Nov 12, 2025
I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: "Who did this to you!?"
Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...
Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.
You knew that long before you decided to train.
Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.
But this?
This was different.
The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.
“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.
You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”
He smirked.
Then he struck.
Hard.
The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.
Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.
The world tilted sickeningly.
You hit the dirt hard.
A few males laughed nearby.
Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.
“Get up,” he barked.
You did.
Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.
And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—
His temper snapped.
The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.
You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.
Something cracked painfully along your ribs.
Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.
The training ring went quiet for half a second.
The male looked almost satisfied.
“You’re weak,” he spat.
You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”
But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.
He eventually grew bored and wandered away.
You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.
You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.
Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.
You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.
Your heart dropped.
Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.
He took one look at your face and froze.
His eyes took everything in.
Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.
The world seemed to go silent around him.
Even his shadows stilled.
“Who did this to you?”
The words were terrifyingly calm.
You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”
“Who.”
You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.
You swallowed hard. “It was training.”
Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.
Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.
His jaw flexed once.
“Training,” he repeated softly.
The shadows around him began writhing violently.
You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That does not comfort me.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.
Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.
“Let me see.”
You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.
Blood stained his fingers instantly.
He went utterly still.
The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.
You knew it immediately.
“Azriel,” you said carefully.
His hazel eyes lifted to yours.
Cold. Lethal.
“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”
You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.
That was all he needed.
His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.
You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”
His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.
“I need you to go inside.”
You blinked. “What?”
Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.
"Go inside."
"Not unless you come with me."
He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.
You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.
Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.
“Azriel, I'm fine—”
“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”
That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.
Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.
Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.
The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.
His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.
But not you.
That scared you more than the injuries.
“Azriel…”
His eyes flicked upward.
You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Something painful crossed his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”
He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.
When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.
Azriel closed his eyes.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Then he stood.
You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”
His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.
“You know I can’t let this go.”
“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”
“He enjoyed it.”
Silence.
Because again—he was right.
Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.
“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.
The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”
A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.
“I’m going to try not to kill him.”
“Azriel.”
His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.
“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”
You stared at him.
He stared calmly back.
Oh, he meant business.
“Azriel—”
He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.
“Stay here.”
And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.
You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”
It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.
Azriel stepped from them silently.
Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.
He looked entirely uninjured.
Calm.
Too calm.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”
Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.
“No.”
Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
“I didn't kill him.”
“I don't believe you.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.
The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.
He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.
Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.
“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”
You squinted. “Define reminded.”
A pause.
“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”
“Azriel.”
“And perhaps his hand is broken.”
You stared at him in shock.
Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.
You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”
His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"
You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."
The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.
Azriel ignored you completely.
He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.
Safe.
You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.
“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”
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— azriel’s shadows being obsessed with you.
they recognize you before he does; when he sees you for the first time, something in him stirs. it isn’t only your obvious beauty that steals the air from his lungs and leaves him completely silent, merely admiring. it’s something more primitive, something ancient — and the shadows recognize it before he can think about it.
they begin to watch you more closely: at first, they only want to know you. gently, almost imperceptibly, they drift toward you, sliding over your body in a way that is soft but curious. azriel tries to restrain them with all the strength he has, but they don’t listen; they’re far too busy trying to decipher you.
they start to follow you; they hide in the shadows of your room, where you go to read or rest. you feel watched, but not in a frightening way, in a comforting one, as if their presence soothes you.
when you make it clear that you know they’re there, they begin to behave as if they belong to you: you aren’t afraid, but quietly delighted by their presence, still not understanding why they’re so enchanted by you. but they begin to touch you gently; brushing your ankles, your waist, wrapping around your neck like a scarf.
they like you, so they begin to make your life a little lighter; you reach for something, and a shadow does it for you. you pause to tie your hair, and a shadow gently lifts it from your neck. you enter a room, and they move first; scouting it, circling you, guarding you. they weave through your fingers like they missed you after five minutes apart. one curls under your chin when you’re quiet; nudging you, coaxing a smile. another curls around your ankle when you’re annoyed — grounding, gentle. you don’t command them, you don’t ask, you don’t show that you need help; they simply come to you, like a tide pulled by gravity.
they observe every small thing about you; your routine, your mannerisms, your genuine smile and your polite one, your hobbies and interests. they take part in all of it; they love participating in your routine, your life, you. but when you’re sad, they make sure to warn azriel; before you even speak, his shadows coil tighter, agitated. they press into his back, tug his wrist, stir against his wings like “something’s wrong. fix it.” if someone raises their voice at you, they snap toward the sound, sharp and loud like a whip. if you’re hurt, they wail in a language only azriel understands. and if you ever cry, they pool in your lap like ink, like blankets, like comfort; and they don’t leave until you smile again.
they are possessive, but gentle; especially when others get too close to you. when someone passes too close, a shadow curls between your spines. someone touches your hand for too long, a flicker coils over your knuckles. someone tucks your hair behind your ear, the shadows bristle. not hostile, protective. but with you, they’re velvet. they press to your pulse points like they’re listening. they curl under your collar when you sleep. they nudge your fingertips like cats, always asking for more touch, more time.
they speak for him when he won’t; sometimes he wants to, but can’t say how beautiful you are, so a shadow gently brushes your cheek instead. when he’s quiet on the other side of the room, surrounded by people he doesn’t care about, aching to be near you, a shadow goes to you, sliding close. when you glance at him across the room, wondering if he’s looking, his shadows have already reached for your hand.
they protect your sleep; they coil around your bed and blur the windows. they hush the sounds outside, guard the door like sentries, and when you wake from a nightmare or a lingering chill, they rise like smoke to soothe you; brushing down your arms, curling against your chest, humming like a lullaby no one else can hear. sometimes azriel wakes too — miles away — heart racing, breath caught. because he felt it. the way they clung to you. the way you whispered his name in your sleep.
they guide you to him; you don’t ask where he is, you don’t need to. the shadows tug lightly at your fingers, coil gently at your waist. they guide you like a dance. like they need you to find him. and when you reach him, when azriel looks up, startled, awed, the shadows simply retreat into him like “she’s here. you’re welcome.”
they get jealous; you don’t think they can be petty, until you laugh too hard at something cassian says and a shadow snaps like a whip under the table. until mor tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and a shadow wraps around your shoulder like a scarf. until rhys gives you that look — that look — and a shadow flickers up your spine like no. they don’t hurt, don’t scare. but they warn. and azriel feels every flicker of it through his skin.
they always react to your voice; you don’t have to speak loudly, you don’t have to command — you simply exist, and the shadows lean in. when you read aloud, they hover near your lips and your lap. when you speak his name, they shiver. when you whisper something sweet under your breath, they scatter like they’re shy, then return like they couldn’t stay away. azriel once caught himself glaring at his own shadows because they were clearly more affectionate with you than with him. he doesn’t blame them. they got everything he wants — you.
with a bow on top ;
azriel x reader summary: reader had been sent on a mission on the continent for weeks, and was going to miss this year’s solstice celebration. rhysand decided that the only way to cure a brooding azriel was a surprise visit home from his mate. wc: 2.4k
The Inner Circle knew Azriel well enough to tell that he was brooding. On a regular day, most people mistook the spymaster's usual silence for agitation, but his family knew that he simply preferred to listen. His behaviour for the last six weeks however - this had become incessant brooding.
The first two weeks you were gone, he was tolerable. Given your positions in the court, both of you were used to being sent away for brief trips that separated you. You had learned how to cope with small lengths of time away from each other. He had gone about his days as usual; training in the morning with Cassian, and checking in with his spies in the afternoon for any new information.
The next three weeks, he was on edge. It wasn’t uncommon for a mission to stretch on for a month, but the distance definitely wasn’t comfortable. By this point, Azriel had resorted to keeping himself occupied at any given moment - he stayed out all day, and drank at night to keep himself from dwelling on how much he missed having you by his side. It snowed plenty in those weeks, and he had to stop himself from scowling in your absence each time he remembered the way you would light up at the sight of the snow falling outside your window.
By the sixth week, the Inner Circle knew to tread lightly around the male. Everyone around him was abuzz at the spirit of solstice, but the shadowsinger had no holiday spirit. You wouldn’t be returning until just before the new year, and he didn’t feel very festive without you. Mor would ask him what he wanted as a solstice gift, and he simply huffed in response. His brothers had endless smack talk, taunting each other over who would win this year’s snowball fight, but the male stayed silent - he didn’t care about the outcome because he wouldn’t have you there to celebrate his victory.
Azriel did what he could to not put a damper on everyone else’s solstice spirit - he helped decorate the river house to make sure everything was orderly, he bought everyone gifts, and made sure to get Nyx a few noisy toys that would give Rhys a headache. On solstice morning, he got up with his brothers to participate in the annual snowball fight, and he put in as much effort as he could muster. He did enough to put a smile on his family’s faces, but he wasn’t fully present. He wouldn’t be, unless you were there with him.
As evening arrived, the entire family gathered at the river house to eat dinner together, celebrate Feyre’s birthday, and open presents. The group had chosen to open presents first this year - Nyx couldn’t stay awake long enough, so they decided to get the gifts out of the way and enjoy an adult-only dinner when he had been put to bed.
Everyone wanted to see Nyx’s reaction to his gifts, so he opened them first while the others watched. The toddler giggled at the sound of wrapping paper being opened, and Azriel couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face at the child’s glee. You might not have been there, but his heart still felt warm being with the rest of his family. The happiness in the room was contagious, and despite the shadows skittering restlessly around the room, he felt at peace with his family around him.
Rhys shot Azriel an annoyed look as Nyx opened up his final gift; a child’s drum kit that the shadowsinger had purchased with the sole intention of pissing off his brother. Feyre also looked weary as she looked at her son, who was already causing a ruckus with his new toy.
“And to think I got you the best gift you could have asked for, and you punish me with this,” Rhys joked, exasperation in his voice.
Azriel raised an eyebrow. “You got me the best gift I could have asked for? That’s high praise.”
Rhys looked at his brother, a smug smile on his face. “If you can seriously think of any gift you’d like more than what I brought you, I will personally wear a tutu and go out into the streets of Velaris.”
Cassian’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Did you buy him a palace or something, how are you this confident?”
Rhys simply shrugged, to which Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Well let’s see, if you’re so sure.”
Azriel couldn’t even begin to guess what Rhys had bought him. At their age, gift giving was hard - everyone already had every material item they needed, so the holidays were filled with gag gifts, or items that ended up in a drawer unused. The only thing he wanted for solstice was you, and the day had already proven to be lacking in that area.
Rhys stood up and left the room with a mischievous smile on his face, everyone’s eyes trailing him.
“What could he possibly have gotten?” Cassian asked no one in particular, trying to think of what his brother would have wanted as a gift.
Nesta, who was pressed against Cassian’s side, looked to Feyre. “Are you in on this?”
Feyre shook her head, equally as confused as everyone else in the room. “I have no idea what he got any of you.”
Mor, on the other side of the room, crossed her arms. “Well whatever it is, he better have given this much consideration to all of our gifts, it’s no fair if Azriel gets something spectacular and the rest of us get mediocre gifts.”
The High Lord reappeared in the doorway, a small box in his hands. Considering how much Rhys had been boasting about his present, everyone looked skeptically at the size of the box.
“Are there keys to Azriel’s palace in that box?” Cassian muttered, though loud enough for everyone to hear.
Rhys passed the box to Feyre, who handed it off to Azriel, the daemati’s eyes still twinkling with mischief. The box was small and surprisingly light, with a red ribbon tied around it for some festive flair. Azriel looked down at it, mildly afraid of whatever it contained.
“Open it,” Rhys urged, leaning in the doorframe, everyone in the room watching expectantly.
Azriel finally pried his eyes away from his brother, going to untie the ribbon. He took it off gently, and opened the lid of the box to find…
“Gloves?” Mor asked, no doubt surprised that it was - frankly, a quite nice - pair of gloves inside the box. Azriel’s name was stitched into the material, but it was nowhere near the calibre of gift that everyone had begun expecting.
Azriel furrowed his eyebrows together, thinking about how they’d all be seeing Rhys in a tutu very soon. He lifted his gaze to Rhys and started to make the retort when the words died on his tongue.
While everyone had been focused on Azriel unboxing his new gloves, Rhys had moved out of the doorframe. The space where he had stood moments before was occupied by a new figure - one that had Azriel forgetting how to speak. You stood in the doorway, a big smile on your face. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, and there was a long red ribbon tying your hair back, identical to the one that had been wrapped around his gloves. Rhys had gifted Azriel you, served to him with a bow on top.
It was as if the world outside of the two of you faded away. Azriel’s heart began racing in his chest as the two of you locked eyes and if possible, your smile grew even further.
The Illyrian barely heard his brother say “Happy Solstice”, before he had shot out of his seat and crossed the room so quickly that the others might have thought he winnowed. Within a matter of seconds, he had picked you up in a hug, his face lit up in pure joy. His shadows, which had been moving restlessly around all night finally focused, rushing towards you as quickly as their master had.
“Happy Solstice my love,” you whispered into his ear as he spun you around, and you could feel both of your hearts beating wildly in your chests as your bodies pressed against each other. Your mate finally set you down, and took your head in his hands as he examined your face. He was beaming, and took in every one of your features as if he wanted to never forget any detail about you.
“I’ve missed you more than you can even imagine,” he muttered, finally moving to place his lips on yours. The two of you kissed like two people starved, desperate to make up for time lost in the last six weeks. You had gotten so lost in your reunion that you had forgotten you were in a room filled with family until Amren cleared her throat from across the room.
“So, the brooding’s finally over.”
You peeled yourself away from Azriel, slightly embarrassed, though happier than ever to finally be with your mate once again. Surely enough, the male who usually wore a stoic face like a uniform couldn’t stop looking as if his whole world revolved around you.
“I wasn’t brooding,” he tried to defend himself, though his words contradicted his actions, given that he couldn’t peel his gaze from your face.
Nesta scoffed, “You definitely were.”
Rhys laughed. “Cut them some slack, we’d all be the same if separated from our mates.”
You and Azriel couldn’t even be bothered to nod your agreement as he took your hand and guided you back to where he had been seated. You pressed up against his side, looking at the box of gloves that were now on the floor.
“Nice gloves,” you commented, your head going to rest on Azriel’s shoulder as you took everyone in.
