i remember the fallen

do they think of me?

[julietreject]

the very best of the voices in my head ❞

— currently on hiatus

welcome to the dump site!

leave your morals and mint wrappers at the door.

❍ ellowen , 21+ , she/her , gmt timezone ❍ word witch , ink alchemist , dreamer.

MASTERLIST : — ♡ azriel — ♡ more tba. -> currently writing for: acotar -> currently reading: fourth wing -> inbox open for requests and suggestions! -> let me know if you want to be added to a permanent taglist < 3

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[julietreject]

flight lesson

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel teaches you how to fly. You keep forgetting what to do with your wings when he touches you.

Tags: romantic tension, wing touching, flying!

Word count: 1.3k

𓆩 ❦ 𓆪 ───────────────── 𓆩 ❦ 𓆪

The wind over Velaris tastes like dusk — soft, sweet, and bleeding starlight. You stand on the roof’s edge, boots balanced on carved stone, your pulse keeping time with the river’s hush far below.

"You’re going to fall," Azriel says quietly behind you.

Not a threat. A fact, delivered in that low, velvety voice that slides through you like a secret.

You glance over your shoulder. "Not if you catch me."

His wings are half-unfurled — ink and light, the membrane catching the last traces of sunset. He doesn’t smile. Azriel rarely does. But there’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth, enough to make your heart lose its rhythm.

"I said I’d teach you to fly," he says. "Not how to die trying."

"I’m just getting into character," you say, tilting your chin. "It’s called commitment."

He exhales, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You think wings are just… balance and willpower?"

"I think you underestimate my ability to fake confidence."

That earns a true smile, small but real, shadow-soft. Then he steps close.

The air changes — warmer, tighter. Shadows follow him like loyal beasts, coiling around your ankles, brushing the hem of your tunic. His presence fills the rooftop, the whole world narrowing to the space between you and the faint beat of his wings.

"Wings out," he murmurs.

You obey, stretching your wings out until the membrane catches the dying light.

His hands hover before they touch — that infinitesimal pause that always feels louder than sound. You can feel his body heat before he makes contact, the scent of steel and cedar and shadow slipping around you like smoke.

"Not like that," he says, voice roughened by patience and something else entirely. "You’re holding too much tension here."

His palms settle against your shoulder blades. Warm. Steady. The heat of him bleeds through the thin fabric as he coaxes your wings wider, until their tips tremble in the wind. Your wings twitch under the pressure, instinctive and shy, and he hums a low sound that you feel more than hear.

"Easy," he coaxes. Every brush of his fingers trails fire across the thin stretch of your wings, every shift of his thumb a lesson written in heat. "Let them breathe," he says quietly, close enough that his breath grazes your skin. "They’re an extension of you. Not armour. Not a burden."

You try. You really do. You try to loosen your hold, to stop thinking about the heat of where his hands meet your skin. But his shadows curl up your calves, flicking at the edges of your wings like they, too, want to learn your shape.

"Better," he says, low and approving. The sound of it threads through you, deep and dark. "Now—shift your balance. You’re leaning forward."

You scoff under your breath. "Because someone’s standing very close behind me."

The corner of his mouth lifts, though you can’t see it. "Then perhaps you should stop running away."

He steps closer. The span of his wings folds in, a half-circle of night closing around you both. The scent of him — wind, leather, shadow — fills your lungs until it feels like you might drown in it.

"Straighten here," he murmurs, sliding one hand down your spine until his palm rests at the small of your back. His other hand finds the base of your right wing, fingers following the delicate arch of bone beneath the skin. The contact is careful, reverent, but it still steals the air from your chest.

He shifts your stance a fraction, guiding your hips, the angle of your shoulders. Each adjustment is a slow conversation of touch, of held breath and restraint. He’s so close that his voice has nowhere to go but into you.

"Good," he murmurs, and you can hear the smile this time. 

He angles your right wing slightly, tracing his thumb along the ridge where the membrane meets bone. Your breath stutters. His fingers still. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves — caught in the sharp, fragile quiet of almost.

"Feel the pull here?" he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nod, unable to trust your voice.

"Follow it."

You do. You draw the wind in through your wings, through your bones, through him. The motion pulls you backward into his chest. His hand braces you, solid and certain. For a moment, your wings and his move in sync — twin shadows bound by rhythm, by something that hums in your blood and his alike.

The silence between you stretches, intimate and electric, the air trembling with things neither of you are brave enough to say. The city below might as well not exist. There is only this — the scent of night, the warmth of his hand, the unbearable awareness of the space you still haven’t closed.

"If I fall," you whisper, "you’ll catch me, right?"

He leans in, his lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. "Every time."

Then he releases you. The loss of contact is almost painful.

Wind surges beneath your wings. You give in to it — the rush, the weightlessness, the wild thrum in your blood — and leap from the roof.

The world rips open beneath you.

For an instant, there is no sky, no air, no sound—only falling.

Your stomach lurches into your throat; the wind slams against your chest so hard it steals the breath right out of you. Every instinct screams wrong, wrong, wrong, because falling is death, and the body remembers what it means to plummet.

Your wings snap wide on instinct, but the air catches wrong—too sharp, too fast. The drag jerks at your shoulders, a flash of pain sparking down your spine. You gasp, the sound lost to the roar in your ears. The ground is a smear of lights rushing up far too quickly.

"Breathe!" Azriel’s voice cuts through the wind, distant but steady. "Don’t fight it—listen!"

The sky is a blur of colour—night deepening, stars like scattered embers. Your wings stutter, trembling in the wind’s teeth. You can’t remember what he said about balance, about reading the air—only that his hands had been warm, guiding, sure.

So you do the only thing you can. You feel.

The wind presses harder on one side, curling along the right wing more than the left. You shift, ever so slightly, changing the angle—one edge dipping, the other rising. The change is instant.

The air catches.

Instead of falling, you slide. The motion smooths, the roar evens out. The current cradles you, lifting, pulling. The panic drains away, replaced by a dizzy, fierce exhilaration. You tilt your wings wider, the muscles in your back straining, and the wind answers—flowing beneath you, carrying your weight like it’s nothing.

You laugh. The sound bursts free, torn away by the wind but still yours. The rush of air cools your face, tangles through your hair, tugs playfully at your clothes. You’re gliding now—no longer plummeting, no longer fighting.

Below, Velaris sprawls like a dream: ribbons of silver riverlight, rooftops gleaming gold, the stars reflected in every window. The city’s hum feels impossibly far away, small and gentle beneath your shadow.

You bank slightly, and the air obeys, the current wrapping around you like an unseen hand. Every breath feels sharper, sweeter. The edge of panic melts into something wilder—freedom.

Then, a flicker to your left—dark motion.

Azriel.

He’s gliding alongside you, wings cutting through the air in smooth, effortless arcs. His shadows trail behind like living ribbons, their tendrils dancing along the tips of your wings as if testing your control.

"Good," he calls, voice carrying easily even through the rush of wind. "Now, let it lead you. Don’t command the sky—ask it."

You do. You shift your weight, tilt your wings a little more, and the current carries you higher, into the cool breath of night. The stars tilt and wheel around you; the horizon stretches infinite and bright.

You steal a glance at him, the way he moves—fluid, powerful, utterly sure. His eyes meet yours for a heartbeat, and there’s pride there, but also something softer. A kind of reverence.

The wind hums between you, and you think—just for a moment—that you could stay up here forever.

[julietreject]

the softest place to fall — pt.1

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys's sister)

Summary: The bond should have been a blessing. For Azriel, it was a sentence. For you, a heartbreak you never saw coming.

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst

Word count: 3.4k

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first ever fanfic I've posted, please enjoy. Part 2 is here, focused more on the enemies and tension part of the story < 3

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ACT I — Little Suns

You are small enough that the Illyrian camp feels endless—rows of tents like crooked teeth, smoke curling from fires that smell of iron and pine. The mountains watch from every direction, ancient and unblinking, but you run anyway. Your feet slap the packed dirt, breath bright in your chest, wind whipping through your hair as you tear past training rings and sparring soldiers.

Cassian barrels after you, a hurricane in boots. “Menace!” he laughs, pretending to lunge as you squeal and dodge.

Rhys is waiting near the edge of the ring, arms open, High Lord in practice but brother in all the parts that matter. He catches you and swings you up until the world tilts, until the sky becomes a blur and his grin becomes the sun.

“My terror,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your brow. “You are not allowed to fall into any sparring matches today.”

“You say that every day,” you inform him, solemn as only a child can be.

“And you test me every day,” Rhys says, eyes dancing.

You’re still giggling when it happens—one of the older Illyrian boys shoulders you hard while charging past the ring, and you go skidding across the dirt. It knocks the noise out of you, scrapes burning along your palms. The boy snickers and bolts; Cassian’s already after him, swearing vengeance with a glee that promises bruises later.

It’s Azriel who’s kneeling first.

He moves like shadow made intent, quiet and immediate, as if he were already standing there in the periphery—waiting for the worst. His wings fold around the two of you, a hush inside the world.

“Easy,” he murmurs, cool fingers turning your palm. The scrape is bright and blooming, your lip wobbly. His gaze softens, those strange, cool-lantern eyes gentling as if he can dim the entire ring just by looking at you.

“You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

Rhys is there in the next heartbeat, worry and wrath tangled together. He crouches, pressing his forehead to yours. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you say dramatically, sniffing.

Cassian returns victorious with the culprit by an ear. There is a lecture, a scuffle, a thousand promises from Cassian to teach you a better tackle. Rhys swears no tackling. Cassian swears only responsible tackling.

Azriel says nothing. He simply cleans your palms with a careful cloth and ties a bandage that ends in a bow because you ask. He lets you touch the edge of a shadow and watch it curl like smoke around your fingers. You do it only for a second so he won’t worry.

Later, on the balcony when the Sidra glows like a spilled bowl of stars, Rhys crowns you with a ring of crooked daisies Cassian definitely pilfered from someone’s window box.

“Princess of the Court of Nightmares,” Rhys declares solemnly.

“Long may she reign,” Cassian adds, saluting with a half-eaten tart.

Azriel stands a pace back, the night stitched into his silhouette. His smile is small and private, like a vow he’s made to no one but himself.

You keep the crown until the petals wilt. You sleep with it on your bedside table. The daisies stain your dreams with the scent of green things and laughter. You learn—before you learn anything else—that when you fall, Azriel catches you.

No one tells you how rare that is. No one tells you how costly.

You are children. The world is kind enough to let you be.

ACT II — Half-Grown

You stretch out of childhood like a cat in a sunbeam—slow, luxuriant, startled by your own length. One morning you wake and the mirror shows cheekbones, a mouth that looks too much like Rhys’s when you’re stubborn, mischief that looks too much like Cassian’s when you’re plotting. The rest is yours. You like the parts that are yours.

The city becomes a map: bakeries with blackberry scones too purple for sense, alleyways that smell of rain and steel, the dock where the Sidra presses her cool mouth to the stone and leaves you with kelp-slick ankles. You and Azriel haunt these borders, a shadow and a spark, trailing the places where light and dark kiss.

He teaches you knives. How to hold, how to throw, how to breathe before you loose. You count the shallow ridges on his scarred hands when he corrects your grip; you pretend not to notice how he flinches if you touch the too-raw places. He doesn’t like to be seen. You learn to look without staring, to see without demanding. You think it’s the kindest thing you can give him.

He teaches you silence, too. Not the kind that smothers, but the kind that listens. The kind that lets the river tell on the city, the wind tell on the mountains.

In return, you teach him how to laugh loud. You teach him how to dog-ear pages and eat pastry with sugar stuck to his fingers. You press star-charts into his hands and mark them with messy notes.

This one has a stupid name. This one looks like a fox. This one looks like you when you think too hard.

“Which is often,” Cassian snorts from the doorway.

Azriel says nothing, but you see the way his mouth fights a smile. You count that as victory.

Sometimes you catch him watching you—when you’re not looking. You never catch him when you are. His shadows shiver when you get too close. You press your shoulder to his anyway when you sit at the docks. He tenses and then eases, as if your warmth argues with every ugly story the world ever told him and wins.

“Why do you stare at the stars like that?” you ask one night, both of you swinging your feet over the dark, velvet river.

“They’re constant,” he says. He watches the sky like it owes him a debt and he’s patient enough to collect. “They don’t leave.”

“I’m not a star,” you say, nudging him.

His gaze drops to your mouth and jerks away. “No,” he says hoarsely. “You’re…not.”

You don’t ask what he means. You can’t breathe properly and you’re terrified that if you inhale wrong the moment will pop like a soap-bubble and you’ll find yourself ten again, knees bloodied, daisies wilting.

You don’t yet know the word for the ache. You only know the shape it makes, and that it fits your ribs too well.

ACT III — The Bond

It’s an ordinary afternoon. Which is how cataclysms prefer to arrive.

Rhys forgot a ledger at a merchant’s house near the Rainbow, a fussy old painter who still calls him boy when he comes by to commission portraits for the city wards. Cassian and Azriel come with you because Rhys says so, because Rhys always says so when errands brush up against people who don’t mind calling knives by their names.

“I’ll be two minutes,” you promise, tapping the ledger against your palm.

Cassian slouches against the stone wall and grins. “Take three. We’ll miss you.”

Azriel just looks. You read endless things in that look and none of them aloud.

The door opens, closing behind you with a soft click. Sunlight pools on the tiled floor. The house smells like turpentine and old paper, like orange peel and dust. You set the ledger down and chat and the old man tuts over Rhysand’s handwriting, calling it a tragedy. You laugh. It’s all very small.

Outside, Azriel breaks.

It doesn’t touch his face at first; there’s no warning his body can recognize. It hits from the inside, a spear of oh through bone and blood, his shadows rearing like startled birds. The world narrows to a white-hot filament that strings between his sternum and the closed door and pulls, pulls, pulls.

“She’s my mate,” he says, voice wrecked. He doesn’t mean to speak. He is surprised when words happen at all.

Cassian’s grin dies. “Az—”

Rhys’s expression goes blank. Beautiful, ruined, absolute. He steps forward and it’s not the brother who moves, not entirely—it’s the High Lord who looks at the male who has been his blade in the dark since they were boys and sees a threat to the last unbroken thing he loves.

The punch is clean. Knuckles to jaw. It snaps Azriel’s head back, spots bursting behind his eyes. Cassian swears and lunges between them, too slow to stop the first blow, quick enough to make sure there’s no second.

Rhys is breathing too hard. Magic shivers under his skin like a storm. “Stay away from her.”

Azriel’s mouth tastes like copper and the word that is a universe. Mate.

He swallows it. He swallows everything.

“All right,” he says, and hates how easy it is to make his voice a blade again. Hates how obedience feels like survival and loss in the same mouthful.

Cassian’s jaw is on the cobbles. “Rhys—”

“Not now,” Rhys snaps. He scrubs a hand over his face, a man setting a firebreak in his own heart.

When he looks at Azriel again, it’s with all the mercy he can afford and it still isn’t enough. “Stay away from her,” he repeats, quieter. “Please.”

Azriel nods once. A vow made of ash.

You emerge a moment later, blinking into sunlight that suddenly feels too sharp. “Took me four minutes, not three,” you announce, holding up the ledger in mock triumph.

Cassian startles, laughter a beat too loud. “See? I said you’d take longer. Pay up, shadowsinger.”

Rhys doesn’t laugh. His shoulders are tight, his mouth a pale line that used to be a smile. He reaches out, presses a hand to your shoulder — too gentle, too careful — and you feel the tremor beneath his skin.

The air tastes wrong. Heavy. Like the moment before a storm.

“Did I miss something?” you ask slowly, eyes flicking between them. Cassian’s grin falters; Rhys looks anywhere but at you. And Azriel—

Azriel stands a little apart, shadows coiling low and restless around his boots. His lip is split, a thin line of blood catching the light before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Your stomach tightens. “Az?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. “It’s nothing,” he says, the words shaped too neatly, the edges too smooth to be true.

“Did someone—”

“Ready?” he cuts in, voice steady, unreadable. Shadow and wind and distance.

You want to ask again, to demand what in the Cauldron just happened, but something in his eyes stops you — something raw, shuttered fast.

So you just nod, slow.

“Ready,” you echo, though you don’t mean it.

Something in you leans toward him like a compass trying to find north. But he’s already turned away.

ACT IV — The Drift

He stops meeting you at the docks.

He stops correcting your grip in the ring, murmuring praise that you hoard like pearls.

He stops looking. Which means he looks only when you aren’t watching, which means you catch it anyway in the glint-hum of shadows, in the way his jaw works when you laugh at something Cassian says, in the way he leaves the room the moment you enter as if you are smoke and he’s already breathing too much of you.

At first you try to be kind. You are Rhys’s sister, so you can be relentless; you are your own person, so you can be gentle. You bring Azriel tea he doesn’t drink. You stand quietly in doorways you aren’t invited through. You say his name, soft, like a hand offered across a gap.

Then you are angry.

“What did I do?” you demand after a training session he conveniently missed, after two weeks of your messages left to dry in the air.

Azriel’s face is blank. Blank like frost, blank like a shut door. “Nothing.”

“Then why—”

“Nothing,” he says, rough and cold in a tone he's never used against you before, the same one he uses on enemies who don’t get to plead. It’s so clean a cut you don’t bleed until later.

You spend a week trying to hate him. It doesn’t take.

So you argue instead. You argue in hallways and in the ring and in the space between heartbeats.

You snarl, “Stop pretending I don’t exist.” He answers with immaculate indifference.

You spit, “Look at me.” He looks past you.

You accuse him of cowardice and he flinches so subtly you nearly miss it, and then he’s just—gone again, body present, soul somewhere that isn’t allowed to touch you.

Rhys watches all of this like a man who threw a stone into a lake and didn’t expect the ripples to reach the shore. He grows quieter around you both. He changes hallways. He asks Cassian to take you flying instead. Cassian, poor Cassian, cracks jokes until they break in his mouth and then stands awkwardly in the pieces with his hands out, helpless to assemble what he didn’t shatter.

You sleep badly. You wake with his name pressed into the back of your teeth like a word you’re not allowed to say. You tell yourself you’ll learn to be a star—constant, distant. You fail daily.

And then it happens. The fight that was always coming, that arrived with that first “nothing” and simply bided its time.

ACT IV — Detonation

It’s early evening in the ring. The light goes molten behind the mountains, the world filigreed in gold. You came to train because your body has always known how to heal what your mind cannot fix—sweat and motion and ache are simpler than thinking. You didn’t know Azriel would already be there.

He notices you the way a blade notices a throat—instinctively. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

You go for the rack of practice knives, ignoring him. Your hands shake. The leather handles are familiar; your chest is not.

The first throw sails wide. The second is worse. The third nearly takes out one of Cassian’s favorite posts.

“Your stance is off,” Azriel says, crisp, automatic.

“Don’t,” you bite, turning. “Don’t do this thing where you pretend to care in a way that means you don’t have to act like you care.”

A muscle in his cheek tics. “Fix your stance.

“Fix your spine,” you snap. “It seems to have melted.”

