Mike Driver
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Azriel
The Golden Warrior - AO3 Link
-Chapter 1
-Chapter 2
-Chapter 3
-Chapter 4
-Chapter 5
-Chapter 6
-Chapter 7
-Chapter 8
-Chapter 9
-Chapter 10
-Chapter 11
One shots
I'm Not The One For You
All the Time in the World, Until The Very End
Finnick Odair
Visions of Burning Skies - AO3 Link
-Chapter 1
*I have multiple chapters updated on AO3!
CALLSIGN CUPID
Summary: When Jake Seresin realizes he’s in love with his best friend—you—he does what any emotionally repressed Navy pilot might do: sets you up with other guys instead. But after three bad dates, a paper airplane, and one squad-intervention later, Jake finally stops playing Cupid—and starts being honest.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader
Word count: 13.6k
A/N: This was in fact loosely inspired by “10 things i hate about you” but it was also inspired by this one book i read a very long time ago that kinda had the same vibe, not sure what the name was it was at least 5-6 years ago but i still think about it sometimes 💔 also omg?? i think this is the longest thing i’ve ever written! just a disclaimer this was written almost 2 months ago, it was apart of my test subjects before i released “honor & duty”. ALSO MIGHT LOWK MAKE A HANGMAN MULTIVERSE TOO??
Warnings: Second person POV, slow burn, mutual pining, slight sa scene (just a bit of inappropriate touching), jealousy, bad date scenarios (including one with a taken guy), light swearing, emotional tension, one knee-drop romantic gesture, meddling squad behavior, and one very flustered Hangman trying his best.
pt 2
There were a few things you’d come to accept as non-negotiable truths during your time at Top Gun:
Coffee tasted best when stolen from Rooster’s thermos.
Phoenix and Fanboy would always argue like siblings during preflight.
And Jake Seresin—Hangman himself—couldn’t mind his own damn business to save his life.
You were midway through a morning briefing, half-listening to Cyclone run through upcoming mission simulations, when Jake leaned over just enough to whisper out of the side of his mouth.
“You know, I heard Supply Guy is single again.”
You didn’t even turn your head. “And I heard you should shut up before Cyclone catches you talking.”
Jake grinned, unbothered. “Just trying to help. I’d hate for your roster to run dry.”
You gave him a side-glare sharp enough to slice steel.
Across the room, Phoenix stifled a laugh.
The air in the briefing room was its usual mix of cold coffee, jet fuel, and pure, unfiltered sarcasm. Jake Seresin lounged in a rolling chair near you, boots kicked up onto the empty seat beside him, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t a care in the world. His sunglasses were still on. Inside. Because, of course, they were.
“Y’know, Hangman,” Rooster drawled from the front row, “it’s called a briefing. You’re supposed to look at the screen, not just bask in your own reflection.”
Jake tipped his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact. “I multitask.”
“You can’t spell ‘team’ without ‘me’,” Fanboy muttered, not even looking up from the protein bar he was dissecting with a spork.
“Not how spelling works,” Payback shot back, smirking.
In front of him, you were half-paying attention, flipping through a file with one ear tuned into the mission rundown and the other eavesdropping on the squad’s banter. Bob sat next to you, pressed shoulder to shoulder like always, posture straight and focused—but when Hangman piped up again, you felt Bob shift subtly beside you, like he was biting back a grin.
“Some of us,” Jake said, lifting his voice just a little, “don’t need to memorize the brief. We are the plan.”
“You are insufferable,” Phoenix replied flatly, finally turning toward him with a look that could’ve knocked a lesser man on his ass.
“Didn’t hear a no,” Jake replied with a wink.
Coyote groaned. “I swear to god, if this is how today’s going to go…”
It was how today was going to go.
You’d all been grounded the past week for maintenance drills and mission prep, so the tension in the squad was ramping up like coiled wire. Too much time on the ground made everyone itchy. Especially pilots.
By the time the briefing was about to end, you were already winding down from the tactical talk, scribbling a note in your logbook. Bob leaned toward you, voice quiet.
“You flying lead today?”
You nodded. “Rooster’s wing, but I’ve got lead. Try not to make me look bad.”
His smile was small but genuine. “You could fly solo and still make us all look bad.”
“Flattery gets you… nothing,” you teased, “Except maybe some snacks in the ready room.”
Bob’s face lit up like you’d just promised him classified intel and a hug.
-
Cyclone dismissed you all fifteen minutes later, and as you filed out into the hallway, Jake was still going.
“I’m just saying, I’ve got a gift. A sixth sense for chemistry.”
“Oh yeah?” Rooster asked, slapping Jake’s shoulder. “That why you’re still single?”
“That’s a choice,” Jake shot back, fixing the collar of his flight suit. “I’m out here doing the Lord’s work. Playing Cupid.”
Fanboy groaned. “God, not this again.”
“You don’t even believe in monogamy,” Phoenix said, crossing her arms as she walked backward in front of you all.
“I believe in giving people a little push,” Jake replied. “Like matchmaking. Strategically. For morale.”
“Since when do you care about morale?” Coyote snorted.
Jake pointed at you. “Since she’s been moping around base like she lost a bet.”
“I haven’t been moping,” you argued, though you knew exactly what he was referencing. One shitty date with a comms officer and suddenly Hangman was acting like he needed to fix your whole life.
“You’ve been quiet,” Bob added from your other side, his tone gentle. “Quieter than usual.”
“I’m allowed to have quiet days.”
Jake leaned in again, smirking. “Or maybe you just need someone to make some noise in your life.”
Phoenix punched his arm. “Back off, Casanova.”
-
The pre-flight was smooth. You were zipping up your G-suit when Jake wandered over to your jet, dragging Coyote along like an accessory.
“Need help strapping in, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning against the wing like a car salesman trying too hard.
You gave him a flat look. “Only if you want a wrench to the temple.”
Coyote snorted.
“I was just saying,” Jake continued, completely undeterred, “you’re the picture of confidence. Someone should be here to appreciate it.”
“Jake,” Bob called from a few feet away, arms crossed as he leaned against your jet’s ladder. “You hit on her one more time and the plane might spontaneously combust just to escape the cringe.”
“Ohhh,” Rooster added as he approached, dragging his helmet in one hand. “Burned by Baby on Board. Rough morning for you, Seresin.”
Jake grinned lazily. “Hey, you all mock now, but when I’m the best man at her wedding? You’ll wish you were as charming.”
You raised a brow. “You volunteering?”
“Best man? Groom? I’m flexible.”
You groaned. Bob muttered under his breath, “Flexible like your ego.”
-
You all made your way toward the flight deck, helmets in hand, the morning sun bouncing off the tarmac. The simulation was in forty-five minutes, and you were itching to get in the air—partially because it was the one place where Jake couldn’t talk your ear off.
The air was different on base lately.
It wasn’t just the hotter-than-usual summer, or the fact that everyone had started sneaking ice pops from the freezer in the officer’s lounge. There was something else. A shift.
Everyone was restless. The mission load had eased slightly, giving you all more downtime. And when Top Gun pilots had too much downtime? Stupid things happened.
Betting pools. Pranks. Unnecessary competitions.
And, in this case: matchmaking.
Jake’s obsession had started as a joke—something he said after your third bad date in two months. But now, it was gaining momentum. He’d already made one match between a junior lieutenant and a flight mechanic (they’d gone on two coffee dates and then ghosted each other, but Jake claimed it was a success). And now, unfortunately, you were in his line of fire.
But what you didn’t know—what none of you knew—was that the boys had made a bet.
It started that night. A few hours after debrief, Rooster invited the squad over for drinks and poker.
-
Rooster’s house smelled like beer and leftover pizza, and Jake was already two whiskeys in when the idea started forming.
“Admit it,” he said, shuffling cards with a flourish. “I could get her a date that lasts longer than a week.”
“You think you could find her the right guy?” Fanboy asked, incredulous. “You’re the worst person to set anyone up.”
“I have charm.”
“You have trauma,” Payback muttered.
Jake smirked, unfazed. “I’m serious. She’s just… picky. And I know her type.”
Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s her type?”
Jake sipped his drink. “Someone with a sense of humor. Smart, but not arrogant. Good with their hands. Probably someone in uniform.”
“So… you,” Rooster said dryly.
Everyone laughed.
Jake rolled his eyes. “No. She’d hate dating me.”
“You sure?” Bob asked quietly, brows lifted.
Jake hesitated. “Yeah. She’d kill me before the first appetizer.”
“Let’s make it interesting,” Fanboy said, leaning forward. “Twenty bucks each. You pick someone—set her up. If it lasts more than five dates, you win. If not? We keep the cash.”
“Make it fifty,” Jake challenged.
The boys stared at him.
“Confident much?” Coyote said.
Jake shrugged. “She’s my friend. I know what she needs.”
The pot grew to $300. Jake grinned.
-
You had no idea what you’d just become the center of.
But the next morning, when Jake asked casually if you’d ever considered dating that guy from supply again, you should’ve known something was up.
The next morning broke clear and sharp over the base, the sun spilling golden through the narrow slats of your blinds. You were still half tangled in the remnants of a restless sleep when your phone buzzed with a text.
Jake: “Hey. So… you ever thought about dating supply?”
You blinked, sitting up, the question feeling more like a prank than a genuine suggestion. Jake Seresin, your self-appointed Cupid, was already in full swing.
You typed back with a dry smile:
You: “You’re starting early.”
-
The squad gathered for the morning briefing in the usual cramped room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Cyclone was rattling off last-minute mission details when Jake sidled up next to you again, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
The morning sun had barely crept above the hangar roof when the squad gathered for the day’s briefing. The cramped room hummed with quiet anticipation, punctuated by the rustle of flight suits and the faint buzz of comm chatter filtering through the air vents. Cyclone’s voice was all business, drilling through the mission simulation details like a machine.
But no one was really paying full attention—not you, and certainly not Jake Seresin.
Leaning against the wall beside you, Jake’s eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of mischief. “Alright, today’s the day,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. “My matchmaking game is officially live.”
You rolled your eyes but fought a smile. Jake had been on this ridiculous kick since last night at Rooster’s, practically bursting with excitement over the stupid bet with the boys. You weren’t sure whether to be amused or mildly concerned.
“Seriously, dude, give it a rest,” you muttered, but he just shrugged and turned back to the briefing.
-
Once dismissed, the squad filtered out toward their jets, the metallic clang of helmets and gear blending with the distant roar of engines warming up. The familiar adrenaline spike coursed through your veins as you slid into your cockpit, fingers expertly running over the controls. Flying was always your sanctuary—the one place where Jake’s antics faded into white noise.
That was until your comm crackled with Rooster’s voice, thick with mock warning. “Hey, Hangman, keep your eyes on your wingman today. No matchmaking during maneuvers. We’ve got enough chaos as it is.”
Jake’s tone answered back, playful and teasing, “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work. Somebody’s gotta fix this mess.”
You chuckled softly, settling into formation as the jets lifted off in perfect synchrony. The sky was a crystal blue canvas, the sun gleaming on your visor as you sliced through the air.
Flying helped.
Whatever chaos lingered on the ground got swept away the moment you lifted off. You and Rooster made clean turns, slicing through the California sky like it owed you something. Over comms, you could hear the easy banter between Payback and Fanboy, the static-muted smirks between Phoenix and Bob.
Jake, of course, never stopped talking.
“Hey, Bagman,” Phoenix called out mid-loop. “You miss basic training where they teach you how to shut up?”
“You love it,” he fired back.
“I’d love silence.”
“Don’t lie to yourself.”
It was all clockwork—banter, barrel rolls, and bullshit. But it was in the rhythm, in the instinctive trust that came from knowing every one of them would be there when it counted, that you found your balance.
You didn’t realize you were smiling until Bob’s voice came over the comm.
“You’re humming.”
“Shut up, Bob.”
“You’re humming over the intercom. I think that’s a first.”
Jake’s voice cut in, “She’s humming because I’m inspiring.”
Bob immediately: “I’m ejecting.”
-
Back on the ground after a flawless simulation, the squad dispersed toward the mess hall in a slow, hungry shuffle. The air was thick with post-flight energy—half adrenaline, half exhaustion—and someone behind you (probably Rooster) was humming the Top Gun anthem under his breath like he did after every mission.
You were barely through the door, already scoping out whether the snack bar had restocked the decent granola bars, when Jake popped up beside you like a damn prairie dog.
“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low, too casual to actually be casual.
You side-eyed him. “What now?”
He hesitated. That alone was enough to make you stop walking.
Jake Seresin? Hesitating? That was new.
He rubbed the back of his neck, expression a strange mix of nerves and smug determination. Like a kid about to admit they broke a window and that it was totally worth it.
