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Hello! Name's Quinn. She/her. 27. writer. Requests are CLOSED.

[quinncupine]

Welcome, I'm Storyteller Quinn. Here at the Campfire we have blankets, we have stars, and we have s'mores. So pull up a log, warm yourself by the fire, and listen to a few tall tales.

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[moonlitstoriess]

i just discovered this account and i am OBSESSED with your writing!! if you’re feeling crazy im craving an azriel one shot where the reader is fae (bonus points if she’s an archeron sister and his mate but they don’t know it yet) and she gets kidnapped by an enemy to try and lure azriel out, but of course he saves the day and they figure out they’re mates :) and extra bonus points if there’s just enough angst to make us nervous he won’t get there in time and then they accept and celebrate the mating bond at the end accordingly 🙂‍↕️

Straight to you- Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: Kidnapped and alone, she didn’t know he was already hers.

Warnings: angst, violence, mentions injuries, blood, happy end

A/N: wow! what an emotional yet beautiful ride this was. Thank you anon for the request, I hope it's to your liking🫶

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The first blow stole the air from her lungs.

Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth, the tang of dirt and sweat filling her senses. The world tilted--boots skidding across cobblestones, her shoulder slamming into a wall hard enough to spark white behind her eyes. She kicked, twisted, but there were too many hands, too much strength.

A strip of coarse cloth yanked over her eyes, knot biting at her skull. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Her wrists were bound before she could form a coherent thought, rope scratching the skin raw. The only sounds were her ragged breaths and the heavy boots dragging her forward, etc step echoing off stone as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Cold. Gods, it was cold. The damp air smelled of mold and rust--of places no one came back from.

She fought to keep track of turns, to memorise the path, but every jolt and shove blurred together until time itself seemed to vanish.

A door groaned open. She was pushed inside, the floor beneath her knees wet and sticky. The blindfold didn't come off.

A voice slithered out of the dark, low and grating. "We need to get to the Shadowsinger," it said, and she could hear the rotting smirk in the words. "Seems capturing one of the Archeron sisters will do just fine."

The pieces clicked with sickening ease.

Of course. She wasn't the prize--she was the bait.

But the revelation didn't stop there--it pulled her backward, years and years, to where this all began.

Azriel had been the only one she could truly call a close friend.

From the moment the Cauldron had dragged her under, lungs burning, bones stretching, senses sharpening into something new, she’d been reborn alongside her two sisters. Elain’s sobs had been soft, Nesta’s silence sharp, but Y/N… she’d stared at her hands, her reflection, her glowing, strange eyes, and felt a thrill deep in her chest. She was immortal now. She had centuries ahead of her to do, see, and be everything she’d once thought impossible.

Being reunited with Feyre, her high lady older sister, had only added to the joy. There had been so much to catch up on, so many moments stolen by months of separation. And after the war--their war--there’d been peace. There had been laughter and dinners in Velaris, quiet mornings watching the city stir awake.

It was in those months after the fighting that she and Azriel had found friendship in each other--not in some grand moment, but through small, consistent ones. A nod across the River House dining room. A conversation on a balcony that stretched until dawn. Training sessions where he corrected her stance with the faintest touch, shadows curling lazily around her. Somewhere between the first sparring match and the first time she made him laugh--really laugh--he’d become her confidant.

For a while, she'd been happy. Truly, blindingly happy. Until her two sisters also found their mates.

It had started subtly: Nesta canceling their weekly sister sleepovers, Elain showing up late and distracted. Then came the excuses, the absences, the drifting away until those nights vanished altogether. No one suggested reinstating them Not even Feyre. No one seemed to notice their absence but her.

Y/N wouldn't lie...it hurt.

One night, she’d confided in Azriel, words spilling out in the quiet of his private balcony. She told him about her fear of never finding her mate, of always being the odd one out. That she felt invisible in her own family, the forgotten sister standing in the shadow of brighter flames.

Azriel had tried to make her laugh--murmuring something about how she was hardly alone, seeing as poor old him had gone 538 years without a mate. But when her voice broke on the next joke, he’d simply sat there with her, shadows curling close, listening as the night turned into morning.

They'd become closer after that.

That was, up until now.

Because now, all she felt was like a burden.

Because of her, her family--and especially Azriel--would be in danger. Or maybe...maybe no one would come for her at all. She was the overlooked one, the forgotten Archeron sister. The one whose absence barely made a ripple.

Y/N smiled sadly beneath the blindfold. At least being an outcast would work in her favor for once.

Azriel rolled the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way toward the River House dining room. Another long day of hunting down leads and extracting information had left him with the familiar ache in his muscles, the metallic tang of blood still faint on his gloves. Dinner with the others wasn't exactly his idea of unwinding, but Rhys and Feyre insisted on having everyone together tonight.

He slowed without meaning to as he reached the last bend in the hallway. The sound of raised voices spilled toward him--urgent, sharp. The loudest was Feyre's. "...it's not like her- "

Then her name.

Y/N.

Azriel's pulse jumped.

He was moving before the thought fully formed, shadows coiling tighter around him as he burst into the room. Chaos met him on the other side. Feyre stood at the head of the table, eyes bright with worry, Rhys at her shoulder with a hand on her arm as if to keep her steady. Elain's voice broke from where she sat, fingers wringing in her lap.

"She promised she'd be back by the afternoon," Elain said, looking from face to face as though someone might have an answer. "It's well past sunset now--hours past--and she's still not here."

Nesta was pacing near the hearth, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Mor leaned against the wall, uncharacteristically silent, while Amren's sharp gaze cut between them all. Cassian sat forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, tension rolling off him.

"You're certain she went to the market?" Feyre pressed.

"Yes," Elain said, nodding quickly. "She told me this morning. Just to pick up a few things."

"Maybe she got lost on the way back," Rhys said, though his tone hel little conviction. "We should send someone to check- "

Azriel's voice through, cut steel-edged. "Where exactly did she say she'd be in the market?"

The room stilled. Nesta stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Near the fountain. At the far end by the spice vendors. That's her favourite place to visit."

Azriel's eyes went to Rhys. The High Lord's answering nod was all the permission he needed.

He was moving before anyone could say another word, shadows streaming after him, wings flaring in the tight hall. His mind was already spiralling into places he didn't want it to go--every sick, twisted possibility clawing to the surface.

Please be fine, Y/N. Please be fine.

he streets near the fountain were nearly empty now, lamplight spilling in golden puddles across the cobblestones. Azriel's shadows slithered ahead, searching every dark corner, every rooftop. His gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching--until a faint thread of scent brushed past him.

Y/N.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he followed it, the shadows pulling him down a narrower street. The scent grew stronger--until it stopped.

There, in the middle of the cold, damp road, lay a basket.

Her basket.

He recognized it instantly--woven with pale wood and lined with soft cream cloth, the one Elain had given her last Winter Solstice. Its contents were scattered across the stones as though dropped mid-step: a loaf of crusty bread, two small jars of honey, and a folded length of deep-blue silk that caught faint moonlight.

People had walked past it without pause, stepping over the mess. To them, it was nothing.

But to Azriel, it was everything.

He knelt beside it, the world narrowing to the sight of those familiar items strewn where she must've stood. His shadows darted out, seeking more of her trail, but came back empty. No scents but hers lingered--not a whiff of the ones who had taken her.

His stomach turned cold. They'd masked their scents. Professional. Deliberate.

Azriel's vision blurred for a moment as his jaw clenched. Slowly, carefully, he gathered the items and set them back into the basket, fingers brushing over the worn handle. His hands were steady only because he forced them to be.

In his mind, the faces of her captors--whoever they were--were already being built from shadows and rage. He would find them. He would destroy them Piece by piece.

It was certain now. She'd been taken.

Azriel straightened, the basket in his hand, and let the rage settle into something colder. Sharper.

Hold strong, Y/N.

Because he would find her.

No matter what.

She had no idea how long it had been.

Minutes, hours--it all bled together in the suffocating dark. Every second felt like an eternity, yet Y/N guessed it had only been a few hours since they'd dragged her here.

The blindfold had stayed on.

They hadn't wasted any time before the pain had began.

A blow to her ribs that stole her breath. The sharp sting of something--metal?--raking across her arm. A boot pressed cruelly into her back when she fell to her knees. Questions hurled at her in voices dripping with malice, each one sharper than the last.

“Tell us about Rhysand.”

“I don’t know anything- ”

A fist to her jaw.

“Where is the Illyrian commander? Where is Cassian?”

“I- please, I don’t- ”

A sharp twist of her hair, forcing her head back.

“What about the Shadowsinger?” A pause, a hiss in her ear. “We know you’re close. Tell us where he is.”

She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I don't know anything!"

The blows kept coming, punctuated by jeers that cut deeper than any strike. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

"You think you're important, little Archeron? You're nothing but a pretty face playing at power."

"You're right, I'm not the High Lady. Not the Lady of Death. Not even the Seer. So please, let me go!"

She begged. Gods, she begged. Tried to make them see she wasn't what they thought she was. She wasn't Feyre, the High Lady with raw, untamed power. She wasn't Nesta, forged from fire and steel, death in a woman's skin. She wasn't Elain, with visions that could alter the course of war.

She didn't even know what she was.

Whatever 'gift' the Cauldron had given her, if any, had remained silent all this time. And yet they didn't care.

"Your sisters would've fought by now," one sneered. "You? You'll break like glass."

"Maybe we should start taking pieces of you. Send them to Rhysand or Azriel one by one until they answer."

Her chest heaved under the weight of their words, the pain thrumming through every inch of her body. For the first time, she truly began to wonder if she'd make it out alive.

"They want to lure us in," Rhysand said, voice cold enough to frost the air.

Azriel set the basket down on the table. The cream lining was smudged with dirt, the blue silk stained from where it had fallen to the road. “This was hers. I found it near the market fountain. Her trail stops there—no scents but hers.” His jaw tightened. “Whoever took her masked themselves. They knew what they were doing.”

Elain’s hands flew to her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose. She shook her head over and over, whispering, “No, no, not Y/N…” The sound cut through the room like a blade. Mor was at her side in an instant, guiding her toward the door as Elain’s sobs grew ragged, the sound fading only when the door shut behind them.

Nesta’s eyes were sharp and burning, her fists clenching at her sides. Feyre stood stiff, eyes twitching in restrained fury, while Cassian cursed low and vicious under his breath. Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glittering like sharpened steel.

"We don't know who has her, or where," Rhys said, scanning the room. "But if they took her in broad daylight and masked their scents, it's calculated. And if they've gone after her specifically..." His gaze flicked to Feyre.

Feyre's voice trembled, just slightly. "Poor Y/N. The Mother knows what they're doing to her right now."

Azriel's hands curled into fists before he could stop himself. The thought alone--the idea of her in pain, in fear--sent a hot, slicing fury through his chest. His shadows rippled sharply, betraying what he didn't say aloud.

"We can't waste time," he said, each word clipped. "Every second we sit here, they get further."

Rhys gave a single nod. "Agreed. Azriel, Cassian--you'll take the skies. Amren and Nesta, start running the perimeter with anyone available. Also inform Mor. Feyre and I will reach out to our contacts in the city."

Cassian was already halfway to the door. Nesta moved toward him, but her gaze lingered on Azriel. "Find her," she said. It wasn't a request.

"I will," Azriel promised, the vow low and lethal.

As the others moved into motion, his mind was already a map of possibilities--every dark corner, every smuggler's route, every enemy who might dare to try this. But under it all was one clear, unwavering thought:

Hold on, Y/N. I'm coming.

If only he'd known how hard it would be to track her.

Two whole days had passed since Y/N vanished without a trace. In all his long centuries, Azriel had never faced such a challenge as finding her. The bastards who'd taken her were professionals--silent, careful, leaving not so much as a footprint to follow.

His shadows were gone, every last one, under his orders. They were scattered across the Night Court and beyond, creeping through the other courts, combing alleys, forests, docks, tunnels.

And still, nothing.

Azriel hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every hour was spent searching--questioning informants in the slums, scouring every black market and smuggler’s den, slipping through enemy borders without permission. His patience, honed over centuries, frayed more with each dead end. Fury ate at him from the inside out, each passing moment sharpening into the same relentless thought: what if he was too late?

The others were no better. Feyre spent her hours in council and in the skies, her expression hardening more each day. Rhysand was gaunt from exhaustion, spending countless hours raking through the minds of anyone even remotely suspicious...only to find walls or emptiness.

Elain sat for hours in her garden or the quietest corners of the River House, clutching Y/N’s scarf as though it could tether her to a vision. But whatever she tried, the threads remained dark, unspooling into nothing.

Nesta had taken to constant movement: searching the city, flying with Cassian, stalking into every place that might offer a whisper of information. Cassian rarely left her side, his own worry showing in the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.

Mor and Amren hunted leads in their own ways--Mor slipping into dangerous places where her name still carried weight, Amren leaning over maps and sending out messages through her own web of contacts.

The River House had become a place of hushed voices and quick glances, everyone bracing for news that never came.

Azriel was in Rhysand’s office with Cassian when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the shelves. Nesta stalked in, eyes bright and dangerous.

“I think I have a plan,” she said, voice low but sharp. “One that might work.”

Time had become a cruel, shapeless thing.

The interrogations didn't stop. Not once. Every few hours--though it could've been minutes or days--they came for her again. Always the same questions.

About Azriel's job.

His secrets that they were so sure he'd shared with her.

"We've been tracking you for a long time, little mouse," one whispered in her ear, the smell of alcohol and something else--something disgusting--blocking her nose. "So we know how close you've been with him. Close enough for him to share his secrets with you."

Then came other types of questions:

His missions.

Where he went when the rest of the Inner Circle didn't see him.

His every move.

She told them the truth. Over and over. I don't know. But the answer never changed their methods.

With each passing minute, the fragile thread of hope she’d been clinging to frayed thinner. At first, she’d tried to hold on--imagining Feyre’s wings blotting out the sun as she landed, Nesta’s steel gaze cutting through chains, Azriel’s shadows spilling into the room before he cut down her captors. But those images came less and less.

Now her mind wandered into darker places.

What if no one was coming?

What if they couldn’t find her?

What if she simply… disappeared?

At some point, they’d torn the blindfold from her eyes. The light in the room had been dim, but it still burned after so long in darkness. And then she’d seen them.

Three faces--if they could be called that. All warped, ugly, monstrous. Their skin looked stretched too tight, their eyes too small for their skulls. She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize anything in them except hunger.

The questions had kept coming. Her begging had stopped.

"I do not know," she murmured again, her voice a rasp. She barely flinched when the slap came, her head snapping to the side.

Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains that dug into her skin, the weight pulling at her shoulders and hips. Every breath was a reminder of the bruises painting her ribs. One shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated from when they’d slammed her into the wall earlier.

The pain had dulled to something constant, almost background noise.

It was the anger that burned brighter.

At herself--for being careless.

At her captors--for thinking they could break her.

At life--for making her the one who always seemed easiest to take.

She swallowed, straightened as much as the chains allowed. If this was the end, they would not see her beg again.

Not now. Not ever.

"No."

"No!"

Azriel blinked, and Nesta's shocked, furious glare was met with identical expressions from Rhysand and Cassian.

"What?!" Nesta barked. "But- "

Rhys cut her off, his voice sharp. "You cannot just use the Mask to call the dead to you and command them to search for Y/N!"

"Well, why the hell not?" Nesta snapped. "The Dread Trove is mine! I can do whatever I fucking please with it, can't I?"

Rhysand let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look...I know you're desperate to find Y/N before it's too late- "

"Watch it, Rhysand," Nesta shot back, eyes flashing.

He didn’t stop. “-we all are. But summoning the dead is extremely dangerous. I understood it during the war, but now? You can’t just summon thousands, if not millions, of dead skeletons, to one place. It’s not just about control. You’d risk catastrophic collateral damage. The dead might not stay contained. The laws of life and death aren’t forgiving.”

