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toodelusionalforreality · 10 months ago

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Azriel x OC | Chapter 3

Bastards

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Sanctuary

Word count: ~9.4k Warning: Slight mentions of blood [ROMANCE]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. A lot is going on here that editing is a lost cause. I'm sincerely praying none of you know anything about fighting.

Ahead.

His shadows urged him as if he couldn’t hear the call himself. They snaked through the trees, leading him through a darkness softer than their own. The melody tugged at his heart, enough for him to lurch forward, tripping and stumbling over the overgrown roots under his feet. Her voice grew nearer, clearer, the tremors in it raking over his skin.

Ahead.

As he emerged through the entangled branches, his breath hitched. Moonlight broke through the canopy and illuminated a wide circle in the clearing. And she at the centre of it, her head tipped skyward.

Her shirt, barely a white veil in the dim light, caressed her skin as the breeze danced to the rhythm of her song, her words unintelligible and foreign. The soft waves of her hair whipped in the gentle wind. A thick white mist stood a barrier between them, shielding her from him as though she wasn’t his to embrace.

Ahead.

He took another step. Twigs snapped under him. The fog lifted. She lowered her eyes and blinked. Her lips stopped moving. She stood, frozen in front of him, radiant than a full moon above the mountains. The word hung in the air, whispered by his shadows and the breeze.

Mate.

Azriel opened his eyes to a cloud of darkness flittering above him. With each gasp of breath, the weight in his chest sank a little deeper. Every time he saw the same face. Some nights, she sang for him under the golden lights in her bar. On others, they were far away from the rest of the world, alone and safe. But she always smiled. At him, only him.

Despite the torture of facing reality at the crack of his dreams, he went to sleep every night only to catch a glimpse of her.

Masochist, he might be, but it was all Azriel had of her.

His brothers never mentioned being plagued by visions of their mates after the mating bond snapped for them. He didn’t have the gall to ask either, partly because he didn’t dare believe it was what he suspected it to be. The clear whisper from his shadows only haunted him in his dreams. A mere word said into his ears once and gone, leaving him to wonder if he had dreamt it as much as his hallucinations of her. But every time he woke up with his skin prickling with need and heart swelling with bittersweet longing, he swore he smelled that same fragrance of spices.

And then, there was the matter of the bond itself. His emotions and desires came crashing down on him so fiercely, so fast, that there was no other explanation, even if he wanted to deny it. The tether wound tight around his heart every time he refused to seek her. But it was quiet. So eerily quiet. If he sensed her, he told himself, he would know for sure.

His brothers realised the moment the growl erupted from his throat. They scented the bond on him, Rhys had said. It was the feral look in his eyes that had convinced Cass though. Azriel believed him, for he had wanted to tear every limb of the man that night.

He could see it as he sat in the booth with his hands fisted on the table—thundering up the stairs past Uri’s protests, ripping the door that snapped shut softly above them off its hinges, going straight for the man’s throat. He wouldn’t have used his knife. No, he had wanted to do it with his bare hands.

Darkness exploded around him at the sight of the locked office door. His siphons shone bright like hellfire against the black of his shadows. If his brothers hadn’t dragged him out of the bar a minute later, his shadows would have claimed the one who belonged with them, belonged with him .

What truly stopped him was her eyes.

Even after months, he remembered the pure disdain and disgust that filled them when she defended the fae against a pervert. The flicker of alarm, the following rage, and then the void. No, Azriel couldn’t bring himself to be the cause of it. Mate or not, he didn’t want her to look at him with those eyes.

And when he shot to the skies and flew over Velaris until sunrise—afraid to stop, afraid he might end up in front of her doors—all he thought of was her smile, her voice, her.

His brothers didn’t bother to stop him. Even Cass didn’t make one of his jokes. After hours of trailing him, they left him to his own misery. But not before a slow, careful presence nudged against his mental wards as if he were a breath away from shattering.

Whatever you’re tempted to do, Rhys had voiced when Azriel allowed him in, don’t.

And he listened.

He listened every day since. He fought his impulses to run to her, to see whether she had felt anything that night. Even when he knew mating bonds didn’t work that way.

Rhys made it easy though, or so Azriel believed, by sending him on mission after mission with barely any day to spare in between. Months ago, he would have visited Pharus even during only a day’s break. But now, he didn’t trust himself enough to be in the vicinity of the bar, day or night.

Cass took the honour of owning the loosest lips in the family by telling everyone what had transpired that very night. Apparently, Rhys had wanted to wait until Azriel was ready.

One look at Mor’s brown eyes and he knew when the conversation veered towards Ayla. But five centuries of friendship counted for something as she picked up on signs of his frustration and let him be. Nesta gave him a disapproving stare but respected his silence, on occasions. At least Cass backed off when he showed no interest in pouring his heart out like a lovesick youth.

But Feyre, believing she was as sly as her mate, took him on errands for her paint supplies. And supposedly remembered an important meeting always somewhere close to a specific red-bricked building. Azriel wasn’t a fool, and so he left his High Lady to attend her meetings alone. Honestly, it was Elain’s company he tolerated, the only one in his family who never asked about Ayla or his brooding over his own cowardice.

Rhys’s generosity lasted for a whole of three grand weeks. He dismissed every pressing concern Azriel brought to him and bound him home. With an endless list of people who loved to pry into his matters, each day posed a new kind of torture.

Given they were aware of his obsession with the middle Archeron sister and the consequent dispute with his brother—the High Lord, it was safe to say his longing to be mated like his brothers surfaced with not much of a shock. And they all had one question.

Why hadn’t he done anything yet?

To begin with, Ayla barely knew of his existence. When the mating bond snapped for his brothers, they were acquainted with their mates to some extent. Feyre knew Rhys enough to hate him. Nesta and Cass. . . they were at each other’s throats as much as in each other’s pants. And he distinctly remembered Elain’s reaction. She hated Lucien when he declared the bond in front of everyone, resented him for it, and resisted it with all her might.

So Azriel listened. He stayed away.

He stayed away as years of rejection finally caught up to him and fear snagged his heart. He stayed away though centuries-long prayers were answered in a heartbeat. He stayed away when everything he ever wanted was so close to his reach.

Shackled to home day after day, his options were limited—antagonising himself with his family’s nosiness, running errands which gave his legs, wings and shadows a reason to seek Ayla, or training.

‘Ready to talk?’ asked Cass the moment his brother took his stance before him and raised his fists to his chin.

Azriel threw the first punch, and that was the end of that conversation.

It became the new routine. Waking up at night with thoughts of her and releasing his tension in the ring in the morning. He expected Cass to coax him into action, but Rhys was the one to intervene.

Glaring at his brother’s back, Azriel froze in his steps. Close to the southern border of Velaris, stood a lone white stone building along the wide bend of Sidra curving into the city. The turquoise blue on the carved iron doors demanded attention from miles away. One of the heavy double doors was pulled open while the other remained closed, blocking the view of the inside. Through the mesh-covered grilled window, hot air billowed out only to be carried downwind over the waters. Smoke coiled out of a chimney in the back.

Two horses—creatures of beauty and grace complimenting each other in every way—were tied to the stump outside a modest stable erected beside the quaint smithy. One, as stark as Rhys’s hair and the other, as pale as Amren’s grey eyes. They shuffled silently at the sight of the three brothers who invoked their primal need to surrender their beastly control.

‘Why are we here?’ Azriel ground out. His hands clenched, twitching to throw his brother into the river. Not nearly adequate, but enough to get his point across.

Rhys adjusted the cuffs of his tunic. ‘I fancied a new blade. It’s been a while since I got any, don’t you think? You could get one too.’ He glanced over his shoulder with the same insufferable smirk at the Truth-teller strapped to Azriel’s thigh. ‘Give it a little rest maybe.’

Cass rubbed his sore shoulder from two mornings ago. ‘Do you think I enjoy getting my ass handed to me every day?’ He scowled, stalking up to the two wide doorsteps made of the same stone as the building. ‘I don’t care what you do there. Get. Inside. ’

Azriel stared. Cass stared back.

His brother’s solution to everything was training until his body was limp and trembling. If Azriel had gotten him grumbling about a few landed hits, he definitely pushed this too far. He took a step forward and Cass breathed in relief.

Rhys opened the other door and peered inside.

Azriel came up behind him and said quietly, ‘You told me not to do anything.’ His shadows drifted ahead before he could reel them back.

‘That night, Az.’ Every trace of amusement disappeared from Rhys's face. Shaking his head, he entered the shop with his brothers on his trail. ‘I told you not to do anything stupid that night.’

A short counter took the space along the breadth of the room across the door. A metal mesh formed part of the wall on their left separating the forge from the shop front. Wood groaned and crackled beyond the partition as a shadow moved in front of a glowing furnace.

To their right, cabinets with glass doors spanned the wall from floor to ceiling. One half showcased knives, swords, and arrowheads made of iron and steel fit for regular use. The other exhibited an interesting collection.

The polished metal of the blades gleamed with a liquid sheen under the soft morning light. Gold and silver made their hilts. Gems of every colour, cut and size adorned the intricate swirls along them. Little wooden placards took a place next to each with centuries, lands—except Night Court—and a few names of fae lords, long dead or forgotten, etched on them.

The brothers studied each weapon carefully, their breaths held in reverence in the presence of ancient blades that had been lost in time, wielded by warriors who once walked and warred and bled to death.

If his brothers chose to wield a sword of their own and name it, Azriel knew, long after they were gone, they would be as coveted as the ones before them. One day, his Truth-Teller would be too, and it had nothing to do with him. The sheathed knife weighed heavy on his thigh as to confirm his belief.

Metal groaned behind them. A man pushed the mesh wall aside and came through. He offered a mild smile, sealing the path again.

Azriel had seen an uninhibited version of that smile once, hated it, and wanted to carve it out of that face.

Cass strode past to Rhys and blocked him from the clueless fae. He muttered under his breath, ‘What were we thinking? This is a bad idea.’

But his brother smiled smoothly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Azriel resisted the urge to snarl at the man. His shadows curled around his ears, hissing how they wished to shred the one who dared touch Ayla apart. His face that brought a smile to hers, his lips that kissed her cheek, his hand that held her body. Another reason he had stayed away.

‘How can I help you?’

Orvin was no warrior but his build suggested he could handle himself in a fight. His wrapped hands implied he indeed helped Ayla in the workshop. His eyes held an effortless sparkle, unlike the one Azriel usually had to muster for anyone but his family. His short chestnut hair curled at the ends and all Azriel could think was the way Ayla would have tugged at them that night when he—

‘We were hoping to talk to her.’ Rhys tipped his head to the mere shadow looming beyond the makeshift wall against the roaring golden of the fire.

Orvin folded his arms across his chest. His smile faltered a little. ‘She’s busy. Whatever you’re looking for,’ he nodded at the case beside them, ‘you can find it here.’

Cass’s eyes roved over every steel with the warrior's scrutiny, unable to resist his instincts. ‘They’re not good enough.’

And Rhys didn’t deign to look at them, ‘We have a special request.’

In a blink, Orvin stood to his full height—his chin held high, his smile vanishing. ‘She doesn’t work with lords and High Lords.’

While Azriel watched her as she moved farther into the shadows, Rhys purred, ‘Surely you can make an exception once.’

Metal hit metal in a steady rhythm in the other room. For long minutes, they stared at each other. Feet shuffled. A harsh hiss cut through the silence.

Orvin remained unfazed. ‘She doesn’t make exceptions. For anyone. You can either buy one of these or leave.’

All his life, very few who weren’t a lord or High Lord had defied Rhys. He never abused his power in Velaris. It was one of the reasons the city thrived and people admired him. Still, no one ever forgot who he was and what he was capable of under that beautiful face and charming smile.

