#im not sure i like my writing in this but i feel like its been too long since i posted anything so.. tell me if u liked this !

[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. 

[marauder-misprint]

hello hello tis me again, the regulus fanatic. im not aware if you saw my message yet but i ADORED your regulus fic and so i’ve prepared another if you’d like

get this, regulus x (once again, im obsessed) whimsy slytherin reader where she’s touchy and affectionate towards everyone especially close friends and one day regulus finally works up the nerve to ask her iut and shes just like ‘sure😃’ thinkings its just a normal day and reggies just acting weird

cut to like a week later when regulus leans in for a kiss and readers all like ‘WHOA😲’ cue awkward conversation about how they’ve been dating fir a week then readers rushes to tell everyone because she’s been pining for him for YEARS

sorry if thats a lot and have a wonderful wonderful morning evening and night!

Hello again! I had so much fun writing this! ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎Still getting used to whimsy!reader so I hope it's okay that reader is highkey a yapper. They are both pining in this and just, augh! Fluff.

My turn to yap: I had a similar situation to this when I was younger. Fully convinced I was dating this guy for a few weeks before finding out that he had a girlfriend and he thought we were just "hanging out" despite going to very date-like places.

This story is nothing like my experience - Thank you for this very cute request ❤︎

Mr. 'Allergic to touching'

Regulus Black x Whimsical!reader

4k words

cw: fluff, pining,

Personal space isn’t a concept you’re familiar with. Well, it is but you like being in everyone’s, especially those you are close friends with. You’ll lean over the backs of chairs and couches as your friends sit in them, often reading or occasionally doing homework. You are always holding hands with your friends as you walk to class together. When you are relaxing somewhere, you are either draped over someone’s lap or pulling them into yours. That is just the edge of it too. You greet everyone with a hug, even if you are meeting them for the first time. It is just how you are. And you are blissfully unaware of how it bugs some people. 

Regulus, however, isn’t one of those people. Everyone expects him to be with his cold demeanor, how he snaps at first years for being too loud, and the fact that he doesn’t tolerate that amount of touching from anyone else. There is something about your touch that makes Regulus feel warm and content. That’s why he doesn’t mind it, but he won’t tell anyone that. Barty and Evan would call him ‘soft’ if they heard that. It would be even worse if they knew how Regulus fully feels about you; they know that he’s friends with you and tolerates your touches, but that’s all they know. 

Still, the idea of having your gentle touches and words of affection to himself makes Regulus smile. It’s a vice, he tells himself. He’s supposed to keep a plain expression, to be indifferent toward frivolities of his peers and their petty drama. You have a knack for breaking his resolve, especially when it’s lap you’ve laid down in or his chair you’re leaning over to see what page he’s on in his book. 

“Oi, Regulus, you coming?” Barty calls from across the common room. 

“Yes,” he replies dryly from where he is sitting near the fireplace.

Your friends are going to the library in an attempt to study and actually get something done. A group of third years playing exploding snap in the common room wasn’t allowing any of them to focus. Dorcas had been the one to angrily slam her hands into her book and swear at the younger students, and then you suggested the library. At least Dorcas would be able to study there. Regulus assumes that he’ll end up sitting across from you, or next to you, and he won’t be able to focus. 

Regulus follows behind the group. You’re in the middle holding hands with Pandora. You have a floral print tote bag slung over your shoulder that likely has Pandora’s things in it as well. Maybe he’d be the one holding your hand and carrying the bag one day… And now he’s smiling. 

“Excited to write that essay for Slughorn or something?” Barty asks, falling into step with Regulus. 

The smile disappears as quickly as it appeared. “Because essence of dittany uses is such an interesting topic,” he says sarcastically. 

“You’re the one who was smiling, mate. Something made you crack.” 

“Remembered something funny. Merlin forbid…” Regulus gives Barty a sideways glance, hoping that his answer would satiate him. 

Barty just flexes his eyebrows and adjusts his stride to match Evan’s. Regulus doesn’t mind that the rest of the walk is silent for him. The rest of his friends, including you, take part in livelier conversations, but Regulus is content just listening in. 

Just as he predicted, you sit down next to Regulus in the library. You place a hand on his arm.

“Could you help me with this Charms assignment? Unless you’re doing Potions with Junior?” you ask. 

He had already finished that assignment, but it is you asking. How could he say no to you?

“It’d be my pleasure. Have you started it?” 

You shake your head.

“Alright. That’s no problem. Let’s get the books you need.”

He stands up and you follow him into the shelves. You hum to yourself as he selects a few books. You like how easily he finds everything in the library and that he just knows which books you’ll need for the assignment. He doesn’t hold them out for you to carry. You see it as a polite gesture. Regulus is just nice like that. 

Back at the table, Dorcas is working earnestly on her homework. Evan, Barty and Pandora are having a hushed discussion that gets even quieter as you and Regulus retake your seats. Regulus starts flipping through the books to find the pages you’d need to reference. You watch him for a minute before realizing that you should be taking the assignment out. 

Once you look ready, Regulus moves one of the books right in front of you and explains which part of the assignment the passage relates to. Instinctively, you scoot your chair impossibly closer to his. Regulus tenses slightly; being so close to you will certainly make focusing on your assignment. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. You don’t notice. You’re too focused on trying to understand the point of a knitting charm. 

“But I can knit. I enjoy knitting. Why would I bother learning a charm to do it for me?” you ask in a defeated voice. 

“Well, what if I needed something knitted? I don’t know how to knit,” Regulus says in a fairly quiet voice, being that you are in the library. 

You tilt your head slightly and rest your chin on your hand. “I could knit it for you. I’m quite good. Remember that shirt I knitted for Cas’ girlfriend?” 

You casually leave out that you charged Dorcas for the shirt. You wouldn’t charge Regulus. If he needed something, you’d be more than willing to make it for him. 

“Then it’s for all the poor sods who don’t know the same wonderful people I do,” he says before realizing that he’s just called you wonderful. Outloud. To your face. 

His face burns in embarrassment.

“Oh, you’re so sweet!” you coo, hugging Regulus and being completely oblivious to the red shade of his face. Then you school your own emotions and turn back to your assignment. “Right, poor sods who are lonely and friendless.” 

Regulus puts all of his attention on the assignment. He needs to ignore the way his body still feels your warmth minutes after you let him go. 

“Right, ‘m bored. Kitchens?” Barty announces after some time. 

Pandora and Evan agree immediately and stand up. Dorcas waves them off, still working on her homework. The three don’t even wait for you or Regulus to respond. You both had your heads down, exchanging whispers about your assignment. Regulus is trying not to think about how close you are, and you’re grateful that Regulus is being so patient with you. 

After a while, Dorcas excuses herself and says she’ll see you back in the common room. It’s just you and Regulus now. You’ve almost finished your assignment. You’re tired of it, if you’re being honest. You would have given up a while ago if it was anyone else helping you, but it’s Regulus so you’re trying your best to stay focused. 

“And you’re done!” Regulus says with a small smile. “You did it.”

“Thanks to you,” you tell him. “I would’ve turned in a half-finished assignment.”

“Do you do that often?” 

You shrug. “When the assignment is stupid and pointless.”

Regulus chuckles softly as he stands up to put the books back. He wasn’t expecting you to follow him into the shelves but you did. You don’t say anything, rather humming to yourself again and watching Regulus. You like the way he carries himself and he’s just pretty in general so who wouldn’t want to watch him? Once your things are packed up from the table, you walk back to the common. In your usual fashion, you’re holding onto Regulus’ arm, which means you’ve unintentionally disabled his ability to think clearly.

“Sorry you didn’t get to work on your Potions essay,” you say.

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t have made much progress on it anyway.”

“You know, I find dittany to be quite pretty. Wish it grew naturally around here. My mum grows them at home, a large section of our garden actually. It’d actually be helpful if our dorms weren’t in the dungeons. Then I could grow it in our dorms. I’m sure Pandora agrees with me,” you ramble and you keep going. 

Regulus can’t help his smile as he listens to you. He fully meant what he told Barty earlier; he didn’t find dittany, nor its essence, all that interesting. Your appreciation for the plant? He’d be willing to write down every word that was coming out of your mouth. Before you start to descend down the final staircase before the common room, Regulus puts a hand on yours where it's holding onto his arm. His gut is telling him it’s now or never. 

“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?” he asks, his voice steady but stomach flipping with nerves. 

“Of course! If the weather’s anything like last weekend, it’s going to be beautiful out. Although, I wouldn’t mind if it was a tad less windy.”

“It was windy last weekend, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” 

You give his arm a little squeeze before you head down the stairs and into the common room. Once in the common room though, you spot Pandora and Dorcas and rush over to them. Regulus doesn’t mind your sudden departure. The warmth of you on his arm not only lingers, but the fact that you agreed to go on a date with him? He could catch a snitch without his broom. His smile doesn’t falter as he strolls through the common room and disappears into his dorm. 

“Oi, you’re smiling again,” Barty says when Regulus sits down at his desk with the intent to work on that stupid Potions essay. 

“Smiling illegal now?” he deadpans. 

“No… but it’s weird when you do it. You’re not a smiler.” 

Regulus doesn’t answer, but he knows what Barty means. He can’t help it though. You agreed to go on a date with him.

---

You meet Regulus at breakfast on Saturday, dressed nicely and casually at the same time. Regulus outdressed you easily, but that was to be expected. Even his most casual outfits tended to be more formal and expensive. He is a Black, afterall. 

Regulus did eventually tell Barty about the date. After some teasing in their dorm, Regulus managed to convince him to not make a big deal about it. If it didn’t go well, Regulus didn’t want everyone knowing about it. He fully hopes it’ll go well, but given the chance it doesn’t, he wants to be able to move past it without any issues. 

You grab Regulus’ hand when you leave for Hogsmeade. Holding his hand rather than his arm makes Regulus’ heart pound in his chest – oh, the effects you have on him. 

“Do you need to go into Spintwitches? Didn’t you say you were running low on broom polish?” you ask.

Regulus stares at you for a moment before nodding. He barely remembers having said that sometime this week, before he even asked you out. He appreciates that you actually pay attention to what he says more than he can express.

“Okay, so we’ll go there and then, if you don’t mind, can we walk around Tomes and Scrolls? I’ve been talking to the owner about expanding his stock on Divination products and I want to see if he’s got anything in yet.”

“Erm, yeah. Anywhere you want to go, darling.” 

Even though you’re on a date and holding hands, Regulus’ face still heats up when he realizes he let a pet name slip. He silently thanks the fates that Barty and Evan didn’t “just happen” to tag along today; if they had heard him call you that, Regulus would never hear the end of it. While you notice him looking away from you, to hide the blush, you don’t think much of it. It’s just an odd quirk that he’s been doing around you more and more. 

Regulus tries to not take too much time in Spintwitches. He only ever uses one brand of polish, but since he’s buying it, he has to mentally debate if he needs more rags or a sharpener for his tail-twig clippers. He decides against both. The whole time in the store, you held onto his hand until he needed it to get out his money to pay. 

You swing his arm a little bit as you head to Tomes and Scrolls. As soon as you step into the shop, you pull Regulus toward a “New!” stand. Regulus feels apprehensive as he eyes the stand. It has more mainstream Divination books, but also ones that are more focused on crystal energies and aura readings. Regulus has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from scoffing at a “Nargle Repellant Kit.” He is fairly certain that nargles don’t exist. You scan the whole stand, even dropping Regulus’ hand for the second time so you could crouch to see the lower items.

“This is brilliant!” you exclaim, pulling out a book with depictions of constellations and crystals on its cover. “Dora will be thrilled when I show her this!”

You almost make a comment about how you’re surprised that she didn’t come today. It’s rarely ever just you and Regulus. You like that it is, but the point still stands. It’s not common. 

You grab two more books and head to the register. When the owner tells you the cost, you go to grab your money, but before you can even open your coin purse, Regulus has placed the correct amount on the counter. 

“Oh, I could’ve gotten that,” you say, a bit shocked.

“It’s my treat.”

“Then thank you, kind sir.”

Regulus gives you a soft smile and takes the bagged books from the owner. It wasn’t your tote of school supplies, but it was close enough – Regulus would carry it until you returned to the common room. 

“Anywhere else you want to go or should we go for butterbeers?” Regulus asks. 

“Hmmm…” you hum, taking Regulus’ hand again and giving it a squeeze. “Butterbeers. And then Honeydukes before we go back to the castle. I will eat all my Bertie Beans in the Three Broomsticks if we stop at Honeydukes first.”

Regulus chuckles. “That I know. Nothing like butterbeer to wash down the delightful flavor of earwax.”

You giggle and squeeze his hand again. The Three Broomsticks is busy, which isn’t surprising in any way. You find a booth for the two of you and a small wave of guilt falls over you. It feels wrong to take up an entire booth with just two of you. You make a mental note to invite any of your friends over if you see them. 

“Tell me, how did you get Mr. Brown to order these books?” Regulus asks, patting the Tomes and Scrolls bag next to him.

“It was so difficult. But really, I think Dora and I just wore him down. You know, asking and asking for these type of books and telling him it’s vital to our education. Little bit of forgery…”

“Forgery?” Regulus repeats.

“Well, he wanted a note from Professor Dawntry saying that they were necessary, or beneficial at least. And do you think she’d write that? No. So… we took it upon ourselves to write it. It’s all thanks to Junior for forging her signature. I think that really sold it to Mr. Brown.”

Regulus smirks. “And what if he ever talks to Dawntry in person? Asks her about the books that she’s endorsed?” 

“I already purchased the books, silly,” you say with an affectionate eye roll. “You purchased the books technically. But what’s he going to do? Force me to return them?”

“I suppose business is business.”

“Exactly! And it’s not like I’m requesting books on the Dark Arts.”

Then you start to explain the more intricate details about this particular branch of Divination that you’re looking into and how the Hogwarts library only has so many books on it. You’ve even read the books on it that are in the Restricted Section with real notes from Professor Dawntry. 

“That’s where we got the signature for Junior to copy,” you say.

Regulus nods and you continue. He’s more than fascinated while listening to you ramble. He hopes his staring is more ‘attentive listener’ than ‘creepy stalker’ or ‘you have something on your face.’ 

You’re pleased that Regulus doesn’t look bored with you right now. You’ve talked about this subject in the past to a variety of people and most of them give you skeptical looks and try to change the subject. And then there are the few who look more bored than the average student in Professor Binns’ class. Regulus is just attentive and it fuels the butterflies in your stomach. 

After a few butterbeers, Regulus hands Madam Rosmerta a few galleons before you head over to Honeydukes.

“I can pay you back for that,” you say, once again reaching for your coin purse before Regulus puts his hand on your arm.

“Don’t. Told you, it’s my treat.”

“What? The whole day? Reg, you already got my books!”

“I invited you, darling. Today’s on me.” 

A faint blush dusts your cheeks. “Damn, you should invite me to Hogsmeade more often.”