Cassian crossed his arms, voice low and steady, though edged with worry. “He’s right, Nesta. It’s too dangerous. The risk to everyone--even to the Night Court--is enormous.”

Azriel’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Heat pooled in his chest, sharp and relentless.

“Are you two even hearing yourselves?!” he barked, voice booming over the office. Both Nesta and the others froze mid-gesture. “Y/N IS LOST! GONE! And yet here you are, rejecting a perfectly logical plan because of what? Too many dead roaming our court?!”

He stepped forward, the shadows around him pulsing like living things. “We should be doing EVERYTHING we can to find her. Every possible path, every option! And you’re sitting here squabbling over what could happen if we take a chance? Do you even understand what’s at stake? She’s not just missing--she’s in the hands of monsters who are professionals at keeping her hidden, and we are running out of time!”

His voice dropped to a low, trembling growl, fury mingling with fear. “Do you even hear me? Do you even hear what I’m saying?!”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, shadows curling tight around him as he stormed toward the balcony.

“You can argue all you want!” he snarled over his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘too dangerous’! She’s all that matters right now!”

With a powerful leap, he vaulted over the balcony railing, wings unfurling and catching the wind in a rush of motion. In an instant, he was gone, streaking into the night, the city lights blurring beneath him as every ounce of his being focused on one truth: he would find her. No matter what.

The nights were endless, the city below him a blur of streets and rooftops, shadows stretching and curling with every step. He hunted tirelessly, gliding from court to court, village to village, through forests and along cliffs where smugglers and thieves might hide. The wind tore at his cloak, the stars offering no comfort. Each street corner, each dark alley, was a potential lead, and yet, every time he followed one, it dissolved into nothing.

Sleep had abandoned him. Food, water--he barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was finding her.

And with every failed attempt, every lead that came to a dead end, the anger at himself grew. He should have seen it coming. He should have been faster. How could I have let this happen? The questions clawed at him relentlessly.

Her face came unbidden to his mind--the tilt of her head when she laughed, that spark in her eyes when she’d figured something out before anyone else. The way she’d lean slightly into him during training, a silent trust he hadn’t been sure he deserved. The quiet moments at the River House, the way she had confided in him, sharing her fears and her hopes.

He remembered one night after the war, sitting on a balcony with her, her voice barely above a whisper as she told him she felt forgotten. He had laughed softly then, hiding the weight of his own solitude behind teasing words, shadows coiling around them like silent guardians. That had been a simpler time.

Now, those memories were knives in his chest, reminders of everything at stake--and everything he might fail to save.

Every whisper of movement, every trace of scent, every shadow that shifted in the corner of his vision became a possibility. He followed them all, tortured by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too late.

Yet he refused to stop. He couldn’t. She was out there somewhere, and he would not rest until he had her safe, until he had torn her from whatever hell she had been thrown into.

Azriel’s wings beat the cold night air, and his shadow stretched long and furious across the land. Every heartbeat, every pulse, every whispered memory of Y/N drove him onward.

No matter how long it took.

No matter what it cost.

Time blurred. Hours felt like days. She had no sense of the sun, no clue whether it was night or morning. The only constants were the pain and the voices.

The interrogations never stopped. Questions spat at her again and again--about Rhysand’s power, about Cassian’s defenses, about Azriel’s missions. What does he do when he disappears? Where does he go? Who does he kill?

Every time her answer was the same, low and rasped from exhaustion: "I don't know."

The slap would come before she could even draw her next breath. Or the punch. Or the boot to her ribs. Her body was already a map of bruises and bleeding welts. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had run dry. Instead, her silence only made them crueler.

One of them leaned close, his breath rancid as he snarled, "Useless little sister. No wonder your family barely remembers you exist." Then he turned toward his companions and sighed frustratedly. "We should've taken a more useful sister. It's been four fucking days and Azriel still isn't within our reach. Nor do we have any intel on them."

Another male, the one without his left eye, looked at Y/N in disgust and then back at him. "So...what should we do with her?"

All four heads turned towards her as their 'leader' spoke with a smirk. "We kill her and send her body back in pieces."

Her chains rattled as she shifted, her body aching from the cold stone beneath her. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a reminder of how fragile she felt. Hope had begun to slip through her fingers like sand.

Her lips trembled, but she forced the corners upward into a bitter smile. Maybe being forgotten would work in her favor, just this once. If her family wasn’t dragged into this because of her--if Azriel wasn’t dragged into this--then perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to simply… fade away.

The thought twisted like a knife in her chest. And still, she sat there in the dark, body broken, voice hoarse, bracing herself for her death. The next reminder that she was prey, caught and waiting.

The war room was drowning in silence. Four days. Four days without a trace, without a whisper of her, and every passing hour scraped Azriel raw. His shadows hissed and clawed, restless, angry, unable to find what he needed most. He stood by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, his gaze fixed on nothing.

And then-

A choked sound tore through the room.

"Elain?" Feyre's voice was sharp, alarmed.

Azriel turned just in time to see her collapse to her knees, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as her hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes glazed--gone white, pupils swallowed by a light that was not of this world.

"Elain!" Nesta was already there, gripping her sister's shoulders. Cassian crouched low beside her, panic flashing in his eyes.

But Rhys's face went deadly still. "No one touch her."

"She's- she's- " Feyre's words faltered as she looked at her sister.

Azriel's heart slammed against his ribs. His shadows went utterly silent, curling tight against him like they knew. A vision.

Elain's body trembled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She muttered something no one could understand--fragmented words, broken syllables. Then her head snapped back, a cry ripping from her lips that sounded like pure agony.

Nesta shook her again, desperate. "Elain, damn it, tell us what you see!"

Azriel's chest was a cage, every inhale sharp and shallow. He forced the words out, steel and prayer entwined. "Please...let it be about Y/N."

Rhys' eyes narrowed, already reaching out with his power, steady but tense. "It has to be."

And then Elain's voice broke through the storm of fear--ragged, trembling, but clear enough to freeze the blood in Azriel's veins.

"I see her."

The room erupted, voices overlapping--Nesta demanding where, Feyre begging how, Cassian and Mor swearing--but Azriel’s vision tunneled. His heart thundered as he moved closer, every muscle taut.

“Where is she, Elain?” His voice was low, lethal, but underneath--pleading. Tell me. Give me something. Save her.

Elain’s eyes flicked toward him, though she couldn’t possibly see him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her lips trembled, shaping words that would seal their path.

"They're going to kill her."

Her mind was slipping. Threads of memory and hallucination weaving together until she could no longer tell which was which. Her mother’s soft humming. The way sunlight used to filter through the trees when she was small. Azriel’s unreadable hazel eyes watching her too closely. Cassian’s booming laugh. Elain’s gentle hands brushing flour from her cheek.

It all bled together, comforting and cruel, reminders of a world she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.

Her body had long since given up screaming at her--numbness had taken over, the ache buried so deep it was almost easier than fighting. It was a miracle she had lasted this long without food, without water. Another cruel gift of being High Fae. Endurance meant only a longer stretch of torment.

Her head lolled to the side, breath shallow, vision blurred with shadows and stars she couldn’t quite blink away. Maybe--maybe if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother again. Maybe she would be waiting. Y/N had always been her mother’s shadow, her little echo. Out of all three sisters, she was the one who had clung to her mother’s warmth the most.

At least think of nice things before it ends.

Her thoughts were severed by the cold bite of iron, the sound of chains scraping against stone as they fastened her to something solid--a boulder, jagged against her spine.

Through the haze she caught the sight of them. The males. Her captors. Standing before her now, blades glinting in the dim light. Predators circling the inevitable end.

Her chest rose once, twice, on a deep inhale that tasted like blood and metal. Slowly, she let her eyes fall shut, surrendering to the darkness. If this was her last moment, she would meet it with calm, not tears.

The scrape of boots drew nearer. The hiss of steel raised.

And then-

The first blow came. A sharp, tearing agony as the sword plunged into her lower stomach.

Her body arched against the stone with the impact, a choked sound strangled in her throat. The pain was fire, white-hot, merciless.

But she did not scream.

Not this time.

The cave was filled with screams before the soldiers even realized what had descended upon them. Shadows erupted like a living storm, snuffing out light, searing fear into every corner. And at the center of it--Azriel. His siphons flared blue, his wings slicing the air, each movement a promise of death.

He had thought, in those endless nights searching, that maybe he’d hold back when he found them. That maybe he’d just incapacitate the bastards so he could take his time later, wring every secret out of them with a blade. But then… he saw her.

Y/N.

Chained, bleeding, body too still. A sword protruding from her lower stomach, crimson staining the stone. Her eyes were half-lidded as if she had already started to drift away.

And Azriel snapped.

He didn’t fight. He slaughtered. Silent, efficient, merciless. Every male who had laid a hand on her was cut down before they could even lift a weapon. Shadows pinned one against the wall as Azriel drove Truth-Teller through his chest. Another tried to flee--his wings were torn from his body before Azriel slit his throat. Not even screams had time to form

Nesta’s fire flared cold and deadly as she ripped through two more, her blade singing with death. Cassian was a whirlwind of brute force, slamming one into the rock hard enough that bones cracked like twigs.

And then--silence.

The three of them stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping, shadows hissing low and restless around Azriel. His siphons pulsed like a heartbeat gone wild. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the sight of Y/N, broken and barely breathing.

“Cauldron damn them,” Nesta breathed, her voice shaking with rage as she dropped to her knees beside her sister. Her hands hovered uselessly, trembling as she whispered, “What did they do to you, Y/N…”

Cassian’s eyes were burning, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. “Monsters,” he spat. “Fucking monsters. They’ll never touch you again, I swear- ” His voice cracked.

Azriel didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving, already kneeling, already sliding trembling hands beneath Y/N’s limp body. Blood--her blood--soaked his leathers instantly, hot and suffocating, and he thought he might vomit from the sheer terror choking him.

“Stay with me,” he whispered harshly, pulling her against his chest as carefully as he could. His shadows curled around her, frantic and protective, as if they could hold her soul tethered to her body. “Y/N. Please. Stay with me.”

Her lashes fluttered weakly, her lips parting. A broken breath escaped before she whispered, barely audible, "Azriel...is that you?"

His heart stopped.

And then-

The snap.

It ripped through him like lightning, a tether locking tight around his very core. A bond. A truth. His mate.

Azriel froze, staring down at her in shock, even as her faint, disbelieving gasp echoed the same realization. His mate. His mate.

A thousand emotions warred in him a once: fury at fate for making this moment their beginning, guilt so sharp it could tear him apart, and desperate, desperate hope that she would not leave him now. Not when he had just found her.

He had never had a mate. Had never thought he would. And now--now the Cauldron had given him Y/N, only to try to rip her away on the very same day.

Her trembling hand rose weakly, brushing his chest before her lips moved again, shaping two soft, broken words.

"My mate."

And then her body went limp in his arms.

Two days.

Two entire days since they had dragged her broken, bleeding body back through the wards of Velaris. Two days since she had slipped into a deep, unmoving unconsciousness. Two days that had stretched longer than any of the centuries Azriel had endured before them.

The memory of that return still clawed at him. Feyre’s scream as she caught sight of Y/N in his arms, raw and keening, enough to shake the walls. Rhysand’s immediate roar of command, summoning every healer in the city. Elain stumbling ahead of them, pale and trembling, whispering prayers under her breath as she guided them through rooms. Mor’s sobs, her hands slick with Y/N’s blood as she tried to help stanch wounds that would not stop bleeding. Amren, uncharacteristically silent, her ancient eyes glittering like steel as she barked orders no one dared disobey.

And him, Azriel, who had refused to let anyone pry her from his arms until the healers forced him to. Who had not left her side since. Not once.

He’d braced himself for it, the words he dreaded most. Too late. Nothing we can do. She won’t wake. Every time the healers stepped out of her chamber, he expected it. Every time they sighed, every time they whispered, his heart split further, until he was sure there was nothing left to shatter.

But the words never came.

Still, the silence was its own torment. Her breathing shallow but steady. Her pulse faint but there. He should have felt hope. Instead, Azriel felt only self-loathing.

He had failed her. He had let them take her. He had spent days chasing shadows while she had been chained, beaten, stabbed. He had let himself believe that she would be safe, that he had time. Stupid. Blind. Weak. He had promised himself long ago he would never let someone in only to fail them. And now, the Cauldron had cursed him with a mate he did not deserve.

Maybe he never should have had one at all.

Azriel sat in the dim chamber, shadows curling around him like mourning veils, head in his hands. The scent of her blood still clung to his leathers, even after scrubbing until his skin was raw. It lived in his lungs, choking him, each inhale a reminder of how easily he could lose her.

And if she never woke? If she slipped away before he could ever tell her--before she could even truly know--what she was to him? His chest caved with the thought. He wouldn’t survive it. Not this.

The door burst open.

He shot to his feet instantly, siphons flaring, shadows hissing.

Mor stood in the doorway, breathless, wide-eyed. “She’s awake,” she blurted, not sparing another word before she spun and dashed down the hall.

For a heartbeat, Azriel just stared, the words refusing to register. Awake. Alive. Moving.

Then it hit.

His shadows shrieked with a sound like wind snapping through trees, and he was already moving, heart hammering so hard it hurt, thoughts a blur. Awake. She’s awake. Please, Cauldron, let it be true. Please let me not be too late. Please-

He ran, faster than he’d ever run without flight, hope so sharp it was painful, tearing through the fog of despair that had bound him for two endless days.

The room was packed. The entire Inner Circle crowded around the bed, voices hushed, faces taut with relief and fear alike. Feyre sat perched on the edge, both of Y/N's hands held tightly in hers, her High Lady composure cracked by the tears streaming freely down her face.

Azriel barely saw them. He pushed past bodies, ignoring Cassian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring Amren’s sharp look, ignoring Elain’s soft sob. His entire world narrowed to the small, fragile figure lying beneath layers of blankets.

Her.

Y/N’s eyes were half-lidded, her skin far too thin, but they were open. Open, and finding him, and--Cauldron help him--she smiled. It was faint, pained, but it was there.

She didn’t move much; every shift made her wince. One arm was tightly bound against her side in a sling, her dislocated shoulder still healing. The bruises had not yet faded from her throat, her cheek, her temple. She looked broken. And still, she looked radiant to him. Alive.

Feyre was whispering something, voice trembling with joy and relief, but Y/N’s gaze didn’t leave his. Slowly, weakly, she slipped one hand from Feyre’s grasp, her fingers trembling with the effort. She lifted it slightly, beckoning him forward.

Azriel’s knees nearly gave out. He moved to her without thinking, sinking down at her side, so close now that he could see every flutter of her lashes, every shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her hand brushed his jaw, then settled against his cheek. Her skin was fever-warm, her touch barely there, but it undid him.

“My mate,” she whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.

And Azriel...Azriel broke. Centuries of restraint shattered in an instant. His head bowed, his shoulders shaking as tears burned and spilled, as his hand rose to cover hers against his cheek. He didn’t care about the audience, about the Inner Circle watching in stunned silence. He didn’t care that they were seeing him unravel, seeing him feel. All he cared about was her.

He forced himself to lift his head, to meet her gaze through the blur of his tears. “No,” he choked, voice breaking. “No, not yet. Don’t- don’t accept it yet. You’re not well enough. Not like this.”

But she shook her head, slow, weak, stubborn as ever. Her lips curved faintly in a smile that was both fragile and defiant. “Please,” she breathed, voice rough with pain, “I’m… well enough.”

The bond between them snapped taut, a golden thread pulling tight, and Azriel felt it--the certainty, the recognition, the eternity. His soul locked with hers, and there was no undoing it now. Not that he would ever want to.

He pressed his forehead gently to hers, shadows curling protectively around them both. “I’ll always be by your side,” he swore, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I’ll never leave you again. This will never happen again. Do you hear me, Y/N? Never.”

Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping free. Her hand squeezed faintly against his cheek, and her lips curved once more.

