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unwrittenlibrary · 2 months ago

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Love of Choice | Azriel x reader

Summary: The Cauldron doesn’t alway pick wisely when it comes to mates, but even though Azriel isn’t hers, she chooses him.

A/N: Jeez almost made myself cry writing this one (in a good way). I was so close to ending this with heartbreak, but you guys know I’m a sucker for happy endings lol. Please do let me know what you think! I love love love reading your comments ✨🫶

Word count: 5457

Warnings: talk of past abusive relationship and violence, angst (w/ happy ending), all the feels … it’s a bit sappy ngl

Fear is a funny thing. It is such a basic emotion to feel, yet somehow—if felt for long enough—it becomes a part of oneself. A detail so deeply engrained into the very essence of the being that you eventually learn to live with it. A constant companion. Sure, you’ll forget about it when things run smoothly, but whenever it comes back to crack the surface, your heart will sink for just a second with a horrific sense of realization.

For Y/N, that sinking feeling always came in the form of a simple question.

“So, since when have you and Azriel been mated, then?”

Feyre’s smile was honest, if a bit cautious. She was still adapting to life at the Night Court, though she looked healthier than she had upon her arrival. The bones no longer protruded from her clavicle, and she warmed to the presence of the inner circle a little more with each passing day.

From the corner of her eye, Y/N could see Cassian snap his attention to the glass in his hand. The laugh that had previously fallen freely from his lips due to a drunken patron at Rita’s had ebbed away quickly. He knew of the tension that flowed into each of Y/N’s muscles at Feyre’s question, though she did her best not to show it.

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Azriel and I aren’t mates,” she said, her tongue heavy as she formed the words she’d had to speak to herself over and over again to accept them as the truth.

Feyre seemed surprised. “Oh? I never would’ve guessed. You two seem so … in sync.” She hesitated, and Y/N could see the question in her eyes. “Do you think the bond just hasn’t snapped yet? I’m sorry if that’s overstepping a line, you don’t have to answer, of course,” she added quickly, a faint touch of red tinting her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind,” Y/N said, her smile gaining in warmth at the newly turned faerie before her. Despite all the things Feyre had had to endure Under the Mountain, she was still so … curious. So new. “My mate died centuries ago. That’s how I know it cannot be Azriel.”

“Gods, I’m so sorry.” Feyre looked truly grief-stricken at the thought. “I can’t imagine how terrible it must have been to lose your mate.”

It was Cassian who snorted into the brief silence that followed Feyre’s words. “Good riddance,” he muttered before downing the rest of his drink.

Y/N tilted her head as she observed the uncomprehending look on Feyre’s face at Cassian’s unsubtle words, and she wondered what Feyre had been told about the mating bond.

“Mates aren’t always chosen wisely, Feyre,” Y/N spoke. “Sometimes the matches are … unfortunate. I don’t know what Tamlin told you about it,” her voice became cautious at the mention of the High Lord of Spring, “but accepting the mating bond is not compulsory. Sometimes the Cauldron—wise as it is—chooses wrong.”

Feyre seemed to cling to every word she spoke, her eyes wide. “What happens if you refuse the bond?”

Y/N forced the air from her lungs in a deep exhale, signalling Rita for a refill of her drink. “Well, it depends. Seeing as the female is usually the one who must accept the bond, she’s also the one who can reject it. There are very, very few instances in which a male refused a mate.”

“And the few we know of have not been pretty,” Cass added, picking apart a napkin with rough fingers. “No matter who rejects it, the other one usually goes mad with grief. Our nature’s fun like that,” he added with a wink and a half-hearted grin.

Feyre blinked a few times before looking at Y/N with a mixture of hesitation and curiosity, though it seemed the latter won the upper hand.

“So, I take it you were the one to reject your bond?”

Y/N grinned at that, though her insides were churning. “Do I not look mad to you?”

Feyre gave a sheepish smile. “Not particularly, no.”

Y/N sighed, and her grin died as fast as it had appeared. “I did reject it. He wasn’t very nice.”

Cass snorted again. “Understatement of the year.” A frown took over his features, making him look every bit as deathly as he was. “The cruel bastard.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s the only way of putting it.”

Feyre’s eyes darted from one to the other, and Y/N could see the question arise within them before she so much as formed the words.

“What did he—”

“I’m gonna go get a refill,” Cassian announced. He stood to head for the bar before Feyre could finish her sentence, and Y/N recognised it for the exit strategy that it was. Contrary to what one might have expected given his title, Cassian had never particularly enjoyed hearing tales of cruelty and suffering. Especially not when it came to the people he loved.

Y/N cleared her throat, and Feyre’s expression grew wary, her voice barely above a whisper when she spoke. “You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s fine,” Y/n said. “You’re one of us now. You deserve to know who we are.” She hesitated, then sought out Feyre’s gaze. “Rhys told you about what happened to Mor?”

A barely-there flinch ran through Feyre at the mention of Mor’s ordeal. She gave a single nod, and Y/N lifted a shoulder.

