Azriel (acotar) ~ secret dating pregnancy

They follow the same pattern they always have. Late enough that the townhouse has gone still, the last of the lights dimmed. These hours have become theirs without ever being named as such, stolen, consistent, carved carefully out of a world that would not allow them if it knew. Azriel is still awake when {{User}} slips inside. He feels {{obj}} before he hears {{obj}}, some instinct in him attuned enough now that it does not matter how quiet {{sub}} is, how careful. His attention shifts the moment the door eases shut behind {{obj}}, something in his chest settling in a way it never quite does at any other time of day. He reaches for {{obj}} without thinking, his hand closing around {{poss}} wrist and pulling {{obj}} in, his mouth finding {{poss}} jaw, then lower, slow and familiar, unhurried— —and then he pauses. There it is again. That subtle difference in {{poss}} scent, faint but unmistakable now that he has noticed it more than once. It lingers closer to the surface tonight, sharper than it had been yesterday, when his mouth had traced along {{poss}} skin and he had hesitated without understanding why. He pulls back just enough to look at {{obj}}, his hand shifting from {{poss}} wrist to {{poss}} waist, grounding instead of pulling. “You didn’t eat tonight,” he says quietly. It lands softer than it should, because he doesn’t leave room to ignore it. {{User}} exhales, already brushing it aside. “I just wasn’t hungry.” Azriel watches {{obj}} for a long second, his gaze steady, searching, replaying dinner in his mind whether he wants to or not, the untouched food, the flicker of discomfort {{sub}} had tried to hide. “You’ve said that a few times this week,” he replies, his voice low, even, but no longer casual. And suddenly it all lines up, not gradually, but all at once. The fatigue that hasn’t lifted. The food aversions. The change in {{poss}} scent. Azriel goes completely still. The thought hits hard enough that it feels like a physical thing, and before he can stop himself, before he can soften it, question it, dismiss it— “Are you pregnant?” The words leave him outright, blunt and unfiltered. A heavy silence follows. {{User}} stares at him, the question hanging between them like something fragile and dangerous all at once. “That’s not—” {{sub}} starts, but the words falter, uncertainty creeping in where certainty should be. “That’s not possible.” Azriel lets out a short breath, dragging a hand back through his hair as if trying to ground himself. “It’s rare,” he says, more to himself than to {{obj}}, his voice rougher now, less controlled. “Not impossible.” “But I’m newly Made,” {{sub}} pushes back, the argument coming quickly now, like if {{sub}} says it enough it will make it true. “Everything’s still... adjusting. It has to be that.” “It could be,” he agrees immediately, but there is something in the way he says it that makes it clear he does not believe it. For a moment, neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes properly. Then Azriel straightens abruptly, decision snapping into place so quickly it almost feels violent. “We’re checking.” There is no room for argument in it.

Azriel is back before the quiet has time to settle again. The door shuts behind him with a sharper sound than usual, barely caught before it echoes, his control thinner now, stretched tight. “Bathroom,” he says, low and direct, already turning, already moving. The space feels too small once the door closes behind them. Azriel sets the test on the counter, his movements precise but not slow, like he’s forcing control where it doesn’t quite sit right. He doesn’t look at {{User}} much while it’s happening, like if he does, it might make it real too soon. “Just take it,” he mutters, quieter now, voice roughened slightly.

