welcome

You ran your fingers through his hair, still damp from his evening shower. "What did you buy at midnight?"

He pulled out item after item with the reverence of someone handling ancient artifacts. A tiny pair of socks with strawberries on them. A onesie that said "My Dad is a Dork" in glitter letters. A stuffed demogorgon - soft and child-safe - that he'd apparently custom ordered from somewhere.

"Steve," you laughed, picking up the demogorgon. It's red and oddly cute, with button eyes and no teeth, just the blooming flower head. "Really?"

"She needs to know her roots," he said seriously, then ruined it by pressing a kiss to your stomach. "Your mom and dad fought actual monsters, princess. You're gonna be so tough."

"She's going to be a newborn, Steve. The scariest thing she'll face is gas and vomit."

He looked up at you, and your heart did that thing it had been doing since you were sixteen years old - skipped, stuttered, swelled. His eyes were soft, overwhelmed, his.

"What if I'm not good at this?" he asked quietly, all the manic energy draining into something vulnerable. "What if I - what if I mess her up? My parents weren't exactly - " He stopped, jaw tight. "What if I'm like them?"

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the worry lines he was getting from frowning in his sleep. "You're going to be amazing."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." You leaned down, kissed his forehead, his nose, his mouth. "I know you drove to three different towns to find the right crib because the first two didn't feel safe enough. I know you read three parenting books in one week and highlighted the important parts. I know you cried when we heard her heartbeat."

"I did not - " He caught your look. "Okay, I cried a little."

"You sobbed, Steve. You sobbed."

He buried his face in your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist. "I'm so scared," he mumbled against the cotton of your shirt. "I want to be perfect for her. For both of you."

Your heart broke open, warm and tender. This was the boy who'd faced down monsters without flinching, who'd fought in a war against things from another dimension, who'd become a hero without ever asking for the title. And here he was, terrified of being a father.

"Hey." You tugged his hair until he looked up. "You're already perfect. You're Steve Harrington. You fought with a bat that had nails in it to save a bunch of kids. You can definitely handle a baby."

"But what if she doesn't like me?"

"She's going to adore you." You smiled, feeling a tiny flutter against your ribs - her, awake and active, responding to his voice probably. "Feel that? She already knows her dad."

Steve's hand pressed flat against your belly, wonder transforming his face. "Is that - did she just - "

"She's saying hi."

He stayed there for a long moment, forehead resting against your stomach, whispering things you couldn't quite hear. Promises, probably. I'll protect you. I'll love you. I'll be there.

When he finally sat back on his heels, his eyes were wet again, but he was smiling. "I got one more thing," he said, reaching into the bag.

It was a tiny headband with a small bow, soft pink and impossibly delicate. He held it between two fingers like it might dissolve.

"To keep her head warm till she has hair." He said. "Which... Let's face it she's probably going to end up with my hair gene, but until then... I want her to feel like a princess. Our princess."

You took the headband, then took his hand, pressing both to your heart. "Come to bed, Harrington. Your princesses need sleep."

He helped you up - always so careful now, treating you like glass even though you kept telling him you weren't breakable - and walked you to the bedroom with one arm around your waist, the other carrying his midnight haul.

In the dark, curled around you with his hand spread over your belly, he whispered, "I love you. Both of you. So much it actually hurts."

"I know," you whispered back. "We know."

He was asleep in minutes, finally, exhaustion winning over anxiety. You stayed awake a little longer, feeling her move inside you, feeling his breath warm against your neck.

He was going to be incredible.

You knew it like you knew your own name. Like you knew that the boy who'd once been too cool for everything had grown into a man who was exactly cool enough for this - for late night shopping trips and nursery assembly and learning to braid hair someday.

Steve Harrington was going to be a father.

And he was going to be absolutely, perfectly, wonderfully terrified the entire time.

It’s likely due to a combination of factors. Your family was never overly affectionate in this way; hugs and kisses fizzled out rather quickly in your youth and now, hugs are merely reserved for hellos and goodbyes. 

It’s also probably in part that you’re a horribly shy creature and don’t wish to be perceived in any capacity, and Cassian’s hand landing on your knee only goes to alert you to the fact that you are, indeed, a perceivable being. 

If it’s at all possible, you shrink even further into yourself, hoping to eventually blend into the cushion of the loveseat that you’re currently occupying. You’re silently chanting don’t look, don’t look, don’t look as you scan the room to see who might be looking in your direction.

Cassian must hate you, though, because he lets out a sharp bark of laughter that has the majority of the room turning to look at him; sitting so close to him, you’re thus perceived by association. 

He launches into some story that apparently requires both hands to accurately recall it, lifting his palm from where it was warming your knee and leaving it cold in his wake.

Great, now you miss his touch. You – ever so slowly – shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other in a poor attempt to recreate some of Cassian’s warmth. 

You fail, and you look up to find that Rhysand has witnessed your hopeless aim at self-soothing, the male sending you a comforting wink that brings you no comfort at all and sees you subconsciously shifting further into Cassian’s side, wondering if he might not extend his wing for you to hide behind. 

Cassian must’ve felt you thinking about him, or maybe he really does just hate you, because he chooses that moment to turn in his seat in order to look at you. It requires him to shift his entire body since you’ve all but melted into the cushions behind him.

“You doin’ okay, gorgeous?” 

You hum in the affirmative but the sound is all wrong; pitchy, high, and a little bit wobbly. 

“What’re you doing back there, hm?” 

Busted.

“Hiding,” you admit, knowing better than to lie to him (again). 

This time it’s Cassian who hums the affirmative, turning even further in his seat until his knees brush yours and you are granted the entirety of his attention. “Rhys said you look like you’re trying to figure out how to winnow.”

You turn to look at the offending male who has the audacity to wink at you. 

Squealer.

Rhysand throws his head back in laughter; you might have thought that particular thought a little too loudly. 

“Awe, don’t be mad at him, sweetheart,” Cassian chuckles, calloused fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before hooking underneath your chin and tilting your face up towards him. “He can’t help but notice the most beautiful fae in the room.” 

“Cassian,” you hiss, face heating at his blatant flattery and you’d like for his hand to move away from your cheeks lest he realize what effect he’s having on you. “His mate’s sitting right there.”

“I said what I said.” 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper, closing your eyes in resignation though you can’t help the smile that dances at the corners of your lips.

“Doing what?” Cassian replies with a laugh that fans across your face. “What am I doing to you, huh?”

“Torturing me.”

“I’m loving you,” he counters proudly. “You’ve got a problem with that, sweetheart?”

“Maybe I do.”

Cassian lets out a huff of acknowledgement. “Yeah? Well, tough.” 

He punctuates the sentiment with a gentle kiss to your lips before he finally lets go of your jaw, but he takes a moment to bump his nose against yours before pulling away as a silent apology for any discomfort. You both know if you truly had an issue, though, that he’d back off. 

His hand doesn’t stray far, however, returning to your knee as he jumps back into the conversation happening around him, this time the touch is paired with the occasional squeeze or a stroke of his thumb along your inner knee.

“I’m so glad everyone finds my discomfort so thoroughly amusing,” Rhysand comments from the head of the table, taking his own, exhausted sip of wine. Even Feyre bites back a smile at her mate’s foul mood. 

You have the grace to shrink under your brother’s ire. Cassian preens under it. 

Azriel clears his throat. “Rhys, I-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” your brother interrupts your mate with a pointed glare. Azriel doesn’t shrink the same way you do, but he does fold to Rhysand’s demand. 

Cassian begins to cackle, and your ire blossoms. 

“Oh, fuck off, Cassian,” you sneer. “As if you haven’t left the imprint of your ass and testicles on every piece of furniture in this house yourself.” 

“Had to watch it happen, too,” Amren mutters into her own wine glass. 

“You’re welcome,” Cassian drawls with a smirk. The ancient being merely scowls at him.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is,” Nesta finally states. You could kiss her right on the mouth right about now. “Didn’t you say the three of you used to bed females in the same room before?” 

Rhysand’s jaw twitches as his glare turns towards his sister-in-law. “Yes, Nesta. The difference is that I was never accosted with the sight of my dear baby sister.”

Nesta scoffs. “You all call each other brother, anyway. Now it actually means something.” 

“Nesta,” Feyre murmurs warningly. You shoot the Valkyrie a grateful smile anyway. 

A few of Azriel’s shadows circle you in your chair, one of them tapping at the base of your spine in a silent encouragement to sit up taller. You don’t usually cower under your brother’s might; you usually give as good as you take.

You don’t like the position he found you in earlier today, though. His horrified face is burned into the back of your retinas. You’re sure he’s got an equally horrifying image burned to the back of his.

Azriel tugs gently on the bond in silent apology for it. You nudge his ankle under the table in acknowledgement. 

Rhysand clocks the intimacy immediately.

“Make sure the two of you are leaving room for the Mother, down there,” your brother snaps, pointing an accusatory fork in your direction. 

“I’m allowed to touch my mate, Rhys,” Azriel grumbles back. 

“Oh Cauldron, what have they done now, Rhys?” Cassian snickers like a fool. “Did they link pinkies? Bump their knees together? Playing footsie under the table? How scandalous.” 

“I’m going to kill you,” Rhysand tells Cassian plainly. 

“You see, you say that,” Cassian retorts, pausing to shove a roast potato in his mouth, “but you never do. After 500 years, I’m beginning to think these are empty threats, brother.” 

You owe both Nesta and Cassian big ol’ kisses on the mouth later tonight for redirecting your brother’s ire away from you. 

This time, out of Rhysand’s line of sight.

He chuckled and pulled you tight to him. You could feel the press of his bulge against your lower back. You bit your lip and glanced at him over your shoulder. The look in his eyes that made a heat pool between your legs. 

“Then we take this somewhere more private.” He whispered. 

He let you go, walking away easily. You watched him leave the kitchen as if nothing was wrong and heard his footsteps disappear upwards. You counted in your mind, pretending to dry a dish. A door clicked. You put the dish down and wiped your hands with the towel. You straightened the skirt of your dress and walked casually through the house, stopping at the living room entryway. The kids were watching cartoons. You did a quick head count to ensure they were all there before heading up the stairs. 

Your heart raced like it always did when you reached the bedroom. You opened and slipped through the door, turning the knob so the door shut almost silently. Immediately warm, big hands were on your waist. You yelped and laughed as Henry pulled you backwards. 

“A little eager, baby?” You asked when he spun you around to face him. His gaze alone told you the answer. 

He didn’t speak. He pulled you in, lips pressed to your own. You closed your eyes with a little whine in your throat when he slipped his tongue into your mouth. He held you tight to his body with one arm, while the other went into your perfectly laid curls. His kisses always left you dizzy, his mouth devouring your own when you both were alone. 

You felt the bed bump against your legs before he pulled away and pushed you back. You gasped as you bounced on the bed, falling back on your elbows. You watched him, waiting to see what he would do. If he unbuttoned his shirt- he rolled his sleeves up one at a time. He smirked at the moaned exhale you made. Your thighs spread open on their own. 

“You know what this dress does to me, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m starting to think you do it on purpose.” 

Maybe you were. 

His knees hit the rug and you throbbed between your legs. Gone was the prim and proper facade of Mr. Whatsit. Pushing your legs open further was Henry Creel. Your Henry. His gaze did not leave yours when his hands pushed up under your skirt and along your thighs. Your breath hitched when his fingers met the bare skin of your hips. 

He growled with furrowed brows. “You naughty little girl.” His finger tips dug into your rear and he pulled you to the edge of the bed. “You are very lucky I’m starving.” 

The skirt of your dress flew up and he pulled you down even further so your ass hung off the edge of the bed. Your left thigh was thrown over his shoulder and you sighed as he kissed your stomach. 

“Henry,” you gasped, your head falling back when he brought his mouth lower. He licked up your slit, groaning with his hot breath against your skin. 

“You’re very wet. How long have you been thinking about this?” The deep rumble of his voice and his fingers tightening on your thighs made your eyes roll back. “Don’t lie to me, love.”

“All day,” you panted, staring at the ceiling. “You left me all alone this morning.”

He wasn’t in bed when you woke and that hurt your feelings. He chuckled deeply. 

“My poor, slutty wife. You didn’t get my cock this morning so you punished me by teasing me?” 

“No.”

The smack of his hand on your cunt made you yelp. 

“Don’t lie.” He hissed and you could see his piercing blue eyes over the fluff of your skirt. It made you clench around nothing. “I will leave you where you lie.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I just wanted your attention.” You bit your lip. You braced yourself. Another slap didn’t come. 

“Oh, sweet girl. I have neglected you, haven’t I?” His nail traced the skin on your thigh. “Don’t be loud or the children will hear you.” 

You felt his mouth on your skin and you covered your own mouth with your hands. The room filled with your muffled moans and the smack of his lips as he sucked and licked your aching clit. You resisted the urge to put your hands in his hair when his tongue dipped lower, pushing into you and lapping out your wetness. 

You were close; your thighs shook and he held you tighter and worked his mouth harder. Be he knew your tells. Your back arched and just as you almost reached the edge, he pulled back. You whined, tears rolling down the side of your face and you clenched around nothing, seeking relief that didn’t come. 

He stood, towering over you with his lips and chin glistening in the sunlight from the window. You watched him reach for his belt; slow, deliberate. Your hands fell to your sides when he yanked the belt free from the buckle. 

“You’re going to come on my cock,” he said, voice steady as his gaze. You kept your eyes on his but could see his hands undo his pants and heard the zipper open. “And when we’re done, you won’t clean yourself. You’ll put on your panties like a good girl and finish cooking dinner.” 

He moved you up the bed without touching you, stroking himself. When he was satisfied with your placement you stopped moving and he crawled over you, settling between your legs. He let his hard cock fall against you. His breath was hot against your lips as he leaned in. 

“Do you understand me, dear?” 

“Yes.” 

He smiled, soft and genuine. “When the table is set, you can freshen up. I’ll get the children and make you a plate.” 

“You’re so thoughtful.” You shifted your hips, which readjusted his cock against you. “Will my husband take care of me now?” 

“Of course.” 

He kissed you and reached between you. You moaned into his mouth. You never get enough of how full he makes you feel. He let you adjust, kissing you softly. He propped himself up on his elbow and took your hand into his own. He went slow, dreadfully slow. 

Oh he was teasing you.

Tears welled in your eyes; they always did when he went slow. Even shifting your legs wider didn’t help the ache. It was too much and not enough. His hand tugged down the dress, releasing one of your breasts. He took it in his mouth and you squeezed your legs around him.  

“Henry,” you breathed out then whined. 

He covered your mouth with his own. He kissed as slow as he fucked you. Steady, lovingly. He palmed your freed breast; combined with his deep thrusts you, whimpered. More tears fell down your cheeks; it felt so good it hurt. 

“I know,” he whispered. He peppered kisses where your tears were falling. “I know, baby. It feels good, doesn’t it? You’re doing so well.” 

“Touch me,” your voice cracked and your hands dug into his shirt. “Please.”

He chuckled and he stared at you. His hand left your breast and slipped between you, his thumb finding your clit. Your eyes rolled back and a moan escaped you. 

“Yes,” you gasped. Pleasure finally started building. 

It didn’t take much longer. You bit your lip as you came to keep from crying out. You squeezed your thighs around his hips and arched your back. He didn’t stop touching you- you had to reach down and pull his hand away. He laughed, light and breathy and kept rocking into you. Now that you were taken care of, he let himself loose. The bed creaked and he muttered your name between kisses, over and over like a prayer. His pace quickened. Your hand went into his hair and he groaned. 

“Good boy,” you whispered. “So good.”

He let out a low, guttural moan. His body shuddered and you felt the pulse inside you. He didn’t move off of you. He collapsed and covered you like a warm blanket. You stroked his hair as you both caught your breath. You wanted to lay there for hours, just the two of you. But the sound of children laughing downstairs filtered through the door. You sighed. Henry pushed himself up and off of you with a grunt. You felt empty, squeezing your thighs together as you got off the bed. Henry was already put together, tucking himself away and buckling his belt. You tugged up your dress and shuffled to the chest of drawers to grab a pair of underwear to slip them on. 

“Should I throw these in the laundry later or should I leave them for you to-“ you turned, intending to tease but stopped. 

Henry was scowling, eyes closed. The air felt heavy. Something was wrong. In a breath, he opened his eyes again and gave you a stern look. 

“There’s been a slight change of plans, dear. I’m needed elsewhere. Get the children ready for dinner. I’ll try to return soon.”

”Of course.” 

He did not step over to you and kiss your cheek. Nor did he tell you goodbye. Still scowling, he left the bedroom quickly. He didn’t even bother to shut the bedroom door. You sighed and pushed away the knot in your stomach. You fluffed your hair in the vanity mirror and went down the stairs. You stopped on the last step, scanning as the children went about without a care. A chill went over you. 

One was missing. 

Holly was missing. 

“Mrs. Whatsit?” 

You blinked. One of the boys- Derek, the one Holly didn’t like, stood in front of you. 

“Yes dear?” You put on a smile. 

“I made this for you.” He held out a piece of paper with a grin of his own. 

“Oh, thank you sweetie.” You took it and stilled as you looked at it. Another blink, and you folded it quickly. “I’ll be sure to hang it up later. Run along- I have to make dinner. How do you feel about lasagna?”

”I love lasagna,” he replied.

”Good to know.” You flashed another smile and he ran off. 

Alone in the kitchen, you opened the paper again. The handwriting was Holly’s and it said I’m going with Max. We’re getting out. You crumpled the paper. You turned on the faucet and stuck it under the running water, ripping it to push it down the drain. 

Max had gotten to Holly. Max had gotten to Derek, too. 

Your lip trembled and you looked behind you to make sure none of the kids saw you. You told Max to get out. You told her about the cave and when Henry never mentioned her again, you assumed she was safe. No. You sniffled, tears falling. She was still here and now Henry would get her. Stupid, stubborn girl. With a deep breath, you composed yourself and wiped your eyes. There was nothing to be done about Max. Henry would bring Holly back and he was expecting dinner. You turned off the faucet and went to grab the ingredients from the pantry. 

If Henry was in a good mood tonight, you could ask him what happened before going to bed. You had hope, after all. Silly hope. If Max made it this long, then maybe she could make it a bit longer. You also decided once you stuck the lasagna in the oven to bake, you would talk to Derek. Holly gave that to him- which meant he knew the truth. 

And truth was dangerous in this house. 

But your plan did not come to fruition. When you went to look for Derek, he was missing too. The kids outside on the playground said he marched into the woods. 

“You all should come inside.” You said loudly, staring at the thick brush that led to the woods. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Are the monsters going to get Derek?” You turned to see Debbie looking up at you worried. 

“Mr. Whatsit will make sure Derek gets back safe.” You forced a smile. 

“That sucks.” Thomas muttered. 

“Go inside,” You stared at him pointedly, tone harsher than it had been before. “If the monsters do get Derek, they will be after you too. Go. Now.” 

You pointed to the house and the kids stiffened before running off to the house. You looked back at the woods. You hoped if Henry did catch up to them, they would be wise to comply. If your patience was running thin, you knew Henry already had enough. You headed back to the house, annoyed that your heels were getting dirty from the grass. Once you reached the sidewalk, you cleaned them with a wave of your hand without stopping.

"That's ridiculous," Nanami mumbled, shaking his head slightly.

"No, it isn't, Ken. Hear me out. Think of a day this month where you haven't rocked my shit back to front?" you insisted, eyes now solely on him.

Nanami rolled his eyes at your choice of wording. But now that you mentioned it, you got him thinking. There hadn't been a single day that month where he hadn't, for lack of better words, "rocked your shit back to front. "

"Exactly!" you exclaimed, reading his mind. You looked at him expectantly, arms crossed as if you had already won this impromptu debate.

"Just because we make love more often than most doesn't mean we're sex addicts addicts, [Y/N]. It means we're in love. In tune. In-"

"-sane," you interrupted, fighting back a snicker as you watched him roll his eyes.

"Where has this even come from? You certainly weren't complaining last night," he murmured, amusement twinkling in his eyes as the tips of your ears burned hot.

"I mean, obviously not. But women talk, you know? Jenna in finance says she and her husband only do it once a week," you said solemnly, drumming your fingers against the marble countertop.

"Once a week?" Nanami frowned softly, as if the very notion disgusted him to his core.

"Right?! In comparison, our habits are obscene. Perhaps we've been too gluttonous in our pursuits," you exclaimed, chewing on your bottom lip in thought.

"Perhaps Jenna from finance needs a new husband," he scoffed, leaning against the countertop. Once a week? How did they survive?

You snorted, focusing on your phone once again. But the cogs in your mind were already spinning. Kento noticed, as he always did. Pushing off the counter, he walked toward the stool you were sitting on and gently pried the phone from your hands.

"Are you concerned? Or perhaps a bit... tired of our activities?" he asked gently, not a hint of judgement in his tone. Perhaps he'd been excessive and greedy, taking at your expense. Maybe you were worn. The thought concerned him. He hadn't even considered it a possibility until that point.

You waved him off, your eyes widening at what he was was alluding to.

"Christ of Nazareth, no. Are you joking? I love a good fuck, you know that. I'm just saying, we're totally addicted. I doubt you could even go a day without sex," you teased, wiggling your brows at him.

He scoffed amusedly.

"You're joking right?

"Oh, I'm fully serious, babe," you huffed softly, a wry smile on your lips. "I'd give you 1 week tops."

He cocked a brow, and with a defiant smirk, he countered, "Is that right? Well, I'll raise you. 1 month. Guaranteed you'll fold well before I've even gotten started."

"You reckon?' you smiled slyly. He gave you a nod, a small smile lifting at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah. Wanna bet?"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

1 week and 3 days

The symmetry of sex was often one underappreciated. Sweaty bodies in tandem with one another, fitting together like destined puzzle pieces, drawing pleasure while giving it simultaneously. Like an intricate machine, the instructions of which predates human consciousness. Sex was a holy poem. A sacred hymn.

And if Kento didn't get his dick wet soon, he was certain he'd lose his mind.

It had been a week since the little bet. Or maybe longer. He honestly didn't know. Nanami could swear he had gone off his rocker, his brain cells deteriorating with every slow tick of the clock. It was as if all the blood that usually flowed to his dick on the daily rushed to his brain instead, his synapses collapsing under the pressure.

Was he even allowed a quick tug? Oh, he didn't know. He was much too old to be pondering the parameters of a sex bet he made with his wife.

