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@illyrianshadow
Helloooo my loves, I promise I haven’t fully abandoned my fics. I’m having a bit of a hard time mentally right now so I don’t have the same energy to write things as I normally would.
I will get back to it eventually (hopefully soon!!), thanks so much for reading the things i have posted it means the world to me x
by rajasuokasper
Source: This
I really needed the last one
reblog if you’re a lesbian who supports bi girls, a bi girl who supports lesbians, or if you want all wlw to have a nice day
Trial and Error (10)
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: You came to Velaris under duress five years ago—pregnant, alone, and in hiding from something, or someone, too dangerous to even speak aloud. When your daughter begged you to go to school years after settling down in the apartment above a worn-down apothecary, you obliged her. But things still didn't feel safe. Azriel was going to do everything in his power to give you that safety. At least, he would try.
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort mostly in this one, ongoing series warnings
a/n: This series continues with its slow burn <3 tysm if you're still keeping up and reading!! I love writing these guys, even if it takes me a while to do. Let me know your thoughts! :) I'm estimating maybe 5ish more parts left I know this is longgg
Series Masterlist (all parts)
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
Melanie had her tiny hands pressed against Azriel’s cheeks. He held her near his chest, arm looped under her legs for her to sit comfortably, and he rocked side to side—an unintentional motion. You tracked the way his weight shifted back and forth as Melanie talked excitedly in his face. You tracked how he always swayed when he held her.
“Miss Fern told me to listen, but I was listening. She always thinks I’m not listening!”
Azriel hummed, brushing back the loose hairs from Melanie’s face. “Were you listening? Or were you talking to Nyx?”
“Ugh,” Melanie groaned, flinging herself back in Azriel’s hold. He barely flinched. “I can do both. I can talk and I can listen. And she was just saying boring stuff anyway.”
“Boring stuff?”
“Stuff I already know about! High People. Like what mommy told me about.”
Azriel turned his attention to you, his shadows offering a distraction for Melanie. You raised your brows from behind the apothecary counter and hung up the dried herbs you’d been working on.
It had been a couple of weeks since you told Azriel about your past. He’d asked a few follow-up questions in the time in between, but nothing too serious. To be fair, you were too busy kissing him to allow any deep epiphanies to arise. And when you weren’t kissing him, Melanie was around with a million stories to tell.
But that meant the topic was still fresh, an active livewire that you could tell put Azriel on edge. He was feeling only a fraction of what you’d felt over the past five years, but the roles were almost reversed now. You felt safer, and Azriel did not.
You rounded the counter to meet the pair, fiddling with Melanie’s braid as you stepped beside Azriel. “What High People, Mel?”
Melanie batted away the shadows and bunched up Azriel’s shirt across his chest. “The High Lords. And Lady—Miss Fern said there was one now. She said it was called pooltics.”
“Politics?” you echoed.
“That’s what I said. But I already knew about it,” Melanie sighed, exasperated.
“Right,” you nodded in earnest, smiling to yourself as Azriel nudged you with his elbow. You turned to him. “I taught Melanie the basics of the people in charge. Just so she’d… be prepared with some information.” Some of the softness slipped from Azriel’s face. You sought to rectify it. “Important for any kid to know.”
Azriel’s mouth twitched up a fraction. He leaned over and pressed his lips to your temple as Melanie gasped once more. “Anyways, I was talking to Nyx for an important reason. We were planning games for the garden ground! Mommy, I’m so excited!”
You nodded enthusiastically and stumbled back when Melanie flung herself into your arms, Azriel moving to catch you with his chest. The small oof that left you was drowned out by Melanie’s continued squeals.
The garden ground was a popular play place for the children of Velaris, fit with an abundance of oversized lilypads and vine-wrought slides and twinkling bugs begging to be chased around. Melanie had only been a few times, but it was a perfect location to get… acquainted with Cassian. Casual. Not so focused on you and Mel. Enough space to leave if you had to. He would bring Nyx, and you and Azriel would bring Melanie. You ignored the implication of Azriel’s role in the meeting for now—the side he was entering in with.
“Remember Mr. Cassian said maybe I could fly with him?” Melanie rambled on, hands fidgeting with excitement on your shoulders. You knocked your head back to send Azriel a pointed look. He only sheepishly smiled and let his hand run up your spine.
“That was a maybe, Mel, okay? You’re just meeting Mr. Cassian. We have to be polite,” you gently spoke.
Suddenly—as many five-year-olds do—Melanie’s expression became impassively confused. She scrunched her nose up and grimaced, looking above your head to Azriel. “Hey, I have a question.”
“What’s that?” Azriel warmly replied.
“Am I supposed to call him Mr. Cassian? I call you Mr. Azriel, but I’m not just meeting you. We meet all the time.”
Your lips parted, and you adjusted your daughter in your arms. She didn’t look to you. Her gaze remained locked on Azriel.
“I guess you have a point, Mel,” Azriel considered after a beat of silence. “What would you like to call him?”
She pursed her lips. “I want to call him Mr. Cassian still.”
“Okay, you can call him that.”
She didn’t look fully satisfied, but the conversation had run its course. Melanie blew out a breath and scampered out of your arms, launching herself up the stairs to the apartment. In her wake, Azriel called out for her not to run, but you’d tried that several times. The reprimand never worked. You shook your head lightly and went back to work at the counter, edging out the lingering nervousness at your daughter’s words.
She’d asked you something similar last week.
“Is Mr. Azriel your husband?” she’d asked, mouthful of dinner.
You’d sputtered and prayed a shadow wasn’t slinking under the table. “No, sweetie. He’s not my husband. Mr. Azriel is a…” Gods, you had blanked. “Special friend?”
Melanie’s face had split into a disgusted sort of look. “You’re supposed to kiss your friends? Yuck!”
You’d said no and of course not and had tried to make sense of such a complicated topic to a five-year-old, but Melanie had stopped being interested about three seconds in, and you’d hoped that would be the end of it. Obviously, her curiosity was going to prevail, and you needed to find a way to make sense of all of this yourself.
Azriel was not Melanie’s dad, and although he seemed quite content to stay in your lives for good, you were not going to force that on either of them. So this all was very precarious and confusing, and you had been stuck in your head about it for a while, enough so that you hadn’t had time to be nervous about meeting Cassian.
Strange, what falling in love felt like.
“She has lots of questions lately,” Azriel mused, both echoing your train of thought and startling you out of it.
Your lashes fluttered as he leaned over to haul boxes onto the shelf above your head. “She does. Sorry, I’ve been struggling to explain this all to her. Luckily, her attention span is about the size of my pinky, so it comes and goes.”
“We’ll see what she comes up with after meeting Cassian.”
His tone was light, playful, but you were still feeling antsy. “Probably more about names and titles. Gods, and she might want to know more about his job and yours, too. Maybe I could try to prep her beforehand, but she has hardly any filter and—”
“Hey,” Azriel cooed, turning your chin up between his thumb and index finger, a comforting smile warming your chest. “Are you feeling nervous about it? Having second thoughts?”
You hadn’t been. Until now. Perhaps it was because Melanie’s line of questioning was leading dangerously close to a topic you weren’t ready to discuss. Or maybe it was just that the meeting was tomorrow and the worry was finally catching up to you.
You shook your head in his grip. “No. No, I know it’ll be okay. You told me it would.”
He nodded in return, eyes tracing the shape of your face. “It will be. But it would be okay, too, if you changed your mind. It can just be us. I’d be okay with that.”
“We can’t hide away, just us three, forever. You know that, Az.”
Azriel hummed, his thumb swiping up across your bottom lip. He leaned over, kissed you chastly, and met your eyes. “Would be nice though. I would try to make it happen.”
Your smile was almost hidden with how close he was to you. “Melanie deserves to be known.”
“And you.”
“Hmm?” you breathed, eyes fluttering as you felt his breath on your lips.
“You too. Everyone should know you.”
He was kissing you again, this time longer, deeper. Warmth spread past your chest and into your gut as he drew you closer, chasing your lips each time you got even a centimeter away.
That should have scared you—other people knowing you. It used to haunt your every thought. You’d lived in fear for so long, and, to be honest, it did scare you still. The wrong people knowing you would lead to disaster. To ruin. To every bad thing you’d ever thought up.
But Azriel was here. And he was kissing you. And he was wearing a poorly-braided bracelet your daughter gave him three weeks ago.
So fear was manageable.
“So… am I supposed to kiss my friends, or not?”
Azriel’s lips froze against yours and then he made a sort of grunting sound as he quickly pulled away. Melanie stood before you with an accusatory stare, her arms crossed over her chest. Only Azriel’s lips left you; apparently he was too shocked to let go of your face.
“What?” he asked.
“Mommy says you’re a special friend. Does that mean I kiss special friends? She acted weird when I asked last time.”
“You aren’t kissing anyone.”
~~
“Nyx!” Melanie screamed, ricocheting out of Azriel’s casual hands on her shoulders. You’d only been waiting at the park for a couple of minutes before Cassian and Melanie’s “best friend on the planet” arrived. They collided in a fit of giggles, and Cassian steadied the pair before they toppled over.
“Melanie! We’re outside of school!”
“I know!”
“We’re real best friends now!”
Melanie whipped around, Nyx holding her firmly under his arm. His tiny wings were at an odd angle, but the boy didn’t seem to care much. An Illyrian trait then—wings coming second when something important is in their arms.
“Can we go play?” she bounced, eyes pleading with you.
“Yes but—hey, after we meet his Uncle Cassian, right? We have to be polite,” you stated, a spark of pride alighting when your daughter nodded with determination and stepped before the war general.
She stuck out her hand, glitter shining on the back of it from an earlier, haphazard art project. “Hi, I’m Melanie. I know we met already, but my mommy says this is more official.”
Cassian, who had been watching on with curious eyes, nodded to Melanie and dropped to a knee. “Pleasure to officially meet you then.” He shook her hand in both of his. “Can I ask you a question?”
Melanie nodded, eyes wide.
“I’m a little jealous, actually. Azriel keeps walking around with that bracelet, and Nyx has one too. Do you think you could make me one? I’d pay for it.”
“You’d pay me? Money?” Melanie blinked, turning to you with raised brows. You pressed your lips together in a smile and nodded her on. “Sure. I’ve never had my own money before. My mommy always lets me use hers.”
“Perfect. Next time we meet, then. I’ll have coin.”
Melanie turned to Nyx, joining hands before running off with an abundance of babbling sounds you could hardly make out. They were mostly talking about money and buying more string, but you weren’t sure they were actually listening to each other. They reached the structure twining with branches, and you finally felt somewhat free from the screeching.
“Offering a child money, Cassian?” Azriel quipped, standing close beside you. “I didn’t think you needed to be liked so badly.”
Cassian chuckled, his wings pressed in tight to his back, his posture unimposing as he smiled. “She’d like me without the money, it’s just a little extra.” Cassian’s smile became softer then, turning his head to you. “That is, if you’re alright with it. I should have asked before.”
It was easier with the kids as a buffer, you realized, and because this was so meticulously planned out. Azriel had gone to great lengths to make you feel comfortable, and Cassian was clearly making himself smaller, trying to make you less afraid of what he couldn’t understand.
It was never about him, really, but you appreciated the effort.
You swiped a hand through the air. “I’m okay with it. I have no idea what she would need money for, though. Azriel has a terrible habit of buying her anything she sets her eyes on.”
Azriel blushed profusely. “Well, I—”
“A soft spot for you, Az?” Cassian teased. He looked out at the grounds. “Hey, I get it. If I had—” Cassian paused. He cleared his throat slightly, lingering gaze back on you. “Maybe we should… officially meet, too? I was a little aggressive about it before.”
He hadn’t been. He had been nice and courteous and you had run away in a fit of flustered fear, but he was being incredibly gracious about it. You smiled and didn’t call out the lie.
You stuck out your hand, sans any of the glitter that Melanie had offered, speaking your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Cassian. Sorry the first time was strange.”
He shook your hand gently, smiling and appraising you with a furrow to his brow. “Wasn’t strange. I’ve seen stranger. Especially from him.” He nodded up at the Shadowsinger hovering at your back.
Azriel raised an unimpressed brow. “Need I remind you what it was like living with you and Nesta?”
“Comparing mate stories?” Cassian smirked.
Your lashes fluttered at the casual sound of the title. You still hadn’t felt the bond yourself, but being Azriel’s mate felt fresh and novel. And, to Azriel, it was still raw. He grumbled under his breath and stepped forward, shadows overtaking half of your form. Cassian raised his hands in surrender.
“Still too soon? Sorry, sorry. Let’s just talk. Don’t want to get socked in the face trying to get to know her,” Cassian jested.
The next hour was spent discussing your shop and Cassian’s legions. You learned more about Nesta and told stories about Melanie when she was a baby. Cassian asked about Azriel’s relationship with her, and Azriel’s hands twitched in his lap whenever you stumbled over your words, trying to give information without revealing too much. Cassian never pushed too far, and for that, you were grateful once more.
Eventually, Nyx and Melanie huffed back to the benches where you sat, red-faced and out of breath. Melanie slumped over Azriel’s legs, and you rebraided her wild hair while Nyx chugged a box of juice. Melanie chatted more with Cassian as you went, and you saw the man glance between her and Azriel several times. At how he was looking at her with rapt attention, eyes edging with fondness. How she sat up in his lap when you were finished, one hand clutching the sleeve of his shirt, the other flailing in the air as she explained something nonsensical.
Melanie was comfortable talking to Cassian, but she was seemingly at home with Azriel.
Granted, you figured Melanie would be comfortable with anyone; she was a very outgoing girl with a lot to say. You hadn’t seen her shy away from anyone. Not yet. Not until a third voice entered the conversation, your name lingering in the air and making your head snap to the side.
The man said your name once more, this time with soft disbelief. His red hair swayed in the cool air, eye swirling as it focused on you.
“Lucien?” you breathed out.
He stood frozen, mouth parting in shock. You rose from the bench before realizing, stumbling on nothing. Behind you, safe in Azriel’s lap, Melanie was silent.
“Are you—How are you here?” he asked, shaking his head.
“I-I left. I wrote you. Or I tried, but I wasn’t sure you were getting anything in Spring.”
“I didn’t. I would have replied. Did you… does he know—”
Your expression faltered, hasty to cut him off. “No one knows where I am. I ran. Years ago.”
“I hadn’t heard anything,” Lucien revealed, still frozen as you took another step forward. “I thought that nothing was finalized when there weren’t any announcements. He—there was no word that you ran.”
That was… surprising. You’d expected Beron to utilize Spring in his hunt for you, but apparently, you had underestimated his need to save face. His pride.
You opened your mouth to explain more, to make sense of things, when a body pressed to yours cut you off. It smelled like home now, but not the home that reeked of loneliness and desperation. No, it smelled like crisp air and a lingering fire and spices. It smelled like Lucien sneaking you dessert when you weren’t allowed to stay past dinner and playing in the garden past midnight.
Sometimes, rarely, Autumn did feel like home.
“I’m so happy you got out,” Lucien whispered , his hold on you strong. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do it myself.”
Wind whipped at your clothes, and you fought off the burn in your waterline as low voices muttered behind you. You remembered, then, that you had an audience, but for some reason, you didn’t really mind.
“You said me and Lucien,” you heard Cassian rush out in a whisper.
“I didn’t mean today,” Azriel hissed back.
“Well, you should have been clearer.”
A laugh was working its way up your chest, completely cut off by Azriel’s next words. “Mel, wait. No, sweetheart—”
The tug on your skirt had you pulling away from Lucien and looking down at your daughter with a feeling of fullness. She stared up at you, and then shyly glanced at Lucien. Never one to be shy. Until now.
You’d almost forgotten Lucien was in the dark about her. His eye buzzed as he found her, and he snapped to you with a questioning gaze. You kneeled to pick her up, Melanie’s head resting in the juncture of your shoulder instantly.
“This is Melanie,” you introduced, bouncing her slightly, like Azriel loved to do. “My daughter.”
Another flash of shock on your brother’s face. He tried to clear it to appear more inviting, but it echoed in his confused smile. “Hello, Melanie. I’m Lucien.”
“Hi,” she softly replied.
He stared at her then, brows coming together, so many questions lingering. He would ask them later.
“Lucien is your uncle,” you whispered into Melanie’s hair.
She rose slightly at that, whispering back, “Like how Nyx has Mr. Cassian? And Mr. Azriel?”
You hummed out an affirmation. Her face became bright. She considered him carefully, and you thought the next words out of her mouth would be about his eyes. They weren’t.
“You have hair like mine,” she stated, reaching forward with tentative fingers.
He leaned his head down, allowing her to play with the end of a braid. “It’s because of where we’re from.”
~~
Later in the evening, Azriel held Melanie’s sleeping form as you walked back home. She was breathing gently against his neck, and he wound his free hand through yours. The sky was dim but otherwise alight with oranges and reds with the waning sun. More reminders of one version of home.
“Cassian will make guesses,” you mused, a feeling of contentment glowing within you. Only a small hint of fear remained. Maybe it would come back in full force tomorrow, but for today, you relished in the calm.
“He might. But he wouldn’t say anything. Not until you’re ready. If you ever are.”
“One day, maybe.” You swung his hand. “I didn’t know I was seeing him today. Lucien, I mean.”
Azriel ran his thumb over your knuckle. “I apologize for that. Cassian was confused.”
“I’m glad I did. I—I can’t thank you enough for everything, Azriel. I’ve been scared for a long time.”
Azriel stopped you, searching your face on the streets of Velaris. He brought his hand to your cheek, still balancing Melanie on his chest. “I’d never let anything happen to you. To either of you.”
“I know,” you smiled up at him. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Melanie shifted, making small noises as she woke. She clutched her arms around his neck and said something that sounded like a question. With the proximity, you rested a hand on her back as Azriel reassured her.
“We’re going home, Mel. Go back to sleep. We can talk more in the morning,” he softly told her.
“What are you guys talking about right now?” she grumbled out, words half-slurred.
“We’ll tell you in the morning,” you calmed.
She hummed. “Can I see everyone again soon?”
“Of course, but you have to go back to sleep first.”
Melanie seemed appeased, finally. She shifted on Azriel’s collarbone and sighed sleepily. You and Azriel watched her carefully, willing her back to sleep. She was almost there, the throes of it tugging her back down.
But she mumbled one last thing, and it was impossible to ignore.
“Night, daddy.”
Her little hands clenched in the neck of his shirt, and Azriel’s wide eyes met yours.
Some of the fear returned, but you didn’t know quite what to do with it.
Measurements of Progress
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.
Warnings: mostly fluff !, slight angst from reader having a rough time
Word Count: 3.9k
Universe Masterlist
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The balcony has become your favorite spot in your apartment. You're out here now, Elain's letter in hand, watching the street below as people move through their lives—shopping, talking, laughing. Normal things. Safe things. Velaris life as usual.
The care package arrived this morning. Banana bread, tarts, honey cakes, and candies in boxes, all wrapped with the signature kind of care that still makes your throat tight. Elain's been tracking your pregnancy like a personal project, sending updates and treats to match each milestone.
This week's letter included a postcard from the Day Court—all golden spires and bright sky—and an explanation for the banana theme that made you laugh when you'd first read it:
"Soon, your babe is going to be the size of a banana! A bit morbid now that I'm realizing I made things out of bananas...but I'm overthinking. Anyways, Lucien says hi!!"
Now you're reading it again.
A banana. Azriel will think that's pretty cool. You can picture exactly how his mouth would quirk at it. But the image of his face dissipates as your mind wanders into heavier territory. The lightness from this morning has evaporated into something else entirely.
You're sad.
For no good reason, too. It's been building in your chest all afternoon. You keep trying to ignore it because you've been doing so good. Better than good. You're settling in, making friends, building a life here.
But today the sadness is winning.
You fold the letter carefully and head back inside, casting a glance at the couch before continuing to your bedroom. The bed receives you with a sigh, your wings unfurling behind you in a stretch that feels as much relief as exhaustion.
This is what pregnancy does, you're learning. Rewires everything. You've always been good at being strong—at withstanding—but now your body is doing this enormous thing without asking permission. Two bodies cooperating in something you're integral to but can't control. You can hold your breath but you can't pause the baby if you tried. Once it started, this life inside you became immediately, irrevocably out of your hands.
A true lesson in surrender.
You're not good at those.
You run your hands down your face. You could reach out to Feyre. It is on your written to-do list— a new habit you've started as a means of self-improvement. Attempt to bond with her further, find a sympathetic ear, strengthen that connection.
Today isn't the day for that, though. Today you're just tired and sad and wishing for company.
The clock on your bare wall ticks. You watch the hand move, count the minutes. Each one that passes fills you with this sinking disappointment that makes you feel pathetic, which makes everything worse.
No word from Balthazar yet, and your hope is slowly diminishing.
You've both been orbiting each other lately, too busy with your separate new lives to really catch up. You've been unexpectedly okay with it. The ache of his absence has softened into something manageable. Something that feels less like loss and more like the natural space between friends living separate lives. The way you miss Elain between her visits.
The last time you spoke, he'd said he wanted to stop by and spend some time together. Out of respect for you, however, he didn't promise or commit to a specific hour because he 'didn't want to leave you waiting.'
You've been waiting anyway.
Because today, being sad with Balthazar sounded easier than being sad alone.
A voice in the back of your head—Azriel's voice, somehow—reminds you that he'd be here in a heartbeat if you asked.
You turn and look at Ink, wrapped around the curved apex of your wing. Narrowing your eyes playfully, you wonder if it's somehow wriggled into your thoughts.
It's not necessarily wrong— the reminder, that is. Azriel would be here in a heartbeat. This you know for certain. But you don't want Azriel to worry. You want to be strong because he seems to admire that about you, and you—
You want him to keep admiring you.
Strangely enough.
Besides, Azriel's presence has a tendency to peel you right open. Whether it's simply the pregnancy hormones and your body's recognition of him, or the openness in your friendship, the effect is the same. Right now, you're not quite ready to jump into all of your current emotions. What you need is distraction. Company.
You'll deal with this heaviness when you're ready. At least acknowledging it counts for something. You hope.
You stop looking at the clock.
Back in the kitchen, you open Elain's care package across the counter—way too much for one person. This would be more fun with someone to share it with. To taste test and laugh over Elain's ridiculous thoughtfulness.
You look at Ink where it's followed you, now coiled loosely around your wrist.
Rub your lips together.
Ink goes completely still. You can feel it somehow, that buzzing anticipation running under your skin.
"This is stupid," you mutter. Yet, you're smiling despite yourself. "But okay. You win. Go get him."
Ink moves so fast you barely track it, a dark streak disappearing under your door. Damn.
The regret is immediate. Azriel's going to think something's wrong, that it's an emergency, that you're in danger—
Heat blooms up your neck and you place your face in your hands.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The knock comes so fast you actually yelp.
Then Ink is back, squeezing under the doorframe with feline grace, winding around the handle. You cross to open it.
Azriel's face appears, and his shadows slither down him toward you, eager and familiar. His face softens when he sees you, but there's worry creasing his brow.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey." You swallow. "You got here, like, really fast."
He nods, almost sheepishly. "Guess I've been waiting for you to beckon me."
The phrasing makes you want to laugh, but then his frown deepens as he scans your face, your posture, looking for injury or threat.
"Is everything okay?"
You straighten automatically. This is stupid. A waste of his time. Of course he thought something was wrong—you sent an emergency shadow for what? Loneliness? Pathetic.
