[tarotsoulreads]

The Catalogue

Hello!! It’s @tarotsoul and this is my little side blog for all the fic recs!!

Full credit is given to every author for every fic recommendation. Please do not steal from creators by reposting and/or claiming them as your own! Minors please do not interact!

Feel free to send in recommendations if you have any!

ACOTAR

Azriel | A filtered collection of all Azriel fic recommendations. Or, find them all under #azriel rec

Cassian | A filtered collection of all Cassian fic recommendations. Or, find them all under #cassian rec

Rhysand | A filtered collection of all Rhysand fic recommendations. Or, find them all under #rhysand rec

You can also use the #masterlist rec tag to find all masterlist recommendations on the blog too!

I will update this as often as I can. Please remember to feel free to send recommendations in to add to this!! (Lucien and Eris will also be added soon to this!)

Alternatively, you can also use #fic rec to go through every recommendation on the blog instead!

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Coming Home Series Index

Summary: Azriel x Reader series. You’re Rhysand’s younger sister and the person who’s been in love with Azriel for, like, ever. After an entire century running away from your feelings for the Shadowsinger, and the sting of his rejection, you decide to finally return home to Velaris for Winter Solstice. You’re older, more mature — and still totally enamoured by him. Chaos is bound to ensue…

✨ - indicates smut.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six ✨

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen ✨

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen ✨

Bonus Chapter 1 - Starfall

Bonus Chapter 2 - Lucien’s Cottage ✨

Bonus Chapter 3 - In the Dead of Solstice Night ✨

[tarotsoulreads]

EMERGENCY FIC FIND GUYS!!

I stumbled across a series masterlist on my fyp on here, can’t remember what it was called but I was half way reading the first part and it disappeared!!

Was completed like 3 years ago, it’s about 20 chapters long or under. Reader was in love with Az when she was young (she’s Rhys’ sister) and left for a century to travel after she kissed him and he rejected her. She returned home and this time he was pining for Elain and not Mor like when she left.

Someone pls help. Disappeared before I could like/reblog it!!

[velarisdusk]

series masterlist (see for content warnings) word count: 3,133 author's note: IM BACK BABYYYYYY it hasnt really been that long but ive missed posting. we're coming back with a bang (the sex kind). thanks @sophieliz for the request!!!!!

Day 1

The door opened slowly, and Azriel stood there—lean, silent, framed by the muted entryway light. His eyes met yours for a breath, steady and unreadable, but he didn’t speak. He just nodded, small and almost reluctant, like acknowledging your presence was a burden he was willing to bear but nothing more.

You shifted the box in your arms, feeling the rough cardboard scrape against your skin. It wasn’t heavy, but it carried more weight than you expected—the kind that settled deep in your chest. You lifted the box just a little higher, as if holding it out to him might make this whole thing make more sense.

“Just bringing back Cassian’s stuff,” you said quietly.

The words landed between you like a small, fragile confession. You hadn’t said anything about the breakup aloud before, not really—not since the night you ended it. The passionate, chaotic blur of those months when he made you laugh too loud, made you come too fast, but never quite showed up when it mattered. When you needed steady, he was like… summer break—a sun that burned too hot and disappeared too fast. You wanted more than summer; you wanted something that lasted.

He hadn’t fought for you. Didn’t even try to convince you it could change. When you said it wasn’t working, he agreed too quickly, too easily—like he was trying to prove that it didn’t hurt him, like it was all just a game to him. And maybe it was. Maybe it still was.

Now you stood there, offering the remains of something that had never really been yours to keep. Azriel’s gaze flicked to the box, but he gave no sign he registered what that box meant. No hesitation. No softness.

You shifted your grip again, thinking you’d hand over Cassian’s things and maybe—if the universe was kind—get back your own. An old, comically oversized t-shirt, the kind that swallowed you whole when you wore it, your favorite pajama shorts you’d half forgotten until last week—the little pieces of you scattered here. It was petty, maybe, but you wanted them back. A clean trade. 

Azriel stepped aside slowly, as if giving you space to come in was a choice he was making reluctantly. You stepped past him, feeling the cool air of the apartment settle around you. The door clicked shut behind, sealing you inside. He moved quietly ahead, heading toward the living room, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor.

You paused near the doorway, the box resting awkwardly in your hands, with a resigned thought: just as warm a welcome from him as expected.

The apartment stretched out before you, cool and quiet, the afternoon light pooling softly on the hardwood floors. You caught sight of Rhysand in the living room—he was planted firmly on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers tapping steadily across the keyboard. AirPods nestled in his ears, but his sharp eyes scanned the screen with an alertness that said he wasn’t lost in music or distraction. He was working remotely today, as usual on Fridays, but nothing about his focus felt casual.

Azriel dropped down beside him without a sound, the familiar weight of his presence settling next to Rhysand. The hum of a paused video game filled the air—the unmistakable retro tones of Cuphead. With a quick tap, Azriel unpaused the game, and the vivid colors spilled back onto the TV screen. His eyes narrowed with intense concentration, fingers flying over the controller. 

You shifted on your feet, suddenly aware of the awkward weight of your own hesitation. The doorway felt too wide, the silence too loud. Finally, you swallowed and asked, your voice barely above a murmur, “Is Cass here?”

The question lingered in the air for a beat before you heard footsteps. A moment later, Cassian appeared. 

His hair was damp, pushed back in uneven waves, and a towel hung loose around his neck. Grey sweats clung low on his hips, but it wasn’t the sight of his bare arms or the easy, unbothered grin that made your stomach drop. It was the shirt. 

Your shirt. 

The white cotton one with a single faded orange stamped across the front, paired with the cheeky slogan you’d loved so much: squeeze me! On you, it had hung loose and shapeless, falling halfway down your thighs. On him, it clung just enough to stretch the citrus print across his chest, the letters warped but still legible. The sight was ridiculous. Almost comical, almost infuriating. 

You blinked, words tripping in your throat. “Really?”

Cassian glanced down as if only just remembering what he was wearing, then looked back at you with a shameless smirk. “What? It suits me.”

“That’s my shirt,” you replied, the words sharp but thinly veiled with disbelief. 

He chuckled, low and rough, tugging at the hem as though to admire it. “Guess it is. Forgot how comfortable this one was.”

“You mean how comfortable it is on me,” you muttered, heat sparking under your skin despite yourself. 

“Relax, sweetheart,” he drawled, grin deepening. “I’m just keeping it warm for you.”

The word made you tense, though you hoped it didn’t show. You’d grown too used to him calling you that, back when it felt like butterflies. Now, it seemed to land differently. 

“Keep it, you’ve stretched it out anyway.” Your tone was light, but your eyes lingered on the ridiculous citrus across his chest. 

Cassian’s eyes flicked briefly to the box in your arms before he reached forward without hesitation. His hands brushed yours for a moment—familiar, warm, the kind of touch that used to feel electric but now felt more like an echo you weren’t sure you wanted to remember.

“It’s just some leftover stuff,” you said, your voice soft, as if explaining something obvious to a stranger. “You know—t-shirts, that coffee mug you forgot in my cabinet.” You half-smiled, trying to make it sound lighter than it felt.

Setting the box onto the breakfast bar, Cassian chuckled, the sound easy and a little rough around the edges. “Could’ve just tossed it, sweetheart.”

You shrugged, the movement small but firm. “Didn’t feel right.”

Rhysand didn’t look up from his laptop, but you caught the way his eyes flicked toward you for a brief second, sharp and assessing. He said nothing, made no move to intervene—yet the subtle watchfulness in his gaze was impossible to miss.

Across the room, Azriel’s fingers danced over the buttons of the controller, locked in the chaos of another Cuphead bossfight—one he’d clearly been stuck on for a while, if the set of his jaw and the frown tugging at his mouth were anything to go by. The game audio was turned low, barely more than a murmur, but his posture stiffened slightly, like he was listening just as intently to the words between you and Cassian as he was to the game.

The air in the room thickened, charged with a quiet tension that neither of them addressed but that you felt pressing down on you from all sides.

You shifted your weight, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Anyway,” you said, injecting a little too much brightness into the word, “that’s it. If it’s alright, I’ll go get my clothes and be on my way—”

A sharp, collective chime cut through the room.

You froze. All three boys reached for their phones in near-synchronized motion. The exact same notification lit each screen with an emergency buzz—one after another, vibrating against wood and cushion. 

Azriel was the first to react. He switched the TV input, and tried to find a local news station. Rhys pulled out one AirPod, brows drawing tight as he read. Cassian’s expression darkened.

No one said anything.

“What?” you asked. “What is it?”

No one answered. Not at first. They just… looked at each other.

You stepped forward. “Hello?”

Cassian was the one who turned his screen toward you. The black text on red made your stomach sink before you even processed the words:

LOCKDOWN ORDER — Shelter in place. Residents should not leave their units until further notice.

No further details. No end time. Just that.

Rhys had already pressed his phone to his ear, pacing toward the kitchen. “Trying the leasing office,” he said.

You glanced back down at the alert on Cassian’s phone, then back at him. “Is this a joke?”

He frowned, brows knitting, and shook his head. “I don’t know.” His thumb was already moving, pulling up a browser, searching for any sign of what the hell was happening nearby. 

Azriel was flipping through news channels. Nothing but ads, static, and fluff pieces about ribbon cuttings and bake sales.

From the kitchen, Rhys — “Line’s busy.”

You tried to laugh. It came out hollow. “Okay, well, I should go—before this turns into something worse.”

You moved toward the door. Rhys’ voice came from behind you, firmer now. “No. You saw it.”

You looked back over your shoulder. “Yeah, I did see it. It says ‘residents.’ In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t really fall under that.”

Cassian shifted, broad shoulders squaring in front of you before you could reach the handle. “It says not to leave the apartment. If something’s going on out there, you’re not walking into it.”

All three of them were watching you now, not one of them smiling.

You hadn’t planned to stay. You didn’t want to.

But the silence between them—the stillness—told you what you already knew.

You weren’t going anywhere.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The sun had long since dipped beneath the city skyline, leaving the apartment cast in that warm, hazy kind of lowlight—where the lamps hadn’t been turned on yet, and the only real glow came from the oven clock and the television. A couple of hours ago, Cassian had shoved a frozen lasagna into the oven with a shrug and a “Better than starving,” and now the scent of tomato and singed cheese clung thick in the air.

Rhys had gone back to his room, AirPods back in, some conference call filtering through his closed door. Before that, he’d tried the leasing office again—about five times—and all he’d gotten was a blandly apologetic voice saying that yes, the building was under lockdown, no, they didn’t have more details, and yes, the safest thing was to sit tight and not open the door for anyone. Not even security.

So. You were here for the night.

You sat stiffly on the far end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, arms crossed tight against your chest. Azriel had reclaimed the other end, though now the TV played some low-budget cooking competition instead of his game. He wasn’t watching it so much as… existing in front of it. Every so often he’d shift, muscles rippling beneath his worn black t-shirt, the intricate lines of his tattoos crawling up his arms and peeking along the edges of the collar as he reached for his water bottle or rubbed a knuckle along his jaw. He hadn’t looked at you once.

Cassian emerged from his room carrying an armful of folded blankets and two pillows. A bundle of clothes was balanced on top—leggings, your pajama shorts, socks, even a few pairs of underwear you hadn’t realized were missing. 

“Here,” he said, padding into the living room barefoot. “Brought you some options. You can take the couch. Or…” He paused, offered a lazy smirk, “My bed, if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

You didn’t smile.

“Couch is fine,” you said, voice even. Not cold. Not biting. Just… final.

Cassian’s smirk faltered, just a little. His eyes searched yours—quickly, like he didn’t want to be caught doing it—then he gave a shrug and dropped the bedding into your lap.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

He was already turning when you heard the faint hiss of a water bottle being filled in the kitchen.

You looked up.

Azriel stood at the fridge now, back to you, one hand braced on the counter. 

The door to Cassian’s room clicked shut. 

After a few moments, you stood, shaking it open with a soft whuff of air. You didn’t even know why you’d bothered to decline—Cassian’s bed was nothing new, and it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But self-respect was fragile, and you couldn’t let yourself slip back into it again. Into him again. 

You bent to tuck the corner of the blanket between the cushion and the armrest when footsteps padded across the living room. You didn’t need to look up.

Azriel didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in front of you and reached for the pillows.

You froze, watching his hands as he took them from yours—gentle, firm. 

“Don’t bother,” he said quietly.

Your brows knit. “I’m fine on the couch.”

“I’m taking the couch.”

Your head snapped up. “Az—”

“Down the hall, on the left,” he said, cutting off whatever protest had been forming on your tongue. His voice was calm, low. Like it had all already been decided. “Top left drawer has t-shirts. Towels are in the closet in the hall if you want to shower, toothbrushes under the sink.”

The words hit like a chord plucked inside your ribs. He wasn’t looking at you, not directly. Just standing there with the pillows in his arms like it was the simplest thing in the world—that he’d give you his bed, that you were supposed to take it without asking questions.

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to read the lines of his face, the set of his jaw, the strange quiet coiled beneath every word.

“…Thanks,” you murmured.

He still didn’t meet your eyes.

So you grabbed your clothes and turned, walked down the short hallway slowly. You didn’t glance back, but you could feel him. Not just in the vague awareness of someone’s presence—no, it was sharper than that. You felt his gaze like a touch between your shoulder blades. Felt the weight of it trail down your spine as you turned the knob and slipped into his room.

And God help you, you swore it stayed there—burning—long after the door clicked shut behind you.

The first thing you noticed was the scent.

Not just on the air—in it. Subtle and clean, with the faintest trace of something sharp underneath. Like cedarwood and eucalyptus, or some unnameable cologne that lived not in the bottle, but in the threads of his clothes, the grain of his dresser. It was the kind of scent that filled your chest on instinct. That made you breathe deeper without realizing why.

The second thing you noticed was how dark it was.

Not in a bad way—just…dim. Calming. Like the room itself had been designed for silence. Heavy blackout curtains pulled halfway shut, walls a deep charcoal-gray, broken only by a bass guitar and a single piece of art above the bed: some abstract black-and-white print, framed in matte black. The bedding matched—clean, crisp, minimal. A neatly folded throw blanket at the end of the mattress, untouched. No clutter. No mess. Not even a stray sock.

You didn’t know why you were surprised by the tidiness. Of course Azriel would be meticulous. Of course he’d keep everything in order, in quiet symmetry—offering nothing that revealed more than he intended.

His nightstand held only the essentials: a lamp you promptly flicked on, a coaster, and a small leather-bound notebook. You didn’t dare look. The drawer was closed. The bed was made. The closet doors—closed. His dresser—also closed.

But the top of it held three things: a small ceramic dish for his rings, a framed photo of the three of them in their teens—grinning and shirtless on some sun-drenched balcony—and a glass bottle of cologne. Uncapped.

You stepped closer, gently opened the top left drawer like he said. The t-shirts were folded with military precision. All black and varying shades of grey, of course. You picked one at random, then moved back toward the door, cracking it open quietly, peering down the hall. No one there. No footsteps. Just the glow of the TV at the far end and the low murmur of whatever Azriel had put on to watch.

You padded back down the hall to the closet. The towels were stacked in uniform rows—clean, fluffy. You grabbed a grey one for your body. A smaller one for your hair.

Back in the room, you carried them into the ensuite bathroom. And that was when the weight of it hit you again.

You hadn’t planned to stay. Hadn’t planned to see any of them again, really—especially not like this.

And now you were standing in Azriel’s bathroom, in Azriel’s space, about to put on Azriel’s shirt.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. Long enough for the steam to start fogging up the glass. Then you stripped, stepped into the shower, and let the water burn. Let it pour down over your back, your neck, your chest. Let it wash away the tension Cassian had left in your shoulders and the way Azriel’s voice had coiled around your spine. 

You stayed in the water longer than necessary. Until your fingers pruned and the sound of it no longer drowned out your thoughts. Until the tension in your spine had eased just enough to let you breathe again.

By the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged. You didn’t bother wiping it. Just towel-dried your hair, dragged the soft cotton of Azriel’s shirt down over damp skin, and padded barefoot into the bedroom.

The lamp on the nightstand cast a low amber glow—enough to move by. You folded back the sheets, slid beneath them, and let your head fall against the pillow.

It smelled like him.

Not cologne, not detergent—him. Something warm and masculine and a little woodsy, like cedar bark warmed by the sun. You hadn’t realized it in the moment, but his scent had been clinging to the air from the start. In the closet. In the towel. In the shirt wrapped around your frame. But here, in the bed, it wrapped around you fully. 

It was grounding. Like the weight of a hand on your back, keeping you tethered.

You turned onto your side. Let your eyes close. Listened to the muffled rise and fall of TV voices from the living room, the distant hum of the icemaker in the fridge.

And somewhere beneath it all, quieter still, the echo of Azriel’s voice in your head.

The air was cool, but the bed was warm. Clean sheets, firm mattress. 

You breathed in again. Slower this time.

That smell. That same warmth.

It didn’t make you ache. Didn’t make you blush. It just made you tired.

You let it lull you. Let it pull you under.

And when you finally slept, you dreamt of nothing at all.

[tarotsoulreads]

Now I like the sound of this hELLO!!

[velarisdusk]

Closed Quarters Series Masterlist

summary: All you wanted to do was return your ex's things, get yours back, and go home so you could watch a movie and eat ice cream straight out of the tub to forget the pain. A lockdown notification throws a wrench in those plans. Now you're stuck in an apartment with him and his two roommates for an indefinite stretch of time. What's the worst that could happen? author's note: no i dont know why there's a lockdown please dont ask i'll cry general content warnings: [ lockdown, alcohol use, verbal altercation, explicit sexual content, foursome (m/m/m/f), accidental exposure, oral sex (m&f receiving), fingering, anal sex (f receiving), double penetration, triple penetration?, spanking, light choking, (more to come as i finish writing lol) ]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Day 01

Day 02

Day 03

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

[tarotsoulreads]

[tarotsoulreads]

Azriel — Series Recs

Here are the series recommendations for Azriel. Alternatively, you can search for them all through #azriel series

Minors DNI! Please make sure to read the series masterlist warnings provided by the author's before reading!

Undead | @idkyetxoxo

In a world overrun by the dead, she survives by staying alone—until a chance encounter with a wounded child and the broken men protecting him changes everything.

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird | @florencemtrash

Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Are We Still Friends? | @illyrianbitch

You and Azriel have been best friends for centuries. So when he found someone new, a female named Selene, you wanted to be happy for him. But something felt… off. And when you finally voiced your concerns, it didn’t go the way you expected. An emotional argument. A messy fallout. And now, Azriel is doing everything he can to make things right. But something between you has changed—something unspoken and impossible to ignore.

Go back to The Catalogue!

[idkyetxoxo]

Undead | Azriel | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Summary - In a world overrun by the dead, she survives by staying alone—until a chance encounter with a wounded child and the broken men protecting him changes everything.

What begins as reluctant trust slowly becomes something more, a found family, a purpose, and a quiet love that grows in the shadows of ruin.

But the past always lingers, and healing in the apocalypse isn't easy.

A story of survival, of healing, and of learning to choose life—even when the world has ended.

Tags - zombie apocalypse AU, found family, bittersweet romance, love against all odds, protectiveness, flirty banter

Contents -

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This was requested ages ago (like a long time) and I actually rewrote the entire thing because it just wasn't hitting the way I wanted. Hopefully, it's worth the wait! (Link to the request)

I absolutely love zombie shows and movies, so when I got this request, I basically squealed with excitement :)

Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3

[knoxic]

Private life

Summary: Reader is worried Azriel got hurt on a mission and decides to go check on him...

Warnings: angsty, miscommunication, mentions of blood, kinda crackfic?

Wc: 3,8k

A/N: I genuinely thought I had uploaded this long ago but apparently it's been sitting on my drafts for months now LMAO sorry abt that.

“Alright,” you sighed, wiping your sweat-damp hands on your clothes, smoothing down the fabric, “I guess we're really doing this.” 

Without letting yourself overthink it even more, you walked into the threshold and knocked three times, softly but firm enough that it'd be heard. It didn't take long before you heard footsteps approaching. 

“Hello, can I help you?” The male had violet eyes, and from the stories Azriel told you, you were standing in front of the High Lord himself. You tried not to tremble as he stared you down.

He looked tired, his clothes were impeccable, but the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly out-of-place hair told you he'd had some rough nights. Which worried you even more.

You forced yourself to speak. Just get it over with, make sure he's fine then go home and pretend this never happened. 

“I'm sorry to bother you, High Lord, I'm Azriel's friend and I haven't been able to speak to him.” 

Rhys tried to hide his surprise from showing but you caught the way his eyebrows rose slightly. 

“He told me he'd be away for a while and we exchanged letters on the same day every week. It's been three days and he hasn't responded. In his last letter, he mentioned he'd be coming back soon. I was worried something had happened…” Please tell me he's okay.

Any hopes you had were crushed when he frowned, looking down at the floor before stepping aside and inviting you in. “Come inside and I'll explain.” 

You were hesitant. It was one thing walking to one of his family's houses to ask about his well-being, you never meant to interact with them any more than necessary—you hadn't even considered what you'd do if he wasn't okay. Now, going inside meant you might meet more of them, would know what kind of decorations they'd have. It was embarrassing to admit the thought of saying goodbye and having the High Lord walk you out scared you. 

It seemed important—intimate, and you weren't sure if that was the right word for what you and Azriel had. 

Obviously you had been intimate before, that's how it all started. But it was all casual, something and someone to take both your frustrations on. He said it himself that he was sending letters so that you would know when he'd be back and could prepare for the long night awaiting you. The sweet words he sent were just to incite you.

Azriel didn't do romance. 

A small voice at the back of your head wondered why you were there then, if that was the case, that there was nothing romantic between you, why would you go out of your way to make sure he was alright? But you brushed it off. 

Rhysand was watching you and you hoped he wouldn't dare go near your mind. 

“I promise we don't bite.” His attempt at a joke didn't exactly work, but you offered him a small smile. 

The first steps were easier than the rest, you walked inside enough that he could close the door, but didn't know where to go after that. Thankfully his hand met your upper back in a brief brush, leading you further inside and into the living room.

“Take a seat, please.” There was a bottle of wine and a glass sitting on the coffee table, a second glass appeared with a tiny wave of his hand, “Wine?” He turned back to you, showing you the bottle.

Walking into your High Lord's house was something, now drinking with him? “No, thank you.” He nodded, filling one of the glasses. You were still standing, all of the spots on the couch were available, the loveseats looked incredibly inviting, but you felt like you were invading too much. 

Rhysand seemed to understand you weren't going to get comfortable any time soon. You knew he was going to take the couch, but then decided to make his way over to the fireplace, watching the flames dance. 

“Listen,” he sighed, “Azriel is… There was an ambush. He managed to warn me before things got too dangerous, but he got hurt… badly.” 

Your heart did that thing it always did when Azriel was involved, but instead of leaving those butterflies, it made you nauseous. 

“How badly?”

“Badly as in,” He was hesitant to tell you, watching the way you stood there playing with your fingers before continuing, “His wings were damaged.” 

“Gods—” Azriel had mentioned before how important the wings were for Illyrians, how he thought he was nothing without them and his shadows. You couldn't bring yourself to ask if they were damaged beyond repair. The mere thought made you shiver.

In these three days you kept yourself awake, running through every possible reason as to why he hadn't contacted you, the idea that he perhaps had been seriously hurt hadn't been an option. 

Not because you didn't think it was possible, even Gods could be killed. But because Azriel had become a constant in your life, and the thought that maybe you'd need to continue without him, was terrifying. Not a possibility.

Until now you hadn't allowed yourself to want more. You had him in your bed almost every night, and that was alright. He warned you from the moment you met that that was all he could ever give you, and it was fine.

Now you wanted more, needed more.

More time with him, more of his touch, more of the gentle words he spoke to you, more of the way he looked at you. The time you spent together was not enough.

“Would you like to see him?” Oh right, Rhysand was still watching you. 

“Yes.” The voice didn't sound yours, the way it came out so firm and certain was such a contrast to the way you felt inside. Unsure. 

He nodded, downing the rest of his wine—which you didn't even realize he'd kept sipping. How long exactly had you been lost inside your head? 

“Come, I'll take you to his room.” He started walking and with the tunnel vision you would never be able to remember which way he went. You focused on his back and followed. “He was resting when I left, between the hourly tonics and applying the healing balms he didn't really get much sleep.” 

You were so worried that the thought of bothering him hadn't even crossed your mind, “Maybe I shouldn't—”

He suddenly stopped, causing you to almost bump into him, “Oh no, darling, if Azriel considers you a friend, then I'm sure you're as important to him as any of us are.” He took a few steps more before stopping again, this time in front of a simple door.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, maybe a bloodied door handle, or the wood  torn to shreds. But it was just a door, clean and without a scratch in sight. There were intricate and yet simple patterns carved into the wood, it was very much a bedroom door if you'd ever seen one. 

Just a bedroom door. 

“His wings are… They're not pretty,” He blinked, sighing once more before his hand met your shoulder, “but Azriel is fine. I probably should've told you that earlier before you went on a spiral.” He nodded, more to himself than to you, “He just needs support, and I'm sure you can give him that.” 

Then he walked away, not bothering to see you going inside, or to check in with Azriel if he was okay with visits. He just left you there, in the middle of the hall staring at a wooden door like it held the most precious thing in the world to you.

Maybe it did. But you refused to acknowledge it now.

Azriel is fine, you reminded yourself, it was just his wings… the wings he loved so much. Wings he begged you to touch now and then, the velvety feeling of them that was ingrained in your fingertips and lips.

He will be okay. He has to.

You hadn't realized you had closed your eyes, whispering prayers in the back of your mind for whoever there was to hear you, begging them to let him fully heal. 

Give him back to me whole. Protect him from any more damage. Hasn't he given enough?

A chill touch on your arms, you would've thought it was some spiritual being telling you that the prayers were answered, but you knew that feeling all too well not to recognize it. 

Shadows. Which probably meant Azriel was awake and aware of you standing at his door like a statue. Your cheeks heated immediately, so much for nothing serious, you wouldn't react like this for just a good fuck would you? 

But it didn't matter now. You had to see him, if after that he decided he wanted nothing to do with you and your feelings, then that was a problem for later. 

