Coming right up!

A is the drunk one, B is the sober one.

Drunk Confession Prompts

A, usually reserved and not good at showing affection, becomes extra lovey-dovey to B after drinking.

A lets it slip that they're planning to propose, but they don't remember having said it when they're sober again. B either has to tell them they know or pretend nothing happened.

B is planning to propose but A reveals they've known for a while.

A tells B an embarrassing secret about themself.

A confesses that they think they're inadequate/undeserving of B's love.

A mentions something that causes an argument between them and B when A is sober again.

A first says "I love you" to B when drunk.

It's A's first time being drunk and B gets to see a whole new side of them.

B pours their heart out to A when A is drunk, knowing they won't remember anything when they're sober again.

Sevika's Boss ꩜ part 2

hi anon, sevikas boss fanfic got a lot of love a while ago so im happy to write part 2 !! let me know if you enjoyed i threw in some misunderstandings for fun here..maybe kind of angst?? its okay tho you make up very quickly PART 1 , masterlist

You and Sevika hung around eachother a lot, I mean that was normal right? She is your second in command afterall.

Personally, you didn't see a problem with it, and nor did Sevika.

She had grown accustomed to your presence and didn't mind all your small, loving touches and annoying jokes.

And yes, sometimes she went a little overboard for you, like what kind of subordinate stays at their bosses house to tend to them whilst they are injured? Or goes out for drinks every weekend? But maybe your relationship was starting to exceed the bounds of boss and employee.

She has definitely warmed up to you more than she did with Silco. She thinks it was your charming personality, or cute outfits, your smile...

Some people might say you sitting in Sevikas lap while you fixed up her arm might be indecency in the workplace, but you found it to be a simple and innocent task.

But this begs the question, what exactly is your relationship?

This is also a question Jinx was starting to ask herself.

"So uh...whats with you and Sevika?" Jinx asked in an almost singsongy voice.

She flipped her gun around in her hand haphazardly while she was sprawled out on your (Silcos) desk.

[REPOST] 'all i ask', aka i don't know how to write a fanfic but an au where yang saw ah duo one more time before she leaves the inner palace. had a little too much to drink, releasing decades worth of resentment and self-loathing.

A recent idea I had, and I've been saving it for when you open the request inbox!

So, readers are known for being reserved and distant with other people, although with their partners, they are slightly clingy and affectionate. One night to celebrate (anything, like work, etc.), the readers get drunk, causing them to say:

"Crazy, I thought I might have your baby."

With the characters: Aventurine, Sampo, Childe, and Kaeya

This request is based on: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMSY8yqC7/

—–· ☀️🌻 ⟩ Anon.

In Vino Veritas

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sampo x Reader, Childe x Reader, Kaeya x Reader, Fluff, Humor, Drunk Confessions, Slight Angst (Light Emotional Undercurrents), Emotional Vulnerability, Teasing/Flirting, Established Relationships, Reserved Reader (Affectionate When Drunk), Soft Moments, Bit of Whump (Aventurine especially).

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Mild intoxication, Slight sexual implications (very light and suggestive, not explicit), References to past trauma (Aventurine) (?), Implication of reproductive themes (mentioned humorously), Emotional vulnerability.

The room shimmered under warm lights and crystalline decor, the celebration for a successful IPC acquisition reaching its peak. You weren’t usually the type to indulge, but tonight? Tonight, you drank.

Theo Nott x Reader

It was never easy having Theodore Nott as my best friend. Not because of his serious demeanor or the way he observed everything, but because, from the very first moment, I liked him more than I should have. And, although we shared glances that lasted longer than normal and gestures that seemed to hide something more, he never took the step.

I always thought what I had with Theo was a matter of long looks and stolen smiles, something that lived in the silences and accidental touches. He had been my best friend for years—the one who knew how I liked my coffee, who could guess my mood with just a glance, and who was always one step away from saying something I longed to hear, but never said.

So I convinced myself that he didn’t see me as anything more than a friend. That, to him, I was the shoulder to lean on, but never the lips to kiss.

