readinshadows

[readinshadows]

Imagine the cockpit was quiet except for the low murmur of air traffic control and the steady sound of the engines. Caleb sat in the left seat, one hand on the yoke, the other wrapped around a coffee he'd mostly forgotten to drink. Just an hour to go before the landing and he'll be home.

Imagine, he liked flying at nights like this. The smooth air and dark skies gives the kind of stillness one could only find 35,000 feet above everything. But tonight was different, he felt off. That even though he did not say anything, his co-pilot, a younger guy noticed. "You alright, sir?" Caleb nodded, not taking his eyes away from the midnight sky. "Yeah. Just tired."

Imagine it wasn't really that. It was his birthday. Not that he expected anything. But somewhere along the day, he miss you. He had wanted nothing more today than to spend his day with you but here he is, 35,000 feet on the air. Anything but near you.

Happy birthday, my love. Safe flight. We’ll celebrate when you land ♡

Imagine you had texted him before takeoff. It was sweet and simple. You always knew he didn't like a fuss. Still, he missed you. Just then as he reached for a checklist, the intercom clicked on. A voice began. And it was not the usual flight attendant announcement. It was your voice.

"Hi, uhm... sorry to hijack the intercom." A soft gentle laugh echoed in the intercom. "This is probably the weirdest birthday card you've ever gotten with everyone probably listening but I couldn’t let the day go by without doing something."

Imagine the way Caleb sat up, alert. Just then, his co-pilot turn his head toward him with a smirk. "That your lover?"

"Happy birthday, Caleb. I know you're up there doing what you love, but I hope you take a second to realize how loved you are." You continued. Your voice warm and steady, and maybe a little nervous.

"I just want to say thank you for who you are. For being patient when I'm stubborn, for calling when you land even if it's 3 a.m. For never making me feel like I'm waiting for you. For always find a way to bring me with you, even when you're far away."

"I hope this makes you smile a little up there. And because I know you're secretly soft. I worked with the crew to play you a little something."

Imagine a soft song began to play over the speakers. The one that always made him think of your road trip to the coast. Just a guitar and some quiet harmonies, the kind of music that felt like home. The one you would often sing along with. The songs where he would end up looking at you as you sang along the music with smile in your lips. The one where he would often steal a kiss on your lips.

Imagine, he did not say anything. He doesn't need to. With the way his eyes flicker to the stars beyond the cockpit window down to the controls and then to his ring finger where your initials were etched inside the band. And the way his lips curve into a genuine smile. "You gonna cry, Captain?" "Fly the plane."

Imagine when they land, he did not walk. He ran. He ran through the terminal. He didn't have to call you to know you'll be there. He just know. He just know and he couldn’t wait to see you and spend the rest of his birthday with you.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: early birthday gift for our captain. Also, I just realised his birthday was actually pretty close to mine*.

[readinshadows]

Ohh thanks to every god for this one... went to sleep with part 1, woke up with part 2. I'd say it's perfect, especially cuz I just got caleb's wedding card lol

Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader. part 2

Imagine today was the day. The day Caleb had been waitimg for. The tuxedo felt tight, but that didn't matter. He was going to marry you. The person he loved more than life itself. The person who made every moment worth fighting for.

Imagine every detail had been meticulously planned, the flowers, the vows, the reception. But none of it truly mattered now. It was all about you and the life you two would share together after your vows and ceremony.

Imagine the way Caleb stood before the mirror, his hands slightly trembling as he adjusted his tie. His thoughts consumed by the person waiting for him in the chapel. He couldn't wait to see you, to take your hand and promise forever. That was the moment he had been waiting for ever since he met you and get to know you.

and Imagine before he could gather his thoughts any further his phone buzzed with a message from you.

You: Can't want to have my forever with you. I love you! See you soon 🍎

4:37 am

Imagine the way Caleb stared at the message, a smile tugging at his lips. His heart fluttered. He was so close now. He wanted to send something back. Something that would show you how much you meant to him, how much he had been looking forward to this day. How nothing, not even his job, would ever take him away from you.

His fingers hovered over the phone's screen. He started typing but text he paused. He left like no amount of text could reflect the way he was feeling right now. So he decided to send you a voice message instead.

"Whatever happens, I love you..." He startes and hit send. He got lost in the moment that he forgot what he was about to say. Nonetheless he continued with a smile on his face. "I can't wait to marry you. No mission, no order, nothing could ever change that."

Imagine just as he was about to hit send, a sharp knock echoed through the room, cutting through his thoughts like a blade.

Imagine the way the door opens and Caleb's heart skipped a beat. It was his commanding officer, a cold, emotionless presence that made Caleb's stomach drop.

"Colonel." The Commanding officer, CO greeted, his tone calm, like they were discussing the weather, not the most important day of Caleb's life. "I see you're prepared for the ceremony." Caleb's pulse quickened. "Yes, sir. But if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the chapel. I'm getting married today."

Imagine the way the CO didn't budge, he didn't even acknowledge the significance of Caleb's words. He just stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "Actually, that's why I'm here." Caleb frowned, the dread creeping in. "You don't seem understand, sir. I'm getting married. Today. I had my leave of absence approved today and the rest of the month, sir."

Imagine the way the CO reached into his jacket pocketa and doesn't seem to take anything that Caleb has just said and pull out a folder and flipping it open, his gaze scanning the document with clinical precision. "You've been selected for immediate deployment, Colonel. Your mission is critical. I need you ready in thirty minutes."

Imagine the way Caleb's stomach twisted. His breath caught in his throat. "What? A mission? Today? On my wedding day?" His voice cracked as his entire world tilted.

Imagine the wah the CO didn't flinch, doesn't even seemed to care about the fact that this was supposed to be the most important moment of Caleb's life. His voice remained steady and detached. "Orders are orders, Colonel. This is non negotiable. You're the only one who can handle this. I need you out of here now."

Imagine the way Caleb's mind whirled. This couldn't be happening. He felt like he was drowning. Not today. Not now.

"I'm not going." Caleb spat. His voice trembling with frustration but his eyes were locked onto the CO, his body tense. "I can't go. I won't go. I'm getting married today. I promised them. This is the day I promised- this is the day we promised. You cannot take that from me." His gaze harden. "I won't let you."

Imagine the CO's face was unreadable, but his next words were ice cold. "You'll do your duty, Colonel or I'll have you removed. You don't get to choose today."

Imagine the way Caleb's heart was hammering on his chest. He couldn't breathe. His body was shaking, not from fear but from pure desperation. He couldn't lose this. He wouldn't lose this. He wasn't just fighting for his life. He was fighting for you.

Imagine he took a deep breath, his hands shaking at his sides. His voice dropped to a low growl, full of defiance. "I'd rather be court martialed. I'd rather be discharged than miss my own wedding." His words hung in the air, raw and desperate. "I'm not going. You can’t make me."

Imagjne the way the CO's face remained stoic but Caleb could see the shift in his eyes. The soldier who had been so calm, so indifferent, was now aware. The reality of Caleb's desperation had settled into the room, but it didn't matter. The orders had been given.

Imagine the CO's voice was firm. "You will go, Colonel. You will leave. I don't care if you're in a tuxedo. You're going. If I have to drag you out, I will."

Imagine Caleb started breathing ragged. The way his chest started heaving. His vision was starting to cloud with rage, but more than that, with the fear of losing everything he had worked for. He needed to be with you. He couldn't lose you. Not like this.

Imagine Caleb's evol flared into life. The way the room seemed to shake as the force around him intensified. The walls groaned under the strain as Caleb's evol bent the space around him. The soldiers outside the door were already entering, taking position. Caleb's violet iris flickered toward them, the sheer desperation in his chest making his entire body tremble. They couldn't take this from him.

Imagine he pushed himself forward, forcing his gravity to send the soldiers flying. They crashed into the walls, but it wasn't enough. There were too many of them.

"No!" Caleb shouted. His voice cracking with the intensity of his emotions. He tried to move, to push his way through the door out of this place and get to the chapel. Get to you. His heart was pounding in his chest and the pain of not being able to reach you was unbearable.

but Imagine the soldiers weren't backing down either. One lunged forwarda and grab his arms, yanking them behind his back. Caleb twisted in the grip but the soldiers were too well trained, like it was hone to go after him. The other grabbed his legs, sweeping him off his feet. He could feel his power slipping, his energy draining but he wasn't done. He struggled with every ounce of strength, his body fighting against their hold.

"Get off me!" Caleb growled. The words barely escaping through gritted teeth. He was trying so hard. His heart was screaming for you, for the wedding, for everything he had dreamed of. But it wasn't enough.

Imagine another soldier stepped forward, and before Caleb could even react. A needle pierced his skin. He felt the cold sting of the sedative entering his bloodstream. His vision swam, his thoughts became foggy.

"No..." Caleb whispered, his body growing heavy, the power fading from his limbs. "No... You can't do this..." He started seeing black dots and it scared him. "No...! Please.... please I have to..."

Imagine as the sedative took a full effect, his words slurred, his body collapsing under the weight of the drugs. The last thing he saw was the door to the chapel, the one where the two of you went into and decided it was the way you wanted to get married and he agreed. It'll make you happy. And then he imagined you and then nothing.