The door handle was cold and bit into your heated skin, it was just a finger width open when you realized you should've knocked. First, you walk into his family's house, open up to the High Lord about being “friends” with him, and now you walk into his room, his most intimate space when he was hurt and vulnerable. 

Nice. He'd never want to see you again.

The chill touch ran to your back then, a firm pressure and the door pulled open slowly, only enough that you could see the foot of his bed. Dark blue bed sheets, a bump in the middle which you assumed was his legs. A breath left you, there was no skin showing it was really him and it could very well be another male, but it was more than you had thirty minutes ago.

You pushed the rest of it open, bracing yourself to see the disappointment in his eyes, perhaps to even hear him telling you to leave. But it never came.

There were no hazel eyes to greet you, only his soft expression, his covered chest moving slowly with his relaxed and steady breaths. Asleep, Azriel was asleep. 

Your eyes slipped down his form to his wings, slumped against the bed, not bloodied like you expected, not missing a piece, not broken. There were wet patches, cuts almost hidden beneath the balm, none of them close to the important areas. The parts he'd let you know were especially sensitive were intact. 

Relief flooded inside you, you could finally breathe again. The pressure on your back pushed you further inside, reminding you that in fact, his shadows did not depend on him to work, they could think and choose for themselves. And right now they were choosing to lock you inside their master's room. 

The door locked behind you with a soft click, you looked back in time to see them swirling back to hover above his chest, some still lingering on your arms for a moment before following. 

There was a chair beside his bed, your feet carried you there but it was like you were floating. 

You went weeks without seeing him, and when you finally did, he was hurt. But he also looked incredibly peaceful, you could see the way his lips were slightly parted, moving with his soft breaths. His eyes were moving, his thick eyelashes fluttering. It wasn't rushed movements, the frown he usually wore wasn't present. He was dreaming. 

Azriel had slept around you before, but it was the first time you actually saw him sleeping. You were always just so tired that you didn't even realize you fell asleep, when you'd wake up he'd more often than not already be staring at you, the other times he'd just keep his eyes closed and let you think you finally beat him, only for him to start smirking.

It was a rare sight, and you would love to see it more often. But probably this was the first and last time you'd see him like this. Perhaps the last time you'd see him at all.

So you'd make the most of it. Memorizing his dark and messy curls, the shape of his lips, the bump on his nose, his sharp cheekbones, his jawline, his neck, the way his scent filled the room.

There was no denying it anymore. How could you? This male walked into your life, treating you like nobody else ever had, and you expected not to catch feelings? Sure, the bar wasn't high before him, but now he set it where you were sure no one would ever be able to reach. 

His skin was warm when you reached for his hand, brushing your thumb over the bumps of his scars. He'd always been insecure about it. The hands that had been touched by so many cruelties, were covered in blood, tainted by basic instincts. He did what he had to do, and he hated it.

But those were the same hands that held you, caressed you in your most intimate places, which now included your heart. The shame of Azriel knowing you went against his wishes and sought him out like this had vanished. He deserved to be loved, and you'd be damned if you never showed him that. He could refuse it, could pretend you had never shown up—that you never existed, but he deserved it.

You weren't sure how long had passed as you held his hand and watched him rest. Time didn't matter. 

At some point, there were voices outside, but no one came in and his shadows didn't move to greet them like they did with you, so you continued there. Watching, admiring, hoping you'd get more of this. 

Not him getting hurt, Gods no, more of peaceful Azriel. An Azriel that didn't look like the weight of the world beared down on him, this side of him that made you want to curl up in the space between his arm and ribs and make yourself at home. 

He shifted then, a long breath leaving his lungs, his shadows scurried to check on him before he even opened his eyes. None of them reached his ears though, and you knew they were leaving the fact that you were there for him to discover.

The hand you held tightened, his thumb running over the back of your hand even before he fully woke. You basked in his touch and watched quietly as his eyes fluttered open. Blinking twice to adjust to the warm faelights, he looked towards the windows, probably trying to figure out what time of day it was. 

Then his eyes slipped shut again, and you unconsciously squeezed his hand. I'm here, look at me, let me see those eyes again.

And he did. The next moment his eyes snapped open and met yours, surprise etched on his face. Not the one that said, what are you doing here? It was more like, she's here. He was… relieved.

“Hi.” His voice sounded dry when he spoke, a simple word, and it still brought a smile to your face.

“Hi.” He mirrored your smile, shaking his head lightly. 

He licked his lips before speaking again, not meeting your eyes, “I was wondering when you'd come find me.”

What.

You didn't have an answer to that. Azriel was… expecting you? 

“Took you long enough.” 

You would have laughed if you weren't so busy imitating a gaping fish. Not only was he expecting you, but he also thought you were somewhat late?

Azriel chuckled, his eyes were closed and amusement was written in bold letters on his face. 

“I thought you'd be mad.” 

He frowned then, “Sweetheart, why would I be mad?” He squeezed your hand, the other one pushing himself up into the headboard. “All I wanted was to have you here, it's been a nightmare not being able to get up to go see you. I tried snatching a pen and paper but those idiots wouldn't leave me alone.” 

A giggle finally left you then, of course he would insult his brothers, deep down he just didn't know what to do with so much care. “Well, the High Lord did look like he spent the night awake, having to take care of two babies sure seems like hard work.” 

His reaction was exactly as you expected, he snorted and chuckled, then he pulled your hand until you had to lift off the chair, “Come here, lie with me.” He let go of your hand to try and pull you by the waist.

You stopped him with a hand on his wrist. Sure you were thinking about cuddling with him but you weren't actually going to do that, “Az, no, you're hurt.” 

“And?” 

“You are hurt.” 

“I'll be even more hurt if you don't get on this bed with me right this second.” 

“Your wings—”

“Are healing, they don't even hurt anymore.” He started pulling again, and this time you let him. 

You were careful not to touch his wings, not to move too much, but he didn't seem to care, moving you and himself until you were both comfortable. 

You heard and felt the deep breath he took, no doubt taking in your scent, to confirm it his nose brushed your head, nuzzling you.

It was so funny. You spent the last three days beating yourself up for wanting to check on him, your mind torturing you with his possible reactions. You grieved for the hypothetical ending of this relationship. And here he was, waiting for you to come find him, wanting you here. 

“Why are you so tense?” Long fingers traced swirls on your back, trying to make you relax. 

You sighed, the words just escaping without much thought, “When you didn't answer my letters, I wanted to come find you right away, but I thought you'd hate that I was invading your life—I thought maybe you wouldn't want to see me when you found out I came here.” 

He was tense and quiet for a moment, then he pulled away slowly, lifting your head by your chin so you'd look him in the eyes, “Why would you think that?”

The look on his face was enough to know your thoughts were so entirely wrong, “You said you didn't want anything serious, that your private life was important to you.” 

“Honey…” He shook his head, “I said that months ago, before I knew how incredible you were! Before you had become such an important part of my life. And, private life? I meant that as in our private life, I didn't want my family to barge in and disrupt the rhythm we had settled, our privacy is important to me.” 

Our private life. 

You knew what you had was private, but to hear him put it like that. You understood. It wasn't casual, it was forming something from the start, from zero. You were both trying out something new, something none of you were familiar with. The rhythm we had settled, careful and unhurried, that's why nothing was straightforward. Nothing with him felt like a slap to the face, or a heavy stone weighing down your heart, it was a soft spoken compliment, a brush of lips against skin, it was the hushed secrets and stories you shared in the dead of night. 

This whole time you thought maybe this was a pastime for him, that eventually he'd tire and it would become just a memory of something that happened. 

For you he was carving a spot for himself in your life, so deep you wouldn't be able to dig him out when you found someone to settle down with. You thought he'd eventually be the one you'd remember when your husband did something that upset you, “flowers again? Azriel took me stargazing on my birthday, he taught me the constellations I painted in the nursery—”

For him, he was finding a good pace to meet you on the same path, he was learning the routes you took, accompanying you when you took breaks but encouraging you to keep going. He didn't want to meet you at the finish line where there were no more obstacles, he wanted the journey, he wanted the shared struggles and small victories. 

He wanted the whole thing with you, and you didn't realize it until now.

“You are very important to me, I'm sorry if I didn't make that clear before.” A kiss to your temple, his arm pulling you tighter against him. “I didn't want to rush things, I've always been too much and I was afraid you wouldn't be ready for that…” 

“To be honest, I wasn't sure I was until I saw you lying here,” You breathed him in, brushing your nose against his neck, “I decided then that I'd take whatever I could get, if it meant I'd get more of you. I'm ready for anything you give me.”

Azriel pulled away to meet your eyes, there was a shine in them that wasn't there before. “Are you sure?” He whispered.

“I'm sure.” 

“You won't run away if I said I love you?” 

“No. Because I love you too.” 

He smiled then, leaning to rest his forehead against yours, “I love you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

You lay there for a good while, just enjoying this newfound and yet familiar feeling. 

Azriel shouldn't have been surprised when the peaceful moment was disturbed, it wasn't even by a knock or laughter down the hall, it was a body tumbling into his room, a big body. 

“Wait!” the door banged against the wall, “Tell me I didn't just lose three digits of money to Rhys. Do I have a new sister, yes or no?” 

You would have laughed if he hadn't scared the hell out of you. Azriel's chest moved under your hand, then his low chuckle reached your ears. “What did Rhys bet on?” 

“That she'd still introduce herself as your friend like she did with him when she met the rest of us.” His eyes noted the way you were wrapped around each other, confirming you were definitely more than friends. Cassian was basically buzzing with excitement, you worried that if someone shook him he'd go flying. 

“Wait, you said you were my friend?” 

You sighed, laying your head against his chest, “We had some miscommunication problems, you and I.” 

There was a female's voice then, “So…”

“Oh, they're so cute!”

“Alright, I admit I was wrong.” 

“Brother, admitting you were wrong doesn't mean anything. Pay up, loser.” 

“What? She hasn't even said what she is!” 

In a blink they were all staring at you. 

Azrael's hand squeezed your waist in encouragement. 

The room was quiet, all of them waiting for your answer, even when they all knew by now. “I'm his…” A bet on your relationship, you couldn't let them win, could you? “His private life.” 

“HIS WHA—”

:)

[ddejavvu]

pairing: azriel x reader

summary: azriel's shadows like startling you.

w/c: 2.2k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

a/n: record breaking 3 days after reading acomaf i was plagued with visions and binge-wrote this. more is on the way.

To anyone outside the city of Velaris, being a servant to the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares would be seen as a fate worse than death. To wait on him hand and foot, to see those violet eyes narrow lethally towards you at the slightest misstep- or worse, for them to not ever meet your figure; to be ignored, overlooked, treated as lower than low... most would choose to end their lives before stepping through the city gates. But of course, that's because no one outside of the city of Velaris knows it exists. In reality, staffing the House of Wind is much more pleasant than most would believe- Rhysand has people closer to him than you, of course, but you're not sneered at. He's kind to you; cordial, not overly friendly, but any dishes he dirties are handed your way with a 'thank you', and his Inner Circle are no different. Well- Amren doesn't thank you, because she doesn't dirty dishes. But she doesn't hurt you either, and considering her reputation, that's meant to mean she likes you well enough.

Tonight's dishes are caked in a thick crust of red sauce that tries with all of its might to stain the pristine dining ware. But this isn't your first time washing dishes; you'll get the stains off if you have to scrub for hours.

An icy twinge brushes against your leg, a muscle twitching and tricking your senses or the tickle of some imagined feather at your ankle. You ignore it, pumping more soap onto your sponge and attacking once more at the stubbornly-stained dishes.

The chill reappears, and you barely suppress the urge to reach your opposite foot up to scratch at its itch. Once it starts trailing up your leg, however, ghastly and mobile, you startle, nearly shattering the plate in your hands when you drop it into the sink. You frantically search your leg, finding nothing there though the echo of that touch remains. You feel it next against your back, but before you can make a fool of yourself, twirling this way and that trying to see it, it pops onto your shoulder- a shadow.

It's strange- it's something you can see, but it's something you can see through. It's swirling, black, formless and lighter in some places than in others. It almost whispers, but now that you've seen it it's the least of your concerns- there can be no wayward shadows without a shadowsinger to command them.

Azriel stands in the doorway, almost completely ensconced in shadows himself. He can stuff them away god knows where sometimes, but now they're billowing relentlessly around him, a cloak, a tapestry, a shroud.

He sinks into them so often that sometimes you forget he's not one of the staff. But no- with his relentlessly toned muscles and those Illyrian good looks, there's no mistaking him in the light.

He steps into it now, the barest of smiles gracing his face as one of his shadows continues to dance across your shoulders. When it brushes your ears they lose function, and sound pulses on and off until he calls the shadow back with a casual flick of his scarred finger.

"Rhysand wants to know if you're doing laundry tonight."

His voice is low and quiet to boot, meaning you scramble to shut the water off before it drowns him out completely. You dry your sopping hands on the towel draped over the counter, feeling meek in his presence. He's not aggressive, he's not loud- he's not Cassian. But he's terrifyingly quiet. He's the kind of quiet that makes you search desperately for something to say, even if silence is best.

"I'll do the laundry whenever he needs it done." You hum, your own voice meekly the same volume as his. You wonder why you're both nearly whispering, but you can't imagine speaking louder than him and shattering the atmosphere, "That's what I'm here for. What does he need done?"

"Sheets." He murmurs, "He wants to replace the sheets."

Rhysand cycles the linens when his Inner Circle stay the night. There are stretches where they stay every night for months, and times where they spend two nights a week. This week is one of the latter: they're all busy, and you haven't kept up with their laundry. Despite the sheets barely having been slept in since your last wash, you ignore the waste of detergent and add a resetting of the beds to your nightly to-do list.

"I'll have them fresh within the hour." You promise, "Is everyone staying?"

"I'm not." Azriel shakes his head almost imperceptibly, "Everyone else is."

You allow yourself a rather unprofessional thought: you wish you knew what was keeping Azriel occupied. He's the court's spymaster, so you doubt even the other members of the Inner Circle know what he's doing until they need to. Azriel doesn't often have personal business to attend to- any outings are for the Court, and it piques your interest every time. But it's not your business to wonder; you nod and promise it'll be done.

"Thank you." He disappears from the doorway, the clicking of his shoes against the floor the only evidence he hadn't sunk directly into the shadows trailing him.

You finish off the dishes with a lot of elbow grease and several conspiratorial glances towards the doorway, on the lookout for any other meddling shadows. But none appear, and the dishes all remain intact as you dry and replace them in their cabinets.

Stripping the beds down is the easy part- what gets difficult is remaking them. Stretching a fitted sheet across any bed is difficult, but a bed that's sized to accommodate large, leathery wings is no joke. You dread wrestling three sheets later, then decide that it's about time to wash Rhysand's linens as well, and begrudgingly add another to your list. The room that Azriel claims can be ignored, but-

There's something about walking away from the barely-cracked doorway that you can't do. It feels wrong, and you cringe as you envision Rhysand popping into the room one day and realizing you've been too lazy to touch it.

The bed is gathering dust. Perhaps you're not the greatest servant- a better one might have come in here every now and again to banish the stuff off of the surfaces. You decide you'd deserve to be fired if you ignored it, and bundle up his bedding as well. Tonight, you'll suffer five times over.

The washing cycles aren't long, nowhere near long enough to outlast Rhysand's Inner Circle and their drinking habits. You hear rowdiness from time to time but you mostly work in silence, swearing beneath your breath each time a corner of the fitted sheets snaps off of its place.

You feel like you're chasing it around Rhysand's mattress. You've done the guests' beds first, out of courtesy, and Rhysand's is the biggest due to his status. If you'd thought the others were tedious... you wish you had your own wings to pin each side in place.

Finally you manage to secure it, though you're worried it might give way and cocoon the High Lord the second he puts any weight on it. You cover it with sheets and a duvet, praying you won't be hearing a commotion from his chambers later.

The only sheets left in your basket are Azriel's, because even though he's a guest, he's one you don't have to worry about inconveniencing. You hadn't wanted to interrupt Mor or Cassian when they finally decide to retire for the night, but you're not worried for a second about Azriel coming in while you're bent halfway over the bed, butt in the air and rage in your blood.

Perhaps you should have been, though, because just after you muffle a scream into the sheets you feel something cold lick up the back of your calf.

Your next shout isn't muffled at all. It actually echoes around the cavernous chamber, but it doesn't startle the man in the doorway. He's got to stop doing that, letting the shadows envelop him from behind and make it seem like the room has no escape. The one that had been phasing into your leg skitters back towards him, gracefully quick and smooth.

"I told you I wasn't staying." Azriel reminds you, "You didn't need to do my sheets."

"They were dirty," You perform a sort of half-bow towards him, trying to puzzle out whether you're more embarrassed he'd seen your lower half on display, or heard what you'd shouted into his fitted sheet. If he won't mention either, you'll pretend it didn't happen. "I wanted to refresh them anyways." You consider his place, deep in the winding halls of the house, far from the communal space he'd been lounging in before, "Did you- want to stay?"

"I wasn't planning on it." He shakes his head again, the barest of movements, "I was just dumping Cassian in his bed- he found himself incapable of walking straight."

Azriel doesn't grin, but he flashes his teeth in an amused way before his face falls neutral again, "But you've gone through the trouble of washing my sheets, and you're clearly losing against them. May I help you?"

It's a strange question to answer. Practically, no. Because you work for Rhysand as part of his staff, and the guests of his court shouldn't be made to pitch in. They live lives of luxury, of status, and they're not meant to wrestle fitted sheets. But Rhysand has never been too stuck-up about pitching in. You'd found him waxing the floor once, in the dead of night, and it had nearly tipped you over in shock. You think he gets bored, but you won't tell anyone that. Let them think he's living the most enthralling life possible, if they want. Or that he's a creature of nightmares, made of the stuff that makes grown men cower in fear. Both are wrong; he's a midnight floor-waxer.

"You don't have to," You decide on, speaking carefully, "I'm just having a bit of trouble with the sheet."

"I heard what you called it." Azriel advances, and you fight the urge to skitter out of his way as he beelines for the opposite corner of the bed, "That's the kind of thing you say to someone in a bar when you want to start a fight."

"I heard it from Rhysand," You quip without thinking, and your cheeks blaze with embarrassment when he laughs. It's deep but not booming, something private and pitched low for only your ears to pick up. A hidden frequency, something you share with him in the shadows.

They slide across the sheets as his scarred hands grasp one end and pull it towards the corner of the mattress.

"He's foul-mouthed and foul-minded." Azriel remarks, "Get that corner."

You tuck your bit of the sheet beneath the mattress and move to the left as Azriel does the same.

"There," He hums when it's finished, "Can I help you with the rest?"

You work on edge while he helps you. He's kind, you've known that for a long time, but it feels distinctly wrong to help him fluff out his own bedsheets. When the bed is done you turn to gather your basket and flee, but there's a pair of shoes in the doorway that, for once, aren't shrouded in shadows.

What they're attached to is worse, perhaps, than a shadowsinger, because it's your boss.

Rhysand's mouth quirks into a smirk as one of his brows raises, but he keeps his badgering directed over your shoulder.

"Az, I take it you are staying the night?"

"I will." Azriel agrees, nodding once, "I don't want to waste Y/N's hard work."

"Nothing like a little company to tempt a night in," Rhysand winks at you, such a crass gesture that you audibly inhale, nearly choking on your own breath.

"Foul-mouthed and foul-minded." Azriel reminds you, his hand landing softly on your shoulder as shadows creep down your spine the way they line his, "Whatever he's paying you, it should be more. Thank you," He tugs against your shoulder briefly, turning you to face him though you dodge his eyes on instinct. When you gather the courage they're staring straight into yours, deep and alight with sincerity, "I appreciate your work. Enjoy your night."

He lets your shoulder go with nothing but a lingering squeeze, but he may as well have pushed you out for the way you hurtle towards the door. Rhysand is kind enough to let you slip away without further comments, but you can't escape the fallout as you rush down the hall and catch the tail end of the echo of his deep voice.

"-maid, hm?"

You stop short, clutching your basket to your chest and praying you won't be dismissed right then and there. But perhaps this is torture, perhaps this is the Court of Nightmares. Rhysand continues, his voice gleeful and catty, "Wouldn't have taken you for a dog like that, Az. What, was she stuck in the dryer?"

"You're crass." Azriel's response is calm, level, and low, but it only makes you flush harder, "Bent over the bed, actually. But you're crass. I helped her with the sheets, nothing more."

"You're supposed to mess up a bed with a woman," Rhysand presses, relentless as you decide running is your best option, and your feet pound against the stone as you flee for sanctuary, "Hurry, send your little shadows to fetch her back so you can ruin the sheets she just washed!"

[tarotsoulreads]

STOPP I LOVED WVERY SECOND LF THIS!!!!

This was so unintentionally funny and i LOVED it!!!!!!! Azriel’s wit in this was incredible, and Rhysand was portrayed SO spot on oh my goodness LOVE

[sincerelyazriel]

beautiful stranger

— pairing: azriel x reader

— word count: 3.1k

— author’s note: hello hello this is my first fic on here so please be kind, im still finding my footing but if you guys have any requests please feel free to send them in :)) also I recommend listening to 'heart filled up' by paolo nutini while reading this!

— summary: when azriel can’t sleep, a walk through the sleeping city is usually his only respite. but he does not expect to find another lonesome soul that his calls to.

— warnings: mentions and use of mirthroot (weed), some swearing and mentions of low self esteem, depression and suicide. please do not read if those are triggering topics for you <3

main masterlist

Rest had never come easily to Azriel. 

A foreign concept to his overactive mind, one that even five centuries of life had not eased. Missions, reports, intel and duties. There seemed no room for rest in his psyche, no matter how deeply his soul called for it. 

Over the centuries, he’d tried the recommended. Herbal tea, sleeping tonics, training, sex, and when he was younger and did not feel the pressures of the world and his role, sometimes even drugs. To no avail. Nothing seemed to quench the insatiable exhaustion he carried. Not then, and certainly not now. 

He’d laid awake for hours already; reading, polishing blades, masturbating. Yet his mind refused to tire, did not deign to relax, did not dare to cease racing. 

A sigh, a huff, he kicked off the blankets. Shoved those toned legs into a pair of dark slacks, slipped a cotton shirt and sweater over his torso and stuffed his feet in a pair of shoes. This was not the Shadowsinger, not the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

No. 

This was just Azriel. 

A male so tired and deprived, a walk was to be his very last resort. If the late winter chill did not jolt his mind into a need for sleep, he’d spend the rest of the moonlight pouring over mission details and reports. Much like he did most other restless evenings. 

But he was desperate now, tonight. Like the moon called for him to take a stroll, to bask in the beauty of the city he loved. Perhaps to ground himself, perhaps to distract his mind from the turmoil and stress. Whatever it was that coaxed him out into the night, he listened. If not for curiosity, then for sanity. 

The city was silent, sleeping. As he knew it would be. He left the townhouse in its quiet state, housing Mor and Elain who snored softly into the night. The cold chill of the air nipped at Azriel’s wings, but they did not shudder. 

He allowed his feet to follow the cobblestone path, no destination in mind. The citizens remained sleeping in their warm beds, safety blanketing them at the knowledge of their spymaster protecting their city. What a heavy load he carried, what an important duty he promised. 

Small glows and bursts of faelights lit the streets, golden hues against grey cobble and brick homes. Safety was one thing Velaris promised, one of Azriel’s many responsibilities. None of which he took lightly. None that he did not offer his everything to. 

Somewhere along the way of his life, he forgot about himself, his own needs. Began to believe the bullshit those evil boys spewed when he was a child. It wasn’t something he did intentionally. But, well, he supposed if he had to choose between his life and another's, he would always put himself last. 

To Azriel, his duty was his only purpose. He was his own worst enemy, he knew. Self-sabotaging since before he even knew what that meant. Rhysand saved him. Cassian, too. He owed his life to them, whether they thought so or not, he did. He’d lay his life at their feet before they could even argue otherwise.

It was toxic, he knew. At 500 years of age, still acting as though he was indebted to his brothers, to his High Lord. Gods, the fresh air was only making him cynical. He stopped short by the Sidra, a heavy exhale leaving his lips in a gust of frosted air. Perhaps he should’ve worn a coat, but the bite of the chill kept him steady, reminding him this was all real. 

That he wasn’t fading. He was here. His city was safe. And his mind was so fucking tired. 

He knew he should’ve turned back the moment the first yawn stretched past his throat. He truly contemplated it when it happened a second time. But when he diligently cast a quick once over the river, his eyes caught on a gentle female figure slumped on a bench across the stream. 

That small ounce of sleepiness quickly evaded him, replaced with curiosity and the dutiful need to check why a young female was out alone at this time of the night. Azriel’s knees bent as he pushed his weight into the air in gentle flight, those large membranes flexing and stretching at his sides to carry his weight. 

Flying never exhausted him, no. For Azriel, flying was what made him feel alive, what he loved that was just for him. He was only airborne for a few moments before he gently descended to the ground at the bottom of the hill. His wings ruffled, pulled tight behind his back. 

He did not want to be the Shadow of Death, not here, not tonight. Not when a young Fae female sat just meters away, alone, cold. He approached the hill slowly, cautiously. And when he got close enough to see her, his breathing hitched. 

She was beautiful. Ethereal in such a broken and pained way. She sat with her knees close to her chest, arms wrapped around them and from where he stood a short distance away, he could just make out the roll of mirthroot pinched between her fingers, red cherry burning in the moonlight. 

He had a feeling she sensed him, but she did not acknowledge his presence. Instead, her empty eyes remained on the city below, on the silver moon that reflected on the Sidra’s stream. She guided the mirthroot to her lips and took a long drag, cheeks hollowing and Azriel could tell it wasn’t her first try. 

Curiosity spiked him. Because while Azriel may not remember names, he never once forgot a face. But her, he couldn’t recall ever seeing a face like hers before. His head tilted slightly to the side, brows pinched in a way someone would only notice if they looked for it. 

“You shouldn’t be out alone at this time of night.” The breeze carried his voice to her, soft and husky after not speaking for hours. 

She didn’t offer him a response, still did not acknowledge him. Azriel remained still, his restless shadows itching to investigate, but he reigned them in. For a solid moment he considered whether his lack of sleep had begun to weave fabrications. Things that were not there.