“You remember the supply officer? The one from last week?”
You frowned. “Yeah. What about him?”
Jake cleared his throat. “Well… I might’ve, uh, invited him out for dinner. As part of my… project.”
You blinked. “Project?”
“Matchmaking,” he said, like duh. “Obviously.”
You laughed. Loud enough that two airmen passing by looked over.
“Jake, you can’t just ‘invite’ people for dates like it’s a mandatory training exercise.”
He shrugged, attempting nonchalance but failing miserably. “It’s not an official date. Just… a social outing. A vibe check.”
“A vibe check?”
“I figured I’d do some of the heavy lifting,” he continued, walking beside you now as you made your way toward the salad bar. “Save you the trouble of awkward small talk. If it’s a bust, you can blame me. If it works, you’re welcome.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this is borderline insane?”
“Borderline charming,” he corrected.
“Borderline manipulative.”
“Potato, po-tah-to,” he said, waving a hand.
You stopped at the drink cooler, opening the door with more force than necessary. “Let me get this straight. You, without telling me, set me up with someone I barely know, because you think you know better?”
Jake looked smug. “Yeah. And you’re gonna love it.”
Before you could respond—probably with something that would’ve gotten you written up—Phoenix slid between you both like she’d been waiting for the right moment to intervene.
“You owe me five bucks,” she said to Jake, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler behind you.
Jake’s smile faltered. “You bet on this?”
“Obviously.” She winked at you. “I said you’d go off on him the second he opened his matchmaking mouth.”
You glared at them both. “This entire squad is feral.”
Fanboy appeared from behind the soda machine, his tray already stacked with two grilled cheese sandwiches and a mountain of fries. “Hey, are we still on for movie night?”
“Depends,” you muttered, eyeing Jake. “Is it a movie I pick, or one Hangman picks based on who he’s trying to set me up with?”
“Ouch,” Jake said, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”
“She’s got a point,” Coyote added, showing up just in time to steal a fry off Fanboy’s tray. “You’re making this personal crusade way too obvious.”
Jake’s eyes flicked to you for a second. “It’s not personal. I just think she deserves someone solid.”
“Uh-huh,” Phoenix said, sipping her drink like she wasn’t starting a fire with every word. “And definitely not you.”
He grinned, sharp and defensive. “Exactly.”
You narrowed your eyes.
You weren’t blind. You’d known Jake for years—flown with him, fought with him, gotten blackout drunk with him during Coyote’s infamous Vegas birthday weekend. You knew what he looked like when he was bluffing.
And this?
This was a bluff. One he’d doubled down on way too hard to back out of now.
“Fine,” you said slowly, popping the lid on your water bottle. “I’ll go. One dinner. But if this guy’s weird or tries to tell me about his crypto portfolio, I’m blaming you.”
Jake grinned like he’d won something. “Deal.”
Phoenix shook her head as she walked off. “You’re playing with fire, Hangman.”
Jake called after her. “Lucky for me, I like the burn.”
-
Movie night started like they all did—overcrowded, under-supplied, and dangerously close to devolving into chaos.
Rooster was balancing a tangled knot of wires in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, muttering something about HDMI adapters and “government-issued bullshit tech.” His ancient projector—the one that had survived deployments, sandstorms, and one very unfortunate encounter with tequila in San Diego—was propped up on two old aviation textbooks and a can of Pringles.
Fanboy arrived ten minutes late and unapologetically smug, cradling a six-pack of Dr. Pepper like it was a rare treasure. “Don’t worry,” he declared loudly, “I saved movie night. Again.”
“No one asked you to,” Phoenix called from where she was elbow-deep in a duffel bag looking for her Captain America fleece blanket.
“Democracy asked me to,” Fanboy retorted. “You’re welcome.”
Bob, sweet dependable Bob, came bearing the only thing anyone actually appreciated—cookies. His sister in Lemoore had mailed him two Tupperware containers filled with snickerdoodles, peanut butter blondies, and something suspiciously green that no one questioned. The second the plastic lids came off, the room collectively moaned like it had just been released from purgatory.
Jake, of course, brought nothing but opinions. And himself. Both in equally large supply.
“Who voted for Hot Fuzz?” he asked, hands on his hips like an outraged PTA mom.
“Me,” you said flatly.
“And me,” Bob added, already curled into the arm of the couch with a cookie in hand, quietly smug.
Jake turned toward you like you’d personally betrayed him. “We could’ve watched John Wick, and you went with British satire?”
“I’m sorry,” you said, completely unapologetic. “Are you anti-cornetto trilogy?”
Jake blinked. “I’m anti-being-bored.”
“Then maybe don’t bring the same six stories about your exes to every hangout,” Phoenix muttered.
“Rude,” Jake replied, not denying it.
The lights dimmed. Rooster finally got the projector to cast a halfway decent image against the white wall, and Payback threw a sock at him when the subtitles didn’t match the audio. Someone screamed “SHOTGUN!” for the beanbag chair that had mysteriously migrated from Coyote’s room. Popcorn flew. The floor space vanished in seconds.
You wound up sprawled beside Bob, your back against a floor cushion that may or may not have once belonged to Hangman before it got appropriated during a game night standoff. Your sock-clad toes brushed against Bob’s shin; he didn’t even flinch, just nudged a peanut butter blondie toward you in a wordless offer.
You took it.
Coyote wandered in halfway through the opening credits carrying two slices of pizza stacked on top of each other, looked at the chaos in the room, and just sighed. “This is why we don’t have nice things.”
“You’re just mad I got the last slice of Hawaiian,” Fanboy sang from the corner.
“We talked about pineapple on pizza,” Coyote said darkly.
Meanwhile, the movie hit its stride—quick edits, dramatic zooms, jokes that landed even harder because everyone in the room had already memorized the lines.
“Point Break or Bad Boys II?” Jake called out in his best Nick Frost impression.
“Which one do you think I’ll prefer?” Rooster responded instantly from across the room, already grinning.
Payback lobbed popcorn at them both. “If y’all quote this whole damn movie, I’m leaving.”
“You say that every week,” Phoenix said, rolling her eyes. “And then you fall asleep halfway through with your mouth open.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
Jake flopped onto the arm of the couch behind you, like gravity had simply decided that spot belonged to him. His knee brushed your shoulder, lingering a second longer than necessary, and you didn’t shift away.
“You good?” he asked, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear.
You tilted your head back, craning to look at him upside-down. “Define good.”
His lips twitched. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
You hummed. “Depends.”
“On?”
You gave him a saccharine smile. “Whether this guy turns out to be a serial killer.”
Jake laughed, and it was real—low and sheepish. “He’s not. I promise. He’s a little weird, maybe. But not murder-y.”
“Solid endorsement.”
“You asked me to look out for you,” he said, still smiling, but there was something beneath it—something quieter. “That’s what I’m doing.”
You stared at him, upside-down still, and for just a second the playful banter faded into something else. Something more loaded.
Your gaze held his for a second too long. Then you looked away, your neck aching a little from the angle. You shifted your weight back into the couch cushion.
“Just don’t make this a habit,” you muttered.
Jake didn’t answer right away. You felt him move behind you—his elbow brushing the back of your hair as he leaned forward slightly.
“Would it be so bad if I did?”
The question hung in the air.
It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. There wasn’t that usual drawl to it. He wasn’t playing this time. There was no smirk. No teasing. Just… curiosity. And something softer underneath it that he probably didn’t even realize had slipped through.
You glanced at him again, your expression unreadable. And for the first time, Jake actually looked unsure.
Before either of you could say anything else, Coyote and Phoenix started arguing across the room about whether or not Nicholas Angel—Simon Pegg’s character—was technically the villain of the movie.
“I’m just saying,” Phoenix started, “he ruins everyone’s fun.”
“By solving murders,” Coyote countered.
“You can’t prove Timothy Dalton didn’t have a point!”
You let their voices fill the room. Let the squad’s laughter and the chaos and the comfort of familiarity drown out the tension curling low in your chest.
Because the truth?
You didn’t hate the attention. You didn’t hate the way Jake always checked in, or the way he always saved you a spot without saying anything, or how he laughed harder when you were around. You didn’t hate any of it.
You just didn’t want to think too hard about why it mattered that it came from him.
Not yet.
-
The next morning arrived with zero fanfare and a whole lot of regret.
Not regret over anything you had done, but regret in the shape of Jake Seresin’s smirking face as he leaned against the edge of the table in the mess hall, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just offered you up like tribute the night before.
“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “you excited?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, halfway through your oatmeal. “Excited for what?”
Jake blinked, all innocence. “Tonight. Dinner. Supply officer.”
Fanboy perked up from across the table. “Wait. You’re going out with the walking spreadsheet?”
Rooster choked on his juice. “The one who alphabetizes the peanut butter?”
You gave Jake a look that could have melted steel. “You told everyone?”
Jake had the audacity to look affronted. “I didn’t tell them. I just—mentioned it.”
Phoenix leaned in, grinning like she smelled blood in the water. “Did you also mention that she was strong-armed into this by you?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s not coercion. It’s encouragement.”
“Encouragement usually involves enthusiasm,” you muttered. “Not bribery and peer pressure.”
“I didn’t bribe you.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘If you go, I’ll never bring up that time you accidentally FaceTimed me from the bath again.’”
Fanboy nearly spit out his coffee. “What?”
Jake held up his hands. “Not what it sounds like.”
You stood, grabbing your tray and ignoring the stares. “You’re all children.”
Phoenix cackled. “Be sure to send us a group text if he turns out to be a taxidermist.”
Jake called after you, “He’s a very normal guy! You’ll have a great time!”
You didn’t respond. But you did flip him off on your way out of the mess.
-
It was 7:00pm sharp when you arrived at the seafood place Jake had suggested—off-base, casual enough to avoid dress uniforms but nice enough to warrant eyeliner. The place had string lights, polished wood tables, and the kind of menu where everything came with a “reduction” of something or other.
You spotted your date—Mike, the supply officer—before he spotted you. He was seated in a booth, already halfway through a glass of water, his posture too perfect and his shirt just a little too tucked-in.
“Hey,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him.
His face lit up with the same earnest enthusiasm he’d had when you’d signed for your new flight gloves last week. “Hi! You made it!”
You smiled politely. “Yeah. I guess I did.”
Conversation started off… fine.
He asked about your squadron, complimented your call sign (which he’d mispronounced twice), and talked about how he’d minored in aviation logistics at Purdue. He had a laugh that was technically charming, and a habit of straightening the salt shaker every time he leaned forward.
He wasn’t creepy. Or mean. Or even weird, really.
But the longer you sat across from him, the more glaringly obvious it became that this was not going to be the beginning of anything remotely romantic.
Your brain betrayed you somewhere between the appetizers and the main course. Because all you could think about was Jake.
Jake, who never sat that straight. Jake, who never got through a meal without sharing food off someone else’s plate. Jake, who once made up a fake call sign for Rooster just to mess with a group of visiting officers (“It’s ‘Cockadoodle-Doom,’ sir, and he earned it.”).
Jake, who had set you up on this date. Who had pushed you toward it with that easy smile and the kind of confidence that only someone with absolutely no self-awareness could manage.
“So,” Mike said, snapping you out of your daze, “are you into board games?”
You blinked. “Board games?”
“Yeah. I host a game night sometimes. We do Settlers of Catan and Terraforming Mars. I’ve got an expansion pack for Wingspan that adds European birds.”
You took a sip of your drink. “That’s… specific.”
Mike grinned. “You’d like it. You seem like someone who appreciates rules.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually what people say about me.”
He looked slightly panicked. “I meant—like… structure. Not in a bad way!”
You laughed once, politely. Then glanced at the time on your phone.
Still forty minutes to go, if you were being generous.
-
Back on base, Jake was restless.
Bob watched him pace from the armchair, where he was trying to read. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug.”
Jake ignored him, turning toward the window like he could somehow see the restaurant from there. “You think she’s having fun?”
Bob didn’t look up. “You mean the girl you tried to pawn off like an Amazon package?”
“I didn’t pawn her off.”
“You did. It was weird. You should’ve just asked her out yourself.”
Jake froze. “I don’t— That’s not what this is.”
Bob finally looked up. “Isn’t it?”
Jake didn’t answer.
Didn’t have one, honestly.
-
By the time you made it back to your place, you were tired in a way that had nothing to do with your day. Mike had walked you to your car like a gentleman and given you a hug that lasted half a second too long.
“You’re really cool,” he’d said earnestly, eyes hopeful.
You’d smiled and thanked him.
And then you’d sat in your car for five full minutes, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, wondering what the hell you were doing.
