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astraystayyh · 11 months

Text

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach.

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you.

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume.

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea.

"Okay," you concede.

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known.

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.”

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table.

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates.

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you.

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you.

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door. “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads.

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair.

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again.

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it.

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas.

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun.

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield.

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye.

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him.

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite.

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart.

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment.

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to.

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours.

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence.

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first.

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital.

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night.

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over.

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm.

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane.

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it."

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball.

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout.

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest.

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard.

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears.

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper.

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?”

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

“My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words.

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout.

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most.

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask.

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it.

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips.

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?”

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back."

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out.

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries.

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now.

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room.

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho.

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?”

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much.

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree.

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

“I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears.

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep.

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us.

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance.

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain.

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own.

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you.

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.”

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking.

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory.

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze.

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho.

'My heart will always remember you'.

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low.

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him.

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul.

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home.

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are.

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to.

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday.

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms.

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known.

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on.

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call?

He couldn’t survive another call.

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone?

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right.

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care.

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders.

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you."

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks.

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.”

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?"

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips.

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed.

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised.

"Because you are."

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away.

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge.

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground.

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly.

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?"

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap.

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand."

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-"

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this."

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?"

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us."

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness.

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn."

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave."

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them."

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.”

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek.

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat.

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft?

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away.

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.”

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat.

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

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cressidagrey · 19 days

Text

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 16

Summary:

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings:

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Low Self Esteem, Making Out, Discussion of Sex, some very "human" ideas of sexuality, a quote from Bridgerton and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

"Sweetheart, she'll love you," Azriel assured his mate. Again.

He wasn't sure what it was about but the idea of visiting his mother for dinner had thrown Eira into a tizzy.

He had reasoned that he would rather not get another lecture from his mother about not keeping her updated on his life choices…and well…he didn’t want to tell her about their engagement in a letter. So dinner it was. Esmeray had seemed delighted when he had suggested it in his last letter.

He wasn’t worried about his mother disliking Eira at all. She had already adored her the first time they had met, so really…there was nothing that Eira needed to be worried about.

“How can you be sure that she’ll like me?” Eira asked again, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “She’s your mother and you are still her baby…” He held back a snort. 540 years later and yes, he supposed he still was her baby, but his mother knew that he could take care of himself. “Maybe she'll hate me…”

"You already met her, and she loved you," Azriel said drily. “I am pretty sure, she’s already preferring you over me,” he said, only half joking. Eira stared at him wide-eyed.

“But what if she…” He was trying really hard not to laugh at the expression on her face. Eira looked almost desperate, almost bordering on panic, her grey eyes wide with worry.

"She’ll love you,” Azriel Assured her again, in a gentle voice. “I promise you, my mother will love you. She’s utterly delighted that I found my mate. You could be half kelpie and she would still love you.“

Eira let out a low exhale, and he could practically see the anxiety and nervousness in her eyes as if she were imagining the worst-case scenarios.

"But what if... what if she doesn’t?" she repeated.

He could hear the worry in her words, and he knew that underneath the surface, there was blubbering something else. Something far older and deeper.

None of the Archeron Sisters ever really talked about their mother, but Azriel had been able to…patch a picture together of a woman for whom her daughters had been nothing but…nothing but pawns to marry off to the highest bidder.

Eira had felt lacking for a maternal figure once. She didn’t want a repeat of that, couldn’t have a repeat of that.

All he wanted to do was comfort her, to hold her, whisper reassurances in her ears.

“She will,” Azriel said again, taking her hands in his. “And I promise, I won’t leave your side. At all. The whole night. It’ll be fine, sweetheart.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, trying to reassure her, to help her calm down, even though she was practically quaking in front of him.

She let out a soft exhale, her hands trembling in his, and he could hear her heart racing far faster than it should be.

"Eira...it’ll be fine,” he repeated. “It’ll be just fine.”

Eira let out another exhale, her breath shuddering as her anxiety got the better of her, and he knew that this would go on for hours if he didn’t do something about it if he didn’t get her to calm down. Azriel let out a low, soft sigh, looking at her, her breathing quick and shallow, her skin pale, anxiety clear in her eyes.

He was going to have to use a different tactic.

"Come here, Sweetheart,” he said, using the nickname deliberately. Sweetheart. It tended to make her fluster, and he could see its effect on her. Her pale skin flushed, her cheeks turned a beautiful pink, and her breath caught in her chest, making her breathing a bit less ragged and desperate. She stepped closer to him and he leaned down to press his lips to hers. She sighed into the kiss, a hand curling into the jacket he wore.

He deepened the kiss slightly, gently running the tip of his tongue against her lower lip, and he could feel her hand's fist against his jacket, a low hum of pleasure escaping her as he pulled her against him, letting her feel the heat of his body against hers, letting her feel the hard planes of his chest, hoping the sensation would soothe her.

He brought a hand up to the side of her face, his palm cradling her cheek, her skin smooth and warm beneath his touch, and she exhaled against him, the sound soft and quiet. He knew that his tactic had worked. Her breathing had slowed, her skin wasn’t as pale as it had been a moment prior, and the sound of her racing heart had finally quieted…

And her scent had gone heavy with arousal. He could smell it on her. He wished he could bath in her scent...in that thick and heavy sweetness.

Gods, she smelled divine, the scent of her desire making him practically lightheaded. Something hot and delicious coiled in him, a need to touch her, to taste her, and he had to forcibly restrain himself from giving in to the impulse…

He let his hand run down from her face, trailing his fingers along the line of her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin, and she shivered beneath his touch, a soft gasp escaping her. He smirked, his breath coming faster at her response, and he let his fingers trail lower, tracing the sensitive skin of her collarbone, feeling the gooseflesh as her skin reacted to his touch.

She leaned towards him, her body yearning, practically begging to be touched, but he couldn’t. Not right now, not when he could smell the arousal in her scent, not when he was so close to losing control, and he had to remind himself that they were still in the hallway of the River House, that she had been nervous just a few breaths ago, that they had somewhere they had to be tonight...

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, his voice a low growl as he spoke. “Another time,” he promised, and he would keep that promise. She let out a low whimper at his words, a shiver passing through her body at his tone, and he could practically feel the effect his simple word had on her.

"Another time?" she asked, her voice shaky.

“Another time,” he repeated, low and firm, and he had to force himself to pull away slightly, taking a step back from her, to give her some space, to give himself a moment to recover from her scent, her body, her response.

"We have a dinner to attend, sweetheart," he told her quietly. "Are you dressed warm enough? Illyria is rather cold this time of the year."

She nodded, her face still flushed, her skin still warm, and he could still smell the desire in her scent.

"Yes, I got a cloak as well," Eira said quickly, and just seconds later the shadows wrapped her in a dark cloak, only to then wrap the fur shrug around her as well.

His breath caught in his chest at the sight of her wrapped up in that pelt, a soft, possessive satisfaction coursing through him at the sight of the fur shrug wrapped around him, a clear announcement to the world that she was his.

He offered her his arms and wrapped her in shadows. It was easy enough to winnow them both to Rosehall, to throw them through the wards he had placed on his mother's cottage centuries ago.

They rematerialized just in front of the cottage, and Azriel had a moment to take in the building in front of him. The cottage was the same, warm firelight in the windows, the front porch with just as many plants as his mother had always had. It was so, familiar, so unchanged that it felt like no time had passed since he’d last seen the cottage.

The door opened but instead of his mother standing in the doorway, it was Garvan. One of his mother’s oldest friends. Also, one of the first inhabitants of Rosehall as it was now, a haven for displaced Illyrians.

“Ah, Azriel!” Garvan greeted him brightly, his mouth pulling into a smile, crooking the scars that covered one half of his face completely. There was only one sole wing that limply laid at his side and he used a cane to get around, but all of that had never stopped him from being an optimist. “Your mother has been waiting for you.”

Azriel smiled in greeting, something warm and light and fond at the sight of Garvan, a familiar sense of affection welling up in him at the sight of the older man. "Garvan," Azriel greeted him, "It's good to see you."

“Likewise,” Garvan said, his smile widening, his good wing fanning slightly in greeting. “And who is your lovely lady?” His gaze went to Eira, who hovered just behind Azrael, her grey eyes taking in the sight of Garvan and the cottage.

"This is Eira," Azriel introduced her, his hand instinctively wrapping around her again, pulling her closer to him. "Eira, that's Garvan."

Garvan nodded in greeting, his smile turning soft as he looked at her, and Azriel could practically hear the questions the older male was asking in his mind, but instead, he said, "Don’t keep Esmeray waiting."

He gave Garvan a quick nod, and the man stepped aside, moving out of the doorway so Azriel and Eira could step into the cottage, into the warmth of his mother's home…

The first thing he noticed was the fire burning in the fireplace, flames dancing behind the grate, casting the entire room in a warm, orange light, and the second thing he noticed was the sight of his mother, standing in the little clearing between the kitchen and the living room.

There was a smile on her face as she took him in, grey eyes bright with warmth and affection, and he felt a sudden lump in his throat at the sight of her. She looked so young, her long black hair unbound, tumbling over her back like a river of ebony, her skin still smooth and lovely. Of course, she looked so young. She had been half a child when she had had him. Not that she had a choice in that matter.

"Azriel!" she greeted him, her excitement apparent. "Did you decide to finally honour me with your presence once again?" And there was her dry humour, as his mother came to hug him tightly. "At least this time you brought your mate, properly," she muttered under her breath, already yanking Eira into a surprising hug, squashing the flowers, Eira had insisted they bring along to his mother.

"Eira, so lovely to see you again. You look...less traumatised," his mother said drily.

Azriel let out an amused breath at his mother's bluntness, and he could see a wave of panic pass over Eira's face at the unexpected hug. But his mate managed a nervous laugh a moment later, "I do feel less traumatised," Eira said with another laugh. "I…We…We brought you flowers," Eira said quietly, thrusting a bouquet of dahlias in his mother's direction.

"How thoughtful of you," his mother said, her voice warm as she took the flowers from Eira, "And dahlias as well. My favourite. Though I imagine Azriel didn’t tell you that, did he?"

Eira's eyes widened slightly, and Azriel had a feeling that she had no idea his mother's favourite flowers were dahlias, she had picked them purely on instinct.

