This is where I reblog fics so that I can easily go back and re-read them. There's nsfw and sfw fics here.
우린 마치 영원할 사랑을 하는 것 같아 내 눈빛이 모든 걸 대신해 말해주고 있어 처음 만났던 그때 그대로 여전해 시간이 불어와 흩날려 진대도 내 마음은 이 계절의 향기를 남기고 있어 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘵
ⓘ minors and blank blogs dni ; i block freely and without warning. No ai. I am not responsible for your media consumption. Learn how to separate fiction from reality and know your triggers. Nobody is forcing you to read anything you don't like.
A reminder that not all Reader Self-Insert fics are for everyone. And that's okay.
While I believe that all Reader fics should be very ambiguous when it comes to the appearance of a character (unless tagged otherwise of course) things can get very tricky when it comes to things like character personality, choices, and back story.
Listen, unless you want to self-insert into the most bland character ever written who never makes a real decision or talks to anyone (because god forbid a self-insert character say something that you personally wouldn't say) you've just got to accept that not every Reader fic is going to be a perfect fit. There are going to be fics where the self-insert character has a different job from you or has a different family makeup from you (maybe they have sisters when you only have ever had brothers) or says or does something that you can't imagine yourself ever doing.
And you know what? That's okay. Not every fic is written for every person out there. Not every fic is going to perfectly adhere to your specific life choices, kinks, and personality traits. All you can do is acknowledge that maybe something wasn't written with you in mind and just hit that back button and find something that is.
Lord knows there's plenty of Reader fics out there. If one doesn't work for you a different one probably will.
content warnings: hangover (nausea, headache, difficulty remembering), unknowing consumption of a recreational drug (mirthroot, past), suggestive themes, language
word count: 9.1k
synopsis: Azriel was always meant to be yours.
trope: childhood friends to lovers
part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
Azriel was on the floor.
And he was shirtless.
And drooling.
The light beaming in through the window felt like an axe against your skull, the pain nearly cleaving you in two before you ducked your head under the pillows.
Pillows that were definitely not yours.
You flew up into a sitting position again, leaning over the bed to take in the male below.
Azriel was not wearing pants.
He was wearing underwear, thank the Mother, but it didn’t stop the panic that was rapidly climbing up your chest. Not when you were wearing only a too large shirt that smelled like him, and had nothing underneath.
At least Azriel was on the floor? But that almost made everything worse, because you had shared a bed more times than you could count. You had shared a bed last week. Why would he feel the need to sleep on the floor if—
A flare of pain in your head made you wince, your eyes snapping shut as you tried to take steadying breaths. This was the worst fucking hangover. Your mouth was dry and tasted foul, your hair was a wreck, your head was throbbing, and the light spilling into the room felt like staring into the sun.
You cracked your eyelids open slowly, forming small slits that were just enough to make out Azriel still sprawled on the floor, stomach down and wings splayed haphazardly, with just a single pillow for his head to rest on. Your gaze caught on a glass of water on the night stand, and your eyes widened as you grabbed it. You drank only half of it, your stomach revolting at the first large gulp, and the sudden wave of nausea had you taking deep breaths again.
You blindly reached to set the glass back on the nightstand, but in your lazy effort, you sat it on the edge, and it went clambering to the floor. Or—more specifically—on top of the male asleep on the floor. Thankfully, the glass didn’t shatter, but the water spilled all over Azriel’s face and pillow, causing him to bolt up right.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and confusion.
“I’m sorry!” you hurried out, your loud voices making you wince. “I’m so sorry,” you said again, voice softening.
Azriel blinked a few times, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face. His eyes fell to the glass on its side, the wet spot on his pillow—which, in your defense, was also drool—and then they snapped to you.
His eyes were a little bloodshot, and dark circles laid beneath his eyes. It was the most disheveled you had ever seen him outside of fighting in literal wars, and there was something so ironically wholesome about seeing this male hungover and dazed and confused in nothing but his underwear. It was a state you knew very few had ever been privy to seeing Az in, and that sparked a flare of fondness and irrational possessiveness in your chest.
His throat bobbed as he stared at you wide eyed for a few seconds, taking in your own horrendous state. You did not even want to know what the hell you looked like—hell, probably. You probably looked like hell.
His shoulders finally relaxed, and he groaned as he rubbed a hand over his face. “What time is it?” he asked.
You bit your lip, glancing at the window only briefly. “I don’t know,” you groaned, falling back into the pillows. This was fucking absurd. “Early? Late? It’s fucking bright out, I can tell you that.”
At that, Azriel pushed himself up off the floor, walking over to the window to snap the drapes shut, dimming the light in the room. Some of the tension instantly left your body. “Thank you,” you murmured.
Azriel only nodded, his movements almost stiff as he picked up the glass on the floor and disappeared into the bathroom. You closed your eyes, your hands coming up to cover your face as your mind spun to piece together the night before, fragments coming back to you in mortifying flashes. Something cool gently knocked against your arm, and you lowered your hands to peer at a fresh glass of water in Azriel’s hand.
He smiled slightly, but his own weariness was obvious. “Here,” he said, passing you the glass as you pushed yourself up to rest against the headboard. You took a few slow sips before he handed you another vial with a blue liquid that gave you nauseating déjà vu. “Drink this,” he instructed, then went back into the bathroom.
You eyed the vial suspiciously, listening to the water run in the bathroom as you took another sip from your glass. Fuck it. It could only help, surely. Even if it tasted gross.
You popped the vial open and tossed the liquid back, shivering at the bitter taste that coated your tongue. You took another swallow of water to wash it away, and you prayed you didn’t puke it back up as your stomach turned.
Azriel reappeared then, your eyes tracking him as he walked over to the other side of the bed, still in nothing but his underwear. Which made you feel absolutely nothing at all, of course.
He climbed onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard, but he was overly mindful of positioning his wings so that they didn’t bump yours. There was enough space between you that it felt like a chasm, and somehow you felt more separated from him now than when he was passed out on the floor. The air was thick with awkward tension.
You rested your head back on the headboard with a gentle thud. Eventually, you caved and said with a groan, “This is the worst hangover of my life.”
A beat of silence passed, then Azriel said quietly, “I didn’t realize you drank that much.”
“Me neither.” You closed your eyes, letting out a long sigh. “I should know better than to blindly follow Mor.”
More silence followed, and your chest felt a little tighter the longer it stretched, but you kept your eyes closed and focused on keeping your breathing steady.
“How much do you remember?” Azriel finally asks, his tone still soft, but he seemed almost worried.
You opened your eyes, then slowly turned your head to look at him. He was watching you with unfairly clear eyes, sitting up straight against the headboard while you were slowly slumping further down into the pillows again.
Your stomach twisted as you let the memories of last night wash over you. The way Azriel held your hand as he led you through Rita’s. The first shot that quickly blurred into innumerable empty glasses. The way his body felt pressed against yours. The way your hips moved with his. The way his lips were soft and demanding.
It was like squinting through fogged over glass, trying to piece together smudged details that made up sharp fragments.
“How much do you remember?” you ask instead of answering, your voice raspy with both dehydration and embarrassment.
“Everything,” he answered quietly.
Your face warmed. “I remember puking in the alley,” you admitted reluctantly, your arm coming up to cover your eyes. “And pieces leading up to it, but after that—” You shrugged, dropping your arm to meet his eyes warily. “I don’t really know.”
Which…was a problem, now that you really started to think about it. You were in Azriel’s bed, in Azriel’s shirt, and you had no recollection of how that came to be. You couldn’t even remember leaving that alley, let alone climbing into bed.
“After that,” Azriel said gently, “I took you home. You didn’t want to sleep in your room, so I brought you here.”
You nodded once, then glanced down at the black shirt draped across your frame. “And my dress?”
Azriel winced, and your face was growing even hotter in anticipation of the words that might come out of his mouth. “There was vomit on your dress,” he said. “I helped you change. Then you went to bed.”
Unease clawed at your throat as you struggled to remember and still came up blank. You swallowed hard, then took another sip of the water you still had clutched in your hand. You ran your thumb over the lip of the glass once you brought it back down to your lap. Your smile was small and self-deprecating as you asked, half-jokingly, “And my underwear?”
Azriel’s head snapped toward you. “You’re not wearing underwear?”
You blinked, his words dousing you in cold water. Did he not remember everything from last night after all? Your mind started spinning with every possibility, and your face was hot from the thoughts alone. “Gods—Azriel, did we—”
“No! No, I swear. I don’t know where your—” His voice abruptly cut off. His eyes were locked on the foot of the bed, where a scrap of cobalt blue lace was strewn haphazardly.
Everything around you slowed as you both stared at the offending fabric. You slowly sat your glass of water down on the night stand before frantically launching yourself across the bed to grab the lace. You fisted the fabric in your hand as you awkwardly climbed off the bed, staring at Azriel with wide eyes from where you now stood at the foot of his bed. You had half the mind to thank the Mother that he was so large that his shirt was longer than your dress, and you were saved from any further mortification this morning—even if it sounds like he may have seen more than enough from you last night.
You licked your lips, heart pounding as you glanced around his room for any of your belongings, finding none, and then nodded to yourself repeatedly. “I should go,” you rushed out, avoiding Azriel’s eyes as panic flushed away the nausea and headache. You stumbled though when you took the first step toward his door, blinking quickly before the stars faded from your vision.
You heard the bed creak behind you, and you quickly continued your escape as Azriel followed close behind. “Y/N,” he said, but your ears were ringing and your face was burning and you were so embarrassed. You wished the mountain would fissure beneath your feet and swallow you whole.
“Thank you for—” You gestured wildly with no direction, your back still facing Azriel as you reached for the door knob.
“Y/N—”
You flung the door open, and then stopped in your tracks. Azriel’s chest bumped into your back, and his hand landed on your hip to keep you from careening forward.
Cassian stood there in the hall with a bowl of fruit and wild hair, his eyes wide as he stared at the two of you. He blinked once, and then twice, the three of you frozen as Cassian took in the sight before him. His eyes fell to your hand, which was still clutching your lace underwear.
Azriel snatched them from your hand, tossing them out of sight somewhere in his room. You blinked, your already soul-consuming embarrassment reaching horrifying multitudes.
Cassian’s free-hand came up to rub at his eyes, as if the sight of you and Azriel gave him a headache—or maybe he was just hungover—probably both.
His hand fell to his side, and he squinted at the two of you. “I thought the mirthroot shots were making me hallucinate.”
Cassian’s words momentarily cut through your blinding mortification, and you and Azriel both said, “The what?”
Cassian blinked owlishly at the two of you. “The…mirthroot shots?” His gaze darted from you up to Azriel, then back to you. “Mor was giving them to everyone.”
You tilted your head back, only to bump into Azriel’s chest. “I’m going to murder her,” you mumbled. Then you winced when you remembered taking the shots from her, not caring in the slightest what it was before downing it. You were fairly certain you had even said as much.
Cassian looked sheepish. “I don’t think she knew they were mirthroot at first. Then it was too late.”
That explained your hangover from hell.
“So,” Cassian said slowly, and your head snapped back up to look at him. “Are you two—”
“No,” you rushed out at the same time Azriel growled, “Cassian.”
He raised his hand with a shameless smirk on his face. “I’m just asking—”
“I have to go,” you said quickly, stepping away from Azriel, the cool air in the hallway licking away the heat that his body had radiated onto your skin. You glanced once back at Azriel’s room, another piece of your dignity withering away as you decided to leave behind your underwear in the name of escaping to your room as quickly as possible.
Azriel could keep them.
Or burn them.
Ferry them away to some interspace dimension.
You didn’t care.
You flung the door to your room open, slamming the door shut with a thud that echoed through your too still room. There were still clothes strewn around haphazardly from your rush to get ready the night before, and your training leathers laid in a pile by the bathroom. You sank down against the door, your head resting against the heavy wood once you were seated on the floor. Your hands came up to cover your face, and you begged the Mother to put you out of your misery.
~ ~ ~
“You’re up late.”
Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes snapped up to the male in the doorway. You smiled sheepishly as he walked closer, sitting next to you on the sofa. He was in his leathers, and his eyes were tired as he looked at the fire, the flames flickering in his irises.
You laid your book down in your lap, the pages splayed outward. “Are you okay?” you asked.
His throat bobbed, and it took him a few seconds before he turned to look at you. His smile was small, but it seemed genuine. “I’m just tired,” he said. He leaned back on the couch, his wings brushing against yours as they draped over the back. He glanced at you, and you smiled back, intentionally stretching your wing to brush against his again.
Your face was warm, and you weren’t sure it was from the fire. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Azriel sighed. “Now that Rhys is High Lord,” he said, “there is just so much that needs done.” He paused, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “Before, it was not my choice to serve the High Lord.”
You winced, looking down at your lap.
“Hey,” he said, his hand squeezing your wrist. “That is not your fault.”
“You sacrificed your freedom for me, Azriel,” you argued.
“And I would do it again,” he swore. He tugged at your wrist, and you forced your gaze to meet his again. “It was worth it, Y/N. I would have ended up serving on his court one way or another, at least I got to protect you by doing it.”
You nodded, and Azriel relaxed against the couch again. His hand slid down to hold yours, his fingers lazily playing with your own. You weren’t sure if he was even aware that he was doing it. “It’s different now, with Rhys. I chose to serve him. I want to. I’m loyal to him. I believe in him, and I trust his heart. He has plans for this court, and I want to help him bring them to fruition. It’s just…” He bit his lip, as if searching for the right words.
“A lot of pressure?” you asked.
He nodded. “A lot of pressure.”
You leaned against his shoulder, squeezing his hand. “I think that’s good,” you said softly.
Azriel hummed. “What do you mean?”
You shrugged. “It means you care,” you said. “You want to help people, Az. I think it would be bad if you just didn’t care at all.”
Azriel leaned his head against yours. Eventually he said, “Enough about me.” He sat up, and his gaze zeroed in on the book still in your lap. “Tell me about your book.”
Heat flooded your face, and you sat up straight. “Oh,” you laughed nervously. “No—it’s not—it’s pretty boring.”
Azriel frowned. “Tell me why it’s boring then.”
“I don’t—”
“At least let me look at it,” he said at the same time, plucking the book from your lap before you could even register what he was doing.
Your book that was still open to where you had been reading when he walked in. Azriel’s eyes danced as he read over the page, his lips slowly stretching into a smirk.
Mother help you.
“This is boring?” he asked, the taunt clear in his voice. As if the grin on his face wasn’t enough.
You yanked the book from his hands, snapping it shut. “Shut up, Az.”
“I had no idea this is what you read when you holed yourself away up here,” he teased.
You knew he was not being cruel, but embarrassment still made your stomach twist. You shrugged, your thumb running over the corner of the cover.
“Hey,” he said gently, and you forced yourself to meet his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged, your smile thin as you said, “I like it.” Then, maybe a bit foolishly, you added, “It’s safer…than the real thing.”
Azriel went still beside you. “What do you mean?” His voice was tight.
You had to force your mortification down deep to answer him, “I’ve only kissed a few males, and—” you forced out a laugh. “And it was kind of terrible.”
“All of them?”
You nodded. “All of them.” You shrugged, looking at the fire to avoid his eyes. “I don’t know. They were all drunken males at Rita’s, which is probably not the ideal place to meet a male. But I also think it might be me?” Your voice was small with your admission, and you hated the words that were tumbling out of your mouth, unsure why you couldn’t stop them or how your night had suddenly led you here. “I tense up, because I know I don’t want it to go any further. I just—I can’t. I can’t, not with my wings. I don’t—”
You forced yourself to take a breath, forced yourself to recenter in the moment, here, with Azriel. You dragged your gaze back to his, his eyes soft and patient as they watched you diligently. There was not an ounce of judgment in his gaze, and it made your shoulders relax slightly.
“You’ve…been with females. Right?” you asked shyly.
Azriel blinked. “Um,” he choked out, and it was nice to see a tint of red across his cheeks. It made you feel slightly less vulnerable. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”
“Did they touch your wings?”
Azriel’s face twisted briefly, then it quickly softened. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the name made you feel warm all over. “No one should touch your wings without permission.”
“I know that, Azriel,” you grumbled. “That doesn’t mean they won’t.”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said quietly, “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I hate it, though!” you exclaimed, the book finally sliding off your lap. “I just—I just want to—” Your words died in your throat as your gaze snagged on Azriel’s lips. Your heart pounded against your ribcage, and you were speaking again before you really thought. “Will you kiss me?”
“What?” Azriel choked out, his eyes bewildered.
It was possibly the most insane idea you had ever had, but you wanted to kiss a male and not feel like vomiting immediately after, damn it. Azriel was perfect. In more ways than one. You trusted him. He was, objectively, beautiful. He didn’t smell like a bar—he smelled like cedar and fresh snow, actually. He—he was perfect.
“Kiss me,” you said again. You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “Please.”
His lips parted. “Y/N,” he started to say, but you cut him off.
“Azriel,” you nearly pleaded. Nearly. You had enough pride not to beg him for a damned kiss. But you were not above persuasion. “I am nearly a century old, and I just want to know what it is like to enjoy a kiss without working my way through every washed up drunk at Rita’s—”
His hands were on your face as your words died in your throat, and in the next second his lips were pressed to yours. You froze, but just for a second, and Azriel was not deterred. His lips melded with yours gently, coaxing you to slowly start kissing him back.
Time seemed to stop around you. Everything slowed as Azriel kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you. His lips were soft, and he tasted like rose tea, and you could devour him, right there on that very couch in the middle of Rhys’s personal library. Your entire body was electrified, every nerve ending came to life as you kissed your best friend.
He started to pull back, but you chased after him, your hands coming up to his neck to guide him back to you. He came easily, his own hands cupping your jaw and tangling in your hair. There was a fire burning in the center of your chest, and it felt like Azriel’s soul was living and breathing inside of you as his lips found yours over and over.
He moaned softly into your mouth, and suddenly the world tilted, and you remembered exactly where you were and who you were with. You pulled back, and Azriel separated from you, his hands slowly falling away as you pushed him back.
You swallowed hard, licking your lips once before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Mother above.
You jumped to your feet with fragile composure, your book falling to the floor with a loud thud. Your heart was beating frantically, your pulse pounding in your ears, and your body was hot all over. Azriel was watching you with wide eyes, still sitting on the couch. “That was, um,” you said breathlessly, looking all around until your gaze finally fell back on him. “That was good.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “Good,” he said, not really a question.
You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding. “Thank you.”
Azriel smiled. “Happy to help.”
“Right,” you whispered, trapped in a daze. You had just kissed your best friend. A lot. And you loved it. “Goodnight,” you rushed out, then made a beeline for the door.
You hurried down the halls, your mind racing as you neared your bedroom, as you opened your door and shut yourself safe inside. Your back fell against the door, your head thumping against the wood as a smile blossomed across your face and a laugh bubbled out of you.
That was better than any damned book.
~ ~ ~
“You have been an incredibly difficult female to find.”
You flinched at the voice behind you, your elbow banging into the wooden desk. You turned to meet Rhysand’s eyes, a smirk teasing his lips. You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He waved you off, walking closer to lean against the desk, making a show of taking in the dimly lit room of the library. You were deep beneath the main floor, layers of stone between you and everyone else in the world. The books and hushed steps of priestesses had been your sole company for days.
“You would think you were my scholar instead of my spy,” Rhys teased, but you heard the question in his voice.
You swallowed, aimlessly shuffling together some of the papers scattered in front of you. “Would that be a problem?” you asked quietly, avoiding Rhys’s gaze. “If I wanted to be, I mean?”
“Of course not,” Rhys said. He laid his palm down on the papers you were shuffling, your gaze reluctantly dragging up to meet his. His eyebrows raised slightly. “I didn’t realize you were unhappy with your position.”
“I’m not,” you assured him. “I’m just…”
“Not happy?”
You frowned. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
Rhys shrugged, pulling his hand back. “You tell me.”
You bit your bottom lip, looking at all the books and papers scattered around you. You had lost yourself to these walls, these words, for the last few days, and it was the most at peace you had felt in…a really long time. “Maybe,” you whispered. “I just miss it, sometimes. Your mother—” You hesitated, and you hated that the words got caught in your throat.
Rhys hummed in understanding. “My mother was many things,” he said quietly. “Beautifully cunning, was one of them.”
You smiled softly. “She gave me purpose when she brought me here. When she asked me to research childbirth and potions and medicine. When she asked me to help Madja.” You sighed, leaning back in your chair to look up at Rhys. “It’s just a different feeling than being a spy.”
It was all true. You missed the feeling of pages between your fingers and stringing sentences across books together to make a new—to make a discovery that would help others. Knowledge was, at its core, power. It was intoxicating when you first came to Velaris. You had never known such power existed, let alone one that could be at your very fingertips.
“And this has nothing to do with Azriel?”
Your breath hitched.
There was also that small fact that danced in the back of your mind. If you became a scholar again, you would no longer have to answer to Azriel. You had done well at avoiding him when you wanted these past few months, but resigning as a spy—well, that would make it all the more easier.
“That’s insulting,” you said instead.
Rhys held no remorse. “It’s a fair question.”
You rolled your eyes, feigning nonchalance and steeling your mental barriers as Rhys brushed against your mind. You scowled at him, and he only smirked.
“A kiss from a male is not going to decide my future career choices,” you growled.
Rhys' eyes lit up. “A kiss?” he laughed. “Well I wasn’t going to mention it—”
You groaned. “Enough, Rhysand.”
His eyes still danced with mirth, the faelights flickering in his violet irises. He seemed to debate his next words, and your shoulders sank with relief when he asked, “What have you been doing down here?” He picked up one of your notebooks—your personal notebook you realized with horror. “Mating bonds and desire,” he read aloud. “Matings bonds instill intrinsic—”
You snatched the notebook from his hands, your face hot. “Give me that.” You tossed it on the ground beside you. “That’s not what I’m researching.”
His brows raised. “No?” he asked, picking up the book that had The History of Mating Bonds embossed across the front.
“Not for you,” you countered, also taking the book from him.
Rhys pursed his lips, clearly not done tormenting you. “I was glad to see that you and Azriel had made up,” he mused. “Or should I say made out?”
“Rhys,” you pleaded.
“Now he’s back to moping around Velaris because you’ve holed yourself up down here. Researching mating bonds, apparently?”
“I told you that’s not all,” you grumbled, reaching for the much larger stack of papers and books across the desk. You slid them in front of Rhys pointedly.
He furrowed his brow. “The intricacies of mind compulsion?” He read the title of the first book aloud, then looked at your notes. His mouth turned into a frown, and your heart started to beat harder. “Potential targets of Koschei…Illyrians?”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze, nodding slowly.
“You think Koschei is controlling Illyrians?”
Not really, no. But wouldn’t it be nice if every terrible thing that had happened to you and so many others could be blamed on one entity? That the suffering you endured could be explained?
“Y/N,” Rhys said gently. “Sometimes evil is just evil.”
“I know,” you whispered.
Rhys squeezed your shoulder, a beat of silence passing between you before he said, “I wanted to tell you, I removed Freya’s husband from Windhaven.”
Your head snapped toward him. “What? Where is he?”
“Rotting in a cell in Hewn City.” He shrugged. “I haven’t had much time to go rifling through his mind, and I probably shouldn’t kill the male without proof of his crimes.” He grinned at you, his eyes glinting. “Though I can always expedite my investigation—”
“No,” you said. “Let him suffer.”
“As you wish,” Rhys said. “Speaking of Illyrians and Koschei, though,” he added slowly, “I have a mission for you. That is, if you don’t mind postponing the career change.”
You straightened. “Of course.”
Rhys picked up the sheet of paper with your notes detailing every link you could conceptualize between Illyria and Koschei, reading it with a worried frown on his face. “You’re not wrong that certain factions in Illyria would be vulnerable to Koschei’s…overzealous promises. Or would simply jump at the chance to see my head on a platter.”
Your stomach turned, knowing you had thought the same thing.
Rhys glanced at you, then laid the paper back down. “Koschei undoubtedly knows this. He’s already sent whispers into Kier’s court.”
“Kier?”
“Unfortunately,” Rhys grumbled. “Amren has done what she can to protect his mind from Koschei’s compulsion, but—”
“There’s only so much we know about him,” you finished softly.
“Precisely.” Rhys picked at a piece of lint on his arm, then folded them across his chest. “It presents us with an opportunity for a cover though. Azriel has not been able to infiltrate Koschei’s home nor the Mortal Queens’ castle. He’s managed to glean very little about how far Koschei’s influence reaches.”
“He’s mentioned that,” you said quietly.
“The queens are throwing a ball in two days.”
You scrunched your face up. “A ball?”
“Yes.” Rhys smirked. “And you will be attending—on behalf of the Court of Nightmares.”
“Me?” you asked. “How progressive of Keir to send a female liaison.”
Rhysand winced. “Well, not exactly.”
“Rhys.”
“Azriel will be going as the liaison,” he said, looking only slightly guilty. Your heart beat sped up. “You will be going as his wife.”
~ ~ ~
“Will it be weird?” you asked, fastening the last of your belts around your waist.
“What?” Azriel asked, absently cleaning his dagger. Truth-Teller, he called it. You had no idea where he got the obsidian blade, but he treated it like his first-born.
“Going on a mission together.”
Azriel frowned, sheathing Truth-Teller at his side. “Why would it be weird?”
You shrugged, nerves making you shaky as you stood in front of him, and your shakiness only made you more nervous. You felt like a fraud, wrapped in leather and strapped with weapons—like a child pretending they were a warrior. The sheath around your thigh slid down, hitting the floor with a clang that made you flinch.
Azriel kneeled on the ground to pick it up before you could, his fingers deftly undoing the buckle. His legs wrapped around your calf to guide your leg up, settling your boot-clad foot on his thigh. Your breath hitched when his fingers grazed your thigh, wrapping the leather sheath around you and securing it tight.
Then he lifted another thin strap of leather attached to the sheath, smiling softly as he weaved it under your belt. “You forgot to fasten this one,” he murmured quietly.
Your face was warm when his fingers fell away and you brought your foot back to the ground. “Thanks,” you whispered.
Azriel stood up, analyzing the rest of your gear with critical focus.
You bit your lip, anxiety still pushing up far too many inconsequential worries in the face of your first mission from Rhys. “Is it uncomfortable for you, being in charge of me?”
Azriel’s eyes snapped to yours. “No,” he said. “Is it for you?”
You automatically shook your head, then thought better of lying at a time like this, and slowly started to nod. Azriel frowned, and you hurried to explain, “I just—I’m scared of disappointing you.”
Azriel’s entire face went soft, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light of your room. “You could never disappoint me,” he said softly.
You shook your head. “You can’t say that.”
“It’s true,” he argued. “Y/N.” He took your face in his hands, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You could tell me right now that you aren’t ready, and you are not doing this mission, and I would be proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
You started to shake your head again, trying to close your eyes, but Azriel’s grip tightened. “You could go on this mission and decide to turn back at any point, and I would be proud of you for trying. Or we can go on this mission and get what we need, and I’ll be proud of you for doing it.”
Your eyes were burning as you stared at him, your entire body warming from the inside out as he brushed a gentle thumb over your cheek. “Do you want to go on this mission?”
You nodded. “I’m just scared.”
“That’s okay,” he assured. “I would be worried if you weren’t.”
You smiled slightly.
“Rhys trusts you. I trust you. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think you were ready.”
His words were meant to be soothing, but they only twisted your spiral tighter. “Rhys is an untried High Lord now,” you laughed drily. “His faith in me is all the more pressure not to royally fuck this up for him.”
Azriel’s hands dragged down your arms. “It’s going to be fine,” he soothed. “It’s just the Spring Court, anyway,” he grumbled. “Our relationship with them is already shit, and Tamlin is an untried High Lord too. If we get caught,” he shrugs, “oh well.”
You knew it was definitely not as simple as “oh well” if you got caught. Rhys needed these roses. He needed their magic to rebuild and revitalize Velaris. It was also just roses though, which you knew was Azriel’s point.
You nodded, letting out a deep breath.
“Okay?” Azriel asked.
You nodded again, then yanked Azriel down into a hug, your arms circling around his waist. His body curled around yours, his cheek pressing against yours as you held him close.
“It will be okay,” he murmured. “You’re not doing this alone. If anything happens, you’ll have me.”
You nodded your head against his chest, still not letting go as your breathing slowly calmed. You inhaled his scent and listened to his heart beat, and you thought for a moment that your hearts began to beat in tandem.
Azriel squeezed you tighter.
“You will always have me.”
~ ~ ~
Azriel was freaking out.
He had dealt with more nerves in these last few months than he had in all his centuries of life, and he was tired. He knew it was a mess of his own making, really, which made it worse. He felt like he was grasping at cobwebs every time he moved to try and fix this mess he had made after too many fucking drinks at Rita’s. Twice. With every step he made, the ground seemed to just crumble beneath him, and he was terrified that this might be the last chance he had to salvage whatever you were still willing to give him.
