An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"Our dear party celebrate after acquiring the third orb to unlock the House of Dormont. Their location? A tavern. It is a night to drink your worries and sorrows away. Hopefully, they will be able to relax before continuing their formidable journey.
Unfortunately, the booze has more unintended consequences than the group had considered. Especially on their new roguish member."
This is my first ISAT fic (that I have finished), and I am so stoked to share it with everyone! I also drew a comic with it because I was so excited about the story. This is definitely one of my best comics yet. I have been experimenting with panelling, and I am getting the formula down now after much trial and error.
I had a lot of fun designing Siffrin's clothes under the cloak (I even drew a reference for it in my sketchbook). I love designing clothes <3. Especially tunics. It seems a little too fancy for Sif's tastes, but I am chalking it up it being a gift from someone from a long time ago rather than something Siffrin would buy or get on his own)
Please enjoy~!
*Edit*
I decided to continue the comic because of the overwhelming support I received (o゜▽゜)o☆. The link is under this paragraph.
Part 2
(Also, there are no spoilers for the game itself! Except for the ending notes of the fic, but I will place a warning there)
Different coloured pages without text under keep reading
Initially, I worked with different shades of grey for anyone: Siffrin has violet grayscale, Isabeua red, Mirabelle yellow, and Odile Green. But I ended up putting a black-and-white filter on it for unification. Please let me know if you guys prefer the 'coloured' versions more or not, and I will change the comic pages into the OG colouring. The purple for Siff is giving, but I am unsure if it is too noisy.
warnings: SMUT ahead, explicit depictions of oral sex and suggestive themes, power dynamics, public/semi-public s3x, alcohol consumption, dubious consent, size difference, rough intimacy (he's down bad for you), secret relationship(?)
The moon hung low and heavy over Mondstadt, a silver coin tossed against the raven black of the night sky. Behind the Angel’s Share, the world felt smaller, reduced to the rough texture of brick against your back and the overwhelming heat of the man pressed against you. The muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glass from inside the tavern were a distant sound, drowned out by the heavy, uneven thrum of your own heart and your shared breathing.
You were exhausted. Being Varka’s right hand wasn't just a title; it was a relentless cycle of managing the logistics for the expedition in the frozen wastes of the north while simultaneously acting as the backbone for Jean here. Your days were spent buried in maps and casualty reports, your nights spent ensuring the Knights didn't crumble under the weight of their own bureaucracy. But here, in the shadows of the back alley, you didn't have to be the pillar of the Ordo Favonius. You didn't have to be anything at all.
Not when Diluc’s hands were on you before you could catch your breath.
They weren't gentle. He gripped your waist with a ferocity that bordered on desperation, his fingers digging into the leather and fabric of your uniform as if he were trying to anchor himself to you. He had always been a man of controll, but when it came to you—to this—the control always seemed to burn at the edges.
"You smell like the office," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Not sure if that fact turn him off but he didn't wait for a response. His mouth was upon you, crashing against yours in a kiss that tasted of sweet grape juice and the dark, smoky heat that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Just like his grip on your waist, the kiss wasn't either. You let out a muffled moan, your fingers tangling in the thick, unruly red silk of his hair, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single breath of air between you.
This was the only place you could be this honest, this raw. You’d grown up together, chasing each other through the vineyards of the Dawn Winery with wooden swords, sharing secrets and your dreams. Now, you shared this: a frantic, periodic hunger that neither of you knew how to name, but that fact stopped neither of you.
Diluc groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure want. He shifted his weight, and suddenly, he was hiking his thigh up between your legs, his knee pressing firmly into your heat through the layers of your uniform. The friction was sudden, making your head snap back against the brick wall. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as a jolt of electricity raced through you.
"Diluc," you breathed, his name a plea and a challenge all at once.
"Shut up," he whispered, though there was no real bite to it. He was too busy trailing his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above your collarbone. "For once, just stop thinking about the Knights. Stop thinking about Varka. Just stay here- with me."
He moved his hands from your waist, one sliding up to cup the back of your head, his leather-gloved fingers weaving through your hair to hold you still for his onslaught. The other hand stayed low, pinning your hip against the wall while his leg continued that rhythmic, torturous pressure against you. Every time he shifted, every time his thigh pressed upward, you felt your world tilting on its axis and the heat growing down there increase with every movement.
As a Pyro vision holder, he always ran warm, but in moments like this, he felt like a literal furnace. A stark contrast to the cold stone at your back and the chilly night air biting at your exposed skin. You felt like you were melting into him, your body instinctively molding itself to his larger, harder frame.
You managed to get one hand free, sliding it beneath his vest, feeling the solid, rippling muscle of his chest through his shirt. His heart was hammering just as fast as yours, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the stoic, calm mask he wore for the rest of Mondstadt.
He pulled back for a second, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and blown wide with a heat that had nothing to do with his vision. He looked at you with a mix of frustration and another emotion you couldn't put your finger on that made your stomach do flips.
"You're going back to the headquarters after this, aren't you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Eventually," you said, your voice sounding foreign and wrecked to your own ears. "The morning reports—"
He didn't let you finish. He captured your lips again, fiercer than before, as if he could kiss the duty right out of you. His hands moved with a renewed urgency, roaming over your body with a familiarity that only years of friendship—and months of these secret encounters—could produce. He knew exactly where to grab, exactly how much pressure to apply to make you lose your mind.
When his thigh pushed up against you again, harder this time, you couldn't help the high, needy sound that escaped your throat. You arched into him, your nails digging into his shoulders, trying to get even closer.
