where all the poets went to die

Based on the song Julie by Emily Kinney, give it a listen!

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie wants you to meet his new girlfriend, Julie. You don’t think she’s right for him, but who is? 

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, best friends to lovers, flufffff, presumed unrequited love, big tension-filled love confession–it’s yummy nummy guys fr, emotional cheating? (eh, kinda but not really, and not on reader, Eddie’s not a cheater tho), they wanna make out so bad, they’re so stupidly in love I hate them, friends to lovers, mentions of weed smoking, Eddie’s made-up religion. 

A/N: Sorry if your name is Julie, let’s pretend it’s not for the purposes of this fic. Two things: let’s pretend Hawkins is big enough to have taxis, and ‘skeeters’ as in the old Midwest way of saying mosquitos—you’ll get that when you read. Edit: there will be no part two, please don’t continue to ask.

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I’m staring at the ground as she walks right by

You’re staring at me mad ‘cause I refuse to say hi

I’m just staring into space ‘cause all I got on my mind

Elevator kisses, summer, summertime

Elevator kisses, you and I

–Julie by Emily Kinney

You’re sitting at the bar—your usual spot with Eddie at the Hideout—waiting to meet his new girlfriend. He’s about ten minutes late, but that’s not out of the ordinary for your best friend. In your thirteen years of knowing him, he’s only been early for an event twice—never exactly on time. Suffice it to say, he’s not changing much for this new girl. 

Halfway through your Amaretto Sour, you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you spot an out of breath Eddie—frizzy hair, band tee, and ripped jeans as per usual. 

Gif by @/drogonstone

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Your best friend, Eddie, teaches you how to paint a fence. You teach him what happens when he speaks sweet and low in your ear. 

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: fluff, teasing, lots of flirting, praise kink, innuendos, mention of murder (joke), jokes about homesteading, one comical use of ‘big daddy’, Eddie’s disdain for trailer park living, mentions of pregnancy, R ribbing E constantly, an inappropriate joke about churning butter, written quickly on no sleep–sorry for any mistakes

Song Rec: Be More by Stephen Sanchez

A/N: A little taste of summer now that it's cold <3 Also, this started as a drabble response of just dialogue to this ask, then suddenly it had a storyline. 

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It happens in the orange-y pink light of a summer evening, when the sun doesn't set until it's good and done burning the asphalt below, and the heat doesn't break until the fresh breath of early morning sends it to bed. And for all intents and purposes, it's a normal day. Nothing very special about it.

Except that you came over—like you always did on the days you don't work—and found Eddie, already outside, clad in baggy overalls and nothing underneath.

like crawl on top of you and suffocate you in kisses, drowning your half ass protests

hold your wrists together and bite you all over while you squirm

tackle you into his bed and pretend to be a monster eating you alive, complete with sound effects

bear hug you for like way too long

completely collapse on top of you, letting his body weight temporarily crush you

squish your cheeks and do a falsetto impression of your voice (hes so annoying)

come join my acotar party!

--

You feel octuplet incisors pinch against the skin of your arm, starting just beneath the hem of your sleeve so that Cassian's bloodlust won't be mottled by ridiculous things like fabric.

"Cassian." You scold, your eyes remaining firmly on the novel in front of you. It's all you'll say- if he's going to act like a dog, you'll treat him like one.

Another bite, this one further down from the other. He lines up the teeth marks and chomps an inch below the indents he'd left last time.

"Cassian," You speak through gritted teeth now, and the tone seems to grant you an extra second of respite. But of course, one second of restraint is all Cassian can manage.

When his teeth bite again into the flesh of your arm, this time beneath the elbow and oh-so-close to the thin skin of your wrist you finally glance up at him, eyes blazing as you repeat one final time, "Cassian!"

"Sorry!" He gushes, but his wink and his grin say different, "I'll stop."

You send him a disapproving glance that communicates exactly what you think of his promises, but ultimately the allure of your novel wins out. You turn back to it, and you're allowed a stunning six seconds of peace before Cassian's hand curls around your wrist so fast you can't dodge. Your heart lurches into your throat as he twists your arm so that your entire body comes too, and you topple from your chair and into his lap before you can even place your bookmark between the pages.

You yelp in a way that's not as intimidating or threatening as repeating his name again, but the sound is muffled against the fabric of his shirt. He's turned you into his chest, and his teeth now sink into the joint of your shoulder with your neck. You wriggle and squirm in his hold but it doesn't matter- he's got you captive, and he'll bite you until you bruise.

"You're an animal!" You shriek, and he growls against the clammy skin of your neck just to prove your point.

"You lost my place," You lament, staring woefully at the book now snapped shut on the table, its pages too springy to lay flat on their own, "Is nothing sacred to you, Cassian?"

come join my acotar party!

--

Most would think being tasked with the care and keeping of 'Amarantha's Whore' would be a gruesome ordeal, but Rhysand is rather pliant beneath your fingers where you're scratching at his scalp. You're really not supposed to be doing this- pampering him, but your jaw clenches tighter every night that he's chained to her bedposts on a short leash. You'd feared him just as everyone had at first, but with kind, violet eyes he's charmed you into giving him scalp massages instead of styling his hair.

"Don't fall asleep," You plead, but your voice has no real desperation, "I need you to sense when she's coming back."

"She won't." Rhysand insists, "Not tonight, she's- off with Hybern. That's what she said."

"She's probably leering down at us from the rafters," You glance warily upwards, and the thought unnerves Rhysand enough for him to do the same, "Waiting to drop on us and gut me for touching you."

"I quite like it when you touch me," Rhysand hums, and you know he's leaving off the end of his sentence, 'because you don't do it like her.'

Your relationship with Rhysand is purely professional. Well- perhaps not with the way you're getting him to purr like a housecat, but you've never slipped a hand beneath his waistband and you don't intend to. No, you're her servant's servant, and you're there to replenish the soul that she sucks out of him each day.

"She won't win," Is all the solace you can offer Rhysand, but you're not even sure you believe your own words, "She- she can't. And we'll walk free, someday."

"No," He shakes his head, but the grin creeping over his features keeps you from spiraling into thoughts of an endless mountain view, "I'm keeping you. You can live out your days as my personal masseuse. I'll take you to- home." He snaps his jaw shut after the stuttered phrase, and you feel muscles in his temples flare as he clenches his teeth together.

