete and utter sunshine. Smiles and winks and giggles and waves to whoever would listen.
And Azriel?
Darkness personified, and not just by the shadows swirling around his feet and in his mate’s hair. He’s quiet, brooding, secretive in a way that is only becoming of a spymaster. Even when paired with Cassian, boisterous and bold, he’s as silent and as deadly as his title of ‘shadowsinger’ suggests.
Feyre pulls her gaze away, looking at her mate as he speaks.
“They’re exactly what the other needs.” Rhys hums, squeezing her fingers. She purses her lips, eyes squinting, still coming to grips with this whole ‘mate’ business. Her and Rhys work. Do Y/N and Azriel? Azriel is quiet, concise, solitary. Y/N is a chatterbox. Does he not think she’s too much? Does she not think he’s not enough?
“Now, now, Feyre darling.” Rhys drawls, shooting her a look. “Play nice.” She blinks, and flushes. “No! No, I didn’t mean it like that- stop looking in my head!” She scowls, and her mate laughs.
She looks back at the pair, Y/N only taking a pause when she sips from her glass of wine. Azriel mumbles something to her, and she laughs, cheeks glowing and eyes crinkled.
And Feyre sees it then - the subtleties of the moment despite the exuberance of it all. The way Azriel watches her. The way Y/N’s fingers fiddle with his scarred ones absentmindedly. The way her face lights up as she laughs. The way Azriel’s own eyes brighten when he makes her do so.
“I think I get it now.” She whispers to Rhys. “He could never find her… overbearing. She’s his. He adores her. She adores him just as much. She doesn’t mind how quiet he is. She’s happy to fill the space.” She looks to him. “Right?”
Rhysand doesn’t respond.
“Right?” Feyre presses, brows furrowed.
Her mate shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you, Feyre darling. The truth is, I’ve never quite understood them myself. All I know is that my brother is happy, happy as I’ve never seen him before, and I’m content.”
The High Lady goes quiet, and looks at Azriel and Y/N. One of his large scarred hands is gently stroking the exposed skin of her waist, and he’s looking at her like she’s the sun that shines through his window every morning, like she’s the wind that breezes through his hair and wings when he flies, like she’s the sole purpose for his existence. His mate. His chatterbox.
Summary: Lucien has a mate. Hooray! Lucien’s mate is incredibly shy. Booooo!
Warnings: Reader is very shy, to the point where she doesn’t talk. I know some people don’t like that but I thought the dynamic would work well with someone as suave and charming as our Lucien.
A/N: going through a very rough time atm but I’m living !!! and I love Lucien so much. Also this is set before the events of ACOTAR, hence why Andras is mentioned - he’s still alive :3
He watches you from where you’re curled up in the library, sprawled out under the sun like a cat. There’s a pillow beneath your head, and your eyes are closed, but you aren’t sleeping. He knows you aren’t, because your fingers twitch. You’re just… being.
Lucien Vanserra is nervous. Lucien, one-eyed Lucien, the Spring Court’s clever emissary, one of Tamlin’s most trusted advisors… is nervous over his own mate.
It isn’t that simple, though.
You’re shy. Gentle, and quiet, and shy, and he has no idea to approach you, silently frightened you’ll scamper off like a little mouse. Sure, you’ve spoken before, and he’s ridden behind you when travelling, but he has absolutely no idea how to talk to you. He’s not gentle like Tamlin. He can’t read people like Andras. He’s absolutely, irrevocably, unbelievably terrified.
But this is his mate. His lifelong partner. The person whose life is intertwined to his with a golden thread of love and devotion. He’s waited centuries to meet you, to have her, to be hers in every sense of the word, and he’ll be damned if he gives it all up now. Jesminda would be bloody disappointed in him if he did.
And so, he walks in.
You don’t stir. He says your name quietly, and you squeak, jolting out of your rest. He winces. “Sorry- I-“ He takes a breath. “How has your day been?”
You blink at him. “…good.”
Lucien stares at you blankly, golden eye whirring. Good? Good!? Mother above, he needs to keep this conversation going. This is a lot easier when the other participant enjoys being charmed. “Yeah. That’s- that’s good. Do anything fun today?” You shake your head. He’s about to hurl himself off a cliff. “…read any good books? Hey, why don’t you tell me about that one you’re reading?” He winks at you, shooting you a suave smirk.