"Oh. Yeah, yeah." Ink winds up the outside of your wing and the sensation makes you shiver. You ignore its encouraging pulse. "There was something. But there's nothing now. No worries."
Azriel's expression does something complicated. He frowns and deflates slightly. "Oh," he says. "Alright."
You bite back a smile at his expression. "You seem almost disappointed that I'm completely safe and okay. Did you want me to be in danger?"
His lips twitch. "No. Of course not. Not at all."
You nod, still holding the door. The silence stretches for a beat.
This shouldn't feel complicated. He's here. You want company. The care package gives you an excuse if you need one.
"Well, I should leave you—" he starts.
"Do you want to come in?"
The words tumble out at the same time, and your eyes widen because your request is the exact opposite of him leaving you. You school your expression quickly.
"Oh. Right, you're probably busy—"
Busy being important and integral to this court. The entirety of the Inner Circle has been busy. Illyria has a voice and she's been using it loudly.
"For you?" Azriel shakes his head. "Never."
Your chest does this painful, squeezing thing. Blinking at the sincerity in his voice, you don't bother fighting the smile that tugs at your cheeks.
You step aside, opening the door wider. "In that case, Elain sent me a huge care package. Thought I should be charitable and share with the less fortunate."
Azriel goes still for half a second, then something like a blush creeps up his neck. "The less fortunate, huh?"
"Yeah." You're grinning now. "I'm really kind and thoughtful like that."
He steps inside, gesturing for you to lead the way. The door clicks shut softly behind him.
You don't see him glance at Ink perched on your wing, or notice the small nod of gratitude he gives it.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Your balcony chairs are new—a gift from Feyre and Rhysand last week, padded and generous, arranged around a small table now buried under Elain's care package. You're halfway through a muffin when Azriel picks up her letter, and you watch him read over the crumbling pastry in your hand.
"A banana." He glances up, his lips quirking. "You've grown a banana."
You nod, mouth full. "Yup. How crazy is that."
"Very crazy," he parrots.
Your hand drifts to your stomach without thought, thumb tracing the curve through fabric. The comparisons are strange—fruit and vegetables, weeks measured in produce. Your body capable of miracles without consulting you first. Some days you're just a passenger in your own skin, watching changes happen from the inside out.
The heaviness from earlier starts creeping back, that ache settling behind your ribs. You finish the muffin and blink hard, forcing focus. Azriel's set the letter down. He's watching you with an expression that makes your wings droop.
"What? What is it?"
He's biting back a smile. Points at you, then gestures to his own mouth.
"You have crumbs everywhere."
"No I don't."
You do. You swipe at your face and look down—crumbs on your shirt, your lap, somehow on your forearm.
"Mother above." Azriel leans forward. "How crumbly is that muffin?"
"Extremely, apparently."
He laughs, quiet and warm, and then his hand is moving. Reaching toward you. Toward your belly.
Your breath stops.
His hand hovers. You watch him realize what he's doing, watch his throat work as he swallows.
It occurs to you that he's never touched you there. Not once since your pregnancy began. In the beginning, you couldn't bear the vulnerability of it—Madja was bad enough, her clinical hands on your exposed skin. But that was before. Your new healer, Adrin, has helped break that fear. Now the thought of Azriel's palm against the place where his child grows doesn't frighten you at all.
Strangely, you think you might want it.
Maybe you've been selfish, denying him this. Maybe you've been waiting for him to ask. But so much time has passed that the moment feels impossible to manufacture, the invitation strange to extend.
So you stay very still. Hold your breath. It's okay. You can touch me.
One heartbeat. Then another.
Azriel pulls back, pointing with a small smile. "It's all over your bump, too."
Reality crashes back. You look down and take notice of the crumbs. Heat crawls up your neck. "Well. Give a girl some privacy."
His eyebrows lift but he turns away, that smile still playing at his mouth as his hands rise in mock surrender.
You brush at yourself, laughing despite the embarrassment. Flick away a large piece on your belly. "Okay. All good."
"Crisis averted?" He asks, turning back.
"Crisis averted."
You lick a final crumb from the corner of your mouth and point at an ornate gold box tucked among the treats. "That one next."
Azriel reaches for it but doesn't open it right away. His fingers trace the lid's edge slowly. He's building toward something.
"Cassian's been busy all day," he says. "I think he has Balthazar tied up somewhere. I'm sure he'd be here if he could."
Oh.
You meet his gaze. It's soft, understanding.
"How—" You glance toward the shadows pooling at the balcony's edge. "Did Ink say something?"
His expression softens as he unwraps a candy. "Maybe. I also guessed."
Guilt hits like a fist to the stomach. Does he think he's second choice? A backup plan? The person you called when the person you wanted wasn't available.
But that's not—
Azriel must see it on your face. He leans forward and takes your hand, turning it palm-up.
"Hey. I'm glad you called," he says quietly. "You can keep me company for as long as you want. Until you get bored of me." He shrugs. "Or any other reason."
He places the candy in your palm. His fingers are cold against your heated skin.
"Caramel delight, if I'm not mistaken." He settles back. "One of Elain's favorites."
Your hand hangs suspended as your heart relearns its rhythm. Despite guilt loosening its grip on your stomach, you can still feel its heat beneath your skin.
When you can breathe again, you unwrap the candy with unsteady fingers.
It melts rich and perfect on your tongue. Azriel takes a muffin—twin to the one you devoured—and afternoon light slants across his face, catches in his dark hair, turns his eyes more gold than hazel.
He looks at home here. With you.
Your gaze snags on the letter and curiosity sinks its teeth in.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Were you ever planning on telling me about you and Elain?"
Azriel chokes on his muffin, color flooding his face as he coughs.
"Oh shit—" You reach out uselessly. "Are you—"
He pats at his chest. "W-What?" Strained and strangled.
You're trying not to laugh. The timing is objectively terrible and he's genuinely struggling, but the sheer panic on his face makes it nearly impossible.
"How did you—" Another cough. He glances at his shadows.
You shake your head, fingers finding those carved patterns in the table. A nervous habit you've grown conscious of since Azriel pointed it out last week. "I guessed. You stiffen when I say her name. The same way you do with Gwyn."
Like your body reacts without permission.
Azriel looks stricken. Mortified in a way that aches to witness.
"I think it happens to me too," you add quickly. "With Balthazar."
He looks down and swallows hard, setting the muffin on the table with care. "It does."
You blink in surprise.
"Sometimes." His eyes meet yours again. The mortification has eased. "Not recently, though."
Interesting. "Good to know."
He sighs and looks at you, and you can see him sorting through options. How to answer. What to say. You hope he knows you'll accept any of them.
His wings twitch.
"Me and Elain." He starts, voice steady. "There's no history. Not the way you're thinking."
"But there was something?"
He considers this. His gaze drops to his hands, thumb running along the scarred skin of his fingers. "I thought there might be."
You watch him closely—the set of his shoulders, the careful way he's choosing his words. He notices, eyes flicking up to yours.
"Does that bother you?" he asks quietly.
You frown, examining the feeling in your chest. Turning it over like a stone. "Honestly? No. It doesn't bother me at all. Why would it?"
It's so honest it surprises even you. You'd expected some possessiveness, some strange jealousy knowing he'd felt something for Elain. Something similar to the urges Azriel has been fighting, conjured by your changing scent and pregnancy hormones. All natural, expected, biological responses.
But there's nothing.
Azriel's past doesn't belong to you. It makes no sense to make it something it's not.
You're simply curious.
"Did you love her?" You pause. "Like Gwyn?"
Azriel goes still—that involuntary stiffening. His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "No. I think I was drawn to what she represented at the time."
You nod slowly. "Gwyn helped you see the difference?"
Something shifts in his expression. Brows lifting, face softening. "Yeah. Gwyn was different. She made me feel things I hadn't felt in—" He stops. "She made me want to change everything. Inspired me to be something other than what I was."
The words pull a nod from you. Gwyn has only ever been sweet in your brief interactions, even when you brushed her off to return to your solitude. Azriel's description fits. You can see why the Mother brought her and Balthazar together. Like calling to like.
"That look tells me you love Balthazar for the same reasons."
Azriel's voice calls you back to reality and you meet his gaze.
"Am I wrong?" He adds, softly.
"I'm not sure." You worry your bottom lip. "I'm realizing my understanding of love has been narrow. Hollow, maybe." The words come slow, careful. "I loved Balthazar because he was Balthazar. Kept him on some pedestal—my moral superior, my better half. This fixed point I could orbit when I felt anything but stable." You shrug. "Gave me something to reach for. A version of myself I could pretend into existence."
Someone to always look up to.
You straighten, realizing how far you've drifted into vulnerable waters. Your mind should have warned you. Maybe you should feel exposed, embarrassed by the oversharing.
But Azriel's gaze hasn't wavered. His expression is soft, mouth quirked like your words make perfect sense.
Still you say quickly, "That…probably sounds insane."
"No." He shakes his head immediately. "It- it makes perfect sense. I know that feeling."
Something in your chest unknots. You think absently of sinners in confession, the faithful unburdening themselves. If that relief feels similar to this. After all, loving someone can be the most damning thing.
"With Elain?"
Another head shake.
Your eyebrows rise. "Then who?"
He exhales. Almost grimaces. "Morrigan."
Your eyes go wide. Can't help it. "Morrigan? Like—Mor? Emerie and Mor, Mor?"
He nods, glancing away. But his gaze flickers back, guilty and canine. The vulnerability is so endearing you have to bite back a smile. His romantic history is clearly a wound. You don't take his honesty lightly. Another layer of trust exposed between you and the male you're building a life with.
Another thing that's wholly yours. Selfishly, you want to revel in it. Selflessly, you want to spare him.
"Damn." You let it land. "You really kept it in the family, huh?"
His head snaps toward you, jaw tight. There's amusement in his eyes, though. His lips are trembling against a smile.
You raise your hands. "Sorry. Sorry. I can't change my nature. I'm judgmental." You soften, lowering your hands. "I'm guessing that's a long story?"
"Yeah." Another exhale. "It is."
There's tension in his jaw and his fingers have stilled on the table. He's bracing for something—questions, maybe. Proper, crude judgment.
"Well." You choose your words carefully. "When the time is right, I'm sure you'll tell me."
He blinks. "You don't want to know?"
"I didn't say that." You frown. "I just don't need to. Not right now."
"I don't understand."
You look down at your hands, fingers still tracing those table patterns. A swirl into a flower. "I see it sometimes. In your face. Like you're deciding what you should tell me, what I need to know. Cataloguing your past so I can understand your present." You finally look up. "You don't have to do that."
Azriel is very still.
"I'm not happy with who I was before this," you say quietly. "I don't want to be that person anymore, y'know? I don't want every conversation to be weighed down by all the versions of myself I'm trying to leave behind." Your hand drifts to your stomach. "This is pushing me to be someone new. Someone better. And maybe it's selfish, but I want that for you too."
His eyes are too bright.
"I mean, don't get me wrong. I'd like to know everything eventually. But I don't need your past dissected for me." You give him a lopsided smile and hope it's reassuring. "I like who you are now. That isn't contingent on knowing whatever, or whoever, shaped it."
"That's not selfish," he finally says, voice rough. "That's—" He stops. Starts again. A complete new take this time. "You surprise me everyday. I hope you know that."
"Is that a compliment?"
Azriel nods, and the smile on his face is almost meek in nature. "It is."
Heat blooms across your cheeks. "In that case, thank you."
You hold his gaze for another beat, and suddenly it's too much. The vulnerability, the honesty, the way he's looking at you. A person can only handle so much growth in one evening.
You tuck your hair behind your ear and clear your throat. "I'll make tea. So we can properly destroy the rest of this."
"I can do it." He starts to rise.
"No, I need to move. My back aches if I sit too long."
He helps you up anyway, holding out his hand to steady you as you rise.
You glance back once you cross the doorway. Indulge in a small moment of observation. Azriel is smiling at something, looking down at shadows now pooled contentedly under the table. Ink detaches and follows you inside, winding around your ankle.
Your hand finds your stomach as you walk toward the kitchen.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
You're waiting for the tea to steep when there's a knock at the door. You open it to find Balthazar on the other side, grinning wide despite looking exhausted.
"Hey, I'm so sorry—I wanted to stop by earlier but there's some discontent in the Illyrian war bands and—" He stops himself. "Nevermind. Boring stuff. You look great. I've missed you."
You soften at the sight of him, at his disheveled hair and easy smile. A portrait of home— of comfort. But something feels different as you hold your best friend's gaze.
You're eye-level. He no longer glows.
"I've missed you too," you tell him, and the sour aftertaste of envy is no where to be found.
"I have some time now to catch up. Gwyn's ordering dinner in tonight."
You glance back over your shoulder, then look at him again. "Actually, I think you should get to Gwyn. Enjoy some take-out. You've had a long day."
"Oh." He blinks. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah." You open the door a bit wider and gesture behind you. "Azriel and I are actually going through a care package from Elain."
Balthazar's eyebrows rise. He has no idea what that means. Another day you'll show him all the letters Elain's sent you. You're sure he'll love hearing about Day court drama when he's well-fed and wide awake.
"She sends these updates with the baby's growth and—" You touch your belly, voice going a bit soft. "Our baby is almost as big as a banana."
"A banana." Balthazar's entire face brightens. He smiles, so genuine and so warm. "That’s great. I'll, uh, I’ll leave you to it, then."
You smile back. "Rain check?"
He nods, snapping and pointing at you. "Rain check. Tell Azriel I said hello."
"Tell Gwyn the same."
You close the door and stand there for a moment, smiling to yourself. Then you collect the tea and head back outside.
Azriel stands immediately, pulling your chair back for you. "Everything good?"
"Yeah." You're grinning.
"What's that face for?"
You bring the tea to your lips, shrugging with feign nonchalance. "I'm just realizing it's a good thing I don't have any sisters. Or any other female friends, really. No temptation for you to continue your pattern."
Azriel rolls his eyes, but he's grinning too. "You think you're real funny, huh?"
"No," you say. "I know I am. I can only hope our child is as natural a comedian."
He shakes his head, still smiling, and reaches for a small tart from the package, examining it with interested eyes.
The afternoon glows golden around you. The tea is perfect. The sweets are perfect.
Everything feels exactly right.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
AUTHORS NOTE: if you saw any typos uhhh no you didn’t!!🫵
also… did you guys notice... a very small important detail....in the word choice az uses to ask a question....and the word reader replies with.....
(hint hint: "That look tells me you love Balthazar for the same reasons." ..."I loved Balthazar") hehehehehe
as always, thank you for reading xx your comments are always my fav <3
IMPORTANT: i don't do taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted!
Eternity
Just a short angsty one shot! I've been listening to the song Eternity on repeat and this was just... born. Funnily enough, the line that inspired the fic was "It's an endless night, it's a starless sky/It's a hell that I call home", which didn't even make it into the fic in the end lol.
Pairing: Azriel x Female Reader (No use of Y/N or 'you', only she)
Summary: Azriel reflects on an eternity of mourning his mate. Inspired by the lyrics of Eternity by Alex Warren.
Warnings: HEAVY angst, no happy ending, obviously mentions of death and grief but no descriptions of how she died.
Word count: ~2.5k
*****
Another glimpse of what could've been Another dream, another way that it nevеr was
Small, fluttering wings.
Smooth, rosy cheeks.
Chubby, little fists.
Soft giggling and nonsense babbling.
Nyx was perfect. Tiny and gorgeous and wondrous. The light of the Night Court.
They all doted on him— at this rate he would become the most spoiled heir in all of Prythian.
Cassian treated him like glass, and it was equal parts endearing and entertaining to watch the tall, muscled General as he held him with trembling hands, speaking in soft murmurs as he told the prince of all the feats he would one day accomplish.
Mor showered him with presents, from clothes to toys to extravagant miniature crowns that were still too heavy for his little head.
Even Amren treasured him, lavishing him with the same sharp interest and adoration as she did her jewels.
Nesta could often be found in his nursery, reading stories until his cries subsided and he looked up at her with wide, shining violet eyes.
Elain held him whenever she could, carrying him around her garden to show him the blooming flowers and feeding him spoonfuls of whatever she baked in the kitchen.
But nowhere was Nyx more cherished than on his parents’ laps. Whenever Feyre’s tattooed hand held his back, and Rhys’ wings curved around them both on the couch, it was like the world faded but for the three of them. The High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court were transfixed, pride and love pouring off them in waves as they made silly faces just to get their son to laugh.
Azriel watched it all with tender awe. He, too, adored his nephew. He always ordered one of his shadows to Nyx’s side, always monitored for threats. He spoke to him, played with him, even took him flying.
But sometimes, when the light caught on the delicate membrane of Nyx’s wings, or he saw the soft looks that Feyre and Rhys shared over his head, or felt those small fingers grasp his own scarred ones, it was as though he couldn’t breathe.
It reminded him sharply, painfully, of the family he didn’t have. The family he would’ve had, had fate not been so cruel. It served as a glimpse of the future he had whispered about with her, as they lay between silk sheets and curled together in front of a fire. It forced him to remember his mate’s soft, lilting voice as she spoke of a wedding and a dark-haired babe with wings.
And it reminded him that dream would never be.
She was gone.
Dead.
Falling back in the wilderness Waking up, rubbing salt in thе cut
Sunlight filtered in through the canopy above in long, golden ribbons, burning away the lingering morning mist. The air was fresh and warm this close to summer, the grass a vibrant green. A laugh, melodic and sweet, floated to where Azriel stood in the small clearing, making him smile.
“Come on, my love,” she called, her voice as beautiful as the rest of her, “I just need to pick a few more calendula flowers for Madja and then we can go home.”
She was kneeling at the edge of the clearing, her fingers dusted with dirt as she pulled at some small yellow blossoms that sat among the roots of an old tree. He observed her for a moment, watching the sun catch on her long braid, highlighting the shimmering strands. She was wearing a simple, practical tunic— the kind she always wore when fetching medicinal herbs, and there were leaves and dirt stuck to it.
To Azriel, she looked nothing short of perfect. Ethereal.
And when she turned to look over her shoulder at him, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled at him, the bond between them thrummed like a string freshly plucked.
He walked towards her, drawn by the irresistible force to be near. She giggled when he reached for her, pulling her gently to stand and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He swayed slightly, breathing in deeply as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Gods, her scent. He would never get enough of it. She leaned into him, resting her delicate hands atop his scarred ones and humming contentedly.
“I don’t want to go home,” he murmured onto her soft skin. “I want to stay here, with you, forever.”
She turned slowly within the circle of his arms and reached up to run her hands through his hair, the way she always loved to do. She once said his dark, silken curls were as soft as a kitten’s fur.
But he frowned slightly at the sadness — the bittersweetness— that he saw in her bright eyes.
“I wish that could be, my love,” she whispered, “but you have to wake up now.”
He tightened his grip on her waist, trying to pull her even closer, but it was too late. The wilderness around them was already fading. The sunlight was dimming, the grass becoming muted, the air stale.
“Please.”
The word cracked and broke as it tumbled from his lips, but it didn’t matter. His mate only smiled sadly up at him, and then she, too, began to dissolve, turning into nothing more than smoke before his very eyes.
Azriel sat up with a gasp, the sheets falling to his waist. The moon was still high in the sky, dawn a long way off. His shadows curled around them, but their cooling touch, while usually a comfort, only made him shiver.
Even though he knew what he would find, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing to his left, and his stomach clenched at the sight of the cold pillow, the empty side of the bed. Her empty side of the bed.
With jerky, shaking movements, he turned away and moved to stand. He wouldn’t be sleeping again tonight.
Oh, how long has it been? I don't know
How long had it been? How long had he been painfully, torturously, alone?
Years? Decades? Centuries?
Some nights, it all blended together, until he couldn’t even separate the past from the present.
They were no longer children, as they had been when she first met them. Rhysand was now the High Lord. He had a mate of his own, a child of his own.
Cassian, too, had a mate, and had grown from the arrogant, hot-headed warrior she had known, to a still-arrogant, still-hot-headed, General. He commanded armies and held himself with a maturity she would be thrilled to see.
Mor had matured too. She was no longer rebellious for rebellion’s sake, no longer wore snark as armour and wielded her femininity as a weapon. She had settled into herself, finally allowed her family all the way in and told them of her true desires. She had even begun dating a female faerie, and felt comfortable enough to flirt and shower her with adoration in public.
Amren was perhaps the most different. Ancient power no longer hummed beneath her skin, only the ordinary magic of High Fae. She ate regular food and drank expensive wine. But even more than that, her sharp edges had dulled slightly. With Varian at her side, she was no longer interested in riling up others with taunts and insults. She was still blunt and cutting, but seemed more inclined to keep her thoughts to herself.
Then there were the new members of their family that his mate had never even met. He mourned that perhaps most of all. What could have been.
Feyre, he knew, would have loved his mate. And she would have been as fiercely loyal and proud of their High Lady as he himself was.
Nesta and her would have bonded over books and their shared disdain for Illyrian brutishness. She may have found the eldest Archeron sister intimidating at first, but he had no doubt she would’ve been the first to offer a hand to Nesta when she was struggling. The first to stick by her side through her pain, and the first to help her take the necessary steps towards healing.
Elain, perhaps most similar to his mate, would have rejoiced in her presence. They were both tough, powerful females— but not warriors. They would both fight tooth and nail for those they loved, and his mate had understood more than anyone, the strength that lay in softness, in unyielding love. She would’ve seen Elain not as a gentle doe to be sheltered, but as a valuable asset in her own right.
But it feels like an eternity Since I had you here with me
Her eyes had always been one of his favourite features to look at. A pool of beautiful, captivating hazel. But had they been more green or brown?
Had her lips been rose pink or blush red?
When she was surprised, did she clutch her chest with her left or right hand?
When he said something wrong or vexing, which way did she tilt her head?
It felt like it had been an eternity of remembering her, missing her, mourning her. So long that he couldn’t remember the exact sound of her laugh, or the way it felt when she kissed him.
He found himself grasping at fading memories, unsure if they were even real or just something he had dreamt to fill the leaking holes in his heart and head. The bond lay dormant, dark and broken, in his chest.
So, when Feyre gifted him a portrait for his birthday, he wept.
There she was, his mate, immortalised in oil paint, so realistic he half-expected to feel smooth skin when he brushed the canvas with the back of his fingers. She looked as beautiful as the day he lost her, a small smile on her perfect lips, her eyes somehow twinkling with life even centuries after her death. It carved out his chest, leaving him gasping for breath, as he finally saw the female he had missed for an eternity. The female he missed with every beat of his broken heart.
He hadn’t had the ability to thank Feyre properly, but she had understood, and gripped him tightly as he fell to pieces in her arms, his gaze still locked on the portrait over her shoulder. He would find a way to thank Rhys for giving her the memory.
The painting became his most prized possession. More precious than Truthteller, more dear than his shadows. But it could never fill the space at his side, in his soul.
They were meant to have an eternity together. Instead, he had now mourned her for longer than he had known her.
Since I had to learn to be Someone you don't know
He used to smile freely, laugh often. He was never as unrestrained or quick with a joke as Cassian, but he didn’t need to be. He would stand beside her at formal functions, or sit beside her at family dinners, and lean down to whisper sarcastic comments or teasing jabs in her ear. She would chuckle under her breath and reach for his hand, brushing a quick kiss to the back of it.
Whenever she came back to their home after a long day in the healers clinic, he would greet her with a warm embrace and unravel the tension in her frame with lingering kisses.
When she spoke of achievements and successful treatments, he would grin broadly and spin her around the living room until she dissolved into laughter. Then worship her body until she squirmed.