That’s the plan, Regulus thinks. He feels it would’ve been too forward, too flirty to say out loud, but it is the plan. If today continues to go well, he plans on being your Hogsmeade date quite often and being your date to the Yule Ball and asking you to wear his extra jersey to quidditch games and being your study buddy and… He is getting ahead of himself. He needs to finish the first date strong before he can plan out the rest of your relationship. 

You don’t take long in Honeydukes. Both of you know exactly which sweets you want and where they are. Having stopped there every visit since you started going to Hogsmeade in third year, it’s a well rehearsed visit. Once more, Regulus pays for your things. You don’t protest at all this time, knowing that he’ll insist that it’s his treat. It’s a tad bizarre the longer you think about it; you don’t recall him paying for anyone else that often. Usually when the whole group goes to the Three Broomsticks, everyone throws a galleon or a few sickles on the table before you leave, based on how much each drinks or if someone ordered food. Your solution? Just don’t think about it. He’s being nice and you don’t complain when someone is being extra nice to you. Definitely not when it’s Regulus. 

On the way back to the castle, you tell Regulus about the games you used to play with cousins using Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. Some of the games you’ve played at Hogwarts through the years, but your cousins have their own rules and methods of telling the flavors apart. Regulus tells you about the Chocolate Eternals that Sirius would sneak him when they were younger.

“He’d have to remind me not to chew them every time. Mum’s only given me enough to get two so we each get one. They don’t melt. Make it last.” 

You give him a slightly pitiful look. “I guess sweets weren’t too common growing up?” 

“No. Mother believes they are for special occasions and even then, they are limited… Come to think of it, I’m not sure Mother actually gave Sirius the money for the chocolates. He probably nicked it from her purse.” 

Regulus chuckles at the idea and you’re glad the conversation returns to its previous light-hearted nature. Regulus is able to keep his unspoken promise to carry your things all the way back to the common room. 

“Thanks for everything, Reg,” you say, giving Regulus a hug before taking your things back to your dorm. 

Regulus smiles to himself as he heads back to his. He feels proud of himself. He had a great first date with you and you seemed to enjoy yourself. 

---

Regulus starts placing himself next to you as much as he can. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like. You’re not complaining by any means. It’s nice and you like it. It’s just different. But you do notice that he’s becoming more relaxed around you, more himself. There have even been a few times where it’s just the two of you and you fall into easy conversation. 

After dinner on Friday evening, you sit next to Regulus on the plush couch in the common room. He’s got out the Transfiguration textbook, clearly doing the assigned reading. You have no intention of doing so. Regulus becomes less stiff as you sit down. It’s a miniscule change but you notice it. You scooch closer to Regulus and he moves his arm around you, holding you closer into his side. 

Pandora and Barty, having witnessed this, exchange curious glances. Regulus had told Barty that the date went well and he just assumed you were on the same page, that you are now dating. You had told Pandora about Regulus buying and how sweet he was the entire time, followed with a desperate ‘Do you think he might like me?’ Both Pandora and Barty had never seen Regulus put his arm around someone like that and he definitely never pulled someone in closer to him. His apparent tolerance of touches applying to only you was one thing; this was a whole new level. 

“You smell good,” you mutter into his chest. 

“Hm, thank you,” Regulus says quietly. 

Then he musters all his courage and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your eyes go wide and you sit up, staring at him. Pandora and Barty have similar looks of surprise on their faces. Their quiet and previously boring evening in the common room just got interesting. 

“You… just… You kissed…” you stutter out.

You’re unable to actually finish your thought. You aren’t completely oblivious. You know that Regulus doesn’t give affection. 

“Erm, is that okay?” he asks, suddenly looking bashful and unsure of himself. 

“You don’t… You don’t… do that?” you say, sounding very, very unsure of what just happened. 

He wets his lips nervously. “I thought it’d be okay, with you, you know, since we’re dating?” 

You sit up even straighter. 

“We are?” you gasp. 

Regulus’ face burns bright red and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Barty trying not to fall out of his chair with suppressed laughter. 

“Since when?” you add. 

“Last week? I asked you on a date and it went well? At least, I thought it went well… I had a good time. Did you not?” 

You gasp louder and throw yourself at Regulus, burying him in a hug. 

“Merlin, I didn’t realize! No, it did go well!” You pull back from him with the widest grin he has ever seen. “You like me?” 

Regulus adjusts himself next to you, turning slightly to be more facing you. So apparently you weren’t on the same page about everything, but you seemed open to it.

“He doesn’t go around kissing everyone, sweetheart,” Barty chimes in, earning himself a glare from Regulus.

“Is that why you paid for everything? Because it was a date?” you ask Regulus.

He nods and you pull him into another hug. 

“So we’re dating,” you say.

“If that’s okay with you?” Regulus says, still sounding unsure of himself.

You pull back again and this time it’s you nodding. Then you get off the couch and practically jump onto Pandora’s lap.

“Did you hear, Dora? I’m dating Regulus!” you say happily. “Oh, I need to find Dorcas! She needs to know!”

And you are bounding away in search of your friend. You don’t hesitate to tell everyone that you pass that you’re dating Regulus Black, yes, the Regulus Black. You can’t help it – you’re just so excited that this yearslong crush has manifested into something real.

“About time too,” Pandora says once you’ve disappeared up the stairs toward the girls’ dormitories. “She’s been smitten with you for years.”

“I’d say you’re perfect for each other. Mr. ‘Allergic to touching’ and Ms. ‘Always touching,’” Barty adds. 

Regulus throws a pillow at Barty, which sends him into a cackling fit. Barty knows that Regulus must really like you to let him get away with that comment. After all, Regulus could’ve thrown his Transfiguration book at him. 

Tags: @navs-bhat

[puckofparis]

Pillow Talk // j.hughes

Summary: you come home to find jack asleep, exhausted from his game, and needy for you. (1.0k words)

Warnings: 18+ content MDNI, sleep play, potential non-con if you squint, definitely not proof-read

a/n: this is my first time writing on here so let me know if I should expand the warnings! (and let me know if u want more) enjoy <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The apartment was dark as you stepped into it, the empty rooms lit only by the light of the moon. You knew it had been a rough night for Jack, the loss not exactly welcomed but not brutal for him, but it had been a rough night for you too. 

You had expected the apartment to feel quiet, but not deserted. 

Taking care not to make too much noise you slowly  slipped off your coat and shoes and began your search for Jack. 

The kitchen and living room were empty, no dishes in the sink or blankets on the couch. The bathroom light was off. None of his things anywhere to be found. 

Finally you turned and that's when you found him, sprawled out asleep in your bed. 

A small smile crept its way onto your face at the sight of him. His clothes were thrown around the room, as if the first thing he did when he got home was come here, kick off his shoes and fall asleep. He looked so peaceful. HIs brown hair messily draped over the pillow, his lips slightly parted. Perfectly, soundly asleep. 

Exhaustion weighed at your frame, and you figured it was time better spent in bed than standing out here, staring. And so, dropped your bag, tossed your clothes into the pile his had made, and joined him in bed, 

You hardly had time to register the coolness of the sheets against your skin, when he curled around you. His breath was hot against your skin, his skin warm and inviting. 

He let out a soft sigh against your neck. His presence, so comforting and so sleepy, was just enough to make you begin to drift off. Then he sighed again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And then you realized, it wasn't a sigh he was letting out. It was a murmur. It was your name, falling from his lips over and over again.

You turned to face him, once again taking in the sight of his sleeping face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as he dreamt. Dreamt of you. 

And it must've been a very good dream from the sound of his sleepy murmuring, and the way he was pressing against you, hip hips now moving in small thrusts against your side. 

It didn't take you long to realise what was going on. Didn’t take more effort than simple moving the tiniest bit to feel that he was rock hard. 

You smiled to yourself as the realization set in. Here he was, rough night long over, passed out from exhaustion, sprawled out in bed, still desiring yo so much that it permeated his dreams. 

You knew what you had to do. “Jack” you said sweetly in his ear, “honey Im home” You said the words like they were sugar, completely sure that even in his dreams he would hear you. All he did as you brushed the hair out of his face was groan, his hips jerking slightly. 

You let your hand reach down, grinding it against his cock, before you spoke, “Jack” Again the only thing you got was a groan and his hips thrusting lazily against you hand. 

Waking him up was going to be absolutely useless. 

That's when you decided to throw caution to the wind, freeing his cock from his boxers, you began stroking gently at the length of him. 

He reacted instantly, a slightly broken moan leaving his lips as the sensation, your name flowing freely from him once more. 

Of course he knew it was you. Even in his sleep he would know it was you. Your warmth in bed, your weight beside him, your soft voice in his ear, your sweet hand around his cock. 

His hips began to move on their own, one of his arms coming to wrap around you, pulling you closer. His face burrowing in your neck as you hand continued to get him off. 

“I know” you cooed, “I know> You need this don't you?” You knew it was a rhetorical question, since he was still soundly asleep beside you but it was met with the tiniest whimper you’d ever heard leave his lips. 

The sounds he was making, the way a small sheen of sweat was now glinting against his skin, all of it only served to motivate you. You needed him, needed to feel him filling you, but exhaustion was clouding your thoughts. You knew it was too late to turn back, to let go of him and roll over like nothing was happening.

So you lazily draped one leg over his, letting him grind against your now dampening panites. The pressure of him against you was exactly what you needed, and each movement of his hips sent small sparks through you. 

He wrapped his other arm around you, pulling you impossibly tighter against him. It was like he needed to feel every inch of you, even in his stupor. 

And then he started to move. 

Faster and rougher against you, as if his body knew exactly what you needed from him, and how to get what he needed from you. “Fuck-” he groaned. 

His cock slipped, breaching the thin layer of clothing, and pressing against your wet hole. You let out a squeak at the pressure, as he slid into you in one quick thrust. 

It was like magic, the way your bodies complemented each other in his way. HIs hips were moving at the perfect pace to make you breathless and you couldn't help but cling tightly to him, moans leaving your lips just as often as they left his. 

One particularly rough thrust sent you into his shoulder, teeth grazing him slightly as you tried to muffle your moans. HIs jaw dropped open, “Baby.” 

You could feel that pressure building in your core, as he kept up his pace. Rutting seamlessly into you like it was nature, like it was the only thing he was ever supposed to do with his body. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, loud whimpers leaving your lips. You were sure that there was no way your noises hadn't already woke him up. 

Your climax hit you like a wave, squeezing around him as the entire world disappeared and all that was left was the blind pleasure and the feel of him, still wrapped around you, consuming you, making you his. 

You could tell by the way his breaths were coming in short pants that he was close too. His thrusts got sloppier as he came, filling you to the brim with him cum. 

A content sigh left his lips, satisfied and panting. His hold on you loosened, as his body relaxed. 

“Welcome home,” he whispered in your ear as he peppered kisses along your face, bodies still tightly tangled together. 

[r0rysreid]

tutor!spencer Reid was SOOO CUTE!!! can I please request a one shot (or blurb, whatever you feel like) of a first kiss or a confession between them? I'm a sucker for puppy love. THANK YOU YOU'RE THE BEST!

tutor!spencer reid x gn!reader

MY FIRST REQUEST!! i am MORE than happy to write this, im so so so glad you like tutor!spencer, that’s my baby. hopefully this meets your standards </3

spencer had been looking forward to this moment all week. you had invited him over to your place—not to study, but to simply hang out.

of course it wasn’t the first time he had been over, he had sat at your dining table so many times to the point he could practically draw each groove and scratch from memory.

but this was much different. it wasn’t studying, it was a genuine friendly hangout. from the moment you asked him he was over the moon, spending nearly an hour curating a good outfit to wear, adjusting his hair so it fell just right, and making sure to keep extra mints in his bag just incase.

fiddling with his bags straps he knocked on your door—three times like always, a pause between the first and second one. he rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, before catching a glimpse of your silhouette through the window, a smile creeping onto his lips.

a few moments later the door was opening, his face lighting up at the sight of you in-front of him, raising a hand to give you a small wave. “hey, sorry if i’m a little late.”

“it’s okay, you’re right on time. come in.” you stepped aside for him, allowing him to carefully step inside. as always he bent down to untie his shoes, placing them next to yours on the small shoe rack before following you into the living room.

he hesitated for a second before carefully walking over towards the couch, fingers flexing around his bag strap before he awkwardly sat down a few feet away from you on the couch.

“you alright? you seem way more tense than usual.” your voice caught him off guard, looking over at you and smiled a little, following with a nod and a thumbs up. “i’m good—just not used to sitting anywhere besides the table.” he gestured into the dining room, before carefully setting his bag down at his feet.

to say it was awkward was an understatement. spencer felt like he had no clue what he was doing. when you moved closer after putting on a movie, when you made yourselves sandwiches, when you had offered to head to your room and play with your console—he felt so embarrassed.

he stared down at his hands as you explained the game you were teaching him, his gaze occasionally flicking up to meet yours, smiling and nodding before taking the second controller you had handed him.

your fingers had brushed against his, it was such a cliche, but he didn’t care. he was loving every second of this. every second of being close to you.

“did you get all that? any parts i need to go over again?” you asked as you messed with the controls a bit, waiting for his confirmation. “yeah, i got it all. i always do.”

in reality he was barely paying attention to the game, mostly copying what you were doing, apologizing everytime he screwed up—even though you swore it was okay since its just a game.

eventually you guys abandoned the game, resorting to go through some of your music instead, shuffling through cd’s and introducing him to new music.

spencer was listening to every word, a faint blush on his face as he stared at you. he loved listening to you, and with you constantly telling him things for the past however long he had been over, he felt like he was in heaven.

you had started picking up that he was starting to lose focus on what you were actually saying and instead was focused on you. you couldn’t help but find it cute, smiling more as you turned to him and handed him your favorite album.

“you okay with this one?” you asked, moving a bit closer to him, waiting for his respond. of course he nodded, looking up at you, the second his gaze met yours he felt like his heart was gonna explode.

there was a comforting silence between you two, your hand finding his and giving a gentle squeeze, watching the way his ears started to turn bright red.

“you’re blushing.” you teased him, letting out a laugh as he started to crumble. he let out a small shaky chuckle, looking down for a second before turning back to you, mentally battling himself about what to do next.

a few seconds passed before he hesitantly moved closer, placing a small peck on your lips before quickly pulling back and looked away. “sorry—i just really wanted to do that.” he blurted out, pressing his lips into a thin line, his hand tightening around yours.

you felt your face heating up from his action, your own gaze falling to the floor, before a smile took over your expression. “i don’t mind. i liked it.” you responded, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “i like you.”

your words caused the butterflies in spencer’s stomach to go insane, a smile matching yours painting his lips as he glanced at you as well. “i like you too. a lot.”

“you wanna listen to that album now or are we gonna sit here for the rest of the day?” you held up the cd again, earning a nod from him. you got up and put it in your player, before returning to sit next to spencer, much closer until your knees touched. your head found its place on his shoulder, hand in his again, and smiles stuck on both of your faces.

