#i've been thinking of doing this for a while

[thewitchblue]

"There's nothing wrong with you, Jay."

You murmured to him. He had a panic attack after a nightmare and panted softly in your arms. Everything was overwhelming, but your calming voice was guiding him back to reality.

The nightmare was bad enough to wake him up on his own instead of staying trapped until you wake him. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs. What's wrong with him? Why are you still putting up with him? You wake up every time he has nightmares, yet you comfort him the entire time.

"There's so much wrong with me, pipsqueak."

He says the nickname with so much love it melted your heart. You showered him in kisses while saying,

"You do what you have to do to survive."

He shuddered. He's a bad man in his mind. He has too much blood on his hands. Even if they were criminals, he still thinks he's a bad man. He felt tainted. He whispered,

"How can you love me when you know what I've done?"

He needed to know how you could even stand looking at him. You were so sweet and kind. You warmly said,

"I can love you because I know you."

He looked at you in confusion. Of course you know him. You wouldn't be sleeping in his bed with him if you were a stranger. You softly explain,

"I know you break into bakeries at night to get me my favourite pastry, but leave money on the counter so you don't feel like a complete jerk. I know you love my cheesy romance books despite pretending you don't. I know you love cooking for me so I can eat the leftovers and remember you."

Jason grumbled. He's always been a man who thinks actions speak infinitely louder than words. Anything is worth it for you. You continued with a smile,

"I know you love my lame jokes. You love to cuddle, and you replay romance scenes with me when you read a story you particularly enjoyed."

Jason hid his face in your hair. The big bad Red Hood was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, and you loved him for it.

You kissed the top of his head. He was nestled in your side comfortably with his large frame curled to make it easier to cuddle. He placed his head on top of your chest and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. He needed to be reassured that you were here and alive.

You let him listen to your heartbeat while you played with his hair the way he liked it. You smiled as you said,

"I love your smile, and I don't care one bit about the blood on your hands. You are protecting the ones you love in the only way you think will work. I know you pretend to dislike your family, and you'll fake gag around their significant others, but your romantic heart soars when you see couples being in love."

The gentle hand rubbing his scalp and your soothing heartbeat was luring him back to sleep. So what if he is a bit of a romantic. He can't help the way he feels.

"I know you read the books I recently read just so we can have a conversation about it."

Jason blushed. He thought he'd been sneakier about stealing books. He's read every book in your house during the two years he's been dating you.

He's a book thief, but he always returns the book and even organised the bookcase for you when you complained that you needed to organise it. You were looking for a book to give him, and it took a good fifteen minutes to find the book. You continued,

"I know you love when I lay on top of you because I feel like a weighted blanket, and you love when I hug you from behind to feel the height difference between us."

Jason yawned. You love this man with your whole heart. You don't care about Red Hood. You care about Jason Peter Todd, the love of your life. His large arms tightened around you before relaxing. He rolled you on top of him and kissed your forehead.

"I love you, pipsqueak."

You smiled at him and gave him a long kiss before softly replying,

"I love you too, hoodlum."

[dogboyautism]

I used to work there and I hated this fucking shit. The name was usually the store manager no matter whoever was at the station, it (at least for my store) says your food is in the "prep" stage as soon as it's received which leads to people calling and saying "I see on the website that it's been prepping for 30mins why is that-" when it's usually bc they ordered a pizza during the FRIDAY NIGHT RUSH, and after that we'd usually switch gears into making their shit first bc we'd know they were hawking it. This creates a domino (HAHA) effect where both people learn that "oh if I call they'll do it faster" and the queue of orders gets disrupted, which leads to mistakes and MORE PEOPLE CALLING THE STORE saying shit like "it says here that [name] has been preparing my order for [long pause] 45 mins now. Did they forget about it or what?" Which is so fucking frustrating to deal with on top of everything else; I was hired to just answer the phone btw, I ended up doing opening, closing, food prep, "oh you're getting a license? That's so cool Jacob, and you're already 18 so you could pick up deliveries when we're busy! No pressure ofc kiddo, we know you're only just learning to drive."

Anyway, this system is based on one I've worked with anytime I've worked with food. At a McDonald's I worked at 3 years prior they used it pretty much verbatim, and that was well before you could order from there. They used it in the drive thru and we were all told that our "times" were "closely monitored," the "best in the state," but still always "closely monitored." But the system: just a couple of buttons you press to move shit along in the digital ticket window. At McDonald's we did had a screen with orders just to the side of the drive thru window that we were told to use for repeating people's orders and to clear them off once they left. At Domino's it was that (they had a drive thru there too) and to keep moving through those tickets. And like no duh, if you've ever worked fast food I'm sure you've seen the exact same thing, I'm only bringing it up because of how soul crushing it all is.

You're told the times get watched and it's constantly on your mind if you give a shit about your job. You shouldn't, but I was 14-18 when I worked those places I gave waaaaay too much of a shit. At Domino's I'd never known the times got shared with customers until I ordered lunch once and decided to watch it on my phone while I was in the store for fun, which it wasn't. It gave my a sense of dread anytime I got near that shit after, especially when I did answer the phones and I starred at the timer for how long I was taking an order. Euhg. Thinking about it still makes me anxious.

can I pay extra to not have a pizza commissar breathing down Sara's neck

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

How can I answer my child's (probably soon) question of "what is sex?"? The standard answer I've been taught (If a man and a woman love eachother very much) is so off base. Like sure, that can be the case, but sex can be casual, doesn't need a commitment or romantic feelings, can involve multiple partners, obviously identities and sexualities can be whatever two consenting adults/informed adolecents want it to be... but it also kinda feels weird to answer that with just a full on lecture when for them it's a question like any other

hi anon,

god, this is one of my favorite questions! I love sex ed with kids - it's such a privilege to get to help shape how they'll think about these things as they grow! - and I loooove getting to see parents who don't want to give their kids the same unhelpful bullshit :)

the answer varies a lot depending on age; for the youngest kids, I promise it is okay to leave it at "that's something adults do together with their bodies, because it can be fun and feel nice" - we can add the nuance that sometimes teenagers have sex to the conversation later, because really little kids are unlikely to care. if they're curious about WHY adults do this mysterious activity together, or what's nice about it, it's okay to give your precocious squirt a little more insight! many kids discover masturbation at a young age, and it's alright to acknowledge that touching genitals can feel good and be fun to do as long as it's happening at appropriate times and places. (I've always been fond of this article on the topic.) it's a great way to practice naming body parts, normalize sexual pleasure and bodily exploration, and emphasize that while touching your own body alone in privacy can be fun, it's not okay to touch others or for others to touch you without your consent and that safe adults should always be informed if someone is touching the child in unwanted ways. you're right that it doesn't need to be a lecture; if they don't have any further curiosity after the initial answer, drop it!

if the kids are a little older, they may want to really get into it - I find my 4th-6th kids usually have some vague ideas about how sex works and will have questions accordingly. I've had to field questions about why someone would want to put a penis in their mouth (and how to avoid pee while doing so), explain what a harem is (thanks, Hamilton), and keep from cringing when the kids joked about someone ejaculating on someone else's face (jesus christ). they know things, and the best approach is to just meet them where they're at to answer their questions and gently challenge and correct misconceptions that they may have. here, the answer to "what is sex?" can expand tremendously, complete with conversations about how and when someone might be able to decide that they're ready to be sexually intimate with other people (and how to do so safely). kids at this age are opinionated, curious, and getting really good at rotating complex concepts around in their brains, so if they want to chat about it, encourage it!

[alchemistc]

Actually you know what I don't think I've really seen anyone talk about how TYPICAL of Buck it is to revert to sex as a coping mechanism. Like yeah he's absolutely grown and changed from Buck 1.0 but let's look at his last year or so from his perspective:

Buck discovers new facets of his sexuality. He starts dating a dude who turned him into a feral little jealousy gremlin

Bobby leaves the 118 and leaves them with fuck ass Gerrard. Bobby almost dies.

Buck has a BOYFRIEND and he sees a future with him

Buck finds out something about his boyfriend that he can't square with, and gets frankly awful advice about what his boyfriend went through to make him Like That. He also continues to be not taken seriously about himself, his feelings, his wants and desires, his concerns

Buck gets dumped. He pushed too hard too fast as he tends to do and he gets dumped for it. Rinse and repeat

All of his friends immediately jump down his throat for wanting to talk to the dude who dumped him. He bakes. And bakes. And bakes and bakes and bakes and it doesn't stop him from missing the guy who dumped him

His best friend leaves. And while Buck can understand it it hurts enough to make him act a little out of pocket.

(Can we talk about the way everyone in his life infantalizing him absolutely makes him behave in childish ways in response? No? Okay I'll shut up.)

His sister gets kidnapped? And almost dies?

He moves out of a place he's lived in for five years to help his best friend. He cannot sleep in the new place.

He tries to make new friends but the thing is he already has a best friend and right now all he has available to him are stories about his best friend. So he tells them. To exhaustion.

So yeah. He's disconnected from a lot of his support systems because they just have other shit going on. (I do not blame them for not making him their number one priority and Buck doesn't either but they're still ...missing.)

He runs into his ex. His ex gives him a SCRAP and what does Buck do? He turns it immediately to sex. And he thinks to himself: this is what I'm good for this is what I can offer THIS will have to be enough even though this man has validated me: the way my brain works, the tangents I go on, the over-reactions I have and the way I get obsessive. But Tommy dumped him. So. Sex will have to be enough for Buck.

Like I just think we're undervaluing exactly how much this regression to fuckboy Buck makes sense. He's not doing it to be an asshole. It's a fucking survival instinct and he's been in survival mode since the second Tommy dumped him

[heartsbyani]

𐔌 현진 .ᐟ ꒱ ── "the art of loving you."ㅤ❀

HWANG HYUNJIN! ⓘ when your artistic boyfriend wants to use you as his muse for the first time . . (,,>ヮ<,,)!

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ 𝑏f!hyunjin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff , pure love ! 33OOwc. ⎯⎯ Yᗩᑎi's ᒪI��ᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. nicknames , kisses , intimacy , jokes. ┆ 🐇 ⋮ an original drabble .ᐟ ֹ ₊

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ huhuhuhu i wrote this in the span of an hour. minus the formatting. i love love so much :( i love hyunjin so much :( i cried writing this sorry. mostly written for my hun, ishi. i know life isn't the best right now, but here's a lil' something that might help you be a bit more at ease! apologies if it isn't very effective though. love you! happy reading <3

the apartment smelled like faint lavender and the lingering sweetness of the vanilla candle she had burned earlier. a warm, golden haze from the late afternoon sun spilled in through the sheer curtains, pooling on the wooden floors, stretching shadows long and lazy.

the world outside hummed softly—distant car horns, the occasional laughter of neighbors, the rhythmic tapping of a tree branch against the window. inside, everything was still.

cozy.

wrapped in the kind of silence that only felt peaceful, never empty.

hyunjin had been staring at her for a while now, perched on the couch with his sketchbook in his lap, his pencil resting against his bottom lip. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle. every few seconds, his fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it.

she was curled up at the other end of the couch, distracted by the book in her hands, knees tucked to her chest, one sock slipping off her foot.

he liked her like this.

relaxed.

unfiltered.

beautiful in the way that people are when they don’t know they’re being watched.

he swallowed. his heart was already tumbling over itself.

he had been thinking about it for days now. weeks, even. the idea had planted itself in his mind like a stubborn seed, refusing to be ignored. i want to capture her.

it wasn’t just a want. it was an ache. a pull.

he had sketched her before—messy, thoughtless doodles in the corners of napkins and on the backs of receipts, quick little impressions of the way her hair fell, the way her lips curved when she was deep in thought. but this—this would be different.

this time, he wanted her to be his muse.

he exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly. she finally looked up, blinking at him, and he panicked—like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

"what?" she asked, voice soft with amusement.

hyunjin hesitated. his fingers drummed against his sketchbook. "nothing," he mumbled, glancing away.

a pause.

then she nudged his thigh with her foot. "liar."

he huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. she always saw right through him.

for a moment, he debated brushing it off, pretending like it wasn’t clawing at his insides. but he knew he couldn’t. not with her.

so he bit his lip, gathering his thoughts, before finally exhaling.

"i want to paint you."

the words hung between them, stretching the air thin.

she blinked again, tilting her head. "what?"

hyunjin sat up straighter, shifting so he was fully facing her now, sketchbook balanced on his knee. his fingers curled over the edges of it, gripping it like a lifeline.

"i—i've been thinking about it for a while," he confessed, voice quieter now, like he was scared of startling the moment. "i want to paint you. properly. like… really take my time with it."

she didn’t respond immediately, just studying him. he could see the gears turning in her head.

"you want to paint.. me?" she repeated, as if testing the weight of it on her tongue.

hyunjin nodded. "yeah."

he couldn’t quite read her expression. he wasn’t sure if she liked the idea or not, and the uncertainty sent something anxious skittering through his chest.

"you don’t have to say yes," he added quickly, fingers tightening around his sketchbook.

"i just—i think you’re beautiful. and i want to capture you. not just your face but… you. the way you exist. the way you are."

there it was again—that ache. that pull.

she was silent for another beat, then a small smile played at her lips. "that’s very romantic of you."

hyunjin exhaled a breathy laugh, relieved by her teasing tone. "i am very romantic, actually."

she hummed, pretending to consider. "i don’t know… what if you make me look ugly?"

he scoffed immediately, reaching out to flick her knee. "impossible."

she giggled, pulling her legs away.

hyunjin watched her for a second, then, quieter, more vulnerable—"you’ll do it?"

she held his gaze. and then she nodded.

"yeah," she murmured. "of course. i'll be yours in whatever way you need."

hyunjin's entire body melted. his shoulders dropped, his fingers loosened, his breath left him in one long, relieved exhale. a slow, glowing grin stretched across his face, dimples appearing, eyes crescented with something soft and adoring.

"you really will?"

she rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. "yes, baby."

baby.

his heart stumbled over itself again.

before she could react, he was already leaning forward, hands finding her waist, pulling her into him. she laughed as she tumbled into his lap, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.

"hyunjin—"

"thank you," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder, voice muffled against her skin. "you have no idea how much i wanted this."

she softened, fingers threading through his hair. "i think i do."

hyunjin smiled against her skin. his hands rested against the small of her back, warm and secure, holding her like something precious. because she was.

and now, he could finally capture her the way he saw her.

the apartment smelled different today.

not drastically—just subtly altered, the way a shift in seasons feels. the usual traces of lavender and vanilla were still there, clinging to the air like a familiar embrace, but now they mingled with the crisp scent of stretched canvas, the faint musk of oil pastels, and the distinct earthiness of paint—thick, rich, waiting.

hyunjin had been preparing for this all morning.

sunlight pooled through the wide windows, gilding the hardwood floors in a lazy sprawl. the apartment was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of fabric as he adjusted the sheets draped over their couch to protect it from accidental paint smudges.

his art corner—his sanctuary—was usually a little more chaotic, but today, everything was placed with care. he wanted the space to feel right. to feel like it could hold something sacred.

at the center of it all, his easel stood tall, an untouched canvas waiting, patient and expectant.

his brushes were lined up beside it, freshly cleaned, their wooden handles smooth beneath his fingertips as he traced over them absentmindedly. next to them sat his palette, dappled with early mixes of color—soft beiges, warm caramels, a whisper of rose.

he had mixed those shades by memory alone. he knew the way she looked under sunlight, the way her skin carried warmth like a secret.

now, all he needed was her.

the guy straightened, glancing toward the hallway just as she appeared, wrapped in one of his oversized sweaters.

his breath caught.

she always stole his clothes, and he always let her. he liked the way she looked in them—how the sleeves hung past her wrists, how the fabric swallowed her just enough to make her look small, but never lost. she looked comfortable. at home. and something about that made his chest ache in the best way.

"you done?" she asked, voice still laced with sleep, soft and warm at the edges.

he smiled.

"almost," he murmured, crossing the room. his hands found her waist instinctively, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his sweater, tracing over her skin. "but first, let’s make you comfortable."

she raised an eyebrow, "is that an excuse to undress me?"

"partly."

she rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest as he gently peeled the sweater off her, leaving her in just a simple tank top and shorts.

hyunjin hummed in approval, fingers trailing over her shoulders, brushing against her collarbone.

"perfect," he murmured.

she let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. "you haven’t even posed me yet."

he smiled, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, he took her hand, guiding her toward the chair he had placed near the window—where the sunlight would catch her just right.

"i want you to be natural," he said softly. "just be comfortable. let me see you the way i always do."

she settled into the chair, shifting slightly, and he stepped back, studying her.

he had painted people before. strangers, muses, faces he barely knew but found interesting enough to capture. but this—this was different. this wasn’t just painting a face. this was capturing a feeling. a presence.

his fingers twitched, itching to start.

she watched him, tilting her head slightly. "how do you want me?"

he swallowed. his gaze softened.

"just like that," he murmured.

she held still, trusting him, and something in his chest tightened.

slowly, he stepped closer, fingertips grazing her cheek, tilting her head just slightly. his thumb traced the curve of her jaw, lingering at the hinge where her pulse thrummed beneath his touch. then, his hands drifted down, adjusting the way her shoulders rested, the way her hands settled in her lap. every movement was careful, reverent.

"there," he breathed. "stay like that."

she held his gaze, steady and sure. "okay."

he let out a slow exhale, stepping back. his hands found his brushes, and then, finally, he began.

the first strokes were light, tentative. the foundation of something much bigger. his focus narrowed, the world outside of this moment falling away. it was just her and the canvas, and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.

he traced the shape of her first—soft lines, delicate curves. her shoulders, the slope of her neck, the gentle angles of her collarbones. then, slowly, he worked his way up—capturing the arch of her brow, the fullness of her lips, the way the light kissed her skin.

hyunjin didn’t just see her—he felt her.

every touch of paint was a memory, every brushstroke an echo of the way he adored her. the way she looked when she laughed, when she was lost in thought, when she reached for him in the middle of the night, half-asleep but seeking.

she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

and now, she would live on his canvas, exactly as he saw her.

...minutes melted into hours.

the apartment existed in a bubble of stillness, broken only by the soft drag of bristles against canvas and the occasional shift of fabric as she adjusted her posture. hyunjin barely noticed time slipping through his fingers; he was lost in the rhythm of creation, in the steady pull of something deep and unspoken.

she remained patient, quiet but present, watching him work.

at some point, she broke the silence. "you’re really taking your time with this."

he didn’t look away from the canvas, but a small smile played at his lips. "of course. you deserve to be painted slowly."

her lips parted slightly, caught off guard. then she exhaled a soft laugh. "that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said."

his gaze flickered to her then, his brush hovering midair. "i say romantic things all the time."

she hummed. "you do. but that one made my heart flutter a little."

hyunjin grinned. "good."

he went back to painting, his eyes flickering between her and the canvas. the room had dimmed slightly, the sun lower now, casting long golden streaks across the floor. the light touched her cheekbones in a way that made him pause, his fingers tightening around the brush.

"hold still," he murmured, stepping closer.

she obeyed, but her brows lifted slightly in curiosity.

hyunjin reached out, fingertips barely brushing the corner of her mouth. he tilted her chin, his touch featherlight, tracing the outline of her lips with nothing but air between them.

"you have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" he murmured.

her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. "w—"

"you don’t," he cut in gently, thumb ghosting over her bottom lip before he stepped back. "you’re always so effortlessly perfect, and you don’t even realize it. that’s why i want to paint you. so you can see yourself the way i do."

a moment passed.

she swallowed, something unreadable flickering across her face. then, softly, "i don’t think anyone has ever looked at me the way you do."

hyunjin’s throat tightened.

he knew he was staring too much, that his emotions were slipping into the air between them, heavy and unguarded. but he couldn’t help it.

"i love you," he said simply.

her lips parted again, but this time, she didn’t try to deflect. she just let the words settle, her eyes softening as a slow, glowing smile spread across her face.

"i love you too."

he inhaled deeply, letting it fill his chest. then, shaking off the moment before he could get too distracted, he gestured toward the canvas. "now stay still, my muse. i have work to do."

she giggled, settling back into position.

hyunjin returned to his easel, but his mind was still full of her.

brushstroke after brushstroke, he captured the softness of her gaze, the delicate slope of her nose, the warmth in her expression. he mixed colors carefully, making sure her skin glowed the way it did under sunlight, the way it did when she laughed, the way it did when she looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.

hours passed like this—soft conversations, lazy teasing, moments of silence that weren’t empty but full of something warm and steady.

eventually, she sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "hyun, my legs are falling asleep."

he blinked, coming back to reality. "oh—wait, don’t move yet."

she groaned playfully. "i’m dying."

"you’re not dying."

"i might be."

hyunjin laughed, but he set his brush down, stepping closer again. he crouched in front of her, hands gliding up her legs, massaging gently. "here," he murmured. "better?"

she melted instantly. "mmm. yeah."

his thumbs pressed into her calves, slow and firm. "you were so patient for me," he murmured. "thank you."

she peeked down at him, her fingers threading through his hair. "always."

he exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes briefly at her touch. then, without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her knee. just because he wanted to.

she stilled slightly, then her fingers curled against his scalp.

"hyunjin."

he looked up, his hands still resting on her legs. "yeah?"

her gaze softened. "can i see it?"

his heart did something funny in his chest.

he stood, suddenly nervous, rubbing the back of his neck. "it’s not finished yet."

she reached for his hand, squeezing gently. "that’s okay."

he hesitated, then nodded. slowly, he stepped aside, letting her stand and move toward the easel.

her eyes widened slightly.

for a long moment, she said nothing, just taking it in.

he chewed on his lip, waiting. "do you like it?"

she turned to him then, and he almost staggered back at the look on her face.

she wasn’t just smiling. she wasn’t just admiring.

she was looking at him the way he looked at her.

like he was something to be treasured.

like she had never felt so loved in her entire life.

"hyunjin," she breathed. "it’s… it’s beautiful."

hyunjin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

then, before he could say anything, she was in his arms, burying herself into his chest, wrapping around him like she belonged there.

he closed his eyes, arms curling around her, holding her impossibly close.

"it’s you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "exactly the way i see you."

and that was all he had ever wanted to do.

...she didn’t let go.

even when the painting stood in front of her like a quiet confession, even when her eyes were still drinking in every delicate brushstroke, she couldn’t bring herself to step away from her lover.

instead, she pressed her face into his chest, arms tightening around his waist.

hyunjin chuckled, his palm smoothing over her back. "baby," he murmured. "aren’t you gonna keep looking?"

"i’ve seen enough," she mumbled, voice muffled against his sweater. "it’s too much."

his brows furrowed slightly. "too much?"

she nodded, inhaling deeply—his scent, the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "hyunjin, my boyfriend, the love of my life, the most dramatic artist to ever exist—"

he snorted. "oh, here we go."

"—has painted me with so much love that i might actually pass out. and it's-"

hyunjin grinned, resting his chin atop her head. "please don’t pass out. i’d have to catch you, and we’d both go down, and then you’d blame me."

"i would. because it would be your fault."

he hummed. "i love how you admit it so easily."

she lifted her head slightly, just enough to peek up at him. her eyes were still shimmering, lined with something fragile. but her lips curled, soft and fond.

