#Feyre Archeron x Rhysand
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You're Losing Me 1 | Rhysand
SUMMARY: You married Rhysand for an escape from the Court of Nightmares. You loved him, but he wasn't Azriel. He wasn't your mate. And now Rhys and Azriel are losing you to the aftermath of Under the Mountain.
PAIRINGS: Rhysand x Reader, Azriel x Reader, Rhysand x Feyre Archeron
CONTENT WARNING: Heartbreak, fated mates, MFW, no smut, angst, fluff mentions of abuse, mentions of blood
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one shot is based around You're Losing Me (From The Vault) by Taylor Swift. This will be a multi-part series that will kind of follow the books but will be altered a little. And yes it starts out with Rhys as the love interest but by the second part it'll be more focused on Azriel. If you'd like to be tagged in the rest of this multi-part series let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the tag list.
WORD COUNT: 2.5K
You were trapped Under the Mountain with your husband. He needed a partner, you needed a reason to leave your family behind in the Court of Nightmares. He was that escape for you, and you were that savior for him. It was only ever a marriage based upon a deal. But over the years you’d both fallen in love with each other. That’s what you had told yourself anyway. You knew that he told himself that too. Rhysand wasn’t Azriel… he wasn’t your mate.
Just before you and Rhysand had left for the party, you had felt the bond snap between you and Azriel. Though you hadn’t been sure if he had felt it. You’d never got the chance to ask anyway. You and Rhys were trapped Under the Mountain for 49 years, with no way for you to feel the bond between you and Azriel. It truly broke something inside you and you had felt it. You knew how you had gotten to this moment in time.
A human had saved you all, but you had suffered choosing to protect her from the wrath of Amarantha. She didn’t take too kindly to that. You were separated from the others not even knowing what had happened with the trials. You lied on the cold floor under the mountain still. Blood was leaking from your body, from the deep cuts that littered your body.
“A punishment for intervening with the human.” She’d said to you before they had dragged you away from Rhys. Panic had run through your body but it truly wasn’t enough to save you. The sobs had long since stopped coming out of your mouth. You felt so hollow lying there on the floor. The cold air rushed against the open cuts on your back. After the guards had left your room you’d heard commotion.
But you made no move to get up off the floor, too much pain ran through your body to allow you to pick yourself up from the floor. You felt calloused hands touch the side of your arm. Slowly you opened your eyes and looked up to see your husband staring back at you. A sad expression crossed Rhysand’s face as he kneeled down to look at you.
“My love.” He whispered, tears threatening to escape from his eyes.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” You said softly, closing your eyes and pulling your head away from Rhys.
“I need to get you home.” Your eyes opened up and you stared up at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s dead, we’re free. I need to get you to Madja.” You felt shock course through your body.
You would finally be heading home to your mate, seeing him for the first time in 49 years. “How?” It was a simple question and all you could get out.
“Feyre, she saved us all.” When your eyes found Rhysand’s violet eyes, you saw that look. You knew all too well what that look meant.
“She’s your mate isn’t she?” You asked. Rhys only nodded. “Az…” You paused, watching Rhys stare at you with a raised brow. But he seemed to understand what you were trying to say.
“You’ll see him soon enough.” Rhys gripped your hand and the two of you winnowed back to your home.
☾
Darkness is the only thing you saw before you woke up. The pain to your back was unbearable and you ended up passing out in Rhys arms. Azriel sat in the bed holding onto your hand, you rested on your stomach and the wounds on your back were starting to heal. He still wasn’t processing the fact that his brother and his mate were back home. It was so unreal to him. His shadows gilded around your body, careful to not touch your back.
They were beyond happy to have you back. You were home. Azriel wasn’t going to let anything happen to you, not ever again. He looked up when he saw Rhys standing at the door, he gave a small nod and adjusted his wings, pulling them in tightly as he stepped off the bed and walked over to Rhys.
“How’s Y/N?” Rhys asked, violet eyes on his wife. Though he knew that there might be a divorce in the future. You and Rhys would want different things now. He knew it even if you weren’t awake to express that. Rhys still cared for you deeply and would still allow you a home. Besides he knew that Azriel would kick his ass if he let you go back to the Court of Nightmares.
“Holding on.” Azriel kept his hazel eyes on you not wanting to look away for a second. He was so afraid that he’d lose you again. Not being able to hold you, comfort you, be there for you when you were struggling it was killing him.
“You know she doesn’t blame you for what happened to us.” Rhys said, picking up on what he was thinking just by the way he’d been staring at you.
“I should’ve gone with the both of you to the damned party.” Azriel’s tone was clipped, his jaw tight. He crossed his hands over his chest while his shadows moved around his body. Only a few remained near you.
“I gave you an order to stay here. Y/N, told you to listen to it. We didn’t need you there, we needed you here with everyone else to watch over Velaris. Y/N had told me that Amarantha might try to do something, she had told me that it was best that we go and make sure you all stay back here.”
“How did she know?” Azriel placed his hazel eyes on his brother.
“I don’t know, gut feeling I suppose. I’ve been wanting to see if Y/N might have some type of power.”
“Could that be possible?”
“It could be. We found out that she’s Hybern’s child. Amarantha told us. Apparently her mother escaped to the Court of Nightmares but gave her up before disappearing. No one had seen or heard from her that Y/N was left with that despicable family.”
“If you two get a divorce will she be sent back to the Court of Nightmares?” Rhys could hear the panic and worry in his brother’s voice. Finally Rhys turned to place his full on Azriel.
“We will get a divorce because I’m not you, she wants to be with you and to be honest she’s not Feyre. We had discussed this when we got married in the beginning. That should one or both of us find our mate and we want to accept it the other would allow a divorce. I’m letting her go, I still care for her deeply but she is not mine to love, not anymore.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Azriel said sternly.
“I won’t send her back, Az. You should already know that. Y/N is your mate and your hers. She’s also a valued member of the Inner Circle. I do not plan on tossing her aside because I’ve found myself. I made a bargain to keep her protected from that family and I will continue to do that.” Rhys paused, he placed his violet eyes on you. You had heard the last stretch of their conversation. Rhys had told Azriel that you belonged to Hybern, that you were his offspring and yet he was still here. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Rhys disappeared before Azriel could say anything further. You adjusted your body slightly to get more comfortable on the bed. Azriel was quick to move to your bed. You felt a few of his shadows swarm your body, they were being mindful of the cuts.
“Can you help me up?” You asked, as you were eager to get out of the bed and walk around. Azriel only nodded, he was silent and you started to think it was because of who your true father was. Azriel held onto your hands as he helped you walk around your room.
“How are you feeling?” He asked softly, his gaze on you. You had to look up at him, he was so much taller than you were.
“I’m fine.” You replied, it was a lie though. You were in a nightmare of your own making. Things were happening, you could feel it. Something was happening, a war was coming and you didn’t know how to tell them.
☾
Three weeks had passed, Rhysand, Azriel and Madja thought that they were getting better. And you were getting better, at least your back was. But you were declinding, your mind wasn’t the way it was before Amarantha had happened. And with all the trauma you’d received at the hands of your adoptive mother and adoptive father, followed by Amarantha. It was a struggle for you.
Cassian sat in your room with you, the door was open and the windows were open too. A breeze flew in while a shadow hovered around you. Azriel was out on a mission, he didn’t want to go by Rhys needed him to go on this mission so he’d ask Cass to sit with you and watch over you while he was gone. You laid on your bed, not facing the light coming from the sun outside. It was too bright in here for your liking.
You pulled the covers over your head ignoring Cassian when you knew he was staring at you. It pained him to see you like this. To see you suffering in silence and not sharing it with anyone. You hadn’t even talked to Rhys and Az about what was bothering you. But the truth was simple, you didn’t know how to tell them, to talk about the things that Amarantha forced you to do. It was far worse than the punishment you’d gotten for trying to intervene to save Feyre.
She’d discovered your powers, knew what you could do. And she used that to her advantage. Every time she manipulated you, made you believe that she’d find your mate and you’d watch him die. That’s when you learned from Amarantha that you were able to sense bad things. You knew that you could sense good things, but the majority of the time it was a handful of bad things that followed you around. You weren’t a seer.
That much was clear, while you could predict things before they could happen you couldn’t see them. Only feel them with every inch of your body, mind, and soul. You had yet to explain this to Rhysand. You knew he was itching to know what abilities you had. He was trying to see if you’d be a threat to him. You felt the room get darker, and suddenly you could hear voices all around you. One voice belonged to Cassian, the other belonged to your now ex-husband.
The divorce was quick and easy. You hadn’t been ready to accept the mating bond yet and Azriel was okay with that, he was okay with waiting even though that’s not what he felt on the inside. The sheets were ripped from your body and you groaned reaching for a pillow to pull over your head.
“No, you’ve been moping around for three weeks Y/N. You need to get up out of this bed now, and we need to discuss your powers.” His voice boomed around in your room, the pillow was then yanked from your hands. Your hair was wild and you were now glaring at the High Lord.
“Why? So you can throw me out the second I seem like I’m going to be a threat to your court.” You tried to hold yourself together, you stood on your bed on your knees glaring at Rhys, and Cassian who was still in the room. His face seemed to soften at the confession that left your lips.
“I will never throw you out of my court, you may not be my wife anymore. But you are and always will be one of my best friends. I made a promise to keep you safe and no matter what I will keep that. But this moping around needs to stop, you’re hurting Azriel.”
You were hurt, those words “you’re hurting Azriel,” they swarmed your mind. The words seemed to send you into a panic, you collapsed to the bed. Your eyes were staring up at the ceiling. Rhy's eyes came into view but you couldn’t move. It was happening again and you knew it. This is what Amarantha said you’d do when they started. You’d go deathly still as fragments of images and words appeared in your mind.
You’d always done your best to hide this from your family (well adoptive family), but when they saw it they knew it was grounds for punishment. And everytime it happened afterward you’d be sent to your room where you’d be locked in there for a week sometimes longer. When you made it to Velaris you’d gotten good at hiding it so they didn’t know about your power. Because you and Rhys didn’t sleep with each other or in the same room he never saw it.
It wasn’t until Amarantha that things got worse. She’d managed to unlock something inside you and turn this into a far more powerful being. You refused to call yourself a seer because you couldn’t see full on visions. When you finally got your vision back you saw Rhys and now Cass. They were both staring down at you worry etched across both their faces.
“What was that, Y/N?” Rhys questioned, as he and Cass lifted you up into a sitting position.
“I don’t remember much about my mother aside from the constant visions she had. They weren’t visions though, more like clipped images and words. And you know Hybern is my father, then that tells you all you need to know about who I’m supposed to be.” You said, pushing your hand up to your forehead to rub the pain away.
“And who are you supposed to be?” This time a new voice entered the conversation. You looked up to see your mate staring at you. A few of his shadows gathered around the other shadow that had stayed with you while Azriel was out on his mission. You stood from the bed and ran over to your mate collapsing into his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist and his shadows swarmed the two of you.
“My mother gave me up for one reason only. I didn’t understand why and it never made sense, not until Amarantha told me. She was told to hand me over to my father if she ever caught me but she went against his order because she wanted me for herself. She used to tell me that I’d be a very powerful seer one day. I guess because I could see images and words that it would one day be useful especially if I fell into the full ability of my power.”
“So what does that mean then?” Cassian proceeded to question.
“In the wrong hands I could one day help destroy the world.”
#x reader#reader insert#a court of thorns and roses#rhysand x reader#feyre archeron#azriel#rhysand#feyre archeron x rhysand#azriel x reader#king of hybern#amarantha#cassian
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crack headcanon for feysand, reader is friends with nyx and she meets feysand for the first time. she blushes instantly and they notice and think it’s hilarious. Reader drags nyx out later and whispers ” omg your parents are so hot, like ur mom is such a milf and your dad is such s dilf ” nyx is like ” ew that’s my parents ” the whole inner circle hears and laughs😩😭💀
nosy parents
(part two) (part three)
Summary: The Inner Circle overhears a conversation between Nyx and a friend
Warnings: none, not proofread
A/N: I LOVED this! lmao crack drabbles are my guilty pleasure, (sorry it ended up being more of a drabble than head cannons!)
Nyx, your best friend, decided it was finally time for you to meet his parents. You were hesitant at first, in fact you resisted it for as long as possible. Mother above, his parents are the High Lord and Lady of the night court. The fact that you’re somehow friends with him in the first place is still ridiculous, but his insistent badgering finally made you cave.
He told you to dress casual, and you made him come over to your apartment before and check that your idea of ‘casual’ was actually correct. He gave his approval, one thing you always appreciated about him is his unflinching honesty.
The dinner went well, you smiled and laughed throughout it and they had a way of making you feel comfortable. What Nyx didn’t tell you, is that the entire inner circle would be there. He slipped into your mind halfway through “what do you think?”
“I think you ‘conveniently’ forgot to tell me the entire inner circle would be here.”
“They’re all my family.”
You couldn’t argue with that.
Still both of you managed to escape outside, to one of the balconies, afterwards.
You were teasing him, nudging him in the side. “You didn’t tell me your parents are so hot,” and grinned.
“That’s gross,” he groaned, seeing him blush and get flustered was well worth it … for a few seconds, until the entire room behind you burst out into laughter. It was your turn for your entire face to turn beet red as you found them gathering behind you.
“It’s not my fault they’re nosy,” he hedged, “they probably wanted to see if were actually just friends.”
You audibly groaned, clutching your face in your hands. You'd never live this down.
#next gen acotar#feysand#feyre archeron x rhysand#feyre x rhys#nyx archeron#acotar drabble#acotar crack fic#acotar imagine
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Are you ready for Feysand week?? Check out the following prompts!
August 21: ✨Night Triumphant and Stars Eternal ✨
August 22: 🎨Hobbies, both shared and apart 🎨
August 23: 🦇Family, both blood and chosen 🦇
August 24: 🌜The Court of Nightmares 🌛
August 25: 💫Starfall 💫
August 26: ✨Mates ✨
August 27: 🎉Free day 🎉
We can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!! See you there!!
#feysand#pro feysand#Feyre Archeron#pro feyre archeron#feyre archeron x rhysand#feyre x rhysand#rhysand#pro Rhysand#acotar
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Red Earth & Pouring Rain
Remember what we found? No one can ever take that away. Something forever.
Summary: When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.
Or- that time Rhys fell in love with a stranger writing him letters.
Big thanks to Unhinged Bookclub for help with the moodboard and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant (which consisted mostly of me asking about swear words)
Part 1/2: I've Got Something Burning, Coursing Through These Cold Veins | Read on AO3
Dear Rhysand Campbell-
Today is my sixteenth birthday, which ought to be cause for celebration. I want to be happy about it, but I’m not and I can’t tell anyone. My sisters already think I’m terribly spoiled and my father probably would, too, if he ever cared enough to notice me. Ugh, that sounded spoiled, too. Maybe they’re right. I don’t suppose you understand.
Of course you don’t. You aren’t real. And I guess there’s no danger in telling you about this miserable birthday party (if you could even call it that) or worrying you’ll think I’m spoiled and a miserable brat (like my older sister accused me of) (don’t worry, I pulled out one of her extensions in front of Tomas Mandray which…in retrospect…maybe proved her right on the miserable brat front. It was pretty funny, though. Even Elain cracked a smile.).
It all started with my father. He woke up one morning a month ago, looked me straight in the face, and asked me how old I was. I didn’t know what to say (I might have forgotten), so Elain told him I would be sixteen in a month. And he said we should celebrate, which made me so happy. I rattled off a list of things I wanted to do, and I thought he was listening.
I should have known he wasn’t when he put Elain in charge of planning. It’s not that Elain is malicious, she’s just…prim. Perfect, really. The sort of daughter he actually wants, I think because she doesn’t make a lot of fuss and maintains his calendar for him like mother used to (she died when I was nine).
And I definitely should have known we were NOT going camping when Elain had me measured for a dress. She looked so apologetic and I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings when I know she’s trying really hard to fill the gap mom left when it comes to me, even if it makes her spineless when it comes to dad. And I could have asked Nesta to ruin it, but I guess I’m a little spineless, too.
So by the time the day arrived, it’s this huge party for all of dads friends, one of whom is running for parliament and needs money. And I look so very stupid in a floor length ball gown and—I am not joking—a jeweled tiara while all these old men in their fifties whore themselves out for cash. There was a cake (five tiers and chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, at least), there was singing, and of course the aforementioned incident in which several of Nesta’s extensions were pulled from her head unceremoniously.
Some leering prick told me I was a woman now. Well, he said it to my breasts, not really me. What is it about men that makes them think that’s a normal thing to do? Am I supposed to be flattered? Elain whisked me away, a smile plastered on her face and when I asked her how she stands it, she only laughed and said, “Oh Feyre.” Like I was the silliest person in the world.
She looked like a princess, and I don’t envy her for it. Every man our father is friends with is trying to trick or trap her into marriage. I think she could be a princess like Kate Middleton if she had the interest.
Anyway.
Father made some grand speech right before the cake cutting, where he talked about peace and, for some unknown reason, Brexit. He also thanked God for our monarchs, which, I didn’t realize he was that religious but I guess for this crowd, he is.
You know what he didn’t do? Say thank you for his daughters? Imagine, blessing Charles but not the daughters who enrich his life. Nesta was gripping a steak knife so tightly I thought she might actually stab him and Elain’s eyes were glassy and sad, even with that plastered smile.
And despite how Nesta thinks I’m a miserable brat, she DID stand up and demand everyone sing me happy birthday. And Elain led everyone in an off-key rendition of the song, which was nice. Serving staff cut the cake, and there were, of course, no candles.
Happy sixteenth birthday to me.
And at the very end of the night, some lord (I think—honestly, I wasn’t even listening at that point, I was just thinking about getting those miserable shoes off my feet) told father that his son was single, and also sixteen. I could see father's interest peak and I can’t be like Elain. She’s always letting those awful boys take her on dates, and they always make her cry. So I blurted out,
“Actually, I have a boyfriend.”
Father asked who, but already he didn’t care. So I said the most made-up, Scottish name I could think of—Rhysand Campbell. Maybe you do exist, somewhere. Actually, there are probably hundreds of you, though who's counting? What’s important is that YOU, Rhysand Campbell, are not real and this address is to a post office in the middle of nowhere Scotland. I expect it’ll be shredded. Perhaps the mail worker will read it and have a laugh at my expense.
Still.
Thank you for saving me tonight.
All the best,
Feyre Archeron
Dearest Rhysand–
I didn’t think I’d write to you again, but I think I have to confess my lies, and you are the only person I know who won’t judge me.
Of course, you’re fake, but in my mind you’ve become a little real. Everyone wants to know how we met, and if you’re curious why they would ever want to know that, well, you are very convenient. You see, most girls my age want to date. And in some ways, so do I. There are some very handsome boys, nice boys, even.
But none of my family approves of. If they found out I slept with Isaac Hale, I think they might actually kill me. He’s a fishmonger, which is a very real job thank you very much. It only sounds fake and like something from an eighteenth century book because of the word monger. Which made me laugh the first time I heard it. Anyway, I thought maybe it was better to just get things over with, and he really was so nice that I just…kept going back.
He has a girlfriend now, and I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings a little. Even though I know I could never bring him home. Nesta would sneer and call him smelly and Elain…well, Elain would probably be nice but her eyes would be pitying. So maybe it’s for the best.
I’m sidetracked again.
So Isaac has his girlfriend from Milton Keynes, which I am absolutely NOT jealous of, even if her eyebrows made her look insane. I admit, I was brooding which Elain says is going to give me frown lines around my mouth. And of course father took that moment to stroll in and say he knew just the thing that would cheer me up.
That thing??? A MAN. In what world has a man’s presence ever made a woman feel better? Even Elain turned her head to roll her eyes, thinking no one saw. Nesta was in a mood, though I didn’t ask why—I don’t care, so long as she keeps yelling at father on my behalf. She told him seventeen was too young to worry about marriage, which made him remember that Elain is nineteen and Nesta is twenty-one, so I suppose we’ll all be dealing with that fall out later.
But the Lord of Rose-something-or-other has a son. Tamlin? Timothy? I was not paying attention. What I did say, was, “You know I’m dating someone already. I’ve told you all about him.”
I probably could have gotten away with that if Nesta and Elain weren’t in the room. We talk more frequently and they’ve never once heard me say your name. Of course Elain was fascinated, and Nesta was suspicious. Father is far easier to gaslight.
“Ah, yes,” he said, that liar. “Remind me, who’s son is he?”
And I said, of course, that you were no one’s son, but just a regular Scottish man.
Nesta, that traitor, narrowed her eyes. He can always tell when I’m lying. “Oh? How did you meet this London-living Scotsman?”
Murdering your sisters is a crime. I’m saying that as a reminder to myself, because if she invented a fake suitor to get father to leave her alone, I would have gone along with it. So I said we met in a tea shop. I made you charming. I said you saw me from across the room and couldn’t help yourself. In this fictional meet-cute, you were enamored at first sight, and I, of course, believed you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen (I did not mention that because I was talking to my father).
That was important, because NO ONE thinks that about me. They think it about Elain, who is so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, and they might think it about Nesta if her eyes didn’t promise violence all the time. But not me. And I have mostly made my peace with it, but it would be nice if there was one man who didn’t prefer my sisters to me.
Even if I have to make him up in order for that to happen.
He told me to invite you to dinner. Please, oh please, Rhysand Campbell, will you do me the honor of dining with my dysfunctional family? Father will want to know all about your father, and if your family could be of use to him and his shipping business. And Nesta will hate you on principle alone, while Elain won’t be able to help but like you.
Of course I like you, if only because you are not real.
It’s a shame you can’t make it because you’re heading back to Edinburgh to take care of a sick relative. You’re so compassionate, so selfless. This is why I like you.
Thank you (again) for rescuing me. Too bad you’re just me, rescuing myself,
Your beloved,
Ferye Archeron
Darling Rhysand,
Last names are formality by now, don’t you think? I’ve officially taken things too far. The nice thing about being overlooked is everyone kind of forgets what you’re doing (or that you exist), which means you and I have been happily dating for the last two and a half years. If I go out with someone else, no one questions it because they assume I’m seeing you.