He wasn’t sure if he loved or hated Rhys for forcing the two of you on this mission. Maybe both. You had been hiding from him for days, again, and he couldn’t blame you. He never should have kissed you, let alone allowed it to escalate as it did, and every time his mind wandered to how the night might have progressed differently if you had not fallen ill so quickly, his stomach revolted with guilt.
He was drunk. He was—he knew he was—but he was sober enough to take care of you. That was his responsibility. He had promised you. He owed you, after all. It was his fault that he had taken one too many shots blindly from Cassian after relentless begging, and it was his fault he didn’t bother questioning Cassian when he slurred some nonsense about “flying without flying” as he passed him a brightly colored liquid that smelled and tasted overly medicinal.
He should have realized it was the same shot Mor had grown infatuated with throughout the night, and that you had taken with her in solidarity—and with maybe a little desperation, if he was honest with himself. He didn’t know exactly what was bothering with you, but he knew it had to be something he said that night at Rita’s, and fuck knows what else since then. The dinner with Soleil had been particularly terrible, but that was only one night.
He was fairly certain you were unaware of the bond. It was strange, every time he reached for the living, glowing tendril in his chest. He could trace it all the way to you, and it felt alive and intimate in a way he never knew existed, but it was dark. Quiet. Like it was asleep, and he never let himself reach close enough to risk tearing you from that peaceful slumber.
He wanted you more than anything. He had been in love with you since he was a boy, if he was entirely honest with himself, but he didn’t really understand what love was for a very long time. He didn’t know how to recognize it, how to differentiate it from the familial love he had felt toward his brothers. He just knew he would die for you, live for you, do anything for you—and maybe he was a bit foolish, for taking so long to realize.
Then after centuries, in the midst of a war tattered campground, as you yelled at him for being a godsdamned martyr while mending a tear in his wings, he felt the world tilt around him. He thought he was dying at first, when he felt that first tug against his ribcage and the air was yanked from his lungs. Then he sucked in a fresh breath, and grasped at the living thing pulsing inside him, and he followed it directly to you, kneeling before him. You had dirt and blood dried on your face, your leathers were torn, and he loved you—and you were his mate.
It took everything in him to control his face and shadows. He could hardly process that what he had longed for had just been so unceremoniously unveiled in the midst of chaos and carnage, and he knew that the last thing you needed to worry about was a mating bond.
He told Rhys and Cassian not long after, and it was not intentional, but he felt like he was dying hiding this blessing from everyone. He hated feeling like he was hiding you. He almost confessed everything, almost bared his entire soul to his brothers in a too small tent surrounded by exhausted warriors and friends and family after fighting for everything and claiming victory, but he thought better of it, and no one ever brought it up again.
Not until he apparently told you like a drunken fool on the streets of Velaris a year later.
He was just glad he didn’t say it was you. That you were his mate he adored and would eternally serve and pine for from afar if he must.
You had spent your life fighting for a future, for autonomy, and he could not steal that from you in the name of taking something he wanted. You had never spoken of mates. You had never seemed keen on finding a partner or spouse or having children. You always diverted any conversations Azriel had subtly prompted in the past, and he was never one to push you more than you wanted.
He could not—would not—force a mating bond on you. He would rather die.
He still selfishly hoped it would snap for you one day. He could not control fate, after all, and if it did—well, then it would be your choice what to do with it. It wouldn’t be something that he was forcing you to confront.
He could love you from afar. He could love you as a friend. He could love you however you needed him to. He did.
He also thought you might love him, and that was terrifying. He didn’t know how to navigate that possibility. Sometimes, he let himself think that maybe you were jealous of some amorphous mate he had drunkenly poured his heart out for, and maybe that was one of the roots of your shifting demeanor with him. It felt too foolish, though, too egotistical to consider for long. He had known you for centuries and had never seen you envy anyone.
However, he could not deny the signs that you felt something toward him. You had kissed him, even if you were drunk, and he was certain that you would have kissed him that night in Illyria if he had not pulled away. It was confusing, trying to decide the best way to handle such a delicate situation, and every move he made seemed to create a new fracture.
If you loved him, you could choose him for yourself, without the pressure of a mating bond.
But he also knew that you would never let yourself encroach on another person’s happiness, on his happiness, which meant you would protect Azriel’s mating bond with you from yourself if you thought it was with another.
It was a mindfuck.
“Azriel.”
Azriel spun around, his shadows darting behind his wings as he met your glare with wide eyes. You were standing across from him in this too small inn room with your hands clutching your dress to your chest. Waves of onyx fabric fell from your hips, shimmering in the faelights as you stepped closer.
Azriel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and face warm. “Sorry,” he said, and he hoped he sounded somewhat composed. “What did you say?”
Your lips pursed and your brow crinkled in frustration. He had no idea how long he had been lost in his thoughts, staring at a wall to give you privacy while you dressed.
“I need your help with this dress,” you huffed, and turned around to show him your open back.
It was a corset back, and if you let go of your bodice he was certain the entire dress would fall in a heap at your feet. He could see the hint of black lace lining your lower back, and his pulse thumped loudly in his ears as he stepped closer, allowing himself only another second to drink in the expanse of your bare.
He picked up the silken laces from the bed, his fingers grazing your skin as he threaded the first row and then pulled it taut. Your wings flared outward, and you reached for the desk crammed against the wall to hold yourself steady.
Azriel’s gaze lingered on your wings, then he frowned at the laces in his hands. The top of the dress was maybe a finger’s width away from the base of your wings. “Will this irritate your wings?” he asked.
You shifted impatiently, and he could practically hear you roll your eyes as you said, “According to Mor, no.”
Azriel’s frown deepened. He continued lacing the corset, but said quietly, “Mor does not have wings.”
“Trust me,” you gritted out when he tugged at the dress. “I know.”
“Do you want to wear something else?”
“Of course I do,” you huffed, still leaning over the desk. “But this is what Rhys gave me, and I have a part to play.” You waved at him flippantly, urging him to continue. “I’m meant to be your pretty plaything from the Court of Nightmares.”
Azriel couldn’t help the harsher tug on your laces, a startled oof falling from your lips. “You’re my wife,” he corrected quietly.
You were quiet at that, letting the soft slide of silk laces occupy the room.
If one of his shadows fell away from his grasp to slither down your arm, he didn’t stop them.
Eventually he pulled the final row tight, securing the corset with a bow. He should have stepped away then. He should have given you your space, but instead his hands grabbed you by your waist, and turned you around slowly to face him. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as your eyes met his, and your irises were stunning against the smoky background Mor had crafted before you left—even if you would be unrecognizable to anyone else beneath the glamour.
“You are divine,” he told you, and the words felt like a hymn upon his lips. He forced the rest of the praises down deep into his soul, letting them coast along the bond in glimmering glyphs instead of speaking them aloud.
Your breath hitched.
You took a small step back, looking down at your dress as you smoothed over the fabric with your hands. “This dress is a monstrosity,” you argued, though the words lacked conviction. “And entirely impractical.”
Azriel shook his head, stepping forward to reclaim the space between you. He was a foolish, foolish male. He would do everything in his power to kindle this flame that glowed between you. How could he not? There was never really another option, as much as he might try to delude himself.
“I was not talking about the dress,” he told you quietly, warmth flooding his body as you looked up at him with wide and blinking eyes.
Your throat bobbed as you licked your lips, and Azriel could not help the flare of desire that sparked in his chest. You were ethereal, and powerful, and you were about to walk inside a ballroom full of fools and run circles around them. He loved every fiber of your being.
He reached for your hand, your skin soft against his scars. He lifted it slowly to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he left a lingering kiss against your skin. You blinked, and he gently lowered your hand back down, but he didn’t let go. “Let’s go make some friends, wife.”
~ ~ ~
The ball was more akin to a menagerie.
Azriel did not let his hand leave your waist as the two of you weaved through a sea of bodies, an eclectic and seemingly chaotic collection of faeries littering the ballroom floor. There were humans sprinkled throughout too, and Azriel’s chest tightened at the emptiness behind their gazes. The music that filled the room seemed slow and upbeat all at once, a tempo that left his heart beating fast in his chest.
He did not like this at all.
His hand tightened on your waist, and his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned down to say, “Do not leave my side.”
Of course, you glared at him. “I can take care of myself.”
Azriel spun you so you were chest to chest, both of his hands now on your waist as your hands pressed against his chest. He swayed the two of you to the slightly off-beat music that made his skin crawl. His cheek brushed against yours as he leaned down again to speak to you quietly. “For all intents and purposes tonight, you are my wife.” He felt your breath fan out in a warm buff against his neck, and he brought one of his hands up to lace his fingers with yours, the two of you dancing slowly amongst the crowd. “Assume we are being watched.”
You nodded slightly, acquiescing as you leaned into him. “Why do I feel more like an exhibit than a guest?” you murmured.
And that was exactly how Azriel would describe it. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if there were eyes on him from every direction, but his shadows had scattered to every corner of the room, and there was no one watching the two of you. No one that could be seen.
“There’s too many people here,” he said, eyes scouring the crowded floor. “And none of them seem particularly…noble.” It was not an insult, but no one here was dressed in finery that would be expected at a royal ball. He almost felt like the two of you were overdressed.
There were as many lesser fae as there were high fae, and that made him nervous—for them. He could not imagine that the Mortal Queens had decided to provide charity to the oppressed fae of Pyrthian, and if Koschei had any involvement in this gathering, he hated to think about why these people were gathered here. He also could not ignore that, technically, the two of you were lesser fae as well.
Kier had said the invitation was for his court nobles, who would have been High Fae, but Azriel trusted Kier as far as he could throw him, even with Rhys rifling through his mind.
“Do you think it’s a trap?” you murmured quietly in his ear.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, and he hated feeling unsteady. He hated how little information he had been able to collect from Koschei and the Mortal Queens, and how difficult it had been to glean any information from the shadows of the Continent. “No one knows who we are,” he said. “But this is not the crowd I anticipated.”
You went stiff in his arms. He ducked his head to meet your gaze, but your eyes remained glued over his shoulder. He squeezed your waist, pulling your gaze to him. “There are two Illyrians here,” you said quietly.
Azriel blinked. His grip tightened on your hand, and he imperceptibly shifted you closer to his body. “We anticipated this,” he murmured. It didn’t stop the rage from coursing through his veins.
It also meant that Koschei was almost definitely acting as a puppeteer for the Mortal Queens, either knowingly or unknowingly to them. That was expected, though, and that wasn’t why you and him were there. You were there to collect information, to find out who else might be involved. He had anticipated nobility from across courts, though, not a consortium of lesser fae.
“Az,” you said quietly, and he almost reminded you not to say his name, but then you shifted the two of you just enough so that he could see the Illyrians. He recognized them. They were from Windhaven. He was fairly certain one was a male you had spat at just weeks ago.
“They won’t recognize us,” he assured, though even he did not really believe his words. He could still see the sheen of the glamour Rhys had cast around your face, and he could feel the warmth of his on his skin, but it did nothing to hide the fact that you were Illyrians, and if they got close enough, they could recognize your scents. You had likely made an impression.
You bit your lip, your eyes shifting around the ballroom, but your gaze always lingered on them. “Look who they are speaking with.”
Azriel glanced again, careful not to stare. He sucked in a breath as a faerie moved to reveal the High Fae the Illyrians were standing next to. “Autumn Court soldiers.”
“And nobility,” you added. “That’s the first noble I’ve seen.”
“They could be under a thrall,” he said.
You shook your head, forcing your gaze away from the males. Your eyes were sharp when they met his gaze. “No,” you said. “They’re perfectly lucid.” A human bumped into you from behind, sending you careening into Azriel. He steadied you easily, even as you glared at the woman that stumbled away without an apology. “I’m not sure the same can be said of the humans,” you grumbled.
“They might be drunk on faerie wine.”
Your nose scrunched up in distaste. “These Mortal Queens are fools.”
“They could also be in a thrall,” he argued half-heartedly.
“Briallyn wasn’t.”
“No,” he agreed quietly.
“We need to split up,” you said.
Azriel did not agree. His grip on your waist tightened, and you cast a withering glare toward him. “No,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed, and you leaned in close. You hand trailed from his chest to the back of his neck, your nails grazing his hair at the nape of his neck. Your lips brushed the column of his throat as you murmured back, “Yes.”
He knew you were playing into your role. He knew the two of you very well could not argue in the middle of the ballroom, no matter how crowded. He knew you likely felt the same invisible eyes on your back that he did. It did not stop the rush of desire that ran through his veins or the goosebumps that pebbled his skin.
He swallowed hard. Then he tilted his head so his lips grazed your ear. “I do not think that is wise.”
“We are not doing this again,” you argued, your tone a touch harsher. “I can take care of myself, Azriel.” His jaw clenched, and he knew you were right. He hated himself for letting his own selfish fears dictate his decisions, and for trying to dictate yours.
Your eyes were soft when you pulled back to look at him, though. “There are too many people here for us to just stand here and dance in the middle of the floor.”
He was grateful in that moment that Rhys’s glamour did not hide you from him. You were stunning. Beautifully sharp in all the right places, power coursing through your veins and conviction shining in your eyes. You were more than capable. He had never doubted that. He just felt like he was dying every time you were in danger, and he could not fathom what it might feel like if something happened to you.
“Okay,” he whispered. He hated the ripple of shock on your face, but he loved the small smirk that graced your lips.
Azriel could not help himself.
He leaned down, his lips a hairs breadth away from yours as he paused for just a second, then he pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. Your breath hitched as he pulled back, but he didn’t let either of your wallow in your complicated emotions. “Don’t wander far, wife,” he said, voice cool and detached, loud enough for those around you to hear.
Your eyes narrowed, but you bowed your head slightly, stepping away from Azriel. He forced himself to drop your hand, and he watched you until you disappeared in the throng of faeries.
synopsis: When one of your packmates goes down for a count, you step up to help out. Adrian has...a big problem with that.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics, alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, I am so sorry y'all, #angst, the children are fighting, overprotective!Adrian
word count: 5.7k
notes: Thank you as always to @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for the beta. dont hate me <3
Masterlist | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve
Normally, Adrian is the antsy one. The one who can barely sit still, the one who worries endlessly over you and your safety. But watching everyone else get sent out into the field…
It’s eating you alive.
You’re not an idiot. You know that you’re still doing important work back at the office. You also know that your Alpha, no matter how much you love him, is selfishly grateful that you are staying out of the line of fire.
You aren’t the only one. John stays at the office, holed up in his cubicle on his computer all day, still trying to debug some corrupt files from Dev’s laptop, hacking into his personal accounts to see what other information he might be able to find to help the team. You could help at first, with the simple things, but now he’s trying much more complex computer bullshit that flies right over your head, and you could tell your presence was slowing him down more than helping, so you just give him space now.
Ads keeps busy, too. It seems like she’s constantly on the phone. She’s a people person, great at making connections and building relationships that will benefit the future of Checkmate for years to come. Good at making small talk in a way that you never have been. You’d been able to reach out to a few people you knew from past jobs years ago, but—it wasn’t exactly working out. You’d realized it less than a week into the project. Society has come a long way, but Omegas still struggle to be respected even in normal job fields. With something as dangerous as your black ops, potential Checkmate business partners aren’t so reassured when an Omega is their initial contact.
Which leaves you doing basic intern bullshit, like refilling the snack cabinet and going on coffee runs and making sure the office is clean and comfortable for everyone as they file in and out in this cycle that feels like it will never end.
It has given you a chance to spend more time in the training room. You’re determinedly practicing everything Emilia has taught you every day, and even when she comes back from a mission exhausted, she will always spend a few hours with you sparring to keep you in good field shape. Not that you’re using any of the skills in practice, right now. Still, it’s nice to be prepared.
You’re in the training room on your own, beating the shit out of a punching bag, when you’re interrupted by your phone ringing. You pause, wipe the sweat from your forehead, and answer a little breathlessly.
“Hey, Em.”
“I’m twenty minutes out from the office,” she says, and a chill runs down your spine at the tone of her voice. “Fleury took a bullet to the leg. I packed it as best as I could, but you—”
“Fuck,” you say. “Fuck, I’ll prep the med room. Is he conscious?”
“Unfortunately,” you hear Fleury say weakly.
“Still well enough to be sarcastic with me,” you tease. John and Ads look up, alarmed, as you rush through the office toward the infirmary. You shout an explanation over your shoulder. “Fleury got shot.”
“Ah, shit,” John says, scrambling up from his desk and heading to the front door. “I’ll wait up front for them.”
As you prepare some emergency supplies, you can’t help but feel a little relieved that you can finally be useful. Your skills as a medic are coming in handy. Then you feel instantly guilty for even having the thought, because yes, you get to help, but that also means someone you love has been injured. Then you feel angry, that people are out there trying to hurt your family, and your determination to be helpful flares anew.
It’s a never-ending cycle that always leads back to one thing: you want to get out of this office.
You’re instantly on autopilot when Emilia and Fleury get back to the office, doing your job efficiently, not letting on your frustration. But it simmers stronger than ever.
You want to go out there with your packmates and help.
“He’s okay. He’ll be out of commission for four weeks, at least,” you report when you finally leave the infirmary. “He’s sleeping now.”
“Fuck,” Emilia sighs. She, John, and Ads had given you some space to work once Fleury was out of the immediate danger zone, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to die of blood loss. Still, you had heard her anxious footsteps pacing in the hallway the entire time. She doesn’t let it show overtly, but you can tell she’s upset that one of her pack members got hurt.
“Did you accomplish the job?” Ads asks. “The person who shot him—”
“Dead,” Emilia says shortly. “I made sure of it. But…” She hesitates. “She was prepared. That’s the reason Fleury got hurt. We thought we were under her radar, but we weren’t. She knew we were there the whole time. Sullivan’s team is starting to catch on. They’re on guard.”
“She’s dead, at least,” you say. “That’s good.”
“Not good. I mean, yes, one more person down, but—the woman I killed gave up some information, before she died. A lead on Selena Falko. Apparently she’s Leon Sullivan’s second in command.”
“You have a lead,” John says, confused. “Isn’t that good?”
“It’s time-sensitive information. She’s going to be in northern California on Friday. But she’ll only be there for two days. It’s a ten-hour drive. If I’m going to kill her—”
“You need to leave now,” you finish. It’s nearing the end of the day on Wednesday now. If Emilia wants to be in position, she needs to go, but—
“Everyone else is out on a mission,” Emilia says. “No one is due to get back until Monday, at least. I’ll need to go on my own.”
“No,” you say. “Absolutely not. I don’t give a shit if you’re the pack Alpha, you do not work alone. Not on something like this. Especially when you just said that Sullivan’s team knows that we’re onto them.”
Emilia frowns. “You’re right. Ads, you gotta come with me. Start packing.”
Ads hesitates. “I’ve been making really good progress, building this list of new contacts. I’m waiting for some really important calls right now, if I’m out on the road with you, I won’t be able to—”
“She can handle it!” Emilia insists, gesturing at you. “She’s—”
“No one wants to talk to me,” you say sharply. “Because I’m an Omega. I haven’t been calling people for weeks, Emilia, because if I’m the first person from Checkmate they talk to, they look at us like we’re weak.”
“Okay,” Emilia sighs. “I’m sorry. Then put the networking on hold, and we—”
“I don’t think—” Ads starts.
“Ads, this is important—we have no idea how long Selena is going to be in the area, we need to—”
“This is important too, Harcourt!”
“Selena Falko is an immediate threat,” Emilia cries. “We can’t just—”
“Stop!” you shout, and everyone in the room falls silent. Your heart pounds, because—this is your chance. And you need them to listen. “Fleury is going to need someone to stay with him for a couple weeks. He can’t be living alone right now, and it’s not fair to make him sleep at the office. Ads, you can continue your work remotely from his house. And I will go with Emilia to take down Falko.”
The silence stretches out, a little uncomfortable, but you refuse to be the one to break it. Not when you can see the gears turning behind Emilia’s eyes. You stare her down. You know you can sway John and Ads to your side. Your pack Alpha is the one that needs convincing right now.
“Adrian is going to lose it if you come with me,” she finally says.
“I am a black ops agent,” you say firmly. “Just like the rest of you. I am more than capable of doing the job. You’re going to be doing all the heavy lifting anyway, Emilia. Falko is close. Just a county over, you said right? We’ll be gone for a few days at most. Back before Adrian even has a chance to freak out about it.”
Emilia bites her lip. “No. It’s—I’ll just go on my own.”
“No the hell you won’t,” you say, your frustration growing. “I will go with you, or you do not go at all.”
They all stare at you.
“Are you sure?” Emilia asks. “This is—if you come on this mission with me, no matter how small, and you don’t tell your Alpha about it—he’s going to be pissed. At both of us.”
“He’s my Alpha, not my owner,” you say. “Emilia, you have been training me. You know exactly how much I’ve improved over the last few months. You know exactly how capable I am of backing you up on this.”
Emilia sighs. “Fine. Adebayo stays with Fleury, you come with me. It’s your fucking funeral.”
Three days later, on Saturday afternoon, the door to the Checkmate office swings open wildly and bangs against the wall. Adrian walks inside with an extra spring in his step, grinning ear to ear, Chris following right on his tail, also in a particularly good mood. They’re back two days earlier than expected, because their asshole target had the decency to live at the beach and own a boat.
Tossing a body into the ocean with a cinder block tied to its feet is so much more efficient than dismembering and burning.
Which means less time doing his least favorite part of killing—cleaning up—and more time doing his favorite thing in the whole world. Being with you.
Adrian makes a beeline for your desk, like he always does, and frowns when he sees it empty. Your computer screen is sleeping, so you’ve been away from it for a while. Maybe you’re in the training room. He starts heading that way, trying to follow the trail of your scent, but you’ve been spending so much time at the office that it’s all over every surface. When he peeks inside, the training room is empty. The weapons room is empty. Your office in the infirmary is empty. A glance outside the window tells him you’re not sitting out in the courtyard.
A terrible anxiety starts churning in his stomach.
“Where the fuck are you,” he whispers to himself.
He starts walking back toward the main office floor with determination, poking his head into the break room on the way. He’s looked literally everywhere else. You’re in the break room, you have to be in the break room.
You’re not in the break room.
John and Ads are, though, and they look up, startled, when the door slams open. Adrian is too anxious to see you to be gentle with doors right now.
“Hey guys!” he says, forcing a bright tone to hide the growing panic inside. “Where’s—”
He cuts himself off when he sees the looks on his friends’ faces. John has gone white and looks like he’s about to puke. Ads is biting her lip, wincing.
“She’s…not here,” Ads says delicately, and Adrian’s stomach swoops again with nerves. John gets up and moves to scramble to the doorway, but Ads grabs him by the sleeve. “Do not leave me alone to deal with this—”
“Deal with what?” Chris asks from over Adrian’s shoulder. “Watch out, Vig, I need a fucking coffee—”
John and Ada pointedly do not answer Chris’s question. The silence hangs in the air for too long. Adrian’s stomach is trying itself into knots.
“Deal with what?” Adrian repeats.
“She’s not here,” John squeaks out.
“You said that already,” Adrian says, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Like, she went to the store or something?”
Chris turns around with his cup of coffee, takes in the tense scene before him, and sets it down on the counter. He looks suspiciously at Adebayo.
“Spill, Ads.”
She looks between Chris and Adrian nervously.
“Fleury got shot,” she says calmly. “He’s out of commission for the next four weeks.”
A sense of relief washes over Adrian, and he lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping. You’re with Fleury. You’re just—doing your job. Handling the treatment and recovery of an injured team member.
“Fleury is okay?” Chris checks.
“He’s okay,” Ads says. “But Emilia—”
“Emilia is hurt?” Chris cuts in, alarmed. “Why was that not the first fucking thing you said to me—”
“Emilia is fine!”
But Ads looks sideways at Adrian as she says it, and his stomach starts hurting again. Something is wrong. He can feel it, now, the way everyone is dancing around it, refusing to answer him, and he needs to know where you are rightfuckingnow.
“Where is my Omega?” Adrian asks, his voice tight.
“She’s on a mission with Emilia!” John blurts.
Everyone stops talking at once and stares. Adrian feels his blood run cold.
For a moment, he says nothing. Just stares right back at the rest of them, shell-shocked, because there’s no way you would do this to him. Go out and risk your life on a mission without even telling him you were going. The idea is so laughable that he actually starts laughing, but the joke isn’t that funny at all, really, so it’s a fake, forceful laugh.
“Nice one, Economos. Really. She would never—”
“Where did they go?” Chris asks Ads, and the serious tone of his voice makes Adrian’s desperate laughter die instantly.
“She wouldn’t,” he says. The words are shaky, tinged with anxiety, like repeating them will make it true. His eyes flick back and forth between all of his friends, and the terrible, panicky feeling roars back in a flash. “She wouldn’t—”
“She did,” Ads says, careful and quiet. “Emilia had a time-sensitive lead.”
They’re not kidding. They’re not—
All of his panic transforms in a split second into white-hot rage, an anger like he’s never felt, fueled by fear and worry and hurt, because what if you get shot, again? What if he loses the best thing that’s ever happened to him? How could you fucking do this to him? How could his friends fucking let you?
“What—what the fuck do you mean?” Adrian explodes. “What—-why—”
“Fleury’s hurt. With him sidelined, Emilia couldn’t go on her own, so—”
“So why the fuck didn’t you go with her? Why would she—what the fuck, Ads!”
“Vig,” Chris says. “You gotta calm down—”
“Fuck you,” Adrian spits. “Did you fucking know about this?”
“No,” Chris says sharply. “I didn’t. And frankly, Adrian, I’m also pissed, because she and Emilia should have known that you’d react like this, and now I’m the one dealing with your bullshit.”
“You’re back early. She didn’t want to tell you, because she thought it might distract you from your own mission, and she didn’t want you to get hurt. And they were assuming they’d return before you, and you wouldn’t have to know at all,” John says.
“Not helping, John!”
It is, in fact, not helping, because now Adrian is spiraling even more. He can’t believe that you wouldn’t tell him about something this big, this important. You know him better than anyone else in the fucking world. You knew how much this would hurt him, and you still did it.
The sting of betrayal is sharp and cold, like he’s been stabbed right in the heart. The very heart he’d given over to you, trusting that your gentle hands would love it, protect it. The same way he loves and protects yours.
Adrian realizes everyone is looking at him warily, like he’s a bomb about to explode. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s just going to fucking self-destruct, and the only person who knows how to diffuse the situation is the one who lit the fuse in the first place, and he doesn’t know what to do. What to say.
No. He does know what to do.
“Where did they go?” Adrian asks.
No one says a word.
“Where did they go,” Adrian repeats, not a question anymore at all, but a demand for information. “You know what—fuck it. I have her location—” He starts to reach for his phone with trembling hands.
“Northern California,” Ads says.
“Give me the keys, Chris,” Adrian says, holding out his hand for the van keys. Chris does not hand them over. “Chris, give me the fucking keys.”
“No,” Chris says after a moment. “I can’t do that.”
“Why the fuck not—”
“Because look at you, Adrian! You are not fucking stable right now. I know you want to protect your Omega. But if you interrupt them mid-mission, if you go in there guns blazing, you are going to be the reason she gets hurt. You have to fucking trust her!”
“Trust her!” Adrian scoffs. “Trust her the way she apparently trusts me?”
“Maybe you need to think about why,” Chris says. “Why she didn’t tell you. Because she knew you would react like this. Because if you were here—would you have let her go without a fight? Or would you have sidelined her? Again? What happened to the guy a few months ago who told me and Emilia we were being overbearing Alphas for not wanting her to go out in the field?”
“He was wrong! I was wrong! She almost fucking died! And if she—if she—” Adrian’s voice cracks. “I know what it’s like now. To have her. To be hers and have her be mine. I can’t lose her. I won’t.”
Suddenly, the shrill ringing of Adebayo’s phone breaks through the thick tension of the room. She pulls it from her pocket.
“It’s Emilia,” she says, a little wary. She looks back and forth between Adrian and Chris like she’s not sure if she should answer it.
“Pick up,” Chris says.
“Hey,” Ads says. “Are you—” She pauses and listens, and her shoulders slump with a little relief. “Okay. Okay, that’s great. We’ll see you later.” She hangs up and addresses the others in the room. “Selena Falko is dead. They’re on their way back now. Should be here in six hours or so.”
Adrian exhales with sharp relief. You’re okay. Your mission is done. You’re coming home now. But still, he can feel the trembling in his hands, the wobble of his bottom lip. The fire of his anger has been doused, and it just leaves him—sad? Anxious? Guilty? He isn’t sure what the feeling is, only that he hates it. Only that he wishes you were here.
His phone is burning in his pocket. He wants to talk to you. He never wants to talk to you again. He wants to yell at you, to make you hurt the same way that he’s hurting right now. He wants to cradle you in his arms and keep you away from the rest of the world forever to make sure you are never, ever hurt again. Conflicting desires war inside him.
Chris watches his face carefully.
“Go home, Adrian,” Chris says. “Ads will take you. I don’t think you should be driving right now. Someone should go check on Fleury anyway.”