She looked up and waved them both in further. "Come take a seat. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes."

"Can I help with anything?" Eira asked immediately, and Azriel couldn't stop the soft smirk that tugged at his lips, the sense of affection in his chest warming as he heard the question. His mother let out a soft laugh, taking the question in stride.

"Not the slightest need," Esmeray told her, a kind smile on her face. "Azriel, however, can make himself useful and bring us some wine."

"I...uh, I don't drink," Eira blurted out. "Alcohol and I...really don't get on," she said with a grimace.

His mother looked at Eira considering, her eyes looking over her thoughtfully before nodding. "Fair enough," Esmeray said, not looking the slightest bit offended. "No wine then."

Azriel let out a small sigh of relief at that, feeling how Eira relaxed next to him slightly as well, and he saw the hint of a twinkle in his mother's eyes as she said, "Azriel can make us tea instead then."

"Sounds perfect," Azriel said, rolling his eyes. It was almost too easy, the sense of familiarity and comfort as he sat in his mother's cottage, and he found himself loving the moment, the way Eira slotted in so perfectly with his mother, no awkwardness between them. No, instead his mother had already pulled Eira into a conversation as she began to arrange the flowers into a vase, and Azriel left them to it, going into the kitchen to make the tea.

He found himself listening in on the conversation going on in the living room. He could still hear Eira's nervous tone, but even that was slowly disappearing, replaced by a relaxedness instead. By the time he went back to the living room, a tray with a pot of tea and a handful of teacups in his hands, Eira was laughing softly about something his mother said.

"And tell me, has the kitten gotten used to her new home?" his mother asked.

"She has," Eira confirmed, and Azriel put the tray down on the low table, taking a seat next to Eira, close enough to brush his leg against hers, just to feel that sense of connection, that closeness. "She has gotten quite comfortable in fact," Eira continued, a small smile tugging at her lips as she spoke. "Especially sitting on Azriel's lap."

"Snow is the most spoiled cat on this side of the ocean," Azriel agreed with a laugh.

Esmeray smiled in satisfaction, a twinkle in her eyes as she said, "Good. She seemed to be awfully taken with you so when Azriel asked for her for your birthday, I couldn't refuse."

Azriel smiled at that, unable to keep the fond, warm feeling those words gave him, the small wave of gratitude that went through him at his mother's actions. Snow had been the perfect gift, and clearly one that Esmeray had approved of as well.

"She does follow Eira everywhere," he said, and it wasn’t the least bit of an exaggeration. The little white ball of fur would never hesitate to demand Eira's attention, rubbing her face against her whenever possible.

"She's a demanding creature," Eira said with a soft, fond laugh. "She will sit on my lap and demand my attention until I give in." Azriel smiled as she spoke, the words so true. The way Snow could turn into a demanding little monster that would sit on Eira's lap for hours and demand her attention until she caved and started giving the cat head scratches... was adorable to see...

"Sounds like a cat," Azriel's mother agreed with a laugh, a warm expression on her face as she watched them. But there was a hint of something else in her expression as well, something almost…knowing, and Azriel had a feeling that his mother was seeing more than she was letting on. She was watching them, not just a little, but intently...

And then her eyes caught on Eira's hand, wrapped around the teacup, her ring on full display.

Azriel watched as his mother's gaze went to Eira's ring, watched as a slight twitch in her face revealed that she noticed it instantly. Esmeray’s eyes narrowed, her expression growing sharp, and Azriel had a feeling that he was holding his breath as he waited, as it felt like everything hinged on what his mother's response would be...

"Didn't I tell you to write me letters if anything life-changing happened in your life?" his mother asked him, her voice dry.

"I did," he said, the words sounding weak, and he heard his mother let out an exasperated huff at his answer.

"Azriel, writing letters to me once every decade does not count as writing letters when things happen in your life," Esmeralda all but chided him, her tone as unimpressed as her expression, and Azriel had a feeling her critical gaze would be focused on him if it wasn't for the fact that she was still eyeing Eira's hand with her ring. "You could have at least given me a forewarning!" his mother continued to chastise him. "Just a heads up would have been enough! I would have gotten out the champagne!"

"And leave the element of surprise out of the picture?" Azriel asked with an attempt at a charming smile, and he saw his mother roll her eyes at him in response.

"I can see you still haven't lost your penchant for dramatics, son," his mother said with a slight huff, but he saw the smile that threatened to pull at her lips, that hinted at her amusement at his words, and he knew the lecture was more for show than anything. "Tell me, Eira has my son at least asked you properly?!"

Eira's eyes widened slightly at the question, and Azriel could see the hint of nervousness flit over her face momentarily before he saw her face brighten a moment later, a small, giddy smile pulling at her lips. "He did. It was very romantic," she confirmed.

Azriel's mother let out another huff at that, shaking her head slightly even as a clear wave of satisfaction rolled over her expression. "At least my son has some basic manners," she said, and Azriel rolled his eyes, even as he felt a wave of relief at his mother's reaction. "You are making some progress, son. Thank you for taking pity on him though, Eira."

Eira snorted out a laugh, a hand covering her face. "I wouldn't call it a pity," Eira managed to bring out between giggles, and Azriel's head snapped in her direction and for a small moment it was almost too much, the sheer warmth twisting in his chest...

And his mother outright grinned in response, clearly delighted by Eira's words.

"Maybe not pity," Esmeray agreed, grinning widely. "But, at the very least, you have chosen to put up with his... oddities. Congratulations to you for that, Eira." Her tone was dry as she spoke, but there was no mistaking the hint of real approval underneath, the affection for Eira shining through.

Azriel let out a huff, rolling his eyes, despite the warm, fond affection still twisting in his chest. "Hey," he protested, without any real heat, his words falling on deaf ears as both of the women simply ignored his protest.

"Now, have you already set a date for the wedding?" his mother said briskly.

Azriel felt a wave of panic rush through him at the question, his eyes widening as he took in the hopeful, expectant look in his mother's eyes, and he was suddenly reminded of all the wedding plans they hadn't made yet. "Uh…" was all he managed to say, words failing him temporarily.

"Sometime after Winter Solstice at the Temple on the grounds of Rhys and Feyre's estate," Eira saved him.

Esmeray's eyes went from Azriel's to Eira’s and her entire face brightened immediately. Clearly, the answer had been exactly the sort of thing his mother had been hoping for, and she looked practically delighted, her eyes almost shining. "What a lovely location to have a wedding," she said with a soft, pleased hum. , and Azriel almost felt like blushing under her clear approval, feeling a mixture of flustered and fond. Esmeray looked over to Eira a moment later, a small, sly smile on her face as she leaned forward slightly as if to tell a secret. "And what about the dress?" she asked, and Azriel knew, even without looking, that her expression was full of clear delighted expectation as she spoke.

"Oh, I am making that myself," Eira answered easily like that was absolutely normal to do. Like Feyre and Rhys hadn’t both offered up every tailor Velaris had to offer, but Eira had refused it all. She wanted to make her own.

If the expression on his mother's face had been bright before, it was positively radiant now, Esmeray, eyes shining with an almost childish delight. "Are you?" she said, her voice filled with pleased disbelief. "You are a seamstress?"

Just like she was, just like Rhys' mother had been.

"I'm self-taught," Eira confirmed with a short, soft laugh, and Azriel found himself taking in her profile, the fond affection in his chest twisting even harder, even stronger, at the way his mother's eyes practically lit up at her words, Esmeray's face positively glowing in response.

They didn't really need him after that anymore, swapping ideas and tips, and Eira asking his mother question after question about Illyrian clothing and customs and Esmeray happily answering. And Azriel...well, he was just happy that the two most important females in his life got along so very well.

***

"Why is it green?" Nesta asked her, pursing her lips.

"Because it's my first attempt," Eira said quickly. "I figured if I hate it, at least I didn't use the good fabric," she said with a shrug. "It's still wearable, so I didn’t waste any fabric and I can figure out if I want to change anything..." She stared at the dress in the mirror, mustering it. Granted it looked nothing like a wedding dress right now. It was green cotton, and she stared at the long sleeves that covered her from shoulder to wrist, the neckline that dipped just low enough…

“And you are sure you want to make it yourself?” Feyre asked. “We can still go to a tailor and have it made, so you don’t have all the stress.”

Not that there was so much stress. The wedding had come together quickly, with a single 2-hour-long meeting about setting a date a few days after Winter Solstice and them telling the florists the flowers they wanted, snowdrops, the one thing Azriel seemed to have an opinion about it and that pretty much had been it.

Granted, they were invited less than a dozen people, with just the inner circle and Azriel’s mother in attendance, but that suited Eira and Azriel just fine.

Quite frankly, both of them would rather spend their time furnishing their house than plan a huge wedding and invite people they had nothing to do with.

Though granted, of them all, the shadows were definitely having much fun terrorizing the workers at the house and showing up constantly with one thing or another that they bought. Eira was kinda worried about what they were going to do once the house was inhabitable and they didn’t need 3 more carpets from Sangravah like the shadows had bought her the day before.

"No," Eira said firmly, the thought of wearing someone else's wedding dress making uneasiness twist in her stomach, her own skin itching at the thought. "I want to make it myself," she said, and she could practically feel Feyre looking her over, studying her expression…

“Maybe widen the skirt a little,” Feyre suggested as she nodded. “It’s your wedding. If there is ever an occasion to go over the top, that probably is it.”

Eira pursed her lips as she looked at the skirt, eyeing the way the fabric fell over her legs, and she had to admit, Feyre was right. "You think it's too narrow?" she asked, and she saw Feyre shrug in her mirror.

"Whatever you'll make will be beautiful," Nesta assured her. "Besides, you could wear a potato sack and Azriel would still want to take it off at the end of the night," she said with a grin.

She swallowed at that, fingers fiddling with the hem at one of the sleeves.

And that...that the other thing that was making her feel...nervous. The wedding...she wasn't nervous about it. She wanted Azriel as her husband. She wanted to marry him.

But the wedding night...

"He would," Feyre agreed with a laugh, and Eira felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Please tell me you aren't still worried that he doesn't want you like that," her younger sister teased her. “He looks at you like he wants to devour you."

She could nearly feel the icy fear that shot through her at that.

Devour her? Devour her? What did that even mean?!

