#Feyre is very smug about it

[shallyne]

Feysand trying for a baby

Feyre: okay, let's go!

Rhys: Feyre, I'm not a faucet that you can turn on and off, you gotta romance me-

Feyre: *unbuttons her shirt*

Rhys: okay, faucet is on, let's do it!

@officialfeysandweek2023

[inkedinshadows]

Echoes of the Bond

Pairing: Azriel × reader

Summary: part 2 of 3 of "A Helping Hand". When mates are reunited, Y/N grows curious about what the mating bond is, causing Azriel's brain to short-circuit.

Warnings: none I guess?

Word count: 3.7k

A Helping Hand (part 1)

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Y/N got out of the tub, wrapping her body in a soft towel.

For the last three weeks, she'd been able to take a bath on her own. Azriel had helped twice after that first time, and even Mor had tried when Azriel wasn't around. But Y/N wasn't comfortable with her there, not as she was with the Shadowsinger. Knowing she couldn't always count on him for something as basic as washing herself, she'd learned – or relearned, actually – how to do it herself. There were still bad days when the first few minutes in the water had her gasping for air, but they were now few and far between. And when they did occur, she usually imagined Azriel's heartbeat beneath her palm, just like the first time, and she'd calm down. She never told him that, though.

Sliding on a dress, she headed out of her room and toward the dining room. She was getting used to living in the House of Wind, almost looking forward to having meals with the Inner Circle. Elain and Nesta were still having a hard time adapting to this new life and refused to leave their rooms, and Y/N would visit them sometimes, but they'd never really been close. Out of the three sisters, Feyre was her friend, and she missed her. Things would be easier if she were back in the Night Court.

When Y/N entered the room, Azriel and Cassian were already there. She offered them a smile as she sat at the table, a plate of her favorite pastries appearing before her as soon as she did. Even after a month in Prythian, she was still trying to wrap her mind around magic. Real magic, right in front of her.

“How are you today?”

Y/N turned to Cassian with a small smile. “I'm feeling better every day.” She glanced at Azriel, who always seemed worried she might be lying about it. “And I haven't had any nightmares in a few days.”

Azriel inclined his head, a barely-there gesture she might have missed if she hadn't grown used to his subtle movements. Ever since he first helped her, she had become keenly aware of his every move.

“That's good,” he replied, his eyes lingering on her for a second longer before he returned his attention to his breakfast.

With Cassian's focus still on her, she picked up one of her pastries as she addressed him again. “And how are your wings?”

“Feeling better every day,” he answered, repeating her words with a mocking smile. He even extended them behind him to demonstrate the truthfulness of his statement. “Biggest wingspan getting back on track, I can tell you that.”

Y/N chuckled. “You have the biggest wingspan?”

“Oh, you bet I do.” Cassian's grin was nothing less than smug. “I could show you exactly how big–”

Azriel's snarl interrupted him. “Watch it, Cassian.”

But Cassian didn't seem particularly bothered. “Why? She asked,” he replied with a shrug. “I was merely offering her a chance to see for her–”

He was cut off by Azriel's low growl. Y/N looked at him, her brow furrowed in confusion at the reaction. She'd never heard such a tone from him before, never seen him so on edge. Glancing from one Illyrian to the other, she realized there might be something she wasn't aware of, or maybe wingspan was just a very sensitive topic for them.

Cassian lifted his hands up in surrender, finally picking up on his brother's rising irritation. “Relax, Az.” He glanced at Y/N, then back at him. “It was just a joke, brother.”

But Azriel still seemed tense, and Y/N reached over to him to place a hand on his arm. “Azriel,” she said gently, “are you alright?”

He’d always been there for her since she’d arrived at the Night Court, and she now wanted to do the same for him, even if she didn’t know what had triggered such a reaction from him.

Those beautiful hazel eyes slid to her hand touching him, then to her face, and he finally relaxed as he gave her a nod. “Yeah… sorry about that,” he murmured, casting an apologetic look in Cassian’s direction, receiving only a dismissive wave of hand in return.

As Y/N pulled back, a few tendrils of Azriel's shadows slithered between her fingers and curled around her wrist. Their master looked at them as if they were disobedient children and Cassian's eyes widened, but she only chuckled.

Shadows lingered in the darkest corners of her room, swirling under furniture or inside cracks as if they were trying to hide. But she knew they were there – she'd first noticed them one day when Azriel had brought her a tray of food, back when hunger was an unknown feeling and she didn't eat. Though neither she nor Azriel ever said anything about it, knowing his shadows were always with her was a comforting thought. But they'd never openly approached her before.

“They seem to like you,” Cassian pointed out, his voice muffled by the food he had just stuffed in his mouth.

Y/N watched the shadows linger around her wrist as a bracelet, a warm feeling sparking in her chest, there and gone as soon as the shadows hurtled back to their master. “I think they’re cute,” she said with a smile, her eyes meeting Azriel’s for a moment before they both looked away. She could have sworn a faint blush crept up his cheeks. It only made her smile grow.

Cassian seemed to notice it too, because he paused mid-bite. His eyes narrowed as he focused first on his brother, then on her, then on Azriel again. And then his jaw almost dropped, his eyes now widened.

Y/N was about to chuckle at the sight, but Azriel was even more serious than usual and just gave Cassian a short nod. She frowned, aware once more that there was some kind of silent conversation going on between the two brothers. But neither of them bothered to enlighten her, and she didn't ask. She was still new to their world, and to their group. They would have told her if it was something they thought she should know, she was sure of it.

They continued to eat their breakfast, though a somewhat tense silence had now settled over them. Azriel kept his eyes on his food while Cassian was miserably failing at hiding his grin as he glanced between the two of them. On her part, Y/N felt like anything she could say would be the wrong thing, so she didn't say anything.

Once they were done eating, she stood up, intent on heading back to her room or maybe stopping at the library Rhys had shown her a few days before. But Cassian called out her name and she stopped in her tracks, turning around in time to notice Azriel's warning look at his brother.

“Would you like to leave the House for a few hours?” Cassian asked her with a smile. “Az and I could show you around Velaris. You said you wanted to see it yesterday.”

“I did,” she confirmed, surprised by the offer.

Azriel was now watching her, more relaxed than a few minutes ago as he waited for her answer. And she didn't even need to think about it.

“I'd really like that, yes.”

“Good!” Cassian almost burst out of his seat and guided her towards the doors that led out onto the balcony, Azriel trailing silently after them. “Then I hope you're not afraid of heights.”

Y/N frowned. “Heights? No, why?”

It was Azriel who answered this time. “The easiest way to reach the city is by flight.” He walked up to her, standing so close that his scent enveloped her, and she had to fight not to close her eyes and breathe it in. “Will you trust me to fly you down?”

She smiled then, soft and warm. “Az, of course I do.” After everything he’d done for her, there was probably nothing she wouldn't trust him with. “You know that.”

A coughing fit drew her attention to Cassian as he tried to suppress a giggle.

“What’s going on with you today?” she asked with a chuckle.

“Oh, nothing,” he snickered. “I'll see you down there.” He extended his wings and with a powerful beat, he shot skyward.

Y/N turned back to Azriel with a raised eyebrow, but he simply shook his head. “Ignore him,” he said, his tone somewhere between amused and annoyed. “He acts like a big child sometimes.”

She chuckled again, but it quickly died when Azriel stepped even closer. He moved slowly, as if he wanted to give her all the time to change her mind and push him away, but she didn't. And then his arms were at her knees and her back, and he effortlessly picked her up and cradled her to his chest.

Her heart skipped a beat and she tried her best not to blush at the proximity, the gentleness he was holding her with. It reminded her of when he'd washed her, every movement careful and studied so as not to startle her. That feeling in her chest came back, but it was more like a gentle tug. Toward what, she didn’t know.

“Are you ready?” His voice was soft, like he didn't want to ruin the moment, but his eyes bore into her and she could only nod, her ability to speak momentarily forgotten.

Next thing she knew, they were airborne. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck for more support when she realized just how high up in the sky they were, the House of Wind growing smaller behind them. She forced herself to peer at the city below them. And she stopped breathing altogether.

If the view from the House of Wind was beautiful, then there were no words to describe it from right above it. Velaris was sprawled below them, shining in the light of the morning sun, the river flowing through it to the sea, and as they slowly descended towards the city, Y/N could make out people in the streets, the sounds of music and laughter filling her ears.

“It's… so beautiful,” she murmured, her awestruck tone bringing a smile on Azriel’s lips.

“You should see it at night,” he replied, flying around until he spotted Cassian waiting for them. “There's a reason why it's called the City of Starlight.”

“Maybe you could take me flying at night, then.”

She didn't know where the words had come from, why she'd suggested it. Azriel definitely had more important things to do than show her a night view of Velaris. Sleep seemed like a good option, for example. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.

But Azriel landed and gently placed her on her feet again, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he pulled away. “Maybe I could.” There was no hint of playfulness in his voice. He really meant it.

Before Y/N could answer, Cassian approached and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “There you are! I was starting to think you two would never come down.”

Azriel shot him a glare and simply gestured for them to start walking down the street. Cassian was still speaking, but she wasn’t listening, too busy taking in their surroundings to focus on anything else. She'd never seen a city before – none were left in the human lands – and Velaris was bustling with life. She marveled at every shop, every little corner, every painted house.

They had reached the end of the street, a bridge over the Sidra now in front of them, when both Cassian and Azriel tensed. Y/N turned to them, mouth already open to ask what was wrong, but a small cry of surprise came out instead as Mor suddenly appeared next to them.

“We have to go,” was all she said, her voice firm. She was wearing black leathers like the Illyrians, as if she was ready for a fight.

The three of them exchanged a glance, Y/N even more confused than before. Azriel simply said, “I'll take her to the townhouse,” and scooped her up in his arms once more. She only had time to see Mor grab Cassian's hand and winnow away before they were soaring through the sky again.

“Az, what's going on?” she finally asked, turning her face to look at him.

His unreadable expression only caused her to be even more nervous, yet Azriel didn't answer until he landed on the doorstep of a house and set her down. “It's Feyre.” Her heart jumped at the words. “She's in the Winter Court. We're getting her back.”

The door opened behind them, and Amren appeared. She lifted a brow at the sight of Y/N, probably not expecting her, but she simply looked at Azriel. “Go. Now.”

The Shadowsinger looked at Y/N one last time, gave them a sharp nod, and shot to the skies.

“Come inside, girl.” Amren stepped aside to let her walk by. “Looks like we've got some waiting to do.”

~~~~~~

Waiting must be some kind of torture.

Apparently, Amren didn't know much about Feyre's situation. She only explained that Rhys had spoken mind-to-mind with all of them, saying his mate had left the Spring Court. Other than that, she had no idea if Feyre was fine or hurt.

But Y/N wasn’t worried just about her friend. She was worried about Azriel too, as if he weren't a centuries-old warrior who could definitely look out for himself. Maybe it was just Amren's presence that set her even more on edge. The short female made her nervous, perhaps due to the power that seemed to thrum from her, or the way she seemed to look at her as if she could see into the depths of her soul.

After an hour that felt more like a century, five figures winnowed into the living room. Y/N flinched, then shot to her feet and ran to Feyre, not caring about the dirt that covered her friend as she held her tight. Feyre stumbled back a step, probably caught off guard, but hugged her back a second later.

“Y/N.” She pulled back, scanning her head to toe. “Are you alright?”

Y/N almost laughed at that. She wasn't the one who'd just needed a rescue party. “If I'm alright? Are you alright?”

Feyre nodded, but her attention quickly shifted. “Yeah, I'm… I'm alright.” Her eyes were searching the room, as if looking for something. Or someone, Y/N guessed.

Letting go of her friend, Y/N realized there was another person with them. A red-haired Fae with a mechanical golden eye. She'd seen him before – that day in Hybern. Now that her recollection of those events was clearer, she remembered him claiming Elain was his mate just as she came out of the Cauldron, right before they'd shoved her in.

Cassian, Azriel and Mor were assessing him, as if deciding what to do with him. But she paid little attention to what was being said, focusing instead on the Shadowsinger, searching for any sign of discomfort or – gods forbid – wounds. She sighed in relief when she found none, unsure of why she'd been so worried in the first place.

The conversation halted, and she whirled to see Rhysand appear in the doorway. Feyre sank to her knees, tears in her eyes, and he was immediately there to hold her. “My love,” he whispered, though they all heard it in the silence. “My mate.”

Once again, Y/N felt a slight tug in her chest, and her gaze was drawn to Azriel. She found him already looking at her, but when their eyes met,  he seemed to shrink into his shadows like he wanted to disappear. She unconsciously rubbed her chest as she averted her gaze.

“Go find somewhere else to be for a while,” Rhys ordered them.

One by one, they filed out the door and onto the street. Azriel declared he was going to fly her back to the House of Wind, the others announcing they’d be waiting in Amren's apartment until given the order to return to the townhouse. And so Y/N found herself in Azriel's arms for the third time in the span of less than two hours.

Despite her increased heart rate, she felt like a bit of a burden, needing to be carried around by him when he obviously had more pressing matters to take care of. Yet she couldn't deny the safety she felt in his arms while they flew toward the mountain and its house.

“Az,” she said after a couple minutes, “that male you brought back with Feyre–”

He looked down at her. “Lucien?”

Y/N nodded. “That day in Hybern, he… he said Elain was his mate.”

Azriel aimed for one of the balconies of the House of Wind. “What about it?”

“Fey and Rhys are mates as well,” she added, her brow furrowed. The High Lord had referred to her friend as such many times over the last few weeks.

The Shadowsinger landed and set her down, looking at her as if urging her to continue, not sure what she was trying to say. But he seemed to be holding his breath.

Maybe she should just let him go back to the others and keep her questions for later. But instead she asked, “What is a mate?”

Azriel tensed. She thought he might not answer, but then he spoke, his tone carrying a hint of reverence. “Mates are… equals, in every way. It's a very rare bond, but it's so deep and powerful that it's cherished and honored above others. Even marriage.”

Y/N rubbed her chest, the spot where she kept feeling that pull. Azriel cocked his head, noting the movement. She should definitely let him go, yet he made no movement to leave, and she found herself blurting out, “Do you have a mate?”

His shadows stilled their constant swirling around him. Maybe it was rude to ask, or it was a sensitive topic for him. Whatever the reason, she shouldn't–

“I do,” he answered, right as she was about to apologize. “I've found her recently.”

Her heart dropped. She didn't know why the idea of him with a mate bothered her, but that damn feeling in her chest grew stronger, and she had to resist the urge to rub it again.

“How is she?”

Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut, why did she have to keep asking questions? Why did she even care if Azriel had a mate or not? She'd just learnt what that meant anyway. At least her voice sounded soft and genuinely curious, not at all clipped – a small consolation.

“She is… kind, and gentle.” He spoke slowly, his words chosen carefully. But then his eyes softened and his shadows began to move again, a few tendrils stretching out towards her. “She's a lot like you, actually.”

All she took from his answer – what she chose to focus on, anyway – was that Azriel saw her as kind and gentle and that she reminded him of someone as important as his mate. Though it still stung a little, if she had to be honest. 

“Well,” she replied, her tone lighter as she took a step back. She smiled up at him. “She's lucky to have you, Az.”

She meant it. If he was even just half as sweet and caring with his mate as he'd been with her that first week after Hybern, then his mate was a really lucky girl. But the thought caused guilt to eat away at her insides. All those times she'd asked him for help – with her baths or to stay with her until she fell asleep – were all moments she'd stolen from him when he could have been with his mate instead. Every time he'd brought her food and checked on her, or even just spent a few hours in comfortable silence as she adjusted to her new life and body.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, unaware of the flustered expression on Azriel's face after her last comment. “When you helped me, I… I never meant to keep you from her. I hope she doesn't–”

“Don't worry about it,” he cut her off, a small smile now playing on his lips. “I'll always be there to help you when you need it.”

Y/N smiled again, whispering a ‘thank you’, though she was still not entirely convinced. But Azriel extended his beautiful wings, ready to return to his friends.

“You know how to get back to your room from here, yes?” he inquired, glancing behind her at the doors that led inside. When she nodded, he continued, “I'll see you later, then.”

A beat of his wings, and he was gone.

With a sigh, Y/N turned to walk inside, mindlessly brushing that same spot near her heart.

