#his little dances... he was having so much fun...

[mercvry-glow]

Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me. 

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot. 

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse. 

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left. 

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his  new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer. 

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend. 

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show. 

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift  interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you. 

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said  one of ours went down.” His voice caught. 

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened. 

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma  was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was. 

mercury-glow 2025

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[formulaonecrumbs]

helloo!!! a story where oscar is celebrating a win at a random club and ends up having a one-night stand with the reader, whom he just met? she ends up getting pregnant, and oscar struggles to explain to his family that he's going to be the father of a child with a woman he barely knows. at first, they scold him for being so careless, but over time, he and the reader grow closer, start dating, and his family starts supporting the pregnancy?

sunday night, monday reality 🤰

Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: a one night stand turned pregnancy ruins blesses their lives. now they have to navigate it while barely knowing each other.

warnings: one-night stand, accidental pregnancy, co-parenting to lovers, brief mention of alcohol

A/N: i’m not gonna lie when i read the request, i cackled cause imagine it actually happened 😭😭 one of the single f1 drivers gets some random one night stand pregnant and is just a parent now. that’s so funny to me. anyways, THANK U ANON!!! requests are always appreciated. i hope this isn’t too boring, i tried making it as funny as possible. enjooyyyy, love u bitches 💋💋

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you never planned on oscar piastri being the father of your child.

because it was supposed to be just one drink.

just one, to celebrate the win. a little toast with his team, a quick “cheers” before disappearing into the night like usual. oscar piastri didn’t even like clubs that much. too loud, too sweaty, too many people trying to pretend they weren’t watching him.

but there he was, two drinks deep, standing in some overpriced monaco club that smelled like vodka and rich people’s perfume.

and then there you were.

honestly, he wasn’t even sure how it happened. one minute he was trying to order water (because he’d already messed up his post-race hydration schedule), and the next, he was laughing at something you said about the guy dancing like a malfunctioning robot.

you weren’t a fan. didn’t even realize who he was until your friend elbowed you in the ribs and whispered something about “that f1 guy.”

you just shrugged. “cool. he’s got nice teeth.”

that made him laugh. really laugh. like, the kind that makes his shoulders shake.

by 3 a.m., you were sitting in a cab with him, giggling like teenagers, way too sober to blame it on alcohol. you both knew what was happening. neither of you said it out loud.

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it was fun. reckless. the kind of story people only half-believe when you tell it later.

he left before breakfast. not in a rude way, just… life goes on.

until yours didn’t.

two pink lines. three deep breaths. one panicked text.

you: so. uh. i’m pregnant?

you didn’t expect him to reply so fast. or at all, honestly.

but he did.

osc: wait. what?

followed by a very long phone call, one awkward coffee meetup, and him pacing your living room with his hair sticking up in every direction like he’d just driven through a tornado.

“okay. okay. we’re gonna—this is fine. i mean, not fine. but not not fine? wow. okay.”

you just blinked at him. “you done?”

he nodded. “yeah. no. maybe. i have no idea.”

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telling his parents was… fun.

“i got someone pregnant,” he blurted out before they even sat down. classic oscar.

his mum dropped her fork.

his dad blinked exactly once, then said, “didn’t they teach you basic health in school?”

“yes, dad. thanks for the support.”

they freaked out a bit. okay, more than a bit. but he didn’t blame them. he was freaking out too.

he barely knew you. he couldn’t even remember what your favorite color was. but here he was, scrolling baby name websites at 2 a.m. and texting you dumb things like:

osc: what if we name it after a track?

you: if you suggest monza one more time i’m blocking you.

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slowly, you both figured it out.

he started showing up. not in a “look at me, i’m a hero” way. just… he wanted to be there. he came to appointments. brought snacks. made fun of the baby books. (except the one with cartoons. he actually liked that one.)

you weren’t dating. not officially. but he made you laugh. you made him feel normal. and when he talked to your belly and got kicked mid-sentence, he swore it was on purpose.

“this baby’s already got sass. takes after you.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re the one who talks to unborn humans like they’re your teammate.”

“strategy is important,” he said seriously. “i need to build trust.”

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his family came around eventually.

his mum knitted a tiny hat. his dad bought a car seat and refused to let oscar install it wrong. they invited you for dinner, asked questions, started smiling a little more when they said “baby.”

you and oscar grew closer without really meaning to. it wasn’t romantic movie-level stuff. more like inside jokes, shared ice cream, and him falling asleep on your couch with his hand on your belly like a protective raccoon.

and then one night, you kissed him.

neither of you said anything about it. just… kept kissing.

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by the time the baby arrived, everything felt different.

he was calmer. more grounded. still chaotic, but in a “dad who has the diaper bag ready five hours early” kind of way.

you were exhausted, emotional, and slightly murderous toward anyone who told you to “just relax.”

but when he held the baby for the first time—eyes wide, face soft—you saw something shift.

he looked at you and whispered, “i think i love you.”

you blinked. “you think?”

he laughed. “okay, fine. i know. but i was trying to be cool about it.”

you smiled, tears in your eyes. “you failed miserably.”

turns out, unexpected love hits different.

especially when it comes with midnight feedings, matching pajamas, and a baby who somehow has his exact eyebrows.

(“they’re aggressive little eyebrows,” you said once. “they’re powerful,” he argued back, dead serious.)

he learned how to swaddle like a pro. changed diapers half-asleep. sang lullabies that were really just off-key versions of old race radio messages. and somehow, through all the chaos, he made you laugh even when you felt like crying.

you never planned on oscar piastri being the father of your child.

never planned on him staying. or falling. or building a life around someone who’d only been a stranger at a bar.

but damn, he made it kind of hard not to fall for him.

especially when he looked at you like you were the best win of his career.

and maybe—just maybe—you were.

THE END :>

[katsu28]

oooh kait i love the list!!

what about lando + 50. putting a hand over the other's mouth where lando is yapping abt smth?

got a little carried away with this but fuck it we ball

lando norris x sainz!reader, 1.7k. request something from here :)

“Fancy seeing you here.” 

You glance up from your phone to see a grinning Lando leaned up against the wall next to you, and you raise an amused brow. “It’s my brother’s wedding.” 

“Yeah, I know, I was just—” 

“Why would I not be here?” 

“Jesus, I was just trying to be funny, you don't have to be mean about it,” He huffs, bumping his shoulder against yours with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sorry, Lan. You’re just too fun to mess with.” You tease, reaching out to pinch Lando’s cheek. 

He scowls, batting your hand away haphazardly. “Carlos said you were gonna be here early to help get everything settled.” 

“Aw, were you waiting for me?” 

“No, I wasn't.” You shoot him a disbelieving look. “Okay, maybe I was. I had to work with your great aunt, and lemme tell you, that woman is handsy.” 

“Oh, you poor thing.” 

“I know. All because you abandoned me.” 

“I had to help Rebecca with some last minute adjustments. And besides, It takes time to look this good, Norris,” You tut, gesturing towards yourself. The bridesmaid dresses Rebecca had picked out are absolutely gorgeous. Hopefully gorgeous enough to get you what you want. 

“You do look amazing,” Lando murmurs, eyes not-so-subtly raking up and down your body a little too long to be considered innocent. Mission accomplished. 

“You don’t clean up too bad yourself,” You reply, letting your gaze do the same. His tailored suit fits him wonderfully, and his hair is styled to perfection. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his curls and ruin it by pulling him close. 

Things between Lando and yourself are…complicated, to say the least. You were both young when you’d met, all the way back in 2019 when Carlos had done his time with McLaren. Since then, you’ve both grown up, kept in touch, and somewhere along the way, you’d come to a realization. 

You like Lando. A lot. And you think he might like you back, but neither of you have done anything about it. You flirt with each other like people who have feelings for each other and tease each other like friends, dancing around the elephant in the room whenever you’re in the same vicinity. 

It certainly doesn’t help that Lando is one of your brother’s best friends. He looks up to Carlos, respects him as a mentor, and wouldn’t dare make a move against his baby sister. But honestly, you wish he just would. This back and forth is starting to get a little old. 

Now is as good a time as any, with Carlos distracted on his big day. And what was that again people said about weddings being the perfect chance for blossoming romance? 

Someone with a headset and a clipboard comes up and whispers something in your ear, cutting your moment with Lando short. You stow away your phone in your purse, already prepared to follow them to attend to whatever needs doing. 

“Duty calls. I’ll see you later, Lan,” You say, straightening Lando’s tie with a sweet smile aimed at him. “Don’t miss me too much.” 

Lando chuckles, looking equal parts fond and amused. “I’ll try my best.” 

The next time you see him is right before you're meant to walk down the aisle together. You take your mark right next to him, smoothing out your dress one last time before looping your arm through his. 

He leans towards you, lips almost brushing your ear with his whisper. “Missed you.” 

“Thought you said you’d try your best not to?” 

“Guess it wasn't good enough. Listen, can we talk later?” 

He sounds uncharacteristically serious, and it has you giving him a cautious sideways glance. “Of course,” You say. You nudge him gently with your elbow. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s good. Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.” 

“Well, now that you tell me not to worry, I think I might,” You reply, brows furrowing. 

“Then don’t.” 

“Seriously, Lando? You couldn't have waited until after the ceremony for this? I mean, honestly—” 

Suddenly his lips are on your cheek briefly, causing your outburst to die off mid sentence. You stiffen momentarily at the unexpected action. When you turn to gawk at him, he’s looking straight ahead, a satisfied little smile gracing his face. 

You don’t have time to process anything any further before you're being guided towards the beginning of the aisle. Straightening up, throwing your shoulders back, you tighten your fingers around your bouquet of flowers. 

Now isn’t the time. 

The ceremony goes swimmingly. There isn’t a dry eye in the place at seeing just how much Carlos and Rebecca love and cherish each other. Every so often, you’ll catch Lando’s eye across the aisle and he’ll wink back at you, settling your nerves at standing up there in front of everyone. 

You start to wonder what he wants to talk to you about. Your mind immediately goes to the worst possible thing, but surely it can’t be too bad. Right?

Lando doesn’t bring it up until well into the reception. He catches your eye from afar, tilting his head towards the nearest exit. Everyone is on the dance floor now, nobody would notice if you left. 

He slips out of the large hall silently and you follow a few seconds later, only startling a little bit when he grabs your hand and leads you further down the corridor until you can’t hear the lively music anymore. 

“What’s going on, Lando?”

He drops your hand in favor of starting to pace, rubbing his palms over his thighs nervously. “I’m gonna be really honest with you right now. Probably brutally honest. And it might fuck things up, but I think I might explode if I keep it in any longer.” 

“Uh…okay. That sounds concerning,” You say hesitantly, shifting on your feet. 

“It is. I mean, no, it’s not, it’s nothing but, I just…” 

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night, because you look absolutely stunning,” He blurts. “But not just today. I wanna kiss you all the time, and I know—I know I probably shouldn’t because Carlos is one of my best mates and you’re his little sister and he’d likely kick my ass if he ever finds out, but I don’t care, I—” 

“Lando,” You interrupt, fighting to keep your voice level. Finally, finally, something is happening. 

He continues on as if he hadn’t heard you at all. “—can’t keep doing this…this whatever thing we’ve been doing. I really like you, and I need you to know that even if it ruins our friendship.” 

Normally you’d entertain his yapping tendencies, but you want to tell Lando you feel the same way and he just keeps on talking like he’s the only one in this conversation, so you’re left with no choice. 

You push him back against the wall behind him with one hand splayed across his chest, the other hand coming up to cover his mouth. Lando’s ranting dies off the moment your hand touches his face, like you’ve just found his off switch and powered him down. 

“Can you please just shut up for a second?” You say exasperatedly. He nods quickly, completely doe eyed under your palm. “You gonna let me talk now?” Another nod, this one a little slower. “Good. I like you too. Have for ages.” 

Lando’s fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand away from his mouth with furrowed brows. “You—you do? Really? Why’ve you never said anything?”

“Why haven’t you?” You shoot back, cocking your head. 

“Because…because!” He says incredulously, wrinkling his nose. “You’re Carlos’s little sister, I—he’d have my head.” 

You scoff. “Carlos isn’t my keeper, Lando. I’m an adult, I can make my own choices without having to consult my brother. If I want to date you, I can!” 

Lando’s gaze sharpens, the edges of his mouth curving into a smug little smile, and you know you’re in for it now. 

“Then let me take you out. On a proper date,” He proposes. It’s a bold move, considering you’ve still got him pinned against the wall with one hand, but his bluntness makes your focus flicker. 

Lando takes the opening and makes his move, now suddenly you’re the one with your back against the wall and he’s pushed himself closer than you’ve ever been before. For someone who was just worried about Carlos finding out mere seconds ago, he seems quite confident. 

“You’re sure you want to do this?” You ask softly, searching his face for any trace of doubt or uncertainty. What you’ve wanted for a long time is finally happening, but that doesn’t make you any less wary. If anything, it feels even more daunting. 

Slowly, Lando’s hand comes up to cradle your cheek almost delicately, like he’s afraid you might disappear into thin air if he moves too fast. His tongue darts out to wet his lips just before he leans in, deft fingers shifting from your cheek down under your chin, tilting your head up just enough to meet him in a gentle kiss. 

His lips are softer than you expect, tasting a little like the rum and cokes he’s been nursing all night mixed with something else sweet, and definitely living up to every dream you’ve ever had about this very moment. 

Lando’s thumb rubs along your cheek, a soft smile playing across his face when you break apart. “Believe me, I’m more sure about you than I’ve ever been about anything in my life.” 

You smooth out the lapels of his suit jacket from where your fingers had bunched into the material, beaming at him happily. “Always such a sweet talker, you.”

“Worked on you, didn’t it? I mean, it took years, but I’ve got you now, don’t I?” 

“Depends on where you take me on our date,” You joke. 

“Oh, I’ll take you anywhere you want, baby. Name it and it’s done.” 

“A sweet talker and a smooth talker. That could come in handy for when Carlos finds out.”

“No, it—why?” His voice squeaks on the last word, eyes widening almost comically.

You give his chest a firm pat, ducking out from under his arm to return to the reception. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see, hm?”

“Sweetheart, c’mon! He won’t try to fight me, right? Right?” 

follow @katsu-library to be notified when i post a new fic :)

[dcxdpdabbles]

Everything is fun and games until Menace!Danny's little siblings find out that he's the one with a partner.

I'm a little sibling. I know we have a perfect 10 steps plan to make the partner disappear. Menace!Danny is giving shovel talk — his siblings are kidnapping and doing human sacrifice because violence is the only possible answer.

The first time it happened, it was a goth girl. Her name was irrelevant (though they would soon learn that Danny had a type), but they knew that Danny had met her at a protest.

Apparently, the two had been attempting to stop a project that was going to cause damage to the local buildings. Danny was a big fan of protecting Gotham's iconic Gothic infrastructure and was appalled that the big corporations wanted to tear it down and move to more modern skyscrapers.

Now it's well-known that the Waynes all looked up to Danny. He was everything they wanted to be.

Danny could match Bruce in hand-to-hand combat, make even the most stubborn of heroes respect him with a few soft spoken words, and not to mention his inventing ability. Danny was the glue that kept them all together and their unwavering leader in the darkest if nights.

Despite the rumors, the masses (and themselves before they actually met him) believed Danny was sensitive in an almost heartbreakingly kind way, which worried them for their brother. If the world thought the worst of him, then Danny likely had the worst of the worst attempting to use him.

The Waynes all collectively agree that no one was worthy of Danny's time, especially some goth girl who commented more than once that "dirtbags like Fenton-Wayne" were relatively easy..

And really, she was all about death as a goth, so why had she made such a big deal about them nearly feeding her to Killer Croc? If she liked Death so much, why was she even still alive? They were doing her a favor.

Danny had been rather sad for a few days when she was rejected, even when walking near him, but he took it as their personalities not matching. He was unaware of them slowly lowering her towards a canopy while Dancing Queen was playing. Dick had made sure she could see them dancing to the music as they each took turns reading the comments they documented her saying and then pulling the level to have her drop little by litte.

When she threatened to involve the cops, Tim laughed and told her they were rich. The rich always get a slap on the wrist, especially against someone in her tax bracket. More so with her having no proof.

They made sure she had no proof.

She left the city the following month, but by then, the Waynes had turned their attention to the third son of the Trox family. He had flirted with Danny, who seemed to believe it was the beginning of an epic romantic tale, unaware that the Trox boy was bragging about how easily he got the eldest Wayne on his knees.

Jason was working on how to take Trox's kneecaps without the police, Bruce, or Danny any the wiser as revenge for those comments. His siblings were more than happy to get it done.

[hearts4hughes]

hiii could you do a rafechella where she drags him around to see all the artists, makes him wear glitter, and he pretends to hate it but is obviously so down bad for her? thank u angelll

RAFECHELLA 2025

“no way you’re putting that shit on me.”

rafe sits shirtless on the bed of your airbnb, watching you apply glitter onto your rosy cheekbones.

your bottom lip juts out. “all the hot coachella boyfriends will have it on,” you mumble. “guess you’re not one of them.”

he straightens his spine, cursing under his breath before caving. “whatever, just make sure it’s blue and not some pink girly color.”

you squeal, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek. your lipstick stains his tanned skin, but he does not attempt to wipe it off.

you straddle his lap, a compact of glitter in one hand while the other swipes it onto his face. he furrows his brows, muttering complaints about how you’re using too much, but his eyes sparkle with pure admiration and affection.

“perfect,” you stand back to admire your work. “now every bitch in california will want you.”

“well, the only one i want is right here.”

~

coachella hits the second you step through the gates. bass thumping, bodies glittering, sun blazing overhead. you’re practically vibrating with excitement, hand interlocked in rafe’s as you drag him through the crowd.

he’s already brooding in his white tank, aviators on, looking way too serious for someone surrounded by fairy wings and shirtless dudes in mesh.