That was when I met Daniel. Sweet, attentive, always finding ways to make me smile… but, even though he sounded perfect on paper, something didn’t click. The way he looked at me didn’t make my pulse race, and our conversations, while pleasant, lacked the spark I always felt with Theo. Still, I kept seeing him, trying to convince myself that maybe something stable was better than an impossible love.

It had been three weeks since I started dating Daniel, and Theo hardly talked to me like before. There were no fights or obvious gestures… but I could feel it. His messages were shorter, his smiles more measured, and the seat next to me in the coffee shop was now taken by someone else.

One night, after a quiet date with Daniel, I was lying in bed scrolling through messages. It was past midnight when my phone started vibrating. Theo. appeared on the screen. I answered quickly, because Theo never called at that hour.

“Theo?” I whispered.

On the other end, I heard his heavy breathing, like he was walking or trying to coordinate his words.

“You’re with him, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice rough, betraying both alcohol and something else. “With Daniel.”

“Not right now. I just got home. Are you okay?”

“No. I’m not okay. I can’t stand this.” There was a short silence, followed by a bitter laugh. “God, I can’t even see you with him without wanting to wipe that fake smile off his face.”

“Theo, are you drunk?” My voice was soft, almost afraid of breaking something invisible between us.

“Maybe…” His laugh was low, but held no joy. “Doesn’t matter. I just needed to hear your voice.”

I stayed silent, swallowing hard.

The silence stretched for a moment, but I could feel his breathing getting faster on the other end.

“I don’t like it, you know?” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Seeing you with him.” His tone deepened. “I… I can’t stand the idea of him touching you, of him looking at you like he knows you. Because he doesn’t. Not like I do.”

I closed my eyes, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “Theo…”

“It’s just…” his voice cracked, “It’s not fair. I’ve been by your side for years, taking care of you, knowing every gesture, every glance, the way you frown when you’re focused… And now he shows up and takes all of that like… like it’s his.”

I couldn’t breathe. “It’s not his, Theo.”

“I know,” he replied quickly, “but I’m scared that one day it will be.”

His words were clumsy, but full of something he had never let out before.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” I asked, my voice more fragile than I expected.

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought if I told you how I felt, I’d ruin everything. And you are…” he took a deep breath, “…you’re the most important thing I have. But now I can’t… I can’t keep pretending we’re just friends.”

His confession hung in the air—dense, warm, dangerous.

“Theo…” I whispered, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Tell me to stop feeling this for you and I’ll try, I swear,” his tone broke. “But don’t ask me to watch you with someone else. I can’t.”

“Theo… we’ve been friends for years. You never said anything.”

“Because I’m an idiot.” He sighed, and I could picture him running his hand through his hair, like he always did when he was frustrated. “Because I thought if I waited, I’d have time. But now seeing him there smiling at you… no. I can’t.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to scream that I felt the same, that it had always been him. Another part feared that if we crossed that line, there would be no turning back.

“Tell me you don’t feel anything for me,” he said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. “Say it, and I’ll shut up forever.”

“Theo…” I took a deep breath, “you’re drunk, you shouldn’t…”

“No, I’m not drunk enough to not know what I’m saying,” he interrupted. “And… I’m near your place.”

My stomach twisted. “What?”

“Don’t hang up,” he said quickly. “I don’t want you to hang up.”

I got out of bed, as if my feet were moving on their own, and looked out the window. The street was empty—until I saw him: leaning against a lamppost, hair slightly messy, hands in his pockets. His eyes found me even from there.

I ran downstairs, not sure if I wanted to yell at him or hug him. When I opened the door, the cold night air wrapped around us. He took a step toward me, slow, as if he was afraid I’d run away.

“I didn’t want another day to pass without telling you,” his voice was lower in person, but his eyes shone in a dangerous way. “I can’t see you with him. I can’t pretend I don’t care.”

I stood still. He looked at me like he was memorizing every detail. “Theo…” I whispered, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just…” he stepped closer, until I could feel his warmth, “tell me you don’t mind that I’m here.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, my fingers brushed against his sleeve, just a touch. He leaned down until his forehead rested against mine, our breaths mixing.

“Tell me to stop falling in love with you,” he murmured, “and I’ll try.”

