A cat is a small creature in the middle of the food chain that is fully aware that you are a very large thing that could stomp its head in at any moment and yet it chooses to rest its tiny little head on your leg for a nap and spreads out on the floor near you exposing its belly and its most sensitive organs. It brings dead mice and bugs to you to share food.
Donāt you get it? This tiny thing trusts you. It wants to help you too. It licks your leg thinking that itās helping. It kneads on you to find comfort. It shares its body warmth with you in the cold and gives you your space in the heat. It hisses at other mammals it sees outside including other cats in an effort to protect its family.
Cats love you so so much. But they will keep trying to eat plastic.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: After a late night mission, Cassian and Rhysand tease their brother about his girlfriend.
Word count: 897
Warnings: allusions to sexy time :))
A/N: this drabble is based on this request!
Main Masterlist | Azriel Masterlist | AO3
Despite the calm night outside and the logs crackling lazily in the fireplace, the sitting room was thick with tension.
Or, more precisely, one side of the room was.
Cassian lounged in an armchair, wings spread behind him and drooping onto the floor. Rhys was comfortably sitting on the couch, one ankle crossed over a knee and an arm draped across the backrest. With the other hand, he nursed a glass of amber whiskey.
Both Illyrians were looking at AzrielāCassian with narrowed eyes and Rhysand with an amused smile.
The Shadowsinger occupied the other armchair. Tension rippled off him in waves as he sat upright, back stiff, hazel eyes constantly flicking to the door. Even his shadows had stilledāonly a few tendrils remained, hovering near the top of his wings.
āRelax, Az.ā
Cassian finally broke the silence, slouching even further into his seat. āThe mission went well. We retrieved the relic. It'll be fine.ā
Before Azriel could reply, Rhys glanced at his brother with a knowing smile. āIt's not about the mission, Cass.ā
Azriel met his violet gaze. āAnd what do you know about it, Rhys?ā he asked, perhaps a bit more harshly than intended.
But Rhys only looked more amused. āOh, I know it well enough.ā He took a sip of his drink before turning to Cassian, as if sharing a secret. āHe misses his girl.ā
Azriel's jaw clenched, but Rhys had already leaned back against the couch, and now Cassian was studying him with the same smirk as his brother.
āIt's only been an hour,ā he pointed out. āYou can't stay away from her for one hour?ā
āIt's dangerous,ā Azriel replied. āWe don't know what the relic is. Something might happen.ā
Both Illyrians scoffed.
āIt's a locket with a message inside,ā Cassian retorted. āHow dangerous can it be?ā
Azriel glowered at him. āA locket infused with dark magic, with a message in a language no one recognizes? Yes, how dangerous can it be?ā
Rhys chuckled, then placed the empty glass on the coffee table.
āShe knows more than anyone about ancient languages,ā he said. āAnd Amren's with her. She'll be fine.ā
Azriel knew that. He did.
He also knew about the protection spells cast over the locket, the parchment, and, just in case, on you and Amren as well. He was well aware of all of it.
But it didn't stop him from worrying. He wanted you by his side. He wanted to hold you in his arms while you nestled into his lap, chatting and laughing with his brothers as he simply admired your profileāthe slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered against your cheek when you closed your eyes.
He needed to feel you beneath his hands, to breathe in your scent, to tell you he loved you and brush his lips against your neck just to make you shiver in that adorable way you always did.
āAzriel.ā
The Shadowsinger looked up at Cassian. From the gleam in his eyes, Azriel could tell his brother was up to something before he even spoke.
āWhat?ā
Cassian grinned. āWhat exactly were you and Y/N doing when we got dragged out of bed?ā
Azriel scowled. āItās none of your business.ā
āIād say thatās answer enough,ā Rhys commented.
With a scoff, Azriel reached for the whiskey bottle and an empty glass. He poured himself a generous amount of amber liquid and downed it in one go as if it were water. Only then did he speak again.
āYou two are insufferable,ā he grumbled.
His brothers only laughed. They didnāt deny it.
A noise outside the door caught his attention, and Azriel sat up straighter, eyes fixed on the entrance once more, hoping to see you finally walk in.
But you didnāt. Nothing happened. Another door closed somewhere else in the house.
Which, of course, became another source of teasing for Cass and Rhys.
He shot them a look sharp enough to cut, but it didnāt stop them from exchanging a glance and snickering.
āOh, youāre down bad, brother,ā Cassian taunted. āAre you sure you wonāt start crying if she doesnāt show up in the next five minutes?ā
āOne more word, Cassian,ā he warned. āSay just one more word andāā
āAnd what? Youāll make me regret it?ā Cassianās grin only widened. āBut what would Y/N do if she knew her boyfriend threatened his own brother?ā
Rhys tried to look composed, but the upward tilt of his lips gave him away. āCāmon, Cass, we should leave him alone,ā he said. He almost sounded sincere, until he added, āHe just doesnāt know how to deal with his feelings. Our boy here hasnāt been in love in three hundred years.ā
Azriel rolled his eyes. āI do know how to deal with it,ā he muttered. āI just donāt want to lose her, okay? Sheās the best thing thatās ever happened to me.ā
Rhysand finally relented. For all his teasing, he understood. He felt the same way about Feyre, and learning they were mates had only deepened their bond and their love.
But Cassian wasnāt done yet.
āIs it really because of that?ā he mused. āOr is it because you had to leave before she could finish suckāā
Shadows lunged for him, cutting off the sentence with a surprised yelp. As tendrils of darkness swirled around him, his teasing finally quieted.
Summary: Azriel and Eris find themselves having to share a mate, and being away during the mating frenzy is never easy. For any one of you.
Warnings: smut, threesome, oral (f&m receiving), fingering, language
Word count: 3.3k
A/N: based on this request! Okay so, this turned into so much more than planned... I've never written Azriel and Eris together before tho, so for every Azris shipper out there, pls have mercy on me, but I actually like how it turned out. Especially cus I wasn't planning on anything beyond bickering and arguing for them and I fear I might have focused too much on them and not enough on y/n... and I didn't reread that many times, so excuse possible typose. Anyway okay bye enjoy <3
Azriel hated sharing a mate with Eris Vanserra.
It had been a shock to everyone when you discovered you had two mating bondsāwith two very different males who couldnāt stand each other. They had argued at first over who should get to be with you, but you had been very adamant: you wouldnāt choose between them, and you would accept both bonds instead. The only thing left for them to do was accept your decision and try to make it work, doing their best to get along for your sake.
They had come to one important agreement: you always came first. In every situation. Your well-being, your happiness, your pleasureāall of it was their priority.
Which was why they had decided one of them should always be with you, especially now, during the first few weeks since your double mating ceremony, when the frenzy still hadnāt entirely passed.
But war and threats and death gods couldnāt be postponed, not even for you, and neither of them could refuse when they had to leave you for a few days to try to track down Koschei. They hadnāt talked much unless it was to discuss theories or mention you, but Azriel knew that, just like him, Eris was struggling.
Being away from you was a weight he could barely carry, and the frenzy only made it worse. Searching for clues and information helped, but when he lay down at night with nothing to do but think of you, Azriel would just stare at the ceiling for hours. It was the same for Erisāhis shadows confirmed it in a whisper.
They could have helped each other, he supposed. After all, in the throes of passion, despite their focus on you, they had shared touches, kisses, sometimes more. And Azriel had long since stopped trying to convince himself he hadnāt enjoyed it. But heād be damned before admitting it out loud. He was willing to bet it was the same for Eris, if his reactions to Azrielās touch were any indication.
So they had spent days craving the touch of their mateāboth of them knowing they could find some relief in each other and yet too stubborn to ask for it.
All that pent-up need and tension came crashing to the surface the moment they finally returned home and silently opened the door to your shared bedroom.
You were lying in bed, arms wrapped around your pillow, the sheets crumpled around your feet. A gentle breeze drifting in through the open window rustled the curtains, and the moonlight gave you an ethereal look as it bathed your sleeping form.
Your naked, sleeping form.
The sight was enough to stir a familiar hunger deep in Azrielās core. His hand flexed at his side as if itching to reach out and touch you, and his Illyrian leathers were suddenly far too tight around his groin.
āSomeoneās needy,ā Eris whispered beside him, a tantalizing smirk curving his lips as always.
Azriel glanced at himāat the obvious bulge in his pants. āYouāre one to talk.ā
Erisās annoying smirk only widened as he turned to face him. āShould we wake her?ā
āNo.ā Azriel shot him a glare. āSheās sleeping.ā
āOh, come on, Shadowsinger.ā Eris rolled his eyes. āSheās naked. We both know she doesnāt like sleeping that way. You really think it doesnāt mean anything?ā
He knew Eris was right. It wasnāt hot enough yet to justify the open window, the discarded sheets, the lack of clothes. You were probably dealing with the same problem that had plagued him on the continentāsurges of heat caused by the frenzy, which you usually handled by spending a good couple of hours locked inside with your mates. But theyād been away too long.
Eris took a step toward the bed, but Azriel shot out a hand and grabbed his arm to stop him. The redhead twirled around, an almost feral look in his amber eyes visible even in the darkness of the room.
āShe needs me,ā he seethed, yanking his arm free. At Azrielās pointed look, he seemed to calm down. With a sigh, he added grudgingly, āFine. Us. She needs us.ā
Despite his own raging desire, despite the truth in Erisās words and the need to touch you, taste you, bury himself inside you and never let go, Azriel still hesitated. You looked so peaceful as you sleptālips slightly parted, hair fanned out across the pillow, moonlight caressing your back and the curve of your ass.
āJust get changed and climb into bed, Vanserra,ā he finally said. āDonāt you dare wake her up. You can wait until morning.ā
No matter that he didnāt know how he would wait until morning while sleeping next to you, naked, after days of missing you.
The shuffling of sheets caught his attention, and both he and Eris turned just in time to see you stir slightly and roll onto your back. Azriel went rigid as your new position granted him a clear view of your bodyāfrom your soft breasts to the flare of your hips and the dip between your legs. Eris gasped softly at his side.
āGuys?ā you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. āIs that you?ā
Both males immediately approached the bed, but Eris got there a second earlier. He flashed Azriel a gloating smile before reaching for you, running his slender fingers down your cheek.
āHello, my darling,ā he purred.
Azriel wanted to punch him in those perfect teeth.
Instead, he moved to your other side, wings tucked tight to his back so he could lean in close. āI'm sorry we woke you, angel,ā he murmured. Unable to hold back any longer, he curled his hand around your waist, as if to pull you closer. Eris shot him a warning look, daring him to try.