“I hear you.”

And though her voice was faint, though her body was weak, the bond between them thrummed with strength, with promise, with the beginning of something Azriel had never dared hope for.

For the first time in his life, he let himself believe.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[ellecdc]

Azriel really loves his nephew...

Azriel x mate!reader who has caught a virus [794 words]

I read this steve fic by @moonstruckme and then immediately fell sick and was like 'yeah, i need my blorbo to rush home from work when he finds out i'm very sick too', so....that's this!

CW: no gender markers used for reader [gn!reaader], children's school being referred to as a petri dish, azriel fighting against maiming his own nephew for causing his mate harm, hurt/comfort + fluff

Fae don’t often fall sick, but when they do, it tends to hit hard.

Worst of all when they have a germy little nephew who brings home various viruses from the petri dish they call a school. 

Azriel finds he needs to remind himself that he loves his nephew, though, as he lowers himself onto the bed and raises a scarred hand to brush back a few sweat soaked baby hairs from your hairline. 

He knew it was bad; knew it when Rhysand reached out to Azriel who had been out in the Illyrian camps helping Cassian manage the dissenters to ask if he’d heard from his mate at all. Rhysand knew quite well that you and Azriel closed the bond when he was at work, him so that you wouldn’t be bombarded with the intensity of his job, and you so as not to inadvertently distract Azriel while he was working. 

Now that he’s here, he knows that it's worse when his touch doesn’t manage to rouse you from your fever induced sleep. 

His poor, sweet mate.

I love my nephew, he reminds himself, allowing his knuckles to trail across your brow bone, down your cheek, and to your collarbone. 

Azriel leans down to press a kiss to the space between your brows, skin searingly hot beneath his touch. 

“Hello, my love,” he murmurs, gently increasing the pressure of his touch in an effort to wake you. He’s indulgent, letting his fingers dance across your cheekbones, your earlobes, over your shoulders, and down your arms until he has your hands in his, lifting them to press his lips to the back of your knuckles. 

His shadows do much the same, and – damn them – they’re the ones who end up being successful in rousing you. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Your response is a groan turned cough as you work hard to peel your lashes open. “Az?”

“Hi,” he whispers, heart squeezing painfully at the pitiful picture you paint. 

I love my nephew. 

You go to say why, or maybe what. Why or what are you doing here? Maybe what day is it? But you seem to decide that the question isn’t worth the effort of asking it as you let your head fall back onto the pillow. 

I love my nephew. 

“How long have you been this sick, sweetheart?” Azriel’s really going all out on the pet names today, but he thinks you might deserve it; hopes it might alleviate some of the harrowing symptoms keeping you glued to the bed. 

“Uhm,” you pause, eyes drifting shut as you think about it or start to fall back asleep, Azriel isn’t entirely sure. He squeezes your fingers to encourage you to continue. “Today’s the worst day, I think.” 

“Yeah?”

You hum in quasi-confirmation. 

Azriel watches your chest rise and fall, breaths laboured as you’re currently working with merely half of your nasal capacity and seem to be making a solid effort not to mouth breathe on your mate.

He loves you.

He also…loves his nephew. 

Azriel has to remind himself of this fact again when you attempt to ask him a question only to be thwarted by a coughing fit. 

“What was that, love?” He asks once the worst of it has subsided. 

“I thought you…I thought you were in-” your sentence is punctured by an exhausted sigh “-thought you were on a mission.”

“I was.”

“Then why’re you here?” 

“Am I not allowed to be here?” He teases. You groan instead of gracing him with a response. “I heard my poor, sweet mate had fallen ill and started calling for me while asleep.”

This manages to startle a surprised, laughing gasp from you. “I was not.”

Azriel hums noncommittally. “Well, it’s your word against Rhys’, so.” 

“I was perfectly fine ‘til you showed up.”

“I think you’re delirious.” 

“I think you should listen to your mate.”

Azriel lets out a pleased hum. “How am I to argue with that, hm?”

Your responding smile is equally pleased. 

“Have you taken anything today?”

You groan, clearly already unimpressed with your overprotective mate’s concern. “Yes, Azriel, Madja has been taking good care of me.”

“Good. Is it alright if I take over, then?”

You peel one eye open to look at him warily. “You’re s’posed to be working.” 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of my mate, love. Let me do that, please?” 

He’s not really asking, it’s not a question. Azriel’s come home to look after his mate, and that’s what he plans to do. 

Thankfully, you’re agreeable, allowing him the privilege of running you a bath, lining up the various tinctures from Madja on the dresser, and helping remind him every time you so much as groan or sniffle that Azriel really, really loves his nephew.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[tunetales]

Moments (Cassian x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: Moments with Cassian.

Authors Note: You asked, I answered. This is the first part of my ACOTAR version of my ‘Moments’ series. It’s always so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy!

(Thank you to @slytherin-pen for the divider)

The Court of Nightmares glitters with cruelty.

Black marble. Silver goblets. Smiles that mean nothing.

You’re halfway through a polite conversation when an Illyrian lord stumbles too close, leaning closer than necessary. His breath smells heavily of wine, his dark eyes glazed over with arrogance.

“And who do you belong to, sweetheart?” He drawls.

You stiffen.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

He laughs at that. Actually laughs. “Everyone belongs to someone down here. And a beauty like you will definitely belong to someone.”

You sigh heavily, not in the mood to entertain him. His hand shoots out suddenly as you try to move away with a polite smile, fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist — too tightly.

You try to pull away. His grip only tightens. You try to hide your flinch.

“You should smile more,” he murmurs, trying to draw you back too closely into his space. “It would make you more pleasant to look at.”

Ice crawls up your spine.

The audacity.

“I would suggest,” you say evenly, “that you remove your hand.”

He squints at you, clearly too drunk — or too stupid — to register the warning beneath your calm.

Then someone nearby calls your name.

You straighten instinctively, the lord’s brow furrowing as if he was trying to remember how he knew your name exactly.

His grip loosens just enough for you to wrench free, understanding dawning on his face as you step back into the crowd.

Your heart is racing. Your wrist aching.

You don’t want a scene.

Not here.

Not when Rhysand had asked all of you to be on your best behaviour — as best as you could be in the Court of Nightmares.

You slip behind a column, breathing through the tightness in your chest—

—and thats where Cassian finds you.

He was smiling as he approached, Azriel at his side, laughing at something the Shadowmaster muttered to him.

But the second his eyes land on you—

It drops.

The grin vanishes like it was never there.

His shoulders go very still. His wings shift slightly, posture straightening and becoming alert. His eyes sharpen into something ancient and lethal.

He crosses the rest of the distance between you in three strides.

“What happened.”

Not a question. It’s a demand.

You shake you head quickly. “It’s nothing.”

His jaw tightens.

“Who,” he says quietly.

Behind him, Azriel’s face is sharp, his eyes surveying around the room, his shadows mysteriously absent as they began to weave through the crowd.

“It’s fine,” you insist, lowering your voice. “Rhys wouldn’t want you to cause a scene.”

You subtly try to move your hand behind your back.

Of course he notices.

With gentle speed and precision, not giving you the opportunity to pull away, he grasps your small hand in his much larger one.

His gaze flicks to your wrist.

It’s red.

The air around him shifts.

You feel it — the change. The general. The Lord of Bloodshed. The male who has bathed battlefields in red.

“Who?” He repeats.

Your stomach flips.

You shouldn’t tell him.

You absolutely shouldn’t tell him.

But he looks at you imploringly, his thumb brushes your wrist — so gentle it almost hurts — and something in you softens.

“The Illyrian Lord near the east balcony,” you murmur. “Dark braids. Silver clasps.”

His face hardens.

“Azriel.”

Cassian doesn’t say another word. Azriel dutifully takes a lazy yet protective stance next to you, before Cassian turns and walks away.

The crowd parts for him instinctively.

You watch from where you stand, heart in your throat.

He approaches the Lord slowly. Calmly. No raised voice. No spectacle.

The man turns, smirking at first—

Until he sees who’s standing in front of him.

Cassian says something.

You can’t hear it.

But you see the change.

The colour drains from the lord’s face so fast it’s almost comical. His goblet trembles. His shoulders sag.

Cassian leans in slightly, just enough to make the message intimate. Personal.

The Lord nods. Once. Twice.

Then he practically stumbles backward, turns too fast, colliding with a passing server — red wine cascading down his embroidered jacket.

Gasps ripple through the room.

He doesn’t even react.

Just flees. Gone within seconds.

Cassian watches him go.

Then he turns back to you.

And just like that—

The warmth returns.

The lethal stillness melts into something lighter.

He crosses back to you, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve like he didn’t just dismantle a male’s entire sense of security without raising his voice. Or his fists.

You search his face. “What did you say to him?”

Cassian waves a hand dismissively, sliding his arms around your waist like nothing happened.

“Nothing important.”

“Cassian.”

He pulls you closer, lips brushing your forehead tenderly.

His voice is warm, easy, but you don’t miss the underlining steel.

“No one upsets my girl and gets away with it.”

Your breath catches.

His thumb strokes over your wrist— gentle, where the Lord had been rough.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, softer now. “He’ll think twice now before speaking to you — or anyone — ever again.”

Across the room, Rhys is pretending not to watch.

Azriel slinks back into the shadows, a look of amusement on his face.

But Cassian doesn’t care.

He kisses your temple, slow and possessive.

“Next time,” he says lightly, that charming grin returning fully, “just signal me. I enjoy educational conversations.”

And somehow, in the Court of Nightmares—

You’ve never felt safer.

The door opens well past midnight.

You don’t look up immediately.

You’re perched back against the headboard of your bed, book in hand, fae lights flickering low around the room. The scent of lavender and cedar hangs in the air.

Cassian steps inside — and immediately stops.

He’s covered in the night. Body tense and exhausted. Wind-tossed hair. Dust on his leathers. Shadows under his eyes.

His wings sag slightly as he lays his eyes on you.

“…You’re still awake?” He asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You stand slowly. “You’re late.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Patrol ran long.”

His bravado fades as he takes note of the scent in the air, noting the soft steam that emits from the adjoining bathroom where a bath has been drawn.

You were clearly waiting for him.

“You drew me a bath?” He asks quietly.

You walk towards him, reaching for the clasps of his leathers. “Of course I did.”

He exhales like everything he’s been holding onto suddenly loosens.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

You help him out of his leathers and clothing piece by piece, carefully placing his siphons in their spot on top of his chest of drawers. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tease. Just lets you. The general melts away under your hands, leaving only your tired mate beneath.

When you guide him towards the bath, he obeys easily.

“You’re spoiling me,” he mutters as you sit him on the edge and begin removing the bands he’d used to pull his hair out of his face that morning.

“You deserve to be spoiled.”

He glances up at you, softer than he ever looks in public. “Careful. I might start expecting this every night.”

You snort. “You’d be insufferable.”

He steps into the bath with a low groan as the heat hits his muscles. His wings drape carefully over the edge, massive and weary.

You kneel behind him, fingers sliding into his hair, massaging slow circles into his scalp.

He melts.

Actually melts.

A deep, rumbling sound leaves his chest, halfway between a sigh and a growl.

“Gods,” he mutters. “Marry me again.”

You laugh softly, working the soap through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he insists. “If this what I come home to…”

His head tips back to rest against the edge of the tub, eyes closing as you rinse him carefully.

You move to his shoulders next, strong hands rubbing slow circles into the knots there. He hisses at first, then relaxes into it, head dropping forward.

“Easy,” you murmur.

He hums low. “You’re so good at this.”

“Years of practice.”

He reaches back lazily as you get to your feet, one large hand finding your thigh. It slides upwards just slightly.

“You know,” he says, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “if you really want to help me relax…”

You slap his hand away without hesitation.

“Absolutely not.”

He cracks an eye open. “Cruel woman.”

“Tomorrow,” you say firmly. “Tonight is about you sleeping before you collapse face-first into the floor. Besides, I don’t fancy being almost smothered again when you fall asleep mid-fuc-“

“One time that happened!” He huffs. “I’m not that tired, I swear.”

He proceeds to nearly fall asleep mid-shoulder rub.

You smile, helping him out the bath once he’s clean, drying his wings carefully — he’s too tired to protest the fussing.

When you finally guide him to bed, he drops onto the mattress like a fallen warrior.

A very large, very dramatic fallen warrior.

You pull the blankets up around him.

He squints up at you. “Are you tucking me in?”

“Yes.”

“I am the Lord of Bloodshed.”

“You’re a baby.”

He opens his mouth to argue — but then you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.

He freezes.

Then softens completely.

His hand catches yours before you can pull away, tugging you down beside him. Not demanding. Just wanting.

“You don’t have to stay up waiting for me,” he murmurs, half-asleep already as you join him under the sheets.

“I know,” you murmur softly.

You carefully run your fingers through his hair, in the way you know he likes.

His purrs of contentment quickly transform into soft snores as he falls asleep.

He really was your big baby.

You’ve been on the couch since breakfast.

Curled up, sunlight pouring in through the windows, completely absorbed in your new book.

Cassian tried to be patient.

He really did.

At first, he let you be.

He had his own duties to take care of first, but when he returned home and you were still sat in the same position, he proceeded to unwind from his day, thinking that you’d come to him on your own in greeting.

But you didn’t.

He sat beside you, arm draped along the back of the cushions, fingers brushing your shoulder.

No reaction.

He leaned closer. “Whatcha reading?”

“Mhm.”

That’s all he got.

He frowned.

He tried again a little while later. “What’s the book about?”

Silence.

He scooted closer. His thigh pressed to yours.

Nothing.

He leaned over to begin reading with you. “Are there battles? Is there a devastatingly handsome warrior?”

You turned a page.

You didn’t even look at him.

A little while later, he sprawls across the couch like a discarded cloak, one wing draped over your legs.

You adjust the wing without looking up.

He stares at you.

“You’ve been reading all day.”

You hum.

“It’s time to pay attention to me,” he protests.

You flip another page.

He narrows his eyes.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?”

Still nothing.

He sits up abruptly.

Before you can react, he plucks the book clean out of your hands.

You blink up at him.

Cassian stands, holding it high above his head like a prize.

“General’s orders,” he announces. “You’ve been ignoring me for too long.”

“Cassian.”

Gods, he loves it when you say his name like that — like a warning.

“I require attention and love.”

“Give it back! I only have a few pages left.”

“Not until you acknowledge your neglected mate.”

You huff, slowly getting to your feet — you barely reached Cassian’s chin when you were both standing. Despite that, he still lifts your book higher.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I am deeply in love and starved of affection,” he replies dramatically.

You step closer.

He grins down at you, smug.

“Just give up honey, there’s no way you’re getting to it—OOF”.

You tackle him.

Hard.

He yelps in pure shock as you slam into his middle. He was absolutely not expecting you to resort to violence to get your book back.

The momentum carries you both backwards—

—and you crash on the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings.

The book flies somewhere to the side as you proceed to try and use Cassian’s momentary distraction to practically climb him like a tree.

Cassian quickly flips you over.

“You little menace—“ he laughs, trying to pin your wrists as you reach for the book.

You squirm, attempting to roll over.

He’s stronger, obviously— but you fight dirty.

You dig your fingers into his sides.

He jerks a bark of laughter. “Hey! No cheating.”

“You started it!”

He flips you onto your back.

You twist at the last second, sending both of you rolling again until you’re half sprawled on his chest, breathless.

His hands settle instinctively at your waist.

You’re both laughing now.

“I can’t believe you tackled me,” he says between breaths.

“You stole my book.”

“Because you ignored me.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I am devoted.”

You try to reach for the book again, but he catches your wrist easily.

“Ah-ah,” he says. “I have terms.”

You narrow your eyes. “What terms?”

“You can finish your chapter,” he says generously, “if you sit in my lap whilst you do it.”

You stare at him.

“That’s your compromise?”

“Yes.”

“That’s barely a compromise.”

“It is to me.”

You huff — but you’re smiling.

