#elriel fluff

Gods, he’s just been staring at her. Heat rises harshly up his neck and floods his face. He snaps his mouth shut, realising how his lips had parted at the sight of her.

And she’s waiting, it suddenly dawns on him, for him to respond with something other than blatant ogling.

Az brings himself to look away, to pull his hands apart, to sit back.

His jaw aches. How many days has it been since he last spoke to someone?

“Long week,” he manages to get out. His voice is low and full of gravel. Quiet. Gentle, even.

She offers him a soft quirk of the lips. Almost a smile. He swallows very thickly, and tries to concentrate on something else when she responds. “Where were you this time?”

It’s funny. Elain sounds like she cares.

“Rask,” he says, not really thinking through what would happen if she told anyone. His shadows take the risk of being seen by her to tut at him. One even ventures up his side to worry at his ear, calling him a bad spymaster.

Elain, ever-observant and with no need to hide it here, catches the movement. Tracks the shadows as it ducks back under his wings and out of her view.

“They don’t seem to like me,” she says.

Azriel dares to let a frown come over his face. A rare thing. “It’s not that,” he says quickly. Then what is it? “They’re just… contrary, sometimes. And you’re new.”

He can hear them angrily simmering around his back and through his belt loops, like he’s told a lie. Or perhaps they feel insulted. 

Contrary indeed.

“Does it take them a long time to warm up to someone?” she asks, her voice small. Something in Azriel’s chest clenches quite painfully at that.

“Half the time,” he says, “I’m not sure they even like me.”

Elain takes that for what it is and nods. Az wonders if it makes her feel any better, or if she’s just good at hiding things from him now. His shadows certainly aren’t making the effort to tell him either way—frustrating as it is.

For a moment, they fall into a silence that’s neither comfortable nor awkward. Not one which makes him want to squirm, like the kind Rhys’ mother could produce, but one that’s charged with something. 

Things unsaid. Things that can’t ever be said, for both their sakes. At least, that’s what Az makes himself believe when he isn’t in bed, wide awake, thinking about her with his fists firmly pressed into the mattress.

They break that silence at the same time.

“I should—”

“Maybe we could—”

Elain, those lovely brown eyes of hers twinkling, hides a laugh behind her hand. The sound of it sends a thrill up his spine. He can still remember when even getting her to look at him, instead of through him, was a struggle.

“Please,” he says, motioning for her to continue.

And she’s blushing again.

“I—” she hesitates, changes her mind. “It wasn’t important,” she says.

Az is sure Elain must be able to hear his heart thundering very loudly against his ribs, like it’s trying to claw out of him.

“Tell me anyway.”

“You first.”

He bites back a wry smile. Sees the way she looks at the muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I was going to say that I should sleep,” he says, and it’s true, “but I don’t feel very tired.”

When does he, these days?

“Yes, well,” she starts, “maybe you should try, at least?”

“Eager to get rid of me, Elain?”

Her eyes widen. “No—! I just—you’re very busy and rest is so important and—you’re laughing at me.”

“I would never,” he says, laughing. His shadows, too, titter and deign to sink onto the sofa cushions, before they remember the company they’re in, and hide again. “You’re very red. Is it warm in here?”

“Azriel!”

Gods, how he’d get on his knees just to hear her say his name again.

“I was going to invite you to have breakfast with me,” she says, all haughty like a true lady of the house, “but you’ve annoyed me, so now I’m going to make pancakes and eat them with Nuala and Cerridwen and you are most definitely not welcome.” 

With that, she sits up, grabs her glass so swiftly that the water sloshes dangerously close to the lip, and stands. “Sleep well,” she says and stalks off to the kitchen, leaving Azriel in wonderfully stunned silence. 

He watches her go and isn’t subtle about it.

When she clicks the door to the sitting room shut, not so strongly as to actually suggest she was pissed off with him, Az lets his head drop back against the sofa and rubs at his eyes. His shadows say nothing, but they do wander up and down his arms and around his shoulders like they’re running a victory lap.

