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Cupid’s Chokehold (Part 7)
Azriel x Reader
Summary: You are a Cupid, a nearly extinct creature of Prythian. When you get caught trying to shoot Elain with your arrow, well, it’s a little hard to explain what you’re trying to do.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 2,811
[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]
Notes: The finale 😭 Please enjoy 💙
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It’s that revelation that makes him rethink everything.
Had he really been do dumb as to not notice what was happening between the two of you? The cheeky banter between the two of you, you getting on his nerves and him getting on yours. The almost kiss you’d shared when he had been cleaning your wound. The wound he had a hand in giving you. The heightened emotions he felt when it had anything to do with you, Eris’ threats or Rhys’ scolding, he didn’t care about any of that as long as you were okay.
Or had you just made another general assumption about love?
Azriel could admit that your words were convincing, even if he didn’t fully believe in the entirety of what your species was doing. And seeing Eris agree, having a sour experience with your kind, had made the shadowsinger rethink everything you had said, for he would never admit that the Autumn Lordling was right in any way, shape, or form.
Keep reading
Inadvertently Yours pt. 9 - Azriel x Reader
Description: As Eris Vanserra’s most trusted spy, you‘ve found yourself spending a surprising amount of time with the Night Court’s Spymaster. When your rendezvous with Azriel is discovered by High Lord Beron, the only way to protect the alliance is to pretend that you and Azriel are madly in love.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
Warnings: canon typical violence, death
Author's notes: I loved writing some of this part and absolutely despised writing the other half... my brain was simply not cooperating! thank you for reading 😚💕
Word Count: approx. 2500 words
As he enters Beron’s office, your father stands tall, centuries of pride draping over him.
“My lord,” he greets, bowing at the waist in deference to his High Lord—the male he had pledged his loyalty to in his youth.
Beron merely grunts in response, not bothering to look up from his papers.
“Bring me a glass of whiskey, will you?” Beron says, his voice gruff, his eternally youthful face furrowed as he examines his work.
Your father, the dutiful servant, nods. As his hand closes around the extravagant crystal decanter, his back to his High Lord, he says, “I have news, my lord.”
He pours Beron a hefty glass of whiskey, offering it to the High Lord, who takes a large swig. Beron raises an auburn eyebrow impatiently. He never was one for patience.
“It seems your heir is plotting to hasten his inheritance,” your father notes, his tone serious.
Beron’s russet eyes flicker to your father, widening slightly. He lets out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he takes another sip of whiskey.
“Ungrateful boy,” he spits. “What do you know?”
Your father takes a breath, carefully considering each word before he speaks. “I overheard him plotting with the Shadowsinger. They plan to kill you together.”
That has a smirk forming on Beron’s lips, amusement glinting in his gaze.
“And here I was thinking Eris was too blinded by his own jealousy,” Beron muses. He traces a finger around the edge of his crystal glass before taking another sip. “It seems your daughter’s cunt isn’t as magical as he thought.”
Clenching his fists at his sides, your father takes the comment in stride. He doesn’t dare disagree. He’s used to this—has heard Beron call you all sorts of uncouth things as the High Lord concocted his plot to breed himself a Shadowsinger. Nothing could be gained by disagreeing.
“What would you have me do to resolve this?” Your father asks in a deferential voice.
Beron tilts his head to the side, considering. Then he downs the last of his drink before setting the glass on his desk with a loud thump.
“For now, do nothing,” Beron orders. “Even with the Shadowsinger’s powers, Eris is no match for me. When the time is right, I’ll punish the boy as I see fit.”
“Of course, my lord,” your father says with a bow.
And then, the coughing begins.
At first, Beron merely sounds as though he’s clearing his throat, as though there’s a tickle he can’t quite itch. Slowly, it intensifies, the High Lord of the Autumn Court struggling for breath.
“More whiskey, my lord?” your father asks, concern glinting in his gaze.
Beron shakes his head. “No, no. I’m fine—I just feel…strange.”
“How so, my lord?”
Beron wheezes, hitting his chest as though it might allow the air to pass smoothly. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I need the maids to dust the office.”
Your father hums, his gaze meeting Beron’s as the High Lord struggles for breath.
“I doubt the maids will be able to help,” he says in a low voice.
Beron’s brow furrows in confusion. “And why is that?”
“Because you just drank whiskey laced with faebane,” your father says, nodding to the empty glass sitting on Beron’s desk. The glass he had poured himself.
Hours Earlier
“You really ought to be careful about where you discuss murdering a High Lord. You never know who might overhear,” your father says in a condescending voice, and Azriel and Eris are moving before you can even blink.
