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katethetank · 3 days ago

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Possession of the Heart - Chapter 7

Rating: 18+ minors gtfo Chapter Summary: Tommy reveals what happened with Eddie, Steve's pregnancy is confirmed, and he isolates himself until he can't take it anymore. CW: Tommy is the worst, threats of assault (again, nothing actually happens, Stevie is ok!), Tommy is an asshole, mention of a gun, fainting, medical checkup, mpreg, depression, isolation, mention of Tommy's infertility Pairing: Alpha!Tommy x Omega!Steve - Alpha!Eddie x Omega!Steve Word Count: 3.1k

Chapter 6<<Masterlist>>Chapter 8

“What do you want, Tommy?”

Steve’s clothes are wet from the rain and he’s leaving a puddle on the floor where he stands, looking at his husband, who appears positively elated. His heart is in pieces and all he wants to do is crawl into his nest and lick his wounds. He never does seem to get what he wants.

“I was just waiting on your return. Not much to keep you occupied at the cottage anymore, is there?”

A chill runs through Steve’s body, and it’s not from his soaked clothing. “What do you mean?”

Tommy shakes his head and sneers. “Did you think I wouldn't find out? That you could keep secrets from your own husband? I’ve known for weeks about your little…escapades. When I instructed you to find someone to provide what I could not, I was hoping you would have the sense to choose a man of better standing. Not to spread your legs for the help.”

The way he spits those vile words out makes Steve’s blood boil. How dare he speak of Eddie in such a way? He’s more of a man and Alpha than Tommy could ever be. And how did he know? Tommy can’t navigate the terrain on his wheelchair, so that only leaves one option.

“You had me followed?”

“And rightly so. Billy’s skills were put to good use. He’s been tracking your activities for weeks now. While his reports of your…indiscretions were enough to make my stomach turn, I decided to allow it for the time being until I could figure out what to do with you. But last night you went too far, darling. He heard your pathetic little love confession, and I realized it was time to put a stop to your foolishness.”

Steve can barely breathe. He was followed last night, after Billy tried to put his hands on him. If Steve hadn’t been able to make it to the cottage, to the safety of Eddie’s arms…he doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if Billy caught him. Knowing that Billy had seen them as well, had likely stood in the shadows and watched as Eddie pleasured him…he feels his stomach drop.

He heard them, too. He heard Steve confess his love to Eddie and his desire to escape. Their talk of plans. And now Eddie is gone.

“Tommy…what have you done?”

His smile is sinister as he wheels himself closer. “For starters, your precious Edward has been fired. Billy delivered the message to him last night. Had him pack up his meager belongings and escorted him off the property. Edward didn’t put up much of a fight. But I suppose that’s to be expected when starting down the barrel of a pistol.”

“If you hurt him-”

“He is unharmed, I assure you. But Billy made it clear that if he tries to return, he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. He really is good at his job, it’s quite remarkable. I’ve actually taken the liberty of striking up a deal with him. In return for his detective work, I’ve granted him permission to put a pup in you. Call it a bonus for a job well done.”

Steve is going to be sick. He staggers backward as if he’s been slapped and braces himself on the wall. “No…Tommy, no.”

“Don’t worry darling, it will be some time until he can claim his reward. After all, we have to wait until this pup arrives.” He nods at Steve's stomach and suddenly the room starts to spin. Steve’s knees give out and he slides down the wall until he’s seated on the floor. His hands cover his abdomen protectively.

“How?...” His voice is weak and shakes with fear.

“I could smell it on you this morning. Your scent is changing, dear. And don’t you think I would have known if you had a heat? It never came, did it?”

Steve shakes his head and his ears start to ring. He can’t speak. It feels like his whole world is collapsing. And then Tommy delivers the final blow.

“Just think, darling. Once the pup is born, it’ll have the Hagan name, and I’ll finally be able to fully claim you as mine. You’ll look so lovely with my bite on your neck.”

The room spins faster, a cold sweat breaks out on his skin, and the last thing he hears over the loud ringing before losing consciousness is Tommy’s cruel laughter.

When his eyes flutter open again, he’s tucked into his nest. His memories feel hazy as though he’s trying to see them through a thick fog. The party…Billy…Eddie left…the cottage…Tommy. It all had to have been a dream. He had a nightmare and is just slow to wake.

There’s a knock on his door, and a moment later an older gentleman he hasn’t seen before pops his head in. “Ah, Steven! Glad to see you’re awake. I’m Doctor Samuel Owens. Would you permit me to come in?”

“Just Steve is fine. And um…yes, you can come in. Why may I ask are you here?”

Dr. Owens sets down a large black medical bag on a table and opens it up to pull out a stethoscope. “Your husband rang my office and said it was urgent, that you collapsed suddenly. So, I came straight over to make sure you and the baby are alright.”

Baby? Oh god. It all comes back to him in an instant. His tender chest, missing his heat, Tommy noticing his scent changed, claiming the pup as his. Steve begins breathing rapidly and Dr. Owens notices immediately, rushing to his side and propping him up on the pillows. “Steve, you look a little pale. Here, I want you to take a sip of water and try to breathe slowly with me.”

He hands Steve a glass that had been set on the nightstand and the water helps to wet his parched mouth. He follows along with Dr. Owens’ breaths, and the slow rhythm along with his kind demeanor helps to calm Steve down.

“There you go, much better. I’ll wait a bit before I check your heart rate and let you settle for a moment. While we wait, can you tell me how you’re feeling? Any pain? Injuries? Headaches?”

“Not from collapsing that I can tell. My um…my chest has been tender. I just noticed it yesterday.”

Dr. Owens grabs a clipboard and pen and starts to scratch away at the paper. “Ok. Any nausea? Bleeding?”

“My appetite hasn’t been the best, but it’s possible that’s just from stress.”

The doctor nods his head and moves his pen across the paper again. “Ok, those are all good signs! And can you tell me roughly when you had your last heat? Your husband was unsure of how far along you might be in your pregnancy.”

“It was in June.”

Dr. Owens makes a curious face. “I see. And your heats…do they normally come about every three months?”

“Yes.”

“So your heat should have come last month…Steve, it’s not common for Omegas to conceive outside of a heat, but it’s also not impossible. Looks like you’re one of the lucky ones! That does however make it a little more difficult to determine gestation. Considering you’re not showing any outward signs other than tender breast tissue and nausea, it’s definitely still early. If I had to guess I’d say your pup would be due roughly around…May or June.”

Steve doesn’t know how to react. He feels as if he’s just been given a death sentence. If he were to get this news with Eddie it would be different.

“You don’t seem very excited to hear this. I have to say, I’m a little alarmed, Steve. If you’re concerned for your safety, or your pup’s, I want you to know that you can tell me.”

Steve’s eyes dart over to the open door of his bedroom. He can’t trust that Tommy still isn't having him monitored. As long as he’s on this estate…he’s not safe, especially not from Billy and his ability to track him and report back to his husband.

“I’m fine Dr. Owens. Just overwhelmed I suppose. Did you need to do an examination?”

The doctor relents, and checks Steve’s heart rate, breathing, and reflexes. He reminds Steve that he needs to eat regular meals, hydrate, and get plenty of rest, and packs up his things.

“Before I go, I want to give you my card. If anything comes up…if you don’t feel well or need anything…you call me any time.”

He leaves his card and Steve waits until he exits to tuck it into his nest out of sight. It’s a small comfort knowing it’s there, but the odds of this man being able to help him are slim to none. He’s on his own.

As the days and weeks pass, Steve rarely leaves his room. He’ll dine with Tommy for supper, barely picking at his food, and refusing to say a word. The day he's unable to button his trousers is a difficult one. In his mirror, he can see the proof of the pup growing in his belly. Where it was once flat, there’s now a small swell. He spends the entire day crying in his nest, wishing Eddie was there to see it. Imagining how his strong hand would gently cup the tiny curve. He would probably lavish Steve’s belly in kisses and praise him for carrying the evidence of their love.

He had hoped, though it wouldn’t be likely, that he would receive word from Eddie. Some kind of sign that he was out there, thinking of him, wishing they were together. As winter sets in without so much as a telegram, Steve begins to realize that his hope is lost.

He doesn’t leave his quarters at all anymore. Meals and adjusted clothing are left outside his door. Most of it is wasted. He lacks a normal appetite and favors moving about his room in a robe over putting on shirts and trousers that are expanded to fit his growing belly.

Another difficult day comes when he feels the pup kick for the first time. More tears are shed, more thoughts come of Eddie. Would he drop what he was doing to place his hands on Steve’s belly? Would they shed tears of joy together? Would he talk to the pup with his lips hovering over Steve’s skin?

He’s so tired. His sleep is often disturbed by dreams. Ones where Eddie is holding their pup, or teaching their young child how to fish. He wakes up crying every time. Then there are others where Tommy takes the pup from him, or Billy has him pinned against a wall. He wakes up thrashing and sweating, and his heart beats so rapidly that he can’t fall back asleep. He’s tired of restless nights and endless days of solitude, of looking out of his window to the tree line he can no longer escape to. He’s tired of worrying about what will happen to his pup when it’s born. Of what will happen to him after it’s born.

It’s March when he wakes again to another dream of Tommy taking the pup from his arms and Billy holding him down. It won’t be long now until these nightmares are to become a reality. He’s terrified, exhausted, and desperate. He can’t do this anymore. Eddie’s voice echoes in his mind, from the last night they were together. Say the word, and we’ll leave right now.

Why didn’t he just leave and deal with the consequences later? He was such a fool to think that he would ever be able to find another way out of this prison.

Say the word, and we’ll leave right now.

If he wants to leave, he’s going to need money. Tommy has money. He’s seen stacks of it in the safe Tommy keeps in the study. Steve could slip in there while he’s out, grab enough for a train ticket, and leave this place. Only he doesn’t know where Eddie is. Before he can let himself be overcome with despair, he shakes the thought from his mind. Billy tracked Steve, surely there is someone out there who can track Eddie. He won’t know for certain unless he gets out of here.

An opportunity presents itself soon enough, when his breakfast is delivered with a note that Tommy will be meeting with business associates in town and will be back by lunchtime. He waits by his door, with his ear pressed to the wood, for the sound of Tommy being escorted through the main entrance. A thud echoes through the manor as the front doors are closed tight, and Steve slips into the hallway. He creeps towards the stairs, keeping an eye out for any of their staff who may be lingering nearby, or God forbid Billy watching him like a hawk. There is no sign of anyone, so he makes his way down the stairs as quickly as he can. His heart is beating in his ears as he reaches the bottom step, and he checks again for any signs of life.

The study doors are open, and Steve peeks inside, ensuring the room is empty. Tommy’s safe is tucked under his desk, out of sight, so Steve crouches down as best as his belly can allow. It’s a combination lock, and he grins for the first time in months. Tommy used to unlock it while Steve was in the room when they were living in New York. He always thought the numbers were ridiculous. He reaches out and spins the dial back and forth.

1 - 23 - 4

There’s a small click when he gets to the last number, and he slowly twists the handle and breathes a sigh of relief when the heavy steel door opens. And then his heart sinks.

There’s no money in the safe.

All he can see are papers and envelopes. He pulls them out to make sure there isn’t any money hiding underneath and is more than disappointed to find not a single bill. But one of the papers catches his attention.

A medical report from a Dr. Brenner, confirming the extent of Tommy’s injuries, his inability to father any pups, his lifetime confinement to a wheelchair. He wants to feel sympathy for his husband, but can’t find an ounce of it in himself.

Beneath the medical report is a copy of their marriage contract. He’s never seen it before, but he would recognize his father’s signature anywhere. He scans over the document and a few words stand out, grabbing his attention. He holds the paper in shaking hands as he reads it carefully from the top. There’s a section on the stipulations of their marriage that he had no idea existed.

The marriage between Thomas Hagan and Steven Harrington shall be immediately dissolved if there is proof of adultery by either party. Furthermore, dissolvement will occur should either party be unable to provide/carry/birth any pups. Bonding shall not occur until the first pup is born.

Either party. Should either party be unable to provide pups. Steve stares at the paper in disbelief. Tommy knew. This whole time, Tommy knew. He has been holding Steve hostage since he came back with his injuries. He could have dissolved the marriage as soon as Dr. Brenner signed that medical report. Steve remembers now how Tommy mentioned he paid his doctor and swore him to secrecy. It’s no wonder why. He had the proof needed to end their marriage.

Instead of letting Steve go, and making good on the contract, Tommy lied and kept him on a short leash. Paraded him around to his associates, so he could show off his status to everyone who set foot in Hagan Manor. Steve could scream, but he can’t give any indication that he’s in here. He’s got proof in his hands that their marriage can be dissolved and he can be free. His pup kicks in his belly, reminding him that he’s also got his own proof of adultery right there.

He sets aside the medical report and marriage contract and begins putting the rest of the papers back in the safe. He reaches for the envelopes and his breath catches. They’re addressed to him. They’re all addressed to him. His eyes land on the return address and there it is. Edward Munson. He’s in Indiana, and he’s alive, and he didn’t forget about Steve.

He finds the most recent letter and flips it over. It’s already been opened. All of them have. So not only has Tommy been keeping these from him, but he’s also been reading the words Eddie wrote. The words that were meant for him, and only him.

He pulls out the folded sheet of paper and brings it to his nose. It has the faintest smell of cedar clinging to it, and Steve genuinely smiles for the first time in months. He unfolds the paper and tears spring in his eyes as he reads.

My darling boy,

I don’t know if you’re receiving these letters, but I vow to keep writing them until I see you again. I think of you every day and dream of you every night. I’m not a praying man, but I find myself lying in bed at night praying for your safety.

Winter has been brutal here, but now that spring is rolling in, the air is getting sweeter and it’s reminding me of you. I started some seed pots with lavender, rosemary, and sage so that even if you’re not with me, I can surround myself in your fragrance. Uncle Wayne called me a right fool for doing it but he’s not a young man in love, so he can kick rocks.

The farm has been quiet, and Wayne keeps insisting that I stay in the big house with him. I find the cabin to be more comfortable. It reminds me a bit of the cottage and our time together. I can’t wait for you to see it. I hung your embroidery over the bed so I can look at it as I fall asleep, and every morning when I wake up.

I hope you’re well my darling. I hope you get to read this. And I hope you know how much I love you.

One day we’ll be together again. I know it. Be well my love, and dream of me holding you in my arms.

Forever yours,

Eddie

Steve holds back a sob and kisses the page where Eddie signed his name. He quickly gathers all the proof he needs to gain his freedom, locks the safe, and hurries back up to his room to make his plan for escape. With any luck, he’ll be in Eddie’s arms soon.

Chapter 6<<Masterlist>>Chapter 8

*********************************************

STEVE!!!!!

Btw, I fucking love Sam Owens with all my heart and will find any excuse to write him into a story.

Taglist is open! Thank you so much for all the likes, comments, and reblogs, it sustains me!

@mrsjellymunson @the-unforgivenn @watermelonmite @hiscrimsonangel @micheledawn1975 @stedestielfrattficlover @disrespectedgoatman @orie-jai @themoonagainstmers @moltenchocolatelavacake

#steddie #steddie au #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #alpha eddie munson #alpha tommy hagan #omega steve harrington #omegaverse #omegaverse smut #steddie smut #steddie fanfiction #steddie fic #alpha billy hargrove #sam owens

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bebx · 2 days ago

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Thinking about Inho whump with disordered eating as his unfortunate coping mechanism.

Inho being used to the feeling of hunger from a young age, when money was tight, he would always make his prime focus on getting food onto Malsoon and Junho’s plates first, his own plate always coming second. Skipping meals so Junho could eat.

This isn’t to say that he would purposefully starve himself, not at this point, anyway. He would eat what was necessary to be fit and healthy enough for the academy and training. But I think this unhealthy mindset of his went unchecked, because he was always the provider, never had time to stop, never ‘needed’ to be checked on. He can’t be a burden.

When he becomes the Frontman, I think this behaviour just gets worse. Perhaps, the dull ache of hunger in his stomach feels like a physical translation of the hollowness he feels down to his very core- in his soul, so that feeling being physical makes him feel more in control, and makes his emotional emptiness easier to handle.

Or maybe the constant reminders from the VIPs of the *true* amount of control that he possesses, little to none in the grand scheme of things, him ultimately being just another cog in the well-oiled machine, simple one with a prettier design. Inho is desperate for control in any way, even the seemingly smallest and meaningless ways, through controlling the amount he intakes, it comforts him.

That ache in his stomach being the one constant throughout his life, it brings him a twisted sense of familiarity and a semblance of the life he used to live, one where he could take care of those around him.

Maybe bearing the responsibility of a death game kills the little appetite he did have.

I think going into the games as Youngil was where this caught up to him, it’s one thing managing the games from a chair, just sitting and drinking, and another thing having to fight two people and constantly on the move.

Gihun trying to help Youngil despite not being much better in that regard.

Obviously this would deviate from Inho’s canon physique, but I think it’s an interesting idea to explore.

Inho post-game, living with Gihun and Junho, his habits gone unchecked for so long, mostly unnoticed by the other two, missing the meals dumped in the trash, listening to Inho’s excuses for not eating, until at some point they get a glimpse of Inho’s physical state somehow, and only then they realise how badly Inho’s been suffering alone and for god knows how long.

Inho thinks they must be disgusted by his ‘sickly’ appearance, that must be it, it’s the natural conclusion to reach in Inho’s mind. A dog gone starved for so long it’s better to just kill it so it’s wretched legs don’t tremble trying to hold itself up, because why would anyone bother trying to nurse back to health a wounded, starved mutt like that?

Inho needs to learn that he is more that what he can do for others. Needs to be the one taken care of for a change.

What are your thoughts on this?

I have nothing more to add to this because I feel like everything I could’ve, would’ve said had already been said by you, and it’s on point, it fits perfectly well with how I see In-ho’s character. Him being so used to being the one who cares, the one who provides, that he’s struggling being the one who’s being taken care of. And I think the idea of displaying his own vulnerability, even to the one he knows will never hurt him (aka Jun-ho), terrified him; obviously it’s not because he thinks Jun-ho will take advantage of his weakness, but because he believes he has to always be the strong one. For Jun-ho. It’s been this way their entire lives. In-ho providing, In-ho taking care of Jun-ho and their mom.

So when it becomes the other way around, In-ho fears that this means another failure in his life, especially when, in his belief, he’s already failed his wife and their child by not being able to save them. And now he’s failing Jun-ho, too.

And when confronted (about his eating disorder) by Jun-ho and Gi-hun, In-ho resorts to the only things he learns from years of running the game and witnessing the worst in human’s nature, he resorts to defensiveness and aggression. Anything to “survive”. Because in In-ho’s belief, it’s still about survival even though he’s not in the game anymore, even though he’s now safe with Jun-ho and Gi-hun and is no longer the game’s dog. Even though he can be vulnerable around Jun-ho and Gi-hun and let himself be taken care of.

Looks like I did have a little something to say after all lol. But yes, I love everything you say so much. Thank you for the In-ho whump! I always love it when In-ho’s the one who’s being looked after and taken care of by Jun-ho and Gi-hun

#my inbox is open #squid game #hwang in ho #hwang jun ho #seong gi hun #hwang in ho character study #the front man #player 001 #oh young il #frontman #lee byung hun #netflix #hwang inho #oh youngil #hwang brothers #hwang bros #457 #gihun x inho

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ghoulinfuschia · 3 hours ago

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Hey, so I get not wanting to engage with the MD community after that, but this is NOT most of the community. There are around 3 guys who do this, and the rest of us literally hate them, and they do this INTENTIONALLY because they also hate the rest of us. And the problem is, if you DO give up on MD projects, then that hands a win to them, and encourages them to keep harassing people. One of them even put up a post on their YT channel, CELEBRATING that you had stopped work on MD projects, and actively calling for more harassment for other creators because of it. I would implore you to PLEASE continue making MD projects. Don't let the bullies see that bullying gets a rise out of you, they will ONLY keep going further. These are not 'people', they are basically demons and letting them stop you from doing anything is just feeding them.

http://youtube.com/post/Ugkxll_x-BP3bHPxIlGgdexKgQ4xqt3wbA7v?si=2KH6dTbDNeNuljkX

Thank you for your kindness and encouragement, from you and everyone else. I appreciate how much people care about the things I make. Unfortunately, however, my leave was already planned back in January 2025. This decision wasn’t solely made because of this person’s comment. Rather, that just ended up being the final nail in the coffin. After Intermission I already felt burnt out on MD and I was ready to move on, but I had Catalyst’s script finished and I wanted so badly to work on something with friends.

I decided I would stay longer just for the sake of completing this project with my team who now makes me so so so happy. While I am tired, I don’t regret my decision to pursue this. Catalyst has brought me so much joy in a time where I’ve been struggling with unemployment and fear for what my future looks like. I can’t stress enough how much I care for them. I’ve made new friends and my irl gang has met my online gang. It’s been a wonderful experience. After this is done though, I’m ready to pursue my own stories.

Also I never disclosed this since I didn’t want to bring attention to it, but this sort of vitriol has become normal for me. I’ve been sent death threats and comments that are attacks on my character. Critique of my work is something I can handle. I actually always seek out constructive criticism on the things I make because how else am I supposed to grow if I don’t know my weaknesses. Comments telling me to kms and insults? They start to weigh on you the more you get them.

This is the internet. I’ve been here for over a decade. As long as I’m here I know there will always be a chance someone throws words like those at me. The only thing I can do to combat it if ignoring doesn’t work is to walk away.

I hope you all will continue to support me and my work, though. I will do my best for you.

