ST4R G!RL

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 hadn’t entirely passed.

But war and threats and death gods couldn’t 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 hadn’t 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 Eris—his 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 hadn’t enjoyed it. But he’d be damned before admitting it out loud. He was willing to bet it was the same for Eris, if his reactions to Azriel’s touch were any indication.

So they had spent days craving the touch of their mate—both 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 Azriel’s 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.

“Someone’s needy,” Eris whispered beside him, a tantalizing smirk curving his lips as always.

Azriel glanced at him—at the obvious bulge in his pants. “You’re one to talk.”

Eris’s annoying smirk only widened as he turned to face him. “Should we wake her?”

“No.” Azriel shot him a glare. “She’s sleeping.”

“Oh, come on, Shadowsinger.” Eris rolled his eyes. “She’s naked. We both know she doesn’t like sleeping that way. You really think it doesn’t mean anything?”

He knew Eris was right. It wasn’t 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 continent—surges of heat caused by the frenzy, which you usually handled by spending a good couple of hours locked inside with your mates. But they’d 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.

“She needs me,” he seethed, yanking his arm free. At Azriel’s pointed look, he seemed to calm down. With a sigh, he added grudgingly, “Fine. Us. She needs us.”

Despite his own raging desire, despite the truth in Eris’s 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 slept—lips slightly parted, hair fanned out across the pillow, moonlight caressing your back and the curve of your ass.

“Just get changed and climb into bed, Vanserra,” he finally said. “Don’t you dare wake her up. You can wait until morning.”

No matter that he didn’t 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 body—from your soft breasts to the flare of your hips and the dip between your legs. Eris gasped softly at his side.

“Guys?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. “Is that you?”

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.

“Hello, my darling,” 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. “I'm sorry we woke you, angel,” 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.

“Don’t be,” you replied with a sleepy smile. “I’m not.”

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 cheeks—one in each palm, your touch gentle as you welcomed them home.

“So,” you began, all traces of sleep gone from your voice, replaced by a teasing tilt, “who's getting the first kiss?”

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 Eris’s 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 Eris—which he was grateful for—but 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 Eris’s 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.

“I’ve missed you,” 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. “I’ve missed you more,” he added, pushing his fingers deeper inside you and drawing another moan.

“Guys,” you chuckled, though your voice was a little breathless, “I’ve missed you too. Both of you.” Your hands reached out to palm the bulges in their pants. “And I need you…”

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 didn’t withdraw his fingers from your cunt.

Azriel shot him a glare, but the redhead only smirked before positioning himself between your legs. “You should learn the art of patience, Shadowsinger,” 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 hadn’t spent hours worshipping you and making sure you were fully satisfied before ever allowing himself to come. As sharing you with Eris wasn’t proof enough of just how patient he could be.

“Az…”

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. “Fuck…” he breathed. His fingers curled into your hair, and then he was thrusting shallowly into your warm, welcoming mouth.

Your muffled moans mixed with Azriel’s and with Eris’s pleased hums against your flesh every time your hips bucked—his 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 didn’t 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 Eris’s expert touch.

Azriel knew he wasn’t 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.

Azriel’s hand moved from the back of your head to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. “Not yet, my love,” he murmured, his voice slightly breathless. “I don’t want to come just yet.”

Before you could reply, Eris lifted his head from between your thighs. “Should we let her come, though?” he mused as his fingers curled inside you, drawing a whimper from your lips. “She’s so close. I can tell.”

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.

“What do you think, angel?” he asked, turning his gaze back to you. “Should we let you come already?”

You nodded, eyes darting between the two of them. “Yes… I need to come.”

Azriel looked back at Eris with a smirk. “Make her come, Vanserra.”

Eris didn’t 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 Eris’s 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.

“Wait,” you urged. “Let Azriel do it.”

Both males froze. Azriel's eyes widened in surprise, Eris merely arched a brow.

“You want him to suck my fingers?”