Imagine not too far away from the scene was MC who stood in the hallway. Originally she was here to check on Caleb making sure everything was okay. But now, her heart breaking as she listened to the sounds of Caleb's struggle, his shouts, his desperate refusal. She could feel the intensity in the air. She knew Caleb was trying with everything he had. But it was never going to be enough.

and Imagine, more than anything. She needed to tell you that. Fast. Before everything fall apart beyond repair.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: everybody say- thank you for coming home caleb.

[readinshadows]

Ouch ouch this one hurt. Maybe i shouldn't have read it at midnight before going to bed bc now I feel like I'm about to cry

Nah but I know they were just caught up in a mission or smth and both their phones were destroyed or smth and so they couldn't warn her or smth... or smth yeah. Right? RIGHT??

Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader.

Imagine you did not even remember when you stopped breathing. One second, you were standing beneath the soft glow of the chapel lights, heart beating inside your chest like something caged but still hopeful and before you even knew it, time simply stopped.

Imagine the string quartet has been playing the same piece over and over again and now it sounds less like music and more like an apology.

Imagine the aisle is long. Beautiful and lined with white flowers and people who love you or at least pretend to and all of them are watching you. Watching as the minutes keep ticking.

Imagine twelve minutes have passes on and then, eighteen. Twenty seven.

Imagine, He's not coming. Thats the thought that slices through you like a blade and you hate it. Hate that your brain dares to whisper it before your heart is ready to accept it. But you’ve already scanned the room three times, and every time your eyes pass over the empty double doors, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Like your ribs are closing in on themselves.

Imagine Leanne's voice, your friend finally cuts through the hush beside you. "Hey." She whispers. "Let's go wait in the back for a minute, okay? Just... Just to breathe. Okay?" You nod or maybe you didn't. Maybe she just leads you and your body follows because it doesn't know what else to do.

Imagine as she takes your arm, you hear the first real whisper that makes your stomach drop. "MC isn't here either." Your legs almost give out. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From recognition. MC. Of course.

Imagine she was supposed to be here hours ago. You had texted her when your makeup was done. She did not respond. But that wasn't weird. She had probably been caught up with something. Probably helping Caleb. Helping Caleb. That phrase alone makes your stomach churn now.

Imagine you could feel the crack forming somewhere deep inside. Small. Quiet. But real. More voices follow. "They were at the base together this morning…" "They always had something, didn't they?" "He probably ran to the one person who knows him best." "It's always the best friend."

Imagine the way tbe pain doesn't come in one sudden blow. It comes in pieces. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone's peeling your skin off inch by inch.

Imagine you blink at Leanne as she tries to close the dressing room door behind you, blocking out the whispers. You think she says something, but you're already gone inside your own head.

Imagine as you sat in the middle of the sofa, gown spread out like wasted silk around you. Your hands won't stop shaking. Your bouquet lies forgotten on the floor. Your phone shows one voicemail from this morning.

Apple: No matter what happens, I love you.

5:13 a.m.

Imagine what the fuck does that even mean? Your hands tighten. Your breath comes out in sharp, humiliating gasps. That's not a message from someone running late. That's a goodbye. That's a pre written excuse. That's a coward's escape route.

but Imagine Caleb is not a coward. Is he? God, no. He's not. You love him. You know him. He had never... But she was always there. MC. Always just close enough. Always just understanding enough. Never stepping over the line but never quite behind it either.

and Imagine you trusted her. You liked her. Hell, you thought of her as a friend. She zipped you into this very dress three days ago and told you you looked like a walking promise. And now she's gone. Alongside him.

and Imagine for one gut wrenching second. Just one, you imagine them together. Caleb kissing her temple. MC whispering. "You deserve better than a life that cages you." Caleb agreeing. Caleb choosing freedom. Choosing someone who understands the scars you never earned the right to ask about.

Imagine you hate yourself. You hate yourself for even thinking about it. Because that's not MC. That's not Caleb.

but Imagine the doubt is there now. And doubt, once it takes root, doesn't care how much you believe.

Imagine you slam your phone face-down. You pull at the pins in your hair. You press your hands to your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, because if you let yourself speak, it'll turn into a scream.

"Why wasn't I enough?" That's the question that breaks you.

Imagine you hate it. You hate yourself for the shadows in your heart. You hate the silence that Caleb's absence has left behind. And most of all, you hate that you might never get your forever.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: caleb when I catch you-!!!!

[readinshadows]

"I thought we were in a judgment-free relationship" lmaoo I love him, he's so sweet like the desserts he likes to eat so much

When being asked about what Dr. Zayne’s weakness is, you only smile politely and shrug, saying the same line everyone else gives:

“I don’t know, he’s good at handling everything.”

Because to the rest of the world, Zayne has none.

He's the youngest cardiac surgeon in Linkon City. Achieved multiple awards. Published in the best medical journals in his twenties. Patients adore him, medical students worship him, and even senior doctors step aside with respect when he walks down the hallway of Akso Hospital.

It was natural that people look at him like he's a god. Like he’s untouchable. Like he’s perfect.

But not you.

Because right now? The same man that saved countless of lives with his hands is curled up on your chest, groaning softly while an ice pack is pressed to his cheek. His hair’s a little messy. His eyes are shut tight. He’s in obvious pain, using your chest like a pillow.

“You’re such a baby,” you murmur, gently running your fingers through his hair.

“I’m dying,” he groans into your shirt.

“You have a cavity.”

“Same thing.” He deadpans.

"You didn’t cut back on sugar like the dentist told you." You say with a hint of a stern voice, scolding him.

"I did," he whines, voice muffled.

You raise a brow. "You mean…?"

"I stopped eating cake. For breakfast." He says it like he deserves an award.

"And for lunch?"

He pauses.

"And dinner?"

"...I thought we were in a judgment-free relationship," he mutters, glaring up at you with the most betrayed expression, cheeks puffed, his eyes slightly teary because the painkillers haven't kicked in just yet.

You stifle a laugh. Because that is Zayne’s weakness, not pressure, not blood, not failure.

No. It’s sweets. second to you, but he wouldn't tell you that.

He has the worst sweet tooth in Linkon and the self control of a five-year-old when it comes to desserts. And when that catches up to his teeth, he becomes the most pathetic, clingy, whiney boyfriend in existence. But only to you. Only ever to you.

But the world doesn’t need to know that the flawless Dr. Zayne Li of Akso Hospital once sulked all day at home because you threw away his secret stash of Kitkats.

That part of him? That’s yours to keep.

[MASTERLIST]

[readinshadows]

zayne is definitely the kind of man who enjoys dressing you every day. 

you wake up damn near the crack of dawn to get ready for work, and he’s up as well, always eager to help despite his own obligations.

you’ll shower sleepily, stepping out completely naked, but he never expects sex when he’s helping you put your underwear on—he just wants to be of use to you.

he’ll stand behind you to hold up your white collared shirt, waiting patiently as you shrug in to it. adoring you silently, he’ll admire how effortlessly beautiful you look in even the simplest uniform.

if need be, he’ll iron your pants to crisp perfection, taking his time to press out all the tiny creases. he’ll help you into them, making sure the zipper is pulled up taught and the button is fastened securely.

he’ll kneel down, sliding a pair of matching socks over the heels of your feet before slipping on your hunter’s boots so the he can lace them up. he’ll even pat your ankle gently when he’s done, smiling up at you gingerly, waiting for a small nod of approval.

even after you’re fully dressed, zayne takes the time to help you choose a pair of earrings when you’re feeling truly indecisive, expertly explaining why one pair would or wouldn’t match your hairstyle. his attention to detail is impeccable; that keen eye of his never fails you.

at the end of the day, zayne just loves you so much and wants to make your life a little bit easier however he can.

a/n: currently crying, only 2 days left on raf’s banner and i haven’t gotten his card

send help

[readinshadows]

andy speaks: smth about zayne being asian parents' dream ... isnt he so dreamy sighs

the first time your parents heard of zayne, you didn’t really drop his name. you just mentioned during a casual family dinner that you’ve been going out with this absurdly handsome doctor who somehow makes you forget how to form full sentences.

in usual fashion, your parents were impressed. then came the questions. what kind of doctor is he? what area does he specialize in? how old is he?

the next time they heard of zayne was during your birthday. unfortunately, he wasn’t able to attend dinner because of an emergency surgery. if it wasn’t so urgent, he definitely would’ve been there. to make up for it, he sent a bouquet of your favorite flowers—he remembered, of course—and a custom bracelet with delicate jasmine charms, your initials quietly engraved on the back.

happy birthday, my love — z.

your mom raised an eyebrow at the note. your dad just muttered something about "setting the bar too damn high.”

it was enough to make you smile. one your parents noticed and it made them more curious about your mysterious man. (another thing they didn’t know was zayne was that he did make it up to you later that night. only this time, what he gave you couldn’t be worn.)

the third time they heard of zayne was when they finally got a name and a face to the man who makes their daughter happy.

zayne got an off day. you told him it’s fine if you two just stayed home and relaxed but he insisted on meeting your family. it was no issue to your parents when arranging a dinner last minute. in fact, they were ecstatic.

when you arrived, their jaws dropped in disbelief. this is who you were dating? doctor zayne li? as in, chubby cheeks, bowl-cut little zayne from your childhood who you used to drag around the neighborhood?

that little zayne who grew up to be such a fine man.

it seems like they have nothing to worry about. turns out, the hands saving lives in the operating room are the same ones holding yours.

[readinshadows]

— d is for drunk confession

you swayed on your feet a little, clutching your water bottle like it was sacred, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling from the wine someone had poured way too generously. zayne stood just a foot away, watching you like he always did. quiet, careful, intense.