“My family doesn’t stem from the Hewn City, but our customs were pretty much the same. They planned to marry me off to the highest bidder, and when he turned out to be my mate as well, they saw an opportunity to squeeze him for the last of his riches. A mate—especially a male one—would do anything, give anything for the bond.” She hesitated. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t smart enough to get myself out of it … not like Mor did. I thought I’d got lucky, given that I’d be married off to my mate.”

Y/N tugged on the cuff of her dress. “I lived with him for a while, but it didn’t take very long to realise my mistake and I thank the Gods every day that I hadn’t yet accepted the bond.”

“Why hadn’t you?” Feyre asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

Y/N shrugged. “Intuition? It was during the war with Hybern, right after we’d freed our human slaves, and I told him I wanted to wait with the ceremony till the war was over. But even during the few good weeks we had, something always felt … off.” She cleared her throat again, her mouth suddenly dry. “Well, like I said, it only took a few weeks to realise my mistake. They don’t value women a lot, you see. The other High Lords, I mean. Never have. Except for breeding purposes, of course.” Bitterness twisted her mouth into a frown. “I’ll spare you the details, but it wasn’t … well, it wasn’t pretty.”

“Wait, you … you were married to a High Lord?”

“Well, not quite.” Y/N tilted her head. She’d assumed Rhys had told her this much at least. “To an heir. Nuvian. The heir of Spring.”

She could see the colour draining from Feyre’s face. “You were married to … to …”

“Tamlin’s eldest brother, yes.”

Feyre swallowed heavily, and Y/N observed her for a moment. She knew of the bond between Feyre and Rhys, of course. It was hard to miss. Or at least it was hard to miss for someone who’d spent her life resenting one bond and longing for another. She’d gotten very sensitive when it came to the detection of mating bonds. Only Feyre didn’t know it yet, of course.

She briefly wondered whether she should tell her, but soon concluded that it wasn’t her place to interfere.

“And he—” Feyre broke off, shaking her head at the direction her thoughts had taken. “I always got the impression Tamlin was raised to … to respect.”

“Tamlin’s family values wives for their roles as wives. They’re supposed to be silent and pretty to look at and pop out a few heirs while they’re at it.” Y/N hesitated when she recalled that Feyre did once love the High Lord of Spring, and, softening her tone, she added. “I don’t know Tamlin very well. I believe you when you say he’s not like that.”

An emotion flickered across Feyre’s face—one Y/N couldn’t quite place. It was gone faster than it had appeared.

“So, you lived at the Spring Court? And you never accepted the bond?”

Y/N sighed, leaning back in her chair. “No. Never. He didn’t seem to care much at first. I mean, he got most of what he wanted from me even without a bond. Save for the heir of course—I made sure of that.”

“What do you mean?”

Y/N felt her jaw clench for a fleeting moment. “There are tonics even someone without much knowledge of herbs can brew. Over my dead body would I have bound myself to him with yet another chain.”

Feyre hesitated. “And what happened then?”

Y/N felt every muscle, every tense edge of her face soften as a sense of calm washed over her. “Then I met Azriel.”

Feyre was surprised. “Already?”

She nodded. “Rhys and Tamlin were friends back then. I’m sure he told you?” When Feyre nodded, Y/N continued. “Rhys visited the Spring Court a couple times. We didn’t know each other then, but I missed my home, and so I befriended him. He reminded me of the Night Court, and I felt a little better when I talked to him. He brought me little trinkets from Velaris, things you could only get in the Night Court … and then one time, he brought Azriel along. I think it was for spying purposes, but Gods…” Y/N shook her head softly, mesmerised as she allowed herself to sink deep into the memory. “I fell hard, and I fell fast, and I’ve loved him ever since.”

“Was he the reason you left Nuvian?” Feyre asked quietly, and the memory that had just warmed Y/N’s veins turned ice cold.

“One does not simply leave the Heir of the Spring Court,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “Nuvian noticed of course, he was bound to. He detected a scent he didn’t know, said I … tasted different.” She grimaced. “He didn’t know it was Azriel. He suspected Rhys, and so he— … he began to whisper, to scheme and manipulate his father into thinking Rhys would be a threat to his throne.”

Nausea twisted her stomach into a knot, and for the first time since knowing her, she didn’t dare meet Feyre’s eye. She didn’t have to. She knew that Rhys had told her this part.

“By the Mother,” Feyre breathed.

Y/N cleared her throat, desperately attempting to swallow the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. “Tamlin’s father slaughtered Rhys’ family, and it was all because of Nuvian’s jealousy. It was all because of me.”

Cassian chose that moment to reappear, bearing a beer glass he’d already half-emptied only to set it down on the table much harder than necessary.

“Stop talking like that,” he said gruffly, though the gentle hand that appeared on her back counteracted his harsh tone. “It wasn’t your fault. Tam’s old man would’ve come for Rhys even without your involvement.”

She offered a wobbly smile. She knew he truly believed his words—all of them did. Rhys had never once blamed her for what had happened. But she knew the truth, even if neither one of them wanted to see it.

Silence stretched on for a long while, only the soft murmur of a lazy crowd of patrons buzzing in the background of Rita’s pub. She felt a gentle brush of air on her ankle, goosebumps arising on the back of her neck.

