Azriel/female reader

I'm not sure how many of you are interested in ACOTAR fandom but-

have the first 3k or so of this untitled Azriel fix. It's unedited, so keep that in mind. Hope everyone has a great weekend!

In the woods just inside the confines of The Middle, Azriel finds a puzzle.

More aptly, Azriel finds you, bathed in the glow of the sunset, iridescent snowflakes from the first snow delicately falling to your shoulders, your hair, the tip of your nose.

There’s magic on the wind carrying your scent, something different he cannot place, the tang of petrichor sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Strange, beautiful creature, the shadows whisper. He’s inclined to agree. Strange indeed.

For a moment, he thinks of Bryce. He remembers her entrance into this world, her stories of her home, strange things both he and Nesta have no concept of. The star on her chest.

She is of no threat to us.

That’s not for you to decide.

He slips into the caliginous wisp curling around his shoulders, a shroud of darkness allowing him a closer look, just as a persistent huff at the edge of his mind pulls his attention.

Where are you?

Working.

Working where?

South. There’s a snort.

One-word answers, how sufficient. You’re not a pariah. Come home.

Once I’m finished.

The conversation eclipses his focus until you slip on the frozen riverbank, and he tenses, gaze swinging to where you’ve caught yourself with a squeak, one hand behind your back, palm slicked with mud.

Who is that?

No one. I’ll report to you later. With that, the conversation ceases, walls of tenebrific smoke rising to block out the irritated hiss of his brother.

The edge of The Middle is considered somewhat safe, though not without risk, a perplexing fact that spurs him closer for a better look as you rise from the river, frozen blades of glass crunching under the sole of your boot. Your ears are pointed, limbs elongated, both markers of High Fae, but something still lingers, a natural, earth rich sillage left in your wake. Your hips swing from the effort of pushing up the bank, backpack in hand, and the sway distracts him. It’s hard to ignore the shape of you, the weight of your breasts, the pert bow of your top lip. Gods, at full height, you barely reach his shoulders, and his body reacts in a way that’s out of his control.

Rhys’ warning is ice between his ears. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. 

He’s long let her go, but the command from his brother still sits bitterly in his stomach, along with untended desire.

Still, even your calves draw his eye.

Lovely little female, the shadows croon. He grits his teeth and falls into step behind you, cautiously allowing the inky tendrils to sprawl across bramble laced ground. One licks too close, just barely caressing the edge of your heel, and you freeze.

So does he. Your chin turns towards your shoulders, and an unnatural stillness falls over the wood, culminating into a quiet so loud it shatters as you fix wary eyes on the space where he stands. He holds his breath and noctilucent clouds part overhead, drawing back the curtain on a star filled night sky, silver light shimmering across fallen leaves.

You can’t… you can’t see him, can you?

You blink, lips parted, quizzical, anxious expression bringing your brows together. “Hello?”

Your reaction puzzles him. How is it you are out here, in The Middle, so brazenly, so recklessly, calling out to a place filled with such sinister, monstrous darkness?

A momentary desire enflames in his blood. A burning ache builds a fantasy in his head, one of you with your pants pulled down your ankles and bent over his knees, sweet cries filling the room as you take your punishment for such recklessness, his open palm raining smack after smack down onto your ass.

He shakes the vision away. Madness.

You tilt your face to the break in the clouds, downy white snowflakes sticking to your eyelashes and celestial shimmer dotting your cheeks in such a way it feels transcendent, and the shadows, his shadows, vibrate with frenetic, enchanted energy.

Beautiful, they coo as they reach for you, nearly finding the bend of your neck before he snaps them away.

You shift the backpack hung from your shoulders and take one last look around, confusion languishing in your expression until you shake your head and turn on your heel to head into the forest. The urge to follow you is too great, your presence here is now a riddle requiring answers now, if not for his own curiosity, then for the safety of the Night Court, his family. Who knows who you are, what you are, what your business is in this place-

Shadowsinger. Nuala’s whisper halts his pursuit. The fox is here with news of Koschei.

With one more long look at your retreating back, he reluctantly steps into a pocket of a shadow, leaving The Middle and its new mystery for another time. Soon.  

Azriel does not like surprises.

In fact, he prides himself on rarely ever being surprised, at least in Velaris.

