lee's chaotic brain reblogs

reblogs and recs! find my works on my main blog @lees-chaotic-brain

[lees-chaotic-brain-reblogs]

Masterlist of all my fic recs

I just use this blog for my fic recs/reblogs, bc i can't stand it when my posts page is overcrowded

Also this is going to spam a bit. I want to support writers with reblogs, but my writing blog gets so crowded that I created this one.

My main blog is @lees-chaotic-brain so check it out if you want to read my works!

[katsukiizmoon]

╰┈➤ Peaches All Time Favorites 𖹭.ᐟ｡𖦹°‧

This is a list of my favorite fanfictions I've read. That means I've read 'em at least two or three times minimum. Something i keep coming back to or is on my mind frequently. Will be updated regularly. ALL are katsuki x reader unless otherwise stated.

+ sign = NSFW (spoiler, most if not all are)

"I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife" by kirketeer +

-> I will be quite frank. I think I've downloaded this on two or three devices at this point just so I know I have it. It's that good. Coming in at a near 60k words and 9 chapters — it's worth it's weight in gold.

"In the dark of morning, you promise me the sun" by kirketeer +

-> This is my favorite comfort fic. I was reading it the night my boyfriend died (unbeknownst to me at the time). I have read it time and time again since he's passed. A beautiful work of art that hits close to home and made me feel so understood with grief. I believe I've read all the Katsuki x Reader by this author and have been completely enthralled by every single one of em.

"Green means go" by doinmybesthere + @vagabondingsarchiived

-> Another beauty. This is a pwp that caught my eye and never left. I think I've read it at least four or five times.

"Incendiary" by @andypantsx3 +

-> This one likes to stay in the back of my mind, rent free. The tension is beautiful as is the plot and writing style. If you want to feel giddy and over the moon, this is the one.

"Everything I am" @wuhllow +

-> A flower shop AU that I've been obsessed with. Wonderful representation of Katsuki's character. God. It's so good. < as a side note, this one is VERY similar to the next one, this one appears to be discontinued. Keeping it on the post just to make it easier to distinguish>

"Surrender whenever you're ready" by @ofmermaidstories +

-> Rich plot and gorgeous writing style. This piece sends me over the moon every single time I read it. It's a luscious flower shop au with detailing like no other. A complete package.

[piastriprincess]

diamond  bright  ,  kiss  me  right ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  new(ish) relationship , love  confession  ,  reader  is  dramatic  as  hell  but  we  love  her word  count  1.8k author’s  note  requested  by  anon  !  i  have  basically  thought  about  nothing  but  law  school  for  the  past  two  days  but  i  was  missing  being  creative  and  wanted  to  give  you  all  something  fun  .  as  a  number  one  lando  defender  i  LOVED  writing  this  .  i  firmly  believe  he’s  a  little  bit  of  a  simp  when  he  really  likes  someone  …  very  precious  TO  ME  !  as  always  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  okay  now  back  to  my  finals  studying  cave  .  love  you  all  <3  title  is  from  claws  by  charli  xcx  !

It was never supposed to be serious. 

You knew Lando Norris. The party-boy reputation, the DJ sets, a different girl at every circuit. When he sidled up to you at a bar in Monaco with that charming grin on his face, those blue-green eyes sparkling like the Mediterranean behind him, you didn’t expect much. An evening of harmless flirting, maybe. He’d buy you drinks. You might go home with him, if he wasn’t unbearably cocky. (You had a feeling he might be.) He was a player — you’d written him off in your mind before he even opened his mouth.

Turns out, you didn’t know Lando Norris at all. 

You didn’t know he would talk to you that entire night, looking ridiculously pleased every time he made you laugh, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t dared to hope for and couldn’t believe his luck. You didn’t know he would walk you home, and instead of asking to be invited up, asking if he could take you to dinner, hands stuck in his pockets so you couldn’t see the way they trembled. You didn’t know that one date would turn into nearly six months of good-morning texts, of coming home to bouquets of flowers on your doorstep just-because, of slow kisses that burned you up from the inside. 

It was like trying on a dress that looked ugly on the hanger and finding it fit you so well you never wanted to take it off again. To make a long story short, dating Lando was kind of your favorite thing. You liked everything about him. And lately, when you lay tangled in his sheets at night, his arms wrapped around your waist and his mouth pressed softly to your shoulder, breathing in his clean, boyish scent, you thought maybe your feelings were more than simply liking him. 

You couldn’t tell him, though, not yet. You cringed at the thought of the awkward silence that would stretch between you if he didn’t say it back. You trusted Lando — he was sweet to you in a way that made your chest ache sometimes, in a way that you couldn’t imagine being fake. But what if the thrill for him was all in the chase, the reckless desire to get something he thought he couldn’t have? What if now that he had you, now that he really knew you, the shine had worn off?

So you kept it to yourself. Let him slow dance with you in his kitchen to a song you’d never heard, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you. Let him text you stupid jokes and ridiculous strings of emojis in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Let him scrape his teeth over your collarbone and whisper your name like a prayer into the darkness. Loved him quietly, secretly, in the private corner of your heart he hadn’t quite found yet. 

You told yourself it was fine. Things were good between you. Great, even. You weren’t going to mess it up by saying it first. You would wait until he did. 

If he ever did. 

—

The most embarrassing moment of your life starts with a phone call. 

You’re weaving through the aisles of the grocery store, looking for the pasta. Lando’s had a long day of sponsor meetings and media, but insisted that he wanted to see you anyway for your regular date night. You agreed, on the condition you could make him dinner; you like the idea of taking care of him for once, instead of the other way around.  

Your phone starts buzzing, and you pull it out of your pocket, greeted with Lando’s face — some ridiculous photo he’d taken of the two of you early on, your cheeks pressed together like two halves of a heart. You answer without hesitating, shifting the basket of groceries onto your hip. “Hey, you.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” His voice is light, but you can hear the weariness underneath he’s trying to cover up. “Just checking what time you were thinking of coming over. Zak added a last-minute meeting to the calendar, but I should be done by 7.”

You prop the phone between your shoulder and your ear, grabbing a carton of eggs. “That’s fine. I’m just picking up the stuff now, I’ll stop at home and then come to yours.” You lo- You like the domesticity of the conversation. You wonder if someday, you’ll make grocery lists together, wander through the aisles side-by-side.

“My little chef,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Give me a sneak preview of the menu. What are you making me?” 

“Oh, I thought I’d whip up some sushi,” you tease, grin on your face. You can imagine him on the other end of the phone, crinkling his nose in disgust, and the thought lodges in your chest with a far-too-familiar fond ache. 

“Right, I actually have plans. Can’t have you over anymore,” he deadpans, like clockwork. 

You let out a bark of laughter, throwing a box of pasta into your basket. “I’m kidding. Do you think I don’t remember your freakish aversion to fish?”

“Wow. My own girlfriend, bullying me,” Lando sniffs. “Might just die now. Wasting away, starving and alone, with no one to comfort me.” 

“I’m making carbonara, you big baby,” you snort, pressing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you inspect two different wedges of Parmesan. “And maybe cookies, for dessert.” You place the cheese in the basket, heading for the checkout lane. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Oh, you’re a goner. It does something stupid to your heart. 

“Guess the universe knew you needed me,” you reply, unpacking your basket onto the conveyor belt. You’re moving a little slowly; you only have one hand to unpack while the other holds the phone.

He laughs. “Score one for the universe.” His voice drops a little lower, a little softer. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you reply, fumbling for your wallet as the cashier eyes you with increasing impatience, tapping at the card reader. A line has grown behind you, you realize. “Shit. Lan, I gotta go. I love you, bye.” Click.

You slide your sunglasses over your eyes as you step out of the air-conditioned grocery store. The weather as you walk home is warm. The late-afternoon sun hangs low and golden in the sky, and— 

You nearly drop the bag you’re carrying, catching it just before the eggs shatter over the Monaco sidewalk.

You told Lando you loved him. And you didn’t even realize it. 

—

By the time you get home, you’re seriously considering faking your own death.

You stand slumped against the wall of the elevator, cheeks burning with humiliation. You’ve spent the entire walk thinking up what feels like a thousand different ways to play it off — jokes, sarcasm, pretending you were talking to the cashier instead of him. They’re all stupid, all equally unlikely to work on Lando. Maybe the best option is to cancel tonight in favor of lying facedown on your carpet and never moving again. 

The elevator doors ding and slide open. You step off, turn the corner down your apartment hallway, and there’s Lando’s standing on your doorstep. 

For a minute, you think it’s a hallucination, because he can’t actually be in your hallway. He lives on the other side of Monaco, practically, and there’s always traffic. You stare at him, taking in the ruddy cheeks, the way the sweat beads at his temples, how he’s still trying to catch his breath.

He ran here, you realize, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He ran. 

The silence is terrifying, stretching between the two of you like a chasm. Then:

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” you blurt, eyes wide. 

“Fuck the meeting,” he rasps, gaze trained on you. “Did you mean it?”

You have an out, now. You could lie, say it was unthinking, a force of habit from calling your mother, your friends. You could stay where you are, with those three little words rattling around your head every second of every day, and pretend it doesn’t kill you to hold them back now that you know what it feels like on your tongue. 

Or you could tell the truth, and take the chance that you’ll lose something, because there’s a possibility you could get everything. 

You look at the wild-eyed boy in front of you, who ran across Monaco just to see your face, and you already have your answer. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice small and heart in your throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

He closes the distance between you in two steps, cups your cheeks in his hands, and smashes his lips to yours. It’s desperate, wild — your teeth knock together, and when you gasp against his mouth, he slides his tongue against yours in a way that makes your knees buckle. You pull him closer, closer, hands fisting into his shirt like he might disappear if you let go. 

“I love you too,” he gasps when you finally break apart, like it’s paining him to hold the words back. “Fuck. Been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You laugh wetly, forehead pressed against his. “I love you,” you say, and his whole face cracks into a smile so bright it’s like you’re looking at the sun. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. The look on his face is so obvious, all soft and awestruck. You wonder, distantly how you ever thought he didn’t feel the same.

“I love you,” you repeat, every syllable deliberate, and his arms wrap around you so fiercely it knocks the air out of your lungs. You yelp as he lifts you off your feet, laughing against his neck, your legs kicking uselessly for a second before you just give up and cling to him instead. He carries you to your door like that, arms steady and warm around you, and for one dizzying moment you think you could stay like this — weightless and safe and stupidly, overwhelmingly in love — forever. 

Maybe it was never supposed to be serious. But when he hugs you from behind while you stir the pasta, whispering I love you into your ear for the hundredth time that night like a promise he intends to keep, you seriously don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it.

[ponderingmoonlight]

Dance with the devil

Pairing: Dante x fem!stripper!reader

Word Count: 6,4k (lmao)

Synopsis: You're a stripper with rules - until Dante breaks every single one of them, including your heart.

Warnings: where do I begin, LANGUAGE, smut without foreplay but no super heavy smutty description bc that's simply not how I write my stuff (call it aestethic smut lol) heavy angst afterwards (reader feeling like a toy basically) but huge fluff in ponderingmoonlight manner, this is a long baby so get seated, honestly I feel like reader is pretty relatable in this one at least for me lol

@punem699 I'm really crossing my fingers you like what I came up with babe <3

Please show your girl some love even though you aren't a fan of devil may cry 'cause this was a hell ton of work lol

The club hums with low bass and half-hearted cheers as you shoot across the floor, heels clicking against the sticky vinyl tiles. Another night, another parade of desperate eyes and loose wallets. You don't bother faking a smile anymore - not unless the money's worth it.

Tonight, Enzo calls you over with a crook of his finger like you're some house pet. You want to roll your eyes, but you don't. You learned better. After all, Enzo is the only men you ever worked for who never tried to put a finger on you. The last thing you can do is to show your boss a spark of respect.

At least a tiny one.

“Got someone special coming in,” Enzo explains as soon as you reach him, voice low and greasy.

“Client meeting. I need you to take care of him. Real VIP treatment, you hear me? Make him stay. Make him agree.”

You nod once, sharp and clean. You don't owe Enzo anything more, need no further explanation. To be honest, you never really understood what kind of shady business Enzo is in apart from owning a night club. Strange men coming and going with you being the one chosen to entertain them. Why? Because you never ask questions, because you stick to your job and stay professional no matter the circumstances. Apparently, Enzo does appreciate you in his very own way.

When the man arrives, you spot him instantly. Not because he’s loud or flashy like the usual scum Enzo drags in. No, this one walks like he owns the fucking room. Cool outfit, sharper eyes, a mouth that could get itself into trouble if it wanted. And don’t you get started on that smirk plastered onto his face like smiling is all he does.

What an unusual nice sight, to be honest.

Enzo claps him on the back and talks fast, hands slicing the air. Deals, jobs, something about a shipment. You tune it out while serving them a bottle of whiskey. Business talk isn't your business. What is your business is when Enzo grins that oily grin and gestures toward you. Oh, you know exactly what comes next; the same phrases as usual.

“This is my best girl,” Enzo introduces you briefly.

“She’s gonna make sure you’re nice and comfy.”

You catch the stranger’s eyes — dark and yet light, steady. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s sizing you up, but not in the way men usually do. Not like you're a meal he’s already decided to swallow whole. It's... different. Measured. Calculating.

Still, you’re not impressed. Handsome? Sure. So are a hundred other assholes who come through these doors. Maybe he’s just thinking about a way to get straight into your panties without wasting much time. You know the trash Enzo hangs out with like your pockets by now.

Enzo gives you both a knowing look before melting into the crowd, leaving you alone in the low light with that rock of handsome man standing opposite of you.

You step forward, arms loose at your sides, keeping a respectful distance. Professional. No touching unless they pay extra - Enzo's rules, and yours too. And never more than dressed skin.

“You wanna private dance or what?” you ask, voice flat when he doesn’t move an inch.

The stranger leans back in the worn leather booth, considering your offer. His lips curl up slightly - a smile, but not the crooked kind. He shrugs casual.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

Finally something you can work with. You lead him to the private rooms, the bass fading to a dull thud as the door shuts behind you. The room is small, half shadows, half glitter. You start to move with practiced ease, slow and enticing - but your mind stays sharp, detached. You really just want this night to get over and head back home.

At first, the stranger watches without a word. His eyes don't wander, don't grope. He doesn’t even try to touch, not even when you dance close enough for him to smell the vanilla oil on your skin.

It's... unsettling. A little bit disheartening, even.

You're used to hungry stares, grabby hands, slurred promises of big tips. He does none of that. He just sits there, one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, gaze pinned to yours - not your body, you.

You hinge, putting a little more space between you, testing him. He doesn't push, doesn't chase. Just waits patiently for your next move. What on earth is wrong with that guy? Is he gay, by any chance? Not that you’d mind, honestly.

Slowly, you ease up. Let your guard down a fraction. Maybe this one isn’t as bad as his handsome face made him look. Maybe he will leave you alone for the rest of the night and simply return to his so-called business with Enzo.

You slide your hands down your thighs, swaying your hips in time with the low beat leaking through the walls. His eyes follow the movement , slow and deliberate, before flicking back to meet yours.

“You got a name?” you question, voice like silk over steel, perfected in the span of years to sound like honey and sweet seduction.

His smile deepens, something lazy and dangerous sparking in his eyes.

“Dante,” he replies, voice a low dagger that sinks into your skin.

“But you can call me yours. If you ask nicely.”

You huff a soft laugh, despite yourself. Cheesy. But the way he says it - like he means it, like it’s a promise and not just a line - makes your stomach do something strange.

“You're real sure of yourself, huh?” you murmur, circling around him, fingers ghosting over the back of the couch but never really touching him.

“Gotta be," Dante remarks, tilting his head to keep you in his sights.

"Pretty girls like you tend to eat guys alive if they don't hold their own.”

You smirk, tossing your hair over your shoulder.

“Maybe I like ‘em soft.”

“Mm,” Dante hums, eyes glinting.

“Bet you like ‘em a little rough around the edges too.”

You slow your dance, your body moving closer without thinking. Testing the waters, seeing how far you can go until he shows his true face – the face of an average man. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t even shift in his seat. Just watches relaxed, patient.

“I’m not like the usual trash Enzo hands you. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“And what makes you so different?” you tease, tipping your chin up.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the distance between you crackling with something heavy.

“Because I’m not here to buy your time, sweetheart,” Dante murmurs.

“I’m here to earn it.”

Your breath hitches, just a little. And of course, that smooth bastard catches it, the corner of his mouth tugging up into something smug, something devastating.

For the first time tonight, your heartbeat picks up for reasons that have nothing to do with work. Maybe Enzo got lucky for once. Or rather you. When was the last time you really looked after a guy twice, wondered what he’s like? You can’t even put a finger on the last one anymore.

The room feels smaller now, the air thicker. Somehow, your gaze starts to shift. Away from seeing Dante as your usual customer, away from the setting Enzo provided for both of you. For a brief moment, all you’re able to see is that handsome man who doesn’t look at you like anyone else ever did in a small room.

You shift your weight, rolling your hips in a lazy, tempting motion, not for the money, not because Enzo told you to, but because you want to. Because Dante is sitting there, watching you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. And damn if that isn’t a high you haven’t felt in a long time.

You take a slow step closer, the heels of your boots clicking faintly on the worn floor. Still, he doesn’t touch. Still, he just waits - giving you the reins without ever having to say a word.

“Careful,” you murmur, a teasing edge curling around your voice.

“You keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you actually respect me.”

Dante’s mouth curves into a slow, wicked grin.

“Wouldn’t be wrong.”

The heat in his eyes is unmistakable now, but it’s lacks that disgusting edge, that slobbering hunger you’re used to peeling off you at the end of the night. No, Dante looks at you like he’s enjoying every second, like he’s got all the time in the world to burn you down to your bones.

Your pulse picks up when your knees brush his as you move, and still he doesn’t grab. Doesn’t even flinch. But you feel it, the way his body tightens, the way his hand flexes faintly against the back of the couch.

You’re both playing with matches now.

You turn around, back to him, dropping low enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against the exposed skin of your thighs. A slow sway of your hips, a tilt of your head, catching his gaze over your shoulder.

"You always this patient?" you purr.

Dante leans in, just enough for you to feel the heat of him along your spine without ever making contact.

"Only when something’s worth it," he mutters, voice rougher now, dragging over you like velvet and gravel all at once.

You straighten slowly, turning to face him again. Again, your knees brush his, but you don’t dare to move away this time.

You’re so close now you can see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the lazy danger tucked into the corners of his mouth.

Neither of you is smiling anymore. The thick air surrounding you both doesn’t allow lousy jokes anymore.

The tension coils tighter, hot and electric, until it’s almost unbearable - until you swear the oxygen between you could catch fire if either of you breathed too hard.

Your hands find the arms of the couch on either side of him, caging him in without ever actually touching. He doesn’t lean back, doesn’t retreat.

Instead, Dante tilts his head up, a silent invitation, one that curls around your gut, hot and sweet.

"You gonna make a move," he comments lowly, almost a dare, "or you just gonna keep dancing around it all night?"

Your lips part, a retort on the tip of your tongue - but it dies there, because holy fuck, you’re close enough to feel his heat against your skin, close enough that the barest tilt forward would have your mouths brushing.

You don't even realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks again, softer this time, velvet sliding under your ribs.

“C'mon, sweetheart. Make me work for it.”

The corner of your mouth lifts in a wicked little smirk of your own. If he wants a challenge, you’re damn well going to give him one.

You don’t move right away. No, you let the moment stretch, tight and breathless, feeling the weight of his gaze pull at you, daring you, challenging you to make a move.

Your heart kicks harder, reckless now, drowning out the distant thud of the bass outside.

Fine.

Two can play.

You lean in slowly, just enough that your mouth hovers by his ear, close enough that if either of you so much as breathed wrong, you'd brush skin.

"You think you can handle me?" you whisper, voice low and dangerous, every word dripping against him like molten honey.

You feel, more than see, the shiver that runs through him. Dante’s chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, dark and pleased.

Close. Too close.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, turning his head so slightly that his stubble scrapes a phantom touch along your cheek,

"I’m counting on you trying to break me."

Your fingers tighten faintly where they grip the couch, nails digging into the worn leather.

Fuck.

You pull back, just enough to meet his eyes - and you know he can see it now, the slight crack in your carefully built armour. He doesn’t push. He just watches, sharp and patient, waiting for you to choose.

Your breath fans between you as you move, one hand lifting off the couch, hovering just above his shoulder. A whisper of space. A heartbeat of hesitation.

You let your fingertips drift barely over the fabric of his jacket - not quite a touch, more a promise of one. Dante's jaw ticks, a muscle twitching there, but he doesn’t move.

Not until your fingers ghost higher, up along the side of his neck, tracing the line of his pulse without ever really pressing down.

You feel it, the way it hammers under his skin, hard and fast, betraying that calm exterior of his.

“Still feeling patient?” you tease, voice feather-light, dancing over the thin thread of control straining between you.

He tilts his head back slightly, exposing more of his throat to you - an unspoken invitation wrapped in raw power.

"For you?" he rasps, voice roughened now.

"I'll wait all fucking night."

God, the way he says it - like it's a vow, like he wants to suffer for you - sends a jolt of pure heat straight through your veins, straight into your throbbing core.

Without thinking, your hand flattens against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm.

Solid. Strong. Alive.

Dante’s eyes darken, hooded, his hands finally lifting, slow enough to give you every chance to pull away. Until they prop your hips, a firm, grounding weight that makes your stomach twist.

Still not pulling you closer. Just holding you there. Letting you decide.

Your next breath comes out shaky, your body swaying forward just a little, your knees pressing into his, your chest brushing his jacket.

The whole world narrows to this. The heat of his hands, the lazy burn in his gaze, the promise curled low and dangerous in the air between you.

Neither of you speaks.

Neither of you needs to.

You’re both already drowning in it - in the heavy, slow slide toward something inevitable.

And this time, you’re not thinking about money. Not about Enzo, not about rules.

Only about him. Only about how much longer you can make him wait... and how much longer you can make yourself.

You hover there — so close it’s unbearable — your hand still splayed over the steady beat of his heart, his palms burning against your hips.

Neither of you moves.

Not until Dante lets out a breath, low and rough, like he’s been holding it in for too damn long.

You feel it happen, the shift. The way his fingers tighten on you, just a little, the way his shoulders go tense under your touch.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him through half-lidded eyes, teasing the edge of a smirk onto your lips.

Daring him. Inviting him. Challenging him.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

And that’s when he breaks.

In a sudden, desperate gush, Dante’s hand slides up your back, dragging you into him, his mouth crashing into yours with a heat that steals every scrap of air from your lungs.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.

It’s raw, like he’s been starving for you, like he’s been dying to taste you and finally, finally stopped pretending otherwise.

You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t give you a chance to pull away — not that you want to. His hand buries itself in your hair, holding you in place as he kisses you like he owns you, like he’s claiming you right here in this shitty little private room with the walls sweating bass and the air thick with vanilla and sin.

You respond without thinking, your body melting against his, your fingers fisting the fabric of his jacket.

The kiss deepens, gets messier, but there’s still a thread of restraint in the way he touches you — like he’s fighting every instinct to take more, to push harder.

You break the kiss first, panting, your forehead resting against his, your fingers curled in the collar of his jacket.

Fuck.

Dante laughs softly: a broken, wrecked sound that rumbles against your chest.

“Fuck, I was doing so good, man.”

You grin, chest heaving, feeling drunk on the heat of him, the weight of him.

"You almost had me," you whisper, your voice rough with desire and something sharper, sweeter underneath. "Almost."

His hands slide down your sides, slow and possessive, before settling low on your hips, anchoring you to him.

"You ain't seen me really try yet," he says, voice low, full of promises that sink into your bones.

You shiver from the way he says it. Like this is just the beginning. Like he’s only just getting started with you.

And fuck, if that thought doesn’t make you feel alive in a way you haven’t in a long, long time.

You lean back just enough to look into his eyes — dark, dangerous, absolutely wrecked for you.

"You sure you can handle me, Dante?" you murmur, the challenge back in your voice, sparking between you.

He grins — wide, wicked, starving — and for a second, you see it all laid bare:

The hunger. The respect. The fact that he doesn’t just want you. He sees you.

"Sweetheart," he drawls, voice scraping over your skin, "I'm counting on you trying to break me."

You want to see him snap. You want to see a man like him actually begging for you. A woman who had to fight her entire life. A woman who was forced into this business. A woman with nothing but agony filling up her heart. 

For a brief moment, the whole world seems to hold its breath.

You’re straddling him before he can react any further, your knees joining his hips, your fingers tangled in the rough material of his jacket while your core embraces the bulge of his pants. His hands start to map your body like he’s memorizing it, broad palms brushing over the curves of your waist, up your spine, down to your thighs.

The kiss turns urgent, teeth grazing lips, breaths stolen between gasps and broken sounds.

It’s a freefall. And neither of you tries to catch it.

You feel Dante’s frustration in the way he tugs at your clothes oh so rough and impatient and you mirror it, your own fingers fumbling at the buttons of his jacket, tearing it off his shoulders like it’s offended you just by being in the way.

Layer by layer, you strip each other bare, the room around you fading until there’s nothing left but skin and heat and the frantic need to feel. Feel something, feel him, feel everything you haven’t felt in a long time.

When his shirt comes off, you pause for a heartbeat, just long enough to drink him in. The strong line of his chest, his well-sculpted abs, that necklace that tangles around his neck. Gosh, how can a man be this gorgeous?

You hover your hands over him, greedy for every inch, and Dante groans into your mouth, pulling you tighter against him.

When he finally gets your bra-top over your head, he pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, like he’s seeing something he didn’t dare hope was real.

The way his hands tremble, just slightly, where they support your waist, sends a bolt of heat straight through you, straight down your core.

“Beautiful,” he rasps, voice shredded.

It breaks you wide open.

Your mouths find each other again, desperate, feverish. His hands skim lower, cupping the backs of your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the couch beneath him. The shift in power should make you bristle, but it doesn’t. Not with the way Dante looks at you, like you’re holy.

He covers your body with his, his weight grounding you, surrounding you. In the matter of seconds, both of your remaining clothes are scattered around the floor, make the room look like a crime scene with the bass still humming through.

Is this really happening? The faint taste of whiskey you get from his tongue tells you more than urgently that it is.

“Sure you can take this?”, he muffles against the crook of your neck, placing kissing on every inch of your skin.

“Take me right now”, you moan out, rubbing yourself against him to find at least a tiny spark of relief.

When he finally presses into you, slow, deep, unrelenting, you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. Not out of pain.

Out of relief. Out of finally, finally having him where you need him most.

It’s not a perfect rhythm at first. Too frantic, too raw - but it doesn’t matter. You move together like you’re trying to carve a new language out of skin and sighs, bodies chasing something bigger than either of you can name. Dante’s forehead drops to yours, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice breaking.

You do. You have no other choice but to do.

You meet his eyes, and the force of it nearly undoes you - all that hunger, all that admiration, all that want crashing into you like a wave.

He moves within you with slow, grinding thrusts now, each one dragging a whimper from your throat, each one deeper, surer, heavier with meaning.

It's not just physical. It’s not just release.

It’s claiming. It’s offering.

It’s something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, your mouth seeking his, finding it again and again - sloppy, aching kisses traded like desperate promises.

You feel yourself climbing higher, dragged closer to the edge with every movement, every whispered word, every shattered gasp. The knot inside you threatens to burst, the hunger in his gaze eats you up alive.

“Dante,” you breathe, so soft you don’t know if he hears it or feels it vibrating against his lips.

But he responds. His arms tightening around you, his hips grinding deeper, harder, the rhythm fracturing under the weight of everything you’re both too wrecked to say out loud.

The moment crashes over you both almost at once. A frantic, messy fall that steals your breath and shatters your bodies against each other, holding onto each other for what feels like dear life.

You ride it out together, mouths pressed clumsily together, hands fisting in hair, nails scraping skin, bodies locked so tight it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

Neither of you moves for a long moment. You are barely able to catch your breath, your sweat clinging onto him.

Dante keeps you wrapped in his arms, his forehead pressed to the side of your neck, your bodies slick with heat and trembling from the aftershocks.

He breathes you in, deep and quivering, like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to this earth. You run your fingers slowly down the plane of his back, feeling the way his body jerks under your touch.

No words pass between you. There’s no need for any words right now. You’ve already said everything that matters with your mouths, your hands, your hearts beating wildly against each other’s ribs.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you realize:

You don’t want this to be the last time. Not with him. Not with Dante.

The knock on the door shakes you out of your spiral, out of your delusions.