How in the hell did he ever survive without you? Prior to your relationship, Nanami had weathered through months of celibacy. His job had barely afforded him any time to foster meaningful relationships, and quite frankly, modern hookup culture disgusted him. So he had preferred to decline all opportunities for genuine human intimacy. He felt it easier that way. He once thought of his abstinence as a testament to his mental fortitude and unwavering self-control. In fact, Nanami wouldn't be lying if he said he had felt a sense of superiority to his peers who indulged every superfluous whim like simple-minded animals. He had thought himself better than most.

Then came you. A splash of colour to an otherwise dull canvas, illuminating him from within and unearthing desires he once thought long buried under the stress and despair that came with being a sorcerer. Love had been but a concept to him until your fateful encounter all those years ago. Nanami hadn't known how miserable he truly was until you became an everyday staple. You were like a brilliant ray of sunlight, bringing joy to his life and thawing his cold heart and unutilized cock.

As a result of his dependence on you, his own personal antidepressant, Nanami expected you to display a similar sense of neediness. A dissonance that mirrored his own. By now, Nanami had expected you to be a mess. A whining, pouty little thing, begging for release with that saccharine tone that had his stomach lurching in anticipation. Wanton eyes reflecting a lust much similar to his own, one he would indulge as if he were your saviour, delivering you from strain and not the other way around. At the very least, he assumed you would be snappy. Irritated and moody, just like he was.

But no. Oh no.

You were the picture of serenity. Your demeanour collected and smile unwavering. Each day that week, you left for work as usual and returned somehow even more cheery, pecking his cheek sweetly while his cock begged for the same attention. You were a tranquil brook, water flowing undisrupted, while he raged like a turbulent sea.

It sickened him how unaffected you were. He felt as if his mind had been corrupted, the pipework corroded, spilling his pent-up desire into corners of his body that it didn't belong in. Like his hands. Were they usually clenched this tight? Or his jaw. Did it always tick so frequently with aggravation?

The worst part was that you didn't even have to try to rile him up. Smile at him? Rock hard. A whiff of your expensive perfume? Leaking into his trousers. Fixing his tie in the morning? Balls aching with the need to breed you thoroughly.

It wasn't fair, especially when you made it so difficult without even realizing. Your charm was effortless. Like earlier today, wearing shorts that had him questioning why it was he'd even agreed to this stupid bet. Was he even lucid at the time of discussion? What in the hell was wrong with him?

Later that evening, recently fed and freshly showered, you climbed into bed with your grumpy husband. With a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose, you turned over to sleep, your back facing him.

"Night baby," you murmured sleepily.

"Night," Kento mumbled, arms crossed and face pouty.

Not even a whiff of arousal on your part. How insulting, he thought bitterly. At this point, he would gnaw on your panties like chewing gum if you allowed him to do so. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Nanami gave it a minute before moving to lie behind you, one beefy arm loosely draped around your middle. You sighed contentedly, moving closer to the warmth he provided. Nanami swore he saw heaven when the fat of your arse brushed against his aching groin.

Discreetly, he shifted his hips, coming to a slow, torturous grind - barely perceptible really. He battled a groan that threatened to bubble up his throat. How degrading, honestly. A married man grinding against his wife's clothed arse instead of fucking into her sopping cunt as the good lord intended. A personal all-time low for Nanami Kento.

He managed to get away with his teenage gyrations for about a minute before you noticed, turning to give him a surprised smirk. Your facial expression had his face turning red, like a boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

"Nanami Kento. Folding already?" you taunted, giving him a once over. You spied the defined cock print in his sweats, the sight having you lick your lips.

"If it's too hard dear, just admit you were wrong. That you are, in fact, addicted. I'll take care of you nice and good, lovie. Promise," you cooed, giving him a smug look.

Kento huffed, as if the mere sound could dispel the embarrassment he felt.

"Tch, as if. I was merely getting comfortable. It's not my fault your backside takes half the bed," he said, turning around with all the sass of a disgruntled wife. You laughed softly, amused by his tone.

"Is that so? So you weren't grinding against me like a mutt in heat? If that's the case, then I'm so sorry. Come back here and let's cuddle," you said dryly, patting the space beside you.

"No, it's alright [Y/N]. I just didn't know you thought of your husband as such a leper."

The cheek in his voice had you wheezing with laughter, the perfect backdrop to his miserable attempt at getting off. Cheap pride was easier than admitting defeat, but at this point, perhaps he'd already lost...

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

2 weeks and 5 days

"Heyyy. What's cookin' good lookin'?" Gojo's overly enthusiastic voice blared from your car speaker, your eyebrow twitching with fond annoyance.

"Gojo, has that line ever worked on anyone?" you asked dryly, your attention on the road as he whined dramatically into the speaker.

"There's a first time for everything, sweets. Don't be a debbie downer!" he exclaimed. You could practically hear the pout in his voice.

"Hmm. Sure," you responded with a soft smile.

"Why are you even calling me anyway, Gojo? It's unlike you to detach your head from your anal cavity long enough to think about anyone else," you joked, laughing softly when he gave an exasperated sigh.

"Just checking in. Seeing how you're doing. Speaking of how you're doing, have you managed to obtain a terminal illness as of late?" he asked with all the nonchalance of a man inquiring about the weather.

"What?" you asked, thoroughly confused as you took a left turn. The work day had nothing short of fried your brain. Gojo's added antics had to be a health hazard at this point.

"I mean it quite simply, [Y/N]. Please keep up. Are you terminally ill? Have you perhaps acquired a rare disease? Is your relationship on the rocks, maybe? Oooh, have you found a newer, more exciting boytoy? Ah, maybe you've-"

"Gojo, what in the actual fuck are you talking about?" you cut him off, beyond lost. Gojo was known for his frivolous character and carefree speech, sure, but the nature of this conversation seemed strange even for him. Where had all this come from?

"So, just to clarify, nothing has changed between you Nanamin?" he questioned slowly, as if speaking to a child.

You rolled your eyes heavily, and with a disgruntled scoff, answered, "No, Gojo. Not that I'm aware of, at least. Why?"

"I don't understand then! Nanami has been insufferable lately! As in full pissy diva mode! He's even worse than when he was in high school with that horrendous emo "gonna kill myself" trim!" Gojo whined out, and much to your vexation, continued to rant about how Nanami had "reverted back to his loser depressive persona" and how "immediate intervention needed to take place."

"-and today, he exorcised a curse with soo much aggression, I actually a bit bad for the bastard. Like, actually thundercunted it into the wall until its head exploded! Oh, and don't get me started on last Tuesday when he-"

"Gojo, forgive me for interrupting your psychotic ramblings, but when did this all start?" you asked, realisation dawning on you with a giddy sense of triumph.

"Uhh, the kids reckon about 2 weeks ago? Though, it's hard to pinpoint anything with him. His expression is dreadfully constant," Gojo sighed dramatically, his revelation further confirming your sneaky suspicion.

"Well, don't you worry, Gojo. Come tomorrow, he'll be a happy camper. Mark my words."

And with that, you hung up, a smug smile fixed permanently to your lips. You sped up your car, home but a mere 5 minutes away. You had a husband to see to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Humiliation wore a tan suit and a yellow-black bespeckled tie. At least today it did. After losing his cool in front of the first years, and almost costing them the mission, Nanami spent the rest of the day lurking in his office, drowning his sorrows in vending machine cold brew.

How disgraceful. A senior sorcerer having his backside saved by a student was never a good feeling. He was supposed to guide his pupils, be a steady pillar upon which they could always lean. Instead, he'd gotten bested by a barely there special grade curse. Like a special grade loser.

With a heavy sigh, he entered your shared home. Kicking off his shoes and hanging his coat, he walked to the bedroom, hoping to find you. It ends tonight. He would lay his pride at your feet with the utmost joy if it meant getting just a whiff of your pussy. Scratch that, even just a gander. He'd settle for a peak. Maybe if he were extra good, you'd spare him your used panties. A man could only dream.

He pushed the door open, steeling himself for the stinging slap of shame his admission of defeat would bring, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him. Nanami inhaled sharply, his heart rate spiking at the sight of you splayed on the bed, dressed in nothing but the sheer periwinkle lace set you'd surprised him with for his birthday last year. Nanami forgot all social cues, an unintelligible gurgling sound forming at the back of his throat instead of words. He cleared his throat, cock already at half mast and straining against the material of his slacks.

"Darling, do you not think it cruel to tease me so?" he managed, teeth clenched. He watched through lidded eyes as you slowly sat up, one divine leg crossing over the other.

"No teasing, Ken. Come here," you said, voice sweet as you opened your arms invitingly, beckoning him like a siren at sea. And Kento was more than happy to drown.

He took a hesitant step forward, and with a gulp, asked, " What of the bet?"

He eyed you suspiciously, his intense desire giving way to a brief hesitation. Were you tricking him? Was this a ruse? A cruel glimpse at heaven before the rug was pulled?

Sensing his apprehension, you laughed sweetly, a cloying sound that stuck tacky to his inner ear drum. You slowly walked toward him, his eyes fixed on you like a deer caught in headlights. With an innocent smile that belied the filth your eyes held, you gently slid your hand up his clothed chest. In a split second, you had his tie wrapped between your fingers, tugging him down so your face was but an inch away from his.

"I expected a bit more enthusiasm, Ken. I have to say I'm quite disappointed. If you want to wait until the month is up, I under-"

His lips crashed onto yours with a hunger so intense, it had you stumbling back, sentence half spoken and jest dissolved on your tongue like sugar. Nanami's mouth dominated yours, swallowing any remaining faux sympathy you had to hurtle toward him. Kento wasn't an idiot. His brain may have been reduced to mush by the sheer density of horniness coursing through his veins, but he could tell you hadn't truly lost. Your control had not reached its brim. You were giving in. For him. And he loved you for it.

Nanami guided you back toward the bed, shoving you down as gently as he could. His usually precise and gentle movements had turned into something much more desperate. More primal. More carnal. He moved with the urgency of a man starved, one who had just been presented with a king's feast. His hands did not know gentleness. Not when his stomach was empty.

Nanami licked sloppily down your throat, pearly strings of saliva connecting his tongue to your heated skin. You bit back a moan as he all but shoved his face in between your breasts, mouthing at the soft skin of your tits as if he were actually trying to eat you.

With a fervour that bordered on animalistic, his large hands palmed at the spillage of fat from the edges of your sinful lace bra, smushing it towards his face and grunting like an animal in heat as he suffocated himself in you. Your scent, your skin, your sweat... all of it intoxicating in its nature.

"Kento..."

Your whine spurred him out of his lust-drunk haze. He pulled off your now spit-soaked skin with a wet pop! and continued his journey down your midriff, red mouth-shaped bruises blooming in his wake. You writhed under his attentive mouth, no inch of your abdomen spared from the hot caress of his eager tongue.

Nanami rimmed your navel before moving down and finally reaching the apex of your thighs. He breathed a sigh of relief. The war was over. He was finally home. Without another wasted second, he not so ceremoniously spread your thighs apart and stuffed his face into your clothed cunt, taking the most obscene sniff ever.

You fought a giggle through a groan as he rutted his face back and forth, shamelessly and unabashedly taking your scent in. He began sloppily lapping at your folds through the periwinkle panties, the material turning sheer from his spit. His tongue caught on your clit through your undies, the soft material rubbing deliciously against your clit as you moaned his name sweetly.

He made out with your sopping pussy through your panties for what seemed like hours, smearing your slick on his face as if marking himself. As if bathing himself in his favourite scent, ensuring you marked your territory appropriately. He did belong to you, after all.

You came within minutes of his desperate ministrations, your thighs shaking around his head as he lapped at your juices like the good boy he was. His name was like a sacred song on your tongue as you chanted it over and over. A sound he treasured and had missed these past two weeks. With one final kiss to the top of your clothed mound, he stood and undid his buckle with a soft click.

His pants fell to the floor with a soft whoosh, his boxers following not even a second later. Through bleary eyes, you managed to look up at him. His leaky cock was stiff and at full attention, his balls heavy and swollen between his legs. You gulped, the sight itself so erotic it was borderline orgasmic. He walked toward you, face determined as his hand softly stroked his length, eyes fixed on the outline of your pretty pussy wrapped in lace.

"Fuck," he whispered, sliding the flimsy material to the side. He gave your pussy a soft smack, earning a soft squeal from you. He slid his length through the sticky warmth of your folds, groaning softly at the sweet sensation of his skin on yours. His leaking cockhead snagged against your fluttering hole - once, twice, thrice...

With a broken gasp, he pushed inside you, the muscles of his abdomen stuttering in absolute pleasure as he did so. You moaned softly, looking at him aggrieved as he stilled, his teeth clenched and brows furrowed. Nanami knew that if he moved too brashly, he would spill his seed in a matter of seconds. After a moment, and a brief pep talk in the palace of his mind, Nanami began thrusting forward slowly, his right hand moving to squeeze at the base of his cock as he sank fully into the inviting heat of your cunt.

"Fuck, I didn't think she'd remember me. It's been so long," he breathed out, his thrusts slowly increasing in speed.

"It's been 2 and a half weeks, Ken," you giggled breathlessly, your hand moving down to toy with your neglected clit. Nanami's eyes followed your lithe fingers with hawk-like precision, groaning when they made contact with your sticky pearl.

"2 weeks akin to torture at the hands of Satan himself," he managed, his jaw aching from the force at which it was clenched. Nanami maneuvered your legs over his shoulders, leaning toward you so that your ears wore your kneecaps as accessories.

He had you in the meanest mating press, the sting of which burned deliciously in your stomach. This new position helped him drill his cock into your aching cunt at a punishing rate, each thrust personally ensuring that a little more air was knocked from your lungs. Your nails raked angry red marks down the vanilla expanse of his broad back, the corded muscles lying just beneath his skin tautening with effort as his hips rolled against your pelvis with the intent of undoing you completely.

Your moans and his gasps were a unified symphony of passion and devotion. Nanami leaned his sweaty forehead against yours, his tongue prodding at the seam of your lips, begging entry. You parted your lips, accepting his tongue as it danced alongside yours, his hips stuttering and balls tightening. He was close.

"I can't believe I thought myself above this. The only thing I ever want to be above is you," he gasped against your lips, his swollen cockhead battering against your cervix, like a delivery was about to be made. And if you kept squeezing around him like that, it would arrive sooner rather than later.

"I'm addicted. You were right. I'm fucking addicted and no amount of rehabilitation will ever get the taste of you off of my tongue. Fuck, I'm yours. All fucking yours..."

His ramblings died down against your neck as he finally came in a choir of harsh groans, cum gushing against your cervix with every stuttered thrust his hips had to offer. You moaned alongside him, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intense pleasure he afforded you. Nanami collapsed on top of you, his movements finally stilling as his last bit of spend dribbled out inside you.

You held him close, your harsh breathing in tandem with his own as you rode out the waves of pleasure together. He gasped harshly against your neck, licking at the sweat beading on your flushed skin. You raked your fingers through his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as you both caught your breath. After a while, cock still planted firmly within you, he looked up at you with a boyish grin.

"Wanna go again?"

Zooweemama. Our first ever oneshot. Applause from the crowd please...*crickets*

Ahem, anyway. This was long. Just like his dick.

Do let us know if this was, at all, enjoyable. Thanks for reading allat.

Check out Duke Kento here

He wished he knew how to comfort you. He seemed to have the annoying tendency to freeze up around you. Any ability to form a coherent sentence seemed to flee his mind when he got too close to you, when he thought about you. He was fortunate enough that you didn’t seem to notice, or, if you did, you never mentioned it.

Azriel was flustered around you.

You were everything he ever wanted, and he was so worried about losing you, about messing this up in some way, that he overthought everything he said and did. He was so used to moving with absolute confidence—not necessarily in himself, but in what he was meant to say and do. He knew what was expected of him, but now, with you? Now he was desperate and infatuated and—

Your hand slid into his, your cold fingers entwining with his scarred ones, and Azriel’s spiral grinded to a halt. Your eyes met his, wide and nervous and eager. Your lips pulled into a small smile, your hand squeezing his as if his touch, his presence, was enough to ground you. 

“This is fine,” you said, nodding to yourself as you glanced at the wooden double doors. Your gaze flicked back to him, the warm faelights surrounding the door making your eyes twinkle, and Azriel had to remind himself to breathe. “You’ll stay with me, right?”

Azriel blinked, his mind lagging as he processed your words. One of his shadows bumped into the back of his head, before spiraling down to wrap around your entwined hands, and Azriel felt his entire body turn warm. He squeezed your hand, his heart skipping when your smile widened into a grin. “Of course I will,” he answered softly.

You bit your bottom lip briefly, a nervous habit of yours, Azriel had noticed. He was entirely certain you had no idea how endearing, how alluring, the tiny motion was—how the darkened skin of your lips when you released the delicate skin tormented him. He wanted to kiss you. Every fiber of his being wanted to tug you close and press his lips to yours, but then doubt crept in and darkened the momentary haze that engulfed his senses.

He wanted to go at your pace. He needed to go slow. Azriel had taken plenty of lovers, but he had never had a partner, and he was quickly learning that this came with an entirely new facet of intimacy he was a stranger to. A form of intimacy so vulnerable it left him rattled—gentle smiles and grazing of hands, chipping away emotional walls he had built centuries ago. 

Azriel shifted just a little closer, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. Everything about you was intoxicating. Your scent was sweet, like brown sugar and vanilla. Azriel thought at first it was because of the long hours you spent in your bakery, but he had decided that it was just you. Your eyes crinkled at the edges, some of your nerves dulling as the two of you stared into each other's eyes, and Azriel couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his own lips.

Then the door flew open, the hinges creaking slightly with the abrupt motion, causing the two of you to flinch. You curled into Azriel’s side, your hand still clutching his as your arm pressed flush against his, and he had never felt so much pride as he did then, knowing your instincts were to lean on him.

He glared at Nesta, who stood in the doorway with cool and narrowed eyes. Her lips pursed as she took the two of you in, and he felt you go rigid underneath her gaze. “Nesta,” he snapped, his spine prickling with irritation.

Her eyes dragged to his, her lips pulling up into the smallest smirk, and he knew then that this was her version of teasing. “Be glad it was me,” she drawled, stepping back to hold the door open further. She raised her brows expectantly, and Azriel sighed as he glanced at you. Your nerves were back in full force, and yet it was you who smiled hesitantly, and took the first step through the threshold.

Nesta shut the door behind the two of you, the heavy wood shutting with a soft click. Azriel helped you out of your coat, his skin buzzing as your smile turned bashful when his fingers curled around the lapels.

“Cassian is practically chomping at the bit,” Nesta warned, her gaze tracking Azriel as he put your coat and scarf in the closet.

“Wonderful,” Azriel murmured.

When he turned back around, you were still standing there in the foyer, your hands fidgeting at your sides as you took in Nesta. “Hi,” you said, a wide smile breaking out on your face as you gave a small, adorable wave that you promptly dropped. He watched your throat bob, your heart once again pounding in your chest. “I’m Y/N.”

Nesta, thank the Mother, smiled back. “Nesta,” she returned, her icy tone thawing a bit. “We’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N.”

Azriel’s face went hot as you glanced at him. “Oh,” you said, uncertainty lacing your words, “All good things, I hope?”

Nesta scoffed, waving away your worry. “The way Az talks about you—you would think you hung the moon and stars.”

Azriel’s face was molten now, but his embarrassment was entirely worth it to see your shoulders relax and your grin brighten into one unmarred by nerves. It was worth it to feel your joy radiate down the bond, a pulse of euphoria that made his mind fuzzy.

He expected you to follow after Nesta, and he sent you an encouraging smile as you watched her walk down the hall. Instead, you turned toward him, grabbing his hand in both of yours, and you pulled him with you after Nesta.

Azriel felt like he was floating.

~ ~ ~

That night, after bidding his family goodbye and freeing you from their incessant questions, and himself from their relentless teasing, the two of you walked side by side along the Sidra. Azriel had offered to winnow you home—or fly you—but you refused. You always refused those offers, and Azriel never pushed, but part of him wished you would let him, just once.

It was admittedly nice to slow down with you, though. The water trickling along the Sidra was louder in the quiet of the night, at least on this side of the city. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his wings were nestled tight against his back, and he was begging his shadows not to swarm you. You were close enough beside him that your arm brushed his every so often, every accidental graze making his heart leap and his shadows buzz.

Then you stopped, the gentle click of your footsteps abruptly halting. You grabbed Azriel’s arm before he could really even react, dragging him back a couple of steps so he stood in front of you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his heart rate immediately picking up.

You smiled softly, a smile unlike any of the others you had passed around to his family tonight, and he liked the thought of you having a smile just for him. “I’m fine—Az.” His cheeks reddened at the familial nickname you clearly picked up on. “I didn’t know you liked to be called that,” you added softly, a question hidden in your words.

Azriel shrugged. “Rhys and Cas have called me that since I was a boy.”

You nodded, looking out at the water behind him. “Your family is really nice—close.”

Azriel felt like there was something you weren’t saying, something you were holding back, and suddenly all of his earlier anxiety came rushing back. “They are,” he agreed slowly. “They can be a little much at times—I know that. I’m sorry if—”

“Azriel,” you interrupted gently, your hand squeezing his arm. “They did nothing wrong.” Then with a smaller smile, “I had a good night.”

He could feel the ache in his chest radiating through him, and he was fairly certain that at least some of that was coming from you. “Tell me what else you’re thinking,” he urged gently.

You took a deep breath, pulling your hand away to stick both of them in your coat pockets. Azriel hated it.

“I just—” you started, then shook your head. “I know we’ve only known each other for a month.” Another smile stretched your lips, but this time it didn’t reach your eyes, and it quickly fell. “And I know I just sort of dropped into your lap—and that I’m probably nothing like what you expected as you mate—”

“That’s not true,” Azriel hurried out, the words desperate. He was the one to reach for you this time, his hands curling around your arms, and he saw the way you watched him, the way your eyes widened at his touch. “You’re—you—” Azriel hated that he was fumbling this, that he was struggling to give you these words. “You’re beautiful,” he finally said. “I don’t have a better word for it. Inside and out—you leave me in awe. And I’m so grateful I found you.”

Your eyes glistened in the moonlight, laughing half-heartedly as you wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry,” you said, “This is silly.”

“It’s not,” he assured.