His hand brushed my cheek, soft, as if unsure whether he had permission. I didn’t push him away. In that moment, the silence was so heavy that I felt if either of us breathed too hard, everything would break.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep quiet about all this,” he whispered. “To pretend I don’t care when I see you smiling at him… when I hear him say your name.”

“Theo…” my voice trembled, but not from the cold.

His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I could feel his breathing quicken. For a second, I thought he’d pull away—but instead, his hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

“I don’t care if you hate me tomorrow for this…” he said almost against my lips.

And then he kissed me. It wasn’t soft or shy; it was urgent, as if all the time we’d spent in silence had condensed into that instant. His lips were warm and tasted faintly of alcohol, but also of something burning deep inside me.

I grabbed his jacket, pulling him toward me, as if I was afraid he’d leave. He responded by holding me tighter against his chest, his other hand gripping my waist, making it clear he had no intention of letting go.

When we pulled apart, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against mine again, breathing heavily. “Tell me you didn’t feel anything…” he murmured, like a challenge.

I couldn’t.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it too. “Theo…” I whispered, my voice breaking, “I’ve been feeling this for years.”

His brows furrowed, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “What?”

“You think you’re just my best friend, but… you’ve always been more than that to me. Always. Since the first day you spoke to me at school, since you stayed late studying with me even though you knew you’d fail your exam the next day. Since you took care of me when I got sick, since… since you became my safe place.”

He looked at me like his whole world had turned upside down. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What for?” I shrugged, though tears were starting to fill my eyes. “I was afraid of losing you. And if I told you… if you rejected me… what would I do without you?”

Theo shook his head slowly, but his hands stayed on my face, as if he needed to make sure I was really there. “You wouldn’t have lost me,” he murmured, leaning in again. “The only thing breaking me was thinking you could belong to someone else.”

He kissed me again, this time slower, like he wanted to memorize every second. And I melted into him, feeling that finally, everything fit—that there was no place in the world more right than here, in his arms.

His words hang in the air between us, the cold night wrapping around my shoulders like a silent witness. I can barely breathe, my chest tight, my thoughts tangled in everything I’ve felt for him for years.

“I’m in love with you, Theo,” I finally admit, my voice trembling, my fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, and I thought you didn’t see me that way, so I tried to move on… but it’s always been you.”

His eyes search mine, his breath visible in the freezing air, and for a moment, the world goes quiet. Then, his hands come up to cradle my face, his thumbs brushing against my skin like I might disappear if he’s not careful.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he murmurs, his lips so close to mine I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “I didn’t want to ruin us, I didn’t want to scare you away, but I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.”

And then he kisses me. It’s not gentle, not at first—it’s desperate, like years of unspoken feelings and stolen glances have finally broken free. My hands clutch his hoodie tighter as if I can pull him even closer, his lips moving against mine like he’s been waiting forever for this moment.

When we finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against mine, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

✦ Chapter One ✦

"You're Drunk, Pedro."

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Alcohol use, jealousy, emotional repression, mutual pining, one very poorly timed kiss with a stranger, angst with a soft landing

Summary:

You and Pedro have been best friends for years - inseparable, untouchable, and firmly in denial about everything unsaid between you. But when a rooftop party brings flirtation, jealousy, and one reckless kiss that wasn't meant to hurt as much as it does, things start to crack. And when he follows you home, drunk and trembling and soft-eyed under the streetlights, neither of you can pretend anymore.

✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦

It starts like it always does - too many people, not enough air, and him.

The rooftop is packed with bodies and blurred voices, the night humming with the kind of slow, sticky warmth that only comes after too many cheap drinks and shared secrets. String lights crisscross overhead, glowing amber against the indigo sky. Someone's dragging a speaker from room to room trying to find the best acoustics, and someone else is already barefoot, dancing like they're the main character in a movie no one's filming.

And in the middle of it all - like some magnetic center of gravity - is Pedro.

Your Pedro.

Not yours, not really. But his laugh - the one that breaks open the air and curls into your lungs - is familiar. So is the way he pushes his hair back with the hand still holding his drink, or how he greets every new person with that same warm-eyed softness, like they've known each other forever.

