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sweet-pea-channie · 1 month ago

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In the silence, I found you

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Azriel saves a mute fae woman left for dead after an ambush. Haunted by her silence, he finds himself drawn to her, not out of pity, but recognition. She reminds him of something he lost… and something he never thought he'd find again.

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse & torture (non-graphic but emotionally heavy), trauma responses including selective mutism, violence, aftermath of assault, PTSD, survivor's guilt, anxiety, grief and loss of family, slow emotional healing and intimate recovery scenes, soft angst + comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading 💛 English is my third language, so if you spot any grammar mistakes or odd phrasing, please be kind! I’m doing my best. Feedback is always welcome, especially if it's helpful and respectful. This fic is really close to my heart. It’s about healing, trust, and connection without words and I hope it speaks to you, even if it's quiet.

masterlist

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

Together.

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mahalachives · 3 months ago

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Part 8: Everything I Am, Everything I Will Be

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

Azriel had first noticed you in Velaris, long before fate had decided to intervene.

It had been an ordinary afternoon in the Rainbow.

Azriel had been returning from a briefing with Rhys, his shadows trailing behind him like gentle wisps of midnight.

Most people gave him a wide berth—the Shadowsinger’s reputation ensuring his solitude even in crowded streets.

She’s coming, his shadows whispered suddenly, their tone unusually bright, almost melodic. The one who speaks to plants.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, curious.

His shadows often brought him snippets of information about the residents of Velaris, but rarely with such… delight.

That’s when he saw you.

You were hurrying along with an armful of ancient scrolls, humming softly to yourself about deadlines and temperamental flora.

Before he could step aside, a particularly ornate scroll adorned with painted lilies slipped from your grasp, rolling toward his feet.

Catch it, his shadows urged eagerly, already curling toward the falling parchment.

He caught it before it could unravel completely, his gloved hand gentle with the delicate parchment, careful not to damage the exquisite illustrations of rare night-blooming plants.

“Oh! Thank you,” you’d gasped, “These are absolutely irreplaceable botanical records, and my supervisor would have my head if—”

You froze mid-sentence as you finally looked up, eyes widening in recognition, a small pressed flower falling from between the pages of your notebook.

“You’re Azriel,” you whispered. “The Shadowsinger.”

He’d simply nodded, extending the recovered scroll with one hand while quietly retrieving the fallen flower with the other.

Her heartbeat sounds like hummingbird wings, his shadows observed, sounding almost… enchanted. She smells like lavender and old books.

Your fingers brushed as you took both items, a fleeting touch that sent an unexpected warmth shooting up his arm like gentle sparks.

His throat tightened pleasantly, a subtle flutter spreading across his chest as his shadows curled briefly toward you like morning mist reaching for sunlight.

Warm, they murmured happily. Bright. Remember her forever.

“Thank you,” you’d said again, softer this time, a small smile lighting your features.

He'd inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before continuing on his way, gently quieting his shadows when they tried to urge him to follow you, to learn more about the female who’d caused such a stir among them.

We’ll see her again, they whispered confidently as he walked away. She matters to us.

Azriel had dismissed their unusual behavior with fond exasperation.

His shadows could be fanciful at times, prone to innocent fixations that often proved meaningless.

Besides, his heart had belonged to Mor then.

Had for centuries. Would for centuries more, he'd thought.

He was wonderfully wrong.

Five centuries of life had prepared Azriel for many things.

Torture. War.

The darkest corners of Prythian's courts. The weight of secrets that would break lesser males.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the paralyzing uncertainty of preparing for his first date with his mate.

"You look like you're planning an assassination, not a romantic evening," Cassian drawled from where he lounged against the doorframe of Azriel's private chambers in the House of Wind. He eyed Azriel’s fourth—or was it fifth?—tunic choice of the evening. "I mean, if you’re aiming to impress her with murder skills, go for it. But I’d suggest toning down the ‘serial killer’ energy at least a notch."

Azriel didn't respond, busy adjusting the collar of his tunic for the fourteenth time.

The fabric embroidered with silver stars seemed simultaneously too formal and not formal enough.

He'd never cared about his appearance beyond functionality before.

But tonight... tonight mattered.

You mattered.

"I've never seen you this rattled," Cassian continued, his grin widening. "Not even when we infiltrated the Winter Court during the Frost Solstice and you got cornered by that deranged—"

Azriel shot him a warning look, shadows coiling tightly around his scarred hands. "I'm not rattled."

Liar, his oldest shadow whispered in his ear. Your heart races at the mere thought of her.

His shadows had been insufferable since the day you'd fallen on him in the archives—growing more vocal, more insistent with each passing day.

They'd recognized the mate bond before he had, whispering your name when he tried to sleep, urging him toward you at every opportunity.

Centuries of perfect control, undone by one female with a talent for calamity and eyes that saw straight through his carefully constructed walls.

"Have you decided where you're taking her?" Rhys asked, materializing from the shadows of the hallway. The High Lord's violet eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.

Azriel nodded once. "The oak grove."

Cassian raised an eyebrow. "The treehouse? No one knows about that place."

"Exactly," Azriel replied, finally turning away from the mirror. He didn't need to explain further.

Both males understood the significance—he was sharing something private, something he'd kept hidden for centuries.

Rhys's expression shifted, something knowing gleaming in his eyes. "Interesting choice," he said, the words weighted with meaning Azriel couldn't quite decipher. "There's something... fitting about it."

Before Azriel could respond, Cassian clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser males stagger. "Well, don't keep the lady waiting. And remember—" he winked "—I've got a favorite blade riding on you sealing the bond by the full moon."

Azriel growled low in his throat. "Get out."

Both males laughed as they retreated, though Rhys paused at the doorway.

"Az," he said softly, all humor gone from his voice. "You both deserve this. Remember that."

The words struck deeper than Azriel wanted to admit.

Five centuries of darkness and solitude had convinced him he deserved nothing but shadows.

And then you had crashed into his life—literally—upending everything he thought he knew about himself.

She is your light, his shadow whispered. Your starlight. Your home.

He had one final thing to retrieve before leaving.

From his desk, he took a small wooden box containing the gift he'd spent hours carving.

A ridiculous gesture, perhaps, but one he hoped would make you smile.

That smile.

It haunted him.

Brightened corners of his soul he'd thought long dead.

With a deep breath, he unfurled his wings and stepped to the balcony.

Before launching into the evening sky, he allowed himself one moment of vulnerability, one whispered confession to the sunset.

"I am terrified."

You had faced many terrifying things in your life.

Cave-dwelling monsters with too many teeth.

That one particularly aggressive goose on the mountain trail.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared you for the sheer, overwhelming panic of getting ready for your first official date with Azriel.

"I have nothing to wear," you wailed, flinging another dress onto the growing pile on your bed. "Nothing."

Lira, sprawled on your one comfortable chair, didn't even look up from inspecting her nails. "You have approximately seventeen outfits on that bed alone. Not to mention the three I brought over. And the one Mor sent with a note that said—and I quote—'wear this if you want to see a shadowsinger blush.'"

"None of them are right!" You held up a midnight blue gown with silver accents. "Too formal."

A casual tunic and pants. "Too boring."

A revealing red number that had somehow found its way into your closet. "Too... Mor."

Lira sighed dramatically. "He's seen you with bedhead, covered in mud, drenched in the Sidra, and tripping over literally nothing. If you showed up in a flour sack, he'd probably still look at you like you hung the stars."

"That doesn't help!"

"Fine." Lira finally stood, sifting through the fabric mountain with expert precision. "Wear this. It's pretty but comfortable, and the color brings out your eyes."

She held up a simple but elegant dress in a deep violet hue with subtle silver detailing.

The fabric was light and flowy, perfect for a summer evening in Velaris, yet structured enough to look intentional rather than haphazard—something you desperately needed help with.

"Are you sure?" you asked, taking the garment with reverent hands.

"Positive. Now..." She gestured vaguely at the disaster that was your hair. "Let's tackle that next catastrophe."

An hour later, you stood before your mirror, barely recognizing yourself.

The dress fit perfectly, highlighting curves you didn't know you had. Your hair was pinned in an elegant-but-not-too-fussy style that somehow made you look like you belonged in the Night Court's fashionable circles.

"See?" Lira said smugly, adjusting one final pin. "You clean up nicely when you're not falling into things."

"Don't jinx it," you muttered, nervously touching the moonbloom pendant that hung around your neck.

The delicate flower seemed to pulse with life in the fading evening light, a constant reminder of Azriel's feelings.

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, performing what looked suspiciously like approval laps.

"Even Gregory thinks you look good," Lira commented, tossing a pinch of fish food into the bowl. "And he has very high standards. Don't you, Gregory?"

