“You’re not,” Mor noted. “And pacing a hole into the floor isn’t going to help anything.” You went to roll your eyes at her, but then you found Mor’s concerned gaze, the way her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and you sat down beside her with a gentle huff. 

The clock by the door ticked minutes away, and you pulled at the skin around your nail. Rhysand and Azriel had been gone for approximately an hour and a half—you’d counted. That felt too long; winnowing there would have hardly taken a minute. 

“They’ll be okay,” Mor tried again, a gentle hand on your shoulder. “They both will. In… both times. Or however this is working.” 

A humorless laugh escaped you. “You can’t know that.” 

“Well—Well, we can. Sort of. If the future now is going well, doesn’t that mean the past hasn’t changed?” 

You furrowed your brows, confusion jarring enough to pull you out of misery. “What?” 

Mor jumped on the opening, nodding quickly as you stared at her. “Right. That makes sense, right? If Azriel really did get swapped with a version of himself from the past, then how we’re living now proves that, eventually, we figure everything out.” 

“I guess. But—No, that doesn’t make sense. Because then Azriel would already know about me when we return him to his time.” 

“Huh,” Mor hummed, sinking back in her seat. “Or… maybe it doesn’t work like that? Maybe this Azriel isn’t directly from the past.” 

“You’re making my head hurt.” 

“That’s better than the pacing.” 

A more meaningful laugh that time. You pressed your hand to your forehead and slumped back along with Mor. “This is so messed up.” 

“It is.” 

“I haven’t gone to my shop in days. Everyone is going to think it’s closed.” 

“Az won’t be happy about that,” Mor sang out. “You know he hates it when you neglect the things you enjoy.” 

“Yes, well, I think I get a pass due to current circumstances,” you shot back. “I don’t even know if I could go in there, anyway. I can’t be in our room at the House. I can’t be anywhere that reminds me of him.”

Suddenly, the front door slammed open, and Rhysand was in the doorway. “Azriel died!” Rhysand screamed. “He is dead.” 

“What :(“ you said, frowning obviously. 

“Yeah :/” Rhysand cried, and he was also frowning, obviously. 

The end of the school year was nearing, there was just 1 week of normal classes, followed by a week of final exams. Assuming you passed all those, and you knew you would, you’d finally get to go home for a few months. You’d finally get away from this place, from him.

Things hadn’t always been this tense. In fact you used to be good friends. But then the drama started.

Glinda, your roommate and one of your best friends, had shown interest in Fiyero in the beginning, but she’d confessed to you that a big part in that was the fact that she didn’t want to end up alone.

You pointed out that she was so young and beautiful and had all the time in the world to find someone, that she didn’t need to marry the first man to show any sort of feelings towards her.

“I think if you’re not… if you’re not in love, you should break up with him. It might be sad for a while, but you don’t deserve to be in a relationship where you’re unhappy.”

There were also your unspoken reasons. Like the fact that Fiyero flirted with you just as much as he did with Glinda even though technically, they were together. That reason didn’t need to be unspoken, though, since even your pink loving friend noticed.

“Maybe it’s you he’s secretly in love with,” she joked.

You rolled your eyes as you threw one of your makeup brushes at her. “Now I think we both know that’s not true.”

“I dunno… I think maybe you two should get together.”

“Aren’t you still technically in a relationship?”

Glinda turned to you and shrugged. “I think even he knows we’d never last. Like you said, I’ve realized that part of my attraction to him comes from the fact that I just don’t want to end up alone. I love him, but I think we work better as friends. I’m just saying, I see how he looks at you. There’s something there. And if the two of you were to end up together, I’d be so happy for you. You deserve love, you know.”

“Even if that was something he wanted, you know I’m considering leaving Shiz and not returning next school year.”

Glinda shook her head, refusing to believe that you leaving was a possibility. Shiz University wasn’t the only school that taught magic potions and all that stuff. Before you’d even met Glinda or Elphaba, transferring after your first year was always a possibility.

Both of you were unaware of a certain brown hair, blue eyed individual standing outside of your room door. He’d come to study with you and Glinda, but upon hearing your conversation, he swiftly turned on his heels and stormed off back to his room.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

About a week after that conversation with Glinda, you were shocked to learn that he was the one who initiated the conversation that led to them breaking up.

You should’ve suspected that something was up when Fiyero wasn’t in Professor Wilson’s class. It was the one class you heard him say he was genuinely interested in, and he’d yet to miss a day throughout the entire school year. The professor’s favorite thing to discuss, as of late, were what he deemed the big 3. Aliens, androids, and wizards (and witches) were the 3 worst things you could possibly come across and have to fight.

Less than halfway through class, you thought you heard your name being called. But you looked up and saw Professor Wilson hunched over his desk as he graded papers, and your classmates were all concentrating on reviewing notes since final exams would start tomorrow. Assuming you were going crazy from the amount of studying, you looked back to your notebook.

But then you heard your name again, and this time you looked toward the door. Fiyero stood with his arms crossed, and waved at you to come out of the classroom. You shook your head and held up your notebook. But ever the stubborn man, Fiyero simply entered the classroom and approached Professor Wilson’s desk. The 2 men talked in hushed voices for a minute before your name was called again.

“It’s alright,” Professor Wilson spoke to you. “Prince Fiyero just told me, you may be dismissed early.” You suspected that whatever Fiyero said that allowed this was due to his charm and the fact that you were easily the best student in class. It wasn’t even a question of if you’d ace the final exam.

Feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as your classmates all paused their studying to watch you gather your things, you finally exited the room in record time.

“What—”

“Not here. Your room,” Fiyero spoke, grabbing your books from you at the same time. You could tell he was upset about something, but you didn’t know what.

You had to speed walk to match his stride. “If you’re upset with me, why are you carrying my books?”

He rolled his eyes as if the answer was obvious. “I’m upset but I’m still a gentleman.”

When the 2 of you finally reached your room, Glinda and Elphaba were just leaving.

“Oh shoot I thought we’d be gone already, sorry!” Glinda pulled Elphaba along, not even bothering to say anything else.

“What? Where are you guys going?” You watched as Elphaba turned and shrugged, mouthing sorry.

Glinda, on the other hand, got a big grin on her face as she whispered “good luck!” while giving you a thumbs up. “Actually let me just,” she ran back to you and fixed your hair, then pulled out a tube of lipstick from her purse. She was a second away from applying it on you when Elphaba grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Good luck!” She whisper-shouted again.

Now you were more confused than ever. As soon as you walked into the room, Fiyero stepped behind you and shut the door.

When he turns back around, you realize something is genuinely upsetting him.

“What—”

“Do you and Glinda make a habit of discussing me when I’m not in the room, hmm? Were you scheming to break us apart?”

Now it’s your turn to be upset, and you realize he somehow overheard your conversation last week. “Excuse me? I have never schemed to break you apart as you so kindly put it.”

“Oh what do you call encouraging her to break up with me??”

You scoffed. “If you eavesdropped on that part of the conversation then surely you heard everything else as well. I didn’t have a goal of hurting you, although I really am sorry that I did. But that conversation wasn’t intended for you and I think you knew that. I was telling Glinda that she shouldn’t settle, and don’t go twisting my words saying being with you is settling. You’re an incredible man and any woman would be lucky to have you. But that relationship wasn’t fair to either of you. I could see she wasn’t happy. And judging by the way you’d flirted with others I’m going to be bold and say that you weren’t happy either.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I—”

“You’re right, we were both unhappy together, had been for a while. But it wasn’t others I flirted with. Only you.”

This has you pause.

He continued. “And why do you think that is?”