You're supposed to be mingling. That's what your best friend says. She's behind you somewhere - probably nursing the same drink she's had since you arrived, watching the chaos unfold like she's collecting stories to retell later. She'd told you to be casual, to just hang out, maybe even talk to someone who isn't Pedro for once. That lasted all of five minutes.

Because you saw him across the room - cheeks flushed, mouth parted mid-laugh, the curve of his dimple tugging at something you pretend isn't always aching - and you were gone. Again.

You're sipping something cold and green and far too strong, standing in the corner like a girl with a secret. And you are. You've had the same secret for years.

Pedro Pascal makes you feel like the earth cracked open and you fell through the center of it, all because he looked at you once with sunlight in his eyes and said your name like it meant something.

"Wow," your best friend says from beside you, snapping you out of it. Her voice is teasing, lazy. "You might as well just start making out with your drink if you're gonna stare at him like that."

You blink. "What?"

She nods toward him - and God, he's even closer now. One hand tucked into his back pocket, the other still loosely wrapped around his drink. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing the soft curve of his forearms, and the chain around his neck glints gold every time he turns his head.

"You're looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon," she says, not unkindly.

You exhale a shaky laugh, dragging your eyes away. "I'm not."

"You are." She nudges you. "And it's fine. You should. He's your soulmate."

You roll your eyes and sip your drink. "He's not my soulmate."

"He bought you pads once at midnight and brought snacks to distract you from your cramps. He drives you to the airport and won't let anyone else pick you up. He literally pulled you out of a panic attack at a Whole Foods."

"That was once-"

"That was four times, actually," she says. "And he looked like he wanted to punch the kale section for upsetting you."

You snort.

And then - as if summoned - he turns.

Pedro's eyes sweep the crowd and land on you like it's the most natural thing in the world. He smiles. Not just a casual smile - one of his smiles. The one that softens everything, like he's happy just because you exist.

And then he mouths something at you from across the party.

You good?

You nod. Yeah.

His gaze lingers for a second longer. Two. And then someone else pulls at his arm, and he's gone again.

Your best friend exhales slowly. "See? Soulmates."

You can't stop the warmth crawling up your neck. "We're just friends."

She gives you a look - the one that sees through all the bullshit you wrap around yourself like armor. "You're wearing his flannel."

"It was cold."

She deadpans. "You're literally inside his shirt."

You glance down at the oversized, navy-and-olive flannel draped around your shoulders - sleeves rolled, front open, sleeves slipping over your hands. You hadn't even thought about it. He'd wrapped it around you the second you stepped outside earlier, grumbling something about you being "too precious to freeze to death at a rooftop party full of hipsters." You'd kept it on ever since.

It smells like him. Like bergamot and citrus and the faintest hint of smoke. Like comfort. Like everything you're not supposed to want.

"He does this for all his friends," you say, but it comes out hollow even to your own ears.

She doesn't argue. Just sips her drink, slow and knowing. "If you don't kiss him soon, someone else will."

You look up again - and there he is, across the room, whispering something into a woman's ear. She laughs. His hand grazes her lower back.

Your stomach twists.

You down the rest of your drink in one breath and smile like it doesn't ache.

✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦

You shouldn't look again.

You tell yourself that, over and over.

But your eyes betray you.

He's still across the rooftop, and now the woman he's talking to is touching his chest - soft and casual like she's done it before. She's older, Confident. Her laughter is effortless, her arm brushing his like the moment belongs to them and no one else.

And Pedro - Pedro isn't stopping her.

He's grinning. That lazy, crooked smile that you know by heart. He leans in to say something, and she giggles. Head tilted. Lips glossy. She tucks her hair behind her ear like she wants him to see her better.

You feel something hollow out inside your chest.

He laughs at something she says - really laughs, head thrown back, eyes crinkled - and for a second it feels like the air's been sucked out of the party.

Like you've fallen through the floor and no one noticed.

"Okay," your best friend says, watching you like she's watching someone unravel. "That's the third time you've blinked like you're fighting back tears."