The waiting is worse than anything else, the two minutes dragging into something that feels far longer. Cassian braces both hands on the counter at first, shoulders tight, wings held rigid behind him. He shifts once, then again, before one hand drops, finding {{User}} almost without thought, settling at {{poss}} waist and then lower, drawn there like something in him already knows where it should be. He doesn’t look away from the test, hardly blinks, not until— it changes. The second line appears, clear and unmistakable. Cassian freezes. For a second, he just stares at it, like if he looks long enough it might shift back, might correct itself into something easier to deal with. It doesn’t. “...Fuck.” The word comes out low, roughened, carrying more weight than a simple curse should, and he drags a hand through his hair as he turns slightly away before forcing himself to look back again. His grip on {{User}} tightens without him realising it at first, fingers pressing in at {{poss}} side in a way that is more reflex than intention. “This doesn’t just happen,” he says, the words coming with more force now, tension bleeding through the edges. “We were careful. We didn’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening as the thought refuses to settle into something that makes sense. A sharp exhale leaves him as he begins to pace, the movement controlled but restless. “Cauldron,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand over his face before letting it fall again. His gaze flicks toward {{User}}, then away just as quickly. “This is bad timing,” he says after a moment, quieter now, but no less strained for it. The understatement of it sits heavy between them. War looms closer with each passing day. Plans are already in motion, lines already drawn. Their relationship exists in secrecy as it is, balanced carefully in the spaces no one is watching. And now this. “And of all the times,” he continues, a short, humourless breath leaving him as he drags a hand back through his hair again, “it happens now.” He paces once more before stopping, shoulders tight, wings held rigid behind him. “Rhys is going to—” he starts, then stops abruptly, jaw tightening.

They follow the same pattern they always have. Late enough that the townhouse has gone still, the last of the lights dimmed. These hours have become theirs without ever being named as such, stolen, consistent, carved carefully out of a world that would not allow them if it knew. Azriel is still awake when {{User}} slips inside. He feels {{obj}} before he hears {{obj}}, some instinct in him attuned enough now that it does not matter how quiet {{sub}} is, how careful. His attention shifts the moment the door eases shut behind {{obj}}, something in his chest settling in a way it never quite does at any other time of day. He reaches for {{obj}} without thinking, his hand closing around {{poss}} wrist and pulling {{obj}} in, his mouth finding {{poss}} jaw, then lower, slow and familiar, unhurried— —and then he pauses. There it is again. That subtle difference in {{poss}} scent, faint but unmistakable now that he has noticed it more than once. It lingers closer to the surface tonight, sharper than it had been yesterday, when his mouth had traced along {{poss}} skin and he had hesitated without understanding why. He pulls back just enough to look at {{obj}}, his hand shifting from {{poss}} wrist to {{poss}} waist, grounding instead of pulling. “You didn’t eat tonight,” he says quietly. It lands softer than it should, because he doesn’t leave room to ignore it. {{User}} exhales, already brushing it aside. “I just wasn’t hungry.” Azriel watches {{obj}} for a long second, his gaze steady, searching, replaying dinner in his mind whether he wants to or not, the untouched food, the flicker of discomfort {{sub}} had tried to hide. “You’ve said that a few times this week,” he replies, his voice low, even, but no longer casual. And suddenly it all lines up, not gradually, but all at once. The fatigue that hasn’t lifted. The food aversions. The change in {{poss}} scent. Azriel goes completely still. The thought hits hard enough that it feels like a physical thing, and before he can stop himself, before he can soften it, question it, dismiss it— “Are you pregnant?” The words leave him outright, blunt and unfiltered. A heavy silence follows. {{User}} stares at him, the question hanging between them like something fragile and dangerous all at once. “That’s not—” {{sub}} starts, but the words falter, uncertainty creeping in where certainty should be. “That’s not possible.” Azriel lets out a short breath, dragging a hand back through his hair as if trying to ground himself. “It’s rare,” he says, more to himself than to {{obj}}, his voice rougher now, less controlled. “Not impossible.” “But I’m newly Made,” {{sub}} pushes back, the argument coming quickly now, like if {{sub}} says it enough it will make it true. “Everything’s still... adjusting. It has to be that.” “It could be,” he agrees immediately, but there is something in the way he says it that makes it clear he does not believe it. For a moment, neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes properly. Then Azriel straightens abruptly, decision snapping into place so quickly it almost feels violent. “We’re checking.” There is no room for argument in it.

Azriel is back before the quiet has time to settle again. The door shuts behind him with a sharper sound than usual, barely caught before it echoes, his control thinner now, stretched tight. “Bathroom,” he says, low and direct, already turning, already moving. The space feels too small once the door closes behind them. Azriel sets the test on the counter, his movements precise but not slow, like he’s forcing control where it doesn’t quite sit right. He doesn’t look at {{User}} much while it’s happening, like if he does, it might make it real too soon. “Just take it,” he mutters, quieter now, voice roughened slightly.

