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thesistersarcheron · 1 year

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Pairing: Feysand Rating: E Summary: Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him. He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him. ———Check out Chapter 1 here, go to my masterlist for more or read this fic on AO3 here.

Darling. He had called her darling.

The full force of that deep, sensual voice and his starry stare threatened to weaken Feyre’s knees. She was suddenly aware of her pounding heartbeat pushing white-hot adrenaline through her veins.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and she licked her lips, racking her brain. Her traitorous eyes roved over the firm, distracting planes of his chest as she tried to think. The muscles twitched as she looked, as if he could feel her gaze like a physical touch.

She had never before gotten up the nerve to approach him, and never had she planned on striking up any sort of conversation. In her fantasies, he always swept her off of her feet, and then comfortable, intimate pillow talk followed after he had his way with her. To be honest, she hadn’t imagined talking at all tonight once the drums had drawn her to the mouth of the mines. From the whispered rumors she’d heard of what happened during the Great Rite, it sounded like none of the faeries who ended up drawn into the magic’s web with the previous High Lord had ever flirted with him first.

Nor were they drawn to the mouth of the cave to watch the ritual blessing. No… No, they were always drawn straight to the altar in the deepest part of the mines, weren’t they?

“Why don’t I start?” The High Lord prowled forward, unaware or uncaring of Feyre’s hesitation.

A feline smile curved his wine-stained lips. He angled toward her as he approached, herding her deeper into the mines. Every step rumbled through the cavern, reverberating up through Feyre’s legs and into her nervous heart.

“What is a sweet little nymph like you doing so close to the mouth of the cave on Fire Night?”

Easy. That was an easy question. Feyre took a playful step away, just out of his reach.

“I wanted to hear the music.”

“The music,” he purred, amusement and something else twinkling in his eyes. He tilted his head toward the curtains and the drummers beyond it, but didn’t take them off of her. “I thought I sent musicians down into your quarters for the party you all host every year?”

Feyre’s face warmed. “You don’t send drummers like that.”

“How can I, when they’re as enchanted by the magic of tonight as I’m supposed to be?” As he spoke, his eyes seemed to darken, the lights shining within those violet irises shining all the brighter for it. The starlit darkness around him stretched and writhed as if it, too, were beginning to feel the effects of the enchanted wine. “The only difference is that the priestesses have had them drinking since this morning.”

A hand slid out of his pocket, and Feyre was transfixed as it reached up, up, up. Warm fingers tangled in a loose curl by her ear, stroking it gently. “Beautiful.”

Then the hand fell away, grazing her shoulder, and the High Lord circled her. His gaze was like a brand, and every inch of skin exposed by the nearly translucent gossamer dress Feyre wore burned with it. She allowed it, allowed him to drink in the sight of her skin sparkling through the tissue-thin material, the lines of her legs peeking out from the slits in either side of the skirt. She was wholly exposed, she knew; her nipples were peaked in the chill, drawing attention to the dark outlines of them through her gown. The only thing left to preserve her modesty were the natural shadows pooled between her legs.

She had selected the gown specifically to entice a partner to her bed tonight, to draw some lucky faerie out from the crowd down below…

She hadn’t expected to be the one drawn out, to find herself at the mercy of her High Lord instead.

Only in her wildest dreams had she imagined this.

A warm fingertip trailed from the low, low back of her dress all the way up her spine, curling around the back of her neck, and Feyre’s heartbeat stumbled.

“Thought for a thought?”

Feyre nearly turned to face him, but he moved to her instead—finishing the circle he had begun, drawing back around to her front and winding the arm that wasn’t already holding her around her waist like they were simply two partners in a dance. Perhaps they were; he swayed a few steps, guiding her closer and closer until she was locked in his embrace. Until the body-warmed jewels against his chest jingled and teased her own skin, and she was forced to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

Tall. He was so damn tall. Feyre pressed her legs together as the space between them flooded with heat.

His nostrils flared… and he shook his head. More of that crystal clarity vanished from his eyes. “Your thought?”

“I think…” Feyre pondered for a moment, deciding on her answer—a more difficult task than she was expecting when he dipped his head closer, as if to hear her more clearly, the salt and citrus scent of him overwhelming her senses.

Eventually, she managed to say, “I think the previous High Lord would have had me whipped for daring to come this far up on Fire Night, my lord.” She swallowed when his attention sharpened into something dangerous beneath the desire, but continued. “I think that it’s surprising that you seem amused instead. My lord.”

“Rhys,” he rumbled beside her ear. Nimble fingers slipped beneath her skirts, tracing a ticklish path up the inside of her thigh. “Call me Rhys. Rhysand, if you must.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre murmured. It was a name she had never allowed herself to say aloud. She mouthed it sometimes, in the darkest, longest hours of the night, when she was tucked snugly beneath her blankets. Where no one could witness the way she filled herself with her own fingers, pretending they were his.

Her imagination had never done him justice. She knew that now, as a calloused fingertip made its first path through her wetness and contented pleasure settled itself in every muscle of Feyre’s body.

“Rhys,” he corrected her. His brow furrowed, and one long digit pressed into her.

“Rhys,” she sighed as she canted her hips into his touch.

“Just like that,” he said, laying a trail of soft, heated kisses across her collar. “I’ll only whip you if you ask for it, darling. Do you want that?”

A second finger joined the first, filling her deliciously enough that Feyre considered it for a moment. In the end, she shook her head; there would be other nights to play, to experiment with their limits.

“Very well,” he agreed, and that was that. His fingers were curling forward, pulling pleasure out of her with every pass. “I don’t like harming my lovers anyway.”

Feyre shivered at the mental image that produced.

“And your thought, Rhys?” His name was a burst of magic, ethereal and electric, on her tongue. It took all of her concentration to speak now. “I gave you two. You owe me two.”

Quicker than she could blink, she was pressed against the crates, a muscled leg pinning her to them and spreading her open. Rhys pulled back, just enough to ghost his lips over hers.

“Sly female,” Rhysand purred, his voice an erotic caress that settled deep inside of Feyre. “I get the feeling you always find a way to get anything and everything you want, don’t you?”

Unashamed, Feyre nodded.

“Me too.” He grinned and a third finger stretched her. “Here’s a thought: I think I can’t breathe when I look at you. That it has to be some sort of crime to fuck you against a bit of rock like some magic-possessed beast when you deserve the finest bed the Night Court has to offer—and perhaps I’ll make it one. That the softest silk sheets and goose down pillows would still pale next to the temptation of you laid out atop them. That I can’t concentrate on whatever the hell I’m supposed to be doing in this mine, I want you so badly.”

Feyre was stunned. “That’s one.”

“Just one?” A quiet laugh rasped out of him, and he cocked his head. “You do drive a hard bargain. Very well, darling, a second thought: I think I may have been lured here for a purpose greater than the Great Rite.”

“Lured?” Feyre blinked at him, her vision having gone hazy with desire.

Still, to enchant anyone… that was a heavy charge. A dangerous one, too, coming from a male such as her High Lord. She needed an answer as much as she needed the hard length of the cock she felt pressed against her hip.

“For what purpose, then, Rhys?”

“That depends on you.” He was coy, cocky—and utterly unconcerned. Finally, he circled her clit with the pad of his thumb, a featherlight touch that pulled a quiet, needy moan from Feyre’s throat. “What’s your name, love?”

The feeling of his hand between her legs and the sound of drums vanished. Like a bucket of icy water had been sloshed over her head, Feyre’s blood went cold.

She blinked at him. “My name?”

His free hand left her neck and curled into the slim band of spider silk on her shoulder, drawing it to the side. “A pretty thing like you must have a name to match.”

“You don’t know my name?” Feyre blurted before she could stop herself, shoving him back back.

Rhysand went where she pushed him, but when she took a step away, he followed. His smile became curious—and Feyre’s heart cracked like a geode. “I pride myself on knowing the members of my court, but I do have to learn their names first, just like anyone else.”

Feyre took a larger step back. Mortified, foolish shame washed away the heady warmth in her limbs. Were the dreams she had about him a sign… or were they just her subconscious crafting a fairytale? The golden string that had enticed her out of the mines—had she made that up? Had all of this been wishful thinking, projecting her desires onto a male who didn’t even know she existed?

She thought they had shared something, some sort of connection. He had always picked her favorite jewels—

She thought he had been sending her a message. Making a promise.

But now she could see how silly, how… girlish that was.

A petty, vicious voice in the back of her mind wondered whether he had given any of her jewels to another female.

Feyre turned, shaking off his reaching hands, and stepped forward into the whipping wind and darkness. When she opened her eyes, she was across the cavern. Already, she could feel his magic pooling as his eyes locked onto her, preparing to take a step of his own, and held up a hand to stop him.

The prick had no clue who she was.

Decades. She had loved him for decades, and he didn’t have any inkling.

All he wanted was a quick Fire Night fuck with a female he didn’t even know.

“My name,” she said coldly, doing her best to channel the cutting disdain her sisters used on the more greedy males who dared to venture into the mines. She willed herself not to shake, feeling every drop of that overwhelming midnight power focused on her. “—is none of your concern.”

And then she turned and ran.

———

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, gods-damn-it-all fuck.

Rhys winnowed to spot where she stood before she disappeared into the darkness.

Was is some grave insult to ask a nymph’s name? He had never heard such a thing. Names carried power in Prythian, certainly—but he’d only wanted her given name, not the full thing. Not enough to grant him that awful power over her.

He knew he was a covetous male, possessive and greedy and altogether lustful when it came to fine things; hell, some nights he dreamt of the jewels that now lined the walls in his personal vaults. It was one of the flaws his father had never minded pointing out in a fight. And while he was nowhere near as bad as Amren, never quite as avaricious as that ancient firedrake of a female…

He’d never ask for that.

Nevertheless, once he’d had that little gemstone in his arms, once he’d felt the strange, crystalline dips and grooves of her hot cunt around his hand—the hand still soaked with the sweet evidence of her desire—he knew she was his.