~~~~~~

Azriel used the few minutes of flight to reel in his nerves.

What was he thinking, telling Y/N his mate was a lot like her? The question had caught him off guard, and his brain had stopped working. He couldn't very well tell her they were mates – not there, not like that – but he should have come up with some better answer.

She’s lucky to have you.

The words echoed in his mind. He knew she meant it, like she seemed to mean everything she said. But would she still feel lucky once she learned it was her, that she was the one who had him from the first moment he saw her a month ago?

The only thing he was sure about was that Y/N could feel the bond. He'd seen her rub her chest multiple times, always in the same place, right where he felt their bond in his own chest. She just didn't know what it meant. He couldn't blame her for it, not when she was still new to the faerie world.

Even as he joined the others in Amren's apartment, it was difficult to keep his attention on the conversation, on keeping an eye on Lucien, on what their next step would be. For the first time in decades, he was having troubles focusing, his mind constantly shifting to Y/N.

He couldn't go on like this. He had to tell her. He'd waited because she was still processing everything she'd gone through, but now she was feeling better. And she'd asked about mates. She deserved to know.

Azriel made his decision. Next time they'd be alone, he'd tell her the whole truth. Hoping she'd understand and not push him away.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it.

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Read part 3 here!

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows

[velarisnightsky444]

Insufferable

Angstober Day 3: Miscommunication with Lucien

CW: Tamlin, angst with a happy ending, miscommunication, implied SA(not super obvious, but if you know, you know)

AN: So sorry this is late! Today I'm catching up with my October fics! This takes place during ACOMAF, when Feyre would be in the Night Court. I tried to make YN tomboyish without making her a pick me, but sorry if she gives pick me vibes.

Summary: YN has lived in the Spring Court her entire life. When Lucien arrived, the two became fast friends. YN fell in love with him. But when she overhears a conversation between him and Tamlin, her heart is broken.

Word Count: 1.5k

October Masterlist

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You watched Lucien as he pulled back the string of his bow, his russet eye unwavering and focused on the target.

His long, fiery hair was pulled back, secured to keep it out of his face. His tan skin was golden under the setting sun.

And his face. His beautiful face. You had missed being able to see his whole face.

Once Tamlin got Feyre back from the Night Court, you would need to thank her for setting everyone free from Amarantha, simply because you could see Lucien's face again.

He let the string go, and you watched in anticipation, your eyes following the arrow until it buried itself right in the center of the target.

"I win," Lucien grinned, turning his smug attention towards you.

"It was close," you grumbled, crossing your arms.

"It was," he agreed with a nod. "But not close enough. I win."

You rolled your eyes, but had to bite your lip to keep back a smile. You watched his muscled form as he walked toward the target, collecting the arrows and placing them back in his quiver.

"It's getting dark, Y/N/N" he observed as he neared you again. "Your father will be waiting for you."

"Yes, I'm aware," you sighed.

Your father would be waiting at the manor, getting his horse ready to take the two of you back to the village. He would likely scold you for participating in such an unbecoming activity, but he knew very well what to expect from you, by now. A part of him would always secretly love you for it.

It wasn't that you refused to be a proper lady. You loved wearing dresses and spending your time with other females. You enjoyed cooking, didn't even mind taking over the house chores. And you had surprisingly proper etiquette for a poor village girl.

You could act like a lady with no complaints when the occasion called for it. But you needed a balance.

You needed adventure, and excitement. And you did not want to act like a proper lady all of the time.

The Fae in your village had always sneered about you when you were a child, gossiping when they saw you coming home covered in mud, climbing a tree, or playing with the other boys.

"It's because she doesn't have a mother," they would say. "A male cannot raise a lady on his own."

But your mother had died in childbirth. That wasn't your father's fault. Nor was it yours, as he always insisted.

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You woke bright and early the next morning to go back to the manor with your father. You rode on horseback together, every morning since you were a child.

Your father worked as one of Tamlin's sentries. Since you had no mother to watch you, he began taking you with him since he first got the job, when you were just a toddler.

Once you were old enough to watch yourself, you realized you loved going with him so much, you didn't want to stop.

It wasn't until two centuries ago that Lucien arrived. The second your eyes met, you had fallen head over heels for him. But he hadn't shown any interest in you, not like that. So you settled for being his friend.

He was the closest friend you'd ever had. He was only a decade older than you, and he had a dry sense of humor that you loved. He let you hunt with him, and challenged you to competitions of all sorts. He didn't care that you were a lady, and he didn't expect you to act like one.

When you arrived to the manor, you were informed that Tamlin and Lucien were taking care of business. You ignored the disappointment that settled in your gut.

Before Lucien, you had spent a lot of your days in the library of the manor. One of the Lesser Fae servants had even taught you to read there.

You settled in by the fireplace, reading an adventure novel you had loved when you were young. Every now and then, you reread it to remind yourself of the simple innocence of childhood.

When you had finished the short book, you sighed, stretching out your limbs, and getting to your feet.

You decided to venture out into the manor, just to see if Lucien had returned from the business he was attending to.

Your shoes clacked against the marble floors of the manor, until you found Lucien sitting alone in the dining room. He was not eating; he was just sitting there, staring at the table.

"Lu?" you asked, frowning as you approached him. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, Y/N," he murmured, the words unconvincing. Your brows furrowed. He very rarely called you by your full name.

"You don't seem fine," you said, sitting in the chair next to him.

"Just leave me alone," he nearly whispered, not even glancing up to meet your eyes.

"Lu--" you began, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't touch me," he snapped, snarling and shaking your hand off of him.

You flinched, eyes going wide. He had never raised his voice at you, nor had he ever spoken to you in such a disrespectful manner.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly.

"Just leave," he repeated, voice breaking.

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You couldn't sleep that night. You tossed and turned, wracking your brain to try and figure out what you had done wrong. But you could think of nothing.

You were hesitant to return to the manor the next day, but you did. You made to decision to seek out Tamlin, and ask if Lucien had mentioned anything to him.

You and Tamlin had never been close, but he'd known you since you were a toddler. He had a soft spot for you. He had made sure to buy more children's books for the library, and he always let you eat whatever you wanted from the kitchens. When you were young, he made sure to assign a servant to watch you everyday.

As you neared his study, the sound of voices inside carried out to you. You stepped closely warily, pressing your ear to the door.

"You'll have to put up with her for a bit longer," Tamlin was saying.

"I can't fucking stand her. Don't you think I've had to put up with her for long enough?" was Lucien's harsh reply.

You flinched, the words cutting deep. Did he mean you? You always thought he enjoyed your time together.

"She is our guest," Tamlin snarled. "We have offered her hospitality, and you will be civil to her."

"You have no idea just how insufferable she is!" Lucien snapped. "She never leaves me alone. She's always right there. I fucking hate it, Tamlin."

You had heard enough. You felt sick to your stomach. You pulled away from the door, tears lining your eyes as you quietly walked away.

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You went back to next day, only because you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of avoiding him. Not after everything he had said about you.

Your father had questioned you when your tears had begun to fall on the ride over. But you insisted that you were okay. He was still concerned, but he knew better than to push.

You spent the day in the library again, reading something new, this time. You wiped your tears and sniffled through the entire book.

"Y/N/N?" you heard. The first sound you'd heard in hours.

You glanced up, meeting Lucien's russet eye. Your shoulders slumped, your lip trembling pathetically at the mere sight of him.

"I wanted to apologize for the other day," he said calmly. "I was cold to you, and I shouldn't have raised my voice. I'm sorry."

"Are you apologizing because you're sorry, or because Tamlin is making you?" you challenged, eyes welling with tears of hurt and fury.

"What?" he asked, his face twisting in an expression of genuine confusion.

"I heard you talking to him yesterday," you scoffed. "You said you didn't want to put up with me anymore, and that I was insufferable."

His brows furrowed for a moment, then clarity fell upon his face. He sighed, shaking his head and approaching the couch you were sitting on.

"I wasn't talking about you, Y/N/N," he assured you.

"Who else could you have possibly been talking about?" you demanded.

"Ianthe," he explained. "She doesn't leave me alone. And she's very pushy. I can't stand her."

You frowned, recalling the words that were said. Yes, it did make sense for them to be about Ianthe.

"Oh," you said weakly, cheeks heating.

"I would never say or think such things about you," he promised, placing a hand on your warm cheek. "You mean everything to me."

"Really?" you whispered, meeting his eye.

"Yes," he nodded. "The other day, I was upset because of Ianthe, not you. I took it out on you, and that wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you," you said. "I'm sorry for the way Ianthe is treating you."

He shrugged, though something skin to pain flashed in his eyes. You reached out, cupping his face like he was doing to you.

He smiled softly, leaning in a planting a kiss on your lips. Surprise rendered you frozen at first, but then, you relaxed against his lips. And you kissed him back.

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Kink/Fluff/Angstober Taglist: @serxndipity-ipity-blog @danikamariemain @book-obsessed124 @winchesterbbygrl @kissesfrommads @binnieonabike @fourthwing4ever @ghostslittlegf @mollygetssherlockcoffee @hawke1917 @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @honk4emoboys @rogerbarnesxx @a-courtof-azriel @kodokunarisu-blog @dxjaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @littlepippilongstocking

Lucien Taglist: @roxan1930

General Taglist: @lilah-asteria @anneas11 @andreperez11 @isnotwhatyourethinking @effervescentbutterfly

comment to be added to any of the taglists!

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[bookwormjust]

Imagine: The Cauldron’s Wrath and Azriel’s Love

The King of Hybern’s war camp was an imposing sight—a dark, foreboding landscape filled with enemies who reeked of cruelty and malice. The tension in the air was palpable, each breath feeling like a struggle against the oppressive weight of impending doom. Your heart pounded as you stood with your sisters, Nesta and Elain, on the raised dais where the Cauldron loomed, its dark, ancient magic swirling ominously.

Feyre stood beside Rhysand, her expression a mix of defiance and desperation as she tried to bargain for your safety. But the King of Hybern’s smug, cruel smile told you everything you needed to know—he had no intention of letting you leave unscathed. The chains that bound your wrists bit into your skin, a painful reminder of your vulnerability in this twisted game.

The Inner Circle was assembled, their expressions grim as they watched the King’s cruel spectacle unfold. Cassian was bleeding from a deep gash on his shoulder, his wings battered and dragging on the ground. Azriel, your mate, was barely standing, his shadows clinging to him like a shroud, the pain in his eyes mirrored in the unsteady way he held himself upright. His usual calm composure was fractured, the terror of potentially losing you visible in every taut line of his body.

“I want my sisters back!” Feyre shouted, her voice laced with fury and fear as she tried to appeal to the King’s vanity, offering herself as a willing participant in exchange for your lives.

But the King only laughed, his voice dripping with derision. “You all will learn the cost of defiance,” he sneered, his gaze sweeping over the three of you before settling on Azriel, who met his eyes with a deadly calm that promised retribution. The King’s smile widened, enjoying the power he held over you all.

Elain was the first to be forced into the Cauldron. She screamed as the magic consumed her, the ancient power pulling her under. The Inner Circle watched in horror, powerless to stop it. Then Nesta was dragged forward, thrashing and spitting curses, her defiance only spurring the King’s sadistic delight. The water churned violently as Nesta was thrown in, her screams mingling with the Cauldron’s terrible hiss.

Your turn came far too soon, the guards’ grips tightening as they pulled you toward the Cauldron. You fought against them, the primal fear of death making your heart race. The cold stone of the dais scraped against your knees as they forced you closer, the chill of the Cauldron’s dark power seeping into your bones.

“Wait!” Azriel’s voice cut through the chaos, filled with a desperate command. He lunged forward, but his injuries slowed him, and the guards pushed him back. Rhysand tried to intervene, his power crackling around him, but the King’s wards held firm.

You looked over your shoulder, your eyes locking onto Azriel’s. There was so much unsaid between you—so many words of love and promises of a future that you hadn’t yet spoken. The bond between you thrummed with a wild, frantic energy, the connection a lifeline in the face of what was about to happen.

“Azriel,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes as you were dragged closer to the Cauldron’s edge. His name was a plea, a promise, and a goodbye all rolled into one. The world seemed to slow, the roar of the Cauldron and the King’s laughter fading into the background.

Azriel’s expression was a mask of agony and fury, his shadows swirling around him in a frantic storm. “I’ll find you,” he vowed, his voice breaking. “No matter what, I’ll find you.”

The guards didn’t wait for another moment. With a rough shove, they pushed you into the Cauldron’s depths. The water was freezing, the shock of it stealing your breath as you were pulled under. Darkness closed in around you, the Cauldron’s magic a suffocating force that tore at your very essence. Pain lanced through you, every nerve ending screaming in agony as the ancient power tried to reshape you.

You fought against the pull, every instinct screaming to survive, but the Cauldron was relentless. The pain intensified, blinding and consuming, and for a moment, you were certain you wouldn’t make it out. Your vision blurred, the edges of consciousness fraying as the magic continued its brutal work.

The bond with Azriel was the only thing that anchored you. Even through the haze of pain, you felt him reaching out, his presence a beacon in the darkness. His voice, strong and steady, cut through the chaos, a lifeline that you clung to with everything you had.

Stay with me, he pleaded through the bond, his voice tinged with desperation. Don’t let go.

But the pain was overwhelming, a crushing weight that made it hard to breathe, to think. You felt your body breaking apart, the magic tearing at you from the inside out. And then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain stopped. Silence fell over the world, the water of the Cauldron stilling around you.

You drifted in that void, caught between life and death, the faint tug of the bond with Azriel the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. You could feel his fear, his rage, and his love, all mingling together in a maelstrom of emotion that pulled you toward him.

Then, slowly, you became aware of the world again. The water churned, and you were thrown from the Cauldron’s depths, gasping and shivering on the cold stone. You coughed, the taste of iron and salt lingering in your mouth, and your vision slowly cleared to reveal the horrified faces of the Inner Circle.

Azriel was the first to reach you, his wings unfurling to shield you from the world. His hands were gentle but frantic as he checked you over, his shadows swirling around you both protectively. “You’re alive,” he breathed, relief flooding his features as he pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you in a desperate embrace.

You clung to him, your body trembling from the aftershocks of the Cauldron’s magic. “I thought… I thought I wasn’t going to make it,” you whispered, your voice shaking.

Azriel held you tighter, his wings forming a protective cocoon around you both. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Around you, the Inner Circle moved quickly. Rhysand and Feyre confronted the King of Hybern, their combined power crashing down on him like a tidal wave of fury. Cassian, despite his injuries, had fought his way to Nesta and Elain, his protective instincts as fierce as ever.

The King’s forces crumbled under the onslaught, the battle turning in your favor as Rhysand unleashed the full wrath of the Night Court upon Hybern. The King’s smug arrogance evaporated as he realized he had lost control of the situation, the once smug expression twisting into one of fear and disbelief.

