Chapter Text
Azriel took his time.
Perfection was in the details: the angle of the camera, the lighting, the way the blue LED glow traced over the contours of his body like a lover’s touch. He adjusted everything with meticulous precision, ensuring each movement, each shift, would be captured just right. Close enough to the camera to make them ache for more, yet distant enough to leave them wanting.
He smoothed a hand through his tousled dark hair, letting the strands fall just slightly into his eyes before pushing them away again, almost absentmindedly. He knew the effect it had—the way they hung on every little thing he did.
His screen was alive with notifications even before he unmuted himself—chat messages scrolling in like an eager tide:
Waiting all day for this
Finally
You better not tease too much tonight, Az .
A slow, knowing smirk crept across his lips as he took a moment to let the anticipation simmer. He leaned forward just a fraction, positioning himself in the frame so that every chiseled detail of his upper body was on display, yet still leaving enough mystery to fuel the viewers' imaginations. With the click of his mic, the room filled with the sound of his smooth, velvety voice.
“Miss me?” he purred, his tone dripping with a playful mix of amusement and seduction.
The words were both an invitation and a provocation, setting off a fresh flurry of messages in the chat. His eyes danced with mischief as he scanned the live feed, absorbing the rush of excitement that seemed to electrify the space around him.
He leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to be noticeable. The chat exploded, messages flying by faster than he could read, but he didn’t need to. He knew what they were saying. He could feel it.
A slow smirk curled on his lips as he dragged a hand down his chest, fingers skimming over the taut fabric of his compression shirt. "You guys are impatient tonight," he murmured, voice low, teasing.
The flood of messages only grew, a chorus of pleading and demands.
Take it off already.
Stop teasing.
Please.
Azriel exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Desperate, aren’t you?" His tone was amused, but he let his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt anyway, lifting it just a fraction before letting it fall back into place.
The tension crackled like static in the air.
He leaned back again, stretching his arms over his head, the movement making the bottom of his shirt ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of golden skin and the defined ridges of his lower abdomen. His audience lost it.
Azriel tilted his head, pretending to read the messages. "Mm… maybe I should keep it on. You don’t deserve it after being so impatient," he mused, biting back a grin.
The responses turned frantic—begging, bribing, some outright threatening to riot in the chat. He dragged the moment out, watching, waiting—letting them grow desperate.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked his fingers under the hem and peeled the compression shirt over his head, letting it slide off his arms before tossing it out of frame. His skin was flushed from the heat of the fabric, his muscles taut beneath the dim lighting.
He barely had a second to enjoy the reaction before the chat went wild.
Azriel hummed, stretching his arms behind his head, letting the glow of the screen catch on every defined line of his torso. He didn't have to look at the messages to know what they were saying, but he did anyway, just to drag it out—and to watch them beg.
Pleasepleasepleaseee!
WE’RE ON OUR KNEES
Don’t be a meanie :(
SHOW ME MORE!
He smirked, tilting his head as if considering. “I could ,” he mused, running a slow hand down his chest, fingers skimming his stomach before stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. “But you guys don’t know how to behave.”
The chat was a blur of desperation, of promises, of submission .
Azriel let his head fall back against the chair, exhaling slow and heavy. "God, I'm so pent up," he murmured, letting his hand trail lower, just barely dipping beneath the fabric before pulling away. "Been holding back all day… Trying to be good. " He let the words linger—let them really feel it.
He dragged his lower lip between his teeth, gaze half-lidded as he finally gave them what they wanted—his fingers curling around the waistband, his voice dropping into something rough and wanting.
"Think you’ll let me come this time?"
Azriel let his eyes flutter half-closed as he leaned back in his chair. His movements were slow and deliberate, meant to stoke the fire already burning in the chat. He spread his legs just enough to shift comfortably, the soft material of his sweatpants stretching over his thighs as he rolled his hips in a lazy, unhurried motion. He huffed a breathy laugh, his head tilting slightly as he skimmed the flood of messages.
Azriel let his fingers trace the waistband of his sweats—not slipping beneath, just teasing, hovering there like an unspoken promise. His hips moved again, a slow rut forward, the motion barely perceptible but enough to have his audience pleading through their screens.
“Jesus,” he murmured, just loud enough for the mic to pick up, the weight of his own anticipation pressing against his lungs. “You guys are relentless.”
His voice was rough, edged with something darker and needy. His free hand ghosted over his chest, his fingertips brushing down the hard planes of his stomach before dragging back up.
“You want me to keep going?” He exhaled sharply as he shifted again, the slow press of his hips against nothing sending a spark of frustration licking up his spine. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
Some messages were desperate, others filthy, though all of them pure worship.
“Fuck,” he groaned, letting his head fall back for a second. “That’s it. That’s what I wanna hear.” He bit out a curse as his hips rolled again, his breath catching. The tension was unbearable, stretched so tight he could practically feel it clawing at his skin.