Suddenly, he is gripped by the urge to follow her. Actually, he’s gripped by the urge to catch her wrist in the corridor, tug her towards him, and kiss her stupid. Pin her up against the wall. Find out if her hands feel as soft in his hair as they do when they dare to brush fingertips over dinner. Tease her so much that when he asks, she lets him taste just how sweet she must be.

On realising that, Azriel gets up, opens the door, and goes upstairs to his bedroom. Gets undressed. Lies under the covers with his eyes closed and his shadows scattered about the room in the dark.

He doesn’t sleep a wink, but he can hear Elain laughing with Nuala and Cerridwen downstairs. 

Elain was portrayed in a pale pink gown, the fabric swirling around her ankles as if moved by a soft breeze. Barefoot, surrounded by green trees and blossoming flowers, she stood before Azriel, his shadows lurking around him. But between them, light and dark met, blending and spreading from the single connection they shared — Truth-Teller.

Azriel remembered the day he had given the dagger to Elain, parting with it for the first time since he'd owned it. It was one of his most prized possessions, yet he'd gladly offered it to her. If he couldn't keep her safe himself during the battle, then Truth-Teller would help her protect herself. But she had gone beyond, using it to stab the king of Hybern himself.

But he also remembered the uncertainty in her eyes, the hesitation before she'd taken the knife. There was none of that in the painting. No, Feyre had chosen to depict her sister with nothing but love and trust written on her delicate features. It was the same expression she wore whenever she looked at him. And Azriel’s own expression… Despite the darkness clinging to him and his intimidating stance, his lips were curled in a small smile and his eyes were soft as he gazed down at her. The look he reserved just for her.

As if the painting weren’t enough, Feyre had then told them the title: Death and the Lovely Fawn. Azriel had to hold back his tears. It fit it perfectly. It fit them perfectly. He would never be able to thank his High Lady — his friend — enough for the gift. To him, it wasn’t just a painting. It was a symbol of her acceptance of their relationship. Nesta, too, had accepted it from the moment she’d known. She had hugged him and told him that he and Elain would make each other truly happy. Her family’s support meant more to him than he could ever express in words.

“You’re going to wear it out if you keep staring at it like that.”

Azriel smiled as he turned to watch Elain walk back into the living room. The last few tendrils of shadows still swirling around his wings disappeared completely now that she was back at his side, their whispers finally silent in his head.

“It’s a painting,” he replied, already reaching for her. He gently took her hand, guiding her to sit on his lap. But she kept the other one hidden in the folds of her dress. “You’re supposed to look at it.”

Elain chuckled, the quiet sound like a balm to his restless soul. She rested her head on his shoulder, and his wing curled around her by instinct. For a few moments, they just sat there together — her eyes on the painting, his on her.

When her gaze met his, though, she looked nervous. A slight crease had appeared between her brows, and she was chewing on her lip. “Can I give you your present?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel’s hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip to replace her teeth. “Of course you can, angel.”

He’d given her the rare flower seeds from the continent he’d bought while they celebrated with their family, but she had said she wanted to wait until they were alone to give him his present. Azriel had no idea what to expect. The only thing he was absolutely certain of was that whatever she gave him would be perfect, just as it’d been the previous two years. If only because it came from her.

Elain freed her hand from the folds of the dress, revealing a small square box. He took it almost reverently, glancing at her once to make sure he could open it before he removed the lid.

He beheld what was inside and, for the second time in just a few hours, didn’t know what to say. His eyes found Elain’s again, searching for an answer, for an explanation, because surely it couldn’t be what he thought it was.

Elain swallowed. “I know we’re not mates,” she said with an almost sad smile. “But I want something to represent what we have. To let the world know that you’re mine, and that I’m yours.”

She took his hands in hers, unbothered by his scars. Beautiful, she’d once called them. Over the last year, she had repeated it so many times he was starting to believe her.

Azriel never thought it would happen. Not like this, at least. He never thought Elain would be the one to ask the question. But here she was, sitting on his lap, holding his hands as if they were a delicate treasure, her eyes shining even while her voice quivered.

“Will you marry me, Azriel?”