#honeybee rambles

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lilu787788 · 8 hours ago

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I could never side with Alina, Mal, Nikolai, Zoya, or the others, because their so-called mission was built on naive idealism and staggering ignorance of power. The destruction of the Fold, which they paraded as some kind of moral triumph, was in reality a fatal strategic failure. The Fold was not just a curse. It was a wall that kept predators at bay. For all its danger, it created a necessary boundary that stopped Fjerda and Shu Han from tearing Ravka apart. Erasing it while knowing enemies waited just beyond was not heroism. It was recklessness. It was the act of people playing at leadership, people who had never had to make real decisions with real consequences.

In eliminating the Fold, they stripped Ravka of more than a barrier. They removed a symbol of power, a geopolitical fact that demanded caution from aggressors. The moment the Fold vanished, Ravka stood naked before its enemies. Aleksander’s disappearance only made this worse. With him gone, the Grisha lost the one person who had fought for them with more than empty speeches and fragile alliances. No new defense was put in place. No army strong enough to hold the borders. No plan to deal with foreign aggression. No system to protect Grisha from being hunted in the streets. Alina and the others replaced harsh reality with fantasy. And fantasies don’t survive war.

Aleksander’s decision at the port was not cruelty. It was strategy. It was power used with restraint, directed at those who posed a real and immediate threat: Zlatan and the Drüskelle. They were not innocents. They were murderers gathering to destroy Grisha lives and destabilize the region. Aleksander acted fast and with precision. He didn’t revel in bloodshed, but he did what was required. He made sure the message was clear: Ravka is not yours to carve up. That is not evil. That is leadership. That is what real rulers do when their people are in danger.

Meanwhile, Nikolai stood delivering polished words that meant nothing. Alina and Mal congratulated themselves for their purity, while leaving a shattered nation defenseless. It was not only shortsighted — it was insulting. Their performative virtue was empty in the face of nations that had long wanted to see Ravka burn. Their ignorance of realpolitik wasn’t just foolish. It was dangerous. And in a world that mirrors our own — where aggressors wait for weakness — their choices feel not only unrealistic, but offensive.

Fjerda would waste no time. Shu Han would make their move. Civil unrest would ignite as the false promise of peace fell apart. Grisha would be scapegoated and butchered. Aleksander’s absence would be a gaping hole no one else could fill. The monarchy would collapse, exposed as ornamental and hollow. And the so-called heroes would become the architects of their nation’s downfall, remembered not as saviors, but as the ones who opened the gates and let the wolves in.

Aleksander was never the villain. He was the only one who saw the entire board. He knew that peace is not given, it’s enforced. Hope alone is not a strategy. Fear is what keeps the enemy from crossing your border, from hunting your people, from tearing your country apart. He understood that to lead in a brutal world, you sometimes must make brutal choices — not because you want to, but because no one else will. In removing him and the Fold, Alina and her allies didn’t end Ravka’s suffering. They ensured it would grow.

#the darkling #aleksander morozova #shadow and bone #pro darkling #alina starkov #shadow and bone tv #darkling #ben barnes #darklina #sun summoner #nikolai lanstov #anti nikolai lantsov #grisha critical #grishaverse #anti grishaverse #grishanalyticritical #six of crows #netflix shadow and bone

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strqyr · 2 years ago

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shout out to leo for his "who are you trying to convince?" @ raven bc this was truly the True Colors™ moment for raven in that episode that got to the very core of her character. every single other time she gets accused of something she has some kind of a response but this time? she just. leaves lmao she can't answer that bc the answer would be "me, myself, and i" like literally no one else is buying what she's selling.

and it's not even a new thing, she's already doing it in the flashback: "it's... you're better at that life, better than i was..." <- if that ain't trying to justify her decision to herself after she has already made it then i don't know what is. like she wanted that life, tho, and unless there was something going on before her departure, she'd have no reason to believe summer would fully commit to that life, either. it just so happened that she did, and now raven can tell herself that she made the right choice bc summer was always going to be better at that life than her anyway so checkmate.

anyway. raven is very good at trying to convince herself of stuff, but i don't think it's really working; that's why she keeps doing it over and over again.

#something about #'perhaps raven could be jealous of those who live with unwavering conviction #of those that believe what they believe is right #of those that do not fear their own weakness #because all she could ever do... is pray that her choices were the right ones'#she's kind of a mess ngl

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abyssembraced · 4 months ago

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so for that meme. ghost reaching the abyss for the first time.

Send me a quote/scene from my muse’s canon, and I'll explain what went through their head during it! (Accepting!)

The door before them crumbled into particles of light. With the mark of King seared into them, no secrets could remain sealed.

A platform ahead, ending in open air. They stepped onto it. Cold metal, unlike the fossils and stone that preceded it. They looked down.

Dark. Their pale shell the only illumination offered. Deep. Couldn't see the bottom.

A calling, below.

They descended.

Platform to platform. Into the depths. Pits of spikes. Broken shells of fallen bugs. Shadow Creepers crawling about (harmless. Source of SOUL if necessary). Corpses increasing in number.

...Familiar.

They've been here before. But when? They didn't know. Yet the calling in their core persisted. They continued on.

Misjudged distance. Missed the next platform. Desperate flutter of wings. Reaching out with claw. Missed. Falling. Familiar.

Impact with ground. Floor of shells. Rise. Careful not to stumble. Familiar.

A shadow emerged from the depths. Living darkness took shape into a creature.

Familiar. Familiar.

So, so familiar. They knew this being, this darkness. Why this was, they did not know (could not recall?), yet it was an undeniable fact, the truth of which they felt with utmost certainty. This being and them, they were... Alike.

There was a word to be used. They did not know it.

They had felt like this once before, had they not? That broken, Infected vessel of Lightseeds had evoked a similar sensation of Alikeness. Albeit lesser, far lesser, than what they felt toward the shadow before them now. Obscured by the Infection back then, perhaps, or for some other reason.

They stood still, watching, as the other, in turn, took proper notice of them. As it floated toward them, drawing ever closer.

PAIN.

An explosion upon their shell, their insides, their mind. Emotions transferred to them from the Alike. Feelings of... Bad. They did not know the words.

Enemy. Danger. Fight back.

The fighting stopped. The being's form split apart by their blade, curling into an orb of shadow once more. Returning to the earth.

Silence.

...

Their nail is returned to their back.

A calling, below. Deeper. Yet there was no distance left to fall. Perhaps, if they pressed onward, some tunnels would lead them further down.

They continued on.

#.🪲#🪲 ghost ic #ask #hymns-across-the-stars #🪲 verse | during the infection #((didn't mean for this to take so long! i'd started writing an ooc answer when i first got the ask))#((but. then i decided that an ic one would be more interesting dgshshf))#((but just. thinking about the siblings....))#((they Hurt! two masks of damage. and part of that is probably because ghost's body isn't fully void yet at that point in the game))#((their outer shell is still that of a pale being. which. as a light-aligned entity is *very* weak to void. just as radi is))#((but also. on top of being void creatures. shades are the culmination of regrets. of sorrow and despair))#((and i think it'd be neat if when you touched one. you'd get blasted with all those negative emotions?))#((they deal both physical *and* psychic damage dgdhsfhf))#((that wouldn't apply to ghost though. both because they've got better control over their body thanks to void heart))#(((same reason why no one around them dies to Void Exposure) but also because they aren't really a shade in that same way))#((but also. thinking about *why* the siblings would attack ghost in the first place...))#((shades are sorrow and regrets given form. and much of that likely does come from the dead vessels themselves))#((the ones conscious enough to feel fear as they fell or starved to death. as they watched their kin suffer the same fate. alone in the dar #((whatever remains of the godlings who were consumed and transformed by the void that surrounded them before even hatching from their eggs)#((but also... perhaps some of that despair came from the pale king himself. unspoken regrets about the things he felt he had to do))#((the abyss felt it. took it. and it took shape.))#((and well... ghost's own shade in-game is only hostile to ghost themself. it's not bothered by any other creatures))#((and the king's brand seems to cause other bugs to mistake ghost for the pale king))#((if only for a moment. before they truly see and recognize who actually stands before them))#((but what of a creature so consumed by the pain and regrets that form them?))#((who can only sense the presence of the sorrow's source and not the true creature simply bearing his mark?))#((and are by nature of their being drawn to it? drawn to harm it? to smother the king in the regrets he left behind?))

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thedeafprophet · 2 months ago

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I never have like a tag for this but a common heads up I'll give when it comes to my approach to writing Clarabelle and the pregnancy situation is a lot of overlaps with the feelings of frustration and upset that chronic illness and disability bring.

which reminds me of some videos I've watch in the past talking about how there is in general overlap between pregnancy and disability and bodily affects which I did find interesting, especially in Clarabelles case when this was very much not a choice she made...

#and pregnancy can be disabling permentantly too #i dunno where im going with this just detailing my thoughts #i do not have the experience anywhere related to what clara is feeling #but that fear? the weakness? unsure of your own abilities and your body turned against you?#the complete anger and frustration at being unable to do anything? the exhaustion and the weakness?#i know that very well #so i end up putting a lot of those feelings into my writing of her #clarabelle #light fingers

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wholemleko · 2 years ago

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#full of so much vicious envy #envying the people who got to grow up and stay stable #I miss when I could read fast and spell correctly consistently #I envy the friendships that can somehow be extremely close while also remaining stable #I envy the people who can feel safe about other people #I don't even know how to put it into words #I envy the people who can hold a job #and the people who can do it in spite of the horrors #and I'm grateful I still have a roof over my head #but this rant is about feeling weak and pathetic in part #cause last time I tried to do a chore more intense than putting away a couple of dishes I spiraled #how am I supposed to live #i can't afford treatment #and I don't think those who have money they can spend on me see treatment as a necessity that is urgent #so what can I do anyways. rot #I envy the people who can just fucking live and still have a grasp on their own mind and abilities #and who are able to be normal about other people #feel normal about human connection #not be craving it desperately while fearing it violently #I want to be able to write like I used to #but I never want to love the way I used to love every again #I envy people who can enjoy something and not let it take control over their mind to an irrational and stupid degree #where things that at the end of the day do not matter in my life still make me go into fight or flight the instant I wake up in the morning #vent

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keikakudori · 6 months ago

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HOW MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS HAD AIZEN ALLOWED THE KIDO TO PLAY ITS POWER OVER GIN, choosing to end some evenings when his partner was ill and being a particular brat by using the influence of that particular one to send him into rest? Too many times to count, really; there had been days when the younger man would refuse the care and doting that surfaced in him, echoes of a boy who had been unable to do anything for his mother spending time and effort and will dealing with someone who was utterly stubborn about refusing the care that was needed. There were wounds in him that had healed crooked, that would never be unknit without a truly tremendous force to override what had come before and not even this new sweeping expanse of a pinnacle in his power and strength had been enough to overcome such wounds and scars. The snarl was met with a pool of brown that was world-weary, a sorrow and new depth of understanding of things in evidence -- and with the eye that had been stained evermore by that day into a depth of silver against amethyst. He was raw, stripped of illusion and hubris, but no less himself. Perhaps, instead, he was more himself than he had ever been at any time past -- or at least far more himself than he had been for the last two years. Now he was exposed beneath the live-wire of those blue eyes that had become able to cut through every layer and every illusion, aware of how exposed he was to him now..

❝ Fair is fair, Gin, ❞ came the soft murmur of his words to ease the younger man down into his slumber, the honeyed tone of that rich bass seeking to chase the viper down into unconsciousness that awaited him. ❝ Sleep. ❞ It was not the first time that Aizen had ever said that in reply to the younger man when using what Gin named one of his own tricks and he hoped that it would not be the last time either. Of course, the viper might decide to throw a punch at him later for doing this. But Aizen would accept any punches hurled at him by his partner in crime, especially since he knew he deserved that and worse.

Yet how easily he slipped beneath the blankets, the fire flaring a little with a touch of his power to ensure that it would remain warm throughout the night and be unlikely to go out; coals were fine but rebuilding a fire that had gone out was annoying even, even with kido and such abilities at play. Despite the exhaustion that burrowed throughout his body, Aizen was not able to find his own sleep immediately. No, his own mind was a turbulent mess, cascading through the shock of revelation that had hammered at him without his having a few moments of respite. The knowledge that Gin had not only survived but was here had been the largest shock of them all, something that he had not truly stopped reeling from until now, it felt. Even with everything that had happened, it all felt a fever dream, a heated rush of knowledge that had only finally begun to settle the way mud or silt stirred up in water took time to settle back into place before those waters could become clear again. Then the first death since their reunion, Gin cutting his head off, himself still trapped in the cage, Gin being wounded, Gin being killed, droplets of his blood arcing in a fluid drapery in the air as they prescribed a comma with a long tail ---

A shudder shook his body at that memory, something that saw those limbs tighten gently around the svelte figure that meant so much to him. Bastard that he was, Aizen could only greedily drink in the contact now as his mind decided to pipe up, a demented little whisper in the back of his head that said how well he knew Gin could remain asleep, especially with Hakufuku. Punching his own brain was impossible, but he chased down a few pleasant seconds of reverie by imagining himself strangling that voice in particular at this point in time with a hint of a smile upon his face even as his eyes closed and he relaxed with a low sigh of sound -- or perhaps it was better to say he mostly relaxed, a contrast to what that brief whisper of an almost forgotten hunger echoing somewhere in the depths of mind and body alike.

But he was not able to slumber as of yet as his arms cradled Gin close, face tucked in against his throat the way that they would often lay together in first his quarters at the Fifth's barracks and then furthermore those shared nights in the chambers which belonged to them both, and he found himself thinking even as his eyelids drooped shut. It might have been called overthinking and it would not be entirely incorrect to make such a statement. His mind was not able to stop working despite the exhaustion that weighed his bones down like a coating of lead, not able to stop from turning everything that had unfolded in the last -- what was it? Two days? Three? He had lost track of time --- over and over on themselves even as power hummed beneath his skin. It was as if something vastly misaligned had suddenly somehow been set to its proper place within his body -- perhaps in his very soul. He could never go back from this point, he knew.

The power, now that he had touched it, was always going to be there with him. A stark difference underlined the differences of the last few days and the prior events of his own life, though -- this time, Aizen did not shy away from the power that he bore the way he had used to, the way he had turned himself away from the lion's share of what he contained The air was warm, not just from the fire, but from what rolled off of him in gentle waves that wrapped around the unconscious silver-haired man in a cocoon of protective weave, his senses racing outwards. Nothing would be able to cross that subconscious perimeter that would not immediately have him on alert. For now, the worlds were held together by the presence of the thing that he understood on a level deeper than thought. It was etched into his bones, aware of it just as he was of the malign star upon the horizon that was the presence which marked Yhwach's own power and presence alike.

This was the heritage he had never asked for.

A heritage that had destroyed the life of the only woman he had ever truly loved and had slowly twisted through him, growing, thriving as it ever had and not something he had thought of. He did not know of what Kyoka Suigetsu had done when Aizen Sousuke had been driven to break the chains of his own self-restraint and to embrace the full depths of the power that he was endowed with when Gin had witnessed her. Aizen had allowed Gin to behold that inner world more than once and she had always been a delighted hostess, elegant and graceful, her smile calling to mind legends of fox-faced women. Obviously, Aizen had been influenced well before Gin had ever come into his life, for she had been formed long ago and had guided him along to understanding her. He was not aware of the gratitude that she had displayed in response for the fact that he had, at last, finally stepped into the fullness of his power. Always and ever from the moments of their first meeting had Ichimaru Gin become a catalyst for Aizen Sousuke and his evolution. First had come that monstrous Hollow at the height of the events within Karakura Town, where Aizen had been felled by the divine spear that had cut through his body and destroyed his heart.

And now his bloodline had awakened within him, quickened, and he was nothing more than the product of that heritage in a true sense of the word -- but he was also what that heritage had always been meant to become, perhaps. Just as Yhwach's abilities had returned in full to him, so did the Shinigami parallel him with the refulgence of his abilities having surged to the forefront. It was not the events of the past day and a half that Aizen dreamt of, however; it was of a memory of an event that had come to him well over a hundred years ago, long before he had ever met the viper that his weary arms held against himself now, unknowing of the turmoil that Gin's soul was undergoing, of the discussion about redemption and forgiveness. His mind sank back to what had been a dream that had surged through him following the one time before these recent catastrophic events when he had nearly unlocked the power of his Bankai before. When he had laid fingers upon the golden thread that danced within the depths of his soul.

It had been mere chance, him slipping without thought to the depths of his own soul and beholding what laid beneath the waters where the moon shone bright and the night sky above was speckled with stars, where the flowers glowed with fireflies dancing across the lotus blossoms that floated upon the water, a mirroring of the moonless skies above. Down below the water he had sunk, guided by his own meditation and feeling out something he had never noticed before, something that stirred the depths of his soul and a brightness that dwelt below, pulsing, brilliant, blinding as he drew closer and closer to it. It was like how they described the stars in this modern age; not just pinpricks of light, but giant gaseous balls of flame held condensed by their own gravity. He had shrunk away from it, fearful, even as he was drawn towards it. It was laced over with dark chains, so many that only thin shafts of light spilled out from between the links that held back so much of that power that he knew was his own He was already immensely strong, enough that he tried to conceal it, aware of how much it would only isolate him and make others fearful of him if he were to show it off.

Yet, for one moment, his hand had found a spot between those chains, drawn to touch without conscious thought and drawn close without his being aware of it, as if hypnotized to come closer. He had reached out and only one fingertip had brushed against that star's heart. The heat should have left him ashes, the density of power should have crushed him beneath its gravitational pull. But no - this was his own power, more than he would ever need, more than he ever wanted to know he possessed, at his fingertips.

He had never wished for power like this. It had been his nascent power that had ruined the life of his mother and seen her withering away. It had been that power which had seen Hollow pursuing him when he had been but a boy, intent upon devouring him and instead taking the opportunity to devour those lesser souls who were ever kind enough to take him in. It had been because of power he had been isolated and it was power that he shunned and wished desperately to be parted from. But one fingertip found the boiling surface of this star and touched across it ----

A flash. A room draped with dark curtains that hung from a circular dais mirrored by heavy architecture above in circumference. There was a power here and he was staring at a large block of blue crystal that bore a shadowy figure within it. Aizen Sousuke found cold sweat breaking across his back as he realized with a gutted sort of awe where he stood as more features resolved. A body, limbless, but for vague indentations where arms had been, where the legs had been hacked off above the knee. A face that was flawless and perfect, eyes that were open and -- and--- AND IT WAS LOOKING AT HIM. For one long, silent moment in which all of creation seemed to pause, his eyes met the strange ones of the entity that was known as the Soul King AND AIZEN SOUSUKE WAS LEFT FOREVER CHANGED BY THAT SIMPLE ACT. Here, in the presence of this being, he was left suddenly aware of his own body, of the power that waited to be called forth if he but attempted to use it in the way it was meant to be. He was suddenly aware that there was something that tied him to this -- THING.

Cells bloomed suddenly with a new awareness and he found his legs trembling, lips parted, awareness suddenly spilling out from him in a cosmic web of possibilities as his mind raced down pathways that had never before been opened. Images were a blur, impressions of moments, of physical sensations that cut across his mind, flashes of moments that suddenly bloomed here and there into random coherency. He was suspended within a void and watching as this being stepped forth and spun the worlds into creation. It was with a resounding cascade of noise throughout the universe, three worlds spun into life and a fourth by design, a realm for the truly wicked to progress towards when the time came for them to perish. Stars burst into life and he was but one small figure in the vastness of the cosmos and once again, those eyes were turning towards him and a hand reached out. Despite himself, Aizen found his own hand lifting and reaching out as if to connect in the way that a plant would reach towards the heat of the sun itself ----

And then he understood without knowing how he understood and rage ripped through him.

❝ -- you, ❞ he breathed, fury rising hot and fast within his breast. ❝ It's you--. I had never thought, never even guessed at who could have -- and now I know. I know it's your fault. It's because of you that she's gone. It's because of you that things are -- so wretched! Do you even care about us?! Do you feel anything at all for us?! I know you never cared about her so I won't ask you about that - but what of those of us who lived in the Rukongai?! What could you ever say for yourself! ❞

There was, however, no answer. He doubted there would ever be one. Those strange, alien eyes continued to regard him even as that hand stretched out towards him. Was it benediction? Warning? Was it an offer to give him more than this? Aizen could not have said and he didn't

❝ You're the reason for all of it, aren't you?! You're the one responsible for my own And now you reach out to me?! Never-- I could never belong to something as uncaring and unfeeling as you are. Whatever you are -- you don't understand anything about those of us who live here! You took her from me! It was your fault! Whatever it was, it remains your fault! Because of you, I cursed her before I was ever born and because of you, she died when she didn't have to! I lost her because of you! I lost her because of what I am! A monster, just like you! ❞

Words that made logic in the nearly forgotten piece of himself that would ever remain that boy that had watched in mute silence as his mother's body was wrapped in winding cloth of white in the wake of her passing, one of her combs clutched between his small hands. He had not wept then as she was laid in her final resting place. That comb had been one of her favorites -- and one of his. A beautiful piece of lacquered hardwood, painted with greens and golds, with mother-of-pearl songbirds nested in a group of leaves with golden berries picked out amongst the jade foliage. His aunties had been kind even as they'd descended upon her belongings to divide them up between themselves. He remembered his favorite one, the one who had snuck him sweets from the kitchens, had been the one to take it. Aizen had wanted to kill them all. That comb and those clothes had belonged to his mother. No, the owner of the brothel said, they belonged to him because her contract had been owned by him. And then he had thrown Aizen out.