He let the silence hang, thick and smothering, only the sound of his breathing threading through the mic—enough to make them strain for every little noise and tiny shift of movement. His fingers flexed against his waistband, teasing at the edge, but never dipping lower, never giving them quite what they wanted.
Az, pleaseeee
I’m losing my mind over here bro
You’re so mean >:(
Just a little more?
I’m begging you!!!
His smirk deepened. “Mean?” His voice was a low drawl, rich with amusement and something wicked . “You think this is mean?” He let his fingers drag along the fabric, so slow it was almost cruel, teasing the tension higher, making them ache .
The messages flooded in faster—frantic, needy, and outright desperate.
Azriel hummed, the sound low and indulgent, like he was savoring their torment. “I don’t think you know what mean is,” he murmured, tilting his head, his dark eyes gleaming under the soft glow of the screen. “But I could show you.”
His hand dipped lower—only a fraction, just enough to have the chat screaming— before he pulled back with a soft, knowing chuckle. “Or maybe…” His voice turned contemplative, teasing, dragging them to the very edge of madness. “Maybe you haven’t earned it yet.”
The protest was instant , messages flying in so fast they blurred together. Pleas, curses, promises of anything if he just kept going.
He wet his lips, exhaling slowly, deliberately letting them hear the weight of his own restraint. “I don’t know,” he mused, drawing out the agony. “Do you really want it?”
Azriel let the moment stretch, let the hunger build until it was suffocating, until the sheer want humming through the screen was enough to make his own breath hitch. Then, finally, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dark, sinful whisper. “You really want me to keep going?” A teasing tug at the band of his sweats revealed just the barest sliver of skin. “That bad?”
The viewers collectively lost their minds.
Yes God!!
plea–
–DO ANYTHING
JUST—
Azriel exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering their pleas. His smirk sharpened, his eyes dark with mischief. “Mm… I don’t know.” His fingers retreated, trailing idly over his stomach instead. “I think you can beg a little harder.”
A notification popped up. Then another. And another.
Twenty dollars. Then fifty. Then a hundred. His smirk deepened. They knew the game.
"Let's make it interesting," he murmured, his voice a velvet taunt. "Five hundred. Hit it, and I’ll—" A slow breath, his fingers curling over the waistband again. "Well. You know."
Chaos erupted. Donations poured in, the goal climbing with dizzying speed.
Azriel bit his lip, rolling his hips slowly against the chair, one hand gripping the armrest. He was sensitive—too sensitive. This was the third edge of the week. His cock ached, flushed and leaking, every nerve a live wire.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone watching. “You’re really that desperate, huh?”
Four hundred.
He dragged his fingers up over his chest, brushing one nipple until his breath caught. It was an act— always an act —but it was getting harder to pretend it was just about the money. In these quiet, aching moments, when his body was open and warm and starved for touch, Azriel’s mind always wandered to the same place.
To him.
He could feel the phantom weight of hands— not his own —on his hips. A mouth on his throat. Rough stubble scraping along the inside of his thigh.
Big hands. Strong hands.
Hands he knew like the back of his own.
Azriel inhaled sharply, his cock twitching, traitorous and needy.
Four-fifty.
He let out a soft, shaky laugh, dragging his hand down his chest, slower now. Azriel shouldn’t think about him during these streams—not when people were watching, not when his whole body was live—but that only made it worse. Hotter.
Filthier. He pushed his sweats a little lower.
Five hundred.
The goal bar flashed across the screen, and Azriel let his tongue flick over his bottom lip, taking his time—letting them squirm . “Hope you’re ready for this,” he murmured, his voice thick with heat.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushed the fabric lower.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT
AZ–
CAN’T BREATHE
I’M CUMMING
His breath hitched, and a knowing smirk ghosted across his lips. "You did pay for it," he mused, dragging the fabric another inch down. "Wouldn’t want to leave you unsatisfied."
Muscles flexed under the soft glow of his screen, every slow, measured movement sending them spiralling deeper into madness. He shifted again, the subtle roll of his hips against the chair making his own breath stutter.
His audience was begging, pleading.
More. More. More.
Azriel let them suffer a little longer, letting his fingers drift lower, teasing the sharp cut of his hips. "So needy," he murmured, eyes flickering over the flurry of messages. "You love this, don’t you?"
A pause. A smirk.
"I bet some of you are already touching yourselves."
The explosion of frantic, breathless affirmations nearly pulled a groan from his throat. And then—finally—he pushed his sweats down further, baring the last sliver of golden skin before the final reveal. Azriel chuckled, dark and knowing.
“Yeah,” he exhaled, his voice all heat and gravel. “That’s what I thought.”
Steam curled around Azriel as he stepped out of the bathroom, water dripping from his hair, sliding in slow, lazy rivulets down his chest and stomach before disappearing into his pants, which hung dangerously low on his hips. The towel in his hand felt useless; he was already burning.