That lands. You see it. His eyes go flat.

“I’m not here to hold your hand.”

“I never asked you to,” you lie. You have always asked him to. In a thousand small ways.

“You asked for more than I can give.”

You bark out a laugh that tastes like salt. “I asked for you to stop disappearing every time I breathe. I asked for my friend back.”

Azriel steps closer. The air tightens. “I am not your friend.”

It should not stun you. It does.

“Then what are you?” you whisper, hating the tremor in it.

“Necessary,” he says, as if reciting a vow he wrote to survive. “Useful. Not—” He cuts himself off.

“Not yours,” you finish for him, and it spills out—weeks, months of it, all the held breath and gnawed words.

“What did I do so unforgivable you had to carve me out of your life like a rot? Tell me, Azriel. Tell me so I can stop trying.”

His shadows rise, restless. He looks at you the way men look at the thing that could unmake them. “This is better.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

You laugh, ugly, breaking. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do,” he says, and the bastard means it, and the bastard is trying to save you like you are a cliff he loves too much to let crumble under his feet. He is doing it wrong. He is doing it so wrong it hurts to watch.

“Coward,” you say, with all the gentleness gone. “If you’re going to leave, at least have the spine to admit you want to.”

He steps in, so close the line between you crackles, the world narrowed to wings and breath and the place your anger sits under your heart, bright and blistered. His voice frays. “If I wanted to, I would have done it long ago.”

Your eyes burn. Gods, no. Not here. Not in front of him.

“Then what is this?” you demand. “What am I supposed to do with the silence you stuffed in my mouth and called it kindness?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. The truth is there—roaring, raw. You see it. You see the word mate strain against his teeth like a captive thing.

He chooses the knife instead. “Grow up,” he says softly.

It slides between your ribs with wicked precision.

“Right,” you say. Your hands are steady when you put the knife back on the rack. Your voice is not. “Consider it done.”

You turn. You do not run. You do not give him the sound of you breaking. The ring blurs. The mountain blurs. The stairs blur. The door is a mouth and you walk into it and keep walking until Velaris swallows you, until the river hushes like a mother you won’t let hold you, until the city’s lights smear into stars on the water and you can pretend the wet on your cheeks is spray.

Behind you, the ring holds the echo of your footsteps like a prayer it cannot keep.

ACT VI — Azriel

He doesn’t remember how the fight began, only how it ended: with you walking away like a blade sheathed in your own bright fury, with his name a bruise in the air you left behind.

His jaw aches where Rhys hit him that day. Old pain, well-tended. A reminder he wears like a saint’s hair-shirt—penance touching skin. He touches it now without meaning to, fingers brushing the place that decided so much for him.

Coward, you’d called him. He disagrees. Cowards run. He stays. He stays and becomes a wall so you won’t learn how walls can crush. He stays and becomes a silence so you won’t learn the shape of a scream.

His shadows swarm, frantic, a murmured chorus of your name. He lets them thread through the last place you stood; they bring back the warm-metal imprint of your body in the air, the salt-glass shimmer of your hurt. He breathes it in like smoke. He deserves the burn.

He could fix it.

He could go now, fly low and fast over the Sidra, find you where you always go to talk yourself off cliffs. He could tell you: that day at the door, the bond turned him inside out and called it salvation. He could say your name like a shield and ask if he might keep it. He could tell you that Rhys was only afraid because he knows exactly how Azriel loves and how he never stops. He could ask your brother to trust him with the last unbroken thing.

He could, if he were a braver man. If he believed he was good enough to put that word—mate—in your hands and not watch it cut you.

So Azriel stands in the ring while the sun bleeds out and the mountains blacken and the city lights come on, one by one, like the stars he promised to be constant. He stares at the door you walked through and the place where the knife of his restraint finally slipped. He waits for your footsteps to return though he knows they won’t.

His chest hurts in that low, grinding way—the kind of pain built by choices that look like love and feel like loss.

When he finally moves, it’s to collect the knife you touched last. He sets it back in perfect line with the others. Order restored. The world masquerading as a thing that can be put away.

His shadows press against his shoulders, a thousand small questions he cannot answer. He gives them your name in reply. He gives them your name again and again until it is a rhythm in the dark, a litany he will not speak aloud, a vow he does not deserve to make.

By the time the stars claim the sky, he has decided.

He will stay away. He will be constant. He will not be yours.

He doesn’t see the unshed tears on your lashes, the way you wipe them away on the dock and bite your lip until it hurts, refusing to cry where anyone can hear. He only feels the hollow where your laugh used to live, the echo where your hand used to be steadying his.

And when the night grows quiet enough to tell the truth, Azriel presses his palm to his sternum and waits for the ache to soften. It doesn’t.

His shadows whisper the same word they’ve whispered since the door shut in the Rainbow, a word that is a prayer in their mouths and a blade in his: mate.

He closes his eyes and keeps the pain. It is the last honest thing he has left to give you.

End of Part I.

Part II.

[julietreject]

the softest place to fall — pt.3

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys's sister)

Summary: The bond should have been a blessing. For Azriel, it was a sentence. For you, a heartbreak you never saw coming.

Part I. Part II.

Tags: enemies to lovers, angst

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Injury, blood, arguing!

Author's Note: This is the final part, I hope you guys enjoy! Stay tuned for new fics <3

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The mission is simple on paper: slip through the forest that hems the Illyrian border, find the smugglers’ woodland, chart the patrol routes, retrieve a set of coded ledgers.

No glory, no heroics. In and out. Rhys called it a "two-person job," and then looked very pointedly at Cassian until Azriel said he’d go.

You didn’t volunteer to hurt him. You volunteered because you’re good at this. Because you remember the map of these mountains in your bones. Because even after everything, you still move better when you’re watching the world with Azriel at your shoulder.

Except he isn’t at your shoulder anymore. He’s a pace behind or a pace away, presence like a draft under a door—there, but never where it warms you.

The forest keeps your secrets because that’s what forests do. Pines rise in cathedral columns, birds singing in the cold. Far above, a hawk writes cursive in the blue. Your boots crunch and slip on old needles; Azriel’s footsteps don’t make a sound.

You remember when they did. When both of you were smaller and Velaris was a playground stitched of wind and laughter. When a scraped knee meant Azriel’s hands, gentle and sure, and not this distance that feels like a punishment you forgot how to earn.

The forest glows amber under the late sun, every pine needle catching light. It smells of sap and cold iron. You duck beneath a low branch, finger tracing the etched runes carved into its bark.

"Don’t touch that," Azriel says from behind you—always behind you.

You keep your hand there anyway, tracing the groove until the rune flickers faintly. "Relax. It’s dormant."

"You don’t know that."

"I do now." You wipe your fingers on your trousers and keep walking.

A sigh, sharp and quiet. "You act like you’re trying to set something off."

"Maybe I am."

The path narrows. He moves closer, shadow and restraint wrapped tight. Every word from him is careful, measured; every one of yours is a spark you can’t stop striking. It’s easier to be angry than to think about what used to live in the silence between you.

"You shouldn’t lead," he says finally. "If the wards react—"

"Then I’ll deal with them."

"That’s not your job."

"Then stop making it yours."

His jaw flexes. "Rhys sent us to observe, not improvise."

"Rhys sent us. Plural." You glance back, meeting his eyes. "Or did you forget I’m capable of more than following?"

"I didn’t forget." The quiet edge in his voice cuts deeper than shouting. "You keep reminding me you don’t need anyone until you prove you do."

You stop. The forest hums, waiting.

"That supposed to mean something?"

He folds his wings in tighter, expression unreadable. "It means I’m tired of dragging you out of trouble you invent."

Anger flares hot and clean. "You think I invent trouble?"

"I think you attract it like it’s a competition."

"Right," you snap. "Because nothing pleases you more than being the one to save me."

"That’s not what I—"

"You’d miss it," you hiss, turning on him. "If I stopped giving you reasons to be the martyr, you’d have to look at your own damn mess for once."

The words hang there, raw and ringing. His eyes flash—hurt, fury, something worse.

"You have no idea," he says, voice roughening, "what it’s like trying to keep up with you. You run headfirst into chaos and expect someone else to bleed for it."

"Someone else," you echo, heartbeat stuttering. "You mean you."

He doesn’t deny it.

"Then don’t follow me," you bite out. "I didn’t ask you to."

"I don’t have a choice," he snaps, the restraint finally breaking. "Someone has to clean up after you."

The silence after that is absolute.

You stare at him, throat tight, chest hollowing around the words. He still looks angry, still breathing hard—hasn’t realised yet how deep he cut.

"So that’s what I am to you," you say quietly. "A burden to manage."

He opens his mouth, shuts it again, anger still clinging like armour. "If that’s what it takes to keep you alive—"

A whisper of air, a hiss of string.

The arrow slices the space between you and buries itself in your side.

There’s a breath where the world is polite enough to pause. You look down, not understanding, at the shaft sticking out from beneath your ribs. Blood finds the air, bright and sure.

Azriel moves before your mind catches up.

"Down," he breathes, hands already on you, the word a command wrapped in prayer. He lowers you to the mossed trunk of a fallen pine. The bark is cold through your coat. Your body remembers gravity just in time to keep you from pitching face-first.

Pain arrives like a bell rung too close to the ear. It turns everything white and edges the white with black. You taste metal. You try to stand. Your knees forget how.

"Stay," Azriel says, and his voice is the one soldiers obey, the one you’ve obeyed since bruised-kneed days in a different sun. "Breathe."

"Az—" Your mouth is dry.

"Stay." He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He’s already turned, wings flaring, shadows boiling out of him like a night you could drown in.

They come out of the trees as if the trees grew them: lean, fast, hooded, hands on bows and short blades. The first blinks, finding Azriel much closer than his mind prepared for. He doesn’t blink again. Shadows loop his wrists. A knife’s edge kisses his throat and then moves on.

The second goes for your other side. Az’s wing snaps, a shield, an arrow ripping through membrane with a sound that makes you sick. He doesn’t make a noise. He steps into the third, elbow into nose, heel into knee; the body falls wrong and stays there.

You try to rise again because you trained to. Because he taught you to. Because you’ve never been the one who stayed down. Pain tears you back and leaves you sweating, breath scraping your throat. The bark bites. You press your palm around the base of the arrow to keep it from shifting. The world swims. Azriel is a moving constellation at the edge of it, a star map you know by muscle more than sight.

"Left," you rasp when you see the fourth flank, your voice too thin. He pivots without looking, blade shrugging off a blow, his shadows rearing and taking the fifth like a wave.

The sixth and seventh think they can go around him. They can’t. No one gets past. Not with you at his back and blood on your lips. He becomes something old and winged and terrible.

When it’s quiet again, it’s too quiet. The birds hold their breath. The air stills.

Az turns and drops to his knees in front of you so fast it looks like he’s falling. "Look at me."

You do. You have never wanted to more.

He pulls out a small knife, some clean bandages, and a vial that smells of mint and copper. His hands are steady. His mouth isn’t.

"Through-and-through?" he asks, already bracing you.

You shake your head; it makes your stomach pitch. "Can’t—feel an exit."

"Of course," he mutters with grim gentleness. "Why would anything be easy."

"I am going to break this arrow," he says, a quiver in his voice, "and get it out without shredding your insides. Then I am going to get you out of this woods. You are going to keep your eyes on me and breathe. Got it?"

"You snapped your wing," you say, because the tear runs like a dark river through the membrane. Blood beads. "Idiot."

"I’ve been called worse." His mouth flickers—almost a smile, broken quickly. "This will hurt."

"I know." You catch his wrist. "Don’t leave me."

His breath stutters. "Never."

Azriel braces one hand flat against your ribs to hold you steady, one hand around the arrow’s fletching. He counts you into it, voice low, the way he’s counted you into leaps and throws a thousand times before. He promises the count of three and snaps the shaft clean when he gets to two, and you see stars. The sound that tears out of your throat doesn’t belong to manners or pride. The forest swallows it anyway.

"Good," he says roughly. "Good. With me." He slides the broken length free and then, with a controlled, brutal tenderness, levers the barbed head out the other side. Your vision goes high and thin and strings itself on that same gold light from the canopy. 

His voice keeps you tethered. With me. With me. Breathe.

There’s blood everywhere. He packs the wound with herbs from his pockets, pours the mint-copper sting of antiseptic and binds you with bandage and shadow both, his power a cool thing  pressing gently to keep you from spilling.

His hands hover, finally, suspended a breath above your skin like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to touch. 

You let out something like a laugh, wrecked and wet. "There. I failed."

His gaze snaps up, dangerous. "Don’t."

"You said I would."

"I said that to make you stop," he says, and now the composure shreds, voice fraying. "I said it because I didn’t know what else to say that would keep you—gods, just—" He swallows, breath stumbling. "You don’t get to make jokes about dying."

"Who’s joking?" Your mouth tastes like iron and stubbornness. The truth jumps to your tongue and you’re too tired to cage it. "Maybe you’d finally get what you want."

"What I—" He looks stunned. "Do you honestly think I want a world with you not in it?"

"You left me," you whisper, because the arrow loosened something that isn’t blood and it’s everything’s now spilling out. "You took my best friend and turned him into a stranger. Now every time I breathe wrong you flinch like I’m a sin. How else am I supposed to read that?"

He lowers his gaze. "I never left you."

"You made sure I couldn’t find you."

"I was right there," he says, and the floor gives way in his voice. He reaches for you without touching. "I’ve been right there the whole time."

"Like a ghost," you whisper.

"Because I couldn’t," he snaps, and the snap breaks on something that isn’t anger. "Because if I said it, it would be real, and if it was real, I would lose you."

"You already did!"

He looks like you stabbed him and maybe you did. "Don’t," he says softly. "Please don’t."

"Then say it," you push, because the world narrowed to a ring of bark and bandage and this man and you refuse to leave it full of lies. "Say what you’ve been burying. Say why you won’t stand beside me and why your eyes beg me not to breathe and why you keep breaking us. Say it, Azriel."

His control, exquisite and cruel, fails.

"You want honesty?" He’s shaking., shadows lifting like wings in a storm. "Fine. I don’t trust the ground under my feet when you’re not on it. I can’t sleep if I don’t hear your breath in the house. I count your steps in a crowd without meaning to. Every time you go somewhere I can’t follow I track the wind like a starving thing—" He breaks, drags air like it hurts. "And I can’t watch you die."

"You don’t get to decide that," you whisper. "You don’t get to decide me."

He makes a sound you’ve never heard from him, raw and furious and terrified. "You’re my mate."

You go very, very still.

The word is a blade and a balm. It is the thing that has been burning a hole behind your ribs for months, years, maybe always. It is the reason everything hurt in exactly this shape.

You think of docks, the first knife he taught you to throw, the fever and the tea and the chair set two inches closer to your bed every morning. You think of every time you thought he hated you because it was easier than this.

"Oh," you breathe, and the sound is a thousand doors opening.

Azriel looks like he expects you to run. Or strike. Or both. His hands hang helpless and steady and useless over your skin. His shadows are a trembling animal, waiting to be beaten.

"You didn’t tell me," you say, and the accusation is so small, so simple.

"I couldn’t," he says. "Rhys asked me to stay away. I—agreed. I thought if I could make you hate me, you’d be safe from me. From…this." He gestures at himself, like he is a geography of knives.

"I never hated you," you say, and that’s another door opening, and then another, until the air is bright with it. "Gods, Az. I tried."

He makes a wounded sound. "I know."

"I thought you hated me."

"I tried," he says, hoarse. "I failed."

Even injured, you manage a breath of laugh that is half a sob. "Good."

He stares, helpless, as if he can’t quite translate that into a language he trusts. "Good?"

"Good," you say again, and then you hook your fingers into the collar of his leathers and pull.

The kiss is not gentle. It was never going to be. It breaks and remakes and names and unnames in the same breath. It tastes like copper and mint and the years you lost and the ones you might yet salvage. His hands finally, finally touch you: one cradling your jaw like it’s a holy thing, one braced around your ribs so tenderly, holding the bandage, holding you, as if he can be both anchor and light.

His shadows, traitorous and adoring, curl around you both like a shawl. The forest exhales. Somewhere a bird remembers its song.

When you part, it’s because breath is necessary and you’d like to keep some. Your foreheads rest together. His eyes are very close and very bright.

"I’m here," he whispers, like he has to say it aloud to make it true. "I’m here. I’m sorry I wasn’t the way you needed me to be."

You breathe him in like relief. "Then be it now."

"I will." No vow has ever sounded truer in his mouth. "You’re not expendable. You never were. If I ever say it again—"

"You won’t," you say, and for once you see the smile make it all the way to his eyes.

He shifts carefully, testing the bandage. "We need to move. Slowly. I’ll carry you if you let me."

"I’ll let you," you murmur, surprising both of you with how easy the words come. "But only because I want to, not because you decided."

"Yes. Only because you want to." He stands, then bends and lifts you with a care that rearranges the axis of the world. You fit against him like there were measurements taken. His wing—torn, aching—curves anyway, a stubborn shelter. The pain hums under your skin, but the panic has gone out of it. There’s a tether between you now that hums louder.

"Az?" you say as he begins to pick his way through the trees, each step a promise.

"Yes?"

"When we get home," you murmur, drowsy with blood loss and suddenly, wonderfully, safe, "you’re going to sit with me by the Sidra. And you’re going to tell me everything you didn’t say. Every time you thought of me and didn’t. Every tea and book and night."

"All of it," he says, a vow laid on the bright air. "As many nights as it takes."

"And you’re going to let me hold your hand in daylight."

His laugh is a low, broken thing you want to keep. "I will fail spectacularly at pretending I don’t want that."

"Good," you whisper, letting your eyes fall shut as the rhythm of his heart steadies under your ear. "Fail at that."

He presses his mouth to your hair and keeps walking. The forest opens for him.

By the time the trees thin and the mountains unspool into the valley, the bleeding has slowed to a throb and your head has found the place beneath his collarbone that fits. His shadows keep pace, flicking ahead, circling back.

"Az?" you ask one more time, because there’s a part of you that needs to keep testing the ground to make sure it’s still there.

"Yes," he says, and his voice is warm enough to live in. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Good," you say again, softer. "Because I fall a lot."

His arms tighten, just a fraction. "I know," he says, the smile in it something you recognize from long ago and will have again. "I’m the softest place you’ll ever land."

"Arrogant."

"Confident."

"Mine," you say, eyes closing, not a question.

"Yours," he answers, and the word settles everywhere the pain doesn’t. "And you are mine."

The path turns toward home. The light follows you like it has decided you are worth the trouble. Far behind, the forest holds its silence around the place where the arrow fell and mercy stood up and said its name.

You sleep in his arms, and when you wake, it will be to tea on the bedside table, and a chair pulled close, and a hand you don’t have to ask for at last.

It is not the end of the danger or the ache or the work it takes to be brave. But it is the end of pretending.

It is, finally, the softest place to fall.

End.