"hyunjin, you love me so much," she whispered.

his breath hitched.

he wasn’t sure what it was—maybe the way she said it, like a realization, like an overwhelming truth she was only just coming to terms with. maybe the way she was looking at him, wide-eyed and almost awed, as if she couldn’t believe how much love she was receiving.

but something inside him ached.

he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. "of course i do," he murmured. "you didn’t know?"

she swallowed, her lashes fluttering. "i did— but i didn't think it'd be this.. much!"

"then why do you look like you’re about to cry?"

her lip wobbled. "because—because i love you so much too, and you just—you love me so much, hyunjin, it’s ridiculous."

his heart squeezed.

and then she was rambling, as if the words couldn’t come out fast enough, as if they’d been sitting in her chest, waiting for this moment.

"my boyfriend loves me so much that he paints me like i’m the most precious thing in the world," she whispered, blinking rapidly. "my boyfriend loves me so much that he stares at me like i’m art before i even become art."

the guy bit his lip, trying to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"my boyfriend loves me so much that he took hours to mix the perfect shade for my skin, because he wanted me to glow exactly the way i do in his eyes. my boyfriend loves me so much that he barely blinked the entire time, like he was memorizing me all over again."

she sniffled, voice wobbling. "my boyfriend loves me so much—"

hyunjin burst into laughter.

she gasped, offended. "hyunjin!"

"i’m sorry," he wheezed, pressing his forehead against hers, shoulders shaking. "you’re just—" another laugh bubbled out of him. "you’re so cute, baby. you’re literally giving a whole monologue right now."

her cheeks burned. "it’s not my fault! i’m emotional!"

he softened instantly, his laughter fading into something gentler. "i know," he murmured, tilting her chin up. "i love that you are."

she huffed, her lips pursing, but her eyes were still damp. "well, you did this. this is your fault."

"yeah?" his thumb brushed over her cheek, catching the faintest trace of moisture. "then let me take responsibility."

and before she could say anything else, he kissed her.

soft. slow. full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

her hands curled into his sweater, and he felt her melt, felt her sigh against his lips, felt the warmth of her love spilling into the space between them.

when he pulled back, she blinked up at him, dazed.

"you’re not real," she whispered.

he laughed again, quieter this time. "neither are you."

she exhaled, leaning in to press her face into the crook of his neck.

for a long moment, they just stood there, wrapped up in each other, the painting forgotten in the background.

then, in a whisper—"thank you."

he smiled, his arms tightening around her. "you don’t have to thank me."

"yes, i do." she pulled back just enough to look at him. "for painting me. for looking at me like that. for loving me like this."

his heart swelled.

he kissed her forehead. "always."

she sighed dreamily, resting against his chest again.

and just like that, time slowed.

there was no rush, no urgency—just them, bathed in the golden remnants of daylight, wrapped in love, in laughter, in warmth.

just them, in their little world, where hyunjin’s brush had captured her beauty, but his love had captured her heart.

⤿ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝘵𝑒𝑟𝘵𝑎𝑔. @its-stayville-forever @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos — fill out this form to be added !! ✶

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3

[ramp-it-up]

Make it So

Read Good Morning

Summary: The wink was all a part of his plan.

Word count: 3.9 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This fic is in the Knock You Down AU, and is the answer to this ask. Please let me know how you feel by commenting, reblogging, and interacting. 😉

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Reader is 8-weeks pregnant and asks for rough sex. Bucky gives it to her. Angst, yearning, sex in an established relationship, pregnant reader, Bucky is a simp for Furmoaså, flirting, teasing, Bucky speaking google Romanian, praise and degradation, but also degradation, shower sex, very rough sex, rough oral, ass slapping, face slapping, spit play, masturbation, hand job, blow job, raw p-in-v, after care.

Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Bucky didn’t mean to listen in on your conversation with Peach, it just sort of happened.

He was walking into the living room from his home office, the one he’d been working out of since Atlanta. After everything that happened to Peach, and what he and Steve had to do after, Bucky had taken no chances.

The incident rattled him, and he’d been keeping closer tabs on you while handling his art dealings remotely.

As he rounded the corner, Peach’s voice came through the speakerphone loud and clear.

“And that was the most amazing sex I've ever had in my life. I wonder if Steve'll ever get that riled up again. D’you think I’d be that lucky?”

Bucky’s lips twitched into a smirk. He knew Steve too well. He could almost guess what type of sex play he'd gotten up to with his wife. Seemed that Peach was his perfect match.

But then he heard your laugh, light and beautiful, and the sound stopped him in his tracks.

“Knowing you, Peach,” you replied, “you’ll probably get him riled up every damn day with your crazy ass.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms as he watched you.

You were curled up on the couch, the New York skyline glowing behind you through the massive windows. Your laughter faded, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the delicate gold necklace he gave you for Christmas, the one that held a tiny charm of his and your initials.

Then you sighed, your voice softening.

“I wish Bucky would be rough with me again,” you admitted quietly, your gaze distant.

“Don’t get me wrong, the sex is amazing. He treats me like a goddess. But it’s like I’m porcelain now. The thing is, I’m pregnant, not bedridden. My doctor said I was healthy as a horse today and my cervix is sound. If women have been doing hard labor while pregnant since the beginning of time, I can take a rough fucking.”

Peach snorted, her laughter ringing out over the phone.

“First world problems, hun. Lots of women, and men, would kill to be Bucky Barnes’ fiancée. Just talk to him.”

You bite your lip, looking pensive. 

“Nah, I’m just being hormonal and crazy. You’re right, I have everything I need. Now, about the wedding, which venue on the island…”

But Bucky wasn’t listening anymore. He was too busy committing your words to memory, the longing in your tone stirring something deep in his chest. He was glad that you had Peach to talk to, but he was tasked with taking care of you, with fulfilling your every desire.

Bucky thought back to when he first spanked you and how much you loved it. His cock stirred when he thought of how your body responded to him. He did miss it.

You wanted for him to stop holding back? To stop treating you like glass?

He would make it so.

—---

The event you attended that night buzzed with energy amid a sea of sharp tuxedos, glittering dresses, and the faint hum of a jazz band weaving through the air. 

Bucky, always cool, stood by the bar nursing a whiskey, his piercing blue eyes tracking your every move.

Though the room brimmed with industry elites, what most people wouldn’t notice was the nearly invisible network of security personnel scattered throughout. They blended seamlessly, laughing and chatting, but their focus was razor-sharp. They were there for one purpose: to keep you and Peach safe. Bucky and Steve had made sure of that. 

Tonight was supposed to be a perfect night out for you and Peach, and nothing was going to compromise it.

Across the room, you stood in a floor-length gown that hugged every curve in a way that made Bucky’s throat dry. The light from the chandeliers danced over your skin making your glow even more radiant in the soft illumination.

As an art dealer, Bucky was no stranger to beauty, but you? 

You were untouchable. You were his. 

Pride swelled in his chest at the thought that you were carrying his child, and were soon to be his wife. But that pride was quickly joined by a flicker of possessiveness every time someone let their gaze linger on you for a beat too long.

It wasn’t just your beauty that held everyone captive, it was the light in your eyes, the warmth in your laughter as you chatted with Peach and Steve, your joy radiating in a way that lit up the entire room.

And yet, even surrounded by admirers, your focus always found him.

Bucky looked immaculate tonight, his sharp suit tailored to perfection. The dark fabric stretched over his broad shoulders and framed his muscled physique in a way that made you weak. His eyes roamed the room with the practiced ease of someone who saw everything, but when they landed on you, they lingered.

Then came the moment that almost undid you.

From across the room, Bucky raised his eyebrows and gave you a wink, followed by a slight nod. A small, playful smile tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle, yet devastating.

Your breath hitched, your pulse quickened. That wasn’t just a wink. It was a promise. Yes, ma’am. I’m going to fuck your shit up tonight, don’t worry.

Or maybe it was just your hormones.

But the way his lips curled into that smirk, the glimmer of heat in his eyes, it set off a wildfire in your veins. That damn wink triggered something primal, sending your thoughts spiraling. 

Suddenly, all you could think about was what he would do to you later, the unspoken promises that he’d made.

Your heart raced, your skin flushed. 

For a moment, you forgot where you were, distracted by the sheer force of his presence. It was maddening, the way he could unravel you with something so small.

And he knew it.

When you returned to the table after a chat with Peach, he was waiting. Ever the gentleman, Bucky rose to pull out your chair. But it was the brush of his fingers on your wrist, the heat of his breath as he leaned close to murmur in your ear, that nearly did you in.

“Ești absolut uluitoare, Frumoaså,” he whispered, his voice low and rich. You are absolutely stunning, Beautiful.

Bucky speaking Romanian was your weakness, and he knew that very well. Your breath caught as you sank into your chair, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat.

“Thank you,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

It didn’t stop there.

Every time you looked his way, he was already watching, his gaze burning into you like a brand. His hand brushed yours casually as he refilled your glass, but the touch lingered just long enough to set your nerves aflame. His thumb ghosted over your knuckles, warm and deliberate, though his eyes stayed fixed on the glass.

“Ești bine, iubirea mea?” he asked softly, his tone teasing. Are you okay, my love?

You swallowed hard, nodding. “I’m fine.”

But the heat in your cheeks and the ache between your thighs told a different story.

His lips twitched into a rakish grin, and he leaned back in his chair, legs spreading slightly. It was casual, and unassuming, unless you were the one watching. You couldn’t stop your eyes from trailing down to his crotch, betraying you in a moment of pure weakness.

Bucky caught you looking, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, he spread his thighs wider.

You grabbed your water and took a long sip, praying for composure, but it was useless. He was enjoying every second of your unraveling.

Later, on the dance floor, he turned the teasing up another notch. His hand pressed firmly against the small of your back as he guided you closer, his touch maddeningly confident. The two of you swayed to the music, but he kept just enough space between you to leave you yearning for him.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m fine,” you whispered again, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. 

“Hmmmmm. I’m not so sure about that.”

His hand slid lower, just above the curve of your hip, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your dress.

Then he leaned in, his voice a deep, velvety whisper.

“Dacă asta e bine, abia aștept să văd cum vei arăta mai târziu când ești nebună după mine.” If this is fine, I can’t wait to see how you’ll look later when you’re crazy for me.

The exotic words sent a shiver down your spine, your knees nearly buckling. Before you could respond, he spun you effortlessly, pulling you back into his chest with a hand sliding up to the nape of your neck.

"I want to be very rough with you tonight. I got so excited that I ordered a new velvet flogger. For your nipples."

Your eyes widened and you had to swallow before you started to drool.

"I know you're already very sensitive, and I figure I can flick so that it delivers an extra sting."

Bucky watched your eyes dilate as your cunt clenched around nothing.

"Shame it won't be here until tomorrow. But, vrei să fii o curvă pentru mine diseară?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. Do you want to be a slut for me tonight?

You nearly choked on air, your head spinning as his words settled over you like a challenge.

“You’re driving me insane,” you breathed.

“Good,” he replied, lips brushing your ear again.

“Te vreau. Și îți promit, Frumoaså mea, o să-ți dau tot ce meriți când ajungem acasă.” I want you. And I promise, my Beautiful, I’ll give you everything you deserve when we get home.

By the time the night ended, you were a tightly wound coil, your nerves singing, your body burning with anticipation.

As the elevator doors closed behind you, Bucky’s arms wrapped around you from behind, his hand sliding over the gentle curve of your belly. His hardness pressed against your back, a reminder of what was coming.

“I’ve arranged for Sylvia to make a house call tomorrow,” he murmured against your ear, his lips brushing your hair. “You’re going to need it.”

Your breath caught, your mind racing as you imagined what he had planned for your stylist to make another home visit the day after she came to get you and Peach ready that afternoon.

He hummed softly, his lips grazing your neck. 

“Sper că ești pregătită, Frumoaså. I hope you’re ready, Beautiful. 

��Remember, green for go, red for stop,” he added, his voice velvet-soft.

Your knees were weak, so Bucky had to hold you up and against him as he elevator ascended

—-

Bucky made sure you had a snack and some water, taking care of your needs before giving you exactly what you craved.

With a tenderness that contrasted the fire in his eyes, he pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he undressed you, his hands working tenderly. 

You followed him to the ensuite, where he turned on the shower, the multiple jets hissing to life in the spacious enclosure. The air was thick with water vapor. When he turned back to you, something shifted in his gaze, something dark and hungry.

Your gaze was on his rock hard and leaking cock.

"Do you want to fuck?"

He said it so simply, but it was enough to make you wetter than you were the second before.

"Yeah," you breathed, already melting under the intensity of his stare.

In an instant, he had you pressed against the shower wall, your cheek against the cool tiles. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other pinned your arms behind your back. You arched into him, feeling the heat of his body flush against yours as he took control, moving into your slick pussy surely and swiftly with no preparation.

Bucky started fucking you, the way he knew you liked it. You moaned and he slapped your ass, causing you to keen.

“Oh. Yess yes yes yes.”

“Fuck. Me,” he grunted into your ear.

He pulled back on your arms to pull you harder onto his cock and groped your tits.

“Jesus. So Gotdamned tight, what do you mean?”

Bucky said it through gritted teeth, almost offended that you felt so good around him, making him go even harder.  You whimpered and moaned as he pressed you harder into the wall.

“Been waiting so long for you to get rough with me, Baby. Stretch me out," you pleaded.

Bucky was in the zone, pulling almost all the way out and destroying you with long, deep strokes. When he looked up to see you smiling into the wall, he leaned forward to lick your cheek. You laughed.

“Yesss, baby.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, want more of you inside me.”

Bucky grabbed your shoulders and stroked harder, faster, deeper, causing you to gasp for air.

“Oh my god.”

“Fuck!”

Bucky rocked back on his heels and grabbed your hair, pulling your head back as he slapped both of your asscheeks. You tightened impossibly around him.

“Ahhh! Yes, yes, yes!”

He bent your head backward and kissed your forehead as he plowed into you.

“Oh my god you feel so electric Bucky.”

He grabbed your arm and positioned your hand at your cunt, urging you to play with your clit. Except he didn’t use as many words.

“Yes, Good Girl!” was his chant as he smacked both ass cheeks again.

Bucky opened his mouth in a silent growl as you arched into him, convulsed around him and came all over the shower floor. You sagged against the wall, but Bucky wasn’t done yet. 

Far from it.

“Ahhhh, oh my god,” he surged up inside you, deep and hot, but he didn’t cum.

“Give me your fucking color.”

You were loving it. 

“Fuck yesss! Green!”

He pulled out and let the water run over you two for a minute, and then he plunged his hand into your pussy from behind.

“Another one Furmoaså. Your pleasure belongs to me.”

“Oh God….”

“You keep calling me that. “S’ not my name.”

All you could do was scream as he relentlessly made you cum on his hand again, and then he turned you around, kissed you like his life depended on it, then pressed on your shoulders to make you kneel. 

Your mouth dropped open automatically as he grabbed your wet hair and held you still as he slid his wet cock over your tongue. He fucked your face as you looked up at him and he slowed his strokes into your throat lest he cum down it.

"Make sure you breathe, my Love. Tap my thigh if it is too much."

Bucky's cock was always too much, but you were focusing on breathing through your nose. Instead of tapping his thigh, you grabbed both of them and pulled him further into your throat.

"Shhhhhitttttt, Furmoaså." Bucky's head hung back on his neck.

You reached up and stroked his cock, the part that wasn’t in your warm, wet mouth. Bucky let you take control and gag on him, pushing yourself into the wet curls at the base of his cock.

When you stayed down, he had to pull you off with a sharp, “Gotdamn it Baby,” and you smiled evilly up at him as you spit on his cock. He grabbed your hair to fuck your face again, cooing filthy praises down at you.

“Ah, shit, you look great, taking my cock like this, yes, yes, yes. Oh. yes.”

Your head started knocking against the tiles and he backed off, but you chased his cock, burying your nose in his pelvis again.

“Ohhhh shittt.”

You pulled off and started sucking him vigorously, using two hands and getting super sloppy with it; convenient, since you were in the shower.

“That’s it, show me, show me what a good cock slut you are my beloved. Show me. Good girl.”

Your head swam with the degradation and praise as you worked him, and yourself, into a frenzy.

Bucky's knees got week as you gagged around him again.

“Oh. I like being in your throat like that, missed that neck.”

“Slap my face, Daddy.”

Bucky froze, the cum threatening to claw its way out of his dick.

He positioned your chin and watched you smirk after he tapped you soundly, but not too hard. You gasped and smiled as he slid his cock to the back of your throat again and alternated strokes with slaps.

“Yes… yess… and don’t cough.”

You let him use you, your pussy soaked now. As if reading your mind, he commanded you.

“Finger your cunt, you naughty girl…”

You circled your clit as he fucked your face, and your mind faded to bliss as you pleasured yourself. 

“Fuck your cunt for me Furmoaså.”

You nearly came just from his words and you managed to stuff three fingers in and out of you at a rapid pace for a few more seconds until you came, you body humming.

Bucky kneeled on the floor and shared a filthy kiss with you, moaning into your mouth as he took over finger fucking you. You were a moaning, incoherent mess as you stroked his cock furiously. 

At one point, you begged him to spit in your mouth and as he did, you came all over his fingers.

You sucked your juices off your fingers as you looked into his now black eyes.

“Back in your pussy.”

Your eyes rolled as you fucked yourself again. You opened your mouth for him to spit again as your other hand continued to stroke him.

“Let me taste.”

Bucky licked your covered fingers.

“Fucking delicious,”

He stood up, sliding his cock back between your lips.

“Mmmmm nasty girl…”

And he fucked your mouth again as this time you came all over your fingers.

“Good fucking girl.” 

Suddenly, he pulled out and bent you over plunging back inside you and grabbing your hair as you screamed.

“Oh, fuck, your cock feels so good. So green, I’m cumming!”

“Do it, love it when you cum for me, fuckkkkk!”

Bucky stroked and stroked inside as you came and you just had to take it. He fucked you until he groaned loudly, pulling out to jerk his hot cum all over your back. 

Despite the warmth, suddenly you were shivering but you were in his arms the next second as he whispered how proud of you he was.

Bucky quickly and tenderly washed you and wrapped you and your hair in thick, fluffy towels, his hands gentle but deliberate as he lifted you into his arms.

Being held by him made you feel so safe. He carried you out of the bathroom, cradling you close to his chest, the tension from earlier melting into tenderness.

“You okay, Furmoaså?” he whispered. 

His lips pressed to your temple as he gently sat you down on the edge of the bed. You nodded, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across your face as you leaned into him. 

“More than okay,” you murmured, eyes heavy with contentment.

He knelt in front of you, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks before kissing your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally your lips. The kiss was slow and tender, a stark contrast to the ferocity from earlier.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his blue eyes locking onto yours. “You know that, right? I’m so proud of you. You take everything I give you like the queen you are.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, warmth flooding through you as he tilted his head, studying you for any sign of discomfort.

Satisfied that you were okay, he stood and padded over to the mini-fridge tucked in the corner of the room, pulling out a chilled bottle of water and a small container of fresh fruit.

He returned, sitting beside you on the bed. He opened the bottle and handed it to you first, watching as you took a long sip before setting it aside. Then, he plucked a piece of ripe mango from the container and held it to your lips.

“Eat, baby,” he urged softly, his voice full of care. “You need to replenish after all that.”

You giggled but obeyed, letting him feed you piece by piece. Between bites, his large hands worked their way down your body, massaging your shoulders, arms, and thighs, easing any lingering tension. He was meticulous, ensuring every muscle was relaxed and that you felt utterly adored.

“Bucky,” you whispered, catching his hand and threading your fingers through his. “You spoil me.”

“Damn right, I do,” he replied with a crooked grin. “I’m gonna keep spoiling you for the rest of my life.” 

He leaned down to kiss the inside of your wrist before rubbing his thumb over the pulse point there. After he’d made sure you were hydrated and fed, he guided you to lie back against the soft pillows. 

“Still feeling okay, Furmoasa?” he asked again as he slid into bed beside you.

You turned to face him, snuggling into his chest, your leg draped over his hip. 

“I feel amazing,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his skin. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“For what?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your back.

“For knowing me. For taking care of me,” you said, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “For making me feel so loved.”

His expression softened, and he cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin.

“That’s because you are loved. So, so much.” he said, his voice tender, yet steady.

You smiled, leaning into his touch, but his brow furrowed slightly, as though something was on his mind.

“Furmoaså,” he started, his tone soft but serious.

“Yes?" you replied, your brows lifting in curiosity and heart rate spiking with anxiety.

“I know that sometimes you keep things to yourself, because you think you’re in your head and you don’t want to bother me, or you’re embarrassed, or you think it’s just your hormones talking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he gently brushed his thumb over your lips, stopping you.

“Let me finish,” he said with a small smile. 

“You don’t ever have to keep things inside with me. I don’t care if it’s something small, something big, something filthy…,”

You giggled.

"...Or something you think is ridiculous. I want to hear it. I want to know what’s on your mind.”

Your heart ached at the earnestness in his voice.

“You’re not a burden, and nothing you say or feel is embarrassing or silly. If you desire something, need something, or even just want to vent, you come to me. Don’t let it sit there, spinning in your head, okay?”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you nodded. 

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

“I mean it,” he added, brushing his knuckles along your jaw. “You can trust me with anything. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I will,” you promised, leaning forward to press your forehead to his.  “This is why I’m in love with you.”

“And loving you is my job,” he said, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Besides, I like it when you tell me what’s on your mind. Especially when you want to be a whore for me. Makes it easier for me to provide for you.”

"So you're just doing your job," you teased, eyebrow raised.

"Now you understand."

This time his wink made you laugh softly, the tension in the air dissolving as he kissed you again, long and lingering, before settling back with you tucked safely in his arms.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled you into a sense of peace and your body and soul completely at ease.

“Get some rest, baby,” he whispered, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And he was.

-----

Wanna know what Steve & Peach got up to?

Read Ties That Bind

[themareverine]

— Parts of Me (teaser)

DoFP!Logan x wife!fem!reader

“What do you need me to do?” She’s uneasy, it’s in her voice. “Nothin’, right now. Just breathe—breathe for me, baby.”

tags: Mare's first cayenne pepper level spicy content, virgin reader (and writer, I don't know what I'm doing), first time, consider this like an R rating, Logan going waaaay slower than he's probably used to, me torturing this poor man, first time jitters, self-consciousness, wedding night themes.

a/n: in honor of someone I have truly come to respect and consider the best-friend character to my MC life, @bpmiranda you deserve this. I've been hesitant to put this out there. And I'm really not one to consider myself a smutwriter, as we all know, but in my brain, this isn't exactly smut. You've been curious about what I can produce for this type of thing for a while and because I know you have a birthday eventually, since you are in fact alive, consider this that level of a gift showing how much you inspire me and I care about you.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

“Quit thinkin’. Tell me what it feels like, baby.”

It’s more of a slow poison than she was prepared for, how it slips from him like warm honey. It’s dangerous, in honesty—that’s her first instinct. Nerves. Fear.