You only blink, looking down shyly, and shake your head. His heart sinks.
Slowly, hesitantly, he patters forward, kneeling in front of where you sit. He needs this. He needs you. Is it him? Is he the issue? “Please talk to me, sweet girl.” He murmurs, defeated and rejected. “Please. I- I just want to get to know you. Talk to you. Please talk to me.” He pleads.
And you do. “I don’t like talking.” You admit in a quiet little voice, wincing. “I- it makes me anxious. I have no idea how to- to keep a conversation going, or… talk to people, or…” You trail off, cheeks flaming in embarrassment, but Cauldron boil him, he gets it.
His shoulders sag. You don’t talk because you genuinely don’t want to. You stay quiet because it’s what most comfortable for you. All those times you’ve been by his side, silent as can be? Because you felt comfortable. He gets it now. He gets you.
He nods, and, instead of talking, he shuffles up into the spot next to you, and leans back just the way you were doing earlier, tucking an arm behind your head. You smile. This is better, you both think, you both agree. You close your eyes, still blushing shyly, and lean against his warm skin, the bond thrumming happily.
So no, he isn’t gentle like Tamlin. And no, he can’t read people like Andras. But he’s Lucien. And whether his mate needs a flirting session or utter silence, by the Cauldron, he’ll give it to her.
A soft sigh escapes you as the wooden chair creaks against the stone floor, rocking back and forth, lulling you and your sweet daughter as she snores, slumped against your chest.
She’s as loud as the day she was born, kicking and screaming as she was lowered into your arms for the first time, and now, thank the gods, she screams less. She has, however, taken after her father with her snoring, noisy enough to rumble Dragonstone itself. You’re not surprised - not entirely, at least. Little Rhaenyra has been a daddy’s girl since the moment Jace held her, since the moment her chubby fingers curled around his one, and he weeped into her downy head. It baffles you that that was so long ago - you can see the image as clear as day.
Speaking of your most beloved husband, he’s still not here. His tendency to overwork himself is shining through, and he’s all but locked himself in his study to sort through his papers and meetings and arrangements and everything boring that you sometimes have the urge to burn so maybe, just maybe, he’ll come to bed on time.
‘Perks of being the eldest son, my darling wife.’ He’d once grinned, amber eyes glinting in the sunlight with that twinkle of mischief you love so much. He’d kissed you, then, and slipped away to occupy himself with his duties.
You can’t be mad at him, not really, not when your heart is brimming with the love and devotion you have for your Jace. Not when you’re carding your fingers through your toddler’s dark curls as she dreams. It doesn’t stop you from being frustrated though. You hate it when he burns himself out like this, knowing all too well the way he crumbles when the day is done. You’ll always be there, though, to pick up the shards and put him back together again, knowing he’d do the same for you in a heartbeat.
The door creaks open, and then it closes with a squeal of the hinges, and quiet footsteps patter behind you, Jace’s face peering around the rocking chair. He winces. “You’re awake?”
You cock a brow, shooting him a look. “Yes, I’m awake. And so are you.”
He sighs, then, pressing those full lips to your forehead and cradling your face, his free hand reaching down to stroke Rhaenyra’s hair. “I’m sorry, my wife. Everything is so… overwhelming right now. Some days I want to rip Aegon’s hair out, and some days I want to rip my own out.”
“Please don’t. I quite like your pretty curls.”
“As you tell me so often, gevives.” Gevives. Beauty. Gods, this man has a chokehold on your heart.
“Perhaps I will find it in myself to forgive you.” You finally push up off your chair, cracking your back, groaning. “Remind me not to sit in that chair for too long.”
“I do remind you. You don’t listen.”
“You’re on thin ice, Velaryon.”
You lower Rhaenyra into her cot, rocking it and shushing her gently when she squeaks. Jace’s hands curl around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “Our little princess.” He mumbles. “She’s perfect. Is she really ours?”
“Given that she snores like a bear and pouts all day, I’d say she is.”
He snorts. “I do not pout.”
“He said, pouting.”
“You’re mean.” He turns you around, now, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. You love it when he’s this close, when you can count every freckle, every streak of gold and brown in his eyes, every curl. You smile at him. “You love it.”