Yet, the sheer arrogance Orvin radiated at that moment, looking down at the most powerful High Lord to have ever existed like the scums he drove out of the shop, was not something anyone had dared do before. He either had a lot of courage or little common sense to deny Rhys what he wanted.

‘I’m no lord,’ Azriel said finally, his voice gratefully even and low. ‘She makes weapons for others though, doesn’t she?’

Orvin slid his gaze to the darkness swarming the shadowsinger's shoulders, ripples and ripples of them challenging him, threatening him. He brought his eyes back to the glowering hazel ones that promised nothing good. Then he turned to the forge. ‘I’ll have to ask her first.’

‘Don’t tell her who we are,’ added Rhys softly.

Orvin paused to throw a warning look over his shoulder. The sliding door clanked gently into the stone wall behind him.

Azriel heard her heart beat as steady as every clang of metal that rang through the air. Time crawled as he waited and waited. For a moment, he considered if Orvin had returned to his work instead. Finally, every sound came to a halt when light footsteps headed towards them.

‘Make yourself presentable,’ her friend sighed. His voice was smooth as a caress when he spoke to her.

Her feet stopped. She took one sharp breath and bit out, ‘If they want me to look pretty, they shouldn’t interrupt me while I’m working.’

Cass pressed a fist to his lips in a useless attempt to hide the stupid grin on his face. Rhys turned to him, his usual amused eyes glowing that set Azriel’s nerves on edge.

Another sigh, long and deep. ‘At least wash your face.’

‘I regret hiring you.’

Her quiet grumble left Azriel’s heart fluttering in his chest. He surveyed a short sword perched on the lowest shelf to hide his smile from his brothers who watched him intently.

‘You wouldn't have a business without me,’ Orvin’s voice followed her to the back and the sound of running water muted his words. ‘How do you plan on selling anything when you hate talking to your customers? You need me to run this place.’

Water splashed. ‘And you get compensated for it.’

In her bed. The words birthed something wretched and slimy in his gut. Azriel closed his eyes as if the simple act could erase his filthy thoughts. With each breath, he tamed the self-loathing that filled him at his own perverseness.

Rhys spoke with a touch of kindness. ‘She doesn’t take an interest in him that way.’

‘Did you,’ his words came out in a low growl and Azriel didn’t try to hide it, ‘look into her mind?’

Though his brother had done it to many over the centuries, none of them ever tempted him to throttle Rhys to death. He could have as well laid his hand on Ayla in ways he shouldn’t.

Rhys simply shook his head. The cockiness in his eyes from mere seconds ago vanished as a calm contemplation replaced it, the one that overtook him in the face of an unknown opponent.

His. Hers is shielded. Rhys held his brother's glare and admitted solemnly, That night in the bar, she knew I peeked into her mind. I didn’t mean to. Her shields went up so fast I could barely find my way out. She knew what she was doing, Azriel. But she didn’t chase me. Any Daemati would have, but she didn’t.

That was months ago and Rhys chose to disclose it with Ayla only a few feet away. Revealing it now meant one thing. A warning. To a brother. From the look on Cass’s face, it was obvious he had been privy to that information as well.

The groan of wheels against the floor brought the three out of their mental conversation. Ayla walked out, wiping the back of her neck with a washrag. A sheen of sweat coated her flushed skin below her collarbones. Hair slipped loose from her braid curling along the curve of her face. She didn’t come any closer.

Azriel had been so wrong. He had a glimpse of her legs that night, and yet he never could have imagined what he saw in front of him.

Her oversized shirts and pants were a disguise for what truly lay underneath. Every inch of her body was a sculpted perfection. Every curve and dip of muscle earned from years of training and discipline. Her light sleeveless shirt hung off her shoulders and shifted with each breath she took. The tunic underneath and her dark pants clung to her like a second skin. The scratch on her exposed calf had turned into a fading pale strip. And a fresh scorch mark stained the inside of her forearm.

How long had it been since that night? Weeks? Months? It felt like aeons. And now he stood in her presence, mere steps away from touching her. If he wanted, if she allowed. Azriel couldn’t breathe. His hands trembled by his side. He focused his will on binding his shadows to himself as they chanted her name and begged to be set loose.

‘What can I do for you?’ Her voice lost the airiness from moments ago. Her words were polite, yet her frown asked— Why are you bothering me?

Rhys smiled like the beautiful prick he was. ‘We hear you're crafty with weapons. We’d like to commission you to make one for us.’

None of the brothers missed the slight roll of her eyes. ‘We don’t make weapons. The ones on display are for sale. My partner will help you with that.’

Her partner leaned against the sliding door, wearing a smirk on his face. A smug, satisfied smirk.

Ayla turned around. She was halfway through the door when Rhys’s words stopped her. ‘That’s not what I heard. You have quite the reputation all over Prythian. And beyond.’

‘You heard wrong.’ She noted each of their faces with nothing but a blank observation.

Don’t you remember me? Azriel wanted to ask like an insolent child. You sang for me!

‘So what’s that hammering back there about?’

‘I deal with arrogant fae men every day. Helps with stress.’

Rhys lifted a brow. Ayla mimicked him.

Azriel couldn’t help but chuckle. A calm warmth smothered the anger, jealousy, and everything vile that consumed his heart.

‘Indulge us,’ Rhys gave her a smile that charmed everyone into compliance. ‘Just one weapon. It shouldn’t be much trouble.’

Ayla blinked.

‘For him,’ Orvin lifted his chin, ‘at the back.’ Maybe she wasn’t into him, but he sure seemed to be protective of her.

Ayla dragged her eyes across his face, peering through the mask of indifference he wore, or Azriel hoped he did.

‘One for each of us,’ amended Rhys, earning a glare from her partner.

‘Special requests cost extra.’

Orvin paled. He opened his mouth but Rhys interrupted, ‘We can afford it.’

‘This way.’

Ayla turned on her feet and headed back.

Orvin stalked her, his eyes widening and yet, they softened for her, ‘Listen, they are—’

‘It’s fine. I’ll handle it.’

‘But they are—’

A heavy quiet fell in the room. The brothers went in before Orvin revealed their identity. Heat swallowed them the moment they set foot inside the forge. Sweat trickled down their bodies, making their leathers stick uncomfortably.

Azriel tucked his wings close to his back, wading through the narrow path between two wooden worktables. He keenly avoided the fire that gorged on coals on his left. The scarred skin on his hands stung and tingled. His shadows swarmed away to his other side, twitching against his wing.

As they crossed to the end of the room, he took in a breath, her overwhelming scent etched in every corner soothing him. The sweet and bitter scent of spices. All those months when he had thought it was the bar, it had been her.

Ayla stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Removing a heavy iron key from a hook above her head, she unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside.

All the while, Orvin stood beside her and scowled at Rhys. His brother flashed him one of his perfect grins and peeked into the room over Ayla's shoulder.

Azriel appreciated one thing—her partner’s refusal to back down even knowing who Rhys was. And couldn’t decide how he felt about his unwavering loyalty to his mate.

‘It wasn’t my fault this time,’ called out a voice. A young fae, no older than twenty, walked in and came to a halt when she spotted the three brothers.

Her skin glowed golden in the light from the furnace and the brown in her eyes turned into a pool of molten copper. A purple bruise adorned her child-like face from her cheekbone to her jaw.

Ayla arched her brow, bored and challenging.

The fae shrugged, but there was panic in her eyes. Fear of disappointing Ayla, Azriel realised. ‘I mean it! He came at me.’

Finally, losing interest in the brothers, Orvin went to the girl. ‘When did this happen?’

Her thick red hair swayed as she jerked her face out of his grip. She scanned them from head to toe, the frown on her lips deepening with each passing glance. ‘You’d make a knife for another one of these rich bastards, but not me?’

‘I’ll consider making one for you when you come in here without a scratch,’ said Ayla mildly.

‘I have to stop defending myself against those bastards to get a weapon?’

With her bared teeth and fiery eyes, the fae looked like a portrait of a feral cub. The brothers tried to hold in their smiles.

Ayla cut them the same bored look and it was enough to sober them up. When she turned to the fae, her eyes shone. ‘I meant don’t get hit.’

For a moment, the girl only blinked. Then her lips parted in a childish grin as she let Orvin inspect her bruises and answered his questions.

When none of the brothers moved, Ayla said to Rhys, her face placid. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Azriel couldn’t hide his smile this time. He bowed his head as he entered the room after his brothers. The shell of his wing brushed against her shirt and a shiver shot down his spine.

A short writing desk stood beside the door. Ayla went on to pluck a notebook from the shelf next to it leaving the brothers to their inspection. The room, almost as big as the store and forge combined, included a training mat in the middle. Weapons ranging from knives to swords to maces to war hammers were mounted on one wall. The other carried practice weapons with blunt edges and wooden swords. Long windows, as wide as his hand, split the continuous racks on either side. No way in or out except for the carved door.

‘Who is she?’ asked Rhys, eyeing her every move.

Cass had been unnaturally quiet since they arrived.

Ayla unwound the thread holding the notebook close. ‘I don’t see how she's your concern.’ She flipped through the pages, the soft crinkle echoing through the air. She continued without looking at them, ‘You will not tell anyone that I made these for you. You will not speak of this room to anyone. You will return here if and only if you need a replacement.’

‘You seem to be fond of rules,’ Rhys drawled with a tilt of his head, gauging her every reaction, her every word, her every breath.

She lifted one of her beautifully arched brows. ‘You can leave if that’s an inconvenience to you.’ With a pencil in her hand, she looked up. ‘I’ll need your names.’

‘Silence for silence. We won’t talk about you and you won’t know us.’ The words fell off Rhys's lips as if he had been expecting it.

‘This is for me. You shall choose your weapons today. If you prove safe to use one, you will get one.’

Rhys stared at her. Ayla stared back. Her face was a vision of calmness, one that even he never mastered.

A minute passed. Then another. The silence was stifling. His shadows nipped at his neck.

Speak .

Azriel took a steadying breath.

Speak.

He opened his mouth.

‘Rhysand. Call me Rhys since we’re about to be good friends.’

No widening of eyes, no parting of lips in a soft gasp, no shaky breath as the name hung in the air.

Instead, Ayla stood still. Her eyes roved over Rhys’s form in an agonisingly slow, measured scrutiny. She took in every feature, from his infuriatingly perfect face to his broad shoulders to his toned chest to his shaped legs. And all the while, Azriel ground his teeth.

‘Rhysand it is,’ she said in a voice that left his skin prickling. She made notes in her notebook and his shadows writhed to know what she observed.

Cass crouched in front of the stack of longswords finer than Illyrian blades. He had a sincere smile on his lips and appreciation in his eyes. ‘You know how to use all these weapons?’

‘Most of them, yes. Others, I have a working knowledge.’ Ayla frowned, shrugging a shoulder. Her gaze lifted to Rhys again before she jotted more. Finally, she closed the notebook marking the page. ‘Pick your weapon.’

Rhys walked along the shelves surveying the assortment, before he stopped in front of the double-edged swords. He ran his finger over the one at his eye level. Sunlight hit its gilded dark edge and scattered on his palm. A thick white rope corded along the length of its hilt for a better grip.

‘Which one do you recommend?’ He asked softly with a ring of awe in his voice.

‘It’s not up to me to decide yet. First, I need to know what you can do.’ Rhys looked over his shoulder and she added, ‘We’ll assess your strengths. Pick a weapon of your choice. Knock me off my feet.’

Rhys faced her with a wicked smile. Cass grinned walking up to Azriel. His brothers knew. Even his shadows didn’t find out this little slice of detail in their spying.