And when it was he who was tired after a particularly grueling mission, she would coax him from the shadows and bring him back to himself with whispered praises and devotion.
Now… he barely managed more than a dry quip for the sake of his brothers. The muscles in his face ached if he revealed anything more than a brief smirk. He kept his observations, his thoughts and his fears to himself. Engulfed in the cool, swirling depths of his shadows, he remained cold and detached.
In another life, Rhysand used to call him 'soft' and Cassian would tease him for being 'whipped'. Mor would coo over his devotion and Amren would simply roll her eyes at what she called his ‘obvious weakness’. Now he was known as brooding, stoic, distant. Fae across Prythian told stories about the brutal, cruel, wicked Spymaster. The monstrous, sadistic, heartless Shadowsinger. And it wasn’t a lie.
She didn’t know the person he had become. He wondered if she would even recognise him now.
To be with you in paradise What I wouldn't sacrifice
Velaris was a truly stunning city. It vibrated with life— children laughing, vendors shouting deals, fae of all kinds bustling from shop to shop. It was bright and dazzling. Depending on the way the wind blew, you could smell spices from the market squares, or salt from the sea. The Sidra sparkled in the sunlight and the air was softer than it was in the mountains.
But she had always loved Velaris at night. When the moonlight gilded the rooftops, and the air turned crisp and cool. She liked watching the glow of candlelight illuminate the windows, and hearing the soft music pour from the restaurant patios.
And Azriel? He just loved walking along the cobblestones with her. His mate. As they wandered over bridges and down narrow streets under the stars, their hands entwined, he felt true peace. And when she leaned into his side, or looked up at him with nothing but pure, unfiltered love, he could have sworn he blushed all the way from the tips of his ears to his toes. He felt like a little boy with a crush, even after years together. Velaris at night was their haven, their paradise.
Now, though, the city was nothing without her. He barely noticed the sights, the smells, the people. Day or night, it didn’t matter. Everything was muted and colourless. Even centuries later, even in the city he loved, he just wasn’t home.
He would give anything to have her next to him, walking the cobblestones under the stars. He would sacrifice everything, just to be with her, in their little paradise.
Why'd you have to chase the light Somewhere I can't go?
The others had been torn between confusion and fury when they discovered the oath that Rhysand and Feyre had sworn. The link between their lives. If one died, the other would follow.
Amren had cursed their stupidity. Mor had focused on their selfishness. Cassian hadn’t been able to wrap his head around the risk they had willingly taken.
But Azriel understood completely.
Rhysand had watched Feyre die under the mountain. Heard her bones snap and listened as her heart stopped beating.
Feyre had watched Rhysand die in the battle against Hybern. Felt the gaping hole in her chest as his side of the bond vanished.
They knew the pain he lived with every single day. Knew the feeling of the hollow pit that had once held a glowing, miraculous mating bond. And rather than risk ever living with that same pain, rather than prioritise the needs of their gorgeous baby boy, or their court, they chose death. And he understood. Because unlike them, his mate was never coming back.
Honestly, he wasn't just envious. He was resentful that he hadn’t made the same bargain. He knew, as surely as he knew he loved her, that she would never forgive him if he ended his life now, just to join her in whatever world came next. He couldn’t go— couldn't follow her to the light. Not until it was his time.
As I walk this world alone
This one HURT. So beautifully written.
Don't Stop Haunting Me
✦Read on a03!✦ ✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You and Bucky have a (sort of) quiet arrangement. He takes care of you, and you return the favor. And you've gotten pretty good at pretending you don't want more, but after the Halloween party, it's suddenly a lot harder to pretend. Good thing Bucky is feeling the exact same way.✦ ✦warnings/tags: Thunderbolts!Halloween, friends with benefits, not actually unrequited love, jealousy, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, oral f!receiving, dry humping), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: challenging myself to do a quiet love confession. Enjoy!✦
You look insane.
And there are a few things that could mean. It could be you look like an insane person, dressed in a straight jacket and with bloodshot eyes. That you look like you’re going insane—sunken features and a wild expression—or just look crazy. Mismatched color polka dots and bright orange hair and clown makeup crazy. Children’s birthday party entertainment crazy.
But what you mean, right now, is that it is insane that you look like this.
You almost don’t recognize the person in the mirror. Her almost bare body looks smooth and curvy, her outfit makes her look like a doll you’d find in a store, and her hair doesn’t look like it was done up by woodland creatures, but a team of people getting her ready to be presented as an ornate gift to someone very important.
“How did you know how to do this?” You mutter, reaching up to trace your fingers over your hair, and a knife whizzes right past your ear. “Hey-“
“Do not touch it.” Yelena shouts, glaring up at you from the floor. “If you touch it, I start over. I start over, we are late. We are late, Valentina kills us.”
“You would be late.” Ava says from where She’s lounging across the room, looking more boredly amused than anything else. “If I think you two are going to weigh me down, I will just… Not wait.”
You roll your eyes, looking back to the mirror. “Your loyalty is astounding, Ava.”
“It is every woman for herself, on nights like these-“
“John would wait for me.” You shoot her a glare in the mirror, and Ava gives you a flat look.
“Only because he is afraid of you.”
“Yeah, so he would wait.” You frown at your teeth, a small smudge of lipstick trapped on the large front ones. “If you go without us, that means Valentina can drag you around to meet people. You’ll be open, and vulnerable to attack.” You smile at Ava in the mirror. “Is that what you want?”
She scowls, and Yelena clears her throat.
“How long do we do this, tonight. Bucky Barnes said we could vanish around ten, but we all know he will vanish around ten and the rest of us will have to give goodbyes to the fancy people.”
“Not all of us.” Ava hums, and you can feel her gaze. “Some of us are hypocrites, who leave the others to fend for themselves on the battlefield.”
You don’t acknowledge the jab. If you do, it will be acknowledging the obvious, elephantal truth of it all.
The events always do end at ten. Valentina used to just let them run as long as people wanted, but then Bob started having panic attacks and you all teamed up to politely ask that she give a cutoff time, just so he could leave without it being rude.
And maybe politely ask meant threaten with knives and powers.
And maybe you and Bucky have been slightly abusing the cut off time for your own sakes.
But you can’t say that aloud. If you do, it’s admitting what you know they can all see. What Ava’s hinting at, what makes John wiggle his brows until he’s in danger of being punched, what makes Alexei dramatically clap Bucky’s shoulder whenever you both just happen to need the bathroom at the same time, and he comes back with messy hair and his zipper down.
You think they all believe it’s more than it is. That there’s some great love affair being poorly hidden under their noses. That the only reason you don’t make out on the couch in front of them is because Bucky values his privacy, and you value him.
Which are both true statements.
Bucky might be the person who hates these events the most. You’d bet a lot on that, if only because he’s told you explicitly so.
“I feel like a paraded monkey.” He’d muttered to you last time, a cool metal finger tracing mindless patterns on your arms. “You know she gets cards for me to memorize? Not even Alexei has to do that, and John- Christ, sometimes I think he’s got the charisma of a sock.”
You’d giggled, turning your face up to meet his shining eyes.
There were moments when he looked at you like this—like you—might mean more than just this.
But those moments are almost always after he’s bent you over, pinned your arms behind your back, and fucked you until you were seeing stars.
So you’d call the data skewed.
“I think that’s rude to socks, Buck.” You’d whispered. “I’ve seen some very charismatic ones.”
He’d snorted, looking up to the ceiling with a small grin. “Yeah, well, I don’t think she’d be giving the socks cards either.”
You’d hummed, and watched him carefully as you spoke. “Do you want my honest thoughts, or for me to just agree and give you a blowjob to make you feel better.”
“Honest.” He’d muttered, but you’d felt his hand flex slightly on your arm.
“She gives you the cards because people find Alexei charming, and John has media training. Ava’s cool and collected, and she’s got a poker face. Yelena’s the same as you, but people find her amusing because they’re idiots who don’t think she could actually scoop their eyes out with her fingers.”
Bucky had snorted. “That’s gross-“
“I’m not done.” You’d reached up to cover his mouth with a hand, and he’d raised his brows. “Bob is Bob. People worry when they meet him, but then they get pretty fast that he’s mostly just like, a wet dog. You, James, are actually intimidating. And you’re not good at pretending you’re not.”
Bucky had watched you for a long, silent moment, then reached up and grabbed your wrist. Dragged your hand away, gaze never breaking from yours, mouth in a tiny smirk.
“Are you intimidated by me, doll?”
You’d shaken your head. “Most of the time, no.”
“Most of the time?” His brow had furrowed. “When-“
“Your dick is really big.”
Bucky had barked a startled laugh, and looked at you again. Like you were something to him. He’d rolled on top of you, fingers tracing over your features and eyes shining with a light that seemed brighter than the single, low lamp you always watched each other under.
“Can I still have that blowjob? It’ll make me feel better.”
Your heart had split, just slightly.
You know that’s all it is for him. Feeling better. And you can’t resent it, because it’s an honor to be the one he wants to feel better with, the one he trusts to see him like this—in all his scarred, muscled and soft glory—who he can relax with, and just smiled at him.
And he has such a pretty smile. When it’s real it’s full, and makes his eyes look like the shining sky, and makes a little flickering warmth in your chest swell.
It’s why you never say no to him.
He matters to you. So you never want him to stop smiling.
“Well.” You’d murmured, pressing a hand on his chest. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
You’d rolled back between the sheets. Done a few more things than another blowjob.
And in the morning, just like every other morning, he’d been gone.
Which is fine. That’s all it is. A beneficial arrangement, where Bucky gets to let off steam and you get to fuck the man you’re in love with.
But you are in love with him. You had a crush on him before you met him, and you almost fell to your knees when Valentina brought you in to audition for the New Avengers—he’d been just sitting behind the table, hair soft and blown out, face a lot prettier in person than anyone’s ever warned you—and came very close to passing out when he’d given you the phone call that you were the new choice.
The first time he kissed you—hungry and a little drunk—you think you saw Heaven for a second. Stars and spinning colors and infinite.
When he’d walked you back against a wall and touched you, you’d been to Heaven. And he’s sent you back, over and over, whenever you fall back into bed. Or lock a door. Or stare at each other during a meeting, then almost vault over the table like animals in heat once you’re alone.
So you understand why everyone thinks there’s more, when there’s not.
Your heart skips and lips pull into a smile, whenever you so much as hear his name.
There’s not a single clue that he ever thinks of you, except when he’s hard.
You don’t want to know if he does. You don’t need to break your own heart like that at all.
“Yelena, can I let this part down?” You ask, trying to divert the conversation away from you and Bucky.
“No, I said do not touch it. You ruin it, if you just poke at it. What about that is hard to understand?”
You wince slightly. “Sorry-“
“Do you think Bucky is going to have a heart attack?” Ava drawls, and it’s never that easy. “When he sees you in that?”
“I don’t know.” You mutter, eyes trapped on yourself in the mirror.
On the picture-perfect pinup girl, staring back. Looking like she was dragged out of a calendar or soda ad.
“Oh, you don’t know. You didn’t chose it to try and kill him-“
“I didn’t choose it at all.” You shift on your feet, trying to find a place to smooth your hands over your outfit, but it fits too well. There’s not a single wrinkle at all.
Yelena frowns from the floor. “Valentina?”
You nod, and don’t miss Ava and Yelena’s exchanged look in the mirror.
“She didn’t choose our outfits,” Ava says slowly, and you shoot her a dry look.
“I know, I was there when Yelena bullied you into wearing an outfit.”
“Which I still think is stupid-“
“It is not stupid. It is fun. You look terrifying, Ava,” Yelena admires Her handiwork—fake splattered blood on Ava’s suit, covered in a white sheet, because nothing else would stay on her body—with a satisfied expression. “Zombie ghost. I am a genius.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Broadway’s going to be calling you soon-“
“And,” Yelena looks back to you with a small frown. “Why did Valentina choose your outfit?”
“Because I’m me.” You say flatly, and you don’t have to say more.
The pretty girl hire. You’re not one of the saviors of New York, from the Void. You’re the girl who has pretty powers, and a pretty face, and a pretty voice.
You’re also very bad at playing your role, unless Valentina interferes. You don’t want to be gawked at, like an animal in a cage. You want to actually help people, instead of turning on a stage like you’re at a car show, but somehow the model and the car.
But doing these are part of the job. Your most important job, as Valentina sees it.
So of course she chose your outfit. That’s how the whole game is played.
“I can go shoot her, if you do not like it.” Yelena offers. “And we can all be zombies together.”
“Or we can go ask for her to put you in actual clothing.” Ava adds, saying ask in the way you know she means threaten.
You just laugh softly. “Thanks, but this is actually the negotiated version of the outfit.”
“You’re not wearing pants.” Ava mutters. “What could have possibly-“
“Vegas showgirl.”
Yelena makes a sour face, and Ava sighs.
“Alright. Yes. This is slightly better.”
You hum in agreement, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop yourself from touching the hair. And you really do look insane. Like you should be covered in diamonds, or kept preserved on a vintage poster card. It’s far from the most you’ve been exposed to people—you lost the negotiation last Halloween, and ended up a playboy bunny—but it’s different.
You don’t want Bucky to see this. See you painted and dolled up like something out of his younger fantasies. A fantasy you know he has, because you’ve talked about it. He’s told you about his crush on Eartha Kitt and Betty Grable when he was in his twenties.
Wearing this seems like a fucking pathetic cry for attention.
Like you’re trying to take the Halloween party, and make it about you. Seduce him, when you both have jobs to be doing. Even if you tell him Valentina made you wear it, that still doesn’t feel like enough. Won’t help you fight off the accusations that you’re dating, or at least have feelings for each other.
You’re sure everyone else will see it as a desperate play for Bucky’s affection as well. And then, when they finally realize it’s just messing around, it will be too painfully clear that it was never just messing around to you.
That it’s the most important thing in your life.
That you’ve let go of ever truly having it—having Bucky—but that doesn’t mean you don’t hold him to be less holy. That you don’t love him like your heart will stop beating if you don’t.
It will be a busy party.
If you’re lucky, just tonight, you can slip in and out with your dignity intact.
“This is stupid.” Yelena grumbles as you all take the stairs—everyone will be taking the elevator, and the less people you have to see the better—up to the party. “We have to sneak around our own house.”
Ava hums. “Technically, it’s the governments house-“
“Until the government starts doing dishes, it is not their house.”
You’re inclined to agree with Yelena. It’s strange to walk into the place you usually lie on the couch and watch movies, only to see it filled with senators and rich elites, all wearing glossy, mock costumes that tell you what you already know. You’re not the hosts.
You’re the entertainment.
“Yelena,” Alexei roars through the crowd, and she sighs dramatically as he barrels towards you. “You look so creepy!”
Yelena will never admit it aloud.
She stands a little taller at the praise.
“Thank you. I spent four hours on it, so everyone,” she glares around at the guests, all wearing princess gowns and suits that could be costumes of any man in a movie ever. “Better appreciate my hard work.”
“They will. They will think you are going to eat their brains out.” Alexei claps his hands together with a loud laugh. “You look disgusting, Yelena. Very good work.”
Yelena nods, and points to Ava. “Tell her. Maybe she will let me do her makeup too.”
“You know makeup wouldn’t work on me.” Ava drawls. “And you got to do dollface over there. Show her off, not me.”
You shoot Ava a glare. “I’m good, actually-“
“You do her makeup, Yelena?” Alexei tilts his head at you. “You look very good. Like calendar, on soldier’s wall.”
You flush, picturing your picture on Bucky’s wall, or sitting on his desk. You know that’s not what Alexei meant. It’s still a nice thought, that he’d want you close to him in some way, all the time.
“I did.” Yelena shrugs. “And her hair.”
Alexei frowns. “How do you know how to do hair? I never taught you at all, hair is like small snakes from the head.”
“I taught myself.” Yelena shrugs. “I grew up with all girls. We did hair, before we all started killing each other to see who was the strongest left standing.”
Alexei flinches slightly, and Ava smirks.
“You should tell all the assholes that story. They’ll love it.”
Yelena snorts. “They do, that’s true. Strange little freaks.”
“You should make some up,” you mumble, staring at your shoes. “See if they spot the fakes.
Yelena hums in agreement, but you don’t look up to grin at Her or keep joking.
You saw him.
While they’d been talking about hair and murder stories, you’d seen Bucky.
He’s wearing a suit, just like most of the other men, but you could find him in a crowd of black umbrellas, at the bottom of the ocean without your sight or touch or hearing, in a mass of identical Bucky Barnes clones. You’d always be able to spot him, because no one else carries themselves with the same gate, no one else has the perfect hair and beard and jawline that you dream about running your fingers through, and no one makes your breath hitch just from the sight of them.
It’s always just Bucky.
And he smiles at you. A small smile, but a real one. He raises his hand in a subtle wave, and you can feel his gaze, searing over your body as he takes in the costume.
You don’t want to see his reaction. Desire or disgust or confusion or amusement. Nothing will be enough. Nothing will make you feel less bare, to all of it.
Alexei is pulling Yelena away, to make their rounds and show off their costumes. Yelena’s graphic zombie makeup will keep everyone occupied for a while, the guessing game Alexei tried to play—asking what is my costume without offering a single hint, only wearing a wifebeater tank and pointing to his bald head—will be amusing enough that people will engage, and keep off your back for a while.
“Miss Piggy.” Ava had guessed flatly, before Alexei and Yelena vanished into the crowd.
“No, I am not the diva pig, Ava, I am much scarier.”
Ava had smirked. “I don’t think you are. I think you’re miss Piggy.”
Alexei had sighed your name dramatically. “Come on, I am not Miss Pig.”
“Miss Piggy-“
“Guess what I am,” he’d kept looking at you, and you’d blinked at him.
You’d been focusing on Bucky. Trying to watch him move through the crowd without letting him see you watching.
Not paying any attention.
“Huh?”
“Tell him he’s Miss Piggy.” Ava had whispered, and you’d frowned.
“Okay, um- You’re Miss Piggy.”
Yelena and Ava had burst out laughing, and Alexei had pouted like a five-year-old.
“I am not- Stop laughing, I am Walter White! Drug lord. American drug lord, I am fitting in, Yelena- Stop laughing-“
Yelena had managed to stifle it, just because they had to go.
Ava was still giggling, when you found the quiet corner of the room where Bob was hiding. The safe corner, hidden in the shadow, away from the bar and flashing lights.
Away from Bucky, and the warmth his attention had been spreading over your skin.
“What’s so funny?” He asked, laughing nervously, and Ava just shook her head.
“Alexei is an idiot.”
“Oh, did he make you guess his costume?” Bob frowns. “I thought he was just… being himself. Which wasn’t right, I think.”
Ava snorts, and you laugh softly, pressing your back against the wall. If you hide, Valentina might not even think to come and grab you. If you sink into the shadows, the night can just drift by without a show or fight.
“You look nice,” Bob says your name with a smile, and you return it easily.
“Thanks. You do too.”
Bob glances down to his yellow lion onesie, and shrugs. “It’s like, comfortable. Which is kind of all I wanted? Valentina says it suits me.”
Ava raises her brows. “Being a lion.”
“The cowardly lion.” Bob mumbles, and you frown.
“Bob, she can’t talk to you like that-“
“I don’t really mind.” He shrugs. “I mean, I think she’s just annoyed I won’t murder more people for her. She thinks that’s cowardly.”
“I think it’s cowardly that we haven’t killed her.” Ava mutters, and Bob frowns.
“I mean, um- I think murder is bad, and- We’re all getting along better now, right?”
You give him a sympathetic look. “Better is a little subjective.”
“Well, no one hates each other right now, at least?”
Ava huffs a low laugh. “John wants to shoot her. Yelena’s told me how she fantasizes about shoving Valentina off a roof. I’ve imagined ripping her heart out.” She pauses. “It might be the one thing we all agree on.”
“Bucky thinks about the roof thing too,” you say absentmindedly, still looking through the crowd for him, because you can’t fucking help it.
“Oh, does he?” Ava hums, and you glance over to see her grinning at you.
You sigh. “Don’t-“
“Bob, where did Bucky go?”
“I don’t know, um- He stood with me for a bit, but then he said he wanted to go find someone? And didn’t come back.”
“Interesting.” Ava drawls, and you roll your eyes, ignoring the fluttering feeling in your gut.
“Really? Doesn’t seem it.”
“It isn’t to me.” She shrugs. “This is just very boring, so my standards have been lowered.”
“I didn’t know you had standards.” You shoot her a small smile. “Or that you could get more bored.”
Ava laughs, and Bob clears his throat.
“Well, we could go talk to people about our costumes, if we want-“
“I would rather set myself on fire.” Ava says flatly, and you nod in agreement.
“Oh- Okay.” Bob squints. “Ava, what is your costume?”
“I wanted to be a ghost.” She says flatly. “Yelena thought that was boring and on the nose.”
“And it is.” You add, and she ignores you.
“So I’m a ghost zombie.”
Bob laughs softly. “Oh. Spooky.”
“Is it?” She gives him a phenomenally bored look. “Boo.”
He yelps as she lurches slightly, and turns a deep red. Ava laughs, and you just stare into the crowd. You can feel people’s eyes flitting over to you, but none of them are quite brave enough to approach when you’re next to Bob. You haven’t successfully hidden, but you’re in the margins. Just far enough out of reach, that maybe the night will be fine.
You still can’t find Bucky. It’s making your skin and chest feel sore.
Ava and Bob keep talking about nothing, and you jump in with softer jokes every few moments, but your head is moving too fast to really engage. You don’t want to talk to Bucky tonight. It’s why you were avoiding his gaze earlier. This night is only about the performance, and then the curtains drawing.
But he looked good, in that suit.
Too good.
Other people are going to look at him and want him, good.
Which isn’t something you think you can handle right now. So you can just ride out the night, curved slightly into your own body, listening to Ava mock everyone in the crowd and Bob try to offer them some grace, while still laughing at Ava’s jokes. It’s already been an hour. Only two left, then you can vanish back into your room and pretend you’re not waiting for Bucky to knock on your door-
Someone calls your name, and you freeze.
“Shit,” Ava mutters, and before you can grab onto her or beg her to stay, she’s vanished.
You glare at the wall she probably went through, and his between your teeth. “Coward.”
“I, um- Sorry-“
“Not you, Bob.” You sigh, looking back to where Valentina’s marching through the crowd. “Goddamnit.”
“Look at you!” Valentina beams at you, and it’s amazing how bad she can be at making it look real. “Just like I pictured!”
“Aw.” You return her fake smile. “You picture me?”
“Every night in bed.” She snaps back. “And so do they. Stop standing with Bob and go do your job.”
You cross your arms over your chest. “I think I’d rather stand with Bob, actually.”
Valentina sighs your name. “Well, someone has to make the rounds with Walker. And if it’s not going to be my pinup girl, it’s going to be my cowardly lion.” She gives you a sweet smile. “Your choice.”
God fucking dammit. You can’t send Bob out there. Not with anyone, but certainly not with fucking walker.
“Fine.” You mutter, rolling your neck and pushing off the wall, and Bob frowns.
“You don’t have to-“
“Yes, she does.” Valentina beams at you, showing off her plastic vampire teeth.
It’s a bit fucking on the nose.
You wonder if Bucky’s seen them. He’d say that she’s making satire pointless. Making it too easy to spot her. Acting like this is all a game, the way she usually does.
You’ll ask him tomorrow. Once you’re out of the pinup outfit.
When you’re alone.