It was intoxicating- He was intoxicating. For a few more minutes, the Knights didn't exist. The expedition didn't exist. There was only the weight of his body, the strength in his hands, and the fire that threatened to consume you both right there in the dirt and the dark.
He slowed down just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours as you both struggled to find oxygen. His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, which was swollen and red from his attention.
"One of these days," he muttered, his breath hot against your face, "I’m not letting you go back."
You smiled, a small, tired thing, and reached up to cup his face. "Yes, you will. You're just as stubborn about your work as I am."
He let out a huff of a laugh, a rare, genuine sound that softened the sharp lines of his face. He kissed your forehead, a lingering, surprisingly tender gesture that hurt more than the biting kisses did. Then, as quickly as the fire had flared up, he began to pull back, rearranging his coat and mask, the walls going back up before your very eyes.
"Go," he said, though his hand lingered on your waist for one last second. "Before Jean sends a scouting party to find her best officer."
You straightened your uniform, your body still humming from his touch, the phantom pressure of his thigh still burned into your memory. You stepped out of the shadows, looking back one last time to see him standing there, a dark silhouette against the tavern lights. You knew you'd be back.
Because in a world of ice and duty, Diluc Ragnvindr was the only thing that actually kept you warm.
The morning had come far too early, the sun bleeding through the windows of the Knights of Favonius headquarters like a personal affront. Your head had throbbed with the ghost of Diluc’s touch, but there was no time to dwell on the heat of the previous night. Duty waited for no one—even if that duty involved babysitting the Spark Knight.
By mid-afternoon, you were covered in soot, lake water, and regret. Klee had that look in her eyes—the one that promised explosive results—and somehow, she had convinced you that "fish blasting" was actually a sanctioned ecological survey requested by the biology department. You’d been standing on the shore of Cider Lake, watching a particularly large trout achieve orbit, when the shadow of the Acting Grand Master fell over you. Jean didn't need to yell. She had just pointed toward the headquarters with a look of profound, soul-deep disappointment.
That was how you ended up spending four hours in solitary confinement, sitting on a tiny wooden stool next to a very energetic Klee, who spent the entire time explaining the different fuse lengths of her "treasures."
By the time you were released, your nerves were frayed to a thin wire. When Kaeya and Rosaria cornered you near the fountain, suggesting a "debrief" at the Angel’s Share, you didn't even put up a fight. You needed a drink. Just one.
The tavern was packed per usual, the air thick with the smell of roasting meat and fermented grain. Diluc was behind the bar, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, though his eyes followed you the moment you stepped through the door with the Calvary Captain and the sister of the Church. He took in your wrinkled uniform and the smudge of ash on your cheek, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"The usual for the hero of the hour," Kaeya teased, sliding onto a stool and gesturing for Charles to bring over a round. "I heard you and Klee had quite the afternoon. Jean looked like she was about to develop a permanent twitch."
Rosaria leaned back, her sharp eyes scanning the room. "Better her than us. Drink up. You look like you need it."
Now the problem was, you were a legendary lightweight. It was a well-kept secret among the higher-ups, mostly because you usually had the sense to stick to grape juice when Diluc was watching. But tonight, the frustration of the day won out. You took a long, heavy pull of the Death After Noon Kaeya had ordered, and within twenty minutes, the world began bleeding into pretty colors.
The chatter of the bar became a dull roar. The warmth of the room intensified, turning your skin flush. You felt heavy, your limbs turning to lead, and eventually, you couldn't keep your head up anymore. You folded your arms on the wooden surface of the bar and buried your face in them, letting out a soft, incoherent groan.
"Oh, dear," Kaeya chuckled, though there was a note of genuine surprise in his voice. "I didn't think one glass would do it. Hey, little Knight, still with us?"
A shadow fell over you, blocking out the light of the chandeliers. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. The air around you suddenly smelled like cedarwood and grape juice.
"She’s done," Diluc’s voice cut through the noise, cold and final. "Kaeya, Rosaria—stop plying my customers with drinks they can’t handle."
"We didn't force her," Rosaria pointed out, though she sounded bored. "She’s just... efficient at getting drunk."
"I’ll take her out back," Diluc said, his voice dropping an octave. "She needs fresh air before she ruins my upholstery."
You felt his hands on you—strong, sure, and much more careful than his words suggested. He hauled you up, tucking your arm over his shoulder. You stumbled along, your head lolling against his shoulder, your senses overwhelmed by the heat of his body. He steered you toward the back door, the one leading to the same alleyway where he’d had you the night before.
The cool night air hit you like a physical slap, but it didn't clear your head. If anything, it made the spinning worse. Diluc led you to a crate, but you didn't want to sit. You felt a surge of drunken boldness, a reckless fire sparked by the friction of his clothes against yours.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you turned into him, your hands clumsily grabbing at his vest. Diluc let out a huff of surprise, his back hitting the brick wall with a dull thud as you stumbled into him.
"Steady," he muttered, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders to keep you from falling. "You'll make a scene, even out here."
"I hate the Knights," you mumbled into his chest, your voice muffled and thick. "I hate fish. I hate solitary confinement."
"I know," he said, his voice softening just a fraction. He went to shift you, probably to lead you back to the winery where you could sleep it off, but you weren't finished.
The alcohol had stripped away your filter, leaving only the raw, pulsing hunger from the night before. You looked up at him, eyes glazed and your lips parted. You saw the way his gaze dropped to your mouth, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard.
You slid down. It wasn't a graceful movement; your knees hit the cobblestones with a soft thud, but you didn't care. You stayed there, kneeling between his boots, your hands roaming up his thick thighs. Through the dark fabric of his trousers, you could feel him—and the unmistakable, growing hardness that belied his calm expression.