āDonāt be,ā you replied with a sleepy smile. āIām not.ā
You stretched with a soft hum, and Azriel's fingers squeezed you a bit tighter. Did you do it on purpose? Or were you just naively unaware of the effect you had on him? On both of them?
Lowering your arms again, your hands found their way to both their cheeksāone in each palm, your touch gentle as you welcomed them home.
āSo,ā you began, all traces of sleep gone from your voice, replaced by a teasing tilt, āwho's getting the first kiss?ā
They both moved, but Azriel was faster this time. His mouth found yours, lips finally meeting again, tongues moving in a familiar rhythm. But the tenderness of the kiss was short-lived as the frenzy overtook you both.
Your hand slipped from Eris's cheek to tangle in Azriel's hair, pulling him closer and drawing a low groan from his chest. His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he was only dimly aware of Eris kissing your neck as he got lost in the hungry need to claim your mouth and every other inch of you.
But you pulled back before he could go further.
A satisfied smile graced your lips, but you didn't give him time to act. Instead, you tugged on Erisās hair.
The Heir of Autumn lifted his head, and Azriel could only watch as the two of you shared a kiss as passionate as the one you'd shared with him.
He didn't know how you did it, but you always managed to split your time and your affection equally between your two mates. He loved that about you. It meant he didn't have to worry about you favoring and focusing only on Erisāwhich he was grateful forābut it also meant that you wouldn't favor and focus only on him.
Azriel shifted to lie more comfortably on the bed, planting a trail of open-mouthed kisses from your collarbone to your soft breasts. He captured one nipple between his lips, flicking it with the tip of his tongue while kneading your other breast with his hand.
The scent of your arousal soon filled the room and Azriel's senses. After days away from you, it made him need you the way he needed air to breathe. More, even.
His hand caressed down your stomach to where he knew he'd find you already wet. But instead, he found Erisās hand already there, his fingers buried inside you, pumping slowly. A low growl rumbled in his throat, but as if sensing it, Eris moved his thumb aside, granting Azriel access to your clit.
It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.
You broke off your kiss with Eris when a moan spilled from your lips. Squirming between them, you spread your legs wider in a silent request for more.
āIāve missed you,ā Azriel murmured, releasing your nipple to look up at you, the pad of his thumb pressed firmly against your clit.
Of course, Eris had to chime in and steal your attention. āIāve missed you more,ā he added, pushing his fingers deeper inside you and drawing another moan.
āGuys,ā you chuckled, though your voice was a little breathless, āIāve missed you too. Both of you.ā Your hands reached out to palm the bulges in their pants. āAnd I need youā¦ā
They both sucked in a breath, but while Azriel pressed himself eagerly into your touch, ready to peel off his fighting leathers and bury himself inside you, Eris still didnāt withdraw his fingers from your cunt.
Azriel shot him a glare, but the redhead only smirked before positioning himself between your legs. āYou should learn the art of patience, Shadowsinger,ā he drawled, then he lowered his head and closed his lips around your clit.
A wave of annoyance surged through Azriel at the teasing reprimand, as if he hadnāt spent hours worshipping you and making sure you were fully satisfied before ever allowing himself to come. As sharing you with Eris wasnāt proof enough of just how patient he could be.
āAzā¦ā
Your voice snapped him back to you. You were biting your lower lip, soft whimpers escaping you as Eris pleasured you, but your hands were now working to unbuckle Azriel's pants. When you finally got them undone, he stood to take them off, along with the rest of his clothes, discarding everything on the floor.
The moment he joined you again on the bed, your hands were on him. You wrapped your fingers around his hard cock, giving him a gentle squeeze that made him buck in your grasp. He barely had time to steady himself before you propped up on one forearm and guided him into your mouth.
Azriel gasped, his eyes nearly rolling back as you swirled your tongue around his leaking tip. āFuckā¦ā he breathed. His fingers curled into your hair, and then he was thrusting shallowly into your warm, welcoming mouth.
Your muffled moans mixed with Azrielās and with Erisās pleased hums against your flesh every time your hips buckedāhis lips and fingers relentless in their assault on your senses.
As you took Azriel deeper and relaxed your throat around him, he groaned, chest heaving and head falling back. His hips jerked forward instinctively, and you gagged around him, but you didnāt pull back or signal for him to stop. You simply looked up at him with those pretty eyes of yours, now wide with lust and fluttering beneath Erisās expert touch.
Azriel knew he wasnāt going to last much longer, not if you kept looking at him like that while sucking him off so eagerly. He managed to hold back for a few more moments, but as pressure built and release surged closer, he pulled out of your mouth with a grunt.
You gasped for air, lips still parted, as if expecting him to push back in.
Azrielās hand moved from the back of your head to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. āNot yet, my love,ā he murmured, his voice slightly breathless. āI donāt want to come just yet.ā
Before you could reply, Eris lifted his head from between your thighs. āShould we let her come, though?ā he mused as his fingers curled inside you, drawing a whimper from your lips. āSheās so close. I can tell.ā
Azriel glanced at him, a silent understanding passing between them. You came first. Always. Even if it wasn't by his hand. Not yet, at least.
āWhat do you think, angel?ā he asked, turning his gaze back to you. āShould we let you come already?ā
You nodded, eyes darting between the two of them. āYes⦠I need to come.ā
Azriel looked back at Eris with a smirk. āMake her come, Vanserra.ā
Eris didnāt waste a second. He lowered his mouth to your cunt again, and as much as Azriel wanted to be the one tasting you and making you squirm and moan, he couldn't deny how incredibly arousing it was to watch Eris Vanserra feast on you.
Your hand slipped into Azriel's, holding onto him as your breaths turned into pants. He leaned down to capture your lips in a heated kiss while his other hand cupped your breast, skilled fingers teasing your nipple with practiced ease.
It was only a matter of moments before your body arched off the bed, your muscles tensing and trembling as you came on Erisās tongue and fingers. Azriel swallowed your soft cries, unwilling to break the kiss just yet.
Only when you relaxed again did he pull back, at the same time Eris lifted his head. You were panting, one final whimper escaping your lips as Eris slowly pulled his fingers out of you. But just as he brought them to his mouth to lick them clean, you reached out to stop him.
āWait,ā you urged. āLet Azriel do it.ā
Both males froze. Azriel's eyes widened in surprise, Eris merely arched a brow.
āYou want him to suck my fingers?ā
āYes.ā You pushed yourself up slightly, a sly smile curving your lips. āGive him a chance to taste me.ā
It was just an excuse, Azriel knew that. Why taste you from Eris's fingers when he could do it directly from the source? But he also knew that you loved watching them touch not just you, but each other as well.
It was how it had all started, after all. You had asked them if they could please kiss each other, at least once, to know what it felt like. It had taken a little convincing, but neither of them could ever say no to you. You'd asked again after that. Sometimes not only for a kiss. And sometimes, you didn't even have to ask.
āFine,ā Azriel grumbled.
You and Eris both stared at him, likely surprised he'd agreed so quickly. But after fucking Eris while he went down on you, licking his fingers didn't seem like such a big deal.
The Heir of Autumn turned toward him, that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. āEager, Shadowsinger?ā
āShut up, Vanserra,ā he growled back. āJust give me your damn hand.ā
Eris opened his mouth to reply, but you spoke first.
āBoys, boys, please,ā you said with a soft laugh. āNo need to get heated over this, don't you think?ā
āSorry, my love,ā they answered in unison.
They exchanged an awkward glance, but then Eris lifted his hand, his lips curling in amusement.
Azriel didn't let himself second-guess it as he grabbed the male's wrist and tugged him closer. He glanced at youāstill smiling at themāone last time before sealing his lips around the two fingers Eris had buried inside you.
Your slick release still coated them, the familiar taste flooding his mouth, laced now with something distinctly Eris. His skin.
Azriel swirled his tongue around the long digits, torn between savoring it or getting it over with quickly. He could already hear the comments Eris was certainly holding back, especially when that small smile curved into a full grin. Azriel shot him a glare, sharp enough to silence any smug remarks, but Eris just arched an amused brow in response.
Even after Azriel pulled away, the two males exchanged a long, heated glanceāonly for your voice to pull them both back to earth.
āBeautiful,ā you murmured, your hungry gaze sweeping over them. Azriel felt desire stir in his gut again, but you turned to Eris, nodding toward his still clothed form. āDonāt you think itās time you took those off?ā
Eris nodded instantly. āOf course, my darling.ā
As he stood to undress, Azriel moved to take the spot Eris had just vacatedāright between your legs, where he wanted to be. But you shifted first, flashing him a playful wink as you got on your hands and knees.
Azriel grinned, his hands sliding over your hips. āIs this how you want me?ā
Eris, now fully naked, settled in front of you. āUs, Shadowsinger,ā he corrected smoothly. āItās how she wants us.ā He caressed your cheek. āIsnāt that right, my love?ā
āCāmon, guys,ā you mumbled, though there was a hint of amusement in your voice, āyou know you donāt need to fight over me. Why donāt you kiss each other while fucking me to make up for it?ā
Azriel didnāt particularly care about the first part of that suggestion. All he heard was your permission to fuck you, and he was more than ready bury his cock inside you.
Eris replied with something Azriel didnāt listen to, one hand already tightening around your waist while he lined himself up with your dripping folds. Just brushing his cock against your cunt made his breath hitch. But instead of pushing inside, he glanced up and met Erisās eyes over your back.
Despite their differences and apparent dislike for each other, theyād developed a silent language since your mating ceremonyāone that didn't need words. After Eris positioned himself in front of you, his cock brushing your parted lips, he gave a small nod. That was all he took.
They thrust forward in perfect unison.
Three moans echoed in the roomāyours the loudest of allāas they filled you from both ends.
It was heaven.
It had only been a few days since Azriel last felt you clench around his cock, but fuck, he had missed it. Would always miss it. Frenzy or not, he loved you.
You took them so beautifully, every movement of your body pulling them deeper, every sound from your lips making Azriel want to come far too soon. Their rhythm was one they'd practiced and refinedāmeasured thrusts, timed perfectly, all for your pleasure.
But even as Azriel focused on the feel of you wrapped around him he felt Eris's gaze lingering on him.
āYou heard the lady,ā Eris said, his voice strained as your mouth moved over his cock. āSo what are we waiting for?ā
Azriel lifted a brow, hips never slowing. āEager to kiss me, Eris?ā
The Autumn Heir faltered for just a beat before his thrusts resumed, amber eyes glinting. He leaned forward, sliding deeper into your mouthānot that you minded, judging by the muffled moan you gaveāand leaned ever closer to Azriel.