Fuck.

Right, you’re at work.

And you’re doing anything but working right now.

Enzo.

You flinch, startled, dragging your bra hastily over your head, struggling to fasten the clips with shaking fingers.

“It’s me," comes Enzo’s voice through the door.

"Yo, D! We gotta talk!"

You barely register it. You’re too busy trying to pull yourself together, trying to shove down the messy, stupid ache blooming under your ribs. What on earth were you thinking? Didn’t you promise yourself to keep your hands off men who come to a nightclub after the last time you’ve got your heart shattered into pieces? Guys who visit you at work are a walking red flag already, let alone shady men like Dante. Were you really thinking that…you’re something special to him?

Across the room, Dante pulls his shirt back on, moving slower than before. His eyes are locked on you, watching every frantic motion, every tremble you can’t quite hide.

You keep your gaze on the floor, pretending you don’t notice. No, if you look at him right now, he might see the glint of disappointment in your eyes, might realize you’re feeling bad. What if he tells Enzo about this? If someone catches a word of what happened here, you’re absolutely screwed, basically ready to pack your stuff and leave.

In the distance, you hear Dante curse under his breath - soft, rough, frustrated. He steps closer, close enough that the heat of him kisses your bare arms, makes your breath catch.

You don’t look up. You simply can’t.

Not until you feel his fingers brush against your chin, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to his. Your eyes meet his, and it’s like getting punched in the chest.

He looks wrecked. Not just from what you did – somehow you feel like from you.

“Hey, don’t do that.”

You blink, confused by his sudden words.

“Do what?”

“Don’t...”

His thumb strokes lightly across your jaw, a barely-there touch.

“Don’t look at me like you’re just another job.”

Caught straight in the moment.

You stiffen, the words hitting places you didn’t even know were exposed.

“Are you telling this every whore you fuck in a nightclub of Enzo’s?”

The words come out before you’re able to stop yourself. Fuck, you feel so stupid. Stupid for falling for another guy, falling for thinking you’re actually different for him. He wore the same smile around your colleagues earlier. He…he never even asked for your name.

“I’m not,” he adds, softer.

“You’re not.”

Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what you would even say.

Before you can figure it out, Enzo’s voice booms again through the door, impatient this time.

“D! Move your ass!”

Dante sighs, low and rough, like the last thing he wants is to turn away.

His hand falls from your jaw, but not before his fingers trail a line down your throat, lingering over your racing pulse like he can feel the fear there, the fear of being used, discarded, forgotten.

“I gotta go. But this ain’t over. Not for me.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but the moment is already slipping through your fingers.

Finally, with a heavy breath, he backs away, shooting you one last look - full of heat, and frustration, and something terrifyingly close to longing.

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re left standing there, half-dressed, heart hammering, surrounded by the ghosts of everything you just let happen.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shut it all out, desperately fighting to stop yourself from crying in this lousy room like a baby.

But his words stick to your skin, stubborn and impossible to scrub away:

"You’re not just another job."

A promise without any value, as time shows.

The days pass, each one heavier than the last. You go through the motions like a ghost: waking up late in the afternoon, dragging yourself into the shower, painting your face in the cracked mirror like it's a war mask. Layer after layer, you build yourself back up. Eyes dark and sharp, lips red and mocking, body dressed to kill.

The girl in the mirror smirks at you like she usually does. Untouchable, unbothered, unbreakable.

It’s a good lie, one you’ve perfected over the past years.

But no matter how carefully you paint it on, you can’t scrub out the way you feel underneath. So raw and hollow, like someone scooped out your insides and left you stitched up with nothing but regret.

You became a stripper because you wanted power. You wanted to be the one in control, the one who decided how close someone could get, and when they had to leave. You wanted to be the fire, not the moth. And you swore you’d never let a man use you for your body again. Never be that girl again, the one left behind with nothing but crumpled sheets and a broken heart.

And yet here you are.

Sitting in the dim glow of your crappy apartment, pulling your boots on for another night at the club, wondering if you were ever really different at all.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have. It was just a moment, a mistake, a stupid, reckless weakness.

But the truth nags at you in the quiet spaces you can’t fill with music or neon or whiskey.

Truth is, you wanted him. Not just the way he touched you, but the way he saw you.

And you thought, for one stupid, beautiful moment, that maybe he wanted more too. Maybe you weren’t just another body to him. Maybe he actually meant what he said. Maybe his eyes weren’t filled with pretty lies when he looked at you.

But he didn’t come back.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t even try.

Maybe that’s your answer. Maybe you’re exactly what you always feared - just a night he regretted.

You’re halfway to the door ready for work when the knock comes.

At first, you think it’s your neighbor again. The old woman who keeps mixing up mail or bringing you leftover pastries you never eat. But there’s something about this knock. It’s not polite, but rather impatient, almost confident.

Like whoever’s on the other side belongs there.

You stare at the door, your heart skipping a beat.

No. It can’t be.

You almost don’t want to look. Hope is cruel like that, it teases you with impossible things. But your feet are already moving. Your hand is already reaching for the knob. You yank the door open, expecting nothing, everything-

And there he is.

Dante.

Smirking.

Holding a crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers, half roses, half… something else that probably wasn’t meant to be in there, like the worker just shoved in whatever they had left.

He’s wearing that same leather jacket, the one that creaks when he moves. His silver hair’s a little windswept, eyes still that impossible stormy blue, cocked brows and all.

He looks exactly the same.

Like he hasn’t spent the past week haunting your thoughts.

"Hey. Hope I’m not late. Traffic’s a bitch."

Your heart stops.

Just stops.

He offers you the flowers with a crooked grin.

“They were the last ones that didn’t smell like funeral homes. Don’t say I never get you anything.”

You don’t take them. You don’t say a word. You just stand there, staring at him, breath catching in your throat. And something inside you snaps.

The next second, you're shoving at his chest, hard.

And again.

And again.

He takes it, lets you pound your fists against him, lets the flowers fall to the ground, forgotten.

“You—”

Your voice breaks in the ugliest way.

“You don’t get to show up like this!”

Your hands strike his chest again, but you’re already trembling.

“I waited… I thought…”

Your words dissolve into a sob, thick and messy and real. Fuck, you always hated to cry because it made you not only feel but look weak.

“I told myself you were different. That you weren’t like them.”

Tears spill over, hot and angry. You can’t help yourself anymore, though. All those suppressed feeling, the guilt you just swallowed.

“And then you just disappeared. Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter at all.”

Your fists weaken against him. You're not hitting anymore, just clutching his jacket like it’s the only thing holding you up.

He wraps his arms around you. Not tight, just enough to catch you if you fall.

You bury your face in his chest, tears soaking into leather and cotton.

For a while, neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, his voice rumbles against your ear.

“I didn’t come sooner ‘cause I didn’t know how to do this right,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t wanna screw it up more than I already did. And it cost me a decent amount of cash to wring your address out of Enzo.”

You let out a broken sound - halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“You idiot,” you whisper.

“You already did. You already screwed up”

“I know. But I’m here now. Not just for tonight.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are serious now; no grin, no shield. Just him. Just Dante.

"Oh, before I forget it: I talked to Enzo."

Your whole body tenses, instinctively pulling back to look at him. Your eyes are still glassy, your cheeks flushed from crying, but there's steel in your voice when you ask.

"Why?"

Dante doesn't flinch. Fuck, did he tell your boss about the thing that happened during the private dance? You’re screwed to the brim, how are you supposed to pay rent now, surely Enzo will fire you. After all, he was very clear about not getting physical with clients-

"I bought out your contract."

The words hang there between you, not fully reaching your mind yet. You stare at him, stunned. Like you didn't quite hear him right.

"What?"

He rubs a hand along the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself.

"You're not tied to him anymore. No more working off favors. No more debts. No more having to smile at assholes who think they own you for the night.”

You take a step back, eyes wide.

"Why would you…?"

He shrugs a little, but his voice stays steady - low, rough, but clear.

“Because you don’t belong to anybody, least of all him. And I figured… if you ever wanted to walk away, really walk away, you should be able to do it on your own terms. No one should be able to tell you what you owe.”

Your throat goes tight again, but this time it’s not just hurt but something else. Something dangerous and tender and terrifying.

Dante watches you, eyes flicking across your face like he’s searching for something.

“I’m not here to own you,” he adds.

“I’m not here to cage you up and call it love.”

He takes a breath, deeper now.

“I just wanna take care of you.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed.

“You don’t even know me. We just met at a strip club and fucked.”

“I know enough.”

His gaze doesn't falter, doesn’t show a single sign of dishonesty.

“I know you don’t let people close. I know you wear armour so heavy it probably hurts to take it off. I know you’re smart and stubborn and way too good at pretending nothing gets to you.”

He swallows hard.

“And I know I’m not the kind of guy who deserves someone like you. But I want to be.”

Your knees almost give out. It’s not a confession. It’s not a demand. It’s a quiet vow, offered with no expectations. And that’s what makes it so unbearable.

So you do the only thing you can: you sit down right there on the floor, back against the wall, legs pulled up, face in your hands, not sobbing this time, just letting the tears fall because they need to.

Dante sits down across from you, legs stretched out, back against the opposite wall. He doesn’t touch you, he just waits. Waits until you can breathe again, until the panic dries out.

Until you’re ready.

And when you finally look up at him, all puffy eyes, ruined mascara, makeup half-smeared, he just gives you that crooked little grin and says:

“Flowers still suck?”

You let out a shaky breath that might be a laugh.

“They smell like cough syrup and regret.”

He smirks.

“Fitting.”

You wipe at your cheeks, quiet for a moment.

 “What if I don’t know what I want?”

Dante leans his head back against the wall, his voice low and steady.

“Then I wait. However long it takes.”

You wipe at your cheeks again, sniffling, heart still raw but… quieter now. Less like a wound, more like a bruise.

Dante hasn’t moved. Still sitting across from you, legs stretched out, arms draped lazily over his knees like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to catch your breath.

Like you’re not a mess on the floor. Like you’re still something worth looking at.

You glance toward the sad, crumpled bouquet on the floor between you. The roses are already wilting at the edges.

“They’re really ugly,” you murmur.

Dante raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well, they matched my emotional state.”

That draws a real laugh from you - tired and surprised.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re still crying over me. Must be doing something right.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He grins, cocky as ever.

“I told you this ain’t over. Not unless you say so.”

You stare at him for a long moment.

 “And if I did say so?”

He tilts his head like he’s considering it.

“I’d nod, pretend to accept it like a gentleman… then probably climb through your window in an hour with snacks and a stupid excuse.”

Your lips part, blinking at him. He shrugs it off.

“Look, I’m not subtle. You want subtle, go date an accountant.”

You snort, finally, and it feels good, even if your heart’s still heavy.

Dante leans forward a little, voice low and serious again beneath the grin.

“But if you don’t say so… if you let me stay, even just for tonight - I swear I’ll shut up, sit on the floor, and let you pick the movie.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Even if it’s a sad indie drama with no plot?”

He winces.

“...That’s a low blow.”

But then he’s smiling, warm and real.

“And yeah. Even then.”

Tags: @moonlighteevee @elrondswifeyyyy @levisbrat25 @dragon-lord-lysander @punem699

@sunshine7queen @dreamywisterias-blog @mizzowizzo

[literatooru-deactivated20250608]

❝ 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 ❞

pairing: f!reader x oikawa tōru

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?”

“Hm?” Oikawa hums, and somehow manages to tear his eyes off you to look at his best friend, nonplussed.

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, shaking his head softly.

“Man, you’re down bad. You’re so busy drooling over her that you didn’t hear a word of what I just said.” The room is mostly dark apart from the colored lights dancing over the multitude drunken, swaying bodies, and the music drums loudly in Oikawa’s ears. He could use that as an excuse; tell him the music’s too loud and therefore he hadn’t been able to hear him. With his brows knit together and feigning feeling offended, he opens his mouth to tell him just that, but Iwaizumi interrupts him before he can get a word out. “Don’t even try to deny it. I can practically see the hearts in your eyes. Really, it's disgusting.”

“I am going to deny it, because it’s a blatant lie,” he says, his own words making his stomach lurch a little. “If anything, she should be drooling over me. You know, like any other girl.”

His best friend stares blankly at him, letting out a soft, incredulous scoff after a moment.

“You’re so full of it.”

“And you’re being unnecessarily mean, Iwa-chan. Why would you even think—?”

“I don’t think— I know you like her. You have since high-school.”

Oikawa looks baffled for a second, scrunching up his nose a little and averting his gaze, which automatically finds its way back to you. He wishes you weren’t so far away.

“I don’t have silly crushes. I am the crush.”

Iwaizumi stares at him for a second with a deep frown on his face. He looks like he’s about to punch his friend... knowing him; he just might.

“She obviously likes you, too. Go do something about it.”

Oikawa arranges his face into what he hopes is a puzzled expression, his own frown a little over exaggerated.

“There’s nothing to do,” he says with a light, nonchalant shrug.

Iwaizumi rubs the side of his face with the palm of his hand and lets out an exasperated groan. “You really are trash.” And before Oikawa can reply, he continues. “I’m going to get another drink. You just keep lying to yourself or whatever.”

Oikawa watches him until he disappears among the crowd, wondering if his best friend has noticed—and the obvious answer seems to be yes. And how could he not? Iwaizumi’s not stupid, and Oikawa has always been pretty obvious; at least to him.

But Iwaizumi had noticed, all right. The lingering touches, the way Tōru would always make sure your shoulders brushed whenever you walked past each other, or how he would interrupt your conversations with unnecessary possessiveness (and pretty evident jealousy) whenever you were talking to other people. But the biggest giveaway was his smile. It seemed brighter when you were the person on the receiving end—bigger. It was one of the few times it was genuinely authentic, and he always seemed to save those specifically for you.

Oikawa gives a heavy sigh beforetaking a sip from his cup, keeping the cool liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing, eyes fixed on your frame. Anyone who saw him would think it strange, because Oikawa Tōru doesn’t stare at just anybody. He wasn't wrong when he said it was usually the other way around.

But there you are, and there he is... so close, and yet so far away from each other. All it takes is a couple steps, ten, maybe fifteen. Somehow, the distance seems much greater than that.

His eyes follow you as you head to the balcony outside, which he assumes is empty. He leaves his cup forgotten on some table, walking with long strides towards the very same door you jusy disappeared through—towards you. When he reaches it, he hesitates for just a second, hand hovering over the doorknob. He gives a quick glance behind him and, when he makes sure nobody’s really paying attention to him, he steps outside silently.

And there you stand, hands resting on the cold metal of the rail as you take in the stunning view of the city spread out before you. It’s nice; he won’t deny that, but he’d much rather look at you.

He steps close enough that you become aware of his presence, but you don’t turn around to face him. Instead, you smile softly.

“You’re going to get cold,” he murmurs, shrugging off his jacket and placing it gently over your shoulders.

“Careful,” you whisper, quirking up an eyebrow. “Someone might be looking.”

“All they’d see is me being the gentleman that I am.”

Your snort makes him smile; he likes hearing your laugh, whether it comes out as a light giggle or a sudden, weird and unnecessarily loud bark.

“Why aren’t you enjoying the party?” you ask him. Your voice is quiet as though you’re sharing a secret with him. You’re used to using that tone with Oikawa. “Shouldn’t you be impressing all the ladies with your fabulous moves?”

He puffs up his cheeks, mimicking your pose. His right hand is so close to yours that he can feel the warmth radiating off your skin, a nice contrast to the chilly weather outside. If he moved just a bit closer he’d be able to touch it, maybe even hold it. It’s absolutely stupid and unfair that he can’t.

Oikawa’s quiet for a second, pursing his lips, deep in thought.

“Well, the only lady I’d like to impress decided the party was not up to her standards.” He shifts his hand a little to the right, and his pinky makes contact with yours, and he lifts it to place it on top of it. “Got too boring for you?”

You hum, hooking your finger with his and your smile broadens.

“I just needed some fresh air,” you answer, giving him a sideways glance. Anyone who saw the two of you outside would think that you were just holding a casual conversation. “What about you?”

He chuckles, eyes downcast as he flexes his fingers around the cold metal.

“I just needed an excuse to end up in a lonely balcony with you.”

Your heart does a summersault in your chest and you look away to impede him from seeing you’re actually flustered. He’s barely touching you, but you feel oddly warm. It’s funny how, after all these years, he still has that effect on you.

His eyes dart to you for just a second, and the urge to lean into you is so strong that he has a hard time fighting it. It’s a real struggle to keep a respectful distance between your bodies. Despite that, each hushed word between you two makes you both inch closer to each other.

Next thing you know, your faces are a breath away, and you’re mesmerized by the intense emotions in his eyes.

“I love you,” you whisper. And, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing and how much you like it, you force yourself to take a wide step back. He curls his fingers around your hand with a strong grip before you’re able to back away too much. Your brow is furrowed as you look down, trying to pull away from his grasp. He doesn’t budge. “Tōru, what are you doing?” you mumble frantically, glancing furtively around. Though no one seems to be looking your way, you make a feeble attempt to free your hand once again.

“I’m done pretending,” he says, his voice low, the warm whisper of it sending shivers up and down your spine. Oikawa allows his fingers to trail up your arm, and you drag your gaze up to his. His eyes are so full of longing and desperation that you freeze in your spot. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Saying those words allows him to finally breathe, it’s a huge weight that has been lifted off his shoulders. It had taken him weeks to muster up the courage to tell you, but seeing you tonight had made something in him crack. Oikawa’s tired of pretending that he isn't utterly and madly in love with you, and according to Iwaizumi, he had already failed at it anyway.

Pushing his feelings down is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Acting like you’re just another person in his life with no bigger importance than a good friend, stealing kisses behind curtains and underneath bleachers, sneaking around to stay the night just so that he could hold you for just a moment as you fall asleep in his arms.

And he looked at you and simply didn’t care anymore—about what people say. That he’s a hopeless romantic, that he’s reading too much into things, that he’s still too young to know what real, actual love feels like. But if that’s true, then what is it that he feels when he’s with you?

It’s not just his heart racing and his knees growing weak or his loss of speech. It’s the calmness that comes with you; the feeling that he’s complete, like he’s finally found his place in the world—which is next to you. Wherever you are is where he belongs.

“I love you. So much,” Oikawa breathes out, and he touches you gently under the chin, prompting your gaze to meet his. His eyes gleam with earnest sincerity, and you suddenly find yourself at a loss for words. “And I don’t want to hide it anymore. It’s torture, pretending you don’t mean everything to me. I’d be nowhere without you. I’m tired of all the secrecy; of not being able to hold you in public, to kiss you and… be with you. I just want to be with you,” he repeats, shining eyes falling to your lips.

Your mouth parts open upon hearing his confession, your previous struggle long forgotten. And you really don’t know what to say. It’s okay though, he knows.

His heart pounds loudly in his chest when your faces inch closer, and Tōru swears time stops when his lips finally meet yours. Your knees grow weak and your eyes flutter shut, fingers curled against his chest, around the fabric of his shirt. His lips are soft and warm; he instantly invades all your senses, and the taste of him silences all your thoughts. There’s raw emotion in the way his fingers dig into your lower back to hold you as close as humanly possible. Heat rises from Oikawa’s stomach to his chest, and he feels like he could combust any second just from the sweet feeling of your lips on his—he nearly forgets how to breathe. He’s sure his whole body will catch on fire if he doesn’t stop.

When he reluctantly breaks the kiss, his breath comes out in short, ragged pants. He presses his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut. He can feel people’s eyes on you both, but frankly, he can’t bring himself to care. It feels as though it’s only the two of you in the entire world.

Oikawa opens his eyes, which glimmer with admiration when he looks at you, almost like you’ve just given him the entire universe. In a way, it’s true. You gave it to him when you gave him your heart.

[literatooru-deactivated20250608]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬

pairing: gn!reader x oikawa tōru

The first thing you hear when you walk into your shared apartment is the muffled voice of your boyfriend, and your first guess is that he’s on the phone with someone. You take your time to take your shoes off and place them neatly by the door, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it before taking a couple steps forward to walk further into the apartment. You hope your slowness will give him enough time to wrap things up with whoever’s on the other end, but if anything, he starts talking even more. Your brows pull together in a soft, confused frown as you tilt your head slightly.

“Hello,” he says. After giving a frustrated sigh, he clears his throat and tries again. “Hello. Love of my life, light of my eyes. I look at you and it feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest, but not in a bad way. I like it.”

Taking a couple steps, you pad toward the bedroom and stand just far enough so that you won’t interrupt anything, then almost smack yourself on the forehead when you realize what’s going on. He’s talking to himself in the mirror. Again.

With pursed lips, you suppress a smile and swallow your laughter, extremely amused. Oikawa does give pretty entertaining speeches when he thinks no one’s watching and you feel like having a good laugh. After taking a single step closer, you come to the conclusion that he’s not actually in the bathroom, but in the bedroom.

“God, he’s such an idiot,” you whisper to yourself, pressing your forehead against the wall beside you. If you gave exactly three steps forward, you’d be standing right at the door. Right in front of him.

“You are literally the most gorgeous person I’ve ever laid eyes on. And you absolutely own my heart,” he continues, and your eyebrows shoot up. You love how confident he usually is, but he’s never taken it this far. Is he professing his love to… himself? “Ah, no. Maybe that’s too much. Jesus, why is this so hard?”

You hear a loud smack and assume he’s just hit himself on the face, and your frown deepens, because he sounds pretty embarrassed and a little bit nervous, and that’s not usually him, even when he thinks he’s alone. However, curiosity gets the best of you and you don’t dare move an inch, holding your breath as you hear him curse quietly, and then some shuffling. He’s on the bed.

“I…” he pauses, groans, and there’s a soft thud on the mattress as though he’s just punched it. “I have no words. And I really can’t ruin this because it’s going to change the rest of my life, and you’re not making it any easier by giving me that stupidly cute look and I hate you, and I hate this, and—” There’s another thud, this time against the wall, and after a couple seconds, you can hear him jumping to his feet and running to fetch whatever it was he threw, muttering a low ‘sorry.’ He heaves an even more frustrated sigh, and you can almost picture him tugging on his hair as you shift your weight onto your other leg. And there’s yet another thud followed by a loud albeit muffled scream as though his face is buried in a pillow which makes your concern grow much bigger than your curiosity. “Why is this so damn hard?!” After taking a hesitant step forward, his voice makes you freeze on the spot once again. You didn’t think he’d have more to say, since apparently he’s finding it ‘too hard.’ You wonder what’s making him so frustrated, so you keep listening instead of revealing yourself. “The stupid site said to just ‘speak from the heart’, and how am I supposed to do that when I can’t even think straight when we’re in the same room? This is so stupid.”

There’s a longer pause, and you’re so confused that it’s painful. What on earth is he going on about? Whatever it is, it’s irritating him to the point of baldness (which is a shame, because your boyfriend has the most perfect hair you’ve ever seen so much so that it makes you a little jealous. It’s ridiculous).

“Okay, fine. Look. You sit there and listen. Although I guess it’s not like you have much of a choice, but whatever.” A short pause, another sigh, and he’s talking again. “The day we met is the most special day of my entire life,” he begins. Oikawa hesitates before saying the next words, although his tone is much softer, like he’s reminiscing of really good times. “You make me feel like I’m the luckiest guy in the world because I’m the only one that gets to experience all of your mornings, and all of your nights, and… just… being with you, I guess. And I want to keep experiencing you for the rest of my life. I can’t promise you to love you forever, because I’m a regular human being who will eventually die… and that sucks, because life’s good when I’m with you. It’s perfect. So… what I can, promise you is to love you for the rest of my life, however long that may be. Because I honestly can’t picture it without you in it.” After a beat of silence, he adds, although a little more quietly, “do you think it’d be too much to say something about my cause of death probably being a heart attack because it just beats so fast when we're together that it might... I don't know, overwork itself?”

Your heart does a summersault in your chest, and you cover your mouth with your hand to stop a scream from escaping. Is he doing what you think he’s doing?

“Nah, I think that might be too cheesy, don’t you? How about I just…?” There’s more rustling of fabric which allows you know he’s moving again, and you figure it’s probably just best to let him know you’re there. So you take the last two missing steps to reach the door, and stand right in front of him just as he says, “Y/N, will you marry me?” His eyes bug out comically when he sees you, and he drops the ring in his hand onto the bed. It’s an odd sight, Tōru, looking as pale as a sheet of paper, on one knee on the bed right in front of a plushie. “Shit!” he yells, hand darting to retrieve the ring and stammering wildly. “You weren’t supposed to find out,” he blurts out, tossing the plushie to the side. Oikawa blinks once, twice, then adds, “I mean, you were supposed to find out… eventually. I thought— you said you wouldn’t be back until ten.”

“It’s ten thirty,” you whisper.

His gaze shoots to the clock on the bedside table, and he can see that it is, in fact, half past ten. So you’re actually late. And there he is, ruining the most important moment of his life.

“I just… I was just—”

“Proposing to my plushie?” you offer with a feeble smile.

Oikawa gulps, glancing at the plushie and grabbing it to place it face down against the mattress. He doesn’t want such an innocent thing watching the train wreck happening in the room. After a moment, he places the ring right underneath it to keep it safe.

“Yeah.”

“And was the plushie supposed to be me?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, then shakes his head and says, “maybe…” he stammers for a second, halting suddenly when he notices the tears pooling in your eyes, and worry suddenly twists his features. “Are those sad tears or happy tears?”

“Did you really mean everything you said to the plushie?”

His mouth feels dry and his chest feels a little bit tight, so he only manages to nod. However, when he takes another look at you, he finds a little strength in himself, the kind only you seem to give him. There you are, with your hair made a mess, and the bags under your eyes, and wrinkly clothes, and his heart swells with so much love that he does feel like you might actually kill him one of these days because surely it can’t be healthy for his heart to beat so fast.

“Every single word. Actually, words honestly can’t explain what I feel and I just—” he gestures wildly, rubbing his face when he, once again, can’t express himself to the degree he needs to. Tōru swings his feet over the edge of the bed and walks toward you to cradle your face with gentle hands. His thumb swipes across your cheek softly to collect the solitary tear that’s managed to escape your eye, and there’s so much tenderness and love in that single action that you find yourself a little breathless. “How many ways are there to say that I want to spend the rest of my life with you?”

You let out a watery chuckle, placing your hands on top of his and leaning into his touch. He smells fresh, and his skin is warm against you — familiar and comforting. He smells, and feels like home. He is home.

“For the record, I didn’t think it was cheesy at all. I loved it,” you murmur, closing your eyes for a second to relish in the feeling of sharing this moment with him. He leans down to press his forehead against yours and takes a deep breath, wanting to fill himself of you. “And I also want to spend the rest of my life w—”

Your interrupted by his hand suddenly covering your mouth, and your eyes snap open to shoot him a bewildered look.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, holding one finger up to make sure you understand. When you don’t move a hair, he nods firmly and withdraws his hand, holding both of them up to make sure you stay in place. “Let me do it right.” He spins around and throws himself onto the bed, carefully placing the plushie aside to retrieve the ring. He has to be careful; it’s your favorite plushie, after all. Oikawa takes a good look at the jewelry in his hand, which glints softly under the fluorescent lights. Giving another decisive nod, he turns around and walks over to you once again, dropping on one knee right before you. You laugh, earning a cheeky smile from him as he takes your hand in his, holding the beautiful ring in the other. “Y/N. Love of my life, light of my eyes. Do you accept to spend the rest of your life listening to my awful karaoke and watching trashy t.v. with me so we can grow old and wrinkly together and have a small army of children with a couple dogs and maybe even a cat?”

You throw your head back with a hearty laugh and nod your head repeatedly, not even caring about the tears flowing down your face. They’re happy tears, after all.

“I do,” you say, never having felt surer of anything in your entire life.

“Perfect,” he whispers, sliding the ring onto your finger and pressing a soft kiss on top of your hand. It looks right at home, like it was always meant to be there. “I was actually planning to make dinner to go with this,” he says, tapping the ring lightly, “but I… lost track of time. Your plushie is an excellent listener, you know?” He smiles as he stands up.

“Oh, I know,” you say with a chuckle, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead against his chest. Oikawa smiles brightly, enthusiastically returning the embrace and placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head. “How about we just order something?”

“M’kay,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face against you. “But I am making dinner tomorrow.”

“All right, fiancé,” you hum, and you think you actually feel him shudder against you.

“Oh my God, say it again,” he breathes out, pulling back to look at you as you repeat it.

“Fi-an-cé,” you say, enunciating every syllable clearly.