Azriel’s grip on you never wavered, his wings a constant barrier between you and the outside world. You could feel his anger simmering beneath the surface, not at you, but at the King and the horror he had subjected you to. The memories of his own traumas, of his brothers and their cruelty, echoed in the way his hands clenched and the way his wings tightened protectively around you.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against the soft feathers of his wings, grounding him. “We’re both here.”

Azriel’s eyes met yours, a mix of anguish and relief reflecting in their depths. “I thought I’d lost you,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never been so scared.”

You leaned into him, pressing your forehead against his, letting the bond between you pulse with the warmth of your shared connection. “You didn’t lose me,” you reassured him, your voice firm despite the tears that still lingered. “You saved me.”

In that moment, as the battle raged on and the King of Hybern’s forces crumbled, you and Azriel found solace in each other. The Cauldron’s magic had tried to break you, but it had only made the bond between you stronger. The world might have been chaos, but within the safety of Azriel’s wings, you felt whole and protected.

As the Inner Circle regrouped, victorious but worn from the fight, Azriel kept you close. His protectiveness was as fierce as ever, his eyes scanning for any lingering threats. But for the first time since the battle began, you felt a sense of peace, knowing that no matter what came next, you and Azriel would face it together.

You were his mate, his equal, and nothing—not even the Cauldron’s wrath—could tear you apart. And as you stood together amidst the aftermath of the battle, surrounded by friends and family, you knew that the future, though uncertain, was one you would face side by side with the one person who had always been your anchor, your protector, and your greatest love.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Reasons why I hate pictures of rhys with nyx and headcanons about him as a dad:

Does nothing for the children in 2/3 of his courts

Has watched little boys in Illyria succumb to the system in Illyria where it's kill or be killed; either they join his army and kill for him or die for him, but they are the only paths boys can take

Has watched little girls have their wings disfigured but doesn't disrupt the status quo because the need for the army prevails over girls' lives

Has watched little girls in the Hewn City be married off to older, abusive males but doesn't disrupt the status quo because the need for the army prevails over girls' lives

He kept the very real consequences from Feyre under the guise of wanting her to enjoy the pregnancy

Knew the consequences of her shifting into an Illyrian form but kept them from her

Chose not to risk the baby to try and save the mother, instead deciding it was better for all of them to die

He is the most powerful high lord and had their government and her sisters keep the secret - and wanted to kill one sister for revealing the truth (you know, the most powerful high lord who everybody is afraid of)

He is the most powerful high lord and had the doctor keep the secret from the mother

He kept her shielded from everybody thus isolating her to keep the secret (and preventing her from making her own choice about the baby)

She wore the same damn outfit that she wore UTM to the hewn city to show off her pregnancy whilst heavily pregnant while her husband is smug with male pride or some crap it's GROSS

Edit to add: I also think he will veto any decision Feyre makes about their child because he will know what’s best, including throwing him into a war camp

[shardechance]

𝖏𝖆𝖜𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖗

ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist

pairing: feysand rating: explicit wc: 23k warnings: non con

Feyre’s a big fan of scary movies. So much, in fact, that Halloween night spent curled up on the couch and watching Poltergeist while the kids she’s babysitting sleep upstairs doesn’t sound so bad, even if it means missing out on a party or two. It’s a relatively boring night, until a real ghost appears. Rhysand, in the shittiest costume she’s ever seen, picked the wrong house to trick or treat... but scary movies aren’t scary until they’re real.

[FREAK WEEK DAY 1]

read on ao3 or proceed below for small snippet.

The movie is better than Feyre remembers it, which isn’t exactly a surprise. The first time she saw it, her sisters stole dresses from Mom’s room and dressed Feyre up as E.T. so they could stuff her in a closet. They’d instructed her to hide, and after too long spent in the dark, Feyre eventually wandered out on her own. She found her sisters downstairs, seemingly having forgotten their little sister, with the credits already rolling on the TV.

By contrast, the boys let her have her own blanket, and laugh along with her even when they don’t get the joke. They leave the last bit of popcorn for her, and even though it’s hard in the middle and the chocolate’s gone, it tastes good. There’s fifteen minutes left in the movie when Feyre’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she’s more than a bit disappointed when she gets up to answer it.

“Be right back, boys,” Feyre sighs, flinging the blanket off her lap.

She stands in the foyer, where she can see into the living room to keep an eye on the boys and the movie, and brings the phone up to look at the screen. FaceTime Video. Lucien Vanserra.

“Hey, Lucien,” Feyre says, a bit distracted. What greets her in full and glorious outdated iPhone resolution, is half an opera mask, an open dress shirt, and the smug grin of her best friend.

“Sing, my angel of music!”

Her thumb hits the end call button before Lucien can embarrass himself further.

She doesn’t get the chance to roll her eyes, let alone head back to the boys and their movie. Before she’s even lifted her thumb from the red reject call button, his picture flashes across her screen again. Against her better judgment, her thumb slides across to green.

“Why are you such a bitch?” Lucien asks by way of greeting.

“Mind your manners, potty mouth. Tiny ears present,” she warns, turning her back to the living room as if to shield the kids from his bad language.

He snorts, shooting back something from a red solo cup. “Oh yeah? Fu—”

“Shut up!” She snaps. Her shitty phone speaker is no match for surround sound, so it’s unlikely the boys can hear from the other room, but Feyre doesn’t want to be the reason they learn their first swears. “You look like a loser.”

“What do you mean?” He lifts the mask, revealing his scarred cheek, and half a smirk. Usual golden prosthetic eye switched for a scarlet alternative. “I’m told it plays to my strengths.”

He’s gorgeous. Unfortunately, he is very much aware of that. Scars and all. Chicks dig it, she’s told. Feyre takes the last few steps to the kitchen, dropping a couple of stray candy wrappers in the garbage on her way past.

“What do you want?” she says. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, about that,” Lucien says, his tone dripping with the promise of trouble. “Ditch the kids! Come play!”

And lose the easiest hundred bucks of her life? No way. Yeah, seeing Lucien in his element, chasing the highs of what little nightlife there is to offer, flirting with boys, dancing with girls—

“Negative.” Feyre inspects her cuticles. “This is easy money.”

tag list: @velidewrites @melting-houses-of-gold @popjunkie42 @secret-third-thing @separatist-apologist @the-lonelybarricade @jon-snows-man-bun @iftheshoef1tz

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

Do That Again

Summary - You meet a certain fellow after your roommate starts dating some guy.

Content Warnings - Language, heavy drinking, characters getting drunk, underaged drinking (please tell me if I missed anything)

A/N - I wrote this mostly because there are definitely a lack of Cassian x Reader fics out there and as much as I love Cass and Nesta, this felt necessary. *Do not repost my work without my express permission.* *Do not copy my work.*

1k words

✨ 💫

You and Cassian. Cassian and you. Attached at the hip in every sense of the phrase. If someone was looking for one of you, they’d find the other. The only time you weren’t together is if you didn’t have a class together or if one of you was going to the bathroom and even then if one of you was drunk enough… you might be in a close proximity.

You met Cassian through your friend and roommate, Feyre. Feyre, after a shitty high school boyfriend, met Rhysand at a party. Rhys was… well he was something. It was one of those situations where someone falls first and the other falls harder. Feyre fell hard. Like inches of cement hard. You’d be grinning with smug intent while Feyre’s face was absolutely red after getting back from an evening out with Rhys. Somewhere in the madness of first year the two crazy kids finally were official. You ensured you would meet him before summer break. You did. 

As Feyre’s friend, and body-guard , you were of course critical of the man. He certainly had an ego. But below it all he felt right for your friend. He treated her like an individual, a partner—not a possession. The same night you met Cassian at a party. Admittedly you were a little drunk. Okay, you were more than a little drunk. Okay, fine! You were very drunk. Like hookup-with-your-friend drunk. Thankfully he was drunk too, less drunk, but still drunk. Somewhere between the drinks, bad music, and watching Feyre and Rhys be sickeningly smitten with each other you and Cassian found a connection. It was like in kindergarten when your eyes land on any random person in the room and think, you’re cool and we’re friends now. 

You woke up the following morning with a hang-over on a couch to Feyre and Rhys stifling laughter. Your friend informed you it was the suite Rhysand and his friends shared on campus. How a group of first-years got that was beyond you, but you didn’t complain. You were still wearing your clothes and thanked the heavens you saw no vomit either. You managed yourself awake to see Cassian sprawled on the floor. You met Azriel that morning. 

“For the headache,” he said, as he offered you a glass of water and Aspirin. 

The three of you suffered while Feyre and Rhys remained wrapped up in each other all morning. 

The connection with Cassian only grew faster. You kept in contact over the summer, both constantly joking about the disgust you felt for the budding relationship between your friends. In truth you both were happy for Rhys and Feyre. Upon your return for your Sophomore year of university, the friendship solidified itself. You were constantly together. Staying up late to get work done, eating, studying, getting stupid drunk at parties. Despite the humor and jokes, you also found a deep comfort from each other. 

Cassian adored physical contact, which was perfect because you did too. Something you discovered when you woke up on the couch in the suite to your dear friend have a nightmare. 

“Just a nightmare, Cass. Just a nightmare,” you reassured him. He had clung to you, falling back asleep soon after. 

By the end of Sophomore year, you were literally inseparable, constantly draping over the other whenever you hung out as a group. A group you drunkenly named, Rhysand’s IC , because he was constantly parenting the rest of you alongside Feyre. IC standing for Idiot Children . 

One particularly very early morning, around 1am, you and Cass were draped over each other on the couch in the suite. The conversation topic was stupid things you did as children, and Cassian was letting out a particularly loud laugh when a cold-faced looking Az stepped out of his room, asking you to “pipe down”. 

Your junior year, Cassian managed a suite that could fit you and Feyre and you all lived together. Often times the night would end with Feyre and Rhys finding themselves together with you and Cassian sitting together having a drink while you braided Cass’s shoulder-length hair, talking about trivial matters. 

Your final year, Feyre and Rhys chose to live off campus because they wanted a place to themselves leaving you, Cass, and Az to fend for yourselves. Az wound up with a single while you and Cassian chose to share a room to be closer to the center of campus. Azriel was a floor above you. You spent night after together, sitting in the corner of your room, watching a movie together, or talking, or sitting in silence enjoying the other’s company. In hindsight it was crazy how quickly college had gone by. 

Cassian had become your dearest friend through it all. His humor you adored, but it was his caring and passionate nature which had you feeling more deeply for him. And suddenly you were stumbling back from an We’re Almost Graduated party Rhys and Feyre hosted.

✨💫

“There’s a spider on your shoulder!!” You shout as you stumble into your dorm room with Cass. You cackle as Cass squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. 

You step forward to flick the spider off his shoulder and he screams making you laugh and nearly keel over. He catches you before you do, a hand landing on your hip. An electric buzz bolts through you. For all the times you’d been in contact this felt different. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the fact that his hand has never been on your hip before, or the the excitement of graduation. 

“Cass?” You ask him, his hand still resting against your hip. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Y/N?” His question is met with a moment of silence. And then suddenly Cassian’s hands are cupping your cheeks and he’s kissing you. 

Your eyes flutter shut before he’s pulling away. The kiss somehow intoxicating and sobering. There’s a stupid grin on your best friends face. “You know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

He’s met with silence for a while. You are unable to move. Finally you manage words. “Do that again.”

There is a mild question in his eyes. 

“Do that again,” you repeat. 

Cassian doesn’t need to be told a third time.

[achaotichuman]

hi there, this is my first time asking anything from anyone on here. but, i am a big fan of your work.

i was wondering, when given the time, can you write about how Feyre and Rhysand diss Tamlin at a high lords meeting, but Eris and Lucien are quick to defend him? Lowkey even Nesta gets upset.

i’m a simp for these four. again, when given the time, there’s no rush.

thank you 🥰

Hi!!!! I'm so glad you like my works, thank you for the compliment!

I love this prompt request, I too am a simp for these four. So, without further ado, here you are!

Edit (future me here) I just realized after writing this that you meant for me to rewrite the original High lord's meeting, I am so sorry I thought you meant a future meeting. I can rewrite this later if you would like to see that, but so I don't leave this request for too long, here is what I wrote, I hope you enjoy it!

Another monotone meeting, another set of excruciating hours. Purple eyes flicking to him at every twitch and odd breath. Fingers tapped against the wooden armrests, and his hand slid to her knee. Pale skin gleaming in the light of day, splotchy against her tattooed arms. Blue eyes once stormy pale, were like deep pools, reserves for power and magic since being turned Faery. She looked at her husband, then flicked towards him. They were speaking mind to mind. Tamlin looked towards Thesan speaking. 

It was a lengthy speech that alluded to alliances forming between Dawn, Day, Winter and Summer. A discreet hint for Night, Spring and Autumn to get past differences and keep peace between the Courts. 

Eris, lounging in his golden chair, the peaks of his bejewelled crown glinting in the light, asked to see the contract they had all signed. With a quick glance, he smoothly began asking questions, subtly voicing his interest. 

Tamlin simply watched and listened. Not having been born with the ability to speak words very well aloud, he found another talent he possessed. In silently watching and determining decisions from observations. He listened intently as Thesan and Eris went back and forth for several minutes, before Eris placed the contract on the large glass table they all sat at. 

“You have a deal, Lord Dawn.” Eris wickedly grinned, signing his name to the paper and handing it back to Theasan. 

“Glad to see eye to eye with you, Lord Autumn.” Thesan bowed his head only slightly, before he cast smart eyes between Night and Spring. 

Feyre wrinkled her nose at the contract and Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder, expression smug and proud. Neither looked as though they would reach for it, so Tamlin made his final decision. 

“May I view the contract, Lord Thesan?” Tamlin asked. 

Thesan nodded as he handed it over. Green eyes flicked to amber ones, Eris nodded once, confirmation that the contract was legitimate. Tamlin trusted Eris more than anyone (perhaps besides Lucien, who watched quietly from beside Helion) and since their recent alliances, he had met with the Autumn Lord more than once for advice on Courtly matters and thus trusted his judgement. Though he read it over himself more than once. The paper were enchanted with bargain magic, and once it was signed by every Ruler, it would be sealed, and they would have to keep up their end. 

In the end, he found no loopholes. The far too long contract was specially worded in every Lord’s favour. Tamlin was impressed. Placing the contract on the glass, he took up a pen and began to write his name into the paper. 

“Deal.” He said, as ink touched the yellowish white. 

A scoff echoed from the otherside of the room and Tamlin felt his hand begin to shake even as he ignored Rhysand. 

Signing his name, Tamlin handed the contract back to Thesan who murmured his thanks. 

Finally all eyes turned to Rhysand and Feyre. Who briefly glanced at each other, before Rhysand said, “We will not be signing, quite frankly I can’t see why any of you would.”

“It is a way to ensure no arguments between territories and smooth workings from now on.” Eris replied easily, eyes disinterested in Rhysand’s antics. Tamlin’s lips flicked up, but only for a moment. 

Tamlin glanced over to Lucien, they hadn’t spoken in forever, and every breath felt like a string being pulled tighter and tighter. As if sensing it, Lucien looked over at him. Gods he was breathtaking, wearing lighter colours. Though he still wore simpler clothes. Pale linen trousers and a white shirt with golden accents all over him. A band of gold around his head. He grinned, jerking his head ever so slightly to Night before rolling his eyes. Tamlin stifled a giggle and turned back to what was happening. 