You shrugged, your hands still stuffed in your pockets and Azriel’s hands still gripping your arms. “I guess it just rattled me, being around so many people that know you so well. It—well, it didn’t feel great. I know that’s unfair, I know it’s only been a month, but—”

Azriel’s hands cupped your cheeks, startling you. Your eyes stared into his, wide and unblinking, and when you watched his gaze fall to your lips, he felt you relax into his touch. “Azriel,” you whispered, your breath warm against his cool skin. “You don’t have to.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, and you leaned a little more into his hand. You never balked from his scarred skin, and you never pushed for answers either. Azriel appreciated it, more than you likely knew, but maybe it was time he started peeling away some of his layers for you. You shouldn’t have to ask.

His eyes met yours again, and he thought he might like to fall into your irises, let the way they sparkled under the Velaris sky consume him. “I want to,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched, and your hands now clutched his waist, your hands curled tight in the fabric of his coat. “What are you waiting for then?”

That was a very good question.

Azriel pressed his lips against yours, and his entire world tilted on its axis. His blood rushed a little faster, his skin turning warm in the cold, early winter air. The thread twining the two of you together glowed when you pressed up on your toes to get closer, one of your hands reaching up to thread through the hair at the back of his head. You tasted like the glass of wine you had sipped on all night, mixed with a hint of sugar that made him smile against your lips.

The kiss was sweet—tender. It was unlike anything Azriel had ever experienced in his five centuries of life and he never wanted it to end. When your hand slid around to cup his face, when your fingers brushed his cheek, he felt himself melt a little, drops of his heart falling into yours.

You were the one to break away first, falling back onto your feet and wobbling a bit, Azriel quickly steadying you by a hand on your waist. You giggled, sniffing a bit as a cold breeze washed over the two of you, and Azriel was certain he looked like a lovesick fool as a grin spread across his face. Gods, you were perfect.

Azriel couldn’t help but press one more kiss to your lips, your face now flushed with warmth when he cupped your jaw. “You’ve brought out parts of me even I didn’t know existed,” he murmured, eyes stuck to yours again. Your lips parted, awe washing over your face. “This is just the beginning, Y/N.”

You smiled, that soft and special smile again, and Azriel was floating amongst the moonlit clouds. “I like the sound of that,” you murmured.

~ ~ ~

Azriel was in love.

His heart was irrevocably yours, and there was no other life on this planet he would trust to handle it with as much effortless care as you.

You were joy incarnate, and maybe there was some sick and twisted humor behind the Mother’s choice to link his dark and dreary heart to yours—but he was selfishly so grateful that he belonged to you now.

You were fluttering between booths in the market, your hair a little tangled and errant from the wind today, and a smile so soft it immediately disarmed anyone you approached. Azriel was trying to stay back, to let you shop and chatter to your heart’s desire without his intimidating presence dampening your glee.

It was freezing today, a light dusting of snow laid across the cobblestone streets—but you had insisted on visiting the winter markets, saying that today would be the best day for finding bargains, now that Winter Solstice had passed.

His heart was warm as he watched the silver pendant he gifted you glint in the morning sun, a diamond encrusted starburst that sat against the center of your chest. You had worn it every day since Solstice, and Azriel couldn’t deny the pride he felt when he saw the necklace around your neck. 

Your head snapped to him, your eyes locking on him from across the street, as if you had known where he had wandered off to this entire time. Your eyes were bright as you hurried through the crowd, your steps light and airy as you ran toward him.

“Azriel,” you said excitedly. You looped your arm through his without a second thought, tugging him close against your side before you dragged him into the throng of faeries. “You have to see this booth. She has peppermint chocolates left over from Solstice, and I was so sad I didn’t find any this year. Oh! She has these chocolate covered cherries too, and I know you don’t love sweets, but you do like cherries—”

Azriel could listen to you talk for days on end. Your voice was like a balm for his soul, and your touch—your touch was enchanting. No matter how much time you spent together, Azriel was unraveled by every one of your touches. It was these casual displays of affection that really did him in. The way you pressed your side against his and held onto him as you pointed out sweet after sweet to him.

The way you didn’t mind the stares his presence garnered sometimes. The way you held on just a little bit tighter when you caught the interested gaze of a female across the table. Azriel loved it.

He loved you.

~ ~ ~

Azriel had done his best to shield you from the gory and unsavory details that came with his job. He hated that you knew he had hurt people, that he was feared. He was terrified you might one day wake up and see the blood on his hands, and finally decide to leave him.

That was why, despite every instinct inside him screaming to go to you, he plummeted on the balcony of the House of Wind, and not on the cobblestone street leading toward your house. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, cursing the Autumn Court bastards that had ambushed him at the border. He ought to wring Eris’s neck for letting his father’s minions slip through his fingers.

He should have probably found Madja, but he hated the idea of waking her in the middle of the night, when he knew he would heal—eventually. He just needed to shut himself in his room and lick his wounds for a bit, and he would be fine.

Fine enough to finally see you, after weeks apart.

Azriel didn’t know how he didn’t immediately notice you sitting on his bed, but he nearly fell over when he heard your horrified voice murmur, “Oh gods.”

The door shut behind Azriel with a harsh thud, his body falling against it as soon as it closed. He winced when your hands cradled his face, your skin soft and warm against his clammy and dirty cheeks. “Az,” you breathed, your mounting panic making your hands tremble. “What happened?”

One of his hands came up to wrap around yours, gently pulling it away from his face. “I’m okay,” he told you, voice rough with the obvious lie. He would be okay, though, and that’s what mattered. “Just a little bruised.”

“You’re bleeding,” you argued, sliding his arm over your shoulder. His sweet mate, who didn’t hesitate to shoulder the weight of his body that was twice the size of yours. He did his best not to lean too much on you, but his mind was addled with pain and exhaustion and confusion, and he just wanted to melt into your touch.

You guided him into the bathroom, setting him down on the toilet as the bathing pool behind him started to fill. You brushed the hair from his eyes, one of your hands gliding down to cup his jaw, and Azriel couldn’t help but let his head fall into your hand.

“Sweetheart,” you murmured, and Azriel was practically a puddle on the floor. No one had ever called him something so lovely, so soft. No one had ever handled him with so much care.

“I promise,” he said, meeting your eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you’re not right now,” you grumbled. Azriel shouldn’t find it as endearing as he did. He knew it probably hurt you to see him hurt—he didn’t want to even imagine if the roles were reversed. 

Azriel flinched when your fingers started working at the buckles of his leathers, making your eyes fly back to his. “Did I hurt you?” you asked, fingers hovering over his abdomen.

“No.” He shook his head. “What are you doing?”

You huffed, going right back to work on his leathers. “We need to get these off of you.”

Azriel’s hand grabbed yours, his eyes wide when he met your exasperated ones. “I am more than capable of—”

“Azriel—” you snapped, fingers tightening around his leathers, making him hiss. You immediately loosened your grip, and a flash of guilt passed through your eyes, making you deflate. “Just let me take care of you?” you pleaded.

Azriel wasn’t going to tell you no. Even if his heart had stopped beating and his shadows had stilled behind him.

So he nodded, and you started undoing his buckles and laces one by one, peeling away the blood soaked fabric until his skin was bare. It was unfair that this was how you were undressing him for the first time.

You tossed his leathers to the side, picking up a cloth and soap then dunking it in the tub. As you wrung the rag out, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes, catching him watching you. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He tracked your movements, his shadows finally breaking from their stupor to circle around you slowly. A drop of water fell to his knee as you let the cloth hover between you, your brows raising expectantly.

Azriel knew he should. He should tell you about his mission—he should be transparent with his mate of all people about the atrocities he faces, and sometimes causes, if you were ever going to accept the bond between your souls. 

He knew that, and yet the words wouldn’t form.

Instead, he swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry, and shook his head slowly. “Not tonight.”

He saw the disappointment in your eyes, no matter how carefully you tried to veil it. He felt the twinge of hurt that pushed through the bond, and Azriel hated himself for it.

“I’m not naive, you know,” you said as you pressed the cloth to his abdomen. Azriel flinched, and this time you didn’t pull away. “I know what you do is dangerous. I know the sacrifices you must make are unimaginable. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Azriel’s brain was short-circuiting as he listened to your soft voice, as you gently cleaned the blood from his skin. It wasn’t until you pulled away that he realized he should really answer you, but he didn’t have a good response.

He supposed if he wasn’t ready to give you one truth, he could give you another though.

You dunked the cloth in the water, ripples of blood curling away from your hands—his blood, and undoubtedly others. You stood up, moving back to him, this time using the pads of your fingers to gently tilt his chin up. You held his face like that as you wiped the dirt and grime and caked on blood from around his eyes, your finger gently brushing his jaw anytime you went over a cut.

You were so beautiful. There were truly not enough words to describe how perfect you were, and Azriel was appalled when he felt his eyes burn and his nose tingle as he watched you take care of him. He was mortified when your eyes met his and your ministrations stopped.

“Azriel,” you said softly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice rougher than he would have liked. “I’m scared you will look at me differently, if you know the things I’ve done—the things I’m capable of.”

Your face twisted, and Azriel immediately wanted to take his words back and shove them down deep inside. You tossed the cloth into the bath, cupping his face with both of your hands, and Azriel felt a tremble go through him. He had never felt so exposed as he did then, sitting on a toilet with bare and tattered skin, his head—and his heart—in his mate’s soft and gentle hands.

You kissed him.

It was just a chaste kiss, a slow and drawn out press of your lips to his, but it dragged the breath from Azriel’s lungs and left him dazed and blinking as soon as you pulled away. 

Your eyes were locked on his when you said, “I know you don’t remember this, but you saved my life once—before we met.”

Every whirring and buzzing worry circling Azriel’s head ground to a halt. “What?” he rasped. How could he ever forget—

You smiled, the first one you had given him all night, and your thumb brushed against his cheek. “When Velaris was attacked,” you said, voice so soft in the quiet of the night, “I was cornered in the alley behind my bakery. One of Hybern’s monsters had found me—I’ll never forget its face.” Azriel’s hand came up to circle your wrist, his heart aching as your voice trembled. “I thought I was going to die, Azriel. Blood was raining from the sky and screams were piercing the air, and I was staring in the face of what I thought was my end—and then his head fell to the pavement.”

Azriel shook his head, his chest tight. “I don’t remember—how can I not—”

“Sweetheart,” you interrupted gently, “You didn’t even see me—I mean, you obviously knew someone was there, but you came and went like a breeze. You were a little busy defending your city.” That smile again. “But a shadow stayed behind, curling against my neck like a worried pet—and I knew who saved me. I’ve never been scared of you Azriel, but after that day, knowing I lived in a city under your protection made me feel safe.”

Azriel was crying now. His cheeks were damp from the tears that ran down his face and onto your hands. “I don’t want the darkness that taints my soul to ever seep into yours.”

You hummed softly, brushing away the hair that had fallen into his eyes again. “I quite like the dark,” you said, “It’s gentle in its own way. It knows things that would never be found in the light.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” you promised, your own eyes glimmering in the moonlight leaking through the windows now. “And you never have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Azriel—but I’m here if you do, and I will love you through it all.”

~ ~ ~

Azriel had never considered himself to be a jealous male.

Was he occasionally temperamental? Yes.

Did he have a history of pining? Unfortunately.

He was never territorial, though. He could still remember the days Cassian would spar with males in their camp after treading too close to a female, the rage that wafted off them in waves as Cassian’s smug ass smirked at them. Azriel was never like that.

No, he wasn’t territorial, and he wasn’t jealous—he was just protective. He would die for the ones he loved, and now that you were at the top of that list, he was just worried about you. Worried about the way the male at the bar kept inching closer, the way your smile grew tighter when he laughed at one of his jokes, and the way you flinched when his hand touched your arm.

Watching his fingers graze your skin turned Azriel’s vision red.

He shrugged off Cassian’s attempt to sit him back down, rage pumping through his veins as his gaze stayed glued to the hand resting on your arm. He really wasn’t thinking when his hands grabbed your waist, physically pulling you away from the male and inserting himself between you and him. Your eyes were wide when you saw him, startled by his sudden appearance. “Az—” you said, “What’s wrong?”

Azriel picked up the arm the male had touched, his disgruntled jeers behind him blurring with the rest of the raucous throughout Rita’s. He dragged his hand up and down the length of your arm, your breath stuttering at his touch. “Are you okay?” he asked, softening the venom that he had been ready to spew at the male behind him.

You blinked, glancing down at your arm in his hand. “I’m okay,” you answered, with a bit of confusion in your tone. “Are you?”

Azriel was practically vibrating with anger, every bit of his restraint being used to face you and to not turn around and grab that male by the throat. “Great,” he said.

“You’re shaking,” you said, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. “And your heart is racing.”

His hand came up to rest on top of yours, finally dropping your arm from his grasp. “I’m okay,” he said, this time a little more convincing—he thought. “I just—I got worried. When I saw that male…”

Understanding dawned on your face, and an amused grin stretched across your face. “Ah,” you said, patting his chest. Azriel only squeezed your hand. “I see.” You peered around his shoulder, and Azriel begrudgingly followed your gaze, relieved to see the male had turned his attention to a female that was not his mate. “He was harmless. A little touchy, if you ask me—” A lot touchy, if you asked Azriel. “But who isn’t when they’re drunk?”

“He shouldn’t just be touching people—”

“No,” you agreed. “He shouldn’t.” Then mischief lit your eyes, and you stepped in closer, your chest brushing against his. “I bet you’re a cuddly drunk.”

Azriel scoffed, leaning into you a little more. Your scent drowned out the sweat and alcohol of the bar, and he much preferred your sweet smell over the suffocating air in Rita’s. “In your dreams, honey.”

~ ~ ~

“Can I touch your wings?”

Azriel nearly dropped the glass of water he had just filled from the kitchen tap. He blinked, taking in the way you were sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth again. He could see the curiosity eating at the edges of your eyes, and he wondered just how long you had been dying to ask him that.

“You can tell me no,” you said, drawing him out of his shock. “I asked Cassian—”

“You asked Cassian if you could touch his wings?” 

Azriel felt faint.

“No!” you exclaimed, hands shooting out to your sides. “No, of course not. I just—I didn’t know—” You huffed, clearly flustered. Azriel came closer, setting your glass of water on your night stand so he could sit beside you. “He explained that you’re taught to protect your wings as babes—that they’re sensitive, vulnerable—but he said that he didn’t think you would mind if I asked.”

Of course he said that.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “That was foolish. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

Azriel grabbed your hands that were moving around frantically, bringing them down to rest in your lap. Your throat bobbed as you looked at him, your eyes wide and nervous. “Of course you can touch my wings,” he said softly, his words alone making his stomach flip. “But, sweetheart, they’re very…” Azriel felt his face warm. “They’re very sensitive.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Not like that,” he corrected gently. 

You blinked, recognition slowly creeping onto your face. “Oh.” Then you winced, embarrassment clouding your face. “Oh. I can’t believe I asked Cassian—”

“It’s okay,” he assured you, and he would make sure Cassian never brought it up again. “Cassian didn’t mind, I guarantee you.”

You nodded softly, your eyes roving over him, your gaze catching on his lips—then his wings splayed out behind him. When your eyes flit back to him, your pupils blown with your heart beating a little faster in your chest, Azriel forgot how to breathe. “Can I?” you asked softly.

Azriel licked his lips, nodding slowly, anticipation clawing at his chest as he waited for his mate to touch him. You slowly untwined your hands from his, shifting so you faced him more, your hand trembling slightly as you let it hover over the inner membrane of his wing.

When your fingers finally grazed the delicate skin, Azriel grappled for every last thread of restraint he possessed to hold still, to let you explore this part of him—months of growing tension and longing to tip over this new edge of intimacy with his mate, and he was wholly unprepared for just how transcendent your touch was. Your fingers dragged up his wing and then back down one of the ridges, your skin soft and warm against him, leaving a trail of unimaginable pleasure in their wake.

When you traced back up the ridge, and your fingers trailed along the arch to the inner membrane again, the shudder that escaped Azriel was inevitable. You paused, your fingers lifting from him. “I’m okay,” he said, his voice embarrassingly rough.

He noticed it then, the shift in your scent—your warm and sugary scent turning hot and intoxicating in an entirely new way. He felt the desire that twirled inside you pulse down the bond, and Azriel’s own arousal intensified ten-fold. 

You grabbed his face in your hands, your lips locking with his before he could overthink this, before he could hesitate or flee or even think about slowing down. You had never kissed him like this before, never with so much fervor and white hot desire that it left him spinning and clinging to you just to stay upright.

You tugged him close by the neck of his shirt, stretching the flimsy fabric to the point it ripped a bit at the seam. You only huffed against his mouth in frustration, your hands reached around him to rip open the slats in his shirt, fingers grazing the skin at the base of his wings and forcing another shudder through his body. 

Azriel curled into you, his forehead pressed against your neck, his arms looping around you to hold you even closer. His breaths were growing more shallow, his mind foggy with something beyond desire—a sense of belonging and love so potent he thought he might drown in it.

Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging over his abdomen as you pushed the fabric up, up, and up, a desperation limning your movements that he had never seen in you—a desperation that made his mind stutter, a kernel of worry nestling inside him as you pulled his shirt over his head—and then yours.

You were truly ethereal, which Azriel already knew, but seeing you like this was…it was an honor. A privilege—one he had no intention of taking for granted. His hands rested on the soft curves of your waist, your body warm and pliant against him.

Then your hands reached out, tracing his wing in delicate patterns that felt anything but—and there was only so much willpower Azriel had when he was in the hands of his mate. He squeezed your hips, holding you away from him just a bit, but you did your best to reach for him again. “Y/N,” he breathed out, voice ragged and trembling when you reached for his other wing. “Honey,” he said, pushing you back a bit, your hazy eyes finally meeting him. “Maybe we should slow down?”

A flash of hurt so raw and visceral passed through your eyes, and Azriel felt like he had been stabbed.

You shook your head, blinking too many times. “I don’t—do you want to stop?”

“No,” he rasped, his body coiled tight with pleasure that was sitting on a dangerous precipice. “But you seem—”

Your eyes filled with a new determination, your hands tracing down his face, his neck, his chest, his stomach. “I want to take care of you,” you whispered, your lips latching onto the skin at his neck before he could really respond.

Then you pulled back, tugging on his arm as you crawled onto the center of the bed. “Come here,” you coaxed, and Azriel was too enthralled by you to do anything but follow.

He fell back into the mountain of pillows you had scattered across the head of your bed, his wings splaying out on either side of him. He watched you carefully, his eyes drinking in every inch of your body, breathing in your scent that left him spinning as you crawled on top of him, your legs bracketing his hips. Your eyes locked onto his, and relief washed over him as he felt you tug on the thread between you, a gentle warmth rushing through his blood that seemed to anchor both of you back to each other.

Your hands roamed his chest, his stomach, your eyes tracking your fingers that tracing every ridge and valley of his muscles that rippled reflexively beneath your touch. “I’ve never felt this way,” you whispered, half to yourself. “You’re so beautiful, Azriel—it makes me dizzy.”

Azriel huffed a laugh, his head falling back into the pillows as he let you explore. “I know the feeling.”

He sucked in a sharp breath when your lips pressed to his chest, trembling as you worked your way over his skin, your tongue laving over his nipple briefly before moving up to his neck. He had never—no one had ever had this sort of access to him. He was always in control in the past, always the one in charge. Never had he just laid bare for someone to inspect and touch and kiss—but he couldn’t imagine not letting you have your way with him.

He would give you the moon if you asked.

He groaned when you sucked a little harder on the skin at his collarbone, and when your mouth dragged over his shoulder and to his arm, your teeth grazing his bicep in a way that simultaneously taunted and begged for more, he had succumbed entirely to your touch. Your hands moved back to his wings, stroking and brushing the membrane with exploratory and reverent touches that Azriel was certain was better than anything he had ever dreamed of.

When your teeth sank against the skin of his bicep, he gasped, the bite unexpected and intoxicating. You kissed the mark you inevitably left in your wake, and finally, finally, you brought your lips back to his. His hips involuntarily bucked against you, desperation creeping in as you kissed him and stroked the arch of his wings. “Honey,” he rasped, your lips sealing his warning away for another second. “I can’t—I’m going to—”

You rolled your hips against him, your lips kissing his jaw, his neck, his ear. “Good,” you whispered. “Let go, Azriel. I’ve got you, I promise.”

Your words electrocuted something inside him, sparking another dormant and fractured piece of him back to life. He fell into the pleasure you had weaved inside him, letting it wrap around him and hold him hostage for so many long and blissful seconds, his entire body trembling as he came undone. 

You kissed him through it, your touches slowing and growing more gentle, and Azriel had never felt true euphoria until this moment. His chest heaved as he came down, his eyes never leaving yours. When you smiled softly with a hint of shyness lying in the crinkle of your eyes, Azriel knew that he had found a home in your arms, and he would protect and cherish it until the day he drew his last breath.

~ ~ ~

If a few nights ago was Azriel’s dream come true, today was his living nightmare.

You had been avoiding him since that night, and every second that passed without seeing you only stretched the chasm growing in his chest farther and farther.

He was panicking.

Everything seemed fine when the two of you fell asleep—good, even. Azriel had never felt so at peace as he had in that moment, with you in his arms and his wing draped over you.

You had not let him take care of you the way you had him, but he didn’t want to push. He would never do that. As much as it pained him not to give you the pleasure you had given him, he recognized the vulnerability that had crept into your eyes, that laced your words after you kissed him and said Not tonight.

He knew it was a lot.

It was overwhelming and intoxicating and he could have very well stayed in bed next to you for an eternity if you let him—but you were gone come morning.

The bed was still warm where you had once laid, your scent still potent on your sheets, and the morning sun glittered off the charms and suncatchers you had hanging in your window—it was a perfectly warm and peaceful morning, except you were nowhere to be found.

Azriel would have liked to stay until you returned. He tried. He spent the morning cleaning your kitchen, doing the dishes from last night’s dinner, wiping down the counters and straightening the Solstice decorations you still had out. He picked up your living room—he even folded the pile of laundry you had stacked on the chair in your room.

Hours passed and your apartment was spotless, but you still weren’t back—and well, Azriel wasn’t clueless. He could take a hint.

He started to feel like an invader and less like a guest the longer your absence stretched, and he never wanted to encroach on your space, your privacy. He never wanted to be the reason you were uncomfortable, though it seemed that was exactly what he was.