“Fine.”

His grin is victorious and far too pleased with himself.

You retrieve the book and settle back against him, sitting between his legs, your back against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, wings curving around you both like a cocoon. He presses a kiss to you temple.

“There,” he mumbles. “Much better.”

You open the book again.

“You realise this is exactly what I was doing before.”

“Yes,” he says. “But now I’m involved.”

You shake your head, but your fingers absently trace patterns on his forearm as you read.

After a few minutes, he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“What’s happening now?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I care deeply,” he says solemnly. “Especially if there’s a devastatingly handsome warrior.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean back into him a little more.

“There is one,” you say, amusement creeping into your voice. “His name is Azrie—“

You shriek loudly as Cassian pinches your side playfully.

“Finish that sentence and I’ll throw the book across the room again.”

It started with you very confidently saying:

“How hard can it be?”

Rhysand stops mid-drink. Azriel slowly smirks. Mor outright cackles.

Cassian leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. “You want to try Illyrian training?”

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

He grins like a male who has just been handed the greatest gift in life.

“Alright,” he says. “But you don’t get to complain.”

—

You regret it immediately.

The training ring is cold. The weapons are heavy. The stretches alone feel like they’ve been designed by someone who hates happiness.

Cassian circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a smug instructor.

“Lower,” he says.

“I am lower.”

“You’re barely bending.”

“I hate you.”

He laughs. “You begged for this.”

You attempt a lunge.

Your legs shake violently.

He steps in behind you, large hands settling on your hips to adjust your stance.

“Wider,” he murmurs.

You glare over your shoulder. “If you grope me under the guise of training one more time—“

“This is professional,” he says solemnly, squeezing lightly before tapping your ass.

“Cassian.”

“Fine. Fine.” He steps back, though he’s still grinning.

You attempt a punch next.

It’s…not impressive.

He catches your fist easily.

“You’re pulling your strength,” he says.

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He steps closer. Too close.

“Rotate your shoulder,” he instructs, guiding your arm. “And commit.”

You do.

You miss.

He kisses your temple. “For effort.”

You shove him. “Stop kissing me.”

“It motivates you.”

“It distracts me!”

“That’s also motivating.”

You attempt a kick.

He blocks it effortlessly.

“Again.”

You groan loudly. “Why are Illyrian’s like this?”

“Superior breeding.”

You swing at him.

He ducks, laughing.

You’re sweaty, breathless and furious.

Cassian is having the time of his life.

“Alright,” he says, finally getting into stance. “One clean hit. That’s all I want.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Full strength.”

“You’ll regret that.”

He smirks. “I highly doubt—“

You swing.

And this time?

You rotate your shoulder. You commit. You put your frustration and entire annoyed soul into it.

Your fist connects sharply with his jaw.

There’s a sharp crack.

Cassian’s head snaps to the side.

Silence falls.

You freeze.

“Oh my gods.”

Cassian sways slightly.

“Oh my gods,” you repeat, horror flooding you as he stumbles to one knee.

You rush forward immediately. “Cassian! I didn’t mean—I thought you were going to block it—are you concussed? Say something—“

You crouch down in front of him.

He lifts his head at the exact moment you lean down.

Crack.

Your foreheads collide brutally.

You both yelp in unison.

“OW!”

“Gods above—“

You fall backward onto the sand, clutching your head.

Cassian tips sideways, laughing in disbelief.

“You knocked me whilst I was down,” he wheezes.

“I didn’t mean to!”

He rolls onto his back, staring at the sky. “That was a good hit.”

You scramble towards him, clutching your forehead, still panicking. “Are you okay?”

He props himself up on his elbow, jaw already bruising slightly.

“I’ve had worse,” he says. “From you? Worth it.”

You stare at him. “You’re insane. Why is your head so hard?”

He studies you for a moment longer. Then he starts laughing harder. “Azriel was right, this was a terrible idea.”

You flop onto your back beside him. “Pfft, what does he know.”

He turns his head towards you, grin wide and adoring despite the swelling.

“I suppose,” he says dramatically, “I’ll just have to make sure I’m always around to protect you.”

You snort. “From what? You?”

“From everything,” he corrects, rolling towards you and tugging you into his chest. “Especially yourself.”

You poke his sore jaw.

He winces. “Mean.”

“You deserved that for almost taking me out with your skull.”

He kisses your forehead over the bruise already forming.

“You hit like a warrior,” he murmurs proudly. “Terrifying. I am deeply attracted to you right now.”

You groan. “We are never doing this again.”

He considers.

“…Maybe not the training.”

His hands slides to your waist, pulling you closer.

“But I’m keeping the hands-on instructions.”

You shove him weakly.

He laughs, wings spreading slightly in the sand.

And despite the bruises, you’re both grinning like idiots.

You’ve always loved how large Cassian is.

It’s practical, for one.

High shelves? Irrelevant. He just reaches over you without thinking.

Crowded markets or events? You can always spot him — dark hair, broad shoulders, wings that part people like the sea.

Danger? Nonexistent. When he stands in front of you, the world feels more manageable.

He makes you feel safe in a way that settles deep in your bones.

You love that.

But what you don’t love is how much space he takes up in bed.

You had thought upgrading to a larger mattress would solve the problem.

It did not.

Because the issue wasn’t the size of the bed.

The issue was Cassian sleeps like a territorial mountain.

He starts on his side, but by the end of the night he ends up halfway on top of you. One wing thrown over you. One arm hooked possessively over your waist. A knee wedged between yours. His chest pressed to your back like you might vanish if there’s an inch of distance.

You love it.

But sometimes you hate it.

Tonight, you’re exhausted.

He’s sprawled diagonally across the mattress, somehow claiming ninety percent of it despite the fact you bought the largest bed available in Velaris.

You attempt to shift.

He tightens his arm around you instinctively.

You try again.

His leg drapes further across yours.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Cassian,” you mutter softly.

He grunts in his sleep and buries his face into your hair.

You try to roll away.

He makes a low, displeased sound and follows you.

You sigh.

Very carefully, you untangle yourself. Slide out from under his arm. Remove the wing from your legs. Inch towards the end of the bed.

He mumbles something unintelligible.

You freeze.

He settles.

You escape into the living room, grabbing a blanket and settling yourself on the couch.

You’ve barely curled up when you hear it—

The faint rustling of wings and heavy footsteps.

Then silence.

You peek over the back on the couch.

Cassian is standing in the doorway.

Hair messy. Naked chest. Bottoms slung low on his hips. Eyes narrowed and very offended.

“…Why are you not in our bed?”

You stare at him. “I couldn’t breathe.”

He blinks.

“I wasn’t suffocating you.”

“How would you know if you were sleeping?”

He walks closer, expression slowly shifting from confusion to mild betrayal.

“You left.”

“I needed space.”

He wings droop slightly.

“You could’ve woke me up.”

“I tried.”

He pauses.

“…Oh.”

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself. “You’re enormous.”

He looks down at himself like this is shocking information.

“I am not that big.”

You just raise a brow.

He sighs dramatically.

Then — without a word — he bends down and scoops you up.

Blanket and all.

You yelp. “Cassian—!”

“No,” he says firmly, already carrying you back toward the bedroom. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping on the couch because I exiled you.”

“I exiled myself!”

He ignores you completely.

Back in bed, he sets you down carefully in the centre of the mattress.

Then he climbs in beside you.

You brace yourself.

But instead of immediately smothering you, he lies on his back. Stiff. Deliberately keeping space between you.

“There,” he says. “You have your room.”

You glance over.

He looks miserable.

Wings tucked unnaturally tight. Arms folded like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you.

You last about ten seconds.

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He stares at the ceiling. “You left me.”

“I was suffocating.”

“I was cuddling.”

“More like crushing.”

He finally looks at you.

“…You don’t like when I hold you?”

The vulnerability in his voice softens you immediately.

“I love when you hold me,” you admit. “I just also love oxygen.”

He huffs.

Silence lingers.

Then slowly, cautiously, he shifts closer.

Not on top of you. Just nearer.

His hand hovers uncertain over your waist.

“Can I?” He ask quietly.

You smile.

“Yes. But no strangling.”

“I thought you liked it when I choked you?”

You roll your eyes. “Not when I’m trying to sleep.”

He huffs a laugh, but pulls you gently to his side. Not crushing. Or trapping. Just warm.

You tuck your face into his chest.

“See?” He murmurs. “It’s not so bad.”

You snort softly. “You’re still too big.”

“Rude.”

“But,” you add, sliding a hand over his ribs, “I suppose you can’t be completely perfect.”

He gasps in mock offence. “I am devastatingly close.”

You laugh quietly.

His arms tighten just a fraction.

“Next time,” he mutters into your hair, “wake me up instead of running away.”

“Next time,” you reply sleepily, “I’ll just suffocate you.”

He chuckles.

But even as you both drift off back to sleep—

His fingers stay hooked in into your shirt, just in case you try to escape again.

[ruinsofthedawn]

The Pain of Falling for You - Part 2

Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: You and Azriel have been seeing each other for a few months now and it's time to introduce you to his family, which doesn't exactly go… well.

A/N: Oh, wow! Hello again, everyone! I don't know what I was expecting when I posted part 1, but 500 likes in 3 days was not it, and only continuing to grow. And over 130 followers! Thank you all so much. You have been amazing. I tried to get this out as soon as I could, but I don't write fast and the dinner scene was fighting me on this one. I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I'm tired of wrestling with it and I love the ending so... here you go! There will definitely be at least 4 parts (maybe a part 5, or at least an epilogue, we'll see).

This is my first time using links, so if they don't work, please let me know. Also, I'm trying out the taglist thing, so, we'll see how that goes.

Word Count: a little less than 9K

Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, more angst (my fav!), talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense 😊), Rhysand means well, sort of, but… well, you'll see 😉

Part 1 | Part 3

————

Azriel stares at the empty hearth in the main sitting room at the River House, seemingly unaware of his knee bouncing. Shadows swirl around him restlessly, his thoughts drifting back to you, as they often had these past eight months. The time flew by, feeling like only yesterday he had first met you in the waiting room of Madja's clinic, yet, at the same time, he felt like he has known you his entire life.

He spent every available moment with you, taking you out to dinner or coffee if your schedules allowed, but mostly just… being with you, whether in his apartment or yours, it didn't matter.  Just being around you lifted something inside him, eased an ache he never knew existed before, and he couldn't get enough. Your quiet presence is a balm he didn't know he needed, your voice a melody he longed to hear.

Still, it wasn't always blissful; your silence often speaking more than your words ever could. The shock on your face when he would arrive at your place with dinner, at the small gestures that came second nature to him, spelled out a rocky romantic history, with those who, Az had concluded, did not treat you like you deserve. The subtle shifts of your body, a flash of… something across your face as you moved, told him you were uncomfortable most of the time. Why, you had yet to tell him, but Azriel wasn't going to push, as much as he longed to. Your trepidations about this relationship was clear with each shift of your eyes to him for approval and your hesitance over simple decisions. He was taking this at your pace, determining that you would tell him when you were ready.

Azriel smiles faintly at the hearth; he was happy, happier than he's been in his long life, and in love. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on you that there was something different. He knew when you first walked into his apartment that you would have him wrapped around your finger in no time, even if that wasn't your intention. It wasn't until three months after you met, he realized he loves you. But it is different from the love he felt for Mor or Elain; it grows somewhere deep within him, fast and unyielding until it consumed him whole. It took root with a fierceness that could never be destroyed, not fully, even if he didn't fully understand.

His family noticed, of course they did, how smiles grace his face easier, how much looser he carried himself, how he sneaks away early to head into the city. They made comments of the female that had stollen the stoic Shadowsinger's heart, joking about it often the past few months, but they let it be, knowing Azriel would bring the mysterious female around when they were ready.

But, that didn't stop Rhys from extending an invitation to bring you to family dinner, and he did a double take when Az said he would ask. Azriel was just as surprised the night before when you had agreed, quietly, hesitantly, but seemed to gain some confidence when you reaffirmed. You had an appointment with a patient that afternoon, the same couple you had interviewed with the day you met Azriel for a drink, now in the final few weeks of getting ready to greet their babe, so you agreed to meet him at the River House.

Dinner is still a few hours away, but the excitement in the house is palpable ever since Az announced that you are coming. Azriel's heart beat erratically in his chest, one leg still bouncing, staring intensely at the masonry around the unlit fireplace. Feyre sat across from Az, with sixteen month Nyx sitting on her lap, staring intently at his mother's necklace, chain now dangling from his palm.

"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," Feyre comments, amusement filling her voice.

It takes a conscious effort for Azriel to still his leg, turning to look at his High Lady, at his friend. Sighing, Az leans back in the armchair slightly. "Don't tell Rhys," he mumbles dryly, "or Cass."

"I'm pretty sure they already know," Feyre says, shifting Nyx on her legs. "You don't need to be nervous, Az. She's important to you, so she's important to us."

Az nods, he knows that, he really does, but it doesn't stop his heart thundering, or the pins prickling beneath his skin. There are just so many things that could go wrong, and he wants so desperately for his family to like you and for you to like them. You who are so much like him, preferring the quiet, the shadows, to blend in with the background, and his family who are loud and boisterous and will certainly make you the center of their attention. He's not sure how the two will mix.

"I know," Az says instead of voicing his concerns, looking back at the hearth.

Feyre sighs, recognizing she's not going to get much more from the Spymaster. Az watches her stand out of the corner of his eye, gently pulling the necklace from Nyx's grasp as she walks over to him. "Here," she says, plopping Nyx in Azriel's lap before he starts whining about losing the necklace. The shadows instantly surround Nyx, his little eyes widening, watching them swirl up his arms. "Play with your nephew, you need the distraction," the High Lady orders leaving the room.

The hours pass only slightly faster with Nyx scrambling after the shadows, his laughter filling the sitting room.

—

The knock is gentle, barely heard outside of the empty foyer, but the shadows hear and Azriel is at the door a few seconds later. The tension in his shoulders melts slightly when the door opens revealing you shifting on your feet in a simple blue dress, your work bag clutched tightly in your hands. "You made it," Azriel breathes, stepping aside to let you in.

Your eyes flicker around the entry way, a hesitant smile gracing your lips. "You sound surprised," you remark softly, slowly handing over your bag when Az offers.

A light chuckle escapes him, placing your bag on a nearby hook. "Just glad you're here," he admits, resting a hand on the small of your back, drawing your attention to him. You flush lightly as he leans down, placing a faint kiss on the top of your head, his smile growing at the sight. "Everything go okay?"

"Um… yeah," you answer, absentmindedly picking at one of your fingernails as you look around again. "As well as can be expected." You pull away from him slightly, the blush still gracing your neck and cheeks. A small flash of hurt washes over Azriel, his brows furrowing for a moment before he wipes it away. Even now, without his family present, your discomfort is evident, and the last thing he wants is to make it worse.

"That doesn't sound very promising," he comments, shifting subtly drawing your eyes back to him.

Your tight smile falters for a second, eyes catching his. "You- you know that's all I can tell you," you remind him quietly. He nods, having figured out early on you take your patients privacy very seriously.

"I know, love," he assures gently, a small sigh of relief escaping you at that. "It just doesn't sound like a good thing, when you say it like that," he explains.

Tilting your head slightly, your brows furrow. "Well, I-"

"Azriel!" Cassian's voice echoes down the hall cutting you off. Az forces himself to take a slow breath, watching your eyes widen like you were caught doing something wrong. "I swear, if you snuck off again…" his voice trails off once he rounds the corner, his eyes wide and locked on you.

You take a step closer to Azriel, one hand reaching for his, your body stiffening. A part of Az is ecstatic that he is the one you go to for comfort, for safety, while the other part of him desperately wants to throttle his brother.  "Cassian," he says, throwing the general a glare, "this is Y/N." His voice softens when he says your name and Cassian's eyes darts between the two of you.