Diluc froze. "What are you doing?" he hissed, though his hands didn't push you away. Instead, they tangled in your hair, fingers twitching. "You’re drunk. Stop this."
You didn't listen. Your fingers were clumsy as you began to paw at the fastening of his pants, your touch frantic and demanding. You wanted him—not the wine-tycoon, not the hero, just the man who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I mean it," he whispered, his voice shaking now. He placed a hand over yours, a soft, half-hearted attempt to usher you to stop. "Don't. You won't remember this in the morning."
But you could feel him. Even through the layers of cloth, he was rigid, twitching against your touch. You leaned forward, pressing your cheek—and then your entire face—right against the center of his bulge.
"You're telling me to stop," you murmured, your voice vibrating against him, sending a visible jolt through his entire frame. You looked up at him through your lashes, a wicked, lopsided grin tugging at your lips. "But he’s saying otherwise."
Diluc’s head snapped back against the wall, a strangled, broken groan escaping his lips. His grip on your hair tightened, not to pull you away, but to hold you right there. The "fresh air" had done nothing to cool the fire; it had only given it room to burn.
"You're going to be the death of me," he whispered into the night air, his eyes snapping shut as he finally let go of the last shred of his legendary restraint.
He didn't pull you up. Instead, he reached down, his leather-gloved fingers finding your chin and tilting your head back so he could see the sheer, drunken devotion in your eyes. The alleyway was silent, save for the sound of his heavy, labored breathing and the distant, muffled music of the tavern.
You were still on your knees, the rough cobblestones biting into your skin, but you hardly felt the sting. The wine was a buzzing hum in your ears, stripping away the poise of a high-ranking Knight and leaving only the raw, pulsing need to please the man towering over you.
Diluc looked down at you. His hair had come loose from its tie, fiery strands falling over his eyes, which were dark with a hunger he usually kept locked behind iron gates. When you pressed your face against his trousers again, feeling the heavy, rigid length of him through the fabric, a low, guttural sound escaped his throat—a sound that wasn't the refined Master of the Winery, but the man who had been wanting you since you were both old enough to understand what wanting meant.
"You have no idea what you’re doing," he rasped, his voice cracking. It was a warning, a final plea for sanity, but his hands were already moving.
His fingers dove into your hair. He gathered the tresses together, fistfuls of your hair becoming a makeshift ponytail that he used to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to the moonlight. The grip was firm, bordering on painful, but it grounded you. It told you exactly where he wanted you.
With a confident yet trembling hand, you worked the fastening of his trousers. The leather and heavy fabric gave way, and when he finally sprang free into the cool air, you let out a small, shaky breath. He was magnificent—thick, twitching, and radiating that signature Pyro heat that seemed to turn your blood into liquid gold.
You didn't hesitate. You were inexperienced, your movements clumsy and guided more by instinct than knowledge, but the alcohol gave you a fearless edge. You leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick at his tip, the taste the salt and the faint, musky scent of him filling your tastebuds. Diluc’s hips lurched forward involuntarily, his breath hitching in a sharp, ragged sob of air at the contact.
When you finally took him into your mouth, the sensation was overwhelming. He was so much larger than you’d imagined, filling your mouth completely, stretching your lips as you struggled to accommodate him. You looked up at him, your eyes watering from the sheer size of him, but you refused to back down. Instead, you pushed further.
Diluc’s hand tightened in your hair, his knuckles white as he guided your head. He expected you to recoil, to choke as he pressed deeper, but you didn't. You took him in, deeper and deeper, your throat opening up with a natural ease that seemed to shock him. There was no gagging, no hitch in your breath—just the wet, rhythmic slide of him disappearing into you.
"Archons," he choked out, his head slamming back against the brick wall again. "You... you're incredible (Y/N)."
The praise only made you bolder. You began to move your head in earnest, hands gripping his strong thighs for leverage. You weren't practiced, so you made up for it with enthusiasm, using your tongue to swirl around the head before sinking back down until your nose pressed against his dark curls.
Rivulets of spit began to run down your chin, glistening in the faint light from the moon that peaked through clouds, threatning to expose you to anyone that might pass by, but neither of you cared about that right now. This was messy and desperate. Diluc’s breathing turned into a series of broken groans, his hips beginning to meet your thrusts with a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm of his own.
He was losing his mind. You could see it in the way his eyes rolled back, the way his usual stoic composure had disintegrated before your own eyes. His grip on your hair shifted, your hair falling messily against your back as his palm pressed against the back of your head to urge you faster, deeper. The heat coming off him was intense now.
"Faster," he pleaded, his voice a wrecked whisper. "Please, just like that."
You picked up the pace, your throat slick and welcoming. The sound of it—the wet, slapping noise of your lips against his skin—continued to fill the quiet of the alleyway. You were focused entirely on him, on the way his muscles corded in his legs under your palms and the way his hands shook as they held you in place.
Diluc’s movements became more erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he neared the edge. He pulled your head back for a second, looking down at you with a face full of love and pure, unadulterated lust.
"I'm not going to be able to stop," he warned, his voice thick.
You didn't give him a verbal answer. You simply looked him in the eye, reached up to swipe a stray drop of saliva from your lip, and took him back in, even deeper than before.
The end came in a rush of heat and a strangled grunt that Diluc stifled by biting his own lip. You felt the surge of him, the hot, heavy release filling your mouth, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, swallowing every drop with a devotion that made his knees finally give out.
