Top Posts Tagged with #drinking games

That Wasn't the Question

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: A drinking game at the House devolves into scandal when Cassian asks who’s had their hands tied — and you take a sip.

A/N: Based on this ask, i was definitely not giggling to myself while writing this, send more asks in y'all this was so fun

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The River House glowed like someone had poured warm honey over it. Lamps low, windows cracked so the Sidra could shush at the edges. Orange peels and spiced nuts scattered across the table like confetti that refused to leave.

Cassian declared Game Night with the solemnity of a court decree and the reckless pour of a bartender who doesn’t pay rent.

“Rules are simple,” he says, shuffling a deck he doesn’t intend to use. “I ask a question. If the answer is yes, you drink. No stories required.” He points the bottle at Rhys. “No mind-speaking loopholes.”

Rhys smiles that innocent, absolutely guilty smile and reclines like a cat who knows which chair is the warmest. Feyre tucks bare feet under her, eyes bright. Mor stretches out on the rug with a cushion under her ribs and a grin that promises chaos. Nesta is sculpted indifference beside the hearth. Amren swirls her wine like it owes her interest. Azriel takes the end of the sofa, an elbow on his knee, glass balanced in long fingers, shadows soft as a scarf. You drop onto the armrest at his shoulder, knees brushing his thigh—claiming the only square of furniture that feels like yours.

They warmed up: “Ever kissed someone you shouldn’t have” (general groans; Mor saluted the ceiling), “Stolen anything over a thousand marks” (Amren sipped without blinking).

By the time the punch was half-gone, Cassian, pink with joy and terrible ideas, pulled a card and grinned. “Ah. A classic. Drink if you’ve ever had your hands tied.”

Groans, laughter, the universal clink of shameless cups. Cassian raises his like a trophy. “To the Summer Court guardhouse, may they forget me again. Shackled after I allegedly”—a cough—“misread the structural integrity of a coastal residence.”

Rhys groaned. “Please do not re-litigate the gazebo incident.”

“It was a guest house,” Cassian protested, wounded. “And in my defense, the cells was nicer than the house.”

“By what metric,” Nesta deadpans, “bars per window?”

“The metric,” Cassian says, aggrieved, “of too many breakable things. I was saving them time.”

“By going to jail,” Feyre says, sipping.

“By choosing peace,” Cassian corrects, then launches into it with relish. “Picture it—ballroom, seafoam upholstery—chandelier hung so low even Rhys’s ego couldn’t walk under it—”

Rhys, wounded: “Unprovoked.”

“—followed by an unfortunate misunderstanding about sword juggling and a marble bust,” Cassian continued. “There were… consequences.”

“You launched it into the bay,” Feyre said.

“By accident,” he said, then, considering the physics, “mostly.”

Laughter rolled. Cassian wiped his mouth, lifted his glass in a little what can you do salute.

Rhys drinks. Cassian double-drinks on principle. Mor knocks one back and toasts no one. Amren takes a deliberate sip, eyes on some far-off felony. Nesta, smallest concession in history, lifts her glass.

You lift yours and take an unhurried drink.

For a beat, it’s just the clink of glass and the Sidra murmuring like gossip.

Then Mor’s head tilts, cat-curious. “Hold on,” she says, propping herself on an elbow. “When?”

You blink, the picture of pleasant confusion. “When what?”

“When were you arrested?” Mor clarified, scooting closer like a magpie. “You’ve never told us. We could have made themed snacks.”

Cassian beams. “No shame here, sweetheart. We’ve all been dragged off at some point.” He gestures around like a proud disaster. “We’re very supportive about crimes.”

“That,” you said, deadpan, setting your cup down with a soft click, “wasn’t the question.”

Silence folded over the room like a blanket that had opinions.

Feyre blinks. “What… was the question?”

“You asked if I’ve ever had my hands tied,” you say mildly, “I answered the question.”

Silence landed soft and heavy. The nice kind of silence you get right before lightning remembers itself.

And then, as if the room had been operated by a pulley, six pairs of eyes swung to Azriel.

Az has not moved. Not a twitch. A treacherous muscle ticks in his jaw. His shadows execute a flawless retreat beneath the sofa. He looked at a point somewhere over Rhys’s left shoulder like it offered emergency egress. The tips of his ears had discovered a new shade of red. He did not blink. He absolutely did not make eye contact with the living.

Mor’s mouth fell open. You could have put a grape in it and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Feyre made a soft sound like a tea kettle about to boil. Nesta’s eyebrow climbed, slow and majestic, up to somewhere near her hairline. Rhys pressed two fingers to his lips, eyes very bright, the picture of a High Lord nobly attempting not to howl. Amren actually paused mid-sip. Cassian set his glass down so carefully it squeaked against the table.