You poke and prod at the tensed expression until he flattens it with a sigh, angling his head backwards into your chest to gaze up at you, "Would you?"

"Spend the rest of my life working out knots in your neck?" You ask, your breath coming up short at the way his eyes gleam with silent hope.

"Come home with me," He clarifies, "I was kidding about the masseuse thing. Well- I wouldn't say no. But I know your village is... gone. If you want a place to stay, when all of this is over-"

"Don't get my hopes up." You shut his mouth with a single sentence, clamping your lips shut in case they let slip a sob. It's all too much now- you can manage one quip a day about your freedom, but if you think about it for too long, you'll end yourself on Amarantha's own dagger, "Just- don't. Please? Ask me again if we ever see the light of day."

come join my acotar party!

--

Cassian had offered you zero explanation as to why he'd plucked you off of the street like a mouse in a hawk's clutches, but he'd dangled you over the city all the way back to the river house, where he drops you on the balcony. You stumble from the abrupt landing, but he's got you around the bicep before you can fall, and he drags you through the doors like you're a prisoner behind them.

"There you are," Mor breathes, her expression visibly softening. Her brows smooth, and her eyes droop in relief, "Mother, he's been insufferable today."

"What-?" You ask, shaking Cassian's grip off of your arm and rubbing the tender skin he'd just strangled, "What is this? I was busy!" You glare indignantly at Cassian, "I was in the middle of grocery shopping, and you snatched me off the streets! I'm filing kidnapping charges," You stumble away from him, but you run directly into Azriel's chest, hard and imposing as he steps between you and the doorway.

"I told him to be gentle," Azriel hums, his voice low but firm, "But we can't let you leave."

"This is a kidnapping," You realize, and Cassian and Azriel team up to herd you towards the staircase, "Mor, am I making it out of here alive?"

"Don't worry!" She calls, standing on her tip-toes to be seen from over their shoulders, "As soon as he sees you he'll snap out of his funk!"

"What are you talking about?" You gush as you're prodded down the halls by claw-tipped wings that force you to comply or regret it, "Rhys can literally talk directly into my brain, if he wanted me here he'd have said something, and if you guys don't stop pushing me I'm gonna tell him you're roughing me up in his own home. And," You turn on them, narrowly avoiding a claw to the eye, and Azriel pins his left wing to the wall reflexively. You don't get to finish your breath, though, because a door at the end of the hall had slammed open, the door bouncing off of the wall and springing back to the room's inhabitant.

Rhysand stands in the doorway, his feet planted firmly against the ground in shiny black shoes. You wonder why he's not wearing less formal attire considering he's got a day free from any engagements, but his hair looks messy like he's been tugging at it, and you pair that with his wrinkled clothes to deduce that he's struggling particularly hard with the duties of being a High Lord today.

Well, now your abduction makes more sense.

Still- they could have just asked you to stop by after your shopping. There was no need for a kidnapping.

"Never again," You warn the two Illyrians in the hallway with a stern expression and an accusatory finger pointed at both of them. You walk backwards towards the door until Rhys catches your waist, and you give them one last glare as his presence washes over you alongside his citrusy scent, "In the future, you use your words."

"If you go use your body right now," Cassian narrows his eyes at the way Rhys has your waist in a grip like a vice, "We'll do whatever we want."

"Good." You snort, unbothered by the accusation, leaning in to the way Rhys presses into you from behind, "Go get the groceries you made me drop in the street, and when we get back to my apartment," You reach up to press Rhys's face flush with your own, your palm against his cheek, "I want dinner on the table."

"Done." Azriel murmurs, siphons gleaming in the low light of the hallway as he ushers Cassian back towards the living room. The latter calls out to Mor, and you watch as Cassian bundles her into his arms, headed for the open door to the balcony.

"Come on," Cassian grunts at her, scooping her into his grip as Rhysand presses his nose to your neck, lips ghosting against your skin, "We're gonna need to evacuate for a few hours."

You watch as they take off from the balcony, and when they're nothing more than specks of darkness in the sky you turn, Rhys's arms wound around your waist, "What was all of that about?"

"I've been snappy today," He admits reluctanly, his hands squeezing your hips like they're dough he wants to squish through his fingers, "Apparently they thought you could help."

"I can." You surge forwards to kiss his mouth, gasping for air when he lets you. You shuffle into his office as best you can, but you barely make it to the arm of the couch, "Are you gonna push me around too?"

All of a sudden your feet aren't on the floor anymore, and you feel a sharp sting as his palm connects squarely with your ass. You wonder how he's reached it with such momentum, and then you realize that he's managed to flip you around, and when you gain a bearing on your senses you find yourself hauled over the couch, your face inches away from the cushions as the arm elevates your ass.

It's not comfortable, per se, but it's thrilling, and that'll do.

come join my acotar party!

--

"Celene is going to kill you." Rhysand's velvet voice breaks you from the wide-eyed, stiff-necked reverie you'd been in, and when you snap back into reality you realize that your finger is in your mouth. Just the edge of it, but there's a coppery coating tingling at your tongue that tells you you'd ripped the skin off before popping it in your mouth to soothe the burn.

Sure enough, the nails on your opposite hand are red-stained beneath the pink paint you'd gotten done weeks ago. You're due for a new color, and your nail artist can always tell when you've been picking. Each time she lectures you for however long it takes to smooth out the irritated skin around your nails, and sends you home with a pocket-sized jar of balm.

It's been scraped clean, and your nails are chipping.

"I didn't mean to," You stare helplessly at your nails, like your gaze might mend the broken skin, "I- I wasn't paying attention, and I just-"

"I know." Rhysand hums comfortingly, his eyes softer than usual, bright violet dimmed to a sweet lavender, "Here."

He takes your hand like a healer would, but no magic seeps through his palms and stitches your torn skin back together. Instead, he tucks your palm against his, turning back to his research with the dip of his head towards the pages of the tome before him.

"I need to read," You tug experimentally on your conjoined fingers, but Rhys holds yours steady.

"You can read one-handed." He chuckles, the sound deep and comforting from his chest, "That's what I'm doing."