He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the ground in front of you, his chest heaving as he fought for air. He looked completely undone—clothes disheveled, hair a mess, and his eyes finally clearing as the haze of pleasure began to recede.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, ragged breathing. You sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, the alcohol finally starting to settle into a warm, sleepy glow.
Diluc reached out, his hand trembling as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. He didn't say anything at first; he just looked at you with an intensity that made you feel more seen than you ever had in the bright lights of the Favonius headquarters.
"Fresh air," he finally managed to say, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips despite his exhaustion. "I'm a terrible liar."
You leaned into his touch, your head heavy. "And a very loud wine tycoon."
He laughed then—a real, chest-deep laugh that made the stress of the day feel a million miles away. He tucked himself back into his trousers before pulling you into his lap, wrapping his heavy coat around you both, shielding you from the cold.
Behind the Angel’s Share, amidst the scent of wine and woodsmoke, the Right Hand of the Knights and the Master of the Winery finally found a moment of peace, anchored to each other in the quiet dark.
I physically need to read a fic with a sober reader who witnesses how goofy Kaveh and Veritas can get when they're drunk and is just shocked that they're capable of being THIS playful and unhinged. Bonus if the reader records them and teases them about it later on.
Under the Influence
Summary: When Kaveh and Ratio drink a bit too much, their usually serious and refined personas melt away, revealing a goofy, playful side that shocks their sober partner. As Kaveh balances wine glasses on his head and Ratio narrates absurdly dramatic tales, you capture the hilarity on video and tease them about their drunken antics later. What begins as a drunken display of silliness turns into a heartwarming moment where the two intellectuals let go of their usual restraint and embrace their more carefree sides.
Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Ratio, Fluff, Humor, Drunken Shenanigans, Teasing, Playful Dynamics, Sober Reader, Lighthearted Banter.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Light swearing, Mild inebriation and the silliness that follows.
[Part 2]
You had always known Kaveh as the passionate architect, the one who threw himself into his work without a second thought. His sharp eyes were usually filled with intensity, whether he was sketching out blueprints or discussing the intricacies of his designs with a fervor that could be described as borderline obsessive. On the other hand, Dr. Veritas Ratio, or as he liked to be called, Dr. Ratio, was known for his unmatched intellect, his sharp wit, and his imposing presence as a scholar of the highest order. He was always calm, calculated, and logical in everything he did.
But tonight, everything had changed.
The three of you—Kaveh, Ratio, and yourself—had been winding down after a particularly long day. A few drinks were shared, mostly to calm the nerves after a heated debate between Kaveh and Ratio about the nature of beauty versus logic in architecture. You had opted for a glass of water, wanting to stay sober for the evening.
The first drink had seemed harmless enough, then the second, and soon enough, the two of them were... well, a different version of themselves.
Kaveh, normally an epitome of elegance, was now sprawled across the couch, his arms flailing about as he attempted to convey the complexity of his latest architectural vision with a drunk logic all his own. Ratio, on the other hand, had started laughing—genuinely laughing—a sound that was so foreign coming from him, you almost couldn’t believe it.
You stood nearby, observing the scene with a combination of disbelief and amusement. Kaveh was currently trying to balance a glass of wine on his head, apparently convinced that this would somehow make him look more refined.
“Look, look!” Kaveh slurred, gesturing grandly with his arms. “An architect is a true artist, right? And art is about balance! And this, my dear Ratio, is balance!” He gave a triumphant grin, the glass teetering dangerously on his head as he struck a dramatic pose.
Ratio, who had been sitting in a more reserved manner just moments ago, now seemed to have completely let go of his usual composure. He was clutching his sides, laughing harder than you had ever seen him laugh in all the time you had known him.
“I never thought I'd see the day when Kaveh, the ‘Master of Aesthetics,’ would be reduced to a—what did you call it?—a ‘drunken genius’ in his own right!” Ratio managed to say between bursts of laughter, his voice unusually high-pitched in his state.
Kaveh, however, wasn’t finished yet. With an exaggerated gesture, he began to dramatically “sing” an operatic rendition of what was undoubtedly the most nonsensical and off-key song you had ever heard. You couldn’t help but snicker as he added hand movements for extra flair.
“You should definitely get a recording of this,” Ratio said, wiping away tears from the corner of his eyes. “This is legendary, and no one would believe it if you told them.”
Your eyebrows shot up in realization. A mischievous smile crept onto your face as you reached for your phone. You had to document this moment—it was too precious to be forgotten.
As you pressed record, the two men’s antics continued, utterly unhinged. Kaveh was now rolling on the floor, pretending to be a cat in an exaggerated display of theatrical nonsense, while Ratio began narrating an imaginary tale of "the drunken architect and the scholarly fool" in a deep, overly dramatic voice that sounded like he was auditioning for an epic movie role.
“Once upon a time, there was a brilliant architect,” Ratio began, sounding almost serious, “who sought to balance the world with a glass of wine on his head. But lo and behold! His genius was thwarted by a foolish scholar who...”
“Hey!” Kaveh interrupted, still lying on the floor but with a playful pout on his face, “I’m not a fool! I’m an artist, Ratio! A true visionary!”
You couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all. Your phone’s camera captured every moment—the dramatic poses, the ridiculous banter, and Kaveh’s insistence that he was both an architect and a revolutionary philosopher in the same breath. Ratio’s narrative voice only made it all the more surreal.
“And as the great architect’s impossible balance failed,” Ratio continued, “he lost his grace and fell into the arms of a drunken fool who had, ironically, become a greater scholar in his drunken stupor than he ever was sober.” He paused and gave you a wink as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Should I start charging for this performance?”