And no one cares that they haven’t met you, because you’re some nobody they assume I’ll eventually tire of. Which would be all well and good if I hadn’t blurted out, in front of god and EVERYONE, that you asked me to marry you. Let me set the scene:
I panicked.
Okay, I guess I didn’t need to set much at all. It was another party and as you can guess, I was in another stupid dress. Have you ever seen Gone With the Wind? You know those kinds of dresses? That’s how I feel, no matter how sleek and lovely the dress actually is. And I know I look perfectly fine in them, but I feel out of sorts. Like a doll, like someone who LIKES when men stare down my dress despite their wife right beside them, and tell me I’m beautiful.
They never say that when they’re looking at my face.
Anyway, do you remember Tamlin? Well, he’s a baron and his father and an MP, despite having so much money he doesn’t need to work (I suspect he just misses when the nobility could boss around the english populace), and he is quite taken with me. Rhys (can I call you Rhys? I feel like since you proposed I could probably call you that), he’s actually really handsome, too. The first time I saw him, I almost considered breaking things off with you. No hard feelings, of course, it’s just…you’re not real.
But he’s duller than dry paint. BEIGE dry paint. We have nothing to talk about, and believe me, I’ve tried. I thought if I could get him to talk to me for even thirty minutes, we could get naked.
But it’s like pulling my own teeth, dragging answers out of this man.
And, between you and me, he once told me “your hair looks clean” as a compliment. He couldn’t even lie and say I was pretty? So you and I continue our romance, implausible as it is. Tamlin’s father was saying how handsome we’d be, and Tamlin jumped in to ask me on a very public date and I am a coward, I think.
Because I said, “Rhysand proposed.”
And Nesta burst out laughing, the bint. It was Elain, eyes brimming with hope and pleasure—she so badly wants to see one of us do whatever we like, father be damned—who asked to see the ring.
Of which there isn’t one. So I’ve made you poor, I’m so sorry. I lied and said you didn’t have one, because you were working toward affording something nice and of course I don’t care about it (because I don’t). Father demanded to meet you and Tamlin was humiliated (a silver lining to this whole affair, truly).
Any reasonable person would have just confessed the whole plot right then and there. But I am not reasonable, my darling fiance. I am, I think, a little crazy because I slipped out the next morning and purchased a ring myself from Boodles, and since I bought it, it was perfect. Nothing terribly fussy—a sapphire cut in the shape of a diamond, with little diamonds haloed overtop, like falling stars. Set on a delicate silver band, it really is quite lovely.
I showed father, who was rather impressed with it. I lied and said it had belonged to your mother, who was so overjoyed at the thought of getting a daughter that she solved your ring dilemma on the spot.
It doesn’t fix the problem of everyone wanting to meet you, of course.
Our engagement is going to be short lived, I think—just as soon as I can figure out what to do next. If I’m not careful, I’ll be saying I eloped and then what?
What then, indeed.
Yours, faithfully,
Ferye
Rhys,
Well.
It’s officially over. Why am I so sad? You were never anything more than a figment of my imagination, and yet telling my family you had ended things drew real tears from me. Elain comforted me, and Nesta called you a self-serving asshole, which is her way of assuring me she loves me. Father, of course, just barely remembered you existed despite the ring I’ve been wearing for a full year. I tucked it in a box as a token of how far I’m willing to commit to a lie (and because it was pretty expensive, and I don’t think I can return it).
Even though you’re fake, I didn’t have the heart to make you an asshole. I said your mother had become gravely ill and you had to care for her. That it was with your deepest regrets you ended things—that you thought I deserved someone who could be in London fully, and you would always regret me.
Nesta called it “typical male bullshit,” so I suppose she believes me now. Or she’s willing to pretend, given how sad I am. I’m mostly sad that I think I should probably stop writing to you. I’m twenty, now, and I think it’s time to stop indulging in my fantasies and be real. I’m nearly finished with school, and I should devote more time to paintings.
And besides, Elain is practically engaged, which has taken the pressure of marriage off Nesta and I, for now. Lord Graysen Nolan. How I wish you were real, because you would think he was a total twat, too. Nesta begrudgingly tolerates him because Elain is so head over heels, but he is awful. A scourge, a plague upon mankind and CERTAINLY upon my beautiful sister. He’s going to dump her in some ancient country estate, fill her with babies, and crush her into dirt and she can’t even see it.
He is handsome and charming, though, and he has my sister wrapped around his finger. I think it’s because he doesn’t think she’s beautiful—though, I think he says so in his effort to break her down. She is so used to everyone finding her impossibly lovely that the first man who insults her is worthy of her heart.
I’m rambling again. Anyway, this is my official break-up, fake boyfriend slash fiance. I have loved you, though you never existed. You were the perfect man (because you were fake), and I’m not sure how any others will compare. Maybe I’ll try boring Tamlin again.
What’s funny is that we could have been together, if you’d been actually real. Some dead uncle gifted my sisters and I three castles—one apiece—and mine is in the Scottish highlands. Isn’t that wild? He was my mothers uncle, so technically an uncle twice removed? I’m not sure how that works, honestly. But in his will, he left us each a castle in need of repair to do with as we like. Elain has dreams of turning hers (of course it’s located in the English countryside) into a charming bed and breakfast while Nesta wants to live in it as, and this is a direct quote, “the local bog witch all the children are afraid of.”
As for me, well…I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. I intend to go visit at the end of the month with my paints to see if inspiration might strike. I admit, I’m curious about a real life castle—maybe I will start a farm and remove myself from society instead. Everyone will ask (no one would, because that would require remembering I exist, but lets pretend they would), “What ever happened to Feyre Archeron?”
And my father would be forced to tell them I own a multitude of cows. All of which are named—and perhaps even treated like my children. Who can say? I am not sure if I’m cut out for livestock, or farming or even castle living. Maybe I’ll make it a museum or something else that requires little effort on my part.
The caveat seems to be fixing it up. I can do that, I suppose.
This whole letter is rambling. It is supposed to be me telling you goodbye, and putting this whole messy affair behind me. Thank you for being my only friend, which I recognize is pathetic. I hope the postal worker who has been reading these takes pity on my plight, however pathetic it was.
I will think of you fondly.
Yours, forever,
Feyre
Feyre wiped her nose on the back of her hand, breathing rather hard for someone who was in decently good shape. Six months since she’d moved to the highlands, thinking replacing the inner workings of a centuries old castle would be easy. Replace the plumbing and the floors, rework the electric, and fix the broken glass and she’d be done.
If only. Every day there was some new, horrible discovery. Bats in the attic and rodents in the cellar. A crumbling foundation that had to be nearly rebuilt. A leaking roof that flooded water into the great hall, which then ruined all the flooring Feyre had installed, causing it to be ripped up and replaced again.
It cost a small fortune before the sprawling structure was decent enough to sleep in, let alone live in. And though she had her uncles inheritance to go along with fixing the god forsaken castle. Of course, that money was only for castle repair, and was just barely enough. She’d used her fathers money, too, a paltry sum given just how much of it he had to give away when it was for one of his friends or some do-nothing politician looking to cut taxes in a way that personally benefited her father.
Feyre also considered she was far luckier than Elain, who’s castle came with a rather surly occupant that swore he also owned the castle—and after a little digging through legal records, was found to be correct. Feyre would have lost it if she had to compromise at all.
Except, now she had a nearly finished castle she had no idea what to do with. As it turned out, Feyre did not have the aptitude for farming like she’d hoped, and rather missed living in the city—though, she didn’t miss London. She missed people, and things to do, but not London itself.
There were enough rooms to turn it into a hotel, like Elain was considering. Feyre also thought it made a rather nice venue for people looking to host events or get married. The view of the Scottish highlands was breathtaking, and the castle itself was really nice. Stone on the outside, mostly modern on the inside. Full, working plumbing so long as no one shoved too much toilet paper into the drains, claw baths, and big, four poster beds in circular rooms overlooking the hillside. There was a full, working kitchen Ferye had never used, a ballroom, a grand hall, dungeons—anything a person might want, if she could only figure out how to market it.
It was just a passing idea. For now, Feyre was living in it with a small, paid staff to keep herself fed and the bats from sneaking back in.
It was pure privilege to spend her days painting, and yet Feyre felt like she’d earned it. Without her father and his obnoxious social circle breathing down her neck, she could run wild like she’d always wanted to. She had a little hammock in the courtyard she frequently fell asleep in, a barbeque she’d spent an exorbitant amount on only to use twice, and was even considering digging out a pool. Why not? Who could stop her?
No one.
She’d have to go back eventually—home, that was. Her father’s calls were becoming more frequent and becoming more annoyed. All three of his daughters had just vanished, leaving him to manage his own life for once. Who was he going to build life-long alliances with if he couldn’t move Feyre and Nesta around like pawns.
Elain was all but sold to the Nolans, if the ugly engagement ring Graysen had given Elain was any indication. Feyre supposed she’d have to come home for that tragedy. Sometimes Feyre wondered if Elain wasn’t dragging out the business with her castle in an attempt to avoid wedding planning.
Maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Feyre woke that warm, summer morning like she did every day. Breakfast was waiting in the small dining room on the main floor—a simple fare of sausage, beans, and toast. She dressed, braided her hair in a long, french tail, and gathered her art supplies, intending to make her way to the furthest point on the grounds.
Outside the heavy, rounded doors lay a neat stone path meant to feel old, though it was very modern. She’d watched the workers lay it herself. And standing at the very end of it, dressed in a black shirt and a blue and green plaid kilt, was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His dark, blue black hair ruffled in the wind, while eyes so blue they seemed nearly violet, stared openly at her.
She saw plenty of Scotsmen, given she was in Scotland. And yet there was something about this man, with his toned shins clad in high, black socks and his tall, powerful body, that gave her pause. She could see the hint of ink just above his knees and the curve of his neck, and when Feyre looked back to his face, his mouth was curved into a sensual smile.
“Feyre Archeron?” he asked with a rich, dark accent.
Feyre cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s she—I ah—I mean, that’s me.”
His smile widened. “Aye, ye are, aren’t ye?”
She blinked. “Can I help you with something, Mr…?”
He chuckled, placing a broad hand against his muscular chest. “Ma apologies. I’m Rhysand Campbell.”
A soft scream escaped Feyre’s lips. “Liar.”
He took a step toward her, reaching into the leather sporran hanging from his waist. Feyre couldn’t breathe, watching in horror as he pulled a stack of letters out and offered them to her.
She didn’t take them, shaking her head back and forth. “Prove it.”
He was still grinning, reaching for his wallet. Feyre’s hands shook when he pulled out a license, proving he was exactly who he said he was.
“How…?”
“Did ye think there was no one in all of Dornoch with the name Campbell? It’s quite common a last name.”
Feyre’s heart was mere seconds from jumping out of her chest.
“It was luck I happened to be named Rhysand.”
“Luck,” she repeated, looking skyward. “All those years and you never thought to write back/”
He merely shrugged, taking back his license from her shaking fingers. “At first? It was charming. I figured ye’d stop eventually. Ye wrote a lot of things.”
“Oh, I get it,” Ferye said stiffly. Prick.
“I’m sure ye don’t,” he replied with that insufferable smile.
“No, I do. You got my letters, figured out who my father was, and now you’re here for money. Is that it, Mr. Campbell?”
“Not quite,” he replied, coming closer still.
“Enlighten me, then.”
“Where’s tae ring, darling?” he all but purred. Ice slithered through Feyre’s veins, her eyes landing back on those letters. She’d spent three years writing to him, pouring out her secrets, venting about her family…and telling him all about their nonexistent romance. At best, Ferye had imagined an elderly postal woman reading those letters with a mixture of pity and amusement before tossing them. Never, in her wildest dreams, did she imagine that an actual man was reading what she wrote.
“It’s here, isn’t it?” he pressed, those eyes flashing with delight. “Sentimental, lass.”
Feyre shook her head again. “No. Absolutely not. Send father those letters—”
“And Nesta? Or Elain?” he pressed, preventing Feyre from turning on her heel and leaving him standing in the garden looking foolish. “What about them, hm? What do ye think they’d think of yer scathing assessment of them?”
Feyre exhaled. “What is it that you want? A sham engagement?”
“Oh, a wee bit more than that. I’ve come to claim my wife.”
“You don’t even know me,” Feyre protested, wondering if she ought to just call the police. He was blackmailing her—into marriage, for a purpose she couldn’t ascertain.
“We’re in love,” he said, some of his smile fading just a little.
“So I’m supposed to, what, exactly? Call up my father and tell him—”
“The engagement is back on,” he interrupted, closer still. She could smell him, then—like citrus and the sea, washing over her with the warm morning breeze. Rhysand blotted out the sun with his large body, peering down at her with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. “And we’re in love.”
“Lies.”
“Ye should be verra familiar with that, darling,” he replied, an edge to his voice.
Feyre ran a hand down her face. “For how long?”
He shrugged. “Who could say?”
Prick prick prick!
“A marriage built upon the foundation of blackmail. You are too charming, Mr. Campbell.”
“Just as ye always imagined,” he replied with a wicked grin. “Now. Are ye going to invite me in? Or do I have to beg?”
“Why not?” Feyre grumbled, eyeing those letters. Rhysand caught her, offering them up again.
“Take them. It’s not like I didnae make copies.”
Still, Feyre snatched them from him all the same, holding them close to her chest. She’d hoped she might undo this mess simply by throwing them away and thus, removing his leverage. In truth, were Rhysand ever to show her father her letters, it would merely force him to pay attention to her. Elain and Nesta would forgive her, with time.
But the idea of her father knowing just how much she loathed him, all while craving his validation and approval, was too much for her pride to handle. It was enough to make her think that, perhaps, this wasn’t such an awful idea. If she could set some hard rules, having a ne’er-do-well for a husband kept her from ever having to get married to someone awful.
Like Tamlin, who still sent the occasional too-formal text inquiring after her help.
And this man was hot. Surely he knew it, too, if that wide smile and the way he kept running his hand down his chest was any indication. How long could he tolerate her? How long before he realized his new wife had no intention of sleeping with him, of showing him any affection?
He couldn’t blackmail her into sex—even Feyre had her limits and had to assume he did too.
Or hope, anyway. The bar was in hell, even for a man who’d shown up on her doorstep and declared his intention to marry her.
She forced a smile on her face. “Right this way, Lord Campbell.”
His smile vanished. “I preferred when ye were calling me Rhys. All my friends do. My wife should, too.”
“I’m not your wife yet,” Feyre reminded him. “My sisters are going to be so thrilled. Elain will want to throw an engagement party, and father—”
“Elope,” he said, stepping through the threshold with big, wide eyes. “I’m not going to London for a wedding.”
“Your wife is from London,” Feyre reminded him through gritted teeth. “You’ll have to visit them eventually.”
“Why? Invite them here. Surely there’s space.”
Feyre whirled on her heel, smacking straight into the hard plain of his chest. Rhysand reached for her arms, steadying her with a soft chuckle. “Careful, lass.”
“Let me get this straight. You will make no concessions in this sham marriage? Because, despite what you’ve imagined, blackmailing is a crime and my father has a lot of money.”
“Do ye want to go back to London?” he asked patiently, one perfectly groomed brow arched. As if he already knew the answer to that. As if he knew Feyre would have done anything to stay exactly where she was—far from London, far from her father and his circle of friends. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, hating how smug he looked.
“It will be an actual wedding. And you will invite yer family—”
“I have none,” he interrupted, a shadow crossing his handsome expression. Feyre faltered.
“Friends?”
A soft smile. “Aye. Friends I do have.”
“Okay. Then friends. And you will keep your hands to yourself the entire time. Separate beds. Separate lives.”
He clenched his jaw for a moment before nodding. “Aye. I can do that. Any other demands ye have?”
“Once we’re married, I want you to burn those letters,” Feyre said, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable. “I’ll—marriages are not so easily undone.”
“And how do I know ye won’t back out tae moment they’re gone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
She considered pleading with him. Was it not enough, she wanted to ask, to make her go through with this? That he knew things about her she’d never wanted anyone to know? He couldn’t let her forget it? Feyre took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. Not in front of him.
“Very well,” she said, trying her hardest to channel Nesta’s icy disdain. “Let me just—”
She turned, and he caught her by the arm, spinning her around. “Give me a reason to trust ye, lass, and I’ll destroy them.”
“And will you be giving me a reason to trust you?” she asked, wrenching her arm from his grasp.
“I could have gone straight to ye father. Shown him what ye did, demanded he pay me to keep quiet. I came to ye, instead. I don’t want yer money, Feyre. Just…”
“My home,” she finished with a sigh.
“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “A castle that belongs to Scottish blood, not the English.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” she snapped.
“Tae only way,” he murmured, and despite the softness of his tone, it was clear he didn’t care for disagreement. Feyre dug the heel of her hand into her eyes and sighed loudly.
“Call him,” Rhys said, nodding toward her shorts and the phone outline in the tight fabric. “Tell him the good news.”
“He will never accept you as a son.”
Rhys only shrugged. “As long as his daughter loves me.”
“She doesn’t,” Feyre snapped, but it didn’t matter. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
Took a breath. And then.
“Dad? It’s me, Feyre.”
-*-
Living with Rhysand was a mixture of insufferable and tolerable in equal measure. The castle was sprawling, big enough that for the first day, she didn’t see him at all. She’d instructed the staff to serve him and slipped that ring back on her finger in order to keep up appearances. Absurd, given any truly happy couple reuniting might have spent that first night locked in bed together, and Feyre had very much shut her bedroom door with the letters Rhysand had given and begun to pour through them.
They were worse than she imagined. Not only had she complained about her family, she’d divulged personal secrets, told him about her hopes, her dreams. She’d sent him sketches, she’d told him about the people in her fathers social circle, along with all the most embarrassing and hilarious gossip. Things that Rhysand could have sent to a trash magazine and humiliated half of London with.
She’d treated those letters like a diary, never thinking there was a real man on the other end. Feyre couldn’t sleep that first night.
Or the second.
She did sleep the third, but only because Elain had promised to come down that weekend, delighted to meet the man she’d heard so much about. Nesta had sent back only three words.
Are you sure?
If Nesta came, she’d see straight through Feyre, so Feyre supposed she ought to be grateful Nesta was embroiled in some kind of property dispute with her castle and a local reenactor who took to staging battles of Scottish victory over the English on her front lawn with loud enthusiasm. Feyre suspected Elain was rather happy to escape for a bit, and might soften Rhysand ever so slightly.
And maybe if he realized there were more interesting Archerons, he might take to courting Elain instead of insisting with the sham wedding. Not that Elain would ever agree to it, but…men had always gravitated toward her. Feyre thought Rhysand simply wouldn’t be able to help himself.
On the fourth day, Feyre slipped back through the castle, lugging her art supplies in a canvas bag with her. She expected the grounds to be empty, that Rhysand would be inside lording about her staff like some kind of king.
She heard the sound of wood splitting in the courtyard before she saw him.
Shirtless, in that kilt and the same black socks, rolled halfway down his shins from sweat and exertion. He’d found an ax and with a mighty swing of his powerful biceps, brought it screaming onto a block of wood.
Feyre couldn’t take her eyes off the slick, taut muscles of his stomach, his back, tattooed in dark whorls of ink. Rhysand seemed far too pretty to do any sort of manual labor, which brought Feyre back to the present.
Though, he’d absolutely caught her ogling him. He halted, pushing one booted foot up onto the heavy stump he was using to split wood while using the hem of his kilt to wipe at his forehead.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. Didn’t he know she paid someone to bring in firewood? Besides, there was heating the castle—she’d also paid for that.
“Chopping wood,” he replied, his eyes sliding to the neat stack at his feet. His tone was polite, though perhaps annoyed. As if he really wanted to say, what does it look like I’m doing?
“I pay someone to do that.”
“Of course ye do, lass,” he said with relish. “I don’t see why—I am more than capable of helping.”
Feyre hesitated. “You want to help?”
“Aye.” He frowned. “What did ye think I was gonna do? Sit around waving my hands like some kind of fancy lord?”
“Yes, actually—that’s exactly what I thought.”
“I already told ye. I don’t want yer money.”
Yes, he had said this, hadn’t he? Feyre sniffed. “Fine. You want chores? There are bats in the attic again.”
He offered her a handsome smile. Coupled with the bright sunshine and his warm, brown skin, Feyre’s knees wobbled a little. Why couldn’t he look disgusting? Her traitor body had not gotten the message that they hated him.
“I can do that,” he said. “And anything else ye have for me.”
“I’ll make a list,” she said tartly.
But later, when Feyre was alone with nothing but her thoughts and her canvas, all she could think about was Rhysand, midswing over that block of wood. She thought of the tight expression on his face and the controlled movements of his body.
And even though she hated herself for it, she reached for a piece of charcoal.
And began to sketch.
-*-
Elain arrived at the end of the first week of Rhysand’s arrival. True to word, Rhysand had done every chore Feyre had left for him without complaint. He’d cleared out the bats and fixed several burnt light bulbs, digging out a ladder from god only knew where. And when he ran out of things to do, he turned his attention to the dilapidated stables Feyre had never bothered with. In truth, she’d always meant to tear them down.
It seemed Rhysand meant to fix them up.
He was out there when Elain swanned in, tan from a summer outdoors in the English countryside. She grinned the moment she saw Feyre, throwing her arms around her sister's neck.
“It’s so good to see you,” Elain said, squeezing tight enough to make Feyre’s ribs ache. “How are you holding up?”
“Me? How are you holding up?” Feyre asked, pulling away to search her sister's expression. A faint blush bloomed over Elain’s cheeks.
“Well—I’m, well, I’m perfectly lovely, if we’re being honest.”
“Oh?” Feyre asked.
Elain held up her hand, wiggling bare fingers while Feyre just stared. “You got your nails done?”
“You’re so terribly observant. I’ve called off my engagement—just in time for you to be married. I’ve come to see if you want any of the things we put deposits on, so they don’t go to waste.”