It was Feyre who spoke first. “So that’s how it ended? Rhys and his father killed Nuvian along with his family, and you were free to go back to the Night Court?”

“Oh, Rhys didn’t kill the bastard,” Cass said, and Y/N smiled at the shadow curling over her hand.

Feyre looked confused now. “Then who killed him?”

“I did,” a low voice hummed from somewhere behind them—a voice deep as the night and smooth as shadow, and Y/N felt her heart pick up its pace as though on cue.

From the way Feyre’s eyes focused on something behind her, Y/N could tell that Azriel had emerged from his shadows, and sure enough, two broad palms appeared on her shoulders, heavy with comfort and warmth.

“Azriel,” Feyre said, her eyes briefly flickering to Y/N as though to make sure the topic was still okay to talk about, even with Azriel present. “You went with Rhys that night?”

Y/N lay her head back to look up at Azriel and watched as he inclined his head in confirmation.

When he caught her gaze, his eyes softened, and she felt his thumb brush against the side of her neck affectionately.

“Will you give us a moment, my love?” she asked softly, her hand coming up to find one of his, the pads of her fingers brushing over raised scar tissue. She knew he’d come to take her home. “I will be out in a moment.”

“Of course,” he said, and Y/N caught a flicker of concern in the depth of his eyes—one he always got whenever she dwelt on the past. He squeezed her shoulders, offering a polite smile to Feyre, and then vanished into the shadows once again.

Cassian was quick to rise from his chair as well. “I’ll go keep him company,” he proclaimed. “Would be a shame to have him freeze his balls off all by himself.”

Y/N snorted. “And you call yourself Illyrian.”

She hid a grin as Cassian gave her the finger before steering towards the door, half-empty glass in hand.

Y/N exhaled deeply, but she could see from the look in Feyre’s eyes that something was still nagging her. Tilting her head, she asked, “What is it?”

Feyre hesitated. She opened her mouth, then clapped it shut before opening it once again.

“It’s just,” she began. “The mating bond. It’s supposed to be this amazing, beautiful thing, and hearing that it was such agony for you, it’s … well, it’s a reality check I suppose.”

Y/N’s face softened as she sought out Feyre’s hands on the tabletop. “Most times, it is beautiful,” she said. “It’s just dangerous to romanticise it, as it is dangerous to romanticise literally anything else in life. It is important to remember that you have a choice. You can choose to reject it just as well as you can choose to embrace it. And if the latter, I’m sure that— … whoever you end up with shall be worthy of your love.”

Gods, she’d been this close to letting it slip. But luckily, Feyre was still distracted.

“But you and Azriel—” Feyre broke off, collected her thoughts, then opened her mouth again. “I truly don’t mean to pry, but while I was with Tamlin, I kept waiting … I kept thinking the bond would snap any day now. And when it didn’t, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he and I … that we—”

“That you weren’t meant to be,” Y/N finished for her, ignoring that sharp twist in her gut—that fear she’d now been carrying for centuries raising its ugly head. She nodded, searching for the right words before she opened her mouth. “I’m very sure of Azriel’s love for me, and yet every night before I fall asleep, there’s a part of me that fears that the next day will be the day that he finds his true mate. I dread the day his bond snaps in place because I know he’ll want to fight it. He’ll do anything in his might to fight it, and he’ll be torn between his love for me and every instinct telling him to love someone else. I dread it because that’s not what I want for him.”

She swallowed thickly. “I had my mate, and I’m glad he’s dead. Azriel carved him up, and I did not shed a single tear. I rejected the bond, and I chose to spend my life with Azriel instead. I choose him every single day, and even if one day it’ll end, I’ll know that it was real. No Cauldron, no Mother, no Gods. I love him, and he loves me, and we chose each other, bond or not.”

Tears were lining Feyre’s eyes as she stared at her, and Y/N smiled, tilting her head. “You’re still new to this, Feyre,” she spoke softly. “Unfortunately, when you live an immortal life, things are bound to get unfathomably hard at one point or another. But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to have a say in your own future.”

It was just a short while later that Y/N revelled in the starlight as she walked along the Sidra, her arm looped through Azriel’s, her head leaning against his shoulder. She’d always loved the night.

Cassian had taken off with Feyre earlier, flying her back to the House of Wind, but Y/N and Azriel had decided to walk to the home they shared by the river.

“My love,” Azriel spoke softly into the silence, his steps halting as he turned to face her fully.

She smiled as she looked up at him, at the starlight reflecting in his eyes, the dark strands of hair swallowed by the shadows of night. “What is it?”

She felt his palms on her cheeks, his warmth seeping into her skin, and when he kissed her, she felt the tingle right down to her toes.

“I love you,” he breathed when he broke the kiss, his face still close enough for her to feel the puff of his words wash over her skin. “I love you more than words can say. And I choose you, too.”

Her smile turned watery then, though she tried to play it off.

“Eavesdropping now, are we?”

“Marry me.”

