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[websterss]

Nikki I’m charging you for the damages done to my broken heart 🥲 when she assessed his scar I was a goner. This trope always gets me and you did it so beautifully and wonderful my love.

✨ pairings: Lucien x Reader, Elucien

🔮 preview: Hanahaki Disease definition: “If your love is not getting returned, flowers start growing inside your body, suffocating you from the inside. Surgical removal is dangerous and you're dying without your soulmate's love.”

📣 trigger warnings: pining, unacquainted romance, vomiting, mentions of blood, ambiguous ending

🔎 rating: PG-13 | 🔏 word count: 4.5k

💜 masterlist + notes: I am the Queen of Angst, as per @prythianpages… another one for the books. I loved Lucien, I loved him since ACOTAR. And so, it is time… to give him some angst to his already angsty story. I do hope you guys enjoy it!

“Lucien —-”

You gasped his name, struggling against the bonds that bound your hands behind your back, your knees ached against the stone ground. Tears lined your eyes, watching Lucien leave your side, tugging the turned middle Archeron sister into his arms, her wet form shivering from being drowned into the cauldron moments earlier.

The world around you slowed and all you could focus on was how Lucien held the sister so tenderly in his arms. For a moment, his back stiffened, and looked over his shoulder — back at you. Your eyes connected and all you felt was a burst in your chest — one that glowed but also one that was slowly suffocating you.

A mating bond.

Another gasp escaped your lips, head bowing as you pressed your forehead against the cool stone underneath your body. Your chest heaved, gasping as your back arched — your throat burned, your chest ached, you felt as if your lungs were on fire. You felt like you were burning from the inside out. Tilting your head up, you hoped that Lucien’s gaze was still on you, that he would abandon the Archeron sister and return to your side — you had hoped that the mating bond snapped for him as well; however, that wasn’t the case.

The eldest Archeron sister snatched the younger back into her arms, pushing Lucien away, him stumbling back from the strength. You watched as Lucien and the middle sister’s gaze intertwined, and even from your position, you could hear the disbelief in his tone.

“You’re my mate.”

The world tilted in front of you, and chaos ensued. You didn’t care whether Tamlin had broken out of his bonds and stalked towards Feyre. You didn’t care that Feyre was begging Tamlin to break the bond between her and Rhysand. You didn’t care that the Hybern King had caused all this madness — just for the Cauldron.

You just didn’t care.

Because all you cared about was the fact that Lucien had felt the bond with the middle Archeron sister — the beautiful Cauldron-Made fae — and not you.

Your world blurred behind your eyes, and you didn’t even realize that Mor was winnowing everyone of the Inner Circle away — the ward had been broken, and everyone was escaping. You watched as she ripped the Archeron sister from Lucien’s grasp, the male roaring at the loss of his mate. He clawed and grasped the ground where she had laid. You wanted to call out to him, tell him that you were still there — that he had another mate. But your voice died in your throat, and you barely could even let out a whisper of his name. Your throat burned, and you felt your lungs constrict and you couldn’t get any air in your lungs.

Pressing your hand against your throat, you wheezed.

You couldn’t breathe.

Panic set into your features as you clawed the palms of your hands, blood dripping down onto the ground. Arms gathered around you, tugging the bonds away from your wrist as you looked up, “—-Mor…” you choked out, grasping her upper arms as you struggled to get to your feet. You focused on her, and not the fact that your body was slowly being deprived of air.

She pressed her lips on the crown of your head, soothing you, as if she knew exactly what had happened between you and Lucien, “Hold on tight, (Y/N), we’re going home… You’re going to be okay…”

Wrapping your arms around her shoulders, you glanced at Lucien, watching him snap his head back towards you as if feeling that you were going to be taken away from him as well. Your eyes locked with his and you felt tears cascade down your cheeks.

“(Y/N)—-…!”

Your name slipped from his lips and all you saw before you were taken in swirls of light and darkness, was his hand reaching out to you.

“(Y/N)…”

You held up a hand, stopping a worried Feyre from coming to your aid. Eyes locked with hers and all you could do was shake your head, a silent plead not to draw any attention. A moment of silence passed before your gaze drifted up those familiar marble steps, the scent of your mate lingering in the air.

Lucien had just stopped by the River House and passed you — heading up those stairs… into Elain’s room.

You held your breath, awaiting the moment when the pain would slam into your body.

Burst!

A painful gasp escaped your lips as you grasped your chest, feeling the burst of flowers invading your lungs. It had taken your breath away so strongly that you stumbled backward, pressing your back against the marble column, chest heaving as you tried to gain any ounce of air into your flower-filled lungs.

Tears stung your eyes as the pain wracked your body, teeth biting into pink-stained lips, fighting back a painful cry that threatened to leave your throat. You couldn’t make noise… not when Lucien was oh-so-close to hearing it.

Just the thought of the male caused another surge of pain, feeling your organs being pushed around inside your body to make way for more of those deadly flowers to occupy your being.

It hurt so much.

All you could focus was on the indescribable pain, feeling every burst and explosion of your illness taking over your body, that you barely were able to feel gentle hands cupping your cheek — the scent of paint and starlight invading your system — Feyre.

You couldn’t help but lean into her gentle hold, her warmth as you blinked away the white flashes of pain, trying with all your might to focus on your friend. The High Lady looked at you with fear and worry etched on her beautiful, ethereal features and all you could do was give her a small smile, despite the pain that wracked your body with tiny shivers, “I’m fine, Feyre…” You tried to reassure her, your voice meek and strained… your tone shaking underneath each word. You wanted to convince yourself that you were fine… it was just another flare of your illness.

It would pass.

It always did.

Both of you knew you were nothing but fine.

Not when the source of your pain was just up those marble steps.

Your face scrunched as another wave of pain shook your body, your back arching and your limbs stiffening at the agony that you were succumbing to every time your illness took over. Attempting to regain control over your body, you pressed your palm against your mouth, trying to fight back every urge to vomit all over the floor. But the burn in your throat was so strong, that the need to empty your stomach would help alleviate the pain. You scrambled to push Feyre away, pressing your hands against marble floors — and all you could do was heave.

A rainbow of flowers splashed onto those pristine floors — vines and thorns from those very flowers scratching your lungs and throat, causing blood to spew out of your lips, dripping down the edge of your lips, coating those flowers with red and the smell of metal lingering in your mouth.

It burns, it hurts.

That was all that you can think of.

How the pain took over your whole body, and there was nothing else you could think of.

Not even the fact that your destined mate had decided to choose a bond that was not connected to you.

Tears of agony cascaded down your cheeks as you gagged and heaved those flowers that took over your entire system. You inhaled, grasping as much air as you could before you vomited again, this time the contents of your stomach pooling underneath you.

You didn’t understand why. You couldn’t understand why this was cursed upon you — why you were destined to live this way, in so much pain… in so much hurt.

In so much loneliness.

For millennials, you had believed a mating bond was a beautiful thing, something that a happy ever after would grant you, much like those fairytale stories that you read as a child.

But for centuries, you realized that a mating bond was nothing but a curse.

The beauty of a mating bond, the flowers of love and romance… disguised as torture and unhappiness.

You didn’t even know, nor did you care, how long you were in that foyer, puking your lungs and stomach out. At that point, you didn’t care if Lucien had heard your retching from Elain’s room. All you wanted was for the pain to stop. Your vision blurred and your body swayed under the exhaustion you felt. You tried to stay conscious, tried to keep yourself from fainting… but you were so tired. You felt your body sway, the weariness tugging your brain to the darkness. But you caught yourself, regaining your balance with your hands and knees, fingers grasping onto the soft petals that lay beneath you, feeling them crunch underneath your grip.

Oh, how you hated it.

Hated how those flowers felt underneath your palm.

They were soft and gentle… but they grew inside of you — a curse to remind you of how devious and deceiving a mating bond was.

You had been so focused on the pain, so focused on staying awake that you barely heard the shuffling around you, how shadows covered your body, soothing your aching body. Whispers of worry passed over your subconscious, not having the energy to listen to what they were saying — was it about you? Did they take pity on your pain and suffering? You didn’t have an ounce to care. When gentle hands grasped your hands, feeling Feyre’s hands slip away from your cheeks, you whimpered, missing the warmth from your friend, only to be lulled into warm and gentle arms.

Blinking away the weariness and the tears, you looked up, your head lulling back onto broad shoulders and into beautiful violet hues.

“Rhys…” you whispered, your voice hoarse, your hands weakly reaching up to grasp his suit, bunching it up in your blood-stained hand, trying to ground yourself, to distract yourself from the pain that plagued your body.

Your body stiffened in his hold, another wave of agony threatened to pull you into subconsciousness. You whimpered, trying to gain little control over what was left of your body, one that was not dominated by torment.

You tried to focus on his words, seeing his lips open and close, as if telling you something — but the fog that penetrated your mind was so strong that it was just noise in your head. Vision swayed and black spots appeared in your vision. Your head rolled back again, your body becoming heavy in Rhys’ arms, as you felt him shift your body in his hold.

Gentle hands grasped the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at those violet hues. You blinked, trying to focus on the High Lord before a wave of darkness stormed into your mind, gently taking the pain away before lulling you into darkness — your body felt light, your mind drifting in the sea of darkness that welcomed you.

You floated in that darkness and all you hoped was that you would never wake up — would never have to succumb to the pain again. And never would have to face your mate who yearned for another.

But your wishes would never come true — they never did.

And when you had awoken, nightfall had fallen over Valeris.

Your body felt heavy, something that you had grown used to, after an intense eruption of your illness.

