#THIS WAS SO AMAZING...NEVER GETTING OVER IT

[madamechrissy]

Lights, Camera - Action! 🎬

Pairings- Moviestar! Satoru x Costar! Reader

Warnings - mdni - sexual tension, kissing, desire, mutual pining (my fave lol)

I may make this a full oneshot, lmk in the comments if you'd want one 🫶 idea for movie star Gojo from @iamharryswife

You can't fall in love with your costar on your first big role.

Its not professional, right? To get soaking wet as he kisses you for the cameras, as his plush lips press on yours, and the cameras are flashing so bright. As directors and producers stare at the two of you.

This is a huge opportunity, your first co-starring role with Satoru Gojo, one of the most famous actors there are. For a girl from a small town in a low income home, this meant more than just wealth for you, it was securing everyone back home right now.

It would be scandalous, and he is rumored to be dating some of the most famous damn actress in the world already, a bit of a playboy. Plus, its all for the movie, for the shot, how his tongue slips in your mouth, how his big hands slip up your top.

You're trembling then, struggling for composure as Satoru Gojo leans up, frowning a bit, his brilliant blue eyes ever attentive as his silky white hair falls over his brow. 'Sweets, you need a moment?'

'Cut,' the director calls, you're blushing now, as he leans up, shirtless for the scene. He's so heart breakingly gorgeous, and you're worried he can feel the heat between your thighs.

'Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? It's your first time doing a scene like this, right?'

The problem isn't the scene, the problem is your cunt is throbbing around nothing, and your nipples are taut and pressed against your top. How could you separate acting from reality when your body is reacting like it never has?

'No you're great, I don't know if I am doing well I think. I'm in my head.' He brushes your hair back, and that's not for cameras that are now diverted from their shot of you two in the makeshift bedroom. No, it's genuine when he smiles.

You thought he'd be an ass like the rumors all said, but Satoru was achingly thoughtful and sweet. A perfect costar, you've watched him for years and been so enamored, is that what all this is? The build up, the admiration, of going from a fan to a costar?

'You're doing amazing, kissing is on point. Doesn't look fake or forced either,' you exhale nervously. Of course he's helping direct this movie as well, his directing debut, and he considers this good acting and not what it really is. You just enjoy it. 'If you need to, we can take a breather.'

'I'm good, promise. Thank you Gojo.' He smiles and soon he's kissing a trail down your breasts as the shoot continuds, gently pushing up your top. His heavy breaths just making you wetter, and that's when he catches it, as he lifts your thigh an kisses your knee for the intimate scene to start.

You're dripping down your inner thigh.

He grips you too tightly, his body reacts in a way it never does, not since his first shoot has he in any way had some reaction. This was methodical, clinical in its nature, every kiss perfect and precise, every look for the camera on point.

His costars got excited, he's been with some of them outside of this, but he's never seen glistening wetness on an inner thigh like this, feeling your heat radiating. He can't help but leak pre against his boxers, highly fucking unprofessional as you look up at him.

God you're fucking pretty like this.

Hes blinking, trying to focus, gather his thoughts at all, when he goes back to kissing your knee, the bright lights all over you all as the camera zoom in. He swipes that away, you're gasping, eyes fluttering shut, when he can't help but taste you right on set.

A deliberately secret motion, no one could know but him, but when he tastes you on his tongue he loses all sense of what's around him, and his desire takes hold. He can't be unprofessional right? He can't just eat you out for real, this isn't a porn it's a fuckkng r rated movie.

But he seriously contemplates it before he hears another - 'cut!' - and he's brought back to reality, of the pretty new costar under him.

[acoazlove]

AHHHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK LYSS?! THIS IS ACTUALLY INCREDIBLE!!!! I LOVE THIS, I ALREADY KNEW I WOULD, BUT ITS COMPLETELY EXCEEDED MY EXPECTATIONS!!!

so so so many things to write, to say!! i was reading this with a smile the entire time, i also used both of my work breaks to read some of it earlier today. the anticipation was killing me!

okay so first things first. THE BANTER! THE BANTERRRR! i love them!!! I love rhysands silver tongue (😏). but i absolutely adore that you gave reader a sharp tongue too! obviously as high lady of the dusk court she should be sharp witted too.

that brings me into the next thing, THE DUSK COURT!!! I LOOOOVE AHHHHHHH!!! i love how you added a dusk court!!! the fighting over territory was such an amazing way to create tension!! oh my god, speaking of tension, the high lords showing up in summer just the see rhy and reader interact made me giggle. honestly my patience would wear thin too girl. i’d have just left 🫢.

THIRD THING IS THE LETTERS, OMG LYSS, THE LETTERS!!!!! i love how the letters turned less and less formal the more they sent! i also LOVE that rhysand kept putting ‘Yours, Rhysand’ AHHHHHHH IM FERAL FOR HIM!!! not to mention THE letter!! i love how you wrote his inner thoughts, how the letter showed his innermost turmoil by the crossing out of words, and the random sentences and notes mixed in!!!

NEXT THING IS THE SMUT!! cause girlll i’m dead. LYSS YOURE SUCH AND AMAZING WRITER AND THE WAY YOU WRITE SMUT IS IMPECCABLE!! mwah chefs kiss truly. ‘i could get drunk off you’ ‘you taste like heaven’ ??? IF MY PARTNER ISNT LIKE THAT I DONT WANT THEM!!! BECAUSE WHAT?! I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM I LOVE THEM!!!

girl i genuinely might lose it cause there’s so so so much more i want to say but my brain most definitely short circuited. lyss, you are such and incredible writer, truly. you deserve awards for what you write! i love everything you put out, and i’m so sorry it took me so long to read but the wait was with it!! i love this, and can proudly say that this is one of my favourite fic EVER!!!

love you girl, keep doing what you’re doing. you’re doing amazing!! <333

P.S. i told it was going to be an essay hehe

Signed, Sealed, Unspoken

Rhysand x Reader

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

To the Most Esteemed High Lord of the Night Court,

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

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

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

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

I await your response. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To Her Radiance, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

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

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

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

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Most Generous High Lord of the Night Court,

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

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

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

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

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

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

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

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

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

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

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

Your terms have been received—and rejected.

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

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

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

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

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

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

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

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

Do let me know.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Adriata, Summer Court

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a word for it,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

Was.

You dropped your arm and stopped walking. 

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

Of course. Cresseida and that damned mouth of hers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You closed your eyes for a brief moment. 

Wonderful. 

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

And now, you’d have an audience. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You squared your shoulders and followed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He noticed you before you reached him. 

Of course he did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a heartbeat, you nearly smiled. 

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

 “Among other things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, glass halfway to your lips. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’d take it if it were offered.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Five, at least.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw tightened. “No?”

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

Bastard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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

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

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

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhysand High Lord of Night

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

✦

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

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

I’m right, aren’t I? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Try not to let the anticipation distract you too much. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours in anticipation, Rhysand High Lord of Night

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

Almost. 

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

And regarding your… interpretation of my offer, I’d suggest you check your assumptions. Whatever it is you imagined, that was entirely your own doing. A slip of the mind perhaps? A rather telling one, if so.

(Y/n) High Lady of Dusk

P.S. Since you seem so taken with my calligraphy, I made some additions in honor of your rather devoted attention. A fitting touch, don’t you think? Do let me know if you’d noticed before reading this.

✦

To the most self-important High Lady in all of Prythian,

Love? You flatter yourself. A male in my position would be reckless not to keep a close eye on his greatest adversary. And a sharp memory is hardly a crime—though I suppose I should be grateful you only accuse me of counting your drinks and not of slipping something into them. It would not be the first time you assumed the worst of me. 

And since you’re so eager for me to list them—very well. The ways in which you are special:

You wield words like weapons, yet claim innocence when they strike true. A fascinating contradiction. I’d almost admire it, were I not so often on the receiving end. 

Your dedication to antagonizing me is truly unparalleled. The effort, the commitment—it’s impressive. One might even say admirable. 

You’ve managed, against all odds, to make even silence feel pointed. A rare skill. Not one I’d expect of someone so supposedly burdened with more pressing concerns.

You have an impeccable memory for every instance in which I’ve stalled or withheld negotiation details for my own gain—yet here you are, doing the very same. Hypocrisy has never looked so graceful.

I could continue, but I wouldn’t want you to mistake it for admiration. And besides, I believe I’ve humored you enough. 

I am not going to argue the wording of your offer with you. You chose your words carefully, as you always do. And I am but a male. Where, exactly, did you expect my mind to go?

And if I were to claim that you, of all people, would never be so sentimental as to embellish my name with hearts—would you deny it? You accuse me of obsession, of something more, yet only someone utterly besotted would go to such painstaking effort. Curious isn’t it?

Yours in ruthless scrutiny, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. You can spare yourself the trouble in your next letter—I will not be listing any more. I wouldn’t want to inflate the ego of my greatest admirer lest she believe me to be interested. 

✦

To the most infuriatingly self-satisfied High Lord in all of Prythian, who so skillfully dodges a direct answer while pretending it’s beneath him to do so,

Besotted? I would have thought a male in your position would be reckless to mistake a simple acknowledgement of his shortcomings for something so tragic as infatuation. But if it soothes your ego to believe I spend my waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, I suppose I shouldn’t deny you that small comfort. The fragile need their delusions.

Where did I expect your mind to go? If my phrasing left room for your mind to wander, it says far more about you than it does me. Projection is an unbecoming look on a High Lord—though, lucky for you, it seems to suit you well. 

And if you were to claim that I—of all people—would never be so sentimental as to embellish your name with hearts, I’d wonder what you’d do if I denied it. But alas, I have no need to lie. It was not painstaking to do the calligraphy, nor did I waste away hours perfecting it. It comes quite easily to someone as skilled as myself. But if you prefer to imagine me blushing, lovestruck, ink-stained fingers pressing to my lips as I sigh over the flourish of your name—far be it from me to rid you of such a fantasy. We all must have our amusements, mustn’t we?

Now, I ignored it the first time, but I can’t any longer. Twice now, you’ve signed off your letters, “yours, Rhysand.” A rather bold choice, don’t you think? Unless, of course, I’ve missed something and you are. Mine, I mean. Seems an odd habit for a male so determined to deny any particular interest in me.

Not yours, in measured indifference, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-distractible High Lady, whose selective attention is as impressive as her deflections,

You seem to have overlooked a few key matters in your last letter. Namely, any mention of our negotiations. I upheld my end of your demand by providing the list you so graciously insisted upon. And yet, curiously, I find myself still waiting for the slightest indication of what land you intend to put forth in this bargain. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Or perhaps my entirely accurate assessment of your infatuation left you so flustered that you simply forgot?

And speaking of such flustered states—you made quite the fuss over how I sign my letters, yet in your haste, you seem to have neglected to properly sign off your own. Are we abandoning such formalities now? A shame. I had so been looking forward to seeing what you might come up with next. 

Yours, as ever, Rhysand

✦

To the most persistently arrogant High Lord, whose ability to fixate on trivialities is truly unmatched,

Oh, I do apologize—was there something important hidden between all the self-satisfaction and baseless accusations? How careless of me to overlook it. You’re right, of course. I should have addressed the matter of our negotiations. It’s just that I found myself distracted by your transparent attempt to shift the conversation. A flimsy strategy, Rhysand. I am ashamed it hit its mark. 

You claim to have upheld your end of the deal, and yet, all you’ve provided is a list dripping with backhanded compliments and veiled frustration. Hardly the fair exchange you make it out to be. But fine. Since you’re so desperate to discuss it, here it is: shared rights over the Prison. The island was, historically, my ancestors’ land, after all. You should consider it an honor—and a rare olive branch—that I’m willing to grant you even that much. 

As for your signature dilemma—what an astute observation. If my lack of a formal sign-off has rattled you so, I can only imagine how unmoored you’d be if I started leaving my letters entirely unsigned, much in the same way you have a habit of leaving my questions unanswered. A terrifying prospect, I’m sure. But since you so clearly long for my parting words, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you. 

Still not yours, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-elusive High Lord,

It has now been a full week past when I expected your reply—an unusual delay, given not only the geography of our courts (as you so helpfully pointed out before), but the sensitive nature of my last correspondence as well. Surely, by now, you have some response, unless, of course, there is truly so much to discuss with your advisors? I would have thought a male of your remarkable intelligence could have reached a decision long before now. 

But perhaps you are merely searching for the perfect way to tell me what I already know—that this is a wonderful opportunity for the Night Court. I have no doubt your brilliant mind will find some way to convince the Illyrians that they only need half the mountain for their precious Blood Rite. Surely, their warriors will be just as fearsome without every inch of Ramiel beneath their feet. 

Patiently (for now), (Y/n)

✦

Rhysand,

I sincerely hope my last letter has reached you. It would be a shame to have to fire someone over such a careless mistake. But since I have yet to receive a response, I must now assume one of two things: either my words were lost twice, or you are deliberately ignoring them. Neither is particularly reassuring. 

That said, I have reconsidered a portion of my last letter. In hindsight, my suggestion was both insensitive and entirely wrong. It was not my place to suggest forcing the Illyrians to alter a sacred tradition they have upheld for generations. I recognize that now. So let me be clear—I have absolutely no problem allowing them full access to Dusk’s half of Ramiel for the duration of their Blood Rite. It is not my intent to rob them of something so integral to their history. 

I trust this correction will not go unnoticed. And I expect to hear from you soon. 

Yours (less patient than before), (Y/n)

✦

To (y/n), the High Lady whose patience, it seems, is as thin as her restraint in letter-writing,

I appreciate the flood of correspondence awaiting me upon my return—truly, it is touching to know that my absence was felt so… acutely. Though I must say, I expected better of you than to jump to the most uncreative conclusion. Ignoring you? Deliberately? You wound me. And here I was, under the impression that you enjoyed a bit of mystery. 

I am sure you will be surprised to find that I, in fact, do not have the luxury of spending my days hovering over my desk, eagerly awaiting the arrival of ink-stained letters. I have been occupied. Surely, a mind as sharp as yours can deduce that certain matters require my undivided attention—ones that, regrettably, cannot be shared in writing. Or perhaps you’d rather I neglected those responsibilities to promptly return your ever-charming correspondence?

As for the contents of your latest correspondence—finally, some substance. Shared rights over the Prison. A bold proposition. I find it endearing how you frame it as an honor rather than the calculated power play it truly is. Your generosity is noted, as is your gracious concession regarding Ramiel. I suspect the Illyrians will be deeply relieved to know you have found it in your heart to grant them access to land they have fought and bled upon for millennia. How lucky they are to have your benevolence. 

And now, to address the most pressing concern of all—I do wonder if you are more fixated on our negotiations, or on me. I will grant you the mercy of answering your most burning question. Am I yours? A dangerous thing to suggest, especially from someone so insistent that she feels nothing at all. 

Yours, as always, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I had no place to suggest altering a tradition that is not mine to change. It was careless, and I regret it. Please consider this my formal apology—to you and to the Illyrians. I will ensure that my future propositions are made with greater thought. 

As for the matter with the Prison, I will not waste either of our time dressing it up as anything but what it is. A necessary arrangement. One that, should you still wish to discuss, I will be available at your convenience. 

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

How uncharacteristically… restrained. I confess, I find myself at a loss—where has the sharp-tongued, impossible-to-rattle High Lady gone? I was rather enjoying our exchanges, yet now you write to me as if I am nothing more than a bureaucrat awaiting your next trade proposal. It does not suit you. 

Something must be weighing on you to make you forget our less stately topics of conversation. I wonder—should I be concerned? Or will you insist, as always, that nothing at all is amiss?

Yours, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I regret to inform you that I am currently preoccupied with matters of importance. Your musings about the missing High Lady of Dusk, while charming, do not qualify. I have neither the time nor the energy to explain, but rest assured—it’s nothing that requires your concern.

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I’m not asking for the inner workings of your court. Only some assurance that the High Lady I’ve been painstakingly coaxing into a negotiation hasn’t decided to throw herself into the abyss. A waste, truly—in more ways than one. I’d hate to lose the only opponent who’s ever managed to keep pace. 

Yours (against my better judgment), Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

If you must know—though I suspect you already do—I’m fine. Truly. Or at least as fine as one can be when balancing the weight of a court that seems determined to pull itself apart at the seams. 

I wanted this. Fought for it. Sacrificed for it. I would do it all over again if I had to, if only to reclaim what was stolen from my ancestors and restore Dusk to what it once was. But I can’t say I anticipated how steep the price would be. 

Beron, for one, seems intent on ensuring I feel every thorn in the crown I now wear. I knew his help would come with strings—but I misjudged how tightly he’d be willing to pull them. He’s been pressing me for greater trade rights along the southern border, a thinly veiled attempt to undercut Velaris’ control over the merchant routes. I refused, of course. Which only gave him an excuse to retaliate—restricting shipments of raw materials that my court requires to rebuild. He knows exactly how far he can push before I’m forced to give him something in return. 

And then there’s the matter of Thesan’s generosity. Or rather, the staggering debt it left me with. His support during the war was invaluable, but now the treasury is running thin. I’ve already levied new taxes, cut court expenses, not to mention countless other efforts, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough. 

As for Tamlin—he’s been… circling. Watching for weakness. He hasn’t demanded anything outright, not yet, but the implied threat is clear enough. I suspect he’s waiting for Beron or Thesan to draw blood first, hoping I’ll come crawling to him when Dusk begins to buckle under the weight of their demands. And I’m certain he’ll enjoy every moment of it. 

And through all of it, I’m expected to smile and remain composed. To reassure my people, my advisors, my allies—that I have it all under control. That their High Lady is not unraveling beneath the pressure of debts and threats and politics. That I am not coming apart at the seams from the sheer exhaustion of being tugged in every possible direction. 

I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’m sure you’ll eventually use it against me—some leverage to play when it suits you best. Hopefully I’ll come to my senses and burn this letter before it reaches you. If you’re reading this, then evidently I need to be evaluated for hurling my court’s politics into the hands of my enemy.

I knew this would be difficult. I was not naïve about the cost. But there is something uniquely punishing about knowing I fought so hard for this crown, only to find myself bound by a different set of chains. 