A loud knock interrupted your nervous fidgeting.

"He's early," you hissed, panic rising again. "He said sunset! It's not sunset yet!"

"It's close enough," Lira pushed you toward the door. "Now go. Be awkward. Be romantic. Be yourself. And for Cauldron's sake, try not to fall into the Sidra again."

With one final glare at your so-called friend, you took a deep breath and opened the door.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Azriel stood there, not in his usual Illyrian fighting leathers, but in formal Night Court attire—well-fitted black pants and a deep blue tunic that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His wings were meticulously groomed, the membranous material almost glowing in the late afternoon light.

But it was his face that caught you off guard.

The usual carefully controlled mask had slipped, revealing raw appreciation as his hazel eyes swept over you.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words coming out rougher than usual, like he hadn't meant to speak them aloud.

Your cheeks heated.

"You too." You winced immediately. "I mean, not beautiful—well, yes, beautiful, but handsome. You look handsome. Good. Nice. I'm going to stop talking now."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I brought you something."

From behind his back, he produced not flowers—which would have been the conventional choice—but a small, intricate wooden box.

"For the menace," he said, gesturing toward Gregory's bowl. "From one guard to another."

You opened it to find a tiny, perfectly carved castle tower—a fish hideout for Gregory's bowl.

"You got my fish a present," you said, staring at the delicate woodwork, complete with miniature windows and a tiny door. "Did you... did you make this?"

A rare flush crept along Azriel's cheekbones. "I had time."

The image of the Night Court's most feared spymaster whittling a tiny castle for your emotional support fish was almost too much to bear.

"Gregory appreciates your dedication to home security," you managed, placing the tower carefully in the fish bowl. Gregory immediately swam through the tiny doorway, clearly approving of his new quarters.

"Shall we?" Azriel offered his arm—a formal, courtly gesture that somehow seemed both foreign and perfectly natural coming from him.

"Where are we going?" you asked, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow and trying not to focus on the firm muscle beneath your fingertips.

His shadows curled playfully around your wrist. "It's a surprise."

Your eyes widen with wonder as you take in the treehouse, your lips parting in surprise.

You can't believe Azriel has brought you here—to a place he built with Cassian centuries ago and maintained alone for three hundred years.

"You're taking me to your secret hideout?" The words tumble from your mouth, wonder filling your voice.

Azriel's hand moves to adjust the moonbloom pendant at your throat, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The touch sends a flutter through your chest, your pulse quickening beneath his fingertips.

"I wanted to share something with you," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Something private. Something no female has ever seen."

The weight of his admission isn't lost on you.

Five centuries of guarding his privacy, his secrets—and here he is, offering a piece of himself so willingly.

"I'm honored," you say, meaning every word.

"You should be," he replies, a rare lightness in his tone. "Cassian doesn't even know I still come here." He pauses before adding, "The wards only recognize my blood... and now yours."

Your heart skips a beat at the revelation that he'd altered ancient wards for you.

As you climb the stairs, your foot catches on the lip of a step—your usual gracelessness making an appearance at the worst possible moment. Before you can tumble backward, Azriel's hand snaps out to steady you. Instead of a polite rescue, he pulls you flush against him, his palm splayed across the curve of your lower back, fingers edging just a little lower than strictly necessary.

Heat floods your body at the contact.

The thin fabric of your dress does nothing to hide the firmness of his chest against yours, and you can't help the quiet gasp that escapes your lips as you look up at him through half-lowered lashes.

His shadows coil around your legs, bold and hungry.

You can feel them reaching for you, as though they want to slip under your dress and map every inch of your skin.

"Careful," he murmurs, but his dropped voice makes the warning sound more like an invitation.

When you try to straighten, he doesn't let you go immediately.

Instead, his fingers flex over your lower back, pressing you firmly against him. Your breath hitches as something pulses between you—an unspoken promise of what could happen if you just gave in.

With visible effort, he loosens his grip, drawing a shaky breath as he eases you upright. But his thumb grazes the curve of your hip in a final caress that feels like a claim.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Try not to fall again," he teases softly, his tone laced with sin. "Next time, I might not let go."

"Sorry," you murmur, your cheeks flushing. "Gravity and I have a complicated relationship."

"So I've noticed," he replies, fondness warming his voice.

As you enter the treehouse, you're struck by the beautiful details—floating faelights, a moving star map, a low table set with foods that somehow match exactly what you like.

But it's the walls that truly capture your attention.

Maps, notes, sketches—centuries of observations, thoughts, a private world spread out for you to see.

"What is all this?" you ask, moving closer to examine a map of the Night Court.

"Records," he answers, standing close enough that his wing brushes against your back. A small shiver runs through you at the contact. "Observations. Memories."

You realize what you're looking at—his personal history, his private sanctuary where he keeps the parts of himself he shows to no one.

"Why did you bring me here?" The question comes as a whisper, vulnerability plain in your voice.

"Because you deserve to know me. All of me. Not just what others see."

For a male who has spent centuries in shadows, who has built his life around secrets and silence, the offering is monumental. He is giving you the power to truly know him—and with it, the power to truly hurt him.

"I don't know what to say," you admit.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures you, guiding you to the table with his hand at the small of your back. "Just... be here. With me."

As you sit across from each other, Azriel's shadows refuse to stay contained. They reach for you, wrapping around your wrists, tracing the line of your neck with a boldness that makes your skin heat.

"Your shadows are very... hands-on," you observe, watching as they caress you like living extensions of his desire.

You notice the heat creeping up Azriel's neck. "They've grown fond of you," he says, clearly understating. "They've never... responded to anyone like this before."

"Just the shadows?" you ask, surprising yourself with your boldness.

His eyes drop to your lips, and you can almost feel the phantom touch of his mouth on yours.

"No," he says, his voice dropping to a register that reveals his desire. "No, starlight. Not just the shadows."

The endearment sends warmth blooming in your chest.

Throughout dinner, you watch Azriel relax in a way you've never seen before.

He tells you stories he's never shared with others—mishaps and adventures with the Inner Circle, lighter moments that few would associate with the fearsome shadowsinger.

You laugh freely, entranced by the way he watches you, the way his lips curve when you throw your head back in amusement. Around him, you feel lighter, brighter, more than you've felt in a long time.

Your peaceful dinner is interrupted by a faint sound outside—one that Azriel's trained ears catch immediately.

"Was that...?" you ask, peering into the darkness.

"Ignore it," he sighs.

"But it looked like—"

"Cassian," he confirms, caught between exasperation and amusement. "And if my shadows aren't misleading me, Mor is with him."

Your eyes widen. "Are they spying on us?"

"They're attempting to," he corrects dryly. "Rather poorly."

You burst into laughter at their friends' antics, finding humor where others might find irritation.

"We could give them something to spy on," you suggest, mischief dancing in your eyes.

Azriel arches a brow, heat visible in his gaze. "What did you have in mind?"

The idea of acting out an exaggerated romantic scene to scandalize your friends delights you.

"Oh, Azriel," you exclaim in an exaggerated breathy voice. "I had no idea you could do that with shadows!"

He plays along with surprising enthusiasm, his voice dropping deliberately lower. "It's a rare talent. One I've been saving for the right person. For you."

His shadows put on a dramatic display, swirling around the room with theatrical flair. But some use the opportunity to touch you in more intimate ways—tracing down your arm, caressing your collarbone, stealing touches that make your breath catch.

"The right...angle?" you continue, your tone deliberately suggestive. "Or the right... position?"

When Cassian crashes outside, you have to bite back your laughter. But beneath the amusement is a rising heat, a dangerous awareness of Azriel—of how beautiful he looks with rare humor in his eyes, of how much you want to turn this playacting into reality.

"Both," he says solemnly. "It requires... flexibility. And endurance." He leans forward, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "Fortunately, I have centuries of practice."

One bold shadow caresses your neck.

You break into laughter, the tension momentarily diffused. "That," you gasp between laughs, "was the most fun I've ever had fully clothed."

When your laughter subsides, you find Azriel studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"I've existed for over five hundred years," he admits quietly. "And I can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep within you.

"Well, I'm happy to make a fool of myself anytime if it makes you laugh," you say with a warm smile.

"You weren't the fool," he counters, rising and moving to the window. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

When you join him at the window, his wing brushes against your back—a casual touch that sends a shiver down your spine. The view of Velaris at night stretches before you, a tapestry of lights and shadows.

"It's beautiful," you whisper.

"This is how I see the city," he tells you, his voice an intimate murmur. "From above. In shadows and light."

When you turn to face him, he's already watching you—his hazel eyes reflecting the faelight, turning them to liquid gold.

