Hello hello. Here's all of my fics that happen on the same timelines. This is part of a second masterlist version that i am organizing by category (this one's for you anon). It's taking forever because tumblr wanna act up and won't allow me to link some things, but it will eventually be up.
Daddy!Azriel
One More [Smut] -> Family Dynamic -> Keep Me Satisfied [Pregnant!Reader] -> Hush Little Baby -> Here's to Tradition -> You Too -> Can't You See? -> Concord -> Come Back -> Burning Man -> Promises -> Summer Daze -> Two is Better Than One -> Taciturn -> In the House Love Built [Smut] -> The Calm Beneath the Storm -> Cuddle Me In -> The Rowdy Bunch -> The Honeycrisp Grove -> Winter Winds -> Sticking Together -> Snatched -> No Tricks, Just Treats -> In Ribbons [Smut, Sub!Az] -> Unwrapped -> Into the New -> Here for You -> Between Me and You -> The Safeguard -> Warrior Status -> About Last Night
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Daddy!Cassian
Terrible Twos -> Strips and Sutures
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Daddy!Eris
Due Time (Part 2) -> Sweater Weather -> Milk & Cream -> Late Nights in the Middle of June -> Cherries, Juniper, and Orange Slices
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Small Town!Cassian [Archeron Sister!Reader]
Break Up in a Small Town -> Dial Drunk
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Rhys' Sister's Best Friend!Reader
Clandestine Love
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Art School AU
Midnight Muse
Coal Lined Lens [Azriel]
Structure of the Gods [Cassian]
Dioxazine (Part 2) [Rhysand]
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Vampire Azriel
You Keep Me Sharp and Test My Worth in Blood -> (Blurb) -> Bleed for Me -> Body and Soul [Smut (read warnings)] -> (Blurb 2)
Summary: More heartbreak for small town Cassian because I just can't stop. Based off of the song Dozen Roses & a Six Pack by Cole Swindell.
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: 1,300
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Cassian sighs when he hits the red light on the corner of Main Street.
He stares up at the crimson sign staring at him, taunting him, laughing at him.
He wants to pound his fists against the fucking steering wheel. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near this fucking town right now, not on a Friday night, just getting off of work and waiting for all of the drunks of this shithole town to meander their way down here.
Especially not after last night.
His eyes are gritty with exhaustion, fingers blackened by the oil and dirt of his job, permanently embedded underneath his fingernails. His hair was pulled tightly from his face this morning, but now, after eight hours of hard labor, it’s greasy and messy, falling out from the hair tie barely holding it together. He’s so fucking tired. He hadn’t slept at all last night, stomach twisted with worry and his mind running rampant with thoughts of you.
A pink neon light flickering on in a window to his right catches his attention, ripping his eyes from the stoplight. Flower Shop is written in curly letters, his mine perking up at the idea, calling his name.
When the light turns green he rolls his rusted Bronco through the intersection and pulls it into the ten minute parking spot out front. He cranks the driver’s window up and shuts the engine off, tipping his head back against the seat as the sting returns to his eyes.
This might be his worst idea yet.
It takes a lot more effort than he’d like to lug his body from the car. The streets are quiet for the moment, but they won’t be soon.
He rounds the front of the car, muttering to himself as he makes his way to the door of the shop. “Please don’t be here, please don’t be here—”
The bell jingles as he pulls the door open, stepping inside. The scent of the variety of colorful flowers surrounding him hits him like a truck, thick and heavy in the back of his throat. Pinks, purples, reds, greens…every color he can imagine in different shapes, lengths, and sizes are scattered everywhere. It’s nearly overwhelming. Would be if he didn't know what you liked.
His breath catches in his throat when the young woman working in the shop is called out of the back room by the chime of the bell on the door. His steps falter as he approaches the counter, heart squeezing in his chest in a repeat of the worst pain he’s ever felt in his entire life.
“Hey, Lanie,” he greets, forcing a small smile onto his lips. He wants to turn around and run right out of this fucking shop because looking at Elain Archeron reminds him too much of you.
She offers a gentle smile—one that he doesn’t feel like he deserves—in return. “Hey, Cassian. How are you doing?”
