‘bread is bad for you’ ‘rice is bad for you’ sorry im not subscribing to the idea that staple grains that have been integral to cultures for centuries are evil. i love you carbs
Summary: Azriel comes home with a new kitten. The kitten is unimpressed with the Inner Circle to say the least (except for you of course).
A/N: inspired by this ask, and because I recently adopted my own little black kitten named Luna 🥹 took a break from writing angst for this little fic and now I have the urge to write more shenanigans with said cat hmmm
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Azriel tries to sneak the kitten in.
Which is impressive, considering he’s Azriel and could probably sneak an entire army into the River House if he felt like it—but apparently, the universe draws the line at one tiny ball of rage and fur.
He makes it as far as the sitting room.
The door opens. A gust of cold air. Shadows slip in first, then the long line of Azriel’s body in travel-worn leathers, hair rumpled, expression somewhere between murderous and I need a shower… and something meows in his cloak.
You’re curled on the sofa with Feyre, sharing a bottle of wine. Rhys is in an armchair with paperwork, pretending not to eavesdrop. Cassian is upside down on the other couch for some reason. Mor is leaning around the doorway like she’s waiting for a fight recap.
What you all get instead is a suspicious, muffled mrow.
Cassian squints. “Please tell me that’s not a severed head.”
Azriel’s jaw ticks. “Why,” he asks flatly, “would a severed head meow, Cassian?”
“Hybern had some weird shit,” Cassian says. “I’m just keeping an open mind.”
Another, more indignant mrrrp answers him from Azriel’s cloak.
Very carefully, Az shifts his grip and peels the leather back.
A tiny black kitten blinks up at you all, green eyes huge and furious in a smudge of a face. Its fur is bedraggled but soft-looking, ears too big for its skull. It clings to the front of his leathers with needle claws and glares at the world like it has personally offended her.
Cassian slides off the couch and hits the floor with a thud.
Mor’s glass stops halfway to her mouth.
“Oh,” Feyre breathes, hand flying to her chest.
You sit all the way up. “You didn’t.”
Azriel’s expression doesn’t change, but his shadows give him away, curling close around the creature as if to shield it from the room.
He stands very still, like a guilty child caught with contraband—except he’s six feet of lethal shadows. “She was alone,” he mutters. “Shipyard alley. No mother. No siblings. It was raining.”
Something in the way he says alone makes your chest ache.
Cassian stares. Then, wonderingly: “So the deadliest bastard in Prythian looked at a helpless scrap of fur and said, ‘Yes, that one is mine’?”
The kitten chooses that moment to climb higher, claws hooking into the neckline of his leathers. She scrabbles up to his shoulder and tucks herself half under his hair, purring so loudly it’s almost comical.
“Seems mutual,” Feyre murmurs, violet eyes bright with barely-contained delight.
Rhys has not taken his eyes off the cat. “Azriel,” he tries, voice pained, “we cannot keep a wild animal—”
The kitten turns her head toward Rhys and hisses—loud, offended, how dare you.
Mor slaps a hand over her mouth. Cassian wheezes on the rug. Rhys, the High Lord of Night, takes an involuntary step back.
“She… hissed at me,” he says, sounding personally wronged.
“She has excellent instincts,” Az says flatly.
The kitten hisses again for emphasis.
Mor loses the fight with herself and starts laughing.
Cassian pushes himself up on his elbows. “I can’t believe you stole a cat.”
Az shoots him a dark look. “I didn’t steal her. The sailors were trying to kick her off the dock.” His jaw flexes. “She bit one of them. I assisted.”
You can picture it perfectly: Azriel descending out of a storm, shadows curling, scaring half a crew into wetting themselves because they dared be mean to a palm-sized menace.
The kitten swivels toward Cassian as if sensing his skepticism and immediately bares all six teeth. A tiny, murderous hiss.
Cassian reaches out a broad hand. “C’mere, shadow rat, I won’t—”
The kitten swats him. One single, disdainful bap to his fingers, claws just sharp enough to sting.
Cassian yelps and jerks back. “She assaulted me.”
Mor is howling. “Az, she’s perfect for you.”
“Why does everything small and angry hate me?” Cassian demands.
“Because everything small and angry recognizes competition,” Mor offers sweetly.
Feyre edges a little closer, hands open, voice gentle. “Can I—?”
The kitten hisses. A tiny, offended puff of sound, then she dismisses Feyre entirely in favor of ramming her face into the angle of Azriel’s throat.
Feyre freezes. “Right. That’s fair.”
Az’s gloved fingers come up instinctively, cupping the kitten’s back, thumb smoothing over damp fur with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten. His voice shifts, almost imperceptibly.
“It’s all right, little one,” he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it. “You’re safe.”
Cassian’s mouth falls open. “Oh my gods,” he whispers to Rhys. “He has a voice for it.”
You’re safe, he tells a creature that could fit in his palm. Not a weapon, not a witness, not an informant—just… small. Needy. Unafraid of his scars.