“Don’t forget to smile.” Valentina says as you pass her, and you give her an unamused look.
She just keeps smiling back.
If you’re all taking a vote, you’re going to third Bucky and Yelena’s throw her off a roof plan.
“Wow,” John says when you find him near the center of the room. “She really made you the poster girl. I think I had that Barbie, when I was a kid.”
“You had Barbies as a kid, John?”
“I- Shut up.”
You smirk. “It’s okay, it’s very progressive of you. I’m honored that you trust me-“
“I said shut up.” He snaps. “Shouldn’t you be making fuck-me eyes at Bucky?”
“Shouldn’t you be playing fake-humble with Alexei.”
John scowls. “He’s with Yelena. Have you seen her makeup? It looks insane.”
“Yeah, she might have a backup career.” You gesture to your face. “She did this.”
“Wow. Bucky and I had a whole prep team, like we were chickens.”
“We kind of are.” You mutter under your breath, scanning over John with a frown.
He’s dressed in brown pants, a vest, and a white shirt. It’s sort of unbelievable someone helped him with it.
“What are you, a… pirate?”
John scowls. “I’m Han Solo. Look, I have a blaster- Don’t fucking laugh-“
You shake your head, grinning around the crowd. “Holy shit, you’re a horrible Han Solo.”
“I am not-“
“You are. Now haul ass, before Valentina starts shoving us at people.”
John grumbles, but trails after you through the crowd. It’s not hard to do rounds with him. There’s always something about John that lets you bare your teeth fully. That lets you snap and bite without consequence, helps you smooth the edge before you have to play sweet, bubbly girl for the people.
Because that’s most what you spend the night doing, now that Valentina threw you like bait to the crowd. You smile and wave. You keep your expression light, your attention on whatever rich person wants it. Lights dance through the air when people request it, and they all ooooo and aaah while John makes a sharp remark about how they take tips.
You giggle at people who call you pretty, even when it makes you feel sort of fucking sick.
You don’t flinch away, when old men graze the bare skin of your arm. You keep your chin up, and never let your mask of joy fall.
Not even when there’s a beat of rest, while John is talking about the army with some wrinkled, cane-gripping billionaire.
And your eyes float over the people, and fine Bucky. Just like the magnet that he is.
Talking to a rich woman with a gossamer gown. A mockery of a costume. A picture of elegance, almost untouchable. Laughing and softly touching his arm, as he smiles at her.
It looks like only his polite smile. Not his let’s sneak off smile.
But he doesn’t step back, when she reaches up to the collar of his shirt.
And you look away, before your dinner can spill out on the floor.
No promises.
He made you no promises, and you didn’t hold him to any words, whispered in the dark. When he’s balls deep inside of you, and calling you his girl. Saying you were made for him.
It’s just talk. Always just talk.
“You ever want to just stop all this?” He’d asked you once, his words low in the steam of the shower, and you’d frowned at him over your shoulder.
“All of what?”
“This.” He’d murmured, his hands wandering over your sides in the warm water.
Your heart had dropped to your gut. “Oh, I- I mean, it’s convenient, but if you want to stop-“
“No, not-“ Bucky had sighed, and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. “Not this, doll. This is the only thing I like about it all.”
“Oh.” You’d flushed. “Then- What?”
“The whole game. The hero gimmick.” He’d kept his lips lightly attached to your skin, grazing over your throat and shoulder gently. “I’ve been playin’ it my whole life. Think I might be getting tired.”
You’d smiled at the wall, and leaned a little back into his chest. “Are you ever not tired, Sargeant.”
He’d grunted in your ear, arm wrapping fully around your stomach. “Don’t rile me up, sweetheart.” His teeth had grazed your ear, and you’d giggled. “You know how that ends.”
“Yeah. I’m so scared of getting fucked from behind in the shower. Terrifying.”
Bucky had chuckled, his mouth wandering over your jaw. “I really should do something about your mouth, baby. I’m trying to talk to you.”
“You are talking to me.” You’d breathed out, back arching as Bucky’s metal fingers dipped between your thighs. “Bucky-“
He’d drawled your name right back. “You want me to stop? So we can chat?”
You’d shaken your head, a little dazed, and he’d hummed.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“But- Mh-“ You moaned softly as he started to rub your clit. “You didn’t- Why do you want to leave-“
“Told you, doll. Just tired.”
"Bucky, if you want to go-“
“You want me to go?”
You’d shaken your head, biting your tongue. If you’d spoken, you would have said something too close to the truth.
“Guess I’m stayin’, then.” He’d whispered in your ear, and you’d melted further into his arms. “No point in leaving if you’re not comin’ with me, babydoll. Hold on.”
Your hand had flown to his arm, trying to hold him there. Against you.
In the steam and heat of the moment, his words had flown right through your cockdrunk brain.
But they’d linger after.
A bittersweet aftertaste.
All just talk.
The party “ends” at ten, but you don’t seek Bucky out. You linger at the bar, turning some neon green drink between your fingers and giving sweet smiles and light conversation to anyone who approaches you.
You want to see him. You want to go find Bucky, and fall back under the sheets with him at your side.
But something in you feels raw, tonight. Maybe it’s the costume, making you feel like all and none of yourself. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the parading around.
Maybe it’s how you’re so unmistakably just a performer, but something about Bucky—in his suit, with his small smiles and a gorgeous woman touching his arm—makes it seem like he could just slip out the door with the rest of the crowd, and nobody would notice until he was long gone.
You’d notice.
You’d always notice.
But you wouldn’t chase him. It’s all he wants, to have something that’s at least a mimicry of normalcy. It’s why he lies in bed with you after sex, while he plays the game of seducing you, why he always has you wash his hair and brush your teeth side by side. The mirage of it. Of this being more to him, just for the sake of playing house.
If he’s leaving to go chase the real thing, it wouldn’t be love that made you chase him down. It would be selfishness.
So while you know he’s not gone yet—you can’t stop yourself from turning, and finding him in the crowd just to see him—you don’t want to be a part of the game tonight.
Everything is all pretend.
It makes the shell of it all so obvious.
Too real.
So you just sit at the bar, and wait for everyone to disappear.
They mostly do.
Bucky doesn’t.
“You want a jacket?”
You keep your gaze fixed on your drink, tracing a finger over the rim of the glass. “A jacket?”
He shrugs in your periphery. “You look cold.”
You are. The ice in your drink isn’t helping. You almost can’t feel your fingers. “I think Valentina would say it ruins the outfit.”
“Valentina left an hour ago, doll.” You hear fabric shifting from the side. “Even if she didn’t, you shouldn’t be freezin’ yourself for her show.”
You hum, and something warm and heavy drapes over your shoulders. It’s already so warm, enveloping you in a trapped, blooming heat.
It even smells like Bucky. Mint and rain and something a little spicy.
Hides your outfit from everyone.
Including him.
You turn, before you can think better of it. Look at Bucky with a guarded, cautious expression. His face is always so pretty it hits you like a freight car. His attention makes you feel gooey, the heat settling lower than just your skin.
His tie is a little askew, his expression neutral, but soft.
The top button of his shirt is undone.
There are no lipstick stains on his neck.
But there could be. And they wouldn’t have been—won’t always be—yours.
“You look beautiful.” He murmurs, and you look back to your drink as your fingers start to tap.
There’s too much electricity. Too much heat. You owe it to yourself not to fall in deeper than you already are.
“You too.”
“I look beautiful?”
You nod, nails clinking against the glass.
Bucky chuckles. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m even holding a candle-“
“Bucky.” You mumble, forcing the words out like vomit. “I- I’m too tired tonight.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Too tired to talk?”
“We both know it’s never just talking.”
“Yeah, cause you pull me into a closet.”
“James-“
“I’m teasing,” he says your name with a small frown, scanning over your pleading expression. “We can just talk. We can always just talk.”
No, you can’t.
None of it means anything.
You look back to your glass, and sit in silence. Bucky doesn’t give up, but doesn’t push it either. You don’t know why this is the hill to die on. Why this feels like a breaking point, after months of sneaking around and letting your heart pine until it was sick. But it’s all just piled up, and you’re dressed like a pinup girl, and he didn’t even try to talk to you.
You hadn’t wanted him to.
You’d thought you hadn’t.
But the top button on his shirt is undone, and it wasn’t your fingers who did that.
The jacket is on your shoulders, and he can’t see how you’re dressed. It’s almost certainly out of respect.
It feels like he just doesn’t care at all.
“I’m James Bond, by the way.” Bucky cuts through your thoughts, and you can still feel him watching you.
“It suits you.” You mumble, and he shrugs.
“Guess so. A gorgeous woman told me I looked beautiful.”
You sigh. “Bucky-“
“No, I- I really am trying to talk to you,” he says your name, his voice filled with something that wasn’t there before. “Didn’t get to all evening. That’s it.”
He says it like it’s the truth. Bucky says everything like it’s the truth, because he never really knows how to properly lie when it’s for his own sake.
You still can’t.
Not tonight. Not as long as he’s not really yours.
“You know you don’t…” You take a deep breath, looking at him with a cautious expression. “You don’t have to talk to me.”
Bucky blinks, just once. “Didn’t think I did. You not wanna talk to me?”
“No.” You say quickly, shaking your head. “I just- I’m- You don’t owe me anything.”
Your eyes flick out to the thinned-out crowd before you can stop them. To the graceful woman, still lingering at the edge of the room, circling like a shark. Trying to sink her teeth into Bucky, before the night is over.
Bucky follows your gaze. Lets out a long, heavy breath when he realizes where you’re looking.
And it’s an invitation. If he wants to, he can.
He looks back to you. You look back to your glass.
“Ah.” He mutters, and the slow word hangs in the air like an axe.
Sweeping down towards your neck. Signaling the end of something that never even started, something that was never yours, something that didn’t even need an axe. It was always just a thin string, and you’d been clinging to it with white knuckles when it was destined to fall apart anyway.
“What if I’d like to, though.”
Your eyes shoot up, and Bucky’s staring at you with a solemn, open expression.
“What,” you whisper, and he shrugs.
“I’d like to owe you something.” He muttered, eyes locked onto yours. “Would you mind? If I did?”
“I, I don’t-“
“Would you mind?”
You shake your head, your voice barely a breath. “No. I wouldn’t mind.”
“That’s good.” He muttered, mouth twitching. “Because I do. Owe you.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “For what, my blowjobs?”
He doesn’t laugh. He just keeps staring at you, making heat blossom through your body until you can’t take it anymore.
“Bucky-“
“Do you want me to say it now?” He says, voice almost guttural. Like it’s coming from his chest. “Or should I save it for some bigger, more romantic confession later.”
Oh, God. “Now,” you manage to say. “Now is good.”
“Alright.” He reaches tentatively over the bar, taking your hand. “I love you.”
Your eyes are stinging. It’s so stupid to cry over, but it feels like everything is bubbling over, and you weren’t ready. It’s too simple. Too easy, for him to just say it-
“You always leave in the morning.” You whisper, and he shrugs.
“Could never guess if you wanted me to stay.”
“Of course I wanted you to stay.” You swallow. “Bucky, I-“
“I know.”
You raise your brows. “You know?”
“I saw you glarin’ daggers at the woman talking to me, doll.”
“Well- I- That’s not-“
“They were just donors.” He shrugged. “Never seen you look that violent before. Sort of did it for me, I think.”
You flush, opening your mouth, and Bucky shakes his head.
“Don’t say it back yet.” He gives you a small grin. “I’d sorta like the romantic version.”
You swallow, biting your tongue, and Bucky’s thumb swipes over your knuckles.
“Can you talk to me now?” He asks carefully, and you nod.
“Yeah. Or…” Your eyes flick down his body. Linger on the bulge in his pants. “Other things.”
He snorts. “Doll, I didn’t- No, this wasn’t some kind of play-“
“I know.” You smile playfully, twining his fingers between yours. “I still want to, though. Please?”
His jaw clenches, eyes flashing slightly, and that’s really all it takes.
And you want to say it back. You want to tell him so bad, because you’ve been swallowing it down from maybe the moment you met him.
But you can show him, instead. You can show him, however he wants.
With your hands tangled together, as he drags you out the door without a glance back.
Your lips, slamming against each other as the elevator doors close.
Bodies pressed tight against each other. Bucky walking you back against the wall as your fingers wind through his hair. A knee pressing between your thighs as he stares down at you with darkened eyes, watching you start to grind against his thigh.
And you are grinding. He’s thick everywhere, and he’s pinned you to his knee, and there’s no shame left in it. You throw your head back and moan, and Bucky makes a low sound and attaches his lips to your throat.
You’re clinging to him, hands roaming over his shirt. His hands on your hips are kneading the soft skin, and you’re already so high it doesn’t feel like you’re ever going to be able to come back down.
“This,” Bucky mutters in your ear, a massive hand wandering up your side to play with the straps of your bra-like top. “Has been driving me crazy all night, doll. Never wanted to rip something off with my teeth before.” He chuckles, kissing right under your jaw. “Never wanted anything bad as I want you, though.”
“Jesus,” you breathe out, nails digging into his shoulder blade. “Bucky- Cameras-“
“Everyone knows already,” he mutters, but still drops his hand. “We weren’t exactly good at fakin’ it, you know.”
“You were the one who- Oh-“ You gasp as he starts to suck on a small, sensitive spot near your neck. “You were the one always pulling me around, James-“
“You were addicting, babydoll.” He murmurs, capturing your lips back in a searing kiss. “Can’t blame a man, can you.”
No.
You can’t.
Not when it’s Bucky.
You stumble out of the elevator, trying to keep upright while tripping over every step on the way to Bucky’s room.
Bucky’s room. This is the door to Bucky’s room.
You pull back with wide eyes, and he pauses. Hand on the doorknob, breathing heavy, concern all over his face.
“What’s-“
“Are you sure?” You whisper, nodding nervously to his door, and his shoulders relax.
He understands. He always understands.
Bucky tugs you forward into a longer, sweeter kiss. His tongue swipes over your lower lip, and it feels possessive. Claiming.
A reminder that he’s yours.
“Always sure of you.” He murmurs, and you melt into his arms.
“Okay.”
He pulls back with a smirk, resting his brow against yours. “Okay?”
You nod weakly, and Bucky chuckles.
“You just wanna fuck me, huh, doll.” His thumb swipes a little bit of drool off your chin, and your mouth falls a little more open.
“The suit.” You breathe, and he raises his brows.
“Yeah?”
You nod again. “You make a- A really good James Bond. And I-“ Your eyes fall down to that little bit of his throat, thick and strong, exposed from the loose button. “I like it.”
He hums, and kisses the corner of your mouth. “Can’t be more than I love this.” He snaps the strap of your bra with a grin.
“Bucky-“
“C’mon, sweetheart.” He hauls you over his shoulders without warning, kicking the door open. “I can take care of you, just like my needy girl wants.”
You let out a loud, wanton moan at that. His girl. You’re his girl, and this time, when he says it, the words aren’t nothing.
They’re everything.
And Bucky’s always taken care of you. Even if you were shoving him into a closet and falling to your knees, Bucky would still drag you up by your hair and take you against the shelves.
But tonight, it seems to be all, and only, about you.
Bucky tosses you down on his bed, and you giggle, crawling back to settle in the pillows. He goes to peel off his shirt, then pauses.
“You like the costume?”
“Well,” you spread your legs letting your fingers wander between your legs. “I wouldn’t call it a costume, Bucky.”
“Mouthy.” He mutters, attention slowly narrowing in on your fingers, rubbing at the wet spot on your thin bottoms. “Christ, I can smell how fuckin’ desperate you are-“
“Always this desperate for you.” You whine, fluttering your lashes at him. “C’mon, Bucky, please-“
You roll your hips into your fingers, and he groans.
“Fuckin’-“ He grunts your name, pulling his tie off his neck fully.
Leaving the rest of the suit on.
“You know how long I been waitin’ to have you in my bed. To give you everything I wanted to, show you everything you mean to me?”
You smile at him, slowly pulling your underwear to the side. Exposing your glistening, soaked pussy to his lust-blown eyes.
“I don’t.” You dip your fingers into yourself, and Bucky looks animalistic. Hovering over you, like a predator ready to strike. “Are you gonna just stand there, or show me?”
His jaw ticks, and he moves faster than you can process it. Swats your hand away and shoves a broad finger deep into your cunt. Slams his mouth over yours, pulling your hair to angle you how he wants, and kisses you so deeply you get dizzy in seconds.
“You know,” he mutters, slowly pumping that finger in and out of your soaked cunt. “I think I had a dream like this since the 30s.” He draws up, eyes raking over your body. “Was only able to think up a girl half as pretty as you, though.”
“Kiss ass.” You breathe out, and he hums, dipping down to kiss over the swell of your breasts.
“Flattery is gettin’ me places, isn’t it though.”
“I- Bucky, just-“ Your back arches as he hits a bundle of nerves deep inside of you. “More, please more-“
“Maybe.” He mutters. “I did say I wanted to talk-“
“You- You can talk.” You strain against his grip on your wrists, trying to reach for him. “Just- more-“
Your words fall into a wanting moan, as he shoves a second finger into you. Starts to slam his fingers in and out of your cunt at an unforgiving rate, his kiss becoming bruising and hands. Your eyes roll back in your head, as he hits that spot inside of you over and over. You’re panting and taking short gasps of air, as Bucky finger fucks you so hard it’s shivering up your spine. He crashes his mouth back over yours, and you’ve never been so lightheaded, felt so good, had him drag this much pleasure from you so fast.
You try to reach for him again. He starts to kiss over your face, voice a taunting drawl.
“No touching, babydoll. Don’t want you to mess up my costume.”
You try to glare at him, but then he hits that spot again, and it comes out in a strangled whimper.
“Think I’m gonna keep you dressed.” He mutters, mostly to himself. “Yeah. Outfit stays on. Never seen anything prettier, babydoll. Only way it could get better is if you were cumming on my damn fingers-“
A spasm shakes your body, and your mouth falls wide open as your orgasm crashes through your body.
Bucky’s grinning at you, wide and unrestrained, when you come floating down. His fingers have pulled out, leaving you clenching around the air, your arousal dripping down your ass.
He smears it around with his fingers, tone low and amused. “That easy tonight, sweet girl?”
You scowl, trying to squirm out of his grip. A little because just his fingers against your abused pussy are starting to feel like too much. Mostly because it’s not close to enough, and you want to grab him. Flip him over, and sit down on his cock, and ride it until you’re sore and exhausted.
Bucky doesn’t budge for a second. His hips have dropped against yours. You can feel his bulge, pressing through his dress pants. Thick, and girthy, enough that it’s had you walking sideways more than once.
Hard.
He’s so hard it’s prodding you.
You can’t get out from under him, even to just jerk him off with a hand.
“You’re getting greedy, baby.” He hums, fingers dragging between the lips of your pussy. “Weren’t you just beggin’ me a moment ago.”
“I- I would never beg.” You snap, and it’s a pointless challenge. You’ve lost it before.
Bucky’s eyes still gleam, as his hand draws away from your legs.
“Maybe.” He hums, reaching over to the side of the mattress. Grabbing his discarded tie, all while watching you with a predatory focus. “But let’s see if I can make you wish you had the words to, anyway.”
You flush, going a limp in the sheets as Bucky carefully ties your hands over your head with his tie. He glances down at you when he’s done, checking that it’s comfortable, and wastes no time when you nod.
Clothing still on—although the shirt has lost another two buttons—Bucky starts to kiss his way down your body. Over every bit of bare skin offered to him. Love bites on your collarbone and shoulder, then on the soft skin under your tits. A hand moving up to cup your breasts as he makes his way down your stomach.
Over your abdomen.
On your inner thighs.
His nose ghosts over your clit.
Then, with all the warning in the world but none of it enough, Bucky starts to eat you like a man possessed. Lapping at your pussy with long, firm strokes of his tongue, hands keeping your legs spread wide apart. He licks and sucks, tongue plunging in and out of your cunt with wet, sinful sounds.
Quickly, you can barely pick your head up to watch him. You whine and call his name, pulling at the bonds on your wrists—if only to run your fingers through his hair—but he did the knots well. You can barely budge.
Your second orgasm rips through you, and you scream. Almost fly off the bed, kept down only by Bucky’s massive hands. He nips at your inner thigh, as you take heavy breaths. Looks up at you with hooded eyes, and a silent question.
You nod. More.
He kisses right over your clit, and dives back in.
He’s ravenous. Unrelenting. Bucky never tires, and by the time your third orgasm is hitting, you’re already a shaking, sobbing mess. You only know his name. Only know how to cry for him, as his lips and tongue work you like an instrument.
Bucky groans against your pussy, and you hear the bed creaking. Somehow, you manage to muster enough strength to look up.
And find him humping the bed, face still fully buried between your legs. Massive hips driving up and down shamelessly, his ass in the air, his hand on your thighs gripping tight enough to leave bruises in the morning.
The fourth orgasm cascades through you like a tidal wave, and you’re not sure if this one ever stops, or if they just start to roll into each other, as Bucky devours you like you’re his favorite meal.
When he finally stops, you’re boneless. Blinking up at him slowly, chest covered in sweat, thighs dripping with your release.
Bucky looks at you so gently, and your slick is shining on his beard.
Your eyes flick down to his pants. To the dark stain, formed on his crotch.
“I love you.” You whisper, and he grins, wiping the hair stuck to your face.
“That wasn’t very romantic,” he drawls your name, and you hum, turning your face into his palm.
“I know.” You mumble. “Still had to say it.”
Bucky is silent for a moment, then leans down. Kisses your brow gently, then leans back up.
“I need a few minutes, if you wanna…”
He trails off, and you shake your head.
“Too tired.” You mumble, leaning back to watch him carefully. “And we got the morning. Right?”
Bucky’s smile widens, and he nods. “Right.”
He helps you clean up. He’s always helped you clean up, but now there’s a laziness to it. His hands wander your body in all the same ways, in the shower. He still crouches next to you, while you use the toilet.
But he pulls out a toothbrush, for you to use.
You give him a curious look, and he shrugs.
“Wanted to be ready.”
You take it with a smile, and lean against him while you both stand in the mirror, his hand resting easily on your hip. Yelena’s going to kill you.
Your hair is absolutely ruined.
Bucky keeps you tucked in his side, when you crawl into bed. He turns to look at you, waiting without exception. That’s not new either.
It’s new to be in his bed. It’s like a massive version of his jacket. If he doesn’t make you, you might never leave.
And he’s not going to. Suddenly, it’s all just… in the right place. Bucky next to you, until morning. You in his bed, where it feels like you should have always been.
You don’t ask him how long. You don’t ask him why. Those are all things that can wait, because you have plenty of him.
Instead, you wiggle closer, and whisper, “Why?”
Bucky’s lips twitch. “Why?”
“Why tonight.” You murmur, fingers tracing over the plates of his right shoulder. “Why now?”
He sighs, a little furrow forming his in brow that means he’s thinking. His tongue flicks over his lips, when he looks back to you, and his voice is deep and careful.
“I’m not sure.” He mutters, words slow. “Just saw you, lookin’ like that. Remembered all the dreams I had, back in the 40s. House and normal shit, you know. It was a thought I’d been having for a while, but- I don’t know. Sorry,” he mutters. “Know it’s not enough-“
“It is.” You whisper, smiling at him gently. “And if you get more, you can tell me in the morning.”
You know you’re double checking for no reason. But Bucky just smiles, and nods.
“Yeah. I can.” He kisses your brow with a grin. “Night, doll. Happy Halloween.”