“zaaayyyne,” you whispered, drawing out the vowels, as if his name was a secret.

he blinked once, then again. “…yes?”

you looked around like someone might overhear. but it was just the two of you now, tucked into the corner of the rooftop party. music thumped faintly in the distance. the night breeze was cool.

“don’t tell zayne,” you whispered, swaying closer, your finger pressed to your lips like it was classified. “but…”

he tilted his head slightly. “…but?”

you leaned in, eyes wide. “but i like him.”

zayne’s heart stopped.

you nodded solemnly, like it was the confession of a lifetime. “like… a lot.”

he swallowed, breath caught in his throat. his hands twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for you, desperately, but not daring to.

“and he’s so…” you hiccupped, face scrunching up. “so tall. and quiet. and he listens, you know? he really listens. even when i talk about stupid stuff.”

“none of what you say is stupid,” he said before he could stop himself. his voice was rough.

you blinked up at him, lashes fluttering. “you think so?”

he nodded slowly, like any sudden move might shatter the moment. but then your smile faded, and your brows furrowed just a little.

“…but what if he doesn’t like me back?”

zayne exhaled like he’d been stabbed.

you looked down at your feet, swaying a little again. “what if i ruin everything?”

he couldn’t hold back anymore. one step, that’s all it took. and then his arms were around you in steady, warm, protective hug. you blinked up at him, stunned, cheeks still pink and lips parted.

“i’ve liked you for so long,” he said quietly, like it hurt to say. “i just never thought i could… have you.”

you stared. “you… you do?”

his fingers brushed your cheek. “you have no idea.”

you melted into him with a little breathless laugh, pressing your cheek to his chest.

“don’t tell zayne,” you whispered sleepily, “but i think i wanna kiss him too.”

he smiled for the first time that night. “i think zayne would really like that.”

and when you woke up in his bed the next morning—fully clothed, headache pounding, and a glass of water beside you—you found a little note tucked under your hand:

you confessed last night. i won’t make you say it again sober. but if you do, i’ll kiss you properly. —z

[readinshadows]

— i is for innocence

“you’ve never done this before, have you?” sylus asked softly, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh as you lay back against the pillows. you were wide-eyed and pink from cheek to chest. your breath caught in half of a gasp and a soft whimper, and that was all the answer he needed.

his smirk was lazy. full of that dangerous kind of affection. the kind that meant he was about to ruin you sweetly, slowly, and not feel the slightest bit guilty for it.

“didn’t think so,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “you blush too easy.”

you tried to look away, but his fingers caught your chin and tilted your face back toward him.

“no hiding,” he whispered. “let me see it.”

his hand slid down over your stomach again, between your thighs, just grazing the edge of your panties with a feather-light touch.

“look at you,” he purred, like velvet sin. “such a good girl, letting me touch you like this.”

“i–i trust you,” you breathed, voice trembling.

he paused at that. just for a second something flickered in his eyes. a bit of softness. definitely a crack in the heat.

but then he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “you shouldn’t.”

your thighs squeezed together instinctively, and he chuckled, low and wicked.

“mm, too late now,” he said. “you let a wolf into your bed, sweetheart. and now i’m gonna take my time.”

his fingers slipped under the fabric, finally touching you where you were soaked and needy. you gasped too loud, too surprised, and he groaned, dragging his teeth over your throat.

“this wet already? just from my voice?” he hissed. “fuck, you’re perfect.”

you squirmed, overwhelmed and eager, unsure of where to put your hands, but he grabbed one wrist and pinned it above your head with effortless strength.

“don’t move,” he said, kissing your pulse. “i’ll show you how it’s supposed to feel.”

and he did. one finger. then two. crooking them slow, watching you fall apart under his touch like he’d been made to do this. you moaned so sweet for him, and he groaned, teeth gritted, eyes locked on your fluttering lashes and trembling thighs.

“you were made for me,” he growled. “my innocent little angel.”

and when you came with his name on your lips and clutching the sheets, undone by nothing but his fingers and voice, he kissed you so sweet. so gentle.

“say thank you, baby.”

“thank you, sylus,” you whispered with flushed cheeks, and his grin turned into a soft smile.

[readinshadows]

Omfg Lyss, this is one of the best things I've ever read! THE BANTER!! THE WHOLE SCENE AT RITA'S WITH THEM DRUNK!! THE TENSION AND THE GLANCES AND THE TENDERNESS AAAAHHH

Absolutely one of my fav fics ever. And the way you write is just so... I don't even know how to describe it. Wonderful and beautiful and poetic doesn't even begin to cover it. Please teach me how you do it omg, I love it so much<33

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.

[readinshadows]

can i ask marathon session with modern elain and reader please (just normal sex yk? with maybe one strap and a bit of scissoring) tyy

a/n: Ofccc anon sounds fun ;)

Don't stop

6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)

Elain Drabble

(Smut warning, obviously)

"Uh- Don't... Stop... Don'tstop." Elain pants, body covered in sweat as she shivers with your every move, the strap you have on deep inside her fluttering cunt.

Her nails drag on your skin, trying to find purchase on your curves, leaving behind angry red lines on your form.

"Oh?" You chuckle softly as you look down at her, the clothes you had been wearing long forgotten after your dinner date somewhere on the floor.

When she'd asked you to stay the night, and you did not say no, how could you, to those pretty brown doe eyes looking at you so expectantly?

You can't remember how long it's been that you've been on each other, there was her couch, then you moved to the walls, while cleaning up in the shower you had gone again and again and again.

Now, hours later, you are atop her body, holding her legs up till her ears as you move, stretching her on your strap as far as her cunt could go.

"Please..." Her eyes are lined with tears. She is too tired to move, yet her hips try to buckle against your thrusts every time you hit that sweet spot inside her. "Oh- don't... Stop."

"Oh, I have no plans of stopping." You smirk down at her, watching her eyes roll back, pulling out nearly all the way before pushing back inside.

You reach a hand between your bodies to rub at her neglected clit, causing her back to arch into your form.

"Come on, Lainey." You coax softly, "Cum for me again."

She explodes around your strap, cunt clenching around the toy, you feel the gentle gush wet your thighs, her cries echo in the room as she trembles.

You hold her close as she comes down from her high, moaning and panting, almost in pain from how many times you had made her cum, her eyes glazed over.

"Tired already, huh pretty?" You tease as she whimpers, fingers not leaving her clit as they pinch and rub at the nub, "We're going to keep going, aren't we?"

Elain whimpers, a lazy smile coming across her face as you pull out fully before pressing your body into hers, your core pressing against hers.

With a groan you move against her as Elain moves with you, whimpering, legs still twitching from how boneless she was. "I'm going to get... You later..." She pants, head lolling back as she gasps in pleasure.

[readinshadows]

And 17 with my hubby Zayne hihih

a/n: hehehehe ofc bbg

Heartbeat

17) seeing the love marks they left on their partner later and getting turned on all over again remember how it got there in the first place

Zayne drabble

"Breathe in," Zayne commands softly, his stethoscope pressed into your chest, hearing your heart, "Hold... Now, breathe out."

You do as he asks, sitting up straight during your usual check-up, although your focus is on his neck.

Angry red and purple marks colour his neck over his button-up. Teeth marks covering the better part of his neck.

The memory comes back to you instantly, the night before, your mouth on his neck as you rode him like no tomorrow.

The heat of the night, the passion, the wanton moans leaving your lips as you bounced on his cock. Sweat dripping from both your forms as you took him as yours, mouth latching on his neck as you sucked and bit at his skin. The couch had nothing on you, the movie you were watching together, the wine and pizza you were treating yourselves with for a cozy date night all long forgotten.

His cheeks were red from the wine, he cried, holding onto you as you squeezed around his length, gasps and pleas leaving your lips, you mark his neck for the whole world to see.

"Will you go to work like this?" You'd asked, tracing a rather angry purple love bite as you sit in his lap, his cock buried deep in your warm cunt.

Zayne groaned, eyes closed as he nodded, "I'll show them all I'm yours." He mindlessly thrusted up, his eyes were unfocused due to the glasses that were clattered somewhere. Harshly grabbing your hair to bring you closer to his neck, "Bite me-"

The memory heats you right up as you remember it, of how his skin feels between your teeth. The shirt he usually never wears with the sleeves rolled up has been bunched around his elbows, beside those marks of his, the ones from your nails stand, thin red lines that you'd clawed on him all over him.

"Your heartbeat's irregular." Zayne hums before his eyes meet your darkened ones, as if he can see though your mind, "Ah, that's why..."

You blush at his words, "Shut up, Dr. Li... I just didn't think I was so aggressive with you..." You playfully hit his chest but he just laughs, a smile stretching on his lips.

"You can be even rougher later." He whispers softly with a smirk, patting your cheeks, "Come on, I'll see you after work, my love." He leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

[readinshadows]

How about 16 with daddy Sylus🤭

a/n: YEEEEEEEE (totally did not take me a century to get to this)

Like You Do

16) accidental i love you’s during sex 

Sylus drabble

You feel nothing apart from him, nothing exists apart from his body over yours, messily making out as his one hand is pulling your hips up, the second at the base of his very hard cock.

A soft whimper leaves your lips as he notches the thick head of his cock to your very eager cunt, dripping arousal all over him.