He had not wept for her. He had always hated himself for that moment, of being unable to cry for his mother's loss. The tears did come, eventually -- but not for years upon years and his shame at them when they had come had made him never want to weep again. But he had wept more than once in his life ---- and he had wept TEARS OF GOLD over Ichimaru Gin. But in those moments, with her wrapped in her shroud and being carried to the unmarked grave that a prostitute would be granted out there in the Rukongai. He had tried to remember where it was when he'd gone back, years later, had tried to know which of those sad little hints of raised earth had been hers. But his memory had failed him and he'd never known which one it had been. He had always hated himself for that too. A child should remember where their mother was buried, after all. He had never invited Gin out there with him though he would make brief, occasional forays out into that district, trying to piece together the location from foggy memory. Maybe he would change that, now. It had been too intensely personal back then. Just as Gin's own secret had been intensely personal. When this was over, when they were left to take their peace---...

Silence continued to hover and then there was a flicker of something else that made his head turn as a motion at the corner of his eye drew his attention, Aizen beholding a man he did not recognize, a man with a prominent nose and a mustache that flowed across his cheeks in wings of black, with red eyes that met his own depths of brown. In that moment, there was a sense of recognition that seemed to blaze between them both. They were, the two of them, tied together in some way; they were both of them tied to the Soul King, a tether of blood that bounded between their forms. Three worlds. Three points to a triangle. This man represented one point and Aizen the other; they were divergent too in their own powers for Aizen's power was innately born and this man's was parasitical and that too was representation of their diverging paths. The Soul King was the third point. He understood that too as they stood equidistant from one another in that strange, colorless place that seemed washed through with static and whiteness that overwhelmed. Still, this man that Aizen met at a glance was somehow familiar, familiar on a level which was not to do with what they were but something further than that, deeper than that, a familiarity that was a reflection of their disparate origins.

Brotherhood was not something they pursued, however - neither of them wanted it. They both understood that when their eyes met in this vision. In the true world, Aizen would turn him down with a quiet sneer decades later in the dark.

Then the vision was shattering and the young Shinigami was suddenly coming back to his body, falling out of Jinzen so fast he nearly plummeted off of the rock he was seated upon and onto his very face as he shook with the exhaustion that came with barely touching upon his Bankai. It was the closest that he had ever come to it before the events of this war that saw the Quincy rising from their graves in an effort to follow their leader, their figurehead, their King of the Quincy. What had begun on that cool spring afternoon when he had sat in Jinzen and had descended more deeply into his own soul than he ever had before had been fulfilled now, when red had flashed through the air. He had thought, in Muken, that the vision that had come to him of Gin falling, bleeding, had been from that one singular moment during what had occurred in Karakura Town, in that alleyway. He had not realized the vision had involved him, back then, until after the fact. He had put those things out of mind.

But no, even that vision that had made no sense back then had been fulfilled, now; whether it was divine premonition or it had been one of the few articles of power from the barest touch of his Bankai's power to him, a singular dewdrop imparted to a man plagued by thirst, he would never be able to say. He had seen Gin falling, blood fountaining into the air, and it had been enough to play the tumblers on those locks and then suddenly see that power being seized in his hands at last as Aizen had consumed that star in full beyond taking the merest sip of the sun's power as he had for so long within his life. How he had not feared it -- until it had come time to use it. To use his power in the most selfless act that he could ever do, to give everything he was and everything that he could become in the name of saving the only person who had ever matched him, the only person who could ever count as the other piece of his soul. And even then, the fear had not been the fear of that power -- it had been fear of it overwhelming himself and running out of his control.

Still, he had chosen to persevere despite that fear and step forward into the realm of a power that had been something that had ever been a source of revilement for him before, a notion that probably would have been at odds with what others believed of him, if they thought he was naught more than a power hungry despot aiming at the Soul King's domain for his personal gain. More fools they. For Aizen, he had not hesitated at all in his readiness to use that power for the sake of this man that he cared for. Perhaps the traitor should have been used to the way his relationship with Gin evolved over the years but he doubted tha that he ever would be. And there was a peacefulnes that came with that. Aizen would rather have Gin at his side and enjoy the chaos that came with it than remain alone, suspended forever in a singular spot and ignoring the world as it passed him by, a swirling river of light and noise tha would never encroach upon his soul-deep pain and solitude.

His dreams had him twitching, from time to time, curling tighter about Gin's body with his own, his legs tangling with Gin's even in their sleep. Comfort came from the fact that they were together, but emotional exhaustion had him feeling the depths of his own weariness. Of course, they were both suffering from similar exhaustion. Gin's came from a secret unearthed after a hundred years by the man who had been the instigator of such pain and Aizen's own came from a constant turbulence that had disrupted and shredded his otherwise inert placement in the world itself before there was the sudden return of Gin into his life, of being killed more than once, of discovering his Bankai and the power contained therein---… everything was strange now. Everything was different.

Everything since he had come to awareness and seen Shunsui standing there, beckoning in Gin, had been so much. Only now, during sleep, did he begin to have a hope of processing anything that had come before -- processing the fact that Gin was alive. That he was here in his arms. That he had achieved Bankai at last all in the name of saving this man that he had damaged. There was also the moment of processing the knowledge that had spilled out of Gin, information that was not exactly something that Aizen could own but something that he could not deny - nor would he ever deny them again. Gin had been correct to call him out and he was left changed by this as much as he was changed by Gin's revival back into his life. He was changed by his own Bankai and his acceptance of the power that now echoed through him and showed itself in the simple weight of the air itself. He was changed and he would always remain changed from all of this - he would never be the man he was before and that knowledge did not pain him nor upset him. It was for the best. After all, the man he had been before had been something of a real asshole --- as he was sure Gin would say.

This was for the best.

Yet what had him waking suddenly, lifting himself upwards, was the sudden feeling that cascaded over him and left him gasping quietly. Gin's own awakening had him moving a hand towards Gin, unhesitating, fingers touching down upon the pale strands of hair without thought as if to soothe the younger man back into the depths of slumber. Weariness still hammered away at his body, but less so than before. Whatever he had dreamed, Aizen could not recall beyond a vague sense that something of monumental importance had been shifted into place while he had rested, something that saw him stroking that hand through Gin's hair. Somewhere within himself, he had acknowledged that he would never allow anything to happen to him again. He'd surrender his own body first, his own immortality, his own life, before he ever permitted Gin to fall once more. Between them both, he was the one that Aizen would always choose to live, to survive.

For all of that sentiment, something about the way the air hummed and twitched against his skin had Aizen wanting to bare his teeth at nothing in particular. His reiatsu slivered into the air, a vibrato of a deep bass note that hung like a bell's peal, going on and on, hanging in the air like a sustained note of musical origin -- no, not a bell but an organ's groaning sustained press of a key, rippling with brassy richness of massive pipes. It played through the air as he moved, as if a shadow of his power clung to him in a phantom echo of his movements for but a second or two. Then it was fading away once more and he closed his eyes. Two individuals, perhaps three kilometers out, touching the first of those far-flung barriers -- unfolded even while he'd slept, natural instincts that had been absent for TWO YEARS due to his being entrapped within Muken; barriers to keep himself and Gin safe, barriers crafted to keep out even the strongest of his Espada --- yet those strongest had ever had certain permissions to enter, sometimes.

Yet the Quincy did not. His head tilted and he brought his hand up towards his own face, the side of his finger touching to his own mouth for a second before he murmured quietly. ❝ --- two Quincy, both at least three kilometers out and away from here. There is plenty of distance that they'd need to cover to find this place and my veils will keep us concealed, but I'm certain there's a reason why they would be out here at all. Probably best if we were to take care of them both sooner rather than later. ❞ Doubtless, they were searching for the two traitors in hopes of accomplishing something. Of course, he'd need to be creative. He had a few suspicions about Yhwach that he didn't want to voice as of yet, but the memory of the vision he'd seen so long ago was lingering in the back of his head. He had willfully forgotten about it years ago, not wanting to entertain the notion that he was somehow different and apart back then. And now it turned out he always had been.

Then, slowly, that visible brown eye edged towards Gin and Aizen offered a ghost of that old smirk as his fingertip touched to his lips for a few seconds longer, almost provocative, nearly flirtatious in how he regarded the younger man at his side and he lowered his hand slowly and down to his lap. ❝ … what would you say to the idea of a hunt, Gin? It's been so long since we've gone on a hunt at all with the freedom to do as we please. If you're feeling up for it, that is. I do understand things have been strenuous lately, but … ❞ How he left the invitation hanging open and allowed the one he named his viper to decide on whether or not he wanted to pursue the idea of a hunt -- but Aizen would be fine enough if the younger man decided to opt for the idea of a mere snipe instead. It wouldn't be the first time that he had aimed those shots and it wouldn't be the last time, Aizen was sure. Gin had fine senses, but given that Aizen had built those barriers, his understanding of where the two intruders were was even keener than the younger man's might be.

But oh, it was many more things than just an idle suggestion of something like a hunt. It was a tentative olive branch and a subtle flirt, something that he offered almost shyly. Two years had been a long, long time -- and Aizen was suddenly and acutely aware of the nearness they shared, of how the air was warm from their shared body heat, of how near Gin as to him. It had his heart thumping a few harder beats in his chest, a warmth touching the pit of his stomach. It was such a silly offer but it was equally made in earnestness, in a quiet sort of hope that Gin would agree to the idea of going and having some simple fun, as if to get their feet beneath them both now. Aizen needed a little bit of a test run with this change in his power, he knew, and he was certain that Gin wouldn't mind too terribly, of course.

THE FAMILIAR SENSATION OF HAKUFUKU WAS DIFFICULT TO MISS, even amid his raging emotions and utter collapse inward. Gin detected that telltale bloom of blurred snow drifting down from the ceiling, hollowing out the cabin’s innards, blackness searing onto the edges of his vision. Hazy, he remembered gripping at Aizen’s front with rage and grief both still brewed potently inside of himself, a hunch of his shoulders as though contemplating one last vicious lashing of a felled predator. He was wounded, and being smothered – smothered enough that he jolted, briefly, in an instinctive recoil. A rejection. And in that rejection, those haze-filled eyes pierced into Aizen’s, his expression a snarl.

❝ That trick’s mine, you ass – ❞ More of a slurred growl than an actual curse and loathsome reaction to feeling the surge of slumber gripping at his awareness. The more Gin fought it, the taller the wave brimmed on the horizon. Eventually, as all things with him seemed to be doing as of late, it crashed down.

The snowfall continued lazily, absorbing the cabin into its whimsical winds. Out and beyond the frozen lake that took form within the great expanse of Gin’s inner mind stretched into view. The little shack was stable, albeit fragile, with roof panels disheveled upon its ragged top. They’d need fixing again. Something around here always needed fixing.

❝ I’ll become a Shinigami to fix things – ❞ an echo whispered, childlike in its hope, yet matured by the specks of blood that tainted that little pipe dream. There was no grand serpent here amongst the mountainous horizons to greet Gin – no, only himself, a boy, shrouded by blackened night draped over his too-small shoulders. Shinso did not always adorn himself with such theatrics, though Gin surmised the spirit was likely feeling a little… raw, just as he was. Scraped free of its scales, the hide of the beast hid within itself the anger of a boy who had only barely understood the gravity of a crime he briefly observed, peering down from the dirt pathway above.

❝ At least, that’s what I thought I’d do. But I didn’t. You didn’t. ❞ his voice was eerie, lacking the dialect his silver tongue typically wove its words with, a low hissed tone slithered its way between the breaths that puffed out from his smiling little mouth – the implication that at any moment the monstrous force of Kamishini No Yari could bring forth its forked tongue from his lips. Until then, vibrant eyes gazed up. There was raw emotion, but there was primarily… scrutiny.

❝ It’s been… decades, now, hasn’t it? A hundred years. She doesn’t know. You made sure she doesn’t know you haven’t fixed it. Seeing as you’re so… comfortable with him, now, letting him hold you like that… why not just move on? Why, you’re on the road to forgiveness at this rate. ❞ A slicing little smile reached practically ear-to-ear, devoid of any true reason to smile.

Gin received that smile akin to a spit in his face. The words were equally so vile. They were abhorrent. He knew the feeling well – this particular flavor of self-disgust.

❝ Move on from it? From what he did? That’s not my choice. It ain’t my trauma to bury, here – ❞ He edged towards reprimanding, an authority that matched Shinso’s hissing undertones; don’t challenge me.

❝ Then why carry it, why hold onto it all this time? ❞

The challenge was, apparently, unavoidable.

❝ She doesn’t remember what happened, she doesn’t know what was taken. If she knew, she wouldn’t try so hard to hide her failin’s behind th’ mask of alcohol ‘n laziness to excuse her lack of strength as a lack of drive. She wouldn’t keep everybody at a distance, she wouldn’t act like everythin’ was fine. ❞ Shallowly assessing the depths of what was done to his childhood friend felt criminal, but Gin supposed there was enough blood under his fingernails to excuse the cruel brevity for now. He was speaking to the only other person who knew that there was more than what was spoken, after all.

❝ You remember what happened, you know what was taken – and yet you still hide behind a mask, don’t you? You excuse your deeds as a necessity. You keep everyone at a distance. You act like everything’s fine. ❞ The child’s voice was low and methodical. A surgeon’s precision. Ill-fitting for the guise of a lanky young boy.

❝ Rangiku ain’t ever in a position where tellin’ the truth about herself could get her or her loved ones killed. ❞ Gin’s quip was equally precise, a reminder; I don’t have the luxury of drinking my nightmares away.

❝ Aizen Sousuke didn’t kill you. No, he might have tried, that day, but so did you. And in the end, when you were eventually killed and not by his own hand, he still brought you back to life. ❞

The child was unmoving, save for that wicked mouth. Gin narrowed his eyes, pacing to the side. The snowfall crunched beneath his steps, though he didn’t need to trudge through the accumulation quite yet. ❝ It almost sounds like you’re arguin’ in favor of Aizen. Where’d all that… divine righteousness of yours go, hm? ❞

❝ Forgiveness can be a righteous act. ❞ A calculated reply. The serpent was rather set on the matter. Gin bristled. Shinso remained steadfast, wearing his own skin, smiling.

❝ Do you forgive Aizen Sousuke for what he did to her, to all of those people? ❞ Now, Gin felt a sliding knife of betrayal place itself against his back. Not quite delving into his skin, but the prickling sense of the threat was there. His blade, his weapon, his one true reliable entity… was Shinso doubting him?

❝ Do you? Can you? Will you? ❞ The child watched, waiting, assessing Gin the same way Gin now sought to assess him.

❝ I ain’t one of his victims, I don’t get to decide whether or not he’s redeemed himself for what he’s done. I don’t get to decide that I’m done, that I wanna jus’… forget. ❞ The scrutiny Shinso gazed at him with seemed to intensify, and the winds of doubt ripped with more force against his frame.

❝ I can’t imagine Rangiku could hold the grudge that you have for over a century. ❞

❝ If you wanna plead with me to forgive him, then you gotta at least tell me why you’ve changed your tune. You wanted to eat his heart. ❞ Gin spoke slowly, measured, obscuring the tremor of emotions which still ran too high for his comfort. Too intense for his head to not pound, his ears ringing with the song of his heartbeat lodged somewhere in his throat.

❝ I only ever wanted what you wanted. ❞ The sincerity Shinso spoke with burned Gin. He returned the favor, almost akin to a plea for a ceasefire.

❝ I don’t want to forgive him. ❞ A tired confession, a hollow one.

❝ I think you do, you just don’t realize it. You want it over and done with. You want to wash your hands of it all. ❞ Shinso’s words felt… wrong.

❝ I can’t forgive him, it’ll never be over, and I’ll always have stained hands. ❞ Finality rang out and Gin despaired over the verdict he issued himself. This despair was something familiar to him, something he accepted long ago – it presented itself as an old ache, something belonging to a scar that sometimes grew sore or tight after already healing over.

❝ Can’t, or won’t? You won’t let yourself even try. ❞

❝ Do you think those men let Rangiku try to run away from'em before chasin’ her down? ❞ Gin snapped, a whirlwind of heavier snow swirled, the billowing bite of cold at their cheeks.

❝ That happened when she was a little girl, she’s a grown woman now, do you honestly think it needs to be held for this long – especially now, now that you’ve opened his eyes to it? Now that you can finally speak about it? ❞

❝ Would you tell that lil girl to swallow those negative feelin’s she’s havin’ – jus’ like you’re tellin’ me – because too much time’s passed 'n she needs to move on? I held a mangled girl’s soul in my hand, the one he ripped outta her. I had it, I had it. I can’t let it go. ❞

❝ Why hold on!? Why grit your teeth, the prey’s lost, you need to move on! ❞

In a blur, the naked blade of a wakizashi unearthed itself from the draped sleeve of Gin’s right arm. He struck the boy at his left, severing the limb in a clean cutting instant. The boy did not jolt nor did he wince, though his eyes veered toward a sort of mixture between confusion and hurt – a wound not of flesh, but of the soul. And Gin, with all of his snarling, did not restrain himself from spitting venom at the veiled serpent’s bloodied body still standing so small, there, before him.

❝ – move on from that. ❞ Another mutilating strike to the other side, lopping flesh from forearm and wrist, a hand dropping into fresh snow at their feet. The red bloomed outwards, a poison. ❝ Forgive that,❞ The blade plunged into the boy’s chest, twisting. ❝ – don’t hate that it happened. Don’t loathe th’ pain, the loss.❞ Gin yanked the blade free and swept the following ribbon of blood outwards in an arching strike away from himself. The billowing robes of white remained pristine, but the snow around them was bloodied. The boy was mauled, spurting, dripping crimson from that ever-smiling mouth. ❝ Is that what you want me to tell myself? ❞

❝ Forgiveness has to be earned, but yes. ❞ Bloody lips still spoke, though a shuddered heave hitched itself, wet, inside the boy’s throat.

❝ And he HASN’T EARNED IT! He won’t ever earn it. And neither will I! ❞ The winds howled but Gin’s rarely raised voice still carried past the tormented blizzarding air.

❝ Didn’t you just say you couldn’t decide whether or not he has redeemed himself… ❞

❝ Redemption 'n forgiveness ain’t the same. He might’ve redeemed himself, but he’ll never be forgiven. He’ll need to crawl on his hands'n knees in front of her, confessin’ everythin’… he’ll need to beg, he’ll need to unmake every piece of that rotten thing before I even consider that an option. ❞

❝ It seems we’ve found where my righteousness went. ❞

❝ It seems that, given your weak-willed backtrackin’… maybe I should’ve accepted Hollowfication. Maybe then you would’ve been good enough to defeat'im. ❞ Spiteful words spoken, ones that Gin internally recoiled back from after they left his mouth. Or maybe that was an indiscernible flinch from Shinso that he felt.

❝ Being stubborn is not synonymous with being right about something, Ichimaru-sama. ❞ A sadness, an exasperated tone. Gin was speaking to a child and yet he was not the elder here – the serpentine spirit was, and he was the boy. The boy he mutilated, the boy he left a crippled mess, a heap of bloodied questions; why, why, why, why –

❝ This was never about what’s right 'n what’s wrong. ❞ Tiredness exuded from him and Gin looked away, looked into the biting winds and shut his eyes to let the cold sink its teeth into him.

❝ Of course. It’s about… – ❞

The dream faded to the tip of Gin’s mind as it groggily emerged into wakefulness, a slow blink of his eyes hazily clearing the fog. Hakufuku draped over his senses like a warm and heavy blanket. Gin needed a minute to gather himself, the thickness in his throat residual from his dreamstate’s heightened emotions. Or perhaps he was sore from sobbing – either way, he swallowed and shifted. The bed was warm, and for a brief flickering moment the world seemed warless. Gin felt transported back to a time when waking to find himself accompanied in bed was normalcy.

It was only when Aizen’s body shot upright that Gin became aware of the fact that he’d been embraced by the older man whilst asleep. In the absence, he felt a chill roll its way toward his shoulders. But he could not dissect his current emotional stance on the act of cuddling – whatever stirred Aizen into that look of concern and alertness was enough to bring Gin to a sluggish ascension, too.

❝ Somethin’ comin’? ❞ It’d not surprise the Shinigami, at least. Aizen’s time spent in recovery also allowed their enemies time to recover and regroup, too. Out beyond their barriered-off safehouse were two scouting Quincy, set forth to seek the special threat of Aizen Sousuke. Scouting out in hopes of serving their struck-down lord – and perhaps, soon, leading Yhwach to their doorstep.

#godkilller #t: caged beasts #[ verse: blood war ] as I cannot be the hero let me be the monster and lesson them in fear in place of love.#KICKS THE DOOR DOWN #CHAPTER 617: RETURN OF THE GOD BUT IN ROLEPLAY FORMAT #and i also finally figured out how and when the vision aizen had where he learned at last his divine heritage and what it consisted of #i really am just over here going feral over the imagery i painted in my own reply #but ough ough ough aizen being the tiniest bit flirty with gin after two years and all those emotions #these two just do not talk things out but this is honestly more a case of 'let's just leave that for right now and come back to it later'#i'm so weak for aizen being flirty with gin after two years though #so fucking weak like that's the part that got me the most here #is that aizen decided that he wanted to be just that tiniest bit of flirty and i'm just hrhghghghhhhhhh

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piece-of-pierce · 6 months ago

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Danny picked up some traits from his parents. He got his mom’s flexibility and reflexes, his dad’s love of anything chocolate flavored and abnormally great cardiovascular health. The trait they both passed on (to Danny AND Jazz) is an intense need to learn everything they can about what they don’t like.