“Happy Halloween, Buck.” You press your face into his chest, and let out a long, easy breath. “Love you.”
He hums, the sound firm.
Certain.
All yours.
“Love you too.”
✦End note: this on is a lot more thunderbolts centered than I thought it would be. I built dynamics by accident. Whoops. I hope you still enjoyed it!✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
Sweet Treats
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.
Warnings: slight au with halloween in velaris!! just fluff and some emotions<3
Word Count: 1.7k
HAPPY (LATE) HALLOWEEN <3
Universe Masterlist
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The bat ears keep sliding down your forehead.
You adjust them again, catching your reflection—six months pregnant, wearing all black with felt ears perched on your hair, looking exactly like what you are: someone who's never done this before.
Halloween. The word still feels strange in your mouth.
Growing up, you had your own traditions. Fire festivals and blood oaths sworn under winter stars, events that marked you as Illyrian, that connected you to something ancient and unforgiving. But this? Kids ringing doorbells for candy, parents walking them down safe streets, jack-o-lanterns grinning from porches?
This is new.
And strangely, you're nervous.
Some part of you is waiting for someone to notice. To see through whatever part you're trying to play and realize you have no idea what you're doing.
Which is ridiculous. It's candy. Children in costumes. How complicated could it be?
But next year you'll probably be one of those parents. You'll hold your child’s hand and walk these same sidewalks, watch them knock on doors, teach them that sometimes strangers give you things just to see you smile. The thought makes your chest feel too full, like there's not enough room for how much you want it.
Azriel knocks. "Everything okay in there?"
You open the bathroom door to find him looking unfairly good in the exact same costume. Same black clothes, same felt ears—though his actually stay in place—and his wings extended freely behind him.
"I feel silly," you tell him.
His whole face softens. "You look great. Besides, looking silly is half the point of Halloween."
"Aha!" You point at him. "So I do look silly."
He catches your finger, then your wrist, pulling you into the doorway with him. It's a tight fit and you have to crane your head to hold his gaze.
"You look great," he says again, quieter.
Your heart kicks against your ribs. You're very aware of how close he is, how warm. Gods, he smells so good—
Azriel straightens as his shadows start moving more actively, curling up toward the hallway. "I think our first trick-or-treaters are here."
He's already heading for the door. Ink separates from the dark mass of his shadows and winds around your wrist, tugging gently.
"You coming?" Azriel glances back, a bowl of candy now in his hand.
"Yeah, I just—" You take a breath. "I've never actually done this before. Halloween. Any of it. So if I mess it up—"
"You won't."
"But if I do—"
"You won't," he repeats. "I haven't either, actually. Done this, I mean."
You blink at him, surprised. You'd just assumed—the Inner Circle, Nyx, all these years in Velaris.
"So we're both making it up as we go," you say slowly.
"Seems like it."
Warmth unfurls in your chest. This is both of yours, then. Not you fumbling through a tradition he already knows, not you trying to catch up to a life he's already lived. A small moment shared.
There's a knock at the door.
"Okay." You set your shoulders. "Let's do this."
Azriel opens the door to reveal a mother and a little kid absolutely drowning in a dragon costume. It’s an elaborate one, all green scales and a tail that drags on the ground, a hood with fabric spikes running down the spine.
Your chest does something complicated. That's going to be your child someday. Small and brave and dressed up as something magical.
The mother notices Azriel first and her expression shutters. Recognition. Hesitancy. Her hand drops protectively to her child's shoulder.
Something hot and defensive rises in your throat. You want to step forward, put yourself between them and that look, make it very clear that he's good and he's yours and how dare she—
But then the little dragon peeks around his mother's legs, takes one look at the shadows drifting around Azriel's shoulders, and immediately hides his face again.
"I'm so sorry," the mother says with an embarrassed laugh. "He's been so excited all day, but now he's decided to be shy."
“No worries," Azriel says, and his voice has gone soft in a way that makes you melt.
He crouches down—folds all that height and muscle until he's small and unthreatening, eye-level with a four-year-old.
"Hi there, dragon," he says gently. "That's a really cool costume."
The kid peeks out more but doesn't say anything, still staring at the shadows with wide eyes.
"You know what?" Azriel continues, and one of his shadows drifts forward, playful and curious. "I have some friends who really like dragons. They've been hoping to meet one all night. Want to say hello?"
The shadow does a little loop in the air, almost like it's waving.
You press your knuckles hard against your mouth because you are not going to cry at the first trick-or-treater of the night, you're not—
The little dragon takes one brave step out from behind his mother, completely transfixed by the dancing shadow.
"They get shy sometimes too," Azriel confides, like he's sharing a secret meant only for this small child. "But they think you're very brave for coming all the way here. Much braver than they are."
The kid giggles—this bright, delighted sound—and reaches out one small hand. Azriel's shadows curl around his fingers like silk, moving gently against his palm.
"See?" Azriel's smile is so soft it hurts to look at. "They like you very much."
Your vision blurs. You blink hard, trying to clear it, but it doesn't help.
This is what you’ve wanted without even knowing how to want it. This sweetness, this gentleness, this glimpse of what your life could look like—what it will look like—with Azriel and your child and these small moments that once seemed impossible for someone like you.
Azriel reaches into his candy bowl and drops a generous handful into the kid's bucket. "Happy Halloween."
"Say thank you," the mother prompts, and she's smiling now, that initial wariness completely gone.
"Thank you, Mr. Shadowsinger!" The dragon waves enthusiastically at the shadows as his parents guide him back down the porch steps.
His shadows wave back.
Azriel stands slowly, turns to look at you, and freezes.
"Hey—" Concern floods his face immediately. He's in front of you in two strides, hands coming up to frame your face. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is it the baby?"
"I'm fine." Your voice comes out thick and watery, which really undermines your point. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, laughing even as more tears fall. "I'm completely fine. I'm just—I'm being so stupid."
"You're not stupid." His thumbs brush away tears. "Tell me what's going on."
"I got emotional about a dragon," you manage. "A four-year-old dragon who was scared of your shadows until you made them dance, and I just—" You press your hand over your heart, which is doing acrobatics in your chest. "That's probably going to be us next year. That's going to be our kid."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, soft and aching.
"And you were so good with him," you continue, because apparently you can't stop talking now. "You didn't even hesitate. You just knew exactly how to make him feel safe, and I—" Your voice cracks. "You're going to be such a good father, Azriel. And I'm so excited and so scared and so grateful that I get to do this with you."
His throat works. For a second you think he might cry too, but instead he reaches up with one hand and carefully adjusts your bat ears where they've gone crooked again.
"There," he says softly, voice rough with emotion. "Perfect."
His hand lingers—fingertips barely brushing your temple, your cheek.
There's another knock at the door.
You both startle, then laugh—breathless and a little shaky.
"More kids," you say, wiping at your face one more time. "I need to pull it together."
"Or don't." He glances toward the door, then back at you. "Cry at all of them if you want. I really don't mind."
"You say that now."
But you do cry. At least three more times—once at a tiny witch who can't be more than two years old, once at a pair of twins dressed as cats, and once at absolutely nothing except the way Azriel smiles while dropping candy into buckets, like this is the best night of his life.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Later, when the candy bowl is empty and the porch light is off, you're both on the couch in comfortable silence.
Your bat ears sit discarded on the coffee table next to Azriel’s, wings now loose and relaxed, one stretched out along the cushions behind you. The house is dark except for the soft glow of the faelight in the corner, and you're so tired you could sleep for a week.
Standing for hours at a time is proving to be an intense exercise throughout your pregnancy.
"Thank you," Azriel says quietly into the dimness. "For what you said earlier. About being a good father."
"I meant it." You turn your head to look at him, his profile soft in the low light. "Every word."
"I know." His hand stretches on the couch behind you, thumb brushing across your temple in that absent, soothing gesture he does. "That's why it meant something."
You rest your head on his shoulder, and he shifts immediately—adjusts his position so you're more comfortable, so your belly isn't pressed awkwardly against anything, so your wings have room to spread.
Always thinking about what you need before you even have to ask.
"I think I love Halloween," you murmur against his shoulder, already half-asleep.
His thumb keeps tracing those gentle circles against your skin. "Yeah. Me too."
There's a pause. His throat works like he's swallowing something down.
"You know what else I love?" he says quietly.
But you're already asleep, breathing deep and even against him.
Azriel looks down at you—at your face peaceful in sleep, one hand resting over where the baby grows—and allows himself a small smile.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head and settles in, careful not to wake you, and follows you into slumber.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
AUTHORS NOTE:
happy halloween, my loves!!!! sweet lil au-ish moment for you guys <3 i headcannon that reader and az's fav holiday would 100% be halloween!!! theyd have the BESTT costumes once reader fully embraces it hehe
IMPORTANT: i don’t do any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! 😋
permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻
@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen
@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark
@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna
@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore
@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire
@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows
@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly
@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier
I’m screaming this is so good. Just one of my favourite series of all time. I can’t begin to explain how I love I am with BOTH of them.
Layers of Him
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: You are always cold, perpetually. Azriel is supposedly "annoyed" but mysteriously starts showing up everywhere with two jackets.
A/N: It's barely november and I'm already freezing 😭 this fic is totally not inspired by my own fantasies
⸻
You were born with summer in your laugh and winter in your bones.
That was Mor's diagnosis, anyway, the thirty-seventh time she found you in the House of Wind with your hands tucked under your thighs and your shoulders hunched like you were bracing for a storm no one else could feel.
Azriel just called it “impossible.”
He said it the first time on a night that wasn’t even cold.
“It’s not even cold,” he’d said, voice low and faintly exasperated, as he shrugged his leathers off and dropped them over your shoulders like it was a reflex he’d been practicing for decades. It was early spring, the windows open over Velaris, the sunset warm and honeyed. The rest of them were in simple shirts. You were curled on the sofa like a cat in snow.
“It’s night,” you’d said, tugging the jacket tighter, drowning in Illyrian leather and the warm shadow-scent of him. “Night is a concept. It is cold.”
He’d huffed, that almost-laugh he only did for you. “You have no insulation.”
“And you have too much.”
“Someone has to.”
After that, it stopped being a thing that happened and started being a thing that was.
Azriel arrived places with two jackets. Or one jacket and one slightly lighter that he pretended was for himself. Meetings, training, lazy evenings in the River House, he ghosted in, wings tucked, shadows in tow, carrying a second layer like it hadn’t been deliberate.
Cassian clocked it first. “Why,” he said slowly, “are you wearing layers indoors?”
“In case I get twice as cold,” Azriel said, deadpan.
Then he extended one arm back, didn't even look, and the jacket would drop right onto your lap like it belonged there.
You, of course, made a show of it. Dramatically tugging it around you. Shoving your face into the collar. Sighing like you’d been rescued from certain death. You did it because you liked watching the corner of Azriel’s mouth try not to move.
“See,” you say, eyes closing, “I am freezing.”
Azriel rolled his eyes, but his shadows would curl around your ankles, satisfied.
He did it in stupidly unnecessary places, too: in the kitchen, when you were perched on the counter eating fruit and the breeze from the open balcony fluttered the hem of your dress; in the training ring, when you’d been sparring and got sweaty and then the wind hit and you got the shivers, he stepped right in, warm from fighting, and dropped a jacket over your shoulders and pretended to adjust a buckle on your bracer so no one would see his hand linger.
In the damn archive, which was twenty feet underground, with no business being that cold, stone eating every trace of warmth, he padded down the shelves with another jacket on his arm.
“Azriel,” you singsonged down the aisle once, not looking up from the horrifically tiny script you were translating. “I can feel you.”
“You should be able to feel me,” his voice floated from the end of the row, amused. “That means you’re not frozen.”
You turned. He was in leathers. And yes, he was wearing another leather jacket.
“It’s 200 feet underground,” you pointed out. “This room is colder than Illyria.”
That earned a snort. He stalked down the row, boots whispering, shadows tasting old paper. Without ceremony, he settled the jacket around you from behind, his arms coming over your shoulders, pinning warmth to your chest. Heat from him, heat from the leather, heat from the way he lingered, fingers smoothing the collar.
“You could ask,” you said, though you were already leaning back.
“You could dress appropriately,” he said into your hair.
“I did.”
“You wore a dress made of air.”
You smiled at the page. “But,” you said, “you like it.”
He pulled back slow, as if caught. “It just…annoys me,” he muttered. “That’s all.”
“Mm.”
He didn’t say, I bring two because I like seeing you in my things.
He didn’t say, I can’t stand watching you shiver and not doing anything.
He didn’t say, the first time I put my jacket on you it looked right and now my hands do it before I think.
Azriel was all about not saying things.
He didn’t argue again. He just straightened the collar under your chin, fingers lingering a breath longer than necessary. When he left, his shadows stayed with you.
⸻
The thing was — you could have worn your own coat. You owned several. Lovely, practical, weatherproof. You kept…not wearing them.
Why would you, when showing up cold meant Azriel’s hands on your shoulders and his scent in your lungs?
So you kept doing it. Not maliciously. Not even sneakily. Just…on purpose.
You’d arrive at the River House in a dress whisper-thin for the season, bare arms, bare throat. And he’d look at you across the room and sigh without sighing, already shrugging out of his second layer.
“Again?” he’d mutter.
“You love me,” you’d murmur back, already taking it.
He never once corrected you.
⸻
It kept going. Summer into fall. Fall into the soft breath before winter. The city got colder. You stayed the same.
“Gods,” Mor said one morning, sweeping into the sitting room to find you, burrito-incarnate, in Azriel’s jacket, “do you just steal his clothes now?”
You opened one eye. “They walk to me.”
Mor laughed and kissed your hair. “He’s going to run out.”
“He’ll buy more.”
He did buy more. Softer ones. One lined in something lamb-warm. One with sleeves just a bit too long for you.
You took all of them.
And he let you.
Because that’s the thing: he’d always mutter about it — “you’re insufferable,” “you could have asked me to heat the room,” “I am not your personal hearth” — but he always adjusted the collar under your chin. He always made sure the zipper didn’t catch. He always smoothed the shoulders like he was fitting armor.
You caught him, once, watching you when he thought no one was.
Rhys had called everyone to the River House and you’d gotten cold because river nights bit harder. Azriel had wordlessly peeled off his second layer and put it on you, then gone to stand by the open balcony with Cassian, pretending to argue about patrols. You were curled by the fire, legs under you. At some point you felt eyes.
You looked up.
Azriel was turned your way. Not the fire. Not the High Lord. You.
Face unreadable. Shadows lazy. Wings tucked. As if he was memorizing you inside that too-big jacket like it was something only he was allowed to see.
He looked away slow, like he’d been caught with sweets.
It should have been obvious to everyone. It probably was. They just politely didn’t say.
⸻
The day he cornered you about it, it was raining.
Not winter-rain. Autumn-rain, cold and earnest, washing the city clean. You were about to go out, actual errands, actual cloak weather, so you’d gone to the stand where the House kept cloaks and jackets and taken one. Practical, warm, a nice deep blue.
You were halfway down the stairs when shadows slid across the hall floor like spilled ink.
You stopped. “Az?”
He’d been on his way up. Boots damp, hair damp, smell of rain and sky still on him. He stopped, too, halfway down the next landing, hand on the banister.
His eyes dropped to the jacket you were wearing.
Not his.
Neutral. Perfectly reasonable. House-provided.
He stared at it like it had insulted his mother.
“…what,” you said, fighting a smile.
He narrowed his eyes, slow. “Going somewhere.”
“Mhm.”
“In that.”
You looked down at yourself. Perfectly adequate. Perfectly warm. Perfectly not him.
You arched a brow. “It’s cold.”
“It’s not mine.”
There it was. Low, quiet, absolutely unjustifiable.
You tilted your head. “Do I need your permission now?”
He exhaled through his nose, a little too fast. His shadows crawled up the wall behind him as if agitated. “No,” he said, and if his voice was softer, well, that wasn’t your fault. “You just…always take mine.”
You blinked.
“Oh.”
You stood there in your very acceptable, very warm, very impersonal jacket, and realized: he’d gotten used to seeing you in his things. He’d built that into his day. My jacket is on her, therefore she is warm, therefore she is safe, therefore I can breathe.
You looked down at yourself. Then up at him again.
“You like it,” you said, slow delight pooling, “when I wear yours.”
Azriel’s mouth twitched, betrayed. “It’s not — I mean — it’s just—”
“You like it,” you repeated, stepping down a stair. “Big scary spymaster likes when I smell like him.”
His ears actually went a little pink.
“You always smell like me,” he muttered. “You steal all my jackets.”
“It just…” he said finally, and the edges of his voice had gone tender, “looks right.”
Gods.
Your heart did a clumsy, grateful thing.
You stepped down again. His eyes flicked to your mouth, away. His fingers flexed where they held the banister.
“I like yours,” you said simply. “They’re warm.”
“You can have your own warm.”
“I like yours. Do you know why I don't wear mine?”
He raised a brow, wariness and interest in equal measure. “Enlighten me.”
“Because,” you said, closing the last of the distance, tipping your head back to look at him, “they smell like sky. And sun. And like you came home. And sometimes like vanilla if you’ve been in Feyre’s kitchen, and sometimes like leather, and sometimes like rain.” You shrugged, small under your not-his jacket. “And because every time I put one on I know you were thinking of me that morning. Or that hour. Or right before you opened the door”
Something moved in his face then. Like a muscle unclenching.
“And,” you added, because truth begets truth, “because I like your things on me.”
His shadows came off the wall and slid around your calves, soft as cats.
He leaned one forearm on the wall beside your head, not trapping, just there, and looked down at you, rain-dark hair fallen a little forward.
“You could just…ask,” he said, but it was barely sound.
You smiled. “I thought you said it annoyed you.”
“It does.”
“Liar.”
“It—” his mouth quirked, helpless, “—annoys me in a way I like.”
“Ah.”
He tugged at the collar of the House jacket, face doing an exaggerated grimace. “This one doesn’t smell right.”
“It smells clean.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed, soft. “You’re impossible.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached behind him, of course, and pulled out his jacket. The darker one. The one you liked best.
“You were really walking in this,” he said, nodding at the House one, tone full of tragedy.
“I was.”
“Disrespectful.”
“You weren’t even here.”
“I am now.”
You rolled your eyes and lifted your arms.
He slid his jacket over you slow, like he was fitting something precious. Settled it on your shoulders. Smoothed it down your arms. Adjusted the collar under your chin, thumb lingering, thumb always lingering, and when he was done, he stepped back just enough to look.
There. Contentment, quiet and real, flickering through his eyes.
“There,” he said, but it was a little like mine.
You breathed in, cedar, cold sky, rain, him, and felt warmth bloom past what the jacket gave. Nestled into it like it was your rightful skin.
“Better,” you whispered.
He huffed, soft. “Better,” he agreed.
You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek — quick, grateful, honest. His shadows curled up higher, pleased.
“You know,” you said as you pulled back, “I could just keep one.”
He tilted his head, pretending to consider.
“No,” he said. “I like giving it to you.”
You stared at him for a beat, heart doing something disloyal.
“Okay,” you said quietly. “Then keep doing it.”
He smiled then, small, embarrassed, sun-warm, and brushed a knuckle over your jaw, like he was checking you were warm enough before he let you go.
“I will,” he said. “I always will.”
Extremely cracky but I am cackling at the thought of Thunderbolts endcredits(/Doomsday?) Bucky and pregnant reader hanging out with other heroes and the topic falls on everyone's hero suits and someone asks reader what she thinks of Bucky's new suit and she goes "Well, does this answer your question?" and points at her belly because he absolutey knocked her up when Bucky fucked her still wearing the fit.
If you want to make it smutty it can always include a flashback. 🤷♀️
in the suit?! | bucky barnes
Summary: ^^ Request
Warning: 18+ Minors DNI | Possible Thunderbolts* Spoilers | Smut | Detailed Open Door | Dirty Talk | Innuendos | Are we still saying John Walker as a warning? | Choking | Pregnant Reader | Mild Language | Alcohol Use | Suit Kink
Word Count: 965
A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this. And getting to stare at clips of Bucky in the suit as references. Thank you. Ps-Gif has nothing to do with the one shot, but fuck.
Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes
Present:
Your post-mission debrief had somehow turned into a party—beers around a bonfire, with s’mores. Yes, someone had brought s’mores. It was Bob. You half suspected that he’d googled ‘what do friends do for fun?’ on the way back to the tower.
You were sitting on a lawn chair, mocktail one hand, the other absently rested on your stomach—the baby bump very much obvious at this point. Behind you, Bucky stood with one hand on your shoulder and his vibranium hand wrapped around a beer while he looked like he wanted to re-enter the void any time anyone got too loud.
And naturally, Yelena got loud.
“Okay, here’s the real question,” she called out, waving her beer bottle around the team like a sword. “Which one of the ‘new’ Avengers has the best suit?”
“That’s so subjective.” Ava groaned.
“Exactly my point,” Yelena replied. “Subjectively, it’s me.”
Puffing out his chest, Alexei snapped. “I will ignore this insult and remind you of this iconic design!”
“You literally squeak when you move,” Walker said.
“You squeak emotionally.” Ava scoffed, taking a swig of her own beer bottle.
Walker pointed toward Bob. “What about him? Dude’s got like, three different fits.”
Bob smiled politely, yet his hand visibly trembled. “Thanks… I’m molecularly unstable.”
Then suddenly, all eyes turned to Bucky.
Including yours.
How could they not? The matte black suit. The red star. The arms.
After a beat of silence, someone—you think it was Ava—looked at you and said: “What do you think of Barnes’ new suit?”
Bucky froze. His hand tightened against your shoulder. Slowly you lowered your mocktail, raising your brows toward Ava.
“Well, Miss Starr,” you gave your swollen stomach a gentle double tap. “Does this answer your question?”
In surprise, Yelena dropped her beer into the grass. Alexei smiled, until the realisation flashed over his eyes and he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. Bob blinked rapidly in your direction, as though he was running a diagnostics. Walker let out a bark-laugh, quickly turning it into a full wheeze.
“No. Nooo,” He shook his head, the laughter still ringing through your ears. “Are you saying—Wait—in the suit?!”
You smirked, and shrugged your shoulders slightly. “Didn’t even take the glove off.”
Bucky’s eyes widened.
Three Months Ago:
The safe house door slammed behind you. You barely crossed the entryway before Bucky had you pressed against the wall. His breath was hot, his body humming with some leftover tension from the mission.
He was still in his New Avengers suit—matte black kevlar clinging to his body like a sin, his dog tags swung with every move, and his arm plates clicked together.
You barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth crashed into yours.
“Are you going to keep the suit on?” you murmured between kisses, fingers tracing the lining of the red star embroidered into his right arm.
His teeth pulled at your bottom lip. “Are you complaining?”
You weren’t.
Instead, you desperately tugged on his belt.
He growled.
And before you knew it, your legs were around his waist, his arm braced under your thighs. His vibranium hand reached up to cup your cheek, trailing his lips over your jaw with a ragged breath.
“You’ve been staring at me in this thing all damn day,” he hissed against the shell of your ear. “Did you think I didn’t notice, babygirl?”
“Maybe–Maybe I wanted you to.”
In response, he ground his hips against you—still dressed, but the feel of him had you clenching around nothing. Bucky didn’t rush. He never did. He made you feel it. He made you feel him. And every ridge of his suit, the inches of him still layered between you.
Finally, he freed himself, and you let out a sharp gasp at your underwear being shoved aside. “Don’t hold back, sergeant.” you breathed, fingers entwining in his hair, pulling the strands.