“Yes.” You pushed yourself up slightly, a sly smile curving your lips. “Give him a chance to taste me.”

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.

“Fine,” 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. “Eager, Shadowsinger?”

“Shut up, Vanserra,” he growled back. “Just give me your damn hand.”

Eris opened his mouth to reply, but you spoke first.

“Boys, boys, please,” you said with a soft laugh. “No need to get heated over this, don't you think?”

“Sorry, my love,” 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 you—still smiling at them—one 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 glance—only for your voice to pull them both back to earth.

“Beautiful,” 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. “Don’t you think it’s time you took those off?”

Eris nodded instantly. “Of course, my darling.”

As he stood to undress, Azriel moved to take the spot Eris had just vacated—right 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. “Is this how you want me?”

Eris, now fully naked, settled in front of you. “Us, Shadowsinger,” he corrected smoothly. “It’s how she wants us.” He caressed your cheek. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

“C’mon, guys,” you mumbled, though there was a hint of amusement in your voice, “you know you don’t need to fight over me. Why don’t you kiss each other while fucking me to make up for it?”

Azriel didn’t 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 didn’t 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 Eris’s eyes over your back.

Despite their differences and apparent dislike for each other, they’d developed a silent language since your mating ceremony—one 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 room—yours the loudest of all—as 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 refined—measured 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.

“You heard the lady,” Eris said, his voice strained as your mouth moved over his cock. “So what are we waiting for?”

Azriel lifted a brow, hips never slowing. “Eager to kiss me, Eris?”

The Autumn Heir faltered for just a beat before his thrusts resumed, amber eyes glinting. He leaned forward, sliding deeper into your mouth—not that you minded, judging by the muffled moan you gave—and leaned ever closer to Azriel.

“You suck my fingers and suddenly you use my first name?” he drawled.

Azriel blinked. He hadn’t 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.

“Shut up,” 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 kiss—both of them trying to take control, neither of them willing to give it.

The room filled with sound—skin 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.

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 Rhysand—strip 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 child—three weeks since his world flipped and refused to right itself. You've both agreed to attempt a life together—co-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. 

"—which 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 face—noting, 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 for—your continued existence."

Keir's jaw tightens, but he presses on. "The Hewn City deserves—"

"You deserve nothing," Azriel cuts in coldly.

The room goes dead silent. Keir's face flushes with rage at being interrupted—and by the bastard-born Shadowsinger, no less.

Something cold settles in Azriel's stomach, but another part of him—the part that's tired, stressed, and thoroughly done with this male's posturing—doesn'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 weeks—the uncertainty, the fear of failing as a father, the unfamiliar dance he and you are doing around each other—it'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 credit—or perhaps his stupidity—doesn'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 him—the 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. “Let him go.”

There's something in Rhysand's voice—something dark and infinite and stern—that 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 hand—though 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 little—"

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. 

"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.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

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 and—

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 see—that 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 centuries—something 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 male—and an honest male can admit that he struggles with self-control. He can’t 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 him—watching 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 movement—wings 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 ago—lets his wings brush whatever they brush, knocks over what he knocks over. Rhysand has the luxury of seamless integration. But Azriel—well, 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 structure—narrower 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 before—too 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 mug—positioned where you can see both the balcony and the front door, Azriel notes with approval—and 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 weeks—more 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 does—reduces 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 better—close 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 to—

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 different—born 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 passes—minutes, 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.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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!) 🫶🏻

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

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

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

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

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@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows 

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

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 forgotten—until now.

Basgiath didn’t 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.

“Protect her,” she’d said, voice low, urgent. “She doesn’t know how to survive in a place like this. Not like we do.”

Except Violet—blessedly stubborn, recklessly brilliant Violet—seemed 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 Tairn—a 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. Mira’s warning haunted you—“Keep her away from him”—but 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 didn’t 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 cousin’s 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 didn’t 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.

