pure brainrot

You should be better than this. Stronger. You’ve spent centuries trying to be. And yet, you couldn’t even make it through the ceremony. Slipped away like a coward and climbed up to the roof, crouched like some silent, forgotten thing with nothing to show but your envy and a flask of liquor that’s quickly running out.

You thought you’d prepared yourself. For the music. For the speeches. For the look in Gwyn’s eyes when Balthazar promised her forever. But none of it helped. Nothing could have prepared you for how quietly devastating this night would be— how utterly lonely and hollow. 

At first, it was interesting—to see the overlap of worlds. Night Court royalty, Illyrian warbands, Valkyries in training dressed in twilight-toned leathers. To see the high-ranking court members assembled under the same sky. To see the Cursebreaker’s sister cry happy tears as she embraced her newly mated best friend. To see the Illyrians stand beside Balthazar, wings wide, ceremonial blades strapped to their backs.

So similar to Azriel, to Cassian—born of the same mountain—but still so fundamentally different as well. The way they took up space. The way they looked at each other. 

But the novelty wore off quickly. After you hugged Balthazar, there was no one left to drift to. No one waiting for you in the crowd. Just the slow, dawning realization that you were crushingly, humiliatingly in love with a male who had just bonded himself to someone else for eternity.

Being immortal and lonely feels almost humiliating. Years and years of life and still—no connection. You’ve spent centuries rebuilding yourself, crafting new versions from the wreckage of the last— and somehow, the only person you ever truly wanted stumbled upon love without even trying. 

But that isn’t the truth. Not really. You know it’s unfair to keep entertaining the sentiment. Gwyn fought hard to be who she is. And Balthazar… gods, if anyone deserved peace, it was him. You’re happy for them, somewhere deep down. But not now. Not here.

Not when your throat burns from more than just the alcohol, and the shame of being this bitter, this unremarkable, clings to your ribs like smoke.

You drink again. And again. You scold yourself for being dramatic. For being weak. For being pathetic.

There’s a sound behind you—soft footfalls. You turn just as they halt.

Before you, stands Azriel.

Your spine straightens, that old Illyrian instinct curling up tight in your belly. You hate it—that impulse to look more composed in front of a male like him. That ridiculous, buried thread of deference your body still remembers from another life.

He hadn’t expected you. That much is clear from the way his body tenses, his steps halting mid-motion. The shadows curling around him twitch and pull inward, disappearing into the folds of his suit. The night swallows him easily.

“I’m sor—” he stops, adjusting. His shoulders pull back, wings settling higher. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He sounds more polished than he looks—like he tried to summon formality but couldn’t quite finish the spell.

Azriel starts to turn.

And maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the envy in your ribs or the way your loneliness is humming just loud enough to override your shame. But you find yourself saying, “You can stay.”

He pauses. You nod to the space beside you. “I don’t mind.”

Azriel studies you. His gaze flicks from your eyes to your hands, your wings, your form. But it isn’t predatory, not like the others did back at the Camps. It’s not sexual. Not even curious. He isn’t calculating your worth as a female. He’s assessing a threat. Taking stock.

It’s strange, how openly he looks, but there’s something strangely comforting in it. He isn’t trying to hide the scan. Either he’s too tired to care, or he already knows you’re not a threat. 

You’ve met Azriel before. Shared rooms with him during the meetings Balthazar insisted you attend—when he filled in as Rhysand’s liaison to the more distant Illyrian camps. You’d crossed paths in training, too, when you’d said yes to Gwyn’s offer, relayed through Balthazar, to practice with the Valkyries. Make our stories count, Emerie had told you, glancing once at your wings—still intact, still stiff where they locked into your spine from disuse.

Azriel looks unconvinced, but once again, you feel compelled to make him stay. There's something about the look in his eyes, even from this far, that you feel a certain connection to. You lift your flask in offering. “I also have alcohol.”

You swear you catch the barest edge of a smile.