And he didn’t.
With one hard thrust, he was buried to the hilt—dragging out a broken moan from the back of your throat. He was rough, relentless. His hips snapped into you, driving you like he was proving a point.
He let your name fall from his lips.
The suit creaked with every movement, and his gloved right hand tightened around your thigh. His grip was bruising. His left hand found your throat—firm, grounding. Just enough to make your vision blur—not enough to lose control.
“You take me so good, baby,” he panted. “Fuck—you’re so tight, can feel you everywhere.”
Unable to form words, you gasped. High-pitched, wrecked whines of: ‘Harder—’. Pushing your chest out, you felt his dog tags swing between your breasts with every thrust.
Bucky’s fingers found your clit—still gloved, the textured leather moved over your skin toward the sensitive nub—rubbing tight, delicious circles.
You screamed his name.
Your body shuddered against him, vision turning white at the edges as your orgasm washed over you. Bucky’s hips stuttered, groaning deep from his chest as he spilled into you. His forehead pressed to yours.
He didn’t let you go.
Breathing hard, you clung to him.
Present:
“So, just to confirm,” Walker continued to laugh. “Bucky Barnes, the Winter freaking Soldier, turned into a thirst trap and you said ‘yes’ without any hesitation?”
“I said ‘harder’, actually,” you corrected, taking your mocktail straw between your lips.
Bucky muttered under his breath, looking up to the sky, up to the stars. “You tried to, at least.”
Yelena collapsed into Ava’s shoulder. “I never want to see that suit again.”
“I’ll be seeing it again, tonight,” you said sweetly, standing up to make your way toward the bathroom. Patting Bucky’s chest as you pass. “Pizza first, though. I’ll need the carbs.”
Bob blinked. “Should–Should I get more s’mores?”
“Yes, Bob,” the New Avengers said in unison.
___
The way this had me laughing and giggling!! Love love love!!
Growing Pains
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.
Warnings: light angst, light fluff, jealousy!!! pining, pregnancy hormones and possessiveness, an argument, azriel has a hard time with emotional regulation, azriel hates the autumn court, azriel gets humbled, azriels having a bad time tbh
Word Count: 7.9k
Universe Masterlist
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Standing outside your door, Azriel feels the kind of anticipation he's only heard about in stories—the sweet, almost painful sort that makes his chest tight and his hands restless.
Three minutes ago, he'd arrived—precisely on time, as always. Punctuality has become ritual between you. One of many small traditions you've built without ever discussing them. You'd yelled out a soft "Coming!" and he'd heard the familiar shuffle of your rush.
While he waits, his shadows purr and preen, singing as they prepare to greet you, to reconnect with the lone tendril that's taken residence in your life.
It's fascinating, really. How much he looks forward to these moments. How the highlight of his weeks have become simply existing in your orbit— being around you. Around his child.
The words still catch him off-guard. He half expects to wake one morning and find it's all been some strange, unprompted dream.
But Azriel doesn't sleep enough to dream. Even on the rare occasions he surrenders to the night's delicate grasp, the only things he finds are nightmares.
His mind isn't kind enough to create something this special.
Wind gusts as you swing the door open.
Your scent hits him first—gods, your scent—and Azriel's throat works around a swallow. You offer him a smile in greeting. It's tight and close-lipped, but your eyes are soft. The message is clear enough: whatever hesitancy is written into your features has nothing to do with him.
A black wisp floats above your shoulder. Azriel smiles, softly, at his shadow. The mass coiling around his form surges forward—circling you both, reuniting with Ink in a way that feels entirely too intimate. Two halves of himself becoming whole.
You take in the sight of the reunion. Azriel takes in the sight of you.
The circles under your eyes have darkened. You're not sleeping well. The observation tightens something in his chest—half concern, half the temptation to ask, to know—but you meet his gaze and raise a brow.
A challenge and a warning in one.
He gives you an understanding nod. "After you,” he says, and gestures down the hallway.
You step past him. He tests your door— locked—as you turn away. The movement sends another wave of your scent curling through the air.
His eyes flutter shut, just long enough to be indulgent. Maybe borderline inappropriate.
Every week it gets stronger. Sweeter. More familiar. A life he hasn't met and somehow knows intimately. Mixed with you—your skin, your shampoo, the soap you favor—it nearly buckles his knees.
The one downside of this new life is the confusion currently singing through his blood. A natural pull to you that has him questioning everything— his judgment, his boundaries, his own damned mind. He'd expected it would come eventually. This strange in-between. The blurred line between instinct and his growing closeness with you.
He just didn't expect to like it so much. To crave it the way he does. He's practically scenting the air like some feral thing.
His shadows brush his burning cheeks.
Insane, he tells himself, chastising. You're acting insane.
Hmmm, his shadows sing back, amused. Sweetness never hurts.
Traitors.
He blushes even more and sends a silent prayer of thanks to the gods that you haven't noticed, then catches up soundlessly.
As he descends beside you, his focus sharpens on the practicalities weighing heavier each week. The stairs in your building—worn edges, chipped corners, a railing that wobbles when he applies pressure. How long before it's irresponsible to let you navigate two flights? How long before your center of gravity shifts enough to make these steps a danger?
He doubts you'd accept being winnowed up and down. Doubts the babe would enjoy it either.
"I feel like a child being picked up for an appointment," you grumble.
His eyes land on you. "Technically, there is a child being picked up for an appointment."
"So I'm the transportation method?"
Azriel bites back his grin. "Sure."
"Like a horse," you scoff. "Lovely."
"Look on the bright side," Azriel says, holding the building's door open. "Everyone loves horses."
"I don't." You scowl at him as he falls into step. "Do you?"
His steps falter.
Azriel did, in fact, not like horses. And horses, he was confident, did not like him.
He'd only been around them a handful of times. Mostly with Mor. While he could appreciate their regal bearing, he'd never grown fond. They sensed something predator in him— something that made their eyes roll white with instinctive terror. His shadows made it worse. Always too curious, too desperate to touch.
Azriel never really cared. There’s no use for a steed when you have wings. Riding is near-impossible for any Illyrian anyway—the frustrating burden of attempting to maneuver wing positions.
He runs his tongue along his cheek. "That's besides the point."
You roll your eyes with your usual fondness. It's muted today, though. You chew at your bottom lip.
The habit's grown incessant throughout your pregnancy. Azriel stopped trying to correct it weeks ago. The last time he'd pointed out the bleeding, you'd sent him a glare so withering he'd wished Nesta could witness it—a true masterclass in silent fury. Another time, on a particularly rough day, you'd threatened to make his lips bleed if he kept pointing things out with his "creepily attentive eyes."
You'd apologized later. He'd found it hilarious. So had Cassian, when he'd recounted it during training.
So he just watches. Catalogs. Worries quietly. Then forces himself to focus on the walk.
Summer is ending now, and the promise of Autumn is creeping into Velaris slowly.
It feels almost poetic, watching the city transform as your pregnancy progresses—both of you blossoming into something new. Time moves differently for Azriel now. Faster. More significant.
He sees life everywhere.
Birds gathering in preparation for migration. Leaves beginning their slow turn to amber and gold. Shopkeepers hanging garlands of dried flowers and wheat in their windows, the scent of cinnamon drifting from doorways.
A male walking toward you glances over, his gaze lingering on your face with obvious interest. It's the kind of look Azriel recognizes—appreciative, curious. He can't entirely fault him. You're beautiful. That much has always been true.
Truthfully, you've grown even more devastating over the past few weeks.
The male's eyes start to drift lower, toward your stomach, and something unfurls in Azriel's chest. Hot and immediate, like a blade drawn from fire.
Usually when walking through Velaris, Azriel makes himself small. Unintimidating. Wings folded tight, shadows leashed, offering polite nods to citizens brave enough to meet his gaze.
A weapon, yes. But a sheathed one.
At least in their presence.
But now, he lets a few shadows drift forward. Lets them curl around his shoulders like smoke rising from a fresh burn. A dark warning.
The male takes one look at Azriel's face and quickly crosses to the other side of the street.
Satisfaction flickers through him, but his jaw remains locked. The territorial instinct sits heavy in his chest, all that Illyrian possessiveness he's spent centuries learning to control, now stirred to vicious life by your changing scent. By the child you carry.
His child, some primitive part of his brain reminds him, and his breathing requires active management to keep steady.
You notice, of course.
He catches the sideways glance that says you saw what happened. He waits for the sharp comment, maybe a lecture about scaring innocent citizens.
Nothing comes.
Azriel sighs. "I'm protective. Sue me."
"Protective is one thing." You raise a brow, amused. "That was borderline territorial."
Too close to the truth. "Is that a problem?"
You consider this, chewing on that poor bottom lip again. "Yeah. Maybe don't do that."
Then you're walking again, that subdued energy wrapping around you once more.
The lack of fight unnerves him.
You're more lively than this. You call out his nonsense. It's what makes this work—what makes the terror of impending fatherhood feel manageable. Enjoyable, even.
There's clear weight here. In these visits to Madja. Even the first appointment had been met with reluctance, despite it being a more-than necessary step.
He'd first thought it was an issue of environment. Things were more natural in Illyria. Births and healings happening in familiar spaces, surrounded by community. Yet, when he'd suggested home visits, as Madja had done for Feyre, you'd shot him down immediately.
Madja's insistence on frequent check-ups hadn't helped—residual paranoia from Feyre's pregnancy, though your situation bore no resemblance. Slightly unnerving, having their healer show visible anxiety, but Azriel supposed he appreciated caution over regret.
He watches the tension in your body language as you walk.
What troubles you?
He shifts closer. Close enough that his shadows can navigate around soft sunlight. If he's lucky—and sly—perhaps your designated shadow, your sweet Ink, might peek out from its hiding place in the gap of your wing. Might whisper what's wrong so he can fix it.
The tendril retreats, almost chastising.
Azriel deflates.
Fair enough. He'd made a promise, after all. No spying. No shadows slipping where they don't belong.
Eventually, he tells himself, you'll open up.
It's just a matter of time.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The clinic smells like healing herbs and sterile cleanliness.
You settle into an oversized waiting chair, and Azriel takes the seat beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushes yours.
"It'll be quick," he says. "Maybe afterward we can walk around. Check some things off your list."
Your brow rises. "My list?"
"The tailored clothes you mentioned. Warmer ones that'll accommodate both your wings and..." He gestures vaguely at your stomach, still fumbling for the right word. Your belly? The bump? The babe? Our baby? Everything sounds either too clinical or too intimate. "You need new boots. And that tea blend Elain recommended."
You stare at him. "Do you make a note of everything I mention?"
"I pay attention."
"Freak."
His mouth opens in mock offense. Your lips quirk up in amusement.
"Azriel." You lean closer. He fights the urge to breathe you in. "It's sweet that you're so worried about me. But your antsy energy is really unsettling. So, again, I'm okay. Seriously."
His ears burn. "I—"
"But yes," you continue, cutting off his deflection, "we can walk around a bit afterward." You shift with a small groan. "Not a ton, though. I'm not feeling the best today."
"Why?" The question escapes fast. He sits ramrod straight, shadows swirling. "Is something wrong? Is it the babe?"
You study his intensity, brow furrowing. Then you laugh—small, but genuine. "Just some soreness. My wings, my back." You roll your shoulders, wincing. "The usual suspects."
"Okay. Tell Madja."
You smile. The first real one today. Slightly mocking, but he doesn't care. "I know. I will."
Azriel knows his protectiveness may be, slightly, overbearing. But fatherhood has awakened a level of concern he didn't know he possessed. He's tortured people without flinching, walked into certain death without hesitation, but the thought of you in danger, in pain—
It unmakes him. His hands shake at the thought.
Your smile eases the vise around his chest. A glimpse of you beneath the anxiety. For one fragile moment, he thinks maybe today will be different—
A new scent crashes into his awareness.
Male. Unfamiliar. Strong.
Every instinct snaps taut. His shadows stir restlessly as footsteps approach.
A figure appears in the doorway.
You stand immediately. Azriel rises with you, his hand finding the small of your back—steadying, possessive. When you don't pull away, fierce victory purrs through him.
Shame follows close behind. Guilt at the arrogant pride that now swells in his chest.
The male is tall. Well-built. Vitiligo traces patterns around his right eye, down his cheek. A stark streak of white through his dark hair, lashes and brows dusted pale.
Appealing. Approachable. The kind of face that puts people at ease.
Azriel continues to catalogue every detail with predatory focus. The confident posture. A healer's build—strength tempered with gentleness. His scent carries herbs and fae magic, but nothing threatening.
Nothing that should make Azriel's jaw lock. Nothing that should make his shadows coil tighter around his arms like restraints.
"Hi," the male says, voice warm. "I'm Adrin. You must be the one o'clock appointment."
You introduce yourself and the tension in your posture lessens. Not gone, but eased. Ice beginning to thaw.
It's exactly what Azriel wanted.
He hates it.
The healer is still smiling at you. There's no predatory calculation in his features.
When Azriel smiles, it feels wrong. There'd been a time he stood in front of a mirror, desperate to master something as simple as a friendly expression. He'd practiced until frustration mounted into rage.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reconcile the softness a smile required with the monster reflected back.
Adrin probably never had to practice. Probably never had to learn how to seem less threatening.
And you're responding to it.
Your shoulders have dropped now. Your breathing has evened out.
Is this what you would want? Someone easy? Someone safe?
But even Balthazar isn’t this docile. Even he carries violence in his bones. Do you want someone removed from it entirely?
The thought twists in Azriel's gut. He's not sure why he's entertaining it.
Azriel feels the brush of your wing against his side—calling his focus. He moves to introduce himself properly, but Adrin waves him off kindly.
"No introductions needed. Pleasure to meet you, Shadowsinger."
The casual familiarity grates. This male isn't remotely intimidated by him—usually something Azriel appreciates. Right now, however, it winds him tighter.
Who is this person? Why is he so comfortable?
They've never met. Azriel is certain.
"Madja got called away for an emergency," Adrin explains, attention shifting back to you. "I'm afraid she won't be able to make your appointment today."
Your shoulders drop slightly. An almost imperceptible exhale that looks like relief.
Azriel's chest constricts. He's dragged you here for nothing.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," Adrin continues. "But since this was just a routine check-up, I'd be happy to do it, if you're comfortable. I'd hate for your time to be wasted."
Azriel opens his mouth—to decline, to suggest rescheduling—
"That would be great, actually. Thank you."
Your voice has completely shed that flat resignation. You’re happy.
You glance at Azriel, noting his stillness. "What?"
He forces neutrality into his expression. "Nothing. I'll be... I'll be out here."
"Okay..." Puzzlement crosses your face, but you're already turning to follow Adrin. "See you in a bit."
Ink perks up—practically dancing as it follows you down the hallway.
Betrayed by his own shadow.
He can hear Adrin's voice as you disappear, already engaging you in easy conversation. The kind of professional warmth you never manage with Madja.
Alone in the waiting room, Azriel drowns in scent.
Your gradually relaxing signature mixing with Adrin's confidence. The clinical smell doing nothing to mask how your anxiety dissolves with each passing second.
Then—
You laugh.
Genuine. Surprised. The sound you make when someone delights you.
Azriel finds himself on his feet, pacing the small space like a caged animal. All predatory restlessness with nowhere to go.
His shadows swirl, offering comfort he can't process through the roar of whatever this feeling is. Jealousy seems too simple a word for this. Too intimate.
He realizes he's biting his knuckle—a nervous habit from centuries past. The urge to march back there, to insert himself, is so violent it takes every ounce of his thinning control to stay put.
He forces himself back into the chair, then does what he always does when his mind betrays him.
He traces the scars on his hands with careful fingers, following the familiar patterns of old burns, and lets his misery drag him down into memory—into the cold comfort of pain he understands.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel's jaw aches from clenching.
You walk ahead, and there's a bounce in your step. Has been since you emerged from the appointment, smiling and thanking Adrin with warmth. You'd even touched his arm in parting.
Casual. Friendly.
Azriel had wanted to deck him in the face.
While he wouldn't go as far as calling you unfriendly, you do hold a guarded quality to your demeanor that he'd found solace in. Recognition of someone perpetually on edge, perpetually aware, who often forgets to soften their face.
Your genuine, sweet smiles are rare. Precious, even.
Azriel had grown accustomed to them being mostly his now. Selfishly so.
Now he shares them. With Adrin.
And Balthazar, his shadows sing, apologetically. Balthazar gets them too.
Right. Balthazar. The Illyrian prince get them, too.
Azriel flinches at the bitterness of the thought. At its intensity.
He clenches his fists and catches up to you, breathing in deep. Velaris is alive around him— fresh bread from a bakery, flowers spilling from shop stalls, the river's clean mineral bite. He filters through it all for you. Your scent.
He's losing his mind. All of these strange feelings. Sensations. All muddled and overpowering. Inescapable. Consuming him.
The way Gwyn had.
The thought arrives before he can stop it.
Gods. When was the last time he actually thought of Gwyn?
Shame crashes through him immediately—hot and acidic.
This is perverse. Arrogant. Comparing the two situations when they're nothing alike. You're his friend. The mother of his child. Gwyn had been...
What had they even been? His shadows had sung for her. He'd thought maybe she was meant for him. That maybe, finally, he could be the kind of male who deserved gentle things.
And now he barely thinks of her at all. Only feels that longing, that pain, when he sees her and Balthazar. When he's reminded of what he lost. What he felt was taken from him.
Otherwise— there's just you.
There's only you.
And your child, driving him to distraction. Making his head swim. Making him irrational. Making him scare a citizen and hate a healer.
He can't seem to shove it back down. Can't stop his traitorous mind from circling back to the way you'd smiled. The way you'd looked so happy.
Azriel's heart does a stupid, painful lurch.
He's felt this before. This exact feeling. His mind is being cruel. Playing twisted games, maybe. Making him believe he's reacting to you the way he has with previous desires. Previous disappointments.
No. No.
This isn't that. You're carrying his child, blossoming with new life. You are his in the most natural, ancient way—to protect, to provide for, to care for. Primal Illyrian drive awakened by circumstance. His body responding to evolutionary imperatives as old as the Cauldron itself.
He needs facts. Logic. Something to anchor himself before this spiral drowns him.
Fact: You're carrying his child, which triggers biological responses in Illyrian males. Documented. Normal.
Fact: Proximity and your changing scent would make any male protective. It's in his blood.
Fact: The jealousy isn't jealousy at all. It's simply territorialism redirected. Annoying, but manageable. He's managing it.
Fact: You're his friend, and that's good. That's more than he deserves, honestly.
Fact: These feelings—whatever they are—will pass once the baby is born and your scent returns to normal. Everything will settle. Go back to baseline.
That last one sits wrong in his chest. Hollow. Empty.
He ignores it.
The rage when that male looked at you earlier? Pure instinct.
The jealousy watching you with Adrin? Territorial nonsense.
This pull that has him filtering through an entire city just to find your scent? Biology.
Base drive. Nothing more.
"What's wrong with you?" Your voice cuts through his spiral like a blade.
You've stopped walking and turned to face him, both hands on your hips. Brow raised, lips down-turned. "You've been weird all day. Are you having some kind of crisis?"
He closes the distance between you, pulling himself back to the present. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar when you're distracted." You fall into step beside him, still studying his face with unnerving intensity. "Seriously. What's going on in that nightmare factory you call a brain?"
Despite everything—the frustration, confusion, self-loathing—his lips twitch. "Nightmare factory?"
"I stand by it." You gesture vaguely at his head. "Now talk or don't, but stop looking like you're contemplating murder. You're scaring the sweet-faced civilians."
He glances around and realizes he's let his shadows spread too far, let his expression settle into something grim. With effort, he reins himself in, softens his features into something more neutral.
"Better," you say, pausing. "Now let's go cross things off my list before I lose steam. I want new boots and I want them now."
Just like that, you're pulling him forward. Back to the present. Away from the dangerous spiral.
A talent you possess without even realizing it. One of many, Azriel anticipates.
He follows your steps and tries to ignore the way his heart skips when your wing brushes his arm.
It’s brief and probably accidental, but he's so completely fucked, either way.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel noticed the pain in your wings before you'd admitted it.
He’d picked up on the signs of discomfort quickly— grimaces at slight movements, heavy sighs you tried to muffle.
Watching you hurt unnerved him physically. Turned him into something desperate—a beggar at your altar, pushing you to see Madja. To make sure nothing was seriously wrong.
You'd shrugged off every suggestion. Every plea. That stubborn set to your jaw that meant you'd made up your mind and nothing short of divine intervention would change it.
Until Azriel admitted he'd already arranged an appointment.
With Adrin.
He'd discovered a new feeling after that confession. A terrible, twisting mix of relief, satisfaction, and utter despair, all fighting for dominance in his chest.
You'd softened immediately. Let out a breath that sounded like hope.
"Really?"
He'd only nodded.
You'd blinked. Nodded back. "Fine. I'll go."
A pause. Then you'd smiled—brief but gentle enough he felt it in his bones. "Thank you. For your incessant worrying."
“Well,” Azriel said. "What are friends for?"
The words had filled him with discomfort he couldn't name.
Friends, apparently, played cupid for the mother of their child.
At least he could say he was learning to share.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The appointment arrives too quickly.
Azriel glares at the autumn decorations scattered throughout the clinic. Reds and ambers making his gut curl—irritating redheads with flame-bright hair invading his thoughts when he least wants them there. He rolls his eyes, grumbling into his fist as he settles further in the waiting chair.
You emerge not even thirty minutes later.
The difference is stark. You're in far better spirits than he's seen in days, holding a glass jar of what he assumes is the reason of your bettered mood— some miracle powder. Relief hits him square in the chest.
Worth it, he thinks. Whatever this costs him, seeing you pain-free is worth it.
He watches you converse with Adrin. Easy and comfortable like the last time.
But a new scent clings to the healer. Another fae's signature—fresh from last night. This morning, maybe.
Satisfaction tugs at Azriel's lips.
The pretty-boy healer is...involved.
Maybe The Mother loves him after all.
Not that it matters. Not really. Because you’re standing beside him now, your wings comfortable and free, and Azriel would endure a thousand moments of… whatever this feeling is, if it meant you weren't hurting.
His shadows brush against his scarred hands, murmuring gentle encouragement.
Growth. The word they'd whispered last night when he'd lain awake, staring at his ceiling and wrestling with the uglier parts of himself.
Growth and discomfort. Good things. For her.
Azriel takes a deep breath and offers Adrin a smile— or something resembling one. "Thank you."
The words cost him. But they're genuine.
Warmth passes through Adrin's features—appreciation, understanding. He nods with respect. "Always happy to help."
His shadows hum in delight.
Then he follows you out, letting himself bask—as he always does—in your scent. In autumn air. In the small victory of your pain-free wings.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The restaurant sits in a part of Velaris that Azriel doesn't often visit with the Inner Circle.
It’s less polished than the Rainbow. Rougher edges. Authentic charm from age and use rather than curation.
The first time you'd brought him here, guilt had twisted through him— sharp shame for having shunned part of his own city from instincts he's certain traced to his roots. Like most of his less favorable traits.
You're tucked in a corner now, pressed away from the crowd, shadows lazily dancing across the wrought iron table's scrolling patterns. Ink perches on the apex of your wing, watching people drift by on the street.
Azriel likes this. How you also appreciate being surrounded by life without participating. Near enough to observe. Far enough to remain separate.