But then she moved. Only slightly, just a tilt of her head in his direction, but she still did not look, didn’t dare take her eyes off of the Sidra. Azriel followed her line of sight, studying the light he could not find in her eyes. It made something ache in his ribcage. He stepped closer, loosened the hold on his wisps of darkness.

She took another drag, exhaled the smoke into the night. “Why not? I thought Velaris was the safest place in Prythian.” 

Her voice, like velvet on velcro. Like waves crashing against rocks. Smooth yet rugged, soft and yet so raw. He swallowed thickly. “It is.” Because he made it safe. 

She didn’t offer another reply, so Azriel stepped even closer, just inches from the female and the bench now. “What’s your name?” he called gently. And only now did he realise just how distracted he finally was from the crushing responsibilities he carried daily. 

The female did not tell him her name. Instead, she scooted just slightly across the wooden bench, a silent invitation for another lonesome soul to join hers. The bench creaked slightly beneath his weight, his thigh a  foot from hers. She still did not look at him, did not ask him questions most others would. 

For some reason, it unsettled him. Had Azriel wanting to tell her things she never asked about. 

“My name is Azriel,” he spoke into the darkness, and his shadows scattered across the hill, as though they were puppies playing on the grass. 

He did not miss the way the female smiled softly at them, that her posture did not stiffen in his close proximity. He wondered if she knew who he was. What he was. Given, he didn’t wear his usual leathers or any of his siphons, but most knew his face, knew his name. 

Most balked from it. Hid and cowered. She did not. 

“You are not from Velaris,” he commented. She hummed, the most conversation so far. Offering him the pinched roll of mirthroot, she unbunched her knees from her chest and let out a huff. He inspected the joint, a lone shadow whispering three words only: safe, lonely, sad.

He took a pull, tried to ignore that unfamiliar ache again. He had felt sympathy before, for his hurt loved ones, for the broken and starved families throughout and after wars, for the young children in Illyria. Never under these circumstances, never late at night for a female he did not know the name of.

“It's my last night here anyway.” She spoke quietly, a finality in her tone that contrasted the ache of turmoil and uncertainty on her face.

“Where will you go?” he asked, if only to keep the conversation going; to busy his mind, and hers.

She seemed to pause at that, as though the question had caught her off-guard. Only for a moment, before she recovered with a slow blink and a sadness that ghosted her features. “I don't know. Wherever my soul takes me.”

Something felt wrong with her statement, something that both unnerved and intrigued Azriel. But he did not press, did not ask for more. He sensed her soul was similar to his—starved of love and touch and kindness. He took another pull then handed it back to the female. 

Their fingers did not brush, but he felt the coldness of her skin all the same. Again, he did not comment on it. Instead, he offered something of himself.

“When I can’t sleep, I come for a walk. It’s comforting to have the space to think and breathe freely.”

“It’s lonely,” she corrected him without a breath after he spoke. “Sleep is not my problem,” she continued, “I wish it was.” 

Silence fell upon them for a moment, and she stubbed out the mirthroot on the sole of her shoe before flicking it into the trashcan beside her. 

“What’s your name?” Azriel asked her again. 

And she finally looked at him. Broken eyes meeting tired ones. But beneath that sadness, pain and loneliness, she was devastatingly beautiful. It stole the breath from his lungs for a moment, he would not dare look away. Azriel feared those eyes would be ingrained in his mind for eternity. The ghosts that haunted them. The life that used to live there. 

“Does it matter? We won’t see each other again. I’ll be gone by dawn.”

“I’d still like to know.”

She studied his face, his wings, his frame, eyed his shadows across the hill. He didn’t balk under her gaze. It wasn’t scrutiny, not assessing. She looked at him as if he would be the last person she’d ever lay her eyes on. 

Her gaze remained on his shadows when she asked, “why?” 

Swallowing around a thick lump, Azriel watched his shadows, too. “Because I don’t believe that beautiful souls should be forgotten.” 

Had he been looking at her, he would’ve seen the tears that welled in her eyes, would’ve noticed how she held her breath to suffocate a sob or cry or scream. 

“There is nothing beautiful about my soul.”

It was a whisper into the breeze, but he heard it. Felt it. 

She stood then, hoisting her small purse over her shoulder. Right, she was leaving. He inspected her for a moment, her lack of belongings for someone who was leaving. Was that all she had? Where did she plan to go with such little to get her by? 

And her clothes, she— “Wait!” Azriel spoke quickly, stopping the female’s steps with a gentle sense of urgency in his tone. She looked at him again, those shadows that were once playing on the grass now huddled across his broad shoulders. 

The shadows swarmed his arms and torso for a brief moment, before they pulled away from him and slinked toward her through the air, as though gifting her something. With furrowed brows, she held out her palms, goosebumps prickling her cold skin. 

They dropped Azriel’s sweater in her hands, she barely managed to keep it from dropping to the floor. Bundling it up in her arms, she looked at the fabric then back at the Illyrian before her. He held a sheepish expression on his face, a slight blush to his cheeks that wasn’t from the cold. 

Gods, how long had it been since he’d blushed because of a female? 

“So you don’t get too cold on your travels.” 

He did not miss the tear that slipped down her cheek. Nor the haunting look that glassed over her eyes. Yes, those eyes were most certainly engrained in the Shadowsingers mind forevermore. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Azriel offered her a small nod with his words, and turned on his feet and descended the hill with a new wave of heaviness on his chest. 

Something made him contemplate turning back, to press for answers, to demand her name. But he didn’t. He continued to walk the path home to the townhouse. His shadows whispered one thing in his ear. 

Beautiful stranger. 

And the wind carried their whispers to her. 

Azriel dreamt of her that night, returned to the townhouse and found sleep swiftly. He dreamed of the female’s eyes, of the life he felt once lived in them. 

He knew she would not be there the following night, but he visited that bench anyway, at least in hopes that the memory of her might soothe him to sleep once more. Ridiculous, really. But Azriel had a taste of peace and was desperate for rest again, he’d stoop that low if it promised a few hours. 

The bench was empty of her, something small sat in her place, a piece of parchment beside it. His shadows inspected first, carrying her scent of honey and jasmine to him in the wind. He looked at the note first. 

Thank you for your kindness, Azriel. May this help you in ways it helped me. 

— The beautiful stranger 

His heart thundered at the way she’d signed the note, at the knowledge she’d somehow heard what his shadows had whispered to him the night before. Azriel clocked his surroundings, not a soul in sight, not a scent out of place. 

He let his eyes drift to what she’d left. A single earbud of some sort. It seemed to vibrate in his palm when he picked it up. And when he put it to his ear, he heard the gentle, lapping waves of water, heard birds chirping and leaves and branches rustling in the breeze. 

It was enchanted with some sort of magic. Crafted to offer peace and relief. Something like that would surely cost a small fortune, an even heftier price for someone like her—with little belongings and no solid place to call home. 

His heart clenched and he took the bud from his ear and stuffed it safely into his pocket with the note, praying silently to the Mother that his stranger was safe and happy wherever she ventured next.

Sleep found him quickly that night, with the waves and birds and leaves in his ears. He dreamt of her again, this time those eyes were lighter, and she was laughing, dancing in the sand on a beach somewhere far off the continent. 

He continued to dream of her every night for the next week, sleep was no longer such a tiring chase. He was ready to tire early again, to drift peacefully with the moon and stars to wherever his soul took him, when Rhysand had called into his mind.

“There’s something else I need to speak with you about.” Rhysand began delicately as Azriel took the seat opposite him in his grand office.

“Do you know a young female by the name of Y/N?”

Azriel frowned at his brother, shaking his head just slightly, shadows lazing on his shoulders. “No, I've never heard of her. Why?”

Rhys looked at his brother with apprehension, a heaviness in his eyes that Azriel had not seen in many, many years. He sat forward in his seat, his once calm shadows now swirling in concern and worry. 

“An hour ago, our patrol wardens found her body in the woods.”

Azriel did not like the soft tone Rhys took with him. They’d had conversations like this several times in the past, where Az was required to investigate the situation. Never once had his brother regarded him with such soft cautiousness because of it before. 

This did not feel right. Azriel was worried. 

“She was fae, only 78 years old. Madja believes she had ingested a significant amount of Belladonna, there was an empty vial beside her. It looks as though she passed about a week ago.” 

Azriel raised a brow, unsure why he was being told of this. A suicide? What was there for Azriel to deal with? “Do you want me to speak with her family?”

“She has no family. Not in Velaris, at least.” Rhysand swallowed, sat forward and rested his clasped hands on the oak desk. “Azriel, she was covered in your scent, she was wearing your sweater.” 

The beautiful stranger’s eyes blinded him and his mind. No, no longer a stranger. Her name, Y/N. Gods. His heart stopped beating, his shadows stilled at his shoulders. And then they encompassed him completely, and within a blink he was standing in the morgue of Velaris. 

A cold table stood before him, a sheet over a body. Over her. 

Azriel did not step closer, did not move the sheet from her an inch. He couldn’t. But he stared at the hair that draped off that table, of the familiar purse that leaned against the leg. And on the floor, just beside it, something had fallen. 

The missing earbud to his. A comfort she sought out even in her final moments. Alone, afraid, forgotten. 

No, not forgotten. Because Azriel would remember her. 

He did not dream that night. Nor any night after. His once brief but beautiful dreams were now plagued with nightmares of her tearful eyes, broken and lonely and all hope lost. 

What hope did he have for his soul, when one as beautiful as hers couldn’t be saved? 

— author’s note: i guess the underlying message of this is that no matter what you think, you’ll always be remembered, your presence will always have made some form of positive impact on someone, no matter how little you think it may be. i hope you enjoyed it and if you have any feedback i would love to hear what you thought! <3

[tarotsoulreads]

yo this isn’t funny, my heart hurts

this was so beautifully written and the message behind this was portrayed so painfully right !!! the dreams that turned to nightmares !! her hearing and understanding the shadows whispers !! 😩😩😩

this was incredible, 10/10 recommend listening to the paolo song, i think that topped it off for me

please make sure you check the warnings before reading this, it’s a heavy topic but written so respectfully

[paintedwritings]

But First, The End

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/her pronouns used)

Word Count: 10.5k

Summary: A one-night stand with Prythian’s most notorious spy leads to an avalanche of life changing events. 

Warning/Notes: Hoping to make this a mini-series if people are interested! Some talk of anxiety, smutty/adult content, I think it can be categorized as fluff, but there will definitely be some angst eventually because I can’t help myself. Please let me know what you think and if you’d be interested in more parts! Thank you.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

The glimmering purple liquid burned as it raced down her throat, shot number–who even knew– as her hips swayed back and forth, the upbeat music acting as a guide. 

Heat danced across her flesh, pirouetting on every inch of her skin, as her friends pressed closely around her, dancing the night away. Lena–her twin sister, had been the one responsible for tonight. When she learned that her sister had been accepted to intern under the best healer in Velaris, well, she’d wanted to celebrate by taking Y/n out and–apparently– getting her laid, or very drunk, whichever happened first.

She hadn’t given much of a fight, it was rare that she got to enjoy a night out. Usually, she sequestered herself away in her own corner of the world studying herbal remedies and medicinal practices, or doing research on all sorts of plants and carnivorous insects.

“We need more alcohol,” Mari– one of her good friends, called out, not waiting for a response before dragging Lena behind her as they headed for the bar. Y/n watched as the small, fearless seamstress flipped her hair over her shoulder, exposing a small constellation tattoo, and smiled seductively at the bartender. Laughing slightly, Y/n spun on her heels, grateful that her friends were enjoying the night as much as she was.

Vasilisa, her sweet roommate, quickly filled in the gap the other two had left. Smiling softly at a male before she twirled once, the delicate glimmering mesh of her skirt chasing after her thighs. 

“The High Lord’s here tonight,” she giggled, throwing her arms around Y/n’s neck as she danced with her, but kept eye contact with the male just out of view. Perhaps alcohol was, in-fact, not what they needed more of. “And, he looks delicious.”

“He’s mated, Lesa, probably best to pick some other poor soul.” Despite the oddity of Lesa’s drunkenness, she couldn’t help but warm at her friend’s state. 

A small, devilish grin plastered across the girl’s face as she quickly shifted gears, “What about the shadowsinger? He’s not mated and Cauldron, he is scrumptious.”

At this point, Y/n would definitely have to be the one to stop drinking. With Mari and Lena still chatting up the bartender, more drinks appearing and disappearing before they ever left the counter; Lesa all but grinding against her as she mentally undresses the High Lord and the Spymaster of the Night Court; and Peri’s complete disappearance once a beautiful female had shown interest; it was a safe bet that she’d need to make sure everyone got home safely tonight.  

“I have an even better idea, Y/n,” Lesa squealed, her toes bouncing as she gripped both of her arms, big doe eyes pleading. “You should ask him to dance!” Lesa seemed so happy with herself, but she had to hold back the cringe that fought desperately to claw its way free.

She must not have done a good enough job hiding it, because Lesa pouted, “You don’t think he’s hot?” 

Y/n blanched, “No, of course I think he’s hot. I mean he's very tall, and gorgeous, and I like the way his shadows surround him, and I can only imagine what they can do in–” her cheeks flooded with heat that she couldn’t blame on the atmosphere. Good gods, she needed to reattach her tongue to her brain. Clearing her throat, and ignoring Lesa’s growing smirk, “that’s not the point.”

She laughed awkwardly, hoping to change the subject. She certainly wouldn’t be asking him to dance. The male took her breath away, she’d never be able to speak to him, not without clamming up or dying on the spot– the latter more preferrable. 

It was entirely possible that she was a little obsessed with the male, but in a ‘I’ll adore you from behind the scenes and never, ever do anything about it,” kind of obsession. Totally healthy. Not at all going to bite her in the ass.

She just admired him, and well, all of the Inner Circle. They did so much to keep the Night Court safe and an enjoyable place to live. 

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dance,” Peri spoke as she finally made her reappearance. She took one of the shots that Lena handed her as she and Mari finally made their back, as well. “Besides, you're out of his league,” the purple haired faerie said, shooting her a wink. 

Of all of her friends, Peri understood the anxiety that lingered beneath Y/n’s bones the best. The circumstances that she and Lena had grown up in– they hadn’t been the best and it followed them even now, nearly one hundred years into their lives.

She smiled back at her friend, spinning Lesa into Mari’s arms, the girl gasping at the sudden movement, Lena catching the two barely before they tumbled. Y/n slung an arm around Peri’s shoulders, the two swaying back and forth as she thanked the Mother for her friends.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

The night lived on, the girls tapering off to dance with all kinds of people, the lights switching from flickering rainbow rays, to disco, to low set golden glows. Y/n let the euphoria from adrenaline and excitement drive her body– she had stopped drinking what had to have been hours ago, but she still felt the light thrum in her limbs that made her feel like a cloud, made her feel untouchable. 

By the time midnight rolled around, her feet had started aching in the best ways, her thighs felt like they were on fire, and she could feel dobs of sweat beading her brow. She had danced with her fair share of men and women, but no matter how many times Lena shot her a ‘go for it’ look or Mari gave her a thumbs up, she never lingered for more than a dance.

With all her friends occupied, she made her way out the back exit, needing some fresh air and a glance at the stars. Stargazing had always been a source of comfort for her, it was her mother’s favorite thing to do– and Velaris is the best place to do it. The beautiful dark sky was mixed with deep blues and unnerving black hues that made the stars shimmer like diamonds.

She sighed, resting her back against the brick wall of an alley, taking comfort from the cool texture against her bare skin. Her eyes stayed glued to the sky, but she jolted when she heard a small can knock over a little deeper into the alley. She stood frozen, too confused, and a little scared, to do anything other than watch.

Her breath escaped her quickly, though. She watched a small black tendril of smoke slither out from behind the bin, moonlight gleaming on the silver can as more shadows revealed themselves around it.

They made their way towards her, some of them wrapping around her ankles and running the length of her arms, gooseflesh following swiftly after them. She giggled softly, cooing at the adorable things.

“What are you doing here?” She whispered, utterly enamored by the way they moved, the cool tenderness that they left in their wake. She’d blame the alcohol for her utter lack of awareness, despite feeling completely sober, she was sure it was the only explanation for how she missed their master entirely. “You’re quite cute.”

“That’s not typically how people describe them,” a deep, rough voice spoke from behind her. 

She wasn’t proud of what happened next, but, in her defense, she panicked and instinct took over. 

She screeched, her heels spinning swiftly as she threw her fist at the intruder behind her, all of her small, but mighty force put behind it.  

In hindsight, should she have been able to make an informative guess on who it was? Absolutely. If she had taken even a moment to look at her surroundings: the creatures she was speaking to, or even the bar that the alley they currently stood in lay attached to– she may have chosen a better way to react.

Still, she tried desperately to hold onto all of her brothers’ teachings, it had been years since she’d properly trained or had taken part in any sort of physical combat, so she was a little rusty. 

Her fist collided with a skin, hard. She hadn’t realized how tall the male before her was, her head barely reaching his shoulders, her fist vibrating where it hit the palm of his hand. 

He hadn’t even flinched. A small smile tilting the side of his mouth. She stood frozen, her wrist now encased by a warm, calloused hand as he twisted his grip, gently.

Their eyes locked, his warm hazel gaze taking complete control of her being. Her mouth popped open a little, her eyes wide as she took in the beautiful specimen before her. The quirk of his lips disappeared almost immediately, but he still wore a soft look on his face, it was obvious he was doing his best to not be intimidating. He dropped her wrist without complaint and took a large step backwards, his hands clasping behind his back as he dragged his wings in behind him, making them look smaller.

He cleared his throat, the look on his face giving nothing away, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her first thought? That he could startle her whenever he wanted to because he’s breathtaking. His short curls lay in dark wisps along his forehead, his eyes glazed with a bewitching twinkle, and his clothes clung tightly to his muscles, nothing left to the imagination. She could see the swirls of his tattoos as a few sat slightly in view beneath his sleeves and open collar.

Finally, finally, she found her voice, it cracked, “Wo-ow, you’re beautiful.” His eyes widened and his mouth hung agape for a short moment, shadows dancing along his shoulders as they thrummed with what looked like giddy-delight. 

Cauldron. Boil. Her.

She cursed herself inwardly, why the hell had she said that? She needed to get out of here, fast. 

“I mean– you aren’t– I’m–” words failed to form, and he just stood and watched, mesmerized, as she floundered, as she crashed and pathetically burned. “I’m so sorry, for punching–oh gods– and for the beautiful–” swallow, “–thing… uh– i’m just gonna,” She pointed her thumb to the door she came through.

“I don’t think–” He started, but quickly stopped when she swore, pulling on the door handle that didn’t so much as budge. She pulled harder, over and over again as embarrassment to the nth degree began washing over her.

She groaned, allowing her upper body to fall against the large door, her forehead resting against the cool metal. Why do these things happen to me?

To all his credit, the shadowsinger just stood back and watched as she slowly unraveled, utter amusement dancing in his eyes. He had never seen anyone fumble so entirely when trying to speak to him. It intrigued him. It certainly had him thinking of ways to make that blush bloom across her cheeks again. 

“Are you alright?” He finally asked, cutting off her repetitive mumblings. Her gaze snapped to his, her head still firmly planted against the door. 

“I should have drank more,” she said to herself before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “I’m peachy,” Was how she responded to him, “thanks for not, you know, killing me for punching you.”

He mouthed the word peachy, as if he had never heard it before, his brows crinkling in the most attractive way. Gods, she really needed to quit staring at him.

She started her walk towards the front of the alley, doing her best to sidestep the large male. He merely turned, allowing her to pass him with plenty of room between them, but he did follow her as she made her way to the front.

“I would hardly call that a punch,” he spoke, a teasing lilt to his tone, “Although, you do move fast, so that’s at least something.”

She gawked at him, “You startled me, if I had been ready, I definitely would have hit you.” She proclaimed, her eyes catching on the shadows that had reattached themselves to her. She smiled at them.

She missed the way Azriel stopped breathing, his gaze snatching onto the smile she gave his shadows, the way she looked at them as if they were something amazing, something worth acknowledging.

He regained his composure, doing his best to shove down his growing need to hear her voice, her laugh. And gods, he wanted to see that blush again, too. 

“An opponent isn’t going to give you the time to get ready,” he pointed out, both of them stopping as they reached the edge of the alley, real life a mere step away.

She narrowed her eyes, calculation and mirth swirling around, “Why exactly were you in the alley anyways?”

He shrugged, a casual gesture that made her heart flutter wildly. She watched as his wings shifted with the motion, the moonlight illuminating them in an ethereal glow, she wanted to reach out and touch them.

Nope.

She held her hands tightly to her sides. If she knew anything about Illyrians, it was that their wings were sacred, and people tended to lose limbs when they touched them uninvited. 

“My shadows were curious about something, I merely followed their lead.” He neglected to mention that they’d slithered to the alley with the pull of a hundred Illyrian men–hell bent on getting their master the.

“There wasn’t anything special in the alleyway,” she spoke, confused. Certainly an old garbage can and littered papers wouldn’t have caught the attention of the spymaster's shadows, would it?

His head tilted sideways, taking her in as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. As if he were trying to read if she was being truthful, intentional. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, though as he lifted his hand, a shadow weaving its way around him, 

“You’re in the alleyway.”

His voice had a low timbre in it, he spoke quietly but firmly, his eyes never shifting from hers as she swallowed. 

She felt her cheeks heat, the warmth bloom across her chest as he looked at her, not a single fiber of her being going unnoticed by the male. No wonder so many people cowered in his presence.

Shaking her head, “I’m nothing special,” her hand flew to the back of her head, nervously patting her hair down as she awkwardly smiled his way. “Maybe they just needed a change in scenery,” she offered.

He hummed, “May I ask why you were in the alley? You seemed to be having fun on the dance floor.” She balked. He had seen her? Her mind had to be suffering from whiplash because there was no way this was actually happening. 

“I just needed some air, to watch the stars for a bit.” When he hummed again, she realized that he must not be much of a talker, but the silence she found them in wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, it felt… safe, kind of like a fresh breeze of air on a hot day, or a warm bath after a hard day’s work. And, she supposed it made sense that he would talk much, he was the Spymaster, after all.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” He repeated her name back, a thick, intoxicating sound as it fell from his lips. His tongue flicked across his top lip as if he were chasing the word. She wanted to chase the movement, her eyes tracking it like a hound. 

“Azriel,” he offered back, though both of them knew it was just a formality. Of course she already knew his name. 

“Would it be alright if I bought you a drink?” Did she hear a nervous pulse in his words? “To make up for startling you and interrupting your star gazing?”

She froze, did he actually just ask her out? Well, not out, but to have a drink with him? These were the kinds of things she needed her friends around for, how in the Mother's name was she supposed to know what to do. 

She thought about Lesa, and what she’d said earlier about asking him to dance. Lesa, despite her alcohol consumption, was usually the most leveled headed of them. It’s what was going to make her a great healer one day. She knew about the kind of men Y/n typically found herself gravitating towards. She knew that it was unlikely she’d ask anyone to dance unless they gave her a reason to. Did she know something about Azriel that she didn’t?

She’d have to remember to bring it up tomorrow, once Lesa had her head on straight again. But, at that moment, she decided that she could do this. She could be spontaneous and have fun. 

“I would love that,”

Besides, it was one drink, what could possibly happen?

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

One drink had turned into two, and two had quickly turned into three the longer the night went on. She and Azriel had danced for what felt like hours. Eventually they’d found their to a table, just the two of them talking and laughing, sharing stories. She did most of the talking, the male drawing words and memories out of her with no problem at all. He always hummed and asked questions at the right times, he listened in a way that made her think he was far too interested in her, but it was…nice. 

She hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten, but as she did a sweep of the room, she realized a lot of the patrons had left for the night. Even Mari and Lesa had waved at her as they left. 

Her gaze locked with her twin’s from across the dance floor, she slowly sipped from a pink drink, Peri sitting at the bar with her as they chatted. Lena raised a brow at Y/n. She didn’t need twin telepathy to know what she was asking, are you coming home with us, or going home with him?

She sent a glare her sister's way, knowing Lena had a preference for which option she chose. Honestly, Y/n knew better, though. Ignoring her sister only spurred her on. Which was why, now, Lena and Peri were making their way to the two of them, a shit eating grin on the former's face.

“Y/n,” She cooed, sitting down on her chair and placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. 

Azriel’s eyes snapped to Lena’s, then quickly to Peri, assessing and putting information together that she’d slowly given him over the past few hours.

“Peri and I are leaving, we have that very important thing to do tomorrow, as you know,” A very ‘subtle’ wink, “We don’t want to leave without you.” She pouted. “It’s so dangerous out there.”

Before Y/n could respond, Azriel cut in smoothly, “I could take you home.” The blush she’d been trying so hard to keep down all night ignited beneath her skin. 

Peri rolled her eyes as Lena clapped, “What a wonderful idea, who better to get her home safely than the Night Court’s Spymaster, himself.” 

She could have sworn Azriel smiled into his drink, clearly catching on to Lena’s antics. She shot an apologetic face towards him. He merely smiled at her, causing her breath to hitch.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m sure you’re busy.” She spoke quietly. Her eyes casting down toward the near-full drink she’d been sipping for the last hour. 

“I’m not. And, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” All three women stared at him, the sheer honesty in his tone casting them in stone. The fact that he wanted to spend more time with her and didn’t care that she and her friends knew. It started chipping away at the obsession, and started morphing into something much scarier.

Lena made a noise mixed between utter fascination and ooey-gooey sweetness. The arm hooked around her shoulders was used to swing her around swiftly, bringing her eye to eye with her twin, the startling gray color of their eyes meeting her own. 

“Make good choices,” She waggled her brows and flicked the zipper of her top down a millimeter more, revealing more cleavage.

“Lena!” She hissed. Hands automatically moving to cover herself. She didn’t zip it back up.

She winked, backing up to a laughing Peri. “good choices” she merely mouthed. 

Y/n looked towards Azriel, afraid of what he’d think of this whole show. Her eyes widened, he had a pink blossoming along his cheeks, a bashful expression briefly taking hold of his face before it turned into something more–deeper. 

As Lena turned towards the exit, her arm grappling Peri’s, she faced Azriel, “If anything happens to her, if she comes back with so much as a scratch,” she spoke cooly, “I’ll gut you from scrote to throat, capiche?”

She tossed a clean napkin at her sister, “I’m fine, go.”  Horrified that she had just threatened the freaking spymaster of the Night Court. One of the most infamous fae warriors in Prythian.