Azriel steps forward, pulling something from his coat. You flinch on instinct and you’re sure he notices. But all he produces is his own flask.

“Whiskey.” Azriel says.

You give him a small grin. “Gin,” you tell him, gesturing towards your hand. 

He nods, seemingly in approval, and joins you—leaning forward on the railing beside you. 

You stay that way for a while. Two bodies unwinding in the dark. Wordless, you pass flasks back and forth, letting your hands brush occasionally. 

It’s comforting, almost. To stand beside one of the most powerful males you’ve ever met and realize maybe you’re not the most pathetic person in the room. Maybe he’s just as wrecked as you are. Maybe that means there’s nothing wrong with you after all. Or maybe it means there’s something deeply, irreparably wrong with him, too.

But either way—you’re not alone in it. And that counts for something.

“So,” you say, curling into yourself slightly, “I’m assuming you’re here for the same reason I am?”

Azriel takes a sip, keeps his gaze on the view below. “And what reason is that?”

“You’re in love with Gwyn.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lifts a brow. “You’re in love with Gwyn?”

Your expression flattens instantly. But somewhere under the mortification, there’s a flicker of amusement. You hadn’t expected humor from him. It throws you. Never would you have believed he was capable of teasing. Not genuinely, at least. 

“Smartass,” you mutter. “You know what I meant.”

Something like a smirk flickers across his mouth. It dies quickly. But not before you catch the edge of it. Below, the music swells again. A louder cheer rises with it.

“They looked good together,” you say.

It’s a cruel thing to admit, but it’s true. A part of you hopes it stings him, just a little, so he’s hurting like you, too.

Azriel exhales through his nose. “They did.”

You nod slowly. Let the shame settle deeper into your chest.

“I hated it.”

That gets his attention. You feel it, even without looking—his gaze snapping back to you, the movement of shadows quickening at the corner of your vision. You don’t meet his eyes. You watch the stars instead.

“I hated all of it,” you add. “And I should’ve never come.”

“Why did you?”

“There’s only one thing worse than being a lonely immortal.” You glance at him. “Being a lonely and bitter one.”

Azriel is quiet for a long moment. He’s staring out ahead again. You think he won’t answer. But then he says—low, clipped, almost matter-of-fact:

“Bitterness is honest.”

You huff, almost amused. “Then I’ve been painfully honest my whole life.” A beat.  “Are you? Honest?”

His eyes meet yours. “Incredibly.”

Something stirs in you—something slow and sharp and dangerous. It coils low, sparked by the flicker of something darker that moves through his expression. A glint of hunger, maybe. A recognition. Or maybe just the memory that you are still something someone could want.

“How honest are you feeling tonight?” you ask.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts. He takes in your form again, eyes lingering on your wings, pulled taut against your shoulder blades. You tilt your chin up, just slightly.

“They’ll be dancing,” Azriel says, turning away again. His voice is even. Distant. “Probably until sunrise.”

Cold embarrassment crashes through you like a wave. You feel stupid. Pathetic. You’ve just bared something small and raw and fragile and been dismissed by the Night Court’s infamous spymaster. Of course.

You push yourself upright.

“Then I’ll do myself a favor and end my misery now,” you mutter. “Go home. Drink in peace.”

Azriel doesn’t move. “That’s how you want to spend your night?” 

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “You got a better offer?”

A long pause. “I do.”

You blink. He turns to face you fully. “Would you like someone to walk you home?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

His mouth is on yours the second your front door shuts.

You stumble through the dark, limbs bumping into half-unpacked boxes and furniture that doesn’t belong to you. The apartment is mostly empty—somewhere Balthazar helped you find, helped you settle into. It’s minutes from him. From Gwyn. From all the things you didn’t want to be near and somehow ended up close to, anyways.

Azriel kicks the door shut behind him without looking. His shadows slither forward before he does—like they’re checking the space for him, brushing over your arms, your ribs, curious and cold. His hands follow just behind them, warmer, rougher, pressing beneath your dress as you push blindly toward the bedroom.