“okay,” you start, breathless, “we’re hitting mojave first. tyla goes on in fifteen, then we swing by dolab, and then—”

“you said there’d be beer,” he grumbles, cutting you off. “you promised beer.”

you glance over your shoulder, grinning.

“there is beer,” you say like it’s obvious. “but first? vibes.”

he groans dramatically but doesn’t stop walking. you know he won’t.

you’re halfway to the stage when your favorite song starts. you don’t hesitate, just start dancing, right there in the middle of the crowd, your boots kicking up dust, your hands in the air. rafe just watches, arms crossed, trying (and failing) to look unimpressed.

“you’re not even pretending to have fun,” you call over your shoulder, laughing.

“i’m trying to pretend you don’t look hot as fuck,” he mutters, and your stomach flips.

he lets you pull him in, your back pressed to his chest, his hands resting low on your waist. he smells like sunscreen and sweat and a little bit like the lemon vape he swore he wasn’t bringing.

later, in the middle of the set change, you pull your glitter pot out of your bag and swipe another streak across his cheekbone before he can dodge you.

“seriously?” he deadpans. “again?”

you just blow him a kiss.

he doesn’t wipe it off.

~

when the sun sets, the real festival begins. you encounter more cleavage, joints, and glitter than you ever have.

your arms are looped around his neck, bouncing to the beat of the music while he stands behind you, big hands holding your hips as an anchor.

you tip your head back to look at him.

“you’re having fun, huh?”

he lifts a brow. “i’m drunk, deaf, covered in glitter, and my girlfriend’s been screaming in my ear for six hours. what’s not to love?”

you laugh, eyes crinkling, and he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.

“plus,” he adds, “i get to watch you dance in that tiny little skirt. honestly? best night of my life.”

you gasp, shoving his chest.

“you’re so gross.”

“you made me wear body glitter. i’ve lost all dignity.”

“you never had any.”

“fair.”

the crowd screams just then, and rafe doesn’t even flinch. he just grabs your face and kisses you like he’s been waiting all day to do it.

your hands fist in his shirt. his lips are warm and soft and everything inbetween.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice is quiet, almost shy.

“you look like a walking disco ball and i think i might be in love with you.”

your heart stumbles so hard it nearly faceplants.

“you think?” you say, breathless.

“i know,” he says quickly. “shut up.”

“mmhmm. sure.”

he rolls his eyes and kisses you again anyway.

~

the night ends how everyone should: aching feet, smudged makeup, drunken giggles.

your body’s practically limp against him, forehead resting against the back of his neck, words slurred and sleepy.

“you’re gonna drop me,” you mumble, not even lifting your head.

“never,” he says like it’s a promise. “unless you throw up on me. then all bets are off.”

you let out the tiniest laugh, which fades into a sigh as you close your eyes again. your glitter, makeup, and who-knows-what-else have smeared all over the back of his white tank, but he couldn’t care less. his arms are firm around your thighs, holding you like you weigh nothing. like you’re his favorite thing to carry.

“you’re heavier than you look,” he mutters.

“rude.”

“truthful.”

“i hate you.”

“you love me.”

you hum something that sounds suspiciously like agreement.

your head lols and your breathing softens. he leans his cheek against your arm and lets the quiet settle around you both. he knows you won’t remember half of what he says right now. that’s kind of why he says it.

“you were the prettiest girl there,” he whispers. “and i’d wear glitter every day if it meant ending up with you like this.”

no response. just the slow rise and fall of your chest against his back, the sound of your soft breathing, the occasional clink of bracelets as your arms sway gently around his shoulders.

“you’re my favorite part of all this,” he adds, voice low, almost a secret.

you don’t stir, and he smiles to himself, carrying you the rest of the way home.

[misctf]

Change Your Tune: Rick

The companion story to Occamstfs post! Had fun working on it with them!

“Damn it...” Eric grunted as he pushed through the crowd, “Calvin...”

Stick together. It wasn’t complicated. All Calvin had to do was stick with him and things would’ve worked out fine. But now? Eric was pushing through the crowd as best he could- trying desperately to find his friend amongst a sea of giggling and cheering men.

“Sorry... sorry...” Eric mumbled, as he squeezed between a bunch of scantly dressed men, “Ugh... sorry...”

The attendees were too enthralled in the trashy pop music of whoever was up on stage to really pay him much mind. Their bodies moving to the beat, clapping their hands. Eric couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two guys in the audience as he brushed past them.

“Oh Em Gee I like, totes love this song!”

“But like...I was totally not into this kind of music before.”

"Same sis! But like... live a little!"

Eric pushed past them as they made out. And as he did, he felt overwhelmed. The cheering... dancing... kissing... the music... Eric paused and took a few deep breaths. It was so hot. The summer heat, the sweaty bodies...

“I... I don’t feel good.” His vision was getting cloudy, “Someone... I don’t...” Eric swayed, his head spinning...

"Like are you okay, cutie?"

"No... I..." Eric looked up at the twink and then down at his own hands, "What?"

They were smaller, daintier. His arms smooth and hairless- the muscle he did have now more diminished. He shook his head and pulled away, lurching towards the edge of the crowd. The music beckoning to him, worming into his brain.

“Wait... no...” He could've sworn his voice was an octave higher, “Calvin... I...”

Eric stumbled and fell to the ground at the edge of the crowd. The music growing less intense. The vertigo now improved. Yet part of Eric felt a sense of longing. To go back into the crowd. To get lost in the music. He shook his head

"I need to find Calvin..." He reconfirmed to himself. He looked down at his arm- it was his arm. His voice- it was his voice, "Must've been imagining things..."

“Oh looky here! You ain’t lookin’ too hot!”

Eric looked up, his gaze met by a group of strangers. They were all smiling, all similarly dressed. One of them stepped forward and extended an arm.

“You look like you could use a hand. Musta overheated out there."

Before Eric could reply, he was hoisted up by the man, while another shoved a beer into Eric's chest.

"It ain't water but it'll help."

"I'm good." Eric replied, handing him the beer. Since when was beer considered a good way to stay hydrated? "Well, maybe it is to these rednecks." Eric thought, before clearing his throat, "I gotta find my friend. We were trying to find where North Side is playing at." He looked around, hoping he'd see Calvin so he'd be able to get away from these guys, "But I lost him and..."

"North Side! We can show ya the way." One of the men slapped him on the back, "Jus' follow us. I promise we'll get ya there."

"Oh no, I'll be fine..."

"What kinda men would we be if we didn't help a fella out." The one chimed in, "Besides, you nearly fainted on yer ass back there. Can't be too safe now."

"Yeah! And North Side passes right by ol' Blue Sky Dreamers." Another added, "God, they're great. Never been much of a country fan 'till I heard them." The others nodded in agreement.

Eric raised an eyebrow. These men hadn't been country fans? They looked like they'd been plucked out of a cornfield and dropped here.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt." Eric sighed, "Lead the way."

He followed the men, listening in on their conversation. How they droned on about guns, trucks, and beer. How Blue Sky Dreamers talked to them- resonated deep within them. Their southern accents deep and carefree, their breaths smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. Eric felt out of place- uncomfortable even. He had no interest in getting to know these kinds of people... these...

"Ain't that just lovely." The men stopped, causing Eric to pause, "Ya hear that boys?"

Eric's ears perked up. The sound of a banjo, a fiddle, and harmonica whispered in his ears. Distant but ever present. It was... nice... calming... Eric shook his head and looked over to a crowd of men in cowboy hats, all swaying to the beat of Blue Sky Dreamers.

"I reckon that's the most beautiful thing I ever did hear." He watched as his guides walked towards the crowd.

"Hey, wait!" Eric called out, following behind them, "I still need... huh?" A cool breeze tickled Eric's exposed chest and he recoiled at the sensation, "What in the..."

He hadn't been wearing that. Had he? Since when was he wearing jeans? Since when did his shirt get so dirty? He looked up to see the men from earlier blending in with the crowd, disappearing into the sea of cowboys. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, only to knock his cap to the ground.

"Ain't no way..." He stared at the cap lying in front of him, "I could'a... could have..." He corrected himself, "Sworn I was wearing a bandana." He reached down and picked the cap up, securing it back on his head, "Okay... North Sky... No that's not..."

Eric shuddered. Since when was it so hot? The summer sun beat down on him and the crowd of people certainly didn't help. The shirt he was wearing was soaked, covered in sweat. And with a grunt, he pulled it off and threw it to the dirt ground below.

"Fuck, what the hell?" Eric's eyes widened as he looked down at his lean pecs and toned abs, "I ain't usually..." His voice cracked as he ran a hand through the sparse, new chest hairs that appeared on his increasingly more tanned chest, "What in tarnation..."

And then he heard it. More clearly now. The music. It was filling his ears... filling him... It felt so freeing- each strum of the banjo, each word accented by a southern twang. Eric stepped forward, the crowd opening up around him to let him in.

"Well, ain't this the best dang music ya ever did hear?"

"I never reckoned I'd fall in love with country music."

"I ain't never felt a song hit me this hard."

eRic's mind was swimming with each step deeper into the crowd. His mind's eye filling with new images... an old farmhouse.... swaying corn... sweating after a long day's work... flickering fireflies... a bonfire.... beer... laughter... his truck...

"No stop... I gotta..." eRic swayed, bumping into the other men around him. Their bodies, made sturdy from working on their farms, prevented Eric from escaping, "Please... Calvin... help..."

eRic gasped... he could taste whisky on his breath... feel his muscles contracting and relaxing... He realized how closely packed to the other men he was. But not because they had gotten closer. No... he realized with increasing dread that he was bigger. His body thickening with firm muscle. His chest swelling into a pair of mighty pecs. Hairs sprouting from his crotch, across his abs, and over his chest like a blanket.

"Let me out... I gotta..."

But the men wouldn't budge- captivated by the music. And the song. Oh god the song was so loud... Reverberating in his head, worming into his brain. eRic could feel the sweat dripping from his increasingly rougher skin... an itchiness as stubble sprouted into a short beard. His arms thickened with muscle, blanketed by manly fur. But his attention shifted, even as his body continued to shift and change. His eyes focused on the stage, where Blue Side Dreamers continued to play.

"Well, I'll be! I could sit here an’ listen to these fellas ‘til the cows come home." Ric grinned, his foot tapping along to the beat, "What in tarnation was I thinkin’ not likin’ country music before?" He spoke, unbothered by the twang of his new southern accent.

He didn't know how long they kept playing. His body swayed to the beat... his mind elsewhere...

"Well, that’s a wrap, y’all! Mighty appreciate ya joinin’ us today, and we’ll be seein’ ya next year. Y’all be sure to grab our new album, now—don’t go missin’ out!"

Reality slammed into Rick and he shuddered as he returned to a state of full awareness. He looked around at the other men- men like him... proud country guys.... like himself.... born and raised...

"Hey Rick, didn’t you say you was wantin’ to go see that other band?"

A voice cut through the crowd and Rick grinned when he saw the men from earlier. He placed a hand to his cowboy hat and shrugged.

"I reckon I’m alright now—can’t even imagine wantin’ to hear nothin’ else after this!" A grin formed on his face, "But I could go for a nice cold one fellas!"

The group walked off, laughing and patting each other on the back. Rick ignoring a sign for North Side as he headed off towards the exit with his new friends to his new life.

EPILOGUE

Rick sighed as he walked up to the bar, quickly ordering another shot of whisky and a beer. He glanced over at the group of good ol’ boys he’d been shooting the shit with all night - Jeb, Cletus, and Earl. They were all decked out in checkered shirts, faded jeans, and ball caps. Just like him now. It still felt so natural, even if some part of him couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly seemed…off about the whole situation.

“Why do I feel like I’m just actin’ a part?“ he wondered to himself, frowning slightly, "Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin." 

Shaking his head, he tried to push the strange thoughts aside. Where were these thoughts coming from? Where else would he want to be? He was just a good ol’ boy enjoying a cold one with the boys after a kick-ass country concert. His thoughts were interrupted as a new song started playing in the bar. Rick knew this song… knew this band… a small smile gracing his lips.

"North Side.” He muttered, his foot tapping to the beat of the music, “Well I’ll be…”

He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him- a yearning for something he couldn’t quite understand in his slower mind. And as the music continued to strum at some past memory, the redneck couldn’t help but notice the striking Latino man with soulful eyes and a captivating smile, clearly enjoying the song as much as he was. 

“Well, would ya look at that.” Rick muttered under his breath, “Seems like that fella’s got good taste in tunes, at least.”

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Rick walked over to the man. His thoughts, once focused on music, instead shifted as he drank in the sight of the handsome Latino. The way he smiled, the way his dark hair was styled, the way his shirt hugged his muscles. Rick felt his dick stir.

“Howdy there, friend,” Rick drawled, tipping his hat politely, “Name’s Rick. Can’t help but notice you seem mighty fond of this here tune, same as me.”

Alvaro looks up at the man, “Buenas noches. The name’s Alvaro.”

Rick’s eyes flash with recognition, “You mean the Alvaro? Like Alvaro Altuve? I reckon I recognized you from somewhere!”

Alvaro grinned, “Always happy to meet a fan.”

Rick paused for a second, captivated by the singer’s smile. The two stared at one another before Alvaro beckoned him to take a seat at the bar. Rick happily accepted the two chatting it up, their conversation flowing naturally- like two old friends. Their knowledge about North Side and their interest in the band not fitting with their outward appearance.

“I would’ve never expected you to like North Side.” Alvaro laughed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He chuckled, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulder. They both blushed at the mere touch, and Rick pulled his arm away, “Well, I reckon I was always a fan, I think.” Rick shrugged and Alvaro grinned.

“Makes sense! You were the one who introduced me to them after all.” Those words hung in the air, the two became silent and stared at one another- their expressions shifting, their eyes conveying a faint recognition.

Rick, Alvaro knows Rick. He doesn’t know how he does but something deep within him pangs with familiarity or deja vu. Judging by the expression on the cowboy’s face it seems as if there’s some pang of memory behind his eyes as well. Alvaro stares at the fan wondering if he just saw the man at his concert or something but knows that dressed like he is, that cannot be the case, and then he sees his lips struggle to say, “C- Calv- Calvin?”

At once both men flash back. They were having lunch together, as they have done countless times throughout the years. Eric sees his friend who could scarcely put two Spanish words together, Calvin sees his bestie that would never be caught dead in a cowboy hat. They’re just talking shit as friends do when Eric gasps at a notification on his phone, “Dude- North Side is back!”

Before they left the table, the pair had bought tickets to the CYT festival and had begun planning what they were going to wear. Not for a moment wondering what else they’d care to see at the festival, why should they? They were going to see their favorite band of all time and they were going to do so together. 

Together. 

Back in the present as they look at each other in their new forms. Alvaro sees the sweaty, hairy chest of the good old southern man in front of him. Rick sees the effortlessly alluring manicured body of a latin rock star staring back at him. Together has a different spot in both their minds as they hear a grindr notification go off somewhere in the distance. Might as well see what their new bodies can do.

As quick as their feet can travel they’re in Alvaro’s trailer. Attempts to trawl out memories from who they were are fruitless or painful, so instead they delight in the present. The artist cannot believe how enticed he is by the smell of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer on the man’s breath. Rick is less discerning as he hungrily delights in the sweaty musk of the man who was on stage not all that long ago. 

Rick’s rough beard scratches against Alvaro’s neck as he takes a deep breath, he hears a deep whisper from the performer, “volve loco, vaquero.” He growls and his arms shake as he sees no reason to not obey man. Music playing in the background rapidly shifts from Alvaro’s own album, to the b-sides of the Blue Sky Dreamers, to the music that brought them into these new lives, North Side. Before fading altogether and leaving them alone with the sound of their bodies.

With each passing moment in the heady enjoyment of their new selves they feel their identities cemented. Rick’s clean-pressed closet wiped away for life on a farm, his pen-pushing 9-to-5 is nothing compared to the outdoor lifestyle he far prefers. Alvaro’s whole country of origin irrevocably changed, while he loves the life he’s found in the states they will never be where he’s from.

With each thrust they bury their past lives. Rick is and always has been a rough and tumble, rugged man. The rockstar life may be new to Alvaro, but he has always been a musician, even when he was just a small-town artist playing in cantinas. Despite their pasts being erased and their new lives becoming the only reality they know, they remain together. 

Sweatily making out in a trailer as Alvaro struggles to stop the cowboy from leaving cum stains on his stage outfit, when they are together something just feels right. While everything in the world around them may point otherwise, when they are in each other’s arms, everything just seems to make more sense. Even after they’re done having their fun, something remains between them, pulling them together. 

Sheepishly eying the cowboy as he pulls up his Levi’s, Alvaro doesn’t want to let him go, “Oi, vaquero?” The cowboy looks up thankfully, he’d never say as much but even life on the ranch doesn’t hold a match to the past hour with Alvaro, “Queiro- Do you wanna have lunch?” 

“Thought chu’d never ask-”

Neither would’ve guessed what their relationship would evolve into. Initially, it was the talk of the town. The Latin heartthrob and the rough-and-tumble country boy seemed like a totally unlikely couple. Some called it a publicity stunt, others whispered that it would never last. But through it all, Alvaro and Rick stood strong, their bond growing deeper with each passing day.

Alvaro strummed a guitar softly, while Rick leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. The radio playing softly in the background- the familiar beat of North Side’s music playing.

“Ya know,” Rick said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I still can’t believe we went from two strangers at a bar to…”

“To this,” Alvaro finished, setting down his guitar and taking Rick’s hand in his own, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way, mi amor.”