Something like appreciation flashed in his eyes, though. Instead of threatening her back, or using his title against her, he merely reached his hand out–covered in a black leather glove.

“I’ll protect her with my life.” Lena stood straighter, hesitantly reaching for his hand to shake it. Despite the glove, some sort of magic seemed to breathe new life into the world. An ebony vine wrapped its way along Lena’s wrist, bleeding flowers encasing the thin band, a matching one covering his own. 

She stared at their wrists, surprise flickering through her. Weren’t those kinds of promises…permanent? Why in the gods' names would he make a promise like that? He hardly knew her. Then again, she supposed it was sweet and comforting that a member of her home’s Inner Circle cared so much about the safety of their citizens.

Because that’s definitely all this could be about. 

Her sister and friend left quickly after that. And not long after that, Azriel paid the tab– refused to accept any of her money– and had wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. The fabric drifted over her arms, completely engulfing her frame and covering her thighs half-way.

She found herself close to Azriel, clinging to his warmth, as they made their way down the cobblestone street. Moon glimmering against the stone and street signs, casting the area in a deep, evanescent glow. 

Azriel walked at a slow pace, no doubt to keep up with her heeled steps. One of his hands hooked into his pocket, the other one – the one closest to hers– lay still at his side. She had a sneaking suspicion it was in case she decided to hold his hand. Heat blossomed in her stomach at the thought.

Lena had told her to make good choices. She had no doubt that meant to have fun, to allow herself some flexibility. She wasn’t sure of much when it came to this male, but she knew that she liked him and everything she’d learned about him tonight.

She knew she didn’t want the night to end, not yet.

“Will you take a detour with me?” She asked abruptly, effectively ending the calm silence. She could smell the salty air of the Sidra, a cool air rushing its way through the strands of her hair, his shadows stuck to her like sweetgum balls. 

He looked ethereal in the light of the moon, his unmatched beauty enrapturing her wholly. She hadn’t been able to look away from him for more than a moment the whole night.. His canines flashed briefly as he smirked, and then he hooked his pinky in hers, the gloves he had been wearing all night smooth against her skin.

She laughed as he spun her around, her heels clicking against the sidewalk.

“Lead the way,”

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

They walked along the colorful sidewalk, crystal water filling the Sidra, the waves lulling softly in the calm of the night. 

Azriel had started opening up, slowly, telling her about his family, his job– or at least a pg version– and his interests. She clung to his every word, so grateful that he’d been willing to share parts of his private life. Their hands slowly grew closer, fingers finding their way together, his hand squeezing hers when it finally rested in his. 

She smiled softly at him, his eyes catching on her mouth. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the blush that always appeared when she looked at him too long. The whipping wind blasting her cheeks with frigid, frost coated air. 

Looking up at the stars glittering in the sky, “My mother loved the stars,” she spoke softly. She admired a mixture of constellations and a magical aurora– beautiful hues of golden orange, blushing pink, and enchanted, deep purple blending together. 

“She used to say that the stars were proof that the small moments in life are just as magnificent as the big ones.” 

She watched the stars, but he watched her. 

Meeting his hazel eyes, close enough to see the warm, green flecks that dusted his irises, she couldn’t help but move closer. Later, in the comfort of her home, she might say it’s because the wind was brutal, and his body offered her more heat than his jacket ever could. But, right here, right now? She simply wanted to follow that tugging in her chest, a sensation that led her straight to him.

His hand slowly drifted up her, following her outline before it settled against her cheek. He swallowed, “She sounds like a very wise woman,” He finally answered. His thumb lazily rubbed the skin along her jaw, allowing her ample opportunities to stop him if she wished.

She did not wish. In fact, she wanted to feel his skin against hers, and she couldn’t do it by holding his hands.

Instead she raised onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her middle, holding her steady against him. “What are you up to?” He murmured, a sweet look on his face as he moved a piece of her hair from her face. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” her body stiffened, he hadn’t meant to speak that aloud, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when she smiled like that.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” He vowed, his eyes glued to her lips, he only waited long enough for her to nod her agreement before his lips descended onto her.

She didn’t have even a moment to freak out, to second-guess, because one second he was leaning into her and the next his lips were on hers and–

 She. Stopped. Breathing. 

His lips were warm and soft, but also firm and perfect. The hand that was attached to the arm not securing her to him found its way to her cheek, cupping her softly. Her hands wound their way into his hair, a sigh escaping her as he kept kissing her, his tongue flicking across her lower lip.

This man didn’t simply kiss, he devoured, he took everything that she offered and more. His tongue danced along her mouth, and when his fingers grappled the ends of her hair, tugging just-so, she gasped, her mouth opening just enough for him to slip in. 

He deepened the kiss.

The small noises she made were consumed by his lips as they bubbled in the back of her throat, her legs somehow winding up around his waist, holding her up so he no longer had to bend so far. And through it all, he kept kissing her. Both his hands holding her back to keep her right where he wanted her. His tongue tangled with hers as his shadows ran along her neck, her exposed back, and her legs. The cool sensations doing unholy things to her senses as they mixed with the pure male heat of him.

Her hands pulled on his silky strands, pressing her chest, somehow, even further into his. Her body angled more above him, as he groaned, a sound she swore she could live off of. His canines flashed, a smirk dancing along his lips before she crashed her mouth back onto his, she wanted to taste every bit of him. His minty breath, the sweat beading his brow, the simple taste of his skin–could be her undoing. 

And oh golly, her skin tingled, her lips dancing with anticipation as he pulled away. His forehead falling against hers, his eyes so dark she wondered if she’d imagined the hazel of them all throughout the night. 

Their breaths came out in soft spurts, the cold night air bringing them to life around them as they stayed close. Her legs still wrapped around him, holding her to him, careful of his wings that seemed to flare whenever he lost some of his undiluted control.

“That was– you are–” He stopped, his lips trailing a path from her neck to her jaw and up her cheek before landing on the corner of her lips. Those glorious teeth scraping along her skin. She wanted him to bite her, to leave marks so she could remember this in the morning.

Maybe tomorrow–or for the rest of her life, let’s be honest– she’d daydream about how she’d turned this man into a puddle of words with just her mouth, gods knew he’d done that to her. But, right now? Right now she wanted nothing more than to feel more of him. To feel all of him.

“Can I take you home?” His voice came out breathy, still pressing sweet kisses along her skin, anywhere he could find. 

“That depends,” she cooed, moving her head back and baring her neck so he had better access. “My home or yours?”

She could feel that smile as it lifted his lips, his soft kisses on her throat making her lose any sense of understanding.

He rephrased, “Come home with me?” 

And how could she possibly say no to that?

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Azriel’s room was everything she could have pictured it being. Dark, neat, and not a single item that screamed “I’m Azriel, this is my space,” unless she counted the wall of knives and weapons. But she imagined that had more to say about how he was a spymaster, not the man himself.

They’d come in through his balcony, the glass doors pristinely shining as the moonlight cast onto them, giving his room the same aura as its dweller– dark and mysterious, but oh, so sexy. 

His bed lay in the middle, large enough to house someone with wings, and the dark linens neatly placed atop them were calling her name. A crackling fire lit the stone laden fireplace on the far end, books stacked neatly on a desk that was filled with papers and organized writing quills. 

She didn’t have time to dwell further on her surroundings, though. Not as Azriel pressed his front to her back, the evidence of his arousal chanting her name like a prayer. His gloves had come off, his calloused hands tracing the skin on her arm slowly.

“Are you still with me?” He whispered, his teeth grazing the tip of her ear. Shivers ran down her spine as she spun towards him, her hands finding their place on his forearms. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes already on his lips. She had no qualms with what this was. She knew. This was one night. One amazing, probably will ruin sex with anyone else ever again, night. And she was okay with that. Lena had told her to have fun, to make good choices, and she couldn’t imagine what was a better choice than this. Than him.

His lips quirked up, lust pooling in his deep hazel, near black eyes. As he leaned down, his hands found their way to the zipper on her dress as his mouth met her shoulder, a trail of saliva following her bone. 

Her hands trailed up his arms– right over his new tattoo, and then skated down his front, finding the band of his pants, she slipped them under his shirt. A pleased sound coming from his throat as her hands travelled the length of his torso, the beautifully crafted skin hot beneath her needy touch. 

In no time her dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a cute deep sapphire lace bralette set– she thanked every god that she had thought to put on a matching set. Her heels were already discarded somewhere she couldn’t bring herself to care about right now. Not as his lips finally made their way back to hers. He tasted her wholly, his large hands touching her everywhere, her back, her arms, her stomach, her ass. She preened at his attention.

“You’re beautiful,” he said again, his lips never leaving hers as her hands finally got tired of their fabric confines. “Fucking gorgeous,” he growled. As he lifted her without absolutely no effort at all, depositing her softly onto his bed as he leaned over her. His dark locks falling over his face, she couldn’t stop her hand from pushing them back, his beautiful face cast in soft golden light from the fireplace. 

He leaned down, his lips brushing hers as his hand found her breast. Her back arched as he plucked her nipple with his fingers through the thin fabric. His other hand massaging her other breast languidly. Then his mouth, his magnificent mouth, fell to the fabric as he sucked her in. She couldn’t stop the noises that came out of her as he continued his ministrations. All she could do was throw her head back, hold his hair in her grip, and hope she didn’t topple off the edge of this world. 

“Azriel,” she breathed, “please,” her eyes blown out with lust as the heat in her belly stirred and writhed with every touch, every look.

He smirked, flashing those canines she had an unhealthy fascination with, “Already begging and I haven’t even touched you the way I’ve been wanting to all night,” His tongue flicked between her breasts as he unhooked the small clasp in front, letting them spill out. 

Any other time she may be embarrassed, or try and cover, but one look at Azriel, and she knew she didn’t need to. He looked at her like he wanted to ravish her, like he could live off of touching her.

“You’re breathtaking, I thought it when I saw you dancing, and the Mother knows I can’t stop thinking it now,” he spoke, such utter candor in his voice–just like when he’d told her there was nowhere else he’d rather be– it made her breath catch. 

She imagined that Azriel was not an easy male to get over. So she’d just need to get under him.

A blush took over her cheeks, but she managed a breathy, “Off,” a plea, really. As she tried to lift his shirt. He chuckled, a sexy, deep sound that went straight to her core. The next moment his shirt was off, and then somehow, his pants. 

She was sure saliva had to be coming out of her mouth because this man. He was a work of art, he definitely bordered on an eight pack, small cuts and scars lined his torso and only made him more attractive. His golden skin looked iridescent in the light, his tattoos swirling all around his arms and chest. Shadows danced along her peripheral vision, not quite touching, but observing as if they wanted to. She wanted them to.

She felt her tongue as it involuntarily flicked her bottom lip, her teeth catching it in the same place. Azriel didn’t miss the motion, his eyes turning a molten color that set every nerve in her body aflame. Her hands were everywhere, running the length of his torso, his sides, she steered clear of his wings, but damn, she’d be dreaming of them for years to come. They splayed out magnificently as he loomed over her, neither of them touching the bed, they cocooned her in a way that made her feel safe, and guarded.

They were both in only their underwear now, “We can stop whenever you want,” he spoke softly, earnestly. His gaze caught hers to emphasize that he meant it, if she wanted to stop–despite being able to feel him against her leg, feel how much he wanted her– he’d back off, bring her home. And well, that gave her the warm and fuzzies, and only cemented how much she wanted this. Wanted him.

Sitting up on her elbows, her hair falling over her shoulders, she hooked one of her legs around his waist, catching him off guard as she repositioned them. Now she sat astride him, her hands landing on his pecs as his hands found her hips. 

She leaned forwards, her breasts flush with his bare chest as she kissed her way down his body. She started near his ear, whispering, “I want to hear more about what you’ve wanted to do to me all night,” she bit down, just slightly, catching his lobe. Then she kissed his jaw, a trail of warm kisses down his neck, his chest, his abs, his navel. Her hand found its way to his boxers, the tight black fabric hiding very little of his very large member. A little part of her wondered how this would work, she was not a virgin by any means, but it had been a good couple of months, and he– gods, he was impressive in all the best ways.

The sound that came out of him was purely male as she continued her movements, his hands tightening enough that she knew they’d leave bruises. Good. She wanted to remember this–in any way she could. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said it so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, but then he was sitting up, his arms wrapping around her middle to keep her from toppling off of him. 

His lips met hers as he ground into her, their underwear left little to the imagination and she stopped caring about the noises that came out of her. She just let herself go, let him take her fully.

His mouth met her nipple, his teeth plucking softly, but so sweetly. Her back bowed into him, her hands flying to his hair as she held on for dear life. He suckled and nipped and licked her breasts, the heat pooling low in her belly as she continued to grind on him. 

“Oh, gods–Az,” she spluttered, doing her best to hold on to what little scrap of sanity she had left. He didn’t bend, though, no–he flipped her over, her back hitting the plush mattress once more, her ass coming to kiss the edge of the bed as he kneeled on the floor before her.

Her knees fell open on either side of his body, the cool air rushing against her as his shadows locked themselves around her body. One wrapped around waist, and two on her ankles, keeping her in the exact position their master wanted. 

His eyes caught hers, only for a brief moment, he flashed the sexiest grin and then bent down, placing a soft, reverent kiss to her center over her panties. And somehow, despite all that they’d already done, that was the sexiest, most obliterating part of this whole ordeal. 

Her body tried to move, tried to get closer as he chuckled, clearly enjoying her struggles against his helpers as they kept her locked in place. 

“Now, now, pretty,” he cooed, “Be a good girl and keep making all those sweet noises for me,” Oh, she so wanted to be his good girl, she wanted to be his everything right now. 

Slowly, so freaking slowly, he pulled her panties down, baring her fully to him. He didn’t waste any time, and she cried out as his mouth finally closed over her most intimate part. He kissed and licked and suckled her into nothingness. His tongue flattening over her, his lips catching that sensitive nub and sucking, then his tongue was inside of her. He groaned at her taste, his hands splaying across her thighs and holding on. She could feel him grinding himself against the mattress, chasing any sort of friction he could without losing himself entirely.

She was careening towards that edge so swiftly, she truly stood no chance once he started adding fingers. He filled her with one, his tongue never letting up on its pace as he glided his digit in and out of her smoothly. His eyes met hers, and whatever he saw, he must have liked, because then he was adding a second finger, that wicked smile on display as he licked one stripe straight up her center.

Her body tried to buck, to chase the feeling but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except hold onto the mattress for dear life. 

She chanted his name over and over, it seemed to be the only word she could remember. Especially as he added a third finger, and they curled in just the right place, as his tongue swirled around her center, his teeth grazing the flesh. 

She came so hard, her legs were visibly shaking where they lay sprawled apart on the bed. His shadows finally relented as she arched, her hands immediately finding his hair, his shoulders, anything of his she could touch. She thinks he offered one of his hands, the calloused skin squeezing her own soft ones to keep her grounded. 

Then he loomed over her again, his lips shining with her desire as he licked them, then she watched, his eyes never straying from hers, as he sucked each of his digits into his mouth, drinking all of her in. 

She thought she might actually come again just from the sight. Never had a guy gone down on her and seemed to so thoroughly enjoy the process. Gods, this male, he really was going to ruin any other men for her. 

Worth it.

His lips met hers in a harsh dance, his fingers gripping her chin upwards so he could fully devour her. She found herself latching onto the band of his underwear and ripping, she had no time to waste trying to get them off safely. She simply didn’t care, she needed him, like yesterday. 

He chuckled, a sound she was getting awfully familiar with, but didn’t stop her as she just threw the pieces of fabric somewhere in his room. Then her hand found his cock, thick and throbbing as she pumped him once, twice. He groaned, his head falling against hers as she swiped the head, collecting the precum that had already begun leaking.

“Fuck, Y/n,” His lips finding her neck as he latched on, sucking and licking. 

She kept her pace, loving the feel of him in her hand. Then she positioned him at her entrance, their eyes meeting, one final confirmation nod from her and he was moving. 

She tensed for only a moment, the feeling of being so full not something she’s used to. But he went slow, entered her slowly, allowed her to adjust as he went in glorious inch by glorious inch. 

They were both breathing hard, she kept saying his name, he cursed under his breath as he did his best to not rut into her like a teenager chasing his first high. And gods, it was a high because he felt so good inside of her. Nothing could compare to this moment, how she felt.

Then his hips were flushed with hers, his body coming to a complete standstill as he watched her, his fingers pushing her hair out of her face, tracing the outline of her lips, her jaw. 

“You still with me, pretty?” He spoke softly, as if speaking any louder may break whatever bubble they’d built around themselves. 

“Yes, fuck, yes,” she breathed out. Her body doing its best to adjust to the sheer size and girth of him. He kissed her through it, his lips finding space on all of the bare skin he could reach. Even his shadows seemed to caress her softly, cooing and guiding her through the motions. 

“Please, Az, move,” she swirled her hips in emphasis, catching the moan he let out with her mouth as he finally moved. His hips pulled out halfway and then he pushed back in slowly at first, gauging her reaction. When she mewled, her nails scraping his back, he did it again, faster. He kept a steady pace as she felt their liquids combining, oozing out of her in the most delicious way. 

He kept a steady rhythm, their moans meeting in the air and dancing together as they continued to move together in sync. Her legs wrapped around his middle, getting him even deeper, and when she came the second time, it was just a good as the first.

“So beautiful,” he cooed, “So fucking tight, milking my cock so good,” He hit that spot deep inside of her as he cooed her name, his grunts filling her ears in tandem with his thrusts. Her lips found his and he obeyed her request, his tongue meeting hers and tangling, their saliva mixing as one of his hands gripped her waist, the other finding its way to her face. 

When the aftershocks finally started to ebb away, Azriel wasted no time in flipping her over, her knees and hands on the mattress, her ass in the air. She let out a noise of distress when his cock slipped out of her, but it was quickly followed by a moan as he reentered her from behind. 

And holy trinity of all the gods, he was somehow deeper inside of her, she could feel every pleasure inducing inch of him as he lost all of his control. He pounded into her, his hands on her hips as she did her best to meet him thrust for thrust.

She couldn’t believe it, she could already feel that pool of desire growing in her for the third time tonight. Her sounds no more than a slew of moans and expletives as he continued his brutal thrusts. 

“Fuck, you’re doing so good, that’s it–” he praised, his hand pulling her hair away from her neck as his chest became flush with her back. His other hand found that sensitive nub between her thighs, pinching and flicking in the most torturous ways. “You can give me another one, can’t you, pretty?” He asked, his voice a husky sheen in her ear as his thrusts continued to wreak havoc on her. “Just one more, I know you can do it,” she had never been one for dirty talk, but fuck, Azriel could talk about grocery shopping and she’d find it hot as hell.

The praise only brought her closer to that edge, coaxing her on. And when his fingers added just enough pressure to her center, she fell right over that edge for the third time, her orgasm causing her legs to shake so wholly that Azriel had to hold her up as he continued to thrust into her. A cocky, but proud smile lighting his face briefly before pleasure took root and he came inside of her, his cock throbbing and swelling as he spilt rope after rope of his seed into her.

They stayed that way for a long moment, it could have been minutes or hours, Y/n wouldn’t be able to tell even if there were a knife to her throat. His naked, sweat beaded chest pressing against her back as their harsh breathing filled the room’s silence. 

He finally slipped out of her, his hands slowly lowering her onto her stomach, her legs nothing but jelly as he flipped onto his side, careful of his wings. 

Their gazes collided, a sexed-out smile slapping its way to her mouth as she took him in. His own smile found its way onto his face, just a small, intimate one that made her heart do dangerous flips inside her chest.

“That was–” she started, her breathy voice sounded as ruined as she felt.

“Fucking amazing.” He finished, his hand reaching out to push a piece of hair that had fallen over her eyes, behind her ear. Then he kissed her forehead, his arm slinging over her back. 

“Stay.” He murmured, his eyes already closing as sleep began to take him hostage.

Once again, she found herself unable to say no to this man. Her eyelids already heavy with her own sleep, drifted shut. She briefly recognized the feeling of a blanket being dropped over her, maybe his shadows? She didn’t have time to question before sleep finally claimed her.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Y/n woke to soft beams of sunlight trickling across her face through the balcony doors. The warmth seeped into her skin as her eyes adjusted to the light. 

It took her a moment to remember where she was. An unfamiliar, but comfortable, bed caressed her body. Her body completely naked where she lay against the comforter, a small throw blanket had been placed over her to keep her warm in the night.

And then, there was the weight.

A large, muscled arm thrown over her waist, an even heavier leg pressed between her thighs, their legs tangled. His body was warm and the limbs attached to her only kept her close to the male she found herself facing. His beautiful face somehow less intimidating in sleep, all the smooth lines and fine angles completely at ease. 

Azriel.

The Spymaster of the Night Court.

Her eyes widened as last night's events all came flooding back in troves. Azriel finding her in the alleyway, her sister and friends, Azriel dancing with her, her internship, Azriel and his glorious kissing, his hands, his shadows, and his body. 

Fuck. 

She needed to leave. She wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work, but she was damn sure it’d be awkward if he woke up and she was still here. In his bed. 

She briefly remembered him telling her to stay, but surely he hadn’t meant through the morning. She highly doubted that he was about to invite her to lunch with his family. 

His family.

Oh, gods.

Did they live here? Had they heard them last night? If she hadn’t been so caught up in the shadowsinger, she may have stopped to ask herself about these things, but nope. Instead she fell head over freaking tea kettle and– admittedly– had the best sex of her life. 

She needed to leave, like hours ago.

She ignored the sweet caresses of his shadows as they welcomed her with a morning that, any other time, she’d be thrilled about. But right now she needed to figure out how to get out from under his arm, and his leg, and was that his wing cocooning over them? 

Somehow, an act of the Mother and Cauldron themselves, she managed to disentangle herself from his monkey hold. He really did seem peaceful, and she did her best to remain quiet, not because she didn’t want to speak to him– although that may have definitely been a factor– but because she didn’t want to disturb his sleep, who knew how much he got on a regular basis. In his line of work, she imagined, not much.

Quietly she peeled around the room, grabbing her dress and quickly shimmying it on and grabbing her heels. Fuck putting those bitches back on, last night Y/n was not this morning Y/n, and her feet would thank her for it. 

She slowly slipped out of his room, not sure how she was going to get out of this place. He had flown them last night, brought her in through his balcony. Surely there had to be a front door. The last thing she wanted to be doing was roaming around the Inner Circle’s private dwelling, she imagined that was how one ended up on the wrong side of jail cell. 

She gulped, taking in the hallways around her. There were loads of paintings adorning the brilliant, sophisticated walls. All of the members of the Inner Circle in various positions. There were some of just the General Commander and his mate, Lady Death. There were some of the High Lord and Lady with their adorable son, and even a few of the lesser talked about members. They were beautifully done, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the High Lady had probably painted these herself. 

She had been so caught up in looking at the photos along the hallway, following them unconsciously that she jumped when somebody cleared their throat. 

She flailed, horrendously. Heels thrown in the air, her feet slipping from beneath her as she swiveled around and came face to chest with a very large male. She would have fallen on her ass if he hadn’t grabbed her arm to steady her. Her eyes tracked all the way up his leather-clad chest and to his large membranous wings that somehow seemed slightly different than Azriel’s. Were there scars on his? And, were they smaller? She shook her head, so not important.

“Well, hello there,” he crooned, a crooked grin lighting the General Commander’s features as he used a leather strap to bind his hair in a bun atop his head. 

She cursed herself inwardly, gods, she really needed to work on her observation skills. How had she missed him of all people? He was definitely the largest of the three illyrian men who belonged to the Inner Circle. And, he had always seemed like the most approachable, though that wasn’t saying much. He was still absolutely terrifying.

And here she was, staring at him with her mouth agape like a fish out of water. Perhaps she should take her chances with the balconies after all, maybe a free fall would do her some good right about now.

“Hi,” she squeaked, quickly grabbing her flyaway shoes and holding them to her chest like a lifeline. 

“You must be Az’s…friend,” he said, a knowing smirk on his face. She could feel her blush as it crawled from the tips of her toes to her cheeks. 

She swallowed, trying to take this gift from the Mother. The general had wings, which meant he could probably get her out of here without causing too much trouble, she doubted he’d tell her no. Plus, that meant she really wouldn’t have to face Azriel again, so a bonus, at least, that’s what she told herself. 

“He’s sleeping,” Cassian’s brows rose at that, a look of shock briefly flitting across his face before his easy demeanor was back. 

“That is–interesting. Were you joining us for breakfast?” 

“No–” She calmed herself, reigning in the slight shout she’d let through in all her panic. “I mean– no, I’m not. I just– I’m trying to get home, I’ve got a busy day and I’m not quite sure how–”

“Ah,” he said, that ridiculous smirk still plastered on his smug face. “Too bad, Azriel doesn’t usually have…sleepovers.”

Sleepovers? What were they, twelve? 

She gave her best smile, “Is there any chance you could show me the way out?”

“You’re not going to wait for him to wake up?” He cocked his head, his tone full of confusion, as if this wasn’t something he’d ever had to deal with. 

She shook her head, “He looked peaceful, and I really need to get home, my roommate’s probably worried sick.”

Understanding bloomed on his face, “Well, there are two options then, little ghost,” her brows pinched at the nickname. This male didn’t know her from Adam, and yet, he seemed so incredibly warm and kind. She chastised herself, it didn’t matter, she would probably never speak to him again. “You can either venture down the 10,000 steps to the bottom,” he laughed at the sour look that crossed her face, her poor, poor feet. “Or, I can fly you back home, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“That would be wonderful, as long as it doesn’t put you out,” she said, praying to every god she could remember the name of that he truly didn’t mind. 

His smile was easy. “It’s no trouble, I’ll even tell Azriel you said goodbye.”

“That’s really not necessary,” she blushed as he led her toward an opened foyer, large balconies lining the room. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do,” and she was also sure that Azriel wouldn’t care. They’d had their night of fun, now she needed to get out of here and try and go about her life like normal. Whatever that meant, she really wasn’t sure that’d even be possible. 

He merely smiled at her, something was off about it though, as if he didn’t really believe her.

But, he did as he said and flew her home.