Cassian breaks out into a grin. "So you are real," he says, walking towards you. Azriel can hear your heart thundering in your chest and you struggling to keep your breaths even. He extends a wing behind you, barely unfurling it, just enough to provide another form of comfort, enough for Cassian to catch. He stops in his tracks, his smile never faltering even as his eyes widen slightly. "We were starting to think he made you up," he quips.

"Hello," you say quietly. Azriel squeezes your hand, adding just enough pressure to ground you, to remind you he is there. Your breathing begins to even out slowly as you continue to shift on your feet.

"Cassian, you better not be terrorizing the poor girl already. We want to make a good impression," Nesta snips, pushing past her mate with ease. "Feel free to ignore him."

"This is Nesta," Azriel introduces quietly. You nod slowly, eyes tracking the eldest Archeron who seems to not notice the exaggerated offended look Cassian gives her.

Taking a deep breath, you force a small smile toward the Lady of Death. "Nice to meet you," you say, removing your hand from Azriel's to offer to Nesta.

The grin that spreads across Nesta's face is just shy of predatory. She loops an arm around yours rather than shaking your hand. "It is so nice that Azriel is finally comfortable enough to bring you around," she starts, leading you to the dining room.

You quickly glance over your shoulder, wide eyes catching with Azriel. He sends you a reassuring smile, following a few paces behind while Nesta continues to talk, Cassian coming up to him. "You really love her."

It wasn't a question, even with Cassian's brows furrowing. "Yes," Azriel answers anyway.

Nodding, Cass looks back in the direction his mate disappeared. "You deserve a little peace, Az. Cauldron knows you don't get enough of that around here." Looking over at his brother, Azriel just nods.

The two males approach the entrance of the dining room, where you and Nesta stand facing each other. Nesta's brows furrow while your eyes are fixed to a point on the floor, face flushed as you once again pick at your nails. "Hmm," Nesta hums, eyes flickering to Azriel. "Well, we would love to see you there one of these days."

"See her where?" Cassian asks, moving to stand beside his mate. You jump slightly at the sound of his voice, eyes snapping up to Cass.

Azriel's eyes furrows, stepping up to your side, gently resting his hand in the small of your back once more. He feels the tension in your muscles loosen the smallest amount as you lean back into his hand. His shadows swirl around your feet, dancing up your legs and torso to play in your hair. They congregate at specific points along your legs and spine, subtle enough that no one other than Azriel notices, he's not even sure if you notice, and it almost looks like they are supporting your weight. They had started doing it on the third time the two of you met, and when he asked why they do that the shadows just replied: Beloved likes it. It helps her. Although Azriel has the suspicion they know as little has he does as to how it helps.

Nesta angles her body to Cass, but keeps her eyes on you. "I invited her to Valkyrie training," Nesta says simply. Your shoulders creep up a bit, eyes refocusing on a spot on the floor. "She says that it's not for her," she continues, shrugging.

Cassian eyes widen, looking over you again. "Oh, you should definitely come. We always welcome those who want to better themselves and become stronger."

Azriel glares at Cassian, your body tensing beneath his hand, his shadows redoubling their efforts around your body. Even Nesta turns her steely gaze on her mate, eyes narrow. Slowly, Azriel leans down, whispering in her ear. "Ignore him, love. You do not need to join." You shift, just enough to look over at him. He can almost feel your embarrassment and shame over his brother's words, tears beginning to line your eyes. "Or, you can come and just watch. See what the fuss is about," he offers instead, giving you a small, reassuring smile, "but you don't have to."

"Just watch?" you repeat, the question barely a breath.

Slowly, Azriel nods, forcing his face to remain neutral. A small knot begins to form in his stomach at the look of dread and guilt shining behind your eyes. "Only if you want to," he stresses softly, only vaguely aware of Cassian flinching at something Nesta says.

Taking a shaky breath, your gaze drops to somewhere along his chest, blinking rapidly, nodding slightly. "Okay," you agree, resignation filling your tone, "but just to watch."

"If you're sure," Azriel reiterates, letting out a long breath, the knot in his stomach quickly souring to disappointment. Not disappointment towards you, of course; it had been obvious from the start that your previous relationships had not been the most healthy ones. The need for his approval was painfully obvious at times, so he is not surprised that you agreed to come, he already knew you would agree after Cassian made his comment. But still, a part of him hoped you would say no when you clearly were uncomfortable with the prospect. You were already stepping out of your comfort zone to come to this dinner, it wasn't fair for any of them to pressure you to do anything else. 

Still, you nod slowly, refusing to look up at him. Cassian clears his throat weakly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it… like that," he says sheepishly. You nod again, remaining still, while Azriel's gaze snaps to Cassian, glaring at him.

"And this is why you can ignore him," Nesta mutters, walking into the dining room, dragging Cassian behind her.

Neither you nor Azriel move for a long moment, his eyes scanning your body like checking for wounds. Eventually, he lifts one hand to rest on your cheek, gently guiding you to look at him, your head leans into him on instinct and you blink back something that Azriel can't quite catch. "We can leave," he whispers, "whenever you want. Just say the word."

"Wouldn't that be rude?" you ask, eyes widening.

Azriel shrugs, running his thumb across your cheek. "I don't care about that," he admits, taking a half step closer. "If you want to leave, we leave."

Your brows furrow, lips pursing, but you nod. "O-okay."

Slowly, he leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, lingering for a bit longer than necessary. "I love you," he breaths against your skin.

Your face flushes, a small gasp escaping you at those words. They were still new; while Az knew he loved you only a few months in it has still taken him some time to actually say it, only starting a few weeks ago and only in soft, quiet moments of them alone. He knows you don't believe them yet, not fully, but he is determined to remind you.

"I-I love you," you whisper back, the words more shaky, trailing off at the end. Azriel smiles against your heated skin, the words sending a rush through his body, and he places another kiss to your temple.

———

The High Lord's table is covered with meats, salads, fruits, and dishes you don't know how to describe. You're not sure you have ever seen so much food in one place, except maybe at the markets. Around you, Azriel's family talks amongst themselves, piling their plates high from the assortment, while you sit quietly, back straight, a small polite smile gracing your lips. They had all paused when you walked in, Azriel gracefully guiding you to a seat, effortlessly introducing you to his family.

Once they joined you at the table, they easily slipped into their normal casual conversations, giving you a moment to acclimate, not paying you any mind yet. Still, you could feel their eyes flicker to you every so often, curiosity lingering in the air.

Pursing your lips, you lift a hand to fill your plate, a sharp twinge in your back protesting the movement, your hand shaking slightly. Azriel gently reaches, bringing you hand back down with a smile beginning to fill your plate for you.

You haven't told him of your condition. You are sure he already suspects something, with his sharp eyes and his shadows constantly observing and swirling around you, but you haven't brought yourself to tell him. Each time you consider it, fear grips your heart, memories of past relationships, some romantic others not, flood your mind. People don't tend to stick around long after finding out.

You haven't burdened him with the knowledge of the mating bond either, not willing to trap him in a relationship he would not want. He claims to loves you, and a part of you believes he means it, but you had heard those words before from people who left. And there is a part of you that thinks you could not live with his rejection, especially not after having him these past months. So, you don't tell him, letting the bond fester angerly in your chest, begging to make itself known

After a moment, Azriel angles the plate towards you slightly. "Anything else you want?" he asks softly, unheard by the rest of the table. The plate is filled with your favorite dishes, a small flush creeping up your neck at the thought of him making sure they would be served for you.

Slowly, you shake your head, offering a small smile, careful not to further aggravate your already flaring muscles along your spine. Today had been hard; the patient you were seeing had developed a heart condition during her pregnancy and required more frequent check-ins with both you and a healer. It was a rare condition, but not unheard of. One that the healer you are working with from the Dawn Court, Sira, had delt with a few times and believed the mother would make a full recovery in the years following the birth. But, it meant you were running around more than normal on the days of your check-ins to escort the healer through the city, and your body was rebelling against you as a result.

Azriel puts the plate back in front of you before filling his own and pouring a glass of water for each of you. "No wine tonight, Az?" Morrigan teases, taking a sip of hers. Your flush grows, eyes dropping to your plate. Whether it's because he wants to keep his wits about him or because he doesn't want you to feel alone not drinking, he wasn't drinking wine, or any alcohol, because of you. You never asked him to, and you would be fine if he does, but the guilt over his decision worms its way inside your heart anyway.

The male in question doesn't dignify the ask with a response, just raises his eyebrows and taking a pointed drink of his water. Nesta scoffs across the table, taking a drink of her own glass, while the High Lady chuckles lightly, placing a torn up piece of bread in front of the princeling.

"So," Amren speaks up, swirling the red liquid in her glass, her silver eyes locked on you and you fought to withhold a shiver, "how did you two meet?"

The discussions around the table tapper off as everyone turns to watch you and Azriel. Looking to the male out of the corner of your eye, you gently place the still clean silverware back in their places, hands clasping together in your lap. Azriel glances your way, a gently smile pulling on his lips and one of his hands reaches out to grab yours. "We took over her appointment in Madja's clinic," he explains simply, gesturing vaguely towards the High Lord and the General, but his eyes remain on you. "I offered to buy her a drink to make up for it." His voice softens as a small smile pulls at your lips, your eyes dropping to your untouched plate.

A hum echoes through the room, the High Lord's head tilting slightly. "How long have you lived in Velaris?"

You swallow thickly, trying to keep your heart steady and your focus on Azriel's thumb moving absentmindedly against the back of your hand. "Sin- since I was a child, High Lord," you answer softly.

"Oh, you can call him Rhys," the High Lady says gently. "No need to be so formal and he certainly doesn't need the ego boost." You look up hesitantly to see Feyre gently elbow her mate, who smiles fondly back at her. There's a shift in his eyes, when he turns back to you, a hardness creping in that makes your skin crawl.

Smiling weakly, you just nod, opting to look back down at your plate. Carefully, you squeeze Azriel's hand, the rough texture grounding you and the shadows immediately swarm up your legs and into your lap, twirling around your hands, offering their quiet support. A few wrapping around to your back, placing gentle pressure on a particularly sore part of your lower spine, and you extend the fingers of your freehand, twining with them in gratitude.

"You're a healer too, right?" Nesta asks, pushing the food around her plate. Your brows furrow, eyes flickering to hers. "Az mentioned you were seeing one of your patients today," she explains quickly, offering a reassuring smile.

"Oh," you breathe, glancing to Azriel, who nods. "No, not exactly. I, um… I'm a midwife."

The table stills, an uneasy silence falling over the room, broken only by the prince's giggling, throwing some of his bread and cooked carrots onto the floor. Your heart thunders and you force yourself to not shift in your seat, the ache in your back already starting to build. Azriel squeezes your hand, leaning just fraction closer to you. Amren hums, taking another up of her wine.

You are aware that the High Lady had… complications during her pregnancy. Almost all of Velaris had heard of how she died, or nearly died, giving birth to her son, only to be saved by her eldest sister negotiating with the Cauldron itself to save her life and that of the young price.

"A midwife?" the High Lord asks, voice dropping slightly.

You couldn't stop yourself from shifting this time, your eyes closing at the sharp pain shooting up your spine. "Yes," you confirm in a whisper.

Rhysand's eyes narrow, looking you over. "And you have been in Velaris since you were a child?" he clarifies, not impolitely, but there was an edge to his voice. A lump catches in your throat, eyes once again locked on your plate as you nod. The High Lord hums thoughtfully. "I don't remember speaking with any midwives in Velaris during Feyre's pregnancy."

"Oh, um…" you start, gaze flickering to Azriel and he nods again, eyes staying on you as Feyre shifts uncomfortably in the corner of your eye. "We- we weren't consulted," you admit softly, eyes lowering again. "I offered my services to Madja when I heard she was researching for the High Lady's pregnancy, but she refused my assistance."

Morrigan leans forward. "Why would she do that?"

Pursing your lips, you straighten in your seat, hoping to ease the sharp ache in your lower spine that continues to grow despite the shadows gentle massage. "I- uh, I don't know," you answer softly. You weren't lying, not really, but there was a reason you no longer consulted the old healer for your patients, even if you were stuck seeing her for your condition. "She just said that she had it handled and refused to hear of it again." Her angry words still echo in your head somedays.

Leaning back in his chair, the High Lord studies you, wine in hand. "And what would you have done?"

"W-what?" you ask, brows furrowing, slowly looking towards him, while keeping your eyes respectfully low.

"Rhys," Feyre murmurs gently, a warning in her voice.

"You claim you offered to help," the High Lord says, not taking his eyes off you. "You obviously heard something about the pregnancy, so what would you have done differently if we had hired you?"

An uncomfortable silence blankets the space, even Nyx quiets, his big blue eyes looking around the room confused. "I- I wasn't there," you attempt to reason, eyes flickering between the High Lord, High Lady, and Azriel. "I don't know all of the… uh, the details. I won't be able to say with any certainty."

The High Lord simply shrugs. "To the best of your knowledge," he prompts.

Azriel leans closer to you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand, the shadows swirling up and down your back lightly. You look to him, eyes wide, heart pounding. "You don't have to answer," he says gently, but loud enough for the table to hear. Your mouth opens, drawing a shaky breath while Azriel's gaze flickers to the High Lord and hardens. His hazel eyes are soft when they meet yours again and you can see the sincerity behind them, but also his curiosity. And, honestly, you are a bit surprised he hasn't asked sooner.

"Okay," you breathe shakily, licking your lips. Eyes falling back to your place, but you barely see it as your mind combs through all the information you heard about the High Lady's pregnancy, separating facts from fiction from rumors, most of it rumors. Your eyes close, a wave of pain emanating from your lower back rolls through your body. "Okay," you repeat slightly louder, eyes opening again, trying to ignore the scrutinizing gazes surrounding you. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, you let yourself fall back on your decades of training. "From what I heard, it sounds like the majority of the complications were from… um, from the wings, is that correct?"

"Yes," Rhysand answers taking a sip of his wine.

"Okay, um…" you take a second, recalling your mentor's teachings on Illyrian pregnancies and anatomy. "How far along did you find out about the wings? If you don't mind me asking?"

"About two months," Feyre says, voice almost as soft as yours.

Nodding, you lick your lips. "And, uh, I also heard you have the ability to shapeshift in a way similar to the noble fae of the Spring Court, is that right?"

"Yes," Feyre replies slowly.

"No," Rhysand snaps loudly. You flinch, eyes closing again as another wave crashes over you your empty stomach roiling with nausea. Azriel's shadows rise around you and his grip on your hand tightens, your freehand moving to cover his, keeping him from pulling away. "Madja said any alterations to Feyre's body could've put Nyx at risk."

Your mouth parts slightly, shoulders dropping barely an inch from where they had curled into your ears. Brows furrowing, your eyes open, moving over the table, thoughts racing through your head. "Madja has experience with the pregnancies of shapeshifting fae?" you whisper, more to yourself. There aren't many shapeshifting fae in Velaris and, to your knowledge, they all come to either you or Eda for their pregnancies, or to Priya before her death.

You are only vaguely aware of the looks being shared around the table before the attention returns to you. "Do you?" Nesta asks.

Slowly, you nod. "There are many species of fae who can shapeshift to some degree, with the way the magic changes the body different for each. If Madja is unfamiliar with any shapeshifting pregnancies, or only has experience with some of the more… well, violet shapeshifting magic that's native to the Night Court, I can understand her concern. But, if the High Lady's is more similar to those High Fae in Spring…" you trail off, pursing your lips.

"All magic has its risks, shapeshifting is no different," you conceded with a small nod to the High Lord, but you barely register the action. "Even under the best circumstances, there's always a risk, however small. That early on in the pregnancy though, with the more fluid change of the Spring Court's magic, especially changing into a similar form, the additional risk would have been minimal to both mother and child," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Several sharp intakes of breath echo around the room. You glance over to Azriel who's watching you, eyes wide in awe. "I- uh," you stammer, a flush rising on your cheeks. "I would have consulted with a midwife native to Spring, since they deal with this type of magic more often," you continue, eyes returning forward. "After confirming with them, assuming they agreed, I would have had the High Lady shift as early in the pregnancy as possible, in a controlled environment, with both myself and a healer present in the unlikely event of a complication."