That prickly feeling along her spine, how her blood flames hot when his hand traces along the soft of her sides. His fingers skip along the cradle of her hip. Like a lover, slow and kind. All the ways he thinks he isn’t, hasn’t ever claimed to be.

And without thinking, her body reacts viscerally. Her back arcs off the mattress, which shifts beneath her in ways she didn’t think about. The world seems to echo, all she can hear is the sharp breath shes taken, how it burns in her lungs.

Balancing on the blade edge of anticipation, any second now—it will happen. Logan will take everything, finally. She’ll have given the one part of herself she can never reverse, the one beautiful thing God grants every woman to guardian, every man to protect.

Any heartbeat now, everything will change. Worlds will stop spinning in faraway galaxies. Mountains will sing, rocks will cry out. Time will stand still in her veins, and for a moment, just a minute, she will cease living while simultaneously being reborn.

Her toes curl, simply from the ghost of his hand to her inner thigh. Pebbling skin, teasing her in a way she’s only ever dreamed.

And she’s terrified this will be everything she’s ever envisioned. Everything and nothing, a sweet sword to fall on. Because if it is, it will be euphoric. A high with exploring until death. And if it isn’t—there’s no chance, not in hell. Not with the way he looks at her. The way she aches for him in places you don’t share.

Parts of her know it won’t be so simple, or so complex. That she has nothing to truly be afraid of, not with Logan. He’s chased every demon, defeated each of her giants. And he’ll do so, now until death—he’d promised. It’s sealed and in gold, in adamantium.

Somehow, it doesn’t ease the knot in her stomach, or the low hunger between her legs that’s been there since she could remember.

Logan.

She doesn’t realize she’s softly moaned his name until the tears are small infernos against her skin, until she’s worrying her bottom lip to the point of blood.

It will not be the first blood of the night, she realizes—and again, her spine pulses with nerves. She wants this. Badly.

He answers her, slower than ever. Closer than the blood in her veins, the breath in her chest. “I’m right here,” he leans low, his breath warm as he smiles against her skin, patiently worshipping.

“Breathe for me,” His voice is low, almost wolfish. Alarmingly dark, heavy. It’s everything, makes her smile almost wryly. “Need you to breathe for me, honey.” His hand gently brushes her cheek, eyes holding hers softly.

“You ready?”

He knows exactly what to do, what to say. It’s a small mercy afforded her from God, she thinks. She’s breathless, doubts she can speak.

Logan’s hand slips down her side, hovering low over her core. His knuckles ghost her entrance, and she writhes. It’s supernatural, maybe even fantastical.

Holding her breath, she attempts to breathe. It coils against her spine, painfully sweet.

“Yes,” it’s simple, almost pleading. Hungry. “Please.” Her toes curl into the duvet. She’s never been more terrified.

And it’s never felt so good.

[theprplcooki]

"3 days makes sense. Heck, even a week" The looming thing said over my head.

"But a month is pushing it"

I sit up, look around and my gaze lands on the clock.

"You had literally all of eternity and you picked 5 in the morning?" I say with the most indignant tone that I could muster.

"So, you are aware that you have literally all of eternity to do something. But you choose sleep" says the now very clear figure of a tall man.

"Have you never heard of the term 'Sleep Debt'. I have been working the nightshirt on top of taking care of my younger sibling." yawning while rubbing my eyes. "So I'm guessing you're the ..... god? That put me in this time loop"

"God? Hah! Flattering, but no. I'm what you would call a fae"

"Where's the wings"

"Really? Stereotype much? "

"Hey, just asking"

The fae brings the rolly chair from my desk and sits down, head in his hands.

Then, a thought pops into my head.

"So, may I have your name. I would like to add that you barging into my house seems to be in breach of a couple of hospitality rules."

"Nice try. You can call me Philip. And, no. You have a very nice large 'Welcome' mat at your front door. I took it literally"

I laugh and shrug.

"Well, if you're going to keep me awake at this hours I'm going to get coffee"

I stand up, pull on a shirt and head to the kitchen. Philip follows behind me while rubbing his face.

"Okay, I'm going to be real. The only reason you got this time loop thing is because you said that you wanted this"

"When, pray tell, did I ever utter the words 'Trap me in a time loop' ?"

"You didn't say that. If I remember correctly, it was more along the lines 'I would kill for the time to fix my life' "

I pause, the coffee cup at my lips.

"When did you hear that ?"

"At the coffee shop"

"But, I didn't even kill anything?"

"You really don't recognise me? You killed the spider for me."

"That was not you, that was a much more nice looking person"

"Excuse you, I've had to stay up monitorring your ass. Just in case you decide to do something interesting"

"Okay, hold your horses. Aren't I technically fixing my life by taking a huge ass nap?"

"I mean... yeah. But, don't you want to do anything else? I've had to keep it up an extra 3 weeks because you already filled the requirements"

"I mean you could keep it up as long as your ... powers? Magic? Whatever. Whatever allows you to keep this thing up."

"I've got a day left, that's why I came here."

"Well ... the kid doesn't come here until 1:00 p.m. I can think of one way I could fix my life"

"What"

I say nothing and walk back into my room

The Fae that trapped you in a Groundhog Day-style time loop is extremely frustrated that you’re taking advantage of the situation to just sleep all day, every day.

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington X F! reader, friends to lovers, flashing (f) WC: 762 Summary: Steve's amazed by the number of things you can fit in your bra when you refuse to lug around a bag with you.

In the last two hours you'd pulled out a wad of fives to pay for the snacks you'd both picked up at the gas station, then a lighter as the two of you sat out on the hood of Steve's car, overlooking Lovers Lake while you had a smoke and last, a pack of minty gum for you to chew and smack on when you got back in the car.

What fascinated Steve was that none of these items had been stored inside a bag like one might expect, all of them pulled out of your bra like it was an entirely normal thing to do. Unable to ignore it any longer and more than a little flustered, he finally breaks his silence on the matter.

"Okay, I have to know. What else do you have in there?", Steve carefully gestures vaguely in the direction of your breasts, looking all kinds of exasperated. You return his look with an amused smirk.

"I'll give you two guesses", you puff your chest out, the answer so obvious it makes him roll his eyes.

"Not them- uh, those. I mean, c'mon. Doesn't it ever get, I don't know...uncomfortable having to wedge it all in there?", he asks trying and failing to choose his words carefully while his eyes flicked back and forth between your face and your cleavage.

You see your chance and pounce at it, especially since he'd set you up for it so perfectly.

"I don't mind a tight fit, Steve", you chew on your gum with a wink, torturing the poor boy as you leisurely blow a bubble big enough to pop.

"You- you know what I uh, what I meant", he tells you while trying his damndest to appear composed, his voice giving him away when it cracks enough to make you snicker.

He does have a point though, you could admit that much as you cut the jokes and decide to answer with a simple shrug. "I don't know. It's something I just got used to. There's enough space for everything I need. And besides, I hate having to carry a bag around. those things make my shoulders sore as all hell", you explain honestly although you can tell that Steve's nowhere near ready to move on from the subject just yet.

"Tell you what. Since you're so interested, how about a game? loser has to do whatever the winner says if you can guess how many other items I've got in here.

"Seriously?", he checks, eyes all round and alert.

"Yup", you confirm.

Knowing of three items already, he thinks hard. Much harder than he ever has before, his eyes fixed on your breasts, trying to ascertain what else might be hiding under your clothing, even working up a light sweat near his temple which makes you giggle.

Steve's making it out to be some sort of life or death deal and honestly, you liked how seriously he was taking this, showing you how much and how badly he wants to get a peek under your sweater.

"C'mon Harrington. Don't wanna be out here all day you know", you chide after another minute ticks by.

"Okay...five?"

Reaching inside, out comes the lighter, the gum and the money again, his eyes still hopeful when you fish out your apartment key followed by a tube of lip balm only for his face to crumble when you finally pull out a spare hair tie.

So close. He'd been so damn close as a really pitiful look of defeat spills over his face.

"Okay, so what to you want from me?", he groans, ever the sore loser.

You might have won but you don't feel any thrill in having done so. If you were being completely honest, you weren't exactly mad at the thought of Steve winning. In fact, you'd quietly hoped for him to do so just to see what he might have asked of you.

Well, you've got a pretty good guess as to what it might be.

Boobies, of course.

You didn't have to. You really didn't have to but the sight of him like this makes you feel oddly compelled to reward him anyway. Anything to wipe that dour look on his face.

Reaching round, you watch Steve's perplexed face with glee as you unclasp your bra and pull it out through your sleeve so seamlessly, winking at him before picking up the hem of your shirt and lifting it up to let him see your breasts bounce free and bare.

"Your undivided attention", you grin at his cherry red face, knowing full well this wouldn't be the last time you let him see them.

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

Two Ghosts music video - plot & analysis

the video's plot seems to be so eerie.. and the beautiful HQ screenshots I have seen posted sadly seem to not have been in the order of the music video, so with the help of videos of Harry's giant live screen circle from his tour in 2018, where a lot of parts of the Two Ghosts music video were playing, and also the leaked video part from a few days ago, i've decided to make a little plot & analysis post.

(and if someone wants to add on more analysis, please feel free to do so!)

so, in the live version it begins with an overview of this magical looking place. there's mountains, clouds, foggy valleys, trees. in the forefront, some type of red flowers are sprouting and blossoming, a yellow/orange orange butterfly wafts through the picture and a few tiny blue squared shapes/boxes float around (perhaps in some kind of formation). the land seems to be divided into a green-ish and blue-ish part; in the forefront is the rich, living, sunny grasslands with roots and lots of living things and then in the background you see the vast, barren, cold/snowy mountains in the shadowed distance. (it could also be seen as a divide between summertime and wintertime) :

-

however, the posted screenshots of the music video begin with the following stills, which never showed up on the live screen during Harry's 2018 tour. [that makes sense, though, because not just would there suddenly be 2 different Harrys on that screen, but artistically you'd want the videography design of the live back screen more atmospheric and supporting/complementing/underlining the mood and message of the song. (i've worked on a couple of these with bands before; but on a smaller scale). from my experience, just slapping the music video in there would honestly be seen as quite lazy and unimaginative.] i don't think we know which shot is the real beginning of the music video; but I tend to learn towards the landscape overview shot, just cinematography-wise.

so, now enter lovely Harry - he's wandering around the sunny, summertime landscapes, dressed in just a long, billowing white shirt/night gown. his legs are naked and he's barefoot. he's wearing his cross necklace and another longer silvery chain. there's no rings on his hands. he's just by himself as he sings and walks. the colour palette is a starkly blue and green. it looks to be bright where he is, perhaps midday. the fact that he's wearing something that can be considered sleepwear could mean his real body is asleep and he's dreaming everything that will be happening now:

-

Harry sits down. we don't know why; maybe to watch the mountains in the distance or to rest. a the tiny blue square shape seemingly floats up to him, or perhaps it's popped up from somewhere. Harry looks at it, while the sun is slowly setting in the background:

-

in the next posted shots, Harry's walking again. perhaps he's following the blue square shape that is leading him somewhere? the colours have changed to something akin to golden hour/sunset:

- in the live screen version during Harry's 2018 tour, we instead only see close-ups of the landscapes and they slowly loop themselves twice (from 0:34 until 2:03). there we see lightly tinted sunset-skies, the powerful, snowy, barren mountains cast in shadows in the distance, but also a glimpse of a butterfly fluttering along in the forefront in the bottom left corner (cut off in the screen, because of the format) and then a close-up of the summertime and butterflies (🎶); the butterflies are are pink and orange...

...in the middle there's an intermission of a close-up of a huge blue square shape at 1:05:

- then suddenly - enter the triangle/pyramid shape. we have not met that one before, not even in the overview shot at the beginning. (2:02):

..and as the shot zooms out, we realize the triangle/pyramid shape and the square shapes are floating next to each other and they're both super big and prominent now:

-

we're met with a close-up of that giant version of the blue square shape - it's layered and seems multi-faceted; boxes within boxes and they're all see-through and connected..

...and as the camera zooms down, we realize Harry is reaching up to the (his?) blue square shape (which is still floating next to the giant blue triangle). this scene is also included in the live screen version from his tour:

-

suddenly, something happens! we can't really tell unfortunately, because the source of the dark blue/violet petals(?) is unseen in all of the shots. my guess is that either one of the shapes dissolves (maybe it's on purpose that we don't know which one) or that that "storm" or swarm of petals (to me, it moves like a swarm of bees or petals blowing in a gust of wind) shoots out from somewhere in front of him, because he looked to be standing in front of some kind of cliff or slope. the vibe becomes chaotic:

-

Harry looks deeply irritated by the petals; like he didn't expect this to happen at all. he seems to be still looking towards the sky:

-

then, in the music video and also in the live screen version from his 2018 tour, the (now leaked) part of the music video starts:

a rainbow river starts flooding every nook and cranny of the land:

-

these next scenes with him in the shots are not in the live screen version. night has now fallen - or perhaps the petal storm and possible-dissolving of the shape(s) are connected to the creation of the rainbow river in the dark. Harry's not moving; he's looking around himself and taking in what's happening while everything around him floods with rainbow-coloured thicker-than-water liquid. he distinctly keeps his hands out of the rainbow, not touching it:

-

Harry's standing there like he's been rooted to the ground while the river is rising around his legs and seems to already be up to his knees. he looks like he's trying to keep his balance. his hands are still not touching the rainbow:

-

in the next shot, we see him lift something in his hand to inspect it; it looks to be some type of moss or leaves. it looks organic..

..and while he looks at it, it turns into rainbow liquid in his hand:

that scene is included in the live screen version again:

-

the next parts are again not in the live screen version. we then see Harry in a total shot, standing in the middle of the/his rainbow river and he slowly and deliberately lifts his head to look directly into the camera for the first time again since the beginning of the video. he looks very serious; he's almost staring now; challenging maybe. i feel this total shot is inviting the viewer to not just see the shot as a whole, but him as a whole; to see him wholly for who he is: someone knee deep in rainbows. one could also argue that he's in a quite vulnerable state - half-naked in just a night gown, but we know Harry has openly never connected him being naked with shame or fear - quite the opposite - so it could also mean something positive; could symbolize being at home in his body - or pride:

-

we don't know what swept him off his feet, but in the next shot, Harry is floating down rainbow river. first he lifts his head and looks a bit around, as if to ask 'What's happening?'..

[dracoshroob]

I wanted to add my two bits in

It really is transitioning

Id been depressed since my early teens, and it deffo got worse at the shitty call center I worked at for 5 years while probably still processing and coming to terms with things

And when I finally got out of that hellhole and found a very safe place to work with good work culture. I finally was able to realize things, start therapy, started transitioning 5 months ago

And holy fuck do I not think about suicide as much if at all

Like I would think about that stuff almost daily at the call center when I was at my worst, and even at this job it was maybe every week

But since I've started I really haven't had those thoughts in a while, I feel like I'm blossoming more on my streams trying to have fun. Trying to get back into my art cause I used to draw almost daily

It really feels like the color is being put back into my life and as scary as the future is with this, I'll cut someone before I ever stop transitioning

[bonus-links]

Hello! Could we have a director’s commentary on Ruins pt.11 please?? It drives me insane 🥺🥺

YEAHHH this is gonna be a long one. link to the update

this is also one of my favorite updates (and 100% my favorite dialogue in all of ch.1, possibly the whole comic so far) but I'm glad I waited to do a commentary bc I think this is actually really relevant to the latest update

cause like the conversation Loft has with botw Zelda here is very similar to the one he has with Ganondorf, though he's much less snippy during it

I wanted to give Zelda a chance to be bitter and share her grievances with the gods. Her entire story in BOTW is largely about how the legends and the expectations put upon her by them fail not only her personally but the entire kingdom. And yet she's made to feel like it's all her fault.

A lot of his comic focuses on the legacy of the Hero, but I don't want to leave Zelda (or Ganondorf) out of the conversation. The cycle makes victims of all three of them in various ways, and while I can't do everything at once, it's still my goal to explore that. The Zeldas in particular are all in interesting positions as members of the Royal Family, because they're at once always thrown in peril by it with little agency, and expected to be the facilitators of its success as the people with the closest proximity to the gods. Much to think about.

on that note BOTW Zelda is my favorite Zelda. she is my babygirl. she is my everything. I will die a BOTW Zelda defender. we haven't seen the last of her in this comic i promise :-)

okay on to actually analyzing the comic. This top panel is framed like a diptych, two paintings hinged together. these are often (though not always) associated with religious paintings and are often altarpieces. I use a triptych format in the newest update :D sidenote I think it's very cute that some of the Hylia statues in BOTW have been decorated, so i gave her a little flower crown

I imagine praying starts to feel a little strange when you are dating ur god. yeah. Also I think it's interesting that Skyloft seems to mainly worship Hylia, with the other gods being more distant. It makes sense given the whole "she personally raised us up into the sky to save us all" thing. Even though Loft is the very first hero sent on a personal religious quest directly by his goddess, I've always imagined him as kind of,,,,casually devout? In that way that it's all you've ever known. Like obviously his beliefs are deeply ingrained, but he's not as into the formality of it all as other Links we might meet later.

I think about Zelda in that freezing pool on Mt. Lanayru all the time. RAHHHHHHH

I've posted this before but close up of Slate running their errands, the errand being talking to the Great Fairies about if they've noticed anything weird going on lol. I actually wanted to make it a whole update on its own, but I cut it for time and also because. I don't think the Great Fairies really have any information that was necessary other than "no I don't know what's going on". So u get this panel.

I like this shot of that little statue towering over the both of them, and I mimic it a little bit in the new update here. something something about why we build monuments and what they stand for.

negative sim interaction

Loft still has to believe that Zelda and Slate's negative experiences had to have been some sort of misunderstanding. If Hylia could have helped, she would have. Knowing and loving your goddess on a human level also makes you want to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I actually really love that in BOTW Zelda resents Link for having some sort of access to the divine that she just can't reach. She has her arc about it in the game, but especially now she's come to understand that having the gods' favor is a double-edged sword. Also, that's not really meant to be Peony, but I like the idea that Champion also had an affinity for fairies. :-( Intentionally the same pose as Slate at the fairy fountain, though Slate is so tiny I probably didn't need to bother lol

that was a lot of rambling lol but i have. so many thoughts abt the subject matter of this update. this is the shit about LOZ that makes me froth at the mouth tbh

[stevesgother]

Can you do something with Steve x pregnant! reader? Maybe fluff to smut or insecure pregnant! reader to smut? Idk I’m babbling, I love your writing btw!!

18+

mmmm i love this! i feel like steve would literally be at your every beck and call while you're pregnant. you're carrying precious cargo, like, of course he'd want to make sure you're as comfy as possible.

it'd be well into the middle of the night, and you just can't fall asleep. every position causes one part of your body or another discomfort--

your constant tossing and turning rouses the sleeping man next to you, but rather than being annoyed for the early wakeup call, he's concerned.

"can't sleep, baby?" Steve asks groggily from beside you.

"just can't get comfortable," you sigh in response, "my back kills."

he shuffles closer-- the musky scent of sleep and something ineffably steve invading your senses. his calloused hands begin to rub firmly up and down the column of your back and over the hills of your shoulders and you noticeably relax into him.

"this helping?" he asks.

"mhm," you nod, gratefully, "thank you, stevie,"

"'course," he says and continues his ministrations on your exhausted muscles. you can feel the hardness of his morning wood pressing into your backside, but he makes no attempt to initiate anything intimate with you. he simply continues massaging you in an attempt to ease your discomfort.

heat pools low in your belly at the thought of him hard under his boxers-- only a one, thin layer of fabric separating you. your hormones have been all out of wack the past few weeks, having just began your second trimester.

without so much as speaking, you take his hand in yours-- halting his movements over your shoulders. slowly, so slowly, you guide his hand to where your arousal is collecting between your thighs. he stifles a groan upon feeling how wet you are for him.

he begins placing languid, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive spots just below your ear, "need something else, baby?" he asks, and you can feel the grin on his face growing against your skin.

you sigh at the sensation, "just you."

"yeah? need me to tire my girl out?" steve questions as he gently ruts his hips against your ass-- making it all the more apparent just how much he wants you.

his middle and index finger slip below the trim of your cotton panties, idly circling your clit in slow, relaxed motions. you release an airy whine at the feeling, circling your hips in time with his fingers to encourage him to keep going.

"that feel good, honey?" steve asks, voice husky and low in your ear, sending a chill down your spine and blood straight to your core.

"yes," you whisper in the stillness of the room, "god--don't stop,"

he picks up his pace just slightly, the hand under your neck curls around to play with your breasts-- swollen and attention-starved. his deft fingers gently pinch and roll your nipple through your sleep shirt, eliciting a moan from your lips.

"need more, steve," you pant into the empty space in front of you.

"you want my cock or my fingers, baby?" he sounds more desperate than he did minutes ago, though you can tell he's trying hard to maintain his composure. you think he must be leaking like a sieve behind the cotton of his boxer briefs.

"need you to fuck me like this," you whine, needy as ever. steve wastes no time ridding himself of his underwear, taking his length into his hand and pumping a few times before sliding the head of his cock through your slick.

"god-- you feel so good. so beautiful carrying our baby," he praises in your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt all over your skin. steve had never made you feel anything less than stunning, even when you felt bloated and crampy from pregnancy. to him-- you were as gorgeous as gorgeous could be.

he takes your leg and carefully guides it behind you and over his hip-- opening you up for him and effectively entangling himself with you.

"just relax, sweetheart," he instructs as he slowing sheaths himself on you cunt, "i've got you."

you can't help the small cry that escapes when he's fully seated inside you. steve keeps a firm grip on your thigh, seeing to it that you don't expend any unnecessary energy holding it up for him as he picks up his pace-- sliding with ease in and out of your entrance.

"feels so good, stevie," you whine, "just like that, oh--"

the springs of your mattress squeak quietly underneath your bodies and he continues thrusting into you. steve had always been well-endowed, but you've been infinitely more sensitive since you became pregnant-- something your obgyn had warned you about. your orgasms arrive quicker and more powerfully than they ever have before, and you find yourself lasting for half the time you used to.

"can feel you gettin' tighter, baby," steve says through gritted teeth from behind you-- trying to stave off his own release, "you gonna come for me? huh?"

"yes!" you shout, "don't stop--" turning your head to capture his lips in a kiss over your shoulder. one of your hands moves to grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, securing his lips against yours.

"touch yourself." steve commands, sweaty foreheads pressed together and panting into one another's mouths.

you own shaky fingers travel south to where your achy clit begs for some stimulation. the second your fingers begin circling it, the white-hot pleasure of your impending orgasm floods you from head to toe.

"steve!" you cry out as your body tenses, then relaxes around him.

"good girl," steve pants into your skin, as his thrusts falter. he'd only been holding off for you to finish, "love you--fuckin' love you, baby,"

two more ruts of his hips and he's spilling into you with a strangled moan-- thighs shaking where they're tangled with yours. you're both silent as you come back down to earth; the only sounds in the room are your combines labored breathing.

you turn around fully to face a flushed and sweaty steve. even in the dark of your bedroom you can tell his cheeks and neck are a beat-red.