You drag him with you by the front of his jacket, breathless, your wings twitching with every step, the sensitive membranes catching the edges of doorframes and walls. His wings flare slightly when you back him into the hallway, knocking a box over with your foot, but neither of you bothers to look.

He drags his mouth down your throat and you tilt your head without thinking. Your dress slips off in a single motion—he pulls, you let it go. He loses the jacket first, then the shirt, and you press your mouth to his collarbone just to see what it tastes like.

His breath stutters.

Then he crowds you again. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you up immediately. You don’t even think—you just wrap your legs around his waist and let him carry you the rest of the way, letting out a noise when your back hits the edge of the bed.

You reach for him instinctively, dragging him down with you.

Your wings drag behind you on the sheets, too sensitive from how worked up you are—already twitching. One of his shadows curls low and drags across the arch of your wing like it’s exploring. You shudder.

It’s… strange. Intimate. The cool ghost of a touch that isn’t quite physical. Something alive—sentient — that shares a mind with the male above you. At least, that’s how you’ve always assumed it worked. You’d never really put much thought into how his abilities translated into the bedroom. There was never any reason to.

Until now.

Azriel’s bigger than the male you long for. Stronger. He feels different. Moves different. His hand dips between your thighs and your hips jerk instinctively. It’s been a while. Longer than you want to admit. And his fingers are—

"Fuck," you whisper, hips rolling up into his hand as he strokes through your folds.

Azriel hums against your collarbone, lips dragging along your skin. “You’re soaked,” he says, voice ragged, like it surprises him.

You press your lips together, half-humiliated, half aching for more. You try to think of a response, something clever or dismissive—but it isn’t needed. Azriel kisses you again, hungrier now, and parts your folds with two fingers, coating them in your slick. 

"Azriel—"

“Yeah?” His voice—fuck, his voice. “This what you need?”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders before you even register the movement. You whisper his name again—softer this time—as he moves lower, kissing his way down your body, past your ribs.

You can’t think.

You should be thinking.

But you’re not.

And when he slides two fingers inside you—slow, curling them deep—you make a sound you’ve never made before. Your whole body jumps. Your face flushes hot. Your eyes flutter shut as your thighs threaten to close around his hand.

He’s got you pinned. One hand fucking into you, the other spread wide over your thigh, holding you open. You turn your face into the side, press your forearm over your eyes. You don’t mean to hide, not really, but it’s instinct.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs, charmed. “Tell me what you want.”

You shake your head, wordless, cheeks burning. 

“Have you never had someone talk to you like this?” His voice is soft with his conclusion, but his fingers thrust harder now, faster and filthy. “Someone to tell you how good you feel while they touch you?”

You shake your head, moaning. He’s right— he knows he is. You’ve never had someone this vocal. 

“No,” he says, darkly pleased. “That’s alright.” A kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I can fix that.”

He works you fast now — fingers pumping, thumb circling your clit — until you’re trembling, gasping, barely upright. You whimper and he groans.

“I liked that pretty sound,” he says. “Right there?”

There's heat licking up your spine, some roaring thing inside of you.

“Think you can take one more?” 

You nod, too far gone to speak, and his third finger circles your dripping cunt. His shadows tighten their hold. One strokes between your breasts, another curls beneath your knee, easing it higher. Opening you wider.

His thumb swipes over your clit, and you’re coming — hard — your body locking around his fingers as his shadows slither along your stomach, wrap around your thighs, coaxing the orgasm out of you like they’re worshiping you for unraveling under his touch.

You fall apart—body shaking, thighs clenching, mouth open in a silent cry—and Azriel holds you through it, fingers still working you gently through the aftershocks. He pulls out once you’ve stilled, drags his fingers along your thigh, and then licks them clean.

Well. Balthazar, for all his glory, had never done that. 

