azsazz
Azs Azz
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Ki. Nothing but love for my Az
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azsazz · 3 days ago
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Cold Shoulder (Part 2)
Hockey!Azriel x Reader
Summary: Anon Req: Cold Shoulder pt 2 please 😫😫 I’m a sucker for jealous Az 😫😫
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 3234
Other Fics in the Hockey!Az AU: Penance, Shut Out, Out of Order, All's Well That Ends Well, Brr-eakdown Shots & Spins Sprinkles of Luck and Doubt Cold Shoulder (Part 1)
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Azriel thought that he was stubborn, but you’re giving him a run for his gods-damned money.
You’ve been avoiding him, which is a feat considering both of your practices overlap and that they’re held in the same building. It really shouldn’t be all that hard to run into you, unless you’re actively avoiding him.
Which, he gets. He was an utter asshole to you the last time you saw each other. He hasn’t stopped thinking about that evening for more reasons than one. The way your nipples piqued under his attention and goosebumps rolled across your flesh just from the sight of him. That raw, brutal affection in your eyes that had locked him under your spell. The way you were drenched in warm water pouring from the shower spout, the liquid running down each delicate curve of your body. He never thought he could be envious of water until that very moment. He had wanted to indulge, to reach out and trace those same lines, and he did. He did until his mind had caught up with him and realization sunk in. How he’d snuck into the women’s locker room to see you ten minutes before he was supposed to leave for one of the most important games of the Bats’ season.
Girls are the last thing he’s supposed to be focusing on this year.
Still, Azriel shouldn’t have allowed his fears to consume him. All it took was a single tug at that thread and he fucking unraveled like a spool rolling down a hill. How he couldn’t stop thinking about you all weekend, replaying how your face had fallen when he all but rejected you, when he’s the one that had sought you out. He feels like a fucking prick, doing that to you under the worst circumstances possible.
When he scored a goal, he’d look up into the stands, searching for your smiling face, before quickly realizing that you weren’t even in the same state, not that he’d expect you to cheer him on after what he had done. The high from gaining a point for his team quickly withered at the reminder.
And now you’re playing hard to get. You were the first person he sought out after arriving back to campus with the team. He couldn’t find you anywhere. Not at the rink the four different times he tried, not at your dorm, though, he couldn’t really be all too sure about that one because your roommates acted like Pitbulls, glaring him down at the door. You weren’t at the library or the athletic training rooms, not at your favorite bench in the commons.
It was like he had imagined you, and Azriel did wonder if he had finally gone crazy.
It isn’t until after practice one evening, when he’s actually considering leaving you alone after coach had reamed him out over how unfocused he’d been, that he sees you again.
Azriel spots you in the rink on his walk of shame back to the hockey house, his gear back thrown over his shoulder. He shouldn’t have it, it should be in the locker room, but he’s too far lost in his thoughts to realize it’s slung over his body, hitting the backs of his thighs when he walks.
Of course, he’d never be too engrossed in his thoughts to notice you.
You’re sitting on the bench, peering over the ice. There’s no one around, the arena is empty, and he takes a step closer without realizing it, drawn to you.
You’re thinking, that much he knows, because you haven’t spotted him yet and your bottom lip is sucked between your teeth as you chew on it. He wants to untuck it, swipe a thumb across it, kiss it.
He takes the time while you’re distracted with your own thoughts to shuffle closer. He’s drinking you in greedily, and his heart speeds in his chest, the air plunges from his lungs. It’s been so long since Azriel has seen you, he doesn’t realize how badly he’s needed this until this very moment. He’s pretty sure that his hands are shaking.
You look like an angel. Smothered in a sweatshirt that he recognizes as his. Fuck, his cock aches at the sight. You haven’t completely cut him from your life. He might stand a fucking chance for your forgiveness after all.
He follows the musculature of your legs in your black leggings, down to where your leg warmers are scrunched over your calf as you tug your ice skates on.
It’s when you shove back the sleeves of his sweatshirt that he sees the compression brace wrapped around your wrist.
Azriel frowns deeply.
You’re hurt.
A swell of emotions bubbles in his chest. It’s a combination of panic and fury. Panic because he hadn’t been here when you were injured. Fury because whoever had a hand is this is going to face his wrath.
Azriel makes his presence known, but he’s too wound up to apologize for startling you. He adds it to the list of things he needs to grovel for. “You shouldn’t be skating while you’re hurt.”
Your mouth parts in shock at his sudden appearance. Without your permission, your gaze flickers his way. Gods, does he look delectable in his post-practice sweats. It’s always been a weakness of yours, to see Azriel dressed like this, and you have to forcefully remove your gaze from his heated hazel ones, remind yourself that you’re angry with him, and that you’re trying to practice.
You refrain from telling him that you’ve been skating just fine since the night he left you in the shower stall with your dignity and heart on the floor.
“It’s only a grade two sprain,” you finally huff, pulling your laces tight. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you smother the wince you want to hiss out when the motion tugs uncomfortably at your injured hand.
You’ve never been prone to injury. In fact, tearing your ACL was your first serious injury ever, but you weren’t going to let that stop you. You did everything you could to get back to the sport that you loved; physical therapy, training in ways that wouldn’t put too much stress on your knee, keeping to your meal plans and schedule, and in no time, you were back out on the ice, reveling in the rush again.
“You could hurt yourself even more,” Azriel says gruffly, and the sound of his hockey bag falling to the floor is startling, but not as startling as it is when he crouches down in front of you to tie your laces for you. It reminds you all too much of the day you spent together at the rink when you traded skates. Your heart surges painfully in your chest.
You keep your eyes averted from him because if you meet those molten eyes of his, you’re going to allow him to escort you back to your dorm and help you relax with his body against yours.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, but allow him to finish tying your laces for you. So thoughtful, even after whatever the both of you shared went to hell. You keep an eagle-eye on his fingers as he works, just in case he does decide to take them off instead.
Fucking stubborn, indeed.
“If you fall, you could—”
“Thanks, Azriel,” you bite, pulling your skate from his grasp as soon as the tie is knotted. “But I don’t need a lecture.”
You shove to your feet, taking off your hoodie and shoving it over your shoulders. It the only thing you could find of his, and although it no longer smells like him, it’s been a comfort nonetheless. Now’s the time to give back the last piece of the short-lived, un-named relationship you and Azriel shared, except when you offer it to him, he refuses to take it.
Pain flashes through his eyes when you shove the balled-up fabric at him again. You avoid his gaze, breathing shallowly and forcing yourself not to think too hard about the tears prickling your eyes or the way your nose tingles with emotion. Can’t he see that him being here is hurting you? You just want him to take it for fuck’s sake, take it and leave because this hurts more than any sprain ever could.
You don’t need his worries, especially not when he wasn’t worrying about how he left you feeling in the locker room, or the days that followed. What you need is to be out on the ice warming up because that’s exactly where your coach wants you.
Azriel’s jaw clicks with how quickly his mouth snaps shut. You’re pretty sure that he’s grinding his teeth, but you don’t look back to examine how irritated he is. He might almost be as irritated you were when he showed up to your practice the other day and started calling Eris names. “Fine,” he responds in an uncompromising tone. There’s a sound of another zipper and you really don’t want to look but your curiosity gets the better of you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask, halting in your tracks. Azriel’s doing exactly what you thought he might be doing, pulling his skates out of his bag. He kicks his shoes off and plants himself in the spot on the bench that you just occupied.
“If you’re going to refuse to rest,” he grunts, shoving his foot into his skate. When he bends over and reaches for his laces, your eyes are glued to the ways his muscles contract. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” you respond harshly, ignoring the way that your stomach flutters at the sentiment. And he thinks that you’re the stubborn one, when he just got out of practice and instead of going home, he’s lacing up again.
You even cross your arms over your chest for extra emphasis, but Azriel’s too focused on tying his skates.