“You—what?” Feyre gaped, realizing only then Elain was trying to show her a hand without an engagement ring. “What happened?”
Elain only shrugged, though more pink crept up her neck. “It wasn’t right. I was…I was deluding myself, I think. It doesn’t matter, because I know you hated him, so you don’t have to pretend. I’ve brought pictures so you can see everything, and it would be no trouble to have it all brought here for you. I know how much you hate planning,” Elain added brightly. “I only wish I could be more helpful.”
“This is already too helpful,” Feyre said, pulling her sister through the open hall toward the spiraling stairs that led both to the left and the right. Elain drank it all in as the skirt of her buttery yellow sundress swished around her legs. She looked every inch a princess, and it took no effort at all to imagine her walking these halls four hundred years before while poets and bards sang songs about her beauty.
“Are you going to introduce me to your husband?” she asked, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. Nesta used to swear you made him up and I told her you’d never do such a thing. It’s nice to prove her wrong sometimes.”
“Yes,” Feyre agreed. “He’s working on the stables. I’ll take you to him.”
This would be the moment of truth. Rhysand would see her and realize his mistake, just as all men did. He wouldn’t be able to look away—and Elain seemed radiant that morning, glowing like the midafternoon sun beating overhead. Her golden blonde hair was perfectly curled, a cascade over her slim shoulders while a set of pearls graced her ears. She’d put on make-up, which Feyre never did, and had the air of someone both effortless and yet unattainable.
The same air Rhysand had, if Feyre was being honest. They’d make a smart couple. Why did that thought annoy her so much?
Feyre led Elain over the grounds slowly, giving her a tour and pointing out all the work she’d done while Elain explained how her bed and breakfast was going. She’d created a tentative peace with the other occupant and owner of her castle—a man with a distinctly French sounding last name and decidedly French first one. Lucien Vanserra. He sounded snooty, and given the difficulty he’d created for Elain, likely some seventy year old man looking to exert his control one last time before his time on earth ended.
“Oh, he’s not so bad once you get to know him,” Elain said, which was a very Elain sort of thing to say. She could charm a wild bear holding a sword. If the man had eyes, it likely hadn’t been hard to talk him into a small compromise.
Rhysand was coming out of the stables as Feyre and Elain began to walk in. He didn’t see them approaching as he mopped up the sweat on his brow with the hem of his shirt. Feyre’s breathe caught at the sight of peeking abs, vanished the second he saw Elain. His eyes slid from her sister back to Feyre, some answered question flickering in his gaze.
“Elain, this is Rhysand,” Feyre told Elain just in time for her sister to plant her foot in a wet container of wood stain.
Elain screeched, yanking herself backward. Her lovely white flat was ruined, which was a shame, truly—though Rhysand? wasn’t looking at Elain at all, but Feyre. His expression very much betrayed his annoyance, some shared secret she didn’t quite understand, as if to say oh. I understand now.
“I’m so sorry,” Elain said, looking at the mess pooling around them.
“No need,” Rhysand replied, though there was some disappointment in his tone. “I was going to do tae floor as well.”
“Of course. Probably not like this, though,” Elain replied with a small laugh.
Rhysand only nodded, looking back to Feyre for some guidance. But it was Elain who was the conversationalist, and when she realized he didn’t know what to say, pressed forward. “How is your mother?”
Oh, christ. Feyre had forgotten that lie, amid the others. Rhysand became rigid for a moment, haunted by Elain’s ask. “She passed, I’m afraid.”
“Oh,” Elain whispered. Rhysand only nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. So that had been true, in some way. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not yer fault,” Rhysand murmured. “But I miss her.”
Elain nodded. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress nervously. “We should ah, probably let you get back to…”
“I’ll see ye both at dinner,” he replied, offering up his most charming smile. And that was that. Elain, holding her shoe by the crook of one finger, waited until they were out of earshot before she said, “You really undersold how handsome he was.”
And when Feyre turned to look over her shoulder, she found Rhysand leaning against the wooden door frame, eyes wholly on her.
It was that night that both Feyre and Rhysand seemed to realize they could not sleep apart in opposite wings of the castle. Elain had made some little quip about how nice it must be to have all this alone time and Rhysand’s fork had clattered to his plate while Feyre’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.
He’d come to her, at least. Feyre sat up against a sea of pillows when she heard him knock, sucking in a deep breath.
“Come in.”
A moment later, the handle turned and there he was. He’d put on plain black sleep pants and a white t-shirt, and his still damp hair told her she’d just freshly showered. If she’d been smart, Feyre would have dragged a divan up from another room so he could sleep on it. As it stood, there were two little chairs facing a small breakfast table and then her rather large, four-poster bed.
And Rhys was a tall man. He looked around, drinking in the cream colored rug and the sand and stone walls, illuminated by an overhanging chandelier. A little potted plant sat half dead in the circular window at the far end of the room, while books were stacked on beneath the television stand haphazardly.
“I’m not sleeping on tae floor,” he told her when he realized their predicament.
“I assumed,” she replied, scooting to the far side of the bed. “No touching.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a theatrical eye roll. As he padded toward her, he asked, “How long will she be here?”
“The weekend,” Feyre replied, trying—and failing—not to notice how good he smelled. “Why?”
“She’s not what I imagined,” he finally said, dragging a hand through his hair with contemplation.
Feyre immediately felt defensive. “She has that effect on people.”
He frowned. “Oh? And what effect do ye imagine she’s having on me?”
“She’s just very…”
“Verra…” he prompted, waiting for Feyre to spit it out. “Dull?”
“What?” Ferye gaped. “She’s not dull.”
“Proper, then. A real English princess,” he amended.
It was asking for pain, and still Feyre couldn’t help herself. “Then what does that make me?”
He smiled again, his face blooming with warm affection. “Wild. Free,” he added, thinking to himself for a moment, as if he needed to choose his words carefully lest he insult her. “Ye are far more lovely than her—”
“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, unable to stand the lie. “No one thinks that.”
She turned to her side, angrily fluffing a pillow before turning off the bedside table.
“I think that,” Rhysand murmured defensively. “I saw a picture of tae three of ye, once.”
She half twisted to look at him. “How?”
“We do have the internet here too, lass. It was simple enough to google ye. I wasn’t sure which of ye was which—but I hoped ye were…well…Feyre. I thought ye must be Elain, given how much you talked of her beauty.”
Feyre’s heart pounded. “You’re such a liar, Mr. Campbell.”
“Not when it comes to ye, darling.”
There was a pause of silence between them, hanging thickly as Feyre digested that information. Hoped. She didn’t know what to make of that.
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“It was one of the things I liked about getting tae letters,” he murmured, settling into the bed. After turning off the lights, it felt easier to peel back some of her defensiveness, to listen to him talk. “My sister died when she was wee, and my mother, well. She never quite recovered from it. When ye wrote that first letter, she was ill again and my father was in one of his rages. And there ye were, in a similar predicament. I thought maybe it was fate.”
“Why didn’t you write back?” she asked, turning fully to her side, her head resting on her elbow.
“Cowardice, I suppose. Ye were a bit younger than me, too. Sixteen, but I was nineteen. It dinae seem right, and truthfully, I didnae want spook ye.”
“Is this your attempt at not spooking me, then? Demanding I marry you for reasons you’ve yet to divulge?” she asked, this time without her usual anger.
“Aye,” he murmured, twisting so he was facing her, too. “I never said I was a good man, Feyre. Only that yer letters were never funny to me.”
“Will you tell me why all this was necessary? I might be able to help, you know—”
“One day,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “When all this is done and ye aren’t so angry, I will. I want to. Not tonight. Hate me all ye like, but I know ye—you’ll be trying to get out of this marriage if ye think you can solve my problems with money. I don’t want yer money.”
“Yes, so you keep saying and yet once we’re married, you’ll have it, regardless. Surely you’ve considered that.”
Rhysand’s pause betrayed him. So he hadn’t realized he’d become unspeakably wealthy the moment Feyre said I do.
It settled some wild, ugly thing in her. “That’s yers,” he finally said.
And with nothing left to say, Rhysand turned over and left Feyre to fall asleep.
-*-
Feyre agreed to take the least offensive things from Elain’s wedding, which, to be fair, were few and far between. The cake was nice, along with the flowers of which Elain would always be the expert. Tables and chairs, and of course, the caterer. Elain had been delighted, in no small part, Feyre suspected, because it meant Graysen wouldn’t be getting his money back. What had he done to her? It wasn’t like Elain to be so petty, but with each thing Feyre said yes to, Elain’s smile grew wider and wider until Feyre wasn’t sure how her sister's smile didn’t split.
And then, with an exasperated sigh, Elain was gone to check on Mr. Vanserra, who was likely wrecking everything in her absence. Feyre thought she’d be sad to see Elain go, but the minute her sister's car pulled out of the drive, Feyre felt the smallest hint of relief.
Rhysand, too. She caught him peeking around a corner, muddy boots on a rather nice ivory floor runner she’d need to wash later.
“Is she gone?” he asked, as if Elain were some terrible creature and not just chatty and maybe a little nosy.
“For now,” Feyre agreed. “She’s putting together your dream wedding, you know.”
“Ours,” he amended.
“No matter how many times you say that, it will never be true.”
He stared her down, straightening to his full height. Feyre’s heart leapt into her throat. “Will ye tell me tae truth about one thing?”
“I doubt it, but you can ask,” she replied primly, wedging her way past his obnoxious body.
“In yer letters, ye said I was tae most beautiful man ye’d ever seen. Is that true?”
Feyre froze. If she turned, he’d see her answer written all over her face. “Everything I imagined about you in my letters was a fiction, Mr. Campbell—”
“For fucks sake, Feyre, call me Rhys,” he snapped. “I cannae stand hearing ye call me Mr. Campbell.”
Feyre forgot she wasn’t supposed to look at him, turning to argue only to find him so close she could smell him. Eyes wide, she backed up only for him to slam his palm against the stone wall behind her, trapping her with his body.
“Tae truth, lass.”
“Why does it matter?” she whispered, hating herself for wanting him and hating herself for not being able to send him away.
His fingers brushed her cheek. “It matters.”
“You can’t have it all, Rhys,” she hissed. He winced as she spat his name, saying it as though it were a curse. “You can’t have your secrets, this marriage and my affection.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t!” she shouted, shoving him away from her. Rhys let her, though she knew if he’d wanted to keep her where she was, there was little she could have done to stop him. “I’m guessing you’re the kind of man who just snaps his fingers and gets exactly what he wants. You could have asked me on a date! You could have been honest and told me who you were, that you got my letters! I would have said yes, you know. If you’d just asked. And if you told me the truth, I would have helped you. You want your secrets, fine. Here I am, playing along. Whatever else you want from me, though? Forget it. For the rest of your life, just forget it.”
“Feyre!” he called as she stormed off. “Feyre, come back!”
She didn’t turn, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was certain she was going to explode. Feyre didn’t pay attention to the direction she went, running through the halls as fast as she could, just in case he was following her.
He wasn’t. She heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, and if she had to bet, Feyre would have guessed he was headed to the stables. It slowed her just enough to make a decision. He wanted secrets? Well, Feyre didn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in her own misery that past week to bother thinking rationally, but she’d seen him drag in all his things.
Surely there was some answer to the Rhysand question up in his room.
Feyre didn’t feel even a little badly flinging open that door. Where she was messy, Rhysand was immaculate. His bed was made for the morning, draped in silken black that was just like him.
He’d tucked his suitcase beneath the bed, and when she opened his drawers to the dresser, everything was neatly folded and in its place. Feyre rifled a bit, feeling like a creep as she shoved aside his underwear and socks.
The curtains to the windows were pulled open, allowing gloomy gray light to filter through. Outside, she was certain a storm was brewing. If it rained, Rhysand would retreat indoors and she’d have to try again another day.
She didn’t know what she was looking for when she dropped to her knees, sitting on the plush, circular sand rug she’d put in all the rooms. Feyre pulled out his suitcase, unzipping thinking she’d find a passport with his real name, or maybe a criminal record that would explain this whole thing. And then she could call the police and be free of him.
Her stomach clenched when all she found was a large manilla envelope, unsealed.
Feyre.
With trembling fingers, Feyre pulled out a stack of letters. They were stapled individually before he’d folded them into quarters. She reached for the one on top, surprised to see it was the very first letter she’d ever sent him, highlighted and starred with a blue pen.
And beneath, was the letter she’d said he should have sent her.
Dear Feyre Archeron,
Don’t be embarrassed, but I have received your letter. I am curious—do you possess the gift of sight? It seems too much a coincidence that you would mail a letter addressed to Mr. Rhysand Campbell to my home in Dornoch. I’ve decided it’s fate, or at least luck. Tell me, though, this one thing: is your birthday on Christmas? I received this at the new year, and I have been trying to figure out when, exactly, you were born.
I guess it doesn’t matter, though it would be nice to send you a birthday gift next year. If you’re wondering, my birthday is in August. Not that you have to send me a gift. It just seemed fair, since I was asking, to tell you my birthday, too.
And, if it makes you feel better (I’m guessing it won’t, but it did make me feel better), my father also forgot my birthday this year. He was working, and I think he expects my mother to handle those things. I shouldn’t care because I’m an adult, and adults don’t need birthdays (or, that’s what I tell myself at least), but it stings every time he looks me in the eye and asks how old I am.
I think he thinks I’m disappointing. Maybe I am.
Anyway. I am happy to be your pretend boyfriend if it keeps you from having to date wankers. If you decide you’d like to write me back, send it to my address in Edinburgh. My mother lives in Dornoch, and I visit when she’s ill (which, to be fair, is pretty often), but I don’t want to miss one.
That is, assuming you don’t find this horribly creepy.
Yours in pretend,
Rhysand Campbell
P.S. I think Nesta deserved to have her hair pulled, just between you and I.
My silly Feyre,
You keep sending letters (that I devour), but I can’t make myself send one back. I’m starting to suspect I’m a coward, which is a terrible quality in a boyfriend. Maybe you should end things with me and date the beige paint (don’t do that). You’re so honest, and I’m so jealous because without my secrets, who am I? The thought of stripping myself bare makes me feel sick, and so I fold these letters up and pretend you read them and they didn’t disgust you.
In truth, I think you’d stop writing if you knew the truth about me. I’m back in Dornoch and mother is ill and father is working and I am just here. Barely existing, both in Edinburgh where I’m trying to be diligent and finish my education, and in Dornoch, where everyone thinks I’m a good son.
Am I? Can I tell you something?
My sister died when she was nine. It was no one’s fault—except, I suppose, the man driving the car who hit her. We were out together and Ainsley darted out of reach. Father was closest. He lunged, but he wasn’t fast enough, and by the time mother and I could react, it was all over.
I was eleven.
I think we tried to rally together for a while, but the days following Ainsley’s death all blur together. Mother cried all the time and father began yelling. Everyone blamed themselves because we couldn’t blame each other, until we were just festering. Father stayed in Edinburgh, and mother went home and I was in-between.
It’s like she’s lost in a fog, and I’m so angry sometimes because I needed her, too. I needed them both, and it was like, if they couldn’t have Ainsley they didn’t want me. Or anyone—I think mother wishes she’d died, too. And I think father is too busy punishing himself—and by extension, me—to take care of mother.
I wonder what will happen to him when she dies. He loved her better than he ever loved either of us. And deep down, I think he’s ashamed he failed her by letting Ainsley die, and it’s better to yell at her, to stay away, to pretend none of it matters to him.
I can’t send this to you, but I like to pretend you’re reading it anyway. That you’d understand, because you feel forgotten, too. That’s how I feel.
Anyway. Tell Tamlin to stay away. I’m fond of you, pretend girlfriend or not.
Your mess,
Rhysand
Feyre, my darling,
Engaged? I admit, I laughed out loud when I saw what you’d done. I knew the English were awful, but surely there must be one tolerable man among the lot of them. I’m tempted to drive all the way up there and rescue you, if only to spare you the embarrassment from when this falls apart. I’m also curious to see the ring I got you.
I’d like to have it, if only so I can get on one knee and ask you to marry me myself. It’s strange how much affection I feel for you. How often I think about you, how I miss you without knowing you. I feel as if I do (maybe I’m crazy, too).
I graduated last week. Father wasn’t there, though he did call in the after to ask me what my plans were. I nearly told him I planned to marry an English lass–but I have no plans for that yet, and no idea how to announce myself to you. It’s been almost three years, and I think I should have been less of a coward back then and just said hello.
I think, sometimes, you would have liked me. More than that other bloke (Ian? I remember his name, but it makes me feel better to pretend I don’t.), at any rate. And maybe my plans wouldn’t seem so far-fetched, and you wouldn’t have to keep lying to your family because I would be asking you to marry me.
For now, things seem possible. I feel like my own man for once, even if I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Only that whatever it is will bring me closer to you. Of that, I’m certain. I am looking forward to hearing of our fake marriage, though—I hope you tell me exactly how you imagine it, so when we do meet, I can impress you.
Is that charming, or does it make me creepy? It’s a question I keep asking, and I think I’m walking a very fine line when it comes to you. Perhaps this will all be charming to you—or maybe you’ll have me locked up. I look forward to finding out. I’m certain I will never live it down, regardless.
For now, just know that I find you endearing.
Yours,
Rhys
Feyre,
Your ability to tell the future is unnerving. Our relationship is over because my mother is ill—and though you don’t know it, you were right. I don’t think it would give you solace to hear she finally passed, but in a way, it gave me peace thinking you’d written me to say goodbye. That you understood, even if you didn’t know it, why you and I were just a foolish dream.
Father and I stood in the rain to bury her. I didn’t think he’d come and it would be just me, watching them set her beside my sister. Reunited, at last, just like she’d always wanted. And for one moment, he and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, silently weeping for all we’d lost and all the things we’d never have again. Ainsley should be here and so should mother.
Her heart failed. I didn’t think you could die of a broken heart, and today I think I could, too. I thought I’d prepared myself better for this moment. As I so often am, I was wrong. Father left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. Or if I even want to. Maybe that moment was enough. Maybe enough passed between us to call it even, to start over.
I think I’ve been trying so hard to forget when I should have been trying to remember. And I think you were just another way to pretend I was someone else, at least for a little while. You don’t know me—you don’t know Rhysand Campbell and neither do I. Not your once betrothed, anyway. That man was a fantasy, someone I wanted so badly to be.
I would have disappointed you. I’m not a good man, Feyre. I don’t think you would have liked the real Rhysand Campbell, and I would have loved you. That’s the tragedy of us, at least to me. You are witty and funny and charming and I am…I am this. I am not the sort of man you fall in love with, but you.
Oh, you, Feyre. I don’t know how everyone isn’t in love with you. How you don’t walk onto the street and have everyone at your feet, wishing they knew your name. Begging for a second of your time. And even though I know you’ll never see this, and so it doesn’t matter what I think or what I say, I feel as though I’ve been drowning in endless night, and you were the first bright thing that came along.
It would be wrong to go looking for you, no matter how strong the impulse is. You’ve said goodbye, and I am saying it, too. I need to figure myself out and maybe that will take forever. I know one thing, though. I will always be thinking about you. Always be wondering about you.
It’s your birthday (I think), today. That’s what started this whole thing.
Happy birthday Feyre.
Yours, eternally,
Rhys
A crack of thunder sent the letters flying from Feyre’s hands. Was she crying? For one wild moment she twisted to look up at the ceiling, certain there must be a leak. Only, no, it was just her, dripping salt onto the elegant penmanship of Rhys’s unsent letters.
“So,” a dark, masculine voice from the doorway intoned. Feyre’s head snapped to the side, drinking him in. His expression was carefully blank, fingertips holding the frame as he leaned forward. Ferye had been caught, had been so engrossed in the parallel lives they’d been living that she hadn’t realized the rain had started or that he’d retreated indoors.
His wet shirt clung to the contours of his chest, slicking that dark ebony hair to his forehead.
“So,” she agreed, her voice trembling.
Feyre held his gaze. Waiting for his ire.
“Now you know.”
#feysand#feyre archeron x rhysand#feysand fic#yeah i did this#it started off as a joke#now it has spin-offs#and 13k words#smut tomorrow!
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She is his mate, his mate, his mate.
Feyre Archeron is the youngest member of the Fae nobility trapped in Amarantha’s court Under the Mountain. She has never known anything else; nineteen years ago, she was the last of three sisters born in the dark prison. She has never seen the stars, tasted fruit fresh from the vine, or set foot in her home court.
Now, dragged before the High Queen of Prythian and presented to her poisonous courtiers in her father’s last-bid attempt to settle his gambling debts by selling off his daughters’ hands in marriage, Feyre faces scrutiny from all sides:
The wicked queen herself, who takes a particular interest in securing an advantageous match for her fiery young charge;
The leaders of the rebellion against Amarantha, who already paid the bloody price of failure once;
And Amarantha’s third, the cruel High Lord of the Night Court, who seems to enjoy nothing more than tracking Feyre through shadowy corridors and dismantling the defenses she and her sisters have spent years building against monsters like him.
— Of the Archer and the Dark by miss_belivet
#it has a title and a moodboard people! ✨🏹🌘#feyre archeron#rhysand#feysand#ferrhys#feyre archeron x rhysand#a court of thorns and roses fic#a court of thorns and roses#coming soon#my fics#mine: moodboard#my edit#of the archer and the dark#the untitled fae feyre fic#acotar#acotar retelling#concept#featuring autumn court archerons 🍂👀#and an enemies to lovers speedrun
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Celebration
Pairing: Feyre Archeron x Rhysand
Summary: The High Lady’s birthday...
A/N: Just a little something for our High Lady’s birthday 🖤
The living room of the Townhouse was packed with their family, and Feyre and Rhys wouldn’t have it any other way. Cassian and Azriel, along with Rhys, were bickering over who’d won the most snowball fights, Amren and Nesta were debating who the heroine of their latest novel would end up with, Mor was ogling the necklace she’d received, and Elain was not-so-subtly making eyes at Azriel. Rhys had his mate cradled in his lap, his arms wound around her middle, Feyre’s head on his shoulder.