𓆩 ❦ 𓆪 ───────────────── 𓆩 ❦ 𓆪

TAGLIST:

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IF YOU WISH TO BE INCLUDED IN A PERMANENT TAGLIST FOR ALL MY WRITINGS, LET ME KNOW! <3 THANKS FOR READING EVERYONE!

[julietreject]

the softest place to fall — pt.2

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys's sister)

Summary: The bond should have been a blessing. For Azriel, it was a sentence. For you, a heartbreak you never saw coming.

This is a part 2, but can be read as a standalone, although knowing the backstory may help. Part 1 explains their history, which can be read here.

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Unwanted kiss, reader thinks Az hates her :(

Author's Note: Part 3 (final part) out now!!

𓆩 ❦ 𓆪 ───────────────── 𓆩 ❦ 𓆪

The thing about silence is how quickly it fills with noise.

Yours and Azriel’s friendship had once been made of easy words — half-jokes, soft questions, a language that belonged to no one else. Now, it’s arguments. Short, vicious, and everywhere.

Where there used to be laughter, there’s the sharp crack of your temper meeting his restraint. Where there used to be warmth, there’s only static.

Cassian calls it “tension.” Rhys calls it “exhausting.” You call it “proof he hates me.”

Because he has to, doesn’t he? After months of being dismissed, ignored, shut out — you’ve built a whole armour out of that idea. It’s the only thing that stops the hurt from bleeding.

So when Rhys calls a mission briefing in the war room and Azriel is already there, wings tucked and expression unreadable, you brace yourself.

The map is spread across the table, Velaris bathed in morning light through the high windows. Rhys’s voice is level as he explains the infiltration plan: a small group, stealth and precision, neutralise a smuggling ring working near the Illyrian borders. Cassian will lead the strike team. Azriel will gather intelligence.

“And you,” Rhys says, glancing up at you, “will go in first. Alone. There’s a contact who’ll only meet one person. They won’t risk a group.”

You nod, pulse steady. “Understood.”

But before Rhys can move on, Azriel’s voice slices through the room.

“She shouldn’t go.”

It’s soft, but it lands like thunder.

You blink, slow. “Excuse me?”

Azriel doesn’t even look at you at first. His eyes are on the map, jaw set. “Send someone else. We don’t know how heavily guarded the site is, and she—”

“She what?” Your tone is sharp enough to draw blood.

Azriel finally meets your gaze. “You’re not expendable.”

“That’s not your call,” you bite out.

“It’s Rhys’s,” he says, but he’s still looking at you. Only you.

Cassian looks between you like someone watching a lit fuse. Rhys leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Az—”

“She’s not ready for that kind of exposure,” Azriel continues. “The contact could be a trap.”

You feel the hit like a slap. “Not ready?” you repeat, incredulous. “I’ve been running field work since before you stopped treating me like glass.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he mutters.

“What is?”

“That you still think you can throw yourself into danger and walk out untouched.”

Your nails dig into your palms. “And you still think you get to decide what I can survive.”

His wings flare, just slightly. “Someone has to, because you clearly don’t.”

Cassian straightens. “All right—”

You talk right over him. “You think I’m reckless? Fine. But don’t stand there pretending it’s about protocol, Azriel. You’ve been looking for excuses to keep me out of the field for months.”

He says nothing. His silence says everything.

Your voice breaks, sharper now. “Just admit it. You don’t trust me.”

Azriel’s jaw works, that dangerous, simmering tension snapping at the edges. And then—he says it.

“Maybe I don’t.”

The room goes dead quiet. Even the map seems to stop breathing.

Something in your chest hollows out, so clean and deep it almost feels surgical.

You laugh, brittle. “Wow. There it is.”

He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes are full of regret before the words are even cold. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” you say, voice shaking. “It’s exactly what you meant.”

“I’m saying,” he forces out, “I won’t let you walk into danger you can’t see coming.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” you snap. “You can’t even look at me without turning it into a fight. Gods, I don’t even know why you bother pretending anymore.”

“I bother,” he growls, “because every time you get near the line, I’m the one who has to watch you fall over it.”

There’s a heartbeat of stillness where you can see it — the fear in his eyes, the way his hand trembles against the table’s edge. Then it’s gone, buried again beneath shadow and control.

Rhys’s voice cuts through, low and edged. “Enough.”

You don’t hear him.

You shove back from the table, chair scraping loud against stone. “If you don’t think I’m capable, Shadowsinger, then say it. Say you think I’ll fail.”

The room holds its breath.

Azriel’s jaw works once, twice — like he’s biting down on something he shouldn’t say. But then it breaks out of him anyway, low and cold and meant to wound.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You’ll fail.”

The words hit harder than any blade.

You go still, the world narrowing to the space between you. Cassian mutters a curse under his breath, Rhys exhales like he’s been waiting for this implosion for weeks.

You laugh, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. “At least now we’re being honest.”

Regret flickers across Azriel’s face — gone as quickly as it appears, swallowed by the same darkness that’s been living in his eyes since the bond snapped.

“I’m saying,” he forces out, “I won’t let you walk into danger you can’t see coming.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” you hiss. “You can’t even look at me without turning it into a fight. Gods, I don’t even know why you bother pretending anymore.”

“I bother,” he growls, “because every time you get near the line, I’m the one who has to watch you fall over it.”

There’s a beat of silence so sharp it hums. His eyes flicker — fear, love, guilt, all tangled and burning.

Then Rhys says softly, “Enough.”

But it’s already too late.

You shake your head, voice breaking on the words. “You really do hate me.”

And before anyone can stop you, you turn and walk out — boots echoing off stone, each step another crack in what used to be home.

Behind you, Azriel stands unmoving, the echo of his own voice chasing him like a curse.

You’ll fail.

He’d meant I can’t lose you. But the truth always sounds worse when it’s too late to take back.

✦ 𖦹 ✦ 𖦹 ✦

The mission doesn’t fail. You don’t fail.

You retrieve the intel, survive the traps, and bring back exactly what Rhys asked for. You don’t look at Azriel once when you drop the sealed envelope on the table. The silence between you hums, electric and angry.

But Rhys, in his infinite High Lord wisdom (or cruelty), assigns the two of you to the next mission together — undercover at a noble’s ball.

A masquerade. Velvet and music and lies.

Cassian grins when he tells you. “What could go wrong?”

✦ 𖦹 ✦ 𖦹 ✦

The ballroom is gold-lit, the chandeliers like suns suspended in a dream. Masks glitter like secrets on every face. You glide through it, smile sharp, gown cut to distract. Azriel is a dark fixture at the edge of the crowd — winged shadow, expression carved in marble.

You don’t look at him. You can feel him. Always could.

Your target finds you easily — a tall, elegant male with too much perfume and the kind of charm that rots on the tongue. He offers his hand, you take it. His palm is warm, practiced. You dance.

The music swells. His hand slides to your waist, then lower.

You see Azriel across the room, half in shadow, watching. Always watching. The edge of his jaw is taut, eyes burning under the mask. For a heartbeat, your chest stutters — because that gaze feels like fury. Directed not at your partner… but at you.

You remind yourself that he hates you. That’s what this is.

The song ends. Your target leans close, murmuring something about “fresh air,” and leads you toward the balcony.

The night air outside is cold, crisp with starlight. The sounds of music drift through the doors, faint and shimmering. You play your part — laugh softly, tilt your head just so. You’re close to coaxing out the information Rhys sent you for when the man’s voice drops low.

“You really are something,” he murmurs. And before you can pull back, he kisses you — hard, uninvited, his hand pressing too low against your back.

The shadows hit first. Cold air snaps, and then Azriel is there.

He doesn’t move like a man. He moves like a storm that’s been waiting for a reason to break.

His hand fists in the man’s collar and hauls him off you, voice low and lethal. “Touch her again and you’ll lose that hand.”

The man stammers, pale, reeling. He catches one look at Azriel’s eyes — molten shadow and murder — and flees into the crowd.

The silence that follows is a weapon.

You stand frozen, chest heaving, heart hammering for entirely the wrong reasons. Then you turn on him. “What the hell was that?”

Azriel’s throat works. “He—”

“I had him wrapped around my finger,” you spit. “He was about to tell me what we needed!”

“He had his hands on you,” Azriel snaps, louder than he ever is. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Oh, but glowering at me from across the room was? Gods, I thought you just hated me — I didn’t realize you’d decided to ruin my missions, too.”

His wings flare slightly, shadows shifting like they might devour the night. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand!” Your voice cracks. “Because all I see is you getting in my way, again and again, like you can’t stand to breathe the same air.”

For a heartbeat, something breaks open in his face — grief, guilt, something darker. He looks like he might say it — the word that burned a hole through his life.

Instead, he closes his eyes. When he speaks, it’s quiet, broken glass on marble.

“It wasn’t jealousy.”

You don’t know why that hurts more than if it had been.

You turn on your heel and leave him standing there, shadows whispering your name into the cold.

✦ 𖦹 ✦ 𖦹 ✦

Azriel POV

He finds out you’re sick before anyone tells him.

The shadows do. They whisper it in panic—heat, shivers, heartbeat too fast—and by the time the words reach him, he’s already moving.

Rhys is at your bedside when Az arrives, shoulders bowed under power and exhaustion. Cassian is pacing, wings twitching. Mor’s trying to coax you to drink water you can’t seem to swallow.

Azriel stands in the doorway, unseen. He can feel your fever from here, like a sun that doesn’t want him near it.

Rhys looks up, eyes hollow. “We can’t break it. The healers don’t know what it is.”

Azriel nods once, because if he speaks, he’ll say something reckless—like let me try, or I can’t lose her. He leaves before the words can betray him.

At first he keeps his distance. He tells himself it’s out of respect, out of discipline, out of that promise he made long ago to stay away. But when night falls and the House goes quiet, he ends up outside your door anyway.

He doesn’t cross the threshold. Just leans against the wall and listens. Each time your breathing catches, the shadows twitch toward the sound, wanting to help, to soothe. He keeps them leashed. Barely.

When your fever spikes, he’s the one who slips inside while the others sleep. He replaces the cold cloth on your forehead. He changes the water beside your bed. He sits in the chair across from you and watches your chest rise and fall, counting every breath like prayer beads.

Once, in a half-dream, you murmur something. His name.

He almost breaks.

By the second night, Rhys hasn’t slept. The strain is beginning to show, that edge of panic he hides behind High-Lord composure.

“Go,” Azriel says quietly. “Get some rest.”

Rhys looks at him, eyes rimmed in silver fatigue. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Azriel doesn’t deny it. He only says, “She shouldn’t wake up alone.”

Rhys’s mouth twitches, somewhere between guilt and gratitude. He leaves without another word.

✦ 𖦹 ✦ 𖦹 ✦

It becomes a ritual.

Every time you drift into restless sleep, he leaves a little offering: a mug of tea, still steaming; a folded blanket warmed by his shadows; your favourite book, opened to the page you never finished.

He never signs them. Never stays when you stir. In daylight, you thank Mor or Cassian, assuming it’s them. They never correct you.

Cassian catches Azriel’s eye once across the hall, and something like understanding passes between them. Azriel nods in thanks he doesn’t deserve.

✦ 𖦹 ✦ 𖦹 ✦

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep in the chair until he wakes to sunlight spilling across the floor. You’re still asleep, the fever easing at last. A strand of hair clings to your cheek; he reaches out—stops an inch away.

Even that close, the air hums like it remembers the bond he never told you about.

He whispers anyway. “Stay. Just stay.”

You don’t hear him. Or maybe you do, because your brow smooths, and for a moment your breathing matches his.

He sits there until the shadows dim with dawn, until the city begins to wake, until he has to leave before anyone finds him. 

At the door he looks back once, committing the sight of you to memory: the sunlight painting your skin, the faint smile on your lips, the steady rhythm of your heart.

He has no right to want you.

But gods—he does.

You’re the only warmth he’s ever known that hasn’t burned him.

End of Part II.

Part III.

𓆩 ❦ 𓆪 ───────────────── 𓆩 ❦ 𓆪

TAGLIST:

@do-nut25 @delulisthesolulu

@baahsaama @lilah-asteria

ONLY TAGGING THOSE WHO REQUESTED TO BE TAGGED FOR PART 2. IF YOU WISH TO BE INCLUDED IN A PERMANENT TAGLIST FOR ALL MY WRITINGS, LET ME KNOW! <3 THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR THE INTERACTIONS ON PART 1 AS WELL, ANY FEEDBACK IS MUCH APPRECIATED!!

[julietreject]

AZRIEL — masterlist.

last updated: November 11, 2025 // oldest at the top

forgive me for my sins of bad tags and summaries

MULTI - PARTS:

✩ The Softest Place to Fall : Part I, Part II, Part III

The bond should have been a blessing. For Azriel, it was a sentence. For you, a heartbreak you never saw coming. — ♡ enemies to lovers, pining, slow burn

✩ Tides of Pursuit : Part I, Part II

The Seraph rules the sea. The shadows hunt her. Their game of cat and mouse has only one rule: never let it end. — ♡ pirate AU, enemies to lovers, "catch me if you can" energy, tension, fighting, shameless? flirting

ONESHOTS:

✩ Flight Lesson

Azriel teaches you how to fly. You keep forgetting what to do with your wings when he touches you. — ♡ romantic tension, wing touching, flying!

✩ More fics TBA.

Got an idea? Let me know! I may write it <3

[julietreject]

the softest place to fall — pt.1

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys's sister)

Summary: The bond should have been a blessing. For Azriel, it was a sentence. For you, a heartbreak you never saw coming.

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst

Word count: 3.4k

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first ever fanfic I've posted, please enjoy. Part 2 is here, focused more on the enemies and tension part of the story < 3

𓆩 ❦ 𓆪 ───────────────── 𓆩 ❦ 𓆪

ACT I — Little Suns

You are small enough that the Illyrian camp feels endless—rows of tents like crooked teeth, smoke curling from fires that smell of iron and pine. The mountains watch from every direction, ancient and unblinking, but you run anyway. Your feet slap the packed dirt, breath bright in your chest, wind whipping through your hair as you tear past training rings and sparring soldiers.

Cassian barrels after you, a hurricane in boots. “Menace!” he laughs, pretending to lunge as you squeal and dodge.

Rhys is waiting near the edge of the ring, arms open, High Lord in practice but brother in all the parts that matter. He catches you and swings you up until the world tilts, until the sky becomes a blur and his grin becomes the sun.

“My terror,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your brow. “You are not allowed to fall into any sparring matches today.”

“You say that every day,” you inform him, solemn as only a child can be.

“And you test me every day,” Rhys says, eyes dancing.

You’re still giggling when it happens—one of the older Illyrian boys shoulders you hard while charging past the ring, and you go skidding across the dirt. It knocks the noise out of you, scrapes burning along your palms. The boy snickers and bolts; Cassian’s already after him, swearing vengeance with a glee that promises bruises later.

It’s Azriel who’s kneeling first.

He moves like shadow made intent, quiet and immediate, as if he were already standing there in the periphery—waiting for the worst. His wings fold around the two of you, a hush inside the world.

“Easy,” he murmurs, cool fingers turning your palm. The scrape is bright and blooming, your lip wobbly. His gaze softens, those strange, cool-lantern eyes gentling as if he can dim the entire ring just by looking at you.

“You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

Rhys is there in the next heartbeat, worry and wrath tangled together. He crouches, pressing his forehead to yours. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere,” you say dramatically, sniffing.

Cassian returns victorious with the culprit by an ear. There is a lecture, a scuffle, a thousand promises from Cassian to teach you a better tackle. Rhys swears no tackling. Cassian swears only responsible tackling.

Azriel says nothing. He simply cleans your palms with a careful cloth and ties a bandage that ends in a bow because you ask. He lets you touch the edge of a shadow and watch it curl like smoke around your fingers. You do it only for a second so he won’t worry.

Later, on the balcony when the Sidra glows like a spilled bowl of stars, Rhys crowns you with a ring of crooked daisies Cassian definitely pilfered from someone’s window box.

“Princess of the Court of Nightmares,” Rhys declares solemnly.

“Long may she reign,” Cassian adds, saluting with a half-eaten tart.

Azriel stands a pace back, the night stitched into his silhouette. His smile is small and private, like a vow he’s made to no one but himself.

You keep the crown until the petals wilt. You sleep with it on your bedside table. The daisies stain your dreams with the scent of green things and laughter. You learn—before you learn anything else—that when you fall, Azriel catches you.

No one tells you how rare that is. No one tells you how costly.

You are children. The world is kind enough to let you be.

ACT II — Half-Grown

You stretch out of childhood like a cat in a sunbeam—slow, luxuriant, startled by your own length. One morning you wake and the mirror shows cheekbones, a mouth that looks too much like Rhys’s when you’re stubborn, mischief that looks too much like Cassian’s when you’re plotting. The rest is yours. You like the parts that are yours.

The city becomes a map: bakeries with blackberry scones too purple for sense, alleyways that smell of rain and steel, the dock where the Sidra presses her cool mouth to the stone and leaves you with kelp-slick ankles. You and Azriel haunt these borders, a shadow and a spark, trailing the places where light and dark kiss.

He teaches you knives. How to hold, how to throw, how to breathe before you loose. You count the shallow ridges on his scarred hands when he corrects your grip; you pretend not to notice how he flinches if you touch the too-raw places. He doesn’t like to be seen. You learn to look without staring, to see without demanding. You think it’s the kindest thing you can give him.

He teaches you silence, too. Not the kind that smothers, but the kind that listens. The kind that lets the river tell on the city, the wind tell on the mountains.

In return, you teach him how to laugh loud. You teach him how to dog-ear pages and eat pastry with sugar stuck to his fingers. You press star-charts into his hands and mark them with messy notes.

This one has a stupid name. This one looks like a fox. This one looks like you when you think too hard.

“Which is often,” Cassian snorts from the doorway.

Azriel says nothing, but you see the way his mouth fights a smile. You count that as victory.

Sometimes you catch him watching you—when you’re not looking. You never catch him when you are. His shadows shiver when you get too close. You press your shoulder to his anyway when you sit at the docks. He tenses and then eases, as if your warmth argues with every ugly story the world ever told him and wins.

“Why do you stare at the stars like that?” you ask one night, both of you swinging your feet over the dark, velvet river.

“They’re constant,” he says. He watches the sky like it owes him a debt and he’s patient enough to collect. “They don’t leave.”

“I’m not a star,” you say, nudging him.

His gaze drops to your mouth and jerks away. “No,” he says hoarsely. “You’re…not.”

You don’t ask what he means. You can’t breathe properly and you’re terrified that if you inhale wrong the moment will pop like a soap-bubble and you’ll find yourself ten again, knees bloodied, daisies wilting.

You don’t yet know the word for the ache. You only know the shape it makes, and that it fits your ribs too well.

ACT III — The Bond

It’s an ordinary afternoon. Which is how cataclysms prefer to arrive.

Rhys forgot a ledger at a merchant’s house near the Rainbow, a fussy old painter who still calls him boy when he comes by to commission portraits for the city wards. Cassian and Azriel come with you because Rhys says so, because Rhys always says so when errands brush up against people who don’t mind calling knives by their names.