Her heart stuttered to a stop at his words, her breathing suddenly laboured. “Azriel—”

“No, wait,” he said, his thumb brushing against her lower lip in a gentle request. “I know we’ve talked about it before, and I know you have this notion of me suddenly finding my mate and then being bound to you when I’d rather be with them. But that’s not going to happen.”

She swallowed thickly, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke, for fear it could break entirely. “You don’t know that.”

“But I do.” Conviction lay in Azriel’s words, his eyes searching hers. “You said it yourself. We choose each other every day and we have for centuries now. The bond is rare to begin with, but what makes you think you’d be second choice if it ever came to the possibility of mine snapping in place?”

She was thankful for the thumb he smoothed across her cheek, catching a stray tear.

“You don’t know the power of a mating bond, Az. There’s no way you can be sure.”

He considered her for a moment. “Maybe not. But you told Feyre that we get to decide for ourselves. We don’t need to rely on the Cauldron. I get to choose, and I choose you.”

She felt her lip wobble.

“I choose you,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re my mate in every way that counts. Marry me.”

The day Azriel’s bond snapped in place was a few months after the second war with Hybern.

Solstice was nearing, and Rhys had invited representatives from every Court to celebrate early. Well, almost every court. He’d skipped Spring and Autumn.

The banquet hall in the House of Wind had been decorated for the occasion, artful ice crystals mixing in with dark fabrics and millions of tiny diamonds forming the illusion of a rich night sky.

It was in the middle of the main course that Azriel felt a sharp tug in his chest, a flinch running through him at the sensation.

To his left, Y/N threw a worried glance at him.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her hand seeking out his, the diamond on her finger catching the light of the chandelier. Azriel thought of the day they’d stood before their friends, exchanging rings, vows, promises. It all seemed years away now, though it had only been months.

“Yes, I …” Azriel broke off, clearing his throat. “Excuse me for a moment, my love.”

He didn’t bother getting up from the table, but rather vanished into his shadows only to find himself in the comfort of his room seconds later.

Something felt … off.

He’d heard of heart attacks before, had even witnessed a few during the time he’d spent spying in the human realm, but he knew that that couldn’t be what was happening to him. Faeries didn’t get heart attacks. Short from a blade to the gut, there wasn’t much that could kill them.

Poison entered his mind. Poison was possible. Or a cold. Perhaps a bruise from his last training with Cass. Or an old war injury.

Anything. He was racking his brain, desperately searching for an explanation other than the obvious.

A new wave of warmth crashed into him, and Azriel gritted his teeth when a gentle knock on the door had him flinch.

Usually, he sensed anyone approaching within a mile thanks to his shadows.

“Az,” Y/N said as she entered the room, closing the door behind her. Gods, he loved the dress she wore tonight, the delicate earrings he’d gifted her years back. He tried to focus on them with all his might. “Are you sure you’re okay? You looked … spooked when you left.”

“Yes, I’m—” Azriel broke off and flinched when the sharp sensation reappeared, instinctively lifting a hand to his chest.

It seemed that gesture alone was enough for her to realise, and Y/N’s face fell as though drained entirely from energy.

Suddenly, silence lay heavy between them, thick as mud and unbearable in its duration.

“It’s your bond,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her expression almost numb. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” Azriel said, forcing the sensation back down and ignoring the rising panic threatening to clog up his throat. “No, it’s not.”

“Azriel—”

“No.”

Silence settled once again, and Azriel wanted to throw up at the distance she kept as though she had no right to step closer. As though she wasn’t the one who was supposed to be here right now.

He took the step instead, lifting his palm to her face, but before he could touch her, the sting in his chest intensified and Azriel huffed as he clenched his fist mid-air.

Her eyes softened, but the sorrow they held almost broke him.

“Azriel,” she spoke softly, quietly. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“You’re suppressing it,” she said. “Allow it to snap in place.”

“No,” Azriel gritted through his teeth. He didn’t want this, and the fact that she looked like her worst fear had just manifested right before her eyes didn’t make it any easier. She made it seem final. She made it seem like she’d already given up hope.

“The longer you suppress it, the stronger it’ll get.”

“You just made that up.”

She smiled weakly. “Maybe.”

Azriel’s eyes watered. “I don’t want it.”

“That’s okay, baby,” she breathed, finally stepping closer, lifting her own hand to his chest. “Letting it snap in place doesn’t make it final. You can find out who you’re bonded to and decide then.”

“I have decided.”

No part of her seemed convinced at that, but she let it go without comment.

“Let it snap,” she urged instead. “You won’t be able to fight it forever.”

Azriel’s hands shot to her face, his grip a bit firmer than he intended as he held her cheeks in his palms.

“Listen to me,” he ground out, the pressure in his chest intensifying. “Stop talking like that. Stop talking like this is the end. I have decided. I. Choose. You.”

She looked at him for a long while—so long that he thought his chest might burst into flames if she kept it up much longer. Finally, her gaze snapped to the ring on the hand that still lay on his chest, and she nodded.

“I know,” she breathed, fixing her eyes back on him. “I know, Az.”

Azriel exhaled as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and with his hands still on the one he loved, he carefully loosened the restraints he’d kept on the throbbing heat in his chest.

