Decade | | Azriel

8

It was Friday.

It was Friday and Azriel was absolutely fucking miserable because he was spending it alone instead of with her. He wondered if she had realized he wasn't showing up. He hadn't ever been late before. He wondered if she was disappointed that he wasn't coming.

He kept telling himself over and over that he shouldn't go, but she was all he could think about. There was still time left on his appointment. He could show up still. He shouldn't. He shouldn't because of how deeply it hurt when she told him they weren't friends. He was too tangled up in her. He shouldn't go.

But he was already getting up. He was already leaving the House of Wind and flying over city. He was already cloaked in shadow and going into the side entrance as he told himself he shouldn't be here. He went to her room. Knocked three times, and waited.

It took longer than it usually did for her to open it.

"I didn't think you were coming," she muttered as she let him in.

"Do you want me to leave?" he offered, and she shook her head.

That was all he needed. He held her face in his hands and kissed her like it was all he needed it, needed her to stay alive.

They didn't talk much at all, not as much as they usually did.

Her words echoed through his head as he fucked her.

We're not friends, Azriel. We're not friends, Azriel. We're not friends, Azriel.

It was never ending. Playing on repeat like his brain was mocking him for showing up here.

"Azriel," she gasped out, and he hated how much he liked it. She usually called him sir when they were playing. Hearing his name from her lips while he was inside of her was damn near too much to handle, and it somehow managed to only fuel the hurt inside of him despite how much he liked the sound.

"Don't say my fucking name," he growled, teeth scraping lightly against her neck.

There was something so raw and hurt in his voice. She couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, to which he stilled. His movements stopped so completely she wondered if he was even breathing. "I'm sorry."

"Just stop talking," he demanded, moving again—drilling into her. "I don't want to hear a single word."

That wasn't true. That was the furthest thing from the truth. He wanted to hear so many things from her, but they were things he didn't think she would ever say.

She reached out to touch him, but he quickly pinned both her wrists to the bed above her head with one of his hands.

"Keep them there," he ordered, "don't touch me. I don't want your fucking hands on me. Understood?"

Remembering his previous instruction to not talk, she only nodded in response.

He released her wrists and she didn't move. Not a single inch.

He eyed her neck, and he almost let his hand go there, but he didn't trust his self-control right now. He knew his limits as well as he knew hers. He knew when he couldn't trust himself with that right now. He was too hurt and angry to feel safe doing anything particularly rough right now.

She closed her eyes and titled her head back and he growled again.

"Open your eyes," he ordered, "open your fucking eyes and look at me while I fuck you."

She didn't listen. She didn't follow the order.

"Do not make me repeat myself," he snapped, his voice still more a growl than anything.