“I’ll be two minutes,” you promise, tapping the ledger against your palm.

Cassian slouches against the stone wall and grins. “Take three. We’ll miss you.”

Azriel just looks. You read endless things in that look and none of them aloud.

The door opens, closing behind you with a soft click. Sunlight pools on the tiled floor. The house smells like turpentine and old paper, like orange peel and dust. You set the ledger down and chat and the old man tuts over Rhysand’s handwriting, calling it a tragedy. You laugh. It’s all very small.

Outside, Azriel breaks.

It doesn’t touch his face at first; there’s no warning his body can recognize. It hits from the inside, a spear of oh through bone and blood, his shadows rearing like startled birds. The world narrows to a white-hot filament that strings between his sternum and the closed door and pulls, pulls, pulls.

“She’s my mate,” he says, voice wrecked. He doesn’t mean to speak. He is surprised when words happen at all.

Cassian’s grin dies. “Az—”

Rhys’s expression goes blank. Beautiful, ruined, absolute. He steps forward and it’s not the brother who moves, not entirely—it’s the High Lord who looks at the male who has been his blade in the dark since they were boys and sees a threat to the last unbroken thing he loves.

The punch is clean. Knuckles to jaw. It snaps Azriel’s head back, spots bursting behind his eyes. Cassian swears and lunges between them, too slow to stop the first blow, quick enough to make sure there’s no second.

Rhys is breathing too hard. Magic shivers under his skin like a storm. “Stay away from her.”

Azriel’s mouth tastes like copper and the word that is a universe. Mate.

He swallows it. He swallows everything.

“All right,” he says, and hates how easy it is to make his voice a blade again. Hates how obedience feels like survival and loss in the same mouthful.

Cassian’s jaw is on the cobbles. “Rhys—”

“Not now,” Rhys snaps. He scrubs a hand over his face, a man setting a firebreak in his own heart.

When he looks at Azriel again, it’s with all the mercy he can afford and it still isn’t enough. “Stay away from her,” he repeats, quieter. “Please.”

Azriel nods once. A vow made of ash.

You emerge a moment later, blinking into sunlight that suddenly feels too sharp. “Took me four minutes, not three,” you announce, holding up the ledger in mock triumph.

Cassian startles, laughter a beat too loud. “See? I said you’d take longer. Pay up, shadowsinger.”

Rhys doesn’t laugh. His shoulders are tight, his mouth a pale line that used to be a smile. He reaches out, presses a hand to your shoulder — too gentle, too careful — and you feel the tremor beneath his skin.

The air tastes wrong. Heavy. Like the moment before a storm.

“Did I miss something?” you ask slowly, eyes flicking between them. Cassian’s grin falters; Rhys looks anywhere but at you. And Azriel—

Azriel stands a little apart, shadows coiling low and restless around his boots. His lip is split, a thin line of blood catching the light before he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Your stomach tightens. “Az?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. “It’s nothing,” he says, the words shaped too neatly, the edges too smooth to be true.

“Did someone—”

“Ready?” he cuts in, voice steady, unreadable. Shadow and wind and distance.

You want to ask again, to demand what in the Cauldron just happened, but something in his eyes stops you — something raw, shuttered fast.

So you just nod, slow.

“Ready,” you echo, though you don’t mean it.

Something in you leans toward him like a compass trying to find north. But he’s already turned away.

ACT IV — The Drift

He stops meeting you at the docks.

He stops correcting your grip in the ring, murmuring praise that you hoard like pearls.

He stops looking. Which means he looks only when you aren’t watching, which means you catch it anyway in the glint-hum of shadows, in the way his jaw works when you laugh at something Cassian says, in the way he leaves the room the moment you enter as if you are smoke and he’s already breathing too much of you.

At first you try to be kind. You are Rhys’s sister, so you can be relentless; you are your own person, so you can be gentle. You bring Azriel tea he doesn’t drink. You stand quietly in doorways you aren’t invited through. You say his name, soft, like a hand offered across a gap.

Then you are angry.

“What did I do?” you demand after a training session he conveniently missed, after two weeks of your messages left to dry in the air.

Azriel’s face is blank. Blank like frost, blank like a shut door. “Nothing.”

“Then why—”

“Nothing,” he says, rough and cold in a tone he's never used against you before, the same one he uses on enemies who don’t get to plead. It’s so clean a cut you don’t bleed until later.

You spend a week trying to hate him. It doesn’t take.

So you argue instead. You argue in hallways and in the ring and in the space between heartbeats.

You snarl, “Stop pretending I don’t exist.” He answers with immaculate indifference.

You spit, “Look at me.” He looks past you.

You accuse him of cowardice and he flinches so subtly you nearly miss it, and then he’s just—gone again, body present, soul somewhere that isn’t allowed to touch you.

Rhys watches all of this like a man who threw a stone into a lake and didn’t expect the ripples to reach the shore. He grows quieter around you both. He changes hallways. He asks Cassian to take you flying instead. Cassian, poor Cassian, cracks jokes until they break in his mouth and then stands awkwardly in the pieces with his hands out, helpless to assemble what he didn’t shatter.

You sleep badly. You wake with his name pressed into the back of your teeth like a word you’re not allowed to say. You tell yourself you’ll learn to be a star—constant, distant. You fail daily.

And then it happens. The fight that was always coming, that arrived with that first “nothing” and simply bided its time.

ACT IV — Detonation

It’s early evening in the ring. The light goes molten behind the mountains, the world filigreed in gold. You came to train because your body has always known how to heal what your mind cannot fix—sweat and motion and ache are simpler than thinking. You didn’t know Azriel would already be there.

He notices you the way a blade notices a throat—instinctively. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

You go for the rack of practice knives, ignoring him. Your hands shake. The leather handles are familiar; your chest is not.

The first throw sails wide. The second is worse. The third nearly takes out one of Cassian’s favorite posts.

“Your stance is off,” Azriel says, crisp, automatic.

“Don’t,” you bite, turning. “Don’t do this thing where you pretend to care in a way that means you don’t have to act like you care.”

A muscle in his cheek tics. “Fix your stance.

“Fix your spine,” you snap. “It seems to have melted.”

That lands. You see it. His eyes go flat.

“I’m not here to hold your hand.”

“I never asked you to,” you lie. You have always asked him to. In a thousand small ways.

“You asked for more than I can give.”

You bark out a laugh that tastes like salt. “I asked for you to stop disappearing every time I breathe. I asked for my friend back.”

Azriel steps closer. The air tightens. “I am not your friend.”

It should not stun you. It does.

“Then what are you?” you whisper, hating the tremor in it.

“Necessary,” he says, as if reciting a vow he wrote to survive. “Useful. Not—” He cuts himself off.

“Not yours,” you finish for him, and it spills out—weeks, months of it, all the held breath and gnawed words.

“What did I do so unforgivable you had to carve me out of your life like a rot? Tell me, Azriel. Tell me so I can stop trying.”

His shadows rise, restless. He looks at you the way men look at the thing that could unmake them. “This is better.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

You laugh, ugly, breaking. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do,” he says, and the bastard means it, and the bastard is trying to save you like you are a cliff he loves too much to let crumble under his feet. He is doing it wrong. He is doing it so wrong it hurts to watch.

“Coward,” you say, with all the gentleness gone. “If you’re going to leave, at least have the spine to admit you want to.”

He steps in, so close the line between you crackles, the world narrowed to wings and breath and the place your anger sits under your heart, bright and blistered. His voice frays. “If I wanted to, I would have done it long ago.”

Your eyes burn. Gods, no. Not here. Not in front of him.

“Then what is this?” you demand. “What am I supposed to do with the silence you stuffed in my mouth and called it kindness?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. The truth is there—roaring, raw. You see it. You see the word mate strain against his teeth like a captive thing.

He chooses the knife instead. “Grow up,” he says softly.

It slides between your ribs with wicked precision.

“Right,” you say. Your hands are steady when you put the knife back on the rack. Your voice is not. “Consider it done.”

You turn. You do not run. You do not give him the sound of you breaking. The ring blurs. The mountain blurs. The stairs blur. The door is a mouth and you walk into it and keep walking until Velaris swallows you, until the river hushes like a mother you won’t let hold you, until the city’s lights smear into stars on the water and you can pretend the wet on your cheeks is spray.

Behind you, the ring holds the echo of your footsteps like a prayer it cannot keep.

ACT VI — Azriel

He doesn’t remember how the fight began, only how it ended: with you walking away like a blade sheathed in your own bright fury, with his name a bruise in the air you left behind.

His jaw aches where Rhys hit him that day. Old pain, well-tended. A reminder he wears like a saint’s hair-shirt—penance touching skin. He touches it now without meaning to, fingers brushing the place that decided so much for him.

Coward, you’d called him. He disagrees. Cowards run. He stays. He stays and becomes a wall so you won’t learn how walls can crush. He stays and becomes a silence so you won’t learn the shape of a scream.

His shadows swarm, frantic, a murmured chorus of your name. He lets them thread through the last place you stood; they bring back the warm-metal imprint of your body in the air, the salt-glass shimmer of your hurt. He breathes it in like smoke. He deserves the burn.

He could fix it.

He could go now, fly low and fast over the Sidra, find you where you always go to talk yourself off cliffs. He could tell you: that day at the door, the bond turned him inside out and called it salvation. He could say your name like a shield and ask if he might keep it. He could tell you that Rhys was only afraid because he knows exactly how Azriel loves and how he never stops. He could ask your brother to trust him with the last unbroken thing.

He could, if he were a braver man. If he believed he was good enough to put that word—mate—in your hands and not watch it cut you.

So Azriel stands in the ring while the sun bleeds out and the mountains blacken and the city lights come on, one by one, like the stars he promised to be constant. He stares at the door you walked through and the place where the knife of his restraint finally slipped. He waits for your footsteps to return though he knows they won’t.

His chest hurts in that low, grinding way—the kind of pain built by choices that look like love and feel like loss.

When he finally moves, it’s to collect the knife you touched last. He sets it back in perfect line with the others. Order restored. The world masquerading as a thing that can be put away.

His shadows press against his shoulders, a thousand small questions he cannot answer. He gives them your name in reply. He gives them your name again and again until it is a rhythm in the dark, a litany he will not speak aloud, a vow he does not deserve to make.

By the time the stars claim the sky, he has decided.

He will stay away. He will be constant. He will not be yours.

He doesn’t see the unshed tears on your lashes, the way you wipe them away on the dock and bite your lip until it hurts, refusing to cry where anyone can hear. He only feels the hollow where your laugh used to live, the echo where your hand used to be steadying his.

And when the night grows quiet enough to tell the truth, Azriel presses his palm to his sternum and waits for the ache to soften. It doesn’t.

His shadows whisper the same word they’ve whispered since the door shut in the Rainbow, a word that is a prayer in their mouths and a blade in his: mate.

He closes his eyes and keeps the pain. It is the last honest thing he has left to give you.

End of Part I.

Part II.

[bensolosbluesaber]

The Jake Problem (Jake Lockley x f!reader)

Summary: Jake hates you. Like really hates you, which wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t dating Steven and Marc. But maybe, just maybe, Jake doesn’t hate you.

Fluff?, angst, hurt/comfort

Pairing: Jake Lockley x f!reader, hint of Marc Spector x f!reader x Steven Grant

Warnings: Mentions of abusive relationships, reader was in an abusive relationship, allusions to sex, hurt/comfort, maybe a little OOC??, as always I did my best to accurately represent DID, is this fic a little problematic? maybe

–

The problem with dating Steven and Marc was not balancing Steven and Marc. The problem was Jake Lockley.

You lay sprawled on Marc’s chest, stickiness between your thighs, a fine sheen of sweat covering your skin and his as you drew deep breaths. A cloud of post-orgasmic bliss hovered around you both as you tilted your head up to kiss his jaw. You were relishing these last moments with Marc, knowing that Steven had the long weekend off which meant you’d be living with Jake for a few days.

The rise and fall of Marc’s chest as he breathed deep and murmured soft praises lulled you into an easy sleep. And sure enough, a few hours later you were awakened by the man beneath you shifting you off him so he could turn on his side and put his back to you. Jake hated cuddling. Jake hated the little notes you left for him, Steven, and Marc. Jake hated when you cooked for him. Jake hated you.

Keep reading

[iwantcandy-77]

For the Son Who Carries My Shadows

Summary: Azriel and Reader died during the war, years later their son finds a letter

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Includes: death, pure sadness, angst

He never knew them.

Not really.

They were stories passed down in whispers, in a world that had learned to speak gently when mentioning the dead. Azriel, the shadowsinger. You, the quiet strength beside him. Heroes, both. Lost in the final wave of the war that had almost swallowed Prythian whole.

He had been barely a year old when they died.

Raised by friends of the court, surrounded by people who loved him dearly, yet there was always an emptiness, an echo of something he couldn’t quite touch. Like standing in a home where the fire had long gone cold.

He found the letter on a rainy afternoon in the House of Wind, buried deep in a drawer sealed by shadows. His shadows.

They had led him there, whispering, not with words, but with memory.

It was addressed in a handwriting he didn’t recognize but somehow felt in his bones:

To the son I may never meet.

His hands shook as he opened it.

The ink had faded just slightly.

But the words… the words were alive.

If you’re reading this… we are already gone. Or we will be, soon. And gods, I don’t know how to begin saying goodbye in ink…

He blinked, but the tears came faster than he could stop them.

There is a war coming. And we can’t promise we will survive it. Even strength bows to fate, my son.

The ink had smudged in places. But not from him. From Azriel’s tears, once long ago.

We made our choice to stand, to fight for a future you could grow up in. But futures are cruel things. They don’t always make room for the people who build them.

I wanted more time. Just a few more days. A few more years. I wanted to teach you how to fly. How to hold a blade. How to speak with your heart and not just your fists. But mostly… I wanted to stay.

Your mother … gods, she was the best thing that ever happened to me. Brighter than any dawn, stronger than any storm.You didn’t just come from love. You came from her….

I hope you have her fire.

Her kindness. Her stubborn, beautiful way of believing in people who don’t know how to believe in themselves.

She loved you so much. I wish you could’ve seen her holding you. She looked at you like the world had finally made sense.

She sang to you at night. Whispered things into your hair when she thought I wasn’t listening. Called you her little light, even when the world around us felt like it was falling apart.

He paused.

Swallowed.

Kept reading.

We didn’t get to stay.

But you…

You are our staying.

There’s so much I’ll never get to tell you. So I’ll tell you this, and pray it is enough. You were the best thing I ever did.

And I am sorry. I am so sorry that I won’t be there to see the person you’ll become. But if you ever wonder if you were loved, you were. With everything I had, and everything I couldn’t say out loud.

If the shadows ever feel warmer than they should be.. that’s me.

And if the wind ever carries your name in a voice you can’t place.. that’s her.

We are still with you. In the silence. In the sky. In the breath between every beat of your heart.

I love you, even in death. And I will love you long after the stars forget my name.

— Your father (forever)

The boy folded the letter against his chest, holding it like it might slip away if he loosened his grip.

The rain kept falling.

But for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel alone in the silence.

[honeyrambles]

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ A Star Amongst Shadows ˚.⭒☽ ˚.⋆

⋆ Azriel x Fallen Star Reader ⋆

SUMMARY: You are a fallen star, lost and alone, suddenly bound to a body that doesn’t feel like yours. Taken in by the Inner Circle of Velaris, you struggle to understand what it means to live—and to love. Azriel sees you in ways no one else can, and as your light begins to glow brighter, a dark threat rises, seeking to steal your heart. Now, you must choose: return to the sky or stay—and let love find you in the shadows.

WARNINGS: This series contains emotional themes (grief, identity loss, emotional withdrawal), sexual content, swearing, canon-typical violence, blood, and injury. Includes references to mating bonds, magical manipulation, stalking, and unsettling fae creatures. Please read with care if any of these may be triggering.

⋆｡°✩ Chapter List ✩°｡⋆

Chapter 1 ⋆ The Star Falls ⋆ Chapter 2 ⋆ Flickers In The Dark ⋆ Chapter 3 ⋆ The Language Of Body ⋆ Chapter 4 ⋆ The Light You Carry ⋆ Chapter 5 ⋆ What Burns Beneath Skin ⋆ Chapter 6 ⋆ In The Wake Of Constellations ⋆

Chapter 7 ⋆ Touched By Moonlight ⋆

Chapter 8 ⋆ The Star That Belonged ⋆

Chapter 9 ⋆ Echoes Of A False Heaven ⋆

Chapter 10 ⋆ And Then The Star Went Quiet⋆

Chapter 11 ⋆ Celestial Remnants ⋆

Chapter 12 ⋆ Where The Light Finds Us ⋆

Chapter 13 ⋆ The Gravity Of Home⋆

Chapter 14 ⋆ Born Of Shadow Blessed By Starlight ⋆

Complete fic! x

[prythianpages]

Dandelions | Masterlist

݁˖ ❀ ⋆ A series of imagines/drabbles inspired by Ruth B's Dandelions, in which Azriel's mate is a Green Witch ݁˖ ❀ ⋆

☪ = smut ☁︎ = fluff `♡´= angst

One Shots

𓇢𓆸 A Field of Dandelions ☁︎ `♡´ | Your High Lady calls upon you. requesting a remedy that only you know how to make. It requires specific ingredients found between the courts of Spring and Autumn and you're in need of an escort. Unfortunately for you, she assigns her Shadowsinger to accompany you. The Shadowsinger who hates you...or so you thought.

𓇢𓆸 au where you're the one who says the line "please don't talk to me like that" [click here] `♡´

𓇢𓆸 feyre's reaction to Az and you [click here] ☁︎

𓇢𓆸 I Love You ☁︎ | The moment you realize you're in love with Azriel.

𓇢𓆸 HCs of Az and you accepting the bond [click here] ☁︎ ☪

𓇢𓆸 I Put A Spell On You ☁︎ | A night out at Rita's. You're first outing after accepting the bond.

𓇢𓆸 The Family Reunion ☁︎ | Azriel unknowingly and accidentally welcomes your family into your home.

𓇢𓆸 My Sweet Little Wildflower `♡´ | After begging Azriel to take you with him to Windhaven, he finally concedes. But his worries of you getting hurt come to life when you're kidnapped.

𓇢𓆸 The Love Potion ☁︎ ☪ | Azriel asks you for an elixir to soothe his aches and you accidentally give him the aphrodisiac you had made for Nesta, bringing to surface one of his hidden desires.

𓇢𓆸 a little headcanon of Az and you having a daughter [click here] ☁︎

𓇢𓆸 headcanons of you and Az starting a family (focus on your three children) [click here] [bonus]

𓇢𓆸 Slipping Through My Fingers ☁︎ | It's your baby girl's first day of school and Azriel isn't ready to let her go.

𓇢𓆸 Sprinkles ☁︎ | You and your daughter return back from visiting your family in the Middle with an unexpected surprise.

𓇢𓆸 But the Worms ☁︎ | Azriel is woken up by one of your daughters in the middle of the night to answer some of her questions.

