#*azgenia

Is it too much to ask for Iphigenia x Azriel? If you don't feel like it, Iphigenia x whoever you're most comfortable with

Search unrealized, shadow drifts from chamber to chamber. The wards of some eclipse in total, while others yield with such ease as to be fruitless within. Yet these wards around these chambers—their snarled warning carries the resonance of treasure kept like secret.

A rustle beneath Azriel's ear confirms it.

Here.

As he steps through the in-between of the world, the sense of having slunk past a beast too great to mind all of its body strikes him. His pulse quickens, that anticipatory thrum beating at his veins. He settles it with a breath.

Weapon, he expects to find. Tool. Undeniable proof of double-dealing.

But before the hearth sits only a female, knees tucked tight to her chest, toes delved appreciatively into the fur of a rug. She gazes into the flickersnap fire like it might soon reveal something to her. Its glow sets her alight.

She waits, the shadows sigh. She waits always for him.

Made aware in the saying, the wood of the keep groans out warning to her: Intruder.

The tune of this court must meet her ear wrongly. She glances to the flooring and wrinkles up her nose. Then, as though disgusted by her proximity to it, she rises to her feet and turns to settle instead on a nearby chaise.

Azriel stares, transfixed.

Her resemblance to the lady of this court is a disorienting thing—the soft angles of her jaw, the delicate set of her nose, the loving arrangement of her brow. It is her hair which sets her apart, her eyes, both rich in earthen depth and gleaming like dew; it is the revelation made of her body, draped in gold-wrought chain and plum gossamer so thin as to afford the imagination no opportunity; it is the bounty laid out beneath.

Those things, and the collar around her throat.

Shadow deepens beneath the drape of her hair. So close, the gems bleed red as aestival rubies. No seam at the back, no catch. The metal has been welded that she cannot remove it.

Indignation frosts his chest.

A shiver overtakes her. That is when he notices the steam drifting from her eyelashes—tears turned mist turned nothing. Were it not for this, he never would have realized she had been weeping, so adept is she at concealing her sorrow.

Out now through to his fingers, twitching them towards Truth-Teller.

She waits. For whom?

Footsteps approach.

The knob rattles.

Open swings the door.

"High Lord," she rejoices. A sweep of her gaze over Beron in her approach, and her bearing attunes itself at once to him. No longer the eager enthusiasm of a lover returned but the tender haven afforded a beleaguered warrior. "Did not you enjoy the banquet?"

"Precious little to enjoy of dining alongside a half-breed whelp," he sneers.

Her round eyes sparkle up at him. As her fingers alight idly on the band of his trousers, his glint dark and hungry.

A dip of his mouth beside the arch of her ear. "But you, petal," he murmurs, reaching between to part the scant fabric of her garment and paw at her sex, "you, I intend to enjoy in full."

She waits, the shadows hiss. For her savior.

And so Azriel descends.

I want this please. Iphigenia/Azriel is going to check so many boxes and hit so many spots

the goose chase i just went on trying to find this post on mobile LMAO yuhhhhh baby azriel with Yet Another white knight complex. he’s prowling around the forest house for whatever secret is worth warding this heavily. he finds her. beron enters. he trips a ward elsewhere immediately—somewhere to notify beron and draw him away. but in that time, beron’s able to get iphigenia on her knees. azriel watches her swallow him down, so pleasing, so skilled. watches beron withdraw harsh and frustrated—look down at her so wantonly arranged and bid her stay as she is. debased. on her knees. mouth glistening. beron leaves, and she does as told. so that when azriel steps out from the shadows, it is to the full sight of her on her knees.

he is a good male, so he crouches low before her, his size non-threatening, his distance respectable. she looks at him as a prey thing, eyes wide and round, fists bunched into her scant fabrics. he watches her mind work as he talks, low tones, soothing tones: i know you’re confused, but there isn’t much time. i can take you away from here. i can keep you safe. but it has to be now. already, beron makes his return—peevish to be distracted from his indulgence in her body. which azriel does not look at because he is a good male. not the impression of her nipples. not the supple curve of her breasts—her hips. not the crease of her legs, where his shadows could so easily pool. he is a good male so he does none of those things. instead, his shadows whisper of her: wary of tricks; wary of her lord; none speak plain here as you do. he tells her that there is no trick, and she regards him and his shadows anew. can you hear my thoughts? she asks. no, he says. just her pulse. just her breath. just her decision, made right as the knob rattles. he takes her out and away to velaris.

rhysand is furious with him. she could be a trick. a ploy. she could even now be reporting to beron—or eris—or emile. at the very least, to have taken what belongs to beron, she is a risk. but azriel is a good male, so he does not falter. he says simply, he put a collar on her. he does not say, like your father did to me. (figurative or literal is up to interp 👅) he does not even think it. a slippery slope, to think that way. does not he still serve the high lord? willingly. willingly. but if rhysand makes him send her back to beron— we’ll figure something out, rhys says. you did good by her, az. just—keep an eye. until we can be sure. so azriel does. anywhere genia goes in velaris, he goes too, whether in person or with shadow. everything she does. he learns many things about her, including that she does not like very much when men touch her—but also that she is not subservient to anyone like she was to beron. that she carries herself with import everywhere she goes. that none can help but take notice.

at night, when his mind is muzzy and boundless, when the goodness of him thins and the shadows speak their truths, they paint fantasy into the dark. beron withdraws harsh and frustrated—looks down at her so wantonly arranged and bids her stay as she is. debased. on her knees. mouth glistening. beron leaves, and she does as told. so that when azriel steps out from the shadows, it is to the full sight of her on her knees. he need not even speak. so trained, so sweet and willing, she withdraws his cock from his leathers. her mouth is wet around him, hot, like the sight of him alone brought it to water. she presses her thighs together for relief while she services him, and because he is still a good male, he presses his boot between them for her to find it on. she clings to him, moans, grateful for this kindness—even more grateful when he fills her up and brings her to writhe. take me, she begs him at the end. keep me safe. make me yours. azriel spills over his fist with a muffled groan.

when he wakes with the dawn, it is with a sick, perverse knot in his gut, and he carries it with him all day spent monitoring her. that will not stop him from fantasizing about her with the dusk, each time more depraved, each time more concerning. he takes her to the dungeons, sometimes. keeps her chained there. feeds her by hand. she nuzzles him gratefully and opens her mouth wide for all he gives her after. he takes her to his brothers, sometimes. shares her with them. a hole for each and all of them trained. he takes her to the woods, to the skies, to the mountains. he’s a good male, so he would never do any of those things. but part of him, that part he excises in the dungeons, that part he bleeds from himself in service of his court—that part of him is clamoring to put her on her knees for himself.