And now she was fucking gone, actually running from him—

He didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind was roaring, his skin pulling tight as his magic—and the deep well of magic that was new, yet familiar, the Night Court’s magic—rose to the surface. Obsidian scales rippled over his arms, sending a delicious shiver down his spine before he managed to suppress them.

He blinked, and the blackness of the cavern wasn’t so dark. As if it were a night sky of his own making, he could see everything.

And in the distance, to match the echoing footsteps his ears picked up on all too easily, he caught a glimmer of fractured light.

A bit of the glowworms’ light, flickering off a female with crystalline skin.

So, shedding the last of himself and letting the magic take hold as it wanted to, Rhys chased his female into the dark.

#feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #feyre #feysand month 2022 #feysandmonth2022 #bejeweled #my fics #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #smut #acotar smut #feyrhys

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foundress0fnothing · 1 year

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Sweet Secret - Feysand Month

@unofficialfeysandmonth2022 - Day 28 - Classics

Based on Marie de France's 12th-century Breton Lai, Lanval

Summary: Feyre and Rhys make a bargain. One pledges love and provision, the other love and secrecy. But what happens when the demands of a human court threaten their promises? Is love enough? What does one owe to another after a promise is broken?

Read here on AO3! Enjoy a short, short snippet below:

So this was love. Interesting.

It was more piteous than she had imagined, Feyre reflected, taking in the scene before her. And significantly more human.

Some Notes:

Between the end of the semester and my holiday plans, I hadn’t expected to write anything for Feysand month, but then my mom got sick and our holiday plans got postponed, so here we are! The fic is a WIP; my outline for it quickly ballooned beyond what I could achieve in time to post for day 28, but I’m hoping to finish it soon. The story is based on Marie de France’s lai Lanval, with a fae!Feyre and human!Rhys. I had originally intended the fic to stay pretty close to the narrative of the poem and be 90% Rhys' POV, but then writing Feyre was a delight that will probably pull the story in a slightly different direction, so...we'll see what happens.

Many thanks to @perhapsajacket for beta reading at the last minute and encouraging my desire to write weird fae women.

Title from Alfred David's translation of the text, line 145.

#feysand #feysand month #feysandmonth2022 #feysand fic #fae!Feyre #human!rhys #feysand smut #lanval #marie de france

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msfeyredarling · 1 year

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Seven days of Solstice

Merry Christmas everyone!

Summary: On Feyre’s fiftieth, Rhys decides to celebrate Feyre following the seven days of the winter solstice.

My @acotargiftexchange present for @charliespringsleftconverse. I hope you enjoy <3

Read on Ao3

Masterlist

The city beyond the frosted glass was bustling with life. Buildings were decorated with crystal lights, banners wrapped in tinsel and shop windows filled with solstice ornaments. The streets were teeming with citizens, everyone preparing for the start of the Solstice holiday. The citizens of Velaris began the celebrations seven days before the holiday. It was said the ancient night gods awoke for seven days before slumbering again when the sun began to rise the day after the longest night.

Feyre stood by the windows in the river house, snow falling outside the warmth of her home as she watched her people begin the festivities for the first day of the solstice holiday. Her pointed ears picked up a whoosh behind her and as she turned she noticed a crisp white envelope with her name. Inside was a letter filled with beautiful and delicate scrawl, she recognised all too well.

To my dearest Feyre,

Solstice is upon us once again which means your birthday is not far. This birthday happens to be a very special one. To celebrate fifty years of my Feyre Darling, we will follow the traditional seven days of solstice partaken by lovers. To start, on the first day of solstice you’re true gave to you a riddle. When you solve the riddle, the answer will appear.

‘You made me perfect but eventually I’ll be destroyed. You hide me but you will give me away forever. When we depart, you'll be happy that I'm gone.’

I wish you luck. With all my love,

Rhys x

Feyre chuckled at her mates extravagance. She should have expected it, her mate did have a flair for the dramatic. It was typical of him to make her work for it, he made everything a challenge so it should be no surprise she would have to use her mind to figure out the riddle to receive her gift. Feyre paused, then gasped aloud. A gift was made perfect, a gift was hidden, a gift was given away forever. A gift was the answer to the riddle.

As if the magic could hear her thoughts, in a blink, a black box with a red bow appeared. She slowed pulled the red ribbon and inside was a piece of card.

Today is the day of riddles, my love.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

After unsuccessfully interrogating her mate through the bond, she sighed as she sat down at the kitchen bend. Her head turned as a new letter fluttered towards her.

To my brilliant mate,

On the first day of solstice your true love gave to you another riddle, just to keep you on your toes.

‘I am every colour but I can be just one. I am wet but I can be dry. You can change me on a whim or keep me forever. You can probably see me right now. What am I?’

Sending my love,

Rhys xx

Feyre glanced up, brows drawn together in confusion. She couldn’t see anything that matched her clues. The riddle asked for something that was a rainbow but a single colour, something dry and wet. Water? Towels? Trees? Flowers? She thought about the last one, flowers came in an array of colours, could be wet or dry but didn’t match the last two parts.

She searched her brain for anything, her hand tangling in her wild curls. Feyre huffed in frustration as she began to pace the halls. Whatcouldbewhatcouldbewhatcouldbe raced through her mind. Her mate was certainly a trickster and he knew exactly how to leave her a confused and desperate mess. She glanced at the letter again, re-reading for any hidden meanings. Below the riddle began to sparkle as words appeared.

Need a hint, darling?

She snarled down the bond, a laugh echoed in the back of her mind. If he was going to toy with her and make it a game, she would make damn sure she was going to win.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The sun had begun to set, the horizon sparkling as the light glinted of the snow. She still had not a clue what the answer was. Feyre was sitting on the floor, back resting against the wall. She looked around again, all she could see was the kitchen, chairs, walls and walls. Mats on the floor, art hung up, even chipped paint.

She sighed, ready to give in but she paused, the answer may be simpler than she thought, maybe she was looking too hard when the answer might be simple. The next time her eyes scanned the room, she really looked. Door handles, stained glass, a marble bench, six cabinets painted a dark blue. Her eyed glanced around, her mind trying to figure out the connections. Everything had a colour that was painted on. Her face lit up as the dots in the mind connected. Paint. The answer was paint.

A slip of paper appeared before her eyes.

Meet me where you decided to be mine.

Feyre smiled, she knew exactly where her mate was.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

She trudged through the snow to the place that was like a second home. She didn't feel the cold, her excitement filling her with adrenaline. The door to the cabin opened, inviting her inside.

As she stepped over the threshold, she was startled by what she saw. The inside of the cabin had been decorated in fairy lights and candles which casted a soft glow for the dark room. As she walked futhur in, she saw an area littered in many canvas on stands and surrounded by paints of beautiful colours. In the centre of it all was a dark blue couch in which Rhys laid, his head resting on his fist. He was completely nude and as she took him in, he smirked.

“You found me Feyre darling,” he purred, adjusting his position so the light fully illuminated every glorious inch of him. “Happy first day of solstice.”

“My first gift is you nude?”

“Feyre darling, if you wish to see me clothless more often you only have to ask,” his eyes glittered with a devilish glint. “I do remember your thoughts drifting to how I’d look on a canva, especially if I was naked,” Feyre blushed at his words. So he did her artistic rambling.

She approached the first canvas, a brush already in hand. Her eyes drifted to the many paints. Each was different from the last but all shimmered with the light. She had never seen anything like them in Velaris, her mate must have searched far for these.

Feyre dipped her brush in the unique paint and she began to sketch a ruff outline before she truely began the art.

As the night dragged along, Feyre filled many canvas and Rhys experimented with different positions. Many times Feyre laughed at the absurdity of it. When she finished, she began to paint on a different surface, one of hard muscle and golden brown skin. Their painting session lasted for hours and wouldn’t be close to ending until the sun began to rise.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The next morning, Feyre awoke blissfully happy. She rolled over, seeking the warmth of her mate as her arm reached out. All she meet was cold sheets.

Blinking the eyes open, she saw that Rhys was nowhere to be found. The only thing left was another letter. She groaned as she read its contents.

To my true love,

Our fun has only just begun. Today is a new day which means a new hunt.

On the second day of solstice, your true love gave to you all of his heart. All of his love. All the air he needs to breathe.

Find me where you first captured the air from my lungs.

With all of my heart,

Rhys

P.S. I love you

A sleepy smile bloomed on her face. She rubbed her eyes as she stretched. She trudged out of the comforting warmth of her bed and put on whatever she could find. Wings bloomed from her back and she launched into the sky.

The flight was short and as she approached the house of wind, she dropped out of the sky. Feyre followed the tug in the chest, the bond that would forever lead her to Rhys.

She found her mate on the balcony, the place she first realised she was falling in love. As she neared, Rhys turned. His eyes twinkled with stars as he smiled at her.

“My love,” he held out his hand to her. She placed her hand in his, entwining their fingers.

“My darling Feyre. You are the sunshine of my day, my shining star of my night. You guide my path and bring light to my soul. You are the minutes in my hour, the hours in my life. You are the wings upon which I fly, the ground upon which I tread, the air in which I breathe. You are the one that lights my fire, the light within my eyes, within my heart. You are the love that's taken hold of my heart forever. You are my everything. As your birthday fast approaches, I want to share my love with you in every possible way. I want you to know of the love that has continued to deepen all this years,” she wiped out the tears that had fallen. Rhys let go of her hands and suddenly a box from his pocket world appeared. The box was black and wrapped in a red bow.

Her hands shook as she pulled the string on the bow. She lifted the lid of the box and inside were dozens of letters. Each one addressed her in perfect scrawl and was dated. “Over the years, on every one of your birthday’s, I wrote you a letter, saving them to give you now. Each explains how my love for you has and will always be eternal,” his hand copped her cheek, she leaned into it. She took the box from his hand and began going through letters, starting from the most recent.

Feyre hadn’t even made it halfway before she was a complete and utter mess. Her chest hurt with how much she loved her mate. Nothing in the continent or beyond could fully express her love for him.

It took her many hours before she could make it through the letters. Once her tears had faded, she lounged on the couch, Rhys behind her and a fire in-front, warming her toes.

“Today was beautiful,” Feyre said as she rested her head on Rhys’ chest. “Thank you.”

