Stay for a while.

Sid♡midlife~crisis♡she/her♡

[sidthedollface2]

Masterlist

Azriel Shadowsinger (Acotar)

Something Old and Something New (Part 1) Something Borrowed (Part 2) Something Blue (part 3 coming soon)

A Crown fit for a God (Series in Progress) Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Eddie Munson

Third Love Prologue ~ El Musico Ch 1 ~ La Dama Ch 2 ~ La Maceta Ch 3 ~ El Boracho Ch 4 ~ El Soldado Ch 5 ~ La Rosa Ch 6 ~ El Cotorro Ch 7 ~ El Catrin Ch 8 ( In Drafts)

The one that got away Part 1 Part 2

Mirror Mirror

[thisonegirl]

pairing : garrett graham x reader rating : nsfw warnings : unrequited love, angst, sexual descriptions wc : 5.1k (edited)

part I part II

You weren’t the luckiest when it came to your love life. Or rather, your lack thereof. 

It was as though you were hardwired to fall for the worst of the worst, bypassing and ignoring all the bright red flags they waved in your face. You were colourblind, it seemed. 

It was a routine of sorts. Meet, fuck, fall in love, fuck some more, get dumped, cry about it, repeat. There was never a point in that routine where an actual relationship existed and that deeply hurt you. You felt as though you weren’t worth loving, just good enough to sleep with.

You were academically gifted, but when it came to matters of the heart, you were as slow as a sloth in the cold. So slow in fact, that you decided that messing around and crushing on Dean Di Laurentis was going to not end as badly as it did. For you at least.

You watched from the other end of the living room as Dean grinded on a gorgeous girl adorning a bold green dress that told you she dressed as Jennifer Lopez. Your jaw clenched as your throat closed up. As the tears welled in your eyes, you turned away and rushed out of the house. You accidentally bumped into your friend’s shoulder, making her follow you after noticing the scene before that prompted such a reaction from you.

“Hey, hey, sweetie, it’s okay,” she said, pulling you into her arms as you began sobbing. 

“Why does this always happen to me?” you asked through the tears.

All your friend could say was “I’m sorry” as she caressed your head and led you to your car. She took the keys and drove you back home. 

As you calmed down, guilt settled in as you realised that you ruined your friend’s night. Mentally cursing yourself, you took your friend’s free hand and kissed it.

“I’m so sorry, we can go back if you want. We’re not far yet,” you said.

“Go back? No, let’s go home and have a little girls night,” she said with a small smile.

“But you were really looking forward to this party,” you countered, “I can handle myself. Come on, let’s go back.”

“You sure?” she asked hesitantly.

“Of course, I’m a big girl.”

She glanced at you momentarily before muttering “okay” and turning the car around. Thankfully, the parking spot you’d left was still empty and the both of you were back in the house in no time. 

You managed to find a chair in the living room, where you sat nursing a beer. You noticed that Dean wasn’t with the green dress girl anymore, but had another girl on his arm. It irked you to no end that he could so freely flaunt his endless roster in front of you and you’d feel every negative emotion imginable, but if you were to do the same with any guy, he would likely not even notice.

Suddenly one beer turned into five and your inhibitions had been lost. You were on the dancefloor with your friend — you didn’t even know where she had spawned from — and the music fuelled the adrenaline pumping through you. 

You felt a large presence behind you. You wondered if you had caught the attention of the only man that mattered to you. You turned around and to your surprise, it was none other than his best friend instead. Garrett Graham.

Your bodies kept moving in unison. He smirked down at you and in your haze, you flirtatiously smiled back. He didn’t know you, or at least it seemed like he didn’t. You weren’t sure whether it stung that you weren’t even worth mentioning to his best friend but you weren’t given enough time to think about it.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asked. You responded with a sultry tone brought upon by your semi-drunken state.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Really? I thought a guy like you would have more game than that?” you teased.

“A guy like me? How do you know me?”

“Everyone knows you,” you stated matter-of-factly.

“Ah. Then I should let you know that I have game where it matters.”

“Oh yeah? And where is that?”

“I can show you if you’d like.” You hadn’t noticed how close you were until his breath hit your lips, almost like a request to proceed. There was a tension brewing in the middle, one that you broke by reaching up and connecting your lips.

“Show me then,” you breathed out in the second your lips left each other.

He took you hand in his and led you upstairs into a random room. The door had barely shut and he was on you already. You didn’t know if it was the buzz of the alcohol but you heated up fast as he kissed you slow and deep.

His hand roamed your body before lifting you top over your head. He gently pushed you back onto the bed, removing your skirt and knee high boots, leaving you only in your underwear. 

He looked at you with a prowess that sent chills down your back to your core. He removed his clothes before joining you in the bed and getting back to the kissing program.

You felt his hand move down your torso, stopping between your legs. You opened them further as an invitation to continue, which he took. 

Pushing your underwear to the side, his slender fingers rubbed your wet lips achingly slowly, purposely avoiding your throbbing nub.

“Stop teasing me and actually do something,” you said firmly, growing more wanting.

“I am doing something,” he smirked.

“Then do more,” you bit back, “or I can just find some willing to.”

That seemed to have done the trick as his fingers quickly entered you, finding your sweet spot in no time. He stroked it fiercely. You moaned loudly. Neither of you cared about being heard. 

You clenched around his fingers, signaling to him that you were close. Like the tease he was showing to be, he pulled his fingers out.

You looked at him shocked. “What the hell?”

He didn’t respond. Only rolled off of you, removed his boxers to reveal his erect shaft and laid back.

“Get on,” he instructed.

“Such a gentleman,” you grumbled sarcastically, but straddled him all the same. You sank down on him, moaning softly as you adjusted to him. 

“You always make the ladies do the work?” You asked.

“Only the more mouthy ones,” he responded wittily.

As you began slowly moving up and down on him, one of his hands made its way to your covered breast and the other to your hip. His eyes flickered between your face to where your bodies joined.

He bit his lip at the sensual sight of your hips rolling against him, your jaw slacked and head tilted back. You looked even more astonishing.

Your legs grew weaker and weaker as you felt yourself get closer to the edge. Your movements began to slow, so he flipped you onto your back to let you “rest” and enjoy the ride as he set a faster pace.

“Fuck” he moaned, pressing his forehead against yours. He took a hold of your legs and placed them over his shoulders. His eyes focused on you as your eyes rolled back. He was determined to prove himself to you.

His hand slid in between your bodies to your clit. He rubbed it rapidly, watching, pleased, as you lost yourself even further. Your eyes were squeezed shut so you missed the shit-eating grin on his face as he looked down at you.

Your moans grew louder as you felt that familiar pressure building up in your gut. As his movements grew sloppier, you knew he was close too. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, thighs trembling and toes curled as you reached your climax. 

Right on time for him as he pulled out not wanting to finish in you, and stroked himself before releasing onto the sheets beneath you.

You both heaved as you came down from both your highs. You sobered up as you looked at Garrett who now laid beside you. 

Oh no.

Regret was a feeling you were most definitely familiar with. Actually it happened more often than you would like to admit but that never stopped you from getting into situations that would make you feel it again. You got dressed and rushed out of the room with Garrett stunned quiet watching you leave without another word.

Questions raced in your head. Did Dean see you with his friend? Did he get jealous? Will Garrett talk about it to him?

Fuck! You probably ruined what you had with Dean by sleeping with his friend.

You grabbed your friend, who fortunately didn’t drink on account of being the designated driver, and left.

The drive home was quiet as you decided to pretend to sleep the whole way to avoid being questioned. Soon enough you were in bed with your thoughts and struggling to sleep.

—-

Standing in front of his house felt pathetic. You stood there, staring at the door, pondering if you should go in or not. 

With a deep breath and a count of five seconds of bravery, you went in. John Logan and a couple of other guys sat on the sofa playing some hockey game.

“Hey Logan,” you called out, “Where’s Dean?” 

“His room,” Logan responded without looking at you.

You made your way upstairs to his room. You knocked on his door, and entered after hearing a soft “come in” from the other side. 

Dean was laying on his bed, smiling at his phone. Your heart tightened as you thought that he was likely texting another girl.

“Hey…” Dean greeted with his brow arched inquisitively.

“Hey,” you breathed out. Your hands began to sweat and your heart raced so fast that you could feel it in your throat.

“What are you doing here?” He set his phone aside, giving you his full attention. That action made you even more nervous.

“I wanted to talk to you,” you responded meekly, still standing awkwardly by the door.

“About what?”

‘Us.” 

He crunched his face in confusion. “Us?” He asked.

“Yes, us.”

“Okay, go on…” he trailed off.

You cleared your throat trying to recall the speech you had practiced for hours the night before.

“I really like you, Dean,” you began. You noticed he wanted to interrupt you but you stopped him. “I really, really like you. I know this was meant to be casual and everything, but I thought I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t at least try to see if you’d be up for something more between us.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered. You looked at him dejected as he slowly made his way to you. He took your hands in his and you looked up at him as he seemed to struggle to find words to respond. “Look Y/N. I like you too but I’m not really a relationship guy. You know this. Plus, I thought you were seeing Garrett.”

“It was once and it was casual,” you said defensively, “I-I… I really want to be with you.’

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“We can try —”

“Y/N…” he sighed. 

You didn’t realise you had started crying until his thumb swiped away the tears that you’d spilled. The feeling of humiliation washed over you like a wave. You burst out of his room and rushed back to your car. He called out to you from the hallway, not even bothering to follow you outside. Once in your car, you burst into loud sobs. You leaned against the steering wheel and cried your heart out. 

You really did it to yourself. The never-ending cycle of heartbreak that you submitted yourself to every few months was pushing you to the edge of your wits. You truly believed that you were unlovable. Fuckable, for sure, but not more than that. 

You were startled out of your weeping by a knock on your window. Much to your dismay and embarrassment, it was none other than Garrett. You hurriedly wiped your face before opening your window to Garrett’s concerned face.

“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” He asked, leaning against your car door.

“I’m fine,” you feigned a smile.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I need to go. Bye Garrett,” you said, starting your car.

“Hey, no, wait,” he stopped you, “how about we go to Malone’s and grab something to eat…or drink?”

“Look Garrett —”

“Please?” He insisted. You sighed before nodding and motioning him to hop into your car.

The drive was awkward. You knew Garrett wanted to ask why you had been crying, but you appreciated that he didn’t. 

The pair of you sat in a booth in a corner, silently waiting for your orders. The air was heavy, loaded with a question that ached to be asked. When your food arrived, you nibbled on it, not really having the appetite to indulge. 

“This is really good,” Garrett said with his mouth full, slicing through the tense silence between you. You just nodded in response.

“Are you feeling better?” He asked, to which you nodded again. “Wanna talk about what happened?” You shook your head.

You had a feeling he knew. You didn’t know why, but you had an inkling considering the context clues he already had. You zoned out thinking about Dean and what had happened. You cursed yourself for sleeping with Garrett in that moment of weakness. It likely cost you a relationship with the man you truly loved. 

“What are you thinking about?” His voice pulled you away from your thoughts. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” you responded very straightforwardly.

“I’m a curious guy,” he shrugged.

“Some people might call it nosy, actually,” you retorted.

“Same difference.”

“Look, I don’t want you to think that what happened is —”

“I know it doesn’t mean anything. I just figured you’d want some company,’ he clarified, much to your relief as you weren’t sure how you’d word out that you didn’t want anything with him.

“Great! Yeah… um” you stumbled through your words.

“I don’t wanna seem mean or anything, but as a quick word of advice, Dean isn’t a serious relationship guy. He’s a cool dude, for sure, but the sooner you realise that it’s really just sex for him, the better off you’ll be.”

You stared at him agape. The numbness that had settled in your chest began throbbing into an ache again. 

“I know that now,” you croaked. “Um… I’m gonna leave now… uh…thanks for the— this, I guess.” You gather your things, abandoning the barely eaten food on your plate. 

“Hey, I didn’t —”

“Please stop. I get it okay. I’m not worth a relationship.” You got up and left the diner, not even thinking about how Garrett was going to get back. 

Unfortunately for you, the man was persistent, so he followed you out. You expected him to call out to you, or do something to stop you but no. He followed in silence and got into your car with you.

You looked at him, shocked at his audacity.

“So? Are you gonna drive or?” He asked.

“I’m going to my dorm,” you said.

“Cool,” he responded.

“I’m not really in the mood to detour.”

“That’s fine. We can go to your dorm.”

Rolling your eyes, you decided you were too drained to argue with him so you just drove to your dorm. You weren’t even surprised when he followed you out of your car, into the building and all the way to your room. Kimmy was away, thank goodness. You didn’t want to have to explain Garrett’s presence.

“Okay, you’ve made it this far. Can you leave now?” You asked plopping down on your bed, taking your shoes off.

“Nope,” he said, sitting next to you. You groaned as you hopped to get a nap in.

“What do you want?” You asked. He stared back, his eyes telling a tale you weren’t sure you wanted to hear, but your body reacted before you could stop it.

You lurched onto him, fiercely kissing him. It was clumsy, messy and desperate. Before you knew it, clothes were flying off. 

You straddled him, slowly grinding on his erecting shaft. His hands rested on your hips, guiding your movements and squeezed every now and then. His lips left yours, trailing down to your neck and gently sucking on it. The tenderness of the area drew a moan out of you. His hands trailed up your body to your breasts, playing with your erect nipples. 

You could feel yourself growing wetter by the second. You grinded your hips harder against him. Both of your moans filled the air, your head falling back as you felt a tension brew at the pit of your stomach. You moved faster, desperate to reach your peak, subconsciously arching your back which pushed your breasts into Garrett’s face. He took the opportunity, taking your right nipple into his mouth. He sucked, bit and flicked it. 

Your mind drifted off to your time with Dean, comparing the two. When Dean had found out how aroused you got when your breasts were played with, it was game over for you. It did take him longer to figure it out than Garrett though.

“I’m close,’ you whined. 

Without warning, Garrett flipped you over onto your back and nestled himself between your legs. Like the gentleman he was, he quickly lowered his head between your legs and dug into you like a starved man.

Your hands found themselves in his hair as his tongue slithered through your lower lips. You felt his finger breach your entrance that was already soaked in anticipation. Again, you couldn’t help but compare how the two were quite similar in their methods but Garrett had a subtle aggression, or rather, passion.

Back arching off the bed, legs shaking around his head. You were unraveling. You took deep breaths, trying to ground yourself from the high. Shame and guilt settled in as you thought of Dean again, and what you just did with his best friend.

“Fuck!” You groaned feeling tears sting your eyes. All of a sudden you felt more exposed, and you tried to quickly and fully cover yourself with your blankets. You couldn’t bear to look at Garrett.

“Oh shit, did I do something wrong?” he sounded panicked and no doubt looked at it as well.

“No, it wasn’t you. Can you please leave now?” you cried.

“Y/N, please talk to me,” he pleaded.

“I don’t want to. Just leave,” you all but screamed at him.

“What did Dean do?”

You went quiet for a second. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Why do you care? I don’t even know you,” you spat quite aggressively, growing tired of his persistent presence.

“Well, you know me well enough to fuck me,’ he countered.

“Oh please,” you threw the blanket from over your head to look at the now half-dressed man. “Like you haven’t fucked a bunch of girls and dumped them without even knowing their last names! You guys are all the fucking same. You use girls and then dump them like nothing.”

“I don’t —” He began but stopped mid-sentence at the look you gave that screamed ‘don’t bother lying to me’.

“Fine, but they know it’s casual too, so it’s not like I’m going around hurting them.”

“You don’t know that, do you? Maybe they want more but they know you wouldn’t give them a chance so they just settle for what you’ll give them.”

“If I don’t know that then what can I do? I make shit clear from my side, they should do the same. It’s not my fault they want something more and won’t tell me,” he said defensively. 

“And you’d say yes if one of them did?” you asked with a hint of skepticism.

“Uh…I,” he stuttered. You rolled your eyes at him.

“Exactly.”

“Wait,” he said with wide eyes. You knew from the look on his face that you had given yourself away but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You just wanted him away from you.

“Is that why you’re upset? You told Dean how you felt and he rejected you?” You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment but nodded nonetheless. 

“Oh,” he said dejectedly.

“Look Garrett, we can’t do this again, okay? It doesn’t feel right, especially since Dean knows,” you say in a much softer tone.

“Right…” he trailed off. “Yeah, um, cool. I’ll leave then.”

“Thanks, and I truly am sorry for… um… I don’t know, I’m just sorry, okay?” You said rubbing your eyes. Garrett quickly got dressed and left your room but not without looking at your sad laying figure one more time.

You waited to hear the main door open and close, but it never did. Furrowing your brows, you got out of bed and as you reach for your door handle, it bursts open revealing Garrett, the man who didn’t leave.

“What are you still doing here?” you whined.

“Do you wanna go to the movies with me on Friday?” he said almost breathlessly.

“What?” You were confused at the very random request.

“Do you wanna go to the movies with me? On Friday? It actually doesn’t have to be the movies. We can go anywhere really but like…do you want to?”

“Garrett,” you sighed.

“Please?” You looked into his eyes, feeling bad for pulling him into your emotional wreckage. “Sure.”

“Great!” he cheered. “I’ll let you know the details tomorrow, cool?” You nodded with little to no enthusiasm. 

“Nice! I’ll leave now.” he quickly pecked your cheek before skipping out of your dorm.

—

Friday arrived quicker than you wanted. You had confirmed with Garrett to go out in the evening to watch a play on campus and then grab something to eat. You hoped it wouldn’t be at Malone’s since that’s where everyone usually hangs out but you didn’t ask further, so all you could do was wait.

Garrett was going to pick you up from your dorm. You were finishing up with the final getting ready touches with your friend lying on your bed, trying to make sense of the situation.

“I’m so lost right now,” she said for the umpteeth time.

“Girl, so am I,” you sighed.

“So like? At the party where you literally cried over Dean, you also happened to have slept with his best friend?” she questioned. Again. You cringed at the thought as you did recognise that it didn’t sound good at all. “Then three days ago you decided to confess your feelings to Dean and when he rejected you, you again messed around with his friend? Babe, you know how fucked up this sound, right?”

You groaned, pulling at your hair as you did so.

“Yes, I do. But like, it wasn’t my fault! He’s the one who keeps coming to me!” you squeal defensively.

“You can literally just say no,” she backfired. “I think you want to make Dean jealous, but babe, let me tell you now, you won’t. He could care less as you’ve seen and you’re messing around with his best friend now.”

“I was exhausted when I said yes to going out with him, but this will be the last time. The less I’m around him and Dean and anything related to them, the better,” you said with finality.

“Except, you probably already like Garrett’s attention and soon enough you’ll fall for him too. You do this all the time. Mess with a guy, fall for him, get rejected and monkey branch to the next. It’s not healthy and though I know you really want a relationship, you need to focus on yourself for a bit.”

Her words stung but they were true. You did have a habit getting with a new guy right without giving yourself the time to rest and heal from the last.

You got a text from Garrett saying he was outside. The sight of it filled you with shame as you took in your friend’s words.

“Babe, I’m not here to tell you how to like your life. Matter of fact, I’d love it if you were in the streets with the intention of being in the streets, not to find love. Just be careful, okay?” she got up to hug you from behind and left your room.

Unable to wait any longer, you responded to Garret’s text, grabbed your things and out the door you went. 

You weren’t in the best mood with your friend’s musings weighing down on you but there wasn’t much you could do. It would’ve been extremely rude of you to cancel right when he was outside and you’d feel guilty over it.

“Hey,” Garrett smiled as he got out of his Jeep to open the passenger door for you.

“Hi,” you responded softly, with a small smile.

“How’re you doing?” He asked, hopping into the driver’s seat.

“Good and you?”

“Great.”

You made small talk on the way to the movies. You both decided on watching Frankenstein. You opted to share a large popcorn since you didn’t want to ruin your appetite for the dinner afterwards. 

You felt a bit awkward, and you wondered if Garret felt the same. Soon you got your answer as Garrett’s fingers grazed yours as though to ask for permission to hold your hand. The action was cute and brought a fuzzy feeling in your stomach, nothing like Dean had ever done. 

You softly intertwined your fingers into his, your eyes stuck to the big screen but you could sense with glazing at you.

Throughout the movie, you shared small gestures of affection. You leaned your head on his shoulder, he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb. You felt like a real couple as the discomfort you felt over the situation faded.

You only let his hand go when you were in the car, driving to the restaurant he had picked out. And even then, his hand was glued to your thigh.

It was a slightly fancier restaurant with great food. You thanked yourself for having the foresight to not eat too much popcorn as you were looking forward to indulging in the meal you had ordered.

“So then, I there like ‘dude, the actual fuck?’ and he’s just looking at me like a fucking idiot half-naked in the middle of the backyard,” Garrett said, recounting a funny story of his and his friends’ adventures.

Your cheeks hurt from how much you were laughing. You were really enjoying Garrett’s company. Unfortunately, the moment of ease didn’t last and Garrett’s phone buzzed on the table, signalling that he had gotten a message. You both look down at it to see none other than Dean’s name pop up on the screen.

Your smile dropped instantly and you felt a grey cloud hover over you. He ignored the text and turned his phone over, but he noticed the shift in your mood.

This was going to be the last time.

“Don’t worry about him,” Garret said, taking your hand in his.

“I feel horrible,” you confessed.

“Don’t. He doesn’t mind. Probably doesn’t even care,” he tried comforting you but it felt worse to hear that.

“But I do. It’s not nice to sleep with the friend of the guy you like.”

“What if that friend actually likes you?” he asked. You looked at him shocked. He liked you?

“Do you?” You responded, still somewhat stunned.

“I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while now actually. Um… that’s actually why Dean kinda just stopped… um… seeing you,” he grimaced.

“Oh? Oh!”

“I didn’t know you were with him though until after the party. When I was telling the guys that I got with you and he mentioned that you guys were casually seeing each other, but that he noticed that I was constantly staring at you and…” he rambled on to the point of awkwardness.

“Oh.”

“Please say something other than that,” he begged.

“Isn’t it, like, against bro code or something like that?” You asked, still trying to make sense of the mess the situation had become.

“Uh, no?”

“So Dean knows?”

“Yes.”

“And he doesn’t mind?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to go further though,” you said, looking away from Garrett. “It’s really not you. I just feel that I need time to sort myself out.”

“I get that. Really I understand. Take whatever time you need and if you still don’t want to see where this goes, again, it’s completely fine with me.” Your heart warmed at his maturity and understanding.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

The rest of the night went with the pair of you trying to get back to the carefree vibes you had going on. You couldn’t quite get them back but it was a good night regardless. 