"you tired yet?" he asks, chuckling wearily.

"I don't know..." you lilt, "could go for round two in a few minutes."

he gives a playful roll of his eyes, "c'mere, you heathen."

you laugh and nuzzle into his chest-- the thatch of hair there damp and tickling your cheek.

he leans down to kiss the crown of your head, "goodnight, my love." you can tell by the sound of his voice that he's already dozing off again. you feel a pang of jealously that he's able to drift off so easily, but the feeling is quickly overcome with the pure adoration you have for him.

"goodnight, stevie."

you sleep soundly until noon the next day.

[jo-harrington]

Saganaki (Eddie Munson x Reader)

Pairings/Relationships: Older!Eddie Munson/Reader

Warnings/Themes: First Date, Blind Date, Awkwardness, Fluff, Food/Eating

Note: I feel like I've already written something with a traditional Chicagoland greek diner in Magnificum et Horribilis but while that one has more of an air of "together despite it all, in order to overcome it all" I also wanted to feel a little more fluffy about it. A love letter, if you will. I've been feeling a little bit of a "romanticize your life" vibe lately about all of the stupidest places you could think of and this was one of them.

Tagging @bettyfrommars because she got a 10 minute voice note about this a few weeks ago. I'm going Friday morning and I will be getting my bowl of cream of chicken and rice soup. AND MY CHEESE. And @deathbecomesthem because I know you need a little bit of simple and light. (No pressure to read on either of you. Love you both.)

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

---

You wouldn't say you hated much in life but you hated blind dates. Hated them with a passion.

You didn't know anyone who specifically liked the concept of a blind date, but it always seemed that the people who said they disliked them as much as you did were always the first people to try to set you up with someone they knew.

"My husband's mechanic. You'll love him."

"This guy who works at the mail room at work. He's a hoot."

"The neighbor's nephew. He works at the post office."

And you were kind about it, always went through the motions and attempted to set these dates up. But they always fell short without fail. They were obnoxious or selfish or rude. Most importantly, none of them ever made you laugh. Then, after the night was over and you vowed never to see the guy again, you'd get the "I'm so sorry it didn't work. You know, I always hated blind dates."

So you didn't know why they kept trying. Actually, you didn't know why you kept graciously agreeing, and you eventually put your foot down.

Well, you tried to.

Your friend, Jen, made one last ditch effort. One final blind date and then you would never need to do it ever again. According to her, at least.

"How do you even know this guy?" you had asked over the phone. "I know everyone you know."

"Friend of a friend of a friend," she simply dismissed. "And you would've known him already if you had come to the last Garage Beer Friday last summer."

You wondered for a moment if she had tried to set you up with this Eddie guy back then. Had your unseasonable cold saved you from disaster? You couldn't bring yourself to lick a doorknob to contract another disease to avoid this again. You hated being sick more than you hated being set up.

"He'll be great!" Jen promised when you didn't respond. "Besides, you need a date for Stef's wedding, and he's already invited!"

"So he's John's friend?"

"I think they work together."

"You think?!" You sat upright. "That's it, I'm not going."

Jen proceeded to yell at you through the phone until you finally relented. Which was the reason why you were sitting in a booth at the local greek diner. It was right before the post-church rush on a Sunday morning, and you were impatiently waiting for the final blind date of your life to show up.

The blue-haired waitress was kind enough to refill your coffee twice, and did not pressure you to touch the enticing bread basket at the center of the table or to order. But you knew that kindness was running out. Along with your patience.

Where the fuck was this guy?

It was at the exact moment that you'd slammed your coffee cup on the table, ready to call it, that a body slid into the other side of the booth.

"I'm sorry I'm late. In my defense, Jen shouldn’t have suggested the morning after daylight savings." The words were blurted out, out of breath, and all in one messy string of sound. Like he'd been practicing it on the drive here and was so eager to get the words out, it didn't matter if they were coherent or not.

Rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed, and with a bashful grin, Eddie was the grown man equivalent of an eager puppy. A mutt of a man, at that. His long, frizzy hair was still a little damp at the ends, and he had a worn leather jacket over a flannel shirt with some fraying on the collar, with ringed fingers that nervously tapped on the top of the table as soon as he had a second to breathe.

Of course, you weren’t judging him for what he wore. It looked comfy, worn like a second skin, unlike other dates who were stiff and clearly out of their depth. You’d done the same; worn something tried and true that you wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable in. But still cute. Just like him.

No, what really spoke to you was that he seemed exactly the kind of guy who would fit in at Garage Beer Fridays. A little weird, a little unruly. The kind of person with a personality already baked in who looked like they had stories to tell. The type of stray that naturally gravitated towards your ragtag group of friends. If he was already in good with your friends, he was good people.

"Daylight savings was last week, actually," you announced after a beat. Said lightheartedly, you were signaling that this diner, this booth, and you were safe from further judgement. Well, as far as blind dates went, that is.

The record-scratch moment that occurred in his head was immediately evident on his face. Cute confusion.

"No it wasn't," he muttered with a chuckle. Then his brow furrowed slightly. "No...was that why I was late to...oh shit. I'm so sorry I'm an idiot."

He shook his head and chuckled, and then reached into his jacket and produced one, slightly crumpled, tulip for you.

"My uncle always said never to show up to a date empty handed," he explained as you took the flower from him. You ignored the electricity that tickled your fingers as they brushed against his. "Figured a rose would be too much."

"It's perfect, thank you." You grinned as you felt your impatience evaporating. "Unfortunately I don't have anything for you. But maybe we just start with a cup of coffee."

You reached across the table to flip Eddie's cup over and then waved the waitress over for a top off.

---

You'd gotten the typical "getting to know you's" out of the way fairly quickly. Names, what you did for work, how you both knew Jen. Then, once you had a chance to look at the menus, you got to the real meat of the conversation.

Because Eddie, it seemed, was a regular at Omega Family Restaurant.

You'd been clued in as he schmoozed your waitress for an extra bowl of little creamer packets, and although she had expertly brushed off his charms, she had returned with the creamer and referred to him by name.

Only for you, Ed.

"I'm her favorite," he explained as he dumped an absurd number of sugar packets into his coffee. Shake, shake, rip, dump, toss. Shake, shake, rip, dump, toss. It was a comical rhythm and you wondered if all that sugar made him sweet too. "But, uh, I'm usually not around in the mornings. I'm in a band. We play a few regular gigs in the area. Jen said you like metal?"

"I've been known to attempt to deafen myself in the car before work," you replied.

"Hell yeah, baby. You should come see us sometimes. Anyway, all of our gigs are usually late. We needed a 24 hour place to call terra firma. With pancakes, of course." His spoon went into his cup and it clinked against the sides as coffee sloshed over the lip and onto the paper placemat.

"Of course." You smiled into your own coffee cup.

"And," he abruptly pulled his spoon out to point right at you, "a free bread basket. Which I notice you haven't touched yet."

"I was trying to be considerate and not eat the croissants before you got here," you explained. "But you were late, so..." You reached over and grabbed the flaky pastry with an exaggerated gesture.

He hummed judgmentally and you shot him a questioning look. "No, I just think it's interesting you went for the croissant and not...I dunno, the poppy seed muffin."

"I mean, if we're here long enough, all of those pastries are getting eaten," you announced unabashedly. "What is this bread basket psychoanalysis?"

He reached over, letting his hand undulate in the air until he chose the chocolate muffin. You didn't know it then, but it would become the first of many thesis-level Munson philosophies that you would hear about in your life.

"There are few things more sacred in life than the bread basket at a greek diner," he began with the air of a scholar. He slowly peeled the liner off the muffin as he spoke. "Not even the bread basket at a steakhouse! At a steakhouse, you're paying for good bread and butter. At a diner, this is a gift. Welcome, we're about to treat you like a part of the family. We're happy to see you. Have a pastry, an old family recipe made with love.

"You chose a croissant, which means you appreciate the craftsmanship of laminated pastry. You like nice things, you like butter. Poppyseed muffin? You don't care what people think of you. You also don't work in a job where they drug test. But most importantly? If you decided not to have a pastry altogether? That would be a cardinal sin. That means you don't appreciate the bread basket, you don't enjoy the mundanity of the every day, and that would've been the end of our date, in my humble opinion."

Your brows jumped in shock at his closing statement. "You're awfully judgy for someone who doesn't want to be single."

"Judgy? Sure." He narrowed his eyes at you and popped a piece of the muffin in his mouth. "But not weird? Not a freak?"

"It's not the worst way to gauge the quality of person you've been set up with," you admitted after some contemplation.

Eddie beamed. Not the easy smiles and smirks he'd been giving you so far during your time together. It was a smile that morphed his face into something of sheer beauty. And your heart skipped a beat as you desired to see that smile more.

"As long as you don't judge anything else I order," you added as an afterthought.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

---

Unfortunately, that plan went to shit immediately because judgement seemed to be the theme for the rest of your date.

Good natured judgement, sure. But judgement nonetheless.

As it turned out, you were both incredibly opinionated when it came to food.

It wasn't something you'd ever consciously considered yourself to be, seeing as you were the furthest from a picky eater possible. You ate everything. But you had preferences that came to light when it was time to place your orders. Eddie's hawklike gaze caught every twitch of your brow and scrunch of your nose. And you had done the same in return.

"What's that look?"

"What's what look?"

"That one?"

"Excuse me, but you've got a look too."

This led to you bickering across the table as you continued to consume the bread basket.

"Who puts mozzarella in their omelet? It's swiss or cheddar or nothing."

"Mozzarella is the reason there's a cheese stretch. And you're one to talk. Who orders ranch on their caesar sirloin sandwich instead of caesar? It's in the name."

"I don't like the anchovies."

"You can't even taste them."

"No, but I know they're there."

At some point, Eddie had reached across the table and flicked at the tips of your fingers lightly.

It tickled. You giggled. You were not a giggler.

What the hell was wrong with you?

Back and forth you went as you scanned over the menu and went over your preferences. Waffles verus pancakes versus french toast. Minestrone versus cream of chicken and rice. Rice pudding versus spumoni.

It seemed that every time you compared preferences, you were at odds with one another. But that was the best thing about them being preferences, you didn't explicitly dislike what the other person liked. Just preferred your own. So it didn't stop either of your utensils from sneaking across the table to steal bites from each other's plates once the food had arrived.

"You put too much syrup on your pancakes," you cajoled.

"Well they're my pancakes, sweetheart," Eddie joked before flipping the short stack over so you could access the pancake that wasn't absolutely doused in butter and syrup. "You put too much hot sauce on your eggs."

"They needed something," you defended and he pointedly hit his fork against the glass Heinz bottle that sat between you. "Don't tell me you can't handle spice." You pointedly cut a particularly bland looking portion for him to take.

There was one item on the menu you had yet to discuss, and Eddie was the one to cross the metaphorical line in the sand.

"How do you feel..." Eddie paused as he swirled a fry through a pool of ketchup. He avoided your gaze, either through fear or shame, you couldn’t be sure. “About saganaki?"

You twirled your fork thoughtfully and asked "versus what?"

"Versus nothing." He shrugged. "Just...wanna know what you think of it." He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms over the back of the booth, the complete opposite of the defensive, avoidant body language he had just moments ago. He was open, welcoming your response. Even if it was one that he wasn't going to like.

Flaming Saganaki was in a league of its own, and Eddie was right not to put it against something else. Briney cheese doused in brandy and then set aflame at your table in a brilliant spectacle. Squirt a bit of lemon on it once the fire had burned out--or to put the fire out altogether--and it turned gooey and a little roasty and a little funky.

It was a divisive dish and you'd sat through plenty of arguments with friends and family alike over ordering it for the table to share, and you're sure Eddie had experienced the same.

Even though you'd had the lowest of hopes for this date, it was actually going well and you really liked him. His humor, his smile, his je ne sais qois. You didn't want this whole thing to derail over saganaki of all things. Should you tell him the truth? Or not?

"I love it," you said confidently, shoulders pulled back.

"Bullshit," he hissed at you and leaned forward, elbows placed on the table as he tented his hands in front of his face. "Nobody likes saganaki."

"I do," you insisted with a scoff. "I like the corner pieces, actually, because they get the best crust."

"But it's stinky."

"Sometimes the best food is stinky food."

"It's not even greek!"

"Yes it is! It's greek cheese! Halloumi. Kasseri!"

"It's weird."

"It's a tradition," you insisted, getting a little hot under the collar.

You mirrored him, leaning forward to meet his challenge. But instead of tenting your hands, you fisted the cloth napkin in your lap. Wringing it. It was your turn, now, to wax poetic about a food; you knew this date was over anyway if this was anything to go by, just as you feared. Who knew cheese would be your undoing. Another anecdote never to tell your nonexistent grandchildren.

"It's a Chicago diner staple," you spat at him. "It's a spectacle, and you don't have to eat it if you don't like it, but you have to respect it. You have to clap when it comes out of the kitchen. You have to say opa when they light it on fire.

"And it's my favorite part of coming to places like this," you said with finality. "So if you can't deal with that...I guess this date is over."

You stared at him, stared him right in the eye, and he stared right back at you unblinkingly. That warm brown gaze that might as well have been made of molten fire the way it glinted in the incandescent light of the fixture overhead.

Finally, he blinked. And the serious facade fell away as he grinned. "Well good!"

"Good?" you asked, confused.

"Yeah, good." He nodded. "You passed my final test."

"Oh you son of a b--" He cut you off before you could get the expletive out.

"Listen, I don't like liars and I don't like people who pretend to be something they're not. I like real people. And sometimes, that's the last thing you get from someone when you go on one of these blind dates. I took a chance, and it was worth it. You're worth it."

You were at a loss for words.

He had a point. Blind dates...any dates really...were full of pitfalls and fake personalities and best behaviors. And sometimes you got to see authenticity peeking through, and sometimes that was a bad thing. So you couldn't fault him for this...because it was working out. For both of you.

But did it have to be over cheese of all things?

"It's also really good," Eddie continued after a few seconds. Your attention snapped back to him. "Because I placed an order for us to share while you were in the bathroom and if you didn't like it, this was gonna be really awkward."

And you couldn't help but through your head back in the biggest laugh, before you threw your napkin right at his face.

---

By the end of the date, you were so full of good food and good spirits from each other's company. Eddie had insisted on getting you a slice of their cherry cheesecake to go.

"It's a staple," he said as you waited in the line along the bakery case to pay. He leaned down and practically had his entire face pressed to the glass to ogle the beautifully lit cheesecake with shiny glazed cherries atop it. "I'm getting a slice to eat for breakfast tomorrow. So you in? Or no?"

He was also a sweetheart who paid for the absolute mountains of food you both had consumed, even though you insisted that you could pay for your portion.

"My uncle would roll in his grave," he said, elbowing you as he pulled bills out of his wallet. "He's not dead, by the way. But I think he would drop dead, let us bury him, roll over in it just to make a point."

"Nice to know where you get your flair for the dramatics from," you teased.

He smiled that big, bright smile again that made your heart flutter.

After he paid, you walked outside and hesitated to part ways, awkwardly figuring out how to say goodbye after such a perfect final blind date of your lives.

Eddie, once again, was the one to finally cross the line. No tricks this time, though. No tests.

"So, next Sunday?" he asked as you fiddled with your keys. "Pancakes and chicken and rice soup and saganaki?"

And you didn't hesitate to say yes.

[xoxoemynn]

I've been trying very hard not to talk about PCCP publicly, because frankly, I think there's very little new to be said and certainly not by me.

However, I have picked up on a rather gross way that some people have been discussing the situation and I'd like it to stop.

To be clear, I am not talking about POC in this fandom who are rightfully upset by how much harder PCCP's actions are going to make it to simply exist in this space. I'm not talking about his close friends who are wrestling with that utter mindfuck of discovering the person you loved didn't actually exist. I'm also not talking about people who've discovered that similarities between their works and PCCP's weren't just coincidence and were actually plagiarism. All these people have been directly impacted by PCCP's unconscionable behavior and are going to need time to process and should be afforded the space to do so.

What I am talking about are people who were not directly involved in any of this, but seem to be descending upon any new scrap of info, any new revelation, any new insight, with the same kind of morbid glee as a TMZ reporter who got a hot tip about a shocking celebrity death.

(This is getting long, so going to put the rest below a cut.)

I was part of the group that first discovered PCCP's lies. The initial discovery was entirely by chance, but then we dug deeper because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, we wanted to be wrong. We did more digging because we wanted to be wrong. And it felt gross, to be looking this closely at someone's real life identity and match it up to details they shared on tumblr/bsky. We hated it. It felt like a violation. But it was such a huge accusation to make against somebody, so we had to be 100000% certain we were right before we breathed a word to anybody else.

For more than a week we agonized about how to handle the situation in a way that would do the least amount of harm to everybody involved and to the fandom at large. There were a lot of tears and sleepless nights. There was a lot of rage that we were even in this position in the first place. And also there was the eternal mindfuck of watching PCCP continue to post about things that we now knew to be lies, while the rest of the fandom continue supporting him as normal.

My point is... none of this was fun. We didn't take any joy or pleasure in uncovering a popular figure in this fandom was a racist fraud. It wasn't some cute detective game. It was hard and it was awful and it was deeply stressful.

So to see some people talk about this like it's entertainment, or fodder for r/HobbyDrama, talk about digging up screenshots and connecting the dots or continuing to theorize... stop. It's done. We did those things because we were hoping to find proof our initial findings were wrong. They weren't. PCCP was racefaking, and it was a deliberate choice he made to mislead and manipulate the fandom for years. He has been exposed and at least somewhat confessed. We know he was a racist and a liar and a plagiarist, and he did irreparable harm to many people in this fandom. That's it. That's the story, and it's done. There are no more dots to connect. There's nothing left to uncover. And while we always knew bringing this forward would result in smug gloating from people who hate the show/the fandom and were happy to have yet another excuse to bash it, it is upsetting and unsettling to see the almost voyeuristic fun some people who do love the show seem to be having with this.

Real people have been hurt, and real people are struggling. We don't need a grand fandom exposé, we don't need to continue digging up the dreck, and we certainly don't need to put anybody in more danger of doxxing. What we need to do is support the people who've been hurt and/or traumatized by PCCP's actions, do some self-reflection on why we allowed him to become so popular in the first place despite so many people now coming out of the woodwork saying they felt "icky" about things he wrote, and move forward.

That said, I do like to focus on positive outcomes, so I'll also say how genuinely lovely it's been to see people supporting each other throughout all this. I've been enjoying the influx of @ofmdlovelyletters on my dash, sharing so much love for others in the fandom. I've been thrilled at all the old gifs and arts and meta posts being shared once more from people who seem to have organically gotten the message of "oh yeah, we're here because we love the show, let's get back to that." Personally, I've been DMing a lot more people just to chat, and it's been really nice turning some fandom acquaintances into fandom friends. And I'm excited about all the efforts of the people working on @inv-2025-pccp to make sure writers who had their works plagiarized receive proper acknowledgement. That's a great, tangible way to turn some poison into positivity, and if you're feeling like "oh I just wish there were something I could do," I'd encourage you to reach out to get involved.

I've said this multiple times in private conversations, but I think it bears repeating here: no matter how much he may have tried, PCCP did not define the OFMD fandom before, and he certainly doesn't get to now. My hope is that as devastating as this event was, we use it as an impetus to move forward and do better, to strengthen relationships and be there for the people who've been hurt the most.

[velarisdusk]

Signed, Sealed, Unspoken

Rhysand x Reader

summary: Following a long and brutal war, the Dusk Court has finally reclaimed the lands seized by the Night Court generations ago. Yet its new capital, Velaris, remains tangled in the Night Court's intricate trade agreements. Now, negotiations are underway. word count: 21.3k (you're welcome, it's worth it) content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of war (& like one descriptive scene) ] author's note: important! this fic takes place in an AU where the Night Court absorbed the Dusk Court forever ago, this is where the borders are (<- google drive link lol, do u like my ramiel rendition). i've never written a fic formatted like this but i'm super duper mega obsessed with how it turned out :D i always wanna hear yalls thoughts but i EXTRA wanna hear your thoughts on this one, its kinda my baby not to be dramatic, ive been working so hard on it im sad its over :( ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a dash of blaze & a splash of venom enhanced with echo leaves stirred THANK YOU SO SO MUCH @raccoonworld FOR THE REQUEST I LOVED LOVED LOVED WRITING THIS!!!!! i saw enemies to lovers and tension/banter and RAN with it >:) I REALLY HOPE YOU LOVE THIS

To the Most Esteemed High Lord of the Night Court,

I will dispense with pleasantries, as I doubt either of us have the patience for them. 

It has come to my attention that despite Velaris now falling under Dusk Court rule, the existing trade agreements with the other courts remain bound to the Night Court’s discretion. As it stands, merchants who once conducted business freely within Velaris now find themselves unable to do so, citing the stipulations you have so conveniently chosen to uphold. 

This impasse benefits no one. The artisans and traders of Velaris are not pawns to be maneuvered at your whim, nor should they suffer disruption simply because the Night Court has yet to accept the reality of the shifting landscape. I am certain even you can see the impracticality of maintaining such restrictions. 

Thus, I formally request the reopening of Velaris’ merchant ties—with full autonomy under Dusk Court governance. This is not a demand, but an offer to facilitate an arrangement that benefits both our courts. As a gesture of good faith, I am prepared to waive all tariffs for Night Court merchants entering our borders for the first decade of this renewed arrangement. Should you find yourself inclined toward reason, I trust we can discuss terms that do not waste either of our time. 

I await your response. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To Her Radiance, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your request has been received and thoroughly reviewed. While I appreciate your concern for Velaris’ merchants—and your attempt to frame this as an act of mutual benefit—I must remind you that these agreements were established with the Night Court for a reason. The conditions under which they may be altered are, as I’m sure you know, not so easily dismissed. To shift its economic ties without careful negotiation would be careless at best and disastrous at worst. 

That said, I am not unreasonable. I am willing to entertain a renegotiation of these trade restrictions provided certain terms are met. Surely, a ruler as pragmatic as yourself can appreciate the necessity of thorough discussion. 

I trust you’ll give the matter due consideration—after all, I’d hate to think the High Lady of the Dusk Court acts on impulse alone. 

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Most Generous High Lord of the Night Court,

I must commend you on your impressive ability to complicate what should be a simple matter.

The conditions you mentioned remain conveniently vague, and your insistence that this requires “thorough discussion” feels less like prudence and more like a deliberate attempt to stall. You claim to appreciate the merchants’ concerns, yet your actions suggest otherwise. Whatever terms you are withholding, I suggest you present them plainly rather than wasting both our time beneath the guise of diplomacy.

This trade arrangement is not the delicate, volatile affair you’re attempting to make it. It is, as I said before, a practical solution that benefits both our courts—one that should have been resolved by now had you been willing to engage in good faith.

If you are not prepared to negotiate in earnest, I suggest you say so plainly. Otherwise, I await your response—and your so-called conditions.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Illustrious and Ever-Gracious High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I assure you, I have no intention of stalling—only ensuring that all necessary terms are made clear. Since you’re so eager for my conditions, allow me to offer them plainly: full claim over Ramiel.