So to stumble upon you at the Palace of Bone and Salt, to see you in the midday sun, boots and muddied cloak replaced by a plum stained linen dress, hair pinned up in various places off your neck and holding a large canvas bag at your side, stops him in his tracks. He falls behind Cassian and Nesta without a single word, slowing his steps to mimic the way you drift through the stalls, nodding and smiling to others as if you belong here. As if this is your home. The wary look in your eyes from the other day has been replaced by a radiant, celestial glimmer, one that draws those around you closer, and something squeezes around his heart at the sight.

Our sweet girl.

Stop it.

“Az?” Nesta turns, noticing his absence, Cassian following suit almost immediately.

“Sorry,” he replies smoothly, running a hand down the buttons of his shirt. Even from paces away, the scent of your skin fills his nostrils, dampened wood from rain and freshly fallen fruit. Foolishly, his gaze lingers too long, long enough his brother notices, and breaks out a broad grin.

“See something you like?”

Cassian plants his feet and places himself directly in your path, pretending to look on absentmindedly, perusing a stall full piled with fresh cuts of meats. You try to move around him, but the flow of bodies stalls your momentum, and you nearly trip over your feet, giving Cassian an opportunity to reach out and steady you.

“I’m sorry!” Your fingers grip the straps of your bag, righting yourself after recovering from the stumble. Azriel closes his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his brow.

“That’s alright. I’m Cassian,” he grins extending his hand. When you don’t reciprocate, he breezes right past, ignoring the awkwardness of your refusal. “This is Nesta, and my brother, Az.” Azriel inclines his head, and you look from Cassian to him, before settling on Nesta.

Most in Velaris look away from Nesta, like they’re staring at a star so bright it hurts their eyes, but not you. You meet her head on, studying curiously, and her lips quirk to the side in a barely-there smile.

“Ignore him. He’s an oaf sometimes.” She playfully nudges Cassian with an elbow, and you relax slightly. His brother doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone however and clears his throat.

“This is the part where you tell us your name. It’s customary.” You’re taken aback for a second, a micro-expression of unease that no one else tracks save for himself before recovering with a tepid smile.

Your name rings like a bell, a chime of music, strings and key perfectly played in harmony. The shadows sigh.

“Do you live around here?” Cassian pushes, and you bite your bottom lip.

“Yes, I- I work at Moonflower’s.”

“The apothecary?”  

“That’s the one.”

“Maybe we’ll see you there sometime. Nesta’s always in need of a new elixir.” She raises a brow at her mate, who flashes Azriel a mischievous smirk.

“Oh, I work in the back.”

“You’re an alchemist.”  Azriel’s observation is cold, and you glance at him before shirking away.

“Yes.” Your voice is a shade above a whisper, quiet beneath the bustle of the market, but he still catches every trembling breath. A moment passes, suspended in time, until Cassian coughs, breaking the spell. “I uh… I should get going, I’ve got a lot of work to do. It was nice to meet you all.”

“You too!” Cassian hollers. “Well, she’s-“ Nesta smacks the middle of his chest, and Azriel glowers.

“Don’t.”

He finds you again in The Middle, same backpack and boots, diligently picking through a patch of chartreuse moss. He swallows his scowl. Why are you out here alone, again? It frustrates him. Why put yourself in such danger?

“Hello.” You whirl, startled like a rabbit.

You scared her, the shadows groan, and his wings flex.

“H-hi.” Music again, a melody on the breeze, and the shadows flutter around his shoulders, scrawling across the ground to where you kneel. He orders them back, wielding a sharp-edged command that cuts, but they stray farther, stretching for you, carefully floating across your forearms.  

Momentarily, he’s stunned and then gathers his wits, yanking them away. They’ve never, never behaved this way. Born from desolation, tamed from darkness incarnate, he’s shaped them into obedient spies, tools spread across Prythian, ethereal wisps capable of things others cannot comprehend. Always in service, always compliant.

You look up at him with a little bit of wonder in your eyes, pretty little smile tugging at your mouth. He should say something reassuring, something kind or friendly to ease you, but such sentiment fails him, and he scowls before snapping at you instead.

“Why are you out here by yourself?” Your face falls, unease replacing the shimmer in your eyes.