A second later, Azriel’s back above you, lips swollen, eyes dark and trained directly on you. You’re possessed to pull him into a messy kiss, hints of your taste still on his tongue.

You shift beneath him, needing more, and he pulls away just long enough to free himself. You watch through your lashes, biting the inside of your cheek. Gods.

Azriel is beautiful. It hits you in a sudden, painful way—like seeing something in too-bright light. The sight alone makes something in your chest twist. And you hate it. You hate that it makes you feel something at all. That this—him wanting you—makes you feel not just good, but alive.

Because if he wants you, if the infamous, untouchable Spymaster is here, looking at you like this, then maybe you’re not just something people pass over. If he needs you—desperate, hungry, barely holding it together—then maybe you’re worth needing.

It’s a self-indulgent thought. Pathetic, even. But you cling to it.

It’s only an added benefit that his cock is nearly as pretty as the rest of him. Thick, flushed, and heavy in his hand. Your cunt clenches just looking at it.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. He lines himself up, rubbing against you, teasing.

“Say it. Please.”

“Yes," you whisper. "I want you. I want you.”

Your words ease the tension between his brows and he thrusts into you in one smooth stroke. Your head falls back with a cry.

“Fuck,” Azriel groans. “That’s it.”

The stretch knocks the air from your lungs—your body forced open, filled in a way you forgot was possible. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. You just feel.

Azriel doesn’t move right away. His hands curl around your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin, and he lowers his head to watch himself inside you. Watch the way you pulse around him.

“You feel—fuck. You feel good,” he murmurs. The tone of his voice is almost reverent.

You clench around him in response, hips lifting without permission. Azriel groans again, deeper this time, and pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—before slamming back into you, harder now.

Your breath catches. Your nails drag down his back, circle around the base of his wings.

“Please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for. “Please.”

Azriel looks at you, pupils blown and mouth slightly open in pleasure, and nods. He seems to understand exactly what you're asking: Use me, fix me, make me feel good. Make me forget.

He fucks you hard, every grind of his hips dragging you closer to that fraying edge. The sound of it—the wet slap of skin, the obscene, slick noise of him pounding into you—is enough to make your cheeks burn.

Gods, it feels good. Unreasonably good. Too good. His hips grind down, slow and deep, and your body responds like it’s been waiting for him—like it knows him. Your chest rises sharply as the coil in your stomach tightens.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and you do. His fingers cradle your jaw, turning your face to his. Your chest rises fast beneath his weight and you wrap your arms around his neck—bring him into another hungry kiss, all teeth and desire and desperation.

You part from him slightly, lips slipping from his, and when you open your eyes—when you finally look at him, really look—something deep inside you breaks a little.

Azriel is beautiful. Devastatingly so. 

But he is not Balthazar.

His eyes are lighter—greener, almost like forest moss, and none of the quiet, familiar warmth you used to find there. What looks back at you now is hunger. Raw and unsentimental. That look has never once belonged to Balthazar. Not for you.

Not Balthazar.

There’s a flicker in Azriel’s face. A stutter in the rhythm of his breath. Like something inside him caught up. Like he just realized who he’s looking at, too.

“Turn me around,” you murmur, desperate,  into his mouth as you bring him in for a kiss. You separate and Azriel blinks once. Then nods, helping you flip over.

He slides back into you with one smooth thrust and you moan, helpless and wrecked. One of his hands is pressing deep on your lower back, the other gripping your hip like he owns you.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to say that he does, if only for the feeling of being wanted. Of belonging somewhere. Of being something more than alone. To be devoured, held down, seen. To be someone’s—even if it’s temporary. 

You think, briefly, that Azriel might feel the same way. 

He leans forward, one palm bracing beside your head, the other sliding between your wings—touching them gently, reverently. Something in you goes slack and electric at the same time, the feeling blooming in a place that isn’t your body. Some deeper, stranger part of you.

You wonder when the last time was that he touched someone like this.