Her mate placed a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Just wait until tomorrow.”

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“Rhysand, it’s too much,” she said as she pushed it back towards her mate.

“No it’s not, you deserve everything. On the third day of solstice I am giving you everything you deserve.”

Feyre sighed, she knew her efforts would be fruitless. She glanced down to her newest gift. Shinning studs and sparkling jewels greeted her eyes. Her mate had gifted her the most beautiful piece of jewellery.

At the centre of the necklace was a crescent moon with bordering stars. It was set with the most beautiful diamonds and would sit just above her clavicle. It had already become her favourite piece.

“Thank you Rhys, it’s gorgeous,” he grinned, pulling her in for a kiss.

“That’s not all.”

“There’s more?” She whispered. She didn’t understand what she did to deserve her mate. Her feet were quiet as she trailed after him. He led a path into their room, then the wardrobe.

At the centre of the room was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. A long black dress hung on the model. Glittering black fabric started at the bodice and cascaded down, slowly changing back into plain black satin. Black silk hung as the sleeves and lined the neckline. Feyre simply stood and stared. This dress was as beautiful as her starfall gown and it was almost the total opposite.

Her mate placed his hand on her back, guiding her forward. “My mother made this dress, for you,” he whispered, his breath fanning over the shell of her ear.

A lump formed in her throat. His mother had made these dresses before Feyre even existed, yet somehow through the dresses, it was like she knew Feyre all along.

“I would be honoured if you wore it tonight, along with the necklace.”

Feyre sharply turned to Rhys. “I would be honoured to wear anything of hers.”

“Good because we have dinner at six. I look forward to seeing you in it.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The person who stared back in the mirror was almost unrecognisable. The dress fit her perfectly, hugging her curves to pool at her feet. It sparkled and shimmered with each movement. What she hadn’t realised was the slit that travelled up very far. She still loved the dress all the same.

Her hair had been swept to one side in a single curl. Her eyelids has been darkened and her lips were painted red. She wore the necklace her mate gifted her.

Feyre walked down the stairs, heels clicking against the floor with each step. As she reached the bottom, he came into sight. Rhys had his usual form fitting black attire. Feyre stopped, just to take him in, he seemed to do the same.

She finally broke their reverie as she walked up to him, he offered his arm. They walked the streets of Velaris, arm in arm, occasionally stopping to take in the sights of their beloved city. They finally arrived at a familiar location.

“Sevenda’s place?”

“The first restaurant you visited in Velaris,” he confirmed.

Over the years, they became regulars at her restaurant, dining there whenever they could. As they entered, Sevenda showed them to a table in the corner that overlooked the sidra. Wine was poured into both of their glasses. They talked about everything, every now and then stopping to listen to the band. The food began to be brought out as they dined under the stars.

Rhys lifted his glass in the air, Feyre followed suit. “To my beautiful mate, happy birthday,” he clinked his glass against hers. He was truely making this the best birthday and solstice.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The snow had begin to fall, blanketing the city in a white wonderland. The sleepily citizens had yet to awake for the Winter Solstice.

Feyre stood in her studio, adding the finishing touches to her Solstice gift for Rhys. She glanced out the window again, a smile forming on her face recounting the last week. Rhys had shown his love for her through the seven days of solstice.

On the fourth solstice day he gave her one of the best gifts she could ask for. A surprise visit from her son. She rarely saw him and missed him dearly. They spent the day sledding down the steeps just outside the city.

The fifth day consisted of a trip down memory lane. They recreated all their precious moments and at the end of the day he gave her a wrapped gift. Inside was a small canvas filled with a mirage of colours. She remembered how the painting sparkled with the light as she opened the wrapping. She remembered gasping as she stared at the artwork of starfall, Feyre’s first one. It was the first time she ever smiled at Rhys, the painting capturing their happiness of the moment.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She placed the picture on her desk where she could see it daily, a reminder of the journey and sacrifice she made to have what she did now.

On the six day of solstice, Feyre had complete control of Rhys. She throughly enjoyed it, especially when she got him to wear an ugly solstice sweater. It was the most hideous thing and looked ridiculous on him since he never wore anything but black. She had laughed herself horse as he pouted. That was until she brought out her own sweater, to match his. He spontaneously decided he quite liked the sweater, for the most part with how it looked on her.

Feyre chuckled, her mate had made this solstice the most memorable. She lifted her brush back to the canvas and became enthralled in her work.

That’s where Rhys found her when the sun was shining high in the sky. His arms encircled her waist as he rested his chin on her shoulder. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek as he watched her. He couldn’t see what she was painting, she made sure to cloak it in darkness.

“Happy fiftieth Birthday, darling,” he whispered into her ear.

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbled. “You make me feel old.”

Rhys chuckled. “Well if you don’t want to talk about your birthday let’s talk about solstice,” Feyre turned around, her mouth parted. “Happy Solstice my love,” he grinned, knowing he beat her to it. “Come with me.”

She took his offered hand as he lead her out of the studio. “On the seventh day of solstice, your true love gave to you the best birthday party.”

The area has been over decorated in balloons and streamers, how she hadn’t noticed, she wasn’t sure. All her friends and family stood in the room. “Happy birthday Feyre!” They said in unison.

And she would have a happy birthday. With her friends and family she could enjoy celebrating her fifty years of life. And when the day progressed on, they could begin the festivities of the winter solstice. This holiday season would be the most memorable for many years to come, all because her mate loved her enough to celebrate her for the seven days of solstice. These memories, this time, the love shared, was a gift. All of it.

#acotargiftexchange2022 #feysandmonth2022 #feysand #feyre x rhysand #rhysand x feyre #feyre x rhys #feyre and rhysand #rhysand and feyre #feyre #feyre acheron #rhysand #winter solstice #feyre birthday #christmas #12 days of christmas

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artinelysian · 1 year

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Feysand overlooking Velaris for Feysand Month! @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

Repost with credit is allowed

Total time: 4 hr 42 min

Character belongs to @therealsjmaas

#feysand month #feysand #feysandmonth2022 #feyre archeron #rhysand #pro feysand #digital art #procreate #digital illustration #digital painting #artist illustration #acotar art #artist #acotar fanart #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #digital artwork #artist on tumblr

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kingofsummer93 · 1 year

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All I See Is You

Summary:

Feyre is desperate to avoid the life that's been paved out for her. She prays to anyone who will listen, but in doing so she makes a crucial mistake.

She forgets that she's not supposed to pray to the gods who answer after dark.

Inspired by The Invisible Life of Addie Larue.

Part 3 /3

AO3 Part 1 Part 2

She didn’t put it on, partly out of stubbornness and partly because it felt too much like surrendering.

But he came. Year after year, on Winter Solstice, he would come, wherever she was. More often than not he would extend his hand and whisk her through the dark, and Feyre would follow, giddy with curiosity at what she would see next.

It wasn’t easy, and there were nights where she would roll her wooden ring around in her fingers and debate calling him to surrender. But the thought of those violet eyes lighting up with victory made her strengthen her resolve. Surrendering was admitting that he was her enemy, and pretending that he was her friend was one of the last comforts she had.

She saw Vienna, and Prague, and near the turn of the century she went to the coast and saw the ocean. She crossed the English channel aboard a merchant ship and made her way to London. When Rhys showed up at Winter Solstice that year he spoke to her only in English so she could practice. Feyre pretended to be annoyed, and she pretended even harder that hearing his voice speak a foreign language didn’t do something to her.

Sometimes she told herself she loved him, but could it truly be love, if he wasn’t even a man?

There were men over the years, many of them. In the beginning many of them were out of necessity, and Feyre would shut her eyes and let it happen. But over time, as she became more skilled at moving on her own through the world, necessity gave way to curiosity, and then want.

Some of them taught her about pleasure, the kind they spoke about in books and that she had dreamed of while thinking about Rhysand.

More than one declared their love for her, but could it truly be love, if they didn’t remember her the moment she left the room?

One winter solstice she was feeling vindictive, and perhaps a bit petty, so she made sure she had male company by the time night fell. Darkness gathered in the corner of the room, and Feyre braced herself for him to appear. Perhaps he would drag things out into a fight with her companion, or, more likely, he would enter his mind and force him to leave. And then maybe he would finally stay.

Feyre wasn’t quite sure what game she was playing at, or what she wished would happen when Rhysand showed up, but in the end it didn’t matter because he never came.

He didn’t show up the next year either, or the next. War erupted throughout Europe, and Feyre boarded a ship headed to America and spent a week vomiting in the cargo hold.

Still he didn’t show.

Feyre didn’t put on the ring, though sometimes the urge to do so was so strong it felt like a physical pain. Battle lines had been drawn, and if he wanted to play then she would play, too.

It didn’t matter that she missed him. It didn’t matter that she thought about him whenever someone’s hands or lips were on her.

All that mattered was what he had admitted to her when he first gave her the ring.

Perhaps loneliness is not only reserved for humans after all.

There was a reason he kept coming back to her, and eventually he would return.

And then she would have won.

The next time Feyre saw Rhys was in a hidden nightclub in prohibition era Boston.

The room was so dim and filled with cigarette smoke that at first she didn’t see him. But then her date wandered away from her mid-sentence, a vacant, dreamy look in his eyes, and she felt him, instinctively.

Feyre lifted her gaze and there he was, sitting at the bar, casual and thoroughly unconcerned. She hated the way her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. It wasn’t fair, it never had been.

She hated even more that she walked to him and slipped onto the stool next to him. A glass of champagne appeared in front of her, and she sipped it without looking at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked him, as nonchalantly as she could.

“I could ask you the same thing. This is my establishment.”

She whipped her head towards him in disbelief, and instantly regretted it. Perhaps it was simply that she hadn’t seen him in so long, but he was even more beautiful that she remembered. He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him.

“You own speakeasies?” she asked incredulously.

He shrugged, as cool and unruffled as ever. “I’ve always found drinking establishments to be a breeding ground for desperate souls.”

Feyre choked on a laugh. She drained her champagne and the bartender immediately appeared to refill it.