Still, he dragged it over his face, trying to shake the lingering heat thrumming beneath his skin. Like that would do anything, like he wasn’t still aching from the way they’d wrecked him tonight—voice thick with need, fingers shaking as he followed their demands, teasing himself until he was dizzy, desperate, and leaking all over his own stomach.
They’d worked him up so perfectly—kept him right on the edge, breathless, panting into his mic, begging without even realizing it.
He should’ve stopped sooner. Should’ve ended the stream before it got this bad—before he was left with his thighs trembling, his cock aching, his body overstimulated and strung-out, twitching with every ghost of a touch.
He’d finished, technically. But satisfaction? That was nowhere in sight. His orgasm had been sharp, fast, almost cruel—wrung out of him more for the camera than for himself. He was leaking, oversensitive, and still half-hard in the worst way: that slow, persistent kind of arousal that sat heavy in his gut and refused to let go.
He groaned and tossed the towel around his neck, wiping sweat from the back of his neck, then dragged a hand through his damp hair. His sweatpants clung low on his hips, soft and unhelpful, brushing against the head of his dick with every step like they were mocking him. His skin was flushed, chest still rising too fast, nerves buzzing with the phantom echo of dozens of eyes on him, watching, wanting. His fingers twitched with leftover adrenaline, the high of being seen still clinging to him.
It wasn’t even about getting off, not really. That was just part of the job.
Most of the money went to his mom’s care. The care home was good—clean, quiet, expensive as hell —but it was the only place he trusted to treat her with dignity. With warmth. They remembered her birthday. They read to her when she forgot how.
And so Azriel sent almost every dollar he earned to them, only keeping what he needed to survive. Rent, groceries, maybe a bottle of wine once in a while if Gywn guilt-tripped him into a movie night.
It made it easier, somehow. To justify it.
To turn his brain off, strip down, and let himself be wanted. Needed. Worshipped for something as simple as the way his abs flexed or how his voice dropped when he moaned someone’s name. The tips weren’t just validation—they were permission to believe, for a few minutes, that he was desirable.
That someone out there wanted him exactly like this.
He was supposed to be winding down, cooling off. But with his body still thrumming from the high of being watched, touched through the screen, praised for how good he looked falling apart—
Yeah. He wasn’t sleeping anytime soon.
Cassian was already sprawled out on the couch, looking like goddamn sin. One arm draped over the backrest, tank top loose enough to tease at the sculpted cut of his chest, grey sweatpants slung low enough to make Azriel’s life a living hell.
The universe had to be fucking with him. Had to be laughing at how miserable it was to live with a man built like a wet dream—his best friend, his very straight best friend—who seemed physically incapable of existing with a shirt on, of keeping his legs closed, of not stretching his massive fucking arms behind his thick-as-fuck neck like he wasn’t the most infuriatingly fuckable thing Azriel had ever fucking seen.
Too many fucks in one sentence, but Azriel didn’t give a single one.
Four years. Four years of this torment, and it still hadn’t gotten easier. Azriel exhaled through his nose, willing his body to behave as he veered toward the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge before his thoughts got him into trouble.
“Finally,” Cassian drawled, not even looking away from the TV. “Thought you drowned in there.”
Az rolled his eyes, twisting the cap off. “Yeah, well. I did just spend three hours being shamelessly objectified. Needed to cleanse myself.”
Cassian snorted. “Oh yeah? How many people got off watching you tonight?”
Azriel choked. The sip of water he’d just taken went straight down the wrong pipe, leaving him coughing, wheezing, and nearly doubled over as Cassian turned to grin at him like the fucking menace he was.
“ Cass ,” he whined, voice shredded, trying and failing to glare at him through watering eyes.
“What?” Cassian shrugged, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth like he wasn’t obliterating Azriel’s entire goddamn existence. “I know what you do. It’s not not sexy. I mean…” He waved a lazy hand at Azriel’s whole barely-dressed body, “…you’re hot, dude. If I was into guys, I’d probably be donating, too.”
Azriel’s brain short-circuited.
Did he just—?
Was he—?
Was this one of those moments? One of those tiny, dangerous moments where Cassian said something that sent Azriel spiralling, where for half a second he let himself wonder—
Nope. Absolutely not.
He tightened his grip on the water bottle, pretending his fingers weren’t itching to wrap around something else. “You picking a movie or what?” he asked, praying his voice sounded normal.
Because if he let himself think about it for even one more second, he was going to start picturing all the ways he could make Cassian put his money where his mouth was.
Cassian hummed, flicking through Netflix. “Dunno, going out later. You in the mood for something scary? Or should we watch something dumb and laugh at it?”
“Something chill,” Az said quickly, still recovering from his near-death experience. “No brain power required.”
Cassian grinned. “So, your usual.”
Az shot him an unimpressed look before flopping onto the couch beside him.
Cassian finally settled on some sci-fi flick, tossing the remote onto the coffee table before stretching his arms over the back of the couch.