"Rhys," You plead, voice strained and ready to snap from the force of a shameful cry as you try to reclaim your hand, "I don't need babysitting. I won't do it again, just- let me go."

"I'm not babysitting you." He squeezes your hand tight, stilling any of your pitiful attempts to fight him by writhing out of his grip, "I'm holding your hand. We're mated, if you've forgotten," He raises an jet-black brow in your direction, "That's within my jurisdiction. And," He flashes you a grin, teeth gleaming like the counterpart to his onyx brows, "If it just so happens to free you from another twenty minutes of Celene's mothering, I think that's a good thing."

It's hard to admit defeat, because you'd been fighting so vigorously to free yourself from him only moments ago. But he's right, and he'd been well-intentioned from the start, even if it had rubbed you the wrong way, so you let your fingers melt against his and turn back to your own book with a soft sigh.

What the most terrifying thing ever? Bugs

Specifically beetles 😧

In a very serious event the night court is hosting reader wears a low cut top but very unfortunately a beetle sneaks into her top and she's freaking out and turns to az who watched the whole thing and knows about readers fear of beetles, he also knows if he doesn't do anything she'll scream bloody murder so he reaches down her top and retrieves the insect promptly.

I assume everyone's faces will be like this 😀 and poor az has to explain himself now

There's a very tense few seconds in which the entire night is jeopardized for you and your court.

Time trudges like walking through water, your muscles tensing as you try fighting through it but your vision tunneling and slowing as you watch a beetie- a six-legged, shiny-winged freak dive over your shoulder and straight into the bejeweled top you've donned for the night.

You'd be amused if it were any other bug- a ladybug, a butterfly, perhaps even a bumblebee as long as it didn't think to sting you. You might have made a joke about being bought dinner first, or made a show of reaching into your top to extract the thing. But this is a public gala, these people are honored guests, and you really need to not make a fool of yourself.

You can feel it's tiny feet on your skin. It's massive- you're not even sure how it fit in your top to begin with, but it's crawling around in there and you're certain your practiced mask of elegance is slipping for a grotesque, horror-filled expression.

It's buzzing, too, whether its wings are vibrating and striking its shell or whether its body just does that. It's unsettling, whatever it is, and you can feel nausea and sobs both crawling their way up your throat, fighting to be the one to escape first.

You'd been too distracted by the sight of the intruder in your bra to notice Azriel, but he's somehow crossed the entire balcony in the two seconds you've been slogging through time. The last you'd seen him he was leaning over the edge and brooding, as he's wont to do, but now he's right in front of you, and one of his scarred hands dives into your bust the same way the beetle had.

You don't even see his face- all you see is his fingers dipping into your top, then his palm presses to your breast and the beetle is extracted between his pointer and thumb. You're so grateful for the intervention that you don't realize what he's done, but when he tosses the bug into the air and it flies clumsily away, still buzzing incessantly, you catch numerous guests staring your way, eyes a mixture of amused and appalled.

"Azriel," You breathe, "Thank you, I- I hate beetles."

"I know." He murmurs, his voice low and private, "I saw it and I didn't want you to freak out. I figured it'd make a scene."

"I think," You peer over his shoulder, "You did that anyways."

You've never seen Azriel blush before. You've seen his face flushed with exertion after a particularly rough workout, but this is an honest-to-gods blush, a pink hue over his cheeks that spreads like wildfire both down his neck and up his ears.

His hand, previously suspended by your shoulders, drops to his side like a lead weight, anchoring him to his spot.

"I'm sorry." He blurts, and he peers around to meet the gazes of your onlookers, "Uh- I wasn't- you know what I was doing."

"I know." You nod fervently, "But it looked like-"

"I know." He nods back, the pair of you looking like struck bobbleheads as Azriel's shadows begin billowing up towards your faces, desperate to hide you and their master from the shame curling inside both of your guts.

"He knows," Azriel grimaces, and you gather that Rhysand has just spoken to him inside of his mind, "How does he find out so fast?"

You don't know what Rhysand says to Azriel, but you hear the groan it elicits from him, and under cover of shadow, Azriel slings an arm around your waist and shadowwalks you off of the balcony.

You're not sure where you end up at first, but you recognize his bedroom from the few times you've drifted inside. It's usually while he's injured and unable to get himself into bed, but it's nice this time to look around without desperately searching for a first aid kit.

There's a necklace on his dresser, a chain that you've seen hanging off of his neck every once in a while. And chapstick that you're sure he doesn't use, because his lips look slightly cracked from the cold weather you've been having in Velaris lately.

There's a book, too, but before you can raise to your tip-toes to see the title, he steps in front of you.

"I'm sorry I did that," He peers carefully down at you, trying to gauge whether you're uncomfortable or not, "I was just trying to help."

"I know! I know," You assure him, raising a hand to his bicep and rubbing it comfortingly, "Please, don't worry. I'm sure the public image is going to be, uh, awkward, but I'd rather have people staring at me funny than wrestle a beetle out of my top."

"He was very bold," Azriel's mouth tightens into a frown at the mention of the bug, "And very clumsy with it. Not smooth at all."

"You were smooth," You snicker, and Azriel's blush returns. Suddenly you want to see it every day, 24/7, and you test your hand at darkening it, "You slipped your hand down there so fast I didn't realize you'd done it until you were out again. You get a lot of practice?"

"No!" Azriel insists, his voice a decibel too loud, "That's not- no. Don't say it like that."

"I'm messing with you," You relent, because his face is so red now it's likely to catch fire. You find it endearing- his guard isn't usually down enough to showcase emotions like this. You squeeze his arm, feeling the tough muscles beneath your fingertips, "Thank you, Azriel. Really. I'm glad I have a residential bug-catcher living with me."

I just know that man always notices the little things and goes out of his way to fix them if he can.

hope ur doing super amazing, mei!!

love em!

You know that your despair is a downward spiral- a ring that you're trapped inside of but you don't care. You're especially tired tonight, so you're not going out of your way to speak with anyone at what Rhys calls 'family dinner', and what you call a bunch of people in your house. Because you're hiding in the corner, no one is coming up to you. Sitting alone and watching people pass you by only makes your mood worse, and people definitely won't approach you now that your scowl has deepened so far that your jaw hurts from being clenched.