The two held each other closely, while North Side continued to play in the background.

[i-messed-up-big-time]

Someone Precious I

Caleb x Non MC Reader

a/n: guys pls dkm ive never been to a party so when you read that pls give me the benefit of the doubt 😭, also i don't really want to go into too much detail about any of the explicit scenes that are implied, but there may be a possibility of one more detailed in the other parts! i'm finally free from uni guys so i have more time to do some writing! i finally got around to finishing this (i started right before my finals) hopefully you guys like this first part!

Divider creds @/cafekitsune

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, reader is female and is AFAB, mentions of pregnancy, implied intimate relations (not going into detail), pet names used, mentions of drinking/getting drunk (pls drink responsibly), reader throws up, idk what other tags to add!

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

series masterlist

taglist: @aneertawrites @eurydiceknowshesloved @angelichiaro @nommingonfood @ynovaes @animegamerfox

You had known them for years, albeit you joined the infamous duo a little later than when they had met each other, but you all were as thick as theives.

Countless days and nights spent together. More often than not if one of you guys were somewhere, the other two were not far behind.

At first you didn't notice that the way you felt about Caleb was something more than just a friend, how could you? You were just a naive child at the time.

That all changed when Caleb went to high school. You started noticing certain things about him, the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled, how good he looked when he was playing basketball.

You soon were able to put a name to those thoughts and feelings, love. It was like you were exposed to whole new world, everything he did caught your attention and pulled you deeper into that black hole called love.

If only you knew how much pain and turmoil this man would bring to your life.

●・○・●・○・●・

It was near the end of your final year in university when it all happened.

You being the ever delusional girl you were always thought that the fleeting touches and eye contact between you and Caleb were something special, something unique to just the two of you.

How could you ever know that he only ever had one person in his sights, one that wasn't you.

You and MC were getting ready to go to a party, it was meant to be the last one of the year and before graduation.

MC had to beg you to come with her this one last time.

"C'mon it'll be so much fun! It'll be our last party before we graduate! Please?"

You couldn't really say no to her when she pulled out the puppy dog eyes.

Outwardly, it looked like you were reluctant, but on the inside you were kind of happy to go. Part of it was because you heard from the grapevine that Caleb might be there since some of his friends were going.

Which leads you to your current dilemma, what outfit to wear. You opted to wear a dark blue dress that reached up to your mid thigh. It was a new dress that had been sitting in the back of your closet for some time, now it finally had the chance to see the light of day.

"Hurry up or we're gonna be late!"

You heard MC yell for you.

"I'm coming!"

You responded, hopping around on one foot trying to strap your shoe onto your foot.

Once you successfully had it strapped to your foot, you quickly made your way out the door with MC.

●・○・●・○・●・

The party was in full swing by the time you guys made it there.

You made a beeline for the drinks, wanting to get some water in your system before anything else.

You spotted MC dancing with this one guy she's been talking to recently. He was a sweet guy who was in the same program as her, infamous for being asleep more often than awake. Seeing him at a party was kind of a surprise, but he probably came here because MC said she would be there.

'Looks like I'm gonna be alone tonight.'

You let out a heavy sigh with that thought. Yeah you heard some rumours that Caleb was gonna be there, but you had yet to spot him.

As if the gods above heard your thoughts, he entered your line of vision.

It's like every time you see him he just looks better than before. He was with his friend Gideon as they chatted up the guys who were hosting this party.

It wasn't long before he made spotted you. He made his way over to you with a bright smile.

"Shouldn't you be out there on the dance floor instead of brooding next to the drinks table?"

He reaches out to ruffle your hair, which not only makes you pout but also blush at the contact.

"Hey stop messing up my hair!"

You exclaim as you pull out your phone to start fixing it, Caleb can only laugh as he reaches out again but this time to help you.

You're so glad the lights in here are dim, cause your face was as red as a tomato.

"There, better?"

You gave yourself a once over in the camera and nodded in agreement, the words not coming out.

You turned to Caleb to ask him if he wanted to dance but the words died in your throat before you could even try.

There he stood with his gaze zeroed in on something, you followed it and noticed he had his sights set on MC and Xavier. If it was anyone else they wouldn't have noticed the way his brows furrowed, but because it was you, you noticed.

You always did, you just chose to ignore it because you knew that MC didn't feel anything for him aside from a love that you feel for family.

Unbeknownst to you, she was well aware of the crush you had on Caleb, silently supporting you from the sidelines. She knew you didn't want to make things awkward by admitting it out loud, but sometimes she wishes you would tell her so she could openly support you.

●・○・●・○・●・

A couple of hours had passed and you were buzzed.

You and MC were on the dance floor having some fun, that's when you felt those hands on your hips. Turning around you saw it was Caleb, your heart was running a mile minute.

You looked over your shoulder to look for MC but she was nowhere in sight, you took this as your sign to enjoy the moment.

Your poor naive heart thought this was the moment that maybe Caleb actually would look at just you.

Little did you know that this moment would lead to a series of events that would forever change your life.

●・���・●・○・●・

Your body felt sore, and suspiciously cold. Opening your eyes you were greeted with the familiar sheets of your bed, the only thing was that you were in it bare.

Sitting up you felt the ache increase tenfold, both in your head and in your back.

You sifted through your memories to try and understand what happened when it came crashing into you all at once.

'I slept with Caleb.'

You pushed yourself of the bed only to fall to your knees, you felt weak and it was definitely due to your activities from last night.

You were all giddy inside thinking maybe you might be able to take a step in a different direction with Caleb.

That's when you noticed it, the bright sticky note on your bedside table,

I'm sorry, it was a mistake.

It was like fate was laughing in your face, your world came crashing down on you.

You weren't stupid, you know what he meant. You had just a little bit of hope, but even that proved futile.

"Am I not good enough?"

You let the tears slip, steady and silent streams. But you didn't let yourself cry for too long, you needed to get up and move on.

Easier said than done.

You pushed yourself to go clean up and change your sheets, wanting nothing more than to occupy your mind with other things, and to an extent it worked.

Until you were back in bed, that's when you started crying again. Only this time, you were sobbing loudly and it was loud enough to alert your roommate of your distress.

MC came barging in, quickly reaching your side to comfort you.

A very small part of you was jealous of her, and you hated that. She was your best friend, someone who always was there for you and wanted the best for you.

Knowing that she had the one thing you so desperately wanted hurt, but not enough to let it come between your friendship. You valued her presence too much in your life, you just hoped she would still feel the same about you with what you were about to tell her.

●・○・●・○・●・

MC had joined you under the covers after you finished laying your heart bare in front of her, she never once cut you off, said anything or made any reaction aside from a look of understanding and hurt.

She was in no way hurt by your words but rather hurt at the situation, she had totally believed that Caleb was into you, dare she say obsessed with you. She saw the looks and the lingering touches that were exchanged between you two.

She thought it would all work out with time, who knew Caleb would screw it all up. Not just that, but you were under the impression that he was in love with her.

She didn't want to downplay your feelings and thoughts, as a woman she understood. She could only be there for you and show you just how wrong you were, she was determined.

You had fallen asleep a little while ago. You were utterly heartbroken and had been non stop crying as you talked, MC's heart went out to you.

You were her sister, her twin, blood relations or not, she valued you more than anything in the world. She never felt like she was only child, you and Caleb were the siblings she always wanted, she'd be damned if she let Caleb ruin that for you guys.

Little did both of them know, they wouldn't hear from Caleb for almost a year and a half.

●・○・●・○・●・

A month later

It was graduation day.

You and MC have been closer than ever since that day. Caleb had went MIA, not replying to either of you or returning your calls.

You would be lying if you said you still weren't upset about that day and the lack of communication.

'I thought we were thick as thieves but clearly not.'

You were finally graduating, the day you worked so hard for that you made it as Valedictorian of your year.

You were just putting on the final touches of your look when MC came barrelling into your room with her hands behind her back.

She gave you a sly smile before revealing what she had behind her back, a small gift bag.

You laughed as you went to your closet and pulled out a gift bag as well.

You guys were on the same wavelength it seemed.

MC was in shock, you had gotten her that necklace that she had been eyeing a few months back, she even noticed the engraving on it.

My forever sister in every universe

If it wasn't for MC being fully ready to go she would have burst into tears right then and there. She pulled you in for a hug and whispered words of thank you.

She put it on right away, it was the perfect gift for a day like today.

MC handed you the bag she brought. It was also a necklace with an engraving on it. You guys definitely were twin flames, her gift having a similar engraving as yours.

Across galaxies, you're still my sister

Putting on the necklace you pulled MC in for another hug, your heart felt full despite the absence of one particular person, but in that moment nothing mattered but the bond between you and MC.

●・○・●・○・●・

It was nerve wracking giving a speech in front of all those people, but at the same time you had this adrenaline rush pumping through your veins.

The graduation ceremony ended with hats in the air and confetti everywhere.

This marked the end of a chapter and the beginning of a new one.

Only, it would be a chapter filled with experiences you never would have imagined.

●・○・●・○・●・

A week later

You woke up feeling uncomfortable, your throat burned and your stomach felt uneasy. Not even a second after opening your eyes you felt last night's dinner making an appearance the same way it went in.

You bolted to the bathroom and emptied the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

You probably sounded like you were dying because MC soon came bursting into your room.

She held your hair back and rubbed soothing circles on your back as you heaved, tears clouding your vision.

If there was one kind of pain you hated the most it was the pain that came with throwing up. It was agonizing, and your throat burned.

Once you were done, you moved to rinse your mouth while MC left to go get you a drink with electrolytes.

"Are you okay? I know I'm not the best at cooking but I didn't think dinner would be that bad."

MC joked as she handed you a bottle of coconut water. You let out a small chuckle before taking a sip.

"It's weird, I don't think it was your cooking. I've been feeling super nauseous lately and I can't even stand the smell of some foods."

You tell her, she smacks your arm jokingly for not denying her cooking skills, or the lack of them.

"Wait, what if you're pregnant?"

MC said, you laughed her off.

"No way, I haven't even slept..."

The words died in your throat, flashbacks from that night came crashing into your headspace. You never forgot that night, but you definitely did not remember whether you guys had used protection or not.

MC offered to stop by the pharmacy to grab you a couple of pregnancy test, saying it didn't hurt to at least try.

While you waited for her you looked through your calendar, trying to remember when you had your last period.

'Shit. I'm late.'

You paced around the room nervously fidgeting with your fingers, your thoughts were a mess.

MC came back in record breaking time with a couple of bags, one filled with different brands of tests and the other had some of your favourite snacks.

●・○・●・○・●・

You followed the directions and sat on the edge of the tub with MC, waiting for the results.

You were bouncing your knee, the nervousness kicking in ten fold. MC placed a hand on your leg in an effort to reassure you, her eyes saying that she would support you no matter what.

MC checked the results first, you didn't think you could handle looking at it.

She turned around and showed you one of the tests, and that's when you saw it.

Two red lines.

You were pregnant.

[lovelyghostlytimemachine]

something something the Bad Kids supporting each other and trusting each other to have their backs. something being off-kilter in the treatment of one of them.

supporting Kristen in her presidential campaign and cheering on her many attempts at forming religion. making sure her god is taken care of, helping her check in on her siblings and hyping her up when she wanted to get with Gertie or Tracker.

encouraging Fig in her in her ideas and impersonations, going along seamlessly and covering for her or letting her have the space to have her fun. Going to her band's concerts, helping her in her collection of parental figures and helping her get with Ayda.

Adaine being reassured about her panic attacks, praised for her researching skills and being taken in after her house burnt down, instantly. Fabian dancing Adaine's battle for her to make sure she got paid, and all of them stopping at nothing to get her back after her abduction to Fallinel.

Riz going from "school nerd" to one of the coolest kids in town. being carried around, hyped up and praised endlessly for his incredible stealth and investigation skills. him taking stress tokens for his friends and them checking in on him, listening to his theories and supporting him in his fears of Kalina, of Baron.

Gorgug struggling with his size, his relationship to rage, and them showing him they're not scared and how much of a powerhouse he is. immediately supporting him in his decision to multiclass into artificing, encouraging him to get with Zelda and later Mary Ann, and being okay with him dropping Owlbears to get some more peace of mind.

Fabian having issues with his identity as a Seacaster, with how much it means to him and how he wants to be more than that, and his friends telling him "like, get over it." Fabian being told he can't be depressed or down because he needs to be useful and his life rules too much. Fabian being left alone in a mansion with an allowance instead of love, and his friends making jokes about it. forcing him into dealing with rats despite him telling them to stop.

Fabian makes jokes, and doesn't show vulnerability — how could he, when every single time he has he got his skull cracked into the floor by his father or got challenged to a duel by his mother or got physically hurt and yelled at by his friends. by his friends' parents.

and the kids fall for his jokes again and again and never take him seriously, laugh away his fears and say they're jealous of him having a house to himself. they curse him when Gertie swears at him and turn their Moonar Yulenear gifting into a joke when it's his turn.

he doesn't show vulnerability because he hasn't been allowed to, and that feeds into the cycle where his friends stop considering his feelings and traumas because he never mentions them, never shows them how much it truly affects them, and it's a system that never stops until someone breaks it and lends him a hand. shows him a kindness he hasn't had.

I know it's a game show and they all 'do it for the bit' and Lou Wilson himself is the king of committing wholly — for for Fabian, as a character, I wish someone stepped up and helped. That Tracker had been allowed to say her piece on Leviathan. that Jawbone had checked in on him a bit more. that Gilear or Hallariel or anyone else had cared just a little more about this boy so that he wouldn't have to be alone.

[loveesiren]

✍️ + daesung

“you can kiss me, you know.”

i feel like this is suchh a cute prompt i love your work!

Thank you bb! I've never written for Daesung so I hope this is okay! <3

Vali's 1500 Celebration

warnings: none, just fluff!

wc: 793

Daesung was, without a doubt, one of the sweetest men you'd ever known. Over the past few years, the two of you had grown close—comfortably, effortlessly. He knew how you liked your coffee without asking, could always make you laugh until your stomach hurt, and somehow showed up exactly when you needed cheering up. He was your safe place in a chaotic world, wrapped in sunshine and soft smiles.

You weren't blind to the way his gaze lingered on you a little longer than necessary, or how his touch would hover just a second longer than it should. He felt something—something more than friendship—but he never dared to act on it. Too shy, too unsure.

But then the boys intervened.

“What are you waiting for, man? Just ask her out already!” Jiyong exclaimed, shaking Daesung by the shoulders like a frustrated older brother.

Daesung looked like a deer in headlights. “What if she says no?”

“She won’t,” Seunghyun said confidently, arms crossed. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

“You’ve asked girls out before,” Youngbae added. “Take her to dinner, bring flowers, maybe a little cologne for good luck. You got this.”

It didn’t take long for them to convince him. And though his nerves were written all over his face, he still made his way to you.

You were in the dance studio, mid-practice, sweat glistening on your brow as you caught your breath between routines. The second you saw him standing at the door, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, your heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I, uh… I have a question.”

You grabbed your water bottle and smiled. “What’s up, Dae?”

“I was just wondering if…” He paused, his ears turning a shade of red as he avoided your gaze. “If you’d maybe wanna go out with me this weekend?”

You blinked, caught somewhere between stunned and delighted. But the grin that broke across your face was answer enough.

“I’d love to,” you said, warmth blooming in your chest.

The relief that washed over his face was almost comical—shoulders sagging, smile stretching, and eyes shining with something that made your stomach flutter.

-

The date was everything you expected—and more. Easy. Natural. Effortless in that way only time and genuine affection could allow.

Daesung had taken you to a retro arcade tucked into a side street, buzzing with neon lights and the nostalgic hum of old game machines. The two of you playfully battled over skee-ball, air hockey, and racing games, your laughter echoing through the space like music. He let you win, of course—not that he’d ever admit it. But the way your eyes lit up every time you scored? That alone was worth more to him than any high score.

Afterward, he brought you to a small, cozy Japanese restaurant he’d been dying to show you. Warm lantern light glowed against the wood-paneled walls, and the sushi melted on your tongue like butter. The quiet atmosphere gave space for soft conversation—inside jokes, whispered memories, and the occasional shy glance across the table. With Daesung, even the silences felt comfortable.

When the evening drew to a close, he insisted on walking you home. Ever the gentleman, his hand hovered near yours for a block before you finally reached out and intertwined your fingers with his. You giggled when you noticed his ears turning bright red, and his grip instinctively tightened, as though afraid to let the moment slip away.

The streetlights cast a gentle glow over you both as you walked, painting the pavement gold. By the time you reached your front door, your heart was full.

“Thank you,” you said softly, turning to him. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”

Daesung beamed, cheeks dusted pink. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“I’d love that,” you said, your voice just above a whisper.

A quiet tension lingered. Not uncomfortable—just hopeful. Daesung looked like he was debating his next move, lip caught gently between his teeth.

You smiled, biting back your own nerves. “You can kiss me, you know…”

His eyes widened slightly, then softened. He let out a nervous laugh, his breath catching. “Okay…”

He leaned in slowly, cautiously—as if afraid to rush something so important. But you weren’t shy. You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing his cheeks, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was sweet. Soft. Unhurried. He tasted like mochi and mint, and his lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart flutter wildly in your chest.

When you finally pulled apart, his eyes searched yours, dazed and full of wonder.

“That was… really awesome,” he breathed, grinning like a boy in love for the very first time.

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER EIGHT | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 5,763

author’s note: this chapter was so fun to write! the lady of the autumn court has always intrigued me so diving into her backstory really challenged me creatively. there will definitely be more of her in this series, but for now, I hope you like my characterization of her as much as I do.

♫ how villains are made - madalen duke. nav. series. moodboard.