And yet, I’ll keep going. Because what other choice is there? Because this is what it means to rule—to carry the weight alone. 

You understand that don’t you?

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or insulted that you think me capable of using this against you. If I were going to exploit you, I would have done so long ago—by making sure everyone knew just how fond you are of me.

Beron is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. His entire approach relies on you needing him more than he needs you. Which means you need to make it clear that you don’t. If he’s restricting raw materials, look elsewhere. There’s a port in Day, just south of your shared border, that could cover the loss. Speak with Helion. It’ll be more expensive, yes, but not so much that it’d justify letting him think he has the upper hand.

And Thesan is not unreasonable. He wouldn’t have extended his aid if he didn’t believe Dusk was a worthy investment. But debts of this scale aren’t meant to be paid off in coin alone. Offer him something softer: diplomacy, information, a trade route that benefits both courts—perhaps the one Beron is panting after. Show him that aiding your court wasn’t charity—it was a strategic decision. If you position it correctly, you can turn him from a creditor into an ally. 

Tamlin—well. I wouldn’t waste too much thought on him. He’s not bold enough to make the first move, and even if he were, he’s too predictable to catch you off guard. Let him watch. Let him wait. He’ll tire of it eventually. And if, by some miracle, he proves otherwise—you won’t be the only one handling it. 

And you’re right—this is what it means to rule. To be pulled apart, worn down, tested until there’s nothing left but steel and bone. But you’re not as alone as you think. And if you ever tire of pretending you have everything well in hand, you know where to find me. I’ll even provide the wine (Eastgate Ruby, Tarquin tells me, is what was served at our “meeting”). 

You should know—you’re doing well. Better than well, actually. They wouldn’t be pressing this hard if you weren’t already a threat. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. Take your time responding—see to what needs seeing to. But do keep in mind, every day we linger in this stalemate is another day merchants are kept from Velaris. And I do hate to keep good wine waiting. 

✦

Rhysand,

I imagine I owe you an apology for how curt I’ve been. If I were you, I wouldn’t have bothered replying, much less with actual counsel. And yet, here you are. I won’t pretend to understand why, but I’d be a fool not to recognize the value of what you’ve given me. 

Your assessment of Beron was correct. Helion has surprisingly agreed to supply what we need, though not without cost. I suspect I’ve a certain High Lord to thank for that…

But that’s not why I’m writing. You said my offer of the Prison was something— but is it enough? You were adamant before about Ramiel. Has that changed, or are we only delaying the inevitable? I’d rather know where we stand than waste time circling the same conversation. 

And despite my better judgment, I’ll say it again—thank you, Rhysand. Truly.

Yours, (Y/n)

P.S. I am not fond of you. Do not spread baseless rumors. 

✦

(Y/n),

The advice was nothing—really, if this is all it takes to earn such enthusiastic gratitude from you, I almost feel guilty for not demanding more in return. Try to keep your wits about you, will you? It’d be a shame if our negotiations were cut short because you keeled over from sheer appreciation. 

Speaking of—the High Lords’ meeting next week seems as good a place as any to finalize our discussions. I doubt we’re the only ones eager to put this matter to rest. 

Let me know if I should move your place card beside mine. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. The rumors would not be baseless.

P.P.S. I’ll see about officially changing them to High Lords’ & Ladies’ Meetings. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The marble gleamed gold beneath the afternoon sun, intricate carvings twisting along each column of the Day Court’s grand hall. Sunlight spilled through arched windows, catching on the etching along the ceiling—everywhere you looked, there was radiance, warmth. But the mood within the room was anything but bright. 

Tamlin and Tarquin were already at it. 

“I don’t give a damn what your scholars have said,” Tamlin bit out, his fingers curled into the polished wood of the table. “Your dam project diverts water away from the Riverlands, which directly impacts all of—”

Tarquin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “You mean it impacts Spring. The other Courts seem perfectly content with—”

The argument barely cut through the layered hum of conversation. The hall was packed—High Lords, High Ladies, emissaries, and advisors all seated along the sprawling table or just behind the leaders of their court, quiet but watchful. Courtiers lingered at the edges of the chamber, murmuring among themselves. Further down the table, the room had splintered into smaller conversations, hushed discussions carried between tilted heads and subtle glances. Viviane murmured something to her counterpart in Autumn, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Eris murmured something low enough that only Azriel could hear. Whatever it was made the shadowsinger’s mouth curl. Some spoke of alliances, of shifting borders and trade disputes, while others engaged in idle pleasantries, weighing their words with careful calculation. 

You hadn’t spoken to each other yet. Hadn’t needed to. But his attention settled over you all the same, a quiet pressure against the edges of your awareness. 

Rhysand lounged beside you, one arm slung over the back of his chair, fingers drumming idly against the carved wood. His expression was the perfect mask of boredom, his violet eyes sweeping the table as if merely observing, gathering. 

But each time you spoke, each time your voice wove into the discussion, something in him tensed. Not noticeably, not even in a way you could explain, but you felt it. The way his fingers stilled against the chair, the way his head tilted just slightly. 

Your place card was, in fact, next to his.

You hadn’t asked him to move it. Hadn’t responded to that letter of his.

You’d gone to read it, expecting nothing more than the usual formalities, maybe a carefully chosen turn of phrase or two. But the first page had barely contained a paragraph, just a handful of neatly penned lines before cutting off entirely. You’d frowned, turning it over, checking for more—only to find the second page clinging to the back.

The moment you saw it, you realized the second page wasn’t part of the letter. Not officially. 

The stray notes scrawled in the margins, phrases crossed out and rewritten, thoughts scattered between lines of unfinished sentences. Lists, reminders—half a to-do list squeezed into one corner, a set of numbers you didn’t recognize. And then, amid all of it, a letter. A real one. One that had never been meant to leave his desk. 

The handwriting was messier, less composed, as if written in haste. He hadn’t redrafted it. Hadn’t refined the words or arranged them carefully. It was raw. Unpolished. And as you read, a slow, twisting pressure built in your chest. 

You still didn’t know what to do with any of it. 

So you did what you always did: you kept your expression unreadable, smoothed down the silk of your sleeves, and shifted just enough to let yourself feel the weight of his attention. 

You’d chosen your dress carefully. The rich midnight blue of Dusk, the embroidery catching faintly in the afternoon light, shifting between silver and violet in the right angles. The fabric was sheer in places, opaque in others, with delicate beading that traced the bodice and sleeves like constellations. The silhouette was deceptively simple, fitted through the torso before cascading in effortless folds, pooling slightly where you sat. Your jewelry was understated—a bracelet of woven platinum and black diamonds, earrings and a necklace to match. But the tiara was another thing entirely. 

Dusk’s coronet was a thing of starlight and shadow, its intricate metalwork impossibly delicate yet undeniably strong. Bands of dark silver twisted together, slender but unyielding, their curves resembling the arms of a crescent moon. Small gems were inlaid at precise points, catching the light like scattered stars, a constellation mapped in precious stone. At its center, the design wove into an intricate lattice, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely—a reminder, woven into its very structure, that not everything of Dusk could be seen at a glance. 

Still, there was business to be done. 

“The borders between Dusk and Night remain unchanged,” you said when the conversation made its way to you. Your voice was even, measured. “The western face of Ramiel remains under Dusk’s jurisdiction, but the Illyrians retain access for the Blood Rite.” 

There was a beat of silence. Agreement, consideration. 

Then from beside you—

“My Court shares access to the Prison,” Rhysand said smoothly. “And as long as there are no tariffs imposed on the Night Court, trade will resume with Velaris at Dusk’s discretion.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, each word delivered with the sharp precision of someone well-versed in negotiation. Nothing in his tone hinted at the letters he’d sent—not the formal, measured ones at the start, but the later ones, where the careful mask had begun to slip. Where the words had become… something else. 

You weren’t sure what unsettled you most—the contrast, the deal, or the fact that, beneath all of it, you still hadn’t decided how to act on that letter. 

“That brings us to trade,” you continued, your gaze sweeping the table. “After lengthy discussions, the Solar Courts have reached an agreement regarding our eastern waters.”

A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some leaned forward slightly, others tipped their heads, listening. Across from you, Helion and Thesan exchanged glances with you and Rhysand—subtle, knowing. 

“Only the Solar Courts may conduct trade with one another through the eastern waters,” you announced evenly. “Any trade between the Seasonal and Solar Courts must be conducted through land or the western waters.”

The statement settled like a stone in the room’s collective understanding. 

Tamlin, Tarquin, and Kallias looked largely unbothered. The arrangement changed little for them—they had ample access to the western coast of Prythian and had conducted most of their trade through those routes already. 

But Beron. 

You turned your attention to him then, the barest trace of a polite smile tugging at your lips. 

“Surely, you all understand the desire to avoid unnecessary hassle,” you mused lightly, watching as the realization sank in. 

Autumn had no western coastline. No direct route to the western waters. Which meant Beron’s merchants would now be forced to transport goods through other courts to access those trade routes—incurring delays, additional taxes, and the general headache of relying on the goodwill of neighboring courts. 

Beron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed slightly where they rested against the table, and though his face remained carefully neutral, you caught the flicker of something sharp in his eyes. 

A quiet hum of approval came from Helion, his grin barely restrained. Tarquin exhaled a soft chuckle, though he masked it with a sip of wine. Even Kallias looked vaguely entertained, his cool blue stare flicking toward Beron before settling back on you. 

Rhysand, however—

Your peripheral vision caught the slightest tilt of his head. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the arm of his chair. But it was the glint in his violet eyes that held your attention, the way his lips parted just slightly, as if he might say something. It seemed you’d surprised him. 

You smoothed an idle hand over your skirts and said simply, “This arrangement best serves the Dusk Court’s interests.”

And you settled back in your chair, your expression unreadable, the matter closed. 

The meeting stretched on for another few hours, dragging through the usual political pretense, minor disputes, and long-winded proposals that wore your patience thin. Rhysand, ever the picture of relaxed authority, lounged in his chair as though he hadn’t a single concern in the world. But every so often, when some lord made a particularly absurd suggestion, his gaze would flick toward you—dry, incredulous, as if waiting to see if you’d heard the same nonsense he had. 

When it finally ended, the room shifted from rigid diplomacy to something looser, easier. Wine flowed, platters of food were brought in, and the stiff atmosphere gave way to quiet chatter, laughter, the clinking of glasses across the grand table. 

You turned to Rhysand, leaning slightly toward him as you picked up the thread of conversation from the meeting. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to guide the negotiations with Kallias in your favor,” you said, voice smooth. 

He exhaled a soft laugh, setting down his glass. “You wound me, (y/n). I did nothing of the sort.”

Your brows raised. “Mmm. You’re insufferable when you lie.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do it often.” His eyes glittered with that infuriating look, the one that made you want to roll your eyes—or perhaps throw your glass at him, just to see if he’d still be smirking afterward. 

You huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Lying is a delicate art. You, Rhysand, are a hammer.”

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in those violet eyes. “And yet, I always seem to get the job done.”

“Blunt force trauma has its uses, I suppose.”

That earned you a low chuckle, the sound curling through your spine. Before you could savor your victory, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. “I believe they’ve got Eastgate Ruby here somewhere. I requested it—for your sake, of course. I’d hate for you to suffer the effects of withdrawal.”

You exhaled a sharp laugh. “How thoughtful. I assume you’ll be the one administering the cure?”

Rhysand’s grin was slow and wicked as he stood from his seat and reached for your chair, pulling it back with an easy grace. “It’s the least I can do.”

You didn’t move at first, just arched a brow at the gesture. He only held out a hand, expectant. 

When you finally slid your fingers into his, his grip was warm, steady. He helped you up with an ease that felt almost practiced. 

You gave him a look. “Chivalry, Rhysand? Really?”

“I’m not uneducated, (y/n),” he murmured, the edge of his thumb brushing against your knuckles before he released your hand. “I do know how to treat a lady.”

“And yet, I remain unconvinced,” you replied dryly.

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing. 

The two of you strolled toward the side of the room, the low hum of conversation filling the space between you. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt civil—but then Rhysand tilted his head slightly, considering you. And you wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking about you the way he claimed to in that letter. If his mind lingered on the words he’d written, just as yours had. 

“I have to admit,” he mused, “I’m impressed with how you handled Beron.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Are you?”

“I know people who’ve sat at this table far longer and wouldn’t dare speak to him like that,” he said, pouring wine into both of your glasses. “I suspect you may have even rattled him.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled at your lips. “Good.”

His gaze flicked toward you, unreadable. “Good,” he echoed softly. 

You took a sip of your drink, then tilted your head. “I’ll admit, your advice was… helpful. As was your agreement to reroute your Seasonal Court imports through Dusk.”

Rhysand let out a hum of acknowledgement. 

“But,” you added, “I don’t recall asking for it.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, forgive me. I should have realized that underneath all the pitiful complaints about the other Lords, you were just waiting for an excuse to take his head off.”

“Precisely.”

Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, his tone turned deceptively light. “Speaking of being offended—imagine my surprise when I wrote to you and received no reply.”

You merely blinked at him. “A tragedy.”

“Indeed.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “So, I took it upon myself to move your place card.”

You gave him a look. “That explains the seating arrangements.”

His smirk was nothing short of wicked. “Did you really expect me to let you sit anywhere else? Besides, you were originally meant to be seated next to Beron. I imagine you wouldn’t have spoken quite so freely had you been within arm’s reach of his fire. 

You huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the wine in your glass. “You assume so much, Rhysand. Maybe I would have enjoyed the warmth.”

His brows raised slightly. “Oh? Should I tell him he missed an opportunity?”

You gave him a pointed look before taking a slow sip, letting the dry sweetness of the wine sit on your tongue. Then, with deliberate ease, you murmured, “I prefer a more tempered heat. The kind that lingers, burns slow.”

His grip on his glass tightened—just slightly.

But he didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

The conversation wove effortlessly between sharp-witted remarks and veiled barbs, the hum of the room growing livelier as tensions fully eased. The air felt lighter, laughter ringing out across the space, and for once, there was no pressing matter to discuss. So you let yourself settle into it—just a little. 

Rhysand, too, seemed comfortable, the usual sharp edge of his presence dulled by wine and something more elusive. A sense of ease, perhaps, though it didn’t stop him from watching you carefully over the rim of his glass. 

“I must admit,” you said idly, swirling your wine, “I expected Adriata to be a far greater distraction than it was.”

He hummed. “Did you?”

You nodded, tilting your head ever so slightly. “I thought the festivities would be enough to hold my attention but… I was proven wrong.”

The words were casual—innocent, even—but something flickered across Rhysand’s expression, so brief you might have imagined it. He only chuckled, eyes glinting in the light of the setting sun. “Tragic. Was it boredom, then, that drove you to linger?”

You leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle in front of the other. “I wouldn’t say boredom. More like—” your fingers trailed along the stem of your glass, “—an unexpected tether.”

That time, you were sure you saw it—the way his fingers paused against the base of his own glass, how his posture remained utterly poised save for the slight shift of his jaw. But he recovered quickly, that ever-composed mask slipping easily back into place. With a quiet, breathy laugh, he tipped his head slightly, eyes briefly shutting as he exhaled through his nose—the kind of laugh meant to brush something off. 

You knew that laugh. You knew it well. 

It sent a slow thrill curling through your chest. 

He drained his glass and set it down. “You’re in rare form tonight, (y/n).”

You feigned innocence. “Am I?”

Rhysand only looked at you, an unreadable half-smile playing at his lips. The silence between you stretched, tension coiling beneath it, but then the conversation carried on—seamless, effortless, that undercurrent still thrumming between you both. 

It wasn’t until later, after another glass of Eastgate Ruby each, when the moment felt right, that you finally struck.

“Tell me,” you mused, leaning in slightly. “Do you ever think back to Adriata?”

Rhysand stilled—just for a fraction of a second. 

Then, as if nothing had happened, he set his empty glass down with a quiet clink. “Fondly,” he said smoothly. “Why do you ask?”

You only smiled. “Oh, I was just wondering—if you make a habit of spending your nights consumed by thoughts of me.”

That time, he definitely froze. It was brief, but it was there—the faintest hitch in his breath, the subtle clench of his jaw. 

And gods, you could see it, the way his mind must have been racing, trying to determine how you were able to see straight through him. 

Then, slowly, his smirk returned—lazy, measured, meant to convey utter indifference. He exhaled, almost pitying. “Really, (y/n), all this just to get my attention? You could have saved yourself the trouble, darling.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Is that what you think this is?”

“An obvious bid for my affections? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Gods, Rhysand. You must really enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

“Say it, (y/n),” he teased, voice a near-mocking whisper. “Go on. Say it.”

“Oh, I’ll say something.” With a flick of your wrist, a small, folded parchment materialized between your middle and forefingers. You held it out to him, watching as his smirk faltered ever so slightly. 

He eyed the paper, then shot you a dry, unimpressed look. “What’s this?”

You didn’t take your eyes off his. “Read it.”

He scoffed, plucking it from your fingers with a lazy flick of his own. “If this is a declaration of your love,” he said, unfolding the paper, “I’m sorry to say I’ll have to decli—”

He went silent. 

You watched the exact moment realization struck. How his mouth parted just slightly, how his posture stiffened, fingers tightening around the parchment. 

The letter. 

His letter.

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

roses           mirabilis candles Eastgate Ruby!!! violin serenade?           string quartet.                    6 - 2 -2 -1

To the relentless archivist of my supposed delusions, High Lady of the Dusk Court

             (y/n)            Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest, (y/n)                            My (y/n)

To the relentless scholar of my every flaw, whose thoroughness borders on devotion, High Lady of the Dusk Court, 

        “burden of leadership clouded your judgment?” Insufferable, Rhys? Sexist, even? I think so. I thi—why the fuck did I send that   High Lady, do you ever stop scheming?

(y/n) of Dusk.               High Lady (y/n)          (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n), High Lady of the Night Court       (y/n)       Why can’t     I   write (y/n) properly…. (y/n)...