"What are you thinking?" you ask.

"That I never thought I'd have this. That for centuries, I accepted solitude as my due. And then you—" He shakes his head, wonder in his expression. "You fell into my life. Literally."

You reach for his scarred hand, tracing the ancient burns with gentle fingers. The tissue is rough beneath your touch, but you don't hesitate or flinch. These marks are part of him, as essential as his shadows or his wings.

"These are part of you," you say softly. "Just like your shadows. Just like your wings. Parts I wouldn't change." You pause, realizing something. "You haven't worn your gloves since the library incident."

The observation seems to startle him, as if he hadn't realized it himself.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

His shadows curl closer as vulnerability passes over his face.

"Because I've spent centuries hiding these scars." His scarred fingers intertwine with yours, the contrast between his damaged skin and your softness both stark and beautiful. "But after you fell on me that day, after you touched me without flinching... I found myself yearning to feel your skin against mine, even if by accident."

He moves closer, the bond between you drawing taut. "Do you know what it's like? To want something so badly you can hardly breathe with it? To have your skin ache for a touch you've convinced yourself you'll never deserve?"

The raw emotion in his voice makes your heart ache.

"Most people avoid touching them," he says, his voice rough as you continue to trace his scars.

"I'm not most people," you remind him, your tone dropping to match his. "I'm your mate."

The word hangs between you—mate—sacred and true. The bond between you flares at the acknowledgment, a rush of warmth that suffuses your entire being.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice rough with possessiveness. "Mine."

He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip in a touch that makes you tremble. His scarred hand against your skin feels right—as if you were made to complement each other, to balance his darkness with your light.

"In Illyrian tradition," he says, barely above a whisper, "the first kiss between mates is a sacred vow. A promise more binding than any words." His shadows embrace you both, creating a cocoon of privacy. "I do not make such promises lightly."

Your heart pounds as you understand the weight of the moment.

"What are you promising me, shadowsinger?" you ask, the title feeling right on your lips.

His eyes meet yours, centuries of loneliness and newfound hope converging in his gaze. "Everything I am. Everything I will be."

The words feel ancient, powerful, true.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares, the words both a warning and a vow.

"Good," you reply, unable to resist lightening the moment. "Because my knees are about to give out, and I'd hate to fall again."

A smile touches his lips, tender and full of promise. "I'll catch you," he promises. "I always do. I always will."

And then he's leaning in, his eyes never leaving yours. Finding no hesitation, he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours.

The first touch is gentle, reverent—a question, an offering of his heart. His shadows engulf you both, creating a world where only the two of you exist. He cradles your face like you're something precious, something to be cherished.

The mate bond explodes between you, a surge of sensation so intense it nearly buckles your knees. Colors, scents, feelings—all sharper, brighter, more vivid than you've ever experienced. You can feel his heartbeat as if it were your own, can sense his emotions mingling with yours in a tapestry of wonder and desire and rightness.

You slide your fingers into his hair and pull him closer, wanting more. A growl rumbles in his chest as he backs you against the window, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matches your own. The feeling of him against you is more intoxicating than anything you've ever known.

"Azriel," you gasp against his mouth, unable to contain the emotion swelling within you.

"I can feel it too," he murmurs, wonder threading through his words as the mate bond flares between you. "The bond. It's singing."

Kissing him is like finding a home you never knew you were missing. His taste, his scent, the way he responds to you—it's intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect. His wings curve around you both, shielding you from the world in the most ancient Illyrian tradition.

Your scent and his mingle—your parchment and lavender now blended with his night-chilled cedar, marking you as his. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, hypersensitive, attuned to each small movement.

You slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, drawing a feral sound from his chest that sends heat pooling low in your belly. He answers with a rough, devouring kiss that makes you moan softly into the quiet space around you.

His shadows take on a life of their own, swirling in a dizzying dance over your shoulders, skimming down your arms and waist—touching, tasting, exploring in ways that make you shiver with need.

The moonbloom pendant at your throat suddenly flares with bright, shimmering light, bathing you both in ethereal glow. You clutch at him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

When you finally pull apart, you're both panting. His eyes gleam possessively, making your breath catch. Your hair is mussed from his restless fingers; your lips feel swollen, tingling with the evidence of his kisses.

"Well," you manage, voice quivering with excitement, "as far as first kisses go, that was…"

"Insufficient," he growls, low and ragged, already leaning back in. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, collecting the lingering taste of your kiss. His wings flare behind him in a display that screams possession. "We should try again. For thoroughness."

Your laugh comes out breathy. "Thoroughness? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

His eyes narrow in challenge, the corners of his lips tilting into a predatory smirk. "I'm over five hundred years old," he reminds you, his voice decadently deep. "I'm no kid. And I'm very, very thorough."

A delicious tension crackles between you, heightened by the knowledge of just how far that promise could go. The mate bond pulses like a physical tether, tightening around your souls.

"Thank the Cauldron for that," you whisper, already tipping your head for another kiss. "Think of all the practice you've had."

His shadows flare, enveloping you both in a cocoon of midnight.

They skim across every curve, every hollow, every dip of your body they can reach, impatient for him to join them in full exploration.

Azriel swallows a groan, every muscle tensing as he fights for control. But one look at your parted lips and the flush darkening your cheeks, and you see the moment he decides to let go, to show you exactly how long he's waited, how desperately he's craved this moment.

"Practice," he echoes roughly, his breath skating across your mouth. "You have no idea."

Then he bends his head and captures your lips again, the kiss far from soft—raw and hungry, a promise that the thoroughness has only just begun.

You practically skip into the Botanical Archives, a goofy smile plastered on your face as you clutch a small bag of pastries in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other.

The memory of last night—Azriel’s treehouse, that kiss (kisses!)—still swirls in your mind like a flock of delighted starlings, making your heart flutter every time you replay it.

The Archives are quiet at this hour, mostly hushed librarians and scholars drifting between shelves.

But one voice shatters the hush the moment you step inside.

“Well, well, look who decided to waltz in here like she’s the High Lady of Good Moods,” Lira crows from behind the reception desk. “Did someone have a fun night, perhaps?”

You try to tamp down your giddy grin—but fail spectacularly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, setting your tea down and carefully ignoring the fact that you nearly trip over a stack of dusty tomes.

Lira narrows her eyes. “That’s not your I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. That’s your oh-mother-above-I-think-I’m-in-love face.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Shh! Keep your voice down or the entire Archive will know I have…a reason to be happy.”

She laughs, straightening. “Please. The entire Archive already suspects you have some reason to be happy. You’re glowing like a star under a Cauldron-blessed spotlight.”

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth curl upward anyway. “Anyway, are we cataloging the new Day Court scrolls this morning? Or are you just going to stand there and harass me?”

“Bit of both, probably,” Lira says brightly.

She taps a wooden crate with her foot. “We got a new delivery—again—like those Day Courtiers have nothing better to do than bury us in half-translated manuscripts. Go forth and sort.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, picking up the top scroll. “Ah yes, I shall valiantly bury myself in dusty documents for the sake of botanical advancement.”

Lira pretends to salute. “What a trooper. Let me know if you start missing that shadowsinger so much you can’t function.”

You open your mouth for a scathing retort, but she wiggles her fingers in a sassy goodbye and flounces away, leaving you alone with your scrolls, your warm tea, and approximately one million butterflies in your stomach.

You set to work at a large wooden table in a back alcove, where the morning sun filters through high, arched windows.

The gentle hush of the Archives usually soothes you, but today you’re too antsy—your mind keeps wandering to Azriel.

To the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his scarred palms, the way he promised to catch you if you fell. (And, to be fair, you are pretty inclined to falling.)

A silly grin curls your lips.

You find yourself humming a jaunty tune, tapping your quill on the table.

At one point, you even spin in a small circle, the skirt of your lilac day-dress flaring around your legs. If any of your coworkers see, you’ll deny it.

Forever.

“Snap out of it,” you mutter, unrolling a parchment with care.

The Day Court has included a thorough treatise on cacti. Instantly, your mind conjures Azriel’s shadows swirling around spiky succulents, and you stifle a giggle.

You’re so lost in daydreams that you almost miss the moment the alcove falls too silent.

A cool draft brushes the back of your neck, sending a ripple of unease across your skin.

Your humming halts.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see Lira or one of the other scholars.

But there’s no one—just row upon row of towering shelves and the gentle flicker of faelights.

Maybe it’s just a draft, you think, trying to steady your heartbeat.

You turn back to the Day Court scroll, pressing its corners flat against the table.

Then you hear it—a voice so soft it barely registers over the faint rustle of parchment.