Being the gentleman he was, Garrett walked you up to your dorm room. You lingered there for a bit, thinking about what to say after tonight’s revelations.

“Um… I had lots of fun tonight,” you said meekly, “I wouldn’t mind hanging out every now and again.”

“I had lots of fun too,” he smiled, “and I will definitely hit you up to go out some more.”

“As friends though,” you quickly added.

“Yes,” he chuckled, “as friends.”

“Thanks again,” you said.

“No need to.”

You felt that the night would end perfectly if a kiss was shared to wrap it all up in a pretty bow, but no. You didn’t want to dive head first into your doom again, so friends you’d remain for now. You reached up to peck his cheek just to not feel incomplete, and giggled a bit at the hue of red on his face.

You went into your room, thanking the universe that your friend wasn’t in to interrogate you. Once you were in bed, your thoughts kept you up but not in an entirely bad way. You felt a bit giddy, but still, there was some guilt mixed in.

You finally had someone who wanted you, but you didn’t really want him back. You were willing to get to know him but you wondered if it was your desperation for a relationship pushing you or if it was a genuine desire to pursue things with Garrett. 

Your phone buzzed next to your head. You picked it up to see a text from the new man that plagued your mind. 

Garrett: Good night and sleep tight <3

You smiled. Dean never really bothered with these sorts of things. I mean, it was casual so why should he send you goodnight texts. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to build a friendship with Garrett for the time being and just let it flow naturally.

——————————

masterlist

[thisonegirl]

pairing : garrett graham x reader rating : nsfw warnings : sexual descriptions ; mutual pining ; anxiety wc : 3.2k (edited)

part I part II

“What do you mean you can’t ride a bike?” Garrett asked. You’d think you just told him that you step on baby turtles as a hobby. 

“I mean, I don’t know how to ride a bike. I never learned,” you state flatly. 

“But, like, everyone knows how to ride a bike,” he flung his hands up dramatically, “It’s literally just a bike.”

“Garrett, sweetie, it being just a bike doesn’t miraculously make me know how to ride it,” you retorted, before taking a sip of your energy drink.

“Looks like we know what we’re doing this weekend,” he grinned. You rolled your eyes knowing exactly what he meant.

“Please no, I’m too old to be falling off bikes. Like I might actually die or something,” you groaned.

“First of all, you’re not even twenty-five yet, and second of all, that drink will kill you before a bike ever does,” he pointed at the can in your hand.

“Well, if I have to choose my poison then this is how I go,” you said, shaking your half-empty can, to which he chuckled.

“So Saturday at the park around 11? We can take some snacks and chill there too,” he offered.

“It’s not like you’d let me say no,” you responded.

“Ah, you’re learning.”

You and Garrett had been spending quite a bit of time together lately. You were growing used to his presence around you but just when you thought you were ready to move further with him, doubt crept in and shut you up.

You always hung around campus, your dorm or a third-space. Never his place because you still didn’t find it in yourself to face Dean without wanting the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You never told Garrett this but you figured he had connected the dots by now.

Your friend seemed to like Garrett as well, much to your relief. So much so that she had started talking about how cute of a couple you’d be. You couldn’t help feeling slightly irked at her change of tune. When you were all over Dean she never said things like this, and though your feelings for him had dwindled, you mourned not having this type of support when you wanted it most.

Resistance wasn’t really your forte, so the ‘just friends’ thing immediately turned into a ‘just friends with benefits’ thing. You weren’t proud of the lack of restraint you showed but you were literally just a girl in the world. What could you do? The man did say he had game where it mattered.

Saturday rolled around quick enough, but then again you were basically glued by the hips now so it wasn’t like you had to wait to see him.

You were surprised at how gentle and patient he was as a teacher. Especially with a chronic klutz as his student.

“Don’t let go, Garrett!” you squealed as you struggled to keep the bike upright. Garrett held onto the back of the seat and one of the handles, guiding you forward.

As silly as it looked, it was terrifying. Your palms were sweating and your heart pounding as though you were aboard a rollercoaster — another thing you hated but knew better than to tell Garrett.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” he laughed.

“Don’t laugh!”

“Okay, jeez, I’m sorry,” he said, now stifling his laughter.

It took you an hour to successfully ride the bike on your own and you couldn’t stop. Garrett stared at you and cheered you on as you giggled your way around him. You could see the hype around it. It felt so liberating, almost exhilarating but maybe that was your inner child speaking.

“There you go!” He cheered on.

When you finally decided to get off the bike, you both laid down on the blanket you had spread out with a few snacks and drinks. You munched on your chips as you chatted about nothing and everything. 

“You know, I’m really glad you’re a persistent person,” you said.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm…” you nodded.

You stared at each other. Both of you quietly absorbing what your words meant. Your eyes drifted to his lips, that looked more enticing than usual, but you turned away hoping he didn’t notice.

“Hey,” he called out.

You turned your head back to him, only to be caught by surprise by his lips on yours. They moved with a sensual slowness, not too deep or forceful, and with just the right amount of want in it.

When you separated, the air between you was calm. There was an ease that you’d never felt before, yet somehow felt familiar. You knew he felt it too as you smiled shyly at each other.

“That was nice,” you whispered, breaking the silence.

“It was,” he whispered back, leaning back in for another.

“Garrett! My man!” you pull apart startled by the familiar voice shouting out from a distance. Your eyes widened as you saw Dean and Beau making their way towards you as you sat up. 

“Sup guys?” Dean said as he stood over you. You were sure you looked as uncomfortable as you felt but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Uh, we’re good. What’re you guys doing here?” Garrett asked.

“Just passing by when we saw you guys and came to say hi,” Beau responded.

“Right.”

“Hey Y/N, long time no see,” Dean said casually. You couldn’t tell if he was mocking you or being genuine but his demeanor alluded to the latter.

“Yeah, how have you been?” You asked, hoping the tension you felt didn’t appear in your voice.

“All good around here,” he smiled. 

“Good.”

With your very abrupt answer, an awkward silence settled.

“And by the way, don’t forget that Tucker’s wants us all home for his dinner party today,” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at Garrett.

“Oh shit! Yeah, thanks for reminding me, I actually forgot about that,” Garrett said with a slight cringe.

“Y/N, you should join us. Meet the rest of the guys and all,” Dean suggested.

“Um, I don’t think I’ll be able to —” You  began brewing up an excuse.

“Oh come on. It will be fun,” he insisted.

“She can’t, dude,” Garrett interjected. “Maybe next time.”

“Fine. But next time for sure though, okay?”

You pursed your lips and nodded.

“Cool, we’ll leave you lovebirds alone now then,” Dean teased before he and Beau left.

“Sorry about them,” Garrett apologised.

“It’s no issue really,” you shook your head.

“But the offer still stands, if you change your mind and want to come over. Tucker is probably the best cook on campus.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said with a smile, hoping it didn’t come out fake.

“That’s good enough for me.”

—

“You should totally go,” your friend said. 

Your face was deep in your pillow as you tried to  drown out her voice.

“Come on, if not for yourself then for Garrett,” you felt her lay her head on your back. “He’s been amazing to you, and I think it would mean a lot to him if you went over and met his friends.’

“Fuck, you’re right,” you muttered miserably.

“Of course I am,” she snorted. “Now go get ready and let Garrett know you’re going.”

A snail could move faster than you with how you dragged yourself up. You texted Garrett letting him know that you’d show up and threw your phone to the side before he answered. You took a deep breath already regretting sending it but now you really had to commit.

You opted for a cute floral dress and kept your makeup to a minimum. It was silly how nervous you were to go, and though you recognised that you held all the tension and awkwardness, you couldn’t help but feel a bit icky at the fact that you’d be sitting at a table with two guys you’ve slept with and developed feelings for. May this be a lesson to add distance between your men.

It was weird how Garrett AND Dean didn’t seem to mind that you had slept with both of them. Multiple times at that. But you did appreciate that Garret was more than willing to overlook it, considering you were “seeing where things would go”.

You had been sitting in your car for ten minutes trying to calm your jittery stomach, when a knock on your window startled you. These damn men and knocking on your car, jeez. 

John Logan stood on the other side.

“Can I help you?” You asked as soon as you rolled down your window.

“Can I? You’ve been sitting here for some time now?” He chuckled.

“Shit, you guys noticed?” you panicked.

“Well yes, we’ve been waiting for you to come in for a while now.”

“Oh. Yeah, I just needed to, um… uh…yeah, anyway, let’s go in,” you stammered trying to think of an excuse before ultimately giving up.

Logan opened the door and helped you out . Not that it was needed but still a sweet gesture that you thanked him for. 

“So, Garrett’s girlfriend, huh? How’d you manage to lock him down?” Logan joked as you walked up the stairs.

“Oh no! We’re not dating,” you chuckled awkwardly.

“Ah, I see.”

You entered and were immediately fit with the warm delicious scent of the meal that was being cooked.

“Y/N! Hey!” Dean, who was sitting at the couch with Beau and another girl you didn’t recognise, yelled out. “I see you decided to join us.” 

He smiled brightly at you as your gaze flickered between him and the girl. Shocking yourself, you didn’t feel the jealousy you usually did whenever this happened but you still found the situation weird even if it seemed like it was only you feeling it. 

“Yeah, couldn’t miss out on a meal by the best cook on campus as I was told,” you responded with a meek smile.

“You are in for the dining experience of your life. There’s truly nothing like it,” he said with an exaggerated tone of adoration.

“Fuck you, man,” Tucker yelled from the kitchen.

“What? I’m literally complimenting your godlike skills in the kitchen.”

“I can’t deny that, actually,” Tucker shrugged. “Hey Y/N, how are you?”

“Hi Tucker, I’m good and you? This all smells amazing by the way,” you complimented, eyeing the dishes on the kitchen island.

“Thank you, thank you,” he bowed dramatically. “And I’m glad you were able to join us.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“Garrett is in his room by the way if you wanna go up and check up on him,” Tucker said, “Dinner will be ready in about ten.”

“Cool, I’ll go to him then,” you said, making your way to the stairs. “Which one is his room?”

“The one next to mine,” Dean answered. You cringed at the fact that you knew exactly where he meant. 

Tucker and Logan looked like they were ready to choke on their stifled laughs and Dean smiled “innocently” at you. Well, isn’t that helpful?

“Great, thanks.”

“No problem.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to Garrett’s room. You knocked on his door and waited for the muffled “come in” to enter.

A wet Garrett stood by his dresser, picking out a t-shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked up at you and smiled instantly as you closed the door behind you.

“Y/N…” he said.

Your eyes roamed over his damp body as though you’d never seen it before. Looking glorious as ever.

“Hi,” you bit your lip.

“Enjoying the view?” he teased.

“Yep,” you responded bashfully to which he grinned.

You sat on his bed, taking in his bedroom. It was neater than what you expected from a college jock.

“I like your decor,” you mused.

“Of course you do. I have great taste,” he retorted.

“A very basic taste,” you backfired.

“Good taste nonetheless.”

“Aren’t you a cocky little thing,” you rolled your eyes.

“I am cocky but not a “little thing”. You know that,” he smirked, making his way to stand hovering you. Your face was near his groin, and you knew exactly where this was going.

“I’m not blowing you with your friends right downstairs,” you looked up at him.

“I never asked you to. Please they wouldn’t care,” he snickered, turning away from you and getting dressed.

“I think dinner should be ready by now,” you said.

“Yeah, we can go down now,” he said as he finished getting dressed. “And thanks for coming tonight. It means a lot to me.”

You smiled at him. He took your hand and you both went down stairs where everyone was already seated at the table. You and Garret took your seats, with you sitting in front of the only other girl. 

“I didn’t introduce myself, I’m Amy by the way,” the girl smiled at you.

“Y/N, nice to meet you,” you smiled back.

She seemed nice, and you were glad that you didn’t prematurely judge her as you would, had it been the “you” from three months ago.

“Here we are, my dear friends. Honey and orange roasted duck with creamy mashed potatoes and cucumber salad with dill.” he announced, proudly setting the last of the food dishes on the table.

“Oh my goodness, Tucker,” you awed, “this looks spectacular.”

“Right? I don’t remember the last time I had a homemade meal this elaborate,” Amy added.

“Feast away, my friends!”

There was no need to tell you twice as you all dug into the meal in front of you. It was truly mouth-watering but the cozy atmosphere was what really tied it all together.

Jokes and lighthearted teasing bounced around the table, funny stories being shared and laughter filling the room. You almost forgot that you didn’t want to come in the first place, and you definitely forgot the feeling of unease you carried in as you interacted with the people at the table as friends. Including Dean, who you would’ve once given your heart to.

With you and Amy being the only girls, you broke into girl chat on the side. The more you spoke to her the more you liked her. You noticed Dean glancing at her every now and again. He looked at her the same way Garrett looked at you. 

As soon as the thought rang in your head you looked to your side, to see Garrett also looking back at you. His hand rested on your thigh, softly caressing it.

‘All good?’ he mouthed. You nodded, smiling at him. You reached for his hand and squeezed it before turning back to Amy. 

The eating and chattering continued until you moved to the sofa with an apple pie for dessert and some beers and juices. Soon enough, time passed without you noticing, and by Garret’s invitation you decided to sleep over.

“That was really fun,” you whispered. The room was dark, you laid on Garrett’s chest wearing one of his t-shirts as he traced circles on your arm. Very much not “just friends” of you.

“It was,” he agreed.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

“Thanks for coming. Despite, you know…”

“I didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would actually. Barely even thought about it,” you confessed.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, I was more focused on you instead,” you said, hoping he caught what you meant.

“Me?” You could hear the grin in his tone. You turned up your head to see his pearly whites smiling down at you.

“Yes, you.” You reached up to peck his lips, but Garrett being Garrett couldn’t leave it at that, and deepened the initially quick and innocent kiss. You didn’t mind it though.

You shifted so that you were partially on top of him. His hand trailed down your side, stopping on your lower stomach and he gently turned you over on your back. Moving further down to your core, he slipped his hand into your underwear and gently rubbed your clit before pushing two fingers past your wet entrance. 

You whimpered and whined as his fingers went in and out of you. You pressed your lips harder against his in an effort to muffle the noises you were desperate to make. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, thighs trembling and toes curled. He kept thrusting his fingers as you lost yourself in the high. You came down as he slowed and pulled his fingers out.

“You liked that?”

“Loved it,” you giggled.

You pushed onto his back and got between his legs, smiling seductively at him as you pulled down his boxers to reveal his hardening shaft. You bit your lip, firmly but slowly stroking him as you lowered your mouth to his tip. Your eyes glued to his hazy ones. Lust and desire swirling in them like a storm.

Your tongue caressed his tip, savouring the salty taste of it a bit before you sucked on it as you continued stroking him.Garret whimpered at the feeling, fighting the urge to close his eyes, not wanting to break eye contact.

You stopped moving your hands to take him further into your mouth and bobbed your head slowly, finding a rhythm. His hand made its way to the back of your head and he began to gently thrust his hips upwards. He went deeper and deeper until he reached the back of your throat and easily slid beyond.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of your mouth,” he moaned lowly, conscious of the people in the house. He had a way of stroking your ego. His praise went straight to your head as you put in more effort in your task. 

You felt yourself grow wetter and you squeezed your legs together for some relief. As his thrusts grew sloppier, he abruptly pulled you off of him leaving a string of saliva connecting his cock to your lips. The sight ensnared him. He held your face in his hand and let a thumb slide across your soft bottom lip.

He flipped you onto your back, positioning himself between your legs. He took a hold of his shaft and guided it towards your entrance. 

“Ah,” you moaned. 

He let his head fall into the nook of your neck and peppered it with kisses. He picked up the pace of his thrusts. Each one of them hitting the perfect spot. He whispered sweet praises in your each, each of them going down to your core. The familiar pressure had begun building up and as his movements grew sloppier. Soon you reached your climax with a moan announcing your arrival.

A few more uncoordinated thrusts and Garrett, too, groaned as came. You didn’t even care that you weren’t wearing any protection as you savoured the moment. He gently rolled himself off of you. The pair of you lay on your backs with the only sound in the room being your pants. 

Garrett pulled you back into his chest, holding you tight as you comfortably snuggled in. 

“What do you think about being boyfriend and girlfriend?” You asked shyly against his chest.

“Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”

You nodded weakly.

“I’d also like that,” he said.

You tried to suppress the bright grin fighting to break out as you snuggled closer into him.

He chuckled, tightening his grip, but still making sure it was comfortable.

“Okay then. Goodnight, boyfriend,” you said bashfully.

“Goodnight, girlfriend.”

Look at you, you thought, finally having a boyfriend. And a hot one at that!

——————————

masterlist

[jaylalolz]

⌗ ┆ 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑭𝑬𝑪𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑴𝑬 .ᐟ . . . garrett graham

i wanna feel you

in me for the first time, again

ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ PAIRING. garrett graham x inexperienced! reader

SYNOPSIS. you lose your virginity to the Garrett Graham.

ִֶָ. .་༘࿐ WARNINGS. 18+ smut

⤷ ˎˊ˗ authors note, my obsession for garrett and off campus is growing every second. i need s2 so bad. ALSO this is one of my fav things i’ve written so far so i hope you guys enjoy! leave reqs in my inbox! i love hearing your thoughts :)

Garrett hovered above you, his hazel eyes full of laughter and want, while you lay on the mattress, breathing quickly and trembling. "Still sure about this, baby?" he murmured in a low, husky voice as his fingertips brushed your naked side. His hands were on either side of your head, imprisoning you and making you feel small and owned. "Because once I'm inside you- there's no going back."

Biting your lip, you nodded. "Garrett, I want you. I want it to be you.”

He grinned darkly and contentedly at that. His tongue glided into your mouth as he moved in to give you a slow, deep kiss. Even if you hadn't said it yet, he owned every aspect of you.

You gasped as he proceeded slowly and deliberately down your body, pressing kisses to your throat, down your chest, and sucking at the skin just above your breast. Beneath him, you were shivering, nude, and softly squeezed your thighs together. However, he had already tasted everything. touched every single thing. "You're fuckin' perfect," he whispered as he ran his fingers over your hips after tasting it. “I’ve been waiting to fuck this tight little virgin pussy."

Your heart was pounding as you writhed. You said, "I need you, G”

He begins kissing your collar bone, which is visible through your shirt. He began putting small kisses on top of dark, bruised hickies that were all over your neck and chest. Garrett was able to comprehend what you needed since you continued to tighten your thighs. He kissed all the way down your stomach until he reached the top of your pajamas. When he gazed directly into your eyes, you nodded and pulled him in the direction of your tender spot.

Your underwear was still on when he took off your shorts. He dropped to his knees, moved your legs to either side of his shoulders, and looked directly into your eyes. He moved in closer and began kissing the inside of your thighs. When you made a quiet sound, he looked down and noticed the wet spot on your panties, which motivated him to assist you in solving your issue more quickly.

He began caressing your underpants in gentle circles. You muttered, "More please." He smiled at your condition; you're already drenched and he hasn't done much. "Whatever you need, baby." As he began to pull off your underwear, he said.

Garrett didn't spend any time. He took one hand away from you long enough to fumble at his belt, his fingers sloppy with urgency as he pulled it free. “I promise i’m going to take care of you. I’ll be gentle” he reassures you.

He didn't ease you into it or give you the typical easy slide in. As soon as he set himself free, he began to draw you in, aligning himself more out of need than patience. His breath caught as soon as he saw you, then he suddenly pushed in.

Your body clamped around him as the sudden, full stretch hit, causing you to cry out. Garrett’s head dipped forward as if the sensation had pushed the rest of him loose, and he moaned at the feel of it.

"Shi-"

The phrase cracked into something rougher in your throat.

Before your body could adjust or catch up, his hands grabbed your hips and began moving you once more. As he brought you into action, his hands clamped onto you, fingers digging in.

Garrett pulled out and in once more, barely an inch, but the blow was as forceful as the first. Your body tightened around him as if it couldn't decide whether to push him out or take him, and your hands shot to his shoulders, squeezing in as another cry escaped you.

He sensed it right away.

His hands gripped you more firmly, stabilizing, grounding, and preventing you from pushing away. "You're doing so good for me," he continued, his words harsh with admiration, his head lowering slightly so that his voice didn't have to travel far when he spoke. "You can take it. I'm sure you can. Just be relaxed, i’m right here with you”

You were aware that Garrett's comments were intended to be helpful, but that didn't stop the thoughts from hitting where it hurt the most.

No matter how tight the stretch grew, he continued to push in, inch by inch, never actually pausing or giving any of it back—just that constant pressure that kept growing. As your body struggled to take him, to open around something that still felt too much, you bit your lip and dug your fingernails into his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered against your skin, the words slipping out even as he continued. His mouth found your neck and stayed there, kissing, sucking, working at the same spot as if he knew exactly what it took to get you through this part and was doing it without letting you think too hard about anything else. "I'm almost there... you're taking me just right, just like that.."

At last, he pushed himself all the way in.

The stretch flared and calmed, and the sound that emerged from both of you followed. His sound was deeper and rougher, drawn directly from his chest as he fully filled you, while yours was intense and breathless.

At first, Garrett moved slowly, barely pulling out before pushing back in, as if he was allowing your body to acclimate to him while he remained heavy and deep. However, it was short-lived.

His hips drove into yours with greater power and intent as his rhythm quickened, each thrust coming a bit faster and harder.

It couldn't be anything else because of his size.

Your body drew in as if it didn't want to give up any of him; every push drove all the way in, and every time he pulled out, you immediately felt the loss of it, that abrupt, too obvious emptiness. Then he was within you once more, deep enough to cause the pain to resurface. It didn't end.

Every time he drove into you, his body moved over yours with only heat and weight, pushing you further into the sheets. The harsh sound of it filled the room next to you, and its intensity never lessened, each movement landing hard enough to keep your breath catching and shattering.

Your body was absorbing every inch of him as if it didn't know how to handle it, and the stretch and fullness were still too intense.

Even so, he felt incredibly amazing.

The sounds you were making no longer even attempted to make sense. Every time he pushed into you, they emerged uneven and strangled, catching somewhere between his name and something rougher and more broken that was pulled out of you repeatedly.

"That's it," he uttered in a low, strained voice, pausing between breaths as he observed you disintegrate beneath him. "Feels so good... you feel so good for me."

He moved onto one forearm, getting nearer and positioning himself just enough to grab your hand.