āYou suck my fingers and suddenly you use my first name?ā he drawled.
Azriel blinked. He hadnāt even realized he'd said it. It had just come out naturally.
He wondered, briefly, how it would feel to hear Eris say his name in return.
āShut up,ā he muttered instead.
Still holding your waist with one hand, he reached up with the other and pulled Eris closer. Their mouths met in a heated, desperate kissāboth of them trying to take control, neither of them willing to give it.
The room filled with soundāskin on skin, soft gasps and muffled moans, the creak of the bed frame, and the wet, urgent heat of their kiss.
And as your body clenched around him and Eris's tongue slid against his, Azriel knew.
He was exactly where he was meant to be.
With his mate, and with whatever Eris Vanserra was starting to become.
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.
Warnings: political drama, threats against pregnant reader, protective!azriel, keir getting his shit rocked, angst, inner #turmoil, anxiety,
Word Count: 2.6k
Universe Masterlist
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹Ā
Rhysand is getting increasingly angryāAzriel can tell by the simple shift in posture, shoulders going rigid beneath his jacket.Ā His brother's control is slipping, his careful composure fracturing by the minute.
And frankly, it's long overdue.
Azriel's own restraint snapped somewhere in the last hour. Every breath in this suffocating council room now feels wasted, listening to Keir's endless droning about power that exists nowhere but his own delusions.
Why Rhys continues entertaining whatever bargain keeps this bastard in their presence is beyond him. It should have died long ago.
Keir represents everything diseased about the Night Court's underbelly, yet here he sits, speaking as if his opinions matter. Azriel plays along with these political charades solely because he loves his Rhysandāstrip away that brotherly devotion, and he'd have ended Keir permanently decades ago. Much to Mor's dismay.
Politicians waste time debating their enemies. Azriel simply buries his.
Shadows writhe restlessly around him, whispering of threats and weaknesses they've catalogued in every person in this room. End him, they seem to hiss. Quick. Clean. No one would mourn.
Three weeks. That's how long he's been living with the knowledge that you're carrying his childāthree weeks since his world flipped and refused to right itself. You've both agreed to attempt a life togetherāco-parenting, stability, something sustainable for the child. To his delight, he's started to feel the slow movements toward friendship.
The constant dread remains, though.Ā
"āwhich is why I believe we should reconsider the terms of our arrangement."
Keir's voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, and Azriel focuses on the male's faceānoting, with no small amount of disgust, how those aristocratic features mirror the female he once loved so deeply. The slope of their noses is nearly identical. The way they both wear that particular brand of powerful sneer.
Rhys's voice is dangerously neutral. "Our arrangement is not up for negotiation."
"Everything is negotiable." Keir's smile is razor-sharp. "We have been patient with these... restrictions."
"Patient?" Rhysand's laugh is void of warmth. "We must hold different definitions of what that entails."
"We've honored our agreements. Remained loyal. Surely that counts for something in these changing times."
"It counts for exactly what it's always counted forāyour continued existence."
Keir's jaw tightens, but he presses on. "The Hewn City deservesā"
"You deserve nothing," Azriel cuts in coldly.
The room goes dead silent. Keir's face flushes with rage at being interruptedāand by the bastard-born Shadowsinger, no less.
Something cold settles in Azriel's stomach, but another part of himāthe part that's tired, stressed, and thoroughly done with this male's posturingādoesn't care about overstepping.
Rhysand shoots Azriel a warning look, but Az is far beyond caring about diplomatic niceties. The stress of the past few weeksāthe uncertainty, the fear of failing as a father, the unfamiliar dance he and you are doing around each otherāit's all bubbling over.
Keir's hands slowly clench into fists. When he speaks, his voice is pure venom. Azriel is still adding refined details to his fantasy of bleeding the bastard when Keir's next words hit him like a physical blow.
"You're awfully bold for someone who now has something to lose."
The world goes very, very quiet.
Rhysand's gaze snaps toward Azriel, his posture straightening as the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Az's jaw tightens, molten fury building behind his ribs as he stares at the threatening male.
"What," Rhys asks, his voice carrying the promise of violence, "did you just say?"
Keir, to his creditāor perhaps his stupidityādoesn't back down. Instead, he rises from his chair, palms flat against the polished wood of the ancient table. "I said your Shadowsinger is awfully bold for a male who now has something to lose."
The words echo in Azriel's mind like a death knell.
Flame ignites in his gut, primal and all- consuming. He's moving before conscious thought can stop him, slamming Keir's head into the table with enough force to rattle the heavy wood. His palm presses against pointed ears, using his considerable weight to keep the fucker pinned, cheek pressed flat against the surface.
"Watch your fucking mouth," Azriel snarls.
Commotion erupts around himāthe scrape of Rhysand's chair, the sharp intake of breath from the guards stationed at the doors. But all Azriel can focus on is the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath his hand and the way Keir's blood is already beginning to stain the pristine table.
"Az." Rhys's voice cuts through his rage.
Azriel doesn't listen. Can't listen. He's crossed some invisible threshold into territory that's pure instinct, pure protection. Every cell in his body is screaming threat, eliminate, protect what's yours. When he looks up to meet his brother's gaze, he knows his eyes are blazing with barely-leashed violence.
The bastard beneath his hand is still grinning through the blood.
"Azriel," Rhys says again, sterner now, layered with authority. āLet him go.ā
There's something in Rhysand's voiceāsomething dark and infinite and sternāthat makes Azriel's body respond before his mind can catch up. His grip loosens slightly, some instinctual part of him that belongs to the Night Court, that has sworn fealty to this male, recognizing the command laced in his High Lord's tone.
Several heartbeats pass. Azriel forces himself to breathe, to think past the red haze of fury. Only when Rhys holds his stare with unwavering intensity does Az finally remove his handāthough not before slamming Keir's head back down once more for good measure.
Keir springs up immediately, one hand wiping blood from his nose, the other smoothing his now-rumpled jacket. Az has to bite back a satisfied grin at the sight.
"Comforting to see you're still well-trained," Keir sneers, dabbing at his split lip. "Listening to your High Lord's orders like a good littleā"
His words cut off in a strangled gasp, hands flying to claw at his throat. Azriel's gaze flicks to Rhys, noting his brother's raised hand slowly closing into a fist.
"If you keep talking," Rhys says conversationally, as if he isn't currently crushing a male's windpipe, "I will let him finish what he started. And believe me when I say he's very, very motivated."
Keir's eyes are wide with panic now, the anger in them overwhelmed by the very real fear of imminent death. He manages something that might be a nod.
Rhysand's magic releases him, and Keir gasps, stumbling backward only to be caught by another wave of power and forced back into his chair.
"You overestimate your worth, Keir," Rhysand says, his tone now mockingly light as he leans against the edge of the table. "Explain to me what that threat is supposed to mean."
Keir straightens his jacket again, trying to salvage what remains of his dignity. When he smiles this time, it's pure malice.
"Come now. Do you really think news of the Shadowsinger's... situation... wouldn't reach interested parties? A child is such a vulnerability. So many things could happen to a pregnant female. Especially one without proper protection."
The words hit Azriel like ice water, and the room darkens as his control snaps entirely.Ā
"Where is she?" The words tear from his throat.
Keir's smile widens. "Safe. For now."
Azriel lunges forward again, but Rhysand's hand catches his shoulder. His violet eyes are blazing with the same deadly fury, but there's something else there. Understanding. Permission.
Go. Rhys says quietly, his voice sliding into Azriel's mind. I'll handle this.
Azriel doesn't need to be told twice. His shadows swallow him whole.
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹
He materializes in the shadows of your balcony as Velaris settles into dusk.
His landing is shit. Rough and graceless, wings catching the rail before he can fold them properly. He hasn't botched a winnowing this badly in decades, but his hands are shaking and his heart won't stop trying to punch through his ribs.
Breathe, his shadows murmur, but he can't just yet. He straightens, and blinks himself into focus. He needs to survey the area, he needs to find you andā
Movement.
He waits. His heart hammers.
And then relief hits so hard his knees threaten to buckle.
Through the glass, and past white curtains, you're making tea.
Az releases his shadows without a second thought, letting them slip through cracks and crevices to confirm what his eyes cannot seeāthat you truly are safe. That no threats lurk in the spaces beyond his vision.
He feels some of the ice-cold terror ease as his gaze settles on you, but the relief is temporary at best.
Fear has been Azriel's constant companion for centuriesāsomething he's learned to navigate, to use as fuel rather than hindrance. But this new terror brought by impending fatherhood is different. Stronger. It refuses to blend into the familiar baseline of anxiety that usually hums beneath his skin.
Breathe, Azriel tells himself, and his body slowly begins to listen. As he waits for his shadows to provide their final confirmations, he fights the urge to indulge in this stolen moment of observation.
The fight doesn't last long, however, because Azriel is an honest maleāand an honest male can admit that he struggles with self-control. He canāt help it. It's easy to be selfish in the dark. Even easier to be selfish when the world instinctively expects you to disappoint it, anyway.
The freedom of it surprises himāwatching you without the framework of purpose that usually governs your time together. Here, hidden in shadow, he doesn't have to structure his attention around practicalities. There is no predetermined agenda, no discussion topics to navigate, no logistics to sort through.
Azriel is being given a moment with no careful boundaries around what he's allowed to notice. He can simply observe you as you are. So he indulges, cataloguing the way you navigate your small kitchen. There's a certain hyperawareness in every movementāwings held just a fraction too tight, a slight pause before turning near the counter.
You're still adapting, he realizes. Still entirely too conscious of now existing in a place that was not designed for your kind.
Az knows the feeling intimately. Even centuries later, he finds himself moving through Velaris the same exact way. Cassian stopped bothering decades agoālets his wings brush whatever they brush, knocks over what he knocks over. Rhysand has the luxury of seamless integration. But Azrielāwell, Azriel has never quite shaken the instinct to make himself smaller.
It seems like you haven't, either.
The sight should trigger his usual surge of heritage-related shame. It doesn't. There is no burn of reflexive disgust, none of the familiar rage that rises whenever he catches his reflection and sees his father staring back.
Instead, he finds himself studying the elegant differences in your wing structureānarrower than his, more articulated. The membrane isn't the brutal black of Windhaven stock but something with earthier undertones, marked with the kind of striations that come from navigating drafts between canyon walls.
The subtle variations speak of specific terrain, terrain he should recognize but can't quite place.
One of the gorge camps, maybe. Azriel isn't certain. The knowledge hovers just beyond his reach.