“Hello…”

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, you set your quill down, dread curling in your stomach.

The fine hairs at your nape prickle as a memory stirs—one you can’t quite place.

“Lira?” you call softly, forcing a calm you don’t feel.

No answer. Just eerie silence.

You let out a forced laugh. “I’m hearing things. Perfect.”

You try—try—to read the neat calligraphy on the scroll. But your eyes keep flicking to the edge of your vision, half expecting some lurking figure to emerge.

“She’s here…” another whisper comes, colder this time. “She’s back.”

Your blood runs cold.

The timbre of that voice claws at something old inside your head.

Your hands tremble as you half-rise from your seat.

You open your mouth, intending to speak—but the words never come.

Because suddenly, the hush around you fills with whispers, overlapping voices, some trembling with desperation, others echoing with a cruel, mocking tone.

“Do you remember us…” “You left us…”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, and a jolt of raw terror streaks down your spine.

Flashes of old nightmares rise in your mind, a dark corridor, flickering torches, voices that taunted you in the corners of your dreams.

“She hears us again...” “Help us…let us out…” “You never should have run.”

Your vision shivers, the edges going hazy.

This isn’t real, you tell yourself.

Except it feels so real, the air turning frigid, your lungs refusing to draw breath properly.

You clutch your ledger like a shield. “W-who’s there?”

You hate how shaky your voice sounds.

No answer, just a chorus of nearly soundless laughter—both sorrowful and cruel.

It wraps around you like cold fingers.

And in that overlapping cacophony, you catch snippets of an old plea, your plea, from long ago.

“Leave me alone—please—go away!”

You slap your free hand over your ear, as though you can block them out.

“Stop,” you manage, voice cracking.

A chilling breeze seems to swirl around you, rustling the edges of the scroll. The ghosts’ voices crescendo.

“She fears us still…” “She remembers nothing…” “Don’t forget the blood…”

Tears prick your eyes, your throat tight with panic.

You don’t know what they’re talking about—you don’t recall any promise, any them.

“Stop,” you beg again, tears threatening to spill. “Please—”

A hand seizes your shoulder.

You yelp, spinning with your ledger raised defensively—only to find Lira, her face etched with alarm.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, hands up in surrender. “Easy! I come in peace!”

You blink rapidly, tears and panic making everything blur.

The voices vanish as if yanked away by an unseen thread.

Suddenly, you’re in the quiet Archives again, the morning sunlight streaming like nothing’s wrong.

Lira lowers her arms, stepping closer. “You okay? You look like you just saw the Bogge itself.”

“I—” You struggle to breathe normally.

Your pulse still pounds, and your ears ring with phantom echoes. You never should have run. “I thought I heard…” You shake your head, shame creeping in. “It’s nothing. I’m just—tired.”

She lifts a brow, unconvinced. “That was more than just tired. You were talking to someone, or something.”

You swallow, gaze darting to the corner of the alcove.

The weight of old nightmares lingers in the air, but the ghosts are silent now—lurking behind the veil, waiting.

“Maybe I… dozed off for a second,” you finally mumble, the excuse tasting sour in your mouth. “I’m really not sleeping well lately.”

Lira’s expression softens. “Then let’s get you some air. Trust me, inhaling stale parchment fumes isn’t gonna help if you’re feeling faint.”

Normally, you’d protest.

But the thought of staying here, alone, at this table—where those voices might return—makes your stomach churn.

So you nod, following her toward the exit, your heart still hammering.

As you pass through the high-arched doorway, Lira chatters about random Archive gossip, clearly trying to distract you.

You manage a weak smile here and there, but your thoughts remain fixed on those voices, how they echoed the nightmares you once had, how they accused you of leaving them behind.

Leaving who behind?

You can’t remember.

A final chill scutters down your spine as you glance over your shoulder.

In the alcove’s corner, the shadows are thicker than they should be, almost shaped like hunched figures.

Watching. Waiting.

A faint echo flickers in your mind, too familiar—childish whimpers, fear overwhelming your small body as you clung to blankets at night, wishing the voices would go away.

As you hurry after Lira, the rasping whispers claw at your memory.

“Don’t forget the blood… She’s still ours…”

Azriel appears so suddenly you nearly drop your ledger—one moment it’s just you and Lira in the corridor, and the next, the spymaster stands at your side, wings half-flared, shadows swirling restlessly.

His hazel eyes flick over you in a swift, razor-sharp sweep, cataloging every inch as if looking for injuries or signs of distress.

“Az,” you whisper, your voice still shaky from the lingering terror.

Lira startles, almost dropping the scrolls in her arms. “Cauldron,” she mutters, stepping back to give him space. “I’ll just…yeah.” She shoots you a worried look, then disappears around a corner, leaving you alone with Azriel’s intense gaze.

He doesn’t move for a beat—just stares, tension radiating from every line of his body.

The hush of the Archives thickens.

His expression is pure spymaster: unreadable, assessing, tinged with lethal calm.

Finally, in a voice carved from steel, he asks, “What happened?”

A wave of guilt crashes over you. You attempt a weak, tremulous grin. “Nothing. Just—library chaos. You know how it is.”

His jaw clenches, shadows uncoiling around his wrists like they’re ready to hunt.

“Don’t lie,” he says quietly. “I felt your fear through the bond.”

Your chest tightens at the reminder of how strong your panic must’ve been for him to sense it.

“I—” The words stick in your throat.

This man has faced wars, horrors you can’t fathom; the last thing you want is to burden him with ghost stories you can’t even explain. So you plaster on an overly bright smile. “It’s fine. Seriously, you can relax your wings now.”

He doesn’t.

If anything, they flare wider, as though to shield you from whatever threatened you. “Your hands are still shaking,” he observes grimly, eyes flicking to your trembling grip on the ledger.

A lump forms in your throat.

You force a laugh that comes out sounding like a pathetic squeak. “Must’ve been a dizzy spell. Too much dust. Really, Az, stop worrying.”

His nostrils flare with impatience—he’s clearly not convinced. Before you can protest, he steps forward, gathering you into his arms in one swift motion, ledger and all. The sensation of his firm chest against yours sends a jolt through your system that’s part embarrassment, part relief.

“Az!” you protest, cheeks heating. “We’re in the middle of the—”

He lifts you just enough to curve his arm beneath your knees, his other arm bracing your back. A neat little scoop that leaves you clutching at his shoulders, eyes wide. You can practically feel the hush of the Archives intensify as a few onlookers peek around corners.

But Azriel doesn’t seem to care.

His shadows swirl closer, forming a hazy barrier of privacy.

“You’re pale,” he says simply, as though that justifies everything. “And I’m not putting you down until you stop pretending this is nothing.”

“Az, I—” Heat flutters across your cheeks.

You glance around, mortified to be cradled bridal-style in front of whoever might pass by. But there’s no ignoring the steady thump of his heart against your ear, the secure hold of his arms.

It makes you feel…safe.

He looks down at you, his usually controlled features pulled taut with worry and frustration.

“You terrified me,” he admits low enough that only you can hear. “I’ve felt you anxious before, but never that close to panic.”

Guilt churns in your gut. “I’m sorry,” you manage, voice tight. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze lingers on the lingering tears clinging to your lashes, and the hardness in his face softens just slightly. “Tell me what scared you.”

“It’s nothing you need to hunt, I swear,” you say quickly, wanting to stave off the spymaster in him. Your voice trembles with the weight of the half-truth. “Please—just stop worrying.”

For a moment, he just studies you.

Then, releasing a sigh that ruffles your hair, he nods toward the nearest reading nook, a cozy alcove by a tall window. “We’re talking. Properly. Somewhere less exposed.”

He moves—with you still in his arms.

Your stomach swoops. “Azriel,” you hiss, mortified, “put me down. I can walk!”

His mouth presses into a stubborn line.

“You’re shaking,” he repeats. “Until I see you steady on your feet, I’m carrying you. You can glare all you want.”

You do glare. Furiously.

But you don’t exactly hate the warmth of his hold, or the reassuring solidity of his body. So with a defeated huff, you bury your face in the soft fabric of his tunic, hoping to hide from the curious glances of passing scholars.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach the alcove, where he sets you gently on a cushioned bench. One of his wings curls protectively around you in a half-shield, blocking out the rest of the Archives. Even as your feet touch the floor, he keeps a hand on your shoulder, as if afraid you might vanish.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, voice firm but edged with a tenderness that tugs at your heart.

Your gaze drops to your ledger, your voice catching.

You can’t bring yourself to explain the whispers, the shadows, the half-buried nightmares you don’t fully understand. “I was just…overwhelmed,” you mumble, blinking rapidly against fresh tears. “I’m so sorry. I know you must have a thousand better things to do than rush here for no reason.”