His fingers encircled it and then guided it lower, pressing your hand into your stomach at the exact spot where each of his thrusts struck.

Without warning, your body constricted around him, and as the pressure continued to rise, your breath caught again as it became heavier, sharper, and too much to ignore.

"Perfect for me," Garrett said, pressing your palm farther into it as he held you against it.

The words quickly overwhelmed you, causing your body to collapse around them. Your voice broke as it tore from you, and it was loud and unsteady. At the sensation, Garrett let out a low groan. His pace faltered for a brief moment before he continued to push through and drive into you as you broke apart beneath him.

Garrett leaned in and kissed you once more. His own breathing was harsh against your lips as his body pursued it, and he kissed you through every sound and aftershock that tore through you.

It struck all at once, a strong pulse that pushed him deeper into you, instantly warming you from the inside out.

All of it was felt by you.

The warmth. The weight of it. The way he remained there with it.

"You're perfect," he whispered against your lips, planting another kiss there as if he truly meant it. "You did so good, baby..." he said, his mouth sliding against yours as his voice became low and steady once more.

[beasbrain]

10ThingsIHateAboutYou

description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?

pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)

tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst

TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst

WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)

A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3

The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard. 

You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.

You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.

You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.

It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.

You don’t.

You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.

By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.

You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.

El walks in about twenty minutes later.

You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.

You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.

Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.

You don’t look up.

“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.

“Yes.”

You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”

She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.

“I was with Mike.”

You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.

“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”

Her brows pull together. “You saw.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”

“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”

You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”

“I know I am.”

You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”

You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.

“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”

You go still.

“And now you want me to be alone too.”

There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.

“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”

The front door opens before she can respond.

Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.

“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”

“Hey—”

“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner’s in twenty—”

“Then eat it without me.”

You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.

“I was with Mike.”

Slowly, you turn back.

Hopper frowns. “You were what?”

El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.

“We were walking together. We are… dating.”

Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”

El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”

You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.

He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.

“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”

El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.

And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”

Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.

“…Fine,” he says.

“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”

“Dad—”

“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.

And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”

“And why would that be?” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”

Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”

El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.

You point at her. “This is on you.”

The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.

Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps. 

People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.

A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.

El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.

She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.

She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.

His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”

El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.

“Hi.”

Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”

“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.

“It is worse,” El cuts in.

Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”

“Hopper made a new rule.”

Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”

“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”

Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”

El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.

Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not kidding.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”

“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”

Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”

Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”

El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”

“…At all?” Dustin asks.

El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”

Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”

Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.

“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”

Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”

Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”

Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dustin says quickly. “I’m saying it’s… possible.”

El tilts her head slightly. “How?”

Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.

“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”

Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”

Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”

“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”

“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.

“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”

El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”

Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”

“That is what you are saying.”

Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”

El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger. 

“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”

Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”

Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.

“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”

There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.

Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.

They don’t move right away.

For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.

Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”

Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.

He sighs. “…Fine.”

The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.

“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”

“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.

That gets his attention.

Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.

“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”

Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”

Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.

“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”

“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.

“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”

Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”

Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”

Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.

“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.

Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”

Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.

“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”

“Yes,” Mike says.

“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.

Mike hesitates.

Dustin doesn’t.

“Hopper’s daughter.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.

“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.

Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.

You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit. 

You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.

Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.

The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.

“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”

“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.

Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”

“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”

Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”

“Why?” he asks.

Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.

“Because I want to be with him.”

All three of them turn.

El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.

“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.

Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.

“…And you’re paying me,” he says.

Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”

Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.

“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”

“Probably,” Mike admits.

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.

He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“…Alright,” he says.

Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

Dustin grins. “And the money.”

Eddie points at him. “And the money.”

Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.

“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”

Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”

Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”

The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.

You don’t rush, you never do.

You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.

You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.

Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.

“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”

You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.

“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”

“Tragic.”

He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting. 

“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.

He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.

You keep walking.

“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”

“No.”

He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”

“I didn’t need you to.”

That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.

“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”

“You shouldn’t.”

You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.

He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”

You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”

“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”

You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“I don’t care about your pitch.”

“Not even a little curious?”

You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.

“…No.”

He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.

“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”

You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”

He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”

You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.

“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”

“You’re already bothering me.”

“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”

You stop again, slowly.

“…You have one sentence,” you say.

His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.

“Go out with me.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.

And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.

Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.

“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”

By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.

The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.

The boys follow more cautiously.

Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.

“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.

“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”

El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”

“That’s worse.”

They find your room easily.

The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.

Dustin pushes it open anyway.

“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”

The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.

It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.

Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.

There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.

Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.

“…Huh,” he says quietly.

Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”

Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”

“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”

“You’re holding it.”

“That’s part of observing.”

El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.

Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.

Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.

“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.

Mike glances over. “What?”

Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.

There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.

On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.

“Ooh, what’s this—”

“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.

Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.

“No way.”

“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.

Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.

“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.

Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.

“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.

El tilts her head. “What is it?”

Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.

Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”

Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.

“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”

Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”

Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”

Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”

Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.

“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.

Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”

Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”

But it’s not just that anymore.

“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”

The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.

The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.

“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.

“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”

You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.

Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.

Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”

“No.”

“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You weren’t.”

“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”

You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.

“Then leave.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”

That stops you.

“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.

He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.

“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”

You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.

“Name three songs.”

He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”

“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.

He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”

You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.

“…Lucky guesses.”

“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”

You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.

But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”

You don’t turn around. “What about them?”

He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”

“I’m not.”

He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”

You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”

“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.

“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.

“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.

He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”

You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.

“You’re not getting a discount.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”

You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”

“Good,” he says.

That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”

He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.

“Makes it easier to come back.”

You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.

“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.

Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.

Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.

You’re at your locker when he spots you.

Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.

You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.

He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.

You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”

He grins. “Debatable.”

You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”

“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”

That makes you pause, just slightly.

“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”

You blink once. “…And?”

“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”

Then you laugh.

“I’d rather die.”

He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”

You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”

“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”

That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”

You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.

“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.

He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.

“Alright,” he says.

You turn away again, done with it.

“Pick you up at eight.”

You stop.

“…I didn’t say yes.”

“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.

You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.

“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”

You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.

That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.

Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.

She makes it halfway to the door.

“Where are you going?”

She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.

“…Out,” she says.

“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”

She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”

“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.

“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”

“She is going.”

Both of them turn.

You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.

Hopper frowns. “She is not—”

“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”

You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”

El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.

That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.

“…No,” you repeat.

She doesn’t look away. “Please.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.

“You don’t even know those people.”

“I know Mike.”

Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”

You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.

“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.

Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”

Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.

You close your eyes briefly.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”

Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.

“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.

When you open it, there he is.

Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.

He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.

“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.

“…What the hell is this?” he asks.

Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”

You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”

The drive is louder than it needs to be.

Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.

He doesn’t push it, not yet.

The house is already packed by the time you pull up.

Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.

El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.

“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.

Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“…After you.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.

The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.

It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.

Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.

It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.

A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.

“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.

“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”

You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”

He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”

You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

For Eddie, that’s new.

Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.

You glance up at him.

“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"

He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”

“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.

He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”

You almost smile, and he catches it.

“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”

You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”

You glance at him. “No?”

“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”

That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.

Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks. 

But Eddie sticks by your side.

The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.

Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.

“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.

“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”

You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He grins. “That’s leadership.”

You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.

“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.

“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”

“Children scare easily.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”

You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.

“…You talk a lot,” you say.

“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”

“It’s not.”

“Agree to disagree.”

There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.

It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.

Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”

You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.

“Hey—” You both turn.

Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”

Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.

“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”

You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”

Eddie snorts into his drink.

Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”

He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”

“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”

He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”

Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.

The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.

Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.

It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.

It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…

You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.

Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.

You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.

“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.

You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.

He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.

Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.

It’s disarming. You don’t like that.

“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.

“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.

His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.

You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.

The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.

And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.

You hear it before you see them.

“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”

You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.

“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”

Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.

Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.

He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.

“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.

They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.

“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”

You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”

He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”

“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”

“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”

“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”

“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”

You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”

“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”

“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.

You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”

“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.

You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.

“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.

Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.

The next morning feels different.

Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.

You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.

People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.

Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.

He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”

You don’t slow.

“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”

“No.” Not even a glance.

He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.

“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”

“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.

He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.

“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”

“You lied,” you say simply.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”

“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”

A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.

Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.

“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”

And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.

He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.

Dustin startles. “Jesus—”

“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.

Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”

Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”

Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”

“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”

Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.

“You apologize,” Mike says finally.

“I did.”

“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”

“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.

“You definitely did that,” Mike says.

Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”

El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.

He looks up at her. “I did.”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.

“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”

“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”

Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”

Eddie glances between them. “How.”

El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.

He frowns. “Like what.”

She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”

Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.

Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.

But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.

You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.

It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.

A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.

“Go away.”

A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”

You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.

“I said go away, El.”

The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.

Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.

You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”

You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.

And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.

“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”

El looks between the two of you.

“He wants to talk,” she says.

“I don’t.”

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”

You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”

“I gave it back,” he says.

You glance at him. “…What.”

“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”

You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.

“…Why.”

He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.

“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.

You don’t react.

“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”

You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”

“No,” he says immediately.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”

El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.

You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.

“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.

“I know.”

“Before.”

“I know.”

“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t fill the space.

“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.

You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”

“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”

You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.

“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.

Your eyes flick back up to his.

“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”

“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”

You don’t move, and you don’t respond.

Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.

Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.

“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”

He glances at El. “…Yeah.”

“And she broke into my room.”

“She did.”

You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”

It’s not a question. He shakes his head.

“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”

“…That was stupid,” you decide.

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”

“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.

His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”

You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”

A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”

“Fair.”

“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”

He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.

Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.

“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.

You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.

“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.

You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.

You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.

It’s just a date. A real date.

You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.

After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.

You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.

“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.

The knock comes right at eight.

You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.

Hopper gets to the door first.

“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.

You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.

Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.

“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Hopper eyes him up and down.

“I know you,” he says.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”

“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.

Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”

Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”

Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.

You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.

“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.

“Yes, sir.”

Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.

“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”

Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”

“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”

“Of course.”

“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”

“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.

That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.

“…Alright,” he says finally.

He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re already there when he steps back inside.

Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.

His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.

Something soft crosses his face.

“…Wow,” he says quietly.

You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive is different this time.

“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”

He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I figured.”

“Then why—”

“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.

You study him for a second, then look back out the window.

“…It better be.”

The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.

You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.

“…No way.”

Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”

You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.

“…Descendents?”

He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”

“You got tickets.”

“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”

“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.

That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.

The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.

You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.

“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”

You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.

Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”

You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.

“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.

His grin widens. “Good?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”

“I said don’t push it.”

He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”

“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.

“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.

You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.

That catches him.

“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”

“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”

You scoff. “Respectable.”

“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”

You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.

There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.

And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.

Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.

You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.

You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.

Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.

“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”

“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.

“I’ll take that,” he says.

You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.

The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.

Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.

And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.

The ride home feels softer than the one there.

The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.

The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.

You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.

“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”

You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”

He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”

You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”

“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”

You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.

“…Seven.”

He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”

“Seven,” you repeat.

He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”

“You bought tickets,” you cut in.

“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.

“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”

He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”

“At what.”

“Dating you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.

You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”

“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.

It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.

“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.

By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.

He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.

“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.

“Don’t say that.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s weird.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”

You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.

The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.

Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.

You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.

For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.

“…I had a good time,” he says.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“…Eight,” you add.

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”

You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.

But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.

It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.

You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.

He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.

“…Wow,” he breathes.

You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.

You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.

“…Goodnight, Munson.”

A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You disappear inside before he can say anything else.

And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.

Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.

“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.

AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3

taglist is open!

beasbugs:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @enne02

@ludachrissy @echo-is-worth-more-than-2000 @hecatesw1tch @lokishortnsweet

[peachyprophets-blog]

Crawling love, always there for you

Malachi Vize x Shy!Fem! Reader

Summary: Malachi is obsessed, but no longer with Olivia, but with her, the woman he met by chance on the street, a young beautiful woman, everything could be perfect if it weren't for Olivia Vize, his foster sister.

CW: English isn't my first language,Stalking, obsessive behavior, mentions of death, blood, Olivia Vize, mentions of incest

A/N: I haven't seen a Malachi Vice ff anywhere, so I have to change that! Omg I LOVE Malachi so much. He deserves so much better, and here we are, showering our favorite boy with love!

Silence, darkness, and despair. That was all Malachi Vize had ever felt before meeting her. Even with Olivia, he never felt as complete as he did with her. She appeared to him like a shining butterfly that had flown through a spider's dark web, she appeared to him in the dark web of his problems and illuminated his world with her mere existence.

Olivia, noticing this, developed a strong jealousy toward this girl. Why does Malachi only look at her? Why does he have her as his background? And why does he smile like a madman when she texts him? The relationship between her and Malachi fell apart until it was in pieces. And the girl? She's been subjected to Olivia's constant bullying. She has no joy at school because Olivia spreads nasty rumors about her. "Did you know she was sleeping with Mr. XXX to get her a good grade?".

It got to the point where she had to settle the school, on her last day he stood in front of the school, like a knight in dark armor, Malachi Vize. Malachi's gaze pierced her before Olivia threw herself at him. But Malachi ignored her, his gaze fixed on the sad eyes of the girl he adored so much. His blood boiled when he learned what Olivia had done; he ensured she received private tutoring to earn her degree.

He spent much more time with her, his foster parents were happy that Malachi had given up his obsession with his foster sister and welcomed the girl into their family. She was charming, so grateful for everything, she always thanked with a gentle smile and knew sign language perfectly. She also often stayed overnight with Malachi, he couldn't help but claim and mark her for himself.

Men didn't dare approach her since she was with him, because Malachi was known for beating men bloody who looked at her for too long. Until that night, she was alone, and three men came too close to her, much too close for Malachi's liking. How did he know? He was always there to protect her. And before she realized that three men were stalking her, they had already disappeared into the realm of the dead.

His heart melted when she showed him the tarantula she'd gotten, like Malachi had. Now they were a little family, weren't they? Well, Malachi wouldn't mind having a real child with her either. Not a single night went by without him showing her his love again and again with gestures or actions; her neck was no longer an untouched place but a canvas decorated with his hickeys. She knew about his dark side, she swore to heal him, to pick up his broken soul one by one and to cleanse every splinter with her love and put it back together with her devotion.

Until the day her life collapsed, Malachi went to prison because of Olivia. And her? She sat at home while a life grew inside her, her and Malachi's child. She visited him every day, and when the day came that he was released, their bond was stronger than ever.

Nothing could separate them, not even his family.

-Peachyprophet

[lunarvalleylibrary]

malachi vize x reader headcanons 🕷️🕸️

part 1 - childhood

he’d sit with you on the playground if you were upset

he’d let you have the oreo in his lunchable if you wanted it (and after a while, he’d just give it to you)

he’d let you hog the TV and watch any “girly” princess movies you wanted (he lowkey found them entertaining)

it would excite him when you showed any interest in his toys or hobbies

he’d protect you against any bullies, even if he was bullied himself

in small ways he’d always try and match with you somehow (like if you wore blue, he’d wear something blue too or he’d wear the same accessory as you just in black, etc)

he’d practice sign language with you sitting criss cross on the floor

he’d share stuffed animals with you (he’d always pierce their ears)

he learned how to braid your hair and loved doing it for you, especially before bed (he let you make small braids in his hair too) (and he secretly loved it and avoided them while brushing his hair to keep them in longer)

he’d LOVE building pillow forts with you (it’d be a quiet, calm, safe space)

he’d always bring you random little gifts (rocks, dandelions, pretty leaves, etc)

he’d love coloring in silence with you (and giving them to you as gifts for your wall)

[princessofvelaris]

What about Azriel and a size kink? I feel like this is usually written for Cassian, but I can totally see Azriel with it too? It doesn’t have to be spicy, maybe a little suggestive? Idk.. I’m gonna leave the interpretation to you hehe 😁😋

i was thinking about this exact thing yesterday 🤤 hope you enjoy :) warnings: size kink, suggestive

Azriel was… bigger than any male you’d been with before.

What they said about wingspan hadn’t been a lie, and you found that out the first time you tried to have sex.

“Holy fucking shit…” You said, staring down at the massive erection staring back at you.

He let out an awkward chuckle, eyes still roaming over your body, as his palm slid slowly against his hard cock.

“You expect me to fit all of that, inside here?” You point to your lower abdomen.

You knew there had been a dramatic size difference between the two of you. You were on the smaller side for a female fae, and Azriel was… well, an Illyrian.

But looking at him fully erect and standing before you with nothing else on— you weren’t sure how anyone would be able to take that.

“Let me stretch you out,” Azriel says, reaching to touch your hips gently.

He had you standing against the bed, the backs of your thighs pressing up against the mattress. The cold wood sent a shiver down your spine as you looked up at him.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your voice trembling.

It’s not like you expected him to be small, by any means. Illyrian males are known to be larger than regular males in all respects, due to the fighting and protecting aspect of their nature. In fact, you prepared to be sore for a day or two. Maybe take a few warm baths, take it easy at training tomorrow.

But this… this might take you down for a full week.

You didn’t totally hate the idea of it, though.

“It’ll take some work, but we’ll get there.” Azriel reassures you, moving to place a gentle kiss on your temple. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, if you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to.” You say quickly, looking up him with those beautiful wide eyes.

He smiles and runs his fingers over your delicate skin, bending down to graze your lips gently.

“Just tell me if you change your mind, sweet girl.”

─────────── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──────────

A/N: part 2? i kinda wanna write this now… i’m interested in exploring this dynamic more in detail :) lmk what you think ♡♡

[hockeylover25]

Accidents*

Azriel x mate!reader

Summary: you were young when you were mated to one of your best friends and without realizing you accepted the mating bond at fifteen. Now centuries later you and your mate keep your promise of being just friends but when you need someone and try to go somewhere else, your mate will not have that.

Warnings: oblivious!azriel, sad reader, smut, p in v, choking (not in a sexual way)

Authors note: this is in the universe of deal breaker but can be read as a standalone! I just loved the concept of something like this when I wrote deal breaker.

Main Masterlist:

Deal Breaker:

⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆

A century.

A full century of pretending it didn’t matter.

You and Azriel had made the decision when you were only fifteen—too young, too overwhelmed, too afraid of what the bond meant.

Friends.

Just friends.

Even if the bond thrummed quietly between you.

Even if your heart had never listened.

You had loved him long before that day. Since you were thirteen, when he was still quieter, still more guarded—but softer with you than anyone else.

And when the bond snapped into place?

You knew.

You knew he didn’t feel it the same way.

So you buried it.

Locked it away so deeply that even you almost believed it was gone.

⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆

“You are insufferable,” Mor groaned, dragging you further into the crowded bar.

“I’m just observing,” you shot back, though your eyes flickered nervously around the room.

“You’ve been ‘observing’ for a hundred years,” Mor muttered.

From beside her, Amren sipped her drink, unimpressed. “At this point, it’s just sad.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a drink from the bar just to have something to do with your hands.

“I’m fine,” you insisted.

Mor snorted. “You’re over a hundred and still—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you warned.

Amren raised a brow. “Virgin?”

You groaned, dropping your head. “I hate both of you.”

Mor only grinned, nudging you sharply. “Then fix it.”

“I’m not just going to—” you started, but her grip tightened on your arm.

“Look,” she whispered, tilting her head subtly.

Across the bar, a male sat watching you.

Not in a crude way.

Not like the others who let their gazes linger too long or too boldly.

No—his expression was soft. Curious. Almost… patient.

Your stomach flipped.

“He’s been looking at you all night,” Mor added.

“I’m not going over there,” you said immediately.

Amren sighed. “Then sit here and waste another century pining after someone who refuses to act.”

Your chest tightened at that—but before you could snap back—

A drink slid onto the bar in front of you.

You blinked.

The bartender nodded toward the male.

“He sent it.”

Mor’s grin turned wicked. “Well?”

You hesitated.

Your mind screamed don’t.

Your heart whispered why not?

And Azriel—

Azriel wasn’t here.

You didn’t remember crossing the room.

Only that suddenly you were there, standing in front of him.

“Hi,” you said, offering a small smile as you took the seat beside him.

His answering smile was warm. Easy.

“Hi.”

“Thank you for the drink.”

“Seemed like you needed it.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only if you’re paying attention.”

His name was Jonah.

And somehow, talking to him felt… simple.

There was no weight. No history. No bond humming beneath your skin reminding you of everything you weren’t supposed to want.

You laughed more than you expected.

Relaxed more than you had in years.

And when the night stretched on, neither of you seemed eager for it to end.

“I can walk you home,” Jonah offered as you stepped out into the cool night air.

You hesitated—just for a moment.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

The walk was quiet in the best way.

Comfortable.

When you reached your apartment, you turned toward him, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar.

Something new.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned in.

Your lips met his.

Soft at first.

Testing.

Then he responded—more certain, more grounded—and your breath hitched as something inside you finally… gave.

Finally let go.

Your fingers curled into his shirt as the kiss deepened—not rushed, not frantic, just real.

Different.

When you pulled back, your hand found his, tugging gently.

“Come inside,” you murmured.

He followed.

The door barely closed before your back met it again, his lips finding yours with more certainty now.

Your pulse raced, hands slightly unsteady as you guided him down the hall toward your bedroom.

Every step felt surreal.

Like you were crossing a line you had avoided your entire life.

When you reached the bed, you pushed him back gently, your breath uneven as you climbed over him, your fingers brushing along his jaw.

There was no bond here.

No expectations.

No history.

Just you.

Just him.

Just a choice.

For once—

You chose yourself.

⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆—✧—⋆

Morning came slowly.

Too slowly.

You shifted beneath your blankets, a soft groan leaving your lips as a dull soreness settled deep in your body—unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome. For a moment, you stayed there, eyes still closed, letting yourself feel it.

Last night.

It had actually happened.

You inhaled, your chest rising—and then—

A sound.

A strained, choking groan from your living room.

Your eyes snapped open.

Every sense went on high alert.

You scrambled out of bed, grabbing your robe and tying it quickly around you as you moved toward the door, heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

“Hello?” you called, voice tight.

Another sound.

Closer.

You yanked the door open—

And froze.

Azriel stood in your living room.

Wings flared.

Shadows raging.

And his hand—

His hand was wrapped tightly around Jonah’s throat, pinning him against the wall near the door, lifting him just enough that his feet barely touched the ground.

Jonah’s face was turning red, his hands clawing weakly at Azriel’s wrist.

“Azriel!” you shouted.

His name cracked through the room like a whip.

Instantly—

His head turned.

And the fury in his eyes softened the second they landed on you.

“Do you know this male?” he asked, voice low but controlled in a way that made it even more dangerous.