“You know what,” he says, and you let out a shriek when he picks you up and walks further into the bedroom with you over his shoulder. “I think dinner can wait a little longer.”

[chimielie]

“You have crazy eyes,” Oikawa says offhandedly, setting a glass down and leaning hard on a wooden table, long legs crossing over each other elegantly.

“I do not,” Iwaizumi retorts. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mhm,” Oikawa pushes his head into the other man’s line of vision, dodging as Iwaizumi unfolds his arms to make an attempt at pushing him away, his gaze locked on the other side of the deck all the while. “Nothing’s happening, that’s why the vein in your forehead is about to pop. You’d think he’d notice the big dumb guy staring at him this whole time.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” says Iwaizumi, casually posing his arm to rest on the table, open palm up.

“Maybe he has noticed and he’s just ignoring it?” Oikawa squints, dropping his (prescription, but don’t you dare tell anyone) sunglasses down his nose for dramatic effect. “A braver man than me, then.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Iwaizumi says, but his fingers twitch, not quite a fist and not far from being one. His eyes are an olive orchard burning. As Oikawa said: crazy.

You are: oblivious, blithe, gorgeous. The tops of your shoulders are sun-warmed and you’re swirling a glass of red in your hand, the contented lilt of your smile familiar to him after many nights watching your favorite wine stain your lips. He sees you sway a little, your eyes popping wide as you realize all too quickly that you might be a little further past tipsy then you’d thought, and the bastard you’re talking to puts his hands on you. One on your shoulder, one on your waist to steady you.

Hajime’s always had a penchant for parkour when he’s drunk, and you and he have been taking sips of each other for days now. He slams a palm down on the hard wood, momentarily airborne as he jumps over the table and cuts through the other people standing around to get to you.

“Hey,” he says, grin looking a little feral as he watches the hands on your waist come off. The guy’s movements are jerky, looking at him like what the hell, man? Iwaizumi has no idea why.

“Hi, Haji,” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. “This is Naoto. He’s from the same place I am, actually.”

“Cool,” Hajime says, extending a hand to shake like he learned at networking mixers at UCI. Naoto stares at him for a second and then takes it cautiously, wincing as Hajime crushes his fingers in his best arm-wrestling champ grip. “Good to meet you.”

Naoto clearly does not think it is good to meet him. He steps back upon release and makes a rushed goodbye to you, citing a group of friends he suddenly needs to find urgently. You smile and wiggle your fingers at him vaguely, already far more focused on the sun setting over the waves past the terrace than you are on whatever is happening between the two of them. Hajime steps up behind you, sliding a hand over your waist, his palm covering the surface area touched by Naoto. You put a soft hand over his, stroking slowly over his calloused knuckles, and hook your other arm back to tug him forward so he’s pressed against your back, bending so he’s cheek-to-cheek with you, watching the water undulate.

“You havin’ a good time?” His voice is a little rough from the clear liquor he and Oikawa were drinking paired with the effort of keeping his voice quiet, his concern just for you.

“Yes, sir,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. You hold it across your chest and he wraps his fingers around the delicate stem, putting his mouth right over the print yours left. “You?”

“Of course,” he says. “It’s beautiful out here. I think Shittykawa got sunburnt on the beach, though.”

“His fault for being pale,” you wave your left hand dismissively. He wants to pin you like a butterfly, your wrist arched gracefully against the darkening sky. “He has all those fancy skin creams to stop it from flaking, too.”

He feels a little bad for abandoning his best friend, but when he turns his head to check on him, the other man has reunited with Makki and Mattsun, who are all clustered together while taking photos of the two of you. Oikawa’s features specifically are spelling out something very smug and that will be very annoying for Hajime later. Iwaizumi concludes that he will probably survive thirty seconds without direct entertainment from him.

“He gets bad flush, too,” he thinks aloud. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

“See?” He hums and rubs his thumb over your top where he’s holding you with the right hand, soothing circular patterns. He can almost feel you purring. “I can always tell when you’ve started drinking for the night because Kawa gets red and you start running around and climbing things.”

“I don’t,” he protests, but it dies in his throat. You shake in his arms as you laugh.

“You always do. You tried to climb up my balcony once, remember? You said you could beat the elevator up.”

“I would’ve done it if security hadn’t come out,” he grumbles. You take your glass back and put it on the railing. It’s perilous, but Hajime doesn’t say anything. If it spills over your outfit, he’ll follow you back to the room and help you change.

“When I met you, I didn’t expect you to be the crazy type,” you say, turning so your lips brush his skin as you speak. “You seemed so steady compared to Kawa.”

“Only crazy about you,” he says. You sigh happily and melt back into him. He exhales slowly, a controlled breath, and wonders how a bastard like him got so lucky.

[dira333]

Beer-fueled dreams - Miya Atsumu

You should have learned by now that beer makes you bitchy.

"Tsumu looks like the Bee from the Bee Movie," you point out, pick one singular popcorn from the bowl sitting on your right and throw it at the blonde. "It's traumatizing."

Tsumu gapes. "I do not!"

"You do," Suna agrees easily, snorting. "You totally do. Oh, that's a great edit."

"I DO NOT!" Tsumu half-whines, picking the popcorn from his shirt and throwing it back at you. "Yer just making shit up! Ya look like Yzma!"

You lean in, your skin prickling with anger. You might have launched yourself at him, but your stomach is bloated and your movements sluggish. "And you have a crush on Yzma!" You hiss, surprised when Tsumu's cheeks turn cherry red.

Samu cackles. "You do? You've got no taste!"

"Shut it! Yer worse!"

"How am I worse?" Samu picks up his bottle to take a sip, narrowly avoids Tsumu's swing. "Watch it! I'm drinking!"

"I don't care!"

"If you get beer on the carpet, your Mom's gonna kill you," you point out. "Do it."

Suna slings an arm around your shoulders. "Hey now," he hums low under his breath. "That's mean."

"I don't care," you push yourself away from him, decide to get out of the room as long as you still can. "I need to pee."

-

Your eyes are bloodshot. You wash your face with cold water and wait for it to wake you up, cursing when you belatedly realize you had put mascara on earlier.

Two soft knocks on the door.

"Go away," you huff. The door opens anyway, and you turn, an insult ready on your tongue.

But it's Tsumu, his brows folded with a look of worry and the words just won't come out right, so you stay silent.

"You good?" He asks, closing the door quietly behind him.

You shrug.

"You wanna go home?"

You shrug again.

His lips quirk into something like a smile. "Do you really think I look like the Bee?"

You snort. "You've got the dead eyes."

He snorts back. "Only for you, baby."

His words soothe something in you even as they hurt. Maybe it's the same way a disinfectant works. It burns, even when it heals.

You point at your raccoon eyes. "Got something for that?"

"Eh," he opens a few doors above the sink. "That's my mom's stuff. Maybe she's got something you can use?"

You nod and roll your eyes and shoo him out of the room as if watching you take off your makeup could be more intimate than kissing you.

But... he doesn't remember kissing you, does he?

-

Tsumu tastes like cheap beer and your favorite crisps, his lips chapped and his touch soft.

He giggles against your lips, eyes closed as you two share a breath and then another.

Somewhere behind a door, you can hear the music blaring from the speaker. You're not quite sure anymore why you went to the bathroom in the first place or whose party this is anyway.

"Tsumu," you say, half a confession on the tip of your tongue.

"Hm?" He giggles again. "I think I'm drunk," he mumbles, leaning heavily into you. "Do you think I'm drunk?"

His words, carelessly whispered, hit you like ice water. You shiver in his hold and he notices his grasp loosening as he tries to blink himself awake. You slip away before he has a chance to react.

"I'll get Aran," you promise. "I guess it's time to go home."

Tsumu never brings it up again. Neither do you.

-

"Your drink is empty," Suna points out when you return. "What do you want?"

You look at the things he offers, your mind sluggish as you think through the choices.

Soju, burning down your throat, your stomach warm and your limbs like jelly. The cheap wine Samu bought that neither of you liked, its acidity sticking to your teeth like chewing gum or... beer, the only drink that will forever remind you of a kiss you should keep forgetting.

You reach out for the bottle without meaning to. Suna's brows waggle as he takes the lid off for you, playfully clinking his shot glass against the bottle as he hands it over.

"Where's Tsumu?" You ask when you sink into the pillows again, the first sip of beer running down your throat.

"Getting more snacks," Samu mutters with a shrug. "Said he needed some fresh air."

You sigh. Suna leans into you, heavy and warm and very annoying.

"What?"

"You're going to tell him?" Suna asks, fluttering his lashes at you. "Or did you already and we missed it?"

"Tell him what?" You lick your lips, wondering when the movie you were watching turned into pointless chatter.

"Tsumu," Samu yawns. "That ya love him too."

You stare at Samu. Suna's head is now heavy on your shoulder. You shrug him off and he lands with his head in your lap, grinning up at you like this had been his plan all along. You press the bottom of your bottle against his nose until he rolls off, grunting along the way.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do," Samu insists. "And while I think Tsumu deserves all the bullying he can get, it's getting a little annoying to watch ya two dance around it."

You take another sip of beer, let it sit in your mouth before you swallow it down. "If you think there's something there, why aren't you telling him to confess, huh?"

Suna snorts. Samu rolls his eyes. "We've tried. But he insists that it's not like that because something happened and ya never brought it up again."

You tense. "Something happened?" Sweat begins to pool at the base of your neck and in the palms of your hands.

"He's not telling," Suna pouts. "But it must have been that one party where Aran was our designated driver. The one I missed because I was sick."

You put the beer down with more force than necessary. Samu smiles. Suna chuckles.

"I'm going home," you decide, your stomach in your throat. "Right now."

"Want me to walk you?" Suna grins as he asks.

You shake him off, stumble a little on the way to the door. Neither of them stops you.

-

Tsumu is standing right outside the gate, staring up at the night sky. Or maybe he's looking at the streetlamp, and he thinks it's the moon..

You consider sneaking past him, but he spots you before you've made a decision.

"I thought you wanted to get snacks?"

He shrugs. "Forgot my wallet."

"So why didn't you come grab it?"

He hesitates. You glare.

"Did you tell them to ask me stupid stuff?"

"What?" Tsumu shakes his head. "No. I just... they were nagging me, I needed to get out."

You breathe out a humorless laugh. "Bunch of losers, our friends."

Tsumu smiles. "They are. Like, uh, the cars in ... Cars."

"The townspeople? Those were nice."

"True. Sorry." He grins up at you, half-sorry, half-proud. "Ya wanna go fer a walk?"

You breathe out a laugh, a warmer one this time. "Yeah, sure."

Your steps are uneven as you walk, but somehow still in sync. You almost fall off the sidewalk and Tsumu's hand curls around yours, holding it tight.

"Tsumu?"

"Yeah?"

"That one party-" You stop, willing the words to go back into your mouth. His hand twitches around yours.

"Are ya still wearing that cherry-flavored lipgloss?"

Your head shoots up to look at him. His smile is tentative and warm around the edges.

"Are you drunk?"

Tsumu shrugs. "Nah."

You hesitate. His cheeks turn red under your gaze.

"Sides," he mumbles, pulling you closer by your hand. "I always remember everything I do."

-

You should have learned by now that beer makes you bitchy.

"Tsumu's totally the fox from Zootopia," you announce, pick one singular popcorn from the bowl sitting on your right, and throw it at your boyfriend. "It's traumatizing."

Tsumu gapes, considers it for a moment before nodding. "Well, at least I'm hot."

You snort. "What?"

"Yeah." He nods again. "I'm the hot fox, but Samu is the ugly weasel."

"EY!" Samu looks up from where he's forming Onigiri. "Ya can make yer own food if ya keep insulting me."

"If Samu's the weasel, what am I?" Suna asks from where he's setting up the TV. I'm the Jaguar, right? Or the mafia boss?"

"You're the sloth," you declare. "It's in the eyes."

"I'm not sure," Tsumu disagrees, taking a seat next to you only to drop headfirst into your lap right the next second. "The sloth has a cool car, and Suna drives a Minivan."

"It's my Mom's car," Suna explains for the umpteenth time. "And you don't even have a car."

"I got a girlfriend!"

"I got a job," Samu counters mercilessly. "So who's winning?"

All three boys turn to look at you. You snort. "I got the beer?"

-

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[kymawrites]

bound by love

a/n: part 2 of bound by fear! can probably be read alone but I recommend you read part 1 first :)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: anxiety and panic caused by past trauma, allusions to past trauma and abuse, language, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of menstrual cycle/menstrual blood, finally some comfort for reader

word count: 12.7k

synopsis: You were falling in love with the mate you never wanted, and he was waiting patiently to catch you.

read part 1 here

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

“You’re not seeing her.”

“Az—”

“Rhys.”

Your eyes flew open, and you had to blink a few times to adjust to the golden sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains. Your breath caught in your throat as you focused on the voices that woke you.

“She comes from a rebel camp. Her memories—” An unfamiliar voice spoke calmly. A male voice that made your hair raise.

“I don’t give a fuck, Rhysand.” You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your dreams—but you had never heard it so feral. There was quiet lethality that laced the low growl of Azriel’s voice, and it sent a suffocating spike of fear through your chest. 

A beat of silence passed, then Azriel said quietly. “She’s awake, and she’s scared.” Gods, could he smell your fear from here? Were you that obvious? “You need to leave.”

“You both need to leave,” a third voice cut in. Female. Nesta, if you remembered right.

“I am not leaving—”

“Az—” she cut him off, “Go. Calm down, and then come back. Go bathe, eat, fly around the townhouse in circles, for all I care, but you need to calm down.”

There was some inaudible grumbling, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps. Then the door slowly creaked open and Nesta’s silver eyes met yours. You had to squint to make her out, your vision was still blurry and your head was pounding, but you could see the surprised tilt of her brows when she saw you.

“Well look at you,” she drawled as she shut the door. “You actually seem lucid.”

Your cheeks burned at her words. You wanted to argue, to quip back, to say something that made you seem less vulnerable than you were—but the truth was you didn’t even know what day it was. Your memories were hazy bits and pieces of Nesta and Madja poking and prodding at you, and brief moments where you awoke in the night, then listened to Azriel’s heartbeat in the hall to soothe yourself back to sleep.

He had yet to see you since he brought you here.

Nesta sat a plate of toast on your nightstand, then started digging around in the drawer. “Illyrian males and their egos,” she grumbled and sat some vials next to the plate. 

Your mouth felt dry as you asked. “Who was that?”

Her eyes flicked to yours, a bit of surprise limning them. She quickly went back to focusing on her task, but she still answered, “Rhys.”

The name was…familiar. Familiar in a way that left a pit in your stomach, but you couldn’t place it. Your thoughts felt jumbled and sticky, like someone had dumped a bucket of honey in your head and left you to pull bits and pieces apart one by one. “He’s Illyrian?” you asked. You hated how weak you sounded, how hoarse your voice was. Who knows how many days it had been since you even used it.

Nesta paused at that. Her eyes met yours again, and they assessed you with something raw and knowing—something akin to sympathy, but not quite. You shifted under the uncomfortable weight of her gaze.

“He’s the High Lord.”

You swallowed hard. You knew that. You knew the High Lord’s name was Rhysand, and you knew Azriel considered him family. Of course he would want to see you, to interrogate you.

You had not realized your breathing had turned shallow and frantic until Nesta placed a cool hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said, in a tone as gentle as you assumed she was capable of. “He’s not a threat to you,” she added, albeit begrudgingly. “Just a pain in my ass.”

She pulled her hand away, and the brief, casual touch left you feeling untethered. “Has Madja been here? Do we need to do your wing salve?”

Your stomach turned at the thought of her touching your wings. She likely already had touched your wings, but you couldn’t remember, and you didn’t want her to now. So you lied, “She already did it.”

Nesta didn’t even question you. “Are you hungry?”

You were starving, actually, but the thought of moving, of trying to sit up to chew the buttered bread on the plate beside you was revolting. You ignored her question, and instead asked, “How many days has it been?”

Her lips pressed together, and her eyes narrowed at your deflection, but she still answered, “Four.”

The number rattled around inside you, leaving you feeling bruised and hollow. Four days. You had been trapped in this bed for four days, vulnerable and injured and—

“Azriel has barely left the hall,” Nesta said quietly. “Only when I’ve been here, or Feyre. Do you remember her?”

You didn’t, and that left you feeling sick. If you didn’t remember her, who is to say someone else had not snuck in, or—

“Azriel would die before he let someone lay a finger on you,” she said quietly, her voice cold but eerily soothing. The sun was starting to fade, and you finally realized it was evening, not morning. “I know you don’t believe that, and that’s okay—but it’s true.” She brought a tiny vial to your lips, coaxing your mouth open to let a fruity liquid slide down your throat. It was alarming how pliant you were for her. Your subconscious trust for this new female was entirely driving your motions.

She sat the vial down with a soft plink, and she glanced at the hall when there was a soft thud. That familiar tug pulled at your chest, but it was gentle, and something settled inside you. That might be the work of whatever tonic Nesta had given you, though. “Sounds like your bat is back,” she mused with an eye roll. “Try to get some sleep,” she said as she moved toward the door, leaving you alone with your sticky tumultuous thoughts and the fading rays of sunlight as your only company.

Well, your thoughts, the sun, and your bat sitting in the hallway, apparently.

~ ~ ~

Turns out, skipping your wing salve had been a gross miscalculation on your part. Suffering through Nesta’s touch on your wings would have been a far better alternative to the agony you were in right now.

Painful did not even come close to describing the state of your wings. It had yanked you from your sleep so brutally—it left you gasping for breath. You were certain you were under attack, that you were back in that damned forest, until you recognized the silken sheets brushing your skin and the warm bed beneath you. Things that so sharply contrasted with the torment you were enduring it almost made you laugh in your hysteria.

The pain was paralyzing. You couldn’t move. How could you possibly still be in this much agony? Tears were streaming down the side of your face, and you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to soothe yourself, how to survive this. You didn’t even know where or what your wing salve was, and even if you did, you were certain you couldn’t apply it yourself.

You gasped when you felt that gentle tug in your chest again, and more tears fell as you instinctively clutched at the glowing thread coiled around your soul. You slowly registered Azriel’s presence outside your door—his scent, his breathing, his heartbeat—all things that tethered you slightly back to reality, and you didn’t even think before you rasped, “Azriel.”

The door immediately flew open, and Azriel was at your side within a second. His eyes were wide as they took you in, and you couldn’t stop the full body shiver that rattled through you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, words panicked. “What can I do?”

“My wing,” you whimpered. “I—” you gasped, “I didn’t let Nesta put on the wing salve.”

His eyes turned vicious, and a new wave of fear flooded over you. This was your fault. Your fault you were in pain, your fault you had to bother him—

“She should have insisted, or got Madja,” he growled. 

“I lied,” you cried, “It’s not her fault.” A sob broke free when you thought about him unleashing his ire on her because of you. “I just didn’t want her to touch my wings. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” his voice was softer, and when you opened your eyes, the anger on his face was gone, and now only worry shined in his hazel irises. “You didn’t know. It’s your instinct to protect your wings, it’s okay—we’ll take care of it.”

You were still shaking as you stared at him, as you watched him dig around in your nightstand until he pulled out a silver tin. He unscrewed the cap hastily but not clumsily—you were fairly certain that Azriel would look graceful doing anything—and he scooped out a generous clump of a sticky, amber colored balm with his fingers. Then he froze.

His throat bobbed as his eyes met yours. “You need this,” he said quietly, but he didn’t move. “You have to have this—but I can get Feyre, or Nesta, or I can find Madja if you want but—”

“Just do it,” you gritted out, your voice unnaturally high as the pain radiated everywhere. 

“Okay,” he murmured, and he didn’t even question it. He didn’t wait or overthink it—he didn’t give you the chance to think about him touching your wings.

Until he was, and you cried out as his fingers spread the salve along the raw membrane of your wing that had been miraculously stitched together. “I’m sorry,” he murmured quietly, but his ministrations didn’t stop. The pain slowly ebbed away as he rubbed the balm over you meticulously, and you thanked the Mother for creating a fae as gifted as Madja that made such fast-acting remedies. As your pain ebbed away, the underlying anxiety you felt from Azriel hovering you, touching you, started to shine through.

Your chest felt tight, and even though he was helping you, he was taking away your pain, you still found yourself wanting to shove the male off the bed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides, grinding your teeth together to fight the fear that was coursing through you. You asked him to do this. You were safe. You were safe.

You had never been safe in your life. You had never had someone you could trust. No one ever did anything for you out of the kindness of their heart. Any male that had ever shown you a smidge of kindness, of charm, only wanted to fuck you, and when you rejected them, that kindess flew out the window.

The Illyrian shopkeeper was probably the only faerie you had met who had shown you genuine kindness, but even that kindness was born out of desperation—of a shared disdain for the culture you were both subjected to. It was kindness born out of spite.

Azriel was just…different. Nothing he did made sense. It was confusing and scary and comforting all at once.

“There,” he murmured quietly, pulling his hand away and standing up from where he had knelt on the bed. “It’s done.”

You didn’t respond. You still felt like you were suffocating as you stared at him, and as if he could feel your anxiety, your glare, he went still as he was screwing the lid of the tin shut. His eyes slowly dragged to yours, and you hated how soft his gaze was. You hated the pity you saw in his eyes. 

“Is it helping?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed hard, and eventually nodded. 

He gently sat the tin on your nightstand, and the clinking of the metal against the wood made you flinch. Azriel clearly noticed, but he didn’t say anything.

You felt the tether on your temper snap when he looked at you again with those damned hazel eyes that always left you feeling conflicted and unmoored. “So what’s your plan?” you asked, and you knew your tone was abrasive—aggressive even—but you felt cornered lying there in front of him.

“My plan?” Azriel asked slowly.

“Yes,” you snapped. “Your plan. What are you going to do with me?”

~ ~ ~

Azriel was certain that his heart couldn’t break anymore. Not after he found you in that blood-soaked snow. Not after he ripped your father from your limp and battered body, and he felt your terror rushing at him in waves down the bond. His heart was in pieces for you, and they rattled around inside his chest every time he heard you whimper in your sleep or felt a trickle of fear run from your soul to his.

Then you woke up screaming. You woke up in agony, and you trembled in fear the entire time he helped you, because you were in so much pain you couldn’t bear to wait another second for someone else to do it. Then you asked that question. That fucking question.

“What are you going to do with me?”

It made Azriel just as angry as it did the first time you asked him that. Only this time, his ire was much closer to slipping its leash. If you weren’t lying there staring up at him with glossy eyes and tear-stricken cheeks as you desperately tried to appear angry, when all he could feel was your fear—he would be in the Hewn City this second, delivering justice to the male who hurt his mate.

Azriel wasn’t mad at you, though. Never. Mother, he sometimes wondered if all of this was his fault. If you had endured such suffering because you were destined to be his mate. It made him sick to think about the decades you spent in that camp, under a roof with such a wicked male, and he had no idea you even existed.

You didn’t trust him. He wasn’t sure you would ever trust him. Hell, he couldn’t blame you. He remembered what it was like when Rhys’s mother took him in, when Cassian and Rhys decided to stick to him like a thorn in his side. He constantly wondered when she would grow tired of housing the Illyrian bastard that talked to shadows, or when she would tire of his piss poor manners and impenetrable silence every time she spoke to him. He wondered when Rhys and Cassian would dig in too deep, when one of them might decide to breakaway, and leave him behind as dead weight—or even just outright kill him.

A fresh wave of terror  washed over him, sucking the breath from his lungs as his mind scrambled to parse apart his own emotions from his mate’s. Azriel’s mouth felt full of cotton as he met your red-rimmed eyes, as he watched you tremble on the bed in front of him, as he took in the bandages peeking out from your shirt and the freshly stitched membrane of your wings he had just slathered in salve. Your eyes were bracketed by the darkest of circles, and he had to fight to keep his own anguish, his anger, isolated to his side of the bond.

Azriel wanted to touch you. He wanted to feel your skin beneath his fingertips, to solidify that you were here, in Velaris, with him. He wanted to take away the pain and suffering and fear that was suffocating you.

He didn’t, of course. You were petrified of him, and he knew that the last thing his touch would do was bring you any semblance of comfort. It didn’t matter how loud his instincts roared at him to wrap you in his arms and swaddle the two of you in his shadows, away from the rest of the world that had brought his mate pain. He would never do that. He would never be another male in your life taking what was never his to take.

He swallowed hard, and he moved toward the low-backed chair in the corner, pulling it out slightly so he could meet your eyes as he sat on the velvet-lined cushion. “You want to know my plan?” he asked quietly, his voice steady and as gentle as he could make it with the anger still simmering beneath his skin. Anger that flared when he watched you curl into yourself further, your eyes wide with regret and trepidation. “It’s a work in progress, I suppose,” he said. He kept his eyes on yours, no matter how much your gaze bounced away from his and then back. “My first priority is letting you heal.”

He could see the confusion cloud your eyes, your skepticism momentarily diluting the fear coursing through you. “Then,” he said slowly, “We’ll decide what to do with your father.” Azriel couldn’t help the way he spat the undeserving title out, the word dripping with disdain.

Your throat bobbed, and your hands clutched at the sheets beneath you. You tilted your head away from him, opting to stare at the ceiling as you asked, with such a heartbreakingly small voice, “My father—is he—can he—” you shook your head slightly, your face twisting at the motion. “Can he find me here?”

And there went another piece of Azriel’s already shattered heart, another shard crumbling to dust. “No,” he promised, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. You slowly turned your head back to face him, your eyes heavy with utter exhaustion. At least you had stopped trembling, and the fear coursing down the bond had slowly calmed. “He doesn’t know where you are, and even if he did, he couldn’t cross Velaris’s borders. He couldn’t enter this house. I promise.” You didn’t seem convinced, and again, Azriel couldn’t blame you. “Besides,” he added quietly, tracing a thumb over the siphon on his hand absently. “He’s indisposed.”

Your eyes widened. “Did you,” you sputtered, “did you kill him?”

Azriel’s eyes locked with yours. “No.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I will, should you ask.” He could tell you didn’t know what to make of the lethal promise, and for a moment he feared he said too much, that he shouldn’t be offering to kill a male so easily while you're still wrestling with your own fear of him—but your shoulders seemed to relax a little with his words, and he didn’t feel another rush of terror. “We can talk about that later, though,” he murmured.

“And what about me?” you asked shakily, your voice nearly a whisper.

Azriel didn’t know where to begin. He knew one thing, though, and he knew it was what you needed to hear above anything else, so he said softly, “You will do whatever you want. You can stay here, we can move you to the House of Wind, we can find you your own place in Velaris, or—” Azriel choked a little over the words he knew he had to say, even if they felt like an axe to his chest. “Or somewhere else. Another court, if you wished.” He prayed to the Mother you didn’t.

Your blinks were growing slower as you observed him carefully. Your gaze made him nervous—he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this nervous with someone. He was quiet, reserved, and he flustered far easier than he cared to admit—but he was also the Spymaster. He had spent centuries mastering his nerves, but with you…it was just different. He also felt overwhelming pride and relief when his words seemed to lift a weight from your body, grateful that he was for once soothing your anxiety rather than causing it.

You pulled the blankets up close to your chin, and he winced as you did when the fabric brushed over your wings, but you eventually relaxed, settling back into the bed. “I’ve never been to a city,” you murmured, voice tired and heavy. “I never left my camp until—” your words cut off with a sharp breath, and Azriel shifted forward.

“Velaris is beautiful,” he said hurriedly, desperate to keep your momentary reprieve from the fear and panic and pain that had clutched you so thoroughly earlier. “We call it the City of Starlight, and it certainly lives up to its name. It’s beautiful during the day too, though.” He couldn’t stop his soft words from tumbling from his lips as you watched him with hooded eyes, listening silently. “There are markets and jewelers and tailors. Bakeries and diners and taverns. Artists have an entire quarter for their work. It’s vibrant, and full of life, despite the hardships they’ve faced. Velaris is resilient.” Like you, he almost said, then thought better of it. “I think you will love it.”

His rambling was met with silence, and when Azriel looked at you again, his heart stuttered. Your lips were parted slightly as you breathed steadily, your eyes shut and your face more relaxed than he had ever seen it. His chest swelled with even more pride that you had fallen asleep with him right there, that some subconscious part of you felt safe enough to let your exhaustion take over with him sitting just a few feet away.