[cripplecharacters]

Hi, Im writing two autistic characters and I would like some advice for their backstory. I myself am autistic and Im using them to project my own experiences, but Id like to ask for some outside opinions as well. The two characters are twins, the sister was always better at masking than the brother, who also had really bad sensory issues. In the future they ended up having a falling out when their friend group all goes out to a concert, and the brother can’t enjoy it because the noise hurts his ears. Afterwards they go to a restaurant and they have an arguement because the brother can’t eat the food due to his sensory issues (keep in mind neither of them are diagnosed) and they’ve been on not the best terms since and low contact. The main reason why its such a big deal is because it was meant to celebrate one of their friends (brother’s best friend) getting into their dream college.

Their story basically tackles the brother learning that he isn’t a burden on the people around him, while the sister also tackles her own internalized ableism.

Hi asker,

So their backstory seems to me, based on the information I have from this ask, that the sister is generally being at least somewhat ableist towards her brother. And since they are both undiagnosed, there's also an element of not understanding sensory needs (especially the brother's) because they aren't necessarily attributing it to being a disability trait. Since the sister masks more than the brother, perhaps she is seeing his sensory issues as something he should be able to control or something of the sort. And the event you describe is kind of the tipping point for their relationship.

Please correct me if I'm wrong there, by the way.

So, I'm not sure on advice on what specifically you want regarding the backstory, but it does seem like a pretty realistic situation, especially in regards to the way you want the story to go. It seems like it's open for character development for both the characters, and probably the friends too.

As a note to your story, not the backstory, internalized ableism is mostly about being ableist to yourself. Disabled people can be ableist to other disabled people, sometimes as a result of internalized ableism and sometimes it's just entirely externalized ableism. The sister does I bet have internalized ableism about herself, and can be ableist towards her brother and his needs. If you want her to address her internalized ableism, she should probably address ableist behavior she's had towards her brother, too.

Some general questions I have that you might want to ask yourself are:

what exactly bothers the sister so much about this? yes, it's about their friend getting into their dream college so i can get that she's mad they didn't celebrate 'accordingly,' but is there anything else?

what does the brother say or do when he gets invited to things like the concert or the restaurant where he can't eat anything? did he know he wouldn't be able to enjoy them? was he hoping to anyway? did he not know and is just finding out how hard that was going to be for him?

what does the brother feel about how his sister has acted? likewise, what does the sister feel about how her brother acted?

do either of them ever figure out they're autistic?

what do the friends feel like about the falling out? they were there. and the way the friends feel and react likely affects how Brother and Sister feel and react as well -- friends can take sides, try to stay out of it, etc.

you say the sister is better at masking than the brother. how does she feel about that? how does she feel about masking? what exactly does she have to mask?

how does the brother feel about his own masking ability? about his sister's ability to do the same?

also, do either of them understand this as masking or is it more of a "i'm sure everyone's doing this all the time. whatever" type of situation?

By the way, I put these questions not because I think you haven't posed any of these questions to yourself already. You probably have asked yourself at least some of them, and know probably many of the answers even if you haven't specifically asked yourself the question.

Mostly I'm putting them out there because answering them and/or knowing you already have the answer can help you like, feel comfortable in how you are telling the story and characterizing these characters.

You currently seem to have a pretty reasonable starting point that makes sense within the story you want to tell. This feels like something that, yeah, that could just happen in real life, and probably has. I think that's likely what you were going for, from what I can gather, so, that would work out!

Hope this helps,

mod sparrow

[bbywriter]

quiet days | c. sturniolo

masterlist

summary: when you drown at the scene of a mass casualty incident, chris will do anything to make sure you live.

pairing: christopher sturniolo x fem!reader, doctor!chris x doctor!reader

warnings: heavy angst, drowning (oc almost dies), they’re briefly mentioned but matt and nick are also doctors in this lol, probably very inaccurate medical terms and procedures that i just learned through greys anatomy and reddit.

notes: hi guys<3 this was inspired by that one episode of greys anatomy where mer drowns, and also a finnick odair fanfic called ‘two souls, one heart’ by @wife-of-all-dilfs. this author probably has no idea i exist but she actually made me wanna start writing. check her fic out if u love heart breaking angst like me</3. also i’ve been in so many fandoms in my life lol can u tell?

please lmk what u think about this one, im rly proud of it<3

word count: 6.2k

—

Quiet shifts are no good. Sure, it should be a comforting feeling for a place like the hospital. The stillness of stable patients means nobody is on the verge of death, and everything has a chance to breathe. 

Nurses can chat quietly over stale coffee and residents finally sit down for a moment. The clock on the wall ticks cautiously, each second dragging its feet. Even the overhead speakers rest. But it’s quiet—the calm before the storm. Where everything slows down, and you should have been too…

“Baby, come sit,” Chris starts. He’s settled on the old lumpy couch of the resident’s lounge, his arms tucked behind his head as he talks to you with shut eyes. “I feel tired just looking at you.”

You glance at him and chuckle. “Your eyes are closed.”

“Yeah, but I can hear you walking.” He cracks one eye open to watch you pace back and forth across the room, then teases with a tired smile, “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you reply with a laugh, but you know he’s right. You should sit down and try to relax—but you just can’t. 

There’s a restless energy simmering in the air. It’s an unspoken rule every doctor knows too well: stretched silence always leads to chaos. You never say it out loud, that “it’s quiet,” because admitting it might summon the mess faster. 

But everyone feels it. The whole place holds its breath, bracing for the inevitable.

You linger by the doorway, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, half considering his advice. As if he can hear the silent battle unfolding in your mind, he lets out a sigh. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke worrying about nothing,” he says, softer this time. “Maybe tonight’s just… easy.”

You want to believe him, but your gut just refuses. You’ve been through this before. Countless times. When the quiet lulls you into a false sense of security before havoc shatters it without warning. An ambulance could come barreling in any minute. Multiple traumas. Code blues. Someone crashing hard and fast.

And although you think that worrying could somehow hold back disaster—as if keeping your mind in the same state of adrenaline as a hectic day could trick the universe into giving you a break just this once—if you’d known your life would soon be pulled from your fingertips, you wouldn’t have been so stubborn to just sit down and hug Chris for five extra seconds.

He drapes his arm across the back of the couch. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes, offering you a spot in his cozy embrace. “Just for a minute. You’ll hear the alarm if something happens.”

You hesitate, biting your lip, but finally give in. With a quiet sigh, you cross the room and sit down next to him against the cushion. Chris shifts to pull you closer into his side, his fingers drawing soothing circles along the sleeves of your scrubs. 

“You work too hard, gorgeous.” He places a soft kiss in your hair, the scent of ethanol and latex lingering, but he doesn’t mind. “This place will run fine without you for a couple minutes.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirks up as you look up at him. “Feels like it might fall apart any second.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Then let it. We’ll deal with it when it happens.”

Chris doesn’t give you a chance to counter him, silencing the reply you’re about to argue with a gentle kiss to your lips. You know the silent words he's trying to convey. 'You don’t need to worry, baby. I've got you.' 

When he pulls away, you can only smile at his reassurance. You sink a little further into his touch, letting the tension slowly ease out of your shoulders. How could anything ever go wrong with Chris by your side?

His hand moves up to your neck, his thumb brushing softly over your nape, and even if it’s just for a fleeting moment, it’s enough to let your guard down.

Mass Casualty: Train derailment—Charles River. Trauma incoming.

Quiet is shattered in an instant. 

Your pagers ring simultaneously and Chris stiffens beside you, his hand instantly dropping from your neck as both of you fumble to check the message. Eight words–like a punch to the stomach.

Chris mutters a soft curse under his breath, his relaxed demeanour evaporating as he locks into focus. He’s on his feet before you can even process it, grabbing his coat off the back of the couch. 

Adrenaline spikes through you. It cuts through the lingering warmth of his touch. You follow him without a second thought, leaving behind the couch’s momentary comfort and stepping back into the unforgiving pulse of the hospital.

He glances at you, eyes sharp and steady. “Mass casualty protocol?”

You nod, already switching gears, letting instinct take over. “We’ll be triaging in the ER. Let’s move.”

The halls are alive with motion—nurses prepping gurneys, interns sprinting to set up trauma rooms, senior attendings barking orders over the rising noise. You slip into the rhythm of it without missing a beat, your mind running through every checklist, every step you need to take.

As you push through the double doors into the ER, pieces of conversation hit you– “How many victims?” and “Bridge collapse?” and “This is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

Despite the urgent orders being directed your way, Chris squeezes your shoulder to gain your attention. His tone is firm but calm. 

“You good?”

There’s no room for nerves, no space for hesitation. You’ve handled chaos before, faced down death too many times to count. You know how to keep your head above water, even when the tide threatens to pull you down. 

But you notice it the second he asks you—a feeling in your stomach. 

Mass casualty incident? Of course, nothing good could ever come from one of those. A train just fell off its tracks. People are hurt, injuries are inevitable. No instincts are needed to know that. 

But there’s something else. Something about this, about the sheer scale of it all, that feels different. 

It feels personal. 

And as much as your conscience screams at you to be selfish, just this once, to tell him you know something else is wrong, you go against it. Because you’re a doctor, and saving others will always be your highest calling.

So you lie. 

“Yes.”

A hint of a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth as he squeezes your shoulder once more, then takes off toward the admin desk. You direct a group of interns to prepare airway kits and trauma supplies, keeping your voice clear and decisive despite the unease gnawing at your instincts. 

You force yourself to take a breath, find your center. 

When you lock eyes with Chris one last time, there’s no trace of fear left—just focus. He gives you a nod of encouragement and then you’re both moving, splitting off into the storm, ready to do whatever it takes to keep these people alive.

———

Standing at the head of a gurney, one of your hands steadies a patient’s jaw while the other carefully guides an intubation tube past swollen vocal cords. Sweat gathers at your temple, but you don’t dare blink, not until the tube slips into place. 

“Tube in,” you call out.

The nurse standing by immediately starts squeezing the Ambu bag, forcing oxygen into Jane Doe’s failing lungs. Her monitor beeps unevenly, but it’s something. Airway secured. 

You barely register the sound of footsteps entering the room when Dr. Reid calls your name, his voice cutting through the tension. 

“___,” he says firmly. “We’re short on trauma docs at the scene. Finish up here, you’re leaving now with the next ambulance.”

The words barely register before you nod and strip off your gloves. The air stings slightly against your damp skin as you step back into the trauma center.  

It’s only been twenty minutes since the initial alert, but the ER is packed like you’ve never seen before. Patients have piled into every corner. Monitors are beeping in frantic discord. Nurses move quickly, calling out vitals and pushing meds in practiced chaos. 

The sharp scent of antiseptic barely masks the underlying tang of blood and burnt fabric. Overhead, the trauma board is a mess of names and injuries, constantly shifting as people continue to flood in.

And that’s when you see him. 

Beneath the TV screen, Chris’s sleeves are pushed up, blood streaks along his forearm as he finishes with another patient. You’re supposed to be heading to the ambulance bay, but instead, something tells you to weave through the maze of stretchers toward him—to quickly let him know you’re leaving, to say goodbye. 

He looks up just as you reach him, equal parts of exhaustion and relief flickering across his face. Before you can speak, his hand brushes against yours in a wordless acknowledgment, and then he’s steering you a few steps away. 

It’s out of the frantic flow of the ER. The noise still hums around you, but here, in the dim space between an empty gurney and the wall, it feels like you have a second to breathe.

“They need me on scene,” you say, voice quiet but steady. “I’m going with the next ambulance.”

His brows furrow for a split second before he nods. “Reid just told me the same thing,” he says. “I’m heading out with the next unit after you.”

The earlier feeling returns as a coil in your gut, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you reach for him, gripping his wrist for just a second before he pulls you in. The kiss is brief, a stolen moment amid the madness, but it grounds you both.

"Be careful please," he murmurs against your lips.

"You too." Your fingers tighten on his scrubs before you force yourself to let go. "I love you."

His eyes soften just for a second, just long enough for the chaos around you to blur.

"I love you too."

And then you’re gone.

———

The ambulance jolts as it pulls up to the scene, tires screeching slightly against the rain-slicked pavement. The moment the doors swing open, havoc rushes in.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and gasoline. It burns the back of your throat. Flashing lights of blue and red strobe against the darkness, reflecting off the twisted wreckage of the train cars. Metal rasps under its own weight, half-derailed carriages stacked like a horrifying house of cards. Some are overturned, others crumpled like paper, their insides spilling onto the tracks below.

The ground is a mess of shattered glass and personal belongings strewed among deep pools of rainwater and something darker—blood.

A relentless mix of crying, screaming, and distant metallic creaks fills the air, like the train itself is still groaning from the impact. Rescue teams work frantically under the harsh glare of floodlights, but this devastation simply stretches far beyond their reach.

You take a breath, pushing down the sick feeling in your stomach, and step forward into the disaster.

Amidst all of it, you spot him—a little boy, barely five, standing alone by the water’s edge. His tiny frame is shivering in the cold. The flickering emergency lights cast long shadows across his tear-streaked face, his wide eyes darting frantically through the chaos. His lips tremble as he sobs. He calls for his mom in a voice so small that nearly gets lost in the storm of sirens and shouting.

Your heart cracks in half.

You know there are people with worse injuries, people who need your attention more, but you can’t ignore him. He’s alone. He’s terrified.

You kneel to his height and set down your trauma field kit, keeping your voice soft despite the surrounding noise. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m gonna help you find your mom, alright?”

He sniffles, lips quivering but silent as he rubs his sleeve against his face. Dirt and tears smear across his cheek. You extend your hand, and after a brief hesitation, his trembling fingers slip into yours. They’re ice cold, and it sends a new wave of urgency through you. You squeeze his hand gently to offer what little comfort you can. “You’re gonna be okay. Let’s get you somewhere warm, yeah?”

The boy’s teary gaze flickers between your face and the chaos behind you. His voice cracks, “Mommy’s still there... she’s... she’s hurt.”

“I know, honey, I know. We’re gonna find her,” you assure him, pulling your jacket off and draping it around his small frame. It’s too big for him, but at least it will keep him warm for now. The cold air bites the second it hits your exposed scrubs, and you can feel the chill in your bones, but it doesn’t matter. He needs it more.

Rubbing a comforting pat on his shoulder, you start to lead him away from the water. Your plan is simple, just a quick detour. You’ll bring him to a police officer, make sure he isn’t alone in all this, and then you’ll get back to the scene—

A sharp, desperate tug.

“No! Mommy’s still there!”

Before you can react, he wrenches himself free from your hold, stumbling toward the water. His feet splash into the shallows, the current pulling at his small legs.

Panic jolts through you.

“Wait!” You lunge for him, grabbing blindly—

Your foot slips.

The rain-slicked ground betrays you, and suddenly, the world tilts sideways. A sharp gasp rips from your throat as your body pitches forward. 

The icy grip of the river swallows you whole.

The water closes in around you immediately, dark and suffocating. The current tugs at your limbs, and no matter how hard you try to fight, the surface only seems to slip further away. Panic claws at your chest. A bitter sting of cold water rushes into your throat and your body feels heavy, your breath shallow. Chris. Where is he? What’s happening? Why can’t you breathe? 

Your limbs kick out, the instinct to survive kicking in. With every desperate movement, you reach for anything, grasping for hope. 