“No, no, no, if that damned snowball hadn’t been made of solid ice,” Rhys said. “I’d have made it longer!” Cassian barked out a laugh, and Azriel chuckled softly. “Hey, we made the rules hundreds of years ago: no wings, no magic, no breaks. We never said anything about no ice.” Rhys huffed, which made his mate laugh. “Oh darling,” she cooed. “Maybe next year you’ll win.”
That made Cassian laugh harder, which in turn made Rhys pout. Big Illyrian baby, said Feyre down the bond, and Rhys sent back a feeling of mirth. Nesta and Amren had apparently finished their discussion, and the former rose from her perch and sauntered to her mate, wrapping her arms around his neck. Cassian reached up and cupped her cheek, an uncharacteristic softness crossing his face.
The wine flowed freely and conversation was easy, it always had been with Rhys’ Inner Circle. Talk turned to Feyre’s studio, which the High Lady was too humble to brag about. Rhysand was not, and he latched onto the opportunity to gush about his mate. “You should see the work she’s doing, I’m so damn proud of her.” “Rhys…” “I am!” he said, peppering her face with kisses. “I am so proud of you, Feyre, and I love you so damn much.”
Her heart filled with love, not just for her mate, but for her family, the life she now led. Feyre thought back to past Solstices, the ones she’d spent in the mortal lands. The Winter Solstice meant the hardest times were upon them, that food would be scarce and cold would threaten them as much as hunger. There was no money for a Solstice feast, most times they didn’t even celebrate it. And Feyre’s birthday….well that was forgotten as well.
But here, Feyre’s birthday would never be forgotten. Even when it fell on the Solstice, her mate would never let her special day go uncelebrated. This morning, Rhysand had woken her up with his tongue between her legs, making her come four times before considering his own pleasure. He’d given her a new set of paints, the colors the most vibrant she’d ever seen. Rhys made it a point to celebrate the birth of the woman he loved so fiercely and deeply, even–especially when it fell on a major holiday.
What’s on your mind, Feyre darling? Rhys asked through the bond, rubbing her arm tenderly. The High Lady smiled, kissing Rhys’ jaw and nuzzling her face against his shoulder. Just…this is everything I’ve ever wanted. A family, food, a warm house…someone who loves me. Who cares about me, who makes me feel safe. Rhys tightened his hold on his mate, squeezing her tightly to him. I will always provide for you, my love. I will always love you, I will always make you feel safe. For you, my Feyre, I will do anything.
“Hey,” called Mor. “Can you lovey dovey assholes get a room? The whole damn room smells like you.” Indeed, the living room now smelled of citrus and lilac, and Feyre blushed. Nesta had posed the infamous “whose wingspan is bigger” question, which launched Cassian and Azriel into a heated debate, which Rhys was happy to watch from the sidelines. When midnight rolled around, Nesta and Cassian departed, soon followed by Azriel, then Mor, Elain, and Amren, leaving the High Lord and Lady alone in their home.
“So, my love,” Rhys said, shifting Feyre in his embrace, which she had not left for the entire evening. “Was it a good Solstice?” Feyre nodded, linking her arms around her mate’s neck. “It was. One of the best.” “Hmm. And was it a good birthday?” A devilish look came upon her face, and Feyre sent an image down the bond: the image of her clad in Rhys’ favorite set of lingerie, the red lacy set she’d been given after the War.
“I think that’s up to you, High Lord.” Rhys growled low in his throat as he rose, keeping Feyre in his arms. “Oh High Lady,” he said, kissing her deeply. “Beautiful, perfect, wicked High Lady. It is indeed up to me. And I think you’ll find that you’re going to have a very happy birthday.” Indeed, four hours later found Feyre completely spent, a blissed out smile on her face as Rhys cleaned her up, kissing her skin all the while. “So?” her mate asked, and Feyre managed a laugh. “Yes, Rhys,” she breathed, snuggling into his chest when he came to lie at her side. “A very happy birthday.”
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gf who laughs and bf who thinks it sounds brighter and more wonderful than the stars over velaris
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Feyre meeting the wolf in chapter 1 ✨
#digital art#fanart#fourth wing#ouabh#acotar#illustration#a court of thorns and roses#feyre archeron#feyre cursebreaker#feysand#feyre x rhysand#high lady feyre#feyre darling#sarah j maas#evangeline fox#rhysand#romantasy
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✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ And I wouldn't marry me, either part 2
You were Azriel's mate, but it took losing you three times for him to realise.
[thank you for the love on part one, I’m so happy Azriel is getting the love he deserves!!!! This is another long one, another 6k. But I’ve learnt a new love for writing about him and i have so many ideas. This is a continuation and final part, part one here. Enjoy]
warnings: references to sexual assault and references to suicide. nothing explicit but please don't read if this is sensitive to you.
The third time Azriel almost lost you, he was pretty sure he lost a part of himself.
They'd all gone into battle, knowing that Hybern had the numbers to match and the advantage. But they'd all gone to fight in spite of that.
It had took some time for you to get the boys to agree to let you fight- you'd trained and grew up with all three of them but this was fighting on another scale. Although, if they were going, there really wasn't much they could say to get you to stay.
You were clad in Illyrian leathers just like them, armed with weapons and power.
The first battle was over quicker than you'd anticipated. Hybern soldiers surrendered, Tarquin drowned them on land. You'd suffered little, only falling on bed exhausted by the end of the day. Sadly, you were sharing a tent with Cassian and Azriel. It was like you were young again, all sleeping in the same room. It was a habit you'd done when you were young- all looking out and protecting each other.
The only difference was that Cassian snored as he got older.
But the next battle was worse.
It was bigger than last. Hybern's forces had doubled, seemingly at of nowhere, cutting their forces apart.
It was chaos, everywhere. Every corner there was fighting and bleeding and dying. There was pain all around you. Pain you felt like it was your own.
You used all your power, as much as you could to kill and protect. From the corner of your eyes you could see Azriel fight. Your Azriel, weaving in and out of people. Your mate. He was alive. And that was all you cared about.
But you didn't realise how much you'd been pushing herself and draining your power. Every time you stopped, you swayed on your feet, stumbling.
One of Hyberns men came for you as you were crouched and you barley blocked with your sword, rolling onto your back and slashing his arm off.
Not before he landed a sword in your thigh.
It had been deep burning and you yelled, yanking it out. Even with the wound, you kept fighting and fighting your way through until you saw a blaze of red and a familiar cry.
Cassian.
He'd been run through.
It was easy to push past exhaustion and winnow to his side, killing the man who'd been near him and any others that had been close enough. You fall to your knees next to him. 'Cassian, you prick.'
'You kiss your mate with that mouth,' he gasped. He was the only one who knew about Az and the bond. The only one you'd allow to make jokes.
You look down to his wound and gaged. Mother above, his guts were hanging out. 'No, no, no, come on, big guy, you have to stand.'
He groaned. 'Yea, don't think I can do that, sweetheart,' his eyes, lulled back.
You slap him in the face. Perhaps you wouldn't have felt guilt if it weren't for the way his eyes widened. 'You know I hate being called that.'
He laughed as his stomach and all its contents heaved out. Ignoring the pain in you, you hold his stomach, keeping him together. 'I promised Nesta i'd look after her,' he said. 'Please look after her.'
'Do it yourself,' you groaned.
Finally, Azriel came to your side and picked Cassian up like it was nothing, flying him to the tents. If only you still had your wings, you could have done it, saved him quicker.
Then, you were thrown back into the battle. Covered in his blood and yours, you fought through them all, slashing and killing like it was nothing. Like you had no reason to bat an eyelash at anything happening.
Eventually, it ended, but you couldn't even concentrate on who won or how much you'd lost. Your head ached, your leg was tied up in a bloody bandage ripped from your clothes. But none of that mattered.
Cassian was in bed, healing slowly. But he would live, everyone could tell. Especially with the way he picked fights. He argued with Rhys about throwing himself into danger, him and Nesta appeared to be having words with their eyes. Even Mor and Feyre argued. You were the only one silent with Azriel in the back. Too exhausted to even open your mouth.
That night, you tied up your wounds and fell asleep without changing.
It only got worse.
Elain- Feyre's sister and the most precious- was stolen from Hybern. You had only agreed to go and save her with a few selected others because your mate was in that few selective others.
It hadn't escaped your notice how he looked at her, was watchful over her like he once was with you. You saw the tick in his jaw at the news she was gone. You knew that this was the reason you hadn't told him. Knowing that he deserved someone like her, better than you. Kind and hopeful. You weren't. So the only thing you could do was watch your mate find love in someone else.
And you'd do it grudgingly but happy for him.
Azriel had took of with her. You and your high lady fought, fought through ash arrows and everything.
'You should get out of her, y/n,' said Feyre.
You groaned as an arrow skimmed your shoulder. Another had already got your hip. 'If you try to order me out of here, i'll be really pissed off at you.'
'I don't care if it gets you out!' she snapped, arguing like a real sister would.
'Yea, well- I was never one to listen to Rhys either.'
And Azriel was gone. Everything was fine.
You and Feyre ran, ran even as Tamlin defended you, ran until-
An arrow hit you in the back, straight to one of your old wing scars.
You tumbled, rolling on the ground as it broke and imbedded in your back. You screamed, in spite of yourself.
'You have to fly,' someone was telling you. Or saying it in general, frankly you had no idea what was going on. 'You have to take her.'
You rolled onto your stomach, groaning and trying to get yourself up. There was blood running down your arm, how did that get there?
'Y'n.'
You groaned, 'Azriel. I can't fly.'
'I know, I know- i've got you.' He picked you up, arm under your legs and around your shoulders.
'Elian, Azriel-'
'Feyre has her,' he told you. He sounded angry. Or afraid. Somehow his emotions were very easy to mix up.
'Feyre isn't strong enough.'
'She'll have to be.'
'You should take them, Elian-'
'I don't give a fuck about Elian right now, y'n.'
Just like that, he took off with you in his arms and your blood raining down on the camp of Hybern. You could barley hear anything over the wind... but you could feel it.
Something had tugged painfully at the bond, throwing you into a scream. Something had happened to Azriel. You twisted in his arms, finding gashing claw marks in his back from one of the hounds that had chased them down. His face was bleached white in pain, his hold on you tight.
Glancing around, you could just see Feyre in a blur of people.
'Azriel-' you gasped. He was in pain, so much pain.
He didn't say anything, just squeezed you tighter and looking ahead, barking orders as Feyre flew for the first time in need, in desperation. You remembered what that was like, trusting your life in them. But Azriel's wings, they were bleeding out. You remembered the pain. You'd go through it every day to spare him a minute of it.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You and Azriel landed back in the camp in a blur of pain.
Even with him leaving a trail of blood, he managed to set you down like you were porcelain. You didn't cry out. You didn't yell for help. You threw his arm over your shoulder and supported him.
Nesta and Rhys rushed to Feyre.
You hated your brother for a long moment.
Elain wondered over, chained but whole.
Azriel moved from you, checking on Elian. You only managed to watch them as she kissed his cheek.
The pain came to you then. Your head, shoulder, back. You turned from the crowd of family. Elain moved to hug her sister, Rhys stayed at Feyre's side.
Thesan, someone you barley knew as more than a healer, came to you first but you pushed him away, pushed him to Azriel. 'His wings. Heal him, or i'll rip you to pieces.'
He didn't have to be told twice.
You stumbled your way to camp, to your little tent. You didn't share it with Cassian anymore as he was still healing and Azriel would be a while- needing healing of your own.
You collapsed on the bed, promising to look after yourself- just after your nap.
You were so fast asleep you didn’t even hear Azriel come in and sigh at the sight of you…
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Azriel was fighting when it happened. Specifically, when it snapped.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
No, he wasn't completely healed. But he had to fight. He wouldn't push himself, he knew that would be stupid. But he wouldn't watch as everyone fought. As you fought. He'd hardly seen you. He knew your back would be in pain. He knew you'd be in pain and you were still fighting, so far from him and out of reach.
He was thinking of you when it snapped.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
His soul sang it, his heart rose with it.
His shadows whispered it.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
y/n.
And the first thing he felt over the bond wasn't happiness or love. It was pain. It was death.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
In spite of the pain in his wings, how he'd been told not to fly, he did. He jumped into the skies, soaring over armies and dead to find you. He followed that pain, he followed the bond until he found you.
You, lying in your own blood. Again.
He fell next to you, his power eradicating anywhere near you. They dissovled, the ground cracked under him and his syphons shone in raw power.
'y/n?' he held your body, shaking you. Blood, so much. A sword had torn through your gut. 'Don't do this to me.'
Mate. Mate. Mate.
You cough, a thin stream of blood rolling from your lips. 'Azriel?'
'You're mine,' it was the first thing he could bring himself to say. 'You're my mate. Y/n. You have to hold on, ok? I'm gonna-gonna get you to safety.'
Something like a laugh escaped you, your body wracking with it. 'Of course, finally snaps for you as i'm dying.'
Snaps for you. Mate. Mate.
She knows, his shadows sung. She's known.
Azriel called out to Rhys in every way he could. 'We're gonna be fine. We're gonna be mates, y/n. You have to live, you understand?'
'Not really.' your eyes flutter shut.
'No!' he yelled, shaking you again.
'What's happened?' Rhysand landed next to him, blanking when he saw you in Azriel's arms, bleeding to death. How many times did this have to happen? How many times would you throw yourself into danger?
'She's my mate,' Azriel repeated. He tested it out loud, speaking it to the mother. How cruel was she? to give him this then try to take her away. Well, the mother wouldn't get that chance. Azriel would fight her if she tried to lay a hand on your life.
'What?' said Rhys.
'My mate,' he all but growled as Rhys got closer.
He put a hand on the back of Azriels neck, a hand on your head. 'We have to save her, Az.' he knew all about mating of course, knew that Azriel wanted nobody around her. But this was too save her. 'She's my sister too, the last sister I have. I care about her to.'
Azriel wanted to throw a thousand insults his way but refrained. If not because he was high lord, but also because you were dying.
They got you to safety, Azriel carrying you through to a tent.
'Y/n?!' Cassian rushed over, seeing you in his brothers arms, bleeding out and unresponsive.
Azriel pushed past him, setting you down on the bed. 'Get everyone, every healer now.' He had no idea who he was trying to demand, but he couldn’t watch this, couldn’t see you in.
You were still in your bed. Behind him, Feyre rushed to her mate, wrapping her arms around his torso as your brother stared at you in muted horror.
Azriel was leaning over you, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘She’s my mate.'
'What?' Said Cassian, ‘She told you?'
Azriel felt the world stop around him. Not did you know about the bond and hadn’t told him, you’d told someone else? Cassian? His hand stilled in brushing your hair back, his shadows coaxing you instead.
Rhysand spoke what Azriel wanted to scream. 'You knew?'
'She-She told me,'
Azriel had always had an iron fist control on his emotions, as relied on to be spy master, he had to. But his patience was hanging on by a thread. You were still bleeding out and nobody had come and Cassian knew. Cassian knew about his mate before he did.
His shadows caressed you and, leaving you in the coolness of their touch, he leapt up, marching around the bed toward him.
Rhys was quicker, a hand on Azriels chest to stop him. 'Calm, brother.'
'Calm?' He seethed. 'When-how long have you known?' He shouted.
Cassian breathed out, pushing his hair back . His wings were tucked in behind him. 'She told me, before she went under the mountain.'
Even Rhysand let him go, blowing out air and throwing his arms over his head as Feyre gasped.
Azriel stumbled, a hand to his chest. His shadows were divided between him and caring for you. 'Fifty years,' he gasped.
You’d known for fifty years- possibly longer and hadn’t said a word.
He was panicking, his breath escaping him. His shadows settled uneasy around him. And the only person who was capable of calming him was laying unconscious.
Thesan burst in, knowing the injured already and working on you quickly.
Azriel almost launched at him, just for touching you. The reasonable part of him knew he needed to touch to heal, but the part that was your mate wanted him dead.
Cassian held him back, physically.
Azriel glowered at him. 'I wouldn’t touch me if i were you, brother,' he practically spat the words.
Rhysand left Feyre with a kiss on her cheek, coming to Azriel who was looking over you on the other side. 'Az, you need to rest-you’re hurt, too, remember?'
He shook his head, staring down at you. Mother above you were pale, so pale. 'I-I can’t feel anything Rhys, I can’t feel her through the bond.'
'My sister is a fighter, she’ll make it through.'
Azriel scoffed. His shadows were caressing up and down your arm. ‘Don’t pretend you’ve ever cared about her like a brother.'
Rhysand inhaled sharply. This was just fear, he told himself. 'Azriel.'
'No,' he said, his finger brushing back your hair. 'You only care about her when she’s dying and all y/n does is worship you- ever since you were children.'
Cassian tried to advance, 'Azriel, you wouldn’t be saying any of this if y/n wasn’t hurt.'
He laughed, bitterly. 'No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have to. I’d bite my tongue. But your sister is dying and the last time you cared was the last time she almost died- it killed her to lose her wings and you were never there! And you teach your mate to fly right in front of her!'
Rhys growled. ‘Don’t bring my mate into this!'
‘You’ve brought mine into this!' He yelled. 'Everything she does is for you. Working for you. My mate followed you down to the mountain even when you didn’t care.'
'Of course I cared.'
'Then why did she feel so alone down there!'
‘How would you know, Azriel? You weren’t there!'
'Because I know her, bond or not. And you’ve been otherwise occupied.'
Cassian moved between the two, holding them apart. 'None of this matters to y/n does it.'
Azriel blankes them all, settling next to you. He vaguely heard Cassian send Rhysand and Feyre away. He felt him longer before he felt him leave.
And then all Azriel could feel, was you.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You felt pain first. The steady thumping of it through your body. It started in your leg, numbing it. Then, her back ached- a familiar pain you'd felt before. It sent panic through you before you realised they can't take your wings twice.
Then, it was in your gut, stinging. Just the thought of moving was hurting- aching.
There was a coldness around you, draped over like shadows. Shadows...
That's when you felt the tug that you'd neglected to feel for more than half a century.
The bond. There was finally something tied to the other end.
The shadows around you must've known you were awake as they grew frantic around you.
You opened your eyes, slowly, afraid to what you may see. Afraid to the eyes you'll have to meet.
Azriel was sat on a chair next to you, bare chested with only bandages around him. Immediately, you were at a disadvantage. He was looking at you, dark eyes pouring into yours as his hands curled around shadows.
'What happened?' you asked.
'You were run through,' he said, voice wavering.
'Oh.'
'You're my mate.'
Your eyes flickered away, staring at your tent. 'Oh.'
'That's it?' he whispered. There was some heart-break tainting his voice. 'You're not gonna say something?'
You pulled the blanket over you, daring to move to sit up. He shifted, but his shadows helped you. 'What do you want me to say, Az?'
'Why did you tell Cassian and not me?' he asked. 'Why didn't you tell me, for fifty years?'
'It's-it's not a big deal.'
'Not a big deal?' he all but seethed. 'I'd say finding your mate is a pretty big thing, y/n. It's the person to spend the rest of your life with.'
'Can we not, do this now?' you winced, as the words left your mouth.
'You're right, maybe we should wait another fifty years to bring it up when you're dying.' you've never heard him be so cruel, you'd never even argued with him before this.
'I wasn't dying,' you mumbled.
He scoffed. 'You had an infected wound in your leg that you didn't tell anyone about. An ash arrow was imbedded in your back. Imbedded! You didn't see anyone about it and then- you run into battle and get yourself stabbed.'
'I didn't get myself stabbed!' you argued, your temper rising above all other judgment. 'I didn't rush out in there, wanting to die!'
'I held you as you bled out!' he yelled, standing up from his seat. You were swinging your legs over the bed, ignoring every twinge in your body. 'Do you have any idea what that's like? Not even to hold you as you die in my arms the first time but the second. And to know this time, I was holding my mate?'
You bit down on your lip. He had to use the word with such care and love even when angry. You could feel it. For once, guessing his emotions wasn't needed as you felt it all. The taunt anger in him, the pull of anxiety and above all else, the weight of his love.
Azriel walked around you. 'Please, you have to tell me. Why didn't you say something to me? Why wouldn't you tell me you're my mate? Am I that repulsive to you?'
'What?'
He gulped.
You shook your head as he knelt in front of you, shadows pooled around the two of you, as if they were trying to hold the two of you together. You took his hands, holding them and let something like love flow down the bond. 'You are the most beautiful thing in this world. Something better than me. I wouldn't burden you with that.'
He rose his gaze to you. 'Burden me?'
'Do you think i've enjoyed lying to you?' you ask, finally finding your words. 'Do you think I've liked being your mate and never being with you? That I left you for fifty years and thought of you every moment of every day, all day long. That when I come back I wonder if you or Mor had grown closer? Or if Elian would finally tell you how much she loves you? It's been eating me alive. But it's a small price to pay.'
Azriel grasped at his words, chocking on them. 'Elian is nothing to me, nothing.'
You pushed yourself up, using his shoulder to steady yourself before you move around him. 'Why? Have you only just decided that because I’m your mate? That’s not how it should go, Azriel.'
He was following you around your tent as you slipped on armour and leathers over your night dress. ‘I want you, only you.'
'Because of the bond?'
'Because I’ve always only wanted you!'
You laugh. 'No, you haven’t.'
'If we’d talked about this maybe fifty years ago you’d know that!'
You shook your head. Perhaps a part of you didn't want to believe him and all those wasted years at your fault, but you didn't want to believe his words either. Because what did that mean? That he loved you and wanted you. But that seemed just as impossible to you. How could he want someone so wrecked who'd done nothing but run away from her feelings and does nothing to make anyone happy?
'I don't want you to feel like that,' said Azriel, approaching her. She thought she'd spoken aloud before she realised he could feel everything that was hers. She'd only ever had to shield her thoughts from her brother- and he rarely sort her thoughts. 'Please, please-' he took your shoulders, turning you around and gently resting his head on yours.
You could feel his warm breath over your lips. You almost lost all resolve, with him that close. You'd never been so close to him, close enough to touch. To kiss. To know finally what it mean to have that deep connection that everyone was meant for.