You love your family, but half of the people here aren't close enough to be considered family. There's plenty of people that Feyre's invited from her new paint-and-sip club, and some of the Court's diplomats that Rhys insists on calling his friends are also in attendance. It's an extended version of the group that gathers around your table every night, but your energy is certainly not extended at the moment, so you clutch your glass of wine like a lifeline and cross one thigh over another, willing the time to speed up so that you can slip upstairs without seeming out of place.

"Did one of them insult you?" A voice comes from your left, somewhere alarming because you're pressed into a corner and definitely should have seen anyone coming. You jolt so hard that you nearly slosh your wine out of your glass, but a puff of billowing shadows is your dead giveaway, and Azriel smirks lightly at you as you calm from his shadowwalking antics.

"Well you're not improving my mood," You grumble, sipping at your nearly-displaced wine, "But no. Rhys's minions are boring, but not offensive. I'm inclined to tell that girl of Feyre's to get her heels off of the ottoman, but I think my problems run deeper."

"What are your problems, Y/N?" He asks, half-teasing, half-sincere. You sigh, staring down at the deep red in your glass, trying to think of an answer that feels right instead of an excuse.

"I don't know," You land on, and it feels like a cop out, but it's true, "I just- I'm really tired. And this is Rhys and Feyre's house, so of course they can have friends over. But I wish it had been on a day when I wasn't so drained, because now I'm trapped here with a bunch of people I don't know. And I can't go to bed because it's too early and I'd get a slew of questions thrown my way, but I can't sit here any longer or I'll fall asleep against the terribly uncomfortable wall."

Azriel clicks his tongue sympathetically, his wings flaring to slip one behind your back.

"That takes care of that," He muses, glancing down at the way your eyes droop, "If you want to go up to bed, go up to bed. I'll walk you."

Upstairs you'll be alone. You'll hear the party going on, and even though you're not enjoying yourself now, you'll feel worse skipping it, and hiding away in the dark. So you shake your head, but you do tip your head back, letting Azriel's leathery wing cushion your skull.

"No. I'll feel worse." You admit, grimacing as you tip your head to stare up at him. He's an imposing figure, but you can't find an ounce of fear in yourself around him- only trust, wholehearted and founded on an entire lifetime of him having your back. He's scary, but he's scary to other people, and you can't stop your lips from curving up into a soft smile despite the weight of your words.

"I feel left out because no one's talking to me, but the more left out I feel, the crankier I get, so the more no one wants to talk to me."

Azriel considers this with a brief glance at the crowd, brows lifting in contemplation, "I suppose. I wanted to talk to you, though."

"Yeah? About what?" You ask, your grin only widening as you brace your cheek against the soft inner membrane of his wing. He's all too eager to wrap an arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his tantalizingly warm side that doesn't help you fight the sleep that's trying to creep up on you.

"About how that woman needs to get her heels off of the ottoman," He snickers, and it's such a rare sound from him that you can't help but giggle yourself, muffling the noise into his shoulder so that she doesn't overhear. She's simply gotten too comfortable with her wine and her friends, and you can't blame her for that, but it rains in Velaris, and if there's mud on the deep red velvet ottoman, Rhys is going to throw a hissy fit.

"Here," Azriel calls your attention to a wispy shadow that separates itself from his army, "Watch."

It skitters towards the woman, staying tight to the dark floorboards that conceal it until it slips beneath her chair. From there, it shoves the ottoman right out from under her feet, and her eyes widen as her kitten heels meet the floor, the furniture inexplicably rearranged.

Thankfully, the whole gaggle of girls is so wine drunk that they don't put two and two together. The shadow escapes, and once one woman begins laughing at the shock, the rest follow. You and Azriel are off the hook, and his other wing flares out in front of you to shield your laughter from the guests just across the room.

"Let's go to bed," Azriel bargains, once your laughter has died down and your eyes have begun drooping again. You're so tired you don't question the implications, you only lean into the way that he bends down to lift you off of your feet and drape you over his chest.

"Thanks Az," You hum against his ear, not only for saving the ottoman, but for chasing the scowl from your face, "You have a scary face too, don't you? That's how you knew to come talk to me anyways?"

"I do," He nods, his hand rubbing soothingly down your back as he carts you up the stairs, surely generating more attention than you'd have garnered by just walking- but you don't care anymore. All you're concerned with is the warmth between Azriel's neck and shoulder, and you nestle your nose right in the space there.

"Do you get sad when no one talks to you?"

"Sometimes," He admits, his voice quiet even without the way it's muffled into your shoulder, "But not always. Sometimes it's easy to get wrapped up in your head about it. I don't think anyone was avoiding you tonight," He promises, and you feel yourself being lowered onto your bed, the blankets tugged back by helpful shadows, "I think you were tired, and there were far too many fucking politicians in the room, even for my taste."

"Our best friend is a politician," You groan, tossing an arm over your achy eyes, "We can't say things like that."

"He can't hear us." Azriel reasons, his arms feeling especially empty now that he's set you down. His shadows make quick work of tucking you in, and you soak in the bliss of finally being burrowed deep beneath your blankets.

"'Night Az," You hum, his name shortened because you're too tired to attempt the rest of it, "Next time, will you shadowwalk us to the roof?"

"Next time, I promise," He agrees, tucking his wings in tight to avoid scraping them on the doorframe as he backs out of your room, flicking the fae lights out as he goes, "For now, just let yourself rest, and try not to think about Feyre's friend's footprints on our furnuture."

And az says fuck it and lays his head on her lap

Reader short circuits lol

You're not waiting up for Azriel. Because if you were, that'd be silly- you're not together. You're not courting, or friends with benefits, or in any sort of situation that would warrant worrying over the Shadowsinger until his return. So you're not waiting up for him, you're just... reading. In the common room. By the large french doors leading to the balcony that Azriel lands on each time he returns from a mission.

There's a fire crackling to your left, and a blanket draped over your lap, a wine glass atop the coffee table with a single sip left, forgotten. Everyone else's glasses are in the sink because they'd turned in hours ago, but you're nearing the end of your book and contemplating whether you could finish and come back down with another one without embarrassing yourself.