You lay there, in your bed, trying to attempt to lull yourself back into sleep, into that darkness that made you feel nothing. But your mind screamed at you to wake, to not drift into that darkness again.

An exhausted sigh escaped your lips, your throat burning from retching your lungs out, as you allowed your fingers to gently wiggle underneath the satin sheets, attempting to regain control over your body, feeling the cool sensation under your fingertips, grounding yourself back to the present — away from the memory of mental and physical suffering. You lay there, for seconds, minutes… hours before you opted to open your eyes. You blinked away the dried tears that crusted them, you blinked away the fatigue that made your eyelids feel heavy, as you focused on the painted ceiling above you — an image of the night sky, the one that mirrored the one outside your very windows. It usually gave you comfort, it gave you a sense of peace.

But at that very moment, all you felt was hollow.

As if you had emptied your whole self, your whole soul with those flowers, hours earlier. And now, there was nothing left of you. Your body was nothing but a greenhouse to create those painful flowers, there was no you left in the shell of your body.

It was a feeling, a moment that you would never get used to. On the feeling of being lost, that no one would be able to understand what you go through. And that no one ever would.

The door creaked open, the sound resonating loudly in your quiet room before the patter of feet entered your room.

You had no energy to look see who it was, you had no energy to do anything besides just lay there and rot, to decay into soil for those rotten flowers to grow from.

The bed dipped and you glanced over to see Feyre, that same worried expression on her features. You watched how her face twitched and shifted, trying to find the proper guise to speak to you with… but all you could see was the shadow of concern in her look. You watched as her brain turned, her lips parting before closing again — trying to figure out how to approach you.

Like you were an endangered, hurt animal.

“…How are you feeling, (Y/N)?” her lips tugged up into a simper of a smile, after a few minutes of silence, though her brows knitted together, assessing you from your supine position in bed, trying to gauge your physical and mental condition.

Dull eyes stared at her, unblinking and unmoving, and your throat itched to say something — something to smooth out those lines on her features.

But you couldn’t.

There were no words that could describe how much agony you go through… Every. Single. Time. You could never explain to Feyre, to Rhysand, or the rest of the Inner Circle… how it feels to have something so beautiful be so deadly.

No matter how many times they ask you, try to pull words out of you, or even whenever you allow Rhysand to wander your mind to understand just a bit of your pain… they would never fully understand.

All because your love was unreciprocated.

Your love and bond with Lucien Vanserra.

You had known him for centuries, ever since he had stepped into the borders of Spring Court. You had been nothing but the daughter of a low-ranking noble, one who had the privilege of serving Tamlin as a scholar in the High Lord’s castle; he had been the one to give you such a title. You had been the one who alerted your High Lord about the threat of Lucien’s brothers’ attempt at his life. You had been the one who befriended Lucien and allowed him to adjust while he was found a position in Tamlin’s court. You had been the one to stay by his side when the High Queen had ripped his eye out, been the one to nurse him back to health. You had gone through forty-nine years of the curse alongside him. And you had been the one beside him through the perils of Under the Mountain.

You had been his first friend in Spring Court.

And he had been your first love.

You had hoped and prayed for the Mother and the Gods to will your kindred spirits into a mating bond. You had hoped and prayed you gain any confidence to confess your feelings for him. But for centuries, that had been your downfall, you had been content with his presence, content with his friendship that you had believed that nothing would have changed.

But in the end, everything changed.

Feyre looked into your eyes, trying to find that part of you that still fought — fought for your life and your soul against this illness, but when she couldn’t, she sighed, willing back tears before reaching over to run her fingers through your tangled locks, trying to formulate comforting words to help you with your ordeal. But both of you knew, after knowing each other for years, there were no words that would soothe your pain.

Turning your head towards the rays of light that shone from your large windows, you focused on the soothing motion of your friend’s delicate fingers through your hair as you soaked in the night, twinkling sky of Valeris.

You had realized over the past few months you’ve lived in Night Court, that you had fallen in love with the night sky — how vast and never-ending it was over your head. It had eclipsed your previous adoration for your former home’s vast spring fields, ones that were overrun with wildflower and fresh grass — and that, now, you would happily die just laying out and staring into the twinkling night of Valeris’ skies.

Feyre had always said your sense of humor was morbid, how you would casually just bring up how you’d die as if it was a normal conversation starter.

But to you, it was.

Your illness was the only thing on your mind nowadays. Wondering when you would succumb to the pain and just die, or when the flowers finally take over your body — what would happen to you? Would you become a tree, lifeless and hollow, sprouting flowers from your mouth and nose?

It was the fear that drove your thoughts, turning them into morbid humor.

Because it was the only way you could cope with your looming doom.

Swallowing a lump in your throat, tasting the petals in your lungs, you turned back to Feyre, “…Is he still with her?”

Pain tugged on Feyre’s features and her hand grew still against your locks, hand pulling away and you could see that it was shaking.

That was the only confirmation you needed.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N)…” Feyre whispered, shifting so that she could sit closer to you, bringing your body into her warm embrace, “I had tried. Tried to force them apart with multiple different excuses, but Elain wanted to see him. She felt the tug on his end of the bond… and had grown curious... They’ve been together the whole night…”

There was nothing she could do to help soothe the ache in your chest. No comforting words, no gentle gestures. Nothing.

Tears brimmed your vision and all you could do was curse the Mother and the Cauldron.

Why couldn’t it be you?

Why couldn’t it be you that Lucien felt at the end of the golden string?

Why did the Cauldron deem that Elain was better for Lucien than you?

“(Y/N)…”

A shaky sigh escaped your lips as you looked over your shoulder, the sound of your name coming from a familiar-sounding voice — one that you had wished for centuries would call yours more often.

“Lucien…”

There stood at the threshold of your bedroom was Lucien, leaning against the open door, arms crossed over his chest. He garbed Autumn Court colors, rouge and gold material complimenting his skin tone very well.

He was a prince charming, straight out of those fairy tale books — but he wasn’t here to sweep you off your feet.

Your eyes glanced over his form, and caught the glimmering shine of the golden band around his ring finger — it was his wedding day. The ache of the mating bond resonated in your chest, one that you had grown used to and didn’t often flinch from the pain, and you gave a tiny smile, one you hoped wasn’t laced with anguish and hurt.

You had to be happy.

Happy for his sake.

“I didn’t see you at the ceremony… Feyre said you were here in your room…”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, the taste of petals coating your tongue, “…I wasn’t feeling too well, I watched it from up here though. It was a beautiful wedding, Lucien… I’m, happy for you.”

And you were, you were happy for him but the small part of you, wanted that happiness to be with you.

But the Mother does not grant you wishes — never for you.

Lucien stepped into your room and you felt your back stiffen slightly, shifting so you were closer to the metal railing of your balcony. You watched those heterochromatic hues stare at you, sweeping over your form as if to find the illness he had heard so much about — that russet eye assessing your form as if he could see right into your soul.

All you wanted to do was turn around, avoid his gaze — just avoid him entirely like you have been doing for the past few years.

You couldn’t be near him… not anymore.

He didn’t seek you out often anymore, and so you did the same.

For your health.

You watched as he stepped passed the doorway, his boots echoing into your room and that’s what you focused on, how he grew closer and closer to you to the point where he stood in front of you — his woody scent intermixed with honey and jasmine, of Elain’s scent.

It made you nauseous that your world spun around, you pinched your eyes shut, reaching back to grab onto the railing so you wouldn’t fall to your death. Though death seemed to be a better option than confronting Lucien.

Hands gripped your upper arms, as if to still your wavering body and your senses were overwhelmed by his — his scent, his breath, the warmth that radiated from his hands and body to your own.

It has been too much.

Pressing your hands against his chest, you shoved him away, your breath quick and sweat lining your forehead.

“Don't touch me… Please…” you begged him.

You used to love being in his presence. During peaceful times, before Amarantha’s reign, before the curse… you would always seek each other out — whether it be just basking in each other’s presence, or talking about your day to one another — your eyes would always try to look for him. He would easily just hold your hand for comfort or you'd always be welcome in his arms.

Everything was so much simpler and easier — without the cursed illness that rages in your body.

It was easier to be around him without the mating bond that connected you to him.

But now, nothing was simple. You couldn't be next to him, have him touch you so easily without the bouts of nausea and pain that came with an incomplete mating bond.

You had been able to handle it, since he had sought Elain often when he visited the River House. You avoided everywhere they may have been — the gardens, her bedroom — basically everywhere in the River House, confining yourself to your room.

The only people that would check in on you were Feyre, Mor and Rhysand — all three were the only people that knew of your condition, of your illness… and your love for Lucien.

Taking in a deep breath, the smell of florals invading your system as you felt small bursts of pain in your chest — more flowers taking over your lungs.

Eyes looked at him and you blinked twice — making sure your mind wasn't playing tricks on you. Surprise and hurt etched onto his beautiful features, his eyes staring at you as if you've done a taboo.

“What… what's wrong, (Y/N)? Why are you so distant with me lately?” his voice was full of confusion and all you wanted was to yell and scream all the pain that had been caused by the incomplete bond — but you couldn't.

He didn't know. He wasn't the reason why you were decaying slowly, it was your illness. The stupid, wretched curse placed upon you by the Mother above.

You looked at him, with so much longing and love — you wanted to convey centuries of your love for him, but it has been too late.

He had chosen his Cauldron bound mate.

A pained smile tugged on your lips as you reached up and gently caressed the scars on the left side of his face, and you watched as he leaned close to your palm — your illness flaring in your chest, you flinching slightly from the pain.