He sighs dramatically, shaking his head, as if every word he speaks ails him. “Yes, yes I do. Gods save me from my cruel wife and her cruel ways.”
You scoff, but laughter bursts through it, pushing his shoulder and walking to the bed. “Fine. I guess you won’t be sleeping next to your cruel wife, then?”
He’s scrambling out of his day clothes and under the covers before you can even fathom it, pulling you into his arms. He has the blood of the dragon, and runs hot when he sleeps. It’s nice on colder nights like this one, where you could bury yourself in his arms and never leave. His deft fingers trail up and down your spine, lips pressed against your hairline.
He calls you the beauty, but it is only because you are so infatuated with the man next to you. Every part of him; the sweet, gentlemanly parts, and the bitter, ugly parts; holds a dear place in the organ beating beneath your breast. Jacaerys Velaryon isn’t just your husband - he’s your best friend, your soul-mate (as the poets may say), and every time his fingers intertwine with yours, you like to think that your very beings intertwine too. You and Jace will find each other wherever you need to, for you know he is never far when he loves you so.
He sighs, nestling into your hair, and you gently kiss his jaw. “Promise me something, husband?”
He hums in response.
“Promise me you’ll take a break tomorrow?”
It takes him a long moment, but eventually, he swallows, nodding, body sagging against yours. “I’m sorry, I just-“
“Hush, I don’t need to hear it. I love you, alright? Even if you don’t show up to bed on time, even if you sometimes infuriate me with how much you put on yourself.”
He chuckles softly at that, pulling you in closer. “I adore you, my lady.”
You’re half-asleep by now, safe and content within the comfort of your lover’s arms. “Not as much as I adore you.”
You could have this argument for years, endless bickering of ‘I love you more’s, but you don’t. Not now, at least.
Now, you hold each other, falling asleep within the solidarity of your love.
Ygritte: Windmill..... Well, who built it? Some king?
Jon: Just the men that used to live there.
Ygritte: They must've been great builders stacking stones that high
Jon: Winterfell has towers three times that high
Ygritte: Oh, I'm Jon Snow and I'm from Winterfell. My daddy was a fancy lord and I lived in a tower that touched the clouds.
Jon: If you're impressed by a windmill, you'd be swooning if you saw the Great Keep at Winterfell.
Ygritte: What's swooning?
Jon: Fainting
Ygritte: What's fainting?
Jon: When a girl sees blood and collapses.
Ygritte: Why would a girl see blood and collapse?
Jon: Well, not all girls are like you.
Ygritte: Well, girls see more blood than boys. Or do you like girls who swoon, Jon Snow? *gasp* It's a spider! Save me, Jon Snow. My dress is made from the purest silk from Tralalalalalede!
Jon: I'd like you see you in a silk dress.
Ygritte: Would ya?
Jon: So I can tear it off you.
Ygritte: Well, if you rip my pretty silk dress, I'll blacken your eye.
"And-" Jon's deep voice comes to a halt, eyes flitting over the lovestruck expression on his wife's beautiful face. "Y/N. Darling. Sweetheart."
You blink on impact, shooting him a soft smile. "Hm?"
"Have you been listening to a word I say? This is important. If we're going to war, we need to- you're doing it again." You can't help but snort at the monotonous voice he puts on.
You don't mean to be so rude, not to Jon of all people, but... you just can't help it. He's as gorgeous as the day you first saw him, despite the changes you can spot - the main ones being his faint scars above his brows and the beard he's so effortlessly grown out. His dark curls hang loose and wet from his earlier bath, soaking the shoulders of his tunic. His dark eyes, framed by his thick lashes, scan the battle plans he's cleverly laid out, peering down the slender slope of his nose, plush lips forming a slight pout-
"A'right. C'mon, beauty, off to bed." He stands, rolling his shoulders back. Your eyes flit to the large direwolf by his feet who stretches too, slinking towards the bed.
"Are you talking to me or Ghost?"
"You, obviously. Don't be daft." He presses his mouth to yours, cradling your face. "You're the most beautiful girl in the whole world."
You can't help but smile. Jon's very good at making you feel like a teenager with a crush again. "You're one to talk."
He grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek, hands on your hips as he moves to the bed of furs, pulling you with him. "I suppose I am. Come to bed now, beauty. Maybe you'll be less distracted tomorrow."
But, in reality, you both know that that's not going to be the case. How could you be anything but distracted when your Jon is so handsome?
Summary: Azriel is undeniably furious, especially considering the fact that Y/N has yet to wake up. But, when she does, what will become of their relationship?
Warnings: Vomiting, mentions of Az wanting to kill people for his bbg, very fluffy. Bit of hurt/comfort for both Azriel and Y/N
A/N: Here is part two of Poison (which, btw, thank u for all the support I've been getting on it 😭). feel free to send in requests for acotar bc I'm bored<3
Azriel doesn’t think he’s ever been angrier in his entire life.
He’s supposed to stay calm and collected, every inch the mysterious spymaster, but not even the strongest sedative could settle the rage brewing in his chest. His shadows curl menacingly around his limbs, the black essence seeming to share his fury.
Rhysand sighs, rubbing his temples. Feyre stands behind him, probably to offer some form of comfort. They both adore Y/N. They’ve practically adopted her with how much they coddle and coo at her, despite her loud laughter and complaints whenever they do.
Cauldron, what Azriel wouldn't do to hear that laugh right now.
It’s been three days. Y/N is not awake. His mate is not awake.
Rhysand finally looks up at Azriel. “We’ve got answers, at least.” Before Azriel can interrupt, he keeps talking. “Beron has admitted to poisoning Y/N. He figured that if he targeted her, we’d crumble. Not because she’s the strongest, but because she’s the most… beloved, daresay. He didn’t think we’d hit back, and he thought he’d be able to crush us with this crack in our defences.”
Azriel’s scarred knuckles are alabaster from how hard he’s gripping the arms of his chair. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he just admit it?” The High Lord of Night takes a deep breath.
“He found it funny.” The noise that tears from Azriel’s throat is completely inhumane, and completely unlike him. He storms to the door, but Cassian’s strong arms hold him back, urging him to stay calm, urging him to breathe. He can’t. He’s gone past being angry, and he’s gone past blaming it on the new mating bond.
Y/N is his best friend. He’d die and kill for her, he’d steal the moon and stars if it meant she’d be happy. The Mother’s bond can go and fuck itself, because the one he’s already got with Y/N will always be stronger.
“I’ve arranged a meeting with Eris Vanserra.” Rhys’ firm voice cuts through the haze of rage. “He says he has plans, and that this event has solidified his desires. I may be unable to tell you what comes of the meeting, but I guarantee that Beron will suffer for what he did to Y/N.”
Mate. Awake. He almost doesn’t realise what his shadows are whispering to him. Awake. Eyes open. Vomit. GO. He chokes, and desperately tries to break free of Cassian's grip. He needs to see her. He needs her to be okay. “Az, Rhys just said-”
“I know what he just said!” Azriel hates the way his voice is more of a sob. “She’s awake- she’s- please, let me go to her!”
A shadowsinger shouldn’t beg. He shouldn’t grovel. He should attack.
But he doesn’t, because he knows that Y/N is far more important than any conflict he could have with Cassian right now.
And, besides, Cassian lets him go. He’s never run so fast in his life. His feet are barely on the ground, legs and shadows and wings working in tandem to get him there as soon as possible. He thinks he might be the one vomiting in a minute.
Rhys groans. “I know they’re close, but he’s going to drive me insane before I even have this meeting.”
But Feyre, ever the observant High Lady, stares at his retreating form, hand squeezing Rhys’ shoulder. “Give him time. I’m sure he’ll cool off, when he knows she’s safe.” A small smile quirks up at the corners of her lips, knowing exactly why Azriel is so worked up.
His chest heaves as he pushes the door open, but then it’s filled with warmth. Alive. She’s alive, and upright, and very visibly pissed off but it’s okay because she’s alive.
“The one time I drink something that isn’t champagne-” she croaks out. “-and it turns out to be fucking poisoned. If that’s not my luck I don’t know what is.”
Azriel can’t control the desperate sob that bursts from his lips as he clambers onto the bed, pulling her into his chest. She’s sweaty, and feverish, and she’s just puked into the bucket next to the bed, but he’ll be damned if he cares. She’s alive. He buries his face in her hair, arms and wings squeezing her so tightly it makes her squeak.