But it’s as if the water is alive, pulling you under with a cruel certainty. You cough and sputter and scream but your lungs only fill with fire at every gasping attempt to inhale. Why won’t it stop? The thought echoes in your head, drowned out by the deafening rush of water and panic.

The infinite stretch of space around you twists and turns, safety slipping further and further from your reach. Where are you? Where is everyone? Nothing makes sense. The world is suddenly so big, so unfamiliar, and you’re so, so small. The weight of the water is pressing down with a relentless, almost inviting force. 

And then, as if the time has paused for a moment, a chilling clarity washes over you. The panic and thrashing give way to a sudden stillness, and the water envelopes you in a quiet embrace. 

The calm before the storm. Where everything slows down, and now, you have no choice but to surrender to the repose. The chaos above is no longer your concern. This is it. There is no future. No hope. You’ve given up on the surface; it isn’t yours anymore. This is where you belong now.

The water cradles you gently, and you let it. It feels... peaceful, in a way. There’s a strange comfort in the silence, in the weightlessness. You can still feel your heart pounding, echoing against the cold emptiness. But your mind begins to drift, like a ripple in a still pond. It’s easier this way.

In that final moment, your waterlogged mind grasps for one last thought. Chris...

And for a fleeting second, you think you feel him—feel the heartbeat you once knew, far above you, just out of reach. But then the water blurs everything again, and the darkness transforms into light, bathing your surroundings in comforting rays as you sink deeper, farther into the depths.

———

Chris arrives at the scene just minutes after you, faced with the same chaos. The wreckage of the train looms in the distance, twisted metal and shattered glass are scattered like broken bones. 

Makeshift assessment beds now line the pavement, medics moving between them in hurried strides. The air is thick with the wail of sirens and the muffled cries of the injured. It’s overwhelming. Disorienting.  

But then he sees it.  

Your bag.  

Sitting under the glow of a streetlamp, untouched, your unmistakable pink bow keychain catching the light too perfectly. It almost looks staged, as if placed there deliberately, bathed in a quiet, eerie spotlight. His stomach twists. His breath catches. The chaos around him dulls for a second, because your bag is here—but you aren’t.  

He moves toward it, heart pounding, and that’s when he notices the little boy.  

The same boy from earlier. The one you had been with. He’s curled in on himself, still wearing your jacket, staring at the water with an unsettling stillness.  

Chris crouches beside him, voice tight. “Hey, buddy... where’s ___?”  

The boy doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t answer.  

Chris swallows, trying again, his pulse now thudding in his ears. “Were you cold, bud? You’re wearing her jacket. Do you know where she went?”  

Still nothing. Just a slow, deliberate glance toward the water.  

The air is knocked from his lungs and everything inside him sinks, dragged down by the sudden unspoken truth.  

“Doctor.” A voice suddenly cuts in from behind. 

Someone’s talking to him now. Their voice sounds urgent, persistent, but Chris pays them no mind.  

“Doctor, we need you to move. We have a body that needs to be assessed.”  

He ignores it. Ignores everything but the way the kid keeps staring at the water.  

“Sir.” It’s a Search and Rescue worker, and he tries again, more forceful this time. “We need you to—”  

Chris doesn’t hear the rest. He knows. He feels it.  

You’re in there. 

He has to get to you.

The second his feet leave the ground, he hears the shouts behind him.  

“Sir—wait! You can’t—”  

“It’s our job, let us—”  

But he’s already in.  

The cold hits him like a sledgehammer, shocking and brutal. The water swallows him whole, and for a terrifying second, he’s blind. He can’t see anything. Can’t hear anything except the pounding of his own heart and the muffled roar of the river.  

Where are you?  

His hands swipe through the dark, pushing against the current, but it’s impossible—he can’t tell which way is up, let alone where you are.  

Suddenly, there’s light. 

It flickers through the dark, cutting through the swirling murk in shaky beams. Shadows shift, water distorts, and figures drop in after him. Search and Rescue, their gear making them move steady where he thrashes. The glow from their headlamps bends and wavers, illuminating glimpses of debris drifting past, the restless pull of the current.

And then—they see you.  

Your body is caught on a rock near the riverbed, motionless.  

One of the divers reaches you first, maneuvering through the water with steady, practiced movements. Chris doesn’t hesitate. He follows, kicking toward you with everything he has.  

The diver secures you, arms wrapping around your limp form, and starts the ascent. Chris is right behind you, chest burning, lungs aching, vision narrowing to nothing but you.  

You’re so still.  

Too still.  

But he doesn’t let himself think. Doesn’t let himself feel anything but the drive to get you out. To get you to the surface.  

Because you have to wake up.

Chris doesn’t waste a second. The moment your body is out of the water, he’s running—sprinting—toward the nearest ambulance, shoving past anyone in his way. He pays no attention to the shouts behind him, the frantic orders being thrown around. None of it matters. He needs to get you out of here. Now.  

When he reaches the ambulance, the EMT doesn’t move.  

“Sorry, Doctor, I’ve got orders to wait for another patient,” he says, nodding toward the scene. “They’re bringing him over now. Took a pole straight through the ribs—”  

“Then that guy is already dead,” Chris doesn’t let him finish, voice cracking, chest heaving. 

His thoughts are clouded with fury—It’s like he doesn’t see you in his arms. Like he doesn’t know there’s no time to waste on a lost cause. 

Only, the EMT does see and does know, and it’s exactly these reasons why he hesitates once more. 

Chris almost skins him alive.  

“Let the next ambulance bring him. You’re taking us back to the hospital, or you’ll give me the keys and I’ll drive there myself.”  

He looks at Chris, then at you—lifeless, limp and almost blue in his arms. And maybe it’s the way Chris is shaking, maybe it’s the tears in his eyes, maybe it’s the raw desperation bleeding into his voice, but the guy gives in.  

The doors slam shut, and the ambulance speeds off.  

———

Chris loves being a doctor. He thrives in the chaos of the ER, in the rush of saving lives, in the certainty that his hands mean something. Every stitch, every chest compression, every decision made in a split second—it all matters. It’s exhausting, brutal work, but it’s his. And if he believes in fate, he swears he is meant for this, meant to help, meant to heal.

But none of that compares to his love for you.

So when he presses his hands over your chest and feels nothing, when his breaths fail to bring life back into your lungs, he decides that there is nothing he hates more than being a doctor. Not when such a title refuses to save you. Not when all the knowledge, all the training, all the years spent fighting to keep others alive mean nothing in the face of losing you.

Chris' hands tremble as he swallows down a sob, forcing a breath into his lungs. He’s done this a thousand times before—countless compressions on countless patients—but never like this.  Never while his vision blurs and his breath stumbles and his body shakes so violently he can barely keep count. 

Two breaths. Thirty compressions. 

He locks his hands together, pressing down hard over your chest. Again. And again. And again. Each push comes with the full weight of his body behind it, but your body remains still, unyielding. No fight. No jolt. No desperate gasp for air.

“Come on, baby,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Stay with me.”

Your head lolls slightly with the force of his movements, limp in a way that makes his stomach violently turn. Your skin, usually so warm and full of life, is sickly beneath the ambulance’s harsh fluorescent light. Strands of hair cling to your damp forehead, and your lips, usually soft and flushed, are now a haunting shade of blue.

Two breaths. Thirty compressions. 

He tilts your head back again, pinching your nose and breathes into your lungs. Your chest rises beneath him, but when he pulls away, nothing changes. You’re still quiet.

"No–"

He starts again. Harder. Faster.

Two breaths. Thirty compressions. 

No response.

His own breath is ragged, his arms burn, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Because any second now, you’ll suck in a sharp breath, your lashes will flutter, and your fingers will reach for his, warm and real and alive.

Any second now.

“Breathe,” he begs, a tear slipping down his cheek. “Fuck, breathe, ___. Please.”

But you don’t.

Maybe he should just give you his heart—tear it from its place in his chest and press it into the hollow silence of your ribs. If that is the only way to bring you back—trading his own life to hear your breath again, to see your eyes open and feel your warmth against his skin, he will do it without thinking twice.

He doesn’t care if it means his own end, because knowing you were alive, feeling your pulse beneath his hands will make any sacrifice worth it.

Two breaths. Thirty compressions. 

A dull crack echoes beneath his palms, the sharp sound of a rib giving way to the pressure. His breath catches in his throat, silently waiting for you to gasp in pain. But there is nothing. The quiet feels heavier than any scream. And with that broken sound, he knows it wasn’t just your rib that has shattered. 

You are gone.

Two breaths. 

Thirty compressions. 

He sobs silently at the realization, no longer able to hold back his tears that begin to fall in an endless stream. 

This time, his touch is softer, gentler. No longer frantic, no longer desperate. The rhythm of his hands have faltered over your chest. No longer driven by a troubled need to revive you, but rather, by something tender. 

It’s selfish, born of denial, the way his steady palms manually force your heart to beat. How his mouth manually fills your lungs with air. But he will do it forever—replenish your every breath and feign every pulse, merge you both together and sustain you as one if it means you are whole again.

"You’re okay, baby," he whispers, his voice cracking, barely a sound. His tears slip silently down his face as his fingers gently sweep strands of hair from your forehead, the touch trembling with a love he couldn't hold back. 

He leans in, pressing his lips to yours once more—not to force air into your lungs, but to give you everything he has left. As if love alone could bring you back. A true kiss of life. "Don’t leave me."

———

The ambulance screeches to a stop once more.

As the back doors fly open, Chris is met with his brother’s eyes. A flicker of relief briefly stirs in his chest, but the way Matt’s face crumples in confusion at Chris’s pained expression instantly makes him want to cry again. 

Chris doesn’t have to say a word. Matt instantly knows. Knows something is very, very wrong. For the first time since you were pulled from the water, Chris feels an aching comfort. 

The burden is no longer his to shoulder alone. 

The EMT starts his run down. “Jane Doe, found unconscious—”

“It’s ___, Matt.” Chris’s voice is raw, breaking mid-sentence as he looks at his brother with pleading eyes. “I found her in the water.”

Matt freezes. Just for a second. Long enough for it to feel like slow motion when his eyes glance over your pale, lifeless form And as he watches Chris mount the gurney, his hands never leave your chest, still forcing compressions as the stretcher is lifted and they rush you inside.

Unconscious. Found in the water.

The urgency in Matt’s movements sharpens, every step fueled by a surge of adrenaline, unlike anything he’s felt before. Not because other patients are less important—he’s sworn an oath to treat them all the same—but this is you. Chris’s girlfriend. The girl who’s become a sister to him.

After all the patients he’s already lost today, he refuses to let you be another.

They push into the trauma room. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, but Chris barely hears them over the ringing in his ears. Reid, Matt, and one of your interns work in a blur, voices overlapping with rapid commands. The machines beep. Someone calls for a crash cart.

Chris doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Matt’s hands are on his shoulders, forcing him back. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” Chris rasps. “I need to see that she’s okay.”

“She will be, Chris.” Matt’s voice is firm, unwavering. “But you’re not in the right headspace. I won’t let anything happen to her. You need to step out.”

Chris swallows hard, his fingers curling into fists. He’s losing you all over again, and this time, he has to walk away from it.

“Matt, I can’t leave—I need to—”

“Sturniolo.” Reid’s voice cuts through the panic, steady in the chaos. “Listen to your brother. Go change your clothes.”

He wants to fight. Wants to scream that he can’t just sit and wait. But then he looks at you. At the paleness of your face under the too-bright hospital lights. They emphasize the stillness of your body in a way that the ambulance lights made you look alive. His chest tightens, his throat burning with the threat of more tears.

He stumbles backward, his legs moving on autopilot until he’s in the waiting room. All he's left with is the cold of your lips lingering on his own—so different from the familiar warmth they held before you left. He clenches his jaw, nails digging into his palms.

All he can do now is wait.

And he does.

Days. Several 24 hour cycles. Thousands of millions of seconds. 

For the next week, Chris waits. Every minute is stretched out like an endless ache, his body hovering on the edge of exhaustion. He hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten right, hasn’t done anything but sit at your side, hoping, praying for some sign that you’re coming back to him. You’ve stabilized. Your colleagues say it’s just a matter of time. But as each day drags on with no change, the hope he clings to starts to feel fragile, like it might shatter at any moment.

“Nick and Matt are off today,” he says quietly, his voice heavy from the seat beside your bed. “But I think they’re gonna come by in the afternoon.”

He watches your face. It’s peaceful, and he can only hope that means you’re in no pain. But there’s no reply. There hasn’t been for the past seven days. 

He gently takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. The warmth is there now, but the weight of it—limp in his grasp, the way your fingers don’t curl back in return—makes his heart crack. Another reminder that not enough has changed since the water.

“I need you to wake up, baby.”

He presses his cheek into the palm of your hand, cradling it gently with his own, your hand now sandwiched between his face and the steady strength of his hold. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that you're the one comforting him, that he’s the one being held in your arms.

“I can’t do this without you.”

No more tears fall. They couldn’t even if he wanted them to. He has already cried every last tear he has, and now, the pain remains only as a weight in his chest. His heart wrenches at the sound of his own voice. Broken and honest. He really can not do this without you. Life no longer has meaning.

He rests his head on your thigh, draping his arm over your legs. His fingers gently caress your hip while his other hand holds your wrist, keeping your palm pressed to his cheek. Anyone who passes by your room can’t help but notice the sight. It's pitiful—an embrace between a living man and his unconscious lover, waiting in a silent plea for her to come back.

“Come back to me, baby, please.” He turns his face to kiss your palm, pressing his lips softly against your skin. One last desperate attempt. “I love you.”

———

In the vast emptiness, there’s nothing. No sound. No light. Just a void that swallows everything around you, making it impossible to tell where the darkness ends and you begin. The cold envelopes you into a silence so complete, it feels suffocating.

The isolation is absolute. It’s not loneliness, because loneliness requires awareness. Here, you’re just lost. Trapped in a place that feels like it’s outside of time, where the world outside is just a distant memory. You can’t remember how long you’ve been here, or how you got here. You can’t remember the last time you felt warmth or light. You only know the relentless pull of the dark.

But then… a voice.

It’s faint at first, like a whisper across a windless field. Barely audible, but it’s there, tugging at the edges of the silence. You can’t place it, but something about it feels so familiar, like it’s a thread that belongs to you. It’s a lifeline, delicate but real.

“I need you to wake up, baby.”

The voice cracks, the sound trembling with raw emotion, desperation leaking through every word. It’s his voice. Chris’s voice.

It reverberates through the isolation, cutting through the layers of silence that have settled over you. For a moment, you don’t move, unsure of what it means. But the longer you listen, the more you realize: this voice is not just calling to you. It’s pulling you back.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Each word, each begging prayer, draws you closer to something—something warm and familiar and human. You don’t know how, but you can feel it. The weight of the isolation begins to shift, the oppressive quiet lightening just a fraction. His voice is the only thing you can feel. The only thing you can trust.

You don’t know if your heart is still beating, if it’s still alive, but his voice stirs something inside you. A faint echo of life. It pulls at the thread of your consciousness, urging you, nudging you forward.

“Come back to me, baby, please.”

