#shadow daddy

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https://www.instagram.com/p/DZJb4vakUjU/?igsh=dTIweTY1bmpvd3Ji

Jordan Lynde

Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ / 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

This debut novel is an ode to true love that dedicates each and every page to its dark song. The story begins with Eleanor being miserably betrayed and falling into desperation, with pleas that attract the notice of an otherworldly stranger that promises to fulfill her deepest desires. And yet, this stranger, Enver, is devoid of almost all emotions, unable to reciprocate any of her feelings. Pulled into his world, Eleanor / Nell must fight her way through a labyrinth filled with other people also puzzling their way out, lest they become eternal servants to the cursed castle in which they are trapped. While Enver serves as her captor, he is also her lover, showing her all the ways in which she can be pleasured.

“Gancanagh Rhysand” already exists and is basically Irial from Wicked Lovely (2007). A detail is that they physically resemble each other very much, and Irial was the former king of the Dark Court.

Omg so I j searched this guy up on the fandom wiki and...

😭😭😭

Leathery wings? Symbolic tattoos? Air of arrogance that lets him get away w things? Fucked up morality? Disdain for seasonal courts?

Moth by @Theodora R Moss

Available Now

Pairing: Azriel x oc!Archeron

Summary: Lyra Archeron has spent her life fading into the background—until Azriel’s quiet, constant presence reveals she was never as unseen as she believed. As his shadows linger and truths come to light, Lyra realizes she was never a mission to him… but someone he chose all along.

Warnings: smut!, p in v, oral (f&m receiving), dirty talk, obsessed!Azriel (as he should be), unprotected sex (sigh, wrap it people), size kink, multiple orgasms (Az is hard the WHOLE time), small angst

Masterlist

part II

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Lyra Archeron had grown used to being overlooked.

It wasn’t something her sisters did out of cruelty. Feyre always asked if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping, if she needed anything. Nesta made sure she could defend herself, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. They cared—she knew they did.

But they had lives now. Full ones.

And Lyra had learned how to exist in the quiet spaces left behind.

The training ring buzzed with the usual morning energy—steel clashing, wings rustling, Cassian barking orders that no one truly listened to unless he raised his voice. Lyra stood near the edge, fingers tightening around the leather wrap in her hand as she watched the others spar.

She could step forward.

She should step forward.

Instead, she lingered.

There was comfort in being unnoticed. No expectations. No disappointment.

A faint brush curled around her ankle.

Lyra stilled.

The shadows were back.

They were always back.

She didn’t look down this time. Didn’t react at all, really. If she acknowledged them too much, they’d retreat—and she had grown strangely accustomed to their presence. To the quiet company they offered without demanding anything in return.

They slid higher, cool and weightless, like a whisper against her skin.

Watching.

Waiting.

She exhaled slowly and finished tying her wrap, pretending she didn’t feel them.

Across the ring, Azriel stood still as stone.

Cassian followed his line of sight, then snorted. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m observing.”

“Mm.” Cassian rolled his shoulders, wings shifting lazily. “Funny. You only ever ‘observe’ one person.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Cassian’s grin widened anyway. “You planning to do something about that, or just keep lurking like some lovesick shadow?”

Azriel’s shadows flicked sharply at the word, but his expression didn’t change. “She’s alone.”

“She’s standing ten feet from a dozen people.”

“She’s alone,” Azriel repeated.

Cassian glanced back at Lyra, really looking this time. Not just at her stance, but the way she hovered at the edge of everything—never quite stepping in, never fully stepping away.

His smirk faded, just slightly.

Before he could say anything else, a calm voice cut through the air.

“She knows, you know.”

Nesta didn’t bother looking up from where she adjusted her gauntlets.

Azriel’s attention shifted. “Knows what?”

“That you’re watching her.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

Nesta finally glanced at them, her gaze sharp and steady. “She’s not stupid. She feels the shadows. Notices when they’re gone.”

Azriel went still.

“And?” he asked.

Nesta shrugged. “She doesn’t mind.”

That… wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Lyra didn’t stay long that morning.

She watched a few rounds, stepped forward once, sparred just enough to avoid questions, then slipped away before anyone could stop her.