The Golden Garden was packed by the time you arrived. In true Autumn Court fashion, no expense had been spared for the grand luncheon. The lush rooftop garden was lined with tables decorated in deep warm tones and gilded ivy. Each seat was marked by a placard written in elegant golden script, the names scrawled upon the parchment growing more and more prominent as you neared the dais. 

In the center of it all sat an ornate rosewood table that stretched across an elevated platform. The seats contained no names, but there was no mistaking who they were reserved for. A high back chair positioned at the head displayed the Vanserra family crest — a snarling fox with a tail of fire. As if the crowd needed a reminder of the wretched male that would soon occupy the seat.

The nobility milled about below the dais, discussing this season’s harvest or whatever business venture they were currently pursuing that would place even more gold into their greedy little hands. Their words were pleasant enough, but their smiles were as sharp as the twin blades sheathed underneath your dress.

Beside you, the shadowsinger fussed over his doublet for the millionth time. “Absolutely ridiculous,” he muttered to the velvet material.

The shadowsinger grimaced as you pinched the inside of his arm. The insufferable male had spent the entire carriage ride complaining about his clothing and if you had to hear about the tightness of his trousers one more time, you might strangle the irritating Illyrian right then and there.

“You look fine,” you hissed in response before plastering on a smile for the benefit of the crowd. “I’m the one in the rib-crushing corset. If you knew the agony every breath brought, you would surely thank the Mother for those godsdamned trousers.”

Azriel scowled, examining your attire. The skirts of your golden cape whispered against the cement as he guided you through the archway and the large sapphire ring on your finger caught the sunlight as you clasped onto the shadowsinger for support. You silently cursed whoever invented the torture device that were corsets in the first place. 

“This shirt is so uncomfortable,” the shadowsinger had the audacity to say. 

With a false smile, you dug your nails into Azriel’s arm and lowered your voice into a hiss. “My tits are quite literally being crushed by whale bone. Your discomfort is the last thing on my mind.”

Before the shadowsinger could retort, Eris stepped directly into your path. A welcome interruption, even if it was provided by the devil himself. 

“You two make quite the handsome couple,” your cousin teased with a grin. As usual, Eris was dressed in reds and golds, bringing out the copper shade of his hair. His sharp amber gaze danced over Azriel’s stiff posture. “Glad to see you in Autumn Court attire. I wasn’t quite sure of the measurements, but it looks like Alinta worked her magic.”

Indeed, the old witch had included hidden panels on the back of Azriel’s shirts, but one would have thought she’d put barbs in them instead with the way the shadowsinger frowned. Despite his displeasure, Azriel leveled a cool, hard gaze at Eris. Gone was the annoying whiny male from earlier, replaced now by the lethal mask of the spymaster.

“My betrothed was kind enough to educate me on the customs of your court.” Hazel eyes raked over you, mild amusement dancing in that gaze of liquid honey. “It seems that velvet conveys a far friendlier message than leathers.” 

But I’m still every bit as lethal, Azriel seemed to convey with a sharp smile. 

No amount of finery could mask the warrior hidden beneath. Eris seemed to realize this as well. 

“A well crafted message, shadowsinger. One that this court and its ruler will no doubt receive with caution.”

At the mention of Beron, the male appeared at the edge of the garden. The High Lord strolled through the path of the beating sun as a hush of silence fell amongst the nobles. His loyal subjects bowed one by one, but you kept utterly still, meeting those cruel, dark eyes as his gaze fell upon you. You held his stare for as long as you could to the point of insolence before bowing with the rest of the room. 

As you explained to Azriel earlier, the court herald announced the High Lord first, followed by Eris, and then Flint, Roux, and Wren. Your godsawful cousins. 

After they took their place up on the dais, you and Azriel were up next. You swallowed thickly before dropping the cape around your shoulders. As you sauntered up to the dais, spears of sunlight licked at your skin like flames and you glowed in your golden dress like fire given form. The intricate wings tattooed on your back came to life, fluttering between your shoulder blades and spreading until they proudly unfurled for all to see. Whispers swept through the room like wildfire and the blatant stares of the High Fae burned holes into you, but it was Azriel’s gaze that you couldn’t seem to shake. 

There was something burning in his hazel gaze. Something like awe and surprise and admiration rolled up into one. 

You tried not to dwell on it as he fell into step beside you, gracefully placing a hand on the small of your back as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The shadowsinger’s fingers curved protectively around your hip as you ascended the dais, his wings tucked tightly behind him to mirror your tattoo. 

The message itself was clear — you may have once called this place home, but you didn’t belong here any more. The Night Court, Velaris, the Inner Circle; they were your home. The only family you had as far as you were concerned. The High Lord would do well to remember that. 

Beron’s calculated glare simmered with rage. You schooled your features into neutrality even though the sight brought you an exorbitant amount of satisfaction. The anger in his eyes dissipated far too quickly for your liking as he directed his gaze behind you. A smirk tugged at his cruel mouth before you came face to face with your aunt. 

The Lady of Autumn was the spitting image of your mother. Your aunt may have been a Vanserra in name, but she was a Thorne through and through. The olive coloring, the signature maroon head of hair, even the dimples that were ever present on your own face, felt like a punch to the gut.

You couldn’t breathe and it had nothing to do with the corset. In the darkest pits of your heart, you felt the restless churning of wrath wrap around you like a torrential wind gathering momentum. All the anger and rage and grief spiraling faster and faster, threatening to destroy anything and everything in its path. 

A cold, but calming sensation swirled through your wrist. You blinked as shadows knocked you out of your stupor, staring at the inky tendril caressing your arm. Slowly but surely, you felt the storm within you break. 

Beside you, Azriel dared to glance over. His face was unreadable, but his scarred hand found yours and his grip seemed to anchor you back to the present. You were here. You were fine. This was your aunt, not the ghost of your mother. 

And you both had appearances to maintain. 

The small curtsy you offered your aunt might have been the only genuine act you’ve committed since stepping foot in this place. The skirts of her burgundy gown swept against your feet and you inclined your head slowly to meet those familiar amber eyes. 

“Dearest niece,” she greeted softly. Your aunt didn’t dare embrace you or project any more warmth than necessary. Not under the watchful eyes of her husband. “The High Lord and I welcome you and your betrothed to the Autumn Court. “

With all the grace of a noble prince, Azriel bowed low. “It’s an honor to be welcomed into your home, Lady.”

Your aunt smiled gracefully until her gaze flitted behind you. As you’ve witnessed a thousand times before, the joy faltered from her expression as soon as she met her husband’s gaze. 

“Enough pleasantries,” Beron declared in a bored tone. The High Lord rose from his seat as you and Azriel took your place beside Eris. 

Beron clapped his hands together, garnering the attention of his court. 

“Friends, family, and honored guests, today we celebrate the engagement of my niece and the shadowsinger.” Hateful black eyes surveyed you with a cold, calculated gaze. “Let this unconventional union signify that unlikely alliances are most necessary in these ever changing times.” 

You narrowed your eyes, catching the double meaning within his words. Beron was indeed making unlikely alliances with death gods and Cauldron knew who else. As though sensing your suspicions, the High Lord raised his glass in your direction. 

“A word from our honored guests?” 

There was a challenge behind your uncle’s invitation, but you only smiled, twining your fingers through Azriel’s as you both stood. 

“Azriel and I are grateful to be welcomed into the Autumn Court with such open arms. I have missed these lands in my absence, but a fox always returns to its den. If only to parade my handsome fiance in front of the fine ladies of this court.” 

A chuckle swept through the crowd as numerous gazes landed on the shadowsinger. Azriel chuckled, pulling you closer by the waist. The action was full of certainty and possessiveness, making your cheeks bloom with heat. 

“Don’t tease, my lady. You know I only have eyes for you.” You could’ve sworn you heard a sigh to your right, but you kept looking at Azriel as he addressed the audience. “Y/N and I look forward to our stay with you. We greatly appreciate the hospitality of the High Lord and Lady.”

The courtiers clapped, seemingly enthralled by Azriel’s charm. It almost made you do a double take of the male before you. Sometimes you forgot that the shadowsinger was just as skilled in standing out as he was in blending in. A skill he no doubt honed to perfection over his years of service as the spymaster. You had to give it to Azriel. He was a damned good actor. 

The flash of annoyance crossing over Beron’s features almost brought a smile to your face. The High Lord bristled as he addressed his subjects once more, raising a golden goblet in his hand. 

“Let the feast begin.” 

At his declaration, streams of servants weaved through the spacious rooftop, bringing with them an array of decadent dishes. Fine cuts of meat, freshly baked bread, and a colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables were laid out on the table before you. The excess left a vile taste in your mouth, knowing the poverty and starvation that many members of this court suffered from under Beron’s egregious policies. 

The High Fae seemed oblivious to the exorbitant display of overindulgence. As far as they were concerned, it didn’t matter if those in the countryside were barely scraping by on stale bread and rotten produce as long as they could drink their fill of faerie wine and turn a blind eye to those in need. Even before your exile, the obvious disparity between the nobility and the working class had always disgusted you. 

While you were aware of the privilege your station provided you, your mother had always taught you that the farmers, workers, and tillers of this court were just as important as any of the nobles. Even more so because they were responsible for ensuring that there was a steady supply of food in these lands. During your childhood, you’d often visit the vineyards in the countryside and learned of the hard work and toil it took to produce the wine that brought your family fortune. 

Back then, your grandparents taught you the importance of valuing those who worked under them. It didn’t matter if the nobles snubbed their noses up at what they called lesser faeries — a term that has always struck you as extremely offensive and unbelievably tone deaf — these workers were the lifeblood of the Autumn Court and they deserved to be treated with respect. 

It was a sentiment that the High Lord vehemently opposed. Beron only valued individuals who could offer him something in return, be it money, power, or influence. Being faced with it now made your stomach curdle. Having experienced hardship and starvation before Rhys and Serena took you in, this whole charade seemed even more unbearable now than you recalled. 

You clenched the silks of your skirts in one hand as an older dryad poured faerie wine into the goblet in front of you. 

“Thank you.” You declared in gratitude, nearly startling the female. Judging from her reaction, she probably wasn’t used to having her presence acknowledged. 

“It’s a pleasure to serve you, my lady. It is good to have you home.”

“Enid, isn’t it?” you asked softly, recalling the dryad from your childhood. She had served Beron’s court when you were first brought to the Forest House. “How is your son?” 

The dryad’s eyes lit up. “He’s doing well, my lady. By the grace of the Mother, Arun is serving in the Westerlands. Lord Bronwyn personally chose him to be a member of his personal guard. ” 

“I am pleased to hear that. The Briars are an honorable family and their estate is quite beautiful. Do you and your husband get to visit often?” 

Enid’s smile faltered. “My husband passed away some years ago. It is only Arun and I now.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Enid. Drakkar was a good male. I offer you my deepest condolences. Please let me know where he’s laid to rest so I may pay my respects.” 

“Drakkar is in the country, my lady. I have been told his grave is quite beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen it?” you asked incredulously. 

The dryad wrung her hands. “I was given a day to mourn at the temple, but I was not present when he was laid to rest. I’m afraid my duties at the Forest House would not allow for much leave.” Her sad eyes filled with apprehension before sharpening into fear. “Please do not construe that as anything but gratefulness for the High Lord and Lady. It is a privilege to serve them.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but there was nothing you could offer her. What worth would meaningless words of comfort hold against an ocean of grief?  

“I am sure the Vanserrras are glad to have you and your son in their employ,” Azriel said gently, flashing her a soft smile. “I do hope to meet Arun at the tourney. Perhaps he can teach me a thing or two about swordsmanship.” 

Enid brightened at that. “My Arun would be honored. Thank you, my lord.”

“Please, call me Azriel.” 

The dryad blushed before curtsying and returning to her duties. You turned your attention upon the shadowsinger, carefully examining the male. Despite his earlier complaints, Azriel seemed to be faring well with the people of this court. And what he said to Enid…you weren’t quite sure what to make of it. 

Before you could ponder it any longer, Eris was gesturing at your side. “Stay alert, lovebirds. Here comes the sharks,” You looked up to find a small gathering approaching the table. “And they’re out for blood.” 

Everyone from the youngest maidens of the court right down to the married courtesans approached under the guise of congratulating your engagement, but you weren’t fooled. More than half of them were nearly drooling at the sight of Azriel. 

The shadowsinger seemed to take the female attention in stride, donning his charming smile and slinging smooth compliments here and there that made the ladies swoon. You locked eyes with Azriel across the table and he briefly touched his brows to show that they were free of any trace of judgment. You couldn’t help but snort.

The amusement was short-lived as soon as Beron came into view. He occupied the seat that Azriel had vacated, flashing you a false smile to appease the clever eyes of his court. 

“A fine parlor trick,” the High Lord commented in a tone devoid of humor. 

He rested his arm over your chair, his rough, calloused fingers briefly brushing against your tattoo. You stiffened as he made contact with the raised bumps of the half-healed scars upon your back. The skin had been burned over and over again in a way that even your healing abilities could not erase. The marks were as ugly and hateful and brutal as the male that inflicted them. 

“Perhaps this court will adopt the barbaric customs of Rhysand’s people,” Beron mused as his gaze fell upon two figures in the midst of the crowd. Fallon and Astor. “I shall think to add my own flair, of course. I’d rather enjoy gifting the twins with marks that rival your own.”

The scars on your back began to burn. “No,” you breathed. Panic rose in your chest as you took in the fair haired sisters, laughing and jesting with those around them. Oblivious to Beron’s threats. 

“Then cover these up, niece.” The High Lord said with a tap between your shoulders. Though it was barely a touch, you flinched all the same. “Or I shall make good on my promise.”

Without another word, Beron was gone, but the phantom burn of his touch lingered on your skin like a brand.

Sorrel Vanserra had always loved the sunset. 

The Lady of Autumn watched as the golden rays cast pink and orange hues across the horizon and basked in its light before it escaped her once more. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes and soaked in the sun before fixing her gaze across the courtyard. A fist took hold of her heart and squeezed once she laid eyes on a familiar streak of scarlet. There, in the glow of the Golden Garden, stood the ghost of her sister. 

Out of the three Thorne sisters, Laurel had always burned the brightest. Where Annalise was the silent and stoic second born and Sorrel the cunning and clever youngest, Laurel was known to be bold and fearless, challenging authority and testing boundaries whenever she could. As the eldest of the family, Sorrel had looked up to Laurel her whole life. She admired the fact that her sister refused to fit into the mold of a proper noble lady. 

“When I grow up,” Sorrel recalled herself telling Laurel. “I want to be just like you, Lo.” 

“You’re not going to be like me, sœurette.” Laurel leaned down and brushed her hair back, golden eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ll be better in every way.” 

Somehow Sorrel doubted that. Even at a young age, Laurel exhibited a natural talent for magic, but her power had been as wild and unruly as she was, which is how the old witch came to serve the Thornes. Their parents had brought in Alinta to hone Laurel’s magic, but her older sister insisted on including Annalise and Sorrel for every lesson. 

During these sessions, Sorrel learned the truth about her home. The Autumn Court had not always been the den of lies and deceit that it was now infamous for. There was a time when the court prospered under different leadership. When the High King fell, Fionn’s death caused a power vacuum in Prythian. The High Fae were in disarray, fighting and bickering amongst themselves. One by one, each court broke off and created their own territory.

Though her name had been wiped from history, the land still remembered its founder, a powerful witch named Serafina — their ancestor. Sorrel remembered tales of a better court, led by a fair leader, told to her and her sisters by the old witch. The Autumn Court flourished during this time, but eventually the power and influence Serafina amassed caused the people to question her. 

Rumors swirled throughout the court that Serafina was a dark witch capable of horrors beyond their imagination. It was said that she possessed a power that defied the natural order of things. The power of death, strife, and chaos. An abomination. 

Eventually, the witch hunt had been successful in sowing suspicion against Serafina. In the end, Sorrel’s ancestor had been burned at the heart of the very land she created by the hand of Casimir Vanserra. The man that would then become the first High Lord of the Autumn Court. 

For centuries, the Autumn Court had been suffering under the rule of the Vanserras. Corruption became the currency at court and power was wielded without mercy, often at the expense of those who found themselves without. The legacy of Serafina was forgotten, but the land remembered. 

The Thornes remembered. 

Once the sisters learned the truth, they worked tirelessly to restore the Autumn Court back to its former glory. Laurel learned about the magic of the land, its strange power still calling to Serafina. Annalise trained as a warrior and amassed allies and armies for the inevitable civil war. Despite their efforts, they knew that none of their plans would come to fruition unless they had access to the inner court. 

“It has to be me,” Sorrel declared to her sisters. 

Laurel and Annalise had looked at her in horror, shaking their heads vehemently. “No,” Annalise said firmly. “There has to be another way.” 

“The only way that the court will fall is from the inside,” Sorrel explained. “I must marry the High Lord.” 

“I will take your place,” Annalise pleaded desperately. 

“You are a warrior, Annie. You have never desired to be a wife. I will not condemn you to a life at the royal court. Besides, you are our main contact for our allies and armies. We cannot risk it.” 

“You don’t have to do this,” Laurel said as she clasped her younger sister’s hand. “Please, sister.”

“It is the only way.” 

“But you do not love this High Lord.”

Sorrel smiled sadly. “Helion will understand. I am doing this for love. Not for the love of another lord, but for the love of my land. The Autumn Court cannot continue to go on like this. I want a better court for myself and my people.” She squeezed Laurel’s hand. “For my niece.” 

At twenty years old, Sorrel married the High Lord and became the Lady of Autumn. The title stripped away her identity. She was no longer a Thorne, but a Vanserra. It pained her to bind herself to someone as abhorrent as Beron, but her plight was nothing compared to those that suffered under his rule. 