At once, it burst free, and Azriel stumbled a step back, his hands falling from her cheeks as though they’d been burned. Tension ran from the top of his head right down to his toes, and he felt it then—glowing deep within him, golden and hot, pulsing with energy, tethering him to … he didn’t know to whom, but the feeling was breath-taking. It was all-consuming, clouding his mind and numbing his senses as every bit of his focus turned inwards in an attempt to peer to the other side of that line. The side that still lay in darkness.

Her voice was the only thing that penetrated the fog in his head.

“Can you feel her yet?” she asked, her voice cracking at the end, and Azriel knew that he hadn’t controlled the mesmerisation he’d felt just then. He’d let it all show on his face bright as day for her to see.

He hesitated. “No.”

“Tug on it.”

He wanted to fight it, to refuse, but the sudden need to find out was overwhelming. It seemed like he no longer was in control, like his body was working against his mind, and so he did as she said.

It took a few tries. He never would have imagined it to feel like this, but when he finally managed to grasp the invisible thread within him, he gave a tentative tug. When that didn’t work, he gave a harder tug, and from one moment to the next, his heart stuttered to a stop.

Because standing before him, in the room he’d called his home for many years, was the one he loved. And as his eyes tracked the absent-minded look on her face, he noted her hand rubbing at a spot just beneath her left clavicle. She didn’t even seem to realise she was doing it.

He stared at her, and as he stared, he forced himself not to hope, because surely it was impossible. Unheard of. Otherworldly.

Azriel gripped that thread within him, and he tugged, and as he tugged, he flooded it with everything he felt for her, every bit of love he had to offer.

His knees weakened when she flinched, confusion on her face.

“What—”

“Look at me,” he interrupted her, placing his hands on her shoulders this time, his eyes boring into hers. He gave another tug, and he could see it then—see the realisation flicker deep within her eyes, the eyes that now flooded with unshed tears.

“What are you doing, I—”

Suddenly, a sense of calm overcame Azriel, and it seemed time slowed to a grinding stop. He saw her eyes then, the eyes he’d lost himself in right upon their first encounter in the Spring Court. The lips he’d kissed during stolen moments alone, the cheeks he’d held when she’d sobbed over the cruelty of the Cauldron for making Nuvian her mate and not him.

He’d wanted to kill Nuvian then. For everything he’d been doing to her, every bruise on her body and soul, every finger he’d ever dared to lay on her. Azriel had already had a plan, but he’d hesitated. He didn’t know what it would do to her if he killed her mate, and before he’d managed to convince himself to go through with it, Tamlin’s father had already sought his revenge for a supposed threat to his throne.

Afterwards, Azriel had held in his hands not only the shattered bits of his lover but also those of his brother, and he’d revelled in the way his dagger felt cutting through Nuvian’s throat like a knife through butter.

He spoke her name now, the name of a love greater than he’d ever dared to hope for. It felt soft on his tongue, and his wings shuddered with the sensation.

“Y/N. My love. It’s you.”

She stared at him, and when she took a step back, creating distance between them, Azriel’s heart gave a crack.

His fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, and he felt her hand tremble in his grip, her face stricken.

“Feel for it,” he insisted, lifting her hand back to his chest to press her palm over his heart. “Dig it up.”

“Azriel,” her voice was rough as gravel as she spoke, her head shaking frantically. “Don’t. It’s not possible.”

He urged closer, breathing her in, feeling the bond thrum thickly within him, and when he tugged again, she gave a choked sob in response to the sensation he knew now coursed through her as well.

“Let it snap,” he said, using her own words, his voice much calmer than he would have thought it would be in such a situation. He weaved his free hand through her hair, lowering his forehead to hers. “Allow it to snap in place.”

She hesitated, but when she finally allowed the tension to flow from her muscles, it seemed every fibre of Azriel’s being came to life with sizzling heat, and this time, when she sobbed, it was with joy barely contained.

- BONUS -

It was a little while later that Azriel stood in Rhys’ study, his fingers running along the bare curve of his mate’s back, revelling in every bump and dent of her spine. He truly loved her dress—her back bare for him to touch, her front glittering like his favourite constellation.

In the hour since the bond had snapped into place, his hands hadn’t left her once.

Rhys stared at them.

“Two mating bonds,” he muttered, his expression equally mesmerised. “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

“Do you think it’s because I didn’t accept the first one?” Y/N asked quietly. She was still buzzing with joy, but the overwhelming revelation had left her spent, her cheeks glowing, her tone calm. Her own hands were fiddling with a button on Azriel’s jacket.

Rhys considered her for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said. “Either that or the fact that Nuvian is dead. There could be a time factor to it as well, but—" Rhys halted in his speech, and his eyes snapped to the door behind Y/N’s back. “Feyre, darling. Have you heard the news?”

When Y/N turned, her gaze landed on the High Lady, and a smile curved her lips in response to the excitement shining in her eyes.

“Well of course. Your thoughts were very loud,” Feyre grinned, closing the door softly behind her. “Cassian and Mor are losing their minds.”