One person in the whole world to belong to.
And he was stuck with her.
'Azriel-'
'Whatever you're thinking about yourself, i've thought about me a thousand times. And ever since we were kids you've always stopped me from thinking that. You've always told me what I was worth,' he whispered. His hands were wondering down your arms, sending shivers down you. He could've been doing it on purpose, distracting you. 'Why won't you accept it for yourself?'
You gulped down every uneasy thought. 'Because you're good, Az and i'm-'
'You're everything.'
'I'm not,' you look up at him, his own face blurry from your tears unwilling to fall. 'I'm not a fighter, i'm afraid of pain. And I could never be a leader, because i'm scared of losing people. I'm terrified about it half the time. Why do you think I followed Rhys down to that stupid party that I knew I wouldn't come back from? Because he'd do the same for me? We both know he wouldn't. But what would losing him mean for you? or Cass, or Mor? I was a coward and I wanted to hide from all the pain his leaving would have caused.'
Azriel shook his head, words sinking in. You were comparing yourself, to warriors like him and Cass, to the high lord- your own brother. 'It was unbearable without you. Maybe if it was just Rhysand i'd have still been able to be spymaster, because that's what he needed. But when I realised you'd gone to, it ruined me,' he admitted. 'I didn't care what you would've wanted, because you weren't here to tell me.'
You rub at your forehead, the tension creating a pain in your already aching body.
'And to anyone who made you feel inferior or worthless, i'll kill them,' he said. It was a shine of the real Azriel. The one who made a promise and never broke it.
You smirk. 'Can't kill the high lord.'
'No,' huffed Azriel, like it was a mild inconvenience. 'But I sure can punch him in the face.'
You laughed at that and Azriel smiled. He'd cracked you.
But your amusement dropped quickly, he felt it like a penny dropping. He let go of you as you turned away, wiping at your eyes. He didn't want to see you cry, didn't want to be the one to make you upset. He only wanted to make you feel loved.
'This isn't how I wanted this to go.'
Azriel suddenly felt conscious of himself. Maybe this wasn't so much about what you felt, maybe it was more about what you felt toward him. 'You really hate the mating bond that much?'
You look over to him. 'Being your mate is my greatest honour. But I don't want you to love me just because you have to.'
'It's not that-'
'And I know you're gonna keep saying that.'
'Until you believe me,' he assured her. 'Even if I have to tell you every day until I die.'
'I can't ask you to do that.'
He smiled at you, a heart-breaking smile of love. 'You haven't.'
You open your mouth to say something, but you're interrupted by Cassain poking his head through the tent flaps. The rest of his whole body was hidden, only showing his bronze face and hair framing him. There was a sheepish smile on his lips.
Azriel huffed. 'Cassian.'
'What? It didn't sound like much love making going on.'
'Mother above,' you sighed.
'What?' whined Cassian. 'I'm just saying, didn't sound like I was interrupting anything.'
'Personally I didn't know he was capable of saying that many words,' said another voice, familiar and dull. Nesta.
You frown. 'I'm sorry, is the whole camp out there.' You storm out, without Azriel to stop you.
He let you get away, again, and now there was no way he'd get you to accept the bond until the battle was done.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The next time you and Azriel spoke, the war was over.
Elian had stabbed Hybern, Nesta had delivered the killing blow, to the head. And your brother had died.
For those few minutes of his death you wanted Feyre weep for him as you stood paralyzed, unable to move. This was the brother you worshiped, the one you’d follow to the end of the world. Did he know that when he went where you could not follow?
Feyre had done everything she could, she begged for his life back. And when her wish was granted, you were collapsing on his other side. Tears of joy in your eyes that Rhys wiped away.
Your family, safe.
Everyone seemed happy to return to Velaris. Home. Scars were left over everyone, fears and pains. Some wore them better than others.
You'd thrown yourself into life. And avoiding Azriel. Suddenly there were many friends you'd neglected that you needed to take dinner with, or so many spontaneous Rita nights with Nesta.
And none of it escaped his notice. The steady thump of the bond still thrived inside of you, his shadows followed everywhere you went, even loitering in your room.
If he was doing it in an attempt to annoy you, then you weren't gonna break first.
After a particularly harrowing Rita's night, the only thing you wanted to do was sleep in for the rest of the day, hide away from everyone and everything. Call it your coping mechanism.
Alas, there was no peace as your curtains were thrown open, light spilling in and burning through your eyelids.
'Knock it off!' the shadows had never bothered with waking you up before- it seemed they'd picked the worst time to start.
'We need to talk,' said a voice that certainly wasn't a shadow.
Rhysand.
You groan, rolling over. 'Can't you talk to me when i'm not hungover.'
'And when would that be, sister? you're getting as bad as Nesta.'
You throw your pillow off and at him, but he dodged it easily and with a smug smile. 'I hate it when you call me that.'
'What? When I compare you to Nesta? Clean up your act then.' He stood over your bed, his arms folded over his chest.
You glare at him. 'I meant sister.' You shuffled up, brushing your hair back.
Rhysand frowned and perched himself on the edge of your bed. There was something he wasn't saying, and you watched it weight heavy on his shoulders. 'You know the last time I was in your room you were throwing glasses at me and yelling at me to get out.'
'Well, don't give me ideas.'
His lips curled into a smile of amusement before he turned solemn again. 'Do you love me, y/n?'
You hadn't expected that. Your hangover could only get worse, your head swimming with possibilities as to why he was asking. And nervous, you were nervous. Maybe you'd never said you loved him out loud but surely your actions were enough of a tell. 'You're my high lord and my brother, of course.' you shrug it off, as if it was nothing.
The shadows trailed up the bed, as if sensing your anxiety.
Rhysand glanced over at you. 'Do you think I don't love you?'
You hesitate, chewing at the skin of your gum.
'Because I do. I do love you. You're my little sister, how can I not?' he muttered. 'And I didn't know you felt like that.'
'It was just sort of... obvious,' you said. 'I was never your sister, not really. I always knew that. You'd never see me like that so, I gave up thinking you would. But you're the only family I have.'
'No, I'm not,' he denied. 'Y/n, everyone in this house loves you. They're your family. And i'm sorry- i'm so sorry if my actions have ever made you think different.'
'Why now?' you ask, eyes screwed up looking at him. 'Why are you saying all this now, what's changed?'
He shook his head, strands of his hair- the same as yours- falling over his eyes. 'You almost died, died on that battlefield and I-I wasn't the first one there. Granted, it was your mate that reached you first but I, I wasn't there quick enough.'
You meet his gaze, his purple eyes sad in a way you'd only ever seen under the mountain. 'You died.'
'And as I was dying one of my deepest regrets was not calling you sister enough,' he shifted closer, taking your head in his hands as if you were a little kid. 'You are my sister. Full flesh and blood. Full love of mine. You are my family. After everything you've done for me. You were right, I needed you under there, when there was nothing good to keep me grounded, but you. My little sister.'
You were sure you were tearing up in front of him.
'You'll always be my sister.'
You laugh. 'Maybe I should get stabbed more often.'
'No,' he said seriously. 'I don't think Azriel would like that very much.'
The mention of him changed the tone in conversation, changed the very beating of your heart.
'What's going on with you two?'
'Oh, I see,' you tease, 'talk to me above sister and brotherly relations just to get in my love life. Not a good look on you high lord.'
He laughed. 'No, it's not that. I just care about the two of you, a lot. And you both deserve to be happy. And I think you'd be happiest with each other.'
You look down, twirling the rings on your fingers.
'Would it be so bad to try to love him?'
You shake your head, smiling as a tear rolls down your cheek. 'I don't even have to try. Feels like i've loved him forever.' his shadows climbed up your arm, leaving Rhysand to smile at the affection.
'You'll work it out,' said Rhys, leaning over and kissing the crown of your head.
Your door was thrown open, startling the two of you.
Azriel stood there. For his entrance, he didn't at all seem that confident when he stood in front of the two of you. His hands didn't know how to hold themselves in front of him.
Your brows rose. 'Were you listening at the door?'
'Azriel,' scolded Rhysand with a stupid grin.
'Get dressed,' he said simply to you. 'There's something you need to see.'
Without much room for argument, you kicked them both out and dressed.
You'd grudgingly let Azriel hold your hand as he led you through the woods. You'd winnowed in at an illyrian camp before he took you through it and into the woods close by.
It was the same camp you'd first met Azriel in. The oldest where you'd all become friends. You'd asked what you were doing there, but he was quiet as he led you through, helping you over roots or breaking twigs from the trees so they didn't hit you.
'Azriel, to any other girl, you leading her silently through a woods without saying anything would be a bit suspicious,' you tell him. His shadows trailed behind the two of you and his hand was secure in yours. You knew not to be scared, but you were still cautious.
'I wouldn't show any girl this,' he said.
After another half hour of walking, the two of you stumbled across a small hut. It was a tiny thing really, made out of twigs and sticks, hay and mud. It looked like something a child was capable of making.
Azriel paused in front of it. He let go of you hand and reached for the door. He was as tall as it and his wings had to tuck in tightly behind him.
Hesitantly, you followed in.
It was just as small as it looked and dirty, like it hadn't been touched in years. Cobwebs hung low (his shadows quickly tried to bat them all away for you) there was dirt and hay all over the floor. Glasses were dust filled and left around with a hundred other things. Some looked new, others old.
And yet, strangely familiar.
'I made this place,' said Azriel.
You looked back at him. He was hunched over a large box that was overflowing with things. 'You?'
'The first time my brothers picked on me, I came to these woods, working on this for days. Every time things got too much back then, i'd come here. I've been coming back for years.' he glanced at you, a sheepish look on his face. 'I've never showed anyone this before.'
You look around the place in new perspectives. The shadows settled around the place. You pictured a little Az, running here and hiding from his brothers. Did he feel alone? Did he feel un-loved? You were so enamoured by it you didn't realise he'd settled on the ground, pulling out things from his box.
'This is your glove, the one's you were wearing when we first met. You took them off to beat up some kid who was being mean to me. You didn't go back for them, you didn't even care.'
He said, pulling out a pair of red wool gloves. In spite of the hut, they were in perfect condition. Pristine. You remembered first meeting him, remembered the little soldier who'd been horrible. Those gloves wouldn't go anywhere near your hand now.
Azriel went in again. 'This is the empty glass jar of the cream you used to help my burns. Here's a book you read to me when I couldn't flip the pages myself. The notes you'd leave when you had to go back to camp. The flowers you picked for me and gave me for my birthday. Dried and stamped from every time you gave them to me.'
You stood, in shock as he kept taking things out.
'A terrible drawing I did of you when I was young. A locket of yours that broke and you never wore again. Stamps from our first theatre trip. Empty bottles from our first night together in Rita's- and Cassian's too. A letter you wrote to me when I was on a mission. A black ribbon from your hair, you used to always wear it with these things. Honestly, the amount I have in here,' and he pulled out several, of varying shades. Black, white, grey, red, dark green. All yours.
Azriel wasn't done. 'A page of annotations you did in one of Rhysand's books. A copy of your favourite poems. A coaster from the first time just you and I went to dinner. Here's some stones from when I first taught you to skim them. A quill that I used to use to write you letters. An old ring of yours is here too. Here's the first dagger you got me. It's too precious to me to be used to kill.'
Tears were falling down your cheeks as you watched him pull them all out and explain them in depth. There was more but the sight of it all was becoming blurred through your tears. The bond felt heavy and beautiful in you.
Azriel finally put the box down and fell to his knees in front of you. His hands came around the back of your thighs, holding you there as his eyes looked up into yours. 'Don't you ever think I don't love you, when I have loved you since we were eleven years old.'
You stutter on you breath. 'H-how?'
He rests his head on your stomach, looking utterly at your will and completely in love. 'How could I not?'
Slowly, as you could not move too fast, you settled down on your knees across from him. His hands moved up to your arms as yours went to his cheeks, brushing back his hair.
'It was always going to be you, wasn't it?' you mumbled. 'How could it be anyone else?'
Azriel kissed you then, finally. His lips were as soft as they'd looked, as you'd always imagined. His hands drifted to your waist, finger tips digging into to hold you close. His hands were strong, but his lips were gentle. He pulled away, only to groan in need before reaching for your lips again, harder, desperate.
His teeth bit down on your bottom lip, tongue sliding in to feel every corner of your mouth as his hands wondered around you, trying to grip onto any bit of you he could. Your arms wrapped around his neck, bringing him closer. Close enough to consume, to breath in.
You pulled back enough to catch your breath, arms still around his shoulders. 'Mother above, am I gonna make you the best meal of your life.'
But that could wait. For now, you'd settle for a dusty floor in the little house in the woods.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Taglist: @tothestarsandwhateverend @darlingbravebelle @lil-lupa @haileycannotcometothephantom @fairywriter-oracle @isa1b2h3 @tele86 @thebeautifulmysteriesoflife @unleashthelion @naturakaashi @aurora1115 @sirens-and-moonflowers @azriels-shadowsinger @willowpains @crazylokonugget @abysshaven @anuttellaa @wishfulwithwine @one-big-fangirl @harrystylesfan2686 @charlotteintumbleland @mellowarcadefun @starseedsamurai
#azriel x cassian x reader#azriel x you#azriel x reader#azriel#acotar#rhysand#cassian#nesta archeron#feyre archeron#azriel x oc#azriel x elain#azriel x female!reader#azriel x original character#swifties
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Paring: former Azriel x Reader
Triggers: mentions of cheating, mentions of death, cursing, a lot of bold and italicize
Word Count: 3K+
Summary: The High Lords called a meeting to discuss the Death-God’s resurrection. However, with the death of their Seer, tensions run high between Day and Night Court, Helion outraged by the loss of your life. Truths are revealed and lies are exposed. And what happens when the High Lords realize that they have all been too late?
Note: I thank you all for all the love you have given to my one shot!! I had never thought it would have been so well received by fans and writers! I am very amused by everyone's reactions and thoughts on the one shot — everyone is wanting blood and redemption for our poor reader. And she will! This chapter is a segway/filler chapter — but still important. It's still angsty, don't worry. This one shot will probably become a 3 part series. I know in that voting poll I had done asked if you guys wanted a 5k chapter, rather than a 2- 2k chapters, but I wanted to leave you guys with one more chapter to look forward to! Please look forward to it!
Part One | Part Three | Epilogue
<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist
“You had abandoned my emissary, disregarded her sight and had her take her own life in your Court… And for what? Your mate’s sister’s powers?!” Helion was fuming, amber eyes staring the High Lord of Night down, “And that her mate — - “a growl escaped his lips, as he glanced at the Spymaster next to Rhysand, “Had cheated on her for said sister?!”
The High Lord of Day’s voice echoed throughout the throne room, shaking its very walls at the allegation of what had happen within the wards of the Night Court. Helion’s fingers gripped the edge of the large round table, his claws causing the wood to splint underneath his fingertips.
“And now… you are telling me that her body disappeared?” his voice deathly low, “That your Spymaster’s shadows had whisked her body away to — God-knows-where… That, that child, never had never had a proper burial?!”
Rhysand couldn’t utter a single word against the claims placed against him and his Court — he couldn’t when everything that Helion had roared was true.
“… Show me…” Helion hissed, focusing at his old friend, “Show us what had happened that day…”
Rhysand gulped, staring at Helion before glancing around the table towards the High Lords of Pyrthian. All of them staring him down before all felt the claws of Rhysand's power creeping in their minds, images of that day of your death playing in their minds — all of them watching the confrontation between the Inner Circle and you — on how you were cornered and betrayed, leading up to your very death.
He hated it. Rhysand not only relived that that multiple times during his dreams — where he had failed you. He now had to relieve it while he was awake. Hearing your pleads and cries for him to listen to your visions, and seeing your body dying on that marble floor — to watch it be taken away by tendrils of shadow.
Once the memory came to pass, sobs echoed throughout the room. Helion being the loudest as he ran a hand down his face, his form shaking in his seat. Rhysand glanced towards his Inner Circle, watching his family relive that moment as well; eyes focusing on Azriel, who gripped the arms of his chair as his face wrinkled in anguish at the memory.
It had been a month ever since your death, a month since the sliver of shadows that once served the Spymaster had taken your body away — unknown to even Azriel on where they had brought your body to. And a month ever since more and more whispers of Koschei’s resurrection echoed throughout the Courts. The Death-God’s power vibrating throughout all of Pyrthian — it was difficult to not miss.
The High Lords gathered in Day Court to strategize on the impending danger of the Death-God. However, it was no secret on what had happened in the wards of Night Court. The loss of your light present throughout all of Pyrthian — every High Lord felt it.
Especially Helion.
He wanted nothing more to hurt and maim every member of the Inner Circle; but that wasn’t the purpose of this meeting — though he wanted it to be.
Helion reigned in his emotions, trying to calm the rage that boiled in his blood. Trying to clam the sadness he felt for the loss of you. He straightened up in his chair, letting out a shaky breath, looking back at the Night Court High Lord.
“… I regret that I ever had sent (Y/N) to your Court, Rhysand,” his tone small and disappointed, “Her powers were wasted on you and your Court. A Seer taking their life, being betrayed by the people she called her family,” His head shaking, a laugh, one so loud and so sarcastic escaping his chest that it echoed in throne room, startling the other High Lords, making Rhysand flinch in his seat. “What a damn found family you made. Betraying one’s mate, betraying a person who had served you for five-hundred fucking years over a female who barely has control over her own powers.”
Amber eyes darted to Elain, as he watched her flinch back, hiding behind the eldest Archeron sister, “What prophecy have you seen now?” the sarcasm very evident in his tone, “Have you seen what (Y/N) has seen? Have you seen the resurrection of Kosechi, as well? Your powers are nothing compared to (Y/N)’s.”
“How dare you talk to someone in my Court like — -” Rhysand started.
“You have no right to challenge me in my own Court, Rhysand!” Helion bellowed, hands slamming on the table, standing up as he glared at his once-called friend, “Do you realize what you have done?! Do you realize why there hasn’t been a Seer in millennials? Why (Y/N) has been the only recorded Seer in the history of Pyrthian? Because Seers have been hunted — by Fae, humans and Gods alike. They are so sought after, for their power, for the knowledge, for their sight. Seers have the power to uncover what is hidden, lurking in the darkness. They are the very light that unveils the darkness. They have been hunted to be exterminated for that very power…”
It had been the very reason why Helion had taken you in when you were a child, guarded carefully in the Day Court. To ensure the prosper of your power, the prosper of your light.
Amber eyes darted around the table, eyes staring at the High Lords that had situated themselves in this very room, listening to his tale before they stared back at Rhysand, “You, being the powerfullest High Lord if all of Pyrthian should have known that. And now, her body, one filled with Unknown-God-and Cauldron bound powers is missing…”
A huff escaped his lips in exasperation as he sat down back into his seat, “Her body should be buried here, in my Court, where she rightfully belongs to. But, no. And none of us could properly pray respects for the loss of her light…”
It was no secret that Helion had a soft spot for you. You were like his child, raising you since you were small, watching you grow and become a bright light within the Day Court. He knew how your light felt, how he basked in it as if it was the sun that radiated overhead.
And so when he had woken up that night in cold sweat, feeling the vanishing of your light — he knew something had gone terribly wrong.
“… — Helion…” Feyre tentatively called out to him, “You said her body is Cauldron bound? What do you mean by that?”
The Day High Lord glanced at the High Lady, staring her down before he nodded his head once. Leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand, “That’s what both myself and (Y/N) believe. (Y/N) is one the strongest Seers I have met in my life, those few Seers that I have encountered, ones that have wanted to remain hidden, are no match to (Y/N)’s powers. Your little Cauldon-Made Seer is no match for her either,” he sneered at the middle Archeron sister.
"There has been little records of Seers in Prythian, we all know that. Not even my libraries had enough information about them and their powers. But, despite that, (Y/N) was able to hone into her powers with little instructions… You know that she doesn’t just see the future, she was able to see what was happening now. She was able to focus on parts of Pyrthian and tell me what is and what will happen.
“But during the war with Hybern, much like when Nesta felt the Cauldron, (Y/N) felt it too. We didn’t know why, but we realized she and the Cauldron were somewhat connected. Whether it be the Cauldron was reason why she has her visions or if the Cauldron was the source of her power, they were bound. A natural connection between the two of them. And when the Cauldron broke, (Y/N) had told me she felt the Cauldron’s power sought refuge with her, as if the Cauldron sought her light.
“After the war, she had asked for my opinion — she felt the remnants of the Cauldron’s power tingling through her. She told me she saw more visions, visions of the far off future that she had no idea when would happen, and that her powers were starting to become out of her control. She was starting to lose herself in her powers, lose her mind to it… I didn’t know how to help her…”
The Inner Circle remembered, weeks after the end of the war, (Y/N) had asked if she could return to Day Court for a few weeks. Rhysand had let her, thinking it was not important. Azriel, too, didn’t question on her reason why she wanted to leave.
It was when they started to not care. When they started to focus their attention to Elain — the Seer that had defeated the King of Hybern.
Helion let out a broken laugh, staring at the Inner Circle, “I’m sure you never knew, did you? On how broken she started to be after the war. You never knew how her sleep was plagued with visions, that she couldn’t even close her eyes without images flashing behind them. Of how she sobbed in bed, wondering if she was in a dream or reality. She couldn’t differentiate anymore… And you…” eyes focusing on Azriel, “You never felt her pain because you put up a wall between your mating bond. Did you know, Azriel…”
The Day High Lord’s tone was seething, remembering those day.
“Did you know, how she cried for you? She begged down the bond for you to come and help. Wanting your protection, wanting to help sooth the pain she had felt? Wanting you just to be there? But all she could feel was the wall you placed, ignoring her… abandoning her when she needed all of you the most…
“I sent her back, hoping that all of you would help. I sent her back with sleeping tonics, hoping to help her with her sleep. Hoping that her family and mate would help her through her toughest time. Hoping that you all would see her. But I can see that never happened. That no matter how much she begged for you all to listen to her visions, to see her in pain, you ignored,” his voice was laced with anger, disappointment.