You swallowed, nodding. “Y-yes—”

His brows furrowed.

Confusion flickered.

Then—

His gaze dropped.

Slowly.

Taking you in.

Your robe. Your bare legs. The marks along your skin.

The scent.

His entire body went still.

Because he could smell it.

Another male.

On you.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, something dark and primal flashing across his face before he turned back to Jonah, who was now barely conscious.

“Get. Out.” he growled.

The command wasn’t loud.

But it was absolute.

Jonah nodded frantically, his hands still gripping Azriel’s arm.

Azriel released him.

Jonah collapsed forward, coughing harshly as he stumbled toward the door, fumbling with the handle before finally wrenching it open.

He paused just long enough to glance back at you, eyes wide.

“You didn’t tell me you were mated,” he rasped.

Your mouth opened—

But before you could say a word—

The door slammed shut.

Azriel had already moved.

Locked it.

The click echoed in the silence.

And suddenly—

The room felt very, very small.

He didn’t turn around immediately.

His back faced you, wings still slightly spread, shadows coiling tight like they were barely being held in place.

When he finally did—

His expression wasn’t anger.

Not fully.

It was something worse.

Hurt.

Confusion.

Something raw and unguarded that you had never seen directed at you before.

His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now.

But it shook.

“…You slept with him?”

You nodded.

Slowly. Honestly.

And that seemed to break something in Azriel.

He stalked closer, each step deliberate, controlled—but barely. “Why?” he murmured, voice low, strained in a way that made your chest tighten.

You swallowed. “Because… you wouldn’t.”

The words hung between you.

Heavy.

Azriel let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head as he reached you. His hand came up, gentler than you expected, brushing your hair back from your face—his fingers stilling when he noticed the faint marks along your neck.

His jaw tightened.

“You never asked me, love,” he said softly.

Your brows pulled together. “We agreed to be friends.”

His hand shifted, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“I am your mate,” he said, voice deepening, something ancient and unyielding threading through it. “Before anything else.”

Your breath caught.

“You needed someone,” he continued, quieter now but no less intense. “You come to me.”

Guilt flickered through you. “I’m sorry—”

“No.” His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, stopping you. “Don’t say that. If anything… I should be.”

That softness—that honesty—undid you more than anything else.

He hesitated then, just slightly, his gaze searching yours.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your answer came without thought.

“Please.”

That was all he needed.

Azriel leaned in, closing the distance slowly this time—giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His lips met yours, soft at first, careful… like he was relearning you.

“Never have to beg for me,” he murmured against your lips. “I’ll always be what you need.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself as you nodded, your lips finding his again.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not overwhelming, but filled with everything you had both been holding back for far too long.

His arms slid around you, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrapped around his waist. You gasped softly, instinctively holding onto him as he moved, carrying you back toward your bedroom.

“I felt it,” he admitted quietly against your lips. “Your pleasure… and then how sore you were after. I needed to check on you.”

Your breath hitched.

“And then I found another male in my mate’s bed.”

The edge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine—not fear, but something deeper. Something that made your heart race.

He set you down on the bed, not rough, not careless—just firm enough to make your pulse spike.

For a moment, he just looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he was finally allowing himself to see you as more than just his friend.

His mate.

His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Grounded.

“Next time you need anything,” he said, brushing his fingers gently along your arm, “you don’t go looking somewhere else.”

His gaze lifted to yours.

“You come to me.”

Your fingers tremble as you tug at the buckles of Azriel’s leathers, the worn material giving way with a soft *snap* that makes his breath hitch. He growls against your lips, the sound rough and hungry, before his hands find the tie of your robe. The fabric slithers open, pooling at your feet, and Azriel’s gaze darkens as he takes in the sight of you—naked, flushed, and trembling.

"Gods," he mutters against your mouth, his voice rough. "I’m gonna need to mark you all over to get rid of that male’s stink."

You giggle, breathless, before his mouth crashes back onto yours, his tongue sweeping inside like he’s claiming every inch of you. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing into your stomach. A shiver runs down your spine, and you moan into the kiss.

Then he’s dropping to his knees.

His breath is hot against your inner thighs before his tongue drags up your slit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as he licks you like he’s savoring something exquisite. You’ve never been eaten out before—hell, you never even came last night, not even when Jonah clumsily tried to fuck you into oblivion.

Azriel groans against your pussy, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your core. His fingers dig into your thighs as he feasts on you, his tongue circling your clit before he sucks it between his lips. Pleasure coils tight in your belly, and when you feel yourself teetering on the edge, you cry out, your hips jerking forward as you come on his face. He groans, lapping at you like he’s starving for it, his tongue dipping inside to lap up every drop of your release.

When he finally rises, his lips glistening, you’re still trembling from the aftershocks. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you whimper when your hand drifts down between his legs.

"Fuck," you gasp, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. "Azriel, it’s—holy shit, it’s huge."

He hums against your neck, his hips bucking slightly into your grip. "We’ll make it fit, baby."

You bite your lip, still stroking him. "Azriel… I just… I lost my virginity last night. To Jonah."

His body goes rigid for a second before he pulls back, his eyes wide. "What?"

You nod, hating the way his expression shutters. "I’m sorry."

Azriel whines, his forehead pressing against yours. "Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry you felt like you couldn’t come to me."

You shake your head. "I wish I did. He couldn’t even make me come."

A slow, wicked smirk curls his lips. "Oh, we can’t have that."

His cock twitches in your hand, and before you can say another word, he’s lifting you effortlessly, pressing you against the wall. His mouth finds your nipple, sucking it hard as he lines himself up, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance.

"You ready, baby?" he growls.

You nod, breathless, and when he pushes inside, it’s with a groan that rips from his chest. You’re so tight, so fucking wet, and the stretch is almost too much—almost—but then he bottoms out, and you both let out a broken moan.

"Fuck," he hisses, his fingers digging into your ass as he pulls back and slams into you again. "You feel too good."

You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His mouth crashes back onto yours, his tongue fucking into your mouth just like his cock is fucking into your pussy, and you’re lost in it—lost in *him*.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pistons into you, and when you come again, it’s with his name on your lips, your walls clenching around him so tight he groans, his own release spilling inside you with a shuddering moan.

When he finally pulls out, you’re a trembling, well-fucked mess, and Azriel presses a possessive kiss to your shoulder. "Mine," he growls, nipping at your skin.

You smirk, breathless. "Yours."

And damn if that doesn’t sound like the hottest thing he’s ever said.

Something in his expression shifted at that—like the word meant more to him than he was ready to admit.

He leaned in again, brushing another soft kiss against your lips before gently pulling the blankets over you, tucking them around your body with surprising care.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

You barely had time to respond before he slipped away, returning moments later with a warm cloth. His movements were quiet, careful—almost reverent—as he helped you settle, making sure you were comfortable.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t distant.

It was… intimate in a completely different way.

When he finished, you caught his wrist lightly.

“Will you stay?” you asked, voice small despite everything.

Azriel didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your head. “Never leaving you, love.”

And for once—

You believed him.

He slipped into bed beside you, pulling you gently into his chest, his wings shifting just enough to curl slightly around you like a shield.

Safe.

Warm.

Yours.

You let yourself melt into him, your fingers resting lightly against his chest.

“What happens now?” you whispered.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

You felt it—the hesitation. The way his body stilled just slightly beneath your touch.

Then—

“We stay friends,” he said quietly. “But… we don’t ignore what we are. The bond comes first.”

Your chest tightened.

You nodded anyway.

Because that was what you had always done.

Accepted what he was willing to give.

But this time—

It hurt more.

A lot more.

Azriel shifted slightly, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, placing soft, lingering kisses there like he was trying to reassure you… or maybe himself.

You swallowed hard, staring ahead as your fingers curled faintly in the blanket.

“Friends…” you echoed softly.

The word didn’t feel the same anymore.

[pellucid-constellations]

With Respect for Time (5)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had still been hung up on Elain when you first met, hopeful that the teetering relationship would last. But time passed, and while their relationship did not withstand the test of that time, Azriel found joy somewhere else. He fell in love with you. Slowly. Purposefully. Wholly. He was happy. You were happy. Time is funny that way. It doesn’t always make sense. 

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Angst, injury, memory loss/time travel, yearning, ANGST I'll say it again

a/n: Shorter chapter this time but I promise to post a longer one in the veryyy near future ;) Love youuuu hehehe

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

You worried your bottom lip, pacing the length of the window for the hundredth time. Mor had given up on words to settle you, and Cassian and Feyre had left the room altogether after you’d insisted, several times, that you would feel better waiting alone. Your nerves were permeating the space. Mor refused to leave. 

“Maybe we should go outside for a while,” Mor urged, her forced smile making you feel worse. 

Your friend meant well. She always did. Still, nothing would help—not taking a walk or sitting down or talking about your worries. Maybe Azriel would help, but Azriel was gone. 

“I’m fine here,” you mumbled, chewing on your thumbnail to give your lip a break. 

“You’re not,” Mor noted. “And pacing a hole into the floor isn’t going to help anything.” You went to roll your eyes at her, but then you found Mor’s concerned gaze, the way her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and you sat down beside her with a gentle huff. 

The clock by the door ticked minutes away, and you pulled at the skin around your nail. Rhysand and Azriel had been gone for approximately an hour and a half—you’d counted. That felt too long; winnowing there would have hardly taken a minute. 

“They’ll be okay,” Mor tried again, a gentle hand on your shoulder. “They both will. In… both times. Or however this is working.” 

A humorless laugh escaped you. “You can’t know that.” 

“Well—Well, we can. Sort of. If the future now is going well, doesn’t that mean the past hasn’t changed?” 

You furrowed your brows, confusion jarring enough to pull you out of misery. “What?” 

Mor jumped on the opening, nodding quickly as you stared at her. “Right. That makes sense, right? If Azriel really did get swapped with a version of himself from the past, then how we’re living now proves that, eventually, we figure everything out.” 

“I guess. But—No, that doesn’t make sense. Because then Azriel would already know about me when we return him to his time.” 

“Huh,” Mor hummed, sinking back in her seat. “Or… maybe it doesn’t work like that? Maybe this Azriel isn’t directly from the past.” 

“You’re making my head hurt.” 

“That’s better than the pacing.” 

A more meaningful laugh that time. You pressed your hand to your forehead and slumped back along with Mor. “This is so messed up.” 

“It is.” 

“I haven’t gone to my shop in days. Everyone is going to think it’s closed.” 

“Az won’t be happy about that,” Mor sang out. “You know he hates it when you neglect the things you enjoy.” 

“Yes, well, I think I get a pass due to current circumstances,” you shot back. “I don’t even know if I could go in there, anyway. I can’t be in our room at the House. I can’t be anywhere that reminds me of him.”

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and Rhysand was in the doorway. “Azriel died!” Rhysand screamed. “He is dead.” 

“What :(“ you said, frowning obviously. 

“Yeah :/” Rhysand cried, and he was also frowning, obviously. 

How sad :(

[pellucid-constellations]

With Respect For Time (4)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had still been hung up on Elain when you first met, hopeful that the teetering relationship would last. But time passed, and while their relationship did not withstand the test of that time, Azriel found joy somewhere else. He fell in love with you. Slowly. Purposefully. Wholly. He was happy. You were happy. Time is funny that way. It doesn’t always make sense. 

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: Angst, injury, memory loss/time travel, yearning, ANGST I'll say it again

a/n: Weee part 4 :) I'm not kidding I let this tiktok play on repeat the entire time I was writing this update SO if you would like the full effect I would suggest doing the same <3 ILY THANK YOU FOR READING!!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

The world felt off its kilter with the news of your Azriel. Before, your heartache and confusion were most prevalent; Azriel was here, and although he did not love you and there were no clear reasons why, he was here. Maybe he didn’t look at you the same or remember your history, but there was a piece of his mind that could still be unlocked. You were in there, somewhere. 

But now, you knew none of that to be true. There was nothing to be found of you in Azriel’s mind. You didn’t exist—not to him, not yet. He had said he felt some primal urge to care for you, but in the end, you were alone. Alone, with your mate in some unreachable place. 

The worst part was your bond not entirely understanding the differences. It called to this past Azriel, unsure why there was no response. He would enter rooms, and the thread would glow, eager after so much isolation, but that warmth would deplete when Azriel had no flicker of the feeling cross his face. 

You were alone, but your body was tricking you. 

Three days after you’d lost him, Azriel sat with you on one of the porches of the Riverhouse. You’d had trouble in the House of Wind recently—too many reminders and wrong turns. Rhys and Feyre had been kind enough to let you stay with them despite your many objections. They thought some distance would be good, but Azriel clearly did not understand your reason for staying away. 

He stared incessantly. He focused and furrowed his brows and asked you questions as if you would elicit some memory that would prove he was right, that he was meant to be in this time and the answer was just lost in his mind. But you looked at him and knew that wasn’t true. You looked at him, and the bond chaffed. 

You couldn’t understand it. All of the effort he was putting into this did not make sense. 

After an entire day’s worth of questions, you voiced your confusion. “Why are you doing this?” you softly whispered, gaze out at the Sidra. You tucked the blanket Feyre had draped over you an hour ago closer to your body. “What purpose could this possibly serve?” 

“I want to remember,” Azriel responded, voice low and intense, arms resting on his thighs as he tried to engage you. 

You shook your head at nothing. “It’s not there, Azriel. You heard Rhys—your memories are not locked away, they don’t exist.” 

“They could.” 

“No, they couldn’t,” you finalized. You turned to look at him, finally. It hurt. “A few days ago, I was nothing more than Mor’s friend to you. Nothing has changed.” 

“Everything has changed,” Azriel refuted, expression pinched. “You are my mate. Everything has changed.” 

“I do not become your mate for another year, Azriel. We—we grow to know each other. We loved each other before the bond, and it took time. This sense of obligation you feel for me has only been brought on by the promise of a bond you don’t even feel.” 

“It is not a sense of obligation.” 

“Is it not? What else could it be? That first night, you wanted nothing to do with me. Now I’m suddenly the only important thing in this time. But that isn’t even true, is it?” 

Azriel’s face morphed into confusion. You weren’t being fair again. None of this was fair. You turned back to the Sidra, blanket falling into your lap. 

“We will find a way to get you back to your time,” you offered, softer. “This will all settle. It will all make sense again.” 

“And I’m just supposed to go back to a time before you?” 

“What?” 

“How am I meant to go back and pretend I don’t know about you? Pretend I don’t know that we are destined for this grand future together—where you would throw yourself into the mouth of the unknown just to ensure that I am safe? Where you look at me like—” 

You felt yourself fracture, clutching the blanket on your knees. The wool was in large, chunky knots, and it gave you something to press into. Tears were burning your eyes again. You were tired of crying. He sounded like your Azriel. 

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered, braving a look directly into his eyes. You found glassy hazel. 

“I want to.” 

“It doesn’t happen like this. You love me without knowing. You love me because you want to, not because of a bond.” 

Azriel hesitated, looking to the Sidra before hanging his head. His scarred hands interlaced between his knees, and you traced the patterns on his skin with your eyes. The sound of the water lapping against a far shore echoed against the slats of wood on your High Lady’s home. There was nothing Azriel could say to that. He knew about the bond. He knew that was irreversible. 

You spoke again. “It will be better for you to go back. You have things there that you love. It would make more sense for you.” 

“Right,” Azriel gruffly replied.

You sighed, the sound getting lost in the gentle lapping of water. You opened your mouth to speak again, maybe to offer another reassurance, another hard truth, but the door to the patio opened, and your attention was drawn away from your rambling. 

“Y/n? I was hoping to get your opinion on—” 

Azriel rose from his seat in an instant, his expression becoming open, his mouth parting. You looked over your shoulder at the change, both devastated and unsurprised to see Elain in the doorway with a bowl resting on her hip. Azriel stepped forward and reached out a hand, instinct driving him to do… something. You bit into your cheek, hard, and turned your chin down. 

“Oh,” Elain flushed. You saw her edge the bowl away in your peripheral. “Hello. I thought y/n was alone out here. I wanted her to—y/n, would you like to join me in the kitchen, maybe?” 

“Do you need help?” Azriel inquired, gaze still fixed on Elain. 

You tasted blood on your tongue and tried to relax your jaw. Pain felt better than crying. Your cheek continued to bleed.

“Well, no,” Elain edged out, speaking slowly. If you looked, you would have seen her tilting her head toward you in a meaningful way. “I was just wanting her opinion. We often bake together. I was making a tart.”

Azriel nodded, opening his stance until he was between you and Elain. You looked back when your name was called once more, this time falling from Elain’s lips with a hint of anguished sympathy. It was a mistake to look at Azriel, you knew that, but you couldn’t help it. A quick pass over his face found him analyzing every inch of Elain’s, lost in the sight of her. His hands twitched, and you wished you had missed that, too. 

“Come to the kitchen with me,” Elain prompted, tilting her head to catch your attention. “It’s getting too cold out here.” 

You swallowed and righted yourself, nodding jerkily before rising from the chair. You’d been sitting for too long, and your legs protested, but Azriel was still staring at Elain, and so you moved past the pain. Elain gave you a kind smile as the blanket bunched up in your seat; you focused on that as you tried to walk past Azriel. As his fingers circled your wrist and gave a gentle tug. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, but he tugged you again, and you had no choice but to turn and look at him. Conflict raged on his face. His fingers spasmed around your wrist and he looked angry and sad and rife with uncertainty. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—” 

He couldn’t finish. He kept opening his mouth, his shadows pulsing out and then returning to a cling around his shoulders, but no more sound came out. You reached for his hand, unwinding his fingers until your wrist was bare. 

“There are things you love—people. None of them are me.” 

Azriel’s shoulders heaved as he took in your words. “I could love you.” 

And you believed he wanted to so badly. But not for the right reasons. He had jumped up when Elain entered, completely forgotten about you or how he had just begged you to give him a chance to stay. Azriel—this Azriel of the past—wanted a mate. He wanted sure love. What he’d had with Elain had always been rocky and uncertain, but that was something you both had come to terms with. Over time. Over months. 

“Our love has never worked that way.” 

Elain was waiting for you when you turned around. 

~~

“She isn’t going to like that.” 

“She isn’t exactly at liberty to make decisions about this right now.” 

“And we are just going to trust that she won’t follow you?” 

“She won’t know. We won’t tell her until after.” 

“Rhys, that isn’t entirely fair.” 

“Would you rather she be in danger?” 

You huffed out an exasperated breath, pushing open the door to the High Lord’s study. The three people in the room stood frozen, staring at your entrance with wide, unblinking eyes. 

“Done talking about me?” you accused, brow raised. “Or shall I leave while you discuss my mental state a little more?” 

Feyre was the first to break the silence. “It wasn’t like that,” she shook her head. “We were discussing possibilities.” 

“And realities,” Rhysand offered. “Like the one where you will put yourself in unnecessary danger to get Azriel back.” 

“Unnecessary,” you quipped back, stomping past Cassian to stand at the High Lord’s desk. “This is Azriel. How can—how can you call anything to do with this unnecessary?” 

“Hey, not what he meant,” Cassian calmed. He moved forward and set a placating hand on your shoulder, squeezing it. He looked over your head. “Just tell her the plan. Easier that way.” 

Rhysand sighed, itching his jaw. “I want to bring Az to the rift again, just him and me. There was nothing in his memory about the switch—only a bright light before he woke up on the border. I think if I were to get close enough, I might be able to feel Azriel—our Azriel’s—mind and reach out to him. Helion doesn’t have any information on what this could be. There’s no literature, and Amren is stumped, too. Proximity may be our only solution.” 

“Okay, fine,” you nodded, waving a hand in the air. “Let’s go then. I would be useful. If the bond started to feel closer, we would know it was really him.” 

Rhysand was already shaking his head. “Bring you to the thing you’ve said you want to jump into?” 

“Yes. Yes, Rhys. If this were Feyre, you would have already gone in. But you don’t have any restrictions, do you? You’re the High Lord, so you don’t have to listen to anyone but yourself. Other people are in danger, and it’s still your word—”

Cassain said your name gently, softly, shaking your shoulder and bringing you to reason. You knew, again, that you weren’t being fair. The second you caught even a glimpse of the bond, you would nosedive into that rift, and your family wanted you safe. But you didn’t care about safe. You didn’t care about precautions. 

“Let them go alone first,” Feyre spoke from the other side of the room. “Let them feel around. Once they have a better understanding, you can go. I promise you that as High Lady. I won’t let anyone stop you if you promise not to go alone.” 

You weighed your options, suddenly very aware of the several tactics your family could implement to keep you grounded. There was a very real possibility that they would lock you away to keep you from becoming a flight risk, and although you knew how to winnow, your magic was thready on bad days. And every day was a bad day recently. 

You caught Rhysand’s eyes. “You will tell me everything you find?” you probed. “Even if it’s not good news.”

A hint of surprise flickered on Rhysand’s face. He quickly glanced at Feyre before nodding. “Yes. Everything.” 

“And… if you reach him—you’ll tell him I love him?” 

Rhysand’s shoulders fell from their defensive posture. Cassian squeezed your shoulder once more. “Yes,” the High Lord nodded. “Of course I will.” 

“And tell him that I wanted to come, but you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Azriel would be irate with me if you were there, you know that.” 

You felt your mouth twitch into a fleeting smile, remembering the times Azriel had been irate with Rhysand. Several involved you in places you shouldn’t be, doing things that the Shadowsinger was yanking you away from in an instant. Your smile vanished as you remembered that the Azriel you had now had moved just as fast upon Elain entering a room. 

“Just… make sure he knows I’m here. Waiting for him.” 

“I’m sure he’s already painfully aware.” 

You moved quickly, whipping your head around to find Azriel now in the room. His expression was placated by the kind of calm he used after long missions, and you’d only seen that expression a few times. It usually dissolved the moment he saw you, his body melting into your greeting. But now, this Azriel was using it around you. Because of you. 

“Azriel,” Feyre called. “You—” 

“I was listening, yes.” The Shadowsinger finally tore his eyes from you. “When are we going?” 

You felt your body tense, fingers curling into your palms. 

“In a few hours, if you’re up for it. I need to inform Helion that we’ll be on the border, but that shouldn’t take long.”

“Anyone else going?” 

Something kept you glued to Azriel, taking in every twitch of his muscle, every blink. He looked younger, you thought. You hadn’t noticed before. There was more sleep pressed into the crevices of his face, less sun along his cheeks. Maybe you were imagining things; six years were nothing to fae. 

