Don't Threaten Me with a Good Time
Don't Threaten Me with a Good Time — Panic! At The Disco word count: 4,701 author's note: interesting developments hmmm ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦
You arrived early—too early, maybe. A man with a headset and a neon wristband waved you through a door marked AUTHORIZED ONLY, already barking instructions into his mic before it shut behind you.
Inside, the air changed.
It was louder back here—closer. The thump of bass bleeding through the concrete walls, the shrill ring of feedback as someone tested a mic, the overlapping voices of crew members weaving between racks of gear and tangled coils of cable. One shouted something about lights; another darted past you carrying a flight case, nearly clipping your shoulder. No one looked twice at you. You were just another shape in the periphery.
You drifted to the edge of the chaos, careful not to get in the way. There was nowhere to stand that didn’t feel like the wrong place.
From your post near a wall of road cases, you could see the band.
Rhysand was crouched beside a monitor, turning a dial one click at a time, then pausing, then adjusting again. He was focused in a way that didn’t invite interruption. Next to him, Cassian tossed a towel over his shoulder and said something that made a couple of techs laugh. He was impossible to miss—big, loud, kinetic, like his limbs didn’t know how to stay still. He clapped someone on the back, spun in a half-circle, pointed at something across the stage.
And then there was Azriel.
He stood a little apart from the others, half in shadow. Not doing anything in particular—just rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands like he was waking them up. Every so often, his eyes would flick to one of the others, quick and unreadable. Watching, maybe. Or listening. You couldn’t tell.
They had that ease—the kind that only came from doing this night after night.
You were still watching when the back door swung open and a woman stepped through.
She didn’t glance around the way you had. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t check for permission. She moved like she knew exactly where she was going—like the space rearranged itself around her.
The hoodie hanging off one shoulder looked like it had seen a thousand load-ins. Her braid was a little messy in that impossible, deliberate way, and the hem of her jeans was still cuffed from rain or puddles or a late-night walk. You couldn’t have said what it was exactly—her pace, maybe, or the way someone reached out to pass her a setlist without needing to be asked—but she fit here.
She crossed straight to Rhysand, leaned in, and said something too low to catch.
He smiled—wide and real—and let her pull him down just enough for a quick kiss at his temple. Nothing showy. Nothing dramatic. Just a moment. And then he was off again, moving toward the stage entrance with a final glance back over his shoulder.
You blinked, half-aware of the tightness gathering in your chest.
It wasn’t jealousy. You weren’t sure what it was, exactly. Just a sudden, quiet reminder: they belonged to this world. And you didn’t.
You turned away, retreating toward a shadowed corner beside a stack of flight cases, trying to look like you were supposed to be here. Trying to feel it.
But before you could fully vanish, a voice behind you said, “Hey—sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. Are you new?”
You startled—just enough to give yourself away—and turned.
It was the woman from earlier. Up close, she was even more striking. Not in a glossy, high-glam way, but in that unfairly cool, pulled something off the floor and made it fashion way. Sculpted cheekbones, cool eyes, and the kind of quiet poise that didn’t ask for attention—it just held it. The hoodie slipping off her shoulder looked vintage, but not in a curated way. Like it had actually been lived in.
She wasn’t wearing a badge or a lanyard. No earpiece. But there was no question—she belonged here.
“Uh—no,” you said quickly, realizing too late how awkward it sounded. “I mean—yeah. I’m not… with the band or anything. Cassian gave me a pass earlier.”
That stopped her in her tracks.
Her eyebrows lifted, and then a grin spread across her face—slow and knowing, like a joke had just clicked into place.
“Ohhh. You’re the girl from the meet-and-greet. (Y/n), right?”
Your stomach did something unpleasant.
You blinked. “I didn’t realize I was that memorable.”
“Are you kidding?” she said, already laughing. “Az’s been weird all night. Rhys said he looked like he was going to bolt during soundcheck.”
You blinked again, this time slower. “Really now?”
“Mhm.” She tilted her head, amused. “That was ballsy. I’m impressed.”