"And," Feyre begins quietly, "you're sure it wouldn't have harmed him?" she asks, a hand resting on the princeling's back.

"Um," you purse your lips again, eyes dropping to your lap, brows furrowing as possibilities race through your mind. "Sin-since you would have been shifting from High Fae to Illyrian, that in and of itself lowers many of the risks of the shift. The same magic that keeps your heart, brain, and other organs functioning through a shift would have been employed to protect the child, even without conscious effort. And the shift would have resulted in more room for the child to develop. So, if my understanding of the Spring Court's shifting magic is correct, then the likelihood of any harm coming to you or him, my lady, would have been very low."

Azriel squeezes your hand lightly, an uneasy silence filling the dining room. Slowly, you turn back to him, your eyes wide. His lips twitch into a soft smile, even as you watch a war of emotions behind his eyes. Anger, confusion, and grief all seem to try to make a home there, but all outshone by a look of awe, wonder, and price as he looks at you. Your flush deepens, head ducking to look back at your lap, your own smile pulling at your lips.

"If that is the case," the General asks slowly, breaking you out of the quiet moment, "what do you think caused the early labor?"

Your gaze flicks up to him, your smile fading. "Oh… um. There are three main differences between the reproductive systems of a female High Fae and a female Illyrian," you recite. "The pelvis is larger to accommodate the wide birth canal. The womb itself is larger as well, for the wings, and…" you trail off, looking around the table. "Um, as the wings develop, the bones, including the talons, are some of the first parts of the appendage to form, and the talons form… sharp. Illyrian females have multiple additional protective inner linings along their wombs and birth canal to protect against them."

Your eyes landed back on your plate, fingers tangling in the opposite sleeves. Azriel's finger flex in your hand, and the small amount of magic you have rises without prompting. There is no glow to your healing magic, it's not strong enough for that, but it is enough to ease the stiffness in his muscles, to soothe the tender nerves. His fingers relax in your grip, his thumb beginning its soothing circles again. The shadows curl around you in gratitude.

"If I had to guess," you continue softly, "the High Lady's womb was not large enough to hold the wings and with the lack of the protective linings the talons would have been rubbing against the walls of the womb, likely causing no small amount of tears. The body would have known something was wrong and did what it could to get whatever was harming it out, triggering the early labor. Then the wings got stuck in the birth canal and it just made the problem worse."

"So," Morrigan starts, voice low, a dangerous edge lurking in it, "theoretically, if Feyre had shifted when we first learned about the wings…" she trails off, eyes locked on you.

Taking a deep breath, you nod. "Theoretically," you say so quietly it's almost a whisper, "she would have had a normal pregnancy."

The air in the room stilled at the pronouncement. The only movement comes from Nyx twisting in his chair and the shadows. Your lips purse, hands tightening around Azriel's. A part of you wishes you hadn't said anything, had let them believe that what happened was the inevitable. To forget the conversations whispered between you and Eda after one of the few times you worked together to help with a delivery. But, at the same time, you know lying wouldn't help, it would have only made whatever this meal is becoming something far worse.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, your body begging you to shift in your seat, to find a position to ease the pain licking its way up your spine. You stay still, years of experience teaching you that moving won't help much, if at all, instead possibly making it worse. The shadows rush along your back, placing gentle pressure along the worst of the pain,  while others tangle themselves with your legs and finger, a few running up your arms to play with your hair.

Azriel shifts closer to you, the warmth of his body, from a wing partially extending behind you, is grounding, comforting. His body is stiff, tension spilling from him, and everyone else in the room.

You can see them all in your periphery, but you don't dare to look. Amren regards you thoughtfully, her glass of wine resting against one of her cheeks. Morrigan purses her lips, eyes focused on you, taking long slow breaths. Nesta grips Cassian's hand tightly, her knuckles white, but her mate doesn't seem to notice. Feyre reaches for Nyx, hugging him gently in her lap. And Rhysand…

The High Lord glares at you, a quiet fury burning in his violet eyes. "Liar," he hisses, putting his glass down with a deafening thud. You flinch, forcing your eyes shut, your back flaring as your muscles tense. "You're lying. If the solution was really so simple we would have known."

The High Lord's anger fills the room, the glasses and plates shaking. Your breath comes in short shallow breaths, shoulders coming up to your ears as you curl in on yourself. Azriel moves closer to you as the High Lady says softly: "Rhys." Her voice hard, condemnation echoing in her single word. Gently, Azriel pulls his hand from yours wrapping his arm around you, the shadows moving frantically over you.

"I don't think she is," Morrigan says quietly, the words ringing through the room.

The High Lord stiffens, gaze flickering between his cousin and you. His chair creaks as he leans back. "Fine, you believe you're telling the truth," he concedes, words clipped. "But, what of your relationship with the Dawn Court?"

The tension in the room eases, slightly, your eyes opening, brows furrow along with everyone else. Amrem scoffs, rolling her eyes. "All healers have a 'relationship' with Dawn," she drawls into her wine. "An occupational hazard. It shouldn't be surprising if a midwife does too."

"Not all healers have private meetings with the High Lord of Dawn, and certainly not all midwives," Rhysand pauses, watching the blood drain from your face, eyes widening. "Did you think I wouldn't remember, or just wouldn't realize?" he taunts.

Pain rushes through you, your body shifting before you could think and gods everything hurts. Your shake your head, hands coming to pick at your fingernails again. Azriel tenses next to you, adjusting in his seat to face the High Lord. "Rhysand," he warns lowly.

"What are you talking about?" Cassian asks at the same time.

Rhysand smirks. "Was it three weeks ago, when I went to Dawn to renegotiate the trade deal for copper? They had me wait because Thesan was already in a meeting—"

"Gods forbid," Nesta mutters, taking a sip of her water, hand still clutching her mate's.

Rhysand continues like he didn't hear her. "—and when he was done, he was accompanied out of his office by you. Looking like you were having a very serious discussion."

Your heart pounds in your ears, gaze flickering to Azriel. You remember that meeting, of course you do. You had gone to Dawn for only a few hours to speak with Sira, wanting to get more information about a specific side effect plaguing your patient. And while you were there, you asked if they had any information on your condition. Word spread fast in the archives of Dawn and before you really understood what was happening, High Lord Thesan had come to speak with you, taking you back to his office to have a more private discussion.

"I- I was in Dawn seeking advice on a condition for one of my patients," you manage to say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes focusing on where you are picking at your nail beds.

"And that got the attention of the High Lord?" Morrigan asks, doubtfully.

"It- um, I," you stammer, glancing at Azriel who is staring daggers at Rhysand. "The condition I was looking into is very rare. Only six recorded cases… or, um, seven now. It caught the High Lord's—"your eyes flicker to Rhysand, his body tense"—I- I mean the Lord Thesan's attention."

A careful hum echoes through the room. "And what condition is that?" the High Lord asks.

You take a shaky breath. "I- I can't… I'm not supposed to say," you whisper, glancing at Azriel again. Gods, this is going to be how he finds out, isn't it? Then, of course he'll leave; to have a parter perpetually broken was bad enough, but to find out about it in this humiliating way? He will never want to see your face again and a part of you wouldn't blame him.

"Because Thesan told you not to," Rhysand concludes, his tone final.

"What? N-no!" you breathe. A painful shiver begins in your stomach, your breathing shallow as it spreads through your body.

"Rhys," Azriel interjects with a growl, voice hard. "That's enough."

"If she's having secret meetings with a foreign High Lord I have every right to question her," Rhysand declares.

Azriel's wings flare, one wrapping protectively around you. The shadows flicker, rising to encompass you, to protect you, but you barely feel them with your pain-filled shivers. "Why? Because you think she's a spy?"

"Maybe," Rhys responds with a shrug.

Your vision blurs, the edges darkening as you gasp for breath. "But- but I'm not. I- I would never- I just went to research–"

"Why should we believe you?" Morrigan asks, her voice gentle, but aloof. "If you can't tell us what you were researching."

Your shaking hands come up to your neck, applying a slight pressure you are barely aware of. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I- I can't…"

"Rhys, stop," Feyre orders shakily.

Hot tears spill over your eye line, burning your cheeks where they fall. "I'm sorry," you repeat, looking over to Azriel who was still staring down Rhysand. "I-I don't understand. What did I do wrong?" you breathe, because you had to have done something wrong; why else would the High Lord be after you like this? The only things you can think of is not telling them about your condition or the mating bond, but it wasn't wrong to keep those to yourself, was it? No, no they were right; you should have told Azriel right away so he wouldn't have wasted his time on you. It was stupid and selfish and wrong, wrong, wrong–

Azriel's head jerks to you, your body curling forward, sobs wracking your frame. "No, no. Y/N," Az breaths, quickly getting out of his seat and kicking it away so he can kneel next to you. Pulling your chair out, the shadows bracing you so you don't fall, he turns the chair to face him and he gently grabs your hands. "You didn't do anything wrong," he whispers softly.

You shake your head, your whole body screaming, the pain only making the tears come faster. "I'm s-so-sorry. I'm sorry," you continue to breathe.

Gently, oh so gently, arms wrap around you, gathering you into his firm chest, the scent of mist and cedar filling your lungs. The feel of your mate's arms and his scent around you instantly calms your tears, even as you continue to shake in his hold. "You didn't do anything wrong," he repeats, voice thick. Slowly, he stands, his shadows swirling restlessly about him, itching to get you out. "We're leaving," he says simply, walking towards the door.

"Az, you can't shield her from this," Rhysand calls, his chair screeching against the floor as he stands. "She needs to answer–"

A low growl thunders through the room, cutting off the High Lord. Azriel turns to face his brother, baring his teeth. You whimper softly, some residual anger flowing down the mostly dormant bond. Azriel stops at once, dropping his nose to the top of your head, shushing you gently and leaving tender kisses against your hair, continuing through the River House.

He stops only once to grab your work bag before walking into the night-chilled spring air, letting the shadows surround you both.

You are only somewhat aware when the shadows deposit you and Azriel outside of your apartment building. A small, run down place, one of the units has a hole in the wall from when the attors attacked the city that was never fixed. It was a miracle the building was still standing, much less has people living in it, but it was the cheapest place to rent in the city and all you could afford.

Shame washes over you as Azriel enters the building, keeping his steps light, as it always does when Azriel visits your apartment. You knew Azriel hates this place, that you live here, but he never mentioned it to you, not directly. Just another reason the bond had to be a mistake; how could the Spymaster's mate live in such a place?

Climbing the stairs, Azriel whispers soft words into your hair, but you can't make out the words. Hot tears burn your cheeks even through your sobs have subsided. Azriel's arms tighten around you when one step creaks dangerously beneath him.

It does not take long for him to reach your door, gently setting you down, his hands remain, one on your waist the other your arm, to steady you on your wobbling legs. Clasping your work bag in shaky hands, you slowly move back a few steps, out of his grasp, fixing your eyes on the floor in front of him.  Still, you don't miss the hurt and panic flashing across his face.

"I am so sorry, my love," Azriel whispers. Your arms wrap around your middle, Azriel's shadows slowly approaching you. "I'll talk with them."

"It's okay," you respond shakily. Your body tense to keep the pain-filled shivers at bay, which just aggravates your muscles in a different, but more familiar way.

The shadows lunge for you as Azriel's face crumbles. "No," he says fiercely, taking a step towards you. "No, it's not." You take a step back, against every instinct in your body begging you to go to him, you keep your distance. Azriel stops immediately, wings twitching at his back. "Y/N, look at me," he pleads, voice breaking, "please."

You take a shuddering breath, your mind at war with itself. You have no right to, you know that. Why should he want you to, a pour, barely educated female who can barely afford one of the worst apartments in the city. Weak, both physically and magically; how could you possibly be his mate, his equal? He should want nothing to do with you, even before knowing about your condition. You barely deserve being in the same room as him. But, at the same time, he was your mate and there have been a few occasions after a bad day that just seeing him made you feel better. And he was asking, that has to count for something, right?

Slowly, you look up, forcing your eyes to meet his, blurry through your tears, breathing sharp. "You didn't do anything wrong," he assures you, voice so gentle. "I promise. Not today, not in Dawn." you nod jerkily, wincing at the sharp pain shooting down your spine, a constant reminder of your unworthiness.

"I- I love you," he breathes, conviction filling the words, his hands flexing at his sides, one almost reaching out. The shadows curl around you, whispering in a language you will never know.

Your eyes shut tight, forcing fresh tears to stain your cheeks, lips pursing as your head falls forward. Stifling a sob, you force yourself to nod again. There was no way he meant it, not truly. How could he after the way his family, his brothers, reacted to you.

The lump in your throat kept you from saying anything for a long moment and you slowly fish you key from your bag. "You- you should go back," you breathe, fiddling with the key in your hand, turning to unlock the door, "be with your family."

"What? No. And leave you alone?" Azriel asks, brows furrowing, wings twitching as he glances around the hallway.

Your door opens with a loud creak, heat rushing to your face as it sticks at several points until the opening is large enough for you to slide through. "Yo-you will have a better time with them than with me," you insist, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. It had to be true, you were just going to down one of Madja's potions that do next to nothing and lay in bed, ignoring your hunger, and praying for sleep to take you away. His family would be much better company, even on your best day, especially without you there to ruin it.

"Y/N," he breathes, taking a single step forwards before stopping himself. "I want to be with you," he argues. "If… if you don't want me here, I'll leave, but," he swallows thickly, "but, I don't want to go."

You shake your head, turning towards him through the opening of the door, keeping your eyes on the floor. "Please," you beg, voice tick with tears, "don't lie to me."

"I'm not," he says quickly, panic setting in and you can see tears lining his eyes in your periphery. "I swear on my shadows, on my life, I'm not lying. Please."

Biting the inside of your cheek, more tears fill your eyes. Slowly, you inch the door closed. "I'll, um… I'll see you in the morning for the Valkyrie training," you say softly. Best to get it over with, not that you will be welcomed there anymore, not after the dinner. "Good night, Az."

It takes a few seconds for you to close the door all the way and slide the lock into place. Leaning your head against the door, a sob escapes your lips. Your body finally giving out, it was all you could do to control your fall to your knees, the landing jarring every bit of pain in your body. You bring a hand to your mouth, smothering the sobs.

Through the door, you can hear Azriel, his breath stuttering. "Good night, beloved."

———

Azriel always prided himself on control; over his body, mind, magic, shadows, especially over his emotions. After spending the beginning of his life with no control over anything, it is not something he takes for granted. After five hundred years, Azriel considers himself a master. But, hearing you fall to the ground, sobbing on the other side of that door, his control snaps.

Leaving a few shadows to watch over you, he recalls the rest, wrapping them around himself to step through and back to the front door of the River House. He marches inside, anger boiling beneath his skin, his shadows screaming at him to make the people who hurt you pay.

He enters the sitting room in a storm of shadows, the same one he had spent hours in earlier, anxiously waiting for your arrival. Now, it’s the room his family had moved to, their conversations ceasing when he enters, not that he'd be able to hear any of it over the roaring in his ears.

They watching him carefully as he takes them in. Nesta sitting on Cassian's lap in an arm chair, his arms wrapped around her. Amren sitting across from them, wine still in hand. Mor sits perched on the armrest of the couch while Rhys and Feyre stand closest to the doorway, Nyx sat on Feyre's hip. Azriel is just barely able to keep his shadows from strangling the High Lord, barely.

"Az–" Rhys starts.

"Tell me, Rhysand," Azriel interrupts, voice low and deceptively calm, "do you think me incompetent?"

Rhys' brows furrow, inhaling sharply. "What? No, of course not."