Despite his shock, he had never been more sure of anything in his life. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He felt her relax in his arms instantly, and the most beautiful smile he had ever seen bloomed on her face. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she picked up the ring from its box. It was a simple silver band, but more than Azriel could have ever hoped for. Slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she slipped it onto his finger.

As the small weight settled on his finger, something else settled in his heart — a sense of rightness, of belonging, much deeper than anything he had felt before. They might not be mates, but it didn’t matter. Elain had chosen him a year ago, and now, on the same night where she’d first offered herself to him, she was choosing him again. For eternity.

Suddenly, Azriel stood, Elain stills in his arms. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist to hold on, and he supported her with a hand on her backside. His other hand, the one where she had just put the ring on, slipped into her hair to tilt her head back and claim her mouth in a kiss. He didn’t realize he’d started crying too until his lips met hers.

He could taste their mixed tears on her lips, but most of all, she tasted of happiness, of love, of a bright future. Of home.

When he pulled back, they were both breathing a little harder. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes fluttering open to take in the watery sight of her gorgeous face. And it all seemed so surreal, so impossibly perfect, that he had to ask, at least once.

“Ellie…” he whispered, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Are you sure?”

Elain’s smile lit up the whole world. “I told you eternity didn’t scare me because I could spend it with you. I meant it, Az.” She cupped his face, her thumbs caressing his cheekbones. She pressed her lips on his again, just a tender touch, before she murmured, “I love you. Now and forever.”

His heart was beating faster than ever before. She could probably hear it, since he was still holding her close. But he had no intention of setting her down on her feet, not when she fit perfectly against him, not when she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and even less so when she had just asked him to marry her and was sure of her decision.

Azriel struggled to find the right words. Nothing seemed enough. Nothing would ever be enough to express the depth and intensity of his feelings for her. But he would spend his life showing it to her — with his words, his actions, his body, his very soul.

“I love you, angel,” he finally replied. He smiled through the tears, but before he could continue, Elain kissed his cheek. Right where the dimple she always wanted to kiss was. His heart did a little flip.

“You just made me the happiest male in Prythian,” he murmured when she pulled back and looked at him again, “The luckiest, too. And I’ll spend from here to eternity thanking you for it.”

He needed to buy her a ring too, and then they’d have a wedding to plan. Azriel had never cared much for ceremonies, and always thought he’d be fine with something simple, just the two of them. But it was different with Elain. He wanted to show the world how much he loved and cherished her, that she had chosen him and claimed him as her own, that he belonged to her — body, heart, and soul. He was hers, utterly and completely, and she was his.

But for now, he just kissed her again, trying to convey all he was feeling in the simple gesture, his feet already moving to carry them upstairs and into their bedroom.

If the previous year had been the worst Winter Solstice of his life, this year was the best. And he couldn’t wait for the next ones, knowing he would spend them all with her. Because despite not being mates, despite everything they’d faced, they had chosen each other, and they would keep choosing each other. For eternity.

*dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

Elain eased herself from Azriel’s arms, silently slipping from between the sheets and pulling his shirt over her head and down her body until it covered the gentle swell of her hips and the tops of her thighs. She tiptoed out of their room and into the small living area, carefully avoiding the floorboards she knew would squeak under her weight even if she knew the chances of accidentally waking him were low due to the exhaustion that resulted from the hours they’d spent coaxing pleasure from one another over the course of the night.

She made her way to the window that looked out to the woods. Snow fell heavily outside, blanketing the forest floor in a glistening, unblemished sheet of white.  Hazy beams of early morning light filtered through the shimmering, snow covered trees, illuminating the highpoints of her face as she tilted her chin upwards and chased the warm caress of the sun on her skin in an effort to preserve the heat she’d obtained from being tucked against the muscled chest of an Illyrian warrior for the past few hours.

It was a few days after Winter Solstice and Azriel had wasted no time upon Feyre and Rhys’ departure to their cabin before he whisked Elain away to this secret place of theirs for a singular night together, just the two of them.

Standing here now, Elain couldn’t help but think about how far she’d come since that first Solstice spent in this now-familiar body. Her heart, once splintered by a broken engagement, had slowly started to heal by then with the help of some hobbies and a few new friends - Nuala and Cerridwen… and the brooding male they reported to. A male whose stern features only ever seemed to soften around her. 