You shook your head and took a few steps back. “No. Fiyero don’t go there. Why are you bringing this up now? Practically all school year you’ve been with Glinda despite admitting that you were both unhappy! Don’t come at me with questions like why do I think that is. We both know that as much as you flirt and maybe it was just with me, it was all talk. And as much as you were both unhappy I know you wouldn’t have just ended things with Glinda on a whim. So what has she done to you—”

“She has done nothing. It is you. You have made a relationship with her impossible. My flirting with you wasn’t just talk, I know that, and so do you.”

“But why! You heard Glinda and I, right? Then I know you heard me tell her I might not be coming back after final exams—” You were interrupted again, and had lost count.

“There is nowhere far enough! Do you think that there is a corner of this earth that you could travel to far away enough, to free me from this torment? I am a gentleman, my father raised me to act with honor but that honor is hanging by a thread that grows more precarious with every moment I spend in your presence. You are the bane of my existence… and the object of all my desires. Night and day I dream of you, and that it is you I’m with. You say that it is all talk, but I assure you it’s not. Do you even know all the ways a lady can be seduced? The things I could teach you…”

You shake your head again and take another step back, but Fiyero takes 5 steps forward and puts a hand on your waist as he pulls you closer.

“I did not ask for this. To be plagued by these feelings. But I was going to keep quiet because you were with Glinda and I thought that was what you both wanted. My intent was not to confess my feelings for you the moment that you two were no longer together.”

“I know,” Fiyero reassures you. He leans forward so that his forehead touches yours and you both close your eyes, only for a moment. “But you do, have feelings? For me?”

“Fiyero I—”

“Please. I need to know if I’ve just made the biggest fool of myself. What feelings are you plagued with?”

You’re unsure if you should tell him everything, but ultimately decide that at the very least, he deserves the truth.

“I am driven to distraction every time you enter the room. It’s why I never study with you and Glinda unless Elphaba is also there.”

“Do you feel for me, as I do for you?” Fiyero puts a hand on either side of your face and moves so that his face is less than an inch from yours. But just moments before your lips touch, you both step back.

You were so caught off guard by his question that you weren’t sure how to answer at first. “Is… is that why you ended things with Glinda?”

“It’s not the only reason,” his answer came instantly. “I love her, truly. But it’s as she said, we work better as friends. Where you and I are concerned, if I were to remain with her, it would bind me and you together in a way that would have me spending every day of my relationship wanting you. Dreaming of you. Dreading the day when my last thread of honor finally snaps. Is that a future you’d want for us? For your best friend?”

You’re not given a chance to respond when you hear talking outside of your room. After a few seconds, the voices grow softer and you realize it was only some students passing by. Still, the interruption was enough to scare you and Fiyero a little.

“You have to go,” a tear falls down your cheek, and without thinking, Fiyero wipes it away. He whispers your name, but you can only shake your head.

As much as he wants to push back and force you to talk, Fiyero can see that you’re close to your breaking point. You need time to be alone, and in truth, so does he. “Can we talk again, before we both leave for the summer?”

Once you nod, he steps forward again. “You and I haven’t even had a chance to begin yet, so I know this isn’t the end.” After placing a soft kiss on your forehead, he turns around and exits your room, closing the door softly behind him.

Hands shot up around the room with excited murmurings, and you chose the student who looked most ready to jump out of their seat. The little boy proudly stated, “My mommy is on a diet.” 

You pressed your lips into a line to stave off the laugh. Your science unit was struggling in the last half of the day, your classroom alight with both tire and too much energy. Around 2 pm, the 8-year-olds stopped having access to their brains. 

“Thank you, Omar, that is very insightful. Emma, what do you have to add?” you posed, turning to your most on-task student. 

“Penguins eat fish,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “Like we eat fish at home sometimes. You know, like when my daddy made dinner and you came with Uncle Bucky.” 

You took in a sharp intake of air and paired it with a smile. The flush in your cheeks was surely coming on, but it didn’t have time to fully form before the class erupted with more babbling. They wanted to know why Miss. Y/l/n went to Emma’s house and why were you eating fish? That is so weird, and the most asked question: Is Mr. Bucky going to come here? 

You used every classroom management strategy in the book—clapping, a phrase, a gentle shush—but nothing would calm them. The unfortunate truth was that your class loved Bucky. And that was only unfortunate because mentioning him caused an uproar. One that you could barely tame. 

To be fair, you loved Bucky just as much. You hadn’t exactly told him that yet, but you figured it was obvious. Showing him rather than telling was just the best course of action right now. He was more traditional, asking you on dates and putting official labels on your relationship, so you didn’t want to freak him out with anything too soon. It had been about four months together, but maybe that was too soon? 

You just really didn’t want to mess anything up. 

You brought yourself back to the present hysteria of the room and raised your voice over the squeals. “Okay, okay, everyone! Thank you for settling down. Thank you for using inside voices when we are inside,” you gently reprimanded, sending out a few pointed looks. “Mr. Bucky is not going to be coming to class today—” the room deflated with a few sad sounds “—I know. It’s very sad. But maybe I could invite him when we have our Valentine’s Day party if everyone earns it.” 

“With his arm?” someone piped up from the back of the room. 

“He always has his arm, so yes. The arm would be there.” 

Yays boomed across the room. Emma was staring at you in gentle disbelief at the craze of her classmates, and you gave her a conspiratory wink. She returned it with a playful eyeroll, but then lost you when her head snapped over to the window. It didn’t take long for the rest of the class to follow suit, and suddenly, any control you’d had over the room vanished. 

The low hum of a motorcycle offered you an explanation. 

“Miss. Y/l/n, you said he wasn’t coming! He’s here! Mr. Bucky is here!” Peter shouted, bouncing on his toes by the window. Your class had a rather expansive view of the parking lot, a fate you were now cursing. 

“I… I didn’t think he was coming,” you mumbled under your breath, smoothing down your skirt with an unseen shyness. 

You watched Bucky kick off his bike and slide the helmet from his head, taking a moment to adjust to the sun before sending a smile to your classroom window. The kids vibrated with excitement, and Bucky slipped off his gloves before stepping closer and bending down to their level. He lifted his hand, pressed it to the window, and wiggled his fingers. 

All sanity was lost. Gone. Forever abandoned. You saw a laugh shake his shoulders as one of the students pressed their hand against his on the glass. His smile quirked up to you, shining in the exasperated look you sent him. He was so pretty it hurt to look at him. And you were trying to be annoyed at him for disrupting your class. 

The bell saved you. All 26 third graders scrambled around the room to gather their things as you gave fruitless instructions. Luckily, you weren’t on pick-up duty today. That would have really and truly drained you. Instead, you got to enter the hall and watch Bucky ruffle the hair of your students as they smiled up at him and raced to the exit. It was preferable. You leaned against the threshold of your door and failed to hide your own smile. 

When the space had become more sparse, Bucky honed all of his attention on you. He looked you up and down twice, as he loved to do just because it made you all antsy, and then stepped forward until the toes of his boots were inches from your sensible but professional shoes. You watched the way he pressed his tongue into his cheek, and relished in the slight color that dusted under his eyes. It wasn’t always you that got flustered. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted in a low, private tone. “Can I take you to dinner?” 

You raised your brows in playful disbelief. “Dinner? You riled up my classroom and caused a—a stampede to ask me to dinner? You could’ve texted me!” 

Bucky bit into his bottom lip and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, a slight shake to his head. “Can’t just text you. That takes all the fun out of it.” 

“We were trying to learn about penguins. Now they know nothing about penguins.” 

“Not the penguins. God, sorry, baby, I should’ve known it was penguin day. I saw you lay out that icicle skirt.” 

“They aren’t icicles, they are snowflakes and—now you’re riling me up. On purpose. I refuse to go to dinner with you.” 

Bucky clasped his hand over his heart in a wounded way and stumbled back. “You won’t? I can’t go on then. All my tours were nothing compared to this. Send me back out on the frontlines.” 

“You’re so insane. Don’t joke about that!” you chastised, tilting your head with your arms crossed over your chest. 