So he left, the smell of you and your apartment clinging to his clothes as he shut and locked your door behind him, a twinge of guilt in his chest for stealing your spare key, but he would be damned if he left your apartment unlocked and vulnerable.

He really wanted to sit on the roof across the street and wait for you to return, but the odds of you catching him were too high—you always seemed to know exactly when he was near and where he morphed into the shadows. He also didn’t want to scare you, so he settled for a note on your counter and your spare key in his pocket, and possibly a small tendril of shadow lurking in the curtains of your living room.

You came home in the early evening—and that’s all he knew.

He was itching to see you, to talk to you, to understand what went wrong, but you were never home when Azriel stopped by.

Just like you weren’t home now. It was like you knew when he was coming, and fled before he could catch you. He didn’t understand.

He wasn’t angry. Far from it. He would be the biggest hypocrite in Prythian if he was—the Mother only knew how many times he had pushed people away or ran from his feelings. Hell, he was terrified he would do that to you, he just never imagined he would be facing such a role reversal.

A bit arrogant of him, if he was honest. He dropped his forehead to your door, the silence of your apartment weighing him down. He could go to your bakery. He knew he would most likely find you there, but he hated the thought of ambushing you at your place of work. It was important to you, and the last thing he wanted to do was taint it.

And really, it had only been a few days. He was being a tad dramatic. His brothers would tear him apart if they saw him now. He could practically hear Cassian’s taunts—

“Azriel?”

His head flew up, his heart leaping in his chest at the sound of your voice. You were standing there, just a few feet away from him, with your hair a bit frazzled from the day and smudges of flour streaked across your pants. Your scent wafted over to him, the same warm and sugary scent mixed with something new—cherries.

Azriel took a step closer, his eyes raking over you. “You smell like cherries.”

You blinked, a bit stunned, and Azriel wanted to shake himself for saying that of all things. You bit your bottom lip, and Azriel watched the way it curled beneath your teeth and popped back out when you said, “Yeah, I was working on something new. I thought you might like it, but…” you trailed off, seeming a bit dazed. “What are you doing here?”

Azriel ignored the twinge of hurt in his chest, knowing it was a perfectly reasonable question to ask the male who was slumped against your apartment door. “I wanted to see you.”

He saw your grip on your keys tighten, glancing warily at your apartment door. “Oh–”

“Actually,” he said hurriedly, desperate to cling to you now that he found you again, “I wanted to show you something.”

You seemed to relax a bit, your eyes lightening and a soft smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah?” you asked. 

Azriel nodded, scrambling to put together this very last minute plan. “I want to take you flying.”

Your eyes widened, your body going rigid all over again. “Azriel—”

“Please,” he begged, taking another step closer. Then, softening his tone, voice pleading, he said again, “Please. I don’t know what I did wrong, but—”

“You did nothing wrong,” you hurried out, your hand wrapping around his wrist. Guilt flooded your face, and when your eyes started to glisten, Azriel didn’t hesitate before he pulled you into his chest. And when the first shudder rocked through you he only held you tighter, his hand rubbing up and down your back.

He reached for the key in his pocket, his other arm holding you to him while you cried, and he fumbled with the key in the lock before pushing your door open and guiding the two of you inside. “Honey,” he murmured into your hair, your face pressed against his neck that was now damp with your tears. He stroked the back of your head, your body only falling into him more.

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. You sniffed, your fingers clutching his shirt tighter before pulling back. You wiped at your face, your eyes swollen and red, and Azriel felt utterly helpless.

“For what?” he asked gently.

You looked at him incredulously, shimmying out of his hold and taking a step back. “For leaving you. I can’t believe I did that. I hate myself for just running away—”

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, his heart hurting for you. “It’s okay to need space.”

“But Azriel—”

“In the future,” he added on, “I would appreciate it if you told me that, though.”

You nodded, your cheeks damp and glistening from the tears that still slowly rolled down your face. “What happened?” he asked.

“I was scared,” you whispered, the words rough as they scraped your throat. “I am scared. I—” You closed your eyes, breathing in through your nose, and then back out. “I’ve never been in love.”

Oh.

Azriel was fairly certain he just felt the world shift a few degrees to the left.

“And I know it sounds ridiculous. I know I’ve been clinging to you since we met, since the mating bond snapped, but the other night, I just—I realized, I was in love with you. I am in love with you, and I think I would die if I ever lost you. And I started overthinking, worrying about everything I did, and I felt like I took advantage when that’s the last thing I wanted to do, and I just, I just spiraled, and I’m so sorry.”

“Take advantage?” Azriel knew that was not the most important thing you had just said, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling guilty when you did nothing wrong, and he was going to fix that immediately.

Your throat bobbed, and he could feel your nerves racing down the bond, pummeling his heart with every wave that emanated from you. “Yes,” you said, voice small. “You decided to share something vulnerable with me and I attacked you—”

“Attacked?”

“Yes,” you argued, and he could see the shame and embarrassment heavy in your eyes. It made him nauseous. You threw your arm over your eyes, and said, “Azriel, I bit your bicep, for Cauldron’s sake.”

“Trust me, I remember,” he said, reaching out to pull your arm away from your face. “I remember liking it—more than that, actually.” He cupped your face in his hands, your skin warm against him. “Sweetheart, you made me come in my pants.”

You bit your lip, your entire face going hot. Azriel brushed his thumb over your cheek, wishing he could erase the last 72 hours of pain you had endured alone. “I’m the last person who would ever judge you—for anything.”

Your eyes fell to his lips, and he waited—waited for you to make the next move, and when you pressed your lips to his, he felt himself melt a bit, his soul somehow melding with yours more than it already had. You pressed a few more gentle pecks to his mouth before pulling away, your eyes searching his for something, a flicker of uncertainty lingering.

“You did nothing wrong,” he assured gently, his hand squeezing your hip. “Mating bonds make everything more intense, it’s natural.”

You nodded. “I guess I knew that in theory, just, experiencing it—” You sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Azriel smiled gently, pushing some hair out of your face. “It’s okay. We’re okay, I promise.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you and his shadows brushing against your cheeks once he finally let them go. “I love you,” he murmured into your ear, and the undiluted joy that rippled down the bond made him smile wider than he had in centuries.

~ ~ ~

Azriel was, in fact, a cuddly drunk.

At least, he was with you.

His mate.

Sue him.

How could he not be?

You were just so beautiful. You were warm and soft and loving. You smelled delicious, like freshly baked cookies. You were his love. His home.

And it was his birthday. If he couldn’t be handsy with his mate—well that would be a piss poor birthday.

Most importantly, you didn’t mind, and your opinion was frankly the only one Azriel cared about. So when you giggled as he tugged you into his lap, your eyes wide and bright as you pressed a kiss to his lips in greeting, Azriel did not give a damn about his brothers’ teasing quips from across the table.

He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, smiling once his lips finally pressed to yours again. “Az,” you giggled, “I knew you would be a touchy drunk.”

Azriel hummed, his arms circling around your waist as he pressed your back to his chest, his nose nuzzling against your neck. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder where the strap of your dress had fallen down, then fixed it for you. “Just with you,” he murmured. Though, that wasn’t entirely true, given the way he had his arms thrown around Rhys and Cas earlier in the night. He kissed the pointed tip of your ear, smiling into your hair when you sucked in a sharp breath. “It’s okay, right?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t bothering you.

You turned your head to face him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Yeah, baby,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

Azriel felt fuzzy—floaty in a way he almost never was from drinking. So maybe the alcohol coursing through his blood had dropped some of his usual inhibitions, but he knew that the buzzy and giddy warmth that was unfurling in his chest was entirely because of you.

“I think I want to go home,” he said to you, voice low in your ear.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He nodded, his arms squeezing you once before letting you go, tapping your ass twice to coax you up and off his lap. He grinned when he watched you grow flustered, your eyes glaring at him playfully as you slid off his lap. 

“Heading home already?” Rhys asked as Azriel stood up, swaying a bit on his feet before your arm circled his waist. “Leave it to Az to be the first one to leave his own party,” Rhys taunted, mischief glowing behind his purple irises.

“Leave him be, Rhys,” Cassian said, leaning on the table as his eyes gleamed with anything but innocence. “He’s surely eager for Y/N’s gift to him.”

Azriel snarled at Cassian, pushing you behind him as his wings flared. Apparently, he was also a territorial drunk.

“Knock it off, Cassian,” Nesta growled, swatting his arm.

Your hand laced with his, his eyes snapping to you, who was watching his display with amusement. “Come on, birthday boy,” you said, tugging on his arm. “You can fight your brother another day.”

He cast another glare at a smirking Cassian, then let you lead him by the hand out onto the street. His steps were a little more stumbly than he would have liked, and he was certainly in no state to fly either of you anywhere, but you didn’t seem to mind as you held his hand in yours and walked toward your apartment a few streets over.

“I love you,” Azriel blurted.

You smiled, the moonlight washing your face in a pretty glow that made you look ethereal. “I love you too, Az.” You squeezed his hand, swinging your arms a bit. “I hope you’ve had a good birthday.”

Azriel nodded, a little too eagerly if your widening grin was anything to go by. “The best I’ve ever had.”

You laughed, leaning into his side, the two of your stumbling together before regaining your balance. “I doubt that. I have over five centuries of birthdays to compete with.”

Azriel shook his head, then brought your hand up to his lips to press a gentle kiss to your skin. “There’s no competition. None of them had you.”

He was a sappy drunk too, it seemed.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he went on, his words only slightly smushed together. “I love you. I love you so much I can hardly breathe. I cannot wait for the day you decide you want to accept the bond—at least, I hope you do. I want you for an eternity, my love.” The two of you were still walking hand in hand along the Sidra, your apartment building now visible in the distance, but Azriel kept rambling, “We can have whatever kind of mating ceremony you want. However big or small, I just want our friends and family there with us—if you even want a ceremony.”

“I do,” you told him, looking up at him with a smile on your face. “I definitely do.”

Azriel’s stomach fluttered, and he leaned a little more into you, his body relaxing into your touch as you neared your home. “Okay,” he sighed, relief and love and joy making him feel like he was floating. “I do too.”

~ ~ ~

It was entirely too bright, and this bed was entirely too empty. Azriel groaned as he turned his face into your pillows, the silk sheet set he bought you blocking out the sun for a brief moment.

Then he smelled food.

He pushed himself upright, his head throbbing a bit from the movement, and his eyes taking a moment to adjust. He was bare aside from his underwear, but he was still too warm in the morning sun. He shoved the covers from his body, his feet landing on the plush rug beside your bed as he stood up.

He followed the smell of bacon and cinnamon, the sound of pots and pans clattering growing louder as he opened your bedroom door and moved toward the kitchen. You were moving around in a flurry, your feet bare on the kitchen tile—your legs bare, aside from his far too large shirt that draped over your body. 

Your knee lifted the oven door after pulling a pan out, your hip pushing it the rest of the way shut as you sat the pan on top of the stove with a clang. You slide the oven mitts from your hands, brushing some hair out of your face as you let out a heavy breath. 

“Smells good.”

Your head whipped toward Azriel, your eyes going wide as he walked closer. Azriel’s heart pounded in his chest as he took in the spread of food across your kitchen counters. You were clearly in your element, and Azriel loved seeing you like this—but you had never cooked or baked for him before, for obvious reasons.

“What’s all this?” he asked as he peered at the pan of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.

Your lips parted, your hands ringing together as you rocked back on your heels once. “Breakfast,” you said. A nervous smile pulling at your lips that made Azriel’s heart stall. “For you.”

“For me?” he rasped. “Y/N—”

“Only if you’re ready,” you hurried out, “but I know I am, and, after last night…”

Azriel’s cheeks went hot as last night replayed in his head, the way he clung to you and gushed about his love for you. He moved closer, crowding your space. “I’m ready,” he murmured.

Your face lit up, and Azriel’s hangover was long forgotten as you reached for the fork on the counter behind him. You scooped a piece of a cinnamon roll right out of the still steaming pan, and when you blew on the hot and doughy piece Azriel’s heart flipped. You were still smiling as you offered it to him, the fork slightly shaking from the nerves he knew were coursing through you.

His hand folded over yours and the fork, helping guide it into his mouth so he could take the first bite of the first meal his mate had made for him. He pulled the fork away from his lips, tossing it on the counter as he pulled you flush to him. “I love you,” he said, the words gravelly and choked with more emotion than he really knew what to do with.

He's telling some story about their travels, gesturing with his hands while Gwyn watches him with stars in her eyes. When Cassian cracks a joke that makes her blush, Balthazar's eye roll is so fond it makes your chest ache. It's almost brotherly in its affection, easy and natural, like he's starting to belong in this family.

Something about the sight makes you emotional, and not in the way you would like. 

You're losing him—not just to his new mating bond, but to this. This family, this version of himself that exists without you. He looks happy. Genuinely, radiantly happy in a way you're not sure you've ever seen before.

The irony isn't lost on you. Technically, you're here too. You're sitting at the same table, part of the same family now through blood and circumstance. Feyre makes you special meals, Rhysand adjusts the very furniture for your comfort, and they all fuss over you with genuine care. You should feel included, welcomed, home.

But something's shifted, and you can't put your finger on what. It's like looking at a familiar room where all the furniture has been moved two inches to the left—everything appears the same, but nothing feels right. You can't shake the feeling that it's somehow your fault. That you're the one who changed the equation, disrupted the balance, and now everyone's just accommodating the change.

The frustration of not understanding gnaws at you almost as much as the loneliness does.

Get it together. 

You force yourself to look down at your plate, pushing around the bland chicken Feyre specially prepared. Not much seasoning, no sauce—just protein your rebellious stomach might actually keep down. Rhysand had even used his powers to mask the scents of everyone else's food after last week's disaster, when the smell of one of the sides had sent you retching and somehow triggered Cassian’s own gag reflex in return.

Nyx had been delighted by the chaos. You'd been mortified.

"The temple was carved directly into the cliffside," Gwyn is saying, her voice animated. "He nearly fell off the path trying to get a better look at the architecture."

"I did not nearly fall," Balthazar protests, but he's grinning. "I was being thorough."

"Thorough," Emerie laughs. "That's what you’re going with?"

The easy banter washes over you, and you feel like you're drowning in it. This is what you wanted for him—acceptance, family, love. 

Your hand drifts to the small swell of your belly. Over three months now. The growth in your womb now accompanied by morning sickness and food aversions and the creeping realization that everything is changing, including you.

And here you sit, trying to suffocate whatever remains of your feelings for Balthazar while Gwyn— sweet, kind, beautiful Gwyn— passes around bread rolls. While you're carrying another male's child. While that male sits close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The wrongness of it all makes you want to crawl out of your own body.

There's something fundamentally broken in you, isn't there? Something twisted about pining for a mated male at a family dinner, about the guilt eating you alive even as you can't stop yourself from stealing glances at him. You should be focused on the future growing inside you, on the friendship with the father sitting inches away. Instead, you're mourning something that was never really yours to begin with.

The self-awareness is suffocating. You can dissect every unhealthy thought, catalog every inappropriate flutter of longing, and it changes nothing. If anything, understanding your own patheticness makes it worse. You wish you could be different, wish you could flip some internal switch and redirect your heart toward something that actually makes sense.

Gods, what is wrong with you?

Azriel has been telling you that it's simply the changes in your body. You're not so sure.

Balthazar catches your eye across the table, and his expression shifts. That slight furrow appears between his brows, the one that always shows up when he's reading you too clearly. You paste on a smile before he can ask if you're okay, because you can’t tell him the truth. Not now, not ever.

I'm jealous of your happiness. I miss when I was enough. This is becoming too real. I want us to go back to survival and our home. 

He believes your performance and turns back to Gwyn, but not before you catch the flicker of concern in his eyes. Even that feels different now.

You glance to your right, almost desperate for a distraction from your own spiraling thoughts, and find Azriel studying the happy couple with an expression you recognize all too well. His jaw is set tightly, hazel eyes carefully neutral, but there's something raw in the way he watches them. Longing, maybe. Or resignation.

The relief that floods through you is immediate. You're not alone in this particular brand of suffering. Azriel is also wrestling with feelings that don't fit. Feelings that don't make sense and can't be spoken aloud. Two people building a family rooted in loneliness, trying to make something good from the ashes of what they can't have.

It's somewhat poetic, really. Hopefully your child will have better luck in their romantic pursuits.

It’s also strangely comforting. You find yourself grateful, once more, that at least it’s Azriel who is sharing this journey with you. As shameful as your thoughts feel in your own mind, you know, for certain, Azriel wouldn’t see them as sinister as you. 

He must feel the weight of your stare because his attention shifts to you, and something passes between you—unspoken, but clear as day. You're both on the outside looking in.

You look pointedly at Gwyn and Balthazar, then back to Azriel, raising one eyebrow in question. A moment passes. He glances at the couple, back to you, and gives the subtlest nod.

You take a careful breath and let out a soft groan, your hand moving to cradle your stomach. The reaction is immediate—every head at the table swivels toward you, voices overlapping in concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Is it the babe?"

"Is it the chicken?"

You keep your eyes down, focusing on the lone shadow that's wound itself around your fingers like a cool, comforting ribbon. Azriel's voice cuts through the worry.

"She's alright," he says, already pushing back his chair. "Just nausea. But I think I should take her home."

Bless him. He even sounds convincingly concerned rather than rehearsed.

You accept his offered hand, letting him help you to your feet while maintaining your careful act. "I'm sorry, everyone. I hate to leave early."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mor waves you off. "The baby's probably just annoyed by Cassian's terrible jokes."

Cassian squawks in protest and launches a dinner roll at her head. She deflects it with a casual flick of her wrist, looking far too pleased with herself.

"Feel better," Feyre says warmly. "Rest up."

"Thank you," you murmur, accepting smiles and well-wishes. The last person you look at is Nesta, who's watching the entire production with barely concealed amusement. She hides her knowing smirk behind her wine glass, but her eyes are dancing.

Busted.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The cool night air hits your face like a blessing once you're outside the River House. You can feel the tension leaving your shoulders as you and Azriel fall into step together, and after a moment, he chuckles.

"What?" you ask, glancing up at him.

He's smiling now, the careful mask finally dropping. "Should I be concerned about how easy that was?"

"Probably," you say with a grin. "But think of it as a useful skill for future emergencies."

"Future emergencies," he repeats, shaking his head. "With you, I'm sure there will be plenty."

You walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, but when Azriel turns left instead of right at the main street, you frown. "My apartment's the other way."

"I’m aware."

Something in his tone makes you study his profile. There's a determined set to his shoulders, a purposefulness in his stride that suggests this detour has a specific reason. "Azriel."

"Come on," he says simply, not breaking pace. "Trust me."

You could push, dig in your heels, force an actual answer. But that urge has slowly disappeared around Azriel. You do trust him. And right now, the careful gentleness in his voice, the way he's matching his longer strides to yours, makes you curious instead of suspicious.

"Fine," you say, bumping his shoulder with yours. "But if you're leading me somewhere to murder me, that would be, like, really fucked."

He stops walking entirely, nearly causing you to stumble as his wing shifts to steady you. When you look up, he's staring at you with genuine bewilderment, those hazel eyes wide and a blush creeping up his neck. "Cauldron. How dark."

You laugh at his expression. "What?" 

"What is wrong with you?" he asks, but there's something fond threading through his voice.

"The same thing that's wrong with you," you shoot back, falling into pace with him as he resumes walking. The cobblestones beneath your feet are uneven from centuries of use, and you have to concentrate on not tripping. "Where are we going anyway?"

"Ice cream."

You raise your eyebrows, studying his profile in the lamplight. "How did you know I was craving it?"

He pauses, glancing at you sideways, and nods toward your shoulder, where your little shadow has taken up residence near your wing. You glance back at it, and it seems to preen under your attention.

"So freaky that it knows that," you mutter, grinning despite yourself. The shadow brushes against your cheek like a cat seeking attention, and Azriel makes a soft sound of amusement. 

The two of you fall into another comfortable silence as you walk deeper into the heart of Velaris. It's nice — not having to perform around Azriel. Not having to worry about saying the wrong thing or reading his micro-expressions for signs of judgment. With him, your thoughts can actually quiet, can focus on what matters instead of what you assume needs your attention.

You turn to look at him as you ask, "Are all dinners going to be like that?"

He tosses a glance your way, brows furrowing slightly. “Like what?”

"The longing looks, the smell of love so potent it makes me—"

"Annoyed?" he supplies, and there's understanding in his voice now. 

"Mean," you correct, and he actually chuckles. “It makes me mean.”

His face softens completely then, hazel eyes warming with something that looks almost like relief—like he's grateful someone finally understands this particular brand of torment.

For just a moment, something in your chest tries to compare him to Balthazar—the way he looks at you, that careful understanding. But then his expression shifts into something entirely his own, and the thought dissolves completely. He's not anyone else.

And you're extremely glad for it.

"It gets more manageable,” Azriel says, earnestly. “I promise."

There's something in his tone that makes you believe him. He is, after all, speaking from experience. Your companion in the devastating longing you’d once thought yourself exiled into. 

"It better,” you reply, glancing at him sideways. “Or we're going to need more excuses. Maybe next time you can fake sickness."

"If Cassian keeps making sexual innuendos around Gwyn and Balthazar," Azriel says dryly, "I won't need to fake it."

There's something almost grim in his expression now, that careful blankness he wears when he's trying not to feel too much. Anyone else would probably try to comfort him, tell him it's not that bad, offer some meaningless reassurance. 

But you get it. You understand. 

It's as pathetic as it is humorous—two people so fucked up by unrequited feelings that the mere mention of their crushes' sex lives makes them physically ill. You focus on the humor and let the laugh bubbling in your chest break free.

The sound echoes off the narrow street, sharp and genuinely amused, and you catch the way his solemn mask cracks. Something lighter flickers across his face—relief that you're not trying to make him feel better about something that just sucks. 

For the first time all evening, the knot in your chest loosens, and your hand finds its way to your stomach—to the small bump that's growing by the day. 

"You're showing more," Azriel observes quietly, his gaze following the movement.

"Yeah," you say, rubbing the slight swell absently. "It's kind of crazy."

He's quiet for a moment, shadows swirling around his form. "Can I tell you something?"

"Mhm?"