Jazz remembers what it was like when Uncle Hammond passed and Aunt Alicia got different. She’s terrified of her own emotions effecting her like that some day, so studies psychology like there’s no tomorrow.

Jack and Maddie bonded over their shared fear and death and resulting desire to learn everything they could about it.

Danny can’t stand clowns. They’re dishonest and hide who they are behind heavy makeup and outlandish costumes. Freak show kicks that dislike into a full-on phobia though, so he goes all in on learning everything he can. How does clown school work? What are the requirements to be a clown? What rules do they have to follow? If he knows their limitations, he knows their weaknesses. He will not be caught off guard again.

That knowledge sits in the back of his mind like a comfort blanket. Every so often he’ll dip back in and research if there’s anything that’s changed. He wants to keep on top of any information about his greatest enemies.

Finally, he manages to graduate high school with a 2.7 GPA and 31 on the ACT thanks to his Math and Science scores (and a carefully managed brawling schedule with his rogues). Thanks to those, he managed to get a partial scholarship to Gotham U for Physics and Engineering. He still isn’t sure how he managed that, but he’ll happily take it.

What he won’t take is this FALSE Clown trying to cause trouble right before finals! He’d kept on top of his shit all semester and wasn’t gonna let anyone kidnapping him and some other people off the street get in his way.

Later, the Bats manage to find where the hostages were held because one of them waved down Robin. As in, all the captives had gotten free and when they found the right warehouse, it was to one young man berating the Joker.

“You’re nothing but a modern rendition of the town fool!”

#batman #dpxdc #fanfiction #danny phantom #dp x dc #writing #creative writing #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny is a little shit #the joker #is just sobbing #he’s immediately clinging to Batman’s cloak #Danny: Do you even remember the oath you took?!#Joker (thinking it’ll help): I never took one!#Danny’s ears genuinely start steaming #by the end he’s no longer afraid of clowns

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sjyuns · 21 days ago

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SOFT SPOT ┆ A PARK JONGSEONG ONESHOT

SYNOPSIS! love is a crazy thing, and you’d always been absorbed in the idea of it, 100% committed as your school’s cupid but cupid deserves love too, right?

GENRE! strangers to lovers, basketballer!jay (there’s barely any basketball in this), mutual pining, simp!jay, high school au

WARNINGS! some sexual innuendos, drinking, partying, mentions of cheating and abortion

WORD COUNT! 9OOO+

MIKAELA’S! inspired by some book i read i think… this is from my old blog eumpapas, i’m not copying anyone please… also happy mega birthday to the man who made me start watching iland🙏🏻 DNA jay this one is for you.

BEING cupid isn’t easy, and it’s definitely not a task for the weak. Carrying around a heavy basket of heart shaped tipped arrows and a bow slung behind you as you matchmake, aim, and shoot, injecting pink that knits into a person’s bones.

Many people applaud you — for so intelligently pairing up matches together. But what they don’t realise is the immense effort it takes. Cupid may be an icon of love, but you barely have one of your own. And you wish, that there is another cupid out there aiming their love tipped arrow at you.

i. ugh, men

The piece of paper in your hands rubs against your palms as you take yet another glance at the capitalised name written in neon pink before looking back up at the blond hair boy in front of you.

“Jay? I mean- not discriminating or anything but you want me to link you up with Park Jongseong?” You furrow your brows, looking at Jake with pure curiosity.

His eyes widen as he realises what this might have seemed like. “No, no,” he furiously shakes his head, “he’s my bro, what are you even talking about.”

You tilt your head as you scan the nervous footballer who’s too busy fidgeting in his seat to realise, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him so nervous — even more than before a crucial game, and you wonder what’s come over him.

“Jake, the neon pink sparkly pen? If you’re not in love with your best friend, what puts you in such a lovesick mood?” You ask, flapping the crumpled piece of paper at him as he sighs.

“Firstly, it’s a smiggle pink scented pen, get it right. And secondly, it’s not really about matchmaking, I just need your help with something.” He groans at the accusations you’ve pasted on him.

You purse your lips, “Jake, you know I don’t do anything other than matchmaking. I would really like to help, but I’ve been a little tight on time recently.”

Before you can grab your bag from the small round coffee table, he swiftly brings his hands up, stopping you from leaving. His eyes held such desperation that your body seemed to move back down by itself.

“Look, this is kind of like matchmaking, think of it as helping a blossoming couple out. Please.” His plea of desperation squeezing your heart ever so slightly.

“Has this blossoming couple got something to do with you and that pretty best friend of yours?” You raise your eyebrows, as you shoot a knowing look at him. It wasn’t rocket science, and it didn’t take a genius to know that Jake was deeply in love, fully head over heels: entranced with his best friend. And as Cupid, no doubt you had such information at the back of your hand.

Jake holds back a smile by biting his lips, eyes darting away in fear of professing his love, “look, Jay’s just been such a cockblock recently, they’ve been friends for a while but nowadays they’ve been hanging out together a lot more. Alone. Do you understand how big of a crisis this is? All I need you to do is watch him, maybe use those matchmaking skills of yours to match him up with someone?”

You look at the pitiful state of the boy in front of you, with his hands constantly moving to brush his hair back in his withered stressful state. And you can’t help it — as someone who’s all about love, you find yourself agreeing to help him, even if you were already swarmed with four other couples to matchmake.

You find the list in your head getting longer as you ask Jake about Jay, the tiny book in your head that’s filled with possible matches seeming a little empty at Jake’s description of Jay’s ideal type, likes, and dislikes.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve heard about Jay, in fact it was probably about the nth time with the amount of girls who come swarming to you with bleak hope that you’d be able to matchmake them with him. And of course, you couldn’t deny the fact that he was attractive — with his coveted status as the vice captain of the basketball team, and not to forget his matte black Porsche he drives to school everyday, it would be weird if he wasn’t popular.

But what’s all that when Park Jay had a dick for a personality. Well, at least that’s what the rumours say.

And you’re about to confirm it right here right now as you stand outside the sports hall, the squeaking of court shoes piercing through your ears as you stall by rechecking Jake’s text.

Jay’s at basketball practice till nine, maybe you can catch him there.

The time on your phone blares a bright ‘0925’, and you curse yourself for not having the guts to say no to Jake — because as much as you are Cupid, you’re also weak hearted, and you don’t know how to handle a devilishly handsome boy who’s said to have a bad attitude.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, getting ready to push the door until it swings open from the other side and the vision in front of you turns from the freshly painted navy blue doors to a tall, lean boy with a number 99 plastered on the front of his jersey.

Holy shit, you think, and you wish you could duck around quickly and scurry away, yet your feet remain firmly planted to the ground as your eyes linger on the face in front of you.

“Something wrong, Cupid?”

You open your mouth only to close it yet again. Because despite the harsh tone or recognition his voice held, you were mesmerised. You’ve only ever seen Jay from afar and now up close, he looks like a collection of violet-tinted heartbreak and soft silver snow — as the ferocious intensity he emits settles itself in the sharp dip of his cupid’s bow. His beauty is devastating, and your task is forgotten for a moment as you take in his black hair damp with sweat and the slender set of collarbones revealed by his jersey.

The boy looks like an angel and siren all at once, and fuck it if he isn’t the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Lee Heeseung, the attractive basketballer you’ve known since middle school (who you had a tiny crush on back then.)

It takes you forty two seconds and Jay bending down to snap you out of your gaze. And you find yourself not being able to do anything but shift back as the boy smoothly ties your shoelaces which you must have left undone in a rush to reach here on time.

“Thanks,” you say honestly, voice too breathy as your veins pump with embarrassment.

He smiles softly, “don’t mention it, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall, right?”

You pause, and you hate how awkward you are during unplanned encounters. “Right,” you say, stumbling over your own words, “I mean- uhm, yeah! Thanks, but- I could have tied them myself.”

Jay laughs, and it’s a little husky as you capture the sound. “Right. You’re cute when you ramble.”

Right now, you wished you possessed the charm you usually carried when talking to other targets — bold and feminine. But with a mere sentence, Jay had the ability to reduce you to a young girl talking to an infatuation for the first time. And you think the rumours are false, because the boy in front of you seemed nothing like the playboy you’ve heard about: barely seeming to have an ounce of smooth confidence in his bones.

“You’re here for me, aren’t you Cupid? Did someone want you to matchmake me with them? Or are you on some sort of mission?” His sudden change of tone throws you off, arrogance radiating off him as the look in his eyes change. Bolder, sharper.

You think that you’re an idiot, for falling for his innocent façade, for believing those rumours were fake. Because now Jay looks like he’s playing god, with a devil’s smirk etched onto his face.

“Does the name Jake Sim ring a bell?” It amazes you how blunt he sounds, mouth tense and one corner slightly tilted down. And it pisses you off, how handsome he still seemed.

“He’s the captain of the soccer team,” you try, avoiding the question all together, “who doesn’t know him.”

The boy in front of you seems unsatisfied, “not what I was asking and you know it,” he declines, a borderline genius glinting in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He smirks, brushing his hair back, “you’re telling me that my best friend didn’t hand you a note with my name on it, asking you to keep an eye on me?”

Fuck. How does he know?

You send him a cool grin — and thank goodness your usual calm and composed exterior is back — as you slowly walk towards him, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Not everything in life is about you Jay, so get lost.” You pause. “Please.”

A part of his tenacity amazes you when he fails to keep his mouth shut, and you feel annoyed at his stubborn persistence. “Everyone knows your little love business, Y/n,” Jay elaborates, making you grit your teeth. His voice is like liquid mercury, toxic yet smooth. “There’s always talk about a new happy couple and a pretty pretty girl who set them up.”

And as if on instinct, your hands move up to twirl the ends of your hair, “what about it, Park?”

“You’re telling me that Jake Sim didn’t meet you today? Look me in the eyes and say it.”

You stare into the eyes of the boy who looks like he could be a model, heart betraying you as it escalates. “I didn’t meet Jake Sim at Starbucks today. Quit bothering me, alright?”

“I didn’t say it was Starbucks,” Jay states brazenly, his head tilting in princely arrogance as you watch a small smirk settle on the crook of his mouth. “I thought good girls like you never lie.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathe in sharply, “get lost.”

Jay tucks one hand into his pocket, tugging his lips into a small smile, “You go first, I’ll follow you.”

Your cheeks heat a dark shade of red as you dread to have to tell Jake that Jay knew of your deal.

“Wait,” he says as you turn, gently grabbing your wrists. He might seem a bit rough on the outside, with arrogance lining his collarbones, but when he touches you, it’s surprisingly soft. “Don’t tell him I know. All I’ve been doing is giving her advice about approaching Jake and I don’t want to ruin any surprise she might have planned.”

You nod slowly, pieces coming together in your head. “So you want me to be your double agent?”

Jay smiles, and if you were honest, it might have been the most genuine you’ve seen him today. “Why not? Not like you’d take the chances of spoiling a couple’s confession. Live a little.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, “I live a lot, Park, maybe more than you’ve ever lived.” You pause, “ and if you want me to, you should fix that attitude of yours. God knows how you bag girls acting like a dick.”

Jay presses his hands to his chest in mock pain. “Your words hurt, Cupid,” he pouts, eyes glistening, “so are you in?”

“Depends,” you admit, “maybe if you take me on a ride in that cool car of yours.”

He thinks for a moment. “Fine.”

A smile blooms on your lips, and you’re too triumphant to notice the way Jay’s breath hitches as he takes a small step backwards, as if your aura was too potent, too powerful for him to breathe in.

“Deal.”

ii. a short guide on handling a crazy heart

The last place you’d ever think of telling your best friend, Yunjin, about your encounter with a certain vice captain was in the bathroom of a stranger’s house, with the latest hits blaring into your eardrums. “He’s got a dick for a personality,’ you scream over the music as she fixes her hair in the mirror, “he’s arrogant, infuriating, and he doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” she replies, giving you a knowing look through the mirror, and you roll your eyes at her comment. “So what exactly did Jay want you to do again?” Yunjin’s eyebrows raise as she asks her question for the fifth time this week, and you think if your friend wasn’t so pretty, you would have purposefully messed up her hair in annoyance.

You sigh, “he wants me to be a double agent of some sort, he doesn’t want to ruin his hard work of giving advice,” you admit, “I’m practically sandwiched between two best friends.”

“Aw, you guys are like a pair of cupids,” Yunjin says thoughtfully, “you and Jay. And I guess it brings no harm. Though you might be pissed with his personality, someone has to get under that thick skin of yours. He might just be the one to do it.”

You shoot her the finger accompanied by a glare as the two of you finally exit the bathroom to the bustling scene of the party, with sweaty bodies swaying to the rhythm of music blasting from the speakers.

“Y/n!” A golden voice calls out, making you turn over your shoulder, to find Jake waving you over excitedly, with a tall boy dressed in all black beside him, leaning against the wall coolly as he gazes at you with hooded eyes.

There’s an ineffable feeling that crawls into your stomach when you see Jay, as if he held all the power in the world to crush you with a glance. “Come play beer pong with us, we need two more people.” Jake's voice goes through your ears before leaving through the other side as you nod aimlessly, eyes trained on Jay’s figure — lean back muscles that were visible through the shirt that hugged his figure, as you and Yunjin follow them into another room.

“Me and Jay against the two of you,” Jake grins as he nudges you by the shoulder to the other side of the ping pong table, a few familiar faces surrounding the area.

“I’m out, ask Heeseung to play instead,” Jay mutters under his breath, but you catch it despite the loud chatter amongst the crowd. And it dims the small excited flame burning in your heart.

You watch as Jake sighs, “come on bro, don’t be a party pooper. First Sunghoon ditches to go god knows where with that neighbour of his, and now you?” Jay moves to comb through his slicked back black hair, eyebrows furrowing as he calls Heeeung over.

Looking at Heeseung, you realise that Jay and him were two completely different kinds of beautiful: Heeseung had a sharp jawline and soft curves; Jay, on the other hand, had a kind of edge and arrogance constantly lining the corners of his mouth, and it’s unconventional. To say the least. Everything about him was to you.

“Come on Park, don’t spoil the fun,” you pitch into the conversation, as the three heads turn towards you, “or are you scared you’re going to get trashed by two girls?”

Jay mutters a chain of words under his breath as he steps out of the tiny circle they’ve made, towards you, his gaze centred on you. And it suddenly feels silent as Jay’s eyes start at the tips of your toes, sliding across the smooth expanse of your legs and past your torso, lingering on the slight curvature of your neck before landing on your lips. Your swallow is embarrassingly audible in the unusual quietness, but you soon clear your throat.

He’s so handsome it makes you want to scream. You hate how good he looks; you hate how he looks at you, like you’re something of his affections. And you hate yourself for actually liking the attention, because even though you always state that you hate him, you know it’s not true.

Jay just gets on your nerves.

“Fancy seeing you here, Cupid. Who knew you could ever look so stunning?” And just like that, the moment’s over.

“Shut the hell up, Park. All you have to do is throw a ball into a cup, or are your basketball skills that bad?” You challenge him, and Jay lets out a laugh: a real laugh that you want to hear again and again and again, because it sounds like silver music and he’s beautiful.

And you hate yourself and your feelings.

“If that's what you think,” he breathes, as he stares into your eyes, “let’s make a bet then. If I win, you have to come to a basketball game of mine — because you’ve clearly not been to one, wearing my jersey, cheering for me. And if you magically happen to win, I’ll do anything you want me to.”

Maybe his car, maybe you could ask him to give you his car, you think as you set your mind on winning. Not one ounce of doubt that you’d be able to beat Jay, because despite not having attended one basketball game, you think that you had sufficient skill to win. He can’t be that good, right?

And once again Jay proves you wrong as he effortlessly scores cup after cup, and you’re buzzed, barely able to comprehend your surroundings as the crowd cheers his and Jake’s name. The only words you hear clearly is Jake’s extremely loud cry of excitement as Jay throws yet another ping pong ball into the last cup on your side of the table.

“See how it’s done, angel? I’m not vice captain for no reason,” he smirks as he rounds the table to your side. Though you’re half gone, you’re suddenly grateful for the dim lighting because you’d be caught dead by the boy next to you if he sees your flushed cheeks at the new nickname he’d just given you.

“Anyone told you not to randomly call strangers angel?” You hiss, as he gently wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobbling figure. Jay shrugs, and you huff out a breath, “it does something to them, okay?”

The boy looks down at you, thumb brushing over your cheeks — and you tell your weak heart to calm down, “what does it do, angel? Tell me,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s too close to you, because you can feel the weight of his words sink into your body as the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“It hurts me, them, right here,” you reply, closing your eyes to tame the nauseating feeling in your brain, as your finger points to your heart, “makes their heart go boom.”

You don’t see anything, but you can feel Jay’s hands wrapped carefully around the nape of your neck, fingers entangled in your hair, as the other cradles the smooth, glass-like skin of your jaw, thumbs once again brushing with a tantalising shimmer. His breath smells of sangria and mint, and the sensation is just warm as you’re cast unceremoniously under his addicting spell.

“Yeah?” He whispers, and you nod softly.

“Yeah,” you answer, “so stop it, whatever that was. It’s annoying.”

Your eyes open and you see Jay smirking in his trademark expression, and you click your tongue in annoyance, pretending as if your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your chest.

“But that’s what you are, aren’t you? Cupid - Angel, same thing.” He replies, and you’re about to answer, but decide not to as his words swirl around in your chest.

“What are you even doing here anyway?” you groan, changing to topic as you furrow your eyebrows, vision betraying you as Jay’s devilishly handsome face duplicates itself under intoxication. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to drink when you were such a lightweight.

“Don’t think too hard, angel,” Jay teases, “or else your head will start hurting.”

“Shut up asshole,” you roll your eyes, trying to concentrate on the boy in front of you instead of the pounding in both your head and chest.

Jay grins, and you can see a little bit of evilish impurity and jaded sleekness — like a trained jaguar waiting to pounce. “Shut me up then,” he murmurs, “kiss me, angel.”

“If I kissed you, you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” you announce, and you busk in this moment because you’re sure you’d forget it tomorrow morning.

“And if I kissed you, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Your vision goes black.

You wake up buzzing out your mind, surprisingly in your own bed, with not a hint of remembrance of last night’s drunken conversation.

“Just get out, get some fresh air, it’s good for hangovers,” Yunjin says, all dolled up and ready to patronise the new cafe she’s been raving about, while you sit at the edge of your bed, staring daggers at her with your hair all messed up and head still spinning.

You groan, “are you insane,” your hand moving up to rub your eyes furiously, “must feel good not to be a lightweight.”

Maybe it’s your friend’s persuasion skills or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re easily persuaded because after ten minutes, you find yourself decently dressed and walking into the small diner situated around the corner as the striking ring of the bell pierces into your head, making you wince.

“Jake, fancy see you here again,” Yunjin shouts across the diner to a small four person booth where you see said boy’s head popping out.

“Yunjin, Yn,” Jake waves, as Yunjin pulls you yet again to Jake, exactly like how she did yesterday night. “You know my best friend,” Jake introduces, staring at her as she waves, a bright smile that could bring a boy to his knees.

“Cupid or yn, right?” She asks, with clear confidence exuding out of her, “Jay’s cupid.”

You cough at her words, eyes darting to Jake’s face as you tilt your head in question. “Jay’s told me or well me and Jake about you.” She clears up, moving your suspicions away from her best friend.

“Right,” Jake chimes in, “surprised you’re still alive after yesterday. You knocked out mid conversation with Jay and he drove you and Yunjin home.”

“Come again,” you turn to look at Yunjin, eyebrows furrowed as she gives you a guilty look.

“He had a nice car, and he offered, what could i even do with you alone,” she murmurs under her breath and you slap her shoulder.

“Actually, Jay’s here if you want to talk to him,” Jake brings up, looking around for the boy. And your eyes widen at his words, tugging Yunjin’s sleeves as an indication to leave.

“Yn, Yunjin,” and you curse yourself because Jay sounds so good in the early hours of the morning, too good, with his slightly raspy and deep voice that you wished to hear over and over.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, knowing how you are when you’re drunk. Embarrassment swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the thoughts of what you might have done in your drunken state consuming you.

“You okay angel?” You turn around at the sound of the nickname that pinches at your heart, “after what happened last night, I thought you’d never see the light of day again.” The familiar devilish smirk is cued and you know you shouldn’t be trusting him yet you are as your cheeks heat up.

Jay chuckles at your abashed state as he gazes at you, wondering how you looked so good even in a plain white shirt and shorts. Like an angel, and he thinks the nickname he’s given you is spot on.

“Don’t remember? Then I’ll leave it to your imagination,” he says, leaning into you. As you freeze, eyes dart from his face to his lips for a second before looking back up. You don’t know what’s come over you because your usual calm demeanour has been flushed out, replaced with the resounding of your rapidly beating heart.

“Can’t believe you’d do such a thing to me, angel.”

Your imagination runs wild especially after you watch Jay walk out the diner with a winner’s smile on his face, head racing with embarrassing scenarios as he consumes your mind day and night.

iii. pink eyes, pink hearts, the whole world turns pink when i’m with you

When you meet Jake again at the same small rounded Starbucks table, you tell him Jay has no intentions of getting together with his girl. He smiles and tells you that there’s no longer a need for you to ever talk to Jay again, and for some reason it bugs the hell out of you.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop thinking about the golden confidence that surrounds his body like second skin, or the way he walks — like he’s it. Maybe it’s the way his hair still looks perfect after hours of sweat and playing basketball, or maybe it’s just because he knows exactly how to get you heated.