Bucky tutted and righted himself, unraveling your arms to hold your hands. His thumbs rubbed over your knuckles, and you shivered at the difference in temperature between them. 

He had told you about how it happened. It was about two months in, and he was having a difficult few days. The previous explanation of ‘Afghanistan’ wasn’t cutting it with the anniversary of the event that week, and so Bucky told you everything—everything, everything.  He told you about the deployments leading up to his last one, his years of service amounting to several awards and recognitions. He told you how he met Steve and everyone else in the military who meant something to him. And then he told you about the ambush where he lost his arm and a handful of people he had trusted with his life. 

So, sometimes, you got weird when he joked about it. Sad. Bucky coped that way sometimes, but he knew what he meant to you. And what you meant to him. 

Your boyfriend’s expression became earnest as the lights in the hall flickered over the elementary school art lining the walls. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Forgive me?” 

You didn’t need much convincing. You sighed and nodded, and Bucky took advantage of the relenting. He gently pushed you back inside your classroom and clicked the door shut, and then closed the curtains to the parking lot. 

“Don’t get any ideas in here, buddy,” you warned, leaning against your desk when he finished his tasks. Bucky hovered over you, arms on either side of your thighs and face just inches from yours. “This is a classroom. Kids are still here.” 

“I wasn’t gonna do anything,” he surrendered. “Was just gonna kiss you a little.” 

“And what if a student comes back in?” 

“School’s out.”

“Kids forget things all the time. I see a jacket on a chair right now.” 

“Good thing I locked the door.” 

“Bucky,” you went to reprimand with a laugh, but then he kissed you, lips soft with no urgency, and you let him. For a second. You didn’t even get the chance to pull away and be professional. He pulled back himself, eyes roaming over your face as you looked back in a daze. 

“There. All I wanted,” he smiled, tapping your chin with his knuckle. “Can I take you to dinner now? Maybe kiss you more off school grounds?” 

“I love you.” The words had slipped out, unexpected, but with so much ease it was hard to remember how they formed. Bucky was still leaning over you, and you watched his expression shift from a playful tease to so much more. His lips parted, his gaze froze, and then his lashes fluttered. 

Your eyes went wide. You slapped your hand over your mouth. “I—I mean, um, just that—” 

“Please get on my bike,” Bucky almost pleaded, voice just above a whisper. “Let me take you home. I’ll feed you later.” 

“What?” 

He shook his head, a disbelieving breath huffing out in a laugh. “What? Don’t ask me what. Girl of my dreams just said she loves me and I’m barely allowed to kiss her here. Gotta take you home.” 

“Does that mean you…” you trailed off, nervousness mingling with excitement. 

“That I love you too? Obviously. Yes. I love you and I’ve loved you ever since you picked glitter outta my hair after that bake sale.” 

“Right when we met?” 

Bucky was staring at your mouth as you spoke, an intensity on his face you saw sometimes. Only when you were alone. “Pretty sure I just said you were the girl of my dreams, right?” 

You clutched the edges of the desk between your fingers, elated and content and so unbelievably happy. “Is it the skirts?” 

Bucky wasn’t even trying anymore. He got close enough for you to feel his breath against your lips, one of his hands bringing your waist closer. “We need to leave now. I’m being dead serious.” 

“Okay, let me grab my coat.” 

“Screw the coat.” 

“It’s literally on the way out the door.” 

Bucky’s jaw jutted to the side for a moment. He pecked your lips in a lingering way, and then he lifted you from the desk and set you firmly on your feet, an entirely unnecessary action, but one that left you reeling. When you followed him out into the hall, your coat already hastily slung over his arm, you didn’t miss how he instantly pressed his hand to your back. Or how his smile became easy once more when he spoke to the kids in the pick-up line. 

♥︎ Part One ┃5k

Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

♥︎ Part Two┃5.2k

You and Azriel are struggling with the aftermath of your heated argument. Unfortunately, you both cope in very different ways.

♥︎ Part Three┃8.5k

Azriel’s attempts at an apology fall short, Cassian’s advice backfires, and confrontations force both you and Azriel to face uncomfortable truths—though not the same ones.

♥︎ Part Four┃7.3k+

You navigate the aftermath of your confrontation. Azriel takes his first steps toward making things right.

♥︎ Part Five┃7k

A chance encounter offers a break from your tangled thoughts about Azriel. Meanwhile, Az reaches a pivotal realization.

♥︎ Part Six┃12.6k

The night of the gratitude banquet arrives. Your life will never be the same after it.

Final Word Count: 45,665 

Asks, Discussions, and Thoughts: #awsf? tag!

Art:

Adrin Selene

This is what power looks like, you realize. This is what it looks like when it's not being used to hurt people. Soft and golden and beautiful.

This is what family looks like, too. No careful politeness, no desperate loyalty forged in training rings. This is ease. Belonging. The luxury of being completely yourself because you know, bone-deep, that these people would choose you again and again.

You catch yourself analyzing the effortless abundance with a mix of wonder and something sharper—acidic, even. You latch onto the smaller things, like the way Rhysand's wings disappear entirely, glamoured away seamlessly as he sits for dinner. Illyrian to refined High Lord in a heartbeat. How convenient, you think with a bitterness that surprises you, to be able to simply erase the most obvious marker of your heritage when it suits you. How utterly, perfectly convenient.

Your own wings brush against the chair back. Despite being surrounded by three other sets of wings, you still feel...other. They're different from you, in some fundamental way. Better.

Your gaze drifts across the table, to where Cassian throws his head back in laughter. The Lord of Bloodshed, the most feared Illyrian general in Prythian's history, completely at ease in silk and velvet, drinking vintage wine despite being raised in the same culture that shaped you.

And then there's Azriel, sitting to your right. He's been quiet most of the evening—contributing when spoken to but otherwise content to watch. There's something almost meditative about it, the way he observes his family. As if he's cataloguing them, too, storing up moments for later review.

It should make you feel less alone, seeing someone else sitting slightly outside the warm circle of their conversation. Instead, it irritates the hell out of you.

This perpetual brooding, this air of tortured mystery. You'd found it endearing when you were drunk and miserable off your ass. Now, it feels like a mockery of your own pain.

You want to question him, to demand to know why he insists on looking so haunted when he has everything. Power, respect, a family that would die for him, wealth beyond imagination. What more could a male possibly want?

You quickly recognize the hypocrisy in your own resentment.

You know, logically, that bitterness doesn't discriminate based on status. Azriel has his own demons—being Illyrian almost guarantees it, regardless of how far he's climbed. You saw glimpses of that truth when you'd fallen into bed together, found a kinship in your misery.

Still, some part of you—the ugly, bitter part you try very hard not to acknowledge—whispers that you'd handle his blessings better. That you'd appreciate what he has instead of taking it for granted. That you wouldn't waste it all on melancholy. Yet here you are, moping when the world is finally extending that same luxury to you. The irony tastes like ash in your mouth.

You're bitter, uncomfortable, and you want a reason to run. A reason to dismiss them all.

Which is a shitty thing to think about people who've been nothing but kind to you.

And an equally shitty way to behave toward the male who has offered you his entire support.

Balthazar would laugh himself sick if he could see you now, all poised and polite, sitting at the fancy table with a child on the way.

He still doesn't know. You wish you could tell him. You wish he were here, if only to hide in his shadow like you're accustomed to doing.

But he's not. He's off playing honeymoon with Gwyn, showing her waterfalls in the Summer Court or whatever it is happy mates do when they've found their forever.

Even if he were, there are new boundaries to consider now. Lingering near a mated male when you're carrying another male's child feels pathetic and intrusive, no matter that the first male is your dearest friend.

Elain isn't here either—the female who has granted you the first real female friendship of your life. No, it's just you, the father of the child you now carry, and his family—this tight-knit unit you're somehow supposed to fit into.