Azriel tried to ignore the way Cassian’s arm landed behind his shoulders, tried to pretend it wasn’t there, resting just close enough to graze his skin. He tried not to think about how, halfway through the movie, Cassian shifted slightly—just enough that their thighs pressed together. It wasn’t obvious—or deliberate. But Cass didn’t move away. And a few minutes later, his arm settled more firmly against the couch, fingers barely brushing Azriel’s shoulder in a way that sent a slow, simmering heat down his spine.
His pulse picked up, the sound of it roaring in his ears.
Cassian had never been weird about touch. He was naturally tactile, the kind of guy who had no concept of personal space—always slinging an arm over Az’s shoulders, ruffling his hair, nudging him under the table with his foot like a goddamn menace. It had never meant anything before. It was just Cassian being Cassian.
Just another casual display of affection from a man who never had to second-guess himself, who could press into Az’s space without knowing what it did to him.
But this felt different.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall, its flickering light casting Cassian’s sharp features in deep shadows. His mouth—full, soft, and distracting in a way Az tried not to think about—curved slightly, like he was amused . Like he knew . And maybe he did. Maybe he’d noticed the way Azriel stiffened under his touch, the way his breath hitched when Cassian’s fingers traced against his shoulder.
Az swallowed hard, his throat dry.
This was stupid. He was imagining things, reading too much into casual contact that had never meant anything before. He had more important shit to worry about—an exam in the morning, assignments piling up, and a schedule so packed that the only reason he could afford to live in this cushy penthouse was because Rhysand had money to burn and a generous streak big enough to cover most of their rent.
Azriel had resisted at first, uncomfortable with the idea of taking handouts, but Rhys had waved him off like it was nothing. What’s the point of being disgustingly rich if I can’t help my best friends? he’d said, flashing that effortless grin, and Cassian had grinned along with him, bumping their shoulders together, telling Az to stop being a stubborn ass and just say yes .
And Azriel had.
Because he was weak where Cassian was concerned—always had been. And now, after years of shoving those feelings down, of reminding himself that Cassian was his very straight best friend , here he was, half-hard in his sweatpants because Cassian couldn’t sit still, because his body was right there, warm and solid and pressing against him like he belonged there.
The tension curled tight, hot and unbearable. Cassian wasn’t moving away. He didn’t shift back to put some distance between them. Azriel glanced over to find Cassian watching him, his dark eyes heavy-lidded, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. And then— fuck— his gaze dropped, just slightly, down to Azriel’s mouth.
Az felt something sharp twist in his gut.
For half a second, he let himself wonder—what if?
He hesitated, heart pounding. Then, barely breathing, he leaned in.
Cassian didn’t pull away.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense.
His lips parted slightly—just a little, just enough—and Az swore he could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin. Azriel’s fingers curled against his thigh, his entire body strung tight , caught in the unbearable space between hesitation and surrender. His mind screamed at him to be careful, to not be stupid , but his body wasn’t listening. His body was leaning into the heat, into the possibility, into Cassian .
Just as their noses brushed, just as Azriel could almost taste him—
“Az?”
Rhysand’s voice echoed from the hallway.
Azriel jerked back so fast he nearly threw himself off the couch.
Cassian blinked, his expression unreadable, his mouth still slightly parted.
Az’s chest heaved, his skin burning, his entire body betraying him. His hands fisted in his trousers, his fingers digging into the fabric to ground himself, to keep from making the biggest mistake of his life. He couldn’t look at Cassian. Couldn’t risk seeing what was in his eyes—whether it was confusion, realization, or, worse, nothing at all.
Rhys stood in the hallway, rubbing a hand over his face, completely unaware that he had just bulldozed through a moment so fragile it might as well have been made of glass.
“Oh, sick,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. “You guys made pasta?”
Azriel wanted to sink into the couch and never return to the mortal realm.
He was barely breathing, his heart still hammering against his ribs, his skin flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. He could still feel the ghost of Cassian’s breath against his mouth, the unbearable heat of his body pressed so close. And now Rhys was just standing there, rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t just committed the worst cockblock in human history.
Beside him, Cassian— the actual devil in human form— reached for his drink as if nothing had happened. As if Azriel hadn’t almost kissed him. As if the weight of that moment hadn’t been the most excruciatingly significant thing in Az’s entire existence.
“Yeah, man,” Cassian said, taking a sip of his Dr Pepper, voice easy. Too easy. Like nothing had shifted between them. “Check the fridge.”
Rhys hummed in approval, disappearing into the kitchen with the careless shuffle of a man who was not suffering. Not agonizing over the way his best friend had just looked at him—like maybe, for just a second, he might have wanted the same thing.
Azriel risked a glance at Cassian. And immediately regretted it.
Because Cassian was already watching him, already turning toward him with something unreadable in his expression, something that made Azriel’s stomach drop.
Cassian exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw, before tilting his head slightly. He hesitated, and Azriel knew what was coming before he even said it.
“Az...You know I’m straight, right?”
There it was.
The death sentence.
Azriel didn’t move, didn’t react; because if he did, he might actually crack open.