Elain and Nesta sat beside Feyre. Nesta in her Valkyrie gear, with her sword strapped to her back, she looked at Rhysand, eyes turning from careful blankness to confusion with a slight sneer. 

Rhysand said, “There are no arguments between Courts.” 

He looked over at Tamlin, the Spring Lord’s muscles locked up, but he faced those venomous eyes with no emotion. 

“Well I suppose there is one that stirs up trouble for the rest of us. But for someone who was raised by the woods, what should we expect?”

“I’d close my mouth there Rhysand,” Tamlin replied, “Considering you met your brothers in the mud of Illyria.”

“At least I wasn’t known as a feral beast.” Rhysand said lazily, “I could hold a conversation without being kicked out of a ballroom for childish antics.”

Tamlin clenched his fists. Childish antics, yes snapping back at his abusive brothers was childish in retrospect, but he had been on his last thread at that point of his life. 

“I do believe you met your shadowsinger there by beating him to a pulp.” Tamlin replied with just as much ease, “I’d call that feral, wouldn’t you?”

A twinkle sparkled in Rhysand’s violet gaze, as he purred, “You know I hardly think your agreement to this deal is a good indication of its legitimacy.”

As Tamlin furrowed his brow, Rhysand cocked his head and finished, “You couldn’t even keep Hybern, your ally, from turning on you. You entire people left you. Why should anyone think you capable of making decisions in regards to your Court?”

Tamlin gripped the rests of his chair, “You know, it does become quite difficult when your ex-lover fucks with your people’s heads in order to remake their memories so they turn against you.”

Feyre’s face turned white with fury as she said, “Don’t turn this on us when you couldn’t keep your Court from falling apart.”

“You caused it to fall apart.” Tamlin hissed, “You plotted and lied.”

“People lie in Court all the time, Tamlin.” Rhysand said, “You not being able to catch Feyre when she pointed at how you truly are is not our problem-”

“Shut your viper’s mouth, Rhysand.” A voice hissed. 

Tamlin glanced over at Lucien. Eyes flaming orange, as he glared daggers at the Ruler’s of Night. 

“Lucien-” Rhysand began with a proud tone. 

“Don’t.” Lucien warned, “Don’t start this when we are trying for peace, the only ones arguing and antagonising are you.”

“We are not-” Feyre tried to cut in. 

“Feyre you tore the Spring Court apart when they trusted you as a leader of their lands.” Eris drawled, “You are in no position to make judgements on others here.”

Tamlin nearly gaped at Eris, who briefly glanced at him with… sympathy? Sympathy, in his eyes.

“Hybern’s actions are not ours.” Rhysand argued. 

“No, but your actions are yours. And you opened the floodgates for Hybern to come in. You are an accomplice for the lost lives and destroyed lands.” Lucien countered. 

Rhysand opened his mouth to argue but another smooth voice cut in sharply. 

“They’re right.” Nesta said with flaming eyes. 

All eyes went to her. Rhysand flared up with anger, his hatred burning intensely in the room, “You be quiet.” He hissed. 

“No, you be quiet, Rhysand.” Nesta gritted out, “We came here for peace, there is no reason to torment others because you are desperate for revenge.”

“You-” Morrigan began to harshly reprimand, but Nesta continued. 

“Feyre you killed people when you let Hybern in.” Nesta said, “You have no moral high ground here, you are not justified in what you did.”

“I did no such thing!” Feyre raised her voice, skin burning bright with Day’s drop of power. 

Tamlin looked between the three. Watching as Nesta looked towards Eris and Lucien who glanced at each other briefly. 

What were they plotting?

“I think that’s all quite enough from you two.” Eris said to Feyre and Rhysand, “Every time we have a meeting it’s your Court that is raising your voices and starting arguments. Threatening others until you get everyone under your thumb.”

“Oh please.” Rhysand murmured, “I could wipe your minds and have you under my thumb. I don’t, I only speak the truth to you.”

“That is exactly what we mean, Rhysand.” Lucien replied smoothly, adjusting the rings on his fingers. Sliding out of his seat, on elegant limbs, he stood, looking down his nose at the Lord of Night.

“You threaten and antagonise. You fuck with people’s minds and expect us to fall to your every whim no matter how impulsive.” 

Eris agreed with his brother, saying, “We have no reason to trust you. When at any given moment you could plant false memories in our heads and we’d be none the wiser.”

Stepping slightly towards Tamlin, Lucien said, “You could agree to our new terms and create a Prythian where we are all connected and not at war. But you choose not too, this raises plenty of warnings for the rest of us, not to mention,”

He glanced down at Tamlin, who blinked up at Lucien, dumbfounded. 

They were sticking up for him, he realised distantly, not for the life of him able to understand why. 

“Not to mention,” Lucien breathed, “You are consistently going at the Spring Court, you killed thousands Feyre, was your massacre not enough?”

“Massacre?” She stuttered out, fists clenched around the rests of her chair. Rhysand grabbed her hand and said, “How dare you-”

“No, how dare you!” Eris stood suddenly, eyes blazing with fire that Tamlin hadn’t seen in a long while in him. A memory of the two training when their fathers met yearly flashed through his mind, the fire that had been in Eris back then…

Reawakened, no longer smothered under the heavy gaze of his father. Now with Beron buried beneath six feet of dirt, Eris’ flame was let loose. 

“How dare you sit there, acting as though us trying desperately to restore peace to our lands is laughable when you both are the reason that we nearly lost the war!” Eris’ voice raised as he continued, the room grew hotter and hotter as his eyes turned to liquid gold, swirling with flame. 

Lucien stood back on his heels sneering at the Night Court, as Eris went on, “We could have all died because of your reckless actions for the sake of pity revenge, your constant degrading of us will no longer be tolerated.”

“You think you can speak that way, Autumn?” Rhysand hissed, face slightly flushed with embarrassment and eyes simmering with loathing. 

“In defence of him, no less?” Rhysand added with a smile to Tamlin that was full of all the hatred he held for Spring. 

“In defence of the man who fought for his home at every twist and turn, yes, I will side with him, in nearly every case I will side with him. At least I can trust what he says is true, considering I don’t believe Tamlin has ever told a lie of his own accord, nor would he fuck with my memories to make himself out to be in the right.” Eris snapped back. 

Clenching his fists, eyes darting between all of the High lords, Helion stared back at Rhysand with a hardened gaze. Nothing like the usual laid back demeanour he normally held.  Hatred simmered in his gaze, not a speck of starlight in that hardened gaze, the purple darkening to near black. Feyre’s skin glowed with the power of Day as the clad around her magic faltered. 

“Don’t you dare throw another temper tantrum, High Lady,” Eris hissed as he stepped sideways, slightly towards the former Lady of Autumn, no beside her Day Court lover. The memory of Feyre’s outburst that resulted in her harming the Lady flashed through Tamlin’s mind.

‘You tore my Court apart because I couldn’t control my magic. Now you do the same.’ He thought. 

“How dare you speak to us like that.” She hissed, “After everything our Court has done-”

“Done what, Feyre? Cause problems?” Eris hissed back. 

“How dare you speak to my High lady like that.” Azriel shot to his feet, shadows a storm around him, looking as though he was try and ram Eris again. 

At the same time, Thesan got to his feet and shouted, “That is enough!”

All at once everyone went quiet, the normally mild-tempered male losing his cool was enough to snap everyone’s attention to him. 

“That is enough.” He repeated, quieter, “I think it’s time you leave.”

Rhysand shot a smug look to Eris and Lucien, “I agree, it is time you leave.”

“Rhysand,” Thesan said in warning, “Not them.”

Violet eyes went wide and the room went hot as Feyre also caught on to what Thesan meant. 

“No!” Rhysand shouted, “You will not make us leave when we are not the problem here. We have only pointed out facts, we will not be driven out because you all chose to side with the insinuatar of all quaralls today.”

“Rhysand, get out.” Thesan murmured, with quiet vemon that sent a shiver down Tamlin’s spine. 

“How dare you.” Feyre said, “How dare you allow them to twist the narrative, because they chose to sign your agreement!”

“I will not ask again.” Gaurds appeared at the doors, no doubt summonded when the arguement started by their High lord, “Either leave, or I will have you removed.”

“You cannot remove us.” Morrigan said, “We will not go.”

A snap of thunderous power shot through the room. Thesan’s eyes glowed bright gold, threads of power whipped around him, his hair became like long waves of glowing magic. 

“Get. Out.” He said in a dark voice, half-turned to his true beast form. The strange metallic rendition of his normally calm, soothing voice was enough to make the Inner Circle shoot to their feet. Commanded by the voice of the Lord that ruled this part of the lands.

Everyone but Nesta stood. The Lady of Death along with her Valkryies remained perfectly poised at their chairs. 

“You-” Rhysand pointed his finger, no doubt trying to reach deep within his power to overthrow Thesan’s control of him.

Thesan just nodded to the door, and the Inner Circle, commanded by the power of the Ruler, walked as told.

“We will not forget this, Thesan! You will regret this!” Rhysand spat at him as they all winnowed back to the Hell hole they crawled out from. 

All power ceased, Thesan returned to his normal state. Those dark eyes turning straight to Tamlin, asking, in that familar soothing voice, “Little Lin are you alright?”

Maybe it was the fact Tamlin had just watched his oldest friend and even older enemy be forced out the door in the name of protecting him. Maybe it was the centuries old nickname Thesan had coined for Tamlin when he was a youngling. Maybe a combination, either way Tamlin felt a tear slid from the corner of his eye and fall down his face. He quickly wiped it away and managed a croaked, “Yeah, fine.”

“We’ll put the meeting on hold,” Thesan said anyway, “A short intermission, and then we’ll return.” 

The High lord’s all nodded their agreement, and before Tamlin could stand to run and try to collect himself, the older High lord, now the oldest in the room with Beron gone, appeared quickly before Tamlin, grabbed his wrist and led him out of the meeting room. 

“Thesan-” Tamlin tried to pull back, but as they left the room, they winnowed. Whisked off by the winds and scents of breaking dawn. 

When they reappeared it was deep within the cherry blossom gardens of Dawn. The soft pink petal fell and kissed Tamlin’s face. Soft and powdery, he turned to Thesan, brow furrowed. Confusion lining his face. 

“Are you okay?” Thesan asked once more, in a softer, gentler tone. 

Pressure collected in his chest, feeling like his heart may explode. A band around his head, getting tighter and tighter, as hot tears swelled in his eyes. A breeze like honey, pears and fresh blossoms drifted around him, as he whispered, “No.”

Hours passed and he felt like he might cry for day. It was a strange feeling though, to be held while he lost all composure. Thesan’s touch was warm and comforting, and a gentle carrassing feeling spread over his body, he knew it must be the healing magic native to Dawn.

When he finally managed to collect himself, Thesan took him to a room. Waiting outside while he washed his face and tried to reduce the appearence of his red, puffy eyes. 

Once Tamlin stopped feeling like he was one minor inconvience from sobbing his mind out again. Thesan said they would return to the meeting now, Tamlin folded his hands behind his back and nodded. 

But they didn’t walk towards the meeting room, as they passed through long hallways, filled with tapestrys and painting Tamlin had never seen before, or may have once when he was very little, he asked, “I didn’t think the meeting room was in this direction.”

“We aren’t going back to the meeting room.” Thesan said. Now Tamlin was properly confused, but the High lord just through a knowing smile over his shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Tamlin submitted to allowing the Lord to take him to wherever he was going. 

Soon enough, they were in the East Wing of the palace and stationed before a large oak door. Tamlin was about to ask what this room was, when Thesan opened it. 

“No, you’re wrong, I win you lose.” Eris hissed at his youngest brother. 

“No I win, green cancels out red, you idiot!” Lucien snapped back, grabbing onto the deck of cards Eris was clutching in his hands and tried to rip them out. Eris pulled back and tried to kick him. 

“You’re so fucking annoying!” Eris yelled as Lucien proceeded to try and launch himself at the Autumn lord, before their mother caught the back of his shirt and ripped him back down the floor. 

“Stop it, Lucien he wins.” Andrea scolded. 

“No, but ma-” Lucien attempted to save his bruised ego, but a swift slap to the back of his head silenced him. 

“No, ‘but ma’s’ from you.” Andrea told him. From across the room, Nesta fell into a puddle of hysterical giggles at the sight, as Gwyn and Emerie clutched their own stomachs in laughter. 

“That’s what you get, Lucie.” Cresseida smirked as she took the deck from Eris’ hands, who handed them over easily. 

“Tamlin!” Helion noticed his arrival, “Welcome back!”

Tamlin stared with his mouth agape at the sight of the room, every High lord and their Court all lying across the floor filled with pillows and blankets. An array of card games and puzzles strewn amongst them. 

“What..” 

“We figured since Night is gone, we could all relax a little.” Thesan explained.

“It’s really only them that are so uptight.” Kallias quipped from where he was, head in his wife’s lap whilst she quietly cheated in a game with Tarquin. With his head focused in on his own cards, he did not notice Viviane sneaking a peak and playing accordingly. Gwyn stifled giggles when she saw it. 

Lucien shot to his feet, puling away from the grip of his mother, and grabbed Tamlin’s hand, “C’mon Tam, you’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, you have to be on his team to help him win.” Eris said as he watched Cresseida shuffle the deck. 

“You are a cheater!” Lucien yelled as he pulled Tamlin down amongst the pillows, Thesan closed the door and followed them into the chaotic yelling that overtook their ‘meeting’.

For once in his life, Tamlin was thanking Rhysand for causing problems once more. It led to a far better outcome then he could have ever imagined.  

[jealousveronya]

Would've, could've, should've - Chapter 1

Summary:

Everyone at the Spring Court always talked about how menacing and ruthless the High Lords were, especially the strongest High Lord, the High Lord of the Night Court. And Feyre did fear him, but when the entire world seemed set on reminding her how she needed to be protected, something even her husband couldn't accomplish without her sacrificing her freedom, she couldn't help but imagine a reality where he wasn't a threat, but the one she clung to breathlessly every night.

After all, if she needed to be protected, the company of the strongest should suffice.

However, that was just a fantasy Feyre created to escape to when she couldn't get out of bed. It meant nothing. She hadn't even met the lord of the night.

But what happens when she does and can't stop a blush from creeping onto her face as she finally puts a face to all her sensual fantasies?

Read Chapter 1 on: AO3 or continue reading

Seven thrones, crafted out of purest white marble, encircled a pond that shimmered in the daylight with lotuses gently drifting across its surface. The seven thrones were meant for the seven high lords, the rulers of Prythian. Six were occupied, but one remained empty, a truth no one dared to speak of yet, nor its implications.

It had been a considerable time since the high lords held a meeting, their mutual disdain apparent in the uneasy silence that hung over the gathering.

"For how long do you intend to keep us in the dark, Beron?" Tarquin asked, scratching his chin, a hint of mockery woven into his words.

"I have a court to attend to. Explain the reason for this meeting at once, or I'll return to it." Tarquin crossed his legs. A slight wave in the pond splashed Beron's leather boots, prompting a mischievous smirk to dance on the High Lord of Summer's face.

Beron, the high lord with auburn locks, exhaled as his fingers drummed against the throne. He behaved as if he were the father of five insolent brats he'd summoned for a lecture.

"I had honestly hoped someone else would be the first to admit it, but I see it all comes down to me. Very well." He leaned back in his throne.

"A spark of my power has vanished," he declared.

Whatever smug expression had been on Tarquin's face instantly evaporated into thin air.