I assume, of course, that you understand the significance of Ramiel to the Illyrians, though I wonder if sentimentality is a concept the Dusk Court is capable of recognizing. Perhaps you’ll manage, when thousands of Illyrians take it upon themselves to storm your borders, demanding they’ve nowhere for their Blood Rite.

Of course, if you’d prefer to drag this out further, by all means keep posturing. I don’t mind waiting—I hear patience is a virtue, though I doubt that’s a concept you’re particularly fond of, either.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Self-Appointed Arbiter of Illyrian Tradition, High Lord of the Night Court,

Your terms have been received—and rejected.

Ramiel is not yours to bargain with. Its ownership was divided between the Night and Dusk Courts long before either of us held our titles, and I have no intention of surrendering what is rightfully mine. Whatever misplaced sense of entitlement has led you to believe otherwise is your burden to bear, not mine.

If you are truly so desperate to appease your Illyrians, I suggest you find another solution—one that doesn’t involve attempting to strong-arm me under the guise of negotiation. Or did you imagine I’d be too naïve to recognize a pathetic attempt at leverage when I see it?

Next time you attempt to disguise arrogance as diplomacy, do try harder.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Tireless Defender of Lost Causes, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your refusal, while unsurprising, was disappointingly predictable. I had hoped you might be capable of recognizing an opportunity when presented with one.

But I understand. Ruling can be… overwhelming. Perhaps the burden of leadership has clouded your judgment—or perhaps you’re simply too proud to admit that the Dusk Court cannot stand alone. Without those trade routes, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before your court’s merchants start looking elsewhere for stability. I wonder, how long will your people’s loyalty last when faced with empty pockets?

Of course, I’m more than willing to assist you in finding a solution—if you’re willing to discuss this matter in person. Surely, a female as capable as yourself wouldn’t shy from a real conversation. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to keep trading letters instead. I can’t say I’d mind. Your insults are far more entertaining than I anticipated.

Do let me know.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Adriata, Summer Court

The meeting had been set. The Summer Court had been Tarquin’s suggestion—one neither you nor the High Lord of Night could easily refuse. Neutral enough ground, given the mess of alliances during the war to take back your court. Enduring his insufferable theatrics under Tarquin’s watchful eye was unpleasant enough. The thought of tolerating them indefinitely only soured it further. 

The air was thick with salt and sun, the Adriata breeze rolling in from the open sea as you ascended the marble steps of the Summer Court’s palace. The gates were already open, a silent invitation—and the two Summer Court guards flanking them did not so much as twitch as you approached, their expressions impassive. 

Inside, the refreshing chill of the palace provided welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside, a reprieve that might’ve been pleasant had your mind not already been preoccupied with thoughts of the impending meeting. Your footsteps echoed against polished floors as a familiar figure emerged from the arched hallway ahead. 

Tarquin approached, dressed in deep blue, the color of a tide just before dusk, his crown of pearl and gold glinting beneath the glow of the faelights suspended above. He had never been one for ostentatious displays of power, and yet there was something effortless about the way he carried it—shoulders squared, chin high, every inch the High Lord of Summer. 

A polite, knowing smile curved his lips as he bowed in greeting. “High Lady.”

“High Lord,” you returned, dipping your chin in greeting. “I appreciate you hosting this meeting.”

His smile deepened, but there was something almost conspiratorial behind it. “I can’t say I object to the entertainment.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Tarquin’s amusement lingered as he extended his arm toward you. Without hesitation, you slipped your arm through his as he led the way inside. “I take it the correspondence has been… eventful?”

“That’s a word for it,” you muttered.

He chuckled, leading you through the wide halls of polished coral and pearl, sunlight filtering through arched windows that overlooked the sea. The sound of distant music drifted through the corridors—a low hum of strings and laughter. 

It took you half a breath too long to place it. 

You glanced at Tarquin, brow furrowing. “I was under the impression this was a private meeting.”

He exhaled, something wry tugging at his mouth. “It was.”

Was.

You dropped your arm and stopped walking. 

Tarquin turned to face you fully, sighing as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I had planned for it to be a quiet discussion,” he admitted. “Apologies, truly. My cousin’s… enthusiasm often precedes her judgment.”

Of course. Cresseida and that damned mouth of hers. 

A headache threatened at the base of your skull, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” He shook his head, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Cresseida only meant well, but—well, you know how quickly word spreads. The moment it was known you and Rhysand would be in the same room together, the interest became… considerable.”

Your lips parted slightly, incredulous. “How considerable?”

A swell of noise—laughter, voices, the unmistakable hum of a gathering—rose from deeper within the palace, as if in answer. Tarquin’s eyes widened slightly, his expression caught between amusement and resignation.  

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together, willing patience into your voice. “And how many High Lords are in attendance?”

Tarquin’s gaze flicked toward the crowd, then back to you, his lips quirking up at one corner. “All, and at least half of Prythian, by my count.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment. 

Wonderful. 

Of course it wouldn’t be a simple negotiation. Of course this had turned into a spectacle. All of Prythian must have been abuzz with curiosity, all eager to see if the rumors were true—if the Dusk Court’s High Lady and the Night Court’s High Lord could even stand to be in the same room without bloodshed. 

And now, you’d have an audience. 

You sighed, smoothing a hand down the front of your skirts. The dress was a deep violet-black, and shimmered with a subtle, shifting sheen that caught the light as you moved, like twilight settling over the horizon. The bodice was intricately designed with delicate lace, while the long, sheer sleeves flared gently at the wrists, trimmed in silver embroidery. And resting atop your head, a slender tiara of dark metal, woven with amethyst and moonstone—like the first stars pricking through the evening sky. 

At the very least, you wouldn’t look out of place. 

Tarquin studied you for a moment before offering, “You could always turn back and we’ll reschedule.”

You arched a brow, both of you knowing that was not an option. “And let him spin his own version of events? I’d rather suffer the evening.”

A low chuckle. “I thought you might say so.”

Tarquin turned, resuming his path toward the open doors far ahead—toward the golden light and music spilling from the grand hall beyond. 

You squared your shoulders and followed. 

The noise struck first—a soft roar of conversation that swelled as you stepped through the open doors. Laughter rippled beneath the clink of glasses and the steady rise and fall of music. Strings sang from somewhere across the grand hall, their notes weaving through the air, bright and lilting—completely at odds with the tension coiling in your chest. 

The room was bathed in gold, sunlight spilling through towering windows that overlooked the sea. Gossamer curtains billowed with the breeze, carrying the scent of salt and citrus. The palace’s coral-hued walls seemed to glow beneath the faelights suspended like stars above, glittering and warm.

Nobles clustered in tight groups, each dressed in silks and jewels that shimmered like fish scales in the light. A delicate blend of perfumes clung to the air, mingling with the faintest trace of seafoam. Glasses gleamed in their hands, wine swirling dark and rich as they murmured in low voices. 

And there—by one of the open archways that overlooked the distant cliffs—stood Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.

He stood tall and commanding as ever, his usual confident smirk playing on his lips as he engaged in some pointless small talk with a cluster of nobles from some court you couldn’t be bothered to identify. His smile was sharp and easy, his laugh a low rumble that you somehow knew managed to sound genuine. He looked entirely at ease—all dark elegance in his finely tailored attire, the night-black fabric swallowing the warm light around him. 

You watched as he sipped from his glass, his fingers curling around the delicate stem with calculated ease. Ever the picture of charm—poised, composed—as if he hadn’t been hellbent on driving you to the brink of madness over the past several weeks. 

A hush rippled across the room, subtle but unmistakable. Not silence, not entirely, but it was enough. They’d seen you. And the whispers that followed? Soft, barely audible beneath the music, yet you could feel the weight of their stares. Curious eyes flicked between the two of you, waiting, wondering. 

You bit back a sigh and crossed to the nearest drinks table, letting the cool stem of a wine glass rest between your fingers. You busied yourself casually moving through the hall, eyes drifting over the various High Lords deep in conversation, striking deals in hushed tones, some more conspicuously than others. A few were already exchanging knowing glances, clearly eager to witness the first public encounter between you two since your courts had ended their bitter conflict. You could practically feel the weight of their eyes, even from across the room. 

The air was thick with pretenses, with politics, with old alliances shifting beneath carefully constructed smiles. The longer you lingered in the thrumming hum of the palace, the more you realized just how much was at stake in this charade. 

You spent the first hour engaged in clipped, careful conversation with Tamlin and Lucien. Tamlin, all tense shoulders and tight-jawed restraint, spoke little beyond what was necessary. Lucien, at least, filled the silence with dry wit, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. There was a flicker of curiosity in them, a silent question he did not voice: What exactly is your endgame here? You only smiled, noncommittal, and let him wonder. 

Then came Beron and Eris—an exercise in endurance more than diplomacy. Beron played at civility, but you could see the sneer behind his eyes, feel the weight of his disdain curling in the air between you. Eris, ever the sharper of the two, was all smooth words and knowing smirks, his amusement a blade he wielded with practiced ease. His compliments were barbed, his observations keen. And though you had no doubt he enjoyed watching you hold your ground against his father, there was a lingering watchfulness in him, a game being played that you had no interest in deciphering. 

Eventually, your glass was empty, the wine gone as quickly as the patience you’d started with. You set it down carefully on a nearby passing tray before you straightened. Taking a slow, steadying breath, you steeled your spine and finally began the long walk toward him. 

He noticed you before you reached him. 

Of course he did. 

Violet eyes flicked to yours—a brief, cutting glance that held no warmth. Then he turned back to his group, murmuring something that earned a round of soft, agreeable laughter. By the time you reached him, his companions had scattered, as if sensing the change in the air—like birds taking flight before a storm. 

“High Lady,” he greeted smoothly, taking a slow sip from his glass. His eyes gleamed above the rim—cool, knowing. “I was beginning to think you’d avoid me all evening.”

You smiled tightly. “And miss the pleasure of your company, High Lord? Please.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Dangerous words,” he warned, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “I may begin to think you enjoy it.”

“I enjoy watching you run your mouth,” you countered, feigning disinterest as you reached for another drink from a passing tray. “It’s remarkable, really. You hardly need anyone else in the conversation.”

His lips twitched. “Efficient, wouldn’t you say?”

Then his gaze dipped, tracking the movement as you took a slow sip from your glass. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, something sharp and searching—a silent dare.

And for a heartbeat, you nearly smiled. 

Okay. The bastard was funny. You’d give him that much.

 “Among other things.”

That smirk of his deepened, and you felt the annoying tug of frustration tighten in your chest. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he reveled in it. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Oh, I wouldn’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I’d sooner pay a compliment to the tableware.”

“I’ve been told I’m just as sharp,” he countered smoothly, lifting his glass in a mock toast. 

“Only half as useful,” you muttered, the words slipping out the moment his toast was raised, brows lifting as you took a slow sip from your glass. 

The High Lord chuckled darkly, stepping just a fraction closer—not enough to break propriety, but enough that the air between you felt thinner. Warmer. “You’ve always had a fondness for sharp things. Trouble is,” he added, with a pointed glance at your glass, “you haven’t quite learned how to hold them without cutting yourself.”

You arched a brow. “And yet I’m still standing.”

His smile widened, slow and feline. “For now.”

“High Lord,” you said, voice dripping with dry formality, “if you think you can rattle me with such feeble attempts, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, sounding almost bored. “We’ve spent decades at each other’s throats, (y/n)—surely, you can address me by my name.”

You blinked, glass halfway to your lips. 

“...No, thank you,” you said primly, taking a slow sip. “I’d hate to give you the satisfaction.”

His gaze danced over you, sharp and glittering. “Coward.”

“I prefer to think of it as prudence.” He wouldn’t be getting a reaction out of you tonight. 

“Is that what you call it?” Rhysand mused, swirling his drink. “I was beginning to think you avoided me out of… shyness.”

You let out a breathy laugh, tasting the remnants of wine on your tongue. “I’d hardly call avoiding you a loss.”

“And yet,” he countered, voice all lazy arrogance, “here you are.”

“Only because I’m certain you’ve already cornered half the room,” you said sweetly. “I figured someone should check that you haven’t charmed them all into some terrible bargain.”

Rhysand’s smile turned cutting. “Now you’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’d take it if it were offered.”

He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking down your face—searching, calculating. “Perhaps I just wanted to see how long you’d last before you came to find me.”

“If I knew it’d only encourage you,” you said coolly, “I may have waited longer.”

Something gleamed behind his eyes. “You wound me, High Lady,” he said smoothly, tilting his head just so. “I’d hate to think the conversation is so unbearable.”

“Oh, no. You mistake me,” you countered, gaze flicking over him with mock deliberation. “It’s not the conversation that’s unbearable. Only the company.”

His laugh was a low, knowing thing, and you hated how easily it slid down your spine. “That almost sounded personal.”

“Take it however it helps you sleep at night.” You lifted your glass to your lips, only to find it empty. Annoying. 

Rhysand followed the movement, watched as you set it down on a passing tray and took another. His gaze lingered for half a beat too long—so brief you might have missed it had you not been so attuned to the way he moved, the way he studied. 

You’d already drained a glass during this conversation, never mind the two others throughout the evening. He’d barely touched his—just one sip, if you’d been paying attention. And Rhysand certainly was, if you knew him at all. Which meant you wouldn’t be having another—at least, not until you were free of his watchful gaze. 

You let the silence stretch between you, just long enough to suggest boredom. Let him wonder if he’d lost your interest already. 

He only smiled, unruffled. “So?” he drawled, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Shall we play nicely and discuss what we’re actually here for?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your head slightly. “And here I thought we’d already abandoned that pretense.”

Rhysand’s lips curved. “I suppose we have.” his gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder before settling back on you, heavy with implication. “Not that we truly have the luxury of privacy, do we?”

Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as you looked over your shoulder, following his line of sight. “The High Lords have never been particularly skilled at minding their own.”

“No,” he mused, swirling the wine in his glass. One of these times, it would spill, Cauldron-willing. “But usually they’re more subtle.”

Across the room, Beron leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he murmured something to his eldest beside him. Helion, a few seats down, wasn’t even bothering with discretion, openly entertained as he twirled his glass between his fingers. And Tarquin—Tarquin, for all his efforts to seem engaged in a separate conversation, kept glancing toward the two of you like he was expecting the walls to crack beneath the weight of whatever game you and Rhysand were playing. 

“That would be too convenient,” you murmured, gaze sweeping the room in one slow, deliberate pass. 

Rhysand huffed a quiet laugh, low enough that only you could hear. “Pity. I was looking forward to seeing how many veiled threats you could fit into a single conversation before Tarquin stopped you.”

“Five, at least.”

His brows lifted, mouth curving in a mockery of admiration. “Ambitious.”

You turned to him fully now, tilting your head. “Concerned?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, too quick to name, before that infuriating smirk returned. “Hardly. I just prefer results over theatrics. And right now, I’m afraid we won’t be getting any.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the gathered High Lords, at the nobles who clearly had no intention of keeping to their own business. 

Cresseida had been clever—forcing this into a public spectacle rather than a quiet, controlled negotiation. But if her goal had been to force you both into some kind of amicable resolution, she was bound to be disappointed. 

You met his eye. “Then it seems we’ve wasted an evening.”

Rhysand tilted his head, studying you with a lazy sort of amusement, fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Your jaw tightened. “No?”

“No,” he said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his wine. “I’ve had quite a bit of fun. I’ll give you credit, you’ve made it almost enjoyable to watch you stew.”

Bastard. 

You shifted forward just enough that it could be passed off as casual to any onlookers. Just enough that the space between you thinned, that he had no choice but to notice the shift in proximity.

“Tell me, Rhysand,” you said, voice dipped in silk and steel. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” You studied his face for any sign of a reaction, a flicker in his eyes—something, anything— at the sound of his name on your tongue. You swore you saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly.

He smiled as he leaned in, matching you breath for breath. “Tell me, (y/n), would you find my voice tolerable if I took the more subtle route?” he said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the faint pressure at the edges of your mind, like the brush of something sharp testing the barriers you’d carefully constructed for this very reason.

Your answering smile was slow, sweet, and entirely false. “Try it and see how fast I rip out your tongue.”

Then… he laughed—really laughed, low and rich, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. He leaned back with it, head tilting, and the shift sent you bristling, spine straightening before you could think better of it. 

His laughter faded, tapering into a breath that still carried the ghost of mirth. “Careful, High Lady,” he said, eyes alight with something dangerous. “I might begin to suspect you’re attempting to entice me.”

Your nails pressed into your palm. Self-satisfied prick. As if you’d waste the effort.

“Rest assured,” you said, voice smooth as glass, “if I meant to entice, you would not be left wondering.”

His brows lifted, just barely, before his weight shifted away, as if to study you. “Ah,” he said at last, a touch too light. “Then I must have misjudged your intentions. My sincerest apologies.”

Your breath felt too shallow, your skin too warm. Unacceptable. And of course, he knew it.

So you only smiled again, slow and sharp, before turning on your heel. “Enjoy your night, High Lord.”

You didn’t wait for a response, only tossed the words over your shoulder and kept walking, leaving him standing there. Watching you go. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose lack of talent in negotiation is rivaled only by his truly abysmal attempts at seduction, 

It seems our time in the Summer Court was just as unproductive as our letters, though I suppose I should commend you for attempting a new strategy. Unfortunately for you, whatever effort you put into wooing me was wasted—I can assure you, I am not so easily swayed by charm, nor will I be seduced into accepting an entirely unreasonable deal.

Now, unless you’d prefer to spend more time failing miserably at that endeavor, perhaps we can return to the actual purpose of these discussions. You proposed a meeting to negotiate, yet I’ve still heard nothing of what—aside from the absurd—might convince you to release the other courts from their trade agreements with the Night Court. So, tell me, Rhysand: do you have any real terms to offer, or should I expect another pointless conversation?

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose wit remains as swift as her refusal to entertain reason,

I see your patience is as thin as ever. I was hoping you’d save your biting commentary for after our negotiations, but I should have known better. Your sharp tongue is always ready to make an appearance, even when the subject is far more pressing than whatever petty barb you think will get a rise out of me.

As for this wooing nonsense you insist on mentioning, had I wanted to spend the evening trying to seduce you, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed on the Summer Court. I’d have taken you somewhere far more secluded—perhaps an estate along the Day Court’s southeastern coast, where the sunsets are golden and endless, and the warmth of the air would make it all too easy to lose yourself in far more pleasant distractions.

I’d even go so far as to arrange a romantic candlelit dinner. A small, intimate table set for two, close enough that you’d have no choice but to brush against me whenever you so much as reached for your glass—the first, second, and third. Though, knowing you, I’d likely have to wait until your eighth before you finally deemed my shoulder worthy of supporting that insufferably high-held head of yours. Roses, of course, scattered in excessive, bordering-on-ridiculous abundance. A personal violinist to serenade us—no, perhaps an entire string quartet, just to ensure the moment is properly insufferable. I’d be remiss if I didn’t include poetry of course—something overwrought, preferably recited under the stars with all the solemnity of a male professing his undying devotion. Really, (y/n), if seduction had been my goal, I’d have made sure to leave you with no doubt about my intentions. 

We’d have had plenty of time for meaningful conversation, uninterrupted by the chaos of Cresseida’s “enthusiasm”—which, I might add, was the delicate (I say delicate with the utmost sarcasm) term Tarquin managed to muster for the spectacle she orchestrated. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect any self-respecting High Lord to take command of his own palace and dismiss his unwanted guests, though I’m sure you’d prefer to dismiss such reasonable suggestions as impractical, as is your way.

But, of course, I digress. As it stands, my terms remain unchanged: Ramiel. The western half. You’ll find that without it, there’s little incentive for the Night Court to make concessions. No amount of your desperate little dramatics will sway my stance. I think we both know this is the only real term on the table.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

P.S. I must thank you for the satisfaction—I believe that was the term you used—of hearing my magnificent name fall from your lips the other night. And now, to see it written by your delicate hand as well… Truly, I must be the most Cauldron-blessed male in all of Prythian.

✦

To the ever-persistent High Lord of the Night Court, whose ego remains as unshakable and misplaced as his faith in his own charm

It seems I underestimated just how much time you’ve spent considering the matter of seducing me. Such detail, such effort—few males would go to such great lengths to convince a female of their supposed disinterest. If I didn’t know better, I might think it’s been occupying that scheming mind of yours far more than you’d care to admit. Though I have to wonder… Do all your fantasies involve me drinking myself into some pliant, starry-eyed fool? Or is that your way of compensating for the fact that I would never find you charming of my own accord?

And here I thought you were merely insufferable—imagine my surprise to learn you’re a gossip as well. I should have guessed. You seem precisely the type—sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, always poised to collect whatever little scraps of intrigue fall into your lap. I can only assume you relish hoarding such information, tucking it away until it serves some greater purpose. I wonder, do you find as much satisfaction in keeping secrets as you do in sharing them? Or is it just my ability to match that insufferable wit of yours that has you so eager to write?

Speaking of which, your remarks about Tarquin were as predictable as they were shortsighted. I’m sure it must be easy business to force out fae who have ruled for millennia when you yourself have only been alive for a fraction of that time. Even easier when one in particular has a habit of reducing things to ash. 

Tell me, Rhysand, do all your enemies receive such personal attention, or am I special? I must be, considering how quickly you seem to find time to respond to me. It’s impressive, really—your letters reach me in a fraction of the time I typically receive correspondence. You’re either woefully impatient or remarkably eager, and I’m not sure which is worse. 

But since you’re so determined to keep the discussion of rights to Velaris’ trade agreements at a stalemate, perhaps I could put my delicate hands to some use. That is, if you can manage to set aside your fixation on Ramiel long enough to consider alternatives. I wonder if I ought to bring something else to the table—something of more… immediate value to you. 

That being said, you’ll have to quell your impatience for the time being. I’ll be away on business, which means you’ll have to find some other means of entertaining yourself for the time being. As much as I hate to deprive you of my company, I suspect you’ll manage. Try not to let your restlessness get the better of you. I’d hate to return to a stack of letters detailing all the ways you ‘could have’ won me over, if only I’d let you. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. As lovely as your rose-petaled fantasy sounds, I much prefer mirabilis. I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate the significance. 

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose ability to misinterpret my intentions is truly something to behold,

I hate to shatter your illusions, but you are not special—not in this regard, at least. The speed of my letters has nothing to do with my enthusiasm and everything to do with geography. Our courts share a border, after all—an unfortunate reality, considering how much of it you carved from my own. Proximity is a rather mundane explanation, but if you’d prefer to believe I spend my days waiting by the window for your next scathing remark, far be it from me to rob you of that fantasy. 

On the subject of fantasies: You do love to twist my words, don’t you? If I recall, you were the one to pose the question—am I not allowed to entertain it? I simply offered you the scenario that seemed most realistic. And yet, you seem quite fixated on the idea of me seducing you. I wonder—do all your rebuttals involve projecting your own preoccupations onto me? Or is this your way of compensating for the fact that I’ve gotten under your skin more than you’d care to admit?