Elain had known since that first Solstice, since that night when he’d sat beside her and patiently listened to her explain her plans for the garden, that there was something between them. His unabashed laughter that evening, his sincere appreciation for her gift, had been the initial spark that lit the eternal flame of interest that would go on to burn steadily at the back of her mind, flickering higher and brighter each and every time his eyes met hers, until she could no longer stand to ignore it. 

Elain had come to think of Azriel like a book. She wanted to turn each of his pages, read him cover to cover. She wanted to memorise every word, lock away favourite passages for safe keeping. She was determined to know everything about him, wanted to devour him whole until there wasn’t a single part of him left unknown to her. She craved the time and space to allow herself to tend to what grew slowly and steadily between them.

It was made clear to her that Azriel felt the same - that he’d also realised that the heated glances and restricted touches that passed between them had rapidly outgrown the shadowed alcoves and cramped rooms they often found themselves in - when he’d winnowed her here for the first time six months ago, at the very beginning of summer.

She’d been shocked and delighted when he’d lifted his hands away from her eyes and she caught her first glimpse of the cozy cottage on the outskirts of Velaris, tucked away deep in a small patch of woods that she hadn’t even known existed.  

It was a gift from Azriel to her. A place they could escape to, somewhere far away from the ever looming threat of their secret being exposed. Here, they could pretend that they didn’t have to hide. Here, all the complexities of her mating bond ceased to exist. 

In this quaint cottage, amongst this thicket of trees, it was just them. A male, a female, and the sweet domesticity of a shared life.

It was the passing of a clean dish to be put away after a meal made and enjoyed together. It was his hand on her waist as he spun her around the tiny kitchen, his voice sweet as honey in her ear. Her soft laughter muffled by the skin of his neck. It was nervous confessions of obvious feelings in the middle of the night. Overwhelming emotion written plainly on both their faces, tears of relief shimmering in the light of a candle. 

It was leisurely walks in the woods, their joined hands buried deep in his coat pocket - unwilling to separate but desperate to keep warm. It was a roaring fire and a heavy blanket draped over their bodies, her icy toes pressed against his warm calves. It was a book falling from Elain’s fingertips, landing with a gentle thud on the worn wooden floor when the feeling of Azriel’s lips gliding along her shoulders won the fight for her attention against the words she’d been attempting to read.

Half a year later, neither of them could set their eyes on a single corner of the cottage without memories resurfacing of all the things that these four walls had witnessed. 

This sacred space commemorated the subtle trembling of his fingers as he undid the laces of her corset before he carefully laid her down for the very first time, watching as she fell apart for him. These walls stored her soft sighs and his deep moans. The whispered conversations in bed all the times after that initial night - Elain’s head on Azriel’s chest, his fingers tracing patterns over her sensitive skin as he patiently answered each and every question she had ever dreamt of asking him.

“Still snowing?” She’s pulled out of her thoughts by the rustling of wings and the sound of his voice, gritty with sleep.

“Pretty isn’t it?” She doesn’t turn to look at him but she could just about see his reflection in the glass - his dark hair tousled from the way she’d grasped it, his chest broad and bare.

“Beautiful.” Azriel’s arms slipped around Elain’s waist, pulling her back against his chest until he could rest his chin on the top of her head. She didn’t need to look at him to know that he wasn’t referring to the snow outside.

A soft smile found its way to her lips as she let her body melt into his, her delicate fingers mindlessly tracing over the scars on the large hands that now rested over her stomach as they both gazed out of the arched window and watched the snow fall.

Emerging from the pantry, her arms laden with ingredients, Elain breezed around the Townhouse kitchen as she prepared a simple lunch.

Measuring out two cups of flour, she added a dash of salt and a teaspoon of sugar to her large mixing bowl. 

It was late on a Tuesday morning, just before midday, which meant that right at this very given moment, Azriel would be in the training ring atop the House of Wind. He’d be running the priestesses through the last of their drills, that stoic look on his face exuding nothing but pure professionalism.