“Alright big guy, I’ve just been sick, let’s not try and go for round two.” Her tone is teasing, joking, but the moment he pulls away, her face falls. “Az…” she murmurs, moving her fingers up to wipe his tears. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” he spits, sobbing again. “What’s wrong!? You were fucking poisoned! You’ve been puking and coughing and writhing and screaming ever since you got here, and you’ve been out for three days. Three whole days- where- I didn’t know if you were dead, I didn’t know if you-”
“Az.” her tone is a bit firmer now, thumbs pressing against his lips. “I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay. I’m here, I’m breathing, and I’m going to be fine. Breathe.”
He heaves a deep breath, clutching her so tightly his fingers make indents on her skin. If she notices, she doesn’t care. “You’re… okay.”
“I’m okay.” She smiles. Her lips are cracked and slightly discoloured, but he’s missed her little smile so fucking much. “Come on, Az, you know me. Tough as nails.” She flexes her arms, and Azriel snorts.
“There’s nothing there. You should really stop skipping training.”
“No! You’re always a dick to me in training!”
“Yes, because Cassian’s about as mean as a wet sponge, and it isn’t potty training, it’s battle tactics.”
She scoffs. “Whatever, whatever.” And he grins, and hugs her again, trying to engrave the memory of her wrapped up in his arms into his brain, just to keep there forever. “Azriel?” He hums in response. “I- so, you know a couple days back? When... this... happened, and I was just about to fall asleep?” She swallows. “I think I felt something… snap.”
His heart pounds in his chest. “The bond? You felt it too?”
“Uh- yeah.” She looks up at him, big eyes blinking up at him like a doe, her face so sweet he wants to coo. “Are you disappointed? That it’s me?”
That makes Azriel frown. How could he be disappointed? She’s everything and more, anyone can see that. Even if he pushes aside the fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s got a brain to match it. She’s quick and clever and sassy in a way that rivals even his own spunk. If anything, she should be the disappointed one.
“No.” he says, brows furrowing. “Y/N, sweetheart, you mean the world to me. How could I be disappointed?” He wants to catch all of the butterflies in his stomach and lock them away forever, because they're making him woozy. “Are- are you?”
“Am I?” her tone is confused, almost shocked. “Az- Az, I’ve been into you for, like, forever. I’m not disappointed. I could never be disappointed, not with you.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, blinking, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that this bond has, for lack of better wording, startled them. They’ve always prioritised everyone else over them, always considered others' needs and benefits above their own, but they’ve never had the chance to fully acknowledge themselves. Maybe that’s what made them so alike. Maybe that’s why the Mother paired them together, knowing that amidst the sarcastic comments and teasing touches, the sturdy roots of their relationship came from their unwavering trust and care for one another.
Azriel’s hand moves to Y/N’s clammy forehead, softly pushing the hair away from her face. Despite everything that’s happened in the last few days, she’s still her, and he’s still him. Nothing is ever going to change that.
“You’re beautiful.” He whispers. She rolls her eyes. “I’ve got a raging fever, I’m drenched in my own sweat, I just threw up and you’re calling me beautiful?”
He laughs, oh, by the Cauldron, he laughs. “You could be a corpse and you’d still be the most beautiful girl in the world.”
“Me.” and she grins, nudging her nose against his. “Because I am not only hilarious, but also very observant.” He lets out a little hum in response, scarred fingers still twisting in her hair. Everything’s perfect, because they’re not. Their imperfections are intertwined, just like their souls, and the knowledge the other will always be there to love them is all they've ever wanted.
Azriel’s eyes flit down to her lips, and then he’s leaning in, and she’s doing the same, and-
She pulls away, wincing. “I puked about five minutes ago. I don’t think you want to kiss me right now.”
He rolls his eyes, tipping her chin up. “Y/N L/N, I have waited at least two centuries for the opportunity to kiss you. Don’t stop me now.” And he presses his lips to hers. It’s gentle, soft, sweet. Everything he feels around this girl.
“You’re gross.” She mumbles.
“That’s what love does to you.”
“And you’re a sap.” She grins. “I suppose you’re lucky I love you, even if you are going soft for me.”