“No,” he agrees, though you see that he doesn’t mean it. Of course, he’s not trying to be a babysitter to you, he’s using this as the perfect excuse he’s been looking for a week. Plus, he really doesn’t want you hurting yourself. “But if you’re going to be this headstrong about skating with an injury,” he stands to his full height and moves closer to you until you’re nearly chest to chest. You have to crane your head back to continue to glare up at him. “Then I’m to accompany you. Besides, I don’t see your partner here.”
“He’s on his way,” you bite back. It’s a bold-faced lie. You have no idea where Eris is at all, but it’s the only weapon you have left in your arsenal.
You need Azriel to leave. It was easy to hold this grudge over him whilst not having to look into those soft hazel eyes. You’ve thought about nothing but him in the time since, and even though he’s hurt you, it’s not beyond repair. If anything, you want an explanation more than an apology, because you saw the battle behind his eyes that day in the locker room, the realization of something striking, and causing him to freak out in his own stoic, frigid way, and for him to walk away.
The corner of Azriel’s mouth twitches and your stomach clenches. You want to see that self-assured smirk, even if you’re on the receiving end of it.
“Then you won’t mind if I stay until he arrives?” Azriel asks. It sounds more like a taunt.
His breath flutters your eyelashes. You didn’t even realize how close you were standing.
You force your shoulders into a shrug. It’s difficult to turn away from the warmth of his body. “Do whatever you want,” you mumble, gliding out over the ice.
You wring your fingers together. It’s not like you can call Eris and have him race over here to practice. He could be studying, he could be hanging out with friends, at a bar, and you’re not close enough to where you feel like you can ask for a favor without owing him something in return. You may be paired with him while you’re on the mend and getting your head straight, but you’re definitely not the best of friends just yet.
You hear Azriel’s skates hit the ice and you’re reminded of that last time you were here together, learning how to handle a stick and puck while he attempted twizzles that make you laugh so hard your stomach ached.
He catches up easily and neither of speak. You don’t give him the chance to because as soon as he opens his mouth to apologize, you’re increasing your speed into a few warm up laps.
Azriel doesn’t follow and there’s a sting in your chest. You didn’t want him to follow, not really, you tell yourself. You just figured that he would.
You dare a glance at him when you’re on the other side of the rink. His hands are stuffed deeply in his pockets and he’s gliding across the ice in a leisurely pace, like he’s taking an easy stroll down the sidewalk. Skating is second nature to him, he doesn’t even have to think about it, which is perfect because he’s trying to figure out a way to apologize to you.
When you’re about to lap him, Azriel gains speed. He twists around easily so that he’s skating backwards in front of you. If he didn’t look sexy before, he sure as hell does now, staring you down with big, hazel eyes and skating backwards like he knows the exact length of the ice and when to turn.
It makes heat grow low in your belly the longer he stares at you, how easily he adapts when you speed up just a little bit more.
“Why are you here?” You ask, the first to break the silence. There’s nothing but the chill of the ice and the sound of your skates grinding against it. It’s your solace, but you might think Azriel is becoming a part of that, too, with the way your tense shoulders melt under his gaze.
“I want to apologize to you again.” Azriel slows just enough so that you’re skating only a foot away from each other. You stumble at his sudden nearness, and he catches you around the arms before you can fall, keeping you upright.
“You don’t need to, Azriel,” you avoid his gaze, mortified at the way your cheeks heat at his touch. You curse yourself. You shouldn’t have chosen today to crawl out of your dorm room to practice. “You’ve made it more than clear how you feel.”
“I don’t feel that way, though,” he vehemently responds, shaking his head. He squeezes your arms, emphasizing his words, and when you glance down at his fingers, he reluctantly lets you go, stuffing those marred hands right back into his pockets.
Your heart aches at the motion.
I want you all of the time, too. The words replay in your head. Moments right before he went back on his words, backed out of the shower stall, and disappeared without a trace.
They hurt, and the soft look on Azriel’s face tells you that he meant every single one of those words when he told you them. You don’t know what it is that made him retreat directly following.
When you don’t answer, Azriel continues. “I want you, sweetheart. I want you so fucking badly that it hurts.” Your breath catches in your chest at his honesty. You wanted him, too, still do, but you’re more confused than ever. How can he have gone from wanting you to completely shunning you, to this?
“I don’t understand,” you whisper. You didn’t even notice that the both of you have slowed down until you come to a stop at the gate that leads back to your things. If you wanted, you could slip right off the ice and be out of the rink in minutes. You swallow harshly at the thought of leaving Azriel like he left you.
He’s nervous, you can tell. He digs the tip of his skate into the ice, but he doesn’t break your gaze. “I was a fucking idiot for what I did to you. I’m sorry that I got in my head about what was happening between us, but I just couldn’t deal. It all hit me in that moment, how much I need you.” He chews his lip, thinking of what he wants to say next. “I told myself that I need to focus this year. There are scouts watching, coach is on my ass about playing my best, my dad’s on my ass about being the best on the team, hell, I’m on my own ass trying to keep everyone happy. But I didn’t realize until I left you like that that the person I wasn’t keeping the person that I care about the happiest.” Your heart swells as his eyes soften.
Azriel slides closer in a tentative push, and you let him. “I wasn’t keeping you happy by walking away. I thought space might help us focus better on what we’re trying to accomplish this year, with you getting back into skating after your injury and me trying to impress recruiters. Fuck, I wasn’t even making myself happy…” He trails off with a sad smile.
Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that it hurts. You shuffle closer to Azriel until you’re only inches away. You tilt your head back to see his face better.
“What makes you happy, Azriel?” You whisper, fearful that his answer might break you into pieces.
He lifts a hand and caresses your face. His hazel eyes are locked on yours, and the small smile that tugs at his lips makes you want to roll up onto the tips of your blades and kiss the daylights out of him.
“You make me happy, sweetheart,” he confesses, and you shatter. “And if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have walked away from you. And if you give me a second chance, I’ll never walk away from you again.”
“Azriel,” you can’t help but laugh. It sounds wet, and no, those aren’t tears in your eyes. “You can have both. I feel the same way sometimes, that I’m spending too much of my spare time doing anything other than skating, but I’ve made peace with the fact that it’s okay to want other things. It’s okay to still follow your passions while wanting other things. It’s okay to recover,” you breathe, letting your own words sink in. You don’t want to be here right now; you forced yourself here on a weekend night to get your mind off of a certain someone. But he’s found you all the same.
“So, you’re giving me another chance?” He asks innocently. His eyes are screaming anything but. They’re heated with the ideas of all the things he wants to do to you now that you’re back in his arms.
You hum thoughtfully, teasingly. “I don’t know, I think there’s a few things you’re going to have to do before I can actually forgive you, Az.”
His shoulders fall in relief at the use of his nickname. He doesn’t care what you’ll make him do. He’d do anything for you. “Name your price, sweetheart.”
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Azriel Hockey!AU Tags:
@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @going-through-shit @crazylokonugget @lilah-asteria @girl-who-writes-stuff @moosemahboi @sherayuki @lyinginameadow @acourtofatboydreams @blackthorngirl @shadowsingercassia @evergreenlark @hannzoaks @bloodicka @whyshouldihaveanam3 @elle4404 @cherry-cin @quinzzelx @i-am-infinite @feeriqueivre @blightyblinders @kennedy-brooke @nyxbranwenn @dee-writes-smut @konaanaria13 @sunny1616 @lilylilyyyyyy
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azsazz · 3 days ago
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𝑇𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ ⋆.˚
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azsazz · 5 days ago
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i am utterly obsessed with your writing of the batbabies❤️❤️❤️i was wondering if you had any thoughts about who all of their mates are? (specifically wren and baz but honestly im so invested in all of them😭😭❤️)
thank you so much!!
hmmm... to be honest, the only one that i'm 100% set on is Gideon x maude.
I think for Wren it would be so so cute for him to be with Asteria, which was lightly alluded to in Letting Loose.