Mor would've dragged him into the center with her bright laughter and iron grip, telling him to quit being antisocial. Elain might’ve sat closer to the sunshine, drawn to the potted flowers lining the patio's edge. That, or she’d want to ask the shopkeeper about spices and techniques. Engaging with everyone, making connections. And Gwyn—
Gwyn would've preferred someplace more homey, Azriel suspects. To-go options so she could curl up with a book, enjoy a meal in peace with her own entertainment.
But not you.
You take a bite of your food, and Azriel's attention snags on your thumb catching the corner of your mouth.
His gaze lingers too long. Heat creeps up his neck. He looks away quickly, stabbing at his own plate, shadows now chattering with amusement near his wrists.
"I'm telling you," you say around a mouthful, gesturing with your fork, "those were the best chips I've ever had. I'm getting another bag before I go home. Don't try to stop me."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His lips twitch. "Though I reserve the right to judge your choices."
"You judge everything I eat anyway."
"Only because half of it gives you heartburn and then you complain about it for hours."
"It's worth it," you say with solemn conviction. Then you grin. "Besides, you like when I complain. Gives you something to fuss over."
He can't deny it. Not when you've seen through him so completely.
Comfortable silence stretches. Around you, the restaurant hums—conversation, laughter, clatter of dishes. But in this little corner, it all feels distant. Muted.
"I'm glad Adrin could help," Azriel says. "With your wings."
"Yeah." You brighten immediately, and his chest both warms and aches at your relief. "Miracle worker, honestly. He wants to see me again next week. Make sure the powder's working."
You extend your wing slightly, examining the membrane. There's a faint shimmer to it now—a subtle golden sheen catching light. The medicine was worked into the wing. With a touch that certainly wasn't yours. Too big of fingerprints, too light a hand.
Azriel goes very, very still.
"He..." His voice comes out rough. "He touched your wings?"
"Mhm." You're still examining, turning to catch different angles. Not looking at him. "Had to apply it directly. Work it into the membrane. The base too. It took a while, actually. He was very thorough."
Azriel's mind spirals.
Wings are intimate. Sacred. You don't let just anyone touch them—it's one of the first things Illyrian children learn. The sensitivity, the vulnerability. The trust is often requires.
You let Adrin—a male you barely know, who makes you laugh and smile—touch them for an extended period while you—
"Azriel? Did you hear what I said?"
You're looking at him now, brow raised in that particular way that means you've caught him being weird. Again.
“Yes.” He scrambles for something, anything to pull himself out of his own head. "Adrin seems pretty knowledgeable about wing anatomy."
"Yeah." You take another bite, completely unbothered by the crisis currently unfolding in Azriel's chest. "He's worked with many Peregyns. Not super familiar with Illyrian wings, though. Hence the follow-up. Just to make sure it's as effective as it should be."
Azriel nods. Forces himself to eat. Chew. Swallow.
But his mind won't stop circling back. Another appointment. Another session of Adrin's tender, healer hands on your wings, working medicine into sensitive membrane. Learning the geography of you in a way that feels too intimate for the mother of his child, too—
Pull back, shadows murmur. Breathe.
He has no claim here. You're not his. Only the child you share.
"Sharing stories about your lives?" Azriel manages. "Should I be worried?"
"Yeah. I talked so much shit about you to my healer."
You're laughing, but Azriel's brain catches on one word.
My.
My healer. Not our healer. Not the healer. My healer.
The possessiveness shouldn't affect him. It's just a turn of phrase. Casual ownership of the kind everyone uses—my cobbler, my favorite tavern, my usual route.
It carves into his chest anyway, makes a nice little home there.
The implication. You like something enough— someone enough— to claim them.
And Azriel wants—
What?
What does he want?
He doesn't know. That's the problem. That's always the problem.
"Do you—" He clears his throat. Sets down his fork like he’s disarming a trap. "Do you want to switch officially? To Adrin?"
Your laughter fades. You study him, reading past whatever mask he thinks he's wearing.
"Yeah. I would. Is that okay?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know. You're being weird."
He tries organizing the chaos in his head. The words are there— tangled and ugly and completely inappropriate. He knows he should swallow them down. Bury them with every other feeling he has no right to.
They claw up his throat anyway.
"I think we should be careful about mixing medical care with obvious romantic interest. It could complicate things."
You snort. "That's a good one."
He doesn't smile.
Silence descends. This one, however, is uncomfortable. He watches his words register—your eyes widening, posture going rigid.
His shadows still. Ink makes the smart decision of retreating into your wing.
You set down your fork. "You're joking, right?"
There's still amusement in your voice, but it's uncertain now. You're waiting for the punchline. He can't blame you.
He should backtrack. He has the opportunity. He should laugh it off and make it a joke and swallow down this writhing thing in his chest.
He can't.
"I'm just saying—"
"No, I heard you." Your smile is fading now, confusion creeping in at the edges. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're serious."
His jaw sets. "I am. It's something we should consider."
Your smile drops completely. "Azriel. Come on."
"If there's romantic interest involved with the medical care, it could—"
"Stop." You hold up a hand, and there's an edge to your voice now. "What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?"
Your scent is getting stronger as your emotions rise. It tangles his thoughts further. "I'm just concerned—"
"About what?" You lean forward, searching his face. "It's been two appointments. Two. What could have possibly—I mean, did I do something wrong?"
The question deflates him. "What? No. Of course not."
"Then what is this?" There's hurt creeping into your voice now, too. Mixing with building anger, confusion. "You think Adrin's unprofessional? That I can't tell the difference between medical care and—and whatever you're implying?"
"I'm not implying anything."
"Oh, please." Your wings tighten and you grimace. Fuck. He's brought your pain back. "You think my healer—who's been nothing but professional—is somehow compromised, and I'm too stupid to notice or too reckless to care."
His shadows writhe. This is spiraling. He says your name apologetically. "I didn't say that."
"If you think for one minute that I don't consider our child in every decision I make— you are sorely mistaken. Do you have any idea how insulting this is?"
The hurt beneath the anger is eating him alive. He doesn't think you're incompetent. Doesn't think you're careless. But he can't explain the real issue—these biological instincts. This territorial rage picturing Adrin's hands on your wings.
He still doesn't fully understand it himself.
It's stronger than anything he's ever experienced.
"Okay, I—" He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have said anything. Let's forget it."
"Yeah, no. Absolutely not." Your hand shoots out—you don't touch him, but the gesture stops him cold. "You don't get to question my competence as a mother and then hide behind 'forget it.' That shit might fly with your family, but it doesn't fly with me."
He deflates further. Chest tight with guilt. Embarrassment. Self-hatred. "I wasn't questioning you."
"Why do you even care if there was romantic interest?"
The question strips away the flimsy justification he's been hiding behind. "I don't."
You're staring now. Mind working. Piecing together puzzles. "Good. Because it wouldn't matter. I’m smart enough to make my own decisions. I’d talk to you about it, sure, but I’m a grown woman."
"I know that," he says tightly. "I'm very aware."
"Then why is it such a big deal?" You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. "If Adrin was interested in me, or if I was interested in Adrin, why would that be any of your business?"
He has no good answer. Not one he can say aloud.
It shouldn't be his business. You've established the boundary—you'd have conversations if things changed. Establish limits. Ask what he's comfortable with regarding the babe.
He knows this for a fact. It makes his feelings even more embarrassing. Even more irrational.
He remains silent.
You sit straighter. Frustration building in your shoulders, tightness around your mouth. "Okay. I'm— I'm so confused. What the hell is going on?"
"I don't—" He drags a hand through his hair. "I can't explain it."
Your hands clench on the table. "Too bad. Try anyway."
You sound hurt.
Maybe this was inevitable, Azriel thinks. He was always bound to disappoint eventually. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
"I don't know." Voice rough. "I don't—something's happening. To me."
"Something's happening? That's the best you've got?"
Pressure is building in his chest— confusion and all the things he can't name because naming them makes them real. His fingers dig into his temples.
"I don't know," he repeats, defeated "I don't know what's wrong with me."
You're quiet, watching him with unnerving intensity. When you speak again, your voice is softer. Less angry. "Then figure it out. Because you're making accusations you won't explain, and that's not fair to me."
He knows. He knows it's not fair.
"It's—" He stops. Tries again. "I have these reactions. I think your scent is triggering them. They feel almost primal. "
"Primal?" Your nose crinkles. "So, what? You're feeling territorial over your offspring?"
"Maybe. Yes." He's grasping for words now. Articulating chaos. "I don't know."
He can't even bring himself to look at you. Shadows writhe around him, agitated, concerned, and he can feel shame burning up his neck.
You're quiet for another long moment. Then your expression shifts, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh my gods," you say slowly, and your voice has changed. The irritation is still there, but more underneath. "Are you jealous?"
Azriel’s head snaps up. "What? No."
The crease between your brow softens. You sound almost bewildered. "You are."
"It's not jealousy," he insists, even though it rings hollow. "It's instinct. Stupid, Illyrian genes that a male feels when—"
"When what?" And now—now even the irritation is fading. Replaced by dawning understanding that looks like amusement. "When the mother of his child has a healer?"
"When the mother of his child is letting another male touch her wings," he snaps before he can stop. Azriel casts a cautious glance around the patio, relief flooding through his system when he notices the other patrons have since left.
"For medical purposes," you say slowly. "To apply medicine. For pain."
At his silence, your expression does some more complicated shifts—shock melting into realization into barely suppressed laughter.
"Oh my gods," Now there's a laugh breaking through. "That's it, isn't it? You're totally jealous."
"I—" He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to explain the tangle in his chest. "No."
You’re laughing.
"I'm sorry," you say, still laughing, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I'm sorry, it's just—" Another laugh.
He doesn't know what to do with this. He'd been bracing for a fight. For your fury at his overstepping, his complete lack of boundaries, his inability to handle this situation like an adult. For you to tell him he's crossed a line he can never uncross. To go fuck himself, essentially.
But you're laughing at him. It's almost worse.
"I don't see what's so funny," Azriel mutters, heat crawling up his neck.
"It's hilarious." You're grinning now, eyes bright with amusement. "You're spiraling because a healer touched my wings to help with muscle pain. Do you realize how silly that is? Are you going to fist-fight Madja, next?"
"It's not—" He glances around sheepishly. "It's more complicated than you're making it sound."
"Is it though? You're jealous. It’s biology and our Illyrian nonsense, but at the end of the day, you're still jealous."
The accuracy flays him.
"Fine," he bites out. "Fine. Maybe I am. Maybe it is jealousy. But I can't—I don't know how to fight it." He stops. Closes his eyes. "I don't know what to do with any of this."
When he opens his eyes, your expression has softened. The amusement is still there, but it's gentler now.
"I don't want to make things weird," he murmurs. "I promise, it's not jealousy, jealousy."
You raise a brow. "You mean it's not romantic."
His chest tightens painfully. He nods, stiff. He needs you to believe that. Needs you to know that he's not developing inappropriate feelings for the mother of his child— because he's not.
He has to believe he's not that pathetic.
"Well, obviously," you say.
Impossibly, his chest tightens further.
Obviously— because it would be absurd to think otherwise. The idea of him having real feelings for you is unrealistic. Laughable, even. He repeats it in his mind.
It shouldn't bother him. That's exactly what he was trying to convey.
Yet the certainty in your voice, the slight strain beneath it, sits wrong. Makes him feel dirty.
But the conversation is shifting. He has the opportunity to salvage this disaster.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out. "I shouldn't have said anything about Adrin. That was completely out of line. I'm struggling with these instincts and took it out on you and that's not fair. You haven't done anything wrong. He hasn't done anything wrong. It's all me and my head and I'm—" He stops, takes a breath. "I'm really sorry."
"Azriel," you say quietly. "I get it. The instinct stuff really is a bitch."
You sound as if you're speaking from experience. His mind wanders to what situations made you come to that conclusion.
What instincts trouble you?
Are any about him?
Your voice calls him back to reality.
"Thank you— for apologizing. I never want you to use our child as an excuse ever again. If you're struggling with instincts or whatever this is, we can talk about it. But don't frame it as concern for medical care when what you really mean is you don't like seeing me with another male."
The assessment is brutal in its accuracy. "You're right."
"And for the record—I'm not interested in Adrin. And he's not interested in me."
Relief floods through Azriel— so intense it's almost painful. Inappropriately so.
"Not that it’s any of your business," you quicky add, and his stomach drops, "But, you know. For the record."
"Understood." Azriel’s cheeks begin to ache from the repression of a smile. "Are we… are we okay?"
"Yeah." You hold his gaze. There are complicated emotions in your expression—understanding, frustration, fondness. "Yeah, we're okay. We can laugh it off now."
Azriel's blinks. "Really? That's it?"
You frown. "What? Do you want a longer lecture?"
He casts a glance to the side and shrugs sheepishly. You shake your head, dismissing the thought entirely.
"You already feel bad. You apologized. Lesson learned, right?" You tilt your head at him. "Our situation is already so weird. At some point we have to let its strangeness be entertaining instead of draining."
His heart does this stupid flutter in his chest. He doesn't bother pushing the sensation away.
He's almost tempted to believe his instincts are being sated by this. By you. By his gratitude. His relief. Maybe that's why his chest feels so warm right now, why the jealousy has finally quieted. His biology getting what it needed all along.
That makes sense. That has to be it.
He reaches for his fork, leaning forward toward food that's certainly cold by now, ready to move past this disaster—
But your demeanor shifts.
His brows furrow. You've gone quiet. Still. Not meeting his eyes anymore, your gaze fixed on the table between you.
Something's wrong.
"It was just nice," you say quietly, tracing idle patterns on the table's surface with one finger. "Having something to myself."
Shadows drift toward you. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone feels so involved in this pregnancy." The words come slowly, carefully chosen. "I'm carrying something precious to you. To your family." You finally look up at him, and your eyes seem tired. "I'm sharing your paycheck. Living in an apartment Balthazar got for me. Going to a healer that your entire family uses, who would absolutely break confidentiality if Rhys was worried enough."
You pause and swallow.
"I just... I liked having this one thing that was mine. Even if it was just a healer."
The words land like a stone between his ribs. The guilt that follows is brutal.
Oh.
He'd been so caught up in his own twisted feelings that he'd been completely blind to what you needed. A piece of yourself in a situation where everything has become irrevocably tangled with his family, his money, his world swallowing yours whole.
"I didn't..." His throat feels tight. "I didn't realize."
"Yeah." Your smile is tired. "I figured."
"You should have whatever you need," he says softly, and means it with everything he has. "Whoever you need. I won't—" He stops. Regroups. "I’m so sorry– for not realizing. I'll do better."
You look at him for a long moment, and there's a shift in your expression—surprise, maybe. Relief.
"Thank you." Your voice is soft now. Genuine. "I should've told you. I guess I didn't know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful. I'm sorry."
"You don’t have anything to apologize for." The words feel crucial. "Not with me. Not with any of this. Ever."
Your smile returns. “What if I hit you in the face. Do I have something to apologize for, then?”
Amusement sings in his chest. “After today, I probably deserve it.”
You chuckle, then rub your lips together, leaning back into your chair. Mirth is back in your eyes, golden and alive.
"Finish your food," you say, pointing at his cold, half-eaten plate with mock severity. "Then we're getting those spiced nuts. And you're not allowed to make any comments about my choices."
"I'll try to restrain myself."
"You won't."
"No," he admits, lips twitching despite everything. "Probably not."
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The follow-up appointment arrives even quicker than the last two.
Azriel gives you a small smile as you stand and follow Adrin into the back. His shadows are calm today. Settled. They drift lazily around his shoulders, content in a way they haven't been in weeks.
He understands now. What this means to you. Why you need it.
It doesn't erase the discomfort entirely—that still sits in his chest, a low constant burn he's learning to live with. But it's different now. Manageable. An instinct he can tame— no longer the sharp, consuming thing that had him spiraling in this very waiting room.
Growth, his shadows had sung. And for once, he thinks he might actually be achieving it.
Azriel's gaze immediately snags on the autumn decorations scattered across the waiting room—those offensive reds and ambers and burnt oranges that seem to have multiplied since last week. They've added small gourds now. Decorative corn. A wreath of maple leaves that looks aggressively cheerful.
His jaw tightens.
Gods, he hates autumn. The whole damned season and its association with that court and everything it represents. Fire and leaves and the smell of dying things pretending to be beautiful.
A tendril of shadow drifts toward the nearest decoration—a spray of amber-colored branches in a vase—and Azriel finds himself thinking, idly, that it wouldn't take much. Just a small tug. A gentle pull.
Would anyone even notice if they... grabbed them? Knocked them over? Maybe shredded that particularly offensive wreath into tiny pieces?
It would take seconds. Would probably make him feel significantly better. He bites back a grin at the thought, shadows practically vibrating with anticipation. Waiting for permission.
"Well?"
Your voice cuts through his vindictive fantasy. He looks up to find you still standing in the hallway, hand on your hip, head tilted because you've caught him doing something weird.
...yet again.
Azriel furrows his brows.
"Are you going to come back with me?" you ask, slowly. "Or do you prefer to keep having a staring contest with a wreath?"
Azriel bites back the smile threatening to break across his face. He feels ridiculous—like a child being invited to something special, something he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve.
You're letting him in. Offering him this small, precious thing that belongs to you.
“Uh, yeah. Yes." he manages, standing perhaps a bit too quickly. His shadows are already rushing ahead, eager to rejoin Ink. "The wreath can wait.”
Amusement dances in your eyes as he approaches. "It was beating you anyway."
He laughs as he falls into step, gaze settled on you.
What good have I done to deserve this? he wonders as you push open the door. To be offered a future I never dared to dream of— to be raising a child with someone like you?
Someone who saw his mess and his jealousy and his confused instincts— and instead of punishing him, the way he believes he should’ve been, invited him in. Offered him grace that makes him wonder if he's ever truly been forgiven for anything before in his life.
Adrin looks up when you both enter, and his expression shifts into something pleased. Welcoming. "Shadowsinger. Glad to have you."
"Adrin." Azriel nods, and the greeting comes easier than he expected. Natural, even. He tests his limits further and asks, "How have you been?"
"Busy, but well. An emergency back home kept me running, but nothing serious..."
The conversation flows, light and genuine, and Azriel lets himself sink into it.
Adrin can have your friendly smiles. Balthazar can keep your history.
Azriel has this.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
AUTHORS NOTE:
DEDICATED TO MY ADRIN LOVERS!!!!!!! ADRIN ANON 🗣️ for those of yall that don’t know, adrin is an actual love of my life and azs nemesis in every universe. love him, anyways!!!
writing azriels pov v readers is so funny. they deal with the same things (and think the same things, cough, cough) but azriel is fighting his thoughts in the most avoidant way ever while actively ragebaiting himself lmfaooo
also totally hilarious...that reader just wanted to write it all off as silly.....maybe theres stuff she doesnt want to think about either.... and shes also just hilarious like yesss laugh in his face!!!! queen
IMPORTANT: i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore
permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻
@rhysandorian @itsswritten @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon @glam-targaryen
@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark
@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered
@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna
@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore
@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire
@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows
@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly
@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls @louisa-harrier
ACOTAR is so funny when you start viewing Tamlin as Rhysand’s ex who Rhysand is not completely over
Fools can say Rhysand is straight all they want, but I know an evil little queer when I see one.
It's a disgrace.
Weaponized Literacy
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: In which simply, Azriel has a thing for glasses, specifically his mate in glasses, and he spectacularly malfunctions during a briefing
A/N: so for the sake of argument, i'm pretending that reader's been wearing contacts till now. this idea got wayyy away from me, turned into 3k words of azriel politely? thirsting over reader being smart and sexy, and we're gonna go with it cause glasses are CUTE OKAY. I do apologize for the length though 🖤
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Sun pooled on the desk like warm honey; the window was cracked to let the Sidra murmur through. Papers were stacked in neat tiers. A parade of sharpened pencils lay like little soldiers. Lamps steady, maps breathing out their old-paper smell.
She had claimed the left side—hair twisted into a loose, absent-minded knot, sleeves shoved to her forearms, a pen tucked behind her ear and—new to Azriel’s understanding of the universe—a pair of thin, steel-rimmed glasses sitting casually as sin on her nose. She tapped a finger against the table while Rhys and Feyre talked flight patterns, then leaned over a map.
Azriel forgot what language was.
He’d come to brief them on a patrol report—routine, clean, simple. Instead, he stood there with a page in his hand, heartbeat suddenly loud in his throat, watching his mate turn bureaucracy into art. She made a small hmm under her breath, underlined something—decisive, clean—and wrote in the margin with those precise, impatient loops.
It’s glasses, his brain—usually the most disciplined thing in any room—said, personally offended. Reading glasses. Pull yourself together. His shadows, the traitors, tilted toward her like flowers to sun.
Cassian walked into the room. “Az? You said you had something on the perimeter team.”
Right. Intel. He had it. Somewhere under the newly discovered fact that his mate wearing frames could change barometric pressure.
“Yes,” he said, voice coming out lower than it went in. He held up the file like a shield and tried not to stare at the pen cap resting against her mouth. “Perimeter Delta reported a—”
Her glasses slid, slow and sinful, down the bridge of her nose; she pushed them back with one knuckle without looking, forearm flexing under rolled linen. His sentence simply ceased to exist. Rhys looked up, easy. “Reported a…?”
He tried again. “—a change in cart traffic,” he forced out. “Two new smuggling teams we don’t recognize—probably—”
Silence.
“—probably?” she prompted, still scanning the map, pen hovering. “Part of the guild, or independents?”
“Independent,” Az managed.
Why is this happening to me? Why is this doing this to me? Mother above, you are a grown man.
She hummed, satisfied, and wrote INDEPENDENT in clean capitals. Az watched her hand like gravity had been rewritten.
Across the desk, Cassian’s mouth did the slow curve that means oh, this is going to be fun. Feyre’s pencil froze mid-sketch. Rhys turned a paperweight a fraction and purred, “Well, this is educational.”
She, mercifully, stayed oblivious—wrist moving, mind arrowing. She leaned back a fraction, lips pursed around the pencil as she considered a sentence. The shirt she wore (his; he’d given up pretending otherwise) slid at the collarbone, exposing the faintest edge of skin where his mouth had memorized a heartbeat. “How many new teams?” she asked.
“Two new teams, consistent with—"
The pencil clicked gently against her teeth. The glasses caught the light. And his sentence walked off a cliff.
Her head tipped, catlike. She looked up over the rim of the glasses, eyes bright and curious, and leveled the pen at his chest. “Well? Consistent with?”
Focus. He pinched his palm hard enough to sting. “—consistent with market fluctuations after the floodgate repairs.” “Azriel?” Feyre asked, eyes very kind. “You look… different.”
Rhys coughed into his fist like a polite man hiding a laugh.
She straightened, finally glancing over the rim fully. She was frowning now—not with annoyance but with the concern she hides under jokes. “Az. Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” he said, too fast.
Cassian made a strangled sound that was absolutely laughter he pretended was a cough. “Continue,” Feyre said kindly to Az, pencil poised. “Preferably with words.”
He tried. He really did. “They were reported crossing at—” He could not, for the life of him, remember what the word for when the sun is not midnight was. He gestured. “The… bright time.”
Feyre choked. Cassian bent double behind a hand.
“The bright time,” Rhys repeated, grave and respectful in the exact tone you use when you are absolutely going to tell this story at family dinner. “Excellent. Write that down, Feyre.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Okay then. Routes,” she went on, sliding a second map free. “If we close the east gate, they’ll skirt the houses here. But the cart widths won’t clear the corner on this lane unless they switch to wagons. Or we missed a cut-through.” She pushed the frames up again, thinking. “We missed a cut-through.”