Azriel’s infamous dagger shimmer in his hand as he stands in front of you, blocking your body from your father. Eris unsheathes the Made dagger Rhysand had gifted him, ready to pounce at your father.
But your father merely holds up his hands, raising an eyebrow at the two males. “Now, now, I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”
“Then why did you come here?” You ask, your tone tense.
“Perhaps I was simply interested in the company you keep, daughter,” your father says, his gaze sliding between Azriel and Eris. “You haven’t come to visit since your little wedding.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your father was not a kind man, had never been generous with his love or affection. Surely, he wasn’t just missing you.
“Speak plainly,” Eris commands, and your father straightens his back slightly as he takes in the Autumn lordling. “What do you want?”
“Perhaps I want the same thing as you,” your father notes.
“You’ve always been loyal to Beron. Why are we to believe that’s changed?”
“That was before he decided to breed my daughter with a lesser faerie brute,” he sneers, and you bristle as tension seeps through Azriel.
“Do not speak of him like that,” you snarl, narrowing your eyes on your father, who merely raises a brow at your defense. You wonder if this is truly the first time you’ve ever stood up to him. “Azriel is better male that you’ve ever been.”
“I wondered if it was a love match,” your father muses. “I must say, I am surprised. I thought I trained you better.”
A growl seeps from your throat, and your fists clench at your sides. You want to say more, a retort forming on your lips, but Azriel’s hand slipping into yours, stills you, drawing your gaze. He offers you a small smile, squeezing your hand gently as if to say it’s alright.
Your father watches the exchange carefully, noting the way Azriel’s wing curls around your body protectively, as though he would do anything to keep you safe.
Loosing a sigh, your father takes a deep breath. When his gaze meets yours, there’s something unfamiliar lingering within his eyes. Remorse, perhaps? Or even stranger still—an apology.
“I did not know Beron’s plans,” he tells you, his tone strangely soft, as though he’s begging you to believe him. “I may not be the perfect father, but you have to realize that I will not stand by and let him force you to bear a child against your will.”
“Especially not a ‘lesser faerie’ child?” You challenge, and your father merely shrugs.
“I’m not perfect,” he admits. “But you are my daughter. I may be loyal to Beron, but your welfare, your happiness comes first.”
You’re not sure what to say, what to think as you take in the male who stands before you. Azriel’s shadows dance around your father’s body for a long moment, determining the truth of his words. When your husband meets your gaze, nodding slightly, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Eris watches carefully, his lips pursed. “So you will keep what you heard to yourself?”
“I will do more than that,” your father says, his gaze locked on yours. “I will do whatever I can to help.”
And with that, the four of you plot how to kill the High Lord of the Autumn Court.
The Present
Beron’s russet eyes widen on your father, processing his words, his betrayal. Clutching his chest, he tries to catch his breath. He’s so shocked by your father’s treachery that he doesn’t notice Azriel’s shadows as they loop around his wrists, pulling him towards his desk chair.
When you, Azriel, and Eris winnow into the room, armed with your favorite daggers, Beron snarls, struggling against his shadow bindings.
“How dare you?” He growls, flames burning in his gaze. He bares his teeth at Eris and your father—his heir and his most loyal advisor.
“Now, now,” Eris says with a smirk, twirling his Made dagger in his grasp. “You always did tell me to take what I wanted without asking, father.”
A low growl flies from Beron’s throat, but he can’t break past Azriel’s shadows with the faebane in his system. Your father had played his part, had given Eris the opportunity he needed to end this. To end his father.
“All this for a female married to another male?” Beron sneers, and Eris’s grip tightens on his Made dagger as he prowls forward.
“This is for her and for mother and for Lucien, and for all the other people you’ve terrorized,” Eris says, his voice firm as he approaches his father. He doesn’t balk as Beron glares at him, daring him to act.
“You’ll never–” Beron starts, but Eris doesn’t let him finish. With a single swoop of his wrist, Eris silences Beron, dragging his Made dagger across his throat.
For a long moment, Beron chokes, his eyes wild as he looks at his son—the child he raised to be brutal and conniving. The heir who was destined to take his place.
And as Beron bleeds out, Eris lets his dagger fall to the floor, overcome by the weight of what he had done. The reality that his father now longer owned him.
When he turns towards you, there’s a mixture of relief and horror in his amber eyes. You don’t hesitate before throwing your arms around your oldest friend, holding him as his entire world shifts.
“I did it,” Eris breathes, as though he doesn’t quite believe it’s all real. You nod, clutching him to you.
And when Beron’s final breath sputters out, life leaking from his body, you take a step back as the High Lord power seeps into Eris’s bones, rewriting his very essence. Your gaze meets Azriel’s, and he offers you a small smile, drawing your body closer to his, his wings enclosing slightly around you.