“Oh, stop it, you,” Kaveh protested, his voice slurred but still full of mock indignation. “You’re just jealous because my artistic flair is more... refined than your boring lectures.”
That was it. You burst out laughing, clutching your phone in one hand as you tried to contain yourself. The two men had completely abandoned any sense of dignity, and you were witnessing a side of them you’d never expected—Kaveh, who prided himself on being a refined, somewhat dramatic figure, and Ratio, usually so stoic and controlled, both completely unhinged in a drunken stupor.
You stopped recording for a moment, both of them still lost in their own silly world.
“You both are ridiculous,” you teased, still chuckling. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this side of you.”
Kaveh shot you a grin, his earlier dignity long gone. “Oh, you better believe it. You’ve unlocked the true genius of Kaveh and Ratio!”
“Geniuses,” Ratio echoed with a wry smile, his head still spinning slightly from the wine. “I have never met two people more qualified to—”
“—make fools of ourselves?” Kaveh interrupted, finishing Ratio’s sentence with a dramatic flair.
“Exactly!” Ratio said, as if this was the revelation of the century. He staggered slightly and straightened himself up, clearly attempting to reclaim some of his usual poise. “You have to admit, we are rather amusing when not bound by the chains of intellectual superiority.”
You couldn’t hold back your laughter. You pointed your phone back at them, capturing the absurdity of the moment. “This is gold. I’m going to make sure everyone hears about ‘Drunken Genius Kaveh’ and ‘Scholar Ratio’ forever.”
At that, Kaveh made a playful, exaggerated bow from the floor. “As long as I’m remembered for my art, I have no complaints!”
Ratio, still swaying slightly, joined in, offering an over-the-top, formal bow that had you in stitches. “Indeed. May our genius be immortalized, even if it’s through the lens of... let’s say, questionable decisions.”
You laughed again, feeling a warmth in your chest at the sight of these two intellectuals, usually so serious, embracing the chaos of the moment. It was clear that beneath all the genius and the hard exterior, they had their own quirks, their own human sides—unfiltered, unrefined, and entirely lovable.
Before you could stop yourself, you playfully raised your phone and said, “So, are we getting this on record? Or should I keep the next few minutes a secret?”
“Oh, no,” Kaveh interjected, suddenly sitting up, “absolutely not. This is an exclusive performance!”
Ratio smirked. “Right. And we’re expecting royalties for that footage.”
You grinned, shaking your head. “We’ll see about that.”
The third years go out drinking in Fleur City and drag Rollo along with them. They get drunk, starts making bets that will only end well, and wake up in their hotel with the outcome of the night on them. Somehow, one of them managed to talk Rollo into getting a tattoo: it was a lily with Yuu's name in cursive on the stem. Leona and Vil swapped hair colors and there was makeup all over Leona's face. Lilia also woke up with number of tattoos: a lighting bolt with Sebek's name in it, a sword with Silver's name in it, and a dragon scale with Malleus name on it.
Malleus and Trey got their ears pierced and Idia got his eyebrow pierced. Cater ended up clown makeup on, but he's running with it. Rook got his tongue pieced, he sees no problem with this.
Returning to NRC if going to be fun...oh, and they sent multiple videos to Yuu cause she couldn't come. She has a lotta ammo.
this has the vibe of seb getting on his knees to beg for chris' red belt 👀 and who is chris to say no to such a sweet request? 🥴
[Link] to a NSFW black and white, close-cropped photo of someone's tongue licking up the close-shaven happy trail of a man's stomach. The man being licked is in jeans with a dark leather belt, one of his hands on his hip.
Oh. my. god.
You know what this fucking screams to me now that you evanstan-ify-ed it in my head?
Drunk 👏🏻 messy 👏🏻 early 👏🏻 20s 👏🏻 parties 👏🏻
I will absolutely write something for this, but first: pictures. Because I immediately saw all these flash through my head because I am cooked, lmao
(My excuse for how this happens?? Uhhh, maybe Chris is up in NYC for an audition and gets invited by a friend to a college party at someone's wealthy parents' house where Sebastian happens to be because he's in college for his Art™️? Idk, you make it up, lmao)
Sebastian feels more than he hears the moan rumbling up out of the upper ridges of his lungs. It rattles through him, gutting him, scraping against his ribs and up his esophagus. Jesus Christ. He doesn't even care how dirty and debauched he is, moaning on his knees in front of the most handsome guy stranger he's ever seen. He doesn't care because he doesn't fucking care—his cock is the hardest it's ever been, trapped in his stupidly tight party jeans (they make his ass look good, so what if it took him damn near ten minutes to crawl into them) as he comes too-close, not-close-enough to sucking off this nameless, burning hot guy. He wants to fucking suck him.
And he doesn't care because it's not like nameless-hottie can hear him anyway; between the pounding music coming from inside, spilling out into this tiny ass backyard, the chatter of a million voices shouting over music, the chirp of crickets from the only grass for miles in this big glitsy city, the hum of traffic, the buzz of people walking around, never sleeping, and the electric throbbing of lust through them both, there's no way hottie can hear him as he slobbers eagerly, too eagerly, all over his stupid hot fucking stomach.
He. doesn't. care.
He just has to.
Inside, hot-as-fuck-hottie's jeans were riding low and his t-shirt riding high with every victorious, boisterous shout at dominating the beer pong table. Throwing his arms up and his head back, inadvertently baring the smooth, flat planes of his taut abdomen and defined cum-gutters to Sebastian's hungry eyes.
God.
He knew he needed him.