You let out a breath, more of a huff than a laugh. “I didn’t exactly plan it.”
“All the best moments start that way.” She folded her arms across her chest, still smiling like you’d passed some invisible test.
You let her smile sit for a second before asking, “So… do you do this often? Rescue overwhelmed strangers lurking behind road cases?”
She made a thoughtful face, like she was weighing it seriously. “Only the ones who look like they’re about to ghost the whole building.”
You snorted. “That obvious?”
She shrugged. “I get it. It’s a lot back here. All the noise, and the gear, and people yelling about lights like someone’s gonna drop dead if the backlight isn’t exactly 40% magenta.” She jerked her chin toward the chaos unfolding just out of earshot. “You’d be surprised how many people I’ve actually seen freak and leave before the first chord.”
“Tempting,” you said, and then after a beat, “But I think that’d defeat the point of showing up.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What was the point?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then settled on, “To see what would happen, I guess.”
That earned you another grin. Less amused this time—warmer.
She leaned against the flight case beside you. “That’s honestly kind of refreshing. Most people back here are either trying to get laid, get famous, or get a better angle for their Instagram.”
You glanced at her. “And you’re… not?”
She barked a laugh. “God, no.” Then, with mock offense, “I do take a good photo, though. Don’t let the hoodie fool you.”
“I was gonna say, it’s working for you.”
“Thank you. It’s vintage.” She struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip, then dropped it just as fast. “Some guy left it at my place once. I kept the hoodie, ditched the guy.”
“Bet it was the right call.”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug, like it was barely worth mentioning. “I’ve done my time in the scene. Not on stage, but… around. These days I just float. Help where I can. Keep certain people from imploding.” She cast a look in the direction the band had gone. “Sometimes seems like literally.”
“That sounds… exhausting.”
“Less than you’d think. And more than it should be.” She paused, then stuck out her hand like it had only just occurred to her. “I’m Feyre, by the way.”
You blinked. “Seriously?”
She frowned. “What?”
“No—sorry. I just—thought you’d have some mysterious rock girlfriend name. Like Nova. Or Julez-with-a-Z.”
She groaned. “What can I say—my parents were dramatic. But I’m in too deep now to change it.”
You shook her hand, amused. “(Y/n). But maybe I’ll change it to something flashier. Just to keep up.”
“I support that,” she said, already turning toward the side-stage corridor. “Now come on. You came here to see something, didn’t you?”
You followed her through the tangle of backline gear and half-coiled cables, ducking instinctively as someone lifted a lighting rig overhead. The corridor narrowed the closer you got to the stage—walls lined with road cases, the faint smell of sweat and sawdust and something metallic. Far ahead, the crowd roared in a sudden, unified wave. That sound—that sound—it hit you in the chest like a rush of wind.
“They haven’t even started yet,” Feyre said over her shoulder, grinning like she could feel it in her bones. “They’re just doing the walk-ons.”
The space opened up slightly at the edge of the stage, and she pulled you into a narrow alcove, shielded by a curtain and a tall speaker stack. From here, you could see it all—the sea of lights beyond the foot of the stage, the techs moving like shadows behind set pieces, the long silhouettes of the band filtering in one by one.
First Cassian, bounding on with his whole body like the stage might not hold him.
Then Rhysand, composed and focused, but offering the crowd the faintest smirk as he passed his mic from hand to hand.
And then—
Azriel.
He didn’t walk so much as unfold from the shadows, like he’d been part of the rigging this whole time. For a moment, he just stood there, head bowed slightly, one hand gripping the back of his neck. The stage lights caught in the lines of his jaw, lit the faint sheen of sweat across his collarbone.
Then—slowly—he lifted his gaze to the crowd.
No. Not to the crowd. His head turned.
You locked eyes.
A beat passed.
His posture shifted—barely perceptible, but you saw it. The faint pull at his shoulders. The subtle clench of his jaw. His mouth parted, then closed again as if something had snagged behind his teeth.
Then, just as quickly, he reset. Turned away. Reached for his mic.