“My lord,” your father says, bowing his head to Eris, and it all sinks in. Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court.
Eris nods at him, acknowledging his presence, the gift your father had given to both him and you. That gift, his role in Beron’s demise, likely earned your father a place in Eris’s court. Perhaps even a place in your future life.
Then Eris’s gaze finds yours, noting how you stand by Azriel’s side.
“You have a place here,” Eris tells you. “You’ll always have a place here. Marriage or not.”
You offer him a smile even as Azriel stiffens by your side, his shadows returning to him. They swirl around his muscular body, never quite settling.
Eris’s amber eyes slide over to Azriel, assessing the Shadowsinger. He takes a step forward, refusing to break eye contact as both males size each other up.
“Shadowsinger,” Eris says, and you find yourself holding your breath, carefully watching the interaction.
“High Lord,” Azriel replies, only scrunching his nose slightly at Eris’s new title.
And then, Azriel bows his head, offering Eris an ounce of deference—an offering of a truce in the never-ending feud between them. When Eris nods back, there’s gratitude in his gaze. He won’t forget the Shadowsinger’s role in his ascension to the throne, the way he chose to stand by Eris’s side.
“When you’re ready, my lord, we should discuss next steps,” your father says, finally drawing Azriel and Eris’s attention away from
Eris nods, standing tall.
“Will you return to the Night Court?” Eris asks you, and you can feel Azriel’s heavy gaze on you, his attention unwavering. You nod, offering Eris a small smile. You and Azriel had unfinished business.
“Dinner next week?” Eris asks.
“I’d like that.”
And without another word, the new High Lord of the Autumn Court makes his way from Beron’s office, your father on his tail. The power, the responsibility, looks good on him. And you find yourself truly believing that Eris will make the Autumn Court a better place.
…
“I thought you might decide to stay in Autumn now that Beron is dead,” Azriel says when the two of you have winnowed back to the House of Wind. Azriel keeps his voice low, his tone soft as he stares at you, his hazel eyes warm but wary.
You meet Azriel’s gaze, tilting your head to the side. “Well, all of my belongings are here.”
“Right.” Azriel’s hazel eyes leave yours, focusing on a point in front of him. His voice is stiff, his body held tight. “Of course.”
For a moment, you say nothing before letting out a small laugh. Reaching up slowly, you place a hand on Azriel’s cheek, drawing his gaze back to you. He looks down at you, his eyes widened, and for a moment it looks as though he’s holding himself back, unsure what to think.
“Azriel,” you say, letting your hand linger on his tan cheek. “I know we were both coerced into this marriage. I don’t expect anything from you moving forward, but I can’t say that I’m eager for whatever this is between us to end.”
“You aren’t?” He asks, swallowing slowly.
“No,” you trace your thumb gently across his cheekbone, appreciating the way he leans into the touch. “I must admit, I’ve grown rather fond of you.”
“Have you now?” Azriel’s lips quirk upward into a smirk.
You roll your eyes, but your smile widens. “I have. But I understand completely if you don’t feel the same way.”
A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer to Azriel. He holds you firmly against his body, savoring the feeling of your skin against his.
“I don’t want this to end either,” Azriel tells you, his voice soft. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this way about someone before.”
Your heart sings in your chest as you look up at the male who went from stranger to husband to whatever the two of you were now. “Me neither.”
Azriel lets out a relieved breath. “I know Eris said that I wanted this marriage to end, but now that I know you, now that I know how good we are together, I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”
“What is it that you want, Azriel?”
He smiles down at you—the sight breathtaking. You let your hands rest on his firm chest, breathing in his scent. “I want to have you in my life; to be your husband for real this time. I want to hold you and kiss you, and at some point, I’d like to bed you without any of Beron’s scheming.”
There’s a weight to his words, to the longing that has settled between your souls.
“Oh, is that all?” You tease, lost in the warmth of Azriel’s touch. He lets out a soft laugh, his hand tracing a pattern on your lower back. Standing on your tiptoes, you smile up at him. “I want this to be real too,” you tell him, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.
And then Azriel is kissing you back—his lips crashing against yours as he finally releases the desire he had kept hidden, locked away. His lips taste of devotion, and you can’t help but smile into the kiss. Azriel’s scarred hands cup your face, his tongue exploring your mouth, memorizing your taste, and you wonder if he feels it too. If he feels the way your soul sings at his touch, the way it feels as though you’re two halves of the same whole.
You can’t be sure what tomorrow will bring, but the thought of having Azriel by your side—as your husband—makes it all worthwhile.
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