We've also seen some instances with the other bat babies and potential partners...like zuzu in the above fic. jax was mentioned to be invested in someone, and then knox found his mate young...but as for who they are, it's kind of up in the air since there are instances for x reader fics (which could obviously happen with any of them but since i've already written them for those babies it feels different to me haha). so there's def a lot of paths for them to go down but other than giddy and maude, wren and asteria, i'm not 100% set on mates for any of the others. 💙
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azsazz · 7 days ago
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Awe this is so sweet!! Thank you so much! 😊
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A major shoutout to everyone who created celebration weeks. On this day where there already is a big focus on x Reader writers I want to say a special thank you to
@azsazz @writingsbychlo
for hosting Starfall Week once again this year.
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azsazz · 10 days ago
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Good morning! First of all I love your writing! You're really good 😻 and I wanted to ask if there would soon be a part three of Nightlight ??
Thank you so much!!!
I currently don’t have plans for a part 3 of nightlight, I apologize for the inconvenience:/
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azsazz · 10 days ago
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I need to get more infested
We need more of infest, author!
(ps: the ghost balaclava!!!!)
Absolutely loved ur writing again ♥️🔥🌟
Haha I’m trying to figure out what exactly I want to happen but I’d love to write more!
Ghost my bby 😩
Thank youuuu 💙💙
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azsazz · 13 days ago
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Infest
Stalker!Azriel x Reader
Summary: Azriel really really likes you.
Warnings: Stalking.
Word Count: 2864
Notes: Going to try my hand at something a little darker. No plans for what's going to happen next, so it might be a hot minute before the next part. 🖤
Also high-key for my Ghost girlies 🤭
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Thursday, October 31st
The city streets are crowded for the holiday, and Azriel’s there, too.
He must choose his target carefully, but he’s had one picked out since the first time he saw her strolling down the rainy streets one evening, all alone with no protection, head buried in her phone.
And that target is you.
He keeps his head dipped low as not to call attention to himself. The dark hood of his sweatshirt curls over his head, concealing his features. All attempts at blending in are futile, because he isn’t dressed as a cinematic axe murderer or a gimmicky super hero. He’s clothed as he always is; black hoodie and matching jeans, paired with thick-soled, military grade boots.
It doesn’t matter, anyway, because you haven’t noticed him in the forty-three days, sixteen hours, fifteen minutes, and twenty-one…twenty-two seconds that he’s been following you.
Azriel can recount how you live your days by heart. He doesn’t need to, because you haven’t left his line of sight since he’d set his focus on you. At five-thirty, you wake up. In the gym at the top floor of your apartment complex by six. You run on the treadmill Mondays and Fridays, attempt the Stairmaster on Tuesdays and Thursdays, with sporadic weight-lifting in between. It hurts to watch, and there have been a handful of times Azriel has wanted to give up his position, make himself known in your life, and show you proper form in and outside of the gym. Wednesday is your rest day. After that it’s back to your apartment to get ready for your day. Protein shake, shower, blow-dry your hair, followed by breakfast, dressing in whatever you wear to your office, though he thinks he might even have your outfits memorized because there are only so many options in your tiny closet.
Tonight, you’re dressed as a scantily clad little red riding hood, which only makes him feel even more like the big, bad wolf that he is. He has much too patience, too much time, and has too much interest invested in you.
It’s dark, which is his home. He’s always sought comfort in the black of night, has had to with the household her grew up in, where he was often locked in the closet for bad behavior that was in no way his own doing. He would stay in there for so long his parents forgot, that time lost all meaning. Inside of that closet, he learned that he could fear the dark or thrive in it, and Azriel chose the latter.
Azriel slides off of the bus stop bench, trailing you and your friend. His eyes are sharp, calculating as he drinks in the surroundings. He is always on alert, even though the streets are filled with joyous laughter and squealing children that make the constant ringing in his ears sound like symbols clashing, reverberating his eardrums in the most annoying sense.
He shakes his head clear and refocuses on his target.
You’re with a friend. Morrigan. She’s the one that always has you rolling your eyes when you take her phone calls. Azriel knows this because he screens them. He doesn’t like her one bit, thinks that there are better options in your friend group that you should hang out with more, like Feyre or Tarquin. If Azriel really thought that he could pull it off, Mor would be gone from your life for good.
Okay, he knows that he can pull something exactly like that off. He didn’t train for a decade as a Night Stalker in the Army to not know how to murder quickly and quietly. Years of training has turned Azriel into a nocturnal animal. Always watching, always waiting for the right moment to strike.
You stumble over the curb when you cross the street and Azriel’s fists tighten in his pockets. You’re not paying any attention to your surroundings. There could people out here who want to bring harm upon you, and you’re too unaware, much too focused on the story Mor is telling you, her voice so loud that Azriel can hear her nasally pitch over the crowd of teens he shoves his way through.
“Hey!” A girl in a skeleton shirt snaps. Azriel deigns her a microsecond of a look. Cheap skeleton mask pushed up into her hair. Black circles painted around her eyes. Much too old to be trick-or-treating. “Watch it!”
Azriel’s only response is to snatch the mask off of her head and keep walking.
The teen calls out after him, outraged, but her friends circle in on her, making sure that she doesn’t start something that they can’t finish. She’s shouting something about getting him on video and that she’s calling her father, who she claims is the chief of police in this corrupt city.
She really shouldn’t be flaunting that information.
He doesn’t have to look up at you to know where you and Mor are headed, but he does because he’s meticulous in his work, and a simple double-triple-even quadruple check is not out of the ordinary for him.
Azriel hates and loves the platform red heels you’re wearing. Hates them because you’ve tripped once already, and they’re not good for running should you run into trouble. That is, trouble that isn’t him, because when he comes for you, there will be no getting away.
He loves them because they look incredibly sexy on you, make your legs look miles tall, and he wants them hooked around his shoulders while he devours you.
Your heels are tall. You look like a fawn standing for the first time. Azriel could blame it on the two drinks and three shots you had at your apartment prior to moseying throughout the city to find a club that doesn’t have a line around the corner to party in for the night, but he’s seen you trip over less. Clumsy would be your middle name if he didn’t already know what it is.
The dress you’re wearing isn’t even a dress at all. The hem hits you just below your crotch, and he knows you’re not wearing any shorts beneath it because he’s caught sight of the little red bow on the waistband of your panties already. His jaw flexes where it’s locked together as the breeze lifts the cheap fabric.
You laugh, brushing down your skirts. He’s caught two father’s drinking you in like bloodhounds. There are women who stare, also, and more than a handful of teenagers. Azriel has to shove the violent thoughts from his mind. He should have made his move weeks ago, because you would never leave the house in something like this if he had anything to say about it.
The bodice of your top—if it can be considered a top at all—is tight, accentuating your curves and pushing your breasts to your chin. It’s raunchy. It’s seductive. You look like an escort, one who is paid top dollar for the services you’d offer.
The crimson cape you’re wearing is the most modest piece of clothing you have on. It’s pulled over your curled hair, blocking your peripherals. If he were to stalk closer to you, you’d never see him coming. Not that you would anyway, not until he’s ready for you to see him.
His cock twitches in his pants, and he rips his gaze from your legs, traveling upward until all he’s looking at is your matching red cloak that currently conceals the rest of your body from how you’ve wrapped it around yourself in a makeshift coat. It’s brisk this time in October, and Azriel would happily give you the clothes off his back if you’re cold, or to cover you up.
Azriel examines the mask he tore from the teens head. It’s a skull poorly sewn to a balaclava, and it makes him think of previous recon missions he’s been on where he’s had to wear a mask of his own. It trudges up a feeling in his gut like he’s been stabbed with a hot knife again, but he shoves it over his head anyway, and readjusts his hood.
You and Mor come to a stop at the crosswalk. There’s a group of people waiting at the light, so Azriel slips closer. He’s not worried about you seeing him. If you did, it wouldn’t matter anyway, because you have no idea who he is, that he knows you, has been following you. You are blissfully unaware, and that gives Azriel an uneasy edge.