Your phone buzzed.
Jake: “So… still alive? Didn’t join a cult?”
You stared at it. Debated. Then typed back:
You: “Barely. He asked if I wanted to see his board game collection.”
Jake’s reply came instantly.
Jake: “That sounds like a euphemism.”
You: “It wasn’t.”
Jake: “That somehow makes it worse.”
You smiled in spite of yourself. Tossed your phone onto the passenger seat beside you. The night was still. Quiet.
And the only thing louder than the silence was the thought you’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jake first brought this whole “project” up.
Why was he so interested in trying to get you to date?
And why was HE of all people on your mind all of a sudden?
-
The squad didn’t do boredom well.
Two days after movie night and that god awful date, Phoenix convinced half of you to join a beach volleyball tournament on base. You weren’t even sure how it had been sanctioned—maybe the C.O. was just as restless as the rest of you—but suddenly there were nets set up just past the tarmac, and someone had roped off court boundaries with neon cones and caution tape.
You showed up in gym shorts and a tank top, hair pulled back and sunscreen barely rubbed in. Bob handed you a water bottle as you arrived, his cheeks pink from the heat despite the early hour.
“Phoenix and Rooster already claimed each other,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
“Poor thing,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.
He just smiled—calm, steady Bob—and tugged his cap lower against the sun. You loved flying with him. Loved hanging out with him. Sometimes you thought maybe you loved everything about Bob, full stop.
Fanboy was the one who brought the speaker. Of course. He queued up a playlist titled “Top Gun Top Hits” that had everything from Kenny Loggins to Doja Cat. By the time the first game started, Rooster was dancing between points and Phoenix had already spiked a serve into Hangman’s chest.
“That one was for your ego,” she said, tossing the ball back over the net.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jake shot back.
You and Bob held your own, surprisingly enough. You weren’t flashy, but you had good instincts. And Bob was sneaky—he didn’t talk much during games, but he always seemed to know where to be.
“Okay, that was kind of hot,” you admitted after he dove for a save and landed in the sand.
He just looked up at you, winded and flushed. “You like that?”
You did. Too much. And maybe Jake noticed, because suddenly he was rotating in as your opponent with a little too much enthusiasm.
Afterward, you collapsed on a towel with Phoenix, both of you gulping water and yelling at Coyote for eating all the orange slices.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Phoenix muttered.
“Yeah, well, next time bring more,” he shot back, mouth full.
By late afternoon, the squad scattered—some toward the showers, some to grab food, and Jake? Jake lingered.
“You’re free tomorrow night, right?” he asked, nudging your foot with his.
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Just… remember that avionics tech from the hangar? The one with the buzz cut and the arm tattoo?”
“The one who said Star Wars is overrated?”
Jake winced. “Okay, so he’s not perfect. But he’s free. And I figured—just a quick drink. Harmless.”
You groaned. “Why are you like this?”
“It’s for morale,” he said smugly, already walking backward toward the barracks. “And entertainment.”
-
The bar was dim and vaguely sticky, tucked into a side street just outside the base gates. It smelled like old beer and buffalo sauce, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as “divey” in a charming way but never quite nailed the charm. Off-duty personnel clustered at the high tables, uniforms swapped out for jeans and team shirts, most pretending not to watch the pilots coming and going like it wasn’t their entertainment for the night. Country music played over the speakers—loud but not loud enough to cover the clink of bottles and the low buzz of half-drunken conversations.
Trevor—aka Buzz Cut Guy—was already seated at a corner booth when you walked in. You spotted him instantly. Tight black t-shirt, designer watch, one leg sprawled out too far into the walkway like he wanted people to trip over him. His cologne hit you before his smile did: something aggressively masculine, the kind of scent that tried too hard to say I lift without any actual lifting.
He stood when you approached, teeth flashing in a grin that felt more practiced than warm. “You must be Jake’s friend,” he said, sliding a hand across the table and pulling out your chair with the sort of flair that implied he’d rehearsed it.
“He said you’d probably try to bail.”
You raised a brow, pausing halfway into the seat. “That’s a weird opener.”
Trevor chuckled like that was somehow endearing. “Just messing. I’m good at reading people.”
You doubted that.
Still, you sat. Mostly because you didn’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing you almost turned around and left the second you saw that buzzcut and smug expression in person.
“Figured I’d keep it casual tonight,” Trevor said, nodding to the waitress as she came over. “Can I get you something? Beer, wine, appletini?”
You blinked. “I’ll just take a ginger ale, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol? That’s cute.”
Your jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just have early drills tomorrow and don’t want to show up hungover. Wild, I know.”
Trevor shrugged, unbothered. “Your call. I’m off tomorrow. I usually am. Perks of being indispensable.”
Oh boy.
It only got worse.
Trevor was, admittedly, attractive in the technical sense. Broad shoulders, straight teeth, a tattoo of what looked like a circuit board wrapping around his bicep—but every sentence out of his mouth made you question how many brain cells it took to put on deodorant in the morning.
“I’m kind of a genius with electronics,” he said, not even a full five minutes into the conversation. “Like, borderline savant. I rewired my mom’s entire security system when I was sixteen. She still doesn’t know how I did it.”
You nodded slowly, sipping your ginger ale like it was spiked with the patience of a saint. “Impressive.”
“I don’t get why people worship Maverick, honestly,” he continued, tipping his beer toward you like you’d agree. “Bit of a burnout vibe, don’t you think? Washed up. Always breaking the rules.”
You blinked. “You do realize everyone in my squad reports to him, right?”
He waved that off. “Yeah, but come on. You really think he’s still got it? Dude’s a relic.”
You forced a smile, digging your nails into the underside of the table. “So what made you join avionics if you’re such a prodigy?”
“I could totally be a pilot if I wanted. I just don’t want to deal with all the bullshit training. So much red tape, man. You guys live in the cockpit, but I live in reality.”
It was almost impressive—how quickly someone could become more unbearable with every word. You found yourself cataloging the signs like a checklist: talks over you, check. Makes his job sound harder than yours, check. Thinks The Matrix was “based on real science,” check.
“Oh, and don’t get me started on women who fly. No offense,” he said, glancing at you with that same fake grin. “Just seems like a tough gig. Like, do they even make helmets that small?”
You blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”
“Kidding,” he said quickly, hands up. “Joking. Lighten up.”
You had lasted thirty-seven minutes. You decided to be generous and make it to forty. Not because he deserved it, but because walking out before the forty-minute mark would just give Jake ammo to say I told you so.
You nursed your ginger ale. You let him talk. You imagined throwing his phone into the jukebox. And finally—finally—you stood.
“Well,” you said, pushing your chair back with a polite smile that barely masked the storm brewing in your chest. “This has been… something.”
Trevor stood too, reaching for your hand like he thought this was going well. “This was nice. Maybe next time you let me pick the music. Jake says you like weird stuff.”
You pulled your hand back. “Jake’s never heard me complain about music.”
Trevor blinked. “You sure? He said—”
“I’m sure,” you said firmly, already turning for the door. “Thanks for the ginger ale.”
The second you stepped outside into the cool night air, you exhaled like you’d just surfaced from a dive. Your boots hit the sidewalk harder than necessary as you made your way toward the parking lot, fingers already curled around your phone.
Jake 🙄
So??
You stared at the text. A dozen responses came to mind, ranging from sarcastic to profane, but you settled for closing your phone without replying. Not yet.
Let him sweat.
-
It was the kind of late afternoon where everyone lingered in the hangar instead of showering—half still suited up, half in undershirts, flopped on crates or leaning against the wing of Rooster’s F/A-18. No one had the energy to leave yet, and unfortunately for you, that gave them plenty of energy to gossip.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Phoenix said, cracking open a water bottle and tossing another one at you. “That bad?”
You caught it with one hand and gave her a look. “It wasn’t good.”
“Oh, do tell,” Fanboy said, perking up immediately. “We’ve been waiting for the post-mortem.”
Jake, of course, chose that moment to walk in, sunglasses still on despite being indoors and half the sunlight gone. “Here we go,” he muttered, under his breath but not low enough to go unheard.
You ignored him and sat on an ammo crate. “Okay, well. His cologne could’ve killed a small animal.”
Coyote winced. “Yikes.”
“Buzzcut Guy didn’t pass the vibe check?” Rooster asked, adjusting his backwards cap. “I thought Jake said he was ‘normal enough to survive a night with her.’”
You turned slowly. “He said that?”
Jake held up his hands. “In my defense, I said it in confidence to Rooster.”
Phoenix raised her brows. “So you knew he was questionable and still sent her out there?”
“I didn’t know he was that questionable!” Jake protested, finally removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “I mean—how bad could it have been?”
You looked at him flatly. “He said, and I quote, ‘Do they even make helmets that small for female pilots?’”
There was a beat of silence. Then—
“Noooooo,” Payback said, wheezing.
Fanboy doubled over like he’d been physically struck. “Nooo shot. Jake. Jake.”
Even Rooster looked horrified. “He said that to your face?”
“Loudly,” you said, sipping your water. “Like he thought it was charming.”
Phoenix’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He sounds like a national treasure. Jake, where do you find these guys? Do they have a club? Is there a pool you dip into specifically marked ‘do not recommend’?”
Jake looked genuinely pained. “Okay, first of all, Trevor didn’t say any of that shit when we were at the gym.”
“Because of course you recruit men at the gym,” Phoenix said.
“Next you’ll be setting her up with a guy who thinks ‘Top Gun’ was a documentary,” Payback added.
Jake looked at you, eyes a little sharper now. “So what—you’re mad at me again?”
You shrugged. “Not mad. Just impressed you managed to pick someone even worse than the last one.”
Fanboy raised a hand like he was in class. “Question: how do you keep managing to top yourself? Is this a long game to ruin her faith in men so she just gives up and settles for you?”
The squad howled.
Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
“I mean,” Rooster said casually, spinning a socket wrench in his fingers. “You do seem to care a whole lot about who she ends up with.”
“Because I’m trying to help,” Jake snapped.
“Help yourself into her pants?” Phoenix offered, deadpan.
“That’s not—oh my god,” Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
You watched him, letting the squad’s laughter drown out the weird warmth under your skin. Jake wasn’t looking at you now, not directly. His ears had gone a little pink.
“Just admit you’re bad at this,” you said calmly, tossing your empty bottle into a nearby bin.
Jake scowled. “You know what? Fine. I’ll do better next time.”
“Oh no,” Rooster said. “There’s gonna be a next time?”
Jake ignored him. “Give me one more shot. I’ve got someone in mind already.”
Coyote looked alarmed. “He said that like a man about to suggest someone who drinks Monster for breakfast.”
Phoenix put her face in her hands. “This is gonna be another ‘I swear he’s normal’ guy, isn’t it?”
You crossed your arms, amused despite yourself. “Is this how you flirt? Just slow psychological warfare until I give up?”
Jake met your gaze. This time, his expression softened. “I could stop if you asked me to.”
You held his stare for a second too long—again—and didn’t reply.
Fanboy clapped his hands. “Alright! Next date pool starts now! Who wants to put money on this one lasting less than thirty minutes?”
“I’m giving her fifteen,” Phoenix said.
“Ten,” said Coyote.
Jake looked around, scandalized. “You guys are actual traitors.”
“Traitors with taste,” Rooster added.
The squad fell back into their banter, placing increasingly dramatic bets, and you let it wash over you—grateful, at least, for the distraction. But as Jake sat beside you on the crate, a little quieter now, you didn’t miss the way his knee bumped yours.
And stayed there.
You glanced back at Jake, who was pretending to be interested in the banter going on with Rooster and Payback, but his knee was still casually brushing yours. Your chest tightened, a weird mix of comfort and something unspoken hanging in the air.
“Alright, Cupid,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “If you’re so confident, when’s my next ‘date’?”
Jake gave you a mock offended look. “Whoa, slow down. You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of serial dater.”
“Well, you are definitely the reason I’m meeting these characters.” You smirked. “And don’t think I forgot that you specifically picked Buzz Cut Guy.”
Jake shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Quality control.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, quality control right into the dumpster.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hey, I’m trying here. It’s a process.”
You caught the glint in his eyes—the same one you’d seen during briefings, in the heat of missions, and now here, in the middle of all this ridiculous squad chaos. It was easier to tease him, easier to laugh, but your heart hammered with every accidental touch, every shared glance.
“Just… try not to kill me with your ‘dates,’” you teased.
Jake’s smile softened. “No promises.”
For a moment, the noise around you faded, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you—two friends tangled in something neither of you was quite ready to name.
Then Rooster shouted from across the room, “Hey, you lovebirds, quit hogging the crate!”
Jake’s knee finally slid away, but the spark between you lingered.