No one called after her.

No one noticed.

Except him.

Azriel’s shadows followed her all the way down the mountain.

They slipped through the open window of her apartment as easily as breath, curling through the quiet space. The place was small—smaller than anything she’d ever lived in before—but it was hers.

Bare walls. A simple table. A couch that looked like it had seen better days.

But it was hers.

She kicked off her boots near the door, running a hand through her hair with a tired sigh.

“I know you’re there,” she murmured.

The shadows stilled.

Then, slowly, they crept closer.

Lyra didn’t turn around. Didn’t seem alarmed in the slightest. She just moved to the small kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water like it was the most normal thing in the world to be watched by something unseen.

“You don’t have to hide,” she added softly.

The shadows lingered, uncertain.

Then, like a retreating tide, they slipped back out the window.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next morning, Lyra didn’t show up.

Azriel noticed immediately.

There was a space where she should have been—a quiet absence that felt louder than any clash of steel.

Cassian opened his mouth, no doubt ready with another comment, but Azriel was already gone.

The wind tore past him as he descended, wings cutting clean through the morning air. His shadows stretched ahead, reaching, searching—

There.

Her apartment.

The door wasn’t locked.

It never was.

Azriel stepped inside without a sound.

And stopped.

Lyra stood in the center of the room, barefoot, hair unbound and falling wildly around her shoulders. She held a lamp in both hands, raised like she fully intended to swing it.

Her eyes met his.

Relief washed over her face almost instantly.

“Oh,” she breathed, lowering the lamp. “It’s just you.”

Just you.

Azriel didn’t move.

“You missed training,” he said.

She set the lamp down on the table with a soft clink. “I noticed.”

His shadows drifted toward her, brushing lightly against her arm as if confirming she was unharmed.

“You could have been hurt.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t answer when I—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Lyra tilted her head, studying him in a way few ever dared. Not wary. Not intimidated. Just… curious.

“Your shadows checked on me,” she said. “A lot.”

He said nothing.

“I figured if something was actually wrong,” she continued, “you’d come yourself.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing.

It was certain.

Azriel stepped further into the room. “You expected me.”

She shrugged, like it was obvious. “You always wait after training. Thought maybe today you’d switch it up.”

His shadows curled around her wrist briefly, almost unconsciously.

She didn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come?” he asked.

Lyra hesitated.

For a moment, it seemed like she might brush it off—deflect, joke, disappear the way she always did.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked at the floor, voice quieter when she spoke.

“Because it doesn’t really matter if I’m there.”

Something in his chest tightened sharply.

“It matters.”

She gave a small, almost sad smile. “To you, maybe.”

“Yes,” Azriel said, more firmly this time. “To me.”

Her gaze snapped back to his.

There was surprise there.

And something softer, more fragile.

“…why?” she asked.

Azriel didn’t answer right away.

His shadows did.

They slipped around her again—gentle this time, not watching but… settling. Familiar. Like they had already chosen her long ago.

He stepped closer, close enough now that he could see the faint exhaustion beneath her eyes. The way she held herself like she was always ready to step back, to make space for someone else.

“You don’t disappear to me,” he said quietly.

The words landed between them, heavier than anything else he could have said.

Lyra paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the base of the lamp before she set it more firmly against the table.

“You don’t need to do this.”

Azriel frowned, the words catching him off guard. “Do what?”

She let out a slow breath, like she had been holding it in for a long time. “I know my sister asked you to look after me.” Her voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “You don’t have to pretend it’s anything more than that. I get it.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretend—”

“I’m just another mission,” Lyra finished quietly.

The word landed wrong.

Azriel shook his head immediately, shadows stirring with a sharp, restless energy. “You aren’t a mission.”

Lyra huffed under her breath. One of his shadows brushed along her wrist again, instinctive, and she groaned lightly at the contact.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying, Lyra.”

She didn’t look convinced.

Azriel exhaled slowly, then shrugged one shoulder, voice quieter—but steadier than before. “I was the one who told Feyre I was checking on you.”

That made her hesitate.

