Wingspan
Pairing: Azriel x Reader (feat. Cassian)
Rating: Mature (Heavy Innuendo, Flirting, Humor)
Summary: Cassian tells you to ask Azriel a question about Illyrian anatomy. Azriel decides to give you a very thorough answer.
The House of Wind was unusually quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth in the library and the soft turning of pages as Azriel read a report from one of his spies. His shadows were dormant, coiled lazily around his shoulders like a scarf of smoke, content in the silence.
That silence was broken by the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
Azriel didn’t look up immediately. He knew your gait by heart—the rhythm of it, the lightness. "You should be resting after training," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble, his eyes still scanning the parchment in his hand.
"I have a question," you said, coming to a stop just on the other side of the desk.
He finally looked up. You looked innocent enough, though there was a furrow in your brow that suggested you were trying to solve a puzzle.
"About?"
"Illyrian anatomy."
Azriel’s hand stilled. The shadows at his neck flared, just an inch, before settling. He set the paper down slowly. "What about it?"
"Wingspan."
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Azriel blinked, his hazel eyes darkening instantly. He stared at you, his face a perfect mask of indifference, though his shadows began to agitation, skittering down his arms.
"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice deadly calm.
"Wingspan," you repeated, leaning your hip against the heavy oak desk. "I hear the Illyrians tossing the word around constantly. Usually when they’re measuring each other up or arguing. It seems... important. A point of pride."
Azriel took a slow, deep breath through his nose. He was going to kill Cassian. He was going to drag him to the roof and drop him off the side of the mountain.
"It is a measurement," Azriel said flatly. "From one wing tip to the other. It is useful for aerodynamics and load-bearing calculations during flight."
You narrowed your eyes. "That’s it?"
"That is the literal definition."
"Then why did Cassian laugh until he cried when I asked him if his was the biggest?"
Azriel closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because Cassian has the maturity of a pinecone."
"He wouldn't tell me," you pressed, crossing your arms. "He actually turned bright red after he stopped laughing. He said, and I quote, 'I can't be the one to corrupt you. Go ask Azriel. He's the Shadowsinger; he knows everything.' Then he shoved me out of the ring and told me to come find you."
Azriel’s shadows were no longer lazy. They were thrashing silently, whipping around the legs of the chair. Cassian is a dead male walking.
Azriel stood up.
The movement was fluid and predatory. He walked around the desk, stopping just a foot away from you. He towered over you, his wings tucked tight against his back, the Siphons on his hands gleaming in the firelight.
"Cassian sent you to me," Azriel repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "To ask about wingspan."
"Yes," you said, though your voice faltered slightly as he stepped into your personal space. "Is it... is it a ranking system?"
Azriel looked down at you. He could see the genuine curiosity in your eyes, mixed with a dawning realization that perhaps you had walked into a trap.
"In a manner of speaking," Azriel murmured. He took another step closer. You backed up until your lower back hit the edge of the desk. He placed a hand on the wood on either side of you, effectively boxing you in.
The scent of mist and cedar wrapped around you.
"Illyrian males are... primitive creatures," he said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. "They believe that the size of one’s wings correlates to the size of... other parts of their anatomy."
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Your eyes widened. Your gaze inadvertently dropped to his waist, then snapped back up to his face, your cheeks flaming a sudden, brilliant crimson.
"Oh," you squeaked.
"Indeed," Azriel drawled. He didn't pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his shadows caressing your arms, cool and phantom-like. "Cassian finds it hilarious to imply that he is the largest. It is his favorite joke."
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "And... is he?"
The corner of Azriel’s mouth ticked up. It wasn't a smile; it was something sharper. Darker.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
"Cassian has an impressive wingspan," Azriel whispered, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your spine. "But mine is bigger."
He pulled back just enough to see the shock wreck your expression. The shadows swirled triumphantly around him.
"Now," he said, pushing off the desk and straightening his jacket, looking entirely unbothered while you looked like you were about to combust. "I believe I have a General to murder. If you’ll excuse me."
He walked toward the door, his wings flaring slightly—just enough to show off the sheer, massive breadth of them—before he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you breathless and burning in the quiet library.