Beron Vanserra had to die. 

Slowly but surely, Sorrel gained power and influence in the court. Nothing occurred in the Forest House without her knowing about it. She used the knowledge and information to plot and scheme against her husband and worked with her sisters to undermine his rule and prepare for the seizing of the throne. Everything was going to plan until the day Hybern attacked. 

They were supposed to be safe at Thorne Manor. Despite her reluctance, Beron had dispersed their children throughout the different properties and estates that the Vanserras owned. Since her ancestral home was under her parent’s ownership, Beron convinced Sorrel and her sisters that the King of Hybern wouldn’t bother searching the estate. Sadly, he was wrong. 

Sorrel still remembered the day the beasts attacked. The Godswood were ablaze as Hybern’s men set fire to the sacred forest. The wind whipped through the weirwood trees as Sorrell and her sisters ran, the howl of the beasts echoing in the night. With every second that passed, the enemy sounded closer and closer. 

“Lo,” Annalised called out as she swung her sword. “They’re almost here.” 

Panic rose within Sorrel as her sisters prepared to face off with the beasts. While Annalise and Laurel were both respectively warrior and witch, all Sorrel possessed was her wit. Both of her sisters insisted that her cunning was just as important as their abilities, but as Sorrel cowered in fear, she couldn’t help but think that they were wrong. There were no rulers to influence, no lords to manipulate, no emissaries to exploit. Her mind would not save her now. 

“Listen to me,” Laurel spoke in a calm and even tone. “I need you to run.” 

“No!” Sorrel rasped as tears streaked down her cheeks. “I won’t leave you and Annie.” 

Annalise turned, a sad smile on her lovely face. “You have no choice, sœurette.” Her voice never wavered despite the tears in her eyes. “Lo is the oldest. If she tells you to run, then you have to run.” She tightened her grip on her sword as she stared at her little sister. “You have to survive.” 

“Why me?” Sorrel asked desperately. “You’re both stronger than I am. It’s you who should survive.” 

Laurel shook her head. “You’re wrong, baby sister.” She assured Sorrel with a melancholy smile. “You are stronger than both Annalise and I combined. You have sacrificed your life to serve our cause. You have survived Beron, which is something neither of us would have ever been able to do.” 

Sorrel sobbed as those familiar golden eyes bore into her. “Remember what I told you? You’re not like me. You’re better in every way.” Laurel touched Sorrel’s temples. Your mind is a weapon. Don’t forget that.” Sorrel heaved as her sister placed her hand on her chest. “But most importantly, listen to your heart. You have the one thing that Beron will never possess. The one thing that will doom him because he underestimates the power of it — love.” 

“We love you, Sorrel.” Annie said fiercely as she placed a kiss upon her sister’s head. “Live for us. Laugh for us. Love for us.” 

The sisters shared one last embrace as sobs racked their bodies. Sorrel felt like her heart was breaking in two, cleaved in half by grief and sadness and anger. Laurel squeezed her youngest sister’s arm, her golden eyes full of sorrow. 

“My daughter — “ 

“I will get her out,” Sorrel promised. “I will care for her as though she were my own. I will protect her even if it’s the last thing I do.” 

Laurel smiled. “Thank you, sister. Now go. Run.” 

Sorrel blinked, looking into those same golden eyes. It pained her how much her niece looked like Laurel, but in many ways, it also brought her joy. Her niece was the remnant of the fire of her beloved eldest sister. 

The promise that Sorell made to Laurel echoed in her mind. After the death of her sisters, Sorell did everything in her power to orchestrate her niece’s escape. She took advantage of Beron’s obsession with retaliation and paid a chamberlain to smuggle her out of the Forest House. Losing her niece had been excruciating especially after losing her sisters, but Sorrel knew it was for the best. The Lady of Autumn reminded herself that she was better off living in exile rather than being subjected to her husband’s cruelty. 

Last she heard, her niece had found a family of her own in the Night Court. Though Sorrel was glad to hear of it, she couldn’t help but feel guilty that she wasn’t able to be there for her like she wanted. Still, as she watched the shadowsinger elicit a smile out of her niece, Sorrel thought that perhaps a silver lining could be found even in exile. 

It was that smile that reminded her of the promise she once made to her sisters. Now that her niece was back, Sorrel vowed once more to end things once and for all. 

For Lo. 

For Annie. 

For herself. 

Azriel didn’t know what to make of the Autumn Court. 

And he certainly didn’t know what to make of the Autumn Court female standing beside him now, a vivid flash of scarlet against the twinkling backdrop of the cool, mild evening. Though the shadowsinger supposed he shouldn’t categorize her with the rest of this court seeing how vehemently she opposed everything it stood for. 

The shadowsinger dared a glance and found her squinting up at the stars. The assassin was quiet, pensive, and while Azriel usually found comfort in silence, the absence of her fiery wit and scathing remarks felt stifling. For all his spymaster skills, he couldn’t seem to decipher the frustrating puzzle of her mind. 

“What did Beron say to you?” 

He watched as she clenched the railing, her knuckles turning as white as the pale moon shining overhead. Despite the bruised dusky evening, the assassin glowed like a living flame in her golden dress. She hadn’t lied when she told Azriel that clothes were capable of making a statement. 

Daughter of fire. 

The witch of smoke and ash.

The talons of her winged tattoo peeked out from underneath her shawl, but she only drew it tighter around her body. To shield from the cold or something else, Azriel could not tell. 

“Nothing that I have not already heard a thousand times over,” she said absentmindedly. 

It was obvious that the assassin was withholding information, but Azriel decided to table it for a later time. The afternoon had been tense enough. All the pomp and circumstance had certainly exhausted both sides and he was determined to uphold the refuge of the balcony as long as he could. Up here, away from the crowd, the shadowsinger could finally breathe. Even if it was only for a moment. 

“Do you think we’ve convinced them?” Azriel asked as he surveyed the nobility milling about on the grounds. 

In his opinion, the charade had held for the most part. The ladies of the court were indeed relentless and the shadowsinger had regaled them with the best version of lovestruck fool that he could muster, showering the assassin with furtive glances and lingering touches. Azriel thought he had done a decent enough job, but evaluating his performance after every mission was something he usually discussed with Rhys or Cassian. It helped hone his thoughts and improve his skills. 

“Are you asking me for a performance evaluation, shadowsinger?” The assassin asked in an amused tone. Azriel sighed exasperatedly. He should have known better than to expect anything other than sarcasm. The shadowsinger was about to say so, but paused when her expression hardened. “You were very convincing. The court seems satisfied for now.”

Azriel did not miss the assassin’s side glance. She seemed to be weighing something. The rare show of indecisiveness unnerved him. “Out with it,” he said impatiently. 

The assassin squinted at him as though it would allow her to read his thoughts. “The conversation with Enid. You offered to spar with her son. She holds no sway in this court, yet you treated her with kindness. Why is that?”

The shadowsinger startled. He did not expect the question, nor did he understand it. “I do not dole out kindness on the merit of what someone can give me. It is not something to be earned, but something to be freely given.” 

She stared at him with unyielding focus. Azriel bristled and averted her gaze. “Surely I’m not so wretched in your eyes that an act of decency has rendered you speechless. A person can show kindness without ulterior motives, Thorne.”

The assassin shook her head. “Not in this court.”

Perhaps it was the influence of the sweetwine or the haunted look in her eyes, but Azriel found himself glancing up at the stars and sighing. “She reminds me of my mother,” he said softly.

Azriel didn’t know why he said it. The shadowsinger rarely spoke about his mother, even Rhys and Cassian had only heard a handful of stories about her, so he wasn’t entirely sure why he was bringing it up now. 

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “For being kind to her.”

The air was rife with uncertainty. Neither one of them seemed equipped to deal with an actual moment of sincerity. “You know, I’ve heard you say thank you more today than in the past three centuries. I wasn’t even sure you were capable of showing such gratitude.” 

The assassin rolled her eyes. “Tell any of our friends and I’ll hang you by your wings.”

The shadowsinger would have chuckled in response, but just then one of his shadows informed him that they were not alone. Azriel turned just as the Lady of the Autumn Court breezed through the double doors. He felt, rather than saw, the assassin stiffen beside him. The playfulness had all but gone and in its place was an immovable mask as she curtsied. Azriel followed suit and bowed. 

“I am sorry to interrupt,” the Lady of the Autumn Court said. “I won’t keep you long. I came to bid you two good night and to congratulate you again on your betrothal.” 

“Thank you,” the assassin said softly. “Azriel and I are honored to be welcomed as warmly as we were today.”

The Lady smiled. Mischief was alight in her eyes, and suddenly the resemblance between aunt and niece became as clear as day. “Some welcomes were warmer than others, were they not, shadowsinger?” 

Azriel flushed. “The ladies of this court have been most gracious, but none more than you, my lady.” 

There was a hint of amusement in her elegant features until she turned her attention back to the assassin. Azriel thought he saw a mixture of grief and apprehension, but the expression did not linger long enough for him to analyze it. 

To the assassin’s surprise, the Lady of the Autumn Court grasped her gloved hands, turning it over to examine the sapphire ring glittering in the moonlight. “A lovely ring for a lovely lady,” she whispered softly, her eyes glossy. “Your mother would have been proud.”

The raw, pained expression on the assassin’s face made the shadowsinger feel like an unwelcome intruder. Aunt and niece stared at each other for a brief moment before breaking away. Azriel fought the urge to look away, his unease settling over his nerves like molasses. 

The shadowsinger was glad he didn’t, because in the split second before the Lady of the Autumn Court collected herself, Azriel saw her slip something into the assassin’s gloved hand. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he might have missed the entire exchange. But Azriel was the spymaster and it was his job to notice these things. 

Just like it was the assassin’s job to keep secrets.

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel@onebadassunicorn-blog@acourtofbatboydreams@marina468@ly–canthrope

[cherryblossomfairyy]

Bejeweled

Pairing : spencer reid x bau!reader

Summary : y/n finally breaks up with her boyfriend. He caused her to dim her light. Now single and feeling great, she goes to the FBI’s annual gala. Where she has her bejeweled moment and dances with Spencer. Maybe he will say the night with her? Along the lyrics of the song "Bejeweled" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

You used to dim your light for him. Not on purpose—not really. It was more subtle, like the way the moon fades a bit when clouds pass by. You didn’t stop being you. You just got…quieter. Less “bejeweled,” as your best friend had so perfectly put it one evening over wine.

“You used to shine,” she said, swirling her glass with a pitying tilt of her head. “You were diamonds. Lately, you’re costume jewelry. Cheap stuff. Plastic. Why?”

You didn’t answer her. You didn’t want to say that the reason you’d dulled yourself was you (insecure) boyfiend—or more accurately, the way his behaviour made you feel around him. It wasn’t your fault, not really. You felt trapped and his promises made you feel better momentaraly. The man was brilliant, soft-spoken, and kind when he wanted to.

"Baby love, I think I've been a little too kind."

The clock ticks. Rain hums outside. You stands in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around her. James lounges on the couch like he’s already over the conversation.

y/n quietly said, with silent tears in her eyes “I just want to talk about what happened at the party. You completely ignored me all night, and when I tried to say something, you laughed in my face.”

“Jesus, you’re still on that?”James answered her, without looking up.

“Yes. Because it hurt. And you still haven’t acknowledged it.”

He sighs dramatically before speaking. “You’re too sensitive. I was talking to people. Networking. You want me glued to your hip all night like a child?”

y/n, shocked by his reaction, trying tos peak calmly. “I never said that. I just wanted to feel like I existed to you.”

James let out a big laugh, still not looking at her. “Wow. Drama queen much?”

A frown appeared on y/n’s face.“Why do you always do that? Make fun of me when I try to be honest?”

“Because you're always making up these stories in your head. You twist everything into some attack. It’s exhausting.” James tells her, fort he first time looking up from his phone.

"Sadness became my whole sky."

“I’m not making anything up,” she said, voice firm but shaking slightly. “I’m telling you how I feel.”

He crossed his arms, his tone turning cold. “No, you’re making a scene out of nothing. Again. You do this all the time — create problems that don’t exist just so you can play the victim.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare call me the victim. I’ve put up with your gaslighting for months, and I’ve tried to make this work.”

He let out a laugh, dripping with mock innocence. “Gaslighting? Oh my god. You really think you’re being abused just because I don’t agree with your little fantasy version of things?”

“It’s not a fantasy when I live it every day,” she snapped. “You lie. You deflect. You deny things that I know happened. I bring up real issues and you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“BECAUSE YOU ARE ACTING CRAZY RIGHT NOW!” he shouted, voice booming. “You’re blowing everything out of proportion! You always do this when you don’t get your way!”

"Baby boy, I think I've been too good of a girl."

Y/N spoke calmly, almost too calm. Like she was used tot his type of reaction. “And now you’re screaming. Again. Like that’s gonna fix anything.”

“I’m screaming because YOU DON’T LISTEN!”

The sound of bruising knuckles echos throught the living room as James slams his fist into the wall.

“I’m fcking drowning here trying to keep this together, and you just—walk away from everything like it's nothing!”*

She stepped back, her expression unreadable. “Wow. There it is. I finally see it. You don’t love me — you just love having someone to blame everything on.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore. Every conversation turns into a fight.”

He threw his hands up, frustrated. “Because you keep picking at me! Every little thing I do becomes a problem.”

“I’m not picking,” she said sharply. “I’m asking for basic respect. Like not disappearing for two days and then acting like it’s completely normal.”

He fell silent for a beat. His chest rose and fell, shallow and fast. His jaw clenched. There was rage in his eyes — but something else too. Desperation. Fear.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’re emotional and paranoid, like always. Go take a walk or something. You’ll come back and realize you’re overreacting.”

She stared at him, calm and certain now. “No. I’m not coming back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You say that every time. You’ll be texting me by morning.”

“Not this time,” she said, voice soft but solid as stone. “I finally believe myself more than I believe you.”

She grabbed her keys. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her hands didn’t shake. He didn’t move. Just sat there, watching her like he still expected her to sit back down.

“So what,” he said bitterly, “you’re just gonna walk out like everyone else? Coward.”

Y/N with a deep sadness in her voice, but staying strong. “No. It takes strength to walk away from someone you love who keeps hurting you. You want to scream and blame me? Fine. Scream into an empty room.”

She grabs her coat from the hook, hands trembling.

James voice breaking as he realised that this time she’s serieus about leaving him

“y/n… wait. Please

After a silence that lasted no more then five seconds, his anger came roaring back.

“You’re nothing without me.” He muttered.

As y/n paused in the doorway, she said, in a low, final tone “I was nothing with you.”

“No, wait—y/n, don’t do this. Don’t you dare—”

She shuts the door behind her. And for once — she doesn’t look back.

"And by the way, I'm going out tonight."

________________________________

The whole team knew of your difficult relationship with him. They offered their help and advise, but you didn't want to hear it back then. You told them little lies, about how you two were doing better now and that they didn't have to worry.

"Didn't notice you walking all over my peace of mind."

But Spencer had a knack for seeing through things—especially you.

Spencer saw how hard you tried. How often you dressed up, hoping maybe one day your boyfriend would notice how great you actually were. You were always just a friend. A teammate. The girl he wanted to ask for dinner, but was too afraid.

But tonight was going to be different. after a short screaming match, only him. You officially broke up with him, now he's just one of your exes. No longer a man that slowly started to break you down.

Tonight was for you.

You slipped on the dress you’d buried in the back of your closet. The one that shimmered like starlight and hugged you like it missed you. You painted your lips red and lined your eyes with defiance. You slid on heels that clicked like a warning.

You were going to the FBI’s annual gala looking like the woman you had once been before you started hiding behind subtle smiles and quiet loyalty.

You were going to sparkle.

''Best believe I'm still bejeweled."

"When I walk in the room, I can still make the whole place shimmer."

The room was full of light—chandeliers glittered overhead, and the BAU looked stunning in tuxes and gowns. You caught JJ’s eye first. Her jaw dropped. “Y/N…you look incredible.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"What's a girl gonna do? A diamond's gotta shine."

Confidence wasn’t cocky. It was truth. And you had earned the right to own it.

You passed by Hotch, Rossi, even Morgan, all of whom gave you compliments or double-takes. And then, finally, you saw him.

Spencer.

He was at the bar, nervously twirling a glass of soda water in his hand, wearing a deep navy suit that made his brown eyes darker, more intense. His tie was crooked, of course. You always liked that about him.

He turned—and stopped.

His eyes widened.

“Y/N…” His voice was soft, almost reverent. “You look…”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curved. “Bejeweled?”

"I can reclaim the land."

He blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled, and it was slow, shy, and so Spencer it almost hurt.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly that.”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

You walked past him, hips swaying to the rhythm of your own self-worth, giving him a wink as you grabbed a glass of champagne. You chatted with Luke, laughed at one of Penelope’s wild stories, danced with Morgan to a song that had too much bass and not enough subtlety. You lit up the room.

The music pulses through the floor, low and heady. Colored lights spin lazily over a packed dance floor. You’re standing by the bar, laughing at something Penelope said, when two guys, agents from a different branch, approach — confident, smooth, probably a little too charming for their own good.

One leans in with a grin. “You look like you’re having a boring night. Wanna change that?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Depends on your definition of fun.”

The other nudges his friend. “We’re not bad dancers, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You glance toward the dance floor.

So you smile. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The music shifts to something sultry, bass-heavy. They’re decent dancers, easygoing, clearly trying to impress. One twirls you around. The other steps in too close, then laughs it off. You laugh with them,

"And when I meet the band. They ask, "Do you have a man?" I can still say, "I don't remember"

And Spencer watched.

It wasn’t until the fourth song in—a slow, sparkling tune that sounded like it had been written by stars—that he approached you.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to worry, then took it.