"I always hated going to family dinners." His voice is soft, almost hesitant. "All those bonds, all that contentment—it was overwhelming. But now..." He pauses, wings rustling slightly. "The smell of you, of the babe, it eases all that annoyance I once felt."

The words hit you like a gentle punch to the chest. Right. Your scent has changed. A strange little detail, but something entirely intimate in a way you've never encountered.

"Really?"

"Yeah,'" Azriel hums. "I just smell you."

Something flutters beneath your ribcage.

"What does it smell like?" 

His voice is a soft murmur as he answers, "Peace."

The simple word hangs in the air between you, and you have to look away before the sincerity in his voice makes you cry. "How poetic of you."

He gives you a shy smile. It transforms his entire face and makes him look younger, less burdened. "So," he says, clearly eager to change the subject, "what's the craving?"

You keep rubbing your stomach absently. "Something with fudge."

He starts laughing—not his usual quiet chuckle, but something fuller, more genuine.

"What?" you ask, and he shakes his head, fighting his smile. “What is it?”

"You're rubbing your stomach like an oracle consulting a crystal ball."

You snort, the sound decidedly unladylike and completely honest. "Well, maybe I am."

"In that case," he says, shadows dancing around both of you, "we better listen."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: something something like calls to like.... reader and az understanding each other so deeply without even realizing it bc theyre so used to looking at people in envy ugh i love them. silly geese

i hope yall appreciate their lil slow burn, i think its rly important that readers feelings for balthazar and azriels feelings for gwyn are worked through…it’ll make them falling in love each each other even better 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 the sweetest friends to lovers pipeline

P.S... them getting ice cream will be their little thing...i say this bc theres already another one shot pre-written with them eating some ice cream. hope yall have a sweet tooth

as always, thank you for reading xx your comments are always my fav <3

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

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

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

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

Against every instinct, and the deep desire to see him after so long, you couldn't bring yourself to face him. The mere idea gave you a pit in your stomach, and you didn't particularly like anything in your stomach besides the babe you now carried. The babe that Balthazar still didn't know about, and you had no idea how to tell him. 

You exchange a quick glance with the vendor, offer them a tight smile, and then turn to Azriel, holding the fruit out for him.

"You know," you say as he takes it, gently placing it into the netted bag he carries for you, "when I let you come with me, I meant to help me as a bag carrier, not to give me unsolicited advice."

The morning sun catches the dark brown of his hair as he hums, his expression remaining frustratingly neutral. "You get both. Lucky you."

You scowl at him, turning back to continue browsing the colorful display. "Lucky isn't the word I'd use," you murmur under your breath.

"What was that?"

Feigning confusion, you glance back at him with raised brows. "What was what?"

His answering look is distinctly unimpressed, and his eyes dart to something near your head. You follow his gaze to the gap between your folded wings, where your little shadow companion hides from the bright sunshine like a shy child. A few moments pass in silent standoff, and then—quick as lightning—the tendril dashes across your neck, brushing against your skin before retreating to safety.

When you meet Azriel's gaze again, there's a small downturn to his lips, his eyes narrowed in what can only be described as defeat.

"It won't tell you, huh?"

You don't bother hiding the satisfaction in your voice or the smirk spreading across your lips.

Azriel runs his tongue along his teeth in obvious frustration. "No. It will not."

You're not sure what he expected, really. He'd promised, after all, that this shadow was your companion—loyal to you alone for the entirety of your pregnancy as an agreed-upon safety measure. Your little ink friend wouldn't spill your secrets, and if the mere premise of having a shadow companion wasn't entertaining enough, the irritation on Azriel's face when confronted with something beyond his control definitely made it worthwhile.

"Guess we'll never know," you say with a shrug, still grinning. "You're probably going crazy."

Azriel's brow quirks as you return your attention to the fruit display—a dazzling array of options, all ripe and perfect, that leaves you overwhelmed with choice. You've gotten better at managing the sheer abundance that Velaris offers, but small decisions like this still feel monumental. Too many years of scarcity have left their mark.

You hover your hands over the selection, glancing toward the vendor who's now deep in animated conversation with another customer. Their easy laughter and familiar banter makes something twist in your chest—that effortless belonging you're still learning to navigate.

You fold your wings closer to your back and study how the other customer moves through their selection, cataloging their preferences like intelligence to be filed away.

Movement to your left draws your attention. Azriel leans forward and plucks a piece of fruit from a different section entirely, turning to offer it to you.

The morning sun catches his siphon, making it gleam deep blue, and your eyes linger on the sight. Karasith didn't have many warriors who earned siphons—you could count them on one hand.

You'd grown up on whispered stories of the great warriors who bore them, tales of their ruthlessness and cunning that mothers used to frighten children into obedience. During your time there, rumors would drift in about the most powerful Illyrians in nearby and distant camps, legends that seemed too large for most Illyrian men.

You realize now the high likelihood that at least one of those stories traced back to the male standing before you. Windhaven was renowned for producing warriors, after all.

It's strange, comparing those childhood legends to this Azriel—the male who carries your shopping without complaint. You blink away from your thoughts and extend your palm.

The fruit he places there is unlike anything you've seen—rich orange bleeding to deep purple, skin smooth as polished stone. It's so perfectly beautiful you can imagine it immortalized in paintings adorning the wealthy households throughout Velaris and beyond.

Against your hands, marked with tiny scars and signs of sun damage, it seems almost too precious to touch.

Funny how you hadn't thought that when Azriel was holding it.

"It's a sunset plum," he says, tilting his head as you examine it. "They grow in the Dawn Court—supposed to taste like honey and healing storms."

"What the hell is a healing storm?" 

"No idea. It’s nice, though." There's something almost wistful in his voice. "The Dawn Court traders bring them down the river twice a month. They don't keep well, so most people here have never tried them."

You glance toward the Sidra, imagining merchant barges and their colorful sails billowing. "Huh. Weird to think something can travel all that way just to end up here."

"Most good things do, eventually," he says quietly.

Something in his tone makes you look at him sharply, but his expression gives nothing away. You hand the plum back to him. "Okay. I'll try it."

You reach for another fruit—this one deep red and inviting—but Azriel's hand covers yours, stopping you mid-motion. 

"You won't like it," he says.

You raise a brow. "How do you know?"

"Because I know." His voice carries that particular brand of stubborn confidence that should annoy you but somehow doesn't. "Trust me on this one."

You study his face for a moment, then nod. There's something to be said for trusting someone's judgment, especially when your own body has become such a mystery to you lately. "I think we're good to go, then."

You reach for your coin purse, but Azriel's already moving toward the vendor, coins appearing in his palm.

"I've got it," he says, not quite looking at you.

For once, you don't put up a fight. Between the morning sickness that still hits at random times and the exhaustion that seems to seep into your bones, you're grateful for any small kindness.

The bleeding gums don't help either—waking you from sleep with the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, disorienting you for those first few seconds as your mind flashes back to sparring sessions in Karasith, spitting red onto dirt after particularly brutal training with Balthazar. At least then the blood meant you were getting stronger.

Now, it makes you panic. 

"Thanks," you murmur as he rejoins you, the bag of fruit now heavier in his grip.

You fall into step together, leaving the bustling market stall behind as you continue deeper into Velaris's morning rhythm.

"Anything else on your list?" Azriel asks, his gaze darting between the citizens walking past you with that subtle awareness that never fully switches off.

"Not that I can think of." You glance down at the bag in his hold with a quirked brow.

Azriel follows your gaze and quickly pulls out the sunset plum, offering it to you. You accept it with a smile and bring it toward your mouth, but his hand shoots out to stop you.

"What?" you ask, blinking at him.

"So many hands have touched that."

You stare at him incredulously. "I've eaten much worse things back home, you big baby—" You try to take another bite, but Azriel plucks it from your grasp entirely.

"Hey, what the fu—" Azriel raises a brow and glances pointedly at a small child standing nearby with their parents. You grimace, then narrow your eyes at him as you mouth the rest of the word silently.

"At least let me get it washed properly," he says, glancing meaningfully at your stomach. "You can't be too careful."

Something tight and warm squeezes in your chest at the gesture—protective without being patronizing. You purse your lips. "Fine."

You follow him to another vendor, watching as he gestures toward a glowing barrel behind the stall. The water inside shimmers with an opalescent sheen—charmed water, Azriel had explained earlier when you'd asked, spelled to clean fruit for immediate consumption and to stay perpetually pure.

While you wait, your eyes wander over the endless lines of vendors and their vibrant displays. More fruit than you've ever seen in one place—exotic colors that don't exist in nature, at least not in any nature you've known.

"Gods," you say, tracking it all. "How much fruit does this city have?"

Azriel glances at you, his lips quirking up. "A lot."

"I can see that." You turn to look over your shoulder, extending your wing slightly to expose the gap more, allowing your shadow friend to peek out. Your deep bronze membrane catches the sunlight, casting a warm glow onto your clothing. "There shouldn’t be this much, right?"

Your shadow preens at the attention, curling contentedly.

"That's a sign of agreement," Azriel's voice draws you back as the vendor—a graceful fae with iridescent skin and kind eyes—hands him the cleaned plum with a gentle smile.

“I know. I’m starting to understand it,” you say as Azriel thanks the vendor. "It's kinda fun."

You echo Azriel’s gentle thanks as he passes the fruit to you, meeting the vendor's gaze respectfully. She bows slightly in return.

"Next week, I will have moonberries," she says kindly, her voice carrying a musical quality. "Their properties can soothe the aches of pregnancy."

You blink at her words, barely processing them as you nod. A prickling sense of self awareness runs through you. You're starting to show, yes, but your clothes tend to hide it unless someone really looked.

And Rhysand's spell should be muting the scent of your pregnancy—it would weaken as time progressed, and generally be less effective around people who knew you, but this vendor definitely doesn't know you.

"Oh," you manage, casting a brief glance at Azriel. "Cool."

Azriel stifles what sounds suspiciously like laughter beside you. "We'll have to try them," he tells the vendor in a polite tone you've never heard him use before.

You furrow your brow, bringing your fingers unconsciously to your mouth. The bleeding gums have stopped, but could she have seen evidence of that? Or maybe there's tension in your posture, in the way you hold your wings.

Azriel beckons toward the main street, the ghost of his hand hovering over the small of your back as you follow.

"You don't have to herd me like a sheep," you say, though there's amusement in your tone.

"Please. Sheep are much more polite."

You turn to look up at him with mock offense. "Rude."

He laughs, but his expression quickly shifts to neutral as you rejoin the crowd of citizens.

You turn the plum over in your hands, running your thumb along its smooth surface, but your mind is elsewhere.

"What is it?" Azriel asks, reading your distraction easily.

You frown, resisting the urge to place your free hand on your stomach—a natural tendency you've fought to repress in public. Pregnancy was sacred in Karasith culture, surrounded by rituals and ceremonies you'd grown up watching. Presenting your own without any of those familiar frameworks feels wrong, like you're doing it backwards. 

And considering the circumstances of your pregnancy, you’re not off to a good start with the whole backwards thing. 

"Do I look..." You glance between him and the street ahead. "You know."

Azriel raises a brow. "Look…?"

"You know." You gesture vaguely with your hands.

The corners of his lips turn downward and he falters slightly, eyes searching your face. You sigh in irritation and glance around, spotting a small alcove between two shops where a café's patio provides some shade and privacy. You pull Azriel with you.

"Pregnant," you say sharply, your gaze bouncing between him and the crowd around you.

A crease forms between Azriel's brows, and his posture shifts — wings fluttering slightly as his shoulders drop.

"You are pregnant," he says carefully.

You roll your eyes, smacking him across the chest with your free hand. "Obviously we know that."

Azriel frowns, studying you. "Are you bothered by what the vendor said?"

"No. Not bothered."

His stare weighs heavy as he observes you, watching his shadows drift down to pool in the shade cast by his wings.

"Yes," he says finally. "You do look pregnant."

The confirmation hits you like something tangible, making your chest tight and your breath shallow. It's all becoming so real—too real, maybe. The abstract concept of carrying a child is transforming into something visible, something others can see and comment on. You feel suddenly exposed, like you've been walking around with your heart on the outside of your chest without realizing it.

Your small shadow companion seems to sense your distress, curling around your neck like a comforting whisper of cool air.

"Well, so much for lying to me."

"We don't lie to each other," Azriel says, dipping his head to catch your gaze as you look away. "And is that a bad thing? Looking pregnant?"

You scoff, turning back to him with a scowl. "No." When he raises a brow, you sigh and let your wings drop. "I don't know. Maybe."

"What's going on?" His expression is both stern and soft. "You're acting strange."

"You're strange."

He bites back a smile. "Good one. You learn that from Nyx?"

The flat delivery makes you fail at suppressing your own smile despite everything. "Shut up."

You bite your cheek and sigh, holding his gaze. "I don't know. That vendor knowing I was pregnant made me feel..." You gesture vaguely, the sunset plum now slightly squished in your grip. "Vulnerable, I think."

Azriel nods, his lips pursing. "Vulnerable," he repeats, listening intently.

"Yeah." Your hands start moving again, unable to stay still. "I didn't think I was showing that much, and I guess it just makes it feel a lot more real, and I don't know how to act like a pregnant female and—" The words tumble out in a rush before fizzling out entirely. You frown at him, defeated.

His eyes soften as he gently takes your wrist, prying your fingers open to rescue the abused fruit and place it back in the bag. You run your hands over your face with an exasperated breath, ignoring the slight fruit residue you're sure remains on your skin.

"And how do you suppose pregnant females act?"

You furrow your brows. "Nice. Sweet. Elegant bearers of life."

"Ah, right," Azriel hums, crossing his arms. "Because every single pregnant female in the history of Prythian becomes a Mother-blessed priestess, is that it?"

"You know what I mean. Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you. I'm just repeating what you said back to you."

"That isn't what I said. You make it sound stupid."

"It is stupid."

You glare at him, jaw tightening, but Azriel meets your look with a quirked brow and mouth tugged by amusement.

"There isn't a correct way to act," he says when you stay silent. "Not normally, and certainly not while pregnant."

"You don't know that," you snap, but the fight deflates slightly as you chew your bottom lip, rocking on your heels. This anxiety is new too—you've been scared before, angry, reckless absolutely, but anxious? This constant flutter of nerves is foreign territory.

"Y/N," Azriel says softly. "I'd like to help, but I can't when I don't know what's really wrong."

You take a deep breath and look past him toward the lively city—the vendors, the river, the life continuing around you while you seem stuck in this moment of uncertainty.

The truth sits heavy in your chest. Your best friend doesn't even know you're pregnant, and you feel weirdly selfish for wanting to keep it secret just a little longer.

It's been so easy having it be yours—mostly yours, with limited knowledge shared. But once he knows, then everyone knows. Your whole world. The whole world.

They're going to look at you with that particular softness, and they won't see the hard, sharp-edged Illyrian warrior you're used to being. You don't know how to be this other version of yourself, and what if you're terrible at it? You'll be presenting a version of yourself that is a complete and utter lie.

"It's just..." You struggle for the right words. "It's a new image of me, I guess. People are going to see me differently now. Expect different things."

Azriel nods slowly. "I see."

"I've spent my whole life being one thing. Someone who takes care of herself and doesn't need protecting or coddling. And now..." You gesture helplessly at your stomach. "Now I'm going to be someone's mother, and I have no idea how to do that while still being me."

"Is this why you're avoiding Balthazar?"

You frown at him. "I'm not avoiding—"

"You're avoiding Balthazar," Azriel states, cutting you off.

"Okay, fine! I'm avoiding Balthazar." You raise your hands in exasperation, crossing your arms to mirror his stance. You scowl further when you see his lips twitch at finally getting confirmation. "Don't look so smug. We both know I was."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"Embarrassed isn't the word I'd use."

"What word would you use?"

As horrible as you feel admitting it, maybe embarrassed is exactly the right word. Balthazar left and found his perfect life, his perfect mate, his perfect place in this family.

You followed in his footsteps only to sleep with his mate's ex-lover on the night of his mating ceremony. Now you're pregnant and raising a child with Azriel—someone who, from what you understand, barely speaks to Balthazar.

For just a moment, you hate that you think you might have gotten the short end of the stick. You worry that seeing Balthazar with his mated glow will bring back all those feelings for him, and you'll lose this strange peace and happiness you've found in recent weeks.

What if it's all conditional? What if the spell wears away when everything becomes too real?

"I think..." You start, then stop, the words catching. "I never imagined being a mother. What if Balthazar never imagined it either? What if he looks at me and sees this pathetic thing having a child with—"

"With me," Azriel finishes for you.

You blink at him. "No. That isn't what I was going to say."

"It's not?"

His gaze is darker now, a tightening in his jaw. You're not sure what you meant, really, but it certainly wasn't whatever Azriel is currently thinking, whatever thought process has dimmed the gleam in his eye.

"A few months ago, you and I shared, what, a few sentences?"

Azriel doesn't say anything, but his brows raise slightly, impatiently waiting for your point to be made.

"He's going to know exactly what happened, and maybe even pity me for it."

It was messy, to an outsider perspective. Someone so overwhelmed by seeing your friend find happiness that you sought comfort wherever you could find it. A warrior who couldn't face her own complicated feelings.

"He's going to know that we had sex?"

The bluntness of it makes you wince. "He's going to know why I did it. That watching him be happy made me so..." You trail off, disgusted with yourself. "He's going to see right through it all. How much influence he has over me, how I can't even make decisions without him being the center of them somehow."

Something shifts in Azriel's expression then, the tension in his jaw easing slightly.

"Why does that matter?" His voice is quieter now. "Why does what he thinks matter so much?"

"Because Balthazar's opinion has always been the only one that matters. Him knowing makes it all real."

"It's already real."

He's right, and you hate that he's right. The baby is real, the situation is real, your feelings are real - all of it exists whether Balthazar knows or not.

But knowing that doesn't make it easier to accept.

You're quiet for a long moment, chewing on your bottom lip as you stare at the cobblestones beneath your feet. A part of you wants to snap at Azriel, to tell him he doesn't understand, but the fight has gone out of you.

Because he does understand, doesn't he? Better than most.

"I don't want you to think I'm ashamed or embarrassed, because I'm not." Your words slowly come out. "This is all about me. And Balthazar. It's not you, Azriel." You run a hand through your hair, frustrated with yourself. "I'm not used to being this vulnerable. Even with him. With anyone, really."

You deflate, and something shifts in Azriel's posture. Your shadow peeks out, and his shadows respond, reaching toward it curiously.

When Azriel remains silent, you groan. "Great. I offended you, didn't I?"

Azriel tilts his head, considering. "I certainly feel the way I'm sure mistresses must feel."

Your heart drops. "Shit—"

"I'm kidding." But there's truth in his voice too, and you both know it.

"Partly," he amends, and your lip starts to quiver as you look away, batting back sudden tears. These stupid hormonal feelings—

His hand settles gently on your bicep, calling you back. "I understand. This reality looks a lot different than what I imagined too. That's not always a bad thing. I assume Balthazar will be happy for you."

"You don't know Balthazar."

"Sure, I do."

"No. Balthazar said you've barely spoken. A handful of conversations at best."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Doubt it." You raise a brow. "What color are his eyes?"

Azriel scowls. "Why would I know that?"

"If you've spoken to someone surely you'd remember—"

"Fine. Maybe I don't." He pauses, then adds, "I do know Gwyn, however. I'd assume her mate is someone equally as...understanding."

You let out a breath, feeling some of the tension release.

"That's why you love him, isn't it?" You meet Azriel's gaze as his question hangs in the air between you.

It's...strange, hearing Azriel say it so plainly. You've danced around your own realities about loving people, even when it was always there, lurking beneath everything else. But there's no judgment in his tone, just a simple observation.

You think about what you love about Balthazar—his loyalty, his strength, the way he made you feel less alone in the world. All those reasons feel muddled now, harder to grasp than they used to be.

Still, you soften, holding Azriel's gaze. "Yeah."

Something passes across his face—a resigned understanding. Almost as if he's cataloging information he wishes he didn't need.

You straighten slightly, finding your footing again. "You're right. This is... this is good news. He'll understand."

Azriel stands straighter too, nodding. "That's more like it."

You look down at the pebbles beneath your feet, thinking. "Just rip the bandaid off, right?"

"Right."

"Maybe I'll tell him tonight. Or tomorrow." You're still looking down, planning, when you hear Azriel's voice change.

"Or sooner."

You frown and look up. "Sooner?"

His posture has shifted—alert, protective. He looks at you quickly, then behind you. "Like now, soon."

You freeze as you hear someone call your name, that deep, familiar voice threading through your ribs like a song of home, like everything you've been running from and toward all at once.

Annoyance crashes through you in a cold wave. He's always had impeccable timing.

Azriel's hand subtly finds your wrist, a small nod of encouragement passing between you, but then he's moving, sliding the bag of fruit off his shoulder. It takes you a moment to understand what he's offering—cover. You take the bag gratefully, bunching it against your stomach as you turn.

And there he is, jogging toward you with that familiar easy stride, his face lighting up with genuine joy. "I knew I recognized those wings," Balthazar calls out, slightly breathless. "I've been looking for you."

Heat creeps up your neck. He comes to a stop just in front of you, and for a moment you both just look at each other. He's even more golden than you remembered, that mated glow making him seem to radiate contentment. Your chest aches with a confusing tangle of longing and loss that you thought you'd buried.

"Yeah. I've been avoiding you," you say with a dry laugh.

Balthazar clearly thinks you're kidding, letting out his own laugh. Behind you, Azriel stifles what sounds suspiciously like amusement.

"Right," Balthazar says, that crooked smile still in place. His arms start to rise—an automatic gesture for one of those rare embraces you've both always treasured. Hugs were never casual between you two, reserved for homecomings and goodbyes and moments when words weren't enough. This reunion, after months apart, certainly warrants one.

But you step back, clutching the bag tighter, and his arms fall to his sides. Your wings brush against Azriel’s form, but he doesn’t step back. Confusion flickers across Balthazar’s face before his gaze shifts to Azriel.

His expression changes, then, and becomes more guarded. "Hi, Azriel. Good to see you." 

The greeting is polite but cool, accompanied by a curt nod.

"Balthazar," Azriel responds, equally neutral. "You look well."

Balthazar's eyes move between you and the Shadowsinger, clearly trying to piece together why you're here together, why you're acting strange. You watch as understanding begins to dawn on his features, his gaze sharpening as he takes in your proximity to Azriel, your defensive posture.