Beside you, Feyre let out a low breath. “Well,” she said, “that worked.”
You said nothing. Your heart was pounding like it was trying to match the tempo of the crowd. But you didn’t look away.
The lights flared. A wall of sound hit you like a shockwave—drums rolling in under the rumble of bass, then that first high, fractured wail of guitar slicing clean through it all. The crowd screamed in answer, a single body made of thousands.
Azriel didn’t look at you again.
But you couldn’t stop looking at him.
He didn’t move like Cassian, all chaotic energy and grins. And he didn’t hold himself like Rhysand, all precision and polish. Azriel’s presence was quieter. Contained. Like every note he played was measured out like a secret.
His bass hung low against his hips, the strap slung carelessly across one shoulder, but his fingers moved fast, clean. You watched the way his jaw tensed as his fingers slid up the neck, plucking out a low run with surgical precision. The way he nodded slightly to himself before stepping back from the mic, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet as if the whole stage might tilt under him.
The first song bled into the second with no warning. He rolled straight into it, catching the handoff from Rhysand without missing a beat. One of the techs passed Cassian a towel and he flung it over his shoulder and flashed a grin, riling up the crowd with a sharp wave and a shout. Rhysand prowled the front edge of the stage, hand cupped around his mic, voice dipping low. People in the front row reached for him like they knew him.
But Azriel—
Azriel didn’t play for them.
He played like the music was something he owed. Like it wasn’t about the crowd or the spotlight or even the band around him. Like he was trying to carve something out of himself and leave it there on the stage.
More than once, you caught him glancing sideways—toward Rhysand, toward the setlist taped to the floor, toward the tuning pegs on his bass. Never toward you.
And yet—
On the third song, his hand faltered. Only slightly. A beat too long on a slide. He recovered fast—so fast you might have missed it if you weren’t looking, and if you didn’t know his parts of each song by heart.
But you were.
And you did.
You didn’t say anything. Just kept your hands folded against your ribs, heart still knocking at your sternum.
Beside you, Feyre leaned in again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she murmured, “but I kind of love that you threw him off.”
You raised an eyebrow at her, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned, but she just shrugged, smiling to herself.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’s good for him.”
The set moved fast after that—faster than you expected. Song after song blurred together in a haze of lights and sweat and noise, each transition slick and practiced, each break between verses filled with the electric pulse of the crowd.
You forgot to be nervous, somewhere in the middle of the fourth track.
It wasn’t that the awkwardness disappeared entirely. But the longer you stood there, the more the energy of it all started to work its way into your skin—the way the kick drum rattled in your chest, the way the lights strobed against the back of your eyelids, the way Feyre bumped your shoulder lightly when Cassian threw a water bottle into the wings and nearly took out a stagehand. You watched as he grimaced, mouth a quick “sorry, man” as the guy waved it off with a laugh.
By the sixth song, you were singing along under your breath. She didn’t say anything about it, just caught your eye once during the chorus and gave you a nod like, yeah, there it is.
It was… easy. Strange and loud and chaotic, yes, but also easy. Like maybe there was space here after all.
And Azriel—he still hadn’t looked your way. But something in the way he carried himself had shifted again. A looseness in his shoulders. A rough edge in the way he hit his last few chords. Not messy. Just… sharper. Hungrier.
You wondered if that was your fault.
You wondered if he knew you hadn’t stopped watching.
Then, you felt it. Before the first note even rang out. Not in the roar of the crowd—in him.
Azriel’s shoulders drew back. His grip on the neck of his bass turned white-knuckled. He didn’t look at you.
But you knew what was coming.
It was on the setlist.
Sear My Skin.
A few fans screamed at the first chord—recognition immediate. But the reaction wasn’t wild. Not like the others.
This wasn’t a dance track. It was slow. Slick. Built like a confession set to tempo.
Azriel stepped up to the mic. No dramatics, no smirk. Just a breath—then:
“Got a taste of sin, it’s dripping off your skin,Lost in your fire, pull me in,Your body’s a drug, and I’m high on the feel,Push me to the edge, make me kneel.”