“You haven't been putting on the ointment for your face, Lucien…” you muttered, trying to avoid the topic of anything relating to your distance, to your pain, to your unrequited love for him, “It had been looking good… I hope it isn't too painful…”

Lucien’s golden eye whirlled, trying to lock gaze with your own, trying to assess what was going on with you; but you avoided his gaze, focusing on how badly your hand was trembling near him.

“… I haven't had the time to put on the ointment, and besides that had been your job for the past few centuries…” a tiny smile tugged onto his lips.

You tucked a loose strand of auburn hair behind his ear, feeling the soft lock between your fingers before you dropped your hand, gently grasping it in your other as if to stop the trembles, “You're right, it had been my job…But it looks like not anymore. Elain could do that for you… I'll—-” you swallowed the lump in your throat once more, the urge to cough up the flowers was strong.

“Lucien…”

The two looked back at your doorway to see her — Elain, dressed in white. You gave her a tight smile, glancing up at Lucien who’s facial features morphed from worry and confusion at you, to complete adoration and love for her.

Tears stung your eyes as you turned around, your back facing the two married couple.

“You should go Lucien… you're missing out on your reception…” your voice shook and you desperately hoped neither of them would notice.

You have to continue to be happy — for him.

“You should come with us, you don't have to be here alone…” his voice drifted with the wind.

Shaking your head, you looked over your shoulder at him and gave him a smile, “I’m content here…”

Hesitation tugged on his features but before he could say anymore, Elain gathered his attention and both of them slipped out of your room.

Your chest heaved and you slowly slid down to the ground, pressing you hands on those cold stone tiles and you heaved.

Heaved all the pain and anguished of a love that was never yours to begin with.

General Tag List: @prythianpages @strangelygreat

[websterss]

thinking about how Rhys not only watched his mate smile at him for the first time on Starfall but how she did so in the dress he’d kept safe for centuries because his Mum made it specifically for her to wear in that moment😭

[websterss]

Reblog if you think fanfiction is a legitimate form of creative writing.

[websterss]

get attacked!!! ✨🌈 SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING🌈✨

WHY HAVENT I SEEN THIS!???🥺😭 thanks Nikki 🥺

[websterss]

ROWAN 😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆 AHHHHHH ITS ABOUT TO COMMENCE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭👏

Not Again - Part Twelve

Summary: Y/n is desperate to save her mate, they keep telling her he will be fine, but she knows something is wrong

Warnings: ANGSTY!!!! Madja is a good healer I swear, it’s solely for the plot

Series Masterlist

-Part Twelve-

Wake up, please wake up. Faint, desperate words in his mind. Not his shadows, the voice was female, with a soft, swirling accent like the mountain breeze running through his hair. There’s a feeling, like this female is everything, that he needs to get to her, to tell her something. Fight, Az, come back.

He tried, so hard, it hurt to much.

Mate, mate, mate.

The word beats in her head in time with his heart. She could feel it, beating in time with her own, across the bridge between their souls, the shadowy tether that she could feel like another limb connecting them.

Mate, mate, mate.

Azriel was her mate, this male, laying before her, thick bandages wrapped over the wound on his chest from the arrow he took because of her. Because of a broken goddess, because she knew the anger, the ferocity caused by a mate being hurt, would unlock that fire in Y/n, Mala’s own power, the only thing strong enough to finally kill her. Her mother had only a drop of it left, Y/n had inherited a deep well of it, deeper than she thought she had, a final gift from Mala.

Amren theorized that Deanna had opened the gate that brought Y/n to them. That she was trying to bring Y/n to whatever world she’d been trapped in, to use the power in her veins to gift her the death she desired, but something happened when the gate opened, the bond between her and Azriel had altered her course, had brought her to him. A gift from the Wyrd, to find her mate all the way across the stars.

Mate, mate, mate.

The gate Y/n had opened had been hijacked by Deanna before it could find Terrasen, and the goddess was able to take the Walking Dead and open her own gate. Amren assumed that, without Deanna’s interference, the gate would work as it should, that they would be able to try it again. She could go home now, could see her parents, her family, Terrasen.

Mate, mate, mate.

It had been nearly a week, since Deanna, since that arrow had pierced Azriel’s chest and she had felt that mating bond between them. Felt it thin as his heart slowed in his chest. It had felt like she was dying with him. A healer, Madja, had tried to lay her hands on him, Y/n had been so deep in a furious red haze that she almost burned the female alive. A red shield had surrounded her as Cassian had ripped her away, she’d almost killed him too, Madja had to heal the burns left on his arms. Feyre had been the one to finally calm her down, arms covered in cold water so she could hold onto Y/n’s scorching skin.

“He’s okay!” She had screamed, when the water had started to boil. “She’s healing him, Y/n look! It missed his heart, he’s okay!”

Y/n had watched the arrow clatter to the floor, the blood coating it, and the wound slowly stitching together beneath the healer’s hands. Feyre let her go, only when Y/n had gone practically limp in her arms. She’d crumbled to the floor, no longer supported by the High Lady, and she crawled towards him, laid down beside him, and pulled on that bond, refusing to let him go.

A week had passed, and she hadn’t attempted to open a gate, to go home, she’d barely even left his room. She couldn’t, not when he was still asleep, not when this bond in her chest was the only indication that he was still alive. Would she still feel it if she left? Will it feel like when he’d almost died, that thinning, that pain, that fear? The thought was so terrifying, so painful, she couldn’t even attempt it, wouldn’t step in that room that still smelled of his blood.

Wake up, shadowsinger, please.

He didn’t.

The inner court checked on her and Azriel periodically, rotating through, Rhys, Feyre, Cassian, Mor, Nesta, Elain, Lucien, over and over again. Even Amren had visited a few times, she’d been the one to finally drag her to the dining room to eat with the rest of the court.

“You can come back and wallow in your misery after you eat, girl.”

Amren didn’t practice kindness, not in the way many would. Forcing her out of that room, quite literally dragging her down the hall, was her form of being kind, of reaching out to make sure Y/n was okay. She wasn’t, she was far from okay, but she let the tiny female force her into her seat, met the concerned eyes of each of the court members, and ate whatever the house forced onto her plate.

“He’ll be okay,” Cassian says gently, his own voice weighed down by his concern for his brother, “Madja has healed worse injuries, he’s had worse.”

She didn’t want to know what those injuries were, “I know.”

“Y/n-“

“How long did you all know,” she cuts him off, looking between each of them, “That he and I were mates? I’m assuming you all know.”

A few of them had the decency to look ashamed. Feyre especially, who gives her mate a hard stare, no doubt speaking to him in his mind. By the way he winces, Y/n assumes it’s not a pleasant conversation.

“After the fight you two had,” Rhys starts, “I had Amren ask the Book of Breathings for more answers, she wrung the information out of it. I told Azriel what it had said, I left it to him on how to tell you.”

After their fight, when he’d disappeared for hours and hours, when she’d felt so lost and miserable, an echo of how he felt. He’d come back, had known exactly how awful she was feeling, called her a coward.

“I wanted to tell you,” Feyre says, glaring at her family around her, “I know how awful it is to be left in the dark-“

“He should have told me,” Y/n says, no heat, no anger, “Azriel should have told me.”

Cassian winces at the cold emptiness in her voice, “He wanted to, but he didn’t want to burden you with it, to hold you back from getting home.”

“He should have told me,” she says again, voice so cold, “He doesn’t get to call me a coward, while he was hiding this.”

“Y/n,” Mor’s gentle voice, “He didn’t want to hurt you.”

Of course he didn’t, that’s not why she was upset. She knew that Azriel cared about her, cared enough that he would suffer beneath the weight of this mating bond alone so she wouldn’t have to. He would take an arrow for her, again and again, and that was terrifying, that he would die for her without ever telling her why. That he would die and leave her behind knowing that she lost the mate she hadn’t even known she’d had.

Y/n stands, ignoring the pity in their eyes, the understanding in the eyes of the High Lady’s, the anger on her behalf from Nesta, the disappointment from Amren. She didn’t want any of it, any of them, she wanted her mother, her father, her family. More than anything, she wanted Azriel.

Days passed, Azriel kept sleeping. Something was wrong, so unbelievably wrong, he should have woken by now, he’d been asleep to long. Y/n couldn’t do anything, the panic pressing down like the mountain had crumbled around her, pinning her beneath the red stone. She yanked on that bond, begging and yelling for him to, wake up, wake up, please, Az, wake up.

Nothing, just that faint steady presence of his heartbeat, the bridge of shadows dark on his side like he couldn’t even dream in his sleep.

Madja looked him over, changing his bandages, she found nothing wrong, he just needed rest. That’s what they all kept telling her, he’ll be okay, Y/n, he needs to rest.

She wanted to scream, to burn the next fae that told her he was okay, he wasn’t, something was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Please, Azriel, I need you to wake up.

He wanted to tell her something, needed to tell her something. He tried so hard to wake, to reach for her, but he couldn’t.

I’m here, Princess. I’m here.

“Help,” she’s screaming, “Help, please! Cassian!”

Azriel’s body violently shakes beneath her hands, his skin hot and coated in sweat. She’d woken to his limbs colliding with her own, part of her had thought he’d woken up, but when she’d shot up, seen his eyes still closed, felt the intense pain coming from him down the bond, she screamed and screamed for help.

A seizure, he was having a seizure. She’d spent time in the southern continent, at the torre with her aunt. Learning the basics of healing because she was fascinated with it as a young teenager. There had been a man who was yelling for help, his wife had collapsed in the street and she was shaking. The healers had helped her, her aunt had described the situation as a seizure, told her what to do. She knew what to do, but in this moment she was panicking to much to do it.