He watched you sleep for far too long, far too many minutes passing with him staring at you in awe. His throat felt tight and his eyes burned as he finally tore his eyes from you—his mate. His mate. You were his mate, and he would die before he let anything happen to you again. He meant what he told you that night he brought you here, he was devoted to you. He never could have anticipated the overwhelming reverence he would regard his mate with, but it was entirely consuming in the best way. It was all he ever wanted, and he would be damned if he did anything to jeopardize it.

That meant another night of sleeping in the hallway, with his back propped against your wall, listening to your heartbeat from afar. He knew you would not want him to stay here tonight—you wouldn’t want him watching you while you slept. He was fairly certain you would spiral the next morning about leaving yourself so vulnerable to him, and he would be damned if he added to the impending panic.

He moved the chair back to the corner, his movements entirely silent, and he yanked his shadows back that had slowly migrated to hover near your face. He glared at the rogue tendrils, and then gave you one last onceover, confirming to himself that you were okay. He hesitated, though, standing there beside you, the bond begging him to just touch you. To tuck an errant strand of sweat-damp hair behind your ear, to brush his knuckles over your cheek, to press a kiss to your forehead—anything to physically connect with his mate.

He clenched his jaw, breathing deep, and told himself that it would take time. He had to give you time, and that if you never gave him more of you, if this was as close as he would ever get, he would make himself be okay with that. So, instead of reaching his hand out to brush his fingers along your bruised and mottled skin, he whispered another promise into the silent darkness, “Wherever you go, I’ll support you.” His throat bobbed, and he licked his lips before turning toward the door. “I will be in the hall. If you call for me, I’ll come. Always.”

~ ~ ~

“Are you and Azriel…close?” you asked Nesta, voice far too nonchalant when you were feeling anything but.

Nesta peered at you over her shoulder, her brows raised. “Close,” she repeated slowly, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes.

You hated the blush that crept up your neck and all the way to your ears. You were learning you were far too easy to fluster, and you hated it. It just felt like another vulnerability—another open window that anyone could peer through to see your emotions.

“Forget it,” you grumbled, tugging your breakfast tray into your lap.

“No,” Nesta said as she turned away from the vanity to fully face you. Why she had decided to braid her hair this morning here in your room was beyond you. Your eyes couldn’t help but snag on the Illyrian leathers wrapped around her as she sat on the foot of your bed.

“Azriel is my family,” Nesta said quietly, almost as if the words were foreign in her mouth. Family didn’t mean much to you, and you almost told her that before she added, “And not because he’s Cassian’s. Azriel is one of the few that gave me space to…heal—and he never made me feel guilty about it, even though I deserved to. I think he…” She licked her lips, looking at the wall across the room. “He gets it.”

You took a bite of the now lukewarm oatmeal, immediately gagging at the bland taste and gooey texture. You hated oatmeal. Nesta snickered, then gestured to the array of bowls on your tray. “Put some fruit on it.”

You glanced at the bowl of berries beside you, the bowl of honey and the bowl of nuts, feeling foolish for not knowing that’s how oatmeal is normally eaten. You rarely had access to such foods in Illyria, and the glimpse of the variety they had here in Velaris was overwhelming.

“Do you think…” You played with the hem of the duvet lying in your lap. This felt like such a juvenile question, but you needed to know. “Do you think he is a good male?”

Nesta’s eyes softened slightly, and you found yourself wishing you could stuff the words back in your mouth. Before you could tell her to forget you said anything, she said, “Well, I certainly didn’t bring you breakfast in bed. Nor have I been sleeping on the floor of a hallway for two weeks.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “You didn’t make this?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “No, he insists on doing anything he can to help you. He just gives it to me to carry in.”

You swallowed hard, staring at the slightly elaborate but frankly minimalist breakfast. Something that he likely knew you would be used to eating, with just a garnish of something new. It was like that every morning. You rubbed at your sternum, feeling something squeeze tight in your chest.

Nesta stood up, her sudden motion making you flinch, and started rifling through the dresser against the wall. She tossed stretchy black pants at you, followed by a navy sweater that looked like it could swallow you whole. You pushed your tray to the side and picked up the sleeve of the sweater, a fresh and intense wave of cedar and salt rushing over you. You swallowed. “Is this—”

“The pants are mine,” Nesta said as she shut the drawer with a thud. “But I don’t have wings, so the sweater is Azriel’s.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

Nesta seemed entirely unimpressed. “Put it on.”

“But—”

“You have been here nearly three weeks now. Madja cleared you days ago to leave the bed, and yet you still have not left this room.”

“And where am I supposed to go?”

“Anywhere!” Nesta threw her arms out toward the balcony. “Even just stepping outside would be good for you.”

You looked away, heat creeping up your cheeks as you played with the sleeve of the too soft sweater that you hated loving the scent of. Why did the thought of wearing his sweater make you feel so…warm? Comforted?

Nesta sighed. “It doesn’t matter, because today, you’re coming to training.”

Your eyes snapped to hers. “What?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Get dressed.”

“Nesta.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t training, but you need to get out of this room. Feyre will take us.” She moved toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “She’ll wait for you on the terrace.”

Then she was gone, and you were left alone with your head spinning and your heart racing.

~ ~ ~

Azriel was terrifyingly beautiful. His movements were elegant in a way that promised death. You weren’t the only one to notice, either, if the moony gazes of the priestesses scattered around him were any indication. It was annoying. So annoying, that it distracted you from your still racing heart after Feyre winnowed the two of you to the House of Wind, only to let her wings flare out to catch you at the last second. You didn’t even know she had wings, and she only gave you a sheepish smile when you said as much.

More notable than the priestesses’ awestruck gazes, though, was that none of them seemed afraid of him. There were plenty that appeared timid, unsure of their movements or their place in the room, but there was no fear. Cassian was busy overseeing a group of females that appeared more advanced with their skills, while Azriel was guiding others through slow stretches with low-spoken instructions.

One of the females in his group twisted her ankle while shifting poses, the awkward motion sending her toppling to the ground. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight, and your chest felt tight as you watched Azriel move toward where she was splayed on the ground. Her face was red as she met his gaze, and you waited for the lecture, the berating, but instead he offered her his hand, and smiled so softly at her as she placed her shaky hand in his.

He didn’t touch her anywhere else. He didn’t yell at her, or make a spectacle of her. He said something in a hushed tone that made her smile shakily and nod, and she resumed her position with the rest of her friends. 

You could feel Nesta’s gaze burning holes in the side of your face, but you couldn’t look at her. You couldn’t pull your gaze from Azriel. You couldn’t find the words to describe his genuine display of kindness that left you rattled and breathless. It left you with a glaring and uncomfortable truth that you had been fighting tooth and nail to avoid since you met him—you still found yourself struggling to accept it, but you could feel it—him—starting to wear through your defenses.

Azriel’s eyes suddenly snapped to you, his hazel eyes locking with yours from across the room. You sucked in a sharp breath, and your face grew hot from being caught. You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to finally turn toward Nesta, who was watching you and Azriel with an entirely too smug expression. 

You narrowed your eyes. “You are a conniving little—”

“Nesta,” another female voice groaned from behind you, growing closer as she walked. “Tell your menace of a mate that warm ups are meant to be warm ups.”

“Keep whining, Emerie!” Cassian called across the room. 

You turned around slowly to look at the female, stepping to the side to let Nesta speak with her. She met your gaze with a friendly smile, one that immediately melted off her face at the same time you felt your breath stall in your throat. She was Illyrian. She was an Illyrian female, and you knew her. She was the shopkeeper that had essentially kept you alive those first few months that you spent alone in that cottage.

Your mouth was dry and your heart was pounding as your mind raced to make sense of this female standing in front of you. Why was she here? Was she friends with the High Lord? Was she friends with Azriel? Had she told them you were living in that cottage in the woods?

Azriel never told you why he had suddenly returned to the safehouse he had left abandoned for so long. He never gave you any explanation, any indication as to why he was in that area. Was it because this female, Emerie, had told him you were there? 

You were going to be sick.

“H-hi,” she stuttered, rocking back on her heels as she stared at you with wide eyes.  “You’re here.”

She didn’t seem surprised to see you, only startled that you were here right now, as if she wasn’t expecting to have this confrontation yet.

“You know each other?” Nesta asked, but her voice sounded distant as your stomach turned and you stared at the one, single female who had ever come close to being your friend. The female who sold you out.

“I need to go,” you rasped, and you turned on your heel and ran for the door before anyone could stop you. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know where the winding hallway you turned down led, you didn’t care.

It was too much. It was all just too much. Everything that happened in that camp. The self-isolation. The unsolicited mate. Your father. Velaris. Now Emerie.

The weight of it all was suffocating. You wiped hastily at your cheeks, smearing your tears across your face as you neared a staircase. You crumpled to the floor at the first step, letting your tears go as you sat there with your knees pulled up and your wings splayed behind you.

You found yourself wishing, and not for the first time, that you had wings that worked. Wings that weren’t just some useless extension of yourself. You wouldn’t be trapped in this mountain, in this city. You wouldn’t have been trapped in the Illyrian Steppes for the last two years.

You closed your eyes as footsteps sounded, slow and deliberately loud steps that grew closer and closer, until familiar black boots stood in your periphery. You wiped hastily at your eyes, a desperate and futile attempt to hide your tears from Azriel. He could probably feel everything through that fucking bond anyway.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled as you pushed your hair behind your ear.

Azriel stepped down onto the first step, then slowly sat beside you. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured.

He was so close to you. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, and his wings splayed behind him lied only inches from your own. As much as you hated him seeing you fall apart, again, his presence was settling—grounding.

He sat there next to you without saying a word, letting you stew in silence for however long you needed. He sat with you while your emotions simmered and bubbled, until they slowly pittered out and you were left with a bone-deep, aching exhaustion.

“Emerie told you about me,” you said solemnly, not really a question.

Azriel let out a breath, then admitted softly, “Yes.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your eyes suddenly stinging again with a fresh wave of hurt and frustration.

“She was worried about you,” he continued softly. You sniffed as you wiped at the tear that escaped from the corner of your eye, glancing at him briefly. “She said you came to her shop monthly, like clockwork. Never early, never late. You were a week late when she came to me.”

You blinked, thinking over the weeks leading up to Azriel finding you. You had been a week behind schedule, after staining one of your tailorings and needing time to fix it. It had never even occurred to you that the shopkeeper, Emerie, might worry about you. It never occurred to you that she would care. She didn’t even mention it when you eventually showed up two weeks later than usual, aside from a quip about tardiness.

“She told me there was an Illyrian female living alone in the woods. She thought you were in hiding, and she was worried whoever you were running from had caught up to you. She asked me if I could look for you.” He shifted a bit, running his scarred palms over leather clad thighs. You still didn’t know how he got those scars.

“That wasn’t her place,” you whispered, looking down at the stone beneath your feet.

“She was worried about you,” Azriel defended. “And she knew you would feel betrayed by her coming to me, if you were perfectly fine. But the odds are stacked against a female in Illyria. She would rather you hate her and be alive than dead—or worse—because of her silence.”

You absorbed his words, the truth behind them startling. No one had ever made a decision with your best interest in mind. No one had ever cared enough to check on you, to worry about you. Emerie did. Emerie cared, and she didn’t even know your name.

Azriel cared too. He wouldn’t be sitting next to you in this dim stairwell if he didn’t. You rubbed at your chest as you swallowed the realization. “How did she know where I lived?”

“She didn’t,” he said quietly. “I didn’t. I never even planned on going to that safe house. It had been decades since I thought about it. But as soon as I stepped foot in Illyria, I just felt…” His eyes flashed with something indecipherable, and you knew exactly what he meant.

“A pull.”

His gaze snapped to yours, and you forced yourself to hold his gaze, to face the raw emotion shining in his irises. “Yes,” he rasped.

“I felt it too,” you murmured, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve—his sleeve. “When I escaped, I just ran. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know where I would stay or if I would survive in the Illyrian Steppes, but I just kept moving. I was following something. I thought it was pure desperation pushing me forward, but now I know….” You sniffed, meeting his eyes again. “I was drawn to that cottage, and as soon as I found it…I knew I was safe.”

Azriel seemed stunned for the briefest second, before he closed his eyes and masked whatever emotions were whirling inside him. For the first time, you wished you could feel him through the bond the same way he felt you. “I know you are upset with Emerie—”

“I’m not,” you said quietly. “I mean—I was—but—” You let out a shaky breath, struggling to find the words to explain the storm inside you. Azriel sat quietly beside you while you gathered yourself, his patience causing fresh tears to burn at the back of your eyes. “I’ve been alone my entire life. I’ve never trusted anyone—I couldn’t. Everyone was a threat. I don’t know how to accept kindness. I don’t know how to trust it.” You sniffed, wiping away more tears. “But I want to,” you whispered, trusting Azriel with the vulnerable confession, hoping it was enough to keep him here while you learned to trust him wholly.

Azriel was silent for a moment, letting your words float around the two of you, twining with his shadows that had creeped out of the corners and crevices of the hallway. One slowly slithered toward you, and when you didn’t flinch away, it gently brushed against your hand, curling up your arm until it stroked your cheek, then disappeared. Your skin was warm and tingling in its wake, and you wondered if you should feel pathetic for relishing in the touch of a shadow.

“My shadows came to me when I was a child,” Azriel told you quietly, startling you from your awe at the elegant tendrils. He held up a hand and let one curl through his fingers. “I was the bastard son of an Illyrian lord. He was a cruel and miserable male, and his wife was entirely suited to him. They kept me locked in their basement until I was eleven. They only let me out to see my mother once a week, if that.”

Your heart stuttered, and you didn’t dare speak—didn’t breathe—while you waited for him to continue.

“My stepbrothers were just as cruel.” He flipped his hands to face palms up, and a pit grew in your stomach as you stared at the scarred skin. “They lit my hands on fire. They wanted to test Illyrian healing.”

Your stomach soured as you stared at his hands. The pain he must have endured—the damage they must have inflicted for the skin to scar so extensively. He was just a child.

“My shadows came to me shortly after that. I was so lonely. I just wanted my mother. I wanted a friend. They kept me company—they kept me sane.” He dropped his hand to his lap. “When I moved to Windhaven, when Rhys’s mother took me in, I didn’t know how to trust anyone. Rhys and Cassian pestered me and we fought, but they weren’t cruel, and it didn’t make sense to me. All I ever wanted was a friend, but I didn’t know how to actually have one. I didn’t know how to sleep in a bed. I didn’t know how to sit at a dinner table and share food. I didn’t know how to talk to someone. I didn’t know how to fly.”

“You couldn’t fly?” you rasped, the words escaping you without thought. You almost apologized before Azriel shook his head.

“Sometimes I think that was worse than anything they ever did to me. Forcing me to ignore my instincts that were screaming at me.” His throat bobbed. “Rhys and Cassian taught me to fly. They weren’t gentle about it,” he said with a light laugh, “but they didn’t give up. They gave me time.”

You heard the words he left unspoken. I understand. I’ll give you time. They left you feeling raw and seen in a way you never had been before, and it scared you. You forced yourself to sit with that fear instead of hiding from it, and when it eventually ebbed away, you let out a shaky breath, pride simmering deep in your core.

Warmth rushed into your chest, and your face flushed as you glanced shyly at Azriel, who was smiling softly as he watched you. You bit your lip, looking away quickly. You felt him tug at your sleeve, and you glanced at your wrist to see the navy fabric pinched between his thumb and finger. He played with the fabric for a few seconds, and his skin brushed against yours as he pulled away, a shock rushing through you.

“Nice sweater.”

Your face was molten at this point. “Nesta gave it to me,” you rushed out, feeling both defensive and embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any other clothes—”

“We’ll get you some,” he cut you off gently. “But you can keep the sweater.”

You swallowed hard, staring at him with what you were sure was a dopey and wide-eyed expression. He stood up then, brushing his pants clean of any dust and his wings fluttering as he stretched them. Why was that so attractive?

He held his hand to you, and your brain froze. “Come on,” he said, an amusement dancing in his eyes. You shakily placed your hand in his, letting him pull you up from the ground. He squeezed your hand once before he let it go, and nodded toward the direction you came from. You followed him silently down the hallway, his arms brushing yours every once in a while, every touch sending your mind spinning faster and faster.

No one had ever touched you so casually before. 

No one had ever offered you their hand.

Azriel was the first, and he did it without hesitation.

~ ~ ~

“Good morning.”

Azriel was not proud of his reaction to your voice. The plate in his hand slipped from his grip and shattered all over the tile floor, and he knocked over a glass of juice in his desperate attempt to save it. He didn’t miss your flinch at the loud sound, and he had to close his eyes and count to three to calm himself down before facing you.

“Good morning,” he returned sheepishly.

Your eyes were wide as you took in the mess. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He waved you off, letting his shadows sweep away the shards of ceramic. It was their fault, really, for failing to warn him of your approach. “You’re fine. I just—I wasn’t expecting—” He shook his head. “I was going to bring you breakfast.”

“I thought I could eat down here, today,” you said quietly, hesitantly, as if waiting for him to send you back to your room.

“Of course you can,” he assured. He gestured toward the table. “Take a seat.”

You bit your lower lip, nodding as you released it and moved toward one of the empty chairs. Azriel turned back toward the counter, righting the overturned glass and wiping up the juice pooled on the granite. He refilled the glass and grabbed the plate with a stack of pancakes, drizzled with syrup and topped with berries. He set the food in front of you, and he couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips as your eyes widened.

“What—”

“They’re pancakes.” He pulled out the chair beside you, and placed it on the empty plate in front of you. He then took one for himself, taking a slow and deliberate bite so you could watch him. “Not the healthiest meal, but I love them.”

He watched you take a small and tentative bite, chewing slowly. There was no denying the pride that warmed his chest as he watched your eyes widen and you took another, larger bite. “Mother,” you mumbled. “You made these?” you asked around your food. Your cheeks instantly reddened, but Azriel thought it was adorable.

“Rhys’s mother taught me.”

You took another bite, closing your eyes in appreciation. “I think the food here might be my favorite thing about Velaris,” you murmured before continuing to devour your plate.

“I could take you to the city today,” he found himself saying without giving the words any true thought. Regret immediately curdled in his gut when you froze, and he hated himself for pushing you—

“You would do that?”

Azriel blinked. “Of course,” he said. “If you want to.” The momentary regret was replaced with giddy excitement. A giddiness that had lingered since you sat with him in that stairwell yesterday. “We could get you some new clothes. I can show you some of my favorite pastry shops. Anything you want.”

You glanced at your plate, then back at him. You nodded quickly. “I would like that.”

~ ~ ~

You had never seen so many faeries. They were everywhere. High fae and lesser fae alike, ambling up and down the streets of Velaris, weaving in and out of shops, moving to and from merchant booths lining the streets.

They were so lively—buzzing with energy and happiness. It was a far cry from the decrepit and dreary camp you grew up in. It was overwhelming.

Azriel handed you a blackberry tart from the paper bag of treats he had bought you from the store you just stepped out of. You took it absently, watching the movements of everyone around you. He nudged you gently with his elbow, raising his brows. You blushed and took a bite of the tart, a delicious sweetness flooding your mouth. You couldn’t believe you had been missing out on food like this for decades. You took another bite, and then another, until you heard Azriel lightly chuckle.

Your face was warm under his attention, and you knew you likely looked ridiculous, the sight of you devouring the pastry akin to a ravenous animal, but you still managed to glare at him. “It’s good,” you huffed.

“I can tell.”

You ignored him, polishing off the tart in silence, diverting your gaze back to the buzzing of the city street. You swallowed your last bite, licking the sugar and juice from your lips. “Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much,” he replied. “You should see it at night, though.”

You laughed nervously. “Maybe another day.”

Azriel’s face softened. “Of course.” Then he gestured toward the street. “Let’s find you some clothes.”

You nodded, following after him as he stepped into the throng of bodies. He glanced at you, then his gaze moved toward your wings. “We’ll probably have to have everything tailor-made.”

Your steps faltered. “Tailored?”

Azriel nodded, sidestepping a child that went running past. 

“I can tailor my own clothes.”

Azriel tilted his head, his eyes meeting yours. “You can?”

“I had to.”

A muscle feathered in Azriel’s cheek, and he faced forward again. “Well you don’t have to now.”

“What if I want to?” you challenged, feeling cornered. You didn’t want to depend on him, on anyone—

“Then you can,” he said softly. “You can work in the city or do it for fun, or not at all. It’s up to you—but you don’t have to anymore.”

Your hackles immediately fell. “I don’t want to—not right now,” you admitted softly.

“Then let’s find a tailor.”

You followed beside him as he weaved through the streets, the booths morphing from produce and baked goods to jewels and threads. Somehow there were even more faeries in this sector, and your throat felt tight as they bumped against you. A male stepped in front of you, holding a gold necklace with an overly gaudy pendant out to you. Your blood pounded in your ears as he stepped closer to you, his sales pitch warping in your ears as panic boiled.

Azriel had disappeared, and you couldn’t see around the sea of bodies you had been swept into. The male kept talking, kept pushing, his voice growing more and more agitated the long you stood there frozen in place. You murmured no thank you, but when you tried to step away, he followed, blocking your path.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. You were trapped. Where was Azriel?

A hand curled around your bicep, and you immediately flinched away, but their grip only tightened. You turned toward them, panic driving your every move, and when you met Azriel’s eyes your shoulders slumped and you leaned into him.

“She told you no,” he grumbled at the merchant, who had the good sense to apologize and run back to his booth.

Azriel’s grip on your arm dropped, but you immediately grabbed for his hand, holding yourself close to him. Your heart was racing and everything was so loud. You couldn’t kick the feeling of danger, the sense of standing on an edge. “Don’t leave,” you rasped.

Azriel squeezed your hand, pulling you close. “I won’t,” he promised, leading you away from the merchant’s booth. Another faerie bumped into, sending you rocking into Azriel, and you sucked in a sharp and ragged breath.

“I want to go home,” you whimpered, hating that your panic was controlling you, that you couldn’t handle this. “Please.”

Azriel’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, the small ministration soothing. “Okay,” he murmured, without an ounce of annoyance. “We’ll go home.”

~ ~ ~

Your cycle had been sporadic and fleeting for as long as you could remember. You never knew when to expect it, and it was rare it followed the normal sixth month pattern other females had. More often than not, it only came once a year.

So when you woke up to pain piercing your abdomen, you immediately panicked. You weren’t expecting your cycle—but as soon as you felt the uncomfortable stickiness between your legs and smelled the iron in the air, you knew. Only then did you realize it had been just a little over six months since your last cycle, and while it wasn’t normal for you, it was for everyone else.

You supposed eating well and sleeping well for the last two months had prompted your body to revert to its natural processes. The panic resurfaced when you saw the pool of blood beneath you, seeping through the sheets and likely into the mattress. Then another sharp pain stabbed at your abdomen, and you tried to stifle your groan as you keeled over.

You somehow had to clean this up, but first you had to clean yourself. You stumbled to the bathroom, lifting the hem of your sleep shirt—Azriel’s shirt—to reveal the blood smeared across your inner thighs. Tears burned at the back of your eyes, pain and panic swirling together as you knelt to the floor to rifle through the cabinet. The tears fell as you found the cabinets bare, save for some spare towels and toiletries. You shakily reached for one of the towels, dreading staining that too, but you didn’t know what else to do.

You flinched when the bedroom door flew open, and you held the towel toward your abdomen as you leaned against the cabinet, watching as Azriel rushed to the center of the room.

“Y/N?” he yelled, his voice panicked. His hands clenched into fists as his eyes landed on the blood soaked cheeks, and involuntary sob escaped your lips. His head snapped toward you lying in the bathroom, and panic drowned his irises as he rushed toward you.

You flinched away as he came closer, your body trembling from fear and pain and shame.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice cracking. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, his face blurry through your tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I—I didn’t know I was due. I’m sorry. I’ll clean everything—”

Relief washed over Azriel, his shoulders slumping and his eyes softening. “You’re on your cycle?”

“Y-yes,” you whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He crouched down to face you, and you could only imagine how you looked right now. You sitting on the floor with your hair a mess and only a t-shirt covering you as blood leaked down your thighs. “Why are you apologizing?”

You closed your eyes, hot shame creeping up your neck and to your ears. “It’s gross. No—no one wants to be around that.”

“It’s not gross,” he growled, and your eyes snapped open to look at him. “It’s just blood, and it’s natural.”

“Is it?” you asked shakily, fear creeping into your voice. “I’ve never bled this much.”

He looked pained for a second, the emotion gone as quickly as it came. “I think so,” he murmured. “I’ll check with Madja, and get you a pain tonic—but I think this is normal, as painful as it is for you.” 

You clutched the towel tighter to your chest, nodding slightly. “I don’t have any linens.”

“I’ll get some for you,” he assured. “Do you want to take a bath?”

You shook your head. You just wanted to curl up in bed and hide away, to forget Azriel ever saw you like this. To ride through the pain alone, just like you always had. Is that really what you wanted? To be alone?

He reached for you and you sucked in a breath, halting his movements. You met his eyes guiltily, hating that you were still so scared, so racked by nerves and anxiety that your subconscious couldn’t parcel out genuine threats. You knew Azriel would never hurt you. You knew that now, after spending months with the male, you knew he was good.

“Can I help you up?” he asked gently, like he was afraid one wrong move, one wrong word, would send you toppling off a precarious edge.

You nodded, the movement jerky and hasty. He reached for you again, his hands wrapping around your biceps so he could haul you to your feet. You whimpered at the pain that sliced through you, Azriel holding you upright as your knees wobbled.

“I’m sorry,” he cooed. He leaned down to grab the towel that fell from your hands, draping it over the toilet seat before guiding you to sit. He wet a cloth with warm water, wringing it out before coming over to wipe at your face. 

You sank into his touch, relishing in the tender care he gave to wiping the sweat and likely blood smeared across your face. He moved to your hands, cleaning each finger meticulously, dragging the cloth beneath your fingernails. No one had ever handled you so tenderly. No one had ever taken care of you. Warmth flooded your chest that made you nearly purr, and you tilted your head a bit as Azriel moved to your other hand.

“I like when you do that,” you murmured.

Azriel smiled softly, proudly. “I know.”

You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t in so much pain.

He finished cleaning your fingers, then rested his hand on your knee. Your heart immediately started racing, but Azriel soothed any anxiety before it could fester.

“Can you finish up? While I find you some linens and fresh clothes?”

You nodded, eyes wide as you watched him stand to his full height. He was in his leathers, and a pit of dread suddenly gnawed at you. “You’re supposed to be at training,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, rinsing the cloth before handing it back to you. “I’m supposed to take care of my mate.”

My mate. The words left you feeling warm and fuzzy, and you were certain Azriel caught the small smile that pulled at your lips before he left.

And when he returned, and he handed you a stack of linens and clean clothes that smelled like him, and then guided you to your bed with fresh sheets, and pulled the covers up to your chin after coaxing a tonic down your throat, you wondered if this was how life should be. If it should be filled with love and care and people who are willing to shoulder your burdens with you. You imagined the future, a future with Azriel, with a mate that took care of you, and wondered if he already treated you this well, how much better could it be if you just let him completely in.

~ ~ ~

The terrace of the townhouse had become your favorite place to sit. It was peaceful, serene, even if you could still hear the dull chatter of the faeries in the streets of Velaris. It was even better at night, with the city glowing and the stars illuminating the night sky—brighter than any stars you ever saw in Illyria.

You missed nature. You missed feeling connected to something separate from the rest of this world—but the view of the night sky from the terrace soothed that longing for the most part. Sometimes you watched Rhys and Cassian, or even Azriel, fly over Velaris, usually gliding toward the House of Wind, and you caught yourself envying them.

You always wished you could fly so you could escape—you had forgotten that it was something that should have brought you joy as well. Another thing your father and Illyria stole from you.

Cassian soared over your help, making you yelp as the wind whipped at your hair. You could faintly hear his fading laugh as he flew toward the House of Wind, waving at you in the distance. You waved back timidly, confused how someone you had yet to properly meet could be so comfortable interacting with you.

“I’m sorry about him.”

You spun around to face Azriel, his voice startling you from your thoughts. “How long have you been standing there?” you asked breathlessly.

Azriel grinned, moving to stand next to you at the railing. “Not long. We just got home.”

You nodded, leaning on the railing again. “How was it?” you asked quietly. He and Cassian had been in Hewn City all day.

Azriel shrugged. “Wretched as always.” He glanced at you, hesitating before adding with no shortage of disdain, “You father was pleasant as usual.”

You swallowed hard, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” you whispered, “And I know I never want to see him again.”

Azriel’s gaze was unwavering on your face, but you couldn’t face him while you said this. You didn’t want to see his face if he disagreed—if he was disappointed.