"It was blue! And purple! And it had spots!"

Nyx's voice cuts through your brooding, eyes bright as he tells everyone about the butterfly he saw in the garden. He's beautiful—all dark hair and Feyre's distinctive eyes—and you find yourself absentmindedly wondering what features your child will inherit.

Strangely, you hope they won't get yours. You're not sure you want to spend years staring into a reflection of all your own inadequacies.

"And it was this big!" he says, spreading his little arms as wide as they'll go.

"Bigger than you?" Cassian asks with mock seriousness.

"No, Uncle Cass!" Nyx dissolves into giggles. "Not bigger than me!"

Uncle. The word does something strange to your chest.

This child knows exactly where he belongs, who his people are, and they know who they are to him. They'll be uncles to your baby too—the only ones, aside from Balthazar, you suppose. But the idea of Balthazar having such an important place in your life —with a title that differs so drastically from what you'd always hoped for—makes your stomach turn. You feel nauseous, and a little lonely.

"How are you feeling?" Emerie asks, and the weight of attention quickly swings to you.

The question you've been dreading, wrapped up in concern that should feel good but instead makes your skin crawl. You know what she's really asking. How are you handling this? This situation, this complication, this thing that's turned your entire life sideways.

You should feel grateful that she cares. Should feel some kind of kinship—another Illyrian female who fought her way to a place at this table, who earned her spot through her own strength and choices. You should ask her if it was strange for her too when she first started coming to these dinners. If she was overwhelmed by the casual luxury. But something stubborn and ugly in you resents even that comparison.

Emerie is here because they want her here. Because she proved herself worthy of their friendship, their respect, their love. She's here with her mate, and she deserves it. Just as Balthazar does.

You're here because of an accident, a consequence, carrying your invitation in your womb. The mother of Azriel's child who isn't his partner, his friend, or really anything definable at all.

The thought makes you feel petty and small, but you can't shake it entirely.

"Tired," you say, because it's true and neutral and doesn't invite follow-up questions. "Thank you for asking."

But of course there are follow-up questions. There are always follow-up questions.

"When are you due?" Cassian jumps in.

"Have you thought about names?" This from Mor, leaning forward with bright interest. "Or preferences for the nursery?"

"Will you stay in Velaris?" Rhysand's question sounds casual, but there's weight behind it. Political considerations, probably. The Spymaster's child, the implications, the optics.

More questions pile up faster than you can answer them. Each one well-meaning, yes, but your chest gets tight, anyway. A featherlight touch traces your ankles, the sensation sending a sharp breath through your body.

You find yourself instinctively turning toward Azriel with something dangerously close to panic.

He must see it—that barely contained need to flee—because his gaze shifts meaningfully to Rhysand, some silent conversation passing between them that you're not privy to. Suddenly the questions stop, the conversation flowing smoothly toward safer topics, and you can finally breathe again.

You should be grateful. You are grateful. But there's something deeply embarrassing about being managed, even kindly.

After dinner, when they drift toward the sitting room with the easy choreography of people who've done this thousands of times, Feyre catches your arm gently.

"Would you like to sit with me for a bit?" she asks, and her voice holds that particular warmth you've heard her use with Nyx. "I'd love to talk."

You nod because saying no would be impossibly rude, and follow her to a smaller room that's somehow even more beautiful than the first. Everything is soft here—the lighting, the furniture, the way sound seems muffled by expensive fabrics.

You settle into a plush velvet chair that probably costs more than most Illyrians see in a year.

Feyre pours herself wine and hands you something that tastes like fruit and summer. The consideration should feel good. Does feel good, actually, which makes the resentment in your chest feel even uglier.

"How are you feeling?" she asks as she settles across from you. "Really, I mean. Not the answer you think I want to hear."

The directness catches you off guard. Every other interaction you've had with Feyre has been pleasant but distant—a leader being gracious to a subject. Now it strikes you how surreal this is: sitting in the private quarters of Prythian's first High Lady, being offered hospitality like you're someone who matters.

"Weird," you admit before you can stop yourself. "Strangely aware of myself in ways I've never been before."

Feyre laughs softly. "I remember that feeling. Those first few weeks with Nyx, I was convinced I was going to feel uncomfortable in my own skin forever."

You think: How lovely.

You nod, but you're struggling with what to say next. What you're allowed to say, even. You've never been good at vulnerability, despite valuing the quality in others. There's something almost childlike about the embarrassment coursing through you now.

The High Lady before you is Azriel's family, which technically makes her yours now—or your child's, anyway. But you can't shake the feeling that you're still performing, still trying to preserve some image of yourself as something other than the strange Illyrian who got knocked up by their beloved Spymaster.

"You can talk to me," Feyre says when the silence stretches. "If you're not comfortable talking about your pregnancy, I understand. But I'd also love to be your friend. Elain speaks very highly of you."

That brings your attention back sharply. Despite Feyre's blue eyes standing in stark contrast to Elain's brown, you can see their similarities clearly now—that same capacity for genuine care, something you've glimpsed in Nesta as well during training, though you've never looked at the eldest Archeron long enough to be certain.

You've always been a bit cowardly around the Valkyries, if you're honest. Being around Gwyn brings up feelings that remind you, time and again, that you still aren't entirely healed from the deeply ingrained instinct to see other females as competition.

"She does?"

Feyre smiles and nods. "I think I should thank you, actually. Sometimes it feels like I have to drag her out of Day Court just to spend time with us. I should've known something was up when she was here without Lucien for days on end."

That almost pulls a real smile from you. Elain, sneaking in with books and pastries, keeping your secret like it was something sacred. Exactly as she promised you.

"Elain has been so helpful."

Feyre smiles. "Is there anything I can do to help as well?"

Your gaze drops as you readjust in your seat, hyperaware of your wings brushing against the chair's soft fabric.

"When did it begin to feel real?" you ask, your voice dropping low. "That you were actually going to be a mother, I mean."

"It took time. The pregnancy was... complicated for us." Her expression grows distant, and you realize you're seeing something raw, unguarded. "But somewhere in the middle of all that terror, there was this overwhelming joy. This excitement. I realized I already loved him more than I thought was possible."

You nod, trying to imagine that kind of certainty. That fierce, protective love she describes so easily.

You can't imagine anything coming to you that easily, especially not something as monumental as loving another person. It took years to be comfortable around Balthazar. Your gaze drifts toward the entryway, and Azriel's face wanders into your mind—stoic, controlled, but clearly capable of tender love, if his family is anything to go by.

The resentment from earlier slowly begins to fade.

"The fear doesn't go away after they're born either," Feyre continues, and there's something almost confessional in her tone. "If anything, it gets worse. Suddenly you have this perfect, fragile thing that depends on you for everything, and you're terrified you'll mess it up somehow."

Oh.

Before you can figure out how to respond without sounding terrified, Nyx barrels into the room and climbs straight into his mother's lap. The way she adjusts automatically—arms opening, body shifting to accommodate him without thought—makes something painful twist in your chest.

Will you ever move like that?

You catalogue the gesture like an actress studying for a role.

"Mama," Nyx says, settling against her chest. "Uncle Cass said you were talking about babies."

Oh, fuck.

Children make you nervous under the best circumstances. Their honesty, their complete inability to pretend things are other than they obviously are.

"We were talking a little bit," Feyre confirms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Nyx fixes those bright eyes on you with the kind of intense focus only children possess.

"Is there really a baby in your tummy?"

"There is," you say, warily.

"Like how I was in your tummy, Mama?"

"Yes, exactly like that," Feyre answers.

He considers this with the gravity that only small children can bring to new information. Then he announces, with absolute certainty: "That means it's my cousin!"

"That's right," Feyre says gently. She glances your way and adds, "He's learning about family trees in school."

He nods enthusiastically. "And you're going to marry Uncle Az and then you'll be my aunt!"