To the incomparable, unparalleled High Lady of Dusk,Arriving in Adriata, I’d presumed the festivities would be the distraction. Yet, as usual, you managed to prove me wrong. Your presence, always commanding, kept me tethered to that place far longer than necessary, though I suppose there are worse ways to spend one's time. 

            Find better excuse to avoid bets with Az… You always lose.                      looked godsdamned good today. Fuck that dress.     

That dress—fuck. I could hardly believe you had the nerve to wear it. Of course, you couldn’t have known how impossible it would be for me to focus on anything but the way it clung to your body. But it was your eyes, the way they met mine with that knowing gleam, that reminded me why I can’t entertain these thoughts. And gods, when you leaned forward—deliberately, no doubt—I had to force myself to remember that there were other matters at hand. That I had a court to oversee, another war to stave off, and yet—yet—all I could think of was the way your body moved.   Send Amren report. Or don’t. Let her stew.                      Draft something strong for Beron. Or just set him on fire.        37690 And your lips. The way you licked the wine off of them, tempting me to be the one to trace them with my own. I should have been horrified, or at the very least, unnerved enough to turn away, but instead, I found myself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to pull you close, to feel you press against me, hard, and feel that warmth only you seem to emit. 

                                        ^What would you taste like, sound like And then I could not shake the image. That night, in Adriata, it was as if you knew. Every movement of yours, every glance, every gesture, it felt like you were feeding the very thoughts I dared not admit to myself.                           Pen test.. .  .  .

I spent the rest of the night consumed by you. By the memory of your body, the way you moved, the way you tensed when our eyes met. I couldn’t stop picturing it—your fingers digging into the sheets, your mouth parted, breathless, wrecked. The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. I fisted my cock for hours that night to the thought of you. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t you. My grip, my own touch—pale imitations of what I craved. I wanted those delicate hands you offered, your body beneath mine, shattering for me. I wanted to hear it, the little sounds you’d make, the way you’d gasp as I buried myself in you. 

I bit out your name into the dark, over and over, as if saying it aloud might summon you. Might let me taste you, feel you. Might let me have you the way I wanted.                       985    87396                  696543I’m reminded of a night many years ago, one I’d rather forget. The war camp. The way the rain had turned dirt to sludge beneath our boots, the way the air reeked of steel and blood and something burnt. Our magic was drained. The battle had gone on too long, had stripped us of our elegance, our strategy. And there was only raw will left—yours against mine, fury against fury. You struck first. Your blade hissed past my ribs, slicing through my leathers, leaving a gash in my skin. I don’t even think you meant to miss. 

I threw you into the mud, pinned you there. You fought like an animal, snarling, kicking, teeth bared as if you would sink them into my throat given the chance. And for a moment—for a sickening, electrified moment—I wanted nothing more than to break you. To press you into the dirt until you yielded, until you spat out my name with a curse and finally, finally, it would be over. 

I hated you then. Hated you. 

And yet—when I lay alone in my tent, it was not the war I relived, not the blood or the near-miss of your blade. No, it was you. The heat of you against me, the way your body had fit against mine even in our struggle. The wild, frenzied way you fought, like a storm given flesh. I thought of you pressed against me in the mud, of the way your breath had mingled with mine, the way my body responded to yours despite everything, despite knowing you would have killed me just as easily as I would have killed you. 

I dealt with it that night the same way I dealt with it after Adriata. Even then, I couldn’t explain it. I should have wanted to hate you.                 You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful                 things? It seems I'm beginning to grow on you.          Infatuated, obsessed, besotted No, I couldn’t help it. Every time you glanced at me, every time you spoke, I could feel that pull. And when you left, I won’t lie, I was relieved. You were leaving before I did something monumentally reckless. But don’t for a moment think I wasn’t wishing for a different outcome.  

The matter at hand remains. Perhaps, next time, if you find yourself at my side again, I can be of service to you in a more personal way. 

Consider it, my lady. 

Eternally at your feet, if only you’d let me,                Bound to you in ways I have no right to claim,      Yours, in every way I shouldn’t be,

Yours, Rhysand hair gel ear plugs cufflinks assorted chocolates an apple (for balancing the chocolate)

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something between incredulity and resignation. Then, slowly, he looked up at you. 

You only sipped your wine, waiting. 

For the first time since you’d known him, Rhysand had nothing to say. It was a rare thing, to see the High Lord of the Night Court like this. Unmasked. Uncomposed. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His jaw worked , muscles tightening, and you swore you saw the flicker of something else. A sliver of vulnerability, gone as quickly as it appeared. 

Then he exhaled, long and slow, the sound almost amused. “And here I thought you lacked a sense of humor.”

You merely hummed, watching him, your patience infinite. You wouldn’t grant him an out so easily. 

Carefully, deliberately, he folded the letter, pocketing it. “How, exactly, did you come by this?”

“Oh, Rhysand,” you purred, feigning sympathy. “Would it wound you further to know that I didn’t have to try very hard?”

His gaze darkened, sharp as a blade. “You couldn’t have rifled through my things…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said smoothly. “It was sent to me. By accident I assume, considering the look on your face.”

Silence. A long, stretched moment of it.

Then, at last, he smirked—but it was different now. Subtler. Wry. “I’m touched,” he murmured. “You kept it.”

You let your lips curve just slightly. “Of course. I’d be an idiot not to.”

A quiet hum left him, his violet gaze tracing your face, searching for something—perhaps for any sign of what you truly wanted from this. But you gave him nothing. 

Rhysand’s tongue ran over his teeth, considering you. Then, without warning, he laughed. Low, quiet, a thing of disbelief and wicked amusement all at once. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You leaned in, voice a whisper against the space between you. “I can’t help it. You’re so much more fun when you lose.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head again as though you were impossible. “You think this is a loss?”

You only smiled. “I think you should choose your next words carefully.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh before pinning you with a look so cutting it nearly stole your breath. But there was no true bite behind it. No sharp edges—only something molten, something simmering. His voice, when it came, was soft. Dangerous. “Tell me, my lady—do you make a habit of inciting war in the middle of a crowded room?”

You only smiled. “I prefer my battles to be fought in private.”

His pupils flared.

It was all you needed. 

You turned without another word, setting your glass down as you slipped through the crowd. You didn’t have to look back to know he would follow. You felt it—that tether pulling tight, that unrelenting weight of his gaze pressing into your spine as you wove through the bodies, effortless, deliberate. 

You led him out of the hall, past the open archways leading to the moonlit balcony, past the guards stationed at the entrance. Only when you reached the dimly lit corridor beyond did you glance over your shoulder. 

Rhysand was already there. Already close. 

You barely had a second to register it before he was moving. And then… gods.

Then you were pressed up against the cool stone wall, his body caging yours in, his hands braced on either side of you. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his scent wrapped around you, intoxicating, dark and rich, and when he leaned in just slightly, his breath fanning against your cheek, your entire body tightened. 

A pause. A deliberate, torturous moment where neither of you moved, where the space between you became razor-thin, humming with something volatile. His head dipped, his lips hovering near the corner of your mouth, as if he could taste your breath, as if he was considering closing that final inch. 

Then, lower. A shift, a slow drag of heat down the line of your jaw, until his mouth hovered near the hollow of your throat. Not touching. Not yet. 

His breath was steady, infuriatingly controlled. “Was this your plan all along?” he murmured, so soft it was almost a whisper. 

Then he lifted his head, the movement slow, measured. When your eyes met, you saw it—the strand of midnight hair falling across his brow, the way his gaze flicked over your face, dark and searching. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight part of his lips, as if he were only just remembering to breathe. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Gods, this close, he was—No. You shoved the thought away, locking onto his stare instead. 

“If you’re asking whether I planned for you to humiliate yourself tonight,” you said at last, “then yes.”

A quiet, dangerous laugh. His body didn’t move, but the sound of it wrapped around you, coiling tight in your stomach. “And yet,” he mused, “you’re the one against the wall.”

Your heart was a war drum in your chest. “I led you here, didn’t I?”

Something flickered in his expression, something deep and molten that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core. And then, faster than you could react, his hands were no longer braced against the wall. Fingers brushed your hips, featherlight. A test. A warning.

Then his grip tightened. A firm, possessive press as he pinned you, properly now, his body a wall of heat against yours. His hands dragged up until his thumbs skimmed the barest sliver of exposed skin between the fabric of your dress and the curve of your waist. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it slip, didn’t let him see how the warmth of his hands against your skin sent heat curling low in your stomach. But he felt the way your ribs expanded with a sharp inhale you couldn’t quite control.  And he liked it. You could see it in the way his smirk softened into something lazier and edged with indulgence. Like he was savoring this. Savoring you. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, itching to move. 

So you did. 

You let your hands drift upward, skimming over the muscle of his forearms, his shoulders. You weren’t gentle. Your nails scraped against the fabric of his jacket, dragging just hard enough to make him feel it. You weren’t going to stand there and let him have the upper hand. 

Rhysand stilled, just for a second, a breath caught between his teeth.  “Careful, (y/n). You’re starting to seem a little desperate.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “That’s rich, coming from a male who’s been standing here breathing down my neck instead of doing something about it.”

A flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fingers flexed against your waist, his thumbs pressing in, dragging ever so slightly along the curve of your hips. Not enough, never enough. And you wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he snapped. 

You rolled your neck with a sigh, all patience and unbothered amusement. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you,” you mused, voice just shy of mocking. “Not when you so generously did so for me.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a warning. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.” You dragged your hands down, fingers skimming the hard places of his chest, settling just at the lapels of his jacket. Your nails caught the fabric, a teasing little pull. “Always talking. Always circling. But when it comes down to it, you—”

A sharp inhale from you, which made his hands tighten. 

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You hesitate.”

And whatever tenuous thread of restraint was holding him together snapped. 

It happened too fast for you to do anything but gasp as Rhysand surged forward at the same time you yanked him down. A collision of heat and breath and hands grasping, dragging, pulling. His mouth was on yours, fierce, consuming, and you met him with equal fire, teeth clashing, nails digging in, every ounce of restraint gone. 

His hands were everywhere—on your hips, at your back, tangling in your hair as he pressed you further into the stone. His lips moved against yours like he meant to ruin you, and you let him, let him take because you were taking just as much, matching every rough kiss, every sharp inhale, every fevered touch. 

Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, yanking him closer even as you arched against the press of his body. His answering growl sent a sharp thrill down your spine. 

“See?” you breathed against his lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp. “Hard,” he growled, “isn’t the problem.”

Heat flooded your cheeks—not from embarrassment, never that, but from the way he pressed against you in proof of his words. 

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow, teasing, until you reached the buckle of his belt. A light touch, the barest flick of your fingers against the leather. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Rhysand dipped his head with a low chuckle, pressing his mouth to the curve of your throat. “And here I thought we were past pretending.” His hands were doing their own exploration, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips before skimming lower, his grip firm, insistent, like he was committing the shape of you to memory. 

You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall, only to jerk it forward a moment later when you heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. But Rhysand didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head, only kept pressing slow kisses along your throat. 

You scowled, pressing your palm against his chest. “Someone’s coming.”

“Mm.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “So will you, if you’d stop interrupting me.”

You shoved him, but he barely budged, only laughing quietly as he nipped at your jaw. “Rhysand,” you hissed, your breath uneven. “They’ll hear us.”

He pressed his hips against yours. “Let them.”

You almost choked. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, all wicked teeth. “And you’re loud. But lucky for you…” His fingers skimmed your spine, sending a shiver straight through you. “I have a solution for that.”

And before you could say another word, darkness curled around you both, swallowing the hallway, the stone wall, the distant sound of footsteps—

And then, you were somewhere else. The air was warmer here, laced with the scent of citrus and jasmine. 

You looked at your surroundings. Velvet sheets, intricately carved furniture, and an unmistakable large, luxurious bed. From beyond the balcony, the distant murmur of the Day Court’s nightlife carried through the air. 

Your lips parted as you took it all in, realization creeping over you. 

He’d winnowed you straight into his bedroom. 

You turned your head sharply, meeting his gaze. “This,” you said, voice rich with disbelief, “was your solution?”

He only grinned, unrepentant. “Would you have preferred I left you there? So you could step out, all flushed and breathless, and explain to whoever came wandering that your hair isn’t a mess, your lipstick isn’t smudged, and that your dress has absolutely been this rumpled all day?”

Your glare was sharp enough to cut. “I would’ve managed.”

Rhysand hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t doubt it. You always do. Though I can’t say I’m not enjoying this alternative.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “What, dragging me into your room so you can avoid being caught acting like a depraved bastard in a public corridor?”

He clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you appreciated efficiency.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he reached for you again, his fingers gripping the curve of your waist. “Besides,” he murmured, dipping his head, “if you were truly so scandalized, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Your lips parted, a sharp retort forming—only for it to dissolve as he kissed you again, stealing the words straight from your tongue. 

It was different now. Less reckless, more intent. Like he was savoring the feel of you, like he knew how to dismantle every bit of your composure. His hands dragged down your back, gathering the fabric of your dress, pulling you flush against him. Clothes vanished between desperate, grasping hands. His jacket went just fine, the thud of it hitting the floor soon followed by the quiet, unmistakable sound of your tiara slipping from your hair, landing in a delicate clatter of metal against stone. His shirt had been the first casualty, though. Your fingers tore at the buttons, sending a few flying before you shoved the ruined thing from his shoulders. His hands weren’t much kinder to your dress, the delicate clasps at your back coming undone with infuriating ease, the fabric pooling at your feet. 

You found yourself pressed down onto the edge of the bed, his body still caging yours in. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stood before you now, bare-chested, his hands moving to the fastening of your heels. 

Your breath caught, though you’d die before admitting why. The way his fingers brushed against your ankle, the slowness with which he undid the first clasp—it was infuriating. And the entire time, he held your gaze, eyes dark and intent. 

You exhaled, leveling him with a look. “Strange, for a male so fond of his dramatics to feign chivalry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he finished undoing the strap and slid the shoe from your foot, his fingers pressing into your calf as he set it aside. “Can’t a male show some courtesy?” He shifted his attention to the other. 

You arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I could always leave them on, if you’d prefer.”

Your eyes flicked to the heel still dangling from your foot, then back to him. Slowly, you lifted your leg, pressing the pointed toe just beneath his ribs, applying the barest hint of pressure. 

“I think,” you mused, “you just want an excuse to be on your knees for me.”

His pupils flared. “Oh, darling,” he purred, fingers wrapping around your ankle as he tugged the shoe free, tossing it carelessly behind him. “If you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.” Then his grip shifted as he pushed your legs apart. 

The sight of him there, settled between your legs, dark and utterly unrepentant, sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight through you. You barely had time to work through the implications of that before his mouth was on you. 

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he mouthed over the thin scrap of lace still covering you, heat and pressure teasing, tormenting. His tongue pressed against the damp fabric, moving in slow, devastating circles, tasting you through it, his grip keeping your thighs spread as you instinctively tried to move. 

“Fuck,” you breathed, fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. 

“So soon?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the soft heat of you through your underwear. “I know I’m irresistible, but I thought you’d at least try to play hard to get.”

A retort formed on your tongue, something sharp and scathing, but it died the moment he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down. His mouth followed the movement, his breath hot against your skin, and you shivered, unable to stop the anticipation that spiraled low in your stomach. The soft drag of his lips against your inner thigh had you clenching the sheets, the heat building inside you before he’d even touched you properly.

He took his time, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh, making your breath catch. The lace of your underwear was dragged down the rest of the way, and your body tensed, the slow movement of his hands almost maddening in its gentleness. Your eyes fluttered shut, and before you could make a sound to make your frustration known, he was there—his mouth, warm and wet, pressing against your skin, tasting you slowly. 

A breathless gasp escaped you, your hips instinctively trying to press closer to him as his tongue moved over you, teasing and tender at first. He wasn’t in a rush. Each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips, felt like it stretched on for eternity, drawing out the pleasure until it became a slow, aching burn. His grip on your hips tightened as he angled himself better, his movements becoming firmer, more purposeful. 

The heat in you intensified, the building pressure almost unbearable as his tongue worked you, flicking and teasing at just the right moments, just the right way. You could feel your body growing more desperate, each brush of his lips drawing out a soft moan from deep within you. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you like a male starved. 

You fisted the sheets beneath you, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could bring him even deeper into you. The pressure was tight and unyielding, but still, he took his time, savoring you as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gods,” Rhysand groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending a shudder down your spine. “I could get drunk off you.” His voice was thick, dark with something near reverence as he pressed another slow, deep kiss to you.

A sharp tug to his hair was the only response you could manage, desperate now. His only response was a low hum, the sound reverberating against you as he doubled his efforts—his tongue pressing deeper, more insistent. 

The pleasure was unbearable now. Every movement, every stroke of his tongue, pulled you closer and closer to the edge. You were trembling beneath him, your fingers scraping at the sheets, your body writhing.  

His voice was a dark whisper against your skin. “Come for me,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. 

And when he sucked that sensitive, aching part of you into his mouth, it was like the world exploded. The coil inside you snapped, and you shattered, your back arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. You felt like you were drowning in it, unable to breathe, unable to think—just lost in the feeling of him. 

Because he didn’t pull away immediately. No, he lingered, his mouth working slowly, indulgently over you as you trembled beneath him, trying to ride out the aftershocks. His lips glistened with you as he finally pulled away, his pupils blown, a wicked satisfaction playing across his features. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his gaze never left you, taking in the way your body still trembled, the way your breath came in ragged gasps. “You taste like heaven,” he murmured as he leaned down to press lingering kisses to your inner thigh, as though savoring the aftermath of what he’d just done. 

Your breath still came fast, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, but as the haze of pleasure began to clear, your focus settled elsewhere. You propped yourself up on your elbows, the movement slow and shaky as your gaze tracked lower, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. Rhysand was still kneeling between your legs, his hands braced against your thighs, but your attention dropped to the front of his pants—where he was still painfully, achingly hard, the outline of him straining against the fabric. 

Your lips parted slightly, and the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face as he followed your gaze. 

“Oh?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you finally taking pity on me?”

You said nothing, just arched a brow and let your eyes drift back down again, pointed. 