Cassian must have taken his silence as some kind of misunderstanding, because he winced a little, lowering his voice in a way that was almost gentle. “Az…” He shook his head, offering a half-smile that wasn’t unkind, but still somehow managed to gut him. “You’re like a brother to me, man.”
Az swallowed around the weight in his throat.
Brother.
And the worst part? Cassian was trying to be nice about it. He was trying to let him down gently, like he knew exactly what Az had been thinking, like he didn’t want to hurt him. But that only made it so much worse.
Because Cassian didn’t get it.
He didn’t get that Azriel had spent years carefully locking this away, suffocating every stray thought, every reckless impulse. Didn’t get that he had built entire fortresses around this feeling, reinforced them with steel and stone, only for them to come crashing down because he let himself believe, for one single moment, that maybe— maybe —Cassian had been looking at him the way he’d always wanted him to.
Az forced out a stiff, humorless laugh. It sounded wrong and foreign, like someone else had made it. “Yeah,” he said, voice too tight, too flat. He cleared his throat and tried again. “ Yeah , of course. I know that.”
Cassian frowned, like he could sense something off in Azriel’s tone, but before he could say anything, Az was already moving, standing too fast, needing to get out.
“Az—” Cassian started, but Az didn’t wait to hear whatever else he had to say.
He turned on his heel and strode toward his room with as much dignity as he could fake, ignoring the way his hands trembled and the burn of humiliation creeping up his neck. He made it to his door, shoved it shut behind him, locked it.
Then he pressed his back against the wood and forced himself to breathe.
Slowly. Quietly.
Because if he didn’t, he might actually fucking cry.
Azriel stood on the front step of Gwyn and Emerie’s house, his breath coming in shaky gasps, his hands trembling. He wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up here. He just knew he couldn’t stay at his apartment. Not after that .
He rang the doorbell three times, his heart pounding so loudly he thought for sure they’d hear it on the other side.
Emerie opened the door muttering, “If that’s another delivery guy at the wrong house, I swear to God— Azriel? ”
Azriel stood there, shaking. His eyes were wet, his lashes lined with tears, his lower lip wobbling. His curls were an absolute mess from running his hands through them over and over.
He didn’t answer—couldn’t. His throat was thick with tears, and his vision blurred, his entire world crumbling. He pushed past her, marching straight down the hall on a mission.
"Uh-okay?" Emerie called after him. "Sure. Come in, I guess?"
He didn’t stop until he reached Gwyn’s room. He didn’t even knock before shoving the door open and stumbling inside.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, highlighters and notes scattered around her, her expression shifting from startled to concerned the moment she saw him. “Az—?"
Azriel’s body gave out before he could even attempt to explain.
He flopped onto her bed face-first.
Gwyn made a startled sound, then quickly set her textbook aside. "Oh God. Hey , what happened?"
“I tried to kiss him,” Azriel choked out, the words tumbling out like a confession.
Gwyn’s face fell, a quiet realization dawning on her. “Cassian?” she asked softly.
Azriel buried his face in her pillow, the weight of it all crashing down on him. “This is so humiliating ,” he gasped, unable to stop the sob that wracked his body. “I—I can’t even look him in the eye anymore. And now… now I can’t even show my face in my own apartment .”
Emerie paused in the doorway as if she were unsure whether to intervene or not. She took one look at Azriel, curled up on the bed, clearly falling apart, and sighed. “This sucks, man.”
Azriel barely registered her words, just feeling the heat of his face against the pillow and wishing he could escape himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this small and pathetic.
“You know what I don’t get?” Emerie continued, her voice soft. “Cassian has got to know how you feel about him. He has to. And then he does that?”
Azriel’s chest constricted. He didn’t have an answer for that. There was no answer that could make sense of the rejection. “He couldn’t even look at me,” he whispered, his voice raw.
Gwyn sat beside him, rubbing his back in slow circles. “Look, I know this feels like the end of the world right now, but Cass—he does care about you, Az. He’s just… not there yet.”
“Not there yet?” Azriel let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Gwyn, he said I was like a brother to him.”
Before Gwyn could respond, the door swung open and Nesta stepped in.
She was flawless—effortlessly beautiful with her hair curled to perfection and her makeup sharp as ever. She was wearing a sleek, glittery black dress, the kind that would turn a million heads.
The immediate tension in the room should have tipped him off.
Azriel blinked, trying to pull himself together enough to speak. “Whoa,” he said, voice rough. “Where are you going?”
Emerie and Gwyn froze, exchanging a wide-eyed, panicked look. Gwyn’s fingers twitched like she was about to tackle Nesta, and Emerie took a slow, cautious step forward, as if she could physically intercept whatever was about to be said, but Nesta didn’t notice. She only smiled, twirling a little as she adjusted her dress. “Cassian’s taking me to Rita’s tonight,” she said cheerfully, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.
Azriel’s stomach twisted, an ice-cold knot tightening inside him. “Oh,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s… that’s fun.”