Talented hands, skilled mouth, pretty cock. It makes you wonder how the Shadowsinger picks his lovers—what earns you a night in his bed, what makes him touch them like this, slow and attentive and knowing.

You hate that your mind starts pulling up names. Pictures. Gwyn.

The image flashes before you can stop it—her laughing, that soft smile, and the look you’ve caught in Azriel’s eyes in passing. That tenderness. That aching, reserved sort of love that’s always held just out of reach. The sort of love you’ve reserved for Balthazar. 

Your brain wants to torture you with it. To layer grief on top of lust. To ruin even this escape. 

You shove it all away. Cram it into the corner with the rest of the shit that’s rising up—Balthazar, and how angry you still are, and how fucked it all feels.

With his chest to your back, Azriel slides a hand under to cup your throat. He fucks you slow, deep—dragging it out while he whispers against your neck. Gods. Doing so good for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You gasp—and he starts to fuck you even harder, rougher, the pace building with each thrust. The slap of skin fills the room. Every stroke pushes you forward on the sheets, and his arm wraps tight around your waist, dragging you back into him again.

You choke on a moan and his shadows join the chaos of sensation.

Cool and sinfully curious, they slither around your thighs, over your stomach. One coils teasingly around your breast, circling your nipple—while another brushes lower, between your legs, flickering right over your clit with a ghost of pressure.

You jolt. Arch. The moan that rips from your throat is nothing short of primal.

“That’s it,” Azriel murmurs against your ear. “Taking us so good. So greedy for it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your hands fist in the sheets. You try to speak—but nothing comes. Only a broken sound, a desperate nod.  Your mind goes silent. Balthazar is gone. The memory, the shape, the guilt of him—all gone.

And all that's left is Azriel, groaning behind you. 

“Oh gods,” you gasp. “Azriel—fuck—please—”

You’re already gone, bent over and panting, when you come for him—shaking violently, lights bursting behind your eyes. He follows with a rough groan, hips snapping against you once, twice, before he presses you flush against him and lets go.

You’re still catching your breath when he sinks to his knees behind you. When his mouth finds you—tongue dragging through the mess of your release and his.  You jolt, overstimulated, and whimper at the way he feasts on you.

It's filthy. You come again like it’s nothing.

And again. And again. 

He fucks you through the second round with his fingers, the third with his cock, the fourth with his tongue and shadows working in tandem. By the time you’re too sore to move, too spent to even speak, the sun has already begun to rise behind the curtains.

And when your eyes finally close—limp and boneless and flushed beneath your sheets—Azriel slips away without a word.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris is nice. Much nicer, much safer, much softer than the places you’ve called home before.

And still—you don’t feel at peace. Maybe it’s too much to expect, to feel settled already. But that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping in. You pick at it the way some people pick at scabs. Little mental chastisements you cycle through like a list. You should be grateful. You should feel lucky. 

But as you walk through the streets, you’re painfully aware of how different you are. Despite Velaris being home to lesser and high fae alike, you stand out. Your wings—still tightly folded against your back—make that obvious. You catch the lingering glances as you move through the city. 

You thought the citizens would be used to seeing Illyrians—after all, their High Lord and two of the highest-ranking members are Illyrian. But maybe it’s different seeing it on a stranger. A female, no less. You don’t have their grace. You’re the breed without the glamour.

It makes you weirdly homesick. No one would understand if you told them that, if you admitted that yes, you missed Illyria.

You missed your home, your mountains, the sound of your heritage. Your camp is gone now, but you know the homesickness would fade the moment you set foot back on that familiar land. You’d be reminded why you were lucky to escape, why you should be grateful for this chance.

It’s strange—to want to go back to the roots you spent so long trying to break free from. Your wings ache at the thought. 

You wish you could see Balthazar.