Ayla moved to one end of the mat. Her feet planted shoulder-width apart. Her hands clasped behind her back. She had not an ounce of doubt or worry on her face as she waited.

Did she know who they were? Would she still be calm if she knew of the wars they had seen and fought in? The Illyrian wings must have clued her in. Yet, she stood poised and composed.

Rhys lifted his hand, fingers brushing against each other, ready to get rid of his jacket with a single snap. Then, he reached for the buttons instead.

Ayla didn’t even blink at the sight of his naked warrior torso, and a petty satisfaction churned in Azriel's heart. Her gaze shifted though, when he picked a broadsword, the one he admired.

Her brows furrowed, ‘You sure?’

‘Your turn,’ was Rhys’s only reply as he swung the steel, testing its balance.

‘I don’t need one.’ Rhys looked up. Ayla shrugged, ‘I’m making an assessment. I don’t need a blade for that. When you’re ready.’

Grasping with both hands, Rhys adjusted his grip on the hilt and grounded his feet. He winked at Azriel. How do you like her now?

How did he like her? He wanted to shove her against the wall and devour her lips. He wouldn’t care if his brothers watched. He wouldn’t care if the whole of Prythian watched. He wanted to feast on her, feel her body against his, naked and sweaty. He wanted to run his tongue over her skin until the taste of her was all he remembered.

Azriel took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms against his chest. His shadows sheathed his body hiding the one true indication of where his thoughts had wandered. His brother chuckled, and he scrambled to put his mental shield back up, tripping over and over again.

Rhys took a step forward and swung his sword lightly. Ayla didn’t move. He inched forward and did it again. Not a blink. He held back his thrusts, stopping short with lazy flicks.

Azriel smirked at his dilemma. How do you like her now?

Rhys straightened, his hand and sword limp by his side. ‘At least pick one of those blunt ones,’ he smiled. ‘It’s impolite enough to fight a lady.’

The corner of her lips twitched. ‘If I need a blade to win a fight, I'd rather learn how to fight first.’

Cass laughed and jabbed an elbow into his ribs. ‘She’s fun. I bet—’

‘We both can’t bet against him.’ Azriel grinned back.

‘Ten gold marks says Rhys will be on his ass in fifteen.’

‘Twenty marks. And make it ten.’

Rhys opened his mouth when Ayla sighed softly to herself, ‘Rich bastards indeed.’

The three brothers shut up but had identical grins plastered on their faces.

Rhys moved in the precise steps he had mastered over years and years in war camps and battlefields. His hands set to motion to match his stride—fluid, quick. The edge almost grazed her arm and Ayla leaned back an inch.

Pulling the sword back, he swung it to her other side. Ayla swerved, but barely. Every move was calculated, nothing more than to dodge the attacks, none to waste her energy or lose her balance.

Rhys noticed too. Do you mind if I nick her a bit?

Azriel smiled. You can try.

Smirking, Rhys launched into attack after attack. With each step, he pushed her back. He cornered her against the wall stacked with the training swords, careful not to hurt her, much.

And she stood rooted every time, her hands behind her back.

Her body twisted and stretched with grace. Her feet slid against the floor in effortless drags. Her serene face gave away none of her thoughts. Her gaze darted between his arms and legs, swift and cunning. A glimmer flickered in her eyes but it vanished as soon as she blinked.

In her presence, at the sight of her, Azriel trembled—not out of fear. But with need, with reverence. He wanted to run his hands down her every curve and watch her move at his touch, at his kiss. Just the thought of the curl of her delicate body against his or the glide of her hands along his skin was too much to bear. Every fibre in his body cried to get on his knees for her.

Rhys swept high and went for her neck. Ayla moved with the blade, ducked low, and turned away as she grasped a wooden sword off the rack and blocked his next strike.

‘I thought you didn’t need a weapon,’ Rhys smirked and aimed for her leg.

Ayla sighed, twisting out of his reach. ‘You’re taking too long.’ She nodded at their audience, ‘And I have other customers.’

She made no attacks. Splinters flew with each blocked hit. Every move was as fluid as her breathing.

Rhys quickened his pace. His smile fell off his lips, but the spark in his eyes remained. He went for her shoulder, the flat of his sword hoisted to land a hard blow.

Ayla leaned back, dropping to her knees, her sword tucked along her spine. She swivelled around and rose to her feet behind him. The blunt tip of her sword tapped Rhys thrice. On the back of his neck, right behind his heart, at the base of his spine.

They were done in seven.

Azriel was mesmerised. He had never seen anyone move with such precision or swiftness. But he didn't have the chance to linger on what she had done for long.

‘Or your wings if I’m being generous with your life.’ She walked past Rhys back to her desk, ‘Do you not prefer using them in close-range combat?’

Rhys faced her, palming the spot on his neck where he took the soft hit. His lips parted with a mild gasp. ‘You can see them?’

Ayla shrugged and opened her notebook. ‘Most glamours don’t work on me. They are still hidden by shadows.’ She glanced at Azriel, and he sucked in a breath. ‘Not like his. But faint outlines, more of a disguise by a dark smoke.’

Azriel hadn’t realised his shadows were perched on his shoulders, watching her without their usual chatter.

‘It’s not a glamour,’ mumbled Rhys. The earlier wariness returned to his eyes as he met his brother’s stare.

She wrote in her notebook again. ‘Then I don’t have an explanation for it. That one is too heavy for you,’ she peeked at the sword in his hand, a frown tugging at her lips. ‘You need a lighter steel since you don’t use your wings. The weight throws you off balance. But then, you’ll need more force in your thrusts.’

Rhys gaped at her.

Cass agreed with a simple shrug. ‘You better show up for training tomorrow.’ He wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulder as he did his shirt. Rhys shoved his hand off, the buttons at the top left forgotten.

‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Cass asked her. Noting Azriel's unwavering eyes on her like a creep, he gave his ribs a harsh nudge.

‘Around,’ she mumbled, flipping through her notes, scratching with her pencil, and marking a few details. She opened a new page, ‘Next.’

Cass clapped his hands and skipped forward with a feral smile that showed all his teeth.

‘Azriel.’ He smirked when his brother mouthed a curse at him and walked to the middle of the room.

Ayla looked up. She studied him—every inch of his face and body. For a moment, Azriel let himself believe she took longer than she did with Rhys. She blinked slowly, her lingering gaze setting his skin on fire. When her eyes landed on his wings, they flared by a degree in response. She scribbled in her notebook as his brothers chuckled under their breaths.

Azriel had already decided what he would do once they walked out—kill Rhys for his mental comments and then Cass for indulging the prick.

Ayla went to the racks. She returned her sword and rearranged the ones misplaced by her earlier. ‘Choose your weapon,’ she said gently.

Azriel hated that she never spoke his name like she did Rhys’s in that sweet voice of hers.

The moment they entered the room, he spotted the one he wanted to try. Narrower and longer than his Illyrian sword, the simple piece of art swallowed the light around it. Leather wrapped along its hilt as a seamless extension of the abyssal black of the blade. His shadows glided over it, testing it for him, almost as drawn to it as himself.

A muffled ring of metal sliding against leather echoed in the quiet. Ayla turned around to find a curved knife in each of his hands.

Though Azriel had knives and daggers sheathed on him at all times, he favoured swords. But not that day. They wouldn’t allow him to get close to her, give him a chance to touch her.

Taking her place across from him, she quietly assessed his hands, the way he brought them to his front, gripped his knives ready, and shifted his weight on his feet.

She murmured, ‘Odd choice. Most don’t go for these. They prefer something big and flashy,’ she smiled, bringing her gaze to his face. ‘Requires a lot of practice to master. How long did you take?’

Azriel blinked. Every thought went out of his mind at that smile. ‘Been a while to remember.’

Wisps of hair fell over her face as she tipped her head. Her eyes shifted over his shoulders and arms. ‘Your shadows,’ darkness wreathed around him anticipating the little touches they longed to steal, ‘need to sit this one out.’ There was a flicker of hesitation, a weight on his back. ‘Just you and me.’

Like it had been a command from him, his shadows drifted to a corner of the room.

Just you and me.

Her words roved over his skin. He stared at her. His brothers fell silent too.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said softly.

For a full minute, Azriel stood frozen. Then, he lunged forward.

The same dance ensued, him leading with the first move, her dodging with minimal movement. A strangely familiar rhythm they both fell into with an ease that rendered him senseless. Her warmth grazed his body, her breath hit his fist, and her hair caressed him every time he got too close. Unlike with Rhys, she didn’t keep her distance. She threw her own punches this time.

Azriel summoned every knowledge he acquired fighting for five centuries to take down one woman—his mate.

He wanted to win her challenge only to pin her down under him, to know what she felt like against him. He was, by no means, a simple warrior. Even without his shadows, he was easily one of the most powerful the Illyrians ever dreamt to be. And yet, in her presence, under her calculating eyes, he hardly remembered to steady his breaths.

‘Your left footing needs work,’ she said, stepping back to miss his blade that almost slashed her rib.

His footing needed no such thing. She was goading him, mocking his consideration, that much her smile told him.

Cass yelled from one corner, ‘Don’t let her win again, brother.’ His eyes twinkled.

Training with each other for centuries left no mystery in their technique or style and removed the freshness of a challenge. If his brother got the chance, he wouldn’t hesitate like Rhys, and Azriel knew.

Rhys scowled beside him, a look so foreign on his face. ‘She didn’t win against me.’

‘Sure, she didn’t kill you thrice either.’

‘She didn’t have a real blade. I was being courteous.’ Rhys’s lazy smugness returned to his voice. ‘It’s something you wouldn’t understand.’

Azriel breathed a laugh.

Her gaze dipped to his lips and then to his hand that came at her. She swerved to her right, grabbed his wrist and ducked under. And as she came back up, her other fist met the inside of his bicep. She retreated a few paces. Feet apart, hands behind her back.

Pain rippled through his muscles. He shook his arm twice, slowly. His skin burned and ached where her fingers had been. His body came alive as though it had felt her grip elsewhere. His heart pounded in his chest, their beat drumming in his ears. He let out a long exhale.

How he wished to throw the knives away and grab her waist instead.

She observed every move he made—the flex of his fingers before they wrapped around the daggers, the rise of his chest as he heaved in a breath, the shift of his legs under him for his next move.

Azriel wanted her eyes only on him anyway. He wished he had taken off his leathers like his brother had done so. Maybe she would have appreciated that too. He would have definitely enjoyed her hits.

He threw the same punch. She swerved. He went for her chest. She glided back. He took a step forward and swept his dagger across her torso before she landed on her feet. She skipped back. He smirked. The corner of her lips twitched. He aimed a strike at her face again. She leaned to her side, and Azriel slammed his left fist into her jaw. She staggered back a few steps, far from his arm’s reach.

‘You always favour your right,’ he remarked softly.

Ayla didn’t move. Her feet planted on the spot. Loose strands of hair veiled her averted face but not the patches of red blooming on her jaw. Her breaths were uneven for the first time since they started. Even his brothers went silent.

She slowly turned to him, her head hung low, her eyes trained on the ground. She reached a hand to her face. A streak of crimson, thin and sharp, ran along the smooth curve of her jaw through the framing bruise.

Azriel stared at his blade. Blood gleamed along its edge. His grip loosened. Dread filled his chest along with an ache. He looked at her, breathless, as her fingers ghosted over the cut, pulling away with smears of pale red on the tips.

Apologise, Rhys hissed in his mind, now .

Azriel opened his mouth.

‘You,’ she wiped her fingers on her shirt below her ribs—the stains akin to the ones she tried to erase that first night, ‘learn fast.’