Azriel takes a careful step forward, hands clenching into fists at his side.  "Then did you think that I was not aware of her visit to the Dawn Court? Or of her meeting with Thesan?" Rhys opens his mouth to respond, but Azriel cuts him off with a snarl. "Did you not think that there was a shadow with her the entire time?" His shadows grow around him, swirling frantically, the faelights seeming to dim in response.

Rhys freezes, eyes widening, bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. Everyone stares at Azriel, eyeing the shadows carefully. They have only rarely seen this side of their Spymaster, he knows, and never directed at them.

"She told me about her trip to Dawn days before it happened. She told me she met with Thesan when I first saw her after she returned. And my shadow confirmed their conversation," he growls looking around the room. It is a slight exaggeration; while the shadows did confirm the reason Thesan sought you out was in regards to a condition you were researching, they kept the confidentiality that you always stressed, keeping both the specific condition and the patient's identity from him, but Azriel didn't mind. He trusts his shadows will tell him any information that could affect or jeopardize the court, and he trusts you implicitly.

"Do you think I don't know about Thesan's spies in this court? In this city?" he continues, voice dropping, taking another step towards his brother, wings flaring wide. "I know their names, their aliases, their movements, what they ate for dinner, what they are doing this very moment. Did you think I would bring one to the very heart of this court?" The room is silent, no one dares to draw a breath, save for Nyx, watching his uncle with tear filled eyes, burrowing into his mother's chest. "I'll ask again, High Lord. Do you think I am unfit for my job?"

Azriel's heart pounds in his chest, his skin tight. Eyes locked with Rhysand's, he forces himself to take few deep breaths through his nose. His wings twitch where they are extended, jaw clenched. Rhysand doesn't move, blinking slowly, licking his lips, looking as calm and composed as normal. But, Azriel knows his brother better, he can hear Rhys' thundering heart, can see the small bead of sweat forming on his brow.

"She didn't tell the truth though, Az," Mor says quietly, as if speaking to a dangerous animal.

Azriel's gaze snaps to where she's perched, his lips pull back in a snarl. "But she did, she just didn't tell you everything, which is her right," he spits, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. "She agreed to come to a nice cordial dinner. She did not agree to be questioned about her work, her expertise, and certainly did not agree to be interrogated about a research trip she took, one I had full knowledge of! Why should she have told you anything?"

"Az–" Rhys tries.

"I have spent the better part of this past year trying to convince Y/N she's worth my time. That she deserves love and attention, and something good. And now… now she won't even look me in the eye because she doesn't think she has the right to." Azriel's voice cracks, the worst of his anger bleeding out as he speaks, wings sagging. The shadows slow, returning to dance around him in an attempt at comfort. "Now, she won't let me stay and comfort her because she doesn't feel worthy of my presence." He whispers the last bit, a part of him can still feel her insecurity, her self-deprecation, like it is his own.

No one responds as he looks around the room, meeting each of their eyes. "I trusted you, all of you." The words are whispers, but they land hard. Rhysand stumbles back a step. Feyre takes a shaky breath, tears lining her cheeks. Cassian and Nesta hold each other tighter.

Scoffing, Azriel turns to the door, to head back to you. You might not want him there, might not feel worthy, but something in him needs to be near you, to know you are safe. Even if that means keeping quiet vigil outside through the night.

He pauses at the threshold, turning his head slightly, enough so his words will carry through the room. "If I lose her because of this," he says softly, raising his eyes to Rhysand's, the promise echoing through his words, "I will kill you."

————

Taglist (I hope this works!):

@insomniac-astronomer; @starswholistenanddreamsanswered; @theadharablack @littowl; @emochosoluvr

[ruinsofthedawn]

The Pain of Falling for You

Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: When an emergency causes the Inner Circle to crash into Madja's clinic, they unknowingly take over your appointment. Azriel, infatuated by your quiet beauty, wants to make it up to you

Hi everyone! This is my first time posting my writing… anywhere really. We'll see how this goes. This is being posted on my side blog, might add my main one here (which is currently comprised exclusively of reblogs) but for now, I kind of want to keep this on a clean blog.

Also, I am notorious for switching back and forth between present and past tense in my writing for some reason. I tried to clear it up as much as possible, but if you do see it… pretend you don't 😁

Word Count: a little less than 6K

Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species 😊), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, angst (my fav!), minor descriptions of blood but nothing too bad.

Possibility of one or two more parts, but can be read as a one-shot

Part 2

————

Closing your eyes, you forced yourself to breathe through the deep ache emanating from your bones, seeping into your muscles, washing over your body. A pain that has followed you your whole life. Glancing up at the clock in Madja's small waiting room, you urged the time to go faster.

Madja had been the one to diagnose you when you were a child with an exceedingly rare chronic illness that effects your spine and muscles in your back. Manageable, mostly, but the constant pain from your condition was unavoidable, with only a few tonics having been proven effective at easing the pain… slightly. Your parents, who owned a small farm outside of Velaris, left in the middle of the night after receiving the news. Madja tried for weeks to return you to them, but was unsuccessful and eventually brought you to an orphanage on the outskirts of the city. The healer still saw you and continued to treat your condition at no cost, at least until you got a job, but felt she was in no place to raise a child.

Even now, decades later, you were still dependent on the healer and her tonics to allow you to function. Five more minutes, according to the clock, then you can get your medicine, go home, lay in bed and not move for a few hours.

A loud crash echoes outside, making you jump in your seat. The door burst open, shadows spilling into the building and a deep male voice shouts for Madja, the sound sending chills down your spine.

Two males appear out of the newfound darkness, one with huge dark wings protruding from his back, dark blue gems glowing on his chest, knees, shoulders, and wrists. The other male you recognize from your time orphanage; the High Lord used to visit the small building each year before donating money to the owners. If only he knew where the money had truly gone.

The High Lord shouts for the healer and your eyes fell to the limp form slung between the two males, similar dark wings hung limply behind him, the red stones adorning his leathers dull. You had heard enough stories of the High Lord's Inner Circle to recognize the Spymaster and General, although it was the first time you have seen either of them. Your eyes were drawn to the spymaster, Azriel, as the shadows dance frantically around his form.

Emerging through the doorway, Madja's eyes widen at the sight of the lifeless Illyrian, wasting no time ushering them into the back. You remain frozen, eager to stay out of the way. Something pulls in your chest as the Shadowsinger moved to drag his friend forward, following the healer. It pulls and tightens until it glows in your chest.

A small gasp left your lips, the sound lost in the chaos. He disappears behind the door you crumple forward, pain radiating through your back from the pull of the bond. The mating bond. A gift so rare it might as well be legend, but none of the stories you heard described the bond as painful. A hot of tear rolls down your cheek, body shaking to fight back a sob.

There is no way he would want you, bond or no. He's the spymaster for the High Lord, some say the two, along with the General, are as close as brothers. He's the Shadowsinger, one of the most powerful Illyrians in history. And you… you were a broken, weak, uneducated orphan whose own parents abandoned you as soon as they found out. The Mother must be cruel to think he could even want you. That you were his equal.

Focusing on your breathing, you refuse to let your emotions overwhelm you, at least not in public. It takes a few minutes, but you regain control of your breathing and slowly uncurl yourself to sit up.

Wiping the tears from your cheeks, your gaze catches on a swarm of black shadows emerging from the door to the back, followed closely by the Shadowsinger himself, running a gloved hand over his face with a sigh. Your breath catches, studying him for a moment. He's beautiful, even covered in blood, sweat, and dirt, your heart leaps at the sight of him. His golden skin glows in the evening light flooding through the window, dark hair drenched in sweat clung to his forehead. His massive wings tucked in tightly to his muscular body. The world seemed to go silent around him, his shadows calmer than before, swirl throughout the room.

Opening his hazel eyes, they lock on yours, widening slightly. Heat rose from your neck and onto your checks, and you quickly advert your eyes. Slowly, he looks back through the door, still partially propped open, almost ... sheepishly.

"Sorry we took over your appointment," he says softly, moving further into the waiting area, closer to you, his size seemed to take over the room.

Hesitantly, you glance up, cheeks flaring as your eyes caught once again. "No need," you respond quietly, barely above a whisper, just as a low groan echoed from the back followed by Madja's calm voice ordering people around. "Looks like your friend needs it more than I do." Your spine flared with pain as you spoke, but you hold back the grimace that threatened to emerge with practiced ease.

Still, the Shadowsinger shifts closer, offering a small smile. "May I sit here?" he asks, gesturing to the seat across from you.

Glancing up, you nod, the movement more of a jerk, sending sharp pain shooting down your neck. Letting out along breath he collapses into the chair that was too small for him and definitely not built for wings.

Hands clutched in your lap, you manage to keep your eyes on him this time. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind, an easy smile lighting up is face. "What's your name?"

Your voice caught in your throat for a moment, mouth opening silently. "Uh… Y/N."

He hums quietly, studying your face. "I'm Azriel."

"I know," You say. His eyebrows rose slightly and you swore your face couldn't get any warmer. "The, uh, shadows gave it away," you admit, voice barely a whisper, gaze dropping once again.

Azriel chuckles softly, leaning back into the too small chair. "They tend to do that," he mutters, glaring at the swirling darkness playfully. Your lips tug upward, and he leans his head against the wall behind him closing his eyes.

You allow yourself a second to admire him, now that no one was around and he wasn't looking. This male, your mate. You had heard stories, of course, about the fearsome Shadowsinger, the High Lord's ruthless Spymaster. Even in Velars, where it's common knowledge these stories are exaggerated and that he would only my act like that with the Night Court's enemies, they persist. But sitting in that too small chair, head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, he didn't seem like the same person as the stories, the male whose very presence can scare people into spilling their darkest secrets. He just seemed... like a male; a beautiful male beyond compare who could use a good night's rest, but still a male.

The corners of his mouth twitch up, and you knew that he, somehow, knew you were looking. Probably thanks to the shadows now swirling against your legs. But he didn't stop you, only shifted, spreading his wings slightly wider behind him in a way that was definitely more uncomfortable, almost like he was showing off.

"Y/N!" a shrill voice called out, drawing your attention to the short tree nymph in healers garb standing in the doorway, bag in hand. Azriel's eyes snap open, body stiffening as he takes in the healer, Melina. She stalks over and you stand slowly, barely making it to your feet before she shoved the bag into your chest. "Here," she spits out. You stumble back, the ache in your bores becoming sharp, shooting down your spine and legs.

Clutching the bag, you fall back into your chair, closing your eyes to contain a wince. Melina has been one of Madja's assistants for a few decades. You had met her during her first week of her working for the older healer and have put up with her temperament ever since. It was about what you deserve, you had concluded long ago, since you tended to make everyone's lives harder. Madja sitting back and doing nothing about it only further nailed the point home.

Opening your eyes, you peered into the bag. Melina already stomping away. Scanning the vials inside your eyebrows furrowed. "Where are the-"

"Oh, for Caudron's sake," Melina curses, stopping in the doorway, head tilted to the sky. "It's all can give you without interrupting Madja," she explains slowly, turning backs to face you.

Your cheeks heat as she speaks to you like a child, looking down on you as if you are an idiot. Tears bristle in your eyes. "But this isn't enough for-"

"Well it's all you're going to get," she hisses.

"If I need to wait for Madja, I can -"

"We're busy, Y/N," Melina snaps. "Mother are you really so stupid? The General is dying and you're taking up my time when I should be helping," she growls, slamming the door behind her.

A hot tear burns your cheek as you clutch the bag to your chest. Gods, Melina was right, as she tended to be. You had seen the General's limp form, his blood still stained the floor and Azriel's leathers, the stench of death hung in the air.

You glance at your mate, face burning with shame. This is now you introduce yourself? His first impression of you? Taking away resources from his dying friend, his brother. At some point, Azriel had sat up straight and he now stares at the closed door, shadows eerily still around him, face carefully blank. What does he think of you now?

"I'm sorry," you whisper, arms tightening around the bag of medicine serving as your shield.

Azriel's eyes snap to you, head turning so fast you wonder how it didn't hurt. "What?" he barely breathed the word. You expected malice, anger, disgust, not the disbelief that floods his tone, the shock breaking through his mask.

A sharp hot pain twists in your gut, one not from your condition, but still one you know all too well. "Your friend is hurt," you explain weakly, eyes dropping to the floor, missing how his widen, "and I-"

"She shouldn't have spoken to you like that," he mutters, shadows beginning to dance around him once again, their movements choppier than before. A fierceness enters his eyes, his face, sending painful shivers down your spine.

Exhaustion seeps into your muscles, settling next to the constant ache that only seemed to be getting worse. You tried to shrug, but your muscles refuse to cooperate. "She's right," you sigh.

His gaze softens and out of the corner of your eye you could almost see him force himself to release the tension in his shoulders. "No, she's not," he insists, voice soft. You tense; it has been a long time since someone spoke to you so softly, and the last person who did... you suppress a shudder at the thought. "You have every right to see a healer when you need to. It's on us for barging in," he continues.

"Your friend was hurt," you reason, voice barely a whisper. "I'll live." He sucks in a breath, a few of his shadows resuming their dance around your legs.

"That doesn't make it okay," he counters. "And it certainly doesn't justify the way she spoke to you."

Twin streaks make their way down your checks you force yourself to stand. "It's fine," you whisper, turning to leave. "Good evening."

"Wait," he calls standing up so quickly the chair almost fell over. You tense as he approaches and he stops immediately, slowly opening his gloved hands. Pain rolled through your tense muscles while you turned your head to him. "Let me make it up to you."

Eyebrows furrowing, you half turn back to face him. "What?"

A soft blush graces his cheeks, but he didn't faulter. "Let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do."

Your gaze flickers to the window, the sun having just disappeared behind the buildings moments ago. "N-now?" you ask, staring at him with wide eyes.

Azriel glances down at his leathers, still covered in blood and dirt, and gives you a sheepish grin. "Maybe tomorrow?"

Your month opens, prepared to turn him down, but you hesitate. He was asking you for a drink. Your mate was asking you out for a drink. A part of you knew a relationship between you would never work, not with you being as you are. But you would be foolish to turn him down, to forfeit the chance to get to know him before he found out about your condition and left, like all of your previous romances, like everyone else in your life. Your spine throbbed as if to remind you. Even though you don't drink alcohol, you could suffer through one night if it meant being with your mate.

"Okay," you hear yourself whisper.

A dazzling smile broke out on his face. "Okay," he confirms, nodding once. "There's a cafe in the Palace of Hoof and Leaf, The Ever Brew. Have you heard of it?" You couldn't help the sigh of relief that escapes you as you nodded. A cafe, not a bar. "Good, I'll meet you there at three?"

Shifting the bag in your hands, the weak muscles in your arms already protesting carrying it, you nod, a smile forming on your lips. "Three o'clock. I'll, uh, see you then."

——

Cassian was dying and that was all Az could think about as Rhys winnowed them to Velaris. He couldn't focus on anything else as they burst into Madja's clinic shouting for the healer, unable to see the female watching the scene, eyes wide. At Madja's direction they brought Cassian into an examination room, laying him on the table. Blood poured from the gashes in his abdomen, his skin becoming grey, broken wings dragging on the floor. Az and Rhys were pushed aside the moment Cass was laying down.

Neither of them knew what had happened. Az knew Rhys and Cass had an argument over Nesta and that Rhys sent him on a mission to Spring alone out of spite. Az was in the middle of chewing Rhys out when his face went pale and the two winnowed to spring immediately, finding Cassian's broken body on the forest floor.

No less than 3 healers were coming in and out of the room, each bringing supplies. Rhys, face ashen, winnowed away with a word about retrieving Nesta. Az remained, watching for a few moments, constantly moving out of the way of the healers until he slipped out of the room.

Trudging into the waiting room. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh, running a hand over his face. It was only then that his shadows mentioned the female. His gaze landed on you immediately when he opened his eyes. His breath caught, eyes widening. You were eautiful, not in the striking way like Mor or Nesta, or in the powerful way like Fayre, or even with the gentle confidence of Elain. No, your beauty was softer, more understated, but just as present and undeniable. When the blush graced your neck and cheeks, he forgot everything else for a brief moment.