The door slams open, Cassian running, dagger in hand, “Mother above.”

“Get the healer,” she screams, “Get Rhys, Feyre, anyone, please!”

That far away look in his eyes, “They’re on their way, just hold on.”

“Help me turn him on his side,” Y/n pleads, forcing herself to breathe, to do what her aunt had instructed her to do.

Cassian rushes to her, helping her haul his brother up and onto his side, “How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know, a few minutes maybe,” she says, “Where’s Madja?”

“Almost here,” he answers, that look in his eye, “Rhys is flying them up now.”

Y/n gently holds Azriel, his shaking form beneath her palms, whispering down that shadowy bridge between them, You’re okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s okay.

She didn’t believe herself at all. Not even when the seizure subsided, not when Madja had arrived with a frantic Rhys in tow, not when she checked him over and found nothing outwardly wrong with him.

“All we can do is wait,” Madja says, laying a gentle hand on Y/n’s shoulder, before leaving with Rhys and Cassian.

She couldn’t wait anymore.

The room is pitch black, the moon and stars covered by clouds in the sky, the only light comes from the small candle in her hand. It still smells of his blood, the whole room reeks of it, his combining with her own.

The cut on her arm was a dull ache, barely noticeable beneath the pain and fear in her heart. Her blood was warm on her fingertips, she pressed them to the floor and drew, drew the symbols she’d memorized, drew the name she had learned as a child, one of many.

Her voice sounded hallow in her ears, the painful words tearing through her vocal chords. The blood turns green, casting the room in its sickly light. Her hands shook as she finished, wide eyes staring into the darkness.

“What is that?”

She almost sobs at the voice, at the woman who comes into view, peering into the gate. The only person she could think of that would know what to do, to save him.

“Yrene,” her voice broke as the woman’s eyes landed on her, “I need your help.”

“Oh gods,” her aunt sobs loudly, “Y/n, my darling girl where have you-“

The door behind her aunt flies open, a man as familiar as her own father running through, sword raised to protect his wife, “What is it? What’s wrong-”

He spots the gate, sliding to a stop, “Y/n? My gods-“

“Please,” Y/n sobs, “I need help, please something is wrong, he won’t wake up, a seizure, he can’t, I can’t-“

“Y/n slow down,” Chaol lowers his sword, “Sweetheart breathe, calm down, who’s hurt, where are you?”

“Yrene please, he needs your help,” Y/n begs, she falls to her knees, her hands raised over her head, palms up, “Please, help him.”

There’s a shift in the air as Yrene steps through the gate, Y/n sobs when her aunt’s hands grasp her own. Yrene pulls Y/n to her feet, supporting her weight. Behind her, Chaol takes a step towards them but Yrene shakes her head.

“Get Aelin and Rowan,” she commands.

Chaol looks ready to argue, but a sharp look from his wife has him nodding once, “Be careful, my love”

“Where is he?”

Y/n runs, forcing herself to slow down, to keep pace with Yrene’s human form. She follows that bond, pulling on it, feeling the heartbeat on the other side and nothing more. It was like Azriel was barely there, blocked, hidden from her.

She felt then, a rumbling power, night kissed darkness. Rhys was coming, he’d felt the portal open no doubt, she didn’t care to stop, to explain to him what she had done. He could wait, Azriel couldn’t.

The door to his room is wide open, the house already knew what was happening, the room lit by fae lights. Yrene didn’t hesitate, just ran to the bed, to Azriel.

“What happened?”

It was a struggle to keep calm long enough to briefly describe what had happened, that he’d been shot in the chest by the goddess Deanna, that he’d been in a coma ever since. Yrene lays her hands over Azriel’s chest, faint warm light glowing from her palms. Her magic searching, washing over him and into that wound beneath his bandages.

“What is this?” That night kissed power explodes into the room, “Get your hands off my brother!”

Y/n throws herself in his path, a cold harsh wind blowing him back, “Rhys stop! She’s helping him, this is my aunt, I told you about her.”

“You opened a gate? Alone?” His voice is scathing, “What if something had happened again? You almost died last time! Damnit Y/n, you could have asked-”

“I needed to do something, I couldn’t keep waiting,” she snaps, her voice breaking, “Rhys I can’t- I can’t lose him.”

The anger in Rhys shatters, “I know, Y/n, I know, me too.”

“I don’t know what’s going on over there,” Yrene calls out, “But I could use some help.”

Y/n turns from Rhys, offering no translation, “What? what is it?”

“There’s something here,” Yrene says, hand hovering over the bandages, “Magic, it’s old, older than the valg. It feels similar though, to what was paralyzing your uncle, it’s attached to his heart.”

“What can I do?”

“Hold him down,” she says, “Get the angry one to help, this is probably going to hurt really bad.”

“Rhys,” Y/n throws over her shoulder, “Help me hold him down.”

The High Lord does without hesitation, “What’s wrong with him? What is she doing?”

Almost in response, Azriel screams. Arching off the bed, wings flaring beneath him, almost knocking Y/n over. Rhys throws his weight over his brothers kicking legs, using some of that power to restrain him. Y/n’s own wind holds Azriel down where she can’t reach, keeping his arm from swinging into Yrene.

His screams are so achingly painful, shouting down the bond between them, the first sign of him she’d had in nearly two weeks.

“You’re okay,” she shushes him, “It’s going to be okay. Just hold on.”

He screams and screams, tears streaming down his cheeks. Y/n can only hold on, can only cry with him. Every feeling is thrown down the bond, like it had been opened like a door between their minds, pain, fear, agony, Y/n could feel it all like it was her own chest, like it was being torn open, like her heart was being ripped out.

“I’ve almost got it,” her aunt says through clenched teeth, “Just a little while longer.”

Hold on, just hold on. She hopes he can hear her, he only screams in response. Roaring loud enough to shake the mountain beneath them. She screams with him, her already hoarse voice shattering, she could taste blood on her tongue.

A bright silver light shines through Yrene’s warm healing glow. It nearly blinds Y/n, she has to squint to see what it even was. Slowly pulling it from Azriel’s chest, it looked almost like a worm made of moon fire, writhing inside a bubble of Yrene’s magic.

Azriel slumps to the bed, breathing hard and fast, his eyes do not open. Y/n collapses against him, cradling his head to her chest, her fingers running through his hair.

“What is that?”

She looks up at Rhys, “One last fuck you from Deanna.”

The magic reeks of the goddess, a shred of her left in it, mocking, laughing. Y/n holds out her hand, and her aunt wordlessly drops the silver thing into her hand. It writhes in her palm, she glares at it, at the final shred of the wretched goddess.

“Go to Hel,” she spits, and her palm lights in the deepest, hottest blue flame, until there’s nothing left.

Wake, wake up, here, she’s here, wake up, tell her, wake up! The voices hurt his head, adding to the pain that radiates through his whole body. It hurt, his head, his chest, his heart, it all hurt.

He couldn’t force his eyes to open, so he relies on his other senses. He was laying down, surrounded by soft pillows and blankets, warm. From the scent surrounding him, he was in his own room, but there was another scent, pine and snow and embers, home. It clung to the pillows beside him, he wants to turn his face into it and inhale deeply. He tries, but the motion causes his already aching head to scream in pain.

“Az?”

That voice, soft and swirling air, the northern breeze that caught in his wings and lifted him high into the sky. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, her voice, the one he’d heard in his dreams, the one begging him to wake. He had to tell her something, desperately needed to tell her.

“Princess-“ he coughs, his throat felt like sand paper, felt like he had been screaming.

“Here,” she says.

He feels the bed dip beside him, something cold presses to his lips, water. The cold liquid slides over his tongue soothing the pain in his throat. He drinks deeply for several seconds, groaning when she takes the glass away.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” she chides.

He wanted to open his eyes, to see her, to tell her everything, “Princess, I-“

Her hand in his, so right, so perfect, “I know, shadowsinger, I know.”

Azriel finally forces his eyes open, the sunlight shines through the open curtains, settling over her like a blanket of gold. Beautiful, so achingly beautiful. He could feel her, that tether of shadow more like a solid bridge between them.

“You know,” he breathes, “How-“

“You should have told me,” she stops him, her hand shaking in his palm, “Gods, Az, you should have told me. Instead, I watched an arrow go into your chest, I felt you dying on the other side of the bond.”

The words send a shock of pain through his chest, like that arrow was finding home in his heart once again. It echoes the pain she felt, still feels.

“It felt like I was dying with you,” she says, her eyes burning with lingering rage, “I killed her. I didn’t think, couldn’t, I felt that bond in my chest, knew that you were my mate, and she had tried to take you from me. I burned her to nothing but ash.”

Azriel could only stare at the female, she had killed a goddess, an ancient terrible creature, for him. His mate, his viscous warrior of a mate, gods killer.

“You should have told me,” she repeats again, and Azriel can feel the anger and the fear she feels, “You almost died, and I- I didn’t- I couldn’t- You“

“I’m sorry.” The broken words tear into his heart, “I’m so sorry, Princess.”

“I know,” she takes a deep breath, “I know why you hid it, I understand that, I just- I almost lost you before I’d even known I had you.”

Her face falls, looking down at the hands in her lap that fidget with the loose black fabric. Night court black, it almost seemed like mourning black to Azriel.

“Hey.” It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to lift his scarred hand to her cheek, turning her face back to him, “I’m okay, you still have me, if you still want me.”

Her eyes are lined with silver tears as she nods once, a simple gesture that breaks and rebuilds every part of his soul. He didn’t need some big mating ceremony, didn’t need a party, didn’t need her to offer him food, just that nod, that simple yes, was more than enough.