“I have nothing left to say to him. I don’t care what you do with him, so long as I never have to see that male again.” You finally glanced at him. “Does that make me pathetic? That I can’t even stomach facing him one last time?”

“No,” Azriel said immediately. “Never. Only you know what will bring you peace, and you have every right to take it.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “You can decide what you do with him.”

“Are you certain?”

You nodded.

“Then consider it done.”

And that was that. A weight felt lifted off your shoulders, passing the burden of your father’s fate to someone else, someone you trusted to deliver proper retribution.

The two of you stood in silence for a while, staring up at the stars. A bat flew over the two of you, and you smiled softly. “I think about flying sometimes,” you admitted.

A beat of silence passed, heavy with your confession, the loss you carried every day. It was nice. For so long you had only yourself and the trees to share your thoughts with. For so long you had devoted all your time and energy to surviving, that you never let yourself dwell on the pleasures you had been deprived of. Some of those pleasures Azriel had reintroduced into your life, but some you would never get to have.

“I’ll take you flying whenever you want. All you have to do is ask.”

Your head snapped to him. “Are you serious?”

You thought his cheeks might be the faintest shade of pink, but you couldn’t be certain under the night sky. “I know it’s not the same—”

“You would really take me flying?” you asked, your voice wavering with disbelief and a bubbling excitement.

Azriel stared at you with something akin to wonder, and you felt a little childish for the briefest of moments, but then he said softly, “Of course I would.”

Of course I would. As if you shouldn’t be shocked that someone would do something so kind for you—that Azriel would jump at the chance to make you happy. You sniffed, pushing away the emotions slicing at your insides, and focusing on the budding excitement from earlier.

“Can we go now?”

Azriel’s eyes widened, and you immediately retracted. “Or not. Of course not right now. That would be—”

“We can go now,” he cut you off gently, but there was still hesitation in his eyes that made you wait for his next words with bated breath. “It’s just—are you sure you’re comfortable with that? I—I would be holding you. And your wings—I can’t promise I won’t touch them. I will do my best, but—”

“I trust you, Azriel.”

Your words made his own die on his tongue, his mouth held slightly agape as he stared at you in shock. Your heart was racing with your confession, with the power you just handed him on a silver-platter. It was terrifying—but you weren’t scared of him. If anything, you felt safest with him. Which was also terrifying, but you refused to let the fear your father instilled in you rule your life. You refused to let him keep you away from your mate when you were fairly certain having Azriel in your life was the greatest blessing the Mother could have bestowed on you—even when you tried rejecting it kicking and screaming at first.

Azriel’s eyes were glossy under the starry sky, moonlight glinting off his cheeks and sucked in by his hair. He was still wearing his leathers from the Hewn City, and he was decked out in all seven of his blue siphons—the sight would have left you anxious and trembling a few months ago—now it was…alluring.

He smiled softly, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and your stomach flipped at the genuine happiness shining on his face. You couldn’t help but match his grin. “What are we waiting for then?”

Your grin grew even wider as you moved toward him, letting him wrap you in his arms effortlessly, before he took off into the sky. The wind against your cheeks was cold and tinged with salt, leaving behind a delicious sting across your skin. You were smiling as you stared at the stars, feeling all the more immersed in them as Azriel weaved the two of you through the sky. 

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, his voice deep in your ear. His lips brushed the delicate skin briefly, and it sent a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. 

You swallowed hard, ignoring the flush gracing your cheeks. “Anywhere.”

Azriel hummed his acknowledgement, and you relaxed in his arms as he carried the two of you over the buzzing city. He wasn’t kidding when he said you should see it at night.

He dipped low as you approached the Sidra, causing you to squeal and clutch to him tighter. Azriel laughed as you hovered inches from the water, before taking off back into the sky. His grip on you tightened when you glared at him, but the smirk on his face was unapologetic.

The tip of your wing touched his when he tilted slightly, the contact sending an unfamiliar rush of electricity down your spine. Both of you sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, and when you met his eyes with your own wide ones and reddened cheeks, he simply smiled softly at you before weaving through some tree canopies.

One of your hands around his neck relaxed slightly, and your fingertips threaded through the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Azriel seemed to lean into the touch, his lashes fluttering so slightly as your motions became more exploratory, deliberate.

You…you didn’t know what you were doing. You had never been this physically close to someone. You had never touched someone so tenderly—never wanted to learn what touches could make someone preen and purr. Yet, with Azriel, you were fairly certain you could spend an eternity tracing his body with your fingers if he let you. Did he feel the same way about you? Did you want him to?

He eventually landed the two of you on an outcropping of the mountain, high above the city and even the House of Wind. It was so quiet up here. A serenity you never could have imagined wrapping around the two of you. Azriel sat you on your feet, but he kept his hand in yours as you spun around slowly to take in the sky. 

You turned back to him, breathless from the flying and the view and him. “This is amazing, Az.”

Azriel’s throat bobbed as he stared at you. Eventually he squeezed your hand, joining you in looking up at the sky. “I’m glad you like it.”

You shook your head. “I love it.”

You looked at him again, and an overwhelming rush of gratitude and care and fondness went through you. Something else so raw and consuming it left your heart beating erratically as it flooded through you. You didn’t think before you flung your arms around his middle, pressing your cheek against his chest, holding tight even when he went rigid. His shocked stillness morphed into an easy warmth, and he slowly wrapped his arms around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. You both knew what this meant, that you both needed the comfort of being held in your mate’s arms, and neither of you wanted to risk fracturing this brief sanctuary you found with each other.

Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from whispering against his chest, “Thank you.”

Azriel only held you tighter.

~ ~ ~

Blinding terror ripped through you, wrenching you from your sleep as you struggled to catch your breath. The room was still swathed in darkness, moonlight peeking through the curtains. You looked around frantically for the threat, for the source of your fear, but came up empty. Then another wave came crashing over you, accompanied by overwhelming pain, and you clutched your chest as your mind raced to understand what was happening.

This wasn’t your terror. It wasn’t your pain. It was Azriel’s.

You threw the covers off you and bolted for the door, rushing across the hall to push his own door open, the briefest relief washing over you when you found him asleep in bed.

Then he thrashed against the blankets, a muffled groan escaping his lips, and you watched as his shadows circled him anxiously. They parted for you as you came closer, one even wrapping around your wrist and tugging you onto the bed. You kneeled beside him, your own fear meshing with his as you struggled to decide what to do.

When he groaned again, you lurched forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him softly.

He didn’t even stir, so you shook again, this time harder, as you said his name. You said it again and again, until you were practically screaming it, “Azriel!”

He shot up with a gasp, and his hand wrapped around your throat so quickly you didn’t even have the chance to react. You swallowed hard, staring at him with wide-eyes. “Azriel,” you whispered again, and you could see the dream-induced panic clear from his eyes, replaced with an entirely new pain as recognition dawned and his hand dropped away. “Y/N,” he gasped, his hands shaking as he ran one through his hair. “I’m sorry. I—I’m so sorry,” his voice trembled as he apologized, pleading with you not to be scared of him—to forgive him.

“Azriel—”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice thick and distraught as he looked at his trembling hands.

“Azriel,” you said again, voice his eyes to meet yours with a gentle hand on his jaw. His eyes were red and glossy, his cheeks wet with tears. Your heart cracked. “It’s okay,” you cooed. “You’re okay.”

He shook his head. “I—”

“No,” you stopped him, voice soft and gentle but holding no room for argument. “You would never hurt me. I know that. You were dreaming.”

His throat bobbed, and he sniffed, wiping one of his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Did I wake you?” he asked, voice low and steady again, but you could hear the exhaustion lacing it.

You nodded, your hand still cradling his jaw. “I felt you through the bond.”

His eyes widened. “I’m sorry—”

You immediately shushed him. “Don’t be,” you whispered. “I’m always the one needing your help. It feels nice to be needed by you for a change.” A fresh tear fell from the corner of his eye, and you wiped it away with your thumb.

Azriel’s face flushed crimson, his skin going hot beneath your touch, and Mother, if he wasn’t so vulnerable right now, so distraught, you would think it was the most adorable thing you had ever seen. It was precious. Azriel was precious, and he was yours. He was yours, and you would do anything to make him happy, you realized, as he leaned into your hand.

“I always need you,” he whispered, and the soft confession made your heart stutter. No one had ever needed you. But Azriel—Azriel did. It left you feeling warm and soft and glowing, and you pulled him into your chest to hold him close.

“And I need you,” you whispered. 

You shifted the two of you around, until you were lying on your side and Azriel was curled around you, his head pressed against your stomach and his arms circling your hips. You brushed gentle fingers through his hair, over and over until you saw his shadows settle down, and you heard his breathing even out. You ran your fingers through his hair even long after he was asleep, all the way up until you followed suit, holding your mate in your arms as darkness washed over both of you.

~ ~ ~

You woke up curled around Azriel, his breath coming out in hot and delicate pants against your skin. Your arms cradled his head to your body, and his wing draped over the two of you haphazardly. You glanced down to see your shirt had ridden up in the night, and Azriels hand was now splayed against the bare skin of your stomach, Your skin flushed at the sight, at the awareness of his touch, and at the realization that you didn’t want him to move.

Unfortunately, Azriel soon started to stir, and he nuzzled against your skin before pausing, and then dragged his gaze up to meet yours. His cheeks flushed bright red, you were certain your cheeks matched. You met his gaze with a sheepish smile, that seemed to instantly make him relax. “Hi,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. “Hi.”

You dragged your fingers over the back of his head slowly, Azriel closing his eyes as his head rested on you again. “How are you?” you murmured.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. When your fingers dug in a little harder, he huffed. “I am. I promise. I’m sorry—”

“I told you to stop apologizing,” you chided gently. 

Azriel’s eyes fluttered open, his head tilting to meet your gaze. His eyes shined with awe and reverence, and it made your heart clench. No one had ever looked at you like that. No one had done a lot of the things that Azriel did for you. No one made you feel the way Azriel did.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You slid your hand around to cup his face, guiding him to slide up so his head rested next to yours on the pillow, the two of you eye to eye. You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, your eyes taking in every detail of him—the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the length of his lashes—it was all breathtaking.

Azriel’s throat bobbed as you stared at him, and you could feel the nerves simmering beneath his skin, the uncertainty he felt laying under your close gaze. You weren’t the only one that struggled to be vulnerable with others, that struggled to trust another enough to show them the most fragile parts of yourself and hope they didn’t break them. Sitting with Azriel last night, holding him after  his nightmare and falling asleep with him in your arms—it was as big of a step for him as it was for you.

You found yourself leaning closer to him, your breaths twining together in the soft quiet of the morning. Then your lips were pressed against his, and Azriel was still as stone. You pulled away quickly, embarrassment searing down your chest, and then Azriel pulled you back to him by your hips, and pressed his lips to yours.

You didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know what came over you that gave you the courage to just kiss him, but Mother, did his lips feel heavenly against yours. They were so soft, tender, and loving. You were swimming in euphoria as his lips moved slowly with yours, and you never wanted it to end—you never wanted this connection you felt with him to sever.

He eventually pulled away, squeezing your hips as he planted one last peck against your lips, and his bright eyes met yours. A smile slowly spread across his lips, and you couldn’t stop your own from morphing across your face. “Hi,” you murmured awkwardly.

Azriel huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Hi,” he replied cheekily.

“That was nice,” you said shyly.

“Really nice,” he agreed. “Heavenly.”

Apprehension slowly started to creep in, new anxiety unfurling inside you. You hated it, hated that you might let it sour this moment, but, “I still need you to be patient with me,” you whispered.

Azriel’s eyes snapped to yours. “I just—I’m not—this is all new—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured softly, his hand coming up to trace your jaw.

“Just—” You let out a shaky breath. “Please be patient with me.”

“Always,” Azriel promised, his eyes soft as they stared into yours. “Always, my love. I will always wait for you. You never have to worry about that.”

My love. 

No one had ever loved you. You had never loved anyone—but you were fairly certain you loved Azriel. It still felt too soon, to speak that aloud—too vulnerable. It would take more time, before you were ready to hand that to him, but you did—you loved him. 

You couldn’t tell him yet, so instead you sent all the warmth and gratitude, the reverence you felt toward him rushing down the bond. When his breath caught and his hand stilled, you knew he felt it. His eyes were glossy as they met yours, and then he wrapped you in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he sent his own wave of warmth, of love, down the bond to you.

You never wanted a mate, but you were damn grateful the Mother gave you one anyway—that Azriel was yours, and you were his.

~ ~ ~

taglist (anyone that asked for pt. 2!): @slytherin-pen @bellefleurs @crookedcrusadestranger @breathingstarlight @weepingw1dows @coolepowersthings @antisocial-architect @bbontenswhhore @crimsonandwhiteprincess @myvoiddreams @shinyghosteclipse @be-your-coffee-pot @lisaxx01 @dreaming-starlet @alimarie1105 @bruxa0007 @mich0731 @just-some-teenagerr-blog1 @triangleshapewinner @blonde-bansheee @velarisnightsky444 @writtenbypavani @audiaantonette @chaidove @ohemgeewhat @autumnwitch626 @greenmandm @ilovegrishaverse @barnesispunk

[kymawrites]

bound by fear

a/n: this was a request! (sorry I've been mia)

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: physical and emotional abuse by a parental figure (alluded to and described), anxiety, violence, misogyny, language

note this fic is a bit heavier than my usual. please take care of yourselves if this could be triggering for you - this is not meant to romanticize trauma, but I think sometimes fics that include these topics can be a comfort for some <3

word count: 9.2k

synopsis: You spent three decades suffering under the cruel thumb of your father. When you finally escaped, finally started to build your own life, the last thing you ever wanted was to find a mate.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

You never wanted a mate. A mate was the last thing you ever wanted for yourself, after escaping from your wretched father. You never wanted another male in your life, controlling every decision, every thought, every breath that you made. You couldn’t have a mate.

Mates were rare, you had told yourself. It was unlikely that you would ever come across yours. It was an irrational fear, really. Especially once you fled from your camp—once you found an isolated cottage hidden deep in the Illyrian Steppes, miles away from any Illyrian camp. 

It was a dilapidated thing when you stumbled across it, but it protected you from the unforgiving cold of Illyria and the wet snow that seeped through your clothes. It was the first place you felt safe, once the adrenaline had ebbed away and the oxygen returned to your lungs.

You made the place your own. Months passed, and the previous owner never showed. Eventually, you worked up the nerve to venture into the closest camp, and in a rare bout of luck, you befriended a female who owned a shop on the outskirts of the territory. She gave you any supplies and food you needed in exchange for tailoring. It was the only skill you had to your name.

Two years passed with the same, monotonous routine. It was admittedly a lonely life. Sometimes you longed for friends, for companionship, for family—then you remembered what family could look like, and decided you much preferred your solitary existence. Perhaps one day you could leave this mountain, seek refuge in a new court, and build an entirely new life for yourself. For now, though, you would stay put in your cottage, in your forest, and relish in the peaceful life you had found after nearly three decades of torture.

That was your plan.

Then you met him.

~ ~ ~

Two Months Ago

You thanked the Mother every day for bestowing the gift of nature to this world. The trees, the snow, the skittering and chirping animals that hid amongst the brush and tree canopies—they all provided you with a comfort that you were certain you would have gone insane without. Every day, you walked through the surrounding forest, absorbing the sounds and smells and the kiss of fresh air on your skin. All little joys you never had before.

It took months before you had the courage to amble around so freely. Months where you barely left your little cottage, a shell of a female that was terrified of discovery. You eventually ran out of food, though, the non-perishables left behind by the previous occupant long gone. You had not escaped your father just to die at the hands of starvation, so you bundled yourself in whatever clothes and scraps of fabric you could find in old drawers to make yourself appear larger, then trekked to the nearest camp. You befriended a local shopkeeper who knew all too well the cruelty of Illyrian males, and she swore to do whatever she could to help you stay hidden.

You never asked her name, and you never offered yours. It felt too dangerous—too personal. You were grateful for her help, but you couldn’t risk attachment. She couldn’t risk catching the wrath of an arrogant male. 

She is the one that suggested that you take walks. To explore nature in a way you never could before. To take another slice of newfound freedom.

Your daily walks became a ritual. They were yours, and this forest was your home, and no one was around for miles to threaten you or scream at you. No one was around to hurt you. You felt safe in a way you never knew was possible, even if the fear that your father would one day find you still lingered.

The cold was biting today, and you almost skipped your walk all together, but decided against it. You had weathered far worse than some cold air, and your Illyrian skin was acclimated to the bitter weather. There was no reason to skip it.

Something was nagging at you though, the entire time you were out. There was an ache in the center of your chest, a dull anxiety, or anticipation, thrumming up and down your core. You rubbed at your chest as you took a step up to your cottage, the weight of your foot making the old wooden staircase creak. 

An unfamiliar scent hit you, and you froze. There was cedar, which wouldn’t be all that unusual in the middle of the forest, but it was so potent, and it was mixed with salt. How you imagined the sea must smell. 

Someone was here. Someone was in your home.

The door flew open, and towering in the doorframe was an Illyrian male, with blue siphons adorning his body. His eyes were wide as they met yours, and the breath was knocked from your lungs when that achy tension inside your chest snapped. The male stumbled slightly, his hand coming up to clutch his chest, and you knew he felt it too.

The mating bond.

It was unmistakable. The bond had snapped, and this male in front of you was your mate. This Illyrian male, that had invaded your home.

You took off running. You didn’t know where you were going, but you weren’t going anywhere with him. Your father must have sent him, and the Mother had a cruel and twisted sense of humor for binding you to him. The snow crunched beneath your feet, a likely beacon for the male to follow if he was determined, but you couldn’t care.

You couldn’t stop moving. Even as branches and twigs slapped at your skin, as snow fell into your hair, clinging to your eyelashes and mixing with your hot and silent tears. This couldn’t be happening to you. You were finally free. You were finally settling down.

You would rather die than succumb to the fate of an Illyrian male’s mate.

Something—someone—grabbed your arm, yanking you to an abrupt halt. You twisted to face your attacker, your heart pounding as you locked eyes with the male. Your mate.

His grip was firm, and it only tightened when you tried to break away. 

“What is your name?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Soft. It made you falter.

You still tugged at his grip, trying to break free, but it was no use. “Like you don’t know,” you spat.

You waited for the inevitable blow, for the retaliation, but it never came. He simply stared at you, his brow slightly furrowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. “Is someone following you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, tugging at your arm again. “You.”

His eyes narrowed. They were hazel, you realized. Nearly honey in the sunlight. You swallowed hard, averting your gaze as the little confidence you had wavered.

“How long have you been living in my safe house?”

Your eyes snapped back to him, your mouth going dry. “Yours?” you croaked.

He nodded slowly. “I’m particularly interested in how you broke through the wards.”

You shook your head. “I—I didn’t,” you stuttered. “I swear. I didn’t. I just found it, and it seemed abandoned. I’m sorry. Please—”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his face inexplicably softening, and your words died in your throat.

“Let me go,” you demanded, but the words fell flat as your voice wavered.

His grip loosened, but not enough that you could run off. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he swore quietly.

You were trembling. Your entire body was shaking as you stared at him in disbelief. He was lying. He had to be. He was trying to coax you into a false-sense of security, to convince you to let your guard fall, and then he would sink his fingers into you. He would drag you back to that camp, to your father, perhaps. Maybe he would drag you back to his home, and make you answer to his every whim.

“What is your name?” he asked again. His voice was so gentle it made you shiver. 

You still didn’t answer. He surely knew your name already, but in case he didn’t, you weren’t going to be the one to tell him.

“My name is Azriel,” he continued, unphased by your silence. The name made you falter, as if you recognized it somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind. “I work for the High Lord.”

You blinked at him, brain turning fuzzy. “The Shadowsinger?” you croaked, an entirely new chill of fear running up your spine.

“Yes.”

“Where are your shadows, then?”

“Away.”

You stared at him, the very axis of your world tilting beneath you as you stood before your mate. Your mate, that worked for the High Lord of Night. The Shadowsinger, who was feared across Prythian, and hated amongst Illyrians. You didn’t know what to make of any of it.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Azriel let you go, and the anger that flooded his eyes as he dropped your wrist made your stomach lurch. He stood and watched you tremble before him, the snow seeping into your boots as fresh flakes stuck to your lashes. Fear sunk its claws deeper into your core with every second that passed and he left your desperate question unanswered. 

Then he just vanished. His body was swallowed whole by a swarm of dark shadows that came and went as easily as the breeze. The knowledge that he could winnow, that he could appear anywhere at any time he wanted made your stomach churn.

You stood there in a daze as the snow fell around you and branches creaked in the wind. The sun was creeping below the horizon, and your legs started carrying you toward your cottage before you could even begin to fully process the situation you were in.

You tripped on one of the old wooden steps as you climbed to the porch, the snow biting at the bare skin of your hands you used to catch yourself. A single sob fell from your lips as you pushed yourself back up, forcing yourself to move inside and out of the bitter cold. You frantically started packing your belongings, parceling out what you would take, what you would have to leave behind, all while a chasm grew in your chest. The entire time you felt like someone was watching you. A sixth sense screaming at you that you were not alone. 

It had been years since you felt such panic, a bone-deep fear that would haunt you for months. It was such a sick and icy feeling that left you pain-stakingly numb, so numb that as the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself slumping to the floor in front of the crackling fire you couldn’t remember feeding. Silent tears fell down your cheeks as you sat there motionlessly, letting the minutes tick by and the odds of him coming back for you grow.

You had a mate. An Illyrian was your mate. One of the most powerful males in Prythian was your mate. There would be no escaping him. You could try to run and hide in another court, but you had no doubt that he would find you before you crossed the border. Probably before you even left Illyria.

Defeat and exhaustion weighed you down, your body sagging as the last of your fight faded out. Somehow, sleep managed to claim you, and you laid there on the floor until morning, when a soft and persistent knocking dragged you back to consciousness.

The fire still burned before you, the flames flickering as the wood crackled and popped. Your head snapped toward the door as the knocking continued. Dread swam in your stomach as you realized who must be on the other side of the door. In all your time living here, you had never had a visitor.

You debated making a run for it. Jumping through a side window with nothing but the clothes on your back. You weren’t sure your useless wings could fit through the frame though, and you would likely freeze to death if you somehow managed to escape him.

You slowly walked toward the door on shaky legs, your hand trembling as you let it hover over the lock. The knocking stopped. You couldn’t understand what sort of game he was playing. He had made it clear last night that he could just waltz into your home at his leisure. Your home, that was never really yours.

“I know you’re there,” his soft voice startled you. His voice was muffled through the door, but it still made your heart race. “Please,” he begged as you stared at the wooden door. “Please, can I talk to you?”

He sounded almost desperate. Your mind spun as you processed his request—his request, not a demand. Not a threat. You stumbled as heat pulsed in the center of your chest. It was unsettling, feeling the physical pull the mating bond had on you, practically screaming at you to go to this male.

You shakily unlatched the lock, feeling sick as you unexplainably opened the door for this male. His hazel eyes snapped to yours, his breath seeming to catch in his throat as he stared at you. Your grip tightened on the door.

He was dressed in plain clothes. Black boots, black pants, and a navy sweater. You could still make out the matching glows of the two siphons on his wrist, but the other five were gone. His wings tucked in tighter as you took him in, and your face burned as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Hello,” he said quietly. His voice was uncharacteristically gentle. You couldn’t imagine it as the natural cadence of this Illyrian warrior, the Spymaster of  Night Court. 

You swallowed hard, fighting to keep your face impassive as your resolve wavered. “What do you want?”

Azriel’s face was calm and unflinching. “What is your name?” he asked, again.

As much as you wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened, you knew that was not an option. Your soul was tied to this male on your porch, you had been living on his property for years—there was no escaping from this. “Y/N.”

He repeated your name softly, and you hated the tug you felt in your chest as the syllables fell from his lips. You hated that warmth that flooded your skin as his eyes glanced over you briefly before meeting your gaze again. “You have blood on your sleeve,” he observed quietly.

Your gaze fell to the fabric around your wrist, splotches of blood staining the dirty fabric. You could only imagine how disheveled you truly looked. The thought did nothing to quell your nerves. He likely didn’t want a mate that looked so poorly, whose hair was unbrushed and clothes were muddied. You didn’t care what he thought of you—but the thought of already angering the male you might be shackled to for eternity made you faint. You were certain you had done enough damage last night.

Mother above, this was really happening. You really had a mate. You were a fool to think your newfound freedom would last. 

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice making you flinch. You stared at him in disbelief as his eyes assessed you with seemingly genuine concern.

“What?” you rasped.

“Are you hurt?” he repeated, his eyes slightly wider as they met yours. “Do you need a healer?”

You let go of the door to cover your blood stained wrist, your heart pounding against your ribcage. A healer. He would take you to a healer? You had never been allowed to visit one. Even if you had…your camp’s healer was a male. You would have rather died than to try to seek the help of another wretched Illyrian male.

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he said, “My name is Azriel.”

You blinked. “I know.”

His throat bobbed, and he glanced away. “Last night was…” He shook his head. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“And what do you want?” you asked quietly.

His face was soft, and his shoulders fell slightly as answered, “I just want to know you.”

~ ~ ~

Present

You didn’t believe Azriel when he told you all he wanted was the chance to know you. All he wanted was to have a conversation. Once a week. Nothing more. It was ludicrous. Insane. 

At first, he wanted you to come to Velaris—but as soon as he uttered the words, you panicked and started begging him to leave you be, to not take you away, and he let it go. He swore up and down that he would never take you anywhere or make you do anything you didn’t want.

His promises fell on deaf ears. You were no fool. You had seen too much, endured too much, to ever believe such frilly promises from a male.

Except, two months had passed, and his promises remained unbroken. He let you stay in the cottage, and he showed you how to activate certain wards and enchantments that had apparently been at your disposal this entire time. For two years you had been chopping wood in the snowy forest when the damned cottage could apparently feed the fire itself.

Azriel came by every week like clockwork. The same day and time, and for only an hour. He never entered without your permission, even if it was technically his cottage that you had staked a claim to. The first couple of weeks were wrought with stiff and awkward silence, but Azriel didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he filled your pantry and medicine cabinets, cleaned the fireplace, swept the floor—all things that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself—but he did them anyway. 

The third week your resolve snapped. Your anxiety ignited into a fiery rage that had you snapping at the male who had decided to make you soup, of all things.

“When will you grow tired of these games?” you snapped.

Azriel briefly tensed, his wings twitching slightly before folding in tight behind his back. He glanced at you over his shoulder, his face sincere as he said softly. “I'm not playing any games.”

You scoffed. “Then when will your patience grow thin? How many more weeks before you just take what you want? Before you drag me to that city of yours so I can play the part of the pretty mate to the High Lord’s Spymaster?”

Azriel slowly sat the spoon down on the counter, letting the soup simmer on the stove as he turned to face you. His eyes were hard as they looked at you, his jaw clenched tight. The look made your stomach fall, your heart pounding as you took a timid step back, cursing yourself for such a foolish outburst.

His eyes immediately softened when you moved away, and he didn’t make any effort to go near you. “I will never force you—”

You grit your teeth. “So you’ve said.”

“And I will say it again, and again, and again. However many times you need to hear it.”

He always said the right thing. It was infuriating. Although, even now, weeks after the bond had snapped and thrusted him into your life, you still didn’t believe him—and yet, you had started to anticipate his visits, rather than dread them. You had started to see them as a nuisance, instead of a threat. 

He was due for a visit today, and he was late. The sun had moved past its apex in the sky, and the light was starting to filter in through the west windows. You ignored the unease you felt in your stomach with every minute that passed and he didn’t show. You told yourself you would be glad if he spared you of this week’s visit. Perhaps, he had given up on you entirely.

You couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest, though, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that was bubbling deep in your core. 

You jumped when three knocks sounded on your door, and you instinctively moved to answer it. The band wrapped around your lungs loosened when you saw Azriel standing on your porch, looking a little disheveled.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he greeted breathlessly. You moved to the side to let him in, and you shut the door behind him as he toed off his boots that were unusually caked in mud. His leathers had matching streaks painted across them, and there were dried flakes of it caked to the dark strands of his hair. 

“Are you okay?”

Azriel appeared as startled by your question as you were. You didn’t know what compelled you to ask him that, why you would even care, but for some reason, you did.

He blinked slowly, his lips parting slightly before finally answering softly, “Yes, I am.”

You swallowed hard, looking away toward the fire.

“My nephew started flying today,” he explained. “Unexpectedly, and he had an accident.”