You try to smile. "I'm fine."

"You're so not fine," she says. "I know you've convinced yourself that this whole pining-in-silence thing is noble, but babe, he is not a mind reader."

You shrug. "He doesn't feel that way."

She scoffs. "Are you kidding? He looks at you like you're the whole damn plot."

"Then why is he laughing like that with her?"

You hate how small your voice sounds. Like it cracked on the way out.

Your friend softens. "Because you're not saying anything. And people can only guess for so long before they give up."

You swallow hard and look away.

The pressure builds behind your eyes, a tight ache you try to blink away. The tequila isn't helping anymore - it's turned to heat in your blood, static in your throat, acid in your stomach.

You don't want to be this girl - the one who watches her best friend flirt with someone else while pretending it doesn't matter. But the truth is, it does matter. It matters so much you feel like you might break open from the inside.

You glance back again. The woman's hand is still on Pedro's arm. He's smiling. Not the full one, but the polite one - the one that says I'm trying.

That's it. You turn on your heel.

"Where are you going?" your friend asks.

You scan the crowd, catch a guy's eye. He's tall, decent-looking, buzzed enough to say yes without thinking. You walk straight up to him and smile.

"Dance with me?" He blinks. "Yeah. Sure."

The music shifts into something with a heavier beat - low and pulsing. He places his hands on your waist, and you force yourself to move. To sway. To laugh at something he says. You don't even hear him. You're too busy trying to feel anything other than what's crawling under your skin.

You catch Pedro's eye halfway through the song. He's watching you, Frozen in place. Eyes unreadable. You pretend you don't see him.

Instead, you turn to the stranger and press your lips to his. It's not a real kiss. It's sloppy, forgettable, empty. There's nothing in it but spite and tequila and desperation.

But Pedro sees it.

And your chest caves in a little at the way his jaw tightens before he turns away.

You're trembling by the time you pull back from the guy. He asks you something - you don't answer. Your hands are shaking. The room feels like it's spinning. The alcohol, the music, the ache, him - it all hits you at once, and suddenly you want nothing more than to be gone.

"I'm leaving," you mutter to your best friend as you pass by.

She doesn't argue. Just watches you walk away with too much pain behind her eyes.

The music pulses behind you, muffled now by the closing door. The night air hits your face like a slap - cold and too clear.

You start walking.

✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦ 🥀 ✦ 🕊️ ✦

"Didn't think you were gonna leave without me," Pedro says, slightly breathless as he jogs the last few steps to catch up.

You don't turn around.

You keep walking - boots clacking against the damp sidewalk, the cold slapping your cheeks in stinging little bursts. The night's gone silent except for the hum of distant traffic and your heartbeat slamming inside your ears.

"You looked..." you pause, teeth digging into your bottom lip, "busy."

There's a hitch in his breath - soft, but not soft enough. "Are you mad at me?"

His voice is careful. Like he's trying not to make things worse, like he's worried he already did.

"No," you lie, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Just tired."

He exhales hard through his nose. The sound is rough - frustrated. With himself, maybe. With you. With all of it. "I wasn't flirting."

"I didn't say you were."

"You didn't have to."

That stops you for a second. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He looks wrecked in the glow of the streetlamp - curls flattened by sweat, cheeks flushed, shirt collar askew. His chain is twisted, his eyes glassy.

His hand lifts like he might reach for you, then falters. Drops.

"Is that why you kissed him?" he asks. "Because you thought I was flirting with her?"

You turn your face away. "You're drunk."

"So are you."

He steps into your path before you can keep walking, boots scuffing the pavement, eyes searching your face like he's trying to piece something together you've both been too afraid to name.

"You know everyone thinks we're in love," you say. The words tumble out, bitter and aching, like they've been waiting for years to be spoken. You try to laugh after it, but the sound cracks halfway through and dies in your throat.

Pedro doesn't laugh back. He just looks at you. Quiet. Tired.

"Yeah," he says. "They do."

You stop walking completely. The wind rustles past, tugging at the edges of the flannel still wrapped around you. His flannel. You shouldn't still be wearing it, but you are.