It was time to get back to normal life, she had a lot going for her. And the Spymaster of the Night Court didn’t have anything to do with it.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Weeks passed in a blur, between her internship starting and her ordinarily chaotic life, she had hardly had time to think about her night with the spymaster. He only ever found her in his dreams, and if she was lucky, her subconscious would grant her some of the memories of that night in dream form. 

She hadn’t so much as seen him in the past six weeks, she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that it was only one night and she should accept that for what it is– and she did. For the most part. But, sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, when her thoughts were just a little more hostile, she would think about him, and what he’d thought when he woke up that day and she’d been gone. Had he been upset? Or had he been relieved? And why had Cassian seemed so sure that he’d see her again? He had even winked at her when he dropped her off that morning. Weird. 

“Take this twice a day for a week and the rash should clear right up,” She spoke to a short, mousy looking female. The nuclear green liquid sloshing around in the vial as the woman thanked her and scurried away after tossing her a few coins. 

Madja came out of the back room, “Y/n, can you help me in here for a moment?”

Without hesitation, she quickly wiped her hands on her apron and followed Madja to the back. She felt her stomach sink as the older fae led her silently into the main medicine bay. She had asked Madja a few weeks ago about some medicines that could help with stress-induced nausea. It didn’t matter what she brewed, if it was a personal concoction or one out of one of her textbooks, none of them seemed to be helping. She only ever got sick in the evenings, and at this point, she was starting to get worried that something was seriously wrong. So she’d asked Madja, and the older fae had said she’d look into it and make her something that should help. 

Y/n couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what this was about, she had said it wouldn’t take long and that had been only two days ago. But, when y/n found herself in the furthest room in the back of the building, her thoughts quickly emptied out.

A young girl sat on the seat, her arm full of what looked to be glass shards. The other arm, sat gently in medicated water, blood pooling in thin layers as it soaked.

Y/n’s stomach lurched, the girl couldn’t have been older than nine or ten, and the wounds looked awfully painful.

“I need you to apply the salve and wrap this arm while I start working on getting the glass out of the other arm,” Madja spoke, handing a pair of gloves to her as she quickly made her way back over to the young girl. Her mother was pacing back and forth as she watched. Y/n shot her a soothing smile, the best she could manage, the one she’d learned specifically for this reason. It seemed to work, long enough for the mother to sit down, but she kept her eyes trained on them. Y/n couldn’t blame her, she could only imagine what a mother went through when seeing their child in pain.

“Hi,” she spoke softly to the girl, “My names Y/n, you’re gonna feel a cooling sensation when I apply the salve, it shouldn’t hurt, but if it does, just let me know and we’ll adjust,” She smiled, the little girl’s lip wobbled as tears silently streamed down her cheeks. 

As she began applying the medicine softly, her ministrations smooth and practiced, she asked the girl for her name, hoping that talking to her would keep her mind off of Madja, who was currently taking glass shards out of her other arm. 

“Margo,” she spoke, her eyes solely focused on y/n. “I was trying to help momma at her food stall, but I tripped.” She sniffled. 

“Ah,” she hummed, quietly grabbing the wraps, “Do you help out at the food stall, often?” 

“Yes!” Margo lit up, she began babbling on about all the different fruits and veggies her mother grows and how they always wash and prep them for stall day. She asked the young girl about school, her family–her siblings, and anything else she could to keep the young girl’s mind occupied. 

Over the course of the next half hour, Madja and her worked tediously to apply the salves, soak the wounds, and get them wrapped so that they could start healing. With a vial of cream and a lollipop in her hand, Margo danced out of the clinic with her mother, her smile never leaving her face. 

“You did well, keeping her calm.” Madja spoke, her tone even as always as she worked behind the counter. 

“Thanks, I can only imagine what she must have been thinking,”

It was then that Madja handed her a few vials of a pinkish, red liquid. The confusion must have been written all over her face because the older fae prattled on, “That should help with the morning sickness, but I can’t guarantee that it will make it go away entirely.”

Every thought blinked out of Y/n’s head.

Morning sickness?

“It’s not–” Madja stopped when she interrupted, her eyes blinking uncontrollably as she tried to do the math in her head, “It can’t be–” she stuttered.

There was no way, absolutely not. 

She hadn’t been with anyone in months, no one except–

Him. 

“I got your blood work back today,” Madja had taken her blood a few days ago when she had initially brought up the nausea, just in case, she had said. It was standard procedure, something Y/n was very familiar with having worked in all sorts of clinics for the past few decades.

No, no, no.

“You’re pregnant.”

[tarotsoulreads]

now this was a tasty read oh my goodnessssss YESSS

to me, you perfectly captured azriel’s character, i am FOAMING at the mouth!!!

the language, the tone, the style of this writing 😩🥲🥹 i loved every moment of this and was STUNNED to finish it so quickly!! the dirty talk was delish, the use of shadows was absolutely necessary and so obvious it’s just an INSIGHT to what he’s capable of and what he likes

and let’s not forget the fucking BARGAIN HE MADE???? that did not go unnoticed missy…… SO HOT!

also cassian finding her sneaking about in the hall was SO canon i need about 46 more parts to this plssssss asappp

[sweet-pea-channie]

Yours, Elsewhere

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong hurls Azriel into a parallel Velaris. There, he meets a woman who knew him intimately in her world. As they search for a way to send him back, grief tangles with growing affection. He teaches her how to breathe again; she shows him a version of himself he never knew could exist. But the Cauldron is cracking, time unraveling. He must leave—or risk destroying everything.

Warnings: grief, past death of a loved one, emotional angst, mentions of trauma, memory loss, canon divergence. Bittersweet but healing.

Word count: 11.6k

A/N: I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of soul-deep connection, something that survives even across worlds. Writing this fic was a journey of emotion, comfort, and quiet hope, and I truly hope it resonates with you. Also, English is my third language, so thank you for your patience with any little mistakes along the way. I’m always learning, and I’m just grateful to be able to share this story with you. Thank you for reading 💙

The spell left her fingertips just as he vanished.

The witch’s lips moved in a frantic whisper, the ancient incantation torn from her throat like a last breath, desperate and reckless. Magic sparked blue at her hands, arcing like lightning across the broken altar stones. It twisted into the air, weightless and burning, then launched toward the night sky.

But Azriel was already gone.

He didn’t see the light flare behind him. Didn’t hear the way the wind screamed as it bent around the surge of power.

His wings beat once, powerful and sure, and then the shadows took him.

Velaris.

His destination shaped itself in his mind, rooftops glistening with dew, the scent of citrus and moonflower in the air. The shadows wrapped around him like silk, folding the world inward and then outward until the mountains welcomed him home.

His boots touched stone.

He exhaled slowly, the winnow sliding off his skin like a second breath. Easy. Clean. Just like always.

The balcony beneath him was familiar, high above the Sidra, at the top of the House of Wind. The air was sharp with pine and river mist, a spring breeze curling over the tiles.

He glanced up. And paused.

The stars were wrong.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But Azriel had flown these skies long enough to know every constellation, every shift in the heavens, they were old friends, silent sentries. And now, the stars blinked like strangers.

Frowning, he stepped forward, shadows curling idly at his heels. The door was unlocked. Odd. He stepped inside. The House was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way it usually was but empty. Hollow. As if no one had passed through in days. No scent of food, no lingering traces of Cassian’s boisterous laughter or Feyre’s paint-streaked energy. Just silence.

Azriel reached for the bond. Rhysand.

No answer. He stilled.

He pressed harder, pushing through the mental link, summoning the familiar pulse of his High Lord's mind.

Rhys. Come in.

Nothing. Like throwing a stone into water that didn’t ripple.

He tried again Cassian? Mor? but each attempt came back with the same flat silence.

A cold unease began to thread through his chest. The shadows responded immediately, rising like smoke along his shoulders, alert and watchful.

Something was off.

He launched into the skies again, this time gliding silently over Velaris. It looked... untouched.

The buildings were the same. The Sidra still shimmered like liquid silver beneath him. People walked the streets below. But when he dipped lower, he saw the way they looked up.

Saw the expressions that bloomed across their faces. Not awe. Not fear. Shock.

One woman clutched her child tighter to her side, eyes wide as she watched him pass. A group of males at a café stopped mid-conversation, staring. One stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, his mouth falling open.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. He landed in an alleyway behind the familiar stretch of the Rainbow, his feet hitting cobblestone with barely a sound.

He turned toward the street, and froze. A shop window reflected him.

His armor, his blades, his shadows, all exactly as they should be. But behind him, in the glass, Velaris was... different. Too bright. Too sharp. Like the color had been turned up just a little too high.

He blinked. Turned. The illusion held.

No, he thought. Not illusion. Not glamour. This is real.

The truth whispered through him like a crack in the foundation. He was home. But something was wrong with home. The streets felt narrower here.

Or maybe it was the way people kept staring, some openly, some with barely concealed glances over shoulders, as if they’d seen a ghost and didn’t want to be rude about it.

Azriel kept to the shadows. He’d just rounded the edge of the Rainbow when he heard the gasp. A sharp inhale, half-shocked, half-sucked through clenched teeth.

He turned.

She stood beneath the awning of a flower stall, a spray of wild violets clutched in one hand, her other frozen mid-reach.

Human. Or maybe half-Fae. Familiar enough to recognize the expression on her face: recognition slammed into disbelief, then sank quickly into pale, careful confusion.

She didn’t speak at first.

Azriel gave her a cautious nod, not slowing his stride.

She took a step toward him. "That’s not funny."

He stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

She stared. “Who put you up to this?”

Azriel tilted his head, shadows coiling tighter around his boots. “No one put me up to anything.”

Her hand trembled, still gripping the stems. “You shouldn’t wear his, I mean, your armor. That’s... sick. Even for Cassian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together, uncertain now, brittle. “This isn’t funny,” she said again, softer this time. “Is this some sort of cruel Solstice prank?”

“I don’t play pranks.”

“No, he didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Something in her eyes shifted. The anger cracked, just a hairline fracture and beneath it, something raw flickered into view. Fear. Or maybe hope.

She dropped the violets.

Azriel stepped forward instinctively, but she flinched, then shook her head, waving him off like she couldn’t bear to be helped.

“This has to be a mistake,” she muttered. “Or... or a glamour. Are you-? No. You can’t be...”

She looked up at him again, really looked, and he watched her decide something.

“You need to come with me.”

Azriel hesitated. “Why?”

She didn’t answer, just turned on her heel.

“I don’t follow strangers,” he called after her.

She paused at the corner. “You’re not following a stranger.”

She looked back. And for a moment, her expression softened not quite fond, not quite grief-stricken, but edged in something that made his stomach twist.

“You’re following a friend of hers.”

Azriel’s wings rustled. “Her?”

“She’ll know what to do with you.” A beat. “Or... what’s left of her will.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

But the shadows, ever attuned to unspoken truths, whispered go.

So he followed.

────────────

The children were covered in paint.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The sun was warm, the breeze soft, and after a long week of rain and restlessness, she had promised them something fun. So the easels were out, brushes flying, water cups sloshing precariously on the garden stones.

Y/N knelt beside a little girl with wild curls and green streaks on her cheeks, helping her mix blue and white into a swirl of sky.

"Like this?" the girl asked, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

"Perfect," Y/N murmured, smiling. "That looks just like a cloud before it rains."

Laughter bubbled nearby. The world, for once, felt light enough to hold.

So she didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Or the quiet tension just beyond the garden gate. Not until a shadow crossed her canvas.

She looked up.

Her friend stood there, a strange expression on her face. Breathless, like she’d been running, though the walk from town wasn’t far. And behind her, half in the sun and half in the shade, stood a male Y/N hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Everything stopped.

The paintbrush slipped from her fingers. Her breath caught on the edge of his name, but she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

He looked the same.

The armor, the blades, the face she’d memorized long ago. The face she still saw in dreams, the one she sometimes whispered to when sleep clung too tightly. But there was something missing. No recognition in his eyes. No quiet pull between them. Just… calm. Measured wariness. And then there were these things... shadows?

He wasn’t hers.

Not really.

Her friend stepped aside, watching her carefully.

Y/N rose slowly, brushing her hands against her apron out of habit, though streaks of dried paint still clung to her palms.

Azriel’s eyes followed the motion.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just stared.

And he stared back.

One of the children tugged on her sleeve. “Miss Y/N? Is that the scary man you told us stories about?”

A huff of laughter slipped from her friend, almost hysterical. Y/N managed a breath.

"No, sweetheart," she said quietly. "He’s not scary at all."

Azriel tilted his head. “You know me.”

She swallowed, forcing her eyes to stay dry. “Not you, exactly.”

He looked down for a moment, then back at her, something almost apologetic in the tilt of his brow.

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?"

She took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure what to do with it all. The sight of him. The voice. The way her body recognized him even if he didn’t recognize her.

"No," she said. "But you're here all the same."

The breeze picked up, rustling through the garden. The scent of lilac and paint and spring.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But the world felt suddenly too full, and too empty, all at once. "Come inside," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

And he followed her, just like he used to. Even if he didn’t know why.

Y/N kept her voice steady as she called over to the other caretaker, a soft-spoken male named Tarian who’d been helping with the younger ones that day.

“Arios, would you mind staying a little longer? I need to step away for a bit.”

He glanced up from where he was braiding daisies into a toddler’s hair, his expression gentle but curious. His eyes flicked briefly to the male standing behind her, then back. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

She offered a grateful smile she didn’t feel, touched a child’s shoulder in passing, and turned.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back.

Azriel obeyed in silence.

The garden gave way to the winding path toward the cottage she used for art and quiet reading. It was set apart from the others, tucked between climbing roses and silver-barked trees. Each step she took seemed more uncertain than the last, but her posture stayed rigid, collected. Just enough to keep from unraveling.

Azriel’s eyes moved over everything as they walked.

The cobblestones here weren’t the same. Laid in a different pattern, slightly darker in hue, almost as if the rain had never stopped soaking into them. The flowering vines on the archway above them curled in unfamiliar directions, lavender in color where they should have been white. And the House of Wind, though distant, didn’t quite look like itself either. The cliffs cradled it too tightly. As if the mountains had shifted just enough to close their grip.

Velaris. But wrong.

Beautiful still, but subtly off. A painting that someone had copied from memory rather than life. Familiar and foreign in the same breath.

He could feel the magic in the air too. Not buzzing. Not screaming. Just trembling softly at the edges of everything, like a note held too long on a string.

His shadows had quieted, uncertain of what to guard against.

He studied the woman in front of him. She moved like she was trying not to feel. Like her heart had shattered and she'd pressed the pieces back in place with nothing but breath and willpower. She wasn’t crying. But the tension in her shoulders said she could, at any moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but clear.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone in his chest.

Azriel let the silence stretch. Not empty. Not awkward. Just necessary. He understood grief. He lived in the shadows of it.

But this was something else. This was her past colliding with his present. And whatever version of himself had once belonged to this world, it was obvious that he had belonged to her.

And now, somehow, so did the weight of his absence.

They reached the door to the cottage. She paused with her hand on the knob, inhaling slowly, the breath catching like a thread snagged on glass.

She looked at him, truly looked. Not at the armor or the blades or the shadows, but at his face. Like she was trying to find something in it. Or make peace with the fact that she wouldn't.

Then she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let the light swallow her.

Azriel followed.

And for the first time since arriving, he felt the world shift slightly again. Not the magic. Not the timeline. Just his own heart. Something had cracked open.

And he didn’t know yet whether it was meant to be sealed again, or stepped through.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of paint and clay and something citrus-sweet, orange peel maybe, left out in a little bowl on the windowsill. Children’s drawings lined the walls, some framed with pressed flowers, others curling at the corners from age or love.

Azriel stood just inside, uncertain of the space but unwilling to impose.

Y/N moved slowly. Not towards him, but toward the shelf where the water pitcher sat. She poured herself a glass with steady hands. Didn’t offer one. Didn’t look at him. Just needed something to do.

Azriel let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

“I don’t think this is my world,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then back at her glass.

“I figured.”

He nodded, stepping forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. He stopped a few paces from her, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she needed right now.

“There was a mission,” he said. “We were tracking a rogue spell-weaver. A witch who’d been bending too many old laws. I...” He exhaled slowly. “I might’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I made her angry.”

Y/N set her glass down but didn’t drink from it. “And?”

“She was casting something. Ancient magic. I interrupted her. I thought I’d stopped her in time.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But something must have hit me. Something… twisted.”

She finally looked at him then, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re saying she sent you here?”

“I think so,” he said. “Not on purpose, maybe. But the spell left her hands just as I winnowed. I landed in Velaris. But not mine.”

He looked toward the window, out at the sky that wasn’t quite the right shade, at the garden path that curved too gently.

“I knew the moment I saw the stars. They’re wrong here. Familiar, but rearranged. Like someone shuffled the sky when I wasn’t looking.”

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, softly, “You’re a Shadowsinger there?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And who… who do you work for?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his spymaster.”

Her breath caught. He could hear it, even with the distance between them. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling in against her palms.

He took a half-step closer. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, his voice gentler now. “May I ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed.

Then, almost to herself, she said, “Your voice is exactly the same.”

Azriel went still.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “The way you speak. It’s like… like he’s standing here.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if the air itself had become too heavy.

“My name is Y/N,” she said finally. Quiet, but clear. “I used to mean something to you. I mean, to him. In this world.”

Azriel let the weight of it settle between them.

“I believe that,” he said.

Azriel’s eyes lingered on Y/N’s face, on the way she held herself just a little too still, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm she’d built around her.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “could you tell me more about this place? This version of Velaris. Is Rhysand the High Lord here too?”

Something shifted in her expression. Not shock. Just quiet confusion.

“Rhysand,” she repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That struck deeper than he expected. He kept his face impassive, but inside, a slow ripple of unease moved through him. Rhysand had ruled for centuries. If no one here knew his name…

“Then who rules the Night Court?” he asked.

“Lord Tharanis,” she said. “He’s been High Lord since before I was born.”

The name meant nothing to him. Not even a whisper of familiarity. Another piece of the puzzle that proved it beyond doubt, this world wasn’t just a copy. It was a divergence. A different thread entirely.

Y/N must have seen something in his face, because she stepped away from the table and crossed to one of the nearby shelves, tracing her fingers over the spines of a row of books without reading any of them.

“There’s a witch who lives near the cliffs on the eastern side of the city,” she said. “She studies old magic. Real old. Quiet about it, but good. We could ask her to help. Maybe she’ll know how to get you back.”

Azriel caught the way she said it. We. But the tone didn’t hold warmth. It was kindness, not invitation. She wanted him to leave.

He watched her closely now, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hand paused over a small ceramic sculpture on the shelf but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to look at him again.

He took a step closer, his voice soft. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I stay?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the shelf. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Then she turned, slowly. Her eyes met his, clear and unwavering.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you’re not supposed to be here. And… part of me keeps waiting for him to walk in.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “And he won’t.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady now. Empty of drama, full of weight.

“My Azriel died,” she said. “Years ago. Not in battle. Not in glory. Just a quiet thing. Magic sickness. He didn’t even tell me until it was too far gone. He thought he could protect me from it.”

Her breath shivered at the edges.

“And he’s been gone long enough that I stopped dreaming of him. Until today.”

Azriel exhaled, low and slow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N gave the smallest nod, then sat down on the edge of a low bench, hands resting on her knees.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “You’re not him. But every time I look at you, my chest forgets that.”

Azriel lowered himself into the chair across from her. No armor between them now, no title. Just two people caught in something too large to name.

“I’ll help you find a way home,” she said again, quieter this time.

But Azriel wasn’t sure if she meant it for his sake, or hers. Maybe both. And maybe neither of them knew what it would cost when the way opened.

────────────

The room was small but clean. Simple linens on the bed, a chipped blue vase on the windowsill with a few sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. The shutters creaked faintly in the wind as Azriel stood at the window, arms folded, staring out at the river.

The Sidra glittered under the early evening light, silver and shadowed, the current moving slow as syrup. In his Velaris, it danced faster. The curve of it was a touch different too, this one bent around a cluster of buildings that shouldn't exist. The skyline was off by inches, by centuries. He couldn’t stop cataloging it.

His shadows whispered around him, brushing the walls, curling through the corners of the room like restless thoughts. They brought him details he hadn’t asked for. The smell of something baking three floors below. The hushed footsteps of a couple arguing in the hallway. The flick of a candle being snuffed out in a room across the street. And whispers — always whispers — carrying scraps of names, old magic, things his mind could barely catch before they slipped away.

But he couldn’t focus.

He watched the light shift on the water, caught between the golden pull of sunset and the first hints of stars above. Stars that didn’t belong to him.

How many versions of Velaris were out there? How many Azriels? In this one, he had lived. Loved. And died.

He turned away from the window, ran a hand through his hair, let his fingers drag over his jaw.

He’d seen grief in Y/N’s eyes, coiled tight under her calm. But what haunted him more was the way she looked at him, like her heart didn’t know how to tell the difference yet.

He wanted to ask her. Everything. What he had been like. What he’d done. What they’d been.

But some part of him worried that asking would crack her open, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever put herself back together again.

Still, the questions clawed at him.

He needed to know. If not from her, then from someone who hadn’t loved that version of him with their whole chest.

His mind returned to the woman from earlier, the friend who’d brought him to Y/N in the first place. Sharp-eyed. Suspicious. Protective. She knew more than she’d said.

And if he and Y/N were going to visit the witch tomorrow afternoon, then this was his only chance to find answers before everything shifted again.

Azriel strapped his knives back onto his belt, out of habit more than necessity, and cast one last glance toward the Sidra.

The sky was deepening, thick with color. A world of strangers, and one familiar soul. He slipped into the shadows. And went looking for the truth.

Azriel found her near the edge of the old market, tucked behind a row of shuttered stalls. She stood alone by a railing that overlooked the Sidra, arms crossed tightly as she watched the river move in silence. The lanterns from the lower paths cast flickers of gold against her dark coat.

He didn’t try to be stealthy. He wanted her to see him coming.

She did.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to his armor, his shadows, the stillness in the way he moved.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Azriel said, stopping a few steps away.

She exhaled, jaw set. “If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s not here.”

“I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I need to understand what this place is. What he was.”

The muscles in her arms tightened where they crossed. “You don’t get to dig through his life like it’s a map back to yours. He wasn’t a version of you. He was someone… And that someone was married to her.”

The moment the word left her mouth, her expression shifted, a slight widening of her eyes, as if she’d only just realized what she’d said.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Married?”

She flinched but didn’t deny it. Didn’t backtrack.

“Yes,” she said. “Since they were hundred-twenty-four.”

His breath caught. The word sat in his chest like a stone, unfamiliar and too big to ignore.

She watched him carefully. Noticing, perhaps for the first time, the way he didn’t quite stand like the Azriel she knew. How he held tension in his body like it was armor. How the shadows around him didn’t just cling — they listened.

“You really don’t know anything about this world, do you?” she said, softer now.

“No,” Azriel admitted.

And then, slowly, like the weight of his surprise had unlocked something in her, she began to speak.

“They grew up together. Their fathers were old friends, your father was a smith, hers a spice merchant. They were just… always around each other. Always in each other’s orbit. You used to tease her for stealing fruit off your plate. She used to braid flowers into your hair when you fell asleep in the fields behind her house.”

Azriel listened in silence, the image unfolding before him like a story written in a hand he almost recognized.

“He became a soldier,” she said. “Not a Shadowsinger, he didn't have those shadows. Just a fighter. Loyal. Brave. A little reckless, when it came to her.”

Azriel’s hands were still at his sides, but his knuckles had gone pale.

“He loved her,” she went on. “More than anything. He was quieter than most of the other males we grew up with. Thoughtful. Steady. But gods, when he looked at her…”

She trailed off, blinking fast.

Azriel said nothing. There was something raw sitting in his throat, but he didn’t know what name to give it.

“They were married under the spring cherry trees,” she added after a moment. “I stood beside her. I watched him shake when he kissed her.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The breeze off the Sidra caught the edge of his coat, pulling it slightly. His shadows stayed close, hushed, as if mourning someone they’d never met.

“He died nine years ago,” the friend said finally. “It wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t matter. She hasn’t been the same since.”

Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

She looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, her eyes softened. “You’re not him,” she said. “But you’re not nothing either.”

Silence stretched between them, and Azriel breathed through the ache of it.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

And they stood together at the edge of a world where two lives had almost, impossibly, collided.

Y/N shut the door behind her, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and let her back fall against the wood.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Velaris was quiet beyond the window, the kind of stillness that always came after the children's laughter faded and the lanterns blinked to life across the Sidra. But the city felt foreign now. Tilted somehow. Too sharp in its familiarity. Like someone had redrawn the lines of everything she'd learned to live with.

She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the tears that had dried there. She hadn't even noticed when they'd fallen.

Slowly, her feet carried her into the room that used to be theirs.

The walls were warm with the same soft blue he used to say reminded him of summer skies. Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser, skimming over the old glass bottles and the cluster of pressed flowers still sealed in a frame.

She reached for the drawer beneath the bed. It groaned softly in protest. And there it was. The painting.

A small canvas, edges frayed from being held too many times. A portrait, clumsy, rough-edged, painted on a spring afternoon years ago when the breeze kept stealing her brush and he wouldn’t stop laughing. She’d made him sit still for it, half-scowling, half-grinning. His hand was on hers in the picture, even though she’d never meant to paint that part.

She cradled it in both hands now, sinking slowly to the floor, her back against the side of the bed. Her forehead pressed to the edge of the frame.

He looked so young in it. And now he was standing in her world again. Breathing again. Looking at her with the same eyes but none of the memory.

She had told herself she was fine. That she could handle this. That helping him find his way home was the right thing to do.

But the truth hit her like a blow to the ribs. He wasn’t her Azriel. Her Azriel was gone.

Gone in a way that left the world quieter. In a way that had hollowed out parts of her she’d never been able to refill. And now this new one, this stranger who wore his face and spoke with his voice, had stepped into her life like the echo of a dream she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was too much.

Her hand curled around the bottom of the frame, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to breathe around you.”

A shadow slipped through the crack beneath the door.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t feel the gentle shift in air as it moved, curious, cautious. It hovered in the corner of the room, keeping its distance like it understood grief by instinct alone.

She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you every day.”

The shadow watched, then slipped back through the wood and stone, weaving between alleys and eaves, past flower boxes and lit windows, all the way across Velaris.

It found him at the inn, standing at the window again, still staring at the stars that didn’t belong to him. And when it reached him, it didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He felt the truth curl against his ribs as the shadow touched his shoulder, cold with the ache of her.