“Is he okay?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Yes,” he said, voice still soft. “He is.”

You nodded slightly, dragging your eyes back to meet his. His eyes were already glued to you, and you forgot how to breathe for a second as you stood there under his gaze. The air felt charged and heavy as you stood there before each other, as if lightning was about to strike and shake you to your core. It was alluring. Intoxicating. Then something squeezed inside your chest and it felt like someone curled a finger around your rib, coaxing you toward the male in front of you, and a new wave of terror doused whatever delusion you had danced with momentarily.

You took a step back, and Azriel’s face fell slightly before he caught it. “Can I clean up?” he asked, breaking the tense silence as he pointed behind him to the tiny bathroom.

You nodded, avoiding his eyes. He quickly disappeared inside the tiny room, and you didn’t breathe until you heard the door click shut.

You slumped onto the wooden dining chair beside you, your hands rubbing at your temples as your stomach churned with anxiety. You hated this. You hated that the Mother was so cruel. How could you have a mate? Had you not suffered enough? Were the last two years the only taste of freedom you would ever get?

You knew your time left in this cottage was ticking. The minutes you had left to cling to your last dredges of independence were slipping through your fingers. Every time you looked at Azriel, every week he showed up on your doorstep, you were reminded that this was temporary. The life you had started to build for yourself was no longer yours.

And every time that damned bond linking the two of you together for eternity tugged at your chest, it made you want to scream. You had briefly thought about rejecting the bond. About severing the “gift” bestowed upon you by the Mother in two. Every time you did, though, it felt like an axe to your chest. You couldn’t stomach being bonded to an Illyrian male, but you weren’t sure you could survive cleaving the bond either.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Azriel stepped out with damp hair and a clean face, but his leathers were still muddied. He seemed to hesitate in the doorway, and it was unlike every other time he had been here, when he moved around your home with purpose and confidence—fixing things and stocking your pantry and needlessly stoking your fire. He looked almost…boyish.

He took a small step forward. “I need to ask you something,” he started. You folded your hands in your lap, your palms turning clammy. He glanced at the chair next to yours—the only other chair at the table—then back at you. You thought it might be a silent question, but you weren’t sure.

He tentatively moved for the chair, his eyes watching you, and when you made no move to stop him, he pulled it out from the table. He sat a bit awkwardly, his frame far too large for the wooden seat, and his wings bumped into the table as they unfurled and then snapped shut while he shifted around. The sight of his wings moving so gracefully made your heart hurt. It had been a very long time since you appreciated the beauty of Illyrian wings, since you witnessed their elegant strength without fearing it. 

Without fear. The thought made your heart tumble, and you stared at the male beside you in disbelief and reluctant awe. This was the closest he had been to you since that night in the forest. If you could still stretch your wings, they would no doubt bump into his.

“How much do you know about mating bonds?”

His words were like ice water over your head. Your breathing turned labored and shaky as you met his eyes hesitantly. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his damp hair. You hated that a small part of you liked seeing him like this—so normal, even if he still wore his leathers and siphons. “Humor me, please.”

You suddenly felt foolish and naive. What was there to know about a mating bond? “I—” your mouth was dry as you searched for the right words “—I don’t know. I guess it’s eternal? Chosen by the Mother and honored above all other bonds.”

His face was unflinching as his eyes roved over you, your skin tingling in the wake of his gaze. “What else?” he asked.

You blinked. There was more? You shifted nervously in your chair, tucking your hands between your thighs as you thought of what else he wanted you to say.  “I suppose it means I belong to you,” you added quietly, avoiding his gaze as the acidic words dripped off your tongue. You might as well have set the last scraps of your freedom on fire.

“That’s not—” Azriel started hurriedly, and you looked up to see his wide and slightly panicked eyes, “—That’s not what I meant.”

His shoulders slumped forward a bit as he looked at you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his leathers were stretched tight over his thighs as he rubbed his scarred palms over them. It of course was not the first time you had noticed the scars lining his flesh, but something inside you ached at the sight of them this time. You found yourself wanting to know who did that to him—then, a more terrifying thought creeped in, and you wondered what he might have done to provoke them.

How much blood was on his hands? How old was he? How long had he been fighting and killing for this court? How long had he served as fodder for faeries’ nightmares and horror stories?

“Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you out of your spiral, and your heart started racing as you met his eyes. He almost looked like he was in pain.

Gods, what had he been saying? You should have been paying attention. How long had your thoughts been wandering?

His eyes were sad as he told you, “I need to leave.”

You blinked, the daze you had faded into clearing from your vision. “Why?” you asked, voice unexpectedly gravelly.

His eyes flitted over your face, searching for something. “Rhys needs me to do something for him,” was his vague response.

You swallowed, nodding once as your eyes stayed glued to him. The setting sun illuminated his tan skin beautifully—it was nearly glowing. His eyes were bright and honeyed, if not a little glossy. His hair was slowly drying in soft waves, the strands falling slightly over his forehead. And his lips. Mother, his lips were soft and pink and—

“Y/N,” Azriel said again, and your face heated as you were once again yanked from your thoughts. Panic clutched you again, and your chair screeched against the floor as you stood up quickly. You scrambled away from him, leaning against the kitchen counter as you folded your arms across your chest.

Azriel’s lips were parted as he stared at you, and you wished he would stop. You wished he would leave, and never come back. You wished these confusing and conflicting thoughts would stop plaguing you. You wished you didn’t find yourself attracted to this male who was your mate. This Illyrian male that terrified you to your core, no matter how pretty he was or how softly he spoke to you. 

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to melt alongside the snow outside your cabin, and never face this new fate that had been bestowed upon you—because despite all of the fear and anger you had toward this male, toward the mating bond that wound your soul to his—you didn’t actually want Azriel to disappear. You didn’t want him to abandon you. You didn’t want him to hate you, despite your desperate and icy attempts to push him away. It was all so fucking confusing.

“The mating bond,” you rasped, and the words seemed to rattle around inside you. It was the first you had ever spoken of it, ever outwardly acknowledged its existence. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

Azriel stood slowly from his chair, but he made no move closer to you. His face was solemn as he said, “Yes, I—” He swallowed, then rubbed a hand over his face. “I do. I will—but I have to leave now. I’m sorry.”

You weren’t sure what to make of the wave of rejection you felt at his words. Two months ago, two weeks ago, you would have rejoiced he was leaving early. Now, it left you feeling cold and untethered. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He lingered beside the table for another moment, as if he was hesitating. Then his shadows swarmed around him, and they swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in your cottage, and for the first time you resented the solitude that you once cherished.

~ ~ ~

The sun had set and the moon had long ago taken its place since Azriel had inexplicably rattled you and then left you in a whirlwind of shadows. You had replayed your conversation over and over in your head, and every time it left you even more anxious and confused. 

The heat from the fire warmed your skin as you watched the flames flicker in front of you. You weren’t sure how long you had sat there on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you as you sat alone—your thoughts and the orange flames your only company. You should have gone to bed. It was late, and you were exhausted, but there was a part of you that wanted to wait—that wanted to see if Azriel would return, however unlikely it was.

A knock on the door made your head snap toward it. For a brief moment you felt relief—relief that Azriel had come back. Then ice slowly spread through your veins, and your breath caught in your throat as you stared at the door. That was not Azriel on the other side.

You didn’t know how you could possibly know it wasn’t him. You just knew in your core it wasn’t. Azriel made you nervous. You were always on edge around him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were always waiting for him to snap and treat you how every other Illyrian male you had encountered did.

This feeling was different. There was some primal part of you screaming “Danger!” and “Fucking run!” but you were frozen to your couch. You had never felt that when Azriel visited. You had not felt true and imminent danger in two years. It was not your mate standing on your doorstep.

The next knock made you flinch, and it was louder, more impatient. Panic was taking over, and your legs felt numb as you finally rose from the couch, but you just stood there and stared at the door. You had nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run, no way out except through the front door where your past sat waiting to tear you apart and drag your pieces back with them.

The wards. Azriel said this place was protected by wards. They should keep whoever it was out, right? The next round of pounding shook the door on its hinges, though, and your momentary confidence suddenly dwindled. 

The heavy pounding didn’t stop. It only grew more and more persistent, more violent, until the force made the entire cabin tremble. “Open this fucking door!”

That voice flooded your veins with acid. You knew that voice. You heard that voice in your nightmares. It haunted you everywhere you went.

Maybe you were dreaming. Maybe you fell asleep waiting for Azriel, and this was just a terrible, vivid nightmare. Your stomach flipped inside out when he banged on the door so hard the windows rattled.

This was real. Your father on the other side of your door was real, and you were still fucking frozen in place as he screamed and pounded. You shakily reached for the dagger that had rested on your mantel since you first found the cottage. The black metal was warm from the fire, its weight heavy and unfamiliar in your palm. You didn’t know how to use it—how to properly defend yourself—but it was more than you ever had before.

“I will burn this place to the damn ground!” He screamed, his voice rough and feral. “Don’t think I won’t watch you burn with it! Open the door you worthless bitch!” He started kicking the door, and your heart stopped when you heard the wood splinter. 

You had no doubt he would burn you alive in this place. Maybe the wards would protect you. Maybe they would fend off any flames he lit. Maybe they would keep him out when he inevitably broke the door down. Maybe they wouldn’t.

You should have asked Azriel more questions. You should have asked him just how safe you were here. You should have asked him how to wield the damned blade that must have been his that you now clutched uselessly at your side. You should have asked him—

“You knew it was only a matter of time before someone made you my fucking problem again,” he spat. “A fucking embarrassment. Maybe I should just burn you to ash.”

Your breath was stuck in your throat, and your lungs were paralyzed. Azriel. Did Azriel—did he tell you father where you were? You couldn’t fucking breathe. You never told him where you came from, who you were hiding from, but it wouldn’t be hard for the Spymaster to figure out. He had cut your visit short today. He had given you some vague excuse for why he had to leave—was this why?

Your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sob that escaped your lips. The skin of your cheeks was damp with silent tears, and you looked at the window to the right of you. There was no other option. You couldn’t stay here.

Your body’s movements were driven by pure adrenaline as you swung the window open, pulling it roughly to break it from its hinges, leaving the frame fully open for you to climb through. The glass shattered on the ground as it fell from your grasp and you shimmied through the too small frame. Your wings snagged on the wood of the cabin, and you yanked them free with a stifled yelp of pain as they were pinched and scraped against the worn wood.

You knew your father had to have heard you. You knew he would likely catch you, but you didn’t have to make it easy for him. You took off running toward the forest, your feet quickly going numb from the snow that seeped through the thin fabric covering them. 

There was a sick sense of deja vu that washed over you as you ran between pine trees and shrubs, branches smacking and scratching at your skin. The Mother really did have a sick and twisted sense of humor.

Pain ricocheted up your nose and bloomed under your eyes. You were no longer running. You weren’t standing. Your cheek was pressed against hard stone and your palms were outstretched in front of you, caked in dirt and blood. A heavy weight lifted from your back, only for a more intense pressure to replace it at the center of your back. You let out a wheeze as the air was forced from your lungs.

A disgustingly familiar hand yanked your head up by your hair, and another gripped either side of your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes were as cold and vile as you remembered. He was the epitome of evil. You thanked the Cauldron you took after your mother, and your own face didn’t remind you of the monster leering at you now.

He tugged at your hair, snapping your neck back even farther as his boot still pressed into your spine. You thought he might snap you in two right there. 

Your eyes caught on the blade scattered beside you, too far away to even think about grabbing it. 

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he seethed, spit pelting your face. “Do you know what you cost me?” he screamed.

“First your mother embarrassed me when she was too weak to survive birth. Her only purpose, and she couldn’t even fulfill it. Then she left me with a pathetic and disrespectful runt of a daughter. No son to make me proud.” The punch shocked you, and you felt your mouth fill with an all too familiar metallic taste. Your cheek throbbed as he yanked on your hair again. “Then she runs away. Abandons her camp and responsibilities. Fucking pathetic. I couldn’t even pretend you were dead, because you were so lousy at covering your tracks, Illyrians across camps said they had seen you.”

A tiny, microscopic ounce of pride nestled in your chest. You had only ever been to one camp. The shopkeeper and you had planted seeds of doubtful but not implausible rumors of your whereabouts to specific patrons of hers—you wanted to be everywhere and nowhere—and it had worked.

“Do you think this is funny?” he sneered, and he kicked you in the ribs, rolling you onto your back and into the frozen earth. The next blow resounded with a sickening crack that left you gasping and wheezing through your tears. You hoped he killed you. If this was your fate, you would rather die now than face an eternity in his hands. In his hands, that your mate had dropped you into.

You squeezed your eyes shut as he straddled your hips, his weight a crushing force on top of your injuries. You hated him. You despised him for taking everything from you. He reached for the blade behind your head, and you held your breath as you waited for the blow. You expected him to go for your heart. Instead, he dragged the blade down the delicate membrane of your wing, leaving the skin in tatters as he repeated the motion.

The scream that left you was blood-curdling. You had never felt such pain. You had never experienced such all-consuming agony. You thought you might die from it—from the agonizing violation.

Then he was gone. One moment his weight was searing against your skin, and the next he was gone. A guttural grunt of pain had you weakly turning your head, and you could barely make out the sight of two figures fighting in the snow. Your vision swam as you watched them, as you watched one male land blow after blow to the one lying in the snow. Then they vanished into the shadows, and you thought you might join them.

~ ~ ~

Fingers on your jaw had you jerking from your daze, your vision clearing slightly to focus on the male hovering over you. You twisted away from him, screaming in both terror and pain as everything hurt. The touch fell away, and you squeezed your eyes shut again, tears falling as you sobbed and shook in the blood-stained snow.

“Y/N—”

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please—don’t. Leave me. Leave me alone. Please!” you begged, eyes snapping open again when he touched your hip. “Please!” you screamed. “I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the male said, his voice sounding strangled. Your eyes snagged on his scarred hands hovering tentatively over your body. Azriel.

You sobbed harder. “I’m sorry,” you weeped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you are stuck with me, I’m sorry—but please—please don’t take me back there.” You gasped through your tears and pain. “Please don’t leave me with him,” you cried, your entire body shaking. “I will do anything—”

“He will never touch you again,” Azriel growled, and you swore a tear ran down his cheek. You might have been hallucinating. “I promise.”

You stared at him—stared and stared as you shook and cried before him, desperate for a reprieve from this pain. His arms slid under your legs and back, and you screamed as your ribs shifted and your wings dragged against the ground. “Stop!” you cried. “Please, don’t—Azriel, please, I’m begging you. I will do anything, I swear—”

“Sweetheart,” the word was strangled as it fell from his lips, but his grip didn’t loosen. He stood slowly with you thrashing and crying in his arms. “You’re safe, I promise. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then please,” you whimpered, “Leave me be.”

“I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it isn’t safe, and you need a healer.”

“No,” you gasped. “No healers.” You couldn’t handle another male touching you, leering at you, prodding at you while you laid broken and vulnerable.

“She won’t hurt you,” he soothed. “I swear it.”

She. A female healer?

“Close your eyes,” he murmured gently, and a warmth slowly seeped into your frozen core as you stared into his eyes.

You don’t know why you listened to him. You don’t know why all of the fight in your body had suddenly dissipated as he held you in his arms, or why you let your head loll against his chest as exhaustion took over your senses, and your eyes fluttered shut. Featherlight whisps brushed against your cheeks and arms, gentle phantom-like touches tracing up and down the gashes in your wings.

You slowly opened your eyes when warmth washed over your skin and you felt Azriel walking. You were in someone’s home. A home—unlike anything you had ever seen. There were paintings adorning the walls and carpets lining the wooden floors. A fire crackled in the room Azriel carried you past, and he slowly maneuvered the two of you up a smooth wooden staircase.

“Where are you taking me?” Your voice was so embarrassingly weak. You were weak, and fragile, and an embarrassment. What was the Mother thinking, giving the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, you as his mate. You were still trembling and frozen to your core, yet your entire body was ablaze with pain. You were helpless in Azriel’s arms, and as his fingers dug a little tighter into your skin, you realized you were truly at this male’s mercy. It was terrifying.

His grip immediately loosened. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered—begged—as he climbed the final step. “You never need to be scared with me.” He moved down the hallway as he said, “You’re in Velaris. My home. You’re safe here.”

Don’t be scared. You’re safe. I won’t hurt you.

His words swam around and around in your head as he carried you through an open doorway, and sat you gently on the bed. You wanted to believe him. Everything inside of you wanted to accept Azriel as your mate, to relish in his touch and presence, but everything you had endured at the hands of other Illyrian males—of your father—had you ready to leap out of another window to make a run for it.

You flinched as you watched the blood and mud on your clothes and skin seep into the clean bedspread beneath you. “The bed—”

“I don’t care about the damned bed,” Azriel nearly growled.

You nodded, your throat feeling like sandpaper as you tried to swallow the anxiety and fear still bubbling in your core. The room was spinning a bit, and you faintly recognized the brush of something cool against your cheek as a dark tendril of shadow flitted from you to Azriel. 

Azriel had one hand gripping yours while the other was wrapped firmly around your forearm, his strength alone keeping you upright. It was probably for the best. You weren’t sure you would ever get back up if you lied down right now. You couldn’t fathom the pain you would be in if you put pressure on your ribs or your wing.

“Madja will be here soon,” he said softly, and you absently squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back gently. A beat of tense silence passed, and you stared blankly at the wall in front of you, replaying the night on a loop in your head. “Y/N,” Azriel started, “who was he?”

Azriel’s tone told you he already knew the answer to his question—he just needed you to confirm it. There was no point hiding it anymore, and you were fairly certain he was the one who led him straight to you anyway. “My father,” you rasped. “How did he find me?” You forced yourself to meet his eyes, to watch them for any flicker of a tell, of emotion, that gave away what he had done.

His throat bobbed. “I don’t know.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, and you relished in the gentle touch before recoiling, pulling you hand away. His hand fell to his side, but the one keeping you upright stayed on your arm. You supposed it would make sense for a spymaster to be a flawless liar.

“Then how did you know he was there?” you asked, and you braced yourself for the inevitable anger—braced yourself for the blow he would deliver for such an insolent accusation after he had saved you—even if he was the reason you needed saving. 

Azriel stiffened, and you glanced at his face that had gone pale. “I felt your panic,” he said quietly. “Your terror—” You sucked in a sharp breath when his hand fell away and his shadows replaced him, the inky black tendrils holding you up.

“They won’t hurt you,” he promised gently, his eyes glossy in the moonlight that seeped in through the window. “They would never hurt you—I would never hurt you. I swear to you, I don’t know how your father found you. I don’t know how he got through the damned wards.”

Your face flushed at that, shame dragging sharp claws down your back. “I ran.”

Azriel shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. He should never have been able to even see the cottage, let alone step a foot on the porch.” His eyes snapped to you, the hazel of his irises warming slightly. “This was not your fault. You did the right thing by running.”

Another wave of excruciating pain washed over you, and the shadows surrounding you somehow`` held you up as your body tried to fold over. A whimper escaped your lips, and new tears started to fall as your body started to wake up. The adrenaline was fading, and you were quickly reacquainted with an entirely new awareness of the pain your body was in. 

Azriel’s face twisted as if he felt your pain alongside you, and even in your delirium, in your mind-numbing agony, your mind snagged on something he said. “My terror,” you gasped. “What do you mean you felt it?”

Azriel seemed to be using all his restraint not to touch you. “I felt it through the bond,” he murmured, albeit reluctantly. As if now was too inconvenient for him to be having this conversation, but he kept speaking, perhaps to distract you. “I’ve never felt such undiluted terror, Y/N.” His words were whisper-soft, and his eyes still shined with pain. “I’ve always felt your fear around me—it’s not uncommon—but this? This was terrifying. It made my heart stop dead. And your pain,” His voice cracked. “As soon as I felt your pain, as soon as I realized something was wrong, I left. I left in the middle of a meeting with Rhys and tens of Illyrian camp lords because all I could feel was my mate hurt, possibly dying—and I couldn’t let that happen.”

His hand finally reached for you again, his knuckles barely grazing the bruised and bloody skin of your cheek. Your head was spinning, from both pain and confusion as you struggled to make sense of his words—make sense of him feeling you through this, this bond—you didn’t know what to say.

His touch fell away as quickly as it came. “You never have to be mine. If you never want that, it’s okay. It’s your choice. Always.” That made your heart clench, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t think of much else besides the pain radiating across every part of your body. “But I’m yours.” Tears fell down both of your cheeks, and you absently wondered if you had ever seen a male cry. If you had ever witnessed a male show such vulnerability and tenderness. “I will always be yours. I am devoted to you—and I will always protect you, I swear it.”

The door swung open then, and another Illyrian male appeared in the doorway, moving briskly toward your bed. His eyes met yours, and your entire body tensed, your muscles screaming in agony as your panicked mind grasped for some way to defend yourself. Azriel’s wings flared out and he stepped forward, effectively blocking the male from your sight, and you from his. “Cassian,” he growled.

“Feyre is getting Madja,” the male said hurriedly. “They should be here any minute.” There was a pause, then the male asked Azriel softly, “What can I do?”

Azriel’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned to look at you over his shoulder. You could only imagine how pathetic you looked. You were in tatters and bloodied and shaking like a leaf and you couldn’t move. You couldn’t move. If this male lunged for you, it would be over. There would be no defending yourself.

Azriel turned back toward the male. “You need to leave,” he gritted out. “And get Nesta—please.”

The door clicked shut softly behind the male, and Azriel’s wings folded back in as he turned to face you. You stared at him wide-eyed and shaking. You had so many questions, so many fears, but you couldn’t find the words—the strength—to speak them.

“That was Cassian,” Azriel murmured. “My brother. He would never hurt you. No one here will hurt you.”

He kept making the same promises, kept saying the same words, and you wanted to believe him. Mother, you wanted it more than anything. His eyes drifted away from you, focusing on the wing splayed out beside you. The injured wing, that was starting to shake more than the rest of you. A new fear leached into your brain. Would you lose your wings? They were useless but they were still yours. They were still a part of you. You couldn’t—the thought of having a permanent reminder of your father’s cruelty made your stomach twist.

“Not long ago,” Azriel said softly, his voice slicing through your panic, “Cassian’s wings were in tatters. Ribbons. I thought he might never fly again—but Madja healed him. You would never know now that the fate of his wings was in peril, besides some faint scarring. She’ll heal you, too.”

As if his words summoned her, an elderly female came rushing into the room, the door flying open on its hinges. She pushed Azriel to the side fearlessly, and you stared at her dumbly as she dropped an armful of supplies next to you on the bed. She completely ignored the swarm of shadows around you, pushing you to lay back on the bed. You screamed as your ribs shifted and your wing throbbed, and a low growl came from beside you.

Azriel had Madja’s wrist in his hand, his eyes glowing with something feral, but there was no fear or pain on the healer’s face. “Shadowsinger,” she said calmly, her voice even and steady. “Let me do my job.”

Regret flooded his face, and he immediately dropped her wrist. Madja started ruffling through her belongings, and you grit your teeth as nausea clutched at your throat. You would not throw up. You weren’t sure you could survive the pain that would accompany it.

Your head snapped up as Madja took scissors to the hem of your dress, cutting a quick and uneven line up the center. Panic took over you, and this time you were the one to grab her wrist. “What are you doing?” you asked frantically.

“I can’t heal you if I can’t see you.”

“No,” you rushed out. Not with him here. You couldn’t. He couldn’t see you like that. You would have rather laid on hot coals than laid there naked and injured in front of a male—in front of Azriel.

Madja followed your involuntary glance to Azriel, and something like morose understanding softened her wrinkled face. Her head turned to Azriel, who was watching the two of you with wide eyes. “You need to leave,” she told him.

Azriel’s hackles instantly raised. “Excuse me?”

“Leave,” Madja repeated, her voice holding no room for argument.

“I am not leaving my mate—”

“Az,” another feminine voice said from the doorway, snagging Azriel’s attention. Her voice was cool and steady, not unlike her eyes or stature as she moved toward the three of you. “Go wait in the hall.”

He glanced at you again, but you couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be right outside,” he swore quietly, and you knew he was looking at you, knew he was promising you that he wasn’t leaving. The unusual but familiar warmth that inexplicably soothed a tiny piece of your battered soul reaffirmed his words. You didn’t understand how he did that. You didn’t understand a lot.

“Go,” the female said again as Madja resumed cutting at your dress. The door shut softly behind him, and you listened for his footsteps, listened for his breathing and his heartbeat, and a tear fell down your cheek as you heard them, unwavering outside the door.

You never wanted a mate. It terrified you, being bound to another male for eternity. You feared him. You couldn’t even stand him being in the same room as you while a healer tended to your wounds—and yet, the thought of him leaving terrified you more.

You were frightened by having a mate—but you couldn’t deny that in the two months you had known him, Azriel had never made you feel the way your father did, not even the first night you met him. You thought you might even feel safe, knowing he was outside, that he would come if you called. 

That is what truly frightened you, you thought, more than anything.

~ ~ ~

a/n: might do a part 2 with reader's healing?

[finelinevogue]

bump

summary - you don’t like people constantly touching your baby bump

word count - +1k

pairing - azriel x reader

✨🌙💫🌟✨🌙💫🌟✨🌙💫🌟✨🌙💫🌟✨

The party was in full swing.

It had been 2 weeks since you’d announced to your close friends and family that you and Azriel were pregnant - after having 1 month living with the news just you two.

Somehow, Rhys had managed to plan and pull-off a party in that short space of time in order to celebrate your pregnancy.

It was relatively low-key, only people that were closest to you and your family having been invited - mainly because you didn’t want a huge thing made of it but also because Azriel was a mad-man at the moment and wouldn’t let anyone he didn’t trust with his life near you.

Azriel had been overprotective to say the least.

Just the other day you’d tried to reach for your favourite mug in a very accessible shelf above you, but Azriel saw what you were doing and instantly panicked - moving you gently out of the way and fetching it for you. To which he also proceeded in making you a tea as he didn’t want you anywhere near boiling water.

“I can make my own cup of tea, Az.” You sighed.

“I know you can, but I can also make one for you.” He replied. That was his usual reply nowadays.

“I’m not incapable you know?”

“I know. I just… I can–.”

“Yes I know you can, love, but I don’t need you to all the time, okay? I love that you want to take care of me, but I also don’t want to feel useless.”

“How could you be useless? You’re currently doing the most important thing that you could ever be doing.” Azriel placed a soft hand on your stomach.

But after shunning Azriel for being too overprotective, you sort of wish he would bring it back again in this moment.

This party was lovely, but it was also so overwhelming.

You didn’t realise how many people would be so interested in coming up to you and feeling your baby bump. Hands constantly touching you when they usually wouldn’t if you weren’t pregnant. It felt weird and uncomfortable.

“Y/N!” Layla called, walking up to you with a glass of bubbly in her hand.

“Layla, hi.” You smiled at your friend who had worked with you in the Velaris bakery for many years.

“I can’t believe you’re pregnant.” She gushed, giggling a bit with excitement.

“Really? With the amount Y/N and Az sneak around every moment they get, I thought it was about damn time.” Nesta came up alongside you, rolling her eyes as is her and Cassian don’t do the exact same thing.

“Well with a mate like Azriel, I don’t blame you.” Layla wiggled her eyebrows and you gave her a small smile - feeling a little insecure that someone as beautiful as Layla was gushing over your mate whilst you were starting to look like an inflated balloon.

You felt Nesta give you a side look before wandering off into the crowd, leaving you to once again speak to Layla alone.

“So how far along are you?” Layla asked.

It would have been fine if she just asked that, but she had to go and put her hand against your bump at the same time.

You were far too polite to say anything but you really didn’t like her hand on your stomach. Not just hers but also everyone else’s who’d decided to just touch you without asking first.

It was starting to feel invasive.

“About 12 weeks.” You gave her a small smile, stepping back slightly.

Unfortunately for you she just followed, adding her hand back.

“Wow so you didn’t have any symptoms for a while then?” She asked, cupping the roundness of your belly with her palm.

It didn’t feel as comforting as when Azriel touched you. Nothing ever would, but there was something so overstimulating about someone other than your mate just touching you before asking. It felt a little violating.

Before you could get emotional about it in front of a crowded room you excused yourself.

You hurried as fast as you could out of the nearest door and walked through the corridors of the House of Wind.

The tears had arrived as you were walking, your heart beating fast and hands shaking with nerves.

Was it rude to not let people touch your bump? You couldn’t help but think.

Yet, at the same time you would never just go up to a female and put your hands on her pregnant bump - even if it was Feyre - You respect their boundaries too much. So why did you feel like getting upset about this was silly?