Azriel snorted softly, and Y/N felt his hand slip to her hip to give a gentle squeeze.

“I’m so happy for you two,” Feyre said, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of her feet, her eyes bright. “I’m so glad it worked.”

Y/N and Azriel shared a look before Y/N looked back at Feyre and asked, “What worked?”

“Well, I wished for it.”

A beat of silence.

“Whatever do you mean, my darling?” Rhys asked from where he sat behind his desk.

Feyre tilted her head. “When you and I were mending the Cauldron, of course. I wished for them to be mated. Didn’t you hear?”

Silence settled, the clock by the door ticking loudly, and all Y/N could do was stare at the faerie that—in the few short months she’d been living at the Night Court—had not only become her High Lady but a dear friend.

For the first time since the bond snapped, Azriel’s hand left her skin, and she felt the loss of contact right down to her bones.

She watched carefully as he neared Feyre and smiled when he wrapped strong arms around her delicate shoulders, pulling her firmly to his chest, his head bowing as he pressed his cheek to her hair.

“Thank you,” he breathed, and as Y/N caught Feyre’s gaze over the shoulder of her mate, it felt like her heart was about to burst with happiness.

#genuinely one of the best fics ive ever read

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unwrittenlibrary · 2 months ago

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Illyrian Brows

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Azriel x reader 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: <1k baby drabble 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐲: fluff

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲:

You pluck Az's eyebrows and make some males jealous.

･゜゜・．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ: ʙʏ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴇʀᴛɪꜰʏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ 18 ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪɴᴏʀ. ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄʀᴇᴛɪᴏɴ.

･゜゜・．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･．｡･゜゜・．｡･ﾟﾟ･

“Ow.”

Massive wings twitched when you pulled another hair from Azriel’s brow. The Illyrian pursed his lips, intense hazel gaze flicking up to your face just above his.

You couldn’t help but smirk, looking down at the handsome male from your perch on his lap. Feyre really was onto something when she called the bat boys Big Illyrian Babies…

“It’s almost like you’re enjoying this,” Azriel grumbled.

“Me, reveling in your pain? Never, shadowsinger,” you assured. He winced again at the removal of a particularly thick hair toward the center of his forehead.

He sighed through his nose, letting a quiet groan loose as you followed suit on the other brow. His arm tightened around your waist and you swallowed, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“I never took you for such a princess,” you laughed and Azriel glared up at you.

But the withering look quickly morphed from malicious to lighthearted. The Illyrian kissed his teeth and looked away, over your shoulder. “I don’t know how you even talked me into this. I’m never letting you do this again.”

You hummed and plucked another hair, this time from underneath the tail of his dark brow, toward the side of his face. His nose twitched, the only sign of his discomfort. You smoothed your thumb over the irritated skin to soften the sting, not noticing hazel eyes deepen, tracing the lines of your face. “I deeply apologize, your Highness, I didn’t mean to offend.”

The male scoffed, a small smirk curling at his lip and about to retort something witty no doubt when a low whistle sounded from the doorway behind you two.

Startled, you ripped out another hair as you turned to glance over your shoulder, rendering a yelp from the male below you before he poked his head around your frame, too.

Cassian was standing there with a wolfish grin, arms crossed and his own full brow raised high.

“Well, well… and what do we have here?” he inquired.

Azriel shifted uneasily beneath you.

“We were just—“

“Oh, I—“

You and Azriel shared a flustered look before you looked back at the Illyrian by the door.

“Eyebrows! I’m just helping Az tame these… wild brows… is all,” you explained, suddenly very aware of your place in the male’s lap.

Cassian only grinned wider. “Oh? That all?”

A pillow from the chaise you two were sat on suddenly sailed over your head, smacking the male in the chest. He didn’t budge so much as an inch, unbothered.

“Yes,” Azriel hissed, his arm on your waist tightening. “That’s all.”

“Okay, well, if that’s the case, can I go next?” Cass requested, the devilish rogue. “If salon Y/n is taking new clients, that is.”

Before you could think to reply, Azriel did for you.

“She’s fully booked,” he said, his words and eyes equally full of ice. “Now fuck off.”

Cassian let out a mix between a snort and a laugh, his brow and both his raised up high before he slipped out of the door and back into the hall.

You turned back to Azriel, amused.

The male rolled his shoulders back, wings fixing into place with them. You shared a look before he nodded at you and closed his eyes, turning his chin up so you could continue your work, choosing not to acknowledge the interruption at all.

You chuckled and went back to work, thankful the male needed much more grooming before you’d have to remove yourself from him. Unbeknownst to you, Azriel felt the exact same.

If the price of you sitting in his lap and showering him with your undivided attention was a few measly eyebrows, he’d gladly let you pluck every single one.