"And we're dancin' all night."

His touch was tentative. But his eyes? They were clear. Finally seeing you. "Diamonds in my eyes."

“You know,” he murmured, swaying with you, “I think I’ve been waiting for too long.”

You tilted your head. “You think?”

“I’ve always known you were beautiful,” he said honestly. “But tonight… I see a version of you i have missed for so long. The real you, the one who shines. A friend told me to stop hiding from my feelings.”

And you smiled. Because you weren’t doing this for your now ex-boyfriend. Not anymore. But for yourself. It felt good to be seen again. And it felt right that it was him.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” you said.

“I know,” he replied, and his voice cracked just slightly. “But if you’ll let me…I’d like to start making up for that. One dance at a time.”

You let your head rest against his chest, just for a moment.

Because tonight, you were glowing.

Not for anyone else.

Just for you.

But maybe, just maybe, you’d let him bask in the light too.

The car ride back to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward—just thick with unspoken things. Spencer sat beside you in the backseat of the Bureau-issued black car, his hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes flicking to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you saw him. You always saw him. The difference now? He knew it.

When you reached your place, you expected him to say goodnight. But when you turned to do the goodbye-smile thing, he just said:

“Can I come up? Just for a little while?” "And you can try to change my mind."

You hesitated—not because you didn’t want to. God, you wanted to. But you weren’t sure if your heart could handle Spencer Reid in your space, with his hands maybe brushing yours, with that look in his eyes that said this is new, but I’m not going to pretend anymore.

But you nodded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your heels and dropped your clutch on the entry table. Spencer lingered in the doorway until you waved him in, watching him as he scanned the apartment with those observant eyes. He took everything in—your books, the throw blanket on your couch, the framed photo of the team—but it was you he looked at the longest.

You moved to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of wine. When you turned back, he was closer. Not touching. But closer.

“You’re still glowing,” he said softly. “Even in this light.”

"I polish up real, I polish up real nice."

You let out a breathy laugh, taking a sip of wine to steady your nerves. “It’s just makeup and good lighting.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, setting his untouched glass down. “It’s you. It always has been.”

"Sapphire tears on my face."

Your eyes met his. He didn’t flinch away this time.

“I feel like I missed out on you,” he continued. “Like you dissapeared and I didn't know how to help and I… I was too wrapped up in my own head.”

You walked toward him slowly, standing close enough to smell the faint scent of cologne and vintage paper—Spencer always smelled like old books and warmth.

“You didn’t miss it,” you said. “I was just hiding.”

He looked down at you, hands still at his sides, every inch of him buzzing with restraint.

“You don’t have to hide anymore.”

You reached up, fingers grazing his tie to straighten it—a habit you’d always wanted an excuse for. “So what now, Spencer?”

His breath hitched. “Now I stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow at first—hesitant, testing. Like he didn’t believe you’d kiss him back. But you did. And then you did again, deeper this time, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently until he groaned against your mouth.

He backed you into the wall, hands cupping your face like you were a piece of something sacred. It was messy, breathless, years of wanting packed into each desperate brush of lips and teeth.

When you pulled back, your lipstick smudged and eyes hazy, he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

And once the door shut behind you, there was no more hesitation.

He undressed you like he was solving a puzzle—carefully, reverently. His hands memorized the shape of you, his mouth tracing a soft path along your collarbone, down your chest, making you gasp and arch and feel. You watched his brain click into overdrive—not analyzing, just worshiping.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured between kisses. “I should’ve told you every damn day.”

You pulled his shirt over his head, pressing your palms to his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Then start now,” you said, voice breathless. “Make up for it.”

And he did.

With every touch, every moan, every whispered I see you now, he rewrote the silence you’d endured. You weren't just shining—you were on fire, and he let himself burn in you.

Afterward, tangled in sheets and sweat and laughter, he whispered something against your bare shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to the way we were. I want to know you—every part. Not just when you’re glowing. Even when you’re dim.”

You turned in his arms, touched his cheek, and kissed him slow and sweet.

“You’ve got me now, Spencer. All of me.”

And in the soft light of morning, you weren’t hiding.

You were bejeweled—and finally loved for it.

[silentnights-stuff]

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Author’s Note:

Hey guys! I’m finally back—exams are over, and wow, the past few weeks have been absolutely hectic. I was buried under books, deadlines, and way too much stress, but somehow I survived it all. Honestly, it took everything in me not to open my laptop and dive back into writing because I missed it (and you all!) so much.

But now that I’m free, I couldn’t wait a second longer to jump back into the story. So here it is—the next part, fresh out of my post-exam brain. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being patient and sticking around!

⌗ Across the Fence𓂃 ࣪˖ ᥫ᭡.

Pedri gonzalez × fem!reader

Part- 3

Masterlist

Content Warning: alcohol consumption, strong language, chaotic drunken behaviour, emotional breakdowns, Pedri trying (and failing) to keep it together, Gavi being the designated sarcastic third wheel, emotional vulnerability, romantic tension.

Word Count: 6620

Tagged: @moonvr — let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list!

Note: Here’s a playlist of songs that inspired me while writing these. If you’re diving into part 3, start the playlist with Ain’t My Fault by Zara Larsson.

The moment the car stopped in front of the house, Pedri was out before anyone else could react. He barely registered the cool night air or the muffled bass of the music vibrating through the walls. His only thought was her.

The house was packed, bodies moving in every direction, but it didn’t matter. Pedri pushed through without hesitation, barely sparing a glance at anyone in his way. He will deal with Gavi and Cubarsí tomorrow right now, Gabi was all he cared about.

And then he saw her.

She was in the centre of the room, completely lost in the music. The dim lights flickered across her skin like fireflies, and the way she moved effortlessly, free, glowing, it was like the world itself was dancing with her.

Sof��a twirled her, and Gabi let out a bright laugh, head tipping back as her hair fanned around her. Every move was instinctive, like the beat was flowing into her veins. Cubarsí, Marc, Ferran, Fermín, Jules, and Gavi stood around them, not just dancing, but protecting them—forming an invisible barrier so no one could get too close.

Pedri stopped for a second, breath caught in his throat.

She was enchanting. The way her body swayed, the way her eyes sparkled, the way her laughter melted with the melody, she was a sight he could never look away from.

For the first time in his life, Pedri thought maybe alcohol wasn’t such a bad thing.

He took a step forward, weaving through the crowd. Just as he reached her, she turned, her hair smacking him lightly in the face. He barely reacted. His hand instinctively found her shoulder, turning her toward him.

And then she saw him.

Her face lit up like she was the moon in his night sky.

Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck, locking her fingers together behind him. “Where were you?” she pouted. “I was so disappointed not to see you.”

Pedri exhaled, his hands resting at her waist. “I’m sorry, Hamster. I wasn’t here, I went out to buy some booze.”

Gabi blinked, processing that information. “Oh.” Then, without missing a beat, she grabbed his hand, dragging him to dance with her.

Pedri let her. His grip on her waist tightened as they moved together, bodies swaying in sync with the music.

He leaned in slightly. “Are you having fun?”

“Yup, it’s really exciting to be here! I’m loving it!” Gabi exclaimed, swaying happily to the music. Then she paused, squinting up at Pedri with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Buuuut… you won’t be mad at me if I tell you a little secret, right?”

Pedri couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something so innocent about her in this moment, despite the absolute chaos she caused. He could pretend to be mad, but it would be a miserable attempt.

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Gabi, you know you can tell me anything. You’re the last person on earth I’d ever get mad at.” His voice softened. “Go ahead, love.”

Gabi gasped dramatically, clutching onto his black Valentino bomber jacket like he was her lifeline. Then she pulled herself up, so close he could feel her breath against his skin as she whispered in his ear.

“You know…” she giggled, gripping him tighter, “I drank half a bottle of Absolut.” She pulled back, wide-eyed. “But you don’t get to tell anyone.”

Pedri was struggling. Not because of what she said honestly, that was expected but because of the way she had leaned in, her lips grazing his ear, sending goosebumps down his entire body. And as if that wasn’t enough to destroy him, the next thing he knew—

Soft lips pressed against his cheek.

Gabi kissed him.

Pedri froze. Completely starstruck, his mind short-circuiting while she just… casually pulled away, completely unaware of the damage she just caused.

And then, as if she hadn’t just ruined him, she grinned. “Heard you bought more vodka! I’m gonna go get some!”

And just like that, before Pedri could even react, she disappeared into the crowd, vanishing into the neon lights and smoke like she was never even there.

Pedri stood there, absolutely shell-shocked, his cheek still tingling from where Gabi had kissed him. The bass of the music vibrated through the floor, and people moved around him, but he felt nothing. Heard nothing.

Because what the hell just happened?

One second, she was whispering in his ear, driving him insane, and the next—she kissed him, dropped a bomb about drinking half a bottle of vodka, and then vanished into the party like some kind of drunken magician.

Absolutely not.

There was no way he was letting her disappear into this chaos when she was already drunk out of her mind.

His chest felt tight as his eyes swept across the crowded room, his pulse pounding in his ears. The flashing neon lights did nothing to help colours blurring, people shifting—but then, finally, he spotted her.

By the drinks table.

Gabi stood there, staring at a bottle of vodka as if she were mentally trying to get it to open by itself. Her brows furrowed in deep concentration, lips pursed slightly, fingers hovering near the cap—but she wasn’t actually touching it.

Pedri exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

For fuck’s sake.

Without another thought, he moved, cutting through the crowd with practised ease, zeroing in on her like a man on a mission.

Just as Gabi finally reached for the bottle, Pedri snatched it away.

"Nope."

A dramatic gasp.

Gabi spun around, offended, as he had just stolen her firstborn child.

“Hey!” she cried, eyes wide. “Thass mine!”

Pedri raised an eyebrow. “Yours?”

“Yes,” she huffed, crossing her arms. Or, well—trying to. Her movements were loose and uncoordinated as if even her own body wasn’t sure what it was doing. “I claimed it.”

Pedri let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, did you?”

“Yes.” She nodded so seriously like she was delivering a royal declaration. Then, she poked his chest, her finger pressing against the fabric of his hoodie with great effort. “And you, sir, are stealing.”

Pedri leaned down slightly, levelling her with a look. “Gabi, you’ve already had half a bottle. I think that’s enough for one night, don’t you?”

She squinted up at him. “Pedri, sweetheart, my love—”

Oh, fuck.

He was in trouble.

“—I’m not even drunk.”

Pedri just stared at her. “Oh? You’re not?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ dramatically, swaying slightly. “M’ perfectly fine.”

Pedri tilted his head, amusement creeping into his voice. “Then what’s seven times eight?”

Gabi gasped.

Her entire body stiffened, eyes going huge with genuine betrayal.

She staggered back a step, clutching her chest as if he had just stabbed her.

“How dare you?” she whispered, voice full of pure devastation.

Pedri bit the inside of his cheek, fighting a laugh.

Her lips parted, her expression twisting into something dramatic as she looked at him like he was some traitorous villain. “What kind of best friend tests his friends like that?”

Pedri exhaled sharply. “Gabi—”

“Math, Pedri?” She pointed a finger at him, stumbling slightly as she stepped closer. “You would really do that to me?”

“I can’t believe this.” She threw her hands up, completely ignoring the way she almost smacked someone passing by. “I thought we had trust!”

Gabi gasped, her eyes going comically wide as she swayed on her feet, pointing an accusing finger at Pedri. “You—” she hiccuped, brows furrowing in intense concentration, “—are no fun.”

Pedri let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on the vodka bottle as she made yet another attempt to grab it. Her fingers barely grazed the glass before he pulled it further away, holding it above her reach like she was some kind of feral child.

“Gabi,” he said, voice laced with exhaustion, “you’re drunk.”

“No, you’re drunk,” she snapped back without thinking, blinking up at him like she had just delivered the perfect comeback.

Pedri raised an eyebrow. “I don’t drink.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up like she had just proven some groundbreaking theory. “How would you even know what too drunk is, huh? HUH, PEDRO?”

Pedri closed his eyes for a brief second. Deep breaths. Patience.

“That’s not my name.”

“Yes, it is,” she huffed, swaying slightly as she reached for the bottle again. “And I—” another hiccup, “—demand you return what is rightfully mine.”

Pedri leaned back, holding the bottle further out of her reach. “Not happening, Hamster.”

“PEDRI,” she whined, stomping her foot like a frustrated child. “Give. Me. The. Vodka.”

He looked at her flatly. “No.”

“Why are you like this?” she groaned, throwing her hands up dramatically. “Who made you this boring?”

“I’m not boring,” he said with a sigh. “I’m just responsible.”

Gabi let out a loud, exaggerated scoff. “That’s literally the same thing.”

Pedri rubbed a hand down his face. “Gabi—”

She suddenly gasped, stumbling forward as she gripped his hoodie like she had just discovered the biggest scandal of the century.

“Oh my God.”

Pedri tensed. “What now?”

“YOU JUST LOVE CONTROLLING ME, DON’T YOU?”

Pedri blinked. “What?”

Gabi nodded aggressively, wobbling in place. “First, you tell me not to drink—”

“Because you had half a bottle—”

“Then, you tell me what to do—”

“Because you tried to climb the kitchen counter—”

“And now, you’re stealing from me.” She gasped, stepping back like she had just uncovered some grand betrayal. “You’re a thief, Pedri!”

Pedri let out a slow, tired exhale. “I swear to God, Gabi—”

“LET GO OF MY BOTTLE RIGHT FUCKING NOW, PEDRO!”

And that was it.

That was his final straw.

Pedri moved before she could react, grabbing her by the waist and effortlessly flipping her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

A shriek.

A loud one.

“PEDRI, PUT ME DOWN, YOU TRAITOR!”

“Nope.”

“YOU CAN’T JUST KIDNAP ME!”

“I literally can.”

“THIS IS ILLEGAL!”

Pedri barely spared her a glance as he adjusted his grip, making sure she wouldn’t slip. “Sue me.”

“I WILL!”

“No, you won’t.”

Gabi huffed dramatically, her arms crossed even though she was dangling upside down. “I hate you.”

Pedri smirked, making his way toward the stairs. “No, you don’t.”

“...I do.”

“Sure, Hamster.”

“You are officially my enemy.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I’m never talking to you again.”

Pedri let out a breathy chuckle. “Can’t wait for that.”

Gabi gasped, smacking his back. “PEDRI!”

Pedri just shook his head, grinning as he carried her up the stairs, her drunken protests echoing through the hallway.

This girl.

She was actually going to be the death of him.

But somehow?

He didn’t even mind.

─────────────────────────────────　

Pedri struggled to bring Gabi to the room, her manic outburst making it nearly impossible to keep a steady grip. She might have just completed the Vulgarity Dictionary, her words flying from her mouth in an unfiltered, rapid succession of languages and accents, so fast that Pedri could barely keep up. But despite her chaotic tirade, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride. She was saying these to him, and no one else.

That thought alone made him feel oddly special. If she were giving anyone else this much of her attention, he’d be burning with jealousy. But this? This was his time. If she wanted to shout at him, he’d be on the ground, letting her walk all over him, and he’d accept it gladly. After all, no one else would get the privilege of being in her chaotic presence like he did.

As they climbed the stairs, Gabi's failing limbs only grew more frantic, each shout and complaint louder than the last. People passing by shot Pedri confused looks, some trying to stifle their laughter, while others who knew him offered pats on the back or casual greetings. One or two even acknowledged Gabi, despite her being upside down in his grip.

"Oi, Pedri! You need help with that gremlin?" one of his friends called out, laughter in his voice.

"No, I got it. Barely," Pedri grunted, adjusting his hold as Gabi smacked his back with surprising force.

"Let me go, you absolute tyrant!" Gabi shrieked, twisting in his arms, her voice high-pitched with frustration. "You are violating my rights!"

"And you are violating everyone’s peace, hamster," Pedri replied, dodging her flailing legs with practised ease.

Another passerby chuckled, shaking his head. "She’s got a lot of fight in her, huh?"

"You have no idea," Pedri muttered, his grip on her tightening as she suddenly went limp, like a dead weight over his shoulder.

"If I go limp, you’ll have to drop me," she announced smugly, her voice dripping with mockery.

Pedri rolled his eyes. "No, I’ll just carry you like a sack of potatoes instead."

"I hate you!" Gabi whined, smacking his back again. "And I hate stairs! And I hate—ugh!—this stupid world!" Her voice became more theatrical as she added, "Help me! I’m being kidnapped!"

Raphinha, one of Pedri’s teammates, leaned casually against the railing, his smirk widening at the scene unfolding. "Good luck, hermano. She looks feisty tonight."

"Feisty is an understatement," Pedri muttered, barely suppressing a grin as Gabi’s bilingual barrage continued. She was going on and on, switching from Korean to Spanish to Filipino in rapid succession, the energy from her words only fueling Pedri’s amused patience.

By the time they reached the room, Pedri felt like he had just wrestled a hurricane. Gabi’s ranting had left him mentally exhausted, but the thought of her being here with him kept him grounded. She may have been a handful, but at least she was his handful.

Pedri walked into the hallway, his arms straining under the weight of Gabi as he tried to balance her over his shoulder. She was still grumbling, her protests muffled but persistent, a constant stream of complaints escaping her lips. His hand fumbled for the key in his pocket, the cold metal brushing against his fingers. He twisted it with more force than necessary, the sharp click of the lock echoing in the quiet hallway as the door finally gave way.

He took a deep breath, his grip tightening on Gabi as she squirmed in his hold. "Hold still, Gabi," he muttered under his breath, his voice strained but with a hint of amusement. "We’re almost there."

“Yeah, almost there to my doom,” Gabi shot back sarcastically, her voice muffled from where her face was pressed against his back. “Just drop me already. It’s not like I’m going anywhere."