You hate thinking about him too much, because you’re afraid that your cheeks will flush a cherry red and you’ll start remembering how he bent down to tie your shoelaces or how his muscular arm wrapped gently around your waist as he entertained your drunk blabbering ( you cried for three days upon remembering this, cursing Yunjin for not helping you out ). So you don’t think about Jay, how he’s so so pretty and you certainly don’t think about the straightness of his nose, or the birthmark on his neck.

It’s a Friday night, and the campus is empty, students all gathered to watch the football game. And you feel an uneasy sensation settling at the bottom of your stomach. Something’s terribly off, you realise, as you look at your shadow and see another following you at an awfully close distance.

I fucking hate men, you conclude, as you clutch the pepper spray you keep in your jacket pocket, and you continue walking in the same direction like nothing’s wrong. You can’t call Yunjin, because she’s busy cheering her head off at the football game, you think as you try to strategise. And you silently curse as you watch the shadow get closer, it’s fine, you think, you’re strong and fast — and your trusty pepper spray never betrays you.

You turn around and spray the small can in the face of your follower, jumping back to see if the chemicals did the desired damage. But when the air clears, all you see is Jay’s gorgeous face crying profusely.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you repeat again and again, and he doesn’t say anything. “I’m so sorry, Jay. Are you crying?”

The boy in front of you doesn’t look at you, blinking through his red eyes and burning tears as he takes the tissue you’ve offered him. You watch his swollen, puffy eyes as tears roll down and collect at the corner of his chin.

It’s not the time to laugh, you think, maybe just a little. And you have a strong urge to whip out your phone from your back pocket and take a picture of the once in a lifetime view in front of you.

So you do. And Jay isn’t having it.

“You know,” he says, voice scratchy, “you’re the most difficult fucking person I’ve ever met in my life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes at his obvious compliment, “how would I know that you weren’t some pedophilic stalker who’s come to kill me!” You look at his pitiable state and you stop, “I’m really sorry.” Your voice softens.

“Say it again.” And his commanding tone makes you feel not so apologetic anymore.

“Go to hell.”

Jay sighs in annoyance, “that’s cute,” he replies, and you ignore the way your heart skips a beat. “I just saw you and wanted to talk to you, and maybe give you my jersey, for our bet.” His voice reminds you of springtime love and dragonfruit hibiscus, of frenzied thrills and mysterious shadows.

“Oh, where is it?” You ask, as if the thought of wearing his jersey to watch your first ever basketball game didn’t excite you even a little bit. His fingers clasp around your wrist, pulling you to a carpark where he had parked.

He unlocks his car, one hand still pressing the piece of tissue against his eye as the other swiftly opens the boot of the car. “Here, it’s washed, don’t worry — since you seem like that kind of person.”

You give him a look, as you watch him remove the tissue from his eye. It’s turned a shade of pink now, less puffy and less glassy. “What exactly do you mean by that Park, and here I was thinking of treating you for ice cream in return for giving you a pink eye.”

He huffs a tired sigh, “with the way you’re tiring me out, you should treat me for ice cream.”

And you look at Jay, who’s glowing under the rim streetlights despite his obvious red eye ( kudos to you ). With cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes liquid scotch, Park Jay is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it. You’re addicted, even if your mind disagrees with your heart.

Stars could gleam all throughout the night sky and yet you’d still prefer to watch them through his eyes. And you think that you’re fucked, because you’ve never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Lee Heeseung, you only liked him because he was the fastest runner in middle school, but Jay — Jay made you feel like treasured snow in a globe kept by a bedside, he makes you feel like a fever dream.

“If you drive me, I will,” you say and he grins, jogging over to open the passenger seat for you.

“I’ll take a pistachio ice cream,” he orders as he slides into the driver’s seat and you enjoy the cool, crisp air blowing at you.

You choke at his words, “pistachio?” as your head tilts in question, “who eats pistachio nowadays? Everyone eats mint chocolate chip.”

Jay’s face contorts into an expression of disgust as he scrunches his eyebrows, taking his eyes away from the road to face you. “Honestly expected more from you angel, but I’m not surprised, just disappointed.”

“And I expected more from you, Park.” You comment, “who the hell doesn’t like mint chocolate chip?”

He groans at your argument, “it’s fucking toothpaste on a cone, what is there to like?”

You gasp, mouth wide open ready to fight back till he sighs, eyes rolling as he turns into the parking lot of Baskin Robbins, “fine, I’ll give mint chocolate chip another try if you try pistachio. We’ll try each other's ice cream, okay?”

Smiling, you nod, happy that you’d win the argument, even if it meant having to try some weird nutty flavour of ice cream. “I’ll go get it, wait for me.”

You jog into the store, excited to finally treat yourself to ice cream — and for Jay’s expression when he eats mint chocolate chip because you know his face would scrunch up ( and you wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take yet another picture ).

You come back out into the parking lot, and you see Jay, with another girl pressed up awfully close to him, and it feels like your throat is closing up, squeezing as you feel the urge to rip the two apart. It looks wrong — Jay and her, and you think it’s what your knowledge and years of being Cupid is saying ( or maybe it’s your heart ). You hate it, hate the way she’s looking at him as if he’s some fallen God from heaven, hate the way she shifts closer to him even when he’s trying to avoid touching her.

You move before you know it, and you expertly loop your arm around Jay’s waist after passing his cup of ice cream to him. Red hot satisfaction lighting up inside of you as Jay rests his arm around you — as if it’s his natural instinct, and his expression of annoyance morphs into one of a devilish smirk that you were now well acquainted with.

“You’re back, angel,” Jay murmurs, as he kisses the top of your head, his voice reverberating in your temples.

“Yeah,” you say, grinning sweetly at him before shooting the girl a glare: eyes turning into stilts as you give the clueless girl yet another warning sign. It doesn’t take long for the intruder to awkwardly excuse herself before you click your tongue in annoyance, turning around to face Jay who had a foreign expression on his face.

“Is my angel jealous?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, and your heart fawns at the small movement that was ridiculously attractive. He hums, smiling sharply as your breath catches.

You clear your throat and look away, well aware that your hand still lingers on his chest and you have no motivation to move it. “Shut up.” And you feel panic rising, bubbling. This is bad. This is too dangerous.

“I could shut you up instead,” Jay murmurs, stepping even closer and a thrill runs through your body. “Want me to?”

“You’re such an arrogant asshole,” you whisper, slapping his shoulders without any real force, “why would you ask me this kind of question.” Your heart is screaming a resounding yes.

“Because I’m a gentlemen,” Jay glares at you, and this tension between the both of you — like cold fire and hot ice, erupts in a lick of blue, crystallised flames. “So I’ll ask you another time,” he pulls you towards him, “can I kiss you, angel?”

You can’t take it anymore. “Stop talking and just do it.”

You pull him down by his collar and press your lips onto his, feeling your skin heat up as his lips move on yours. Holy shit, you think. He’s an expert kisser. And it might be ironic because it’s your first kiss ever, but you believe that nothing after can ever top this.

His hands rest on your waist, then to your jaw, then to your neck — and you feel. Feel the tip of his tongue asking for entrance at the inner part of her bottom lip, feel the way he’s kissing you roughly but smoothly at the same time, hair brushing your forehead and breathing unsteady against yours. Jay tastes like a blessed curse, a collection of angelic alcohol on a summer evening, and you want to hold him and never let go.

Because you’re making out with Jay, and your heart is pounding as you rest your thumb on his pulse and feel it flaring wildly, recklessly. Oh my god, you think, as he squeezes your waist before breaking the kiss — eyes slightly hooded as he stares at you in adoration that sparkles under the midnight sky.

He will be the death of you.

iv. three ways to ruin park jongseong

Jay thinks that there’s three ways to ruin him.

One: The kid’s viking ride at amusement parks. It absolutely destroys him, and his hair that he works on for hours in the morning. His knees get weak and his brain thrown out of his body as he squeezes his eyes shut, begging heaven to let him live another day even before the ride starts.

Two: Mint chocolate ice cream. Which was why he surprised himself when he agreed to give it another try for you. He absolutely distastes the flavour, as the creamy cavity inducing toothpaste taste coats the roof of his mouth, he winces in disgust. The only exception, he thinks, is when he kisses you and he tastes it. Instead of its usual nauseating effect, it instead tastes like love drunk cherry epidermises.

Three: You. With his jersey hanging from your shoulders, and he can smell his cologne, as you brush past him, eyes forming crescents as you greet him. “Hey Jay, are you ready for the game?”

His heartstrings tug, quicker and quicker at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. And he might be a little foolish when it comes to love, but he thinks that this was the way his name was meant to be said.

“Jay? What, cat got your tongue?” You laugh, smiling. And he thinks he’s fallen for your laugh — that’s utterly contagious, your smile — which made him giddy for no reason, and the way you weren’t scared to annoy the hell out of him.

He doesn’t know if this feeling is normal, because despite the rumours, Jay’s never had a girlfriend, nor has he ever been with a girl; relationship or not, and it was all Heeseung who had girls around all the goddamn time. With them, he felt sick at the way they whined to touch his hair. But you, you ruin him the most, even more than the viking ship ride. And all his life, Jay’s been a pretty systematic person, but now he doesn’t know where to start, what to do about it.

“Come again angel, didn’t catch that,” he replies, eyes catching yours as he turns into the school car park, one arm slung over the back of your seat as he reverses into a lot.

You groan, cheeks pink, and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. “I said, are you scared the other team will trash you to pieces?”

Jay chuckles, at your sharp tongue and the way you skillfully tease him. “I’m not scared, why would I be? With an angel cheering for me, I literally have God on my side.” He gets out and rounds his car, moving over to open your side of the door as he watches you lick your honey lips in nervousness. Under the 7pm tinted red and orange skies of a Wednesday, Jay realises how blue he’d feel without you now that you’re here.

“Who,” you pause, as you try not to jumble up your words, “who said I’d cheer for you?” A lazy smirk painted on your face, as you praise yourself for not tripping over the nervous butterflies the boy in front of you gave your stomach.

“You’re here with me,” he says, eyes trained on you as you lean back onto the side of his car, “I drove you here, I will be walking in with you, the jersey you’re wearing has my name on it. And, I invited you to the game in front of half the school population at that party. You see the pattern here, angel? It’s us or nothing.”

The way his eyes hold your gaze as his hands graze over yours melts you. And you’re so drunk in him, you feel as if you could touch the clouds in the salmon sky.

“What if I exchange my jersey with another girl?” You say, eyes glinting with mischief as you fold your arms, testing him. “Or maybe I’ll sell it, I’ve heard that this jersey is a pretty coveted item here in Decelis.”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance and you grin, “girls like you are the bane of my existence.”

“Girls like me?” You raise an eyebrow, “love, I’m one of a kind.”

“Yeah, you are. You are the bane of my existence.” Jay nods in agreement, as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, guiding you into the unfamiliar sports hall. He thinks he’s playing with something dangerous — because you’re tangerine dusts of fire, flames that warm his skin and he relishes your warmth as you intoxicate his brain, his mind, as the smoothness of your skin lingers on his fingertips.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to an empty spot he reserved for you.

“I’m not your dog,” you retort, begrudgingly.

“Love of my life, light of my eyes, my all, would you please do me a kind favour and take a seat? I don’t want to tire those pretty legs of yours. Not like this.”

Oh.

You laugh, and it’s so loud that you can feel the eyes of others on you. Yet you’re fully focused on the devilish man in front of you. And you think, if you were very brave or honest you would tell him — that you might have fallen for his charming ways, sly smile, and god-like features.

“That’s right,” you grin as he shakes his head at your bratty behaviour.

“Anything for the princess,” he bows, and he doesn’t realise it but he’s smiling. Wide. And just like that you’re woven into his veins and he needs you like sin.

Jay makes up his mind that today’s match would be the best match he’s ever played. Not because you were here, sitting at the front row of the bleachers. Well, maybe, maybe it was because he wanted to hear you cheer his name, watch you grin in celebration as he scores hoop after hoop, and maybe because then — only then can he smoothly ask you to celebrate his win with him over dinner.

And that is exactly what he does.

“You did so good, Jay, when you twirled around that dude and threw the ball into the ring,” You say, reenact Jay’s winning shot, the jingle of the bell of your favourite diner that you recommended Jay to go to ringing as you enter the small place.

Jay think’s it’s extremely endearing, the way you call the basketball hoop a ring, or how you explain his moves as if he was a dancer on stage — twirling, he thinks he could work with that.

Jay directs you to a booth to sit in and a waiter comes to take your orders. You request a double cheeseburger and so does Jay. And he notes down the way you toy with the salt and pepper shakers, rips up the edge of a napkin, and clinks silverware together in odd amusement; you don’t ever stop moving, it seems. And it’s adorable.

“Tell me about your business,” Jay prompts, elbow settled on the table as you grumble in protest.

You shake your head, pursing your lips in refusal, “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“No it’s not,” Jay huffs, “I think it’s interesting.”

And so you tell him. “People pay me to matchmake them with someone they’re attracted to,” you mumble, “and sometimes I get paid more when I get a request to play a certain role.”

“What kind of role?” Jay asks, full of curiosity.

“Well, on Saturday Yoo Jimin is paying me to act like an innocent girl who her boyfriend was two timing with — he cheats a lot you see, and she wants to finally dump him.” You elaborate, “I don’t accept all of these requests, I choose them. I get a whole lot of weird ones too so that's a big no.”

“Isn’t that cruel,” Jay comments, but a drop of pity found nowhere in his voice. And you laugh, tilting your head back. He watches, eyes following the curve of your throat.

“Maybe,” you say, “but cheaters deserve it. Especially when Jimin’s boyfriend has hooked up with multiple girls.”

“So you like to roleplay?” Your mouth drops open.

“Is that all you got out of my explanation? That I may like to roleplay?” You scoff as Jay grins, “sadly for you Jay, I don’t.”

He glares at you and you glare back at him even harder. “Right,” he snaps, “how could anyone ever put up with you to begin with? You’re impossible.”

“That’s mean,” you pout, eyes flickering to his as you rest your chin on the palm of your hands. “You’re mean, Jay. I really hate you.” False.

“And you’re a devil’s spawn.”

You gasp, “you wound me, Jay. I thought I was your angel.”

You are, he thinks as he stares at you. And Park Jongseong wants to kiss you — but only in the most connotative way possible, so that no dictionary definition would ever stand a chance to describe how your lungs could be filled with the sweetest air possible and yet you’d still be so breathless. Often, pictures the both of you holding hands, watching a movie, sitting on the beach hearing your laugh throughout the day, catching your smile and he hopes that at the very least you think of him when your eyes are closed.

Roseate cheekbones, pearlescent soft lips, and bickering emanates love as the both of you fill the quiet dinner with intimate chatter.

And the night dies down all while Jay thinks about how you’re a vivid dream of lust and harmonies, euphoria reeking upon your entire figure, lips tainted with surreal giggles — and that the saliva in your throat is yet rather angel dust that converts into musical laughter, music he loved to hear as he watches you.

v. mascara stained cheeks, bruised skin, and a crumpled piece of paper.

“He must be really fucking into the cheating shit if he’s meeting his side chick an hour away from our school,” Jay grunts as he pulls over at the entrance of the restaurant Jimin sent you.

Today, you’re donned in a different style — sweatpants and a random big sweatshirt you stole from Jay’s backseat. Your hair messed up and your mascara smudged. It wasn’t really part of the job to be dramatic, but you only live once, so what’s the point of living boringly?

Jay scans your face for the fifth time in an hour, “you look exceptionally pretty today, angel. You really live up to your pet name.”

You grin, eyes rolling as you shuffle through your bag to take out a positive pregnancy test, mind sifting through your checklist — mascara check, positive test check. “Jay, love, it’s called dedication. You obviously do not have such a quality.”

His heart spins when you call him love. And it’s crazy, because he’s staring at you — with makeup smudged all over your face, positive pregnancy test in your hand from God knows where, drowning in his oversized sweatshirt yet he thinks you’re pretty, too pretty. And if that wasn’t dedication, he doesn’t know what is.

“I’m dedicated,” he says. And you raise your eyebrows in question.

“To what Jay? And don’t say basketball cause everyone in the world knows that you’re in love with it. Honest to G-”

“You,” He cuts you off, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of his car onto your cheekbones, softly portraying faint constellations of stars upon them. He watches as your orbs glimmer with fervour, lips parting slightly to expose a marvelled gasp, and he hopes that the hazed longing in his eyes has reached you.

You cough, eyes dodging his gaze as you shift. “Not now, Jay. Not when I look like this.” And it’s enough for Jay to start smiling. He’s amused, that all that mattered to you right now was how you looked when he was about to confess to you.

“Fine,” he laughs, “I’ll do it when you look prettier than you look now.” You hum as you appreciate the way his arms look under the sunlight through the windows. Before today, you’ve never associated attractiveness with driving, but the slight imprint of his veins along with his lean muscles turned your mouth drier than usual.

“Only you get me, love,” you say, as you mess your hair up a little bit more in the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Like a sex addict.” You slap him, hard across his chest. “What? You asked!”

“You can’t say things like that to a girl,” you tell him, hiding a secret smile. “Be a gentleman, say I look great and wish me luck.”

“You’d only be looking good when you’re going on a date with me, roleplaying or not.” He mutters under his breath as you shoot him yet another glare. “Fine,” Jay gives in, leaning over the control panel, and he’s dangerously close to you. “Good luck, angel.”

In front of you, everything is still. Jay, time, galaxies, constellations pause to dawn upon him and gaze at you, who’s clearly unaware of your beauty. “Happy?”

You nod and he smirks, “Why so quiet now angel?”

“Just shut up and get on with our act.”

He laughs before the two of you go over your plans again: Jay entering into the restaurant first, sitting at a table near Jimin’s to monitor the situation, and you entering five minutes later, causing the biggest break up ever. It’ll be fun, like drama club.

You look at yourself in the mirror once again, and you think you look like those prostitutes in those trashy american tv shows before you enter the building with the classy exterior. With crystal chandeliers hung and tablecloths made of white linen, you feel terribly out of place, but for what if not for money.

You immediately spot Jay, sitting there with his long legs spread out. And a few tables to your right sits Jimin and her boyfriend, who continuously toys with his phone under the tablecloth while she tries to keep the conversation going.

It’s showtime.

You storm up to their table, positive pregnancy test in one hand as you yell out, “How could you! How could you cheat on me!” Hands reaching out to grab the boy by his collar, tears welling up in your eyes as he fumbled to stand straight under your tiger grip.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, eyes wide as saucers as his hands move up to surrender. “Jimin, babe, I swear I don’t know this crazy woman.”

“Crazy? You said I was your everything, that we were bound by fate! I believed you and now I’m pregnant,” you scream, throwing the test into his face as his hands scramble to catch it.

“Just get it aborted for god’s sake, it’s not that fucking hard.” And you gasp, shocked by the sheer stupidness of the boy. You don’t really let your emotions get to you, but the boy in front of you with a grip that could bruise your wrist and a mentality of a crude alpha male disgusts you.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You have a girlfriend who was willing to listen to you and give you a second chance before, but you ruined it by being an arsehole.” You pinch his forearm and he yelps, “you’re pathetic, and you don’t deserve anyone in your life.”

You watch as Jimin packs her things and leaves, before you meet Jay in his car. And without a word, he puts the makeup remover you brought into a cotton pad, dabbing your face with it as his fingers softly brush over the bruise forming on your wrist.

“You’re insane,” he says, “so fucking insane.”

You grin, “you don’t mind,” you make up his mind for him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I don’t,” he says as he digs his pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper, handing it to you.

And you open it, reading the scrawny handwriting in black ink.

Matchmaking

Name : Park Jay / Park Jongseong

Match : This girl I call angel, I’m sure you know who I’m talking about

Extra : I think we’re a match made in heaven, so please, help me win her over

vi. an angel and her love

You push your clingy boyfriend Jay away from your body, and to no avail fail for the third time. “Jay, you’re going to be late,” you tell the boy whose arms wrap protectively around your waist, “that’s not very vice captain of you.”

“And it’s not very girlfriend of you to chase your boyfriend away,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, as he proceeds to tighten his grip around your waist.

You give up, which you should have done minutes ago, because you know your boyfriend isn’t one to listen to anyone — even you. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, especially not when you’re not an easy person either.

“Go, or I’ll ask Yunjin to put that photo of you with a pink eye on the jumbotron,” you tease, and it works because Jay immediately lets go of your waist, eyes turning into slits.

“Hate you,” he says, rolling his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss.

It’s short and sweet. And a line invisible to the naked eye seemed to be drawn between the both of you, it’s scarlet and relatively thick in magnitude, as the feeling of being in heaven — a feeling you’re accustomed to whenever you’re with Jay enlightens your skin again.

“Kiss me again,” you complain.

“You always order me around,” he laughs.

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” he mutters, lips curving into his signature smirk.

You grab the back of his head, yanking him down once more. And the silence around the both of you explodes and a world of colours appear before your closed eyes. Every thought in your brain erased and replaced by the thought of him, just him. His lips pressing against yours, his hands pulling you closer, running up and down your back, into your hair. The taste of his mouth and the heat of his breath cloud your mind.

And when you finally convince yourself to pull away, your brain fails to string any piece of thought together.

“I love you more,” you tell him, as you smile.

And Jay looks, and he adores. He thinks (knows) he can watch you until the sun rises and the sun sets again, that he can watch you for days on end and never grow tired of you.

“Love you the most, angel.”