He realizes, with growing irritation, that the information is probably common knowledge among his family. There is no doubt that Balthazar mentioned it a dozen times during those dinners where Azriel had been too busy resenting the male's presence to actually listen.
Neither of you have acknowledged the shared heritage between you. Both too reluctant to venture into that territory, for your own reasons.
He hadn't minded beforeātoo consumed with larger fears about fatherhood, about his capacity for gentleness, about being anything other than a weapon. His heritage shame had felt secondary to the terror of ruining a child's life.
But now it bothers him. His own petty jealousy had cost him pieces of you, fragments that might have built something closer to friendship. Another failure for his growing collection.
You settle into a reading chair with a mugāpositioned where you can see both the balcony and the front door, Azriel notes with approvalāand something in your posture makes his chest tighten.
He thinks of his mother.
She'd moved through her small cabin the same way, making do with her own company because no one had bothered to offer her anything better.
The comparison makes his throat tight.
You've been open with him these past weeksāmore forthcoming than he would've been in your position, had the universe had other plans. But he realizes how little he knows about you beyond those careful exchanges.
He knows other things, though. Knows the sounds you make when he uses his mouth just there, knows the way you taste. He knows exactly how to touch you to make you arch beneath him, and the way you say his name when you're falling apart.
The memory should excite him more than it does. But it's begun to make him feel sick, instead.
This is what every bastard male he's ever despised doesāreduces a female to her body's responses while remaining willfully ignorant of her heart. He knows you intimately in all the ways that suddenly feel shallow, meaningless without context.
Now you're carrying his child, and Azriel still has yet to learn the name of your camp.
His shadows return to him with their silent report, sliding up his arms and curling around his ears. No threats. No foreign scents. All entrances secure.
You're safe. You're both safe.
Keir will pay for causing this panic. He will make certain of it.
You turn your head toward the balcony doors and Az winnows before you can look outside, materializing on the rooftop across the street.
The new vantage point is betterāclose enough to maintain watch, but far enough to avoid the uncomfortable intimacy of being close enough to count the tiles in your kitchen. This feels more acceptable, a strange middle ground between protection and privacy.
He's used to existing in gray areas anyway.
Settling against the rooftop's edge, Azriel wraps his wings around himself and keeps vigil. The night air is crisp against his exposed skin, but all he can think about is how fragile you look in that circle of warm faelight. How easy it would be for someone with the right skills and wrong intentions toā
You unconsciously press a hand to your stomach. Not yet showing, but your body already knows its secret, already moving with that awe of something precious carried within. Something fierce claws at Azriel's chest. A primal recognition.
Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to provide for.
His mind wanders as he watches you settle into your night. Do other fathers feel like this? The question almost makes him laugh.
As if he has any frame of reference for normal fatherly instincts. Rhysand, perhaps, but Rhys had always been differentāborn to power, raised to protect, secure in his place in the world.
What can Azriel provide? What does a bastard-born killer offer a child, besides five centuries worth of people who want him dead?
Time passesāminutes, then hours. He watches you read, watches you pause to refill your tea, and continues to think. Eventually, your lights go out. The apartment falls into darkness, and still he doesn't move.
Even after he's certain you're asleep, safe and unaware in your bed, he remains on that rooftop. A silent guardian against threats both known and imagined.
Soon, he tells himself. Soon he'll find the courage to knock on your door without agenda. To ask for your company.
Tonight, though, he keeps watch. Against his enemies and his failures in equal measure.
Let them come, he thinks, and his shadows hiss their agreement. Let them fucking try.
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹Ā
AUTHORS NOTE: some lil insight into our baby daddys mind!! i originally planned for this to be part of another installment, but something about just being in az's mind won me over... and subtle illyria lore drop!!! i hope yall enjoyed <3 lets take a guess at how often this mf does this to reader, just sitting like a gargoyle
IMPORTANT : i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore
permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) š«¶š»
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: After a long day, all you want is to be in your boyfriend's arms -- in which, he is always more than happy to deliver.
SRās Note: Ughhhh bye this turned out so cute. Get ready for some toothache-level sweetness from our goofy boy -- enjoy!
Tags: @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @invisiblepixies @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @luvly-writer @fiahtheteaaddict @loveofmychips @bodhidurrans @notnowkittenwhisker (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)
The door to Ridoc's dorm room creaked as you slowly wedged it open. The hallway lights bent around your silhouette, the darkness in Ridoc's room a complete contrast. Your shoulders slumped with exhaustion, strands of hair hanging limply around your face as you peered inside.
Ridoc peered up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed in his flight leathers. His own fatigue was evident in the way his bubbly spirit and bright eyes from this morning had dulled to a muted glow.
"You have a long day, too?" you asked quietly. Stepping inside, you tugged the door shut with a soft click.
Ridoc nodded once, running a calloused hand through his disheveled hair.
"Flying with Aotrom was particularly gruelling today. I think he's still adjusting to all the new flight patterns Kaori showed us earlier this week." He sighed, glancing at the floor in thought. "Oh, and then Sawyer decided it'd be best for us to spar, ya know, test out his new leg and all." He sighed, rubbing his fingers along his jawline. "How was yours?"
You moved across the small room quickly, doging his scattered gear and books as you'd done 100 times over by now.
"Exhausting," you replied. "Varrish put First Squad through three different war games scenarios -- three!" You exclaimed.
"I swear, that man paid our squad leaders to try and burn us out in one single day." You paused beside his bed, glancing down at the familiar (your favorite) navy comforter he was sitting on. He scooted an inch to the side, gesturing for you to take a seat beside him. It wasn't until you were mere inches from his face that you noticed the small split in his lip, one that had already clotted and sealed up.
You reached your fingers out, gently tracing the edge of the wound. "Ridoc... that looks painful."
Ridoc's fingers found yours, gently closing around them as you inspected him longer.
"It's nothing," He said, leaning into your touch. "Just Sawyer being Sawyer, trying to prove he's all better now. You know how he gets before he goes to see Jesinia."
Your expression softened, a faint blush tinging your cheeks. You'd been friends with Sawyer long enough now to know alllll about his "thing" with Jesinia -- and in a relationship with Ridoc long enough to hear about it everytime Sawyer brings her up.
You sighed then, leaning into Ridoc's side as the exhaustion of the day began to weigh heavier on you.
"I really don't want to talk about dragons, or war games, or any of the other stupid stuff that's caused our bad days." you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I just want to be here with you, right now, in this moment."
Ridoc's expression melted at your words, a look of tender understanding overtaking his face. He shifted on the bed, moving up toward the headboard and motioning for you to follow suit.
"Come here then."
Here you came.
You never needed to be asked twice. Kicking off your boots, you followed his previous path as you climbed up onto the bed, finally settling against Ridoc's chest. He wrapped his arms around you then, and you felt your heartbeat slow a little. You breathed in that familiar scent of him ā leather and wind and something uniquely him. It completely enveloped you, and you felt the days-lomg tension in your shoulders begin to ease.
The silence stretched as the two of you layed together, both listening to the distant sounds of the war college students settling in for the night. Ridoc's fingers began tracing lazy patterns along your arm, and you could feel his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek. He'd dimmed the mage lights in the room with lesser magic (something he'd been working hard at perfecting) as night fell, and your heart swelled as you drank in the moment.
"You still smell like the sparring ring," you murmured against his chest. There was no complaint in your voice, just simple observation.
Ridoc chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath his skin.
"Sorry. Like I said, Sawyer was particularly enthusiastic today. I probably should have showered before you came over..."
You sat up straighter, smacking his shoulder.
"Ugh, Ridoc!" You chastized. He raised his hands, his jaw dropping.
"I'm sorry!"
Scowling, you shook your head once. "You don't have to apologize," you said, tilting your head to look into his eyes. "Just... maybe... clean yourself next time, if you truly trained as hard as you say you did."
Ridoc felt his breath catch as he gazed into your eyes. As exhausted as you were, hair wind-whipped and uniform wrinkled, he still found you undeniably beautiful. Even more than that, you were here with him, settling back in against his chest -- you'd chosen to spend these quiet moments with him, despite anything else that demanded your attention.
He reached over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against the skin of your cheek.
"I missed you today," he whispered, his gaze still roaming over your face. You smiled softly up at him.
"We saw each other at beakfast," you pointed out, but Ridoc only shook his brown curls.
"That doesn't count. That was with everyone else, talking about this morning's Battle Brief and complaining about training. This, right now, this is different." His thumb brushed across your cheekbone.
"This is just us."
Your heart swelled at his words, your love growing even more than you'd ever imagined. You shifted slightly then, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked down at him properly.
"Just us," you agreed, and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips.
The kiss was gentle, unhurried even as his soft lips slid against yours. It was a stark contrast to how frantic the day had felt, and it made every wrong thing in the world feel just right. When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, your combined breaths mixing in the space between you.
"I love you," you whispered, watching as a small smile tugged at his lips.
"And I love you, Y/N." He responded, pulling you back to his chest again. "You truly the best part of my every day."
Summary: Being Violet Sorrengailās cousin was already hard enoughābeing caught sneaking out of your section leader Bodhi Durranās bed at dawn by Xaden Riorson, fresh from Violetās room, was a special kind of hell. What follows is a tangled mess of whispered arguments, loyalty wars, and night-time rendezvous no war college rulebook could prepare you for.
Warning: Explicit content, mentions of smut, mutual pettiness, and way too many cousins making bad decisions.
Being a Sorrengail had always come with weight.
You carried it like a second skin, worn and stretched tight across your bones since the moment you could walk. Expectations were stitched into your name, assumptions following like a shadow you could never shake. Mira blazed a path of honour and command. Lilith forged hers in steel and blood. Violet? Violet shattered every mould she touched.
And you? You were the cousin. The one tucked just far enough away from centre stage to be forgottenāuntil now.
Basgiath didnāt care who you were related to. It chewed on legacies and spat out corpses, and you were doing your best not to become one of them. Being in the same year as Violet made it⦠complicated. Mira had pulled you aside before Conscription Day, her hand gripping your shoulder with that unshakable Commander focus in her eyes.
āProtect her,ā sheād said, voice low, urgent. āShe doesnāt know how to survive in a place like this. Not like we do.ā
Except Violetāblessedly stubborn, recklessly brilliant Violetāseemed to have no interest in being protected. She disobeyed the basic laws of physics with her ability to get herself nearly killed. Climbing trees to outrun other cadets, defying direct orders from Xaden Riorson, jumping headfirst into challenges with nothing but sarcasm and sheer nerve.