What you refer to as gossiping, I prefer to think of as being well-informed. A skill you should appreciate, given your own sharp tongue and penchant for gaining leverage. But I’ll admit, secrets do make for excellent company—particularly when the alternative is a conversation as dull as this stalemate of ours. And I have yet to decide whether the pleasure of matching wits with you outweighs the agony of your stubbornness. 

Now, as much as I’d love to ignore the blatant baiting in your letter, I find myself… curious. I can certainly imagine the lovely image of those delicate hands of yours being put to use—after all, I distinctly recall them attempting to drive a sword through my neck not long ago. I’ll admit, I’m rather torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. And if that amuses you, then by all means, enjoy yourself. I’m sure you will. 

I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time. Perhaps I’ll spend it in quiet reflection. Perhaps I’ll take up a new hobby—painting, poetry, composing terribly romantic ballads in your honor (for the string quartet to play, of course). Or perhaps I’ll simply use the opportunity to reclaim what’s mine. Ramiel, for instance. Wouldn’t that be amusing?

Enjoy your business, (y/n). Try not to miss me too much. 

Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. The mirabilis is an exquisite flower. I had a bed of them at my townhouse in Velaris—I always admired them for being the only flora wise enough to appreciate the beauty of night in the Night Court. 

✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose delusions of grandeur are as endless as they are exhausting,

I must confess, I almost missed these letters in my brief reprieve from them. Almost. Though I must say, I imagined your anticipation a little differently. Not waiting by the window, pining for my response, but rather rifling through your mail, skimming past important matters of state in search of your name in my handwriting.

I’m right, aren’t I? 

As amusing as it is to imagine, you’ll have to forgive me for not sharing in your enthusiasm. You’ll find I have more pressing concerns than indulging whatever thrill you get from these exchanges.

And yet, despite that eagerness, you still managed to disappoint me. You dodged my question so artfully, I almost didn’t notice. Again, almost. You say I’m not special ‘in this regard, at least’—which begs the question: in what regard do you believe me to be special, Rhysand? Go on, amuse me. Though I imagine you’ll find a way to dodge the question, just as you so skillfully sidestepped my last.

On the matter of your other fantasies, I do hope you weren’t too attached to the idea of reclaiming Ramiel. I’m surprised I wasn’t informed of an attempt while I was away. Either you truly were joking, or you failed spectacularly. I suspect the former—if only because the latter would wound your pride too much to keep quiet. But don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll let you take it so easily. Should you ever try, I suggest you prepare for far more resistance than the last time your court made an attempt at mine. I suggest you spare yourself the embarrassment and resign yourself to the reality of the border as it stands.

And speaking of revisionist history, I see you’re still clinging to the notion that I carved something from your court. Let me remind you that I took back only what rightfully belonged to Dusk. Not an acre more. The distinction may be an inconvenience to your pride, but I assure you, it’s quite important to me.

As for the truly pressing matters—you say you can imagine my hands being put to use, torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. How very dramatic. I only meant to say I would see what strings I could pull. What exactly did you imagine I was referring to? 

Speaking of which—I do have another portion of my reacquired land that I might be willing to bring to the table. But before I entertain any offers, I think I’d like answers. To all of my questions. 

Try not to let the anticipation distract you too much. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. A poetic interpretation, though an inaccurate one. The mirabilis does not bloom for night, Rhysand. It blooms for dusk. I’m hardly surprised you managed to make it about yourself. Though, I suppose I can’t fault you for finding familiarity in beautiful things. 

✦

To the unshakable guardian of borders, both territorial and personal—though one seems far less impenetrable than the other, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I’ll admit, my evenings were far quieter in your absence. Dreadfully so. I found myself quite bored without your charming insults—perhaps I should be worried? I fear I may have grown too accustomed to your scrutiny.

I did have an enjoyable time speculating about what, exactly, could have kept you from writing. Was it boredom? A newfound commitment to your so-called pressing concerns? Or were you simply trying to teach me the virtues of patience?

A noble effort, if so. Though I must say, for someone with more important matters to attend to, you seem remarkably preoccupied with my pride. Your fixation on it would almost be endearing—if it weren’t so transparent. Are you hoping to wound it? Searching for some weakness, some bruise you might press your thumb against? If my ego is as fragile as you imagine, why are you working so hard to shatter it?

On the matter of Ramiel, I’m flattered by your assumption that I would go about reclaiming it in such an underhanded way. But contrary to popular belief, I am not entirely cold; I can make a joke. I make many of them, really. And taking Ramiel back with anything less than a true effort would be disgraceful to it. A sacred mountain deserves a worthy battle, don’t you think? I can only assume you agree, given how fiercely you cling to what you’ve taken—excuse me, what you’ve reclaimed. I’ve found myself agreeing with you on this front—revisionist history is an unfortunate thing. Perhaps we should compare records sometime, particularly those regarding the last time our courts clashed. Preferably over a bottle of that wine we had in Adriata. Seven glasses that night, was it? Or was I too distracted to count? Either way, I’m sure the discussion would prove enlightening—it may remind you history has a habit of repeating itself. 

Speaking of indulgences, I find it fascinating that, of all the questions I so skillfully evaded, the one you’re most intent on prying an answer from is what I think of your hands and what you’ll do with them? An interesting choice, considering your previous insistence that you have far more pressing concerns than indulging me. But who am I to question your priorities?

I suppose I can be merciful and share the long-awaited answers you so demandingly requested (Mother help whatever poor male ends up as your mate, if this is how you insist on getting your way):

Partially. Matters of state demand priority, but I do allow myself certain distractions. 

If I told you, I’d lose the pleasure of watching you try to figure it out yourself. But since you seem desperate for an answer, I’ll offer a hint: it’s not your modesty. Or your patience. Certainly not your generosity. 

I thought it was quite evident what you meant to imply. But if you insist on feigning innocence… Truthfully, I assumed your offer was one that would require privacy. And a great deal of generosity on your part. This is something, I now realize, you certainly wouldn’t have put into writing if only to uphold the charade that you’d never find me charming. And now that I’ve said as much, I do hope you’ll allow me the dignity of never having to elaborate further. For both our sakes. 

Yours in anticipation, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. Can you blame a male for admiring fine calligraphy? The way you curl the R and y on the envelope—it does wonders for an already stunning name. Almost makes me forgive the rest of your letter. 

Almost. 

P.P.S. You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful things? It seems I’m beginning to grow on you. 

✦

To the High Lord of Night, who wields wit like a blade yet underestimates the sharpness of my own,

I should make one thing abundantly clear: I did not call you beautiful. I merely acknowledged your tendency to find yourself in the presence of beautiful things—an unfortunate distinction you seem determined to misinterpret. Your ego has always had a habit of bending words to its will. 

As for your supposed concerns over my absence, rest assured—I had no ulterior motive for not writing. No grand scheme to test your patience or see how long you’d last before you wilted from neglect. I was simply occupied. The life of a High Lady is not one of idle indulgence, after all. I leave that to you. 

And yet, you speak as though I spend my precious time working to shatter your ego. An interesting claim, considering I’ve done nothing but respond to the words you so generously provide me. If anything, you’re the one offering up your pride, Rhysand. If it’s cracked, I certainly wasn’t the one to drop it. 

On the matter of history, I must say, your memory is sharper than I gave you credit for. Seven glasses, was it? And here I thought I’d lost track. I wonder—does an obsessive enemy count each sip so meticulously, or only a male in love?

Speaking of unanswered questions, you’re still avoiding mine. And until you decide to remedy that, I see no reason to disclose what I plan to bargain with (a term I use loosely, as I know your court has a rather… rigid interpretation of the word). But since you seem so desperate to know, I’ll offer you a choice: either admit there are too many ways in which you find me special to list, or do your best to name them all. 

And regarding your… interpretation of my offer, I’d suggest you check your assumptions. Whatever it is you imagined, that was entirely your own doing. A slip of the mind perhaps? A rather telling one, if so.

(Y/n) High Lady of Dusk

P.S. Since you seem so taken with my calligraphy, I made some additions in honor of your rather devoted attention. A fitting touch, don’t you think? Do let me know if you’d noticed before reading this.

✦

To the most self-important High Lady in all of Prythian,

Love? You flatter yourself. A male in my position would be reckless not to keep a close eye on his greatest adversary. And a sharp memory is hardly a crime—though I suppose I should be grateful you only accuse me of counting your drinks and not of slipping something into them. It would not be the first time you assumed the worst of me. 

And since you’re so eager for me to list them—very well. The ways in which you are special:

You wield words like weapons, yet claim innocence when they strike true. A fascinating contradiction. I’d almost admire it, were I not so often on the receiving end. 

Your dedication to antagonizing me is truly unparalleled. The effort, the commitment—it’s impressive. One might even say admirable. 

You’ve managed, against all odds, to make even silence feel pointed. A rare skill. Not one I’d expect of someone so supposedly burdened with more pressing concerns

You have an impeccable memory for every instance in which I’ve stalled or withheld negotiation details for my own gain—yet here you are, doing the very same. Hypocrisy has never looked so graceful.

I could continue, but I wouldn’t want you to mistake it for admiration. And besides, I believe I’ve humored you enough. 

I am not going to argue the wording of your offer with you. You chose your words carefully, as you always do. And I am but a male. Where, exactly, did you expect my mind to go?

And if I were to claim that you, of all people, would never be so sentimental as to embellish my name with hearts—would you deny it? You accuse me of obsession, of something more, yet only someone utterly besotted would go to such painstaking effort. Curious isn’t it?

Yours in ruthless scrutiny, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. You can spare yourself the trouble in your next letter—I will not be listing any more. I wouldn’t want to inflate the ego of my greatest admirer lest she believe me to be interested. 

✦

To the most infuriatingly self-satisfied High Lord in all of Prythian, who so skillfully dodges a direct answer while pretending it’s beneath him to do so,

Besotted? I would have thought a male in your position would be reckless to mistake a simple acknowledgement of his shortcomings for something so tragic as infatuation. But if it soothes your ego to believe I spend my waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, I suppose I shouldn’t deny you that small comfort. The fragile need their delusions.

Where did I expect your mind to go? If my phrasing left room for your mind to wander, it says far more about you than it does me. Projection is an unbecoming look on a High Lord—though, lucky for you, it seems to suit you well. 

And if you were to claim that I—of all people—would never be so sentimental as to embellish your name with hearts, I’d wonder what you’d do if I denied it. But alas, I have no need to lie. It was not painstaking to do the calligraphy, nor did I waste away hours perfecting it. It comes quite easily to someone as skilled as myself. But if you prefer to imagine me blushing, lovestruck, ink-stained fingers pressing to my lips as I sigh over the flourish of your name—far be it from me to rid you of such a fantasy. We all must have our amusements, mustn’t we?

Now, I ignored it the first time, but I can’t any longer. Twice now, you’ve signed off your letters, “yours, Rhysand.” A rather bold choice, don’t you think? Unless, of course, I’ve missed something and you are. Mine, I mean. Seems an odd habit for a male so determined to deny any particular interest in me.

Not yours, in measured indifference, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-distractible High Lady, whose selective attention is as impressive as her deflections,

You seem to have overlooked a few key matters in your last letter. Namely, any mention of our negotiations. I upheld my end of your demand by providing the list you so graciously insisted upon. And yet, curiously, I find myself still waiting for the slightest indication of what land you intend to put forth in this bargain. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Or perhaps my entirely accurate assessment of your infatuation left you so flustered that you simply forgot?

And speaking of such flustered states—you made quite the fuss over how I sign my letters, yet in your haste, you seem to have neglected to properly sign off your own. Are we abandoning such formalities now? A shame. I had so been looking forward to seeing what you might come up with next. 

Yours, as ever, Rhysand

✦

To the most persistently arrogant High Lord, whose ability to fixate on trivialities is truly unmatched,

Oh, I do apologize—was there something important hidden between all the self-satisfaction and baseless accusations? How careless of me to overlook it. You’re right, of course. I should have addressed the matter of our negotiations. It’s just that I found myself distracted by your transparent attempt to shift the conversation. A flimsy strategy, Rhysand. I am ashamed it hit its mark. 

You claim to have upheld your end of the deal, and yet, all you’ve provided is a list dripping with backhanded compliments and veiled frustration. Hardly the fair exchange you make it out to be. But fine. Since you’re so desperate to discuss it, here it is: shared rights over the Prison. The island was, historically, my ancestors’ land, after all. You should consider it an honor—and a rare olive branch—that I’m willing to grant you even that much. 

As for your signature dilemma—what an astute observation. If my lack of a formal sign-off has rattled you so, I can only imagine how unmoored you’d be if I started leaving my letters entirely unsigned, much in the same way you have a habit of leaving my questions unanswered. A terrifying prospect, I’m sure. But since you so clearly long for my parting words, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you. 

Still not yours, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-elusive High Lord,

It has now been a full week past when I expected your reply—an unusual delay, given not only the geography of our courts (as you so helpfully pointed out before), but the sensitive nature of my last correspondence as well. Surely, by now, you have some response, unless, of course, there is truly so much to discuss with your advisors? I would have thought a male of your remarkable intelligence could have reached a decision long before now. 

But perhaps you are merely searching for the perfect way to tell me what I already know—that this is a wonderful opportunity for the Night Court. I have no doubt your brilliant mind will find some way to convince the Illyrians that they only need half the mountain for their precious Blood Rite. Surely, their warriors will be just as fearsome without every inch of Ramiel beneath their feet. 

Patiently (for now), (Y/n)

✦

Rhysand,

I sincerely hope my last letter has reached you. It would be a shame to have to fire someone over such a careless mistake. But since I have yet to receive a response, I must now assume one of two things: either my words were lost twice, or you are deliberately ignoring them. Neither is particularly reassuring. 

That said, I have reconsidered a portion of my last letter. In hindsight, my suggestion was both insensitive and entirely wrong. It was not my place to suggest forcing the Illyrians to alter a sacred tradition they have upheld for generations. I recognize that now. So let me be clear—I have absolutely no problem allowing them full access to Dusk’s half of Ramiel for the duration of their Blood Rite. It is not my intent to rob them of something so integral to their history. 

I trust this correction will not go unnoticed. And I expect to hear from you soon. 

Yours (less patient than before), (Y/n)

✦

To (y/n), the High Lady whose patience, it seems, is as thin as her restraint in letter-writing,

I appreciate the flood of correspondence awaiting me upon my return—truly, it is touching to know that my absence was felt so… acutely. Though I must say, I expected better of you than to jump to the most uncreative conclusion. Ignoring you? Deliberately? You wound me. And here I was, under the impression that you enjoyed a bit of mystery. 

I am sure you will be surprised to find that I, in fact, do not have the luxury of spending my days hovering over my desk, eagerly awaiting the arrival of ink-stained letters. I have been occupied. Surely, a mind as sharp as yours can deduce that certain matters require my undivided attention—ones that, regrettably, cannot be shared in writing. Or perhaps you’d rather I neglected those responsibilities to promptly return your ever-charming correspondence?

As for the contents of your latest correspondence—finally, some substance. Shared rights over the Prison. A bold proposition. I find it endearing how you frame it as an honor rather than the calculated power play it truly is. Your generosity is noted, as is your gracious concession regarding Ramiel. I suspect the Illyrians will be deeply relieved to know you have found it in your heart to grant them access to land they have fought and bled upon for millennia. How lucky they are to have your benevolence. 

And now, to address the most pressing concern of all—I do wonder if you are more fixated on our negotiations, or on me. I will grant you the mercy of answering your most burning question. Am I yours? A dangerous thing to suggest, especially from someone so insistent that she feels nothing at all. 

Yours, as always, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I had no place to suggest altering a tradition that is not mine to change. It was careless, and I regret it. Please consider this my formal apology—to you and to the Illyrians. I will ensure that my future propositions are made with greater thought. 

As for the matter with the Prison, I will not waste either of our time dressing it up as anything but what it is. A necessary arrangement. One that, should you still wish to discuss, I will be available at your convenience. 

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

How uncharacteristically… restrained. I confess, I find myself at a loss—where has the sharp-tongued, impossible-to-rattle High Lady gone? I was rather enjoying our exchanges, yet now you write to me as if I am nothing more than a bureaucrat awaiting your next trade proposal. It does not suit you. 

Something must be weighing on you to make you forget our less stately topics of conversation. I wonder—should I be concerned? Or will you insist, as always, that nothing at all is amiss?

Yours, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I regret to inform you that I am currently preoccupied with matters of importance. Your musings about the missing High Lady of Dusk, while charming, do not qualify. I have neither the time nor the energy to explain, but rest assured—it’s nothing that requires your concern.

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I’m not asking for the inner workings of your court. Only some assurance that the High Lady I’ve been painstakingly coaxing into a negotiation hasn’t decided to throw herself into the abyss. A waste, truly—in more ways than one. I’d hate to lose the only opponent who’s ever managed to keep pace. 

Yours (against my better judgment),Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

If you must know—though I suspect you already do—I’m fine. Truly. Or at least as fine as one can be when balancing the weight of a court that seems determined to pull itself apart at the seams. 

I wanted this. Fought for it. Sacrificed for it. I would do it all over again if I had to, if only to reclaim what was stolen from my ancestors and restore Dusk to what it once was. But I can’t say I anticipated how steep the price would be. 

Beron, for one, seems intent on ensuring I feel every thorn in the crown I now wear. I knew his help would come with strings—but I misjudged how tightly he’d be willing to pull them. He’s been pressing me for greater trade rights along the southern border, a thinly veiled attempt to undercut Velaris’ control over the merchant routes. I refused, of course. Which only gave him an excuse to retaliate—restricting shipments of raw materials that my court requires to rebuild. He knows exactly how far he can push before I’m forced to give him something in return. 

And then there’s the matter of Thesan’s generosity. Or rather, the staggering debt it left me with. His support during the war was invaluable, but now the treasury is running thin. I’ve already levied new taxes, cut court expenses, not to mention countless other efforts, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough. 

As for Tamlin—he’s been… circling. Watching for weakness. He hasn’t demanded anything outright, not yet, but the implied threat is clear enough. I suspect he’s waiting for Beron or Thesan to draw blood first, hoping I’ll come crawling to him when Dusk begins to buckle under the weight of their demands. And I’m certain he’ll enjoy every moment of it. 

And through all of it, I’m expected to smile and remain composed. To reassure my people, my advisors, my allies—that I have it all under control. That their High Lady is not unraveling beneath the pressure of debts and threats and politics. That I am not coming apart at the seams from the sheer exhaustion of being tugged in every possible direction. 

I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’m sure you’ll eventually use it against me—some leverage to play when it suits you best. Hopefully I’ll come to my senses and burn this letter before it reaches you. If you’re reading this, then evidently I need to be evaluated for hurling my court’s politics into the hands of my enemy.

I knew this would be difficult. I was not naïve about the cost. But there is something uniquely punishing about knowing I fought so hard for this crown, only to find myself bound by a different set of chains. 

And yet, I’ll keep going. Because what other choice is there? Because this is what it means to rule—to carry the weight alone. 

You understand that don’t you?

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or insulted that you think me capable of using this against you. If I were going to exploit you, I would have done so long ago—by making sure everyone knew just how fond you are of me.

Beron is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. His entire approach relies on you needing him more than he needs you. Which means you need to make it clear that you don’t. If he’s restricting raw materials, look elsewhere. There’s a port in Day, just south of your shared border, that could cover the loss. Speak with Helion. It’ll be more expensive, yes, but not so much that it’d justify letting him think he has the upper hand.

And Thesan is not unreasonable. He wouldn’t have extended his aid if he didn’t believe Dusk was a worthy investment. But debts of this scale aren’t meant to be paid off in coin alone. Offer him something softer: diplomacy, information, a trade route that benefits both courts—perhaps the one Beron is panting after. Show him that aiding your court wasn’t charity—it was a strategic decision. If you position it correctly, you can turn him from a creditor into an ally. 

Tamlin—well. I wouldn’t waste too much thought on him. He’s not bold enough to make the first move, and even if he were, he’s too predictable to catch you off guard. Let him watch. Let him wait. He’ll tire of it eventually. And if, by some miracle, he proves otherwise—you won’t be the only one handling it. 

And you’re right—this is what it means to rule. To be pulled apart, worn down, tested until there’s nothing left but steel and bone. But you’re not as alone as you think. And if you ever tire of pretending you have everything well in hand, you know where to find me. I’ll even provide the wine (Eastgate Ruby, Tarquin tells me, is what was served at our “meeting”). 

You should know—you’re doing well. Better than well, actually. They wouldn’t be pressing this hard if you weren’t already a threat. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. Take your time responding—see to what needs seeing to. But do keep in mind, every day we linger in this stalemate is another day merchants are kept from Velaris. And I do hate to keep good wine waiting. 

✦

Rhysand,

I imagine I owe you an apology for how curt I’ve been. If I were you, I wouldn’t have bothered replying, much less with actual counsel. And yet, here you are. I won’t pretend to understand why, but I’d be a fool not to recognize the value of what you’ve given me. 

Your assessment of Beron was correct. Helion has surprisingly agreed to supply what we need, though not without cost. I suspect I’ve a certain High Lord to thank for that…

But that’s not why I’m writing. You said my offer of the Prison was something— but is it enough? You were adamant before about Ramiel. Has that changed, or are we only delaying the inevitable? I’d rather know where we stand than waste time circling the same conversation. 

And despite my better judgment, I’ll say it again—thank you, Rhysand. Truly.

Yours, (Y/n)

P.S. I am not fond of you. Do not spread baseless rumors. 

✦

(Y/n),

The advice was nothing—really, if this is all it takes to earn such enthusiastic gratitude from you, I almost feel guilty for not demanding more in return. Try to keep your wits about you, will you? It’d be a shame if our negotiations were cut short because you keeled over from sheer appreciation. 

Speaking of—the High Lords’ meeting next week seems as good a place as any to finalize our discussions. I doubt we’re the only ones eager to put this matter to rest. 

Let me know if I should move your place card beside mine. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. The rumors would not be baseless.

P.P.S. I’ll see about officially changing them to High Lords’ & Ladies’ Meetings. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The marble gleamed gold beneath the afternoon sun, intricate carvings twisting along each column of the Day Court’s grand hall. Sunlight spilled through arched windows, catching on the etching along the ceiling—everywhere you looked, there was radiance, warmth. But the mood within the room was anything but bright. 

Tamlin and Tarquin were already at it. 

“I don’t give a damn what your scholars have said,” Tamlin bit out, his fingers curled into the polished wood of the table. “Your dam project diverts water away from the Riverlands, which directly impacts all of—”

Tarquin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “You mean it impacts Spring. The other Courts seem perfectly content with—”

The argument barely cut through the layered hum of conversation. The hall was packed—High Lords, High Ladies, emissaries, and advisors all seated along the sprawling table or just behind the leaders of their court, quiet but watchful. Courtiers lingered at the edges of the chamber, murmuring among themselves. Further down the table, the room had splintered into smaller conversations, hushed discussions carried between tilted heads and subtle glances. Viviane murmured something to her counterpart in Autumn, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Eris murmured something low enough that only Azriel could hear. Whatever it was made the shadowsinger’s mouth curl. Some spoke of alliances, of shifting borders and trade disputes, while others engaged in idle pleasantries, weighing their words with careful calculation. 