“Come on,” you said, standing and stretching. “Let’s see what disaster you have planned next.”
Jake was already on his feet, quick on the comeback. “Oh, it’s going to be legendary.”
You laughed, feeling the familiar warmth of the squad around you and something a little more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.
-
The next morning, the base was buzzing with its usual hum—pilots prepping for missions, techs bustling through equipment checks, and the faint scent of strong coffee drifting from the mess hall. You were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, scrolling through your phone when Jake strolled up, his flight jacket casually slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you with that familiar smirk. “So, about dinner last night…”
You arched a brow. “What about it?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering sideways like he was debating how much to spill. “Trevor wasn’t exactly my best pick.”
You chuckled, setting your phone down. “That’s one way to put it.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I thought he’d be better. But then again, I guess it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t suck.”
You snorted. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”
Jake grinned. “I’m just saying, your standards are high.”
Before you could respond, Payback and Fanboy appeared nearby, carrying trays loaded with breakfast. Payback gave you a knowing look.
“Talking about your love life again?” he teased, plopping down beside Jake.
“Only because Jake here is apparently moonlighting as a matchmaker,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.
Jake defended himself. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. And I’ve got a new candidate lined up.”
“Oh god,” you groaned, half-exasperated, half-amused.
Rooster wandered over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Another date?”
Jake nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep. This one’s different. Supposedly a real stand-up guy. Name’s Marcus.”
“Marcus,” you repeated slowly, trying the name out. “Sounds promising.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, waving a hand. “He’s a cop. Good with his hands, apparently.”
You squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”
Jake smirked. “Let’s just say I do my research.”
The squad chuckled, settling into easy banter as you all ate.
-
The restaurant was dimly lit with an ambiance that felt more like an exclusive lounge than a casual dinner spot. Soft jazz floated through the air, blending with the quiet clinks of silverware and murmurs of other diners. You sat at a small, candlelit table across from Marcus, the cop Jake had set you up with. From the start, you knew this was going to be a challenge, but nothing prepared you for how quickly it spiraled.
Marcus smiled with that easy confidence cops often carried—the kind that told you he was used to getting his way. His eyes lingered a little too long, and the way he spoke felt less like a genuine conversation and more like an interrogation.
“So, Jake thinks we’ll hit it off,” Marcus began, swirling his glass of red wine with practiced ease. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of mixing things up.”
You smiled politely. “Yeah, Jake has his own ways.”
He chuckled but didn’t take the hint to dial it back. “So, what do you do for fun? I mean, besides dating mystery men?”
You raised an eyebrow but answered carefully. “I’m pretty into my work. Flying missions, training. It keeps me busy.”
Marcus nodded as if that was expected. “I get it. Structure, discipline. I’m all about rules myself.”
You tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but the undertone grew heavier.
“You know,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping an octave, “a woman like you probably likes a man who knows what he wants. Someone who takes charge. Makes decisions.”
You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions.”
Marcus smirked, clearly amused. “Sure, but there’s something nice about a guy who can show you the way. Keep things simple.”
You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. The subtle power play was becoming obvious.
“So, what’s your idea of a perfect date?” Marcus asked, but it wasn’t a question so much as a challenge.
You shook your head slightly, feeling the conversation close in. “Honestly, I just want someone who respects me.”
Marcus’s smirk faded just a little. “Respect’s earned, you know.”
At that moment, Marcus’s hand slid from the table, moving slowly until it landed on your thigh. The contact was light but unmistakably deliberate.
You froze, your stomach twisting. “Marcus…”
He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he let it drift further back, brushing the curve of your hip, and then—before you could react—he gave a quick, possessive squeeze on your lower back.
Your breath caught, and your polite smile hardened. You pulled your chair back slightly, creating distance.
“Look, I don’t know what Jake told you about me,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I’m not here to be touched without consent.”
Marcus’s face tightened for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he masked it with a forced laugh.
“Hey, I’m just trying to show you I’m interested.”
You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Interest isn’t physical if it makes me uncomfortable.”
The rest of the meal was a blur of awkward silences and forced smiles, each minute stretching longer than the last. Your mind raced for a way out, but you were trapped by the formalities and the restaurant’s watchful eyes.
Finally, you excused yourself, mumbling something about the restroom.
Inside, you locked the door behind you and pressed your back against the cold surface. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration flooding your senses.
You pulled out your phone, fingers trembling as you fumbled to unlock it. Your breath hitched as you typed the message again, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot twisting tighter in your stomach.
You: Jake, please come get me. Marcus is… not what I expected. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m about to lose it.
The silence stretched. Then your phone buzzed.
Jake: Hang tight. I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything stupid.
You exhaled shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. But you couldn’t help the worry gnawing at you.
A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered quickly.
“Jake,” you whispered, voice cracking.
“Hey,” Jake’s voice was low but tight, laced with anger and concern. “What the hell’s going on?”
You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small. “Marcus… he crossed a line. I told him to stop, but he—he touched me.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jake’s voice dropped, deadly serious.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. Just… uncomfortable. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Goddammit,” Jake muttered, his frustration clear. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this before it even started.”
You pressed your forehead against the cool bathroom wall, trying to calm your racing heart. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”
“I should’ve. I’m on my way, alright? Just stay put. Locked door, no matter what.”
“I will,” you whispered.
Jake’s voice softened for a moment. “I’ll be there soon. You’re not alone.”
As the call ended, you pressed the phone to your chest, letting the sound of Jake’s promise settle in. Somewhere between fear and relief, you realized you trusted him more than anyone else right now — and that maybe this ridiculous matchmaking project was turning into something a lot more complicated.
Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, glanced at your phone’s screen — Jake had texted back, I’m waiting outside. Don’t say a word until you get here.
You slipped out of the bathroom door quietly, heart thumping so loud you thought it might give you away. The restaurant’s dining room buzzed with muffled conversation and clinking glasses. You ducked behind a pillar, weaving past tables with your eyes on the exit.
The cool night air hit your face as you slipped out the side door, the city sounds washing over you in relief. And there he was—Jake, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed, watching the street like a sentinel.
“You made it,” he said softly, voice just for you.
You barely nodded, sliding into the passenger seat before he even opened the door. The car smelled faintly of leather and pine-scented air freshener, oddly comforting in the tension of the moment.
Then, out of nowhere, the front door of the restaurant slammed open and Marcus stomped outside, scanning every shadow.
“Where the hell did she go?” Marcus growled, voice thick with frustration.
Jake’s eyes narrowed, and before you could blink, he pulled the door closed and locked it with a quiet click.
“Hide,” Jake hissed, pulling the seatbelt tight.
You ducked lower, barely able to keep from laughing as Marcus prowled past the car, his angry muttering unmistakable.
Jake cracked a grin. “Looks like your charming date doesn’t have a clue.”
You giggled, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. “Yeah, real smooth.”
As Marcus circled the block, you and Jake exchanged amused looks, the kind that said, Can you believe this guy?
A laugh escaped you, and Jake’s grin widened until it was all teeth and mischief.
“You know,” Jake said, voice dropping a notch, “we make a pretty good team.”
Your eyes met his in the dim glow of the dashboard, and suddenly the air shifted — the easy humor melting into something softer, something more electric.
Jake’s gaze lingered on you, warmth pooling in his eyes like a silent confession.
“Uh…” he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I should probably drop you home now.”
You nodded, cheeks flushed for reasons beyond the cold night air.
Jake started the engine and pulled away, the city lights blurring past the windows.
“I’m sorry you had to put up with that asshole,” he said quietly.
You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for saving me.”
He glanced your way, that grin teasing the corners of his mouth.
You laughed softly, the tension finally unwinding as the car hummed along the quiet streets.
-
The car pulled up outside your place—a modest, familiar building that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. Jake cut the engine and glanced over at you, his expression softer now, the easy teasing replaced by genuine concern.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice low.
You nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the small jacket you’d tossed over your shoulders earlier. The cold was creeping in now, but you barely noticed.
Jake stepped out and walked around to your side, opening the door. You hesitated for a moment, then slipped out, the night air cool against your skin.
You stood side by side on the sidewalk, the silence between you thick but not uncomfortable. It was as if the city itself had paused to let this moment breathe.
Finally, Jake broke the quiet.
“Next time, i’ll leg you pick out the date,” he said with a small, crooked smile.
You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the distant hum of streetlights and passing cars.
“Deal,” you whispered.
He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Neither of you said more, but the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air—something tender, something promising.
With a final look, you turned toward your door, and Jake watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
-
Two days after the restaurant escape, everything felt a little brighter. The sky over base was stupidly blue, the coffee in your hand was criminally good, and for once, your morning wasn’t crawling with tension. Instead, you walked through the hangar bay doors with a little spring in your step, humming under your breath, the lid of your cup pressed to your smile.
Bob was the first to notice.
“Wow,” he said, blinking behind his glasses as you passed him. “Someone’s chipper this morning.”
You smirked, biting back a reply as you took your usual seat beside Phoenix on the toolbox near the main maintenance station. She leaned toward you immediately, squinting. “Okay, what gives? You look like you’re about to break into song.”
Fanboy glanced up from where he was trying to fix the squad’s broken coffee machine. “Please don’t. I haven’t had caffeine in three hours. I might actually cry.”
You held up your cup in mock apology. “I had mine already.”
“Traitor,” he muttered.
Jake looked up from where he was half-bent over a clipboard with Rooster. The second he saw you—your smile, the little crinkle at the corners of your eyes—he felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just watched as you took another sip and tried not to grin too hard.
You were glowing. Genuinely glowing.
And it wasn’t because of him.
Coyote joined the group, tossing a wrench onto a nearby cart. “Alright, spill. You’re grinning like you just found out Maverick’s paying off everyone’s student loans.”
You glanced around at all their faces—expectant, amused—and finally caved.
“I met someone,” you said.
Jake’s clipboard snapped shut in his hands. No one else noticed, but his jaw ticked.
Rooster tilted his head. “When?”
“This morning. At a coffee shop, just off base,” you said, twirling your cup slowly. “I was in line, and we started chatting. He’s… funny. Really charming. Works in environmental science or something.”
Phoenix raised a brow. “So not in the military?”
“Nope.”
“Already a green flag,” Fanboy said under his breath.
You laughed. “Right? And he asked me out.”
Jake’s stomach dropped.
You kept talking, unaware of the spiral unraveling behind his practiced expression. “We’re getting dinner tonight. He suggested this little Thai place near the beach. Said it’s his favorite spot.”
“He’s got good taste,” Phoenix said.
“He sounds promising,” Rooster added. “Better than Buzzcut and Cop Guy.”
You winced. “God, don’t remind me.”
“Wait,” Fanboy said, lifting his head. “You’re saying this one might actually be decent?”
“I think so,” you said softly. “He seems… different. It’s not just about looks or whatever. There’s something about him.”
Jake was frozen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. He was staring at the floor like it held the answers to every single one of his bad decisions.
Because it had just hit him—like a missile to the gut—that he didn’t want to see you smiling like that because of someone else.
He’d wanted it to be him all along.
And now you were going on a date with someone who hadn’t made a complete ass of himself in front of you. Someone you were actually excited about. Someone who made you glow.
Jake couldn’t breathe.
Phoenix noticed the change in his posture and gave him a strange look, but he stood before she could say anything.
“I, uh… I gotta check something in the breakroom,” he muttered, walking off without meeting anyone’s eyes.
Phoenix frowned. “The breakroom?”
Bob glanced at Rooster, then at Fanboy. “We don’t even keep anything in there anymore.”
Rooster sighed. “He’s losing it.”
-
Later That Night
Bob’s place was already filled with the scent of pizza and the low hum of music when the squad filtered in. There was a pile of shoes near the door, two half-full coolers, and a lopsided stack of movies no one would watch.
Jake sat on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glazed over as the rest of the squad cracked open drinks and teased Fanboy for trying to light the fire pit with a lighter too small for the job.
“She’s not here, you know,” Coyote said, flopping onto the other side of the couch.
Jake didn’t reply.
“She’s probably having the time of her life right now,” Fanboy said with a smirk, strolling past with a handful of chips.
“Let it go, man,” Rooster added, nudging Jake’s leg. “We’ve accepted the fact that you’re the world’s worst matchmaker.”
Phoenix dropped down beside them and rolled her eyes. “It’s actually impressive how bad those dates were. I mean, come on—Buzzcut? Marcus?”
Jake took a long sip of beer. “They weren’t that bad.”
“They were terrible,” Phoenix replied. “And now she found someone by accident. Coffee Shop Guy is already in the lead.”
That was the moment her phone buzzed on the table.