“No,” Rhysand responded, shuffling things around his desk. “Better for just us to go. Less noise and less worry.” 

Azriel swallowed. “Okay. Come get me when it’s time.” 

He turned, left the room, and you were following him out before you could stop yourself. You got to the hall, unsure where you were going or how long you would trail after him, but Azriel decided that for you. He stopped mid-way down the hall, his shoulders lowering just a fraction, his head shaking imperceptibly. 

“Do not ask me again. I don’t know if I can say no.” 

Your hand, which had been outstretched without your knowing, lowered to your side. “I wasn’t going to ask anything.” 

Your mate—soon-to-be-mate—turned his head just far enough to see you. “You think I do not know you, but I knew you were going to ask to come—for him. I know you enough in my bones to hear you ask even when you did not.” 

Your lashes fluttered, a feeling working up your spine and caving in your chest. You pressed your lips together and rolled your eyes up to the ceiling in a desperate attempt to quell the pressure. It did not work. 

“Azriel.” You addressed him with finality, sure that after this conversation, you would need to lock yourself in a room until you heard of their return. There was no other way to stop yourself from following them. 

Hazel eyes met yours then, head on and searching. 

“Be careful,” you urged. “Please. I can’t—” 

“Don’t worry.” A sad upturn of his mouth. “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this future.” 

As he turned and left, the sound of him echoing, the pressure crushed into you, sending you to the wall, and then to the ground. You pressed your hand to your sternum and let your legs tent up, staring at the ceiling and praying to the Mother, the Cauldron, to anything. But there was no answer. There never was.

[pellucid-constellations]

With Respect For Time (3)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had still been hung up on Elain when you first met, hopeful that the teetering relationship would last. But time passed, and while their relationship did not withstand the test of that time, Azriel found joy somewhere else. He fell in love with you. Slowly. Purposefully. Wholly. He was happy. You were happy. Time is funny that way. It doesn’t always make sense. 

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, injury, memory loss, yearning, ANGST I'll say it again

a/n: Okay I'm thinking there will be 6-7 parts and I'll leave my guestimate to that for now. Also sorry if there are typos this was written while I was supposed to be working lolll but thank you for reading!! :) I love the angst and I love you 🫵

Part 1, Part 2

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel was staring at you. You could feel his eyes boring a hole into the side of your face as you sat beside Mor and pretended to listen to her rehashing news from Cassian. She was repeating herself to fill the space, and you were grateful; distraction was difficult with the state you were in. 

You picked at your sleeve as Azriel continued to stare. Rhys would be in soon, and then you would have answers—answers, but nothing fixed. Probably. You had considered staying in your room this morning, but then reason seeped into the doubt in your brain, and you backtracked on that decision. 

Last night, after Feyre had removed the glass from your clumsy feet and calmed you, she shared the plan. Rhys was going to delve further into Azriel’s mind after contacting Helion. Your mate had been on a small peninsula between the coasts of Day and Night to investigate conflicting reports from the dwindling population settled there. It had all been very official; an organized contract was written up between the courts, with Azriel as the linchpin. He was to go to the sliver of land and collect information, and then report back to both High Lords. 

He had missed the check-in with Helion. 

You never knew what Azirel was doing when he went off for long stretches. He told you as little as possible to satisfy your worries. He never wanted you involved in court politics or spying or anything that could lead to danger. 

Elain probably knew more than you. 

You shook the thought away. It had become so easy for you to revert to old habits, to compare yourself to Elain and measure all of your shortcomings. You supposed everything would start to feel as it used to. Your relationship with Azriel certainly fell backward—rife with insecurity and uncertainty. 

It was neither of their faults. You picked at the skin of your thumb and took in steady breaths as you reminded yourself that this was all a fluke. This wasn’t evidence of your shortcomings or of betrayal. This was a situation with a solution, with a cause. 

“Mor,” Azriel gently warned, his gaze still fixed on you. Mor had started a new story, you vaguely recognized, and the distraction had stopped working about five minutes ago. From the corner of your eye, you saw the pair share a look. Azriel shook his head softly. 

Mor blew out a breath and sank back in her seat. “Well, if Rhys would hurry up,” she muttered under her breath. 

“It’s a long way to Day,” you hummed, looking back down at your fingers. “Probably a lot to talk about.” 

“He’ll be back soon. I believe it would be difficult to side-track him right now,” Azriel reassured. 

You raised your brows at his explanation. To him, you needed the context. To him, you hardly knew the High Lord. You let the redundancy simmer low in your chest and reminded yourself that staying back had been difficult for Azriel, too. His knee was shaking, and he’d had to stay home while his High Lord gathered intel. 

None of this was right.

“Right, of course,” was all you uttered back. 

You still stared down at your hands. Azriel still stared over at you. 

Azriel’s shadows created a faint hum in the room. You usually couldn’t hear them, but they were lingering around your shoulders and refused to abide by their master’s incessant calls to return.  You could see each tick of his head that went unanswered and felt a small sense of satisfaction that at least something was choosing you. Even if that was childish. Even if it was unwarranted. 

Rhysand returned to the House without much fanfare, his collar loose and his hair mussed. Feyre was quick in her step behind him, looking more determined than her mate. The energy in the room perked up in a dreary way as Cassian stomped in soon after. 

He clapped, startling the shadows until they wrapped you closer. “Everyone here?” Cassian assessed. 

“Everyone that needs to be,” Mor huffed out, sitting straighter. She was unwavering in her place next to you, Azriel in the chair across the room. 

“Great,” Cassian grinned. “So, that’s not Azriel.” 

A pause. The humming stopped. You could hear Feyre let out a delicate sigh and barely caught how she pinched the bridge of her nose, but you felt frozen. Azriel himself was frozen, unmoving. 

“I do not recall that being the way we were going to deliver the information, Cassian,” Rhysand chastised. 

“Better to get it out all at once.” 

“What?” Azriel hissed out, rising from his seat. You stared after him once his back was turned, analyzing every inch of his shoulders and wings and his hair. It looked like him. It was— “Are you accusing me of being a spy against you? A fake?” 

Cassian raised his hands. “No—Well, not exactly. It’s different.” 

“It’s entirely different. Which is why you should stop talking,” Rhysand directed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. He let his gaze trail over you before he spread his fingers out and curled them into his palms. “That is Azriel. You are. But you just—or it’s Helion’s theory that—you are not our Azriel.” 

“And whose Azriel is he then?” Mor scoffed, an air of concern washing over the contempt. She had risen from her spot beside you.

“That gets complicated,” Feyre offered. “Azriel was gathering intel on disappearances in the peninsula, but it wasn’t just that. The citizens were saying that people were going missing, but also that sometimes they would return… different. Maybe from poison or contamination. It seemed like a farce because of the recent unrest in the area. They want more resources from both Rhys and Helion since they’re technically on the border, so making up a lie for funds to investigate a fake issue wouldn’t be unusual.” 

“So you sent Az to look into it,” Mor nodded. 

“So we sent Az.” Rhysand sounded defeated. He rubbed at his face again. “Turns out it was an actual issue.” 

“Poison?” you murmured, the only one sitting in the room. Several eyes turned to you. You clutched the cushion beneath your legs. “How does that—I don’t—” 

“Not poison,” Feyre gently corrected. “That’s why it’s complicated.” 

You kept your gaze locked on the ground, but within that line, you saw Azriel move. He took a step back, heel clicking towards you, but then he stayed. 

“Explain it.” 

Azriel sounded defensive already, brimming with assurance that he could refute any points made. Rhysand cleared his throat, and Cassian leaned a shoulder against the wall. 

“There’s a rift—a split between Day and Night. The locals have said it feeds things in and spits them out. That it’s a warped tear in the sky that clashes and makes the ocean thrash when it’s open,” Rhysand recounted, eyes hazy as if recalling exact memories. 

“Sounds like a story to scare the local children into listening,” Mor quipped. 

“I thought the same. But we saw it,” Rhysand shook his head. “Or I saw it. From one of their minds. And when they were explaining how people came back from the rift, it sounded—” 

Cassian jerked his head towards Azriel. “Sounded like you.” 

You finally looked up, fingers aching from your grip on the couch. Azriel was stiff and unrelenting as he stood before the group, but he was deflating, slowly, his head making the smallest movements. Everyone watched him as if he were going to implode, and you watched him as if you couldn’t remember the last time anything made sense. 

“So you think he entered this rift?” you quietly asked. Azriel’s chin jerked to the side when you spoke, but he didn’t turn completely. 

“Yes,” Feyre nodded. “When Rhys checked his mind, there was nothing about the mission or… anything from the past few years. Not even anything hinting at locked-away memories. Or missing memories.”

“It was like there was a gap. But that gap wasn’t supposed to be filled yet,” Rhys finished. 

“Where am I supposed to be then?” Azriel bit out, rough now, maybe scared. “What’s the theory?” 

“You’re supposed to be in the past. You were switched.” 

Rhysand’s words were an echo, and then they were a raucous clanging in your mind. Azriel—your mindful, cautious Azriel—seemed actually to implode, his shadows bursting from your shoulders and clinging to their master. They swirled around him and coated his skin, blocking him and surrounding him and protecting him from words. 

“Switched?” Azriel breathed out. “I was not. I am not—an incorrect version of myself.” 

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Feyre comforted. 

“It is.” 

“Az, take a moment and think about—” 

“No, Cassian.” Azriel shot his hand through the air. “I’m not—this is something inside of my mind. I know it is. I can pinpoint it.” 

“Can you?” Rhysand asked, braving a step towards the agitated Shadowsinger. “How?” 

Azriel paused, his shoulders heaving. He didn’t have an answer, and Rhysand knew that. The High Lord looked to you, then, conveying something with his eyes that might have spelled an apology. You attempted to parse out the meaning, but too much was happening. Too much, and also not enough. 

Rhysand said your name. Attention turned to you. “When you feel the bond—when you look at Azriel, does it feel how it’s supposed to?” 

You wet your lips and blinked. “Supposed to?” 

“Does it feel complete when you look at him? Alive?” 

“It doesn’t feel broken, if that’s what you mean.” You furrowed your brows and searched inward. A directive question actually felt nice, even though it was making you focus on something you had tried hard to push to the side. “It feels distant. Far away.” 

“Far away?” Mor repeated, breathless. “What does that mean?” 

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “And what do you feel?”

“He doesn’t feel anything,” you answered for him, disconnecting from the crushing feeling that accompanied the words. “He told me last night.” 

Azriel was quick to refute. “That’s not true,” he said, staring at you. He looked to Rhys next. “That’s not true. I feel… I feel like I’m supposed to feel something for her. Protect her.” 

Rhysand nodded softly. “You feel drawn to her. You know very little about her, but something is bringing you in.” 

“Yes. So it is there.” 

“No, Az. That’s the before. Before the bond is realized.” 

Azriel’s hand flew to his chest, his head turning down. He looked searching, maybe hoping that he would find the bond, because that would prove he was who he wanted to be. That he belonged in the now. But you knew he didn’t, because he felt far; Rhys made you aware that Azriel felt far away, and there was a man in front of you who looked just like him, but he didn’t look at you like he loved you. Not yet.

“Where is he?” you whispered, feeling your eyes burn. Tears fell as you searched for Rhys, for Feyre, for the people who seemed to know how to get him back. “If he was switched, where is our Azriel? Is he okay?”

“He was likely sent to the past,” Feyre explained. She was the soft one in this, offering gentle truths while Rhysand conveyed the big ones. The hard ones. “He’s probably in the same situation we are in now. Trying to figure this out.” 

“How can we bring him back?” you panicked. “What if he doesn’t know how to get himself back?” 

“Hey, we’re going to figure this out,” Cassian tried to comfort. He moved to calm you, but Azriel stepped in his path. 

You stood from the couch and paced around the length of the carpet before stopping in front of Rhysand. “You can send me to the rift. I can go and get him and explain. He doesn’t have as much context as we do. He would need me.” 

“You’re not going to throw yourself into that thing,” Azriel growled from behind you. “It would make sense for me to go back through it. To undo it.” 

“No!” you stressed, grabbing Rhysand’s arm. The High Lord covered your hand with his and tried to speak, but you were too heightened, too afraid. “It might not work. I should go.” 

Rhysand lowered his head, voice calm. “And then we might lose you, too.” 

“That doesn’t matter!” 

Mor shot out your name in a gasping breath, but you kept your gaze unyielding on Rhysand. “It could switch me, yes, but that would be better. I could tell Azriel what’s happening and bring him back safely.” 

“What if that’s not what happens? What if you are just gone? Lost?” 

You reared back, hand covering your mouth. “Don’t say that. Don’t—because then you think Azriel could be lost, and he’s not.” 

“We wouldn’t chance it,” Rhysand affirmed, shaking his head, putting his foot down. “We wouldn’t want to lose you both.” 

You turned your attention to Azriel—an Azriel. Maybe not yours, but he said he felt something for you. Your Azriel would give you anything; this one could be the same. 

You spun on your heel and charged at the Shadowsinger, capturing his arms in your hold and not caring that it didn’t feel right. “You came from there. You could take me back,” you beseeched him. “Take me. You don’t want to be here, I know it.” 

Azriel took you in, brows furrowing as he scanned every corner of your face. The muscles of his arms jumped beneath your fingers, and he didn’t mirror your desperation, but something flickered on his face that you couldn’t place. It had been too long since you’d seen it. 

“I won’t put you in danger,” he seemed to wince. “I won't.” 

“I wouldn’t be in danger. He would find me. He would protect me.” 

Azriel knocked your hands from his arms and held the sides of your head, capturing your attention and forcing you to ground. “I am right here. No version of me would let my mate throw herself into the unknown. How am I supposed to have a life with you if you’re gone?” 

“You don’t want me,” you whispered, eyes flashing between each of his. 

Azriel struggled to find words. He kept searching your face, holding you steady, his expression pressed into a near-permanent wince. You thought you might have felt his thumb brush against your temple, but too many thoughts were roaring in your head for you to notice it. 

“Let me go,” you urged. 

But Azriel was already shaking his head. “I can’t.” 

Your breath came out as a hopeless, anguished sound. Knowing where your mate was and not being able to get to him, to fix this, was enough to make your chest pound with an uncomfortable weight. You pressed back from Azriel and tried to reconcile how you were so close to him, and yet, he was further away than he’d ever been. Azriel’s hands dropped to his sides as you left him. 

His gaze went over your head. “You must have some form of a plan.” 

Rhysand was still staring after you as Azriel spoke, conflict raging on his face. His head tilted to the side, and he rolled his shoulders back. “Helion is looking into it more. I’d also like to search your memories more for the moment the switch happened—if it was a switch. See if there are any leads.” 

Your breathing was becoming erratic, your chest heavier. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your hand to your ribs, tears continuing to fall. They hadn’t stopped. 

“Done,” Azriel confirmed. “What else?” 

“That’s it. For now,” Rhysand said. His voice felt distorted. 

You leaned over as your head began to spin, hands on your thighs. Immediately, Azriel had you in his hold again. You felt fingers cover yours. He came down to his knee and stared up at your face. He was blurry. Everything was blurry. 

“It’s okay,” Azriel softly assured. 

“It’s not,” you got out. “He’s—” 

Your mate—not your mate—gave you a sad upturn of his mouth. “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

[ddejavvu]

azriel fucking you so good and being so filthy every single time that you can’t help feeling shy afterwards and he gets so confused by it lmao

come join my acotar party!

--

Your brain had stopped working for several minutes after your third orgasm of the night, and you're surprised it's regaining any function at all. But it is, and with each memory of you and Azriel ravaging each other for the night you're hit with another wave of mortification.

Do you really moan like that?

Well, you can't really blame yourself for that one. Azriel is a... passionate lover, and you're not sure you could ever stop yourself from expressing just how crazy he makes you. He makes you feel things you've never felt before, in places you didn't know you could feel them. But still, the memories of you yanking his hair to get him closer to your cunt, the way you'd stroked the inside edges of his wings until he'd lost control and jackhammered into you at a pace strong enough to slam the headboard into the wall, the way you'd held your mouth open and slack for him to use as he pleased-

You turn over, burying your burning face into the pillow.

"Love," Azriel calls worriedly from the bathroom, wet washcloth in hand as he approaches the foot of the bed. He's cleaned himself up quickly, but despite going first he always offers you the courtesy of bedside assistance, "I don't think you can breathe well like that."

"I don't want to," You groan into the pillowcase, "I'm- Azriel, please don't look at me."

It's not because you're naked, it's because you're overwhelmed and humiliated. But he's confused, considering he'd just been inside of you for the better part of two hours- he's not really sure how much closer and more personal he could have gotten with you.

"Okay," He hums kindly, eyes now glancing up at the ceiling, "I still need to clean you up, though."

He hears you move, but he's following orders and not looking while you do it. When you pluck the washcloth from his hands he has to flail blindly to catch your shoulders, wrestling you down onto the mattress where you try fleeing to the bathroom.

"Don't walk yet," He tells you, voice firmer, though still kind, "Can I ask what's got you running away now?"

"I was really loud." You muse, after just a long enough period of silence for it to be awkward, "I- It probably sounded like we were watching porn in here."

He has to bite his lips not to smirk, but he does it out of courtesy, "No, I bet it sounded like we were having sex. That's what porn is, if you've forgotten."

"Yeah, but only porn stars moan like that," You gush, your cheeks aflame, "I- you said crazy stuff to me, you know that?"

"I remember," Azriel hums, eyes still locked onto a spot on the ceiling, fingers moist from the washcloth, "And I also remember the way you reacted to them."

"That's why you can't look at me," You whine, scraping the wet washcloth along the sensitive skin of your soaked thighs, "That's- that was insane, Azriel."

"That's what sex is like," He scoffs defeatedly, "It's really difficult to have sex without doing things that make you blush."

"That's what sex with you is like," You insist, and at a hiss of pleasure-pain as you press the washcloth to your abused core, Azriel reaches blindly once more for you. He knows your body inside and out, and is soon dragging a washcloth-draped finger through your cunt to collect what he'd left behind.

"Well," He drawls, even his own cheeks pinkening slightly, "You're gonna have to get used to that. I don't intend to disappoint you."

"You couldn't." You decide, leaning into his touch even though you're still warm-cheeked from the embarrassment of being that pliant for him, "Just- promise me you won't look me in the eyes until you forget the sound of my porn-star moan?"

"No deal." He shakes his head, finally dropping his eyes to your own and watching you squirm at the intensity of his hazel gaze, "I've already memorized it, and I'm not forgoing eye contact for the rest of our lives."

[pellucid-constellations]

Best friends reader and Az finally confessing her feelings to him drunk saying she doesn’t want to just be friends anymore!!!!

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word count: 750

Warnings: Some angst because this is my world and I do what I want

a/n: Drabble masterlist can be found here. Thank youu for the request hehehehe ily <3

____________________________________________

Azriel blinked and shook his head harshly, deeply regretting his decision to give in to you and drink that night. He spotted you sitting alone at their private table, the rest of your group happily sprawled out across the dance floor as your face glittered with tears. He should be sober. You were crying and alone, and he should be sober.

When he reached the booth, your tears were not sullen sobs but slow, meaningful tracks that pooled at the glitter on your neck. You didn't notice him when he arrived, your gaze outcast and far hazier than Azriel's, but you focused on him as soon as he kneeled at your feet. You blinked to clear your vision, and more tears came.

"What happened?" Azriel almost cooed, a hand resting on your knee. If it weren't for the bumping music, he would have practically whispered the words to you.

You shook your head, lips pressing into a line.

Azriel felt his expression fall against his will, another sign of the alcohol in his system. He grabbed your hand instead of your knee, rubbing the knuckles. You bit the inside of your cheek and squeezed your eyes shut.

"You won't tell me?" Azriel asked, hurt seeping through. You told him everything. Especially when you were drunk. Your hair was a mess, and you were coated in sparkles and remnants of starfall, and you always told him everything. You were his best friend.

"Will you let me take you home?" he asked instead of prying. He wanted to pry.

You shook your head again, and a deep sigh escaped him. He waited a beat, and when you opened your eyes, your gaze shot to his neck. Something burned right where you were looking. He couldn't remember why.

"I—" you started, and Azriel perked up. "I don't want to be friends anymore."

A strange sound escaped Azriel's throat. He jutted back as if you'd pushed him and gripped your hand tighter as if on instinct. You weren't crying anymore, a look of determination now rigid in your expression, and he hated that he wished you might start crying again. He could comfort you; he knew how to do that. He did not know how to be pushed out of your life.

"You don't—" he began, unsure what he was even going to say next. But you cut him off again, tears still wet on your cheeks as you straightened your posture.

"I don't want to be friends with you anymore, Azriel."

"You don't mean that," came his immediate reply. "You're drunk. What have I—Have I done something to upset you?"

"Yes, you have," you slurred, swaying as your determination fought against your balance. "You were... You were dancing with that woman. Her lipstain is on your neck—did you know? You've upset me a great deal."

He should definitely be sober. Azriel reached up to swipe at his neck and came away with a sickeningly pink hue. He had barely remembered that happening. It must have been when he spotted you walking back to the table.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered out, wiping the offending substance on his pant leg. "Do you know her? I didn't mean—"

"I don't want you dancing with any woman. Whether or not I know her. It's—It's unacceptable!"

You were crying again, and Azriel wanted to wipe the tears as they fell, but he was still reeling over the notion that you wanted nothing to do with him. That, and he didn't think you would let him touch you with his now clean fingers, the reminder of the lipstain still so prevalent.

"I apologize. I won't do it again. You're right, I should have just stayed with you, but you seemed like you were having a good time and I didn't want to—"

"I said I don't want to be friends. Aren't you hearing me?"

Azriel swallowed, the action hurting him. He flinched and dropped your hand, wiping his palms down the front of his thighs. He nodded, and then nodded again, but you let out a disgruntled sound and jerked his face up in unsteady hands. It was only a second later, and your lips were on his, equally as unsteady, clearly a drunken kiss, but then you pulled away, and your eyes looked clear.

"As in, I want more. So no more dancing with other women, is that clear?"

With stars in his eyes, Azriel breathed out, "Nothing has ever been clearer."

[pellucid-constellations]

With Respect For Time (2)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had still been hung up on Elain when you first met, hopeful that the teetering relationship would last. But time passed, and while their relationship did not withstand the test of that time, Azriel found joy somewhere else. He fell in love with you. Slowly. Purposefully. Wholly. He was happy. You were happy. Time is funny that way. It doesn’t always make sense. 