Her eyes met his, and a dangerous delight swirled in them. She moved quick. She took two long steps and lunged at him.

Azriel crouched and rooted to his feet as he brought his arms up to block her incoming blow to his face. It wasn’t her hand that met him, and he wasn’t fast enough.

She stepped on the inside of his thigh hard to shift his weight, propelled herself up, and her other foot pushed into his chest. Using the momentum, she swung herself over and around his shoulder.

Before Azriel could blink, his feet gave out. His wings spread behind him easing his fall.

Her grip was strong. She pressed his hand to his throat, the edge of his knife cool against his skin. Her face hovered over his.

Azriel let his head rest on the ground. Painfully aware of her body pressed against his—straddling his waist, her hands around each of his wrists—he willed himself to hold her stare steady.

She breathed, ‘You’re dead.’

‘So are you,’ he rasped the words out. He lifted his head to peer down between them. The glinting tip of his other blade poked at her chest, where her heart was, where he was sure a spot of blood would soon taint her white shirt.

She followed his stare. Her lips pulled into a smirk before she looked him in the eye. ‘As long as I take you with me.’

Azriel yearned for nothing more. For her to take him—to death, to hell, to his damnation.

Her braid fell over her shoulder, and the ends tickled his face and neck. Her short breaths hit his skin, the scent of her making him heady. Her hands were warm against his shadow-kissed cold ones. Blood rushed to her face. A bead of sweat trickled down between her brows, followed the curve of her nose, and trailed down her cheek.

Azriel wanted to trace it with his tongue, taste her. Her blood, her sweat.

Beautiful. The word clanged in every corner of his mind as he took her in, raw and bare.

Beautiful. The blade dug deeper into his skin, reminding him she held his life in her hands.

Beautiful. Especially when she had him at her mercy.

His mind chose the inappropriate time to conjure the other ways she could have him at her mercy. Gods, if she moved, she would feel him.

His shadows crept up to them, teasing her hair, teetering along the cut on her jaw, furious for what he had done to her.

His head fell back. He took a deep breath and still, it wasn’t enough. The delicious burn of cool metal scraping against the column of his throat felt painless compared to her intense gaze peering into his soul. He swallowed. She tracked the movement. He swallowed again, her eyes snapped to his. Every nerve in his body urged him to reach up, let the blade slit his throat, only to kiss her once.

And for a sweet moment, he thought she wanted it too.

She blinked. She pulled back an inch and looked up.

Orvin hurried in with the red-haired fae. Panic flashed in his eyes. He shoved the fae inside while he lingered close to the door. ‘She’s back. She’s here.’

Ayla shot to her feet taking every sense of warmth around him with her. ‘It’s fine,’ she urged them in and stepped out. ‘Don’t make a sound.’

The door closed behind her. Azriel’s feet followed her on their own.

But Rhysr’s voice in his mind brought him back. She’s gone. Quiet your thoughts a little.

He turned around with a snarl to find both his brothers sporting a cruel grin.

The key clicked into place and so did an invisible force. ‘It’s warded,’ Rhys observed the narrow slits along the walls. His smile vanished. ‘Why do you have wards here?’

They turned to Orvin, but he stared at the closed door. He shielded the fae with his body and coaxed her back, far from the entrance. He didn’t answer.

Outside, a fire crackled in the furnace. Metal whined. Sharp clicks bounced off the stone floors and walls. Both Orvin and the fae sucked in a breath.

‘So,’ said a voice low and feminine, ‘you’re hiding in the monster’s den. I can’t decide if you’re smart or losing your mind.’

Orvin shivered at the sound.

Rhys studied the door, lost and distant in his thoughts. He reached out a hand despite Cass's warning. His palm rested on an invisible field a few inches short of the wood. His touch sent out glimmering waves along the walls, floor, and roof. The wavering stilled once they merged on the far side. A breath later, they rippled and eddied until they reached his palm again. Rhys stepped back staring at his hand.

Ayla spoke calmly. ‘You wouldn’t have found me if I were hiding.’

‘I wasted a long trip on this.’ The voice sighed, every word tinged with a seductive drawl. ‘Let’s not dally. Come with me.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Have you forgotten your deal already?’ The voice got closer and closer to the door.

‘I never made a deal with you.’

‘Didn’t you?’ The voice hummed. Long and light. ‘Never mind. We can always make a new one.’

Bare feet shuffled across the floor, drawing away from the locked door. The wards muffled some of the conversation, but their fae hearing helped. Ayla’s voice barely carried through the room. ‘I don’t work for any court.’

Heels stomped across the floor. The intruder whined, a delicate teasing sound. ‘Name your price. I’ll get you whatever you want.’

‘I have everything I need.’

Metal groaned against the wood. A sharp thump, metal against metal. Another and another. Each one harder than the previous.

The voice snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown fond of this pathetic excuse of a court.’

Cass stiffened beside them. He asked Orvin, ‘Who is she?’ Neither he nor the fae answered.

Ayla said softly, ‘This is my home.’

Those simple words from her lips made Azriel’s heart clench in his chest. A twisted approval of who he was, an acknowledgement of his existence.

‘This? Velaris? Don’t fool yourself.’ The voice laughed. It would’ve been the most melodic sound Azriel had ever heard if not for the mockery in it. She moved away and away, stalking Ayla, circling her. Venom dripped from each word she spouted. ‘What did you expect? You’d find a man here, maybe a lord , fall in love, have a cosy little life like a common fae?’

Ayla chuckled in response. So soft, so tender that it made Azriel smile, too. ‘Is that what you think I’m doing here?’ Her voice lingered, drifting farther past the furnace, past the fires. ‘Gods, sounds like you’re projecting your dreams onto me.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ The voice turned into what it truly was. A vile, cruel shrill masked by the sweetness of its lull.

‘Or what?’ Ayla paused, and Azriel could see the smirk on her lips. ‘You come into my home and threaten me. Did you expect me to kiss your feet next?’

The voice fell silent.

Azriel turned to Rhys, and he shook his head. Her mind is shielded.

The heels turned to the door again, hitting faster and faster. They stopped right in front of the door. ‘Where’s the half-fae youngling?’

Orvin hissed behind the brothers and gestured to them to step back. They all turned to the fae who cowered to a corner, yet schooled her face in defiance. The pointed arch of her ears peeked through her thick hair. But the tan skin, the hazel eyes.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Please,’ the stranger whined with a thrill at the tightness in Ayla’s voice. ‘I can smell her.’

Rhys asked the fae kindly, ‘Why does she want you?’ When she didn’t answer, he tried again. ‘I’m Rhysand. You know who I am?’ She nodded once. ‘I can help you if you tell me who that is.’

But one look from Orvin had her pursing her lips.

Ayla padded over, biding her time. ‘It’s just me. And I’m very busy. So leave.’

‘Right, since the silver-tongued half-fae High Lord finally gets his way with you.’

A long silence. Despite Rhys’s warning looks, Azriel checked the wards. Shadows writhed along the door prying for a way out.

‘The men inside,’ she huffed a breath. ‘Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I knew. Who do you think they are?’

Another moment of silence, only longer. A heart beat faster and faster while the other remained steady outside the door.

‘You didn’t know,’ the voice whispered. ‘Of course, they hid it. Very clever.’ Her breaths filled the pause as if she were calculating her next words. ‘No matter. You already had your doubts, didn’t you?’ She let out a dreamy sigh, one many men yearned to hear in their beds. ‘Well sculpted, beautiful beyond measure, skills better than that of an ordinary warrior. Come on, they are Illyrians! ’

From her tone, it was certain she meant more than just their appearance. The brutal savagery of their kind.

Ayla was silent. So very silent. But her heart—the one that remained calm and rhythmic while fighting—now raced like a fawn’s being preyed upon, trying to break free of her ribcage.

Azriel inhaled sharply. His own heart filled with fear, anger, and confusion. A breath later, it was gone as swiftly as it had overtaken his senses, leaving a hollow in its wake. So was the frantic beating of her heart. He pressed his fingers to his chest. His brothers noted it.

Finally, Ayla said, ‘Who I do business with is none of your concern.’ Her voice was surprisingly composed.

‘Oh, but it is. Your hypocrisy is my concern when it stands in the way of getting what I want.’

‘Whatever that is, you need to look somewhere else.’

A low grunt rumbled through the door and sent his shadows skittering.

The intruder hissed, ‘You know, your righteousness is starting to get old.’

The wood jerked when something hard slammed against it. Shadows exploded against the ward, only to be pushed back and contained inside the room. A whimper escaped the young fae behind them.

Ayla gasped. Feet scraped against the stone floor.

Before he realised, Azriel pounded at the door. The ward wavered like it did against Rhys’s gentle palm and settled into stillness. He hit it again. Again. And again. His shadows slithered along the walls, searching for an escape, through the roof, through the narrow slits of the windows.

‘She won’t even hear you, Shadowsinger.’ Orvin spoke, concern lacing through his words. ‘The ward strengthens with each impact.’

His brothers only watched him. When Cass looked at Rhys, he hesitated, ‘I can’t get through.’

There was a strain in his voice, worried for Azriel. Worried about the danger his mate posed. Worried what might become of his brother if something happened to her.

The voice hissed, ‘Remember.’ A strangled choke left Ayla’s lips when her head hit against the door again. ‘Remember what you owe them. For once,’ the voice ground out, ‘remember everything.’

Silence returned, suffocating and intense.

‘Finally!’ Another soft thud. ‘Next time, don’t play too hard. Make the bargain.’

Ayla sucked in a breath. The sharp footfalls pulled away from the door, from her. She growled, ‘Next time, I’ll melt you.’

The air stilled. A dark promise carried through in those words of hers. With each passing second of quiet, the gravity of her threat settled deeper and deeper.

Then there it was, the grating mockery of that angelic laugh. But no words followed. And the intruder was gone.

The key clicked. The ward faded. Azriel took a step back and so did his brothers. The door slowly flung open.

Ayla stayed outside. She took in their faces as carefully as she did before, as every other time. Her stare settled on Rhys. For the first time, recognition flickered in those still eyes. A deep red handprint tainted her delicate neck.

Azriel gritted his teeth. ‘Did she do that to you?’

He didn't truly need an answer. His whole body shook with rage as his shadows swallowed him, ready for his command. Cass came to stand beside him.

Ayla only looked at Rhys. ‘I don’t work for High Lords. You need to leave.’

Azriel reached for her, but Rhys held a hand out. He glared at his brother.

But Rhys ignored him. ‘I can explain,’ he spoke as gently as he would to a babe. ‘We had our reasons. We didn’t me—’

‘I respect them. I want you to respect mine.’ She stepped aside from the doorway. ‘Leave.’

Rhys waited for a moment. He then turned to his brother and nodded. But Azriel stood his ground, watching Ayla. Later, Rhys promised. You will come back for her later.

Azriel released his breath. He took in her distant eyes once. He stormed out without waiting for his brothers, his knives clenched tighter in his fists.

He and his shadows were going on a hunt.