“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah.”
He’s quiet the entire ride. Ads doesn’t dare to break the fragile silence. There’s nothing she can say to fix the way he’s feeling right now, anyway.
Adrian doesn’t know what to do with himself when he opens the door to the apartment and you aren’t there. He’s never spent any time here without you, he realizes. The place feels empty without your presence, and something pulls at his heart when he thinks about you being here all alone for days or weeks at a time, waiting for him to get back from missions.
He doesn’t like being alone. He spent years being alone, patrolling all night by himself, heading back to his dingy Vigilante lair in his mom’s basement to patch himself up. He hasn’t been truly alone like this in weeks, not since he moved in with you.
He hates it.
Muscle memory guides Adrian, robotically, through the motions of his after-mission routine. He takes a thorough shower and thinks about how you should be standing here under the hot stream of water with him, or at least sitting on the bathroom counter listening to him yap. He doesn’t have anyone to yap to. There are words crawling up his throat with nowhere to go.
He gets dressed afterwards and goes to the kitchen, makes himself a sandwich that he can’t bring himself to eat. He’s not hungry. His stomach is still churning with worry, with anger. He dumps the food in the trash.
He stands in the door of the bedroom and thinks about getting into bed and going to sleep. But he knows he won’t be able to. It’s been so long he barely remembers how he ever slept on his own, without your warm body resting beside him, without your arm flung around his waist, without the weird little endearing noises you make in your sleep.
So he turns to the living room. He sits on the couch. And he waits.
It’s late when you and Emilia return to the Checkmate office. You’re fucking tired, but also exhilirated. It had been really fucking nice to finally put your field skills to use. To finally prove yourself in the way you’ve been wanting to for months, since you first got hurt. The two of you had taken out Selena Falko in record time, and you’re in a fabulous mood.
Still, no matter how fulfilled you’re feeling, you’re also exhausted. The office work you’ve been doing every day is a lot less physically draining. How Adrian has the energy to come home and continue to bounce off the walls of your apartment after missions and patrols is beyond your comprehension.
You and Emilia are planning to drop off your bags. A med kit that you didn’t have to use, because neither of you got hurt, thank god, you did not want to have to explain away a black eye or broken arm to Adrian. Some clothes, some weapons, and other field equipment are shoved into other backpacks and duffle bags. You shove through the front door and make your way toward the infirmary with the med kit while Emilia trails behind you with a bag of weapons to return to the training room.
“Oh, hey, Chris,” you say when you pass by him, waving. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you. It’s only once you reach the door to the infirmary that you stop in your tracks and turn around.
Emilia stands there, wincing at the sight of her mate standing in the middle of the room with crossed arms and an unamused frown. Your heart sinks in your chest when Chris turns that disapproving stare in your direction.
“Oh, fuck,” you sigh.
“Yeah,” Chris says. “Oh, fuck, alright.”
“When did you get back?” Emilia asks.
“This afternoon,” Chris says. He looks at you pointedly. “Adrian was real fucking excited to get to go home and spend an extra day with his Omega before we had to leave for our next assignment.”
“He knows?” you ask weakly.
“Did you really think Economos would be able to keep a fucking secret like that?”
“Shit.” You drop your bag at the door to your office and start rushing to the door without another word.
You need to get home. Now.
The sound of the front door unlocking snaps Adrian out of his daze instantly, his heart rabbiting in his chest, his head snapping to look toward it so fast he nearly gets whiplash. It creaks open slowly, and you step inside hesitantly, your footsteps soft and quiet, like you’re afraid to wake him up at this late hour.
Like he could fucking sleep without you. He didn’t even try.
Your nervous gaze sweeps over the room, and the second your eyes meet his, Adrian scrambles to his feet. He’s reminded of the day he saw you in the office after his first rut. His heart pounded the same way so loud in his ears that it drowns out the rest of the world. He stood there awkwardly not knowing what to do with himself all those months ago, and now—
He doesn’t know how to react now, either. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, a little guilty, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have. You’re also worried, because you can see it. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking, he’s worked himself up so much.
He’s got so many fucking emotions swirling around inside him, all fighting to be felt at once. He feels like he’s going to puke out of sheer relief that you’re standing here in front of him, whole and unhurt. He feels like he wants to yell at you for the rest of his life for making him worry like this, making him sit with this terrible, awful anxiety. He feels fucking pissed off because you went on a mission and didn’t fucking tell him.
You approach him slowly, reach out to touch him, and for the first time in a long time, you hesitate, unsure if he’ll want that.
Then he reaches for you, almost on autopilot, because that’s just what he does now. He reaches for you. He seeks out your touch in a way he never has with anyone else, and he really fucking needs it right now. Needs not just to see, but to feel that you are okay, and whole, and with him.
Adrian pulls you into a hug so tight it hurts, restricts the airflow to your lungs, his strong arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt and the other gripping at your hair to tug you in for a rough kiss. You return it immediately, mouth opening for him, teeth clacking together, and he bites your bottom lip so hard it draws blood, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.
You smell wrong, and it puts him on edge. Your scent is there, like it always is, but there’s also—gunpowder, and sweat, and something else. You haven’t showered off the mission yet, the lingering air of death, because you and Emilia fucking killed someone and he wasn’t there—
“Adrian—” you gasp, and he shoves away from you suddenly, clutching your shoulders with a grip so strong you already know his fingertips will leave bruises.
“You—you—” he stumbles over his words, relief and anger warring on his face. “I cannot believe you—how could you fucking—”
“Shh,” you hush him, hands cupping his cheeks. “It’s okay, baby, it’s—”
“It’s not okay,” Adrian says, his voice thick, but then he’s kissing you again. He can’t help it. He’s just so fucking relieved to have you back in his arms, after spending the last six hours turning over every worst-case scenario in his mind. You, stabbed or shot or killed by your target, and he can’t—
Adrian shoves away from you again, steps back, turns away from you. He rubs his eyes with his fists, squeezing them closed tight, determined not to let out the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. He can’t fucking look at you right now. He will melt if he does. Take one look into your soft eyes and drag you into the bedroom and fuck it out of his system. He doesn’t want to do that. He never wants to fuck you when he’s angry, and he’s not exactly in the mood to be gentle right now.
“Adrian—”
“Do you have any idea—” he starts, but his voice cracks. He hates it. He wants to breathe deep, to think before he speaks, but logic isn’t driving the bus right now, and instead, he raises his voice, whirls around to face you, and yells, “You fucking lied to me!”
It’s your fault he feels like this. All torn up inside. He scowls.
“How could you do this to me?” he spits. It’s vicious, the way he says it, and you step back, away from him.
It’s your turn, now, to scowl, even as your heart races, indignant anger flooding your veins. “Do what to you, Adrian? I didn’t do a damn thing except what was necessary to help our pack—”
“You were supposed to be back at the office! Do you have any idea what it felt like to come back and look around everywhere for you, only to be told by Economos that you were out on a fucking mission? A mission you were never supposed to be on in the first place, because—”
“Because why?” you demand. “Why was I never supposed to be on a mission, Adrian? Because you don’t fucking trust me to do my job? A job which I did very well, by the way, because Emilia and I eliminated another threat to this pack, and have I gotten a single thank you? No! Nothing but accusations—”
“It is my job as your Alpha to make sure you are safe and happy,” Adrian cries.
“And what happens when I’m safe, but I’m not happy?” you ask. “What happens when I watch everyone go out in the field over and over again and it breaks me a little more inside every single time because all I want to do is get out there and help?”
“You—”
“And Emilia needed my help,” you continue. “I was not going to let her go out in the field alone. And what the hell happened? You used to be on my side about this shit. You used to fight with me, fight for me, to get to go out in the field with the rest of the team.”
“It’s different now!”
“It’s not different now. It’s not. How many times are we going to argue about this? I know you have this biological Alpha need to protect me, but you need to get the fuck over it—”
“You almost died!” Adrian yells. “You almost died, and I watched you bleeding out, and you are too fucking important to me, and I won’t risk it!”
You yell right back. “I am still the same person I was before we ever started this! Before you were ever even an Alpha in the first place, Adrian, you knew the type of person that I am. And I will always, always choose to help when someone needs it. Nothing about me has changed just because we’re fucking now! You don’t get to just put me on a shelf like a trophy with a mating mark!”
“Is that all this is to you? We’re just fucking?” Adrian is breathing heavy now, his face flushed red with anger.
“Obviously not! I love you Adrian. You know I love you. But Jesus fucking Christ, if I wanted an overbearing dickbag for an Alpha, I would have mated with your fucking brother,” you snap.
Adrian jerks back like you’ve slapped him in the face. He wishes you would have. It would have hurt less.
You turn away from him to stalk angrily toward the bedroom, intent on slamming the door in his face. Then the words rise up out of him, so fast and unexpected that he can’t stop them.
“Don’t fucking walk away from me,” he shouts.
You stop on a dime. Not of your own accord. And you turn over your shoulder, pissed.
“Did you just use your fucking Alpha command voice on me?”
I didn’t mean to, is his first panicked thought, and the words are on the tip of his tongue before—he stops himself. His face hardens. Maybe he did mean to.
“I did,” he says. “I didn’t mean to, but—I’m not fucking sorry, you—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” You’re outraged now. “You are fucking unbelievable. Does it make you feel big and strong, Alpha? To make me do whatever you fucking want?”
The way you say it rattles him. Alpha, not like you always have—like a treasured title—but like an insult, like something pathetic and wrong.
“You wanna try that again, Omega?” he grinds out, trying desperately to hold on to his temper. You don’t even answer him. You’re still trying to walk away. Walk away from him. Your feet are rooted to the floor, and you struggle to try and pick them up. It pisses him the fuck off. “Stop.”
You freeze in place, and now, you don’t even look pissed anymore. You look—upset. Afraid. The room falls dead silent.
“You promised me you wouldn’t ever do this again,” you whisper. “After your brother. You did it to protect me, then, and I didn’t blame you. I forgave you. But you’re doing it to control me, right now, just like he did, and I’m not sure I can forgive you for that.”
Adrian’s heart plummets in his chest when the clarity washes over him.
“No. I—no, baby, please, I didn’t mean to—I—” he stammers, rushing toward you, hands landing on your shoulders. Then he lets go of you like you’ve shocked him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Omega, I—” He shouldn’t be touching you right now, he doesn’t deserve to be touching you right now, he—
“Undo it,” you say, your voice cracking. “Now. Let me go—”
“I—I don’t—” Adrian doesn’t know what to say to undo what he did. The power of an Alpha command wears off on its own, after a while, but—“You can go,” he tries. You slump with relief when your feet finally pick up off the floor, and you nearly stumble and fall. Adrian catches you before you can hit the ground, stomach twisting with guilt.
“I’m done talking about this,” you say, yanking yourself out of his grasp. Your voice is quiet and hoarse. He hates that your voice sounds like that, that you’re tired from yelling, yelling at him. “Goodnight, Adrian.”
You turn away from him and head to the bedroom, the apartment dead silent except for your footsteps padding on the floor. Then the door shuts behind you with a gentle click, and Adrian starts to cry.
she’s in her silly, soft drabble era ♡ just a little twist on the classic amortentia trope (1kish?)
— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
“Alright, I’ll say it,” Draco started, breaking the relative silence amidst the group around the table at breakfast.
“I can’t do it anymore. I refuse to spend another morning choking on my pumpkin juice while the two of them…ogle each other like that. It’s deplorable,” he spluttered as he watched you and Mattheo walking out of the Great Hall, his arm around your shoulders, holding you tightly against him. He leaned into you and pressed a kiss into your hair.
They could hear you giggle softly.
Enzo gagged.
The boys didn’t hate love, far from it. But this? This was something else entirely. Because before you Mattheo was smug smirks and one night stands, careless hookups and relentless flirting. And now? Now he was heart eyes, soft kisses, intertwined hands and sweet whispers, nuzzling noses, pink roses, monogamous. And if that could happen to Mattheo? It could happen to any of them.
Terrifying.
Theo shook his head with his own look of disdain that slowly transformed into an irked confusion.
“It’s like he’s been drugged, like he’s on Amortentia.” He paused, a brief look of shock on his face. “Wait, you don’t think?…” He let the sentiment hang and looked around at his friends.
They all thought for a moment.
Then collectively shook their heads at the notion.
You weren’t that kind of girl. And if they were completely honest with themselves they didn’t blame Mattheo, though they’d never admit it. You were the kind of girl any of them would fall for, too sweet for your own good, with a beautiful smile and a kind heart. No, you didn’t need to drug anyone to make them fall for you.
“Can you imagine him on it, though?” Theo laughed. “I mean, what’s left? Would he stand on the table and serenade her?!”
“He’d probably propose,” Blaise said flatly.
“There would be tears involved—“ Enzo added.
“—Poems. Sonnets,” Draco snickered.
They laughed.
Then, a collective moment of silence ensued as they all imagined the utter humiliation of their lovesick friend. Slowly their thoughts permeated, and it was like small lightbulbs clicked on over each of their heads as they shared sly, mischievous smiles with one another.
— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
Two weeks later you slid into breakfast beside Mattheo, your thigh pressing against his, close enough to feel his radiating warmth, to be wrapped in his scent like vetiver and pine. He looked over to you and smiled so wide his eyes twinkled and a small dimple formed in each cheek.
“Good morning, YN!” Draco said eagerly, pulling you from the moment. You were taken aback at his unusually chipper energy.
“Hi, Draco,” you said, turning to smile across the table at him.
You looked around and realized all of the boys were smiling back at you, which was slightly confusing but ultimately a very welcome change; you knew your presence irked them, they were never subtle about it. So this felt… nice.
“Drink up, mate!” Blaise said, pushing a goblet towards Mattheo. “Got a big game this afternoon, don’t want you dehydrated.” Mattheo snorted but acquiesced, accepting the goblet and taking several gulps before you both busied yourselves with your breakfast.
In a moment you could feel Mattheo’s hand under the table gently squeezing your thigh and you looked over to see him smiling at you, his amber eyes twinkling and his mouth quirked in a perfect grin that you immediately mirrored.
“Hey, I love you,” he whispered and pressed a quick warm kiss to your lips. It lingered with heady pressure and your eyes fluttered closed before they opened again as he gently pulled away.
Theo and Draco were batting each other’s arms in anticipation.
Blaise was holding his breath.
But that was it.
One sincere statement. One chaste kiss. And then the morning continued in relative normality. Sure, you ogled each other, finished each other’s sentences, giggled at each other, blushed. The boys watched the two of you intently like a tennis match back and forth waiting for Mattheo’s impending implosion, his grand, drug-induced outburst. It never came.
“You fucking twat! You got a bad batch,” Theo whisper-yelled to Draco.
“Excuse me who couldn’t be bothered to go get it himself? I assure you it’s the best money can buy,” Draco rebutted.
“Clearly didn’t work…” Blaise muttered under his breath as the three of them continued to argue, each too busy bickering to notice Lorenzo sliding in beside Mattheo, half-asleep, mid-yawn reaching for the wrong goblet and taking a swig. Then another.
He felt his cheeks flush and set the goblet down very very slowly. He let out a deep breath. And then he calmly stood and sauntered down the table next to you, nearly pushing a third year off the bench to make space beside you.
He sat backwards, leaning against the table so he was facing you directly. Closely. Mattheo looked up briefly, clocking his movement.
“Hey,” Enzo said, smoothly running his hand through his hair, tousling it in the effortless way he liked to do to get attention.
“Hi Enzo,” you giggled.
“Fuck I love how my name sounds on your lips” he said, low and sultry.
“What?” You laughed again, your giggle a bit more unstable.
“What the fuck did you just say to her?” Mattheo echoed, the rising edge of his tone finally catching the others’ attention.
But Lorenzo only had eyes for you and your lips… his lidded eyes locked on them as he bit his own like he was indulgently imagining what you tasted like.
“You’re so fucking hot, YN. I’m crazy about you,” he said, breathless.
Mattheo was on his feet. “Berkshire you have two fucking seconds to back the fuck away from her before your face meets the table.”
You looked quickly between Enzo and Mattheo, trying to diffuse the situation.
And now Theo, Draco, and Blaise were paying attention for an entirely different reason.
Blaise reached for Mattheo’s goblet, confirming it was empty. “Enz,” he asked. “Did you drink this??”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”Mattheo snapped, his eyes never leaving Lorenzo whose eyes never left you. He couldn’t look away from you, his cheeks swirling pink with flustered desire. He couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you; you, you, you, your gorgeous hair, your delicious perfume, your laugh, your perfect laugh, your goddamn lips, all of you, right there in front of him this whole time. He had to have you. He reached for you.
And was yanked off his seat and flung to the floor.
“—No no no!!” Theo shouted.
“—Wait!!” Blaise yelled.
They tried to intercede, leaping over table.
“—You don’t fucking touch her!” Mattheo roared as he pinned Lorenzo down.
“Matty!!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.
“I love her!!” Enzo shouted valiantly. “She’s everything to me, Riddle you’ll never understand the way I feel!”
Mattheo’s fist flew and Enzo let out a yell as he grabbed his face, blood gushing between his fingers.
“Say that shit again!” Mattheo dared, just as his friends managed to grab ahold of him, barely holding him back.
“ILUFFHER!” Enzo cried, the sentiment muffled in tears beneath his hands and his blood.
Mattheo tried to swing again.
“Mattheo!!” Theo shouted as they held him back. “He’s drugged! He’s on Amortentia!!”
Mattheo’s attention finally snapped to his friends. “What?!”
“We put it in your goblet” Blaise admitted quickly.
“Why the fuck?—“ Mattheo started.
“—Come on,” Draco said, pushing the group towards the door as he nervously eyed the nearby professors.
— ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
All of you sat side by side on a bench outside the infirmary.
Blaise was rubbing his temple.
Draco had his arms crossed as he pouted.
Theo looked down at his hands in his lap.
Mattheo flexed his split knuckle which was slowly mending itself as you held his other hand.
And on the far end of the bench, Lorenzo held a rag to his bleeding nose, staunching the blood there as the side effects of the Amortentia wore off, leaving him confused and very grumpy.
“What doesn’t make sense is that you drank it too, didn’t you?” you asked Mattheo quietly.
“Yeah, I mean I remember feeling warm in my chest, like I wanted to be near you and tell you how I felt,” he said.
A pause.
“Maybe that just means I can’t possibly love you more than I already do?” he concluded, glancing at you with a lopsided, lovesick smile.
Lorenzo gagged.
Draco sighed.
Theo groaned.
And Blaise ran his hands down his face as you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mattheo’s lips with a satisfying smack.
Summary: You had always been a reader—always drawn to worlds outside of your own. Always seeking more. This world, Azriel's world, was trying to teach you something; you were sure of it. Or, maybe, it was where you were always meant to be.
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: Confusion, self-harm in desperation/confusion, angst, reference to psychosis and related symptoms
a/n: Sorryyy this took so long I wanted it out sooner but life was happening! I hope you enjoy :) Promise romance will come along in time and there are some hints of something already ;) This is def slow burn though which I think is crucial for this trope okay I'm blabbing love you bye <3
Read Part One Here
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
You were alone in a room you had once read about.
Well, maybe you hadn’t read about this room exactly, but you’d read about this house, how it was alive and had agency and had magic. You’d read about the magic that blanketed the entire world, the land of Prythian, and what a magnificent read it had been. You could vaguely remember the stage of life you had been in. You could picture the covers. There was an audiobook downloaded on your phone for one of them—maybe the second—because you’d been on a road trip and you couldn’t put the series down.
The characters had looked a bit different in your mind. Rhysand was more built than you had initially imagined, more imposing and less lean. Azriel was… well, he was more of everything. His shoulders were broader, his jaw sharp and defined. He was frightening, in every sense of the word, but you could also remember how he moved when you were panicked. How he held your head in his hand and spoke low when he asked you questions. Your skull gave a dull throb as you thought back on your run-in with the wall, and you threw a sidelong glance at the disruption in the paint by the window.
That had been real then. There was evidence that you had been there. Your head ached because you had done something to it. You reached your hand up to brush along your hair and had the absent thought to pinch yourself, even though you’d already experienced pain in this strange state, and so the theory that you were dreaming was squashed. You hadn’t been too attached to that one, anyway; everything had been too vivid, too coherent for it to be a figment of a dream.
But that still left psychosis, or maybe a coma. You figured there was a difference between normal dreaming and medically induced dreaming. Given the long duration of typical comas, there were many opportunities for something like this to occur. But you had somewhat of a hard time believing a dream—even a comatose one—could be so clear. Most of your knowledge of comas was from fiction, so what you believed was also not a very reliable source. You cursed yourself for not delving further into the medical textbooks in the campus library when you were on shift.
Frustration nipped at your chest when logic and sense continued to evade you, so you huffed, slapped your palms on the bed, and gave in to the nonsensical. You slid from the bed, finally doing so without watchful eyes, and meandered around the room. You’d taken it in from the bed, mostly, but there was still the chance that you’d go to open a drawer and it would be a cardboard cutout of a desk rather than the real deal. You sighed from your nose when you opened four drawers, and all of them were, unfortunately, very real.
To your continued disappointment, the room was rather empty save for the furniture and the pictures on the wall. It made sense that a flighty stranger would be placed in a barren guest room, but you were hoping for a little more context. For that, you walked over to the window and tried to make sense of something there.
Your breath caught in your throat at the view. You remembered from the books that the House was built into the side of a mountain, but it was surreal to see the plummet. No rock face or landing was keeping this building up, and the sky seemed… endless, clouds and strange-looking birds flying past the walls as if the house were part of the environment, and you supposed it was.
Velaris—the name was dropped into your memory. You peered down and could see speckles of a city, the city, but were too far up to make anything out. The passing clouds were another deterrent, and you gave up with the window after another beat. You turned, and in the vaguest reflection, you startled.
Your hand moved up before you willed it to, tracing over the shell of your ear and then slamming back down to your side. But that wasn’t enough time to properly assess, so you found your ear again, moving it in every direction it would manage, pulling closer to the window to find the point you were sure you were feeling. It was getting you nowhere, the bright sunlight washing out your reflection.
There was a mirror in this room. You remembered how it had made you panic. You spun on your heel, fingers still running over your cartilage, but you looked across the room and found nothing. The wall held a suspicious space where a picture, or a mirror, might hang, and you searched your thoughts for what you had seen before.
Yes, there had been a mirror, and you could picture yourself in it—a blurry image of yourself, tainted by panic. Your limbs had seemed longer. Your skin had seemed to glow.
But then you had bashed your head into the wall, and thus, your mirror privileges were taken away.
You turned back to the window and searched for the outline of your ear.
“Um, hello.”
You gasped, maybe yelped, your back connecting with the wall as you registered that another person had entered the room. You could hear their blood running in their veins and exactly how fast their heart beat; that didn’t seem normal. You ignored it as you took in the effervescent woman before you.
Her hair was golden and sleek, falling in waves along her back and covering her shoulders. She wore casual clothes that seemed out of place on her, a plain shirt tucked into a flowing, draping skirt—not actually casual, not by your standards, but in comparison to what you knew this setting to be, it was quite lax.
This had to be Mor. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist and tipped onto the balls of her feet.
“I’m Mor,” she smiled, and you felt the muscle in your eye twitch. “I know… Well, I know that you have been through a lot, and I didn’t think you’d want to talk to those two buffoons any longer. I heard they didn’t even introduce themselves when you woke up. It’s no wonder you… well—”
Mor seemed to wince at herself, words trailing off. Her head lopped to the side, and you snatched your hand to your side, realizing that you were still clutching the high point of your ear—which was undoubtedly pointed.
“Tried to bash my head in?” you offered. You sounded insane, voice twinkling and light. Was that your voice? It had to be. Perhaps you were depersonalizing along with your psychotic break.
Mor grimaced. “Right. That’s what I meant.” She nodded to the bed, taking a hesitant seat on the edge. “Would you mind talking with me for a little? I just want to know more about where you came from. We don’t—none of us want to hurt you, but the circumstances of your… appearance have been strange.”
Of course they didn’t want to hurt you; you figured that wasn’t their way. You had stopped reading the series a few years ago, too inundated with work and school and trying to figure your life out, but from what you’d heard, the cast of this novel had been acquainted with unexplained figures appearing in their home. You weren’t sure where you were in their timeline, however. That thought struck you as you slowly stepped towards the bed and sat too far away from Mor.
“The men in here before,” you started, once again giving in and leaning into the crazy. “They mentioned something about me landing in the library?”
Mor perked up, obviously eager to have a conversation going. “Yes. We have a library further down the mountain. There have been reports from the priestesses there that a creature living in the depths has been unsettled over the last few days, today being the most unruly. One went down to see if she could speak to him—rather brave for a priestess—and she saw you. You were, well, unclothed. And unconscious. She called for us then. You only woke up that first time when Rhysand and Azriel were in the room. Unfortunately.”
Bryaxis—that was the creature. You also knew of the library, and the priestesses, and were able to pinpoint somewhere in your mind that Cassian, who you had not yet met, was terrified of the very creature living just beneath this house. But you couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t paint yourself suspicious with too much information.
Of course, if you were imagining this all, that wouldn’t really matter. Unless, of course, you chose to punish yourself in this wild fever dream. That would definitely be something your brain did.
You shook the spiralling thoughts away.
“How long was I out?” you asked, because that was neutral.
“About a day and a half. Rhys had tried to—wait, are you aware of… where you are?”
“Um, Velaris?” you offered, the name sounding bulky as it came out of your mouth.
Mor paused. Her expression twitched.
Wrong answer. Wrong answer. You should have said no. You should have said Night Court, or even Prythian, or anything other than the only secret city in the book.
But could you keep your origins a secret?
You felt a hysterical laugh build at the base of your throat, and the thought to ask the year drifted through your mind because, at least then, maybe you could know where in this delirious fantasy delusion your brain had dropped you off at, but you didn’t know how time was quantified here. You hadn’t the slightest frame of reference, and you couldn’t exactly ask, “Mor, remind me, have you yet killed the King of Hybern, or are we in book two?” and expect to be trusted.
You kept your mouth shut as Mor processes the two words you have spoken.
“Yes,” she eventually replied, the ghost of a confused smile on her face. “Are you from here? A citizen? Or, um—”
She was having trouble finding words. In the books, you remembered Mor as confident, sure of herself, and casually intimidating. Right now, she was none of those things, and it was because of you.
And you had a decision to make.
You could lie, but you’d never been a very good liar, and your lack of context would make it difficult to fit into the time. One wrong move and this would all be over, your fate most likely ending with Azriel’s blade to your throat out of fear you were infiltrating their lands, and you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you died in this strange figment of your recollection. If you were hallucinating, or even dreaming as a comatose, there could be repercussions.
You were taking too long to answer. Mor’s expression had gone from hesitant to wary, and you were still mulling over your options. Still considering the impossible as if you weren’t already experiencing it.
“I’m not from here,” you landed on. You stared down at the lithe stretch of your fingers and then tucked them beneath your thighs. “I think my home is very, very far away.”
“You think?” Mor pressed.
“I’m not exactly sure where it would be in relation to here. I don’t think I could show you on a map. Or a globe. Do you have planets here?”
“Do we have planets?”
“Right. That feels like a ridiculous question. I’m not quite sure how to explain any of this.”
“Perhaps it should be done all at once.”
~~
It took a few moments for Azriel and Rhysand to return to the room. You had half a mind to ask for the rest of the inner circle to join, simply to get more explaining out of the way, but you still hadn’t decided how much you were planning to share—how much you wanted them to know that you knew.
You startled when Azriel's wings displaced the air in the room. You heard them before you saw them, the sheer size creating a presence that body alone couldn’t replicate. So far, your reflection and the ethereal, larger-than-life qualities of the fae were the most jarring to come to terms with, but you had yet to leave this room, so there were surely other feats you would need to overcome. Unless your brain shook itself loose from this state before then.
When you jumped, Azriel seemed to as well. His feet moved in a small, unsteady pattern, his wings pressing into his back. He had kept his eyes down upon entering, but you must have made a sound, a gasp, and he looked at you with a pinched expression. You tried to avert your gaze, but it got caught on the shadows again. He was so huge, his wings hooked and towering, the inky wisps taking up even more space.
Rhysand had also joined the group, though you found it much easier for your eyes to pass over his form as he settled against the window.
“I apologize for scaring you earlier,” Rhysand offered, a sincere hand over his heart. He didn’t need to apologize; you had scared yourself. The lack of reflective surfaces in the room was a testament to that. “We hadn’t meant to. Truly.”
You shook your head but didn’t reply. Struggled to reply. This felt insane.
“Mor said you aren’t from here?” Rhysand posed.
“I’m not,” you said, taciturn from lack of direction. You hadn’t made up your mind. Hadn’t made sense of your brain and why it was taking you on this strange trip. You could give in, or you could give way to reason and see yourself back to reality from pure spite.
To your dismay, being curt only got you more pressing, gentle looks. Rhysand was looking at you with a tender caution, and that was confusing because before, it was only suspicion. Before, he had stayed by the door and observed you like an animal.