He shrugs a little, swallowing against the tightness of his throat. If he answers it will either be a lie or a beg, so he keeps quiet about that.
Elain offers a knowing look in return. Her big doe eyes are swimming with pity, and Cassian forces his gaze away.
“Can I please have a dozen red, long stemmed roses?” he asks, already reaching for his wallet.
“Sure. I’ll pick out the best ones that we’ve got,” Elain answers, already darting off to the refrigerator where the flowers are kept.
He waits, staring at a spot on the counter, wondering if this is a mistake. He could walk right out that door while Elain is distracted. The bell will alert her of his cowardly departure but he’d already be in his car by then, peeling down the street like hell is at his wheels.
His heart aches in his chest, and he waits.
“How do these look?” She asks when she comes back, holding out the bouquet she’s wrapped and ready to go. There’s a ribbon tied around the stems, holding them all together. It’s your favorite color, too. Of course, Elain would make them look perfect for you, and it’s not the first time she’s helped arrange a bouquet of flowers for you.
“Just perfect,” he answers, though it doesn’t sound as cheerful as he wants. He gives Elain an apologetic look and hands over his card, relieving her of the flowers. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Elain chirps. Always so happy, she is. Why weren’t you ever this content to be in this town? He flinches a little at the thought, biting the inside of his cheek as he returns his credit card to his pocket and signs the receipt. “Hey, Cassian,” she calls when he’s turned away to leave. Cassian looks over his shoulder, at Elain whose eyes have gone hard. He should run, probably. But instead of saying something similar to the way Nesta had chewed him out, she says, “I really think you still have a chance.”
There’s a rock in his throat as he stares her down. The nicest of the four Archeron sisters is rooting for him. Nesta has clearly chosen a side, going to bat for you when she heard the news and ran into Cassian at the grocery store. Feyre’s on the fence about all of it, not wanting to choose a side at all. He’s sure that if Rhysand came back from New York and had faith in him, she would agree.
Cassian nods gratefully at her. He really shouldn’t get his hopes up because he remembers the finality in your tone all too easily from last night. The way you’d had tears running down your face. Your words were shaking but honest and there was no amount of pleading or promises from him that could get you to stay.
The roses burn a hole in the side of his head as he pulls out of the parking spot and back into the street, steadily filling with cars from people getting off work.
Wrapped perfectly, they’re perched in his passenger seat, the seat belt fit snugly around them. That feeling creeps up Cassian’s throat again, the nervous one that has him tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in hopes of releasing the sudden energy his mind’s creating, thinking about you.
He’s almost out of town and then maybe he can relax. He’ll hide up in his apartment, because no one ever comes around that part of town. It’s the perfect solitude.
He stops at the stop sign. On the corner is the local liquor store, sign pinned up in the window reading Coldest Beer in Town. Cassian swallows. He is thirsty, and the beer will only give him the confidence he needs when he inevitably chooses to make that phone call.
Coward, his mind screams, as he pulls into the parking lot. Screaming at him as he picks up a six pack, screaming at him when he pays for it and the bottles clank together when he sets it on his seat and makes his way home.
His mind is still a mess when he sits at his table, staring at the roses and beer, how the roses won’t be enough if you pick up the phone, if you forgive him, and the beer might not be enough, if you don’t.
Finally, Cassian picks up his phone, pressing the only number he has favorited, that little star in the corner reminding him of the relationship that shined so bright before he fucked it all up.
He presses your name, the contact picture updated to one of the most recent ones he can’t stop staring at when he’s alone in his bed at night and all he can think about is you.
Summary: Cassian can't get you out of his head. The alcohol doesn't help, either.
Based on the song Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan
Warnings: Drinking, fist-fighting, police, mentions of cheating (not cassian), mentions of a boy dragging a girl upstairs (not cassian), angst, break-up.
Word Count: 4,070
_________________________________________
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Cassian grumbles, shoving some of the sopping wet hair out of his face. He doesn’t care that it’s raining, that droplets bead at the tip of his straight nose, that his clothes are soaked through and sticking to his skin or that he’s standing in front of the entrance to Ritas, he doesn’t care about any of it.
The only thing he does care about is the fact that you’re not answering his calls.