“You’re not getting out of this quiz,” he murmured, lips brushing the slope of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. “You’ve got an exam in three hours, and you said you wanted to pass without cheating.”

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.

“Boh,” 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. “You’re literally inside me and trying to quiz me on military history.”

“You’re smart. You can multitask,” he said, smirking, dipping his head again to place another maddeningly slow kiss beneath your jaw, your collarbone, lower. “Name the last battle Commander Melgren led before the Third Rebellion.”

“Gods,” you breathed, arching into him. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

“You said you wanted to learn. I’m a very thorough teacher.”

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 once—because 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 wasn’t watching and Violet wasn’t nearly dying and you weren’t buried under the weight of Sorrengail blood… you could breathe.

“You’re thinking again,” he said quietly, fingers brushing your temple. “Don’t. Not yet.”

“I have to,” you whispered. “Eventually.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, and the teasing was gone now, melted away into something real. Something that made your chest ache.

“You’re not your cousin,” he said softly. “You’re you. You don’t have to carry everyone.”

You blinked, and your heart stuttered painfully. “Yeah? And what if carrying her is the only reason I’m still breathing?”

Boh didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you—slow 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 back—just slightly—pressing a hand to his chest. He’s warm under your palm, steady and solid like the only thing in this godsdamned place that doesn’t shift beneath your feet.

But your voice is soft when you speak. “I should go.”

Bodhi frowns, his dark brow creasing, but doesn’t move. “No.”

“Boh—”

“It’s not even light out yet,” 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, it’s unfair how effective it is. “Stay a little longer.”

You shake your head, though it kills you. “If I leave when everyone else is waking up and sees me sneaking out of your room, it’ll be all over the quadrant by breakfast.”

He groans and rolls onto his back beside you, flopping dramatically into the pillow like you’ve mortally wounded him. “Let them talk. You think I care what they say?”

“I care,” 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. “I’ve got enough eyes on me already. Violet, Mira, Xaden—”

That gets his attention. His head snaps toward you. “What the hell does Xaden have to do with anything?”

You glance down at the sheets, twisting the corner of the blanket between your fingers. “He doesn’t, not really. But he’s always around Violet. And I’m always around her. And he’s your cousin. So, you know, it’s… messy.”

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.

“Messy doesn’t mean wrong.”

You look at him, eyes narrowed. “We’re cadets sneaking around in the middle of a quite traumatic year. You’re my section leader. I’m a Sorrengail. You’re a Durran. And this—” You gesture vaguely between your bodies. “—is very, very naked.”

He smirks like the smug bastard he is. “Best part of my day, honestly.”

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. “I don’t want you to leave. Not yet.”

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 doesn’t allow easy.

So you press your forehead to his and whisper, “You’ll see me tonight?”

His smile softens. “Every night you’ll have me.”

Gods, you are so screwed.

You pull away—slowly, deliberately—feeling 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 he’s not ready to say out loud.

You pad barefoot to the door, pausing with your hand on the handle.

“I’ll get points docked if you fall asleep in class,” you say over your shoulder, trying to keep the mood light.

“I’ll survive.” He leans back and grins. “But your punishment will be making it up to me later.”

You roll your eyes but smile—genuine and maybe a little too wide—and 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, Bodhi’s oversized shirt hanging past your thighs and still warm from his body. You’re three doors down—so close to freedom—when another door creaks open ahead of you.

You freeze.

It’s Violet’s door.

And stepping out—hoodless, shirt askew, hair unmistakably mussed—is Xaden godsdamned Riorson.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s 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:

“What the hell were you doing in my cousin’s room?!”

“What the hell are you doing in my cousin’s shirt?!”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures wildly, pointing at the garment hanging off your frame. “That’s Bodhi’s! That’s his shirt!”

“And you were just in Violet’s room,” you hiss, stalking toward him with a level of righteous rage that has you vibrating. “You swore to Mira—you know what? No. I swore to Mira that I’d keep Violet safe from you!”