Azriel’s expression darkens, and you sense that protective fury simmering behind his calm facade. “You are never ‘no reason,’” he says, each word clipped. “I’ll always come if you need me. You know that.”

“But—”

He slides onto the bench beside you, capturing your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his scarred palms steadies your breathing. “I can’t fix what you won’t tell me,” he murmurs, “but I can sit here until you feel safe again.”

The bond pulses gently, your chest loosening. You sniff, nodding gratefully. “I’m okay now,” you whisper, daring to meet his gaze. “Really.”

Azriel’s eyes remain narrowed, but you catch the barest flicker of relief. “If you say so.” His grip tightens just a fraction. “But if I sense that level of fear again, I will tear this place apart until I find the cause.”

The conviction in his voice sends a shiver through you. “Not sure the Head Archivist would appreciate you wrecking her shelves.”

He arches a brow. “Let her try to stop me.”

Despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes your lips.

The absurd image of Azriel tearing down entire rows of rare scrolls in search of some imaginary threat is enough to dispel a bit of the tension knotting your gut.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words.

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe.” Then, more quietly, “I’d rather be impossible than let you face your fear alone.”

The sincerity in his tone nearly breaks you.

Emotion swells behind your eyes, though you manage to keep from crying again. Carefully, he shifts you closer, tucking you against his side. With his free arm, he drapes one dark wing around you like a shield.

Your heart flutters. The pressure of the wing against your back, the lingering hint of his soap-and-leather scent—together, they feel like an unspoken promise of safety.

A heartbeat of silence passes, your pulse steadying in time with his. Then, in a clipped tone that can’t entirely hide his concern, Azriel says, “Next time you sense anything—anything—off, you call me. Immediately.”

You open your mouth to argue—maybe you don’t want to feel like a damsel in distress—but the unyielding determination in his eyes melts your resistance.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He relaxes. Just a fraction, but enough that you feel the tension ebb. “Good.”

For a moment, you sit there in the hush, wrapped in Azriel’s wing, the rustle of his shadows quieting. You can practically hear his mind whirring, but he refrains from interrogating you further. He simply stays, presence unwavering, until the trembling in your limbs finally subsides.

Eventually, Azriel shifts.

You expect another question, another gentle demand for honesty. Instead, he lowers his head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. It’s brief—barely more than a brush of his lips—but it speaks volumes.

A silent vow of protection. Of understanding.

Warmth unfolds in your chest, and you lean into him just a little more. Grip the fabric of his tunic a little tighter. Silently thank him for coming.

Even if you can’t tell him everything, even if your nightmares remain locked away, at least he’s here, fierce and unyielding, ready to chase away whatever haunts you.

You might not be entirely free of fear, but in his arms, with his protective wing folded around you, everything feels just a little more bearable.

Author’s Note: Azriel may be the king of quiet brooding, but she is the queen of secrets she doesn’t even know she’s keeping. I adore writing their soft, chaotic romance, and watching the shadows stir as her past begins to claw its way back. Things are only just beginning. 🖤 Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes @hellohauntedturnstudent @yourallaround-simp

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #cassian #nesta acotar #feyre acotar

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zackprincebooks · 2 months ago

Text

Sir That's my Emotional Support Baseline

After a study between the Salamanders and Ultramarines shows that a baseline companion is helpful for Space Marine mental health, Chapter Master Dante begins implementing the practice among the Blood Angels--starting with Chief Librarian Mephiston. (Mephiston x Reader, explicit. 2nd person POV; Reader is AFAB but not addressed with any pronouns. I did have to lock this work on Ao3 due to the recent round of AI scraping; sorry!

Want to read it on AO3? Click here!

(Tagging my fellow Mephiston enjoyers @solspina and @angronsjewelbeetle)

There are few things in the Imperium of Man more beautiful to you than the Librarius of the Arx Angelicum. With shelves carved out of volcanic rock rather than constructed of wood, new shelves can be added as needed to accommodate the growing collection of relics, scrolls, and data crystals. Fragrant incense smoke rose to the cavernous ceiling in pale wisps, mingling with the candle smoke that cast shadows along the walls. Occasionally, one could hear the chanting of Blood Angels in the Holy Sepulchre above.

Every inch of the Librarius is covered in Blood Angel history; even the floor is a massive mosaic of the Emperor of Mankind’s arrival on Baal to tell Sanguinius of His fate. Those working in the Librarius reverently avoid stepping on the tiled faces of Sanguinius and the Emperor as they go about their tasks.

But that is not the only place where the golden vision of the Great Angel oversees your work. A statue of Sanguinius greets you, holding the chapter’s founding copy of the Codex Astartes on a stasis plinth in his outstretched hands. You bow before it upon entering the Librarius, as you do every day.

The candlelight of the Librarius blurs into a sea of orange and gold, and the clicking and chattering tunes in and out of your ears. You sway back and forth as a presence settles over your body. Anchoring yourself on a nearby shelf, you open your mind to accept the message beamed into it.

“Come. I have work for you.”

It disappears and you right yourself, blinking until you can see each individual candle. Another serf approaches to inquire after your wellbeing, but you brush them off with a brief reassurance and venture deeper into the Librarius.

You don’t want to keep him waiting.

The air deep in the Librarius becomes chilled, and the candles cast longer shadows on the wall. Your nose stings with the scent of incense but you resist the urge to itch it. You are the only serf down here, surrounded by lexicani and epistolaries, and it behooves you to be on your best behavior if you wish to keep these privileges.

The shelves around you display alien technology and trophies from wars waged long before your great-great-grandfather was born. You linger, only briefly, on a sword encrusted with as much gold as it is blood.

But a greater treasure lies further within.

He awaits you in a yawning vault full of ancient scrolls and books, their delicate nature requiring delicate storage away from grubby paws of lesser archivists. Mephiston stands with his back to you as he leans over a wide platform with several papers pinned for restoration and research. He doesn’t address you immediately; preferring to finish applying a protective coating to a few pages with a brush clenched between his nimble gloved fingers. The only indication that Mephiston is aware of your presence was an imperceptible twitch of his left shoulder.

He cuts an imposing silhouette, and his white hair sets him apart from his Blood Angel brethren, but the candlelight throws shadows across his proud nose and strong jaw that makes your hands clammy and your knees weak.

When Mephiston finally turns around to address you, your composure is perfect: hands at your sides, head bowed reverently, eyes averted respectfully. “My Lord. You have work for me?”

A deep, shuddering sigh comes from within Mephiston’s lungs. A peek at his face reveals that one hand has pinched the bridge of his nose and his jaw is set.

“Raise your head. I wished to put aside this conversation for a later date, but Lord Commander Dante has pushed my hand.” You slowly raise your head, though when you accidentally meet his piercing gaze, you immediately redirect it to his shoulder, wrapped in red fabric. Space Marines are always more intimidating when they’re outside their armor, and you realize they really are that big.

“I am at your service, Lord. What would you have me do?”

Another sigh, this one deep enough and powerful enough that it raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Mephiston’s eyes roll upwards to the ceiling as if to seek counsel from the benevolent face of Sanguinius patterned above.

“Our brothers in the Ultramarines and the Salamanders have recently published a joint study discussing the benefits of attaching baseline companions to Space Marines. Are you aware of it?’

“Only in passing, Lord. The Ultramarines make liberal usage of charts and graphs, so I find there are very few words worth reading.”

He snorts in jest. “Very true. But their study suggests that keeping baseline companions increases the health of Space Marines. Various legions have begun adopting the practice on varying levels, and Lord Commander Dante has suggested a “trial run” within some of our ranks.”

Mephiston’s brow creases. “I wished to take more time with my decision, but Lord Dante informed me that if I do not choose, he will choose for me.”

You are barely able to smother a squeal, as Mephiston moves so you are forced to make eye contact with him. There is a light blue glow in his gaze that makes your eyes water, but you refuse to blink. “If you are not the current companion of a Blood Angel, then I ask that you become mine.”

Goodness, with how serious Mephiston was asking, you’d think he was proposing to you! Your mind reels with the mental image of Mephiston solemnly getting down on one knee, under the gaze of his genefather, to ask you for your hand in marriage. To his credit, Mephiston waits patiently as your mind does somersaults, cartwheels, and backflips.

“It would be a great honor to become your companion, my Lord,” you finally wheeze. Is it your imagination, or does something in Mephiston’s shoulders relax by inches? You bend the knee to him, and it feels as though you ought to be the one with a ring and a vow. “Please instruct me in this new, sacred duty.”