And now? Now she was bonded to Tairnāa dragon older than most mountain ranges and mated to Sgaeyl, the most terrifying creature in the sky.
Which meant your cousin was irrevocably linked to Xaden Riorson.
And you were stuck watching their growing bond unfold in terrifying proximity. Miraās warning haunted youāāKeep her away from himāābut how the hell were you supposed to do that when their dragons were soul-bound lovers and Tairn would probably set the entire quadrant on fire if they didnāt breathe the same air?
So while Violet and Xaden bristled and burned their way toward whatever inevitable storm they were summoning, you were left fighting off Dust-born threats, surviving gruelling assessments, and covering for your cousinās increasingly dangerous choices.
And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos⦠you fell for Bodhi Durran.
Gods, you told yourself it was just a crush. Something fleeting. A temporary infatuation born of stress and sweat and the way his hair curled at the ends when it got too long. But that was weeks ago.
Now?
Now you were tangled in his sheets, your skin bare beneath his as sunlight threatened the horizon but didnāt dare break through yet. The dorm was quiet. Everyone else had long since collapsed into sleep or vanished into early morning training. But Bodhi?
He had other plans.
āYouāre not getting out of this quiz,ā he murmured, lips brushing the slope of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. āYouāve got an exam in three hours, and you said you wanted to pass without cheating.ā
His fingers lazily traced the curve of your thigh where it hooked over his hip, holding you close. Your body still buzzed from everything that had happened minutes ago, a warm ache spreading deep in your bones in the most satisfying way.
āBoh,ā you sighed, drawing out the nickname only you called him. Your voice was thick with sleep and the remnants of pleasure, and he hummed at the sound of it against his skin. āYouāre literally inside me and trying to quiz me on military history.ā
āYouāre smart. You can multitask,ā he said, smirking, dipping his head again to place another maddeningly slow kiss beneath your jaw, your collarbone, lower. āName the last battle Commander Melgren led before the Third Rebellion.ā
āGods,ā you breathed, arching into him. āAre you seriously doing this right now?ā
āYou said you wanted to learn. Iām a very thorough teacher.ā
You swatted lightly at his shoulder, and he laughed softly against your skin, nuzzling at your neck before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was sleepy and warm and dangerous all at onceābecause Bodhi Durran had always been dangerous. Not in the same way Xaden was, all shadows and smoke and silent rage. No, Boh was sharp in a different way. Subtle. Patient. He cracked you open one kiss at a time.
You hated that you liked him. Loved that you did.
And in moments like this, when the world wasnāt watching and Violet wasnāt nearly dying and you werenāt buried under the weight of Sorrengail blood⦠you could breathe.
āYouāre thinking again,ā he said quietly, fingers brushing your temple. āDonāt. Not yet.ā
āI have to,ā you whispered. āEventually.ā
He pressed his forehead to yours, and the teasing was gone now, melted away into something real. Something that made your chest ache.
āYouāre not your cousin,ā he said softly. āYouāre you. You donāt have to carry everyone.ā
You blinked, and your heart stuttered painfully. āYeah? And what if carrying her is the only reason Iām still breathing?ā
Boh didnāt answer right away. He just kissed youāslow and deep and grounding.
And for a little while longer, you let yourself exist only in the warmth of his arms, your tangled sheets, and the promise of a tomorrow you might actually live to see.
You sigh against his lips and pull backājust slightlyāpressing a hand to his chest. Heās warm under your palm, steady and solid like the only thing in this godsdamned place that doesnāt shift beneath your feet.
But your voice is soft when you speak. āI should go.ā
Bodhi frowns, his dark brow creasing, but doesnāt move. āNo.ā
āBohāā
āItās not even light out yet,ā he says, voice still husky from sleep and sin. His fingers flex on your hip like he could keep you here with just that touch, and honestly, itās unfair how effective it is. āStay a little longer.ā
You shake your head, though it kills you. āIf I leave when everyone else is waking up and sees me sneaking out of your room, itāll be all over the quadrant by breakfast.ā
He groans and rolls onto his back beside you, flopping dramatically into the pillow like youāve mortally wounded him. āLet them talk. You think I care what they say?ā
āI care,ā you admit, pulling the blanket up over your chest as you sit up slightly, heart hammering as you glance at the door like it might swing open at any second and reveal a very judgmental Sorrengail sister. āIāve got enough eyes on me already. Violet, Mira, Xadenāā
That gets his attention. His head snaps toward you. āWhat the hell does Xaden have to do with anything?ā
You glance down at the sheets, twisting the corner of the blanket between your fingers. āHe doesnāt, not really. But heās always around Violet. And Iām always around her. And heās your cousin. So, you know, itās⦠messy.ā
Bodhi pushes himself up on one elbow, dark curls a mess against his forehead, bare chest glowing gold in the faint predawn light sneaking in through the window. His voice is gentler this time, but still firm.
āMessy doesnāt mean wrong.ā
You look at him, eyes narrowed. āWeāre cadets sneaking around in the middle of a quite traumatic year. Youāre my section leader. Iām a Sorrengail. Youāre a Durran. And thisāā You gesture vaguely between your bodies. āāis very, very naked.ā
He smirks like the smug bastard he is. āBest part of my day, honestly.ā
You groan and shove his shoulder, but he catches your wrist before you can pull away, lacing your fingers together.
His voice drops lower, almost serious. āI donāt want you to leave. Not yet.ā
The honesty in his tone slices through you with all the gentleness of a blade. And for a second, just a breath, you hesitate. It would be so easy to stay. To curl back into his warmth and let the outside world fall away.
But you know better. Basgiath doesnāt allow easy.
So you press your forehead to his and whisper, āYouāll see me tonight?ā
His smile softens. āEvery night youāll have me.ā
Gods, you are so screwed.
You pull awayāslowly, deliberatelyāfeeling every place your body protests the loss of his heat. You collect your clothes silently, his gaze never once leaving your figure as you shimmy into your leggings, his oversized shirt still clinging to your shoulders like it belongs there.
He stays in bed, one arm thrown over the pillow where your head just was. His expression is unreadable, a strange mix of longing and something darker beneath it, something heās not ready to say out loud.
You pad barefoot to the door, pausing with your hand on the handle.
āIāll get points docked if you fall asleep in class,ā you say over your shoulder, trying to keep the mood light.
āIāll survive.ā He leans back and grins. āBut your punishment will be making it up to me later.ā
You roll your eyes but smileāgenuine and maybe a little too wideāand slip out before you lose your nerve.
The hallway is dim, the stone cool beneath your bare feet as you tiptoe your way toward your own room, Bodhiās oversized shirt hanging past your thighs and still warm from his body. Youāre three doors downāso close to freedomāwhen another door creaks open ahead of you.
He doesnāt see you at first. Heās too busy pulling his jacket straight, running a hand through his dark hair, looking every bit as guilty as you feel.
But then he looks up.
You both stop.
Eyes widen.
And in perfect synchronicity, you both whisper shout at the exact same time:
āWhat the hell were you doing in my cousinās room?!ā
āWhat the hell are you doing in my cousinās shirt?!ā
You blink. āExcuse me?ā
He gestures wildly, pointing at the garment hanging off your frame. āThatās Bodhiās! Thatās his shirt!ā
āAnd you were just in Violetās room,ā you hiss, stalking toward him with a level of righteous rage that has you vibrating. āYou swore to Miraāyou know what? No. I swore to Mira that Iād keep Violet safe from you!ā
He scoffs. āSafe from me? Iām the only reason sheās still breathing.ā
You jab your finger into his chest, teeth clenched. āThatās my cousin in there!ā
He leans in, dark eyes blazing. āThatās my cousin down the hall!ā
You both pause, breathing hard in the near-darkness, your whispered shouting echoing off the stone walls.
His voice drops, tight and clipped. āYouāre a first year. I donāt have to explain myself to you.ā
You blink at him, slow and deadly. āTry pulling rank on me again, Riorson. I dare you.ā
He opens his mouth like he might try it anyway, but the stare you level at himāpure Sorrengail steel sharpened by years of being underestimatedāmakes him think better of it. He shuts his mouth with a snap and takes a half-step back.
Thereās a long beat where you both just glare at each other. Silent. Fuming.
You mutter, āIām gonna vomit.ā
He crosses his arms. āYeah, right after me.ā
You spin on your heel, storming toward Violetās door. āI swear to the wards, if you broke her heart Iāll find a way to make Sgaeyl regret ever mating.ā
āRight back at you, sweetheart,ā he calls after you, already stalking toward Bodhiās door. āIf you mess with Bodhi, Iāll tell Mira you slept with your section leader.ā
You whirl around, whisper-yelling, āYOU WONāTāā
Both of you freeze againāguilty, caught, panting with rageāand then scramble in opposite directions.
You rush the last few steps to Violetās door, knuckles already rapping in rapid succession, whispering furiously, āViolet, open up! I need to scream into your pillow or jump out your window or maybe shove you out of it, whichever happens firstāā
Behind you, you hear Xadenās fist slam against Bodhiās door. āBodhi, open the door before I throw you out the godsdamn windowāā
Two doors creak open at once.
Two cousins blink sleepily in the thresholds.
Two pairs of voices say, in perfect, groggy harmony:
Pairing: Baby Daddy!Azriel x Pregnant Illyrian!Reader
Summary: A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.
Warnings: slight angst/ fluff, pregnancy trope + pregnancy talk, nyx cameo, reader is struggling with her transition between worlds, az & reader learning proper communication skills
Word Count: 6.6k
Universe Masterlist
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹Ā
You're trying very hard not to stare at the wine.
Not because you want itāthough the Gods know you could use the liquid courageābut because you're sure the bottle sitting on the dining table probably costs more than you've spent on food in the past six months. The label is written in some ancient script you can't read, and the way Mor handles it suggests she's pouring liquid gold into their glasses.
You bring your gaze to your own crystal stemware, watching as it catches the light of the overhead chandelier, glittering like starlight. You drag your finger along the rim and listen to it hum quietly.
You should be listening to the conversation at hand, engaging thoughtfully like you'd told yourself on the way over. Instead, you keep cataloguing, watching it all like you're studying a painting in a museum.
This is what power looks like, you realize. This is what it looks like when it's not being used to hurt people. Soft and golden and beautiful.
This is what family looks like, too. No careful politeness, no desperate loyalty forged in training rings. This is ease. Belonging. The luxury of being completely yourself because you know, bone-deep, that these people would choose you again and again.