In a world where even a spark could mean the difference between life and death, high lord or slave, the danger of this confession did not go unnoticed.

"Am I the only one?" Beron asked, looking at the other high lords with a narrowed gaze.

"Regretfully or fortunately, you are not the only one," Kallias began. "I noticed it too. I was at breakfast when I felt it just... leave. That was about two months ago."

"I have also experienced it," Tarquin added.

The other high lords followed with their agreements.

"It's just a spark now, but who is to say how much more will vanish, how much weaker we will get?" Beron balled his hands into fists, slamming them against the throne. "It's natural to suspect Hybern—perhaps they've found a way to drain us of our power slowly; Cauldron knows how much they'd want that. But we also can't dismiss," he looked toward the seventh throne, the empty one covered in dust,

"him."

Silence flooded the room.

The seventh throne was meant for the death incarnate, the strongest high lord, the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand—the only male in Prythian who could make all the other high lords take a step back, even if some wouldn't admit it.

"Well, shouldn't he be here then? So we can ask him? If he's responsible, he already knows—there's no point hiding it from him." Helion broke the silence. He had been avoiding Beron's gaze the entire meeting. Although the rumors of his affair with Beron's wife were old, the bitterness between the two males was still palpable.

"And if he isn't to blame and was somehow unaffected unlike us, do we need to let him know we have grown even weaker?" The high lord of the autumn court spat.

"I have to agree. We can always plan a second meeting with him, but perhaps we don't need to tell him everything from the beginning." Tarquin followed.

"So what would be the best way to handle this?" Kallias spoke as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His power was leaking from him, so much that the part of the pond in front of him was slowly freezing.

"I recommend sending spies to the night court. We need to see if Rhysand is planning a war, and whether he is gathering armies. As strong as he is, if his goal is to weaken us so he can take over, he still won't try it without an army. If there is no army, we'll meet again to discuss what should be done further" Beron suggested.

Agreements could be heard from all sides of the hall, except for one. Beron's eyes followed the silence until they stopped at a male dressed in green, blonde strands of hair covering his already unreadable expression.

"You've been awfully quiet, Tamlin. Is there any reason for that?"

Tamlin hummed in dismissal before replying.

"No, you have just said it all. In fact, I volunteer one of my spies for the mission."

Upon the end of the meeting, Tamlin had winnowed back to his manor.

His hands were shaking slightly, his vision blurred, claws growing longer every second as the beast inside threatened to come out.

He had barely kept it inside during the discussion, gripping the armrests of the throne for dear life.

Since he'd gotten the letter from Beron that called for a meeting he had prayed to the Cauldron that this wasn't the topic. That no one had noticed the missing sparks of power. Or that if they had noticed, that they didn't care enough. They were just sparks after all. They were so insignificant compared to the entirety of a high lord's power, power capable of maintaining an entire court, keeping a season everlasting.

He took slow steps up the staircase. The weight of his secret was threatening to push him back down.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to handle this? Right now they believed Rhysand or Hybern was to blame, but it's only a matter of time before they find out the truth.

The all-too-familiar scent hit his nostrils. It was the sweetest scent he had ever known. He relished in inhaling it before his feet followed its trace. 

Slowly opening the door, he peeked inside.

It was a moment to behold. Water was splashed everywhere, bubbles were spilling out of the tub. Light from the windows passing through the bubbles reflected rainbows on the marble floor. And inside the tub lay a female with golden wet hair framing her face and one leg lazily draped outside, swinging back and forth.

The sight of the female he held dear to his heart was a momentary reprieve, forcing the beast to retreat within the chamber of his soul as if her presence alone could pacify it.

As if for the first time ever, Tamlin exhaled, only for a second though  as the sight of her was also a reminder of the ever-looming threat.

The meeting had been a threat, a warning, because of who she was - because around her shoulders, that were peaking out of the water, tiny water wolves were frolicking - water wolves that she was creating. Her face wore a concentrated expression with furrowed brows as her delicate hands shaped water into wolves and gave them life.

Finally breaking her focus, taking notice of Tamlin, she looked up. Her blue orbs graced him with their sincerity as a smile found its way on her lips. Her skin started emitting a glow with intensity similar to one of the sun.

If he wasn't mesmerized he might have squinted to protect his vision.

And as the final punch to the gut, to remind him again of whaz she was, instead of speaking, she gently entered his mind.

"I missed you."

Tamlin could spend an eternity in that tub snuggled up against Feyre, kissing the nape of her neck, listening to the faintest of her moans, her fingers tangled in his hair, if the Cauldron only allowed it.

His teeth grazed her skin in between his kisses causing Feyre to shudder and pull on his hair harder.

The beast inside of him wanted him to mark her, to declare her as his as if that would protect her.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked using her daemati powers, trailing her nails against the inside of his mind. As much as he was settled inside her physically, she was inside him mentally.

He bit her neck eliciting a sharp gasp from her. It wasn’t enough to mark her, just enough for her to feel the sharpness of his canines and how easy it would be for him to pierce her skin.

“I prefer it when I hear your voice.” Tamlin pulled on her plump bottom lip with his claw. He wasn’t interested in containing his claws like he had been doing at the meeting. Not with her. With her he didn’t need to hide or fake control.

And the reality from who she had gotten her daemati spark wasn’t really allowing him to even try concealing them. The fact his magic was running through her veins now was eating at his heart, especially when she was so determined on using it so frequently.

Violet eyes flashed in his mind, but he quickly composed himself.

“Fine. Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked audibly now, pink covering her freckled cheeks.

“No,” Tamlin murmured before shifting his hips. Feyre breathed out a song of pleasure as her eyes rolled back into her head. “Fuck, Tamlin.”

He licked the sensitive place he found above the collarbone. 

He’ll protect her.

He’ll protect her from everyone. 

No one will take her from him.

His jaw closed around the curve of her neck, this time with enough force to draw blood.

“Feyre,” Tamlin started as his tongue tasted her blood.

“Hmm,” Feyre moaned.

“You’ll cook us alive.”

At that Feyre noticed the rising temperature of the water, a consequence of her skin getting hotter and hotter, almost igniting fire.

“Cauldron, sorry.”

Tamlin’s chuckle echoed against his mark.

”I can’t- I don’t know how to stop it.”

At that Tamlin picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he stepped out of the tub and headed towards Feyre’s bedroom. He made a point to step on one of the water wolves following them, turning it into a puddle.

“HEY!”

Tamlin only laughed in response.

“I need to practice. I need to get better at using my magic.” Feyre sounded disappointed.

“Nonsense,” Tamlin commented as he walked over to the bed, leaving a wet trail behind them.

“I could help you with the court, I could do so much.”

He lowered her onto the silky sheets. “You are already helping me.”

She looked to the side out of embarrassment.

“I could help you in other ways.”

“I am the high lord. I think I’ll manage. Besides, I want to take care of you. Not the other way around.” He kissed her breasts.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to stop taking care of you.”

“That,” he warned “is an exception.”

His kisses started to get lower and lower. “Which we will get to later.”

“I just think that I should train, get better at using it.”

But Tamlin did not respond.

[naughtynoodle]

On the Edge

Description: Gag gift from the Inner Circle takes an interesting turn.

18+ only

Modern!Azriel x f!reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, exhibition, edging, adult language

A/N: I love the thought of modern IC, like can you imagine the carnage they would reap? Minors DNI

This was turning out to be longer than expected, because I am a whore for the details. So there will be a part two :) Can be read as stand-alone.

On the Edge - Part 2

Grammar corrections are welcomed, as long as you're not rude

---------------

Starfall was a little different this year. Instead of just getting everyone the perfect gift, Cassian had suggested secret santa. But not just ordinary secret santa-

"Just picture it. Gag gifts." Cassian couldn't wipe the smug ass grin off his face, like he just came up with the most brilliant idea that ever graced the land. The group agreed, albeit reluctantly.

So the House chose people for each other at random, so not even Rhys would know. You, of course of all people, got Cassian. But a devilish thought came to your mind when you walked by a sex shop. Nesta was going to love it.

As always, Rhys and Feyre hosted an incredible Starfall. Nothing would ever beat the view from the top of their home. You didn’t think you could ever get over the beauty of it. 

You heard Cassian shouting your name from the stairs, in your observation of the night sky the rest of the group had already started making their way downstairs to exchange the gag gifts. He bounced up and down like a child about to get ice cream and you shook your head with a small smile on your face.

As you turned to start walking you felt someone fall in step with you, you didn’t have to look to know it was Azriel. You would know his presence anywhere.

“So childish.” He tuts and you can’t help but let out a chuckle, nodding in agreement. You notice him looking down at you as you walk down the stairs, you stare back up at him questioningly.

“Are you waiting for me to tell you how pretty you are?” You teased, nudging his side.

“Yes, actually.” His lips form a pout and you found yourself staring at them before you shook your head and looked forward.

“You’re ridiculous.” You laugh, “But you look very dashing tonight.”

Before he could reply, Cassian came bolting up the stairs grabbing both of your wrists and hauling you down. Impatient baby.

The group gets settled, Azriel and yourself sharing the loveseat furthest from the fire. A small act that did not go unnoticed by him. 

After wine glasses were filled, the House brought the gifts out and gave them to who they belonged to. Yours came wrapped in white paper with a silver bow, classy. 

As each member opened their gift the laughter just continued to roll, then it came to Cassian. You hid your smirk behind your wine glass. You had opted to wrap the gift with black paper and a red silk bow. He tore through it and then shoved his hand in the box to pull it out and a look of confusion washed over his face.

Surprisingly, Amren was the first to break and the rest followed.

“It’s about time someone got Nesta something to shut you up.” Rhys grinned, and we all watched as realization hit him and his mouth gaped open. You could feel Azriel shaking with laughter beside you and you had to keep your mouth covered before you gave yourself away.

“Aw, honey. It’s even in your color.” Nesta snickered and he just shot her a playful glare before grinning.

“They all know I’m kinky, this just helps me more.” He leans back, twirling the gag ball around by the straps. “Your turn, Azzie.”

His gift was in a simple gift sack, so he pulled the tissue paper out and peered into the bag before dropping his head in his hand sighing.

“Don’t be shy, show us.” You poked him with your foot and he gave you the side eye. You watched as his hand pulled out a . . . penis sock. Hand knitted.

The bark of laughter leaves your throat before you can even control it. You were starting to think this idea of Cassians wasn’t so bad. Eventually the laughter calms down and you were the last one to open yours.

It was a vibrator. A remote controlled vibrator. You covered your face as you showed the group who just howled with laughter, and you couldn’t help the grin that covered your face.

“A lot of good this will do me. You all know how exciting my love life is.” This only seemed to add fuel to the fire and all you could do was shake your head at the group. The rest of the night continued as usual, more wine and snacks, scattered conversations. You stayed in the loveseat, as did Azriel.

His arm was slung over the back, legs splayed out so he could stretch. 

“You know. .” You started and he looked over at you, “At least now your little buddy can stay warm.” You bit your lip in silent laughter as his eyes narrowed at you. His arm that was slung over the couch pulled you into his side. His head leaning down so he would speak quietly to you.

“And to think I was going to offer to help you with your new gift.” His breath hit your ear as you froze, eyes wide. 

All coherent thoughts left your brain and it felt like rusty gears trying their best to run again.

“Wha- you-” you try to speak, face flushed and all you can see is the coy grin across his face.

“At my mercy, never knowing when I’m going to hit the button or change the pace.” And just like that he sits back up as if that conversation never happened.

How could he be just so fucking casual after that? And also, fuck him for knowing how flustered he can make you. You huff in annoyance.

“Is it because I called him small?” You finally say, he makes a choked sound, “It’s okay, Az, really. Size doesn’t matter.”

You smirk up at him as he stares down at you, and you take the opportunity to sneak away before he can corner you again with his words. To add insult to injury-

“It’s what’s in here that matters.” You pat his chest, chuckling to yourself as you get up and go get yourself a snack and another glass of wine.

The alcohol was definitely making you more bold than usual with Azriel. Sure you two flirted a lot, hell all of you flirted with each other - it was harmless. It was just fun flirting and teasing one another. But with you two, it never got too overtly sexual.

Had you thought about it? Obviously. But never acted on it. Actually, that was a lie. You two were so drunk one time at Rita’s that you made out in the back alley after the relentless teasing you two did to each other. But that was ages ago, you’re not even sure if he remembers that - hell you barely did.

You ended up going to the kitchen because all the good snacks had been eaten and like hell you were gonna eat the others. You sliced up some cheese and apples, and the house so graciously filled your wine glass as you murmured a thank you.

You felt him behind you before you heard him, and you jumped slightly. You should really be used to him sneaking up on you by now, but he always managed to surprise you. You watched as he took your wine glass and chugged it down, ignoring your whines of protest.

He towered over you, his eyes dark and you swallowed harshly.

“Just because I pointed out the truth doesn’t mean you get to drin-” his hand covers your mouth and you narrow your eyes at him.

“You’re going to wear this. Right here, right now.” Your eyes go wide as his shadows bring forth the vibrator. You blink as your eyes go back and forth between the box and his face. Apparently you were taking too long to respond because he starts opening the box. "Either you put it where it's supposed to go, or I will."

Your mouth drops open, your face heating up. His brow raises in question as he looks down at you, his free hand starting to trace up the slit in your dress.

"Okay, okay!" You finally surrender, slapping his hand away, "Impatient male."

You snatch the vibrator from his hand and walk away mumbling that your wine glass better be full by the time you got back. It didn't take long for you to place it where it was supposed to go, pressing the on button. It was almost embarrassing how turned on you were at the slight exchange between the two of you.

Your heels thudded against the stone floor as you made your way back to the kitchen, half-expecting Azriel to have rejoined the group but he stood in the same spot, arms braced against the counter.

You gave a mock bow, and then went back to your snack plate.

"You ate my apples! You bit-" You whip around to chastise Azriel when a sharp vibration cuts off your sentence and your knees almost buckle. His dark laugh hits your ears and you glare up at him. "Cut me another apple, you prick."

He slides a plate from behind him that was full of sliced green apples, like he knew you were going to react that way. You step closer to take the plate and his free hand pulls you in closer so you are flush against his front.

"I am going to have so much fun with you." Your heart flutters in your chest, "Hope you have a good pokerface."

His hand gives your waist a squeeze and he walks back up the stairs toward the living area where all your friends were. No doubt they were getting increasingly more drunk, which should make hiding this little game easier. Hopefully.

Downing the glass of wine, you make your way back up the stairs - taking extra care to brace yourself against the railing incase a certain bat decides to try and make you drop your plate.

You enter the room and everyone is laughing amongst themselves, your eyes immediately draw to Azriel. His dark gaze was already on you and fuck he looked good. His legs were spread and his arm was slung across the back of the couch again, though his hand was hanging behind it this time - no doubt the remote was in that hand.

Your thoughts were confirmed by the low vibration and you suck in a breath.

Cassian beckoned you towards where they were sitting and you obliged, albeit hesitantly. You could smell the alcohol pouring off of all of them, which you were relieved for.

"You were gone for sooo long." He whines and you chuckled.

"I needed to get more snacks for myself, Cass." You watch as his eyes land on your plate of apples and cheese and he makes an 'ohh' sound. Just as you were going to speak again, the vibration kicks up and the pulse beats slowly.

"Why are you so out of breath?" Feyre asks, and you look to see her and Rhys tangled into one another.

"Aren't you supposed to be in shape?" Nesta teases and you poke a tongue out at her.

"I've had a gallon of alcohol and I'm wearing heels."