#⪩⪨ mikaela's #🍶　✶ soft spot #enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen headcanons #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x you #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen jay imagines #jay x reader #jay fluff #jongseong x reader #jongseong fluff #enhypen oneshots #jay oneshots #enhypen smau

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lyrefromthesea · 10 months ago

Note

Blind reader x hashira + kokushibo? (since she's blind she doesn't know he's a demon?)

Please 🙃

Male hashira (+ Kokushibo) x Reader - Blindness is something I can overlook

author's note: fun fact, i am partially colorblind.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: none

Tengen:

"i like these.." you told him, holding a small chain of jewelry in your hands. the man looked over your shoulder, a content hum leaving him.

normally, people wouldn't take a blind person to shop for accessories with them, but Tengen didn't seem to care. in fact, he had appeared quite eager to take you with him.

now here you were, trying to find a "flashy" - as he'd like to call it - accessory for him. not knowing how they looked, you decided to feel them instead.

some of them were lightly sharp, sure to leave small scratches on his skin. others were rounded and had a smooth surface. you preferred them over the sharp jewelry, but weren't happy with those either.

finally, when your hand brushed over diverse stones, you felt content with the jewelery you've found. it felt like a rope in your hand, but it was made out of small cold stones, which were the perfect mix of smoothness and sharpness.

they varied in size and shape, leaving a good impression on you. especially since they reminded you of the big stones on his headband. when you told him that you liked them, his eyes lit up.

"there's another one here." he said, taking the second chain into his hand. the cool color of the new accessory matched the pink diamonds he already wore.

"they're perfect, beautiful." he told you, giving the cashier a handful of money. he didn't wait to get the rest of his money back, too focused on the gift you've found him.

"are you just saying that or do you mean it?" you ask, yet you smiled right after, knowing that he was being honest when he talked to you.

"they're great - flashy. i'll make sure to wear them everywhere." he was already attaching them to the side of his headband, determined to keep his promise true.

yet you were only focused on the softness that had sneaked into his voice, showing his appreciation for the newfound treasure.

Obanai:

he didn't mind your blindness, welcomed it even. he would've never admitted it to you, never told you - knowing it would probably hurt your feelings.

but he felt it was better that way, better for you not to see him. he was hideous and he knew it.

so why, after years of insecurity, he allowed someone to see his state of weakness. his heart nearly sunk when you asked him to let you see him.

he had told you it wasn't important, that he just needed to be there for you, but you had insisted and he couldn't deny you a single wish.

now he held himself back from moving away, his heart beating faster as he saw your hands nearing his uncovered face.

yet the contrast of his feelings and the soft warmth of your touch left him puzzled. you were sitting right next to him, hands cupping his cheek. more importantly, your thumbs were carefully tracing over his scars.

he knew you could feel the difference under your thumb, could feel how different he was from other people. part of him had expected you to leave him after finding out how hideous he truly looked.

"you're beautiful.." you whispered, his eyes widening like they've never done before. he was left speechless by your words, swallowing down his fear to respond.

"you don't have to lie." he answered, voice unstable. he couldn't believe that someone could love him, not when he was like this.

"i wish i could see you with my eyes." his trembling hands touched yours, squeezing them just lightly. he knew how much those words meant, you had never spoken them out before.

and it wasn't only your wish. he could feel the desire to make you see swell up in his own chest. to imagine that he thought differently before - it felt stupid to him now.

Rengoku:

"open your mouth and close your eyes!" he instructed, making you halt.

did he just? he did not, right? ..right?

"Kyojuro..?" you carefully said his name, making the man answer with a hum. he still held his spoon in hand, having wanted to give you a bite of his food.

you raised your hand, waving it in front of your face. it took him a moment to catch on, realizing that his words had been stupid to the core.

"oh- i certainly didn't-" he stopped when he heard you snort, wide eyes watching you smile and laugh. his heart started beating faster, his cheeks flushing.

you clearly weren't mad or disappointed, but he felt embarrassed for forgetting something so obvious. the words slipped out of his mouth before he could even register it.

"it's fine, don't worry." you answered, putting a comforting hand on his. you leaned forward, taking the spoon into your mouth and chewing on the food before swallowing it down.

"is that sashimi? it's really good." you complimented, the note of wasabi still lingering on your tongue.

"do you want me to order some more?" he asked, turning his hand around to hold yours. you hummed, a small smile forming on your face.

days like these were your favourite - the perfect mix of romantic and silly.

Sanemi:

"it should be around here.." you mumbled, pulling the white haired man with you. his eyes were fixated on your surroundings, trying to figure out what exactly drove you towards this place.

"ah- can you smell it?" you gasped, turning your head towards the right, trying to pick up on the floral scent lingering in the air.

"no.." he answered, shaking his head lightly. no matter what he thought off, he couldn't come up with a reason why you'd bring him here.

nevertheless, his legs continued moving, not because he was necessarily interested, but because he wanted to make you happy.

that's why his eyes widened when you walked past multiple trees, reaching a giant flower field.

now he understood what you were talking about, the floral aroma enveloping his senses. he felt you letting go of his hand, leaning down to pick one of the flowers and smell on it.

the field was beautiful, full of the prettiest flowers he had ever seen. however, he realized that was a sight you'd never experience, slowly lowering himself in the grass next to you.

he took one of the flowers, mimicking your actions and breathing in it's scent. if you couldn't see what he was seeing, he could at least try experiencing the same as you.

"it's beautiful.."

Giyuu:

"like this." his voice was quiet, but it sounded much thicker and lower than the night's silence. he had asked you to show him your hand, but when you asked how, he guided it into the correct position.

your palm was facing him, fingers feeling the wind brush between them, teasing you with light touches and the surrounding silence.

you felt his hand on yours, his fingers brushing over your palm, gently drawing different forms onto your skin.

"it tickles.." you whispered, a quiet chuckle escaping you when he started tapping along your skin. a gentle huff escaped him, the one that made you know he was smiling.

"that's how i feel when i see you.." he answered, his hand finally pressing against yours, fingers interlocking in a gentle hold.

you silently scooted closer, the night's air sending a comfortable chill over your body. it didn't take him long to hold you closer, letting his body's warmth settle into your skin.

"you make me feel ticklish all around.. sometimes i worry i won't be able to think when i see you." he admitted, coaxing a smile out of you.

he didn't mind that you couldn't see, because he could see your beauty either way.

Gyomei:

some might say it would be ironic for two blind people to fall in love or befriend each other, but it certainly worked out for the two of you.

you admired his strength and he admired yours. truthfully, he hadn't noticed you at first, hadn't questioned why you used another weapon than the other demon slayers, but it all made sense when he found out about your blindness.

"this is your weapon of choice?" he had asked when the two of you joined a mission. he held a long rope dart in his hand - your treasure. Haganezuka had created the weapon for you.

the usually normal rope was made out of a thin chain, helping you coordinate throughout the fight. naturally, Gyomei who also used a special weapon, was intrigued by it.

"due to my lack of strength, it's the only suitable weapon for me." you answered, your fingers tracing over the axe he carried around with him. it was much heavier than your weapon, fitting for the man, who was much taller than you.

"it is a good choice indeed. i admire your critical thinking skills." he admitted, a smile displaying on his face.

and though you would sadly never see the happy look he'd give you in the future, you certainly liked the content tone of his voice.

Kokushibo:

he didn't remember his former loved ones. he didn't remember his wife. he didn't remember his child. their faces were a blur that he had created himself.

but you weren't. you were well. you were alive. he didn't need to remember the past when he could enjoy the presence with you.

his own human, the one he swore to protect. perhaps the gods have blessed him this time around, just like they had blessed his damned brother before.

the one person Kokushibo yearned to have just had to be a human. his surprise when he realized you weren't able to see was immaculate. he felt compassionate. and relieved.

"greetings.." the male spoke, stepping through the small gate of your house. the area was surrounded by wisteria, but like the gods had wanted him to find you, they left a small path for him.

"Kokushibo, it's you!" you smiled, standing up and letting go of the flowers in your hand. it took some time, but you managed to grow some in your garden.

the demon watched you move towards him, affectionately taking his hand like you've known each other forever. "you came back earlier this time."

"i happened to have a bit of free time.." he answered, low voice filling you with contentedness. while he made sure to look at you, his other eyes glanced at the garden.

the world could be dangerous for a blind person, but you've built your own small paradise between the rows of poisonous trees.

"let's get you inside, it's quite cold." you said, leading him towards the entrance of your very own home.

he wondered if he could keep up this facade of trust or if you would hate him after you've found out that the enemy stood in your house.

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moonlitstoriess · 3 months ago

Text

Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Rhysand x fem!Reader (1/2)

Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?

See masterlist

Part 2 epilogue

Warnings: angst, pregnancy, cheating, mentions of intimate scenes at the start but nothing explicit or smutty, clearly rhysand and feyre's whole mating plot was changed in some ways to suit the story

A/N: I'm back at doing what I am best at, which is making people cry lol. Please do consider the warnings mentioned before proceeding with the story. Thank you for reading<33

For fifty years, Velaris had been hers to protect.

Fifty years of waiting. Fifty years of silence. Fifty years of ruling in his absence, of forcing herself to wake up every morning in an empty bed, of standing strong for a court that had been left bleeding in the wake of its High Lord’s capture. Of holding Mor, Azriel, and Cassian together, when they had lost the most important piece of their family.

Fifty years without him. Without Rhysand.

She had not always been a ruler, had never even imagined herself becoming one. She had once just been a child, born to a father who had been a decorated Illyrian general and a mother who had been little more than an offering—a female from a lesser noble family of the Night Court, forced into a marriage she had never wanted. She had inherited her father’s sharp instincts, his love for battle, his stubbornness. And she had inherited her mother’s mind, sharp as a blade, her ability to wield words like weapons.

Her childhood had been spent in the Illyrian war camps, a place where females were taught their place—to be weak, to be silent, to bow. But she had never bowed. Not when they sneered at her for trying to train, not when they mocked her for thinking she could ever be as strong as a male, not when her father had died on the battlefield and left her mother widowed, forced to return to her family’s estate.

And she had not been alone.

She had met Rhysand before he had become the feared High Lord of the Night Court. Before he had been anything other than a cocky, silver-tongued boy who had hated the camps just as much as she had. And with him had come Cassian—wild and brash and unbreakable, a bastard warrior who had nothing to his name but his own strength—and Azriel, silent and shadowed and broken in ways none of them had yet understood.

They had been inseparable. Training together. Fighting together. Growing up together.

And somehow, in the midst of all those years, she had fallen in love.

Rhysand had always been hers. Not in the way of mates, not in the way that fate had written in the stars, but in the way that mattered most. In the way of choice.

There had never been a confession, never been a grand moment of realization. It had been a slow, inevitable thing, woven between stolen glances and lingering touches, between the nights they had spent lying beside each other in the grass, staring up at the endless night sky. It had been in the moment they had first kissed, hesitant and unsure, before turning into something desperate and consuming. It had been in the way they had promised—young and foolish and certain—that even if they ever found their mates, it wouldn’t matter. That they would never leave each other.

And for nearly three hundred years, that promise had held true.

Until the moment Rhysand had been taken.

She had known it was coming. Had felt the sheer, unrelenting terror in his mind as Amarantha’s spell had wrapped around him like chains. Had heard his voice in her head—his final words before he had been utterly ripped away from her.

"I love you."

Then, silence.

And silence had been all she had known for the next fifty years.

She had ruled Velaris in his absence, had kept its people safe, had ensured that the city remained untouched while the rest of Prythian burned. She had fought for her court, for her friends, for the family they had built together. And yet—she had spent every night wondering if he was still alive. If he was suffering. If he still thought of her.

Now, after five decades of waiting, of hoping, of wondering if she would ever see him again—he was finally coming home.

She stood on the balcony of the townhouse, staring out at the city below.

The Sidra was quiet, its waters gleaming under the light of the stars. The city still hummed with life, filled with people who had no idea that their High Lord was finally returning after half a century of being held captive under a tyrant’s rule.

Mor stood beside her, arms crossed over her chest, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“He’ll be here soon,” Mor said softly, though her voice was strained, as if she barely believed it herself.

She swallowed, gripping the stone railing. “I still don’t know if this is real.”

Mor reached over, squeezing her hand. “It is.”

And then—she felt it.

The familiar pulse of power in the air, the sudden, breathless pull in her chest.

And before she could even take a step forward, the night itself seemed to shift, the world bending—

And then he was there.

Rhysand.

For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

He was real. He was here.

And then she was running.

He caught her in his arms the moment she crashed into him, burying his face in her neck, his body shaking violently. She was crying, sobbing into his chest as she clung to him, as if he might disappear all over again.

His hands trembled as he cupped her face, as he pressed their foreheads together, his breath ragged and uneven.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

She kissed him. Hard and desperate and aching, pouring every ounce of longing, of love, of grief into it.

He kissed her back just as fiercely, as if he was trying to memorize her all over again, as if he couldn’t believe she was real.

Mor was crying. Azriel and Cassian had appeared, standing frozen in the doorway, their own faces filled with raw, unfiltered relief.

But all she could focus on was him. The male she had spent fifty years waiting for.

Rhysand was finally home.

And yet, she had no idea that this was only the beginning of everything that would break her.

That night, neither of them could bear to be apart.

After fifty years of longing, of aching, of waiting for this moment—she couldn’t let go of him. And he didn’t let go of her either.

He had carried her inside, through the halls of the townhouse, past the murmured voices of their family who knew, who understood, and who let them go without a word. They had disappeared into their room, the door shutting softly behind them, and then—

Then she had kissed him again, with all the desperation that had been building in her for five decades, all the grief and rage and sorrow and love she had bottled up in his absence.

Rhysand kissed her back just as fiercely, his hands shaking as they skimmed over her body, as he memorized her again, piece by piece, as if he was afraid that if he didn’t, she would disappear.

She should have noticed it then.

The slight hesitation in his touch. The way his body tensed in certain moments, as if something inside him was resisting, as if he was fighting some invisible battle.

But she had ignored it. Had convinced herself it was just the weight of what he had endured, the lingering ghosts of his time Under the Mountain clinging to him like a curse.

She had whispered his name, had pulled him closer, had kissed away his pain. And for that night, and the nights that followed, she had let herself believe that love was enough to banish the shadows that haunted him.

The days blurred together in a haze of passion and tenderness, of stolen touches and whispered confessions.

She and Rhys could not keep their hands off each other. Every moment was filled with longing, with the desperate need to make up for lost time.

He had barely left their bed that first night, had spent hours worshiping her like she was the only thing that could tether him back to reality. His lips traced every inch of her skin, his hands roaming over her as if trying to prove to himself that she was real, that she was still his.

And she had taken him apart just as much, had kissed away the pain in his eyes, had murmured how much she loved him, how much she had missed him.

It didn’t stop after that first night.

They could hardly go an hour without touching—without pressing against each other in dark hallways, without his hands finding her waist as she stood by the window, without her lips brushing against his neck when he passed by. They were insatiable, consumed by each other, as if making up for every second of those fifty years apart.

But she noticed it.

Even in their most intimate moments, she felt it—that lingering hesitation in him.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible. A slight pause before he kissed her. The way his grip sometimes faltered. The distant, lost look in his violet eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching.

And through the bond, she could feel it—the echoes of something unspoken, something buried deep within him.

Regret. Shame. Guilt.

She had asked him about it once, had touched his face in the quiet of the night and whispered, What’s wrong?

He had only shaken his head, had kissed her slowly, deeply, as if trying to erase the question from existence.

And she had let him.

She had told herself that he just needed time. That whatever haunted him, whatever had broken him, he would tell her when he was ready.

She didn’t push. Didn’t demand answers.

Because the thought of losing him again, of disrupting the fragile peace they had rebuilt—it was too terrifying to face.

So she convinced herself that love was enough.

That if she just held him closer, if she just kissed him harder, if she just loved him more—then whatever was haunting him would fade away.

But then, everything changed.

It started with the exhaustion.

At first, she had brushed it off as nothing. After all, it wasn’t unusual for her to feel drained after everything that had happened.

She had been running on adrenaline since Rhys’s return, had barely given herself a moment to rest, too consumed by the need to be with him, to make up for lost time.

But then, the exhaustion turned into something else.

Dizziness.

Moments where the world tilted around her, where she had to steady herself against a wall, gripping the edge of a table as she tried to catch her breath.

And then—

The nausea.

A deep, rolling sickness that crept up on her at the most unexpected moments, that had her pressing a hand to her stomach as if she could will it away.

The realization should have come sooner.

But she had been so caught up in Rhys, in the way they couldn’t seem to stay apart, that she hadn’t let herself think about it. Hadn’t let herself believe it was possible.

It wasn’t until Mor had walked in on her one morning, pale and weak and barely able to stand, that she had been forced to acknowledge the truth.

“You need to see Madja,” Mor had insisted, her voice laced with worry.

She had tried to argue, had tried to wave it off as simple exhaustion, but Mor wouldn’t hear it.

So she had gone.

And when the healer had placed a gentle hand over her stomach, when she had closed her eyes and let her magic sweep over her body—

The words that followed shattered her entire world.

“You are with child.”

Silence.

She had just stared at Madja, her mind unable to process the words.

With child.

She was pregnant.

She barely remembered leaving the healer’s chambers. Barely remembered making it back home.

The moment she stepped into the townhouse, everything hit her at once.

A child.

She was going to have Rhys’s child.

A shaky breath left her lips as she pressed a trembling hand to her stomach, as if she could already feel the life growing inside her. A laugh—disbelieving, breathless—escaped her.

She was pregnant.

With Rhys’s baby.

And for that moment, nothing else mattered.

The doubts, the hesitations, the unspoken fears—she shoved them aside, blinded by the sheer joy that swelled in her chest.

She imagined Rhys’s reaction, the way his eyes would widen in shock before softening with love, imagined the way he would drop to his knees and press his hands to her stomach, imagined the way he would whisper in awe about their future, about the family they were about to have.

She thought about telling Mor, about seeing Cassian and Azriel’s faces when they found out. She thought about the child itself—what they would look like, what kind of power they would have, what kind of life they would give them.

She was foolishly blind.

So utterly oblivious.

So caught up in her happiness, in the overwhelming joy of this moment, that she didn’t stop to think.

Didn’t stop to question.

Didn’t realize—

That Rhys might not react the way she expected.

That this child, this beautiful, miraculous child, might not fill him with the same joy it filled her with.

That the shadows in his eyes, the ghosts that haunted him, the things he had kept buried since the moment he had returned—

They weren’t just going to disappear.

The moment she found him—standing by the window, looking out over the city she had known, the city they had fought for, the city they had built together—she could feel her heart racing in her chest.

“Rhys,” she called softly, her voice warm, her smile bright.

He turned, his gaze lighting up when he saw her, but something in his eyes—something flickered. Just a moment, barely noticeable. He covered it quickly, replaced it with the mask he had become so skilled at wearing.

“YN,” he said, his voice warm but not quite as soft as she remembered. “You’re home.”

She approached him slowly, the news she was about to share making her pulse quicken with excitement. She stopped a few feet away, pressing her hand to her stomach as if to still the fluttering sensation there.

“I have something to tell you,” she began, watching the way his eyes followed her every movement. He seemed alert, even eager, but there was something else—a tension, barely concealed behind the polite smile he wore.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice smooth, controlled.

“I’m pregnant,” she said, her heart leaping in her chest. She almost wanted to laugh at how simple it sounded, how easy it was to finally say it aloud. “We’re going to have a child, Rhys.”

The room fell quiet.

For a brief moment, she swore she saw something in his eyes—something like disbelief, or maybe even fear—but it was gone before she could truly register it.

Then, he smiled. It was a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s... wonderful,” he said, his words too rehearsed, too empty. “I’m so happy for you, YN.”

But it didn’t sound like he was happy.

It sounded hollow.

For you. Not for us but....for you.

She felt the bond between them—felt the way it seemed to shudder in response to his words. There was something off, something wrong. But she couldn’t place it, not in that moment, and not with the whirlwind of excitement that was consuming her.

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. “You’re not even going to ask how I’m feeling? Not going to pick me up and twirl me around like we used to do when we had good news?”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just processing the exciting news,” he said again, though his words seemed forced, like he was trying to convince both of them.

Her smile faltered for just a moment, a flicker of doubt creeping into her chest.

He wasn’t happy. Not in the way she expected.

She could feel it—through the bond, through the way his aura flickered with shadows of guilt and hesitation. But she pushed it aside, thinking that perhaps he just needed time to process. Perhaps he was still adjusting to everything that had changed, everything that had happened in the last few days.

“I know this is a lot,” she said softly, stepping closer to him, her voice gentle, “but I know we can do this together. We’ve always been a team, Rhys.”

He nodded, but his gaze flickered away from hers, his eyes focusing on the farthest corner of the room.

“Of course,” he replied, but the words were quiet, almost too quiet, as if he wasn’t fully hearing them himself.

“Rhys,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly, “it’s a gift. A miracle. And I know... I know we’ve been through so much. But now we have a chance to build something beautiful together. You and me. A family.”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, finally, he nodded, his smile returning. It was better now, more convincing. But to her, it felt like a mask—a fragile mask that threatened to crack at the smallest touch.

“I’m sure it will be beautiful,” he said, his voice steady, but still... empty.

She watched him for a long moment, her heart thundering in her chest. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, wanted to demand to know why he wasn’t truly happy, why he wasn’t sharing in her excitement. But something inside her—some small part of her—whispered that it wasn’t the time.

He had just returned from being gone for so long, from everything they had fought for. He would come around.

She would make sure of it.

So, instead of confronting him, instead of asking the questions that were starting to swirl in her mind, she simply stepped forward, closing the space between them.