Phoenix didn’t look at it right away. She was in the middle of tossing a gummy worm at Rooster’s head. But when it lit up again, and again, she finally picked it up.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my god.”
Everyone paused.
She turned her phone around and held it out. “Look.”
It was a photo. Taken an hour ago, timestamped. You were on the pier, sitting on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze. Ice cream cone in hand. Laughing. Glowing.
Next to you, a guy. Not Buzzcut. Not Marcus. Someone new. Handsome. Casual arm on the back of your bench.
He looked just as happy.
Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of him.
“That’s him?” Bob asked, peering over her shoulder.
“I guess so,” Phoenix muttered. “My friend saw her and sent this. I had my phone on DND. This was taken, like, an hour ago.”
Jake stood up so fast the couch shook.
“Jake?” Rooster asked.
Jake stared at the picture. And then, before anyone could stop him—
“I love her.”
Everyone froze.
Phoenix blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I freaking love her. And I’ve been setting her up with losers because I didn’t want to admit it. But I love her.”
Rooster dropped his beer. “Dude.”
Fanboy choked. “WHAT?”
Coyote threw a pillow at him. “You moron! You let her go on four dates?”
“I KNOW,” Jake groaned.
Phoenix stood up. “You have to tell her. Like now.”
“But she’s with him. Look at them!” Jake pointed at the photo. “They’re probably planning their damn wedding.”
“No,” Bob said calmly. “They’re eating ice cream.”
“We need to find her,” Phoenix decided, grabbing her keys. “Now.”
-
“You want to what?”
Rooster stared at Jake like he’d just suggested they storm the Pentagon in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts.
Jake stood in the center of Bob’s living room, hair sticking up in every direction, chest heaving with chaotic energy and pure desperation. “A paper airplane. I’m writing her a message. On a damn paper airplane.”
Silence.
Then Fanboy, holding a beer and looking deeply unimpressed, said flatly, “What the hell kind of third-grade rom-com fantasy are we living in right now?”
“I’m serious,” Jake barked. “She told me once—like a year ago—that if someone ever gave her a paper airplane with something meaningful written on it, she’d cry. Happy cry. She said she’d marry them on the spot.”
Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “Wait. She really said that?”
“She was drunk,” Jake admitted, pacing like a man on the edge. “We were playing Truth or Drink, and she was tipsy off two margaritas. She said it was the kind of gesture no one makes anymore—personal, sweet, thoughtful. Like… actually knowing her. Not just pretending.”
Bob, from the armchair, blinked slowly. “You realize that means she probably meant it.”
Jake nodded fast, almost frantic. “Exactly. That’s why I have to do it.”
Rooster tossed a piece of junk mail at him. “Here, use this—wait. Never mind. That’s a Domino’s coupon.”
Coyote reached into his backpack and chucked a half-used notebook across the room. “Use this. But don’t waste the back pages—I have my gym log in there.”
Phoenix snatched a pen off the coffee table and pointed it at Jake like she was about to knight him. “Write from the heart. But don’t be cringe. I swear to god, if you start it with ‘Dear beautiful,’ I’m lighting you and the paper on fire.”
“Noted,” Jake muttered, sitting down like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of write on lined paper. His knee bounced. His fingers drummed. The notebook sat in his lap, untouched, and the squad stared like they were watching a live soap opera unfold on Bravo.
“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Just start with her name.”
“I’m not writing her a letter,” Jake said. “Not like that. I’m writing… pieces. Memories. Stuff I wish I’d done right.”
Bob tilted his head. “Like a patchwork confession?”
“Exactly,” Jake murmured, flipping the notebook open to a clean page and clicking the pen. “Things I should’ve said. Dates I should’ve taken her on. Dumb moments I should’ve known mattered.”
He began writing.
For a long time, the only sound was the soft scratch of the pen and the occasional beer bottle clinking against the coffee table. Jake’s brows furrowed, his mouth tugged into a tight line as he scribbled fast, pausing only to cross something out or shake his head at himself.
One by one, the squad wandered closer, like a group of nosy aunties pretending not to read over his shoulder.
On the top right corner, Jake wrote:
should’ve asked you to be my date to Coyote’s promotion party — you looked so good that night I forgot my own damn name
In the center:
remember that diner in El Centro? I should’ve asked for your number before we even got our food
I should’ve kissed you on the tarmac after that night flight
I should’ve told you that your laugh ruins me
Near the fold:
I kept trying to set you up with guys who weren’t me
because if I admitted I wanted to be the guy — and you didn’t feel the same — I’d never come back from it
Near the tip:
I want to take you on real dates
the kind with car karaoke and milkshakes and pulling you closer on the couch when the movie gets boring
the kind that end with you in my sweatshirt
Near the tail:
I’ve been in love with you since that time you punched Rooster in the arm for making fun of Bob’s playlist
I should’ve told you
I didn’t
I’m sorry
In the bottom left corner, nearly hidden:
I don’t deserve a second chance
but if you gave me one
I swear to god I’d never waste it
By the time he finished, the squad had gone quiet.
Jake exhaled hard through his nose, like the act of putting it all down on paper had taken something out of him. He stared at the page. Folded it. Creased it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact. With practiced fingers, he turned the notebook page into a perfect paper airplane and held it in both hands, like it might break.
“Dude,” Rooster said, blinking. “That’s actually… like, good.”
“Kind of beautiful,” Bob offered, smiling softly.
Fanboy looked dumbfounded. “Okay, I take back all the slander. That was not stick figure energy.”
Jake stood up slowly, paper airplane in hand, and said—more to himself than anyone else—“I’m giving it to her tonight. I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”
Phoenix grinned. “You already look insane. But also? Kinda hot.”
“I hate how much I’m rooting for you,” Rooster muttered.
Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s go find her, man. You made your plane. Time to fly it.”
Jake groaned. “That was awful.”
“Thank you, I try,” Coyote said with a wink.
And just like that, the mission was a go. Paper airplane loaded. Feelings confessed. The squad ready to take on the world—or at least the city—in the name of rom-com chaos.
Next stop: the pier.
If she was still there.
If Jake wasn’t already too late.
-
The paper airplane sat on the coffee table like it held nuclear launch codes. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it.
“It’s not even that late,” he muttered, already pacing again. “They could still be at the pier. Maybe walking around or eating somewhere else nearby.”
Phoenix pointed at the picture on her phone again. “Okay, but which pier? That’s the problem. This could be anywhere. There are like seven piers in the county.”
Rooster squinted at the photo. “Zoom in on that sign behind them. The one next to the bench.”
She did, dragging her fingers across the screen. The image was grainy, and the lighting was terrible, but you could just barely make out a few blurry letters.
Fanboy tilted his head like a confused puppy. “That says ‘Pelican something.’ Pelican Wharf? Pelican Bay?”
Bob perked up. “Pelican Point. That’s a real place—it’s by the old marina past the naval museum. There’s a pier right next to it, with that same kind of bench. I’ve been there with my mom.”
Coyote grinned. “Bob, you beautiful genius.”
Jake was already grabbing his keys. “I’m going. I’ll drive out there. If she’s not there, I’ll keep looking.”
Rooster held out a hand like a crossing guard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just drive off into the night like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”
“I absolutely can,” Jake said, and then paused. “And technically, it’s more like 10 Things I Hate About You.”
Phoenix raised a brow. “So, what? You’re Heath Ledger now?”
Jake pointed at her dramatically. “If the shoe fits, baby.”
Coyote clapped his hands once. “Alright, alright. Let’s not waste time. Jake, you take your truck and go to Pelican Point. If she’s not there, call us.”
Fanboy stood up too. “Wait—we should track her location.”
Everyone turned.
“She shares it with Phoenix!” he added quickly. “Remember when we all went camping and she said if she got murdered in the woods, she wanted someone to find her body?”
Phoenix nodded. “Yeah. I still have her on Find My Friends.”
She pulled up the app. “Okay, last ping was almost two hours ago. But—” She tilted the phone. “—she’s not at Pelican Point anymore.”
Jake frowned. “Where is she?”
Phoenix zoomed in, and then frowned too. “Uh…she’s home.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Wait,” Bob said slowly, “so she’s not on the pier anymore?”
Phoenix shook her head. “Nope. She’s back at her place.”
Fanboy looked around. “So…should we tell Jake not to go?”
“No,” Jake said instantly. “I’m still going. I’ll check the pier just in case the location’s lagging, and if she’s not there, I’m heading to her house.”
Phoenix crossed her arms. “And what’s the plan? You’re just gonna knock on the door and say what? ‘Hi, sorry all your dates sucked. Turns out it’s because I like you?’”
Jake didn’t blink. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Bob smiled softly. “Don’t forget the airplane.”
Jake grabbed it from the table with a reverence normally reserved for flags and championship rings. He looked at the squad, still wide-eyed and vibrating like a caffeinated hummingbird.
“I have to try,” he said, voice low. “Because if she actually liked this guy—if he’s good to her and he makes her smile like that—and I just sit back and let her be with him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Rooster groaned into his hands. “God, you’re in deep.”
Phoenix threw him his hoodie. “Go. But call us if she’s not there.”
Fanboy pointed at the airplane. “And don’t chicken out. That thing’s not gonna launch itself.”
Jake nodded. He turned and made it to the door.
Then paused.
“…You guys coming?” he asked, glancing back.
The squad looked at each other.
And then, like a slow-building mutiny, they all stood.
“We’ll follow you in Rooster’s Bronco,” Coyote said. “But from a distance.”
“We want to see what happens,” Phoenix added. “And make sure you don’t wimp out.”
Bob stood too, grabbing his car keys like they were tactical gear. “Also, if it goes badly, you’ll need backup.”
Jake huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You guys are insane.”
Rooster patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”
They poured out into the night like a small military unit on a love-fueled recon mission. Jake climbed into his truck. The squad piled into two cars behind him. The paper airplane sat on the dashboard like a little talisman.
Operation: Find the Girl was officially underway.
-
Jake’s headlights swept across the gravel lot as he pulled up to the edge of Pelican Point. The pier jutted out into the water like a dark, jagged silhouette against the horizon, the last traces of sunset bleeding into the sky. He threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and stepped out into the warm coastal air.
The wind coming off the ocean hit him like a wall—salty, humid, and just cool enough to feel cinematic. His boots crunched over old wood planks as he walked the length of the pier, scanning every shadow, every bench, every corner where a couple might still be wrapped up in each other.
But it was empty.
No laughter. No clinking silverware from the food shack that had already shut down. No dimly lit photo booth glowing in the background. Just the creaking of wood and the soft lap of waves beneath him.
Jake let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”
He stood at the railing for a second, holding the paper airplane in both hands, his fingers tightening around the folded wings. The edges were soft now—creased from where he’d clutched it all the way here. His pulse thrummed in his ears.
He glanced down at it again, rereading the scrawled notes across the wings and tail:
“Wish I took you to that rooftop jazz bar instead of setting you up with Trevor.”
“Should’ve kissed you after that night on the beach.”
“You looked so happy at the wedding last spring. I wanted to be the reason.”
“I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel twelve.”
He swallowed. Looked out at the water. Then grabbed his phone and hit Phoenix’s name.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Not there?” she asked, no preamble.
“Nope.” Jake dragged a hand through his hair. “Pier’s dead. Not a soul in sight except two drunk teenagers making out on the stairs.”
“Gross.”
“She’s not here, Phoenix.”
“I told you she was home—”
“I know, but I had to check.”
Behind her, he could already hear chaos brewing. Rooster shouting something about Google Maps, Coyote yelling at Fanboy to stop touching the AC controls.
Then Phoenix must’ve put the call on speaker, because suddenly the whole squad was in his ear.
“Abort mission?” Rooster asked.
“No,” Jake snapped. “Not aborting.”
“Then what’s the play?” Fanboy demanded.
“She’s at home. You gonna just roll up and throw the airplane at her window like a boombox?”
“Not a bad idea,” Coyote muttered. “Very Say Anything. Classic.”
Jake turned and leaned his back against the railing, staring up at the sky. “I don’t know, man. I feel like I missed the window. She’s probably sitting on the couch right now with this guy, talking about how great the date was.”
Silence.
Then Bob’s voice came in, quieter. “If that were true, she wouldn’t be home alone.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
“I mean,” Bob said, “if the date went that well, wouldn’t he still be with her? Or at least walking her to the door, staying for a drink, texting her right now? You think she’d really be sitting there by herself?”
Jake said nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“She’s not texting,” Phoenix added. “I can see the read receipts. Last message she sent was a meme about a raccoon eating french fries. That was two hours ago, so your best hope is that she’s not sitting on that couch and making out with that gorgeous man right now”
Rooster groaned. “Why do you know this much about her phone activity?”