But just look at the guy—
Sebastian didn't have it in him to actually believe it would work. His moves. Flashing his eyes at the hottie, making prolonged, purposeful eye contact with him, sipping his beer salaciously, and turning around to swagger out to the backyard like he knew he would follow him, even though he didn't. There's no way that fucking guy isn't straight. And maybe he isn’t not straight, maybe Seb's just a hole.
A hole is as good as any hole.
Sebastian won't mind being this guy's hole.
He likes being a hole. Ever since he discovered what else his mouth could do... yeah. Game over. It's been over.
His mouth waters just thinking about it, frantically, front of mind, silent begging, fuck my mouth. Please. Fuck my mouth. I want it.
Sebastian can't resist, draaagging the flat of his tongue up hottie's low abdomen, peaking out of his low-riding jeans, a pop of salacious red around his unbelievably small, tight waist, and relishing in the shivery feeling of his recently manscaped hair against his tongue. It's sharp. It prickles his tongue. He moans again.
He doesn't care that his knees are wet with midnight, chilled, glazed grass. He doesn't care that there's a crushed beer can next to him on the ground from where hottie's fumbling, big hands dropped it. He doesn't care that hottie's shoulders are so wide that anyone who glances out the back of the house will know what's happening back here, the tree jock-hottie's leaned up against too thin to give them privacy. He doesn't want privacy—he wants to show off. For everyone else, look at this fucking catch I got. For hottie, look at how much I want your cock in my throat, look at how good I am, look at how I've had my gag reflex fucked out of me, I'm a slut, I know, I love it. At least the rough bark of the tree at hottie's back is helping him, catching on his soft t-shirt and pulling it up higher. More skin.
Yes.
Sebastian licks higher.
He. does. not. care.
He's gonna fucking savor this.
Head spinning, drunk off his ass, he paws weakly, lewdly at hot-guy's crotch and—
Holy. shit.
Sebastian's ears start ringing.
He's fucking hung.
Jesus.
Vision blurred as shit, staring up at him, Sebastian blinks blearily, hiccupping, drunk as hell, thinking: that makes sense. What about you isn't perfect?
Mr. Perfect with his head thrown back, all sharp jaw from this angle, his hair a mess, his cheeks hot, his mouth parted stupidly, open wide. He's perfect. Debauched. Gorgeous.
He's so fucking hard he's sizzling hot through his jeans.
Humming, pawing, and clumsily squeezing the thick, twitching shape of him through his pants, Sebastian is pretty sure he's drunk so much beer that he's died and gone to heaven. No one is built like this. No one looks like that. No one has cock like this. Well. Okay. Maybe he's not in heaven, he, yeah—not heaven. Hell. It's actually hell because he's so drunk and unsteady he can't. He can't. He can't get into hot guy's pants. His fingers won't work. The clasp of his belt is too complex, his button fly is much too difficult, and, and—
What was he doing again?
Oh, yeah, being fucking frustrated.
Hot guy's slim, tight little hips jerk up against his face, wanting more, chasing pleasure in uncoordinated drunken desperation. Hot guy's hands, big fucking, huge fuckin'—hands. Hands. His hands cup the back of Seb's whole skull, carding through his hair, and pulling him tighter against his burning hot body as he grinds against his fucking face.
Fuuuck.
Sebastian groans, pawing, licking, moaning, and nuzzling hot guy's cock through his jeans with his whole fucking face. He needs that cock inside him. He needs it heavy on his tongue. He needs it fucking his throat, choking him until his eyes water and his nose runs. He, he—
He's so hungry for it, he can't help himself and, just, licks him. His hot-as-shit stomach is practically drenched in spit, wet and messy.
He wants to devour him.
Sorry that wasn't exactly what you asked for but... look. I just got carried away 💀💀
Summary: Reader takes care of a very drunk, very clingy Azriel.
Warnings: Mentions of alcohol | Fluff
1.9k words
The Inner Circle had gone to Rita’s. I had opted to stay at home with Amren— saying that she couldn’t be trusted to watch Nyx alone as my excuse instead of going to the pleasure hall, besides, I’d much rather be silently doing puzzles while listening to the music coming from beside the bank of the Sidra with the windows wide open.
Feyre and Rhys had come home with pink cheeks, nearly forgetting they shared a house with others, Rhys trying to mount his mate right in front of us. Amren banished them to their room with an annoyed look before returning to the nearly complete puzzle we only started an hour ago.
A moment later, Cassian is stumbling into the room with his arm hooked around a very sober, very annoyed Nesta. She lugs him behind her, he seemed too drunk to fly so they're most likely crashing here for the night. My brows crease when I notice my mate not following in after them. Azriel was hesitant to leave me here in the first place, not wanting to go to some kind of party without me there for him to retreat to when things got too loud. I encouraged him to go, to have fun. I was now worried he was having too much fun.
"Hey Nes?" I call before they can disappear down the hall. She turns to me with creased brows and tired eyes. "Hm?" She asks. "Do you know where Az is?" I ask worriedly, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt, she pales and looks at Cassian who is oblivious to everything but her. "Azriel?" She snaps her fingers in his face and he blinks, waking from his stupor. "Uh, last time I saw him he was cradling a whiskey bottle so it's anyone's guess." He says and I square ny features. "That's reassuring," I whisper. "Sorry, I didn't know I was on babysitting duty for both Illyrians." Nesta sighs as if she's truly let me down. "It's fine, take care of Cass. I'll check Rita's." I wave her off and she nods in thanks. "If you can't find him let me know, I'll help you." She gives me a soft expression and I give her a carefree smile. "Will do." I nod at her, knowing damn well I would be too busy panicking to ask anyone for help if I couldn't find him. She nodded and left down the hall with the huge male draped over her shoulders.