"N-no," she said quickly, the word coming out fast as her cheeks burned. "I'm not." she swallowed hard, the thought of being devoured running through her head, and a wave of nervous fear rushed through her...

It wasn't that she didn't want to be...close to him. She...did. She wanted the press of his body against hers, that warm, heavyweight. She liked his kisses.

But...the idea of Azriel devouring her... She shouldn't be wanting this. She shouldn't be... a wife was supposed to do her duty. That's what it was about. And she shouldn't get a sense of enjoyment out of it. She shouldn't wonder how...sharing a bed with him would feel. She should...

She should simply go through with her duties, like a good, dutiful wife. Nothing else mattered, and she tried to remember that. Tried to remember what a wife was supposed to do...

But it didn't change how...how she felt. She didn't have the words for it, didn't understand this tangled, hot mess of thoughts in her head, this want that didn't make sense...

"What's wrong?" Feyre asked, and Eira jumped slightly as if she had been snapped out of a trance. She was still looking at herself in the mirror, and she realised that Feyre was studying her, watching her with a look that bordered on knowing.

"Wrong?" Her voice sounded high-pitched, slightly strangled, and Eira swallowed. "What could be wrong?" She asked, forcing herself to sound calm, trying to ignore the tangled mess inside her chest, the way her heart was beating too hard, too fast.

"I don't know," Feyre said, a hint of teasing in her voice as she spoke. "Why don't you tell me? You look like you're having a crisis."

"I'm not," Eira protested, and the words sounded false even to her own ears. And Feyre was looking at her, her sharp, observant eyes studying her intently, a faint frown on her face as she watched her...

"Are you worried about the wedding night?" Feyre asked suddenly, and the words hit her like a punch. The air was punched out of her lungs as Feyre spoke, and she found herself staring at Feyre's expression, her eyes wide.

"No!" she protested too quickly, her voice coming out in a high-pitched, strangled tone, high enough that she was sure both Feyre and Nesta were able to hear the lie in her words.

Feyre eyed her, that little frown not leaving her face, the knowing look in her eyes clearly not convinced.

"You are," she said, and there was a hint of amusement in her voice as if Feyre was having the time of her life watching her fumble, watching her try to deny the fact that she was dreading the wedding night. "You are worried about the wedding night," Feyre repeated, the hint of teasing in her voice making Eira's cheeks heat up even further…

"I'm not," she protested again, but the words sounded even weaker than the first time, even more fake than before. And Feyre's eyes were still on her, studying her, and Eira was sure Feyre knew, she was sure Feyre could see it written all over her face...

"Don't worry, Azriel has 500 years of practice," Nesta said drily.

She didn't...she didn't want to know what kind of 'practice' Nesta was referring to. Her heart began to race in her chest at the thought, and her face was burning, and she could still feel Feyre's eyes on her...

"You will be fine," Feyre assured her gently, and Eira could hear the hint of amusement in her voice. She could see the hint of a smirk pull at her lips, and as if to add insult to injury, Nesta let out a snort of laughter beside her.

"I-I know," Eira said quickly, and she was horrified to realise that her voice nearly trembled at the words. She could hear the way her pulse was pounding in her ears, could hear Feyre's voice echo in her head... 500 years of practice...

"Then what's the matter?" Feyre asked her, still that hint of amused teasing in her voice, and the urge to tell Feyre to shut up almost overwhelmed her. Instead, she clenched her teeth and forced her expression to remain neutral...

"There isn't anything the matter," she protested firmly, but her voice still trembled slightly, and Eira could see Feyre raise her eyebrows at her, clearly not convinced. She could feel Nesta's gaze on her on her side, and she knew that she saw right through her lie as well...

"Really," Feyre said, her voice sceptical, drawing out the word. "You're not at all worried about the wedding night, even after Nesta just told you that Azriel had 500 years to practice...whatever it is he likes to do between the sheets?" Feyre teased, a smirk pulling at her lips, and Eira felt her cheeks flush a darker red...

"No- I- That doesn't matter-!" she protested quickly, and she didn't want to know what Azriel had been practising, how many years worth of experience he had, how many females he had bedded, and it didn't make a single difference- Right?

"Then why are you so nervous?" Feyre asked her, her voice still dripping with amused teasing. "You have nothing to be worried about. All you have to do is marry an incredibly handsome male who is absolutely mad at you and who can't keep his hands off of you. Whatever is there to be nervous about?"

Heat shot through her entire body at Feyre's words, and her heart was nearly beating out of her chest. Eira didn't have the words. Didn't have the words to explain the twisted mess of nerves and anxiety and...excitement...in her stomach at Feyre's words, at the thought of Azriel's hands on her…

Didn't have the words to explain...that she had no clue what even happened between a wife and a husband.

"Have you ever...done it before?" Feyre asked suddenly, the question making a wave of heat shoot into her cheeks at the bluntness of the question. But before she had the chance to answer, Feyre added, "And don't lie to me," her eyes narrowed as she spoke.

"Of course not!" Eira exclaimed. When should she…when should she have had any man?

She heard Nesta's soft chuckle at her side, and for a moment, Eira wondered if Feyre was about to give a teasing response, but her younger sister suddenly got quiet. There was a moment of silence as she studied her, and her face was suddenly...serious.

"Have you ever...kissed him?" Feyre inquired, and Eira went stock still.

"Of course I-" Her protesting voice cracked slightly, and a moment later, Feyre's eyes widened. Even Nesta started looking at her in surprise, and Eira swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her voice even. "O-of course I have," she continued. "Why...why would you even ask that...?"

She saw Feyre's look of surprise grow even wider still, and the way her gaze flicked to Nesta's, who was looking at her just as stunned. "Why...?" Feyre asked, and her voice was filled with both disbelief and amusement. "Just...how often have you kissed him?"

The question made another wave of heat shoot up her neck, and Eira swallowed again, forcing herself not to let her anxiety show. "I-" she said, faltering. "I-I don't know," The words sounded even weaker than she had thought was possible, and she could hear both Feyre and Nesta hum in response.

"Come on, think," Feyre instructed, still studying her with that look of disbelief on her face.

"A dozen times? Maybe?"

"A dozen times?" Feyre repeated, her voice filled with amused disbelief, and the sound made Eira's cheeks burn even hotter. "That's it? You have kissed your fiancé a dozen times?"

"Is that...is that not enough?" Eira heard herself ask, the words making both Feyre and Nesta raise their eyebrows further, and she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole at the looks on their faces.

"Not enough?" Feyre repeated a hint of laughter in her tone. "Eira, you're getting married. If anything, it's...not nearly enough, to say the least," she quipped, and that...that made her flush with heat again.

"Are you telling me...you have never gone further than that?" Feyre inquired a moment later, and Eira's whole face burned with an intense heat.

"I-what does-what does it matter?" She stuttered, the words stumbling over her tongue and her heart nearly exploding.

"...You do know what...how sex works, right?" Nesta asked her, her voice even. "Like the mechanics. You..."

"Of course, I know the mechanics!" She exclaimed, and a moment later, she realised that the protest had come a little too quickly, sounding a little too defensive. The look on Nesta's face made her feel as if she might as well have admitted that she didn't know.

"You do?" Feyre asked, and Eira wasn't sure how she was able to continue to look at them, with how furiously her cheeks were burning.

"Y-yes," she affirmed, the word coming out almost like a whisper.

"Well," Feyre said, a smirk pulling at her lips, "care to elaborate on what you know, Eira?"

Eira felt like all the air had been pulled out of her lungs at the question, the panic inside her chest suddenly exploding. "I...I..." She stuttered, her mind frozen, going completely blank. Say something say something say something a panicked little voice in her head shouted, but she didn't have the faintest idea as to what to say. Her heart was beating like a drum, her face burning like someone had lit it on fire, and all she could do was gape at Feyre...

"You...don't know," Feyre said with a mixture of disbelief and amusement in her voice. "You...you have no idea how males and females even work." Eira could practically feel Nesta's gaze on her, and judging by the look on Feyre's face, Nesta's was not the only disbelieving look directed at her.

"Of course...of course I know, I-" Her voice cracked slightly at the words, and she knew she was starting to sound ridiculous, knew that if Azriel was here, he would be looking at her with something akin to disbelief on his face at how completely idiotic she was being… "It's not proper to talk about this," she whispered, her voice weak.

"Not proper?" Feyre repeated a note of disbelief in her voice. "Eira, you are getting married. Talking about this...it comes with the territory." Eira felt as if a wave of cold had washed over her, and when she met Feyre's gaze, she saw something like...was that...pity in her eyes?

"Have you...not talked to Azriel about this at all?" Feyre inquired, and even pity sounded better than the disbelief mixed with...with horror that had crept into her voice.

"I wasn't aware that there was anything we needed to talk about," Eira said weakly. "I'll lay back and think of my duty and somehow babies come out of that as a result."

She wasn't sure what reaction she had expected from Feyre at her words, but for her younger sister to nearly fall off the bed in shock hadn't been among them. "You...you thought that-" Feyre gasped out, her voice strangled by a mixture of shock and...and disbelief.

"What...what else was I supposed to think?" Eira heard herself protest weakly, and she was horrified to realise that tears pricked at her eyes. Something about Feyre's pitying look made her insides twist, and the way her lips were parted in shock made an ugly feeling twist in her stomach...

"Well...for once, the most basic of information on how a baby is made." Feyre finally managed to get out, her voice still sounding absolutely shocked, and when Eira chanced a look over at Nesta, she nearly wanted to crawl under a rock. The look on Nesta's face could only be described as horrified disbelief, mirroring what was on Feyre's face so perfectly it was almost uncanny...

"Maybe we should call Madja," Nesta suggested drily.

"We absolutely do not need to call Madja," Eira protested quickly, and the thought of having to explain this...this mortification to a healer of Madja's experience made her want to die.

"We should," Feyre suddenly spoke up, and a note of determination had crept into her voice. "The fact that you're getting married and going to sleep in a bed with a male and you had no clue what actually...how the entire thing even works - you should have been told long before this."

Eira's heart immediately went into overdrive. "No," she protested firmly, her voice rising, "I swear to the cauldron, if I don't even know how it works I definitely don't want to have to have Madja explain it to me!"

Another wave of heat shot through her body at the thought, and Eira almost wanted to cover her ears and pretend this entire, mortifying conversation wasn't even happening. "Maybe Azriel then," Feyre suggested, and Eira could have sworn she heard Nesta snort out a laugh in response.