Pedri let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he twisted the door handle. "You think I’d actually do that?" He stepped inside, the door swinging open with a soft creak, revealing the dimly lit room. "We’ve locked most of the second-floor doors for safety reasons," he added, the words slipping out almost mechanically as if he had repeated them a hundred times before. It was true—no one wanted to risk damage, but right now, he was just focused on getting her inside.

Inside, the room was simple—nothing extravagant. A bed sat in the centre, surrounded by soft, dim lighting that bathed the space in a warm glow. The walls were adorned with a few paintings, each one capturing a moment frozen in time and to the side, a bathroom door stood discreetly, completing the serene atmosphere.

"Okay, you're officially inside," Pedri said, carefully lowering her off his shoulder and setting her down on the bed with careful precision, even though Gabi flopped onto it dramatically as soon as her feet touched the mattress.. "Now, you can either lie there and keep complaining, or you can actually try to relax."

“Relax?” Gabi scoffed, rolling her eyes as she straightened herself up. “I’ve been carried like a ragdoll, practically suffocated by your shoulder, and you want me to relax? Do you have any idea how—ugh, forget it,” she muttered, throwing herself onto the bed with a dramatic flop. “I swear, Pedri, you’re the worst."

Pedri chuckled, standing at the edge of the bed, watching her with a soft smile. "Hey, at least I didn’t drop you on the floor. You should be thanking me."

Gabi raised an eyebrow, giving him a mockingly unimpressed look. "Oh, the horrors of being carried like a princess. Truly, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes affectionately as he ran a hand through his hair. "You're welcome, Gabi. Anytime."

She groaned, rubbing her head. "You are the worst! I was having fun! But nooo, Pedri has to be the responsible one."

Pedri smirked, crossing his arms. "Now, love, where were we? Oh, right. You called me ‘motherfucker’ in Korean, didn’t you?" He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Don’t forget, missy—I sat beside you while you watched those Korean dramas. I do know what ‘gaejasig-a’ means. Better luck next time."

Gabi shot up, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Walang hiya ka! I hate you!"

Pedri blinked. "Okay, now we’re in Filipino. Are you just cycling through languages to confuse me?"

"I was having fun, Pedri! But you just had to stick your nose in other people’s business!" she huffed, kicking her feet against the mattress.

Pedri raised an eyebrow. "Your business is my business, hamster."

“There you go again!” She clenched her fists. "Always acting like you know everything! Always treating me like some reckless idiot! Maybe I just wanted to let loose for once! Maybe I didn’t need you hovering over me like some—some helicopter parent!"

Pedri frowned, his amusement fading. "Is that really what you think? That I just enjoy controlling you? Gabi, I was just looking out for you. You were barely standing upright when I found you."

"I don’t need you to save me!" she shot back, but her voice wavered.

Pedri sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had seen Gabi get worked up before, but something about this felt different. Her frustration ran deeper than a ruined night.

He knelt down, lowering himself to her level, and gently reached for her hands. His touch was soft, his thumb gliding over her knuckles in soothing strokes.

“Is something bothering you?” His voice was low, steady, filled with concern.

Gabi dropped her gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. She was trying to hold it together, but Pedri had already found the cracks in her armour.

“Hamster, can you look at me, please?” he urged gently.

That was all it took. The floodgates broke. The tears she had been fighting against for hours finally spilt over. The first one rolled down her cheek, silent and unrelenting, landing on Pedri’s hand. Then another. And another. Until she was trembling, her breath coming out in shaky, uneven gasps.

Pedri’s heart clenched at the sight. Without a second thought, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before pulling her into his arms.

“I got you,” he murmured, his voice steady, his hold firm.

Gabi buried her face in his shoulder, gripping his shirt tightly as her sobs wracked through her small frame. "It’s not fair, Pedri!" she choked out. "Everyone else gets to have fun, to live their lives, and I’m just—stuck! Stuck with assignments, stuck with responsibilities, stuck being the person who always has to do the right thing! They have the same work as me and the same deadlines, but somehow, they still get to enjoy themselves. Why can’t I? Why am I always the one missing out?"

Pedri’s hold on her tightened, his heart aching at the weight of her words. "Gabi…"

"No!" she interrupted, shaking her head against his chest. "And you know what’s worse? It’s my fault! I do this to myself! Every time someone tries to pull me out of my comfort zone, I push them away. Even you. You try so hard, and most of the time, I shut you out. I don’t know why I do it—I just... I’m scared, Pedri. I’m scared of change, but I’m also scared of actually letting myself live."

“It’s okay, Gabi. I’m here for you, no matter what,” Pedri whispered, his voice steady yet tender as he held her trembling frame close. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. He could feel the shuddering breaths she took against his chest, her body both rigid and fragile in his arms.

“Cry until there are no tears left, scream until your voice gives out. Break whatever you need to—I’ll fix it. If you need to hit someone, hit me. Or better yet, I’ll get you a stuffed toy so you can take it all out on that. Do whatever you want. Drink until you pass out if you have to—I’ll carry you home. Just don’t hate yourself, okay? Are we clear?”

Gabi nodded, her lashes clumped together from the endless tears. Her breath hitched as she rested against his chest, gripping his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded. Pedri looked down at her, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her damp face. “It’s okay to cry,” he murmured, his warmth wrapping around her like a shield. “We can stay like this as long as you need, but I think you could use some water after all that, hmm?”

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he unlocked it with a quick glance, his thumb moving effortlessly through his contacts. He tapped on Gavi’s name and brought the phone to his ear. The ringing stretched on until, finally, Gavi picked up on the tenth ring.

“Hello, my love! What can I do for you?” came the familiar teasing voice on the other end.

Pedri sighed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, bro. Can you bring a bottle of water to the guest room? Third one on the second floor.”

“Yeah, anything for you, my love. If you want my blood, I’ll bring that too.”

A breathy chuckle escaped Pedri. “Nope, just water, thanks. Love ya.”

As he ended the call and set his phone aside, his attention returned to Gabi. “He’s on his way. Until then, tell me—what do you want to do? You said you wanted to have fun like everyone else. Whatever it is, hamster, I’m up for it. Want me to kill someone or what?”

Gabi, still curled against him, lifted her head, her lips curving into a weak smile despite the tear tracks on her cheeks. “You know, Pedri, you’re the best. The absolute best. I’m never leaving your dumbass.”

Pedri smirked, his voice a playful murmur. “You can’t. Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you.”

Gabi rolled her eyes, playfully shoving him. “You’re some different kind of asshole, aren’t you?”

Before Pedri could reply, a soft knock echoed through the room. Gabi tilted her head, amusement flickering in her tired eyes. “That must be our angry bird.”

“Yup, my boyfriend’s here,” Pedri quipped, reluctantly detaching himself from her warmth as he strode toward the door. He twisted the knob, revealing Gavi standing there dramatically, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing for something scandalous. One hand covered his face while the other clutched a fresh bottle of water.

“You guys are in a decent state, right?” Gavi asked, cracking one eye open suspiciously.

Pedri huffed and smacked the back of his head. “Stop talking nonsense. Come in if you want.”

Gavi grinned, winking at Gabi as he stepped inside. He strutted forward with exaggerated confidence, puffing out his chest. “If I get to see that lovely lady on the bed, I can come anywhere. What do you say, Gabi? I’m way better than all the guys downstairs. Even Pedri could learn a thing or two from me. So, my love, do you want to be mine?” He made his way to the bed, dramatically grasping her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles.

Gabi smirked. “Of course, I’ll marry you—when every other man on this planet vanishes.”

Gavi turned to Pedri triumphantly. “See? She’s already considering marrying me.”

Pedri rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. After I cut your balls off.”

Settling back onto the bed, he twisted the cap off the water bottle, the seal cracking as he handed it to Gabi. Just as she reached for it, her expression suddenly shifted. Her body tensed, her stomach visibly clenching as realization dawned on her. In an instant, she shot up from the bed and bolted toward the bathroom, flinging the door open with a bang before collapsing in front of the toilet, retching violently.

Pedri was at her side in seconds, his hand running up and down her back in soothing strokes. “It’s okay, just let it out,” he murmured. “It’ll help get the alcohol out of your system.”

Gavi leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms crossed as he smirked. “So, another bottle of Absolut, then? Since the first one didn’t stay down?”

Gabi groaned between heaves. “Never drinking again.”

Gavi snorted. “That’s what they all say. But I think you need more than just water right now—maybe some juice or something. I’ll go grab it.”

Still kneeling beside the toilet, Gabi lifted her head weakly, her glassy eyes finding Gavi’s figure in the doorway. Her voice wavered, thick with exhaustion. “You know… I love you both.”

Then, without warning, another wave of nausea hit, and she ducked her head back down. Pedri chuckled while Gavi, ever the dramatist, spun on his heel. “I love you too, bitch! Write it down!” he called as he left.

Pedri stayed beside her, his hand never leaving her back. Gabi’s chest ached, not just from throwing up, but from the overwhelming warmth settling inside her. How did she get so lucky to have them?

“I think I like drunk Gabi the best,” Pedri mused, smirking as he pulled her hair back gently.

Gavi returned a few minutes later, his arms filled with five bottles of water. “Alright, I came back, but I saw a cute girl downstairs. And listen, I care about Gabi, truly, but getting her number is more important.”

Pedri rolled his eyes, taking two bottles from him. “You’re a disaster.”

Despite her miserable state, Gabi let out a weak giggle. Gavi pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “Listen, if you ever need a drinking partner, I’ll gladly be yours. Pedri, on the other hand, is dry as fuck.”

Pedri scoffed. “You’re both a pain in my ass.”

Gabi sat on the cold bathroom tiles, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy, and her breathing uneven from the whole ordeal.

Still, he made sure she drank two full bottles of water, grumbling about not wanting to explain to their mothers why she looked dehydrated as hell.

Pedri had crouched beside her, holding out a bottle of water and gently tucking her hair behind her ears.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comforting, like a blanket they both knew how to share.

“You alright now?” he asked softly, his voice low.

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely, taking a sip of water. “God, that was disgusting.”

Pedri gave her a small grin. “You’ve done grosser things.”

Gabi chuckled, weak but genuine. “Like the time we stuck glue to Cubarsí’s hat during that summer campaigning trip?”

“Oh my God,” Pedri laughed, eyes lighting up. “He had to shave his head. He looked like a boiled egg.”

“He was so pissed,” Gabi said, a smile spreading across her lips. “He chased Gavi with a mop around the whole camp. And then we got punished instead of him.”

“Cleaning the dining hall for a week,” Pedri recalled. “And Gavi somehow made it worse by breaking the mop handle trying to ‘fence’ with it.”

“That dumbass said he was training for the Olympics.”

Their laughter echoed slightly off the tile walls. Gabi leaned her head back, a bit more at ease now. “God, we were such little disasters.”

They both laughed, heads tilted back against the wall. The memory was so vivid it almost felt like they were there again—sweaty summer air, Cubarsí’s furious shouts, and the smell of dried glue in the cabin.

“And eighth grade,” Gabi continued, her smile turning mischievous. “When Sofía told Gavi he wasn’t strong enough to fight her.”

Pedri winced. “I’ll never forget his face when she kicked him. Dead center.”

“He fell like a sack of bricks. I thought he fainted.”

“He squeaked, Gabi. He actually squeaked.”

They both burst out laughing again, tears forming in the corners of Gabi’s eyes now—not from throwing up this time, but from laughing too hard.

“I remember Sofía standing over him and saying, ‘Told you so,’ like a queen.”

“She is a queen,” Pedri agreed, grinning. “I still don’t know if I’m scared of her or in love with her.”

“Both,” Gabi said with a smirk.

They laughed harder this time, both remembering how dramatic Gavi had made the whole situation, even limping for a few days afterward just for attention.

“And to think,” Gabi said through giggles, “Sofía used to roast Cubarsí like it was her job. Sarcasm was literally their shared love language of hatred.”

“Right?” Pedri said. “They couldn’t go two minutes without calling each other names. And now they’re dating.”

“I still don’t understand how that happened.”

“One minute she was calling him a ‘wannabe philosopher with zero emotional depth’ and the next she was holding his hand at that music fest like it was nothing.”

Gabi smirked. “Love is weird.”

“Weirder when it’s Sofía and Cubarsí.”

They sat in comfortable silence again, until Pedri added with a thoughtful grin, “And Gavi. Who would've thought he’d become the school’s ‘Prince Charming’?”

Gabi snorted. “He used to try and fight everyone. He still does.”

“He once challenged the vending machine.”

“And he’s still the loudest in every hallway.”

“But somehow the girls love it,” Pedri said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He smiles once, and half the class is writing his name on their notebooks.”

Gabi rolled her eyes fondly. “He’s got that golden retriever energy.”

“He’s literally the same hyperactive kid we grew up with, just... taller. And more dramatic.”

Pedri bumped his shoulder against hers. “And then there were the rooftop days. Our secret hideout.”

Gabi’s expression softened. “We used to skip class and just lie there with our legs stretched out under the sun.”

“Listening to those awful playlists Gavi made,” Pedri added. “He thought he had elite music taste.”

“He played Cotton Eye Joe on loop once. I almost jumped.”

“And we’d just talk crap about each other, make dumb bets. You lost that one where you had to wear two left shoes for a day.”

Gabi rolled her eyes. “And you walked around with glitter on your face like a fairy for three.”

“I didn’t even try to wash it off. It looked kinda good on me.”

She smiled at him then, and for a moment, everything else faded. No sickness, no drama—just this quiet little bubble of memory, wrapped around them like warmth.

“We really grew up together, didn’t we?” Gabi whispered. “From sneaking snacks at the park to climbing trees and arguing over who’d marry Cubarsí first—”

Pedri groaned. “I was eight and Gavi said Cubarsí looked like a prince in that stupid blazer.”

“And now we’re in high school,” she murmured. “Dealing with heartbreaks and pressure and... puking in bathrooms.”

He turned his head to look at her. “But we’re still us.”

“Yeah,” Gabi said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Still stupid. Still laughing. Still here.”

There was a pause. A soft breath between them

“You think we’ll still be like this years from now?” she asked quietly.

Pedri smiled. “If we can survive Sofía’s roundhouse kick and Gavi’s playlist, we can survive anything.”

Gabi laughed, eyes closing for a moment as she let the comfort sink in.

And in the middle of that cold bathroom, surrounded by old memories and a thousand echoes of their younger selves, they sat side by side—tangled in laughter, friendship, and a bond stitched together by chaos, courage, and an unspoken promise to never forget who they were, and who they are still becoming.

Pedri's lips curled into a soft, almost instinctive smile as his gaze lingered on Gabi. There was a warmth in his eyes—a quiet, unspoken affection he didn’t even try to hide anymore, not when it came to her. The sound of her laugh, laced with remnants of tears, felt like a melody meant just for him—sweet, familiar, and haunting most beautifully. He could play it on repeat forever and never get tired of it.

And her eyes… those star-lit eyes still shimmered, even after everything. Her face was puffy, cheeks stained with the evidence of emotion she couldn’t hold in—but to him, she had never looked more breathtaking. There was something about the way her vulnerability sat on her skin so unfiltered, so unguarded. She wasn’t trying to be perfect, and that was what made her perfect to him.

People would probably call him foolish—maybe even obsessed—for thinking she looked this beautiful while crying. But they didn’t see her the way he did. They didn’t know how magnetic she was when she let her walls fall. To Pedri, Gabi wasn’t just beautiful—she was everything. In this fragile, real moment, she was more than a muse, more than a crush. She was the kind of beautiful that didn’t fade under harsh lights or tired eyes. The kind that made him want to give up everything, even the thing he loved most—football—just to hold onto this feeling.

In that moment, Gabi wasn’t just his childhood best friend or a memory wrapped in laughter and late-night talks—she was everything. Everything he’d ever wanted. More than football, more than the trophies and roaring crowds. She was his calm, his chaos, his favourite kind of beauty. And all he could think about was how badly he wanted to make her his—not in passing, not just for a fleeting night—but fully, deeply, forever. He wanted to hold this moment between them and turn it into something permanent.

And for a second, it felt possible. Like maybe if he reached out, she’d meet him halfway.

But then came the fear. The kind that sank its claws deep into his chest. Fear of ruining what they already had—a bond so rare, so sacred, it felt almost untouchable. Their friendship was the foundation of everything, and one wrong move could shatter it beyond repair. And the truth was… he didn’t know if she felt the same. That not-knowing was the heaviest weight of all.

But all he could do was look… because loving her out loud still felt like the scariest risk of all.

Still, he didn’t want the silence to grow too loud, so he shook off the spiral of thoughts and let a playful smile tug at his lips.

“You said you wanted to do something crazy, right?” he asked, voice a little lighter, a little braver. “Wanna go join the others downstairs?”

Gabi looked up at him then, her face still tired from the tears but glowing now with something soft and familiar—something that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Of course. Why not? I’m all in,” she said with a grin, her voice steady again. “Just let me rinse my mouth first.”

─────────────────────────────────

The music hit them the moment they opened the door. The energy downstairs was electric—bass thumping through the floor, laughter echoing off the walls, bodies moving in rhythm like the night would never end. Gabi stepped into the chaos with a soft laugh, and Pedri followed, a smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Look who’s back!” Cubarsí called out, immediately spotting them. “Hope you’re feeling better, drama queen.”

Gabi groaned, shoving his arm lightly. “You’re so annoying.”

Sofía rushed over with worry written all over her face. “Gabi, are you okay now?”

“I’m fine,” Gabi said with a reassuring smile. “Promise.”

And then it began again—the music, the dancing, the laughter. The night wrapped them up like it was made for them.