Feyre covered her mouth, eyes very bright. “Oh.”

You crack an almond with dainty precision. “Next question?” you suggest, as if Azriel wasn’t suddenly the color of dusk.

Cassian points at you. Then at Azriel. Then at you. His mouth open; no sound arrives. He tries again. “No. No - oh my gods. OH—” he looked at Az like he’d never seen him before in his life. “Shadowsinger. Shadowsinger.”

Az dragged a palm slowly down his face like a man reassessing every decision he had ever made that led to this evening. “Cassian,” he said, voice soft and murder-smooth.

Mor’s chair screeched back with the indignity of celebration thwarted. She pointed, scandalized and thrilled. “Azriel!”

He pressed his lips together. It was almost a smile. It was also a prayer for the ground to open and swallow him until somewhere past winter.

Rhys was crying quiet tears, breathless with it, trying and failing to be dignified. “Please—please—tell me there was a safe word.” Feyre smacked his shoulder, laughing helplessly. “What? Safety is important!”

Az studies the mantel with ferocious interest. The flush climbs his ear—visible only if you know where to look. His shadows go very still in that way that means they are absolutely not currently coiled around your wrist like a smug bracelet.

Mor rolls onto her back and kicks her feet like a child at Solstice. “OH MY GODS,” she sings, palms on her cheeks. “You two—”

Az clears his throat. It comes out a shade lower than intended. “The prompt,” he says, immaculate, “specified no stories.”

Feyre is biting her lip so hard it might bruise. “To be fair,” she manages, voice bright with barely-contained laughter, “that is an acceptable reading of the rules.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Az mutters, which is not a denial.

Rhys has given up on adulthood. He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes sparkling with weaponized mischief. “Out of academic curiosity,” he purrs, “is this a… standard Night Court knot or - ”

“Finish that sentence,” Az said without looking at him, “and I will personally ensure your training regimen involves stairs you don’t even know exist.”

Amren tilts her head. “Finally, a use for the extra curtain tiebacks in the library.”

“Amren,” Az says, pained.

You remain the picture of innocence. You pick up another almond, consider it, and note, “We’re witnessing a lot of projection for a yes-or-no game.”

Cassian had not recovered. “I just—hands tied—Azriel,” he repeated, as if trying to reconcile calculus with poetry. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then pointed between them again like an outraged uncle. “But how - ”

“Absolutely not,” Azriel said, voice soft as a blade being returned to its sheath.

“Seconded,” you said, cheerful. “No follow-ups.”

“Thirded,” Feyre added, valiantly unhelpful.

Rhys put a benevolent hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “Let it go.”

Cassian stared at the ceiling like it owed him compensation. “I need to go lie down in the snow.”

“Please don’t,” Rhys said. “The House just mopped.”

At last, Az looks at you full-on. There was no swagger in it, no smirk. Something rueful and wrecked and very, very fond moved through his face; just the soft, stunned thing he rarely let anyone see on purpose. He shook his head once, slow, a man surrendering to the sea he’d long since chosen to drown in.

You meet it, businesslike, as if taking inventory of a fire and declining to put it out. You nudged his knuckles under the table with the lightest touch—a tap, like a secret.

Cassian saw it. Of course he did. He slapped Rhys’s shoulder with the back of his hand, stage whispering “HE’S BLUSHING.”

“I am not,” Azriel says to the window.

Mor ascends into a fresh orbit of delighted shrieking.

“New rule,” Rhys gasps when he can breathe. “Euphemisms are banned.”

“Newer rule,” Az replies, finally looking at no one in particular (which is to say at you from the corner of his eye) “we stop speaking forever.”

You pat his knee, compassionate. “Tragic. He’s shy.”

That does it. Mor folds over, howling. Feyre wipes tears. Nesta mutters, “Cowards,” like a benediction.

Cassian leans close, “Proud of you, you bat.”

Az stared ahead. “Die.”

Cassian patted his shoulder. “Never.”

Amren flicked her napkin onto the table like a verdict. “Please move on before someone’s definition of ‘hands’ expands.”

Rhys waves a hand, giddy. “Alright, alright, next prompt,” he says, trying for control and tripping over it. He glances at the deck, at the ceiling, then—because he is the devil—back to you. “Have you ever been blindfolded?”

Azriel, to his credit, doesn’t move.

He silently reaches for the bottle.

You look at him, mouth tilted toward wickedness. “Careful,” you murmur. “They’ll ask when.”

Az finds you looking at him like a secret and, just once—just for you—lets the smile happen, low and wrecked and tender. “That wasn’t the question,” he says, and the two of them laughed, quiet and complicit.

And the whole room absolutely falls apart all over again.

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