Azriel didn’t move much. He didn’t need to. The mic was close, his voice filled the venue like smoke. Smooth, controlled, but you saw the tension—felt it. You froze—and you weren’t the only one. Feyre glanced over, eyes wide as she took in the reality of the situation, connecting the lyrics.
The sharp line of Azriel’s jaw, the twitch at his temple, the faint tremor in his hand where it curled around the bass.
He still wouldn’t look at you.
But he sang like he was pressed against your skin again.
Your lungs barely worked. The crowd cheered between the verses and choruses, lost in the fantasy of it. But these weren’t just lyrics. They were memories. Yours.
“Past the greenroom, whispers low,‘No one’ll see, now don’t let go.’Your nails, your teeth, the sting, the scrape—Pull me under, I’ll beg, I’ll break.”
The breath rushed out of you, like he’d pulled it with his teeth. You’d heard this song countless times before, but hearing him sing it just feet away from you…
He still hadn’t glanced your way. But his voice caught, just once, on “break.”
Not enough for the crowd to notice. But you did.
And it hurt.
You didn’t realize your fists had curled into the hem of your jacket until Feyre reached over, her hand brushing yours—silent and steady.
Azriel let the last note hang, unembellished. The crowd howled like it had peeled them open.
He stepped back from the mic like it had cost him something.
Rhysand caught the moment, slid into the space like he was built for it—voice warm, teasing, tugging the crowd into the next song before the silence could settle. Cassian kicked the tempo back up with a low snare hit, and the beat snapped in again—faster, brighter. Something people could scream to.
But you weren’t there anymore.
Your body was. Your feet were still planted next to Feyre. But your mind—
It hadn’t left that song.
Your skin felt too tight. Like the words had been carved straight into it.
You knew those lyrics. Not because they were catchy. Not because you’d replayed the song and album a hundred times.
Because you lived them. Because every breath, every syllable, had been pulled from the heat and hush of that night.
He hadn’t looked at you once, but he may as well have sung it with his mouth pressed to your neck again. It felt obscene to be standing there. Like you’d heard something you weren’t meant to. Like you’d felt something you weren’t supposed to feel again.
Beside you, Feyre was quiet. Not frozen—observing.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t press. Just let the next song carry the weight of it away.
A few songs later, when the final notes of the set rang out, the crowd went feral. A wall of sound, so huge it felt like it could lift the roof off. Rhysand shouted something into the mic you couldn’t hear over the din. Cassian threw his arms wide, drinking it in. Azriel stepped back—almost too fast—and slung his bass off like it was burning his hands.
The lights dipped. The stage dimmed.
They were gone in a blink.
You let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold.
“Okay,” Feyre said beside you, loud over the ringing in your ears. “You survived.”
You laughed, a little breathless. “That was amazing.”
Feyre reached into her back pocket and tugged out her phone.
“Here,” she said, unlocking it and holding it out to you. “Put your insta in. I want to send you that clip I got of Cass nearly taking out the lights.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—yeah. Sure.”
You took the phone, thumbed your handle in, and handed it back.
“Got you,” she said. “Now I can spam you with band nonsense and you’ll be contractually obligated to pretend to care.”
“Sounds like a trap.”
“It is,” she said brightly, and tucked her phone away. “Come on. We’re gonna do the usual—drink, eat something fried, rehash every single moment like it wasn’t recorded from a million different angles.”
You followed Feyre down a hallway lit by flickering fluorescents, past a stack of empty guitar cases and someone arguing with a vending machine. The energy had shifted now—still buzzing, but looser. Edges fraying, adrenaline cooling.
She led you through a heavy door into what looked like a backstage lounge. Beat-up couches. Scuffed floor. Half a dozen bottles of water and two half-eaten bags of chips on a folding table. A speaker in the corner still hummed with leftover feedback.
And—of course—two sweaty, disheveled, annoyingly attractive men already half-settled in the room like they owned it.
Cassian was the first to clock you.