Next Chapter: Shadow

#god's game #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel acotar #acotar #acotar x oc #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses

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zerocoded · 2 months ago

Text

summary: you and taeha were born to be each other's only comfort.

authors note: beom taeha is hot and everything but he also needs comfort, am i right? idk, i felt like writing this, i'm sorry if it's bad, it's been a month or something that i don't sit down to write anything, UNI HAS BEEN MURDERING ME.

warnings and tags: oc x beom taeha • reader x beom taeha • lil angsty hehe • hurt/comfort • one kissy kissy • sfw content.

word count: 2k

it wouldn't be a stretch to say that beom taeha was your friend, but he made it seem as though you were complete strangers. that was the heir's art—luring his victims into a labyrinth of deception with nothing more than his charm and influence.

you and taeha grew up side by side, a bond carefully orchestrated by billionaire fathers with grand ambitions for their offspring. in a world ruled by predatory men and money-hungry beasts, you were both caught in a twisted web designed to transform you into something beyond human.

as the years passed, the scars of your shared past became both a burden and a weapon. once victims, you had slowly morphed into the very predators you once despised. each day was a silent battle between the lingering pain of your upbringing and the intoxicating allure of power and control.

in the dead of night, when the city slept under a veil of melancholy, you and taeha would meet in secret. these clandestine encounters were a mix of bitter reminiscence and unspoken vows of retribution. while taeha's smile masked a soul tormented by old wounds, yours revealed the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. together, you navigated a fragile alliance—both partners in a game of revenge and rivals bound by a shared destiny.

at some point, your paths were forcibly torn apart. no longer useful for your parents' grand designs, you were discarded as if the bond you once shared was nothing more than a convenient tool. the unbreakable ride-or-die pact of your childhood was shattered, leaving only memories of what had been. it wasn't until years later that you encountered beom taeha again—by then, he had become a hardened man molded by betrayal and loss, while you emerged as a resilient woman, defined by the quiet strength born of survival.

as teenagers, you both navigated the same high school corridors, where memories of a shared past resurfaced like a hazy dream. the unspoken chemistry between you felt almost magnetic—a mysterious pull that defied explanation. in the midst of youthful longing, love became intertwined with taeha’s all-consuming obsession and subtle manipulation. what began as a simple childhood crush gradually deepened into a desperate yearning as the years passed.

while every other girl clamored for taeha’s attention, you maintained a quiet resolve, secretly cherishing the moments that slipped away unnoticed. furtive kisses after class and stolen glances on the walk home became the language of your hidden connection—a silent rebellion against a world that sought to exploit your vulnerabilities. these tender exchanges, born from a past marred by betrayal and control, provided a fragile sanctuary in the midst of adolescent chaos.

even as the pressures of high school and the looming shadows of your parents’ ambitions threatened to tear you apart, those secret moments stitched together the fabric of your bond. in the quiet corners of classrooms and the dim glow of twilight, you both dared to dream of a future where love might overcome the legacy of manipulation—a future where the intensity of your connection could transform pain into a promise of liberation.

and then you graduated. at graduation, taeha made you feel cherished, his every look and touch a reminder of the love you both once thought was invincible. even as you stepped into the unknown future, his presence lingered like a soft echo of your shared past.

soon after, a shift began to reveal itself. taeha, once content with the quiet rebellion of stolen kisses and secret smiles, set his sights on a bolder destiny. no longer willing to be a mere pawn in his father's grand design, he craved to become the rightful heir of the family empire—defiantly casting aside the shadow of his older brother. it was a wild ambition, as unpredictable and fierce as taeha himself.

taeha changed just right before your eyes. his gentle, familiar gaze hardened into one of steely determination, and the playful charm you once knew transformed into a relentless drive for power. in this metamorphosis, you saw the man who had once whispered dreams of escape now embracing the very legacy that once imprisoned him. every encounter was tinged with both the warmth of past affections and the cold fire of newfound ambition.

in the quiet moments between the chaos of his rising influence and the bittersweet memories of your childhood, you found yourself at a crossroads. the love you shared was still there, echoing in the secret corners of your heart, but it now danced with the shadows of obsession and manipulation.

after years of deciphering the subtle language in taeha’s eyes and the quiet signals in his every habit, you had become an expert at reading him. in moments like this, seated at a dinner with his family, you couldn’t help but wonder if meeting beom taeha again had been a mistake. the conversation had taken an all-too-familiar turn—a heated debate between his older brother and taeha resurfacing old rivalries. taehee, fresh from a long journey in korea, was livid upon discovering that his little brother was derailing his own ambitions to claim their father’s legacy. and as if that weren’t enough, taehee’s long-standing habit of hitting on you only added to the charged atmosphere.

you sat at the table, the hum of polite chatter masking the tension that knotted the air. every glance, every carefully chosen word, hinted at unresolved battles from the past. taeha’s eyes, once a safe harbor of familiar affection, now betrayed a storm of conflicted ambition and pain.

you didn't like that look a bit.

as the dinner progressed, the conversation grew sharper, more pointed. taehee’s barbed remarks sliced through the fragile calm, forcing you to confront the bitter reality of family loyalty and betrayal. in that public setting, you were caught in the middle of a feud that had outgrown youthful rivalry and matured into something far darker—a relentless clash of wills and hidden wounds.

in the midst of the tense dinner, the atmosphere had grown unbearably heavy. the table had become a battleground where years of suppressed pain and rivalry erupted into harsh words and bitter accusations. taehee’s voice, laced with venom, had sliced through the fragile calm that once lingered between you and taeha. his words, meant to wound and diminish, had finally become too much. with one final, cutting remark, taehee declared, "you don't even have real blood, start minding your own business and let me handle father's legacy."

in that instant, something inside taeha broke. his eyes, usually so composed and mysterious, ignited with a raw, seething anger. without a word, he abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up, his expression contorted by a mix of fury and despair. before anyone could react, he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving behind stunned silence and a scattering of disbelieving glances.

you felt your heart seize in protest. without a second thought, you excused yourself from the table and followed after him, your footsteps quickening as you ventured into the cool, rain-kissed night.

the city outside was a maze of neon reflections and damp pavements, the familiar hum of distant traffic merging with the soft patter of rain. you could barely see through the haze of streetlights as you tracked his retreating figure. eventually, you found him in a narrow, deserted alleyway behind a row of shuttered shops. there, under the flickering glow of a lone streetlamp, taeha stood with his back turned, his silhouette tense and rigid. his fists were clenched at his sides, and his posture screamed of unresolved torment.

you searched for jay with your eyes, but the bodyguard seemed to have gotten the memo to not bother his boss at the moment and maitain his distance. you, however, was the only one brave enough to choose to be close to the youngest beom at moments like this.

"taeha," you called softly, your voice trembling with concern. the sound of your voice seemed to reach him, and he paused for a moment, his body still but his head still turned away. you stepped closer, your heart aching at the sight of the pain etched so deeply into his stance.

"why did you leave?" you asked, your tone gentle yet urgent, as if afraid that the question itself might shatter the delicate remnants of calm you hoped to restore. there was a long, heavy silence before he finally answered, his voice a rough whisper, "i might kill that bastard, y/n, i swear."

his anger was so palpable you almost flinched.

you moved closer still, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. "taeha, listen to me—you are so much more than what they claim. please, don't let their words drown out the truth of who you are. taehee is an asshole, you know that."

for a moment, his tense posture faltered. his eyes, glistening with a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, hurt, and a deep-seated longing for solace—met yours. "yeah, that fucker deserves death," he murmured, his voice cracking with vulnerability. "i feel so damned lost in all of it—the anger, the betrayal, the weight of expectations. it’s like i’m trapped in a cycle i can’t break. i hate being in that house."

"i know it feels overwhelming," you replied softly, wrapping your arms around him in a comforting embrace. "but you don't have to carry this alone. they made us to be each other's comfort, isn't that right?"

taeha leaned into your embrace, his body trembling as if trying to release years of pent-up pain. "i'll kill them all, y/n," he admitted, his voice barely audible over the distant city sounds. "i'll kill them and restart with you from scratch, that's my wish."

you gently stroked his hair, letting your fingers trace the lines of his face as if trying to etch the memory of his true self into your heart. "i believe you, taeha," you whispered.

and you did. sometimes you wish everyone was dead except taeha too.

maybe that’s what you both were made for: complete each other’s crimes.

the night deepened around you both, and together you began walking through the deserted streets. the neon lights blurred into a comforting glow as you recounted memories of childhood escapades—of secret hideaways and midnight rendezvous under starry skies. with every step, the weight of the evening’s turmoil started to lift, replaced by the shared determination to reclaim the dreams that had once united you.

the path eventually led you to a quiet park, where the hum of the city faded into the background. beneath a lone streetlamp, you paused. the cool night air mingled with the warmth of your connection, and taeha's eyes shone with a vulnerability that belied his hardened exterior.

without a word, he reached for your hand, pulling you close until the distance between you vanished. in that charged silence, you felt the unspoken truth between you—a truth too powerful to resist any longer. slowly, deliberately, your lips met in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, as if trying to rewrite the scars of the past with the promise of a new beginning.

when the kiss broke, taeha's forehead rested against yours. his eyes, glistening with unshed tears and fierce emotion, searched yours for reassurance. after a long, lingering moment, he spoke softly, "i don't know what i'd do without you."

in that fragile confession, every ounce of pain, anger, and longing melted away into something raw and beautiful—a reminder that even in the darkest moments, love could be the beacon guiding you both forward.

you held him tighter, your heart echoing his unspoken promise. "we'll face it all together," you murmured. "nothing can break us when we're side by side."

under the gentle glow of the streetlamp, with the city quietly stirring around you, you both found a moment of solace—a fleeting yet powerful testament to the strength of your bond and the hope of a future forged from shared resilience and unconditional love.

author's note: i'm obsessed with making this man soft and cuddly. again, the ending is not ending, xx. send me a request • my masterpost

#beom taeha x oc #beom taeha #beom taeha fanfic #beom taeha x reader #beom taeha smut #na hae soo #manhwa

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xenomorphicdna · 11 months ago

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FJSHDKDH??

Veil Of Dreams,, he has six diseases, banned from most public spaces, and has his life expectancy decreased to 4

have i talked about how unwell i am about tom paris

#you know what. this kinda restored my art motivation. thank you :]#oc veil of dreams #friend stuff

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clubsoft · 19 days ago

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⠀

⠀ ⠀ BLUSH ⠀ ⠀ JAVIER PEÑA / F ! OC

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entry no . 1 · astrid && the ocean silk .

summary · javier untangles a ribbon . content · body guard ! javi / nod 2 a slight age gap if u squint - javi has a few years on her but it's not huge / pining on javi's end / thoughts of eating pussy / near death experience but its fun :3 / if there's typos no there's not word count · 986 index · entry list / no . 2 notes · i'm finally reading veil again n needless to say ive been inspired <3

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“Blue or baby pink? For reference, I’m wearing pearls in my hair,” Astrid chirps, framed tinily in the arched doorway of her rococo wardrobe, a dress of each color held at her sides. Her bare soles are against the marble floors, obsidian waves, windblown just so, blur her silhouette to the waist, resembling a fairy with her wings at ease, soliciting the opinion of — “Javi?”

Him?

Spellbound, Javier peers through his lashes, captive in the fog of a daydream — one out of which the princess’s figure emerges. The sugary cadence of her voice severs him from his daze, and he lifts his chin off of his collar to straighten his spine. The faint, lambent glimpse of his heart beneath the symbolic armor of knighthood evaporates. Three days, fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, and his god-forsaken, amorous appetite has proven itself to be of the utmost abstrusity — a liability to his work.

Fuck. Javier curses the primitive urges of men, growing like weeds from the gaps in his practiced composure. A man's weary eyes befall a youthful woman of beauty, contort the expectations of formality that ground him, and twist the rigid, arrow-straight wire to mimic the flare of her hips, inviting his ruin. A hell of his own volition in consequence of neglecting his nature. In part, the fault is hers. If she was a thread short of divine, this war inside him would cease to exist. As is reality, she's anything but, and in a characteristically empyrean manner, she appears in his dreams, an outline becoming whole with each heavy blink, a picture of temptation — he feeds her fruit, licks her saliva from his fingertips. He delves below her skirt, between creamy thighs, doesn't come up for air until he's soaked nose-down, his beard dripping slick and spit galore, his name on her lips, a mantra, Javi, Javi, " — okay, Javi?"