Az’s pulse stumbled. The room muted. It’s the metal. It’s how I can see her mind moving. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face from showing it.
She made a notation—three words, swift, precise—and underlined again for emphasis. “Keep going,” she murmured, switching to red ink.
Az choked on air. He was already shaking his head, baffled and a little offended by his own body. “I—” He tried again. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
She blinked. “Yes, for reading. So I can fix Rhys’s passive-voice crimes,” she said, dry. “I’ve had them forever.” Unbothered. Deadly. The pencil went back to her mouth.
Azriel stared.
Rhys cleared his throat. “The rest of the report, Shadowsinger,” he asked mildly. He was not hiding the glint in his eye. He did not need to. You alive over there, brother?
Az ignored him and swallowed. “They’re using storm drains—three new covers on the east run—serving as proof of a recent lift.”
She wrote without looking, underlined, then pushed the glasses up again with that unthinking knuckle. The tendon in her wrist moved.
Az’s grip on the paper whitened.
“Keep going,” she said absently, tapping a blank square on the grid. “This block is dead. If they’re cutting through anywhere, it’s here.”
“East,” he said, which was not a sentence. Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away like a man who needed to recompose his face. Mor failed to look innocent. Cassian failed harder.
Az tried to step back from his own body. Explain it to yourself: it’s the sleeves pushed high because she’s working; the way she chews the cap when she’s thinking; the fact she makes the room obey a pen; the small push of her glasses that says solved. We still have a supplier to tag, he reminded himself, absurdly. He tried to breathe past the heat and the quiet, dazzled feeling of I get to witness this. He failed—prettily.
Feyre finally took pity. “Quick break,” she said, standing to arch her back. “Azriel, keep your… report. I need almonds.” She did not need almonds. She needed to smuggle herself and several giggles out of the room.
Cassian clapped Az’s shoulder too hard, whispered, “Weaponized spectacles, brother. My condolences,” and drifted to the hall in search of not almonds.
Az fumbled the file, tried valiantly to locate a noun. Rhys stood last. “I’m going to check on a dispatch.” (He wasn’t.) He touched Az’s mind quietly: You sure know how to clear a room, brother. Then he slipped out, decorum hanging by a thread.
Silence took a fuller breath. It was just them and the maps.
Az, for reasons unknown to science, tried to keep reading. “There’s also… a supplier. Um. There was a—"
She capped the pen, set it down, and turned to him fully. The glasses caught lamplight. “Azriel. What is wrong with you?” she demanded in a low voice, annoyance shading toward worry. “You were fine earlier. Then you turned into a… statue that occasionally utters a syllable.”
He stared at her—helpless and a little angry at himself for being this transparent. He tipped his head back like the ceiling might help. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he said, because his brain supplied the least useful truth first.
She blinked. “I do. Since forever.” She nudged them with that knuckle like a dare.
Az ran a hand over his jaw, uselessly buying time. “You cannot just—” he gestured helplessly at all of her “—weaponize literacy and expect me to function.”
That laugh—quick, bell-bright—hit him square in the sternum. She sat back on the desk, glasses sliding again, eyes bright. “Weaponize literacy,” she repeated, delighted. “Oh, we’re doomed. That’s going in my epitaph. ”
Azriel should have laughed back. Instead his jaw worked uselessly. He set the report down because otherwise he was going to crumple it into a confession. “It’s… new. It’s—” He groped for words and found only honesty. “Upsetting me.”
A slow, wicked smile. “To be clear,” she said, counting on her fingers. “Me, doing my job. Wearing corrective lenses. Is what broke the Shadowsinger.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, failed to be dignified. “It’s the sleeves rolled. The pencil. The… focus.” He swallowed. “You are fast, sharp, busy. It’s—” He bit off the last word before it could be embarrassing.
“Upsetting,” she supplied, merciless.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to find dignity and finding only honesty. “I’ve spent a century in rooms where people pretend to be clever. And then there’s you. You put them on and I can see the thinking—like watching a blade get honed and used in the same motion.” He gestured, rough and helpless. “It’s the sleeves and the cap and the knuckle and the way you underline again when you’ve cornered the answer and—”
Azriel cut himself off, flushed, breath unsteady. “I am confused, and I am catastrophically compromised.”
Then he blurted the part that had been circling his tongue like a hawk: “You look like the inside of your mind, and I can’t—I can’t not watch.”
Her lips parted—surprise first, then soft pride. Behind the lenses, her eyes warmed. “Because I’m… smart.”
“Because you’re you,” he said, voice roughened. “And I get to witness your mind doing what it does best. It’s indecent.”
Oh. That made her go soft behind the lenses for half a breath. Then the softness turned playful. She slid off the desk and crossed to him.
Up close, the glasses framed her eyes in a way that made him want to be a better man and a worse one at the same time. She lifted the pencil between two fingers. “This?”
Azriel nodded, helpless.
She set the pencil down. Pushed the frames up with that same unconscious knuckle. “This?”
A noise escaped him he would deny under oath.
She bit her lip, trying not to smile, and failed.
“And what if,” she said, standing almost between his knees now, “I keep them on, and you try to brief me like a professional.”
He closed his eyes, counted to seven, opened them. “Terrible idea.” His voice had gone low and careful—the one he used when walking past traps. “We still have a supplier to tag,” she reminded softly.
“We do,” he said, eyes on her mouth. “We will.” A helpless beat. “After we agree glasses are a hazard.” He stammers out.
She stepped into his space until the edge of the desk brushed his thigh. “Or,” she said, eyes glinting behind glass, “you could admit you’re ruined, sit down, and let me climb into your lap while we negotiate a ceasefire.”
Azriel's restraint shredded like paper.
He should step back. He should leave the room. He should do anything but what he did: sit down in the chair like a man walking willingly into weather. The back leg scraped a short, betraying note against stone. “Sit,” he managed, throat dry.
Her mouth twitched. “Yes, sir.”
“Do not,” he said faintly, “call me that.”
Az caught her hips and dragged the chair back from the table with a knee; she went willingly, laughing, as he sat and pulled her across his thighs. The laugh broke when his hands settled—one broad palm low at the small of her back, the other splayed between her shoulder blades. He didn’t yank. He placed. Everything about him careful, reverent, undone.
She leaned forward into him. “Lock the door,” she whispered. He didn’t tell his shadows to; they did it anyway. The bolt moved with a tidy click. The House, transparent in its preferences, obliged.
“On or off?” he asked, breath ghosting her mouth, eyes flicking to the glasses.
Her smile turned wicked. “On. I want to see what it does to you.”
He groaned, head tipping to the back of the chair for one beat of surrender. Then he kissed her—one hand cupping her jaw, the other flattening to her waist. He kissed her like a man kissing an answer he didn’t know he needed.
He kept it controlled for all of three seconds.
Her weight in his lap, the soft slide of her thigh as she adjusted, the barely-there clink of the frames when they bumped his temple. He steadied them with a palm to her cheek, thumb brushing the cool bar. The intimacy of that tiny correction undid him—something in him snapped and rewired. He kissed deeper, tasting citrus from her tea, catching the smallest sound she tried and failed to swallow.
Shadows rose like a screen, obliging.
She broke first, breathless, glasses slightly askew. “You’re—wow.” A laugh, breathy. “Over glasses?”
He brushed his knuckle over the frames, straightening them with ridiculous care. “Over you letting me see you like this,” he said simply. “The part of your mind that only comes out for hard problems. The little tell when you’ve solved something—this.” He tapped her lower lip with his thumb; she realized she’d been worrying it and flushed.
“Your sleeves. Your hands.” He swallowed. “Stop me at any time.”
“You just briefed me better than the report,” she murmured, eyes going soft behind the lenses. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t.
Azriel kissed down to the corner of her jaw where her pulse stuttered, then lower to the soft angle beneath her ear. “Gods, the pen cap,” he muttered, and she—absolute menace—brought it to her mouth again, eyes laughing behind glass.
“Still compromised?” she teased, breathless.
“Self-control,” he said, voice wrecked, “is a discipline. I have trained for a century. And it is losing. Badly.”
She laughed—delighted. “Over literacy.”
“Over you,” he said into her skin. “Always over you.”
“Az,” she warned, amused, “the House is going to have opinions about desk conduct.”
“The House can file a complaint,” he muttered against her smile.
She leaned her forehead to his, “Okay,” she whispered, cheeks pink. “I get it now. Glasses are… a thing.”
He huffed a ruined laugh. “An emergency.”
They reset themselves by degrees. He straightened her frames with that same ridiculous care, and she went still—something molten passing through her expression at how very careful he was with small things.
She tucked a curl behind his ear because she could. The House unlocked the door by exactly one inch, like a cat’s eyelid.
“Are we pretending this won’t happen again?” she asked, smoothing the map.
“We are installing contingencies,” he said, steady now, commandeering the procurement ledger from the side table. He scribbled like a man filing a flight plan. “Two steel-rimmed. One tortoise. One smoke-gray. A pair of half-moons on a chain. One spare for my side of the bed. Possible travel set.”
She stared. “You’re requisitioning glasses.”
“For tactical reasons,” he said solemnly.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I am yours,” he corrected, which shut her up and lit her eyes.
Then—very carefully—he slid the glasses off at last, folded them, and set them in their case like a relic. He kissed the bridge of her nose where the pads had sat, then her mouth again, feather-light. “After we sign off these reports,” he murmured, voice low and full of promises, “you are taking me upstairs so I can explain, in detail, how much I love your terrifying mind.”
She tapped his ribbon twice. Tap, tap. “Approved.” Then, grinning, she slid off his lap with wobbling dignity and snapped the red pen open. “So first—the supplier. Focus, Shadowsinger.”
He touched his lips, dazed, picked up the abandoned report, and managed, “The supplier reported… that I’m doomed.”
“Noted,” she said, scribbling. “Also, very, very loved.”
He smiled like a secret and started again—clearer now—reading while her pencil danced. His hand stayed on her knee under the desk, thumb drawing idle circles. “We’ll tag the supplier at dawn,” he added, finally remembering to be a professional.
By the time they finished, the House had pre-warmed the bedroom like a smug matchmaker.
“Upstairs?” she asked.
“Please,” he said, and this time there was nothing innocent about it at all.
He stood with her in his arms because setting her down felt philosophically incorrect. She laughed and wrapped her legs around his hips like a woman thoroughly convinced she’d won something. Maybe she had.
At the doorway she paused, mischief bright. “For the record,” she said, pushing an imaginary pair of glasses up her nose with a knuckle, “it is extremely funny that this is what broke you.”
He kissed her hard enough to muss the knot in her hair. “Mock me upstairs,” he said against her smile. “See what it gets you.”
That night, a velvet tray waited on the kitchen counter like a confession. Five pairs glinted up—steel, tortoise, smoke-gray, delicate half-moons on a fine chain, a twin to her current pair. She tried the half-moons first, peered over them at him, and he had to sit down. She looped the chain over her neck, tapped his ribbon twice, and said, deadpan, “Debrief?”
He swallowed—doomed and happy. “Again.”
Forties Flavor
Pairing | Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary | While costume shopping, Bucky stumbles across a sexy forties nurse outfit, scanning it like he was envisioning you in it. When you mentioned it, he got all flustered, telling you it was nothing. You purchased it anyway, planning for a memorable night. Warnings/ Tags | established relationship, nsfw, MDNI (18+), smut, roleplaying, subby!Bucky (please, I love him so much), soft dom!reader, praise, hand job, oral (m receiving), grinding, premature ejaculation, pet names (baby, darlin', sweet baby, good boy), dick pronouns, no use of y/n Word Count | 2.4k A/N | Welcome to day two of Bucktober! First Kinktober post, LET'S GO!! This is an appreciation post dedicated to my love for my subby husband. Bring back whimpering and whining like a fucking freak fr fr!! Okay, my lovelies, hope you enjoy and happy gooning:))
"How about this one?" You asked, holding up a Barbie costume and a Ken one to match.
Bucky scrunched his brows, clearly offended by the mere idea of dressing up in an all black cowboy getup with a pink ascot. "How 'bout no," he grumbled.
"Come on, Buck. That's the tenth one you've said no to," you pleaded, hooking the set back on the rack and striding over to the next section.
"The party is next week. Can you at least try to be helpful?" You added, thumbing through the next rack of outfits. He didn't answer, so you glanced over your shoulder. "Baby?"
He was in another section, primarily for women, practically gawking at them. It was the sexier selection. They barely passed as costumes. You wouldn't be surprised if the employees went through the lingerie department and said, "This could work as a Halloween costume."
You couldn't tell if he was baffled by the thought of someone going out in public like that or…turned on? His fingers delicately ran over the fabric of one of the costumes—a sexy nurse outfit. It was a tight pale blue dress with a white collar. The white cap at the top of the hook indicated it was a Red Cross style costume with the scarlet logo displayed in the middle. And you figured the reason he was so intrigued by it was because it appeared to be inspired by the forties.
His tongue ran along his bottom lip before capturing it with his pearly whites. His palms ran up the sides of the dress. Was he imagining someone in it? "Would you like to go in matching nurse costumes, James?" you teased, coming up behind him.
His hands immediately fell away, balling them into fists at his side. He glanced over at you, a flush creeping up his neck and settling into the apples of his cheeks. He swallowed hard, muttering, "What? No."
You hummed, smirking, "I bet you got hurt on purpose all the time when you were in the army, huh? Just to see those pretty ladies in their uniforms."
He blushed a deeper shade of red, matching the cross on the costume. He shook his head dramatically, scoffing, "That's ridiculous, and a total waste of their time."
"Oh, don't forget I know you were a player back then," you stated, shoving him gently. "So, who was the lucky woman who caught Sargent Barnes' attention?" you inquired, eyes flicking over to the outfit again.
Bucky furrowed his brow when he realized you thought he was reminiscing. "No, I-" he cut himself off, words getting caught in his throat. His gaze dropped, eyes slowly moving up your body until they locked with your irises.
Oh. He was picturing you in that. You don't know why it didn't click earlier. It wasn't your style. You didn't wear anything that accentuated your figure. You liked loose sweaters and baggy jeans. But with the way he was looking at you, you wanted to say to hell with your fashion sense and bring that thing home.
The corners of your lips twitched. "Should I buy it?" Your voice dipped into something sultry. His jaw ticked, Adam's apple bobbing as he thought about your question.
Before he could fully decide, he was turning on his heel, heading in the other direction. "Can we pick out this stupid couple's costume already?" he murmured. You softly snorted, watching as he disappeared behind the clothing racks. You tilted your head, scanning the ensemble once more. You yanked it off the hanger before you could think better of it, and sprinted off after your boyfriend. This was going to be a fun night.
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
Red stiletto heels click-clacked across the hardwood floor, fabric slightly shuffling as you sauntered out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. "James Barnes? Is there a Mr. Barnes here?" you ask, voice honeyed.
You round the couch, standing in front of Bucky. The sky-blue material clung to your body like a second skin. The first few buttons of the dress were undone, tits practically spilling out of the opening. The hem of the outfit hit your upper thighs, the fabric stretching against their thickness.
He looked dumbfounded. His jaw unhinged, mouth somewhat agape. His wide eyes drank you in, gaze tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your breasts, and your bare legs. It was all too much for the poor guy. His chest heaved with every breath. "Are you James?" you repeat, trying to stay in character, feigning professionalism.
When he found his voice again, it was rough and raspy. "W-what're you doin'?"
You stepped closer, placing your hand on your jutted-out hip. "You did make an appointment, right, honey?" His eyes were dark, but confusion flickered across his face, so you added, "Look, I don't have all day, Mr. Barnes. Do you want this appointment or not? Because I have other patients waiting."
His mouth opened and closed several times. He sat up straighter in his spot on the sofa before he finally answered, "Yes, ma'am."
You smiled widely; he was playing along. Your plan seemed to be coming together. "Beautiful." You lowered your voice, seduction laced in your tone, "Now, you had the cock inspection, yes? Wanna make sure everything's working correctly?"
Bucky let out a shaky breath, adjusting his position once more as you began to notice the new guest under the denim of his jeans, making his presence known. "Y-yeah," he stuttered.
"Very good," you commended. You closed the distance, putting your hands on his knees and spreading them wide. You settled yourself in between his thighs, dropping to your knees with a gentle thud. Your hands moved, rubbing up and down his thighs. His wild eyes watched you intently. "You doing okay, honey?"
He nodded his head frantically, his lips parting with heavy breaths exiting the small space. "Oh, sweet baby," you cooed. "I'm gonna need an audible answer. Can you be a good boy and do that for me?"
He was nearly trembling under your palms, hips jerking instinctively upward at the nickname. "Yes, I'm doin' alright," he clarified.
Your fingers inched closer to the strain in his pants. "Good boy," you praised, steady fingers freeing the button from its slit. His thighs twitched again, impatient and needy. "Shh…just gonna make sure everything's in working order. Stay still for me."
You gripped his jean-clad thighs, pulling the fabric downward, enough to catch sight of the boxers underneath. Your delicate digits danced along the waistband of his boxers. They slid beneath the band to pull out his hardened cock, wrapping your dainty fingers loosely around his girth.
He pulsed in your hand, the head aching, and leaking drops of precum. "Looks like you have no trouble getting hard. That's good news," you observed. "Let's see how he reacts to touch, huh?" You tightened your grip slightly, giving him one good pump of your fist. He grunted at the sensation, his thighs tense from trying to remain motionless for you.
The precum dripped down the slit of his dick, landing on one of your knuckles. "Oh, very reactive. That's exactly what a good nurse likes to see." Your hand moved again, giving him slow, precise strokes. He let out a strained sigh, his eyelashes fluttering.
"Does that feel alright?"
Bucky's head lulled to the side, little moans escaping his throat. "Yeah, darlin'. 'S real good." You hummed in approval, your other hand drifting back on his thigh to gently massage the muscles as your other worked him.
Your stomach flipped at the sight of him like this. You were on your knees, but utterly in control. And he was into it. More than into it; he was high off it. High off the praise, the pleasure, the way his girl was all dressed up for him. His eyes were locked on you, watching your every move, shift, ragged breath as if you were the only thing that mattered to him. The world fell away, narrowing only to you.
You leaned forward, your warm breath fanning across the head of his cock. "We gotta check how sensitive this tip is. It's an important part of the examination," you explained, placing a soft kiss on the reddened tip. He hissed, shivering at the contact of your mouth on him.
"Ugh…please," he begged, voice pitching into a whine. You laughed darkly, your wrist working to pump him more firmly.
"Patience," you sing-song. "I like taking my time with my patients. Gotta make sure I thoroughly inspect every part of him." You plant another peck to his tip, lips brushing the ridge like dancing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff. He squirmed, hips stuttering as you teased him.
"Please…please, need that pretty mouth," he pleaded with you once more, eyes glazing over with desire.
You glanced up through your thick eyelashes, a grin spreading across your lips. "Now, how can I say no to that when you beg so nicely for me?" Your tongue darted out, your head dipping down between his legs to lick along his shaft. He sucked in a sharp breath, stomach muscles twitching as your saliva thinly coated the underside of his dick.
You swirled your tongue around the head before muttering, "Hold my hair for me, sweet baby?" He instantly obeyed, nodding. Calloused fingers carded through your silky strands. He gathered your hair with both hands—metal and flesh. Then, he formed a makeshift ponytail with his fist, lightly holding it in his warm hand.
"That's my good boy. Gonna see how long you can last while you're shoved down my throat," you said, still acting the part. You opened wide, mouth hovering over him until you wrapped your lips around his throbbing cock. He moaned, a rattling noise from deep in his chest. Your head inched further down, taking his length further into your mouth and down your throat.
You gagged around him, spit slipping through the cracks of your lips. His mouth opened, gasping as he hit the back of your throat. Your movements were measured, head bobbing up and down on his dick at a leisurely pace. His head fell back against the couch, eyes to the ceiling.
You replaced your mouth with your hand again. "Eyes on me, James," you scolded. His head rolled, dropping between his shoulders as his pleasure-filled gaze secured on your face.
"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. "Sorry, you jus' feel so good."
"It's okay, honey. Just need you to remember who's making you feel like this." Your mouth returned to its original position. You began to work him sloppily. You speed up your pace, taking him deeper. Saliva spilled from the edges of your lips, moaning as you felt his hips jut forward. The vibrations of your sounds spread through him, along with another wave of pleasure.
"How could I possibly forget?" he answered weakly. Tremors wracked through his form with every pass of your tongue along his shaft and every sensual swirl around the head. He nearly panted, chest rising and falling quickly as your lips envelop him tighter. You hollowed out your cheeks, sucking him until he was grunting from how intense the feeling was.
"Darlin'," he groaned, eyes blown and muscles tense. He was twitching in your mouth, and you could tell he was getting closer to that edge, threatening to fall over into a cloud of ecstasy. You pushed your mouth all the way down, his happy trail tickling your nose as you coughed around his girth. Then, you pulled off of him. A wet slap resonated as his cock fell to his upper thigh.
He whimpered. He actually whimpered when the presence of your mouth disappeared, intentionally edging him. "I-I was so close. Please, n-need to cum," he stuttered with upturned eyebrows.
You rose from the floor, unbuttoning the bottom part of your dress, the material loosening around your legs. You swung your leg up and onto the couch, straddling his thighs. His hands immediately grabbed your hips to steady you. "I changed my mind. I want you inside me when you cum. It's for my study on this pretty cock," you asserted sweetly.
His dick twitched pathetically on his thigh. You took him firmly in your grasp while your other hand moved your lacy panties to the side. You scooted forward until the lips of your cunt meet his shaft. Hips rocked back and forth, coating him in your wetness.
"Baby," he whined, "C-can't." You ground down on his length, not quite making any move to push him inside your weeping pussy, just sliding between your slick folds.
You cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the flush of it. "Poor thing. So desperate for release," your tone was condescending as you spoke. "You can do it, just gotta hold out for me, yeah?" You patted his cheek as you glided over him, his dick running through your wet heat repeatedly. His tip nudged your clit, eliciting a pleasant moan from your parted lips.
His hips rutted upward at the simple noise. "'M beggin' you, darlin'. 'M not gonna last." You pretended to ignore his pleas, grinding against him. Leaning forward, you trailed a few sloppy kisses to his jawline. He whimpered again, cock spasming between your folds, hips jerking desperately.
"Mmm…my good boy," you whispered against his skin. Just like a light switch, his cock pulsed, white hot spurts of cum coated both of you. Grunts turned to whines as his release erupted onto your costume and his black shirt. The white stain was a stark contrast to his dark clothing, and there was no denying what he had just done because the evidence was directly in front of both of you.
"S-sorry," he apologised in a shaky voice, "Tried to warn you."
You gave him an affectionate smile, "You did, didn't you?" Your fingers moved to push a lock of sweaty hair from his face. You placed a kiss on the tip of his nose before murmuring, "Next time, we'll finish out the examination while you're inside me."
He let out a gentle huff of air, a weak attempt at laughter from his exhaustion. He glanced down, eyebrows knitting together in concern. "Fuck, I ruined your outfit."
You giggled, a light and airy sound. "That's alright, just means I can buy a new one. What do you say, next time I dress up as a sexy teacher, spank you with a ruler?"
His eyes went hooded, a soft grin playing on his lips in response. "You're gonna kill me, I swear it."
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist
⋆⭒˚.⋆ Bucktober Masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆
