Growing Pains
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.
Warnings: light angst, light fluff, jealousy!!! pining, pregnancy hormones and possessiveness, an argument, azriel has a hard time with emotional regulation, azriel hates the autumn court, azriel gets humbled, azriels having a bad time tbh
Word Count: 7.9k
Universe Masterlist
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Standing outside your door, Azriel feels the kind of anticipation he's only heard about in stories—the sweet, almost painful sort that makes his chest tight and his hands restless.
Three minutes ago, he'd arrived—precisely on time, as always. Punctuality has become ritual between you. One of many small traditions you've built without ever discussing them. You'd yelled out a soft "Coming!" and he'd heard the familiar shuffle of your rush.
While he waits, his shadows purr and preen, singing as they prepare to greet you, to reconnect with the lone tendril that's taken residence in your life.
It's fascinating, really. How much he looks forward to these moments. How the highlight of his weeks have become simply existing in your orbit— being around you. Around his child.
The words still catch him off-guard. He half expects to wake one morning and find it's all been some strange, unprompted dream.
But Azriel doesn't sleep enough to dream. Even on the rare occasions he surrenders to the night's delicate grasp, the only things he finds are nightmares.
His mind isn't kind enough to create something this special.
Wind gusts as you swing the door open.
Your scent hits him first—gods, your scent—and Azriel's throat works around a swallow. You offer him a smile in greeting. It's tight and close-lipped, but your eyes are soft. The message is clear enough: whatever hesitancy is written into your features has nothing to do with him.
A black wisp floats above your shoulder. Azriel smiles, softly, at his shadow. The mass coiling around his form surges forward—circling you both, reuniting with Ink in a way that feels entirely too intimate. Two halves of himself becoming whole.
You take in the sight of the reunion. Azriel takes in the sight of you.
The circles under your eyes have darkened. You're not sleeping well. The observation tightens something in his chest—half concern, half the temptation to ask, to know—but you meet his gaze and raise a brow.
A challenge and a warning in one.
He gives you an understanding nod. "After you,” he says, and gestures down the hallway.
You step past him. He tests your door— locked—as you turn away. The movement sends another wave of your scent curling through the air.
His eyes flutter shut, just long enough to be indulgent. Maybe borderline inappropriate.
Every week it gets stronger. Sweeter. More familiar. A life he hasn't met and somehow knows intimately. Mixed with you—your skin, your shampoo, the soap you favor—it nearly buckles his knees.
The one downside of this new life is the confusion currently singing through his blood. A natural pull to you that has him questioning everything— his judgment, his boundaries, his own damned mind. He'd expected it would come eventually. This strange in-between. The blurred line between instinct and his growing closeness with you.
He just didn't expect to like it so much. To crave it the way he does. He's practically scenting the air like some feral thing.
His shadows brush his burning cheeks.
Insane, he tells himself, chastising. You're acting insane.
Hmmm, his shadows sing back, amused. Sweetness never hurts.
Traitors.
He blushes even more and sends a silent prayer of thanks to the gods that you haven't noticed, then catches up soundlessly.
As he descends beside you, his focus sharpens on the practicalities weighing heavier each week. The stairs in your building—worn edges, chipped corners, a railing that wobbles when he applies pressure. How long before it's irresponsible to let you navigate two flights? How long before your center of gravity shifts enough to make these steps a danger?
He doubts you'd accept being winnowed up and down. Doubts the babe would enjoy it either.
"I feel like a child being picked up for an appointment," you grumble.
His eyes land on you. "Technically, there is a child being picked up for an appointment."
"So I'm the transportation method?"
Azriel bites back his grin. "Sure."
"Like a horse," you scoff. "Lovely."
"Look on the bright side," Azriel says, holding the building's door open. "Everyone loves horses."
"I don't." You scowl at him as he falls into step. "Do you?"
His steps falter.
Azriel did, in fact, not like horses. And horses, he was confident, did not like him.
He'd only been around them a handful of times. Mostly with Mor. While he could appreciate their regal bearing, he'd never grown fond. They sensed something predator in him— something that made their eyes roll white with instinctive terror. His shadows made it worse. Always too curious, too desperate to touch.
Azriel never really cared. There’s no use for a steed when you have wings. Riding is near-impossible for any Illyrian anyway—the frustrating burden of attempting to maneuver wing positions.
He runs his tongue along his cheek. "That's besides the point."
You roll your eyes with your usual fondness. It's muted today, though. You chew at your bottom lip.
The habit's grown incessant throughout your pregnancy. Azriel stopped trying to correct it weeks ago. The last time he'd pointed out the bleeding, you'd sent him a glare so withering he'd wished Nesta could witness it—a true masterclass in silent fury. Another time, on a particularly rough day, you'd threatened to make his lips bleed if he kept pointing things out with his "creepily attentive eyes."
You'd apologized later. He'd found it hilarious. So had Cassian, when he'd recounted it during training.
So he just watches. Catalogs. Worries quietly. Then forces himself to focus on the walk.
Summer is ending now, and the promise of Autumn is creeping into Velaris slowly.
It feels almost poetic, watching the city transform as your pregnancy progresses—both of you blossoming into something new. Time moves differently for Azriel now. Faster. More significant.
He sees life everywhere.
Birds gathering in preparation for migration. Leaves beginning their slow turn to amber and gold. Shopkeepers hanging garlands of dried flowers and wheat in their windows, the scent of cinnamon drifting from doorways.
A male walking toward you glances over, his gaze lingering on your face with obvious interest. It's the kind of look Azriel recognizes—appreciative, curious. He can't entirely fault him. You're beautiful. That much has always been true.
Truthfully, you've grown even more devastating over the past few weeks.
The male's eyes start to drift lower, toward your stomach, and something unfurls in Azriel's chest. Hot and immediate, like a blade drawn from fire.
Usually when walking through Velaris, Azriel makes himself small. Unintimidating. Wings folded tight, shadows leashed, offering polite nods to citizens brave enough to meet his gaze.
A weapon, yes. But a sheathed one.
At least in their presence.
But now, he lets a few shadows drift forward. Lets them curl around his shoulders like smoke rising from a fresh burn. A dark warning.
The male takes one look at Azriel's face and quickly crosses to the other side of the street.
Satisfaction flickers through him, but his jaw remains locked. The territorial instinct sits heavy in his chest, all that Illyrian possessiveness he's spent centuries learning to control, now stirred to vicious life by your changing scent. By the child you carry.
His child, some primitive part of his brain reminds him, and his breathing requires active management to keep steady.
You notice, of course.
He catches the sideways glance that says you saw what happened. He waits for the sharp comment, maybe a lecture about scaring innocent citizens.
Nothing comes.
Azriel sighs. "I'm protective. Sue me."
"Protective is one thing." You raise a brow, amused. "That was borderline territorial."
Too close to the truth. "Is that a problem?"
You consider this, chewing on that poor bottom lip again. "Yeah. Maybe don't do that."
Then you're walking again, that subdued energy wrapping around you once more.
The lack of fight unnerves him.
You're more lively than this. You call out his nonsense. It's what makes this work—what makes the terror of impending fatherhood feel manageable. Enjoyable, even.
There's clear weight here. In these visits to Madja. Even the first appointment had been met with reluctance, despite it being a more-than necessary step.
He'd first thought it was an issue of environment. Things were more natural in Illyria. Births and healings happening in familiar spaces, surrounded by community. Yet, when he'd suggested home visits, as Madja had done for Feyre, you'd shot him down immediately.
Madja's insistence on frequent check-ups hadn't helped—residual paranoia from Feyre's pregnancy, though your situation bore no resemblance. Slightly unnerving, having their healer show visible anxiety, but Azriel supposed he appreciated caution over regret.
He watches the tension in your body language as you walk.
What troubles you?
He shifts closer. Close enough that his shadows can navigate around soft sunlight. If he's lucky—and sly—perhaps your designated shadow, your sweet Ink, might peek out from its hiding place in the gap of your wing. Might whisper what's wrong so he can fix it.
The tendril retreats, almost chastising.
Azriel deflates.
Fair enough. He'd made a promise, after all. No spying. No shadows slipping where they don't belong.
Eventually, he tells himself, you'll open up.
It's just a matter of time.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The clinic smells like healing herbs and sterile cleanliness.
You settle into an oversized waiting chair, and Azriel takes the seat beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushes yours.
"It'll be quick," he says. "Maybe afterward we can walk around. Check some things off your list."
Your brow rises. "My list?"
"The tailored clothes you mentioned. Warmer ones that'll accommodate both your wings and..." He gestures vaguely at your stomach, still fumbling for the right word. Your belly? The bump? The babe? Our baby? Everything sounds either too clinical or too intimate. "You need new boots. And that tea blend Elain recommended."
You stare at him. "Do you make a note of everything I mention?"
"I pay attention."
"Freak."
His mouth opens in mock offense. Your lips quirk up in amusement.
"Azriel." You lean closer. He fights the urge to breathe you in. "It's sweet that you're so worried about me. But your antsy energy is really unsettling. So, again, I'm okay. Seriously."
His ears burn. "I—"
"But yes," you continue, cutting off his deflection, "we can walk around a bit afterward." You shift with a small groan. "Not a ton, though. I'm not feeling the best today."
"Why?" The question escapes fast. He sits ramrod straight, shadows swirling. "Is something wrong? Is it the babe?"
You study his intensity, brow furrowing. Then you laugh—small, but genuine. "Just some soreness. My wings, my back." You roll your shoulders, wincing. "The usual suspects."
"Okay. Tell Madja."
You smile. The first real one today. Slightly mocking, but he doesn't care. "I know. I will."
Azriel knows his protectiveness may be, slightly, overbearing. But fatherhood has awakened a level of concern he didn't know he possessed. He's tortured people without flinching, walked into certain death without hesitation, but the thought of you in danger, in pain—
It unmakes him. His hands shake at the thought.
Your smile eases the vise around his chest. A glimpse of you beneath the anxiety. For one fragile moment, he thinks maybe today will be different—
A new scent crashes into his awareness.
Male. Unfamiliar. Strong.
Every instinct snaps taut. His shadows stir restlessly as footsteps approach.
A figure appears in the doorway.
You stand immediately. Azriel rises with you, his hand finding the small of your back—steadying, possessive. When you don't pull away, fierce victory purrs through him.
Shame follows close behind. Guilt at the arrogant pride that now swells in his chest.
The male is tall. Well-built. Vitiligo traces patterns around his right eye, down his cheek. A stark streak of white through his dark hair, lashes and brows dusted pale.
Appealing. Approachable. The kind of face that puts people at ease.
Azriel continues to catalogue every detail with predatory focus. The confident posture. A healer's build—strength tempered with gentleness. His scent carries herbs and fae magic, but nothing threatening.
Nothing that should make Azriel's jaw lock. Nothing that should make his shadows coil tighter around his arms like restraints.
"Hi," the male says, voice warm. "I'm Adrin. You must be the one o'clock appointment."
You introduce yourself and the tension in your posture lessens. Not gone, but eased. Ice beginning to thaw.
It's exactly what Azriel wanted.
He hates it.
The healer is still smiling at you. There's no predatory calculation in his features.
When Azriel smiles, it feels wrong. There'd been a time he stood in front of a mirror, desperate to master something as simple as a friendly expression. He'd practiced until frustration mounted into rage.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reconcile the softness a smile required with the monster reflected back.
Adrin probably never had to practice. Probably never had to learn how to seem less threatening.
And you're responding to it.
Your shoulders have dropped now. Your breathing has evened out.
Is this what you would want? Someone easy? Someone safe?
But even Balthazar isn’t this docile. Even he carries violence in his bones. Do you want someone removed from it entirely?
The thought twists in Azriel's gut. He's not sure why he's entertaining it.
Azriel feels the brush of your wing against his side—calling his focus. He moves to introduce himself properly, but Adrin waves him off kindly.
"No introductions needed. Pleasure to meet you, Shadowsinger."
The casual familiarity grates. This male isn't remotely intimidated by him—usually something Azriel appreciates. Right now, however, it winds him tighter.
Who is this person? Why is he so comfortable?
They've never met. Azriel is certain.
"Madja got called away for an emergency," Adrin explains, attention shifting back to you. "I'm afraid she won't be able to make your appointment today."
Your shoulders drop slightly. An almost imperceptible exhale that looks like relief.
Azriel's chest constricts. He's dragged you here for nothing.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," Adrin continues. "But since this was just a routine check-up, I'd be happy to do it, if you're comfortable. I'd hate for your time to be wasted."
Azriel opens his mouth—to decline, to suggest rescheduling—
"That would be great, actually. Thank you."
Your voice has completely shed that flat resignation. You’re happy.
You glance at Azriel, noting his stillness. "What?"
He forces neutrality into his expression. "Nothing. I'll be... I'll be out here."
"Okay..." Puzzlement crosses your face, but you're already turning to follow Adrin. "See you in a bit."
Ink perks up—practically dancing as it follows you down the hallway.
Betrayed by his own shadow.
He can hear Adrin's voice as you disappear, already engaging you in easy conversation. The kind of professional warmth you never manage with Madja.
Alone in the waiting room, Azriel drowns in scent.
Your gradually relaxing signature mixing with Adrin's confidence. The clinical smell doing nothing to mask how your anxiety dissolves with each passing second.
Then—
You laugh.
Genuine. Surprised. The sound you make when someone delights you.
Azriel finds himself on his feet, pacing the small space like a caged animal. All predatory restlessness with nowhere to go.
His shadows swirl, offering comfort he can't process through the roar of whatever this feeling is. Jealousy seems too simple a word for this. Too intimate.
He realizes he's biting his knuckle—a nervous habit from centuries past. The urge to march back there, to insert himself, is so violent it takes every ounce of his thinning control to stay put.
He forces himself back into the chair, then does what he always does when his mind betrays him.
He traces the scars on his hands with careful fingers, following the familiar patterns of old burns, and lets his misery drag him down into memory—into the cold comfort of pain he understands.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel's jaw aches from clenching.
You walk ahead, and there's a bounce in your step. Has been since you emerged from the appointment, smiling and thanking Adrin with warmth. You'd even touched his arm in parting.
Casual. Friendly.
Azriel had wanted to deck him in the face.
While he wouldn't go as far as calling you unfriendly, you do hold a guarded quality to your demeanor that he'd found solace in. Recognition of someone perpetually on edge, perpetually aware, who often forgets to soften their face.
Your genuine, sweet smiles are rare. Precious, even.
Azriel had grown accustomed to them being mostly his now. Selfishly so.
Now he shares them. With Adrin.
And Balthazar, his shadows sing, apologetically. Balthazar gets them too.
Right. Balthazar. The Illyrian prince get them, too.
Azriel flinches at the bitterness of the thought. At its intensity.
He clenches his fists and catches up to you, breathing in deep. Velaris is alive around him— fresh bread from a bakery, flowers spilling from shop stalls, the river's clean mineral bite. He filters through it all for you. Your scent.
He's losing his mind. All of these strange feelings. Sensations. All muddled and overpowering. Inescapable. Consuming him.
The way Gwyn had.
The thought arrives before he can stop it.
Gods. When was the last time he actually thought of Gwyn?
Shame crashes through him immediately—hot and acidic.
This is perverse. Arrogant. Comparing the two situations when they're nothing alike. You're his friend. The mother of his child. Gwyn had been...
What had they even been? His shadows had sung for her. He'd thought maybe she was meant for him. That maybe, finally, he could be the kind of male who deserved gentle things.
And now he barely thinks of her at all. Only feels that longing, that pain, when he sees her and Balthazar. When he's reminded of what he lost. What he felt was taken from him.
Otherwise— there's just you.
There's only you.
And your child, driving him to distraction. Making his head swim. Making him irrational. Making him scare a citizen and hate a healer.
He can't seem to shove it back down. Can't stop his traitorous mind from circling back to the way you'd smiled. The way you'd looked so happy.
Azriel's heart does a stupid, painful lurch.
He's felt this before. This exact feeling. His mind is being cruel. Playing twisted games, maybe. Making him believe he's reacting to you the way he has with previous desires. Previous disappointments.
No. No.
This isn't that. You're carrying his child, blossoming with new life. You are his in the most natural, ancient way—to protect, to provide for, to care for. Primal Illyrian drive awakened by circumstance. His body responding to evolutionary imperatives as old as the Cauldron itself.
He needs facts. Logic. Something to anchor himself before this spiral drowns him.
Fact: You're carrying his child, which triggers biological responses in Illyrian males. Documented. Normal.
Fact: Proximity and your changing scent would make any male protective. It's in his blood.
Fact: The jealousy isn't jealousy at all. It's simply territorialism redirected. Annoying, but manageable. He's managing it.
Fact: You're his friend, and that's good. That's more than he deserves, honestly.
Fact: These feelings—whatever they are—will pass once the baby is born and your scent returns to normal. Everything will settle. Go back to baseline.
That last one sits wrong in his chest. Hollow. Empty.
He ignores it.
The rage when that male looked at you earlier? Pure instinct.
The jealousy watching you with Adrin? Territorial nonsense.
This pull that has him filtering through an entire city just to find your scent? Biology.
Base drive. Nothing more.
"What's wrong with you?" Your voice cuts through his spiral like a blade.
You've stopped walking and turned to face him, both hands on your hips. Brow raised, lips down-turned. "You've been weird all day. Are you having some kind of crisis?"
He closes the distance between you, pulling himself back to the present. "I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar when you're distracted." You fall into step beside him, still studying his face with unnerving intensity. "Seriously. What's going on in that nightmare factory you call a brain?"
Despite everything—the frustration, confusion, self-loathing—his lips twitch. "Nightmare factory?"
"I stand by it." You gesture vaguely at his head. "Now talk or don't, but stop looking like you're contemplating murder. You're scaring the sweet-faced civilians."
He glances around and realizes he's let his shadows spread too far, let his expression settle into something grim. With effort, he reins himself in, softens his features into something more neutral.
"Better," you say, pausing. "Now let's go cross things off my list before I lose steam. I want new boots and I want them now."
Just like that, you're pulling him forward. Back to the present. Away from the dangerous spiral.
A talent you possess without even realizing it. One of many, Azriel anticipates.
He follows your steps and tries to ignore the way his heart skips when your wing brushes his arm.
It’s brief and probably accidental, but he's so completely fucked, either way.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Azriel noticed the pain in your wings before you'd admitted it.
He’d picked up on the signs of discomfort quickly— grimaces at slight movements, heavy sighs you tried to muffle.
Watching you hurt unnerved him physically. Turned him into something desperate—a beggar at your altar, pushing you to see Madja. To make sure nothing was seriously wrong.
You'd shrugged off every suggestion. Every plea. That stubborn set to your jaw that meant you'd made up your mind and nothing short of divine intervention would change it.
Until Azriel admitted he'd already arranged an appointment.
With Adrin.
He'd discovered a new feeling after that confession. A terrible, twisting mix of relief, satisfaction, and utter despair, all fighting for dominance in his chest.
You'd softened immediately. Let out a breath that sounded like hope.
"Really?"
He'd only nodded.
You'd blinked. Nodded back. "Fine. I'll go."
A pause. Then you'd smiled—brief but gentle enough he felt it in his bones. "Thank you. For your incessant worrying."
“Well,” Azriel said. "What are friends for?"
The words had filled him with discomfort he couldn't name.
Friends, apparently, played cupid for the mother of their child.
At least he could say he was learning to share.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The appointment arrives too quickly.
Azriel glares at the autumn decorations scattered throughout the clinic. Reds and ambers making his gut curl—irritating redheads with flame-bright hair invading his thoughts when he least wants them there. He rolls his eyes, grumbling into his fist as he settles further in the waiting chair.
You emerge not even thirty minutes later.
The difference is stark. You're in far better spirits than he's seen in days, holding a glass jar of what he assumes is the reason of your bettered mood— some miracle powder. Relief hits him square in the chest.
Worth it, he thinks. Whatever this costs him, seeing you pain-free is worth it.
He watches you converse with Adrin. Easy and comfortable like the last time.
But a new scent clings to the healer. Another fae's signature—fresh from last night. This morning, maybe.
Satisfaction tugs at Azriel's lips.
The pretty-boy healer is...involved.
Maybe The Mother loves him after all.
Not that it matters. Not really. Because you’re standing beside him now, your wings comfortable and free, and Azriel would endure a thousand moments of… whatever this feeling is, if it meant you weren't hurting.
His shadows brush against his scarred hands, murmuring gentle encouragement.
Growth. The word they'd whispered last night when he'd lain awake, staring at his ceiling and wrestling with the uglier parts of himself.
Growth and discomfort. Good things. For her.
Azriel takes a deep breath and offers Adrin a smile— or something resembling one. "Thank you."
The words cost him. But they're genuine.
Warmth passes through Adrin's features—appreciation, understanding. He nods with respect. "Always happy to help."
His shadows hum in delight.
Then he follows you out, letting himself bask—as he always does—in your scent. In autumn air. In the small victory of your pain-free wings.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The restaurant sits in a part of Velaris that Azriel doesn't often visit with the Inner Circle.
It’s less polished than the Rainbow. Rougher edges. Authentic charm from age and use rather than curation.
The first time you'd brought him here, guilt had twisted through him— sharp shame for having shunned part of his own city from instincts he's certain traced to his roots. Like most of his less favorable traits.
You're tucked in a corner now, pressed away from the crowd, shadows lazily dancing across the wrought iron table's scrolling patterns. Ink perches on the apex of your wing, watching people drift by on the street.
Azriel likes this. How you also appreciate being surrounded by life without participating. Near enough to observe. Far enough to remain separate.
Mor would've dragged him into the center with her bright laughter and iron grip, telling him to quit being antisocial. Elain might’ve sat closer to the sunshine, drawn to the potted flowers lining the patio's edge. That, or she’d want to ask the shopkeeper about spices and techniques. Engaging with everyone, making connections. And Gwyn—
Gwyn would've preferred someplace more homey, Azriel suspects. To-go options so she could curl up with a book, enjoy a meal in peace with her own entertainment.
But not you.
You take a bite of your food, and Azriel's attention snags on your thumb catching the corner of your mouth.
His gaze lingers too long. Heat creeps up his neck. He looks away quickly, stabbing at his own plate, shadows now chattering with amusement near his wrists.
"I'm telling you," you say around a mouthful, gesturing with your fork, "those were the best chips I've ever had. I'm getting another bag before I go home. Don't try to stop me."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His lips twitch. "Though I reserve the right to judge your choices."
"You judge everything I eat anyway."
"Only because half of it gives you heartburn and then you complain about it for hours."
"It's worth it," you say with solemn conviction. Then you grin. "Besides, you like when I complain. Gives you something to fuss over."
He can't deny it. Not when you've seen through him so completely.
Comfortable silence stretches. Around you, the restaurant hums—conversation, laughter, clatter of dishes. But in this little corner, it all feels distant. Muted.
"I'm glad Adrin could help," Azriel says. "With your wings."
"Yeah." You brighten immediately, and his chest both warms and aches at your relief. "Miracle worker, honestly. He wants to see me again next week. Make sure the powder's working."
You extend your wing slightly, examining the membrane. There's a faint shimmer to it now—a subtle golden sheen catching light. The medicine was worked into the wing. With a touch that certainly wasn't yours. Too big of fingerprints, too light a hand.
Azriel goes very, very still.
"He..." His voice comes out rough. "He touched your wings?"
"Mhm." You're still examining, turning to catch different angles. Not looking at him. "Had to apply it directly. Work it into the membrane. The base too. It took a while, actually. He was very thorough."
Azriel's mind spirals.
Wings are intimate. Sacred. You don't let just anyone touch them—it's one of the first things Illyrian children learn. The sensitivity, the vulnerability. The trust is often requires.
You let Adrin—a male you barely know, who makes you laugh and smile—touch them for an extended period while you—
"Azriel? Did you hear what I said?"
You're looking at him now, brow raised in that particular way that means you've caught him being weird. Again.
“Yes.” He scrambles for something, anything to pull himself out of his own head. "Adrin seems pretty knowledgeable about wing anatomy."
"Yeah." You take another bite, completely unbothered by the crisis currently unfolding in Azriel's chest. "He's worked with many Peregyns. Not super familiar with Illyrian wings, though. Hence the follow-up. Just to make sure it's as effective as it should be."
Azriel nods. Forces himself to eat. Chew. Swallow.
But his mind won't stop circling back. Another appointment. Another session of Adrin's tender, healer hands on your wings, working medicine into sensitive membrane. Learning the geography of you in a way that feels too intimate for the mother of his child, too—
Pull back, shadows murmur. Breathe.
He has no claim here. You're not his. Only the child you share.
"Sharing stories about your lives?" Azriel manages. "Should I be worried?"
"Yeah. I talked so much shit about you to my healer."
You're laughing, but Azriel's brain catches on one word.
My.
My healer. Not our healer. Not the healer. My healer.
The possessiveness shouldn't affect him. It's just a turn of phrase. Casual ownership of the kind everyone uses—my cobbler, my favorite tavern, my usual route.
It carves into his chest anyway, makes a nice little home there.
The implication. You like something enough— someone enough— to claim them.
And Azriel wants—
What?
What does he want?
He doesn't know. That's the problem. That's always the problem.
"Do you—" He clears his throat. Sets down his fork like he’s disarming a trap. "Do you want to switch officially? To Adrin?"
Your laughter fades. You study him, reading past whatever mask he thinks he's wearing.
"Yeah. I would. Is that okay?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know. You're being weird."
He tries organizing the chaos in his head. The words are there— tangled and ugly and completely inappropriate. He knows he should swallow them down. Bury them with every other feeling he has no right to.
They claw up his throat anyway.
"I think we should be careful about mixing medical care with obvious romantic interest. It could complicate things."
You snort. "That's a good one."
He doesn't smile.
Silence descends. This one, however, is uncomfortable. He watches his words register—your eyes widening, posture going rigid.
His shadows still. Ink makes the smart decision of retreating into your wing.
You set down your fork. "You're joking, right?"
There's still amusement in your voice, but it's uncertain now. You're waiting for the punchline. He can't blame you.
He should backtrack. He has the opportunity. He should laugh it off and make it a joke and swallow down this writhing thing in his chest.
He can't.
"I'm just saying—"
"No, I heard you." Your smile is fading now, confusion creeping in at the edges. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're serious."
His jaw sets. "I am. It's something we should consider."
Your smile drops completely. "Azriel. Come on."
"If there's romantic interest involved with the medical care, it could—"
"Stop." You hold up a hand, and there's an edge to your voice now. "What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?"
Your scent is getting stronger as your emotions rise. It tangles his thoughts further. "I'm just concerned—"
"About what?" You lean forward, searching his face. "It's been two appointments. Two. What could have possibly—I mean, did I do something wrong?"
The question deflates him. "What? No. Of course not."
"Then what is this?" There's hurt creeping into your voice now, too. Mixing with building anger, confusion. "You think Adrin's unprofessional? That I can't tell the difference between medical care and—and whatever you're implying?"
"I'm not implying anything."
"Oh, please." Your wings tighten and you grimace. Fuck. He's brought your pain back. "You think my healer—who's been nothing but professional—is somehow compromised, and I'm too stupid to notice or too reckless to care."
His shadows writhe. This is spiraling. He says your name apologetically. "I didn't say that."
"If you think for one minute that I don't consider our child in every decision I make— you are sorely mistaken. Do you have any idea how insulting this is?"
The hurt beneath the anger is eating him alive. He doesn't think you're incompetent. Doesn't think you're careless. But he can't explain the real issue—these biological instincts. This territorial rage picturing Adrin's hands on your wings.
He still doesn't fully understand it himself.
It's stronger than anything he's ever experienced.
"Okay, I—" He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have said anything. Let's forget it."
"Yeah, no. Absolutely not." Your hand shoots out—you don't touch him, but the gesture stops him cold. "You don't get to question my competence as a mother and then hide behind 'forget it.' That shit might fly with your family, but it doesn't fly with me."
He deflates further. Chest tight with guilt. Embarrassment. Self-hatred. "I wasn't questioning you."
"Why do you even care if there was romantic interest?"
The question strips away the flimsy justification he's been hiding behind. "I don't."
You're staring now. Mind working. Piecing together puzzles. "Good. Because it wouldn't matter. I’m smart enough to make my own decisions. I’d talk to you about it, sure, but I’m a grown woman."
"I know that," he says tightly. "I'm very aware."
"Then why is it such a big deal?" You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. "If Adrin was interested in me, or if I was interested in Adrin, why would that be any of your business?"
He has no good answer. Not one he can say aloud.
It shouldn't be his business. You've established the boundary—you'd have conversations if things changed. Establish limits. Ask what he's comfortable with regarding the babe.
He knows this for a fact. It makes his feelings even more embarrassing. Even more irrational.
He remains silent.
You sit straighter. Frustration building in your shoulders, tightness around your mouth. "Okay. I'm— I'm so confused. What the hell is going on?"
"I don't—" He drags a hand through his hair. "I can't explain it."
Your hands clench on the table. "Too bad. Try anyway."
You sound hurt.
Maybe this was inevitable, Azriel thinks. He was always bound to disappoint eventually. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
"I don't know." Voice rough. "I don't—something's happening. To me."
"Something's happening? That's the best you've got?"
Pressure is building in his chest— confusion and all the things he can't name because naming them makes them real. His fingers dig into his temples.
"I don't know," he repeats, defeated "I don't know what's wrong with me."
You're quiet, watching him with unnerving intensity. When you speak again, your voice is softer. Less angry. "Then figure it out. Because you're making accusations you won't explain, and that's not fair to me."
He knows. He knows it's not fair.
"It's—" He stops. Tries again. "I have these reactions. I think your scent is triggering them. They feel almost primal. "
"Primal?" Your nose crinkles. "So, what? You're feeling territorial over your offspring?"
"Maybe. Yes." He's grasping for words now. Articulating chaos. "I don't know."
He can't even bring himself to look at you. Shadows writhe around him, agitated, concerned, and he can feel shame burning up his neck.
You're quiet for another long moment. Then your expression shifts, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh my gods," you say slowly, and your voice has changed. The irritation is still there, but more underneath. "Are you jealous?"
Azriel’s head snaps up. "What? No."
The crease between your brow softens. You sound almost bewildered. "You are."
"It's not jealousy," he insists, even though it rings hollow. "It's instinct. Stupid, Illyrian genes that a male feels when—"
"When what?" And now—now even the irritation is fading. Replaced by dawning understanding that looks like amusement. "When the mother of his child has a healer?"
"When the mother of his child is letting another male touch her wings," he snaps before he can stop. Azriel casts a cautious glance around the patio, relief flooding through his system when he notices the other patrons have since left.
"For medical purposes," you say slowly. "To apply medicine. For pain."
At his silence, your expression does some more complicated shifts—shock melting into realization into barely suppressed laughter.
"Oh my gods," Now there's a laugh breaking through. "That's it, isn't it? You're totally jealous."
"I—" He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to explain the tangle in his chest. "No."
You’re laughing.
"I'm sorry," you say, still laughing, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I'm sorry, it's just—" Another laugh.
He doesn't know what to do with this. He'd been bracing for a fight. For your fury at his overstepping, his complete lack of boundaries, his inability to handle this situation like an adult. For you to tell him he's crossed a line he can never uncross. To go fuck himself, essentially.
But you're laughing at him. It's almost worse.
"I don't see what's so funny," Azriel mutters, heat crawling up his neck.
"It's hilarious." You're grinning now, eyes bright with amusement. "You're spiraling because a healer touched my wings to help with muscle pain. Do you realize how silly that is? Are you going to fist-fight Madja, next?"
"It's not—" He glances around sheepishly. "It's more complicated than you're making it sound."
"Is it though? You're jealous. It’s biology and our Illyrian nonsense, but at the end of the day, you're still jealous."
The accuracy flays him.
"Fine," he bites out. "Fine. Maybe I am. Maybe it is jealousy. But I can't—I don't know how to fight it." He stops. Closes his eyes. "I don't know what to do with any of this."
When he opens his eyes, your expression has softened. The amusement is still there, but it's gentler now.
"I don't want to make things weird," he murmurs. "I promise, it's not jealousy, jealousy."
You raise a brow. "You mean it's not romantic."
His chest tightens painfully. He nods, stiff. He needs you to believe that. Needs you to know that he's not developing inappropriate feelings for the mother of his child— because he's not.
He has to believe he's not that pathetic.
"Well, obviously," you say.
Impossibly, his chest tightens further.
Obviously— because it would be absurd to think otherwise. The idea of him having real feelings for you is unrealistic. Laughable, even. He repeats it in his mind.
It shouldn't bother him. That's exactly what he was trying to convey.
Yet the certainty in your voice, the slight strain beneath it, sits wrong. Makes him feel dirty.
But the conversation is shifting. He has the opportunity to salvage this disaster.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out. "I shouldn't have said anything about Adrin. That was completely out of line. I'm struggling with these instincts and took it out on you and that's not fair. You haven't done anything wrong. He hasn't done anything wrong. It's all me and my head and I'm—" He stops, takes a breath. "I'm really sorry."
"Azriel," you say quietly. "I get it. The instinct stuff really is a bitch."
You sound as if you're speaking from experience. His mind wanders to what situations made you come to that conclusion.
What instincts trouble you?
Are any about him?
Your voice calls him back to reality.
"Thank you— for apologizing. I never want you to use our child as an excuse ever again. If you're struggling with instincts or whatever this is, we can talk about it. But don't frame it as concern for medical care when what you really mean is you don't like seeing me with another male."
The assessment is brutal in its accuracy. "You're right."
"And for the record—I'm not interested in Adrin. And he's not interested in me."
Relief floods through Azriel— so intense it's almost painful. Inappropriately so.
"Not that it’s any of your business," you quicky add, and his stomach drops, "But, you know. For the record."
"Understood." Azriel’s cheeks begin to ache from the repression of a smile. "Are we… are we okay?"
"Yeah." You hold his gaze. There are complicated emotions in your expression—understanding, frustration, fondness. "Yeah, we're okay. We can laugh it off now."
Azriel's blinks. "Really? That's it?"
You frown. "What? Do you want a longer lecture?"
He casts a glance to the side and shrugs sheepishly. You shake your head, dismissing the thought entirely.
"You already feel bad. You apologized. Lesson learned, right?" You tilt your head at him. "Our situation is already so weird. At some point we have to let its strangeness be entertaining instead of draining."
His heart does this stupid flutter in his chest. He doesn't bother pushing the sensation away.
He's almost tempted to believe his instincts are being sated by this. By you. By his gratitude. His relief. Maybe that's why his chest feels so warm right now, why the jealousy has finally quieted. His biology getting what it needed all along.
That makes sense. That has to be it.
He reaches for his fork, leaning forward toward food that's certainly cold by now, ready to move past this disaster—
But your demeanor shifts.
His brows furrow. You've gone quiet. Still. Not meeting his eyes anymore, your gaze fixed on the table between you.
Something's wrong.
"It was just nice," you say quietly, tracing idle patterns on the table's surface with one finger. "Having something to myself."
Shadows drift toward you. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone feels so involved in this pregnancy." The words come slowly, carefully chosen. "I'm carrying something precious to you. To your family." You finally look up at him, and your eyes seem tired. "I'm sharing your paycheck. Living in an apartment Balthazar got for me. Going to a healer that your entire family uses, who would absolutely break confidentiality if Rhys was worried enough."
You pause and swallow.
"I just... I liked having this one thing that was mine. Even if it was just a healer."
The words land like a stone between his ribs. The guilt that follows is brutal.
Oh.
He'd been so caught up in his own twisted feelings that he'd been completely blind to what you needed. A piece of yourself in a situation where everything has become irrevocably tangled with his family, his money, his world swallowing yours whole.
"I didn't..." His throat feels tight. "I didn't realize."
"Yeah." Your smile is tired. "I figured."
"You should have whatever you need," he says softly, and means it with everything he has. "Whoever you need. I won't—" He stops. Regroups. "I’m so sorry– for not realizing. I'll do better."
You look at him for a long moment, and there's a shift in your expression—surprise, maybe. Relief.
"Thank you." Your voice is soft now. Genuine. "I should've told you. I guess I didn't know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful. I'm sorry."
"You don’t have anything to apologize for." The words feel crucial. "Not with me. Not with any of this. Ever."
Your smile returns. “What if I hit you in the face. Do I have something to apologize for, then?”
Amusement sings in his chest. “After today, I probably deserve it.”
You chuckle, then rub your lips together, leaning back into your chair. Mirth is back in your eyes, golden and alive.
"Finish your food," you say, pointing at his cold, half-eaten plate with mock severity. "Then we're getting those chips. And you're not allowed to make any comments about my choices."
"I'll try to restrain myself."
"You won't."
"No," he admits, lips twitching despite everything. "Probably not."
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
The follow-up appointment arrives even quicker than the last two.
Azriel gives you a small smile as you stand and follow Adrin into the back. His shadows are calm today. Settled. They drift lazily around his shoulders, content in a way they haven't been in weeks.
He understands now. What this means to you. Why you need it.
It doesn't erase the discomfort entirely—that still sits in his chest, a low constant burn he's learning to live with. But it's different now. Manageable. An instinct he can tame— no longer the sharp, consuming thing that had him spiraling in this very waiting room.
Growth, his shadows had sung. And for once, he thinks he might actually be achieving it.
Azriel's gaze immediately snags on the autumn decorations scattered across the waiting room—those offensive reds and ambers and burnt oranges that seem to have multiplied since last week. They've added small gourds now. Decorative corn. A wreath of maple leaves that looks aggressively cheerful.
His jaw tightens.
Gods, he hates autumn. The whole damned season and its association with that court and everything it represents. Fire and leaves and the smell of dying things pretending to be beautiful.
A tendril of shadow drifts toward the nearest decoration—a spray of amber-colored branches in a vase—and Azriel finds himself thinking, idly, that it wouldn't take much. Just a small tug. A gentle pull.
Would anyone even notice if they... grabbed them? Knocked them over? Maybe shredded that particularly offensive wreath into tiny pieces?
It would take seconds. Would probably make him feel significantly better. He bites back a grin at the thought, shadows practically vibrating with anticipation. Waiting for permission.
"Well?"
Your voice cuts through his vindictive fantasy. He looks up to find you still standing in the hallway, hand on your hip, head tilted because you've caught him doing something weird.
...yet again.
Azriel furrows his brows.
"Are you going to come back with me?" you ask, slowly. "Or do you prefer to keep having a staring contest with a wreath?"
Azriel bites back the smile threatening to break across his face. He feels ridiculous—like a child being invited to something special, something he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve.
You're letting him in. Offering him this small, precious thing that belongs to you.
“Uh, yeah. Yes." he manages, standing perhaps a bit too quickly. His shadows are already rushing ahead, eager to rejoin Ink. "The wreath can wait.”
Amusement dances in your eyes as he approaches. "It was beating you anyway."
He laughs as he falls into step, gaze settled on you.
What good have I done to deserve this? he wonders as you push open the door. To be offered a future I never dared to dream of— to be raising a child with someone like you?
Someone who saw his mess and his jealousy and his confused instincts— and instead of punishing him, the way he believes he should’ve been, invited him in. Offered him grace that makes him wonder if he's ever truly been forgiven for anything before in his life.
Adrin looks up when you both enter, and his expression shifts into something pleased. Welcoming. "Shadowsinger. Glad to have you."
"Adrin." Azriel nods, and the greeting comes easier than he expected. Natural, even. He tests his limits further and asks, "How have you been?"
"Busy, but well. An emergency back home kept me running, but nothing serious..."
The conversation flows, light and genuine, and Azriel lets himself sink into it.
Adrin can have your friendly smiles. Balthazar can keep your history.
Azriel has this.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
AUTHORS NOTE:
DEDICATED TO MY ADRIN LOVERS!!!!!!! ADRIN ANON 🗣️ for those of yall that don’t know, adrin is an actual love of my life and azs nemesis in every universe. love him, anyways!!!
writing azriels pov v readers is so funny. they deal with the same things (and think the same things, cough, cough) but azriel is fighting his thoughts in the most avoidant way ever while actively ragebaiting himself lmfaooo
also totally hilarious...that reader just wanted to write it all off as silly.....maybe theres stuff she doesnt want to think about either.... and shes also just hilarious like yesss laugh in his face!!!! queen
IMPORTANT: i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore
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