She's calling his name. Imbécil.

"Yes, princess?" He speaks, then swallows hard. "Yes, I'm okay."

"Oh — great!" Astrid exclaims ungainly, her brown eyes flickering about aimlessly. To Javier's confusion, she seems to be hand-plucking her words, as though her response requires effort, when the question posed had been so simple. "I was asking about the dress?" She directs her finger towards the silky fabric of the blue gown, grinning sheepishly. It's held against her chest, giving the impression of being worn. With her pitch-black tresses dancing in the light, her frame draped in cloth cut from the midday ocean, she looks nothing short of a Botticelli. Beautiful. Enchantingly so. "Is this color okay?"

His Adam's apple bobs again, but glory be, his voice flows smoother this time, "Yes. Perfect." He has no time to chide himself for his choice of words, her full, plush lips forming a grin that acquits him.

"Perfect?" Heartened, Astrid flutters away, deeper into her infinite collection of garments, out of sight. "I'm going to properly try it on, then!"

She's at too much of a distance for Javier to hear the swish of silk, and he's grateful, the beat of silence much needed as he strives to regain himself. Minutes pass, one — two — seven. How long does it take to pull on a dress? The answer evades him; he’s only ever taken them off, and that doesn’t take long at all. He thinks to call out, but what would he say if his uneasiness was unfounded? He scowls. How insolent of him to believe she'd return to show him, to seek his approval, to generously provide a second glimpse of herself.

Abruptly, an ugly, stuttering series of gasps derails his train of thought, propelling him into motion faster than his brain can keep up. If the jagged sound wasn't enough to affirm his worries, the sight before him certainly was.

The material envelopes her body erroneously, ill-fitted — the least of his priorities, for Astrid bumbles in place, her mien a painful, inflamed pink. A strip of cloth enlaces her neck, constricting her airflow. With one hand clawing at her throat, her eyes protruding in fear, she uses the other to grasp at the space separating them, gagging out his name, Ja — vi.

"Jesus, Astrid!" Javier can't reach her any quicker, cradling her jaw to detangle the ribbon from her throat, his palm skating to her nape to keep her upright as she swallows large mouthfuls of air, the color returning to her face, her cheeks stained a rosy hue. "Are you okay? What happened?" Urgency laced in his tone, it's jarring when Astrid begins to giggle, nodding, her hair shrouding her face. "Please! That wasn't funny, you could've died had I not — "

"But — you did, Javi! I was — just trying on — the dress, it — was a bit too small and — when I tried to — adjust it, that happened. How — comedic!" For a second time, she’s breathless, words mangled amidst her fit of laughter. Javier's cheekbones glow warm, pouty lips becoming ever the more prominent with a puff of air.

“If you’re only going to laugh at me, I’ll think better of saving you next time,” he grumbles out, mindlessly trailing his touch lower to the dip of her back.

“If you don’t save me, who will?” Astrid answers him with a whimsical smile. Javier grunts once more. She’s repossessed her balance, dainty digits flicking soft raven tufts back into place, yet she remains within the compass of his arms.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Let me see.” Their closeness allows him to examine her swanlike neck, her chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tipping her head one way or the other. No bruises, no scrapes, just delicious flesh that belongs under his teeth — Fuck. “Everything looks fine to me, but it would be smart to contact the physician. Better safe than sorry.” Air caught in his lungs, Javi turns, ignoring her protests as he beelines it out of the closet.

It isn’t until he’s in the hallway that he breathes again.

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taglist · @days1 / @hopelessromantic727 / @zelena89 / @ithinkimokeei / @choania / @qtmoonies / @illyrianbrat / @lovetoloveyoubaby / @dontlookatme121 / @gothcsz / @mandaloriankait / @almostempty / @lilacspider / @akotafi / @itwasntimethatdidit40 / @newsfl6sh / @letsgobarbs if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my fics , pls click this link && fill out the form !! u will be added immediately && get a notif for my next fic !!

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streamafterlaughter · 5 months ago

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Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter VII: Choose Love or Sympathy

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev. | diaries coming soon

songs for this chapter: xo by fall out boy, lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off, king for a day by pierce the veil

a/n: hear me when i say these two are absolutely in for it it. I'm also a huge fan of italics apparently

chapter tags: angst, hurt/comfort but then... hurt/no comfort (SORRY!), reader is a sensitive baby we love her, mean!Eddie, but also very sweet Eddie. swearing, smoking, drinking, reader struggles with self image / mental health (vague for now) | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, this is the only account that features and contains this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere. Reblog/comment/like to support the author! Join the tag list!

taglist: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotine @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality |

The weekend comes barreling towards you sooner than you’d have liked. You wake up Friday morning with a sense of dread, Robin’s words on a broken loop in your head: what you ‘know’ isn’t the whole goddamn story. Everyone keeps fucking saying that, but no one has actually told you what you “don’t know.”. Chris hasn’t given you a goddamn leg to stand on, speaking in riddles and never once confirming or denying a thing. You’re an adult, and you wish these fuckers would start treating you like one.

On your nightstand, your phone buzzes repeatedly, a string of incoming text messages:

bobbins: so,, ive smoked some weed bobbins: im cool now bobbins: i still think there’s a lot we don’t know,, bobbins: but I’m sorry for insinuating you should forgive him. bobbins: i cant imagine how you felt that day. bobbins: i love u bb

You scramble to respond before she can get another five messages in,

it’s ok bob, i love u 2

The subject changes swiftly as she tosses questions about tonight at you one after the other. You send her pictures of your outfit choices, hairstyle ideas, personal protection list before finally asking her the question gnawing on your brain.

What if he doesn’t like me?

Robin responds by calling you.

“Hi?”

“Don’t be stupid.” She starts, not letting you explain. “He asked you out, why wouldn’t he like you?!”

“I dunno! Maybe he’s just looking for a hookup. Maybe he thought I’d be easy?” The suggestion sounds silly coming out of your mouth, and you hear Robin scoff at you.

“Look, if things start to stink, call me. Steve’s closing tonight, so he’ll be right down the street.”

You sigh into the receiver. “Okay, okay. You’re right, I’m probably worried for nothing.”

“Atta girl! Now go on, go headbang or whatever it is you people do.”

You snort as you say your goodbyes, and hang up the phone. Without Robin to distract you, you turn to the outfits you’ve spread out on your bed. Emo Nite is casual, sure, but you still want to look good. You decide on a pair of Tripp pants, adorned with metal hooks and chains, pairing it with an old Paramore shirt you cropped with kitchen scissors in high school. With your outfit out of the way, you sit at your vanity to do your makeup, extending your winged eyeliner a little further than you would on a normal day. When you’re done, your alarm clock reads 8:30, and you make your way to your car.

–

9:15.

The lights of the city seem to dance across the sky. Everything is louder here, bustling with nightlife you could only dream of seeing in Hawkins. You’re standing outside the club alone, nursing the end of your last cigarette. Maybe he’s running late? You don’t have a single unread text from Scotty. You type several different messages of your own, deleting each one before settling on “You on your way?” But its delivery is never confirmed. It’s grown cold outside, and you wrap your flannel tighter around you to keep the wind out. You should have brought a jacket, but you weren’t expecting to be outside for this long. You can hear the first notes of an old favorite song, followed by a bunch of 20 somethings cheering. Patrons are dressed in black, clad in leather and fishnets, their combat booted feet stomping into the venue. Emo Nite is a nostalgia cash grab, you know that, but you’re envious of everyone setting foot inside, surrounded by their friends and peers, leaving you abandoned at the door.

–

9:30.

The time taunts you from your phone screen. You’re waiting outside the club, the air brisk on your face. Every so often, the door swings open as someone enters or exits, and you turn to see if it’s someone for you. So far, none of them have been, and you’re debating whether or not to walk to the record store and ask Steve to hitch a ride back to his place to mope.

“Hey, Bee!” The voice calling you isn’t the one you’re hoping to hear, but it’s just as familiar. You find its source across the street, Macy waving at you eagerly as her bandmates and fucking Eddie follow behind. Oh, right. Like being stood up isn’t humiliating enough, now Eddie gets to tease you about it.

“What’re you doing out here, girl? It’s freezing!” Macy is sweet, holding your icy cheeks between her warm hands. You can tell she’s already had a few drinks.

“I’m, hm,” You clear your throat, “I’m waiting for someone.”

“A date? Eek! Hear that, Eds? Our girl has a date!” Her words send static through your veins. Since when are you anyone’s girl, let alone Munson and Macy’s?

“Mhm, okay, honey. Let’s go get you situated, yeah?” Eddie ushers her inside, handing her off to Fiona before returning to where you’re standing. Without a word, he lights a cigarette and offers it to you, and you take it without acknowledgement while he lights his own. After what seems like hours, the two of you choose to speak at the same time,

“How late is–” “Why did you–” “What?” “What?”

“You first,” Eddie gestures to you before pulling from his cigarette.

“Why did you tell Scotty to ask me out?”

“What in the world makes you think I told him to ask you out?”

“Look, she’s gonna kill me for telling you this, but Robin overheard you in the bathroom talking to Scotty at the bar. She walked in by accident, and you two had come in before she could leave. Anyway, you know she can’t keep secrets for shit, so she told me what you said to him. Why?” You cross your arms, attempting to hold in as much body heat as possible,but to no avail. Eddie notices, and immediately sheds his jacket, not giving you a chance to refuse it as he drapes the leather over your shoulders.

“I thought he was a cool dude. Thought you guys would hit it off.” His answer does nothing to satiate the hunger for every detail of every single thought that went through his brain up until this very moment. He is driving you fucking insane. “Hey, I bet I could get Macy to put you on the guestlist, so at least tonight won’t be a total waste?” Yet another peace offering from Eddie Munson. Hell must have frozen over.

He doesn’t wait for your approval before reaching into his inner jacket pocket of the coat that you have since put fully on to shield yourself from the wind, to grab his phone. After eagerly punching a few buttons, he holds the device up to his ear, plugging the other with his finger. “Hey, babe. I’m outside with Bee, Scott stood her up.” You can’t hear what Macy’s response is, but Eddie replies with, “You read my mind, honey. We’ll be in in a sec.” He ends the call and turns his attention back to you, his big brown eyes attempting, it seems, to read your mind. “You pissed?”

You shake your head, inhaling another drag of your cigarette. “Not really. Disappointed, I guess.” You pick at your cuticles, refusing to hold eye contact with Eddie, but that doesn’t stop him from boring his own into the top of your head; you can feel them penetrating your skull. “Could’a used the distraction.”

“Fancy me a distractor? Macy’s gonna be busy, I’m practically all by myself tonight.” You look up, and Eddie’s jutting his bottom lip out to pout at you.

“You don’t mind being seen with me?” You tease, flicking ash onto the concrete. You can’t imagine Eddie actually wants you to agree to this offer.

“Why would I? When have I ever cared what people think of me? Especially these posers.” He gestures to you, and you fake offense.

“Posers?! I’ll have you know I have met some of the most authentic punks at places like this, you dweeb!” You toss your cigarette butt on the ground, stomping out the embers with your boot.

“Sorry, sorry! I’m used to going to shows where people leave bloody. Not used to this side of the alternative Venn Diagram, I guess.” He flicks his own cigarette, mirroring your movements. “Shall we go inside?” You nod begrudgingly, and he opens the door to the club for you, stopping to give the bouncer your names.