“I can’t tell if this means we’ll still be seeing Rhys in a tutu,” Cassian commented, eyes drifting down to the gloves again.
Your face scrunched up in confusion, having missed that earlier part of the conversation. “A tutu?”
“The gift Rhys was talking about was his wife, not the gloves, idiot,” Mor quipped, “Unless Az really can think of anything he would have wanted more.”
Azriel couldn’t deny it - Rhys was spot on. He had gotten him the one thing he wanted and nothing would beat having the one he loved in his arms after being away for so long. Although… “I can think of one thing.”
Rhys’ eyebrows shot up, and you looked towards your husband, mildly offended that he would suggest that there was something he wanted more than you. “You can?”
“Well, for her to have not left in the first place.”
You rolled your eyes, and Rhys scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
“That’s a technicality and you know it. Given the situation you were in, I got you the best possible gift.” Rhys disputed, crossing his arms with an eye roll.
Azriel smirked at his brother before placing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah. Unfortunately we’re getting no ballerina Rhys this year.”
For the rest of the evening, you and Azriel were in pure bliss. As your family opened gifts, you and Azriel shared stolen kisses, your hearts alight with joy. Laughter rang out all night, as you indulged in the wine and cracked jokes with your loved ones.
During dinner you stuffed yourself with delicacies, reveling in the family mealtime that you had yearned for every night. You shared stories of what your life had been like on the Continent for the last month, and your family caught you up on all that you had missed.
You and Azriel couldn’t keep your hands off of each other; the spymaster kept one hand on your thigh at all times, and your hand constantly rested on top of his. When either of you needed the spare hand to eat, Azriel’s shadows slithered around your ankles, unwilling to let you go. The others poked fun at it, but they saw how happy the both of you were, and were finally happy to see you back at home.
“We finally conquered Az’s winning streak at the snowball fight this year,” Cassian announced to you as he took a bite of a Feyre's birthday cake, “I took home the victory at last.”
Azriel shook his head as he took a sip of his wine. “I demand a rematch. You only won because I wasn’t in the right state of mind. Now I could kick your ass.”
“So you admit, you were brooding?” Rhys piped up, a taunting gaze shot towards Azriel, which caused you to laugh. “I will admit, it didn’t feel like a fair competition. I’m up for a rematch tomorrow morning.”
“And we’re just nullifying my win? How is that fair?” Cassian complained.
“If you really thought you could win, you should be able to do it even when Azriel isn’t at a disadvantage,” you teased, to which Azriel smiled proudly, bringing your hand to his mouth to place a kiss atop your knuckles.
“Fine, I’ll show you that I can win tomorrow as well,” the general complied, turning his gaze to you, “But Azriel will be at a disadvantage tomorrow as well with how much you’ll wear him out tonight- ow!”
Before Cassian could finish his sentence, Azriel had dealt a swift kick to his brother’s shins under the table, earning small chuckles around the table.
“There’s no chance anyone’s beating me tomorrow. None.” Azriel stated, eyes staring into your own, blazing with a confidence you very rarely saw from the male.
Surely enough, as the snowball fight ended the next morning, the three brothers entered the cabin to greet the girls, who had opted to lounge there for the day. Rhys couldn’t hide the laughter on his face, while Cassian dragged his feet as he walked towards the birchin, pout clear for all to see. Azriel walked in last, a smug smile on his face.
The spymaster reclaimed his winning streak, because when he looked at the cabin and saw you peering out, eyes hopeful and encouraging as you sipped your mug of hot chocolate, there was nothing that could stand in his way. After six long weeks he had you home, and with you by his side, he finally felt the solstice spirit. He was complete at last.
Azriel Fic Recs - List #1
other fic rec lists: -> acotar list -> azriel list 2 -> azriel list 3
stop the wedding!
azriel x reader
part 1, part 2
summary: everyone at the House of Wind has accepted the fact that Y/N is hopelessly, shamelessly obsessed with the Shadowsinger, everyone except Ariel, apparently, who acts like he isn't affected by it at all. until the day her flirting stops being funny to him, and he says something he can never take back.
warnings: language, domestic abuse, a jealous and mean Azriel, angst
a/n: this is the final part, hope u enjoy it <3
It was, in the end, an entirely unremarkable evening.
The bakery had closed hours ago. Y/N sat cross-legged on the counter, milkshake long since finished, talking about absolutely nothing in particular, some elaborate story about a customer earlier that day who'd tried to argue that the bakery's prices were personally offensive to him, gesturing with both hands, voice pitched with real indignation on behalf of a pastry that had cost, by her own admission, barely a coin more than the week before.
Azriel sat across from her, lemon cake forgotten, watching her with the particular soft, unguarded attention he no longer bothered hiding from anyone, least of all himself.
"—and then he had the audacity to ask if I'd throw in a free scone, like that would somehow make up for the personal offense of my pricing, and I told him—"
The bond snapped into place without warning.
It hit him like something physical, a sudden, overwhelming rightness that slammed through his chest so hard he nearly dropped the fork still resting forgotten in his hand, every part of him rearranging itself around one single, undeniable truth.
Mate.
Mate. Mate. Mate mate mate—
"—and he just stood there, Az, like I was supposed to apologize for charging fair prices, can you believe—"
Mate, his mind supplied again, entirely unhelpfully, drowning out every other thought completely. He stared at her, mouth slightly open, the whole world narrowing down to the shape of her face, the sound of her voice, the absolute, bone-deep certainty settling into every corner of him that this was it, this was her, this had always been her.
Around them, his shadows had gone utterly berserk.
FINALLY, one shrieked, spinning in an ecstatic loop around his head. He finally felt it!
Kiss her, another urged immediately. Kiss her right now, this is the moment—
We told him, we told him for MONTHS—
"—and honestly I think the worst part was the tone, like he genuinely believed—" Y/N kept talking, entirely unaware, gesturing animatedly with her spoon, and Azriel could not, for the life of him, focus on a single word coming out of her mouth.
Mate, he thought again, distantly, staring at her mouth, her hands, the small furrow between her brows when she got properly worked up about something, cataloging every piece of her like he was seeing it all for the first time even though he'd apparently been half in love with the sight of it for months.
"Az?"
He blinked. "What?"
Y/N had stopped talking entirely, watching him now with faint confusion. "You've been staring at me for like a full minute without blinking. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. You look like you saw a ghost." She tilted her head, studying him further. "Are you sure you're okay? Your shadows are being weird too."
He glanced down. His shadows were, in fact, dancing — actual, unmistakable dancing, spinning in delighted loops around the counter, several of them weaving between the two of them with the kind of gleeful energy that suggested they'd been waiting for this exact moment for a very long time.
"I—" He tried to form a sentence, found the words scattering entirely somewhere between his brain and his mouth. "I uh. I mph—"
"...Az?"
"I need a minute," he managed, standing up too fast, chair scraping loud against the floor.
"Okay?" Y/N watched him with growing bewilderment as he made a beeline for the small washroom at the back of the shop, and the second the door shut behind him, he pressed both hands flat against the sink, staring at his own reflection like it might have some answer for what had just happened to his entire nervous system.
She's my mate, he thought, and the thought alone made something in his chest go so warm and so overwhelming he had to grip the edge of the sink to steady himself. She's my mate. She's actually my mate.
He didn't know what he felt first — joy, vast and consuming, or terror, sharp and immediate, at the realization that she didn't know, that he now had to somehow find the words to tell her, that everything between them had just shifted into something entirely new and he had absolutely no idea how to navigate it.
You should tell her, Master.
"I know."
Now would be a good time.
"I know."
You've been standing in front of that mirror for four minutes, another added, unhelpfully specific.
"You knew," Azriel said suddenly, rounding on the shadows properly, something between accusation and disbelief coloring his voice. "You all knew, didn't you. This whole time."
A beat of guilty silence.
...Yes, one admitted finally.
"You knew and you didn't tell me?"
You told us to stop talking about her, another said, though it sounded distinctly sheepish about it. So we didn't say anything.
"That was months ago!" He dragged both hands down his face. "There are things you're supposed to tell me regardless, shit — mate is one of them, that's — that's an important one, that's the most important one—"
We know that now, the first shadow said, chastened. We're sorry, Master.
Azriel exhaled, long and shaky, some of the frustration bleeding out into simple, overwhelming disbelief. "You could have told me the second it happened."
We were saving it, another offered, brightening slightly. For the perfect moment.
"You don't get to decide what the perfect moment is for information like that."
We're deciding now, though. From now on, you get everything. Especially about her. The shadow drifted closer, tone shifting, going careful in a way that made Azriel's stomach tighten with immediate unease. Actually, Master — now that we're allowed to tell you things — there's something we should probably mention. About her. We don't think you're going to like it.
Something cold slid down through the warmth still sitting in his chest. "What."
The shadow hesitated, drifting closer still, and Azriel felt every ounce of joy from a minute ago curdle into sudden, sharp apprehension.
"What is it," he pressed, quieter now, urgent. "What aren't you telling me?"
She's been acting strange for weeks now, the shadow said slowly. You've noticed it too, we know you have. Quieter. Distracted. We think—
A knock sounded at the door before it could finish, Y/N's voice muffled through the wood, concerned. "Az? Are you okay in there? You've been gone a while."
Every shadow in the room went instantly, deliberately silent.
Azriel opened the door to find her standing there, brow furrowed with real worry, and every dark, unfinished thought from a moment ago dissolved the second he actually looked at her properly, really looked, the way you look at someone once you know, with absolute certainty, that they're the single most important thing in your entire existence.
He had never, in five hundred years, wanted anything the way he suddenly wanted to close the last few feet between them and kiss her senseless.
The thought wasn't new, exactly, he'd allowed himself, in careful, guarded moments, to imagine it before, tucked away somewhere he didn't examine too closely. But now it wasn't imagination anymore. Now it was something closer to a physical ache, a need sitting low and insistent beneath his ribs, made infinitely worse by the fact that she was standing less than a foot away, looking up at him with open concern, entirely unaware of the storm currently happening inside his chest.
"Why are you smiling like an idiot," Y/N asked, and there it was — that small, familiar spark of teasing creeping back into her voice despite the worry still written across her face.
He was smiling. He hadn't even realized. He couldn't seem to stop.
"No reason," he said, which was, in every sense, a complete and total lie.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Three days earlier.
The bell above the bakery door jingled just as Y/N was flipping the sign to closed, the last of the evening light fading gold and soft through the front windows.
"We're closed for the—" She turned, already reaching for an apology, and the words died in her throat.
Varian stood just inside the door, and something about the set of his shoulders, the flat, dangerous look in his eyes, told her immediately that this was not going to be a good conversation.
"Varian—" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted it to. "What are you doing here? I told you not to just show up—"
"Shut up." He said it low, without preamble, already crossing the shop toward her.
"Varian, please, if this is about—"
The first blow caught her across the face before she'd finished the sentence, hard enough that she stumbled back into the counter, the world tilting sideways, and she tasted blood before she'd even fully registered what had happened.
"You whore," he spat, and there was something different in his voice this time, something colder, uglier than the anger she'd learned to weather before. "You think I don't hear things? You think I don't know exactly what you've been doing?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"The Shadowsinger." He said the word like poison, and Y/N felt her whole body go cold. "Don't play stupid with me. Everyone's talking about it. My own friends have seen you together — the bakery, the flying, dancing at Rita's, gods, does he know you're spoken for? Does he know exactly what kind of girl you actually are?"
"We're just friends, Varian, I swear, it's not what you—"
"Friends." He laughed, sharp and humorless, closing the last of the distance between them. "You think I'm an idiot? You think three years together and I can't tell when you're lying to my face?"
"Please, listen—"
The second blow was harder than the first, and this time she did cry out, catching herself against the counter, vision swimming, blood dripping now from somewhere near her temple.
"I've been so patient with you," he said, breathing hard, standing over her now with the particular calm that always followed the initial burst of violence, the part that scared her more than the hitting itself. "So patient. I forgave you for the flirting. For the coquetting. For all of it, because I know you don't mean anything by it, because I know deep down you belong to me. But this?" He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "This is different. This ends now."
"Varian, please, you're hurting—"
"You're going to marry me."
The words landed like a physical blow, worse somehow than anything else he'd done in the last minute. Y/N stared at him, blood dripping down her chin, ears ringing, certain she'd misheard.
"...What?"
"We're getting married." He said it simply, calmly, as though he were discussing the weather rather than something that had just detonated her entire world. "That's how this ends. That's how I know, for certain, that you're mine, that you'll stop this ridiculous obsession with playing house with that shadow-covered bastard. You'll wear my ring. You'll take my name. And when we have children, you'll finally understand why I've had to be strict with you all this time — because I love you enough to protect what's mine."
"I don't want—"
"You don't get a say in this." His grip tightened on her chin, hard enough to bruise further. "You made your choice the moment you decided to humiliate me in front of the whole Night Court. You could have just been a good girlfriend. Loyal. Quiet. But you had to go and parade yourself around with him, so now we do this my way."
"Please, Varian—"
"If you leave me," he continued, voice dropping lower, colder, "if you try to run, if you say one word to your little Valkyrie friends or that shadow freak about any of this — I will burn your parents' bakery to the ground with them still inside it. Do you understand me? I will make sure everyone you love disappears, one by one, and you will know it was because of you. Because you couldn't just behave."
Y/N was crying now, silent, terrified tears, nodding because there was nothing else left to do, no version of this where fighting back ended in anything but worse.
"Good girl." His voice softened, abruptly, sickeningly, the whiplash of it more disorienting than anything else. He wiped a tear from her cheek with something that was meant to look like tenderness. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. I'll get you a ring this week. Something beautiful. You deserve beautiful things, you know — you just need to learn to earn them properly."
He kissed her then, and she let him, frozen, hollow, staring at nothing over his shoulder while some distant part of her mind simply shut down entirely, unable to process anything beyond the taste of her own blood and the certainty that there was no way out of this that didn't end in someone she loved getting hurt.
"I love you," he murmured against her hair. "I've always loved you. You'll understand, eventually, that everything I do is because I love you too much to lose you."
She said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
He left a few minutes later, entirely calm, already talking about wedding logistics like the last ten minutes had simply been a minor domestic disagreement, and Y/N sank down onto the floor of her own bakery, blood drying on her face, and cried until she had nothing left.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
He came back two days later with a ring — small, ornate, entirely too expensive for someone who claimed to barely be scraping by — and slid it onto her finger himself, admiring it with real satisfaction while she stood there, hollow and silent, staring at the way the light caught the stone.