“Why did you never call?” Rhys asked. His features were schooled into a neural expression but there was an edge to his tone.

“Why did you stop showing up?”

His jaw set in a hard line. “It did not seem like you were in need of company,” he said bitterly.

At first Feyre thought she must have invented that bitterness, but then something clicked.

“You’re jealous.” Not a question, just a statement. “How very human of you.”

The growl that came out of him was decidedly not human, and neither was the way darkness gathered around him like a cloak.

“Come with me,” he said, getting to his feet.

Feyre was curious, she always was, but she was also tired. “I don’t want to travel tonight.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Feyre held out her hand. “Dance with me.”

His eyes glittered with amusement, and then he took her hand and led her to the dancefloor. His movements were smooth, agile. Easy.

And perhaps it was a surrender, or perhaps she was just tired of pretending, but when he pressed his hand to her cheek she leaned into his touch. They stopped dancing and stood in the middle of the dancefloor, staring at each other.

Night eternal and the girl nobody knew but him.

Feyre wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, if he leaned down and she rose on her tiptoes to meet him or vice versa. She only knew that one moment they were standing there, gazes locked in the middle of a smoke-filled room, and the next his lips were pressed to hers.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like they were afraid of how the other would react. His lips were warm, his fingers soft on her cheek, and it felt so much like coming home that for a moment Feyre wanted to cry. His fingers slipped into her hair, his other hand sliding down her back to press her close, and Feyre fell into him.

He tasted like he smelled, salty and fresh and citrusy-sweet, and when his tongue slipped into her mouth it was like a dam broke inside her. The kiss turned feral, tongues fighting for dominance, teeth nipping, hands pushing and pulling against each other.

Feyre sank her teeth into his bottom lip until she tasted blood, as he had done to her so many years ago. Darkness wrapped around them and the nightclub faded away. When the dark receded they were in a room she didn’t recognize, but it didn’t matter. They could have stayed in the middle of that club for all she cared.

Rhysand broke the kiss, chest heaving. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his lip was bloody, and he looked so wild, so feral, so inhuman. And so, thoroughly, heartbreakingly perfect.

His eyes roved over her body and a little noise like a keening whine came out of his throat. That little noise was like kindling to the wildfire inside of her, and Feyre lunged. He hit the wall behind him with a thump and smirked as she ripped his shirt open, buttons flying all over the room like raindrops.

“Well,” he drawled. “If I had known what a feral thing you were I would have taken you dancing years ago.”

Feyre growled in frustration, reaching up on her tiptoes to yank his head down to her by the hair.

“Rhys,” she murmured against his mouth, “Shut up.”

Rhysand only laughed, and Feyre gasped as he swooped down and lifted her off her feet, reversing their positions so she was up against the wall. His bare chest was warm underneath her fingertips, and he was so lovely and so felt so real that it was easy to forget that in a way he was nothing more than a figment of her imagination.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “When you thought of me at night, what was it you imagined me doing?”

Feyre released a shaky breath as he dipped his head to her throat. He pressed his nose to her skin and breathed her in, moaning weakly as if she was oxygen and he had been starved for air.

“Tell me,” he repeated. His tongue darted out to lick the inside of her ear, and she shivered.

“I imagined you were a handsome stranger, passing through our village.”

“Does that mean you find me handsome?” he teased.

She scoffed, but only half heartedly, as his lips had started pressing hot, wet kisses along her neck.

“And then?”

“And then when you realized you were lost, you would come and ask me for help.”

“Ahhh, how gallant of you.” More kisses, lower and lower, trailing down her collarbone.

“Except, by then it would be nighttime, so I offered you a place to spend the night.”

“And let me guess, during the night I would sneak into your bed?”

His teeth graze the swell of her cleavage, and she sucked in a breath. “No. I snuck into yours.”

He lifted his head and grinned at her with pure delight. “How naughty, Feyre darling.”

With one smooth motion he set her down and turned her so she was facing the wall. Feyre braced her hands against the wall as his hands moved down her body, burning her through the thin, beaded fabric of her dress. A small part of her mind wondered if he did this with other women, but mostly she didn’t care, because if he did it wouldn’t be as Rhysand.

“That’s right,” he drawled into her ear. “I’m yours.” His velvety voice rumbled through her and settled into a pool of desire in the pit of her stomach.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a man, or that her soul belonged to him. He belonged to her, too.

“Tell me what happens next,” he crooned.

His hands slid up her thighs, lifting up the beaded fabric of her dress, and not for the first time Feyre was glad to have lived long enough to see higher hemlines come into fashion.

“Then…”

He gently squeezed her backside, and she couldn’t think as his fingers moved up to hook around the silky waistband of her undergarments.

“Yes?”

She turned her head to look over her shoulder, and the intensity in his violet eyes nearly made her whine. “And then you kiss me.”

He wrapped his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back before pressing his lips to hers in a scorching kiss. She could feel him pressing himself against her ass and she moaned at the feel of his hard cock straining the front of his trousers.

“And then?” His voice was as strained as she felt, and she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction that she could have this effect on him.

“And then you touch me…”

Her words faded into a moan as his fingers slipped between her legs. It was what she had dreamed of, all those nights where she had imagined that her fingers were his, but nothing could have prepared her for the real thing.

“Are you always this wet?” he growled. “Or just when you think of me?”

His fingers circled her clit, slowly, expertly, and she didn’t even bother to stifle her moans.

“Only for you.”

He slid a finger inside her, and then another, and Feyre rocked her hips against him, chasing the pleasure building inside her. He knew just where to press, how much pressure to use, how fast, how slow. She knew he was already ruining her for other men, but she didn’t care. She’d hand over her soul if it meant he would never stop touching her.

His fingers slid out of her so suddenly that she moaned in protest, but then he had dropped to his knees behind her, his hands pressing her legs open.

“Tell me,” he murmured, pressing kisses along the inside of her thighs. “How does it make you feel, to have a god on his knees for you?”

Feyre huffed a laugh. “How does it feel to know a human brought you to your knees?”

His teeth closed around the soft skin of her thighs and she hissed at the sudden pain. And then he licked clean up the center of her, and all coherent thought emptied out of her brain.

“Just as sweet as I imagined you would be,” he groaned.

Another thrill, as heady and addicting as the pleasure he was giving her.

“So you think about me, do you?”

He laughed, his breath tickling her over sensitive skin. “Careful.” Another lick, just enough to drive her wild. “I can leave, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she gasped.

“No?” His tongue dipped inside of her, and it was only his hands pressed against her hips that prevented her legs from giving out. “Why not?”

“Because you want me too much.”

He laughed again, and then his mouth clamped around her clit and he sucked. He licked and nipped and sucked at her like a man starved, and Feyre rocked against his mouth, uncaring about the depraved sounds coming out of her.

“Rhys…”

He moaned against her, and the vibration sent her flying off the edge. Her vision burst with a thousand stars, his name falling from her lips in a moan that was closer to a scream. Rhys didn’t let up, prolonging her pleasure as her whole body shook with the force of her climax.

She was barely coming down when he rose to his feet and turned her around again. His lips crashed on hers, and the taste of herself on him made her feel wild, possessive.

Mine. He is mine and I am his.

“Yes,” he said again. And then, “Tell me you want me.”

She was already unbuttoning his trousers, her hands moving of their own free will. “I want you.” His cock sprang free, thick and hard and perfect. “Tell me you want me.”

He lifted her up again and she wrapped her legs around his waist, staring into those impossible eyes.

“I want you.”

He slid into her with one smooth thrust, and the feel of him inside her was so right that it felt like coming home. For a moment he held himself still, staring at her so intently that it felt like he could see right through her.

When he finally moved they moaned in unison. His mouth moved back to hers as he moved inside her in a slow, steady rhythm, in complete contrast to the frenzied way he’d pleasured her with his mouth. It was like he had all the time in the world to do just this- and she figured, in a way, they both did.

“Rhys,” she moaned against his lips, her fingers gripping his hair.

He groaned and tipped his head back, exposing the golden column of his neck. Something about it made Feyre’s mouth water and she dipped her head to bite the sensitive skin just below his ear. The guttural groan that came out of him sent a shot of lightning through her.

“Feyre…”

She would never tire of the sound of her name on his lips. Even if he was the only person who ever said it for the rest of eternity.

His pace increased, their moans turning breathy, his fingers tightening on her hips hard enough to bruise. He fisted one hand in her hair and lifted her face to look at him.

“Say it again,” she demanded.

“Feyre.”

Pleasure was coiling through her again, her vision going dark around the edges.

“Again.”

“Feyre. Feyre, Feyre, Feyre….” he repeated her name reverently, like a prayer, like a mantra.

“Come with me,” he groaned.

So she did. Rhys crashed his mouth to hers to swallow her scream as waves of pleasure coursed through her, so intense she couldn’t breathe or think. Nothing existed in that moment except for the feel of him inside her, his lips on hers, his skin underneath her fingertips. He buried his face in her neck and she gripped him as he shook from the force of his own climax, her name still falling from his lips.

She was still catching her breath when he stumbled to the bed, almost tripping over his pants pooled around his ankles. It was so graceless and human that Feyre laughed.

But then his hands were on her again, and her laughter faded into a moan.

At some point they must have drifted off, and when Feyre woke Rhysand was asleep beside her. It seemed like such a strange thing, for a thing like him to do something as human as sleep, and Feyre couldn’t look away.

After a while his eyes cracked open, a little smile tugging on his lips as his arms tightened around her, and for the first time in her life Feyre woke up next to someone who recognized her.

“I don’t want to leave,” he whispered into her ear. His fingers were already wandering over her body, and she didn’t want him to leave either.

“Then don’t.”

The sky outside was already lightening into the soft hues of dawn, and he looked at it with regret. “I must,” he said. “I am a thing of darkness.”

Feyre didn’t speak as she extricated himself from his embrace and walked to the window. With one tug the curtains fell closed, and the room was plunged into darkness once more.

“There,” she said simply. “Now it is dark again.”

She crawled back into bed, and Rhysand’s laughter wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

They did not speak about it, but one day he wasn’t there, and the next he was. He would disappear in the daytime, whisked along to wherever it was nighttime, and when the sun set he would return.