"Fuck..." He hisses, face in your neck as he pushes in, only the head as you helplessly clench around him, "You're so perfect... Perfect..."

You wrap your legs around him to bring him closer so that you can feel him fully bottom out inside you, moaning softly as inch by agonizing inch fills your waiting depths.

You breathlessly gasp in his ear as he settles in fully, feeling his balls press into your ass. He's grunting when you clench around him, nails digging into your hips, leaving his mark on you, "I love you."

Hand in his sweaty hair, you freeze, the first time he'd ever said those words, and he realized it too when he pushed himself up from crushing you, looking deep into your eyes, with fear? Uncertainty?

"Sy..." You breathe, hand reaching out to cup his cheeks when he looks away. You wrap your legs around him tighter when he tries to pull away.

"Just... Please ignore that..." He looks back down at you when you force him.

"Do you...?" You whisper, breathing heavy as you squeeze around his length, "Do you love me?" Your voice was slightly shaky from emotion.

He leans in closer, eyes closing as he sighs, nose to nose to you, "Yes. I love you more than anything. I shouldn't have said that now... I don't want... You to feel like I only said it because of the sex..."

"I love you too..." You whisper back, arms wrapping around his neck, kissing him gently to cut off his rambling, with a smirk you pull away gently, cunt clenching around his cock, "Now fuck me like you do."

He pulls up at your words, the moment of vulnerability gone from his crimson eyes. "Yes, ma'am." He pushes your legs further apart as he pulls out all the way, till only the head is inside your core, before pushing all the way in. You cry, whimpering as he picks up pace.

Your cunt clenches around him, your arousal coating each other, pleasure building inside your bodies.

You groan as he rubs your clit to coax your pleasure higher, grunting as your walls grip him so hard he could barely move.

"SYLUS!" You cry out as he slams into you over and over again, holding your legs up by one hand as he does, the other putting pressure on your abdomen.

His head is thrown back, sweat dripping down his form as he refuses to slow down. "I love you. I love you. IloveyouIloveyou-"

Your head spins in desire more at the words than the passion in his movement, arousal coiled in your body as you gasp, "I LOVE YOU!" You choke out, tears lining in your eyes from pleasure.

He slams all the way inside, cock hitting your cervix as he came hard, the warmth of his release rushing into your womb.

You whine at the feeling of his seed flooding you, clenching around his cock as you cum around him, head thrown back into your pillow.

His body drops on top of you, covering you fully as he breathes heavily, your hands in his hair as you scratch his scalp. "Oh that was good..."

"Stay for a while." You whisper, not wanting him to pull out yet, "I love you." You whisper the words again, both of you smiling.

[readinshadows]

Aaahh best thing to wake up to! I'm going to eat up any WoI content, even if it's just a single sentence Cassian said while drunk (we all know that would be hilarious actually)

Anyway I loved thisss baby Az being nervous🥺 and Cass joking about his mom because of course lmaoo

The Pros and Cons of Breathing

word count: 880 author's note: this has been sitting in my drive for SO long. probably since like right after i wrote i slept with someone in wings of illyria. ANYWAY i know yall want more az and y/n but i wanted to get to woi's roots. midwest emo. i imagined illinois. just a short lil drabble to hold us all off, hope yall like it :) ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The dive bar was barely clinging to its liquor license—and smelled like it. Beer-soaked wood, stale fryer grease, and someone’s peach vape lingered in the air like a bad decision. The floor stuck to their boots. Neon signs buzzed overhead like they were holding on to their last dying breath. It was barely 7 p.m., but already too hot inside, the kind of humid Midwest heat that clung to your skin like guilt. 

They were up in five. 

Cassian wiped his sweaty palms on already-faded denim. His drumsticks, balanced across his lap like twin lifelines, looked dangerously slick.

“If I drop one mid-song, I swear to god, I’ll fake a seizure and crawl offstage,” he muttered.

“You’ll be fine,” Rhysand replied without looking up, crouched beside a battered amp, coaxing a cable into the jack like it was an unruly child. He was always the picture of chill—wavy hair perfectly tousled, silver ring flashing as he moved, voice smooth as bourbon—but his jaw kept tightening. A little tic that gave him away.

“How the hell did we even get this gig again?” Cassian asked, tapping his sticks against his thigh in a jittery rhythm.

Rhys gave a shrug that was just this side of smug. “My dad knows the owner.”

“Oh right,” Azriel drawled, eyes still on the fretboard of his bass. “Did you forget you swore to wash dishes here for a month, for free?”

“That was just sweetening the deal.”

Cassian barked a quiet laugh. “You sweet-talked your way into a 7 p.m. slot in a bar that literally has a urinal trough.”

Azriel hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. He sat near the back wall on a low stool, bass in his lap, running through a tuning sequence for the third time. He plucked a low E, adjusted the tuning peg, then did it again. The bass wasn’t out of tune—hell, it hadn’t even been played yet—but his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching without something to do.

He plucked a note, frowned, adjusted the peg a hair, then started the whole process over again.

Cassian looked over, frowning. “Okay, you’ve done that so many times it’s actually starting to stress me out.”

Rhys turned toward him too, brow raised. “You good, Az?”

He gave a tight shrug, still not meeting their eyes. “Fine.”

“Liar,” Rhys replied, standing now, running a hand through his hair.

Az exhaled through his nose, fingers still moving over the tuning pegs. “It’s not the playing. Playing’s fine. It’s just—” He hesitated, then mumbled, “It’s the vocals.”

Rhys blinked. “You’ve sung in front of us and your mom.”

“Yeah,” Az muttered. “Exactly. That’s it.”

The other two looked at each other. Then at the clock. Three minutes.

Cass stood and wandered over, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “Bro. You’re good.”

“You know you’re good,” Rhys added. “We know you’re good. Your mom knows you’re good.”

Cass leaned in, smirking. “Your mom knows I’m good—”

Az kicked him in the shin without looking.

“Ow, what the hell,” Cassian whined. “Dude. I need that leg for the kick drum.”

Rhys cracked a smile, crouching down beside Az. “We’re not asking you to go out there and be Freddie Mercury. Just be Az. You’ve gotta go out there.”

Az didn’t look at them, but his grip shifted on the bass. A breath in, a breath out.

“Yeah, no shit I’ve gotta go out there,” he said finally. “I’m not gonna run offstage crying or something. I’m just nervous. You assholes asked, so I answered. Leave me alone.”

Cass threw his hands up. “God forbid we show emotional support.”

Rhys glanced at the stage entrance, then back at them. “Alright. Focus. Setlist—first is I Swear I Meant to Call, then I Left My Apologies in Your Glovebox, then we hit the tempo shift into We Only Burn Bridges When We’re Cold Enough. We’ve got one more if they don’t cut our mics. Ready?”

They nodded. 

The speakers crackled, then screeched—mic feedback. Someone at the bar shouted “Jesus!” and got a few snorts in response.

A voice followed, fuzzy but excited. “Alright, folks, we’ve got an up-and-coming local band with us tonight—first time on our stage, but I’ve heard they know how to tear it up. Give it up for Wings of Illyria!”

Scattered applause. A whoop from somewhere in the back. Someone clinked a beer bottle on the edge of their table.

No backing out now—they stepped into the light.

Cass took his place at the kit, bouncing on his heels once before sitting. Az adjusted his strap, tested his pedal, eyes down but steady. His palms were dry but his grip kept shifting—like his body knew he was supposed to be sweating. A bead of sweat slipped down Rhys’ spine as he stepped up to the mic. He didn’t wipe it. He couldn’t. That would show nerves. 

Instead, he wrapped his fingers around the mic like it owed him money, and flashed that easy, practiced smile.

“I’m your guitar and lead vocals, Rhysand,” he said. His voice carried more confidence than the whole room combined. “That’s Azriel on bass. Cassian’s on drums.”

He grinned wider. “We are Wings of Illyria.”

Cass shouted from the back, already counting them in. “Two, three, four!”

And they launched.

[readinshadows]

thinking about Bucky and his dog tags in bed

i once saw a post somewhere about fucking a man with dog tags and they accidentally hit your face and you can’t help but laugh so he takes them in his teeth and fucks you harder… that’s all I think about now when I hear phrases “Bucky” and “dog tags”…

He’s deep inside you — hips grinding slow, strong arms braced on either side of your head, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. The weight of his dog tags swings with every thrust, clinking gently against your chest, your collarbone… your chin.

Then, one good thrust, and they bounce up — smack — right against your lips.

You let out a surprised giggle, biting down on the sound, but it’s too late. Bucky hears it. His rhythm stutters. He pauses, cock twitching inside you.

“What’s so funny, doll?” he murmurs, already smirking.

“N-nothing,” you pant, breathless and wide-eyed.

But the tags swing again — click, clack, a little more chaotic now — and you giggle again, covering your mouth.

Bucky chuckles once, low and dangerous. Then, without a word, he dips his head, catches the chain between his teeth, and bites down.

The sound of the metal muffled in his mouth is sinful. His eyes stay locked on yours. And then he fucks you — hard. Deep. Relentless.

Your laughter is gone, swallowed by gasps and the slap of skin. His dog tags no longer hit your face — they bounce wildly against his lips as he holds them in his mouth like a threat.

“Still funny?” he growls through clenched teeth, mouth full of metal, sweat dripping from his temple.

You can only whimper.

He doesn’t let up. Just keeps driving into you with brutal precision, eyes burning, chain still clenched in his teeth like you’re something he refuses to let go of.