Gwyn winced. Emerie closed her eyes, inhaling like she was trying to summon patience from the gods themselves. Nesta, still entirely unaware, gave a little twirl. "How do I look?"
"So good!" Gwyn rushed to say. "The best you’ve ever looked! Amazing! Perfect! Have so much fun, okay?"
Emerie nodded frantically, already ushering her out the door. "Yes, have fun, bye, see you later!"
Nesta blinked at them, a little amused by their weird energy, but shrugged. "Thanks? See you later!"
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Then Azriel let out a weak, broken little, "O h ."
And then he collapsed back onto the bed and sobbed. Emerie groaned, flopping down beside him. "I knew this would happen."
Gwyn just sighed, brushing a hand through his curls. "Oh , Az. "
After countless hours of moping on Gwyn’s bed, drowning in shitty romcoms and half-hearted comfort, Azriel found himself standing in the harsh fluorescent glow of a drugstore aisle, a box of bright-blue hair dye clutched tightly in his hands. His fingers curled around the cardboard like it was the only thing anchoring him, his breath slow and measured as he stared at it, as if the answer to all his problems might be printed somewhere on the back. Beside him, Gwyn and Emerie stood in silent solidarity, watching, waiting—ready to either talk him down or egg him on.
"It’s not that I’m jealous," Azriel muttered, staring blankly at the box of hair dye in his hands. "It’s just—how am I supposed to get over someone who doesn’t even realize I need to get over him?"
Gwyn blinked. "Cassian?"
"Who else?" Azriel scoffed, tossing the dye into the cart. "I mean, I knew he was straight. I knew that. But does he have to be so aggressively, obliviously, lovably straight? Like, does he have to hug me for an uncomfortably long time? Does he have to call me ‘bro’ in that soft, affectionate voice? Does he have to tell me he loves me and then immediately follow it up with ‘no homo’?"
Emerie winced. "Yikes."
"Yeah," Azriel deadpanned. "Yikes."
Gwyn and Emerie exchanged a look.
“Okay, yeah, we’re not doing this,” Emerie said.
Azriel frowned. “What?”
“We’re not doing the sad breakup impulse makeover thing!” Gwyn said, grabbing his arm and steering him out of the aisle. “We’re doing the ‘ Azriel is hot, amazing, and does not need to spiral into self-loathing’ makeover.”
Azriel rolled his eyes. “Oh, for-”
“Shh,” Gwyn interrupted. “New plan.”
“You’re going to regret this,” he muttered.
“We won’t,” Emerie said cheerfully. “First step-get you looking hot. Well, hotter .”
Azriel narrowed his eyes. “I am always hot.”
“Good,” Gwyn said. “Then this should be easy.”
Thirty minutes later, he sat on the edge of Gwyn and Emerie’s bathtub in an old, faded shirt.. The acrid scent of hair dye filled the air as Gwyn worked through his hair, already staining her gloves a deep blue.
“He used to look at me like that,” Azriel muttered, his eyes fixed on his reflection. “Like I was the only person in the room. Now, when he looks at her…” His throat tightened. “It’s different.”
Emerie, perched on the counter, gave him a flat look. “Well, yeah. He’s dating her.”
Azriel ignored her. “Hey, this really stinks.”
“We should rinse,” Gwyn said absently, still focused on his hair.
Azriel quickly leaned over the sink, rinsing out the dye as blue-tinted water swirled down the drain. As the color set in, he sighed, shaking his head. “And I can’t even really be mad at her- She’s literally everything I'm not!”
Emerie squinted at him. “I can’t hear anything you’re saying.”
Azriel groaned.
Later that night, Azriel sat in front of the mirror, the dim glow of the vanity lights casting a warm, golden hue over his freshly transformed reflection. His midnight-blue hair, still slightly damp, curled in soft, deliberate waves, no longer the disheveled mess of a heartbroken man but the carefully tousled look of someone who knew exactly how devastatingly attractive he was. His sharp cheekbones and full lips were accentuated by the dramatic smudge of kohl eyeliner that Gwyn had insisted on, and now—fuck. He looked like sin. Like trouble wrapped in expensive leather and midnight promises. His dark brown eyes, usually guarded, gleamed beneath the smoky frame of his lashes, his mouth plush and slightly parted as he took himself in.
Behind him, Gwyn and Emerie sprawled out on the bed, watching him like a pair of proud artists admiring their finest work.
“Well?” Gwyn prompted, barely suppressing a grin, her chin propped on her hand.
Azriel dragged a hand through his hair, the dark ink of his tattoos flexing along his forearm, and exhaled slowly. He’d expected to look different after everything, but this? He looked dangerous. Unreachable. A man who would break hearts and never think twice about it. A man Cassian wouldn’t recognize.
He cocked his head, smirking faintly. “I mean I can barely see the blue buuuut…I do look unfairly hot.”
Emerie let out a low whistle. “Now you get it.” She flicked her gaze over him, from the fitted black button-up—unbuttoned just low enough to hint at the sculpted lines of his collarbone—to the slim black jeans that hugged his thighs a little too well. “Holy shit. If you don’t get free drinks tonight, I’ll personally start flipping tables.”