His innocent words hit you like cold water. "Oh, no. We're not—we're not getting married."

"But I thought when two people love each other very much—"

"Nyx," Feyre interrupts carefully, and you can tell from her tone that she doesn't typically cut him off mid-sentence. She's doing it for you. "They're not together. They're just friends."

Friends. Even that feels like a generous description.

"But the baby—"

"Sometimes adults have babies even when they're not together," Feyre explains patiently, though you can see her struggling to find an age-appropriate way to explain your situation. "Two friends can have a baby together."

Nyx looks between you both. "Why would Uncle Az want to have a baby with his friend?"

Feyre's eyes widen slightly as she realizes the conversational trap she's walked into.

You're at a loss for words. There's nothing to say, really. At least nothing appropriate for a child. Your uncle didn't plan on having a baby with me, your mind sings with crystalline clarity. This was an accident. A responsibility he's shouldering because he's too honorable to do otherwise.

"That's a good question," you manage. "Sometimes things just... happen, I guess."

"And then you get married," Nyx says with the certainty of a child. "That's how families work."

Something cracks inside your chest, spilling poison into your bloodstream. You can feel yourself starting to come apart, that careful composure you've been maintaining all evening finally reaching its breaking point.

Here is this perfect child, so confident about how the world operates, how families are supposed to be structured. People fall in love, get married and mated, and everything falls into its proper place.

He isn't wrong, in that simplistic way that makes the world seem manageable. That's usually how the story goes: you meet someone, fall in love with them, and love them so much that you decide to build a family together.

You know, logically, that it doesn't always happen like that. Fairy tale lives are exactly that—fairy tales. Surely, plenty of mothers have had unplanned pregnancies and created beautiful lives anyway. And,surely, an equal number of people followed the perfect formula and still ended up miserable.

But the cynic in you doesn't think you belong in any of the stories, happy or otherwise. You and Azriel aren't even friends. You can count your interactions before that fateful night on one hand.

"I should go," you say abruptly, standing so quickly that both Feyre and Nyx startle.

"Wait," Feyre starts, but you're already moving toward the door.

"Thank you for dinner. It was lovely, truly."

"Please, don't—"

"It's okay." Your voice sounds strange, distant. "I should get back. I’m tired."

Her face crumples with understanding, and she glances down at Nyx before nodding reluctantly. "Will we see you next week?"

Against your better judgment, your head nods. "Yeah. Sure, next week."

With another forced smile and a little wave to the confused princeling, you're out the front door before anyone can stop you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The walk back to your borrowed apartment blurs together. Velaris at night is beautiful—all soft light and laughing couples, street musicians and lovers stealing kisses in doorways. The kind of place people write poems about.

You think about your life before, how you used to hear whispers of the Night Court's hidden city, this paradise tucked away from the brutality of the outside world. Now that you're here, breathing the clean air, walking streets where no one looks over their shoulder in fear—it feels wrong.

Part of you wants to love it. 

Part of you does.

But there's something else, something that tastes like copper and resentment, whispering that this beauty has always existed while your people suffered in the mountains. You try your best to push those thoughts away, too. They're of no use to you now.

By the time you reach your building—the apartment that isn't really yours, furnished with furniture that isn't really yours—the humiliation has curdled into something more familiar: anger.

At yourself, mostly, for being pathetic enough to sit in a beautiful home surrounded by good people and feel bitter instead of grateful.

For watching Feyre's perfect life and resenting her obvious contentment. For fleeing from her clear attempts at friendship.

It's embarrassing—how envious you are of her. But how could you not be, really?

You're an Illyrian nobody trying to figure out how to be soft, how to be nurturing, how to be anything other than what you've always been. You don't have a crown or a title or even your own family. Everything you're wearing, sleeping on, eating—it's all borrowed kindness from people who've taken you in because you're connected to someone they actually care about.

You're an extension of Balthazar, who is himself merely an extension of their world. A connection twice removed.

Gods, you wish he were here. Desperately, pathetically, you wish he were here.

You sink onto the bed that isn't yours and try to make sense of the mess in your head. Gratitude and resentment tangled together, impossible to separate.

A few weeks ago, you had almost nothing. But it was yours.

Now you have access to more than you ever dreamed possible, and none of it feels real.

You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and try to channel the way Balthazar used to help you transform anger into something productive. Your hand drifts to your stomach.

You wonder, not for the first time, if babies can sense whether they're wanted when they're born. If the knowledge of being unwanted can be written into someone's very marrow, passed down like genetic material.

The thought seems too dramatic for your liking, but you decide right then that you won't take any chances. You need to be better than what you were given. If for no other reason than to avoid passing your particular brand of sadness to another living being.

A soft knock at your door interrupts your spiral of self-recrimination. You wipe your eyes quickly, though you're not entirely sure why you bother. There are only a few people who know where you live, and even fewer who would visit unannounced.

You know it's Azriel before you open it—can sense him somehow, like your body has developed some new awareness of his proximity.

"Hello," you say, proud that your voice sounds steadier than you feel. He offers you a small smile—an uncertain thing, almost shy in its hesitancy.

"You left without my realizing."

"Right. I'm sorry. I should have told you I was going."

Azriel is quiet, but his gaze remains fixed on yours. His shadows are slowly dissipating from around his figure as the seconds pass, and you clear your throat, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his stare.

"Would you like to come in?"

The question sounds uncertain even to your own ears. So much for that steady voice of yours.

He blinks, realizing he's been standing in silence, and nods before stepping inside. The dark mass around his form loosens even further, and a curious tendril explores your sparse living room. Heat floods your cheeks as memories of their touch flicker unbidden through your mind.

Terrible timing, as always.

"I was worried," Azriel says carefully. "I wanted to walk you home."

"Well, that's how we got into this mess in the first place," you reply without thinking, and your eyes widen the moment the words land in the space between you.

You half expect him to withdraw at your casual reference to your situation as a 'mess.' Instead, the corners of his lips curve upward slightly, and his wings settle into a more relaxed position behind him.

"Sorry," you say anyway, defaulting to politeness. "That wasn't funny."

He tilts his head, considering. "Slightly funny," he amends, and it pulls a genuine smile from you—the first real one you've managed all evening. It reminds you of that night, of the surprising discovery that the Night Court's infamous Spymaster possesses a sense of humor that actually aligns with yours.

"I'm sorry for leaving without letting you know. That was rude of me."

"Are you upset?" he asks, and there's something almost endearing about the careful way he phrases the question. "I understand if you are. They got caught up in their questions. It was invasive."

"No, no," you say, running your palm along your bicep in a self-soothing gesture. "It was sweet that they cared that much. They were lovely."

He's quiet for a long moment. You can practically see him thinking, weighing his words, choosing his approach.

"But?"

Confusion tugs at your brows. "But?"

"Your tone suggests there's a 'but' in that sentence."

Your stomach sinks. "No," you try to tell him. "No but."

Azriel takes a breath, eyes still boring into yours.

"You don't have to perform for me," he says quietly.

You blink. "What?"

"Am I wrong in that assessment?"

He isn't wrong, and you both know it. Still, you say, "I'm not performing."

"You are. You've been performing all evening."

"How so?"

"Very agreeable, quiet."

"And that's bad?" Your jaw tightens. "I'm sorry I have manners."

"No," Azriel says, lips twitching. "That's not bad. But I don't think it's you, either."

"How would you know what I am?"

Your words come out sharper than intended, and you wince at their landing. He’s hit something tender. Deep in your gut, a flame flickers—some twisted desire to make him as uncomfortable as you. A terrible, terrible thing.

Azriel observes you. "How am I ever supposed to know if you refuse to be honest with me?"

You look at him—at the sharp line of his jaw, the way his wings settle as if he's trying not to crowd you, the hands that are currently clasped too tightly at his sides. Something in you loosens, ever so slightly.