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, injury, memory loss, ANGST I'll say it again

a/n: Yayy part 2 :) I hope you enjoy all the angst! I'm still not sure exactly how many parts this will be, but I think maybe 4-5? Anyways love you thanks for reading <33

Part 1

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Wind whipped at your face as you stood on the precipice of the cliff, vaguely aware that you were somewhere between Day and Dawn. Your emotions had led the winnow. Without agency over your mind, you had guided yourself to a place unknown, though you were sure Azriel had mentioned it to you before. He loved to tell you about the beautiful places he saw while away from home. 

As you stood and stared out at the thrashing sea, arms tight around your middle, you wondered if that was some sort of game for him—a ploy in this years-long deceit. 

Tears were still welling in your eyes, made undetectable by the ocean spray. It was all rather dramatic, really—you winnowing to a cliff with the howling wind as your only companion. Perhaps this was why Azriel described his beautiful places with such precision; he was giving you options for when he broke your heart. 

The scene was a blur in your mind. You distantly remembered the empty way your mate looked at you, how his eyes barely grazed past before honing in on her. On Elain. You used to feel licks of jealousy each time you came into contact with the female, but those feelings had long gone. Even now, with your heart beating from your chest, a numbness coating your skin from the cold, you didn’t feel jealousy. You weren’t sure what feeling consumed you. 

Come back. 

Rhysand’s voice was a weak echo in the back of your head. You weren’t far enough from Velaris, apparently. 

We need to talk. Come back. 

And then a pause. 

Please. 

You didn’t feel the need to talk about anything. Your mouth was dry despite the tepid air, your throat aching. 

It’s not what you think.

You fought the urge to slam a wall down in your mind, well aware that Rhysand could break through if he truly wanted to. Your magic had never been very strong. That was probably why Azriel was still in love with Elain. He wanted an equal and had grown tired of spinning pretty lies for you. 

When your feet began to ache from the ragged rocks on the cliffside, you retreated into the dismal-looking forest. The trees were withered with the season and lashed by the unquelled ocean, providing little cover from the wind. It didn’t matter. You slumped against the sturdiest one you could find and sank to the ground, knees by your chin. 

Feyre’s voice would come soon, your High Lady always eager to calm. To fix. You plucked at the material of your dress as it soaked into your knees, considering what it would take for this to be fixed. 

He said he loved her. He held her. You hadn’t had to witness him holding her in years. 

Your love was supposed to be assured, stable. He loved you before the bond, and you loved him even before he fully realized the depth of you. Just before his mission, he had kissed you and promised so many things, as he always did before he left. You knocked your head back against the wavering tree and tried to remember exactly what he had promised all those weeks ago. Maybe a gift from the sea? Or trinkets from Helion’s personal collection? It was impossible to remember; the conversation had felt so commonplace then. 

Some of the anger came next. You found yourself cursing the day you met him, pushing your head further into the soaked bark. If you hadn’t been working that day, perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling this pain now. If he hadn’t walked through the doors to your shop all those years ago, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the need to play this game with you. 

Most people never met their mate. 

You hadn’t been so lucky. 

“Oh, y/n, you’re drenched.” When Feyre’s voice finally sounded off, it was closer than Rhysand’s. More clear. “Come. Please. At least let me take you somewhere dry.” 

It took another moment for you to realize that Feyre was there, directly in front of you. You winced as you rocked up and met her eyes, your head throbbing from the day. 

Feyre took in the pathetic picture you were sure you displayed. She dropped to her knees in front of you and made a sound that got lost in the wind. “I know,” she hummed, sad. “I’m sorry. Let me take you home.” 

“I don’t want to go back there,” you croaked back. “I can’t—” 

When you couldn’t finish your thought, Feyre considered. She leaned back to sit on her heels and rested her hands in her lap, her hair whistling in the gusts of air. Rain pattered and was consumed by waves. There was nothing she could say. Nothing, except, “He doesn’t know what year it is.” 

~~

“Again.” 

“It is six years past the date you remember, Azriel. You were sent on a mission last month and were supposed to return today. To Mor’s housewarming party. Your mate informed you of it before you left. You spoke to me yesterday through the connection. You confirmed your mission was completed and that you would be home for the party.” 

“My mate?” Azriel breathed out, hands in a prayer over his mouth. You watched him from the crack in the door, how he puffed out a breath and leaned back in the chair, his wings splaying. 

Rhysand remained patient. He rested his elbows on his knees. “Yes.” 

“Not Elain?” 

“Not Elain. I meant what I said before. It has been years since you’ve been with Elain.” 

“The woman who left,” Azriel began, your hands twitching at your sides at his mention of you. “She’s Mor’s friend. She owns the shop by the rainbow.” 

Your gaze flickered to Rhysand. He eyed the door briefly before raising his brows. “She is. And she does.” 

“My shadows call for her. They—they’re very… upset,” Azriel revealed, his face pressed into near-permanent confusion. 

Rhyand offered a hum in response, but Azriel had always been more perceptive than the rest, more clever. You watched his head shake slightly, his fingers curled as they rested in fists on his knees. 

“It’s her, isn’t it? She’s my mate.” 

You left then, unwilling to face his reaction to the news. You weren’t supposed to be listening, anyway. Feyre only allowed your trip through the House so you could get a glass of water. She had been hovering, otherwise, obviously cautious with Azriel in the same building. 

She shouldn’t have brought you here. 

You should have stayed on the side of that bleak cliff. 

It became clear why she brought you the moment you set foot inside, the calm that washed over you healing some of the ache. Traitorous mating bonds didn’t quite care when your life was falling apart, only that you were near to each other. That calm was just about undone now; the conflict raging on Azriel’s face was enough to make you sick.

You pressed down the hall with your water shaking in your hand, taking slow steps to have some time to yourself. Azriel had not betrayed you. He did love Elain, but he did not betray you. The two were not mutually exclusive to your tender heart, even with the state your mate was in—if he was still your mate. The bond echoed in your chest, not feeling closed, but feeling incomplete. If you focused on it too hard, the feeling caused you to hyperventilate.

He loved Elain. He did not love you. He did not even remember you. 

Sickness edged its way into your throat. 

Six years ago, Azriel had only barely met you. It was another year before the two of you fell in love, and then another year and a half before the bond appeared. Those years had been filled with joy and the feeling of falling, but they had also been rife with insecurities and a back-and-forth pull. Azriel’s feelings for Elain had not simply disappeared when he met you, and you had not been ready for a relationship with an unsure man. 

None of that mattered now. All of that progress, the years of loving him, were all… gone. 

Rhys… he hasn’t looked yet. After we calmed Az down enough to figure out what was going on, he went into the surface of his mind—what he usually keeps open for us to see—and he said it was static. Like he wasn’t conscious. He didn’t want to look further without knowing more. And then we asked him for the date and… 

You mulled over Feyre’s explanation from earlier. Everyone had been so angry at Azriel, yelling at him and demanding explanations from a man with only a half-conscious brain. Elain had gently pushed him away the moment you left the party, expecting her own set of explanations. You missed that part. In your memory, she had melted into him, eager for his touch. 

Apparently, neither you nor Azriel had reliable memories. 

“Excuse me?” 

You startled, the cup slipping from your fingers. Shattering glass and splashes of water followed. Your flinch was more exaggerated than anticipated, the sound of Azriel’s voice sending you into a panic. You stepped back and jolted, hearing crunching and then a rushed warning that you didn’t have time to follow. You turned, and there he was. 

Azriel had his hand raised, his mouth parted from his call. He was staring down at your feet, but remained rooted in place despite the worry that flickered across his features. When his eyes flashed up to meet yours, a chill overtook you. You looked at him, and there was no connection. You loved him, yes, but the bond was stunted. Looking at him hurt. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Were you alright? What a question to ask you. After he witnessed your breakdown just hours prior, you almost considered that he might be mocking you. 

“Um, yes,” you eventually stammered out, hands clutching at the nightgown Feyre had wrapped you in. 

“Your feet,” Azriel pointed out. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” 

He took a step forward, and you took one back. 

“Wait, don't!” 

It was too late. Again. More broken glass was crushed beneath your feet, the feeling of it barely registering. That was probably a bad sign. You were too focused on getting away from the husk of your mating bond to care. 

“Oh,” you breathed, staring down at the wet crimson staining the marbled floors. 

Azriel let out a hurried sound that barely rose above the ringing in your ears. You had begun to feel lightheaded as you looked down, blinking harshly to clear your mind. It didn’t work. 

“Here,” Azriel offered. You caught his hand reaching out in your blurred peripheral. “Step over. I can—” 

He stopped when you finally found the stability to look up. Your eyes were wet again, craters of shallow water that you couldn’t control. It hurt to look at him. 

Azriel stared back with intentionality. He seemed to flinch, glancing again at your feet, before wetting his lips and nodding towards his outstretched hand. “Let me help you.” 

“I can—I can do it,” you whispered. He probably thought you were insane. He had no memory of you, and now you were bleeding and whispering in the hallway. 

“Please,” Azriel pressed, speaking so softly you could let the tears fall. 

You couldn’t meet his eye as you took his hand, instead focusing down at the mess you had created. Azriel guided you past the broken glass and began to assess. He took in a breath and leaned back to look at you, but when his shadows only swarmed your feet, he nodded to himself, glancing up to meet your gaze. You had already been staring. Memorizing him, maybe, unsure when you would be this close again. 

“We should get you sitting down. There could be glass in your feet, and it shouldn’t heal over like that.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing the tears to remain in your waterline. “Feyre could—” 

“I’d like to be the one to help you,” Azriel interrupted, eyes roving over the planes of your face. 

“Why?” you whispered back. 

He flinched again, tilting his head as if searching for something. Some of the numbness had left you, a dull throb echoing in your heel. You bit harder into your cheek, and Azriel caught it. He reached down to your hands and placed them on his shoulders, giving you the chance to redistribute your weight. You took it, desperate to touch him. 

“I thought—I thought maybe I would feel it. If we were close,” Azriel said into the space between you. He furrowed his brows, and his head shook so slightly. “But I don’t. I don’t—I’m sorry. Were you told—” 

“That you don’t remember me?” you finished for him. “Yes.” 

“I do remember you. I do. But from before. You only just met Mor. I’ve only spoken to you twice.” 

You shifted your jaw to accommodate the burning in your nose, tears finally escaping down your cheeks. You clutched at Azriel’s leathers and stared up at the ceiling. “Right,” you affirmed. “That’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” 

“Rhys is going to try… to fix it.” 

You pressed your lips together and shut your eyes for a moment. “Do you want to fix it?” 

“Of course—”

“Or do you want Elain?” 

A pause. An ugly one. That wasn’t fair, but anger was mingling with the sorrow within you, and you kept seeing him hold her. You had been through all of this already, had similar conversations with Azriel years ago when you were still learning about each other. It was a cruel joke that met you today, watching Azriel’s expression shift into a yearning that wasn’t meant for you. 

“You have to understand,” he breathed out, gaze tracking out. “To me, we are—we’re together. I—I love her.” 

The admittance was like a knife to the heart. He had been talking to Rhys when he said it before. Now, he was talking to you, telling you that he was in love with another. It didn’t matter that he was living in the past; your mate was standing before you, telling you that he did not know you. That he did not love you. 

You nodded as more tears fell, your throat closing from the emotion. “I understand completely. I was there the first time. I know your relationship quite well.” 

Azriel tsked, expression pinched. “She told me that it isn’t like that anymore. When you left earlier, she told me that she doesn’t love me. She told me and I still—” 

You couldn’t listen to this. Azriel was distraught in his consideration, mulling through the discrepancies of his memory and the current. A sob worked its way up your throat, and you covered your mouth with your fingers, falling back on your injured feet to create distance. You couldn’t listen to this. 

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Azriel shook his head, reaching for you again as you stepped away. “Let me help you, still. I shouldn’t have—I don’t know how to do this. Please forgive me.” 

“I can’t—” you choked out, pulling and tugging at the empty space within you. “I can’t be around you. I need to—I have to leave.” 

“No, I’ll stop. I won’t talk about her. Your feet. You can’t walk,” Azriel rushed out, taking careful steps to match each of your backtracks. 

But he wanted to talk about her. It was his instinct. The conversation had led so easily to the woman he loved, and that hadn’t been you. For the first time in years, it hadn’t been you. Another sob ripped from your throat, your feet crying out as you quickened your pace and went to turn down the hall. 

“Please—”

Azriel’s call was interrupted, Feyre gasping as she rounded the corner. She took hurried steps towards the scene, glancing down at the glass and vanishing it with a flick of her wrist. She looked to your feet next, the way you were tinted with tears. Feyre gathered your face in her hands and shook her head as you cried. 

“What happened?” she worried. “I thought you went to the kitchen?” 

You couldn’t talk anymore, all words wasted on the shadowsinger at your back. You watched Feyre send a searching look over your shoulder, and she shook her head again, this time with more resolve. Your High Lady gathered you into her side and cooed reassurances that you didn’t hear. You felt her magic wrap around your feet, and the hallway remained silent as she guided you away. 

Silent, and yet, so loud.

[pellucid-constellations]

With Respect For Time

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had still been hung up on Elain when you first met, hopeful that the teetering relationship would last. But time passed, and while their relationship did not withstand the test of that time, Azriel found joy somewhere else. He fell in love with you. Slowly. Purposefully. Wholly. He was happy. You were happy. Time is funny that way. It doesn’t always make sense. 

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Sooo much angst! I don't want to give anything away yet so just focus on the angst!!

a/n: This will be about 3 parts I think? Hehehe enjoyyy I'll add more warnings as they become relevant :) ily you thank you for reading <3

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Loving Azriel was easy. So, so easy. 

In the years you had waited to find your partner in life, you had never envisioned such a relationship. He listened. He cared. He revered you as an equal and treasured you, it seemed, with each breath he took. You made him better, and he ignited the same passion within you. 

It hadn’t always been quite so easy. Azriel had been in love with Elain when you first met. But, no, he would tell you that wasn’t the case—that he had thought he was in love with her, yes, but that he had thought wrong. He had never truly known love before you. He had lamented as much at your mating ceremony and affirmed that he would never know anything of equal value for as long as he should live. 

Azriel was a sap, sentimental in his love for you. You adored it. Your family found it rather sickening at times. 

“Do try to keep your hands to yourself,” Mor droned on, plucking a bouquet from the market stall. “This is a housewarming party. My housewarming party. And I would prefer not to vomit in my mouth, please.” 

“You are always so cruel,” you teased back, appraising the flowers she chose. You plucked a matching set of carnations to display in her kitchen. “We are not that bad. You exaggerate.” 

“I wish I exaggerated. Everyone figured you would calm with time, but Azriel is too obsessed with you to allow us the reprieve.” 

The busy market street hustled around the two of you, and you clutched your netted shoulder bag closer to your body to make space. Mor had invited you along to buy the necessary items for the gathering in her new home, but it seemed she had an ulterior motive for this outing. The blonde sent you a look as she dropped coin on the vendor’s counter and collected her flowers. You offered a long roll of your eyes. 

“Enough of this. I promise to keep my hands to myself.” 

Mor hummed, moving on to the spice stall. “Your hands are never the real issue, surprisingly enough. Az was never one for public displays before he met you. Though you could rein in the loving looks across the room.” 

“You want me not to look at him?” you scoffed out. 

“I want you to look at him… normally. With less intensity. Can you manage that?” 

“Perhaps you should have us in separate rooms for the duration of the night. You can let me know when it’s my turn to eat dinner, and then Az can spend some time on your new balcony. How does that sound?” you quipped sarcastically. 

“Tetchy,” Mor smirked, dropping a bundle of thyme into your bag. “What’s the matter? Too much distance?” 

You knew Mor was only joking, and there was a lingering humor beneath each of your words, but the distance had been rather grating. Azriel was only supposed to be away on his mission for a few days, but those few days had extended into a few weeks, and the small sparks sent along the mating bond were not cutting it anymore. You missed him desperately. He was finally set to return tonight, Mor’s housewarming party the backdrop to your reunion. 

So, her requests were substantiated. If it were completely up to you, you would spend the night in your own home, wrapped up in Azriel’s arms. It was not completely up to you, however; Mor was incessant when she wanted to throw a party. 

At your lack of reply, Mor tsked, linking her arm with yours and guiding you down the street. “You mates are always so on edge. He will return tonight, and then we can go back to discussing the curtains I want to put in the guest room.”

~~

Mor’s new home was beautifully warm. You had helped her choose most of the decor, the splashes of color coinciding with the softness of muted tones and mixed textures. She was ecstatic to have a space that was wholly hers, and you were ecstatic to have helped make it feel like home. The two of you had been fast friends upon your introduction to the Inner Circle. You always cherished the relationship and the ease of its roots. 

As you welcomed another member of the family into Mor’s sitting room, you sent a pulse down the bond, eager for Azriel to return home. It had been quiet all day today, but the last days of Azriel’s missions were often quiet, your mate needing the space to tie things up wherever he was. You were pretty sure he had gone to Day this time, or perhaps it was Dawn? He couldn’t always tell you the specifics. 

Your attempt was not met, but you didn’t let it bother you. Soon, the others surrounded you, eating merrily and appreciating the space. They brought gifts that Mor opened and placed around her house, and you sidled up beside Cassian on the couch to watch from there. Nesta spoke over her mate’s lap as the night went on, engaging you in conversation as things ebbed and flowed. 

“Has Azriel not deigned to make an appearance?” Nesta asked, eyeing the front door. “I thought he was going to be back in time for dinner. He missed it.” 

“No, not yet. Probably still caught up,” you replied casually, though the reminder sent something stirring in you. You rubbed your thumbnail against your palm and tugged on the bond again. He did not respond. 

Sensing your restlessness, Nesta flicked her hand in the air. “You know how he gets. He’s probably on his way now. He loves to make an entrance.” 

You let out a nervous laugh that met the air strangely, your chest feeling hollow. You should change the subject. You were feeling okay before this. “Nesta, I wonder if—” 

The unsettled air around you zapped to life as the front door opened, and you turned to find Azriel looking around in confusion. He stepped back slightly to peer up at the front door hinge, and then craned his neck to get a better view of the sitting room where everyone remained. A wave of relief washed through your chest at the sight of him, but when that wave continued to fill empty space, panic lingered. 

“Az?” you called out, offering a soft smile as you rose from the couch. 

Your mate turned at the sound of his name, but he only furrowed his brows further when he looked at you. Panic turned into alarm bells when he did not smile, when his gaze didn’t soften as he met your eye. You didn’t step towards him. Instead, you called his name again. 

He searched your face for another moment. His gaze left you too quickly. “Mor?” he asked. “Mor, is this your house?” 

The room had gone silent, any lingering joy snuffed out by wary concern. Azriel’s reaction to you had made everyone uneasy, and his lost look as he glanced around at the walls and counters was heightening that worry. 

“Azriel, you feeling alright?” Cassian asked, now perched on the edge of the couch.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head. “I feel fine, I just—Mor? I was led here. To your house?” 

From the corner of the room, Mor stood with parted lips. Her gaze lingered on you, her eyes only tearing from your face when her head was fully turned towards Azriel’s question. “Yes, Az. This is my housewarming party, remember? Y/n told you about it before you left.” 

“Y/n?” Azriel whispered to himself, darting his eyes towards you for the briefest moment.

“Did something happen on the border?” Rhys asked, the first in the room to take steps towards the staggering Illyrian. 

Azriel looked to his High Lord, gaze empty for a moment before he replied, “No. Everything went smoothly. I have the intel. I think—I’ve just been turned around. Too many nights of no sleep.” 

Even with the explanation, unease became solid in your gut. Azriel was looking around the room still, passing over everyone’s faces but yours. The bond was nothing but empty wind within you, and he still looked so lost, as if the answer to his unspoken question was somewhere else. As if he knew something that no one was picking up on. 

“Where is—” 

Feyre cut him off. “Perhaps you should go home, Azriel. Sleep for a while.” 

“My shadows led me here,” Azriel repeated as if that were an answer. “She is here.” 

Eyes fell to you then. You clasped your hands together in front of your waist and squeezed in discomfort, unsure about your mate for the first time in years. You took two steps forward before Azriel looked at you again, but it still felt as though he wasn’t seeing you. Your hand twitched as you reached out to him. 

“Let’s go home, yeah?” you offered softly. The dropping feeling in your stomach became heavier. “Feyre’s right. You need to sleep. You can give your report to Rhys after, and Mor wouldn’t mind—” 

Air pushed from Azriel’s chest, his shoulders slumping in a picture of relief. You watched as his lashes fluttered and something indecipherable flickered across his face—like how he looked at you, but not. Like love and adoration, but not. Your mouth sealed shut from the incongruence. 

“There you are,” Azriel breathed out, pushing past your outstretched hand. You turned your head to follow him as he moved towards the stairs. Towards where Elain was returning from. 

Your feet remained rooted in the ground as you watched him. Your body felt like lead and your heart like a brand as your mate pressed forward. He raised his hands to cup Elain’s face, and something was crushing your windpipe. The air was too thin to breathe—it had to be that.

To your abject horror, he moved his forehead to touch hers, his eyes closing in peace. Elain stumbled a bit, catching herself with her heel against the bottom step, but Azriel had her in place quickly, apparently eager to keep her close. 

The air was too thin, but it was also crushing, sending tears cascading down your cheeks in an instant. You hadn’t even felt the urge to cry, your eyes only burning after the wetness marred your face. You hadn’t even felt a full range of emotions before your body reacted. 

There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. You hadn’t seen Azriel seek Elain out in years. Hadn’t seen him find comfort in anyone but you since you committed yourselves to each other. 

Ugly thoughts came after the tears. 

How long had this been going on? Was it always her? Had anything ever been real with him? Why would he choose now to flaunt this in your face? 

The overwhelming urge to throw up replaced the crushing weight on your body, but that urge was interrupted by Rhys’s voice once more. 

“Azriel?” he said evenly. “What are you doing?” 

The muscle in Azriel’s jaw jumped. He pulled away from Elain but kept her face within his hands. “I’ve told you, Rhys,” Azriel began. He’s told him? Did everyone know about this betrayal but you? “You cannot keep me away from her. This ends now.” 

You felt Rhys look at you briefly, but your gaze remained on Elain’s face—on Azriel’s hands softly holding her. You tried to close your mouth, to ground yourself to the present, but tears kept flowing and you felt as if you were choking. He was still holding her. He held her so gently. 

“Keep you from her?” Rhys echoed. He spoke slowly, calmly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “It was… all of our understanding that your relationship with Elain ended, what, a little over five years ago?”

Confusion marred Azriel’s face once more. He reared back at the thought. “And why would you think that? I love her, Rhys. Everyone knows that I love her. I will continue to persist even when you all think me foolish because this is real. Nothing has ever felt more real.” 

And at that—at the last few words from your mate’s mouth—anything holding you up crumbled. Literally and figuratively. Your knees shook as your vision became too blurry to see, a buzzing in your ears making all words moot. 

Nothing has ever felt more real. 

You took unsteady steps towards what you thought was the door, your sense of direction escaping you. Blinking hard, you tried to make out the furniture, but this was a new room to you, so you tripped over the corner of a table and were met with steadying arms. 

Your name was repeated. Several times. It only echoed within the dark precincts of your mind.

Cassian’s face soon came into view, concerned and searching, but not helpful at the moment. You pushed out of his arms to make it to the door and heard mumbled voices and footsteps, but the buzzing persisted, rising to a ringing that made your head throb. 

He was holding her. You had seen it. It felt real with her, he had said. You pushed past more hands reaching for you until you finally felt the air of the outside streets. And then you winnowed, unsure of the destination.

[zarteyaz]

The Hundredth Dawn - 2

✶ Pairing: Azriel x Reader

✶ Summary: A century ago, the Night Court didn’t just lose Rhysand’s sister—she was taken, claimed by an old bargain no one dares to name out loud. Now she’s back, with a smile too calm and a power that lives in the dark between sleep and truth, the kind that can soothe a mind or rewrite it. Rhys wants to protect what he once let go, while Azriel finds himself unravelling at the sight of her, because some storms don’t just arrive—they make you realize you were never really looking up at all.

✶ A/N: hope y'all had some good holidays!! i'm finally back, less sick, and inspired so more frequent updates to come, lmk if u wanna be tagged <3

⇐ Part 1 | masterlist | Part 3 ->

────────♢★✶⋆✶★♢────────

The first time she learns what it means to be held is not in chains.

It is in hands that smell like cedar and steel—warm despite the mountain cold—fingers deft as they work through the snarl of her hair.

“Still,” her mother murmurs, voice low. Soft the way lullabies are soft: not fragile, not pleading—commanding the world to be gentle for a moment. “Be still for me, little star.”

The room is not large. It never has been. A stone cabin pressed into the shoulder of the mountain, smoke clinging to the rafters, the fire snapping as if it resents being asked to behave. Outside, the wind skates over the camp like a blade. Inside, there is warmth—earned, stubborn, real.

She sits cross-legged on a rug that has seen better days, face scrunched in concentration because she is trying very hard not to flinch when her mother’s fingers tug.

She is little. Not a baby—old enough to be offended at being called little, young enough that being called star still feels like truth.

Across the room, the boys are a storm contained in flesh.

Cassian is sprawled on his stomach with a piece of charcoal, drawing something on the stone floor that looks vaguely like a bat with an enormous sword. He hums off-key and narrates his art to an audience that did not consent.

“This,” Cassian declares, tapping the charcoal with grand importance, “is me. Obviously.”

Rhys, already too tall for his age, already trying on authority like a cloak, sits with his back against the wall, polishing a dagger like he’s practicing for a future he’s not old enough to have. He glances over, rolls his eyes with the suffering of a martyr, and says, “You’re going to get blood on my mother’s floor.”

Cassian grins, unrepentant. “It’s charcoal, your princely dramaticness.”

Rhys’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile but refuses on principle. His gaze lifts to her, and his expression softens in a way it never does for anyone else.

“You’re scowling,” Rhys informs her, solemn.

“I’m not,” she says immediately.

Rhys’s eyes narrow in faux suspicion. “You are.”

“I am not.”

Cassian flips onto his side, elbow propped like he’s about to become a philosopher. “She is,” Cassian says. “She always scowls when she’s trying not to cry.”

Her head snaps toward him, scandalized. “I don’t cry.”

Cassian blinks like this is new information. “Sure.”

Rhys lifts a brow. “Sure.”

Her mother’s hand pauses in her hair, and she can feel the smile in the room before she hears it.

“Little star,” her mother says, amused now. “Breathe. It won’t hurt if you stop fighting it.”

She wants to argue. She wants to insist she isn’t fighting. That she is perfectly still. That she is not… anything.

But her mother’s fingers resume—gentle and firm—and the ache in her scalp eases the moment she finally exhales.

On the bench by the door, half-shadowed, sits the quiet one.

Azriel is younger here—still sharp at the edges, still learning how to inhabit his own body. A book open on his knee. A blade within reach, because he has always been the kind of male who cannot be truly unarmed, even in a kitchen warmed by fire and family.

He isn’t reading.

His gaze is on the window, tracking the movement of wind against the snow like he can hear something no one else can.

Or maybe he is listening to the room, Cassian’s loudness, Rhys’s affection disguised as annoyance, her mother’s steady presence like a hearthstone.

Azriel’s shadows aren’t fully his yet. They flicker sometimes in the corners, shy and curious, like children peeking around a doorway.

One of them slides toward her, pauses, then retreats when she lifts her chin as if to challenge it.

Azriel’s mouth—barely—twitches.

Not a smile.

An acknowledgement: I saw that. I saw you see me.

Cassian notices her looking and makes a face. “He’s brooding,” Cassian stage-whispers, as if Azriel is not three feet away. “Again.”

Rhys says, deadpan, “He’s always brooding.”

Azriel doesn’t look up from his book. “You’re loud,” he says instead, like it’s an observation, not an insult.

Cassian clutches his chest dramatically. “Why would you say that to me.”

Azriel’s gaze flicks up, brief, cutting. “Because it’s true.”

Cassian flops onto his back and groans like he’s been slain. “I am wounded.”

Rhys snorts.

Her mother keeps working through her hair like she is not surrounded by males who will grow into legends and trouble.

She glances toward Azriel again.

He’s watching her now, and there’s something in his eyes that makes her stomach do a strange, stupid flip.

Not because it’s tender.

Because it’s quiet.

Because he looks at her like he’s taking note of something and filing it away somewhere safe.

Her mother finishes the braid and ties it off with a strip of dark ribbon.

“There,” her mother says softly, smoothing her thumb over her temple. “Beautiful.”

She hates compliments on principle. She scowls harder, to prove it.

Her mother laughs low. “Go on, then. Before Cassian draws you as a bat.”

Cassian sits up immediately. “Too late.”

She lunges for him with a shriek.

Cassian yelps and scrambles away, laughing, while Rhys laughs too, bright and easy, like laughter is something the world has not yet tried to steal from him.

She chases Cassian in a circle around the fire, feet sliding on the rug, hands grabbing for his shirt.

Cassian dodges. “You can’t catch me, little—”

“Don’t,” she snarls.

Cassian cackles. “Little star!”

She shrieks again, betrayed.

Rhys laughs so hard he almost chokes.

Her mother’s laughter joins in—warm, delighted, a sound that fills the entire room until the cabin feels too small to hold it.

Even Azriel’s mouth curves, barely.

He watches her for a beat—hair flying loose despite the braid, eyes bright with furious life—and then his gaze drops, as if he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that the sight of her makes something in him ease.

The fire pops.

And the air—

changes.

Not slowly. Not politely. Like a hand closing.

The warmth drains so fast it feels like the world has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

The cabin dims at the edges.

The fire becomes wrong. Too small. Too far away.

Her mother’s fingers are still on her face, but the skin beneath them goes cold.

There is a sound at the door.

Not footsteps.

Not a knock.

A presence—sharp as a drawn blade.

The dream stutters. Skips. Lurches—

—and suddenly there is no cabin.

Only night.

Only snow.

Only the thin, brutal whistle of wind through black pines.

Her feet are bare.

Her braid is half-undone, ribbon snapping like a flag in a storm.

Her mother is in front of her, back to her, wings flared—not in threat, not in display.

In shielding.

A shadow falls across the snow.

A scent cuts through the cold—spring rain and crushed green and something clean that shouldn’t belong in violence.

A male steps out of it like he owns the dark.

No face she can hold onto—only the gleam of metal, the gleam of teeth, the gleam of intent.

Her mother’s wings shift wider.

A sound—just a breath—rips from her throat. Not a speech. Not a plea dressed in pretty words.

A single broken syllable, swallowed by the wind.

The snow is suddenly too bright.

Her lungs seize.

She looks up—

The blade moves.

Too fast.

Too sure.

—and the scene fractures.

⸻ She wakes like she’s been yanked out of water. Breath sharp. Heart punching hard against her ribs.

For one stunned moment, her hands lift as if she expects to find her mother’s fingers still in her hair.

There is nothing.

Only a pillow beneath her cheek. A blanket too warm. A room too quiet.

The River House.

The air smells like sun-warmed stone and faint citrus and… paint.

She lies very still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer a reason for the ache blooming behind her sternum.

The dream lingers in pieces—the cabin, the fire, Cassian’s laughter, Rhys’s eyes bright with youth, Azriel half-hidden in shadow.

Her mother’s voice.

Little star.

The words echo, soft and merciless.

And then—behind them, like a second heartbeat beneath the first—another echo rises. Not her mother’s this time. Older. Male. A voice made of decision and debt. Chalk on stone. Salt in the air. The cold certainty of after.

The night her mother died had not ended in grief.

It had ended in a promise.

A promise that would keep being paid, and paid, and paid—until someone decided the cost was finally settled.

She presses her lips together until the tremor in them stills.

Then she swings her legs out of bed and stands, because if she stays in this softness too long, it will swallow her whole.

She dresses quietly, layers chosen for movement more than beauty, hair braided back with hands that remember the way her mother’s fingers felt even if her mind wants to deny it.

The hallway outside is dim, the house still sleeping in that deep, gentle way it does when it believes it is safe.

She moves through it like a ghost anyway.

Down the stairs.

Out the door.

Velaris is barely awake, the sky still bruised with dawn, the Sidra a ribbon of dark glass.

She doesn’t go toward the markets or the riverwalk or the places meant for joy.

She goes the other way.

Up a hill where the city quiets and the air sharpens and the stone path leads to a small garden tucked against a wall of cypress and starlit roses.

A place people do not visit for beauty.

A place people visit for memory.

The graveyard is not grand. Not ostentatious. The Night Court has never been that kind of dramatic with its dead.

The stones are simple. The names carved cleanly. The flowers tended with the kind of care that feels like devotion rather than obligation.

She finds the grave without needing to search.

Her feet know the way, even after a century. Even after everything.

The stone is dark and smooth, worn slightly at the edges where fingers have traced it too many times.

Her mother’s name carved into it.

Beneath, a single line Rhys must have chosen—because it is too like him, too sharp-edged tenderness to have come from anyone else:

She kept the Night warm.

Her throat tightens.

She crouches slowly, like her body remembers how to bow before grief even if her mind wants to stay proud.

Her fingers hover over the stone.

Then settle.

Cold, solid, real.

It hits like a bruise.

“I’m back,” she says quietly, as if the air itself needs to hear it. As if the stone might answer.

The garden is silent.

A bird calls once in the distance.

She swallows hard and forces herself to keep talking, because if she doesn’t, the words will calcify inside her and become something poisonous.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” she admits, voice low. “With coming back. With… all of them.”

A breath.

“And I don’t know if you’d be proud of me,” she adds, and the sentence tastes like blood.

She pauses.

The dawn light shifts, pale gold threading through the cypress.

She doesn’t say bargain. She doesn’t say debt. She doesn’t say the things that still feel like they have teeth.

But the thought presses at the back of her tongue anyway—an old memory of circles drawn in chalk, of salt in the wind, of someone else deciding what it would cost to keep a star alive.

Her hand tightens slightly on the stone.

She presses her forehead briefly to the grave, eyes closed, and for one dangerous moment, she lets herself feel how much she missed her—how much she missed having someone whose love did not come with conditions, politics, or expectations.

“Little star,” she murmurs, not sure if she’s saying it to her mother or herself. “I’m still here.”

She stands before the grief can pull her to her knees.

Dusts her hands off like the gesture means anything.

Turns away before the tears can choose to fall.

Velaris is waking as she walks back—shopkeepers raising shutters, the first scent of baking bread drifting through streets, the Sidra catching the morning and turning it into something bright.

The city brushes her skin with wards and recognition, intimate and quiet, like it remembers her even if the world tried to file her away.

She refuses to be sentimental about it.

Still, her steps slow for half a heartbeat when she reaches the hill.

The River House waits—warm stone and wide windows—like it has always been there.

She exhales.

Then goes inside.

⸻

The kitchen is already loud.

Not chaotic—just alive.

Cassian is attempting to flip something in a pan with entirely too much bravado. Mor is perched on a stool, laughing at him. Amren sits at the table with a cup of something dark, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Nesta leans against the counter, arms folded, expression carved from frost.

Feyre stands at the center of it all like a hearth—hair braided, sleeves rolled up, eyes soft but sharp as she tracks everything at once.

Nyx is on the floor with a wooden toy dragon, making it “attack” a spoon.

“Uncle Cassian!” Nyx yells, triumphant, as Cassian nearly burns himself.

Cassian points a spatula at Nyx. “I am not your uncle when you’re encouraging violence.”

Nyx gasps, scandalized. “Yes you are!”

Feyre glances up as she enters, and her expression warms immediately. “Morning.”

Then Nyx sees her and beams like she’s always known her.

“AUNT!”

The word lands like a stone thrown into still water.

It ripples through her.

She forces a smile. “Good morning.”

Nyx squints. “You look sad.”

She scoffs. “I’m not sad.”

Nyx nods solemnly. “Okay. You sad.”

Feyre laughs softly into her hand.

Cassian cackles. “He’s got Rhys’ personality.”

“Unfortunately,” Nesta murmurs, and Cassian howls again like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Rhys appears in the doorway a second later like he felt her presence in the house and couldn’t help himself.

His hair is still sleep-mussed. His eyes are too bright.

And when he sees her—standing in his kitchen like she belongs there—his face does that painfully human thing again.

Relief.

Gratitude.

Disbelief.

And guilt that sits beneath it like a bruise he keeps pressing.

“Good morning,” Rhys says, voice rough.

She lifts her cup. “Good morning, brother.”

The word brother still feels like a weapon she can’t decide whether to throw or hold.

He crosses the room in two strides and stops like he’s afraid she’ll flinch, like he remembers the way she went still yesterday when too many hands touched her at once.

It’s almost sweet.

It’s also infuriating.

She doesn’t let him hesitate.

She steps forward and wraps her arms around him first.

Rhys makes a sound that is not quite a laugh and not quite a sob, and his arms lock around her like a man trying to prove to himself she is solid.

He buries his face briefly in her hair—breathing her in, shameless, desperate.

His voice is rough when he speaks. “You went.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows. She knows he knows.

“The garden,” she answers quietly.

Rhys’s arms tighten for a heartbeat, and something breaks in his chest.

He whispers, “She would’ve—” and stops, because whatever he was about to say hurts too much.

She pulls back just enough to look at him.

His eyes shine.

His smile trembles.

He looks at her like he wants to memorize her face again, as if memory itself cannot be trusted.

“I missed you,” he says softly, because the truth is the only thing that can cut through this.

She swallows hard. “I know,” she whispers. “I know.”

He just holds her a second longer, as if holding her might keep the past from reaching in again.

When he pulls back, his eyes still shine. “I’m glad you’re here.”

The simplicity of it almost breaks her.

She forces her mouth into a curve that doesn’t show too much. “Try not to faint.”

Cassian grins. “He absolutely will.”

Rhys flips Cassian off without looking away from her.

She huffs a laugh, softer than she means to.

Something in Rhys’s face eases like he’s been waiting for that sound.

Feyre clears her throat with deliberate firmness. “Everyone. Eat. Before Cassian sets something on fire.”

Cassian huffs, affronted. “I am a chef.”

Amren, flat: “In the same way war is a hobby.”

Cassian opens his mouth to protest—

—and Azriel arrives without a sound.

He arrives without fanfare, sliding into a chair. He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t take attention.

But the room shifts anyway.

He simply becomes there, sliding into a chair like shadow deciding to take form. No flourish. No announcement.

But the room shifts anyway.

Her spine tightens before she can stop it.

She hates that it does.

Azriel’s gaze flicks to her—brief, controlled—then away, as if he’s deliberately refusing to stare.

Cassian elbows him. “Look who decided to join civilization.”

Azriel replies, deadpan, “I’m regretting it already.”

Nyx brightens. “Hi Uncle Az!”

Azriel’s mouth twitches. “Hello, Nyx.”

Nyx nods, satisfied, and clambers into Rhys’s lap.

Feyre pours tea.

Rhys tries very hard not to hover.

Then, inevitably, the warmth shifts into something else.

Careful.

Concerned.

The question sitting in the room like a blade everyone is pretending not to see.

Rhys sets his fork down quietly.

His voice is gentle. Too gentle.

“We didn’t… finish talking last night,” he says. “About where you were. What it was like.”

The table stills.

Mor’s smile fades. Cassian’s grin slips into something careful. Feyre’s gaze stays steady and kind.

Azriel doesn’t move.

But his attention sharpens like a blade being drawn.

Mor says with softness, “We just… want to understand.”

Cassian adds, with forced cheer, “And by understand, I mean I want to hear you talk and not look like you’re about to bolt out a window.”

Amren says, flat, “Or kill us.”

Nesta watches quietly. Feyre stays close, hands folded around her cup like she’s grounding herself to not reach.

Rhys sits across from her like he’s trying to keep his breathing under control.

And Azriel—

Azriel sits slightly to the side, angled just enough that he can see her profile without seeming like he’s watching her.

He is watching her anyway.

She can feel it the way you can feel the moon in your bones.

Rhys speaks first, voice careful. “Tell us what you can.”

His eyes search hers. “Anything.”

She chooses the lie she practiced all night.

“It was a court, same as any other,” she says evenly. “I served. I… helped. Mostly diplomacy and court administration. Politics.”

She watches Rhys exhale like he’s been waiting a century for permission to breathe.

He wants the lie.

It makes her stomach twist.

Cassian leans forward, trying to make it casual. “Service how? Like… you bossing people around? Because I can picture that.”

She flashes him a smile. “They endured.”

Mor’s breath comes out in a small laugh—relief sneaking in through humor. “Were you treated well?”

She smiles. “Well enough.”

Feyre’s voice is gentle. “Did you have friends?”

Friends.

The word lands wrong.

Her throat tightens.

She keeps her expression smooth. “Acquaintances.”

Cassian mutters, “That’s tragic.”

She points her fork at him. “I’m not here for pity.”

Rhys’s shoulders ease as if each answer is a stitch closing a wound.

He’s so visibly relieved it makes her stomach twist.

Because some part of her is begging him, through the lie:

Look at me. Look closer. Ask.

She wants him to see the difference.

To see that she’s too still, too controlled, too practiced at avoiding the truth.

She wants him to insist.

Rhys asks, soft as a plea, “Were you safe?”

This is where he used to push.

This is where he used to know.

She keeps her voice calm. “Safe enough.”

Rhys exhales like that is all he needs.

Like those words are a balm.

Like the century is something clean if she doesn’t make it messy.

Something inside her goes very quiet.

A small part of her—stupid, hopeful—waits for him to look closer.

To see that her posture is too still. That her eyes flinch away from certain questions. That her smile is practiced in a way it never used to be.

To ask the question beneath the question.

What did they do to you?

Rhys does not.

He nods once, slow, as if sealing the answer into place.

“Okay,” he whispers, and there is such fierce gratitude in it that it almost makes her sick. “Okay.”

His eyes shine. His mouth trembles into a smile that looks almost boyish with relief.

Because he wants this lie.

Because it lets him keep loving without ripping open the guilt.

It kills something small inside her anyway.

Azriel’s gaze doesn’t soften with relief.

It narrows.

Not suspicious in a cruel way.

In a hunter’s way.

In a way that makes her skin prickle because he is the only one not letting himself want the lie.

His shadows curl tighter at his boots, restless.

They do not like the story she’s telling.

Azriel’s gaze does not soften with relief.

It narrows.

“What kind of administration?” he asks.

She keeps her smile light. “The kind where old men argue about nothing and call it destiny.”

Cassian snorts. “Accurate.”

Azriel doesn’t laugh. “Names.”

Rhys stiffens slightly, like he’s afraid of the answer.

She lifts a shoulder. “Not important.”

Azriel’s eyes lift fully to hers now. Dark. Steady. Unforgiving.

“It is if they kept you,” Azriel says.

The words land with weight the others pretend not to hear.

Rhys’s fingers flex against his cup. Feyre’s gaze flicks between them.

She turns her smile sharper. “Are you interrogating me now?”

Azriel’s voice stays calm. “I’m listening.”

“That’s new,” she says, bright and cutting.

A flicker—something like pain—crosses his face and is gone.

He doesn’t push further in front of everyone.

But his gaze stays on her like a promise:

Later.

And the terrifying part is—

She believes him.

By the time breakfast ends, her head aches—not from questions, but from all the things unsaid pressing at the inside of her ribs.

Rhys walks with her into the hall like he can’t help himself.

“You don’t have to stay in your room,” he says quickly, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear behind a door. “The house is yours. Anything you want. Anything you need.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Anything?”

Rhys’s smile is fragile. “Within reason.”

She huffs a laugh. “I’ll try not to steal your throne.”

Rhys’s throat bobs, and for a second, his eyes go glassy again. “You can have anything,” he repeats, and the words come out like a vow.

Her chest tightens.

She wants to say something sharp to keep the softness from swallowing her.

Instead, she says quietly, “I missed you too.”

Rhys goes still.

Then his face crumples just a fraction, like the sentence hit a place in him that’s been bleeding for a hundred years.

He reaches for her.

Stops himself.

She solves it for him by stepping forward again and leaning into his arms before he can overthink it.

Rhys makes a sound—small, broken—and holds her like he’s trying to memorize the fact she’s real.

For a few heartbeats, the bitterness fades to background static.

For a few heartbeats, it’s just her brother’s arms and the scent of citrus and night and something that has always meant mine.

She pulls back first.

Not because she wants to.

Because she knows if she doesn’t, she’ll stay there until she breaks.

⸻ Later, she finds herself in the training room again, drawn there by habit more than intention.

Steel and stone make more sense than painted hallways and soft rugs. The ring sits empty. Weapons line the walls. Light spills in through high windows—honest, unflinching.

She drags two fingers along the hilt of a practice sword without picking it up.

Touch is fine. Weight is… commitment.