You smell sweet, like candy and cherries. It’s his favorite of your perfumes. Intoxicating, delicious. He wants to crane down and press his nose into the crook of your neck, lick it off of you until you’re a whimpering mess with your hands buried deep in his hair and your back arched against him, begging him for more.
Mor’s voice pulls him back into the present. She talks about a man that she had a one-night stand with and is rating him on how well he pleasured her in bed. Not well, it sounds like, and Azriel knows that he’d had no trouble working you to orgasm because of the good girl you’d be for him.
Soon.
“And when do you suppose you’re getting laid again?” Morrigan scoffs when you tease her about her horribly lay. The walk sign lights up and the two of you begin to cross the street. Mor crosses her arms over her chest, and all the action does is push her breasts higher into the sky. A man Azriel passes curses low under his breath, eyes glued to her chest. Azriel checks him with his shoulder as he passes, causing the man to grunt and spit that same curse at him, this time sounding irritated instead of like a man cursed to have the beauty of a young woman flaunted in his face.
Azriel keeps walking, lengthening his strides as you turn a corner, nearly at the bar.
You sigh, long and lonely. It makes Azriel’s cock jump as he imagines you making that noise when he pulls his cock from your mouth only to allow you to swallow down a desperate breath before he’s shoving himself back down your throat. He’s heard you make that noise aplenty: while you’re dreaming sinful dreams and he’s standing in the darkness of your room, watching you.
He imagines the noises you might make with his fingers in your cunt or bouncing on his cock. With a plug nestled in that tight little ass and your hands tied to the headboard. With clamps around your nipples and his face buried between your legs. Moan, maybe, beg, scream, cry, thrash, writhe, plead beneath his touch.
The number of things he’d like to do to you is endless. He’s had over forty-three days to think about exactly what he’s going to do to you.
“I don’t know,” you respond. Azriel knows. “Whenever I find the right one, I guess.”
Mor laughs, and Azriel doesn’t fail to notice the way that your shoulders stiffen at the shrill sound. Another strike against the blonde. “See, that’s your problem! You’re all ‘I need to find the right man,’ but you’re never actually testing them out! It’s not like the man of your dreams is going to drop out of the sky—” Azriel could. He’s trained in that. “And sweep you off your feet. You have to try!”
The streets are busier in the heart of town. The demographic has changed from toddlers and children dressed in silly costumes to adults dressed in even less. The bars that line the street are all packed to the brim, and Azriel’s never been a fan of places with this many people, but he’s used to confined spaces, and being pressed up against a wall in a dark bar while watching you let loose for once won’t be the worst night of his life by far.
He knows which bar you’re going to. Rita’s, the dirtiest, diviest bar on the block. It’s been a staple in Velaris for years, and only the locals, but they play the best music. You and your friends have been going here since before it was legal. You hope that they’re here because Feyre mentioned she and Rhys were in the Uber, but you know that they tend to get sidetracked in each other more often than not.
Maybe Cassian or Tarquin will be there.
“I try!” you defend, but it weak. You hate being on dating apps, and the conversations with the guys that you do match with are drier than the Sahara. And within days they always unmatch you. “It’s not my fault that I’m looking for more interesting conversation than a ‘hey, how was your day,’ or ‘sorry I didn’t respond, I fell asleep.’” You’re not boring, you refuse to believe that you’re the problem in these situations. These men can be so boring sometimes, and your life is already mundane enough, you don’t need entertain a man who is going to pussy out on you before the first date or only wants you to put out.
You and Mor get into the short line. Attor is working the door tonight. He’s a. large, brooding security guard that’s been working for Rita’s forever. He’s known you and Mor since the first night you came here, when you were juniors in high school and Cassian convinced you all to come here after the team won the homecoming game. He’s allowed you in all these years, but never lets you cut the line.
Mor leans against the brick wall of the building, shooting you an offended look. You make a face because you’ve seen more people out here crouched and puking their guts up against these very walls. You’ve seen people fondling each other against it, too, and you’re fifty percent sure that Cassian slept propped up against it one night when he got a little too drunk to coordinate a ride home.
 “You just have to get past that part,” she says, and you bite your lip to refrain from mentioning that none of the guys that she’s met online have stuck around. Maybe you should be thankful for that, because she’s the only other single girl in your friend group. It can’t just be you and Cassian as the single ones, because that would ruin your chances even further.
Azriel doesn’t follow you into the line. He notices the smoking area is a waist-high gate and wants to laugh at the security of this place. He bums a cigarette off of a guy who keeps eyeing him, and while the guard at the front door converses shortly with you and Mor, he lifts a leg and hooks it over the fence, easily making his way into the bar.
He slides through the plethora of people, quickly and with the stealth of a lethal predator. He’s been here before on multiple accounts, thanks to you, so he’s familiar with the terrain and knows that you and Mor are headed straight for the bar to order drinks before scoping out the place for your friends.
It’s muggy, musty. The air smells like body odor and alcohol. Everything’s made of wood: the bar, the floors, the walls. There’s a tiny disco ball over a stick floor where the tables have been pushed aside for a makeshift dancefloor that no one uses until two hours before closing when there’s more booze than blood in their veins.
Azriel slides in next to you at the bar, but keeps his back turned away from you. It’s not time yet, but he loves the warmth of your body beside his. Goosebumps break out across his skin when you accidentally brush up against him.
He tilts his head, listening.
“Well…there might be this one guy,” you trail off, and Azriel’s fingers curl into fists.
He doesn’t like the man you’re bringing up one bit. Has dug well into his life, and even if he hadn’t, Azriel would have been able to tell upon first glance that this man is not going to give you the relationship nor the orgasms you deserve.
“Bitch! Tell me now!” Mor shouts, and Azriel can picture the grin curving her red lips. When you open your mouth to speak, your friend quickly cuts you off. “Wait, wait, wait! We need drinks first.” She waves over Rita herself, the older woman greeting the both of you with warm smiles. She waves in your direction, beginning to make your drinks without even asking.
“You know, the world doesn’t revolve around relationships and how many people you’ve slept with,” you huff, and Azriel agrees. It’s not his world, because in his head, his world revolves around you and only you, but he’d support anything that came out of your mouth, especially if it’s in regards to the other men in your life.
“Okay,” Mor snorts again. The both of you thank Rita for your drinks and head away from the bar, thankfully saving Azriel from having to hear about this new conquest that isn’t even a conquest at all if he has anything to do about it.
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azsazz · 13 days ago
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my god the last time i was on your blog was 1-2 years ago
i can’t believe i fell out of love with az but i’m back now and i just wanted to say that you’re my favourite acotar writer forever and always 🫶🏻🫶🏻
omggg well welcome back!! hope things are well!
thank you so much ily 💙🥰🤭
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azsazz · 16 days ago
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hi!! Im so grateful i came across your blog ❤️ i was (still am) reeling after finishing the books and your writing helps keep these beloved characters alive in my heart and mind❤️ i hope youre doing well!! sending love and support ❤️
Thank you so much!!! ☺️ I’m doing pretty well right now, excited to have some time off soon to hopefully get some fics written. I hope you’re doing well also! 💙💙
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azsazz · 18 days ago
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Hi! I love your work! Just wanted to read more, but sadly, a lot of your stories are untitled and have no link :( is there any way this can be fixed? xx
Wait whaattt? This is news to me because everything’s showing up for me through my pinned masterlist.
There’s been an ongoing issue with my masterlist on my actual tumblr website blog thingy and I’ve tried fixing that but idk how.
Plz let me know if the link above works! Otherwise I’d suggest using the tumblr app if you don’t already 💙
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azsazz · 19 days ago
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Send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. Keep the game going, make someone smile!!! ♡♡♡
Thank you so much! 😊 💙
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azsazz · 19 days ago
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i want to write something canonically (or literally anything) so so badly but nothing is speaking to me right now this is quite literally the WORST 😭
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azsazz · 21 days ago
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Over Ice (Part 8)
Hockey!Rhysand x Reader
Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 3,580
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7)
_________________________________________
Rhysand feels her before he sees her.
That fucking prickling at the nape of his neck like the tip of a burning blade being pressed to his skin. It’s hot, and if he weren’t already sweating, he surely would be with the ire that’s directed his way.
“Don’t look now,” Azriel mutters from beside him where he’s stretching his hips before the big game. Across the ice, the Porcupines are warming up for the game that will start in no time. It’s an important one, but Rhys says this about all of the Bat’s games. He’s been trying to slip into the mindset he’s always in before games, the one where his focus and only focus is scoring goals, but the eyes he feels watching the way his hips cant back and forth as he stretches his groin make igniting that competitive fire in him difficult.
He peeks over his shoulder despite his teammate’s warning, ignoring the scoff Azriel huffs in response. Rhys can practically hear his friend rolling his eyes as he sinks even deeper into the ice.
His eyes clash with the crimson ones he’s seen too much of the past week. Amarantha sits in the stands beside her friend, smiling at Rhysand like a feline, like he’s still hers to mess around with.
Fuck. He didn’t expect to see her around, especially after you and him made your fake relationship all but clear to his ex-girlfriend on Halloween night.
The memory alone makes his stomach clench. Rhysand runs a tongue across his lips as if he can still chase the feeling of you from them. He thought about the kiss you shared for long after you left, and not even the beer nor the shot of fiery whiskey that followed could erase the taste of you from his lips.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” He groans, kicking a leg in front of him and leaning forward. Normally, the stretch would feel good, but with Amarantha behind him and drinking him in like he’s a tall glass of hers, Rhys feels more than uncomfortable.
“I told you not to look,” Azriel responds, rising to his skates. He offers Rhys a hand, and the pair make their way across the ice to the tunnel that leads to the locker room.
He was right, he absolutely shouldn’t have looked. Now he’s not only going to be dodging opponents, but Amarantha’s heavy stare, too.
“What are we doing this weekend?” Cassian asks, sidling up beside his friends. Of course, he’s already wondering what the move is, when the weekend is two days away. He’s not as serious as Rhysand is about hockey, with his blasé attitude. If Cassian can get out on the ice, hit a few guys without serving a penalty or two, he’s as happy as can be. “We should hang out.”
For Rhysand, hockey is his life. Everything else, including the freedoms that most college students prioritize, like parties and hooking up, comes second to the sport he loves.
Well, hooking up has reared its head into Rhysand’s first place spot every once in a while, and he’d be a fool not to reap that particular reward, but look where it’s fucking got him. With a stage-five clinger ex in the audience and a fake girlfriend that’s he’s all but blackmailed.
“We hang out every day,” Rhys answers, reeling over what the hell he’s going to do. He winces when he decides that he a little more blackmail might be in the both of your futures. “We live together.”
While you’ve agreed to pretend to be his girlfriend to prove to his delusional ex-girlfriend that he’s no longer interested, Rhys hadn’t forced you into attending any of his games. He didn’t think that Amarantha would actually show up to them, especially since she never showed any interest in hockey past the jersey she ripped off Rhysand’s body the night they hooked up.
“Humor me,” Cassian replies with a crooked grin, taking his seat beside Rhys at his locker. Rhys ignores his friend, shucks off his gloves, and roots around his locker for his phone to shoot off a text before Coach Devlin makes it into the room for a pre-game pep-talk.
Rhysand: Need you to come to my game. Amara alert.
He started referring to her as that after the unfortunate first meeting where you had pretended to be his girlfriend and called her the wrong name. It brings him a little bit of cruel humor that eases his shoulders that are tight with tension. If you don’t answer, if you have other plans, like a date, he’s screwed.
Rhys hand clenches around his phone instinctively at the thought. He doesn’t like the thought of you out with anyone else, even if you are only in a fake relationship for the sake of warding off his ex. The idea of you laughing at someone else’s jokes, intertwining your fingers with theirs, kissing them, makes his muscles grow tight and fire flash in his veins.
“I’m busy,” he answers lamely to his roommate, who’s shoving the damp hair from his face and awaiting his captains answer obediently. Cassian frowns, but Rhys’ eyes are glued to his screen, awaiting those three little dots to appear that show you’re typing.
It’s true. He’s tutoring you tomorrow night, has a major psych paper of his own that’s due on Friday morning, and then the team is on the bus that afternoon for two consecutive games against the Grizzlies. It’s going to be a draining weekend, but if the team can manage to beat the Stags this weekend, the lack of sleep he’s going to be dealing with will be worth it.
It almost always is.
After a minute of tapping his skate impatiently on the ground and suffering a scythe-sharp glare from Azriel who is trying to get into his own headspace for the game, you respond.
You: Do I have to?
Rhys chews his lip as the thinks. No, you don’t have to, but what kind of supportive relationship would he be in if his girlfriend didn’t show up to his game? Especially when his ex-girlfriend is there and will definitely take notice of your absence?
Rhysand: Please? It’ll be fun.
You: For who?
He bites back a smile. He likes your witty attitude more than he should. Everything that comes out of your sassy mouth surprises him, and he imagines the way the corner of your mouth curved in that self-satisfied smile as you sent the message.
I’ll owe you one, big time, he texts, refraining from adding an innuendo that will surely make you not show up to his game. So, what if he wants to get a little cheeky with his fake girlfriend? At least you know how to give it right back.
You: Like, more than you already do?
The door bangs shut as Coach Devlin steps into the room. Rhysand flicks a look over his shoulder and releases a breath when he sees him conversing with one of the assistant coaches. If Devlin spots him on his phone before the game, there’s going to be hell to pay.
Rhysand: Please. I’ll do anything you want.
You: Deal. You’re lucky that I’m already on my way with Mor.
Relief has his shoulders dropping. Rhys should probably figure out his cousin’s sudden interest in attending his hockey games, but when it’s serving him as well, it isn’t worth questioning.
“Well, are we still planning on hitting Rita’s tomorrow night?” Cassian asks. Rita’s is a dive-bar that for some reason the Velaris Universities hockey team has been going to for decades. Rhys doesn’t know why it’s a thing, since the place is run-down and the beer tastes like watered down piss, but it’s tradition for the team to go the night before big away games.
As the captain of the Bat’s, Rhysand should go. Going to Rita’s the Thursday before game weekends is tradition as much as it is superstition. Which means that the team is there most weekends during the season, which can be utterly exhausting. It’s not required, and he’s pretty sure that the superstition aspect of attending has been proven wrong more than a handful of times, but if he doesn’t show up, the team will give him hell, and it’ll look like he doesn’t care. He hasn’t missed one outing there yet, but this semester is stacking up to be his most difficult, between trying to keep his near-perfect GPA, overseeing an entire hockey team, whilst volunteering to help plan the teams winter philanthropy.
Tack on tutoring one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen, and Rhys expects himself to drop dead from exhaustion at any second.
“Dunno if I can make it,” Rhys says, shoving his phone back into his locker and collapsing on the bench. “I have a tutoring session.” He’s more than ready to shake off this skittish feeling and get his head into the game. Amarantha’s appearance has already affected him more than he wants, and he doesn’t have a good feeling about the game right now.
You saying that you’ll be attending loosens some of the knots in his stomach.
“Oh,” Cassian waggles his brows suggestively and Rhys rolls his eyes. “A study date?”
“I didn’t say it was a she,” Rhysand snaps back quickly. He’s all but praying that Coach Devlin finishes his conversation quickly so that he can get onto the ice and focus on something that doesn’t involve his girl issues.
“Neither did I.”
Rhys really doesn’t know why he decided to room with Cassian for the past two years.
“Didn’t you just see her on Monday?” Azriel asks as he finishes his pre-game ritual. It involves the utmost silence—which he never gets since the locker room is filled with adrenaline-fueled college boys—and the charm of his necklace clutched tightly between his fingers.
Rhys shrugs. “Yeah, but she needs a lot of help.”
Cassian grins suggestively, and Rhys braces himself for the remark that’s about to roll off his tongue. There’s a fifty percent chance it’s going to be something about Rhys offering her a hand, and a fifty percent chance Cassian will say something about the kiss you shared, but no matter what comes out of his mouth, Rhys knows it will be one hundred percent inappropriate.
Thankfully, Coach saves the day, grunting at all of the players to quiet down so he can make one of his famous pep talks that aren’t at all famous and more barking out orders than talking.
“Alright, boys.” Coach’s presence demands attention, and the locker room goes so quiet Rhysand swears he can hear Amarantha’s high-pitched voice through the concrete. A shudder works its way up his spine and his stomach twists into uneven knots. “This is an important game. I want everyone on their toes. Keep your eyes peeled for open shots, pass accordingly, and don’t tarnish my good name.”
It's the same speech Coach gives before every game, and Rhys can recite it word for word. It’s concise, to the point, and carries enough of a threat that every player in the locker room knows that if they play like shit, there is going to be hell to pay at tomorrow’s practice.
That bad feeling worms its way back into his mind, coiling his muscles with tension. Fuck, if he doesn’t get his head straight, he’s going to play like shit and Coach Devlin won’t have any of that.
Rhys slams his eyes shut, shoves all of the warring thoughts from his mind, and hones in on Coach Devlin’s voice.
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Rhysand’s head hasn’t been in the game since there were eighteen minutes and twenty-three seconds left on the clock. He knows this because it’s when he spotted you in the bleachers and his focus latched onto you, causing him to miss a pass from Cassian and a Porcupines player to slam into him.
Only his first mistake of the night.
He’s playing like shit, and everybody knows it.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Azriel grunts as he slides up to Rhys’ side as the play resets. He’d fumbled the puck, badly. By the time he recovered, successfully managing to steal it back during a scrum with a few Porcupines players, he had no ample time to shoot, and his shot dinged off of the goalpost.
“I don’t know,” Rhys mutters, cursing himself. It could just be a bad day, but Rhys doesn’t allow himself to have those. He has to be in tip top shape in case recruiters show up to their games, because they’re the deciding factor in whether he gets any interest from a national league, which is what he’s been working towards since he was four.
He knows. He knows exactly what’s fucking with his head. At first, it was his ex in the stands, but as soon as he caught sight of you, all thoughts of her were fucking obliterated.
You’re wearing that mutilated jersey Mor made you. The one with the hem cut to the high heavens and the collar snipped to the valley of your breasts. He doesn’t know if he wants the shirt so long that it reaches your knees or if he wants to peel it off you completely.
To your knees, definitely to your knees. There are too many people around for the latter. He’d rather see that show in his bedroom while you straddle his lap.
His number on the back of the jersey isn’t helping him keep his mind from latching onto those impure thoughts, either.
Rhysand’s entire weekend was spent replaying the kiss you shared on Halloween. How soft and perfect you were. The hint of fruity lip gloss and tequila that painted your lips was a prominent taste in his mouth for hours after.
He could hardly focus on his homework, at hockey practice. Coach reamed him out after his mistakes had cost the team a two-a-day, and he’s doing the same right now when he told himself that he wouldn’t let you distract him.
And with the way your eyes sparkled when you caught sight of him on the ice only reminds him that while you’re more than upholding your end of the bargain, he still hasn’t had asked coach about getting you that athletic training internship with the team. By the look on coach’s face, cheeks red with anger, jaw clenched so tightly that if Rhys didn’t know he already had a few fake teeth from his own days as a hockey player, he’d worry that he’d grind them into dust.
“Cunningham,” Coach says gruffly when he and Azriel slide onto their spots on the bench. The crowd roars as the second line chases the puck across the ice, playing keep-away from the Porcupines as they search for an opening to take a shot.
Rhys forces his eyes on the puck when he notices his gaze wandering your way. He catches sight of your worried face, your brows pulled together and mouth turned down in a frown. You chew on your lip and it’s fucking tantalizing. He wants that lip trapped between his own—
“Get your head out of your ass.” Coach’s voice appears in his ear and he startles. Fuck, Devlin just caught him openly staring in the stands instead of focusing on the game. He’s totally going to have sprints in his future. “I have no problem benching my captain,” he emphasizes, like the title alone should bring a shroud of shame. It has its desired effect, Rhys ducks his head. He wouldn’t be surprised if he gets a smack to the back of his helmet with Coach’s clipboard. He’s seen it happen before. “The Porcupines aren’t even that good for fuck’s sake, and they’re beating us 2-1!”
He can feel the frustration emanating off his coach in waves. It does nothing to ease the moral of the rest of his teammates, who glance at him from down the bench. Rhysand isn’t making a good impression on his team tonight, and everyone can tell. His cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Come on, asshole, he scolds himself, lifting one of the water bottles to his mouth. The cool water is refreshing, and he gulps down a few sips before tilting his head further back and squirting the liquid down his neck.
“Yes, Coach,” he responds like a scolded child.
When it’s his turn to hit the ice, the mantra he’d been shouting in his head over and over slips away as easy as the terrain beneath his skates. He���s all too aware of the pairs of eyes that follow him as he stakes toward the center mark on the ice for the puck drop. Amarantha’s viper-like gaze sends the hair at the nape of his neck standing, which is a feat in itself because it’s soaked with sweat.
It’s your eyes that give his heart an erratic jump, but Rhysand blames it on adrenaline for the beginning of the second period.
He focuses, shoves away every thought that doesn’t revolve around this game right here and now from his head. He thinks about coach’s threat back on the bench as he gets into position for the puck drop: Get your head out of your ass. I have no problem benching my captain.
So, like the good captain he is, he pulls his head right out of his ass and gets to work.
He wins the faceoff, sending the puck shooting to Azriel, who takes it up the ice with ease. As a Porcupines player closes in on him, his hazel gaze locks on Cassian, who’s two paces in front of the player chasing him down.
Rhys makes himself open as Cassian slams the puck around the rink, using the side boards as a guide. He’s there to catch it behind the opposing goalies net and pushes off the side of his blade, scooping the puck onto the edge of his stick and slamming it into the net right between the goalie’s trapper and his shoulder.
The arena erupts in cheers and Rhys grins. Pride screams down his veins and fills his body with a high that he revels in. His teammates on the ice skate his way, clapping him on his shoulders and helmet, congratulating him on his goal. The worries that had been consuming him eke away now that he’s tied the game.
He can’t help himself, seeking you out in the crowd. Mor is turned to the people sitting beside her, but you’re staring right at him, and his heart gives an extra hard pound in his chest. He tosses a wink your way, and his grin turns feral when you roll your eyes and raise an unimpressed brow.
Oh, you want to see another? He can make that happen.
“Nice shot, bro,” Cassian says, skating beside him to reset in the neutral zone.
“Thanks. Let’s keep them coming.”
Nothing eventful happens within this shift. Then, he’s off the ice, and Rhys’ focus is fully on the game. He feels back in his element, more than ready to prove to you just how good of a player her can be.
It strikes him, how he wants to show off not only for his coach, team, potential scouts, but that he wants to do it for you. He likes the way your eyes follow him across the ice, the way that you’re shouting at the refs when he gets a whistle blown on him even though he’s pretty sure you have no idea what’s going on. It’s cute, the glare you’re shooting at the zebras in his honor as he takes a turn in the penalty box for high-sticking.
He catches a few things that his team can improve on, and his determination only skyrockets. The minutes are winding down, and with the power-play the Porcupines are on, they manage to score and Rhys is out of the box. His eyes flick to the clock: one minute left.
Light work.
The puck hits the ice with a clack and Rhys is locked in. There’s a skirmish for possession, and ultimately, it’s the Porcupines that come out on top. They manage to get it into the Bat’s zone, but the violet-clad players don’t make it easy for them to shoot. Cassian takes a shot to the thigh and he grunts in pain but manages to snag the puck and shoot it up the ice to where Rhys stands between two opposing players.
Before the puck even touches his stick, he’s shooting up the ice, calculating the little black circle’s trajectory. He looks to his left, to his right, all while avoiding the slashing sticks the Porcupines players are trying to dislodge his play with. But he’s too quick. There’s no one around, and the players following him are no match for Rhys’ speed.
His focus zeroes in on the goalie. Through the cage, the player wears a look just as determined as Rhys, but he latches onto that sliver of nerves like a fucking leech, and Rhys knows that he has him.
One, he shuts everything out. The sounds of the crowd fade away, and it’s just him and the net.
Two, Rhys readies for the shot. The goalie creeps to the front of the blue paint and he grins. He has him right where he wants him, faking left and shooting right.
Three, the puck hits the back of the net, the horn blows, and victory is his.
_________________________________________
Over Ice Taglist:
@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125 @judig92 @se7enteen--black-blog @thecraziestcrayon @cherry-cin @itsinherited @justafictionalnerd @bookishbroadwaybish @405rry @w0nderw0manly @bbykaixx @marina468 @taechvita @marigold-morelli
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azsazz · 26 days ago
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Hi! I was wondering would you be continuing the bloody hearts series? I love your writing
Hi! Unfortunately I don’t have any plans at the moment. Most of the time, I get so excited and never plan anything past the first part which is why most of my longer fics haven’t been updated in ages 😅 if I planned it there’s a possibility it could happen but as of right now I don’t have high hopes, I’m sorry :/
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azsazz · 27 days ago
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unfortunately, I will write this fic and I am writing this fic are two very different things
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azsazz · 28 days ago
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Over Ice (Part 7)
Hockey!Rhysand x Reader
Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!
Warnings: Drinking, playing party games.
Word Count: 2,904
(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6)
_________________________________________
Playing a game his cousin made up has never ended well. Not when they were younger, and Rhys knows that it certainly isn’t going to end well tonight, especially when there’s alcohol involved.
He doesn’t know why he agreed. Maybe it was because he was thinking more with his cock than his head, the taste of your skin still buzzing across his lips like a spell you put him under. He wants to move closer, doesn’t like how you’re sitting on the other side of the circle from him, with too many people between the both of you and even more who join when Mor announces the game to anyone around who’s listening.
Of course, Amarantha pushes her way into the circle, taking up position right beside him. He stiffens, and it takes effort for Rhys to unhinge his jaw and slug back some of the amber liquid in his cup that Cassian poured him. It’s pretty much just straight alcohol, which might be exactly what he needs to endure this game if his clingy ex stands beside him all night.
Your eyes latched onto his ex the moment she entered the game. Mor made a face, knowing exactly who she is, but didn’t mention it. You wonder if she thinks that there’s a chance, she thinks Rhys and Amarantha have the possibility of rekindling their relationship, and you want to ask her how she feels about the girl, but you don’t want to seem too interested in her cousin and his ex.
It doesn’t stop you from looking, though. Amarantha’s friend flanks her side, creating a further distance between you and Rhys. You’re on completely opposites of the circle, now, and the smug grin on her red painted lip tell you she knows it, too. The stirs the neon pink straw in her cup. It makes her sharp, crimson nails pop. She gives you an innocent shrug when she catches you staring, and you tear your eyes from hers only to settle them on those familiar violet ones that are widened comically as if to tell you, Help me!
You don’t know how to help him. It’s not like you can move to sit between them; that alone would be enough for Mor to question you, and if Rhys’ ex forced you into doing something more to prove that you’re the couple you’re trying to make her think you are, it’ll be game over before it’s even begun, because your loyalties lie with your best friend.
This night has turned into such a shit show it’s all you can do to sit in your spot while Mor explains the rules.
“The name of the game is TD Bottle.” She plants a glass bottle in the center of the circle, and you already don’t like the looks of this. Peering around the circle, you assess the partygoers. If this is a kissing game, you want to know what you’re getting yourself into. There’s Rhys, who you carefully avoid eye contact with because the thought of his lips anywhere near your body again has shivers skittering up your spine. Amarantha, who hasn’t stopped glancing up at Rhys like he is her God. A few of Rhys’ teammates are scattered around the circle—Cassian, Balthazar, James, and even Azriel seems to be sitting in on the game as well, much to your surprise. The girls heavily outweigh the men, and Gwyn looks like a terrified mouse in the presence of a murder of crows.
You catch her bright blue eyes, silently asking if she’s okay. If she wants to leave, you’ll go with her, no questions asked.
She gives you a smile that you assume is supposed to be reassuring, but is anything but. But she stays. You all stay.
“Like, Touch Down?” James asks, brows bent in confusion.
“No, no, it’s like Touchy Dick,” Cassian throws in easily, eliciting laughter from the boys and eye rolls from the girls. But the mixture of anticipation and tension that hangs over the group disperses, and everyone seems to ease into their seats a little.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Mor wrinkles her nose, pulling a face of disgust.
“Please, tell us what the hell it means before they keep guessing,” Rhys mutters, bringing his cup to his lips for another swig. You watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows, and he raises a mocking brow when he catches your gaze. Shit. Maybe the few drinks you’ve had are starting to take effect, and this game surely isn’t going to help the case.
He winks, and it’s only then that you’re able to rip your gaze from his violet stare, cheeks burning warmly.
The only good thing is that Amarantha catches the interaction and her lips tighten to a razor thin line that makes her look more of like the snake you think she is.
“It stands for Truth, Dare, Bottle,” Mor says. “It’s a combination of truth and dare and spin the bottle.”
“How…” Rhys trails off, trying to find the word.
“Apropos?” You supply. You and Rhysand share conspiring smiles that feel much too intimate for the near-strangers you’re supposed to be in the presence of his cousin.
Mor whines. “That’s not fair, I can’t have one of my best friends and my cousin ganging up on me like this. I won’t stand for it!”
She means it as a joke, but it shocks you and Rhys, realizing that you should not be acting so friendly for only having met on a few occasions. Hell, Mor doesn’t even know that he’s your psychology tutor yet.
You nurse your drink, trying to ignore the knot that’s wound itself back into your stomach. It’s not mixing well with the tequila. You focus all your attention on your friend. “Sorry, continue.”
“So, one person spins the bottle,” Mor says, giving the empty glass a swing around the circle. Everyone seems to lean in closer, eager to see who it’s going to land on. You aren’t worried about it landing on you because it’s your roommate, but you’re sure this state of somewhat calm won’t last when it’s someone else spinning the bottle. Especially Rhys.
The bottle stops, it’s mouth pointing to Cassian, who beams like he’s won player of the year. “The person it lands on chooses truth or dare, and we all know how that game goes,” Mor waves her hand, gesturing Cassian to answer.
He waggles his brows. “Dare.”
“I dare you to…take off your shirt,” Mor says, and the girls in the circle whistle and cheer.
“I’m not wearing a shirt,” Cassian responds, gesturing to his bare torso hidden beneath his apron. You can see the tan skin of his broad back, the way his muscles ripple as he moves, and damn, that was a good dare.
A throat clearing draws your attention away from where you’re ogling Cassian’s body. Rhys raises an unimpressed brow, his jaw ticking as he stares you down. Amarantha’s red gaze flickers between you and Cassian, brows knitted together as if you’re some equation she’s trying to figure out.
“Sorry,” you mouth across the circle when Amarantha’s attention is diverted when Mor rolls her eyes and commands Cassian to take off his apron instead.
Rhys rolls his eyes, and you stifle the pang of disappointment at missing Cassian stripping off the top of his apron, now sitting completely shirtless in his spot.
“And now it’s Cassian’s turn to spin,” Mor finishes with a beaming smile. “See? Easy.”
“Super easy,” Cassian agrees, spinning the bottle. It lands on Amarantha’s friend, and his grin turns lethal. “Let’s make this more interesting. Alis, truth or dare?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, a move that Cassian does not mind at all, especially when it pushes her breasts up like that. She lifts her chin, staring him down as she answers, “Dare.”
Cassian ponders for a moment, before he breaks out into a mischievous smile. “I dare you to refill my cup with anything I want until the end of the game.”
Alis grimaces, and you so do not envy her, especially when Cassian immediately hands her his cup and asks her to fill it with ice and whiskey. He jokes, turning toward the circle, “Anyone else want anything?”
On and on the game goes until the bottle lands on Amarantha and she answers a truth about how many guys she’s slept with. Then, she taker her turn and spins the bottle. It lands on Rhysand, just like you knew it would somehow. It fills you with a nausea that you try to drown out with your drink, only to find your cup empty. Huh. You don’t remember downing your entire cup. Maybe you can dare someone to get you a refill when it’s your turn.
“Truth or dare, Rhys?” Amarantha says, sickeningly sweet. She even bats her eyelashes for effect, but Rhys doesn’t even glance her way, much more interested in trying to shatter the glass bottle pointing in his direction with his fiery glare.
“Truth,” he grits, bracing himself for whatever imploring question is going to fall from her lips.
“Do you miss that thing I did with my hands? When I would—”
“No,” he growls, cutting her off. Wherever she was trying to go with that question, it backfires, because Rhys reaches into the circle and spins the bottle with a flick that means business.
“Awe, I wanted to hear what she was going to say,” her friend pouts, though the glance she shares with her friend tells you she already knows.
“Well, Alis, maybe if you ask nicely, she’ll do it to you, too.” Rhys is undeterred by their gaping looks, and a few of his players can’t hold back their snickers. Amarantha and Alis’ cheeks turn red, and you think they might leave the game in the midst of their humiliation, but they stubbornly stay put.
He spins, and the bottle lands on one Cassian again, who seems to really be the only one enjoying the game. Rhys dares him to take a shot of alcohol. Lame, but Rhysand doesn’t want to play, knows that he’s only doing it because you are and he wants to bear witness to your truths and dares.
“(Y/N)? Truth or dare?”
“Um, dare.” You hadn’t meant to choose that option, but you were so distracted by the way that Rhys keeps leaning away from Amarantha every time she tries to slant against him. It yields a fire in your belly at the sight, one so consuming that you don’t realize what you’ve said until it’s too late.
Cassian grins like the cat that got the cream, and you don’t like it one fucking bit.
Rhys looks just as surprised as you do, even more so when Cassian dares you to kiss him. It’s then that he’s able to remove his gaze from you to glare at his roommate, though it does sting when your first reaction to the dare is to frown.
Mor groans, slapping Cassian’s side. “Dude, seriously?”
“Seriously,” he nods in confirmation. He’s clearly not reading the room. “What?” He asks, “Are you going to back out, (Y/N)?”
You shake your head. No, you can’t back out. Not when Amarantha thinks that you and Rhys are already together. She’d absolutely question why the two of you wouldn’t kiss, which would cause questions from Mor to unravel the plan you and Rhys have just agreed to.
“Mor,” you call, all but crawling across the large circle to reach Rhys. He catches on, something sparking in his violet eyes as he leans forward to meet you halfway. “Close your eyes.”
You hear an indignant huff, and then nothing because the pounding of your heart drowns out the noise of the party around you. There’s a question in Rhysand’s eyes and you shake your head softly, watching as he swallows harshly when you show that you’re doing this for the both of your sakes. You are not going to back down.
And then his mouth is on yours, and fucking stars explode.
You lose your surroundings completely: where you are, who you’re with, what fucking day it is. Rhys’s mouth is much softer than you imagined with all of the coarse language you know he spits on the ice.
You can taste the warmth of whiskey on his lips and you want to drown in it. He’s addicting, even more so when shivers rattle down your spine in pleasure when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth.
When you’re about to part your lips for him, a loud, forced cough steals your attention. You pull away and everything slams back into your full-force: the party, the people watching you, cheering for you, and your roommate and best friend, who looks less than impressed with your display of affection with her cousin.
Your heart that’s pounding in your chest because of the feeling of Rhys on your mouth turns into a pounding of guilt. You break Rhys’ heady gaze, quickly finding your spot back in the circle. You have the urge to straighten your shirt and fix your hair, like you’ve been caught doing something much worse than sharing an innocent kiss.
Except, that there was nothing about that kiss that felt innocent at all.
You keep your eyes averted, trying not to squeeze your legs shut to stifle the need for pleasure that aches between them. Fuck.
“(Y/N)?” Cassian sing-songs. Rhys shoots daggers at his friend. He doesn’t give a fuck about the game anymore, more worried about you and how you won’t meet his gaze. That kiss was fucking something, that’s for sure, and he can’t help but to run his tongue across his lips, chasing the taste of you. “It’s your turn.”
“Right,” you agree, pressing forward to reach for the bottle. You try not to remember the image of you doing the same only moments ago when you were reaching the distance to kiss Rhys, but the memory flashes in your head anyway, your cheeks going red hot.
The bottle spins and spins and your shoulders drop when it lands on Balthazar. You don’t know him all that well, and when he picks truth, you give him something easy.
“Have you ever cheated on a test?” You ask, lamely. All you want to do is get out of this circle, down another drink, and go home. The feeling of Rhysand’s lips still buzzes against yours, and it reverberates between your legs. If you could go home, you could…
“Yeah,” he admits, like it’s something everyone does. He reaches forward and spins the bottle, and freezes when it lands on Gwyn.
Her eyes are as wide as saucers. Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth as she nervously thinks over her options. You and Mor share a look, both noticing how flighty she looks. Gwyn looks like she might just spring up from the circle and bolt out of here, and you can’t say that you wouldn’t be right behind her. You’re more than ready to be in the privacy of your own room.
“Truth or dare, Gwyn?”
“Dare,” she says softly, barely able to be heard over the music and chatter of the party. Balthazar hears, though, or perhaps he reads her lips because he’s staring at her so intently that you feel like you’re intruding on something.
You wonder what made her choose dare, like doing whatever he comes up with is the lesser of two evils. It’s clear that something is going on between the two of them, but you’ve never heard a peep about either of them knowing each other. Maybe they share a class?
Whatever it is, you’re entirely intrigued.
“I dare you to tell me why you won’t look at me.”
The circle goes deathly silent, which isn’t all that silent at all with the music shaking the walls of the house. But the small circle…when she finally raises her eyes to meet his, it’s like walls have shot up around all of you, like you’re on the field of the colosseum and Gwyn and Balth are the warriors ready to fight for to the death.
You’ve never been surer that you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be in your entire life. From across the circle, Rhys shoots you a look just as confused as you feel. You shrug, you have no idea what’s going on, and it’s all you can do to watch.
Gwyn doesn’t respond. It’s a stare off between the two of them, with her icy blue eyes glaring at him and him staring right back, brows furrowed in a hurt confusion.
She doesn’t answer. Gwyn climbs to her feet and threads her way into the crowd without a second glance, like Balthazar should know exactly why she finds it difficult to look at him. You can’t help it, you watch his face as soon as Gwyn’s red hair leaves your sight, watching the hurt flash across his eyes before he sits back in his spot in defeat.
“What?” He asks, lamely. “It’s not like I asked her to kiss me or anything.” Balthazar laughs drily, more than done with this game.
And neither do you. Whatever just happened, you’re more concerned about your roommate. You get to your feet, gauge how you feel with the few tequila pineapple juices you’ve had, before you follow after your roommate.
_________________________________________
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azsazz · 28 days ago
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There’s something so beautiful about the way that you write. I was wondering if I could be added to your tag list (if you have one.)
Thank you so so much! 💙
I only have tag lists for my longer series, but I'd be happy to add you to them!
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