Was this your brain digging in?
The High Lord met you on the bed, sitting on the corner and giving you space, but coming down to your level. "I realize that you may have been through a lot, so I’ll give you some information first, okay?” he enticed. Azriel was still standing by the window, every muscle in his body seemingly on edge. You threw him a glance before nodding at Rhys. “You know you are in Velaris—Mor told me that. And she was also gracious enough to share our names, I’ve heard.”
Mor snorted, crossing her arms as she stood beside Azriel.
Rhysand lowered his brows from the look he threw her. “I am the High Lord of this court. You were discovered in my library. The library is not open to the public, so since you arrived there, seemingly by a magical occurrence, my inner circle and I have had many questions.”
“Why don’t you just look into my mind and answer your questions?” you shouted into your thoughts. “Mind-reading would be the clearest solution, since I’m already going insane.”
“I don’t know how I ended up there,” you said instead, digging your fingers into the plush material of the bed. “I wasn’t feeling well, I passed out, and then I woke up here. I don’t—I don’t even know what your library looks like.”
A partial lie. You had read about the contents of the library and had a general description floating in your mind, but you could only remember the vaguest outline of the space.
Azriel was next to speak. “What do you mean—not feeling well?”
That was simpler to answer; you could handle that. Maybe Azriel was a doctor, and this was reality seeping through. “It was like a pain in my stomach, but more like an excruciating pulling. Something was… strange inside of me. I thought maybe my appendix, but now that I’m thinking back, I’m sure that couldn’t have been it. I got up to get help, but I barely made it to the door before I was out. That’s all I remember before I woke up in this room.”
“Appendix?” Mor murmured as Rhysand paused, let the word simmer in the space, and then leaned his elbows on his knees.
Anxiety spiked as he sat there, contemplating. Your fingers felt glued to the bed, the back of your neck prickling. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek as silence ticked past, and then you were screaming again. You were tired of screaming.
A slinking feeling had inched its way into your mind, rolling along the edges and searching for a weak point. You thrashed back on the bed, pushing yourself against the headboard even though the threat wasn’t physical. The feeling flattened against the surface of your mind, expanding in rolling darkness, and prickled pain across your vision. You held your head in your hands but felt no relief.
“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low and strained. “It is not working.”
“Working?” you breathed out, clutching then at your chest. “What’s—”
“Let me—”
“Rhys.” Azriel snapped when you let out another shout. His voice was calm, a measured calm, when he said, “We can ask her. We don’t need to resort to this yet.”
“We tried asking,” Rhysand countered. Your mind was still being invaded. Invaded, but nothing gleaned. Something ached, and something else was a sharp crack.
“I don’t—” you started and failed. “You can ask me. Ask me!”
Shit. Shit. What was this? Were you being lobotomized in real time, unable to find your way back to the present before you were deemed really and truly unfixable? Something in your head knocked, but you were unable to answer with the pressing pain. Unable to even make sense of a knock in your mind.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
Mor’s hesitant tone was cut off. Rhysand gritted out, “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for a lie. She wasn’t telling us everything. If she’s working with them—for him—we need to—”
“Need to what?” Azriel spat out, his voice sounding closer. The pain lessened, but the fog in your mind remained.
“Azriel, I don’t want to hurt her, but—”
“And so you won’t.”
A long, pointed pause.
The High Lord spoke once more. “We can’t take any chances.”
“You haven’t given her a chance.”
“No fae has that strong a barrier in their mind without having secrets. We cannot afford secrets.”
“I can’t—”
Your whimper cut Azriel off, the pain building again, and you couldn’t take it. It seemed never-ending. If you could drop whatever barrier they were talking about, you would, but without even the slightest knowledge of what it was, Rhysand would never stop his assault. You cracked your eyes open despite the light blistering your vision, tears brimming from the discomfort.
“I won’t lie,” you promised, heaving out breaths before the pain could take over again. “I won’t. I promise. Please don’t do that again. Please. I don’t know—I didn’t make a barrier.”
Azriel was nearly on the bed, his knees brushing along the mattress where he stood. You would have been startled by the proximity, but the throbbing in your head had lowered the threshold for shock. Still, the hulking Illyrian dwarfed you where you sat, shadows pooling along your lap. If you extended your hand, you could have grabbed his.
The thought quickly extinguished from your mind.
“Are you working for the uprising?”
That threw you. You shook the lingering murkiness from your mind and squinted into the room to find Rhysand, the shadow from Azriel helping immensely. “I don’t know anything about an uprising.”
It didn’t ring a single bell from the books. Maybe it was from one of the newer series you hadn’t read yet? Or a novella? An uprising seemed much too poignant for a novella.
An ache was returning in your brain, and so you panicked. “I swear. I swear! I don’t even know how I’m here! I live in New York! I’m getting my master’s degree, and my student loans barely cover my rent! My upstairs neighbor got a tiny dog that keeps me awake half the night, and I swear I’m hallucinating all of this from chronic lack of sleep, so I’m probably shouting this into a void, but that hurts so bad and I’m begging you to believe me. I know I sound crazy. I just—”
You paused. Took in the room. The pain had ceased, but the looks you were getting weren’t much better. You thought back to the source material these characters came from, and said what you thought might make sense.
“I’m human. I’m not—I’m not supposed to be here. I got so scared when I saw myself because I don’t look like that. I’m not from here, and I meant that. I need to go home. Through a portal or some magic object or through that creature in the library maybe. And I don’t know what uprising you’re talking about because I come from a place where the most exciting things that happen are on my phone so I need to get back home because I have experienced more pain and fear in the last hour than I have in my entire life.”
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
summary: jason has no weaknesses. especially not that one bookstore keeper he visits every week. he merely needs new book recommendations, and you're the only person he's willing to trust. about the books, obviously. or jason todd falls miserably, pathetically in love with a bookstore keeper who insults him on first recommendation.
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader
You don't expect any customers tonight, not when Friday's are usually associated with activities more enthralling than a shabby bookstore that smells faintly of over-stewed tea. Your fingers itch to flip the signboard around to 'Closed', but they squeeze habitually around your mug instead. A brown rim has formed around the interior from the untouched tea left hours ago when sunlight still graced the shelves near the window seat.
Three minutes to closing, you decide to give the store the respectful grace of being a decent employee and waiting for the clock to strike eleven. At least, that's the excuse you give yourself. Your fingers tap lightly against the solid wood of the make-shift counter, a haphazardly placed desk shoved between shelves and boxes that are to be sent to the recycling center tomorrow. Your life is almost perfectly mundane.
The bell rings.
Almost, except for one sole factor. Your gaze shifts, your neck craning towards the door. Here, you thought your last visitor would finally break the pattern. It's certainly not Margery, a lady who thinks herself the most important customer to this small establishment, always inventing new cons in a skewed attempt to bargain for more free books as gifts for her many nieces and nephews.
This visitor carries a scent of smoke, broad shoulders stretching out a worn, leather jacket. Even from your skewed view, half his back turned towards you, he's gorgeous as he always is. Almost out of place, body stiff as his gaze glances past the stained glass stickers pasted onto the windows, shading the jagged line over his cheek in reds and blues. A familiar, brute tension stuffed into his posture, shadows striking his skin. Smaller, faint scars litter his jawline, and one prominent jagged line is carved into his cheek.
Your secret visitor, who brings in the scent of iron, faint bruises across his cheek on some nights, that goes by the name, Jason.
"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."
Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."
Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.
"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.
"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."
"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."
He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.
Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."
"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.
"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.
It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.
This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.
"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.
He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.
His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.
"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."
His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.
"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"
"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"
“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”
You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.
“Jason, you’re joking.”
“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.
You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”
"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."
"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”
His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.
Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.
"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."
You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.
His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.
His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."
Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."
The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"
"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."
Great, now he's holding you hostage too.
"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"
He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."
"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.
"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.
"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."
That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.
A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."
Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."
His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.
"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.
"Dorian Gray?"
"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.
He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.
“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.
You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"
"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."
"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."
His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."
"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"
"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."
"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"
"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."
Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."
"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"
You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."
"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"
Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."
He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."
Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.
"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.
There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.
Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.
Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.
“Hey—”
He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.
“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”
His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.
A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.
Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.
“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."
The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.
Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."
Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."
"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"
Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.
"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."
His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.
"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."
He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.
“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”
“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”
Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”
His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.
You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”
He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”
He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.
The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.
Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.
You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.
Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.
“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."
“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”
“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”
She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”
Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”
Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.
“There a problem?”
Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"
“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”
“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”
"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.
The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”
You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”
“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."
“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.
You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”
His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."
"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."
"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."
His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.
"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."
It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.
Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.
"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.
"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."
You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.
You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.
Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.
His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.
He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.
"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.
You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"
He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.
In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.
"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"
His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.
"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.
His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.
"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.
Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.
"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.
When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.
Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.
I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."
Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.
He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.
“Jason.”
“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."
"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."
His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."
"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.
"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."
Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.
"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."
"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.
“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.
His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”
You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."
"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"
Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."
When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.
"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.
His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Summary: Azriel refuses to leave your side after the Valkyrie training, which is all well and good until a certain High Lord shows up unannounced.
A/N: Almost there! Next part is Az finding out, I promise! I honestly didn't expect this part to take so long to come out. Thank you all so much for your patience. I don't know why, but writing every scene with Rhys so far has been like pulling teeth. Thank you all for your patience. Some stuff came up with my job that took over the past month of my life, but it should be over now, or at least calmed down (but I'm not promising anything).
This will probably be the shortest part, besides possibly the epilogue. There is a possibility that what is now part 5 will be split, but I'm not sure yet (the reveal will happen in the next chapter no matter what, don't you worry).
Word Count: 4.5K ish
Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrators, feeling insecure, more angst, talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense), past child abandonment, Rhysand means well
Part 3 | Part 5
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Azriel's wing coils gently behind you, its warmth seeping through the back of the couch, soothing some of your aching muscles. The shadows curl lazily about the room, humming contentedly. A soft smile pulls at your lips, eyes lethargically following their swirling movements. Azriel's arm drapes around you, his touch light, leaning into you as much as you are him. He insisted on taking you to his apartment after you reunited in the garden, keeping you close as you and the parents-to-be arranged a time for their appointment in a few days.
The two of you barely said a word when you arrived; Azriel discarding his leathers before sitting next to you on the couch, the shadows depositing warm mugs of tea in your hands. Your fingers flex gently around the mug, the contents seemingly charmed to remain the perfect temperature. Azriel takes a long, slow sip, eyes never leaving you.
The soft cushions relieve some of the stress on your spine, muscles still throbbing after spasming earlier. During the kiss. Just the thought has your smile growing and warmth rushing up your neck. You have only been kissed a handful of times, but they weren't… like that. A spark of warmth filling every part of you, the need to feel him more important than breathing, all your pain momentarily forgotten. It was the first time the bond flared so brightly since it snapped, the only time it brought a gentle warmth and love and acceptance and no pain.
Azriel nuzzles your hair softly, you can feel his smile against your scalp. "What are you thinking about that has you blushing so prettily?" he hums.
You turn to him slightly, flush deepening. "Just you," you admit in a whisper.
Azriel's smile broadens. "Oh, yeah?" he murmurs, amusement dripping from his voice. "What about me?"
Ducking, you hide your face in his shoulder. "The garden," you whisper.
He hums, pecking the crown of your head. "I meant every word."
You still, his words breathed into your skin hours ago echoing in your mind.
You are everything. So perfect.
I love you so much. My beloved.
I'm yours.
Your pulse climbs into your throat and you draw your hands in until you can feel the warmth of your tea on your stomach, almost enough to disguise the void opening there. You could feel the sincerity in his words, his earnestness flowed through the bond. You want so desperately to believe them, and you had for a brief, perfect moment.
Then your lower spine spasmed and reality flooded back. You aren't perfect, by any stretch of the imagination. He only calls you such things because you keep a part of yourself from him, a part that dictates your entire life. Such sweet nothings will die on his lips the moment he learns, as they have for everyone else in your life.
"Hey," Azriel murmurs, tenderly guiding your face out of his shirt. He studies you with a quiet intensity. "Where did you go?"
You try to force a smile, but it's shaky. "Nowhere," you try. Azriel hums, unconvinced, eyes not leaving yours. You take a deep breath, gaze sliding to a shadow curling serenely on his shoulder. "I- I didn't mean to ruin everything with your family," you breathe.
His brows cinch, eyes flickering between yours. "Oh, my love," he whispers, voice soft and thick. Shaking his head, he leans in slowly until his forehead rests on yours. "You didn't ruin anything," he vows, the words gentle but heavy.
"But… the Hight Lord–" you start.
"Was wrong," he finishes gently, running his thumb across your cheek. "He never should've spoken to you that way. He knew those questions were inappropriate and asked anyway. If anyone ruined anything, it was him, not you."
You purse your lips, taking a shaky breath. The High Lord may have asked the questions, but only in response to you, your job, your trip to the Dawn Court. It was still your fault in that way, but you knew Azriel would never see it that way.
Your eyes drop to his chest. "I'm sorry about this morning," you breathe, shifting to try to relieve the ache from your twisting spine.
"Y/N," he whispers reverently, his voice catching. His other hand cups your jaw, his tea disappearing into the shadows. "That was not your fault. None of this is your fault." Gently, he tilts your head up, ducking to catch your eyes.
"But, if… if I wasn't there it wouldn't have happened. She never would have been kicked out," you insist quakily.
Taking a deep breath, Azriel closes his eyes. Your pulse thunders, hot tears burning behind her eyes. It really shouldn't surprise you; despite his flowery language, he can't deny that. Still, the jagged bond writhes in your chest, the hollowness in your stomach growing.
"Y/N," he says softly, his eyes opening, lined with silver tears. "My kind, sweet, beautiful, selfless Y/N." He smiles shakily as your face heats. He forces himself to take another deep breath, his eyes locked on yours. "Your presence may have been a catalyst, but her actions, her words, are hers and hers alone. It is her responsibility to bear, my beloved. Not yours. Never yours."
Your breath picks up, faster and shallower than before. Azriel's fingers tense against your cheeks, his jaw ticking as he studies your face. Stiffly, you force yourself to nod once, just to put him at ease. It works, his hands and shoulders relax a fraction, a sigh escaping him.
"It looked like you wanted to kill her," you breathe, voice steadier than you felt.
Azriel tenses again, eyes widening as they flicker across your face. You know of his job, of course, heard the stories that circulate about the… less savory aspects. Today was the first time seeing him fight, watching as the kind, gentle shadowsinger morphed into the deadly Spymaster. You thought it would scare you, distantly you were aware it should scare you, but it hadn't. Fear had been coursing through your veins, but Azriel was never the cause. Rather, it had fascinated you in a way you don't think it should; it made somewhere deep inside of you feel… safe.
You keep your face neutral, waiting patiently. It was a part of himself he hasn't shared with you and you aren't going to force him. You know all too well what it must feel like, to keep something secret for fear of rejection. But it was different, you reason; he has a family who has stuck by his side, while you… The only constant you have is Madja and you suspect she only tolerates you because you pay for her tonics.
"I… I considered it," Azriel admits in a tight breath.
Your lips pull upward in a small, shaky smile, his eyes track the movement, brows furrowing. Slowly, you lean in, watching him closely, your lips pressing softly onto his cheek when he doesn't pull away. His body shudders, wings twitching from the slots carved in the couch.
You pull back a fraction, smile steadying, his head turning slightly, your eyes meeting his hazel ones again. Mentally, you map every line, ridge, diamond, and fleck, noting the hundreds of colors that appear to glow in the sunlight.
Hesitantly, you lean in again, gaze flickering to his lips. His fingers tense against your cheeks, a soft breath escapes him as his lips twitch upwards. For a moment, your lips just brush each other, both your breaths already quickening in the shared air. The touch sent a painful shiver up your spine that you ignore. The shadows dance excitedly, urging you both closer. Time seems to slow, your very being gravitating to him, the bond clawing in your chest, begging for your mate's touch.
Drifting forward, your lips slot perfectly in his. You both sigh in relief, lips languidly beginning to move as one. The shadows take your tea and your hands immediately come to lightly grip his shirt, pulling his body flush to yours. The bond roars in triumph, heat pouring into your stomach and somewhere lower, demanding more. Carefully, you pull back before the need fully overtakes you, the bond screaming in protest.
Leaning your forehead against his, you both smile, cheeks flush. "I'll be honest," Azriel pants, a hand tucking a small lock of your hair back, "that's not how I thought you would react."
Your brows furrow, smile dimming slightly. "It wasn't too much, was it?" you ask quickly, trying to pull away.
Azriel's grip keeps you in place, shaking his head as your mouth opens again. "It was perfect," he breathes, pressing forward until his lips meet yours again for a brief moment. "You are perfect."
You relax into him, eyes fluttering closed, limbs heavy, even as your mind spirals, fighting against his words. Once he finds out about your condition, about the bond, this… fantasy he made of you will crash and he will leave. You're sure of it. Everyone has before him. Why should he stoop so low as to accept you? You who are weak, uneducated, poor, who has spent the past 24 hours ruining different parts of his life. How he was not embarrassed by you already, you don't know. It was only a matter of time, you concluded the night you met him in Madja's clinic, before he left you for someone better, as is his right.
"I wish I got to meet your family," Azriel murmurs, breaking your thoughts.
Your eyes snap open, pulling back sharply, wincing at the shooting pain up your spine. "W-what?" you breathe.
Azriel's brows furrow, his hands dropping. You had told him that you grew up at the Silver Oaks Orphanage when he asked about your family in the past. The words had stuttered out, face flushed with shame. Az had simply taken your hands, gently explaining how the Lady Nyssa had all but adopted both him and the General. He had never pushed or asked for an explanation.
His soft smile remains, a hand gently reaching up to grasp your wrist, thumb running tender circles along your pulse point. "Your parents, my love," he tries again. "I wish I could meet the fae who blessed me with you."
Heat flares up your neck and cheeks, you shift away, the shadows stilling around the room. You don't remember much about your parents, but you remember their voices, the disappointment, the disbelief, the yelling. They still echo through your dreams, along with your begging; begging them to believe you, that you weren't trying to get out of work. Mostly, you remember their silence, their disbelief in Madja's diagnoses. Then they were gone, leaving you with the old healer, refusing to take you back.
You still see them every once in a while, your parents and siblings, selling their crops in the market. You're always careful to stay away from their stall.
A tear burns a path down your cheek, you pull your hands away from him, furiously wiping your face. Azriel's smile fades. "If- if you truly want to, then we can- I mean, you are- if they–" you stammer, breaths coming too fast, too shallow, before you stop yourself.
They don't want you, never have, why would that change now? And if they told Azriel why they left you behind, he would just follow suit. Your breath shudders, the bond roiling at the thought.
"Hey, hey," Azriel chides gently, taking your hands in his, guiding them away from your face. "Breathe, my love," he commands softly. Shadows press in around you, whispering against your skin, a light grounding weight on the back of your neck. They pulse against you, slow and steady, miming a deep breath.
You do your best to copy, focusing on their steady weight against you, on the light brush of Azriel's thumb on the back of your hand. It takes several moments, but your breathing does start to even, although your heart continues to pound against your ribs. "That's it, beloved. That's it," he encourages. "What were you trying to say?"
Lips trembling, you force a steady breath, eyes focusing on where his hands hold yours. "It's just…" you push past the lump in your throat. "They own a farm, maybe two hours from the city. It- if you t-truly want to meet…" you trail off as his hands tense around yours.
His brows cinch, a muscle in his jaw flexing. "They're still alive?" He asks, voice almost a growl. Flinching slightly, you nod. "And… you were raised at Silver Oaks?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but it remains low.
Slowly, you nod, breath shuddering again. "They- I–" you stammer. "I was six when… when they…" you couldn't get the words out, eyes closing as more tears fall, missing how Azriel's eyes darken.
"Oh, sweetheart," he breathes, voice cracking.
Slowly, he gathers you into his arms, drawing you to his chest. Placing a tender kiss on your hair, he holds you as you attempt to keep your breathing even. "I was too much," you admit thickly through your tears. Azriel goes still beneath you, but you keep your eyes closed, basking in his warmth, his wing curling around you. "I couldn't help on the farm, so I wasn’t worth keeping," you repeat, the threat constantly thrown your way until they made good on that promise.
Azriel's breathing picks up slightly, but he stays eerily still beneath you. You take another breath, the shadows nudging you encouragingly. Exhaustion pulls on the edges of your mind, dampening the walls you normally keep around the memories. "I- I was no use to them," you heard yourself saying, "not after Madja–"
A loud knock echoes through the apartment. Your words die as you stiffen in Azriel's hold, eyes snapping open. The shadows still around you, their indistinct voice shifting from soft whispers to a harsh hiss. Azriel tenses beneath you, blinking the silver from his eyes, gaze hardening at the door.
You are both silent for a long moment, barely breathing before the knock sounds again. "Az," the High Lord's voice is dampened through the wood, low and hoarse, almost tired, "it's me."
You scramble in Azriel's hold, sitting up as much as you can, ignoring the rippling pain along your spine. Azriel's arms remain firm, not caging you, but keeping you close. Your heart thunders, eyes flickering wildly across the room. Instinctively, you grip tightly onto Azriel, pressing back into him. Your breath comes fast and shallow, a few hot tears burning your cheeks. The shadows flock to you even as their swirling ceases.
Azriel pulls you back into his chest. You don't resist, nearly collapsing back into him. Your body trembles in his hold, the High Lord's accusations from the night before echoing in your head. Rubbing a hand along your arm, Azriel gently shushes you, his shadows running along your body. "It's okay, my love," he hushes, voice barely a breath. "If he doesn't hear us, he might just leave." Azriel tries to add some levity to his voice, but it remains tense.
Your gaze slides to him, blinking rapidly. "Does that normally work?" you whisper, breathing shakily.
"Az, I know you're in there," the High Lord sighs, his voice echoing through the quiet apartment. "Please, can we talk?"
Azriel lets out a long, controlled breath. "Worth a shot," he mumbles. You try to laugh, it coming out a huff through your tight chest.
Slowly, carefully, Azriel shifts to settle you on the couch next to him. Grabbing your hands in one of his, he gently tilts your head until you're looking him in the eyes. "Listen to me, my love," he whispers, his gaze searching yours. "You don't owe him anything. You don't have to talk to him or even see him if you don't want to." You swallow thickly, forcing yourself to nod. A muscle feathers in his jaw. He leans in, pressing a long, gentle kiss to your cheek. "I'll deal with him," he says, voice low as he pulls away.
Slowly, Azriel stands, stalking towards the door. The shadows surround you tightly, whispering against your skin. Your hands shake, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you force your breath to remain calm. You stand, mostly unaware of the action, turning towards the door, drawing the shawl around you tightly.
The door swings open silently, and you have to take a step to the side to see around Azriel. The High Lord stood in the doorway, dark circles under his eyes, a hand running through his hair. Azriel studies him, keeping his wings drawn tight. Rhysand lets out a relieved breath, smiling weakly at his brother. "I wasn't sure you were going to answer," he admits softly.
"I almost didn't," Azriel retorts, crossing his arms over his chest.
Rhysand nods slowly, licking his lips. "I…" he starts, sighing softly. "I want to apologize."
You watch in silence, hugging yourself in the shadows' embrace as Azriel scoffs. "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."
"I know," Rhysand says, pursing his lips. "But, showing up at her place unannounced didn't seem like the best course of action," he chuckles breathlessly.
Azriel growls, taking a step towards his High Lord. Rhysand's voice fades and he tenses, squaring his shoulders, almost like he's preparing for an attack. "And you thought showing up here unannounced was better?"
The High Lord flinches slightly. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have… fuck," he breathes, running his hand through his hair again. "Can I please just speak with her? To apologize and explain."
Your breathing is still heavy and your pulse echoes in your ears, even as the shadows attempt to guide you towards the couch again. "What is there to explain, Rhys?" Azriel snarls, hands clenching at his sides. "You made your opinion very clear last night."
Rhysand lets out a heavy breath, nodding slowly. "I–"
"She doesn't want to see you," Azriel continues, cutting him off. Your grip on your shawl tightens.
"But–"
"No," Azriel barks, wings extending slightly, blocking your view of the male he considers a brother. "She does not want to see you. You don't get to argue your way out of that, Rhysand. If you have something you want to say to her, then tell me and I can pass it along."
You take a step back, your calves hitting the low coffee table behind you. The shadows rush to stabilize you, the soft thud echoing through the apartment. Azriel stills, head whipping towards you, his hard expression softening slightly, his wings extending further, almost hitting the walls. A hand flies to your mouth as if that will soften the sound, neck and cheeks heating, your back protesting the shock. Gently, the shadows guide you away from the table, but you can't bring yourself to sit despite their prompting, so you stand next to the couch, eyes fixed on the rug beneath you that doesn't look like it's from the Night Court; Summer Court maybe, or Day.
"She's here," Rhys breathes, somewhere between a statement and a question. Azriel's gaze returns to him, a low growl rumbling through his chest.
You can hear the High Lord shifting on the other side of Azriel as your mate squares his shoulders. "Just say what you came here to say, Rhysand," he demands, forcing his wings to fold just enough to provide you a sliver to see the High Lord.
Rhysand tracks the movement, eyes finding you almost immediately, a long, careful breath escaping him. "Look, I… I am sorry. Truly. I jumped to a conclusion and refused to be swayed when it turned out to be wrong. I never should have spoken to you like that, never should have… interrogated in such a way, never… well, there are quite a few things I should have done differently," he admits, just loud enough for you to hear. Your grip tightens around your shawl, the other hand coming down to wrap around your middle, eyes stinging.
"It's just…" he continues, voice bordering on desperate, "you have to understand. I've known Az since we were children. He's my brother in all but blood. In many ways, I know him better than I know myself. And I know that when he loves, he does so with his whole self, willing to put everything on the line for those he cares for," Rhysand pauses, taking another breath, eyes flickering to Azriel. "And there… there have been times when that has been used against him, against the Court." Your eyes jump to Azriel, his back still turned to you, wings almost fully tucked in, but his shoulders tense.
Pursing his lips, Rhysand looks back to you, your wide eyes meeting his for a brief moment before they drop again. "I will always do what I need to, to protect my family and my Court. So, when I recognized you as the one who had the private meeting with Theason, I wrongfully assumed the past was repeating. I pushed because I thought I could catch you in what I assumed to be a lie. And when one of the first things you answered was something we were explicitly told by our healer not to do, I thought I had."
Rhysand's eyes close for a moment, his lips pursed. Your breath picks up slightly, a few tears falling. "But then, you went into your reasonings and… either you were a really good liar, or you were telling the truth and Feyre, my mate, suffered from something with such a simple solution because we…. because I refused to look in the right places. I needed you to be lying just to prove that we didn't miss anything, that we did all we could, that what happened to Feyre was inevitable, and the only thing I could point to was your meeting with Thesan."
The High Lord chuckles drily, running a hand over his face. "Of course you can't tell us specifics of what you spoke about with him. I know how confidentiality works, and I used that against you. I am deeply sorry."
Quiet breaths shake your frame. Azriel turns slowly, watching you with a carefully neutral expression, hands still clenched at his sides. You don't even hear him move, just feel the shadows split apart before his arms wrap around you. You lean into his chest, letting his scent engulf you as you try to control your breathing, keeping your gaze fixed on the rug.
"I am not saying any of this to excuse my words," Rhysand continues. "What I did was inexcusable, but I did just want to give you a bit more context so, hopefully, you can understand where I was coming from. What happened last night, what I did and said, had nothing to do with you and should never have happened. I don't think there are words to express how sorry I am."
Your breath shudders in your chest, Azriel's arm tightening slightly around your waist, and you force yourself to nod, unable to find words. Your head hurts, dry tear tracks mar your face, your thoughts moving like molasses. The muscles in your back rage, begging you to lie down, even Azriel's support only offering slight relief, and all you can focus on is how much you want this to be over.
Rhysand takes another deep breath, nodding stiffly. "You should go," Azriel says, the gentle rumble soothing your frayed nerves.
"Yeah, of course," Rhysand agrees. His eyes find you once more. "We are having a birthday dinner for Az next week. You are welcome to come, Y/N. Only if you want, we understand if not." He gives you a sheepish smile before turning to leave. The shadows make quick work of closing the door behind him.
Your body falls into Azriel, knees buckling beneath you. Azriel doesn't flinch, gingerly guiding you back to the couch and gathering you into his lap. Your muscles ease slightly, but are still tense in his hold. Azriel sits too still beneath you; his only movements are his careful breaths and a hand rubbing soft circles along your upper back.
Everything around you feels distant and out of focus. The feel of your mate's body and his scent are the only things that feel real. Distantly, you are aware of what emotions you should be feeling: disbelief, anger, guilt, and shame, but it all feels so far away. Azriel's voice cuts through the fog gently. "I'm sorry," he breathes into your hair. "I've got you, my love."