"Beautiful," he'd said, pleased with himself. "See? I told you you'd have beautiful things."
She hadn't been to training since. She hadn't told anyone — not Nesta, not Gwyn, not any of the Valkyries, and certainly not Azriel, terrified of what might happen if word got back to Varian that she'd said anything at all. She'd gone quiet instead, kept the ring hidden in a small pouch in her room, and told herself, over and over, that she just needed a little more time to figure out what to do.
She hadn't figured anything out yet. She was running out of time to try.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Azriel noticed her absence from training the very first day.
He told himself it was nothing, at first everyone missed a session occasionally, and she'd been busy with the bakery, with deliveries, with a hundred ordinary things that had nothing to do with him. He told himself this through the entire session, though he found himself glancing at the gate more often than any training exercise required.
By the second day, unease had settled into something sharper.
"She's never missed two days in a row," he said to Cassian, who was watching him pace the edge of the ring with obvious interest.
"Maybe she's sick."
"She's not sick."
"How do you know that?"
"I don't." Azriel dragged a hand through his hair, glancing toward the gate again. "I just — I know something's wrong."
"That mating bond thing giving you weird instincts already?" Cassian asked, not unkindly, though the teasing had gone soft around the edges with real concern.
"Maybe." Azriel's jaw was tight. "I don't know. I just need to see her."
By the third day, he lasted exactly twenty minutes into training before something in his chest simply refused to let him continue.
He stopped mid-drill, sword lowering, and the recruit he'd been sparring with looked at him with obvious confusion.
"Az?"
He didn't answer. He was already walking toward the gate, wings shifting loose behind him, and Cassian called after him — "Az? Where the hell are you going?" — but he didn't stop, didn't slow, some deep, insistent pull in his chest guiding him forward before he'd even consciously decided where he was headed.
He flew to the bakery first. Closed, dark, no sign of her.
He flew to Feyre's studio next, in case she'd decided to paint alone. Empty.
He circled the market, checked Rita's despite the early hour, flew past the small apartment above the bakery she used sometimes, knocked until his knuckles ached with no answer.
Something's wrong, his shadows kept murmuring, anxious, drifting close around him as he searched. Something's very wrong, Master.
"I know," he said, low, fighting to keep himself from spiraling entirely, some rational part of him aware that the bond made everything feel more urgent, more desperate, that he needed to stay calm even as every instinct screamed at him to tear the city apart looking for her.
He returned to the House of Wind eventually, out of options, chest tight with a fear he couldn't fully name, and found Rhys and Cassian waiting in the entryway, both watching him with matching expressions of concern.
"Az—" Rhys started.
"She's my mate." The words came out before he'd fully decided to say them, raw and unguarded in a way Azriel rarely allowed himself to be. "Y/N. She's my mate, and she's missing, and I can't find her anywhere, and I don't — I don't know what to do, I need to see her, I need to explain why I've been acting insane, I need — "
"Az." Cassian caught his shoulder, steady, grounding. "Breathe."
"I can't," Azriel said, and meant it entirely, something desperate and raw breaking loose in his voice. "I don't know how to explain this to either of you, but I need her, I need to see her right now, I feel like I'm losing my mind—"
"I think she's downstairs with Nesta," Cassian said, gently, exchanging a quick glance with Rhys. "Nesta mentioned something earlier, said Y/N came by upset."
Azriel didn't wait to hear the rest. He was already moving, wings tucked tight as he took the stairs two at a time, heart hammering, the bond in his chest pulling him forward like a physical tether.
She's crying, Master, a shadow murmured as he approached the door, quiet and careful. We can feel it.
She's in pain, another added, and something in Azriel's chest went cold and violent at the words.
He shoved the door open without knocking.
Y/N sat curled on Nesta's couch, Gwyn on one side of her and Emerie on the other, both arms wrapped tight around her, and she was crying — the kind of crying that had clearly been going on for a while, quiet now, exhausted, the particular hollow devastation of someone who'd run out of tears hours ago and was simply riding out the aftermath.
"Y/N—"
She looked up. Their eyes met across the room, and for one suspended second, Azriel felt the bond in his chest sing out, undeniable, overwhelming, everything in him aching to cross the room and pull her into his arms.
Then he saw her hand.
A ring sat on her finger, small and ornate, catching the light in a way that made his entire world grind to a sudden, sickening halt.
"Az—" Y/N started, voice breaking, already pushing herself upright.
"No." The word came out before he could stop it, flat, disbelieving.
"Please, let me explain—"
"No." He was backing toward the door now, something cold and violent building in his chest, the joy from an hour ago curdling into something unrecognizable. "No, nonono—"
"Azriel, I can explain, please—"
"I can't." His voice cracked, raw and furious and devastated all at once. "I can't do this right now."
He turned and left, slamming the door hard enough that the frame rattled, and the shadows that had trailed him the whole way scattered in a frantic burst around him, several of them curling insistently at his ankles, trying to slow him down.
Master, go back—
Please, listen to her—
She needs you, please, Master, go back—
"No," Azriel said, sharp, furious, shaking them off entirely. "Leave me alone. All of you. I don't want to hear it."
He stormed past Rhys and Cassian without a word, both of them watching him with matching expressions of alarm.
"Az, what happened?" Cassian called after him. "How'd it go?"
He didn't answer. He was already at the balcony, wings snapping open, and he launched himself into the night sky without a backward glance, flying hard and fast toward nowhere in particular, tears he refused to acknowledge burning hot and humiliating at the corners of his eyes.
She's engaged, his mind supplied, over and over, cruel and relentless. Your mate is engaged to someone else. Of course. Of course this is how it goes. Nobody stays. Nobody actually chooses you, not really, not when it matters.
He'd loved her before the bond even confirmed it, he realized distantly, flying through the cold night air with his chest cracking wide open. He'd been half in love with her for months — the laughter, the teasing, the warmth she brought into every room she entered — and he'd let himself believe, quietly, foolishly, that maybe it went both ways. That maybe, eventually, she'd choose him too.
He landed somewhere far from the House, some empty stretch of cliffside overlooking the sea, and let himself, finally, entirely alone, come apart.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Back at the townhouse, Y/N sat frozen on the couch long after the door had slammed, Gwyn and Emerie still holding her, Nesta pacing furiously by the window.
"He didn't even let you explain," Nesta said, voice tight with anger. "He just left."
"I don't blame him," Y/N whispered, voice raw. "I wouldn't want to hear an explanation either."
"Y/N—"
"Please." She curled tighter into herself, fresh tears spilling over. "Please, I can't — I can't talk about this right now."
Gwyn tightened her arms around her, quiet and steady, and nobody pushed further, the whole room settling into a heavy, aching silence.
Somewhere in the corner of the room, a single shadow — one that had slipped inside before the door slammed, small and quiet — curled close against Y/N's shoulder, offering the only comfort it could.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The wedding was set for one month, which was, everyone quietly agreed without saying it aloud, a mercy, one month for something to change, for someone to intervene, for Y/N to find some way out of the trap that had closed around her before the whole Night Court found itself watching her walk down an aisle toward a male none of them trusted.
Nobody said any of that to Azriel, though. Nobody said much of anything to Azriel at all, in the days that followed the ring, because Azriel had made it very clear, in the particular cold, closed-off way he retreated into when something hurt too much to examine, that he did not want to discuss it.
He didn't want to discuss much of anything, as it turned out.
"You should let her explain," Cassian said, the third day after, finding him in the training ring an hour before anyone else was due to arrive, already working through a set of drills with a kind of controlled violence that suggested sleep had not featured heavily in his last few nights.
"There's nothing to explain."
"Az."
"She's engaged." He didn't look up, blade cutting clean through the air in a series of movements too precise to be anything but deliberate distraction. "That's the explanation. I don't need the details."
"Maybe the details matter."
"They don't."
Cassian studied him for a long moment, arms crossed, clearly weighing how hard to push. "You didn't used to be this stubborn."
"I didn't used to have a mate who's marrying someone else," Azriel said, flat, and the words landed with enough finality that even Cassian, who rarely knew when to stop pushing, let it go.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The shadows tried, too, in their own persistent way, and Azriel shut them down just as thoroughly.
Master, one ventured, careful, a few days after the ring. We wanted to tell you something. About the ring. About why—
"No."
Master, please, it's important, if you'd just let us—
"I said no." His voice came out sharper than he intended, and he saw the shadow recoil slightly, hurt. He softened, barely, guilt already creeping in. "I don't want to hear anything about her. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Please, just — stop. Stop talking about her."
Silence, heavy and disappointed, answered him.
You're doing it again, one of the older shadows said finally, quiet, resigned. You know that, right? The same thing you did before. Shutting us out the moment it matters most.
"This is different."
Is it?
Azriel didn't answer that, because he didn't have a good one, and the shadows retreated into wounded quiet, though this time, unlike before, they obeyed. They didn't tell him about the fight they'd witnessed the night the ring first appeared. They didn't tell him about the bruises that kept reappearing, week after week, each one explained away with a training excuse she delivered too fast, too practiced. They didn't tell him that Varian had grown crueler since the confrontation with the Shadowsinger, more paranoid, more controlling, convinced now that everyone in the Night Court was plotting to steal her away from him.
They said nothing at all, because he'd told them not to, and this time, they were furious about it in a way they made absolutely no effort to hide.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
She came back to training three days after the silence had settled over both of them like a shroud, and walked in laughing at something Gwyn had said, bright and easy, like nothing at all had happened.
Azriel watched her from across the ring with something like devastation sitting low in his chest. Only Cassian and Rhys knew, still — knew about the bond, about the mate mark burning quietly beneath everything he did — and he'd made them both swear, with real desperation, not to say a word to anyone, least of all her. He didn't know what he'd do if she found out and it changed nothing. He wasn't sure he could survive that particular kind of confirmation, not on top of everything else.
He tried to keep his distance. He busied himself with a training dummy near the far wall, angling his body away from the entrance, and told himself, with the same grim determination he'd been failing at for weeks now, that today would be the day he actually managed it.
She found him anyway.
"Hi, Azzie."
He didn't turn around. "I'm working."
"You're hitting a dummy that's already dead, Az. I don't think it needs quite this level of dedication." She'd propped herself against the wall beside him, arms crossed, and even without looking he could feel the particular energy radiating off her bright, deliberate, the exact posture of someone who'd decided, against all evidence that it was working, to try again anyway.
"Did you need something?"
"Just came to say hi." A beat. "You know, you're looking particularly good today. Very broody. Very — I don't know, tortured artist energy? It's working for you."
He kept his eyes fixed on the dummy, jaw tight. "Y/N."
"What? I'm complimenting you." She tilted her head, studying his profile with the same open, unbothered attention she'd always given him, even now, even after everything. "You know, I miss you in the bakery. You haven't come by in weeks."
Something in his chest cracked, sharp and sudden, though he kept his face carefully blank.
"I miss making you the lemon cake, actually," she continued, softer now, some of the performance bleeding out of her voice into something more genuine. "You always made this face when you took the first bite. Like it personally offended you how good it was."
"Y/N, don't."
"I'm serious, Azzie. I still make it every week, even though—" She stopped herself, something flickering across her face, and pushed forward anyway. "I still make it. In case."
"In case what."
"In case you ever come back," she said, quiet now, and something raw and unguarded had slipped into her voice, entirely unlike the bright performance from a moment ago.
Azriel's grip on the training sword tightened until his knuckles went white.
"Really, Y/N?" His voice came out sharper than he meant, some defensive, wounded thing clawing its way up through his chest before he could stop it. "Are we really doing this?"
Her face fell, just slightly, though she recovered fast. "Doing what?"
"This." He gestured between them, vague and furious. "Whatever this is. The flirting, the — the lemon cake, the Azzie.You're engaged, Y/N. You're getting married in a matter of weeks. I don't understand what you think this accomplishes."
"Az, please, let me explain—"
He was already turning away, already walking, and Y/N's voice trailed after him, thin and desperate.
"Azriel, please—"
He didn't stop. He heard her exhale, sharp and frustrated, somewhere behind him, and forced himself not to look back, though every step away from her felt like something being physically dragged out of his chest.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
She tried again two days later, during drills, and this time he was ready for it, or told himself he was, standing rigid and businesslike as he moved down the line of recruits correcting stances, determined not to let a single crack show.
He reached her position last, deliberately, and found her already watching him approach with a small, hopeful smile that made something in him ache before she'd even said a word.
"Your elbow's dropping," he said, flat, professional, reaching to correct her stance without meeting her eyes.
"I know, I know, force of habit." She held still for the correction, and then, the second his hand left her arm, "You know, I forgot how good you are with your hands. It's actually kind of unfair."
"Stay in that position."
"Az."
"You're overcorrecting on your left." He moved to the next recruit without looking back, and heard her huff behind him, frustrated.
"Seriously? Not even an eye roll?" Her voice carried after him, half-teasing, half-genuinely hurt. "You used to at least give me an eye roll."
He didn't turn around.
"Az, could you at least—"
"Stay in the position, Y/N." He kept moving down the line, jaw tight, refusing to give her anything more than the barest professional acknowledgment, and felt, rather than saw, the exact moment her shoulders dropped, defeat creeping into a posture that had, until recently, never once known how to quit.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The third attempt happened a week after that, and it was, by every measure, the worst of them.
She'd caught him during a break, cornering him near the equipment shed with the same bright, deliberate energy she'd been deploying for weeks now, though something in her eyes had gone slightly more desperate, like she could feel the whole thing slipping away and was trying, one last time, to grab hold of it before it vanished entirely.
"Azzie." She leaned against the shed, close, the way she used to, and reached out to flick a piece of hay off his shoulder with a familiarity that made his chest ache with how normal it used to feel. "You know, I've been thinking. About that time you said my form was terrible during sparring. I've gotten so much better since then, you should really see for yourself sometime. I bet I could pin you now."
He said nothing, jaw working, staring somewhere over her shoulder.
"Or," she continued, undeterred, something teasing threading through the words even as her voice wavered slightly, "we could just skip the pretense and you could just admit you miss losing to me. It's okay, I won't tell anyone your secret."
Every part of him wanted to answer, wanted, desperately, to slip back into the old rhythm, to let himself smile, to say something back the way he'd learned to over the past months, and it was exactly that wanting, that raw, aching temptation, that finally cracked something loose in his chest.
"Why are you doing this, Y/N?"
She blinked, caught off guard, the teasing dying instantly on her lips. "...What?"
"Why are you doing this?" His voice had gone harder now, something ugly and defensive bleeding into every word. "Why do you keep — the flirting, the jokes, the Azzie, all of it, like nothing's changed? You have a fiancé. You're getting married in a few weeks. Are you—" He stopped himself, and then, unable to stop the momentum of his own hurt, kept going anyway. "Is something wrong with you? Do you actually think this is appropriate?"
Y/N's face had gone very still, hurt flickering fast and unmistakable behind her eyes. "Az—"
"You're about to marry someone," he said, relentless now, something desperate and cruel driving him forward even as some distant part of him screamed to stop. "And you're standing here flirting with me like it means nothing. Like I mean nothing. Do you even understand how that looks?"
"You never used to mind it," she said, voice small, wounded.
"Because you weren't getting married!"
"You didn't mind it when I had a boyfriend, either!" The words came out sharp, sudden, some old hurt surfacing fast. "You flirted right back, plenty of times, and you knew about Varian by then."
Azriel went very still. "I didn't know he was your boyfriend the first time. Not until Gwyn said something."
"You knew after," she pressed, voice shaking now. "You knew for months, and it didn't stop you before."
He had no answer for that, the truth of it landing heavy and uncomfortable, and some part of him, cornered and hurting, reached for the only weapon he had left.
"So the fact that I'm uncomfortable now doesn't matter to you at all," he said, low, deliberate, watching the words land like a blow. "You don't care that this makes me uncomfortable, Y/N. You don't care what any of it does to me. You just keep doing whatever game you've got running in your head, regardless of who it hurts."
"That's not—"
"So do us both a favor," he cut in, voice cold now, final, "and stop. Whatever this is — whatever you think you're accomplishing — stop it. You're embarrassing yourself, Y/N. Genuinely. It's beneath you."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Y/N stared at him, eyes bright and glassy, mouth slightly open like she'd been struck, and Azriel watched the exact moment something in her simply gave up entirely the fight draining out of her all at once, replaced by something hollow and defeated that hurt worse than any amount of anger could have.
"Okay," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Okay. I understand."
She turned and walked away before he could take any of it back, and Azriel stood there alone by the equipment shed, his own cruelty sitting heavy and sick in his stomach, understanding with sudden, sickening clarity that he'd just done, all over again, the exact thing he'd spent months apologizing for the first time.
That was worse, a shadow observed quietly, from somewhere near his shoulder, its tone carrying none of its usual mischief. That was worse than before, Master.
"I know."
She was trying. Genuinely trying. And you—
"I know." His voice cracked on the word, raw and furious with himself. "I know what I did."
The shadow said nothing further, simply hovering close, quiet and disappointed, and Azriel stood alone in the empty training yard for a long time after, watching the space where she'd disappeared, understanding that whatever fragile thing they'd rebuilt over the past months had just been shattered, deliberately, by his own hand, and that this time, he had no idea at all how he'd ever earn his way back.
He stopped leaving his room much, in the weeks after the equipment shed.
It wasn't dramatic, not the way it might have been for someone less practiced at suffering quietly — he still went to training, still ate at the House when Rhys or Cassian physically came and dragged him to the table, still functioned, on the surface, like someone whose entire world hadn't just quietly ended. But he'd stopped seeking anyone out. Stopped lingering after training. Stopped, most notably, going anywhere near the bakery, though he thought about the lemon cake more often than he'd ever admit to a single living soul.
It was Elain, in the end, who kept coaxing him back out, the way she always had, patient and undemanding, content simply to sit with him in comfortable, easy silence until he remembered how to be a person again.
"You're doing the thing again," she said one evening, curled in her usual spot on the couch, watching him stare at the fire without actually seeing it. "Where you're technically in the room but not really here at all."
"Sorry." He didn't quite manage to focus on her. "What were you saying?"
"I was asking if you'd help me pick out fabric for the new curtains. But you weren't listening to that either, were you."
"Sorry," he said again, and this time he made himself look at her properly, guilt creeping in. "I'm distracted lately."
"I noticed." Her voice was gentle, no judgment in it at all, just quiet, careful observation. "You're thinking about her. Aren't you."
Something in his chest tightened. "Elain—"
"It's alright, Az." She smiled, small and genuine, setting her book aside entirely now. "I'm not upset. I promise. I just — I think it's time we actually talked about it. Properly, this time."
He was quiet for a long moment, some old, careful instinct telling him to deflect, to change the subject, to protect whatever fragile thing existed between them the way he'd protected it for years. But something about her expression, open, unhurried, entirely without hurt, made him let the deflection go.
"I'm sorry," he said instead. "For however this has felt, on your end. I never meant to—"
"You don't need to apologize." She shook her head, still smiling that same small, rueful smile. "Honestly, Az, I think I owe you the apology. I let this go on for a long time without ever being honest about what it actually was. Or wasn't."
"What do you mean?"
She was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and when she spoke again, her voice had gone soft and thoughtful, the tone of someone finally saying something they'd turned over privately for a long while.
"Honestly," she said, "I don't know why I ever thought there was a future for us. Not really. I think I liked the idea of it, of you, of something steady and safe and uncomplicated. But if I'm being truly honest with myself, Az, you've been obsessed with her since the day I met her."
Azriel blinked, caught entirely off guard. "What?"
"Y/N." Elain said the name gently, without any bitterness in it at all. "Since the very beginning. Do you remember the first time she came to train with the Valkyries? You watched her the entire session. You didn't say a word about it, obviously, you never do, but I noticed. I've always noticed."
"That's not—"
"You used to talk about her," Elain continued, unbothered by the interruption, "more than you probably realized. Something she'd said that made everyone laugh. How she'd cornered you into some ridiculous conversation. Your shadows loved telling stories about her, actually — do you remember? Before you told them to stop. They'd whisper the most ridiculous things, half of it clearly exaggerated for effect, but you always listened. Every single time. Even when you pretended not to care."
Azriel said nothing, something uncomfortable and undeniable settling in his chest at hearing it laid out so plainly.
"And you always knew where she was in a room," Elain went on, quieter now. "Before I ever did. I'd be looking for her across a crowd, and your eyes would already be fixed there, like you'd known the second she walked in." She smiled, a little sad, a little fond. "I don't blame you for any of it, Az. I promise, I don't. At first, I thought maybe you just didn't like her — the flirting seemed to embarrass you so much. But eventually I realized that wasn't embarrassment at all. It was something you didn't know how to let yourself want."
"Elain, I—"
"You don't have to explain," she said gently. "I've had time to make my peace with it. More than that, actually — I've decided to give my own mate a real chance. Lucien." She said the name carefully. “It's frightening. But I think it's time I stop hiding from it."
Something warm and genuinely happy stirred in Azriel's chest despite everything else weighing on him. "Elain, that's — I'm glad. Truly."
"Thank you." Her smile widened, real and unguarded. "And I think it's time you stop hiding from your own thing too."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?" She tilted her head, studying him with a directness he wasn't quite used to from her. "Az. She's your mate. Fight for her."
Azriel went very still. "...What?"
"I said—"
"How do you know that." His voice had gone sharp, disbelieving. "Only Rhys and Cassian know. I never told you."
Elain's smile turned faintly mischievous, something knowing glinting behind her eyes. "I'm a seer, Az. Remember?" She winked, entirely unbothered by his stunned expression. "I've known for a while, actually. I wasn't sure it was my place to say anything until now."
"You've known this whole time."
"I've suspected it for months, and been certain for a few weeks now." She reached over, squeezing his hand briefly, warm and sincere. "And I think you've spent this entire time convincing yourself she doesn't want you, when from everything I've seen — everything I've always seen, honestly, since long before any of this — she's never once looked at anyone the way she looks at you. Not even when she was with him."
Something in Azriel's chest cracked open, hope and fear tangled together too tightly to separate.
"She's engaged," he said, quiet.
"She's trapped," Elain corrected, gently but firmly. "There's a difference, Az, and I think you know that better than anyone. You've seen the bruises. You know exactly what kind of person he is. Do you really believe, in your heart, that she wants this wedding?"
He didn't answer, because the honest answer sat sick and obvious in his chest, and had for weeks.
"Then stop punishing her for something she never chose," Elain said, quiet but unflinching. "And go fight for your mate, Azriel. Before it's too late to."
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Across the training yard, some distance away, Y/N had just finished packing up her things for the day, exhausted in the particular bone-deep way that came from weeks of forced smiles and careful composure held together by nothing but sheer stubbornness.
She spotted them before she meant to — Az and Elain, sitting close together near the low garden wall that bordered the House, deep in conversation, and something in her chest clenched painfully at the easy familiarity of it, the way they always seemed to fold so naturally into each other's space.
He looks happy, she thought, and hated, with real and immediate self-loathing, how much the thought still hurt after everything.
She should look away. She knew she should look away, knew, better than anyone, exactly how little right she had to feel anything at all about it, not with a ring sitting heavy and hateful on her own finger, not after everything she'd put him through with the flirting he'd made so clear he didn't want anymore.
She watched anyway.
Elain said something, and Az laughed — really laughed, the kind of unguarded, easy laugh Y/N hadn't managed to earn from him in weeks — and something in Y/N's chest simply broke, quiet and complete.
He deserves that, she told herself, the same tired refrain she'd been repeating to herself for weeks now. He deserves someone who isn't engaged to someone else. Someone who doesn't come with bruises and secrets and a mess he never signed up for. He deserves her.
She watched Elain reach out and squeeze his hand, warm and familiar, and watched Az's expression shift into something soft and open in response, and felt the last of whatever fragile hope she'd been carrying around quietly, privately extinguish itself.
You did this, she reminded herself, bitter and exhausted. You're the one who's engaged. You're the one who kept flirting even after he told you to stop. You have no right to feel like this.
She turned to leave before either of them could spot her standing there, and it was in that exact moment — the worst possible moment, as it happened — that Elain, still smiling, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Az in a warm, genuine hug.
Y/N's breath caught somewhere painful in her chest.
She didn't wait to see anything more. She turned and walked briskly toward the gate, blinking hard against the sudden, humiliating sting of tears, and told herself, over and over, that it didn't matter, that it shouldn't matter, that she had absolutely no right to feel her heart breaking over something that was never hers to begin with.
She didn't see, because she'd already turned away, the way Elain pulled back from the hug a moment later with a small, satisfied smile, or the way she said, quiet and warm, "Now go find her, Az. Really find her, this time," or the way Azriel sat there afterward, alone on the garden wall, staring at nothing, turning the shape of everything Elain had just told him over and over in his mind, hope and terror twisting together in his chest in equal, overwhelming measure.
She only knew what she'd seen — the laughing, the closeness, the embrace — and carried the image home with her that night, heavy and aching, one more small, private grief added to the pile of everything else she'd been carrying alone.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Y/N stopped approaching him entirely after the equipment shed.
It wasn't difficult to understand why, even if it left something raw and permanent in Azriel's chest every time he watched her walk past without so much as a glance in his direction. He'd made himself clear, brutally so, and he had no right to expect anything different now. And there was Elain — Y/N had seen them together, he was fairly certain, though neither of them had said anything about it directly. He didn't blame her for assuming what anyone would assume, watching from a distance, seeing warmth and closeness and drawing the obvious conclusion.
She still doesn't know, he thought, watching her across the training ring one gray morning, exhausted resignation written into every line of her posture. She thinks I still want Elain. She doesn't know any of it.
He wanted to fix that. He'd wanted to fix it every single day since Elain's conversation, had rehearsed a dozen different ways to approach her, to apologize properly this time, to finally, finally tell her the truth about the bond and let her decide what to do with it. He kept losing his nerve. He kept telling himself there'd be a better moment, a calmer one, one where she wasn't already so clearly exhausted by everything he'd put her through.
He was still telling himself that when he finally saw her face properly.
She'd turned, laughing faintly at something Gwyn had said, angling into better light, and the bruise came into full view — dark, fresh, spread ugly and unmistakable along her cheekbone, worse than anything he'd seen before, worse even than the one that had sent him to that tavern weeks ago.
Something in Azriel went completely, dangerously still.
He was across the ring before conscious thought caught up with him, and Y/N's face went pale the second she registered him approaching, some old, exhausted dread already settling into her expression.
"Who did this to you," he said, low, deadly calm in a way that was somehow more frightening than shouting would have been.
"Az, now isn't—"
"Who did this." He was close now, close enough to see the full extent of it, the way the bruising had spread down toward her jaw, and something inside him was already going white-hot, already past the point of careful restraint. "Was it him? That piece of shit?"
"Az, please, I really don't think—"
"Was it your fiancé?" His voice cracked on the word, disgust and fury tangled together. "Was it him? Tell me."
"Az, please, just listen to me for a second—" She reached out, hand hovering near his arm like she meant to calm him, and something about the gesture — her, defending him, defending Varian by trying to talk Azriel down instead of asking for help — broke something loose in his chest that had nothing to do with anger at all.
"Why," he said, and the word came out raw, cracked, all the fury bleeding suddenly into something closer to grief. "Why, Y/N?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you marrying him?" His voice had dropped, quiet now, devastated. "Why do you let him do this to you, over and over, and still — still stand here defending him, still try to protect him from me, when he's the one who—" He cut himself off, breathing hard, forcing himself to slow down. "Do you love him?"
Silence.
"Y/N." His voice cracked further. "Do you love him?"
She said nothing. Her jaw worked, eyes bright with unshed tears, and the silence stretched long enough that it answered the question all on its own, at least as far as Azriel's breaking heart was concerned.
"Right," he said finally, hollow, backing away from her. "Okay."
"Az, that's not—"
He was already turning, wings shifting loose behind him, and his shadows — which had been coiled tense and furious around his shoulders since the moment he'd seen the bruise — surged forward the instant he was clear of the training ring.
"Find him," Azriel said, low, final.
Yes, Master, came the immediate, unified reply, and this time there was no gleeful chatter in it, no mischief. Just cold, focused purpose, dozens of shadows scattering into the wind with the singular intent of finding one very specific male before their own master could think better of it.
He found Varian within the hour, in some back-alley tavern near the edge of the Rainbow, and it took every ounce of restraint he had left not to simply kill him where he sat.
"You," Varian said, going pale as Azriel approached, recognition dawning fast and ugly.
"Get up."
"I don't know what you—"
Azriel hauled him up by the collar before he could finish the sentence, shadows coiling dark and vicious around them both, blotting out the tavern's dim light entirely.
"You put your hands on her again," Azriel said, voice low and shaking with barely-contained violence. "I know you did. I saw the bruise myself."
"She's mine—" Varian tried, blood bubbling at his split lip, and the sheer, delusional entitlement of it sent something white-hot through Azriel's chest.
"She has never once been yours," Azriel said, and hit him again, controlled fury behind every strike now, methodical in a way that made it worse, not better — no wild rage, just cold, deliberate purpose, the particular violence of a male who had spent five hundred years learning precisely how to hurt someone without losing himself in the process. "She is not property. She is not something you get to break and control and terrify. And this—" another blow, sharp and precise "—is nowhere near what you deserve for what you've done to her."
Finish him, Master, one of the shadows hissed, coiled tight around Varian's throat, dark and vicious.
Azriel's hand stilled, just slightly, some last thread of control asserting itself even through the fury.
"No," he said, low, though it cost him something visible to say it. "Not for me. This is for her." He leaned close, voice dropping to something colder than anything he'd said yet. "If it were up to me, you would already be dead. But she asked me not to, and I owe her that much, even now. So I'm going to leave you alive, and you're going to remember, every single day for the rest of your miserable existence, exactly how close you came to not being."
He dropped him, finally, watching Varian curl into the sawdust, bloodied and broken and gasping, and stood over him a moment longer, breathing hard, his shadows retreating slowly from where they'd been pinning him down.
He turned and left without waiting for a response, shadows trailing after him in grim, satisfied silence, and it was only once he was airborne, the cold night wind cutting sharp against his face, that the full weight of what he'd just done — and what it might mean for her — settled heavy and uncertain in his chest.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
He was in his study late that night, trying and failing to focus on reports he'd read three times without absorbing a single word, when the door burst open without warning.
He looked up, already halfway to his feet, and the words died in his throat.
Y/N stood in the doorway, chest heaving like she'd run the whole way there, and the sight of her face , properly, fully lit now by the lamplight, nearly buckled his knees.
The bruising had spread further. Dried blood crusted along her hairline, dark and horrifying, and when his eyes dropped, helpless, to the rest of her, he could see the way she held herself too carefully, one arm curled protectively against her ribs, a mark along her throat he hadn't seen before, already darkening.
"Y/N—"
"Let me talk, Azriel." Her voice shook, but it didn't waver, something fierce and furious cutting through the tears already gathering in her eyes. "Rhysand and Feyre let me in. I begged them. I need you to just — let me talk."
He shut his mouth, every part of him screaming to cross the room and pull her into his arms, and forced himself to stay still, hands curling into fists at his sides instead.
"Look at me," she said, and it came out broken, raw. "Look at my face, Az. Look at my ribs. My neck." Her voice cracked entirely on the last word, tears spilling over now, and she made no move to hide them, no move to compose herself the careful way she always had before. "This is what happens. This is what happened, because of you."
"I'll kill him." The words came out low, immediate, something violent and desperate rising fast in his chest. "I'll go back right now and I'll finish—"
"No!" The word tore out of her, sharp and furious. "No, Azriel, don't you understand? Don't you understand that the next time will be worse than this? That every single time you go after him, it doesn't protect me, it just — it just gives him a reason to make sure I remember exactly who's really in control?"
"I couldn't just let him—"
"You promised." Her voice broke entirely now, devastating in its rawness. "You promised me, Az. At the bakery, the first time I ever told you any of it — you promised me you wouldn't go after him. You promised again after the last time, after I told you what happened, after you saw exactly what it cost me. And you did it anyway. Again. Why?" She was sobbing now, barely able to force the words out. "Why would you do that to me? Why couldn't you just, for once, listen to what I actually needed instead of what made you feel better?"
Azriel felt something in him collapse entirely, the full weight of what he'd done crashing down at once. "Y/N, I'm so sorry, I didn't think—"
"You never think," she said, and it wasn't cruel, just exhausted, just true, and somehow that was worse than any amount of anger could have been. "You never think about what happens to me after you've had your moment of righteous fury. You get to feel like you protected me, and then you leave, and I'm the one who has to go home to him. Every single time."
"I know." His voice had gone hollow, gutted. "I know, Y/N. I'm so sorry."
"How is it possible," she said, quieter now, some of the fury bleeding into something closer to genuine, aching confusion, "that someone can be engaged to a person who does this—" she gestured at her own face, her ribs, the mark on her throat "—and the male who's supposed to just be her friend keeps making it worse instead of ever actually helping?"
"Let me help you now." He took a step forward, desperate, reaching for her. "Please. Let me clean the cut on your head, at least. Let me—"
"No." She flinched back before his hand ever reached her, and the flinch, the pure, instinctive fear in it, the same reflex he'd seen the very first time he'd ever laid eyes on her, hit him harder than any blow he'd taken in that tavern. "Don't touch me, Azriel. You don't get to fix this with gentle hands after everything."
He froze, hand still outstretched, uselessly, in the space between them.
"I don't understand," she went on, voice shaking, "how you can care so much and hurt me so badly, all at the same time. I don't understand how the person who apologized to me so beautifully in that bakery is the same person who told me I was embarrassing myself for daring to still care about him. I don't understand any of it, Az, and I'm so tired. I'm so tired of trying to."
"Y/N—"
"My wedding is in a week." She said it flat, final, wiping furiously at her own face. "One week from today. And starting right now, you and I don't see each other. We don't talk. Whatever this was, the friendship, the bakery, all of it, it's over, Azriel. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep hoping you'll finally be the person I thought you were, only to have you break something else instead."
"Please." His voice cracked entirely, all the composure he'd spent centuries building simply gone. "Please, Y/N, don't do this. Let me explain, let me—"
"You don't get to say that to me." Something sharp and bitter cut through her tears. "You don't get to say let me explain to me, Az. Not after all the times you said no to those exact words when they came out of my mouth."
The words landed like a physical blow, and Azriel had nothing, absolutely nothing, to say in response, the weight of every cruel dismissal he'd handed her over the last months crashing down at once, deserved and devastating all together.
"Goodbye, Azriel," she said, quiet now, hollowed out entirely, and turned before he could find a single word to stop her, and the door shut behind her with a soft, final click that somehow hurt worse than any slam ever could have.
He stood there a long time afterward, alone in the study, the reports on his desk long forgotten, staring at the closed door with something cracked wide open in his chest.
Open the bond, something in him whispered, desperate, unable to stop itself. Just for a second. Just to know how she's feeling.
He knew it was a bad idea even as he did it, some last shred of self-preservation screaming at him to leave it closed, to spare himself whatever waited on the other side. He opened it anyway, just a crack, just long enough to feel.
Grief hit him first — vast, bottomless, hers, not his, though it settled into his chest like it belonged there. Beneath it, exhaustion so complete it felt almost physical, and beneath that, something worse, something that felt disturbingly close to resignation, like some part of her had simply stopped believing anything would ever get better.
Azriel slammed the bond shut so fast he nearly staggered, breath coming ragged, hand braced against his desk.
"Gods," he whispered, to no one, to the empty room, to his own shadows hovering silent and stricken around him. "Gods, what have I done."
None of them answered. There wasn't anything left to say.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
He didn't leave his room for four days.
It wasn't dramatic, exactly, not in any way that would have made a good story, no shouting, no breaking things, nothing violent enough to require intervention. He simply stopped. Stopped training. Stopped eating properly. Stopped answering the door, over and over, to every single person who came to try.
Cassian came first, the morning after, knocking with the particular gentle persistence of someone who genuinely expected to be let in.
"Az. Open up."
"Go away."
"Az, come on, let's talk about—"
"I said go away, Cassian."
Silence, then footsteps retreating, and Azriel had felt, distantly, a flicker of guilt at the hurt he knew was sitting behind that silence. He didn't have room for it. There wasn't space left in him for anything but the low, constant ache of what he'd lost, self-inflicted and unforgivable.
Rhys came the next day, quieter about it, no knocking, just a presence outside the door that lingered a long while before finally, wordlessly, leaving.
Feyre came after that, and then Nesta, surprising him — Nesta, who rarely bothered with anyone's feelings but her own inner circle's, standing outside his door long enough to say, flatly, "She's not eating either, you know. In case that matters to you," before walking away without waiting for a response.
It mattered. It mattered so much it nearly brought him to his knees, and still he didn't open the door.
Elain came last, gentle as always, and simply said, through the wood, "I'm here if you want to talk, Az. Whenever you're ready," and didn't push further, and somehow her patience hurt worse than anyone else's frustration had.
His shadows didn't speak to him at all, those four days. Not out of anger this time, out of something gentler, sadder, a quiet understanding that there was nothing left to say that would help, that some grief simply had to be sat with until it either broke a person or didn't. They stayed close anyway, curled around him in the dark, silent and present, the only comfort he'd let himself accept.
He didn't sleep, not really. He lay awake most of those nights turning over every single moment he could have chosen differently — every cruel word, every broken promise, every chance he'd had to simply tell her the truth and hadn't — and found, each time, that the weight of it only grew heavier.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
The morning of the wedding arrived gray and quiet, and Azriel lay in bed with his eyes open, staring at nothing, having genuinely lost track, somewhere in the last four days, of what time even meant anymore.
The door opened without a knock.
He didn't bother sitting up. "I want to be alone. Especially today."
"Tough," Cassian said, already crossing the room to throw open the curtains with entirely unnecessary force, sunlight flooding in over Azriel's flinching form. "Get up."
"Cassian—"
"Get. Up." Rhysand's voice this time, from the doorway, arms crossed, and something in his tone, made Azriel actually look at him properly for the first time in days.
"I don't have the energy for whatever this is," Azriel said, dragging himself upright anyway, some old instinct toward obedience kicking in despite everything.
"Get dressed," Cassian said, already rifling through the wardrobe with the particular efficiency of someone on a deadline.
"Why. Is there a mission?"
"Something like that." Cassian threw a clean tunic at his chest, entirely unceremonious.
"Cassian, I really don't have it in me to—"
"We're crashing a wedding," Rhys said, flat, cutting straight through whatever protest Azriel had been building.
Azriel went very still. "...What?"
"You heard him," Cassian said, already laying out boots. "We're going to stop it."
"No." The word came out immediate, sharp, something in his chest recoiling violently at the idea. "Absolutely not. You don't understand—"
"We understand plenty," Cassian said.
"She made her decision." Azriel's voice cracked, raw with four days of unslept grief. "She told me it was over. She chose him, she — she's marrying him today, and I am not going to stand there and humiliate myself trying to stop something she clearly wants—"
Cassian and Rhys exchanged a look that Azriel, in his current state, entirely failed to interpret, something caught between exasperation and open, barely-contained amusement.
"You genuinely believe that," Rhys said, "don't you."
"I saw it with my own eyes, Rhys. She told me herself. She's choosing him."
"Az." Cassian dropped the boots, crossing his arms, staring at him with something between disbelief and fond exasperation. "You are, without question, the single blindest male I have ever met in five hundred years of knowing you, and I include every recruit who's ever walked face-first into a training pole in that assessment."
"Excuse me?"
"She's been in love with you since the day she called you Azzie," Cassian said, bluntly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Since Nesta first introduced her to the Inner Circle. Even when you ignored her, even when you humiliated her in front of the entire training ring, even after every single time you told her to leave you alone, she has never once, not for a single day, stopped choosing you, Az. She flirted with you shamelessly while she was already terrified of what it might cost her. She kept coming back to training every single day even after months of you barely speaking to her. Whatever this wedding actually is, it is not her choosing him over you. It's the exact opposite of choice."
Something in Azriel's chest had gone very quiet, listening.
"There's more," Cassian said, and something in his tone shifted, harder now, more serious. "I talked to Nesta this morning. She said Y/N came to her yesterday. Cried the entire day, apparently. Because he's forcing her, Az. He's making her do this."
Azriel went cold. "What do you mean, forcing her."
"He's threatened her family," Rhys said, quiet now. "Threatened to burn the bakery down. Threatened to hurt her parents if she doesn't go through with it. She's not marrying him because she wants to. She's marrying him because she doesn't see any other way to keep the people she loves safe."
Something in Azriel snapped entirely into focus, all the fog of the last four days burning away at once, replaced by a clarity so sharp it was almost painful.
"Why didn't anyone tell me this," he said, voice low, dangerous.
He rounded on his shadows before either brother could answer, several of them curling guiltily near the ceiling, refusing to meet whatever gaze he was capable of giving them.
"You knew," he said, disbelieving. "Didn't you. This whole time."
We tried to tell you, one offered, small. Weeks ago. You told us to stop talking about her again, remember?
"That was—" Azriel dragged both hands down his face, something between fury and exhausted disbelief clawing up his throat. "That was weeks ago. This is different, this is important, you should have—"
We've been trying for weeks, Master, another cut in, exasperated now, apparently done being gentle about it. Every single time we start, you shut us down. We tried three separate times just yesterday. You closed the bond too, remember, right after you felt how much pain she was in. You didn't want to hear anything after that.
Azriel had no response to that, the truth of it landing heavy and undeniable.
"I don't have time for this right now," he said finally, though there was no real bite left in it, just exhaustion and mounting, desperate urgency.
"No," Rhys agreed, "you don't. Which is why—" he glanced at the window, at the sun climbing steadily higher "—we need to move. Now."
"I don't even know if I should—" Azriel started, some last thread of doubt clawing at him even now. "What if I'm wrong. What if this really is what she wants, and I show up and make everything worse, the way I always—"
"Azriel." Rhys's voice cut through the spiral, firm and absolute, every ounce of High Lord authority settling into the single word. "As your High Lord, I am ordering you to go stop that wedding."
Azriel stared at him.
"I mean it," Rhys said, quieter now, something warmer bleeding into his expression. "I have never once pulled rank on you for something this personal, and I am doing it now, because you are about to let the best thing that has ever happened to you walk down an aisle toward a monster, and I refuse to let you live with that regret for the next five hundred years. Get dressed. We're going."
Something in Azriel's chest finally, fully cracked open, hope breaking through four days of grief all at once.
"Okay," he said, voice unsteady. "Okay. Let's go."
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
Y/N stared at her own reflection for a long moment before the wedding, and barely recognized what looked back.
The dress was beautiful, she'd give Varian that much, at least, some small, distant part of her still capable of noting the craftsmanship even through the numbness. Pale silk, delicate embroidery along the bodice, the kind of dress she might have dreamed about once, years ago, before she understood what a wedding day could actually feel like when it wasn't a choice at all.
"You look beautiful," said one of the attendants Varian had hired, entirely oblivious to the way Y/N's hands were shaking where they rested against the vanity.
"Thank you," Y/N said, and made herself smile.
“Ready?” the attendant asked, and Y/N nodded, though nothing in her felt ready at all, some deep, quiet part of her still screaming to run even as the rest of her walked, resigned, toward the doors.
The garden Varian had chosen for the ceremony was, she noted distantly, genuinely lovely, white flowers everywhere, soft golden light filtering through the trees, the kind of setting she might have loved under entirely different circumstances. Rows of guests filled the seats, most of them Varian's family and business associates, though she spotted a small cluster of familiar faces near the back — Nesta, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral except for the disappointment she couldn't quite hide. Gwyn, looking pale and stricken. Emerie, jaw tight with barely-restrained fury at the whole situation.
Y/N held her chin high anyway, the way she'd trained herself to do, and walked.
She reached the altar without really registering the walk at all, her mind somewhere else entirely — somewhere warm, somewhere that smelled like lemon cake and old parchment, somewhere with dark wings and darker shadows and a laugh she'd worked so hard, for so long, to earn.
Azzie, she thought, and had to fight, hard, against the fresh sting of tears threatening to ruin her careful composure. I hope you're happy. I hope Elain makes you happy. I hope somewhere, you know I never stopped—
She thought of his hands, scarred and careful, the way he'd let her hold them like they weren't something to be ashamed of. She thought of his shadows, dozens of them, curling around her like family from the very first night she'd ever properly spoken to them. She thought of every ridiculous, wonderful moment of the last year, and made herself swallow the grief of it whole, burying it somewhere she wouldn't have to look at it again once the vows were spoken and there was no going back.
Varian reached for her hands, smiling, entirely pleased with himself, and Y/N let him take them, numb, staring at some fixed point over his shoulder while the priest began to speak.
She was so far inside her own careful numbness that she almost didn't hear the doors.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
They burst open with a crash loud enough to silence the entire garden.
Every head turned at once. Y/N turned too, slow, disbelieving, and felt her entire chest seize at the sight framed in the doorway — Rhysand, Cassian, and between them, wings mantled dark and enormous against the light, Azriel.
"What is this?" Varian's voice cracked through the shocked silence, furious, disbelieving. "What is the meaning of this?"
Azriel didn't answer him. He was already walking, fast, direct, straight up the center aisle with an expression that made every guest in his path scramble to clear the way, and Y/N stood frozen at the altar, hand still limp in Varian's grip, unable to process what she was seeing.
"Az—" Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "What are you—"
"Don't marry him."
The words dropped into the stunned silence like something physical.
"...What?" Y/N managed, certain she'd misheard.
"Don't marry him," Azriel said again, closer now, close enough that she could see the exhaustion carved into his face, four days of grief written plain across every line of him. "Please, Y/N. Don't."
"Az, I don't—" She was already shaking her head, tears threatening despite everything, some old, exhausted instinct rising to protect herself from whatever fresh heartbreak this might turn into. "You can't just—"
"Listen to me." His voice cracked, raw and pleading in a way she'd never once heard from him, not in their entire history. "Please. Just listen. That's all I'm asking. Sixty seconds. If you still want to go through with this after I've said what I need to say, I will walk away, and I will never bother you again. I promise you that."
Y/N said nothing, frozen, and Azriel took her silence as the permission it was.
"I've been in love with you since the day you called me Azzie," he said, and his voice broke on the word, something desperate and unguarded bleeding through every syllable. "The very first day. I was so — I was so unbelievably terrible at admitting it, even to myself, that it took me months to even acknowledge what I was feeling, and I am so sorry for every single moment that cost you.”
Y/N's breath caught.
"I love the way you talk to everyone like they matter," he continued, voice unsteady but relentless, refusing to stop now that he'd started. "The way you gave my shadows a home when I never even bothered to ask if they wanted one. Do you know they've been in love with you since the very first night? They've never once shut up about you, not really, even when I ordered them to. Especially when I ordered them to, apparently — I've since learned they simply found other ways to circle around it."
A watery, disbelieving laugh escaped Y/N despite herself.
"I love your laugh," he said, closer now, close enough to reach for her hand if he dared, though he held himself back, careful, giving her every chance to stop him if she wanted. "I love your terrible jokes. I love the pastries, obviously, though mostly because you made them, if I'm being honest. I love how clumsy you are, and how your customers adore you even when they don't deserve it, and how you painted me with wings twice the size they actually are because apparently that's how you see me." His voice cracked further. "I love that you never once flinched away from my shadows, or my scars, or any part of me most people find unsettling. I love that you held my ruined hand like it was something worth holding."
"Az—" Y/N tried, voice breaking entirely.
"I'm not finished." He shook his head, desperate now, tears he made no effort to hide gathering at the edges of his own eyes. "I was an idiot, Y/N. The worst kind. I should have told you the moment I realized any of this — the moment we became friends again, any of a hundred moments where I chose fear and pride over just telling you the truth. I hurt you, so many times, in so many ways, and I understand if none of this changes anything. But I couldn't let you walk down this aisle without you knowing, at least once, exactly how much I love you. Every single part of you."
The garden had gone utterly silent, every guest frozen, watching, and Y/N stood there with tears streaming freely down her face, chest heaving, unable to find a single word.
"Y/N—" Azriel's voice had gone soft now, pleading. "Please. Say something. Anything."
She opened her mouth, some fragment of a response forming, and he cut her off, desperate, unable to stop himself.
"I know I don't deserve—"
"Shut up."
Azriel froze.
Y/N was already moving, tears streaming, dress rustling as she closed the distance between them, and her voice, when it came again, was fierce and unsteady all at once. "Shut up, Azriel. You had me at don't marry him."
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't gentle, not at first — desperate, searching, months of longing and heartbreak and every unspoken thing between them finally, finally colliding all at once, and Azriel made a sound low in his throat, something between disbelief and pure relief, before his arms wrapped tight around her, pulling her flush against him, kissing her back with everything he had.
The garden erupted into gasps and murmurs, several guests actually crying out in shock, but neither of them noticed, or cared, lost entirely in each other, his hand cradling the back of her head, hers fisted in the front of his chest, the kiss deepening, slow and searching now, years of longing finally, finally given somewhere to go.
He lifted her clean off her feet at some point, spinning her once, and she laughed against his mouth, breathless, before he set her back down and kissed her again, softer this time, reverent.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, Y/N's eyes went wide with sudden realization.
"You're my mate!"
"I am." Azriel was smiling, wide and unguarded, wetness still clinging to his lashes. "Took you long enough to notice."
"I knew something was going on with your shadows that day at the bakery! I knew it!"
"You did." He laughed, actually laughed, pulling her close again to kiss her once more, unable to stop himself now that he'd finally been allowed to start. "I've been dying to tell you for months."
"You're an idiot," she said, though there was no real heat in it, tears and laughter tangled together now.
"I know."
"You should have told me the second you knew—"
He kissed her again, cutting off the rest of the sentence, and she melted into it despite herself, both of them laughing softly between kisses, entirely wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the growing chaos of the garden around them.
"You look beautiful, by the way," he murmured, forehead resting against hers.
She rolled her eyes, though her whole face had gone soft. "I'm sorry, Az. For everything I—"
"You have nothing to apologize for." He cupped her face gently, thumb brushing away a fresh tear. "Nothing, Y/N. Do you hear me? None of this was ever your fault."
"Neither of us has to—" she started, and then Varian's voice cut through the moment, furious and disbelieving.
"You absolute whore—"
Azriel's expression shifted in an instant, something dark and lethal replacing the softness entirely, and he was moving before Y/N could grab his arm, crossing the last few feet to where Varian stood, still frozen in shock, and drove his fist into his jaw with a crack that echoed across the whole garden.
Varian went down hard, and the assembled guests erupted into fresh gasps, several of them scrambling back in alarm.
"That," Azriel said, standing over him, voice low and dangerous, "is for every single bruise you ever put on her." He hauled Varian up by the collar, drawing his fist back again. "And this—" another blow, sharp and precise "—is for making her believe, even for one single day, that she deserved any of it."
"Az—" Cassian's voice, amused but pointed, cutting through the fury.
Azriel drew back for a third strike, and this time it was Rhys who stepped in, catching his arm with a firm, steadying grip.
"Az. We've got this from here." Rhys's voice had gone gentle now, warm with real affection. "Go enjoy your mate. Cassian and I will handle whatever's left."
Azriel exhaled, hard, some of the fury bleeding slowly out of his shoulders, and dropped Varian without another word, turning back toward Y/N, who stood watching him with an expression somewhere between exasperated fondness and complete, overwhelming love.
The second his eyes found hers, every last trace of violence melted straight out of him, replaced by something soft and helpless and entirely, embarrassingly besotted.
"Hi," he said, crossing back to her, sheepish now.
"Hi," she echoed, laughing wetly, wrapping her arms around his neck the moment he was close enough. "You just punched my ex-fiancé at my own wedding."
"I'd do it again."
"I know." She kissed him again, soft this time, unhurried, both of them finally, fully allowed to simply exist in this — whatever chaos surrounded them, whatever mess still needed sorting behind them. "Take me home, Azzie."
Something in his chest went helplessly, gloriously warm at the name, spoken now not in teasing but in something far deeper, and he swept her up properly into his arms, wings unfurling behind him.
"Anywhere you want," he murmured against her hair, and launched them both into the sky, leaving the wreckage of the garden — and Varian, groaning on the ground beneath Cassian's boot — far behind.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
He'd flown them somewhere far enough from Velaris that no one would think to look — a small cabin tucked into the hills, one he'd kept quiet about for years, the kind of place a spymaster kept for exactly the reason a spymaster needed places like this: somewhere entirely, completely private.
He'd never once brought anyone here before.
Y/N had gasped when they landed, taking in the little stone cottage nestled against the hillside, wildflowers grown wild and untamed around the door, and had immediately, without asking permission from anyone, declared that she was making him cake.
"You're still in your wedding dress," Azriel had pointed out, watching her march straight past him toward the small kitchen with a determination that suggested arguing would be entirely pointless.
"I'm aware, Az. I'm capable of baking in a dress."
"You could ruin it."
"It's already served its purpose," she'd said, not quite meeting his eyes, and something in the flatness of her voice had made him cross the room and press a soft kiss to her temple instead of arguing further.
"Then bake," he'd murmured against her hair. "I'll watch."
So he watched, now, seated at the small kitchen table with his chin propped in one hand, utterly, hopelessly besotted, while Y/N moved around the kitchen in her wedding dress, silk skirts hitched up with one hand while she reached for flour, hair coming loose from its careful pins, a smear of batter already streaked across one cheek she hadn't noticed yet.
His shadows had installed themselves around her within minutes of arrival, as devoted as ever, several curled into her loosening hair, gently working out the pins she'd abandoned somewhere between "I'm making you cake" and actually locating the flour. One caught a dropped measuring spoon before it could clatter to the floor. Another adjusted the hem of her skirt, tucking it more securely out of the way of the oven, and a third simply hovered near her shoulder.
You did it, Master, one of the shadows whispered to him, drifting close, unable to contain itself any longer. You actually did it. She's finally yours.
She was ours first, another cut in, We found her name before you even knew you loved her. We whispered it to you for months.
Azriel shot the shadow a look sharp enough that it should have dissolved on contact. "She's not yours."
She could have been, if you'd told her sooner, the shadow pointed out, entirely unbothered by the glare. She called you Azzie the very first day, and you spent months pretending you didn't notice. We noticed. We always noticed.
"Enough." Azriel's voice carried enough warning that even the most stubborn of his shadows finally subsided, though not without a last, mutinous huff. "Let me enjoy my mate in peace. She's mine now. Not yours."
Fine, the shadow sighed, dramatically put-upon, though it drifted off toward the others with what looked, unmistakably, like a satisfied little curl.
"What are you all conspiring about over there?" Y/N called from the counter, glancing over with flour dusted across one wrist, entirely unaware of the argument that had just concluded on her behalf.
"Nothing," Azriel said, far too quickly.
"That is exactly what you said the last time they went crazy," she said, narrowing her eyes at him with open suspicion, though there was no real heat behind it, just fond, familiar teasing. "One day you're going to have to tell me what they keep whispering about."
"Maybe someday."
"Azzie." She drew the word out, playful, hips swaying slightly as she moved back to the oven, and Azriel felt something in his chest go warm and helpless at the sound of it — not slipped out by accident this time, not teasing at his expense, but offered freely, easily, exactly the way he'd spent months, without ever quite admitting it, hoping to hear it again.
"Yes, love?" he said, and watched, with quiet, private delight, the way color rose in her cheeks at the endearment — the first time he'd ever used one, he realized, the word settling comfortably into place like it had simply been waiting for permission.
"Would you like some tea while you wait?" she asked, voice gone slightly higher than usual, clearly still adjusting to this new, easy warmth between them. "I don't actually know if I have any that's good, I mostly just have the stuff Feyre gave me for my birthday, but—"
"Don't worry, love." He rose from the table, crossing to where she stood at the counter, and pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to her temple, lingering there a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Whatever you have is perfect."
She turned into him slightly, leaning back against his chest for just a moment, and Azriel wrapped one arm loosely around her waist, content, simply, to stand there and hold her while the oven ticked warm behind them.
He was, he thought distantly, watching her over her shoulder as she resumed mixing something, still wearing her wedding dress — pale silk clinging to every curve of her, delicate embroidery catching the late afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window — and found himself thinking, with a heat that had nothing to do with the oven, exactly how badly he wanted to peel that dress off her, slowly, deliberately, savoring every single second of it the way he intended to savor everything else about this night.
Later, he told himself, though it took real effort to loosen his grip on her waist and step back to give her room to work. Let her finish the cake first.