You may not know how to be vulnerable, but you do know how to be smart. To survive. Survival requires many things. A safe place to land, something to fight for, and good allies. Who better to ally yourself with than the father of your child—the feared Spymaster of the Night Court?

An ally is someone you can be honest with. 

"Okay. You're right," you admit reluctantly. "I was—I was performing. Or trying to. I think I failed."

His shadows ripple subtly at your words.

"What upset you?"

The question is simple enough, but something about the way he asks it—patient, genuinely curious, without any hint of judgment—makes you feel guilty for harboring the bitterness that's taken root in your chest like something alive and festering.

"It's complicated," you mutter, moving past him to settle on the edge of one of the aggressively uncomfortable living room chairs.

Illyrian-proof, Balthazar explained when he set them up, approved by Emerie herself, but they require a proper breaking-in period that you haven't quite gotten around to yet.

Azriel follows your lead and takes the chair across from you, though a muscle in his jaw tightens as he settles into the unforgiving cushions. It takes him a moment to find a position that doesn't look actively painful before he looks at you expectantly.

"We seem to favor complicated."

His words nearly draw a laugh from you.

It's undeniably strange—this odd intimacy that seems to exist between you and Azriel. The expectation of an emotional closeness that you assume would typically develop between lovers, or parents, or at the very least between friends.

Instead, you've managed to skip all the conventional relationship milestones and jump straight to the most awkward possible dynamic: you're carrying part of him inside your body.

Surprisingly, you do want to be open with him. The problem is you don't know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful. Or petty. Or like exactly the kind of person who doesn't belong at their dinner table.

"It's not about your family," you say finally. "They were wonderful. Welcoming. Everything you'd want in—" You catch yourself before saying 'in-laws.' "They're everything you'd want."

Azriel's eyebrows furrow slightly at your words. "And?"

"And I sat there feeling like a fraud. For the first time, I wasn't there as Balthazar's second or some representative. I was there as... as..."

"As yourself."

"As the woman carrying your child." The words taste strange in your mouth, too big and too real. "Which apparently means we're getting married, according to your nephew."

"Ah." Understanding crosses his features. "Nyx."

"Don't worry, I'm not expecting a proposal anytime soon." You offer him a dry laugh, hoping it'll ease the tension that has settled. The sound comes out exactly as forced as it is. You continue despite it. "It was a sobering reminder that we're strangers who got drunk and fucked and now we're having a baby. I mean, I don't even know your favorite color. I feel like that's something you should know about the male you're having a child with."

Azriel doesn't flinch at your crude summary. "And that upset you."

"What upset me was realizing how completely out of my depth I am." You lean back despite your chair's protests. "I don't know how to do any of this."

"Any of what?"

"This." You wave between the two of you. "Whatever this is supposed to be. I don't know how to talk to you, how to act around your family, how to be pregnant."

You take a deep breath and run your hands down your face.

"Did Feyre have a chance to speak with you privately?" Azriel asks.

You peer at him through the gaps between your fingers, noting the expectant look on his face.

Had he specifically requested that Feyre pull you aside, in some sort of sisterhood-between-mothers intervention? It's thoughtful, and unexpectedly considerate if true. Your understanding of who Azriel is continues to evolve in small, surprising ways.

You nod and drop your hands to your lap, taking a steadying breath. "She did. We talked."

Azriel clearly expects you to elaborate, because he seems to grow increasingly uncomfortable with your silence.

"Was it helpful?" he asks when you don't continue.

You're quiet for a long moment, wrestling with whether to revert to the polite facade or let him see the ugliness underneath.

"You don't have to do all of this, you know."

"Do all of what?"

"Cater to me, check on me, ask your High Lady to have heart-to-heart conversations with me."

You swear that an actual blush colors Azriel's cheeks—confirmation that your suspicion is correct.

"While I may have spoken to Feyre, her desire to talk with you was entirely her own." His smile is self-conscious. "I thought it might help you feel supported in a way that I can't offer."

The admission makes you feel like an ungrateful bastard. Here he is, trying to anticipate your needs and provide appropriate support, and you're essentially criticizing him for his thoughtfulness.

"That was very considerate of you to think of."

He inclines his head in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry it didn't seem to help as much as I hoped."

You open your mouth to offer some polite reassurance, to tell him that it helped, to find some way to make him feel successful in his efforts. There's no reason for you both to feel like failures, is there?

But it's no use. Your politeness is exhausting, and clearly he can see through it anyway. Honesty seems to work better between you than empty platitudes.

"Feyre is..." you search for the right words to explain without sounding petty. "She's the High Lady. Beautiful, powerful, mated to someone who would rearrange the world for her convenience. She had a planned pregnancy with the love of her life, and she has this entire family, this support system that's actually hers by right, not by charity."

Azriel settles more deeply into his chair, and his shadows still completely.

"I sat there in her beautiful house, watched her and her son, and I wanted to hate her for it." The confession tastes bitter. "I wanted to find something wrong with her, with all of you, just so I could feel better about myself."

When a few seconds of silence pass, you glance up to catch Azriel's gaze still fixed on you. His face is softer than you expect.

"Did you? Find something?"

You shake your head, then immediately contradict yourself. "Yes. No. I don't know." You run your palm across your arm. "I kept thinking about how unfair it all is. All this wealth and comfort and safety while my people—our people, I guess—barely survive in our camps. And then I felt guilty for thinking that because girls in Illyria would kill for what you're offering me."

Azriel's posture stiffens at that—at the mention of your shared heritage.

"That doesn't make your feelings less valid," he says.

"Doesn't it?" You look at him directly. "I sat at your family's table and resented them for being kind to me. I looked at you and felt... angry."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "What kind of angry?"

There's something woven into his tone that makes you choose your words carefully.

"The kind that made me want to leave," you admit. "The kind that made me look for reasons to dislike you, even though I know better. Even though you've been nothing but decent to me."

Azriel is quiet for a long moment. "My family fought for the luxuries you witnessed tonight."

Your face pales. "I know that. I do. I'm—"

"But," he continues, and his voice feels bare now, stripped of any apprehension. "I understand that instinct."

You frown, tilting your head as you look at him, and the intensity in his gaze makes your wings involuntarily shudder.

"You do?"

"The need to reject something before it can reject you? Yes." His shadows drift closer to you, testing. "It's safer to leave than to stay and find out you don't actually belong. You feel as if you've cheated your way into this care."

You stare at him, surprised by how precisely he's identified the feeling you couldn't even articulate to yourself. He's right. He's exactly right. You did cheat. You made your way here by sleeping with a male who fought for his place in this world.

Yet he speaks as if he understands you, even now.

The confession shifts something fundamental in how you see him. All evening you'd been cataloging his advantages, his blessings, building a case for why his melancholy was unearned. Sitting here now, seeing the genuine uncertainty in his expression, you realize that maybe his brooding isn't self-indulgent posturing. Maybe it's the same fear you carry, just worn differently.

A small voice in your head whispers a reminder that you saw something similar in Azriel that night you slept together. In some fundamental way, he is like you. You're half certain that he'd be inclined to leave you alone if you begged him to, that he'd push away his own family for the sake of your comfort.

It's almost tempting—the desire to stay in the dark.

You look down at your lap, and your eyes fall to your stomach. You think of all the things that are going to change, of all the things that have already changed in a matter of days.

You love the dark. It is your home. It is all that you know.

And at the same time, it is no place to raise a child.

"I don't want to do that," you tell Azriel, and you run your thumb along your stomach. "I don't want to be that person. It just... it happened automatically, and then I felt terrible about it."

"Why?" Azriel asks . "Why punish yourself for a natural feeling?"

"Because I think it might make me a bad mother." The words come out in a rush. "What if that's who I am? What if I can't help but resent anything good that comes into my life? What if I pass that on somehow?"