He scoffs. “Safe from me? I’m the only reason she’s still breathing.”

You jab your finger into his chest, teeth clenched. “That’s my cousin in there!”

He leans in, dark eyes blazing. “That’s my cousin down the hall!”

You both pause, breathing hard in the near-darkness, your whispered shouting echoing off the stone walls.

His voice drops, tight and clipped. “You’re a first year. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You blink at him, slow and deadly. “Try pulling rank on me again, Riorson. I dare you.”

He opens his mouth like he might try it anyway, but the stare you level at him—pure Sorrengail steel sharpened by years of being underestimated—makes him think better of it. He shuts his mouth with a snap and takes a half-step back.

There’s a long beat where you both just glare at each other. Silent. Fuming.

You mutter, “I’m gonna vomit.”

He crosses his arms. “Yeah, right after me.”

You spin on your heel, storming toward Violet’s door. “I swear to the wards, if you broke her heart I’ll find a way to make Sgaeyl regret ever mating.”

“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he calls after you, already stalking toward Bodhi’s door. “If you mess with Bodhi, I’ll tell Mira you slept with your section leader.”

You whirl around, whisper-yelling, “YOU WON’T—”

Both of you freeze again—guilty, caught, panting with rage—and then scramble in opposite directions.

You rush the last few steps to Violet’s door, knuckles already rapping in rapid succession, whispering furiously, “Violet, open up! I need to scream into your pillow or jump out your window or maybe shove you out of it, whichever happens first—”

Behind you, you hear Xaden’s fist slam against Bodhi’s door. “Bodhi, open the door before I throw you out the godsdamn window—”

Two doors creak open at once.

Two cousins blink sleepily in the thresholds.

Two pairs of voices say, in perfect, groggy harmony:

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 sharper—acidic, 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 evening—contributing 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 demons—being 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 you—the ugly, bitter part you try very hard not to acknowledge—whispers 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 either—the 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 family—this 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 beautiful—all dark hair and Feyre's distinctive eyes—and 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 too—the only ones, aside from Balthazar, you suppose. But the idea of Balthazar having such an important place in your life —with a title that differs so drastically from what you'd always hoped for—makes 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 kinship—another 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 it—that barely contained need to flee—because 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 here—the 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 distant—a 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 now—or 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 now—that 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 mind—stoic, 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 automatically—arms opening, body shifting to accommodate him without thought—makes 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 not—we're not getting married."

"But I thought when two people love each other very much—"

"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 baby—"

"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 that—fairy 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't—"

"It's okay." Your voice sounds strange, distant. "I should get back. I’m 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.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk back to your borrowed apartment blurs together. Velaris at night is beautiful—all 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 fear—it feels wrong.

Part of you wants to love it. 

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 building—the apartment that isn't really yours, furnished with furniture that isn't really yours—the 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 embarrassing—how 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, eating—it'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 it—can 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 smile—an 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 you—the 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. He’s hit something tender. Deep in your gut, a flame flickers—some 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 him—at 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 child—the feared Spymaster of the Night Court?

An ally is someone you can be honest with. 

"Okay. You're right," you admit reluctantly. "I was—I 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 it—patient, genuinely curious, without any hint of judgment—makes 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 strange—this 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 in—" 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 cheeks—confirmation 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 people—our people, I guess—barely 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 that—at 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'm—"

"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 tempting—the 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 you—a 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 act—of his careful deliberation over what might be considered your personal space—is 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 fingers—smooth 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 to—"

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."

You’re stunned into silence. Here is the powerful Shadowsinger, the Night Court’s feared Spymaster, so open, and willing to be vulnerable, to find understanding with you—the 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, or—

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 chair—as much as it'll allow him—and 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 familarity—to 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 him—for an indulgent minute—as 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. "I—I 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 more—uncomfortable 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 eyes—the 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.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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

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