"Sorry Amren, I'll be back," I say, walking towards the front door. "Go, girl. Gods know he's probably found himself in a jail cell by now." She grumbled and I pale. "Comforting, thanks," I mutter before slipping out the door.
︵‿︵‿︵‿︵
Rita's was abnormally loud tonight, or perhaps it was just my lack of intoxication. My brows crease as I scan the pleasure hall for my mate, pulling at the bond connecting us and getting an overwhelming amount of attention back, more than a tug— a pull, towards him.
I don't hesitate to follow the golden tether, leading me right towards the bar.
I spot a familiar head of blonde hair, the girl flirting with the bartender as my mate lays his head down on the bar top.
I push past the crowd, eager to get over to them— shoving drunk males off of me until I finally reach the duo. Mor didn't notice, busy making seductive eyes toward the bartender. I tap Azriel's shoulder and he groans. "I have a mate." He waves me off and I roll my eyes. "I know," I say, he whips his head up and looks at me— eyes widening as he recognizes me. "I'm a genie." He smiled proudly and my brows twitched toward eachother, entirely confused at his giddy behavior. "I wished for you to be here, and now..." He searches for the right words in a long pause. "And now you're here." He finishes and all I can do is blink, bringing the back of my hand to his forehead. "How many drinks did you have?" I tilt my head and he smiles knowingly. "Just one, plus a few more." He shrugs innocently and I release a sigh. "You're drunk." I frown and he scratches the side of his cheek, staring at me blankly.
“I’m not—” hiccup. “Drunk.” He finishes and I arch a brow at him, my stare incredulous. “You’re also not a good liar.” I chastise and he glowers at me, setting his empty glass down on the bar and turning to me fully. “I’m the shadow-master, it’s my job to lie.” He crosses his arms over his chest and I need to refrain from my giggle threatening against my lips. “You’re the spymaster,” I correct and his expression falls.
“Whatever,” He brushes me off. “Words are dumb anyways.” The male grumbles and I laugh at his attitude. His cheeks flush pink and something tells me it’s not due to the alcohol. “You’re so pretty,” He murmurs dreamily and I roll my eyes. “Can you kiss me please,” His hands find mine, pulling me closer with a yearning look. “You’re drunk.” I remind and he groans, head going up to the sky before coming right back down to me. “Drunk on you.” He states as if that makes him any more sober.
I release a soft sigh, rising onto my toes and press a gentle peck to his lips. As I back away he looks at me with a glaze over his eyes, a dumbfounded smile coming to his lips. “That felt good.” He mused and I shook my head in disbelief, wrapping his arm around my shoulders to support him as I dragged him away from the bar and towards the exit. “Bye Mor!” I call back but I doubt she heard me, doubt she even noticed I was there with the way she was talking to the bartender.
Shadows swish around the both of us, causing the crowd to part a path for us, in fear of the shadow singer who, little did they know, was too inebriated to even think about harming anyone.
I lug him out of the bar. “Can’t fly,” He mumbles. “I know,” I pat a hand on his chest reassuringly. “Will you throw up if I winnow?” I look up at him and he takes about three seconds too long to answer. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” He shrugs. “Okay just, don’t do it on me,” I instruct and he nods dutifully.
I winnow us back onto the lawn of our house, Azriel’s knees buckling and his hands coming down onto them, leaning over as if he was about to hurl. “You okay?” I press a hand to his back and he nods eagerly, trying to convince himself. I comb his hair back, shadows swirling around the both of us until he’s fully recovered.
Slowly, he stands back up to his full height and drags his feet as we walk up the porch to our house, his arm around my shoulders yet again as he leans most of his weight onto me, wings just barely hovering above the floor as I open the door to our home, pulling him in with me.
“Let’s get you some water,” I say, leading him over to the kitchen and settling him down on a barstool. He sits unstably, staring at me with a stony look. I cautiously back away, afraid he’d tip over without my support, then walk into the kitchen. His eyes follow me with every step I take, shadows swirling around my legs and through my hair.
“Have you always been this pretty?” He asks unprompted, I flush, flicking my eyes up to him as I pour him a tall glass of water. “You’re like, ultra-beautiful—” His words are cut off as he topples over off his chair and crashes down onto the floor.
I pale and set the glass down, rushing towards him and falling to my knees beside his body. He chuckled as he stared up at the ceiling, making me more worried than I should have been. “Are you hurt?” My hand comes to his cheek, scanning for injuries. “From when I fell from heaven?” He raises a brow at me curiously. “From when you fell off your chair.” I correct and he blinks slowly. “Uh,” He mumbles like he has to think about it. “I don’t think so.” He uttered and I giggled, now that I know he was okay. I help him sit up, grabbing the water from the counter and handing it to him.
“I didn’t take you for a clumsy drunk,” I look at him quizzically. “The spymaster is a very quiet, very precise male.” He speaks in the third person. “And very, very, very sneaky.” He adds with a hiccup and I shake my head, making sure he drinks every last drop of the water I gave him.
Once he’s finished I take the glass and help him up. Placing the glass in the sink, he drapes his arms over my shoulders, my hands coming to his forearms as most of his weight now relies on me. “C’mon, you big baby,” I grunt as I haul him towards our bedroom. “Not a baby.” He reminds me like I’ve forgotten. “Sure,” I mumble, pulling him into our room and shutting the door behind us.
He makes the rest of the journey to the bed himself, flopping down onto it. “No sleeping yet,” I grab him by the collar and pull him back upright, beginning to undo the ties of his clothes. He helps me with the undressing, shucking off his leathers as I walk over to the armoire and find a pair of lounge pants, tossing them at him.