A low sound slipped from his throat, rough at the edges, as he stood to toe off his shoes, then his socks, before finally working the buttons of his pants. His fingers were deft, practiced, and within moments, he was shoving the fabric down his hips, taking his underwear with it. 

And gods.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and heavy, the flushed head already leaking, the sheer size of him reigniting the heat in your core. Your mouth went dry, then immediately watered. 

He must have noticed, because his lips curved—lazy, smug, as if he could already hear the thoughts racing through your head. But he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he wrapped a hand around himself, gave himself a few slow pumps, and exhaled roughly through his nose. 

“Strange,” he mused, voice like silk. “I don’t recall you ever being this quiet.”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, leveling him with a look even as warmth licked at your skin. 

“Savor it while you can,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d actually prefer you be loud.”

His hand left himself, and in the next breath, he was reaching for you. His touch was firm but unhurried as he guided you further up the bed, his palms skating over your skin, coaxing you into the pillows. The mattress sipped as he followed, settling between your legs, his body radiating heat against yours. Then his fingers found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with one deft flick. The straps slipped down your arms, the fabric falling away, but he didn’t move to touch. Just looked. Took his time. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, the weight of it pressing heat into your skin. The intensity of it made warmth crawl up your throat, but you held his gaze, refusing to be the first to break. 

But as the seconds stretched, a thought coiled through you, unbidden. The words from his letter ghosted through your mind, teasing, taunting. He’d imagined this before. Imagined you. 

Your heart stuttered as the realization settled fully in your bones. 

Because when he looked at you now, he wasn’t just seeing you. He was seeing every thought he’d already had—every fantasy he’d already spun in that scheming, insufferable mind of his. You could almost feel it in the way his gaze traced over you, in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his fingers flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for you. 

What you would taste like, sound like—

The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. 

A slow, satisfied smile curled your lips. You wondered if you were anything like what he’d imagined. If you matched the image he’d conjured those nights alone, all those moments he’d spent thinking of you when he shouldn’t have. 

Then his grip tightened on his cock, just slightly. He gave one more slow pump before lining himself up against you. And then, barely above a whisper—

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes bore into yours. 

You could. 

You should. 

But instead, your hips tilted ever so slightly forward—an invitation, a challenge. 

And Rhysand, the bastard, took it. 

A sharp inhale left him as he pushed forward, sinking into you with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine. His head tipped back slightly, lips parting on a groan, and gods—just the sight of it, the way his chest heaved, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, sent a slow, molten ache unfurling through you. 

He stretched you in a way that had your nails biting into his arms. His gaze snapped to yours as if he felt it too—that unbearable, perfect tension wound so tight between you. He bottomed out, holding there for a moment, his jaw clenched, the muscle feathering in restraint. 

Then his grip tightened. And he moved. 

A slow, dragging pull before thrusting back in, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body arched into him, a choked sound escaping before you could swallow it down. The answering smirk that flickered across his face was nearly as infuriating as it was devastating. 

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he murmured, punctuating the words with another deep thrust, the movement sending a delicious shockwave through you. Your fingers found purchase in his shoulders, nails raking down his back, but it only made him groan, his pace quickening as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips. 

“Much better,” he praised, voice rough. “But I want to hear you.”

As if to prove his point, his hand skated down your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist, angling you just right—and stars exploded behind your eyes as his cock slid deeper, filling you completely. The pleasure was almost too much, each thrust dragging a gasp from your mouth, each move of his relentless.

Your fingers dug into his back, nails scraping over his skin as you pressed yourself up into him, matching the rhythm, desperate for more. “Rhysand…” The name escaped in a broken gasp, barely audible over the sound of your breaths and skin slapping on skin. 

His eyes glittered with satisfaction, his pace steady but unyielding as he watched you. “Tell me what you need,” he demanded, his thrusts pushing harder, deeper, each one making your breath stutter in your chest. 

You swallowed, barely able to think straight with the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses, but the words came anyway, whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop.” A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving marks on his skin. Rhysand’s pace was relentless, pushing you higher and higher, but you needed more. 

“Tell me,” you gasped, “how often did you think about me like this?”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t slow. His hand tightened on your thigh, pushing you even further into him, and the tension in the room seemed to snap tighter. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You smirked, feeling emboldened. “How many nights did you spend alone, imagining me underneath you? How many times did you get off to the thought of me?” Your voice dropped low, a teasing edge creeping into your tone. “And that night in the tent… did you picture me like this then too?”

His cock slammed deeper into you at your words, and you could feel him shudder, his control faltering for a moment. He leaned down, lips grazing the curve of your neck, his hand sliding up to palm at your breast, fingers teasing over your skin. 

“I’ve thought about you more than I should,” he confessed, his voice a growl. “Your body, your voice—gods, the way you look at me, like you know exactly what I’m thinking. Every letter you’ve sent, every word you've written has been etched into my mind. You’ve kept me awake more nights than I care to count. So many nights I’ve imagined you… ached for you.”

The words came fast, like he couldn’t stop them, like they’d been building up. “Every damn letter you wrote—I read them more times than I’ll admit. I’d catch myself thinking about you when I shouldn’t, remembering your words when I tried to forget. And I’d get lost in it… lost in the thought of you. That night in the tent…” He growled, pulling you closer, slamming into you harder. “I couldn’t forget how you moved, how you fought, how you looked at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And I hated it—hated how badly I wanted you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, controlling the pace as his thrusts grew more demanding. “I would lie there, late at night, thinking about your fingers on my skin, your mouth—thinking about how you’d taste. How you’d feel under me, desperate, ruined for me. I pictured it all—what you’d look like when I finally had you, when I could take you in every way that I wanted.”

His voice dropped to a whisper as his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when I wanted to. Every time we wrote, it only made it worse. I’d catch myself craving more—more words, more of you—before I even realized what I was doing.”

Another thrust forced a moan from your lips. His mouth curved against your skin, savoring the sound, reveling in the way your body clenched around him. His grip on your thigh was bruising as he angled your hips just right, dragging another helpless cry from you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. His forehead dropped to yours, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent, as if he were chasing the very thoughts that had plagued him for so long. “You feel better than I ever could have dreamed.”

“Gods, Rhys—”

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers pressing where you needed him most. Your head fell back against the pillow, pleasure cresting so fiercely it left you dizzy. 

His breath caught. Just for a second. 

Not at the way you shuddered beneath him, not at the way you tightened around him—but at the way his name had slipped from your lips, unfinished, softened. 

Rhys. 

You barely registered it, too lost in the pleasure as his pace faltered for the briefest moment, a sharp inhale through his nose before he recovered, his free hand grabbing your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. But you felt the shift, the way his lips brushed over your jaw—softer now, lingering. 

And then, quieter, rougher: “Say it again.”

Not a command. Just… a request. 

It took a moment for your mind to catch up, to realize what he meant. Heat curled in your stomach—not just from the way he was moving inside you, but from the way he wanted it. The way he needed it. 

You turned your head, breath mingling with his. “Rhys,” you whispered. 

A wrecked primal sound from his throat as he shifted suddenly, rolling and pulling you with him until your thighs framed his hips. The world tilted, pleasure still rippling through you as your palms found his chest, heat meeting the inked whorls of black that curved over muscle. He leaned back against the pillows, gaze dark, ravenous, drinking you in like he’d never get enough. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip firm on your waist, fingers pressing into heated skin as if to memorize the way you felt in his hands. “Look at you.”

Your cheeks burned under his gaze, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to devour every inch of you, like he was worshipping the sight of you above him. 

A slow roll of your hips had him swearing again, jaw tightening, his head pressing into the pillow for a brief moment before he lifted it again, eyes locked onto the way your body moved above him. The way you trembled. The way your chest rose and fell, glistening in the dim light, every bounce, every shift of your body against his making his hold on you tighten.

His fingers slid lower, curving over the swell of your ass as he pulled you down hard, meeting you with a sharp thrust that sent you keening. 

“Oh, fuck—Rhys—” The words left you in a breathless gasp, pleasure knocking through you, but he only smirked, his grip flexing. 

“Yeah?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something unraveling. 

You wanted to reply, something sharp on your tongue, but the words never made it out—lost the second he drove into you again, harder, faster. 

His smirk told you everything—he knew exactly what he was oding to you. Dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he thrust into you, each movement sharper, more insistent. 

“I—shit—” You barely knew what you were trying to say, only that your body felt like it was on fire, that you could hardly breathe, that he was fucking you so good you couldn’t think. “Rhys, I—”

He wasn’t letting you work for it, wasn’t letting you do anything but take it. His hands gripped you tighter, fingers pressing into your skin—just shy of bruising, just enough to make you shudder, to make the ache feel just as good as everything else. He dragged you over him like he couldn’t get enough, guiding you exactly where he wanted. His chest heaved beneath your palms, every breath ragged, every sound punched from his lungs with each thrust. 

Your head tipped back, pleasure cresting, every nerve in your body alight. But he wasn’t done. 

One moment you were gasping, hands bracing against his chest as he drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts, and the next—his arms wrapped around you, dragging you down, pressing you flush against him as he buried his face in your neck. 

And then he fucked you like he meant it. 

Hard, deep, his grip unyielding as he drove into you, hips slamming against yours with a pace that stole the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck, Rhys—” You weren’t even sure if you were saying his name or just gasping it, like it was the only thing you could cling to in the onslaught of pleasure. 

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked, sending shivers skittering down your spine. “Just like that, just take it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking against his scalp as a broken moan tore from your lips. 

“Feels—too good,” you gasped, a half-delirious laugh slipping out before another sharp thrust stole it from you. “Fuck—you’re so—”

“So what?” he teased, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, anywhere he could reach. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to force the words through the haze clouding your mind, through the pleasure threatening to consume you whole. “So—fuck, Rhys—so deep—”

A groan rumbled in his chest, low and satisfied, before his grip on you tightened. “Yeah? You like that?” His voice dropped, rough, nearly smug. “Like the way I feel inside you?”

Pleasure surged through you, coiling hot and deep, making every nerve in your body tighten in anticipation. 

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, at his hair, desperate to ground yourself against the intensity of it all. “You—” Your breath caught as he snapped his hips up, hard and precise. “You already know.”

“Maybe.” He smirked against your skin, then his voice dipped, quieter, raspier—”Say my name again.”

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys. 

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, everything felt different. More than just pleasure. More than just bodies moving together. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, the word slipping out without a second thought. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so deep. So—so fucking perfect.”

He moaned at that, a low rumble of a sound, his chest rising and falling against yours as his hips snapped up to meet yours with relentless rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way his movements were both precise and utterly frantic. The pleasure had your head spinning, but the way his name tasted on your tongue—how it felt to say it again and again—was a drug in itself.

His eyes locked onto yours, something wild in them now, a primal hunger that only grew as you spoke. “You feel so good,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moved against him, feeling every flex of his muscles beneath your fingertips. “I can’t—I can’t get enough of you, Rhys.”

The words spilled from you now, breathless and unfiltered. “You’re everything I need,” you whispered, voice a little desperate. “So fucking deep, so good, Rhys. You make me feel—gods, you make me feel so good, so full of you.”

His body responded to your words like a switch had been flipped. His fingers dug into your flesh as he pulled you down against him again and again, each thrust now more forceful, as if he couldn’t get enough either. His lips found your throat, kissing and biting his way down your collarbone. 

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, his voice a rasp in your ear. “Tell me how I make you feel.”

“Like I’m falling apart, Rhys, like I can’t take it—can’t think—fuck, Rhys” Your breath caught as his thrusts deepened, hitting the perfect spot, and your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sensation overwhelmed you. “I never want to stop feeling this—never want you to stop. I’m so fucking close. I—”

His groan cut off your words, a sharp sound of pleasure as his hands moved to your ass, pulling you down harder, faster. You could feel his body tightening beneath you, and it sent a shockwave of heat through your own, pushing you to the edge. 

“Gods, (y/n),” he gritted out, his voice raw, strained, and low. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you struggled to keep yourself steady, meeting his thrusts with everything you had left. The intensity of it all had your head spinning, the pleasure so overwhelming that you barely noticed the words slipping from your mouth until they were out. 

“I’m on the tonic,” you gasped, your voice unsteady as you focused on the way his body moved against yours. “I don’t want you to pull out—please.”

A rough, breathless curse left him, his hips snapping into you with a new urgency. Your body responded instantly, your thoughts dissolving into sensation. The tension in your body was at the breaking point, every inch of you coiled so tightly that you felt like you might snap. You could feel him losing control, each thrust harder, faster, the desperation mirrored in his eyes. 

Then his hips jerked up into you one last time, and as you heard the low, guttural sound of his release—his breath hitching, his hands gripping you like a lifeline—you couldn’t hold back anymore. The sensation of him finishing inside you was all it took. You exploded, the orgasm rushing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel him, feel his body trembling beneath you. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, your voice raw as you rode out the waves of your release, still trembling in his arms. 

He groaned your name, holding you against him as your body shuddered with the aftershocks. He kept you close, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of you just yet. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Gods, you drive me insane, (y/n).”

You huffed out a laugh,  your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his chest, still catching your breath. “I should drive you insane more often.”

Rhysand let out a low chuckle, fingers brushing lazily along your spine. “Oh, you already do enough for a lifetime.” Then, after a beat—”You’re a handful.”

You raised an eyebrow as you propped yourself up just enough to meet his gaze. “I thought you liked it.”

His gaze locked onto yours, no trace of humor in it now. “I do.”

“Then maybe you’d do well to stop your incessant talking.”

He smirked, but it was soft, almost like he was holding back something—something he knew better than to say right then. “Fine.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting to climb off him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist.

“Stay,” he murmured, a little too smooth, a little too comfortable. 

You hesitated. The air between you was heavy, charged, but the moment was already slipping away, back into something more familiar, something edged with unspoken things neither of you dared put a name to. 

“Fine,” you muttered, feigning exasperation as you let yourself settle against him once more. “But if you start snoring in my ear, I’m gone.”

His laugh rumbled beneath you. “Noted.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n),

I trust you’ve arrived safely back in Velaris. The final terms of the agreement regarding the Seasonal Courts’ trade routes through Dusk have been sent with this letter for your review. Barring any objections, we should be ready to move forward by next month. I assume you’ll have thoughts on the restructuring of the second clause—if only to disagree with me on principle—so let me know where you’d like to make your changes. 

On a separate note, I expect my bed will feel unusually empty tonight. A tragedy, really. Let’s hope I can bear the suffering. 

Do try not to miss me too much. 

Rhys

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You let the letter fall to your desk, lips pressing together as you read the last few lines again. 

Despite yourself, a quiet scoff escaped you. Typical. 

Shaking your head, you reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Whether he deserved a response was another matter entirely. 

[lovegasmic]

  ‘ mdni — satoru wants to see you in a wedding dress ft fem!reader◞ unprotected sex◞ creampie◞ ’

your cute fiance Satoru who comes home tired from work, bringing your favorite food to dine and cuddle after, which of course, turns into a heavy make out session with your body on top of his on the couch, feeling the warmth of his tenting bulge under your pussy, which drags deliciously up and down, almost soaking through the flimsy fabric of your panties that barely conceal your arousal.

“baby...” he pants breaking the kiss, just a bit to murmur heatedly against your mouth, “can you put on your wedding dress?” and fuck if that does not make your pussy throb, the thrill of sex in the pristine white dress that was perfectly hidden and hung on the closet away from your lover’s eyes, even weeks before your wedding was too much, to dirty to fight against.

so your nails dig a little on his shirt and nod, all breathy and plump lips from the kiss, “yeah..., god yeah, wait here”

it did not take long, it should have with how clumsy you were in the lust haze, tossing the garment on, although careful with the lace and expensive fabric of the dress Satoru insisted you spend as much money from his black card as you wish, breathing out a soft “fuck” upon your arrival, eyes trailing you up and down and squeezing his bulge through the pants, “you look stunning, can’t wait to make you mine for the rest of our lives...” already with his shirt unbuttoned and pushed open, allowing for his pale abs to be seen as you kneel between his legs, dress bunching on the ground while you quickly undo his pants and lick the drooling tip.

Satoru’s eyes roll back as you suck his cock, he has never been able to refuse your pretty mouth wrapped around his length, but right now, he wants you, “oh, baby” he grunts, giving your face a tiny buck, “you always look amazing with your mouth full of my cock, but I need to see you, come here...” he gently tugs, freeing his cock from your lips with a pop, “stand up for me” and you obey, holding onto his shoulders and looking like a fucking angel in your gorgeous dress, lips finding your covered abdomen and up to one of your breasts, “perfect, my gorgeous bride”

“I love you” you breathy confess, holding onto his shoulders to get on his lap and hump your soaked panties over his cock once again, “I need you, please fuck your soon to be wife, Mr. Gojo”

“anything for my wife” he breathes, sliding his hands to grip your ass under the dress and thrust up, the feeling of your wet pussy enveloping his cock is exquisite, making his head spin in bliss.

a hiccup and a mewl, “the... dress, ah... will get ruined” you mutter, although your hips buck up and down, purposely riding that fat cock that aims for your spot almost like on autopilot, “fuck... ah, fuck!” the first worry about the dress all tossed outside the window, really you could just take it to the laundry tomorrow.

with eyes almost crossing, Satoru fucks you hard, pulling you up and down and enjoying your almost choked screams, fabric rustling and your eager cunt squelching with each deep thrust, it was almost embarrassing how quickly he was about to cum, eyes squeezed closed and hungrily sliding his cock in and out your hole in a rapid pace with fingers digging in your ass, “f-uck, fuck, gonna- ung-”

“cum!” you gasp, pussy clamping at the twitching and drooling of precum inside your soft walls, barely moving your hips so hes aiming even deeper, harder and so delicious that your body quivers, “cum inside your wife”

that’s enough for him to cum, holding onto your orgasming body with so much force you're breathless, cum shooting deep into your womb with a low growl of pleasure, “my wife, my beautiful bride”

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: when the ghouls realize they're in love with you.