No one said a word. The air in the room tense and dense at the revelation that Helion lamented. No one knew of what you had gone through.
Azriel felt his his heart burn in his chest, as if his siphons were burning his skin — he felt the remnants of the broken mating bond in his chest, aching more at Helion’s words.
He didn’t know, he didn’t see, he didn’t feel the pain you were going through. He had ignored the tug of the bond when he had that wall up. He had been too infatuated with the middle Archeron sister, wanting her to feel belonged in their Court — all the while alienating the person who had been with him through thick and thin.
And, yet, he couldn’t do the same for you.
Bright blue eyes closed as Feyre silently mourned and apologized to the Heavens, to the night sky where you might have been.
But she realized on the implications of what had Helion had told them — that you might have been the Cauldron-bound object that Koschei needed to escape that lake.
She looked up at Rhysand, and he to her as they communicated down the bond. Both of them realizing what could happen.
The gesture wasn’t missed by Helion as he watched them, waiting for them to explain what they might have discovered. However, when they did not say anything, a growl escaped his chest.
“What is it?”
Feyre and Rhysand looked at the Day High Lord, hesitance shown in their features, “… It’s about what (Y/N) had told us. You all saw it in that memory…”
Helion thought, playing the memory back as he watched remembered your face, the anguish of your features shining through his head, listening to your words — your vision of what might pass.
“… That Koschei needed something from the Cauldron to be released from the lake,” Lucien pointed out from his spot next to Helion, the russete eye looking at Elain before back to Feyre.
“What if…” Tarquin mumbled, “…Koschei found (Y/N)’s body? If you and (Y/N) knew of the connection to the Cauldron, that the Cauldron sought her power. He could use her body to be freed from that lake.”
Helion looked at the Summer High Lord, amber eyes wide at the realization, “… If that were to come to pass, we would be doomed. (Y/N)’s body is probably soaked in Cauldron powers. It would be so easy for Koschei to be freed, and no one would ever notice. It is not impossible, but since (Y/N)’s body has disappeared, it is possible for her to have fallen into his clutches.”
Kallias, in the mist of the conversation, was watching, observing, the only remaining Seer in the room. He leaned forward, bright blue hues staring the Made-Fae, as he rested both arms on the table, “Have you had any visions?”
Heads turned towards the High Lord of Winter at his question. It did not phase him, as he continued, ”I heard from your High Lady that you rarely said anything about your visions, since the Cauldron broke. So do tell us, what have you seen about the Death-God?” If she had her powers still, a Seer would be still useful in this situation.
Elain visibly swallowed, as all attention was on her once more. Brown eyes frantically glanced around the table, over to her sisters and then to Azriel who both looked at her expectedly.
A heartbeat later, and the Middle Archeron sister knew that she couldn't lie.
She shook her head, “I have not seen anything… since the Cauldron broke…” her words nothing but a whisper in the wind.
It was as if a pin dropped on marble floors, the silence in the room was penetrating.
A laugh broke the silence. Eris’ shook his in disbelief on the drama they were hearing, “So you’re telling us, you have been lying about having your powers. And that (Y/N), who has actually seen those visions had taken her life?” he glared at the middle Archeron sister, “For what? Because you needed a position in the Night Court? So that you can gain the Spymaster’s affection? To bed him?”
Elain shook her head again, brown eyes desperate as she tried to catch eye with her family, with Nesta, who just looked away, brows furrowed with anguish, “… I just wanted to be useful…” she whispered in fear, slumping down in her chair, “My powers… were the only thing that made me feel like I belonged… But I didn’t have them, and… I just, didn’t want to lose my family.”
“And yet, you were willing to let (Y/N) lose her family, her mate… and her life. Just to keep your own,” Thesan expressed, "That selfishness will be the downfall of Pyrthian."
Elain flinched at the truth thrown onto her face, eyes down-casting, silence taking over her form.
Before anyone could reprimand Elain for her actions, the grand doors slammed open, a dark mist blowing throughout the room. Frightened and confused screams echoed through the room.
Helion stood up, using his power of light to dissipate the darkness that tried to cover the room. Amber eyes glowed as he watched as a cloaked figure float into the room.
Eyes watched the cloaked figure as it settled its form onto the floor, bare pale feet touching the marble.
“… I would think… that if the Pyrthian High Lords would gather… they would invite a God to their meeting. But I guess, manners do not exist in this world…” the voice was grating and brittle.
The hood swept, as if eyes inside were looking at all the High Lords that were now standing up, all attention to him.
A eerie chuckle escaped the hooded figure, spiny fingers grasping the edge before slipping it down. White hair and black eyes were revealed, pale, sickly skin glowed underneath the darkness that had surrounded him.
The figure bowed, a mocking gesture to the High Lords.
“It seems, that you are unaware of who you are being greeted by…” a boney finger raised up and pointed towards Nesta, the eldest sister stiffening, “Though I’m quite sure you do, dearest sister…” he grinned at her.
Nesta gulped and looked at the uninvited guest. She knew who would greet her like that — only the Death Caver has echoed the same words, “You’re Koschei… aren’t you…”
Koschei grinned wider, head tilting to the side as he stepped forward, laughing as the High Lords ready themselves for a battle with the Death-God.
“Oh don’t be so tense, my High Lords…” he mockingly commented, sweeping a hand, “Please sit… Do not stop your meeting for dear little old me. Though it is such an honor for you to do so.”
He rounded the table, eyes making contact with each of the High Lord, black eyes sweeping over their forms before he stopped before Rhysand.
Violet hues and black sockets stared at each other.
“Though I do have to thank you, High Lord of the Night… You have gifted me the precious gift of life. Though, it was through the loss of one of your own… You might have known her. Cared for her… Loved her…” Koschei looked at Azriel whose hazel eyes burned at the Death-God.
He let out a low laugh.
Tarquin’s assumption was right — the Death-God had used your body to free himself from the lake, right underneath their noses. No one felt it, no one knew. And it had been too late to do anything about it; months too late to prevent the resurrection, months too late to find your missing body, months too late of not listening to you.
Koschei looked behind him, far past the grand windows, the familiar cry of the bird of fire and ash echoing through the lands of Day Court, heading towards them — Vassa had come to stop the sorcerer-lord from his destruction.
However, before she landed on the balcony, an arrow, made of shadow and darkness struck her, causing the great bird to plummet to the land beneath her.
Lucien gasped and ran towards the balcony, peering down to see if the mortal queen had survived the fall; but there was no sign of the cursed queen anywhere below.
“What a dramatic entry by Vassa, as always…” Koschei said with a sigh, before another chuckle escaped his lips, dark eyes boring into the empty spot beside him, “Don’t you think… (Y/N)?”
All heads snapped towards the Deathless God, your name slipping from his lips, as they watched a swirl of darkness materialized a familiar figure. Azriel watched, hazel eyes wide as he took in your form, whisps of shadows that had whirled around you — his shadows, one that had abandoned him ever since your death.
“…(Y/N)…” Azriel whispered in disbelief, his voice shaking.
There you stood, next to the Death-God, very much alive.
Very much like a Death-God yourself.
And it echoed in your outfit — tendrils of shadow made up your dress, covering you from head to toe, fluttering near your feet as if a gown swayed by the wind. In your hands, a bow and arrow made of those shadows — the very bow that had struck Vassa down from her flight.
That was where Azriel’s shadows had gone to — leaving him, following you to your death, and making you someone completely different.
Someone that was going to be the downfall of Pyrthian itself.
Tagging: @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @setayeshmohseni, @kindasleepycryptid, @f4iry-bell, @woodland-mist, @kalulakunundrum, @topaz125, @thelov3lybookworm, @hnyclover, @harrystylesfan2686, @anuttellaa, @ithan-holstroms-girl, @judig92, @venuseuripedis, @fairywriter-oracle, @thehighlordishere, @acourtofbatboydreams, @willowpains, @historygreekqueen, @dr4g0ngirl, @ayme301, @kemillyfreitas, @crazylokonugget, @abysshaven, @michaelharrypotter, @naturakaashi, @kittenbi, @namelesssav, @guiltyreader, @awkardnerd, @je-suis-prest-rachel, @quackitysdrugdealer, @thesunloveschips, @brieflyclassymortal, @justdreamstars, @isa1b2h3, @himesuedi, @fxckmiup, @starswholistenanddreamsanswered, @t0uch-starved-h0e, @mybestfriendmademe
#acotar fanfiction#azriel x reader#acotar angst#acotar x reader#acotar fic#a court of thorns and roses#( .one shot : pushed to the edge )#acotar fanfic#azriel angst#helion acotar#eris vanserra#rhysand#feyre archeron
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besotted
pairing: Azriel x fem reader
word count: 3.7k
warnings: none, just tooth rotting fluff
summary: Rhys and Feyre have asked you to babysit Nyx for the day, meaning you get to spend the whole time enjoying one of your favourite weaknesses: your mate cuddling cute babies.
a/n: thank you so much for the love, it's been so lovely 🫶🏻. this fic is completely self-indulgent - I don't even want children but the thought of handsome men with babies? lord have mercy. My inbox is always open for a chat or fic suggestions /requests. Enjoy loves.
Velaris was truly stunning in every season, every weather, at any time of day, but for you, your favourite time in the city was during the height of summer. When the weather was perfect, the warmth not too stifling, and the evenings cool, the sun glistened on the smooth water of the Sidra, and the air was filled with the soft chattering and laughter of its citizens that lasted well into the evening.
A soft grin played on your lips as you strolled through the streets of the city you had grown up in, the warm breeze gently blowing the gauzy material of your trousers and licking at the stretch of skin exposed at the waist due to the cropped top you wore - the beautiful outfit a gift from your close friend Amren who shared your sense of style. Your confident and sure steps took you past familiar shops, filled to the brim with their exquisite wares as you approached the handful of shops you needed to visit.
As you neared the first shop you needed to visit, you turned your head slightly when you felt one of those familiar shadows that followed you everywhere. It slipped up your arm and affectionally curled around the skin between where your shoulder met your neck. The darkness cooled your warm skin, causing a soft smile to fall on your lips when you thought of the man to whom they belonged. Since being mated to Azriel, a handful of his shadows were always with you, and you had grown very fond of your own little shadows. According to the spymaster, they had left him on their own accord, feeling as protective of you as their master did. They acted almost as a messenger service between you and your mate.
"Are you okay, babe? One of your shadows just tapped me on the shoulder." As you entered the small shop, you spoke gently through that sparkling, glimmering thread you shared with your favourite person in the whole wide world.
"When are you heading back?" His deep, midnight-laced voice slipped into your mind, and you had to hold back the involuntary shudder as you touched one of the children's toys hanging on a rack before you.
"Why are you missing me already, Az?" Judging by the chuckle you heard that echoed in your head, he could practically hear the teasing smirk in your words.
"Always, sweetheart." There was a pause, and your eyebrows furrowed. You realized that something was actually amiss, and he wanted you home. "Nyx is fussing, and I don't know what to do."
This time, you chuckled out loud as you grabbed the toy from the rack and took it to the counter at the back of the shop to pay for it. You smiled gently at the shopkeeper, who warmly greeted you.
"He's probably hungry, babe; give him one of those bottles Feyre left. They're in the fridge." Rhys and Feyre had to attend a last-minute meeting today with the Court of Nightmares and Eris from the Autumn Court. They politely asked if you and Azriel could babysit Nyx on short notice. Initially, Azriel had put up a bit of a fuss, arguing that he needed to be there at the meeting, but Rhys had reasoned that Cassian would be there, as would Mor and Amren. Plus, he would show Az everything through his daemati ability. Feyre had sweetened the blow by telling Az you and him were Nyx's favourite aunt and uncle and that they trusted him the most to look after their precious son.
You had beamed at Azriel's shocked face, winking at Rhys as you had shared in your amusement. Azriel was absolutely besotted with the tiny babe and would protect him with his life if needed. You had no doubt Azriel would immediately sacrifice his life for Nyx, no questions asked. Privately, you had agreed entirely with the idea of you and Azriel protecting Nyx from a security perspective - both of you ready to use your extensive abilities to protect the tiny fae - but also because it meant you could watch Azriel cuddle the baby. In the last couple of months, it had become one of your favourite weaknesses when it came to the shadowsinger.
"Oh yeah, ok." Relief washed down the bond as he moved towards the kitchen and grabbed the bottle from the fridge, remembering how to warm it and test its temperature.
"You've babysat Nyx before, Az; you're a natural at this—trust your instincts, babe." You assured him as you passed the money over to the shopkeeper, gave her a warm smile, thanked her, and took the small bag she set on her counter. Wishing her a goodbye, you left the shop and stepped back into the warm streets of Velaris, heading towards the next shop.
"I've never babysat him before on my own!" You could practically hear the panic in his voice, and you shook your head absentmindedly at his lack of confidence in something he was exceptionally good at.
"You're his favourite uncle for a reason, Az! I won't be long, promise."
"Hurry back, sweetheart. I miss you too." A warm caress reached you through the bond, accompanied by the feeling of his shadows sliding up your thigh, the phantom feeling of his hands on your skin causing you to jolt ever so slightly. Wicked little things.
You had been hesitant to leave the Town House, which you and Az now called yours, this afternoon, but with Nyx arriving at such short notice, you needed more time to get some supplies in. You desperately needed some baby stuff and food for both yourself and your mate. You were just exchanging money with the butcher when you felt another frantic pulse through your bond.
"Babe, he's crying again! He's had the whole bottle." You sent your mate a pulse of affection through his bond, trying to calm him down as you slid the package of food you had just brought into one of your bags.
"Sweetheart, you need to burp him now." You gently reminded him.
"Oh shit yeah." You laughed at your mate, drawing some strange looks from passersby, which caused a slight blush to rise on your cheeks.
"No cursing around the baby!" This time, you felt Azriel's amusement through the bond, a warm beat of laughter that you would spend forever trying to coax from him - his laughter, deep, rich and full, was one of your favourite sounds.
"He can't hear me." He reasoned, his voice now calm now that you had given him a plan of action. He thrived in coordination and planning, able to adapt in times of chaos, but he preferred a detailed and methodical approach to everything. Even in the bedroom.
As you stepped out of the final shop, your purchases swinging from your hands, your face turned up to catch the afternoon rays as they gently warmed your face, you felt another shadow creep up your arm to practically tap on your shoulder.
"Fuck, now he's crying so loud I think he might bring the roof down!" Azriel was panicking again, and you could imagine him running his slender fingers through his hair - tuffs of midnight black standing up in a messy array as he started to pace.
"Az, calm down - he needs to sleep." In the Town House, Azriel felt a wave of calm wash over him as he listened to your levelled voice. No hint of irritation or annoyance in your voice. Even after all these years, he still had to fight his instincts that told him you would get tired of him and his pestering, overprotectiveness or panic, but you had been steadfast the entire time. Making sure he felt supported and loved through everything, and he could never be so grateful for the connection you had built together, the love you shared and the life you had crafted with each other.
"I've tried putting him down, but he screams louder." He sounded tired, and you had to stop yourself from teasing, knowing that wasn't what he needed right now.
"Pick him up. He probably wants you to cuddle him while he falls asleep." If you were being honest, you couldn't blame Nyx. Nothing, and you mean absolutely nothing, compares to Azriel's cuddles. You always felt so safe, so protected, and so comforted in his arms.
"Ok, yeah, I can do that. Gods, why are you so good at this love." You chuckled at the exasperation in his voice. Azriel must have been so agitated because, through the bond, he sent you images of him gently picking up a crying Nyx, his sweet face red and crumpled as he cried, and holding him to his chest. You tried so hard not to focus on those broad, beautiful, strong, scarred hands as they firmly held Nyx, thoughts of how he had held you last night entering into your mind unbidden and causing you to stumble on the uneven cobblestones of the path you were walking, "Careful love." You felt Az chuckle.
"Ass." You felt his amusement through the bond and his relief as Nyx began to calm down and snuggled into Azriel. "You're a natural at this, Az, though. I'm nearly home."
"See you soon, love." At the sound of his husky voice, filled with love, you felt your pace pick up as you made your way towards the beautiful home you shared, eager to get home to your waiting mate.
…
The Town House was quiet and bathed in darkness when you stepped inside. Trying to make as little noise as possible, you carefully set your bags on the entryway floor and slipped your shoes off, the cool wooden floor of the house soothing your hot feet.
A handful of shadows flew through the air towards you, darting around your body and playfully getting tangled up in your hair and clothes. They whispered at you to be quiet and told you that Azriel and Nyx were in the main living room.
With a grin on your face, you tip-toed over to the doorway to the living room and leaned against the frame as you took in the heartwarming scene before you. You had to physically stop the tears brimming in your eyes as you gazed at your mate, gently napping on the sofa with a content and fast asleep Nyx resting on his chest, softly snoring in the way only babes can.
The scene before you was so soft and sweet that you indulged yourself for a moment, picturing your own child fast asleep on your mate's strong chest. You stared for a while, marvelling at the beauty of Azriel. His strong arms were exposed due to his sleeveless top, his Illyrian tattoos proudly swirling around his dark skin - arms you know would hold you close in the dead of night, keep you standing when you were weak and protect you until the ends of the earth. His soft, slightly curled, midnight hair gently fell on his proud forehead, making him look almost boyish and not the formidable man he presented to the rest of the world. His soft, full lips that were parted slightly in sleep. His strong jaw and proud nose, his sculpted body and thick thighs. He truly was heaven-sent.
"I can feel you staring." He mumbled through the bond, and you had to stifle a soft laugh. Of course, Azriel wouldn't be entirely asleep - he rarely was; at least some part of him was always awake and alert. You think the only times Az had ever wholly given in to peaceful sleep was those precious weeks after you had accepted your mating bond when he was so tired and content to be next to you and holding you close that he couldn't resist falling into a deep slumber. But only after he had made sure the wards protecting the secluded cabin were still secure, ever the spymaster.
You pushed away from the doorframe and padded towards where your mate was sitting. He opened his eyes slightly, still sleepy from his brief nap, and his lips curled into a warm smile as you approached.
"Hi, love." You whispered as you bent over the back of the sofa to grip his face and press your lips to his in a sweet kiss. Kissing Az was something you would never get over, even after decades together. The feel of his plush but slightly chapped lips against yours, his delicious taste and scent enveloping your senses, had your toes curling against the cold wooden floor.
"I'm so glad you're back." You beamed at him as you stared at his upside-down face, gently stroking his jaw and feeling the slight stubble against the soft skin of your hands.
"Seems like you've got it handled," you teased as you turned your attention to the sleeping child on Azriel's chest. You reached out a hand to gently brush Nyx's soft hair off his forehead, desperately holding in the coo that threatened to leave your lips as he let out a soft sigh and nestled further into Az's chest. Who could blame him, you thought? You had the exact same favourite sleeping position.
"You're definitely better at this than me," he mumbled as you skirted around the sofa to sit beside your mate. He ever so slowly and ever so gently shifted so as not to wake Nyx so you could tuck yourself into his side. His arm curled around your shoulders to bring you closer, planting a gentle kiss on your temple.
"How long has Nyx been asleep?" you whispered as you snuggled closer to your mate, hand reaching out to gently stroke up and down Nyx's back in a soothing manner you knew he liked.
"About 20 minutes." You hummed, proud of Azriel for handling the situation. He had been so nervous around the babe when he was first born—so conscious of the tiny, breakable fae he now felt some reasonability for.
"I'd say you've had it completely covered, babe." Nyx stirred ever so slightly, and you knew from experience that you had exactly 5 minutes before he woke up and was agitated again due to not sleeping enough.
A soft hum filled the quiet air as you got up and gently took the sleeping child from Azriel, whispering soothing noises. He stirred slightly as you manoeuvred him into your arms. You bounced ever so slightly on your toes, continuing to hum a lullaby you had heard Feyre singing to him the other day as you walked over to the travelling crib Azriel had set up next to the sofa. Ever so gently, you lowered Nyx into the plush mattress, stroking a finger down his cheeks in a way you knew he liked as you watched him settle back to sleep.
Azriel just sat back, arms spread out on the back of the sofa behind him, as he watched you so expertly soothe Nyx. He could practically feel his eyes turning into hearts as he watched you, almost unable to control the all-consuming feeling of love that was threatening to spill from him. He loved you so much and had done so for hundreds of years, but in recent months, watching you become so enamoured by your nephew, a new tentative love grew.
You turned around, and Azriel offered you one of his sweet smiles before holding out an outstretched hand and silently bidding you to return to his side. With a matching grin, you took his hand and let him pull you in beside him before shifting you both, so you were lying down on the sofa, both facing Nyx as Azriel wound his arms around you to pull you flush against his chest.
A feeling of absolute contentment flooded Azriel as you lay there, breathing in your sweet scent and kissing your soft hair. You shifted closer to him, fingers stroking over his hands wrapped around your waist, holding you close. Mirroring smiles danced on your lips as you watched your nephew and enjoyed the comfortable silence that had settled over the Town House.
"I love seeing you with Nyx Az." You whispered into the soft silence, and you felt a pulse of utter adoration through the thread you both shared.
"Hmmm, do you, love?" He mumbled into your hair, an ear-splitting grin stretching on his lips. He was unable to deny that primal part of him that basked in the glow of your words—that you had admitted enjoying seeing him with children.
"It's my ultimate weakness." He chuckled softly.
"Seeing you with him is mine, too," he confessed back, his arms loosening as you turned around to face him. For a minute, you just looked at him, eyes drinking in his handsome face, flitting over his lips and his nose before settling on his hazel eyes, which were gazing at you with such emotion that a lump formed at the back of your throat.
Slowly, lazily, you brought your hand up to trace the features of his face before gently pushing a soft curl of his hair that had fallen over his forehead. The ring he had gifted you nearly 60 years ago glinted in the dim light.
"Have you ever considered it?" You whispered shyly. It wasn't a topic you had discussed with Azriel much; there simply hadn't been enough time. Shortly after the bond had snapped for the both of you - after years of pining and yearning for each other - Rhys had gone under the mountain. You had spent those long years trying to hold everyone together, and then Rhys had returned, and you had been focused on bringing him and Feyre back from that dark place where they had found themselves. Then, the devastating war you had all been plunged into. It had not been an environment you could ever bring a child into.