“I was the one who made you breakfast,” he continued, watching her closely, “every morning for months while you were in a coma after the Cauldron.”

Lyra stilled.

A visible shiver ran through her at the mention of it.

Azriel didn’t stop.

“I was the one who noticed you stopped eating properly,” he went on, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. “When you’d just sit there and stare at your plate like you didn’t know what to do with it.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I was the one who stayed until you finished,” he added. “Even when you didn’t realize I was there.”

His shadows curled tighter around her now—not restraining, not claiming, just… present.

“I was the one who sent my shadows to make sure you slept,” he said. “The one who asked Madja every single day what else I could do to help you.”

Each word stripped away the distance she had built.

Each one placed him closer.

Until—

He stopped.

Because suddenly, he was right in front of her.

Chest to chest.

Close enough that if she leaned forward even slightly, she would touch him.

Lyra slowly tilted her head back.

He towered over her—easily more than a foot taller—but there was nothing intimidating in the way he stood now. No looming presence. No edge.

Just him.

Watching her.

Waiting.

“I…” Her voice came out softer than before. “I never realized.”

Azriel nodded once.

“That was the point.”

His hand lifted—slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

His fingers brushed along her jaw, calloused and warm, a stark contrast to the cool whisper of his shadows. He tilted her chin just slightly, enough that she had to meet his gaze fully.

“I never wanted to overwhelm you,” he murmured.

Lyra’s breath hitched.

Then she shook her head, just barely, her voice almost a whisper.

“You could never, Az.”

The nickname settled between them like something fragile—and entirely natural.

Azriel stilled.

His shadows went quiet.

And for the first time in a long time—

he didn’t feel the need to hide how much she mattered.

Azriel hesitated only for a fraction of a second before closing the distance between them.

His lips brushed hers—soft, almost cautious, like he was still giving her time to pull away.

Lyra didn’t.

She exhaled into the kiss, something in her finally giving way, her hands gripping the front of his leathers as she pulled him closer. The gentleness shattered, deepening into something more certain—more real.

Azriel’s hand slid into her hair, steadying her, not controlling—just holding her there like he needed to be sure she wouldn’t disappear.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

A quiet sound escaped her as he shifted, his forehead resting briefly against hers, his breath uneven for once.

“Lyra…” he murmured, voice low, grounded. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

She shook her head immediately, her fingers tightening in his leathers.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

Something in his expression softened—something rare and unguarded.

Azriel nodded once, like he was committing that answer to memory.

Then he lifted her effortlessly, her breath catching as her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders. She didn’t hesitate this time, didn’t second-guess—just held on.

His shadows followed as he carried her down the short hallway, quieter now, calmer—like they, too, understood this wasn’t something to rush.

At the doorway, he paused.

Not because he was unsure—

but because he wanted her to be.

His gaze met hers again, steady, searching.

Lyra didn’t look away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly.

And that was all he needed.

Azriel stepped inside.

He set her down on the edge of the bed, his hands framing her face as he kissed her again, deeper this time, less cautious. It was a kiss that tasted like relief, like a long-held breath finally released. His fingers found the buckles of her tunic, working them with a quiet, focused intensity.

Lyra’s own hands were just as eager, tugging at the straps and fastenings of his leathers, her movements clumsy with need. There was no patience, no slow seduction—only the desperate, shared hunger to feel skin on skin.

He helped her, shrugging off his jacket, then the shirt beneath. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her palms smoothing over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars, the warm, living proof of him. His hands made quick work of her clothes, peeling them away until she was bare before him, the cool air of the room a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from their bodies.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his hazel eyes dark, his shadows curling around them both in a silent, protective embrace. Then he lowered her back onto the bed, following her down, his mouth leaving a trail of searing kisses from her lips, down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts—lingering to swirl his tongue around a peaked nipple until she cried out—and further still, across the flat plane of her stomach.

He didn’t pause. He settled between her thighs, his hands spreading her open for his gaze, for his mouth. He looked up at her, a slow, possessive smirk touching his lips. “Let me hear you, baby.”