Mephiston nods, the crease in his brow smoothing. “Good. Very good, indeed.” Your stomach flutters and your fingers clench on your knee. “I will have your belongings moved from the serf dormitory into my quarters. In the meantime, visit the Sanguis Corpusculum for a physical. I would also recommend you read the study about baseline companions to better acquaint yourself with your new obligations.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Mephiston’s hand rests on your head, briefly holding you in place. His entire hand is enough to encompass your head, if he wanted. “Go in the name of the Great Angel.”

“Yes, Lord. Thank you for your blessing.” ---------------------------

Brother Caphriel is the Apothecary who tends to you, drawing your blood for a routine blood lab. While his hair is almost as white as Mephiston’s, under direct light, you see the streaks of platinum blond in his tight braids.

“I wondered when Lord Dante would begin the practice of companions,” Caphriel practically chirps as he wraps the tourniquet around your upper arm. “Though I was shocked he began with the Chief Librarian himself. The study recommended the practice start with younger Space Marines.”

“Then you have read the study?” The smell of the disinfectant stings more than when Caphriel applies it to your skin.

“Yes, and I personally know the two Salamanders cited in it. Make a fist, please.”

You look away as Caphriel draws your blood into a vial. “Do you believe the study has merit?”

“I do, and I am glad that Lord Dante believes it does, as well. Though my commitment is to the physical wellbeing of my brethren and our serfs, I fully believe that mental health is one of the first steps towards physical health.” Caphriel fills two vials and bandages your arm. “Coming back to the Arx Angelicum to a warm bed, a hot meal, and a friendly face will do a world of good to the weary mind of a Space Marine.”

His eyes close, briefly. “I cannot wait for Lord Dante to make it a chapter-wide practice.”

You are quiet as Caphriel administers the rest of your physical; checking your heartbeat and looking inside your mouth. Mephiston may not see as much combat as an average Space Marine, but surrounded by alien relics and ancient technologies, tempted by the warp, his mind is constantly at war. Wouldn’t it be nice to hold Mephiston in your arms as he let down his guard, knowing that he was finally safe with you?

You can imagine his long, deep, bone-shuddering sigh—this time, one of relief.

Caphriel releases you with a full bill of health and a copy of the companion study “for educational purposes.” You tuck it under your arm, behind another tome, to hide it as you move through the halls. Outside of Brother Caphriel, no one else knows about your transfer to Mephiston’s service—and you’d rather that no one would know, at least for now.

A quiet corner is your escape, and you wedge yourself into it with a soft grunt. Propping the ring-bound study onto your knees, you fold the cover over to read the title page:

Health and Safety of Space Marines:

A Study of Baseline Companions

By Sgt. Valorem Gadriel and Brother Meduras Chairon of the Ultramarines,

And Captain Tal’Gin Gandor and Sgt. Ursan B’Dann of the Salamanders

It is endearing to see that each of the Space Marines dedicate the study to their respective baseline companions in the foreword, thanking them profusely for their time, patience, and perspectives. Brother Chairon specifically thanks his companion, stating that this study was “for them.”

You take your time reading it over the next half hour, occasionally skimming when you reach pages mostly comprised of charts and graphs. But their results are interesting: of the Space Marines they interviewed, roughly forty percent of them considered their baseline serfs to be a personal companion. They expressed a mental and emotional attachment to their serfs, and it was a pleasure to return to them after a long mission.

“It is a relief to feel my companion laying on my chest at night,” confesses a Salamander of the 8th company, “to know that they are safe and the work I do helps keep them safe.”

“One of my small pleasures is eating a meal with my companion when I return to them. We even have a special room where we sit, as the window offers a beautiful vista of the mountains of Macragge,” Sgt Gadriel admits.

The study is peppered with more anecdotes that make your heart squeeze, but the data is what makes you want to swoon. Space Marines with baseline companions were found to be at least 65% more stable than those without, which is on par with Space Marines who answered that they preferred their fellow battle brothers as companions.

Partnered Space Marines were less likely to feel the pull of Chaos in battle (55%), less likely to be reckless in battle (73%), and had a higher return rate than unpartnered Space Marines (60%). Captain Demetrian Titus reported that Brother Chairon and Sgt Gadriel appeared more focused and calmer in battle after speaking with their companions.

85% of previously unpartnered Space Marines who picked up baseline companions over time noticed an improvement in their mental health, and even in their physical health: it drove them to train more, take care of themselves in battle, and see the Apothecary more frequently for checkups.

Space Marines also gleaned enjoyment from taking care of their companions; bringing them food when hungry and medicine when ill. Watching them heal and grow was rewarding to know that they were part of that process, and it only encouraged the Space Marine to grow with their companion.

“My companion celebrated my promotion with me, and my baseline family,” Sgt B’Dann gushed, “or, more accurately, I celebrated my promotion with my baseline family. Including my companion with them is second nature to me. I could not have done it without them.”

There was one data point in the study that made your eyes water and your face burn. 50% of partnered Space Marines said their baseline companion took care of their sexual health as well as their mental and emotional health. Having sex with their baselines was not only pleasurable, but it was also relaxing. Being intimate and vulnerable with someone they trusted allowed them to feel more confident outside of the bedroom, and the rush of reward chemicals let them see intimacy as something worthwhile.

“Sometimes it can be difficult, given our size,” Brother Chairon said, “but it is only another benefit. We learn to be patient with our companions, and sometimes the workup is its own reward.”

You lick your lips, briefly tipping your head back to think about a “workup” between you and Mephiston. Would the blue tinge of his eyes soften as he looked at you in his bed? Would he prefer to watch you open yourself up for him, or would he rather do it himself? Does he kiss you with fervor, his tongue plundering your mouth while his cock plunders your cunt? Or would he kiss you softly, whispering sweet nothings between pecks about how good you feel wrapped around his cock?

With a groan, you bury your face into the baseline study packet. Your mind suddenly cannot banish the image of Mephiston’s cock between his powerful thighs, twitching and leaking precum. Surely he must be large; Brother Chairon’s anecdote suggests that Space Marines are well-endowed enough to require a long foreplay with their baseline lovers in order to take them.

If Mephiston is big enough, you might not be able to take him the first time. Your thighs squeeze together with the phantom feeling of Mephiston sliding his cock between your legs, teasing your pussy lips with his cockhead. Would he have a knot? Something like one in four Space Marines did—

You stand up on wobbly legs, feeling all the blood rush from your pussy to your head. None of this has been decided. Mephiston only asked you to be his companion; he’s made no other overtures. And the numbers in the study indicated that not all Space Marines enjoyed sexual relationships with their baseline companions.

But the thought does not leave your mind through the rest of your duties around the Arx Angelicum. Your friends occasionally stop you with creased brows and pursed lips to ask after your soundness, and you are doing well…

…perhaps a little too well. You cannot meet Lord Mephiston’s eyes in the refectorium when you take your supper. --------------------------

By nightfall, the Arx Angelicum is beginning to slow down. Baal Prime and Baal Secundus hang in the air like two eyes, watching over humanity on its surface.

You feel as though there are eyes on the back of your neck as you stand outside of Mephiston’s quarters, a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. The light on the passkey is green, indicating that the door is unlocked.

Which means Mephiston is inside.

It’s a good thing his quarters are separated, as any Space Marine or serf would be suspicious at how much time you spend outside, waffling. Do you knock? Do you announce your presence? Leaning closer to the door, you can hear movement inside. Is he unawares? The thought of catching Mephiston changing turns your knees into jelly. His broad back and strong shoulders, dotted with ports, flexing as he undresses—

“I am not unawares. You may enter.”

His voice passes over your mind like a caress. You hadn’t even noticed Mephiston had been monitoring your thoughts until your body rattles with the rumble of his voice. You try to smother your previous thoughts, ashamed of what Mephiston will find if he tries to dig deeper.

“I don’t mind.”

As the door to his chambers slides open, you can’t help but wonder if he sounds…amused?

The stained-glass window of Sanguinius triumphing over a Chaos demon shines a red-gold light into the room, and the curtains are parted to give it the full effect. When the light falls on the bed, you struggle not to see the tableau as romantic.

Especially not when Mephiston enters your field of view, wearing nothing more than a loose robe, his hair wet from the baths and smelling of fragrant herbs. You immediately take a knee, partially out of respect and partially to avert your gaze from his muscular body, still dripping with water.

“Please,” and despite pausing to clear his throat, Mephiston isn’t able to get rid of the gravel that rattles your bones, “do not kneel before me in such a private setting.” He reaches a hand down, lifting you as easily as he would a cluster of grapes.

“Yes, my Lord,” you whimper, not wanting Mephiston to remove his hand from around your waist. Throne, he can wrap his hand index finger to thumb around you.