"What?" He knew what you meant, but he wanted to hear the words come from your lips.
"Having children of our own?" The words felt fragile between you. Deep down, you knew you were both on the same page, but still, this was not a conversation you had had before. The soft smile dancing on Az's lips soothed you, however, as he, too, brought his hand up to delicately trace your features.
"I didn't think I would ever get the opportunity to be a father, certainly didn't think I would be a good one. But seeing you with Nyx these last couple of months…yeah, I have." His confession was soft, and you couldn't help yourself as you closed that small distance between you two to press your lips to his in a kiss that held a promise and contained all of the love you could ever feel for the male. His arms wrapped tightly around you again as he held you close and lost himself in the delicious feeling of your lips on his.
You broke away gently, slowly, languidly, eyes still closed as you leaned in to press short kisses to his lips. Resting your forehead against his, you stayed there, breathing him in, hands softly caressing his face. "You will be such a good dad, Az. You will be patient, kind and considerate. Fun when you want to be, firm when you need to be, and comforting when they're sad or frustrated. I've thought about it too." You made sure you delivered the words whilst looking him in the eyes, conveying just how much you meant the words.
"Yeah?" His voice was hoarse, and you spotted tears brimming in his beautiful eyes, your heart breaking in your chest at the fact that he had so desperately needed to hear the words. You leaned in to kiss his lips again, hand resting on his chest to feel his thundering heart as he breathed in a shaky breath.
"I don't think I'm ready just yet. I still want to experience life with you," you whispered, an amused smirk playing on your lips. You hadn't had enough time with Az yet. There was still so much of the world to see, so many things you wanted to explore with just your mate before you put down roots and grew a beautiful family of your own.
"I feel the same." He reassured, pulling you closer again, desperate to make sure not a single inch of space was between you two.
"But when the time is right, when we are ready. It would bring me nothing but joy to have children together." A stunning smile you had not seen before stretched across Azriel's face, and you gasped at the powerful pulse that reverberated down the bond from your mate. It was pure light—beautiful, gleaming light—such happiness radiating from between you two that you imagined both of your skins glowing with it.
"I love you so much, Y/N." He said reverently.
"I love you too." The distance between your lips closed again as you placed a sweet kiss on his lips, tilting your head slightly to deepen in - determined to convey just how much you love him, how thankful you are to the Mother and the Cauldron for giving you, Azriel as your mate. You felt him moan softly as you slipped your tongue past the seam of his lips, gently licking into his mouth as you swallowed the soft sounds you were both making. You pulled away with a mischievous grin dancing on your lips, "Gods, our kids would be cute."
"Do you think so?" He asked, pushing your hair behind your pointed ears so he could see your face clearly.
"What, you don't?" You asked in mock shock and horror, causing another chuckle to rumble through his chest.
"As long as they take after you, sweetheart, they will be the cutest children Prythian has ever seen." You laughed at him, but secretly, you hoped they looked nothing like you and took after the incredible man you had been mated to for all of these years—that they had his kind eyes, gentle smile, and luxurious locks of soft midnight hair.
"I can't wait." You whispered as you laid your head down beside him, nuzzling into his neck and breathing in his scent of mist and cedar, the smell of home.
"Neither can I, my love." He whispered back to you as he held you close, kissing your hairline and temple. You both let your heavy eyelids droop as your limbs tangled on the sofa. Nyx continued to sleep softly beside you. One day soon, it would be your child in that crib, you promised yourself and Az through that golden thread deep in your heart before you both fell peacefully asleep.
#azriel acotar#azriel#azriel fanfic#azriel fanfiction#azriel fluff#azriel imagine#azriel x reader#azriel x y/n#azriel x you#acotar fanfic#acotar fanfiction#acotar fic#acotar oneshot#azriel shadowsinger#acotar#acotar fluff#azriel one shot#acotar x reader#acotar imagine#rhysand#feyre archeron
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“TWITTER VISUAL LINKS” - acotar characters
warnings: nsfw, sex, toys, straight up porn tbh
summary: down right nasty visual links with your favs👀
do you have trouble seeing the posts? - in order to see the links, you have to have an account on X, former twitter, and remove safe search:
amara’s note: don’t mind me, just sharing some visuals with my favs
ᯓ★ RHYSAND
⟢ getting stretched out on his thick cock !
⟢ mutual masturbation, handjob + fingering !
⟢ rhys putting his angel mate in a mating press !
⟢ rhys taking his time, eating you out !
⟢ rhys giving you a creampie !
⟢ afternath of said creampie !
⟢ laying on top of rhys while he fingers you !
⟢ showing rhys your newest lingerie set !
ᯓ★ CASSIAN
⟢ fucking yourself on cassian’s cock !
⟢ cassian fucking his sweetheart sideways !
⟢ struggling to take cassian’s massive cock !
⟢ getting deepstroked by him !
⟢ cassian having your legs spread, playing with your pussy !
⟢ daddy cassian holding hands and rewarding you !
⟢ topping cassian and riding hard !
⟢ cassian’s pov of fucking you in missionary !
⟢ feral cassian can’t get enough of his girl’s tits !
ᯓ★ AZRIEL
⟢ getting pounded from behind !
⟢ sitting on his dick and riding !
⟢ riding azriel’s face !
⟢ azriel absolutely destroying your back !
⟢ hair pulling + doggy style with azriel !
⟢ temperature play with azriel !
⟢ modern az fucking you in the backseat of his car !
⟢ azriel sucking on your tits !
⟢ daddy plays with your pussy !
ᯓ★ ERIS VANSERRA
⟢ bending you over and giving your pussy slaps as punishment !
⟢ holding you bridal style and fucking you mid-air !
⟢ sitting in his lap while he rubs your clit !
⟢ eris sucking on his girl’s nipples !
⟢ being obsessed with eris’s fingers and developing an oral fixation !
⟢ handcuffed and rawdogged by him !
⟢ eris eating you out !
⟢ your little brain goes crazy bc of overstimulation !
ᯓ★ LUCIEN VANSERRA
⟢ lucien showing you his headgame !
⟢ 69’ing with his mate !
⟢ getting your tits sucked while riding him in the morning !
⟢ softly making out mid sex !
⟢ giving lucien a blowjob !
⟢ getting punished with ass slaps !
⟢ lucien fucking your boobs and cumming all over them !
⟢ riding + nipple play !
ᯓ★ FEYRE ARCHERON
⟢ french kissing feyre !
⟢ getting your clit sucked and licked by her !
⟢ eating her out while fingering !
⟢ getting topped by touchy feyre !
⟢ teasing you through your panties !
⟢ feyre’s eyes rolling into the back of her head as you rub her g spot !
⟢ feyre using a paint brush to stroke your clit !
⟢ sitting in feyre’s lap and makin out !
⟢ tounge play with feyre !
ᯓ★ ELAIN ARCHERON
⟢ sharing a double ended dildo with her !
⟢ nipple play with her sweet girl !
⟢ distracted when baking a cake !
⟢ having an obsession with elain’s tits !
⟢ bouncing on elain’s strap !
⟢ sitting on top of her and making out !
⟢ morning kisses with elain !
⟢ scissoring session !
ᯓ★ NESTA ARCHERON
⟢ dom mommy nesta using a wand on you !
⟢ going dumb on her strap !
⟢ nesta puts her hand down your skirt !
⟢ creaming on her fingers !
⟢ getting your pussy licked by her !
⟢ “put it in my ass please” trying anal fingering with her !
⟢ riding nesta’s strap !
#talkswithamara#acotar#acotar x reader#a court of thorns and roses#acotar imagine#azriel x reader#rhysand x reader#cassian x reader#eris x reader#eris vanserra x reader#lucien vanserra x reader#lucien x reader#elain x reader#elain archeron x reader#feyre archeron x reader#feyre x reader#nesta archeron x reader#nesta x reader#rhysand#azriel#eris vanserra#cassian fanfic#feyre acotar#high lord rhysand#rhysand acotar#rhysand a court of thorns and roses#azriel acotar#eris vanserra acotar#feyre cursebreaker#feyre archeron
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We're back and better than ever! Mark your calendars, Feysand week (which will be Tumblr focused and is not affiliated in any way with the October month) is coming soon! 💫🌕🦇
#feyre archeron#rhysand#feysand#pro Feysand#pro Feyre Archeron#pro Rhysand#feyre x rhysand#rhysand x feyre#feyre archeron x rhysand
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A Tight Little Skirt
Summary: If Feyre wants to graduate on time she can't fail her algebra class- again. What do artists need to know math for, anyway?
Her professor intends to explain just how important a thorough education is.
For the college/university AU of Feysand month @unofficialfeysandmonth2022
Teacher/student romance. All adults but know your limits
Feyre Archeron was never going to be a math person.
Case in point—she was in Dr. Rhysand Moreno’s class again, surrounded by baby-faced freshmen despite her status as a junior. When was she ever going to need to know algebraic formulas with an art degree?
She’d failed his class once already. It wasn’t her professor's fault, though she would have liked to blame him. Dr. Moreno had sent several emails offering help after class, and had recommended tutors and math games she could play that might help bring up her grades. Back then, Feyre had ignored them all. She didn’t want to spend her free time learning to solve for x when she could be in the studio painting.
If she failed again, Feyre was in danger of losing her scholarship. This go around, she had to take his class seriously, an impossible task for two wholly different reasons. The first, of course, was that math was made-up bullshit and everyone who was good at it was entirely too smug.
And the second was Dr. Moreno’s stupid, ridiculous, utterly ethereal good looks. He was distractingly hot, and everyone was aware of it. Every day he strolled in dressed in tight pants and a crisp buttoned-up shirt. He’d roll the sleeves up his elbows, letting everyone see the corded muscle of his golden brown arms.
His dark, blue-black hair was perfectly styled off his face though when he got excited a lock of it would flop into his violet eyes. Every inch of his muscular body was on display, despite his professional clothes. He made derivatives sexy somehow—Feyre often caught herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips or the impressive cut of his jaw.
Sometimes her eyes drifted between his legs and she wondered if he was lovely there, too.
Feyre had tried so hard to take anyone else's class. The problem was the exact same as it had been when she was a freshman—Dr. Moreno taught at night, and during the day Feyre liked to sleep late and paint in the afternoon.
She kept to the back of the class, ignoring Dr. Moreno’s cheerful emails, and refusing to participate. She’d done her best to study, and yet when he called her up to pick up her first test, and Feyre saw her grade—a pathetic 27, he stopped her from retreating back to her desk.
“Let’s talk after class,” he murmured in his rich, dark voice. Feyre suppressed the shiver threatening to overtake her. He was only her professor—he wanted to help, and it was her with the problem.
Everyone knew he was hot. Even as she walked to her chair, Feyre saw the way the majority of the female eyes were on him, sliding down his broad body like a lover's caress. How many of them offered to get on their knees for a little extra credit? Feyre shook her head, pulled out her iPad, and began doodling even as Dr. Moreno started teaching.
This was why she was failing. She knew it, and judging by the disapproving stare on his handsome face when she looked up, he knew it, too. Feyre hung back while the rest of the room filed out. It took forever. Half the class lined up to giggle and talk to him, leaving Feyre to watch the spectacle. It was embarrassing, though she couldn’t explain why.
If it bothered him, he didn’t say. He smiled and answered questions politely, all the while directing particularly flirtatious students to the tutoring center on campus or his office hours. She supposed he didn’t trust her to do either—or he meant to lecture her for the next ten minutes about the importance of math.
“Do you have somewhere to be anytime soon, Ms. Archeron?” he asked, half sitting against the table at the front of the room.
“No,” she admitted. Just her bed, where she’d lay and pretend it wasn’t his face she was thinking about as she pulled the vibrating toy from her bedside table.
“Good. Let's take this to my office.”
“Professor—” he raised a hand, effectively silencing her as he stood. Feyre sighed, gathering up her bag and following him out into the sanitized, gray-tiled hall of the university.
“I’m upstairs,” he explained, pulling open the stairwell door and gesturing for her to go up. Feyre didn’t dare look at him, though the height difference between them was making her feel a little light-headed. Did he need to be so tall? Couldn’t he have pursued a career in modeling or acting instead of harassing her with his good looks while she was trying to skate through math?
Dr. Moreno led her down a narrow hall that looked distinctly older than the one they just left. Wooden doors with the names of professors lined the wall in golden plaques. Down, down, down, until he pulled a key from his pocket and opened his own door for her.
It was exactly what she might have expected from him. A large, dark mahogany desk was the focal point of the room. Positioned in front of a shaded window and overlooking a wall of shelves covered in books—mainly about math—, Feyre thought it was the sort of office a professor ought to have. He even had a little globe of the world that she spun with her fingers as she made her way to one of the leather chairs on the opposite end of his own.
He perched himself atop his desk, legs slightly spread as he looked down at her. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d closed the door behind him.
“Do you intend to fail my class twice?” he asked her, folding his hands in his lap.
Feyre sighed. “I’m doing my best.”
His smirk was infuriating. “Oh? Is drawing during my lecture your best attempt at learning?”
Embarrassment and shame flooded her cheeks. Looking down at her paint-splattered shoes, Feyre mumbled, “I don’t get math.”
“What don’t you get?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “Let's drag a whiteboard in here and sort out your misunderstanding.”
“I don’t get any of it,” Feyre explained desperately, daring to look back up at him. That was a mistake—the excited intensity in his gaze made her heart race. He liked math and she liked him.
How was she supposed to learn what integers were from someone with his face? “Maybe I should go to the tutoring center.”
At least there she’d get someone her own age. Someone who didn’t look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
He rubbed his fingers over his lips. “You won’t. Why don’t we cover the basics today, and build from there in weekly sessions? You don’t have to be an expert…you’re an art major, correct?”
“How did you know?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded.
“There’s paint on your cheek,” he told her, reaching out one of his large, strong hands to touch her skin. “I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve seen it…but it’s not.”
Oh, God. Feyre swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m an art major.”
“Well, c’s get art degrees,” he told her, dropping his hand back to his lap. “Now. Let’s start with derivatives.”
It was a miserable hour of sitting across from Dr. Moreno as he explained the concept of derivatives. Feyre did her best, but it was clear by the time they’d hit the forty-five minute mark that she’d only absorbed about a third of what he’d told her. His face was closer, watching her write out the formula with disapproving eyes. Even if she memorized the formula, that didn’t mean Feyre could magically solve the equations he kept offering up.
It was obvious that this, at least to him, was simple. Frustrated, Feyre rose from her chair, tossing his pad of paper back to his desk.
“This is a waste of time,” she told him dismissively. “Just fail me.”
“Sit back down,” he ordered, his voice devoid of the warmth from earlier. Feyre froze, looking over her shoulder as he stood. “I’m not done with you.”
“I…”
“You’re not sufficiently motivated,” he continued, watching with unamused eyes as she sat back in her chair.
“I’m not good at math,” Feyre squeaked, clenching her fists in her lap while he came ever closer. Dr. Moreno bracketed her body, his hands bracing the arm of her chair as his legs straddled her waist. He brought his face closer, dragging the rich, masculine scent of sea salt and citrus with him.
“You’re not being a good girl, Feyre.”
T
he sound that erupted from her throat betrayed her.
A smile curled over his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You need a reward for all your hard work, don’t you, Feyre darling?”
“I…”
He straightened, leaning for the pad she’d tossed on his desk. Feyre’s eyes slid to his legs and the noticeable bulge just between. He handed it back to her, daring her to tell him no. Feyre didn’t, not when some strange fantasy was playing out in his little office. She was committed if only so she had a coherent story for the title nine office.
“Solve this correctly,” he murmured, handing her a pen. “And I’ll give my good girl a reward.”
“What kind of reward?”
“Find out.”
She could guess, from the way he was angling his hips away from her, that his idea of a reward involved bending her over his desk. Feyre was shrewd enough to recognize that maybe he’d been hoping for this for a while. All those offers to tutor her two years ago seemed less benevolent and more calculated given his closed office door and the fact that he seemed six seconds from bending her over his knee and spanking her.
She was going to let him fuck her—but she was going to get something out of it, too.
And so, Feyre solved it purposefully wrong. She didn’t know if she would have gotten it right had she tried, but she knew he recognized that she’d rushed through it, coming to the wrong answer before offering up his pen with a saccharine smile.
“How’s that, professor?”
His sigh was long-suffering. “You didn’t even try.”
“How am I supposed to focus?” Feyre asked, sliding to the very edge of her chair so she could drag a finger over his muscular thigh. “When my teacher looks like a fucking god?”
He sucked in a soft breath and Feyre almost laughed. She sank to her knees between his still-parted thighs and reached for the buckle of his belt.
“I’m trying to pay attention,” she lied, pulling the black leather from the loops and tossing it loudly to the floor. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe as she worked. “But all I can think about is what you look like naked.”
Their eyes met. “Is that so?” he asked, arching one of his well-groomed brows.
She undid the button of his pants with her teeth. He had to be in his early thirties, while Feyre was twenty-two—how many other women just like her had gotten on their knees in his office for a passing grade?
And why was she so jealous?
Feyre reached into his pants, unprepared for what she’d find. If there was a god, he surely played favorites. Dr. Moreno, with his beautiful face, had an equally beautiful cock. Thick enough she just barely got her hand around it, and so long there was no way she’d be able to impress him by taking all of it. Not without giving herself an injury, though, for a passing grade in his class, she thought she’d try.
“I knew it,” she lied, letting her breath fan against the hard, swollen skin of his erection. He gripped the edge of his desk, watching her hold him in her hand. For one moment, Feyre’s panic replaced her lust. What the fuck was she doing? He was her teacher. She could get in trouble and could fuck up her entire academic career.
“Feyre,” he whispered, drawing her thoughts back to the present. White knuckling his desk, her professor looked like he was just barely keeping himself together.
“Yes, Dr—”
“Rhys,” he panted, gathering up her hair to hold off her face. “My name is Rhys.”
She held his gaze. “What do you need, Rhys?”
“Suck me,” he whispered, his eyes rolling upwards when she dragged just her lips over the underside of his cock. “Please.”
“I want a passing grade on my next test,” she said quickly, catching the way his expression darkened. Feyre punctuated her request by doing exactly as he asked. She swallowed as much of him into her throat as she could manage, using her tongue over every inch of his bruisingly hard skin.
He groaned softly, fingers tightening in her hair. Feyre was good with her mouth, had always had a talent for sucking men. Her professor might have a Ph.D. in math and might have been respected in his field, and yet Feyre could bring him low like he was no better than some half-drunk frat boy getting a blowjob in the bathroom.
Feyre used her hand to make up the difference, sliding up and down his skin in time with her aching jaw. Above her, Rhys was mostly silent, though his jerking hips betrayed his need. She was pulling out all the stops—if she was going to suck him off for a passing grade, she might as well make it memorable. She wanted him to think about it every time one of her tests came across his desk.
Feyre hollowed out her cheeks, sucking him deeper into her throat. He gripped her hair roughly, pulling her off him with a wet pop. Strings of saliva hung between them, wiped on the back of her hand as he dragged her to her feet.
“If you want a passing grade in my class, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than choke down my cock,” he growled, yanking her closer for a bruising kiss. Rough hands pulled at her shirt while his tongue explored her mouth, filling her with the dark, intoxicating taste of whatever alcohol he’d been drinking. Feyre could only cling to his muscular shoulders, remembering at the very last minute that his cock was still pressed against her hip.
She stroked, rubbing her thumb over the tip to tease at the moisture beaded over his slit. Rhys groaned softly, hips bucking in her hand even as he removed her bra with one very skilled hand. It was impossible to say who had the upper hand at that moment—Rhys was letting her pump him like a horny high school boy, but Feyre was so wet she could feel it dripping into her panties.
“You and those fucking skirts,” he groaned, teeth grazing her neck as he pushed her shirt from her shoulders. “Sometimes I imagine you spreading your legs under your desk, and I get to see what’s between.”
She moaned softly. “Would you like me to sit in the front row next week?” she asked, arching her back when his lips sucked against the slope of her collarbone. His cock jumped in her hand, answering even when he did not.
She hadn’t realized his hand was on the clasp of her bra until it fell to the floor. He took a second to admire her even as she pumped him through his pants. She took a step towards him to free of him his own clothes but Rhys put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back into the chair.
“Another equation, Ferye,” he said, as if his dick wasn’t jutting against the teeth of his zipper. “Only good girls get rewarded.”
She sighed loudly, reaching for one of her nipples. Rhys swatted at her hand and wrote yet another equation for her to solve. “Solve it correctly and I’ll give you something you want.”
“You’ll take all your clothes off?” she asked. Surprise flashed over his features and she wondered if he’d thought she wanted him to fuck her. Which, to be fair, Feyre very much wanted. If he was going to torment her, why shouldn’t she? Feyre stood with enough force her tits bounced. Rhys watched with parted lips, even as he offered her up the marker.
“An artist doesn’t need to know math,” she reminded him.
“If you want to keep touching my cock, you need to be able to solve for x,” was his infuriating response.
Feyre did try that time, though, from the way he watched, she could see it was still wrong.
“You forgot to isolate the variable,” he murmured, rising from where he’d been leaning to show her the missed step. One hand slid over her bare shoulders while the other plucked the marker from her hands and drew an arrow, showing how she ought to have done it.
“Well,” she retorted defensively, “I tried.”
“Yes, darling. You did so well,” he praised, eyes bright. Feyre was surprised by how much she liked that look of pleasure—and how much she wanted to try in order to keep it from slipping into disappointment.
“And my reward?” She tried to tease, but Feyre was far too breathless.
“I am a man of my word,” he agreed, already working the buttons on his shirt. Feyre was antsy with anticipation as inch after inch of his golden skin was revealed. Dark whorls of ink covered his shoulders and biceps, begging her to trace each line with her tongue. She wondered what they meant, but found herself far too distracted by the cut of his abdomen and the enticing trail of dark hair that slipped into his pants.