You catch yourself analyzing the effortless abundance with a mix of wonder and something sharperāacidic, even. You latch onto the smaller things, like the way Rhysand's wings disappear entirely, glamoured away seamlessly as he sits for dinner. Illyrian to refined High Lord in a heartbeat. How convenient, you think with a bitterness that surprises you, to be able to simply erase the most obvious marker of your heritage when it suits you. How utterly, perfectly convenient.
Your own wings brush against the chair back. Despite being surrounded by three other sets of wings, you still feel...other. They're different from you, in some fundamental way. Better.
Your gaze drifts across the table, to where Cassian throws his head back in laughter. The Lord of Bloodshed, the most feared Illyrian general in Prythian's history, completely at ease in silk and velvet, drinking vintage wine despite being raised in the same culture that shaped you.
And then there's Azriel, sitting to your right. He's been quiet most of the eveningācontributing when spoken to but otherwise content to watch. There's something almost meditative about it, the way he observes his family. As if he's cataloguing them, too, storing up moments for later review.
It should make you feel less alone, seeing someone else sitting slightly outside the warm circle of their conversation. Instead, it irritates the hell out of you.
This perpetual brooding, this air of tortured mystery. You'd found it endearing when you were drunk and miserable off your ass. Now, it feels like a mockery of your own pain.
You want to question him, to demand to know why he insists on looking so haunted when he has everything. Power, respect, a family that would die for him, wealth beyond imagination. What more could a male possibly want?
You quickly recognize the hypocrisy in your own resentment.
You know, logically, that bitterness doesn't discriminate based on status. Azriel has his own demonsābeing Illyrian almost guarantees it, regardless of how far he's climbed. You saw glimpses of that truth when you'd fallen into bed together, found a kinship in your misery.
Still, some part of youāthe ugly, bitter part you try very hard not to acknowledgeāwhispers that you'd handle his blessings better. That you'd appreciate what he has instead of taking it for granted. That you wouldn't waste it all on melancholy. Yet here you are, moping when the world is finally extending that same luxury to you. The irony tastes like ash in your mouth.
You're bitter, uncomfortable, and you want a reason to run. A reason to dismiss them all.
Which is a shitty thing to think about people who've been nothing but kind to you.
And an equally shitty way to behave toward the male who has offered you his entire support.
Balthazar would laugh himself sick if he could see you now, all poised and polite, sitting at the fancy table with a child on the way.
He still doesn't know. You wish you could tell him. You wish he were here, if only to hide in his shadow like you're accustomed to doing.
But he's not. He's off playing honeymoon with Gwyn, showing her waterfalls in the Summer Court or whatever it is happy mates do when they've found their forever.
Even if he were, there are new boundaries to consider now. Lingering near a mated male when you're carrying another male's child feels pathetic and intrusive, no matter that the first male is your dearest friend.
Elain isn't here eitherāthe female who has granted you the first real female friendship of your life. No, it's just you, the father of the child you now carry, and his familyāthis tight-knit unit you're somehow supposed to fit into.
"It was blue! And purple! And it had spots!"
Nyx's voice cuts through your brooding, eyes bright as he tells everyone about the butterfly he saw in the garden. He's beautifulāall dark hair and Feyre's distinctive eyesāand you find yourself absentmindedly wondering what features your child will inherit.
Strangely, you hope they won't get yours. You're not sure you want to spend years staring into a reflection of all your own inadequacies.
"And it was this big!" he says, spreading his little arms as wide as they'll go.
"Bigger than you?" Cassian asks with mock seriousness.
"No, Uncle Cass!" Nyx dissolves into giggles. "Not bigger than me!"
Uncle. The word does something strange to your chest.
This child knows exactly where he belongs, who his people are, and they know who they are to him. They'll be uncles to your baby tooāthe only ones, aside from Balthazar, you suppose. But the idea of Balthazar having such an important place in your life āwith a title that differs so drastically from what you'd always hoped forāmakes your stomach turn. You feel nauseous, and a little lonely.
"How are you feeling?" Emerie asks, and the weight of attention quickly swings to you.
The question you've been dreading, wrapped up in concern that should feel good but instead makes your skin crawl. You know what she's really asking. How are you handling this? This situation, this complication, this thing that's turned your entire life sideways.
You should feel grateful that she cares. Should feel some kind of kinshipāanother Illyrian female who fought her way to a place at this table, who earned her spot through her own strength and choices. You should ask her if it was strange for her too when she first started coming to these dinners. If she was overwhelmed by the casual luxury. But something stubborn and ugly in you resents even that comparison.
Emerie is here because they want her here. Because she proved herself worthy of their friendship, their respect, their love. She's here with her mate, and she deserves it. Just as Balthazar does.
You're here because of an accident, a consequence, carrying your invitation in your womb. The mother of Azriel's child who isn't his partner, his friend, or really anything definable at all.
The thought makes you feel petty and small, but you can't shake it entirely.
"Tired," you say, because it's true and neutral and doesn't invite follow-up questions. "Thank you for asking."
But of course there are follow-up questions. There are always follow-up questions.
"When are you due?" Cassian jumps in.
"Have you thought about names?" This from Mor, leaning forward with bright interest. "Or preferences for the nursery?"
"Will you stay in Velaris?" Rhysand's question sounds casual, but there's weight behind it. Political considerations, probably. The Spymaster's child, the implications, the optics.
More questions pile up faster than you can answer them. Each one well-meaning, yes, but your chest gets tight, anyway. A featherlight touch traces your ankles, the sensation sending a sharp breath through your body.
You find yourself instinctively turning toward Azriel with something dangerously close to panic.
He must see itāthat barely contained need to fleeābecause his gaze shifts meaningfully to Rhysand, some silent conversation passing between them that you're not privy to. Suddenly the questions stop, the conversation flowing smoothly toward safer topics, and you can finally breathe again.
You should be grateful. You are grateful. But there's something deeply embarrassing about being managed, even kindly.
After dinner, when they drift toward the sitting room with the easy choreography of people who've done this thousands of times, Feyre catches your arm gently.
"Would you like to sit with me for a bit?" she asks, and her voice holds that particular warmth you've heard her use with Nyx. "I'd love to talk."
You nod because saying no would be impossibly rude, and follow her to a smaller room that's somehow even more beautiful than the first. Everything is soft hereāthe lighting, the furniture, the way sound seems muffled by expensive fabrics.
You settle into a plush velvet chair that probably costs more than most Illyrians see in a year.
Feyre pours herself wine and hands you something that tastes like fruit and summer. The consideration should feel good. Does feel good, actually, which makes the resentment in your chest feel even uglier.
"How are you feeling?" she asks as she settles across from you. "Really, I mean. Not the answer you think I want to hear."
The directness catches you off guard. Every other interaction you've had with Feyre has been pleasant but distantāa leader being gracious to a subject. Now it strikes you how surreal this is: sitting in the private quarters of Prythian's first High Lady, being offered hospitality like you're someone who matters.
"Weird," you admit before you can stop yourself. "Strangely aware of myself in ways I've never been before."
Feyre laughs softly. "I remember that feeling. Those first few weeks with Nyx, I was convinced I was going to feel uncomfortable in my own skin forever."
You think: How lovely.
You nod, but you're struggling with what to say next. What you're allowed to say, even. You've never been good at vulnerability, despite valuing the quality in others. There's something almost childlike about the embarrassment coursing through you now.
The High Lady before you is Azriel's family, which technically makes her yours nowāor your child's, anyway. But you can't shake the feeling that you're still performing, still trying to preserve some image of yourself as something other than the strange Illyrian who got knocked up by their beloved Spymaster.
"You can talk to me," Feyre says when the silence stretches. "If you're not comfortable talking about your pregnancy, I understand. But I'd also love to be your friend. Elain speaks very highly of you."
That brings your attention back sharply. Despite Feyre's blue eyes standing in stark contrast to Elain's brown, you can see their similarities clearly nowāthat same capacity for genuine care, something you've glimpsed in Nesta as well during training, though you've never looked at the eldest Archeron long enough to be certain.
You've always been a bit cowardly around the Valkyries, if you're honest. Being around Gwyn brings up feelings that remind you, time and again, that you still aren't entirely healed from the deeply ingrained instinct to see other females as competition.
"She does?"
Feyre smiles and nods. "I think I should thank you, actually. Sometimes it feels like I have to drag her out of Day Court just to spend time with us. I should've known something was up when she was here without Lucien for days on end."
That almost pulls a real smile from you. Elain, sneaking in with books and pastries, keeping your secret like it was something sacred. Exactly as she promised you.
"Elain has been so helpful."
Feyre smiles. "Is there anything I can do to help as well?"
Your gaze drops as you readjust in your seat, hyperaware of your wings brushing against the chair's soft fabric.
"When did it begin to feel real?" you ask, your voice dropping low. "That you were actually going to be a mother, I mean."
"It took time. The pregnancy was... complicated for us." Her expression grows distant, and you realize you're seeing something raw, unguarded. "But somewhere in the middle of all that terror, there was this overwhelming joy. This excitement. I realized I already loved him more than I thought was possible."
You nod, trying to imagine that kind of certainty. That fierce, protective love she describes so easily.
You can't imagine anything coming to you that easily, especially not something as monumental as loving another person. It took years to be comfortable around Balthazar. Your gaze drifts toward the entryway, and Azriel's face wanders into your mindāstoic, controlled, but clearly capable of tender love, if his family is anything to go by.
The resentment from earlier slowly begins to fade.
"The fear doesn't go away after they're born either," Feyre continues, and there's something almost confessional in her tone. "If anything, it gets worse. Suddenly you have this perfect, fragile thing that depends on you for everything, and you're terrified you'll mess it up somehow."
Oh.
Before you can figure out how to respond without sounding terrified, Nyx barrels into the room and climbs straight into his mother's lap. The way she adjusts automaticallyāarms opening, body shifting to accommodate him without thoughtāmakes something painful twist in your chest.
Will you ever move like that?
You catalogue the gesture like an actress studying for a role.
"Mama," Nyx says, settling against her chest. "Uncle Cass said you were talking about babies."
Oh, fuck.
Children make you nervous under the best circumstances. Their honesty, their complete inability to pretend things are other than they obviously are.
"We were talking a little bit," Feyre confirms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Nyx fixes those bright eyes on you with the kind of intense focus only children possess.
"Is there really a baby in your tummy?"
"There is," you say, warily.
"Like how I was in your tummy, Mama?"
"Yes, exactly like that," Feyre answers.
He considers this with the gravity that only small children can bring to new information. Then he announces, with absolute certainty: "That means it's my cousin!"