Your stomach tightens again, reminding you of your real reason for being out. The apothecary. You need medicine for the sickness that’s been dragging you down all week—the nausea, the constant discomfort. You figure it’s just your body adjusting to the new life here. Maybe your stomach is shocked by all the delicacies you’re finally allowed to eat.

You reach the apothecary and the scent of herbs greets you. A young fae behind the counter listens as you describe your symptoms, her brow furrowing. She disappears to the back. After a moment, another fae emerges—a healer, she says. The first is still learning, so she’s here to help find the right concoction.

She lays out options, explaining everything carefully. Then she points to a small vial. “This one’s best for morning sickness.”

You blink. “Oh no, I’m not— I’m not pregnant.”

She freezes for a moment. You feel something dark slip in—terror, cold and fast. She blinks, recovers quickly. “My mistake,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.

But the damage is done. Your mind is starting to spiral. 

Your breath shortens for a moment, and you have to fight the sudden, irrational panic bubbling beneath the surface. It makes no sense.  You know it can’t be true. You’ve been careful—too careful. But the thought settles anyway, cold and unwelcome, and everything feels off balance. 

Suddenly you’re buying every bottle she pushes your way without really hearing what they do.

You leave the shop, clutching the small bags, your thoughts a mess of “not possible” and “why would she think that?” racing under your skin.

You’re barely halfway down the street when you almost run into her.

Elain Archeron. 

You don’t know much about her, but she’s impossible to miss— still as quietly beautiful as the first time you saw her, like she’s made of soft light and calm. She’s alone, without her mate, who you assume is off fulfilling the duties as the Day Court’s only heir—the recent, powerful news about him had even reached your old camp.

Her eyes widen when she sees you, caught just as off guard. Recognition flickers across her face. She knows you—and if you weren’t panicking, you’d feel almost honored that she remembered you.

For a moment, you want to say something. Anything. A simple hello. But your throat tightens, your stomach knots in that familiar way, and the words get stuck halfway out.

Her face changes. The warmth draining away as she blinks— for a second, she looks... gone. Hollow. Like she vanished into thin air.

It unsettles you.

Then, almost too fast, her gaze drops. You swear you see her eyes flick down to your midriff—the way they pause there, just long enough to make your skin crawl.

“Are you alright?” She asks. Her voice is soft, almost cautious, and her usual warmth quickly rolls over her once more. 

You force a nod, forcing down the rush of panic curling in your chest. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just—running late for something.”

You bid her a quick goodbye and all but run to your empty, awaiting apartment. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

A week and one healer’s visit later, your world flips inside out in less than an hour.

You’re sitting on your cold floor, back pressed against an empty wall, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t really there. The healer’s soft, steady voice keeps looping in your mind—reassurances, warnings, instructions—but it all blurs together.

You don’t know if you want to cry, laugh, or just get up and run. You don’t even know what decision you’re supposed to make.

Gods, you wish you had someone to talk to.

But who is there, really?

You have one friend and he’s caught up in his own life, celebrating his mating ceremony, wrapped up in a happiness you can’t touch.

The silence presses in and you feel the sting of tears building. 

Then, a knock. A soft rap on the door, pulling you back.

You hesitate. Then stand. For the second time in a week, you come face to face with Elain Archeron.

Only this time, her eyes are wide, brows drawn tight with something fierce and urgent. 

“You’re pregnant.”  And then, after a beat, “Why do I know that you’re pregnant?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: oh my god...hey.... where did this come from?? idk!!! i spun a wheel and it gave me unplanned pregnancy trope + az!!! (i also have one with eris... who said that...)

but its out here and im not mad at the idea of a slowburn, strangers to friends to lovers, babydaddy!az and two illyrians trying to come to terms with their culture kinda love story. also i KNOW this motherfucker has a breeding and a pregnancy kink thatll surface once he gets over the absolute dread of his new father status

maybe ill make this a lil universe and open up requests to ease back into writing <3 would yall be interested or want a taglist 😲😲

permanent tag list below🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli 

@mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

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