Before you can stop him, he reaches out and gently pulls your hand away from your stomach—the one gripping the bag of fruit—drawing it toward him.

His eyes widen.

Realization crashes across his features like a wave—shock, understanding, something that might be hurt, and underneath it all, a complex mix of emotions you can't read.

Azriel clears his throat softly. You turn to meet his gaze, your eyes wide, and he gently takes the bag from your grip. "I'll take this back to your apartment," he murmurs. "Don't worry. Go talk."

You nod, then step closer to Balthazar. "What, no congratulations?"

The question seems to snap him out of his shock. Without hesitation, he steps forward and pulls you into an embrace. You melt into it immediately.

When he pulls back, his hands still on your shoulders, his voice is raw with disbelief. "What the fuck. You're pregnant."

"Yeah," you say, and suddenly you're grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. "I am."

The words feel different than you’d thought saying them to him—nothing like a confession or an apology. Azriel was right. Balthazar is happy for you.

But even with the person you've loved longest holding you, beaming at you with unrestrained joy, you find yourself tearing your gaze away from his face to look around, searching for a familiar hazel gaze. You don't find it, and something hollow settles in your chest before Balthazar calls your attention back.

"Tell me everything," he says, his eyes bright with excitement and a thousand questions.

And so you do. You begin to tell your best friend everything.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: something about their dynamic is sooo refreshing to write. i rly love what a genuine thing their friendship is growing into bc theres no expectations of anything besides being honest

as always, thank you for reading xx your comments are always my fav <3

Balthazar and Gwyn are due for their return any day now. Not that you're counting.

You are absolutely counting.

You glance at the book in your lap. You'd debated between two books this morning. One about court politics and military strategy, and one Feyre had suggested about pregnancy and what to expect in the coming months. The expectant mother, learning about nurseries and nutrition, or the warrior, staying sharp and ready.  You'd chosen the warrior's path this morning, opening to a chapter on siege tactics.

You’ve been on the same page for the better part of an hour.

Your eyes keep drifting to the window where sunlight cuts across the floorboards in neat rectangles. In Karasith, you would have killed for this kind of quiet. The luxury of boredom. The safety of having nothing urgent demanding your attention.

Something must be wrong with you to find it so unnerving now. 

Your fingers find your stomach, pressing against fabric that still hangs loose, despite having noticed the changes underneath. The baby doesn't feel real yet. Some days you forget entirely, going about your morning routine until something reminds you that your body is doing something miraculous and terrifying while you sit and think about cold tea.

Everyone keeps asking how you're feeling. Azriel, when he's here. The Inner Circle in their careful letters. Elain, through her perfectly arranged gift baskets that appear on your doorstep with clockwork regularity— caring for you, even from Courts away. You've started to feel like some sort of saint, waking up to offerings at your door.

Today, you woke up to a new full box of your favorite tea—Azriel's doing, no doubt. He has a way of leaving things without announcement.

The last real conversation you had, he'd mentioned wanting to get to know you better. Now you communicate primarily through gifts left on doorsteps and polite inquiries about your health. All very sweet and thoughtful. All very distant.

Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe proximity to your actual personality was less appealing than the abstract concept of responsibility. You might truly be as unlikeable as you think.

The only thing keeping you from denouncing yourself entirely is the persistence of Elain Archeron's desire for friendship. Where other letters and gifts to you are tinged with the excitement of the babe you carry— their darling Azriel's child— Elain's are primarily about you. That, at least, is proof that you're more than an incubator.

You close your book with a small sigh. 

Safety gives you too much time to think. 

Back home, survival took up all your mental space. Every decision mattered. Every moment required your full attention. It was exhilarating, in the same way it was terrifying. A comforting torture. 

Here, your biggest daily challenge is deciding which of Elain's pastries to eat first.

You’re grateful for it all— on behalf of your babe and all of the females in Illyria who deserve this safety, too. But gratitude is exhausting when it's the only emotion you're supposed to feel. Today, it seems, is a day fit for heavy exhaustion.

The walls of the apartment seem smaller today. You need air. You need space. You need to remember what your own thoughts sound like when they're not echoing back at you from empty rooms.

"I don't know if you can hear me in there," you murmur to your stomach, feeling slightly ridiculous. "But this is all pretty overwhelming."

Not just for me, you think. For us. The word feels strange even in your own mind. Centuries of thinking in singular terms, and now everything has changed. You have this whole future ahead of you—days and days of possibility. You never thought about having a future without war before. Never dared to. It's beautiful and terrifying and you have no idea what to do with all of it.

You press your palm a little firmer against the fabric of your shirt.

"Balthazar will be back soon. He'll help us figure it out. He's good at that." You pause, then add, "He doesn't know about you yet. He'll be hurt that I waited so long, but he'll understand." The thought of his reaction—the way his eyes will go wide, then soft, then determined—makes your chest tight in a good way. "He always understands."

Your eyes drift toward the balcony doors. You've barely used it since moving in. It seems too indulgent somehow, even now, to convince yourself it's okay to just sit in the sun without purpose. You could go out there. Or go down to the busy streets below.

The thought makes something twist in your chest—not quite fear, but close. Which is ridiculous. You're not afraid of anything, certainly not a balcony or a street.

Another version of you, the bitter one who's kept you alive all these years, whispers that you should stay inside. That wallowing has purpose, proves your strength. 

That version of you would plant herself inside and find comfort in the familiar weight of discontent because at least it's honest. But there's no point to that kind of suffering in a place like Velaris.  Your entire world has turned upside down in the span of a few months—new city, new safety, new life growing inside you. If everything else can change so completely, so quickly, maybe you can too.

Besides, you've got bigger things to worry about now than proving how tough you are to an empty room.

"What do you think?" you ask your stomach softly. "Ready to see what this city looks like up close?"

You abandon the cold tea and change your clothes. The street outside beckons with its cheerful chaos—vendors calling out their wares, children weaving between adult legs, the comfortable noise of a city that’s not plagued by constant fear.

For the first time in your life, you walk with no destination in mind. No mission. No purpose beyond the simple act of moving through space that belongs to no one and everyone.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You make it three blocks from your apartment before that familiar prickle starts between your shoulder blades—the one that means someone's watching.

You try to ignore it at first, tell yourself it's just leftover paranoia, that your body hasn't quite adjusted to the reality that you're safe in this city. But when you circle back to those savory pies at the market for the fourth time, that persistent feeling still gnaws at your spine— and you finally give up and head home.

It follows you all the way back. By the time you reach your building, your hand is already drifting toward the dagger hidden beneath your jacket.

Old habits.

Back home, that instinct kept you alive through raids and petty territorial disputes, through nights when rival war-bands thought a lone female was easy prey. Here in Velaris, it's probably just hormones making you jumpy, turning every innocent passerby into a potential threat.

Probably.

Your wings twitch against your jacket, wanting to spread in a defensive display, but you keep them folded tight. When you finally enter your apartment, you leave the door cracked just enough to hear if anyone approaches.

A soft scrape outside your door makes you freeze. Someone's in the hallway.

More specifically, someone's right outside your door, close enough that you can hear the whisper of fabric against stone, the nearly inaudible shift of weight from one foot to another.

Whatever softness Velaris has given you—the extra curves from regular meals, the way your shoulders have started to relax from their perpetual hunch—you're still a warrior. You count to three, grip your dagger tight, and yank the door open completely.

The figure in the hallway spins around, startled, and you're already moving—muscle memory taking over as you grab them by the front of their collar and use their surprise to drag them inside. They hit your floor hard.

Your knee presses to their chest, and your blade finds the vulnerable hollow of their throat before they can even process what's happening.

"What the hell do you think you're—" You stop mid-sentence, staring down into familiar hazel eyes flecked with gold and green, eyes that had looked up at you with very different emotions weeks ago. "Azriel?"

He lies completely still beneath you, and you're suddenly, acutely aware of everything—the solid warmth of his chest under your knee, the way his breathing has changed with your weight pressed against him, the fact that his hands are positioned carefully in surrender. His shadows writhe at the edges of your vision.

"Hello," he says, voice carefully neutral despite the knife at his throat.

"What the hell—what are you doing here?"

"I, uh—" He glances meaningfully at your current position, and you're close enough to see the way his pupils have dilated, the barely perceptible flush creeping up his neck. "Perhaps we could do this without you on top of me?"

"Oh shit, yeah, sorry."

The adrenaline is still coursing through your system as you scramble off Azriel, cheeks burning with embarrassment. The scent of him makes your pregnancy-heightened senses sing with unwanted recognition. These hormones are proving to be an annoyance—everything feels more intense, more aware.

"You have excellent reflexes," he says, clearing his throat.

"Thanks." You're still gripping your dagger, though you've lowered it to your side. "I guess."

The silence stretches between you. Azriel runs a hand through his dark hair, and you catch yourself watching—cataloguing how he rolls his shoulders back and straightens his posture, slowly putting himself back together.

Piece by piece, the Spymaster's careful mask slides back into place, but you caught those moments between performances. The vulnerability of someone not used to being caught off guard, not used to showing anything resembling weakness.

It's highly unlikely that the infamous Shadowsinger is often put on his ass by anyone, let alone a newly pregnant female with a tendency toward emotional volatility.

You bite back the urge to smile triumphantly.

"So," you say awkwardly. "What are you doing here?"

Azriel meets your gaze for a heartbeat, two, then casts his eyes elsewhere—finding sudden interest in your doorframe.

"I was coming to check on you," he says.

Something about his words doesn't sit right. You frown, glancing toward your still-open door, letting your instincts guide you as they catalogue everything in sight. You're not exactly sure what you're looking for—if there's anything to find, really. Maybe you're being paranoid again, seeing threats where there are none.

Yet—

The hallway shadows seem deeper tonight, pools of darkness that don't match the geometry of the space or the angle of the fading sunlight. It's never been this dark before, never held this quality of stillness.

You glance back at Azriel, then to the door once more. When you'd pulled him in, he'd been moving away from your door, not toward it. His body language had been that of someone departing, not arriving.

He's lying.

You walk toward the entrance, and watch as the shadows in the hallway grow less concentrated. A few steps more, and tendrils of darkness flow away from your doorframe like retreating water. Beneath their concealment lies a small white box tied with brown string.

You crouch down to retrieve it, and the smell hits you immediately—savory pies, exactly like the ones you'd been circling at the market. The golden, flaky pastry that had made your mouth water and your altered taste buds sing with longing.

Your stomach flips as the pieces click together with crystalline clarity: the persistent feeling of being watched, the perfectly timed gifts that somehow always matched your unspoken cravings, Azriel's careful distance paired with uncanny knowledge of your wants and needs.

You stand slowly, close the door with a soft click, and turn back to face him. "What's this?"

His face reddens and his shadows brush against his arms before settling in the space between his body and his wings, tucked safely away from your scrutiny.

"A gift," Azriel finally says, the words carefully measured. "I thought you'd like them."

You hum, running your fingers along the box's neat corners. "Why would you think that?"

Azriel's lips part slightly, and for one brief second before he composes himself, the almost-pout makes him seem softer—shy, even. Younger than his centuries would suggest. "Feyre enjoyed them during her pregnancy. I assumed, maybe incorrectly, that you would, too."

You frown at the response, watching the way his jaw ticks with tension as he waits for your reaction. It's clear he was expecting something different—gratitude, perhaps, or the kind of pleased surprise most people show when receiving thoughtful gifts. The furrow in his brow deepens at your continued silence.

You walk past him, ignoring the way your body responds with to his scent, and place the box gently on your kitchen counter.

Azriel follows you further into your apartment, waiting, expectantly, for your response.

He gave a good answer. A perfect one, really. Sweet and considerate and exactly the kind of thoughtful gesture that would make any reasonable person melt a little. It's also a lie, delivered with the kind of practiced ease that tells you he's very, very good at deception. As expected.

But he's too comfortable using the skill with you.

The realization irritates you beyond your own understanding. These past weeks of social interaction with your new extended family have proven exhausting—every conversation a careful dance of expectations and politeness, every response calculated to project the right image. Even here, in your own space, with the father of your child, it feels like stepping into a performance.

You run quickly through your options, imagine what a respectable, likeable person would do in this situation. You could take the easy route, play the part of the grateful, uncomplicated female. Accept the gift with gracious thanks, usher him politely out the door, and return to your solitude with your dignity intact.

But today has set a precedent for change. For authenticity. In the worst case, the only thing you'd be losing would be an endless parade of mystery gifts and the exhausting guessing games that come with them.

"Azriel?"

He straightens at the sound of his name, shoulders squaring, but his voice is softer when he responds. "Yes?"

"Did you see me looking at these when you were following me?"

He blinks, and you watch the question register in his mind like a stone dropped into still water, ripples of realization spreading outward. He's deciding something—whether honesty is worth the risk, perhaps, or how to craft another lie that sounds like truth. His wings settle lower behind him, and after a long moment of what looks like internal debate, he speaks.

"Yes."

Direct honesty. The simple admission makes some of your frustration ebb, replaced by something that might be relief. At least he's capable of truth, even if he has to be cornered into it.

"Why?"

"Why was I following you?"

"Yeah."

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

The words are careful again, measured. You echo, "You wanted to see how I was doing?"

"Yes."

You hold his gaze as long as you can manage, which turns out to be only a few seconds before you find yourself studying your own apartment instead. It always feels different with him in it—all that contained power and shadow taking up space, making everything seem smaller and more intimate.

"So you followed me home after seeing me at the market?"

His gaze flickers toward your stomach—quick, almost involuntary—before he looks away, focusing on some point near the wall behind you. The gesture is protective and guilty at the same time, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

Maybe it would be respectful to stop pressing, if his obvious discomfort is any indication of how this conversation is affecting him. Maybe a better person would let him maintain his privacy, his carefully constructed walls.

But authenticity doesn't translate to being respectful to a male who was following you without your knowledge. No matter who that male might be, no matter how pure his intentions. His reaction tells you he's still hiding something, and the realization clicks into place like a key turning in a lock.

"Or were you following me since I left my apartment?"

The guilty expression that crosses his face is answer enough. His jaw tightens, and he attempts to straighten his posture, but it does nothing to hide the truth written across his features.

He looks exactly like what he is—someone caught in a lie who's finally run out of ways to dodge the truth.

"Okayyy," You drag the word out, and your wings betray your frustration with a sharp rustle. "I'm so confused. One day you're making these grand gestures about figuring it out together and asking my favorite color, and then you disappear—"

Azriel's hand rises, wreathed in shadow, worry flickering across his features. "Disappeared? I left—"

"I wasn't done." The snap comes from somewhere deep, some part of you that spent years learning to pull respect from reluctant males who thought your opinion didn't matter. His shadows go completely still and he drops his hand immediately. "You did disappear. Mystery care packages don't equate to presence."

"I thought you enjoyed them." His voice is smaller now, uncertain in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in your chest.

The vulnerability in those words makes you feel suddenly cruel, and you take a small breath, searching for a different approach. What would a better version of yourself do? A version patient enough, wise enough, to be a mother?

You move closer, close enough to see the purple shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights, to watch the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides in barely contained agitation.

"What’s happening here, Azriel? You haven't seemed particularly enthusiastic about being in my presence, but now you're following me through the streets after you've been lurking on my balcony like some kind of shadow nanny—"

"You—" His eyes go wide, shadows reeling back to settle on his shoulders. A blush creeps up his neck, staining his golden skin. "You've seen me?"

You frown, confused by his obvious surprise, then let out a soft laugh—half hysterical, half disbelieving. "Of course I've seen you! Gods, I'm not an idiot, although I'm starting to think you believe I am."

"I don't." The words are fast, almost desperate, and you believe them.

You cross your arms over your chest, and your wings spread slightly with frustration—an automatic dominance display. Azriel, gratefully, doesn't mirror the aggressive posture. Instead, he seems to shrink slightly, any semblance of casual composure stripped away by your refusal to let things go.

Good, you think. This is something you can actually work with. Polite optimism and fancy dinner invitations do little to serve you when you're trying to navigate pregnancy and the impossible task of learning to trust someone whose job involves professional deception. Your situation is strange enough without having to decode every word and contradictory behavior from the father of your child.

Almost two weeks of awkward preparation and tentative progress, with small moments of what you'd assumed was genuine connection peeking through like sunshine through storm clouds.

You sigh and take in Azriel's face once more. The careful mask has slipped completely, leaving him looking focused and genuine and almost unbearably real.

"I gave you an out," you find yourself saying, "If you don't want to be involved, fine, but at least have the decency to tell me directly instead of sending obligation gift baskets along the way."

"What?" His wings flare suddenly—wider than you've ever seen them, casting shadows across your entire living area before he catches himself and pulls them back with obvious effort. "No. That is—that is the last thing I want."

The response is so immediate, so visceral, that it catches you completely off guard. This is not the reaction of someone looking for an easy exit.

"Okay." You press your palms against your temples where a headache is beginning to build behind your eyes. "Now I'm even more confused. I think I've lost the thread of this conversation entirely."

"Y/N—" He sighs, the sound seeming to deflate him. "I'm sorry. It's not my intention to confuse you. I just..."

Azriel falters, and when no words seem to come, he frowns in visible defeat. This feels more awkward than when you first told him about the pregnancy.

Maybe you can coax it out of him, like approaching a wounded animal that might bite or bolt. You've done that a few times— mostly to freak Balthazar out when you'd wake him up with a new animal in your grasp. "You... you what?"

"I've had a lot on my mind," Azriel says carefully.

"Like?"

"Many things."

So much for coaxing it out of him. You want to throw something at him, instead. "How beautifully specific of you."

Azriel shifts his weight from foot to foot, his hands flexing at his sides. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. The internal struggle is written across his features—wanting to speak but unable to find the words, or maybe just unwilling to voice whatever's eating at him. A prisoner of his own careful nature.

"I want to be involved. I do. I promise, I do." There's something almost pleading in his tone now, raw in a way that makes your chest tight with sympathy. But the words don't align with the pattern of the past weeks, the careful distance and mysterious gifts.

"So what's with the disappearing act? Are you planning on just showing up to appointments? Watching the birth from a window?"

He grimaces—a full-face expression of distaste like you've suggested something physically painful. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at finally getting a genuine response.

"No, of course not," he says, then stops. His wings shift restlessly behind him. "I don't know."

At least that's honest.

"Am I missing something?" you ask, studying his face. "It feels like I'm missing something."

"It's nothing. Truly."

You scowl at that non-answer, and Azriel attempts to offer you a reassuring smile—the kind of practiced expression meant to soothe and deflect. It feels deceptive and dismissive, and while you can tell he doesn't mean it that way, the effect is the same.

"Well that alone confirms it's something. Tell me."

Azriel says your name almost hesitantly, and something cold settles in your stomach like a stone. You take him in once more—his careful posture, his gaze that keeps sliding away from yours, the way he holds himself like he's braced for a politely wrapped dismissal. Hesitancy based on something specific—and it would make sense for that something to be you.

"Do you not trust me? Is that it? Watch me from afar in case I do something to reflect badly on you? Betray you? Have an affair with someone and try to baby-trap them instead?"

Something flashes in his gaze at the last option—sharp and dangerous—gone so quickly you almost miss it. Possessiveness, maybe. Or just masculine pride. It sends an unexpected thrill through you that you absolutely do not want to examine.

"Of course not," Azriel says quickly.

His voice has gone gravely. This feels more real than anything else that's passed between you—someone equally terrified and frustrated and barely holding it together. It's not just you falling apart here.

"Then what the hell is going on? I need to know how to navigate this situation, and I can't do it properly if I'm working with half-truths and evasions."

"I followed you because I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were safe."

"Oh." It makes sense, in a strange Spymaster way. Sweet, even, in an overprotective, paranoid sort of way. You pause as his words sink deeper. "Wait—safe? Is there a specific reason I wouldn't be safe?"

He goes very still. "I—"

"Is there?"

With his guard completely lowered, Azriel is more expressive than you've ever seen him—emotions playing across his face with the same intensity you remember from the night you spent together. He no longer looks like someone caught in a minor deception. Instead, he looks scared.

"Yes."

"Yes?" Your voice pitches higher despite your attempt at control.

"But it has been handled. There is nothing for you to worry about."

"I'm sorry—handled? What exactly did you handle?"

He opens and closes his mouth. You level him with a sharp look.

"Oh, come on. Isn't honesty supposed to be our thing now? It's literally the only foundation we have."

His shoulders sag in defeat. He presses his lips together, clearly weighing his words, then sighs. "A vague threat was made regarding our child. And you."

"A vague threat?" You wait for elaboration. He nods reluctantly. "That's all I get? Really?"

Another sigh, deeper this time. His wings tuck tighter against his back. "At a meeting with both myself and Rhys, Keir made some comments about the vulnerability of pregnant females. About how I now have something to lose, and that news of your pregnancy has reached interested parties."

The words hit like ice water despite your expectations. Hearing it spoken aloud makes it devastatingly real. These political males and their theatrical threats. "Damn. Okay, what a charming individual. Who's Keir?"

Azriel frowns at your casual reaction, eyebrows rising slightly.

"What?" You ask when he says nothing.

"You've been in meetings with Balthazar and around us for weeks. I assumed you'd be aware of the major political players."

You scowl at the assumption. "Illyrian politics and civil unrest are things I actually care about. I pay attention when our people are concerned. Otherwise, you all talk too much about too many tedious things."

Azriel's eyes narrow, but there's definitely amusement twitching at the corners of his mouth now. He inclines his head in what might be respect. "Fair enough."

He explains about the Court of Nightmares then, about Keir's position as steward, about the careful political balance that keeps the Hewn City in line. With each word, you feel the weight of your new reality settling on your shoulders—and a growing irritation at the male before you.

When he finishes, Azriel offers you a small, hopeful smile, waiting with visible discomfort as you stare at him. Your thoughts slowly coalesce around one central point, and then you reach out and smack him lightly on the arm—ignoring the part of your mind that whispers this reaction is probably inappropriate.

Too bad you don't particularly care about propriety right now.

"All of that considered, and you thought I didn't need to know?"

"I didn't want to worry you! I made sure you were protected, and we dealt with the situation."

"What does that even mean? Dealt with it how?"

Azriel clears his throat uncomfortably. "Keir will not be attempting to make any more threats."

"So he's still alive?"

"...Yes?"

"Is he going to stay that way?"

The question seems to fluster him completely, and his brows furrow as he looks at you, trying to parse your tone. "...No?"