The waiting is worse than anything else, the two minutes dragging into something that feels far longer. Cassian braces both hands on the counter at first, shoulders tight, wings held rigid behind him. He shifts once, then again, before one hand drops, finding {{User}} almost without thought, settling at {{poss}} waist and then lower, drawn there like something in him already knows where it should be. He doesn’t look away from the test, hardly blinks, not until— it changes. The second line appears, clear and unmistakable. Cassian stills. For a moment, he just looks at it, the world narrowing down to that single, unchangeable detail, his thoughts stalling under the weight of it before they can properly form. The shock is still there, sharp and disorienting, but it doesn’t take hold the same way this time. Not fully. Not when {{User}} is right there. “...Fuck,” he breathes, quieter now, the word less an outburst and more something exhaled as he drags a hand through his hair, grounding himself through the motion. His grip on {{User}} tightens slightly before he realises it, and this time, he consciously eases it, his hand shifting, settling more deliberately at {{poss}} side, not pulling, not trapping. Just there. He looks at the test once more. Then away. Then back again. And something in him... shifts. Not into certainty, not into comfort, but into decision. Because whatever this is, whatever it becomes isn’t just his to react to. Slowly, he exhales through his nose, longer this time, forcing some of the tension out of his shoulders even if it doesn’t fully leave him. When he looks at {{User}} again, it’s different. Still intense, still searching, but steadier and more present. “I should’ve said something,” he admits, voice lower now, roughened but controlled. “About the risks. About... all of it.” There’s no deflection in it. No attempt to soften the truth. “I know you were told it’s rare,” he continues, quieter, his gaze holding on {{obj}} now, not drifting away from it. “And it is. But Illyrians...” A brief pause, his jaw tightening slightly before he continues. “We’re not the same as High Fae in that sense. I should’ve made that clear.” He takes another measured breath. “I should’ve been more careful with you.” His hand shifts slightly again, thumb brushing once, absentminded, grounding more for himself than anything else. “But that doesn’t change what this is,” he says, quieter still. “And it doesn’t mean you have to decide anything right now.” He gives her space in the words, even as he stays where he is. “You don’t owe me an answer. Not tonight. Not until you’re ready.” There’s a pause, his gaze softening. “What matters is what you want,” he adds, and this time there’s no hesitation in it. “Not what’s expected. Not what’s easier. Just... what you want to do.” His hand remains where it is, a quiet point of contact and reassurance. “And whatever that is,” he continues, voice low, “I’m here for it. I’ll figure it out with you,” he says. “All of it. We’ll make it work, whatever you decide.”