Despite the pain, Azriel sits up, cradling her face in the palm of his hand, marveling at the sight of her wide eyes, no cold, no heat, just full of wonder. A single tear runs down her cheek and Azriel leans in, kissing away the drop.

“You’re my mate,” he whispers against her skin, it feels like a weight lifting off his shoulders, off his heart, “Mine.”

She pulls back, just enough to look into his eyes and say, “And you are mine.”

Azriel runs his thumb over the apple of her cheek, “My beautiful, wonderful, vicious mate.”

She smiles and he could fall apart completely. He looks down at those lips, soft and sweet, and Azriel kisses his mate, and for once in his life, everything felt right.

Y/n had been the first to pull away from the kiss, so achingly gentle, “You must be starving.”

Azriel’s eyes were firmly locked on her lips as he said, “Yes I am.”

Every instinct in him was roaring to keep kissing her, to do more than that. His mate, gods this was his mate.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly two weeks, you need to eat.”

That gets his attention, his dark brows furrowed, “Two weeks?”

“The others are waiting in the dining room,” she says gently, “We can wait, we’ll go whenever you’re ready, but your family is desperate to see you.”

He’d been asleep for two weeks, they’d be beside themselves with worry, his brothers especially. There’s two voices in his head, one begging to see them, one that remembers that they’d also seen that arrow go into his chest, had watched as he nearly died. The other voice begs him to stay, to lay this female down and claim her in every way he could, his mate.

“You’re still recovering,” Y/n says, hand coming up to rest on the bandages over his chest, “Eat first, see your family. I’m not going anywhere.”

Yet. That unspoken word, she wasn’t going anywhere yet. He wonders if she heard it too, wonders if she could feel his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

Azriel wants to scream, instead he swallows it down and says, “Food first then.”

Y/n smiles and Azriel memorizes the image of her, tucks it away for later, ignoring the feeling of sand trickling down an hour glass, like their time was running out.

“Here, let me help.” She stands, grabbing a shirt from the wardrobe.

Azriel throws the covers off, feeling the sore and stiff muscles throughout his body. He forces himself through it, to lift his arms as she pulls the shirt over his head, to breathe as her hands button the shirt beneath his wings. Each step he takes feels like fire lancing through him, he doesn’t wince, doesn’t complain, only holds onto her hand as she guides them through the halls closer and closer to his family.

“Hold on.” He stops, pulling on her hand just before they turn that final corner, “Give me a second.”

Worried eyes, searching him head to toe, “What is it? What’s wrong? Do you need to sit down?”

Azriel smiles, “I’m alright, Princess.”

“What-“

He doesn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence, his arms wrapping around her waist and tugging her to his chest. The smallest gasp leaves her lips and he breathes it in as his lips find hers. He needed one more kiss, to steady himself, to prepare himself for the overbearing love and care from his family.

Y/n holds tightly to his shirt, “Az.”

He squeezes her hips, his name on her tongue was one of his favorite sounds. He hums against her lips, memorizing the feel of this too.

“Az I need to tell you-“

It could wait, everything could wait. He needed her now, who knew how much time he had left with her. He kisses her like he was trying to steal the air from her lungs, so entwined with her, with the feeling of her mouth, of her hands, of her body, his defenses down. Not even his shadows warned him.

A blade pressed between his shoulders, between his wings, the sharp tip digging in just enough to sting, and a lethally calm voice, “I recommend you take your hands off my daughter.”

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[websterss]

HOW DARE YOU— She’s gonna start pulling away I just know it 😭 the ring only answered what she questioned when she told Azriel if his mate gets upset with them being close UGGGHH WHYYYYY if she see’s Azriel interact with any of the sisters and starts wondering if one of them are his mate I think I’ll cry 😭 this is so sad!!!

If It All Fell (7)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, PINING, Azriel's POV and he is incredibly sad

a/n: Yay here's more <3 I promise it gets happy and there's a little teaser of what that'll look like in this part. Let me know what you think pleaseee :)

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

~~

Azriel 

Azriel’s heart came to a thudding halt.

“What was that?” he asked softly, trying to play it off. Trying to pretend as if you hadn’t just asked him the one question he had hoped would never come. Because you were supposed to get better before it came to this. 

He had begged the Mother for any kind of reprieve.

She hadn’t listened, as Azriel had expected. 

“Mates,” you slurred, your head bobbing on his shoulder. The High Lords had exhausted you. “Helion said you… he said something about a mate. I can’t remember exactly… but no one’s told me what that is.” 

Pure adoration tore at Azriel’s chest. Your words blurred together as you sunk deeper into his arms, and Gods, did he love you. He let himself imagine that you were drunk—just for a moment. You were drunk and still his and he was carrying you home after a night at Rita’s. 

“Azriel?” 

The moment ended and panic replaced the temporary comfort that had consumed him. 

“Yes, my love?” It had slipped, a mistake fueled by his clouded mind. Azriel counted his footsteps and held his breath, but you only hummed in response, too drained to notice the endearment that had fallen with such desperation from his lips. 

“You were telling m’about mates,” you reminded him. Your arm slipped from his neck and landed in your lap. Azriel held you closer, feeling your body begin to lose its grip. 

“Of course,” he dutifully replied. “A mate is… it is a gift from the cauldron. An equal to share a bond with.”

“Like a lover?”

Azriel could hardly piece your words together with the way they tumbled out. 

That, and his stomach was twisting, reminding him of the very bond that was crying out within him. This was wrong. It was all so terribly wrong. He didn’t have to have this conversation with you last time; it had hurt you too much to even hint at the topic. 

Back then, Azriel had been so deep in anguish he couldn't keep food down, so desperate to just speak to you that his body rejected all else. 

This was somehow worse.

“Much stronger,” he whispered, pressing his nose to your temple in an act of weakness. You didn’t notice. “Our souls are linked—mates I mean. A mating bond doesn’t always lead to the pair being lovers, but if they choose to do so, it’s enhanced. It’s unexplainable, truly, having someone connected to you that you love so deeply.” 

“That sounds nice,” you mused, a melodic flow of syllables starkly contrasting the effort with which Azriel was trying to string his sentences together. 

“It is.” He gave in to his urges and looked down at you in his arms, your hair flushed against his leathers, your face soft and drowsy. “It is wonderful.” 

You cracked an eye open. Azriel had stopped walking. “Do you have one?” 

“What?” he choked out. 

“You speak as if you know the feeling well. Do you have a mate, Azriel?” 

“I—” There were no thoughts in his head, nothing but the sound of your voice and your question repeating itself like a bell tolling in a vicious pattern. “Yes,” he sputtered out. “I do, yes.” 

You smiled softly, but it was paired with a furrowed brow and a light sigh. “Good,” you nodded to yourself. “You deserve a mate.” 

Too much talking, too much thinking; your head lulled into his arm, face against his chest, and you were asleep. 

Yes, this was much worse than the last time. 

Azriel adjusted his grip and carried you back to the room you didn’t know belonged to the both of you. 

~~

The pounding in your head was your first indication that you were awake. You moved your hand to your hairline before opening your eyes, applying pressure in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure there. 

Useless. 

A small groan made its way up your throat. The night before, or whenever it was—you had no idea how long you’d been sleeping—was a jumbled mess in your mind. You remembered meeting Helion, being told you were in love with him, being told that you actually weren’t in love with him, and then he and Rhysand had entered your mind and left you as nothing more than a vegetable. 

There were other pieces too, like Azriel carrying you back to your room and talking about… mates? Yes, that sounded right—the larger-than-life, effervescent partners bestowed upon fae by the cauldron. 

And he had told you that he had one. 

That was good. Great, even. Something stirred within you, an uncomfortable feeling, but you ignored it in favor of the pain radiating across your head. Gods, why did it hurt so much? 

Helion and Rhysand had been in your mind. They were going to discuss things with you. 

You shot up far too quickly, the motion sending shooting pains up your neck. 

“What?” you heard a voice panic. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

Another jarring look to the side and you just about passed out from the pain. You caught a glimpse of Azriel before you squeezed your eyes shut to try and manage it, his large form folded into a chair by the door that was certainly not made to accommodate wings. You lowered your head into your hands and heard the chair screech against the floor. 

“What is it, y/n?” Azriel asked, voice closer now. 

You let out a shaky sigh. “Sorry, just—it’s my head, give me a moment.” 

He didn’t speak, but the room became dark. That seemed like an impossible feat, with the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the walls and letting in the rays of the day court sun. But the pounding in your head receded a fraction, and you could tell it was dimmer even from behind your eyelids. 

“Does that help?” he asked, so low you could barely hear him. 

You felt his breath at your arm. 

“Yes,” you whispered back, and when you opened your eyes, Azriel was there. His wings had circled you, encasing you in a darkness that blocked out the world, his knees at the side of your bed. 

“You got up too quickly,” Azriel offered.

“I know, but I wanted to hear what the High Lords had to say about the witch and my memories and what I need to do to fix everything. Have you heard anything?”

“Very little. I’ve been here.” 

“For how long?” 

“You slept for a day and a half.” 

“And you stayed the entire time?” 

“You requested I stay by your side. You’ve been here.” 

You bit into your lip, the heavy weight of guilt loading onto your chest. Azriel flinched as if he felt it himself. “I wanted to stay,” he comforted. “It puts me at ease to… see you while we’re in this court. To know exactly where you are and who’s around you.” 

“Because of last time,” you stated, but it was a question that hung in the air. 

Azriel’s eyes tracked along the planes of your face. His hand twitched. “Yes, because of last time.” 