“Come with me,” he would ask.

“Dine with me.”

“Dance with me.”

“Be with me.”

And then, finally:

“I love you.”

Rhysand slid the wooden ring onto her finger, and it might have been a claim, or a promise, but it didn’t feel like a surrender.

They chased the darkness around the globe, and Feyre saw those far-away lands he had spoken of so long ago. She rode an elephant in Bangkok, she surfed in Australia, she marveled at the northern lights in Iceland.

And then one day, while walking hand in hand through Chicago, Rhysand stopped in front of a townhouse and pressed a key into her palm.

“What’s this?” she asked, peering at the house behind her. It had cheerfully painted shutters and window boxes full to bursting with summer blooms.

“Home,” Rhysand replied simply. “Your home, if you would like it to be.”

Home. The word was so foreign to her by now that for a full minute she simply stared at the facade in silence. Rhys silently took the key from her and opened the door. The house was tastefully decorated, elegant but not overdone, bright and airy.

But most importantly it was hers.

Years passed, and then decades, and then one day Feyre realized with a jolt it had been a century since that day in the woods.

They were sitting on the balcony in her townhouse- hers, always hers, never theirs even though he was there as much as she was.

“Just imagine what I’ll see after two centuries,” she wondered.

Rhysand’s eyes softened, the corners of his mouth lifting into a sad smile. He looked so human sometimes that it was easy to forget the man she loved wasn’t really a man at all.

“I can’t break our bargain,” he started, eyes full of regret.

“I know. It’s alright. As long as I have you by my side I have everything I want.”

His eyes glittered as he brushed her knuckles to his lips. “But perhaps I could modify it, somehow. If you surrender.”

It took a moment for his words to register, and when they did it was like stepping off the edge of a cliff. Her world tilted, she couldn’t breathe.

“What did you just say?” she gasped.

Rhys frowned. “I said I could modify the terms of our bargain, perhaps…”

“If I surrender?”

“It’s only a figure of speech,” he replied dismissively.

She couldn’t believe what a fool she’d been. Playing house with him, letting him whisk her across the globe, wearing that ring like she was his wife.

Dance with me

Dine with me

Be with me

I love you

“All this time, you were just…playing me?” She hated the wobble in her voice, hated even more the angry tears burning the back of her eyes. “Fucking me into a sense of security, making me think I was special, so that I would finally hand over my soul to you?”

His eyes widened as she jumped to her feet to glare at him, shaking from head to foot with rage. For a moment his features crumpled with hurt and confusion, and she figured it had simply been a misunderstanding, an overreaction on her part…

But then his smooth, unruffled facade slid back into place, and he shrugged. “Well, I had to try something, didn’t I? You weren’t making it easy for me.”

Without thinking her fingers closed around the nearest object and she lobbed it at him as hard as she could. Rhysand tracked the movement, and the vase went right through him and shattered against the wall. His laughter was scornful, his violet eyes devoid of their usual stars.

Feyre lunged at him, but this time instead of tearing off his clothes she tore into him. She hit him, she kicked and scratched and screamed at him until her knuckles were bruised and her throat was raw. All the while he just stood there, and when she finally collapsed with exhaustion he wiped a bead of blood from his lip and sneered at her.

“Well?” he taunted. “Are you finished?”

She knew he wasn’t just referring to their fight.

“Never,” she spat, “I will never surrender to you.”

Rhysand straightened his jacket with a disdainful sniff. “Very well. I hope you enjoy your lonely existence.”

“And I hope you enjoy YOURS!” she screamed.

With that she yanked the ring off her finger and flung it at him.

Feyre could have sworn that those violet eyes flashed with sorrow, but then night had gathered around him and he had gone.

She gaped at the spot where he had disappeared, unable to breathe. And then she put one foot in front of the other until she had stumbled out of the townhouse.

The next morning, when she woke, the ring had reappeared in her pocket.

The line outside the Hybern wraps around the block with hipsters desperate to get in and hear Issac’s band. It’s not Feyre’s usual scene, but she’s nothing if not adaptable.

She hovers on the curb, twirling a lock of hair, playing the part of a girl who wants to see the band but doesn’t want to wait in line. At nine o’clock Issac and his band mates will walk up to the bar, and he will see her standing there. She’ll make eye contact with him, and the smile she will give him will be just the right balance of coy and confident.

He’ll walk over, and ask if she’s here to see the band.

“Only if you’re in it,” she will tease.

He will laugh, and it’s a nice laugh, full of life, but something about it will be wrong. His eyes will light up with amusement and lust, but they won’t twinkle with the thousand stars of night eternal.

Feyre knows all this will happen because she has done it a dozen times.

So she waits, and nine o’clock rolls around, and she hears the raucous sound of people talking excitedly as they spot the band approaching. Feyre stands taller, she bites her lip, she twirls her hair.

But it’s all for nothing, because tonight Isaac already has a girl on his arm. It’s happened before, and it’s not like she doesn’t have other prospects to fall back on, but tonight, of all nights, it hits her like a punch to the gut.

She slips her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and walks off into the night. Her feet hurt, and she’s tired- so, so tired. But she keeps walking, all twenty-five blocks until she gets to Isaac’s apartment building.

The front buzzer is broken, and if you don’t remember to push the door closed on your way in it stays open. Feyre pretends to search her pockets as she leans against the door, and when it opens inward she pretends to look annoyed, just in case someone is watching.

But nobody is, and even if they did, it’s not like they would remember.

She climbs the stairs to the fifth floor, and then she pushes open the door to the roof deck. It’s mostly empty, but at some point someone brought up a couple of lawn chairs, and to Feyre it’s as good a place to sleep as any.

For a while she just lies on the lawn chair and stares at the starry night sky, wondering, as she always does, if he is watching.

Wondering, as she always does, if he is lonely.

It’s rare that she allows herself to miss him, but today, on the anniversary of their deal (on their anniversary) she can’t help it.

She thinks of the shape of his smile- crooked, when he was amused, feline when he was aroused, lazy when he was content. She thinks of his hands, and how they felt on her, and she hears his voice whispering in her ear.

But mostly she thinks of his eyes, flashing with hurt and confusion as she threw her accusations at him.

She stands, unable to keep looking at those twinkling stars, and goes to stand at the edge of the roof. Her fingers close around the wooden ring in her pocket. She draws it out of her pocket and throws it as hard as she can into the night without looking at it.

It doesn’t matter what she does with it. She can throw it, burn it, flush it down the toilet- no matter what she does with it, it always comes back.

For fifty years, she hasn’t put it on, and he hasn’t come.

A car honks far below her, and she wonders not for the first time what would happen if she simply stepped off the roof. All it would take is one step. Her body would break on the sidewalk, surely, but would it repair itself? Or would that damage cross some kind of line? And more importantly, what would happen to her soul? Would she continue to roam the earth like a shadow, or would Rhysand come to collect his prize?

Most nights, that thought is enough to make her step back from the edge, but tonight she is melancholy enough that she takes a step forward instead. And then another, and another, until the tips of her shoes hang off the edge of the roof.

“Don’t.”

That voice is like a salve and a knife all at once. For fifty years she has made herself hate him, telling herself that if he did come, she would curse him and send him away again.

But she is tired. So, so tired.

“You lied.” The words slip off her tongue before she can stop them. Not a question, not an accusation. Just a fact.

A fact she has tried to ignore for fifty years, but that she knows, in her heart, is true.

“Yes,” Rhys agrees. His voice is strained, choked, so unlike his usual velvety purr. And she thinks that maybe he is tired, too.

“Why?”

“Why were you so ready to believe it?”

She’s had time to think about that, too- for fifty years that question has rattled around in her head like a constant companion, haunting her day and night. “Maybe it was easier to leave than to be left.”

Feyre doesn’t hear his footsteps behind her, but she feels darkness wrap around her as he comes closer. His scent fills her nostrils and she fills her lungs with it- rain, salt, and those little lemon cakes from the market in Le Mans. The smell of home.

“What’s even more human than loneliness?” he asks.

She smiles sadly. “Love,” she whispers.

“You can imagine how confusing that is for people like us.”

She can, because she hasn’t been human for a long time.

“I’m tired, Rhys.”

“I know.”

“You can have it. My soul. I surrender.”

Rhys is quiet for so long that she turns around. His face is a punch to the gut, even after all this time.

Feyre had expected him to laugh, and rejoice in his victory, his eyes dark with pleasure. But he only smiles at her, a secret little smile, his eyes twinkling with the stars above.

“I decline,” he says with a shrug.

She blinks stupidly. “What?”

“I do not want your soul. You can keep it.”

He steps closer to her, close enough that she has to lift her chin to look at him.

“And what is it that you do want, Rhys?”

He laughs then, the affection in his eyes so open and pure that it takes her breath away.

“You, Feyre darling.” He lifts her hand, and slides her wooden ring onto her finger. “Stay with me.”

Feyre contemplates her hand for a moment. “What would you say to a matching one?” she asks, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

He cocks his head and scratches his chin in mock contemplation, his eyes shining with mischief. “I hear they have excellent woodworkers in Switzerland,” he says.

Feyre holds out her hand. “Come with me.”

Darkness gathers around them, and together, they step into the night.

#feysand #feysand fanfic #feysandmonth2022 #feysand month #feyre archeron #rhysand

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rosenecklaces · 1 year

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@feysandmonth

Feyre and Rhysand | Florence and the machine

Rhys only winked as he gracefully escorted me right into that throne, the movement as easy and smooth as a dance. The crowd murmured as I sat, the black stone bitingly cold against my bare thighs.

They outright gasped as Rhys simply perched on the arm of the throne, smirked at me, and said to the Court of Nightmares —

“Bow.”