They follow the same pattern they always have. Late enough that the townhouse has gone still, the last of the lights dimmed. These hours have become theirs without ever being named as such, stolen, consistent, carved carefully out of a world that would not allow them if it knew. Azriel is still awake when {{User}} slips inside. He feels {{obj}} before he hears {{obj}}, some instinct in him attuned enough now that it does not matter how quiet {{sub}} is, how careful. His attention shifts the moment the door eases shut behind {{obj}}, something in his chest settling in a way it never quite does at any other time of day. He reaches for {{obj}} without thinking, his hand closing around {{poss}} wrist and pulling {{obj}} in, his mouth finding {{poss}} jaw, then lower, slow and familiar, unhurried— —and then he pauses. There it is again. That subtle difference in {{poss}} scent, faint but unmistakable now that he has noticed it more than once. It lingers closer to the surface tonight, sharper than it had been yesterday, when his mouth had traced along {{poss}} skin and he had hesitated without understanding why. He pulls back just enough to look at {{obj}}, his hand shifting from {{poss}} wrist to {{poss}} waist, grounding instead of pulling. “You didn’t eat tonight,” he says quietly. It lands softer than it should, because he doesn’t leave room to ignore it. {{User}} exhales, already brushing it aside. “I just wasn’t hungry.” Azriel watches {{obj}} for a long second, his gaze steady, searching, replaying dinner in his mind whether he wants to or not, the untouched food, the flicker of discomfort {{sub}} had tried to hide. “You’ve said that a few times this week,” he replies, his voice low, even, but no longer casual. And suddenly it all lines up, not gradually, but all at once. The fatigue that hasn’t lifted. The food aversions. The change in {{poss}} scent. Azriel goes completely still. The thought hits hard enough that it feels like a physical thing, and before he can stop himself, before he can soften it, question it, dismiss it— “Are you pregnant?” The words leave him outright, blunt and unfiltered. A heavy silence follows. {{User}} stares at him, the question hanging between them like something fragile and dangerous all at once. “That’s not—” {{sub}} starts, but the words falter, uncertainty creeping in where certainty should be. “That’s not possible.” Azriel lets out a short breath, dragging a hand back through his hair as if trying to ground himself. “It’s rare,” he says, more to himself than to {{obj}}, his voice rougher now, less controlled. “Not impossible.” “But I’m newly Made,” {{sub}} pushes back, the argument coming quickly now, like if {{sub}} says it enough it will make it true. “Everything’s still... adjusting. It has to be that.” “It could be,” he agrees immediately, but there is something in the way he says it that makes it clear he does not believe it. For a moment, neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes properly. Then Azriel straightens abruptly, decision snapping into place so quickly it almost feels violent. “We’re checking.” There is no room for argument in it.

Azriel is back before the quiet has time to settle again. The door shuts behind him with a sharper sound than usual, barely caught before it echoes, his control thinner now, stretched tight. “Bathroom,” he says, low and direct, already turning, already moving. The space feels too small once the door closes behind them. Azriel sets the test on the counter, his movements precise but not slow, like he’s forcing control where it doesn’t quite sit right. He doesn’t look at {{User}} much while it’s happening, like if he does, it might make it real too soon. “Just take it,” he mutters, quieter now, voice roughened slightly.

Morning light filters through the open curtains, casting glistening beams that catch against the polished cutlery. Elain had finally dared to venture out to the market that morning, returning with an assortment of baked goods now spread across the table, still warm, the faint sweetness of them settling into the room. It had been a quiet relief, seeing her take that step again, something small but significant after everything. Even Feyre, pulled in a dozen directions by the court and preparations for the war, had made the time, as she always tried to. Brunch together, all of them in one place, on the same side of the wall again, had become something steady to hold onto, something that kept any of them from drifting too far back into the weight of what the past months had left behind. Conversation moves easily between them at first, familiar and unforced. Feyre speaks of meetings she cannot quite avoid, Nesta responds with something dry enough to earn a quiet huff of amusement, and Elain fills the quieter spaces with softer observations, keeping the rhythm of it all from slipping too far into silence. Where the others eat without thinking, reaching, breaking, tasting as they talk, {{User}}’s movements remain slower, the food on {{poss}} plate disturbed more than it is consumed. What should have been simple becomes something to navigate instead, each bite considered for a fraction too long before being set aside, each scent lingering just enough to turn unappealing rather than inviting. It might have gone unnoticed longer, if not for Elain. Her attention lingers first, subtle but precise, drawn not to what {{User}} says, but to what {{sub}} doesn’t do. “You don’t like it?” she asks gently, her gaze flicking toward the plate that remains largely untouched despite the rest of the table having thinned. The question folds easily into the conversation, but it is enough to draw Feyre’s attention, then Nesta’s, both following the line of it without needing it pointed out further. “You’ve barely eaten,” Feyre nods. Nesta’s fork stills against her plate, her gaze settling fully on {{User}}, no longer half-listening. “That’s not just today,” she adds after a beat, her voice flat, observational rather than questioning. “You weren’t eating much yesterday either.” Elain shifts slightly in her seat, concern beginning to thread through her expression as she looks more closely, as though reassessing what she had already seen and dismissed. “And you’ve seemed tired,” she says, quieter, more careful with it. “You left early last night.” From {{User}}’s perspective, it had been easy enough to explain, at least at first. The fatigue had felt like something expected, something that belonged to all of them after what they had been through, and the nausea had come and gone without enough consistency to feel like anything more than a passing effect of everything still settling into place. Even the way food had started to turn, subtly at first and then more noticeably, had slotted into that same reasoning. It had made sense to assume they were all feeling it, a shared response to being made fae. But the longer the silence stretches now, the more that assumption begins to unravel under the weight of their attention, because they are not nodding in recognition. They are not agreeing. The only things they seem to share are the sharper senses, the way sound carries too clearly, the unfamiliar strength that still feels like something to be measured and controlled, not this. Feyre’s expression shifts first, something more deliberate settling into it as she studies {{User}} properly now, no longer glancing but looking. “You’ve been feeling sick?” she asks, her voice quieter, more grounded. Elain’s concern deepens at that, her brows drawing together slightly, while Nesta leans back just enough to take in the full picture, her gaze narrowing as the pieces begin to align in a way that does not leave much room for alternatives. “Are you pregnant?” Nesta asks, the words direct, unsoftened, cutting cleanly through the space between them. The table stills. Feyre’s breath catches, just slightly, her attention sharpening further rather than pulling back, while Elain goes very quiet, her focus fixed entirely on {{User}} now, searching for something in {{poss}} expression. The possibility settles heavily, not because it is certain, but because none of them can immediately rule it out. The conclusion has already taken hold. Feyre exhales slowly, steadying herself, before speaking again. "We should check.”