𓇢𓆸 Strange Love | Alora nearly sends Azriel into a mini crisis when she tells you she has a boyfriend.

more drabbles/HCs

˖𓍢ִ໋🕸 I Put A Spell On You pt 2 | You're the hot witch gf and they let you do whatever the hell you want.

˖𓍢ִ໋🕸 Very Demure | How each witch would respond to the "trend."

a/n: If you have any ideas or would like to request something, feel free to send it my way. I can't promise to always be able to write an actual imagine but I can definitely do some headcanons.

[witch au masterlist]

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 11)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Wake up

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Bucky is losing it; mentions of panic attacks; angsty angst

Part two Part three

Angstober Masterlist

Bucky hasn’t had trouble sleeping for about two years now. That’s about how long you’ve been together. That’s about how long you’ve been sleeping in the same bed as him every night.

It’s been 25 months since you’ve gotten together, but in truth, the serrated edges of his nightmares began to soften long before that - all because of you.

You’ve always been a dependable member of this team. Skilled, efficient, and wholeheartedly committed to your work. Yet, what you’ve done for Bucky and what you did every day since then and still do to this day, outshines all of those qualities.

You’ve shown him patience - not the suffocating kind that hovers or pities, but a quiet, resolute belief in his strength. You saw something in him when he couldn’t do it himself. Little by little, day by day, night by night; you made him believe that he still had something to fight for, something to live for, and that there is a place for him in a world he wasn’t meant to see.

Your presence, your smile, your voice; all the little things that identify you - it all gifted him the reprieve of the guilt he was slowly drowning in. And you pulled him out of the water, teaching him how to crave the air that was lost, breath by breath.

He knows he shouldn’t rely on anyone with an amount so heavy, it would terrify anyone else. It might be dangerous. But he needs you. It’s that simple, really. You’re the only thing keeping him afloat, despite how long you’ve been helping him remember independence. He doesn’t want independence. He wants you. Because he won’t ever find as much comfort in himself as he finds in you.

So, this is a feeling he isn’t quite used to anymore.

Laying in bed, eyes unblinkingly staring at the ceiling in the dark, eyelids burning in exhaustion but not able to shut. His body aches for rest, but his mind won’t allow it.

He inhales slowly, forcing the breath deep into his lungs, following the breathing techniques you taught him in those early weeks; when you helped him through his panic attacks. He hasn’t had one in a long time, but he recognizes the signs all too well.

And it traps the racing thoughts in his mind.

Instinctively, his arms around you tighten. Your slumbering form lay peacefully and wam atop his chest and he lets it ground him. He lets it - lets you - tether him to the reality his spiraling mind so desperately needs.

His muscles are tense as he clings to you, seeking stability in the steady rise and fall of your breathing against him.

He exhales slowly, a deep sigh that he feels ripple through his entire body.

He put so much effort into convincing himself it was nothing. Just harmless smoke. It didn’t have to mean anything, anything barbaric. But that’s what Hydra is known for. Wickedness, Inhumanity, Evilness - the list can only go on.

That smoke was invisible. And Hydra loves to play invisible. Hiding in the underground and pretending they don’t exist.

Once again, Bucky’s mind, cruel and ruthless, drags him back to the mission earlier that morning. Anxiety claws at his resolve and he takes in another breath almost aggressively. It’s as if his subconscious is trying to prove to himself that this wasn’t just some non-toxic mist you had been exposed to for mere minutes on end.

Steve’s voice crackles over the coms, talking about something important no doubt, but Bucky’s attention is locked elsewhere. His senses are attuned to just one thing - your breathing. Your comms are on and Bucky knows about which corridors you are walking through to retrieve a file for Fury.

You’re not supposed to engage in combat, unless perhaps on the way out but the path should be cleared. So, then why are your breaths coming out faster and far from the rhythm he loves to listen to.

He waits a few seconds, his instincts flaring, trying to reason with himself. Trying to get him to stop worrying himself out of his mind. But the sound of your breathing doesn’t sit right with him, and the longer he listens, the more uneasy he becomes.

Carefully, he calls out your name, ignoring whatever Steve might still be saying on the other end. There is a pause - he clearly interrupted the captain - and then your voice comes through, soft and reassuring. You know how much he gets concerned for you, sometimes just needing to hear your voice in confirmation everything is fine.

“How far are you?” he asks, voice a little tighter than he’d like. Steve hasn’t picked up on where he got interrupted. He gets it too.

“Almost there. Just down the hall,” you reply, though there is a slight hesitation, a pause, another unsteady breath. It’s subtle, but Bucky picks it up, brows furrowing. You’re contemplating something, weighing your words and his steps begin to falter, own breathing getting even heavier.

“There is something odd, though.”

His heart squeezes and he tries to swallow that lump in his throat, but it remains stuck, halfway blocking the way for air inside his body.

“What is it?” His response is immediate, urgent. “Do you need backup? Want me to come over? I’ll be on my way-”

He tried so hard to sound casual but the laugh coloring the tone of your next words tells him he wasn’t at all subtle in his feelings.

“No need, Buck. I got it. The air just feels a little weird here, that’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you have trouble breathing?” So far underground, it’s almost to be expected that the air is different, but he needs to know more, craves to ask a thousand more questions but he refrains himself. You can handle yourself. You don’t always need him to breathe down your neck, hover over you like the miserable man he is.

“I can breathe just fine, Buck,” you sweetly soothe again, letting him take the time he needs to gather his thoughts around your well-being.

He exhales, the tightness in his chest easing up a little bit which spreads awareness that his whole team just heard his ridiculous worries over the shared coms. Heat creeps up his neck and he cringes inwardly. Though he wouldn’t change a thing and he sure as hell will check in on you again when the nerves rise once more. And they will.

It was only thanks to Tony’s tech that Bucky even found out what had happened - that you had walked straight through the invisible smoke, breathing it in the whole time and letting it enter your body with every gulp of air.

The surveillance had picked up traces of the strange substance, the air you had said felt weird. But you hadn’t seen the smoke. None of you had. And now, Bucky feels like he’s losing his grip.

He hates this helplessness, this stifling feeling that there is nothing he can do but watch and wait. Watch you, observe your every movement, listen to your breathing, analyze your body language, trying to decipher if something is off. Waiting for the shoe to drop.

You had told him countless times that you feel fine, that nothing feels different and you don’t like to see him this worried, but his mind loves to go to cruel places. And his concern for you is too extreme, running so deep, clinging so tight, that the need for you to feel okay almost hurts him physically.

Tony and Bruce are running tests, trying to figure out what the hell that smoke even was and how harmless it really is. But the waiting is torturous. The tick of every second feel like stabs to his heart. Bucky doesn’t trust harmless, not after everything he’s seen. Not after everything he’s lost. And he won’t put you on that list. Because if he had to, he’d add himself right after. He lost himself once and he will again if you’re no longer with him, falling to much greater demons than ever before.

And so, he watches. It’s all he can do. He watches you like a hawk, nerves fraying and senses tumbling, torn between the need to protect you and the agonizing reality that, for now, he’s powerless to act. His mind races with worst-case scenarios, his imagination conjuring all the ways this invisible thread could hurt you. And yet, there is nothing he can do - nothing but hope that Tony and Bruce figure it out before it’s too late.

The waiting feels like it’s driving him mad.

Bucky waits till sunrise, the first light of the day bleeding through the thick curtains. He hasn’t even noticed it had gone brighter outside, only acknowledging it when your skin begins to glow under it, making you look like an angel sent from heaven.

He hadn’t slept, not even for a moment, his eyes not leaving your peaceful body. Every sound you made, every small shift of your body as you slept, every breath you took, he noticed. He spent hours, gently running his hands over you, trailing his fingers over the familiar contours of your form, pressing his lips so softly against the parts of you he could reach without disturbing you.

At some point; Bucky carefully, reluctantly, slips away from beneath you, and quietly into the bathroom. The cold splash of water on his face stings, but it does nothing to shake the weariness clinging to him.

The man in the mirror staring back at him is hardly recognizable to him. Dark circles shadow his eyes, deep and heavy, his gaze dull and hollow, lacking the fire you ignite in him. When he doesn’t normally sink into a pit of worry. His brows sag with the weight of exhaustion, his expression almost foreign in its desperation.

You won’t be happy when you wake up. He can basically hear you chastise him in his head and he really wants to smile at the thought but since no other thought this night had been a decent one, he doesn’t know how at the moment.

Bucky’s hands grip the edges of the sink, tightening, until he might have been worried about breaking the porcelain if that thought wasn’t so irrelevant to him right now. A long and heavy exhale leaves his chest, his head hanging low and eyes squeezed shut. He forced himself to press his lips together, not to let out a sound that would perhaps wake you up.

He tries to be in control of the rising wave of frustration and utter helplessness that surges within him, pushing it down as his chest constricts.

It takes a few more minutes before he feels composed enough to return back to you. He releases his grip on the sink, hands flexing before letting both, flesh and metal fall back to his sides. With a last glance in the mirror, he walks out of the door.

The sight of you, still peacefully asleep in the exact position he left you, quiets his mind just enough for at least a small moment. With silent steps, he approaches you, slipping carefully back into bed without making a sound. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your body again, drawing you close, pressing you against his chest, feeling your warmth.

You don’t stir as Bucky settles in, pushing his nose into your neck, closing his eyes, and inhaling deeply - a breath that is filled with your sweet scent.

Bucky isn’t sure how much time slips by as he keeps lying there with you, watching you, breathing you in. But when midday rolls around and you haven’t stirred yet, he decides to wake you up. He might get lucky, being able to bath with you and having you curled up on his lap during a nice breakfast afterward. He craves your voice. He needs to hear you, needs to be soothed by the sweet sound of it, telling him you’re okay and you love him. Perhaps even telling him some silly story about how Sam embarrassed himself in front of you girls. That happens more often than not.

He wants to float in the calm of your presence, to be lost in the way you reassure him, relaxed in the rhythm of your words, comforted in the warmth of your arms.

So he starts with the gentlest of touches, his lips brushing along the curve of your neck, trailing kisses along your skin. He moves to your shoulders slowly, taking his time as if each kiss carries the unspoken weight of all he’s been holding back. When he reaches your cheek, he whispers, soft and low, just for you.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear, letting the heat of his breath coax you from sleep. “Sweetheart, time to wake up.”

He continues his kisses, lingering, tender, while his body shifts slightly as he props himself up on one elbow, hovering above you just enough to reach more of your skin. His hand moves to brush your hair gently out of your face, his thumb stroking your temple. “Y/n.”

You don’t react, so he continues trailing his kisses over your shoulder, along your arm and back up again, nibbling on your skin.

Bucky is no patient man, but he always has been with you. However, it never takes this long to wake you up. It comes with being an Avenger, always alert, even in your sleep, and usually, the first few touches of his lips are enough to coax you into consciousness.

But you keep lying beneath him, without moving a single muscle, chest rising and falling with every steady breath and tension builds in his middle.

His tone drops, voice louder, getting more urgent. “Doll,” he says, hand cradling your face, gently turning it toward him so he can see you clearly, hoping for even the slightest response. “Come on, baby, wake up. Come back to me.”

He searches for any sign, any flicker of consciousness in your expression, but there is nothing. You look peaceful, serene even, as if you’re merely lost in a deep, calm sleep. There’s no sign of distress, no discomfort, but that only worsens the hollow dread forming in the pit of his gut. Something is wrong. He can feel it. He knows

His pulse quickens, heart pounding violently as fear takes root. His hands, so tender before, now move with desperate urgency. He shakes your shoulders, lightly at first, hoping to watch you open your eyes and greet him with that sweet smile upon seeing him, the one that is so good at melting away his worries.

You don’t stir. You don’t do anything.

“Y/n! Wake up!” he pleads again, voice cracking, panic taking hold of his voice and settling in his bones. His breathing lost any sign of rhythm since the last day but it grows shallow now, ragged, horror rushing up his throat, alarm ringing in his ears.

He is leaning over you, shaking you with more force, more insistence. Leaning closer and pressing his lips to your forehead in an almost rough kiss, he calls your name again, voice strained and sounding foreign to him.

“Show me those beautiful eyes, baby, come on,”Bucky pleads desperately, trembling hands holding your face, shaking it, just like your shoulders, your arms. But the only movements your body does are the ones caused by his touch, your body still limp beneath him, eyes closed, breaths deep.

“Don’t do this to me, baby, please. You don’t get to do this.” His voice breaks, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. “Come on!“

But there is nothing. No flutter of your eyelids, no soft sound from your lips. Just silence. The kind that makes his blood run cold, terror crawling under his skin, like he’s never felt before. “Wake up!” He is shouting. Vehement, cracking under the weight of the fear flooding in his chest. It strips him bare, leaving him more powerless than he ever was before.

A sound rips through his body, dry and dreadful as it leaves his lips and he isn’t able to acknowledge the tears tracking down his face.

Without wasting another second, Bucky scrambles away from you, his body moving on sheer instinct, his mind only consisting in utter panic. He shoves the blanket off in one harsh movement, throwing it to the side and scooping your limp form into his arms. His heart is pounding so vigorously, it’s as if it has a life of its own, threatening to tear right out of his chest.

The moment you are secured in his arms, he runs. His legs feel weak, but he pushes forward, every step fueled by the thought that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. He crashes through the door, protecting your body with his. His voice echoes down the hall, frantic and full of a terror he’s never known as he yells.

Bucky should have known better.

Hydra doesn’t deal with harmless. He knows that better than anyone.

But even with all the horrors of his past, all the things he’s lost while under their control, nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have ever come close to the agony of the very possibility that he might lose you. Lose you to them. Lose you because of them.

You had been the one to help him to the light. You were his light. You gave him a reason there is something worth holding onto. Your love for him. His love for you. But that very darkness that Hydra plunged him into, now came sneaking back to take the one thing that matters most. The one thing he would die for. The one thing he would die without.

He’s running but it feels like he is falling. Endlessly. Into a void of despair and all he can do is scream into the emptiness, hoping somehow he can pull you back before it’s too late.

He doesn’t even know who he’s calling for. Steve perhaps. Bruce. Tony. It doesn’t matter. It won’t ever matter again. Because if there is no you, then there is nothing worth remembering anymore.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

Part two

[illyrianbitch]

Where I Left My Lover

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: After a brush with death, Azriel makes a difficult decision to protect you.

Warnings: angst!!!! & bad decisions.

Word Count: 3.8k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

With a forceful push, the door to Rhysand’s office swung open as Nesta swept into the room, eyes blazed with a fury that made Azriel swallow. Cassian’s loud footsteps echoed as he followed after his mate.

"Tell me it isn't true," she demanded, her voice a low, dangerous growl.

Rhysand moved to intercept her, his hand outstretched in a futile attempt to stop her from her warpath. "Nesta, perhaps we should—"

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Nesta shoved him away with a forceful gesture, her gaze fixed on Azriel. The shadowsinger stood eerily still, even his shadows unmoving. 

"Azriel," she said, her voice trembling with anger. "Tell me it isn't true."

His gaze faltered, and suddenly he found himself unable to meet Nesta's accusing, burning stare. He looked away, his shadows curling into themselves behind him, as if retreating in shame.

Nesta's anger flared, hands clenching at her side. She breathed out sharply, the sound a mixture of frustration and rage. Whipping around to face Rhysand, she leveled a searing gaze at him.

"I expect something like this from you," she spat, her tone laced with contempt.

Rhysand's expression hardened into a withering glare, but before he could respond, Nesta turned back to Azriel. "But you?" she continued, her voice dripping with disappointment. "You're supposed to be better than this."

Azriel's jaw tightened as he grit his teeth together. From behind Nesta, he watched as Cassian approached, staring at him with a frown and furrowed brows. Azriel looked back to Nesta.

“You don’t understand-”

 "I don't care," she retorted, her tone icy. "You cannot do this. Not to Y/n."

At the mention of your name, Azriel's heart clenched, a wave of sadness washing over him like a relentless tide. He swallowed hard.

"This is for Y/n," he responded, his voice low. Flat.  "To keep her safe."

"That is not your decision to make," Nesta snarled, "You are stripping her of her right to choose, and you know deep down she wouldn't want this."

There was something about the way Nesta spoke, how she stared at him with such disappointment, that made him angry. Azriel was making the right decision. He was being selfless, yet everyone was seeing it the other way, seeing him as some monster.

Within seconds, his control slipped, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he took a step forward, his eyes flashing with a dark intensity. "She almost died!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with desperation. "She almost died because of me. I don't care what she wants. I'm doing this to keep her safe."

Cassian moved quickly, placing a firm hand on Nesta's shoulder. “Watch it,” he growled as he met Azriel's gaze.

Azriel blinked. And then he was composing himself once more, moving back into a straight posture. "I'm doing this because I love her," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with sorrow.

"No," Nesta said, her voice sharp. "This is not love. This is wrong. And if you go through with it, I'll never let you forget it."

As Nesta turned to leave, Azriel felt a pang of regret gnaw at his heart. A wave of guilt washed over him at the realization that he had disappointed someone he cared about so deeply. He truly cared about Nesta, respected her strength and conviction, and the thought of her walking away, angry and disillusioned, made him sick to his stomach. Had he lost two people today? Was he truly doing the right thing?

Yes, he reminded himself. Images of you conjured in his brain— your pale, bruised and bloody body, the way you laid limp in his arms. He thought back to how he’d relished in the screams of the soldiers who had tortured you, how he took his time carving them out for what they had done. He thought about how long you’d been in that bed, unmoving with shallow breaths, how scared he’d been that he’d lost you. You were human. You were something he could lose. And his life, his duties, had almost cost him your life.

Azriel looked up to meet Rhysands gaze, who had been standing in quiet observation, making no move to talk or intervene. Azriel had already spoken to Rhys, had gotten the same discussion from him. His gaze flickered to Cassian, who was shaking his head as he stared out of the door his mate had left through.

“Nes is right,” Cassian said, “I mean, we’ve done our fair share of questionable things, but this?”

He paused for a moment, eyes darting between his two brothers.

“It’s what needs to be done,” Azriel said.

Cassian shook his head. “No. It’s what you think needs to be done. And you’re wrong.”

Azriel let out a deep exhale, his jaw clenched. 

“Rhys,” Cass said, turning to face the High Lord. “C’mon. You know better than this. You really think this is okay?”

Rhysand held his gaze. For a moment, Cass believed he’d gotten through to his brother, that perhaps he’d realized how far this was going to go, how wrong Azriel was. But Rhysand simply straightened his posture.

“I’m not a part of this,” was all he responded.

Cass shook his head once more, poking a finger into Rhysand’s chest.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Az has lost his goddsdamned mind. Why are you entertaining this?”

It was Azriel who moved next, walking up to Cassian and pushing him away with a small shove. He gave a snarl, shadows swirling around his forearms. Cass looked down at the hand pressed against his chest, and then up at Azriel with flared nostrils and a look of deep disappointment in his eyes.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Azriel growled, “You think this is something I want to do?”

Cassian pushed him off.