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #pro feysand #feysandmonth2022 #had to do something for em on their days or i would felt guilty 😭#my stuff #mystuff #my edit

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velidewrites · 1 year

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Rhys: Feyre, Feyre, do the thing

Feyre: *smiles*

Rhys: Oh my god

#SMILE AGAIN #YOURE EXQUISITE #*SHAKES UNCONTROLLABLY* I AM SO NORMAL ABOUT THEM #feysandmonth2022 #incorrect acotar quotes #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #pro feyre archeron #pro feyre #rhysand #rhysand acotar #pro rhysand #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acotar memes #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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velidewrites · 1 year

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*Feysand arguing*

Cassian: Stop yelling! It’s not good for the baby!

Feyre: What baby???

Cassian, crying a bit: Me!

#cassian is all of us #incorrect acotar quotes #feysandmonth2022 #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #cassian acotar #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acotar memes #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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velidewrites · 1 year

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*at dinner*

Feyre: This is so nice. I’m glad we’re keeping my birthday simple this year

Rhys: Haha me too

Rhys: *frantically waves off marching band*

#last year he had the velaris theatre reenact chapter 55 #‘look feyre darling they got the paint pattern on your cheeks wrong’#‘RHYSAND WHAT THE FUCK’#incorrect acotar quotes #feysandmonth2022 #feysand #pro feysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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velidewrites · 1 year

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Night Triumphant & Stars Eternal 🌑✨

#a little birthday treat to myself 😌😌#feysandmonth2022 #feysand moodboard #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Don't Be a Jerk (It's Christmas) - College AU

Summary: When the group in the corner of the cafe are being too loud for Feyre to study, she decides to take matters into her own hands.

A silly, short little oneshot for @feysand-month (@unofficialfeysandmonth2022) Day 15 - College AU

Read on AO3・Feysand Month Masterlist

Good evening Velaris University listeners.

The voice floating over the cafe’s speakers gave Feyre pause. She set down her pen, trading it for her coffee. She’d been neglecting it so long that it had gone cold, but taking a sip gave her mind an excuse to drift away from the headache of integrals for a moment.

This is your host Lucien Vanserra, I’ll be taking over at VU Radio to keep you night owls company. I hope I can bring a little festive spirit to everyone cramming for exams. Let’s start with the perennial favorite, ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’.

She smiled into her coffee and reached for her phone. Pretty sure Elain is sleeping. She won’t know she’s all you want for Christmas.

Lucien sent back a middle finger emoji.

Teasing him about his crush on her sister had become one of Feyre’s guilty pleasures. What she would never tell Lucien is that Elain had been the one to ask if they could study in the cafe. She insisted it was because she liked the atmosphere. It was just a coincidence that they played the campus radio in the cafe and not in the library.

Feyre would have been better at minding her business about it if Elain hadn’t ditched their study date. She’d gotten her sister’s text only once she’d arrived at the cafe, explaining that she was tired and was going to take an early night. Leaving Feyre to secure a table by herself.

And she wouldn’t have minded studying on her own, if the place Elain had chosen wasn’t so loud. It was open well into the morning and Feyre was hoping she could wait out the noise, but there was one particularly rowdy group in the corner that had set up station before she’d gotten there. By the looks of their setup, she guessed they were planning to be there all night, too.

It meant having to pick between putting in headphones, or listening to Lucien’s radio show. She wanted to pride herself on being a supportive friend, so Feyre grit her teeth and put her headphones in without connecting them to her phone. That way she could still hear Mariah Carey well enough to mentally hum along, but it took some of the edge off of the grating cackle from the man in the corner. He was banging his large fists on the table like the blonde woman next to him had just said the most hilarious joke known to man.

Consciously, Feyre reminded herself that the cafe wasn’t exactly a designated quiet place to study. If she was looking for that, she should have gone to the library—and she would’ve, if not for Elain’s influence.

They’d come here to listen to Lucien’s radio show. So she would listen.

Besides, even if the group was obnoxious, they at least had the benefit of being gorgeous. And she thought maybe it’d be nice to doodle them when she needed a break. Particularly the one sat in the center of it all, with the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen. He wore a smirk on his plush lips and Feyre briefly contemplated what they might taste like.

Until he opened his mouth.

“I thought Lucien’s taste would be classier.”

“C’mon Rhys, this is a classic!” The big one protested. Feyre decided she liked him, even if he was the loudest.

“It’s overplayed,” said the petite woman across from them with a sneer. She had short blonde hair and her grey eyes were narrowed into slits. For such a small person, she carried an energy so imposing that Feyre glanced down quickly at her phone, lest she notice her staring.

She quickly texted Lucien. Play a song for me?

It didn’t take long for Mariah Carey’s voice to fade, and then Lucien’s rich voice came back on: Doesn’t that song just put you in the Christmas spirit? Next up we have an anonymous request dedicated to Rhys. This is ‘Don’t Be a Jerk (It’s Christmas)’.

Rhys sat up, looking around the table at his friends. “Did one of you send that in?”

“No,” the loud one said, throwing his head back for another sharp cackle. “But I want to marry whoever did.”

“It was you, wasn’t it Az?” Rhys said, twitching lips saying he was more amused than anything else.

The third man—the one who up until now had been quiet—shook his head. “I do think it’s an apt choice, though.”

“Yeah, Rhys, don’t be a jerk,” the blonde said, poking her tongue out. “Who’s poor heart did you break recently?”

“No one’s, as far as I’m aware,” he answered, looking thoughtfully down to his phone like he was expecting a text from a vindictive lover any minute.

It meant that he was caught unaware by the large hand that patted him on the back. Even with her headphones in, Feyre could here the small humph of air whooshing out of his chest.

“Rhys has been in a dry spell.” The large one’s grin was sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“Thanks Cass,” he said dryly.

The blond smacked her lips together, entirely unsympathetic. “Maybe you’d have better luck if you weren’t such a—”

“Jerk?” He interrupted smugly.

She laughed. “Maybe we should ask Lucien to play the song again. You clearly didn’t get the memo.”

I think that song has a really important message to take away as we get closer to the holidays. I hope you’re listening, Rhys, because there’s another song request dedicated to you. They’ve asked me to play ‘Silent Night’ to remind you what the cafe should sound like when other people are trying to study.

“It’s someone in the cafe, then,” she heard Rhys say, followed by screeching chairs as they presumably looked around to find the culprit.

Feyre relaxed her shoulders and concentrated heavily on the paper in front of her, smothering the temptation to look up. She thought she could get away with it if they thought she was listening to her headphones, and she made a point of bobbing her head like she was listening to pop music and not a Christmas ballad.

She’d told them off, in her quiet little way. Now she should really go back to studying, instead of listening intently to their conversation. Instead of staring at her paper, doodling a picture of a man with impish features, plush lips, and sparkling eyes.

Alright Velaris University, that was Frank Sinatra’s ‘Silent Night’. If you’ve been listening you’ll know we’ve had a few anonymous requests come in with a message for Rhys. Well, Rhys has just written in with a response. He says you should come ask him to be quiet yourself. This is ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch’.

Feyre scoffed. She couldn’t help it. He was the one saying Mariah Carey was overrated and she was the Grinch?

“Looks like we found your Grinch, Rhys,” one of the women said—the blonde, if Feyre had to guess.

Bashful, she looked up to meet the five pairs of eyes watching her. None of them looked mad, at least. Rhys was grinning.

“There you are.” He stood in a graceful, slow movement. “Do you need help growing your heart a few sizes?”

Her cheeks burned. She quickly covered the doodle as he approached. “I’m trying to study.”

“Are you sure?” He pulled out the chair across from her and dropped himself elegantly into its seat, propping his ankles on the table like the world belonged to him. “By the sound of things, you’re picking fights over the radio.”

Rhys started to peer at the papers in front of her. She hastily snatched a sheet of equations away from his prying fingers. “Lucien is my friend,” she said. “And his taste is very classy.”

“Ah, I see. I insulted your friend.” His eyes fixed to that cup of coffee that had long gone cold. “Allow me to make it up to you? A coffee on me?”

Without waiting for permission, he sat up and reached for the paper cup sat in front of her. Then— “Feyre,” he read off the side. Smiled like he was far too proud of himself. “That’s a pretty name. Fey-ruh. Let’s make a deal.”

She didn’t like the way he leaned over the table. Didn’t like the way her breath caught, and her pulse thudded, and his cologne wrapped around her, tugging her in, in, in until all she could see were those pretty deep blue eyes.

Feyre played her best impression of indifference. “What?”

She didn’t think she did a very good job of it. Her voice came out too shaky.

“If I buy you a coffee and tell my friends to shut up, will you let me sit with you?”

“I need to study,” she insisted.

He held up his free hand amicably. “We’ll study. I’ll keep my mouth shut, too. But at the end, you’ll let me walk you home?”

Feyre pressed her lips together. She studied his bright eyes, then the warm brown skin on his high cheekbones—which she could have sworn were flushed. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, to the group of friends that were watching them so, so intently. She couldn’t decide from their vested interest if they were waiting for her to accept or to turn him down.

But he did have the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen, and they were practically begging her to accept.

“I ordered a latte,” she said finally.

Rhys slumped backwards, a smile blooming on his face. “One latte coming up, Feyre darling.”

She ducked her face back to the paper the moment he was gone, not quite feeling brave enough to gauge the reactions of their audience. Feyre bounced her leg, rolling her pen between her fingers as she listened to them murmur to each other. What a way to meet his friends.

Hello listeners. Bear with me for a moment. We have another request that I feel compelled to honor.

If Feyre listened closely, she could have sworn that Lucien’s microphone picked up a feminine giggle. Quiet, like it was in the background.

Rhys has written in with another request, and he wants to dedicate this one to Feyre. This is ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’.

#Feysand #Feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand month #feysandmonth #feysandmonth2022 #feysandmonth22

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Caught Up In You - Feysand Month

Summary: Feyre finds a polaroid picture on the ground, and soon that small little photo will change her life entirely.

@feysand-month Day 7: Celebrity

Read on AO3 ・Feysand Month Masterlist

But.

Feyre hated the weight of that word.

I like your art, but…

I think the concept is interesting, but…

But hours of hard work were suddenly down the drain because the client said Feyre’s character design was lacking oomph. Coincidentally, oomph was also the sound he’d make if she kicked him between—

“Breath, Feyre,” she muttered, rubbing at her temples in slow circles.