He curses as your cheery voice chimes in his ear, tinny through the line. It’s your voicemail, telling him something about sticking around and about how you can’t get to the phone right now and that you’ll call him back. It’s utter fucking bullshit, is what it is. You’ve been dodging his calls for weeks now, ever since you’d told him you wanted to stop seeing him.
Cassian’s heart has been aching ever since.
He doesn’t leave a message this time—mostly because there’s no room in your inbox, filled with messages long left from him. He grunts and shoves his phone back into his pocket. The bitter taste of his drink is thrown back with a grimace. Rita would have his balls if she found out he took one of her glasses out here, and it’s all he can do not to chuck it into the street in frustration.
He just wants a chance to explain.
The door behind him shoves open and hits his back. Cassian spins, a remark on the tip of his tongue, fingers curled around the glass, ready to use it as a weapon if he needs to.
It’s Rita herself, bar owner and roughened with years of dealing with drunken regulars. The short, stocky woman glares up at him as if he’s not three times her size. She’s wiping her hands on the towel hanging from the pocket of her apron, then crosses her arms over her chest.
“Knew I was missing a glass,” she comments, nodding to Cassian’s hand. He grimaces, shoulders falling and swallowing back the rude retort he had prepared if it were anyone other than her. Anger itches at his skin, his fists aching to smash through something as the alcohol burns through his veins.
“Sorry,” he grits, handing over the glass. Rita gives him a knowing look that he ignores and holds the door wider for him, inviting him back into the dank warmth of the bar.
He trudges inside. He doesn’t want people looking at him like that, with pity because he’d let the best thing he’d ever had go. Everyone in town knows by now how one of those sweet Archeron sisters broke his heart.
Broke is a loose term. It feels like you’ve done much more than that. Ripped it out of his chest and doused it with your favorite alcohol, lighting it on fire in the streets for the whole town to see. It feels like you’d let it turn to ash and picked up the soot and threw it into the river, washing your hands of him.
Fuck, did he mess up. Again and again and again. He can’t blame you though, you’d put up with enough for him and you never had to. Nesta nor Elain cared for him, he knew from the moment you’d first brought him home, when all they could do was share secretive looks with each other, uncaring if he caught them. It was almost as if they wanted him to see. Feyre and he got along, if only for the fact that she was nicer than the other two and actually gave him a chance.
Cassian’s sure the Archeron household was filled with cheers when you told them you’d left him.
He slumps back into the seat he’d been occupying since he’d gotten off of work. He didn’t want to go back to the meager apartment he calls home. It’s littered with dirty clothes and old pizza boxes, and there’s no food there anyway. He’s even drunk the last dregs of any of the alcohol he has, and he hasn’t been to the store yet to restock. He hasn’t had the energy to. At least Rita has a bowl of nuts sitting on the bar. Cassian takes a handful and shoves them into his mouth, but they sit uneasily in his alcohol filled stomach.
“Careful, the old men suck the chocolate off of those,” the bartender says, swiping at the bartop with her towel, sweeping away the drops of water dripping from his hair.
He gags and she laughs. “I’m only joking.” Cassian sizes her up. She’s pretty, he supposes, chestnut hair pulled high into a ponytail at the back of her head, tiny hairs framing her face in a way he’s not sure is intentional or not. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief and she’s wearing a cropped black t-shirt with the bar's logo on the front.
If he were more inebriated he’d probably let her take him home, let her ride him and forget your memory in her cunt.
He forces a laugh. “Another bourbon, please.”
“You cutting that with anything?” She presses, raising a perfectly trimmed brow. “Water, perhaps?”
“The ice is enough, thanks,” he answers, polite as he can. He’s trying to be patient, but the longer he sits here with no drink in his hand the more sober he gets, and at least if he’s drunk he can blame it on that when someone finally reams him out about calling you nonstop.
The bartender nods, and he can’t help himself, watching her as she works, eyes trailing down her body, over the curves of her plump ass as she bends over, probably for his benefit.
Cassian averts his gaze before she turns around, taking in the room.
Rita’s is packed with townies, as it always is on Friday nights. He prefers it over any of the other spots in town: the boujee new gastropub right up the street or the po-dunk watering hole with shitty pop-country music and a line dancing floor that he used to frequent with you and your friends. He’d adored watching you out there on the dancefloor, living it up with a beaming smile on your face. Everyone loved you over there, and a part of him wonders if you still frequent there, or if you’ve found somewhere else to be, all to be sure to avoid him.
“Let me know if you need anything,” the bartender winks, sliding the glass across the countertop. He catches it and lifts it in response, saluting her before bringing it to his lips, savoring the bite of the spicy liquor.
One more turns to two turns to three and a shot here or there. The bar fills steadily as the night grows later. His ass is numb in his chair, but so are his lips, and it must be the alcohol’s doing. His phone lies open on the counter, texts from his friends gone unanswered in favor of your smiling face staring back at him—his wallpaper from ages ago. It’s the most recent picture he has of you and he hasn’t had the guts to change it yet.
He finds himself wondering if your hair still looks like that, if your smiles are still as bright or if your eyes still sparkle without him. If your laughter is the same or different now that you’re no longer hanging around him, Rhys, and Azriel. He wants to know if you still wear the sweatshirt you stole from him on your first date, or his shirts to bed, or his socks because they were much more comfortable and cozy than yours. He never believed that, but seeing you in them is one of his favorite things.
Was one of his favorite things.
Cassian puts his head in his hands, trying to shut out the memory of you. His head is spinning a little, but if he’s still thinking about you it means he hasn’t had enough.
He’s about to order another when two men sidle up to his side. It takes him a moment to clear his vision, a harsh blink, then two, and it’s then that Cassian can focus on who stands before him.
Tomas and Grayson.
Both victims of an Aercheron breakup.
Both fucking pricks.
“Those Archeron sisters are fucking bitches, man,” Tomas claps him on the shoulder in greeting. Cassian’s fingers tighten around his glass and his jaw clenches tightly. He doesn’t want to be around these two. He’d seen Tomas and Nesta when they were together, how he’d been trying to drag her upstairs at a party after she’d had one too many. Gwyn and Emerie had come running up to you and Cassian, begging him for help.
He can’t be surprised that Tomas doesn’t remember the incident, since he’d knocked him out cold. Nesta was furious with him either way, not because he’d stopped the man, but because she’d been clutching a vase in her hand and wanted the final hit.
The incident didn’t help Cassian get on her good side.
And Grayson, the boy who vowed to marry Elain one day, then cheated on her with some girl from the next town over. It was when they were freshman in high school, so no one really thought they would last forever anyway. Well, except for Elain, but the cheating had been messy, and she’d broken up with him only to find Lucien soon after, the both of them inseparable to this day.
“Especially that one you were with,” Grayson adds, and Cassian knows they know your name. “She doesn’t like anyone, dude, don’t take it to heart.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cassian grits, shouldering Tomas’ hand away, “And get the fuck off of me.”
“Woah, bro,” Tomas responds, holding his hands up in surrender. His drink sloshes over the edge of his glass a little, and it catches Cassian’s attention. He’s drinking a sex on the beach for fuck’s sake. He needs them to go away. Now. “Just stating the facts.”
Ire grinds his bones, streams through his body like snakes, coiling around him tighter and tighter until he’s so close to losing his grip on his anger that the glass cracks in his hand. It’s not shattered yet, but it just might, and he catches the spearing eyes of the bartender, flicking to Rita who’s working down the bar, before settling on his again, softly shaking her head.
He blows out a breath, letting the glass drop to the counter with a thud. Cassian shoves from his seat, stumbling a little, and he doesn’t like the way that both of the men flank him. He feels like a trapped dog, and he’s just waiting to snap.
“S’not facts,” Cassian slurs. The room spins, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s had to drink until this very moment, because the two men in front of them become four and then two and then four again, exchanging smirks with each other, ready to poke the beast. “She’s the best.”
“Not from what I’ve seen,” Grayson says, and Cassian never liked this kid. His voice is fucking gating, grinding on his brain in the worst way. “You should hear the shit she does for Eris now that she’s dropped your dumbass.”
Grayson doesn’t see Cassian’s fist coming, but he sure as fuck feels it, even if it only clips his jaw because Cassian’s swaying backwards, the alcohol skewing his momentum. It makes the drink in his hand spill, glass shattering on the floor, and the next thing Cassian knows, Tomas’s fist is coming straight for his face.
He hardly feels the punch land, either because the prick is weak as fuck of because he’s had one too many. Cassian doesn’t feel his lip splitting open, catching on his teeth, nor does he taste the blood bursting into his mouth. He grins like a feral dog as he rights his balance, more than ready for a fight.
The bartender and Rita are yelling, and she’s whipping her towel across the bar in their direction, threatening something about calling the police but none of the three young men listen. Cassian’s already tucking in, a shot aimed straight for Grayson’s stomach. A cheap one, but it makes the little bitch bend over, groaning in agony, and Cassian feels triumphant for a moment before someone’s trying to pull him away.
Cassian’s nowhere near ready to stop, though, shoving the man behind him off. When he turns back to the two assholes making his shitty night worse, Tomas tosses Grayson’s drink in his face. The fruity alcohol burns slightly, stinging the split of his lip, but Cassian only raises a brow.
“That all you got, you fucking pussy?”
He catches the way their wide gazes go from his pulled back fist to over his shoulder as the door bangs open, then to each other, before they cower away from him, smirks hidden as they duck their chins.
“Cassian,” a deep voice calls over his shoulder. It’s one he’s too familiar with. One that he hates more than this gods damned break-up.
Slowly, he lowers his fist, teetering around on his heel. Devlin stands behind him, decked out in his pristine police uniform. He has one hand on his hip. The butt of his gun glints in the lowlights of the bar. The other is on his walkie, speaking softly into it and Cassian’s stomach drops. He knows those words cutting through his drunken haze.
Devlin’s going to take him in.
Fuck his fucking life.
“Turn around, and put your hands behind your back,” Devlin says, dropping his hand from his walkie-talkie to the cuffs at his belt. His face is hard but Cassian can see the mirth swimming in his eyes clear as day. “I’m sure you know the drill by now.”
He does. It’s not the first time he’s been taken down to the station for fighting. Rhys, Az, and he have gotten caught for spray painting city buildings, underage drinking, fist-fights after school—normal small town shenanigans that almost everyone’s participated in once or twice.
He turns around, doesn’t resist as Devlin clips the metal around his wrists unnecessarily tight. Tomas and Gayson share matching smiles, and the younger asshole has his phone out, recording the events. Cassian bares his teeth, knowing that they’re going to blast it on social media for everyone in town to see.
If you catch a look at it, it will only solidify your decision to break up with him.
He curses at them, but it does nothing. Devlin drags him from the bar by the scruff of his neck and shoves him outside. He’s met with a facefull of rain and the flashing red and blue of the police car sitting out front. They’re so bright they’re blinding, and he stumbles when Devlin pushes him forward, opening the door for him so he can slide into the familiar backseat.
The ride down to the station is silent, except for the soft sounds of the transmitter radio. The town is pretty quiet tonight, so far, so the night must still be young. The streetlights glow red and green as they pass, and Cassian thinks that he should’ve just gone home and gone to bed, wallowing in his sad life. If he’d done so he wouldn’t be in handcuffs, on his way to the police station, still thinking about you. Always thinking about you.
Devlin puts the car in park and leads him into the station. Balthazar is sitting at his desk, feet propped on top as he pushes off his paperwork a little longer in favor of snacking on a pack of powdered donuts from the vending machine.
“Cass?” he questions, boots thudding loudly on the linoleum as he stands from his chair. He licks the white around his mouth, and normally, it might make Cassian smile, seeing his old campmate looking like a deer caught in headlights, but he’s in no mood to laugh right now. “What happened now?”
“Bar fight,” Devlin grunts, searching him for his things. He pulls out his wallet, flat and sad, and a hard candy he stole from Helion’s desk on his way out of work. “Where’s your phone, kid?”
Cassian’s heart swoops and he’s twisting around so frantically that Devlin takes a step back, hand going straight to the weapon holstered at his hip. “What do you mean? It’s not in my pocket?”
“Son, if it’s not anywhere I can feel it, it’s not here. Unless you’ve shoved it up your ass,” Devlin grinds out, mouth flat.
Cassian rolls his eyes. He should be telling Devlin to stick his head up there to find it, but he’s too worried about his phone. What if you call him back? He bites back, “You left it at the fucking bar, then.”
“I didn’t leave shit,” the officer responds, his voice grating on Cassian’s nerves. It makes his fingers curl into fists, his hazel eyes glaring daggers at the stupid cop in front of him. “I’m not the one who didn’t make sure I had all my shit with me before starting a brawl.”
He tugs him roughly by the arms to one of the cells. Cassian’s shoulders pinch and his hands are going numb from how tightly the handcuffs are around his wrists. He growls, letting the police officer corral him through the door, pretending he’s broken the wild beast for the night.
“I didn’t start it. It was those fucking pricks in front of me.”
Devlin hums, unlocking the cuffs through the bars. “And how many times have I heard that one before?”
Too many. Always too many.
Cassian huffs, choosing not to respond. Devlin won’t believe him anyway, and he’ll be stuck here for hours in his wet clothes in this freezing jail cell until he’s sobered up or someone comes to get him.
He wonders if Tomas and Gayson have stolen his phone.
“You may as well make yourself comfortable,” Devlin snaps, and the click of the door locking rings in his head. “Think over what you’ve done.”
Cassian wants to spit at him, but he keeps his jaw locked tightly, glaring instead. The look rolls off of Devlin’s shoulders with ease, used to the looks the townies give him for protecting their citizens, and the officer leaves him without a second glance.
Balthazar steps up to the bars, a concerned look on his face. Cassian doesn’t want pity right now, he wants to be left the fuck alone. He turns away, all but collapsing on the metal bench, leaning against the wall and tipping his head back with a long sigh.
“Who can we call, Cass?”
“You mean while Devlin writes up his report?” He laughs but there’s no humor in it. “I’ll be here for hours, B, you know how he is.”
Balthazar gives him a look that tells him to cut the shit, and Cassian sighs.
“Call (Y/N).”
The rookie's brows shoot straight into his hairline. “You sure about that?”
Cassian peeks open an eye to glare. “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have asked it.”
Balthazar nods, leaving him alone to make the call. If you won’t answer his messages, maybe you’ll answer the stations. He’s not in his right mind, of this he knows, but he misses you so deeply he’s desperate to hear your voice.
Cassian doesn’t know how long he sits there. The bench is uncomfortable and cold underneath his soaked pants. It helps to sober him a little, but his limbs are trembling with the iciness running through them. The tips of his fingers are white, and his jaw aches from keeping clenched so tightly shut so his teeth don’t shatter.
Eventually, Devlin returns with his clipboard, leaning against the wall and watching him like he’s a fucking zoo animal that had to be tranquilized and brought in. The officer looks like he’s actually filling out the paperwork in his hands, but Cassian knows the fucker isn’t. He fucking hates him, so he glares through the bars and crosses his arms over his chest.
Balthazar’s presence breaks the glaring contest. His cheeks are pink, and he looks between them both, uneasily shifting on his feet.
“Spit it out, B,” Cassian sighs, because his night can’t possibly get any worse than this.
Balthazar wrings his fingers together. “(Y/N)...she didn’t answer.”
Okay, maybe it can get worse.
“What?” he asks, voice flat. Of course there was a chance that you wouldn’t pick up the phone call, but from the police? Cassian is thoroughly surprised. “She didn’t answer?”
“Well, she did,” Balthazar corrects, looking anywhere but at him. He checks out the wet spot in the ceiling tiles, the chipping paint on the wall. Someone should really fix that. Devlin watches his partner, brows furrowed. He looks just as confused as Cassian feels. “But she, uh, hung up when I mentioned your name.”
Cassian blinks, registering his friends' words. You answered, and you hung up. On the police. He feels like he’s been slapped in the face or shot in the chest or something equally as painful. Like his heart has been torn out of his body all over again. Even more so when Devlin throws his head back, wolf-whistling.
“Now that is fucked up,” he comments, turning to Cassian who sits frozen, staring at Balthazar. “You must’ve fucked up good, huh, kid?”
Cassian doesn’t even have it in him to growl at the prick cop who shakes his head, stalking away.
“Cass?” Balth asks, timidly stepping up to the bars of his cell. “Do you want me to call Mr. Cunningham? Or perhaps Ms. Teller?”
“No,” he answers gruffly, finally snapping from his stupor. He doesn’t want him calling Rhysand’s father or Azriel’s mother. He’d run rampant between their houses when he was younger, but he’d never really belonged with either family. Rhysand’s father was too strict, and he couldn’t get into any trouble there. Dolian had never liked him and most likely never will, which is fine, because Cassian feels the exact same way. And he wouldn’t dare allow Balthazar to call Pax Teller. She’s probably in bed right now anyway, the sweet woman. Cassian definitely doesn’t want to see the look in her pitying gaze, matching her sons. He doesn’t want the lecture, the parental support he’s never wanted and never had.
“Helion?” the police officer presses, worriedly. At least if Cassian is here, under their watch, he won’t get himself into more trouble.
But still, Cassian’s mind whirls. He doesn’t want Balth to call a fucking soul. Not Rhysand, not Azriel, especially not his boss. He doesn’t want him calling anyone. He wants to be left alone to wallow in the swirling of his alcohol riddled mind, the thoughts of you picking up the phone, finding out what the call was about, and then hanging up on repeat in his head.
“Maybe I can talk to her,” he says gruffly, grasping onto the tiny shred of hope he hasn’t lost yet.
Someday, when you are back in his arms, he will remember how strong he was in this moment, not willing to give you up. Maybe you’ve hung up because you thought it was a prank call. “Let’s wait, she’ll call back.”
“Cass, are you a danger to yourself?” Balth asks like he hates to do it, but he’s worried about the man sitting in his jailhouse. Ever since he’s known Cassian, he’s never seen him act like this. He was always bubbly, a permanent smile on his face, laughter in his eyes. This Cassian…he doesn’t even recognize.
“Fuck that, B. Let me call.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Balthazar shakes his head.
“I swear she’ll call me back,” he presses, hopeful. His head is thudding dully and the bright lights are making his head pound a little. They can wait for your call in the dark, right?
“Cassian,” the way Balthazar says his name, dripping with pity, it shakes him to his core. “Why do you do this to yourself?”
It hits him like a fucking semi-truck. He lets his body slump. He can hardly feel it now, numb with the thought of you totally abandoning him. You aren’t together, you don’t have to come swooping in, saving him. You’re not his job anymore.
Yet another reason why you were right to leave him.
Small town cass thoughts on when he and reader first met:
The lights inside the bar are low. Music blares from the speakers in the back. There’s a crowd of people around the dance floor, cowboys and drunks alike lining the fence surrounding the shiny, slick floors.
He’s one of them, ass perched on the top rung. His jeans are tight around his thighs, and the bandana tucked into his back pocket is begging to be taken out, wrapped around a pretty birds throat.
“Lookin to find me a pretty little cowgirl tonight, boys,” cassian says, flicking the brim of his hat at a flock of girls that giggle and wave. The song is loud, almost swallowing his words trying to reach his friends’ ears. It’s a girls only dance, and normally he doesn’t care for the whole synchronized dancing thing, but there’s one girl catching his attention as she spins around the dance floor with the most breath-taking smile on her face. “That one.”
“Cass, that’s the least cowgirl girl you can pick out,” Azriel scoffs from next to him. He’s leaning on his forearms, leaning over the top of the fence he’s sitting on. His whiskey is half empty, and his friend is no closer to approaching a girl than he normally is, even with the three drinks he’s already thrown back. “She’s an Archeron.”
Cassian cuts him a look, “How do you know that?” Azriel blushes. Cassian doesn’t need to know that he’s done his research on the entire town, knows the ins and outs of everyone’s lives. It’s one of his favorite drunk activities, actually.
Azriel shrugs, raising his drink to his lips.
Cassian rolls his eyes before returning them to the dance floor. His heart drops quickly. He’s lost sight of you, Azriel distracting him while the song changed from something fun and fast to something slow and lovely.
“Hello,” your voice draws his attention. You’ve found your way to him, holding out a hand, a question in the arch of your brows. “Care for a dance?”