The shadows trace gentle patterns up your arms and around your neck, and you melt further into the haze, taking comfort in the nothingness. Somewhere out there you feel the shadows guide Azriel's hands to better support your strained back, although even the pain in your back feels distant; it wasn't often that you are able to remove yourself so fully, so you embrace the opportunity.
Exhaustion pulls on your mind as you nestle further into your mate's chest. The High Lord's voice echoes through your mind, most of it disjointed and muffled, but one part breaks through. "Someone hurt you?" you ask, tongue heavy in your mouth, your words barely a breath.
For a moment, you don't think Azriel hears you. He doesn't react, tracing soft circles along your back and arms. Azriel stiffens slightly after a few seconds, the meaning of your words dawning on him, his hands hesitating for a brief moment before continuing on their paths. "Out of everything Rhys said, that is your first question?" he asks teasingly, but his voice is strained. Your grip on him tightens and Azriel lets out a long, slow breath. "It was a long time ago, my love," he admits softly, his arms tightening around you.
Carefully, you turn your head to look up at him, the odd angle angering your already inflamed muscles. "Where are they now?" you demand in a whisper.
Azriel looks down at you, wetting his lips, eyes softening. "Gone."
"Gone?" you repeat.
Studying you carefully, Azriel nods slowly. "Dead," he amends, voice clipped, adjusting his hold on you but not letting go. "She's dead."
Something odd settles in your chest at his words: relief and satisfaction and something almost protective. Nodding stiffly, you settle your head back on his chest, eyes fluttering closed. "Good."
————
Fun fact: the original plan was to have Rhys appear unannounced at her door. But then I thought about it and realized Az wouldn't leave her alone after the dinner and the training, so… here we are. The conversation had to be reworked with Az, but it gets us where we need to go in the end.
Summary: Following the disaster that was the family dinner, you still find yourself at Valkyrie training the next morning. What could go wrong?
A/N: Okay, so, this part was supposed to be a shorter part, some fluff, the calm before the storm type thing. But then I started writing and the training scene became… well, not that. I ended up splitting what was part 3 into two parts, so now, we're up to 6 total with the epilogue. We still get some fluff, just with a bit more angst to go along with it. (This tends to be what happens when I write fluff, so I'm not sure why I am surprised). Thank you so much for all your support. I never would have guessed this fic would garner so much attention and you all mean the world to me.
You would think someone who does martial arts knows how to write a training scene, but here we are. I also made some decisions about some of Reader's favorite foods; I was hungry while writing and didn't want to change it. I will not be apologizing.
Also, something random I noticed while writing this part: the Night Court doesn't seem very… nocturnal to me. I'm sure other people have said something along these lines in the past, but it does kind of bug me that everything in the Night Court happens in the day. I noticed it when I was almost done with this part and I wasn't about to rewrite it to fix it, but… will probably try to incorporate that more in future fics set in the Night Court.
Word Count: almost exactly 9K
Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, not as much angst, talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense), discussions of money using a made up monetary system (just go with it, for all our sakes), Rhysand means well, sort of
Part 2 | Part 4
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The bag felt heavy in Azriel's hand, his shadows swirling restlessly around him like they had all night. Staring at your door, he takes a deep breath, feeling like a juvenile again, working up the courage to knock on your door. He had remained outside all night, watching from the roof of the neighboring building, a spot specifically chosen so he could see through the window above your counters; he can see almost your whole apartment.
By the time he returned, you were already curled up in your bed, sobs still wracking your body, the few shadows Azriel left behind caressing your skin, trying to comfort you. He longed to go to you, to hold you in his arms and tell you it would all be okay. He wanted to be the one to comfort you, instead of his shadows, and assure you that he wasn't going anywhere. But you made your decision clear earlier, and he wasn't about to cross any of your boundaries. So, he sat and kept guard even after the lights in your apartment flickered off.
He had only left his spot when the first rays of the sun touched the horizon, sending a few more of his shadows over to you, quickly making his way to the House of the Wind. Unsurprisingly, Cassian was the only one awake; as much as he complained about sleep, he is still a soldier and the three of them spent years in Windhaven waking up before the sun, the routine a hard one to break. The general straightened, slowly looking up from the report spread out on his desk. "Az," he breathed, pushing his seat back to stand. "We are so s-"
"Y/N is coming to training this morning," Azriel interrupted, muscles taught.
Cassian stilled, studying his brother carefully. "Oh, that's–"
"Not because she wants to," Azriel continued, taking a step into the office, "but because she said she would after you pressured her. And she keeps her promises, even when she would rather do anything else."
Sucking in a breath, Cassian moved around his desk, raising his hands. "I know I messed up," he admitted, "I'm sorry, even if that wasn't my–"
"This is your second chance," Azriel growled, shadows rising around him. "You and Nesta. Don't even think about telling the others."
Azriel didn't wait for a response before making his way out of the House, brushing past a freshly awake Nesta, not acknowledging her when she calls his name.
His next stop was a local restaurant, one closer to your home, that was open for a few more hours to serve the few fae in Velaris that are up during the day. He knows your order by heart, your favorite dish, drink, and pastry. The two of you had only gone to this place twice before, with you noting it as your favorite, even if it was smaller and less fancy like places Azriel normally goes to with his family. Owned by a family who makes simple food from scratch, Azriel had come to like the place, despite his limited number of visits.
The bag is warm in his hand, the dishes carefully balanced with the drinks resting on top. The shadows curl tighter around him when he lifts his hand, the knock echoing through the small hallway.
Something tumbles on the other side of your door, a small gasp barely heard through the wood. Feet shuffle against the floor, pausing just past the door. Azriel loosens the leash on his shadows, allowing some of them to slide under the door, announcing his presence. The door unlocks a moment later, and it takes a few seconds for you to open the door as the hinges stick despite all of the lubricant Azriel's shadows had added to them the past few months.
The door only opens a crack, just enough for you to peak through. "Hi, sweetheart," he says gently, trying to smile, ignoring the thunderous beat of his heart. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asks, gesturing to the bag slightly with his head.
Even through the small crack, he can see how you keep your eyes lowered. Pursing your lips, he catches the way your nose twitches, taking in the delicious smells, and your stomach rumbles quietly in response. His shadows grumbled most of the night about how you never ate dinner, not that Az had either. His smile softens watching the flush creep up your next as you nod. It takes another minute for you to get the door all the way open so Azriel can get inside with his wings.
Azriel's breath caught when it is, finally able to fully see you. Dark bags fill the space under your red rimmed eyes. A grey shawl pulled taught around your shoulders, holes littering the fabric, over your soft green dress, the hem fraying. Hair pulled back in two braided plaits that become one swaying at your back. You are beautiful, the most beautiful fae he has ever seen.
Arms hugging yourself, you step aside, sitting on your bed just beside the door. Keeping his wings tucked in tight, Azriel ducks his head, slowly entering the small apartment. It wasn't even a proper apartment in Azriel's opinion. Just a single room with barely enough space for a bed, a chest for your belongings, the smallest table Azriel has ever seen, a small counterspace that 'counts' as a kitchen despite the barely functioning stove top and the lack of an oven and sink, and a toilet tucked in the corner. Not that the toilet works, since the building doesn't have running water; you have a jug leaning against the counter that needs to be filled at the local well a few blocks away.
Keeping his head down to not hit the ceiling, Azriel silently begins unpacking the food on the table, handing you the cup of tea.
Azriel hates this place. The building isn't far from where Nesta's old apartment once stood, but even that was infinitely better than this. He so desperately wants for you to move somewhere better, somewhere safer. With him or not, he doesn't care. He hinted at it a few times, but it wasn't long into your relationship that he noticed how insecure you were about… well, everything when it came to him. He had yet to find a good way to bring it up without you taking it the wrong way.
Carefully, Azriel hands a container with lemon rosemary chicken with roasted sweet potatoes. It wasn't a dish that Azriel typically associates with breakfast, but with the smile tugging on your lips when you take the first bite he finds he doesn't care. With no chairs in your apartment, he slowly sits down next to you on the bed, the edge of his wing brushing lightly against you. You shiver at the touch, eyes closing in a wince and you take a few breaths before opening them again. You don't pull away though, and Azriel doesn't either, even as he tenses next to you.
The shadows spill from Az after he settles, his food, a hearty wrap of eggs, potatoes, cheese, veggies, and sausage, in his lap. You chuckle lightly as they wind their way up your body, simply lifting your arms to grant them better access. Azriel smiles, watching fondly. "Let her eat," he commands softly, but he makes no effort to actually pull them back. They slow slightly, allowing you to lower your arms, but do not part from you, not that Az blames them.
You eat in silence, Azriel watching each bite from the corner of his eye, something in him easing the more you eat. It is comfortable, something you both grew used to through the months, these moments of peaceful silence. There was still a tension in the air, it had Azriel clocking every movement, every sound, every breath, but you both settle into the familiar quiet between you.
It's not long before both of you finish food, the shadows quickly whisk away the containers before encompassing you again as you take the last sips of your tea. "Thank you," you say quietly. For a moment, Az thinks you're speaking to the shadows, until your eyes catch his.
It’s the first time this morning you let yourself look at him, truly look at him, and Azriel's face warms, a smile pulling on his lips. Slowly, he reaches a hand around to settle on your waist and gently pulls you to his side. A giggle escapes your lips, a hand reaching out to steady yourself against him, your tea disappearing into the shadows. One of Azriel's wings extends around you, the tip of his wing resting near the edge of the bed. Relief floods through Azriel when you lay your head on his chest, your body melting into his as easily as breathing, tension leaving both of you. The shadows swarm over both of you, sighing contently. "Of course," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, letting his lips linger there for a second.
He lets out a long, quiet breath, burying his nose in your hair, taking in your scent. The fear gripping his heart slowly melting away. You had let him in, let him feed you, let him touch you, and now you let yourself rest and mold into him like you belong there. And, by the gods, you do, if Azriel has anything to say about it. "Gods, I love you," he breathes.
You stiffen for just a moment, but he can feel it. Closing his eyes, Azriel kisses your hair again, soft but insistent, fingers tracing soft patterns on your side. You relax again just as quickly, pressing your head harder into his chest. "Please, don't leave," you breathe, so softly Azriel would not have heard it if not for his shadows, your voice thick with unshed tears.
Azriel's arm tightens around you slightly, keeping you tucked into him, a wave of dread crashing over him. After spending all night scared you would leave him… of course you would have the same fear. It was his family, his brother, that treated you so terribly. Not just his brother, but the High Lord who made such vile accusations against you. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner, the words you said last night suddenly feeling like the twisting of a knife.
"Never," he assures you, pushing past the lump forming in his throat. The single word hangs heavy in the air, an oath wrapping around the two of you, engraving itself into Azriel's very soul. A promise not compelled by magic, but just as binding. "Not until you ask me to."
A sound escapes you, a half laugh, half sob, as your hand comes up, grabbing a handful of his shirt. Az is distantly aware of the wet patch on the fabric from your tears, but he doesn't care. He shushes you gently, continuing to trace soothing circles along your side. His free hand gently untangles yours from his chest, allowing your fingers to interweave. Placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, he lets them settle over his heart, still beating a bit too quickly in his chest.
Your tears subside, but neither of you move, content to just be in each other's arms for a little while longer. The world seems to fade away, Azriel barely aware of anything that's not the feeling of you in his arms, against his side, the sounds of your breath, or the shadows swirling around whispering of your every move.
"You don't have to come," Azriel whispers into your hair, opening his eyes, a part of himself hating to break the tender peace surrounding you, "if you don't want to."
You stiffen again, lifting your head slightly to turn to look at him. Azriel's breath hitches, your wide eyes still red and cheeks stained with tears, yet your beauty still takes his breath away. "I said I would," you say.
A small smile pulls on Azriel's lips, his heart tightening at the words, even if he knew you would say that. "I know, but no one will blame you if you change your mind, my love," he encourages gently. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."
Your brows furrow, eyes drifting down. He can see you thinking it over and a part of him prays that you will take the out, not because he doesn't want you there, but because you would have never agreed on your own. "But I said I would," you repeat in a whisper. Your eyes drift up to his, uncertainty shining through as your hand tightens around his. "Unless… I'm no longer welcome."
Azriel's heart cracks at the waver in your voice. "Of course you are welcome," he promises, his own hand tightening for just a moment. "But you don't need to worry about them. What do you want to do?"
"I–" you start, licking your lips, eyes searching Azriel's as if they would give you the answer. Azriel forces his face to remain neutral, with just a small encouraging smile, even as every part of him wants to keep you here in his arms, away from anything that could harm you or make you vaguely uncomfortable.
Slowly, you turn your face from him, settling your cheek against the wet fabric on his chest once more. You take a slow breath and Azriel can feel the resignation overtake your body as you rest against him. "I promised."
Hot tears burn behind Azriel's eyes as they flutter shut. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he nods despite the pit forming in his stomach. "Okay, my love," he breathes, leaning down and placing another soft kiss to your hair. "Okay."
—
Azriel has always been observant, the natural consequence of having shadows whispering in his ear for as long as he can remember, but he doesn't think he's been this aware before. Aware of everyone, every move they made, every whispered word. He tries to focus on the small group of Priestesses he is working with as they finish their stretches and begin to pair off to begin the first of the combinations they go over, aimed to help them get used to moving their bodies and maintaining balance. Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing to the side every few minutes, eyes catching on where you sit on the edge of the training ring.
You wrap the shawl around you tighter, arms hugging your middle tightly. He can almost feel it, the quick pace of your heart, the thoughts swirling through your head, the emotions roiling through you, inadequacy, shame, and a deep sorrow. Mostly, you keep your eyes down, or away from him as you watch the priestesses carefully.
A few times he caught your eyes flickering to where Cassian and Nesta stood on the other side of the courtyard. They only smiled when Azriel arrived with you in his arms, Nesta already talking intently with Gwen and Emerie. Az was thankful they didn't try to talk or come up to you. He wasn't sure if he can contain himself if this went badly too.
His shadows whisper of everything in the courtyard, every word, every breath, every movement of a leaf. An overwhelming amount of information Azriel had learned to shift through centuries ago. Even without them, he could feel the eyes of many of the priestesses as they watch him, smiling sweetly at him, sneaking sly glances when they thought he wasn't paying attention, and sharing quiet giggles. It was something that happens at each of these training sessions he helps with; some of the more bold would even try to flirt with him, not that he ever returned their advances, but he always thought it was harmless.
He curses himself for the thought now, their quiet laughter burning his ears, each of their too-kind smiles seem to dig him deeper into a hole of his own making. He knows you see it, can hear it all. Thank the Mother none of them had tried to come up to him today. Maybe the Priestesses can feel it too, the tension lining his muscles, the unnatural jerkiness to the shadows' movements, or perhaps they see how some of his shadows refuse to leave you, gently swirling up your back and playing with your hair. Or it might be the way he angles himself to keep you in his line of sight, the way his eyes constantly flicker to you.
Azriel tries to coach the Priestesses, but everything in him keeps drawing him back to you. You shift against the hard stone bench, shadows swarming to apply pressure on a particular point of your back, some even maneuvering their way beneath you, to act as a cushion. Azriel purses his lips, wishing he had thought to bring out a better place for you to sit other than the cold stone. The shadows hiss in his ear relaying your discomfort, the pit in Azriel's stomach only growing.
Several choice words come to mind for his brothers, for himself; all of this could have been avoided if he never brought you to that dinner. He had known, on some level, that it was a disaster in the making, but he had wanted so badly for all the people he loves to get along he had ignored it. He never wanted you to feel pressured into doing anything for him, and yet you had gone to the dinner, and was humiliated by his family. And now, even after that, you forced yourself to come to another thing you never would have agreed to on your own, an invitation you had denied initially, because it's what you thought his family wanted from you.
Maybe is something you believe he wants from you. Something inside of him twists at the thought.
"Um, Azriel… sir." Azriel's gaze snaps to one of the newer priestesses, having joined the Valkyries only a few weeks ago. Juliana smiles sweetly as she approaches, her eyes raking over Azriel. He suppresses a shiver, stomach souring under her gaze. He doesn't respond, just nods, trying to make himself relax slightly, despite the shadows continuing to whisper in his ears. "Can you please help with this move? I can't seem to get it right."
Stiffly, he nods, silently ordering his shadows away, not needing any more distractions. They skitter away, almost gladly if Azriel didn't know any better, all quickly making their way to engulf you, preening at your small smile as you watch them flock to your rigid form.
Julianna's eyes flicker, following the retreating shadows, her smile dropping for a moment when she sees their destination. A snarl builds in Azriel, he has to fight to keep it contained. Instead, he clears his throat, drawing the priestess's attention back to him, lifting an eyebrow. "Go on," he says simply, forcing his tone to remain neutral. Julianna's smile returns, gesturing for him to follow her to her partner, Mica.
Azriel keeps a respectful distance, clasping his hands behind his back, wings drawn in tight, forcing his gaze to remain on their forms and not sneaking back to you. He corrects with a low voice and gentle directions. Despite what she may think, Julianna is not subtle in her attempts to get his attention, purposefully fumbling through the moves.
Carefully, Azriel side steps Julianna's attempt to fall into him, barely catching herself from crashing into the ground. Crossing his arms, Azriel takes a controlled breath. "If you are not going to take this seriously, then I suggest taking a step back and let me focus on those who are," he says, voice struggling to remain respectful.
Julianna turns to him, dusting off her clothes. "You think I'm not?"
"Yesterday, you completed the sequence perfectly fine multiple times, and now you want me to believe you cannot keep your balance?" Azriel responds, raising his eyebrows. Distantly he is aware of how still you are, watching the exchange, and can see Mica shifting uncomfortably a few feet away.
For a moment, Julianna gapes at him before straightening, flicking her braided hair over her shoulder with a scoff. "Well, if I had known weak, helpless females are what got you going, I never would have joined," Julianna retorts.
"Juli!" Mica gasps. Around them, movement stops, turning to stare at Julianna, wide eyes flickering between her, Azriel and where you sit on the sidelines, the shadows hissing loudly as they engulf you further.
"Excuse me?" Azriel growls, taking a step towards her, hands coiling at his side. Behind him, gravel crunches and Azriel has just enough awareness to recognize Cassian and Nesta's footsteps.
Julianna rolls her eyes. "Don't deny it, we all see the way you look at her," she sneers, gesturing in your direction. "You deserve so much better. The strongest warriors need an equally strong partner. I mean, just look at the High Lord and the General. Do you really think she could be that for you? She didn't even do the basic stretches."
For a moment, the training ring was silent, Julianna's words echoing off the walls, shadows seeping through the stonework, eerily still. A snarl tears from Azriel's throat, Julianna's eyes going wide as he lunges for her. Cassian's moves quickly, stepping in front of his brother, holding him back. Azriel struggles against him, pure anger and instinct begging to be free, to tear into the being who insulted you.
Cassian curses, eyes widening on the shadows slinking their way across the floor, his grip loosening just enough to let Azriel slip free. "Move!" Cassian bellows to the priestesses, who quickly run to the walls of the training ring. Nesta grips Julianna's arm, dragging her out of the ring and out of Azriel's eyeline. Wildly, Azriel's eyes search for her, but Cassian is faster, keeping himself in Azriel's vision, arms once again reaching out to his brother. "Az, you need to calm down."
Azriel just growls, charging at Cassian. It wasn't much of a fight, the two Illyrians grappling each other on the ground. The general pins Azriel to the ground quickly; despite his rage and strength Azriel isn't thinking clearly enough for a proper fight, especially when his brother is not the cause of his ire this time. "Az," Cassian tries again, teeth gritted, blood streaming from his mouth. "Y/N doesn't need this."
At the sound of your name, the world slowly began to come back into focus. His grip on Cassian's leathers loosens, his breathing ragged. Azriel growls weakly, but takes a deep breath, forcing himself to let go of Cassian, letting his head drop to the stone ground, cursing hoarsely.
A part of him can hear Nesta's yelling. "How dare you? In what world would any of that be an appropriate thing to say?"
Julianna scoffs. "I just said what we're all thinking?"
Cassian's grip tightens on Azriel, but Az doesn't move, his eyes fluttering closed. Anger still burns in his chest, quickly overcome by a flood of guilt. Eyes snapping open, Az quickly scans the edge of the training ring, heart dropping when you are nowhere to be seen. "Y/N," he rasps, hands moving to push himself up.
Brows furrowing, Cassian follows his gaze, cursing softly. Slowly, the general moves, watching Azriel carefully as he stands. Shadows tug at Azriel's wrists, guiding him through the training ring, barely aware of the eyes on him as he stumbles forward.
"We are not going to put up with this." Nesta's voice echoes around the space, everyone else quietly watching. Azriel hears the words, but they might as well be a foreign language. "You are no longer welcome."
"What?" Julianna asks with a disbelieving breath. "You can't do that."
"Yes, I can," Nesta retorts as Azriel rounds a corner, unable to hear the rest of her reply.
Azriel's mind swam, letting his body be led by his shadows, not paying attention to where they were taking him. Some part of him is aware that Cassian stops following when he leaves the training ring, he can distantly hear his brother's voice agreeing with his mate. But none of that matters, not now. Not when you disappeared.
A hand rakes over Azriel's face, hot tears burning behind his eyes. This was all his fault. First last night, and now this. Gods, how could you want to stay with him after this? He brought you into two aspects of his life and they both reject you quickly, on no uncertain terms, making their dislike of you painfully obvious.
Or worse, you might think he doesn't want you anymore. His chest aches at the thought.
He wants to kill them, Rhysand, Julianna, everyone who speaks ill of you. He doesn't care. But he needs you; needs to see you, touch you, assure himself you are okay, needs to assure you that he's not going anywhere. His heart cracks thinking back to only an hour ago, with you wrapped in his arms and wings, and you begged him not to leave. Your voice, so quiet and uncertain, echoes in his mind.
Stumbling again, he steadies himself along the stone wall, struggling to breathe. He can't lose you; the very thought threatens to rip his heart from him. He would rather kill everyone, burn the court to the ground, before he ever lets you go. And if you leave, if that's what you truly want, he will let you go, of course, but gods, he doesn't know if he will survive.
Azriel is only vaguely aware when the tunnel the shadows led him through opens up into a vast garden, one he has not visited in centuries. The shadows hiss in his ear, but he can't make out the words over the sound of his blood rushing. They lead him through a winding path surrounded by carefully maintained trees and flowers. In the center, water flows gently from a grand fountain, and you sit on the edge, hunched over, body shaking with quiet sobs. Shadows swirl restlessly around you, desperately trying to calm you, comfort you.
A quiet breath leaves Azriel, just the sight of you sets his world right again. He breathes your name and you stiffen at the sound. Slowly, he approaches, breath still uneven as he kneels before you, the shadows quick to wrap around him, nestling you both in their soft embrace, keeping the rest of the world away. Hot tears burn Azriel's cheeks, scarred hands shaking, reaching out to grab yours. When you don't pull away, Az lets out a breath that might be a sob, bringing them up to his lips, placing a long, reverent kiss on each.
"I'm sorry, my love," he breathes into your skin. You gasp, gently pulling one hand away and Azriel grasps the one remaining tighter, not enough to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to keep it in his hands, against his lips. "I am so, so sorry."
Your body shakes, free hand sweeping through his hair. "Y- you're bleeding," you whisper through your tears. "Oh- oh, gods, you're hurt, you're–"
"I'm fine," he cuts you off softly, looking up, forcing himself to take a deep breath at the sight of your tears. He places another tender kiss to your hand, watching your eyes remain on the cut, your thumb gently rubbing his temple. "I'm fine, beloved. I promise."
You shake your head, hand dropping, your body shakes even more. He inches forwards, causing your knees to part to make room. His eyes close, content to be surrounded by you, leaning his head slightly into your hand still held by his cheek.
Azriel's brows furrow, something cold and wet pressing gently to his temple. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, breath hitching. You hold your shawl, wetted by the fountain to his forehead, gently cleaning away the blood. "Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand moving to gently hold your wrist, but he doesn't stop you. "You don't have to do that."
Your breathing stutters, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. "You're hurt because of me," you breathe, a sob almost cutting you off. "Because I am- I'm not–"
"No, please," he begs, carefully moving your hand away from his temple, his own tears returning. "Please, don't finish that sentence. Whatever you are going to say, it's not true," he insists, placing a soft, adamant kiss to the wet shawl still clutched in your hand. "You are everything, Y/N. Completely and utterly perfect. Don't believe a word they say."
Your face contorts with another sob, head shaking again. "No, no I'm not. I- I–"
Azriel surges forward, unable to hear you utter another self-deprecating thought. His lips slot between yours, soft and gentle despite his speed, one hand resting on the back of your head to keep you steady, but you can easily pull away if you want. You gasp, body stilling before a whimper escapes you, your lips slowly moving with his. He slows too, matching your pace, pouring all of his reverence and adoration into the kiss, his both hands slowly moving to cup your jaw.
He moans at the feel of your lips against his, at the taste of your tears, but beneath it something so distinctly you it makes his knees weak. You sob into the kiss and Azriel starts to pull away, but your hands grip his leathers, keeping him close, and shifting closer to him. He obliges, letting you direct him, until he's sitting on the ground, back up against the wall of the fountain, and you're straddling him, his wings wrapping lazily around you. The shadows encircle the two of you until there is nothing else, even the sounds of the fountain are muted, a few directing one of hands to rest on a specific point on your back.
It wasn't exactly what Azriel had in mind for your first kiss, having kept himself relegated to your hands and forehead before now. But it is perfect, to be completely surrounded by you, the feel of your body, your taste, your scent.
Panting, you pull back, sucking in lungfuls of air. Azriel doesn't stop, cannot stop, now that he has got a taste of you. His lips gently trail to your jaw down to the curve of your neck. You moan softly, something in Azriel warms at the sound, a smile pulling on his lips as he continues. Slowly, your body melts into him, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, resting in the hand still resting along the opposite side of your jaw.
"Oh, gods, Y/N," he moans between kisses, finding a spot on the juncture of your neck that has you gasping. "Love you so much," he breathes.
"Azriel," you whisper, burying a hand in his hair, leaning to rest your cheek against his ear as he continues to lap at your skin. "I- oh, I love you, Az."
He groans into your skin, slowly moving back up your neck, kissing the underside of your jaw. "Perfect," he mumbles, nipping gently causing your hand to tighten in his hair. "So perfect, my beloved. Never leaving you. I'm yours, always," he promises, lips slotting back between yours, your head still tipped, nearly laying on his shoulder.
"Mine," you murmur against his lips and his smiles into the kiss, his hand pressing firmer into your back. "My m–" You gasp, cutting yourself off, but it sounds different, lower than your previous ones had been. Azriel feels your face scrunch as your body stiffens against him.
Stop! The shadows scream in his ear.
Immediately, Azriel pulls back, brows furrowing. Your head drops, resting your forehead against his shoulder, taking long, slow, measured breaths.
"Y/N?" Azriel asks, panic rising in his chest. The shadows swarm closer, moving Azriel's hand from your back to your waist, and the other from your cheek to the back of your head. They cluster around you, softly massaging along your spine and neck. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
You don't respond slowly relaxing back into his arms, letting out a soft whimper. "I'm sorry," you breathe softly.
"Sh, sh," he hushes, gently pressing a kiss on your head. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he assures you softly. "Are you hurt? Do we need to get Madja?"
Taking a deep breath, you shake your head, just barely but enough. He nods, laying his cheek on your head. "What do you need, my love?"
Your breath stutters, arms slowly encircling his neck. "Just you," you admit quietly.
Warmth floods through Azriel's chest, the hand on your waist tightens gently. "I'm not going anywhere."
The shadows continue to gently swirl across your body. They force Azriel to let go for a moment, and Az has half a mind to growl at his own shadows. Cautiously, they move your legs, until you are sitting sideways across Azriel's lap, your head resting against his shoulder. You whimper again as they move you, Azriel's heart twists, brows furrowing in confusion. You said you aren't hurt, but it sounds like you are in pain. Still, he only whispers quiet assurances in your hair as the shadows settle you back into his lap.
The shadows move his hands again, one resting on your hip, the other wrapping around your middle. Gently, they hiss. Azriel glances at them, frowning. One of your hands rest on Azriel's chest, above his heart, flexing against his leathers as you melt back into him, the pained look on your face softening.
Azriel doesn't know how long the two of you sit there, the shadows constantly hover over you. He continues to whisper gently into your hair, even after your breathing has evened out, exhaustion over taking you.
Reluctantly, the shadows disperse after you fall asleep, slowly returning to hide in the plants. Azriel keeps his wings gently wrapped around you, a soft warmth radiating from the membrane. He tries interrogating his shadows, to learn more about what happened, why you suddenly tensed and looked like you were in pain, but they remain quiet, whispering of other, inconsequential things instead.
Quiet voices float on the wind and Azriel tenses, even if the House of the Wind is one of the safest places in Velaris, it was the very people who have access who hurt you.
"–know this place existed," Nesta's voice drifts in, awe filling her voice. Azriel relaxes slightly, even as his wings wrap tighter around the two of them.