Was it the hormones? Because they had been making you feel slightly crazy recently.

You made it to the kitchen without bumping in to anyone.

You braced your arms on the kitchen counter and sunk your chin to your chest, letting out small whimpers as the tears fell.

There was no need to jump from your skin when Azriel’s arms snaked around your waist to hug you because you’d felt his presence the moment he’d appeared in the room. His cheek was delicately placed on the back of your head to still allow you the time and space to be upset.

Some of his shadows were already snaking around your arms in support and stomach in protection.

“What’s wrong, love?” He asked and you had to laugh at his tone.

“Ask me what you really want to ask, Az.” You lifted your chin up and tilted your head to the side to try and see him.

“I’m not sure asking you who I need to kill is the right thing to say when you’re crying.”

You chuckled, kissing the side of his face.

Azriel let you turn around in his hold, not letting your waist go for a moment though. Now his head was tilted down to face yours.

“Tell me.” He said softly.

Your smile broke as your lips wobbled, trying to focus on not crying and instead talk it through with your mate.

“I hate it.” Your voice wavered.

“Hate what? Who?”

“I hate purple touching my bump.”

“Okay.” Azriel said but didn’t add any thoughts for you. He wanted to hear you say everything on your mind first.

“N-not you. But, people have been touching my bump all day without asking and I hate it. I hate it so much, but I feel like a witch if I tell them to get off. Like it’s just my stomach at the end of the day..”

Azriel moved his hands quickly from your waist to cup your cheeks, stroking his thumb carefully over your cheeks. His touch immediately stopped you from talking.

“Woah, woah, woah. No. Don’t do that. Don’t try and talk yourself out of feeling the way you do. It’s your stomach, love. It’s your baby. No one should be doing anything you’re not comfortable with - ever.”

“No I know, but…”

“No buts. Y/N, love, if you feel uncomfortable then that’s the line I draw. The next person to touch your bump without asking is going to lose their hand.”

You give him a stoic look, but part of you was seriously wondering whether he was being truthful.

“Will you stay with me for the rest of the night?”

“Or how about we don’t go back at all.” He raised his eyebrows in suggestion at you.

“If you’re on the same wavelength as me then yes - please!”

“Perfect.” He kissed you softly, both your chests warming at the touch, “You get the ice-cream and I will get the blankets.”

[manicmanuscription-deactivated2]

Selfishly Late

This is the the second part to unapologetically selfish!!

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 1554

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, suggestive, possessive Azriel.

Summary: Azriel has you running a little late to your introduction with his family. But he just can't seem to keep his hands off you.

A/N: I have literally rewrote this piece like five fucking times no joke. It's still not perfect in my eyes and there's definitely going to be a part three but I needed to post this before I went insane.

Thank you all for your patience I love you <3

acotar masterlist | main masterlist

You took one last look in the mirror before scoffing. 

Azriel had absolutely covered you in hickies. On any inch of skin he could reach, paying extra attention to your throat and collarbones. You gave him a pointed glare as he finished dressing behind you in the mirror but he was too busy fixing the cuff of his sleeves to notice. With a roll of your eyes you reached down for the scarf, draping it over your neck and brushing your hair back from underneath. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”  Azriel asked, slightly appalled as you adjusted your scarf and hair to cover some of the more egregious bruises.

He crossed the room in a few strides before standing directly behind you as you sat at your vanity. You didn’t even have a chance to respond before he pulled the scarf away from your neck gently and pinned your hair up with the jeweled metal hairpin he had gotten you last year as a birthday present, perfectly showing off the hickies.

“Azriel!” You exclaimed, turning in your seat to face him and his eyes gleamed at the yellowing dots decorating your bare skin. “I can not show up to your family’s house like this!” 

His brows furrowed slightly, the only sign of confusion you’d read off the usually stoic male. “But you look so pretty like this my love.” He murmured, reaching down and brushed his fingertips against the tender skin, his breath tickling your ear as he pressed another biting kiss to the juncture of your throat. 

Everyone told you once a mating bond snapped the males got unusually possessive, of course you believed them but Azriel was something on a whole different level. When you first met him he explained Illyrians were more territorial, all the instincts heightened. You couldn’t remember the exact sciences on it why but it made you feel so safe, loved and incredibly turned on. 

You gave him an exasperated look through the mirror, one he promptly ignored. His hands curling tighter around your shoulders. This had been going on for years. Every attempt at an introduction was thwarted by Azriel’s skilled persuasive abilities and intoxicating touch.

You did your best to stay strong this time, trying to ignore the way your entire being electrified at his close proximity, sparks running along every expanse of skin he touched. Your toes curled and you let out a soft breathy moan. One that Azriel had still heard and a victorious smile graced his lips. He hid his face in your neck so you didn’t see it. 

But you still did and it was enough to -barely- break you out of his spell. You stood up out of your chair and he rose to full height with you, towering over you slightly. “Azriel!” You reprimanded. “We are going to be late.”  

“We’re already late, what’s an extra five minutes?” He smirked, his shadows swirling around his shoulders as if in agreement. You scoffed, letting out a few curses under your breath. He had been pulling this all morning. 

You didn’t have to be a Spymaster to know Azriel was dragging his feet, first holding you tighter in bed so he could keep using your stomach as a pillow, spilling coffee on the outfit you’d picked out so you’d have to spend another 15 minutes trying to create a new one and now this hickey situation.  

You knew the High Lord or Lady was yelling at him too if any of the occasional winces and rubbing his temples were anything to go by. 

“I’m going to be making such a bad impression already!” You protested, holding your palm out for your clothing back. “Now give me my scarf so we can go please.” 

Azriel just looked at the light brown fabric still wrapped in his hands as if it committed a grievous act against him. “You’re so obsessed with this scarf.” 

You groaned, this time you were the one soothing your head with your fingertips. You knew he struggled when you were gone for long periods of time, both of your work schedules making it endlessly hard to actually have time to be husband and wife, mates, and life partners it drove you crazy too but you’d have to find a compromise because there was no way you were showing up to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court’s estate covered in hickies. 

You told him as much and he paused, finally noticing your nerves of the event. Years after missed dates and scheduling conflicts and getting distracted by Azriel’s sly touch was all coming to an end, you were finally meeting his family, it loomed over your head and nerves pumped violently through your bloodstream.

It was a bittersweet feeling and you just wanted everything to go well, Azriel wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing his family was. His love for them ran deep and if they somehow didn’t like you….

Azriel begrudgingly passed the scarf over, your comfortability and safety would always come first and he tamped down those raging instincts telling him to whisk you and mark you more thoroughly and reclaim you over and over again especially after your long time apart. He instead pressed a comforting kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t worry love, we are completely mild compared to the crazy shit I’ve seen or heard my brother’s get into with their mates.” He shuddered and you laughed a little bit, pressing yourself closer to him so you could give him a quick hug and a soft peck to his lips, hearing a mumbled “Gods you’re killing me.”  Before sitting back down at your vanity. He sent a wave of reassurance through the bond and you returned it. You've dined with High Lord’s before this would be fine, you were fine. It had to be fine. 

“He’s not coming.” Mor said with finality. Looking over at the golden watch on Amren’s wrist. “I mean they were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.” The ancient female pulled her hand away from the blonde sharply, giving her an even harsher look of disdain.

Cassian eyed the clock nervously and shot Mor a warning glare. It was incredibly important to him that this went well, you were a major part in his brother’s life and he wanted to not only make a good impression but also make sure you were good enough for Azriel, he recognized it as a silly thought you’d been mated for many years (unbeknownst to him) -and he’d definitely be having some words with Azriel about not being there for his mating ceremony later- but he wanted to make sure Azriel felt loved and cherished, taken care of with all the shit he’d already been through in his lifetime. 

Rhysand just let out a soft sigh, swirling the orange juice in his glass, desperately wishing it was something stronger. He’d assumed his dear brother would be late based on his previous patterns and the little reunion they’d witnessed last night but not this late and he was giving the Spymaster five more minutes before he winnowed the entire family, and their dining table to his living room torches all ablaze and pitchforks raised.

Although he couldn’t help but let out a soft smile at the thought of the usual strict and punctual Shadowsinger was willing to abandon his rigid routine for someone. 

“He’ll be here.” Feyre assured on her mate’s behalf, although her own confidence in him was waning, he did have a habit of simply not showing up when an introduction was planned. 

“You’re sure the female you saw wasn’t an illusion or a paid actress or-?” Mor started but suddenly the lighting in the room dimmed, shadows moving briefly across the edges of the floorboards before the sunlight streamed through the windows once again. An unfamiliar female’s voice rang throughout the large house as she laughed and Cassian’s heart flooded with relief at the sound, anxiety simultaneously  pumping in his chest, he wanted everything to go perfectly.

 “-are absolutely ridiculous.” “Yeah, yeah.” The shadowsinger muttered, the leftover pieces of conversation barely reaching the Inner Circle’s ears. 

Two sets of footsteps echoed across the floorboards, getting closer and closer to the dining room.

 Mor whispered a shocked. “No way.” Another step. “No way.” Another step. “No way.” 

She whispered it after every movement made until finally the couple came into view, standing in the open doorway and she couldn’t even make a sound, her mouth dropping at the sight of you. 

There was a few stunned moments of silence. 

The Inner Circle was staring at you as if you were a foreign creature and you shifted a little bit under their gaze, your mate had prepared you for an endless stream of questions but not the wide eyes and open mouths although you guess it was to be expected and Azriel tightened his hold on your shoulders protectively. 

“Surely you have better manners than this?” He bit out a little harsher than originally meant after a few more uncomfortable moments of stillness. 

You gave them a bright smile and a timid wave, breaking them out of their trance and all of a sudden they erupted with movement pulling you in for hugs and shaking your hands. Not so subtly inspecting you all the while bombarding you with questions.

This was going to be quite the breakfast. 

divider by @strangergraphics-archive

[tarotsoul]

Ghost in the Wind — Series Masterlist

𝙒𝙀𝙇𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙏𝙊 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂𝙃𝙊𝙎𝙏 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙉𝘿 𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

SUMMARY: All your life, your presence had been nothing more than a faint kiss of a breeze—nothing impactful, nothing worth noticing. Nothing at all. Until you entered Prythian.

WARNINGS: This series includes heavy mentions of depression, anxiety, sexual assault, domestic abuse, thoughts of worthlessness. Also includes foul language and explicit scenes. Please read warnings before each chapter. Minors DNI!

PAIRING: Azriel x Reader

STATUS: Completed

Main Masterlist

Part One | All your life, your presence had been nothing more than a faint kiss of a breeze—nothing impactful, nothing worth noticing. So why did it hurt so much when that remained the case after moving to Prythian? (3.8k)

Part Two | After gaining some clarity on your position in the court, Azriel takes you to see the city. But by the end of the day, he's left with more questions than he started with. (3.9k)

Part Three | As feelings progress and truths unfold, you're left with a decision that could end your entire existence as you know it. The Mother has a path for every soul, perhaps this was where yours was supposed to end. (5.8k)

Part Four ** | Struggling to get a grip on your newfound power, Azriel is the only one your magic allows close. And there’s no stopping either of you when you spend the night alone together. (6.7k)

Part Five ** | Harnessing your power is growing easier by the day, and Madja finds out some interesting things about witches souls. (6.4k)

The Fated Union ** | Five weeks have passed and your death looms closer, so a decision is made and a union is forged — a union so sacred that the Mother blesses it herself. (Coming soon!)

TAG LIST IS NOW CLOSED!

[flowersforjude]

𝐓𝐨 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Azriel x Fem Archeron!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | In your struggle to adapt to your new existence, the Night Court's shadowsinger takes it upon himself to offer his quiet comfort.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2,537

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mentions of reader in the Cauldron, Anxiety, Depersonalization, Sweet Az, Fluff, Emotional hurt/comfort, Hints at reader and Az being mates. 

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I’m only half way through the 2nd book so I apologize for any mistakes or inaccuracies. I have a pretty good idea of what happens in the rest of the series, I just haven’t read it yet. Azriel is quickly becoming a favorite, though, so I just had to write something for him. He might be a bit ooc.

masterlist | part two

It was the twilight hour at the House of Wind. The atmosphere was dense and strangling, a tension sitting in the air so turbulent one wrong breath could shatter the carefully constructed peace. Azriel and Cassian certainly had their hands full. Neither of the males able to dispel the strain. Rhysand was sequestered away you knew not where, leaving his brothers with the responsibility of navigating the fractured states of you and your sisters.

You sat near the window of your room, your hands curled tightly in your lap, trying to ignore the suffocating weight of everything you couldn’t fix. Couldn’t feel. Couldn’t understand.

Nesta’s sharp voice echoed faintly down the corridor, cutting through the heavy silence that pressed on your ears. Elain’s quiet sorrow was just as palpable, an ache that you didn’t have the strength to soothe, even if you wanted to. 

And you? You were drowning. Over and over again, feeling your humanity being ripped from you. Clawed away and shredded into the withering pain that tore across your skin. Never able to take in an easy breath because each intake of air felt like the Cauldron’s scorching water was invading your lungs. It turned to lead inside you, dragging you down down down into the blackened depths. 

You had come out transformed into someone, something, you didn’t recognize. You were fragmented, frayed, and whatever pieces were left of you no longer seemed to fit. 

The knock at your door startled you, a soft sound, almost hesitant, like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t sure they were welcome. You didn’t respond aloud—what would you say?—but something about the silence must have been answer enough because the door creaked open.

It was Azriel.

Of course, it was him. He always seemed to know when to appear, not with the smooth certainty of someone who could fix everything, but with the quiet persistence of someone who couldn’t walk away. His presence made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t understand, a weight and a warmth all at once.

He carried a tray of food, though his hands, so steady normally, looked almost awkward now. His shadows trailed at his feet, curling along the floor like restless whispers, and for a moment, you wondered if they’d been listening to you earlier. To the broken sounds you hadn’t meant for anyone to hear. Was that why he was here now?

“How are you feeling?” He asked, his voice low, rough, like the question cost him something to ask.

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond. How were you feeling? Empty? Heavy? Nothing and everything all at once? You wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a simple question when the answer was anything but. Instead, you shrugged, the motion barely more than a flicker of movement.

Azriel shifted, the tray now resting on the table beside you. He flexed his hands at his sides as if he didn't know what to do with them now. His large wings were folded low at his back like he was attempting to make them less noticeable.

Is he doing that for me? To not…frighten me, perhaps?

He didn’t sit, didn’t move closer, but his presence filled the room, steady and quiet and infuriatingly unshakable. His gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long before he looked away, his jaw tightening.

You shifted in place on the window seat, folding your hands in your lap to keep from picking at the skin around your nails. It was a nervous habit you'd had all your human life, and it seemed to have followed you into your new fae existence. To be frank, the habit had gotten worse since your ordeal in the Cauldron. You were antsy, jumpy, and nervous all the time now. 

"I'm fine." You finally said in a small whisper. You felt the embarrassment creep in as you spoke. It was only two words, but it felt like it was more than you'd spoken at all since you were shoved into that dreadful, life-altering vessel. Your voice wasn't as strong as it used to be; you weren’t as strong as you used to be. Not even with your newfound abilities. Sure, you were more graceful than before, your now pointed ears could hear a bit better than before, and your skin seemed to shine like starlight, but you couldn't shake the feeling that you were a great deal more fragile now.

Especially when Azriel stood before you. The Illyrian male was the very definition of strength. You couldn't fathom why he was here right now, checking on you. But some deep, deep part of you, a part that felt as if it hadn't been there before the Cauldron, was practically beaming at his presence. It warmed inside you and sang into your mind, telling you to reach out for him. That even brushing briefly against his tanned skin would bring you lifetimes of comfort. It was absurd.

You really are losing your mind.

Azriel shifted, the gentle scrape of his boots against the floor pulling you from the spiraling thoughts threatening to consume you. His wings twitched, an almost imperceptible movement, but you caught it. You’d noticed that before, how you were always so aware of his every movement. You caught everything he did, each subtle sound and flicker of motion. It was overwhelming sometimes, this heightened awareness of him. Yet another thing you didn’t understand.

He cleared his throat softly, drawing your gaze back to him. “You don’t have to say you’re fine,” he murmured, his voice a blend of rough honesty and something more delicate, something that felt like understanding. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”

The warmth in your chest flared again, unbidden and unrelenting. You swallowed against it, against the strange pull that seemed to tether you to him, as if some invisible thread had bound itself around your heart and was now tugging mercilessly. It was maddening. You didn’t want to feel this way—this need, this want for something you couldn’t even name.

Azriel’s words settled in the room like a fragile thread, the kind that could snap with just the breath of the wrong response. He didn’t move, didn’t look at you fully, but you felt his focus anyway, sharp and unwavering. His presence was a steady hum in the background of your awareness, grounding and yet deeply unsettling at the same time.

“I…” you started, the sound so faint it barely carried between you. Your throat felt tight as if you were drowning all over again, your words caught somewhere between your chest and lips. You wanted to speak, to tell him something, anything, to fill the suffocating silence. But you didn’t know what to say. The pieces of yourself that once knew how to converse, how to be normal, felt like they had dissolved into the Cauldron’s depths, leaving you raw and exposed.

He didn’t push. He simply waited, patient as ever, his shadows coiling and shifting in the corners of the room like uneasy sentinels. They didn’t feel intrusive, strangely enough. If anything, they were like him—watchful, protective, and respectful of boundaries you couldn’t yet define.

Finally, you managed to meet his gaze, though it felt like an act of courage to do so. “I don’t know how to feel…or how to be anymore,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a quiet, cracked rush. You hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t planned on baring even this sliver of yourself to him, but it was the truth. And something about him, about the calm compassion in his eyes, made it impossible not to say.

His expression didn’t change, not noticeably, but something about the set of his shoulders eased. “You’re hurting,” he said gently, as if he’d been expecting your answer all along. “And that is alright.”

The simplicity of his statement made your chest ache, an ache that felt strangely like relief. You turned your gaze back to your lap, your fingers twitching against one another as you fought the urge to fidget further. “It’s just…everything feels wrong,” you confessed. “Like I’m still in there, like I’m still falling, and I’ll never hit the ground.”

You felt him stiffen at your disparaging words. Saw his shadows twist the least bit closer to you, as if even they wanted to offer you some sort of solace. His voice came soft and steady, like the first breeze after a storm. “I’ve felt that way before,” he admitted, the vulnerability in his tone striking like a sudden chord in the quiet. “Like I’d been untethered, and there was no ground left to find.”

His raw honesty caught you off guard, forcing you to search for his gaze again. Nothing could have prepared you for the earnestness you not only saw in his eyes, but it also dripped from him like water. You couldn’t picture Azriel being anything but sure and unyielding. But in the same moment, you felt beholden to him for sharing such a piece of himself just to comfort you. 

The continuous tightness in your lungs lessened just a fraction, enough to allow you to take your first easy breath in weeks. “Does it ever go away?”

“Not entirely,” he said almost regretfully. Your heart sank a bit, but before you could fall completely into despair, he added, “But it does get easier.

Your words left you once more, your mind reeling with the idea of fighting this for the rest of your life. A life that would now be centuries long.

It was no surprise that he caught the shudder of dejection that crossed your face. His shadows curled closer to you like a soothing veil of darkness. Their movement was almost hypnotic, easing in the strange way you’d begun to associate with them. Azriel’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on you in a watchful manner. He glanced at the open cushion beside you. “May I?” he asked softly, his voice low and warm, though it carried an edge of uncertainty like he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping some invisible line. 

You didn’t even have to think about it before you were nodding. “Of course,” you murmured, trying not to sound too eager.

Azriel moved carefully, lowering himself onto the seat next to you. The space was narrow, and you became acutely aware of how close he was—his knee brushing lightly against yours, the faint scent of cedar and night air surrounding him. You tried to focus on your hands folded tightly in your lap, but the warmth radiating from him was impossible to ignore.

“It won’t always feel like this,” he said gently, his voice hushed and certain. “The weight you’re carrying—it changes. It becomes something you can hold, something you can live with. You’ll find your footing again.”

The conviction in his words floated to you like a lifeline. The way he looked at you, soothing and steadfast, made you feel like you had no choice but to believe him. You nodded more to yourself than to him. Silence settled in the room again, but with him beside you, it felt easier to endure than before. For the first time you didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet with something. It was simply enough to sit there with him and let his company anchor you. 

The wisp of something against your arm pulled your attention. The faint brush on your arm was barely noticeable at first, like the lightest touch of silk on your skin. When you glance down, one of Azriel’s shadows glides towards you, curious and tentative. It swirls near your wrist, its edges soft and flickering like the flame of a candle, before retreating as if it was testing the waters. 

You laughed slightly. “Do they always do that?” You asked softly, unable to keep the awe from your voice. The shadow seemed almost alive, sentient in a way that both mesmerized and unsettled you.

Azriel followed your gaze to the shadow, his expression lightened in a way you hadn’t expected. “Not always.” He divulged, his tone carrying something akin to fondness. “They’re curious about you.”

You tilted your head at him, your brows furrowing. “Me?”

“They’re drawn to certain people,” he explained, his voice low and even, as though sharing a closely guarded secret. “They can sense things others can’t.”

The shadow flickered closer again, this time brushing along your hand in a more eager manner. You couldn’t help but smile faintly, the sensation strangely soothing. “They’re not what I expected,” you said, your voice still so as to not scare the shadow.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, his eyes seeming to search you for something. “What did you expect?”

“I’m not sure.” You confessed, glancing at him. “Something harsher maybe.”

“They can be,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “When they need to be.”

You looked at him fully then, the true meaning behind his words sparking comprehension in your mind. There was a deeper depth to his shadows, a duality that mirrored their master. You wondered if he’d been born with them. If he had grown with them. Or if they had been birthed from pain, from the darkness he carried with him that hadn’t always been there. “They feel safe.” The words slipped out before you could think them through. 

Azriel’s eyes glimmered with something you couldn’t quite name, some sort of longing. “They’re meant to be,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You could hear the unspoken words he didn’t say, though. He was holding something back. 

The space between you seemed to get smaller and smaller, his warmth wrapping around you like a second skin. You became dangerously aware of how close you were—of the brush of his knee against yours, the way his wings shifted slightly behind him, almost grazing your shoulder. Your cheeks flushed, and you looked down, suddenly self-conscious.

Azriel took note; of course he did. His eyes lingered on you, his expression bordering on hunger. But it was gone and replaced by neutrality as soon as it came. Though, you could still feel the weight of his attention. His shadows danced along your wrist again, and you wondered if they could sense the fluttering beat of your pulse. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice rougher now, tinged with something that almost sounded like desperation. 

“You didn’t,” you replied quickly, your voice shaky but earnest.

The moment lingered between you, fragile yet thrumming with something so strong. The potency of it forces you to grapple with everything you felt for him. His shadows swirled around you softly, their movements calmer now, almost languid. You thought he might say something, that the weight in his expression would finally take shape in words, but he didn’t. Instead, he shifted ever so slightly, his arm brushing yours. You leaned into him and felt that warmth in your chest thrill at the closeness.

Something unknown, something that could wait to be explored, hummed between you. And you didn’t realize it right away, but the Cauldron’s waters felt farther away than they had in weeks.

Kind of playing with an idea for a part two with some moments leading up to them finding out they're mates.

[lifeasadorkwithnolife]

Concussed (Azriel x Reader)

Cassian accidentally gives you a concussion, his only request is that you give him time to get away before Az gets home.

------

“Your heads not in the game,” Cassian teased, nudging your feet apart as he examined your form. “Come on, what’s on your mind?”

               “Nothing is on my mind.” You mumbled, dropping your fist and turning to him with a pout. “We’ve been out here for hours, can we please be done?”

               It was an unusually hot day, and you and Cassian had stripped down to the bare minimum, and it still wasn’t cool enough. His torso was coated in sweat, and you could see the defined lines of muscle lining his abdomen and arms. You, on the other hand, had only joined the inner circle recently, and you couldn’t see any muscle in your abdomen, hence the vigorous training sessions with Cassian.

               “Do you think Hybern is going to wait until it’s nice and cool outside to attack us?” Cassian asked, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms.

               “I don’t know… maybe?” You shrugged, he shook his head, laughing. “Spar with me one more time.”

               “I always lose!” the grumble left you before you could stop yourself. Cassian laughed again, and you got into position on the mat, and he stood across from you. Past Cassian, you could see the landscape of Velaris, the mountains in the background with the sun high above. Clouds littered the sky but provided almost no shadow.

               Speaking of shadows, you wonder what Azriel had been up to. You hadn’t seen him today, where usually you two spoke before breakfast. Seeing him was one of your favorite parts of the day, whilst he was quiet and refined with everyone else, you made him smile and laugh. Your friendship was full of inside jokes, occasional hugs and a lot of pining for him. You wish you were able to move on, and in an effort to, you told Cassian- but that was a huge mistake.

               Cassian teased both of you, constantly, and you could tell Azriel was embarrassed. You two would be eating breakfast together in the morning, and Cassian would come in and call you two lovebirds, or a nice couple, or even ask if he was interrupting something with a wink. Azriel would always snap some retort back at Cassian, something along the lines of ‘Not us’,  “Not gonna happen”, or, the one that hurt your heart the most, “Not in a million years.”

               Sure, Cassian’s teasing was embarrassing, but you never understood why Azriel felt like he had to shut it down so harshly, Cassian was only joking after all.

               “You’re not focused!” Cassian snapped his fingers in front of you, and your eyes moved quickly from the mountains to him. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

               “Of course I did!” You snap back.

               “Lets see about that.” Cassian replied, his fist came at you in the combination you guys had been working on. You ducked to the right and you heard the whoosh of his hand past your ear. You blocked his right knee with your forearm, turning quickly to throw a punch into his unshielded face.

               Instead of watching your fist land a satisfying blow to his chin, you instead watched as his fist came right towards you and land an unforgiving blow to your right temple. You flew back on the mat, landing in a heap and losing the air in your lungs.

               “Y/N!” Cassian shouted, quickly getting on his knees and standing above you. You saw his shadowed blurried face above yours. After a few moments, you were able to gasp, your lungs finally allowing air in. Cassian’s one face turned into two, then four. “Y/N, are you okay?”

               “I don’t know.” You whispered, you reached up for his face to see if there was really four of him. You cupped his cheek. “Cassian, I am literally seeing like- eight of you right now.”

               “Fuck Y/N!” Cassian groaned, turning his head away and looking around. “I thought you said you heard what I said, I told you that after the first combination, we were skipping the second and doing the third.”

               “I think I lied.” You groaned, your arm falling back down to your side. You reached up to feel your head and could feel that your eye area was swelling already. “The sun is so bright.”

               “I’m going to take you to madja Y/N, but please, do not tell Azriel.”

------

               Hours passed, and Madja diagnosed you with a slight concussion. She was able to give you something for the pain, but the bruising and eventual black eye was unavoidable. Cassian had tucked you into your chair in the library, making sure you had a snack, a couple of books and a tall glass of water within reach. “Cassian- I’m not helpless you know.”  

               “Y/N- trust me, this is the least I can do.” Cassian handed you your book, then moved the table even closer to you. “Is this close enough?”

               “Yes! I’m fine, you guys get punched around all the time, I can handle it.” You tried to raise your eyebrows in a teasing manner but felt a surge of pain through the right side of your face. Cassian’s face fell, “I’m serious, don’t feel bad. It was my fault for not paying attention.”

               “He’s not going to see it that way.” Cassian retorted, and you shook his head.

               “Why are so worried about what Azriel will think?”

               “I just do not want to be anywhere near here when he comes home, speaking of which, I best be on my way.” He leaned down, giving you a light hug before backing up. “Again, I’m sorry, but I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”

               “Yeah.” You nodded, smiling as he walked from the door. You looked around the now empty room, the fire was roaring in the fireplace, the light leaving shadows against the dark shelves filled with books in varying condition. You nestled into your chair, opening the book and continuing where you left off.

------

               The door opened to the library with a groan, and you smiled to yourself,  noticing the new shadows flowing around you that were  not caused by the fire. “Hey Az.” You hummed, not turning towards him.

               “Hey, how was your day?” His low voice reverberated through the small space, making you smile. He sat in the chair next to you. You were sure he looked handsome, like he does every night, but you didn’t turn your head, instead leaving your hair to frame the ugly bruise.

               “It was uneventful.” You flipped the page, “What about yours?”

               “Just uneventful?” Azriel reached his hand over, grabbing your arm. “What was uneventful?”     