“Didn’t think so.”

[readinshadows]

Here to kindly request 23 with Caleb🍎🤭

a/n: it is kindly delivered 🍎🤭 (and I totally did not open the game to see what all clothes he had)

That's Mine

23— wearing someone’s clothes

Caleb drabble

You forgot to hang your clothes. That is the first thought you have in the middle of drying up your body.

So, with a curious look outside, you tiptoe out of the shower in just your towel, into the closet, looking for something suitable.

A mischievous grin spreads across your lips as you take in the sight of Caleb's freshly steamed uniform.

With only your lingerie on, you shrug on the coat and the hat.

"Colonel Caleb, reporting for duty!" You twist the hat playfully, mimicking his voice.

"Oh, hello-" You smirked, picking out a blue leather jacket hanging right in front of you, pulling the bigger jacket on, you twirled.

"Hey, pips. Can I... Get your number?" You whisper, leaning into the mirror. You can barely smoother a giggle.

Pulling on one of his more casual shirts, you chuckle. "I'm gonna open it..." You said in a sing-song.

It is like gems in your. A proper three-piece suit, waiting for your hands to get all over it.

Before you can button the waistcoat, though, purple swirls surround you, and it's like you're frozen in spot.

"Isn't that mine?" You can only turn your head to see Caleb standing by the door, his eyebrows raised.

You smirk as he walks in, locking the door behind him, "Get it off me then."

[readinshadows]

Babe. . . 13 with my blub blub baby 🫧🐠🩵

a/n: *our* blub blub baby. And ofc <33

Don't move

3– Cuddles

Rafayel drabble

"Mmm... Cutie, don't move..."

The sleepy slur is quiet. So quiet if he hadn't whispered right into your ear, you would've missed it.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you in.

"Raf..." You whisper back, giggling quietly as he pressed his weight into you to stop you from getting out of bed.

"No. You're mine." He grumbles, nibbling on your ear, throwing a leg over you. "Stay."

You could feel yourself wanting to, relaxing under him. "Five minutes...?"

"Forever," Rafayel says with a pout and a shake of his head.

You smile, turning on your back to face him. You press your lips against his, "I have work to do, fishie..."

He sighs, resting his head in your chest, "Ten minutes?"

Relaxing, you wrap your arms around him, "Alright, ten."

"Mmm, I win..." He says, eyes fluttering shut again.

[readinshadows]

LYSS. LYSS WTF WHAT IS THIS MASTERPIECE

I AM DEAD. I DIED AS SOON AS I STARTED READING THIS. I. AM. DEAD.

You got me at the first mention of his smirk, his hands, and his silver chain. Like hello??? So hot

You bit your lip, trying not to think too hard about the cardboard cutout you and your roommate had in your freshman dorm. Or the playlist in your phone titled ‘Azriel’s Soundtrack for When He’s Fucking Me Into Oblivion’.

REAL. FACTS.

Azriel’s brow quirked. “What if I said I was writing one about you right now?”

And then he actually does AAAAHH

And then, with one sharp turn of your bodies, you had his back against the door.

Weeellll I can't really say what this made me feel or I'd be sent to horny jail

When they talk while his fingers are in her kitty? And later while they're fucking? HOT. SO HOT.

Azriel looked like he was carved for sin and didn’t even know it. Or worse—did know, and just didn’t care.

He does. He really does😫

I finally got to read this and OMGGGG IT'S A MASTERPIECE IT'S PERFECT IT'S WONDERFUL AND THEIR DYNAMIC AAAA

I've Got the Gift of One-Liners (And You've Got the Curse of Curves)

Day 7: Free Day @sjmxreaderweek summary: Backstage. One night. No regrets. The track says too much—but that night said it louder. (A bonus fic for my Wings of Illyria AU) word count: 7.2k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), praise, dirty talk, fingering, pet names (sweetheart, baby, i think thats it), condom (i know, shocker for me), mentions of sacrilege, cigarettes, smoking, explicit language ] author's note: HERE SHE IS, im really excited to hear what yall think of this one :) i really loved working to tie in the lyrics i already established in previous parts to this one :) ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦

Security had pulled you from the pit like it was routine — like girls were ushered out of the crowd for private encores every night. One of them checked your ID with the flat disinterest of someone who’d done it a hundred times before, just long enough to confirm you were over eighteen before waving you through. You kept waiting to wake up, to be told it was a mistake, some kind of cruel joke. But the moment stretched on, and reality was still here, pressing against you with an undeniable heat.

Azriel was leaning against the wall with a crumpled bottle of water, shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat from the stage lights that still seemed to kiss his skin, glowing like he was something otherworldly. His eyes flicked up the moment you walked in, and for a split second, it felt like the world around you stilled. 

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly aware of everything—the way your hair clung to your neck, the heat in your face, the way your heart was hammering. His gaze never left you, heavy with something that had you second-guessing the ground beneath your feet. 

But then, that smirk. The one he wore on stage, in press releases, in interviews. You knew it was just part of the act—the same cocky, rehearsed charm he gave everyone—but directed at you it was different. He unscrewed the bottle of water, lifted it to his lips, and drank, the sound of it strangely intimate. Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave yours the whole time. 

“Hey, beautiful. What’s your name?”

You told him, voice caught somewhere between awe and nerves, your eyes locked on his—but your focus kept drifting, low and traitorous, to where his tattooed fingers twisted the cap back onto his bottle. It shouldn’t have been as distracting as it was. It was like he was already imagining what he’d do with his hands when he got them on you.

And when he repeated it, slow and low, like he was already tasting it—fuck. Your legs nearly gave out.

“I—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, nerves flickering like static beneath your skin. “You were really great out there. I mean, I’m sure you hear that all the time. But I—” You winced, cringing at the way the words tumbled out too fast, already regretting trying to sound cool. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

But he just smirked, slow and sure, like he was amused at your attempt to stay composed. “No, it wasn’t.” His gaze never wavered, an almost predatory gleam in those hazel eyes as they flicked down to your lips, a deliberate pause in the air. And then, without missing a beat, he said, “C’mon.”

He reached for your hand. You hesitated for all of half a second, then took it. 

Azriel’s fingers laced through yours like it was second nature. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would reroute the entire rest of your life.

You followed him through the back hallway—dim, humming with bass still trapped in the walls, cords snaking across the floor, scattered flyers and crumpled setlists littering the ground. The air smelled like beer, sweat, and the heavy, lingering scent of smoke, the kind of grit that hung in the air after a show, when the stage lights had dimmed but the energy was still burning. His hand was warm, rough, calloused. You couldn't stop looking at it—or at him, broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of a silver chain nestled against his skin. 

“You always pick someone out of the crowd?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Normal. Like you hadn’t screamed every word of his songs twenty feet from the stage ten minutes ago.

He glanced over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Only when she looks like she wants it bad.”

You huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure that was half the front row.”

“Yeah, but only one of them kept mouthing the guitar riffs.”

Your cheeks burned. “Okay, that’s embarrassing.”

“No,” he said, his voice low, “that’s hot.”

You couldn’t tell if your stomach flipped or bottomed out.

He kept walking like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. “So, you come to a lot of shows?”

“First time seeing you live,” you lied. “Been a fan for a while, though.”

Azriel shot you a quick look, brow lifting. “Just a fan?”

You bit your lip, trying not to think too hard about the cardboard cutout you and your roommate had in your freshman dorm. Or the playlist in your phone titled ‘Azriel’s Soundtrack for When He’s Fucking Me Into Oblivion’. Or the handful of other Wings of Illyria concerts you’d gone to. You’d even bought tickets to a show they were only opening for—left after their set without even seeing the headliner.

“A big fan.”

He grinned—full teeth, devastating—and looked ahead again. But your gaze wandered, flicking toward every open door, every voice in the distance. Somewhere in your head, the whisper returned: what are you doing, this is insane—

Azriel slowed, his eyes still ahead. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly.

He stopped, turned to face you fully. The hallway was dim and quiet, the distant sounds of teardown echoing faintly behind you. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the sharpness in his gaze as he studied you. 

“You keep looking around,” he said, voice low. “Don’t want to be seen with me or something? Any little boyfriends I should know about?”

You opened your mouth, intending to deflect, to joke—but his hand slid up, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath the hem of your shirt, and your breath caught.

“Jealous already? We haven’t even kissed yet.”

But he was still touching you, palm spreading against your waist like he meant to leave a print there. 

“Besides,” you let your eyes drag over him, slow and deliberate—the damp shirt clinging to every line of his chest, the lazy grip he still had on that half-crushed water bottle, his messy hair, the smudged eyeliner, the mouth that looked like it’d been made just to get you in trouble. “They don’t have a greenroom or a god complex, so… it’s not exactly a competition.”

He laughed—a short, rough thing, punched out of him like you’d caught him off guard. “You’re funny, (y/n).” And the way he said your name, so effortless, completely undid you in a way you wouldn’t admit to anyone.

“I am,” you managed, your voice tight, strained. “Actually hilarious, once I stop feeling like I might throw up.” And you meant it—you were two seconds away from either cracking a joke or passing out.

Another smile, slower this time. “Relax.” His mouth brushed your temple, his hand now fully beneath your shirt, fingers trailing up your ribs. “No one’ll see, just let me feel you.”

You shivered, not from the cold.