“I think you’ve lost sight of what is fear and what is reason.”

“Enough,” Rhysand commanded, walking to the two males to separate them with his extended hands. He turned to Cassian and let out a small exhale. Cass saw it, then, the sadness in his eyes. 

“In the centuries that Azriel has been a part of this family, a part of this court, he has not asked for favors. He has asked me now, and I owe it to him.”

Cassian let out a small scoff. It was a losing game. They were all stubborn— it came with their lineage, with their dna. So he settled at casting Azriel another glance and frowned.

"This is selfish, Az," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "She is not only yours. She’s family. She’s Nesta’s friend. She’s my friend—"

Something flickered in Azriel's eyes, a weariness settling over him as he grew tired of defending his actions. "Do you want her as a friend or do you want her alive?"

Cassian slightly recoiled, a small tick in his jaw. “That’s not fair.”

“Cassian,” Rhys said slowly, “Leave.”

Cassian rubbed his jaw, a heavy anger simmering beneath his skin as he shot one last glare at Azriel. "Whatever," he muttered in disappointment, "I can’t even look at you."

And with that, he turned and stalked out of the room.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The soft chirping of birds filled the air, the sounds a gentle caress against Azriel’s skin. The beauty around him stood out in stark contrast to the heavy silence that hung over him like a suffocating cloak. He’d always loved your little home, loved how secluded it was, how quiet. Everything was slower here, more timid, more calm. 

You were inside with Rhysand, now, and Azriel could hear the faint echo of your voices. It didn’t last long. Within moments it went quiet, and Az clenched his fists at his side.

The longer he lingered outside, the more he felt the pull of your presence, the echo of your touch haunting him like a ghost. Azriel fought every urge to run back inside, to hold you and kiss you again like he had moments prior. It wasn't long enough. He should have taken another minute, another hour. But he knew, deep down, it would never be enough, that it would never be the right time. The longer he spent with you, the longer he felt your touch, it broke him even more.

Azriel’s shadows pulled at him, wrapping around his ankles as if to pull him back inside. He scolded them, his wings twitching as he slightly kicked his feet. They swarmed once more. They were angry at him too. Azriel knew this. He felt it in their touch, in the way they’d whisper. He did his best to ignore it.

He wasn’t being selfish. He was putting you first.

There was a faint creak as the door opened behind him. Swiftly, he turned around, his eyes locking with Rhysand's as his brother stepped out and closed the door behind him with a deliberate slowness.

Rhysand gave Azriel a small, curt nod.  "It's done.”

Azriel's chest tightened, a lump forming in the back of his throat. "Is she-" he began, his voice catching in his throat.

“She’s alright.”

There was a heavy ache in Azriel’s chest now, something tender like an open wound. His heart felt hollow. Empty. He looked down at the ground, at the shadows at his feet, and tightly shut his eyes. 

Rhysand’s face softened. “Az,” he started, but Azriel simply shook his head. 

"Don't," he whispered hoarsely. And before Rhysand could respond, he disappeared.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel stood outside the small inn, his heart pounding in his chest as he hesitated at the threshold. He knew he shouldn't be here, shouldn't risk drawing attention to himself or risk the chance of undoing what he’d chosen to do. But the pull of his own longing had been too strong to resist. He’d lasted longer than expected, but even then, he’d been in agony. He was restless, angry, and above all else, he was lonely.

With a deep breath, he adjusted his posture, making a mental check of the glamour he’d put around himself, concealing his wings and any other identifying features of his. Even with the cover, he kept his wings tightly folded against his back, just in case something went awry.

And then he entered, casting a wary glance around the room as he made his way through the crowded floor. His hands were tucked securely in his pockets, his shadows coiled around him like protective tendrils. He’d done his best to make them blend into the black material of his clothing, told them to stay put and ripple like fabric would. 

Finding a small table in the corner, Azriel made his way over, but as he lowered himself into the seat, a nagging voice in the back of his mind warned him of the folly of his actions. This was stupid, dangerous, and entirely self-indulgent. Dangerous, dangerous, his shadows echoed. He tightened his jaw. He would only be here for a few moments, he told himself, he just wanted to see you— once. That was all.

His shadows whispered louder, a small anxious buzz in his head. He needed to leave before it was too late.

But before he could make a move, he looked up and froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“Hello,” you said timidly, giving him a small smile. Azriel’s heart leapt as the sound, a sudden rush of warmth filling his veins. Your hair was shorter now than the last time he saw you, and you wore a few dainty gold chains around your neck that he’d never seen. Had you bought those recently? Made them with your friends? They looked beautiful on you. And you had so much color. You looked alive. You looked happy.

A moment passed as Azriel simply stared at you, and then he was shaking his head slightly, freeing himself of the daze he had fallen into. 

“Uh, hi- hello.” 

It was then he finally noticed the two small glasses in your hands, both filled slightly with an amber liquid. You followed his gaze, looking down at your own hands. You frowned slightly and then you extended one towards him. 

“I’m not sure why I brought this,” you admitted, “But here. This is for you.”

Azriel swallowed, gently reaching out to take the small cup from your hands. His fingers brushed against your skin ever so slightly and he nearly jumped at the contact, a tingling sensation filling his body.  Your brows furrowed as you observed his hands, your gaze tracing over the perfectly smoothed, tan skin.

He had them glamoured too, just to be safe. 

He watched as you blinked, your expression shifting with a mixture of confusion, as if you sensed something wrong. A wave of sickening guilt rolled through his stomach. His shadows circled at his feet— subtly enough that they’d blend in to the darkness of the cornered floor, but strong enough to where Azriel felt them, pawing at him like dogs to an owner.

“Thank you,” Azriel finally brought himself to say.

Your gaze instantly flickered back to his eyes. You scanned his face, taking in his features, the brown of his eyes. And then you gave him another smile, a small blush forming on your cheeks. You looked over to the empty seat in front of him. 

 "Do you mind?" 

Azriel felt a surge of flustered panic coursing through him, his heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to compose himself. "Oh, yes, of course, please," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He readjusted himself in his own chair.

As you settled into the seat across from him, Azriel couldn't tear his gaze away from you. He watched, mesmerized, as you took a small sip from the glass, the soft curve of your lips bringing back every memory he’d held of them.

He watched as you scanned the crowd. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to look away, to break the spell. This would only make things worse for him. But try as he might, he couldn't tear his gaze away from you, couldn't tear himself away from indulging in your presence. It took every ounce of restraint within him not to lean forward, to reach out and caress you.

You caught Azriel's gaze as he quickly averted his eyes, a small laugh escaping your lips at his sudden shyness. "I'm sorry for interrupting your quiet time," you said.

Azriel shifted in his seat. "No," he replied, a bit too quickly, his voice catching in his throat. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean, I don't mind."

You smiled, a warmth in your eyes that made his heart flutter– something just as painful as it was comforting.

 "This may sound silly, but it feels like I was supposed to come talk to you," you confessed, your voice soft.

A tug in his chest. “Really?" 

"Yes," you replied, your gaze drifting momentarily to the crowd before returning to him. "I'm quite good at listening. Maybe you need a good ear."

Azriel chuckled softly. You always were great at listening, even better at talking, too. It was a perfect balance. He’d always loved that about you. Your presence was so calming, so quiet compared to the loudmouths he called family, even if he loved them dearly. He missed it, how gentle you were. 

"I don't know if that's what I need.”

You tilted your head, studying him with a curious expression. "What brought you here today?" 

Azriel thought for a moment, his gaze falling to his glass as he traced a finger along its rim. He knew he couldn't hide the truth from you, not when you were always so good at reading him, so stubborn at getting what you really wanted.

After a brief pause, he finally admitted, "A girl."

Your eyes lit up with interest, a smile gracing your lips as you leaned in slightly. "Yeah?" you asked, “She somebody special?”

Azriel met your gaze, attempting to muster a smile, but a lump formed in his throat, choking back the words he struggled to say. He bounced his knee nervously under the table. “She was. I can’t seem to let her go.”

Your frown deepened at the admission, a pang of sympathy tugging at your heart. "I'm sorry," you murmured. 

But Azriel quickly shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips as he reassured you, "It's alright."

Silence enveloped you for a moment.

"She was the love of my life," Azriel said, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it. He glanced up at you, instantly finding your attentive gaze that met his own.

You remained quiet, but he knew the look on your face. Eyes wide, slight furrowed brows, a small smile. You were urging him to continue, waiting for him to finish, to be heard.

"Beautiful, kind, funny," he continued, his voice soft with reverence. "Also a great listener."

As he spoke, memories of moments shared with you flooded his mind, each beautiful and painful in their own rite, a haunting sense of longing drowning his senses. 

You gave a small breathy laugh. 

"No wonder you can't let her go," you said. There was a ting of sadness in your gentle voice. Azriel wondered what it was for. 

"Yeah," he agreed softly, his gaze drifting back to his glass.

Silence settled between you once more, the air heavy with every unspoken thought and emotion that Azriel felt. He wasn’t sure why he did it, why he let it slip. But before he could stop himself,  Azriel looked up, his gaze searching yours as he asked, "Have you ever felt that way?" 

You paused, caught off guard by the sudden turn in the conversation. For a moment, you opened your mouth to respond, but the words eluded you, leaving you with a furrowed brow and a frown of uncertainty.

You slumped slightly in your chair, a heaviness settling over you as you admitted, "No, I haven't." 

Azriel's heart sank at your response, a pang of disappointment coursing through him despite his efforts to suppress it. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that there might have been a glimmer of memory within you, somewhere deep in your bones that recognized him. 

He didn’t know why he pressed further, didn’t know why he couldn’t stop himself from talking. He felt his shadows slowly rising from his feet, now surrounding his thighs. He pushed them back. 

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

A part of him dared to hope yet again, to cling to the possibility that you feel the same yearning, the same ache that he’d felt for years. But even as he spoke the words, another part of him recoiled in shame, knowing that he had no right to ask, no right to expect anything from you. He had dug his own grave. This was his doing. This was his choice— and he was being selfish. He was being so utterly selfish as he sat there before you. 

Still, the longing lingered, a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of his own self-imposed exile. But as he watched you, the sadness etched in your features, he knew that his hopes had been in vain.

Your gaze met his, troubled and uncertain, and you hesitated before answering, "I— No. I don't think I have."

Azriel felt a wave of sadness wash over him at your response, a deep ache settling in his chest. His heart was burning now, a pain that made him queasy, made him want to cry and scream at the same time. He decided this was worst than any torture– having to sit across from you as a stranger, as someone who was unable to touch you, hold you, tell you how beautiful you looked, and listen to you say you’d never been in love. Because you had been. You were deeply in love, so in love it scared you both. 

A hot anger filled him. He mourned his old life. He mourned his future with you. You were something real. He had something real. But his past, his duty, his life, it had prevented him from keeping it all, from indulging in a life much simpler than his own, one where he could sit across from you in a run-down inn and watch drunken village males make bets with one another. 

But it was still his fault. He had done this. And you sat before him, a look of frustration on your face, as if you could feel something was off. Shame filled him. He needed to leave. 

Quickly he brought his cup to his lips and chugged the remainder of his drink, the burn of alcohol a bitter sensation that he welcomed with open arms. 

"Thank you for the company," Azriel said as he pushed himself up from the table.

Your gaze followed him, a flicker of concern in your eyes as you watched him rise. "You're leaving?" you asked with a frown.

Azriel nodded, his movements stiff as he straightened his posture. "It was very nice meeting you," he replied, his voice strained as he turned to go.

But before he could take another step, you spoke again, your words stopping him in his tracks. "Wait," you said, the chair sliding on the floor as you stood.

Azriel turned back to face you, his heart pounding in his chest as he awaited your next words. It was getting harder to breathe now, his heartbeat shuddering in his ears. He needed to leave. 

"I hope that one day I'll experience a love like that," you said, pausing for a moment. With a soft, but hesitant, smile, you continued, "That one day, someone will love me like you loved her."

A flicker of surprise crossed Azriel's features. His mouth fell open slightly as he took a sharp inhale. And then he was swallowing heavily, blinking away the pressure building up behind his eyes. 

“You will,” he responded, his voice a slight croak. He cleared his throat, looking to the floor for a second. Then, his gaze was holding yours for a lingering moment. "Goodbye, Y/n.”

You watched his retreating figure with a small smile on your lips. But then, like a sudden bolt of lightning, a realization struck you. You frowned.

Your feet moved of their own accord, propelling you forward faster than your mind could process. You dashed to the entrance, flinging open the door as sunlight flooded your vision, momentarily blinding you.

"Wait! How did you know my—" you began, the words catching in your throat as you stepped outside, your eyes scanning the area in search of Azriel's retreating form. But to your dismay, there was no one there, no trace of him to be found, only the empty street stretched out before you, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun.

Your voice trailed off into a whisper as you finished your sentence, "name.”

Your name.

How did he know your name?

Frowning, you brought a hand to your chest, feeling a small burning fluttering sensation in your ribs. With a sigh, you bit the inside of your cheek. You turned around and made your way back inside, your heart now heavy with a sensation you didn’t quite know how to name.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

a/n: since in death & his reaper azriel forgot about reader, i obvs had to balance the scales and write one where the reader forgets az. we luv angst!!! hope y’all enjoyed 🫶🏻

[illyrianbitch]

Somewhere, There Was Love

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel meets you on a Saturday. He loses you on one, too.

Warnings: angst, some hurt/comfort, slow burn in reverse, bittersweet ending, love and everything broken it brings

Word Count: 3k

For @sjmxreaderweek Day 1: Beginnings/Endings

re-read one of my fav works of mine and got tempted to write in present tense again. enjoy this last min work <3

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Some poets argue that the greatest stories end in the same place they began.

Azriel is’t sure what he thinks about that— what he thinks about poets, and poetry, and pretty words in general. 

He only knows this: He met you on a Saturday. And he lost you on one, too.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s evening when Azriel sees you for the first time.

He’s trailing behind his family, half-listening to Cassian grumble about something or other as they stroll through the River District. His wings ache, the sky’s too blue, and he’s already planning how to disappear before dinner even starts. That’s when his shadows twitch, a subtle ripple of attention tugging him slightly off course.

Your eyes lift at the same time his do. You meet.

You’re standing across the street, half-hidden behind stacked moving boxes. Your hair catches in the wind and your sleeves are rolled up past your elbows. There’s a smudge of dust on your cheek.

For one, suspended second, you hold each other’s gaze. There’s nothing dramatic about it, not really—no lightning bolt, no crackling bond. Just a glance. But it hooks something in his chest.

He thinks, absurdly, that you must be a dream. 

He almost asks if you need help. Almost. But Cassian shouts his name, and by the time Azriel turns back, you’re gone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You arrive with Feyre a week later.

She introduces you as her friend. A traveler who’s decided to settle in Velaris—for now.

“She’s been all over,” Feyre says. “Autumn, Day, even parts of the mortal lands.”

“I like movement,” you explain. “The idea of not belonging anywhere.”

Azriel watches the way you speak. The way your eyes flick toward him sometimes, like you remember him from that moment in the street. Like it meant something to you, too. 

After what feels like forever, Feyre steers you straight to him.

You smile at him like you know exactly what she’s doing. There’s amusement behind your eyes, mischief curling at the corners of your mouth. “Hi.”

Azriel’s shadows still. And his heart—traitorous, stupid heart—stutters. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling back until Cass elbows him.

“Azriel,” he says, holding out a hand. He’s never done that so naturally. “Nice to meet you.”

You shake his hand and hold his gaze. “I saw you when I was moving in.”

Azriel nods, caught. 

“You didn’t offer to help.”

“I almost did.”

Your smile deepens. “Almost doesn’t lift boxes.”

He’s never felt his shadows this interested in anyone before. They lean forward, curious. So does he. He’ll think about this later. How simple it all seemed. How dangerous it already was.

He knows, deep down, that he’s a goner.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You start showing up more.

Azriel considers you a friend, even. 

Dinner invitations. Walks. Late nights spent sitting near each other while everyone else is loud and laughing. You tease him, lightly at first, then with more confidence. Azriel isn’t used to someone challenging him like that. You laugh at his dryness, at the way he reacts. He finds himself smiling more than he ever has.

One night, you brush your foot against his under the table. A test. He doesn’t move away. You tilt your head. He mirrors you. There’s a private smile between you, and Azriel feels young. Reckless. Seventeen again.

That night, he tells you you’re beautiful.

He means it like a prayer.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The first kiss comes two weeks later. Azriel isn’t sure if thats fast or slow for him. Time doesn’t really exist when it comes to you, he’s noticed. It never feels real. 

You’re sitting beside him on the roof of your apartment. 

You talk about the world. About places you want to go, cities you want to see. Azriel listens like he always does—with everything he has.

“It’s fun,” you say, tipping your head to rest against his shoulder. “To think about all the places you and I can go.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. "It is."

He turns to look at you. Your eyes are already on him, and there's something soft there. Something he thinks might be meant just for him.

He kisses you then. Slowly. It feels like he’s beginning to learn the language of you.

And when you pull away, breathless, you whisper, “You taste like rain.”

He kisses you again. 

You make a small noise of contentment and curl your fingers in his shirt. He thinks, for a terrifying, beautiful second, that he could love you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You redecorate all the time. Az thinks its funny—how unattached you are to furniture, how quickly your possessions cycle out of your hold. 

He helps you carry a shelf upstairs, and you thank him with a crooked smile and a story about the city you lived in before this one. You always talk like you're halfway out the door, like everywhere is temporary. But still, you stay for now.

He flies with you one night. You giggle against his chest at the way the wind tickles your skin. You land on the roof of a nearby apartment, your knees brushing as his shadows curl protectively around your shoulders.

You talk about traveling again. How you want to see every court, every continent. You tell him about the sea-glass beaches of the Summer Court, the northern stars in Winter, the caves in the wilds.

You want to see everything. “Even the places no one thinks are beautiful,” you say. “Because I think they are.”

Azriel listens. Nods. Smiles when you do.

You don’t notice that he never once says he wants to go.

He doesn’t know if you’ll ask him to come.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say if you do.

It’s all a fantasy anyway.

So he just says, “Tell me where we’d go first.”

And you do.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He finds a small bag in your closet one night. Just sitting there. Like it’s been packed for a while.

“You going somewhere?” he asks.

“I always keep one ready.”

“For what?”

You shrug. “In case I wake up one day and the air feels wrong.”

Azriel doesn’t ask if you’ve ever done it before. He doesn’t want to know the answer. But it sits with him for days, like some sort of warning. Some sort of promise.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You fall asleep on the couch beside him. Head tipped toward his shoulder.

Azriel doesn’t move for a long time. Not even to breathe too deeply. As if the whole room might shift and you’ll wake. Or worse—vanish. 

His shadows curl toward you and brush lightly against your hair. One of them flicks your wrist like it’s counting the beat of your pulse.

You don’t stir.

You trust him. That knowledge sits heavy in his chest.

Azriel gently reaches down, brushing a hand over your temple. He’s going to miss this moment. It’s already a memory.