You blink at your own confession and fight the urge to flee, once again. Something has cracked in the space between you—a change that draws a deep breath from Azriel's lungs. The corners of his lips turn downwards and then he's standing up, and sitting beside you. There's still a safe distance between you, and the intimacy of the act—of his careful deliberation over what might be considered your personal space—is not lost on you.

You turn to look at him, watching as he looks down at his lap, at the shadows now weaving between his fingers—smooth against the scarred skin.

"I'm not sure what to say," Azriel admits. "I'm not sure there is anything I can say that will truly ease your discomfort."

Now it's your turn to remain silent. You wait for Azriel to speak the rest of the words that seem to be on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm not sure how to be a parent. I'm worried I might not be any good at it."

You bite the inside of your cheek. "I don't want you to feel obligated to me. You don't have to—"

Your words falter as he looks at you, the emotion in his eyes pulling something taut in your chest.

"I don't feel obligated to you. I am obligated to you."

Something cold curls in your body. "Well, that's not any better."

He shakes his head gently. "You are the mother of my child. Your well-being is a responsibility I'm grateful to accept. I'd like to figure this all out with you. Alongside you. In whatever way you'll have me."

You’re stunned into silence. Here is the powerful Shadowsinger, the Night Court’s feared Spymaster, so open, and willing to be vulnerable, to find understanding with you—the mother of his child.

A featherlight sensation pulls your gaze to your lap, to where a tendril of shadow has timidly brushed across your skin. You slowly turn your hand, raising a palm to it, and smile as it closes the distance.

This is the moment, you think, where you can decide to be better. To ensure your child is loved, cared for, and has access to things you could only have dreamed of. The moment where you can decide to have an ally, or—

You look at Azriel. "We're going to show your nephew how great it can be to have a baby with a friend."

A friend.

He blinks, slowly registering the words, and then a smile is tugging at his cheeks, a small dimple appearing as he glances away.

"Yes," he murmurs, "I suppose we are."

Azriel relaxes into the chair—as much as it'll allow him—and you feel his gaze on you as you rotate your hand, allowing other tendrils of shadow to curl around your wrist.

"What are they doing?" you ask him, suddenly lost in their sensations.

"Getting to know you, I believe."

You hum, contemplative. "Funny. I'd assume they already know me intimately." You give Azriel a look, something strangely close to familarity—to the way you speak to Balthazar when he rolls his eyes and laughs, or when Elain blushes and bites back a smile.

Azriel's smile widens, and a proper grin graces his features, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. He shakes his head. "Well, they're just getting reacquainted, then."

You watch him—for an indulgent minute—as he watches his shadows slither across the space between you. The smile is still on his face, and there's a glint of something warm in his eyes.

"Blue," he says suddenly, breaking your reverie. You blink, and he meets your gaze once more.

"Blue?" you repeat with a frown.

"My favorite color," he clarifies, his voice softer. "It's blue."

Friends know each other's favorite colors. You glance at the siphon on his hand. "A little too on the nose, isn't it?"

Azriel raises a brow and shakes his head, a small sound that you'd consider a breath of laughter escaping his lips. "It was my favorite color before I was granted these."

You nod. "Alright. Blue."

He looks at you for a long moment. "What's your favorite?"

You sit up straight, and your face falls into a frown. "I—I don't think I have one."

Azriel hums. "Choose one."

You give him another glance, raising an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that's not how favorite colors work."

He shrugs, and the gesture is so casual that it makes you settle into the seat once more—uncomfortable in body, but comfortable in spirit. "When you do decide, then," he says, meeting your eyes, "you'll tell me."

"Deal," you say, nodding . And then, compelled by something reminiscent of the night you slept together, you ask him another question. You invite him into a conversation, sitting together on the uncomfortable chairs you were gifted, in an apartment that is slowly becoming yours.

Azriel answers. And he asks one back.

Some time later, when you've found yourselves sitting closer, laughing at some story Azriel has surprised himself by sharing, you find yourself memorizing the colors in his eyes—the green, the brown, and the gold of his hazel. You catalogue the way they gleam when he makes a joke, the way they focus on you with an intensity you've never quite felt.

Hazel eyes, you settle on. You'd like your child to have Azriel's hazel eyes.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: i rewrote this 3 times, fun fact!!! 3 tries and 15k words erased for this baby so yall better lie to me and say its amazing!!! anyways we <3 co-parents who communicate!!! we love to see az and reader embracing the honesty they have with one another!!!

IMPORTANT : i won't be doing any more taglists for this! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore

permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

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@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

who you can write for: all marvel characters are welcome / any fictional sebastian stan or chris evans characters are welcome too (any characters they’ve portrayed based on real life people will not be accepted though!!) I will be expanding this from my last challenge and accepting submissions for characters from Top Gun Maverick & Twisters 2024. (please keep it to x reader fics only!!)

some general guidelines: Below I’ve provided a number of different scenes, quotes, and songs for inspiration ♡ Anyone can use as many as they'd like and even mix and match however you’d like!! If you use any please let me know somewhere in the post! If nothing below inspires you, you can always submit something with inspiration from a scene/dialogue exchange from another movie or tv show, just please let us know where the inspiration came from!! :) here's the catch though -> the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from the one the character is originally from. For example, if you write for Bucky Barnes, the scene/dialogue exchange has to come from another movie or tv show that is not from Marvel. 18+ fics are welcome, just please add warnings! Entries are not limited, you are welcome to submit as many entries as you'd like! Any length of fics are welcome, but if it’s over 500 words please add the “keep reading” option. If you write something as part of a bigger series, please write your submission as a standalone ♡

what is not accepted: no dark fics, anything involving minors, incest, rape, noncon/dubcon... (You can always message/inbox me to ask questions.)

how to enter: please tag me and use #elixirscinema when you post ♡ i’ll leave a like (from my main blog @saturnsflowers) to let you know I saw it and reblog it to this blog once I read it :) I love reading and leaving comments on all submissions, so please be patient with me if I don't get to yours right away! also, let me know if I haven’t interacted with your post after a few days in case I missed it! You can send me a reminder through my inbox or dm, thank you! ♡♡♡

Happy writing! My inbox is always open for any questions or comments!! ♡ 

These trailers are all so exciting! Did any of them pique your interest?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ For scenes, you can use any of the ones below or use one or more from any movie/tv show you'd like! You can use the dialogue, the themes, the moments, the dynamic, etc of the scene to inspire your writing. It doesn't necessarily have to be word for word or match the scene exactly nor entirely, it just has to inspire you in some way! Below I have different scenes linked for inspiration, but again you are free to use any scene(s) from anywhere else to inspire you!! ♡

📖 ...✩ Why didn't you write me? — The Notebook

🦊 ...✩ "I love you." / "It'll pass." — Fleabag S2

⛲️ ...✩ I loathe you... — The Princess Diaries 2

🩺 ...✩ Are you telling me you love me? — The Artful Dodger

🐎 ...✩ You're the bane of my existence... — Bridgerton S2

🗡 ...✩ That's not how you hold a dagger. — My Lady Jane

🗞 ...✩ You can’t lose something you never had. — How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

🪶 ...✩ I burn for you... - Bridgerton S1

🖊 ...✩ You are my exception. — He’s Just Not That Into You

👒 ...✩ Don't marry him. — Little Women

🏹 ...✩ I do... I need you. — The Hunger Games: Catching Fire

🌊 ...✩ I thought that we loved each other... — The Summer I Turned Pretty S2

🪵 ...✩ There is no one like you... — To All The Boys I've Loved Before

🚢 ...✩ You jump I jump, remember? — Titanic

🪩 ...✩ Doesn't what I said mean anything to you? — When Harry Met Sally

🎸 ...✩ You were paid to take me out? — 10 Things I Hate About You

🫧 ...✩ You're looking way too hot right now... — Love, Rosie

🐚 ...✩ Are you engaged to that beautiful woman? — Mamma Mia Here We Go Again

💌 ...✩ Break my heart into a thousand pieces... — To All The Boys: P.S. I Still Love You

🏛...✩ I am never going to be over you. — Scandal

🥂...✩ Oh, now I remember why I had such a crush on you… — Something Borrowed

🚑 ...✩ I'll tell you what you are to me... Criminal Minds S4

💋 ...✩ Do you really hate me? — The Hating Game

🌀 ...✩ It's okay, I've got you now... — Maxton Hall

I’m going to get some snacks before the marathon starts. Do you want anything? Here’s the menu:

🍫 ✩｡⋆⸜ "They warned me about you, I should have listened."