He was mid-rant, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling at the ends. “—I’m the one who nearly wiped out coming off the riser, but did anyone care? No. They were too busy screaming for your shirt—”
Then his eyes landed on you. “Hey, stranger! Didn’t know the backstage passes extended to the greenroom.”
“She passed the vibe check,” Feyre said breezily, dropping onto the arm of the nearest couch.
Cassian turned to you with mock gravity. “Don’t take that lightly. Feyre once kicked a dude out for quoting Wonderwall unironically.”
Rhysand, now toeing off his boots near the speaker, arched an eyebrow as he looked at her. “That was the same guy who called you ‘ethereal’ and then tried to explain sound waves to Az, wasn’t it?”
Cassian wheezed. “That’s right. Oh my god.”
Feyre only shrugged, unapologetic.
You hovered near the doorway, amused but suddenly uncertain—like you’d stumbled into the middle of a conversation that never really ended.
Feyre patted the cushion beside her, and you took the offer, careful not to bump into the snarl of cords trailing beneath the table. The leather was cracked and cool beneath your legs.
Rhysand glanced up as he peeled off his shirt, revealing a black tank underneath and a constellation of ink scattered down his arms, sweat clinging to the lines of his collarbone. “You survived the set, then?”
You nodded—delayed by half a second too long. “Barely,” you said, pretending your eyes hadn’t just lingered.
It wasn’t your fault. He was… a lot. And he had a girlfriend sitting a foot away from you, so whatever had just short-circuited in your brain was absolutely none of your business.
“But yeah. It was incredible.”
“She knew every word,” Feyre added, nudging your knee with hers. You hoped she hadn’t noticed your mental detour. “You should’ve heard her—singing the whole set like she wrote it.”
Cassian perked up. “Really?”
You felt your face warm. “I wasn’t that loud.”
“She’s being modest,” Feyre said. “You’ve got a good voice.”
You laughed, half-deflecting. “A karaoke voice, maybe.”
Rhysand cocked his head, clearly intrigued. “You a musician?”
“Not professionally,” you said. “Just… grew up on this stuff. Started playing piano and learning songs to annoy my upstairs neighbor. Turns out I actually liked it.”
“Valid,” Cassian said.
Feyre smirked. “Sounded better than half the openers they’ve had.”
“Don’t say that,” Rhysand groaned. “The label still thinks that one guy had ‘potential.’”
“Yeah,” Cassian muttered. “Potentially a war crime.”
You were still laughing when Azriel entered.
He didn’t announce himself. Just moved like he always had—quiet, deliberate, unreadable. He paused near the drinks cooler, grabbed a water, unscrewed the cap with slow precision. His shirt clung to the line of his back. His forearms were streaked faintly with sweat.
You felt your pulse stutter.
He didn’t look at you.
But the mood shifted.
Cassian’s next sentence trailed off, like someone had changed the channel mid-scene. Even Feyre went a little still.
And then—
Azriel looked at you.
Not long. Not dramatically. Just a glance, as if he were acknowledging someone he’d barely noticed on the edge of the crowd. But something in his expression caught, tight at the edges, like he hadn’t meant to look.
“You like the show?” he asked, voice smooth and low.
You blinked.
For half a second, you didn’t trust yourself to speak. Not because you didn’t know the answer—but because the question was so… casual. Like he hadn’t written a song about your mouth and your body and your breath and then played it in front of thousands of people. Like he hadn’t been refusing to look at you for the past hour and change.
You kept your expression neutral. Met his gaze.
“Yeah,” you said. “You were great.”
His mouth twitched—just barely. Like the words caught him off guard. “Thanks.”
That was it. No nod. No follow-up. He looked away almost too fast, gaze dropping to the bottle in his hand like it suddenly required his full attention. His fingers tightened once around the plastic—then resumed that slow repetitive motion, thumb sliding along the ridges of the cap. Not fidgeting. Containing.
The conversation resumed around him, like someone had unpaused the room. Cassian tossed out a new joke, Rhysand groaned at it, Feyre leaned forward to flick water at him off her bottle cap. Everything was loud again.