He looked so serious, bordering on forlorn. Despite the pain in your head and the conflicting emotions rising within you, you attempted to lessen some of the load that seemed to bogg the shadowsinger down. 

“You could have taken shifts with Cassian, you know. Or even, I don’t know, laid on the bed that’s the size of a small apartment. I was out cold the entire time—didn’t wake up once. I wouldn’t have noticed if you did,” you offered with a hint of a smirk playing at your lips. 

Azriel’s gaze dropped to your mouth, his own expression lightening. “Cassian would fall asleep immediately. And, just to let you know, you did wake up. Several times.” 

You gave him a doubtful look. “I think I would remember that.” 

The shadowsinger bit back a smile and something within you shone at the playful look in his eye. “Right, so you don’t remember waking up and practically ripping that from my body?” 

His eyes shot down to your chest, an action which you followed to find a large, unfamiliar sweater swathing your body in warmth. You looked further down at your hands, only to find the sleeves of the garment covering your palms and fingers as well. 

An incredulous laugh bubbled in your chest. “I wouldn’t—I didn’t actually rip this off of you, did I?” 

Azriel shifted his knees into a kneeling position beside you, his wings shuffling and creating a sound you had begun to find comfort in. “Well, you didn’t exactly ask politely.” 

You groaned and shoved your face back into your hands. “Gods, that’s embarrassing. It’s because I was delirious, I swear. Those damn High Lords scrambled my brain.” 

“Y/n, you have a penchant for demanding things in your sleep. Food, water, clothing, more blankets. Once you woke up to ask me for an entire roast duck and in the morning you had no recollection. You were quite aggravated that night.” 

“No, stop, I can’t take this. I am melting into a puddle of mortification and you are making it worse.” 

Azriel chuckled. “It’s alright. I’ve grown used to it over the years. It’s almost charming, really.” 

You peeked through your sweater-clad fingers. “You can’t mean that.” 

“I mean it very sincerely. When you are sick or unwell, you sleep through the entire night. When you wake up and grab the neck of my sweater like you’re robbing me, I know things are okay.” 

You groaned again, this time tilting your head back and immediately regretting the action when a pulse of pain permeated along your temples. But it wasn’t so bad anymore; Azriel and his wings made it better. 

You took a moment to gaze upon his face in the proximity. He was smiling slightly, some humor still shining in his hazel eyes. The occasional shadow made a pass along his cheeks and by his ear, whispering secrets you weren’t privy to and then coming to wind around your body as well. His hair was mused and untamed, landing in soft patterns across his forehead. 

Azriel was so beautiful it hurt. 

“Does your mate ever get upset that we are so close?” you asked, the question not even fully formed in your head before it entered the space.

The smile slipped from Azriel’s lips and you regretted your impulsivity almost instantly. 

“No,” he answered, a slight shake of his head. “I wouldn’t worry about that.” 

“Has something happened? Between the two of you?” 

“Y/n, please don’t worry yourself over—” 

“It’s just—Azriel, I know how hard all of this has been on you. When you spoke of your mate it was the first time I saw you look at peace. That’s why I’m asking.” 

“You remember what I said?” 

“All of it,” you smiled, but Azriel only looked grave. “Az—"

The shadowsinger jutted back as the familiarity left your lips. He sent his shadows out, their configuring forms covering the windows and the cracks in the doors until it was dark enough for him to remove his wings from around you. With him went the comfort of night-kissed air and warmth and all of the things that made sense in this life you had been dropped into. 

“Rhys has requested that we meet in the study to discuss findings,” Azriel relayed, clearing his throat and standing from his place on the bed. “I laid out some of your things and a servant ran a bath when you started to stir. Do you need help—” 

“I’ve got it,” you interrupted, eyes downcast, feeling as though you’d ruined something that was already painfully delicate. 

“I’ll be here if you need me. Just outside the door.” 

You believed him—you did—but something was missing. Something you couldn’t keep up with. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was in love with someone. Mor, maybe? Or one of the sisters Cassian talked about on occasion? 

The thought of him with his mate made you nauseous. 

You shouldn’t have asked. 

~~

“A replication?” you asked, running a hand along the side of your head in an attempt to look casual about the throbbing taking place there. “So… it is like last time?” 

“Partially, but because the witch’s powers aren’t pure, she was unable to mimic what a full daemati can do. So, same outcome, fewer side effects,” Rhys offered, a calming presence across the table. “Witches often find sources to draw from because they don’t have access to their natural abilities any longer. Your source was—” 

“An opening in her mind,” Azriel concluded, expression guarded as he sat stiffly beside you. “There were remaining injuries in her mind. The witch found her weak points and used them against her.” 

Helion nodded, rounding one of the more ornate chairs and basking in the light streaming through the window. “Very astute. We thought there were no remnants of—” 

“Don’t say his name,” Azriel warned. 

“—of the attack,” Helion quickly corrected, obviously not in the mind to start an argument with the keyed-up spymaster. “But they must have been miniscule. We think she must have been an old witch, very practiced.” 

“So what do we do now?” Cassian gruffly asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the windowsill. You turned to look at him, but the sunlight casting his shadow sent your head ablaze. You quickly righted your gaze and squeezed your eyes shut to compensate. 

You felt shadows stalk beneath your feet and across the floor until they consumed the light of the window. If anyone had any comments on the shadowsinger’s act, they didn’t voice them. 

“Now,” Helion breathed out, dropping into a chair and interlacing his fingers atop the oak table. “We wait. Just like the last time, this kind of power is not something we can simply undo. We need a witch, and witches are incredibly elusive.” 

Trepidation gripped your heart, sending your lungs into a fiery descent. You were just supposed to wait? Wait and hope that maybe, possibly, they would find a witch and fix this before your life moved on without you in it?

Your breath came out in quick, uneven puffs, exacerbating the ache in your head. 

Azriel sat up in his seat, high alert and on the defensive. 

But Rhysand was quicker than his spymaster’s anger. “There is the possibility that this wears off on its own.” 

Your eyes snapped up. “Was that a possibility last time?” 

“No,” Cassian remarked, brows shot up to his hairline. “That’s why you were missing for so long and in so much pain after. You both made it clear that there was no moving whatever the daemati put in her head.” 

Helion and Rhysand shared a look, but your High Lord was the one to speak. “It was weaker this time, more permeable. We think, with time, the wall the witch attempted to replicate will break down and you’ll have everything back. She did only do this to you to flee from attack. It wasn't personal.” 

“How much time?” Azriel strained. 

Helion replied this time. “There is no way to know, shadowsinger.” 

“What about the pain? You said fewer side effects but I couldn’t even have light in my room this morning.” 

Rhysand looked sheepish, eyes darting over to the window still opaque with shadows. “Yes, well—we may have pushed you a bit too far during our assessment.” 

Cassian let out a disbelieving huff from the corner of the room. Azriel gripped the arms of his chair until they groaned. 

“So it’ll go away?” you asked, desperation trickling into your tone. 

The wood beneath Azriel’s hands splintered. 

“Yes, very soon. We can give you some tonics before you leave as well. They will help speed up the process,” Helion promised, eyeing his chair being slowly destroyed. 

In a motion that felt almost second nature, you covered the spymaster’s hand with your own, shadows wrapping around the press of your skin. It was then that you noticed the ring. Silver and unassuming, it took up residence on the ring finger of his left hand and looked like it belonged no place else. 

Our souls are linked, he had said, talking about his mate with such passion. 

You removed your hand from his. 

Azriel flexed his fingers upon your departure. 

“We were thinking,” Rhysand began after a pregnant pause that seemed to blanket the room. “With your pain, we might want to stay a few more days. Winnowing can add extra pressure to the body and flying would—” 

“No,” you were quick to dispute. “No, I want to go home. It’s lovely here, Helion, and I thank you for all you’ve done and are doing, but I want to go back to the Night Court. I want to try and live the life I’ve made for myself, even if I have no idea what I’m doing.” Another pause. “If that’s okay.” 

“Of course that’s okay,” Azriel spoke from beside you. His words sounded dull, his fingers remaining outstretched on the chair. 

“We will continue looking for the witch on our side,” Helion nodded, pushing out of his chair. He came before you then, meeting your gaze. “I cannot apologize enough for what your time in my court has cost you. I only hope that all will return to you. I have missed you, y/n.” 

And then the High Lord of Day was gone, and you had no recollection as to why he would miss you in the first place. Everyone was saying they missed you, even as you stood before them unharmed and intact. 

A harsh reality slammed into you with the departure of the High Lord. 

If you didn’t get your memories back—if there were no witches or deteriorating walls in your mind—they would continue to miss you. You would forever be a husk of your former self, never understanding the full picture of who you were. 

But that wasn’t okay with you—not at all. 

[websterss]

hii to my lovely moots (esp locknation), pls share this with ur friends or anyone u think will be remotely interested at all to watch dead boy detectives on netflix!!

its silly, mysterious, a little queer, very found family, spooky, kinda bloody, and it’d suck to see it get cancelled by netfucks. let’s fight for every show’s right to renewal pls ;)

(pls remember: boycotting dbd will not bring lnco or any other similar show back. ive alr heard that some locknation members denounce dbd for misguided reasons, so plsplspls dont do that. just bc lnco was cancelled doesnt mean that dbd deserves the same fate!!)

tagging from the top of my head who i think will like this: @arsonnaire @givemea-dam-break @wellgoslowly @neewtmas @websterss @novelizt @anakinskywalkers-gf

[websterss]

there’s a misconception that grief only happens when we lose people. this is not true. we can grieve circumstances, relationships, missed opportunities. in fact, sometimes when you find yourself plagued with waves of emotion from sadness to melancholy you may be grieving yourself. the version of yourself that you might have been if things had been different, or if only you had said something, or if someone had stood up for you.