“Because I care, Bradley.”
Jake pushed off the railing. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m heading to her place.”
“Hell yeah,” Coyote said immediately.
“Good,” Phoenix added. “And this time, don’t chicken out. Don’t make a joke. Don’t try to flirt your way around it.”
“Be honest,” Bob said gently. “If this is your one shot, take it seriously.”
Jake looked at the paper airplane one more time. Ran his thumb over the wing that read: “Wish I’d told you the truth sooner.”
He nodded to no one.
“On it.”
He hung up.
The squad, for once, didn’t say anything else.
Back in the truck, he laid the airplane carefully on the passenger seat, like it was more fragile than it looked. And for the first time all night, Jake Seresin wasn’t overthinking the landing. He was just aiming straight and trusting the wind.
-
Jake didn’t remember the drive to your place.
Somewhere between the pier and the turnoff to your street, his brain just… blanked. He barely noticed the green lights, the low hum of country radio still buzzing through the truck’s speakers, or the way his hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked.
All he knew was that the paper airplane sat on the passenger seat like it held his whole heart.
He hadn’t even realized how fast he was driving until he practically skidded up to the curb outside your place, tires whispering against the pavement. His boots hit the ground hard, truck door slamming behind him.
He took the steps two at a time.
Then three.
And then he was there — fist raised, pounding on your front door like it owed him money.
“Open up!” he barked. “Come on, come on—”
He was still muttering to himself when the door opened.
And then you were there.
In a hoodie. Hair pulled back. Eyes glassy.
You looked… wrecked.
And Jake’s voice immediately faltered.
“I—I was gonna—” He waved a hand around like it could pull the words out of the air. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s late, I just—listen, I should’ve said something a long time ago, I was stupid, I thought I was helping you but I was just—God, I’ve been in love with you since that day at the hangar when you made fun of my playlist—”
“Jake.”
“I know you probably hate me,” he rushed on, words tumbling out. “But I had to try, okay? I had to say something before it was too late. I don’t care about the other guys, I don’t care about Coffee shop guy or whatever his name was, I care about you, and I swear to God if you tell me to leave I will—but just let me say this first—”
“Jake.”
You cut in again, softer this time.
He finally looked at you—really looked.
And the words died on his tongue.
You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just annoyed he’d shown up unannounced.
You were upset.
Something in your expression cracked like porcelain under pressure. Eyes rimmed pink, lower lip trembling, arms folded around yourself like armor.
Jake’s chest tightened.
“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “Are you okay?”
You swallowed hard and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
“I left the date early,” you muttered. “He—he has a girlfriend.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
You laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah. She showed up halfway through. Started yelling at him. Apparently this is a thing he does. Picks up girls at coffee shops and sees how long he can keep the lie going.”
Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Just stared down at the floor like it held the last shred of your dignity.
And that’s when Jake’s whole demeanor shifted.
The flustered panic drained from his face. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced with something raw and real and steady. He took one careful step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you.
You didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek. You just leaned into it—soft and broken and trusting.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”
“I think it is,” he said. “I think if I’d said something sooner, you never would’ve gone on that date.”
Silence stretched between you.
And then Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper airplane.
“I was gonna just give you this,” he murmured. “Let it speak for me. But now I think you deserve more than a folded-up piece of notebook paper.”
He stepped back.
And then—to your absolute shock—he dropped to one knee on your porch.
“Jake—?”
“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly. “I’m not proposing. Not unless you want me to, in which case I’ll go grab a ring pop from the gas station, we can make it official.”
You snorted despite yourself.
He smiled.
Then he held the airplane out in both hands like an offering.
“I wrote everything I should’ve said,” he said quietly. “Everything I didn’t say when I should’ve. It’s all there. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every wish.”
Your fingers brushed the paper.
Jake’s voice wavered, just slightly.
“I thought if I couldn’t find the right words… maybe I could fold them.”
You didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Just stood there, stunned, holding the paper like it might shatter if you breathed wrong.
“I know it’s late,” Jake added. “I know I’m late. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day making up for the days I didn’t say the right thing.”
You blinked fast, trying to keep the tears in.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you whispered.
Jake stood.
“I was scared,” he said honestly. “Because once I told you… it’d be real. And if you didn’t feel the same, I don’t know if I could’ve stood next to you every day pretending it didn’t kill me.”
He looked at you.
And something cracked open inside you.
You didn’t even think. Just stepped forward, dropped the paper airplane gently to the porch, and reached for his collar.
Jake barely had time to register the movement before your mouth was on his.
The kiss was everything.
Long-overdue and breathless. Gentle and feral. All teeth and tears and tangled hands in hair and whispered promises between gasps.
When you finally pulled back, Jake was grinning like a fool, forehead pressed to yours.
And then—
A honk.
From the street.
You turned, squinting into the dark—
And saw two parked cars.
One held Fanboy half hanging out the window, fist pumping in the air.
The other had Phoenix leaning on the horn and Rooster hanging a “FINALLY!” sign out the passenger side.
Jake groaned. “Oh my god.”
“They followed you?”
“I hate them so much.”
“I love them,” you corrected, grabbing the paper airplane and tucking it close to your heart. “And I think I love you.”
Jake blinked.
Then grinned.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
You kissed him again.
Longer this time.
From the cars, a chorus of victorious whooping erupted—cheers, clapping, and at least one bottle of champagne being popped (probably Coyote’s doing).
But Jake didn’t hear any of it.
He was too busy falling into the kiss like it was his softest landing yet.
Benedict's subconscious is showing (read my analysis here)
Benedict Bridgerton xFem!Princess Reader
Dearest Gentle reader, as another season starts so do the surprises. It has been said that we are to welcome the Queen and King of Genovia for the first half of this season, and not only that but to witness the very first public appearance of their eldest, Princess Y/N Devereaux. I'm sure the Queen will want us to be the most gracious hosts, even if this family of royals have a reputation for enjoying scandal. Isn't it exciting when life becomes a fairytale of sorts?
(Bridgerton x Princess Diaries crossover)
Chapter 1. Fun Times & Potty Rooms
Chapter 2. The Botanist
Chapter 3. Faux Pas
Chapter 4. The Artist
Chapter 5. Drawing Lessons
Chapter 6. Thoughts & Ink
Chapter 7. A Moment of Enlightenment
Chapter 8. An Offer From a Gentleman
Chapter 9. Wallflowers
Chapter 10. Lilacs
Chapter 11. Gilded Feathers
Chapter 12. Roses
Chapter 13. Hyacinths
Chapter 14. Ivy
Chapter 15. Red Catchfly
Chapter 16. Oak-leaved Geranium
Chapter 17. Weeds
Chapter 18. Little Joys
Chapter 19. Lavender
Chapter 20. Moss Rosebud
Chapter 21. Uncharted Waters
Chapter 22. Michaelmas Daisies
Chapter 23. Pear Trees
Chapter 24. Reveries
Chapter 25. Hydrangeas
Chapter 26. The Oddities Parade
Chapter 27. Cabbage Rose
Chapter 28. The Knight
Chapter 29. Lemon Blossoms
Chapter 30. Peach Blossoms
Chapter 31. The Kettle-Head
Chapter 32. Yellow Tulips
Chapter 33. Double Reds
Chapter 34. A Minute of Sunshine
Chapter 35. Lint
Chapter 36. The Royal Family
Chapter 37. What Is It to Truly Admire a Woman?
Chapter 38. Forget Me Nots
Chapter 39. The Critter
Chapter 40. Lasting Joys
-Danny
18+ story (Minors DNI!) so yes it's smut with A LOT of plot
YOU BEWITCH ME
꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂
─────────────────────
Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.
Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery
──────────────────────
benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader
summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.
cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut
a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version
i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T
please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected
songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh
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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)
✧˖°.
In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.
Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.
And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.
"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."
You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.
"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."
Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.
If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.
"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.
"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.
"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."
"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."
There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.
Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.
"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."
The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."
"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"
"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."
"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."
"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."
He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."
"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."
Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."
"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."
"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."
The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.
A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.
Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.
Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.
“Do you miss your sisters?”
You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.
“Do you miss Daphne?”
“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”
The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.
“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”
You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”
Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.
“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.
“I am.”
“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”
You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.
“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”
Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.
“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”
He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.
“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”
And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.
You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”
—
You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.
Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.
The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”
The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.
“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”
“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”
“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”
“Hardly.”
“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”
“Only the ones that deserve it.”
He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”
“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”
Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”
The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”
“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”
Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”
“Why do you even want to know?”
“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”
Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.
“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”
He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.
Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.
His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.
“Are you alright?”
You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.
Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.
“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”
He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.
“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”
“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”
Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.
You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.
—
It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.
You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.
“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.
You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”
She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”
You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”
You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.
“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”
You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”
He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.
“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp
“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”
Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”
Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”
You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”
He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”
You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”
His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”
You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”
“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.
You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”
His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.
He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.
“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”
Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.
“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”
“For now, at least.”
—
You miss dancing.
Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.
Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.
“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”
He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.
You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”
He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”
“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”
You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.
“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”
“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”
Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”
He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”
“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”
You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.
“Would you dance with me?”
You snap your head to him. “Dance?”
“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”
He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”
You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“
“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”
Who are you to deny such an earnest request?
He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.
As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.
Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.
The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.
“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”
He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”
You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.
But all good things must come to end.
Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.
“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”
The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”
He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”
You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”
His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”
“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”
Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”
“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”
“Only sometimes.”
Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.
He extends a hand.
“Care for another dance?”
You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”
“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”
How could you refuse?
You place your hand in his.
“I’d be delighted.”
—
As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.
Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?
Why did he care?
Why can’t you stop thinking about it?
In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:
You love him.
You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.
It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.
He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.
But… could he?
You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.
No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.
You barely sleep a wink, that night.
—
The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.
Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.
You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.
The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.
“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”
Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”
You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”
The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”
“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”
Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”
The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.
If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.
“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”
“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“
“Eloise, please do not—“
“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“
“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“
“Marry me.”
You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.
He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“
“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”
His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.
“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”
“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”
“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“
“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”
“Yes, but—“
“But what?”
“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”
Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?
Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.
“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”
You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.
You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.
“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”
He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.
Neither of you are wearing gloves.
“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”
His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”
He squeezes your hands once.
“Please, marry me.”
Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.
You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.
“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”
Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.
Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”
Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”
He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”
“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”
“So?”
Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”
You snort. “Then look away.”
“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”
You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.
“My father, and the Baron—“
“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”
Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”
He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”
Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.
Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.
You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.
✧˖°.
──────────────────────
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anthony bridgerton coming back from india, reviewing the sketches of the lady in silver while the new maid stands nearby
this is what authors mean when they say “his eyes softened”😭
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.
nothing but love and respect to all fanfic writers
fanfiction is a rare gem and a solid, living proof that, in a world of tiktok, influencers and content posting, not everything is about money and going viral. art can still be art just for the sake of the artists’ pure love, joy and passion for the art they create. fanfic writers write 100k words and more about the characters they love for free. just because they love these characters and the art of writing so much. art is not dead and the world is still beautiful.
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Shadows and Sunlight
Pairing: Azriel x Mate f!reader
Summary: She is a Day Court princess, the light in every room, loud, bright, and adored. He is the Night Court’s spymaster, hidden in shadows, haunted by the knowledge that she deserves better.
Warnings: mating bond, jealousy, possessiveness, emotional insecurity, slow-burn romance, angst, fluff
Word count: 2,500
Author’s Note: Another request completed! I hope you enjoy it!
Masterlist
Azriel had waited his whole life for the mating bond to snap, and now, as he watched her from across the room, it was nothing like he had imagined.
It snapped like sunlight searing through every shadow in his soul, filling the darkness with burning light.
His mate stood surrounded by a circle of heirs, nobles, and High Fae who made his skin crawl. Her laughter echoed through the ballroom as her hand rested against a High Fae’s chest.
Azriel’s world narrowed to her, his breath ragged and uneven.
A hand clapped his shoulder, dragging him out of the haze of her.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Cassian’s voice said.
Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave her.
“Rhys calls her the Day Court’s princess,” Cassian chuckled. “Apparently, Eris has been trying to wed her for nearly a century.”
Azriel said nothing.
He couldn’t.
The word princess didn’t begin to describe what she was.
She was life itself.
Her gaze found his then, and her smile faltered, just slightly, as her hand tightened on another man’s chest.
Azriel felt a pull deep within him, demanding and undeniable, dragging him forward.
Cassian’s eyes flickered between the princess, whose smile had now vanished completely, and Azriel, whose shadows were now restless, nearly engulfing him whole.
She felt it too.
She knew.