"Azriel?" Eira repeated, her voice high. "You want me to...ask my fiance to explain how babies are made?"

"As opposed to having a healer explain, I have a feeling you might fare much better with your future husband," Feyre said, and there was a note of dry humour in her voice.

“Given that he’s the one with which you are going to do all the baby-making,” Nesta snorted. “Alternatively, we can explain things to you, but you are looking like you want to run away.”

"I'm not-" Her voice cracked, and her whole body trembled slightly. She knew by the looks on Feyre and Nesta's faces that there was no way she would be able to deny how utterly flustered she was. No way to deny how utterly humiliating this conversation was.

"Well we certainly can't send you to your wedding night not knowing a single thing," Feyre said firmly, and there was no hint of humour in her voice anymore. Her eyes were focused on her intently, studying her like a hawk, and Eira knew there was no way out. No way out of the mortifyingly awkward, horrifying, humiliating situation...

"I can...I can figure it out on my own," Eira protested weakly, and she heard Nesta snort out a laugh again.

"There's no escaping this," Nesta told her firmly, the hint of command in her voice. "We're going to talk about this, no matter how flustered and uncomfortable it makes you. It's much better that someone explains things to you than you go into your wedding night completely unprepared."

"How-how do you even..." Eira started quietly, and she hated the way her words were almost a whimper, hated the way her voice trembled slightly.

How do you even begin to explain this?

"Why don't you start by sitting down," Feyre suggested drily, her voice still firm.

Slowly, with trembling legs, Eira sat down on the bed, and she was unable to look at Feyre in the eyes.

"Good start," Feyre said, and there was a note of dry humour to her voice. "Now...take a deep breath, and relax."

Eira took a deep breath, trying to force her body to relax for once, and it took nearly every last ounce of her energy. She couldn't relax, not with the way she was trembling inside, shaking with a mixture of mortification, humiliation, and nervousness...

“Good advice for your wedding night as well,” Nesta said drily. “Relax. Sex is supposed to be fun.”

No, it wasn’t. It was her wifely duty and nothing more and the fact that she wanted more than simply kiss Azriel was already….

“Grandmama would kill us all,” Eira blurted out.

"Grandmama?" Feyre repeated, and if she was surprised by the sudden outburst, there was no hint of it in her voice. The sound of her grandmother's name was enough to make Eira instantly flinch, and even Nesta shot her a look from the side...

”Please tell me you don’t believe whatever utter bullshit she may have said to you,” Nesta seethed. “What did she tell you, Eira?”

“That whatever happens in a marriage is my wifely duty to carry?” Eira said weakly

"That's complete bullshit," Feyre protested at once. "Your so-called duty is not to simply lie back and do what's required of you. You're allowed to...to enjoy yourself. You do know that, right? Please tell me you know that..."

"I-I-" Eira tried to protest once more, and the words caught in her throat again. You're allowed to enjoy yourself...

The words repeated themselves in her mind, and something deep and hot stirred within her, heat shooting out through her veins, burning hotter than flames...

"Eira?" Feyre's voice was soft this time, with no hint of command or sternness in her voice anymore. "Please...please tell me you know that you don't simply have to lie back and let...let that happen. You are allowed to enjoy yourself...you know that, right?" She repeated, her eyes intent on her, studying her.

"I...I..." Her voice was little more than a whisper, her heart hammering so fast that she was surprised it hadn't beaten itself right out of her chest.

It was too much, too much to comprehend right now, to comprehend that she was allowed the enjoy what happened between a husband and a wife. You are allowed to enjoy yourself...

"You are allowed to have fun," Feyre said again, and there was a hint of determination in her voice. "You can enjoy yourself....and Azriel will do everything in his power to make sure you do..."

Another wave of heat shot through her body at Feyre's words, and her mind froze, her thoughts suddenly coming to a screeching halt. Enjoy herself...

Enjoy herself, with Azriel - Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs that she was surprised she didn't break all of them.

The image of Azriel flashed through her mind like lightning, and a wave of heat shot out from the very thought of him touching her, caressing her…

"Breathe," Nesta suddenly said, and Eira hadn't even realized she had started to forget to breathe.

"In and out," Feyre instructed, her voice still gentle. "Slow, deep breaths, Eira." Eira obeyed, and slowly, her heart rate started to return to some semblance of normal.

"Good," Feyre said at once. Now...if you allow it, I think it's time we explained some basic...anatomy."

The words made another wave of heat rush up her spine, and Eira let out a shaky breath. "A-anatomy...?" She repeated, her voice a strangled whisper.

"Basic male and female anatomy for starters," Feyre said, her voice still firm, even if she did take a more gentle tone than before. "The different...parts, as it were."

Another wave of heat shot to her cheeks at the matter-of-fact way Feyre spoke, and a moment later, something inside her crumbled, and collapsed.

"I...I have no clue what different parts you're even talking about," she mumbled, the confession burning on her tongue like hot coals...

"Not a single part?" Feyre inquired, and once more, there was no judgment, no condemnation in her voice.

Only an honest question, one that Eira knew she had to answer.

"No," she admitted after a moment. "I have not even the faintest idea..."

"You...you don't know anything about Azriel's anatomy?" This time, Feyre couldn't quite keep the surprise out of her voice, and an image of Azriel's bare chest flashed through Eira's mind without her even meaning to picture it.

A wave of heat shot up her spine at the thought, and Eira shook her head mutely. "No...I don't," she admitted, her voice strangled, and at the side, she swore she could hear Nesta snort out a breath as if this were something to laugh at. "We are going to need a...visual aid," Nesta announced before either Eira or Feyre could say another word.

“Shadows, could you make yourself useful and bring me the book from my nightstand? And then please leave us alone for the rest of the afternoon.”

There was a flutter of dark shadows in the corner of the room, and after a long moment, more shadows appeared again, one of them holding a single, slender book out for Nesta to take...

“What kind of book is that?” Feyre asked carefully.

Nesta snorted. “It’s a…sex book,” she admitted drily. “With the most adventurous positions you can imagine.”

Another wave of heat shot through Eira at Nesta's words, and for a moment, her thoughts stopped completely.

Positions? What kind of positions?!

"With pictures?" Feyre inquired, and the disbelief was more than obvious in her tone of voice.

"A lot of pictures," Nesta said, her voice still dripped with dry humour. "I don’t think there’s a single position the author hasn’t found a way to put into a drawing…”

"You...you really read that...that thing?" Eira was horrified to hear that her voice was strangled, the words coming out of her mouth in a high-pitched whine...

“Cassian and I get bored sometimes,” Nesta said with a shrug.

"You...you read that thing when you get bored ?" Eira asked, her voice strangled. Just the thought of Nesta and Cassian reading...reading those things, doing... position in the drawings…

"Sometimes the pictures give us... ideas," Nesta said drily, and once more, Eira could have sworn she heard someone chuckle. "Cassian is nothing if not adventurous."

"I don't...I don't need to know that," Eira protested, her face once more flushing a deep red at the thought of Cassian and Nesta together. Doing...what, she didn't even dare to imagine...

"No, probably not," Nesta said in something that sounded like agreement. "However, with the way you react to every mention of anything sexual, I think the pictures in this book might just give you a whole new understanding of the...mechanics."

Another wave of heat shot down Eira's back at the words, and once more, a shiver of nerves shot through her at the thought of...of the pictures. "Mechanics...what do you…I..." she started to babble.

"Calm down," Nesta instructed firmly, and her voice had a gentle, commanding note to it. "We need to get those pictures to make you...understand the anatomical differences between males and females, not to horrify you..."

"We're well past horrified at this point," Eira mumbled, but she nodded mutely nonetheless.

"Are you ready, then?" Feyre inquired gently, and Eira wasn't at all sure that she was.

"I..." Eira swallowed hard. "Yes," she choked out, even though she knew that the lie was more than obvious...

"All right then," Nesta said, her voice still oddly soothing, at least for her. "We're going to skip most of the pictures for now unless there's anything specific you want an explanation for, and explain some of the...parts that are important."

"Parts that are...what?" Eira echoed weakly, and the heat in her stomach felt like molten lava at this point.

"For now, we're going to stick to the basic, anatomical parts," Feyre instructed calmly. "So...let's start with a male, shall we?"

"All right," Eira mumbled, her eyes focused on the slender brown book that sat in Nesta's lap. It didn't look dangerous, but she knew that the things on those pages would most likely shock her to bits...

"Let's start with...the groin, or the...crotch, as some people call it," Feyre said, and Eira could see that she was having a hard time not laughing at the sheer mortification on her face.

"The...crotch..." Eira echoed, and every word coming out of her mouth made the redness on her face grow deeper as if she'd been standing in the freezing cold of Winter for days.

"The crotch," Feyre repeated, "or the genitalia, if you want the official term."

"The...genitalia..?" This time, her voice was so high-pitched, that it was near a squeak. Gods, the thought of Azriel's genitalia suddenly filled her mind like a dark, hot cloud, swirling over her...

“Here,” Nesta said drily, flicking open the book and shoving it towards Eira.

“That’s a cock. Or a prick. Or a penis or whatever else you want to call it.”

Eira glanced at the picture that was now open in the book, and what heat hadn’t already been in her face rushed up in flames.

It…it wasn’t exactly what she’d pictured when…when she’d thought of Azriel’s…parts…

“If you want to…make a baby,” Nesta said. “The male needs to insert his…prick into the female.”

"Insert...? Insert himself where?"

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #the prophecy #Looked to the sky

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pen-and-umbra · 6 months

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The second episode of the Remake, FF7 Rebirth, has proven to be a terrific experience thus far. SE obviously made a few big decisions here and there.

It is seemingly implied now that Jenova wasn't "brain-dead", and it is hinted that Sephiroth was addled during his breakdown.

It all begins with a strategically placed cut, when Sephiroth touches the door bearing the name Jenova and instructs "Cloud" to close the valve. The scene is merely functional for new fans, yet leaves a vacant space that Crisis Core players will quickly fill in with the inferred arrival of Genesis. Smart move that, leaving the interpretation to the player. Whether Genesis exists inside the Remake's continuity or not, the moment reads differently to each fan. Quite frankly, I was half-expecting “Cloud” to come across a banora apple, rolling on the floor, but I suppose that would be telling.