You hadn’t spoken to each other yet. Hadn’t needed to. But his attention settled over you all the same, a quiet pressure against the edges of your awareness. 

Rhysand lounged beside you, one arm slung over the back of his chair, fingers drumming idly against the carved wood. His expression was the perfect mask of boredom, his violet eyes sweeping the table as if merely observing, gathering. 

But each time you spoke, each time your voice wove into the discussion, something in him tensed. Not noticeably, not even in a way you could explain, but you felt it. The way his fingers stilled against the chair, the way his head tilted just slightly. 

Your place card was, in fact, next to his.

You hadn’t asked him to move it. Hadn’t responded to that letter of his.

You’d gone to read it, expecting nothing more than the usual formalities, maybe a carefully chosen turn of phrase or two. But the first page had barely contained a paragraph, just a handful of neatly penned lines before cutting off entirely. You’d frowned, turning it over, checking for more—only to find the second page clinging to the back.

The moment you saw it, you realized the second page wasn’t part of the letter. Not officially. 

The stray notes scrawled in the margins, phrases crossed out and rewritten, thoughts scattered between lines of unfinished sentences. Lists, reminders—half a to-do list squeezed into one corner, a set of numbers you didn’t recognize. And then, amid all of it, a letter. A real one. One that had never been meant to leave his desk. 

The handwriting was messier, less composed, as if written in haste. He hadn’t redrafted it. Hadn’t refined the words or arranged them carefully. It was raw. Unpolished. And as you read, a slow, twisting pressure built in your chest. 

You still didn’t know what to do with any of it. 

So you did what you always did: you kept your expression unreadable, smoothed down the silk of your sleeves, and shifted just enough to let yourself feel the weight of his attention. 

You’d chosen your dress carefully. The rich midnight blue of Dusk, the embroidery catching faintly in the afternoon light, shifting between silver and violet in the right angles. The fabric was sheer in places, opaque in others, with delicate beading that traced the bodice and sleeves like constellations. The silhouette was deceptively simple, fitted through the torso before cascading in effortless folds, pooling slightly where you sat. Your jewelry was understated—a bracelet of woven platinum and black diamonds, earrings and a necklace to match. But the tiara was another thing entirely. 

Dusk’s coronet was a thing of starlight and shadow, its intricate metalwork impossibly delicate yet undeniably strong. Bands of dark silver twisted together, slender but unyielding, their curves resembling the arms of a crescent moon. Small gems were inlaid at precise points, catching the light like scattered stars, a constellation mapped in precious stone. At its center, the design wove into an intricate lattice, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely—a reminder, woven into its very structure, that not everything of Dusk could be seen at a glance. 

Still, there was business to be done. 

“The borders between Dusk and Night remain unchanged,” you said when the conversation made its way to you. Your voice was even, measured. “The western face of Ramiel remains under Dusk’s jurisdiction, but the Illyrians retain access for the Blood Rite.” 

There was a beat of silence. Agreement, consideration. 

Then from beside you—

“My Court shares access to the Prison,” Rhysand said smoothly. “And as long as there are no tariffs imposed on the Night Court, trade will resume with Velaris at Dusk’s discretion.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, each word delivered with the sharp precision of someone well-versed in negotiation. Nothing in his tone hinted at the letters he’d sent—not the formal, measured ones at the start, but the later ones, where the careful mask had begun to slip. Where the words had become… something else. 

You weren’t sure what unsettled you most—the contrast, the deal, or the fact that, beneath all of it, you still hadn’t decided how to act on that letter. 

“That brings us to trade,” you continued, your gaze sweeping the table. “After lengthy discussions, the Solar Courts have reached an agreement regarding our eastern waters.”

A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some leaned forward slightly, others tipped their heads, listening. Across from you, Helion and Thesan exchanged glances with you and Rhysand—subtle, knowing. 

“Only the Solar Courts may conduct trade with one another through the eastern waters,” you announced evenly. “Any trade between the Seasonal and Solar Courts must be conducted through land or the western waters.”

The statement settled like a stone in the room’s collective understanding. 

Tamlin, Tarquin, and Kallias looked largely unbothered. The arrangement changed little for them—they had ample access to the western coast of Prythian and had conducted most of their trade through those routes already. 

But Beron. 

You turned your attention to him then, the barest trace of a polite smile tugging at your lips. 

“Surely, you all understand the desire to avoid unnecessary hassle,” you mused lightly, watching as the realization sank in. 

Autumn had no western coastline. No direct route to the western waters. Which meant Beron’s merchants would now be forced to transport goods through other courts to access those trade routes—incurring delays, additional taxes, and the general headache of relying on the goodwill of neighboring courts. 

Beron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed slightly where they rested against the table, and though his face remained carefully neutral, you caught the flicker of something sharp in his eyes. 

A quiet hum of approval came from Helion, his grin barely restrained. Tarquin exhaled a soft chuckle, though he masked it with a sip of wine. Even Kallias looked vaguely entertained, his cool blue stare flicking toward Beron before settling back on you. 

Rhysand, however—

Your peripheral vision caught the slightest tilt of his head. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the arm of his chair. But it was the glint in his violet eyes that held your attention, the way his lips parted just slightly, as if he might say something. It seemed you’d surprised him. 

You smoothed an idle hand over your skirts and said simply, “This arrangement best serves the Dusk Court’s interests.”

And you settled back in your chair, your expression unreadable, the matter closed. 

The meeting stretched on for another few hours, dragging through the usual political pretense, minor disputes, and long-winded proposals that wore your patience thin. Rhysand, ever the picture of relaxed authority, lounged in his chair as though he hadn’t a single concern in the world. But every so often, when some lord made a particularly absurd suggestion, his gaze would flick toward you—dry, incredulous, as if waiting to see if you’d heard the same nonsense he had. 

When it finally ended, the room shifted from rigid diplomacy to something looser, easier. Wine flowed, platters of food were brought in, and the stiff atmosphere gave way to quiet chatter, laughter, the clinking of glasses across the grand table. 

You turned to Rhysand, leaning slightly toward him as you picked up the thread of conversation from the meeting. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to guide the negotiations with Kallias in your favor,” you said, voice smooth. 

He exhaled a soft laugh, setting down his glass. “You wound me, (y/n). I did nothing of the sort.”

Your brows raised. “Mmm. You’re insufferable when you lie.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do it often.” His eyes glittered with that infuriating look, the one that made you want to roll your eyes—or perhaps throw your glass at him, just to see if he’d still be smirking afterward. 

You huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Lying is a delicate art. You, Rhysand, are a hammer.”

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in those violet eyes. “And yet, I always seem to get the job done.”

“Blunt force trauma has its uses, I suppose.”

That earned you a low chuckle, the sound curling through your spine. Before you could savor your victory, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. “I believe they’ve got Eastgate Ruby here somewhere. I requested it—for your sake, of course. I’d hate for you to suffer the effects of withdrawal.”

You exhaled a sharp laugh. “How thoughtful. I assume you’ll be the one administering the cure?”

Rhysand’s grin was slow and wicked as he stood from his seat and reached for your chair, pulling it back with an easy grace. “It’s the least I can do.”

You didn’t move at first, just arched a brow at the gesture. He only held out a hand, expectant. 

When you finally slid your fingers into his, his grip was warm, steady. He helped you up with an ease that felt almost practiced. 

You gave him a look. “Chivalry, Rhysand? Really?”

“I’m not uneducated, (y/n),” he murmured, the edge of his thumb brushing against your knuckles before he released your hand. “I do know how to treat a lady.”

“And yet, I remain unconvinced,” you replied dryly.

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing. 

The two of you strolled toward the side of the room, the low hum of conversation filling the space between you. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt civil—but then Rhysand tilted his head slightly, considering you. And you wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking about you the way he claimed to in that letter. If his mind lingered on the words he’d written, just as yours had. 

“I have to admit,” he mused, “I’m impressed with how you handled Beron.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Are you?”

“I know people who’ve sat at this table far longer and wouldn’t dare speak to him like that,” he said, pouring wine into both of your glasses. “I suspect you may have even rattled him.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled at your lips. “Good.”

His gaze flicked toward you, unreadable. “Good,” he echoed softly. 

You took a sip of your drink, then tilted your head. “I’ll admit, your advice was… helpful. As was your agreement to reroute your Seasonal Court imports through Dusk.”

Rhysand let out a hum of acknowledgement. 

“But,” you added, “I don’t recall asking for it.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, forgive me. I should have realized that underneath all the pitiful complaints about the other Lords, you were just waiting for an excuse to take his head off.”

“Precisely.”

Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, his tone turned deceptively light. “Speaking of being offended—imagine my surprise when I wrote to you and received no reply.”

You merely blinked at him. “A tragedy.”

“Indeed.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “So, I took it upon myself to move your place card.”

You gave him a look. “That explains the seating arrangements.”

His smirk was nothing short of wicked. “Did you really expect me to let you sit anywhere else? Besides, you were originally meant to be seated next to Beron. I imagine you wouldn’t have spoken quite so freely had you been within arm’s reach of his fire. 

You huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the wine in your glass. “You assume so much, Rhysand. Maybe I would have enjoyed the warmth.”

His brows raised slightly. “Oh? Should I tell him he missed an opportunity?”

You gave him a pointed look before taking a slow sip, letting the dry sweetness of the wine sit on your tongue. Then, with deliberate ease, you murmured, “I prefer a more tempered heat. The kind that lingers, burns slow.”

His grip on his glass tightened—just slightly.

But he didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

The conversation wove effortlessly between sharp-witted remarks and veiled barbs, the hum of the room growing livelier as tensions fully eased. The air felt lighter, laughter ringing out across the space, and for once, there was no pressing matter to discuss. So you let yourself settle into it—just a little. 

Rhysand, too, seemed comfortable, the usual sharp edge of his presence dulled by wine and something more elusive. A sense of ease, perhaps, though it didn’t stop him from watching you carefully over the rim of his glass. 

“I must admit,” you said idly, swirling your wine, “I expected Adriata to be a far greater distraction than it was.”

He hummed. “Did you?”

You nodded, tilting your head ever so slightly. “I thought the festivities would be enough to hold my attention but… I was proven wrong.”

The words were casual—innocent, even—but something flickered across Rhysand’s expression, so brief you might have imagined it. He only chuckled, eyes glinting in the light of the setting sun. “Tragic. Was it boredom, then, that drove you to linger?”

You leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle in front of the other. “I wouldn’t say boredom. More like—” your fingers trailed along the stem of your glass, “—an unexpected tether.”

That time, you were sure you saw it—the way his fingers paused against the base of his own glass, how his posture remained utterly poised save for the slight shift of his jaw. But he recovered quickly, that ever-composed mask slipping easily back into place. With a quiet, breathy laugh, he tipped his head slightly, eyes briefly shutting as he exhaled through his nose—the kind of laugh meant to brush something off. 

You knew that laugh. You knew it well. 

It sent a slow thrill curling through your chest. 

He drained his glass and set it down. “You’re in rare form tonight, (y/n).”

You feigned innocence. “Am I?”

Rhysand only looked at you, an unreadable half-smile playing at his lips. The silence between you stretched, tension coiling beneath it, but then the conversation carried on—seamless, effortless, that undercurrent still thrumming between you both. 

It wasn’t until later, after another glass of Eastgate Ruby each, when the moment felt right, that you finally struck.

“Tell me,” you mused, leaning in slightly. “Do you ever think back to Adriata?”

Rhysand stilled—just for a fraction of a second. 

Then, as if nothing had happened, he set his empty glass down with a quiet clink. “Fondly,” he said smoothly. “Why do you ask?”

You only smiled. “Oh, I was just wondering—if you make a habit of spending your nights consumed by thoughts of me.”

That time, he definitely froze. It was brief, but it was there—the faintest hitch in his breath, the subtle clench of his jaw. 

And gods, you could see it, the way his mind must have been racing, trying to determine how you were able to see straight through him. 

Then, slowly, his smirk returned—lazy, measured, meant to convey utter indifference. He exhaled, almost pitying. “Really, (y/n), all this just to get my attention? You could have saved yourself the trouble, darling.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Is that what you think this is?”

“An obvious bid for my affections? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Gods, Rhysand. You must really enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

“Say it, (y/n),” he teased, voice a near-mocking whisper. “Go on. Say it.”

“Oh, I’ll say something.” With a flick of your wrist, a small, folded parchment materialized between your middle and forefingers. You held it out to him, watching as his smirk faltered ever so slightly. 

He eyed the paper, then shot you a dry, unimpressed look. “What’s this?”

You didn’t take your eyes off his. “Read it.”

He scoffed, plucking it from your fingers with a lazy flick of his own. “If this is a declaration of your love,” he said, unfolding the paper, “I’m sorry to say I’ll have to decli—”

He went silent. 

You watched the exact moment realization struck. How his mouth parted just slightly, how his posture stiffened, fingers tightening around the parchment. 

The letter. 

His letter.

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

roses           mirabilis candles Eastgate Ruby!!! violin serenade?           string quartet.                    6 - 2 -2 -1

To the relentless archivist of my supposed delusions, High Lady of the Dusk Court

             (y/n)            Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest, (y/n)                            My (y/n)

To the relentless scholar of my every flaw, whose thoroughness borders on devotion, High Lady of the Dusk Court, 

        “burden of leadership clouded your judgment?” Insufferable, Rhys? Sexist, even? I think so. I thi—why the fuck did I send that   High Lady, do you ever stop scheming?

(y/n) of Dusk.               High Lady (y/n)          (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n), High Lady of the Night Court       (y/n)       Why can’t     I   write (y/n) properly…. (y/n)...

To the incomparable, unparalleled High Lady of Dusk,Arriving in Adriata, I’d presumed the festivities would be the distraction. Yet, as usual, you managed to prove me wrong. Your presence, always commanding, kept me tethered to that place far longer than necessary, though I suppose there are worse ways to spend one's time. 

            Find better excuse to avoid bets with Az… You always lose.                       looked godsdamned good today. Fuck that dress.     

That dress—fuck. I could hardly believe you had the nerve to wear it. Of course, you couldn’t have known how impossible it would be for me to focus on anything but the way it clung to your body. But it was your eyes, the way they met mine with that knowing gleam, that reminded me why I can’t entertain these thoughts. And gods, when you leaned forward—deliberately, no doubt—I had to force myself to remember that there were other matters at hand. That I had a court to oversee, another war to stave off, and yet—yet—all I could think of was the way your body moved.   Send Amren report. Or don’t. Let her stew.                      Draft something strong for Beron. Or just set him on fire.        37690 And your lips. The way you licked the wine off of them, tempting me to be the one to trace them with my own. I should have been horrified, or at the very least, unnerved enough to turn away, but instead, I found myself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to pull you close, to feel you press against me, hard, and feel that warmth only you seem to emit. 

                                        ^What would you taste like, sound like And then I could not shake the image. That night, in Adriata, it was as if you knew. Every movement of yours, every glance, every gesture, it felt like you were feeding the very thoughts I dared not admit to myself.                           Pen test.. .  .  .

I spent the rest of the night consumed by you. By the memory of your body, the way you moved, the way you tensed when our eyes met. I couldn’t stop picturing it—your fingers digging into the sheets, your mouth parted, breathless, wrecked. The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. I fisted my cock for hours that night to the thought of you. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t you. My grip, my own touch—pale imitations of what I craved. I wanted those delicate hands you offered, your body beneath mine, shattering for me. I wanted to hear it, the little sounds you’d make, the way you’d gasp as I buried myself in you. 

I bit out your name into the dark, over and over, as if saying it aloud might summon you. Might let me taste you, feel you. Might let me have you the way I wanted.                       985    87396                  696543I’m reminded of a night many years ago, one I’d rather forget. The war camp. The way the rain had turned dirt to sludge beneath our boots, the way the air reeked of steel and blood and something burnt. Our magic was drained. The battle had gone on too long, had stripped us of our elegance, our strategy. And there was only raw will left—yours against mine, fury against fury. You struck first. Your blade hissed past my ribs, slicing through my leathers, leaving a gash in my skin. I don’t even think you meant to miss. 

I threw you into the mud, pinned you there. You fought like an animal, snarling, kicking, teeth bared as if you would sink them into my throat given the chance. And for a moment—for a sickening, electrified moment—I wanted nothing more than to break you. To press you into the dirt until you yielded, until you spat out my name with a curse and finally, finally, it would be over. 

I hated you then. Hated you. 

And yet—when I lay alone in my tent, it was not the war I relived, not the blood or the near-miss of your blade. No, it was you. The heat of you against me, the way your body had fit against mine even in our struggle. The wild, frenzied way you fought, like a storm given flesh. I thought of you pressed against me in the mud, of the way your breath had mingled with mine, the way my body responded to yours despite everything, despite knowing you would have killed me just as easily as I would have killed you. 

I dealt with it that night the same way I dealt with it after Adriata. Even then, I couldn’t explain it. I should have wanted to hate you.                 You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful                 things? It seems I'm beginning to grow on you.          Infatuated, obsessed, besotted No, I couldn’t help it. Every time you glanced at me, every time you spoke, I could feel that pull. And when you left, I won’t lie, I was relieved. You were leaving before I did something monumentally reckless. But don’t for a moment think I wasn’t wishing for a different outcome.  

The matter at hand remains. Perhaps, next time, if you find yourself at my side again, I can be of service to you in a more personal way. 

Consider it, my lady. 

Eternally at your feet, if only you’d let me,                Bound to you in ways I have no right to claim,      Yours, in every way I shouldn’t be,

Yours, Rhysand hair gel ear plugs cufflinks assorted chocolates an apple (for balancing the chocolate)

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something between incredulity and resignation. Then, slowly, he looked up at you. 

You only sipped your wine, waiting. 

For the first time since you’d known him, Rhysand had nothing to say. It was a rare thing, to see the High Lord of the Night Court like this. Unmasked. Uncomposed. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His jaw worked , muscles tightening, and you swore you saw the flicker of something else. A sliver of vulnerability, gone as quickly as it appeared. 

Then he exhaled, long and slow, the sound almost amused. “And here I thought you lacked a sense of humor.”

You merely hummed, watching him, your patience infinite. You wouldn’t grant him an out so easily. 

Carefully, deliberately, he folded the letter, pocketing it. “How, exactly, did you come by this?”

“Oh, Rhysand,” you purred, feigning sympathy. “Would it wound you further to know that I didn’t have to try very hard?”

His gaze darkened, sharp as a blade. “You couldn’t have rifled through my things…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said smoothly. “It was sent to me. By accident I assume, considering the look on your face.”

Silence. A long, stretched moment of it.

Then, at last, he smirked—but it was different now. Subtler. Wry. “I’m touched,” he murmured. “You kept it.”

You let your lips curve just slightly. “Of course. I’d be an idiot not to.”

A quiet hum left him, his violet gaze tracing your face, searching for something—perhaps for any sign of what you truly wanted from this. But you gave him nothing. 

Rhysand’s tongue ran over his teeth, considering you. Then, without warning, he laughed. Low, quiet, a thing of disbelief and wicked amusement all at once. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You leaned in, voice a whisper against the space between you. “I can’t help it. You’re so much more fun when you lose.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head again as though you were impossible. “You think this is a loss?”

You only smiled. “I think you should choose your next words carefully.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh before pinning you with a look so cutting it nearly stole your breath. But there was no true bite behind it. No sharp edges—only something molten, something simmering. His voice, when it came, was soft. Dangerous. “Tell me, my lady—do you make a habit of inciting war in the middle of a crowded room?”

You only smiled. “I prefer my battles to be fought in private.”

His pupils flared.

It was all you needed. 

You turned without another word, setting your glass down as you slipped through the crowd. You didn’t have to look back to know he would follow. You felt it—that tether pulling tight, that unrelenting weight of his gaze pressing into your spine as you wove through the bodies, effortless, deliberate. 

You led him out of the hall, past the open archways leading to the moonlit balcony, past the guards stationed at the entrance. Only when you reached the dimly lit corridor beyond did you glance over your shoulder. 

Rhysand was already there. Already close. 

You barely had a second to register it before he was moving. And then… gods.

Then you were pressed up against the cool stone wall, his body caging yours in, his hands braced on either side of you. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his scent wrapped around you, intoxicating, dark and rich, and when he leaned in just slightly, his breath fanning against your cheek, your entire body tightened. 

A pause. A deliberate, torturous moment where neither of you moved, where the space between you became razor-thin, humming with something volatile. His head dipped, his lips hovering near the corner of your mouth, as if he could taste your breath, as if he was considering closing that final inch. 

Then, lower. A shift, a slow drag of heat down the line of your jaw, until his mouth hovered near the hollow of your throat. Not touching. Not yet. 

His breath was steady, infuriatingly controlled. “Was this your plan all along?” he murmured, so soft it was almost a whisper. 

Then he lifted his head, the movement slow, measured. When your eyes met, you saw it—the strand of midnight hair falling across his brow, the way his gaze flicked over your face, dark and searching. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight part of his lips, as if he were only just remembering to breathe. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Gods, this close, he was—No. You shoved the thought away, locking onto his stare instead. 

“If you’re asking whether I planned for you to humiliate yourself tonight,” you said at last, “then yes.”

A quiet, dangerous laugh. His body didn’t move, but the sound of it wrapped around you, coiling tight in your stomach. “And yet,” he mused, “you’re the one against the wall.”

Your heart was a war drum in your chest. “I led you here, didn’t I?”

Something flickered in his expression, something deep and molten that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core. And then, faster than you could react, his hands were no longer braced against the wall. Fingers brushed your hips, featherlight. A test. A warning.

Then his grip tightened. A firm, possessive press as he pinned you, properly now, his body a wall of heat against yours. His hands dragged up until his thumbs skimmed the barest sliver of exposed skin between the fabric of your dress and the curve of your waist. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it slip, didn’t let him see how the warmth of his hands against your skin sent heat curling low in your stomach. But he felt the way your ribs expanded with a sharp inhale you couldn’t quite control.  And he liked it. You could see it in the way his smirk softened into something lazier and edged with indulgence. Like he was savoring this. Savoring you. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, itching to move. 

So you did. 

You let your hands drift upward, skimming over the muscle of his forearms, his shoulders. You weren’t gentle. Your nails scraped against the fabric of his jacket, dragging just hard enough to make him feel it. You weren’t going to stand there and let him have the upper hand. 

Rhysand stilled, just for a second, a breath caught between his teeth.  “Careful, (y/n). You’re starting to seem a little desperate.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “That’s rich, coming from a male who’s been standing here breathing down my neck instead of doing something about it.”

A flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fingers flexed against your waist, his thumbs pressing in, dragging ever so slightly along the curve of your hips. Not enough, never enough. And you wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he snapped. 

You rolled your neck with a sigh, all patience and unbothered amusement. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you,” you mused, voice just shy of mocking. “Not when you so generously did so for me.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a warning. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.” You dragged your hands down, fingers skimming the hard places of his chest, settling just at the lapels of his jacket. Your nails caught the fabric, a teasing little pull. “Always talking. Always circling. But when it comes down to it, you—”

A sharp inhale from you, which made his hands tighten. 

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You hesitate.”