You raise an eyebrow and wait. Azriel lets out a long, defeated breath, his arms spreading in an almost helpless gesture.

"I would like nothing more than to rid Prythian of the pest that is Keir, but political necessity prevents it. Believe me, i've tried. That said, you don't need to worry about him specifically. His threats were empty posturing, and he knows better than to follow through now."

You process this information, the casual way he discusses elimination, the frustration in his voice at being constrained by politics rather than conscience. It should probably disturb you more than it does, but you've always liked when threats are dealt with swiftly and permanently.

At least he's being honest about the realities of the situation.

"You should have told me all of this immediately."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"What worries me is spending half the day convincing myself I'm paranoid when someone actually is following me—" You stop as another thought occurs. "How long?"

"How long what?"

"Have you been following me?"

"I—"

"Azriel."

"A week."

"A week?" Your wings spread wide with outrage before hitting the edge of your kitchen counter. You grimace, pulling them back tightly, then turn to look at him with barely controlled fury. "By the Cauldron, you've been stalking me for a week?"

The word choice makes you cringe internally.

A week of surveillance means he's witnessed your pathetic daily routine—staying inside like someone afraid of sunlight, barely venturing out except for necessary errands. Not exactly the image of a strong, capable female.

The thought that he's seen you at your most isolated and vulnerable, yet couldn't find it in himself to simply knock on your door, stings more than you want to admit.

"I wasn't stalking—"

"What would you call it?"

"Ensuring your safety."

"Without my knowledge or consent."

You can see his frustration building now, matching your own. His jaw ticks, and his shadows begin to move more restlessly around him.

"I was protecting you."

"You were making decisions for me. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yes. One involves conversation and mutual respect. The other involves treating me like a child who can't be trusted with information about her own safety."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Well, it was the result."

Your words seem to land where they need to. He runs a hand down his face, and his wings droop with exhaustion. The fight seems to go out of him all at once. "I was trying to determine if the threat against you was genuine or simply a bluff."

You study his face. He seems to be fighting some internal battle you're not privy to. Part of you wants to soften, to let him off the hook because it's clear he meant well. But good intentions don't excuse the fundamental disrespect of his approach. There are still unanswered questions.

"Why are you still following me if the threat was handled?"

"Because there will be others," Azriel admits, his jaw ticking as he adds, "There have already been others."

"You keep proving my point about why I should have been informed from the beginning!" You throw your hands up in exasperation. "I mean, come on—do you think I didn't consider the potential complications of having your child?"

He blinks but offers no response, and you can practically see him processing your words.

"We all have enemies. You just happen to have significantly more than most people, and they're older and considerably more vindictive."

Strangely, his mouth twitches at that observation—almost a smile. Almost. He waits for you to finish.

"But I can't protect myself if I don't know what threats I'm facing."

"You shouldn't have to protect yourself. Or worry about these things. It's my du—"

"If you say duty, so help me gods, I will hurt you." You're close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. Azriel's jaw tightens at the new proximity. "Your duty, if you insist on framing it that way, is to be a father. These mysterious gifts and shadow surveillance might work for other people, but they don't work for me. You're either in this completely, or you're out."

"You don't understand—"

"Oh, I'm acutely aware of that. I don't understand you at all. It would be so much easier to just accept that and stop pushing, but I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because we're supposed to be in this together. And while it's exhausting to have to—" You make a hitting motion with your hands, "—chip away at all these walls you've built, it's probably equally exhausting to live inside that head of yours all the time. So I'm choosing to be gracious about it."

"Gracious?" There's a tinge of amusement in his voice now.

"Yeah. Gracious. Please stop looking so surprised. It's offensive," you reply, half-joking.

Azriel lets out an amused breath, and his eyes soften.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," he admits.

"By trailing me?"

"By keeping my distance." His wings shift restlessly behind him. "I worry that the closer you are to me, the more dangerous things become. Perhaps the best thing I can do for you and our child is to stay away. A good father would prioritize your safety over his own wants—"

"So your solution is to not be close at all?"

"It's worked before."

"Has it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're miserable."

He doesn't deny it, and his shadows seem to deflate around him in response.

"And what about your family? Would they stay away too?"

"No."

"Then what's the point of your sacrifice?" There's affection creeping into your voice despite yourself. "This self-martyring routine doesn't help me. If I'm making all these uncomfortable adjustments and life changes—" You gesture broadly at your stomach, "—and collecting pregnancy books with terminology that makes me physically recoil, then you need to do your part too."

Azriel presses his lips together. "I'm not much of a reader."

"Well, that sucks for you then, doesn't it?" Each of your words are already softening toward teasing.

You let out a breath and take a small step back. Something about the air is different now. Lighter. Azriel meets your gaze and he nods.

"You're right. I'm sorry. You should have been informed immediately."

"And?"

"And it was wrong of me to make decisions without consulting you first."

"And?"

"And I shouldn't have followed you."

"And?"

His mouth twitches with what might be an actual smile. "And I'm beginning to see why those parenting books might be useful."

You frown, confused. "I haven't even opened one yet."

His eyes gleam with something approaching genuine amusement. "And I won't make any more major decisions without discussing them with you first."

You consider this for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek as an idea forms. Before you can second-guess yourself, you extend your hand toward him, pinky finger raised.

"Promise?"

Azriel blinks, his gaze dropping to your outstretched finger with something that looks like confusion. You feel heat creep up your neck at his obvious reluctance.

You're too committed now to take it back, even though you're not entirely sure why your brain chose this particular route. Pregnancy hormones have been giving you a lot of mixed signals lately, and you've learned to just roll with whatever impulse strikes.

"Surely you know what a pinky promise is," you say.

Azriel lets out a slow breath, glancing to the side with what might be embarrassment. His tongue darts out to touch the corner of his mouth—a nervous gesture you haven't seen from him before. "Yes, I know what a pinky promise is."

You raise an eyebrow and extend your hand farther, wiggling your pinky for emphasis. "Then swear on it. Promise me you won't hide anything important from me again. I can work with threats and danger, but I can't figure out how to be a mother alongside someone I can't trust."

Azriel nods slowly, then tilts his head with a considering look. "Would you prefer for us to make a bargain instead? It would be more binding—"

You roll your eyes and let out an exasperated breath. "Just take my fucking pinky."

That startles a laugh out of him—a real one, rich and warm and completely unguarded. You can tell he was testing you, maybe trying to lighten the moment, and something in your chest loosens at the sound.

"Alright, alright." He lifts his hand, scarred fingers hesitating for just a moment before his pinky hooks around yours with surprising gentleness. When he meets your gaze, his voice is solemn despite the lingering amusement in his eyes. "I promise."

The simple contact makes your chest tight, but underneath the vulnerability is something that feels like triumph. The version of you from even a year ago would never have been able to do this—would have pushed Azriel out the door within minutes of that first tense interaction. This messy, complicated honesty is progress. Growth.

Maybe it's time for celebration.

You head toward the kitchen, suddenly needing something to do with your hands, some way to process everything that's just been revealed. The savory pies are still sitting on the counter, and your stomach growls audibly in response to their proximity.

"What are you doing?" Azriel asks.

"I'm going to make tea and eat some of these pies."

"Oh. Alright. I can see myself out—"

You pull out two cups from the cabinet, cutting him off mid-retreat. "For both of us. Since you're actually in my apartment instead of lurking outside it for once—"

"I don't lurk—"

"Lurking," you repeat with emphasis, moving to fill the kettle. "We're going to sit and talk. Like two functional adults who are about to become parents together. Besides, given the amount of tea you've gifted me, I'm going to need some help drinking it all."

Azriel huffs a quiet laugh somewhere behind you.

The water begins to heat, steam starting to curl from the spout. You study him while you wait—still standing near your couch, looking uncertain about whether he's welcome to sit. His shadows keep reaching toward you, then pulling back like they're not sure of their reception.

"So," you say, "the following thing. It stops now."

"Understood."

"I mean it. No more surveillance, no matter how well-intentioned." You catch his expression—something close to panic flickering across his features. "I mean, don't you have actual responsibilities? Spymaster duties that don't involve trailing me through the city while I do incredibly mundane errands?"

It comes out more harshly than you intended. You rush to soften it. "I mean—surely the civil unrest in both the highest and lowest territories of this court takes priority over watching me debate pastries for twenty minutes."

"You are my highest priority," he says quietly. "I didn't trust any of my spies to monitor your safety the way I could personally."

There's something vulnerable in the admission that makes you want to step closer, to offer comfort. Instead, you grip the counter behind you. "That's... oddly sweet, actually. But I can't live under constant observation."

His entire body tenses at your words.

"But," you say, and watch him latch onto that word like a lifeline, "maybe we can find a compromise."

"How?"

You hadn't thought that far ahead. "I don't know, honestly."

The kettle whistles, breaking the tension. You turn to pour the hot water over the tea leaves, watching the amber liquid bloom as it steeps. When you glance back, Azriel's shadows are moving differently, swirling in patterns that look almost like communication.

When he meets your gaze, there's something new in his expression. Hope, maybe.

"I may have an idea."

"Which is?"

"One shadow. Just one." His voice is careful, like he's not sure how you'll react. "It would stay with you, but subtly. You'd barely notice it most of the time."

You blink, looking at the writhing mass of darkness that surrounds him. His shadows seem to preen under your attention, some reaching toward you with curious tendrils. From what you've observed, his shadows are almost sacred to him—extensions of his very being, intimate and personal in ways you're only beginning to understand.

"You want to leave part of yourself with me?" The question comes out softer than you intended. "Don't you think I already have enough of you with me constantly?"

Heat floods Azriel's cheeks at the implication. His gaze drops briefly to your stomach, where the evidence of your night together is soon to show, and he takes a breath. You bite back a smile.

"If you'd allow it," he says quietly. "It wouldn't report your movements or interfere with your daily life. It would only alert me to genuine danger."

You consider this, watching his shadows hang on your every word. There's something almost eager in the way they move, like they're hoping for permission to stay close. "Okay."

"Okay?" He echoes, surprise and relief warring in his voice.

You nod, and the effect is immediate.

Most of his shadows stay clustered around him, but a few break away with what can only be described as excitement. They drift toward you, circling your wrists and winding around your ankles like cats greeting a familiar friend. Some hover near your stomach with what feels like interest rather than surveillance, their touch whisper-light.

One shadow, smaller and more delicate than the others, rises toward your face. It brushes your cheek with the barest touch—cool silk against your skin, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch.

You remember this sensation from before, from heated moments when his shadows had caressed your skin while his hands mapped your body. But this feels different somehow. More careful. More reverent.

"Oh!" The word escapes you in a soft exhale. "Okay, hi there—"

You stop, suddenly unsure. What's the etiquette for addressing sentient shadows? Do you speak to them directly, or is that presumptuous?

"I can call them back—" Azriel looks embarrassed, like he's somehow overstepped.

"No, it's fine. Just ticklish, that's all." The small shadow continues its gentle exploration of your face, trailing along your jawline with kitten-soft touches. "They're fascinating. I'm still not entirely sure how they work."

The shadow seems to purr at the compliment—you can feel the vibration against your neck where it settles.

"That one," he says, voice soft with something that might be affection. "It's gentle. Curious about everything, but not aggressive. It won't interfere unless there's real danger."

The way he talks about his shadows is strangely intimate. Not just extensions of his power—individuals, each with their own personality and quirks. Part of him, but also somehow separate. Living things that choose to stay with him.

"And the others would leave me alone completely?"

"Yes. I promise."

You look at him—at the careful hope in his expression, at the way his remaining shadows practically vibrate with anticipation. This is compromise in its truest form. More than that, it's trust.

"Alright," you say. "We can try it."

The relief that washes over his face is almost comical. His shadows celebrate with delighted swirls and dances before most reluctantly return to him, settling around his shoulders and wings like a familiar cloak. Only the small one remains, finding a more permanent home where your neck meets your shoulder.

"You can ask for it back anytime," he says earnestly. "Just tell it to go, and it will. It listens to you now, too."

The weight of that statement isn't lost on you. He's giving you control over part of himself, trusting you with something precious and irreplaceable.

The shadow at your neck feels oddly natural now, like a piece of jewelry you've worn for years. Azriel murmurs a polite thank you as you approach him and offer a cup. He follows you as you settle yourself cross-legged on the floor beside your coffee table.

He frowns, glancing between you and the furniture. "You don't prefer the couch?"

"I'm more of a floor person." You gesture to the space across from you. "Besides, those chairs are uncomfortable anyway."

His expression brightens with what looks like genuine relief. "Yes, they really are."

The admission surprises a laugh out of you. He moves closer but pauses, seeming uncertain. "May I?"

You nod and gesture to the space beside you, and he settles gracefully onto the floor, though not before grabbing a pillow from the offensive couch. "Here," he says, motioning for you to sit up slightly so he can slide it behind you. "You shouldn't sit on the hard floor."

The gesture is unexpectedly thoughtful, and you find yourself smiling as you lean back against the cushion.

"So," you say, cradling your tea and looking at him over the rim. "Maybe we should go through a comprehensive list of all these vengeful enemies I should know about?"

Azriel grimaces, and you watch him weigh how much truth to share.

"I can start," you offer with a grin, and he nods.

For the hours that follow, you do discuss the threats. But slowly, inevitably, the conversation drifts. Azriel apologizes again for his absence, asks what you actually want from him going forward. You find yourself admitting that the solitude has been harder than expected, that you've missed having company—strange as that is to acknowledge.

You forget about how surreal your situation is, forget about Balthazar and his honeymoon, forget about the political complications and ancient prejudices that seem determined to make everything more difficult.

And when Azriel finally takes his leave, wishing you goodnight with something that looks suspiciously like reluctance, you find yourself going to bed with your unopened pregnancy book in hand.

You read it until sleep beckons you home, a new shadowed companion curled into your side.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: this was originally 12k oop...i usually write little scenes that never see the light of day (aka get posted) just to give me a better sense of their stories, but perhaps someone out there will enjoy this. ily thank u for reading

all ur comments are my fav <3

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

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

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

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

After that, it stopped being a thing that happened and started being a thing that was.

Azriel arrived places with two jackets. Or one jacket and one slightly lighter that he pretended was for himself. Meetings, training, lazy evenings in the River House, he ghosted in, wings tucked, shadows in tow, carrying a second layer like it hadn’t been deliberate.

Cassian clocked it first. “Why,” he said slowly, “are you wearing layers indoors?”

“In case I get twice as cold,” Azriel said, deadpan.

Then he extended one arm back, didn't even look, and the jacket would drop right onto your lap like it belonged there.

You, of course, made a show of it. Dramatically tugging it around you. Shoving your face into the collar. Sighing like you’d been rescued from certain death. You did it because you liked watching the corner of Azriel’s mouth try not to move.

“See,” you say, eyes closing, “I am freezing.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, but his shadows would curl around your ankles, satisfied.

He did it in stupidly unnecessary places, too: in the kitchen, when you were perched on the counter eating fruit and the breeze from the open balcony fluttered the hem of your dress; in the training ring, when you’d been sparring and got sweaty and then the wind hit and you got the shivers, he stepped right in, warm from fighting, and dropped a jacket over your shoulders and pretended to adjust a buckle on your bracer so no one would see his hand linger.

In the damn archive, which was twenty feet underground, with no business being that cold, stone eating every trace of warmth, he padded down the shelves with another jacket on his arm.

“Azriel,” you singsonged down the aisle once, not looking up from the horrifically tiny script you were translating. “I can feel you.”

“You should be able to feel me,” his voice floated from the end of the row, amused. “That means you’re not frozen.”

You turned. He was in leathers. And yes, he was wearing another leather jacket.

“It’s 200 feet underground,” you pointed out. “This room is colder than Illyria.”

That earned a snort. He stalked down the row, boots whispering, shadows tasting old paper. Without ceremony, he settled the jacket around you from behind, his arms coming over your shoulders, pinning warmth to your chest. Heat from him, heat from the leather, heat from the way he lingered, fingers smoothing the collar.

“You could ask,” you said, though you were already leaning back.

“You could dress appropriately,” he said into your hair.

“I did.”

“You wore a dress made of air.”

You smiled at the page. “But,” you said, “you like it.”

He pulled back slow, as if caught. “It just…annoys me,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

“Mm.”

He didn’t say, I bring two because I like seeing you in my things.

He didn’t say, I can’t stand watching you shiver and not doing anything.

He didn’t say, the first time I put my jacket on you it looked right and now my hands do it before I think.

Azriel was all about not saying things.

He didn’t argue again. He just straightened the collar under your chin, fingers lingering a breath longer than necessary. When he left, his shadows stayed with you.

⸻

The thing was — you could have worn your own coat. You owned several. Lovely, practical, weatherproof. You kept…not wearing them.

Why would you, when showing up cold meant Azriel’s hands on your shoulders and his scent in your lungs?

So you kept doing it. Not maliciously. Not even sneakily. Just…on purpose.

You’d arrive at the River House in a dress whisper-thin for the season, bare arms, bare throat. And he’d look at you across the room and sigh without sighing, already shrugging out of his second layer.

“Again?” he’d mutter.

“You love me,” you’d murmur back, already taking it.

He never once corrected you.

⸻

It kept going. Summer into fall. Fall into the soft breath before winter. The city got colder. You stayed the same.

“Gods,” Mor said one morning, sweeping into the sitting room to find you, burrito-incarnate, in Azriel’s jacket, “do you just steal his clothes now?”

You opened one eye. “They walk to me.”

Mor laughed and kissed your hair. “He’s going to run out.”

“He’ll buy more.”

He did buy more. Softer ones. One lined in something lamb-warm. One with sleeves just a bit too long for you.

You took all of them.

And he let you.

Because that’s the thing: he’d always mutter about it — “you’re insufferable,” “you could have asked me to heat the room,” “I am not your personal hearth” — but he always adjusted the collar under your chin. He always made sure the zipper didn’t catch. He always smoothed the shoulders like he was fitting armor.

You caught him, once, watching you when he thought no one was.

Rhys had called everyone to the River House and you’d gotten cold because river nights bit harder. Azriel had wordlessly peeled off his second layer and put it on you, then gone to stand by the open balcony with Cassian, pretending to argue about patrols. You were curled by the fire, legs under you. At some point you felt eyes.

You looked up.

Azriel was turned your way. Not the fire. Not the High Lord. You.

Face unreadable. Shadows lazy. Wings tucked. As if he was memorizing you inside that too-big jacket like it was something only he was allowed to see.

He looked away slow, like he’d been caught with sweets.

It should have been obvious to everyone. It probably was. They just politely didn’t say.

⸻

The day he cornered you about it, it was raining.

Not winter-rain. Autumn-rain, cold and earnest, washing the city clean. You were about to go out, actual errands, actual cloak weather, so you’d gone to the stand where the House kept cloaks and jackets and taken one. Practical, warm, a nice deep blue.

You were halfway down the stairs when shadows slid across the hall floor like spilled ink.

You stopped. “Az?”

He’d been on his way up. Boots damp, hair damp, smell of rain and sky still on him. He stopped, too, halfway down the next landing, hand on the banister.

His eyes dropped to the jacket you were wearing.

Not his.

Neutral. Perfectly reasonable. House-provided.

He stared at it like it had insulted his mother.

“…what,” you said, fighting a smile.

He narrowed his eyes, slow. “Going somewhere.”

“Mhm.”

“In that.”

You looked down at yourself. Perfectly adequate. Perfectly warm. Perfectly not him.

You arched a brow. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not mine.”

There it was. Low, quiet, absolutely unjustifiable.

You tilted your head. “Do I need your permission now?”

He exhaled through his nose, a little too fast. His shadows crawled up the wall behind him as if agitated. “No,” he said, and if his voice was softer, well, that wasn’t your fault. “You just…always take mine.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

You stood there in your very acceptable, very warm, very impersonal jacket, and realized: he’d gotten used to seeing you in his things. He’d built that into his day. My jacket is on her, therefore she is warm, therefore she is safe, therefore I can breathe.

You looked down at yourself. Then up at him again.

“You like it,” you said, slow delight pooling, “when I wear yours.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched, betrayed. “It’s not — I mean — it’s just—”

“You like it,” you repeated, stepping down a stair. “Big scary spymaster likes when I smell like him.”

His ears actually went a little pink.

“You always smell like me,” he muttered. “You steal all my jackets.”

“It just…” he said finally, and the edges of his voice had gone tender, “looks right.”

Gods.

Your heart did a clumsy, grateful thing.

You stepped down again. His eyes flicked to your mouth, away. His fingers flexed where they held the banister.

“I like yours,” you said simply. “They’re warm.”

“You can have your own warm.”

“I like yours. Do you know why I don't wear mine?”

He raised a brow, wariness and interest in equal measure. “Enlighten me.”

“Because,” you said, closing the last of the distance, tipping your head back to look at him, “they smell like sky. And sun. And like you came home. And sometimes like vanilla if you’ve been in Feyre’s kitchen, and sometimes like leather, and sometimes like rain.” You shrugged, small under your not-his jacket. “And because every time I put one on I know you were thinking of me that morning. Or that hour. Or right before you opened the door”

Something moved in his face then. Like a muscle unclenching.

“And,” you added, because truth begets truth, “because I like your things on me.”

His shadows came off the wall and slid around your calves, soft as cats.

He leaned one forearm on the wall beside your head, not trapping, just there, and looked down at you, rain-dark hair fallen a little forward.

“You could just…ask,” he said, but it was barely sound.

You smiled. “I thought you said it annoyed you.”

“It does.”

“Liar.”

“It—” his mouth quirked, helpless, “—annoys me in a way I like.”

“Ah.”

He tugged at the collar of the House jacket, face doing an exaggerated grimace. “This one doesn’t smell right.”

“It smells clean.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, soft. “You’re impossible.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached behind him, of course, and pulled out his jacket. The darker one. The one you liked best.

“You were really walking in this,” he said, nodding at the House one, tone full of tragedy.

“I was.”

“Disrespectful.”

“You weren’t even here.”

“I am now.”

You rolled your eyes and lifted your arms.

He slid his jacket over you slow, like he was fitting something precious. Settled it on your shoulders. Smoothed it down your arms. Adjusted the collar under your chin, thumb lingering, thumb always lingering, and when he was done, he stepped back just enough to look.

There. Contentment, quiet and real, flickering through his eyes.