“I’m… I need things. Ingredients.”

“And you need to come out here to get them?”

“The plant life is more vibrant here, more uh, c-concentrated? The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…” Magical plants?

“The Middle is a dangerous place.” He replies flatly.

“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.” He’s effectively chastised you now, and you glance at your bag at the edge of the clearing, eager for an escape, but he’s not willing to let you go.

“You’re quite far from Velaris.” You nod, but offer no explanation, and he raises an eyebrow.

“I winnowed.” You rock back on your heels and stand, shuffling closer to your backpack. He doesn’t move to stop you, just stands in the middle of the moss patch, studying your every move. “I have to get back,” you explain, offering him a nervous smile, one he doesn’t deserve. He nods silently, and you wilt. It strikes a chord in the pit of his stomach, and in a last-minute moment of weakness, he sends a shadow to ride the coattails of your winnow, issuing a stark warning to reaffirm the mission.

Observe and report to me. Do not make yourself known.

Always.

Our sweet looks beautiful tonight, the shadows report in a flurry of excitement, and he pauses mid cut as the Fae in front of him whimpers, twisting his wrists, trying break free from the chains.

That is not worthy of a report. He blatantly ignores the possessiveness, the pet name. For now.

She’s going to Rita’s with a friend. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Her dress is blue. Cobalt.  

Why are you reporting this?

We’re acting as instructed.

This is a futile information, he chastises, and the answer is resounding silence as he shakes his shoulders and turns back to his prey, the whimpering, bloody Fae strung up before him.

“Where were we?”

Outside of Rita’s, Azriel lurks in darkness.  

His family is inside, unaware he’s in the alley, tucked away from prying eyes. He’s freshly showered, blood scrubbed out from beneath his fingernails, blackened door in his mind firmly shut and locked away, just like its twin in the dungeon.

It’s been too long since he’s gone out, always choosing to slink away just before the conversations turn to plans, separating himself from Mor, and Elain, distancing himself from scrutiny or worse, pity.

Tonight, he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t shake the idea of you here, so close, so tangible.

He slides from the shadowed pocket, and Fae step around him, eyes going wide and then shooting to the ground, eager to avoid, to get away.

He dons his mask, cold indifference, malevolent gaze, and slips inside.

Cassian knows he’s inside before he’s in view. A brother’s intuition, an instinct that has served them well in battle and elsewhere, since they were young.

Tonight, he greets Azriel with a wide, knowing grin, dragging his gaze to the other side of the room and Azriel has no choice but to follow, spotting the obvious immediately.

You.

You’re perched at a table, legs crossed, smiling, laughing, holding a too full glass of wine. The dress is cobalt blue silk, delicate lace stitched on the hem, thin straps exposing your neck, your clavicle, your back. For a moment, he imagines his mouth on those places, he dreams about what you might taste like, how smooth you’d be against him, the contrast of his ruined hands and your satin skin.

His cock throbs, sense and composure momentarily slipping away before he regains control.

The shadows sigh. Our beautiful girl.

Stop calling her that.

Why? She is beautiful. And she is ours.

“Az!” Feyre is delighted, trying to wave him over. He’s always had a soft spot for his High Lady, endlessly impressed by her resilience, her love and commitment to both his brother and the Night Court, her kindness. “It’s been so long,” she teases as he slides into the seat at her left, pointedly ignoring Cassian’s smug smile.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work.”
“We miss you. You haven’t been at dinner in weeks.”

“It’s true,” Mor says softly at the other side of the table, brows creased in concern. He gives her a small, reassuring smile, one he hopes conveys the truth. It’s not your fault. She visibly relaxes.

“So, Az,” Cassian stretches, too big for the booth, arm coming around Nesta and tugging her close. “What brings you out this evening?” Fucking. Hel.

“I’ve missed you all.” It’s not a lie, not exactly, even if he’s been keeping his distance, it doesn’t change how he feels about his family, how he loves them in his own way. How it’s easier sometimes, to love others from afar.

If anyone else catches it they stay silent, and Feyre gives him a warm, knowing look. “I’m happy to see you.”

“As I am you.”

You’re drunk.

He doesn’t need the shadows to confirm it, it’s clear from across the room. You teeter on the edge of the stool, giggling, radiant in the wash of dim lighting.