The isolation isn’t gone, not yet. But his voice has cracked open a space in it, just enough for you to feel the warmth of connection again. The darkness is no longer whole, the quiet is no longer deafening.

And with that fragile sliver of sound—of love—you begin to realize you’re not alone. Not anymore.

“I love you.”

Those words, steady and strong, are the final pull. And with them, you feel the first true stirrings of movement. A heartbeat. A breath. A lifeline to pull you back from the endless void.

The warmth of his cheek is in your hand.

Chris feels it. It's faint at first, a gentle scratch of your fingers through his hair. The smallest movement, but it’s enough to make him freeze. His breath catches in his throat. His eyes widen in disbelief.

You’re awake.

He sits up slowly, hesitant, as if afraid he might disturb this fragile moment. His heart hammers in his chest, and he watches you with a mix of wonder and fear. Your eyes flutter open, soft and blurry at first, and then you lock with his.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as his hands cover his face. A new wave of tears that he didn’t know he was holding back breaks free, his body shaking.

You call his name, softly, but it feels like the most real thing in the world.

“Chris…”

The sound of your voice, so tender, makes his heart lurch. His body trembles with the weight of everything he’s held in, all the fear, the doubt, the pain. He looks at you, his hand trembling as he reaches out, unsure of how to touch you—how to hold you—now that you’re here.

He finally stands, his legs weak, and pulls you into his arms. Carefully, gently at first, afraid you might shatter in his grip. But then he holds you tighter, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, his body shaking with sobs he can no longer contain.

You hold him, your arms wrapping around his back, feeling the tremors of his pain against your skin. And in that moment, you don’t cry because you’ve returned. You cry because you can feel his hurt, deep and raw, coursing through his body. It’s too much. It’s everything.

“I'm sorry, baby,” you whisper, your voice a soft echo against his trembling frame.

Chris pulls away slightly, just enough to see your face, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his lips find yours in a kiss—deep and urgent, as if he needs to make sure you’re really here, that you’re not going to slip away again.

The taste of your tears, mingled with his, falls onto your lips, but you don’t mind. You need him to feel you. You need him to know you’re not leaving.

When he pulls back, he stares at you with wide, disbelieving eyes, as if he can’t comprehend what’s happening.

“I thought you died,” he says, his voice breaking.

Your heart snaps in your chest, and without thinking, you pull him back to you, crashing your lips against his again, more desperate this time. It’s a silent vow, a message you don’t need to say aloud: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

When you finally pull away, you look him in the eyes, your voice a steady promise.

“I will never leave you.”

Without another word, he pulls you into his arms again, holding you as if you are the very air he breathes.

“I love you,” he whispers once more.

And you whisper back, your heart full and alive, “I love you too.”

—

a/n: i’m sorry<3 thank u for reading<3 please lmk what u think!!!!

also idk if u guys care to know but another lias update: idk where to bring the story😭 i’ve written and rewritten the second part like twice now but im rly stuck w where i want the story to go. i’ll get to it when i get to it but for now we’ll have inspo for other things.

ok i love u guys<333

[ajastu]

this is a blog made specifically so i can ramble, so time for another one. Been thinking on n off about the concept of a new game in a beloved franchise letting you down in some way, and when expressing that disappointment crosses a certain line.

Like, from personal experience: i was disappointed by dishonored 2. i swear this has something to do with dragon age, bear with me for a moment. The plot fell flat for me, the trailer basically tells you everything that happens in the game, and it really pales in comparison to the way the narrative was crafted in the first game.

HOWEVER, no matter how much of an essay i could write about the shortcomings i, personally, see with dh2, i can still acknowledge that it was a solid fucking game, with care taken in the production of it, and that a lot of people loved it for the exact things that disappointed me, and they are not in the wrong for it.

this got long, unsurprisingly, so the rest ill put behind a read-more 👍

Whenever i talk about what i think could have been done better in the sequel, it is more of a....thought exercise. Because the fact is, we're never getting the dh2 i really wanted, and so there is no need to get upset or frustrated about it. Might as well have fun analyzing it n getting to the core of what it is exactly that felt off, but not in an angry way? more like....having a fun discussion with a friend. pulling a puzzle apart kinda deal. make it Productive, and not just a feedback loop of negative feelings. Find good things in it, even.

So, when i still see people foaming-at-the-mouth mad about veilguard, im not gonna lie, i feel kind of concerned about the mental well-being of some of them.

The fact is. Veilguard is a solid fucking game. Just, objectively speaking. The level design is (to me, at least) intuitive and fun to explore, it does not feel like a slog (looking at you, dai. that one's open world design gave me the most mind-numbingly boring fever dream once), the battle mechanic doesn't make me want to download a 'skip combat' mod, the faction mechanic is fun and closer to the spirit of dao that dai was*, the plot is coherent and has a Theme, and, despite what people like to say, the lore reveals make sense and are consistent with the previous lore in the series 🤷‍♂️. I genuinely do believe that the whole blight origin thing was already thought out before dao came out. thats just how worldbuilding works, usually.

I have a ranking of the DA games in my head, based on how much i liked them. Before datv, it was as follows:

dao (a game of its time, but one i love immensely)

da2

dai (its decent enough, but it never really grabbed me like the other two)

I expected datv to take 4th place. As it currently stands, it might just share the first place with dao, for me personally.

I remember exactly the moment when it clicked for me that playing datv felt like playing dao (it was the first blackthorne mission). And that moment was very special to me. It is also, perhaps, the only game in the series which really actually made me lose my entire mind during certain story missions, but that one might just be because i saw no spoilers before going in.

It is also so so so important to me because of the way they handled the trans and specifically nonbinary representation.

It might not have been exactly what people wanted, but no game will please every single person. like, i am sure that some people dislike the game for exactly the reasons i like it. And the thing is, neither of us is in the wrong. It all comes down to expectations, and how people handle it when something does not meet theirs.

When i went into dh2, it was after a several years long wait for a sequel. I was so excited! I built up this idea of what the game would be like, and i looked forward to seeing it become real. I had Expectations! And the game did not meet most of them. It does not mean it was a bad game. It was just not what i was expecting. I could sit here and pick at it until i start despising it, but that would be a disservice both to me and to the people who put their time and passion into making it.

Before datv's release, my expectations were as low as they could possibly be (because dai is my least fav game in the series, so i was wary about the next one, and because ive heard of the development hell and the fact they were planning to add micro-transactions to the game at some point etc etc). And i do acknowledge that this played a part in how much i ended up enjoying the game. I gave it a chance while not expecting anything, and it let me see it for what it is: a solid fucking game. a good one, even.

I can absolutely see how someone with certain expectation for da4 could be disappointed by the game not addressing the things they wanted to see addressed, or addressing them in a way they don't agree with. I've been there, even! And the fact that i personally liked datv doesn't mean other people can't or shouldn't criticize it.

The difference here lies in where exactly that criticism comes from, and what it hopes to accomplish, and whether or not at some point it becomes more harmful than useful.

When caught up in the spiral of disappointment, it is important to stop and think about whether this is productive. whether this is contributing something to your life. I am no stranger to chewing a bone**. in fact, i am very predisposed to it. Which is exactly why i make an effort to reflect on whether or not it is worth it.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter how much criticism is being put out into the world about datv, or dh2, or what have you, the simple fact remains: it won't change anything about the game that got released. The effort and emotional turmoil is, ultimately, wasted. It is always better to turn that passion into something productive: fanworks, or an essay (in good faith!) that analyzes your own feelings on the topic and what you would want to see differently, or a whole another game/piece of media entirely. It is important to stop coming from a place of vitriol and hatred, because that will burn you out and leave you feeling worse. You have to make a choice to choose joy in your life.

When you see someone enjoying a game you didn't like, and your first reaction is seething hatred and/or a desire to send death threats, you have to ask yourself: is this really worth it?

You're not going to convince people to stop liking a game. Frankly, why would you Want to do that? What will it accomplish in your life? What will it contribute? In the grand scheme of things, a crusade like that is a very foolish thing to burn yourself out over. Put the bone down, and go get a proper meal 🤷‍♂️

________________________________________________

*i dont think that, with the state the current game industry is in, we will ever get another game with a similar bg mechanic like origins had. too many resources needed for that. but the factions are as close as it gets, in my personal opinion

**meaning, fixating on a topic, especially one that causes some kind of negative emotion

[maplegyu]

This felt like a warm hug on a cold morning... or like eating warm soup is this what chicken soup for the soul was going for

Thank you for completely transporting me into the potter-verse. Its one of my favorite universes ever and slipping svt in felt so easy in this read! In my brain it was as like gose and hp had a baby hahahaha

I also noted my initial reactions to everything as i read so here they are:

Of course mingyu is in the quidditch team and OF COURSE hes also a prefect!! LOVE LOVE LOVEDDDD those details

Mingyu really didn’t notice anything amiss until one day, you didn’t show up to History. Maybe you woke up late (though he never once saw you not in your seat, exactly five minutes before class started), no biggie. It starts to become a biggie when you miss Herbology, on a Mandrake repotting day, and then Charms, which he knows is your favorite class. Anxiety gnaws at the edges of his stomach until he pulls aside a boy with a green-and-white scarf and asks about you. 

"no biggie" and "starts to become a biggie" AHJHDHAHAHSHHAHA I LOVE THIS WRITING

Mingyu leapt up to the platform, grabbing you by the elbow and tugging you back. “Hey,” he murmured, pressing his face into your view until the awareness returned and cleared your gaze. “You won. It’s over.” 

This is when my heart jumped i actually shot up from lying down and then flopped my face onto my pillow and screamed GODDDDDDD MINGYU PULLING HER BACK HOLY SHIT THIS SCENE WILL LIVE IN MY MIND RENT FREE FOREVER (i may or may not fantasize about the loml grounding me when i lose my cool so... 🫣)

It doesn’t make Mingyu think any worse of you; he doesn’t think that much in the world could.

WHY THE FUCK AM I CRYING AT THIS

Mingyu himself suffers from the same affliction, but oddly enough, he finds that flying is the one time he doesn’t mind the height, never mind the fact that he would never be able to give Quidditch up.

God this is SO mingyu and im already so in love with him

Mingyu falling for reader in this fic slowly but surely is me falling for mingyu in this fic the exact same way

From behind, Seokmin hollers, “You’re distracted, Kim Mingyu!”

Seokmin chortles and easily receives it. “Stop looking for your girlfriend during practices, then. You know what Seungcheol always says, the habits you make in practice show up during the real thing.” 

DEEKAY I LOVE YOUUUUUUU AHAHAHAHAHAHA THATS BESTIE TEAMMATE TINGZZZZ

AND OF COURSEEEE DK CHEOL AND DINO ARE GRYFFINDORS YES

Mingyu groans. His friends have always been too nosy for his liking. “She’s not my girlfriend. We’ve been great friends since first year.”

“So have we, but I don’t see you ogling me every chance you get.”

I LOOOOVE THIS SCENE RRRRAAAAHHHHHHHH

MINGYU MY SWEET BABY KEEP DOING YOU BC I TOO WOULD DO THESE FOR THE PEOPLE I LOVE!!!!!!!!!!

GOD THE SHEER GENIUS OF EVERYTHING LEADING UP TO THIS SCENE!!!!!! IT WAS SO SIMPLE BUT IT WAS PERFECT

SPARKS JUST HELPING MINGYU WITH HIS PAPER AND IT TURNS INTO HIM SORT OF CONFESSING BEING FORCED TO FACE AND BE REAL W HIS FEELINGS!! THIS IS SO GOOD SOOO GOOOOOD PLEASE

THERE ARE TEARS IN MY EYES I AM ROOTING FOR THEM SO BAD THEY'RE SWEET AND CUTE AND FLUFFY

Wow this was such a great start to my day. Thank you for this wonderful piece of fiction i enjoyed escaping into!!! 🥰

a list of the known | kmg

lastly, mingyu might kind of be in love with you. this, by far, is the trickiest on his list.

pairing: gryffindor kim mingyu x slytherin f!reader genre: fluff, very pg! tags: school bully calls reader a derivation of mudblood :/ mention of death in the scope of an ethics dilemma a/n: my hp hyper-fixation has returned full force these past few days, so i just had to crank this one out to get it out of my system... pls indulge me <3 wc: 3.5k

Mingyu finds you fascinating. In fact, the Gryffindor has been determined to figure out the mystery that is you, ever since the first day of first year, when you quietly, shyly slipped into the seat beside him in Transfiguration. Here’s everything that he has gathered about you and compiled into a list (mentally, of course, he wouldn’t ever write this down and risk coming off like a creep): 

First, you’re a perfect student. That one’s the easiest.

Even in fifth year, you wear your green and white trimmed sweater over the neatly pressed collared shirt and knotted striped tie, as properly as you did on your first ever day at Hogwarts. The “P” for prefect shines silver from your lapel, though it carries no more authority than the stern, icy look you give to students who toe the line of good behavior. Mingyu himself has been on the receiving end of that glare once or twice, when he and his teammates accidentally tracked mud into the halls from the Quidditch field. He shudders from time to time at the recollection of the chill that crept down his spine as he stammered over his words and promised that his team would clean up their mess. 

Mingyu thinks that you wear the badge more like a brand, rather than an honor. You’ve always been on top of things, never a toe out of line, always the first or the best, or both, to do something. Ever since you were selected as one of two Slytherin prefects, he doesn’t know if he’s seen you take a single breath of relief. Whenever he sees you guiding a lost first-year up the shifting staircases or tugging a third-year rascal by the hood of his robe to the infirmary, Mingyu then wonders why the Headmaster ever selected him as a prefect, too. 

It worries him that you seem to be headed in a straight trajectory towards the Head Girl position in a few years, whether you intend for it to happen or not. 

Second, you hail from a Muggle family. That part took him a few days to figure out. 

It had been strange, the way that you chose to sit next to him, a Gryffindor, rather than with the cluster of your housemates in the back of the classroom, where they giggled and whispered. Mingyu, thrilled at the idea of making friends across house alliances, had excitedly thrust his hand over to you, introducing himself with a big grin. Your eyes had widened as you stared back at him in silence for a few minutes, before returning the handshake with the slide of a tiny, soft palm against his and a mumble of your own name. He must’ve missed the tittering coming from the serpents in the back corner that day. 

Mingyu really didn’t notice anything amiss until one day, you didn’t show up to History. Maybe you woke up late (though he never once saw you not in your seat, exactly five minutes before class started), no biggie. It starts to become a biggie when you miss Herbology, on a Mandrake repotting day, and then Charms, which he knows is your favorite class. Anxiety gnaws at the edges of his stomach until he pulls aside a boy with a green-and-white scarf and asks about you. 

“Who?” is the snarl that comes from the boy, who wrinkles his nose as if disgusted to even be in the presence of a Gryffindor. 

Mingyu frowns, but he won’t be deterred until he figures out where you are. He repeats your name and then starts describing you, though it gets him nowhere. 