He didn't even realize he had approached as he was speaking. Your soft voice was music to his ears and he needed to be near you, to hear your voice again. Az had to stop himself from preening when he sat, barely noticing the chair digging in to his wings and sides. You looked scared, ready to run at the first opening, so Az kept quiet, kept his distance since that was the last thing he wanted. When you told him your name it just felt right, fitting into place like the missing piece of a puzzle.

Exhaustion had crept over him then and he leaned his head back against the wall closing his eyes. Azriel had remained keenly nearly aware of your eyes on him, studying him. The shadows whispering every more you made, they seemed just as enamored by you as he was. He couldn't stop the grin pulling on his lips and he unconsciously shifted in the seat, only realizing moments later his wings had spread slightly behind him.

Embarrassment began to flood through him such a blatant show, but it was quickly cut off by a harsh call of your name. His body stiffened, eyes snaping open at the sound, just in time to see the nymph shove the bag into your chest sending your falling back into your seat. His brows furrowed, watching the healer stalk off we no explanation. Anger boiled in his veins when the healer snapped at you. Slowly, he sat up straight not taking his eyes off of the tree nymph. And when she insulted you and used his brother to make you feel guilty, it took every ounce of self-control to keep the shadows from lashing out and not slaughter the nymph where she stood.

Then you apologized to him, parroting the same reason as that disgrace of a healer. His heart broke when he heard you agree with the healer, voice so soft, so accepting of the nymph's words, so defeated. He tried to reassure you, to make you see how wrong the nymph was, but he could tell it didn't work.

She got up to leave and Az panicked. He didn't want you to go, especially still believing the nymph. He didn't know where the idea for the drink came from and was so relieved when you agreed despite your hesitance. And the way you relaxed when he mentioned the cafe had something in him singing.

So now, Az stands outside the cafe, desperately trying not to shift on his feet, eyes scanning the crowd around him. He doesn't know why he is so nervous. Why his heart was pounding and he can't stay still. Even his shadows seem excited, darting around the square, telling him the minutes is they passed, which only made time go slower.

He straightens when the shadows whisper that it was three o'clock, pulling his wings in tight behind him. He had been with more females than he could care to remember, had taken many of them out, either to dinner or a drink first, and yet he was nervous. His unease only getting wore as the minutes passed there was no sign of you.

At first, Az brushs it off. There were plenty of reasons you could be a few minutes late. It wasn't until 3:15 came and went that the unease began to twist into something else.

He shouldn't be surprised, Az figures. Why should you come? He was a male you didn't know who demanded you come have a drink with him. Of course you wouldn't show up, for your own safety if nothing else.

3:30 passed and Az was about ready to turn around head home. His heart sinks at the thought although he wasn't sure why. The shadows kept whispering, urging him to stay a few more minutes, insisting you had to come, but Az was quickly finding their optimism annoying.

Still, he stays. Just a few more minutes he tells himself. It's not like he can stand around all afternoon anyway. He is the Spymaster, he has reports to read, others to write, missions to plan and delegate, information to go over, a brother to check on. But he couldn't get you out of his head; last night after you left the clinic, this morning while he tried to work. Even as he attempted to sleep is shadows kept supplying whispers of your voice, your scent, this brain constantly replayed the images of your shy smile when you agreed to meet him, the blush emerging on your neck and cheeks. He could've sworn he dreamt of you, although he could only grasp the very edges of the dream; it was the best night sleep he had in... centuries.

The shadows pull him from his thoughts, urging him to turn, to look as the clock overhead ticks to 3:38. Even through the bustling crowd he can make out your shuffling footsteps and quiet "excuse me" as you slowly make your way through the crowd. Gods, you were even more beautiful than he remembered with the sun rays shining down on you. Your hair was pulled back into two braided plaits, with quite a few strands falling out and sticking to your face, beads of sweat shimmering against your skin. A simple brown dress hung off your body, a size or two too big for you and your arms were wrapped around a large bag, holding it tightly to your chest. The bag was bigger and bulkier than the one you had yesterday and Az could see your arms trembling under its weight. Just the sight of you had Az's shoulders relaxing, an easy smile pulling on his lips.

Looking up, your gaze lands on him, eyes he knows he can spend centuries happily getting lost in, and he hears your breath catch. Straightening under your gaze, Az let his smile grow, trying to be warm and inviting, two words Az was sure were never used to describe him, not wanting to scare you off. As you continue to make your way through the busy square, Az watches, body tensing a moment before someone shoves you out of their way. You stumble forward, knees hitting the ground, vials and linen skidding out of your bag and your assailant mutters some obscenities your way. Az is moving before he can think, finding himself kneeling next to you in a moment, knowing his shadows are already following your assailant.

The crowd continues to move around you and Azriel, barely stopping to look, while you kneel on the ground, on hands and knees, taking long, slow breathes. The shadows begin to gather the fallen vials, which were miraculously intact, and folding the linens into a pile next to the discarded bag. Beloved is in pain. His shadows hiss, not that he needs them to at the way your brows are furrowed, your measured breathes, and the faint smell of blood in the air.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, cautiously raising a hand to rest on your shoulder. Your eyes snap open the sound of his voice and you flinch back sharply as his hand approaches you. He stops, immediately withdrawing his hand, watching your eyes widen in what he could only describe as horror before shifting into one of shame. He opens his mouth to apologize, because of course he should've checked before he tried to touch you, and you were well within your right to say no.

"I'm sorry," you whisper before he could. His eyes widen, staring at you. He never expected those two words to be so haunting especially said in a voice as beautiful as yours. First last night and now this... a pit of dread slowly began to form in his stomach.

"For what, love?" he asks in a similar whisper, the endearment slipping out. But he didn't feel sorry, not with the way your cheeks and ears redden.

Forcing yourself to sit back on your knees, you kept your eyes low, picking up bag. Glancing down, Az sucked in a breath; the palms of your hands were scraped raw, dirt and pebbles imbedded in parts of the wounds, and he could make out the small bloodstains forming on your dress from your knees. Usually the sight of blood doesn't bother him, but for some reason, yours made his stomach twist.

Careful of your bleeding palms, you attempt to collect your fallen belongings back in the bag. "Here, let me," he offers, reaching a hand toward the bag. This time he was more cautious, stopping a distance away until you look at him and give a small nod, placing the bag in his hand. It took no time for him to carefully put the vials and cloths back into the bag. "Do you need help standing up?" he asks gently, glancing your knees once again.

Slowly, you shook your head, placing your hands back on the ground to push yourself up. Grimacing on your behalf, Az waits until you were half way up to stand himself. You sway on your feet, hesitantly accepting the arm Az offers for balance. Gently, he begin to lead you out of the center of the crowd to a secluded corner.

"I'm sorry," you mumble again.

Stopping, Az turns to you, his heart breaking seeing the tears lining your eyes. In the dark corner his shadows surround you, brushing across your skin attempting to calm you down. Az can't help himself, he put down your bag and used his now free hand to push some of your hair out of your face. "For what, sweetheart?" he whispers. You lean into his touch, the hand on his other arm tightening and Az wishes he wasn't wearing his gloves so he could feel your skin on his.

"Being late," you breath, closing your eyes. "The interview went long and by the time I left it was already twenty after and I tried to get then as fast as I-"

"You don't have to explain," Az interrupts your rambling gently, a small smile on his lips, "or apologize." His hand slides off your face and your brows furrow at the loss, opening your eyes. Carefully, Az takes the hand not grasping his arm a holds it up to examine. The bleeding had stopped and new skin was already starting to form over the dirt and pebbles. "I have an apartment not far from here. Can I take you there so we can get you cleaned up?"

Tugging your hand away from his, you turn it to look at your palm, brows furrowing and you nod. "O-okay."

Reaching down, Az easily pick up your bag once more; despite its load, the bag was surprisingly light. Even with your grip on him, you continue to sway slightly. Looking out at the busy street around them, Az takes a deep breath. "It would be faster if we fly," he says softly.

"F-fly?" you repeat. Eyes widening, they move toward the direction of the street. Your body wobbles and Az brings the hand with the bag up to lightly hold your arm. Leaning your weight into him, you look back, exhaustion coating your features. "You sure it's alright?"

Smiling softly, Az nods. "I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

After another moment of hesitation you nod. Gently, Az lifts you into his arms, withholding his surprise at how light you are. Closing your eyes tight, you bury your face into his neck, hands grasping his shirt. With a sigh, Az lets his wings spread behind him, reveling in the feeling of having you in his arms, how right it felt.

Barely two minutes later, Az was landing on the small balcony of an apartment he had bought shortly after Cassian and Nesta's mating ceremony. "We're here, love," he whispers, his shadows already unlocking the door.

Inhaling deeply, you allow yourself to be placed back on the ground, opening your eyes slowly. Az smils, doing everything in his power to contain his excitement. You had scented him and now you are about to enter his home. You feel comfortable enough to let him bring you here. Gods, he was a dead male, whether you knew it or not, he was yours, Az knew. From now until the end.

His shadows swirls around you once you regain your balance, sweeping over every part of your exposed skin. You didn't flinch from their touch, just stared at them with eyes wide, not in fear but in awe. Gently the shadows lead you into the apartment and you didn't protest, letting them guide you to sit on the couch. Az follows close behind, a small smile pulling on his lips at the sight, although he was acutely aware of your stiff knees and stumbling steps.

A bowl of warm water was already set out on the coffee table in front of when you sat with the shadows placing more pillows behind your back and urging you to relax. The small medical kit Az usually keeps in the bathroom lay neatly next to the bowl. Setting your bag next to the door, Az slowly approaches the couch, the shadows reluctantly parting so he can see you better.

Your eyes remain on the shadows as they continue to pamper you, brows knit in confusion. You didn't even notice Az kneeling in front of you, dipping a cloth into the water, until he gently took one of your hands out of your lap. Your eyes dart to him, widening when Az eases your hand open and softly places the wet cloth on your scraped palm.

A flush grew up your neck and cheeks and you weakly attempt to pull your hand back. "What are you doing?" your voice is barely a breath.

Az keeps a gentle grip on your hand, not letting you pull back, keeping the cloth on your skin, a small frown forming. "We need to get you cleaned up, love. To make sure they don't get infected," Az explains softly.

Shaking your head, your gaze darts between his grip on your hand and his face. "I-I can do it. You- you don't have to," you try again, and Az could see tears forming along your eyeline.

Frown deepening, Az doesn't allow himself to analyze this, not now, not when your hurt, but he tucks your words, your actions, into the back of his mind for later. "I want to," Az insists, removing the cloth from your hand. The warm water had allowed the patches of new skin to soften and loosen, allowing him to gently begin cleaning the dirt pebbles away.

Your eyes land on his face, widening even more, disbelief shining through your features and it made Az's heartbreak. Softly, Az clears his throat, satisfied that your palm is clean he begins to prepare a bandage with ointments. "How was the interview?" he asks softly, hoping to give you something else to focus on.

"W- what?" you breathe, eyes flickering between his face and where he gently began wrapping your hand.

"The interview," Az repeats, a small smile slipping on to his face as he fastens the bandage and brought the wet cloth to your other hand. "You said it went long, how did it go?" he asks again.

"Oh, n- no. It's not…" you stammer for a moment. Az smiles softly, encouragingly, as you take a deep breath. "I… uh, I'm a mid-wife," you explain softly, watching your hands carefully while Az prepares the second bandage. "They were new parents, to see if they want to hire me."

Az feels his brows furrow, wrapping your hand. "I didn't know we had mid-wives in Velaris," he admits softly, glancing up at you.

You shift on the couch, the shadows continuing to lightly swarm around you. "Not many do," you concede. "There are only two of us that live in the city full time."

Az hums softly, gently tying off the wrap. "You must keep busy then," he says keeping his voice low.

Shaking your head slightly, Az sits back on his knees for a moment. "Not as much as you would think," you admit with a sad smile. "Most fae prefer going to a healer or an apothecary. They either don't know we are an option or think they are better suited for the service."

Brows furrowing, Az slowly reaches for the hem of your skirt. "May I?" he asks, eyes catching on your reddening cheeks. "For your knees," he explains, his own face flushing.

"Oh, um… okay," you breath out, body tensing against the couch. Az saw his shadows curl around you again, trying to calm you she he slowly, carefully, raises the hem of your skirt. Only enough to see your right leg, keeping the fabric bunched right above the knee, unable to see anything else.

Reaching for the cloth again, he wet a clean corner and tenderly placed it against the healing skin. "Is it true?" he asked, again trying to shift your focus. "That healers and apothecaries are more suited than mid-wives?" 

"Uh," you hesitate, eyes drifting from your knee back up to him. "Healers and apothecaries have a lot of knowledge about a lot of different things," you answer, each word sounding carefully chosen and rehearsed. Probably a question you receive quite often in your interviews, if Az had to guess. "While mid-wives focus solely on fertility and pregnancy, meaning we have a lot of knowledge focused on one specific subject, so we are better able to handle more of the… unexpected or unique situations than can arise during pregnancies than most healers."

Brows furrowing, Az focuses on wrapping your now clean right knee. Many questions about the subject coming to mind, the image of Feyre's pregnancy and labor still somewhat fresh in his mind. But, he knew now was not the time to ask any of that, your anxiousness still permeating through the air, despite your practiced answer. Anxiousness that was almost overwhelmed by the insecurity radiating from you along with… shame; shame so strong Az could almost feel it in his own chest.

"Do you enjoy it? Being a mid-wife?" Az asks gently, lowering your skirt over your right leg and beginning to raise it to tend to your left knee.

Your breath hitches when the cloth came in contact with the torn skin. Taking controlled, measured breaths, you nod, another flush overtaking your face. "Yes," you breathe, eyes moving toward your wrapped hands in your lap. "It's… it's not simple, or easy, but… but it's beautiful, greeting a child in their first moments of life, laying them in their mother's arms." A small smile pulled on your lips as you speak, one Az echoes, taking the final bandage to wrap your knee.  "And you?" you breathe, not daring to look up from your hands. "You work for the High Lord, right?"

"Yes," Az agrees slowly, leaning back slightly as to not crowd you after gently lowering your skirt. "I… catalogue and monitor potential threats to the court, to put it simply," he explains, setting the cloth back on the table. You nod, pursing your lips, watching the shadows swirl around your hands.

One shadow sneaks away, somewhat reluctantly if Az had to guess, snaking up to his ear. She's hurting. Beloved tries to hide, but we see. The whisper seems to echo in Az's ears, looking her over once more. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks softly. You shake your head slowly, eyes closing like the action itself is uncomfortable. Pursing his lips together, Az doesn’t push, as much as something within him begs him to.

Shadows swallow the bowl of water and the bloodied cloth, a small gasp leaving your lips at the sight. Az smiles softly, head dipping to catch your eyes. "I believe I still owe you a drink."

————

Thank you so much for reading! Have a great day!

[beautifulbutterfly-123]

Teacher and Hero Deku

[getstarried]

Mmmhnhmmhmnn hair up Deku save me, hair up Deku save me, save me hair up Deku,,, let me cook

[getstarried]

[moldstars-deactivated20230721]

writing is simple. i put my characters into a situation that i, the author, cannot figure out how to get them out of and i close the document

[deltamel]

Writing equivalent of Sisyphus and his damn boulder 😭

[that-gay-jedi]

[o-lanterns]

Make sure you say "I wonder what they're doing right now..." about your comic relief friends every now and then so the episode can cut to their B plot

[reynemi]

just a matter of time

[habken]

deku doodles

[thisbibliomaniac]

Gatekeeping is so good and important

[msburgundy]

[kirkendauhl-v2]

What's she saying in the photo

[thisbibliomaniac]

[seashawnty]

Symbol of hope

[class1akids]

Episode 151 promo sketch by Akiyama Yoco x

[beybuniki]

class 2-a