What's remarkable is that they give Sephiroth almost identical symptoms to those that Cloud has in the remake. Glitches and odd headaches superimpose themselves nicely over the original Crisis Core scene. And, as much as I loathe Tyler Hoechlin's acting in the game, he lends a tangible sense of rage to Sephiroth's disparaging remarks about Hojo and his experiments. You can hear the hatred, a touch of pity, and disgust directed at Hojo's work and the creatures he tortured. In Crisis Core, he refers to the test subjects as “abominations” with the same touch of bitterness.

Back to the point: glitches, pupil dilations, and headaches are visual cues for Jenovaroth's influence or proximity, as shown in the first part of the Remake. However, at this point, Sephiroth is still sane — cracking, but still himself — so the only agent who can exert influence on him is, well, Jenova.

Now, a widely established fan hypothesis maintained that Jenova was brain-dead or comatose. Bodily functions sustained, but brain activity plateaued. Rebirth, however, strangely suggests otherwise.

When "Cloud" returns to Sephiroth in the manor's basement for the second time, Sephiroth recites an excerpt from a journal purportedly written by Professor Gast:

“The specimen, found in a strata dating back two thousand years, smiled with what could only be described as 'ethereal grace'… Though the truth eluded me at first, I later determined that she was an Ancient - or a 'steward of the planet', as they are referred to in legend”.

Remembering the battles with Jenova Dreamweaver and Jenova Emergent, the creature is far from "graceful" or "ethereal". There is nothing graceful about her figure in the tube either, and she is not smiling. The game goes out of its way to lampshade the glaring contradiction by showing the flashes of Jenova’s fanged skull and grotesque body as Sephiroth quotes the passage. So how could Gast perceive her as such?.. The answer is most likely found in Jenova Dreamweaver's description given in Ultimania: the entity has the ability to induce hallucinations in individuals who come into proximity with it, which is further corroborated by Jenova Emergent description.

An ancient lifeform that Shinra Company has kept under strict confidentiality. Those who come into contact can have their conscience interfered as well as see illusions. Professor Hojo has dedicated half of his life to researching Jenova, and within the Shinra Company building's top floors lies a secret research center called the "Dome," where Jenova's cells are injected into lifeforms or machinery to conduct experiments. (Ultimania)

Gast even writes that “the truth eluded him at first”, but LATER he determines the specimen belonged to the race of Ancients, as if that answer was suggested. The implication is chilling: Jenova may have purposefully misled Gast in order to present itself as an Ancient. As Sephiroth later explains in the FF7Rb, Jenova is capable of seeing deep into one's soul and impersonating individuals you fear, love, or hate.

If ShinRA and Gast were determined to unravel the mysteries of Ancients and their Promised Land, it would make sense for Jenova to "scan" Gast and determine the best course of action: disguise itself as an Ancient in order to escape captivity in geological strata jail.

The scene in which Sephiroth reads Gast's notes is possibly the final time he is more or less himself, before Jenova's image intermingles with his for a brief moment. Again, I appreciate Tyler's voice acting in this particular section and the real rage he brought to it. Admittedly, I was concerned that with next-gen visuals, they would take a more gruesome approach, displaying Sephiroth conducting the Nibelheim carnage with sadistic pleasure, but they took a different route. Slow, zombie-like movements, and a glassy expression.

He speared the militiamen as casually as if he were spearing bugs, which is far more frightening from a narrative point. What jumped out was how they emphasized the possessed-like behavior: from snarling and flailing the book like a suffering person to an empty countenance and automaton-like strides, as if he was being beckoned. Which is what "Mother is waiting" implies.

The final segment of the Nibelheim flashback is likely the most essential as well. According to previous developer claims, Sephiroth's will took precedence over Jenova's, and he was in control — whether Jenova was brain-dead or simply of lesser willpower. However, the Rebirth appears to suggest something different right off the bat. First, "Cloud" shouts, "I believed in you… No… Not you — whoever the hell you are!", highlighting the significant personality change and the resulting lack of recognition. But then "Cloud" sees Jenova's image superimposed over that of Sephiroth in a rapid, glitch-like succession.

In other words, he sees Jenova inhabiting Sephiroth's body as a vehicle to once again escape the confinements. Whatever that means, whether it suggests that Jenova is in control from the start, or whether Sephiroth is literally the greatest functional agglomeration of her cells, and therefore literally “becomes” Jenova.

If Jenova's original body was severely damaged — either as a result of eons of incarceration or Hojo's tinkering — it stands to reason that, if she wished to carry out her plan, she would need a new body, one capable of moving at the very least. Perhaps Sephiroth, an able-bodied skilled Mako-infused fighter of considerable might, served as a better "vessel" than her original damaged one.

But the crux of the matter lies elsewhere. The possibility of Jenova being conscious and influencing Gast is very terrifying. With the potential to affect others in close vicinity, she may have influenced the minds of the whole science team behind the Jenova Project, particularly those who had long-term contact with her tissue — Gast and Hojo. It could turn out that the whole idea to revive an “Ancient” was planted by Jenova in order to grow itself a powerful host. In fact, if it could "peer into one's soul," i.e. read minds and memories, it might have easily identified a pressure point to indoctrinate people who could forward her objective. It's one thing to inject tissue samples into an adult body; it's quite another to devise a plan to inject cells into a developing human fetus. Who knows. Perhaps Hojo is such an obsessed Jenova nutcase in large part because he fell under its spell; feelings of inadequacy and being overshadowed by his colleague may have offered a crack in his defenses.

One that Jenova easily took advantage of. After all, as Dirge of Cerberus implies, Hojo ended up implanting himself with alien organic material.

Again, Jenova's power to extract information from an individual when in proximity supports a bleak reading of the events leading up to Nibelheim's ransacking. A person who kept on carrying a photograph of his supposedly late mother and badgered others about his background, as suggested by Ever Crisis episodes, was literally wearing his weakness on a sleeve.

Perhaps the 30-something years of the Jenova Project were supposed to bring Sephiroth there.

Perhaps the chain of events had been nudged in that direction, starting from the very discovery of a derelict non-human lifeform. Nudged by an intelligence both cunning and incomprehensible. And that makes Jenova a much, much scarier presence in the remake than it was ever suggested in OG.

#ffvii@luv fandoms #ffvii rebirth #ff7 #ffvii #ff7 rebirth #jenova #sephiroth #hojo #gast

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morbus-mlm · 7 days

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Gravity Falls Headcanons/Things I Think About Often (Prev)

⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋

- Mabel's modern artist who we heavily associate her with is Chappell Roan, especially her with the song HOT TO GO! Dipper deserves the same treatment but with Conan Gray okay. I need to see an edit of this silly guy set to Lonely Dancers.

- Pacifica lets her natural hair out once she leaves her family. It's closer to an ash blonde

- Wendy has always been a horror movie girlie, she's seen it all.

- Some of Wendy's friends made those "summoning ___ at 4 am" videos because they were bored, what else is there to do around this town anyways?

- pacifica is a youtuber, she's also a pretty sucessful pro-gamer. She is canonically very good with fps, so she decided to take it to a pro level.

- dipper creates some sort of mystery solving/ghost hunting/conspiracy analyzing show. It's a continuation on stuff he did in childhood (Dipper's Guide to the Unexplained).

- Mabel cannot be contained by a job title, she has done everything and anything creative. I feel like her main job would be something like a tattoo artist but on the side she sells sweaters on etsy, does drawing comms, animated, made music, she has her hands everywhere.

- Mabel, Paz, & Dipper will sometimes visit each other when working. I like the idea of Paz guesting on an episode of Dipper's mystery show, Mabel trying to play fps with Paz, Dipper visiting Mabel's tattoo shop and getting pierced there.

- Soos' keyboard getting decorated by the people he considers family. It starts with Mabel putting on like, five stickers on the bottom of it. Stan & Ford both carve into the sides of it. Dipper draws on it in marker. Melody writes words of affection on the sides/an inside joke between them. Abuelita is the one who etches Soos' name onto the keyboard case. Wendy writes like a cool, motivational quote on the case.

- the Hand Witch, her whole situation is looking towards the better. She and her man read as that one meme, "my witch gf" "me letting her do whatever the hell she wants"

- Wendy modifies her furbies. She is absolutely one of those people who makes long neck furbies and puts lights in their eyes/ears.

- Emma-May & Fiddleford do not reconnect. Emma doesn't know about Fidd's work in the portal, but she does know about him losing his sanity. She does feel sympathetic and understanding towards his situation, but ultimately she doesn't want to force a romantic dynamic with him.

- There are parts of her that have moved on, there are parts of her that still feel anger, and sadness over what happened between them. She's happy that he's in a better state now and reconnecting with their son. Emma-May writes to Fiddleford, hoping that he has a good recovery.

- Fiddleford writes a single letter to her. He writes that he is sorry for not being their to support her, to help her raise their child. I feel like he would be very apologetic but not self-aggrandizing.

- There are parts of him that are still angry at himself, and ones that still wish to avoid dealing with such a difficult and messy situation. But he is a man who moves forward. He writes that he's grateful for Emma-May's wishes, and he wishes her well in return.

- Although their romantic bond with each other has severed, their relationship ends on a kind note.

- ford plays the fiddle, fiddleford plays the banjo.

- If Ford and Fidd were in a romantic relationship, those two would be reserved in public, but real tender in private. Those two read to me as more reserved with their romances.

- Stan after a while just tunes out their calls to each other. They will get in the fucking, "no you hang up" loop, or the "ily" loop

- Ford unlearns a lot of things instilled in him as a child. the ideas of him being the golden boy or something special (both in the positive and negative sense), are something he now recognizes as ideas, not reality.

- this realization really sets in for him due to a lot of reading, him catching up on modern sciences, including psychology. (it's mostly him almost losing stan)

- Stanley is trying to do the same with his own thoughts of being the screw up, the scapegoat, it's hard for him in different ways. Stanley is a person who, "would insult himself first before anyone else could get to it" without his bravado+con-man persona.

- But they both put in the work. They're good brothers, they help each other.

- both the grunkles favorite sweet after all these years is saltwater taffee,

- I feel like Pacifica connects well with the adults in the town who aren't her parents. She doesn't exactly see any person as a parental figure, I think she just absorbs advice and experience from the people around her yk. Like her and Lazy Susan definitely have a stronger bond than Paz and her mom.