"That's right," Feyre says gently. She glances your way and adds, "He's learning about family trees in school."
He nods enthusiastically. "And you're going to marry Uncle Az and then you'll be my aunt!"
His innocent words hit you like cold water. "Oh, no. We're notāwe're not getting married."
"But I thought when two people love each other very muchā"
"Nyx," Feyre interrupts carefully, and you can tell from her tone that she doesn't typically cut him off mid-sentence. She's doing it for you. "They're not together. They're just friends."
Friends. Even that feels like a generous description.
"But the babyā"
"Sometimes adults have babies even when they're not together," Feyre explains patiently, though you can see her struggling to find an age-appropriate way to explain your situation. "Two friends can have a baby together."
Nyx looks between you both. "Why would Uncle Az want to have a baby with his friend?"
Feyre's eyes widen slightly as she realizes the conversational trap she's walked into.
You're at a loss for words. There's nothing to say, really. At least nothing appropriate for a child. Your uncle didn't plan on having a baby with me, your mind sings with crystalline clarity. This was an accident. A responsibility he's shouldering because he's too honorable to do otherwise.
"That's a good question," you manage. "Sometimes things just... happen, I guess."
"And then you get married," Nyx says with the certainty of a child. "That's how families work."
Something cracks inside your chest, spilling poison into your bloodstream. You can feel yourself starting to come apart, that careful composure you've been maintaining all evening finally reaching its breaking point.
Here is this perfect child, so confident about how the world operates, how families are supposed to be structured. People fall in love, get married and mated, and everything falls into its proper place.
He isn't wrong, in that simplistic way that makes the world seem manageable. That's usually how the story goes: you meet someone, fall in love with them, and love them so much that you decide to build a family together.
You know, logically, that it doesn't always happen like that. Fairy tale lives are exactly thatāfairy tales. Surely, plenty of mothers have had unplanned pregnancies and created beautiful lives anyway. And,surely, an equal number of people followed the perfect formula and still ended up miserable.
But the cynic in you doesn't think you belong in any of the stories, happy or otherwise. You and Azriel aren't even friends. You can count your interactions before that fateful night on one hand.
"I should go," you say abruptly, standing so quickly that both Feyre and Nyx startle.
"Wait," Feyre starts, but you're already moving toward the door.
"Thank you for dinner. It was lovely, truly."
"Please, don'tā"
"It's okay." Your voice sounds strange, distant. "I should get back. Iām tired."
Her face crumples with understanding, and she glances down at Nyx before nodding reluctantly. "Will we see you next week?"
Against your better judgment, your head nods. "Yeah. Sure, next week."
With another forced smile and a little wave to the confused princeling, you're out the front door before anyone can stop you.
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹Ā
The walk back to your borrowed apartment blurs together. Velaris at night is beautifulāall soft light and laughing couples, street musicians and lovers stealing kisses in doorways. The kind of place people write poems about.
You think about your life before, how you used to hear whispers of the Night Court's hidden city, this paradise tucked away from the brutality of the outside world. Now that you're here, breathing the clean air, walking streets where no one looks over their shoulder in fearāit feels wrong.
Part of you wants to love it.Ā
Part of you does.
But there's something else, something that tastes like copper and resentment, whispering that this beauty has always existed while your people suffered in the mountains. You try your best to push those thoughts away, too. They're of no use to you now.
By the time you reach your buildingāthe apartment that isn't really yours, furnished with furniture that isn't really yoursāthe humiliation has curdled into something more familiar: anger.
At yourself, mostly, for being pathetic enough to sit in a beautiful home surrounded by good people and feel bitter instead of grateful.
For watching Feyre's perfect life and resenting her obvious contentment. For fleeing from her clear attempts at friendship.
It's embarrassingāhow envious you are of her. But how could you not be, really?
You're an Illyrian nobody trying to figure out how to be soft, how to be nurturing, how to be anything other than what you've always been. You don't have a crown or a title or even your own family. Everything you're wearing, sleeping on, eatingāit's all borrowed kindness from people who've taken you in because you're connected to someone they actually care about.
You're an extension of Balthazar, who is himself merely an extension of their world. A connection twice removed.
Gods, you wish he were here. Desperately, pathetically, you wish he were here.
You sink onto the bed that isn't yours and try to make sense of the mess in your head. Gratitude and resentment tangled together, impossible to separate.
A few weeks ago, you had almost nothing. But it was yours.
Now you have access to more than you ever dreamed possible, and none of it feels real.
You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and try to channel the way Balthazar used to help you transform anger into something productive. Your hand drifts to your stomach.
You wonder, not for the first time, if babies can sense whether they're wanted when they're born. If the knowledge of being unwanted can be written into someone's very marrow, passed down like genetic material.
The thought seems too dramatic for your liking, but you decide right then that you won't take any chances. You need to be better than what you were given. If for no other reason than to avoid passing your particular brand of sadness to another living being.
A soft knock at your door interrupts your spiral of self-recrimination. You wipe your eyes quickly, though you're not entirely sure why you bother. There are only a few people who know where you live, and even fewer who would visit unannounced.
You know it's Azriel before you open itācan sense him somehow, like your body has developed some new awareness of his proximity.
"Hello," you say, proud that your voice sounds steadier than you feel. He offers you a small smileāan uncertain thing, almost shy in its hesitancy.
"You left without my realizing."
"Right. I'm sorry. I should have told you I was going."
Azriel is quiet, but his gaze remains fixed on yours. His shadows are slowly dissipating from around his figure as the seconds pass, and you clear your throat, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his stare.
"Would you like to come in?"
The question sounds uncertain even to your own ears. So much for that steady voice of yours.
He blinks, realizing he's been standing in silence, and nods before stepping inside. The dark mass around his form loosens even further, and a curious tendril explores your sparse living room. Heat floods your cheeks as memories of their touch flicker unbidden through your mind.
Terrible timing, as always.
"I was worried," Azriel says carefully. "I wanted to walk you home."
"Well, that's how we got into this mess in the first place," you reply without thinking, and your eyes widen the moment the words land in the space between you.
You half expect him to withdraw at your casual reference to your situation as a 'mess.' Instead, the corners of his lips curve upward slightly, and his wings settle into a more relaxed position behind him.
"Sorry," you say anyway, defaulting to politeness. "That wasn't funny."
He tilts his head, considering. "Slightly funny," he amends, and it pulls a genuine smile from youāthe first real one you've managed all evening. It reminds you of that night, of the surprising discovery that the Night Court's infamous Spymaster possesses a sense of humor that actually aligns with yours.
"I'm sorry for leaving without letting you know. That was rude of me."
"Are you upset?" he asks, and there's something almost endearing about the careful way he phrases the question. "I understand if you are. They got caught up in their questions. It was invasive."
"No, no," you say, running your palm along your bicep in a self-soothing gesture. "It was sweet that they cared that much. They were lovely."
He's quiet for a long moment. You can practically see him thinking, weighing his words, choosing his approach.
"But?"
Confusion tugs at your brows. "But?"
"Your tone suggests there's a 'but' in that sentence."
Your stomach sinks. "No," you try to tell him. "No but."
Azriel takes a breath, eyes still boring into yours.
"You don't have to perform for me," he says quietly.
You blink. "What?"
"Am I wrong in that assessment?"
He isn't wrong, and you both know it. Still, you say, "I'm not performing."
"You are. You've been performing all evening."
"How so?"
"Very agreeable, quiet."
"And that's bad?" Your jaw tightens. "I'm sorry I have manners."
"No," Azriel says, lips twitching. "That's not bad. But I don't think it's you, either."
"How would you know what I am?"
Your words come out sharper than intended, and you wince at their landing. Heās hit something tender. Deep in your gut, a flame flickersāsome twisted desire to make him as uncomfortable as you. A terrible, terrible thing.
Azriel observes you. "How am I ever supposed to know if you refuse to be honest with me?"
You look at himāat the sharp line of his jaw, the way his wings settle as if he's trying not to crowd you, the hands that are currently clasped too tightly at his sides. Something in you loosens, ever so slightly.
You may not know how to be vulnerable, but you do know how to be smart. To survive. Survival requires many things. A safe place to land, something to fight for, and good allies. Who better to ally yourself with than the father of your childāthe feared Spymaster of the Night Court?
An ally is someone you can be honest with.Ā
"Okay. You're right," you admit reluctantly. "I wasāI was performing. Or trying to. I think I failed."
His shadows ripple subtly at your words.
"What upset you?"
The question is simple enough, but something about the way he asks itāpatient, genuinely curious, without any hint of judgmentāmakes you feel guilty for harboring the bitterness that's taken root in your chest like something alive and festering.
"It's complicated," you mutter, moving past him to settle on the edge of one of the aggressively uncomfortable living room chairs.
Illyrian-proof, Balthazar explained when he set them up, approved by Emerie herself, but they require a proper breaking-in period that you haven't quite gotten around to yet.
Azriel follows your lead and takes the chair across from you, though a muscle in his jaw tightens as he settles into the unforgiving cushions. It takes him a moment to find a position that doesn't look actively painful before he looks at you expectantly.
"We seem to favor complicated."
His words nearly draw a laugh from you.
It's undeniably strangeāthis odd intimacy that seems to exist between you and Azriel. The expectation of an emotional closeness that you assume would typically develop between lovers, or parents, or at the very least between friends.
Instead, you've managed to skip all the conventional relationship milestones and jump straight to the most awkward possible dynamic: you're carrying part of him inside your body.
Surprisingly, you do want to be open with him. The problem is you don't know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful. Or petty. Or like exactly the kind of person who doesn't belong at their dinner table.
"It's not about your family," you say finally. "They were wonderful. Welcoming. Everything you'd want inā" You catch yourself before saying 'in-laws.' "They're everything you'd want."
Azriel's eyebrows furrow slightly at your words. "And?"
"And I sat there feeling like a fraud. For the first time, I wasn't there as Balthazar's second or some representative. I was there as... as..."
"As yourself."
"As the woman carrying your child." The words taste strange in your mouth, too big and too real. "Which apparently means we're getting married, according to your nephew."
"Ah." Understanding crosses his features. "Nyx."
"Don't worry, I'm not expecting a proposal anytime soon." You offer him a dry laugh, hoping it'll ease the tension that has settled. The sound comes out exactly as forced as it is. You continue despite it. "It was a sobering reminder that we're strangers who got drunk and fucked and now we're having a baby. I mean, I don't even know your favorite color. I feel like that's something you should know about the male you're having a child with."
Azriel doesn't flinch at your crude summary. "And that upset you."