He's staring at the sidewalk now, like it'll help him avoid what's coming. His hands sink deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders tense. Then slowly, almost too quietly:

"Because I do."

It sucker-punches you.

You blink once. Twice.

"Why does that make you look like you're about to cry?" you ask, voice small.

He shrugs, but it's the kind that looks like it hurts to do. "Because I mean it."

The silence that follows is unbearable - not because it's empty, but because it's full. Full of every look, every almost, every time your fingers brushed his in a movie theater or every time he leaned a little too close when you were laughing. Full of the nights you slept in his bed and pretended it was normal. Full of the truth you've been dragging behind you like a suitcase you swore you'd never open.

You finally whisper, "Pedro..."

He looks up.

And it's all there in his eyes. No walls, no charm, no tequila-fueled filter. Just him. Just you - the way he sees you, the way he's always seen you.

"I didn't flirt with her," he says. "I couldn't. I was too busy watching you."

The world tips.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, steadier. "You kissed someone else tonight. And I watched it happen. And I thought - that's it. That's how it ends. That's how I lose her."

Your lips part. The air feels sharp in your lungs.

"I've loved you for so fucking long," he says, like he's confessing a crime. "And I've spent every day convincing myself you didn't feel the same. That you'd never look at me like that."

"I do," you whisper. "Pedro, I do."

He steps in closer - barely an inch between you now. "You do?"

You nod, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. "I think I've been in love with you since the first time you held my hand in public just so I'd feel safe."

His jaw clenches like he's trying not to cry too.

"I didn't kiss him because I wanted to," you add. "I kissed him because I didn't know what to do with this... thing. This thing you make me feel."

And then finally-finally-he moves.

No more pretending. No more half-steps or sidelong glances or silent what-ifs.

Pedro closes the space between you with a kind of urgency that isn't fast-it's inevitable. Like gravity. Like something ancient giving way after years of restraint.

His hand comes up slowly, carefully, like he's giving you the chance to pull away.

You don't.

Fingertips brush your jaw, calloused and warm, and you swear your knees almost give out right there. He cradles your face like you're breakable, like he's terrified this is something he'll wake up from. His thumb ghosts over the corner of your mouth like he's tracing the words you haven't spoken yet.

And then-

He kisses you.

Not the kind of kiss that's fueled by tequila or bravado. No.

This is years of unsaid things pressed into one trembling exhale.

It's soft. Reverent.

Like he's tasting a promise. Like he's trying to memorize you in pieces-your breath, your mouth, the way you melt into his chest without even meaning to.

You can feel how tightly he's holding himself together, even as his other hand slips around your waist and pulls you closer.

And you go willingly.

You go like you've belonged there all along.

He kisses you like you're the secret he's been carrying in his chest for too long, and it's finally safe to let it out.

When he pulls back, it's only far enough to press his forehead to yours. His breath is shaky. Yours is nonexistent.

The world has stopped moving.

"I'm still drunk," he murmurs, voice raw and ragged against your lips. He doesn't let you go.

You let out a laugh, but it breaks halfway out of your throat. "Me too."

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you. His eyes are glassy but so, so clear.

"I'll still want you tomorrow," he says.

It knocks the wind out of you.

Because he means it.

You feel it in your chest, in the way his hands won't stop shaking, in the way his voice catches when he says want like it barely scrapes the surface of what he really feels.

You blink back the tears rising in your throat and whisper, "Then stay."

And this time-

He doesn't hesitate.

@gritpyre

The celebrations in Fhirdiad are in full swing. The city prides itself in its heated parties, to spite the cold wind and merciless winters. Alcohol and inhibitions flow freely in the otherwise strict kingdom and boisterous laughter fills the castle halls.

Dimitri has never been one for parties, nor drinking, yet at Sylvain’s continuous insistence for just one more shot, he can’t help but oblige. Out of duty and shame, if anything else.

He had taken so much from his friends, denied them so much joy, brought nothing but hurt. He owed it to them, to spend the party without a single word of complaint, pliable in their hands to make up for the monster he had become.

Though now, more than just a couple shots in, Dimitri finds agreeing to just one more is getting easier by the second.