“I know you’re still processing everything,” she said, her hand resting gently on his arm, “but we’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

And though a small voice in her mind screamed that she was being foolishly blind, that she was ignoring the cracks in his facade, she smiled up at him, brushing the doubt aside once more.

For the moment, she was content to pretend that everything was perfect.

The evening air in Dawn Court was crisp, filled with a gentle hum of conversation. YN stood at the balcony, gazing out over the land. Her pregnancy, now just over two months along, was starting to show. Her once slender figure had softened, the slight curve of her bump a reminder of the life she was carrying, but there was something else—an unease. Rhysand hadn’t been the same lately.

It was almost as if he was a ghost, always present but never truly there. For weeks, his absences had become longer, his late-night disappearances even more frequent. She would lie in their shared bed at night, waiting for him to return, only to find him standing at the edge of their balcony, staring into the distance as if lost in his thoughts. His gaze was distant, unseeing, and every time she tried to reach for him, to pull him back into the present, he would retreat even further.

And then, when he would return, it was as if nothing had happened. He would smile, hold her close, kiss her forehead—but the bond felt... strained. It wasn’t the same. She could feel him slipping away, piece by piece, yet she didn’t want to admit it. She had tried to tell herself it was just the weight of the recent events, that he needed space to adjust to his newfound freedom—but deep down, she knew that wasn’t the only thing eating at him.

Tonight, however, was different. The High Lords had gathered in Dawn Court for the first time since the defeat of Amarantha, and there was an air of relief in the room, mingling with the light buzz of excitement. Rhysand had promised that they would attend together, but as the evening wore on, he had yet to appear at her side.

“YN,” Mor’s voice brought her back from her thoughts, a knowing look in her eyes. “Don’t worry. Rhys will be here.”

YN smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. He’s just... busy, I suppose.”

Mor didn’t buy it, but she said nothing more. Instead, she looped her arm through YN’s and led her back to the table. Most of the High Lords were mingling, some enjoying the informal dinner gathering, others discussing more pressing matters. Cassian and Azriel stood near the corner, deep in conversation with a few of the other soldiers. Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, stood off to the side, talking with Helion, but his gaze kept returning to YN. She felt a flicker of warmth in her chest when their eyes met.

Her bump was noticeable now, and the looks of congratulations and smiles from the lords were a welcome distraction from the silence between her and Rhys. Baron, of course, didn’t even acknowledge her presence, as usual, but the others were kind.

“You look radiant tonight, YN,” Kallias said, stepping toward her with a warm smile. He had always been one of the more reserved High Lords, his icy demeanor a product of his powers and his personality, but tonight, there was something in his eyes—gentleness, kindness. He reached out, carefully taking her hand in his, and she was surprised by how warm it felt, how soft his touch was. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she replied, smiling at him, feeling a slight flutter in her stomach at his concern. “It’s been a long couple of months. Thank you for asking.”

“You’re carrying something precious,” Kallias said quietly, glancing down at her bump before his eyes returned to hers. “I can only imagine the strength it takes to bear such a responsibility.”

YN didn’t know why, but his words hit her in a way that made her feel seen. So often, Rhysand’s attention had been diverted, and it felt as if she was carrying this burden alone. But Kallias... Kallias made her feel like she wasn’t invisible. Like she was more than just the woman carrying Rhysand’s child. She was YN, strong, capable, and worthy of attention, of affection.

She had never spoken much with Kallias beyond the formalities of the courts, but there was something about him tonight—something different. He was engaging with her, making her feel important, something that Rhys had failed to do in the last few weeks.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft, almost shy. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words. “That means more than you know.”

Kallias gave her a smile—gentle, understanding, and somehow... safe. “You deserve to be treated with kindness, YN. You’ve been through so much.”

She couldn’t help but smile back at him, the warmth of his words melting some of the icy isolation she’d been feeling.

“YN, there you are,” Rhysand’s voice broke into the moment, and she froze. He had arrived, but there was something about his tone that immediately made her stomach tighten. He was smiling, but it was tight, forced.

His gaze flickered briefly to Kallias before locking onto her, and the change in his demeanor was subtle, but YN noticed it all the same. The possessiveness in his eyes, the way his posture stiffened just a fraction, how his jaw tightened. But when he smiled again, it was almost too wide, too practiced.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist in a gesture that felt more for show than genuine affection. His touch was tight, as if he was trying to hold her in place, but there was no warmth in it.

Kallias, ever perceptive, caught the slight shift in the atmosphere. “It seems like you’ve found her,” he said with a polite smile, but there was something in his voice that held a hint of challenge.

YN tried not to let the tension in the air affect her, but it was hard to ignore. Rhysand didn’t seem happy, and Kallias—despite his icy demeanor—had made her feel something Rhys hadn’t in weeks: seen. Rhys, however, took a step closer, his voice turning more possessive. “YN, you look stunning tonight. But if you’re done here, I think we should head back.”

Her heart squeezed at his words. She had expected joy, happiness—maybe even a little pride in his eyes, but all she saw was discomfort, an undercurrent of guilt. She could feel the hesitation through their bond, like he was holding something back from her, something important.

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” YN said quietly, her tone firm but gentle. She looked back at Kallias, who nodded his understanding, and for a moment, she felt like she was stepping into unknown territory, like the simple act of asserting herself was both thrilling and terrifying.

Rhysand’s smile faltered just slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “I think it’s time, YN. We’ve been here long enough.”

YN didn’t answer him immediately. She knew what she felt, what she had felt for months now. Rhysand wasn’t the same, and no amount of pretending could make her blind to it any longer. But as she turned back to Kallias, she saw the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he watched her with a sense of admiration that was foreign in Rhysand’s presence. It made her feel seen, and it was like a balm to a wound she didn’t even realize had been open for so long.

Finally, she nodded, but not to Rhysand. She nodded to Kallias.

“Thank you,” she whispered to him, before turning back to Rhysand. “Let’s go.”

But even as they left, Rhysand’s arm tightened around her waist, his silence growing heavier. And YN could only wonder what was truly going on behind his eyes.

It was a quiet evening in the House of Wind, the air crisp and fresh as the last remnants of daylight slipped behind the mountains. YN was curled up on one of the many plush armchairs in the sitting room, her hands resting gently on her slightly visible bump, her mind swirling with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle.

But there was a coldness in the air tonight. A quiet tension that had settled in the room, and it was growing.

YN had been lost in thought when the sound of footsteps broke the silence. Rhysand appeared in the doorway, his presence as commanding as always, but tonight there was something off. His face, usually open and warm when he looked at her, was guarded. There was no smile, no greeting. He simply stood there for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her before he stepped further into the room.

But then, as quickly as he entered, he froze.

It was like the world itself stopped. His eyes went unfocused, his shoulders tensed, and before she could ask what was wrong, he disappeared—winnowed—with such suddenness that it took YN a moment to even comprehend what had happened.

She sat there, stunned, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. What had just happened? What could have caused him to leave without a word? Without a single explanation?

She rose from the chair, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach.

“Rhysand?” she called softly into the silence, but there was no answer. Nothing. It was as if he had never been there at all.

Her mind raced as she tried to understand what was going on.

She could feel it now more than ever—his discomfort, his uncertainty—but it was more than that. There was something else. She just didn’t know what.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours before Rhysand reappeared, winnowing back into the room. He was disheveled, his hair tousled, his jaw tight with frustration. His eyes, though, were what struck her the most—they were shadowed with something unfamiliar, something that made her stomach twist in apprehension.

“Rhys, what happened? Where did you go?” She couldn’t hide the concern in her voice. The distance in the bond was suffocating, and she needed to understand.

He barely looked at her. “I—had something to take care of. Don’t worry about it.”

His tone was short, dismissive, and it stung more than she expected. Before she could respond, Cassian’s voice broke in, cool and calm, though his eyes were filled with something darker, like he could sense the tension in the room.

“Rhys,” Cassian said, standing up from his spot near Y/N. “You alright?”

Rhysand’s gaze flicked to his brother briefly, then away. He didn’t answer right away, and the silence grew thick, almost suffocating. Finally, with a flick of his hand, Rhys spoke again, but his voice was still clipped, irritated. “I’m fine, Cassian. Just... some things to sort through. I’ll be back later.”

YN opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Rhys was already striding toward the door, his back to them. “Excuse me,” he muttered, his words a little too sharp.

Cassian watched him go, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned to YN. There was a look in his eyes, one that was almost apologetic, but his words were kind. He moved closer, resting his hand gently on her bump.

“Don’t worry,” Cassian said softly, his voice low and reassuring. “Rhys is... he’s just got a lot on his mind. But you—” He looked down at her belly and then met her eyes. “You’re not alone. None of us are, alright?”

YN nodded, though the confusion and worry gnawed at her. “I just don’t understand. He’s been distant lately. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You’ll figure it out, YN,” Cassian said, giving her a small smile. “He’s a stubborn one. But you know Rhys—when it’s important, he’ll come to you. Just give him time.”

But time had already passed. And the longer it stretched, the more YN wondered if the distance between them was something that could be repaired—or if it was already too late.

The next day, the atmosphere in the House of Wind was strangely subdued, everyone waiting for Rhysand’s announcement. Mor and Azriel had come by earlier, and there was a quiet sense of anticipation hanging in the air. Even Cassian seemed to be on edge, though he hid it well.

It wasn’t until dinner that evening, when the Inner Circle was gathered around the table, that Rhysand finally spoke.

“I have a special guest joining us for dinner tomorrow,” Rhysand said, his voice lighter than it had been in days, though there was a hint of something... genuine in his smile. “Feyre will be joining us.”

There was a moment of silence before the room erupted into murmurs of surprise. Feyre, the mortal-turned-Fae, the one who had helped free them all, the one who had played a key role in the downfall of Amarantha. YN felt a sudden lump form in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

The room filled with questions, comments, congratulations—though most of the attention was on Rhysand.

“So, Feyre’s finally coming to Velaris?” Azriel asked, his tone neutral, though there was a certain curiosity in his eyes.

Rhysand nodded, his smile widening. “Yes, she’s been through so much, and I thought it was time she saw the city. I can’t think of a better place for her.”

There was genuine warmth in his tone when he spoke of Feyre, and it hit YN harder than she expected. She hadn’t realized how much he had changed since their first meeting, how much he admired Feyre.

“You must be excited,” Mor said, her smile both kind and knowing. “I’m sure Feyre will love it here.”

YN forced a smile, but it felt hollow. She felt as though the room had shifted, as if Rhysand was now fully enveloped in the idea of Feyre’s arrival. She hadn’t even noticed how much he’d changed until that moment. How much he had changed.

She glanced down at her hands, the light from the candles flickering in her vision. Feyre—the girl who had saved them all. The girl who had freed Rhysand from Amarantha’s cruel reign.

The girl who had, it seemed, somehow taken her place. But at the time Y/N was too oblivious to notice that.

The night carried on, with Rhysand now more animated than ever, speaking freely of Feyre’s arrival and plans for their dinner. But YN couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was about to come between them in ways she never expected. She had been blind, so foolishly blind to the changes in Rhysand. But maybe, just maybe, it was time to confront what had been lingering beneath the surface for far too long.

The evening had come, but Rhysand still wasn’t home. The rest of the Inner Circle was gathered around the fireplace in the House of Wind, the warmth of the flames not quite enough to chase away the coldness that seemed to settle in YN’s chest. She was perched on a plush sofa, her hands once again resting on her slightly rounded belly, her gaze fixed on the crackling fire. The rest of them—Azriel, Mor, Amren, and Cassian—were scattered around the room, engaged in light conversation, but YN couldn’t bring herself to join in.

She felt the space between her and Rhys more keenly than ever.

Azriel, ever perceptive, moved closer to her. He sat down beside her, his posture gentle as he placed a hand on her back, his touch comforting but not invasive.

"You've been quiet tonight," Azriel said softly, his voice like a balm to her frayed nerves.

YN sighed, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the fabric of her dress. "I don't know, Az. Something’s wrong. Rhys… he’s so distant. It’s like I’m not even here for him anymore."

Cassian, who had been perched by the fireplace, took a step forward, his usual jovial demeanor subdued. His eyes softened with concern as he noticed the way YN was slumped into the cushions, her shoulders tense.

“He’ll come around,” Cassian said, trying to sound reassuring, but his voice lacked the usual certainty. He knew Rhysand better than anyone, and even he couldn’t deny the shift that had been happening.

But YN just shook her head, her voice quiet, barely above a whisper.

“No,” she replied, her eyes downcast. “It’s more than that. I’ve seen him these last few days, Cass. He’s not just distracted. He’s hesitant. Like he’s somewhere else entirely, even when he’s standing right in front of me. His smiles don’t reach his eyes anymore. He looks at me, but he doesn’t see me.” Her voice trembled as she spoke the words she had been trying to ignore, trying to pretend weren’t happening. “I try to soothe him, I try to be there for him, but I can feel the distance growing.”

Mor, who had been listening quietly, crossed the room and sat next to YN, her arm wrapping around her in a rare show of tenderness.

“I know it's hard,” Mor said softly, her tone filled with understanding. “But Rhys is... he's always had a lot on his shoulders. You know that. He’s the High Lord. And even when he has us around, some things he keeps locked up.”

“But this?” YN asked, her eyes wide with hurt. “It’s more than just the weight of the throne, Mor. He’s gone, even when he’s here. I feel it in the bond. It’s like he’s slipping away.”

Azriel leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “He’s not slipping away, YN. Rhysand is just… processing something. There are things he needs to work through. It’s not about you.”

“Isn’t it?” she whispered, feeling a knot of doubt twist in her stomach. “I’ve seen him shut down before, Az. But this time? It’s different. I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not even sure if he wants me to fix it.”

Cassian’s face darkened, his protective instincts flaring as he moved closer to her. He crossed his arms over his chest, his voice stern as he looked at YN. “Listen to me, YN. You’re doing everything you can. And you’re not alone in this. I’m not going to let you go through this by yourself. None of us are.” He shifted his gaze to her stomach. “You’re carrying something precious, and I’ll be damned if I let anything—” he stopped himself and softened, “I’ll be damned if you don’t get the care you deserve.”

YN blinked at him, the unspoken concern for her growing more tangible with every word.

“When was the last time you ate properly?” Cassian asked, his tone turning gentle but insistent. “When did you last sleep through the night?”

YN faltered, looking down at her lap. “I... I’m fine, Cassian. It’s just... I’m not hungry, that’s all. Rhys—”

“No.” Cassian’s voice cut through her words. “You’re not fine. You’re carrying Rhysand’s child, and he’s not here right now. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. You need to eat, you need to sleep. And we’re all here to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Azriel nodded in agreement, his hand still resting lightly on her back. “Cassian’s right, YN. We’re not going to stand by and watch you push yourself too hard. If Rhys doesn’t notice, we do. And we’ll make sure you’re okay. We’ll talk to him, too.”

YN swallowed hard, blinking back tears that had no business being there. “It’s just hard,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s not the male I knew anymore. And I’m scared, Az. Scared that maybe... maybe he never really was the male I thought he was.”

Before anyone could say more, the sound of wings flapping loudly outside interrupted the conversation. The group turned, and in the blink of an eye, Rhysand landed gracefully on the balcony, holding Feyre in his arms.

YN’s heart clenched at the sight of them, her thoughts a storm of confusion. She stood up from the sofa, but her feet felt heavy, reluctant. It was almost like she couldn’t move. She knew Feyre—had heard so much about her, the mortal-turned-Fae who had helped free them all. But seeing Rhys so effortlessly carry Feyre, with that smile that she’d only ever seen directed at her... it hit YN in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

Mor stood by her side, watching as Rhysand approached the door with Feyre. Her hand on YN’s arm was gentle, a soft reassurance that YN was thankful for.

“Go on,” Mor said quietly. “You’re just as important here, YN. You don’t need to be scared of what’s happening. We are here for you.”

YN nodded, drawing in a deep breath as she moved forward, her steps uncertain but steady. As Rhysand and Feyre entered the room, she saw the way Rhys looked at Feyre—softly, protectively, and with an affection that, for the first time, made YN feel like she was no longer at the center of his world.

Feyre smiled at YN as Rhys gently set her down on her feet. There was a kindness in her eyes, a warmth that reminded YN of the girl who had sacrificed so much for them all. YN’s heart softened, and she stepped forward, reaching out.

“Thank you,” YN said, her voice thick with gratitude. “For everything. You—” She paused, her emotions overwhelming her for a moment, before she pulled Feyre into a tight embrace. “I know it’s because of you that we’re all here. That Rhys is here. I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

Feyre hugged her back just as tightly, her voice warm and kind. “I didn’t do it alone,” Feyre said, pulling back with a small smile. “But I’m happy to be here. With all of you.”

The group settled around the dinner table as the conversation turned to lighter topics. Feyre was kind and gracious, a perfect guest, while Rhysand sat with a rare relaxed air, laughing and joining in with the others. But YN, despite the smiles and easy conversation, couldn’t shake the feeling of being on the outside looking in.

She smiled when it was needed, nodded at the right times, but inside, she felt the gap between her and Rhys grow larger. The more they talked about Feyre—her kindness, her bravery, her role in their world—the more YN couldn’t help but feel that she was losing Rhysand to someone else.

It hurt in ways she hadn’t anticipated. But she kept her face calm, her composure intact, and though the knot in her chest tightened, she smiled through it all.

The night stretched on, filled with laughter and stories. But as they all ate, YN sat back, her thoughts swirling. Rhysand was no longer just the man who loved her; he was someone different, someone who had room in his heart for another. She could see it in the way he spoke of Feyre, the way his gaze lingered on her.

And YN? She was simply standing on the sidelines, trying to hold onto a love that seemed to be slipping through her fingers.

The night was long. But YN would fight for her place in Rhys’s heart—for their future. Even if it meant facing what she was most afraid of.

he House of Wind had become more than just a home for Y/N over the past few weeks; it had become a place of quiet, uneasy observation. At first, everything had felt like a blur—busy days and nights spent adjusting to the changes. Feyre’s arrival had been a shock, an unexpected whirlwind that shifted the delicate balance of their lives. Yet, it was not Feyre’s presence alone that unsettled Y/N. It was Rhysand’s shifting attention, his sudden and unnerving detachment from her.

Y/N had noticed it first in the small things—how he would spend hours in the study with Feyre, teaching her new things, showing her how to control her magic, his voice soft, patient. His lessons went on for hours, and there were times when Y/N would sit in the grand hall, reading, waiting for him to return to her, but he never did.

It was as if Feyre needed him now more than she ever had, and Rhysand was more than willing to give everything he had to her. She didn’t understand it—why did he need to give her so much of himself? Why did his lessons stretch on endlessly, late into the night, when there were so many other things to focus on, things that they could share as a couple, as soon-to-be parents?

Even when he wasn’t with Feyre, Y/N couldn’t reach him. When the day would finally end, and Rhysand would return to the House of Wind, he would often retreat to his office instead of coming to her side. He slept there for hours, the door to his office often left ajar, his figure slouched over piles of paperwork and forgotten responsibilities.

Y/N would lie in their bed, her growing belly pressing into the soft sheets, feeling the absence of her mate more profoundly with each passing day. She knew that Rhysand’s duties as High Lord were demanding, but surely, surely he could make time for her, especially now that she was carrying his child. But no. It was always Cassian, Azriel, Mor and Amren who hovered over her, their concern for her health and wellbeing growing each day. Cassian was the first to notice when she had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Azriel was there, always in the background, quietly ensuring that she was okay. Amren and Mor took on the roles of mothers, watching over her, their comforting presence a constant reminder that she was not alone, even when Rhysand was distant.

She would often ask, “Have you spoken with him? Does he seem different to you?” and Azriel would only look at her with that familiar shadow of confusion in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he would say, his voice low, thoughtful. “Rhys has never been like this before. It’s like he’s refusing to talk about whatever’s bothering him.”

And Y/N? She tried to convince herself that it was just a phase. Maybe it was the pressure of ruling, the stress of keeping Velaris safe. Maybe Feyre’s arrival had triggered something deep inside Rhysand, something she couldn’t understand. It was foolish of her to think that she could make it through this journey unscathed. But deep down, she felt the sting of it. The weight of his neglect hung heavy on her chest.

She would tell herself that Feyre needed him. Feyre had gone through so much in her life—losing her family, fighting in the war, carrying burdens Y/N could never comprehend. Maybe it was only fair that Rhysand focus on her, that he be there for Feyre while she healed. Maybe she needed his support more than Y/N did.

The thoughts tasted like poison on her tongue, and she tried to swallow them down, but they kept coming back, lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

One evening, when Rhysand returned from another long day with Feyre, Y/N found herself staring at the door to his office, waiting for him to come to her. She could hear the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, and she tried to steady her breath, but when he didn’t knock on her door, when he didn’t even acknowledge her presence, her heart sank deeper.

Later that week, she overheard Rhysand telling Feyre that he would be taking her to the Illyrian camps. It was dangerous, he said, but necessary. They would stop at the Weaver’s house on the way, and Y/N couldn’t help the knot that twisted in her stomach. She tried to smile, to seem supportive, but when she asked, “Why? Why are you taking her there? That’s so dangerous,” Rhysand’s expression was distant, his gaze hard.

“I need her to retrieve something for me,” he explained curtly, but there was no warmth in his voice. He didn’t meet her eyes.

Y/N stood there, shocked, trying to process what he had said. She watched them leave, her heart heavy with the feeling that she was losing him, that whatever connection they had once shared was slipping through her fingers.