Gwyn, who had been staring in a near trance, finally snapped herself out of it. “We are so proud,” she said, her voice solemn. “This is a level of hot I didn’t think was possible.”
Azriel rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. “Glad to know my suffering is entertaining.”
“Not entertaining,” Gwyn corrected. “Inspirational.” She stood, brushing her hands over her dress before stepping beside him, tilting her head as she met his gaze in the mirror. “Look at you, Az. Really look.”
And he did. He took in the way his shoulders squared, the way his mouth curved at the edges into something dangerous. Emerie tossed a leather jacket at him, and he caught it with ease. “Put this on. We’re going to Fox’s Den.”
Azriel frowned as he slid the jacket over his shoulders, the smooth leather molding to his frame like a second skin. The scent of worn leather and faint cologne clung to him, rich and intoxicating. “That sounds worse than Rita’s.”
“Wrong,” Emerie corrected, grabbing her purse with a knowing smirk. “It’s better because no one there gives a fuck. Which means tonight, neither do you.”
Gwyn linked her arm through his, her fingers curling possessively around his bicep as she pressed into his side. She grinned up at him, eyes alight with mischief and something darker— something teasing. “Azriel, my beautiful, brokenhearted idiot, we are going to drink, sin, and be absolutely filthy while doing it.” She poked his chest, her touch lingering for just a second too long. “And you”—her voice dipped into something softer, sultrier—“are going to be devastatingly gorgeous while we do.”
Azriel smirked, exhaling a slow breath. He knew he should argue—insist this was reckless, a mistake, and that drowning himself in cheap liquor and the press of warm, eager bodies wouldn’t fix the hollow ache in his chest.
But as he looked at his reflection one last time—those dark, kohl-rimmed eyes smudged just enough to make him look untouchable, the sharp cheekbones, the smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still promised ruin—he decided he didn’t care.
“Fine,” he murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing the smooth metal of his belt buckle. “Let’s go be whores.”
Emerie grinned, slow and wicked. “Now you’re getting it.”
The Fox’s Den pulsed with life, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cologne, and something sweet; syrupy cocktails left forgotten on the bar, cherry-flavored lip gloss smeared against a stranger’s neck. The club was dimly lit, neon signs casting electric pinks and blues across the glossy black surfaces, reflecting off sweat-slick skin and half-empty glasses. Bodies moved like waves on the dance floor, hands grasping, mouths pressing against bared throats, a writhing mess of pleasure-seekers lost to the music, lost to the night.
The bass thrummed beneath Azriel’s ribs, a steady, intoxicating beat that settled into his bones as he leaned against the sleek countertop of the bar. The cold edge pressed into his spine, a tether to keep him from floating too far into the pleasant haze of alcohol and flashing lights. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the slow, honeyed warmth curling through his veins made the neon seem softer, the edges of the room blurred enough to make everything feel unreal.
Beside him, Gwyn perched on the barstool like she owned the place, one arm slung over his shoulder as she shamelessly scanned the crowd. Her red hair caught in the shifting glow overhead, a vibrant contrast against the black slip dress she wore, one strap threatening to slide off her freckled shoulder. She smelled like something floral and sharp, like perfume layered over sweat and alcohol. She smelled like the kind of night that could turn reckless, that would turn reckless, if she had her way.
“Emerie ditched us for Mor,” she announced, sipping from the drink she had definitely stolen off someone’s table. “And you’re not exactly the best company right now.”
Azriel sighed, tipping his head back against the bar, letting his eyes flick lazily toward her. “And whose fault is that?”
Gwyn ignored him. She did that often. Instead, her gaze snapped onto something— someone— across the bar. The shift in her attention was subtle but unmistakable, and before Azriel could ask, she tilted her chin toward the far end of the counter, where the lighting was just a little darker, a little more intimate.
“You should go talk to him.”
Azriel lifted a brow before following her pointed stare.
Him.
The man leaned against the counter with effortless grace, his long fingers wrapped loosely around a short glass filled with amber liquid. He swirled it absently, watching the ice shift and melt, but there was nothing idle about him. Everything about him was deliberate.
His ginger hair was tousled in a way that looked casual but was far too perfect to be accidental. The warm, golden-red strands caught in the shifting light, a mesmerizing contrast against his fair, freckled skin. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a teasing sliver of the smooth stretch of peach-toned skin at his collarbone, and it hung open in a way that was simultaneously careless and calculated. A gold chain rested against the hollow of his throat, subtle but deliberate, catching the light when he moved just so .
But his eyes—fuck .
Amber, sharp, and burning, the kind of gaze that could pierce through the thickest smokescreen of bullshit and see the truth beneath. He wasn’t just watching the room. He was watching Azriel .
Azriel exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly against the bar. “He’s just standing there. Doesn’t mean he wants to talk.”