COMMENTS: THIS!! I WAS SUPER EXCITED FOR THIS ONE!! i hope ygys like it too <3

TAGLIST: @as1iiiwhaa @astralsocfactory

Jin falls in love when you’re patient with him. He knows he’s an ass to you sometimes, and he knows that his blunders outweigh the good. You still stick by him and ask about the good parts of his life, listening in silence as he talks about his mom, your eyes flickering in the dim candlelight.

Tohma falls in love when you stay strong. He knows the situation is scary, and that you’d much rather be anywhere but here right now. His nerves have gone numb from all the missions Darkwick has sent him on, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t protect you. Despite your fear, you keep your mind sharp, helping him for no other reason than you want to.

Luca falls in love when you help him. He’s simple—all he wants is to find his brother and get him back home. You spend your free time studying books about demons with him, reaching out to any experts you can find, going above and beyond just for his sake. He doesn’t know how he could ever repay you.

Kaito falls in love when you’re kind. He usually has a pretty shitty day (by his standards) especially since he’s in Frostheim of all places, but then he sees you at lunch and it’s all better. You make a face at something on your plate and ask if he wants it, to which he offers you his dessert. You refuse, and say that he looks like he needs something sweet, and his first thought is that the something is you.

Alan falls in love when you take him seriously. He knows you don’t think he deserves to wallow in pain forever, and you think he’s such a good person. But you don’t push for him to leave what he did behind. Instead, you hold him, wrap all of him up in your arms and love him all the same, understanding the person he is inside and out.

Sho falls in love when you tease him right back. It’s the kind of comfortable friendship he hasn’t had in a long time, especially since he became friends with Leo. It’s so nice to just have playful banter when he makes you lunch—you never fail to leave him with a smile on his face and a lighter heart.

Leo falls in love when you don’t take his shit. He’s hard to handle, he knows that very well, and it’s a miracle Sho has done that for so long. You’ve been hurt by him before, you’re not invincible, but you do stand up for yourself. It makes him think that maybe he should be a little softer on you. Sometimes.

Haru falls in love when he sees you with the animals. You do your best to help him every day, completely uncompensated, and he’s so thankful for it. It’s a wonder how you manage to soothe Towa and bring Ren’s spirits up, something he has trouble doing. You’re truly amazing.

Towa falls in love when you give him a nickname in return. He’s certain he loved you already, but the second you call him Daisy, his heart does an intense pitter patter in his chest. He was so wrong. This is love—there is no stronger feeling in the world. 

Ren falls in love when he looks over at you only to see you’re completely engrossed in the movie he put on. The flickering of the tablet really brings out your eyes, and your lips are parted ever so slightly. You look so nice sitting on his bed like this. Against his will, his heart does a little tumble. He's so fucked.

Taiga falls in love when you stare down the barrel of his gun, unflinching. You know he won’t shoot you. Why do you have so much faith in him? It makes him almost sad, in a way—his kitty cat is so strong now, and soon enough, you won’t need him to fight anomalies for you anymore. You’ll be able to take them down with nothing but the skills he’s taught you.

Romeo falls in love when you check in on him. He yells and flails, brushing you off as he limps, but you insist on making sure he’s okay. The care makes his chest ache in such an unfamiliar way. How come you’re so soft? And why are you wasting that softness on someone as jaded as him?

Ritsu falls in love when you call his handwriting pretty. He’s prepared for mockery, for the teasing he hears from everyone else, but you take the time to study his handwriting and the characters of his name until you understand it. The diligence with which you apply yourself and the soft kindness in your smile sends his heart reeling—since when did you make him feel this way?

Subaru falls in love when you stand up for him. There are a lot of people outside of Darkwick who have read the papers about him, and know what he’s been accused of. It means the world to him when you snap back at them and drag him away, turning your worried eyes upon him as you ask if he’s okay. You aren’t easily swayed—he loves that about you.

Haku falls in love when you attempt to give him normalcy. You invite him out to tea shops and take walks with him around campus. You offer to study with him and laugh when he flicks crumpled up paper balls at you. If he allows himself to slip into his daydreams, he could picture the two of you as simple classmates.

Zenji falls in love when you mimic touch with him. He just phases right through normally, but with your determination, you’re able to press your hand right up against his. Zenji can’t really feel much of your warmth, and he knows you can only feel a bit of his staticy coldness, but having you so willing to bring him the pleasures of life even in death has his heart pounding.

Edward falls in love when you boss him around. He thinks it’s rather cute when you storm into his room, scolding him for letting it get so messy while simultaneously cleaning it for him. Even though you may not say it to his face, it shows you care about him. (Plus, you’re far cuter than Rui, even though you never wear a maid outfit for him...)

Rui falls in love when you almost touch him. He made an April Fool’s joke about his curse being broken and didn’t expect you to believe it. Your gasp of delight and beaming smile was enough to make him feel bad. He yanks his hand away with a cheery just kidding! when you try to touch him, but he’ll remember how excited you looked for him forever.

Lyca falls in love when you treat him like a person. Even though he knows he’s a human being, having you confirm it over and over when everyone else avoids him makes him feel good. Chances are, Lyca won’t understand the feeling until he talks to Suba about it, but he knows you make him feel good. You’re the first one to ever make his heart flutter this way. He wants to keep you by his side forever.

Yuri falls in love when you take care of him. For a doctor, he sure doesn’t take good care of himself, and you know that better than most. You cover him in blankets and bring him food and constantly remind him to drink water. He’ll scoff and whine at you, saying your care is unnecessary, but he can’t deny the way his heart sings when you treat him so sweetly.

Jiro falls in love when you spend time with him. Jiro isn’t one for grand gestures or flashy displays, he simply exists as he is, and would adore you all the more if you existed by his side. Through each and every one of his episodes, you learn more and more from Yuri on how to manage them just so you can be prepared if it happens again. It’s touching that you care so much about him.

[yandere-sins]

A singer going yandere for their biggest fan. In an industry of fake smiles, fake praise and fake people, their love for the singer was the only real thing. The way their eyes would sparkle with joy as they’d hand over their lovingly handmade gifts at meet and greets, it tugged at the singer’s heart.

A love so pure, so real that they want to keep it all to themselves.

"Underneath Your Clothes" by Shakira playing in the background, lol! Thank you for requesting ♥

Warning for Yandere and all it entails, Violence (Murder on screen, Description of deadly wounds)

»»——————————— ♡ ———————————««

A trophy room was usually reserved for, well, trophies. Shiny, useless things that were precious, important, expensive. Everyone defined them differently, but typically, it was a room that was intended to be showcased at gatherings. To have friends and acquaintances ooh and aah at the glorious collections, green from envy as they wished to own just as grand of an exhibit of precious things of their own.

Wasn't it strange that there was this one locked door at the most popular singer's house? An empty room that "Grey" waved off as unimportant whenever someone asked them about it? Their trophies and records were displayed throughout every inch of the massive villa they owned. Yet, there was a room that was completely empty and unoccupied?

Grey's parties were grand, splendid even. With the creme de la creme of rich people and celebrities taking part. Mingling and dancing, enjoying food that cost more than an apartment while drinking alcohol that was worth as much as a car. Nobody cared about the cost, only for the connections they were able to make, the photos being taken, and how it showed them belonging to the "best" that the human race had to offer.

They only cared to know the host better when it looked good on their social media or brought them an invite to another exclusive party. Conversations rarely progressed beyond a quick 'hello' and 'bye'. Grey didn't remember their names or faces. They couldn't keep up with the always-changing makeup trends and operations that quickly distorted the people they met, leaving no trace of recognition behind.

They were used to it, really. When they started their career, they could only hope to get as far as they had. To amass the amount of fans and money that loved their music. Loved them. But despite knowing how lonely it would be at the top, it never ceased to amaze them how terribly fake and superficial all their relationships were now. Family that only called for favors, friends that couldn't care less about Grey but all the more about riding on Grey's fame. No one cared about what they did when the lights were turned off. No one asked how they felt or if they needed help. Everyone only wanted to see the glamour and glory Grey had amassed in all this time.

Or the scandal.

"Great party!" their manager cheered, patting Grey's shoulder as he congratulated the singer for pulling off yet another celebration for the ages. One that would be remembered as much as the first song they played on the streets. One that the record label deemed "too simple" to include in their albums. The next party would wash away all the extravagance and money invested in this one, creating an eternal cycle of bigger and better to fulfill the superficial needs of those at the top.

"But hey, listen." Swinging his arm around their shoulder, their manager closed the distance between them. His grip was sweaty, grimy hands clutching onto Grey's body. The smell of alcohol wafted from his mouth as he whispered into their ear urgently, still thinking he was so important in their life, even after the paparazzi caught him sleeping with some unimportant celebrity, which caused a huge scandal, big enough for the label to want to fire him the morning after this party.

"People keep gossiping about your little room. They've been assuming all the worst things about—sex dungeon, drug den, you keeping a slave in there." Grey's manager snorted, chuckling as if he had just made an excellent joke. "I think it would be really good if you'd clear up the misunderstanding, you know? Can't risk your reputation being sullied by rumors, right?"

"Fuck off with that shit."

Annoyed, Grey pushed off their manager's arm, setting down their wine glass on the kitchen counter before glaring at him.

"Woah, there! No need to get feisty, alright? I'm just sayin'! I'm just looking out for you!" their manager immediately backpaddled, knowing better than anyone else how much the beloved singer hated questions about that room. It had been their one condition in all of their career. The one thing they asked for to belong only to them and no one else, regardless of what anyone said or wanted. No one was to go in or out, except them.

The manager took a big swig from his own glass before giving them a consolidating smile and walking off, but Grey heard him mutter "bastard" once his back was turned, and they rolled their eyes, glad he'd not be a problem anymore by the next day. Some girls passed by them, and they smiled, the same fake, accommodating smile everyone received from them. Nobody was worth the trouble of actually showing their real smile. It made the celebrity fans giggle and freak out quietly, proofing it was enough to still their lust and desire for Grey. It was so easy to play the part of the favorite singer, the blessed voice.

It was harder to just be 'them'.

Their eyes fixed on the clock on the wall. 01:47 am, it had gotten much too late. They promised to come back before midnight, but networking and keeping up the facade had taken much longer than they anticipated. When will they leave? they wondered quietly, anxiously playing with the rim of their glass while leaning against the kitchen counter.

No words could describe how much Grey hated these parties. They just never ended, and some people always stayed, sleeping off their hangover. All they wanted was some peace and quiet. To rest their head in your lap, nuzzle their face into your thighs while you made these adorable squeaks that you always made when they touched you. Their sleep had improved so much ever since you came to live with them, but because of their damn reputation, they still couldn't live the way they wanted with you. Openly. Lovingly.

No one would notice if I left, right? they thought, looking around the remaining party guests, all high on booze and drugs, either talking or making out. If someone with a camera snuck into Grey's home, they'd make a pretty penny from all the scandals happening at these parties. But all the expensive security Grey had paid for wasn't only good in keeping other people's secrets, but also theirs.

Careful, without raising anyone's curiosity or suspicion, Grey made their way towards the dark hallway in the back of their home. To those who raised their heads, it looked like they were going to the toilet, and they turned up the music a little louder as they passed the loudspeakers, just to make sure no one was going to hear them either.

They had never snuck away from their parties before, too scared anyone would follow. But Grey had to admit it was kind of exciting. Like a secret rendezvous with just the two of you. Surely, no one would notice that they were gone for a bit, considering how no one really cared to interact with them anyway. They were here for the luxuries and the feeling of being important, not Grey, even though they were the host.

Unlocking the door, Grey checked one last time over their shoulder that no one was watching before opening the door a gap wide and slipping inside, shutting out the music and other people by quickly closing it behind them. Deep breaths were necessary as the mix of excitement and stress made their heart beat rapidly in their chest. But their focus was quickly diverted by the lovely sounds you made through the gag.

"He-p! Hee-p!"

"Shh, shh," Grey muttered, turning towards you and closing the distance in two large steps. Kneeling before you, they cupped your face, rubbing your cheek with their thumb, feeling your soft skin beneath the leather strap of the gag. "I'm here! You did so well! You waited so patiently for me! You're such a good fan! I love you so much!"

Biting their lip, Grey couldn't help the tears from shooting into their eyes as they looked at you. Blindfolded and gagged, your hair a little tousled from struggling against the cuffs that tied you to the chair you were sitting on. Yet, you had never been prettier. Never been more theirs.

Years after years, show after show, you had come to watch them. You had been there when they were still a nobody, a street musician with no fame and money. Yes, people filled their trophy rooms with medals and animal heads, but Grey's was filled with your cards and gifts that they had collected over the years. Your sweet words and thoughtful presents had been the only thing keeping Grey sane all this time. It made them happy to know there was at least one person left who cared, stabilizing their moods so they wouldn't fall into depression or drugs like most of the other celebrities did.

It made Grey obsessed.

Obsessed with the way you grew flustered around him. How you thanked him for your shows and how you always insisted it wasn't much when you gave your presents. How your hands shook when Grey held them to thank you sincerely for your dedication to them. They were obsessed with your smile, your laugh, the sparkle in your eyes! Your emotions were real and genuine. Every one of your reactions had meaning and purpose, and it made their heart flutter like nothing else in their miserable popstar life.

Pulling the clasp at the back of the gag tightly, Grey shushed you again, their free hand on top of your thigh, massaging it reassuringly as you whined from the brief tightening of the leather. Grey couldn't control themselves as the gag slowly slipped out from your delicious, agitated lips, saliva dripping from them that Grey quickly caught with their own tongue, raising their mouth until it docked against yours, tasting these plump lips and exploring your mouth while you struggled against the restraints.

"Delicious," they sighed as they finally withdrew, not letting even a bit of your taste go to waste as they licked the gag clean as well, all while you sobbed.

"Why are you doing this?" you cried, and Grey couldn't help but feel the arousal shiver through his body hearing your lovely voice. Yes, even when scared and desperate, you sounded like an angel, the inspiration behind all their songs and the reason they kept singing, just to have a chance to see you again at the next concert. To read your online reviews and watch you interact with other fans in Grey's fan groups.

They observed you for a few silent moments, your body winding and snaking side to side to loosen the hold on your limbs like a cobra summoned by their music. You were almost like the snake in the garden of Eden, causing Grey to sin and bring you here into their sanctuary, the shrine they had created just for you. You didn't know it yet, didn't know who had kidnapped you.

It was time to free you of the fear of the unknown.

With a swift motion, the blindfold slipped down your skin, Grey watching it hungrily as it got to touch you so intimately, caressing your curves in ways they hadn't yet. But your gaze was too captivating to miss, the confusion giving way to recognition. Even the horror reflected in your eyes made their body ache for you, and they licked their lips, responding to the urge to consume you fully. So beautiful, so real, they thought as they watched your reactions. So perfect.

"Y-You?" you mumbled, and Grey's knees buckled, bringing them back to earth.

"Yes, it's me!" they chimed enthusiastically. "You have no idea how happy it makes me that you know who I am! I can't wait to spend our lives together from now on!"

"W-Why? Why are you doing this?!"

Your voice rose as you stared at Grey with a mix of revulsion and disbelief, and it made their heart ache in a very different way. "Aren't you happy?" they asked, desperate for you to match their feelings in every way. "I did this for us! Now we won't need to wait to meet at concerts; we can always be together!"

"What?! And you think it's okay to kidnap me for this? Who would even want this? I just... I--"

"It's okay," Grey chocked out, cupping your face. "You're confused. This is all so new, I get it. Look, I decorated this room specifically for you. It's how I wanted to show how much you mean to me!"

Your eyes wanted to stay on the danger before you, but curiosity got the better of you as you slowly led them around the room, watching the walls plastered with cards and gifts you had made the singer over the years. Judging by how your eyes widened, you recognized them.

"That's..."

"Wonderful? Amazing? Does it make you as happy as it did me?"

"Sick. That's sick."

"W-What?" Now it was Grey's turn to be confused. They let go of you, taking a step back as they felt faint from your comment. Your gaze was filled with so much disgust, even after seeing their lovely dedication to you, much different from how they expected you to react. "I thought you'd like it..."

"I'd like it if you untied me and let me go! It's not too late, we can still fix this, I won't even report you! I just liked your music, I didn't mean for any of this."

"B-But..."

A sudden bang made both of you jolt as a sudden light flooded the room. "Grey?!" a loud, obnoxious voice filled the sacred sanctuary of the singer, their manager stumbling inside, drunk and disheveled. "How dare you sneak off-hick!-at your own party! Everyone-hick!-is looking for you! W-Wait, whoa."

His eyes opened wide as he looked around the room, eventually falling on you, tied to a chair in the middle of it. "What the hell?" Grey's manager yelled, sobering up very quickly.

"H-Help!" you finally managed to stutter despite the surprise, and the manager straightened up, directing his gaze at Grey now and pointing a finger at them.

"You sick fuck! I knew it! I knew you had shit stains on your slate! You're so done if the media finds out you kidnap someone and keep them locked up!"

In an instant, Grey could see their world crashing and burning. All this time, they had built upon the confidence of being loved by at least one person in this world. A genuine, sincere person who adored them for who they were and not just their stage persona. They had worked tirelessly to provide more opportunities, more chances to meet and share these fleeting moments of joy with you, only to find out now, after all Grey did to bring you to them, you didn't even love him.

All his efforts had been in vain, as you didn't even recognize their love for you.

And if that wasn't worse enough, now someone found out about this obsession Grey had been harboring. Feelings that were only meant for you and them. That were too pure to be shared with the filth of this world. If word got out... if someone found out about this... they'd separate you from Grey. They'd take you away. They'd make Grey break the promise they made when they told you that you two would always be together from now on!

They couldn't allow this.

Moving around the manager that approached menacingly, trying to grab Grey while they stood on wobbly feet. Grey slammed the door shut loudly. This time, they didn't forget to lock it behind them, twisting the key just in time to slip by the manager again and lunge for the hammer on the little cabinet they had bought for your clothes. The hammer used to have the special duty of nailing your gifts to the wall, but it would be useful for something very different now.

