Never enough (part 2.5) - Azriel x situationship reader
Author's note : hi lovies, officially back from holiday omggg. i've had hundreds of ideas for how i want this story to go, and other stories, but i was kind of hiking in the middle of nowhere with no computer or connection, which is why i haven't posted anything in AGES. anyways, here is a little gift to make up for the absence (for those who wanted an azriel POV). please ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes, this is not exactly proofread (only by a 19 year old who has barely slept and is running on pure adreline and stress), so read at your own risk...
warnings : a few swear words possibly (i don't remember), male pov (please don't hate me this is the first time i'm writing from a man's pov and god i did not like it), spelling/ grammar mistakes, the dialogue is pretty much identical to part 2 cos this is just from Az's POV instead of the reader
english is not my first langage so i apologize !!
Word count : 3.1k
Blurb : Reader and Az have been in a situationship for a while, and she's tired of being seen as nothing more than sex (part 2.5)
Her apartment is too still. Too heavy. Not the kind of warm and comforting silence that once greeted him after missions, but something colder—uneasy, sharp. A silence that tastes like ash on his tongue. His shadows, usually content to lounge around her apartment, are restless. They know before he dares to. They whisper against his skin, low, frantic hisses that almost make him shiver. Too late, too late, too late.
He tries to ignore them, tries to cling to the ritual that had always carried him here after a hard day—her scent, the warmth of her fire, and the knowledge that, no matter how much blood coated his hands, she always let him in. Always.
“Hey.” The word scrapes out of his throat, softer than he intended, too fragile for the weight pressing on his chest. It drops into the silence of her apartment like a stone into deep water, and the ripples don’t reach her. She doesn’t turn. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Once, her shoulders would have softened at the sound of his voice. Now, they only tighten, her arms folded around herself, her spine rigid. His shadows recoil, and he hears the murmur spread. She’s closing you out. It almost feels like they’re mocking him with the information.
The silence stretches. Not tense, not sharp, just heavy—familiar. He shifts his weight, the floorboard beneath him groaning, his boots scuffing against her rug. The sound feels intrusive, out of place in the sanctuary he once believed this space to be.
“You weren’t at the clinic today,” he says carefully, tentative, as if pressing too hard might shatter her completely. But his words feel empty—a pitiful bridge to cross the distance yawning between them. His shadows press close, suffocating, strangling him with anticipation.
“You used the window.”
Her tone is flat, unbothered, but the accusation strikes deep. Her voice cuts sharper than any blade he’s wielded. He flinches, jaw tightening. His shadows hiss, accusing him—coward, secret, shame. He doesn’t answer. He’s repeated those words thousands of times. Reminded himself that windows were for secrets, for shame. That they should never have been for her. But every time he tried to speak, to tell her the truth—about how he truly felt—his fear would choke him alive, and he was nothing but that boy locked in the dungeons with burnt bloody hands again.
He pauses, his throat dry, a lone shadow wrapping around his throat—a mirror of how his guilt was choking him alive. “You didn’t answer the door.”
“I know.”
The silence grows thick, aching. The hearth crackles, casting light that flickers across her form, but she doesn’t move. His shadows stay utterly still, as though awaiting a blow.
Part of him almost wishes she’d stay silent long enough to drive him away. He tells himself to leave, to turn before he makes it worse. But his feet stay rooted. He can’t—not yet.
Her scent reaches him before his next step, wrapping around him like smoke, a storm of memories he can’t escape. He halts in front of the sofa, staring down at his boots, knowing she feels his presence even if she won’t acknowledge it.
“I’m tired, Azriel.”
The sound of his full name spears through him. Not Az. Not the name she used to whisper in laughter, in the soft darkness of her bedroom. Azriel. Cold. Formal. Distant. A chasm opens at his feet. His jaw clenches, one hand half-rising to rake through his hair before falling uselessly to his side. His shadows curl uneasily at his ankles, restless, uneasy, like they know they’re bracing for a fall.
“I’m sorry I just thought—I mean, your lights were on—” His voice stumbles, and his words die, limp in his throat. He stops, staring at her, searching for anything in her expression, any softness. He can’t find any. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The sentence feels weak, pathetic even as he spoke it. His shadows hiss at him again. Coward.
The words hang between them like smoke. He waits—hopes—for her to look at him, to stop him, to say something. Anything. But she only stares at the fire, her silence louder than a scream.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns toward the door. Each step feels like dragging himself through tar. His shadows coil tight, hissing at him, coward, say it now, or lose her forever.
His hand hovers on the doorknob, his chest tight with the hope she’ll call him back. He wants her to call him back. Gods, he’s begging for it in silence.
“Don’t.”
The single word slices the air like a blade. His shadows jolt upright, startled. His wings perk up as relief surges through his chest, wild and aching.
He looks back at her, his heart hammering. “You want me to stay?”
His voice is barely a whisper, desperate, trembling.
“Don’t come back.”
The words punch through his ribs, brutal and final. He stills, his hand locked around the doorknob, knuckles white. His shadows collapse at his feet, silenced. The words root into his chest, hollowing him. He’s spent his whole life mastering silence, secrecy, pain—but nothing has ever terrified him like the permanence in her voice. Like being loved fully. Like losing it now.
The fire crackles behind her, the only witness to his undoing.
“You don’t mean that.”
The words rasp out of him before he can stop them. His wings twitch tight behind him, panic coursing through every nerve. His shadows writhe around his boots, clawing at the floor, some trying to drag him toward her, others yanking him back. He didn’t know which was worse—touching her and breaking her further, or letting her walk away forever.
“You don’t mean that,” he repeats, softer this time, like speaking it might make it true.
Her laugh—quiet, bitter—splinters the room. Splinters him.
“I do.”
He sways on his feet. His shadows surge forwards, restless, stretching toward her, only to recoil when she flinches at their touch. The rejection hits harder than steel. They coil low around his boots, ashamed.
“Don’t. Just—don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“You’re tired. It’s been a long day—”
“Azriel, this isn’t about today.”
Her voice cracks. His entire body locks at the sound. His shadows lash violently, as if struck by lightning. She’s crying—and it’s his fault. Always his fault.
One lone shadow—a small ribbon of night—curls at her feet discreetly. Protecting her from him. The betrayal burns, but he can’t find it within himself to be angry. It was only doing what he had never been able to; openly caring for her.
“It’s about every night you come only to forget. When your shadows get too heavy, when Mor’s name echoes in the marrow of your bones and her silence hollows out your chest. I’m the only thing that quieted that ache, and you made me think that mattered.”
Each syllable cuts deeper than steel. He staggers as if they’ve struck him physically. His shadows shriek in his ears, furious and condemning. User. Coward. You broke her.
“I want more than this, Azriel. I want to be more than a body you come to when the world outside is too heavy for you to hold. I want to be more than the arms you fall into when hers were never open for you.”
His lips part. Nothing comes. He feels the truth of her words like poison in his veins. His fingers flex helplessly. His shadows cinch tight around his wrists, shackling him. Even they won’t let him touch her now.
“You matter, Y/n. Gods, of course you matter.” His shadows whisper a truth he hasn’t let himself hear. She’s your everything.
Her rebuttal cuts clean.
“Do I? When’s the last time you stayed past sunrise? When’s the last time you asked me how my day went? Gods, when’s the last time we just talked? Have you noticed we never do anything anymore? You show up when it’s dark, we have sex, and then, when you think I’m asleep, you slip out before the sun can catch you. If I matter so much, why did I have to keep a drawer full of your apologies to remind myself that I did?”
Her words are knives, and each one hits because he knows them, because he’s replayed those mornings a thousand times—standing at her threshold, watching her breathe, and still choosing the door. Coward. Always a coward.
“I want something real. Not borrowed. Not broken. Someone I don’t have to beg for. I deserve better. I can’t be your band-aid, I can’t patch up the hollow Mor left behind. Not anymore.”
He flinches, because he knows she’s right. He’s told himself he deserves better every night he’s left her bed.
“That’s not fair,” he breathes, his voice trembling. “You think this doesn’t hurt me too?”
“I think you don’t know what hurt means if you think you can keep showing up like this without expecting something to break inside me every time.”
Her eyes are flames.
“I care about you.”
“Not enough. Never enough. You care just enough to keep me close, but never enough to stay.”
Her words gut him. His wings sag, his shadows coil flat to the ground, defeated.
“I can’t stay. Not the way you want me to. Not because you’re not worth it, but because I don’t know how.” The words taste like lies, because the truth—the unbearable truth—is he’s wanted to, every godsdamned night. He’s pictured her in daylight, laughter on her lips, her hand in his. But wanting her in the daylight feels like wanting to breathe in the middle of the sea: impossible, suicidal. Staying means being seen. And he doesn’t know how to survive that.
His shadows recoil from him, disgusted.
“And I can’t keep being convenient,” she whispers. “I can’t keep setting myself on fire just to keep you warm, when you never even look back to see what you’ve burned down.”
Azriel’s face twists, rage and grief clawing at him, indistinguishable. His shadows writhe, thrashing helplessly at his sides.
“I can change. I will. I just- just give me time.”
Her eyes soften. For a heartbeat, he lets himself hope. But her words crush it.
“You’ve had years. I waited. I made excuses. I begged the stars—your stars—to carve me into something worthy of you. I told myself if I stayed long enough, if I gave enough of myself, you’d see me.”
Something in him breaks with a sound he can’t contain at the idea that she had begged his gods to make her worthy. His breath came ragged, his hand rising helplessly before his shadows shackled it tight, holding him back. As if even they knew his touch was poison to her now.
“I do,” he blurts, voice cracking. “Gods, I do—”
He reaches for her, despite knowing he shouldn’t, because he’s never been good at letting go anyways. His shadows like chains around his wrists, restraining him, like they know his touch will break her.
“No, Azriel. You’ve never seen me, not really. You see the comfort, the warmth, the silence. But you never see me. I don’t think you ever really knew me. I’ve never been more than the one patching you up, physically or more. You say you can’t get attached. That you’re not ready. That you’re broken. And I swallowed every excuse like it was love, because admitting the truth meant admitting I didn’t matter.”
Her words hit like hammer blows. His shadows shrink away from her, curling low, ashamed. He wants to argue, to protest, to tell her about the way her laugh carried him through missions, the way her hands steadied the cracks in his chest. He’s known her—in pieces, in shadows, in the quiet ways he never learned to name. But the words never reach his lips.
“I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know how to—”
“Then why didn’t you let me go?”
His lips part. Nothing comes. His shadows whisper it for him. Selfish. Afraid. Too late.
“I gave you time, Azriel, so much time. But you never changed. You just wanted the comfort I brought.”
Her smile is small. Shattered. He staggers, his wings dragging low.
“I do want you. Please, I can’t lose you.” His voice shakes. He steps closer, shadows writhing, chaining his wrists. “I thought if I kept you at arm’s length I wouldn’t fall, but I did. Gods I did, I’ve been falling for years, I just couldn’t see it.”
He’s unraveling. His shadows thrash, shrieking in his ears. One brushes her ankle, begging.
Her gaze hardens.
“You aren’t in love with me Azriel, you’re in love with the way I make you feel—safe. And I deserve to be loved for all of me. Not just the parts that make your pain easier to bear.”
His hand drops. His shadows coil tighter, a noose around his neck.
“Please, love, I…I couldn’t let myself. I was scared, scared to fuck up. Scared to lose you.”
Her head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You never had me to lose. Not really.”
He flinches, not in anger but grief. His wings sag fully now, his shadows whimper low.
“Please, tell me what I can do,” he begs, desperation raw in his voice. “I’ll do anything, just don’t shut me out.”
“Az,” she says softly.
The name—his name—lands like mercy. Hope claws its way into his chest. His shadows lift, whispering frantically, she still sees you, she still sees you.
The bond snaps.
It doesn’t settle, doesn’t hum softly like others had described. No. It detonates inside him—searing, violent. Lightning tears his soul apart and stitches it to hers in the same breath. He staggers back as raw magic lashes through every single one of his nerves, clutching his chest as pain dances through his ribs. His wings flare wide, trembling. His shadows shriek, feral, a cacophony in his head, keening a single word: mate.
But she keeps moving. Moving away from him.
“I can’t do this anymore, please.”
“No,” he whispers, strangled. “No—no, please. Not now. Please.”
He rubs his chest, as though he can calm the bond’s violent thrashing, but it only burns hotter with every step she takes away from him. His shadows crawl desperately toward her ankles, begging her to stay, but recoil when she flinches.
This is the thing he’s run from, the thing he swore he couldn’t survive—love that ties, claws, demands. And it’s here. Irrevocable. And she doesn’t feel it.
The Cauldron tied him to her—but left her free.
He can’t breathe. His chest feels carved open, hollowed out. His shadows whimper like wounded creatures, curling low to the ground.
“I love you,” he breathes, broken. “I love you, and I was too much of a coward to say it before but gods I swear to you—I do. I didn’t let myself admit it because I thought love made you weak, and I couldn’t afford to be—but you make me want to be. You make me want everything I was afraid of.”
He steps toward her, voice desperate. “I’ll stay. Every morning. And I’ll come through the front door, like a man who has nothing to hide. And I’ll hold your hand in public. Let everyone know you’re mine.”
Another step. His hands cradle her face, trembling. “Azriel—”
“I’ll stop hiding,” he says, desperate now. “I’ll fight for this—for you. Just… please. Don’t walk away. Not now. Not when I finally see you.”
But she turns her face away. His hands fall. His shadows sob.
“I can’t, Azriel. Not when I’ve spent so long loving someone who didn’t want me. I gave you everything I had. I broke myself apart and used the pieces to heal you. I have nothing left to give. Not now. Maybe never.” His shadows swarm at her feet, begging her to give their master one last chance. “Go home Azriel, please…”
“Please.”
Her final whisper isn’t to him. It’s to the shadows. Please.
And they obey.
The door creaks open, dark tendrils pulling it wide. His own shadows betray him, giving her freedom when he cannot. A betrayal, yes—but also mercy.
She pauses on the stairs. Her voice is soft, final. “Goodbye, Azriel.”
He doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t stop her.
Because the bond might have claimed her as his, but she never would.
The door creaks wider as she makes it up the stairs, shadows curling around its edges like fingers prying him away from her. He resists for a heartbeat—he can’t leave her, not like this—but his own magic betrays him. His shadows shove at his shoulders, insistent, merciless.
Out. Out. Out.
They herd him through the threshold, the wooden frame scraping against his wings as though punishing him for daring to stay. The door slams behind him, the final sound of her absence.
He wants to fight them, to claw his way back inside, to beg until she believes him. But fear roots him—fear that staying will only make her walk further away, fear that loving her fully will destroy them both. Fear has always been the loudest voice. And now it’s the only one left.
The bond is a wildfire in his chest, searing, tearing, clawing at every vein. He staggers down her porch steps before his knees give way. His shadows collapse with him, writhing across the stone, keening their fury in a chorus of whispers that echo inside his skull:
You broke her. You lost her. You ruined her. Mate. Mate. Mate.
Azriel presses a trembling hand to his sternum, as if he could hold the bond in, as if sheer will might soothe the agony. But it only burns hotter, a merciless tether pulling tight, demanding what she’ll never give.
He bows forward, wings sagging, and sobs rip through him before he can stop them. His shadows gather like mourners, circling him, rocking with his shaking body. Some lash at him, angry, others curl close, trying to hold together what can’t be mended.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there—minutes, hours. The sky begins to pale, shadows stretching thin as dawn approaches. His throat is raw, his chest burning, but still he can’t move.
And then—he hears it.
Through the walls, through the distance: her heartbeat.
Steady. Gentle. Asleep.
He closes his eyes and strains his ears to hear it, focusing on that rhythm, letting it anchor him. He matches his ragged breathing to it, in and out, until the panic in his chest ebbs just enough to keep him alive. His shadows still too, rocking softly in time with the sound, clinging to the one piece of her they can reach.
As the sun rises, spilling gold across his broken face, he makes his vow, the bond thrashing in his chest. “I’ll do anything. Anything to win her back.”
The shadows hum low, dark agreement, sealing it like an oath.
And with her heartbeat steady in his ears, he believes it.
Bat Boys Appreciation Week - Day 2: Young Bat Boys 🖤
For today's prompt, we wanted to do something that included all 3 of the bat boys. While looking for ideas, we came across art from @/tonyviento that had all 3 of them at their current ages and looking hot (reference here) 🔥 We fell in love with the idea of taking that same general pose and turning it into them in their younger years growing up and training in Illyria!
@/thiaperezart took that idea and made this adorable art of younger Rhys, Cassian and Azriel, and we couldn't love it more! We absolutely adore all the little ways she conveyed their individual personalities, while also showing the unbreakable brotherly bond these 3 will forever share 🖤