There's a soft pop as a book appears on the cushion to your left, a gift from the house that warms your cheeks. Even the house can tell that you've got inconvenient feelings for Azriel? You'd never admit it to a single soul, but the Shadowsinger has you wrapped around his scarred finger. He's kind, effortlessly so, even if he doesn't seem that way due to his constant state of eerie silence. But you've spent enough time with him that you know he's merely listening, not judging or wishing he were someplace else, and now you take comfort in being silent beside him. It's why the room feels stiflingly quiet, it's lonely instead of shared.

You sigh and power through the remaining 20 pages of your novel, but before you can turn the acknowledgements page of your next read, a resounding thump comes from the darkness beyond the glass doors.

The starlight of Velaris illuminates just enough of the night that you can see Azriel's silhouette. His wings, gracefully deadly, begin tucking themselves towards his spine from where they'd been flared in use. Even without them, he's formidable, broad shoulders lethally toned and feet spread apart to their width. it's a fighting stance, he's solid and strong, and you feel an involuntary shiver run down your spine at how impressive he manages to be just standing there.

When he steps through the doors, he becomes softer.

The darkness vanishes as the light from above hits his face, and you revel in his tanned features, weary and relieved to finally be home. You're certain he never fully lets his guard down; that even asleep he makes his shadows keep watch, but it's clear that he feels some degree of safety within these walls as his shoulders slump a fraction, no longer held proudly below his ears. His eyes catch you before his shadows do, but the latter greet you warmly, swarming over en masse to turn you blanket gray and wispy. You laugh, nothing more than an exhale as they crawl up your hands, twining between your fingers and tickling your cheeks. You squirm, eyes scrunching shut as they explore the planes of your face.

"You're up late." Comes Azriel's voice, low and smooth and comforting. It falls over the silence like a blanket- not shattering it, but preserving it, warming it, chasing away the cold loneliness that had begun seeping into your bones.

"Well, so are you." You raise a hand to coax his shadows off of your face, letting them dance around your arm instead. They swirl up towards your biceps, covering your arm in patterns eerily similar to Azriel's Illyrian tattoos, giving you a matching sleeve to their singer.

You inspect it with a soft giggle, and you miss the way Azriel's pink lips turn vaguely up at the corners.

"I had business to attend to on the border of dawn and day," Azriel reveals, which isn't much information, but it's more than he'd have offered to anyone outside of the Inner Circle, so your chest glows with pride. Your chest glows a lot around Azriel, and you try very hard not to think about why that might be.

"I hope it went well?" You ask, and his shadows suddenly dart towards your discarded book on the couch cushions, swallowing it up and spitting it out on the coffee table so that the rest of the couch is free.

"It was business," Azriel hums resignedly, taking the spot that his shadows had cleared for him and traipsing over to rest his weary bones on the cushion beside you. You become very aware that, while all of the furniture in the house is made to accommodate Illyrian wings, a loveseat is a loveseat, and it's made only for two. You steady your breathing as Azriel's scent makes itself known between you, something distinctly manly and lush that nearly makes your eyes drift shut in ecstasy.

It weaves its way into every breath you take, and you shut your book with the hopes of not needing to open it again for the rest of the night.

"Are you tired?" You ask, because you know the warriors have been rigorously trained. They simply need less sleep to operate, though you're sure more would be beneficial. Azriel nods, though, melting into the couch cushions in a way that sags his shoulder into your own.

"Very." He sighs, eyes drifting shut, "Are you?"

Your eyelids are heavy.

"A bit," You hum, "Do you- want to go to bed?"

He cracks one eye open, glancing over at your books on the coffee table.

"Not particularly." He speaks, and you can hear the tension in his voice even though you're not needling him for the information, "I'm in no hurry to get back to my bedroom."

"Is your bed uncomfortable?" You guess, but his teeth briefly gleam in a grin.

"No," He muses, "It's just lonely there. And cold. And I could use some companionship after these last few days of glaring at everyone."

A joke! Or humor, at least, something you're meant to laugh at. And you do, soaking in the rare sight of Azriel poking fun at his terrifying persona.

"You know, you're the one that chooses to glare at everyone all day. You could try greeting people with a smile and a handshake, but I think they're so used to your legendary brooding that they'd die of shock." You can't keep the smile off of your face, and Azriel's face turns sharply to meet your eyes, hazel eyes gleaming with amusement as his handsome features try stifling a grin. He's holding back a breathy laugh, but it comes through his nose despite his best efforts, his forehead tipping closer to brace against your arm.

Your skin burns at the contact- in a good way, but burning nonetheless. You wait with bated breath for him to speak again, and he groans against your skin, his lips- his lips! - brushing your bicep.

"This is ridiculous. I come home, dead tired, stomach empty, feet aching, for the first time in three days, and you're making fun of me?"

"You started it," You jostle your shoulder, making him worm his face further into your skin to keep it steady, "And if you're so tired and hungry, go eat and sleep!"

"No." He says simply, the weight of his grueling work finally dragging him down so heavily that his entire body tips towards yours, head landing in your lap while his claw-tipped wings carefully avoid nicking your skin.

"Azriel," His name escapes your lips in a gasp without thought, without warning, and he doesn't fully settle into your lap until you finish speaking, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?"

He turns his head further into your lap with a smile, his eyes closed and his face nearly pressed into your stomach as half of it disappears against your blanket, "It's plenty comfortable here. And like I said before- I'd be lonelier there. If you're going to keep reading, I'll stay here for a bit."

There's a thousand things running through your mind. Azriel's body is laid across yours, warm and comfortingly heavy and divinely close. His breath is seeping through your blanket and warming your lap, chasing away more of that cold that had frozen over the room before he'd returned. It's a stifling closeness that you're experiencing with him now, more than you've ever felt before, and that persistent glow in your chest returns, practically shooting beams of light straight through your wildly beating heart.

You don't pick up your book for a solid twenty seconds. You merely freeze, letting Azriel's breathing even out against your body as your eyes gaze hazily down at him. You're frozen- not tense, but incapable of thinking of a next step to take. His shadows help, though, and they reach for your novel, encasing it like a dust jacket and holding it open on the right page for you to peruse. When you try taking it, though, they pull it back, separating in halves so that one bunch can wrap themselves around your hands and tug them towards your lap.