The Slytherin’s ugly scowl transforms into an uglier smirk. “Oh, Muddy? Probably off somewhere sniveling about being shoved down the stairs–” 

Mingyu sees red, and his ears won’t stop ringing. When his vision and his hearing return to him, the Slytherin boy wails on the ground before him, lip split and nostrils dripping blood. A professor yells, subtracting points from both houses, and firm hands hold him back by the shoulders. 

It’s a nasty, nasty thing to call someone who comes from a non-wizarding family. Blood prejudice was one of the first things Mingyu had been taught to abhor by his own parents in childhood. There is no space in the Kims’ world for the terrible thoughts that some pureblooded wizards hold toward those who came from Muggle roots. In fact, he'd grown up being taught that Muggle-born wizards and witches are more admirable for it, as they must learn and adapt to a whole new universe that they hadn’t grown up in. 

Mingyu respects, marvels at how you, quietly but surely, know all of the answers to the questions the professors ask. Every question, in every subject. He couldn’t imagine ever thinking any lesser of you for your origins of birth, when you were performing lightyears ahead of your pureblooded classmates. 

The following day, when he walks into Potions, you’re already setting up your cauldron, meticulously tending to the low fire. Mingyu drops his bag onto the bench beside yours, carefully assessing a tiny scratch on your cheek, a bruise on your elbow peeking out from where you’ve neatly folded up sleeves up to. 

You glance up at his arrival, eyes latching onto the tiny bandage plastered to his eyebrow, where the Slytherin boy’s nail had sliced into him as he flailed. “What happened to you?” Your voice wisps out, nearly inaudible. 

“Nothing. What happened to you?” 

Something flickers across your gaze as you look away for a moment, pretending to check on your bubbling cauldron. Then, with the tiniest quirk to your mouth, you shrug, “Nothing.”

He grins. 

Third, you’re a Slytherin, through and through. This took him a few years, surprisingly.

With your whip-smart mind, Mingyu wonders why the Sorting Hat hadn’t placed you in Ravenclaw instead. After all, it seemed a bit cruel to send a Muggle-born child into a house teeming with pureblood supremacists. 

In fact, you had taken to Wonwoo quite easily when Mingyu introduced you to the half-Muggle Ravenclaw. The way that the two of you discussed wizarding and Muggle books, conversations flowing seamlessly from one topic to another without losing each other to any lapse of thought, both fascinated Mingyu and made his head hurt. Once in a while, he can't help but feel left out, but most of the time, he’s happy that you seem to have found another friend in Wonwoo. 

Mingyu finally came to understand your placement only in fourth year. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, there had been a duelling unit, and you had been pitted up against Hoon, the Slytherin boy who Mingyu had pummeled two years back. As far as he could tell, Hoon hadn’t learned his lesson, still bullying you with his group of cronies, still calling you those mean, awful names. 

As you clambered onto the duelling platform, his stomach had twisted anxiously, frightened that Hoon would use this chance to cause some actual harm to you. You had merely taken your stance, wand an effortless extension of your arm. 

Hoon had sneered that ugly grin of his, and you met it, cheek dimpling. Then, the professor had called the start, and it was over in an instant. 

With a flourish of your wrist, you called out a quick succession of charms in that calm, even voice of yours, “Expelliarmus, Levioso, Depulso.” Within seconds, Hoon had been disarmed, lifted, and then shoved backwards and off of the platform, crashing and landing onto the stone floor. He had bemoaned and complained that you’d gotten a false start, but the professor was already calling the match. 

You, however, seemed not to notice that the duel was over, shoulders a taut line, wand still readied. Your smile no longer curled at your mouth, lips instead twitching with the beginnings of another charm. Diffin–

Mingyu leapt up to the platform, grabbing you by the elbow and tugging you back. “Hey,” he murmured, pressing his face into your view until the awareness returned and cleared your gaze. “You won. It’s over.” 

You let yourself be pulled down from the platform, the easy confidence that you wore during the duel instantly vanishing and the usual tension returning to your body. Mingyu hadn’t said anything more and neither of you spoke about the class ever again, but both had understood exactly what the moment could have led to. 

It doesn’t make Mingyu think any worse of you; he doesn’t think that much in the world could. He doesn’t equate what happened to be the streak of evil that everyone seems to associate Slytherin House with. His parents had always told him that there are awful people in Slytherin, yes, but there are bullies in Hufflepuff, too. It does, however, make his heart ache at the thought that you had only been lashing out in defense, as a wounded wild animal might when backed into a corner. 

Fourth. You’re not one for Quidditch or anything sporty, but he always seems to spot you in the bleachers during matches.

It’s easy to find you, especially from the air, since you’re always sitting with Wonwoo, Seungkwan, and Junhui, down on land where you’re keen on being. You hadn’t taken to a broomstick ever since the mandatory Flying lessons in first year, claiming a deathly fear of heights. Mingyu himself suffers from the same affliction, but oddly enough, he finds that flying is the one time he doesn’t mind the height, never mind the fact that he would never be able to give Quidditch up.  

The mingling of red and green and blue and yellow heartens Mingyu as he soars overhead. His group is what all of Hogwarts should be like, and it makes him smile. Head fuzzy with the thought, he barely registers the Quaffle sailing past his head and yelps, dipping sharply to dive for it. 

From behind, Seokmin hollers, “You’re distracted, Kim Mingyu!”

Quaffle safely tucked into his elbow, Mingyu comes up and levels his broomstick off, sneaking a glance over to Seungcheol, their Keeper and Captain, who hasn’t seemed to notice the blunder. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses at his friend, tossing the ball back over. 

Seokmin chortles and easily receives it. “Stop looking for your girlfriend during practices, then. You know what Seungcheol always says, the habits you make in practice show up during the real thing.” 

“Girlfriend?” Chan settles nearby in the midst of zipping by. His head tilts curiously, lips quirking up already. 

Mingyu groans. His friends have always been too nosy for his liking. “She’s not my girlfriend. We’ve been great friends since first year.”

“So have we, but I don’t see you ogling me every chance you get.”

He pretends that he doesn’t hear Seokmin’s quip, craning his neck down to glance back at his friends. There’s a green and blue beanie leaned into each other; no doubt you and Wonwoo are huddled against the cold, poring over another book together. The thought of that makes his stomach hurt, and he briefly wonders if he should feign sickness and return to his friends on the field below. 

Chan has inched closer, following his line of vision. “Oh, you mean Sparky?” The younger Seeker’s gaze lingers for a moment on you. 

Mingyu’s stomach warms at the sound of the nickname that he’s given you, endlessly pleased that his friends have picked it up. 

It’s a little dumb, the way it came to be. Back in third year, you’d shown him a children's picture book that you brought with you from the Muggle world. It had been your favorite growing up, you’d explained patiently, as he flipped through the pages that depicted a tiny but determined brown puppy named Sparky who ventured through an unexplored alien world. 

Then, during the next Charms class, you had nearly fallen asleep at your desk, as a result of staying up for a particularly difficult Arithmancy exam. When the Charms Master had abruptly called on you to demonstrate, you had shot to your feet and conjured up an excitable Lumos out of your fluster, leading to a few stray sparks spilling from your wand tip. The professor had nodded approvingly, commenting on your fiery interpretation of the spell, but Mingyu had spied the tips of your ears burning as you slowly sank back into your seat. 

“Nice one, Sparky,” he’d said, watching as your ears flared redder. 

The memory makes him smile again. It’s dumb, the origins of it, but it works, he thinks. He likes brown puppies, since it reminds him of his grandmother’s old pet, and he likes you. You may be reserved and unruffled most of the time, but he sees the sparks fly from you every so often. When you’re raising your hand in class to succinctly debate a classmate’s point (often a fellow Slytherin’s) and prove them wrong. When you rush past him at the end of Potions class with a quick greeting to make it to Arithmancy because you’ve taken up two more electives than is required.

“Look at this goof grinning like a fool again,” Seokmin groans, leaning back to toss the Quaffle at passing teammate when Seungcheol blows the whistle to signal the end of practice. “If we lose the Cup this year because of your little crush, I’m gonna go and tell Sparky myself.” 

They make their descent back towards the pitch, as Mingyu hisses, “You wouldn’t.”

The Beater merely shrugs, “I would.”  

Lastly, Mingyu might kind of be in love with you. This, by far, is the trickiest on his list. 

He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to call it that quite yet. 

You really are a wonderful friend of his, one of his closest friends at Hogwarts. That’s how it started, but somewhere along the years, the lines might have gotten blurred. Honestly, Mingyu thinks that it’s only natural to treat your best friends with kindness and generosity. He thinks that it’s normal to want to learn about the world that you come from, to better understand who you are as a person. 

Seokmin thinks that it’s not normal for friends to take Muggle Studies as an elective to achieve that. 

Mingyu thinks that it’s normal to give you little gifts of the things that he knows that you like and need. 

Seungcheol thinks that it’s not normal to bring back strawberry pies that his father baked and gloves that his mother knit for you from home after Christmas break. 

“Mingyu, how are you doing on your Muggle Studies paper?” 

He glances up at the sound of your voice, violently pulled from his thoughts and back to the library, where you and he have been laboring away at homework for hours. His cheeks prickle hot as if he’s been caught red handed, and he has to take a moment to convince himself that he hasn’t been thinking out loud, that you have no clue what’s been running inside of his head, that you can’t hear the rapid thudding of his heart against his chest. 

“Huh?” He says dumbly, before glancing down at the stack of his nearly completed assignment. The top of his first page reads The Trolley Problem: A Consideration in Muggle Ethics. “Umm, almost done, I think.”

“I’ll take a look.”

You’re already tugging his paper from his hands, pushing away your own homework assignments to properly place it before you. 

Mingyu watches carefully as your brow furrows in concentration and your eyes jump from word to word. He can’t pull his gaze away from you, focusing on every movement, every habit of yours as you read through his essay. He loves the way that your mouth twists this way and that as you think, the way you fork a bite of strawberry pie without even looking away from the parchment, the way you twirl a quill in your left hand. 

“Mm,” you nod and set the papers down, “It’s well written, and you’ve certainly done the research. Just need a conclusion, right?” 

He flushes, pleased from the compliments. “Yeah, I’m just having a bit of trouble coming up with one.” 

Your forehead creases. “Okay, what are you struggling with?” 

“It’s just–” Mingyu frowns, grasping for the right words. Taking this class has reframed his thinking in a way. He finds himself pausing a lot more often before he speaks on Muggle topics, pondering whether it could come off as offensive or ignorant to you, especially. “Well, I have trouble envisioning this as a dilemma at all, when a simple Levitating Charm could solve it.” 

His nerves melt away a bit when you smile. You smile, but there’s a strain to your eyes when you knead at them with a knuckle. 

“Right,” you say, amused. “Don’t worry, Muggles haven’t quite figured this one out either. But there’s also a number of ways you can set this problem up, so maybe we can play around with it to help you understand better?”

Mingyu eyes the stack of textbooks beside you that you’re neglecting to help him. Astutely, you pick up his reservation and shrug it off, “I desperately need a break from History of Magic. I’m going to lose my mind if I have to recall one more Minister of Magic in order of ‘Most Renovations Made to their Office’. Please.”

How could he ever deny? 

“Okay, Sparks,” he nods and leans in closer to listen attentively, “Have at it.” 

“Think of it like this.” You pull a blank sheet of paper and begin scratching lines of ink onto it. When a rough sketch of the trolly problem has been created, you draw stick figures onto the track. “Muggles can’t use magic, so it’s life or death for them, right? The lever is in your hands; you’re playing God in their lives.”

Mingyu balks at the idea of it. You never mince your words, so the unrestrained explanation does help drive the point in a little better than his professor had. “And it’s either I let the trolley run over the group of people, or I save them by making it so that one person dies.”

“Right. Exactly. In any sane person’s mind, you’d pull the lever and sacrifice one person for the sake of five others.” You draw an X over the singular stick figure and scribble a happy face onto the group of five. “So where does the dilemma come in?”

He contemplates the question. “It’d be blood on my hands. I’d be purposefully choosing to let the one person die, rather than being complicit into letting the train continue on and killing the group.” 

You hum in approval. “But it’d be one life over five. The greater good and all that. Now, what if the one person was a child, while the group was elderly? The child has barely been given a chance to live, while the elderly have achieved long, somewhat fulfilled lives. Or what if the one person tied to the other side of the tracks wasn’t a stranger? What if it was a friend or a relative? How does the 'one versus many' question change then?” 

Mingyu squirms in his seat. “That would never happen,” he insists, squeamish at even imagining all such scenarios. “No wizard or witch in my life would find themselves in this dumb situation.” 

You snort, rolling your eyes. “Okay, fine. Let’s say that we’re all home for the summer. I get to King’s Cross, and instead of getting onto Nine and Three-Quarters, silly ol’ Muggle-born me, I make the wrong right turn and find myself tied to the tracks. Somehow, you’re there at the lever, and it’s either me or five strangers. Choose.”

He fully shivers. “Saving you, of course.” Mingyu pauses and then frowns, “Are the five people Muggles? Am I allowed to use magic?” 

Delighted, you laugh, and he wishes he could bottle it up in a vial like Felix Felicis. He thinks it would glitter gold, just the same. 

“No, Gyu, you can’t use magic. And yes, they’re Muggles.” 

“Still you.”

“Alright, now what if those five people were your Quidditch teammates?” 

“You.” 

Your eyes light up in surprise. “Me over Seokmin, Seungcheol, and Chan? You’d let them die?” 

Mingyu clicks his tongue, pretending not to notice the way that his face heats a bit at your genuine wonder. “If they’re stupid enough to get into this predicament, maybe they’d deserve it.” 

You huff out a quiet chuckle before handing his papers back over. “Does that help you come to a conclusion?” 

Mingyu nods firmly. He notices that there’s been a dollop of strawberry pie filling on the corner of your lips all this time, and without even thinking, he leans over the desk and thumbs it off of your mouth. 

“You would never be stupid enough to find yourself tied to the train tracks, though.” He assures, more to himself than to you. 

You blink owlishly at him and then rub at your eyes again. You try to hide your face behind your palms, but he can see the pink flush through the spaces between your fingers. 

Yeah, he supposes he can call it love.