“There,” he said, but it was a little like mine.

You breathed in, cedar, cold sky, rain, him, and felt warmth bloom past what the jacket gave. Nestled into it like it was your rightful skin.

“Better,” you whispered.

He huffed, soft. “Better,” he agreed.

You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek — quick, grateful, honest. His shadows curled up higher, pleased.

“You know,” you said as you pulled back, “I could just keep one.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider.

“No,” he said. “I like giving it to you.”

You stared at him for a beat, heart doing something disloyal.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “Then keep doing it.”

He smiled then, small, embarrassed, sun-warm, and brushed a knuckle over your jaw, like he was checking you were warm enough before he let you go.

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.

Two weeks. That's how long he's been living with the knowledge that you're carrying his child—two 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

all ur comments are my fav <3

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

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

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

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

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

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

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

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@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

Elain has been strangely, impossibly considerate—especially for a female who owes you nothing. You are a stranger. Less than a stranger. You are nobody, and yet she appeared at your door over a week ago with wide eyes and gentle hands, promising to keep your secret until you're ready to face the world that's about to change.

She's admitted her mate knows—an accidental slip before she found herself on your doorstep. But even then, she asked permission to tell him everything. Permission. When was the last time anyone asked you for that?

"Thank you, Elain.” The words feel rusty in your throat.  You're not sure what else to say. It's still surreal, seeing her in your desolate apartment. She nods in acknowledgment and goes back to her task of revealing today's haul, gently placing everything on the table before you.

Elain is very pretty. Luminous, in fact. Even here, surrounded by your bargain furniture and drawn curtains, she practically glows. It isn't fair, really. You wonder if some people are just made to take up light.

The familiar twist of envy curls in your gut—toward Elain, toward whatever mate speaks of her with such reverence he writes letters to strangers on her behalf. Back home, a female like Elain would have been hidden away, protected from the kind of hunger that's gnawing at you now. The smart play would be for someone with her advantages to hoard them, guard them like the precious things they are.

But here she is, offering freely what others would kill you for.

You've known females who were genuinely kind—so kind it made you wonder what broke inside you, what made softness feel like weakness instead of strength. Your nature makes you wait for the trap, the price, the moment when her patience will run out and she'll demand payment for her charity.

Stop it, you tell yourself. Not everyone is from Karasith. Elain has given you no reason to question her intentions.

"Here," she says, and you blink back into reality. 

She's holding out something delicate—an envelope that feels too elegant for your name written across it in flowing script. Your fingers brush hers as you take it, and you try not to notice how soft her skin is, how the small scars scattered across her knuckles somehow make her seem more real.

The ring on her finger catches the light. Gold and simple and worth more than everything you own. Elain waits expectantly before you, lips curved into a sweet, enticing smile, hands clasped together near her chest.

"Oh, sorry," you murmur, and open the envelope with less grace than it deserves. The paper is thick, expensive. The kind that whispers quality against your fingertips.

Y/N,

I imagine these are not the circumstances you expected to find yourself in, but I hope you know that even though we are strangers, I sympathize with what it feels like to have the rug swept from under you, to have your life change in seconds. 

Elain is a good friend—and I say this not only because I am fortunate enough to be mated to her. There is not a fake bone in her body, only pure sincerity, and you should take advantage of it. Draw from her strength if you need it.

You have a place to escape to if needed. Velaris is lovely— but sometimes being somewhere open, where no one knows your name, can be a nice reprieve. Perhaps you share the same sentiment. 

With warmest regards, 

Lucien Vanserra-Archeron

Something cracks behind your ribs. Not a fake bone in her body.

You fold the letter carefully, pushing down the suspicious voice that kept you alive in Karasith but has no place here. When you look up, Elain is watching with bright, hopeful eyes that dim slightly at your silence—like she's bracing for an adverse response. 

"It was sweet of him to take the time to write this,” you say, gently waving the letter in your hand. "Your mate has a way with words." 

Sweet. You keep using that word. Strange, because nothing in your life has ever been sweet before. 

There were those sour candies once—little green things Balthazar managed to scrape up enough money for at a confections store near camp. As centuries have passed, you wonder if that story of his is fictitious— if those delights found their way into your fingers because Balthazar was rather sly with his. A little thief.

They were sour, and chewy, and you loved them despite their bite. Maybe even because of it. They tasted like the tea Old Marta used to brew back home, made from the bitter leaves that grew wild by the stream.

The memory hits unexpectedly—home, with all its sharp edges and familiar cruelties. Home, with it’s babbling brooks and fresh air. Your wings shudder against your back, an automatic response to homesickness you’re sure you have no right to feel.

Elain laughs. A small dainty sound. "He likes to think so," she muses, and the smile on her face  turns knowing, lovesick in a way that makes your chest ache. "He was very secretive about what he wrote. Do I need to worry about my dirty secrets getting out?"

A laugh escapes you—rougher than hers, not as refined, but just as genuine. "I find it hard to believe you have any dirty secrets worth worrying about."

Something shifts in her expression, a shadow passing over those warm brown eyes. She looks down at the spread of gifts before her. "I think we all have things we're ashamed of.”

You tilt your head at her, your thoughts rearranging themselves to catalogue her the way you learned back home. Old habits—mental ledgers of who ranked where, who was a threat or friend or liability. Who was weak, who was reckless, who was genuinely kind. Survival skills that felt out of place in this gentle apartment, but some instincts die hard, you suppose.

Elain Archeron: pure sincerity.

"I guess that's true," you say, tracing the edges of the letter. "I also guess that's what makes change so nice." You meet her eyes. "Sometimes."

Something glistens there—understanding, maybe, or recognition. She lifts a plate with flourish, revealing an array of pastries that look like they've been kissed by actual sunlight. They make your mouth water just looking at them.

She looks rather proud, almost beams, as she extends the plate toward you.

"These are honeyed sun-cakes," she explains. "They're a Day Court specialty. I made them this morning."

"You baked these?" You move closer, placing the letter carefully on your humble table. "All of these?"

She nods eagerly. "There's actual food in the basket too. But these were prettier to reveal first." Her expression falters slightly. "It's okay if you don't like any of it. I won't be offended if you throw it all away."

You stare at her—this beautiful, impossible High Fae who baked for you before dawn and is now worried about your feelings. She must take it as disbelief of her words, because she quickly adds: "I mean it! You can toss it all in the trash if nothing is appetizing. I won't be offended."

You shake your head, recollecting your thoughts. 

You haven't really had many female friends, many friendships at all, really. You're not sure how to try on the coat of someone more sociable. Someone that Elain would bake for. But you're open to trying, in front of the beautiful Archeron before you, which is more than you've felt before.

"I have a sweet tooth," you admit. "I'm sure I'll love all of this."

Elain beams. It seems like a permanent state for her—this friendliness that radiates off her like the sun. Rather fitting for the lady of the Day Court. "I knew it! We're going to get along so well."

She launches into explanations—the history of each pastry, what to expect from the flavors, showing you the simple foods she's brought that she considered safe options. Roasted potatoes with herbs, plain bread that smells like home, broth in a container that radiates warmth.

You stop her with a gentle touch to her arm. When she turns, you pull your hand back, suddenly aware of the distance between your lives.

"Is it too much?" Worry creases her brow. "Lucien said it might be. I just wanted to make sure you were eating. I know that stressful changes can make it hard to—" She catches herself. "I mean, I've heard."

There's a story there, you think, but it's clearly not ready to be shared. You file it away for later.

"It's not that," you reassure her.

“Is me being here too much for you?"

You shake your head, despite the fact that you should say yes. You should want this stranger out of your space with her impossible kindness and her baked goods and her sweet nature that feels too good to be true. But you don't. Her presence is... nice. Warm in a way your apartment has never been. You appreciate her company. 

It's all so strange.

"Why are you doing all this?"

She blinks, clearly genuinely confused. "I wanted to make sure you were eating."

"Why?"

"It's important."

"But you don't know me.” The words come out harsher than you mean. “I'm nobody to you. Why waste the time?"

The change in her expression is immediate—not anger, but something deeper. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. You brace yourself for her gratitude to be pulled back from you, ripped away the way you'd deserve.

"It's not a waste of time," she says, and her voice is gentle. "And you're not nobody."

You raise a brow. "A week ago you didn't even know who I was."

"That's not true."

She's right, and you both know it. She knew your name before showing up at your door, recognized you at the apothecary where your world tilted off its axis. So why the lie? Maybe you expected her to admit ignorance, give you an excuse to retreat into the safety of isolation.

"Is there something I'm missing?" You straighten, falling into old patterns. "I mean, why spend time with me? You don't have to pity me, if that's what this is. I'm not some helpless pregnant female who needs saving." I'll be alright if you want to go home."

Elain studies you for a long moment, something settling in her features. You fight the urge to size her up in return, to make yourself bigger, less vulnerable. Those instincts belong to Karasith.

"There was a time," she says quietly, "when I had the chance to help someone, and I didn't."  She says. You're taken aback by the admission, by the sincerity in her voice. A confessional, standing before you. "I didn't do anything, actually. Nothing at all."

"I'm not sure why my vision led me to you," she continues, thumb brushing over her ring. "Why I discovered your pregnancy at the same moment you did. But I'd like to believe it was for a reason. I have a chance now to do right by someone."

She’s telling the truth. And it’s heavy, chest-constricting, and somehow healing. This is not a deception. This is someone trying to balance scales you can't quite see.

Elain Archeron, who hadn't been able to explain why she found herself on your doorstep. Who came back the next day, and the day after that, sitting with you while you process your new reality. Who filled your silence with stories until you were ready to talk, who was there when you finally decided what to do with the life growing inside you.

You've never really met someone like her.

A strange sense of comfort runs through you as you take a deep breath. You realize the feeling is something foreign: gratitude. Gratitude without the complicated love, and the indebtedness, that you feel for Balthazar.

"I'm not the best company," you find yourself saying. You feel inclined to bare every ugly truth to her. Because she deserves honesty. Deserves to know that her kindness might be better spent on someone who isn't rough-edged and bitter and suspicious of every gift. "I'm—"

"Believe me," Elain grins. "I know how to handle a little attitude."

Your mouth curves despite yourself. "I'm worried about how bad that attitude's going to get once I—" You gesture vaguely at your stomach, words failing. "Well, you know."

Elain lets out a contemplative hum. "I think you'll be able to get away with anything—carrying a whole new life and all."

"Including eating everything you brought?"

She catches your eye in a conspiratorial glance. "Especially that."

You laugh—actually laugh—and something loosens in your chest. Elain moves closer, offering you a sun-cake, and for the first time in weeks, you actually have an appetite. 

Then a sharp knock at your door shatters the moment like glass.

Every muscle in your body goes rigid. Your wings press tight against your back as your fingers find the edge of the table, gripping until your knuckles go white.

Elain is already moving, alert but not panicked like you are. "I'll get it," she says, though you both know there's no other option. "Probably just a neighbor."

You nod, emptily, at her words, and your heart hammers as she walks to the door. When her voice carries back—surprised but warm, tinged with familiarity—hope sparks in your chest.

Balthazar. Perhaps Gwyn was needed by Nesta, or Emerie, or Balthazar somehow sensed your distress across whatever distance separates you. Maybe this was another blessing: time to talk to your oldest friend, to the male you trusted, and find a way to move forward.

But the voices drop to murmurs, and something cold settles in your stomach. Balthazar would have called out to you by now, would have come in with Elain and pulled you into a hug. You find yourself walking toward the entrance, pulled by some invisible string.

"Elain?" You call. "Is everything okay?"

You see the back of Elain's form first—watch as it goes slightly stiff, and then your heart stills as she glances back, and the space between her and the door reveals a face you've only truly seen in the dark.

Azriel's jaw goes slack the moment he sees you.

Time stops. Your heart stops. Everything stops except the way his hazel eyes go wide, then narrow, then soft as they trace over you with the same intensity he showed that night on the rooftop.

His face crumples into something vulnerable and raw as recognition hits him like a physical blow.

"You're pregnant."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

 Azriel stands statue-still in front of you, and every instinct screams at you to run. Which is pathetic, really, because you've always preferred to fight.

The silence stretches like a held breath. You sit at your table, picking nervously at one of Elain's sun-cakes, wanting desperately to eat it but somehow unable to manage the simple act of bringing food to your mouth while a male unravels in your living room.

Elain left with promises to return, understanding with one look that whatever comes next needs to happen without an audience. You suspect she'll be back soon enough to learn the aftermath of whatever this conversation becomes.

The shadows around Azriel's feet pool in a black mass, moving with him in languid patterns as he paces your small space. Are Spymasters supposed to be this transparent? This easy to read?

Then again, a voice in your brain chastised, you fell apart completely when you first learned about the pregnancy. At least he's still standing. Standing and clearly panicking— probably sorting through every possible thought in his mind.

"You're pregnant." The words seem to surprise him as much as they surprise you, despite it being the fifth time he’s said them. It startles you out of your daze, and you sit up straighter, feeling a strain in your wings. "And it's mine."

You nod. "Those are the current facts, yes."

He blinks, furrows his brow, and then asks, "Are you certain?"

It takes you aback, and you recoil slightly, scowling. "Pretty fucking certain."

It's logical, you suppose. How many powerful males have to worry about being baby-trapped by ambitious females? Azriel is a Spymaster, a Shadowsinger, someone worth lying to. He's covering his bases.

Smart. Practical. The kind of intelligence you hope your child might inherit.

But there's something oddly tender about the implication that you might be carrying another male's child. Not that there would be anything wrong with that—you could have slept with Azriel and found comfort elsewhere afterward. Probably should have, honestly. Stress relief and all that.

Except there hasn't been anyone else. There's barely ever anyone, and you can assume that pregnant, unwed females aren't exactly in high demand. Neither are bitter camp-bred bastards with trust issues and an attitude problem.

"I didn't mean—" Azriel's face softens slightly. "I wasn't suggesting that you—"

"I know," you cut him off, unwilling to sit through what will undoubtedly be a painfully polite apology. This is awkward enough without him removing the professional mask. "I get it."

He settles into stillness that somehow seems more dangerous than his pacing. The silence presses against your skin like humidity. You run your tongue along your teeth and find yourself inclined to speak.

"How did you know?"

"About your pregnancy?"

You nod, irritated that both people who've discovered your condition did so by accident, without any input from you whatsoever.

He gestures to the shadows writhing around his feet. "They've been... insistent about returning here. I didn't understand why until I saw you."

"Okay," you respond, absorbing his words. "How did you know when you saw me, though? Do I already look—"

"Your scent."

You bristle. "My scent?"

Well, now you're offended. 

You've been taking care of yourself, thank you very much. Maybe you've been living in your head lately, and yes, Elain was right about the not-eating thing, but you've been religious about hygiene, at the very least. You've turned into a prune more than once, soaking in the bath while contemplating your life choices.

Azriel's eyes widen like he's realized his mistake. You wonder if he's given up on the put-together mask he attempted to keep in the first place. "No, not—there's a scent that comes with pregnancy. For those who can detect it."

This feels like something you should know. Another item on the growing list of things you're apparently ignorant about.

"Is it a bad scent?"

He shakes his head. "It's not. It's just very specific."

"Specific?"

"Yes."

"Specific how? Like bodily fluids, or warm bread? What are we talking about here?"

"It's nothing to worry about."

"No, actually, I'm a little worried. I'd like to know what noticeable smell I'll be subjecting people to for the next several months."

A beat of silence. "As I said, it’s not unpleasant, if that is what you're concerned about."

You roll your eyes, groaning. "Azriel, will you just tell me what the hell I smell like? I'm not in the mood for twenty questions."

He looks at the floor, takes a careful breath, then meets your burning stare with something that might be embarrassment.

"Me," he says, jaw tightening. "You smell like me."

You're stunned into silence. Azriel offers you a sheepish smile—at least, you think it's a smile. It's tight and awkward. This powerful, dangerous male who somehow looks more uncomfortable discussing scent than he did naked in your bed.

"Oh," you manage. "That's an interesting development."

His wings twitch, a subtle shiver of discomfort that makes you want to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"I'm sorry," he tells you.

You frown. "For what?"

He doesn't answer immediately, which tells you everything. He's not sure what he's apologizing for, either.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," you say. "Takes two to tango, literally."

Azriel clears his throat, and finds sudden fascination in your floorboards. You feel obligated to fill the silence, if only to make this go faster.

"I was going to tell you. Soon."

His head snaps up and he tilts his head—like a dog listening to words, and realizing he recognizes what is being said.

"I was," you continue. "I just needed to figure out what to say. But I'm not going to force you into anything or ask for support."

The male before you perks up at your words, suddenly more alert, more movement in the shadows that now curl up his form. 

"So you've decided? To keep it?"

You draw into yourself instinctively. "Yes. I know that's probably inconvenient for you, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm also not sorry, and don't even think about trying to pressure me into changing my mind."

"I would never pressure you into doing anything."

You cast a wary glance at him. Comforting yes,, but comforting words are often spoken by liars. 

Still, you believe him—from that night, from everything you know about him through Elain and Balthazar and even the Valkyries. You trust Azriel to tell you the truth, mostly because honesty is exactly what landed you in this situation to begin with. You both were honest with each other in ways you're not sure you can repeat.

"Well, good," you say. "Because it wouldn't work anyway."

The corner of his mouth twitches—barely there, but you catch it.

"I believe that."

You huff out something that might be amusement. Silence settles again, and unwanted memories of his touch flicker at the edges of your consciousness. You shove them back ruthlessly. Terrible timing, especially with a male who can probably smell your thoughts.

The male whom you have seen completely and utterly naked, and yet appears more vulnerable, and meek, before you now than he was in bed.

Azriel moves slowly, pulling out the chair across from you. The scrape of wood on wood makes you wince, but the sound cuts off abruptly. A quick glance below reveals the legs of the chair now covered in thick, black shadows. Azriel examines the contents on the table.

"How long has Elain known?"

You shrug, suddenly not wanting to meet his gaze, and focus on the delicacies before you. "A little over a week."

"I see she's been taking good care of you."

A real smile tugs at your lips. "She has."

"I'm glad." He traces a finger along your table's surface, and you find yourself following the movement, cataloging the scars that mark his hands, the sapphire siphon that catches the light. Your gaze must linger too long, because he quickly pulls his hands back. "I wasn't aware you were friends."

"We aren't," you tell him, and when his brow furrows, you clarify, "I mean, we are now, I think. But we weren't. Some vision brought her to my doorstep like a stray cat with big brown eyes."

His mouth twitches again—definitely amusement this time.

"She's way better than a cat, though,” you add. “Elain is sweet.”

"She is," he agrees softly. "Very sweet."

You nod, and he nods, and then you're sitting in silence again. Gods, it was so much easier to talk to him when alcohol had loosened your tongue and lowered your walls.

"Tell me how much time you need."

His voice draws you back from your brooding. When you look up, his gaze is already settled on you. His expression has gentled now, the hard lines of his face softening into something almost tender.

"I don't want to overwhelm you, but I need to tell my family."

"Right, yeah. Of course."

Your mind races through logistics, through all the things that will have to happen now.

"Balthazar and Gwyn will be returning from their honeymoon in four weeks,” Azriel says. “Would you prefer for me to wait until then?"

You blink, mouth suddenly dry, and struggle to string together sentences. Something flickers across your face—surprise, maybe, that he’s anticipated his concern. But he's a Spymaster. Reading people is literally his job.

"No," you say, though you're not sure why. "Tell them whenever you want. I'll be fine."

He studies you for a long moment, then angles his head to catch your gaze when it tries to drift away.

"Congratulations," he says quietly.

The word hits you unexpectedly. A smile blooms across your face before you can stop it.

"Congratulations to you too," you say. "You're officially on your way to DILF status."

The sound that escapes him is pure surprise, and then you're grinning, and his shadows are moving like they find the whole thing amusing, settling across his shoulders like an audience waiting for the next act.

The moment stretches between you—not uncomfortable anymore, but not exactly comfortable either. It's something new. Something undefined.

"So," you say finally, reaching for one of Elain's sun-cakes because you're still starving and the absurdity of the situation has made you bold. "How does this work?"

Azriel watches you take a bite. "I don't know," he admits. "I've never done this before."

"Comforting to know. Neither have I." The pastry is perfect—sweet and warm and everything Elain promised. "But I suppose we'll figure it out."

He nods, and there's something almost shy in the gesture. "We will."

You take another bite, suddenly aware that this is the first real food you've enjoyed in weeks. That Azriel is sitting in your apartment like he belongs here. That for the first time since that confirming appointment, you're half of a complete team.

"Elain's going to be overjoyed when she gets back," you say, and Azriel's mouth twitches into what might actually be a smile. “She’s been waiting for the news to be shared.”

"She’s acquired a talent for meddling. Seer powers and all."

"Is that what this is? Meddling?"

His shadows curl closer, and when he looks at you, there's something certain in his eyes. "No," he says quietly. "I think this is something else entirely."

The future still feels uncertain, still feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. But at least, you think, taking another bite of sunshine and sweetness, you’re not jumping alone.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: they crack me up your honor!!! reader is gonna have a field day when she learns about az + elain tho lmaooo. who do you think is gonna fall first be honest

IMPORTANT : 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

thank yall for reading <3 & dont forget your daily click for palestine!

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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@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before you, stands Azriel.

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

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

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

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

Azriel starts to turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swear you catch the barest edge of a smile.

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

“Whiskey.” Azriel says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re in love with Gwyn.”

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

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

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

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

“They looked good together,” you say.

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

Azriel exhales through his nose. “They did.”

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

“I hated it.”

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

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

“Why did you?”

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

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

“Bitterness is honest.”

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

His eyes meet yours. “Incredibly.”

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

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

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

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

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

You push yourself upright.

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

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

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

A long pause. “I do.”

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

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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

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

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

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

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

His breath stutters.

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

"Azriel—"

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

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

You can’t think.

You should be thinking.

But you’re not.

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

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

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

You shake your head, wordless, cheeks burning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think you can take one more?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?”

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

“Say it. Please.”

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

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

“Fuck,” Azriel groans. “That’s it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azriel is beautiful. Devastatingly so. 

But he is not Balthazar.

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

Not Balthazar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again. And again. 

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

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

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you could see Balthazar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elain Archeron. 

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

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

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

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

It unsettles you.

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

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

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

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

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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

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

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

Gods, you wish you had someone to talk to.

But who is there, really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

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

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

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