–

The club is dark, expectedly. The lights flash shades of pink, purple, and blue as people dance and attempt to chat over the noise; and the whole scene is set to the music of your childhood and teen years. As Eddie leads you across the floor, you can feel your chest tighten, watching couples surrounding you, dancing or sloppily making out against the back wall. You let it sink in that you've been stood up. The first time in three years you’d even attempted to go on a date, and the guy didn’t even show up. You hum along to the song playing, a desperate plea for distraction from the situation in front of you. Meanwhile, Eddie leads you to a table away from the speakers, and shouts that he’ll be right back. You can only guess he’s off to wish his girlfriend luck.

While you wait, you observe the crowd around you, and it’s full of kids you knew in high school that used to bully you for liking this kind of music, dressed as caricatures with arm warmers and cheap chains dangling off their black skinny jeans. Conventionally attractive girls wear their eyeliner in heavy wings, their lips painted shades of dark red, dancing with boys in all black with long hair. You try not to think about what Scotty would have worn. You wonder if he even likes this kind of thing. Maybe it was a test, and you'd failed.

Just as you’re about to spiral into misery again, Eddie returns with two drinks in his hands. “You like shirleys, right? I wasn’t totally sure. I can go grab you something else if you want?” If you didn’t know any better, you would think Eddie was nervous.

“No, this is good. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem!” He has to yell over the music.

“And, uh, thanks for hanging out with me. I know it’s like, the last thing you wanna be doing right now.”

Eddie takes a swig of his beer before responding, “Nah, definitely not the last thing. This is way better than listening to Steve talk about his latest conquest.” You picture the scenario, Eddie slamming his head against a wall while Steve goes on and on about Tracy, or Nicole, or whoever it is this week. The mental image makes you giggle, and Eddie’s smile seems to widen. It makes you uncomfortable, being so close to him. Luckily, though, you don’t get to think about it too long.

“Alright, alright! Thank you guys for comin’ out to hang with us! We have a guest for you tonight, please welcome Macy Miller, frontwoman of Statuesque Dolls!” The crowd cheers politely, these things never have people worth freaking out over. Macy takes the stage, clad in a silky black dress that hugs her form perfectly. Next to you, Eddie is whooping and hollering, “That’s my girl!” It makes your stomach churn. You’re reminded again that you’re supposed to be here on a date. You’re supposed to be someone’s girl.

“Alright, I got a couple of songs for you guys, but I need all of you up and shaking some emo ass with me, got it?!” You can’t deny Macy knows how to work a crowd. She gets people to migrate to the dance floor, and Eddie offers his hand out. “Can I have this dance?”

“Um,” You hesitate to take his outstretched palm. “What about Macy?” You point lamely to where Macy is killing her cover of Fall Out Boy’s XO.

“What about her? It’s a dance, Bee. I’m not, like, asking you to sleep with me or some shit.” Eddie frowns at you, like you’ve offended him.

He does have a point, though. One dance won’t kill you. You accept his gesture, taking his own massive hand in yours, and hope to god he can’t tell that yours is sweating. He leads you to the dance floor, waving to Macy from the crowd as he does. There’s a burn in your stomach when she blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it in his mouth. You’re close to bailing when Eddie turns his attention back to you, clearing his throat.

You stare back at him, eyes wide with fear that he’s going to bail, and you prepare to tuck your tail between your legs and call Robin. Instead, Eddie takes your hand again, and yanks you into his embrace. You bump into his chest, but he recovers the fumble by holding you there, free arm resting hesitantly on your waist. You’re frozen, having no clue where to put your hands, so Eddie takes the lead. He drops the hand he’s holding on his shoulder, and moves your other to meet it on the other side. He then rests both his hands on your hips, giving you enough space between his body and yours to breathe, but barely.

The song continues, melodramatic and overtly horny. That, combined with the warmth of the drink in your veins, plus the closeness of Eddie, makes you feel almost good. It’s difficult not to overthink, though, having him in your personal space, your bodies pressed together on a very hot, crowded dance floor, moving in ways you definitely wouldn't have done three hours ago.

“So,” Eddie muses, looking anywhere but at you as he speaks, but still able to move in sync with you. “How’s your day goin’?”

You snicker at his poor attempt at conversation. “Well, I got stood up, and now I’m dancing with who I would have bet this morning wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. All things considered, I think it’s going pretty horribly!”

The ice seems to crack as you speak, Eddie visibly relaxing as you sway to the music. “Okay, that’s fair. Are you pleasantly surprised?”

You look up at him, but his eyes are locked over your head, staring where Macy stands onstage, swaying with a few friends in front of the DJ booth. You shrug. “Jury’s still out.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes at you. After what feels like an eternity, the song ends and Macy queues another rock anthem to get the crowd moving again. You’re unmoving as Eddie unwraps himself from you. “We should do this again sometime.” He states, unreadable.

“What, dance?”

“Sure, or just, y'know, hang out. Be civil for once. It’s been awhile.”

You roll your eyes. “You know this can’t be, like, a normal thing. It bruises our reputation as sworn enemies.” A feeble attempt to make it a joke, though you know in your heart you can’t be friends with Eddie. The earth would cave in on itself.

Eddie chuckles. “Whatever you say, Bee. See ya ‘round.” And he leaves you alone, disappearing into the crowd.

–

It’s 11:30 when your phone buzzes. You’re four drinks deep, stirring another dirty shirley at the bar, observing the people around you having fun.

Scotty A: Hey! Totally meant to text you. Got stuck at work.

An avalanche of thoughts rumbles through you, most of them not safe for work. You don’t even know how to respond. There’s no apology, no groveling for your forgiveness, not a hint of actual, real regret. Like you don’t matter. It exhausts you to even think of what that date would’ve been like had he shown up. You type your response between gulps of liquid courage.

“Are you fucking serious?”

The "..." bubble appears, but quickly vanishes. You gape at your phone, wishing you were home so you could let out the blood curdling scream building in your chest. The anger vibrating through you needs an escape, so you lurch from your seat at the bar, rushing quickly out of the club. Eddie whips his head around as you pass him. You think you hear him call your name, but your eyes have started stinging and he’s the last person you want to see you cry.

The night air hits you hard, bringing separate tears to your eyes. Following your therapist’s advice, you start a box breathing exercise. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four.

“Hey,” The voice startles you into a hiccup. “You okay?” Eddie has made his way outside after you, leaning against the wall. “Saw you dash outta there like something caught fire. Got worried.” He says it nonchalantly, and it takes you aback. Instead of responding, you flip your phone screen towards him. His eyes scan the page before they focus back on you, shaking his head. “That is so fucked up.”

Your voice breaks with your next question. “Did you know this was gonna happen? Scotty’s your friend.”

Eddie’s face drops into a grimace. “How would I have known? Why would I have told him to hit you up if I knew this was gonna happen?”

It frustrates you how reasonable he’s being. You want someone to yell at, someone to blame, and Eddie just so happens to be the closest target. “I don’t know! Maybe you did it as revenge, or something equally as immature. Maybe you wanted me to feel the same way you did when–”

He interrupts, shaking his head feverishly. “I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. Even you.” The words are a knife to your chest. You don’t like remembering what you did to Eddie that night, but it’s your fault for bringing it up. “I told Scotty to ask you out because he said he liked you. Crazy concept, I know, but i suggest you stop thinking everyone’s out to get you. I thought it would be fun, hanging out with you and him. I’m sorry it didn’t go how you planned, but blaming me isn’t fucking fair, Bee.”

He’s right, but you can’t bring yourself to back down. “It’s not fair to take someone’s brother away for six years, but you had no problem doing that.”

“Fuck you, Bee. Seriously.” He spits the words before turning on his heel, and heading inside. You are once again left alone, outside, in the cold.

–

#st #fics #munson #Eddie Munson x you #Eddie Munson x y/n #Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x oc!reader #hurt/comfort #hurt/no comfort #slow burn #angst #enemies to friends to lovers #modern au #reader is not an elder emo per se... she's 23-24ish #stranger things

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aritsukemo · 4 days ago

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Birth of New Beginnings, Death to Old Comforts

Sunday x GN Reader ( Amnesia AU )

Summary: Sunday is approached with a second chance at life. Unbeknownst to him that what was sacrificed to obtain it was scarier than any death penalty.

Warnings: This was loosely inspired by Crow's amazing oc, Hark, so a lot of stuff can be referenced to them. Furthermore, this is my first time writing for Sunday so don't drag me too much please 😓 As per request, I'm keeping this purposely ambiguous. Also angsty themes ahead but what do you expect from me at this point? You have been warned!

A/N: The first gift is up! This is a book with a golden covering and silver vines on the face, a bouquet of white orchids, earl grey tea, and a fresh batch of brown butter waffles for....Crow! Enjoy @rainswept!

Event: AriTsukemo's 2025 Appreciation STELLARONHVNTERS'S Appreciation Reading Party

“The real world is not about happy endings,” Was the absurdity spewed when your betrayal to The Family was solidified and you stood on the side of the foolish — yet not completely hopeless — crew members of the Astral Express.

You had never truly seen eye to eye with Sunday, going to mock his aspirations at every turn, and yet, you stook around as though you didn’t mean it. As though you were merely rudely jesting like when you were both still teens. Maybe that’s why he turned a blind eye to his own suspicions — that sinking feeling that came with the inevitability that you’d turn on him without batting an eye to your history together and the ideals you did share with him at some point — and he found himself in slight disarray when it finally happened; that he felt his golden hues twitching ever so slightly at the ends and he felt his hands ball into fist behind his back.

That he felt, though only for a moment, anger at what you did.

He’ll prove you wrong. The thought cemented itself in his brain as he rose before you and was embraced by his ideals in its most physical form; wing-faced to shield him away from his opposers — just as he had been doing for Penacony in the shadows — with long mechanical limbs — one bearing a long, thin baton — that could play on forever without growing tired. It was a form he had taken on willingly, determined to subject himself to endless encores and tiring performances for an eternity for the sake and wellbeing of those he cared for down to his deepest core.

He rose as a god — one that was willing to do what those otherworldly beings that looked down upon them could not, would not — and he was ready to fight for what he believed in. Ready to prove to you, the Astral Express, and everyone else who fought against him that this was truly for the best, and that with the right person pulling the strings behind the stage, there could be a world where only happy endings came to fruition and pain, anguish, and sorrow was a forgotten concept that would never be felt again.

But then he lost and everything, quite literally, came crashing down.

The dream he fought so, so hard for went up in smokes the moment he was able to caress it, and yet, the frustration only boiled over when you stood before him again after his title of Head of The Family was stripped from him and he was tangled in chains and stationed to sit and await his just punishment for his crimes.

Oddly enough, you were also in a similar fate — though your chains were much more translucent and only seemed to be visible for a fleeting few seconds when you spoke through that thinly-veiled sarcastic tone of yours.

“Despite how hard you fell, you don’t look as bad as I thought you would. I mean, I would even go as far as to say that you’re full of vigor,” Your words irked him, but it was his just desserts for being the loser in his own grand scheme. Nevertheless, he let his irritation play like a show on his face, and ultimately, his tone as he hissed out his words to you.

“Have you come here merely to poke at my pride for old times’ sake?” He asked, fully expecting to get a response equally as agitating as the last — and of course you delivered as you always did.

“I’ve come to congratulate you on your freedom,” You told him that as though it were obvious. As if he wasn’t sitting before you, unable to move and on death row. He found himself gritting his even teeth.

“I will not stand for your mockery, leave,” He told you despite the table of power having been flipped. He didn’t have that capability to boss anyone around. Not even a fledgling would listen to him, much less you.

“You can’t stand…” You quipped, but the way you trailed off had him raising his spite-filled brow towards you, and ultimately, his gaze — though only a little — as you continued, “...at least not yet.”