He remedied that quickly, pushing his dark pants over his muscular hips. “Jesus,” she whispered at the sight of his powerful body.
“I like to work out,” he told her, flexing his bicep ever so slightly. Standing, Feyre tried to run a hand over the vein trailing the side of his stomach but Rhys caught her wrist.
“What about my reward?”
“What do you want?” she asked, unsure what he’d done to earn a reward. Perhaps his mere existence was enough to earn anything he wanted. She sure felt compelled to give it to him, especially when he turned her around and hefted her up on his desk.
“What’s under your skirt?” he asked, eyes wholly focused on her.
“Find out.”
“Fuck, Feyre,” he whispered, though he did exactly as she told him to. His fingers were callused, catching over the smooth skin of her thigh as he went up, up, up. She arched when they brushed over the damp fabric of her underwear. He sucked a breath through his teeth, the proof of her arousal clinging to his fingers.
“Take off that fucking skirt,” he whispered, his eyes burning with heat. “Before I rip it to pieces.”
Feyre hooked her fingers against the hem, sliding them back and forth with idle strokes. Her gaze never left his face, drowning in his own unguarded arousal. She felt powerful—seen, even—to have a man like him want her the way he did.
“Feyre,” he growled. She lifted her hips and shimmied out of the fabric, adding it to their ever-growing pile. She wondered what would happen if someone walked in, if they saw their clothes strewn about, Rhys naked with an utterly erect cock and Feyre splayed out in a chair wearing nothing but a pair of blue boyshort underwear.
“Do you study art or are you the art?” he whispered with appreciation. Feyre squirmed beneath his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. Rhys was on his knees in a flash, one hand gripping his cock while the other pushed her legs further apart so they draped over the arms of the chair.
“Pretty, pretty Feyre,” he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. “I was so excited to see you on my roster again.”
“Yeah?” Feyre’s lashes fluttered when his lips kissed her through her panties.
“I was going to bide my time,” he said, tongue tracing the outline of her. The combination of his hot breath and the fabric dragging over her sensitive folds was making Feyre needy. Desperate, even. “Wait until you graduate. But at this rate, you’re never going to finish, and I want to take you out.”
“Take me out?” she questioned as his finger hooked against the strip of fabric still covering her pussy. “Or eat me out?”
“Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?” he replied, eyes flicking to her face. “I treat you to dinner…you provide dessert…I believe that is what is called going dutch–”
“You know that’s not true!”
He slid his finger up the center of her, coating his skin in her sticky arousal. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. Like how you taste.”
Rhys dipped his finger into his mouth while she watched, sucking himself clean. Feyre was losing her mind. She was tired of his game, of his teasing—he wanted to taste her? Then he should put his literal mouth where his money was. Feyre leaned forward, threading her fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair, and pulled him against her. His eyes sparkled with delight, though the only sound he made was a heady groan. Feyre wondered why he hadn’t taken her underwear off until he bunched them in his hand, using the fabric to rub against her aching skin while his tongue found her clit.
Feyre arched out of the chair, held steady by one of his broad hands against her hips. Rhys moaned, punctuating his earlier desire to eat her for dessert nicely. Feyre was used to college-aged men—boys, she supposed. She got on her knees and they sent her home to a vibrating wand. If they did go down, it was short and often lazy.
Rhys was an expert. She was tempted to ask if his Ph.D. was also in pleasuring, given how well he worked his tongue in tandem with her own clothes. And when he tired of the teasing, Rhys yanked them roughly off her, tossing them to his desk like they were his little trophy.
“Don’t let me catch you wearing those to my class again,” he warned, putting his mouth back against her before she could argue. She fully intended to bring his fantasy to life next week, if only to see how smooth he was when she had her pussy out in class.
“Rhys,” she pleaded, still gripping his hair. Feyre’s hips rolled against his face, grinding desperately as she pulsed upwards. He groaned again, pushing a long, strong finger into her body. Feyre was desperate for anything to hold, and the added friction against her sensitive walls only drove her closer, faster.
Release gathered along her spine, making her mindless. She didn’t want to be done and couldn’t stop herself from chasing how good the wet glide of his tongue was. It was the first orgasm she’d had without her own help in ages. She wondered if he knew. Vowing she’d tell him later, Feyre let go of her remaining restraint just in time for Rhys to clap his hand over her mouth, silencing her as she came. Feyre couldn’t breathe and didn’t care, chasing the incandescent pleasure that rolled through her like a mindless creature. Rhys rode her through it, withdrawing his hand long enough to stand and grip his own cock.
“Holy shit,” he whispered reverently, eyes burning. It was Rhys’s turn to fist his hand in her hair. Feyre lifted up on her elbows, expecting to be put back on her knees. Instead, Rhys offered her a messy kiss that tasted like her own arousal while he notched the head of his cock against her.
Feyre couldn’t say a word, not when her tongue was just behind his teeth, drinking in the heady, masculine taste of him. Instead, Feyre wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her heels into his ass, forcing him to thrust himself fully into her.
She hadn’t been prepared—not like she thought she was. Rhys was big, stretching her far beyond regular capacity. She realized, when he grunted with surprise, that he’d meant to ease his way into her and let her adjust inch by inch. Now Feyre had to remind herself to breathe, the walls of her still convulsing pussy clenching tight around him.
“Feyre,” he gasped, kissing her again and again, each time whispering her name. Like he was coming undone, like he, too, had been robbed of every last inch of air from his lungs. “My pretty Feyre.”
She didn’t know who was panting harder. All she knew was her nails digging against his muscled shoulder blades, tongue sliding over each inky whorl of his tattoo. Rhys began to shift, pulling himself out with small strokes while Feyre adjusted to the fullness. In one fluid motion, Rhys had managed to ruin her for all other men. How was she supposed to move on, knowing sex could feel like this?
“More,” she pleaded, tired of their games. He nodded, nipping at the crease of her neck and shoulder. Rhys held her tightly, smushing her breasts against his firm chest as he dragged himself all the way out of her body. Feyre whined, turning to kiss him as an incentive to return.
Rhys thrust roughly, just like that first time. She arched against him, the walls of her cunt tightening.
“You take my cock so well,” he praised, repeating the motion again and again, like he was trying to recapture that first moment. “You were born to hold my cock.”
How he managed to remain coherent, Feyre couldn’t say. All she had were her soft, whimpering moans of agreement and the new onslaught of arousal threatening to wash her away.
“Are you going to stay very quiet for me?” he whispered, lips pressed to her jaw. When had he wrapped his hand around her throat, she wondered. Feyre nodded, looking up into his eyes. Rhys was wild, his pupils blown, his cheeks flushed. He looked like a dark god, like some fantasy creature released from its mortal bindings.
“No one gets to hear you come but me, do they?” he continued, his hips working her harder. Rhys had some kind of otherworldly skill, dragging the silken head of his cock over just the right spot until her pussy was drenched and her orgasm was building again. Twice in the same day had once been a fever dream to her.
“I want to feel you come on my cock, Feyre. Darling, come for me,” he whispered, fingers tightening against her throat. “Come for me so I can fuck you again.”
Whatever magic he’d cast around them seemed to converge right then. Feyre, who’d never liked when men bossed her around during sex, did exactly as she was told. His free hand was once against covering her lips, keeping her from screaming like she wanted to. She felt his bruising pace stutter, like he’d lost control of himself. Rhys groaned into her hair, eyes squeezed shut. He thrust deeper, like he was trying to physically connect them in an unbreakable way. It was instinct, to want to drive as much of himself into her as he could, and the sensation only heightened Feyre’s own arousal.
He panted, spending himself inside her until there was nothing left of either of them. Only the shared breath between them once he pulled his hands from her mouth and throat.
“Take me out of here,” she whispered, brushing a piece of hair from his face. “I want to be loud.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, clearly dazed. “Yeah. My bed is…we could…fuck, maybe the couch or—”
“Let's start by getting dressed,” she suggested, gently pushing the pleasant weight of his heavy body off of her. Rhys ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he pulled his cock out of her body. A flood of their shared release slid to the floor, proof they’d done something. He watched with wide eyes and she wondered if regret was seeping in. If he wasn’t suddenly realizing what he’d done and that he shouldn’t have.
“On second thought,” he murmured, sliding back to the floor to push her legs open again. “Maybe we’ll stay here a little longer. Hm, Feyre darling?”
“You can’t be—” his mouth was back against her clit, fingers pushing into her body without preamble. Rhys was very serious.
And Feyre was happy to let him do whatever he liked.
#feysand month#feysand month 2022#feysand#feyre archeron x rhysand#feyre archeron#rhysand#shameless smut
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Pairing: Feysand
Rating: E
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: Feyre Archeron is the youngest member of the Fae nobility trapped in Amarantha’s court Under the Mountain. When her father presents her to the court, intending to pay off his debts by selling her hand in marriage, she faces scrutiny on all sides: the wicked queen herself; the leaders of the rebellion against her; and the cruel High Lord of the Night Court. [An ACOTAR retelling.]
----- Read more on my masterlist or on AO3!
(Thank you to @ultadverb for giving this chapter a once-over for me! I would have agonized for days without a second opinion.)
Chapter 5: The High Lord
Everything about Rhysand radiated sensual grace and ease.
He was tall, his shoulders broad, and he was grinning as he set his weight back on one leg. His short black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, offsetting his pale skin and blue eyes so deep they were violet. They twinkled with amusement as he beheld her.
Feyre was struck silent. Thank you seemed too small now, too ordinary, for a male who looked like that. Who was looking at her like that.
He stood with absolute stillness, the type that went beyond placid Fae mannerisms. It was the stillness Feyre suspected could only be trained into a warrior through years of brutal discipline—even she hadn’t mastered it. But despite how still he was, how fit a subject to be preserved with oil and canvas, she hesitated, knowing that she would never dare to try painting him. She would never have the nerve.
The darkness seemed drawn to him, too, pressing in closer around him. The blackness surrounding him was different than the shadows she knew, warmer and richer, and for a moment, Feyre was jealous.
She was born and raised in the dark and had grown to welcome it like an old friend… but Rhysand was made of it, molded from it.
She supposed someone would have to be anointed by the dark to have the nerve to kill two dozen innocent Winter younglings with nothing but their mind and an insatiable appetite for blood. She still didn’t know if it was a new escape that Kallias had been planning to warrant the attack, or if the slaughter was retribution for the same rebellion that had gotten her mother killed. No one bothered to tell Feyre these things.
An insincere half smile played on his lips.
“It’s dangerous to walk these halls alone, Feyre.” The sound of her name spoken in that voice, a pillowtalk murmur, sent shivers through her, caressing every muscle and bone and nerve. “Someone might be tempted to spirit you away and make you his bride before you can make your choice.”
Feyre took a step backward, deeper into the shadows guarding the Seasonal wing. She tipped her head in the direction the brothers went. “It seems you missed the first half of that conversation then.”
Her pulse was pounding in her ears. His clothes—all black, all finely made, and entirely alien compared to anything an Autumn or Winter Fae might wear—were cut close enough to his body that she could see how magnificent he was.
“Is that what they were planning?” His smile shifted into something predatory. Behind his lips, his teeth seemed too long, sharper than they had been a moment before.
Feyre retreated a little more and kept her mouth shut. Had she just traded three monsters for something far worse?
“Do they always treat the ladies of their court with so little respect?”
He prowled closer, pushing his hands into his pockets. Something about the gesture calmed her, the visible proof that he wouldn’t lay a hand on her—or at least not a physical one. Aside from the daemati gifts he flaunted so often, only Amarantha knew what malevolent powers he still possessed.
He must have read the relief in her expression, because he said, “I’ll have to set them straight, then.”
Feyre shook her head. She almost didn’t want to know what would happen if she ratted them out—what kind of retribution would await if word of what had just happened circulated back into the Autumn annex. If the brothers faced any sort of punishment from Amarantha or another High Lord. If Beron lost face in front of the other courts.
“That’s not necessary,” she said again.
“I assure you, it is. If your High Lord—” A sneer ghosted across his beautiful face. “—won’t keep the peace and see to the rabble, then I suppose I must.”
Feyre held her tongue, silencing her surprise as well as her need to protest. A small, vicious part of her wanted to claim their punishment for herself.
When it became apparent she wouldn’t speak again, he chuckled. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said. “For saving you.”
She bristled at his arrogance but retreated another step. If she could just get into the deepest part of the shadows, maybe she could sprint to the slim passageway at the end of this corridor. Even if she didn’t manage to lose him, he was too large to fit into that small crack in the mountain. And maybe Augus would take pity on her—maybe he would help Nesta and Elain hide her in Autumn, sacred ground where no non-Autumn Fae save Amarantha, not even High Lords like Rhysand, could tread.
At least, she could hide until Amarantha’s revel tomorrow night.
“In my experience, Amarantha’s favorites are best served by sticking together,” he continued, looking her up and down. It should have made her skin crawl, but instead that look heated her from inside. As he began circling her, the darkness seemed to bend around him, bowing to him, strange little bursts of light twinkling wherever he tread.
“I’m not one of her favorites.”
I’m not one of you. Rhysand seemed to understand the words she couldn’t put a voice to, and his violet eyes gleamed with the same hypnotizing light filling the air around him.
“Aren’t you? You’re lucky she likes your name, else you ran the risk of becoming little Clythia today.” Rhysand tipped his head to the side, as if he were mentally trying on the name while he looked at her. His lip curled. “As I was saying, the Prythian Fae are usually terrified of us, and the Hybernian bastards are just, well…” He shrugged, a rolling, sensuous movement. “Bastards.”
Feyre was terrified of him, but she wasn’t about to let him know. Not here, not now.
“There have been others… like me?”
Behind her, he paused his circling. He now stood between Feyre and her escape route, but when she turned to face him, his face was serious. “Not quite—no sisters. Amarantha likes to play matchmaker, but she saw something in you that makes me think she is going to keep you around for a long, long time.”
“I already have sisters,” Feyre said lamely, foolishly, for lack of anything better to say. His smile returned—but this time it was somehow warmer, though his expression hardly shifted beyond the lips. The sight of it was startling.
“Does blood truly make a family?” Rhysand mused. “And do you think she cares? No, Amarantha has singled you out like she did me, all those years ago. It’s just you and I together now, Feyre darling.”
For a moment, he was so convincing that Feyre forgot her fear. She had to tear her eyes away from him and think of everything she knew he was capable of to break the hold he had on her: shattering minds on a whim, torturing innocents and rebels alike, the Winter Court younglings. Maybe he was reading her thoughts already— stupid, she cursed herself. She was so stupid for making eye contact with him. Who knew what he had done to her mind since they started talking?
“I hardly think a High Lord needs to trouble himself with—” she started, eyeing the corridor behind him, but Rhysand cut her off.
“It’s no trouble at all, love,” he crooned, and his smile turned feline when a hot flush swept across Feyre’s cheeks. “Though, if you’re still opposed, I suppose I could send the Attor to watch over you, but he’s a terrible conversationalist…”
He smiled at his own joke for a heartbeat longer. She had never seen anyone so handsome—and never had so many warning bells pealed in her head because of it.
Against her better judgment, Feyre asked, “So you want to… what? Be my brother?”
Rhysand clicked his tongue. “Were you thinking sisterly thoughts when you asked about joining me for lessons?”
A hot, stomach-churning wave of embarrassment crashed over Feyre. “You were listening!”
“Of course I was listening,” Rhysand said, rolling his eyes. It was such an irreverent, casual gesture that Feyre fought the urge to gape. He stalked another lazy circle around her, and she watched warily as his hands flexed in his pockets and the pinpricks of light surrounding him dimmed. “Consider it my first act as your ally: keeping you safe from saying anything in front of Amarantha that might get you killed. I make a good distraction, don’t I?”
Prick. The High Lord of the Night Court was a terrifying, handsome, eavesdropping prick.
“You heard—”
“I heard everything, Feyre,” he said, strolling closer. The scent of salt and citrus, still shrouded in Amarantha’s rose-and-amber scent, filled the air between them and made her head spin. “You were thinking so loudly that you’ll have to forgive me if it was hard to resist skimming a bit off the top of your mind. I didn’t know there were so many fascinating things to do down here when everyone is asleep.”
“No,” she said, her tongue thick and heavy.
“Yes. Your mother… She was one of the Winter rebels that died with the others from Day and Summer, wasn’t she?” Rhysand leaned in closer, every movement exquisite and laced with lethal power.
“Don’t you say a word about my—”
“She broke her vows to your father and ran with you girls to Winter, where she hid you until they were all caught trying to pass notes to those little mortal chits. Tell me, did they really think they had any allies on the continent who would help them organize an escape attempt?”
“She wasn’t—”
“And then Kallias hid you three for years until Beron nearly called the Mountain down around us, trying to get you girls back, isn’t that right?” Rhysand prowled forward into her space. Feyre stepped back again. “Amarantha thought it was great fun: a skirmish over three minor nobles. Three females. It’s almost unbelievable, the squabbles they had over you. A story made for the stage. I almost thought Beron would give up, but between his pride and your father’s once-deep pockets… Well, children are so precious—”
“You would know all about depriving Winter of their children, wouldn’t you?” Feyre spat. “And my mother was innocent!”
Her back hit the wall and Rhysand snarled, his fists bracing themselves against the stone on either side of her head. “Was she? And what did Kallias teach you in those missing years, Feyre? How old were you when he twisted your grief to his advantage? Ten? Twelve?”
Feyre watched him with undiluted terror, her knees going weak as her headache returned.
Kallias had trained her to do nothing. It was Winter’s sentries who had thought it amusing during the long stretches of mind-numbing nothingness to teach a curious little girl how to use their nimble bows and arrows to strike from a distance. Feyre had trained herself to remain silent and unseen and to sneak through the narrow, claustrophobic passages fully grown Fae used to the open air Above the Mountain were too scared to explore.
They had been kind to humor her, despite the disapproving noises Nesta made about it.
And if Kallias caught wind of Feyre’s talent after she stole back into Winter a few weeks after Beron dragged them kicking and screaming back to their father’s quarters in Autumn’s annex when she was fourteen? If he offered her some small bit of sanctuary in Winter when she needed a place to forget the pieces her mother and the rebels left to rot in the halls of the Seasonal wing as a warning to any other rebels? To escape the confined quarters she shared with her sisters, all in exchange for putting an arrow through the occasional Queens’ Guard and dark faeries from the same legions that had tortured and killed her mother?
It had been an easy deal to make.
As quickly as he had come, Rhysand withdrew, casual and careless. He straightened his tunic and shoved his hands back into his pockets. At almost the same instant, Feyre’s headache abated again, as if phantom talons found purchase in her brain matter let her go, gently pulling back.
Finally, those violet eyes slid off of her.
“You’re in my mind,” she whispered, horrified.
“Your mind is unshielded,” Rhysand said, as if it were as simple as that. He blinked once, slowly, a tired gesture. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Feyre Archeron.”
Feyre swallowed and ignored what those words said in that voice did to her.
“You know all this, and you still want to be my ally?”
He removed a hand from his pocket to offer his arm.
Feyre shook her head, backing up further against the wall.
He sighed, long and low, and said coaxingly, softly, "Come now. Beron wants you escorted home, and here I am, escorting you home. I'd like the old bore to owe me a favor, anyway."
It was then that the gravity of her outburst struck her. She had yelled at a High Lord. At Rhysand.
Something stroked along that thought, and Feyre shuddered.
“I’m not going to tell him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Unbidden, the memory of a dried out arm wearing her mother’s wedding rings, of Elain gagging and crying as Nesta pushed them both forward entered her mind. Had Rhysand…?
He stopped, frozen again in that frightening warrior’s stillness.
“Get out of my head,” Feyre whispered. Slowly, so, so slowly, the last pangs of her headache ebbed away.
A book appeared in his hand. He held it out to her.
“What…?”
“Proof that my offer is sincere.”
Feyre took the book—what else could she do when a High Lord offered her a gift with no strings attached?—and asked, “How does a book make you sincere?”
Rhysand merely nodded at the cover, smooth and self-assured, and Feyre tried not to think too loudly as she read:
A Ruddy… Rudiment… Rudimentary… Guide to… Dah… Day… Daemati… and Mind… Shih… Shee… Shielding.
“And,” Rhysand said when she looked back up at him, her lips parted in surprise. It would take her ages to read the whole book unless she convinced Nesta or Elain to read it aloud for her, but a book like this would be worth its weight in gold. Without waiting for another word from her, he snapped his fingers and then nodded down at her overskirt—spotless, as if the tea and blood had never stained it. “For my own peace of mind. Mother knows what fell beast might scent the blood next and come after you.”
Feyre clutched the book to her chest. “There are no fell beasts down here anymore.”
“Of course not, Feyre darling.” Rhysand closed his eyes, but the lights sparkled in the space around him. One hand rose to his face before he fisted it and instead held out his elbow to her, as if thinking better of whatever he was planning to do. “Now, come. You may be the most wicked creature lurking in these halls, but I will not leave you here tonight.”
Feyre eyed his arm. If he truly would not leave without her, if he wanted to escort her back to Autumn so badly… She bit her lip, moving the book until it was behind her back.
“Why don’t we make a deal?”
-----
Thank you for reading, as always!
#feyre#rhysand#feyre archeron#feysand#feyre archeron x rhysand#ferhys#a court of thorns and roses#acotar#a court of thorns and roses fic#If you see a familiar line#it's a Sarah J. Maas original#this first conversation is so iconic that there are some parallels that simply must be drawn#my fics#of the archer and the dark#rhysand x feyre
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Rhysand: who got an STD? I need you to fuck someone for me
Azriel: calling an STD hit is absolutely insane
Cassian: biological whorefare
#a court of mist and fury#a court of silver flames#a court of thorns and roses#acotar imagine#acotar memes#azriel#azriel x reader#cassian#cassian x reader#feyre archeron#feyre x reader#funny acotar#feyre x rhysand#nesta x reader#a court of wings and ruin#rhysand x reader#rhysand#nesta archeron#nesta#incorrect acotar quotes#acotar imagines#acotar#morrigan#eris acotar#helion acotar#high lady feyre#acotar incorrect quotes
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