She was crying.

And somehow, the sound of it broke something open in him too.

────────────

The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the cobblestone walk. Azriel stood near the gate of the care station, wings tucked in, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he waited.

He didn’t have to turn when he felt her approach. The shadows told him before her footsteps ever reached the stone.

Y/N’s pace was steady, but her shoulders were a little higher than usual, her chin set with quiet resolve. Her eyes met his as she stopped beside him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel offered a soft, “How are you doing today?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, honest smile. “Coping,” she said. “But… it’s hard. Seeing you like this. Every time I look at you, my heart forgets, for just a second, and then it remembers all over again.”

Azriel nodded, gently. “That makes sense. I'm sorry you have to go through this all."

She glanced at him sideways, searching. “And you? How are you doing in a world that doesn’t quite know you?”

His mouth lifted slightly. “Figuring it out as I go. Trying not to get too attached to the wrong sky.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of her, small, but real.

“I thought maybe,” he said, “you’d feel better if I distracted you a little.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

They fell into step, walking side by side down the shaded street that led toward the edge of the city.

“You mentioned a High Lady,” she prompted after a pause. “You really have one in your world?”

Azriel nodded. “Feyre. She’s my High Lady, and Rhysand’s mate.”

Y/N blinked, eyes wide. “You have a mated High Lady?”

“We do,” he said. “And she earned it. She was mortal once. Human. Fought through war and death to save our kind. Rhysand gave her the title because she earned her place beside him. Not behind. Not beneath. Beside.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, clearly captivated. “I’ve never even heard of a female high ruler. In our court, the males still hold the bloodlines. Always have.”

“Feyre shattered that,” Azriel said with quiet pride. “And she didn’t do it alone. Mor helped guide her. Amren too. Powerful females, each in their own way.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re surrounded by strong women.”

He gave a faint, rueful smile. “That’s an understatement.”

The wind stirred as they turned onto a narrower path lined with stone lanterns.

“I think I would’ve liked your Feyre,” she said after a moment.

“She would’ve liked you too,” he said. “She sees people. The quiet strength in them. The ache they carry. She would’ve seen yours right away.”

Y/N looked at him then, really looked, and for a brief moment, the weight behind her eyes eased.

Ahead, the path curved upward toward the rise of a mossy hill. At the top stood a narrow building nestled in wisteria vines, its windows darkened with age, a carved raven perched over the lintel.

“She’s in there?” Y/N asked.

Azriel nodded. “I can feel the wards already.”

They stopped at the base of the hill.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She took a breath that trembled slightly. Then nodded.

And together, they climbed toward the witch who might hold the answers, and the thread that would lead him home, or unravel everything they’d just begun to hold.

The climb slowed as they reached the top of the hill. The weight of the city seemed to fall away behind them, replaced by the heavy scent of moss and wildflowers. The air was cooler here, still enough that the faint rustle of leaves sounded like a secret waiting to be shared.

Azriel glanced at Y/N. She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders squared but tension visible in the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

He shifted, shadows flickering softly around his ankles, a quiet reminder of the darkness he carried and the light she tried to protect.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She looked back, surprise flickering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I don’t know any other way forward.”

He nodded, stepping closer, feeling the subtle tremor in her breath. “Whatever happens in there, I want you to know...”

She cut him off with a small, sad smile. “You already know. It’s not the witch I’m afraid of. It’s what comes after.”

Azriel’s fingers itched to reach for hers, but he held back. “Then we face it together.”

She swallowed, eyes drifting to the carved raven above the door. “I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively, sensing her fear, her hope, and the impossible bond that held them here, tangled between loss and the chance at something new.

Y/N took a shaky breath, and without another word, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp stone, dried herbs, and something older, the scent of magic that had been rooted there long before Velaris rose around it.

The witch was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, pale hair swept into a thick braid, her eyes the color of moonstone. Everything about her felt quiet and vast, like a pond with no surface ripple — but Azriel felt the power gathered beneath her skin like coiled smoke.

“You’re not from here,” she said before they even stepped inside.

Azriel inclined his head. “No.”

She gestured them in, and the door shut behind them with a breathless hush. Y/N hovered just behind him, silent, wary.

“Explain,” the witch said, voice like frost curling up a windowpane.

Azriel took his time. He told her about the mission. The witch he’d cornered. The way she screamed in an old tongue as she’d vanished into shadow. The spell that had struck as he was winnowing away. And the moment he landed in Velaris only to find that the stars were wrong and nothing quite fit.

The witch listened without interrupting. When he finished, she moved to the shelves lining the curved wall, fingers gliding over jars and scrolls like she already knew what she’d find.

“That’s weaving magic,” she murmured. “Time-threading. Ancient. Nearly extinct.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “You recognize it?”

“Barely,” she replied. “It’s old enough that even most witches have only read about it in theory. Which means the one you angered was exceptionally trained… or dangerous beyond sense. Or both.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the way the witch’s shoulders tightened.

“So what does that mean?” she asked quietly. “Is there a way to undo it?”

The witch turned, scroll in hand. “Maybe. But not quickly. This kind of casting unravels space around it, rips a hole through layered time. You’re not just misplaced, Shadowsinger. You’re displaced. And you’ve dragged the thread of your world with you.”

Azriel stilled. “What are you saying?”

The witch looked at him like a storm just waiting to form. “The Cauldron can only bear so much. When a being slips through timelines like this, especially one bound to another world, another rhythm, the strain begins to tear at the core of everything. Realms blur. Boundaries weaken. If you stay much longer, the damage could become… irreversible.”

Y/N’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The witch's voice dropped lower. “One wrong soul in the wrong timeline is a ripple that doesn’t end. Eventually, the Cauldron cracks. And if that happens, it won’t be just you or this world that falls. The entire weave could collapse, all timelines, all lives. Every version of you. Every version of you and her.”

She didn’t have to gesture toward Y/N for the words to land like a blade.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Can you fix it?”

The witch hesitated. “I can try. I’ll need time. And help. I’ll reach out to every coven that still remembers the old languages. But we’re not talking about days. You have to be ready when the moment comes, and it will come suddenly. We may only get one chance.”

Azriel nodded once. “Understood.”

The witch gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned her gaze to Y/N.

“I don’t need to ask how much it hurts to see him,” she said. “But I do need you to understand that if you keep trying to hold him here, even with your heart, the cost might not stop with you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that broke bones.

Y/N didn’t speak as they left the witch’s house. Not at first.

But when they reached the edge of the hill, with Velaris spread beneath them like a world pretending to be whole, she finally whispered, “You really do have to go.”

And Azriel, who had watched the edges of her tremble and steel themselves with quiet dignity, didn’t argue.

He simply said, “I know.”

The sun had shifted lower by the time they made their way down the hill, painting Velaris in a watercolor haze of lilac and pale gold. The path was narrow, flanked by wild heather and whispering grass, the city glittering below like a dream waiting to be remembered.

Y/N walked beside him in silence, gaze flicking to the horizon, her jaw tight with thought.

Azriel didn’t speak. He could feel the tension in her steps, the storm moving behind her quiet eyes. It was a familiar silence, but not a comfortable one. This wasn’t the silence they’d shared in the witch’s house, filled with fear and consequence. This one was quieter. Raw. Human.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, voice low, like she wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud. “I know you shouldn’t be here. I understand what’s at stake, what could break because of this.”

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward.

“And still,” she breathed, “some part of me was hoping you could stay. Just a little while longer.”

Azriel’s heart thudded against his ribs. He said nothing, waiting.

Y/N shook her head, her voice thinning with guilt. “It’s selfish. I didn’t even think about… Oh gods...” she stopped walking and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is someone waiting for you back home?”

Azriel blinked. Then slowly, gently, he said, “No. No one like that.”

She looked away, swallowing hard, but not before he saw the flicker of relief that passed through her features. Relief and shame.

“My family,” he added, softer, “my court. They’ll be worried. But they can wait a bit longer… if staying here means I might help you heal.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Her throat bobbed with the effort to speak.

“I won’t force anything,” Azriel went on. “While we wait for the witch to find a way back, it’s your choice. If you want me to stay away, I will. If it’s easier to forget I’m here, I’ll disappear into the city and you won’t see me again until it’s time.”

She looked at him now. Fully. The grief in her eyes shimmered, but so did something else. Something fragile and reaching.

“But,” he said, the barest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you think maybe… maybe we could spend some time together, even just as strangers, I’d like that too.”

Y/N stared at him, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“There were things,” she whispered, “my Azriel never had time for. Little things. I always told him we had forever.”

Azriel took a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

“Then let me do them with you,” he said. “I have time.”

The city glowed warmer below them now, the river catching the last light of day.

Y/N nodded once, more to herself than him. “He never got to learn how to paint. Or dance without armor on. Or ruin a cake recipe just because he always wanted to.”

Azriel chuckled, a low, quiet sound that made her eyes brighten.

“I’m excellent at ruining recipes,” he said. “That one I’ve already mastered.”

Y/N laughed — and it cracked something open.

They kept walking.

This time, they walked slower.

────────────

The next day dawned pale and bright, the kind of morning that smelled like clean air and promise. Velaris stirred gently to life as Azriel made his way to the care station, a small satchel slung over one shoulder, shadows curling lazily along his collar like drowsy cats.

The children spotted him first.

Cries of delight broke out across the garden as a handful of small figures dashed toward the fence, little hands waving, eyes wide. Y/N stood under the canvas awning that shaded the painting tables, her apron already dotted with a dozen different colors. She looked up, and despite everything — the pain, the weight of yesterday — her smile came easily.

“You came,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I said I would,” Azriel replied, glancing around. “Besides, I’m here to ruin your art supplies.”

“You’re about to be in a lot of trouble,” she warned playfully, already handing him a paintbrush.

The table was covered in bright pots of color, paper curling in the corners from the morning breeze, little hands dipping brushes into everything at once. Azriel found himself seated between two wide-eyed children, both whispering about how tall he was.

“Are you a warrior?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, lips twitching.

“He’s going to paint with us today,” Y/N said from across the table. “Be nice.”

Azriel dipped his brush into something bright pink and started dragging uneven strokes across his page. Purposefully clumsy, exaggeratedly bad. The kids giggled with delight as his “painting” became a lopsided blob with what might’ve been wings.

“This is terrible,” Y/N said, leaning over his shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He didn’t reply.

Her voice lowered. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”

He looked up, surprised to find her gaze already waiting for him. Calm. Patient. A little amused.

Azriel sighed. “A little.”

“Then paint something real.”

He blinked. “Real?”

“Something that reminds you of home.”

The children were still lost in their own work, but Y/N had settled across from him now, eyes steady, hands stained blue at the knuckles.

Azriel picked up a clean sheet, silent for a long moment. Then he began.

His brush moved slowly, deliberately this time. Thin strokes forming shadows first, not harsh, not frightening, but soft, layered darkness like the kind that gathered under quiet trees. Then came the mountains, sharp and proud, painted in indigo and deep green, rising in the distance.

A sky filled in next. Not just blue, but dotted with constellations, each one placed with careful reverence.

At the center, a single stone balcony, draped in ivy and overlooking a silver river. There were no people. Only light. Stillness.

Y/N didn’t say a word while he worked. She watched, hands folded in her lap.

When he was done, Azriel set the brush down and sat back.

“That’s the House of Wind,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “It’s where I feel most like myself.”

She looked at the painting for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice was soft. “Thank you.”

There was a quiet between them, warm and full, not the silence of absence, but of something being gently built. In the background, a child was explaining to another that Azriel’s first painting was definitely a dragon.

Y/N smiled. “Tomorrow, you’re baking.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I’m what?”

“Ruining a recipe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Like you promised.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in her chest.

“All right,” he murmured. “But only if you help me clean up the disaster.”

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Deal.”

Azriel wiped his hands on the edge of his tunic, smirking faintly at the streaks of paint across his skin. Most of it was probably from the children, but some, he admitted, was definitely from him.

“Should I help clean this up?” he asked, glancing at the mess of paper, drying brushes, and tipped-over jars of color.

Y/N had already started stacking the unused paper. She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I insist,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then laughed under her breath. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a small shake of her head, she handed him a cloth. “Fine. Wipe the brushes gently. We try to save them as long as possible.”

Azriel took the cloth, his hands deft and steady as he followed her instructions. They moved quietly beside each other, the easy rhythm of shared work wrapping around them. For a while, it felt almost ordinary. Light spilling in through the awning, soft laughter still trailing across the yard.

Then, suddenly-

“Miss Y/N!”

A small voice broke across the space.

One of the children, a little boy with untied boots and paint on his chin, came barreling up to them. His eyes were wide, worried.

“It’s Lyla,” he panted. “She fell. Her knee’s bleeding. She’s behind the swings.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly — concern replacing ease. She set down the brushes and knelt to the boy’s level, brushing his curls back gently.

“Is she crying?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“Good job coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading off across the garden.

Azriel watched her go. The way she crouched beside the small, crumpled shape near the swings, her hands soft as she checked the child’s knee, her voice low and steady. The boy hovered near them the whole time, guilt in every line of his little frame. She pulled him close too, one arm wrapping around each sibling as she whispered something only they could hear.

Azriel didn’t know what it was, but both children clung to her like roots to soil.

He didn’t look away.

Not when she kissed the girl’s forehead. Not when she helped them both stand. Not when she walked back across the grass with her braid loose and her cheeks a little flushed from the sun.

“She’ll be all right,” Y/N said as she reached him again. “Nothing serious. A scrape and a fright.”

“You’re good with them.”

She gave him a small smile. “They’re easy to love.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”

She froze just slightly. He looked away, but the words lingered between them, soft and unthreatening. Like a truth neither of them needed to acknowledge yet.

“I should let you go,” she said gently. “You’ve spent enough of your day here.”

Azriel’s brows lifted. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You really don’t?”

He shook his head once. “Not until the witches find a way home. And even then…” He looked around at the garden, the half-dry paintings, the swing swaying slightly in the breeze. “I don’t mind being here. Not at all.”

Something in her chest eased. Not everything. But something.

“I could tell them a story,” Azriel said then. “If they’re tired. Something from my world. I could… make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment. “You know any stories with dragons and starlight?”

He gave her a rare, small smile. “I know one with a High Lady who turned a battlefield into a blooming field of moonflowers.”

The surprise in her eyes turned to delight. “Go on, then. They’ll love that.”

Azriel turned toward the group of children now gathering under the big tree near the edge of the garden. The sun had shifted again, dappling light through the leaves, and as he sat down in the grass, a dozen eager faces leaned closer.

He looked back once, just briefly.

Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching him.

For the first time in a long time, in either world, Azriel let himself settle.

────────────

The wind howled low through the canyons of Velaris, carrying with it something strange, a pulse beneath the air, as if the city had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.

In a dim, windowless chamber beneath her ivy-covered cottage, the witch worked.

Scrolls lined every surface. Spellbooks lay open to pages so brittle they nearly crumbled beneath her hands. Runes flickered along the floor in fading gold, ancient symbols drawn in circles of salt and powdered quartz. Candles burned with sickly blue flames, their wax dripping sideways, as if gravity itself was beginning to tilt.

Her fingertips trembled. She had felt it again. The Cauldron.

Not in a dream, not in a vision, but in her own bones, a thunderous crack of power, distant but real. Like a ripple through the ocean of time itself. One timeline brushing too close to another, dragging its weight behind it.

She dropped the crystal she had been scrying with. It shattered.

“Damn it,” she hissed, rising to pace the circle.

Magic swirled in the corners of the room, uneasy. The Cauldron did not like to be tampered with. It hated interference, especially from mortals who meddled with the delicate weave of fates not meant to cross.

And yet… someone had done just that.

A witch. Skilled enough to rip one Azriel from his thread and toss him into the wrong tapestry.

And now, the Cauldron was fraying. Not yet breaking. But it would. Soon.

She raised her hands again, whispering the tracing spell. The map of timelines floated before her, glowing strings dancing in the air. One line flickered, silver and pulsing. Azriel’s.

It crossed where it should not.

“I need more time,” she murmured, eyes scanning a dozen different volumes, trying to remember where she had last seen the binding rite. “Just a little more…”

Outside, the wind shifted again, dry and sharp with something like heat. Magic was unraveling. And if she couldn’t fix it… The worlds would bleed.

In the meantime, Velaris held its breath in quieter ways.

The sun filtered through clouds like gold poured from a pitcher, softening the sharp edges of the city. Along the Sidra, the river murmured to itself, weaving through stone bridges and glass-lit walkways as if it had never heard of timelines or cracking Cauldrons.

At a quiet corner café by the water’s edge, Y/N sat across from Azriel, a half-eaten slice of honeyed pear tart on the plate between them.

Azriel had no idea how she’d convinced him to try it, only that the moment she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve never had this before?” he’d already agreed. Her smile had done most of the work.

Now, he sipped warm tea from a delicate mug far too small for his hands, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. The sun caught in his hair, in the curve of her cheek as she laughed at something he didn’t know he’d said quite that funny.

He didn’t think about the witch’s warning. Or the ripple he felt in his shadows earlier that morning. Not right now.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, her voice light but not teasing.

Azriel blinked, caught. “Just listening,” he said softly, and her expression flickered with something warmer than the sun.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “To what?”

“The river. Your laugh. Everything.”

That earned a softer smile. Not the kind she gave the children or her friend or even the strangers in the market. This one was quieter. More uncertain. Like she didn’t quite know where to put it.

Their plates sat between them, a shared little mess of tart crust and berry stains.

Azriel leaned back slightly, watching the boats drift past on the Sidra, their sails bright against the water. His wings were folded, his shadows quiet.

“How do you do it?” he asked after a pause.

“Do what?”

“Live like this. After everything.”

Y/N stirred her tea, eyes on the rippling water. “Some days I don’t. Not fully. But then… the sun still rises. The children still laugh. And someone has to be there to hear it.”

Azriel looked at her for a long time. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Her gaze met his, steady and unsure at once. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Azriel set his mug down, fingers brushing the rim once before he leaned forward slightly, voice soft in the lull between river sounds and city life.

“You know, back home,” he said, “Feyre, the High Lady, she painted stars on the ceiling of her house. Said they reminded her of hope. I never really understood that until I saw them in the dark once. Alone.”

Y/N smiled faintly, resting her chin in one hand. “And do they remind you of hope?”

Azriel’s gaze lifted to the river, to the way the light danced like silver thread along the surface. “They did,” he said. “Still do.”

But her eyes weren’t on the river.

They had fallen to his hands, gloved as always, even in the warm air. The fabric was worn, the seams faintly frayed at the knuckles. But where the glove slipped back from his wrist, she could just make out the beginning of raised skin. Scars. Twisting like old fire, etched deep and permanent.

Her Azriel didn’t have those scars.

She wondered how far they went. Up to his knuckles? His fingers? Were they from a battle? A punishment? A childhood that had taken more than it ever gave?

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t hers to know, not yet. And maybe not ever.

But something in her chest ached anyway, because she could feel how heavy it must be. Whatever weight those gloves hid, it pressed into the silence between them like an old bruise.

Azriel had noticed her glance. He always noticed.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift to hide. He only lifted the cup again, held it steady between those gloved hands.

Y/N looked up quickly, catching his gaze.

“I won’t ask,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “But… I see you.”

Azriel stilled.

And then, with a quiet breath, like the softest exhale of his shadows, he nodded. “Thank you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because something deeper was already being understood.

Y/N sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the bench seat, a smile playing at her lips as she watched a little boy toddle past with a string tied to a stick, his makeshift dragon clattering behind him across the cobblestones.

“He reminds me of my brother,” she said suddenly, gaze drifting.

Azriel looked over from where he was peeling apart a croissant. “You have a brother?”

“I do,” she said, still smiling, though there was a soft melancholy to it. “He's in another court now. Duty called him. But before that, he was a terror. In the best way.”

She turned toward him, chin resting on her hand. “We used to sneak honey cakes from the summer festivals. Hide them in the garden under the old peach tree and pretend we were squirrels storing food for winter. Of course, we’d eat them all by sunset. I always had the crumbs on my face, and he never took the blame. Not once.”

Azriel chuckled quietly. “Did you get caught?”

“Every time. My father pretended not to know, but he’d bring out extra sweets at dinner. Said something about growing appetites.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “That peach tree is still there. Overgrown and wild, but every year, it blooms just the same.”

Azriel watched her as she spoke — the way her hands moved, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how her voice lightened as the story unfolded. There was something brighter in her now. A part of her that had been submerged in grief when he first arrived, now slowly surfacing.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked real. Whole, in a new way.

He smiled, quiet and genuine. “You loved him.”

“With everything,” she said. Then, after a breath, “Like I loved him.”

Azriel’s expression shifted, softening even more. “You’ve been smiling more,” he said.

Y/N glanced at him, caught off guard. “I have?”

He nodded, his shadows curling lazily along the floor beneath the table. “You laugh more too. The children said so yesterday.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t think I would, again. Not like this.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed steady on her.

She looked down at the tea in her hands, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That you could come here by accident and still... somehow bring light back with you.”

Azriel swallowed, the words landing like a weight and a gift all at once. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

Y/N looked up at him and for a moment, the world around them slowed. The rustle of leaves. The breeze off the water. The soft laughter of someone nearby. It all hushed.

“Maybe not,” she whispered.

They sat in that quiet together, the sun warming their skin, and the scent of fresh bread and citrus between them.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew, something was shifting. Not just timelines. But hearts, too.

The moment the breeze shifted, Y/N knew. It was as if the day exhaled, soft and cool, suddenly too still. The scent of citrus faded, replaced by something ancient and electric, like a storm not yet seen but already felt in the bones.

Azriel noticed it too. His shadows straightened, alert. Then, without warning, she was there.

The witch stepped out of the air beside their table, her robes dark and shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Her face was as calm as the Sidra behind them, but her presence brought with it something colder. Final.

Y/N’s heart clenched.

She stood quickly, nearly knocking her tea. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The witch nodded once. “Yes. I’ve found a way.”

Azriel rose more slowly, his jaw tightening as he faced her. “You’re sure it will work?”

The witch’s eyes glinted, old magic whispering in her voice. “As sure as I can be. But there’s no room for delay. The threads of your presence here have begun to fray the structure of this realm. I can feel the Cauldron straining, one more crack, and it won’t be this world that breaks.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was happening.

It had always been coming, but hearing it aloud, seeing the truth in the witch’s steady gaze, it tore the air from her lungs.

Azriel said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at Y/N.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was enough. She tried to hold herself steady. Tried to breathe. But the witch’s words echoed inside her.

It’s time.

He was leaving.

Azriel turned back to the witch, voice rough but steady. “How long do we have?”

The witch considered. “A few hours. Sunset.”

Sunset.

That left so little, and somehow, far too much.

Y/N forced herself to nod. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but her voice was level. “Where do we need to go?”

“I’ll find you again,” the witch said. “I just needed to give you warning. You’ll know when.”

She stepped back into the wind, and with a rustle of her robes and a flicker of violet magic, she was gone.

Silence fell again over the café.

The world kept moving. People still passed by, unaware that anything had changed. But for Azriel and Y/N, the day had shifted on its axis.

The end had a shape now. And it was coming fast.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the Sidra in liquid gold. The river flowed gently beside them, quiet and endless, its surface glittering like stardust.

Y/N walked beside Azriel in silence, her fingers brushing occasionally against the edge of his cloak. The breeze tugged at her hair, and for a while, all they did was walk, as if they could outpace time itself, if they didn’t speak, if they just kept moving.

But Azriel felt it in her. The way her shoulders curled inward just slightly. The soft tension in her breath. Her sadness folded itself neatly around her like a second skin.

And he felt it in himself, too. That ache.

Not the sharp pain of battle wounds or the burn of shadows in his blood, but something quieter, heavier. A kind of loss that hadn’t happened yet but had already taken root.

He glanced at her, then away. “You’ve helped me more than I ever expected.”

She looked up at him, lips parted as if to protest, but he kept going, voice low. “I came here thinking I’d just disrupted something. That I’d landed somewhere I didn’t belong. And I did. But it’s not just that.”

The shadows at his back stirred gently, like they, too, were listening.

“You’ve reminded me what gentleness looks like,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “You reminded me that healing isn’t just survival. It’s... softness. It’s letting yourself laugh again.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, but she kept walking.

Azriel stopped. She did too, a step later, turning toward him slowly.

“If there was a way,” he said, voice barely above the hush of the river, “I’d take you with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and impossible.

His gaze dropped, and he exhaled softly. “But I know it wouldn’t work. It’s not that kind of magic. It’s not that kind of story.”

Y/N smiled. Not because she was happy, but because she wanted to give him something kind. Her eyes, though, they told the truth. They ached. They mourned.

Still, she stepped in close. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her arms came around him, quiet and certain, and she pressed her cheek to his chest. Her hands flattened against his back, holding him there, like maybe she could memorize the feel of him before he was gone.

She inhaled, deeply, taking in his scent, the leather and pine, the faint trace of wind and steel and something only he carried.

Azriel hesitated only a moment before his arms wrapped around her too. Firm, steady, as if he could hold this second in place forever.

Neither of them spoke.

The Sidra flowed beside them, patient and unknowing. The sun dipped lower. And the minutes they had left slipped quietly by, wrapped in silence and warmth and the weight of everything that would never be said.

The witch emerged from the dusk, her presence silent but heavy with ancient power. Her eyes, gleaming with stars and secrets, settled on them both. There was no urgency in her voice, only a steady certainty as she said, “It is time. You must return.”

Azriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Y/N, searching her face as though trying to etch every curve, every unspoken word into memory. The shadows curled protectively around him, but the strength in his eyes softened with something almost like sorrow.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his fingers trembling just slightly as they traced the gentle line of her cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, grounding him in this impossible moment.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between them with a kiss oh her cheek, soft and reverent, a whisper against her skin. The kiss spoke of gratitude and regret, of all the stolen moments and all the things left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw with feeling. “For everything. For this.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Her hands twined in the fabric of his cloak, reluctant to let go, desperate to keep hold of this fragment of a life she never thought she’d have.

His eyes searched hers once more, filled with a fierce tenderness, before he stepped back, shadows rising like dark wings around him, cloaking him from the world.

The witch raised her hand, fingers weaving a silent spell, and a pulse of violet light rippled outward, wrapping Azriel in its glow. The air thrummed with the power of the Cauldron itself, fragile and fierce.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel was gone.