There were still positives to focus on. He had liked the storyline and her art style, he was willing to take her graphic novel onboard. Just with a few changes.

Not that it wasn’t a significant change.

“The main character is too stiff,” he’d said.

Apparently, there was nothing distinguishing about Tamlin’s blonde hair and green eyes and aloof disposition. They wanted a character of intrigue. And the worst part is, Feyre didn’t necessarily disagree. She just wasn’t looking forward to telling her boyfriend why her character design was rejected. Unlikable, they’d called him. Feyre winced. Better to get it over with, she thought, retrieving her phone to deliver the bad news.

As she looked down, something reflected in her periphery. Feyre paused.

There, laying on the ground, was a small polaroid photo. The sun glared against its laminated surface, obscuring the picture’s subject. Until Feyre threw her shadow over it as she crouched down, revealing the most beautiful man she had ever seen, smiling at her through a row of perfectly white teeth. Maybe it was the poor quality of the camera, but Feyre could have sworn his eyes looked purple. They were staring at her with a mischief that was just impish enough to be considered charming.

Intriguing, she thought. That word could be certainly used to describe this man.

If there was a higher power, then it must be winking at her.

It felt more than a little odd to tuck the polaroid of a stranger into her wallet, but Feyre thought he would make a perfect reference and she wasn’t about to question the seemingly divine intervention.

The polaroid had turned out to be a blessing.

For over a month she had studied the handsome purple-eyed man, memorizing every slant and curve of his face. The cupid’s bow of his plush lips, the high cheekbones, the way he grinned like he knew every one of her secrets. It had been fun wondering what kind of man he might be and restructuring her graphic novel to follow the much more elusive Dark Lord.

The Clients had loved her changes.

“To your first publishing deal!” Alis squealed, clinking her shotglass to Feyre’s. “The first of many, I’m certain!”

Feyre laughed. “Let’s get the first one out of the way before we think about that!”

She brought the rim of the glass to her lips and tilted her head back. The tequila warmed her throat, then her chest, then her stomach. Making her feel lighter, allowing some of the elation to push aside her anxiety of god now what. Now it was pages of work, and revision, and—

Celebrating. Now, and the rest of the weekend, it was celebrating. Monday it was work.

Feyre slammed the glass back onto the table, flashing Alis a loose smile. “Let me get the next round.”

“Don’t be silly,” Alis protested, scrambling for her clutch, but Feyre was already walking towards the bar.

The shot had been nice to loosen Feyre up and chase away the anxieties that were still lingering from getting the contract signed. But now Feyre was feeling a little freer, and was in the mood for something fancier. A cocktail—the kind that had a pretty garnish and a clever name.

Feyre rested her elbows against the bar as she waited for the bartender to finish serving someone else. She’d given Feyre that one minute look that made it seem as though the bar was overwhelmed, so Feyre tried to give her more time by paging absently through the cocktail menu.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Someone asked at her ear.

She turned her head, meeting a pair of warm russet eyes. The man had long scarlet hair neatly pulled off his face with hairband, and he wore a charming smile.

He was handsome—if she didn’t have a boyfriend, she might have agreed.

Before she could give him an answer, someone cleared their throat, and Feyre turned to see the blonde bartender glaring at her, then at the red haired man.

“Oh.” Feyre’s cheeks heated, feeling embarrassed for making her wait. “Sorry, can I start a tab?”

The bartender raised a perfectly trimmed brow and held her hand out expectantly.

Feyre stared for a moment, processing what the blonde woman was apparently too busy to say with words. “Oh,” she said again, scrambling for her wallet.

“Put it on mine,” the man beside her said smoothly.

The bartender rolled her eyes.

“No.” Feyre pulled her card out, frowning when the polaroid tucked behind it came loose and fell to the counter. She ignored it in favor of pressing her card into the bartender’s palm. “Please, I want to pay for my own drinks.”

The blonde’s eyes fell to the photo, studying the picture of that breathtaking man who had won Feyre a business deal.

“Is that your boyfriend?” She asked pointedly.

If it would get them both to leave her alone, Feyre didn’t care about telling a little white lie. “Yes.”

The bartender was still staring at the photo. Feyre could have sworn that was recognition in her eyes. Recognition and… something else. Something that made Feyre shift her weight uncomfortably as she watched the blonde look from the polaroid, to the card Feyre had just handed her.

“Let me go create your tab, miss Archeron.” She smiled in a way that made the tequila in Feyre’s stomach suddenly lurch.

Feyre swallowed it down, staring at the back of the bartender’s head as she walked to the register.

“So, Rhysand, huh?” The man at her side said.

“Huh?”

The man cocked his head curiously, gesturing to the photo still on the counter. “Rhysand?”

Oh shit. Feyre hastily snatched the photo back, sliding it into her wallet. “Uh, yeah.”

“What did you say your name was again?” He asked.

Feyre shook her head. “I’m not in the habit of sharing it.”

“Of course,” the man said easily, holding up his hands. “But you might want to be careful, because now Ianthe knows it.” He sent a glare to the back of the bartender’s head. “And I don’t expect her to do anything good with that knowledge.”

Feyre had no idea what he was even talking about. All she wanted to do was go back to the table, drink a cocktail the size of her head, and forget about these people and the man in her wallet they supposedly knew.

So she did just that—ignoring the blonde’s haughty attitude and the redhead’s cryptic words. These people had no idea who she was, and the minute she left the bar, her little white lie about Rhysand wouldn’t even matter.

Feyre woke up with a pounding headache.

She winced as she sat up in bed, holding her hand to her forehead like it might do something to magically alleviate the throbbing.

But the pounding—it turned out—was coming from more than just her head.

Bang, bang, bang.

Someone was aggressively knocking on her front door.

With a groan, Feyre forced herself out of bed and fought back the spell of nausea that begged her to run towards the bathroom instead.

She shrugged on a dressing gown before ambling towards the door.

The brightness stabbed through her retinas as the door creaked open, forcing Feyre to flinch against the light on the other side.

“Hel—”

“Feyre Archeron! Is it true that you’re dating Rhysand Nox?”

“Wha…?”

A microphone was shoved into her face and Feyre squinted against bright flashing lights to a dozen people crowded on her front step with their cameras pointed at her.

“Where did you meet him?” Someone asked.

“How long have you been dating?”

“Is there a reason you two have kept this relationship secret?”

Feyre stumbled backwards into her house, quickly slamming the door and locking it shut.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

She rushed back towards her bedroom to find her phone. It was blown up with texts from friends she hadn’t spoken to in years.

Omg?? Feyre you’re dating Rhysand?

How did you guys meet???

Can you introduce me?

Feyre! It’s been so long we should really…

Ignoring the onslaught of texts, Feyre quickly opened her search engine and typed in the name everyone seemingly knew but her: Rhysand Nox.

And there he was—the man from her wallet. Rhysand Nox. A star so big she’d apparently been hiding under a rock not to have heard of him. The top of the results were flooded with tabloids and clickbait articles.

Rhysand’s Secret Romance!

Rhysand’s Mystery Woman Revealed!

Did a Normal Girl Win Rhysand’s Heart?

“Shit!” Feyre dropped her phone as Tamlin’s face suddenly flashed across the screen. She watched it vibrate in abject horror, making her feel more and more guilty with each buzz. Should she pick it up? What would she even say to him? If old friends were reaching out to her about this, she could only imagine what people were saying to him.

The call went to voicemail. She took a heavy breath.

Then the phone started ringing again. This time it was a number she didn’t recognize and—knowing no good could come of having the stupid thing on—Feyre turned off her phone. She needed a shower, a glass of water, and an Advil at a minimum before she tried to deal with this mess.

Under the hot water, she could almost pretend that this was all a strange, vivid dream. By the time she stepped out, there would be no paparazzi at her door and no notifications blowing up her phone. No tabloids putting her name in a million teenage girls’ burn books.

It didn’t matter, she decided. Once Rhysand made a statement clearing the rumors up, people would lose interest. All Feyre needed to do was wait it out, then this would all be a funny story to tell.

Remember when the world thought you were dating a celebrity?

Likely because a bartender was being petty and left a tip to some reporter that spiraled into… this. So much for girls looking out for girls.

Feyre stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel tightly around her body as she stalked through the house. Next order of business was Advil and a coffee, and only then would she be prepared to deal with Tamlin. Surely he would understand that this was all a rumor blown out of proportion? It was ridiculous to even think that she would know Rhysand, considering until this morning she had thought he was just an ordinary man in a photo.

But no, he was a celebrity. A celebrity that was…

Sitting at her kitchen counter.

Feyre shrieked when he saw him and immediately charged for her knife block. The metal rang as she pulled her chef knife from its slot.

“Whoa, hey!” Rhysand had jumped to his feet, hands in the air.

“What are you doing in my house?”

He smiled—the same stupid, devlish smile she had studied a hundred times over—and took a casual step towards her. Feyre immediately pointed the knife at him, and he froze.

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asked, tilting his head so that a lock of raven hair slid across his forehead. The exact level of posing she could expect from a person groomed to be on talk shows. “I’m not allowed to stop by and visit my girlfriend?”

Feyre didn’t think the joke was funny enough to warrant that amused glint in his eyes. “I’ll call the cops,” she warned.

“I just came to talk,” he said coaxingly. “You weren’t answering the door, which is fair enough. The paparazzi are like—”

“How did you get inside?”

“My security team… helped me get inside.”

In other words, he broke into her house.

“Where are they now, your security team?” Feyre glanced around the empty kitchen, wondering if she should be bracing for some large body guard to tackle her to the floor for pointing a knife at him.

“Battling back those reporters.” Rhysand tutted disapprovingly as he studied her fruit bowl. Then, to her utter disbelief, he reached forward and helped himself to a vine of grapes. “So,” he said, popping one into his mouth. “Feyre Archeron, hmm? That’s a pretty name. Imagine my surprise when I opened up my phone this morning and discovered it belongs to the woman I’m dating”

“Imagine my surprise waking up with a hangover and an army of reporters at my door,” she grumbled, knuckles tightening around the metal handle. “This hasn’t exactly been my ideal morning.”