Summary: After a particularly harsh punishment from his father, Eris is left choking on his own emotions, and the guilt that comes with them. Pain is weakness, until it comes to his mate, Y/N. Set before the events of ACOTAR
Warnings: parental abuse, mentions of Beron 🤢, lots of angst, lots of hurt/comfort. unedited lol
A/N: I’ve had this idea in my head for ages and I figured I should finally write it (title is from guilty as sin by Taylor Swift)
———————————————————————————
Eris’ shaking hand clutches at the cloak he’s wrapped around his aching form, stumbling and limping back to his chamber, desperate to get somewhere private before, Cauldron forbid, any of his brothers see him.
The lashes on his back sting with the force of a thousand needles, the prickly pain curling around his spine and puncturing his muscles.
They’ve never hurt like this before. Maybe he’s getting weak.
Eris Vanserra would rather die than be known as weak, but right now? With gory gashes up his back? With bitter tears pooling at his lashlines? With a broken heart to match the shattered fragments of his childhood? He’s nothing but weak.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
He’s a dishonour to his family, to his court, to his people- to his mate. His precious mate, with her soft hair and sweet smile. She’s always been too good for him. His father himself had uttered it under his breath the moment he’d introduced Y/N to his family.
He hopes she isn’t in their chambers.
He hopes she’ll never see this weakness that has possessed him.
He shoves the heavy door open, eyes darting around the vacant room. Thank the Mother, Y/N must still be on her evening trip to the library. He moves quickly, tossing the bloodstained cloak on the floor, and turning towards the mirror.
The pale skin of his back is torn, the crimson of his blood coating just about every inch of it, covering the splashes of freckles and old scars.
Eris can’t control the tears that start to trickle down his cheeks.
This is dreadful. Not the gashes, those he’s used to. But the tears. He’s not allowed to cry. When did he become so weak!? When did he let himself become so susceptible to the raging emotions that have taken hold of his soul? When did-
“There you are, I was wondering when you’d be back-“ Y/N walks out of the bathroom, a bright smile on her face, but she’s too quick for him to hide.
Her face falls. She sees the blood. She sees the wounds. She sees the tears.
She sees the weakness.
Eris can’t speak. The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a loud sob.
Weak. Weak. Weak.
But then, her gentle voice fills his ears, and her hands cradle his face, lips kissing away the tears on his cheeks. “You’re okay.” She murmurs. “You’re gonna be okay, honey. I’ve got you.” He sobs harder.
She fetches a cloth, hastily soaking it with cold water, and starts to swipe at the blood on his back, letting him bawl into the crook of her neck like a baby. “I’ve got you. Let it out, Eris. You’re allowed to cry.” No, he’s not. He’s weak. Weak, weak, weak-
“You’re so strong, baby.” She whispers.
…what?
“You’re so strong, so brave. You’ve been holding this in for so long.” She kisses his hair, continuing to gently wipe the blood away. “My strong mate, I love you so much.”
“No-“ He chokes out. “No. I’m weak.”
“Why do you think you’re weak, Er?”
He frowns. Isn’t it obvious? “I’m crying.”
“You just got beaten by your father. I’d be surprised if you weren’t crying.”
“But still, I shouldn’t be crying. I shouldn’t be weak.”
“I cry. Do you think I’m weak?”
He gapes at her. “N-no-“
“Exactly. Case closed. You’re not weak either.”
He’s silent for the next ten minutes while she treats his wounds. He watches her pretty face, pondering what he did to be so lucky to be her mate.
When she’s done, she pulls him down on the bed with her, positioning him to lie on his stomach between her legs. She twists his red hair in her fingers. “So strong.” She repeats.
And the heir to the Autumn Court says nothing, nuzzling his nose into his mate’s neck. If she thinks he’s strong, then by the Cauldron, he supposes he is.
———————————————————————————
i am an eris vanserra stan first and then a person
Summary: At an event hosted by High Lord Beron, Azriel's closest friend Y/N seems to be incredibly wasted. The only problem? Azriel knows that she doesn't get drunk. Ever.