If she starts moving, she might not stop. Might do something stupid like feel. Might do something worse like remember she once belonged here without having to earn it.

Footsteps behind her.

Quiet. Controlled.

Not Cassian.

Her spine tightens anyway—because her body knows before her mind allows it.

Azriel stops a careful distance away.

He’d told himself he was only following the quiet she left behind. He’d told himself it was vigilance, habit—the way soldiers check exits without thinking. But his shadows had been tugging him toward her since breakfast, impatient as hounds scenting a trail, curling now at his shoulders like they were bracing for impact.

He keeps his hands visible. Keeps his voice even.

She doesn’t turn. “If you’re here to pretend you happened to be passing by, you should try louder footsteps. It’ll sell the lie.”

A beat.

Something in Azriel’s chest loosens—relief, sharp and humiliating.

There you are. Not the softness. Not the silence. The bite.

“You didn’t answer,” he says.

She finally looks over her shoulder, unimpressed on purpose. “I answered plenty. Did you miss Cassian nearly committing arson?”

“I asked what kind of administration,” Azriel replies.

His eyes flick to her hand on the sword hilt—the way she anchors there but refuses the blade. Like she’s reminding herself of options without choosing any.

She exhales through her nose, a long-suffering performance. “Fine. I read documents. I wrote responses. I helped smooth disputes.”

Azriel’s gaze sharpens.

Not suspicion. Recognition. He’s heard this cadence a thousand times: the tidy truth offered like a coin—enough to appease, not enough to matter.

“How,” he asks.

“With words,” she says brightly.

“Words,” he repeats, calm as a knife.

She turns fully now, smile sweet and sharp. “Are you accusing me of something, Shadowsinger?”

His jaw tightens. Not anger—restraint. He measures his next step the way he measures everything around her now, like her space is fragile glass and he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

“I’m saying you lied at breakfast,” he says.

Heat flares in her chest—bright enough to hide everything else. Anger is safer than grief. Anger is clean.

Her spine goes razor-straight.

“You decided that was your business?”

“I decided it was Rhys’s,” Azriel answers. “And he chose not to see it.”

The words hit with surgical precision.

Because she saw it too—the way Rhys’s shoulders had finally dropped, relief flooding him like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe. He wanted to believe her so badly it made him gentle. It made him stupid.

A part of her had wanted to grab his face and shake him and beg him to know her better than that.

A larger part had been terrified he would.

She smiles, sweet and vicious. “Careful.”

“I am,” Azriel says.

They hold each other’s gaze in the clean light of the training room while the world continues outside—river singing, city laughing, oblivious joy persisting like it has a right to exist.

“You don’t know anything,” she says, voice too light. “You weren’t there.”

A flicker crosses Azriel’s face—pain, quickly buried, practiced. The old kind. The kind he’s lived with so long it’s nearly bone.

“I know,” he says.

No excuse. No defense. Just acknowledgement.

It steals her next insult.

“I care whether you’re bleeding under your skin and pretending it doesn’t hurt,” he says.

Her breath catches—sharp, traitorous.

Not because he’s blunt.

Because he’s right.

A flash of velvet drapes. A voice behind her, polite and bored: Just soften him. He’ll thank you later.

Her stomach flips like it always does when that memory surfaces, like her body remembers before her mind can stop it.

Azriel hears the smallest change in her breathing.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

His fingers curl once, hard, at his side. He wants to ask what that flash was—what ghost just passed through her eyes. He doesn’t. He knows what it looks like when someone’s mind trips over a memory they can’t afford to have in public.

She swallows hard.

Her smile doesn’t move. “I’m not your problem.”

Azriel’s jaw flexes. Something in his chest tightens—old guilt, new pull, a need he doesn’t have a name for.

“You used to be,” he says before he can stop himself.

The moment the words leave him, he regrets them.

Not because they’re untrue.

Because they’re too intimate. Because they imply a closeness he never claimed, a responsibility he never earned.

Silence.

It hits her like a thrown knife.

Because it drags up a different kind of memory: Illyrian skies, her younger self hovering at the edge of their orbit—loud with Rhys, fearless with Cassian, and with Azriel… always watching, always hoping he’d look back and mean it.

She refuses to let that ache become anything alive.

Not now. Not ever.

She laughs softly, brittle. “Used to is a dangerous place to live.”

Azriel’s throat works once.

He stays still, and he lets the truth sit between them without trying to soften it.

“Don’t let them build a happy ending out of your silence,” he says quietly.

The sentence is too close to kindness.

Too close to seeing.

Her throat tightens around a sound she refuses to make.

She bites down on it with the only weapon she trusts. “You’ve gotten bold.”

Azriel’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile. Tiredness edges his eyes in a way the shadows can’t hide.

“I’ve gotten tired,” he says.

“Tired of what?” she demands, because if she lets him keep sounding like that—steady, patient, there—something in her will reach without permission.

His gaze holds hers like a hand that refuses to let go, but his body stays at a distance, offering space even while his attention doesn’t waver.

“Of pretending you’re fine to make everyone else comfortable,” he says.

The anger in her chest wavers.

Dangerously close to grief.

Her voice comes out rougher than she intends. “You don’t get to—”

“I’m not Rhys,” Azriel interrupts, still quiet, still controlled.

The sentence is simple.

It lands like weight.

Because he’s right. Rhys will manage her if he can. Rhys will try to carry her if she lets him. Rhys will build a cage out of love and call it protection.

She forces a laugh anyway. “Yes. That’s… clear.”

Azriel watches her for a long beat.

In that silence, he remembers too much—her younger self cutting across the training ring, shouting at Cassian, stealing his knives just to prove she could. He remembers the way she used to look at Rhys like he hung the stars. He remembers the way she used to look at him like she was waiting for something he never gave her.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter.

Now it matters in a way that makes his ribs ache.

“I’m not asking you to tell me,” he says, softer. “I’m not asking anything.”

He shifts a fraction—subtle, deliberate—so the doorway is still clear, so she doesn’t feel boxed in. Like he’s learned the shape of boundaries the hard way. Like he’s offering her an exit before she needs to take it.

“I’m telling you I don’t believe it was harmless,” he continues. “And if you ever want someone to hear the truth without trying to fix you with it…”

His jaw tightens like the next words cost him.

“I will,” he finishes simply.

It is not a promise of rescue.

It is a promise of witness.

It makes her hands curl at her sides like she’s holding herself down.

Because part of her—the stupid, old part—wants to take that steadiness and hold onto it like a rope.

So she does what she always does with things she wants.

She turns them into weapons.

“You’re getting sentimental,” she says, bright and cruel.

Azriel’s gaze doesn’t change. “You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re irritating,” she snaps.

His mouth curves slightly—almost real. “Good.”

Her pulse betrays her, one sharp kick.

She hates that her body still recognizes him as dangerous.

Not because he’s cruel.

Because he’s not.

Because he’s careful. Because he’s staying.

She steps back from the weapon wall, deliberately letting the sword hilt go. “I’m fine,” she says lighter. “Go interrogate someone else.”

Azriel doesn’t move.

“No.”

Soft refusal.

It lands like pressure at the inside of her wrist—not a shackle, not force. Just insistence.

Her eyes sharpen. “I don’t need to be saved by you, Azriel.”

Azriel’s shadows go still, as if even they are listening.

He holds her gaze anyway. “I know,” he says, and something rough slips under the calm—regret, maybe. Something he doesn’t deserve to feel. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” she demands, because she needs to make him name it so she can stab the name and walk away.

Azriel inhales—slow, measured.

He almost says: I should have looked harder. I should have known. I should have refused to let you go.

He almost says: It hurts that you learned to lie this well.

He almost says: I keep noticing you.

Instead, he chooses the only truth he can offer without making it about him.

“It’s me being done with pretending,” he says quietly. “Done with letting you disappear in a room full of people.”

Her chest tightens.

She hates him for that line.

Hates him for making it sound like he sees the exact shape of her silence.

She bares her teeth. “You’re making this about you.”

Azriel’s eyes darken—not angry. Just… certain. “No,” he says. “I’m making it about you.”

A beat.

The air hums between them—things unsaid, unhealed, alive anyway.

She turns away first, because she refuses to let him see the crack forming at the edge of her composure.

“Go back,” she says coldly. “Rhys will be looking for you.”

Azriel’s gaze lingers on her profile like he’s committing it to memory—the way her chin lifts like defiance, the way her shoulders hold tight like armor, the way her breath is just slightly too controlled.

“I know,” he says.

He doesn’t move yet.

His shadows tug toward her, reluctant, as if they don’t understand why he’s leaving.

Then—because she asked, and because he is trying, and because he knows what it costs her to ask for anything at all—he steps back.

Before he can take a second step—

Cassian’s voice booms from the hall. “I knew you’d be here!”

Azriel’s expression shutters instantly, control snapping back into place. Like he’s locked something away and swallowed the key.

Cassian strides in like a golden retriever in armor and skids to a stop when he notices the tension.

He squints between them. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” she says flatly.

Azriel says, at the exact same time, “Yes.”

Cassian beams. “Perfect.”

And the moment fractures, not gone, not erased, just shoved into a pocket for later.

She hates herself for how much she feels the loss of it.

Azriel hates himself for the way his attention stays anchored to her anyway, like part of him is still standing in that thin, dangerous quiet, replaying I will, and realizing he meant it so completely it scares him.

⸻ Feyre doesn’t mean to find him.

She’s holding a stack of Nyx’s drawings—crayon storms and stick-figure wings—and she’s looking for somewhere to tuck them before Rhys “accidentally” frames them all.

The study door is half open.

Rhys is inside, standing too still behind his desk.

Feyre steps in—and stops.

His hands are shaking.

“Rhys?” she says carefully.

He turns too quickly. A smile snaps into place. “Hi.”

Feyre’s eyes narrow. “No.”

His smile falters. “No what?”

“No ‘hi’ like you’re not unraveling,” Feyre says, soft but edged. “What’s wrong?”

Rhys opens his mouth.

Closes it.

His gaze flicks, instinctive, to the desk drawer.

Feyre sees it.

The drawer is slightly ajar.

Rhys is meticulous. It shouldn’t be.

Feyre crosses the room, and when she slides it open—

she sees bruised-purple wax.

Her stomach drops.

Because that color does not belong to the Night Court.

Because that seal does not belong in her mate’s desk.

She pulls the parchment free.

Two lines. Clean. Elegant. Cruel.

The term is complete. Do not mistake that for freedom.

Feyre’s fingers tremble as she sets it on the desk like it might burn her.

Rhys goes still.

“Feyre,” he warns—too late.

Feyre looks up, fury bright and immediate. “You were going to hide this.”

He flinches as if she struck him.

“I wanted her to have time,” Rhys says, too fast. “Time where she could breathe without, without that hanging over her.”

Feyre takes one step closer. Her voice goes low. “And you decided you get to choose what she can handle.”

Rhys’s eyes shine. “I was trying to protect her.”

Feyre’s mouth tightens. “No. You were trying to protect yourself from watching her break.”

That lands. Hard.

Rhys’s expression crumples.

Feyre softens a fraction because she loves him—because she knows the shape of his guilt.

But she doesn’t let him off the hook.

“She’s not a mission, Rhys,” Feyre says quietly. “She’s your sister.”

Rhys swallows hard. “I know.”

“Then tell her,” Feyre says.

When he opens his eyes again, his gaze is raw. “I can’t lose her again.”

Feyre’s throat tightens. She presses her hand to his cheek, grounding him, and her voice softens without losing its edge.

“You won’t,” she murmurs. “Not if you stop trying to hold her with secrets.”

Rhys’s jaw flexes. He swallows hard.

He nods once. “I’ll tell her.”

Feyre watches him for a long beat, then says quietly, “Today.”

Rhys doesn’t nod. His gaze drifts away, haunted.

Feyre’s hand drops.

She stands very still in the middle of his study and realizes something cold:

If Rhys is hiding this, it’s because he’s terrified of what else is coming.

⸻ Evening arrives gently.

The River House fills with the kind of domestic noise that feels like a spell—Nyx laughing, Feyre moving through rooms with purpose, Cassian arguing with Mor about something absurd, Amren existing in a way that makes everyone else slightly more careful.

She drifts through it like someone wearing a familiar coat that no longer fits right.

She catches Rhys watching her from across the room again and again, as if he’s afraid to blink.

She smiles back, because she loves him.

Because she missed him so much it hurts.

Because she is not ready to turn the air between them into war.

When Nyx is finally tired—truly tired, the kind that makes his wings droop and his words slur into nonsense—Rhys carries him with the kind of tenderness that makes her chest ache.

She watches from the hall as Rhys murmurs something to Nyx, some promise, some joke, and Nyx giggles, then yawns so wide his whole face crinkles.

Rhys looks over his shoulder and catches her watching.

His smile is tired and careful. “He insisted on a nap,” Rhys says, like he’s confessing to a crime.

Nyx mumbles, “No,” and then immediately rests his head on Rhys’s shoulder.

She huffs a laugh. “Terrifying.”

Rhys’s eyes soften. “Do you want to—”

The question dies before it becomes anything specific.

Do you want to join. Do you want to hold him. Do you want to be part of this.

She doesn’t answer. She follows quietly, keeping her distance, because something in her needs to see it—needs to see her brother with his child, needs to witness the proof that the world kept going.

Rhys settles Nyx into his bed, tucking the blanket around him with ritual precision.

Nyx mumbles, sleepy, “Aunt.”

She steps closer. “Sleep,” she tells him, dry.

Nyx blinks at her, then smiles faintly. “Okay.”

His eyes close.

Rhys stands there for a long beat, watching Nyx breathe.

Then he turns his head and looks at her, and the love in his face is so open it nearly floors her.

“You’re here,” Rhys whispers, as if he still can’t believe it.

She huffs softly. “Yes, I keep doing that.”

Rhys exhales, slow. “I’m going to lay down with him for a minute,” he says, voice low, almost embarrassed. “Just… a minute.”

He looks like he’s asking permission.

She shouldn’t give it.

But she nods anyway, because she remembers a time when Rhys used to nap with her after nightmares, one wing (imagined then, dreamed) around her like a shelter.

Rhys lies down beside Nyx carefully, as if afraid to disturb the child’s sleep.

His eyes drift closed almost immediately.

He is exhausted in a way that feels like bone-deep starvation.

She stands at the doorway, arms folded, pretending she isn’t moved.

Pretending she doesn’t ache with how much she missed this—how much she missed him being simply a brother, not a High Lord with papers and debts in his hands.

The room is dim.

The house is quiet.

And the hum of sleeping minds—soft, ever-present—brushes her skin like moth wings.

She tells herself she won’t—

She tells herself she’s not—

She steps closer anyway.

Not to touch.

Just to stand near.

Just to watch her brother sleep without war in his eyes.

A stupid, tender thing.

Her gaze drifts to Rhys’s face.

He looks younger asleep.

Less sharp.

Less guarded.

Like the boy who used to steal her sweets and swear he’d never let anyone touch a hair on her head.

Something in her chest loosens, just for a breath.

And then—

It happens.

Not a choice.

Not a deliberate step.

A slip.

Like her mind tilting sideways on a floor that’s too smooth.

The hum deepens.

The air thins.

The world shifts, subtle as a blink.

She is still standing by the bed—

and she is also not.

Because suddenly she is inside something.

Not a memory of her own.

Not her dream.

Rhys’s.

It hits like ice water.

A flash of bruised-purple wax.

A desk drawer closing.

A hand hovering, hesitating, then turning away.

A thought shaped like fear:

Tomorrow. One day. Just one day.

And beneath that thought—layered deep, like a knife in the ribs he refuses to pull out—

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Her breath catches.

The room tilts.

She jerks back, heart pounding, and the dream-sense snaps away like a thread cut.

She stumbles one step, hand catching on the doorframe.

The wood feels too solid.

Too real.

Rhys sleeps on, unaware.

Nyx sighs softly, lips parting in a tiny snore.

Her vision tunnels.

She stands there shaking, trying to convince herself she imagined it.

But the taste of it is still in her mouth—fear and deception and that terrible, familiar feeling of being managed.

Rhys is hiding something.

He is lying.

Not a harmless lie.

A deliberate one.

Her stomach twists hard enough she nearly gags.

She turns away from the bed before she does something stupid—before she shakes him awake, before she demands answers with her voice too loud and her control too thin.

She walks out of the room and closes the door quietly behind her.

Quietly, because she’s learned how to make rage silent.

She stands in the hall, breathing hard.

The River House is warm around her.

Home.

Trap.

Her hands curl into fists at her sides.

She forces them open.

Not now, she tells herself.

Not like this.

Not with Nyx asleep in the next room.

So she turns and walks away, steps silent, rage blooming cold and clean beneath her skin.

He’s hiding something.

He thinks he can hold her like that—love her and lie to her in the same breath.

Her hands curl into fists as she descends the stairs.

She doesn’t go to Feyre.

She doesn’t go to Mor.

She goes to the one place Rhys keeps his secrets.

His study.

The door is closed.

She opens it without knocking.

The room is dim, lit by the last slant of sunset through tall windows.

She crosses to the desk and pulls the drawer open.

Bruised-purple wax.

Parchment.

Her fingers tremble as she snatches it up and tears the seal like she’s ripping a scab off a wound.

Two lines.

The term is complete.Do not mistake that for freedom.

Her vision tunnels.

A century ago, someone spoke in courtly gentleness and rearranged her life.

Now the past is still reaching for her with ink and wax.

She hears footsteps behind her.

She doesn’t turn.

Rhys’s voice is rough with sleep and immediate fear. “What are you doing?”

She keeps staring at the letter, because if she looks at him, she might break.

“You were going to tell me,” she says softly.

Rhys stops just inside the room. “I was.”

“When,” she asks, still quiet.

Rhys’s silence is answer enough.

She turns then, slowly, letter in hand, and looks at her brother.

His hair is mussed. His shirt is rumpled. His eyes are wide with the raw panic of someone caught holding a blade behind his back.

He looks young in that moment.

Not High Lord.

Just… brother.

“I wanted one day,” Rhys says, voice cracking. “Just one day where you could—”

“Breathe,” she finishes, because she tasted the thought in his mind.

Rhys flinches, like he realizes she knows more than she should.

He swallows hard. “Yes.”

She steps closer, letter held between them like proof of betrayal.

Her voice stays controlled, but something in it is shaking underneath.

“I am not something you need to manage,” she says.

Rhys’s eyes shine instantly. “I know—”

“No,” she cuts in, quiet as a knife. “You don’t. Not if you think you can decide what truth I can handle.”

Rhys takes a step toward her. Stops himself like he’s afraid she’ll flinch away.

“I’m trying to protect you,” he whispers.

Her laugh is soft and humorless. “So was everyone else,” she says, and doesn’t explain the way protection can become a cage.

Rhys’s face crumples. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, little star”

“I’m sure you are,” she says, and the calm in her voice is worse than shouting. “But do you hear yourself?”

Rhys drags in a breath. “I didn’t want your first day back to be—”

“A threat,” she says.

His shoulders sag like he’s been struck. “Yes.”

For one heartbeat, she hates that she loves him. Hates that the sight of him wrecked still claws at her chest.

Then the cold steadies again.

“You’re not fixing this without me,” she says. “You don’t get to.”

Rhys’s voice shudders. “I can’t lose you again.”

She stares at him. Really stares.

“Then stop treating me like something you can lock in a drawer.”

Rhys’s eyes squeeze shut.

She inhales slowly.

Reads the lines again.

Rhys whispers, “You see why I—”

“No,” she says, and the word is quiet enough to be terrifying. She looks up at him. “I see why they still think they can speak to you like this.”

Rhys’s eyes shine. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Safe.

Always safe.

Her jaw tightens.

“I know,” she says, and the simplicity of it is sharper than anger. “And I love you for it. I do.”

Rhys freezes.

Because she almost never says love out loud.

Not anymore.

She swallows. Keeps going, because if she stops, she’ll either collapse or explode.

“But you don’t get to decide what truth I can survive,” she says. “Not after a century of other people deciding that for me.”

Rhys’s breath shudders. “I’m sorry.” he repeats.

She nods once. Accepting the apology without letting it erase the harm. Because she can do both. Because she is not the same girl who needed apologies to be absolution.

“I—” Rhys starts.

The wards shiver, recognition, not alarm.

A soft scrape at the balcony door.

Rhys goes still like his bones recognize the sound.

Azriel is already there.

He steps into the room without hurry, but the air seems to tighten around him anyway. A sealed parchment rests in his hand.

Unopened.

His gaze flicks once to Rhys, sharp, warning—

then to her.

And he holds the letter out to her, not Rhys.

Not offering it like a weapon.

Offering it like a right.

“Delivered to the wards,” Azriel says quietly. “I intercepted it.”

Rhys’s voice is strained. “Az—”

Azriel doesn’t look away from her. “It’s yours,” he says simply.

The words hit her harder than they should.

Because he could have opened it.

Because he could have handed it to Rhys.

Because he could have let the High Lord decide how to break her again.

He didn’t.

She takes the parchment.

Her fingers brush his for half a heartbeat.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

Azriel’s hand is steady.

His gaze isn’t.

There’s a flicker there, something restrained, something angry, something like… care sharpened into a blade.

She breaks the seal.

Unfolds the letter.

Reads.

The words are elegant. Celebratory in their cruelty.

We extend our gratitude for your century of service.We rejoice at your return to the Night Court.We congratulate your High Lord on the completion of the term.

Her fingers go cold.

Then the blade slides in, precise and gleaming:

In accordance with the covenant long held, we propose the honoring of union—a marriage to the Crown Prince that will bind what has been owed into blood and name.Acceptance will ensure continued discretion.

Her eyes snag on the last line and she stops breathing.

Discretion.

A word so polite it almost passes for courtesy, until she tastes the iron underneath it.

Discretion is what you offer when you are holding something fragile over a cliff.

Her fingers tighten on the parchment until it creases. Because discretion only matters if there’s something they can tell—something they can show—something that would ruin her if it ever saw daylight.

Then her gaze jumps back down.

A marriage to the Crown Prince…

Not a lesser lord. Not a token match.

A claim.

A cage with a title.

Confusion sharpens into something colder: why now? Why escalate—why bind her into blood and name—unless this isn’t a reward, or a conclusion…

…but a way to make sure she never speaks.

She exhales, slow.

Then she lifts her gaze, steady, furious, alive.

“Fine,” she says, and her smile is all teeth.

“Let’s talk terms.”

Part 3 ->

A/N: theories on the bargain..? and as always ty sm for reading :)))

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