🥨 ✩｡⋆⸜ "No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You're going to be fine."

🍪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Of course I came for you. It would take far much more than that to stop me."

🍟 ✩｡⋆⸜ Realizing they're in love.

🍭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "It was just a kiss. It changed nothing between us."

🧋✩｡⋆⸜ "We're not just friends and you fucking know it."

🥤✩｡⋆⸜ "I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you."

🍬 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Are you flirting with me?" — "You finally noticed?"

🍿 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Just stay. We can figure everything else out later. Right now, just stay."

🍦✩｡⋆⸜ "If there's really nothing going on between the two of you, you don't mind if I ask ___ out on a date, do you?"

🍕✩｡⋆⸜ "I cannot stand you, and yet, I also cannot stand to be away from you."

🍗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

🥪 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?"

🍩 ✩｡⋆⸜ "If you don't love me, prove it then. Prove to me you've never felt something towards me. Look at me."

🌭 ✩｡⋆⸜ "You kissed me last night." — "And you didn't stop me."

🍔 ✩｡⋆⸜ "What if I told you I've been in love with you since we were kids?"

🥗 ✩｡⋆⸜ "Is this what you wanted, huh? Making me fall in love with you just—just to fucking leave? Do you really expect me to be okay with that?"

🌯 ✩｡⋆⸜ "I love you." — "You shouldn't."

🧁✩｡⋆⸜ "If you leave now, you lose everything. You lose me."

🧃✩｡⋆⸜ "I think we need to talk."

🍧 ✩｡⋆⸜ “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

🍰 ✩｡⋆⸜ “Kiss me.”

🍨 ✩｡⋆⸜ “It's storming, why are you here?"

Let's check out the songs on these soundtracks. Do you like any of them?

˙✧˖°🎥 ༘ ⋆｡🎞️˚ Feel free to use the lyrics below, the entire feel of the song, or any other lyrics in the song! The playlist is below in case you want to go through and listen to the songs while you write ♡

Black and White "Now, we're sittin' here in your livin' room. Tellin' stories while we share a drink or two, and there's a vision I've been holdin' in my mind. We're 65 and you ask when did I first know? I always knew." — Niall Horan

Cinema "Do you think I'm cool too? Or am I too into you? Tell me what you want and you got it, love. I want all of you, gimme all you got." — Harry Styles

Death Wish Love "And I'll ask the stars at night, how I can slow the time. God, I'm so terrified that I'm gonna lose you. And I'll die if I do." — Benson Boone

Exile "I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending. You're not my homeland anymore, so what am I defending now? You were my town. Now I'm in exile, seein' you out." — Taylor Swift

Happier Than Ever "And I don't talk shit about you on the internet. Never told anyone anything bad. 'Cause that shit's embarrassing, you were my everything, and all that you did was make me fucking sad. So don't waste the time I don't have, and don't try to make me feel bad." — Billie Eilish

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

I Like Me Better "I like me better when I'm with you. I don't know what it is, but I got that feeling. Wakin' up in this bed next to you. Swear the room, yeah, got no ceiling. If we lay, let the day just pass us by. I might get to too much talking. I might have to tell you somethin'" — Lauv

Iris "And I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be, and I don't wanna go home right now." — The Goo Goo Dolls

John Hughes Movie "Maybe if I'd reined it in, you wouldn't wanna kiss somebody else. And you don't owe me anything, so I'm just gonna walk home by myself. And it's not like I've been crying, no. There's just smoke in my eyes." — Maisie Peters

Love Again "Show me that heaven's right here, baby. Touch me so I know I'm not crazy. Never have I ever met somebody like you. Used to be afraid of love and what it might do, but goddamn, you got me in love again." — Dua Lipa

Love The Hell Out Of You "I'm gonna love the hell out of you. Take all the pain that you're going through. I'll bring you heaven if that's what you need. 'Cause you've always loved the hell out of me." — Lewis Capaldi

McKay & Cassie "Console me, don't let me go, baby. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you, so feed me with those pretty lies. 'Cause there ain't no escaping those ocean eyes. Oh, baby, I'll kill anybody that hurt you." — Labrinth

Movies "In my head, we're dancing in the dark. In my head, we kiss under the stars, but we know that's not what we're doing. 'Cause, baby, this ain't like the movies... I want a love like the movies." — Conan Gray

My Tears Ricochet "I didn't have it in myself to go with grace. And you're the hero flying around, saving face. And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed. Look at how my tears ricochet." — Taylor Swift

Slow Motion "Dreaming 'bout you sinkin' into my bed. Dizzy, I see stars all around my head. Liftin' me up to the moon and back again. You're my lucky penny, yeah, you just make sense. I like to keep my cool, but you're divine. Mother Nature must've taken her time. Come on, take me away, I'll let you drive." — Alessia Cara

So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings "And I'm out at a party, they're playin' our song. I cry on the dance floor, it's so embarrassing. Don't send me photos, you're makin' it worse. 'Cause you're so hot, it's hurtin' my feelings. I get a little lonely. Get a little more close to me. You're the only one who knows me, babe." — Caroline Polachek

The Way I Loved You "I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain. It's 2 a.m. and I'm cursing your name. I'm so in love that I acted insane and that's the way I loved you. Breaking down and coming undone, it's a roller coaster kind of rush. And I never knew I could feel that much and that's the way I loved you." — Taylor Swift

Unsaid Emily "If I could take us back, if I could just do that. And write in every empty space the words "I love you" in replace. Then maybe time would not erase me. If you could only know, I never let you go. And the words I most regret are the ones I never meant to leave unsaid..." — Julie and the Phantoms

You Could Start A Cult "Lately, what I know of reality. I let go of it happily when I look in your eyes. Mm, swear it's true. No mountain that I wouldn't move or sea I wouldn't part in two. To wake up by your side is all I wanna do." — Niall Horan & Lizzy McAlpine

1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back "It's one step forward and three steps back. I'm the love of your life until I make you mad. It's always one step forward and three steps back. Do you love me, want me, hate me? Boy, I don't understand." — Olivia Rodrigo

playlist for the songs above can be found here: 🎞️✮⋆˙

to my lovely mutuals, please don’t feel pressured to participate or share, just thought I’d share this with you all ♡  

@elvenrin @marvelstoriesepic @humanwip @flowersforbucky @whatever-lmaoo @nickfowlerrr @buck-star @navybrat817 @mercurial-chuckles @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @neverthatsirius-jo @perdidosbucky-yyo @nicoline1998enilocin @mostly-marvel-musings @vintagebuckybarnes @barnesafterglow @nekoannie-chan @stellar-solar-flare @fvckingavengers @thevillainswhore @drabblesandsnippets @amathslutsguidetofandom @multiversefanfics @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @malum-forev @nameless-ken @writing-for-marvel

I am new to the Top Gun Maverick & Twisters fanfic communities, (I've only just recently started writing for some characters), so I will be tagging some writers whose work I have in my to be read 🥺♡♡ To those who I've tagged, please feel free to ignore and don't feel pressured at all to share!! I just thought I'd reach out to a few writers in those communities, since I mainly have only marvel mutuals/followers ♡♡