The cake, when it finally emerged from the oven some time later, was by Y/N's own immediate, anxious assessment, not nearly as good as anything from her actual bakery.
"I don't have all my usual ingredients," she said, setting a small plate in front of him with visible nerves, hovering close, watching his face with the particular anxiety of someone who'd staked entirely too much emotional weight on a single dessert. "And the oven here runs hotter than mine, I think, so it might be a little dry, and honestly I probably should have let it cool longer before—"
Azriel took a bite before she could finish the sentence.
"Oh—" She stopped mid-thought, watching him chew with an intensity that made her flush all over again.
He swallowed, slow, deliberate, holding her gaze the entire time, and felt, faint and warm along the edges of the mating bond, a small, private thrum of something, anticipation, nerves, hope, all tangled together, that he suspected mirrored exactly what was written plainly across her face.
"It's perfect," he said, and meant it entirely, though he suspected the cake itself had very little to do with why it tasted the way it did.
"You're just saying that."
"I'm not." He reached for her hand, pulling her gently down into the seat beside him, and took another bite, deliberately slow, watching her face soften with relief and something warmer underneath it. "It's the best thing I've ever eaten."
"Better than the actual lemon cake at the bakery?"
"Considerably better," he said, "though I suspect that has more to do with who made it than anything else."
She rolled her eyes, though she was smiling now, wide and unguarded, and Azriel finished the rest of the slice in record time, unable to keep his eyes off her the entire way through, something warm and full and settled sitting easy in his chest for the first time in what felt like years.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
They stayed at the little kitchen table a long while after that, talking about nothing in particular the way they always had, hands finding each other's over the worn wood, and it was somewhere in the middle of an entirely ordinary conversation about nothing at all that Azriel finally, unable to resist any longer, leaned across the small distance between them and kissed her properly.
She melted into it immediately, one hand coming up to cup his jaw, and when they finally broke apart, both breathless, she was smiling in a way that made his chest ache with how much he loved her.
"I love you," he said, quiet, still slightly disbelieving that he was allowed to say it now, freely, without any of the careful restraint he'd carried for so long.
"I love you too." Her voice caught slightly, tears gathering fast and sudden at the corners of her eyes. "I've loved you for so long, Az. I just never thought—"
"I know." He kissed the words away before they could turn into something sadder, gentle and slow. "I know, love. We don't have to talk about any of that tonight. Not tonight."
She nodded, and he kissed her again, and again, unhurried, until the conversation dissolved entirely into something wordless and warm, her fingers threading through his hair, his hands settling at her waist, both of them simply, finally allowed to exist in this without anything else pressing in around them.
His shadows, mercifully, had made themselves scarce for the better part of an hour, though Azriel caught, occasionally, the faint whisper of one or two drifting past the window, apparently keeping a respectful, if curious, distance.
"Azzie," Y/N murmured, some time later, breathless, forehead resting against his. "Baby."
Something in his chest went completely undone at the word.
"Yes, love?"
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly, something soft and a little shy and entirely, devastatingly certain all at once. "Why don't you come take this dress off me?"
Azriel felt every last coherent thought in his head simply evaporate.
"I've been dying to," he admitted, voice gone rough, and rose from the chair in one smooth motion, sweeping her up easily into his arms.
She laughed, delighted, arms winding tight around his neck as he carried her toward the small back room, and he set her down gently at the edge of the bed, already searching for the delicate row of buttons trailing down the back of her dress, fingers slightly unsteady with a nervousness that felt, somehow, entirely new despite everything.
"You're shaking," she teased, voice soft, watching him over her shoulder.
"I've been thinking about this for longer than you probably realize," he admitted, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of her shoulder as the first few buttons finally gave way, "and now that it's actually happening, I find I want to take my time with it."
"That so?"
"Every single second," he murmured, kissing along the newly bared skin of her back, unhurried, deliberate, "for as long as you'll let me."
He caught, distantly, the faint rustle of a few shadows lingering near the doorway — helpful, apparently, when it came to finding a particularly stubborn button hidden near her waist, though he shot them a pointed look the moment he noticed, and they retreated, chastened but visibly satisfied with their small contribution, dissolving back into the dark corners of the room.
Y/N shivered beneath his hands as another button gave way, silk sliding loose across her shoulders, and Azriel pressed one more kiss to the curve of her neck, lingering there, breathing her in.
"Az," she whispered, voice unsteady now, something warm and wanting threading through it.
"I've got you," he murmured against her skin, and meant it in every sense of the word — every promise he'd ever failed to keep before this, finally, entirely, made right. "I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever again."
She turned in his arms, dress slipping further, and reached up to pull him down into another kiss, slower now, deeper, everything unspoken between them finally given all the room it needed.
"You know," he murmured, lips brushing hers, voice low and rough with something that made her breath catch, "you're finally about to find out exactly how good these hands are."
Y/N went completely, gloriously red, and buried her burning face against his shoulder with a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"Azriel—"
"What?" He was grinning now, entirely too pleased with himself, tilting her chin back up to look at her properly. "I've been told they're quite skilled."
"Oh my gods—"
Whatever else she might have said dissolved into something wordless and warm as he kissed her again, slow and deep, and the last of the wedding dress finally, gently slipped free, and the little cabin in the hills fell quiet around them, holding nothing but the two of them, finally, completely, entirely each other's.
a/n: AND THAT'S A WRAP ON STOP THE WEDDING 😭😭😭 this fic means so much to me (cuz its the first one i made 😛) and I'm so glad you all loved azriel and his ridiculous, devoted shadows as much as I do. until the next one 🖤 and again, thank you all so much!
taglist: @azdept @littlepippilongstocking @beautiful-creatures-xo-blog @karolamurdock @potatoheartsyou
Cling to Me*
Azriel x Mate!Femalereader
Summary: After weeks apart on a dangerous mission, Azriel returns home to his mate and refuses to let go of you, and he shows just how much he missed you while he was gone.
Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected sex (🤷🏻♀️), small breeding kink, Azriel is a lovesick puppy, clingy!azriel, morning sex, praising/dirty talk.
Authors note: guess who finally has a Saturday off where she can spend her Friday night editing posts for yall? THATS RIGHT, THIS GIRL🫡. Omg I have been missing posting and having you guys read my thoughts 😭. But as always, hope yall enjoy and love yall🫶🏻
Main Masterlist:
⋆⁺₊✧ ─── ✧₊⁺⋆
The first thing you felt when you woke up was warmth.
Not the warmth of the blankets wrapped around your body or the gentle morning sunlight spilling through the curtains.
It was your Azriel. Solid, steady, and completely surrounding you.
One arm was draped securely around your waist, holding you against his chest as though sometime during the night he'd decided even an inch of distance was too much.
His face was tucked into the crook of your neck, dark hair brushing your skin with every slow breath he took.
The familiar scent of cedar, night-chilled air, and something uniquely him lingered around you, comforting and unmistakable.
For a moment, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, you simply melted deeper into his embrace, feeling the weight of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the quiet certainty that after weeks apart, he was finally home.
He was wrapped around you from behind so tightly it was almost impossible to tell where you ended and he began. One arm was draped across your waist, the other tucked beneath your pillow, his face buried against your shoulder.
And he was awake.
You knew because every few seconds you felt the soft brush of his lips against your skin.
Like he was making up for every kiss he'd missed while he was gone.
One landed on your bare shoulder, lingering for a moment before he pulled away. Then another followed, higher this time, along the delicate line of your neck.
His arm tightened slightly around your waist between each kiss, as though he needed the reassurance that you were truly there—that this wasn't another lonely morning waking up on a mission miles away from home.
A sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you lay still and listened.
His voice was rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur against your skin.
"I missed you."
The words were followed by another gentle kiss pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your neck.
His breath fanned warmly across your skin as he nuzzled closer.
"So much."
There was a quiet ache in his voice that made your chest tighten. Weeks apart seemed to have settled heavily on him, and now that he was home, he couldn't seem to stop touching you.
Another kiss but this time it was softer, as if almost reverent.
"I love you."
The confession was whispered like a secret, spoken into the quiet morning as his lips brushed your skin once more.
As though after all this time together, after every mission and every goodbye, he still felt the need to tell you whenever he had the chance. As though being near you again had left him overflowing with all the things he'd been unable to say while he was gone.
You couldn't help the giggle that escaped you.
The sound had barely left your lips before his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against him.
"There she is."
His voice was rough with sleep, low and warm from disuse, and there was something undeniably pleased in the way he said it. Like he'd been waiting for you to wake up. Like hearing your laugh was the reward he'd been after all morning.
A smile tugged at your lips as you shifted in his embrace.
Slowly, you turned until you were facing him.
The movement drew his attention immediately.
Azriel lifted his head from your shoulder, and the moment his eyes met yours, something in his expression softened.
Instantly.
The teasing hint of a smile faded into something gentler.
Something warmer.
Gods, the shadowsinger looked utterly ruined.
His dark hair was a mess from sleep, falling across his forehead in unruly strands. His eyes were still heavy-lidded and tired, carrying the remnants of sleep, but they brightened the second they settled on your face. There was no carefully controlled mask, no unreadable expression, no sign of the feared spymaster that made entire courts nervous.
Just Azriel.
A male who looked like he'd spent weeks missing you.
His gaze drifted slowly across your features, as though he was reacquainting himself with every detail he'd been forced to remember from afar.
The curve of your smile. The sleepiness still lingering in your eyes. The way the morning light caught against your skin.
And the longer he looked at you, the softer his expression became.
Like simply seeing you was enough to quiet every restless thought in his head.
For a moment, he said nothing at all.
Just stared.
A small, almost disbelieving smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as though he still couldn't quite believe he was home and waking up beside you instead of in some lonely camp halfway across Prythian.
His hand slid gently along your side, a silent reassurance that you were real, that you were here, and that he didn't have to leave again today.
"There you are," he murmured.
The words were low and warm, still rough from sleep. His gaze lingered on your face as though he was reassuring himself that you were truly there, that this wasn't another dream he'd wake up from.
Weeks apart had clearly done a number on him, because the moment your eyes met his, something in his expression eased. The tension lingering around his eyes softened, replaced by quiet relief and affection.
You smiled at him.
"I was here the whole time."
"I know."
His lips twitched at the corners, the hint of a smile appearing as he continued looking at you.
There was something almost fondly exasperated in his expression, as if he knew exactly what you meant but couldn't help feeling like he'd found you all over again anyway.
His attention never wavered, drinking in every detail of your sleepy face like he'd missed far too many mornings waking up beside you.
Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. When he pulled back, his eyes flicked over your features before he dipped down again, pressing another kiss to your cheek.
The affection was effortless, instinctive, like breathing. Then his lips found the corner of your mouth, lingering there for a brief second before he drew back.
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
The sound immediately caught his attention. His eyes brightened and when you instinctively tried to lean away, he followed without hesitation, closing the small distance you'd created.
There was no hiding the fact that he wanted to be as close to you as possible, his gaze fixed entirely on you as though nothing else in the world existed.
"Azriel."
"Hm?"
The response came immediately, his focus never leaving you. There was an innocent quality to the sound that would have been believable if he wasn't currently attached to your side.
"You're being clingy."
"No."
The denial came far too quickly.
You raised an eyebrow at him, unable to keep the amusement from your face. One look at the way he was wrapped around you was enough to prove otherwise.
"You absolutely are."
His smirk appeared immediately.
The same smirk that always made your stomach flutter.
He tugged you closer until there wasn't even an inch between you.
"I've been gone for weeks."
"You've been home for three days."
"And?"
You rolled your eyes.
And then he melted the second he brushed his nose against yours.
It was subtle at first—just the faintest nudge, a gentle sweep of his nose along yours as he leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed your lips.
The touch was almost playful, almost testing, like he was making sure you were really there before he let himself fully fall into the moment.
And the second you didn't move away, didn't disappear, something in his expression softened even further, like relief had finally settled deep into his bones.
Gods, he had missed you.
It wasn't just in the words he said. It was in the way his hand stayed at your waist like it belonged there.
In the way his gaze kept flicking over your face, slow and careful, like he was memorizing you all over again after too many nights of having nothing but memory to hold onto.
Like he was checking—quietly, desperately—that every detail was still real.
You could feel it in every touch.
Every time his fingers flexed slightly against your skin, as if grounding himself. Every time his thumb brushed absentmindedly along your side.
Every time his lips found you again without hesitation, softer now, less urgent, like he no longer had to rush because you weren't going anywhere.
Every look.
His eyes didn't just meet yours—they stayed there, unwavering, like he was afraid that if he looked away even for a second, he'd lose the proof that you were here beside him.
There was no distance in him now, no careful control. Just open, quiet devotion he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.
Every kiss. Which was slow and lingering, as if each one was a reminder he was allowed to have this again.
His gaze drifted over your face as though reassuring himself you were really there.
That he wasn't dreaming.
That the bed beneath him, the warmth of your body, the soft morning light—it was all real.
That he was really home.
That he could finally stop sleeping alone.
A softer smile settled on his lips, not teasing this time, but something gentler—something almost vulnerable in its ease.
"I'm never leaving again."
The words were quiet, but certain, like a promise he fully intended to keep.
That made you laugh.
It came out light, teasing, already knowing exactly where this was going.
"Yeah?"
The way you said it wasn't just a question—it was playful, drawn out slightly, like you were testing him, like you were daring him to double down while your fingers stayed tangled in his hair.
His eyes flicked over yours instantly, catching on the tone.
"Yeah."
You tilted your head slightly, a teasing spark in your expression now.
"You have a job, Az."
"Don't care."
That was immediate. Like the entire Night Court could burn for all he cared in that exact moment.
You laughed harder.
The sound came out brighter this time, like the tension that had been lingering between you both had finally melted away into something softer, easier.
It echoed lightly in the quiet room as you shook your head at him, still unable to believe how completely unfazed he was by the idea of abandoning the Night Court for the sake of staying wrapped around you.
"The Night Court might."
Azriel didn't even blink at that.
"They'll survive."
His answer was immediate, calm, as though he'd already decided the entire court was a secondary concern compared to where he was right now.
His thumb traced a slow, absent line against your waist beneath the blankets, like he didn't even realize he was doing it—like touching you was as natural as breathing.
"You say that now."
"They can send Cassian."
That earned you a snort you couldn't hold back.