Gavi was the first to drag Gabi toward the shots, grinning like a devil. “Four. Come on, I dare you.”

To everyone’s surprise, she accepted, laughing as she knocked them back one by one. Pedri leaned against the counter, sipping from a bottle of Coke, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “You’re all going to regret this tomorrow,” he teased.

“Oh shut up, Grandpa,” Ferran laughed, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

“I’m just saying—hydration wins,” Pedri said, raising his Coke like it was a toast. “You’ll be thanking me when you’re all curled up on the floor tomorrow.”

Marc clapped him on the back. “You better carry us then, water boy.”

Then Mirándote came on, and something shifted.

Pedri wasn’t just standing on the sidelines anymore—he was right there in it. Dancing between Jules and Ferran, laughing with Marc, throwing his arm around Fermín as they jumped to the beat like kids at their first concert.

“Pedri! Spin me!” Gabi shouted over the music, holding her hands out.

He laughed, setting his Coke down and spinning her with a dramatic flair that made her giggle like crazy.

Sofía bumped into Pedri while weaving through the crowd, holding two cups.

“Still on your Coke streak?” she asked with a teasing smile.

Pedri held up his bottle with a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta stay sober enough to remember your bad dance moves.”

Sofía laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Please, I dance better than half of you footballers combined.”

Jules appeared out of nowhere, tugging him toward the makeshift DJ table. “Your turn, DJ Pedri!”

“Oh no, you don’t want that smoke,” Pedri joked, but he didn’t resist. He plugged in his phone and cued up a reggaetón mix that instantly brought more cheers from the crowd.

Gabi was right there too—hair flying, feet moving, face glowing with joy. And Pedri let himself dance. Really dance. With the music, with his friends, with the kind of ease that only came when he felt completely at home.

“Bro, I haven’t seen you smile this much in ages,” Cubarsí said, bumping shoulders with him mid-dance.

Pedri just grinned, eyes flicking to Gabi. “Guess tonight’s a good one.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jules added with a raised eyebrow.

“Not unless you’re thinking about pizza after this,” Pedri smirked, dodging the question playfully.

But even as he laughed and danced, surrounded by his favourite people, his gaze kept drifting back to her. Gabi. Always Gabi. Not in a way that interrupted the moment—but like she was woven into it. She was his gravity, pulling him in without even trying.

This night wasn’t about holding back or thinking too much. It was about now. About feeling alive. About friendship and freedom. And Gabi—Gabi was the heart of it all.

The kind of night they’d all remember. But for Pedri, it wasn’t the music or the Coke or even the wild dancing that would stay with him.

It was Gabi’s smile in the middle of it all—and the way, for the first time in a long while, he felt completely, undeniably free.

Meanwhile, it was a night Gabi knew she would treasure forever. Not because of the music, the shots, or the laughter that echoed through the walls, but because of Pedri. If he hadn’t convinced her to come out, she would have missed out on these unforgettable moments with the people she held closest to her heart. And maybe, just maybe, that was the most unexpected—and beautiful—part of it all.

──── ୨୧ ────　

[fmajorenthusiast]

What would the Rocky Horror characters be like if they had to look after a baby? (The baby is a few months old)

OMG I LOVE IT SO MUCH THANK YOUUUU!!!! AAAAAAA THIS WAS SO HILARIOUS TO THINK ABOUT!!!! IM LAUGHING MY ASS OFFF!!!!

(Also side note: I love everybody's fankids so when I call everyone out for being bad w the baby here plz know that I think that theyre awesome parents if theyre your fankids!!! Ahhh I love this all so much!!!)

Frank: Frank should NOT be left near a baby! Frank would probably dance around with it in his arms and, in a graceful whirl, completely toss it across the room for fun whilst "dancing with it!" To upbeat classical music! Now, chucking it across the room is fully reason enough to not leave Frank alone with a baby, however it doesn't stop there!!! If Frank had to feed the kid, I feel like he'd cry about his hands getting dirty more than the baby did the entire visit! Also, if the baby cries, he's gonna get irritated at the sound and run away trying to get someone else to solve the problem because he cannot handle that!! That said, I do think that he would generally speaking enjoy the baby because the baby likes him!!! He'd enjoy making it laugh, (though he would admittedly get very pissed and storm away if the baby didn't laugh at his jokes!) He'd feel very proud to show it his way of life!!! I think that he'd give the baby makeovers and they'd both laugh and enjoy it!.... That being said, Frank will still very much chuck that child across a room so PLEASE do not let him touch the baby! It's really not worth it!!!

Brad: Oh this is 100% a glimpse into Brad's future of being terrified to be left alone with his own kids one day and he knows it!!! That said, the baby would be safe! Not the most looked after that it could be, but definitely safe! He'd probably just wind up carrying it around with him everywhere and talking to it normally! He'd explain his every day events SOOOO awkwardly to it and it'd be fucking HILARIOUS!!! He's perfectly fine doing this and even enjoys it up until something perfectly normal and expected happens! (The baby needs to be soothed/changed/fed/ etc!) And then he 100% calls Janet for help and she explains to him how to do literally everything! And he gets it done whilst being very terrified but being like "hey! I'm enjoying this!" Through all of that cluelessness!! Overall, the baby probably didn't super-love the visit because Brad doesn't really go out of his way to do too much, but they had a good time!!! Brad did manage to make them smile!! And it's great practice that Brad is definitely gonna need one day!!!!

Janet: EVERY! BABY'S! DREAM!!! Omg Janet would do PHENOMENAL with a baby!!! She would love a baby to look after so much!!! She would take the opportunity to revisit a lot of her favorite shows and picture books from the past and she'd make sure that she reads to the baby in a way that the baby will really love!!! She knows how to do "Here Comes the Airplane" well, too!!! She can also objectively soothe a crying baby in RECORD time!! She could probably beat a lot of kids parents to that!! This is as much of an opportunity for her as it is for the kid's parents to get the time off! She's having the time of her life! That kid would end it's visit fed, washed, entertained, played with, and smiling and laughing!!! Leave your babies with Janet, everyone!!! Janet loves babies and babies love her!!!!

Riff Raff: Overall, he's not fantastic with babies! (Not referring to you Riff in my AU you're a fantastic dad ily kiddo) He's functional, but there are definitely other factors! First and foremost, secondhand smoke! Riff is.... enough of an addict that a baby will not deter him! He's also gonna be drinking and doing other drugs on the job! He's pretty much gonna leave the little one alone until they start crying for something. Then he'll do the bare minimum like, rock the crib and that's pretty much it. If he talks to the kid it'll be something along the lines of "you'll learn how to cry on the inside one day" and that's about it! Part of me thinks that his self esteem makes him afraid of the baby! Like, should he really be around a baby? Either way, he doesn't have enough energy for it! He's pretty much just existing in the same room as it as much as possible until he frustratedly has to do something! And y'know what? He deals with Frank every single day so that makes perfect sense!

Magenta: Magenta... Oh God I love you Magenta but sometimes I think that you might enjoy it when the baby cries. I really do. I don't think you would torture it but I do think that you would poke it. The other alternative is that Magenta COMPLETELY forgets that she's supposed to be taking care of a baby!!! Like, that baby gets left alone for a VERY unfortunate amount of time in the crib and it is not what childcare is supposed to look like at ALL! Overall though, she won't let it die. She will objectively enjoy it when the baby cries, but she'll keep it alive if she remembers to! And I think that the crying will bring her back! Overall.... this is so fucking funny to imagine but she's the wrong person for the job!!! She's hilarious, though!!!

Columbia: Columbia almost does a good job with it! She really does!!! She'll talk to the baby, hold the baby, talk in a baby voice to the baby! But she will not child proof her space! And she doesn't really have any activities for a baby aside from peekaboo- which she's great at, but the baby could use toys and a book or two!!! She enjoys time spent with the baby!!! She'd enjoy a chance to play with Legos again, but at the same time she would, in doing so, completely forget that you're not supposed to let a baby near Legos until they're at LEAST a year and a half old!!! Overall, Columbia would be very pure of heart, but not too smart with a baby! If everything goes well, her and the baby like each other a lot though!! If she ever has her own baby, I feel like she'd learn and do better in that case!!!

Rocky: This is an interesting one! Rocky would be incredibly gentle with the baby and he'd love to watch it smile!!! He'd very much have a "it's a baby! :D" reaction!!! However, he can't do too much more than rock it and be gentle and sweet with it because Rocky, in every way but physical, is also a baby!!! He loves it when someone plays peekaboo with him!!! He's so sweet with the baby, and maybe but big emphasis on maybe he'll be able to feed and change it if you give him very specific instructions, but that's only in a pinch!!! He loves to play with the baby's toys, so they'd better be able to share!!! Primarily, it boils down to what you need from him! If the request is, "here hold this while I run out to the car for a second!" He's right on the job!!! Better than a lot of the other people on this list!!! But that is his maximum level of difficulty!!! Any more than that and he simply has no IDEA what to do!!! And who can blame him? He's a baby too!!!

Eddie: I'm gonna go ahead and call this a bad plan! Eddie is a chronic safety risk to himself due to recklessness! Let alone what that'd mean for a baby!!! This baby would have chronic smoke in its face and Eddie would struggle to even rock a baby in its crib! I feel like, unless it was his and Columbia's kid, in which case he'd be titling his next album "I Love You, Sweet Little Rockstar", he'd probably just speedwalk out of the room! Also, be careful for the baby's ears!!! Eddie will not stop playing that music for anything! And that baby's ears are not developed yet and are prone to being damaged!!! Eddie does not really know or believe this fact enough to care!!! So this is a hearing loss risk situation!!! But hey! At least the baby's getting some good tunes!!!

Doctor Scott: Now Scotty knows how to take care of a kid!!! Hell, he'd probably bring that kid to meetings with him and baby talk the kid in the process!!! He still has a lot of books ams toys that he keeps around from when Eddie was a kid on the offchance that he'll have a kid around that can use them!! He'd talk very calmly to the baby!!!! Whereas Janet may be a bit more fun-loving, he's playful but in a very "and now we calm the baby!" type way! Similarly to Janet's style however, he's very much gentle with that kiddo and would never yell at the baby!! He probably wouldn't go above and beyond but he'd definitely make that baby love him!!! Well, as much as a baby can grow to love a stranger in an amount of time! But nevertheless he's absolutely fantastic with a baby!!!

The Criminologist: He likes the baby, but he might have some work to do!!! If he's working, then he'll find some way to keep the baby entertained (putting on a show, probably!) And get to work next to the baby so if the baby cries, he can spring into action! He may also use the baby as a chance to rubber duck if he's struggling with a mystery! He'll be like, "How can this make sense? It'd only make sense if there was a.... secret entrance! Yes! There must be a secret entrance!" And that'd be the one time he gets super animated around the baby! Other than that, he'd probably talk normally to the baby! Which the baby wouldn't mind, he has such a nice voice!!! He'd enjoy the baby for a change of energy!!! He'd want to work, yes, but the rubber ducking proves that the baby can help with that!! And they do!!!

[kittenfangirl20]

Adam: I am guessing you had fun with the Prince?

Blitzø: You might say that, but he also gave me a map of the mountain that has a secret entrance for Lucifer to use. We have to wait for the right day for it to open.

Adam: Perfect.

Once the entire group was out of the forest, they celebrated Lucifer and Blitzø saving Adam. They even sang a new song about Lucifer for him. He smiled when Adam held out his hand to Lucifer.

Adam: Dance with me.

Lucifer: I will.

They danced around the fire having such a wonderful time. They even celebrated having a way to get into the mountain. Once everyone had celebrated and ate their fill of the feast, each went to the tent and again Lucifer went to Adam’s.

Adam: We are a day from Lake-Town, there we will wait for she night that the secret entrance will be exposed for you to sneak and use the ring to steal the Arkenstone.

Lucifer: I will.

They looked over the map and Lucifer saw a note attached to it for his eyes alone from Stolas. It said to not use the ring he had since it was by a dark lady named Roo who was the embodiment of evil. Lucifer glared at the note and used the flames of a lamp to set it on fire. He wasn’t going to let this warning get between him and his desire to help Adam. Adam needed him and besides the ring helped him in many ways. All that mattered Lucifer was Adam, his Adam.

Adam: Come lay with me.

Lucifer: Of course.

They lay together, if this was a short term thing and they had to part ways afterwards, then so be it. But Lucifer would enjoy their time together as best as they can. They kissed and slept, Lucifer dreamed he was home and there was a little girl that looked like him that had furry feet like a hobbit, she was a little taller than him. Also while she didn’t have a full beard, she had longer sideburns even though she was a girl telling him she was half dwarf and half hobbit. The next day they woke up and traveled until they reached Lake-Town. Lucifer thought Lake-Town was a town by a lake, but in reality it was a town in the middle of the lake. It was a once grand town that had seen better days. He gasped when he saw a massive mountain not far from the town. He looked at the dwarves who had a look of longing in their eyes.

Cain: Isn’t that our home?

Adam: Yeah, you and Abel weren’t born there like we were, but you know it is home.

Abel: It looks amazing.

Blitzø: What’s inside the mountain is even better, it puts all other palaces to shame and is filled with great treasures.

They walked through the town, but only a woman named Rosie was willing to give them shelter.

Rosie: We don’t many dwarves here, but I know why, your leader is the true King in the Mountain.

Adam: Yes, we are here to reclaim it.

Rosie: Stay as long as you need to.

She had enough room to give them rooms to share. Lucifer stayed on the balcony watching the mountain and the night sky.

Rosie: I am guessing you are the one to steal the Arkenstone, beware, I heard rumors that it is cursed and will give whoever owns it dragon sickness.

Lucifer: Dragon sickness?

Rosie: It is a mental curse that can drive your king mad with greed.

Lucifer gasped, he promised Adam to give him the Arkenstone and that it would rally the troops, but he couldn’t let Adam be cursed, he loved him too much. He went to the bed Adam was sleeping in and pushed some of his hair from his face and kissed his forehead before getting in bed with him.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

(The Hobbit AU)

Long ago there was a great kingdom of dwarves who built their kingdom in a mountain. The dwarves had great treasures in a mountain. But one day a red dragon named Alastor drove the dwarves out of the mountain including the Prince, Adam. But one day Adam would come back to reclaim his kingdom. Years later there was the Shire and a Hobbit named Lucifer, while he wanted to go on a grand adventure, he had to pretend that he was satisfied with his life earlier a wizard named Sera tried hire him for an adventure.

Lucifer: No matter I can’t live out my desires to have an adventure.

When Lucifer wasn’t looking, Sera placed a sign on the door of Lucifer’s home that only the dwarves could see. She then left to get Adam. That night after Lucifer ate and smoked from his pipe, he was starting to get ready for bed when he heard a knock at the door and he saw a dwarf standing there. He didn’t know why the dwarf was there, but he let him. One at a time a dwarf arrived. The only change were the twin princes named Cain and Abel who arrived at the same time.

Cain: I am guessing you have food for us.

Lucifer: Yes, the others have been taking what they want.

Abel: Don’t worry, dad will be here soon.

After about five minutes he heard a knock at the door again and he opened the door to see Sera there with the most beautiful dwarf he had ever seen. He wore a dark blue tunic with metal embedded in it and over it a dark blue coat with fur on it. His gauntlet on his left arm had a piece of oak tree on it that could be used as a shield. The way he was dressed showed he was royalty.

Sera: Lucifer, this is Adam Oakenshield, the rightful King of Dwarves in the Mountain, may we come in.

Lucifer: Of course.

He should have said no, but he was so enchanted with Adam. Cain and Abel ran to Adam to hug him, they did say their dad was coming. Lucifer flinched realizing that meant this beauty was married.

Sera: Sadly poor Adam’s wife died years ago in battle.

Lucifer: I don’t like that you can read my thoughts.

Sera: I didn’t need to read your thoughts since you have already been undressing Adam with your eyes.

Lucifer sighed and went to sit down close to Adam. While the party was going on Adam started to sing.

https://youtu.be/Pyy_FIYE7EE?si=OwYQ5xrUvGmQWzFO

Lucifer was enchanted with hearing Adam sing of the mountain and the gold we must reclaim.

Sera: This mission needs a burglar who will sneak into the mountain to steal the Arkenstone from under Alastor’s snout.

Lucifer: Why just the Arkenstone?

Sera: The Arkenstone is used as a symbol who is King Dwarves, if you steal this stone and present it to Adam he could rally the troops and free the mountain as well as the human town by the mountain, Lake-Town. You have until morning to figure out if you want to join us or not. Here is the contract for the journey.

Lucifer was torn, wanted to be near Adam. But even with his desire for adventure, he heard of how dangerous dragons were.

Plus he's never left his village before..... It was all a lot to take in so fast and not to mention he could die along the way before they even get to their destination.

Looking the contract over, Lucifer would be paid handsomely when they were successful in their mission. Sera would provide many of the essentials and it would likely take many days to get there since they were going on foot.

There was also a clause that if he were to die that his family couldn't sue Sera..... Good to know.

Not that Lucifer had much in the way of family but he did have a brother. They were as close as brothers could be but ever since he settled down with his wife Lucifer hadn't seen much of him.

Which was fine, he gets it.

Adventure, money, and the potential to woo a beautiful dwarf. What more could he want?

Lucifer crawled into bed and went to sleep, his mind made up.

-

Sera: Lucifer! Glad to see you've decided to join us.

Lucifer: Yes, well.... It's a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Sera: Excellent!

Adam smiled at him: I'm glad that you decided to come along.

Lucifer felt his heart flutter, he was happy about him tagging along? His honey brown eyes on him made Lucifer feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

[dont-open-dead-inside-net]

*voice of boy who just experienced romantic/sexual attraction for the first time* did you guys see that. that was insane. wdym you live like this