Does Mephiston feel your heartbeat picking up speed? Does he feel your lungs scrabbling for air? Your ribs creaking beneath his thumb?

He holds you for longer than he perhaps should, cocking his head to one side. His thumb strokes against your side, gently pressing into your ribcage.

“Lord…?” You whisper. It seems to snap Mephiston out of his trance, and he finally lets you go; though his hand lingers on your hip before slipping away.

“Your belongings have been moved,” he rasps, “check that everything is in order and put them away to your liking before tending to me.” His tongue darts out to lick his lips and your eyes narrow on the streak of wetness it leaves behind on his thin lips. Turning away, Mephiston settles himself at a desk to look over some scrolls, but the shifting fabric of his robe indicates his shoulders are shivering.

It’s a frightening sight to see. A Space Marine, the Chief Librarian, brought to his knees by his baseline companion? Do you really have that kind of power over him? As the thought marinates in your mind, you hurry over to where your belongings have been stacked neatly and unobtrusively in one corner.

Taking the study packet out, you place it with your belongings. “I received a copy of the baseline companion study from Brother Caphriel, Lord.”

“Oh?” The shuffling of scrolls ceases. “Did you find it enlightening?” Your ears strain, but Mephiston’s voice is annoyingly level.

“Yes, indeed. If I may be self-centered, my Lord, I did not consider my position in the Arx Angelicum to be so necessary.” Your shoulders prickle with the sound of Mephiston’s snort.

“Not self-centered, but self-deprecating. There are only so many Space Marines in the Imperium; we cannot concern ourselves with the daily obligations of a fortress-monastery. The study merely shows that emotional support is another obligation.”

You fail to stifle the gasp in your throat. “It is not an obligation, Lord. We…I am happy to be your companion.”

“Are you?”

You turn back to Mephiston sitting at his desk. The scrolls are pushed to one side and he is turned in his chair to face you. The candles dotting the desk give a dim, golden light to Mephiston’s hair and his sudden resemblance to his genefather is striking.

But his fine lips are permanently pulled downwards, and the shadows under his eyes are not the fault of the candlelight. You feel the gentle caress on your mind again and you simply allow Mephiston to see himself the way you see him.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and silently, Mephiston raises one arm, beckoning you to his side. You need no other bidding; scrambling to your feet without even shutting the drawer and hurrying across the room. Mephiston’s hand finds a place around your waist, thumb underneath your ribs, and pulls you into him so his nose nestles into your collarbone.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, untangling the knots left over from his bath. When you kiss the top of his head, you hear a deep rumble emanating somewhere from underneath Mephiston’s sternum. It vibrates your entire body and your toes curl in your shoes.

He’s warm, and whatever salt scrub he used in the bath makes his skin soft. You can’t help but wonder if Mephiston took a bath in preparation for you staying in his bed.

Hot breath cascades over your neck from Mephiston’s chuckling. “Don’t tell Lord Dante that he was correct, or I will never hear the end of it.”

“Would you have chosen a companion even without his prodding?” You inquire. Beneath Mephiston’s purring, you hear him hum in affirmation.

“I merely wished for more time with my choice.”

“Are you happy with your choice?” You try to keep the hopefulness out of your voice, but you still crack on “happy.”

Mephiston slowly lifts his head so his nose brushes against your neck. He holds there for a moment, breathing deeply of your scent. His tongue strokes your jugular vein, groaning softly when your heartbeat jumps. The rumbling in his chest has only increased in volume.

His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you into his lap. Your hands grip the lapels of his robe, pulling on it hard enough to loosen it, revealing the hard muscles and softly-glowing ports underneath.

You feel…something nudging at the underside of your thigh.

Mephiston pulls away from your neck, but he does not pull back from you. His nose continues sliding up your neck and jaw until his cheek brushes yours.

“Yes.”

You brace yourself for Mephiston’s kiss, but it is unneeded. His lips nip on yours, letting his tongue slip between them to make his kisses soft and slick. Your hands slide under his robe, occasionally brushing against his ports until your palms press against his nipples. Mephiston’s moan interrupts his purring, but it vibrates your body all the same.

His fangs poke your lower lip as he pulls away, but no blood is drawn. Mephiston’s hands slide from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer up on his lap so his erection sits firmly between your asscheeks.

“I cannot describe to you the elation I felt when I touched your mind and found it full of thoughts of me,” he whispers. You try to tuck your head to avoid his gaze, but Mephiston grabs your chin with your forefinger and thumb. “When you knelt before me, I had to fight the urge to push you on the ground and ravage you.”

A squeak leaves your throat, and his lips curve upwards, revealing his fangs. It would feel threatening if not for your hands on Mephiston’s chest, feeling his thudding heartbeat. Testing a theory, you grind back on his cock and relish in his shuddering moan. The blue lights in his ports flicker and his eyes flutter closed.

“Why didn’t you?” Your voice is barely a whisper above Mephiston’s purring. His eyes open.

“I am…aware of my size,” and to add emphasis, he grasps your ass tightly and grinds tightly on you, allowing you to feel the length and girth of his clothed cock. Though you cannot see it, you estimate Mephiston’s cock to be nearly the size of your forearm. “I do not want to break you on your first night in my quarters.”

Mephiston scoops you up with ease, holding you against his chest as he carries you over to his bed. You scramble to wrap your arms around his neck, your ear pressed against his chest so his rumbling voice shakes your body. “I, too, have read the study—thoroughly. I paid close attention to how my fellow Space Marines cared for their baseline companions.”

He lays you down so your upper half is on the bed while your lower half is wrapped around his waist. Mephiston’s bulge slides between your thighs, curving upwards towards your bellybutton. The fabric of his robe darkens near the tip of his cock.

“Look at how deep I will be inside you,” he growls.

Held in place by Mephiston’s hands, you watch breathlessly as he thrusts his cock between your thighs. Your hips shudder against his, starting to grind in time with his thrusting. The fabric around his cock slips away until Mephiston’s cock is bare to your wide eyes.

“Dear Throne,” you whisper. Your earlier estimation of his length was correct, though Mephiston is thicker than you expected him to be. Pulsating veins spiral up the shaft, reaching towards the bright red head, glistening with precum.

Your eyes only get wider as they travel down Mephiston’s cock to his knot. While he’s not fully swollen, his knot is almost as red as the head of his cock. It throbs in time to his heartbeat, and Mephiston shifts so his knot presses against your clothed pussy.

“Do you like it?” For all his lust, Mephiston almost sounds shy. He cannot meet your eyes when you look up at him, instead directing his gaze to where your hands grasp at the bedsheets.

“Every inch of you is exquisite,” you whimper. Releasing the sheets from your iron grip, you reach up for Mephiston and he leans down to you, hand cupping the back of your head to pull his face towards his.

Your lips crush together in a symphony of muffled moaning. Mephiston’s cock slips out from between your thighs and presses against your stomach, wetting your uniform with precum. Where it seeps through your attire, it feels hot against your skin. Mephiston continues grinding on your stomach, huffing into your mouth. His eyelashes brush your cheeks, leaving tingling in their wake.

Mephiston pulls away. “I need to see you naked,” he pants, his fangs extended from his kiss-swollen lips. “Give me your hands.” Obediently, you place your hands over your head and Mephiston holds you by your wrists before closing his eyes and focusing until a pale blue light emanates from beneath his closed eyelids.

Something slides under your uniform, pressing against your chest and rubbing your belly. It’s firm and warm, and large. Your breath hitches as it skitters over your ribcage, seeking the ties of your robes. Mephiston’s face doesn’t give any indication of what he’s doing, though when the invisible hand pulls the tie of your robes, he lets out a soft moan.

It’s almost a shame that his eyes are closed when your robes fall open. The invisible hand parts them so your naked body is sprawled on Mephiston’s bed, held into place by his hands on your wrists and his thighs bracketing your hips. He squeezes his thighs against your hips when you try to grind on him again.

“Lord,” you whine, but Mephiston does not respond—at least, not verbally. The fingers of the invisible hand pinches one of your nipples hard, making you squeal.

“Hush,” he grumbles. The glow under his eyelids briefly shines brighter and a second invisible hand presses on your body, cupping your hip. While the first hand moves to your other nipple, the second hand slides down to the apex of your thighs where you’re dripping from his attention.

One invisible finger splits your pussy lips, rubbing your quivering slit. “You’re so wet,” Mephiston whispers in a shuddering voice, almost incredulously. “Is this all for me?”

“Only for you,” you whisper rapturously, and Mephiston moans softly. His cock is a brand where it rests on your thigh, drooling precum that mixes with your juices on the bed in a glistening puddle. An invisible index and ring finger spread your pussy lips before a middle finger slides inside.