Everyone makes a sound of agreement and go back to their conversations. You shake your head and make your way back towards the loveseat you were occupying earlier. The pulse gets sharper when you get a few steps away and you suck in a breath.

You quickly take a seat, trying to distract yourself with the snacks you brought back. Az pulls you back into his side once more, his head leaning on the top of yours. Slightly drunk Az was more affectionate, and you didn't mind one bit.

"Are you ready?" He murmurs in your ear and you furrow your brows as you look up at him. You hear the click of the remote and the vibration and pulsing kicks up to high gear and your legs tense automatically.

You curse under your breath and you feel his body rumble with silent laughter. You shove a piece of apple and cheese in your mouth so you don't make a fool of yourself in front of everyone.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself." You grumble at him and he leans down to your ear.

"Oh, I am. Watching your reactions as I change the pace is very entertaining." His voice seemed to be an octave deeper and your stomach curled. At this point you were more turned on by the fact that it was Azriel doing this to you than the vibrator pulsing against your core.

You left a waft of your arousal hit him and you feel his body tense and hear his sharp intake of breath. Two can play at this game, you think to yourself.

"That's a dangerous game you're playing." He growls into your ear.

"The higher the stakes, the bigger the reward Shadowsinger."

[a-court-of-moonlight-and-ire]

Ive complained about acotar's weird plot structure before and I was gonna talk about how I would fix it as well, but then I forgot so Im talking about how I would fix it now

Just get rid of Amarantha, Rhysand's the villain now. He gets her Woman Scorned motivation of being rejected by Tamlin but hes still the high lord of the night court and instead of him ruling over all of Prythian, he basically just torments Tamlin and hes got the spring court locked down with magic so no one can come in or out for help. One idea that I like is that instead of the mask curse, everyone is cursed to just cant stand being near Tamlin, like he comes into a room that a few servants are cleaning and they immediately feel compelled to leave without another word. Idk, the idea is that Rhysands trying to break him through isolation while convincing him that hes unlovable so he'll come crawling right back to him. And then theres obviously still that caveat of 'the curse gets broken if you can find a human whos killed a fae with hate in her heart and get her to fall in love with you, but until then everything stays as is'

From then on, things mostly happen as they do in the book with Tamlin and Feyre bonding except Lucien's not there because of that curse. Or, actually you could still have him around since Feyre wouldnt be affected by the curse, just not anywhere near Tamlin. Oh, I really like the idea of Lucien very begrudgingly coming up to this human girl he dislikes so that he can be like "hey, can you please tell Tamlin that we're still friends and that I still love him even though I cant speak to him" thatd be sweet

(uhhhhhh this got way longer than anticipated, have a readmore)

I think if you still want Rhys to be like, the hot and sexy badboy alternative love interest you could have him corner Feyre whenever shes alone and try to seduce her in order make absolutely 100% sure she never breaks that curse. But its not working, she just keeps bonding with Tamlin and he notices that shes getting more and more comfortable with him and seems to be slowly falling in love with him and hes getting nervous, because Rhysand is absolutely not above just coming in and hurting her in order to torment him some more so he sends her away, again, like in the book

Then Feyre comes back and maybe she finds that the spring court is now shrowded in eternal night for 💫Atmosphere💫 and Tamlin has submitted to Rhysand. But hes still not quite satisfied because Tamlin basically begged him not to hurt Feyre because he loves her, and Rhysand just needs him to say that he doesnt love her after all. And Feyre comes in and demands that her high lord be set free and Rhysand issues the same three trials as Amarantha, I dont think he should give her the riddle because idk, i always thought it was really weird and stupid to have these trials AND a riddle, just pick one. And Im picking the trials because Rhysand is a sadistic mf. I dont think the trials should happen over the course of three months though, I think they should happen over the course of three days with one trial a day, because Rhysand is very confident that Feyre will just die and hes getting a little impatient, like he just wants to have his Tamlin already yknow

And then she completes the trials, Rhysand has to release them and thats the end of the story. I think this would work best as a standalone, but if you still wanted to make it a trilogy and you still wanted to have the Feysand bargain, maybe Feyre could completely break down during that last trial where she has to kill those innocent fae because shes bonded with them so much (in this version she would get to know more of the household than just Alis and Lucien) and she cant bring herself to do it and Rhysand is all smug like "do you give up?" but then Feyre pulls herself together and goes to stab the first one, and he realizes that she might actually do it for Tamlin's sake and that all of his plans are about to be ruined, so hes basically like "okay, you know what, Ive changed my mind, I'll lift the curse and I'll leave you and Tamlin be, but you'll have to agree to this bargain with me where you have to stay at my court for two weeks every months" the idea is basically that if he cant have Tamlin's love, hes gonna take Tamlin's beloved, and Feyre agrees

Idrk how the next book could play out from that point. I have this image in my head of like. okay so, one of my favorite obscure dark romance dynamics is ancient evil vampire/newly turned evil vampire/kind-hearted innocent human guy, bonus points if the newly turned vampire and the innocent human guy were in a perfectly normal loving relationship before the other vampire entered their life. And what Im pitching is basically the fae-version of that for Feylinsand. Im invisioning Feyre having a corruption arc and slowly falling for Rhysand but she also still loves Tamlin and Rhysand also still loves him so they entrap him in this fucked up and evil but also hot and sexy poly relationship. That might be a little self-indulgent but idk man, this whole series is built on self-indulgence and its not even interesting because sjm has the most boring sex fantasies ive ever read. which yknow, im not necessarily judging, I just dont like it. Also actually nvm I think it would be funnier if Feyre didnt fall for Rhysand, like its not a thing of her coming down to his level so she can kiss him, she turns evil for completely unrelated reasons

Another thing you could do if you wanted to make it a trilogy, but maybe one thats less focused on sex because what else are you gonna do with a hot evil polycule, is you have Rhysand take Tamlin to the night court which is like, all the way on the opposite side of Prythian. So then the first book could be everything I just described except when Feyre comes back to the spring court, she finds that Tamlin is gone and it ends right there, on a cliffhanger. The next book would be her and Lucien and maybe Alis or some other fae she befriended traveling all across Prythian to get to the night court and we see a bunch of Prythian because godddd I despise the fact that in the actual acotar series, we're just trapped in the night court for 4 books and barely get to see anything outside of the night court, nay, velaris. And then the third book would be them trying to find Velaris, which would be a secret city in the sense that no one knows where it is but like people do know the name and that it does exist somewhere, and Feyre either does the trials and frees Tamlin that way or maybe theyll get the Illyrians on board to just kill him and that breaks the curse idk

And yeah, thats it, this got way longer than I thought. I was just kinda spitballing here because again, I dont like the first book's structure at all and I think the existence of Hybern is so unecessary. Like, Prythian has seven courts with plenty of potential for interesting politics to happen between them, whyyyyyy does there need to be a kingdom full of evil people for them to unite against?? I hate it

Anyway, Ive been thinking about this idea for a little while but I had no plans for fleshing it out in any way, but now that ive written all that down Im thinking of maybe cleaning all of that up and actually making it a whole rewrite at some point. I make no promises though, I suck ass at writing longer stories. So until then, let me know what you think of this

[slytherhys]

For your fun drabble : how about, the sisters walk in on the bat boys in the birchin 😏they’re bruised from the fight but now invested in persuading them to join

Thank you so much for participating! 😊🌼 I took some creative liberties but I hope this lives up to your expectations!

Elriel Month Drabble 1 - Family Bonding

It took the sisters about three seconds to understand what, exactly, they were seeing.

They knew about the yearly snowball fight, just like they knew about the brotherly sauna session that usually followed, but for some reason, neither seemed to think of it when they first planned to spend the afternoon at the Cabin, wrapping Solstice presents away from prying eyes (read: Cassian and Azriel).

Now, as all three sisters stared at the bruised, semi-naked form of three very strong, very big Illyrians, all merry thoughts of Solstice presents, and hot chocolate seemed to vanish.

Rhysand was the first to notice them, raising his head just as he was about to pull down his pants. Azriel followed, turning bright red as his eyes snapped towards Elain’s, whose pink cheeks darkened under his startled gaze. Cassian, frustrated that his rambles kept being met with silence, finally looked up and what came over his face was nothing but pure delight at seeing the three sisters staring at them in different states of distress.

“Ladies,” He purred, and Nesta immediately narrowed her eyes, as if daring him to make a single joke. But Cassian grinned, all wicked charm and innocence. “Care to join us?”

Before he could even pretend to regret inviting them, Nesta was hurling something at his head, fast enough he barely evaded it. Feyre and Elain had dissolved into giggles just as Azriel slapped the back of his head with unnecessary force. Cassian scowled at him just as the sound of the front door closing echoed through the cabin, the girls long gone.

He turned to Rhys, who was watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“I just thought we could do some family bonding.” He reasoned, not sure he even believed himself.

Azriel walked away, shaking his head in disappointment. Rhys simply rolled his eyes.

He scoffed at his brother. “Don’t act like you didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Rhys simply smirked, smug as he turned and dropped the rest of his clothes on the couch. “Good luck explaining your good idea to Nesta tonight.”

Cassian flinched, swearing under his breath. He was sleeping on the couch tonight, wasn't he?

[ofduskanddreams]

Truth or Dare, Azriel?

For @panicatthenightcourt :) The request: Gwynriel and Elucien. Tipsy truth or dare and maybe things get a little bit messy? I chose to make this a modern AU since it wasn't specified hehe.

A/N: It's implied that they've been drinking but let me assure everyone that they're still fully in control of themselves. There is no infidelity in this fic, everything is consented to by all parties involved.

Gwynriel & Elucien ✦ Rated M ✦ 1.3k words ✦ on AO3

Azriel dropped his head onto Gwyn’s shoulder, closing his eyes and inhaling the scents of sunscreen and lavender shampoo.

The bonfire was crackling merrily and carving a pool of orange out of the deep violet night. Crickets chirped, frogs trilled, and the lake water lapped gently at the sand.

He was tipsy.

Gwyn smelled fucking amazing.

There were still four days left of their vacation.

He was at his favorite place with his favorite people.

It was too….

No. 

Azriel sat up, blinking against the firelight and reminding himself that he was allowed to have this without the constant fear of it being stripped away.  

Some things were truly good. Other shoes didn’t always drop.

“Everything alright, Az?” Elain asked. She was curled into Lucien’s side across the fire from them.

“Yeah, fine. I just spaced out.” He hoped his face betrayed nothing. The last thing he needed was for Lucien to spend the rest of their vacation calling him Sadzriel again. 

“Okay,” Gwyn exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “We are going to play a game because it’s too early for us to be getting tired. Besides, we need to give them—” she jerked her head toward the house on the hill “—more time before the cabin will be safe.”

Half an hour earlier, Nesta had dragged Cassian away from the fire claiming she was “tired.” Rhys and Feyre made their excuses not long after.

Gwyn had a point. Even if they wanted to go to bed right now, Azriel knew none of them would be able to fall asleep due to the volume of the others' activities. It was the one downside of this pine-sheltered haven on the lake. 

“What kind of game?” Lucien asked.

Azriel turned to his right. The flames danced tangerine in the teal reflection of Gwyn’s eyes making them gleam with a devilish light. 

His girlfriend shot him a sly smile. “Truth or Dare.”

Elain grinned, “I’m in.” 

“Me too,” Lucien said with a huff of laughter. 

“Az?”

His past experiences of Truth or Dare weren’t what Azriel would call fond memories. Then again, maybe that was an unavoidable consequence of playing with Rhys and Cassian instead of being the fault of the game itself. And the way Gwyn was looking up at him all wide-eyed and lower lip caught between her teeth the way she knew drove him crazy….

“Fine, I’m in too.”

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” Lucien chuckled and Azriel threw an empty beer can at his head.

“If you had my memories of Truth or Dare, you wouldn’t be so psyched about it either,” Azriel grumbled. 

It didn’t take long for the game to spiral in the direction that Azriel had been dreading. They made it once around the circle and then it was Elain’s turn again. He knew it was going to be bad no matter which option he chose. The world may think Elain Archeron the epitome of sweet kindness, but those close to her knew better than to fall to that facade. Elain Archeron could be the devil in disguise.

“Truth or dare, Azriel?” she asked, her tone intentionally disarming.

Knowing Elain for as long as he had, he knew she knew things about him that few did—that Gwyn didn’t. Not yet, at least. They’d been together for a year but some things he wanted to share were so weighty that a year might not be strong enough to hold them. To choose “truth” would be too risky.

“Dare.” Azriel leaned back, leveling Elain with a look of challenge to belie his fear of her next words.

“I dare you to kiss Lucien. For at least five seconds. With feeling.”

And Elain looked so smug at that, Azriel couldn’t help but laugh. Lucien was very attractive. Had they met in a bar and weren’t attached, he’d waste no time. “What do you say, Lucien?”

Lucien wore a smirk as he pushed off the log to stand. “If the ladies want a show, and you are willing, who am I to deny them?”

Azriel rose, moving until they were standing nearly chest to chest. “Oh, if it’s what the ladies want, I’m all in.” 

He shot a questioning glance toward Gwyn over his shoulder. It was only a fun game if everyone thought so, if she didn’t want him to do this he wouldn’t. But Gwyn was smiling, and she waved her hands as if to say by all means, please continue.

So, Azriel reached and tangled his fingers in the thick red hair at Lucien’s nape. He winked at Gwyn. “I always have had a thing for redheads,” and then he stepped into Lucien’s space.

Lucien was slightly taller than him. Azriel had forgotten until he had to tilt his chin at the last second. The kiss started out questioning: hi there, hello—drawing back, a second chaste brush and press—we’re doing this, yes we are.

Then it turned exploratory: how good of a kisser are you?—adding pressure—very good I’ll have you know—Lucien’s hands on either side of his jaw, tipping Azriel’s head as he took control. Azriel nipped Lucien’s lower lip in response to the challenge.

Someone wolf-whistled. Probably Gwyn. Azriel took that as his cue to slow, and Lucien did the same.

The kiss ended sincerely: that was rather nice—a strong press—it was, wasn’t it—parting, then coming back for one last peck, featherlight and lingering.

They stepped away from each other, smiling. Lucien offered Azriel his hand, “Nice work.”

Azriel shook it, “You weren’t too bad yourself.”

Lucien rolled his eyes and went back to sit beside Elain. “Was it everything you hoped for?”

Elain, whose red cheeks (though not as red as Gwyn’s when Azriel looked) were answer enough, but she huffed a laugh, “And then some. I don’t know what I expected but that was… something.” 

Lucien arched an eyebrow, glancing between Azriel and Gwyn with a silent question. Azriel couldn’t deny that the idea intrigued him, but that was something to think about for another night. Now he needed revenge.

“Elain—Truth or dare?” Azriel already knew which one she would choose, but they had to play the game. 

“Dare.” 

Just as he had hoped.

“I dare you to ask Gwyn to go skinny dipping in the lake with you right now.”

“Oh,” Elain feigned surprise. “So that’s how it’s going to be? What do you say, Gwyn, should we give the boys a taste of their own medicine?”

“Now hold on. That wasn’t—” Azriel’s half-hearted protest was interrupted when Gwyn stood up and tugged off her (it was actually his, but she’d stolen it) hoodie.

“There is nothing I would like more,” Gwyn replied with a wicked-looking grin aimed at Azriel. 

Elain and Gwyn walked down the beach, a trail of discarded clothes marking their path to the lakeshore. 

Slowly, Azriel and Lucien rose and turned as one, as if there were little more than puppets on strings. 