The princess’s hand fell from the man’s chest. Her eyes locked on Azriel as she crossed the ballroom toward them.
“Az,” Cassian hissed in disbelief as the most eligible bachelorette in all of Prythian rushed straight toward them.
She stopped a few feet away, the soft shimmer of her golden gown catching the light.
Up close, she was even more devastatingly beautiful. Every inch of her was warmth, gold, sun, and life.
Suddenly, Azriel felt like his shadows were strangling him.
“You must be from the Night Court,” she said softly, a smile on her lips. “I’m Y/N it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She didn’t seem to notice the way every pair of eyes in the room turned towards her, towards them.
Maybe she just didn’t care. She was used to being the centre of attention.
Azriel, however, felt every gaze.
He wasn’t made for the spotlight.
Still, Azriel didn’t move. He couldn’t.
He just stared at her as she stood before him.
Cassian bumped his shoulder against his, but still, Azriel couldn’t force a word out.
His shadows curled instinctively around her, as if trying to dull her light.
Instead of flinching like he expected, she laughed softly, a sound that made his mouth go dry, and for a moment, he thought he might faint.
She tilted her head, studying him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Azriel,” Cassian said, grinning. “And I’m Cassian, General of the Night Court.”
Before Azriel could even react, Cassian stepped and took her hand. He bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles.
Jealousy burned in Azriel’s chest, his shadows thickening at her ankles. Cassian glanced at him with a smirk before releasing her hand.
“Cassian, the Night Court’s War General,” she said with a smile. “And Azriel, what’s your title?”
The way his name rolled off her tongue made his chest ache.
“Spymaster,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Her smile deepened into something that could have brought kings to their knees.
“Spymaster? That sounds… dangerous.”
Cassian laughed as Azriel’s jaw clenched.
“Most people call him the Shadowsinger,” Cassian added, lifting his glass of amber liquor to his lips.
The bond pulsed in Azriel’s chest, sharp, constant, and it took everything in him to remain still.
Her eyes filled with amusement.
“Well, Shadowsinger, your shadows seem to like me,” she giggled, hands gliding through the wisps of darkness that danced around her.
The sight made something twist inside him, equal parts awe and dread.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
His mate wasn’t supposed to be someone like her.
Not someone who shone so brightly it hurt to look at her.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “Tell me, Shadowsinger, do you dance?”
Azriel’s heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could hardly breathe.
“I don’t dance,” he said finally.
“A drink, then?” she asked, her smile softening.
Cassian’s smirk turned into a grin, glancing between them, but Azriel was already shaking his head.
“You should enjoy your night,” he said, forcing a polite nod and avoiding her gaze.
“Oh.” Her smile faltered, confusion flickering across her beautiful face.
“I’m on duty tonight,” Azriel added.
He could feel her hurt and rejection through the bond.
“Right,” she said softly.
A practised smile formed on her lips, but her eyes betrayed her, looking at him with hurt, as if she had never been denied a dance or a drink before.
He doubted she ever had.
“Well,” she said after a pause, her voice bright again. “I’ll let you get back to your duties, shadowsinger. I’ll save you a dance.”
His heart twisted as he watched her take a step back, then another.
The crowd swallowed her whole, courtiers and suitors, drawn to her like moths to a flame. Even as she smiled and laughed, her gaze didn’t leave Azriel’s.
He turned on his heel and pushed through the crowd, away from her, away from the sight of those men leaning too close, offering her company, drinks and dances that should have been his.
Jealousy flared hot, curling low in his stomach. The bond twisted painfully as he forced himself further and further from her.
“Az!” Cassian called, trying to catch up.
Azriel didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the ballroom. His hands were shaking, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Cassian caught up to him.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen just walked up to you, asked you to dance and have a drink, and you said no.”
Azriel dragged a hand down his face, shadows curling around him as if shielding him from reality.
“She’s…”
He couldn’t bring himself to say it, the word catching in his throat.
Cassian exhaled sharply. “She’s what?”
“She’s my mate,” Azriel whispered, his voice cracking on the word.
Silence fell for a moment.
Cassian froze, eyes widening. “Does she know?”
Azriel’s gaze flicked back toward the crowd surrounding her. Men leaned closer, trying to catch her attention.
“She knows,” he said finally, forcing himself to meet Cassian’s eyes. “I think she’s waiting for me to go to her.”
Cassian’s brow furrowed, confusion written across his face. “Then go to her. Have your dance, have a drink with your mate, speak to her.”
Her laughter echoed in his ears; the bond between them was relentless and aching, a constant pull beneath his ribs.
“She deserves more,” he whispered. “So much more than me.”
Cassian’s expression softened, but Azriel didn’t look at him. He just stood there, shadows curling around his shoulders as her laughter faded into the music.
After that, he kept to the edge of the room, shadows cloaking him in darkness.
She was never alone, always surrounded by admirers, their laughter too loud, their touch too familiar and no matter how deeply he hid in the shadows, her eyes always found him.
Through the crowd.
Through the noise.
Through the dark.
Each time their eyes met, his breath caught, and each time, he was the one to look away first.
He could handle watching her from afar.
Until he saw him.
A flash of red hair, glowing like flames. A sharp smile. Amber eyes locked on one target.
Her.
Azriel’s stomach dropped, his fingers twitched at his sides, and his shadows coiled around his boots.
Eris Vanserra was heading toward his mate.
The heir of the Autumn Court bowed before her, taking her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. She laughed softly as Eris pulled her into a tight embrace, but her gaze slipped past him to where Azriel stood hidden in the shadows.
In that moment, Azriel’s control fractured.
Eris whispered something that made her laugh, a loud, unrestrained sound that twisted like a knife in Azriel’s chest. His wings flared slightly, and his hands clenched into fists.
“Dance with me,” Eris murmured, already tugging her toward the floor.
She hesitated. Her gaze fixed on the shadows where Azriel stood, almost invisible.
Please don’t, Azriel thought, heart pounding. Don’t.
She nodded once as the music began to swell.
Azriel’s chest tightened painfully as he watched them step onto the dance floor. Her gown shimmered with every turn, golden fabric catching the light.
Eris held her as though she belonged to him, his hand resting far too low at the small of her back.
Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to pull her from Eris’s grasp and into his own arms where she belonged.
Maybe she did belong here, in the centre of the room, with the heir of a court.
Maybe the Cauldron had made a mistake.
He stood there, cloaked in shadow, and watched his mate dance with another man.
Finally, her eyes found his.
Across the room.
In the arms of another.
Azriel’s fragile control finally shattered.
He turned on his heel and left the ballroom, through the winding halls of the Night Court palace.
The air was too bright, too heavy.
He needed darkness.
He needed distance.
He needed to breathe.
Azriel pushed open the heavy doors of the balcony, the night air cool against his burning skin. His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white.
The bond pulled at him relentlessly, a constant, searing ache beneath his ribs. It was a pain unlike anything he had ever felt, as if he were being burned from the inside out.
His eyes stung.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to feel so much, but now, standing alone, he was seconds away from breaking completely.
He tried to smother it, the bond, the ache, her.
Tried to build the walls back up.
To breathe through the pain.
His wings flared in frustration. His shadows writhed and coiled around him, whispering her name.
“Stop,” he hissed to them. “Stop.”
The bond tightened in response, strangling him.
He didn’t hear the door open at first, only the sound of heels on stone.
He turned, tears drying instantly as his face settled into its usual mask.
He’d expected Cassian. Maybe Rhys.
Anyone but her.
“Is there a threat out here?” she teased, her gown glowing in the darkness.
“I’m sorry?” Azriel said, carefully.
She tilted her head. “You said you couldn’t have a drink because you were on duty, but from what I can see—” she glanced around the empty balcony, “—there don’t appear to be any threats.”
He inhaled sharply as she stepped closer.
“You followed me,” he said, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I did.”
She took another slow step forward. The closer she came, the more his shadows retreated.
“You were hiding,” she continued. “Watching me, watching Eris, and acting as if it didn’t bother you.”
Azriel’s shadows went still.
“You could feel that?” he whispered.
She was so close that he could feel her warmth against his chest.
“I can feel everything you feel, Shadowsinger,” she murmured, her eyes flicking from his to his mouth. “And you, my mate, are jealous. I’m here to tell you that I will always choose my mate, stranger or not.”
Azriel’s voice broke as he said, “You deserve someone like Eris.”
A quiet laugh left her lips as she shook her head.
“If I wanted Eris, I would have chosen him long ago. He knows that, it’s just a game to him, a chase he’ll never win.” Her voice was soft but sure. “I don’t want Eris. I want the man the Mother gifted me. My equal. My mate.”
He couldn’t breathe. The bond burned between them, a living thing.
“I’m not here to rush you,” she whispered. “And I’ll never force the bond, but I couldn’t leave the Night Court knowing my mate thought I’d chosen someone else.”
“You’re leaving,” Azriel said, voice cracking.
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
He shouldn’t have looked at her, because when he did, his heart raced.
All sense, all restraint, left him.
“Stay,” he whispered.
Her breath caught, and then a smile formed on her lips. “As you wish, Shadowsinger.”
She stepped even closer, her gown brushing against his boots. The bond ached between them.
“Eris means nothing,” Azriel murmured, voice low and rough.
“Eris means nothing,” she repeated softly, looking up at him through her lashes.
“Tell me,” she said, her tone teasing. “Do you truly not dance, or were you avoiding me?”
“I don’t know how,” he admitted. “Will you teach me?”
Her smile widened, and the look on her face nearly brought him to his knees.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching for him. “I’d love to teach you to dance.”
Her hands slipped into his, and the world tilted. The bond flared in response, and his chest tightened.
“Follow my lead,” she murmured, placing his hands on her waist, while hers rested on his shoulders.
She guided him, the Spymaster, the Shadowsinger, her mate, through the steps of a waltz.
He stumbled, stepped on her toes, tripped her, apologised too much, and his cheeks flushed for the first time in years. She scolded him, louder and fiercer than Cassian ever had during training, but every word, every correction, made his heart ache in growing affection.
After that night, everything changed.
For six months, they practised every evening.
He learned how to spin her without stumbling, when she wanted to be dipped or lifted, when to turn, and when to pull her close.
He learned her.
After that night, she never left his side.
She left the Day Court without a second thought. She moved into his home and filled every dark corner with light, colour, and life.
She was loud, spoiled, and everything he never knew he needed.
She kept every gift he gave her, every letter, every ribbon.
Every reminder of him.
On the night of their mating ceremony, they danced until their feet ached.
They danced with friends, with family, beneath the glow of the moonlight. He twirled her beneath the stars, her gown shimmering, her laughter echoing through the courtyard.
She glowed, a light so blinding, so pure, that he couldn’t look away.
She was the sun, and he was the shadows.
His princess.
His mate.
His everything.
Masterlist
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@fanficscuziranout, @talesofadragon, @kennedy-brooke, @alexof90s
Hi,
I LOVE your writing style SO MUCH❤️ !!!! I wanted to request a fic- (short or series up to you ), if you would be so KIND :)
Could you do a Rhysand x Reader where Rhysand and the reader are mates, but the reader doesn’t know while Rhysand does? The reader is totally oblivious- thinks he’s nice to everyone , and the Inner Circle know and tease Rhysand.
Rhysand is possessive( healthy).
Only Friends
Pairing: High Lord! Rhysand x f!reader
Summary: Rhysand is your friend, your High Lord. When you deliver his reports, and he invites you to dinner, the lines begin to blur between friendship and something more. Just friends… right?
Warnings: alcohol intoxication, mutual pining, unwanted attention from a stranger, protective Rhysand, slow burn tension
Word count: 2,717
Part 1 | Masterlist | Part 2
“Good morning,” I called as I pushed open the war room door.
The Inner Circle stood around the Prythian map, heads turning toward me in unison.
“Morning,” Morrigan said, leaning against the table, golden hair glowing in the morning light.
Amren was perched on the edge, arms folded. Her silver eyes gleamed with quiet amusement.
“How’s our favourite court advisor today?” she asked.
“She’s much better now that she’s finished this stack of files Rhys requested,” I replied, lifting the pile in my arms.
I glanced toward the High Lord.
Rhys stood at the far side of the map, dressed in a black tunic that seemed to swallow the light, his hands tucked into his pockets.
Azriel was beside him, expression unreadable, but his mouth curving slightly as if suppressing a smile.
Cassian had a grin that looked far too pleased.
When my gaze finally met Rhys’s, his violet eyes sparked like stars.
I quickly looked down at the files in my hands and walked to his desk, setting the stack in the centre.
“Thank you,” Rhys said.
He moved toward me, his shoulder brushing mine as he reached for the top folder. He flipped it open, scanning for a moment before setting it back down.