You tilted your head slightly, amusement bright in your eyes as you pictured it far too easily.
"Cassian would fly all the way to our house just to throw something at your head."
Azriel's mouth twitched.
"Probably."
There was no hesitation or defense. Just agreement delivered with the same calm certainty as everything else he said.
And yet, he still didn't look even slightly concerned.
If anything, he looked... comfortable.
Completely, unapologetically settled into you like nothing else mattered beyond this moment, this bed, this morning.
Azriel looked entirely unbothered by the possibility.
Like the world outside could rage, complain, demand him back—and it would all still feel distant compared to the way your body fit against his.
His attention never left you.
Not once.
Like no matter what he said, no matter how easily he dismissed the Night Court or Cassian's inevitable rage, the truth was simple:
Never could, when he got like this.
His hand slid up your side beneath the blankets, the movement unhurried and familiar, like he already knew every place you would soften under his touch.
His palm settled at your waist with a quiet possessiveness that wasn't sharp or demanding, just steady, anchoring you to him as he leaned in closer, his presence filling the space between you until there was nothing left of the morning chill.
He stole another kiss. Like he had all the time in the world now that he was finally back where he belonged.
Soft enough that it didn't feel like it was taken, but given—carefully, completely—until it left your thoughts foggy and your lips curving instinctively against his.
The kind that left you smiling against his mouth.
When he finally pulled away, it wasn't far. Just enough to breathe, just enough to look at you.
His forehead came to rest gently against yours, the touch grounding and intimate in a way that made everything else feel distant and unimportant.
His breath mingled with yours, slow and steady, as if he was still settling into the fact that you were real and right here.
His wings shifted behind him.
A faint rustle of dark feathers, stretching slightly before relaxing again, like even they had finally given up their tension.
There was no guarded edge to him now, no readiness for departure—just stillness, like his body had decided it no longer needed to prepare to leave.
"Missed this," he admitted quietly.
The words were so simple, but they carried more weight than they should have, slipping between you like something fragile and honest that he didn't bother hiding anymore.
Your heart squeezed.
"What?"
His eyes softened.
"Waking up with you."
The teasing disappeared from your expression.
It faded so quickly it almost surprised you—like it simply couldn't survive in the face of the way he was looking at you. There was nothing playful left in him now, nothing light to hide behind.
Just Azriel, stripped down to something honest and quiet, watching you as if the space between heartbeats had stretched too long while he was away.
Because there was something achingly sincere in the way he said it.
His voice hadn't been loud, hadn't needed to be. It carried anyway, heavy with meaning, like every word had been dragged out of him after weeks of holding it in.
As though those lonely nights away had settled deep into his bones, making even the simplest promises feel weightier now that he was finally home.
As though those lonely nights away had felt far longer than the weeks he'd actually been gone.
Like time had stretched and bent in his absence until every day blurred into the next, until sleep had stopped feeling like rest and started feeling like waiting.
You lifted a hand and brushed your fingers through his dark hair.
The strands were soft under your touch, slightly messy from sleep, and the moment your fingers slid through them, something in his expression shifted.
His shoulders eased without him even thinking about it, and he leaned into you immediately, like instinct alone guided him closer.
Immediately he leaned into the touch.
Not hesitant. Not restrained. Just openly drawn in, like he'd been waiting for it without realizing.
Like a cat seeking affection.
Eyes half-lidded, tension gone, completely content to melt into your hand as though nothing else in the world mattered at all.
"You big sap."
A small grin tugged at his mouth at that, slow and unbothered, as if he accepted the accusation without a single argument.
A laugh rumbled from his chest.
Low and warm, pressed right into the space between you as he stayed exactly where he was, still leaning into your touch like he had no intention of moving anytime soon.
"Only for you."
You smiled and pulled him down until his head rested against your chest.
For once, the infamous Shadowsinger didn't argue.
He didn't offer a dry retort, didn't try to deflect it with humor, didn't shift away like he usually would when emotions got too heavy or too exposed.
Instead, he just stayed there, completely still, as if the simplest truth was the only thing worth acknowledging in that moment.
There was no mask, no careful distance, no Spymaster control—just Azriel, bare in the quiet of the morning, looking at you like he had finally stopped running from how much he felt.
Didn't move.
His hold on you only tightened slightly, instinctively, as though even the smallest space between you felt wrong now that he had you again.
His breathing stayed slow and steady, but his eyes never left your face, watching you with an intensity that wasn't sharp or guarded, just soft and overwhelmed in a way he didn't bother hiding anymore.
Didn't pretend to be anything other than a male hopelessly in love with his mate.
It was written all over him—every lingering look, every absent brush of his thumb against your skin, every quiet second where he seemed like he was memorizing you all over again.
Weeks away had stripped him down to this: no pride, no distance, just the simple, unshakable need to be near you and stay there.
His arms wrapped around you again.
And it was so firm and such a warm familiar feeling. Completely unwilling to let go as he pulled you back into him like it was the only place that made sense.
Holding you close.
As though if he loosened his grip even slightly, you might disappear into the sunlight spilling across the sheets.
And as the morning light finally poured fully into the room, catching in his dark hair and warming the skin between you, Azriel pressed one last kiss against your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he was sealing a promise into your skin.
"Definitely never leaving again," he whispered.
You laughed.
And judging by the stubborn look on his face, he wasn't joking.
Azriel didn't move when your laughter faded.
He just stayed there, forehead still resting against yours, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the feeling of being this close again. His hand didn't leave your waist. If anything, it tightened slightly, like some instinct in him still didn't fully trust that you were real.
And then his gaze dipped to your lips. Like the thought formed before he even realized it.
You felt it in the shift of him first—the way the air between you changed, the way his thumb paused mid-stroke against your skin. The softness didn't disappear, but it deepened into something heavier. Something quieter.
"Azriel..." you murmured, but there was no real warning in it.
His eyes flicked back to yours.
"Hm?" That innocent sound should not have belonged to a male looking at you like that.
You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. "You're staring."
"I know."
The honesty of it made your breath catch a little.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Just stayed there, close enough that every breath you took belonged to him, close enough that you could feel the faint brush of his exhale against your lips.
His hand slid up your side again, slower this time, like he was giving himself permission instead of acting on instinct. Like he was deciding, in real time, how far he was allowed to fall into you.
And then he kissed you again. It was slow and deliberate, like he had finally stopped holding anything back.
It wasn't rushed, but it wasn't gentle in the way of restraint either—it was controlled, deep, like he was pouring every week apart into it. The kind of kiss that made your thoughts blur at the edges, made your fingers curl instinctively into his shirt without you even realizing.
When he finally pulled back, it was only barely.
His lips still hovered against yours.
His voice was quieter now.
"I meant it," he murmured.
You blinked slowly. "What?"
His thumb brushed your cheek, grounding you as his gaze stayed locked on yours.
"I'm not leaving again." The words should have sounded dramatic. But in his voice, they didn't.
They sounded like a decision already made. Your chest tightened.
"You can't just—"
"I can," he cut in softly.
There was no arrogance in it. Just certainty. Just him.
And then, almost like he couldn't help himself, his mouth found yours again—slower this time, deeper, like the promise had finally loosened something in him that had been wound too tight for too long.
This kiss lingered longer.
Heat building gradually instead of all at once.
His hand shifted from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until there wasn't any space left to argue with him, until the only thing left to feel was him—warm, solid, entirely there.
When he finally broke away, it wasn't far.
His forehead rested against yours again, but now his breathing was different—slightly uneven, quieter in a way that didn't match his usual control.
"Missed this," he admitted again, softer this time.
He gripped you firmly, fingers digging in as he pulled your body flush against his. The hard length of his cock pressed between your thighs, and he ground against your bare pussy in slow, deliberate rolls that made your breath hitch.
A low moan escaped you right into his mouth when he captured your lips again. The kiss he started turned messy fast—tongues sliding, teeth nipping, saliva slicking your chins as he devoured every sound you made.
Azriel broke the kiss only long enough to line himself up. The blunt head of his cock nudged your entrance, then he pushed inside in one smooth thrust. Your back arched hard off the sheets. The sudden stretch ripped a loud, surprised moan from your throat.
He chuckled against your lips, voice low and rough, "atta girl. Take it, baby."
You nodded frantically, foreheads pressed together as he started to move. Your legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. Each thrust rocked you into the mattress. The wet sound of your pussy taking his cock filled the sunlit room.
Azriel's praises poured out between kisses.
"So fucking tight... taking me so well... my perfect mate."
You moaned louder, clenching around him, kissing him hard as pleasure built fast. Your orgasm hit with a sharp cry, pussy pulsing and fluttering on his cock, slick coating his length as you came.
"Please," you gasped against his mouth. "Come inside me... fill me up, Azriel. Breed me."
A dark, hungry sound rumbled in his chest. His hips snapped harder, the breeding instinct flaring bright in his eyes.
"Gonna pump you full, sweetheart. Gonna stuff this pretty pussy until it's dripping with my cum."
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a groan, hot spurts flooding your core. He kissed you through it, swallowing every whimper, then whispered against your lips,
"We're never leaving this bed."
You giggled, the sound turning into another moan when he started grinding his still-hard cock inside you again. Your hand slapped his back, fingers curling into muscle as he began fucking you deeper once more.
Azriel didn't stop moving. His hips rolled in a steady rhythm, the thick head of his cock dragging along your inner walls with every slow thrust.
You felt every inch of him, the way his length stretched you open, the way his balls pressed against your ass when he bottomed out.
Sweat slicked your skin where your bodies met, and the morning light painted golden stripes across his shoulders.
His mouth found your neck next, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear before he sucked a mark there.
You tilted your head to give him better access, fingers sliding up to tangle in his dark hair again. He groaned into your skin, the vibration traveling straight down to where you were joined.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he muttered, voice hoarse. "So wet for me. So ready to take every drop I give you."
You clenched around him at the words, and he responded by snapping his hips faster. The bed creaked beneath you.
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper with each thrust. He shifted his angle slightly, and the new position had the head of his cock rubbing right against that perfect spot inside you.
A broken moan tore from your throat. Azriel lifted his head to watch your face, eyes dark with lust and something softer.
"That's it," he praised. "Let me hear you. Let everyone in this house know who's making you feel this good."
His shadows curled around your wrists, not binding but caressing, cool tendrils contrasting with the heat of his body.
One shadow slipped between your bodies to circle your clit in lazy strokes while he fucked you. The added sensation made your back arch again, pushing your breasts against his chest.
Azriel dipped his head and caught one nipple between his lips, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak before he switched to the other side, leaving both glistening.
You writhed beneath him, hips meeting his thrusts, chasing the building pressure low in your belly.
"Azriel," you gasped. "Please—harder."
He obliged immediately, driving into you with more force. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Your pussy fluttered around his cock, already close again from the relentless stimulation.
He released your nipple with a wet pop and kissed his way back up to your mouth, swallowing your next moan.
"Come for me again," he ordered against your lips. "Come on my cock so I can fill you up one more time."
The command pushed you over the edge. Your second orgasm crashed through you harder than the first.
Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing rhythmically as slick gushed out around his thrusting length.
You cried out into the kiss, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Azriel fucked you through it, hips never slowing, praises falling from his mouth between kisses.
"Good girl... so fucking beautiful when you come... taking me so deep."
When your tremors finally eased, he slowed his pace just enough to grind his pelvis against your clit with every roll of his hips.
The overstimulation made you whimper, but you didn't ask him to stop. Instead you pulled him closer, legs locked tight, and whispered against his jaw.
"Want your cum again. Want you to breed me until it leaks out."
The words triggered something primal in him. His rhythm faltered for a second before he slammed into you with renewed purpose. One hand slid under your ass, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts at a deeper angle. The other braced beside your head, muscles flexing with every movement.
"Gonna give it to you," he growled. "Gonna pump this pussy so full you'll feel me for days. My mate. My everything."
You felt the moment he started to come. His cock swelled inside you, and then hot jets of cum flooded your core in thick pulses.
He buried his face in your neck, groaning your name as his hips jerked with each spurt. You held him through it, hands stroking down his back, feeling every tremor that ran through his powerful body.
Even after he finished, he didn't pull out. He stayed buried deep, rolling his hips in lazy circles that pushed his cum deeper inside you. The sensation made you moan softly, oversensitive but unwilling to let him go.
Azriel lifted his head, eyes soft now despite the hunger still simmering beneath. He brushed damp hair from your forehead and kissed you slow and sweet.
"We're never leaving this bed," he repeated, voice warm with affection. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until I've filled you so many times you can't walk straight."
You laughed breathlessly, the sound mixing with another moan when he started moving again—slow, deep thrusts that promised he meant every word.
WHERE THE MOON SHINES BETWEEN US – masterlist Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader
synopsis As the sister to the greatest Night Court High Lord in history, the one thing you share with Azriel is that you live in Rhysand’s shadows—each in your own way. But even being hidden can’t stop your life from shattering, over and over again. When a bargain ties you and the shadowsinger together, what will stop that from being fractured, too?
tags yearning, slow burn, angst, hurt-comfort, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, inner circle, found family, did i mention SLOW BURN, this fic is literally her entire immortal life,
warnings features the spring court attack, under the mountain with rhys centuries later, & everything before, after, and in between.
contents
˖⁺. one | THE BEGINNING ˖⁺. two | THE BEGINNING ˖⁺. three | THE BEGINNING ˖⁺. four | BEYOND, AZRIEL
˖⁺. five | BELOW, BEFORE ˖⁺. six | AZRIEL, BELOW, THE BEGINNING
˖⁺. seven | HOME, BEYOND ˖⁺. eight | BEFORE, AZRIEL, BEYOND ˖⁺. nine | BEYOND
˖⁺. ten | BARE ˖⁺. eleven | BARE ˖⁺. twelve | BARE
taglist is open, just comment on any chapter or this post!
author's note hello loviessss i have so many writing projects i should be doing but i simply couldn't get this slowburn concept out of my head. expect (a) azriel x reader duh and (b) the centuries-long butterfly effect of rhysand's sister surviving the spring court attack. all events are as close to the canon timeline as possible, so fair warning: it will include the spring court attack and under the mountain in detail.
i have HUGE plans for this fic & i'm not sure how long it will be word count wise by the end. i already have quite a few chapters written and will be updating ~ weekly, so just comment if you'd like to be tagged in updates! <3