“I just…” you started, glancing past him again—down the hallway, toward a door that had just clicked shut. “I don’t wanna look like one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones naïve enough to think this means something.”

He didn’t flinch. Just leaned in, his voice like smoke and promise: “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

A pause, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hand slid lower—out from beneath your shirt, fingers trailing along your skin like he couldn’t quite stand to let go..

“Just means right now, it’s you and me.”

Then he opened the door to his dressing room, leading you inside with a gentle pull.

The door clicked shut softly behind you, and for a moment, the room was just a quiet, dimly lit space. A couch sat against the far wall, the remnants of a few discarded bottles and empty cups scattered around. The air felt heavier in here, but it was still comfortable, like you could actually breathe for a second after the chaos of the show.

Azriel stepped further into the room and tossed his water bottle onto the couch, letting it roll off with a dull thud. He turned to face you, arms casually crossed over his chest. The easy confidence was still there, but now, in the quiet of the space, it felt a little more grounded, less like the persona he wore on stage.

You couldn’t help but feel the tension—too much of it hanging between you, and yet neither of you seemed in any rush to break it. You shifted your weight, unsure what to do with your hands, your thoughts spinning.

“So…” Azriel started, his voice low, but with no real edge to it. “What’s the deal? You’re in here with me, but you’re not acting like you’ve got a thousand questions or a million things to say.”

You blinked, a little taken aback. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Most people—fans, I guess—they want to talk about the band, the music, all that. They’ve got their script. But you just seem… quiet. A little offbeat, actually.”

You bit back a joke about a musician calling you offbeat—low-hanging fruit, and besides, his voice had gone too genuine for teasing. 

Instead you gave a small shrug, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you looked at him—really looked at him, like you weren’t afraid to see the man behind the persona. “I mean, what’s left to ask? You already put it all out there on stage.”

Azriel tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a challenge. “You think that’s all there is?”

“No, no. I think you’re really good at making people feel like they know you,” you said. “Even if it’s just a story you’re selling.” You paused, then added, “But it’s a good one! Makes people believe.”

That seemed to catch him off guard—just for a second. The smirk flickered, not gone, but softened at the edges. “And you? Do you believe it?”

“I think you want everyone to,” you said, stepping a little closer, feeling bold despite the nervous tremor in your fingers. “But I don’t think you care that much if I do.”

He laughed under his breath, low and rough. “You come with a warning label, or do people just figure it out too late?”

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’ on purpose. “Not going to cry about you writing a song about someone else, either.”

Azriel’s brow quirked. “What if I said I was writing one about you right now?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning despite yourself. “Then I’d assume it’s a slow night for inspiration.”

That really made him laugh. A full-bodied, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that cracked the air open between you. He crossed the room slowly, like he didn’t want to scare you off, but couldn’t help himself either.

When he stopped in front of you—still standing just inside the doorway, your back barely brushing the closed door—there was less than a foot between your bodies. The heat off him was immediate, dizzying. His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges. “You always this blunt?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” you admitted, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Which, if we’re being honest, is kind of your fault.”

Something shifted in his expression—something that wasn’t the stage persona or the flirty smirk. Just Azriel, the guy beneath all that noise. “Don’t be nervous.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Easy for you to say.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just stared at you like he was memorizing your face, the slope of your jaw, the way your lip caught between your teeth.

“I thought you’d be easy,” he said finally, voice almost more thought than words. 

Your brows rose. 

“Not like that,” he rushed out, hands half-lifting like he meant to ward off the offense. “I just meant—fuck—I thought I had a read on you. But I don’t.” 

You felt your breath hitch.

Azriel leaned in—not touching you, but so close you could feel his words against your skin. “It’s kinda messing with me.”

You swallowed, pulse a wildfire. “Good.”

And that was all it took.

He didn’t lunge or rush—just closed the space between you in a smooth, devastating slide. One hand skimmed your hip, the other cradling your jaw like you were something he’d been craving all night. His lips brushed yours, light and deliberate, a question more than a claim.

You answered without thinking—hands fisting in his shirt, mouth parting just enough to meet him halfway.

The kiss was slow at first—measured, like he was still trying to figure you out. But the second you sighed against him, something in him cracked. His hand tightened on your waist, and he deepened the kiss with a hunger that sent heat straight to your core.

He tasted like sweat and water and something darker, something heady. You barely had time to register how good it was before he was walking you backward, not breaking the kiss, just guiding you until your back met the door. 

Azriel kissed like he performed—confident, intense, a little overwhelming. Every press of his mouth stole more air from your lungs, every shift of his body pushing you harder against the door like he wanted to pin you there and never let you leave. His hands found your waist, your hips, your jaw—possessive but not rough, like he wanted to touch everywhere at once and didn’t know where to start.

You let him. For a while.

Because, god, it was good—the kind of kiss that melted your spine and rewired your thoughts. That made it very clear how he got away with every scandal, every rumor, every headline that should’ve been a red flag but somehow wasn’t.

But then something clicked. A flicker of boldness, of clarity, of fuck-it heat right behind your teeth.

You broke the kiss first—he chased your mouth for a second, frustrated, but you steadied a hand on his chest.

“What—” he started, just slightly breathless.

You didn’t answer. Just grabbed the hem of his shirt like it belonged to you now, like he already belonged to you. And then, with one sharp turn of your bodies, you had his back against the door.

Azriel blinked. His chest rose in a slow, surprised breath. “Oh?”

You didn’t smile. Not really. Just met his eyes as you sank slowly to your knees, one hand dragging down the front of his chest, watching the way his muscles jumped under your touch.

His pupils blew wide. “Fuck.”

“Still think I’m quiet?” you asked, voice low, teasing, as your fingers found the waistband of his jeans.

Azriel’s hand slapped flat against the door behind him, like he needed to ground himself.

“I take it back,” he muttered, already sounding wrecked.

“Good,” you said, undoing the button with infuriating slowness. 

That earned a groan—deep, appreciative, the kind of sound you’d file away forever. His eyes stayed on you, stunned, like he’d just realized you weren’t playing by any of the rules he thought you were. 

When you dragged his jeans down just far enough, he hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the door with a quiet thud. You pressed a kiss just below his hipbone, slow and deliberate, then another. 

A soft hum vibrated in your throat as you mouthed against the fabric of his underwear, teasing, your lips tracing the ache there. You could feel the size of him even through the thin material, and god, he only seemed to get bigger the more he hardened beneath your touch. 

You wondered how it looked from his angle. A starry-eyed fan kneeling on the dirty carpet of his dressing room, the last place you ever thought you’d be—pressing your mouth to the bulge in his underwear like you were starved, desperate for a taste of him. 

Azriel’s breath hitched, and his hand found your hair, tugging lightly to guide you away from him. “Enough with the teasing,” he muttered, voice rough but the edge of amusement still there. “You’re killing me here.”

Finally you pulled the fabric down, taking him into your mouth inch by inch, and fuck, the sound he made when your mouth wrapped around him was downright obscene.

“Shit—” he choked, breath catching.

You didn’t rush. You savored. Licked and sucked and stroked with practiced ease, drawing long, lazy moans from him like you were playing an instrument you knew intimately. Your hand worked in tandem with your mouth, gliding over wet heat, and his thighs tensed beneath your grip.

“God, (y/n),” he murmured, voice strained. 

That did something to you—hearing him say your name like that. 

A second later, one of his hands finally threaded into your hair, not guiding, just there. His fingers dragged through the strands gently, like he needed to anchor himself. You looked up at him as you took him deeper, watched his chest rise in a sharp inhale, watched his mouth fall open just a little.

His hips twitched. His jaw clenched.

“Fuck, you’re—” His voice cracked off. “You’re really fucking good at that.”

You pulled off slightly, just enough to smirk against his skin, your tongue flicking out again with infuriating confidence.

“I know,” you said, breath warm. Then you took him again, slow, deep, letting your throat tighten around him. Your jaw ached, muscles sore from the effort, and distantly, you wondered how the hell this was going to fit inside you. The thought of it made you flush, but you kept going.

Azriel swore, hand tightening briefly in your hair before smoothing it down, like he was torn between urging you on or just losing himself in it. His eyes were dark, almost dazed, mouth slack, and every muscle in his body was drawn tight like he was barely holding on.

You were about to do it again—just a little deeper, just a little sloppier—when he suddenly grunted and tugged at your shoulders, not rough, but firm.

“Okay—okay,” he said, breath ragged, jaw working as he blinked down at you. “That’s... you need to stop. Now.”

You blinked, lips swollen, mouth still wet, the taste of him warm on your tongue. The fear crept in, sudden and sharp. “Why?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant, uncertain.

His laugh was short and sharp, like he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to ask. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “So you can do the whole ‘humble rockstar' thing.”

He gave a breathless laugh, then cupped your jaw in one hand and tilted your face up toward him. “Get off the floor, sweetheart. That mouth should come with a warning.”

You rose, still smug, and he kissed you before you were fully upright—fast, needy, like he couldn’t help it.

Like he needed more.

The kiss turned rough fast—his mouth hard on yours, all tongue and teeth and the kind of heat that made your knees threaten to give. You barely had time to register that he was moving again before he pressed you chest-first to the wall. The cool surface kissed your flushed skin through your top, shocking a little breath from your lips.

Azriel’s front was flush to your back, his breath ragged at your ear, hands already moving with greedy intent. One gripped your hip, steadying you; the other snaked around you and skimmed up the inside of your thigh, dragging the hem of your skirt higher and higher.