Lyra blushed, the endearment and the raw hunger in his eyes sending a fresh wave of heat through her. But the blush dissolved into a shattered moan the second his mouth met her core. His tongue was wicked, knowing, laving broad strokes before zeroing in on her clit with devastating precision.

One finger, then two, slid inside her, curling, stroking. She arched off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets. A third finger joined, stretching her gently, preparing her. The stretch was delicious, filling, but it was the curl of those fingers against a spot deep inside that made her see stars.

He leaned up, capturing her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, letting her taste herself on his lips. “Gotta stretch you out, baby,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough with need. “I don’t know if my cock will fit.”

The crude, possessive words sent a jolt straight to her already throbbing core. She nodded frantically, pulling him down for another kiss, her hips rocking against his hand. “Can I come?” she begged, the words a breathless whisper against his lips. “Please, Az, let me come.”

He chuckled, the sound dark and utterly male. He lowered his head again, his mouth returning to her with renewed fervor, his fingers working in a relentless, perfect rhythm. “Come, baby,” he whispered into her heat, the vibration of his words pushing her right to the edge. “Come for me.”

The command, the feel of him, the building pressure—it shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with a force that stole her voice, leaving her gasping, her body trembling violently as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

As she floated down, he moved, kneeling between her legs. He freed himself from the last of his clothes, and Lyra’s breath caught. A soft, awed moan escaped her. Now she understood the whispered jokes among the Inner Circle about the Illyrian with the biggest wingspan. He was… considerable. Thick and long, veined and fully erect, the sight of him sent a fresh, needy ache through her well-sated body.

He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her sensitive flesh. He watched her face, his own a mask of strained control. “Look at me,” he breathed.

She did. Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, locked with his.

He pushed in.

A shared, guttural moan filled the room. The feeling was overwhelming—the exquisite stretch, the profound fullness, the rightness of it. He sank into her slowly, letting her adjust to his size, his muscles corded with the effort of holding back.

When he was fully seated, he leaned down, his lips brushing her shoulder before his teeth sank in—a gentle, claiming bite. “Gods,” he groaned, the word ragged. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in with a deep, rolling thrust that made her cry out. He set a steady, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting that perfect, deep spot within her, building a new coil of tension so soon after her last release.

Then his shadows joined.

They’d been swirling around them, but now they grew more purposeful. One tendril, cool and silken, wound its way down her body to circle her swollen clit, mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. Another brushed over her peaked nipples, teasing, pinching lightly. The dual sensations—the deep, filling thrusts and the teasing, everywhere touches—were too much. It was overstimulation of the most exquisite kind, pushing her rapidly toward another peak.

“Azriel,” she sobbed, her nails scoring down his back. “I can’t—it’s too much—“

“You can,” he growled, his pace increasing, becoming more urgent. His shadows tightened their ministrations. “Come with me. Now.”

He was right there with her. She could feel the tension in his body, hear the ragged edge in his breathing. She surrendered to it, to him, letting the overwhelming sensations pull her under. Her climax detonated, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body convulsed around him.

The feeling of her tightening around him pulled his own release from him. With a hoarse shout of her name, he buried himself to the hilt, his own climax rolling through him in powerful waves as he spilled deep inside her.

He collapsed over her, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, his forehead resting against her shoulder as they both fought for air. His shadows, now calm and satiated, gently caressed her sweat-damp skin. In the quiet aftermath, there were no words—only the sound of their slowing breaths, and the unshakeable feeling that something fundamental had just shifted, and settled, into place forever.

Lyra watched, her breath hitching as he leaned down, his dark head dipping towards hers. She caught his chin, pulling him up to meet her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. He tasted like power and possession, and she couldn’t get enough.

As they broke apart, he finally withdrew from her, the two of them gasping. Lyra watched, her heart thundering in her chest, as he watched, a hand trailing down to cup and stroke his still hard and thick cock. She gripped the sheet beneath her, steadying herself as he groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin.

"Gods, this has never happened," he whispered, his voice raw with desire. "I'm obsessed."

His words sent a shiver through her, making her shiver with anticipation. Lyra flipped them over and then she crawled up his body, her nails dragging lightly over his skin. He arched into her touch, his cock twitching at the contact. "You like that, don't you?" she whispered, her voice husky with want.