As Rhysand and Feyre made their way to the Illyrian camps, Y/N couldn’t shake the sense of betrayal that had begun to grow inside her. She would wait for them to return, but she wasn’t sure what she would find when they did. Would Rhysand still be the same, or would Feyre’s presence in his life change everything forever?

The house was quieter than it had been in weeks. The absence of Rhysand and Feyre had left a void, and the walls seemed to echo with silence. Y/n sat near the window, the early evening sunlight casting a golden glow across the room, her fingers gently tracing the curve of her swollen belly. She had been waiting—waiting for Rhysand’s return, for any sign of the distance between them to close. But all she had received was space. The quiet ache in her chest gnawed at her.

Amren, ever watchful, sat across from her, her expression unreadable. But Y/n noticed the tension in her gaze, the way she kept looking at her with something close to concern. It didn’t help that the others had been distant too—Azriel, Cassian, and Mor, all acting like they were hiding something, exchanging too many knowing glances and hushed conversations. It only deepened her sense of unease.

Today, however, was different. Gifts had arrived for her—thoughtful, generous tokens from several of the Highlords in honor of her soon-to-be motherhood. She’d been expecting them, but still, the small mountain of neatly wrapped parcels in front of her filled her with mixed emotions.

"Open them," Amren said softly, as if sensing her hesitation. "

Y/n nodded, the familiar rustle of paper comforting her in its simplicity. She picked up the first gift, a small, elegant box wrapped in a deep shade of red with a ribbon that shimmered like morning sunlight. She carefully untied the bow, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, studded with tiny moonstones that glinted softly in the fading light. It was beautiful, simple, and elegant. She smiled softly, imagining it wrapped around her wrist as she cradled her baby.

"Oh, Helion," she murmured, the thought of the Highlord of Day bringing a warmth to her chest. She ran her fingers over the cool stones, letting out a sigh as she admired the craftsmanship.

"He's always been a thoughtful one," Amren remarked with a raised brow, as if she too had felt the affection Helion had for Y/n.

Y/n smiled faintly, placing the bracelet to the side. There were other gifts to open. She picked up the next parcel, this one wrapped in soft blue paper with intricate golden designs. It was from Thesan, the Highlord of Dawn, a court known for its refined beauty and grace. When she opened it, she was greeted by a set of hand-painted ceramic dishes, each piece vibrant with delicate patterns that seemed to glow with a warmth that reminded her of sunrises.

Thesan had always been attentive, and she smiled as she imagined the quiet, regal Highlord choosing each piece carefully. She couldn't help but appreciate the thoughtfulness, the way he considered her comfort and her child’s future.

But it was the third gift that captured her attention.

The parcel from Kallias, the Highlord of Winter, was wrapped in dark, rich purple paper. She carefully untied the ribbon, her heart beating a little faster, and opened the box inside. What she found inside was far beyond anything she could have expected.

A small, intricately carved wooden box. It was no larger than the palm of her hand, and as she ran her fingers over its smooth surface, she noticed delicate snowflakes and swirling designs etched into the wood. There was something magical about it, something that made her chest tighten. Inside, nestled among soft velvet, was a small crystal vial filled with a silvery liquid that shimmered like moonlight on snow. Alongside it was a small letter, written in Kallias’s elegant handwriting.

"To Y/n, with warmth and hope for the future. May this gift be a reminder of the strength within you, and the serenity you will find in the stillness of winter’s embrace. You are not alone, not ever."

Y/n’s breath hitched in her throat as she held the vial gently, the words from Kallias sending a ripple of warmth through her. His gift was not just thoughtful—it was deeply personal. It felt like an invitation, a message from someone who saw her, truly saw her, even when the others had become distant.

"He really thought of everything," Y/n whispered, her fingers tracing the small vial.

Amren watched her with a quiet expression, her eyes flicking between the gifts and Y/n’s reaction. “He did,” she agreed softly. “Kallias is a good male. He knows the value of compassion.”

Y/n nodded, her heart swelling with gratitude. The tension in the room was still palpable, but this small gesture from Kallias made her feel seen, reminded her that she wasn’t invisible in the midst of the growing chaos.

Before she could say anything further, a sharp knock echoed from the door.

“Rhysand and Feyre,” Amren muttered, already standing up. “I suppose the moment has arrived.”

Y/n’s stomach tightened, both with excitement and dread. She wasn’t sure what to expect.

As the door swung open and Rhysand stepped in, with Feyre at his side, something immediately shifted in the air. Rhysand’s usual confident demeanor was different—sharper, perhaps, but there was a sense of something unsaid between him and Feyre, an energy Y/n couldn’t quite place. Feyre’s smile was brighter than she’d seen in ages, but there was a newness in her eyes—a quiet certainty.

Y/n’s breath caught as she noticed their shared glances, the unspoken bond between them that hummed through the air like an invisible thread. She stood, feeling the weight of the moment settle into her bones.

“Well, look at you both,” Y/n said, forcing a smile, though it felt hollow. “Feyre, you look well. I hope the journey wasn’t too hard.”

Feyre smiled warmly, though there was a hint of something private behind her eyes. “We managed,” she said, the way she said it making Y/n’s heart clench. “And you, Y/n? How are you feeling?”

Y/n’s gaze flickered to Rhysand, his expression unreadable. “I’m getting there,” she said softly, and though it was true, it felt like an answer far too shallow for everything else she wanted to express.

As the evening wore on and everyone gathered around the table, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong—something had shifted, and no one, not even Rhysand, seemed to want to speak the truth of it.

But she noticed the way Rhysand’s eyes lingered on Feyre, the way their quiet exchanges seemed to carry a weight that hadn’t been there before.

And she wondered, in the deepest part of her heart, if she had lost something she hadn’t fully realized was slipping through her fingers.

Y/n’s eyes fluttered open as an uncomfortable wave of pain stretched across her back, her large belly shifting uneasily beneath the blankets. The room, once warm and familiar, now felt suffocating, the walls closing in around her as she tried to shift positions. Her heart thudded a little too loudly, and the silence only amplified the emptiness in the space. Rhysand had not been by her side for hours, and at this point, it was becoming a familiar absence—one she couldn’t ignore.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she sat up, the strain of carrying their child weighing heavily on her. She hadn’t wanted to wake him, but something inside of her yearned for the quiet solace of a midnight walk—anything to soothe the tightness in her chest. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Amren, who still slept soundly beside her. Y/n made her way to the door and stepped out into the cool, moonlit halls of the House of Wind.

As she walked down the corridor, her mind buzzed with a thousand questions. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between her and Rhysand, even before he left for the war. The secretive looks exchanged between him, Feyre, and the others had only deepened her suspicions. The change in his demeanor when he’d returned had been subtle, but it was there. She just didn’t know what to make of it. Yet.

The soft sound of footsteps ahead caught her attention. Cassian.

He froze when he spotted her, his eyes briefly flickering with a flash of surprise before he tried to hide it behind a strained smile. “Y/n… What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a little too high-pitched, like he’d been caught off guard.

Y/n raised an eyebrow at him, her hand resting against her rounded belly. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make myself some tea,” she said, trying to act nonchalant. “Is something wrong?”

Cassian’s smile softened, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He eyed her for a moment before speaking in a quiet, almost tender voice, “Well, wouldn’t want a lady like you wandering these halls alone at this time of night.” His voice dropped lower as he added, “Let me join you.”

Y/n felt a sense of comfort in his words, the warmth of his easy-going nature wrapping around her like a blanket. She smiled at him, the bond they had forged over the years making this moment feel… safe, in spite of the turmoil in her heart.

They started walking together, Cassian keeping pace beside her. The halls seemed endless as they made their way to the kitchen, but the familiar company made the journey less isolating. Their conversation flowed easily, the lull of their voices filling the air between them.

“Have you had time to rest?” Cassian asked, glancing over at her belly. “You should take it easy, you know.”

Y/n chuckled softly, rubbing her belly. “I’m fine. The little one is kicking up a storm tonight. Can’t quite settle down.”

Cassian’s grin was easy, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes, something unspoken, as he leaned slightly toward her, trying to offer her comfort. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t take it easy. You’ve been through a lot.”

She tilted her head at him. “You’re always so kind, Cassian,” she said, almost teasing. “I appreciate it.”

“Anything for you,” he replied, with a wink that made her laugh. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Y/n smirked. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

They continued talking, weaving through the halls, discussing small things—how the weather had been, how the training had been progressing with the armies—and the more they spoke, the lighter Y/n felt. It was like a brief escape from the gnawing uncertainty she carried.

But then, as they reached a corridor near Feyre’s room, Y/n noticed something strange.

A small light was spilling out from beneath the door.

She froze mid-step, and Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “That’s odd,” he muttered, glancing at her. “Feyre should be asleep by now.”

Y/n frowned. “Should we check on her? She might need something.”

Cassian hesitated but gave a tight nod. “I’ll be right back.” He took a few steps forward, his large form blocking the door as he cracked it open. But before he could slip inside, he froze.

Y/n, not one to stand idly by, took a small step forward, peering around him. “Cassian?” she whispered, her voice unsure.

But Cassian, his face hardening in a way she hadn’t seen before, quickly turned to her. “Y/n,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern, “please… Let’s go back. It’s—”

Before he could finish, Y/n pushed past him, her heart thundering in her chest. She entered the room, and in the dim light, her gaze locked on the sight before her.

Rhysand and Feyre. Together.

Rhysand had Feyre pressed against the wall, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the intensity of their connection undeniable.

Y/n’s heart stopped in her chest, the air thick with the realization crashing over her. She blinked, disbelieving. This was not happening.

“Rhysand,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her legs threatened to give out from under her.

Rhysand’s eyes widened, and he immediately pulled away from Feyre, both of them frozen in shock. Feyre’s face flushed with guilt, but it wasn’t enough.

Y/n’s hands trembled, her thoughts spiraling as she processed the sight. All the doubt, all the pain, everything she’d tried to ignore—it was true.

Without another word, Y/n turned and fled, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t even hear Cassian call after her, his voice full of anguish. All she could hear was the thundering of her own heartbeat and the sound of her feet pounding down the halls.

She was halfway down the corridor when she felt Cassian’s hand on her arm, pulling her back gently. “Y/n, please,” he said, voice low. “You don’t have to do this.”

But Y/n, in her shock, yanked her arm away. “Don’t touch me, Cassian!” she shouted. “How long? How long has this been going on? How long have you all been hiding this from me?”

Her voice wavered, breaking with every word. Her emotions were a storm. She didn’t care who saw it anymore. She’d been blind.

Cassian took a step back, his eyes filled with regret. “Y/n, please—”

Her hands trembled, but her words were sharp, cutting through the hall like a blade. "Why didn’t you tell me? Why?" She stepped forward, her gaze locked onto Rhysand, the male who had once been everything to her. "You made me believe in you. We built a life together! A family! And now… now I’m supposed to just accept this?" Her voice cracked as she swallowed the lump in her throat, the weight of it all almost suffocating her. "We have a child, Rhysand! You will be a father!"

Rhysand flinched as if her words had struck him harder than any physical blow. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He reached for her, but her eyes hardened, her heart already too far gone for him to reach.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" she shouted, her voice growing louder, desperate for answers. The anger poured out of her like a flood, drowning everything in its path. "Is that it? You just gave it all up? How could you do this to me? To us?" She gestured between herself and her stomach, the child growing inside of her. "I gave you everything. I gave you my trust. My heart. And this is how you repay me? This is the price I pay for being so blind?"

Feyre took a hesitant step forward, her face filled with guilt, but Rhysand’s protective instinct flared. His hand shot out, catching Feyre behind him, his posture stiff and defensive. His eyes flickered with regret, but they held the painful truth.

For a split second, Y/n thought she might lose herself completely, but then the bitter laugh escaped her. It was harsh, mocking—disbelieving.

Because that was when it hit her.

These two were mates. Mates.

"So mates, huh? Is that what this is all about?" she scoffed. "I guess I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming, shouldn’t I?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm now, the anguish inside her turning to venom. "But of course, you would protect her, wouldn’t you?" She looked at Feyre with contempt, shaking her head. "You didn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth."

Rhysand’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent. The pain in his eyes was evident, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t, not when he knew the words he needed to say would only make things worse. His heart ached for her, but he had no idea how to fix what he had broken.

Y/n’s body shook with anger, the injustice of it all weighing down on her chest. She turned on her heel, ready to storm away, but that’s when it happened.

The sharp pain slammed into her abdomen, and her knees buckled. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as her vision blurred with pain.

Azriel--who appeared out of nowhere--was at her side in an instant, his arms steadying her, but her body betrayed her. She clutched her stomach, her body wracked with pain that seemed to come from nowhere.

"Y/n?" Azriel’s voice was filled with concern as he tried to steady her, but she could barely hear him through the intensity of the agony. Cassian was on the other side, his hands gently gripping her arms, trying to keep her upright.

"Madja!" Cassian barked at Rhysand, his voice filled with anger and venom, "Be responsible and get Madja now!"

But Y/n didn’t hear him. All she could focus on was the agony coursing through her, the pain so sharp and overwhelming that it consumed her. She didn’t care about Rhysand anymore. She didn’t care about Feyre. She didn’t care about anything except for one thing: their child.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as she cradled her stomach with one hand, feeling the life growing inside her, the precious little one she had been so determined to protect.

"Please," she whispered weakly, her voice breaking as she looked at Rhysand. "Please don’t take this from me."

Cassian and Azriel exchanged a frantic glance, both of them moving into protective mode as they kept her steady. Y/n’s eyes were locked onto Rhysand now, her fury mingled with a desperate need for him to understand. To feel the weight of what he had done.

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Rhysand stepped forward, his hand reaching out to her, but Y/n jerked away from him, the sudden movement only worsening the pain in her abdomen. She gasped again, clutching her stomach as a new wave of agony hit her.

“Y/n, please—” Rhysand’s voice was low, broken, but she couldn’t listen. Not anymore.

"No," she choked out, her voice hoarse. "No more excuses, Rhysand." Her hands trembled, her body trembling, and she couldn’t hold back the flood of emotions any longer. She was done.

The pain continued to tear through her, her thoughts scattering, spinning out of control as she cradled her stomach tighter. The tears she had been holding back finally spilled, but they weren’t just from the physical pain. They were for everything she had lost in that one moment. The trust. The love. The future they were supposed to build together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” She glanced at Feyre, her eyes hard, but her voice trembled with more than just anger. “How could you—how could you do this to me?”

But before anyone could respond, another wave of pain shot through her, and she screamed, her body collapsing into Cassian and Azriel’s arms. Her mind was a blur, only one thing clear—she needed help. She needed them to save the child.

Azriel's voice was low and commanding, filled with urgency. "Cassian, hold her. I’ll get Madja." He turned and moved swiftly toward the door, his wings brushing against the wall as he flew out into the night.

“Please, Y/n,” Cassian murmured, his voice soft but filled with fear. “Please, hold on.”

Y/n’s vision was swimming. She barely registered the words, the frantic chaos around her, her body failing her. All she could feel was the tight grip of the pain as it dragged her deeper into the darkness.

Rhysand stood there, torn between the desperate need to run to her side and the instinct to protect Feyre. He was lost. He had lost her. And in that moment, Y/n’s shattered words echoed in his mind: We have a child, Rhysand... You will be a father... Are you not ashamed of yourself?

And for the first time in his life, Rhysand had no answers.

Y/n slowly regained consciousness, the dull ache in her head reminding her of the storm that had passed through her body. She blinked against the bright light, her vision blurred for a moment before it cleared. The soft, cool sheets beneath her, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, it all felt so distant and overwhelming.

Madja's voice cut through the haze. "You're awake," she said softly, her tone warm but firm. "Good thing no harm was done to the baby, but you're under a lot of stress. I can feel it in your body, the strain on you."

Y/n turned her head slowly, seeing Madja standing next to her, the healer’s face filled with concern. Azriel was by the window, his posture tense, while Cassian hovered near the foot of the bed, his face a mixture of guilt and concern. Amren, ever stoic, stood off to the side, her eyes watching with an unreadable expression.

"Your baby is fine, Y/n," Madja continued, placing a hand lightly on Y/n’s arm. "There’s no danger of premature birth. Just take care of yourself, try to rest, and the baby will be fine. But your stress levels... they’re far too high." She gave them all a pointed look. "All of you."

With that, Madja stepped back, her eyes lingering on Y/n for a moment longer before she turned and left the room. There was a silence that followed, one that stretched out far too long for Y/n's comfort. Cassian was the first to speak, though his voice was unsure, quiet, the weight of his earlier actions heavy in the air.

"Y/n, I—" he started, but Y/n lifted her hand weakly, signaling for him to stop.

"How long?" she whispered, her voice fragile but steady with the hurt of it all. "How long have you all known?"

Azriel stiffened, and Amren rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Girl, don’t involve me in this mess," she said with a scoff. "I had no idea either. Though, it was kind of obvious." She glared at the two males as if daring them to argue.

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, looking down at the floor, his voice laced with regret. "We thought it would be best to wait until after the birth to tell you. We didn’t want to put you or the baby at risk."

Y/n's eyes flickered between them, too weary to say anything but the truth. "And that plan went to shit."

Azriel exhaled sharply, stepping closer to the bed. "Y/n, I am so sorry," he said, his voice raw with regret. "Rhysand told us all—told us that she was his mate after the journey. Feyre was mad at him, and... and then Rhys finally came clean to all of us. Told us everything." His eyes were filled with sincerity. "We should’ve told you sooner."

Y/n closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I trusted you all. All of you. And you kept this from me. You should’ve told me the moment you knew." Her voice cracked, but she didn't back down. She would not back down from this.

"I know," Cassian said quietly, his voice filled with shame. "We thought it was for the best. But you’re right. We should’ve told you. I should’ve told you." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustration flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Y/n. I should've trusted you."

The room was thick with emotion, a painful silence hanging in the air when, suddenly, a piece of paper appeared in Y/n’s lap, its crisp edges catching the light. She blinked, a small smile pulling at her lips as she grabbed the letter. Her gaze softened as she read it, the others leaning in, confused.

"What’s this?" Cassian asked, his voice low. "Who’s it from?"

"Kallias," Y/n murmured, her fingers brushing over the letter’s surface with a sad smile. "The High Lord of Winter."

Everyone froze, their eyes widening as they processed the name. "Kallias?" Azriel repeated, his brows furrowed. "What’s he writing to you for?"

Y/n’s smile turned bittersweet as she looked up from the letter, her eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and something more resolute. "I wrote to him a week ago, asking if I could visit Winter. I needed a change of scenery. And he..." she trailed off, her smile growing faint. "He’s more than happy to have me."

The others stared at her, stunned into silence. The room felt as though it had shifted in an instant. "You... You’re going to Winter?" Amren asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Why now?"

Y/n’s smile faltered, but she didn’t hide it. "I already knew I’d leave sooner or later," she whispered, her hands trembling slightly as she folded the letter. "Just... not this soon. I guess my leave will be permanent."

The room erupted into chaos.

"Y/n, no," Cassian said, stepping toward her, his voice filled with desperation. "Please, you can’t—"

"Please," Azriel added softly, moving to her side. "Don’t go."

But Y/n held up her hand, silencing them all. There was a moment of stillness, a tension hanging in the air as they all waited. Slowly, Y/n swung her legs off the side of the bed, her movements slow but deliberate. She pulled her bag from underneath the bed, her gaze focused on the task at hand. "I need this," she said quietly, as though it was an understanding only she could see. "I’ve always needed this."

"Y/n, please," Cassian pleaded again, his voice rough with emotion. "You don’t have to do this."

Y/n’s gaze softened, but she was firm. "I do," she replied, her voice steady. "I do have to."

The room was quiet now, the weight of her words settling over them. It was clear there was no changing her mind.

"Now," Y/n said, turning to Amren, "will you please help me get changed?"

Amren’s expression softened slightly, but she gave a small nod. "Get out, all of you," she said, her tone more gentle than usual. "I’ll help her. And I’ve got advice for her."

The others left reluctantly, Cassian lingering at the door, his eyes heavy with unspoken emotions. Y/n caught his gaze and held it for a moment, before she turned back to Amren, the two of them sharing a quiet understanding.

Amren helped her get dressed, the quiet advice coming in fragments. "Take care of yourself, Y/n. Don’t let them hold you back. You deserve this peace. You deserve to find what you need. The rest will follow."

Y/n nodded, a weak but grateful smile on her lips. "Thank you, Amren."

When she was finally ready, Azriel appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Y/n took a deep breath before moving toward him. Cassian, Mor, and even Amren stood back, their eyes heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Before she left, Y/n moved toward Cassian first. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close for a moment, her face buried in his chest. "I’ll miss you," she whispered.

Cassian hugged her back, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "Please take care of yourself," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

Next, she turned to Mor, who embraced her with a tight, brief hug, her expression just as conflicted. "I hope you find what you need," Mor said softly.

Lastly, Y/n stepped toward Amren, who looked at her with a strange blend of pride and sorrow. "You’re stronger than you think," Amren said with a faint smile, before she too turned away, leaving Y/n to face her own path.

Y/n gave one last glance at the room before stepping outside. Azriel was waiting for her, his hand outstretched. Without a word, she took it, and in a flash of blue light, they vanished, leaving the shadows of the past behind.

And though Rhysand’s presence was absent, Y/n’s resolve was clear. She was moving on. She was taking the first step toward healing. Toward a future she would shape on her own terms.

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#acotar #rhysand acotar #rhysand angst #rhysand x reader #acotar angst #acotar x reader #rhysand imagine #acotar imagine

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