And whatever tenuous thread of restraint was holding him together snapped. 

It happened too fast for you to do anything but gasp as Rhysand surged forward at the same time you yanked him down. A collision of heat and breath and hands grasping, dragging, pulling. His mouth was on yours, fierce, consuming, and you met him with equal fire, teeth clashing, nails digging in, every ounce of restraint gone. 

His hands were everywhere—on your hips, at your back, tangling in your hair as he pressed you further into the stone. His lips moved against yours like he meant to ruin you, and you let him, let him take because you were taking just as much, matching every rough kiss, every sharp inhale, every fevered touch. 

Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, yanking him closer even as you arched against the press of his body. His answering growl sent a sharp thrill down your spine. 

“See?” you breathed against his lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp. “Hard,” he growled, “isn’t the problem.”

Heat flooded your cheeks—not from embarrassment, never that, but from the way he pressed against you in proof of his words. 

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow, teasing, until you reached the buckle of his belt. A light touch, the barest flick of your fingers against the leather. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Rhysand dipped his head with a low chuckle, pressing his mouth to the curve of your throat. “And here I thought we were past pretending.” His hands were doing their own exploration, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips before skimming lower, his grip firm, insistent, like he was committing the shape of you to memory. 

You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall, only to jerk it forward a moment later when you heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. But Rhysand didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head, only kept pressing slow kisses along your throat. 

You scowled, pressing your palm against his chest. “Someone’s coming.”

“Mm.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “So will you, if you’d stop interrupting me.”

You shoved him, but he barely budged, only laughing quietly as he nipped at your jaw. “Rhysand,” you hissed, your breath uneven. “They’ll hear us.”

He pressed his hips against yours. “Let them.”

You almost choked. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, all wicked teeth. “And you’re loud. But lucky for you…” His fingers skimmed your spine, sending a shiver straight through you. “I have a solution for that.”

And before you could say another word, darkness curled around you both, swallowing the hallway, the stone wall, the distant sound of footsteps—

And then, you were somewhere else. The air was warmer here, laced with the scent of citrus and jasmine. 

You looked at your surroundings. Velvet sheets, intricately carved furniture, and an unmistakable large, luxurious bed. From beyond the balcony, the distant murmur of the Day Court’s nightlife carried through the air. 

Your lips parted as you took it all in, realization creeping over you. 

He’d winnowed you straight into his bedroom. 

You turned your head sharply, meeting his gaze. “This,” you said, voice rich with disbelief, “was your solution?”

He only grinned, unrepentant. “Would you have preferred I left you there? So you could step out, all flushed and breathless, and explain to whoever came wandering that your hair isn’t a mess, your lipstick isn’t smudged, and that your dress has absolutely been this rumpled all day?”

Your glare was sharp enough to cut. “I would’ve managed.”

Rhysand hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t doubt it. You always do. Though I can’t say I’m not enjoying this alternative.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “What, dragging me into your room so you can avoid being caught acting like a depraved bastard in a public corridor?”

He clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you appreciated efficiency.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he reached for you again, his fingers gripping the curve of your waist. “Besides,” he murmured, dipping his head, “if you were truly so scandalized, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Your lips parted, a sharp retort forming—only for it to dissolve as he kissed you again, stealing the words straight from your tongue. 

It was different now. Less reckless, more intent. Like he was savoring the feel of you, like he knew how to dismantle every bit of your composure. His hands dragged down your back, gathering the fabric of your dress, pulling you flush against him. Clothes vanished between desperate, grasping hands. His jacket went just fine, the thud of it hitting the floor soon followed by the quiet, unmistakable sound of your tiara slipping from your hair, landing in a delicate clatter of metal against stone. His shirt had been the first casualty, though. Your fingers tore at the buttons, sending a few flying before you shoved the ruined thing from his shoulders. His hands weren’t much kinder to your dress, the delicate clasps at your back coming undone with infuriating ease, the fabric pooling at your feet. 

You found yourself pressed down onto the edge of the bed, his body still caging yours in. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stood before you now, bare-chested, his hands moving to the fastening of your heels. 

Your breath caught, though you’d die before admitting why. The way his fingers brushed against your ankle, the slowness with which he undid the first clasp—it was infuriating. And the entire time, he held your gaze, eyes dark and intent. 

You exhaled, leveling him with a look. “Strange, for a male so fond of his dramatics to feign chivalry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he finished undoing the strap and slid the shoe from your foot, his fingers pressing into your calf as he set it aside. “Can’t a male show some courtesy?” He shifted his attention to the other. 

You arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I could always leave them on, if you’d prefer.”

Your eyes flicked to the heel still dangling from your foot, then back to him. Slowly, you lifted your leg, pressing the pointed toe just beneath his ribs, applying the barest hint of pressure. 

“I think,” you mused, “you just want an excuse to be on your knees for me.”

His pupils flared. “Oh, darling,” he purred, fingers wrapping around your ankle as he tugged the shoe free, tossing it carelessly behind him. “If you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.” Then his grip shifted as he pushed your legs apart. 

The sight of him there, settled between your legs, dark and utterly unrepentant, sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight through you. You barely had time to work through the implications of that before his mouth was on you. 

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he mouthed over the thin scrap of lace still covering you, heat and pressure teasing, tormenting. His tongue pressed against the damp fabric, moving in slow, devastating circles, tasting you through it, his grip keeping your thighs spread as you instinctively tried to move. 

“Fuck,” you breathed, fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. 

“So soon?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the soft heat of you through your underwear. “I know I’m irresistible, but I thought you’d at least try to play hard to get.”

A retort formed on your tongue, something sharp and scathing, but it died the moment he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down. His mouth followed the movement, his breath hot against your skin, and you shivered, unable to stop the anticipation that spiraled low in your stomach. The soft drag of his lips against your inner thigh had you clenching the sheets, the heat building inside you before he’d even touched you properly.

He took his time, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh, making your breath catch. The lace of your underwear was dragged down the rest of the way, and your body tensed, the slow movement of his hands almost maddening in its gentleness. Your eyes fluttered shut, and before you could make a sound to make your frustration known, he was there—his monmouth, warm and wet, pressing against your skin, tasting you slowly. 

A breathless gasp escaped you, your hips instinctively trying to press closer to him as his tongue moved over you, teasing and tender at first. He wasn’t in a rush. Each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips, felt like it stretched on for eternity, drawing out the pleasure until it became a slow, aching burn. His grip on your hips tightened as he angled himself better, his movements becoming firmer, more purposeful. 

The heat in you intensified, the building pressure almost unbearable as his tongue worked you, flicking and teasing at just the right moments, just the right way. You could feel your body growing more desperate, each brush of his lips drawing out a soft moan from deep within you. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you like a male starved. 

You fisted the sheets beneath you, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could bring him even deeper into you. The pressure was tight and unyielding, but still, he took his time, savoring you as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gods,” Rhysand groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending a shudder down your spine. “I could get drunk off you.” His voice was thick, dark with something near reverence as he pressed another slow, deep kiss to you.

A sharp tug to his hair was the only response you could manage, desperate now. His only response was a low hum, the sound reverberating against you as he doubled his efforts—his tongue pressing deeper, more insistent. 

The pleasure was unbearable now. Every movement, every stroke of his tongue, pulled you closer and closer to the edge. You were trembling beneath him, your fingers scraping at the sheets, your body writhing.  

His voice was a dark whisper against your skin. “Come for me,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. 

And when he sucked that sensitive, aching part of you into his mouth, it was like the world exploded. The coil inside you snapped, and you shattered, your back arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. You felt like you were drowning in it, unable to breathe, unable to think—just lost in the feeling of him. 

Because he didn’t pull away immediately. No, he lingered, his mouth working slowly, indulgently over you as you trembled beneath him, trying to ride out the aftershocks. His lips glistened with you as he finally pulled away, his pupils blown, a wicked satisfaction playing across his features. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his gaze never left you, taking in the way your body still trembled, the way your breath came in ragged gasps. “You taste like heaven,” he murmured as he leaned down to press lingering kisses to your inner thigh, as though savoring the aftermath of what he’d just done. 

Your breath still came fast, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, but as the haze of pleasure began to clear, your focus settled elsewhere. You propped yourself up on your elbows, the movement slow and shaky as your gaze tracked lower, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. Rhysand was still kneeling between your legs, his hands braced against your thighs, but your attention dropped to the front of his pants—where he was still painfully, achingly hard, the outline of him straining against the fabric. 

Your lips parted slightly, and the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face as he followed your gaze. 

“Oh?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you finally taking pity on me?”

You said nothing, just arched a brow and let your eyes drift back down again, pointed. 

A low sound slipped from his throat, rough at the edges, as he stood to toe off his shoes, then his socks, before finally working the buttons of his pants. His fingers were deft, practiced, and within moments, he was shoving the fabric down his hips, taking his underwear with it. 

And gods.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and heavy, the flushed head already leaking, the sheer size of him reigniting the heat in your core. Your mouth went dry, then immediately watered. 

He must have noticed, because his lips curved—lazy, smug, as if he could already hear the thoughts racing through your head. But he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he wrapped a hand around himself, gave himself a few slow pumps, and exhaled roughly through his nose. 

“Strange,” he mused, voice like silk. “I don’t recall you ever being this quiet.”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, leveling him with a look even as warmth licked at your skin. 

“Savor it while you can,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d actually prefer you be loud.”

His hand left himself, and in the next breath, he was reaching for you. His touch was firm but unhurried as he guided you further up the bed, his palms skating over your skin, coaxing you into the pillows. The mattress sipped as he followed, settling between your legs, his body radiating heat against yours. Then his fingers found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with one deft flick. The straps slipped down your arms, the fabric falling away, but he didn’t move to touch. Just looked. Took his time. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, the weight of it pressing heat into your skin. The intensity of it made warmth crawl up your throat, but you held his gaze, refusing to be the first to break. 

But as the seconds stretched, a thought coiled through you, unbidden. The words from his letter ghosted through your mind, teasing, taunting. He’d imagined this before. Imagined you. 

Your heart stuttered as the realization settled fully in your bones. 

Because when he looked at you now, he wasn’t just seeing you. He was seeing every thought he’d already had—every fantasy he’d already spun in that scheming, insufferable mind of his. You could almost feel it in the way his gaze traced over you, in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his fingers flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for you. 

What you would taste like, sound like—

The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. 

A slow, satisfied smile curled your lips. You wondered if you were anything like what he’d imagined. If you matched the image he’d conjured those nights alone, all those moments he’d spent thinking of you when he shouldn’t have. 

Then his grip tightened on his cock, just slightly. He gave one more slow pump before lining himself up against you. And then, barely above a whisper—

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes bore into yours. 

You could. 

You should. 

But instead, your hips tilted ever so slightly forward—an invitation, a challenge. 

And Rhysand, the bastard, took it. 

A sharp inhale left him as he pushed forward, sinking into you with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine. His head tipped back slightly, lips parting on a groan, and gods—just the sight of it, the way his chest heaved, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, sent a slow, molten ache unfurling through you. 

He stretched you in a way that had your nails biting into his arms. His gaze snapped to yours as if he felt it too—that unbearable, perfect tension wound so tight between you. He bottomed out, holding there for a moment, his jaw clenched, the muscle feathering in restraint. 

Then his grip tightened. And he moved. 

A slow, dragging pull before thrusting back in, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body arched into him, a choked sound escaping before you could swallow it down. The answering smirk that flickered across his face was nearly as infuriating as it was devastating. 

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he murmured, punctuating the words with another deep thrust, the movement sending a delicious shockwave through you. Your fingers found purchase in his shoulders, nails raking down his back, but it only made him groan, his pace quickening as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips. 

“Much better,” he praised, voice rough. “But I want to hear you.”

As if to prove his point, his hand skated down your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist, angling you just right—and stars exploded behind your eyes as his cock slid deeper, filling you completely. The pleasure was almost too much, each thrust dragging a gasp from your mouth, each move of his relentless.

Your fingers dug into his back, nails scraping over his skin as you pressed yourself up into him, matching the rhythm, desperate for more. “Rhysand…” The name escaped in a broken gasp, barely audible over the sound of your breaths and skin slapping on skin. 

His eyes glittered with satisfaction, his pace steady but unyielding as he watched you. “Tell me what you need,” he demanded, his thrusts pushing harder, deeper, each one making your breath stutter in your chest. 

You swallowed, barely able to think straight with the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses, but the words came anyway, whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop.” A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving marks on his skin. Rhysand’s pace was relentless, pushing you higher and higher, but you needed more. 

“Tell me,” you gasped, “how often did you think about me like this?”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t slow. His hand tightened on your thigh, pushing you even further into him, and the tension in the room seemed to snap tighter. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You smirked, feeling emboldened. “How many nights did you spend alone, imagining me underneath you? How many times did you get off to the thought of me?” Your voice dropped low, a teasing edge creeping into your tone. “And that night in the tent… did you picture me like this then too?”

His cock slammed deeper into you at your words, and you could feel him shudder, his control faltering for a moment. He leaned down, lips grazing the curve of your neck, his hand sliding up to palm at your breast, fingers teasing over your skin. 

“I’ve thought about you more than I should,” he confessed, his voice a growl. “Your body, your voice—gods, the way you look at me, like you know exactly what I’m thinking. Every letter you’ve sent, every word you've written has been etched into my mind. You’ve kept me awake more nights than I care to count. So many nights I’ve imagined you… ached for you.”

The words came fast, like he couldn’t stop them, like they’d been building up. “Every damn letter you wrote—I read them more times than I’ll admit. I’d catch myself thinking about you when I shouldn’t, remembering your words when I tried to forget. And I’d get lost in it… lost in the thought of you. That night in the tent…” He growled, pulling you closer, slamming into you harder. “I couldn’t forget how you moved, how you fought, how you looked at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And I hated it—hated how badly I wanted you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, controlling the pace as his thrusts grew more demanding. “I would lie there, late at night, thinking about your fingers on my skin, your mouth—thinking about how you’d taste. How you’d feel under me, desperate, ruined for me. I pictured it all—what you’d look like when I finally had you, when I could take you in every way that I wanted.”

His voice dropped to a whisper as his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when I wanted to. Every time we wrote, it only made it worse. I’d catch myself craving more—more words, more of you—before I even realized what I was doing.”

Another thrust forced a moan from your lips. His mouth curved against your skin, savoring the sound, reveling in the way your body clenched around him. His grip on your thigh was bruising as he angled your hips just right, dragging another helpless cry from you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. His forehead dropped to yours, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent, as if he were chasing the very thoughts that had plagued him for so long. “You feel better than I ever could have dreamed.”

“Gods, Rhys—”

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers pressing where you needed him most. Your head fell back against the pillow, pleasure cresting so fiercely it left you dizzy. 

His breath caught. Just for a second. 

Not at the way you shuddered beneath him, not at the way you tightened around him—but at the way his name had slipped from your lips, unfinished, softened. 

Rhys. 

You barely registered it, too lost in the pleasure as his pace faltered for the briefest moment, a sharp inhale through his nose before he recovered, his free hand grabbing your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. But you felt the shift, the way his lips brushed over your jaw—softer now, lingering. 

And then, quieter, rougher: “Say it again.”

Not a command. Just… a request. 

It took a moment for your mind to catch up, to realize what he meant. Heat curled in your stomach—not just from the way he was moving inside you, but from the way he wanted it. The way he needed it. 

You turned your head, breath mingling with his. “Rhys,” you whispered. 

A wrecked primal sound from his throat as he shifted suddenly, rolling and pulling you with him until your thighs framed his hips. The world tilted, pleasure still rippling through you as your palms found his chest, heat meeting the inked whorls of black that curved over muscle. He leaned back against the pillows, gaze dark, ravenous, drinking you in like he’d never get enough. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip firm on your waist, fingers pressing into heated skin as if to memorize the way you felt in his hands. “Look at you.”

Your cheeks burned under his gaze, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to devour every inch of you, like he was worshipping the sight of you above him. 

A slow roll of your hips had him swearing again, jaw tightening, his head pressing into the pillow for a brief moment before he lifted it again, eyes locked onto the way your body moved above him. The way you trembled. The way your chest rose and fell, glistening in the dim light, every bounce, every shift of your body against his making his hold on you tighten.

His fingers slid lower, curving over the swell of your ass as he pulled you down hard, meeting you with a sharp thrust that sent you keening. 

“Oh, fuck—Rhys—” The words left you in a breathless gasp, pleasure knocking through you, but he only smirked, his grip flexing. 

“Yeah?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something unraveling. 

You wanted to reply, something sharp on your tongue, but the words never made it out—lost the second he drove into you again, harder, faster. 

His smirk told you everything—he knew exactly what he was oding to you. Dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he thrust into you, each movement sharper, more insistent. 

“I—shit—” You barely knew what you were trying to say, only that your body felt like it was on fire, that you could hardly breathe, that he was fucking you so good you couldn’t think. “Rhys, I—”

He wasn’t letting you work for it, wasn’t letting you do anything but take it. His hands gripped you tighter, fingers pressing into your skin—just shy of bruising, just enough to make you shudder, to make the ache feel just as good as everything else. He dragged you over him like he couldn’t get enough, guiding you exactly where he wanted. His chest heaved beneath your palms, every breath ragged, every sound punched from his lungs with each thrust. 

Your head tipped back, pleasure cresting, every nerve in your body alight. But he wasn’t done. 

One moment you were gasping, hands bracing against his chest as he drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts, and the next—his arms wrapped around you, dragging you down, pressing you flush against him as he buried his face in your neck. 

And then he fucked you like he meant it. 

Hard, deep, his grip unyielding as he drove into you, hips slamming against yours with a pace that stole the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck, Rhys—” You weren’t even sure if you were saying his name or just gasping it, like it was the only thing you could cling to in the onslaught of pleasure. 

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked, sending shivers skittering down your spine. “Just like that, just take it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking against his scalp as a broken moan tore from your lips. 

“Feels—too good,” you gasped, a half-delirious laugh slipping out before another sharp thrust stole it from you. “Fuck—you’re so—”

“So what?” he teased, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, anywhere he could reach. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to force the words through the haze clouding your mind, through the pleasure threatening to consume you whole. “So—fuck, Rhys—so deep—”

A groan rumbled in his chest, low and satisfied, before his grip on you tightened. “Yeah? You like that?” His voice dropped, rough, nearly smug. “Like the way I feel inside you?”

Pleasure surged through you, coiling hot and deep, making every nerve in your body tighten in anticipation. 

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, at his hair, desperate to ground yourself against the intensity of it all. “You—” Your breath caught as he snapped his hips up, hard and precise. “You already know.”

“Maybe.” He smirked against your skin, then his voice dipped, quieter, raspier—”Say my name again.”

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys. 

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, everything felt different. More than just pleasure. More than just bodies moving together. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, the word slipping out without a second thought. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so deep. So—so fucking perfect.”

He moaned at that, a low rumble of a sound, his chest rising and falling against yours as his hips snapped up to meet yours with relentless rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way his movements were both precise and utterly frantic. The pleasure had your head spinning, but the way his name tasted on your tongue—how it felt to say it again and again—was a drug in itself.

His eyes locked onto yours, something wild in them now, a primal hunger that only grew as you spoke. “You feel so good,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moved against him, feeling every flex of his muscles beneath your fingertips. “I can’t—I can’t get enough of you, Rhys.”

The words spilled from you now, breathless and unfiltered. “You’re everything I need,” you whispered, voice a little desperate. “So fucking deep, so good, Rhys. You make me feel—gods, you make me feel so good, so full of you.”

His body responded to your words like a switch had been flipped. His fingers dug into your flesh as he pulled you down against him again and again, each thrust now more forceful, as if he couldn’t get enough either. His lips found your throat, kissing and biting his way down your collarbone. 

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, his voice a rasp in your ear. “Tell me how I make you feel.”

“Like I’m falling apart, Rhys, like I can’t take it—can’t think—fuck, Rhys” Your breath caught as his thrusts deepened, hitting the perfect spot, and your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sensation overwhelmed you. “I never want to stop feeling this—never want you to stop. I’m so fucking close. I—”

His groan cut off your words, a sharp sound of pleasure as his hands moved to your ass, pulling you down harder, faster. You could feel his body tightening beneath you, and it sent a shockwave of heat through your own, pushing you to the edge. 

“Gods, (y/n),” he gritted out, his voice raw, strained, and low. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you struggled to keep yourself steady, meeting his thrusts with everything you had left. The intensity of it all had your head spinning, the pleasure so overwhelming that you barely noticed the words slipping from your mouth until they were out. 

“I’m on the tonic,” you gasped, your voice unsteady as you focused on the way his body moved against yours. “I don’t want you to pull out—please.”

A rough, breathless curse left him, his hips snapping into you with a new urgency. Your body responded instantly, your thoughts dissolving into sensation. The tension in your body was at the breaking point, every inch of you coiled so tightly that you felt like you might snap. You could feel him losing control, each thrust harder, faster, the desperation mirrored in his eyes. 

Then his hips jerked up into you one last time, and as you heard the low, guttural sound of his release—his breath hitching, his hands gripping you like a lifeline—you couldn’t hold back anymore. The sensation of him finishing inside you was all it took. You exploded, the orgasm rushing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel him, feel his body trembling beneath you. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, your voice raw as you rode out the waves of your release, still trembling in his arms. 

He groaned your name, holding you against him as your body shuddered with the aftershocks. He kept you close, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of you just yet. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Gods, you drive me insane, (y/n).”

You huffed out a laugh,  your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his chest, still catching your breath. “I should drive you insane more often.”

Rhysand let out a low chuckle, fingers brushing lazily along your spine. “Oh, you already do enough for a lifetime.” Then, after a beat—”You’re a handful.”

You raised an eyebrow as you propped yourself up just enough to meet his gaze. “I thought you liked it.”

His gaze locked onto yours, no trace of humor in it now. “I do.”

“Then maybe you’d do well to stop your incessant talking.”

He smirked, but it was soft, almost like he was holding back something—something he knew better than to say right then. “Fine.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting to climb off him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist.

“Stay,” he murmured, a little too smooth, a little too comfortable. 

You hesitated. The air between you was heavy, charged, but the moment was already slipping away, back into something more familiar, something edged with unspoken things neither of you dared put a name to. 

“Fine,” you muttered, feigning exasperation as you let yourself settle against him once more. “But if you start snoring in my ear, I’m gone.”

His laugh rumbled beneath you. “Noted.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n),

I trust you’ve arrived safely back in Velaris. The final terms of the agreement regarding the Seasonal Courts’ trade routes through Dusk have been sent with this letter for your review. Barring any objections, we should be ready to move forward by next month. I assume you’ll have thoughts on the restructuring of the second clause—if only to disagree with me on principle—so let me know where you’d like to make your changes. 

On a separate note, I expect my bed will feel unusually empty tonight. A tragedy, really. Let’s hope I can bear the suffering. 

Do try not to miss me too much. 

Rhys

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You let the letter fall to your desk, lips pressing together as you read the last few lines again. 

Despite yourself, a quiet scoff escaped you. Typical. 

Shaking your head, you reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Whether he deserved a response was another matter entirely.