Left behind was the fading warmth of his kiss, the faint scent of leather and pine hanging in the quiet evening air, and Y/N — standing alone by the Sidra, holding onto the echo of a goodbye that still felt impossibly too soon.

────────────

The familiar hum of Velaris pulsed all around him—the distant laughter of street performers, the soft murmur of the Sidra’s waters, the gentle clinking of glasses from nearby taverns—but Azriel felt strangely untethered, like a ghost wandering through his own city. The days since his return blurred together, a fog swallowing his memories whole. Rhys and Cassian had told him he’d been gone for over a week, vanished without a trace, only to reappear as if nothing had happened. He couldn't remember what happened. But inside, Azriel knew something had changed.

There was a quiet, steady warmth beneath the surface, something healing, gentle, like a balm on old wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw.

Today, he was helping Feyre move canvases and crates into her art studio, the smell of fresh paint mingling with the scent of spring rain drifting through open windows. Feyre’s laughter was bright and easy, her presence grounding him even as a restless pull tugged at his chest.

His gaze drifted across the bustling town square just as he set down a heavy crate. And there, among the crowd, he saw her.

A fae, standing with an effortless grace that made the sunlight catch in her hair, turning it to molten gold. She was looking not quite at him, but through him, as if glimpsing into places only shadows could reach… a spark of recognition he couldn’t place, like a forgotten song playing just beyond hearing.

Azriel didn’t understand why his heart quickened, why his hand lifted almost instinctively in a hesitant wave.

The fae’s eyes widened, and then a soft, almost knowing smile curved her lips. She returned his wave before slipping quietly into a nearby shop, disappearing before he could reach her.

His hand dropped slowly, confusion settling over him like a shadow.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember her.

But the pull, the silent thread connecting them, was undeniable, aching beneath his skin like a promise he couldn’t yet understand.

"You've been quiet all day," she said, her voice low and knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Azriel blinked, distracted. Across the square, he could see her through the glasses of that shop.

Feyre followed his gaze, then looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "Az?"

"I... I don’t know," he murmured, almost to himself.

"You don’t know what?" she asked.

But he couldn’t answer. The feeling was too strange, too sharp. His heart thudded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words left him like a breath, half-formed and distant.

"I need to go."

"Go where?"

But he was already walking away, crossing the street without looking back, the hum of Feyre’s concern fading behind him.

She had disappeared into a shop moments before, but he knew. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know how. But he knew.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The world quieted, holding its breath.

And then, there she was.

Closer now. Real. Solid. Her eyes widened, the same as before, but now with something else behind them. Something fragile, something infinite.

Azriel felt it again, deep in his chest. That pull. That thread. It trembled between them like spun gold.

She tilted her head, voice tentative, soft. “Do I... know you?”

He hesitated for a breath, then offered a small smile, one that felt strange and familiar all at once.

"I’m Azriel."

A beat of silence. Then she returned his smile, something in her gaze breaking open.

"I’m Y/N."

Their names, shared again for the first time. A beginning carved into the end.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, the thread between them tightened.

Not remembering. Not yet.

But knowing, somehow, all the same.

[tarotsoulreads]

this was actually incredible oh my god??? You are so incredibly creative with your writings and the way you tell stories is so beautiful!! I adored every moment of this! You have a true talent for emotional warfare, I applaud you bestie 🥲🥲🥲

[illyrianbitch]

Breathe

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has a panic attack. You help him through it.

Warnings: panic attack pov, symptoms of anxiety (heavy breathing, dissociation, bad mean internal narration), lots of talks of fear, breathing exercises, comfort/care

Word Count: 3.6k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t notice it at first— not really. 

But his shadows did. 

They curled in close, drawn silent and taut, as if bracing for something, getting ready to soothe him like a newborn babe.

It always started quiet. Or, it used to, when it happened more often. Like pressure building— something soft at first, something creeping.

Azriel shifted in his seat at the end of the table, half in shadow as he often was.  

He blinked once. Twice. 

He realized, rather quickly, that he was too warm.

Not the kind of warm that settled into your bones on a sunny day. Not comfort. No, this was the kind of warmth that crawled across his skin. Under it. Sticky, stifling. His leathers suddenly felt too tight, like his chest couldn’t fully expand. 

He shifted again, pushing himself to focus on Rhysand’s voice once more. On the words his brother, his High Lord, was speaking.

Nothing was wrong. Not really.  He was seated where he always sat, in the same chair, in the same meeting room, listening to the same details about the same rotations and intelligence reports. Nothing was out of place. Everything was all as doomed, as dismal, and as hopeless as it had been recently. 

They were losing a war. And Azriel knew it. 

The conversation turned toward intelligence failures– intercepted reports, broken leads.

Azriel couldn’t stop his thoughts from growing louder. Faster. Those were another failure on him. On his abilities, his spies. He’d fucked up. Again, and again. The one thing he was good at, the one thing he was supposed to do— and he couldn’t. 

No, no. Stop. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He’d been doing better. Azriel, deep in his rational mind, knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely, at least. Koschei was unpredictable. His devoted followers hadn’t been something anyone could’ve predicted — Children of the Blessed who had found another ruler to worship. Another god to bow to. That wasn’t on him.

But it was… wasn’t it? It felt like a failure.

His shadows stilled around him, began calling to him in the way only they could. But Azriel couldn’t pay attention. His mouth was dry now. His hands were cold.

And there was something curling in his chest. A pressure. A discomfort. A wrongness inside him, like something off-center. He was sure of it. A flaw, like some thread pulled too tight. 

Az tried to anchor himself. Tried to focus on the sound of his brother’s voices, the crinkle of paper beneath his hand. But his thoughts were racing ahead — spiraling. 

The room was too loud.

He gripped the edge of the table. Attempted to draw in a deep breath. When it resisted, when his lungs protested against the strain of his ribs— broken many times before, he opted for flexing his fingers. Uncurled them. Tried to breathe through it once more.

This was pathetic, Az thought bitterly, the sharpness of his own anger swallowing up all other thoughts. The soft voice that tried to tell him he wasn’t to blame for everything was drowned out. It sounded so much like a younger version of himself. And something else, too— a voice that sounded awfully like his mother. 

Azriel had been fine this morning. Hadn’t he? 

So why, now, was he in such pain? Why was his throat tight? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He needed to breathe.

None of this was real. It was all in his head. It would pass. 

He was fine, he repeated in his mind, even as his wings twitched– betraying him before he could catch them. A subtle flex at first, a slight stiffening in his membrane. Defensive, instinctual. 

He tucked them in closer to his back, as if he could subconsciously make himself smaller, less visible. 

He was losing it. Gods, he was losing it and he couldn’t even stand without drawing attention—without someone noticing, without Rhys or Cassian giving him that look.

His wings spasmed again—this time sharper, a visible shudder that raced down the spine between them. Panic, the primal kind, began to bleed into the edges of his breathing.

Not real. Not real. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

He barely noticed when Rhysand’s voice faded into nothing, when the world outside of his own body dulled to a low hum. His vision blurred, not outwardly—no, that would’ve been merciful—but inside his mind. Thought tangled over thought until all that remained was one screaming, splintered thing: move.

Azriel refused to give in to that weaker, fearful side. He refused.

So, instead, he forced himself to lift his head– to act like he was still present. He gripped the edge of the table harder, forcing another breath through lungs that refused to expand. He forced his body to stay still even as every part of him screamed to run.

His eyes caught yours immediately.

You weren’t speaking. You hadn’t been speaking for a while—Az realized dimly that you’d fallen silent when he had.

You were staring at him, a brow furrowed in confusion, eyes darkened with worry. Real, devastating worry— written across your face like you’d felt his unraveling in your bones, like you knew exactly what he was fighting.

You always did that, Az thought briefly. Noticed things. Noticed him. Even when he tried to disappear, buried himself in shadows and distance and the anger only he knew how to hone, you still saw him.

And you were another thing he’d fucked up. Another thing, another person, he’d failed.

His panic hit him like a punch to the chest.

A wild, churning thing inside him lurched loose—sharp and wrong and too much.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

Not here. Not now.

Azriel tried to push to his feet smoothly, tried not to let the room tilt sideways around him. The scrape of his chair on the floor was deafening. His wings flared slightly behind him — a startled, instinctive reaction — before he forced them down again with trembling effort.

He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Couldn’t.

He just needed to get out. Get out.

By the time he stumbled into the hallway, the panic was a roaring thing in his chest. His wings kept twitching, muscles seizing like they couldn’t decide whether to shield or flee. His shadows seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, gathering in dark, frantic swirls at his feet, then dissipating and flickering against the walls, like they were trying—desperately—to anchor themselves, to pull him out of the fear gripping him.

The world narrowed to the thud of his boots and the pain in his chest. He was shaking now — his hands, his arms, his breath. He couldn’t get a full inhale. He couldn’t slow down. His mind was spiraling. He didn’t know where he was going.

Get out. Just get out. Get out get out get out.

He reached the end of the corridor, but his vision was still tunneling. He staggered sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. They were getting closer. Tighter.

Get out.

He needed air. Real air.

Needed out.

He winnowed. All instinct, like a broken wild animal on the run from something it knew it couldn’t beat. And then—he landed. He didn’t even know where he was going until the cold hit him.

Dirt. Grass. Night air.

He fell to his knees in it.

Hard.

It knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, fingers clawing into the earth. Trying to ground. Trying to focus. Trying to breathe.

Stupid. Stupid. This doesn’t happen. You’re fine. You’re not a child.

But he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t stop the rising panic clawing up his throat.

You’re a joke. You’re unraveling. You’re slipping and they’re going to see. You’re a liability. A fucking mess. You’re going to ruin everything—

He shouldn’t have been like this — he’d trained for worse, he’d handled worse. His shadows crowded him, trying to ground him, to pull him back, just as they did when he was three hundred and covered in blood. Twenty-two and angry. Eight and afraid.

It didn't work. They were just more noise. The pressure behind Azriel’s ribs sharpened. His skin itched. He couldn't tell if it was sweat or fear crawling over him.

A cold wind rushed over his skin, sudden and powerful. And for a second—just a second—it grounded him.

Then the panic surged again. Harder.

His fingernails dug further into dirt, the movement straining and pulling at the tight skin at his hands, the raw tendons and everything that was wrong with him. 

He couldn’t fucking see anything. Couldn’t focus. Azriel was sure his heart was breaking itself against his ribs. He pressed his forehead to the ground, desperate to disappear into it. The skin between his shoulders was buzzing, crawling with invisible ants. The old, familiar impulse to tear his way free, to snap bone and tendon if it meant getting out—getting away—scratching out the thing inside him he couldn't reach.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of him, the boy he'd once been was crying. Somewhere, even deeper, the soldier he'd become was roaring at him to stay still, stay quiet, get over it.

Azriel was vaguely aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Of a choked gasp that sounded too much like him. His shadows were scared now, concerned, louder as if they were trying to be louder than the voice in his head. But it was no use. 

His body was too small and the panic was too big.

And then—

A sound. A shape.

His name, maybe.

But it didn’t sound right. Didn't sound like anything.

It felt, almost, as if Az was trying to hear underwater— trying to breathe it in and choke.

He jerked away from the voice, instinctual. He didn't want to be seen. Not like this.

But then it came again. Warm. Gentle. Familiar. His shadows darted towards it.

“Azriel?”

And for the first time, he felt it. Felt you.

His eyes blinked open—wild, unfocused—but the world began to sharpen.

Not all at once. Not clearly, at least. But enough. Enough to see you there, from the corner of his eye, approaching him slowly, breath white in the cold air. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and pressed his palms flatter against the earth. His wings half-flared without permission. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

You’re weak. You’re not enough.

Your failures are going to get them all killed. Koschei. Koschei. Koschei. What if he kills them all? 

A flutter of heat brushed against his shoulder. He briefly registered the movement, somehow coherent enough to piece together the fact that you were crouching beside him. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked, a warrior, a spy— a feared male brought to his knees by his own damaged mind. 

For one harrowing moment, he wanted to snarl at you. To bare his teeth and tell you to go where you’re needed, to leave him alone— Because he didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t want to admit that he needed it. If he admitted it now, so vulnerable and exposed in front of you— embarrassingly so— you’d realize, for a second time, he wasn’t worth it. 

But he would never do that. He didn’t want to push you away again. 

A wave of shame hit him flat in the chest—flooding his system. Azriel forced his wings against his back until the muscles screamed. He gave a tight shake of his head, managed to say between jagged breaths, "I'm fine. Go home."

Your hand hovered at his back, near his wings. Gently pressed. He was shaking. 

He turned his face away. “Please.”

“Azriel,” you said again. Closer. 

Something crumbled in him when his shadows returned to his wrists, floating in soothing circles. He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. Count, like his mother always taught him to. Trace the patterns of his shadows. 

But gods, it wasn’t working.

“I can’t,” Azriel rasped. His voice was barely there. 

A few seconds later, your hand was on his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw. You tilted his face toward yours.

“I’m right here,” you said. Your eyes were wide. Pleading, almost. Like he was lost and you were begging for him to find you again. 

And he would, wouldn't he? Find you, that was. In every lifetime. 

He blinked. It didn’t feel real. He didn’t deserve this tender touch.

 “Az, can you look at me?”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” 

You reached up, brushing a hand through the strands of his hair at the front — a soft, slow rake of your fingers like you were trying to soothe him back to himself. The touch startled him. His eyes opened wider, found yours again, even as his chest still heaved with shallow, broken breaths.

“I’m—” he sucked in a breath, but it hitched, harsh and shallow. “I’m not okay.  I’m— I’m scared and I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t keep pretending—”

He was unraveling. Words spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

“I’m not enough. I’m not—stable. I can’t help with Koschei. I can’t find anything. People are dying. I’m letting everyone down and—fuck—” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t breathe—”

You shifted without hesitation, lowering yourself to your knees before him, so you could meet him at eye level. Gently, delicately, you reached for one of his hands — still clawed into the dirt like an animal — and began to uncurl his fingers from the earth. He shifted his position with the movement. 

He blinked again at the sensation, disoriented, his brows furrowing as you guided his hand up and placed it over your chest. Over your heart. And covered it with your own.

“Feel that?” you whispered, taking an exaggerated deep breath. His hand rose with the motion. “All that air coming into my lungs. It’s really nice, Az. Refreshing. Don’t you think?”

He nodded. Or thought he did. It was hard to tell where his body was.

“I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

He swallowed hard. His lungs still fought him. But he would try. Gods, for you — he would always try.

You inhaled again, slow and deep, and he followed — or tried to. Again. And again. Until something in his lungs finally loosened, like a muscle unclenching.

He closed his eyes.

The panic didn’t vanish. But it ebbed. Enough to come back into his body. Enough to feel the weight of the earth, the throb of his heart. The gentleness in your touch. His wings gradually relaxed. His other hand stopped trembling against the grass.

When he opened his eyes, he found yours already waiting.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, he could see you. Not through panic. Just… you.

His hand twitched under yours. You interlaced your fingers, pressing his palm against your skin even firmer. Finally, Azriel took a deep breath. A proper one. Felt the refreshing night air fill his lungs. 

And when you smiled — soft and aching and full of something he couldn’t name — he felt the last of the panic slip out of his bones.

He realized, with excruciating clarity, exactly where he was now. Realized that he was touching you. That you were so close. That somehow, impossibly, despite everything he’d ruined, you were here. 

He almost forgot to breathe again.

You shifted your free hand up slightly, brushing it back through his hair — a tender, absentminded thing, like it was instinct for you now. 

“There we go,” you said softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Azriel took advantage of his proximity to take you in— the curve of your mouth, the way the moonlight caught the shine of your hair. How close you were to him, how real it felt. It was almost enough to make him believe he had died after all— that this was some kind of fragile heaven he wasn’t meant to keep, a dream created by a brain deprived of oxygen. 

He let out a breath. His body went lax, sinking into the earth. Into you.

You glanced back at him again, your hand still in his hair, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He studied your face like he could memorize it all over again — the faint crease between your brows, the tremble you were trying to hide in your jaw, the way your eyes softened when you caught him looking.

Something inside him cracked open wider.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then to your eyes. And then his gaze dropped once more, landing on where his hand still rested over your heart, your smaller one covering his. Without thinking, Azriel brushed his thumb across your skin. A slow, reverent sweep. He felt it immediately— the sudden, sharp skip of your heartbeat under his hand. 

“Your heart,” Azriel whispered, “It’s...beating really fast.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” you murmured, giving him a sheepish, crooked little smile.

“Why?”

Azriel swore he caught the faintest tint of pink at your cheeks.

“It tends to do that around you.”

Something inside him stumbled, caught on a beat he didn’t recognize. "Oh," he breathed out.

A few moments passed. And then, slowly, you shifted — separating just enough to ease down beside him. Azriel mourned the loss of your touch, of his hand on your skin. He settled into a similar position, watching as you tucked your knees to your chest and rested your head lightly atop them. 

The silence that followed felt easy. Comforting. Azriel was grateful for it, despite his longing to touch you again. His breaths, now more regular, were still slowly coming back to him. 

You turned to look at him, your cheek pressed against your knees. “What happened, Az?” 

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Out of everyone, you were the only one he'd ever truly opened up to about these episodes. These small attacks — flashes of terror, of helplessness — they'd started creeping back after the second war against Hybern. A strange, ugly pattern.

He hated them. Hated the way they made him feel: weak, broken, like he was still the trembling boy locked away in a lightless cell. But he’d been doing better. He had been. And now — this — it felt like a step backward. Like a fall from a cliff he'd barely managed to climb. He felt like a failure. Like a burden.

“I…I don’t know. I just…”

He looked at you then. Really looked. At the way your eyes urged him to go on. And somehow, his thoughts came easier. More honest. 

The truth was — Azriel had spent most of his life benefiting from the image of someone fearless. The cold, steady blade in the dark. The one who didn’t flinch.

But Azriel was afraid all the time.

He moved through his fear like a second skin — worked off it, thrived off it. Fear of losing someone. Fear of being weak again. Fear of being proven wrong. Fear of being left behind. It sat in him like something feral, something sharp-toothed and restless, always on the edge of recognition.

He knew fear the way an animal knew the shift of the wind before a storm.

And lately, it was starting to take more than it gave. 

He hated it. Hated that for all the years he'd spent learning to master it, it still had the power to master him.

“I hate this,” Azriel said finally. Barely audible. “I hate that I can’t control this panic. That it’s still in me. That I freeze. When I’m needed most.”

“You’re not frozen now,” you said. “You came back.”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to protect people. I’m supposed to keep our court safe. That’s what I’m for. If I can’t do that... if I’m just afraid…then what am I?”

“You’re still you. Even when you’re afraid. Especially then.”

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment. Nodded, just barely. “I think you’re the only one who thinks that.”

“The fearless don't win wars, Az. They just die faster. The ones who love... the ones who are afraid — they're the ones who survive. They're the ones who save people."

He blinked, like you’d struck him, and a wave of relief ran through his body. Azriel let out a rough breath — almost a laugh. “Since when did you get so philosophical?”

You shrugged, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “I used to date this guy…”

He arched his brow and you tilted your head, pretending to think. “Taught me a few things about war. About fear. About how important it is to find people worth being afraid for.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched upwards. “Sounds like a piece of work.”

You breathed a soft laugh and the quiet stretched again. He ran his fingers idly through a blade of grass, taking in the calm night surrounding him. 

“How did you know where I went?” Az asked.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees, chin resting on them, eyes tracing his shadows dancing along the grass. “I made a lucky guess.”

“Well… thank you," he said, his heart glowing. "For finding me.”

You glanced at him, your eyes softening as you replied,  “Always.”

Then you tucked your chin back onto your knees, looking up at the sky again. The stars spun lazy arcs overhead. Azriel watched you instead— for a few indulgent moments, at least. 

Eventually, Azriel’s gaze drifted from you, scanning the patch of grass beneath you both.  A soft smile tugged at his lips as the memory surfaced—of the first time he kissed you—here, in this exact spot.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: posting this randomly as i am...crawling...slowly....from the grave.... where uninspired writers.... and my abandoned wips.... go to rot...

as a girl who has suffered w panic attacks my whole life (thank u traumatic events!) i would rather die than have someone like...kiss me for example, but i cannot tell u how intimate those moments are after someone sees you so vulnerable and theyre just like so...casual abt it? so i simply had to write a lil something, idk anyways enjoy this random lazy ass work <3 onto my series i go!!!!

fun fact.... this is actually a scrapped scene from one of my drafted series (anatomy of dependence), that full exes to lovers, second chance romance, best friends to luvers goodnesssss!!!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻 (im going to revamp this soon, so if you wanna stay on it, let me know!!)

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[tarotsoulreads]

RAE YES everything about this was SO good and real and honest, you captured his character SO WELL in this my tiny brain can’t fathom it hehe!

[pit-and-the-pen]

How to Melt Steel

Summary: Short little fic Azriel being totally whipped for a badass reader

*Something something insert male sword/knife joke here*

Azriel x f reader

WC: 1.8k

Warnings: Slight Sexual innuendos but nothing graphic.

Divider by @tsunami-of-tears

Azriel cursed to himself when he saw the small chip in Truth Teller. He had kept it in almost immaculate condition for as long as he’s had it. The metal scraped from near constant sharpening but that little crack in the tip had him shedding a silent tear. It had been during a sparring session with Cassian of all things. The blade was knocked out of his hand and bounced against the cement. His sixth sense told him of the damages before he had even looked.

“She’s the best in town. Will have you in and out in less than an hour.” Cassian told him when Azriel delivered a heavy blow to his chin at the sight of his damaged weapon.

“I hope for your sake she is.” He muttered to his brother. Truth Teller was an extension of himself. It was as recognizable as his wings in his opinion. And that exact thinking is how he found himself outside of your shop. The heat from the forge could be felt the moment he stepped through the door. A small light went off as the door opened, and when he heard the sound of metal on metal, he could see why you opted for that over a bell.

The sound seemed to bounce off of his skull, shaking his brain. He looked and saw you hunched over an anvil. The hammer in your hand repeatedly striking a red hot blade.

The light lashed again and you paused mid swing. Eyes going wide as you took him in. His cheeks heated slightly in embarrassment at the way you seemed to instantly fear him.

He took in the black soot across your cheeks, the distinct goggle marks when you placed them on the top of your head. It was a sight that almost made him laugh.

“The infamous shadowsinger. What do I owe the pleasure?” Your voice was light, teasing him he realized with a start.

You seemed to steal the words from his mouth, only able to open and close his mouth like an idiot.

“Earth to shadowsinger?” You waved a hand in front of his face.

“Azriel.” He blurted out. You cocked a crooked smile at him.

“Okay. Azriel,” You said his name slowly, like you were weighting it on your tongue. “What can I do for you?”

He gathered his wits enough to pull out the blade from its seeth on his side.

“Chipped it in training.” He watched your eyes go large again as he placed it on the counter. You looked at the blade, then back to him. You repeated the movement a few times. He wanted to shrink in on himself until he caught the gleam of, not fear as he expected, but excitement.

“Is that really?” Your voice raised half an octave, “I’ve only heard rumors of it. But seeing it up close. Can I-” You tentatively reached a hand out for it. Azriel only nodded. A small male pride weld up in his chest as you wrapped your hand around the hilt of the dagger. He pulled back the shadows that jetted towards you. It was silly really. It was just a dagger after all but he found his cheeks heating up as you inspected it nonetheless.

You twisted it in your hand, shifting it from one hand to the other.

“Perfectly balanced,” You scraped a finger over the edge of the blade, “Sharp as shit.” You said mostly to yourself. Your eyebrows pulled together as you saw the small knick at the top of the blade.

“Well, you’re lucky. It’s a brittle fracture. I should be able to buff it out in about half an hour.” You spoke directly to the blade, not taking your eyes away from it for a second.

“Perfect.”

“You can stay if you want. Like I said, I should be quick.” You turned your back to him before he could answer and he felt the heat in the room ramp up.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you stuck the small blade in the forging die, letting it heat up before you pulled it out and took it out to the anvil. He flinched when you brought your hammer down the first time. He noticed it was far gentler than your movements from when he first entered the shop. He took note of the way you seemed to almost sculpt the tip back together. Treating it with the same reverence as a potter would their clay. He cursed under his breath as he saw one of his shadows curling around your wrist. You looked down slightly before taking a glance at him. You didn’t say anything, just continued on with your work. A faint smile ghosting your face.

You were muttering to yourself as you worked. Words that he couldn’t make out no matter how hard his ears strained. He was transfixed by the speed and accuracy that you worked. It was impressive to say the least, the way the muscles in your arms flexed as you worked. He found himself watching you closer than he should have and if you weren’t so caught up in your work, he might have found himself embarrassed. He was gawking but couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

The hissing as you put the blade into a cold pot of water had him jumping slightly. He almost spoke up when he saw the charred tip of his dagger.

“Calm down.” You laughed, it took him a second to realize he had leaned further over the counter at the sight, shadows following without his command. “I still have to polish it.”

He just nodded and took a step back from the counter. He watched as you spread some strong smelling paste on the blade, it seemed to bring the color back to normal. A loud whirring filled the shop and you pulled up a small stool to the grinding wheel. Stroke after stroke had sparks flying towards your face. You didn’t even flinch as he saw the flecks land on your arms. His hands tightened into fists as he saw the small pink marks appear on your skin where they landed. Disappearing so quickly he would have missed them if he wasn’t watching so closely.

You pushed your goggles on your head again, turning the blade in between your hands. Searching for something he didn’t see. You must have found it because you gave a small nod before turning to the polishing block beside you, another paste was smeared on the blade before you started up the next wheel. Once again, he was captivated by the care you seemed to take with the blade. Examining it every couple of strokes. Azriel tried not to let his mind drift to other things your steady hands could handle.

“All done.” You said and it pulled Azriel back from whatever daydreams he had. You held out the dagger to him, point facing the ground. He took it from your hand, his fingers brushing yours slightly. He might have been imagining it but he swore he saw a light blush appear across your cheeks. But it was probably just from the heat of the forge.

“You can test it out before you leave.” You said, slightly out of breath. “I have some targets in the back you can use.”