⤷ masterlist

#SOOOOO CUTE #ok more of them pls #just kidding #........ unless #azriel x reader

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unwrittenlibrary · 3 months ago

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fanfics are one of the best things that humanity has come up with. i fucking love reading stories about my favorite characters from people who have the same brainrot as me

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unwrittenlibrary · 3 months ago

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Stop giving fathers redemption arcs. That old man sucks and you know it

#this is about my dad

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unwrittenlibrary · 3 months ago

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mortal habits

summary: the act of patching up small cuts and bruises is so exceedingly mortal, something azriel has never worried about. until she kneels in front of him, fretting.

word count: about 1k

warnings/tags; archeron!reader, fem!reader (she/her pronouns) ummmm this is Not Good & not beta'd.

notes: i make my return for azriel... since my last fic (in the year of 2022! insane!) i have started reading a lot again, i've settled into my job and i've started writing again. how exciting. this is a disaster of a fic. it's been awhile. hopefully i write mooooooooore though, i do miss it.

Azriel had been through worse. Far worse. He had lived through two wars. Had completed the Blood Rite. Trained alongside Cassian and Rhys for centuries. His hands had been burned, scarred and permanently altered. His wings had been torn before.

So he had been through worse.

The cuts across his torso were minor, already closing, and the bruises blooming along his ribs would be gone in hours. His Siphons hummed faintly, magic stitching him together even as he sat, still and quiet, on the edge of your bed.

He could handle pain. He had handled pain his entire life.

But this? This was different.

You knelt before him, brow furrowed in concentration, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you dabbed an ointment onto a particularly nasty gash just beneath his collarbone. You had practically manhandled him into this spot, told him to not move as you retrieved the jar of ointment Madja had given you for your own cuts when you had been training with Nesta.

At any point before you knelt before him, he could have been honest and told you it wasn't necessary. That by the time you moved on with your day and joined Feyre in her studio or Nesta in the library, the wounds would be nothing to him. Scratches he will eventually forget he ever had.

“I swear, Az,” you mutter, dipping your fingers into the little glass jar beside you. Your nails have gotten longer. Painted a pretty blue that looks eerily familiar. “I don’t know how you’re still walking around after all of this.”

Azriel huffs a quiet laugh. “I heal fast.”

You shoot him a look—one of those unimpressed, sharp glances that remind him exactly who your sisters are. Rhys sometimes says that when Feyre looks at him, he feels like bowing down. Cassian constantly says he's at Nesta's mercy.

Azriel thinks he finally understands the sentiment. He would kneel to you, make himself at your mercy. He would bend to your will.

He smiles down at you. Your sharp eyes narrow in a way that always seem to make his shadows curl around him in amusement, like they also find you cute. “That doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.” You say.

He doesn't reply. Because he knows you're right. And because the gentle press of your fingers against his skin makes his throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with pain.

Because he wants you to keep touching him.

It was such a mortal thing, this tending to cuts and bruises. Rhysand and Cassian would have waved you off with a smirk and told you it was pointless. Maybe even laughed at the naivety of it, at the idea of warriors tending to these small injuries like they were huge inconveniences.

You weren’t a warrior though. You hadn’t grown up knowing the brutality of being an Illyrian. And you didn't grow up with the efficiency of fae healing. To you, wounds meant something—they weren't just small things that could be shrugged off but proof that someone you cared about had been hurt. They were proof that someone you cared about was not invincible.

So he lets you fuss over him, lets you press too-gentle fingers to his ribs. He forces his breathing to remain even when your nails scratch over his stomach by accident and you offer him an apologetic smile.

It was sweet. Infuriatingly, heartbreakingly sweet how you tended to these cuts and bruises like they were fatal.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, watching as you smoothed the salve over his shoulder, fingertips lingering against his skin.

You shrug, continuing to touch him. "I want to.” You say simply.

He swallowed hard. Nobody had ever wanted to take care of him. At least, not like this. Madja was always there for the inner circle. His brothers loved him, so did Mor and Amren in her own way, maybe. But nobody had ever wanted to take care of him. Not in this simplistic way.

He glances down where your fingers dance across his collar bone. Watches your hands as they examine the bruises along his chest.

Your hands were so different from his. Soft where his were scarred, warm where his were cold. They didn't know battle, did not know pain in the way his did. And yet, they were careful with him. As if he were something fragile. Something you wanted to take care of.

No one had ever touched him like this before.

You pull your hands away, sit back on your heels and tilt your head at him. Then you grin, devastatingly beautiful. “There,” you say with quiet satisfaction. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

Azriel wanted to tell you that it was perfect, anything you did was perfect. That the ache in his ribs had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the way you were looking at him now—soft, fond, completely unaware of the chaos you created inside his chest.

Instead, he reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly over your cheek. A quiet thank-you, unspoken but understood because he knew you understood him.

Your lips part slightly, breath catching, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself believe that this was something he could have. That this tenderness was meant for him.

Then you smile, small and knowing, like you could read every single thought Azriel had. Like you understood why his heart was racing.

Azriel’s fingers linger against your cheek, scarred and rough, but you didn't flinch and he didn't pull away. You just sat there, looking at him like he was something more than shadows and scar and unworthiness.

“Az,” you murmur, voice the softest that he's ever heard it, like you knew his mind had trickled into thoughts of not being good enough for this, for you.

He swallowed hard. He should pull away, stand and urge you to stand up with him. Should let his hand fall away and bury whatever this feeling he has beneath layers of duty and restraint. Go back downstairs and join the rest of your family at the kitchen table.