Grey looked at you, forcing a smile on their lips as they took in your form. You were tense with fear, eyes blown wide as you spotted the hammer in their hands. You were so lovely, worrying about them even after saying all these hurtful things to Grey. Surely, you had just not been convinced of their feelings yet. Perhaps you were trying to shield them, making them choose someone else because you felt like you weren't enough.

But how could you? You were the only one for them.

"No one is going to separate us," you reassured them gently. "I won't let anyone take you from me."

And then, they struck. Without any mercy, they kept hitting the same gooey mass over and over, your screams filling their ears like a beautiful melody of their madness. Blood splattered everywhere—on Grey, your gifts, you.

"Ah, that won't do," they mumbled as they finally got up from the floor, the manager lying lifelessly on the ground. "Now he really did it. He really dared to sully you, my darling."

You shivered uncontrollably as Grey approached, bloody hammer still in their hands as they untied your footcuffs, holding your ankles to stop you from kicking. "Can't have that fucking bastard bleed all over you, sweetheart. I'll get you cleaned up in no time, and we can finally start our life together, alright? Alright."

Picking you up, Grey threw you over their shoulder, hammer clattering to the ground. You wiggled in an attempt to escape but stopped as you hovered over the dead manager's body, seeing his split-open skull and the expression of horror etched into his face. Finally, Grey thought. Finally you understand how far I'd go for you.

"I'll take such good care of you," they promised. "You'll never miss anything in your life, I swear. You just need to stay with me, and I'll make sure we'll be happy until the end of our time."

Who said trophies had to be inanimated objects that people could gaze upon?

After all, you were very alive, and Grey would never, never let anyone see you ever again.

[meddling-on-bar]

I'm a barista on a college campus, and we love to witness our customers

we have a regular that always orders 2 shots with just a splash of 2%, enough to cool it. no lid. no sleeve. - he's one of the sweetest old men I've ever met, always reminded me of the grandpa in the 3rd spy kids movie, after he takes the pill and runs on the moon; this man always has gallons of pep in his step. whenever we see him coming, one person gets the register, the other heads to make the drink, always having it ready before he's done paying (his chip doesn't work, but he always tries the three times before the machine makes him swipe. during these interactions, we've talked about the most miniscule things such as the weather, or other times whatever has been on my mind

we have another regular that's such a jolly guy. one year we had advertised our new peppermint syrup, and he had began regularly ordering a peppermint cappuchino, 2 or 3 times a week. come the end of the season, we took down the signs, and when he came in on a slow day, he had only ordered a cappuchino. 'no peppermint?' I said already stepping back to add the syrup. he had mentioned being worried that we would judge him for ordering peppermint in february, you might as well add it. over time he became a well-known face. the other day was the last day we were open before we close for the summer, and a few if us talked with him about having not seen him in a while (he actually walked through the building but right past, we were devastated), and we shared that he's one of our favorite regulars. he made his congratulations to the graduating seniors, and mentioned that he would miss us, but was also jokingly grumble about having to get used to new baristas, especially ones who encourage his summer peppermint habits. he's so pure and kind. a few things about him remind me of my greatest friend. also he always has the same reusable cup, and I always fill it just over the edge with foam.

there's a girl thay asked for matcha and lemonade one day, after tapping around on the screen for a bit to figure out how to charge her, and went about making her drink. after she left, we all talked about her order and decided wr had to try it. it was amazing (I also recommend adding blackberry and/or lavender). a few weeks later, we had to add it to our spring specials, "lucky lemonade". the next time she came in, I made sure to point out that she was legendary, that time, and everytime after that, everyone on should took part in making her drink. one time we turned it into a five person job. she has the biggest smile and a stunning laugh.

theres an older professor who always brings the cutest little mug, usually handmade and a gift, almost never the same one. she always changes her order mid sentence, and we're all happy to stand and chat with her while we work. she always has something funny to say, and a smile just as big as matcha lemonade. one year, she saw that we had paper boats all over the place, so she brought us origami papers. under our menu screens, we have a sedge of cranes hanging with floss (stolled from our store for this purpose.

she doesn't come in anymore, but for three years, every tuesday and thursday of spring term this woman would come in. it was obvious she was a professor, and she didn't always stop, sometimes she was running late and rushed by. when she did stop she would always get chamomile tea, and it got to a point where I would start steeping it when I saw her in line, so it was ready when she came to pay. one year, I was taking an art class that visited all the different art studios on campus for basic introductions. she was a photography professor, and I was in the group that stayed late to keep taking pictures and using the dark room. at some point in the class, she asked where we had met, and I told her I remembered her and her order. the next spring when she would come in, I would still have her order ready, but we would chat a little while she ordered.

tell me something soft

[xplicitviewz]

Tw: fluff, no smut this time guys :)

Dad!Sukuna waking up extra early in attempts to prove to you (more so himself) he doesn’t need your help with taking care of your kids when he’s by himself. You never doubted him but you were questioning if he was sure he’d be okay doing the morning routine for school.

“Are you sure? I can leave tomorrow.” You asked your husband after zipping up your suit case. Sukuna surprised you, booking you a 3 day trip to this spa resort you’ve been talking his ear off for at least weeks now. After the 3rd time of you asking, Sukuna looks at you with a scowling expression, “You don’t think I can take care of our kids without you?”

“What?! Sukuna I never said that, I just know how hectic mo-“

You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence when you were practically thrown out (Sukuna stuffed your bags in the car and told you to leave) of your own home. You know he’s an amazing father and husband, but you also know how cranky he is in the mornings especially when he also has to get ready for work as well.

Shrugging as you put on your headphones, you listen to an audiobook, he’ll call if he needs anything. Sukuna on the other hand, he was confident, arrogant even, thinking he wouldn’t need to bother his amazing, beautiful wife while she was in a mini vacation. He is the head of the household after all…

Day 1

“Ouch daddy, you do it too hard!” His 5 year old daughter pouts crossing her hands. The signature scowl Sukuna holds, passed directly down to all of his kids. “Sorry.” He mumbles glaring at the stupid comb brush thingy he has.

“Dad, mama usually uses water.” His 7 year old son, who is also in the bathroom but decided he wanted to “do his own hair” whatever that means, he doesn’t argue. “And she uses my pink comb.” You daughter scoffs rubbing her head where Sukuna previously combs.

“Okay okay, just work with me.” Sukuna rolls his eyes and sighs, dropping the curly locks on his daughter’s hair. He almost grabbed his phone…almost. After the many tangles, 5 rubber bands breaking, and going through 85 different hairstyles before his daughter settled with one, Sukuna was already tired.

Next phase: lunches.

“I only want my sandwich cut into 3s daddy not four.” Your daughter cried looking inside her lunch box. “Huh?” Sukuna watches her confused trying to figure out how the hell you cut the sandwich into 3 squares. “Dad can I have some money too, I want to get a Gatorade from the vending machine.”

Sukuna takes the lunch box and digs in his pockets realizing he still even isn’t dressed yet. “Remind me in the car.” He looks at his son who nods and rushes upstairs.

Sukuna stares long and hard at the sand which…..”You crazy woman.” He mumbles, though his tone doesn’t match the fuzzy feeling he feels inside. “How about you take the 4 pieces, and give one to a friend?” Sukuna looks at his grumpy daughter. “No.” She crosses her arms, “I want it cut how mommy cuts it.”

“Princess brat.” Sukuna mumbles, of course he calls his kids brats, they are, but he wouldn’t have them any other way, because they are also the smartest and kindest kids too.

He takes one of the cut pieces and puts it on a napkin, handing back the lunch. “Thank you daddy, it’s perfect.” She gleams a big wide smile hugging her cheeks as she runs off.

Before he could take a breath, he hears small cries from his youngest, 9 month old daughter. He heads to the room and opens the door slowly, knowing she’s probably by the door. “Hey silly girl, why are you all the way over here.” He smiles seeing her bright eyes stare up at him with a sleepy smile.

He scoops her up in his arms and heads back to his room so he could get dressed for work. Usually you’d be home watching the baby while the other two are at school, but since you are currently unavailable, he would be taking his baby to work. He’s CEO anyways, so it didn’t matter. He already had his assistant order some food for her to store in the fridge and had bottles of milk ready to go.

By the time he finished putting on his suit he gathered all the kids, putting them in the car, safety heading off. A big smile sits on his face as Sukuna drives, he successfully won day 1.

That was until night time. Dinner was the one thing he forgot. Deciding on stopping somewhere to get pizza and milkshakes, which he ultimately regrets seeing as your toddler would not stop bouncing at the walls, your oldest also having some zoomies. They play tag around the house while Sukuna bathes your youngest who was clinched to him all day.

Not very comfortable in the work environment , he ended up keeping her strapped up to his chest, “Don’t worry sweetheart, after the next few days you’ll never have to step foot in a work environment. I’ll be sure of it.” He promises after seeing how uneasy she was. Knowing it was the new scenery, he’d rather pretend his daughter had personality and refuses to get a job, even go near one.

Everyone at the meetings tried their hardest not to awe at the baby, and even hold in their laughs when she would scowl just like their boss. They smile softly when they saw just how soft he was with her, and even let her babble when she would interrupt Sukuna, copying his movements sometimes.

Point is, she was tired and she was letting it be known. A fussy little one she was, while sukuna struggled to put the onesie in her, the kids screaming and playing in the background. After he placed her on the swing and turned on a baby cartoon so he could take care of the other two….except, she didn’t want that. “Tch, so bossy.” He smiles picking her up and grabbing the baby wrap.

“Now let’s get your other siblings ready for bed.”

“Can I have some water?”

“I really have to go pee.”

“Can you read ups a book?”

“Can you check the closet and under my bed?”

“Daddy I want a snack.”

“Mom sings us a song.”

“I’m not sleepy yet. Can we call mommy?”

It didn’t end. In fact, it barely did. The baby was long asleep on sukunas chest, the other two, barely snoring and mumbling sleepy nothings.

As soon as he laid the baby down in his bed, to get ready for a shower himself, guess who woke up. A soft groan and mumbling, Sukuna picked up the baby again, “why must you wake up when I’m about to get ready for bed as well? You have wonderful timing.” He jokes remembering the story of you going into labor while you guys were stuck in traffic on a freeway during rush hour. She wasn’t due for another couple of weeks.

After another few moments of rocking your daughter, sukuna laid her down softly, putting his pillow guard back around her and rushed off to the bathroom, taking the quickest shower known to mankind. As soon as he laid down next to the baby, he was out cold.

Day 2 went as expected, another chaotic morning but still on time for school and work. This time your daughter was crying about growing up because her feet grew bigger, therefore she could not weather favorite pair of pink shoes. Your son, well this time he wanted Sukuna to do his hair. As far as the baby, she wanted to be carried the entire time.

At the office, Sukuna had a set up of a small playpen filled with sensory toys, small books and lots of chewing toys. There was also the high chair and a baby swing near his desk. Sukuna noticed how people kept coming to his office more than usual.

He would frequent look up from his stack of papers to see his daughter just crawling around, or messing with a cabinet- organizing it, really.

“Alright missy it’s time to go to another boring meeting. Feel free to throw a tantrum 15 minutes in.” He gets up from his chair and walks towards his baby. Scooping her in his arms, walking back to grab the file needed and the baby wrap cloth.

The day went by and the night was approaching. Sukuna learned his mistake from yesterday. He left work early and went to the grocery store. “What are we feeling for dinner little one?” He looks at his drooling baby, who’s staring at him in awe.

Sukuna decided on something simple, something he’s seen you cook many times. By cook he means throw in the oven on days you don’t feel like cooking, Lasagna. He also grabbed some fresh garlic bread from the bakery section and a few things of easy lunches for tomorrow. He might also have caved and gave his daughter a fruit popsicles to occupy herself.

Night 2, success…..sort of….

The garlic bread was burnt and salad didn’t taste like yours. The lasagna however was marvelous. Very messy but still, filling. Now everyone sat at the table doing homework while sukuna cleans up.

“Dad I dont understand this.” Your son grumbles ready to throw the whole thing in the trash. Sukuna, holding the broom walks over and reads it. “What….the…fuck.” He thinks to himself.

“Whats this your learning?” He looks at the boy, who’s staring at the textbook as of it said something very offensive. “Math.”

“No shi- what part of math?” He catches himself.

“Daddy you need to put money in the swear jar.” Your daughter chimes in, still focused on her coloring activity for homework.

“I don’t know.” Your son looks at him, “please can I just do this in the morning? My head hurts.”

“Go shower and get ready for bed.” Sukuna says, mainly due to the fact he was tired himself.

“Daddy I’m all done, look!” She holds up the paper. “Looks wonderful as always.” He smiles softly pushing in the chair his son was just in.

The next few hours, were smoother than yesterday. Bath, 1000 questions, book, 50 more comments and opinions, then finally bedtime.

Once he closes the door to his kids room, he stares at his baby, “now it’s your turn.”

Sukuna was dozing off while holding your daughter, who only kept poking or chewing on his fingers waking him back up. When he finally realized she was asleep, he was halfway in a deep slumber himself. He quickly and smoothly laid her down in the bed and once again prepared himself for his own shower.

A long one where he thought long and hard about his wife. He misses her, although his pride was way far up his ass to call you for help, he realizes just everything you do. The smaller things never went unnoticed to him. In fact he always shows his appreciation and gratitude and respect for you…in his own way of course, but he’s now thinking isn’t doing nearly enough to really show you.

The both of you guys did work as a team, as a family, of course some things are different tasks and roles but nonetheless it’s as a family. But one thing is for sure, you are the household. Without you, it’s like a beaver dam slowly leaking water. Not fully, it’s fixable, but it’s clear that you are needed.

After his shower he heads downstairs to turn off all the lights before he spots the damn math textbook. Sighing to himself, he heads to make him a pot of coffee, getting a pallet ready for when the baby wakes up, and sits at the table, studying his son’s homework.

Many many hours and cups of coffee go by, baby in arms dead asleep-the pallet didn’t work- at last he finally understood the newer way to do the stupid math equations. Around 5am he made waffles bacon and eggs, with some orange juice on the side. After he woke up his son and they both sat at the table doing his homework. It took about an hour to finish and that’s when he daughter wakes up.

Day 3, success.

The kids were on time, they were excited to try to easy lunches he got from the store. Sukuna calls out of work that day and heads home.

The day was spent with the baby and him in the playpen. Sukuna fast asleep on his stomach while your daughter crawling all over him and playing with her toys. He doesn’t sleep for long, just a quick Power Nap before lunch and then cleaning up and the more play then a nap, etc etc etc.

You were headed home, picking up a small thing of takeout for dinner. It was going to be dinner time real soon. When you opened the front door, you saw all yoyr kids at the table, eating a pasta Sukuna spent all of the baby’s nap time learning to make. With baked chicken on the side- he called your mom for help with that.

“I knew I should’ve called.” You smile as you walk in the house. You kids both look at you and yell your name, running full speed. “I missed you guys too.” You squat to give them a hug and a kiss. “Here go out this in the fridge, we can eat it tomorrow for dinner or lunch for school.” You had the takeout bag off to your son, listening to your daughter talk about her day.

You make eye contact with your husband, watching as he feeds your baby some of the pasta, while holding the chicken in her hand absolutely demolishing it. He looks up to see you staring, and you both swear you guys fell back in love all over again- not that it ever died.

You join the dinner table, kissing your baby on the cheek while Sukuna makes you a plate. “This is really good baby.” You stuff your mouth full of the pasta. It truly was delicious.

Later on that night, after you laid your baby down in her crib, you stand and watch over her for a few more minutes. Sukuna creeps in the room, wrapping his arms around you and nesting his head in the crook of your neck, “Everytime. You truly amaze me every single time.” He mumbles against your skin.

“Hm? Really now?” You reply in amusement, moving your head to give him more room. “You tell me anything you want and it’s yours, or even the next time you want to go back to the spa.”

“You deserve it all, for everything you do.”

**********

This was definitely rushed but I had a cute daydream in my head, sukuna doing his daughter’s curly hair and decided to write this up.

Not proofread !!!!!

Some of this is inspired from the incredibles 2 when Bob was watching the kids, more specifically when he was helping dash with his homework.

Hope you guys enjoyed and everything.

Also to the moms out there, you deserve it all!!!! We really do this shit!!!!

Click here for more

[merelyafacade]

Found this BG3 indie animation vid that blew my mind. An example of magnificent story telling. It crushed my soul and made me Fully Invested in a character I’d never met before.

Absolutely stellar.

This amazing video is by @ritzeldraws! This is the YouTube link. They’re also on tumblr under the same name. Check them out! Their art is absolutely amazing!

[paucubarsisimp]

yearbook yearning

pairing: pablo gavi x reader

summary: in which pablo finds your 7th grade yearbook where he finds a very intriguing comment about him...

warnings: none!

a/n: js found my 7th grade yearbook and i saw this little message from my friend and came up with this idea! 😭😭

the sun was setting outside your window, painting your childhood bedroom in warm gold. pablo was stretched out on your bed, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling aimlessly through his phone. he looked way too comfortable there—like he belonged. like this wasn’t his first time hanging out in your tiny teenage space, surrounded by old posters and fairy lights you never took down.

you were sitting on the floor next to a half-opened cardboard box, pulling out old notebooks and birthday cards and laughing to yourself every couple of minutes.

“what’s so funny?” he asked, glancing up.

you held up a glitter-covered yearbook, the kind schools used to hand out with cheesy superlatives and poorly edited photos. “found my seventh grade yearbook. this thing is cursed.”

pablo’s eyes lit up immediately. “give it.”

“no.”

“give it,” he repeated, already rolling off the bed to sit beside you. “you’re not keeping that kind of content from me.”

you tried to hold it out of reach, but it was pointless. he was taller. and stronger. and way too interested.

“this is gonna be amazing,” he muttered, flipping it open. “okay, where are you... oh my god.” he burst out laughing, holding up a class photo. “wait, is this you?”

you groaned. “yep. the one with the braces and the very unfortunate headband.”

“you look like a cute little nerd with the glasses and braces.”

you shoved him lightly. “i was thirteen.”