[websterss]

[websterss]

[websterss]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓 — 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Even the healthiest flowers wilt one day. It’s nature’s way of teaching us that nothing lasts forever. Azriel learns that the hard way.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): fluff, angst, mentions of being poisoned, mentions of dying, he fell first trope, idk what else?

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6,107

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Azriel x fem!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you guys think throughout the series! Guys I learned to animate on photoshop asdfghjkl so I made the header for this masterlist lmfao. Anyway...surprise it's a mini-series yay! Don't know how many parts. I also don't do taglist!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒:  ‣ Part 1 ‣ Part 2 ‣ ???

‣ 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎: 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

[websterss]

making thibgs... to send people

[websterss]

The Antis do enjoy their fanon over actual canon…

[websterss]

SOFIA WYLIE via instagram

[websterss]

🥹😭😭 I love them your honor!!!

Laborious Activities | Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel and his mate are having a baby.

A/N: @daycourtofficial has infected me with something akin to baby fever with Eris and his gingersnaps and this was the result! (please note that I have never gone through labour so there’s a good chance this is incredibly unrealistic, but then again, we’re talking about faeries so who cares)

Word count: 2521

Warnings: fluff bordering on the corny

-

Her breathing was shallow and fast as Azriel brushed his palm over her hair, her skin shimmering with a thin coat of sweat, her hand trembling despite the thumb he soothed over the delicate skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter beneath the pad of his finger.

"You're okay," he spoke, forcing his words into a soft tone, his features schooled into the perfectly collected, calm mask of someone who supposedly knew what he was doing. "I got you. You'll be fine."

"It doesn't feel fine," she said, and her voice shook, her eyes wide when she looked up at him—fearful.

She'd been cracking jokes only moments earlier, jokes that had worked their magic to calm him. But they'd gotten scarce the longer it went on and the worse it got.

"Madja will be here any moment now," Azriel assured both her and himself with gentle tones, watching the way her eyes flickered to the closed door.

He watched her for a moment, observed the unrest in her movements, the discomfort in her bones when she shifted. The tight grip of her hand found his arm then, her face contorting in pain, and Azriel swallowed thickly at the way she pressed her wobbling lips together, her eyes shut tightly as she rode a fresh wave of tearing agony.

"Breathe through it," Azriel spoke softly, and a cooling shadow moved to brush along her heated forehead. "Breathe with me."

Placing her flat, warm palm on his shirt-covered chest, he took a deep breath, holding it for two beats of his heart before exhaling through slightly parted lips. At the third breath she finally opened her eyes, shining wet now, and Azriel watched as she began to mirror his breathing with shaky exhales.

"That's perfect," he smiled, fingers brushing loose strands of hair from her damp forehead before he leaned down to press his lips to her skin. "You're doing amazing."

Where the fuck are you? he hurled at Rhys through his open mind shields.

Got held up, will be there in five.

"What is it?" she asked, her eyes still locked with his, a note of panic in her tone. "Is it Rhys? What did he say?"

Azriel cursed himself for having shown on his face even a flicker of the anxiety he felt coursing his veins.

"Everything is okay," he assured her. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

A sob tore through her throat at the next contraction, and Azriel clenched his teeth when her hand shot to her swollen belly. She was being torn apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"How bad is it now?" he asked quietly when it ended. "Can't be worse than the knife Cass took to the arm when you two were sparring last year. The way he was wailing, you'd think you chopped it right off."

The laugh that passed her lips sounded choked; her face contorted as she grimaced at him. "You're an ass."

The corners of his lips curled when some of the tension left her muscles at the abating pain, and she sank back a little deeper into the pillow.

Azriel brushed his fingers along her bare arm in a gentle caress. "Have you thought about what we should name her?"

"You don't even know if it's a girl." Her voice was quiet now. He knew she was already exhausted, worn out from the pain, and his chest tightened at the thought that it would get much worse for her before it got better.

"Well, no." Azriel hummed, tilting his head as he looked down at his love with a smile. "But I have a feeling."

She hummed, her own tired version of a smile now breathing light into her features. “A feeling, huh? Well in that case, who am I to question the spymaster?”

Azriel lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes closing as he kissed her knuckles.

It was only when the door opened that both their eyes snapped up to find Madja and Rhys entering the room, one with assuring calm radiating off her, the other with brows furrowed in worry.

"How are you doing, sweetheart?" Madja asked as she set her bag on the floor by the bed.

Y/N gave a wobbly smile. "I've been better."

Sympathy coloured Madja's features, and she nodded as she began to soothe her palms over Y/N’s swollen, nightgown-clad belly.

"Ah, yes, an impatient one you've got there."

"Is everything okay?" Azriel asked, his eyes on Madja as though her words could determine the fate of everyone present. And in a way, he supposed they could. "The wings," Azriel hesitated, swallowing thickly and holding his love's hand in his like a lifeline, "they haven't...?"

"No. You'd know it if they had," Madja spoke gently, moving to dig through her bag.

It was risky, this birth. Dangerous. When he'd found out she was pregnant, when he’d sensed the change in her scent, it had almost driven him mad with worry. He remembered how it had been with Feyre, remembered her screams a little too well, maybe. And Y/N hadn't been here then. She hadn't been touched by whatever Nesta had done to give herself and Feyre the ability to bear Illyrian children.

But apparently, the Mother had smiled upon them, because things had gone ... smoothly. Against all odds, her body had adjusted. Her bones had shifted to widen her pelvis, and once she’d been far enough along to tell, Madja had deemed the baby's wings small enough to risk a natural birth.

They suspected an Illyrian, buried somewhere in the long line of her ancestors, leaving not enough of a genetic trace to bless her with the ability to fly, but enough to allow her to bear a child with tiny wings of its own.

Still, it wasn't by any means safe. They didn't know how her body would react when it came down to it. But at least she'd made it this far. An unknown ancestor had given her a fighting chance.

"Let's get to it then, shall we?" Madja smiled.

When Y/N's face twisted with yet another contraction forcing her body to writhe in agony, Rhys' worried voice rang through the room.

"I could take it away," he said. "The pain."

But Madja lifted a hand. "Pain tells us a great deal, Rhysand. It's nature's way to let us know when something's wrong."

Rhys sighed through his nose—Azriel could hear it from where he kept his eyes on her, on the tense curve of her neck, the heaving of her chest.

A quiet whimper broke past tightly clamped lips and Azriel felt it like a stab in the chest.

"I won't be far," Rhys said, moving backwards to the door as Y/N calmed enough to breathe freely again, and Madja began dragging the fabric of her nightgown over the legs she kept bent at the knees and propped up on the mattress. "Call me if you need anything."

As Rhys closed the door behind him, Madja smiled up at her from between her legs. "Everything looks good, when the next contraction comes, I want you do push as hard as you can, darling. Okay?"

A wave of nausea overcame Azriel at that.

Gods, this was it.

The moment they'd been both dreading and anticipating for months now. When he turned back to look at her, he spotted the same fear in her eyes that he felt boiling deep in his gut, and when he moved closer, he lifted their interlocked hands to breathe a kiss to the back of hers.

"You can do this, my love," he spoke softly over the rapid breaths tearing in and out of her lungs and the thumping heartbeat he could all but feel shaking the very air he breathed. "Just squeeze my hand as hard as you can."

When it started, he thought his heart might break from the sight of her, the sounds she made, the tears that began to roll down her cheeks somewhere around the thirty-minute-mark. Madja had her push four times during each contraction, and every time it was over, all the strength seemed to drain from her body when she fell back to the pillow, chest heaving, eyes wet.

Azriel was muttering quiet words of encouragement into her hair, running his cooling shadows along her heated skin, holding the crushing grip of her hand. But when she pushed and pushed without any sign of progress, he was slowly running out of things to say.

She was actively tearing her body apart, and she had been doing so for hours now. What could he possibly say to help her through it? What words were there that could ease her pain?

"She'll be here soon," he spoke quietly, his arm now wrapped around Y/N’s shoulders so she could lean on him for leverage. "You'll be able to hold her, and you'll see why I was so sure it would be a girl."

But she was crying, exhaustion rolling off her in waves, her head rolling against his shoulder.

"It doesn't work," she sobbed. "Why doesn't it work?"

Madja lifted her eyes, sympathy swimming within them. "It's the wings, dear. They make it harder. They have a bit of resistance and make the baby bigger in diameter. But you're getting there, I promise you are. You just have to push a couple more times."

“I can’t,” she cried, her voice thick, her words slurred and hopeless with exhaustion. “I can’t push anymore. Everything hurts. It hurts.”

"Y/N," Azriel spoke, palming her heated, damp cheek as he directed her gaze to his, a note of desperation in his tone. "You’re doing so good, my love. It’s almost over.”

She gave a choked sob. “It hurts, Az. I don’t—I can’t, I—”

“I know,” Azriel breathed, his voice cracking. “I know it does. But it’s just a couple more times." He swallowed. "A couple more times and you'll have our baby in your arms."

The tired nod she gave broke his heart, but she took hold of his hand, and when the next contraction came, her body tensed all over again and she pushed with all her might.

It took four more. Four times she held her breath and screwed her eyes shut. Four times her voice broke with the scream that tore through her throat. Four times Azriel held on for dear life as she clung to his hand. And when she finally collapsed with a heavy sigh leaving her lungs and every last drop of energy flowing from her muscles, a sharp cry pierced the air and a lump formed in Azriel's throat as he kept his eyes on his love, running his fingers through her damp hair.