               “Just did a little sparing with…. Cassian.” You hesitated, “It was hot, very hot, and very uneventful.”

               “I feel like you’re not telling me something.” Azriel said, and your felt him get up and go to kneel in front of you. You looked down even further, you probably looked ridiculous. “Why aren’t you looking at me?”

               “No reason Az, my eyes are…tried of looking at stuff.” You cringed at your bad excuse. “I mean- I think its time to get to bed. You walk out first- I’ll be right behind you.”

               Azriel slowly placed his hand on your chin, and gently forced your head up, causing your eyes to meet his. His teasing smile immediately dissolved into concern, then anger. “Y/N!” Azriel’s voice was sharp, but his hands were still gentle as he cradled his face. “What happened?”

               “It wasn’t Cassian’s fault!” You pushed your hair behind your ear, “I was distracted and then his fist just came out of nowhere-“

               Azriel stood up, walking out of the room. You got up to follow, trotting behind him as he went to Cassian’s door. He swung it open, not knocking, and stormed into his empty room. “Where is he?” Azriel growled, turning back to you.

               “Azriel calm down!’ You replied, coming over and grabbing his arm. His shadows dispersed, probably looking for Cassian somewhere in the house. “He left- I don’t know where.”

               “I’m going to kill him.” Azriel looked down at your face, but instead of meeting your eyes he stared at the huge bruise.  

               You understood why Cassian left in this moment, but couldn’t exactly figure out why Azriel was losing his cool. “Azriel please-“

               “Where did he go?”

               “I don’t know! I just said that!” You replied, you turned your head back towards the door and winced, the quick motion causing your head to throb. Azriel’s hand immediately fell to your cheek again. “I’m sorry, it just hurts.”

               “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “lets go back.”

               His hand hovered over your lower back as you walked. “Do you have a concussion?”

               “A slight one, yeah.” You replied, deciding that instead of the library, your room was definitely a better destination.

               “I’m sorry to cut tonight short Az, but I’m really tired.” You looked up at him, opening your door. He nodded, following you in and sitting in the chair next to the bed as you laid down, getting under the covers. As you settled into your pillow, you expected him to move, or leave, but he stayed put. “What are you doing Az?”

               “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.” Azriel stated, leaning back in the chair, his wings awkwardly crunched between him and the wall.

               “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, you know I do, but what?”

               “Concussions are serious Y/N, even if Madja says you’re okay I’m not taking the chance that you’re not, so I’m staying here.”

               “all night?” You retorted, and he nodded.

               “Yep.”

               “Az please, go to bed. You look uncomfortable.”

               “Nope.”

               You glared at him, and he sighed, leaning forward and clasping his scarred hands on his knees. “You want the truth?” You nodded, “I would sit here, all night, and watch you sleep just to make sure you woke up. The fact that Cassian hurt you…. Makes me want to tear him limb from limb, even if he is my brother.”

               “Az-“ You started, leaning up on one arm and taking a good look at him. His eyes bore in to yours, no trace of humor left in them. “You’re serious.”

               “Yes, I’m serious.” He replied, “so don’t ask me to leave again, because I won’t, I physically- I physically can’t leave.”

               “Then at least climb in with me.” You whispered, patting the spot next to you. He froze. “Please, you look uncomfortable.”

               “That’s the concussion talking.” Az mused, and you shook your head.

               “I swear it’s not.” You whispered, earnestly looking at him. “If you were ever hurt, I don’t know what I would do. Do you want the truth?” he nodded, and you sighed. “I didn’t see the punch coming because I was thinking about you, and about…how you would never feel the same way as I do.”

               “And how is that?” Azriel dropped to his knees, coming to the edge of the bed.

               “I…care about you, deeply. I want to spend every day with you, and…” You felt tears prick your eyes and you turned away, your face flushing in embarrassment. “Honestly it really hurts my feelings when you say you could never see us happening, because I’ve always seen us happening.”

               He stared at you, hands falling to his side. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m concussed.” You quickly wiped the tears from your eyes, turning away and plopping on the bed. “Forget I said anything, goodnight, Az.”

               After a few moments, the bed creaked and you felt a warm hand on your shoulder, slightly pulling you. You turned, and Az was above you on his side, staring at the non-bruised side of your face.

               “I have always thought that you would not be able to love me, for the things that I have done.” He whispered, cupping your face. “I never wanted to offend you with the… insinuation that we could ever be a match.”

               “My chest physically hurts when I’m away from you, and my shadows would rather be with you than with me at this point, you are so kind, so beautiful, the thought of us together, the thought of you caring about me, and possibly loving me, just seemed too much like a dream rather than reality.” Tears burned your eyes again as he spoke, “I love you, I’m sorry I ever made you think differently.”

               “I love you too.” You whispered, and he wiped the tear from your cheek. “All those comments Cassian made- it was because I told him how I felt about you, he was just teasing me.”

               Azriel barked a laugh, turning away from you on his back. You looked at him in concern, and he just shook his head. “I had told him about my feelings for you, I thought he was…I thought those comments were aimed at me.”

               You shook your head, laughing as well. “ Az, I won’t stop you if you still want to kill him.”

[agentstarkid]

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦

AN AZRIEL'S SERIES MASTERLIST

✦ SUMMARY: For two hundred years, she has remained untethered. Unseen. A shadow walking the borders of legend, neither savior nor monster—until war calls her name. Yet power like hers was never meant to be controlled. And some myths do not end in salvation. Some end in fire. In ruin. In storm and blood and the breaking of the world. Because gods do not grant mercy and storms do not bow.

✦ STORY RATING: R — Strong language, graphic violence.

✦ GENERAL WARNINGS: female!reader, slow burn, reluctant allies, gore, angst, slight au, author has taken some liberties. English is not my first language — Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story.

✦ STATUS: in progress.

╰› opinions, thoughts and feedback are greatly appreciated!

general masterlist ∿ moodboard

「⚡︎」 chapter one.

「⚡︎」 chapter two.

「⚡︎」 chapter three.

「⚡︎」 chapter four.

「⚡︎」 chapter five.

I am a storm inside of skin. And even the sky is too small, to contain the agony of this.

— K. Lightborne

[forgetful-lethean]

A Hand Bleeding Starlight (II)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Story

Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader

4.4k Words

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Summary:

A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?

Chapter Two:

"Warp and Weft"

Where it's raining something fierce, and you have to find a way to save your books and your newfound Fae acquaintance from a miserable day of weather. In dealing with that mundane catastrophe, something frightening comes to light, and you're forced to reconcile with a conflict larger than just the price of your books and a cold "spy."

NOTE:

signatures (also, section; gathering) - a stack of folded, nested papers that are aligned and sewn together

diluvial - relating to a flood or floods

* * *

The past few days since that fateful encounter (though, you still weren't quite convinced), had flashed by in visages of halcyon sun, chattering customers, and a pile of repairs.

Now, ordinarily that wouldn't be so horrible—an ever-present monotony, a drawl that settled the discordant, unsightly, and brutish fears of your mind into a harmonious melody, a blurring of seconds and minutes and days under beaming sun—it begged you to drop your troubles at the stoop, step into your store, and assume the looming mantle of "the bookkeep." That identity held no danger, no threat to your life nor limb. There was no risk in that title.

You dreamt of that, the persistent fear no longer haunting your every thought.

It was then that a seed of hatred bloomed in your heart, towards that lackadaisical ennui of a sun too preoccupied with itself to notice you—you who spent hours in its presence, the warmth seeping through shimmering window panes; a warmth that did not seep into your bones as gently, as carefully as the chill of fear that severed such comforts.

So, of course, today of all days, you found the rain a welcome embrace, like that of an old friend. It came as an unfathomable number of dreams: dreams that quenched the verdant plants and trees decorating the landscape of Velaris's streets, dreams that fed the Sidra and sent it rushing with the childish glee of a burbling beck, dreams that washed the homes and streets of the dust and debris that the sun so coldly abandoned. These millions of dreams now chattered on your rooftop, each distant pitter-patter another bite of reminiscence, of wistfulness, adding to the fangs which sank greedily into your thoughts, gnashing the fears into bleeding shreds. Until they were nothing worth considering, a subtle stain on your inscape.

The doors had yet to be opened for today—it was a shipping day, where your lovely assistant Ellora (a prim, pale Fae with radiant, golden curls; dark, brown jewels for eyes; a penchant for barbed taunts at your height whenever you needed the ladder to reach a shelf, and, naturally, an inherent knack for repairing even the most grotesque of destroyed books) took time in the Rainbow to sniff out deals and tomes with what meager coin could be spared.

With the pouring rain, you hoped that she, in her infinite wisdom, protected what merchandise she managed to slip from the haggling wolves of the markets. Not that they were mean, but they always seemed...put off, whenever you attended in person. Maybe it was the attire—they thought you one with shifty, veiled eyes and a silver tongue. Ellora had much better spells of success. So, she was your wondrous assistant.

As if on cue, a form flashed past the window—sunshine radiance wetted into a dreary wheat—and Ellora, hunched over her hoard like beasts of yore staunchly defending their wealth, burst through the door with a smattering of curses primed on her lips. A hushed ferocity sounded in her tone as greedy rain jumped inwards, searching for more priceless books to ruin. Her way of greeting was dropping her stack of books unceremoniously onto the repair desk, kicking closed the door with a slam that set the myriad of tools on your desk rattling, and turning to glare at you with a violence that only a Fae with their feline elegance could muster. Her vitriol was palpable as she menacingly locked the door with a worrying click.

"You," she hissed, "sent me out in a storm."

Your hands went immediately up in surrender, protests surging to the tip of your tongue, "I didn't know, El. I promise! The weather looked fine this morning—but then..." It was much to your misfortune that when you took in her drenched form, a smile ruined your proclaimed apology.

She threw her hands down, drops of water pooling on the wooden slats beneath her. "This is not a laughing matter, Wren. Next time I'll send you out to retrieve some books when there's a thunderstorm!"

That made you laugh, fully, and you watched as her eyes softened into something more congenial, and then her mouth twitched upwards and a lilting laugh escaped it.

"You're horrible, you know that?" She swept gracefully towards the repairs desk, rustling through a wayward drawer to pull a ragged towel that she patted herself down with, then mopped up the puddle. At least the wood wouldn't be fully ruined.

"And you're the best assistant this side of the Sidra. Besides, if you hated collecting books so much, you would have let them be ruined in the rain." You motioned toward the near-pristinely dry stack balanced haphazardly on the edge of the desk. "Thank you, by the way. I know that you've been busy these last couple of days running errands for customers."

She blinked, as if she was wary of such praise, and then stark realization lit her eyes with a renewed fire, her smile sharp, "It's because of that man that showed up while I was gone right? That you're not scolding me for running through a storm—"

"That I didn't know was happening—"

"I can't believe you didn't recognize Azriel, Wren. And here I went thinking you were an educated individual." Ellora let the words hang with a pernicious bark of laughter, sweeping up her prized stack and deftly sorting them with practiced precision. They'd have to be repaired before set on the shelves; that was her next task for the day.

"Of course I recognized him—" That pang of nagging fear speared through your calm once more, and you waffled for the right way to finish your sentence. You were saved by a sudden deluge of water hammering into the window, and you took the chance to scurry from behind your position at the counter to peer through the windows at what caught your eye.

Ellora dropped the subject, but not without that knowing light in her eyes—as if she saw something you didn't. She perched lightly on the chair, arranged her supplies (threads and needle to sew signatures back together, various glues to bind spines back together, and other miscellaneous items), and set to work with a low, off-tune hum. An atmosphere of attention filled the space, leaving it pregnant with silence.

The window, dotted with rainwater falling in rivulets along some path known only to Fate, revealed a terrifying sight.

Three Fae. A scar along one's face, twisting his mouth into a perpetual sneer. Dark, violent eyes. Tempestuous, like the storm that raged between you and them. Predatory.

"Ellora."

"Hm?"

"What day is our payment due?"

She looked up, through the window, into the rain, saw the figures. Her hum stopped dead on her lips. Her skin blanched. A mockery of mortality seemed to set into her face, grave and solemn. "I thought we had another week."

"So did I."

"Is it a warning? They usually don't come until the day of!"

They weren't moving—this group of individuals that Ellora had called the Wardens (a fitting name, you supposed, for those who were the jailers of your store's ownership). Much was unknown, at least to you, about them. Individuals from Hewn City, the Court of Nightmares, from whom you had purchased your store, desperate for anyone to offer you land to settle on so many months ago. You had jumped at the chance for a place—and in the process, locked yourself into a vulnerable position with your debtors.

With too many bills and not enough funds in the store, you couldn't satiate their wolfish hunger. And when that happened... you heard the rumors. If you didn't pay on time, the Wardens always collected more than their tithe demanded. A shudder ran down your spine, a frigid chill not born of the ceaseless rain.

"Wren?"

"We don't have the money, El."

"We'll figure something out, I'm sure. We always do, birdie."

Her nickname for you, affectionately light and sweet in the context of your false one, Wren, lightened the heaviness. Such a simple phrase seemed to placate Ellora's worries, and it was with that precipitous sentiment that she returned with her gentle hum to repairing the books. Those words—"We always do, birdie."—sat heavy, leaden in your gut. If Fate's real, then please, work your magic. That didn't help soothe the fraying tapestry of your thoughts either. The air was an anxious swirl of drops, wind-freed from gravity. A flash of light, the droning snap of thunder, and, just as they appeared, the burly, threatening men vanished. A tightness in your chest eased. Your fingers, however, preened the bright fabric of your cloak, fretting the silvery threads so much that some subconscious part worried that you'd leave a hole!

Ellora cleared her throat—she'd been talking, maybe—and held out a book that hadn't needed repairing. A book that wandered its way from the Dawn Court, seemingly, judging by the various types of herbs plastered over its cover. You grabbed it, running an absent finger over the rough cover, before setting your sights on a blank section of the shelf a ways up. You rolled the ladder over, clambered up a few steps, and slid it in. It was freshly vibrant against the dulled hue of the older books.

A moment of darkness clouded your windows, and, distracted (fearing that the men had returned), you hurriedly attempted to drop down the ladder. Only to misplace your foot, slamming your arm on a rung as you dropped, hitting the floor with a blow and an exclamation of pain. Ellora's laugh resounded, and you brushed yourself off. A throbbing in your arm had already begun, and you rubbed it at consciously. That's going to leave a bruise... .

The door rattled, but not from rain nor thunder. Your eyes flicked back to the windows, towards what had disturbed your moment of tranquility.

It was, in all honesty, quite the comical sight.

Because you saw that Fate-forsaken man—Azriel!—standing at your storming doorstep, clutching to his chest with one arm your priceless tome, with his wings tented above his head in a vain attempt to keep the gushing water out. The weather had only worsened since Ellora had entered on a tide of curses. He was knocking with a fist on the doorframe. His blue siphons reflected the dismal blue of the rain cocooning his form.

But, seeing your book in such danger, you had no time for comedy and lurched towards the door with one such curse fresh on your tongue, fumbling open the lock and letting in a surge of storm-beaten air.

"What," you huffed, "are you doing in the pouring rain carrying an ancient book!" It wasn't so much a question as a demand, an interrogation.

"If you let me in, bookkeep, I'll tell you."

Ellora, with no shortage of glee, called over her shoulder, "They're not letting you in. You're wetter than a drowned cat too stubborn to let a fish go!"

Just then, you watched a spattering of water leak through Azriel's overlapped wings, and on a whim, and with a strength no human should naturally possess (the ferocity of a bookkeep seeing their stock destroyed, one might say), you grabbed ahold of his arm and yanked him across the threshold. He stumbled through with a grunt, still desperately protecting the book.

Showering you with a spray of frigid water. You yelped, hurriedly shutting the door for the second time this day—why was everyone intent on heading to your store in the middle of a thunderstorm? They had a death wish, surely; if not from the storm, from the owner's fatal ire. Azriel seemed almost chagrined as he stood, hunched over almost to your height. His eyes were light with amusement, and you anger only made their brown burn more golden with hidden humor.

Nevertheless, you made a pitiful attempt at scolding the man, "You better have a damn good reason for showing up and ruining my most important book!"

Ellora chimed in, "Now, that's no way to treat your customers, birdie."

"Careful, or I'll send you back out into the rain for a second trip." She quieted down, but you could tell from the way her shoulders shook that she was laughing to herself.

Azriel, on the other hand, absolutely drenched to the bone, dark hair plastered to his tan face, was not laughing. He gingerly gripped the book with a care nobody but yourself ever offered your books, held his arms out to his side—a puddle was fast forming on under his feet, his sodden leathers a little too wet—and flared his wings. A miniature rainstorm ensued, leaving you damp. It was a controlled flick of the wings, protecting the books that Ellora was working on (though giving you no less a start of fright).

And now, with you seething, Azriel chuckled, a sound low and dark. You glared, and he had the audacity to look smug. He offered an innocent smile, as if he hadn't just committed the worst offense in the history of your shop.

A bull in the china shop. If ever the phrase applied, that was now.

His wings settled back behind him. "You seemed a little too comfortable, all nice and dry in your shop. Figured I'd shake things up a bit, no?"

Ellora cheered, "Hear hear! to the poor people caught in the storm!"

"My. Book." You spat the words through gritted teeth, thrusting a hand out. And with the same solemnity that Azriel had made that oath of servitude to the book's integrity, he proffered The History of Pythian Birds with no less a serious mannerism than a warrior delivering unto their general a blade to be knighted by.

You expected a completely destroyed book, brutishly vanquished by the powerful male before you.

You witnessed a book near-perfectly repaired. No. That's impossible. Almost reverently, you traced a figure along its spine, peering between the cover and the expertly-woven signatures of yellowed pages, at the generously and vigilantly applied glues. "How?" The word almost stuck in your throat; it was something that would have taken you, even Ellora, weeks to fix properly. And this man—this foolish, sodden man!—had done it in a manner of days? "How did you do this?"

Azriel was silent—you realized he was watching you, not the book, with that dark demeanor of his. You met his eyes, challenged him to respond to your question. He averted his gaze, studying the shelves and taking a moment to reflect, as if collecting his thoughts. For a lie no doubt—that, somehow, miraculously, he had figured out how to repair an ancient tome and—

"I know a few people in an archive." He shuffled his feet, his large wings awkward in the small space of the store. Every movement was accompanied by a crescendo of water droplets impacting the floor. "And anyways, what does it matter? I made a promise to bring your book back without it being a dissolved clump of papers."

"And you brought it back in perfect condition! Who did you bring it to? I have to know."

His words were low, a rumble in his throat, and you recognized a second later that it was another laugh, "Now, where'd the fun be in revealing all my secrets? I am, after all, the Night Court's spymaster. It's only fair, seeing as you kept secrets from me, yes?"

Your stomach dropped. Eyes widened. You pasted a smile on your face, beating back the panic that seared through you, "What could you ever mean, Azriel?"

"You never did tell me your name, did you, Wren?"

These were not safe questions. These fell wildly out of bounds of simply transactional. This was dangerous. The Night Court's spymaster? The mere thought of what that meant made you want to retreat all the way to the mortal realm. Even now, in the storm. Instead, you mustered some semblance of courage, and offered the imposing Fae a bow, "My apologies, Azriel, but I was preoccupied with a certain someone who decimated my store upon walking in." Then, with indignant emphasis, "Twice! I might add. Pleasantries weren't exactly at the top of my list."

Azriel accepted your words with a nod. But that infuriating smirk, those scarily darkened eyes, he was playing with you! The rapid panic, a culmination of the Warden's appearance and his badinage, bubbled and sank somewhat. As if by way of answer about your name, he offered a suggestion, "Check the entries about wrens. It doesn't take a spymaster to deduce the connection."

You didn't answer. Unfortunately, you knew that to be true. Numerous notes on scraps of paper were stuffed in those entries—a sort of infatuation with the bird of your "namesake." A foolish error; a risky one.

Shadows seemed to crawl amongst the pools of water, and, realizing he was still soaked, you stripped off your cloak and tossed it to him. "Dry yourself off, I can't have you ruining my floor, Spymaster. And, I don't want you catching a cold on my account." You scowled, but the move lacked any vigor, and instead it morphed into a weary smile. Luckily, you weren't wearing any revealing clothing—Fae fashion was always slightly too lanky and flowy for your form, anyways.

Azriel caught the cloak deftly, and his eyes caught on the silvery fabric for a moment, as if marveling at its construction. His mouth opened in protest, then snapped shut, catching whatever words he would've uttered and replacing them with a simple, genuine, "Thank you, Wren."

For some reason, that sincerity made you halt, "You're welcome."

As he patted himself dry, you caught yourself...not exactly staring at him, the classical beauty he was, but more so looking around him. Out the windows, to see if anything else was going to leap out at you today. The tinkle of metal clicking into metal alerted your ears, and a sidelong glance revealed that Azriel had, somewhat strangely, clasped the cloak around his neck. It didn't lay quite flat over his back, and it suited his form poorly on account of the wings, but...

He's enchanted by it. The thought rose unbidden. It wasn't a particularly spectacular piece—the fabric was higher quality, sure, and the clasp an intricate depiction of a few flowers twined together, but there wasn't anything so...entrancing about it. A few moments passed as you watched him mess with the clasp, and you decided, against all nature, to look back out the window with that notion: Who would have thought a high-ranked member of the Night Court would be so absorbed with a cloak?

You shook your head, turning back to the window. And, looking through, you saw a sight that made your heart go giddy. Eagles! The History of Prythian Birds mentioned—no, that wasn't important now! For some reason they were all the way up here, against their migration patterns!

All remnants of fear fled you. You tossed the book to Azriel, now dry (his hair was all awry, you noticed), and, to his utter bewilderment, sprinted outside into a deluge worthy of its own diluvial tale.

Eagles!

There were two of them dancing in the sky, distant shrieks echoing the calamitous announcement of thunder as they soared on updrafts, dove through pockets. One was a stark white, feathers gleaming fiercely in the paltry sun skipping through far-off pockets of diluted light. The other, a crisp, shimmering jet. Up, up, up they soared, movements mirroring each other. And then—their talons clasped.

The rain didn't matter to you. It soaked you to the bone. But...nothing mattered right now, except those awesome birds. Because this was something rarely ever seen.

A death-spiral.

The eagles, reaching the apex of their flight, haloed by the shock of lightning in the distant air, plummeted. Twisting and curving and swooping, falling with so much grace it couldn't even be properly termed as falling. Acrobats that were masters at their craft. Masters of sky and wind and light, bright against the backdrop of clouds. They dropped, dropped so fast, so freely, you feared that they'd vanish beneath the waves that the Sidra poured into.

Closer.

The rain stopped pelting you.

Closer.

Something brushed your shoulder.

Now!

It was only at the last second that they separated, lurching apart to soar over the waters, that you breathed. A disturbed ripple of water the only remainder announcing their presence. With happy lungs of storm-soaked air, you saw it. How could such a thing exist? The thought invaded, beat aside other thoughts, warred for dominance, and crowned itself royalty. It was only then, noting the meteorological anomaly that left you so suddenly absent of water hitting you, that you realized who was next to you.

Azriel, awe twinning yours in his eyes, with his wings curved around your body (the wingspan! Astounding, still, the leathery wings so up close, losing none of their majesty). In his arms, your priceless book—this time more cautiously concealed from the elements with a rag that Ellora must have given him.

And he was wearing your cloak, the hood up, like a ring of starlight framing his shadowy features. It was almost laughable, this warrior-spy wrapped in your comfortable cloak.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

He broke first, "Hypocrite."

The magic ruined, you bit back a bark of incredulous laughter. Scolding this man for standing out in the rain without protection, and now you did the same! A swift movement, and Azriel unwrapped the cloak from his body, only momentarily snagging it on his wing, and then meticulously wrapped the cloak around your neck. A peek over your shoulder to ensure it was settled, and he flicked the clasp so that it locked. "There," he murmured, "so you don't catch a cold, bookkeep. I'd hate for the store to suffer without your magnetic presence."

You bit back a retort, still focused on the eagles. "That was...exhilarating." That word seemed satisfactory for the both of you. His wings gave off an odd warmth, combating the chilling rain, but you resisted the urge to sidle closer. His wings shifted; he stepped closer anyways. You clutched your cloak close.

"I didn't think eagles migrated all the way up here."

Surprise flashed across your features, "I didn't think you actually read the book."

Azriel seemed confused, "Why wouldn't I? You gave it to me. I trusted your recommendation to be sound."

Recommendation. As if he hadn't been the one who destroyed, and then insisted on taking that book.

It struck you, suddenly—how you two were strangers brought together by some terrible circumstance, knowing each other for barely half a day, and already tossing around such dangerous words as "trust."

He flipped through the pages of your book, the creak of a new spine adding to the cacophony of raindrops. He huddled close to you—too close, he was still a Fae, still a danger...but right now you paid that no heed. The two of you were so unwilling to part from this magical experience. Azriel cleared his throat, eyes alighting brightly on his passage (he looked so enthused, like a child getting a candy, as he looked at an entry, and began to read.

"'I find that it is a rare occurrence for one to see two eagles engage in what others have called the 'death-spiral.' A dramatic courtship ritual where eagles soar high, lock talons, and free fall. They only break apart at the last moment before impact, demonstrating their fitness, and their interminable bond with one another. I have only witnessed it three times...'" His voice dropped off, "A bit of a pretentious man, wasn't he? But I...enjoyed the book." A too-quiet confession, as though he was afraid of saying it.

It was then that you noticed, along the deckled edges a plethora of tiny tabs littered different entries. Not yours. He truly had spent time reading this book. You didn't have much time to study where they were so densely packed as he shut the book, carefully, and offered you his arm.

"We should get inside." A matter-of-fact statement, but one that had eluded you until he verbalized it. He took your arm—you winced as his hand brushed the bruise hidden under your clothes, and that inquisitive, concerned expression crossed his face once more. It was first that you realized he saw you fall.

Second, that Fae weren't meant to be injured so easily. He knew. He'd noticed.

Nevertheless, Azriel sauntered forward without comment, you pattering along, and his wings gently herding you to the door. Once you both crossed the threshold, you turned around, words of farewell skittering across your tongue, stopped as he held out your book. You took it, and his hands lingered a moment too long on the cover.

His hands are scarred. Why did you notice that ? Hands that so gingerly gripped the book, as if afraid it would dissolve again into a disaster of papers. Hands that were, by the looks of it, burned. Hands that were, weirdly, beautiful. They reminded you of the damaged books you so frequently looked over. The injuries to the spine, the pages, were permanent; and yet, the book, its contents, weren't defined by its ruined ink and mangled pages. When you repaired them correctly, it appeared...not necessarily new, but with a new manner of character. With all its sublime beauty re-realized with gentle care, just as this book sat between the two of you, waiting to be captured with excitement by a voracious reader.

In that way, you found his hands oddly entrancing—the glue of tissue sowing together broken covers of flesh, made anew, but not quite perfect.

Yes. Scars were indeed like damaged books revivified.

Azriel noted your watchful gaze, and hurriedly dropped the book into your hands. A bashful rosiness tinged his ears. He always seemed so careful, so meticulous with his words. It went along with his ominous appearance, you supposed, and his title. And yet, now, that predatory picture seemed so at odds with the stoic man before you. He dipped his head, stepped out of the door.

Then, retreating like frost in sunlight, melting like wax in flame, Azriel, Spymaster of the Night Court, vanished without a sound into the storm.

The farewell on the tip of your tongue slipped out, to no one in particular. "Goodbye, Azriel."

Ellora kept working, pretending as though she was oblivious to whatever had just transpired.

You stood silently, pondering, your arm duly aching.

But, right now...none of that seemed to matter at all.

* * *

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A/N:

Please excuse any biological inaccuracies or inconsistencies with the animals; assume our lovely archaic philosopher made some mishaps in their entries of birds (me, I made the mishaps). I, nor our philosopher, are experienced ornithologists and I will be taking leeway with some facts.

On a future note, there's definitely fluff and some relationship develop to come (and, ahem, angst), but now we have an overarching plot to follow! Huzzah!

If you want to be added to the tag list (or removed) please let me know and I'll gladly provide the service!

Chapters are planning on being posted on Saturday around 8PM-9PM CST, typically. Expect them to follow that format unless otherwise specified (or I am, unfortunately, a wee bit lazy).

And if you lovely readers have any questions, ideas, insights, or just want to share some thoughts about the story, I'd love to hear (I am an eldritch creature that hoards information and stories in its head eternally, after all).

Alas, until next time!

Your friendly neighborhood lore creature

~ Lethe

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@blueeclipsepaperstudent ; @vechkinfan ; @fuckingsimp4azriel