Azriel knew just by looking at it that it was perfect. But he found himself agreeing to the offer anyway. You lifted the small gate on the counter and he followed you to a small patio off the shop. There were a few wooden targets hanging and some burlap training dummies. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest.

“I don’t think I need to explain to you how to use it.” You teased again. Head tilting towards the targets. Azriel smirked.

“You’d be surprised what I can do with it.” He shot a wink your way and knew for a fact that was a blush spreading across your cheeks, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

He slashed the air a few times before spinning and throwing the blade over his shoulder. It made a satisfying arc before sticking in the dead center of the target.

You gave a small clap as he went to collect the dagger.

“How does it feel?” You ask and his brain blanked for a moment. He looked at you, head slightly cocked. “The dagger?”

“Oh. Yeah,” He shook his head lightly, running a hand over the back of his neck, “Good as new. Better even.” He looked down the edge of the blade, noticing the way it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

“Perfect.”

“How much do I owe you.” He looked up and you only waved a hand at him.

“Consider it a favor. It was payment enough to even be able to touch the damn thing. It’s legendary if you can believe it.” You winked at him again. He went to argue with you but you held up your hand. “If you’re that determined. Then maybe you can take me out to dinner. Next tuesday? 7pm.”

Azriel was shocked by your boldness. He floundered, looking for the words to say yes without seeming too eager.

“That blade isn’t the only thing that has legends a mile long.” You turned on your heel and walked back into the shop. Azriel just stood there, absolutely dumbfounded. His shadows swirled around his feet, almost pulling him towards you. His heartbeat was far too fast for a male of his age. Here he was whimpering behind you like a teenager. His brain suddenly remembered how to work and he was following behind you. He grabbed your wrist gently in his hand and spun you around to face him.

“Does 6pm work?” He asked. You gave me a small smile and nodded.

“Don’t be late.” Was all you said before you turned away from him again and pulled a chord that fired up the forge again.

Azriel walked back to the house of wind in a daze. He felt like he got run over by a horse in the best way. You were not at all what he was expecting and he found himself already searching for a reason to head back to the shop.

“She take it well?” Cassian called over his shoulder when Azriel walked back into the house. He froze midstep.

“Take it?” Azriel questioned.

“Fix it, I mean.” He laughed when Azriel failed to school his expression.

“Oh yeah, good as new. You get to keep your favorite parts this time, Cas.” He joked and Cassian let out a low whistle.

“She’s got you bad already. Knew you would like her.”

“What do you mean?”

“It might as well be written all over you, you reek of whatever happened.”

“Nothing-” Cassian held up hand.

“Lie to me all you want.”

“I mean it, nothing happened. Well she told me I’m taking her to dinner next week.”

“Told you?” Cassian Laughed. “About time someone put you in your place.”

“Shut up you overgrown bat.”

“Ouch. Keep it up and I’ll run and tell her all your secrets.” He ducked out of the way as Azriel sent a vase flying his direction.

“Butt out of it.”

“Bit touchy?”

Azriel just muttered a quiet shut up under his breath before he walked into his room.

Tag list: @sarawritestories @ninthcircleofprythian @prythianpages @lady-of-tearshed @daycourtofficial @readychilledwine @tadpolesonalgae @nocasdatsgay

[batboysanonymous]

Surrender

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had spent centuries in the dark, wrapped in silence and solitude, convinced that touch, real, unguarded touch, was not meant for him. Then he met you

Azriel had never been touched without reason.

Every brush of skin against his had been purposeful, wounds being stitched, a sword being passed, a hand yanking him out of the wreckage of war. Even among the people who called him brother, who claimed to love him, touch had always been a rare thing. A clap on the shoulder from Cassian after a battle. A quick squeeze of his forearm from Rhysand before a mission.

It had never been more than that. Never just because.

So the first time you touched him, it had nearly unraveled him.

It had been so casual. Unthinking. The kind of touch people gave without realizing they were giving it. You had been standing beside him in the House of Wind’s training ring, sweat still damp on your brow, laughing at something Cassian had said. And as you turned toward Azriel, still grinning, you reached out—just a small thing, a fleeting press of your fingers against his wrist, your thumb brushing over his pulse like it was natural, like it was nothing.

It was everything.

Azriel had gone still. So still it was a wonder his body hadn’t shattered from the force of it. His heartbeat had slammed against his ribs, his throat tightening as his mind scrambled to make sense of what had just happened.

You had touched him.

Not because you had to. Not because you needed something from him. Not because he was bleeding out or being dragged from the wreckage of a battlefield.

You had touched him because you wanted to.

And that terrified him.

Because the moment it happened, the moment your fingers met his skin, Azriel knew—he would want more.

It only got worse after that.

Because you kept doing it. And worse, you didn’t seem to realize what you were doing to him.

The way your hand found his forearm when you spoke to him, grounding him in the moment. The way you brushed your fingers over his back when you passed him in the halls. The way you linked your pinky with his beneath the dinner table when the conversation turned too dark.

Azriel wasn’t used to it.

Gods, he wasn’t used to it.

For centuries, he had believed he did not need touch, that it was something other people craved—people who were not made of knives and shadow. He had convinced himself he was fine without it, that his body did not miss something it had never truly had.

He had been wrong.

Because now that he had it, now that he had you, he didn’t know how to go without it.

It was a sickness, the way he hungered for it. The way he would find himself inching closer to you when you were near, his body gravitating toward yours like you were the sun and he was something desperate for warmth. The way his hands would twitch at his sides when you hugged Cassian, when you looped your arm through Feyre’s—jealousy, raw and sharp, at the way they could take your touch for granted, while he still ached at the very idea of asking for more.

Because that was the worst part—he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to reach for something he had spent centuries pretending he didn’t want.

So he suffered in silence. Let himself drown in the feeling of your hands against his skin, your fingers brushing his, your body pressed against his when you leaned into him without hesitation.

He let himself starve, even as the feast was right in front of him.

One night, as the city slept and Velaris shimmered beneath the moon, you found him standing alone on the balcony of the House of Wind.

You had been looking for him, he could tell by the way you didn’t hesitate, by the way you stepped into his space as if you belonged there.

"Az," you murmured.

He turned, shadows curling at his feet. "Couldn’t sleep?"

You shook your head. "I could ask you the same."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing.

For a moment, there was only silence. Only the sound of the wind through the cliffs, the distant murmur of the Sidra below. And then—then, you reached for him.

Not just a brush of fingers this time. Not just a fleeting, casual touch.

You placed your hand against his chest, right over his heart, and stayed.

Azriel stopped breathing.

"Az," you whispered, your voice softer now. "Why do you always let me touch you, but you never touch me back?"

His hands clenched at his sides. "Because I don’t know how to stop."

The words left him before he could think better of them. Before he could bury them beneath his usual silence.

You exhaled, something flickering in your eyes. And then, to his utter ruin, you reached for his hand.

Not just to hold it. Not just to offer comfort.

You brought his palm up, pressed it against your own chest, against the steady, steady beat of your heart.

"Then don’t," you said simply.

Azriel made a sound, a broken, desperate thing. His fingers curled against you, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt, as if memorizing the shape of you beneath his touch.

"I don’t know how to ask for it," he admitted, voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled, something unbearably soft. "Then don’t ask."

And you leaned forward, wrapping yourself around him.

Azriel broke.

His arms came around you fast, crushing, as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on. His face pressed against your hair, his shadows curling around your waist, twining with you like they knew. Like they had been waiting for this moment just as long as he had.

You held him just as tightly, your fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against his back, grounding him, anchoring him.

"I’ve got you," you whispered. "Always."

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling the scent of you, the warmth of you, the realness of you in his arms.

And for the first time in his long, long life, he allowed himself to believe it.

Taglist: @willowpains, @masbt1218, @antonia002, @bookishcait, @fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, @buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff,  @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch,  @okaytrashpanda, @mariaxliliana, @kksbookstuff, @marina468, @tele86, @raccoonworld

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[illyrianbitch]

A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has spent weeks watching the light from your shop burn long into the night. Tonight, when sleep refuses him once again, he finally follows it.

Warnings: Az's mental state is not the greatest aka self-deprication, envy, loneliness, insomnia… but also a growing cruuuush!!

Word Count: 3.9k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Step One: Find the Light

Every insomniac has a lighthouse — some flickering glow that keeps them tethered through the long, unbroken dark. It might be the streetlamp outside your window. The low burn of coals in the hearth. The lonely glint of a candlelit window across the city. It will not always be the brightest light. But it will be the one you cannot stop looking at.

— (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 14)

Azriel never slept. 

Not really, not the way the others did.

He’d gotten used to it over the centuries, the way his mind, despite being fraught with exhaustion, never seemed to leave him alone. When he was younger, he used to think it was a blessing —in some weird, twisted way.

His ability to remain constantly thinking, worrying, conjuring up every thought he could, occupied him. Kept him company. That, along with his shadows, made him feel less alone. Even if it made him miserable.

Because at least then, he was miserable with company—of his own making, of course.

But lately, it had been worse.

It wasn't just the exhaustion anymore. Not just the restless hum beneath his skin that never truly faded. It was something else, something much heavier.

His shadows felt it, too. They lingered closer than usual, curling over his shoulders, tugging at his wrists—searching for something they couldn’t name. Herding him toward sleep he never took. They were restless, too. Tired in a way that wasn’t natural.

Tonight was no different. Sitting in bed was proving to be pointless. He was too exhausted to untangle everything he felt, anyway. It was all muddled together now—the anxiety, the anger, the fear, the stress. Heavy and dark, pressing into his ribs until it hurt to breathe. Like something had cracked inside him. Like he was suffocating beneath the weight of his own life.

He exhaled sharply and glanced toward the window. The sky outside was clear. He stared at it for a few moments.

Then, like always, Az moved.

The roof was where he ended up on nights like this. Perched above the world, half-hidden in the shadows, he could watch the city without being seen. He tried not to think about the joke Mor had made once—that he looked like some strange gargoyle up here. She wasn't entirely wrong. 

But he couldn't shake the habit. Something about it made him almost feel like a child again. He wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Didn't care enough to think about it too long.

Azriel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, scanning the quiet streets below.

He thought he would get used to the silence. After all, Az liked his solitude. 

But with everyone else moved on, living in their own spaces, the townhouse was too still. Too empty. He missed the sounds of life filling the space. The steady heartbeats. The familiar voices. The laughter of his family drifting from different rooms. Sure, he didn’t always join in, but he liked knowing they were there. Liked knowing they were safe.

Without them, the loneliness settled in his bones. 

On nights when the ache felt unbearable, when the silence stretched too long, too empty—he hated how bitter it made him. Hated that he wished his family felt it too. Wished they were just as alone, just as lost, so he wouldn’t be the only one.

And then he’d hate himself for it. The thought made him sick. Made him ashamed.

It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He didn’t mean it, either. He knew that, too.

But it was getting harder to tell which version of himself was real—the one who loved his family enough to encourage them moving on, or the one who resented being left behind. The one that seethed with loneliness.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

He tilted his head back, staring at the night sky. A few birds—maybe bats, though Az wasn't sure—flew overhead, their dark shapes cutting across the stars. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to just fly. To fly without a destination, without a place to go. Just fly, and be free, and not have to think about anything at all. 

Great. He was jealous of a fucking bird.

Azriel huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head, and let his gaze drift back down. The city stretched before him, lanterns faintly glowing along the cobbled streets.

It was there again.

A single shop, its light still flickering in the dark.

He’d noticed it before. He knew the shop, too—a small candle store tucked between the narrow alleys, the one he passed by more often than he should. He’d seen you through the windows, tending to customers, organizing shelves. You weren’t a stranger, not exactly. He knew your name. Your business. And yet, he didn't know you.

He wanted to, though. Strangely enough, he did.

Because every night, long past reason, your light was still on.

And every night he found himself looking for it. Searching for that small, flickering glow in the dark.

It was curiosity at first. A distraction. Something to focus on when the silence became too much. But then he started wondering. About you. About why you stayed up so late, what kept you there when the rest of the city had long since gone to sleep.

Perhaps it was selfish of him to be grateful that someone else was as sleepless as he was. But he was. He was grateful that within the past few heavy and lonely months, you had kept him company without even realizing it.

Azriel stared at the light for a few more moments. 

And then, before his mind could catch up—

He was moving once again.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The city was different at this hour. Liminal. Caught between worlds. Azriel liked it like this, when it was neither awake nor asleep. When it was just existing—silent and undisturbed.

And yet, as he walked, that quiet was not as comforting as it should've been.

Because he noticed, now, how much darker some streets were. How the silence didn't feel like peace and safety.

When he reached your shop, he stopped.

The door was open.

Not just unlocked, but open. The sign hanging in the window still read: OPEN.

His brows furrowed. That was dangerous. Reckless. Did anyone else know you were here, alone in the dead of night? Was there someone inside with you?

Anything could happen.

He hated that thought.

Hated it because it was true. Because his city was not as safe as it should be. Because if he—the Night Court’s Spymaster, its protector—could think such a thing in the middle of Velaris, then what did that say about him?

What did that say about what he had failed to protect?

His jaw tightened. His shadows shifted. He thought about leaving. Thought about stepping away before he made this mean something it didn't.

Then the door moved.

A figure stepped out—a male, hunched over slightly, shoulders drawn. There was something shaken in his expression, something raw. His eyes flicked to Azriel, widening slightly in recognition before his gaze dropped in silent understanding. He nodded—just once—before slipping into the night.

Azriel watched him go. Then turned back to the open door.

And stepped inside.

The shop was warmer than he expected, its air thick with scent—layers of them, pressing in from all sides. Sweet, sharp, earthy, floral. It should've been overwhelming. Usually, it would've been. Azriel got overwhelmed quicker these days.

Instead, it felt comforting. Welcoming.

And, for just a moment, Azriel forgot that outside was still cold. Still dark. Still waiting.

He stood in the entrance for a few more seconds. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, if he was waiting for anything at all. All he knew was that your light stayed on long after every other window in Velaris had gone dark— and something about that made him feel connected to you.

A small thud pulled his attention.

And, for another moment, Azriel forgot how to move.

You were there, at a small front counter, and you were beautiful.

Not in the way that all beautiful things were, but in a way that felt undeniable. A certain kind of beauty that made his body stop. Made his mind stutter.

It was a stupid reaction from him, really. He'd seen you before in passing, had walked past this place nearly a hundred times. He knew, on paper, who you were. And yet—

He had never seen you like this. In the dead of night, surrounded by sleepy fae lights and the smell of a thousand memories.

He forced himself to look away, feeling a timid sense of embarrassment burning under his skin. He did the only thing he could think to do, then. He wandered.

The store wasn't a large space by any means, but Az made a show of studying it, drifting through the narrow isles, letting the scents shift around him. He tucked his wings in tight, careful not to knock over any of the delicate glass jars and candles. He knew his luck well enough to know that if something could be broken, it would be.

His shadows stirred with his movements, tugging at him like restless children eager to explore. Az let himself indulge, just slightly, as his fingers trailed over the shelves' edges.

Az reeled them in when they spread out too far.

Usually, he felt guilty for how little rest they got, how they tried to match his own sleeplessness. Even after all these centuries, he wasn’t quite sure how they slept, if they needed it the way he did. But tonight, they were quieter. Slower. And for once, he was grateful. It made it easier to keep them close, to keep himself contained.

Azriel stopped in front of a small display of candles.

They weren’t perfect. The wax wasn’t always smooth, some wicks sat slightly off-center, and a few had tiny air bubbles trapped beneath the surface. But they were beautiful. The glass containers varied—some clear, others tinted amber or deep green. A few were housed in pottery, the edges slightly uneven, the glaze catching the dim light in soft, imperfect ripples.

The labels on each were equally beautiful: handwritten in careful script, some adorned with pressed flowers or gold foil.

He could tell that care has been put into them. None of them had been made to look exactly like the next. Something in his chest ached at that. In awe, maybe. In envy, too. He wasn't sure why. He didn't question it, though. He was envious of everything recently. Bitter.

Slow, gentle tendrils of shadow ghosted across the shelf, slipping over the carefully arranged candles, tracing the delicate script on their labels. They curled against the wall before settling over one in particular.

Az picked it up.

He wasn't sure why he did. There was no real reason to smell any candle—nothing but the simple truth that he was stalling. That he wasn't quite ready to leave, that standing here doing nothing was more conspicuous than pretending to browse.

So he lifted the candle to his nose.

And immediately regretted it.

The scent that filled his lungs was atrocious.

Something rotting, something sour, something deeply wrong. Like burnt hair and spoiled fruit and the sharp tang of metal. He nearly recoiled— nearly.

Years of his duties had taught him how to keep his face unreadable. He was grateful for that training now, for those unrealistic expectations he'd set upon himself. He didn't need to see his reflection to know there was no hint of his disgust in his face.

There could be a trace in his eyes, maybe. His mother always said they were rather expressive. It was why he didn't hold eye contact as long as his brothers.

But no one was looking at his eyes now.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered the candle.

And glanced at the shelf.

There was no visible label. No indication of what, exactly, he had just inhaled. Only his shadows, spread across the wall still. Although they sensed his distress, they were utterly unhelpful — a few lone wisps coiling around him in amusement, their edges twitching with silent laughter.

He exhaled sharply. From across the room, he heard the sound of something else. The sound of you—soft laughter, just barely contained.

He glanced up to you already watching him, a knowing look in your eyes. He willed himself to look away, quicky placing the candle back on the shelf, pulling his hands away from view. But seconds later, he felt you approach him, felt the warmth of your presence stretch out like he was sat near a fire.

You cleared your throat. Gently, elegantly, like you were afraid to spook him. He took a deep breath, focused his control on his shadows, and turned to look at you.

You titled your head. "So? What do you think?"

He offered you a tight, polite smile— if you could even call it that. In reality, it was a tiny tug at the corner of his lips. Just movement enough to show he was not a threat, movement enough to not seem rude.

"It's lovely," Azriel said, lying.

"Really?"

"Yes."

You paused. Watched him too closely. Then, with what seemed to be barely contained amusement, you said, "Would you like to buy it? I'm having a sale."

There was a beat of hesitation. He should've said no. He knew this. He had no use for any candles, let alone ones that stirred up a gag reflex he never knew he had. But he couldn't. It would be rude, to enter your shop, to touch all of its offerings, and not buy something — right?

His shadows curled around his ear, whispering their betrayal in a hushed murmur.

Must buy. Sweet. Perfect.

Another wisp twined around his wrist, prodding at his fingers, amused. It appeared him and his shadows had different definitions of what perfect smelled like.

"I would," Azriel said.

"Really?"

"I have some people in my life who love scents like this."

You furrowed a brow, the corners of your lips tilting into a hesitant smile. There was something so alive about the way your features moved. Animated, shifting, vibrant. He wished Feyre was here—if only to memorize your face and paint it later. Capture whatever it was that made you feel so… present. "You do?"

He didn't, but Azriel nodded anyway.

"That's interesting."

Azriel immediately regretted speaking. There was a right and a wrong answer, it seemed. And he knew, from the glint in your eye, that his answer was wrong.

You plucked the candle from the shelf, turning it between your fingers before giving him a slow, knowing smile. “Because this one is specifically designed to be awful.”

His brows lifted slightly. He glanced back at the shelf, at the small section his shadows had now uncovered—an area filled with other unlabeled candles, their scents likely just as offensive. And there, right above them, a small carved sign: For Particular Noses and Mischievous Reasons.

Azriel exhaled through his nose. His shadows curled around him in clear amusement. Traitors.

They whispered back, gleeful and smug. Mischievous reasons, yes.

“They’re kind of oddly specific,” you admitted, setting the candle back down. “People like to use them as jokes, but sometimes they sell—people have weird cravings. You’d be surprised what some fae miss from their old lives. Even the gross stuff. I think it's sweet, in a way.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes drifting back to you.

You didn’t sleep.

He knew that, of course, from the days spent watching your light from across the city.

But he could see it now, even more clearly than before. The faint shadows beneath your eyes, the way your movements were just a little too slow, too careful, as if you were running on borrowed energy. He knew that feeling well.

It was strange. He hated the way exhaustion looked on himself. It made him feel weary, tired, unapproachable. Unattractive. But on you…

He was inclined to say it was pretty — and that it was wrong. Wrong that you were awake only at night, that you were tucked away in this tiny shop, unseen by most of the world. It felt almost sinful that the daylight, and those who thrived in it, couldn't witness you like this.

Azriel shifted his weight, forcing the thought from his mind.

It was just the lack of sleep making him strangely soft, uncharacteristically fond of a stranger. He needed to fix his image now before he made an even bigger fool of himself.

“You don’t have to get that one,” you murmured, your fingertips brushing over the candles like they were something precious.

Azriel had seen lovers touch each other with less fondness. A strange, twisting thing settled in his chest at the thought—because he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like that.

He suddenly felt like an intruder in a place meant for softer things than him.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “I liked it.”

You pressed your lips together, amused. He was making a fool out of himself, this he was sure of. But he didn't mind. You looked at him. Said nothing. Just looked.

Az was suddenly very aware of himself. Of the way his fingers curled against his sides, of the way he was standing too stiffly, too awkwardly. He felt on display.

His shadows betrayed him first—darting toward you, reaching, playful. He clenched his fists, willing them back before they could weave themselves around your wrist or through your hair. They had never done that before, not without his command. He had to fight them. Maybe himself, too.

You turned, slowly walking and scanning the shelves until you plucked something from one of the quieter, more tucked-away sections.

Azriel barely noticed at first. His mind was elsewhere—distracted, unmoored. The scent of you lingered in the air, something soft, something warm, and his shadows—traitorous things—drifted toward it. Like they wanted to pull it apart, understand it, memorize it. He only just managed to reel them back in before you turned.

You held the candle out to him. 

He stepped toward you. “What is it?”

“Something I think you’d like.”

He hesitated before taking it, siphons glowing faintly as his fingers brushed against yours. He stilled. 

He hated how much they stood out in places like this, how the gleam of them felt unnatural against the warm, quiet glow of the shop. He never took them off. Never would. He wondered if you thought it was strange. 

If you did, you didn’t show it. You didn’t even glance at them, didn’t react to the scars on his hands. Your fingers didn’t flinch against his. 

You didn’t seem to notice at all. 

But Azriel did. He always did.

He looked at the object in his hand.

It was a small thing, carefully crafted like all the others, and the glass was warm from where your fingers had been. He turned it over, reading the handwritten label. The written scent was unfamiliar, but when he lifted the lid and breathed it in, something settled inside him.

It was subtle. The first thing he caught was something clean, airy—like the hush of the sky just before dawn. Then something deeper, warmer. A hint of cedarwood, maybe. And beneath it all, the faintest trace of something he couldn't quite name—something like parchment, like ink that settled into the pages of a well-worn book.

It smelled… quiet.

Reminded him of early mornings in the House of Wind before anyone else was awake. Of sitting in the dim glow of faelight, tracing his fingers over old maps during times of peace, his shadows curled lazily at his feet. It smelled like the moments he let himself pause.

There hadn't been many of those recently.

“One of my favorites,” you said softly. “I call it Stillness.”

He swallowed, carefully put the lid back on, and met your eyes. "I can see why. I like it."

You smiled at him. It was a shy smile, much more reserved than your other reactions. "Yeah?"

Azriel nodded. Meant it, this time, as he said, "It's lovely."

For a moment, everything slowed as he held your gaze. 

His chest felt too tight, his shadows too still.  He cleared his throat.

His shadows jumped at the sound, gently scattering like birds startled from a perch. It made him feel better—that they, too, had been stuck in some strange, lingering moment. That it wasn’t just him.

"I'll take this one."

You led him to the counter, and he watched as you carefully wrapped the candle in brown paper. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a few coins, but before he could set them down, you shook your head.

“It’s on the house.”

He frowned. “No, that’s—”

“It’s on the house,” you repeated, "Consider it an apology gift, for not offering the proper warning regarding my more…unique scents."

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something conspiratorial, something soft. "I saw your face. I'm just happy I didn't have to clean vomit off my floor."

Azriel's ears burned. He was suddenly very grateful his hair had grown out some, that the longer strands covered the worst of it. He looked down, collected himself for a brief moment, and then met your eyes once more. 

“You’re welcome to come by anytime. I appreciate the company.” You slid the package toward him, gaze flicking to his shadows. Your lips twitched, just slightly, as you added, "In all the forms that they may come in." 

His shadows preened at the words, swirling a little closer to you, begging to brush against your wrist like a cat seeking affection.

He didn't know why that made his heart stutter. 

Maybe it was because most people ignored them. Or feared them. Or spoke about them in hushed tones, like they were something to be managed, tolerated.

You acknowledged them. Spoke to them like they were something welcome, something natural. And they responded to you, drawn in, pleased. As if they liked being seen by you. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

With a small nod, Az murmured, “Thank you.” 

And then he left.

When he got home, Azriel placed the candle on his bedside table.

He didn't light it. Couldn't bring himself to, for some strange, aching reason. He only lifted it to his nose, breathed in its scent, and let it settle into his lungs. 

For once, the weight in his chest felt manageable.

He thought about that first awful candle. Thought about the small smile you'd given him, how you'd let him flounder in his own forced politeness before revealing the joke.

In the quiet of his room, Az exhaled a quiet breath. Something close to a laugh. An almost-smile accompanied it.

He wondered if you could make candles that were even worse— if he could somehow commission a magical candle that smelled different to two halves of one whole. A sweet and sultry vanilla scent for Nesta that could bleed into rotten milk and dirty clothes whenever Cassian smelled it himself. 

That gave him another almost-smile.

He didn't sleep. He didn't expect to. But when he laid down, shadows stirring beside him, falling into their gentle rhythm of rest, he didn't feel so sad anymore.

Whatever this was, this quiet, weightless feeling—it was close enough to peace for now.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: new mini series that’s already planned out!!! yippe!!! something about this series makes my heart warm. trust me when i say they’re so so so sweet. what do yall think 🥹

creating a taglist for this series tonight, lmk if you’d like to be added <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[tarotsoulreads]

Hello✨

I just found your rec blog and I love it.

I'm writing some Cassian x reader series and oneshots, you can check them out here🩷

I hope you like some of them enough, so they make it into your rec list

💕love @illyriassweetheart (my Cassian blog)

Hi my love!

Yay! Thank you for sending in the self-rec! Very excited to take a look through, I’m yet to delve into the Cassian side of tumblr but I know I’m gonna find so many gems 💗