He lifted her limp hand to his lips then, and closing his eyes, pressed his lips to her skin.

"You're incredible," he breathed against her.

It was then that Madja approached her side, and Azriel watched intently as she placed a little bundle in the arms of his mate

“Congratulations,” the healer said, smiling. “A healthy girl.”

"Oh Gods," Y/N snivelled, her thick voice all but a breath in the suddenly silent room. "Azriel, look at her. She's ... she's ..."

"Perfect," Azriel breathed, mesmerisation overcoming him as he stared at the squirming little form of his daughter, his shadows fluttering across the room in a display of barely contained joy.

“She is.” A happy sob broke free from her then. "Absolutely perfect."

Azriel’s arm tightened around his mate, his forehead sinking to her temple, his voice lowered to a whisper only she could hear. "You did so good, my love."

She smiled, her eyes always on the babe in her arms, though Azriel could feel the bond between them thrum with golden light, brighter than it had ever been before.

"What was it then?" she asked, her voice exhausted beyond imagination, yet void of the agony that had torn apart her words just moments earlier.

"What was what?"

"What made you so sure she'd be a girl?"

Azriel smiled, and as he looked down at the bundle in her arms, he observed the first shadowy tendril brushing along a perfectly round cheek. "Her shadows told me."

Surprise coloured Y/N’s features as she looked up at him, but when she followed his gaze back to the cheek of their daughter, a delighted sound fell from her lips. "She's a shadowsinger too!"

Azriel leaned his cheek to rest against her head. "I started to notice unfamiliar shadows a few days ago. Just whispers, barely big enough to see.”

His chest expanded with the knowledge that his daughter would grow up as he had—shadows by her side to protect her from harm, to be her friend when she needed one most, to carry her across the lands with nothing but the absence of light.

"Do you want to hold her?" Y/N suddenly asked, looking up at him with bright eyes that carried no trace of the pain she'd just forced her body to endure.

Azriel hesitated but finally nodded, the urge to hold his baby suddenly overwhelming, and when she shifted a bit to move the babe to his arm, his heart swelled large enough to surely burst free from his chest any moment now.

She was barely big enough to span the length of his forearm, her head fitting comfortably in the palm of his hand, and he didn't dare breathe as he held her close to his chest.

"I can't believe we made her," Y/N whispered, running the pad of her thumb along a soft cheek, her eyes brightening when their daughter squirmed at the touch.

When Y/N looked up at him, her gaze was so full of love it stole the breath right from Azriel’s lungs.

“We still have to name her.”

Azriel hummed, gazing at the impossibly tiny face of his daughter, and a twinge of joy shot through him as he realised that she had her mother’s eyes. He’d hoped she would. He loved those eyes. He’d lay down his life for those eyes.

“We could name her after your mother,” Y/N spoke quietly, and Azriel turned to looked at her.

He contemplated her words for a while, but finally…

“No,” he said softly, looking back at the girl in his arms. “No, she should have her own name. One without … history.”

He felt his love’s hand on his arm, her head leaning against his shoulder as she gazed down at the babe he held.

“What about Alenia?”

“Alenia,” Azriel said, testing the way the name rolled off his tongue. “Alenia, shadowsinger of the Night Court.”

He heard the grin in Y/N’s voice when she spoke. “Barely ten minutes old and she already carries a title.”

Azriel smiled and lifted a single finger to his daughter’s cheek, doing as Y/N had done earlier and delighting in the little squirms his caress drew from the babe.

“She shall be the greatest shadowsinger to ever walk the Night Court,” he breathed into the silence of the room. “I know it.”

[websterss]

🥺😭😭😭THIS WAS SO SWEET OH MAAHHHH GAWD!!!

Azriel: baby blanket

Azriel had never had a baby blanket. 

When you found this out, it made you so sad you started crying (you were on your period which didn’t help the emotions). 

You were talking with Feyre and Cassian. Feyre mentioned how she found Rhysands baby blanket in their closet and couldn’t get over how cute it was. 

“It has bats! It was so cute.” 

“Oh yeah, Rhys’ mom made me one with swords on it.” Cassian sipped his beer. 

“And Az?” You asked. 

“Az what?” He quirked an eyebrow. 

“What was on Az’s?” You asked, tilting your head. 

“Huh.” Cassian thought. “I don't think he ever got one.” 

“What? Why?” Your heart was shattering for your husband and mate. 

“When he joined the family, he was in his preteens. A little old for a baby blanket. I joined when I was a bit younger so I think that’s why I got one.” He titled his head as he thought. “He might’ve had one when he was with his blood relatives, but I doubt they let him have any comfort.” He grimaced. 

You teared up. “Rhys’ mom never made one for him?”

“No, just because he was a bit older.” Cassian shrugged. 

You frowned, “I wouldn’t think of it either if I were her I just…” Your lip wobbled. “He deserves it.”

“Aw shit.” Cassian got up and went to your other side. “I forgot you were on your cycle.” 

“Shut up.” You cried, swatting his arm. Which he wrapped around you and pulled you to his chest. 

“He’s okay, sweetheart. He’s a big boy.” He kissed your temple. 

“Everybody deserves a baby blanket. I still have mine.” You bit your lip and sniffed. “I need to make Az one. He deserves it!” 

Feyre touched your shoulder. “I think Rhys still has fabric his mother owned.”

“Can you ask? I wanna make it and include the woman that took him in.” You frowned, “and find some way to include his mother.” 

“Of course.” Feyre said. She also kissed your temple. 

Feyre later asked Rhys, who absolutely let you have some fabric. That way the blanket was from both you and Rhys’ mom. You reached out to Azriel’s mother, who helped you learn to sew. You spent hours with her. You loved doing this so you could give Azriel something meaningful, then it was better since his mother helped you learn. 

You did a few practice runs with random squares of fabric that weren't the special kind. Just to make sure you didn’t fuck up the actual project. 

You picked out a soft fabric he loves because it doesn’t cause sensory issues. You chose if in his siphon blue with stars on it. 

When he came home after you had finished it, he was concerned because you looked like you were up to something. 

It didn’t help that you had made his favorite foods plus dessert (since you wouldn’t let him eat you for dessert with your cycle going on, which he doesn’t care either way for the record). 

Then after dinner, you made him sit on the couch and close his eyes for a surprise. “And I forbid your shadows being sent out! So don't send them!” You yelled as you ran up the stairs to grab the surprise.

“Yes, love.” As if they’d listen to him over you in this case. Plus, he’s never seen you so excited. So no, he wasn’t going to ruin it.  

He heard your giggling as you walked down the steps and couldn’t help his own tiny chuckle. He heard the crinkling of a bag as well. 

“Okay, open your eyes baby.” You said. He opened his eyes to see his love smiling wide and her eyes twinkling. 

She handed it to him, he could feel that it was hefty. He took the tissue paper out and threw it at you, which you giggled at as it hit you. 

Then he saw the most beautiful blanket there. He pulled it out. It was a deep, rich navy blue. Sparkling with the night sky. 

“Did you make this?” He whispered, his heart was already filled because his love gave him something. 

You nodded and that caused his heart to overflow. 

“I love it but what’d I do to deserve it?”

“Just be you.” You said. Then he saw the tears start in your eyes. “Gods, this stupid cycle. The amount of times I cried making it.” You wiped your face. 

“Cassian told me you’d never had a baby blanket. And everybody deserves that bit of comfort. I’m sorry if this seems silly I just-“ Your lip wobbled. “I wanted you to have it.” 

“Oh baby.” Azriel cooed. Which was weird, because he was one of the most feared warriors cooing over his period-ridden wife. “C’mere.” He set the blanket down, and pulled you into his lap. Your thick thighs cradling his muscular ones. 

You fit perfectly in his lap. He then grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around you both. For a baby blanket, it was quite large. You worked so hard. He loved it so fucking much. 

“I’m sorry this is your gift and I can’t stop crying.” You let out a wet laugh. “Gods, the amount of times your mother teased me for crying.” You sniffed. 

“My mother?” He froze. 

“I went and visited her a lot these past few months. She taught me how to sew. We had lots of tea and talked about you.” You teased. “I loved seeing her so much.” You whispered. 

His heart was bursting. You spent time with his mother, his mother who you loved to see.

“Baby, this is beautiful. You’re so talented.” He kissed your forehead. “I can’t believe you made me a baby blanket. Thank you.”

He never even thought that he’d want one. Now, the only way anybody would get it out of his hands would be if he were dead. 

“Where did you find this fabric?” He asked. It was beautiful. As if the night sky itself was woven into it. And so soft on his skin. 

“Rhys’ mother.” You sniffed again. 

He snapped his head to you, confused. You smiled. “I asked Rhys if there was any fabric left from her. Then I actually embroidered your mothers signature in the corner, with her guidance. So,” You shrugged. “It’s from all three of us.” 

“The three most important women in my life.” He murmured. 

He brought you into a kiss that told a thousand words. “Thank you.” His voice broke off. “I can’t even begin to think of how to repay this.”

“That’s the thing Az. You don't have to. I’m your wife, I am honored to give you something so special.” You whispered, clutching his face. 

“You didn’t just give it. You made it. You make me so happy, my love.” He brought you in for another kiss. 

After that night, you kept catching him snuggling the blanket. He wouldn’t travel with it, it was his prized possession. It never left your house. All your family knew about it was that you made him a blanket. 

Then, for away missions. You made him a travel size one. 

Then for his birthday. A tinier matching one. Only with your signature in the corner opposite his mothers. 

And, an embroidered baby footprint.

[websterss]

when flowers wilt sauuurrrr good omg!!!!

🥺🥺🥺thank you love!