He hums a soft tune to help him focus as he pulls the pants up. I wander into the bathroom, open the cabinet, and find a tonic to help with headaches, issued by Madja. I walk back into the room to find him beneath the covers, already half asleep.
“Az,” I call, and his humming halts, head raising to look at me. “This is for the morning okay?” I hold up the small vial and he nods with a soft smile. “You take such good care of me,” He sighs as I climb into the large bed beside him, his arm immediately snaking around my waist and pulling me into him. “I have to return the favor somehow.” I smile up at him, brushing his dark hair from his forehead. “Thank you.” He mutters. I can only nod in reply. He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead, then he pulls me upward and nuzzles his nose into my shoulder, pressing soft kisses there as well.
I comb my hands through his hair with a nurturing intent. Shadows settle around us, disappearing into the floorboards and corners of the room. Azriel releases a soft sigh of contentment at the feeling of his arms wrapped around me, my warmth consuming him. “Love you.” He murmurs tiredly. “Love you too,” I whisper back, and then his breathing steadies out as if that’s all he needs to hear in order to fall asleep.
Sleep swallowed him entirely, and once I know he’s cared for and safe, only then do I allow myself to fall into a slumber of my own.
i’ve had the chance to organically say ‘i’ve never been skiing before, i’d like to try it someday’ in many a conversation recently. so far nobody has reacted but im faithful i’ll find one person who awakens to the phrase like a sleeper agent 🙏
Summary: The bar has eggnog for a dollar, and the Winchesters are thirsty
CW: drinking, implied black out drunkenness'
Day 14 of @fandomless-advent-challenge advent!!
I love shenanigans
you can read this here or on AO3 here!
divider by @diviniyae
The night was young, and Sam and Dean had had a successful hunt. By successful, they hadn’t died, gotten someone else killed, or gained too many bodily injuries. They decided to celebrate by going to a shitty bar, no different from any other time.
The place was standard, run down, mildly shady, and definitely not up to code, but it would do. They sat down at the bar top looking over the area out of instinct. A poorly hung string of lights dully flickered behind the counter, an old jukebox played a worn out tune, practically begging to be put out of its misery, but the crowd was lively. They could tell they came to this place less for the drinks and more for the community.
“Why howdy boys, would I be able to interest you in our dollar eggnog, it’s our special for tonight.” The bartender said with a wink.
Dean and Sam looked at each other knowing bad decisions would be made tonight. The motel they were staying in was just across the street, and Baby was parked safely in its parking lot. Who cared how much they drank, they would be perfectly fine with getting back to the motel.
Sunlight streamed through the broken blinds of the room hitting Sam directly in the face. He squinted as he opened his eyes, a pounding headache coursing through him. He was still in his clothes from yesterday. He was somehow missing a shoe and a sock, but not on the same foot. His shirt was covered in….glitter? He brushed some off of him looking over to Dean’s bed for an explanation when he spotted it.
In the corner of the room was a seven-foot-tall fully decorated Christmas tree. It sparkled radiantly in the morning sun, ornaments showing a rainbow of colors. Sparkling ribbons jutted from within the branches weaving between the bulbs of white light. Underneath the tree had to have been the ugliest tree skirt Sam had ever seen. It was a mix between plaid, stripes, and velvet. It was also glittery, but lacked a distinct shine, instead looking almost like sand paper.
“What the hell did you do?” A tired Dean muttered out in complete horror.
“What did I do? What did you do?” An equally perplexed Sam responded.
“I’m not the one covered in glitter!”
“Dean, you have more on you than the tree does!”
Dean glanced over his disheveled look. He shone brighter than the tacky off-orange star that sat on top of the tree.
“How did we even get this shit up here?”
“Where did we even find a goddamn tree?” Sam questioned.
“Baby!” Dean yelled as he sprang out of bed running to check on his precious car.
Sam quickly ran after him, afraid that if Dean found his car even slightly damaged, he would do something drastic. He hauled ass down four flights of stairs, taking special note of the trail of pine tree needles leading back up to the room. He flung open the door, and to his surprise, and gratefulness, Baby hadn’t moved an inch. By the looks of her, she hadn’t even been touched since Dean and him left her yesterday.
Dean was examining over every inch to make sure nothing happened. He then popped the trunk, worried that in whatever black out Sam and he were in last night they had done something stupid. Thankfully, like everything else, nothing had changed.
“The tree wasn’t here.” Dean stated simply.
“Trees don’t fall from the sky Dean, we had to have gotten it from somewhere.”
Suddenly a voice called out from behind them. “You’re the boys who won karaoke last night aren’t you!” It was the bartender who’d told them about the special. “Suppose you wouldn’t remember that, you two were out cold!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Asked Dean.
“Oh so I was right!” The bartender laughed. “Today's Christmas Day, we always give away a tree on Christmas Eve to the winner of our holiday karaoke. By some miracle you boys won, watched you drag the damn thing back to the motel myself!”
There was a beat of silence. Through a hazy memory Dean remembered singing something extremely offkey. He could make out the form of Sam singing alongside him with that stupid grin. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what they sang, part of him doesn’t want to know.
“Y’all sang that one song – what was it – oh right! It was Last Christmas by that one band…what was it?” The bartender said with a shit eating smile.
“Wham! It’s by Wham!” Sam started rubbing his temple.
“That’s right, now you boys have a merry Christmas, and good luck with that hangover!”
Then the bartender left, leaving the two men in a state of quiet, yet mortifying, understanding.