- Bill never really comes back, he just speaks like he has. In TBoB he acts like he's tough shit, but ultimately he's still in the psych ward-- like. This being has no real authority. I like to think therapy is working out for him, he has good days and bad days.

- Just based on my recollection, McGucket is a very agile man. He seems to be able to crawl up & down surfaces not built for climbing.

- I like to think that post series he takes up mountain climbing/hiking because by this point, he's less scared of supernatural beings compared to when he first came to Gravity Falls.

- McGucket dressing himself, McGucket finally being in a position where he can afford different clothing other than his slacks, him feeling present in his own body again. McGucket in green cowboy wear, (look i really like this Appalachian man, i would very much like to see him old and happy).

- Mystery trio (Stan, Ford, & Fidd) post-cannon. The twins travel the world, occasionally bringing Fidd along for the ride. Fidd is their guy in the chair, the person creating tech on the fly, their #1 man. These three men are absolutely on their way to adventure.

- the X-Men movies hold a soft spot for the Pines Family. They have all of them on DVD, usually the collectors editions. All of the Pines have a crush on Logan. The Stans both love older Logan—

- Mabel's room/home would be filled with little collectables (like tchotchkes or sonny angels)

- Stanley meets the Peanuts artists/goes to Knotsberry Farm. Stan gets a hug from Snoopy and he starts bawling.

- Shermie. I do not care if he is the elder or the younger, all I know is that he is the calmer sibling of the three. Is he well adjusted, (no, you kinda can't be if you were raised by Fillbrick), but he is the most normal.

- Stan's art is clearly influenced by the Peanuts, Ford's art influences are 80s sci-fi + realism. Shermie, his is Hanna-Barbera.

#p #gravity falls #mystery twins #kings of new jersey #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddauthor #other ships are present but can be interpreted as platonic #again more characters are brought up but I don't want to tag it all #NO STANCEST #GET OUT IF YOU ENJOY IT #text #long post

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celeste444spacey · 2 months

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Why be private and why celebrities chose to be private

thanks to kpop anon for the beautiful post rec

Hello loves, i know we are here and we are manifesting that fame and all that shit. The fame and noticeability is certain. Is the way you can handle it certain too?

We all know branding is so freaking important, not just as a person but as a celebrity??? You HIRE people for it. It's undeniable at this point that socials are practically key promoter of brand for famous people. But in the era of oversharing and overposting, even the most A-list of celebrities can quickly lose their allure. Plus, it's not cute if your whole life is on show just for everyone to know.

I will be the first to say (don't quote me), the statement "if it's not on social media, it didn't happen" is not true.

WHY?

Literally each and every thought of a person lately is somewhere on social media. And it's kind of bad. Cause like where's the mystery of an individual now??? And people are forgetting about digital footprint (god knows some of y'all need to remember it exists).

WHY WOULD A CELEBRITY CHOSE TO BE PRIVATE

Simple. It's not anyone else's business.

Why the fuck would Beyonce want the world to know that she had eggs for breakfast? Or that Blue Ivy did something funny? It's not the public's business.

That adds to the allure of Beyonce as well. Why do you think she's the celebrity for celebrities??? Let me explain with the word

UNATTAINABILITY

That woman is not available to just anyone. She doesn't go to every party there is, isn't posting all the freaking time, not letting us know every move she makes; just the ones we need to know.

And that adds to her charm. Humans like unattainability. Mystery draws people in. Proof? Why do you get excited when someone is telling you a secret? Nobody else knows it, so you feel exclusive. The exclusivity makes you feel connected and stuff, and humans crave connection.

And where do you get that connection with Bey? Through her music. That's where relatability comes in. Her feelings, her raw emotions, her struggles and her vulnerability.

WHY RELATABILITY AFTER A CERTAIN POINT LOSES ITS CHARM

Fans love relatable celebrities. But there should also be a line to that. Why? after a certain point, it's pretentious

Yes okay you binge watched that show and reacted the same way to the plot twists like other people. But you don't have to constantly remind us that you do embarassing things like normal people. YES WE GET IT YOU'RE HUMAN AND JUST LIKE US- wait but you're NOT JUST LIKE US!

At the end of the day you are still famous. You're wealthy and privileged to a certain extent. You're living a better life in many ways than the general population.

Do not confuse being humble with downplaying your pedestal.

Being humble is recognizing where you come from and being grounded and grateful for your oppurtunities and platform and still acknowledging your success. Not reminding your 11 million followers that you have chips everyday.

AND YOU SHOULD BE PRIVATE TOO

It's fucking alluring. that's why we love Alexa Demie. Do you know anything about her??? Exactly. And it's hot.

Don't make your life so available to people, it's exclusive xx

LOVES AGAIN TO KPOP ANON

i could make a part 2 or "spin off" of this post, it was so fun

#law of assumption #loa #affirmations #manifest #self concept #self care #law of attraction #manifestation #manifesting #it girl #fame manifestation

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sualne · 8 months

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Crocodad AU Story overview from mid prologue to the end of Arc 2, checks out the current timeline of published comics to remember where we left of. Does not include the Strawhat whereabouts. Anything is up to change but that's the gist of it.

Warning for blood, injuries and general angst.

Luffy is easy to read as autistic and dyslexic in canon, i wanted to see what it would be like accumulating learning disabilities in an AU where he's expected to study, the struggles that comes from it. Again, disabled ppl being disabled is important to me, all that.

Not mentioned here but Luffy is upset with his father already with his constant plotting, all the plants are dead now and there's a lot less ppl outside when he goes out with Robin. He doesn't fully understand what's going on but know it his fault and in order to take over Alabasta. On multiple occasions he makes it clear he doesn't want to be prince or have anything to do with Baroque Works.

That feeling of helplessness born from Crocodile's disregard for his feeling and really, own sense of personhood, is a problem through the whole of the story until Arc 7 when Crocodile has to face the fact that his kid is a whole person. The actual quote in my note is "once again he's incapable of seeing luffy as his own capable (unhinged) person".

Also Miss Mini Sorbet gets injured trying to protect Luffy when he's being tied up, that's how she gets her scar and why Crocodile insist she's not a bodyguard.

Unlike in canon Luffy doesn't magically recover from being stabbed, he still magically survive and recovers pretty well considering he's been impaled but still, i like when things have a little bit of consequences health wise. The exact nature of his new condition stays a mystery until Arc 4, though there's plenty of clues through the arcs.

Arc 2 is all text. I didn't want to draw an entire crowd of ppl fighting but there's lots of vivid imagery in my mind.

#crocodad au #my art #undescribed #whoospies. misclicked and posted this early without tags. ok good correction done. ran out of brain to write. thanks for loving this au #ilyall for your comments ty

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ckret2 · 2 months

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Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it.

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song.

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike.

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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lipstickmarks · 1 month

Text

beauty is a beast that roars, down on all fours, demanding Mor. 💋🍷🍒🥧

Pairing: Mor x fem!reader, former Azriel x fem!reader (mentioned)

Summary: "They've both taken lovers over the years..." // Azriel and Mor have both taken lovers over the years but what happens when Mor discovers they both have had you? Your "fling" with Mor that is growing more serious by the day and your history with Ariel becomes the catalyst for Mor finally admitting the truth to Azriel.

Word Count: 4.9K

Warnings: violence (not toward reader or Mor), blood, alcohol, coming out, internalized homophobia?, mentions of death (in the past), nipple play, scissoring, tribbing, food play, teasing, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), fingering, hickeys, biting, fluff, mean Mor lowkey 🤭

Author's note: title has nothing to do with anything except the fact that it always reminds me of Mor and I felt like "she's my cherry pie" was too cheesy | if I missed any tags, pls lmk! I don't know all the fancy terms for this shit nowadays 🫶🏻

It was a stupid, idiotic game suggested by stupid idiotic males.

Mor was nursing a glass of red wine, sat at a round moonstone table at the river estate. The inner circle’s usual night of reverie at Rita’s culminated in everyone slumping back to the estate half-dead with 90% liquor in their veins. The night started out fun with good food and good-natured ribbing amongst her family but it had devolved into a headache. Truly, a nuisance was building at the back of her head, thumping uncomfortably. The alcohol certainly didn’t help but she wasn’t about to endure a drunk Cassian and Azriel without a buzz going.

Feyre and Rhys had absconded to their room long ago and Amren had disappeared with no notice and no indication as to where she had gone (typical). Elain and Lucien went on a moonlit walk and Nesta had deemed the night over and stomped up to her room the moment Cassian started quoting a dirty passage from the novel she was currently reading.

Leaving Mor with Cassian and Azriel and a stupid, idiotic game.

They had somehow gotten on the topic of lovers and Cassian being Cassian, was eager to pry into everyone’s intimate business.

Mor was planning to call it a night soon anyway. This game didn’t interest her and she’d rather be with you. In your arms, in your bed. You’d known each other loosely for a while ever since you worked as a lounge singer at Rita’s but one night, Mor was one of the only people left in the place after your set. You two got to talking and the chemistry was un-fucking-deniable. Your chance meeting quickly blossomed into a fling.

Except something deeply wounded Mor to call it a fling. It made it sound so… cheap and flimsy. Yes, you were phenomenal in bed. Yes, she could cum just from the mental image of you with your head thrown back and her fingers plunged inside you. But you were also talented and ambitious and witty and matched her tit for tat when it came to her silver tongue. There was still some anxiety she felt when she was with females. It never allowed her to fully relax or lose herself in a moment. But you…

You excited her.

“Okay, okay. Azriel’s turn. Name the best lover you’ve ever had.” Cassian smirked.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” Azriel said.

“Come on, Az! I told you mine!”

Azriel snorted.

“You’re mated. You wouldn’t have said any name except Nesta’s. And if you had, she would have ran down here and kicked you in the balls.”

“And it would have been a major turn on because everything Nesta does turns me on because Nesta is the best lover I’ve ever had now DISH!” Cassian screamed, pointing his wine glass at Azriel and making the wine spill everywhere.

Normally, Azriel didn’t partake in such games. He didn’t kiss and tell. He was respectful and likely got a kick out of being so stoic and mysterious. But they had been drinking so heavily for so long. The shadowsinger’s hazel eyes were swimming with mischief.