“adorable,” he grinned, still flipping through.

you thought maybe he’d get bored and move on, but then he got really quiet.

too quiet.

you looked up and immediately knew something was wrong.

“no,” you said quickly, reaching for the yearbook. “don’t—”

he held it out of reach and smirked.

“‘always chase your dreams (gavi) ❤️ — naia.’”

you closed your eyes. “i hate everything.”

pablo laughed—like, full belly laughed—before looking at you like he just found out his favorite secret.

“wait. wait. you had a crush on me back then?”

“i didn’t write it,” you argued, snatching the book back and slamming it shut. “naia did. because she knew i had a thing for you and she thought it was funny.”

“so you were out here in middle school fangirling over me while i was getting red cards on tv?”

“i was like thirteen. it was a celebrity crush. it doesn’t count.”

he leaned in, grinning. “nah, it definitely counts. you manifested this.”

“you’re insufferable.”

he bumped your shoulder with his. “so, what, you had pictures of me saved in your phone?”

“i had a folder,” you admitted, deadpan.

he choked on his own laugh. “no you didn’t.”

“yep. i even named it 'love of my life.’”

“you’re actually killing me.”

“good.”

he leaned back against the bed, still smiling to himself. “i love this so much. you really went from daydreaming about me to dating me. middle school you would lose her mind.”

you snorted. “she’d cry. scream. faint.”

he glanced over at you, his voice softer now. “you know what’s wild? when i first got signed, i used to joke with the guys about whether girls were ever gonna have posters of me on their walls. never thought one of them would end up being my girlfriend.”

you didn’t say anything for a second—just looked at him, warm and quiet.

then you said, “i guess we both got what we wanted.”

he reached out and took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “guess we did.”

and just when it was getting sweet, he let go and picked the yearbook back up.

“okay but seriously,” he said, flipping back to the message. “i’m framing this.”

“pablo—”

“i’m gonna hang it in the living room.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

he grinned, leaning in close enough that your noses almost touched. “and yet... dream come true.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too.

because honestly?

he kinda was.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay@joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez, @linnygirl09 lmk if you want to be added!

[the-blue-countess]

Rewatched the film as I built my Notre-Dame Cathedral Lego set, and I love his hat so much. I want it.

The main four cast members are so strong? Esmeralda is amazing - although over-sexualised to an absurd degree, my god. Phoebus donates to the poor even before he sees Esmeralda, insists on her not getting hurt during capture, and is actually really smooth - I didn’t like him too much when I was younger, but I really adore him and Esmeralda together, (his and Quasi’s friendship is so sweet too). Quasimodo is insecure and adoring, and handles his unrequited love without being incel-like at all.

Frollo - while heinous and horrifying as a person - has such a banging character design?? A really Goth old man with rings and a cool hat - what more can you ask for? Never-before-seen cape, blade in his sleeves, super emo horse. Not to mention the voice acting, which is really strong throughout the film for all the characters.

Cloppin is also very cool. I love seeing him pop up at different points of the film.

why would they give such an asshole such a cool hat. and more importantly why did nobody in 1482 paris decide to steal it from him.

[checosbluespring]

ᯓ★ 𝑀𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 (𝒮𝒽ō𝓉𝒶 𝒜𝒾𝓏𝒶𝓌𝒶)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

~ what Dad!Aizawa is like (18+ mdni, cw: slight breeding talk)

It was actually Aizawa’s idea in the first place for you guys to start trying to have babies. 

Don't get you wrong, you always loved the idea of being a mother, but you and Aizawa had been married for 3 years already and the topic of having children always seemed so out of reach.

He was busy being a great teacher and hero, you were busy with your own work. But deep down you longed to have a child that was the mix of you and your husband.

You knew he would be a great dad, he was a good teacher and even better with smaller kids. As months passed you couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to finally have your own children. 

Finally in the middle of the night, a strong hand gripped your shoulder waking you up from a deep slumber. 

You turn over and look at your husband, only to meet glossy eyes and a silent pout. 

“What's wrong baby?” you ask in a concerned voice, placing your hand on his cheek. 

“I can't hide how I'm feeling anymore, I want us to have a baby, you would be such an amazing mom, and I would be a good dad. I can take time off work to take care of you and the baby. Please say you want this too” he says in one swoop breath. 

“Honey, calm down of course I want to have kids with you, honestly it's been weighing on my mind for a long time now and I was just building the courage to tell you”

It doesn't take long after that conversation for you to get off your birth control and immediately start trying. It was like clockwork. Any time you were both free, he would push you into your shared bedroom and start undressing you.

It didn't matter where you were either, at multiple hero charity events he would sneak both of you guys into a bathroom stall and dump his load in you. You were being bred and honestly you were okay with that.

After about 3 months of continuous trying you finally miss your period. Your husband wasn't a big crier but the day you showed him your pregnancy test he let a few stray tears fall down his face. 

Pregnancy went more or less okay, nothing extreme. It wasn't until a couple months into your pregnancy, the doctor told you guys that you were having twins. A boy and a girl. This caught you both by surprise but if anything you were confident you and Aizawa could handle this. 

He’s so attentive during your pregnancy, even if he does it in ways that seem unconventional. Too tired to make dinner after work, don’t worry Aizawa had already delivered your favorite food. Too tired to finish your work? No problem, he’ll stay up late and do it for you before your deadline. Back hurting? Lay down because he’s gonna massage you until you feel better.

He’s your rock in more ways than one. When the babies finally do arrive you can immediately tell the love and adoration he has for the twins. Always offering to be the one doing feedings and waking up in the middle of the night. To be fair you were always with him because you didn’t want to miss a single thing, but he was good at stepping up. 

The way he loves them and cherishes them brings tears to your eyes. Aizawa’s usual demeanor of monotone words completely goes out the window when he’s around the babies. He’s a natural at baby talk and sweet words. Insistent on reading them a book every night before bed. 

As the twins get older, the more you notice his act’s service for them. Baby girl loves going to the park. Even if your husband is exhausted from work, he will still make time to take his daughter to the park and push her down the slide. Same with your son, he loves the water (something you both share in common), Aizawa not so much of a fan. But that doesn’t stop him from playing with your son in the swimming pool for hours.

Despite his protesting he becomes a natural at brading and doing your daughters hair. You could never get the hang of it but his long fingers come in handy when doing her hair. 

He likes to be bashful about how much he shows his love and affection but you knew from the start that you couldn’t have asked for a better partner or dad for your kids. He goes above and beyond. Waking up in the middle of the night to confront them if they have a nightmare or taking time off work if one of them comes down with a cold. He was made to be a dad, and he thanks you everyday for making him one. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

hi friends!! please let me know what yall thought about this! this is my first ever mha fic and i would love to write more. definitely open to suggestions <3

[dorythewritingfish]

This gave me the idea to write a little 300-word scene, so here you go!

Remus was tall. He had the nickname, lightning house, in his friend group. The thing was, due to his disability, he was also not really able to bend down. He couldn't even bind his shoes sometimes, and sitting down wasn't always an option. At some point, he had come to terms with it.  What annoyed him, though, was that he was never able to lean down and kiss Sirius. He hated that he was never able to just lean down and kiss him. Sirius always had to get on his tip toes to kiss him. Which was. Cute, but also annoying.  What Remus didn't expect was Sirius in heels. He had been learning how to walk in them over the past weeks. Remus might have lost his breath when he saw Sirius that night. They had decided to go out. Remus was in his normal Jumper and cord trousers with Martens out for.  Sirius, though, was fully exploring his feminine side.  His long black hair was open and perfectly done. His make-up was light, his jewellery moon and star themed. He was wearing a black Crop top, with his favourite shorts and the heels Black shiny heels.  Remus blinked at his boyfriend for several minutes, and Sirius smiled.  „You look amazing“, Remus whispered, and kissed Sirius, this time, without needing to lean down, or Sirius to stand on his tip toes, he did in a way, but this was far more relaxing.  Sirius quickly owned multiple High heels and platform shoes that fit all of his vibes. Remus couldn't get enough of it. It sometimes crashed his heart, what Sirius was doing for him. Sirisu loved it. He sometimes did wear flat shoes, but he really had fallen in love with heels. He liked being tall.  But the best thing was that he was able to kiss his boyfriend, without any of them being uncomfortable; that was all that mattered. 

I hope you like it <3

Headcannon that Remus is tall enough that he has to lean down to kiss Sirius, except he can't lean down very easily because of his chronic pain so Sirius practically lives on his tippy-toes.

[kikiiidym]

How would PJO and HOO boys react if you told them you're pregnant?

Percy Jackson :

“You’re… you’re serious? Like, for real?”

The sea-green eyes widen like crashing waves. For a second, Percy forgets how to breathe. Then—he blinks, laughs, and suddenly he’s pulling you into his arms, almost spinning you off the ground.

“I’m gonna be a dad? Holy crap—I’m gonna be a dad!”

There’s a flash of panic under the joy, a storm behind the smile, but he leans into it, presses his forehead against yours, and whispers, “I’m scared. But I want this—with you.”

Grover Underwood :

Cue the tears. So many happy tears.

He gasps, little goat ears twitching in surprise. “You’re—pregnant?!” Then the realization hits—and he just bursts into joyful sobbing.

“This is the most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced—and I once watched a patch of wildflowers bloom in under two seconds!”

Grover drops to his knees, places his hands gently on your stomach, eyes misty. “Hey, little one. I’m your satyr dad-friend. I promise to keep you safe, teach you about trees, and love your amazing mom with all my heart.”

Connor Stoll :

“You’re pranking me, aren’t you? …Wait. You’re not.”

Connor’s face scrunches up in classic suspicion the second you say, “I’m pregnant.”

He squints. “Is this payback for the glitter bomb incident? Because if it is, I respect it, but also—WAIT, are you serious?”

When he realizes you’re not joking, his mouth falls open. For once in his life, Connor Stoll is speechless.

Then? The smile comes. Wide. Wild. Ridiculous. And somehow soft around the edges.

“I’m gonna be a dad? Like, a real one? That’s… insane. And awesome. And a little terrifying.”

He presses his forehead to yours and laughs under his breath. “Looks like someone’s finally gonna out-prank me. Better start hiding the whoopee cushions now.”

Travis Stoll :

“Well, there goes our sleep schedule forever—AND I COULDN’T BE HAPPIER.”

Travis drops whatever’s in his hands (probably something illegal or half-exploded) and runs over like you just said you won the lottery.

“WE’RE HAVING A KID?!”

He shouts it across the camp like an excited camp counselor. People start clapping. Some are crying. Connor’s already planning baby’s first prank.

Travis hugs you tightly, then drops to his knees to talk to your stomach: “Hi, tiny human. I’m your dad. I’m a bit of a disaster, but I make great pancakes. Also, you already won the lottery because your mom’s the best.”

Then he looks up, softer than you’ve ever seen him: “I promise I’ll be the kind of dad who always makes you laugh—even when life gets scary. Just like my mom tried to do for me.”

Luke Castellan :

His eyes widen, and something shifts in them—like light breaking through years of shadow.

“You’re… we’re having a baby?” His voice is stunned. “After everything I’ve done… you still chose me?”

He walks over, takes your hand carefully, reverently, like it’s made of starlight.

“I’ll protect you both. I swear it. No gods, no monsters—nothing touches this family.”

Then, quieter: “Maybe this is my second chance.”

Will Solace :

Will’s golden eyebrows lift, and he goes completely still.

“You’re pregnant?”

You nod, and for a second, his healer instincts kick in—checking your pulse, asking if you’ve had nausea, if you’re eating well—before he stops, blinks, and fully processes it.

“Oh my gods,” he breathes, a slow, amazed smile blooming across his face. “We’re having a baby.”

Then, he just hugs you—gently, warmly, protectively. His voice is full of awe. “That little soul is going to grow up surrounded by so much light.”

Nico Di Angelo (req):

He freezes—completely.

At first, Nico just stares at you, face unreadable. Silence hangs like a shadow. You start to worry—did you break him?

Then he looks down at his hands. “I never thought... I’d get to have something like this.” His voice is quiet, raw.

“Something good. Something alive.”

He steps forward slowly, touches your hand like you might disappear. “I don’t know how to be a father,” he murmurs. “But I want to try. With you.”

And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, he smiles.

Jason Grace :

The stoic Roman exterior cracks—and the softest boy peeks out.

He’s sitting, reviewing paperwork for Camp Jupiter, when you tell him. His pen stops mid-sentence.

“You’re…pregnant?”

You nod.

He stands slowly, walks toward you, and falls to his knees. One hand touches your stomach. The other touches his own heart.

“I never thought I’d get to have something normal—something beautiful.” He looks up at you with a fierce, reverent love.

“I’ll be the kind of father who earns this blessing. Every day.”

Frank Zhang :

Total deer-in-headlights moment—but pure tenderness follows.

Frank chokes on his tea. “What? PREGNANT?!”

He turns beet red, literally drops his cup, and then just stares at you in stunned silence. Then:

“I mean—I’m happy! I’m SO happy! I just—wow—I didn’t expect… me? A dad?”

His arms wrap around you in this big, warm, slightly awkward bear hug, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“I’ll protect you. And the baby. Always. Even if I have to turn into a lion every single day.”

Leo Valdez :

Cue the nervous rambling—and the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Okay, okay, okay—so like, tiny human, half you, half me, maybe with fire powers? That’s wild. That’s—wait, you’re serious, right? This isn’t some kind of weird demigod prank?”

When you nod, he freezes… and then suddenly yells, “YES!” into the air like he just beat an evil dragon with a wrench. He starts pacing, ideas already swirling.

“Okay, I’m building the baby the safest, coolest crib ever. Like—floating. And fireproof. And maybe plays calming lullabies? Wait, is that a thing?”

You laugh, and Leo just stares at you with awe. “You're growing our future, tesoro… That's magic.”

Octavian : (EUGHHH)

“Are you telling me… we created a legacy?”

When you tell him, Octavian freezes mid-sentence—he was probably ranting about political reform or inspecting an offering to Jupiter. His eyes widen, blue and calculating, scanning your expression to confirm you’re serious.

Then?

The world falls silent.

His voice lowers, thoughtful and trembling at the edges. “A child. Our child. Born of power. Born of prophecy.”

He moves toward you with a strange reverence, like you’ve suddenly become holy. His hand hesitantly grazes your stomach, eyes unreadable.

“I was never meant to build an empire alone,” he says quietly. “This child… they’ll carry my name. My strength. But with your heart.”

For a moment, the mask of control drops—and you see something raw and rare: fear. Hope. Humanity.

“I swear,” he whispers, “they won’t be alone like I was.”

Then the cold confidence slides back into place as he smirks faintly. “Also—if anyone tries to put my kid in a Praetor election, I’m burning the Senate down.”

[graves4girls]

+18 all to myself // erik campbell

wc // 3.4k warnings // +18, fem!reader, p in v a/n: lil longer than i planned buuuuut enjoy !

“Do you think this is too moody for a dinner?”

Leaning your phone up against the mirror, you stand from the vanity stool to show him your outfit.

“Hmm…can't really tell. Give me a spin.”

You fulfill his request, slowly spinning around.

He wolf-whistles as you twirl. “That is one nice ass.”

“I'm hanging up on you.”

Reaching for the phone, you pick it up and hover your finger over the bright red button, but he's quick to stall you before you can end the call.

“Wait! Wait–I'm kidding! It's perfect. You look amazing.”

You roll your eyes, plopping back down on the stool and propping your phone up once more. “You're so annoying.”

He grins at you through the screen, watching as you unscrew the wand of your mascara to retouch your lashes. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You can see the way he dramatically slaps a hand over his heart from the corner of your eye, biting back a laugh as he gasps.

“You are cruel, woman.”

Shrugging innocently, you close the tube and stuff it back into your makeup bag–gazing at him for a moment before you sigh. “Are you sure they'll like me? What if I say something stupid? Or mess something up? Or-”

“You're not gonna mess anything up, or do anything wrong. You're gonna be just fine. They will like you, babe. And even if they don't–which won't happen–who cares? All that matters is that I love you and you love me.” He pauses for a second to look you in the eyes, his expression hardening. “You do love me, right? Because you still haven't clarified-”

“Yes, I love you, dork. You just push my buttons sometimes.”

“What's a relationship without a little button-pushing?” The camera momentarily shakes and blurs as he shifts his position, having moved to lay on his back. “What time will you be here? I'm getting bored.”

Grabbing your phone, you stand from the desk to pad across your room, flipping your light-switch. “You're very needy, y'know. I'm heading out now.”

“I'll have you know I'm-” His sentence is cut off by the sound of a door swinging open on his end of the line, startling him enough to drop his phone flat onto his face. “Mom said to get downstairs–now!” Another slam as you assume the door closes, followed by a groan and a frustrated ‘okay!’ before he slowly raises the camera up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You see what I have to deal with here? I'm sure anything you do will never top what happens on a daily basis.”

Giggling at the familial bickering, you swipe your keys from the dining table and step into your shoes. “Poor baby,” you tease him, pouting your lip out, “I'll kiss your nose better when I get there.”

“You know what else you can kiss-?”

“Bye Erik.”

You end the call before he can protest, locking the front door behind you and making your way to the car.

The drive to the Campbell's home is a short one, the suburban houses a nice contrast to your shabby city-based apartment, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing through your speakers.

Soon enough, you're pulling into the driveway–shooting a quick ‘i'm outside’ message as you anxiously gnaw at your bottom lip, sitting in the car for a couple long moments before finally stepping outside.

The door swings open before you even step onto the patio–a small smile pulling at your lips when you meet his eyes, just the simple sight of him easing your nerves a tad.

“Took you long enough.”

His hands find your waist as you approach him, tugging you into his chest.

“It took me ten minutes to get here. You're just incredibly impatient.”

“How can I not be when I know my beautiful girlfriend is on her way to see me?” He dips his head to press a soft kiss to your lips, hands slinking behind you to cheekily squeeze your ass through the tight denim of your jeans–earning a hushed yelp as you shove his chest.

“Erik!”

He opens his mouth in an attempt to defend himself, but is once again cut off.

“Erik, the air conditioners are on! Close the goddamn door!”