Your fingers land in Azriel's hair, and before you can pull them back, mortified, the man releases a heady groan into your thighs, one that thrums in all the right places and sends your head spinning. Tentatively, you twitch your fingers, then begin raking your fingernails through his scalp, between strands of inky black hair that part for your hands, impossibly soft despite his exposure to the elements for days on end.

"Thank you," Azriel breathes into your lap, reverent. The tone warms your face, his voice just as intoxicating as the wine you'd sipped hours ago, and you wonder if you're somehow drunk again as the words in the book before you blur together and seem to swim on their pages.

You understand now- his shadows will hold your book, even turn your pages for you, so long as you keep combing through their master's hair. You're not sure if they're serving Azriel or yourself at he moment, but you send a silent, thankful prayer to the Mother for them as they sidle the book up above Azriel's head to present you with the story.

You run your fingers through Azriel's hair until they buzz with the memory of it even without the contact. They tingle when you break away to itch your nose, the phantom strands still tickling at your skin before you plunge your hands back into his locks to keep soothing him into sleep. You can't tell if he's out or not, but he's at least relaxed, his limbs devoid of all tension as they melt into the couch, his breath still seeping through the blanket and keeping your thighs impossibly warm.

You've never been less interested in a novel before- It's a romance, something off of Nesta's shelf that features a tall, dark, and handsome man a head taller than the leading lady. But there's a notable lack of wings on his back, and you have to remind yourself each time a certain face pops into your head that the character is meant to have brown eyes and a much lighter complexion than the man in your lap. His shadows do seem to appreciate some of the story, though, darting across the page to underline words like 'glowering', 'dark-haired', and 'muscular'.

You have the sense that everyone is being very, very indulgent with you and your sisters at the moment. Feyre has settled in nicely- but Rhysand and his friends love her, she's a part of their family and that's why they let her get away with so much. The rest of you? You're all watched closely like baby deer at risk of breaking your spindly legs at any moment, coddled in case your reactions to being told no at such a turbulent point in your lives are to dive headfirst into vices like Nesta's beginning to, or to spasm with a cosmic vision like Elain.

You're doing just fine, though you delight in taking advantage of everyone's rush to please you.

You don't have any magic as far as you know- nor do you have a burning desire to frequent any of the Night Court's pleasure houses. You'll leave all of that to your sisters, instead preferring to mill about the city, eyes wide and starry as you take in the new world you've been granted access to.

Cassian has called it mooning. He's insistent that you're far too easy to please, and you'll admit that your delight in seeing something as routine for the fae as Velaris's rainbow definitely marked you as a naive outsider, but you don't care. You can't stop yourself from marveling at your new surroundings, and Cassian can't stop himself from teasing you about it.

It's why his gaze locks on you the second you trot down the staircase into the main foyer of the River House, your dress a pale shade of sage green that hangs around your calves and swishes beautifully when you twirl. There's a matching ribbon in your hair and you feel on top of the world as you practically skip towards the door, Cassian's gaze following you and dipping down your back as you peer out the windows.

"You look fit for a picnic," Cassian drawls, his grin gleaming in the faelight, "One in a children's storybook where your companions are birds that help you braid your hair and squirrels that offer you their acorns."

Your dress flares in one of those delicious spirals as you spin to face him, its impact barely missing the back of Azriel's chair that you're planted behind, "Good. I met a mouse yesterday in the forest that promised me some baked brie and I intend to hold him to it."

Cassian snorts, Mor's pretty pink lips turn up in a sweet smile that pairs well with her melodic giggle, and the shadowsinger in front of you almost cracks a grin. You can see the urge in the barest twitch of his lips, and that's what matters. They're all lounging about- you assume Rhysand has stolen you sister away for the day, and that Nesta and Elain are off doing the very things the Inner Circle is afraid they're doing. The four of you now share the ornate lounges of the sitting room, and you eye the way Cassian is squeezing his hair in a hand towel.

"Did you just shower?" You ask, and though you haven't addressed him by name, his attention is on you immediately. Perhaps you'd never lost it, and he cocks his head to the side, his grin still firmly in place.

"I did. Disappointed you missed the show?"

You register his innuendo but don't feel the need to rise to the bait. Instead you reach for a glass of fruit juice that had simply appeared on the table near your left hand, ducking it beneath the curve of Azriel's wing and sipping on it lightly.

"I've just never seen you with wet hair is all. You've always got it in that little..." You trail off, one hand forming a fist at the back of your head as you flood your mouth with another sip of juice.

Cassian smirks so hard that he nearly gives himself a dimple.

"It's good for combat." He nods, already beginning to gather his hair into its typical topknot, "It keeps it out of my way."

"Have you ever braided it before?" You ask, and he blows out a sharp breath around the rubber band clasped in his teeth.

"Uhn-uh," Is his muffled reply, and when he takes the ponytail from between his teeth to wrap it tightly around his hair, he continues, "Too much work. And it'd probably detract from my fear factor."

"I could do it," You hum quietly, and Azriel's wings twitch, his attention now on you as he turns to watch you ask, "Can I? Can I braid it for you?"

Morrigan and Azriel share a wide-eyed look that you ignore in favor of flashing your best doe eyes in Cassian's direction.

Cassian's breath stutters, his shoulders deflating in a permanent exhale. His voice is raspy as he stammers, "Um," and you watch the war be waged in his head between indulge and deny.

Indulge, you beg internally, shouting the thoughts to the heavens, or the Mother, or whoever can hear the things Rhys tells you fae can project. You're hazy on the details, but you know he and Feyre can read minds. Apparently you're able to hear the thoughts of your mate, through that special bond that's supposed to feel like sunlight dappled straight onto your soul, but Rhysand and Feyre both have daemati powers, which is different and confusing and slightly terrifying. But no matter. Indulge, you plead again, flinging the words out for any listeners to hear, Indulge, indulge, indulge! Indulge because you're afraid I might freak out like my sisters. I'll do it. I'll throw a temper tantrum in the city square. I'll charge an entire bakery's worth of goods to Rhysand's name, I'll pitch myself off the stairs of the House of Wind. All ten thousand of them. Indulge!

Cassian blinks bewilderedly, his eyes wide and his wings stiffening, "Okay. Sure- yeah, you can- you can braid my hair."