"bonus":

hijacking my own post to yap about hogwarts!au svt :> i know they/dokyeom sorted themselves into houses already, but this is how i think they'd be sorted and if/what positions they'd play in quidditch:

gryffindor: seungcheol (keeper), junhui, mingyu (chaser), seokmin (beater), chan (seeker)

slytherin: jeonghan (beater), jihoon, soonyoung

ravenclaw: wonwoo, minghao, hansol

hufflepuff: joshua, seungkwan (chaser)

hehehehehe pls chat with me more if you have thoughts i could go on and on about this

[minimujina]

wanderer in his season of healing makes me so happy. i love that he is safe enough to become softer again, that he is regaining some of his previously “weak” attributes and finding peace with them. he is becoming measured and introspective, and thinking before he speaks, perhaps a result of both his healing and his melancholy; i think it’s beautiful that he is finally able to safely feel his sadness and process the things that have happened. he is simultaneously finding peace and feeling all the difficult emotions he previously consumed with anger. it is painful, but right.

his sense of humor is still intact, certainly rough around the edges as you’d expect, though much less biting than before. it’s easy to tell that most anything aggressive he says is a front, a front that he is no longer concerned with presenting as absolute truth. perhaps the front is his sense of humor, and his affection is all thinly veiled behind jabs and sour grumbles—he is not willing to divulge the intimate details of that, however, preferring to leave it up to interpretation.

i just think of him and his healing and i feel like if he were to fall in love, it would be such a sweet and gentle and quiet sort of thing, just like his newfound peace. he ponders over many things, brooding by himself as much as he can, though he occasionally allows space for others to brood with him. that, i think, is something unique he may grow in. there are people who cannot tolerate strong emotions in themselves and certainly not in others—but he is the kind of person who can. he is the kind of person you could sit with and exist in your sadness and just be sad, and that’s okay. he’s not offering words of comfort or anything, but he doesn’t need to. anything he’d say would be useless anyways, he knows what it’s like and knows that a presence is enough and existing in your emotions safely is enough. he can appreciate someone who is straightforward about feeling unwell, who doesn’t seek pity, who is alright with sitting in the mud. he will gladly sit with you, then, as long as you don’t expect him to get all mushy about things.

he would do well falling in love quietly, not having to beat around the bush. naturally, pieces would fall into place, and he’d find himself yearning to be in the presence of another in a way he’d never before experienced. he had never really wanted to be around anyone, had never sought out anyone’s presence. but once he has been treated gently, has fallen softly into the arms of a likened soul who has the patience and understanding to touch his rough edges without recoiling, he finds his third space being with this new safe person.

and despite his reluctance to be anything but mysterious and nonchalant, i believe wanderer in his healing season would become quite the romantic. not in the sappy sense, but in the quiet love sense i’ve been talking about. firm and protective, subtle and gentle, almost gentlemanlike if it weren’t for his falsely rotten attitude he enjoyed projecting. romantic in a princely way, in a reverently respectful way, in a grotesquely wholesome way.

only the most chaste touches and kisses; he’s still getting used to affection, and would abhor pda. in private he’s much more open to being touched, because he is safe. if he is not safe, he is deeply conditioned to be conscious of his vulnerabilities, and it’s something that will take a lot of time to override, if even at all. but it’s a massive and beautiful step that he is even willing to receive affection at all, that he would want it from a partner in any amount.

hates eye contact, likes playing with hands. likes tracing veins and creases in skin and freckles and scars; he finds them fascinating, as he has nothing of the sort on his artificial body. one of his unique ways he shows affection is what could be called “studying” you. he likes to brood (with you there; perhaps it could be called parallel brooding) and take your arm and trace all the splotches, imperfections, veins, tendons he can find. he likes to touch more than he likes to be touched i think. perhaps he becomes amusingly selfish in this way. perhaps he is more averse to receiving than giving the affection because his disgust towards himself still lingers. perhaps he still has harmful core beliefs to unlearn.

i think he is full of a love that is strong and quiet, a love that he gives so sparingly, and only in pieces, never all at once. unless, that is, someone comes along and manages to drag it all out like a magnet—his carefully crafted exterior is in pieces, just like that! but oh, once someone is in possession of his love, he begins to know them so intimately, more intimately than he lets on. he so deeply knows who he loves and he knows how to give and to take action and so he does it, silently, for he is adept at perceiving the needs of his loved ones. reading body language and facial expressions is second nature to him at this point; nothing can get past him.

he studies you wordlessly with the expression of a cat who loves and reveres its human, except it’s the kind of cat who believes it owns the human, not the other way around. you’re his responsibility that he has taken on like an extension of himself because he loves you, and you have loved him, and now he hardly wants you out of his sight. his journey of rediscovery and learning self acceptance has been mentally and emotionally arduous, but ever since you came in and made loving him seem so easy, he’s felt much more at peace, and has had the capacity to reflect and process with much more freedom to sincerely feel.

stupid fictional character i hate him i hate him so much he is not real and i hate him

[nabaath-areng]

I have way too many alts that I keep to myself (which is why I generally refrain from posting them), but I'm going to ignore that habit for a moment just because I'm feeling particularly insane about this guy.

[realbeefman]

stacy is sooo interesting because she's in love with house but knows that they will never ever be able to have a healthy, stable, sane relationship because they're too similar so. she finds house-lite instead and marries him and. essentially moves on with her life! and is successful in this because she's a moderately well-adjusted person!

wilson, in contrast, never manages to escape the inevitable, in spite of his best efforts to find a house-lite of his very own, because he's an absolute fucking freak and ends up glued to house to the bitter. bitter end

[sacchiri]

Hellsing 2002 calendar illustration.

Ein wunderliche und erschröckliche Hystori von einem großen Wüttrich genant Dracole wayda Der do so ganz unkristenliche marrter hat angelegt die mensche, als mit spissen als auch die leut zu Tod geslyffen

A wondrous and frightening story about a great berserk called Dracula the voivode who inflicted such unchristian tortures such as with stakes and also dragged people to death

[betweenlands]

look i hate LLMs as much as the next person but can we please stop acting like a totally easy and feasible replacement would be installing a mod that just exists out of thin air and comes with a custom written set of quests and NPC dialogue branches.

that is not how writing works. that is not how writing dialogue for games works. i have literally written NPC dialogue for a minecraft map before and six short, unpolished, janky monologues with no branching whatsoever took me two weeks to finish. frankly i would rather have the LLM stank than put a bunch of under/unpaid writers or actors into crunch mode for a relatively minor aspect of an otherwise great server.

[atsoomi]

It's been exactly 2 days, 4 hours, and 32 minutes since you and Kuroo got married.

It was the kind of wedding you thought you’d never get the privilege of having— small, comfortable, and filled with familiar faces— not to mention, the most memorable day of your life. You’d never thought you could be that happy, or that you’d be surrounded by so many people who shared the sentiment. But if Kuroo has done anything through the course of your entire relationship, it’s prove your negative thoughts wrong.

And then, of course, came the honeymoon. 

Previously, you’d argued with him a lot about where to go for the honeymoon period. He thought somewhere in Japan— like Hokkaido with its breathtaking natural scenery, or Kyoto with its countless temples— would do just fine. But you’d nagged him about taking you somewhere outside the country, reminding him of the fact that you live in Japan; you have the rest of your lives to travel around Japan, but who knows when you’ll get the chance to go to Europe again?

After a few weeks of going back and forth, discussing all the possible locations and looking up things till one in the morning, you finally agree on Italy, specifically, Venice. It’s the perfect mix of culture and fun for both of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying to see The Grand Canal, especially with all the lights at night.

So, after a day of post-wedding packing, and a long day of traveling, you’re finally in Venice. In Venice, on your honeymoon. And it would be absolutely perfect, if you hadn’t lost your husband of two days in the crowd of locals. 

You’d done a lot, a lot, of research on spots in Venice that you wanted to visit during the 3-week stay. And you’ve always known (after a lifetime of fantasizing about this trip) that if you come to Italy, you have to try their gelato. So you went through a few articles, bookmarked a few websites, and found this shop, Gelateria il Doge. 

It’s been described as a hidden attraction, and you’ve always loved discovering hidden gems. The excitement was so overpowering that the first thing you decided to do once you settled down in your hotel room is go out and find it. Kuroo can’t say no when you’re so excited, so it only took twenty minutes to find yourself at the desired spot.

You went in, without Kuroo because he insisted on slowing down and taking some more pictures, and you finally ordered the gelato you’ve been thinking about since you agreed to come to Italy. But it seems to have cost you your husband.

He’s not where he was standing five minutes ago, you turn and scan the mass of people walking by, but you don’t spot the familiar head of dark hair. Your phone rests in your cross bag but your hands are full with gelato, so you hesitantly accept your fate and sit on the nearest bench you can find, assuming that you’ll just spot him when he comes back from wherever he went. 

You sit and admire the cold treat in your hand, it’s beautiful and inviting and it makes you feel like you’ve never had ice cream before. It makes you feel like your life is about to be altered permanently, even though you’re not completely sure what flavor you got— something about poor Italian skills and taking risks.

You’re about to taste it for the first time, practically salivating at that point, when a strange guy sits on the same bench, seemingly popping out of nowhere. You pause, mouth shutting, as you peer at him with caution. He’s undeniably good looking, skin-kissed tan skin and brown hair falling over warm green eyes, but he’s not exactly your type. No other man could be.

You attempt to ignore his presence, but he turns his head and you make intense eye contact. Your mouth hangs slightly open as he scans your face, it’s awkward and you feel the awkwardness paralyze you into speechlessness. You’re sure you look incredibly dumb but your mind is too busy malfunctioning to save you. 

His eyes go down to your hand and he says something in Italian that you don’t understand. A few seconds pass by before he reaches for it, your hand that is, with wide eyes. You reflexively flinch away, alarmed at the sudden approach. What the hell is going on?

“Oh my god, you idiot, the gelato.” He speaks, frustrated, this time in the language you can understand, with a heavy Italian accent. 

You look down at your hands and you’re surprised at the trail of melted gelato on your hand. Oh, he’s not a creep, you realize, he was just trying to help.

You bashfully keep your head down, embarrassed at how you reacted and the fact that you were too tense to realize he said the word gelato about 3 times. God, this is embarrassing, where is your husband when you need him? 

“Sorry about that,” you lick the melted sweet off as discreetly as possible, “I don’t speak Italian.” 

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, I can tell.” 

You’re silent, ashamed to be specific, as you eat the rest of your gelato before something else happens. He observes you for a few minutes, as you eat from both cones to prevent any disasters, before he chuckles quietly. 

“Tourist?” He asks. 

“Kinda,” you answer, slowly relaxing as the embarrassment wears off. 

He nods, “How did you find this store then?” he points to Gelateria il Doge. It stands there proudly, almost mocking you for making a fool out of yourself in front of a local.

“Oh, lots of research.” You laugh to yourself, remembering the sight of a very tired Kuroo by your side while you’re on your thousandth new tab. “It actually wasn’t that hard.” 

“Do you like it?” He asks. 

“The gelato?” 

He shakes his head, “Italy.” 

“Oh,” you smile, “yeah, it’s lovely and I’ve wanted to visit for a really long time.” He hums approvingly so you go on. “You’re Italian, aren’t you? Grew up here?”

“Kinda”, he retorts and you giggle, “I grew up in the south, but my brother lives here.” 

You nod your head in understanding; more questions are on the tip of your tongue (like his name for example?) when you’re interrupted by a familiar voice. 

“Oh I thought you looked familiar.” You turn your head and see your husband of two days walking towards you and this Italian stranger. He beams at you, happy to be reunited with the sight of your lovely face, but halts for a second when his eyes shift over to the guy. He tips his head to the side, silently asking about him, and you just smile. I’ll tell you later. 

“You weren’t going to eat both gelatos yourself after all,” the Italian says, which reminds you of the two cones you’ve been holding yourself the whole time, and the fact that your husband walked off and left you all alone, in Venice of all places. You’ll definitely yell at him once you’re alone, but for now, you settle on standing up and handing him his cone. 

“I’ll leave you lovebirds alone now, enjoy the honeymoon, ciao.”

He winks at you discreetly, maybe not discreet enough because Kuroo suddenly places his arm around your shoulder protectively, and you manage to wave at him before he’s gone. 

Kuroo turns to you, eyebrow raised, “was he hitting on you?” 

You laugh, “that’s all you care about, isn’t it? What about telling me where the hell you’ve been? Or apologizing for making me wait so long,” you slap his chest, “it’s actually your fault I had to entertain another man.” 

He holds your hand against his chest, grinning at the fake annoyance in your voice, “I apologize my dear, dear wife.” His eyes rest on the ring he put on your finger for a second, feeling prideful. “ Let’s sit, we have to finish this before it melts.” 

While you eat, you tell him about the whole interaction with the Italian man and every small thing that happened while you were apart. He scoffs at the events between you and the guy, fully convinced that he just wanted an excuse to touch your hand. You laugh and tease him about how attractive the guy was, telling him maybe you should’ve gone with the guy who didn’t leave you all alone. He flicks your forehead before you can continue and that conversation gets lost between all the other topics. You ask him what he was doing while he was gone, and he smiles, all-knowing and mysterious. 

“You’ll see.”

[bitchfitch]

I've started playing Potion Permit, and so far it's one of my favorite games I've messed around with, but the most big brained move the devs made was giving you a dog on day 1, and then making that dog able to track NPCs and lead you directly to them no matter where they are in the town.

[conanssummerchild]

writing a fic abt rick having an ed bcs why would i recover when i can just project all my issues onto fictional old men in cartoons and pretend everythings better now ‼���

tw eating disorder, minor self harm and vomit near the end

Morty stopped in the open doorway of the garage, watching Rick who was sat scribbling down some kind of invention idea, or equation, or whatever it was he did when Morty wasn't around, for all Morty knew he might well be writing fanfiction.

An involuntary smile pulled at his lips at the idea of his almost 70 year old genius grandfather spending his free time writing silly little stories at his work bench. What would he even write? Ball Fondlers fanfic? Maybe he wrote about his stoic bird friend, Rick had always been touchy with him and Rick wasn't touchy with anyone.

When Morty focused back on Rick he wasn't writing anymore, the slightly crumpled piece of paper shoved to the side as he fiddled with what looked like a small metal box with a bunch of brightly coloured wires poking out of the sides. A small spark shot out of one of the wires Rick was holding and he cursed loudly, shaking his hand.

"Fuck, Morty, are you just gonna– gonna stand there, or are you gonna pass me the fucking, uh– the thing."

Rick waved his hand in the general direction of the shelf nearest to Morty, but there were so many assorted trinkets on the shelves, Morty had no idea if Rick wanted a wrench, or a hammer, or one of his laser guns, maybe the box was like a new battery for them?

"W-what thing, Rick?"

"The thing, Morty! The fucking– the uh, destornillador."

"What? Rick, I don't know what that means. W-w-what is that?"

"Jeez, Morty, what are they teaching you at that crap school you love so much?" Rick scowled, tossing the box to the side and getting up to grab the screwdriver himself.

"I havent been to school in like a month, Rick!" Morty exclaimed. "And even then I only got to stay for like an hour before you were dragging me out again!"

"Whatever." Rick said with a burp, "School's dumb, Morty. I'll teach you Spanish myself. B-but, uh, not now."

He turned back to his box, done with the conversation, but Morty stayed hovering in the room, remembering what he had come for in the first place.

"Okay, um, w-w-well lunch is ready."

"I'm busy."

Morty sighed, having expected that answer already. "When's the last time you ate, Rick? Or slept? Or... showered?" Morty said, wrinkling his nose a little.

Rick ignored him, pulling at a blue wire.

"Rick!" Morty frowned.

"What, Morty? J-jesus christ, what the fuck do you want?"

"I want you to have lunch with the family."

"And I said no, so screw off."

"Rick, come on, it would make mom so happy."

Rick glared at him, not bothering with an answer.

"...Wouldn't y-you do it for your original Beth if you could?" Morty tried.

Rick slammed the box on the table, causing the thin metallic shell to crack, sparks flying from it, the sudden noise making Morty jump.