Your heart hurts.
Az’s mouth twitches. Just a little. “She’s staying,” he says, quieter now, eyes flicking to you like you might be the deciding vote.
And there it is—that soft line in his face. The one you see at night when he thinks you’re asleep, thumb tracing circles on your back. The one almost no one else gets to see.
You stand, moving slowly, hands up. The kitten digs her claws in and presses herself under his jaw like he’s the only solid thing in existence.
“Understood,” you say gravely. “I, too, prefer him to everyone else.”
You reach up, carefully, letting your fingers brush Azriel’s wrist first, then the kitten’s side. Soft fur, tense muscle. “He looks scary,” you tell the cat, tone conspiratorial. “But he carries way too many bandages in his pockets to be truly terrifying.”
Az makes a protesting sound.
The kitten sniffs your fingers.
You hold still.
After a long, ridiculous moment, she leans forward and—very delicately—bonks her forehead into your knuckles.
Cassian points accusingly. “Okay, no. Absolutely not. I smiled at her and got hissed at. Rhys breathed and got hissed at. You walk up and it’s ‘yes, hello, new mother’?”
“Because Az loves her,” Mor sing-songs, elbowing him in the ribs. “Obviously the kitten can tell.”
The kitten gives a tiny, satisfied chirp. You very carefully scratch under her chin. Purring thunders out of that tiny body like a storm rolling in.
Azriel looks… ruined. Soft in the eyes, mouth almost gentle. He angles his head so his cheek brushes the kitten’s fur, shadows curling around them both like a second, living cloak.
Rhys stares at him, expression soft despite himself, like he’s watching some new constellation form.
Az clears his throat. “She was alone,” he says, mostly to you now. “Cold. There was… nothing left. I couldn’t leave her there.”
Your heart clenches. You stroke the kitten’s head again, fingers brushing his as you do. “Of course you couldn’t,” you say softly. “You never leave anyone in the dark.”
For a moment, it’s just the three of you—Azriel, you, and the tiny scrap of life tucked against his chest, shadows rustling like contented feathers.
Then Cassian ruins it.
“So,” he says, leaning in with a wicked grin, “is this like a test run? First a kitten, then a baby? Should we—”
A low growl rolls out of Azriel, quiet and very clear. In a heartbeat his whole demeanor shifts—back to icy, dangerous, the Night Court’s Spymaster.
“Finish that sentence, Cassian,” he says pleasantly, “and I will feed you to her.”
The kitten squeaks, as if in agreement.
Mor wheezes. Rhys actually chokes on his drink.
Az finally looks at you properly, and there, just there, is the grateful, disbelieving warmth you feel like a physical thing through your chest.
“You’re alright with her staying?” he asks quietly, the rest of the room blurring at the edges.
You glance at him, at the kitten, at the way his shadows have already made a cocoon around both of you.
“Az,” you say, “you brought home a terrified little creature who bites people twice her size and hisses at the High Lord.” You tip your head. “She fits right in.”
The kitten chooses that moment to stretch, crawl down his arm, and flop decisively into your hands, purring like an engine.
Rhys groans. Cassian clutches his heart. Mor makes an awww noise so high-pitched a glass almost cracks.
Azriel just watches—this male who has spent his life being the sharpest edge in every room—and for once, he doesn’t look like a blade at all.
He just looks… soft. A little stunned. Entirely gone over a handful of fur and the female who’s holding it.
“Traitor,” Cassian mutters at the kitten.
She lifts her head, stares him dead in the eye, and hisses.
You stroke her back soothingly. “Don’t worry,” you tell the cat. “We hiss at him too.”
—
Upstairs, in the quiet of your room, you shut the door behind you.
The kitten peeks out from Azriel’s leathers with wide, unblinking eyes, taking in the bed, the fireplace, the view of the Sidra. She makes a tiny, approving chirp and kneads at his chest.
Az looks down at her like she hung the stars.
“You’re really keeping her,” you say, even though you already know the answer.
He nods once, as if the decision was made the moment tiny, shaking claws dug into his ruined leathers. “I couldn’t just leave her,” he says again, softer. “Not when I… know what it is to be left.”
Something in you folds. You step close, tipping your forehead against his for a moment, his breath warm against your mouth.
“Good,” you whisper. “Then she’s home now.”
The kitten kneads once more at his chest, then carefully steps—tiny, precise paws—into your waiting hands.
She settles there, purring so hard you feel it in your bones.
Azriel watches you both, something raw and foolishly tender moving over his face. The cold, ruthless Shadowsinger, melting over a ball of black fur and the female he loves.
“She doesn’t hate me,” you say lightly. “That’s a good sign.”
Az’s mouth curves. He reaches out, brushing a knuckle along your jaw, the kitten purring between you like a smug little bridge.
“She’s picky,” he says. “If she decided you’re acceptable, it’s only because she’s paying attention.”
“To what?” you ask.
His eyes soften. “To the fact that I’m hers,” Azriel says simply, “and you are, too.”
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