“Alright. It was fairly recent. About 10 years ago.” Azriel began to loosely describe this female he had a fling with over the winter that he met while shopping for Solstice presents. The smirk on his face deepened as he described their love making. “She had a phenomenal body and I swear, I didn’t think it was possible for my dick to go so deep inside someone. She was a great cook, too. She always baked me a pie afterward. ” Mor was barely listening. She was about to dump her wine into the plant in the corner and winnow to your apartment when something turned her blood to ice.

Your name.

Your name coming from Azriel’s lips.

It happened in less than a span of a heartbeat. Less than the flutter of an eye closing than it took for Mor to sail across the table and connect her fist with Azriel’s jaw.

She could barely register Azrie’s weight beneath her, Cassian’s cackle that turned into a worried shout was muffled as she began punching Azriel over and over. Mor roared and gripped the lapels of Azriel’s shirt, readying to bash his head into the floor when a force stronger than drunken Mor pulled her away.

Azriel’s shadows.

Azriel groaned, blood trickling out of his nose mixing with the spilt wine on the floor. He wriggled his nose and winced. Not broken but Mor gotten in a hell of a punch.

“What the hell, Mor?!” Cassian shouted.

Mor was held back by Azriel’s shadows, tears streaming down her face. So many emotions were washing over her at once, spawning in the pit of her stomach and trailing to the center of her chest. Jealousy and rage flowed to the top.

Azriel had been with you. The two of you had made love. Azriel had known your body, tasted you, gazed upon you in your naked form. He’d known the pleasure only you can provide.

And she wanted to fucking kill him for it.

Azriel just stared at Mor while Cassian berated her, screaming some nonsense about how they’re a family and hitting is only okay if they did something to provoke it.

“Cassian.” Azriel’s sharp voice cut in. “Leave us.”

Cassian complied. Even this drunk, he could tell when his brother truly needed something. He murmured something about going to get ice and a healing tonic and left the two of them alone.

Azriel stood up and slowly walked to where Mor was restrained by his shadows. Another feeling started to mix in with the others. Shame. She’d hit Azriel. She’d hurt Azriel. She’d hurt her family. And now there was no hiding anymore.

Azriel leveled his gaze at her and Mor shivered. He’d never looked at her that way. Never as the feared, icy, ruthless Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

“Is there something you need to tell me, Morrigan?”

***

Mor insisted on talking in Azriel’s room. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted anyone else to hear and his was the only one she trusted to be thoroughly soundproof.

She sat on Azriel’s bed, clutching a pillow in her lap while Azriel stood over her. A blush crept onto her cheeks.

“Don’t stand there, Azriel, like I’m a teenager in trouble. Sit.”

It was his room and his nose and jaw that she’d tried to break but still, he sat.

Mor took several steadying breaths and begged herself not to cry. She wouldn’t be able to get out the words if she cried. But still, her cheeks and eyes warmed as fat tears began to pool in her eyes. One of Azriel’s shadows came up to wipe them away.

And Azriel’s scarred hand gently placed atop hers.

“Mor…” His voice was tight. He’d only seen her cry on a few occasions: when Rhys was captured by Amarantha, when Rhys returned, when Nyx was born and he and his parents almost died… It wasn’t a sight he enjoyed.

“I just–” She heaved a sob. “I need a minute, okay?”

Azriel squeezed her hand.

“I’ll wait.”

Azriel had waited. He’d waited 500 years for something to happen between them. Something that would never happen. Something that Mor had communicated in a roundabout, cruel way. Gods, she hated herself for it. But who could blame her for being skittish? For being so scared that she’d kept this part of herself hidden from even her family?

…Azriel wouldn’t.

Mor took another breath. And another. And another after Azriel had conjured up a glass of water for her.

They sat there for close to 20 minutes before she finally spoke.

“The first fae I ever loved…” Mor sighed. “Was a female named Andromeda.”

She weaved the tale over an hour and a half, detailing the first flicker of confusing affection she felt for females, twined with the lesser but still present affection for males. The sexual politics of her taking Cassian as her first lover. Andromeda. Their love story that culminated in the loneliest sadness Mor had ever felt. Loving and losing and her heart caving in all while her family was unaware. The lingering fear and panic she felt regarding her father and Beron and Eris. How she’d avoided Azriel by sleeping around with other males. All leading up to you. How the two of you met at Rita’s one late night after you’d finished a set. How she bought you a drink. How she bought you a second drink. How you became quick friends. How your friendship spiraled into something steamy and undeniable. How Azriel saying your name had unlocked a river of white-hot rage buried so deep inside her that she didn’t even feel like herself when she’d launched herself across the table at him.

Her throat was dry and raspy by the time she was done talking. She’d cried through a lot of it, especially when talking about Andromeda. She braced herself for Azriel’s reaction.

“I am sorry that you have been hurting, Mor. But I am also hurt that you thought–” Azriel’s head whipped to the side like he’d been phantom-smacked. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I am hurt that you thought I would… what? Berate you? Drag you kicking and screaming into the Court of Nightmares and drop you at Kier’s feet? Be so heartbroken that I would resent you?”

Mor shuddered.

“Don’t you?”

Azriel sighed.

“Mor, you are… dazzling. Beauty and wits and heart is what you’re made of. It’s no mystery why I fell for you. It’s no mystery why anyone would fall for you. You’re also kind, and caring, and family.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes burned into hers and she shifted slightly on the bed, unnerved by the intensity of it.

“You were always going to be one of the most important people in my life. And no, our relationship didn’t fall into place the way I desired it to and yes, it hurts but what I can’t get over is that you didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust any of us.”

Mor pulled on the end of her dress, just to have something to do with her body aside from sit here in this uncomfortable conversation.

“Um, actually… Feyre knows.”

Another deep sigh from Azriel. Mor has never felt so small. So unguarded. Her secrecy was the only armor she had and now it was dust in the wind. No going back.

“Do you hate me?” She whispered.

Azriel scoffed.

“By the Cauldron, Mor, have you been listening to me?” Azriel reached for her hands. “I could never hate you. I don’t care if you like females or males or both or neither. I don’t give a shit about any of it. You are my family. In 500 years, I have never felt safer than I have with all of you.”

She sniffled, tears welling in her eyes once more.

“Really?”

“Of course.” Azriel said, his voice softer than it had been all night. “Look, I’m not saying I’m happy with you for toying with my feelings and this might take a while for me to process the fact that it’s never going to be us but… I love you, Mor. I’m happy when I’m around you and it kills me to know that you haven’t been completely happy around all of us.”

Mor felt a swell of relief in her chest. She slipped her arms around his neck and hugged Azriel and hugged him and hugged him until she felt like crying again. This time, she let the tears fall until she was sobbing into his chest.

They spent two more hours talking, ironing out their feelings, and crying. Well, mostly Mor cried. Azriel conjured up more water for her and some food as well. It was practically dawn anyway with the dark blue sky conceding to a blushing, orange sunrise.

“How do you feel now?” Azriel asked over a strawberry flake strudel. He was now sitting at the foot of his bed, his back leaning against one of the four posters as his wings draped lazily on the ground.

Mor loosed a long sigh and pulled the straw in and out of the plastic coffee cup she had long since drained until Azriel told her to stop because the sound was annoying.

“I feel like… I want to go see my girlfriend.” She was spent. Her emotions had all spilled out of her like nightmare vomit and she was utterly empty. She craved nothing more than to curl up in your warm bed and stroke your soft hair until she fell asleep.

Azriel barked out a laugh.

Mor’s brows knit into a line. She kicked at Azriel’s foot but he quickly dodged.

“What?” She bit.

“That’s a funny word.” Azriel said, smirking as he finished off his breakfast treat.

Mor sat her cup on his nightstand and sat up.

“What do you mean?” Sure, you two didn’t have a label yet. But you were basically girlfriends, right? You spent most nights together, you slept together, went shopping in Velaris together, had lunch dates all the time. At least, she hoped you’d want to be her girlfriend.

Azriel rolled his eyes at her.

“Morrigan. You flew across a ten-foot long table and beat the shit out of me just because one time, a decade ago, I slept with–”

Mor growled. That same feeling she got when Azriel first said your name last night was building up again. She felt it from her navel all the way up to her chest. A dark, swirling vortex of negative emotions and yet, somewhere within was a bright white light.

No, not white.

Golden.

Mor’s entire world cracked open. Every scar. Every ounce of pain and trauma that she’d collected split open and filled with a shimmering golden liquid that came from the reservoir of your soul and bled into hers.

“...mate.”

Azriel said it the moment Mor realized it. Everything aligned for her in that moment. The seas were bluer, the birds chirped a perfect melody, and everything made sense. It had all been for this. All been for you. Every awful horror, every fitful night of sleep, everything… it was all aligning for Mor to find you.

She scrambled to get up, all the while Azriel was laughing. She couldn’t find her shoes. Where were her godsdamned shoes?

Mor decided to forgo the accessories and just go straight to you. Barefoot and in love. And although the bond was pulling at her, willing her to find you, she turned back to Azriel.

“Az? Are we… are we going to be okay?” She was scared to ask, but it was high time to stop being afraid. To stop keeping Azriel–her entire family, really– at an arm’s length. They all loved her and she needed to embrace that, or else she’d never be truly happy.

Azriel leaned his head against his four-poster.

“Of course we will, Mor. Maybe not today, but we will be.”

Mor nodded slowly and headed for the door. She looked back one last time at Azriel. At her family. She knows she hurt him and she would have to do some serious groveling to earn his forgiveness. Even though he was a good male and would likely not accept any gifts or excessive sweetness, she would do it anyway. Mor would win back his trust and help heal the scars she inflicted. But the cage she had trapped herself in had suddenly combusted. The world was wide open. And she liked it. And so Mor said, for perhaps the first time in her life, but meaning it fully:

“I love you, Azriel.”

***

Rushed knocks were all she could manage. Feeling a mating bond that had yet to be reciprocated was suffocating and intoxicating all at once. She was shaking and bouncing on her feet like she’d had 300 coffees. If you didn’t open the door in three seconds, Mor didn’t know if she could keep herself from knocking it down.

Mercifully, it swung open. And there you stood.

Her mate.

Her perfect, beautiful mate.

You wore a pair of tiny shorts and a very thin, very see-through white tank top underneath a red kimono robe that Mor was almost certain had once been at home in her closet.