He thinks—not for the first time—that he should leave. Walk away before it means something he can’t undo. Before you mean something more.

But his shadows refuse.

They’ve already decided.

And Azriel is starting to think he has, too.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You fall into a rhythm. Slow mornings. Rooftop evenings. Shared coffees. He reads journal entries you’re too shy to show anyone else. You sketch him once, from memory, and it unnerves him how well you capture the softness he tries to hide.

He tells you that you smell like smoke and sweet things. You kiss him in the quiet of his room. He starts keeping your favorite fruit in his kitchen. His nightstand looks like you.

“I’d like to disappear,” you say one night, sprawled across him. “Just pick a direction and keep walking until it feels like enough.”

“You’d get tired,” he murmurs.

“Maybe. But I’d get free, too.”

He falls asleep to your breathing, only to wake up an hour later. You’re still lying on his chest, fingers trailing across his exposed skin. His shadows are asleep and he can barely pry an eye open.

It’s funny how exhausted he is around you. In a good way. He’s never slept this good.

You trace shapes—stars, maybe. Then words.

“What are you drawing?” he murmurs.

“Nothing important.” He feels the pull in your cheeks as you smile against his skin. A teasing, little thing.

He tugs you closer, closes his eyes, and welcomes sleep again. 

Before he succumbs to the darkness, he focuses on the pattern of your fingertips. You’re writing something. Words. He can’t help it. He decodes them.

I love you.

He wraps his arms tighter around you, afraid to breathe, afraid to say it out loud and shatter it. But he feels it. Deep in his bones.

And the feeling already hurts.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s an early morning when he says something dry and sarcastic. You roll your eyes and call him a liar. He doesn’t deny it. You lean forward and say, “You’re not nearly as mysterious as you want everyone to believe.”

And then you kiss him.

He smiles into this kiss, as he always does now, and his hands come up, fingers curling around your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His shadows wrap around you both like instinct.

Later, he tells you that being with you has made him afraid in a way he’s never been before. You frown and ask him why. 

He tells you the truth. He’s never had anything of his own to lose.

You tell him, “Yeah. Me too.”

You make love that night and Azriel finds himself memorizing every part of your body— every sound, every movement. Like he knows, somewhere in his bones, he is bound to lose you. 

Azriel has always loved like this—as if time is already running out. He holds joy like it’s a ghost.

That night he says, “Stay.”

You blink. “I am. I’m spending the night.”

He shakes his head. His eyes are wide and pleading. He’s sure he looks like a hopeful child. “No,” he says, “You know what I mean.”

Your brow furrows. You still. Think. Then answer, “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Just—stay.”

You stare at him for a long time. Then nod.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The cracks start small.

You ask him where he’s going. He says he doesn’t know. Just a lead. Just a hunch. You tell him that it worries you. That he can’t expect you to be okay with these constant missions. 

He says, “I’ll be fine.”

You say, “You don’t know that.”

He tells you he’d never leave you. You say, “You do. Every time you walk out that door. And I’m not always going to be here when you come back.”

Azriel pretends he doesn’t hear it. For both of your sakes. He goes on the mission anyways. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Still, you stay. Because when it’s good, it’s so good. Azriel cooks you breakfast. You read to him while he sharpens his blades. He writes little notes and slips them into your journals.

You teach him how to write poetry. He never lets anyone else read it.

One night, Azriel props himself up on one elbow. 

“Okay,” he says, grinning proud and pink-cheeked. “I think, if we had a daughter, she'd be dramatic. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Tiny. Stubborn. Would boss me around.”

“She sounds amazing,” you say, a little breathless.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I’d marry you, you know.”

You swallow hard enough for Az to track the movement.

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

The wine is burning in his chest. He doesn’t look away. “We could do it barefoot. Somewhere stupid. I wouldn’t care. I just want—”

You kiss him before he finishes. Az keeps his eyes closed, floats in this dream of a life, as you murmur against his lips, “The Autumn court has beautiful chapels.”

You’re happy like this, Azriel thinks. Even when there’s a slight fantasy to it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You don’t go to dinner with his family. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t realized it before Rhysand brings it up. 

Azriel asks, “Are you coming tonight?” while pulling on a jacket.

You don’t look up from the book in your hands. “No, I’m alright.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for you to feel it settle. Then—

“You don’t like them,” he says. Not a question.

You sigh. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You close the book. “They’re your people, Azriel. Not mine.”

“I thought you were friends with Feyre.”

“I’m friendly with Feyre.”

He frowns. “That’s different.”

“I know.”

Az studies you.  “I’m not trying to be cruel,” you say. “But this isn’t my home.”

Something shifts in him — not all at once, but a tilt. A slow dawning. He realizes, maybe for the first time, that you don’t want it to be.

Later, in bed, he turns toward you and whispers, “I used to think I liked being alone, too.”

You smile at the ceiling. “You don’t.”

Silence again.

“I need them,” he says eventually. “I need my family.”

“I know,” you whisper. 

He wants to ask if you have anyone like that. Wants to ask why you don’t need anyone the way he does. But he already knows you won’t answer. Not out loud.

So he doesn’t ask. It’s probably some answer about how you’re bound to leave, anyways. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re concentrating awfully hard,” you muse, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s just a silly report, baby.”

“It’s not just a report,” Azriel mutters, still focused, his eyes never leaving the paper. “And you’re in my light.”

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “In your light? And here I thought I was the light of your life.”

Azriel doesn’t respond, eyes narrowed as he shifts the paper to the side. But his lips twitch, just slightly. He likes when you say things like that. When you acknowledge that, maybe, you have an important place in his life. Somewhere you fit.

You shift closer. “It must take an incredible amount of focus,” you muse, “I mean, what if you get distracted?”

“Won’t happen.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, considering. “You don’t get distracted?”

“Never.”

“Even if I do this?”

You lean in, tracing your fingers over the ridges of his spine. Your fingers wander further, brushing over the sensitive base of his wings.

A slow inhale escapes him, but still, he doesn’t falter.

You lean closer, close enough that your lips nearly graze his ear as you whisper, “What about now?”

Azriel’s movements still.

Without warning, he turns, his wings flaring slightly, blocking your view of the table as he cages you in with his body.

His duties are long forgotten as he pushes you back onto his bed and devours you for the night. The way you say his name makes him shiver. Tonight, though, it also makes him sad. He’s mourning, he realizes. He’s preparing himself for a loss. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Az traces the beginning of the end back to a stormy Thursday night. 

It’s two in the morning when he comes back home. To your apartment. Not his. He stops in the doorway. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket still on, staring at the floor.

You don’t look up. “Were you going to tell me?”

Azriel hesitates. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“It was a suicide mission.”

“I knew I’d make it out.”

“But what if one day you can’t?”

Silence.

You let out a quiet laugh. “How can you be so sure of yourself and still hate yourself like this?”

He flinches. He doesn’t think that’s a fair thing to say. “You’re angry.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then come to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I’m not that kind of tired.”

Azriel kneels. Reaches for your hand. You pull away.

“You keep doing this,” you say. “Throwing yourself into these dangerous missions, acting like it’s no big deal.”

“It’s what I’m meant to do.”

“No. It’s what you’ve convinced yourself you’re only good for.”

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at you like he’s hearing it for the first time.

“Love’s not enough if you don’t want to stay alive for it. What's the point of staying for a ghost?”

Azriel apologizes. You send him on his way and, for the first time in months, he lays awake in his own bed. Alone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

There’s a lull. You try. You both do. He brings you dinner. You sit on his lap and kiss his cheek and he murmurs that he loves you before making love to you like you’re something holy, something divine, and he’s desperate for salvation.

But he’s always leaving. And you’re always waiting. Azriel knows it can’t last. Waiting is not in your nature. Not really. You’ve been inching toward the door for weeks. He’s been pretending not to notice. Pretending not to feel it.

Until one day, you sit across from each other, knees barely touching. And neither of you has the energy to lie about it anymore.

You say, “This isn’t working.”

He nods. There are tears in your eyes and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to wipe them when they fall. 

Azriel says, “But I love you.”

“I know,” you say. “I love you too.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because love wasn’t enough. Because it was love. So much love. And still—

He thought heartbreak would be louder. More cinematic. Shouting or slamming doors. But it’s this: A quiet room. Your knees touching. And the terrible understanding that you both meant it—all of it.

Azriel doesn’t cry.

He just sits there, blinking. Wondering why his chest feels cracked open and hollow and free, all at once. How grief and relief can sit beside each other like old friends.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s Saturday evening when Azriel sees you again.

It’s been weeks since that night.

He’s walking beside his family—shoulder to shoulder with Cassian, wings stretched and taking up space as they pass through the River District. The sky is a perfect, boundless blue. His shadows drift lazily in the sunlight.

He’s already smiling. It's a family dinner night. They’re having his favorite —Nyx’s favorite now, too. The boy has begged to help make it, and Azriel is going to let him, even if half the sauce will end up on the floor. Az is excited for his hands to smell like basil and roasted garlic for the rest of the night.

Then his shadows stir—not with warning, but recognition.

Azriel glances across the street.

You’re standing there, sleeves rolled up, half-hidden behind stacked moving boxes. There’s a smudge of something on your cheek. You laugh at something someone says, head thrown back in that way he used to love. Still does, maybe. A little.

Your eyes lift and meet his. A quiet ache settles in Azriel’s chest. Not the sharp kind it used to be. Not grief that grips the ribs or hollows him out. Just something soft. Lingering.

For one suspended second, he sees you as you are — happy. Free. You smile at him, and he breathes through it. He smiles back.

Cassian calls his name. Azriel turns, says something back, distracted. And when he glances over again, you’re gone. Just like the first time.

He never sees you again.

Eventually, he stops searching for your face in crowded streets.

But sometimes—when the air is quiet and the night feels like a memory—he lets himself think of you. Wonders where you are. If you found a place to settle. If you're happy.

He hopes you are. And he hopes he never hears about it. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: it feels diff when i write in present v past tense. like past tense is my usual writings, fun little stories with fun lil plots. present tense always makes me sad and nostalgic, strangely enough

i'm a bit scatter-brained rn bc of some family issues, but yall best believe ill post all my random wips soon!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻 

@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 @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[prythianpages]

The Mark You Left Behind | Eris Masterlist

Eris x Reader ft. Azriel | Eris breaks your heart, unaware that you’re carrying his child. Now, both of you are left to grapple with the consequences of his actions, as your lives spiral in unexpected directions.

warnings: angst, hidden pregnancy, Eris being an asshole sometimes (other warnings will be specified by part)

a/n: The title is inspired by the song Que No Quede Huella (a classic), which is why the banner has the spanish lyrics. These parts are listed in chronological order. The parts with ৡ are kind of like bonus parts.

(I will say this will most likely be a set of fics/drabbles that center around a story but not necessarily a plot? Idk if this makes sense. Basically me writing a series but without the full detailed commitment? I'm just happy that after dealing with a rough writer's block, I'm actually getting the inspo/urge to write something.)

ৡ Down To You | The more Eris lets you in, the more he finds himself being pushed and pulled into feelings he's scared to accept. aka the beginning of it all

ৡ Tell Me I've Been Lied To | Eris didn't know that three simple words could change the course of your lives.

I. Stuck | After breaking your heart, Eris thinks you have moved on.

II. Think of You | Eris is unaware of how wrong he was. You're still picking up the pieces of your shattered heart. You find that it does not matter how far you distance yourself from Eris, a part of him will always be with you.

III. Something I Wait For | You're still overridden with stress over your unexpected pregnancy when an unexpected guest turns up at Day Court.

IV. Silver Soul | Azriel finds himself meddling in your business.

V. Lost in the Dark | Eris wants you back in Autumn. Meanwhile, you find yourself confiding in Azriel.

here is a little meme/post I made over one of the scenes from pt V.

VI. How Did We Get Here? | Things get heated at the High Lord's meeting and Azriel accidentally lets something slip.

VII. Protect Me From What I Want | After finding out you're carrying his child, Eris makes a sudden & unexpected visit to Day Court.

coming soon:

VIII. I'd Be There | Growing desperate in his search for you, Eris reaches out to Lucien, only to be settled over with more worry. sneak peak kinda

IX. If Only | Azriel is there to comfort you after taking you away from Day Court. aka your pov after pt VII

X. Come Back To Me

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

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[prythianpages]

Next to You | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | The world is ending and Azriel does all he can to be next to you.

warnings: angst, this does touch on death/dying (character deaths/reader death), end of the world, mentions of blood/injuries

word count: roughly 3,400

a/n: You can thank Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars for this lol. I was supposed to post this way earlier but I decided to rewrite some things last minute.

Death had come, manifesting in a cloud of heavy darkness. So dark it made Azriel’s shadows appear light and shiver at the sight. The darkness was rising from every crevice, every corner and a low, rumbling growl shook the earth beneath him. 

Koschei was here.

The sky began to darken, the sun being swallowed whole by the vast darkness much like the warriors at his side did. Shadows writhed and swirled around him, whispering and frantically urging him to run.

But Azriel’s eyes were still fixed on the spot where Rhysand was standing. Where Rhysand had stood.

Koschei had suddenly unleashed his wrath upon Prythian, taking each court down one by one. He saved the Night Court for last but he took its High Lord first. Feyre had stayed behind with Mor and Amren at the riverhouse to protect Nyx. Rhysand had been struck with such brutal force and swallowed by Koschei’s void of darkness so swiftly that Azriel still couldn’t believe it.

Not a single trace was left behind of his best friend, his brother, his High Lord.

Rhysand was gone. Just like that.

There was no time to grieve, no time to scream. Koschei’s men were advancing, their swords and arrows drawn and ready to continue their relentless attack. Azriel, Cassian and Nesta fought back alongside their own soldiers or what little remained of them.

It was no use. They were vastly outnumbered and no help would come as the Night Court was the last one standing. It felt as though the battle had already been lost, the sickening smirk on Koschei’s pale face sealing their fate. 

The ground buckled and split, jagged cracks tearing across the cobbled streets like veins of chaos. Trees swayed violently, their roots torn from the earth and the sounds of fae screaming rang out in the distance. All signs of life were being ripped apart at the seams.

Azriel’s gaze darted to Cassian, and an overwhelming wave of dread twisted deep in his gut. The Night Court General, usually so unbreakable, now stood battered and bloodied, his eyes void of any hope. Defeat clung to him like the grime smeared across his face. Nesta reached for his hand, their fingers threading together in silent solidarity.

A look of understanding passed between them. 

“Go,” is all Cassian said.

Azriel hesitated, his chest tightening with wild emotions. There were words burning on his tongue—words he never thought he'd have to say. But he couldn’t force them out. He didn’t need to. Cassian nodded once, his eyes conveying further understanding. A final, silent farewell. A nod that Azriel returned. 

And then he spread his wings wide, launching into the air. The wind howled against him, his shadows shuddering nervously, sensing his panic and wanting to soothe him. But they, too, could see that the end was near.

**

Azriel had never feared death.

As an Illyrian warrior and the Night Court’s spymaster, he had long prepared for it, accepted it as an inevitable part of his life. He was willing to die for his court.

But then he met you and everything changed.

Suddenly, the thought of dying filled him with terror. The fear of leaving you behind, of never being able to say goodbye. The idea of dying without feeling your touch one last time, without whispering how much he loved you. That was more frightening than any enemy he could ever face.

The words you had exchanged earlier were rushed and hurried, Koschei's attack taking everyone by surprise. He hadn’t said goodbye. He had only just enough time to promise to come back to you. 

And that’s all Azriel could think of in this moment–in what could very well be his last moments–is keeping that promise.

Smoke and dust choked the air, Koschei’s darkness thickening. He doesn’t turn around in fear for what he’d see. He kept his gaze forward, watching in distress as buildings shattered. The city of Velaris was crumbling apart around him. 

He ducked and wove through the falling stones and debris, doing his best to avoid the death arrows that seemed to be coming from every direction. His hazel eyes were sharp and focused. Even as pure fear clawed at his chest, making his heart race and hands tremble.

Your name was a prayer on his lips that manifested into a mantra of desperate hope.

The bond between you thrummed and sung madly. What once was a source of comfort was now only magnifying his fear. He could feel your terror, feel the frantic rhythm of your uneven heartbeat, echoing through the bond like a scream.

Azriel’s eyes locked on the House of Wind as it came into view, his wings straining as he pushed harder against the air. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, pushing past the protests of his muscles, the stinging of his injuries. The mountain the house was on trembled beneath the force of the quakes. His breath caught in his throat as one of the house’s spires broke away, crashing into the rocky expanse below.

He folded his wings in tight, landing hard in the courtyard, barely keeping his balance as the ground beneath him bucked and split. Cracks spidered across the stone beneath his boots, but he forced himself forward. Determination burned bright in him, every second counting. He had to find you, to be next to you.

Inside, the walls trembled, stone and dust raining from above as the ceilings began to crumble. He barreled through the halls, his destination clear. The library. He had left you there, hidden away with the priestesses and some of Valkyries, who had vowed to defend in case the attack reached them.

He thought you would be safe there. That he’d defeat Koschei and his army of death. That he’d return to his family and be able to hold his nephew, who has only had a taste of the world, in his arms again. That he’d be returning to you with the promise of tomorrow and a future where the two of you could start a family of your own. 

All those hopes and dreams were dying along with the world around him. The cruelty of fate knew no bounds. It continued to weave its harsh and bitter threads and when Azriel threw open the library doors, his heart stalled in his chest. Panic gripped him, raw and unyielding, flooding his veins like ice. So cold that he found it hard to breathe.

Because there was nothing.

No priestesses. No Valkyries. No you. 

Only darkness.

Koschei’s death magic had hit the library first. The clouds swarming below let out a hiss from the faint light that dared to creep in through the doors.  Azriel’s shadows slammed them shut, trying to hold the darkness back. The House’s energy pulsed faintly, aiding his shadows and taking over. Whatever magic remained of the House directed itself at repelling the evil force that had invaded its walls.

His shadows scattered, darting through the ruined halls, desperate to find you. But the gnawing fear clawing at his chest felt insurmountable, a type of desperation he had never known. He reached for the bond, tugging on it with everything he had. He pulled and pulled on those threads, frantically searching for any response. 

Tears stung his eyes when, at last, he felt your response.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice trembling, the word a plea torn from his soul. He didn’t know who he was begging—the shadows, the House, or the Mother herself.

His shadows moved, drawing his attention away from the door that shuddered under the pressure of Koschei’s darkness. His head snapped up as he realized where you must be.

Azriel bolted back up the stairs, his shadows scouting ahead and darting through the debris and cracks. His head began to pound and vision blurred from his injuries but he pushed on. The connection through the bond grew stronger, the tug more insistent. 

She’s safe for now. Not hurt, a shadow reported to him but he needed to confirm it for himself. Needed to see you with his own eyes, feel your presence. 

His legs trembled as he pushed forward, his lungs burning. When he finally reached the door to your shared room, he shoved it open with more force than necessary, his gaze sweeping around, wild with fear. 

And there you were.