Inky water swallowed pale limbs and soft curves as they walked further out. The two women seemed to glow in the light of the nearly full moon reflecting off the breeze wrinkled surface of the lake. They were ethereal, otherworldly, like nymphs or sirens.

Azriel glanced at Lucien to find the man already looking at him. They exchanged nods, starting to follow the trail their girlfriends had left behind.

Gwyn and Elain stopped when the water was just below their shoulders. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew their hands were in each other's wet hair and they were kissing. 

“Fuck me.” The words sounded like they’d been punched out of Lucien’s gut.

“Yeah,” Azriel breathed. He shared the sentiment.

“Well boys,” Gwyn’s voice carried over the water. “Are you going to just stand there or are you going to join us?”

✦ ✦ ✦

tagging: @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @krem-does-stuff @iftheshoef1tz @thelovelymadone @mmiscbutterflies @shadowriel @foundress0fnothing @sunshinebingo @octobers-veryown @areyoudreaminof @moonpatroclus @separatist-apologist @kingofsummer93 @velidewrites @wittyrejoinder @bagelfyre @itsthedoodle @sv0430

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IX: There Can Only Be One

Rhysand remembered the name of every single child the Capitol ever murdered.

The same could not be said for them, of course. Their memory faded as quickly as the funds Panem’s elite poured into the Hunger Games—forgotten as soon as the bloodshed was over. Year after year, Rhys watched as history repeated itself, more innocent blood spilled as the sponsors learned how to get creative.

First, there was all the betting. If there was one thing the Capitol loved almost as much as watching its children die one after another, being right had to be one of them. The endless battle of wits, all done behind the arena’s bloody curtain where the Tributes were nothing but numbers, nothing but pawns the elites forced around their imaginary board. Rhysand had never seen so much money in his life—certainly not before his own Games started. He sometimes wondered just how much of it went out of the Capitol’s pocket just to get him through to the end—right behind that curtain. Right into their laps.

Some people called him lucky to have ended up here. Others—the Victors, mostly—preferred to call him names he’d rather not think about right now. Rhysand, though—he liked to call himself a strategist. Part of something bigger.

After the sponsors poured all their money down the drain, there came the worst part of it all—the waiting. Countless pairs of eyes glued to the holoscreen, either widening in shock as their favoured fell, or narrowing in smugness as they cut down yet another victim of the country sworn to protect them. Each time, Rhysand would etch the victim’s name into his memory, knowing it was already forgotten by their sponsor, the funds already moved to their executioner.

These, Rhysand learned far too late in his life, were the true Hunger Games. The Tributes, their families, their Districts—all meaningless, all mere pawns to satisfy those at the very top. To feed the Capitol, starving for entertainment.

There would come a time when they starved to their deaths—or, better yet, choked on their own greed. It was the only hope he held onto these days. The only thing that kept him going through the past decade.

So Rhysand waited, eyes focused on the holo as he began writing yet another name into the most shielded corner of his heart.

Nuan of District Three must have been one of the cleverest Tributes he’d ever seen. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the wheels of her mind turning. For someone so young, her intelligence and wit had already gained her a sponsor, determined to see the ceremonial crown placed atop her head—to see the gold reflected proudly in her black hair. The man had made sure she’d lasted through the winter day with a coat and the proper tools to light a fire—all proven useless in the end, though, with Nuan figuring out how to keep herself warm hours before the package was delivered. The freshly killed elk’s body heat and warm blood had not been a sight the sponsor particularly enjoyed, but Rhysand watched the entire spectacle with a smile on his face.

That smile was long gone now. Nuan was clever, yes, and she’d managed to make it to the final four—but it was not enough.

It was not nearly enough.

Rhysand, frankly, had no idea how the girl had learned about the coming storm. The sponsor couldn’t have told her—it was against the rules and closely monitored by the Gamemakers—which only meant more credit was due to Nuan’s skills. With the autumn day still around the corner and the spring and summer days seemingly following their old pattern, there were no signs of the coming changes. Only a handful of sponsors had been told of the Prime Gamemaker’s plans to “make things more interesting,” as Eris Vanserra had called it. The fire, he’d said, had been a spectacle, yes—but he hardly enjoyed watching the same show twice, a sentiment the sponsors certainly shared with the final hours of the Games approaching at last.

The wire, Rhys had to admit, was perhaps one of the most brilliant strategies he’d ever witnessed in his ten years of experience. He’d been confused about Nuan’s choice of weaponry ever since he saw her sprinting for it at the Cornucopia—armed only with the long, metal string and a short dagger, Rhys did not anticipate the girl to last this long.

She’d wrapped one end around the bark of an oak tree, the thin cord disappearing in the dried-up grass before dipping into the neighbouring river. It was the perfect trap—if timed correctly. The moment her victim’s foot stepped on the wire—and the lightning struck the tree—would be the moment they drew their last breath. The only thing left for Nuan to do was to hide in the bushes and wait for the storm to come.

It was already too late.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face, her gaze focused on the sky above. The sun was starting to come down, greyish clouds already shielding the arena from its light. Rhys could almost hear the thoughts churning in Nuan’s head—the storm is coming. But Nuan did not—could not—see what Rhys saw.

Brannagh was coming, too.

And she was a lot faster than the storm.

A smirk twisted Brannagh’s dirt-smeared face, unease curling in the pit of Rhys’s stomach at the sight. She looked more like an animal than a girl now, he thought, the urge to kill almost primal as it flashed in her eyes. A predator ready to dig her claws into her prey.

The live footage followed Brannagh’s every step, dreadfully quiet against the sun-scorched soil as she made way for the river. If Nuan stayed hidden well enough, perhaps Brannagh would’ve set up camp nearby—would’ve stayed until the rain started pouring.

But Nuan’s attention remained on the clouds high above, her expression tight with anticipation, and Brannagh…Brannagh moved too silently to make her presence known.

It would take a sound—a single crunch of a twig beneath Nuan’s feet, a rustle of the bushes wrapped around her slim body to let Brannagh know she was not alone in the clearing. Rhys’s heart picked up, thumping loudly against his ribs, as if to yell loud enough for Nuan to heed its warning. If only he could be there, somehow—or send a message, one of those silver parachutes to carry a weapon of more substance than the pathetic knife strapped to Nuan’s boot. The holoscreen separating them reminded Rhys that, just like any other Tribute in the past, Nuan was all on her own.

“Come on,” he murmured, chin propped up in his hand. “Look down.”

“Nervous, Rhysand?”

The voice snapped him back to reality so suddenly he nearly flinched—he certainly would have, had he not gotten used to hearing it almost every night. On the holo, Nuan fidgeted with the spare wire in her hands, as though she, too, heard the syrupy question.

Rhys turned to Amarantha with a lazy wave of his hand. “This has been dragging on too long,” he complained, motioning to the screen. “That District Two girl should just get on with it.”

She took her seat on the couch beside him, the deep maroon of her hair spilling over the back. “So bloodthirsty,” she purred, trailing a long, sharp nail down his shoulder. Before he could stop himself, Rhys shivered, and Amarantha smiled, clearly misinterpreting his reaction.“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see Brannagh move forward,” she added, her gaze flicking to the holo.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rhys asked, letting his own mouth curl in a smile. “The sooner the Games are over, the sooner I have you all to myself again,” he teased, brushing a thumb over her pale hand.

Amarantha did not so much as look in his direction, her focus on Brannagh now as she kneeled by the stream. “That is not what I meant.”

Rhys’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

Her head angled an inch. “Brannagh seems to be awfully determined to get to a favourite of yours,” she mused quietly.

For a moment, Rhysand’s heart stopped beating.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have—she simply couldn’t. She’d shown no apprehension towards him in the lounge the other day—and certainly none in the night that followed—and he’d been so careful, lot more than in the past few years. There was no chance anyone had found out about his meeting with—

Rhysand composed himself quickly.

“Come now, Amarantha,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the cold hand on his arm, willing her eyes back on his own. “You’ve known me long enough now to know I don’t play favourites. Well,” he winked. “Except for one, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed to ease up a little, her lips pursing playfully as she countered, “I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a shameless flirt, Rhysand.” He chuckled, letting Amarantha study his face as she explained, “I meant Feyre Archeron, of course.”

She looked briefly to the live footage, where Nuan finally seemed to have taken notice of the Career a mere few feet away from her.

“Our shining Star of the Capitol,” Amarantha hummed absently.

Rhys forced his gaze away from her face, letting that trained boredom fill his own as he looked to the screen as well. “Feyre Archeron?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly. “I thought she was already dead.”

The words soured in his throat, the strange sense of betrayal they carried making his stomach tighten painfully.

Amarantha hummed again. “Not yet.”

Rhys blinked. Somewhere, in a world far away from this one, Nuan began silently stepping out of the bushes, the wire clenched tightly in her palm as she crept up on the Career. Brannagh would be far gone before the storm even started—she must’ve decided to act now.

“What do you mean?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, her answer knocking nearly all the air from his lungs.

Amarantha blinked, too, her dark eyes flicking back to him as she explained quickly, “I’m only saying if you’re not even half as bloodthirsty as that dirty Career, our lovely Feyre is unlikely to hold her own against such…”

A loud scream sounded from the holo as Nuan fell to the ground, a knife deep in her throat, fresh blood staining the corners of her mouth. Brannagh hunched over the girl, breathing in an out sharply, hand pressed to her side—just below her liver, Rhys realised, where Nuan’s wire had managed to bury itself seconds before her death.

“…talent,” Amarantha finished.

Nuan coughed for the final time, blood gurgling out loud enough for the cameras to hear, before her eyes stilled, a glossy veil falling over her panicked gaze. The cannon boomed, marking the Tribute’s death.

Amarantha sighed, rising from the couch. “And then there were three.”

Rhys forced himself to look up at her and smile. “Shall we watch the finale back at my place?” he asked, his voice dipping suggestively.

She took his jaw in her hand, thumb brushing the crest of his bottom lip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Amarantha teased. “No, I’m afraid I will be watching with Grandfather tonight.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Since when?” he blurted before he could really think the question through.

Her smile faded. “The President values my company, Rhysand.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shifted in his seat. “Of course—that’s not what I—”

Amarantha laughed—a low, raspy sound. “I like watching you squirm,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see me after the ceremony—you can be sure of that.”

Fuck!

He was an idiot—an utter fool for not keeping his cool when it mattered most. This was it—his chance to be there, to get her to take him with her, to finally get to a place where only one person before him had ever managed to get to. 

And Rhys ruined all of it.

She took him by surprise—she’d always stayed with him for the finale, with Hybern preferring his own company as the Games reached their climax. If he’d been smart, Rhys would’ve waited—would’ve fucked her senseless for it if need be, just as he’d done a thousand times before.

He missed his chance.

“I’ll miss you,” he threw in desperately, a pathetic attempt to gain what was already lost.

Amarantha leaned over the couch, the crimson of her lipstick flashing before she captured his mouth with her own, her tongue demanding immediate entry. He let her in, the way he’d always done, responding with the passion he knew would make her seek him out one way or another later—perhaps he’d manage to pull some information out of her, when she was tired and exhausted and naked in his bed.

Her teeth dug into his lip for the final time before she pulled back, a secretive smile playing on her pale features. “I’m sure you will,” Amarantha said. “Until next time.”

With that, she was gone, the door to his room closing with a light click.

Rhys vomited.

***

“Feyre.”

Feyre kept her gaze on the path ahead. She had no interest in stopping—not with the sun minutes away from setting, and certainly not with the fire sure to start within hours. She would not survive the autumn day again, that she was sure of. This—all of it—needed to end.

Now.

“Feyre,” Tamlin pressed behind her, his large hand reaching to capture her own. Even with the summer’s wet heat slipping away, his skin felt clammy against hers. Feyre ignored the feeling. It was nice to feel someone else’s touch, she realised. Especially since she might very well be dead in a matter of hours.

“Stop.”

She did, the new firmness in his tone halting her in her tracks. Tamlin’s face was hard as stone as she faced him, though the look his eyes was enough to betray exhaustion—they’d been walking for two hours now, moving from one corner of the arena to the other, guided by the river’s shimmering stream.

It had flushed out Tarquin’s blood within minutes, but even now, miles away from where they’d left his body, Feyre swore she could see red staining the water. Feyre knew the Capitol’s ship had probably picked him up soon after they’d left the clearing, and yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid image off her mind. Rotting flesh, slowly sinking into the mud or slipping into the river. Limbs caught up in the net—the net meant for her.

How many had already died so that Feyre might live?

She began counting them mentally, averting Tamlin’s searching gaze. The girl from Four, killed by a dagger seconds after they Games had begun—a dagger Ianthe aimed for Feyre’s throat. Devlon, terrible as he might’ve been, caught up in Brannagh’s bloodlust. Even Ianthe, whose bow now lay strapped to Feyre’s back.

Ressina.

Ressina, who would’ve lived had it not been for Feyre trying to play the Capitol’s game. She was good, her mind as sharp as her physical ability. Had it not been for the trap Feyre had set up, Ressina could’ve very well managed to survive until the very end. It could’ve been her friend now marching for the Cornucopia, ready to put an end to all of it.

Instead, it was Feyre, who only got this far because of sheer luck and whatever it was that Tamlin felt for her. She’d kissed him in that clearing, with Tarquin’s body as a witness. They’d barely spoken since then.

Perhaps, just as Feyre did, Tamlin was starting to realise they could not leave the arena the way they were now—hand in hand. Only one would survive.

And if they managed to kill the two Tributes left…

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Tamlin said quietly.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Feyre looked up to meet that emerald gaze, now stern with conviction. “The sun is setting,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tamlin agreed.

Feyre sighed. Her answer, apparently, was not good enough. “I’m worried about the fire.” Not entirely a lie—she had been thinking about it just a moment ago.

Tamlin’s shoulders fell a little—as though in relief. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Yes, there is,” Feyre countered. “Once we reach the Cornucopia—”

“We don’t even know if the other Tributes are there,” Tamlin interrupted. “The Games will not end tonight, Feyre. We should find shelter for the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it in the past hour. Feyre’s lips thinned—no matter how many time she’d pressed, Tamlin simply refused to back down. As if he wanted to prolong the Games, for whatever reason. He’d have to kill her eventually, anyway.

Feyre certainly wasn’t going to kill him. She had enough blood on her hands to understand there was no going back.

She could never go home again. How could she? To face Elain, so kind and gentle and good, and expect her to love a murderer? To face Nesta, who valued loyalty above all else, knowing she had watched as Feyre killed the one friend who’d looked out for her? No. Her sisters were lost to her.

Tamlin, at least, would get to go back. It was the one consolation she had left. After everything she’d done, at least she could set things right with him. He protected her—had lied and killed for her out of nothing but the affection in his heart—and he would get to go home because of it. He deserved it. District Twelve deserved it.

If it came down to the two of them at the end, Feyre knew what she’d have to do.

And there was not a shred of regret in her heart because of it.

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s voice, deep and unwavering, sounded again.

“We are so close, Tamlin,” she said, something heavy building up in her chest. “So close.” You could be going home.

Tamlin sighed. “That’s what worries me.” He turned slightly, gaze sliding over the trees around them until they settled at some point far to their right—as though he could see something there. A bird nesting deep between the leaves, a stray squirrel, perhaps, or worse—Brannagh, her favourite dagger already in hand, ready to slice it through their throats.

A split second later, though, Tamlin seemed to relax, powerful shoulders relaxing a little as he reached for her hand, thumb gently swiping over the back of her palm. She couldn’t help but lean into the touch—just how many of them did she have left?