“What are you going on about?” He asked, initially gaining silence in response, which forced him to fully look up at you to search for answers himself. He locked eyes with yours, and despite your tone, he found this unfamiliar gleam in them. It was one that has lit his gaze countless times in the past as well as many others. He remembers that look when you took a stance on the other side of the coin and told him that everything he had built so far was a travesty.

And then it clicked at last; you were looking at him with utmost seriousness.

“Like I said, I'm here to celebrate the moment you become a free man again,” You walked towards him as that uncanny glimmer in your eyes slowly went to overtake your entire face. You grow closer, and though he knows it's futile, he leans as far back into his chair as he can only to quickly run out of space to escape mere seconds later.

You finally stand right in front of him where he helplessly sits in your reach. You, rightfully, tower over him — the light from the room outside bleeding in as if to further shove your victory in his face — yet it's only for a short moment before you're dropping down to your knees and willingly shrouding yourself further into darkness. Just like how you once walked behind him, managing life and aiding him whilst being in the cold embrace of his ever-growing shadow..

You reach for his leg — which had been locked in place by a bulky shackle — as your other hand goes fishing into your vest pocket. He flinches away when your fingertips graze against the fabric of his pants, and it was clear to you that it wasn’t out of fear nor out of disgust. The way he jerked away was as though he were stripping cheese away from a rat. It was a test — one that he hoped would reveal to him your plans and give insight on the oddity of your responses. Alas, you manage to see through what he was attempting to do — which maybe would’ve been helpful if you hadn’t already shackled yourself to your own undoing.

You finally find what you searched for and you’re quick about getting it out. So quick, in fact, that he doesn’t catch what exactly you grabbed. He opens his mouth to inquire about it, but he’s given an answer before he can ask the question as you loop your hand around his calf and he feels your grip tighten before—schlink.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He asks, his voice rising like his temperament, a stark contrast to the cool way you respond, as if you were drowning in subzero waters.

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” You simply tell him.

“And I’m getting tired of your nonsense,” He retorts — a first for him. Having been a product of growing up together, you knew how he operated and he knew you in turn. Both of you knew what made the other tick, and yet, you were the only one who’d crudely press and poke at him until the wings that protruded from his ears twitched ever so slightly with vexation. Never once did he try to jab back at you — as though it were above him. Maybe he thought it was at some point — that you were being immature for having a sense of humor — and to that part of you was snickering like a little kid.

You release his leg, and as though you were the chains that weighed him down, he feels ten times lighter when you pull away. He felt almost relieved until he realized how literal that weightlessness was and he kicked his leg forward to glimpse at it. Sure enough, it was free from its cold, uncomfortable prison, but you give him little time to gawk before you move to undo the chains that crowd around his other leg. It’s then that the surprise subsides and a frown graces his features.

“I won’t accept this,” He said with a grimace. No matter what your reason was — what kind of change of heart you may have had or what you were told you could gain for doing this — he won’t have it. He doesn’t need charity. Not from anyone and certainly not you, who fought tooth and nail to get him here in the first place.

But you seem to be equally as stubborn on fulfilling whatever motive drives you because he barely gets a chance to resist before your grip turns inhumane and your unclipped fingernails — which he used to always chide you for as it would infuriate him to no end — dig into his pants leg and a jolt of pain forces him limp as you manage to pierce him through the thick fabric, just barely managing to avoid breaking skin.

“You don’t have much of a choice here,” You tell him, “Everything’s already been set in motion. Neither you nor I can change this fate.”

“Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me what you mean—!” His screams come to an abrupt halt as your eyes briefly lock after you freed his other leg and you reached up to do the same to his arm. He sees something in your eyes again, something he’s never ever seen on you. It had a tinge of poorly placed satisfaction like you had just come back from a casino where you lost everything but managed to regain a slither of your previous fortune, specifically just enough to get by. There was something else that swirled there too, something he could not hope to place in the state he’s in now, or maybe in his entire lifetime, as it was carefully masked behind this thick hollowness that dimmed your pupils — like something had once been there but was stripped away. Was it sorrow? Happiness? Pride? Or…no, you wouldn’t..

You free his hand, and immediately, he shoots out to latch it onto your neck. His grip wasn’t nearly as vicious as yours — you’d even go as far as to describe it as quite the tender hold — as he tilted your head up to look at him once more.

And there he sees it, or rather, he doesn’t. The fiery spark that he could once use to differentiate you from any impersonator or lookalike…was nowhere to be found, leaving only the hollow shell and this off-putting wit you’ve been throwing at him this entire time.

And so he asks, his voice dropping down to a strained whisper as if he were the one being choked right now, “..What have you done?”

And you answer casually — too casually for how dire this could possibly be, “I’ve done nothing but strike a deal with a pretty woman.”

“Jade,” He says her name like he’s muttering a curse word, his teeth clicking like a lighter trying to produce fire, “What deal have you struck? What have you so…so foolishly—”

“Does it matter?” You grab his wrist, and just like you thought, it takes no effort to peel it off your skin nor does his hand leave any prints or markings on your jugular. It truly was like an embrace, one you’d give a friend or even a loved one. Someone that you, at one point, could’ve possibly fit the bill. You’re not sure, and quite frankly, you didn’t want to know.

“What’s done is done. No use fretting over the details,” You unclasp the final chain which confines his left arm and your hand lingers there longer than it did the rest. As if unlocking that bulky, iron bracelet finalized your future strife — one of unknowingness, anxious innocence that never belonged to you, and blank faces that once gave meaning to your life and filled your childhood with inexplicable bliss — you froze up, and at last, muttered your demise with a carefully spoken, overly thought out one-liner.

“It’s not like I’ll be able to remember soon anyways.”

Sunday didn’t process it at first; the way his breath caught at your words and the way he too froze in place. It was as though he had immediately been given new shackles despite just being freed of the old ones — these ones being much heavier and possessing no key to free him of.

Well it does, but if what you say is to be taken literally, that key will soon forget its color of purpose, the hardened convictions that shaped it, and its hardships and blessings that formed the ridges necessary to slot perfectly into its keyhole.

“Soon, our roles will be reversed — in some ways anyway,” You mutter, “I’ll be sitting in a chair of my own, littered in invisible chains, and what’s worse? I won’t even know about them,” You sigh. It was meant to be a chuckle of some kind but without the usual dry humor to reflect off of, it ceased to exist entirely. That said, you had no choice but to fall back on vocal clarity to get your point across, “It’s such funny irony. The victor ends up worse off than the defeated.”

“But don’t get things twisted,” At last, you snap from whatever melancholic trance you were under and rise to your feet. Your hand retreating to station at your hip as you say, “I’m not angry. Not in the slightest. I’m the one who proposed this deal in the first place after all.”

And in his shock, he manages to force out a shaky, “Why?” but you take your time to answer.

As if you wanted to be insufferable one last time, you turn on your heel instead of opening your mouth to award him with the answer he yearns for. Just as you approached him, you walked slowly, as if you had all the time in the world. Your feet click in a spasmodic pattern that stabs into him one by one, forcing him to take your appearance in at last.

He can see the white of your undershirt peeking from your vest — which he noticed when you first came in was sloppily buttoned aside from the top, which remains unclasped altogether. There seemed to be just one too many creases in your attire and he could just tell it was nowhere in alignment with the loafers you adorn on your feet. It irked him to his very core to the point his fingers twitched, eager to grasp at the mistake that was you and fix it immediately.

But maybe some part of you wanted that. Hoped that his first decision as a free man would be to chase you down for once. To hold you, even when trembling with rage, and to engrave you into his being. Maybe the entire point of your visit was to ensure that you left an impression that satisfied you — one that would replace the interpretation he had of you during his descent from godhood, when you turned away as the final strike was dealt and the ideal you once shared together went up in flames.

If that was your true motive for coming here in place of that woman, you only half-succeeded. You achieved in your goal to erase that as his final memory of you, but failed in cementing it as what he’ll later remember you — this version of you — as. There are a plethora of other memories that come to mind in that case, some even dating back to when you could still both smile at each other without other veiled emotions diminishing them into something faux.

“The real world isn’t about happy endings. It’ll always be that way no matter how much you or I wish it otherwise,” You told him as you finally reached the door, the light pouring in now blinding — as though what waited for you on the other side was the afterlife itself. In a way it was. You were dying, or at least, the you he and so many others had known was.

“—And to answer your question from earlier, the reason I did this was because of my own belief; that this heartless world — that fills everyone with its fuel of suffering that pushes us to do the most insane things sometimes — is about taking your bleeding heart, your life, and fighting like hell to keep it beating until you no longer find a need to.”

Then suddenly, you look back at him, “I made this trade to follow my beliefs, and for that I must give it up too. If you accept her offer, the same may happen to you, but I still suggest that you at least consider it. I mean, your wings are already severed, might as well walk the mortal realm and see what it’s like.”

This time he doesn’t say anything, simply taking in your words as a sour taste pools at the root of his mouth. He wonders what it is, but doesn’t take the time to delve into himself to find an answer as it may take too much time and give you the chance to disappear into a cloud of smoke and reform somewhere else as someone entirely new.

Then again, that’ll happen anyways. He knows that now, but he still watches you like a hawk because he at least wants to give you that satisfaction of knowing that some part of him is giving chase albeit it's not in the literal sense you may have hoped.

You finally break your prolonged staring competition with him and face the light. It burns your retinas and you’re sure that, sooner than later, it’ll give you a horrible migraine. Nevertheless, you pretend that it doesn’t bother you — soon, it won’t for real.

“Take care, sunny. The next time we see each other, we’ll be completely different people with lives that no longer crash into each other. …Heh, maybe we can even be civil to each other for once,” You take a step forward, most of your body out of the door as you find yourself murmuring under your breath.

“...But, part of me wouldn’t mind if it were still the opposite.”

⇢ On the last page, you notice hearts and smiley faces circling around a note of some kind, it reads..

Before anything else, I just wanna say Happy Birthday Crow!!! Second off, I wanna thank you for creating the StellaronHvnters Network. If it weren't for this network coming into my life, I'd probably still be this sad sack who likes to write sometimes. You have singlehandedly gave me so much motivation along with many, many laughs and tears of joy!! Our late night chats are one of the best pleasures I get out of this network!! No matter how bad I feel, talking to you always manages to cheer me up!! Whether it be you yapping to me about your ocs ( which are the coolest btw I love them!!! Hark especially lmao they're my spirit animal at this point ), or HSR, or something else entirely, I'm always smiling behind the screen!! There are times where I let myself slip and I yap about all the fucked up shit that's happened to me over the years and you always managed to make me feel heard and comforted and safe beyond belief and to that I thank you so, so much!! ( Also your voice is really nice to listen to!! It's calming, like more than any ASMR or comfort audio I've listened to!! I could listen to you for hours like you're just like soothing in every aspect to me )

No matter what you may think otherwise, you are an amazing person with amazing skills in your arsenal!! I'm always blown away by the things you create ( still gnawing at the bars, waiting for another Aven fic btw ) and I'm always itching to hear more!! Not just that but your characterizations GOSHHHH they're so good!! Thanks to them, I've finally been able to grasp some understanding for Sunday and finally, finally write for him!! Again, you're so awesome!!

Honestly you just feel like a close, if not best friend, to me. Granted, many of the people in the StellaronHvnters are like that to me, but you especially!! You've always been a blast to talk to ( over text and on vc ), you're funny, you make me feel safe and never, like, make me feel judged or ashamed and just...aghhhh I love you so much. Please, let your mom know that I'm thanking her a million times over for having you!! Not just that, but I want to personally thank you for existing and being you and creating this safehaven for me, I owe you so, so much!!

I hope your day, and days to come, are as bright as you make mine!! And, once again, happy birthday!! <3

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

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