You weren’t even sure what you were waiting for—if you were waiting at all.
He’d looked at you. Spoken to you. That should’ve been enough.
But your mind kept looping the same questions, chewing on them like gristle. Was that glance supposed to mean something? Or had it been nothing—a reflex, like checking the time or the weather? Had he meant to ask you about the show, or had it just slipped out of his mouth on instinct?
You tried to pull yourself out of it. Tried to follow the conversation, to laugh when the others did, to nod along like you hadn’t just heard the shape of his want carved into melody.
But your eyes kept drifting.
To the water bottle in his hand.
To the line of his throat as he drank.
To the way he hadn’t looked your way again.
Not once.
Feyre bumped your shoulder with hers, a light nudge. “We’re heading out for drinks, by the way. You should come.”
You looked over. Her eyes were bright, her smile easy. Not just polite—genuine. She meant it. Not as a tagalong. As a friend.
Your first instinct was to say yes.
You opened your mouth to do just that—already halfway to the words—when you caught it.
The flicker.
Azriel, still perched by the cooler, his bottle raised halfway to his lips. His jaw had gone tight, muscles in his forearm pulled tense like a held breath. His gaze slid just slightly off-center—not at you. Not at anyone. Just away.
He didn’t flinch, or scowl, or move. But something in him pulled back. A step you couldn’t see, but felt.
You didn’t owe him anything. But something in your chest folded in on itself, small and tight.
You swallowed the yes.
“Actually,” you said instead, “I think I’m gonna call it. But thank you.”
Feyre blinked. “You sure?”
You nodded. Smiled like it didn’t sting. “I’m beat. And I’ve already crashed your green room twice now.”
“You’re not crashing,” Cassian spoke with furrowed brows, like it was obvious.
You laughed, standing up. “Well, it was still amazing. All of it. You guys were seriously—unreal out there.”
Rhysand gave you a mock bow from where he lounged on the other couch. “We aim to please.”
You turned to Cassian last, softening a little. “Thanks again. For the pass.”
His grin went crooked. “Anytime, songbird.”
You gave Feyre a last glance—grateful, warm—then turned for the door.
You didn’t say goodbye to Azriel.
But as your hand touched the handle, you heard it:
“Goodnight.”
Quiet. Barely above the muffled clatter of road cases being wheeled down the hall.
You let the door close behind you.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The drive home blurred past on muscle memory alone—your fingers steady on the wheel, the night air slipping in through the cracked window, the set still echoing somewhere deep in your chest.
It wasn’t until you parked at home—engine cooling with that soft ticking hush—that you noticed the notification on your phone in the cup holder.
A DM from Instagram.
feyre_archeron sent a video.
And, it seemed, a message.
hey (y/n). glad you came. i meant it btw, you’ve got a hell of a voice. next time, drinks are non-negotiable <3
You smiled before you could help it, and tapped the video.
The camera shook a little, you could hear yourself singing faintly. Cassian flung a stick in the air mid-fill, caught it without looking, and nearly sent his cymbal stand crashing into a lighting rig. A tech darted over to steady it while he grinned like he hadn’t noticed. Rhysand just kept singing.
You laughed, quietly, alone in the car.
The sound surprised you.
Later, after the shower, after the makeup wipes and the too-big t-shirt and the half-hearted scroll through socials, you lay back on your bed and stared at the ceiling.
The room was dim.
Outside, traffic whispered. A siren somewhere far off.
You reached for your phone again.
Scrolled until you found it—their latest album, Second Degree. Tapped into the tracklist. Found Sear My Skin.
You pressed play.
Azriel’s voice filled the room slowly. Not loud, not enough to drown anything out. Just enough to settle beneath your skin.
The opening notes coiled low in your chest—slow, deliberate, and hot to the touch. The tempo made your breath stutter.
You didn’t sing this time. But you mouthed the words. Every single one. And let it curl in your chest and stay there. Like heat. Like ache.
Like something still unfinished.