“How about we go out to dinner?” He closed the file. “To talk about the documents and your findings.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.”
His smile widened, as though I’d said something far more important than I had.
“Tonight, then,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’ll be much easier to explain in person.”
“So,” I said, turning to Morrigan and Amren, “what are you two wearing?”
Their smiles faltered just slightly. Both of them exchanged glances.
“A silver dress that’s been begging to be worn,” Amren answered smoothly.
“Red backless dress,” Morrigan said, her eyes flicking toward Rhys before returning to me.
I hummed in agreement as I glanced over my shoulder at Rhys. “Are we going to Rita’s after?”
“If you’d like,” Rhys said with a polite nod.
“Perfect.” I gathered another stack of files from his desk, my name written across the top in his elegant script. “See you all tonight.”
They smiled, Morrigan lifting a hand to wave as I left the war room.
By the time evening arrived, I was still in my office.
A sharp knock at the door startled me, and I glanced toward the clock.
Seven.
“Shit,” I muttered, pushing back from my desk.
When I pulled open the door, my breath caught.
Rhys stood there, dressed in a black tunic and coat edged with silver embroidery, dark trousers, and polished boots.
He looked every inch the High Lord, powerful and impossibly handsome.
I realised I was staring, heat rushing to my face as I smoothed my hair back with my fingers.
“I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”
“It’s all right,” he said, glancing behind me at my chaos. “We can go another time.”
“No,” I said quickly, glancing back to my desk. “I was excited. I just need to stop by home first—”
Rhys reached for me. His hand slid into mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“Get ready here,” he said. “My chambers are just down the hall.”
My heart pounded against my ribs. “I don’t… I don’t have anything to wear.”
“I’ll have the handmaids bring something,” he replied simply, as though it were the obvious answer.
I exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said as he gently guided me out of my office.
I glanced down at our intertwined hands, warmth spreading through my chest.
We walked deeper into the mountain, through corridors I’d never seen, until we reached a set of tall double doors.
Rhys pushed them open, and I stepped into his chambers for the first time.
His chambers were bigger than my entire apartment.
A fire in the hearth cast a warm golden glow over the room. Bookshelves lined the opposite wall, filled with well-loved books and shimmering artifacts that radiated ancient magic. Against the far wall stood a massive bed draped in midnight blue fabric.
“I forget sometimes that you’re the High Lord,” I admitted.
Rhys chuckled softly, guiding me further into his chambers. “The bath is through there.”
“Rhys, it’s okay. I can be ready in five minutes.”
“The others will have finished a bottle of wine already,” he interrupted smoothly. “They won’t notice if we’re late.”
“But—”
“No arguments,” he said, his hand squeezing mine before pulling me towards an open archway.
I let the protest die on my tongue the moment I stepped inside.
In the center of the room sat a sunken marble pool. The air was thick with the scents of jasmine and cedar. Dozens of candles flickered against the stone, and the far wall opened to the mountains.
“Enjoy,” Rhys murmured, before he let go of my hand and closed the door gently behind him.
I should have argued.
Should have told him he was being too generous.
Instead, my fingers were already undoing my robes. The fabric fell to the stone floor, and I slid into the water.
It was like sinking into moonlight.
Warmth seeped into my bones, my muscles relaxed, and I let my head rest against the smooth edge of the pool. Steam curled around me as I watched the first stars begin to appear above the mountain peaks.
My thoughts drifted back to Rhys.
I often forgot who he was.
That he ruled a court.
That he was one of the most powerful High Lords to ever live.
He didn’t fit the image I had once imagined of what a High Lord must be.
He was patient and kind. He brought tea to my office and sweets when I worked late. He had given me this job, this life, this chance, and never once had he made me feel small or as though I owed him anything in return.
We were friends.
Good friends.
A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts.
“Come in,” I called, glancing at the door.
The hinges creaked, and Rhys stepped inside.
His violet eyes briefly looked at me, then darted away, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
“I—ah,” he cleared his throat, gaze fixed firmly on the vanity. “I only wanted to leave this for you.”
He set a gown on the counter.
Dark sapphire silk spilled across the counter, the hems glinting with silver embroidery.
“I thought you might like it,” he said, voice low.
My stomach twisted as I glanced from the dress to him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Rhys.”
“Of course.”
He nodded before turning towards the door, every line of his body tense.
“Thank you for everything, Rhys,” I said before I could stop myself.
He paused and looked back.
His eyes softened, “Anything for you.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat there, staring after him, heart racing.
Friends, I reminded myself.
Just friends.
I rose from the water, reaching for the towel left waiting beside the tub. The towel was warm and soft as I dried myself off, my eyes never leaving the gown.
I slipped into it. It clung to my curves like it had been made for me; it was cool against my skin. With one hand holding the bodice to my chest, I pushed open the bathing chamber’s door.
Rhys stood by the bed. He stilled the moment he saw me.
“Could you lace it?” I asked, holding the gown to my chest.
“Of course,” he murmured.
He stepped behind me, and I felt the heat of him before his fingers even touched me.
The first touch of his knuckles against my spine sent a shiver rippling through me. His fingers trembled slightly as he threaded the ribbon carefully.
I laughed quietly. “You can be rough.”
His hands stilled. “I’m sorry?”
“With the lacing,” I clarified, glancing back at him. “I’m used to it. You can pull it tighter.”
“Oh,” he looked away, “right.”
He went back to work, fingers grazing my skin with every pass. Goosebumps forming across my arms. My heart pounded so loudly I swore he could hear it.
Friends.
Just friends.
“All done,” he whispered, his thumbs lingering against my skin.
For a moment, I almost leaned into the touch.
Almost.
Instead, I stepped forward, away from him, forcing myself to smile.
As I glanced back, I thought, just for a second, I saw disappointment flicker across his face.
My damp hair still clung to my shoulders, dripping onto the rug.
Before I could reach for the towel again, Rhys whispered something under his breath. Warmth swept down my spine, and when I touched my hair, it was dry, soft waves spilling loose down my back.
“Thank you,” I murmured, sliding my feet into the heels waiting by the door.
I bent down to buckle them, but Rhys knelt before me.
The High Lord of the Night Court, fastened the strap around my ankle.
My breath caught at the sight of him kneeling before me. He rose slowly, his hand brushing my calf on the way up, a touch that left my skin tingling.
“Always so kind,” I said, smiling despite the heat in my chest.
Rhys returned the smile. “Only for you.”
He offered me his arm and I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, my pulse racing.
He is just a kind man, I told myself as the shadows gathered.
Then the world vanished into darkness.
As the darkness faded, I found myself standing just inside a private dining room of one of the many restaurants along the river.
The Inner Circle was already gathered, mid-laughter and glasses half-raised, but the sound died as soon as Rhys and I appeared, my arm still linked with his.
Mor’s grin stretched wider, her eyes darting to Amren.
Cassian’s brows flicked up, amusement tugging at his mouth.
Azriel’s gaze dropped briefly to our joined arms before shadows curled closer around him.
I smiled at the group. “Sorry, we’re late. I got distracted by work.”
The silence lingered a beat longer before Mor set her glass on the table. “Better late than never. Sit, sit.”
Rhys guided me to the two empty seats side by side, pulling out my chair for me. I whispered a quiet thank you as he sat beside me, our knees brushing beneath the table.
Rhys reached for the wine, filling my glass first, then his own.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and he rested his hand against my knee in acknowledgment.
Plates soon appeared, steaming platters of spiced lamb, roasted vegetables with a honeyed glaze, and bread still warm from the oven.
The conversation continued. Mor talking about a new dress shop in the city, Cassian discussing new training regimens with Rhys, and Amren complaining about the Day Court ball next month.
“I read your report on the eastern border.” Azriel’s voice cut through the noise.
I blinked, unsure if he was speaking to me, but his hazel eyes stayed fixed on mine. “About the trade routes?”
“Rhys and I were considering moving them north. What’s your opinion?”
I set down my fork, leaning forward as I began to explain the effects of supply lines and issues with terrain.
My shoulder bumped against Rhys’s, his arm resting across the back of my chair.
More wine.
More food.
More laughter.
At some point, I had leaned fully into his side, his body pressed against mine.
My wine glass never got empty; Rhys refilled it before I even noticed it was low.
By the time Cassian had Mor tearfully with laughter at one of his stories, I was pressed close enough to Rhys to feel the rumble of his chuckle through my shoulder.
“Rita’s,” Mor announced.
She swayed as she stood, grinning, her cheeks flushed.
“Please. I want to dance.”
Her hand wrapped around mine before I could answer, tugging me up from my chair. I stumbled, laughing, the room tilting from all the wine. “Mor—”
“Come on!” she said, dragging us into the busy street.
The streets were alive with music, lanterns strung over the river, light catching on the ripples below. The hum of voices, laughter, and music from taverns and restaurants echoed into the evening air.
When we arrived, Rita’s was packed. The bass thundered through the walls, vibrating the floor. Inside, bodies pressed together, in a frenzy of heat and sweat. Mor pulled us into the crowd within seconds, her golden hair glowing beneath the coloured lights.
I danced, pressed between Mor and Amren as my mind began to haze. Someone I didn’t recognise shoved a glass into my hand, and I drank without thinking.
It was sweet, sharp, and burned my throat; suddenly, my head felt light, and my limbs were loose.
One song bled into the next.
Another glass appeared, and I continued to drink.
The world began to haze, my body felt warmer and lighter.
Mor was soon gone, disappearing into the crowd, and Amren began to dance with a tall, handsome man.
I was alone.
A hand touched my hip.
I turned.
A stranger stood there, a handsome, blond-haired man, his dark eyes gleaming. He leaned in close, lips grazing my ear, his words drowned out by the loud music. Maybe I wouldn’t have understood them even if I’d tried.
I felt the way his hands gripped my waist, guiding me with the rhythm.
My hips fell in time with his.
My back pressed to his chest.
My eyes searching for Rhys.
The music swelled, every beat echoing through my chest.
The stranger’s hand slid lower, guiding me, my head tilted back, laughter bubbling out before I could stop it, though I wasn’t sure what was funny.
Maybe it was the drink or the way the room spun when I moved too fast.
The stranger’s lips grazed my temple as he leaned closer, whispering again.
I caught none of it.
My hair clung damp against my cheeks, my skin flushed and hot, as I let him guide me, hips pressed flush to his, the world around me dissolving into heat and rhythm.
Mor was nowhere. Amren, gone.
The crowd was a blur of colour and sound, faceless bodies pressing close, too close.
I tried to look past him, searching for violet eyes, for dark hair, for Rhys.
My head was heavy now, my movements unsteady.
I laughed as the room tilted slightly. The stranger’s hands tightened at my waist, steadying me when I stumbled against him.
“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured in my ear, the only words I’d been able to understand all night.
I shook my head, swaying slightly.
“I… I need to find my friends,” I slurred.
“They’ll be fine. Come back to my place, we can have some fun,” he pressed, moving closer, lips kissing my cheek, then my throat.
“Get off!” I shoved, heart hammering.
A firm hand landed on my shoulder. The stranger’s touch vanished, as if ripped away.
I blinked as violet eyes burned into mine.
Rhys.
He was silent, his jaw tense and his grip on my hand firm, so firm I nearly winced. My chest heaved, not from the music, not from the wine, but from the fury in his eyes.
The stranger opened his mouth to protest, but Rhys leaned close, whispering something in his ear. The man froze, then disappeared into the crowd without another glance.
The music roared.
Lights flashed.
Bodies pressed around us.
Rhys held me steady, his arm around my waist, as I stumbled into him every few steps.
“I—I was fine,” I whispered.
“No, you weren’t,” he said, voice sharp.
Before I could argue, before I could catch my breath, he winnowed us away.
Part 1 | Masterlist | Part 2
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Happy indigenous peoples day!
Coming Home Series Index
Summary: Azriel x Reader series. You’re Rhysand’s younger sister and the person who’s been in love with Azriel for, like, ever. After an entire century running away from your feelings for the Shadowsinger, and the sting of his rejection, you decide to finally return home to Velaris for Winter Solstice. You’re older, more mature — and still totally enamoured by him. Chaos is bound to ensue…
✨ - indicates smut.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six ✨
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen ✨
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen ✨
Bonus Chapter 1 - Starfall
Bonus Chapter 2 - Lucien’s Cottage ✨
Bonus Chapter 3 - In the Dead of Solstice Night ✨
this series is so fucking good
My eyes have been blessed just reading it. But god my heart was hurting so bad through a lot of it. Gorgeous writing, amazing plot. Had me up til 5am reading it like a greedy slut for ANGST
can’t recommend enough 🖤