Cassian chuckles lightly, but tension lingers in his tone. "We haven't come back here in a long time. It was Rhys's mother's private garden. There must be some sort of magic taking care of it."
It is only a moment later when the two of them come into view, Nesta's arms wrap around herself, eyes drifting across the trees and plants, Cassian walks in step with her, a gentle hand resting in the small of her back. Cassian sees Azriel first, shoulders relaxing slightly, his face softening. "There you are," he sighs, relief clear in his voice.
Nesta's gaze snaps to Azriel, letting out a quiet breath. "Is Y/N okay?" she asks, softly.
Azriel scans the two of them, and the surrounding gardens, some part of him waiting for a threat to emerge. After a brief moment, Azriel unfurls one of his wings, letting them see your sleeping form, his other wing acting as a blanket. "Don't wake her," he demands quietly. "She didn't sleep well last night."
They both nod, Nesta leaning into Cassian a bit more. "Understandable," she says, glancing up at her mate. "We were hoping to apologize, for… well, for everything. And maybe speak with her a bit more."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Azriel says, fighting to keep the growl out of his voice. "Not today, at least."
"Of course," Cassian responds quickly, a small smile pulling on his lips. "We don't want to pressure her."
They stand in awkward silence for a bit, Azriel's gaze returning to you, your brows furrowing slightly, your body shaking with a deep shuddering breath. Azriel kisses your forehead, barely a brush, and your features smooth again.
"We are sorry," Nesta whispers, watching Azriel, but his eyes never leave you. "For last night, for… for Juliana. I never thought one of the priestesses would say something so cruel."
Azriel doesn't answer, jaw clenching, one hand gently rubbing your arm. His eyes drift up, watching the shadows of the leaves blowing in the wind, loosening his arms when you shift slightly.
"Well, she's still in the library, not much we can do about that," Nesta clarifies with a nod, "but she's no longer welcome with the Valkyries or at training. And Gwen made sure Clotho was informed of what happened."
"W-what?" your voice is hoarse, head lifting slightly, eyes still dazed from sleep.
Azriel shifts, hands rubbing circles on your arm and hip. "Hey," he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your hair. "We didn't mean to wake you." Some of the shadows curl around you, weaving in your hair and between your fingers, before moving to swirl along your back and your neck.
Shakily, you push yourself off of Azriel, just enough for you to move and sit next to him, his wing reluctantly getting out of your way. Azriel misses your warmth and the weight of you against him the moment you leave, he gently entwines one of your hands with his, the need to touch you still humming beneath his skin. "You- you didn't have to do that," you say, pulling your knees up to your chest. "Not for me. I- if she wanted to- to train, you don't need to…" your voice trails off.
Nesta takes a careful step forward, away from Cassian. "If anything, we did it for her safety," she admits with a soft chuckle, glancing over to Azriel. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment, eyes wide. "Besides, like Cassian tried to say last night—"she shoots her mate a playful glare"—being Valkyrie is about helping each other to become stronger, in whatever way most suites them, whether that's training to be a warrior or… well, anything else. If she cannot respect that, then she has no place there. Simple as that."
Your brows furrow. "But–"
"It's the consequence of her actions and her words," Cassian tries gently, "not yours."
Azriel watches you intently as your gaze darts between Cassian and Nesta, your lips pursed, before you nod. Not because you agree with them, Az knows, but because you know they will not change their minds.
Nesta smiles gently, glancing back at Cassian for a moment. "We, um. We actually wanted to ask you a question, if that's okay."
Azriel can feel you stiffen, your hand tightening around his. Even now, with you sitting next to him, he can feel the exhaustion pulling on your mind, and the fear running down your spine at that simple request. "You don't have to answer," Cassian explains, stepping up to his mate, hand returning to her back. "We're just curious, that's all."
Your eyes flicker between them, brows furrowing. Azriel brings your entwined hand up to his lips, kissing the back of your hand softly. "You can say no," he offers gently, casting a glare towards his friends, who just nod in response.
Still, your gaze rakes over them slowly, noting Nesta's arms around her front and Cassian's gentle hand on her back, the shifting of both their feet. "Oh," you breathe, sitting up a bit straighter. Azriel's gaze returns to you, your body relaxing slightly as you smile. "Okay, what's the question?"
"How-" Nesta starts, chuckling nervously, "How do you know so much about Illyrian pregnancies?"
A growl rumbles in Azriel's throat, but you laugh softly, nodding. The sound stops him short, head turning towards you, brows narrowing. "Oh, that," you say, letting your legs stretch out slightly in front of you. "Um, so… when the previous High Lord met his mate, he immediately hired a midwife from Velaris to care for her during her future pregnancies."
Cassian eyes widen. "Priya," he says quickly. You nod slowly, smiling softly. "I remember her, she was around for Selene's birth."
Az nods too, licking his lips. "Yes. Rhys tried to contact her when they first learned of Feyre's pregnancy, but he couldn’t find her."
"She died," you say simply, voice lowering slightly. "During the attor attack." Cassian hums thoughtfully. "But when she was first hired by the former High Lord, he sent her to live in one of the Illyrian camps for almost a year to learn from the midwives there," you explain softly. "And when she was done, he had her spend a few months in each court, I think a little longer in Dawn, to learn from midwives who work with different types of magic. He even sent her to travel the continent for almost a year to learn some techniques that aren't known to Prythian. It was about five years in total, I think. According to Pryia, the High Lord didn't even think about having an heir until she had returned, ensuring that his mate would have the best care possible for her pregnancies."
You pause for a moment, swallowing thickly. "She was bound by a pretty strict bargain to never discuss details of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies, but she was able to teach her students everything she learned in her travels. I studied under her for almost four decades and since the High Lord… um, that is Lord Rhysand, is half-Illyrian, she made sure that her students were aware of the anatomy of Illyrian births. Especially after the complications of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies."
Cassian's brows furrow again, matching Azriel's. "I don't remember Nyssa having any complications during her pregnancy with Selene," Cass mutters.
You shrug. "That's all I know. The bargain Priya was bound with… it remained intact after the Lord Laris' death according to her. That was all she was able to tell anyone."
You blink a few times, leaning into Azriel's shoulder slightly, eyes drooping. "I have her journals though. She left them with me before her death. She made it sound like they have all the information about the Lady Nyssa's pregnancies."
Azriel frowns, studying you carefully. "She wasn't able to tell anyone because of the bargain, but she left you her journals?" he asks gently.
Your eyes widen slightly, color draining from your face, eyes flickering between Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta. "Yes, um… she- she knew that I- that if she left the journals with me, they would never be read. Not- not by me at least. Since you are Nyssa's family, or… um, family adjacent, I don’t see why you can't have them."
Nesta nods eagerly. "If you don't mind, I would love to read them. I can give them back once I'm done."
You smile softly. "No need. Priya taught me all the practical lessons that could possibly be in there. I don't need to know the personal details." Azriel smiles fondly at you, squeezing your hand slightly in his.
Cassian and Nesta share a glance, the shadows whispering of the nervousness flowing through them, as if Azriel couldn't see their shifting hands and the uptick in their breathing. "We have one more question to ask of you," Cassian begins slowly. Azriel stiffens, gaze hardening as he turns to them. "And, of course, you can refuse," he prefaces.
"You see," Nesta begins, eyes shifting to her mate. "Well, we… I mean, the reason we are asking… uh–"
You smile softly as Nesta stammers, inclining your head slightly. "Congratulations," you say quietly. Azriel's eyes narrow at you, before rounding to Nesta and Cassian again, eyes widening in understanding.
Nesta gapes at you for a moment, Cassian staring wide eyed before laughing lightly. Nesta chuckles breathily. "Is it that obvious?"
Slowly, you shake your head. "Only to someone who does this for a living," you admit softly.
Azriel smiles widely, watching his brother and friend carefully. "You will be amazing parents," he says gently.
Nesta leans more fully into Cassian, both of them smiling widely. "Thank you," she breathes out, nodding to Azriel. "Both of you. But the reason we're asking is, um…"
"We want to hire you," Cassian finishes for his mate.
Azriel brows furrow slightly, but his smile widens, glancing over to you. Your smile faulters slightly, mouth opening as you sit up straight again but, for a moment no sound comes out. "You- really?" you breathe.
Nesta nods. "Of course," she insists. "How much do you normally charge?"
"Oh, um…" your gaze flickers to Azriel. "Well, I- it's, um, about 5 copper marks per appointment."
Azriel's smile fades, head tilting slightly. In the corner of his eye, he can see Cassian and Nesta exchange a look, brows furrowed. "What?" he asks.
Azriel hears your heartbeat pick up, blood draining from your face. "If-if that's too much, I am always willing to negotiate," you respond quickly, voice wavering.
"No, love. That's not what I meant," he starts, wetting his lips.
"We just," Nesta cuts in, forcing a smile on her face, "thought it would be more. That seems much too low for you to make a living."
Heat rushes to your cheeks, head ducking slightly. "It's what I've always charged," you explain softly. "I never want someone to be without care because they couldn't afford it."
Azriel smiles sadly, letting go of your hand, to wrap around your shoulders. Drawing you into him, he places a long reverent kiss on your head. His chest stirs, with love and adoration for your caring and selflessness, but something twists right next to it, thinking of your apartment, of your threadbare clothes, of the times you eat far too quickly.
"Okay," Nesta says softly, eyes locked on her mate before turning back to you. "Well, we would love to hire you. Only if you are willing."
You lean into Azriel's warmth, offering them a tight, controlled smile. "Of course. It would be an honor." The line seems a bit too rehearsed for Azriel, but he doesn't argue.
Nesta lets out a sigh, smiling brightly. "Thank you!" she says, pulling away from Cassian. "Do you mind if we step away for a bit. I have a few questions not for…" she pauses, gaze flickering to Cassian and Azriel, "wondering ears," she settles on.
Chuckling breathily, you nod, the shadows and Azriel helping you to stand. Nesta quickly links her arm in yours leading you deeper into the garden, despite neither of you knowing where you are going.
Cassian comes up to Azriel, gently putting a hand on his shoulder as they watch the two females walk off. "Thank you," Azriel says softly, "for doing this for her."
Cassian's hand tightens on Azriel's shoulder, turning to look at him with furrowed brows. "We're not doing this for Y/N," he says simply. "Nes and I talked about it last night. She showed more knowledge of Illyrian reproduction off the top of her head than Madja had after months of researching for Feyre," he explains. "Nes has an Illyrian womb, so we need someone who knows exactly what that means and how that would affect the pregnancy."
Cassian pauses, turning to his brother, face hard as stone. "We asked her because we think it's what's best for Nesta and the baby. Who she is to you played no part in that decision."
Azriel studies Cassian for a long moment, his wings twitching against his back. Before he can think, Azriel reaches out, pulling Cassian into a tight embrace. Cass stills for a moment, before his arms encircle Azriel just as tightly. "Thank you," Azriel says again, "for everything."
"Always," Cassian responds, pulling back with a smile. "And we are going to be paying her more than 5 coppers an appointment. You don't even need to ask." A knot in Azriel's chest loosens.
———
"Do you mind if we sit?" you ask Nesta quietly, as you pass by a bench. The two of you have been walking through the gardens for about a half hour. The eldest Archeron had explained her true bargain with the Cauldron during the young princeling's birth, which resulted in a change to her reproductive system, before asking the myriad of questions every first-time mother asks. Your back aches, knees beginning to wobble beneath you; after your hard day yesterday, lack of sleep, and the amount of crying over the past day or so, your body was ready to collapse.
"Oh, sure," Nesta agrees readily, gently steering you to the bench.
You smile softly, eyes roaming over the various flowers before you, many of which you never would have thought could grow happily side-by-side. "You know, you don't need to ask me all of your questions today. We can set up a proper appointment where I will have my supplies. That will probably help ease your mind a lot."
Nesta offers you a tired smile, nodding. "I know," she sighs. "It's just… after Feyre's pregnancy. I think we are all going to be on edge."
"That is completely normal," you assure her. "Obviously, I cannot speak to human standards. But let me assure you, complications like the one your sister had are extremely rare for fae. Complications, in general, are rare, and, more often than not, both mother and child make a full recovery given enough time." Nesta purse her lips, but nods.
You turn towards her slightly. "My turn to ask a question. Have you already been looked over by a healer?"
"Yes, by Madja. About a week ago," she answers. You nod, biting the inside of your lip gently. Madja will not be pleased that the Lady of Death will be going to someone else for her pregnancy, but you'll cross that bridge later. "She didn't see anything to be concerned about, according to her. But she said it is still too early to see if there are wings."
Again, you nod, pursing your lips. "Well, that's good to hear," you say with a smile. "But for my peace of mind, would you be okay if I did a check during that appointment?"
"Yes, please," Nesta says, nodding eagerly. "I would have asked you if you hadn't offered."
Chuckling lightly, you reach out, grasping Nesta's hands. "It's okay to be nervous. All mothers are, no matter if it's their first pregnancy or their tenth. Even more so in your case, after the High Lady's. But, for now, enjoy it. Let me worry about those things, and you focus on these moments with your mate. Because in a few short months, everything is going to change. Even if it's for the better, it has been known to knock the wind out of people."
Laughing softly, Nesta nods, a hand moving to rest over her stomach. She looks over at you, smiling softly. "I see why Azriel loves you," she says simply. Your smile faulters, brows furrowing. "You're kind and caring to a fault, just like him," she explains gently. "You offer a peace the rest of us could never hope to bring him."
A lump forms in your throat, eyes darting to the path in front of you as you pull your hands back. "I- I don't know about that."
Nesta hums, leaning back on the bench, eyes closing as the mid-day sun warms her skin. "But Azriel does," she insists gently. "He was about ready to burn Rhys alive last night."
Eyes widening, your gaze snaps to hers. "What?"
She nods, smiling despite herself. "After you both left, he came back and tore Rhys a new one. I don't think Azriel has ever pushed back against him before, not like that at least. Rhys didn't know what to do with himself after Azriel left again." She chuckles lightly.
Your mouth opens, eyes blinking rapidly. "I- I didn't ask him to do that."
"You didn't have to," Nesta says head turning to look at you. "That male will burn the world down to keep you warm if you ask."
The bond pulls in your chest, rough and jagged, begging to be acknowledged. Your eyes close, taking a deep breath, coaxing the festering bond back into dormancy. The bond had soared in you earlier, when Azriel kissed you. It was the first time the bond didn't radiate any pain, even if your muscles had raged against you during the kiss. It tore through you now, crying out to be known.
"Why me?" you ask, barely a breath.
Nesta's brows furrow, leaning forwards, this time taking your hand in hers. "Because it's you," she answers, certainty ringing through her words. "And that is enough."
You shake your head softly, vaguely aware of the shadows emerging from the plants around you. Their presence has become so normal the past few months, twining around your limbs and fingers, playing with your hair, you barely notice them at first. Gently, they whisper against your skin, as if trying to convince you of Nesta's words. But it doesn't make sense, not truly. You have never been enough before, not to your parents, or friends, or other romantic partners. Especially not after they found out. How could you be enough now?
"Come on," Nesta urges, gently pulling you off the bench, leading you back the way you came. "We should find our way back to the males before they send a search party after us."
————
Thank you so much for reading!
Super quick little outline for the next few parts if you're curious: Part 4 will be a more private conversation with Az and Rhys wanting to talk more with Reader; Part 5 is the reveals (very chaotic, very fun😉); Part 6 is (supposed to be) a fluffy epilogue. About half of part 4 is written already, and was supposed to be in part three, but it got to be too long and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for too much longer. No promises on when it will come out though, but hopefully it won't be as long as it has been
Taglist: (It's a bit longer now, so if any don't work, please let me know)
Summary: You and Azriel have been seeing each other for a few months now and it's time to introduce you to his family, which doesn't exactly go… well.
A/N: Oh, wow! Hello again, everyone! I don't know what I was expecting when I posted part 1, but 500 likes in 3 days was not it, and only continuing to grow. And over 130 followers! Thank you all so much. You have been amazing. I tried to get this out as soon as I could, but I don't write fast and the dinner scene was fighting me on this one. I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I'm tired of wrestling with it and I love the ending so... here you go! There will definitely be at least 4 parts (maybe a part 5, or at least an epilogue, we'll see).
This is my first time using links, so if they don't work, please let me know. Also, I'm trying out the taglist thing, so, we'll see how that goes.
Word Count: a little less than 9K
Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, more angst (my fav!), talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense 😊), Rhysand means well, sort of, but… well, you'll see 😉
Part 1 | Part 3
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Azriel stares at the empty hearth in the main sitting room at the River House, seemingly unaware of his knee bouncing. Shadows swirl around him restlessly, his thoughts drifting back to you, as they often had these past eight months. The time flew by, feeling like only yesterday he had first met you in the waiting room of Madja's clinic, yet, at the same time, he felt like he has known you his entire life.
He spent every available moment with you, taking you out to dinner or coffee if your schedules allowed, but mostly just… being with you, whether in his apartment or yours, it didn't matter. Just being around you lifted something inside him, eased an ache he never knew existed before, and he couldn't get enough. Your quiet presence is a balm he didn't know he needed, your voice a melody he longed to hear.
Still, it wasn't always blissful; your silence often speaking more than your words ever could. The shock on your face when he would arrive at your place with dinner, at the small gestures that came second nature to him, spelled out a rocky romantic history, with those who, Az had concluded, did not treat you like you deserve. The subtle shifts of your body, a flash of… something across your face as you moved, told him you were uncomfortable most of the time. Why, you had yet to tell him, but Azriel wasn't going to push, as much as he longed to. Your trepidations about this relationship was clear with each shift of your eyes to him for approval and your hesitance over simple decisions. He was taking this at your pace, determining that you would tell him when you were ready.
Azriel smiles faintly at the hearth; he was happy, happier than he's been in his long life, and in love. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on you that there was something different. He knew when you first walked into his apartment that you would have him wrapped around your finger in no time, even if that wasn't your intention. It wasn't until three months after you met, he realized he loves you. But it is different from the love he felt for Mor or Elain; it grows somewhere deep within him, fast and unyielding until it consumed him whole. It took root with a fierceness that could never be destroyed, not fully, even if he didn't fully understand.
His family noticed, of course they did, how smiles grace his face easier, how much looser he carried himself, how he sneaks away early to head into the city. They made comments of the female that had stollen the stoic Shadowsinger's heart, joking about it often the past few months, but they let it be, knowing Azriel would bring the mysterious female around when they were ready.
But, that didn't stop Rhys from extending an invitation to bring you to family dinner, and he did a double take when Az said he would ask. Azriel was just as surprised the night before when you had agreed, quietly, hesitantly, but seemed to gain some confidence when you reaffirmed. You had an appointment with a patient that afternoon, the same couple you had interviewed with the day you met Azriel for a drink, now in the final few weeks of getting ready to greet their babe, so you agreed to meet him at the River House.
Dinner is still a few hours away, but the excitement in the house is palpable ever since Az announced that you are coming. Azriel's heart beat erratically in his chest, one leg still bouncing, staring intensely at the masonry around the unlit fireplace. Feyre sat across from Az, with sixteen month Nyx sitting on her lap, staring intently at his mother's necklace, chain now dangling from his palm.
"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," Feyre comments, amusement filling her voice.
It takes a conscious effort for Azriel to still his leg, turning to look at his High Lady, at his friend. Sighing, Az leans back in the armchair slightly. "Don't tell Rhys," he mumbles dryly, "or Cass."
"I'm pretty sure they already know," Feyre says, shifting Nyx on her legs. "You don't need to be nervous, Az. She's important to you, so she's important to us."
Az nods, he knows that, he really does, but it doesn't stop his heart thundering, or the pins prickling beneath his skin. There are just so many things that could go wrong, and he wants so desperately for his family to like you and for you to like them. You who are so much like him, preferring the quiet, the shadows, to blend in with the background, and his family who are loud and boisterous and will certainly make you the center of their attention. He's not sure how the two will mix.
"I know," Az says instead of voicing his concerns, looking back at the hearth.
Feyre sighs, recognizing she's not going to get much more from the Spymaster. Az watches her stand out of the corner of his eye, gently pulling the necklace from Nyx's grasp as she walks over to him. "Here," she says, plopping Nyx in Azriel's lap before he starts whining about losing the necklace. The shadows instantly surround Nyx, his little eyes widening, watching them swirl up his arms. "Play with your nephew, you need the distraction," the High Lady orders leaving the room.
The hours pass only slightly faster with Nyx scrambling after the shadows, his laughter filling the sitting room.
—
The knock is gentle, barely heard outside of the empty foyer, but the shadows hear and Azriel is at the door a few seconds later. The tension in his shoulders melts slightly when the door opens revealing you shifting on your feet in a simple blue dress, your work bag clutched tightly in your hands. "You made it," Azriel breathes, stepping aside to let you in.
Your eyes flicker around the entry way, a hesitant smile gracing your lips. "You sound surprised," you remark softly, slowly handing over your bag when Az offers.
A light chuckle escapes him, placing your bag on a nearby hook. "Just glad you're here," he admits, resting a hand on the small of your back, drawing your attention to him. You flush lightly as he leans down, placing a faint kiss on the top of your head, his smile growing at the sight. "Everything go okay?"
"Um… yeah," you answer, absentmindedly picking at one of your fingernails as you look around again. "As well as can be expected." You pull away from him slightly, the blush still gracing your neck and cheeks. A small flash of hurt washes over Azriel, his brows furrowing for a moment before he wipes it away. Even now, without his family present, your discomfort is evident, and the last thing he wants is to make it worse.
"That doesn't sound very promising," he comments, shifting subtly drawing your eyes back to him.
Your tight smile falters for a second, eyes catching his. "You- you know that's all I can tell you," you remind him quietly. He nods, having figured out early on you take your patients privacy very seriously.
"I know, love," he assures gently, a small sigh of relief escaping you at that. "It just doesn't sound like a good thing, when you say it like that," he explains.
Tilting your head slightly, your brows furrow. "Well, I-"
"Azriel!" Cassian's voice echoes down the hall cutting you off. Az forces himself to take a slow breath, watching your eyes widen like you were caught doing something wrong. "I swear, if you snuck off again…" his voice trails off once he rounds the corner, his eyes wide and locked on you.
You take a step closer to Azriel, one hand reaching for his, your body stiffening. A part of Az is ecstatic that he is the one you go to for comfort, for safety, while the other part of him desperately wants to throttle his brother. "Cassian," he says, throwing the general a glare, "this is Y/N." His voice softens when he says your name and Cassian's eyes darts between the two of you.
Cassian breaks out into a grin. "So you are real," he says, walking towards you. Azriel can hear your heart thundering in your chest and you struggling to keep your breaths even. He extends a wing behind you, barely unfurling it, just enough to provide another form of comfort, enough for Cassian to catch. He stops in his tracks, his smile never faltering even as his eyes widen slightly. "We were starting to think he made you up," he quips.
"Hello," you say quietly. Azriel squeezes your hand, adding just enough pressure to ground you, to remind you he is there. Your breathing begins to even out slowly as you continue to shift on your feet.
"Cassian, you better not be terrorizing the poor girl already. We want to make a good impression," Nesta snips, pushing past her mate with ease. "Feel free to ignore him."
"This is Nesta," Azriel introduces quietly. You nod slowly, eyes tracking the eldest Archeron who seems to not notice the exaggerated offended look Cassian gives her.
Taking a deep breath, you force a small smile toward the Lady of Death. "Nice to meet you," you say, removing your hand from Azriel's to offer to Nesta.
The grin that spreads across Nesta's face is just shy of predatory. She loops an arm around yours rather than shaking your hand. "It is so nice that Azriel is finally comfortable enough to bring you around," she starts, leading you to the dining room.
You quickly glance over your shoulder, wide eyes catching with Azriel. He sends you a reassuring smile, following a few paces behind while Nesta continues to talk, Cassian coming up to him. "You really love her."
It wasn't a question, even with Cassian's brows furrowing. "Yes," Azriel answers anyway.
Nodding, Cass looks back in the direction his mate disappeared. "You deserve a little peace, Az. Cauldron knows you don't get enough of that around here." Looking over at his brother, Azriel just nods.
The two males approach the entrance of the dining room, where you and Nesta stand facing each other. Nesta's brows furrow while your eyes are fixed to a point on the floor, face flushed as you once again pick at your nails. "Hmm," Nesta hums, eyes flickering to Azriel. "Well, we would love to see you there one of these days."
"See her where?" Cassian asks, moving to stand beside his mate. You jump slightly at the sound of his voice, eyes snapping up to Cass.
Azriel's eyes furrows, stepping up to your side, gently resting his hand in the small of your back once more. He feels the tension in your muscles loosen the smallest amount as you lean back into his hand. His shadows swirl around your feet, dancing up your legs and torso to play in your hair. They congregate at specific points along your legs and spine, subtle enough that no one other than Azriel notices, he's not even sure if you notice, and it almost looks like they are supporting your weight. They had started doing it on the third time the two of you met, and when he asked why they do that the shadows just replied: Beloved likes it. It helps her. Although Azriel has the suspicion they know as little has he does as to how it helps.
Nesta angles her body to Cass, but keeps her eyes on you. "I invited her to Valkyrie training," Nesta says simply. Your shoulders creep up a bit, eyes refocusing on a spot on the floor. "She says that it's not for her," she continues, shrugging.
Cassian eyes widen, looking over you again. "Oh, you should definitely come. We always welcome those who want to better themselves and become stronger."
Azriel glares at Cassian, your body tensing beneath his hand, his shadows redoubling their efforts around your body. Even Nesta turns her steely gaze on her mate, eyes narrow. Slowly, Azriel leans down, whispering in her ear. "Ignore him, love. You do not need to join." You shift, just enough to look over at him. He can almost feel your embarrassment and shame over his brother's words, tears beginning to line your eyes. "Or, you can come and just watch. See what the fuss is about," he offers instead, giving you a small, reassuring smile, "but you don't have to."
"Just watch?" you repeat, the question barely a breath.
Slowly, Azriel nods, forcing his face to remain neutral. A small knot begins to form in his stomach at the look of dread and guilt shining behind your eyes. "Only if you want to," he stresses softly, only vaguely aware of Cassian flinching at something Nesta says.
Taking a shaky breath, your gaze drops to somewhere along his chest, blinking rapidly, nodding slightly. "Okay," you agree, resignation filling your tone, "but just to watch."
"If you're sure," Azriel reiterates, letting out a long breath, the knot in his stomach quickly souring to disappointment. Not disappointment towards you, of course; it had been obvious from the start that your previous relationships had not been the most healthy ones. The need for his approval was painfully obvious at times, so he is not surprised that you agreed to come, he already knew you would agree after Cassian made his comment. But still, a part of him hoped you would say no when you clearly were uncomfortable with the prospect. You were already stepping out of your comfort zone to come to this dinner, it wasn't fair for any of them to pressure you to do anything else.
Still, you nod slowly, refusing to look up at him. Cassian clears his throat weakly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it… like that," he says sheepishly. You nod again, remaining still, while Azriel's gaze snaps to Cassian, glaring at him.
"And this is why you can ignore him," Nesta mutters, walking into the dining room, dragging Cassian behind her.
Neither you nor Azriel move for a long moment, his eyes scanning your body like checking for wounds. Eventually, he lifts one hand to rest on your cheek, gently guiding you to look at him, your head leans into him on instinct and you blink back something that Azriel can't quite catch. "We can leave," he whispers, "whenever you want. Just say the word."
"Wouldn't that be rude?" you ask, eyes widening.
Azriel shrugs, running his thumb across your cheek. "I don't care about that," he admits, taking a half step closer. "If you want to leave, we leave."
Your brows furrow, lips pursing, but you nod. "O-okay."
Slowly, he leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, lingering for a bit longer than necessary. "I love you," he breaths against your skin.
Your face flushes, a small gasp escaping you at those words. They were still new; while Az knew he loved you only a few months in it has still taken him some time to actually say it, only starting a few weeks ago and only in soft, quiet moments of them alone. He knows you don't believe them yet, not fully, but he is determined to remind you.
"I-I love you," you whisper back, the words more shaky, trailing off at the end. Azriel smiles against your heated skin, the words sending a rush through his body, and he places another kiss to your temple.
———
The High Lord's table is covered with meats, salads, fruits, and dishes you don't know how to describe. You're not sure you have ever seen so much food in one place, except maybe at the markets. Around you, Azriel's family talks amongst themselves, piling their plates high from the assortment, while you sit quietly, back straight, a small polite smile gracing your lips. They had all paused when you walked in, Azriel gracefully guiding you to a seat, effortlessly introducing you to his family.
Once they joined you at the table, they easily slipped into their normal casual conversations, giving you a moment to acclimate, not paying you any mind yet. Still, you could feel their eyes flicker to you every so often, curiosity lingering in the air.
Pursing your lips, you lift a hand to fill your plate, a sharp twinge in your back protesting the movement, your hand shaking slightly. Azriel gently reaches, bringing you hand back down with a smile beginning to fill your plate for you.