“Alright!” Huffing through his nostrils, he reluctantly pulls himself away from you, rolling his eyes.

You stifle a laugh as he ushers you into the house, tugging the door shut behind the two of you and quickly guiding you towards the stairs before the rest of the family can swarm you.

“C'mon, let's go to my room before-”

“Oh my God, hey! You're the girlfriend Erik's always talking about! Wow, are you out of his league.”

A sheepish smile tugs at your lips as you laugh, flushing a bit–but he intervenes before you can get a word out.

“Fuck off, Julia.” He flips her the bird, slotting his fingers between your own. “You guys can talk to her at dinner. Right now, she's all mine.”

With that, he's leading you up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom, shoving the door shut and twisting the lock with an aggravated sigh.

“This family is a fucking nightmare sometimes.”

You gaze around the room. You'd only been in here once before, when he'd had the entire house to himself–and you'd been far too focused on the way he was touching you to truly take in the scenery. Now, you eye the posters that cover the majority of his walls–a mix of bands and movies scattered in no particular order. 

“Grave Encounters 2? Really?”

He scoffs at that. “What's wrong with it? It's a great movie.”

“The first one was better.” You shrug, grinning as he glares at you–squinting as he assesses what exactly your goal was.

“Are you trying to get a reaction out of me? Is that what you're doing?” 

He approaches you slowly, in tow as you step backwards–grabbing your wrists when you try to push him back. You snicker as he leans in close, blue eyes piercing your gaze.

“Maybe. You're hot when you get all passionate about things you like.”

“Oh, yeah? Is it hot when I talk about how the horror industry is dying due to the influx of shitty reboots and retellings of classics, rather than studios curating fresh, new ideas that actually intrigue audiences and revamp the genre? Is that getting you all hot and bothered?”

You bark out a laugh, freeing yourself from his grip to cup your hands over his cheeks, drawing him closer to ghost your lips over his own. “Totally. It's so sexy when you talk about how real skeletons were used in Poltergeist because it was cheaper than making fake ones, or how the liquid nitrogen kill in Jason X is completely unrealistic."

He grins against your lips as he seals the gap between you, hands falling to settle in the dip of your waist as your own slink around his neck–carding through his hair when his fingers find the hem of your shirt and crawl beneath the fabric.

“I knew you were the one for me.”

You part from him slowly, twirling a lock of his hair around your finger as you meet his softened stare for a tick before you avert your gaze, teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip.

“Erik?”

He brings a hand up to cradle the side of your face, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “What's that look for, hmm? Everything okay, babe?”

You nod carefully, leaning into his touch–gingerly wrapping your fingers around his wrist as you gaze up at him with wide, anxious eyes.

“I'm still nervous about meeting your family. I can't stop thinking that I'm gonna do something to make them hate me.”

He plants a kiss to your forehead, the pad of his thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “Like I said–everything is gonna be fine. There is nothing you can do to make my family hate you. Anything you can think of, I've probably already done.”

You hum quietly, but he can tell his words still aren't convincing enough.

Sighing, he pulls you in to kiss you–this time with a newfound fervor as he presses you flush against him, his free hand grabbing at your hip. 

Dragging his lips across your jaw, he leads a line of kisses down your neck, nipping at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Erik, what are you doing?” You question him quietly, but the mere fact that you do nothing to stop him speaks volumes.

“Helping you relax.” His beard tickles your throat as he mouths at your flushed skin, groping you through your thin tank. “C'mon, we've got time. Knowing my brother and sister, they're probably more trouble than help down there.”

Pressing your palms to his chest, a soft mewl escapes you when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, soothing the deep mark with a kiss before a hand is forcing his head back up to press your lips to his–tangling your fingers in his hair once more as he spins the two of you to press your back up against his door.

Reaching a hand down between the two of you, he easily unbuckles his belt, leaving it open just enough to pop the button of his jeans. His teeth tug at your bottom lip as he cups that same hand over your cunt–though the thick denim prevents his fingers from providing you any pleasure.

“Take these off,” he mutters against you, helping you unbutton the article, inching the tight fabric down your hips.

Now you're really regretting wearing skinny jeans, immensely struggling to shed the garment.

Finally managing to step out of them, he momentarily parts from you to eye your choice of panties–a thin, bright red lacy pair with a tiny bow at the front–smirking at you as he hooks a finger in the waistband.

“Nice choice.”

Rolling your eyes, you pull him back in by the collar of his shirt, muffling a whine against his lips when he stuffs his hand between your thighs–the tips of his middle and ring finger gently rubbing at you, no doubt feeling the wet patch of lace. Nudging your chin, he directs his attention to your neck once more–sticking wet kisses across your warm skin as you clutch at his shoulders. 

“Turn around.”

Slowly pivoting to face away from him, he presses himself against your back–pinning your chest to the door as he slips his hand beneath your panties, coating his fingers in your slick when they rub at your needy clit–clamping a hand over your mouth and muffling a whine against his palm.

“Shh…wouldn't want anyone to know what we're doing, would we?” He teases with a kiss to your shoulder, his words searing into your skin.

Sinking two fingers into you, he responds to your desperate cries with wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck–a groan rumbling deep in his throat when you push your hips back into him. 

“Fuck, you're lucky we gotta make this quick, otherwise that little move would've gotten you begging and fucking crying for me to touch you,” he hisses, warm breath fanning against your ear.

Freeing his cock from beneath his boxers, he briefly retracts his hand from your face to pull your panties aside, dragging the tip up along your folds achingly slowly.

“Erik, please,” is all you manage to croak out before he unceremoniously buries himself inside you, his hand returning to stifle your moans when he bottoms out, gnawing at his bottom lip as he bites back a noise of his own.

His other hand grips your hip tightly, his fingernails digging into your flesh as he draws back, nearly pulling out before sinking all the way back in–deliberate and unhurried as he rocks his hips back and forth. He hushes you when you mumble something into the palm of his hand, propping his chin on your shoulder to whisper into your ear.

“I know, shhh–just be good and take what I give you.”

Slinking his hand over your hip and down your stomach, his fingers slowly circle your clit–earning a pitiful cry as your brows furrow, teeth chomping down on your bottom lip as you press your forehead against the wood. His hips snap into you in rhythm with the roll of his fingers, rocking your weakening body against the door–your knees threatening to buckle beneath you as your hands claw at his arms. 

A loud knock at the door startles the both of you–freezing as a voice calls out behind it.

“Erik, dinner's ready! Get your ass out here!”

Closing his eyes, his nostrils flare as he uses every ounce of his strength to keep from losing his sanity. “We'll be down in a goddamn minute!” Dropping his forehead to your shoulder, he curses himself, pulling his hands away to settle over your waist. “We'll finish this later.”

You whine softly as he pulls out, still catching your breath as you fix your panties and sluggishly pull on your jeans–watching in slight amusement as he attempts to hide his erection in those incredibly tight skinny jeans, tugging a hand through his hair as he groans. 

“Leave it to me to get fucking cock-blocked by my own family.”

You reach out to unlock the doorknob, but he catches you before you can step out of the room.

“What?”

“Put this on. You got marks all over you.”

You take the hoodie from his hands, eyeing the imprint of his teeth on your shoulder and glaring at him as you tug the garment over your head. “Kinky motherfucker.”

He holds the sides of your face, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose as he smirks at you. “But I'm your kinky motherfucker.” Twisting the lock, he pulls open the door, guiding you out of the room with a hand at the small of your back. “Let's just get this shit over with.”

The dinner went without a hitch–aside from the obvious tension between the two of you as he sits there with the worst case of blue-balls probably ever documented, his words short and tight as the ache in his jeans grows increasingly painful the longer the meal goes on.

Finally able to retreat back to his bedroom, he nearly rips the door of its hinges when he slams it shut, locking it just as quickly and turning to watch you plop onto his bed, sighing as you spread out on the mattress.

“That went so much better than I ever could have imagined.”

He grunts at that, slowly crossing the room. “Told you so.”

Propping yourself onto your side, you peer up at him, brows pinching together when you catch the way he's looking at you–his icy eyes now dark in the dim light, but you're sure it's not entirely just the incandescents’ doing. “You okay, babe?” Gaze flickering down, you immediately get the answer you were looking for. “Oh. I see.” 

He crawls over you on the bed, nudging you onto your back as he leans down to kiss you–wasting no time as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt, tugging it out from the loops and tossing it off the side of the bed.

“You have no idea how fucking miserable that dinner was for me. I had to sit there for almost an hour and act like I wasn't going fucking insane. Look at what you fucking do to me.”

He grabs your hand, pressing your palm to the bulge in his pants, shuddering at the sensation of the scratchy denim rubbing him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Well, whose fault is that, babe? You're the one who wanted me to ‘relax’.”

His eyebrows furrow as you push your hand against him, letting your fingers pop the button and tug the zipper down–pushing the waistband of his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring free, leaking and flushed angrily as it bobs, begging for your attention–the silver barbell crudely slicked and dripping with precum.

He litters your neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses as his fingers clumsily pull off your jeans, your panties following as he discards the garments somewhere off the bed–slotting a hand between your thighs to let his fingers rub gracelessly over your clit, pulling a keen from your throat. 

“Can't wait any longer. Need to be inside you.” It's less of a request and more of a statement–as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, the slickness easily letting him sink into you with one slow rut of his hips.

His fingers rub uncoordinated circles into your clit, his unoccupied hand propping himself up above you as his lips find yours once more, a low moan melting on your tongue as your hands tangle in his hair–gently tugging a fistfull.

His movements are sloppy and rushed, chasing the high that's just outside of his reach–his hips stuttering and losing what semblance of a pace he's got going whenever your walls clench around him, muttering slurred curses into your flushed skin.

“‘M not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that.” His forehead drops to your shoulder, sighing as your fingernails scrape against his scalp. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You whine when his fingers retreat to instead hook his hand under the back of your knee–but your words of protest die on your tongue when he pins your leg back, the shift in angle allowing him to sink deeper–his piercing dragging against that sweet spot inside you. 

“Just like that, Erik,” you sigh breathily, pulling his hair to bring his face up to yours–pressing a feverish kiss to his lips.

His hips snap against you a few more times–rough and deep–before he stills, fingers digging into your flesh as he comes, his chest heaving against your own.

He sluggishly raises himself above you, earning a soft, desperate mewl as he pulls out–eyeing the mess that spills onto his sheets.

“Erik, wait–”

He quiets you with a kiss, settling a hand at the back of your neck.

“Don't worry, babe. I'm not done with you yet. Just relax.”

Raking his hand up your thigh, he lets his fingers pick up as much as they can, stuffing themselves inside as your legs fall open–a silent welcome as your back curls off the mattress, heavy eyelids falling shut as you bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb joins to massage your clit, and you stifle a pathetic cry into the back of your hand when he curls his fingers, wrapping your other hand around his forearm and driving your fingernails into his skin as he nestles his face into the crook of your neck–sticking small kisses across your warm skin.

“Go ahead and touch yourself, babe. Make yourself come on my fingers.”

Heedlessly, the hand over your mouth falls to roll your fingers over your clit to replace his thumb, hips bucking at the feeling. 

The room is filled with your breathless pants and whines, along with the quiet ‘plap’ of his hand against your cunt with every thrust of his fingers–fucking the mixture of slick and cum back into you.

You come with a broken whimper, thighs trembling and clamping together as he raises his head and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, the hand behind your head moving to comb your hair out of your face. 

Slowly removing his fingers from between your thighs, he wipes his hand on the sheets before sitting back on his heels–tucking himself back into his boxers and moving to stand from the bed.

“Where're you going?”

He glances at you as he buckles his belt, grinning at the way you peer at him with half-lidded eyes, fighting to keep them open.

“To get a wet rag and clean you up. It's the least I could do after finger-fucking you.”

You make a noise of disgust, scrunching your nose. “Jesus, don't say it like that. It's so vulgar.”

He smirks down at you. “Babe, do you even know who you're dating? ‘Vulgar’ is my middle goddamn name.”

You roll your eyes, waving him away. “Hurry up. I'm starting to feel gross and sticky.”

He catches your hand with a grin, planting a kiss to your knuckles before slipping out of the room–whistling casually beyond the closed door, leaving you to question how exactly you've come to tolerate such a character as eccentric as him.

[nogutsnogloria]

summary: late night exciting news

andrew pope cody x reader

a/n: i actually don’t like this one but i was having a panic attack (not about this, about something else) and while i felt like i was dying i only could imagine my parents like finding this doc or something open when they went to clean everything up. that was enough to just post it so it’s not sitting in a document anymore.

this is a first. you are wide awake and andrew is peacefully sleeping beside you. not wanting to wake him by tossing and turning you strategically untangle yourself with him and head into the kitchen. the moon is out tonight so you can work by the glow of the moonlight. you quietly grab the electric kettle and start heating up water grabbing a bag of your favorite camomile tea down from the cupboard. once the water boils you pour it into the mug and head out to the patio to listen to the ocean. hoping real life white noise will help make your brain shut off and become tired enough for sleep.

pope is in a state in between being asleep and being awake. he reaches out so that he can cuddle into you and your warmth, but no matter where he reaches he can’t find you in his dream state. he is quick to open his eyes at that and sleepily figure out what is happening. he doesn’t hear you in the bathroom so he is getting out of bed and throwing a pair of sweats over his boxers to search for you in the rest of the house. he sees you sitting outside and wastes no time to join you. he stands behind the chair you are sitting in and rubs his hands up and down your shoulders.

“do you think lena would let us officially adopt her, or would even want us to?” pope doesn’t know if he’s fully awake and functioning enough to properly have this conversation, but he’s going to try. “we could ask her, but i think i am always going to be her uncle pope.” you nod processing what he said. “yeah” it makes perfect sense to you. pope comes around the chair so he can crouch in front of you looking up with his hands resting on your lap. “what are you thinking about?” this is obviously not a thought coming from nowhere, if it has you up in the middle of the night.

you straighten up in the chair and look in his eyes. “i’m pregnant.” you place your hands on top of his in your lap and wait for him to process. his whole face softens and he looks up to you and gives you a smile that makes you weak in the knees. “you are?” he sounds a bit choked up when he asks pulling a hand from yours so he can rest it on your stomach. you nod, your eyes a bit misty. “i took a few tests today, all positive. i still should see a doctor to make sure it’s all viable, but yes all signs point to pregnant.” he’s getting up to place a kiss on your lips. “so the adoption question?” he’s asking because he knows you have thoughts about this.

“well i was trying to figure out how to tell you and most go with ‘you’re going to be a dad’ but that didn’t feel like it would do it justice, because you already kind of do dad things. but ‘you’re going to be a dad again’ didn’t make any sense either. also i want the baby to have lena as an older sister, because she will be so amazing at it. older cousin just doesn’t seem like it would be right, you know? but how does that even makes sense?” he’s can tell you have spent so long thinking about this. “our family dynamic is a bit complicated.” he states matter of factly. you shake your head “i love the way it is, but i would never want lena to feel replaced or that the love is different because she’s not mine biologically, or that i didn’t know her from the day she was born, because that will never be true.” he lets you finish your thoughts.

“she’s loved you since the moment she met you, and i am not just saying that to say it. that first night, that first tea party, i saw her start to become a real kid again, one that wasn’t sad all the time, brightness came back in her eyes, laughter came back into this house. don’t ever think you haven’t been exactly what she needed, exactly what i’ve needed.” you feel the tears well up in your eyes. “i am so excited to see you with a baby, the thoughts do crazy things to me.” he smiles up at you with one of his most devastating looks, the one he knows works best and you immediately want to kiss it right off.

“does things to you? oh really? you have no idea what knowing that you’re pregnant is doing to me.” his hands are rubbing up and down your lap flirting with innocence and inappropriateness as he is also leaning up to kiss you. it’s a messy one that leaves you wanting more. his tongue mapping out the inside of your mouth that draws a whine from the back of your throat. “will you let me take you back to bed?” he’s not playing fair kissing down your jaw, easily finding the spot that makes you not think straight. you give him a breathy “uh-huh” and that’s all it takes he’s picking you up bridal style from the chair you’re in and bringing you back his bed where you belong. forever.

[bangchanplzbangme]

emo boy han jisung hc

warnings: MDNI suggestive content, desperate han jisung (he’s so fine he deserves a warning), oral sex (female receiving), pussydrunk han, exhibitionism. I think that’s it but please tell me if I missed anything

This is my first post ever, I’ve never written before, so please tell me if anything is wrong or inaccurate. Thank you ❤️

~smut under the cut~

Emo Han who is the most desperate depraved man you have ever met. Every time he sees your pretty pussy, he can’t help but fawn over it. Even if he acts like a virgin every time, it doesn’t mean you don’t finish. He’ll have you squirting on every surface he can find. He always cleans everything up, because he doesn’t want to bother his beautiful gf.

Emo Han who always manages to bring you to tears, sobbing into your pillow as he abuses your poor pussy. His stamina is so high, you tap out halfway, so after that, it’s just him using your pussy, making you a sloppy mess as his cock drags through your walls over and over again.

Emo Han who is in love with you, he’s totally whipped. He writes songs for you, kisses you like you’re the only one in the world who matters, and treats you like a precious porcelain doll. And then he proceeds to break you all night. He just won’t stop till you’re crying and begging, because how else will he know he did a good job?

Emo Han who will come up behind you as you’re cooking, wrap his arms around your waist and whine for attention. Once you finally give it to him, he’s propping you up on the counter and eating you out like your essence is the one thing he needs to keep breathing. He gets whiny and pouty when you pull him away, so just let him stay there, yeah?

Emo Han who bought a penthouse with floor to ceiling glass windows. He says it’s because the view is pretty, but really, he just wants to show off your cute body to people that might be looking. After a particularly hard day with the band, he storms in, pulls your clothes off and presses you against the glass. He loves it when you drool and leave imprints against the glass that he is all too happy to clean up later. After you both are done, he gives you the most amazing aftercare. He makes ramyeon, though it might be a little watery (Skz code reference). All in all, he loves you more than anything, even if he fucks like he hates you ❤️