You miss the way Mor and Azriel share another glance, this one distinctly more stunned than their previous trepidation. You rush to perch yourself on the back of the couch, folding your legs around Cassian's broad form and tucking the skirt of your dress into the space between them to protect your modesty as you begin tangling your fingers into his wet locks.

Smoothing them is a task, then parting them, then crossing them over one another until your fingers are slippery, dewy and smelling of Cassian's conditioner. It's a nice musky scent, and you can't say you're upset that it'll linger throughout your day. You hum through every step, your melody flowing straight into Cassian's reddening ears, not that you notice their flushing hue.

Azriel and Morrigan do, which is why they stare unabashedly at the way you tuck a stray piece back into place over the apex of his ear.

He shudders at the scrape of your nails against the sensitive skin just behind his earlobe, and you let out a giggle that interrupts the tune you're humming, "Sorry. Almost done."

Cassian wordlessly passes you the elastic when you tap his shoulder, ready to fasten off the braid.

You've done it so that it's anchored securely to his head, weaved with smaller sections of hair at first that grow larger all the way down until the tail where it hangs just above his spine. It'll serve him well in combat, if he decides to initiate any more sparring sessions than he already has.

"Okay, now I'm done." You tug gently on the end of the braid, clamoring off of the back of the couch with the same clumsy enthusiasm as you'd mounted it with, "Lemme see!"

You take his face into your hands the second you're on stable footing, and you tilt it this way and that to admire the way his hair looks braided behind his head. It's a new look on him, and you grin giddily at how it suits him.

"It's cute!" You insist, "It looks nice on you, Cassian."

"Thank you for braiding it," His voice hums against your fingertips that have pressed into his throat, unusually quiet and calm, "Do you want an escort down to the city today?"

"Hm?" You ask distractedly, still inspecting your handiwork, "Oh! Sure, you want to come with? I was going to get a pastry."

You tilt his head up again, staring down at him from where you're planted between his legs as he sits on the couch. He nods, the movement jostling your hands but not knocking them loose- no, you drop them when he stands, and you feel one of his own grab hold of yours before it can even hit your side.

"Let's go," He kicks aside one of Mor's slippers that's in the way, "Az, tell Rhys I'll be late to drinks tonight."

"If you have something to do-" You start, lifting Cassian's hand where it clings to yours and pressing your other over its back. He stops in his tracks, shaking his head and squeezing your hand.

"No, don't worry about it. We drink all the time. And besides," He begins moving again, ushering you towards the door of the House with determined steps, "If I let you go by yourself you might be seized with the sudden urge to buy the whole bakery on Rhys's credit."

Your steps falter, and your gaze snaps to Cassian's with narrowed scrutiny.

"What?" You ask, the words eerily reminiscent of your earlier, silent, mental threats.

Cassian shakes his head, his braid flying, his eyes kept firmly on the road in front of him as he practically drags you into town by your conjoined hands, "Nothing. Bakery, then bookstore?"

It's like he's read your mind.

It horribly backfires when it turns out nyx was learning about family relationships dynamics/feelings and he is convinced they are married, and when they refute the argument, he starts stating reasons that he thinks why they are.

How will that affect those two idiots who think they are in unrequited love with each other lol

You're swiping your tongue over your index finger to try and rid it of the sticky ice cream dripping down the side of your cone when Nyx pipes up from beside you, his little legs swinging beneath the bench you're seated at, "Auntie Y/N, are you and Uncle Cass married?"

Cassian blows milkshake out of his nose. It's a rather unflattering sight, one that you'd have liked to gawp and laugh at under different circumstances. But you're spluttering plenty yourself, and you wordlessly hand Cassian a napkin from the pile he'd grabbed for you so that he can sponge cookies and cream out of the inside of his nose.

"No, Nyxie." Your mouth suddenly feels dry, devoid of any strawberry sweetness as you abandon the hope of cleaning your cone, instead letting it ooze into your hand, "What- why would you think that?"

"Well in class," He starts, the word carrying a five year old's pride of being a big kid, one that goes to school, "We learned about families. And how people get married when they love each other. And I know you and Uncle Cass love each other, so-"

"Holy shit," Cassian grunts under his breath, half of his pain from the milkshake in his sinuses and the other half from the awkward conversation, "No, kid- I- we do love each other," He cringes at the phrase, looking like he's licking its bitter remnants off of his teeth as he mulls over his next words, "But- but I love your mom too, and- and I'm not married to her, am I?"

"No," Nyx considers this, but he brightens, "But my teacher said it's a special kind of love that makes people get married! And you two love each other the special way."

"Do we?" You ask before you can stop yourself, some selfish, delusional part of you perhaps desperate for even the false hope a starry-eyed child can provide, "Why do you think it's special?"

"Lotsa reasons." Nyx notices his own ice cream slowly creeping over the edge of his cone, eagerly setting about slurping it from the sides and cutting himself off in the meantime. You take the rare, momentary silence to shoot Cassian a wide-eyed glance over the boy's head, his own stare already fixed on your face.

You spend a lot of your time wishing there was a mating bond between you and Cassian, but now more than ever as you feel the need for silent communication. How are you going to get out of this? And more importantly, why hasn't Cassian begun laughing yet? This is right up his alley, a naive comment that suggests he's getting lucky with a woman, albeit more tame than his usual remarks. It's unnerving

"You got her napkins," Nyx resumes speaking, pointing accusingly at Cassian, and you both hang wordlessly in your spots, arms stiff and frozen, brains suspended in fog, "And yours is in a cup so you don't need any, but me and Auntie do 'cause it's messy. But you didn't make her get some, you got them for her, and that means you love her in the special way 'cause you're always doing stuff for her so she doesn't have to. Like earlier when her shoe came untied-" You'd been chasing Nyx around the playground, playfully batting at his heels through the bars of the jungle gym as he tried evading you. You'd stepped on your own foot, then dragged one lace out of its bow, "-you made her stop running and you got up to tie it for her. Mommy says," He recites with a sigh, "that running's not safe when your shoes aren't tied, 'cause you could trip. And Daddy always makes sure Mommy's safe, and he likes to tie her shoes 'cause he kisses her knee while he's doing it."

Cassian is blushing.

You're not sure you've ever seen Cassian blush- not from emotions, at least. He's beet-red after a few too many glasses of wine, but you're not sure you've ever seen him this pink while sober. It spreads a tendril of affection through your chest that blooms like a blossom as it winds across your heart, then jabs thorns into the beating muscle as Nyx begins prattling again.