Removing a stick of butter from the cooling box, Elain cut it up into small cubes and added it into her flour mixture, working it in quickly with her fingers. 

Internally, Azriel would be brimming with pride, of course. Proud that those females living within the shelter of the library Rhys had built for them centuries ago had come so far. Proud that not only had they been working consistently to develop their physical strength, but strengthening their minds as well.

He’d be prompting them to give him one more, knees up, shoulders back! Elain had watched them from the sidelines enough times to know how it goes, feigning one excuse or another to be up at the House some mornings so she could watch Nesta and her friend’s train, and get a glimpse of Azriel in action.

She smiled at the thought, at how far Nesta had come. Eyeing her flour mixture, Elain added a splash of lemon juice to a quarter cup of water. A dash of lemon juice; it was her secret ingredient to a perfect, flaky pie crust. It worked every time.

Azriel would then wrap up his training session, keeping a respectful distance as the priestesses stretched out their weary muscles. He would remind them to eat something nourishing and drink plenty of water throughout the day. He’d silently pack up the equipment used, his beautiful face still giving nothing away that anything may be afoot. 

Adding the water slowly to the flour and butter mixture, Elain gradually formed a smooth dough. Turning the ball of pastry out on her bench, she sprinkled flour across its smooth surface.

Cassian would be asking him if he was up for a sparring session, the General attempting to rile him into submission by implying he had gotten out of shape. It would be complete rubbish of course, Azriel always ensured his body remained honed to perfection. But Cassian would shoot him a cocky grin, trying to get the Spymaster to concede. Azriel would tell him he had to be somewhere, tell him there was intelligence he had to gather, that one of his spies had new intel to hand over to him. Cassian would believe him; he’d have no reason not to.

With a large knife, Elain sliced the ball of dough in two, placing one half aside and stretching out the other on the floured bench, her rolling pin running across its surface creating a thin even sheet.

Launching straight off the edge of the training ring, Azriel’s mighty wings would unfurl, and he’d shoot up into the sky, high above Velaris. He’d fly toward the city proper, aiming for the heart of the glittering metropolis. He’d circle around a few laps, shaking off any unwelcome eyes that may be following his path, and land several blocks away from the Townhouse, down an empty alleyway just past the Rainbow. He’d loiter, just a little while, pretending to await one the charges within his network, looking bored as he absent-mindedly twirled Truth Teller in his palm. 

Coiling the first rolled out sheet of pastry around her rolling pin loosely, Elain carefully unfurled it into an empty pie dish, pressing the dough lightly into the corners and up the edges. When she was satisfied, she started on rolling out the second half of pastry.

After a few moments, Azriel would once again sheath Truth Teller into its scabbard. When his shadows had assured him that his actions were indeed not being watched, Azriel would only then step into the darkness. His shadows would know exactly where his intended destination would be. They’d know where he wanted to go. He’d swoop and twine through that void between realms until he materialised on the roof of the Townhouse.

Just as she was finishing rolling out her second disc of pastry, Elain heard a light thump, and then the crunching of boots from above. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she heard his heavy boots come down the spiral staircase and into the house. Right on time.

Before Elain could dust her hands off on her apron, Azriel had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. His hair was adorably windswept, his leathers already unclasped and loosened at his collar. Scarred fingers made nimble work of unbuckling the remainder of the stays and straps of his leathers, finally relieving himself of the few weapons he wore buckled to his thigh and waist.

Placing the daggers on a small side table, he entered, looking more relaxed, more approachable, than she knew he would have appeared moments ago. 

She smiled. She couldn’t help it, she always smiled when he walked into the room. How absurd that his title deemed him a Shadowsinger, when he was sunshine of her life. Whilst others saw the icy demeanour, the chiselled brittleness of his cool exterior, Elain had been intimately acquainted with his gentle warmth. His mere presence was soothing to her. She often found herself longing to simply bask in his glow, wanting nothing more than to stretch out like a cat would be inclined to do in a patch of warm sun.

“What am I playing for today?” she asked him as a way of greeting.