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, poison, vomiting, a drunk love confession, a bit of angst but it is all in all quite fluffy
A/N: So this may or may not be inspired by the scene in Wicked King where Cardan gets poisoned... enjoy!! :3
Y/N is, as always, on high alert as she follows Rhys into the ballroom. Something combined with her dislike for social events and her lack of trust for the High Lord of Autumn meant her eyes and ears were everywhere, keeping constant watch over everything. Azriel’s large hand gently splays over her bare back, the rough fingers a gentle reminder that he’s there, and possibly to tell her to stop being so tense. She shoots a glare at her best friend, who responds with a badly-concealed smile.
She’s dressed in black, they all are, as is custom in the Night Court. Her dress is floor length, the black satin offering a nice hold around her figure, the neckline a low plunge, and the slit on her left side allowing her some freedom. The fabric is littered with silver threads and diamonds, meant to represent constellations, and also to match the sparkly heels on her feet. She looks pretty. She feels it.
A servant welcomes them warmly, almost immediately offering the group a drink of champagne, which she takes. Cassian snorts, and teases her for taking the only glass that the poor servant had, but she rolls her eyes and takes a sip.
She rarely drinks. She doesn’t like it. She’s seen enough of the boys’ drunk shenanigans to be put off it for a lifetime. She usually stays sober, if not tipsy, whenever they go to Rita’s, opting for escorting a stumbling Rhys back to Feyre rather than being the one stumbling.
But one drink won’t hurt. Not tonight. Tonight, she’ll need it.
The Inner Circle split up around the room, Azriel hot on Y/N’s trails, scarred fingers just barely tracing her bare shoulders. She sighs, leaning against a wall, him doing the same. “Time check?”
Azriel snorts. “You’re the one with the watch.”
She clicks her tongue, and checks the time, leaning back with a groan. “Two more hours of… this.”
“Always a ray of sunshine.”
“Says the shadowsinger.” she grins. Azriel was the first person she’d met in the Inner Circle, and coincidentally, her closest friend. They’d been attached at the hip the moment she’d introduced herself. They know everything about each other, inside and out.
She’d never admit it, but her heart longed for the Illyrian. He was always so clever, so considerate. And, not to mention, his sharp features and hazel eyes made heat rise in her cheeks; hot, blissful, lovestruck heat.
“I think Cassian wants me for something.” Azriel muses, tipping his chin towards where Cassian was very unsubtly gesturing for him to accompany him. Y/N narrows her eyes at the redhead he’s standing with, and laughs.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that were Eris Vanserra. Good luck, Az.”
Azriel groans, playfully tugging her hair as he walks over to his brother.
All alone, now. She drinks her champagne, downing it almost immediately. She liked champagne. It never got you too drunk, never made you too irrational. “Enjoying the festivities, Y/N?” Beron’s voice purrs out from behind her. She forces a smile.
“I’d say yes, but it appears I’ve run out of champagne.” The High Lord cocks a brow at her words, and offers her another glass with a different, more vibrant liquid. “Try this. It’s exclusive to the Autumn Court. I believe you’ll enjoy it, it’s not too strong.”
She eyes the glass, before taking it, taking a sip. It’s a subtle flavour - fruity, slightly bitter. “Thank you, my lord.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he walks away.
Cauldron, this drink is good. She drinks every last drop, and places it down on the table next to her, looking for a bottle of the same-
Oh. Oh. This is fun. Fun, fun, fun!
Why isn’t she having fun! Tonight is amazing!
An uncontrollable giggle tears from her throat, the sound throwing her off slightly as wave after wave of lucid dizziness hit her. She laughs, clutching her chest. This is so fun!
Where’s Azriel? Is he having fun? Oh, she loves him. Loves him so much. Where is he!?
Azriel cracks his neck, obviously not wanting to engage with the eldest son of the High Lord, who clearly would rather be anywhere else. Cassian is long gone, with the excuse of seeing Nesta, and now Azriel has been left to deal with Eris. This could not get any worse.
Until it does.
Y/N beams at him, tripping over her feet to get to him, stumbling as she slumps into his arms, snorting and giggling. He freezes. Eris chokes on a laugh. Her hands reach up to grab his face and tug at his hair.
“Y/N?” he murmurs, taken slightly off-guard by her strange behaviours.