He’s not the only one who notices. Around you, other males watch from the corner of their eye, letting their gazes sweep from head to toe, lingering too long on your breasts, the curve of your waist. A male brushes his hand across your shoulder, another offers to buy you a drink. Rage curls in his stomach, jealously flooding his veins with vigor.

They’re touching her. The shadows are as angry as he is. Hissing and snapping angrily, they rattle around him like a black cloud.

I know.

His teeth might shatter from the amount of pressure coming from his clenched jaw.

The male that follows you out the side door at the end of your evening is the straw that snaps him in half. He abandons the table, his family, slipping away into the crowd as Feyre calls his name.

“Let him go.” Cassian rumbles on the last wind of a chuckle, and he loses the parting words as he pushes the door wide, cool Velaris air stinging at his cheeks.

“No need to run off.” The male’s arm is slung around your waist, your face twisting into a sour swirl of intoxication and discomfort.

“No,” you straighten your back, but both he and offending male catch the waver in your voice. “No, thank you.” He tugs you closer.

“Come on, I can-“ It’s all Azriel can stand. He’s gone in one moment and I’m the next, standing at your side, fingers digging into the male’s arm.

“She said no.” You look up into his face, eyes wide and unfocused, but he doesn’t miss the way you relax with relief, like you’re happy he’s here. Happy, an emotion rarely felt by those who encounter the Spymaster, happy like you’re soothed by his presence. It’s unfamiliar to him, just another sunrise dealt by your hand. The male’s eyes go comically wide, blood draining from his face. He’s sputtering something Azriel is deaf to, too focused on the pulse rapidly fluttering beneath your jaw. “Are you alright?”

“I’m… yes.” You lurch, half stepping back, half stumbling, and he curls his fingers around your elbow.

“You’re drunk.”

“Yup.” You punctuate the single syllable with a hiccup, and inky tendrils curl around your wrist, petting, soothing. He braces for your fear, the uptake in your heartbeat, shallow respirations, but they don’t come.

You giggle instead.

The shadows preen and purr with glee. Our girl.

His shreds of control are slowly slipping away, deteriorating in your presence, and as you look up at him, he lets the mask fall away to reveal a small smile. You suck in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?” You nod rapidly, but your balance is still askew. “You’re too drunk to winnow.”

“I wasn’t going to. I live a few blocks that way.” You nod to the east and then pivot to the west, confused. “Or that way. I’ll know once I get to the street.” He frowns.

“You’ll walk?”

“Well, yes. That’s what those of us do if we don’t have those.” You point at his wings, gaze lingering before you look away sheepishly.

“I’ll walk you.” You blink, surprised, confused, just as he is. The words were not planned, they appeared, conjured from the cold air, pushed from his mouth by some unknown force.

There’s a twist beneath his ribs. Some small ache, a wound, rapidly stretching and spreading, pulling his ribs apart to make more room.

“What? I- I can walk fine, I’m fine.”

“It’s cold.” His voice is soft, softer than he’s ever heard, and it must be enough to quell your protests, because you lick your lips and relent with a sigh.

“Alright then.”

It’s odd, to want to know another, to want to understand another outside his family. This feeling, this ache blooming because of you, is a different one than the festering desiderium he’s held for Mor, for Elain. The pining turned fetid, foul in its taste across his tongue.

The shame of it all is fire in his veins, but the iridescent halo shining onto your shoulders from your porch light quells it somehow, gentles the burn. “How often do you visit The Middle?”

You give him a sheepish look. “Often, lately. I’ve lost my main supplier.” He frowns.

“Why is that?” The Sidra saturates the breeze, briny and sweet, teasing your dress into a flutter at your knees, his shadows hovering over your skin, craving to cloak you in their darkness.

“Most of my ingredients come from the Spring Court, and I can’t really afford the… inflation.” Inflation is a polite way to put it. Tensions between Spring and Night have resulted in rising costs of goods, and total derailment of trade in some situations.

She’s worried her words offend you.

“That’s understandable.” He softens his voice, and your shoulders relax by a fraction. “Still, it is a long way from home, if anything were to happen.”
“I can handle myself.”  He wants to protest, wants to ask if she truly knows what lurks in the Middle