These invisible hands are the size of Mephiston’s physical hands; you can even feel his heartbeat through the middle finger pumping in and out of your pussy. It beats in time with his cock, with his knot; and it skips a beat when your pussy lips flutter and gush.

The palm of the hand tilts upwards and you cry out as it rubs your swollen clit. Instead of losing his concentration, Mephiston almost puts too much force into his psychic hands and you whine when his finger roughly jabs your soft walls. But he reigns it in, and the pad of his finger soothingly rubs the spot where he jabbed.

“I can’t last…much…” you whimper, your clit throbbing. Looking down at your pussy, it’s a little jarring to watch your pussy quiver and spread for an invisible finger fucking you to orgasm.

Instead of speaking, a warm caress settles in your mind. “Good. I will not wait for you much longer.” Even when speaking in your mind, Mephiston’s voice is rough with lust and he sounds out of breath. “Cum for me.”

The invisible hand slams into your cunt so the middle finger is plunged deep inside, the palm groping your clit. Pulsing, tensing, arching, your mouth opens in a silent scream and white spots dance across your vision. The sound of your wet gushing is overridden by Mephiston’s moaning in your own mind. To his credit, he does not dispel his invisible hands immediately after you cum, and continues fingering you through your orgasm.

“Good pet,” he whispers, finally opening his eyes to gaze upon your wet and disheveled form. The invisible hands disappear from your body as Mephiston’s physical hands let go of your wrists and travel your heaving body to wrap around your hips and hoist you into his lap. “Now, it is my turn.”

Your mind blinks into consciousness as the bulbous head of Mephiston’s cock nudges your pussy. He grinds on you again, letting your juices wet his shaft and knot and sending little shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body.

“Would you give me your knot, Lord?” You whimper, digging your fingers into the meat of his shoulders. Mephiston’s mouth hangs open, fangs exposed.

Taking the advantage, you press onwards. “Would you knot me? Fill me with your seed and plug me up? I don’t want a drop to leak out.” Rolling your hips, you let the head catch on your slit and push down—

—Until it pops inside.

You and Mephiston moan in tandem; with his eyes open, you are treated to the sight of Mephiston’s eyes briefly overwhelmed with the blue glow of his psyker powers. The head of his cock carves a path for the rest of his shaft until you feel it prodding the head of your womb. Your stomach feels heavy where his cock stretches you open, and looking down, the sight of your belly bulging is almost…obscene.

And then Mephiston moves.

The bulge slowly withdraws before pushing back up, the indent of his cockhead appearing just under the skin of your belly. His knot doesn’t fit in you yet, but Mephiston makes good use of grinding it against your pussy lips and short-circuiting your brain. Your body spasms in his lap, fingers dragging down his shoulders until they grip his biceps.

“All this talk about wanting my knot,” Mephiston huffs, shoving his knot against your clit and savoring your scream of ecstasy, “and yet it won’t fit in your tight little pussy?”

With one hand, he wraps it around your waist so his thumb presses against the bulge his cock makes in your stomach. “My cock won’t even fit in you, and you want my knot?” Despite the grin on Mephiston’s face, he gulps for air and each time he lowers you onto his knot, you feel his stomach shuddering.

His other hand grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “I asked you a question, pet. You want my knot?”

“Yes!” Tears leak from the corners of your eyes. “Please, I need your knot, Lord!”

The bulge in your belly distends further as your body relents to the superior strength of a Space Marine, and you gush all over Mephiston’s knot as it finally shoves inside you. With his entire cock fitted inside of you, your womb is likewise forced open by Mephiston’s cockhead and it sits there snugly, like he belongs inside of you.

He lets go of your face, stroking your cheek as he does. “I didn’t think you could,” Mephiston huffs, nuzzling your neck. “I haven’t fit in a baseline before.”

“Does it feel good?” Your stomach clenches around his cock and you both shiver.

“I never want to take you off my cock.” As though to demonstrate, Mephiston lays back on his bed, bending his knees to support you on his thighs. With your head resting on his chest, you hear Mephiston purring again. If not for his cock and knot lodged in your pussy, you might be tempted to fall asleep here.

“Do not fall asleep on me,” Mephiston warns in a breathless chuckle, his breath stirring your hair. He grinds into you, letting his full balls rub on your asscheeks. “You begged to be seeded, and I need to be drained.”

You push yourself up on your elbows, anchoring yourself on Mephiston’s chest. “Then let us fulfill each other, Lord.”

The glow in his eyes flashes again and Mephiston grasps your ass to spread the cheeks. “Oh, you are the only one going to be filled, pet.” You have but a second to brace yourself before he thrusts upwards, popping his knot in and out of your pussy with a lewd, wet noise.

There’s just enough squeeze when Mephiston shoves it back in to make you squeal, bouncing on his knot. Your womb has opened for him and when Mephiston pulls you back down on his knot, nearly half of his cock is pushed inside of your womb. His hands pull your thighs apart so he can watch you bounce on his knot.

“What a blessed sight,” Mephiston groans, running on hand over the bulge he makes in your stomach. “Would you like to see yourself through my eyes?”

You barely manage a wibbly, whimpery “yes!” before Mephiston’s eyes are overcome with their blue glow. He holds you still on his cock, knot throbbing just inside your pussy lips. He needs to take a few deep breaths to focus, and instead of the usual touch on your mind, you feel as though someone has taken your head in two hands.

The sight of Mephiston beneath you, white hair fanned around his head like a halo, begins to blur. You try blinking multiple times to clear the image, desperate to watch his face shift with ecstasy and pleasure, but the next time you blink—

You’re looking at yourself, astride Mephiston’s lap with your stomach bulged from his cock. From this angle, you have a perfect view of your pussy stuffed with his knot, the lips forced apart and swollen from being plugged over and over again. It’s also the perfect view to watch Mephiston’s cock throbbing in your womb, as your stomach twitches slightly each time he throbs.

In a truly commendable display of his psyker powers, Mephiston maintains the mental link with you as he lifts you from his cock, just enough that the bulge in your stomach disappears. “Please, Lord, please, please, please,” you beg, watching through Mephiston’s eyes as you uselessly gyrate on his cock. “I’m so close, I just need it!”

“Are you sure, pet? If you’re close, then you should be able to finish without me.” Mephiston’s fingers dig into the soft meat of your thighs, holding you just at the tip of his cock. His powers are beginning to slip and you briefly return to your own mind to watch sweat beading on his forehead, glowing slightly from his eyes.

“No, I need it! I need your cock!” Your fingers scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in their wake that quickly fade. As if your bright red face wasn’t pathetic enough, tears start rolling down your cheeks. “Please let me cum on your knot!”

Maybe it’s your tears, your begging, or his own need for release, but Mephiston smiles with all his fangs. “I want to hear my name when you cum,” he rumbles, at last slamming you on his knot and returning you to your own mind.

You have at least the presence of mind to answer his request, “Mephiston!” before your thoughts are scrambled by your second orgasm, cumming and convulsing on his knot. A wetness pools under your thighs, and the viscosity indicates that it’s not just your juices.

“I will give you what you want,” Mephiston growls, beginning to pound you up and down his cock like a plastic sleeve for his own pleasure. “I will give you every single drop!” His knot is lodged in your pussy, too swollen to be removed as his cock prepares your womb for his seed. You can do little more than let your mouth hang open and your eyes roll back.

“I will—” Mephiston’s voice cuts off on a throaty grunt as his swollen knot forces him to stop thrusting, holding his cock deep into your womb. His cock throbs twice before his balls heave and begin unloading his cum inside of you. The first splash of Mephiston’s cum hits your womb, filling you with warmth.

With his knot keeping everything plugged, the second and third blasts are quickly filling your womb. “How much…?” You whisper, putting one hand on your belly to feel it swelling.

“Did I not say?” Mephiston pants, “I haven’t fit in a baseline before. I am eager to see how you are filled with my seed.” He grins again, watching your belly bloating with his cock and cum.

“I feel heavy,” you moan. Your womb is stuffed, and it sloshes with cum when you try to move—not that you can go anywhere, with Mephiston keeping your thighs in a viselike grip. Your belly continues to distend with the emptying of Mephiston’s balls, and you lower yourself on Mephiston’s chest to rest again.

His knot softens enough to pull out, and he does—slowly, moving you so your back is resting against his chest. Once Mephiston’s cock withdraws from you, fully, he tilts your head towards his face.

“Are you still with me?” You make a “mmmphhh” sound in response. Mephiston chuckles, kissing your forehead. “Perhaps we should next test the emotional support of a Space Marine towards their baseline."

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