He smiled at her question, his hand diving into his pocket and pulling out a small, ornate metal box. It was gold, adorned with a smattering of teal, lavender and rose-coloured gems. It was so intricately designed, the colours of the small jewels set in a pattern to resemble small blooms, but the entire thing fit in the palm of his hand. It was beautiful.

“An antique pill box, from the Dawn Court. I thought you’d like the colours of this one.”

Elain simply hummed in response, schooling her face into one of mild indifference, not wanting the Spymaster to know just how much she wished to win today. He was terribly competitive and if he knew just how much she coveted this latest acquisition, he’d make it near impossible for her to have it. 

The little pill box would look lovely with her collection, as it wasn’t the first one he’d found for her on his travels across Prythian. She often used them to keep her earrings and hair pins safe, she even had a couple that she used to store the seeds and bulbs of rare flowers and herbs inside. 

Elain tore her eyes from the pillbox in Azriel’s palm, her gaze landing on his handsome face where a glimmer of a knowing smirk lifted the corner of his lips.

She nodded just once. “We’ll start after lunch. Help me finish this pie?”

Tucking the pillbox back into his pocket with a cunning grin, Azriel rolled up his sleeves and pulled up a stool to the edge of the workbench.

“Prepare the filling again?” Azriel asked, already dragging a punnet of fat strawberries toward him.

“That’s right,” Elain supplied with a smile. 

It was always this way; it had become their little ritual. Elain would have spent the morning preparing a roast, a tray of lamb and rosemary potatoes already turning golden in the oven, when Azriel would come home just in time to help finish the pie they’d then eat throughout the afternoon.

They would work in companiable silence, Elain rolling out the pie crust and Azriel preparing the filling under her careful watch until their roast came out of the oven. They’d have lunch right there at the kitchen bench as the pie baked, chattering about their weeks; about Elain’s work in the various gardens across Velaris, Azriel about the places he’d travelled to whilst on his missions. 

Once lunch was cleared and the pie was golden and crusty, Azriel would serve two fat slices and carry them out onto the garden patio where their chessboard waited, steam wafting over his shoulders like his shadows.

They played every week for as long as they could, stealing that precious time together until they were called back to their various responsibilities. Azriel would have some new trinket or knickknack he would have found whilst on his missions across Prythian as a wager. It was usually something that he knew Elain would enjoy; bulbs of rare flowers to plant in her gardens, fabric dyes in a vibrant azure or deep magenta, jewelled hair pins, exotic herbs and spices, peculiar books. 

He’d set the object on the little table beside the chessboard as a constant reminder, and they’d play, eating slice after slice of pie.

Often, their games would go over several weeks, the Seer and Spymaster both divulging their competitive sides and neither wanting to concede to their defeat. The chessboard would await their return in a state of quiet suspense, the Queen standing guard to defend her King until the following Tuesday when they would once again pick up where they left off, continuing their game.

The sun was warming the grey stones of the small courtyard as they sat across from each other, the ancient chessboard between them, ebony and ivory pieces scattered across the worn squares.

Azriel’s brilliant eyes were darting across its chequered face, diligently calculating every possible move and those that may follow it. 

After making his move, he reclined in his chair again, stretching his wings behind him to catch the sun. A sure sign of confidence and ease from the Shadowsinger. 

“En passant,” Elain murmured, before sliding her piece across the chessboard and capturing one of Azriel’s white pawns. 

Azriel glared at her, but she remained unruffled under his gaze, simply giving him a small shrug of her slender shoulder. Scooping a celebratory bite of the strawberry pie on her spoon, she gave him a smug look across the small wrought iron table, struggling to hide her wide smile behind the large mouthful of dessert. 

“Hmm. Many players often forget that move.” 

There was a sparkle in his eyes that told her he liked the challenge, welcomed it even. 

Good. She wasn’t going to let him off easy.

“Rules are rules,” she teased, before indicating for him to make his countermove. 

Azriel leant forward, settling his forearms on his knees, a determined gleam in his hazel eyes winking in the afternoon sun. Oh, he meant business now. But she remained poised in her seat; unperturbed, calm.

She was playing to win today. And she really wanted that pillbox.

*******

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