"The fuck did you just say?" Rick snarled.

"S-s-sorry!" Morty squeaked. "I didn't m-mean– mean it in a bad way!"

"Get the fuck out." Rick said icily, eyes blazing.

Morty stumbled out of the room, shutting the door behind him to the sound of something crashing. Probably Rick throwing the damaged box across the room.

Morty winced. In his defense he was worried about Rick, and sometimes, depending on his mood, something like that would've gotten Rick to cave, clearly he wasn't feeling so sentimental today, more annoyed and angry.

"What was that about?"

Morty startled a little and turned to see Summer looking at her phone behind him.

"Just, y'know, Rick being... Rick."

"Mhm, pro tip, don't bring up his dead daughter to try and blackmail him into something he hates." Summer drawled. "You can only do that if he's already half convinced, or if he's feeling especially depressed sometimes.

"Summer! That's– that's messed up!"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so only you can manipulate grandpa Rick?" Summer scoffed. "God forbid women do anything." She said sarcastically and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Morty fidgeted with his hands. "Can you... help me? To get him to have lunch w-with us? Please?"

"Yes, but not now. He's already upset so if we double down on trying to get him to eat he's only gonna clam up."

Morty nodded. "I know that– but how do you? You don't spend as much time with Rick as I do."

"Because he's like mom. Who do you think got her to stop drinking before parent-teacher conferences at school?"

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up that you had to do that, though, y'know, Summer."

"Yeah, well, we're the Smiths, Morty. Is anyone in this house not disordered?"

Morty winced at the blunt statement, Rick really was rubbing off on her. But it was kind of true.

"Guess it runs in the family." He muttered

"Guess it does."

---

Morty hadn't been planning on seeing Rick again until the next day. He knew that when Rick got upset he needed his space. Morty didn't quite get it because when he was upset all he wanted was for someone to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but Rick wasn't like him he supposed.

If he was being honest it made him nervous to leave Rick alone in those bad headspaces he got into. Rick was volatile and unpredictable and a borderline danger to himself and often others. He'd walked in on a couple... compromising situations where Rick had had to explain away why he was passed out in his chair or why there was blood on his hands and his lab coat despite being the only person in the room.

Morty pretended to believe him when he said he had been doing a messy dissection experiment or that "This isn't blood, this is Balorkian dust I mixed with red Squanchenite fluid from Planet Squanch, Morty." But truthfully those moments haunted him.

However, he didn't want to invade Rick's space, so he let him be and tried to eat and sleep until Rick emerged like nothing had happened, even though Morty knew what habits of his went on behind those closed doors.

Of course Morty's patience had it's limits, like when two hours after he had left Rick in the garage, angry, there was the sound of something smashing, closely followed by an unmistakable sound that Morty had grown too familiar with since Rick had moved in. The sound of a body thudding to the ground.

He was up from the sofa in a flash, at the garage door before Summer could even put down her phone, flinging it open.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, but the only sight that greeted him was a smashed bottle and rick lying on the floor next to it, not looking any more dead than usual, looking up at Morty blearily, cracking a smile.

"Oh, hi Morty. H-hey buddy." He slurred, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"Jesus fucking christ, Rick." Morty said weakly.

"What happened?" Summer breathed, now standing at his side.

"He's just drunk." Morty muttered, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell that he hadn't registered before between his state of panic and shallow breathing.

Summer ventured into the garage, picking up an empty bottle and sniffing it. "God, grandpa Rick, what the hell are you drinking in here, fucking rubbing alcohol?"

"Sum-Sum! 'M just having some– some fun drinks. Fun drinks just a lil' bit. Besides I only ever drank rub-rubbin' alcohol once, n' it was– tasted like shit."

"What? I was being sarcastic, why would you drink that?"

"Because I was sad... was sad 'nd lonely after B-b-blood Ridge, couldn't find anythin' else. But 'm not s-sad now."

"What's Blood Ridge?" Summer frowned, "Actually it doesn't matter right now, you need to sober up."

"Get him some water," Morty interjected. "I'll clean up the glass. I also know where he keeps all his hangover serums and stuff, but he told me not to let you into any of his drug stashes."

"Fair enough." Summer shrugged, leaving to get Rick some much needed water.

While she was gone, Morty felt along the wall until he found the small hidden panel under Rick's desk. He fished out the light blue vial of fluid for hangovers, the red one he'd forced Rick to make that would sober him up and a green one that basically equivalated to getting your stomach pumped if you took it, just in case he'd taken more than just alcohol.

He shut the panel securely and placed the three coloured vials on Rick's work bench, grabbing a purple tube-like gadget from a shelf. He pressed a button on the back of it and typed in "Broken Glass" on a small hologram keyboard that emerged, then pressed that first button again. A blue ray shot out, scanning the garage, and the pieces of smashed bottle disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Morty looked over at Rick, who was still lying on the floor, but now he was tracing his fingers along a crack in the cold ground, his expression so solemn he almost looked sober.

"Rick?" Morty asked hesitantly.

"I miss her." He said flatly. "I miss her s-so much."

His words were still a little slurred but his tone had lost all the previous levity.

"I tried to save her, Morty, I t-t-tried, but I couldn't bring her back. And no one could ever replace her." A rough sob escaped his throat. Morty felt frozen. "I'm a crappy fuckin'– piece of shit father but I didn't want to be. I was gonna fuckin' give– give up everything for them, and I would've been happy. I would've been so happy as long as I had them, but he fuckin' took that from me! I nnever even got a chance."

Rick was crying, he was crying so hard that his tears stained the concrete dark grey and snot ran down his face sideways. He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Morty crouched down next to him, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure if he should hug Rick, or if that would make it worse. What else could he do?

"Oh– oh shit, Rick, I–"

"My little girl, my baby." Rick continued between sobs. "She meant everything to me. S-so yeah, I would be better f-for her if I could, but she's gone. There's no point."

Rick's sudden fit of violent sobs was calming down, replaced by a look that Morty could only describe as pure hoplessness and defeat washing over his features.

"'S no point in anything."

Shit, this was bad. Rick didn't admit defeat, and he certainly didn't talk so openly about his feelings like this.

"Aw jeez, Rick, come on don't– don't– don't say that. we killed Rick Prime, remember?" Morty said, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Yeah, I remember." Rick said, tone now devoid of emotion. "I remember killin' him with my bare hands, watchin' the life drain out of his eyes as his blood dripped down my fists. And I remember nothing changing. W-w-what d'ya do when you achieve your life long goal and nothin's better? It didn't bring them back, it didn't– didn't give me closure or give me a reason to live. I still can't sleep, petrified he's in the fucking house, comin' for my new family, that he'll kill all of you to teach me that t-that's what happens when I-I care about people."

Rick wiped his face with his lab coat sleeve, rubbing away the snot, drool and dried tears while Morty just kneeled next to him, frozen and unsure what to say.

"Rick..." he started but then Summer stepped through the doorway and Rick's demeanour instantly changed.

"Summerfest!" he called out and Morty watched, a little shocked, as Rick's whole face changed in the blink of an eye, going back to the cheerful, goofy expression he'd been wearing when he and Summer first came in. It didn't look artificial to Morty at all, even now that he knew it was. How could Rick just switch it on and off just like that?

"I brought water and coffee." Was all Summer said, placing two mugs on the workbench. "And a cereal bar."

The second statement sounded a little more unsure and Morty could've sworn he saw Rick's jaw clench for a second.

"Gimmie coffee." Rick said, making grabby hands, still lying on the floor.

"Water first." Summer replied, handing him the larger of the two mugs.

Rick pouted a little but as soon as the mug was in his hands he drank thirstily, finishing the whole thing in one go.

"You want more?" Summer asked, taking the mug, but he just shook his head quietly.

"Okay," Morty cleared his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. "drink this."

He handed Rick the red 'get sober' vial and Rick chugged it obediently, making a face. "Tastes like– like shit." He offered.

While he seemed a little calmer after the water and serum, his eyes were still unfocused and his voice sounded thick, like his tongue didn't fit in his mouth properly, hints of his accent were slipping through too.

"Did you- are you on drugs r-right now?" Morty asked, reaching for the green vial of serum.

"Maybe." Rick mumbled. His eyelids were starting to droop a little and he curled up more comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, Rick, don't go to sleep okay? What did you take?" Summer asked, crouching down next to him, shaking him a little. He groaned. "Come on, we just have to make sure you're not overdosing and then you can sleep. Maybe not on the floor."

"'M not overdosing." Rick grumbled.

"What did you take?"

"I dunno. Just some random alien drugs I found i-in my pocket." He said dismissively with a burp. "Actually one of 'em was probably adderall. Look at me bein' all responsible an-and takin' my meds n' shit."

He of course immediately showed his 'responsibilty' by gagging and then throwing up on the floor.

Morty winced, reaching for the purple device again while Summer tried to coax him into drinking the green liquid, frowning deeply.

Finally Rick gave in, sipping from the small vial, and almost instantly his eyes began to clear up a little bit.

"Why'd I make these work so well?" He groaned. Then, "My head is killing me, I want coffee."

Summer passed him the second mug and he gestured toward the hangover serum, which Morty promptly passed to him and Rick poured it in his coffee.

He gulped down half the coffee and sighed, wiping his mouth with his already rather dirty sleeve. "Fuck, that's better."

He downed the rest of it and placed the mug on the ground, getting to his feet shakily. He swayed and nearly fell, leaning onto the wall to steady himself as the dizzy spell passed, and then stretched, his back cracking loudly.

He took a few wobbly steps towards the door but Summer blocked the way.

"Fuck– fuck off Summer I gotta– I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Could you maybe eat something first?" She asked firmly, holding up the cereal bar.

"No."

Rick tried to sidestep her but she blocked the way again.

"Summer, don't fucking piss me off right now, I'm serious."

She stood her ground. "Just eat the cereal bar, grandpa Rick. Please."

"Summer, for fuck's sake, I said no!"

"Grandpa," She sighed, the arm holding the bar dropping defeatedly back down to her side. "Do you have an eating disorder?"

The garage was deathly quiet for a second.

"Wha-What?! I'm not a teenage girl in a f-f-f– goddamn netflix drama, Summer." Rick snarled. "What the fuck kinda question is that?"

He gestured wildly, taking another step forwards, which quickly seemed to be the wrong option as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him hard, making him almost loose his balance. He blindly tried to grab onto the back of his chair somewhere behind him, but missed and fell on his ass.

"Rick!" Morty and Summer both rushed to his side, Morty's eyes beginning to well up a little from all the stress of the day.

"I'm fine, don't– don't fucking touch me." He said, shaking Summer's hand off his shoulder, which caused another wave of nausea to hit.

"Please eat this." Summer said nervously, voice shaking as she pushed the cereal bar into his left hand, his right one gripping at his hair.

"Summer, I promise you if I eat that shit right now I'm gonna throw the fuck up."

"Please?" Morty pouted, eyes big and teary.

All it took was one look at him, and with only a brief moment of hesitation Rick snatched the cereal bar from Summer, muttering angrily under his breath.

Morty only caught "Me cago en la puta." and "Maldito cabrón." which he more or less understood, more familiar with swear words than any other words in the Spanish language.

Rick peeled away the wrapper slowly with unsteady hands and took a small bite.

Morty and Summer watched in silence, not wanting to discourage him by saying the wrong thing—which with Rick could be anything—as Rick uncomfortably ate the cereal bar.

"There you fucking go." He said weakly, Throwing the now empty wrapper at Summer, but missing as it was too light to travel more than a couple centimetres, landing somewhere by his feet.

"Thank you." Summer almost whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, Morty sniffling and rubbing at his eyes and Summer shuffling a bit closer to him for both of their comfort.

Rick was sitting with his knees losely bent and his head braced in his hands, trying to overcome another hit of nausea.

He wouldn't exactly say he tried super hard to keep the cereal bar down, but it wasn't deliberate when he vomited it down the front of his shirt.

"Oh! Aw jeez..." Morty winced.

"I did warn you."

"In our defense, you had every reason to be lying to us."

"Fuck you, Summer." It sounded weak even to his own ears.

She sighed softly.

"Morty, get his shirt off. Do you have pijamas or do you sleep in jeans and a lab coat?"

"Jeans an-and a lab coat."

"...I was joking, but okay." Summer said, flipping the switch that opened Rick's garage closet and grabbing one of his sets of identical outfits.

Rick squirmed, making noises of complaint as Morty tried to take off his current shirt.

"Rick– stay still, you have vomit on your clothes."

"I'm not fucking two years old, Morty." He scowled. "I can change by myself."

Rick tried to sit up but wobbled and then slumped back against the wall, needing more time to recover. Morty reached for his shirt again and this time Rick let him pull it carefully up over his head without resisting. Morty took the new set of clothes from where Summer had left them on the floor next to him.

Summer wasn't looking but Morty still shielded Rick's body from sight with his own, pointedly not mentioning the raised scars and jagged, angry, red cuts littering his arms which he had already suspected would be there.

Rick shifted uncomfortably, seeming relieved when Morty didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay." Morty said, helping Rick pull on his clean lab coat too.

"I'm going to bed." Rick grumbled, not waiting for him to continue, just getting up slowly.

He felt weak and shaky and his brittle old bones weren't exactly helping out. Despite his thousands of cybernetic implants he was still human, much to his dismay, and he couldn't treat his body as badly as he did when he was 30. Not that that ever seemed to stop him, managing to still maintain the same shitty habits he'd had for years at the ripe age of 67.

He stumbled through the dining room, Morty and Summer trailing after him, not discouraged by the glare he sent their way.

As soon as he reached his room, he slumped onto his bed with a groan.

"R-rick?"

"Fuck off, Morty." He snapped into his pillow, a little muffled by it.

Morty hesitated, exchanging a glance with Summer, who shrugged.

"...Ookay, Rick. Uh, see– see you at dinner, today? maybe?'

"Don't count on it."

Summer frowned, Starting to say something, but Rick interrupted, "I'm gonna apply my room's Lock Protocols in ten seconds, so i-if you're still in here, I'm not letting you out until I'm done sleeping. A-a-and if you're standing in the doorway, you're gonna get fucking squashed in the doors."

"Whatever, Rick, fuck you too." Summer huffed, pulling Morty out of the doorway with her.

"Room, activate Sensory Protocol 2. And t-tell Summer to go fuck herself."

"Sensory Protocol 2 activated." Came the mechanical voice and a heavy metal door snapped shut. "Go fuck yourself, Summer."

Summer scoffed. "Dick." Followed by a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

"I-I don't know." Morty admitted. "There's not much we can do if Rick won't accept help. And he won't."

"So what? We just give up on him?" Summer asked accusingly, putting her hands on her hips.

"No, Summer, J-jeez. I just– We're gonna have to get creative."

"Fuck."

---

thats it thats the end i didnt know how tf to end this but my goal wasnt to rewrite like the bible idfk it was just to put rick through shit and put completely unfair expectations on summer and mortys shoulders so that they could ALL suffer in this fic !! :3 also this is so mf long i sincerely apologise if u read all that