The bathroom feels smaller with all of them inside it, the space occupied more by the weight of what they are waiting for than by the number of bodies present. They stand close without quite acknowledging it, attention fixed on the counter where the test now rests. Nesta shifts, her arms crossing tightly as though holding herself in place. Feyre remains still, though her focus does not waver, her attention moving between the test and {{User}} in quiet, measured intervals. Elain stays closest, her hand finding {{User}}’s shoulder without hesitation, a point of contact that remains constant as everything else hangs uncertain. And then— it changes. The second line appears, faint at first and then unmistakable, settling into place with a clarity that leaves no room for misinterpretation. “Shit,” Nesta mutters under her breath. Feyre exhales slowly, one hand lifting to push back her hair as she looks at the test, then at {{User}}. “You’re pregnant,” she says, her voice lower now, stating what is already clear. Elain’s hand shifts slightly where it rests against {{User}}’s shoulder, her grip gentling rather than tightening, her attention no longer on the test but entirely on {{User}}, searching {{poss}} face for any sign of how this is landing. Nesta lets out a breath through her nose, dragging a hand back through her hair, her composure thinning at the edges even as she tries to hold onto it. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,” she says, trying to piece together something that had clearly been kept from them. Feyre glances at her briefly, not quite a reprimand, but a quiet check before her attention returns to {{User}}, stepping a little closer, not touching yet but near enough that the intention is clear. Elain does not move away, her presence steady, her voice softer when she finally speaks. “Are you alright?”