You haven't told him of your condition. You are sure he already suspects something, with his sharp eyes and his shadows constantly observing and swirling around you, but you haven't brought yourself to tell him. Each time you consider it, fear grips your heart, memories of past relationships, some romantic others not, flood your mind. People don't tend to stick around long after finding out.
You haven't burdened him with the knowledge of the mating bond either, not willing to trap him in a relationship he would not want. He claims to loves you, and a part of you believes he means it, but you had heard those words before from people who left. And there is a part of you that thinks you could not live with his rejection, especially not after having him these past months. So, you don't tell him, letting the bond fester angerly in your chest, begging to make itself known
After a moment, Azriel angles the plate towards you slightly. "Anything else you want?" he asks softly, unheard by the rest of the table. The plate is filled with your favorite dishes, a small flush creeping up your neck at the thought of him making sure they would be served for you.
Slowly, you shake your head, offering a small smile, careful not to further aggravate your already flaring muscles along your spine. Today had been hard; the patient you were seeing had developed a heart condition during her pregnancy and required more frequent check-ins with both you and a healer. It was a rare condition, but not unheard of. One that the healer you are working with from the Dawn Court, Sira, had delt with a few times and believed the mother would make a full recovery in the years following the birth. But, it meant you were running around more than normal on the days of your check-ins to escort the healer through the city, and your body was rebelling against you as a result.
Azriel puts the plate back in front of you before filling his own and pouring a glass of water for each of you. "No wine tonight, Az?" Morrigan teases, taking a sip of hers. Your flush grows, eyes dropping to your plate. Whether it's because he wants to keep his wits about him or because he doesn't want you to feel alone not drinking, he wasn't drinking wine, or any alcohol, because of you. You never asked him to, and you would be fine if he does, but the guilt over his decision worms its way inside your heart anyway.
The male in question doesn't dignify the ask with a response, just raises his eyebrows and taking a pointed drink of his water. Nesta scoffs across the table, taking a drink of her own glass, while the High Lady chuckles lightly, placing a torn up piece of bread in front of the princeling.
"So," Amren speaks up, swirling the red liquid in her glass, her silver eyes locked on you and you fought to withhold a shiver, "how did you two meet?"
The discussions around the table tapper off as everyone turns to watch you and Azriel. Looking to the male out of the corner of your eye, you gently place the still clean silverware back in their places, hands clasping together in your lap. Azriel glances your way, a gently smile pulling on his lips and one of his hands reaches out to grab yours. "We took over her appointment in Madja's clinic," he explains simply, gesturing vaguely towards the High Lord and the General, but his eyes remain on you. "I offered to buy her a drink to make up for it." His voice softens as a small smile pulls at your lips, your eyes dropping to your untouched plate.
A hum echoes through the room, the High Lord's head tilting slightly. "How long have you lived in Velaris?"
You swallow thickly, trying to keep your heart steady and your focus on Azriel's thumb moving absentmindedly against the back of your hand. "Sin- since I was a child, High Lord," you answer softly.
"Oh, you can call him Rhys," the High Lady says gently. "No need to be so formal and he certainly doesn't need the ego boost." You look up hesitantly to see Feyre gently elbow her mate, who smiles fondly back at her. There's a shift in his eyes, when he turns back to you, a hardness creping in that makes your skin crawl.
Smiling weakly, you just nod, opting to look back down at your plate. Carefully, you squeeze Azriel's hand, the rough texture grounding you and the shadows immediately swarm up your legs and into your lap, twirling around your hands, offering their quiet support. A few wrapping around to your back, placing gentle pressure on a particularly sore part of your lower spine, and you extend the fingers of your freehand, twining with them in gratitude.
"You're a healer too, right?" Nesta asks, pushing the food around her plate. Your brows furrow, eyes flickering to hers. "Az mentioned you were seeing one of your patients today," she explains quickly, offering a reassuring smile.
"Oh," you breathe, glancing to Azriel, who nods. "No, not exactly. I, um… I'm a midwife."
The table stills, an uneasy silence falling over the room, broken only by the prince's giggling, throwing some of his bread and cooked carrots onto the floor. Your heart thunders and you force yourself to not shift in your seat, the ache in your back already starting to build. Azriel squeezes your hand, leaning just fraction closer to you. Amren hums, taking another up of her wine.
You are aware that the High Lady had… complications during her pregnancy. Almost all of Velaris had heard of how she died, or nearly died, giving birth to her son, only to be saved by her eldest sister negotiating with the Cauldron itself to save her life and that of the young price.
"A midwife?" the High Lord asks, voice dropping slightly.
You couldn't stop yourself from shifting this time, your eyes closing at the sharp pain shooting up your spine. "Yes," you confirm in a whisper.
Rhysand's eyes narrow, looking you over. "And you have been in Velaris since you were a child?" he clarifies, not impolitely, but there was an edge to his voice. A lump catches in your throat, eyes once again locked on your plate as you nod. The High Lord hums thoughtfully. "I don't remember speaking with any midwives in Velaris during Feyre's pregnancy."
"Oh, um…" you start, gaze flickering to Azriel and he nods again, eyes staying on you as Feyre shifts uncomfortably in the corner of your eye. "We- we weren't consulted," you admit softly, eyes lowering again. "I offered my services to Madja when I heard she was researching for the High Lady's pregnancy, but she refused my assistance."
Morrigan leans forward. "Why would she do that?"
Pursing your lips, you straighten in your seat, hoping to ease the sharp ache in your lower spine that continues to grow despite the shadows gentle massage. "I- uh, I don't know," you answer softly. You weren't lying, not really, but there was a reason you no longer consulted the old healer for your patients, even if you were stuck seeing her for your condition. "She just said that she had it handled and refused to hear of it again." Her angry words still echo in your head somedays.
Leaning back in his chair, the High Lord studies you, wine in hand. "And what would you have done?"
"W-what?" you ask, brows furrowing, slowly looking towards him, while keeping your eyes respectfully low.
"Rhys," Feyre murmurs gently, a warning in her voice.
"You claim you offered to help," the High Lord says, not taking his eyes off you. "You obviously heard something about the pregnancy, so what would you have done differently if we had hired you?"
An uncomfortable silence blankets the space, even Nyx quiets, his big blue eyes looking around the room confused. "I- I wasn't there," you attempt to reason, eyes flickering between the High Lord, High Lady, and Azriel. "I don't know all of the… uh, the details. I won't be able to say with any certainty."
The High Lord simply shrugs. "To the best of your knowledge," he prompts.
Azriel leans closer to you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand, the shadows swirling up and down your back lightly. You look to him, eyes wide, heart pounding. "You don't have to answer," he says gently, but loud enough for the table to hear. Your mouth opens, drawing a shaky breath while Azriel's gaze flickers to the High Lord and hardens. His hazel eyes are soft when they meet yours again and you can see the sincerity behind them, but also his curiosity. And, honestly, you are a bit surprised he hasn't asked sooner.
"Okay," you breathe shakily, licking your lips. Eyes falling back to your place, but you barely see it as your mind combs through all the information you heard about the High Lady's pregnancy, separating facts from fiction from rumors, most of it rumors. Your eyes close, a wave of pain emanating from your lower back rolls through your body. "Okay," you repeat slightly louder, eyes opening again, trying to ignore the scrutinizing gazes surrounding you.
Taking a slow, deep breath, you let yourself fall back on your decades of training. "From what I heard, it sounds like the majority of the complications were from… um, from the wings, is that correct?"
"Yes," Rhysand answers taking a sip of his wine.
"Okay, um…" you take a second, recalling your mentor's teachings on Illyrian pregnancies and anatomy. "How far along did you find out about the wings? If you don't mind me asking?"
"About two months," Feyre says, voice almost as soft as yours.
Nodding, you lick your lips. "And, uh, I also heard you have the ability to shapeshift in a way similar to the noble fae of the Spring Court, is that right?"
"Yes," Feyre replies slowly.
"No," Rhysand snaps loudly. You flinch, eyes closing again as another wave crashes over you your empty stomach roiling with nausea. Azriel's shadows rise around you and his grip on your hand tightens, your freehand moving to cover his, keeping him from pulling away. "Madja said any alterations to Feyre's body could've put Nyx at risk."
Your mouth parts slightly, shoulders dropping barely an inch from where they had curled into your ears. Brows furrowing, your eyes open, moving over the table, thoughts racing through your head. "Madja has experience with the pregnancies of shapeshifting fae?" you whisper, more to yourself. There aren't many shapeshifting fae in Velaris and, to your knowledge, they all come to either you or Eda for their pregnancies, or to Priya before her death.
You are only vaguely aware of the looks being shared around the table before the attention returns to you. "Do you?" Nesta asks.
Slowly, you nod. "There are many species of fae who can shapeshift to some degree, with the way the magic changes the body different for each. If Madja is unfamiliar with any shapeshifting pregnancies, or only has experience with some of the more… well, violet shapeshifting magic that's native to the Night Court, I can understand her concern. But, if the High Lady's is more similar to those High Fae in Spring…" you trail off, pursing your lips.
"All magic has its risks, shapeshifting is no different," you conceded with a small nod to the High Lord, but you barely register the action. "Even under the best circumstances, there's always a risk, however small. That early on in the pregnancy though, with the more fluid change of the Spring Court's magic, especially changing into a similar form, the additional risk would have been minimal to both mother and child," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Several sharp intakes of breath echo around the room. You glance over to Azriel who's watching you, eyes wide in awe. "I- uh," you stammer, a flush rising on your cheeks. "I would have consulted with a midwife native to Spring, since they deal with this type of magic more often," you continue, eyes returning forward. "After confirming with them, assuming they agreed, I would have had the High Lady shift as early in the pregnancy as possible, in a controlled environment, with both myself and a healer present in the unlikely event of a complication."
"And," Feyre begins quietly, "you're sure it wouldn't have harmed him?" she asks, a hand resting on the princeling's back.
"Um," you purse your lips again, eyes dropping to your lap, brows furrowing as possibilities race through your mind. "Sin-since you would have been shifting from High Fae to Illyrian, that in and of itself lowers many of the risks of the shift. The same magic that keeps your heart, brain, and other organs functioning through a shift would have been employed to protect the child, even without conscious effort. And the shift would have resulted in more room for the child to develop. So, if my understanding of the Spring Court's shifting magic is correct, then the likelihood of any harm coming to you or him, my lady, would have been very low."
Azriel squeezes your hand lightly, an uneasy silence filling the dining room. Slowly, you turn back to him, your eyes wide. His lips twitch into a soft smile, even as you watch a war of emotions behind his eyes. Anger, confusion, and grief all seem to try to make a home there, but all outshone by a look of awe, wonder, and price as he looks at you. Your flush deepens, head ducking to look back at your lap, your own smile pulling at your lips.
"If that is the case," the General asks slowly, breaking you out of the quiet moment, "what do you think caused the early labor?"
Your gaze flicks up to him, your smile fading. "Oh… um. There are three main differences between the reproductive systems of a female High Fae and a female Illyrian," you recite. "The pelvis is larger to accommodate the wide birth canal. The womb itself is larger as well, for the wings, and…" you trail off, looking around the table. "Um, as the wings develop, the bones, including the talons, are some of the first parts of the appendage to form, and the talons form… sharp. Illyrian females have multiple additional protective inner linings along their wombs and birth canal to protect against them."
Your eyes landed back on your plate, fingers tangling in the opposite sleeves. Azriel's finger flex in your hand, and the small amount of magic you have rises without prompting. There is no glow to your healing magic, it's not strong enough for that, but it is enough to ease the stiffness in his muscles, to soothe the tender nerves. His fingers relax in your grip, his thumb beginning its soothing circles again. The shadows curl around you in gratitude.
"If I had to guess," you continue softly, "the High Lady's womb was not large enough to hold the wings and with the lack of the protective linings the talons would have been rubbing against the walls of the womb, likely causing no small amount of tears. The body would have known something was wrong and did what it could to get whatever was harming it out, triggering the early labor. Then the wings got stuck in the birth canal and it just made the problem worse."
"So," Morrigan starts, voice low, a dangerous edge lurking in it, "theoretically, if Feyre had shifted when we first learned about the wings…" she trails off, eyes locked on you.
Taking a deep breath, you nod. "Theoretically," you say so quietly it's almost a whisper, "she would have had a normal pregnancy."
The air in the room stilled at the pronouncement. The only movement comes from Nyx twisting in his chair and the shadows. Your lips purse, hands tightening around Azriel's. A part of you wishes you hadn't said anything, had let them believe that what happened was the inevitable. To forget the conversations whispered between you and Eda after one of the few times you worked together to help with a delivery. But, at the same time, you know lying wouldn't help, it would have only made whatever this meal is becoming something far worse.
Your heart beats wildly in your chest, your body begging you to shift in your seat, to find a position to ease the pain licking its way up your spine. You stay still, years of experience teaching you that moving won't help much, if at all, instead possibly making it worse. The shadows rush along your back, placing gentle pressure along the worst of the pain, while others tangle themselves with your legs and finger, a few running up your arms to play with your hair.
Azriel shifts closer to you, the warmth of his body, from a wing partially extending behind you, is grounding, comforting. His body is stiff, tension spilling from him, and everyone else in the room.
You can see them all in your periphery, but you don't dare to look. Amren regards you thoughtfully, her glass of wine resting against one of her cheeks. Morrigan purses her lips, eyes focused on you, taking long slow breaths. Nesta grips Cassian's hand tightly, her knuckles white, but her mate doesn't seem to notice. Feyre reaches for Nyx, hugging him gently in her lap. And Rhysand…
The High Lord glares at you, a quiet fury burning in his violet eyes. "Liar," he hisses, putting his glass down with a deafening thud. You flinch, forcing your eyes shut, your back flaring as your muscles tense. "You're lying. If the solution was really so simple we would have known."
The High Lord's anger fills the room, the glasses and plates shaking. Your breath comes in short shallow breaths, shoulders coming up to your ears as you curl in on yourself. Azriel moves closer to you as the High Lady says softly: "Rhys." Her voice hard, condemnation echoing in her single word. Gently, Azriel pulls his hand from yours wrapping his arm around you, the shadows moving frantically over you.
"I don't think she is," Morrigan says quietly, the words ringing through the room.
The High Lord stiffens, gaze flickering between his cousin and you. His chair creaks as he leans back. "Fine, you believe you're telling the truth," he concedes, words clipped. "But, what of your relationship with the Dawn Court?"
The tension in the room eases, slightly, your eyes opening, brows furrow along with everyone else. Amrem scoffs, rolling her eyes. "All healers have a 'relationship' with Dawn," she drawls into her wine. "An occupational hazard. It shouldn't be surprising if a midwife does too."
"Not all healers have private meetings with the High Lord of Dawn, and certainly not all midwives," Rhysand pauses, watching the blood drain from your face, eyes widening. "Did you think I wouldn't remember, or just wouldn't realize?" he taunts.
Pain rushes through you, your body shifting before you could think and gods everything hurts. Your shake your head, hands coming to pick at your fingernails again. Azriel tenses next to you, adjusting in his seat to face the High Lord. "Rhysand," he warns lowly.
"What are you talking about?" Cassian asks at the same time.
Rhysand smirks. "Was it three weeks ago, when I went to Dawn to renegotiate the trade deal for copper? They had me wait because Thesan was already in a meeting—"
"Gods forbid," Nesta mutters, taking a sip of her water, hand still clutching her mate's.
Rhysand continues like he didn't hear her. "—and when he was done, he was accompanied out of his office by you. Looking like you were having a very serious discussion."
Your heart pounds in your ears, gaze flickering to Azriel. You remember that meeting, of course you do. You had gone to Dawn for only a few hours to speak with Sira, wanting to get more information about a specific side effect plaguing your patient. And while you were there, you asked if they had any information on your condition. Word spread fast in the archives of Dawn and before you really understood what was happening, High Lord Thesan had come to speak with you, taking you back to his office to have a more private discussion.
"I- I was in Dawn seeking advice on a condition for one of my patients," you manage to say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes focusing on where you are picking at your nail beds.
"And that got the attention of the High Lord?" Morrigan asks, doubtfully.
"It- um, I," you stammer, glancing at Azriel who is staring daggers at Rhysand. "The condition I was looking into is very rare. Only six recorded cases… or, um, seven now. It caught the High Lord's—"your eyes flicker to Rhysand, his body tense"—I- I mean the Lord Thesan's attention."
A careful hum echoes through the room. "And what condition is that?" the High Lord asks.
You take a shaky breath. "I- I can't… I'm not supposed to say," you whisper, glancing at Azriel again. Gods, this is going to be how he finds out, isn't it? Then, of course he'll leave; to have a parter perpetually broken was bad enough, but to find out about it in this humiliating way? He will never want to see your face again and a part of you wouldn't blame him.
"Because Thesan told you not to," Rhysand concludes, his tone final.
"What? N-no!" you breathe. A painful shiver begins in your stomach, your breathing shallow as it spreads through your body.
"Rhys," Azriel interjects with a growl, voice hard. "That's enough."
"If she's having secret meetings with a foreign High Lord I have every right to question her," Rhysand declares.
Azriel's wings flare, one wrapping protectively around you. The shadows flicker, rising to encompass you, to protect you, but you barely feel them with your pain-filled shivers. "Why? Because you think she's a spy?"
"Maybe," Rhys responds with a shrug.
Your vision blurs, the edges darkening as you gasp for breath. "But- but I'm not. I- I would never- I just went to research–"
"Why should we believe you?" Morrigan asks, her voice gentle, but aloof. "If you can't tell us what you were researching."
Your shaking hands come up to your neck, applying a slight pressure you are barely aware of. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I- I can't…"
"Rhys, stop," Feyre orders shakily.
Hot tears spill over your eye line, burning your cheeks where they fall. "I'm sorry," you repeat, looking over to Azriel who was still staring down Rhysand. "I-I don't understand. What did I do wrong?" you breathe, because you had to have done something wrong; why else would the High Lord be after you like this? The only things you can think of is not telling them about your condition or the mating bond, but it wasn't wrong to keep those to yourself, was it? No, no they were right; you should have told Azriel right away so he wouldn't have wasted his time on you. It was stupid and selfish and wrong, wrong, wrong–
Azriel's head jerks to you, your body curling forward, sobs wracking your frame. "No, no. Y/N," Az breaths, quickly getting out of his seat and kicking it away so he can kneel next to you. Pulling your chair out, the shadows bracing you so you don't fall, he turns the chair to face him and he gently grabs your hands. "You didn't do anything wrong," he whispers softly.
You shake your head, your whole body screaming, the pain only making the tears come faster. "I'm s-so-sorry. I'm sorry," you continue to breathe.
Gently, oh so gently, arms wrap around you, gathering you into his firm chest, the scent of mist and cedar filling your lungs. The feel of your mate's arms and his scent around you instantly calms your tears, even as you continue to shake in his hold. "You didn't do anything wrong," he repeats, voice thick. Slowly, he stands, his shadows swirling restlessly about him, itching to get you out. "We're leaving," he says simply, walking towards the door.
"Az, you can't shield her from this," Rhysand calls, his chair screeching against the floor as he stands. "She needs to answer–"
A low growl thunders through the room, cutting off the High Lord. Azriel turns to face his brother, baring his teeth. You whimper softly, some residual anger flowing down the mostly dormant bond. Azriel stops at once, dropping his nose to the top of your head, shushing you gently and leaving tender kisses against your hair, continuing through the River House.
He stops only once to grab your work bag before walking into the night-chilled spring air, letting the shadows surround you both.
You are only somewhat aware when the shadows deposit you and Azriel outside of your apartment building. A small, run down place, one of the units has a hole in the wall from when the attors attacked the city that was never fixed. It was a miracle the building was still standing, much less has people living in it, but it was the cheapest place to rent in the city and all you could afford.
Shame washes over you as Azriel enters the building, keeping his steps light, as it always does when Azriel visits your apartment. You knew Azriel hates this place, that you live here, but he never mentioned it to you, not directly. Just another reason the bond had to be a mistake; how could the Spymaster's mate live in such a place?
Climbing the stairs, Azriel whispers soft words into your hair, but you can't make out the words. Hot tears burn your cheeks even through your sobs have subsided. Azriel's arms tighten around you when one step creaks dangerously beneath him.
It does not take long for him to reach your door, gently setting you down, his hands remain, one on your waist the other your arm, to steady you on your wobbling legs. Clasping your work bag in shaky hands, you slowly move back a few steps, out of his grasp, fixing your eyes on the floor in front of him. Still, you don't miss the hurt and panic flashing across his face.
"I am so sorry, my love," Azriel whispers. Your arms wrap around your middle, Azriel's shadows slowly approaching you. "I'll talk with them."
"It's okay," you respond shakily. Your body tense to keep the pain-filled shivers at bay, which just aggravates your muscles in a different, but more familiar way.
The shadows lunge for you as Azriel's face crumbles. "No," he says fiercely, taking a step towards you. "No, it's not." You take a step back, against every instinct in your body begging you to go to him, you keep your distance. Azriel stops immediately, wings twitching at his back. "Y/N, look at me," he pleads, voice breaking, "please."
You take a shuddering breath, your mind at war with itself. You have no right to, you know that. Why should he want you to, a pour, barely educated female who can barely afford one of the worst apartments in the city. Weak, both physically and magically; how could you possibly be his mate, his equal? He should want nothing to do with you, even before knowing about your condition. You barely deserve being in the same room as him. But, at the same time, he was your mate and there have been a few occasions after a bad day that just seeing him made you feel better. And he was asking, that has to count for something, right?
Slowly, you look up, forcing your eyes to meet his, blurry through your tears, breathing sharp. "You didn't do anything wrong," he assures you, voice so gentle. "I promise. Not today, not in Dawn." you nod jerkily, wincing at the sharp pain shooting down your spine, a constant reminder of your unworthiness.
"I- I love you," he breathes, conviction filling the words, his hands flexing at his sides, one almost reaching out. The shadows curl around you, whispering in a language you will never know.
Your eyes shut tight, forcing fresh tears to stain your cheeks, lips pursing as your head falls forward. Stifling a sob, you force yourself to nod again. There was no way he meant it, not truly. How could he after the way his family, his brothers, reacted to you.
The lump in your throat kept you from saying anything for a long moment and you slowly fish you key from your bag. "You- you should go back," you breathe, fiddling with the key in your hand, turning to unlock the door, "be with your family."
"What? No. And leave you alone?" Azriel asks, brows furrowing, wings twitching as he glances around the hallway.
Your door opens with a loud creak, heat rushing to your face as it sticks at several points until the opening is large enough for you to slide through. "Yo-you will have a better time with them than with me," you insist, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. It had to be true, you were just going to down one of Madja's potions that do next to nothing and lay in bed, ignoring your hunger, and praying for sleep to take you away. His family would be much better company, even on your best day, especially without you there to ruin it.
"Y/N," he breathes, taking a single step forwards before stopping himself. "I want to be with you," he argues. "If… if you don't want me here, I'll leave, but," he swallows thickly, "but, I don't want to go."
You shake your head, turning towards him through the opening of the door, keeping your eyes on the floor. "Please," you beg, voice tick with tears, "don't lie to me."
"I'm not," he says quickly, panic setting in and you can see tears lining his eyes in your periphery. "I swear on my shadows, on my life, I'm not lying. Please."
Biting the inside of your cheek, more tears fill your eyes. Slowly, you inch the door closed. "I'll, um… I'll see you in the morning for the Valkyrie training," you say softly. Best to get it over with, not that you will be welcomed there anymore, not after the dinner. "Good night, Az."
It takes a few seconds for you to close the door all the way and slide the lock into place. Leaning your head against the door, a sob escapes your lips. Your body finally giving out, it was all you could do to control your fall to your knees, the landing jarring every bit of pain in your body. You bring a hand to your mouth, smothering the sobs.
Through the door, you can hear Azriel, his breath stuttering. "Good night, beloved."
———
Azriel always prided himself on control; over his body, mind, magic, shadows, especially over his emotions. After spending the beginning of his life with no control over anything, it is not something he takes for granted. After five hundred years, Azriel considers himself a master. But, hearing you fall to the ground, sobbing on the other side of that door, his control snaps.
Leaving a few shadows to watch over you, he recalls the rest, wrapping them around himself to step through and back to the front door of the River House. He marches inside, anger boiling beneath his skin, his shadows screaming at him to make the people who hurt you pay.
He enters the sitting room in a storm of shadows, the same one he had spent hours in earlier, anxiously waiting for your arrival. Now, it’s the room his family had moved to, their conversations ceasing when he enters, not that he'd be able to hear any of it over the roaring in his ears.
They watching him carefully as he takes them in. Nesta sitting on Cassian's lap in an arm chair, his arms wrapped around her. Amren sitting across from them, wine still in hand. Mor sits perched on the armrest of the couch while Rhys and Feyre stand closest to the doorway, Nyx sat on Feyre's hip. Azriel is just barely able to keep his shadows from strangling the High Lord, barely.
"Az–" Rhys starts.
"Tell me, Rhysand," Azriel interrupts, voice low and deceptively calm, "do you think me incompetent?"
Rhys' brows furrow, inhaling sharply. "What? No, of course not."
Azriel takes a careful step forward, hands clenching into fists at his side. "Then did you think that I was not aware of her visit to the Dawn Court? Or of her meeting with Thesan?" Rhys opens his mouth to respond, but Azriel cuts him off with a snarl. "Did you not think that there was a shadow with her the entire time?" His shadows grow around him, swirling frantically, the faelights seeming to dim in response.
Rhys freezes, eyes widening, bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. Everyone stares at Azriel, eyeing the shadows carefully. They have only rarely seen this side of their Spymaster, he knows, and never directed at them.
"She told me about her trip to Dawn days before it happened. She told me she met with Thesan when I first saw her after she returned. And my shadow confirmed their conversation," he growls looking around the room. It is a slight exaggeration; while the shadows did confirm the reason Thesan sought you out was in regards to a condition you were researching, they kept the confidentiality that you always stressed, keeping both the specific condition and the patient's identity from him, but Azriel didn't mind. He trusts his shadows will tell him any information that could affect or jeopardize the court, and he trusts you implicitly.
"Do you think I don't know about Thesan's spies in this court? In this city?" he continues, voice dropping, taking another step towards his brother, wings flaring wide. "I know their names, their aliases, their movements, what they ate for dinner, what they are doing this very moment. Did you think I would bring one to the very heart of this court?" The room is silent, no one dares to draw a breath, save for Nyx, watching his uncle with tear filled eyes, burrowing into his mother's chest. "I'll ask again, High Lord. Do you think I am unfit for my job?"
Azriel's heart pounds in his chest, his skin tight. Eyes locked with Rhysand's, he forces himself to take few deep breaths through his nose. His wings twitch where they are extended, jaw clenched. Rhysand doesn't move, blinking slowly, licking his lips, looking as calm and composed as normal. But, Azriel knows his brother better, he can hear Rhys' thundering heart, can see the small bead of sweat forming on his brow.
"She didn't tell the truth though, Az," Mor says quietly, as if speaking to a dangerous animal.
Azriel's gaze snaps to where she's perched, his lips pull back in a snarl. "But she did, she just didn't tell you everything, which is her right," he spits, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. "She agreed to come to a nice cordial dinner. She did not agree to be questioned about her work, her expertise, and certainly did not agree to be interrogated about a research trip she took, one I had full knowledge of! Why should she have told you anything?"
"Az–" Rhys tries.
"I have spent the better part of this past year trying to convince Y/N she's worth my time. That she deserves love and attention, and something good. And now… now she won't even look me in the eye because she doesn't think she has the right to." Azriel's voice cracks, the worst of his anger bleeding out as he speaks, wings sagging. The shadows slow, returning to dance around him in an attempt at comfort. "Now, she won't let me stay and comfort her because she doesn't feel worthy of my presence." He whispers the last bit, a part of him can still feel her insecurity, her self-deprecation, like it is his own.
No one responds as he looks around the room, meeting each of their eyes. "I trusted you, all of you." The words are whispers, but they land hard. Rhysand stumbles back a step. Feyre takes a shaky breath, tears lining her cheeks. Cassian and Nesta hold each other tighter.
Scoffing, Azriel turns to the door, to head back to you. You might not want him there, might not feel worthy, but something in him needs to be near you, to know you are safe. Even if that means keeping quiet vigil outside through the night.
He pauses at the threshold, turning his head slightly, enough so his words will carry through the room. "If I lose her because of this," he says softly, raising his eyes to Rhysand's, the promise echoing through his words, "I will kill you."
Summary: When an emergency causes the Inner Circle to crash into Madja's clinic, they unknowingly take over your appointment. Azriel, infatuated by your quiet beauty, wants to make it up to you
Hi everyone! This is my first time posting my writing… anywhere really. We'll see how this goes. This is being posted on my side blog, might add my main one here (which is currently comprised exclusively of reblogs) but for now, I kind of want to keep this on a clean blog.
Also, I am notorious for switching back and forth between present and past tense in my writing for some reason. I tried to clear it up as much as possible, but if you do see it… pretend you don't 😁
Word Count: a little less than 6K
Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species 😊), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, angst (my fav!), minor descriptions of blood but nothing too bad.