"What upset me was realizing how completely out of my depth I am." You lean back despite your chair's protests. "I don't know how to do any of this."
"Any of what?"
"This." You wave between the two of you. "Whatever this is supposed to be. I don't know how to talk to you, how to act around your family, how to be pregnant."
You take a deep breath and run your hands down your face.
"Did Feyre have a chance to speak with you privately?" Azriel asks.
You peer at him through the gaps between your fingers, noting the expectant look on his face.
Had he specifically requested that Feyre pull you aside, in some sort of sisterhood-between-mothers intervention? It's thoughtful, and unexpectedly considerate if true. Your understanding of who Azriel is continues to evolve in small, surprising ways.
You nod and drop your hands to your lap, taking a steadying breath. "She did. We talked."
Azriel clearly expects you to elaborate, because he seems to grow increasingly uncomfortable with your silence.
"Was it helpful?" he asks when you don't continue.
You're quiet for a long moment, wrestling with whether to revert to the polite facade or let him see the ugliness underneath.
"You don't have to do all of this, you know."
"Do all of what?"
"Cater to me, check on me, ask your High Lady to have heart-to-heart conversations with me."
You swear that an actual blush colors Azriel's cheeksāconfirmation that your suspicion is correct.
"While I may have spoken to Feyre, her desire to talk with you was entirely her own." His smile is self-conscious. "I thought it might help you feel supported in a way that I can't offer."
The admission makes you feel like an ungrateful bastard. Here he is, trying to anticipate your needs and provide appropriate support, and you're essentially criticizing him for his thoughtfulness.
"That was very considerate of you to think of."
He inclines his head in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry it didn't seem to help as much as I hoped."
You open your mouth to offer some polite reassurance, to tell him that it helped, to find some way to make him feel successful in his efforts. There's no reason for you both to feel like failures, is there?
But it's no use. Your politeness is exhausting, and clearly he can see through it anyway. Honesty seems to work better between you than empty platitudes.
"Feyre is..." you search for the right words to explain without sounding petty. "She's the High Lady. Beautiful, powerful, mated to someone who would rearrange the world for her convenience. She had a planned pregnancy with the love of her life, and she has this entire family, this support system that's actually hers by right, not by charity."
Azriel settles more deeply into his chair, and his shadows still completely.
"I sat there in her beautiful house, watched her and her son, and I wanted to hate her for it." The confession tastes bitter. "I wanted to find something wrong with her, with all of you, just so I could feel better about myself."
When a few seconds of silence pass, you glance up to catch Azriel's gaze still fixed on you. His face is softer than you expect.
"Did you? Find something?"
You shake your head, then immediately contradict yourself. "Yes. No. I don't know." You run your palm across your arm. "I kept thinking about how unfair it all is. All this wealth and comfort and safety while my peopleāour people, I guessābarely survive in our camps. And then I felt guilty for thinking that because girls in Illyria would kill for what you're offering me."
Azriel's posture stiffens at thatāat the mention of your shared heritage.
"That doesn't make your feelings less valid," he says.
"Doesn't it?" You look at him directly. "I sat at your family's table and resented them for being kind to me. I looked at you and felt... angry."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "What kind of angry?"
There's something woven into his tone that makes you choose your words carefully.
"The kind that made me want to leave," you admit. "The kind that made me look for reasons to dislike you, even though I know better. Even though you've been nothing but decent to me."
Azriel is quiet for a long moment. "My family fought for the luxuries you witnessed tonight."
Your face pales. "I know that. I do. I'mā"
"But," he continues, and his voice feels bare now, stripped of any apprehension. "I understand that instinct."
You frown, tilting your head as you look at him, and the intensity in his gaze makes your wings involuntarily shudder.
"You do?"
"The need to reject something before it can reject you? Yes." His shadows drift closer to you, testing. "It's safer to leave than to stay and find out you don't actually belong. You feel as if you've cheated your way into this care."
You stare at him, surprised by how precisely he's identified the feeling you couldn't even articulate to yourself. He's right. He's exactly right. You did cheat. You made your way here by sleeping with a male who fought for his place in this world.
Yet he speaks as if he understands you, even now.
The confession shifts something fundamental in how you see him. All evening you'd been cataloging his advantages, his blessings, building a case for why his melancholy was unearned. Sitting here now, seeing the genuine uncertainty in his expression, you realize that maybe his brooding isn't self-indulgent posturing. Maybe it's the same fear you carry, just worn differently.
A small voice in your head whispers a reminder that you saw something similar in Azriel that night you slept together. In some fundamental way, he is like you. You're half certain that he'd be inclined to leave you alone if you begged him to, that he'd push away his own family for the sake of your comfort.
It's almost temptingāthe desire to stay in the dark.
You look down at your lap, and your eyes fall to your stomach. You think of all the things that are going to change, of all the things that have already changed in a matter of days.
You love the dark. It is your home. It is all that you know.
And at the same time, it is no place to raise a child.
"I don't want to do that," you tell Azriel, and you run your thumb along your stomach. "I don't want to be that person. It just... it happened automatically, and then I felt terrible about it."
"Why?" Azriel asks . "Why punish yourself for a natural feeling?"
"Because I think it might make me a bad mother." The words come out in a rush. "What if that's who I am? What if I can't help but resent anything good that comes into my life? What if I pass that on somehow?"
You blink at your own confession and fight the urge to flee, once again. Something has cracked in the space between youāa change that draws a deep breath from Azriel's lungs. The corners of his lips turn downwards and then he's standing up, and sitting beside you. There's still a safe distance between you, and the intimacy of the actāof his careful deliberation over what might be considered your personal spaceāis not lost on you.
You turn to look at him, watching as he looks down at his lap, at the shadows now weaving between his fingersāsmooth against the scarred skin.
"I'm not sure what to say," Azriel admits. "I'm not sure there is anything I can say that will truly ease your discomfort."
Now it's your turn to remain silent. You wait for Azriel to speak the rest of the words that seem to be on the tip of his tongue.
"I'm not sure how to be a parent. I'm worried I might not be any good at it."
You bite the inside of your cheek. "I don't want you to feel obligated to me. You don't have toā"
Your words falter as he looks at you, the emotion in his eyes pulling something taut in your chest.
"I don't feel obligated to you. I am obligated to you."
Something cold curls in your body. "Well, that's not any better."
He shakes his head gently. "You are the mother of my child. Your well-being is a responsibility I'm grateful to accept. I'd like to figure this all out with you. Alongside you. In whatever way you'll have me."
Youāre stunned into silence. Here is the powerful Shadowsinger, the Night Courtās feared Spymaster, so open, and willing to be vulnerable, to find understanding with youāthe mother of his child.
A featherlight sensation pulls your gaze to your lap, to where a tendril of shadow has timidly brushed across your skin. You slowly turn your hand, raising a palm to it, and smile as it closes the distance.
This is the moment, you think, where you can decide to be better. To ensure your child is loved, cared for, and has access to things you could only have dreamed of. The moment where you can decide to have an ally, orā
You look at Azriel. "We're going to show your nephew how great it can be to have a baby with a friend."
A friend.
He blinks, slowly registering the words, and then a smile is tugging at his cheeks, a small dimple appearing as he glances away.
"Yes," he murmurs, "I suppose we are."
Azriel relaxes into the chairāas much as it'll allow himāand you feel his gaze on you as you rotate your hand, allowing other tendrils of shadow to curl around your wrist.
"What are they doing?" you ask him, suddenly lost in their sensations.
"Getting to know you, I believe."
You hum, contemplative. "Funny. I'd assume they already know me intimately." You give Azriel a look, something strangely close to familarityāto the way you speak to Balthazar when he rolls his eyes and laughs, or when Elain blushes and bites back a smile.
Azriel's smile widens, and a proper grin graces his features, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. He shakes his head. "Well, they're just getting reacquainted, then."
You watch himāfor an indulgent minuteāas he watches his shadows slither across the space between you. The smile is still on his face, and there's a glint of something warm in his eyes.
"Blue," he says suddenly, breaking your reverie. You blink, and he meets your gaze once more.
"Blue?" you repeat with a frown.
"My favorite color," he clarifies, his voice softer. "It's blue."
Friends know each other's favorite colors. You glance at the siphon on his hand. "A little too on the nose, isn't it?"
Azriel raises a brow and shakes his head, a small sound that you'd consider a breath of laughter escaping his lips. "It was my favorite color before I was granted these."
You nod. "Alright. Blue."
He looks at you for a long moment. "What's your favorite?"
You sit up straight, and your face falls into a frown. "IāI don't think I have one."
Azriel hums. "Choose one."
You give him another glance, raising an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that's not how favorite colors work."
He shrugs, and the gesture is so casual that it makes you settle into the seat once moreāuncomfortable in body, but comfortable in spirit. "When you do decide, then," he says, meeting your eyes, "you'll tell me."
"Deal," you say, nodding . And then, compelled by something reminiscent of the night you slept together, you ask him another question. You invite him into a conversation, sitting together on the uncomfortable chairs you were gifted, in an apartment that is slowly becoming yours.
Azriel answers. And he asks one back.
Some time later, when you've found yourselves sitting closer, laughing at some story Azriel has surprised himself by sharing, you find yourself memorizing the colors in his eyesāthe green, the brown, and the gold of his hazel. You catalogue the way they gleam when he makes a joke, the way they focus on you with an intensity you've never quite felt.
Hazel eyes, you settle on. You'd like your child to have Azriel's hazel eyes.
ā¹ ā¶ š§· ā¶ā¹Ā
AUTHORS NOTE: i rewrote this 3 times, fun fact!!! 3 tries and 15k words erased for this baby so yall better lie to me and say its amazing!!! anyways we <3 co-parents who communicate!!! we love to see az and reader embracing the honesty they have with one another!!!
IMPORTANT : i won't be doing any more taglists for this! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore
permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) š«¶š»
c- coming home: beabadoobee
h- heather:conan gray
e- everything i know about love:laufey
r- R U Mine?:arctic monkeys
r- ribs:lorde
y- you get me so high:the neighbourhood
h- haunted:laufey
o- online love:conan gray
t- tired:beabadoobee
l- liability:lorde
i- iris:the goo goo dolls
n- no one noticed:the marias
e- everybody wants to rule the world
tysm for tagging me pooks <33
tags- @arialovesyou
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
istg I'm trynna be more online guys but I'm just really busy with exams and all, my knee is low key collapsing on itself and my heads going to explode along with all my patience. I have so much to do omg š
Having plans does not make things better either.
Im sorry guys but I swear ilyyy <333 šššŗš