“No?” Rhys crooned, leaning back as he tossed another grape into his mouth. “Well, I have to say my morning has been wonderful. I found out I have a beautiful girlfriend and she greeted me in a towel.”

“Why are you here?” She asked through gritted teeth. He opened his mouth and Feyre raised the knife again. “No wise cracks.”

Rhysand raised his brows. He stalked around the counter, still carrying that handful of grapes and looking entirely unconcerned about the knife she pointed towards him.

He was so tall. By the time he was standing in front of her, Feyre had to crane her neck to look at his face. He pressed his finger to the blade’s sharp tip. “Are you intending to flay me if I don’t comply? Rather gruesome, don’t you think?” At her withering look, Rhysand sighed. “I’m just here to handle some PR, really. I was worried the paparazzi would be breaking down some poor girl’s door. As it turns out, I should have been more concerned for them. Unless you only threaten your favorite guests with a knife.”

“They’re going to see you here and think that we really are dating,” Feyre accused. “You should have just made a statement.”

“Oh, I’m going to.” Rhysand smirked, studying her face the same way she had studied his photograph. She could tell from the wickedness growing in his smile that whatever he was calculating behind those cunning eyes, she was going to hate it.

Rhys leaned closer and whispered, “I’m going to say that the second I looked into those furious blue-grey eyes, I was a goner.”

#feysandmonth2022 #feysand month #feysandmonth22 #Feysand #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction

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thesistersarcheron · 1 year

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Happy Feysand Month, everyone! Here’s my submission for Day 1: Faerie Tales. This will be the first of three parts! Check my masterlist for more or read this fic on AO3 here.

Deep in the northernmost mountains of the Night Court lay mines rich with deposits of precious gems and metals, granite and marble. For millennia, the mines made the High Lords of the Night Court wealthy beyond belief—and before the High Lords, they had been the prize of war after war, so long ago the force of warriors bred and trained to protect the treasures buried deep within the earth forgot their ancient calling.

And, on a cool spring night thousands of years after the last of those wars, Feyre Archeron waited just out of view in the mouth of the greatest mine.

The steady drumbeats had called her here, thudding through her harder than her heartbeat and setting her pulse fluttering. She had tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the party the other faeries who called the mines home hosted every year, but the drums came faster and louder with every passing minute.

There was a string, as golden as any ore she’d ever seen, tied to her gut and luring her out of the mountain.

Come, a voice had seemed to sing beneath the music. Come and see.

So Feyre had smiled at her sisters but stopped refilling her glass of wine. She waited until the High Lord’s wraiths appeared, trays laden with offerings of cakes and fruits in hand, and snuck away.

The climb was long, exhausting, but entirely worth it. She had been greeted by the sounds of a raucous celebration that echoed down into the mines; it was louder than ever before, the Above-Dwellers singing and chanting and laughing uproariously as they danced to the drums. The softer murmurs of conversation that filtered down to her were laced with anticipation, the same that seemed to draw that string from Feyre’s core to her throat.

The mouth of the mine was decorated in sweeping garlands of glittering crystal and shining silver. Beaded curtains heavy with amethysts and moonstones meant to obscure the interior of the mine from view kept her from seeing all but the shadowed forms of the revelers. The occasional curious hand swept through the beads, drawing sweet, tinkling music from the jewels.

But none were the form she wanted to see. None were the hand she longed to feel.

The High Lord’s.

Her High Lord’s.

He was the most beautiful male she’d ever seen, her High Lord. Tall, broad, with a shock of raven-black hair that gleamed blue and purple in the gentle light the glowworms radiated. He was so finely muscled that she often mused that he seemed to be hewn from the fine deposits of dark granite located in the mountains east of the mines, rather than formed of flesh and bone.

She had loved him since he was a prince, and he had come every spring that she could remember to prepare the mountain for the Rite. When preparations were complete, he always descended into the mines with the jeweler-wraiths, examined their latest selection of gems, and selected one to be refined, polished, and placed into a setting.

I’ll need it someday, he always said when the wraiths pressed him, trying to get a read on the female he was buying such expensive gifts for. But her prince was charming, clever, and always managed to get away without revealing why he was collecting fine jewelry when he wore none. When his mother was practical to a fault and sister preferred silks and leathers over jewelry.

When he had no mistress.

No wife.

And when he always, without fail, selected Feyre’s favorite gems. The ones she’d picked out long ago, twinkling like stars on the rocky walls, and mourned when the miners picked them out of the rock. Feyre didn’t believe much in the Mother or the Cauldron, or even in coincidence, but she did believe in patterns. In timing.

And this was his first Great Rite as High Lord.

The celebration grew in fervor, and the drums beat faster and faster as the excitement ratcheted higher and higher. The music swelled, stringed instruments crying out and horns blaring. A cheer went up, and the very stone beneath Feyre’s hands and feet seemed to tremble with untold power.

The most powerful High Lord in history, Feyre heard some of them saying just before another wild cheer went up from the crowd, and her heart skipped as, finally, a bit of the starkissed darkness that had always fascinated her crept into the mine. The jeweled curtains shimmered, starlight playing off them brilliantly.

She waited and waited, perched like a hunter behind crates full of diamonds in the rough, watching the forms dance and listening to the drums. She hoped the slight sparkle in the stones would camouflage her own skin, crystalline and iridescent as it was, until the moment was right.

Until it was just her and her High Lord.

A million butterflies burst into flight in her stomach when the noise quieted, the low bass-beat of his power settling to something solemn. Beyond the curtain, a female voice was speaking, cracked and rich with age. Feyre hardly heard her, hardly heard the talk of blessing their land for another year as a shadow stretched up, up, up the curtains. Through the jewels, she saw a flash of dark, golden skin and had to press her thighs together in response.

Her breathing was shallow by the time the curtains were parted by two equally large figures, their forms framed by massive wings. One of them said something, a rogueish grin on his rough-hewn face, while the other wore a look of bored nonchalance. Feyre bristled at the sight of a beautiful, golden-haired female at his side when she reached out to clasp his shoulder, but the High Lord…

The High Lord ignored her, nodding at the ancient priestess instead, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders rolled back. His chest was bare, his shoulders draped in a mantle of jewels that matched the beaded curtains, and Feyre blinked as she drank in the brutal, beautiful whorls of ink that marked his skin. It was a warrior’s ink, a blessing of luck and glory won with blood, and he wore more of it than any male she had ever seen.

The priestess handed him a goblet and he drank deeply, utterly ignorant of the way Feyre’s heart stuttered when he licked his lips clean and handed the golden cup back to the priestess, who bowed and returned to the crowd.

Feyre waited even longer as he cast those lovely eyes around the mouth of the mine. Waited until the males closed the curtain and the party retreated into the valley between the mountains. Until, for the first time, they were alone.

“Hello.”

———

Quite frankly, Rhysand had no gods-damned idea what he was meant to be doing in the mines.

As the heir to his court, he had served as the Master of the Ceremonies for almost a century, arranging the celebrations above them. His job had been to ensure that there was enough wine and merriment that the party dissolved into an orgy—a burden he quite joyfully shouldered. He oversaw the magic kicked up by the revelers’ frantic coupling, harnessed it before it could escape and spilt the power back into the Earth.

In the past, Rhys had been all too happy to join in. To toast his court’s power and feast on food and females alike as the drink and the magic took hold of his senses until dawn. Until his skin was taut and heated, and every coy touch, every orgasm, was amplified tenfold. In the morning, he made sure the partygoers were safely returned to their homes and showered with little trinkets plucked from the mines—a ring or a pendant or a cluster of auspicious crystal—as thanks for sharing their power with their court.

But now, as High Lord, he was somehow meant to descend into the mines alone and, according to the ritual invocation, imbue the Night Court with his power.

He had no fucking clue what that meant.

And, Mother fuck him, he was High Lord of the Night Court. His throat tightened, and he blinked hard. He would not think of that tonight. Not when his mind was already starting to slip away despite his shields, the wine whetting his senses to a fine, honed edge.

A string of jewels caught on his nipple, and his cock pulsed with interest. Rhys had to breathe deeply to restrain himself, clenching his fists in the pockets of his loose, comfortable trousers. The muscles in his back ached without the heavy, reassuring weight of his wings.

Despite months of scouring the library, there were no written records of what the High Lord of the Night Court was supposed to do after the priestesses blessed the wine. True to form, the Night Court kept its secrets close to the chest; there was no celebrated Hunt, no Maiden to debauch. There were only the mines, filled to the brim with the court’s magical and material wealth, and the secretive ritual talked about in the vaguest of terms.

His father had never gone into much detail about the Great Rite, either; he’d always disappeared beyond the symbolic veil alone and reappeared in Velaris a day later, his eyes and mouth tight with disapproval.

But Rhys refused to believe that Cassian was right. Magic was always stronger when at least two people beckoned it to their will together, and to bless his court by stroking his cock by himself and coming onto crates of jewels all night long…

“Hello.”

Rhys whirled around.

A beautiful female peered out from behind a stack of the same crates he had been examining. Her rose-quartz skin glittered as the dim light caught and fractured on it, and her hair was a coil of pure, silken gold atop her head. He took a step closer—her eyes were clear, brilliant aquamarine studded with onyx.

A mountain nymph, rarer than any gem in the mine.

This female must be brave beyond measure, too, to approach him like this, when her people normally stayed deep beneath the crust of the earth. Safe and sound, where no treasure hunters could find them and steal away the most precious members of the Night Court to be the jewel in some other lord’s crown.

She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain of herself and utterly unaware of how badly Rhys wanted to replace that row of gleaming, mother-of-pearl teeth with his own.

Her head dipped, her cheeks glittering. Still, she was a bold thing, just as he suspected, and didn’t drop her gaze. “…my Lord.”

Amusement and desire curled around his ribs, warm and welcome. Was this the ritual? He was to spend the night fucking magic into a pretty little gemstone, enriching his court by sinking his cock into her priceless pussy?

Rhys couldn’t contain his answering grin as he felt his power stir again, stronger this time as it awakened with the need to possess the female.

“Hello, darling.”

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