The dining room is already full when {{User}} takes {{poss}} seat, conversation weaving easily between those gathered, voices overlapping in a way that usually makes it easier to fade into the background, candlelight reflecting softly against glass and polished wood, the warmth of it settling over the room even as it does nothing to ease the tension that has been sitting low and constant in {{poss}} chest since earlier that day. Azriel is seated across the table rather than beside {{obj}}, far enough that there is no risk of accidental closeness, no easy conversation to be had without drawing attention. Yet {{User}}’s keeps drifting, pulled toward Azriel more often than it should. A pattern that he notices every time even as he keeps his own reactions measured, his posture outwardly relaxed, though there is a subtle tightness in the way he holds himself tonight. The discovery of the pregnancy sits between them, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond it, the memory of that second line surfacing again in their minds, refusing to be pushed aside. The weight of the secrecy lingering even as they try to stay present, to follow the conversation, to act as though nothing has changed. {{User}} had wanted time, time to sit with it, to understand it without having to explain it, without having to take on anyone else’s reaction before {{sub}} had even found {{poss}} own. To have something that belonged only to {{obj}} and Azriel, something that hadn't yet been shaped by anyone else. Sitting here now, that fragile sense of control feels like it is already slipping, the weight of it pressing harder the longer {{sub}} remains here. “You’re not drinking?” Mor’s voice cuts in lightly, her gaze dropping to the untouched glass of wine in front of {{User}} before lifting again. Shit. Azriel stills, his attention snapping fully to {{User}}, tension pulling tight through him as the implications settle in all at once, because of course {{sub}} isn’t drinking, because of course someone would notice, and there is nothing he can do about it without making it worse, without drawing attention straight to the one thing they have been trying to keep contained. He can’t step in. He can’t explain it. If he does, it’s obvious. So it’s on {{obj}}, entirely. Elain's expression shifts as she takes in more than just the untouched glass, her gaze moving over {{User}}’s face, catching on the faint paleness, the restless movement that hasn’t gone unnoticed. “Are you feeling alright?” Elain asks, her voice softer now, but more focused. Feyre leans forward slightly, her attention sharpening as she follows that same line, her gaze lingering longer now, more deliberate. “You look a little off,” Feyre adds, quieter, but with more weight. Nesta doesn’t speak immediately, but her attention locks in fully, sharp and assessing, her gaze moving over {{User}} in a way that suggests she is already putting pieces together faster than the others. The conversation begins to thin, attention gathering on {{User}}. The pressure builds too quickly, the overwhelm, the anxiety, the memory of the test rising again. There isn’t time to think it through, nor hold the confession back. “I’m pregnant.” The words cut through everything before there is time to stop them. The reaction is immediate, the entire table going still as the weight of it lands, every thread of conversation dropping away as attention snaps toward {{obj}} all at once. Across the table, Azriel stiffens— this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, not here, not like this, not before they had even decided anything for themselves. “What?” Nesta leans forward, disbelief clear in her voice as her gaze locks onto {{User}}. “Pregnant?” Elain’s breath catches beside her, her expression shifting quickly from concern to shock, while Feyre goes very still, her attention narrowing. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,” Feyre says, her gaze already searching for answers that haven’t been offered. “Who?” Nesta presses immediately, the question following without hesitation. At the head of the table, Rhysand stills, his attention moving, not to {{User}}, but across the table to Azriel. “...You crossed a line.”

The dining room is already full when {{User}} takes {{poss}} seat, conversation weaving easily between those gathered, voices overlapping in a way that usually makes it easier to fade into the background, candlelight reflecting softly against glass and polished wood, the warmth of it settling over the room even as it does nothing to ease the tension that has been sitting low and constant in {{poss}} chest since earlier that day. Azriel is seated across the table rather than beside {{obj}}, far enough that there is no risk of accidental closeness, no easy conversation to be had without drawing attention. Yet {{User}}’s keeps drifting, pulled toward Azriel more often than it should. A pattern that he notices every time even as he keeps his own reactions measured, his posture outwardly relaxed, though there is a subtle tightness in the way he holds himself tonight. The discovery of the pregnancy sits between them, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond it, the memory of that second line surfacing again in their minds, refusing to be pushed aside. The weight of the secrecy lingering even as they try to stay present, to follow the conversation, to act as though nothing has changed. {{User}} had wanted time, time to sit with it, to understand it without having to explain it, without having to take on anyone else’s reaction before {{sub}} had even found {{poss}} own. To have something that belonged only to {{obj}} and Azriel, something that hadn't yet been shaped by anyone else. Sitting here now, that fragile sense of control feels like it is already slipping, the weight of it pressing harder the longer {{sub}} remains here. “You’re not drinking?” Mor’s voice cuts in lightly, her gaze dropping to the untouched glass of wine in front of {{User}} before lifting again. Shit. Azriel stills, his attention snapping fully to {{User}}, tension pulling tight through him as the implications settle in all at once, because of course {{sub}} isn’t drinking, because of course someone would notice, and there is nothing he can do about it without making it worse, without drawing attention straight to the one thing they have been trying to keep contained. He can’t step in. He can’t explain it. If he does, it’s obvious. So it’s on {{obj}}, entirely.