Despite dawn just rising up to wish Velaris a good morning, you didn’t seem perturbed at Mor’s early intrusion. You gave her a lazy feline smile.

“Hey, good looking—”

You never even had a chance. Mor pounced on you like a jungle cat, claiming your mouth with hers and grabbing at whatever skin she could get her hands on. Although surprised, you didn’t waver for even a moment. You slid your hands up through the fae’s hair and walked her backwards into your apartment.

Mor’s heart sang a golden chorus that blended in with chirping birds and distant water fountains.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Happy. Happy. Happy.

You pulled Mor off of you for only a moment, but she chased after your lips, her hands practically pawing at your chest like a needy housecat.

“What’s gotten into you?” You asked, giggling. But the second Mor’s wide eyes looked into yours. You saw it. You felt it. That golden tether tying you to Mor.

The noise you let out was something between a happy gasp and a squeal.

You surged up and kissed her again, parting and letting her claim your mouth and claim you. She tugged the kimono down, shoving it off your perfect shoulders. You tried to do the same with her dress but she insisted on wearing those cross-back ones and intricate tit chains and it was so complicated to get off in a rush.

But eventually you both worked all the offending garments off and onto the floor. Mor lifted you up and carried you to your kitchen table, her mouth never leaving your neck as she did so.

She laid you out on your back and attacked your neck with kisses, nipping and biting at your jaw, your ear, anywhere she could reach. Her fingers went down to trace the insides of your thighs, drawing a shudder of pleasure from you.

Her hand dipped even further, her middle finger tracing the outside of your entrance, barely ghosting over your skin, playing in the wetness that was already there.

“Wait!” You shouted, just before Mor could get her fingers inside of you.

Her brows knit together in concern and her perfect lips formed a pout, but the distress melted when she saw you reach across the kitchen table grabbing at a tin of cherry pie you had made. You pulled it toward you and grabbed a sloppy handful from the middle. You held it out to Mor, your eyes wide from both love and lust.

“Eat.” You gently nudged the pie up onto her lips.

Mor watched a stream of cherry juice drip down your hand and wrist. She leaned in and traced it with her tongue, collecting it off your skin. She dragged her tongue down your arm and back up until she took your entire pinky in her mouth, sucking on the digit. Then she did the same with your ring finger and your middle finger and so on. Her teasing was utterly unfair and you pouted as she took her sweet time sucking on your fingers until she finally ate the handful of pie you’d extended out to her.

A pang of jealousy sang in her chest, remembering that you baked pies for Azriel after every time you did it but the solidification of the bond quickly stamped that out.

Mor ate every bit of pie you offered her and licked the palm of your hand clean. Her lips were stained red from the cherries and the sweetness rested pleasantly on her tongue.

“I love you.” She murmured, placing kisses along your bare chest and over your boobs. She wrapped her mouth around a nipple and sucked and nipped at it, drawing precious little “ah!”s and moans from you.

“Mm… I love you too, Mor.” You said, twining your fingers in her hair, not caring that you were getting pie crumbs all in your lover’s blonde hair. Because she wasn’t just your lover anymore. She was your mate.

She fixed her attention on your other nipple and her fingers found her way back to your entrance, teasing, grazing.

Your mate sat up, eye-fucking you as she took in your form. It didn’t make you shy. You were never shy with Mor, or at Rita’s when you were belting out a song. It was one of the things she loved about you. One of the reasons you were perfectly matched to her. The Mother did a good fucking job.

“How much do you love me?” Mor said in a sing-song tone, dragging her knuckle up your slit.

“So much.” You gasped. You truly did love Mor. She was confident and carefree and fun. She made you feel like every day only happened so you could experience pleasure. Like mornings were made for strolls in the sun and evenings were made for lovemaking under the moonlight. There was no pain and no turmoil when you were together. There was just you and your mate and the golden love that flowed through you and around you.

“How good do I fuck you, baby?” She whispered, sliding one finger inside you.

You gasped and grabbed her wrist. Not to stop her but just to have any sort of contact with you. Mor rectified this immediately by holding one of your hands in her free one and pressing kisses to the back of it.

“So good, Mor.” You murmured as she lazily dragged her finger in and out of you. It wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Sensing your needs, knowing exactly what her sweet mate needed, she added another finger and amped up her speed ever so slightly. You moaned your affirmation.

“I know what you like.” She whispered. The minx. You could hear the smirk on her face.

She pulled you right to the edge and then retracted her fingers faster than you could comprehend. Your eyes shot open and tears quickly filled them, so close to your peak and then denied so quickly.

Mor shook her head, grinning at you the whole time.

“Sweet girl… you know how this goes. We don’t ever finish that quickly. Besides,” Mor dug her fingers into the pie you had decimated, plucking out a single cherry and holding it up to the light, admiring it like a lost artifact. “You haven’t had breakfast.”

She dragged the cherry around your lips, painting them red. Your tongue darted out to lick at the tips of her fingers and she placed the cherry on your tongue. You chewed and felt the bond growing stronger, more prominent in your chest with every little bite. The second you swallowed, Mor was on you again, kissing you desperately, licking into your mouth.

She hiked your leg up and started grinding her wet cunt against yours. The warmth was perfect and you felt your body and soul practically singing with how right it felt, how perfect you two were.

Mor’s warm, wet pussy was like a dream. You grinded against her, creating more friction and soon you were both shouting, both unable to contain your moans. Mor sped up, bouncing against you and that simply wouldn’t do. You couldn’t let her have all the fun. You broke from the kiss and took her nipple in your mouth, sucking on it as she had done to you. Except, you had a little payback in mind for her edging you. You let go of her nipple with a wet pop and started sucking a love bite onto the skin of her breast, right on top where it would be visible in those low cut dresses she wore. Everyone would know she had a mate. Everyone would know she belonged to you.

Mor moaned your name in a desperate whisper, increasing her speed. The two of you weren’t going to last long. The pressure was building up and it was already too perfect, too all-consuming.

Once you were satisfied with the darkening mark on her chest, you latched onto her neck, kissing and sucking. But that wasn’t enough for your mate. She gripped your chin in her hands and kissed you desperately. Like she needed you to breathe.

That was what sent you over the edge.

You came and Mor followed soon after. The pleasure flowed through you two freely like the love through the bond. You’d never felt so connected to someone and by the pulsating you felt at the other end, you knew Mor hadn’t either.

“I love you.” She slurred, pupils blown wide with lust. You swore they almost looked like little hearts.

You returned the sentiment, murmuring it into her skin as you kissed up her sternum and across her jaw before she finally gripped a fistful of your hair and dragged you up to her lips.

You sighed in contentment against your mate. But Mor wasn’t done with you yet.

She sunk to her knees in front of you, eye-level with your glistening wet pussy.

“So…” she drawled, licking a stripe up your slit, collecting both her and your wetness on her tongue. “When were you gonna tell me you fucked Azriel?”

At the same moment you uttered “what?” Mor plunged her tongue inside you, swirling around and suckling at your clit. You clawed at the table, wishing you had laid a tablecloth down so you’d have something to grip onto. You were still so, so sensitive but Mor was relentless as she toyed with your bundle of nerves.

“I know you fucked him…” She mumbled against your hot core.

You laid your head back in pleasure, unable to form any thoughts. Mor knew you liked a little overstimulation and the mating bond was amplifying it by one hundred.

“Was a long time ago…” You murmured. Utterly pussy-drunk.

“Don’t care.” Mor said, plunging a finger inside you. “Should’ve told me. I almost broke his nose.”

Some part of you deep down felt bad for Azriel but that part was trapped beneath an ocean of pleasure and right now, you’re not sure you could even remember what Azriel looked like.

“Mmm…” You moaned, your clit twitching as Mor sucked on it. She added two fingers, pumping in and out of you faster than she did before.

Mor brought you to the edge again and you could barely register her lifting you up and carrying you into the bathroom. You were so lost in your own pleasure and the feeling of your mate holding you that no other sensations even mattered. Your body simultaneously roared at you to fall asleep and to hop onto Mor’s lap and grind your pussy against hers over and over again.

“Sleep, my love.” Mor said.

You felt her easing the two of you into a hot bath, her keeping you tight against her chest.

“No.” You grumbled petulantly, though your eyes fluttered closed. She did wake you up awfully early and make you cum twice. Mating frenzy or no, you were exhausted. “Need to fuck you.”

Mor giggled against your ear.

“We’ll have a lifetime of that, baby.” Mor ran her fingers up and down your arm, the sensation calming you and sending tiny tingles of pleasure to your brain. She was most definitely moving you into the river house once the frenzy was over. Or she could move in here with you. Or maybe you two would build a new property. You could design your dream home together. Whatever. Permanent decisions could wait until after your mating ceremony. Because you would be having a mating ceremony. A spectacular, classy, romantic affair. Candles everywhere and her whole family in attendance. All of fucking Velaris. She would marry you in front of anyone anywhere in the world.

You nodded your affirmation and slumped against your mate as she took to washing you both with your nice smelling soaps.

When you woke up, Mor would find your vibrator and make you come two more times with it. She loved getting you worked up because once it was her turn, you were relentless. You would pull orgasm after orgasm from her until she was in tears and screaming your name so loud, the cranky neighbors pounded on your door demanding you keep it down.

“Tell me, mate.” Mor whispered as she shampooed your hair. “What flavor pie did you bake Azriel after he fucked you?”

You hummed and pinched Mor’s thigh for fixating on silly things and pulling you out of your sleep. You and Azriel had a fling that lasted less than a winter season ten years ago and had only ever been casual friends since. It was nothing compared to what you felt for Mor. How pleasure overtook every cell in your body when you were together, even if all you were doing was sharing a turkey sandwich at a bistro down by the Sidra.

If you peeked into your skull, it would be filled with images of Mor. Your lover, your best friend, your mate. She was your ending and your beginning. Nothing before or since matters.

“Blueberry.”

Mor nipped your ear and your moan signaled you liked that a little too much. Even as your eyes fluttered shut, you grabbed her hand and guided it to your center. You wanted her to make you cum one more time, just one more teeny tiny orgasm before you fall asleep.

Mor massaged your wet, soapy breast with one hand while the other lazily circled your clit. She pressed hot kisses over your neck, occasionally licking and nipping the skin there too.

“You’re only making cherry from now on.”

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