Gwyn scoffed, bumping her hip against his in a silent reprimand. “Az, he’s looking at you . He’s been looking at you.”
Azriel glanced back at the man and found himself trapped in that gaze. The corners of his mouth curled slightly, as if he knew he was being talked about, and had already decided how this was going to play out.
Azriel swallowed.
Yeah. He needed another drink.
The stranger’s lips curled before Azriel even reached him. “Took you long enough,” he drawled, voice smooth, rich and warm.
Azriel smirked, setting his glass down on the counter beside him. “Didn’t realize we were working to a deadline.”
“Everything has a deadline,” the man mused, tipping his drink toward him. “Including how long you were planning to stare at me before getting over here.”
Azriel chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Name?”
“Eris. Eris Vanserra.” The name slipped off his tongue easily, like a secret meant to be savored. “And you?”
“Azriel.”
Eris studied him for a moment, as if weighing something, then nodded. “Nice to meet you, brooding and beautiful.”
Azriel huffed a quiet laugh, taking a sip from his glass. “That a line you use often?”
“Only when it’s true.”
They fell into an easy conversation, words slipping between them like silk. Eris was sharp-tongued but easygoing, his humor dry but laced with something flirtatious. Azriel liked the way he spoke—confident and deliberate, but not arrogant. He also liked the way Eris looked at him, like he saw him, and knew exactly what kind of game they were playing but wasn’t in any rush to end it.
Eris had settled comfortably against the bar, his posture lazy and assured—one arm draped along the countertop, the other swirling the last of his drink as he studied Azriel with the kind of intrigue that was both dangerous and thrilling. His amber eyes gleamed beneath the dim, neon glow of the club, the golden flecks catching like embers as he took in the way Azriel nursed his whiskey, fingers idly tracing the condensation on the glass.
“So,” Eris finally drawled, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his words, “what do you do for a living?”
Azriel released a slow breath, taking his time as he brought his glass to his lips. He let the whiskey burn warm and smooth down his throat before answering, his voice nonchalant.
“Uhm… I’m a streamer.”
Eris’s brows lifted slightly, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, nice! What’s your Twitch user?”
Azriel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at Eris blankly, his expression perfectly unreadable, his dark eyes giving away nothing .
“What’s Twitch?” he asked, his voice so flat and sincere, that for a split second, Eris just— blinked .
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then another.
Eris’s lips parted slightly, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disappointment. “You—you don’t know what Twitch is?”
Azriel watched him for another beat, his expression still blank. Then, just as Eris opened his mouth—probably to launch into some kind of explanation—Azriel’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smirk.
“I’m fucking with you,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. He leaned in slightly, letting the words drag between them like silk before taking another lazy sip of his drink. Then, as if it were nothing, he added, “I do porn.”
Eris nearly choked on his drink.
Azriel watched with unholy amusement as Eris wiped his mouth, setting his glass down with deliberate care, as if regaining his composure. He exhaled slowly through his nose, amber eyes flickering with something between disbelief and intrigue.
“You what ?” Eris finally said, his voice just a little hoarse.
Azriel smirked, tilting his glass idly in his fingers before taking another sip. He let the silence stretch as the weight of his words settled between them, watching the way Eris’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“I do porn,” Azriel repeated, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. He dragged his tongue across the rim of his glass before setting it down, amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. “Mostly solo content, but sometimes…” He trailed off, letting the words hang unfinished in the space between them.
Eris blinked at him, processing, before clearing his throat. “And here I thought I was about to pull my phone out to look you up on Twitch.”
Azriel hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration. “Oh, you can still pull your phone out.” His voice dipped low and teasing, just shy of something wicked.
Eris let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the effect of Azriel’s words—not quite succeeding. He ran a hand through his tousled ginger hair, lips twitching as he gave Azriel a slow, measured look. “You’re trouble. We’re going to have lots of fun, aren’t we?”
Azriel leaned in a fraction, enough that the scent of Eris’s cologne (woodsmoke, spice, something warm and heady) wrapped around him. His voice dropped to a murmur, soft and silken. “And you like trouble?”
Eris didn’t waver. Instead, he met Azriel’s gaze with something that felt almost like a challenge, like he was just as much a predator in this little game they were playing. His mouth curled into a smirk, his fingers absently toying with the rim of his glass as he murmured, “I love trouble.”
Azriel’s smirk deepened. Oh, this was going to be fun.
They kept talking after that, the flirtation settling into something easier—less a game and more the natural flow of conversation between two people who just clicked . By the time Gwyn reappeared, slightly breathless from dancing, Azriel had Eris’s number saved in his phone under Eris (redhead hottie) , and they were both laughing over a story about Eris’s younger brother nearly setting this bar on fire.
“Friends, huh?” Gwyn mused as they stepped out into the cool night air.
Azriel glanced at his phone and the number waiting there. He thought about how Eris had grinned when he handed him his phone, the way his fingers had lingered when they brushed Azriel’s.
He sighed, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Something like that.”