But you were still kneeling before him, still so close, and he could see the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted, like you felt this as much as he did.

He was an idiot.

A complete, utter idiot.

Because instead of pulling away, his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, barely a whisper of a touch, and he says, “You shouldn’t waste your time on this.”

Your brows knit together, and you reach up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist before he could retreat. “Why not?”

His throat tightened. “Because it’s pointless.” It is. Not the tending to cuts, not your mortal practice, doing this for him. Wasting your time worrying over him, was pointless.

Your grip doesn't falter. If anything, it only grows firmer, grounding him. “I don’t think it is.” You say softly.

Azriel inhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but you don't let him look away. You tilt your head again, studying him the way you always did—like he was something you wanted to figure out.

“Just because you heal fast,” you say slowly, carefully, “doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be taken care of.”

Something in his chest cracked, splintering apart under the weight of your words. No one had ever said something like that to him before. No one had ever looked at him like this before.

Like he was something worth taking care of. He had never been afforded this gentleness.

He let out a breath, slow and uneven, and decides to allow himself one more indulgence—just one. He turns his hand, catching yours in his grasp, and he squeezes.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, even though the words feel like a lie. Maybe they are one.

You let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Of course you are.” You say, but you don't let go. You just sit there, hand wrapped around his, warm and steady and real.

Azriel should let go. He should get up, finally put space between you and remind himself of all the reasons why this—you—were not his to have.

Azriel doesn't let go though, and neither did you.

The silence between you stretches on, but it's comfortable. His mind may be warring and his heart may be racing, but silences with you were never anything but comfortable. It was like you knew how to exist with him. Like you knew he needed a moment to sort his thoughts out.

And the truth was, his thoughts were coming down to the fact that he was afraid to want this. Afraid of what it would mean for his relationship with Rhys and your sister. Would Rhys see him worthy of one of Feyre's sisters? Would Feyre? Would they confirm every thought he's ever had about himself?

(Did it matter? If you looked at him like this? If you touched him like this? Did it matter what anybody else thought?)

Your free hand lifts between the two of you and he startles out of his thoughts. You smile gently as your nails trace the edge of his jaw softly before gently cupping his cheek.

His pulse stutters. He's touch starved and desperate for you. Azriel's eyes flicker between yours, searching for doubt or fear or disgust, something to prove to him that he shouldn't do this.

But he finds none, and he's done fighting, so he lets his eyes slide shut. He lets himself lean into your touch.

(He doesn't see your eyes flickering down to his lips. He has no clue that your own heart is racing in your chest. Azriel is completely unaware that for so long, since you came out of that cauldron irrevocably different, all you've wanted is him.)

He can only feel your hand, still wrapped in his, tense with nerves. He can feel the hesitant brush of your lips against his and he inhales sharply.

Then he kisses you. Any ounce of restraint he had, which hadn't been much, disappears.

His hand moves to cup your face instead of staying intertwined with yours and his fingers thread through your hair as he pulls you closer. Your legs extend into a tall kneel at his urging.

You shift so your front is almost fully pressed against him, your hands holding onto his waist. It's a little awkward and entirely uncomfortable for his back and your knees, but neither of you care all that much. His wings expand around you two, his shadows swirl in excitement.

Your arms move to wrap around his neck and your breasts press against his chest when you do so. He makes a quiet, desperate sound against your mouth before kissing you harder, as if he’d been starving for this. He supposes he has been. From the moment he saw you in the mortal lands.

From the second a scream tore from his lungs when you were dumped into the cauldron and then dumped back out. He's starved for you. For this. For your touch. For your body to be pressed against his like this.

Your hands shift to his shoulders, fingertips running over warm skin and fresh-healed wounds, but he doesn't care. This had never been about the wounds. All he had wanted is you with him, if he was being honest.

When you had seen him come inside from training with Rhys and Cassian and gasped at the cuts while you ran your fingers across his torso and back, he had been vibrating with want. When you had wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him towards your room because you had a jar of salve, he had gone willingly, just wanting to be in your space.

Not because he cared about these cuts. But because he cared about you.

Your lips part against his and his tongue slides into your mouth. Both of you groan and he presses so close to you that neither of you are truly sure where one of you starts and the other ends. He kisses you like he's not entirely sure he'll ever get to kiss you again.

And when two you finally, finally, pull away—just enough to catch your breath—his forehead drops to yours, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own.

His eyes open slowly. They meet yours, still sharp but now even more beautiful and dazed.

You smile at him, breathless. “Not so pointless now, is it?” You tease. "My care regiment."

Azriel lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as his thumb traced along your cheek. “Not even a little. Do you always kiss your patients?"

You laugh, a little like you can't believe he made that joke. "Just the very pretty, Illryian shadowsingers." You say quietly with a bright grin.

And what kind of male would he be if he didn't kiss you again?

notes: i fear i do still suck at endings. i also have gotten worse at accepting criticism so pls be nice <3

#omg... did you see i wrote something #can you believe it #i'm writing more too #azriel x reader