"And!" He nearly shouts the word, "You're always together! You came to get me from school together, and you left together last night from dinner 'cause Uncle Cass walked you home, and you came to dinner together too, 'cause Uncle Cass walked you to our house, and he always walks you everywhere 'cause Daddy says he doesn't want you to walk alone 'cause it's not safe so," He lands at his conclusion with a heaving chest, his little lungs aching from the mouthful he'd just hurled at you both, "You're married, right?"

"No." Cassian murmurs, his voice soft and wounded, "No, Nyx, we're really not married. That's all..."

"Very sweet," You force your own voice to work, "But we're not- married."

"Are you gonna get married?" The boy asks, his midnight black brows furrowed in something close to distaste, "Mommy said you should."

Curse Feyre and her meddling child, you're never drinking around her again if she's going to tell Nyx what you let slip about your little crush. The two of you are, admittedly, very close. But you're stuck behind that stupid wall of friendship, and there's nothing you can do to tunnel through it without risking injury if it collapses. You're not willing to lose Cassian, even if you can't ever really have him.

You open your mouth to say no again, and you hear Cassian's voice mingling with yours at the same time, "Maybe."

Your neck aches in the aftermath of snapping it up to stare at him bewilderedly. His head rears back, like you're the confusing one, "Well we could-"

"Your Mommy hasn't exactly had the clearest judgement regarding marriage in the past," You grit through clenched teeth, cutting Cassian off before his regained sense of humor can confuse Nyx, "We're all very lucky she ended up with your Daddy. No, Nyx, we are not going to get married."

As sweet as Nyx is, he is five years old, and he takes after his father which means he's got a sassy streak going for him. You've clearly activated it by telling him he's wrong several times, and his little chocolate-stained mouth twists into a frown, his voice just plain rude, "Well my Daddy said it too, even. And Uncle Az, and Auntie Nesta and Auntie Elain and Auntie Mor and even everyone thinks that, so you're the one that's wrong, actually."

"Don't talk to your Auntie like that," Cassian barks, and Nyx's eyes dim where they'd been full of petulant fire. He turns a wary glance towards his intimidating uncle and Cassian remembers himself, dragging a deep sigh into his lungs and taking the wrapper of Nyx's ice cream cone from the boy's sticky hands, "Go play on the playground, Nyx. We'll leave when Auntie's done with her ice cream."

All memories of your prior conversation gone, Nyx whips his head to you, his eyes wide with panic, "Eat slow! Don't eat fast," He scrambles off the bench, little wings flapping and nearly lifting him off the ground in his desperation to speed to the jungle gym, "Just- don't make us leave!"

There's silence left in his wake, and you intend to break it. You turn back to Cassian, who's shuffling the napkins in his hands nervously, "Maybe?"

"What?" He asks, like he doesn't know.

"He asked if we'd ever get married and you said maybe?"

"Yeah! I don't know, maybe!" Cassian's eyes are wide, like he can't comprehend your focus on it, "Maybe one day you'll realize you need someone to reach the top shelf for you and we'll seal the deal."

You force a laugh from your lunge, feeling anything but cheerful at his humor- constant, nothing but jokes from the one man you want to take you seriously, to look at you genuinely, to love you instead of laugh about you. You eat the rest of your ice cream with vengeance, but Cassian doesn't call Nyx to leave, instead, watching you earnestly.

"Right. And it'll be the same day you decide to settle for my annoying habit of never putting the dishes away rather than sleeping alone."

There is, admittedly, a lot of bitterness in your voice. You'd spoken before muscling down the longing constantly simmering beneath your surface, the way your chest aches anytime Cassian laughs at the idea you two could grow closer than friends whenever it's brought into conversation. He's not dumb, even if he thinks himself to be, and his brows furrow at your tone.

"Hey," He murmurs, his voice low and gentle, "Don't talk about Nyx's Auntie like that."

"Cassian-"

"Don't," He repeats, taking your hands in his. You instantly shy away from the heart-to-heart headed your way, trying to yank your fingers back but he holds them steady in his large hands, running a napkin wet with the condensation from his cup over the sticky residue on your palms.

"You think I'd have to settle for you?" He asks, carefully cleaning your hands as you bite your tongue, trying not to run screaming from the way his eyes are boring into yours, "Sweetheart, you're a catch."

"Don't do this to me, Cassian." You whisper, the loudest volume you can manage, "Don't- don't get all poetic and then walk away. Don't say shit you don't mean."

"I won't," He says firmly, "Who says I was gonna walk away?"

"You walk away every night." You say carefully, your heart on the line.

"You want me to stay?" He asks holding you now-clean hands in his and squeezing, and braving a glance at his face reveals more of that rosy pink on his cheeks, and if you didn't know him better, something like vulnerability shining through his eyes, nothing like you've ever seen from the Lord of Bloodshed.

You can't bring yourself to say yes, but saying no would be a lie. You choose silence, and Cassian exhales until his chest puffs.

"The maybe was entirely dependent on you." He drops his gaze, admiring the way your hands look clasped together, "I'd marry you right here, right now if you'd let me."

"Don't," You gasp, the words tossing salt at your wounded heart, "Cassian, do not say things you don't mean. That's- it's cruel."

"I'm not." He insists, squeezing your hands firmer, but not painfully so, "Listen to me. Hear me when I say this: I'll stay if you ask me to. I'm not going to force myself past your doorway, and scoop you up and rip your clothes off and be gone by morning. Not with you- if it's with you, I'm staying. But you have to ask. I have to know you want- me, the way- the way I want you, too."

Your head is swimming. Cassian wants you- wants to stay with you, wants to marry you, and you wonder if you're clinically dumber than a kindergartener if Nyx pieced it together and not you- damn Cassian and his kind heart, he's so caring towards his family that you'd mistaken love for friendship.

"Ask me," He breathes, but he won't repeat it when you meet his gaze, in case you take it as coercion.

You take a deep breath and squeeze Cassian's hands back, "Walk me home tonight. Then I'll ask you."

Cassian's grin nearly parts the clouds hanging over Velaris, sunshine oozing from his pores like he's from Day, "You know I was already going to do that."