Sweetest Devotion
Summary: The bond between you and Azriel had been inevitable, a thread spun from the stars long before either of you understood its weight. But love—love had been a choice, a slow-burning reverence that consumed him even after lifetimes, even after death itself.
Just a cutey little Az blurb I messed around with :)
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The bond had snapped young.
Azriel had only just turned eighteen when the golden thread of fate wove itself tightly around his ribs, binding him to you, a girl of sixteen who had no idea what such a thing even meant. The realization had hit him like a mountain collapsing onto his chest, all at once, suffocating and overwhelming. He had stared at you for what felt like eternity, cataloging every detail—the warmth of your eyes, the delicate curve of your lips, the way your scent already called to him like a siren song.
And yet, he had stepped away.
It had been the hardest thing he had ever done. To not claim you, to not pull you close and tell you that you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you. He had been a warrior for years already, had known pain intimately, but nothing had compared to the agony of watching you laugh with other males, of knowing that he could not have you yet.
You had fought him on it. Gods, you had fought him.
You had called him a coward, had screamed at him that you knew something was different, that you felt it too. He had only stared at you, swallowing the words that burned in his throat, forcing himself to turn away.
Two years. Two unbearable, soul-crushing years.
And then, when you were eighteen, when the world had shaped you a little more, when you had learned what it meant to make your own choices—you had come back to him. And Azriel had finally, finally allowed himself to touch you.
But your father had seen the bond as an advantage. He had never cared for what it meant to either of you, only for the political leverage it provided. And so he had taken you to Velaris during the war, dragging Azriel along, believing he could control what blossomed between you.
Because being near you had been intoxicating.
The relationship had not been allowed to progress beyond lingering touches and heated kisses stolen in the dark. But even that had been too much. The number of times you had to mask your scent at dinner, biting your lip to suppress a laugh as one of Azriel’s shadows curled beneath your skirts, playing at the sensitive skin of your thigh, was almost comical. He had smirked at you across the table, golden eyes darkened with something dangerous, something hungry, and you had nearly lost all self-control right there.
Then, the war had stolen you from him.
Dying had been agony—for you, for him. He had felt the bond snap, had felt something inside him shatter. And yet, even in death, you had heard him.
His voice had come to you in the quiet, a whisper in the darkness. When he was lost, when he was alone, he had spoken to you, had called for you.
And then Amren had ripped you from the Cauldron.
The first thing you had seen was Rhysand’s face. He had been the one to hold you as you sobbed, confused and aching, your mind sluggish from the transition. Then Mor, whispering that it was okay, that you were safe. Then Amren, explaining why you had been brought back. Cassian had collapsed before you, weeping as he gripped your hands.
He had walked beside you, silent, unwavering, his presence steady even as you trembled. He had not touched you, not spoken, not until you were inside his tent at the war camp.
And then all restraint had shattered.
Neither of you knew who had moved first, only that the moment your bodies collided, it had been raw and desperate, lips clashing with too much force, hands gripping, tearing at clothes, gasping against each other as tears mixed between ragged breaths. He had held you like a man starved, like he had been dying and you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
When the war ended, when peace settled, Azriel had worshipped you in earnest.
Years passed, and still, Azriel was utterly, devastatingly devoted to you.
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You were drunk, swaying slightly as Azriel guided you through your home, his hand firm at your lower back. He had only left you alone for one night out with Mor and Feyre.
The door had barely swung open before Azriel was there, stepping inside with the kind of quiet precision that made him nearly undetectable—except to you. Even in your tipsy haze, your body recognized him, responded to the shift in the air, the sudden weight of his presence filling the space.
You had barely managed a wobbly smile before his shadows surged forward, curling around your wrists, gliding up your arms, slipping around your waist like invisible ribbons of night. They pulsed, an extension of him, seeking, checking, brushing over the soft skin of your neck before twining through your hair. It was not just a greeting. They were inspecting you.
Azriel’s golden eyes darkened, scanning you from head to toe as his shadows flicked back to him with quiet murmurs only he could hear. His jaw ticked.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, an edge of tension laced between his words.
You blinked, feeling the way his shadows coiled tighter, the way they hovered at your pulse points as if to reassure themselves. One of them wrapped gently around your wrist, another ghosted across your cheek, cool and soothing, a stark contrast to the heat blooming beneath your skin.
You laughed lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “Az, I just had a few drinks with Mor and Feyre. I didn’t go to war.”
His wings flared slightly behind him before tucking back in. “You smell like too much wine,” he muttered, but his hands had already found your waist, steadying you, grounding you.
One of his shadows twisted around your ankle, winding up your calf as if confirming your words. It wasn’t unusual—his shadows had always been possessive when it came to you, but tonight, they seemed almost frantic, unable to settle.
“I’m fine,” you assured, voice softer now as you reached for him. Your fingers traced the calloused skin of his knuckles, guiding one of his hands to your cheek. “I promise.”
Azriel exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over your lips, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, as if making a decision, he scooped you up effortlessly, his arms locking you against his chest before you could even pretend to protest.
Your giggle was muffled against his throat as he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, his wings shifting around you slightly, cocooning you from the rest of the world. His scent—night-chilled mist and cedar—wrapped around you, grounding and familiar.
His shadows coiled beneath your legs, ghosting up your thighs, curling protectively around your shoulders as if to say, ours, safe, whole.
“You’re impossible,” you murmured, tilting your head to nuzzle against his jaw.
Azriel only hummed, carrying you with quiet ease, his grip firm but gentle. “And you,” he murmured against your hair, voice dipping into that reverent, low tone that always made your breath hitch, “are mine.”
As if in agreement, his shadows curled around your intertwined fingers, sealing the vow in whispers only the night could hear.
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“Az, I’m fine,” you said as he led you to the bedroom, but he only hummed in response, his grip tightening slightly.
“You smell like wine,” he mused, amused. “And poor decisions.”
You pouted, leaning against him heavily. “I make great decisions.”
Azriel chuckled, settling you onto the edge of the bed before kneeling in front of you. His hands were warm as they brushed up your thighs, slow and deliberate. You barely had time to register the touch before he was reaching for a cloth and a bowl of water he had already set aside.
“Close your eyes, love,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, reverent tone that always sent shivers down your spine.
You sighed, obeying, as he gently wiped the makeup from your face. His touch was featherlight, unbearably tender, as if he were handling something fragile and precious. You felt his fingers brush against your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip before pulling away.
When you opened your eyes, he was watching you with a look that sent warmth blooming in your chest.
“Better?” he asked softly.
You nodded, reaching for him, but he only chuckled again, catching your hands in his.
“Bath first,” he said, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You let your head rest against his shoulder, inhaling his scent—night-chilled mist and cedar, home.
The bath was already drawn, the water steaming as he lowered you in, slipping in behind you. His hands moved over your skin, slow and careful, working through your hair, washing away the remnants of the night.
You melted into him, sighing as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
His arms tightened around you. “I’d do anything for you.”
And you knew he meant it.
Because Azriel was the sweetest kind of devoted.
He never asked for recognition, never made grand declarations. His love was in the way he noticed everything—the way he bought you little trinkets when he caught you glancing at them for a second too long, the way he always had dinner ready after you’d had a long day, the way he read to you at night, his voice a steady, soothing cadence as you curled against him.
It was in the way he wrote you letters, even when you were just in another room.
Because to Azriel, you were not just his mate.
You were his goddess. And he would worship you until the end of time.
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