Possibility of one or two more parts, but can be read as a one-shot
Part 2
————
Closing your eyes, you forced yourself to breathe through the deep ache emanating from your bones, seeping into your muscles, washing over your body. A pain that has followed you your whole life. Glancing up at the clock in Madja's small waiting room, you urged the time to go faster.
Madja had been the one to diagnose you when you were a child with an exceedingly rare chronic illness that effects your spine and muscles in your back. Manageable, mostly, but the constant pain from your condition was unavoidable, with only a few tonics having been proven effective at easing the pain… slightly. Your parents, who owned a small farm outside of Velaris, left in the middle of the night after receiving the news. Madja tried for weeks to return you to them, but was unsuccessful and eventually brought you to an orphanage on the outskirts of the city. The healer still saw you and continued to treat your condition at no cost, at least until you got a job, but felt she was in no place to raise a child.
Even now, decades later, you were still dependent on the healer and her tonics to allow you to function. Five more minutes, according to the clock, then you can get your medicine, go home, lay in bed and not move for a few hours.
A loud crash echoes outside, making you jump in your seat. The door burst open, shadows spilling into the building and a deep male voice shouts for Madja, the sound sending chills down your spine.
Two males appear out of the newfound darkness, one with huge dark wings protruding from his back, dark blue gems glowing on his chest, knees, shoulders, and wrists. The other male you recognize from your time orphanage; the High Lord used to visit the small building each year before donating money to the owners. If only he knew where the money had truly gone.
The High Lord shouts for the healer and your eyes fell to the limp form slung between the two males, similar dark wings hung limply behind him, the red stones adorning his leathers dull. You had heard enough stories of the High Lord's Inner Circle to recognize the Spymaster and General, although it was the first time you have seen either of them. Your eyes were drawn to the spymaster, Azriel, as the shadows dance frantically around his form.
Emerging through the doorway, Madja's eyes widen at the sight of the lifeless Illyrian, wasting no time ushering them into the back. You remain frozen, eager to stay out of the way. Something pulls in your chest as the Shadowsinger moved to drag his friend forward, following the healer. It pulls and tightens until it glows in your chest.
A small gasp left your lips, the sound lost in the chaos. He disappears behind the door you crumple forward, pain radiating through your back from the pull of the bond. The mating bond. A gift so rare it might as well be legend, but none of the stories you heard described the bond as painful. A hot of tear rolls down your cheek, body shaking to fight back a sob.
There is no way he would want you, bond or no. He's the spymaster for the High Lord, some say the two, along with the General, are as close as brothers. He's the Shadowsinger, one of the most powerful Illyrians in history. And you… you were a broken, weak, uneducated orphan whose own parents abandoned you as soon as they found out. The Mother must be cruel to think he could even want you. That you were his equal.
Focusing on your breathing, you refuse to let your emotions overwhelm you, at least not in public. It takes a few minutes, but you regain control of your breathing and slowly uncurl yourself to sit up.
Wiping the tears from your cheeks, your gaze catches on a swarm of black shadows emerging from the door to the back, followed closely by the Shadowsinger himself, running a gloved hand over his face with a sigh. Your breath catches, studying him for a moment. He's beautiful, even covered in blood, sweat, and dirt, your heart leaps at the sight of him. His golden skin glows in the evening light flooding through the window, dark hair drenched in sweat clung to his forehead. His massive wings tucked in tightly to his muscular body. The world seemed to go silent around him, his shadows calmer than before, swirl throughout the room.
Opening his hazel eyes, they lock on yours, widening slightly. Heat rose from your neck and onto your checks, and you quickly advert your eyes. Slowly, he looks back through the door, still partially propped open, almost ... sheepishly.
"Sorry we took over your appointment," he says softly, moving further into the waiting area, closer to you, his size seemed to take over the room.
Hesitantly, you glance up, cheeks flaring as your eyes caught once again. "No need," you respond quietly, barely above a whisper, just as a low groan echoed from the back followed by Madja's calm voice ordering people around. "Looks like your friend needs it more than I do." Your spine flared with pain as you spoke, but you hold back the grimace that threatened to emerge with practiced ease.
Still, the Shadowsinger shifts closer, offering a small smile. "May I sit here?" he asks, gesturing to the seat across from you.
Glancing up, you nod, the movement more of a jerk, sending sharp pain shooting down your neck. Letting out along breath he collapses into the chair that was too small for him and definitely not built for wings.
Hands clutched in your lap, you manage to keep your eyes on him this time. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind, an easy smile lighting up is face. "What's your name?"
Your voice caught in your throat for a moment, mouth opening silently. "Uh… Y/N."
He hums quietly, studying your face. "I'm Azriel."
"I know," You say. His eyebrows rose slightly and you swore your face couldn't get any warmer. "The, uh, shadows gave it away," you admit, voice barely a whisper, gaze dropping once again.
Azriel chuckles softly, leaning back into the too small chair. "They tend to do that," he mutters, glaring at the swirling darkness playfully. Your lips tug upward, and he leans his head against the wall behind him closing his eyes.
You allow yourself a second to admire him, now that no one was around and he wasn't looking. This male, your mate. You had heard stories, of course, about the fearsome Shadowsinger, the High Lord's ruthless Spymaster. Even in Velars, where it's common knowledge these stories are exaggerated and that he would only my act like that with the Night Court's enemies, they persist. But sitting in that too small chair, head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, he didn't seem like the same person as the stories, the male whose very presence can scare people into spilling their darkest secrets. He just seemed... like a male; a beautiful male beyond compare who could use a good night's rest, but still a male.
The corners of his mouth twitch up, and you knew that he, somehow, knew you were looking. Probably thanks to the shadows now swirling against your legs. But he didn't stop you, only shifted, spreading his wings slightly wider behind him in a way that was definitely more uncomfortable, almost like he was showing off.
"Y/N!" a shrill voice called out, drawing your attention to the short tree nymph in healers garb standing in the doorway, bag in hand. Azriel's eyes snap open, body stiffening as he takes in the healer, Melina. She stalks over and you stand slowly, barely making it to your feet before she shoved the bag into your chest. "Here," she spits out. You stumble back, the ache in your bores becoming sharp, shooting down your spine and legs.
Clutching the bag, you fall back into your chair, closing your eyes to contain a wince. Melina has been one of Madja's assistants for a few decades. You had met her during her first week of her working for the older healer and have put up with her temperament ever since. It was about what you deserve, you had concluded long ago, since you tended to make everyone's lives harder. Madja sitting back and doing nothing about it only further nailed the point home.
Opening your eyes, you peered into the bag. Melina already stomping away. Scanning the vials inside your eyebrows furrowed. "Where are the-"
"Oh, for Caudron's sake," Melina curses, stopping in the doorway, head tilted to the sky. "It's all can give you without interrupting Madja," she explains slowly, turning backs to face you.
Your cheeks heat as she speaks to you like a child, looking down on you as if you are an idiot. Tears bristle in your eyes. "But this isn't enough for-"
"Well it's all you're going to get," she hisses.
"If I need to wait for Madja, I can -"
"We're busy, Y/N," Melina snaps. "Mother are you really so stupid? The General is dying and you're taking up my time when I should be helping," she growls, slamming the door behind her.
A hot tear burns your cheek as you clutch the bag to your chest. Gods, Melina was right, as she tended to be. You had seen the General's limp form, his blood still stained the floor and Azriel's leathers, the stench of death hung in the air.
You glance at your mate, face burning with shame. This is now you introduce yourself? His first impression of you? Taking away resources from his dying friend, his brother. At some point, Azriel had sat up straight and he now stares at the closed door, shadows eerily still around him, face carefully blank. What does he think of you now?
"I'm sorry," you whisper, arms tightening around the bag of medicine serving as your shield.
Azriel's eyes snap to you, head turning so fast you wonder how it didn't hurt. "What?" he barely breathed the word. You expected malice, anger, disgust, not the disbelief that floods his tone, the shock breaking through his mask.
A sharp hot pain twists in your gut, one not from your condition, but still one you know all too well. "Your friend is hurt," you explain weakly, eyes dropping to the floor, missing how his widen, "and I-"
"She shouldn't have spoken to you like that," he mutters, shadows beginning to dance around him once again, their movements choppier than before. A fierceness enters his eyes, his face, sending painful shivers down your spine.
Exhaustion seeps into your muscles, settling next to the constant ache that only seemed to be getting worse. You tried to shrug, but your muscles refuse to cooperate. "She's right," you sigh.
His gaze softens and out of the corner of your eye you could almost see him force himself to release the tension in his shoulders. "No, she's not," he insists, voice soft. You tense; it has been a long time since someone spoke to you so softly, and the last person who did... you suppress a shudder at the thought. "You have every right to see a healer when you need to. It's on us for barging in," he continues.
"Your friend was hurt," you reason, voice barely a whisper. "I'll live." He sucks in a breath, a few of his shadows resuming their dance around your legs.
"That doesn't make it okay," he counters. "And it certainly doesn't justify the way she spoke to you."
Twin streaks make their way down your checks you force yourself to stand. "It's fine," you whisper, turning to leave. "Good evening."
"Wait," he calls standing up so quickly the chair almost fell over. You tense as he approaches and he stops immediately, slowly opening his gloved hands. Pain rolled through your tense muscles while you turned your head to him. "Let me make it up to you."
Eyebrows furrowing, you half turn back to face him. "What?"
A soft blush graces his cheeks, but he didn't faulter. "Let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do."
Your gaze flickers to the window, the sun having just disappeared behind the buildings moments ago. "N-now?" you ask, staring at him with wide eyes.
Azriel glances down at his leathers, still covered in blood and dirt, and gives you a sheepish grin. "Maybe tomorrow?"
Your month opens, prepared to turn him down, but you hesitate. He was asking you for a drink. Your mate was asking you out for a drink. A part of you knew a relationship between you would never work, not with you being as you are. But you would be foolish to turn him down, to forfeit the chance to get to know him before he found out about your condition and left, like all of your previous romances, like everyone else in your life. Your spine throbbed as if to remind you. Even though you don't drink alcohol, you could suffer through one night if it meant being with your mate.
"Okay," you hear yourself whisper.
A dazzling smile broke out on his face. "Okay," he confirms, nodding once. "There's a cafe in the Palace of Hoof and Leaf, The Ever Brew. Have you heard of it?" You couldn't help the sigh of relief that escapes you as you nodded. A cafe, not a bar. "Good, I'll meet you there at three?"
Shifting the bag in your hands, the weak muscles in your arms already protesting carrying it, you nod, a smile forming on your lips. "Three o'clock. I'll, uh, see you then."
——
Cassian was dying and that was all Az could think about as Rhys winnowed them to Velaris. He couldn't focus on anything else as they burst into Madja's clinic shouting for the healer, unable to see the female watching the scene, eyes wide. At Madja's direction they brought Cassian into an examination room, laying him on the table. Blood poured from the gashes in his abdomen, his skin becoming grey, broken wings dragging on the floor. Az and Rhys were pushed aside the moment Cass was laying down.
Neither of them knew what had happened. Az knew Rhys and Cass had an argument over Nesta and that Rhys sent him on a mission to Spring alone out of spite. Az was in the middle of chewing Rhys out when his face went pale and the two winnowed to spring immediately, finding Cassian's broken body on the forest floor.
No less than 3 healers were coming in and out of the room, each bringing supplies. Rhys, face ashen, winnowed away with a word about retrieving Nesta. Az remained, watching for a few moments, constantly moving out of the way of the healers until he slipped out of the room.
Trudging into the waiting room. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh, running a hand over his face. It was only then that his shadows mentioned the female. His gaze landed on you immediately when he opened his eyes. His breath caught, eyes widening. You were eautiful, not in the striking way like Mor or Nesta, or in the powerful way like Fayre, or even with the gentle confidence of Elain. No, your beauty was softer, more understated, but just as present and undeniable. When the blush graced your neck and cheeks, he forgot everything else for a brief moment.
He didn't even realize he had approached as he was speaking. Your soft voice was music to his ears and he needed to be near you, to hear your voice again. Az had to stop himself from preening when he sat, barely noticing the chair digging in to his wings and sides. You looked scared, ready to run at the first opening, so Az kept quiet, kept his distance since that was the last thing he wanted. When you told him your name it just felt right, fitting into place like the missing piece of a puzzle.
Exhaustion had crept over him then and he leaned his head back against the wall closing his eyes. Azriel had remained keenly nearly aware of your eyes on him, studying him. The shadows whispering every more you made, they seemed just as enamored by you as he was. He couldn't stop the grin pulling on his lips and he unconsciously shifted in the seat, only realizing moments later his wings had spread slightly behind him.
Embarrassment began to flood through him such a blatant show, but it was quickly cut off by a harsh call of your name. His body stiffened, eyes snaping open at the sound, just in time to see the nymph shove the bag into your chest sending your falling back into your seat. His brows furrowed, watching the healer stalk off we no explanation. Anger boiled in his veins when the healer snapped at you. Slowly, he sat up straight not taking his eyes off of the tree nymph. And when she insulted you and used his brother to make you feel guilty, it took every ounce of self-control to keep the shadows from lashing out and not slaughter the nymph where she stood.
Then you apologized to him, parroting the same reason as that disgrace of a healer. His heart broke when he heard you agree with the healer, voice so soft, so accepting of the nymph's words, so defeated. He tried to reassure you, to make you see how wrong the nymph was, but he could tell it didn't work.
She got up to leave and Az panicked. He didn't want you to go, especially still believing the nymph. He didn't know where the idea for the drink came from and was so relieved when you agreed despite your hesitance. And the way you relaxed when he mentioned the cafe had something in him singing.
So now, Az stands outside the cafe, desperately trying not to shift on his feet, eyes scanning the crowd around him. He doesn't know why he is so nervous. Why his heart was pounding and he can't stay still. Even his shadows seem excited, darting around the square, telling him the minutes is they passed, which only made time go slower.
He straightens when the shadows whisper that it was three o'clock, pulling his wings in tight behind him. He had been with more females than he could care to remember, had taken many of them out, either to dinner or a drink first, and yet he was nervous. His unease only getting wore as the minutes passed there was no sign of you.
At first, Az brushs it off. There were plenty of reasons you could be a few minutes late. It wasn't until 3:15 came and went that the unease began to twist into something else.
He shouldn't be surprised, Az figures. Why should you come? He was a male you didn't know who demanded you come have a drink with him. Of course you wouldn't show up, for your own safety if nothing else.
3:30 passed and Az was about ready to turn around head home. His heart sinks at the thought although he wasn't sure why. The shadows kept whispering, urging him to stay a few more minutes, insisting you had to come, but Az was quickly finding their optimism annoying.
Still, he stays. Just a few more minutes he tells himself. It's not like he can stand around all afternoon anyway. He is the Spymaster, he has reports to read, others to write, missions to plan and delegate, information to go over, a brother to check on. But he couldn't get you out of his head; last night after you left the clinic, this morning while he tried to work. Even as he attempted to sleep is shadows kept supplying whispers of your voice, your scent, this brain constantly replayed the images of your shy smile when you agreed to meet him, the blush emerging on your neck and cheeks. He could've sworn he dreamt of you, although he could only grasp the very edges of the dream; it was the best night sleep he had in... centuries.
The shadows pull him from his thoughts, urging him to turn, to look as the clock overhead ticks to 3:38. Even through the bustling crowd he can make out your shuffling footsteps and quiet "excuse me" as you slowly make your way through the crowd. Gods, you were even more beautiful than he remembered with the sun rays shining down on you. Your hair was pulled back into two braided plaits, with quite a few strands falling out and sticking to your face, beads of sweat shimmering against your skin. A simple brown dress hung off your body, a size or two too big for you and your arms were wrapped around a large bag, holding it tightly to your chest. The bag was bigger and bulkier than the one you had yesterday and Az could see your arms trembling under its weight. Just the sight of you had Az's shoulders relaxing, an easy smile pulling on his lips.
Looking up, your gaze lands on him, eyes he knows he can spend centuries happily getting lost in, and he hears your breath catch. Straightening under your gaze, Az let his smile grow, trying to be warm and inviting, two words Az was sure were never used to describe him, not wanting to scare you off. As you continue to make your way through the busy square, Az watches, body tensing a moment before someone shoves you out of their way. You stumble forward, knees hitting the ground, vials and linen skidding out of your bag and your assailant mutters some obscenities your way. Az is moving before he can think, finding himself kneeling next to you in a moment, knowing his shadows are already following your assailant.
The crowd continues to move around you and Azriel, barely stopping to look, while you kneel on the ground, on hands and knees, taking long, slow breathes. The shadows begin to gather the fallen vials, which were miraculously intact, and folding the linens into a pile next to the discarded bag. Beloved is in pain. His shadows hiss, not that he needs them to at the way your brows are furrowed, your measured breathes, and the faint smell of blood in the air.
"Are you alright?" he asks softly, cautiously raising a hand to rest on your shoulder. Your eyes snap open the sound of his voice and you flinch back sharply as his hand approaches you. He stops, immediately withdrawing his hand, watching your eyes widen in what he could only describe as horror before shifting into one of shame. He opens his mouth to apologize, because of course he should've checked before he tried to touch you, and you were well within your right to say no.
"I'm sorry," you whisper before he could. His eyes widen, staring at you. He never expected those two words to be so haunting especially said in a voice as beautiful as yours. First last night and now this... a pit of dread slowly began to form in his stomach.
"For what, love?" he asks in a similar whisper, the endearment slipping out. But he didn't feel sorry, not with the way your cheeks and ears redden.
Forcing yourself to sit back on your knees, you kept your eyes low, picking up bag. Glancing down, Az sucked in a breath; the palms of your hands were scraped raw, dirt and pebbles imbedded in parts of the wounds, and he could make out the small bloodstains forming on your dress from your knees. Usually the sight of blood doesn't bother him, but for some reason, yours made his stomach twist.
Careful of your bleeding palms, you attempt to collect your fallen belongings back in the bag. "Here, let me," he offers, reaching a hand toward the bag. This time he was more cautious, stopping a distance away until you look at him and give a small nod, placing the bag in his hand. It took no time for him to carefully put the vials and cloths back into the bag. "Do you need help standing up?" he asks gently, glancing your knees once again.
Slowly, you shook your head, placing your hands back on the ground to push yourself up. Grimacing on your behalf, Az waits until you were half way up to stand himself. You sway on your feet, hesitantly accepting the arm Az offers for balance. Gently, he begin to lead you out of the center of the crowd to a secluded corner.
"I'm sorry," you mumble again.
Stopping, Az turns to you, his heart breaking seeing the tears lining your eyes. In the dark corner his shadows surround you, brushing across your skin attempting to calm you down. Az can't help himself, he put down your bag and used his now free hand to push some of your hair out of your face. "For what, sweetheart?" he whispers. You lean into his touch, the hand on his other arm tightening and Az wishes he wasn't wearing his gloves so he could feel your skin on his.
"Being late," you breath, closing your eyes. "The interview went long and by the time I left it was already twenty after and I tried to get then as fast as I-"
"You don't have to explain," Az interrupts your rambling gently, a small smile on his lips, "or apologize." His hand slides off your face and your brows furrow at the loss, opening your eyes. Carefully, Az takes the hand not grasping his arm a holds it up to examine. The bleeding had stopped and new skin was already starting to form over the dirt and pebbles. "I have an apartment not far from here. Can I take you there so we can get you cleaned up?"
Tugging your hand away from his, you turn it to look at your palm, brows furrowing and you nod. "O-okay."
Reaching down, Az easily pick up your bag once more; despite its load, the bag was surprisingly light. Even with your grip on him, you continue to sway slightly. Looking out at the busy street around them, Az takes a deep breath. "It would be faster if we fly," he says softly.
"F-fly?" you repeat. Eyes widening, they move toward the direction of the street. Your body wobbles and Az brings the hand with the bag up to lightly hold your arm. Leaning your weight into him, you look back, exhaustion coating your features. "You sure it's alright?"
Smiling softly, Az nods. "I wouldn't have offered otherwise."
After another moment of hesitation you nod. Gently, Az lifts you into his arms, withholding his surprise at how light you are. Closing your eyes tight, you bury your face into his neck, hands grasping his shirt. With a sigh, Az lets his wings spread behind him, reveling in the feeling of having you in his arms, how right it felt.
Barely two minutes later, Az was landing on the small balcony of an apartment he had bought shortly after Cassian and Nesta's mating ceremony. "We're here, love," he whispers, his shadows already unlocking the door.
Inhaling deeply, you allow yourself to be placed back on the ground, opening your eyes slowly. Az smils, doing everything in his power to contain his excitement. You had scented him and now you are about to enter his home. You feel comfortable enough to let him bring you here. Gods, he was a dead male, whether you knew it or not, he was yours, Az knew. From now until the end.
His shadows swirls around you once you regain your balance, sweeping over every part of your exposed skin. You didn't flinch from their touch, just stared at them with eyes wide, not in fear but in awe. Gently the shadows lead you into the apartment and you didn't protest, letting them guide you to sit on the couch. Az follows close behind, a small smile pulling on his lips at the sight, although he was acutely aware of your stiff knees and stumbling steps.
A bowl of warm water was already set out on the coffee table in front of when you sat with the shadows placing more pillows behind your back and urging you to relax. The small medical kit Az usually keeps in the bathroom lay neatly next to the bowl. Setting your bag next to the door, Az slowly approaches the couch, the shadows reluctantly parting so he can see you better.
Your eyes remain on the shadows as they continue to pamper you, brows knit in confusion. You didn't even notice Az kneeling in front of you, dipping a cloth into the water, until he gently took one of your hands out of your lap. Your eyes dart to him, widening when Az eases your hand open and softly places the wet cloth on your scraped palm.
A flush grew up your neck and cheeks and you weakly attempt to pull your hand back. "What are you doing?" your voice is barely a breath.
Az keeps a gentle grip on your hand, not letting you pull back, keeping the cloth on your skin, a small frown forming. "We need to get you cleaned up, love. To make sure they don't get infected," Az explains softly.
Shaking your head, your gaze darts between his grip on your hand and his face. "I-I can do it. You- you don't have to," you try again, and Az could see tears forming along your eyeline.
Frown deepening, Az doesn't allow himself to analyze this, not now, not when your hurt, but he tucks your words, your actions, into the back of his mind for later. "I want to," Az insists, removing the cloth from your hand. The warm water had allowed the patches of new skin to soften and loosen, allowing him to gently begin cleaning the dirt pebbles away.
Your eyes land on his face, widening even more, disbelief shining through your features and it made Az's heartbreak. Softly, Az clears his throat, satisfied that your palm is clean he begins to prepare a bandage with ointments. "How was the interview?" he asks softly, hoping to give you something else to focus on.
"W- what?" you breathe, eyes flickering between his face and where he gently began wrapping your hand.
"The interview," Az repeats, a small smile slipping on to his face as he fastens the bandage and brought the wet cloth to your other hand. "You said it went long, how did it go?" he asks again.
"Oh, n- no. It's not…" you stammer for a moment. Az smiles softly, encouragingly, as you take a deep breath. "I… uh, I'm a mid-wife," you explain softly, watching your hands carefully while Az prepares the second bandage. "They were new parents, to see if they want to hire me."
Az feels his brows furrow, wrapping your hand. "I didn't know we had mid-wives in Velaris," he admits softly, glancing up at you.
You shift on the couch, the shadows continuing to lightly swarm around you. "Not many do," you concede. "There are only two of us that live in the city full time."
Az hums softly, gently tying off the wrap. "You must keep busy then," he says keeping his voice low.
Shaking your head slightly, Az sits back on his knees for a moment. "Not as much as you would think," you admit with a sad smile. "Most fae prefer going to a healer or an apothecary. They either don't know we are an option or think they are better suited for the service."
Brows furrowing, Az slowly reaches for the hem of your skirt. "May I?" he asks, eyes catching on your reddening cheeks. "For your knees," he explains, his own face flushing.
"Oh, um… okay," you breath out, body tensing against the couch. Az saw his shadows curl around you again, trying to calm you she he slowly, carefully, raises the hem of your skirt. Only enough to see your right leg, keeping the fabric bunched right above the knee, unable to see anything else.
Reaching for the cloth again, he wet a clean corner and tenderly placed it against the healing skin. "Is it true?" he asked, again trying to shift your focus. "That healers and apothecaries are more suited than mid-wives?"
"Uh," you hesitate, eyes drifting from your knee back up to him. "Healers and apothecaries have a lot of knowledge about a lot of different things," you answer, each word sounding carefully chosen and rehearsed. Probably a question you receive quite often in your interviews, if Az had to guess. "While mid-wives focus solely on fertility and pregnancy, meaning we have a lot of knowledge focused on one specific subject, so we are better able to handle more of the… unexpected or unique situations than can arise during pregnancies than most healers."
Brows furrowing, Az focuses on wrapping your now clean right knee. Many questions about the subject coming to mind, the image of Feyre's pregnancy and labor still somewhat fresh in his mind. But, he knew now was not the time to ask any of that, your anxiousness still permeating through the air, despite your practiced answer. Anxiousness that was almost overwhelmed by the insecurity radiating from you along with… shame; shame so strong Az could almost feel it in his own chest.
"Do you enjoy it? Being a mid-wife?" Az asks gently, lowering your skirt over your right leg and beginning to raise it to tend to your left knee.
Your breath hitches when the cloth came in contact with the torn skin. Taking controlled, measured breaths, you nod, another flush overtaking your face. "Yes," you breathe, eyes moving toward your wrapped hands in your lap. "It's… it's not simple, or easy, but… but it's beautiful, greeting a child in their first moments of life, laying them in their mother's arms." A small smile pulled on your lips as you speak, one Az echoes, taking the final bandage to wrap your knee. "And you?" you breathe, not daring to look up from your hands. "You work for the High Lord, right?"
"Yes," Az agrees slowly, leaning back slightly as to not crowd you after gently lowering your skirt. "I… catalogue and monitor potential threats to the court, to put it simply," he explains, setting the cloth back on the table. You nod, pursing your lips, watching the shadows swirl around your hands.
One shadow sneaks away, somewhat reluctantly if Az had to guess, snaking up to his ear. She's hurting. Beloved tries to hide, but we see. The whisper seems to echo in Az's ears, looking her over once more. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asks softly. You shake your head slowly, eyes closing like the action itself is uncomfortable. Pursing his lips together, Az doesn’t push, as much as something within him begs him to.
Shadows swallow the bowl of water and the bloodied cloth, a small gasp leaving your lips at the sight. Az smiles softly, head dipping to catch your eyes. "I believe I still owe you a drink."
Summary: The reader has been having a hard time adjusting to her new Fae life. Mor convinces the Inner Circle to go to Rita’s, where she gets drunk. Azriel has to deal with the aftermath. Easy enough, right? Except for the fact that the reader doesn’t know about the stubborn mating bond between them.
Series Summary: Inheriting the old farmhouse of your grandmother, you move to a town that watches you from the fields and makes the pines lean too close, and it isn’t long before you begin to fear you’ll lose your mind the way she did.
Word Count: 40.5k
Warnings: Slow-burn; dark folklore; occult themes; blood drinking and blood loss (graphic descriptions); violence (graphic, physical harm, mentions of family murder, killings); intergenerational trauma; gentle possessiveness; hurt/comfort; cults; ritualistic abuse; redemption themes; death of minor characters; supernatural horror elements (vampires, blood rituals); town lore; human sacrifice; non-consensual mind influence/compulsion; descriptions of grief and past trauma (reader and Bucky); mentions of manipulation and implied non-consensual blood rituals; implied and referenced death; feelings of isolation, depression; shape shifting; stalking; vampirism; distorted religious or spiritual elements; emotional manipulation under supernatural influence; gore; blood and injury descriptions; abduction; imprisonment and restraint; mentions of war; implied generational abuse of power; psychological horror, dread, fear, and body horror elements; mildly suggestive intimacy in blood-sharing context
Author’s Note: Here we are, people!! I was honestly so nervous to post this first part because this whole thing is unlike anything I’ve written before. I’ve been wanting to try a new direction, a new texture of storytelling, something a little darker, a little stranger, a little unhinged. This piece is still inspired by the prompts vampire and farmer au I received from @artficlly during her lovely spin the trope event so I just wanted to send out some much needed love to her, because I regained some of my energy while writing and this truly would not exist otherwise!! Honestly, there is so much of my other work that has received more attention, and I definitely should be working on other things right now, but this idea simply would not let me go. I just needed to give it a longer span. And a few of you left me such sweet, encouraging comments that truly mean the world, so thank you, you made me brave enough to lean in and share this as dramatic as it sounds lmao. Also, I have never had this many warnings on a fic before, so that should say something. Please read them properly before diving in. And if something here might trigger you, please proceed with caution. You come first, always!! Enough with my rambles now, hope you enjoy!! ♡
Masterlist
This series is complete
𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘
♱ Chapter one
♱ Chapter two
♱ Chapter three
♱ Chapter four
“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.”