He groaned, nodding jerkily. "Fuck yeah."

She smiled before leaning down and wrapping her lips around the broad head of his cock. It was warm and heavy against her tongue, filling her mouth with its velvet roughness. He tasted salty and male and completely addictive.

His hips jerked, driving himself deeper into her mouth. "Good girl," he growled, his fingers threading through her hair as he started to fuck her face gently. She took him deep, loving the feeling of him filling her throat, the way his skin smelled of leather and the night air.

Her tongue laved the seam of his cock, swirling around the vein that pulsed so close to the surface. She tightened her lips around him, sucking harder as he moaned louder, his hips meeting each rhythmical movement of her head.

Finally, he pulled back with a harsh cry, his seed spilling into her mouth. She swallowed eagerly, her lips pressing a soft kiss against the still-hard length of him. She looked up at him through her lashes, the barest hint of a smirk on her lips. "Bet you want another round."

He growled low in his throat, eyes darkening. "Oh yeah."

With that, he flipped them, pushing her back onto the bed with a rough grace. He knelt between her legs, his hands on either side of her head as he thrust into her mouth again. This time, it was different. Harder, faster.

She clung to him, scratching down his chest with her nails as he moaned into the crook of her neck. "Fuck," he breathed out, his hips meeting hers in perfect syncopation.

She loved the feel of him moving inside her throat—the power and possession of it all. And then he was pushing her off him again, his cock pulsing as he released into her mouth once more.

She didn't pull away, instead swallowing him down greedily. Her tongue darted out to lap at the head of his cock, tasting him deeply as he groaned and fell against her. The weight of him pinned her down as he panted above her, his eyes fierce as he stared down into hers.

"You're so wet," he rasped out finally, his hands cupping her face tenderly. "So fucking wet for me."

Lyra smiled up at him, her eyes bright with something that felt like adoration. She lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hips, pulling him closer as she rocked her hips in time with the last few waves of his orgasm.

They both groaned as Azriel withdrew from her again and Lyra looked down when Azriel whined and her eyes got wide when she saw that Azriel still was as hard as a rock.

He leaned down, capturing her lips again, slower this time—grounding, like he was trying to memorize her. The moment shifted, softened, even as the intensity between them still lingered, heavy and unfinished.

A quiet breath left him, almost a frustrated sound, like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then—

A voice slipped into his mind.

Sharp. Commanding.

Rhysand.

Azriel froze, his shadows snapping taut around him.

I need you. Now. There’s a situation.

Azriel’s jaw clenched, a low groan slipping out before he could stop it.

Lyra blinked up at him, the warmth in her expression faltering slightly. “What is it?”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “I’m needed.”

The words felt wrong leaving his mouth.

He leaned down again, pressing a softer kiss to her lips, then her cheek, her temple—like he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her skin.

Lyra just watched him, her eyes wide now—not upset, not angry… but something closer to overwhelmed. Uncertain.

Still, she nodded.

“I understand,” she whispered.

Azriel pulled back just enough to look at her, searching her face as if making sure she meant it. Whatever he saw there had him hesitating again.

Then he kissed her once more—deeper this time, like a promise.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to stand, reaching for his clothes. His movements were quick, but there was tension in every line of his body, like leaving her took actual effort.

At the doorway, he stopped.

Groaned softly.

Then turned back.

In two strides, he was at her again, one hand cupping her face as he kissed her hard—brief, but full of everything he wasn’t saying.

“Next time,” he murmured against her lips, voice low, rough, “no one interrupts us.”

Lyra nodded, breathless, still trying to keep up with everything that had just changed.

Azriel held her gaze for one last second—

then he was gone.

The room fell quiet.

Too quiet.

Lyra sat there, unmoving, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with what had just happened.

Because underneath it—

something else pulsed.

Louder.

Stronger.

Insistent.

Her breath hitched.

Her hand pressed lightly to her chest as the feeling surged again, unmistakable now.

One word echoed through her mind, over and over, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to be heard.

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

Lyra’s eyes widened.