And then he paused. You felt it—the stutter in his breath, the twitch of his fingers.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, grinning into the shell of your ear. “You wore this tiny thing and didn’t even bother with shorts?”

You didn’t answer. Your smirk spoke for itself, even if he couldn’t see it.

Azriel groaned—like the sound had been ripped from his chest—and shoved your skirt up around your waist, rough with want. His hand cupped you through your underwear, palm broad and warm and already pressing just right.

You gasped, back arching slightly, and he groaned again, low and hungry.

“That’s evil,” he said, dragging two fingers over the thin fabric. “Fucking evil.”

You whimpered as he circled your clit through your panties, slow and deliberate. His body caged yours, every inch of him crowding you against the wall, hips pressing firm into your ass, his cock thick and hard against you through the fabric. 

And then—swift and smooth—he hooked two fingers in the side of your underwear and pulled them aside.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your neck, fingers sliding through slick like he owns it. “You this wet the whole time?”

You nodded, barely able to breathe, your forehead pressing against the wall, hips twitching back into him.

His fingers moved again, lazy and unhurried, fingers skilled from years of strings and rhythm, stroking like he wanted to memorize every reaction. “You were singing my lyrics like that,” he whispered, “with this pretty little cunt already begging for me?”

A tiny, broken sound escaped you.

He laughed—rough and low, his free hand splaying over your stomach, holding you steady. “Should’ve pulled you up on stage right then,” he said, dragging his fingers higher, circling, teasing. “Let the whole crowd see how much you wanted it.”

Azriel didn’t wait for you to respond. His fingers slid back down, stroking through the mess he’d already made of you, gathering it up like he owned every drop. And then he pressed one inside—slow, thick, knuckle-deep in a heartbeat.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed as your forehead met the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, voice all gravel and sin, “you’re so tight.”

You barely had time to whimper before he added a second, pushing in with more pressure, no resistance. His palm pressed flat against you now, keeping your underwear pulled taut to the side, while his fingers curled just so—finding that spot that made your thighs tremble.

“That it?” he asked, like he already knew the answer. “Right there?”

Your nod was jerky, breath ragged, hands splayed uselessly against the wall. You turned your head, blindly searching for him, and his mouth was there—hot, open, devouring yours like he couldn’t stand not to be kissing you. Your lips parted, tongues brushing—messy and desperate. He was all heat behind you, chest rising fast as his hips rolled forward, like he couldn’t help grinding against your ass, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.

But your gaze dropped, and your head trailed after it, tracing the lines of ink winding down his forearm—down, down—until they vanished beneath your skirt, where his fingers were still working you open. 

He set a rhythm—slow but deep, purposeful, fingers curling again and again, dragging against that spot like he was trying to ruin you. Your underwear still stretched taut to the side, the fabric bit into the crease of your thigh, an added pressure you could feel with every shift of his hand.

“You’re fuckin’ clenching,” he groaned. “God damn.”

One hand still braced at your stomach, Azriel dipped his head to your neck, teeth grazing skin that was already damp with sweat. 

You blinked, your eyes a little hazy, before you spoke up. “Didn’t that one used to be unfinished?” you asked, voice low. “The wing—on your tricep.”

He slowed, just barely, the rhythm stuttering. “You’ve seen it before.”

You nodded. “The Tiny Desk session. And that festival set—when your shirt came off halfway through.”

A low, incredulous laugh ghosted over your throat. “You really pay attention, huh? Kinda sexy.”

You tried to stifle a laugh. “I mean, it’s hard not to. You’re kind of… hard to miss.”

“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers picking up pace as he pressed deeper. “What else have you seen, sweetheart?”

You blinked, mouth parting—his fingers kept moving, stealing the words before you could speak. “I—I’ve seen a lot of your shows. Recordings, I mean.” You laughed softly, trying to push through the aching heat building in you. “I know you guys’ setlists by heart.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmured against your neck, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Go on then—what was the opener for the Late Hours tour?”

“‘Out of Body,’” you breathed, hips twitching against his hand. “Except for that show in Brisbane where it was—fuck—‘Violet Hour.’”

His fingers slowed just enough to make you whine, but it was deliberate—he was listening now. “Jesus. You’re a little encyclopedia, huh?”

You gave a shaky laugh. “Kinda my thing.”

“Mhm,” he said, curling his fingers just right. “So when’s my birthday?”

You blinked, struggling to think. “March… twenty-second?”

He gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck.”

“And you told GQ you don’t like cake,” you gasped. “Said your mom used to burn—oh god—burn the edges.”

That made him laugh, teeth grazing your jaw. “Fuckin’ hell. You know shit about me you shouldn’t.”

“You’re the one who keeps putting it out there,” you panted.

His fingers didn’t stop, dragging more ragged sounds from your throat. “Feels unfair, though. You’ve got all this shit on me, and I don’t even know what you do.”

You made a noise that was half-moan, half-laugh. “Like… in general?”

“Yes, in general,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Do you work? Study? Or just professionally stalk musicians?”

“Depends who’s asking,” you managed, voice catching as his thumb traced slow, maddening circles, so precise you knew you’d never manage it again without him.

“I’m asking,” he murmured, picking up the pace again. “C’mon. You told me my fuckin’ birthdate. Least you can do is tell me yours.”

Your mouth opened—nothing came out at first. The next slow thrust of his fingers had you gasping, voice faltering before the answer finally slipped past your lips.

He hummed, satisfied. “See? Was that so hard?”

“You’re making it hard.”

“That’s kinda the point.” The cockiness in his voice alone could have pushed you over—but then came that quiet chuckle, right against your ear, low and smug and fucking lethal.

But just as the wave crested, as your body tensed and your breath caught, he stopped.

Pulled his fingers out, dragged them slow down the inside of your thigh like he knew what he was doing, like he meant to leave you there—trembling, soaked, and aching.

You whimpered in protest, hips shifting back, desperate for any kind of contact, but he just chuckled, breath still hot against your ear.

Then—his hands were on your waist, spinning you. Your back hit the wall with a soft thump, and Azriel was already there, crowding into your space, his fingers dragging up your bare thighs before settling on your hips.

He looked wrecked—hair a mess, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And he was watching you like he was deciding whether to devour you slowly or ruin you in one go.

He bent, hands curling around your ankles, lifting one foot at a time to unbuckle your heels and slide them off, setting them aside with surprising care. Then his hands were under your skirt, pushing it up, up, until he had it bunched around your waist. A quick, rough tug at the waistband and your underwear was gone—torn clean off, like it was never meant to survive this.

Your top came next. He peeled it up over your head, fingers skimming your skin, and your bra was unclasped and discarded with barely a breath between.

Then his hands were back on your body—hot and greedy, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

You reached between your bodies, brushing over the exposed length of him—still hard and glistening. He hissed between his teeth. “Not helping,” he growled.

You smiled up at him. “Then hurry up.”

Azriel shoved his shoes off, then kicked his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, stepping out of them completely. He turned, muttering something under his breath as he dug between the couch cushions. A second later, her came up with his wallet, flipping it open with practiced ease. 

You watched, dazed, as he pulled out a condom. Wallet condom. Of course. 

At least if this somehow knocked you up, your baby daddy was hot and rich. The kid would be set. 

Before you could fully imagine a life and kids with him (as if you hadn’t before), he was on you again—all of him. Bare chest pressed to yours, the heat of him bleeding into your skin. He didn’t wait. One hand slid behind your knee, hitching your leg up and over his forearm, opening you to him as he stepped in close—so close. His other hand braced the wall beside your head, steadying both of you.

“Loud,” he murmured, lining up. “Bet you’ll be loud for me.”

Your mind went static. Any reply you would have come up with died in your throat as he pushed in, thick and slow, dragging a shattered moan from your lips as he filled you inch by inch. The stretch burned in the best way, a pressure that made your spine arch, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his arms, anything.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t decide what to focus on—your parted lips, your fluttering lashes, the way your body clenched around him. “You feel—shit—perfect.”

You could barely answer, your mind dissolving as he drew back and thrust in again, the rhythm sharp. The wall thudded softly behind you with every motion. One foot barely held steady on the ground, the other still hooked tight in his grip like he dared you to move.

He leaned in close, lips grazing your jaw as he murmured, “Look at you. Taking it so fucking well.”

Your head tipped back, the words like gasoline, and he took the opportunity—mouth on your throat, teeth grazing skin, hips snapping forward again, harder this time. The slick drag of him, the sound of skin meeting skin, the low growl in his chest—it all worked in tandem, pushing you further, higher.

“Bet you’ve touched yourself to my music before,” he whispered, pumping deeper, rougher now.

You let out a sound—half protest, half moan—and he grinned against your throat, wicked.

“What was it?” he pressed. “One of the slow ones? Something filthy?”

His hand slid up to your chest, fingers teasing over your nipple in lazy circles before giving a firmer roll, then settling there to hold you steady. “Which one, baby?” he murmured. “Which song made you spread your legs and think about my cock?”

“‘Glass Chapel,’” you gasped, a broken sound, and he groaned—a guttural, desperate sound like you’d cracked something open in him.

“No fucking wonder you were only singing my parts out there.” His eyes dragged over your face, catching the way your cheeks flushed, lips parting like you’d been caught. His smirk deepened. “Yeah. I noticed. Was it the bridge? Yeah? Yeah, baby, knew that bridge would ruin you.”