“Azzy!” she squeals, laughing and kissing his cheek. Eris cocks a brow. “Looks like your little Y/N’s had too much to drink.” His words echo around Azriel’s head. No, that can’t be. Y/N doesn’t like drinking. And why would she get drunk here of all places? And why-
His heart sinks. Her pupils are dilated. Her body is trembling. Her skin is turning clammy.
This isn’t alcohol. It’s poison.
His eyes go wide as he pulls her form into his arms. “Y/N?” he mumbles, a little firmer now. “Y/N, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, silly!” she squeals. Eris laughs again, and Azriel’s head whips towards him. “What the fuck did you do to her!?” The eldest son’s eyes widen at his harsh, almost growling tone.
“Me? I’ve done nothing. She’s just drunk, shadowsinger.” He sneers at him down his pointy nose. Azriel clutches Y/N closer, ignoring all of her babbles as she squishes his cheeks and tugs his dark locks like a child.
“I love you!” she squeals. “I love you sooooo much. So much. I wish we were mates.” she slurs. Azriel takes a shaky breath at her words, and Eris gestures to her flailing form. “See? Drunk.”
“She’s not- she’s not drunk, she’s- fuck, where’s Rhys?” His tone is desperate as he searches for the High Lord. Y/N’s knees start to buckle, but he wraps her arms around her thighs. “Stay with me, sweetheart, you’re gonna be okay.” He manages to catch the attention of Rhys, whose eyes go wide at the sight of Y/N’s slumped form, and he rushes to them. “What-”
“She’s been poisoned.” Azriel chokes out, panic surging in his veins as he hugs his girl as tightly as he can to his chest. “We- we need to get her out.” Rhys takes a breath, and seems to send a message to Feyre, because she starts to round everyone up. “She’ll be okay, Az, just calm down-”
“I’m not going to calm down! She could die!” He snaps. Rhys backs off at the protective gaze in his brother’s eyes. “Get her back to the Night Court, I’ll sort out here.” Azriel hooks one arm under her knees and the other on her back as he closes his eyes, winnowing back to Velaris.
She squirms, shoving herself onto the cold floor of the Moonstone Palace, and she pukes, gasping and gagging. He shushes her gently, his shadows swirling around her and stroking her hair back as she retches. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Get it all out.”
As she vomits, his mind can’t help but flick back to what she said in the Autumn Court. ‘I love you!’ ‘I wish we were mates.’ His heart flutters at the recollection, but he silently growls at it to shut up. She’s been poisoned. Her head isn’t right. She was probably just saying words for the fun of it. She doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t mean it.
But still…
No, heart, stop it.
He pulls her up against his chest when she’s finished, gently rubbing her back. She sobs, slurring unintelligible words. He kisses her sweaty temple and carefully carries her up to her room, murmuring sweet nothings to keep her calm, but her body thrashes. Her eyes are rolling back. His hands are shaking.
He just about manages to get her writhing form onto the bed when Rhys arrives, Madja hot on his trails. “She’s been poisoned?” she asks. Y/N screams in response. Rhys winces at the noise, but the expression worsens at the fury on Azriel’s face.
“Azriel-”
“Go on.” He growls. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t storm back in there and kill them all.”
“Because first of all, that’ll be a lot of paperwork for me, and second of all, I don’t think Y/N wants you to leave.”
Rhys is, frustratingly, right. Y/N has taken it upon herself to latch onto Azriel’s arm, clutching him and mumbling profusely, cheek squished against his bicep. He sighs, and gently pats her hair, shooting a glare to the High Lord of Night in the process.
He sits with her the entire time Madja treats her, his fingers tightly intertwined with hers. The healer concludes that she’ll be okay, but not without side-effects. She says he was clever to get her home so quickly. It wasn’t out of intelligence, it was out of fear.
She gives Y/N a sleeping draught, just so her aching body can get some rest, and then she leaves. Azriel stares at his best friend’s face, and figures he should do the same. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, smiles at her fluttering eyes, and moves to leave.
Standing in the doorway, however, his eyes flit back to hers, the hazel of his irises connecting with her soft hues.
And then he feels it.
Like a string pulled taut, it snaps within his chest, flooding his veins with the pure bliss of finally having something to protect, to care for, to love. It roars throughout his body, his heart burning with the golden flames of the bond.