The sight of you nearly buckled his knees. Relief washed over him in a crashing wave.  You stood on the balcony, your back turned to him, silhouetted against the dimming sky. Koschei’s creeping darkness loomed on the horizon, thick and unnatural, swallowing the sky and closing in around the House of Wind. 

The sense of relief he had felt was abruptly cut short. Time was running out.

His shadows reached you first, swirling around your feet, urging you to turn. When you did, his heart clenched painfully.

Your eyes, wide and teary, were full of fear and despair. You clutched something tightly against your chest—his cloak. Your fingers trembled as you gripped onto the fabric as if it were a lifeline.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” your voice quivered. “I thought–I thought I wasn’t going to see you again…”

Azriel crossed the distance between you in the blink of an eye. He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you tightly against him, cradling your head to his chest. His embrace was fierce, almost desperate. Only when he buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent, did he finally allow a few tears to slip from his eyes.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. He repeated it, softer this time, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m here.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. Your hands cupped his face, thumb gently wiping at his tears. When your eyes roamed over his face and then lowered, a sob tore through your body, more tears spilling from your eyes.

“You’re hurt,” you choked out, taking in the gashes and bruises marring his skin and wings, the torn leathers barely holding together. The agony in your eyes when you met his gaze once more was far more tormenting and painful than his injuries. 

Azriel shook his head, his breath ragged and labored. “It doesn’t matter.”

The world outside was falling apart—literally crumbling into darkness. Azriel was dying and every breath now tasted of bitter and agonizing defeat. He could only hope that the Mother would spare him some mercy and grant him more time so that he may go with you. 

“You’re bleeding,” you whispered, your hand reaching down to touch the blood that soaked through his leathers. It stained your hands and Azriel removed your hand from his side, placing it back onto his face, not caring over the blood that now smeared his face.

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated as if he could force the pain away with sheer will.

Because you were the only thing that mattered to him at this moment. You are his everything. His only reason to keep fighting, to keep breathing.

You let out another sob, the sound like a dagger, piercing straight through his heart. “I don’t want this to be the end,” you whispered, your words shattering him further. 

“I know, baby, ” Azriel replied. His grip on you tightened, his wings curling protectively around your frame as though he could shield you from anything, as though nothing in the world could touch you while he was near. 

He wished he could take away your pain, your fear. That there was something he could do to stop the darkness invading the world. His brows furrowed in anguish, whether from his wounds or your suffering, he couldn’t tell. He leant his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, feeling as though he failed you. As your mate, he had vowed to protect you, to shield you from harm, to always keep you safe.

“No,” you said firmly, sensing his regret and shame through the bond. 

“Azriel, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. The best partner I could’ve ever wished for. I thank the Cauldron every day for blessing me with you so” –your face tightened, the very thought of Azriel’s shame and sense of failure cutting deeply through you– “so don’t for a second think you’ve ever failed me. Not then, not now."

"I love you so, so much."

His eyes opened wide, searching yours, and there he found only love. His heart swelled with emotion, eyes filling with more tears. “I love you, too.”

And then he kissed you. One last time. The saltiness of your tears mixed into the kiss but he didn’t care. Azriel cherished every taste of you, savoring the bittersweet blend.

The harrowing sound of stone breaking and collapsing followed by more screams had you tensing and breaking apart. Azriel’s shadows circled around you both, forming a protective barrier as the world around you got darker and darker. The floor groaned and splintered beneath you and a shudder coursed through you as the air grew unbearably cold around you.

Unbridled fear and panic surged through the bond, so intense he could no longer tell where your emotions ended and his began.

“Look at me,” Azriel murmured, his voice soft but laced with a tremor, betraying the emotion he was holding back. He looked at you, his eyes tracing every feature of your face, indulging himself one more time.

Azriel’s shadows let out a hiss and your breath hitched. Koschei’s darkness had finally reached your room. But Azriel refused to let the overwhelming emotions suffocate you both, refused to let things end this way. 

 “Look at me,” Azriel said again, holding your face firmly in his hands to keep your head from turning. There was a slight tremor in his fingers as you looked back up at him, tears slipping continuously. He offered you a smile that was trembling yet still warm and comforting. “That’s it, baby. Just keep your eyes on me.”

The stone above you began to crackle and Azriel pulled you closer to him, held you tighter. “I’ve got you. In this life and the next. I will find my way back to you.” 

His eyes looked into yours, those hazel irises filled with raw vulnerability, a fierce determination. Your lips trembled as you nodded, struggling to form words past the lump in your throat. Yet, slowly, you managed a smile of your own. 

The world was ending around you, Koschei’s oppressive shadow of death looming.  He could take anything and everything he wanted. Except for this. He could never take what lived between you.

Because not even death could tear you apart, sever the thread that bound your souls.

Azriel swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to yours. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing, each inhale more shaky.  “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow,” he whispered, his words straight from the vows he made to you during your mating ceremony. 

“And wherever we go, we'll face it together, ” you breathed, the ache in your chest nearly unbearable, mirroring the one in his. Yet, beneath the weight of fear, a fragile sliver of hope flickered. 

And Azriel couldn’t help but think back to how he’d always imagined his end would come. Brave, fearless and alone. A warrior’s death. It was the way he’d been raised and trained to believe he should go. 

But this… this was something far greater. 

He found a deeper kind of bravery. The courage to love so deeply and fiercely, even at the darkest of times. To face death not with a sword, but with you in his hold and feel whole. There was something tragically beautiful in facing the end with you by his side...

A sudden chill swept through him, paralyzing him. The warmth between you two began to fade yet your gazes remained locked. Unwavering and resolute.

Was this it? The last shard of light before the darkness consumed him? The scene around him began to dissolve, your image flickering like a candle in the wind. 

The last thing he saw was your eyes before the world faded into black.

just kidding!

Azriel startles awake, eyes wide and frantic, searching through the darkness. He blinks and he realizes that it’s not completely dark, that he's in your shared room and it's warm and comforting. Moonlight trickles in, casting a soft glow on you and he feels like he can breathe again. You’re nestled in bed beside him, turned on your side and facing him. He watches as your chest rises and falls gently, features soft and peaceful.

So different from the you he had seen moments ago and a stark contrast to the way his chest is currently rising and falling. Rapidly and uneven, driven by the hammering of his heart.

It had all been just a dream. A nightmare.

A strand of hair falls across your face, and Azriel’s eyes catch the movement of a shadow. The one that much rather prefers to be by your side than his. It peaks over its hiding spot, your hair, to face Azriel.

Though his shadows don’t have eyes, he feels as if it is blinking right back at him, slowly assessing him. It gives a shudder and then, another shadow darts from the corner, stirring the rest awake. They rise from were they had been hiding and resting, rushing back to him in a heartbeat. 

Master is safe, they whisper as they brush up against his arms and wrap around him. Before he can reign them back, some of them flutter toward you, doing the same. Master’s mate is safe.

It was just a nightmare. You both are safe.

The cool caresses of Azriel’s shadows have you shifting slightly and they coil back as you blink your eyes open. Sorry, they whisper. Some of them retreat back into hiding in the corners, merging with the ordinary shadows of the room. The ones hovering at his side continue to whisper their reassurances, intent on calming and soothing their master.

“Az?” Your voice is heavy with sleep.

You begin to push yourself up and Azriel scoots closer to you, one of his wings draping over you to keep you in place. His hand reaches out for your face and he pulls you in close until your noses nearly touch.

Concern immediately flashes in your open and wide eyes as you must sense the lingering unease through the bond.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Azriel murmurs, still groggy and shaken from the remnants of his nightmare. But as he studies you—the warmth in your gaze, the absence of the fear and despair he had seen in his dream—his anxiety begins to ebb. “I am now. It was just a nightmare.”

Your brows furrow in doubt, and he brushes his thumb along them, soothing the crease. Your hand then reaches for his chest, right over where his heart is still racing and your frown deepens. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can bring you some tea.”

Though his wing remains draped over you, he hooks a leg around you for added security. “I’m okay,” he reassures you, leaning in to nuzzle against your nose. When he pulls back, he can still sense your worry so he adds: “I don’t need tea. I just need you.”

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he breathes back almost immediately.

He covers your hand on his chest with his own, feeling his heart begin to calm with each passing moment. He then brings your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to your palm before resting it against his cheek. He can feel the warmth that blooms in your chest at his touch and reciprocates the feeling through the bond.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes softly.  “Now, go back to sleep.”

“You too,” you huff out, the sound of small disbelief strangely soothing to him at this moment.

Azriel grins, his tense muscles slowly easing. “You first.”

He lets out an amused exhale as you slightly roll your eyes at him, but he can tell sleep still clings to them. After one more assessing look at him, you let out a sigh and finally, close your eyes. His gaze is tender and loving as he watches you drift back to sleep, your features softening. The grin on his face eases into a contented smile when you shift even closer, instinctively seeking his warmth.

This time, the last thing he sees before closing his eyes is your peaceful face, the lines of worry smoothed away. No trace or hint of fear or panic. Only tranquility.

And as he sinks back into the embrace of sleep, he feels relaxed and secure, knowing that the promise of another tomorrow still awaits for the both of you.

a/n: Did I get y'all? Honestly, I was going to leave this without that last scene but then I thought that was too cruel so I stayed true to the song "I just woke up from a dream." I watched this scene between Cersei & Jaime from Game of Thrones so many times to help me write this because I wanted it to give the same vibes.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[pellucid-constellations]

Flightless Bird

Pairing: Azriel x Human!Reader

Summary: Azriel was not supposed to be in the mortal lands. Azriel was not supposed to love a mortal. He couldn't find it in him to care.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of injury and death, a little bit wistful I suppose

a/n: I am struggling to write!! So I'm sorry if this is all jumbled and weird 😭 Please enjoy me trying to get my act together I love you allll <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel was not where he was supposed to be. He knew that—knew his High Lord would be disappointed at his whereabouts—and he went anyway. 

It was often hard to blend into the mortal lands, but he was not unused to the discomfort that came with slinking around alley corners and plastering his wings to his back. If a human saw him, he would be in greater trouble than a simple tongue-lashing from Rhysand. 

He hadn’t been caught yet. 

“Azriel.” 

Well—he hadn’t been caught by anyone he wouldn't want to be caught by. 

Azriel turned on his heel, his back pressed against the biting cold of the cobblestone alley. You stood before him with a basket on your arm and an accusatory gleam pointed up with your gaze. The collar of your dress was slightly askew and if he looked hard enough, he could see bits of basil on your sleeve hem. 

He fought the smile that edged onto his face, not wanting to mock your exasperation. “Y/n,” he cordially greeted. 

You huffed. “Don’t say that so casually.” 

“Your name?” 

“Your death sentence, more like. You know you shouldn’t be here.” 

Ah, yes—Azriel could not forget that multiple people did not want him meandering about the mortal lands. Rhysand didn’t want him here because of the trouble it could cause. You didn’t want him here because you thought the humans would kill him. A small misconception that he found endearing.

“Why not?” Azriel questioned, tilting his head to the side as you stepped forward. You peered over his shoulder past the mouth of the alley in hurried agitation. 

“How long have you been here?” you asked, brushing off his question. “Has anyone seen you? Here, quickly—most people are at the market event so we can make it to my house.” 

And Azriel had gotten exactly what he wanted the second you wrapped your hand around his forearm. He let you tug him around more corners and watched as you anxiously bit into your lip and fretted for his imagined safety. At one point, he had whisked the herb basket from your arm and held it loosely at his fingertips. You only glanced back at him for a moment, too concerned with shoving him into the too-small front door of your home. 

Azriel set the basket down on the quaint table by the fire and felt his bones settle in the soft glow of your home. While you busied yourself by locking the door and slamming the windows shut, he casually looked around the space and breathed in the spices and rich wood that calmed him. He had difficulty describing this feeling to others, so he coveted it instead. 

The slick of your curtains shutting seemed to end your tirade, and you then turned to him with an exasperated hand on your hip. “I’ve told you to send word if you’re coming. I can ensure you’re not seen, but only if I know you’re here.” 

Azriel was almost positive you didn’t understand he was a spy. He had explained his job to you many times, but you never seemed to take it into account when you were concerned over his stealth in the human lands. 

“I can get around fine. I wanted to find you,” he calmly replied. 

“Why don’t you wait at my house then? Rather than roaming about the streets? You know I’ll end up here eventually.” 

How was Azriel supposed to say that he liked to watch you? That he found joy in seeing you in the woods picking herbs or at the market selling your remedies. No, he figured that would be an odd thing to say to a human, so instead he offered a shrug and you replied with another tortured sigh. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose and murmured his name. 

“I don’t mean to burden you,” Azriel apologized. “I only wanted to see you. It’s been… a while.” 

When you looked back up, all vexation slid from your expression, replaced instead by soft reproach. “Burden me—Azriel, you don’t burden me. I worry for you, but it’s not a burden. Any time you need to use my home for work it’s available to you.”

You never understood. Azriel said he wanted to see you, not use your home. He had offered many of these admittances in the past and you never found their meaning. He had asked Feyre about that in a night of desperation a few months ago. She had sworn not to tell anyone and made Azriel privy to the inferiority humans felt when compared to fae. 

“She probably isn’t even considering that, Az,” Feyre had softly replied, unvoiced confusion twisting her brow. “How did you meet her again?” 

“I don’t need to use your home. Not this time,” Azriel revealed. 

“A short mission then?” 

“I’m not here for a mission.” 

Confusion pinched your expression. “I don’t understand.” 

Azriel took a step forward, shadows splaying out under his boot. The wood creaked. “I told you—I wanted to see you.” 

You uncrossed your arms, allowing Azriel to see your chest rise and fall unsteadily. You looked down to his feet, tracking the small movements he was making towards you, and then caught his eye once more. 

“Is this about Harrison? He hasn’t bothered me since.” 

Azriel’s eyes slipped closed for a moment. Harrison. The good-for-nothing human man who wouldn’t leave you alone for months. Azriel had made up multiple stories for being in the mortal lands around that time—to both you and Rhys. In the end, Harrison moved on and you hadn’t had an explanation for it. 

Azriel had a very clear explanation. 

“It’s not about that, though I am glad he’s leaving you alone.” 

You hummed, the sound perfectly matching your reproachful nod. “Right. So I’m safe. And you don’t have a mission. Why would you need to see me?” 

Feyre had clearly been right; you hadn’t even considered the possibility that Azriel was taken by you. And that made sense. Azriel couldn’t really understand it himself. You were a human—destined for a short life and vulnerable to so many things. 

Azriel would live twenty lifetimes and you would only live one. 

But he couldn’t get you out of his head. 

From that first day he saw you in these dreary lands he had been dreaming of you, unable to have a thought without connecting it back to the softness of your hair or the way your skin seemed to glow under the sun. He had approached you a couple of days after that first look. It hadn’t gone well, obviously, and Azriel had to admit that being punched by a human hurt more than he expected. 

You were nothing if not logical, however, and after getting a few unreciprocated punches in, you stopped and listened to him. He had truly needed help at that time, unrest with a few rogue members of Hewn City sending him your way, and in the best interest of your village, you gave him a place to hide. 

It had been awkward—for him. 

You had been comfortable with him from the start and he was the one shifting in his seat each time you passed. He hadn’t been around many humans, and although the Archeron sisters had given him some experience, they were nothing like you. You yanked him around alleyways and shoved herbs in his mouth that wouldn’t actually heal him. You were stubborn and didn’t take no for an answer and you went headfirst into everything. Azriel could remember a time a couple of months after meeting you that he was sure his heart stopped, your foot slipping on a ladder as you helped him search for human information. 

He was constantly reminded how fragile you were. The bruise he spotted on your wrist now was practically mocking him. 

He knew how fragile you were, and he still came back. He couldn’t help it. 

“Can I not just wish to see you?” Azriel asked, his words now reaching your skin with his proximity. 

Your lashes fluttered. You let out a small breath. “Fancy court life get boring? Needed a reminder of the desolation of the human lands?” 

Azriel had been foolish to think your bite would disappear with a short bout of flustering. “I don’t think they’re desolate. Not with you here.” 

“What are you doing?” you whispered. Azriel watched you fiddle with your sleeve, the darkened skin of your bruise stealing his breath once more. 

His eyes tracked back up to your face. “Do you really not know?” 

The space between you was sparse; any other human would be cowering in fear. 

“Azriel—” 

“Tell me to stop and I will. I’ll leave if you wish for me to.” 

“I don’t want that.” 

“Then tell me what you want.” 

You dropped your hands to your sides, a war waging in your eyes. Azriel was having a difficult time parsing out the opposing sides—if you were scared of him or if you thought about him as much as he did you.

“I’m human. I’m nothing.” 

Azriel abandoned his wonder, reaching his hand up to cup your face. He hesitated, allowing you time to move away from his touch. You didn’t. He took the liberty of holding you between both of his hands rather than one. 

“I’ve never thought that. Don’t say that,” he pressed. 

You looked pained, vulnerability seeping into your usually strong expression. You always had to be strong here. “It’s true. You don’t think I’ve—Azriel, I’ve… felt things for you that I shouldn’t. Wanted things I shouldn’t. But I’m mortal. I’m just a human. And you could have so much more than—” 

Azriel was already shaking his head. He didn’t understand any of this. You were right—in a way. This wasn’t natural. 

Azriel still spoke as if it were. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t want anything else. The year I’ve known you I have thought of little else.”

“But that’s just it, Azriel,” you began, an incredulous laugh punctuating your words. “A year. A year that I have aged and been changed. A year that feels long and hard for a human and it was nothing but a drop in the bucket for you. You will have centuries of them. You won’t die from sickness or injury or famine. You—we couldn't… I am human.” 

“And I don’t care,” Azriel repeated. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he readjusted his grip on you. “I don’t understand why, but I don’t, y/n. I know this isn’t sensible and I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s short. I love you.” 

Your eyes widened, words caught in your throat. And Azriel didn’t care if you said it back. He didn’t care if he had made a fool of himself. For the first time in centuries, he loved and he did it without secrecy and fear. 

Maybe it was the brevity of it all. Maybe it was because you belonged to only him, his family unaware of your existence. Azriel didn’t care about the origin. He only cared about you. 

“This can’t work,” you whispered. Logical. Always so logical. 

“It doesn’t have to work. It just has to be.” 

You gripped his wrists, desperation in your eyes. “What does that even mean?” 

Azriel hesitated, and then he kissed you. He pressed his lips to yours and he felt the way your heart beat in the pulsing heat of your skin. You were warm—always warm—and your body moved without the fluidity of fae and Azriel wanted nothing more. He removed one of his hands from your face only to wrap it around your back, pressing you closer, listening to the racing pattern of your heart. 

He kissed you harder and you kissed him back. 

Nothing else mattered—not the logic or the timelines or the aging. 

Azriel’s shadows always tamed themselves around you, seeming to fear any hesitance you may hold, but right now they were rampant in your home, sliding up the windows and humming low songs in his ears. 

And in the depths of Azriel’s chest, hidden so deep he thought it his own beating heart, something tugged.