“It did,” you breathed, your fingers digging into the muscle of his arm as he angled his hips to hit exactly where you needed. “I came so hard I—” He sped up—the wet, obscene sound of his efforts echoing in the dressing room, shameless and slick. “God, I had to pause it.”

Azriel snapped. One arm locked tight around your waist, the other already hooked under your thigh as he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing. He pressed you into the wall, firm but careful, his body pinning you there. Your legs locked tight around his waist, arms flying up around his neck. You buried your fingers in his hair as he thrust into you hard enough to make your breath stutter, raking your nails down his scalp when the angle hit just right. He groaned against your chest, then dipped his head to suck your nipple into his mouth, tongue hot and insistent.

“Song’s old,” he growled, voice muffled against your skin. “Let me give you something new to touch yourself to.”

You whimpered something that wasn’t a word, hips tilting to meet every thrust like your body was chasing him on instinct. The stretch of him was dizzying, unbearable in the way only perfect things could be, and when his teeth grazed your nipple, a shock of pleasure bolted down your spine.

“Feel that?” he muttered against your skin. “Every time you play that song now, you’re gonna feel this.”

He slammed into you again—deep and brutal, but never careless—and your moans turned strangled. Your head tipped back against the wall, nails dragging harder through his hair until he hissed.

His breathing was ragged as he pulled back just enough to speak, eyes dark and intense. “When I saw you out there… The way the lights hit you, how you looked at me—like you were waiting for me to see you.” His voice dropped lower. “I wondered what you’d sound like if I ever got you alone. If your voice would shake when you said my name.”

Your body seized around him at that, the raw confession cutting through the fog in your mind like lightning.

“Oh, you like that,” he growled, almost laughing as your hips rolled down against him, helpless. “Knew you were filthy, baby. Knew it when you looked me up and down the second you got backstage. When you told me you got yourself off to goddamn ‘Glass Chapel,’ Jesus Christ.”

You huffed a breath, teeth sinking into your lip. “It was the Hail Marys that did me in.”

He stilled suddenly, eyes flashing, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Then he breathed out a low, stunned laugh—more breath than sound. “You’re kidding.”

You didn’t say a word, just shook your head—lips parted and red, hair a wreck, sweat catching the dim light on your skin. You were sure you looked completely fucked out, and God help you, you loved what it did to him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, jaw tight as he thrust into you again, slower this time. “That shit’s not even subtle.”

A bitter smile curved his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d be into the whole martyr complex. You got a confessional kink, too? Or is it just the guilt that gets you off?”

You tried to glare at him, but it collapsed into a moan as he found that merciless rhythm again, your head falling back against the wall. “You’re cocky as hell,” you managed, breathless, “but I thought about this every night and still didn’t think you’d be this good.”

Azriel let out a rough laugh, hips slamming into you like your praise lit something in him. “Yeah?” he panted, mouth dragging over your throat. “Say that again.”

You dug your nails into his shoulders, lips brushing his ear. “You’re better than I imagined, Azriel.”

He groaned, low and rough, and buried his face in your neck like he needed a second to pull himself together. “Fuck, baby.” His voice was ragged. “Keep talking like that and I’m not gonna last.”

A smug smile curled on your lips, despite how wrecked you felt. “What, you want me to lie instead?”

Azriel laughed, breath hot against your skin. “No, keep talking.” His hands tightened around your thighs as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide. “Tell me what you want, (y/n).”

When his hips slammed into you again, deeper than before, the words spilled from your lips without a second thought. “I want you to fuck me like you can’t get enough. Make me scream so hard I forget where I am, who I am—I don’t care, I just want to feel you all over me, Azriel, until I can’t walk, can’t think, just you. Fucking me. Over and over.”

The sound of your pleasure bounced off the walls, loud and unrestrained, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the way he made you feel. You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop him as he drove you toward something reckless and burning.

Azriel’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, and his eyes darkened with a wicked, almost feral gleam. “Fuck, (y/n),” he growled, voice rough and shaking. “Fuckin’ perfect goddamn pussy. Made for me to fuck it, huh? Yeah, baby, and that filthy fuckin’ mouth—I could fuck you like this forever, you know that?”

You whimpered, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers working your clit in tight, desperate circles. “So close,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop, Azriel—fuck, don’t stop.”

His hips stuttered at the sight, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Shit—look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on where your bodies met. “Rubbing yourself while I fuck you. You feel too fuckin’ good to be real.”

His voice broke on the last word. And then he lost it—thrusts erratic, bruising, as a groan tore from his throat and he came hard, spilling into the condom with a raw, guttural sound like it was dragged from the pit of him.

But he didn’t stop. 

He kept moving, fucking through it, pace rough and messy with the aftershocks, and the overstimulation only pushed him harder. The rhythmic slap of his skin against yours grew louder, the pressure building in your core, until you were coming with a cry, back arching as heat tore through you like wildfire. 

Your whole body shook. Your legs trembled. And finally, finally, he slowed. 

Azriel leaned into you for a second, breath ragged against your skin, before finally easing out with a low, involuntary hiss, your bodies slick and trembling where they met. 

Without a word, he adjusted his grip on you, one arm locked beneath your thighs, the other bracing your ass as he carried you from the wall like he hadn’t just demolished you. Like you weren’t still gasping in his arms.

“Hold on,” he muttered, voice rough, and you instinctively clung tighter, arms looped around his neck. He shifted one hand, reaching for the blanket slung over the back of the couch, and shook it out with an easy flick before laying it across the cushions.

Then he knelt, lowering you onto it with a care that shouldn’t have felt so reverent after what he’d just done.

While you melted into the soft spread—mind blank, body humming—Azriel rose and padded over to a trash bin tucked near the corner. He peeled the condom off with one hand as he walked, tied it off, and tossed it without pause.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. 

There was something unshakably magnetic about the way he moved—casual and unhurried, like he wasn’t Azriel, the bassist every dive bar daydreamed about and the reason half the crowd screamed louder during the breadowns, but just some guy cleaning up after the best sex of your life. His shoulders rolled as he walked, loose and satisfied, and there was a certain quiet confidence in the slope of his spine, like he didn’t need to say a word to know you were still reeling. 

He made his way to the mirrored dressing table—small, utilitarian, built into the wall—and grabbed a towel and a battered pack of American Spirits off the cluttered surface. Your eyes trailed after him, helpless not to admire the ripple of lean muscle across his back, the taper of his waist, the tight curve of his ass. Even his legs—long, strong, littered with faint bruises and a thin, silvery scar running vertical over one knee—had you clenching around nothing. Azriel looked like he was carved for sin and didn’t even know it. Or worse—did know, and just didn’t care. 

The cardboard crinkled in his palm as he tapped one loose and caught it between his lips, already moving back toward you. With the lighter tucked inside the carton, he slid it free one-handed, thumb dragging the wheel with practiced ease.

Back on the couch, he dropped down beside you, one arm thrown over the backrest to hook around your shoulders. The flame lit with a soft chk as he sparked the cigarette to life, the glow briefly catching on the sharp cut of his jaw, the relaxed slant of his mouth.

Then, without so much as a look, he held the towel out to you, a fluffy rolled up green thing—just a quiet offer, casual and thoughtless, like it was muscle memory. You took it with a still-shaky hand and an even shakier thank you. 

Azriel leaned his head back and took a long drag, exhaling like he didn’t have a care in the fucking world.

And you? You stared.

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t fucking believe it.

Azriel—the Azriel—was sitting beside you like you hadn’t just been pressed against a wall, stuffed full and screaming his name like a prayer. Like he hadn’t just wrung you out with his hands on your thighs and your voice in his ear. He was right there, cigarette in hand, the taste of him still on your tongue.

A shaky breath left you.

You needed a cigarette—

So you reached out and plucked his from between his lips, slow and deliberate, your index and middle fingers brushing the corner of his mouth.

He turned to look at you, one brow arched in lazy disbelief, but there was unmistakable amusement in his eyes.

You didn’t say a word. Just brought it to your mouth and took a long, deep drag—slow enough to make a point, greedy enough that you knew he’d taste it when he got it back. Smoke curled from your nose, then your mouth, a slow exhale through parted lips.

Only once the breath had fully left you did you glance at him—then carefully, precisely, placed the cig back where it belonged, tucking it against his mouth like you were returning something borrowed.

Azriel let you do it, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just took another drag like nothing about this was abnormal.

You busied yourself with the towel—more for something to do than out of any real modesty, dabbing between your thighs like it might distract from the buzz still lingering in your limbs.

What were you supposed to do now?

Just get dressed and leave? That felt weird.

Say thank you? Even weirder.

Make conversation? Try to pretend like this wasn’t the craziest thing that had ever happened to you?

You avoided looking at him, trying not to think too hard, trying not to come across like you were thinking too hard. But your thoughts were looping, loud and nervous, until—

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his expression shift. A sharp inhale, eyes widening mid-drag, followed by a low, almost startled curse.

Then:

“You wouldn’t mind signing an NDA, would you?”

You blinked, turning to look at him. “Isn’t that supposed to be before?”

Azriel exhaled smoke through a crooked grin, one brow raised, all lazy charm and unapologetic sin. “I forgot,” he said, voice rough with amusement.

He tilted his head toward you, like he could already see you agreeing, like he knew exactly what you’d say next.

And fuck—you probably would sign it.