“Tamlin,” she admitted, her voice quieter than a breath lest the Capitol could hear. “I’m scared.”

He squeezed her tightly. “There’s nothing to be scared about,” he told her with a rare smile. “I’ll protect you.”

No, you won’t, Feyre thought, though the words remained silent in the back of her throat. I won’t give you that chance.

He must’ve seen it, then—the pained look twisting her face, the shadows clouding her stare—because his brows knitted slightly, and he straightened. “Feyre,” Tamlin started, “Why—”

His question died with the loud boom of a cannon, so close to the two of them it might as well have been their own deaths it marked.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating entirely, her blood chilling into ice.

“Brannagh?” she dared to ask, the question no more than a whisper.

Tamlin’s eyes widened. “We need to move,” he urged, tugging on the hand she forgot he’d been holding. “Now, Feyre.”

She did not object this time.

They ran back into the forest, far away from the path laid out by the stream, the trees offering shelter from the fading sun. Three—there were three of them left.

The Games were coming to an end.

Feyre could only pray—pray to whoever would listen—that the cannon had been set off for Brannagh, that the girl from Three had somehow managed to kill the Career hell-bent on coming after the two of them. The thought almost made her stumble over her own steps.

Feyre considered the prayer again. Then again. And again.

Perhaps…perhaps this was her solution.

She already knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive—not when Tamlin was still by her side, breathing and in perfect health. She also suspected that if it came down to the two of them, Tamlin would not let her sacrifice herself for him.

Brannagh, though…

Feyre was certain the District Two Tribute shared no such sentiment.

Tamlin could handle her on his own—Feyre had no doubt of that. And Brannagh…Brannagh could handle Feyre.

Feyre swallowed thickly.

Elain, Nesta. I’m so sorry.

“There’s a cave just ahead,” Tamlin said beside her, motioning to the pile of rocks hiding an entry just under an oak tree. “We can wait out the fire there.”

Feyre nodded.

The moment Tamlin fell asleep, she would be gone.

Just as the cave she’d hidden in before, the space was cold and dark, the wet soil clinging to the soles of her boots. Near the entrance, a plush patch of moss laid waiting, the grassy scent mixing with the pungent mud. Feyre coughed once, then twice, earning a concerned look from Tamlin. She shook her head.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “It’s just…the smell.”

Tamlin scrunched his nose—then shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“You should get some rest,” Feyre told him, willing strength into her voice. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s tone invited no argument. “I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but you almost died today. Died, Feyre.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I’ll go out and try to find us some dinner. We’ll need something to hold us over during the fire, won’t we?”

Feyre chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think—”

She didn’t get to finish. Without warning, Tamlin pulled her in to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her as his mouth crashed into her own.

The kiss, unlike the one they’d shared by the river, was quick and chaste—but it was enough for her body to slump a little, exhaustion hitting her all at once. She could wait a little, Feyre decided. The forest was still ripe with prey, and the sun had only just now set. She could sleep—for the final time.

“Wake me up when you’re back,” she told him when he finally pulled back.

Tamlin nodded. “I will.”

And just like that, he left.

***

Ressina’s laughter was warm even underground, the sound echoing through the training ring.

“I’m really trying,” Feyre grumbled.

“Oh, I can tell,” her friend teased, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. “You really showed that dummy, you know.”

Feyre followed her gaze to the back wall—right where the dummy stood proudly, untouched by what seemed like a hundred daggers at its feet.

She sighed deeply.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ressina tried again, stepping in closer to Feyre’s side. “Your stance has improved, but the issue is in your grip. Here,” she instructed, long, slender fingers wrapping around Feyre’s wrist. “Loosen it up a little. Not that much,” she said when the dagger fell flat in Feyre’s hand. “You still need the strength to throw it—but its the flexibility of your wrist that will guide the knife to its aim.”

“Where did you learn all of that, anyway?” Feyre asked her absently, eyes narrowing on the target once again as she adjusted her stance.

“I’ve told you,” Ressina said. “Apple farms.”

Feyre gave her a look.

Ressina chuckled. “You’re clever, Feyre. More clever than you think. Oh, that’s a good thing,” she added at the sight of Feyre’s rising brows, then nodded to the knife in her hand. “Daggers can only get you so far.”

Feyre followed her gaze—then looked to the dummy once again. She made herself count to three, releasing a deep, deep breath with each second until her shoulders steadied, and the knife became as much as an extension of her own hand.

A moment later, the blade lodged itself right in the puppet’s heart.

Feyre turned to Ressina. “I don’t know about that.”

Ressina smiled.

***

Feyre’s eyes shot open.

Propped up on her elbow, she lifted herself off the cold ground, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sound of Ressina’s laughter still rang somewhere in the corners of her mind, the memory, too, like a knife burying itself deep into Feyre’s heart.

She blinked the stinging sensation away, her vision adjusting to the darkness around her. She could just barely make out the moss growing at the cave’s entrance, ruffled slightly by the night’s gentle wind.

It was then that Feyre realised she was alone.

She jolted upright, hand nearly slipping on the wet ground. Just how long had she been asleep?

“Tamlin?” she dared to whisper. Perhaps he was simply keeping watch outside. But no—he’d promised to wake her when he returned. What if…

What if Tamlin was never meaning to come back?

He could’ve planned for his own death the same way she had—the cannon told them Brannagh wasn’t far, after all. What if Tamlin had left for his own death, hoping to spare her from having to kill him at the very end?

“Tamlin,” Feyre tried again, voice growing desperate. She had no doubt there were cameras in the cave somewhere—she didn’t care. Not right now, when she needed to go and find him—needed to try and—

A quiet jingle sounded outside, breaking out of her panic.

She recognised it almost immediately, rising to her feet to meet the parachute outside. Perhaps, for whatever reason, Rhysand had taken pity on her again, and was now sending her some sort of protection from the fire. Or maybe, just maybe, the parachute was meant for Tamlin—and, hearing its gentle call, he was already on his way back to her.

The moment Feyre stepped outside, the parachute landed right in her hands.

Not for Tamlin, then.

The package was smaller than her last—only a small box hung attached to the silver fabric, nearly invisible in the darkness. She couldn’t have been asleep for long, then—the sky seemed nowhere near clearing up, the few stars above her only light as she unscrewed the top.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—a protective balm for her skin, maybe, anything to let her know the wild, ravaging fire would not be how she went out of this world.

Inside laid a neatly rolled piece of paper, the elegant, familiar handwriting no more than five words:

Don’t let the Hunger win.

Feyre read the message again. Then again—and again.

She gave up with the sixth time.

“What does that even mean?” she asked the stars, twinkling playfully in response. Feyre threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, shoving Rhysand’s secretive message into her back pocket.

She needed to find Tamlin—and she needed to do it now.

***

“And you’re certain,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking slightly on the chill, underground air.

“Positive,” Nuala confirmed. “The parachute went out ten minutes ago.” 

He loosed a breath. “Did she already receive ours?” She nodded. “Good. How much until the other?”

She shifted on her feet—a rare sight, and it only made his stomach tighten. If anything went wrong…

“Cerridwen is monitoring the cameras,” Nuala said.

“No names,” Rhys hissed.

“Right,” she scrambled. “Right, of course. I—yes. Tamlin should receive it within minutes.”

Rhysand forced another, frigid breath. “Did she send it personally?”

“She’s not stupid. And, from what you told me, she is occupied.”

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten.

Silence fell, filled by nothing but darkness between the two of them. It seemed that the waning hours of the Games were getting to Rhys, too—and more than he’d anticipated.

“We warned her,” Nuala said quietly—a shred of comfort in a situation like this.

“She won’t understand until she sees what they sent him,” Rhys countered. “And even then—”

“And even then, you’ll have done everything in our power to keep her alive,” Nuala pressed. “The only thing left for us to do is wait.”

The waiting is the worst part, Rhys remembered.

Still, he had no other choice.

It was up to Feyre now.

He could only pray she’d understand.

***

She found Tamlin not even ten minutes later, crouched behind tall bushes, eyes fixed entirely on whatever they were hiding. A sob nearly shook through her body at the sight—he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Feyre approached him silently, her bow strapped securely to her back as she kneeled beside him. “Tam—”

A large hand clamped her mouth shut as Tamlin whipped toward her, his gaze shining with alarm. Feyre’s breath quickened—his reaction could only mean one thing.

They were not alone.

Slowly, Tamlin released her face from his hold, his own finger pressed to his lips tightly, urging her to keep quiet. It was then that Feyre noticed a glimmer of silver near his feet—a piece of familiar fabric abandoned on the grass. Her brow arched in question.

Tamlin shook his head. Fine—he’d tell her later. Whatever it was the sponsors had sent him, it could apparently wait.

Feyre moved in closer toward him, reaching for the thin branches shielding her vision from view. She suppressed a hiss as a sharp pain shot through her finger, tearing the skin open at the tip. Thorns.

Tamlin’s gaze remained focused on the path ahead as she tried again, quietly opening a gap between the leaves to reveal whatever it was that commanded Tamlin’s full attention.

Her heart nearly froze at the sight.

They’d reached the Cornucopia.

She hadn’t seethe horn-like structure since the Games had begun, made of the same metal as the boxes sent from the Capitol and gleaming with its own, humming light. Feyre had forgotten just how large it was—just how much it could hide.

It was Brannagh’s whines that gave her away.

She sat on the east of the horn, back resting against the hardened walls, each one of her breaths falling flat. Feyre’s eyes widened—even the bushes seemed to go lethally still at the sight of the injured Career.

Brannagh’s hand laid pressed to somewhere near her stomach, her clothes bloodied slightly, though Feyre knew her well enough by now to know there was no telling if the blood was truly her own. There was no denying she was injured, though—perhaps injured enough to kill with enough ease.

This ruined her plans a bit.

Tamlin’s hand on her thigh snapped her back to their hiding spot. “We have to kill her,” Tamlin whispered, the sound barely audible on the midnight wind.

Feyre’s heart reset, stumbling over a beat. “Tamlin,” she breathed, “No—wait—”

“There’s no time, Feyre,” he urged. “We have to end this now.”

“Tamlin,” Feyre said, panic rising in her voice, “if we kill Brannagh, we’ll be the only two Tributes left.” She couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t.

Once again, Tamlin’s face became stone. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“No,” she pressed. In the distance, Brannagh whined again—as though in confirmation. Even the wind seemed to pick up, howling somewhere in the distance. Could Feyre truly kill her like this? “There is another way. There has to be,” she said, more to herself now than him. What if—what if they could all get out of there alive. If they stood against the Capitol

“Feyre—”

“We’re not killers, Tamlin,” she pleaded. “We have to try. We can’t let them win.”

Don’t let the hunger win. Was that what Rhysand meant?

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. Those were her own words, weren’t they? Spoken to Ressina shortly before her death. Perhaps that was why she’d dreamt of her earlier—perhaps the dream was her friend’s final message, her final lesson to keep Feyre alive.

She’d written off her death so easily, Feyre thought, a new sense of guilt washing over her at the realisation. She’d promised Elain to survive—she’d promised Ressina to bring the Capitol down after she did.

And Feyre would. She would make the Capitol pay for this—for all of this.

But first, the three of them were getting out of here alive.

Feyre stood abruptly and marched straight for the Cornucopia.

“FEYRE!” Tamlin roared behind her. Too late.

Brannagh, to her credit, shot to her feet instantly, a hiss managing its way past her lips with the movement. Not even her injury, it seemed, managed to keep the cruel smile off her face.

“Twelve,” she greeted, rising to her full height. “I’ve been waiting.” A look past Feyre’s shoulder, where Tamlin’s hurried steps now sounded. “And you’ve brought the traitor, too.”

“How did you know I’d be coming?” Feyre asked, her tone calm to her own surprise.

Brannagh shrugged, face twisting painfully—wrong move. What had the girl from Three done to her? “You’re the Star of the Capitol, aren’t you?” A raspy laugh. “Of course you’d want to have your moment to shine. Sorry to disappoint,” she added, “but even in my state, I can kill you right where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tamlin said behind her.

Brannagh’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Stay out of this, flower boy. This is between us girls.” A smile at Feyre. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Feyre told her.

Now that seemed to throw her off. “What?”

“We can get out of here, Brannagh,” she told her the same thing she’d said to Tamlin. “All three of us—we can go home.”

Brannagh looked as though she’d gone insane.

Still, Feyre continued, “Please—please just hear me out. I know you don’t want this—I know you wouldn’t be this if it weren’t for the Games. We can all get out. If we stand our ground—if we refuse—”

Brannagh erupted in laughter.

The sound quickly turned into a cough—a flat, shuddering sound, her arms wrapping tighter around her sides.

“They got her,” Tamlin murmured, now a mere step behind Feyre. “It’s her liver, I think. Look at her hand.”

“You dumb bitch,” Brannagh laughed, “I knew you were crazy, but this has got to top it all.” Her dark gaze, now clearer than ever before, settled directly on Feyre’s. “You think you have a chance here? You think any of us do? Open your eyes, Twelve,” she hissed. “Only one of us is getting out of here tonight. And that someone is going to be me.”

“You’re dying,” Tamlin pointed out quietly. Somewhere in the distance, the sky rumbled loudly—enough to make all three of them flinch, as if in confirmation of his words. Was that a storm coming? 

It couldn’t be, Feyre thought. Not with the fire a few hours away.

Brannagh tore her gaze off the sky to face them once more. “The Capitol will take care of me the moment you two are dead.”

“You’re a fool if you think the Capitol is ever going to take care of you, Brannagh,” Feyre said.

Brannagh’s eyes widened at that—and, for a split second, Feyre believed they had a chance.

If only.

“I’m no bigger fool than you,” she said, and attacked.

Feyre had no idea how Brannagh managed to launch for her this quickly—or when, exactly, the daggers appeared in her bloodied hands. She could only see the two flashes of silver as the Career swung, inches away from her neck.

Tamlin’s hands on her waist pulled her back with a force so strong Feyre gasped out in surprise. She swayed, heels digging into the ground as she tried to regain her balance, Tamlin’s own weapon already in his hand and charging for his enemy.

Brannagh ducked just in time to avoid his sword slicing her in half, but the move cost her—the strain on her wound made a sharp cry slip past her throat as she fell, back hitting the hard, solid ground. Her scream was cut off as she choked on her own breath, eyes threatening to fall out of their orbits at the impact. Brannagh grasped at the weeds around her, her hands weaponless now with her daggers abandoned from the fall, then choked again as she realised—it was over.

Feyre stepped in closer until her boots covered Brannagh’s blades—better safe than sorry, she told herself. Even disarmed, she was still dangerous.

Tamlin hovered above her, the tip of his own blade pointed at the defeated Career. Brannagh closed her eyes.

“Wait,” Feyre told him. Tamlin’s head whipped toward her.

“What?”

“Brannagh,” she urged, not daring another look at Tamlin. “Please. You have a chance here.”

Lightning tore through the darkness with her words—as if the night sky itself was in agreement.

With her remaining strength, Brannagh shook her head. “Y-you,” she wheezed, body convulsing with the effort, “You don’t mean that, Twelve.”

“We’re more than just numbers, Brannagh,” she told her. The sky rumbled again.

“Go…” Brannagh coughed, “…go fuck yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Tamlin said, hands wrapping tighter around the hilt.

Feyre’s vision flashed with alarm. “Tamlin, wait—”

Brannagh did not get to close her eyes again as Tamlin drove his sword deep into her throat.

Her body slumped against the grass, so small now that the soul was gone from it entirely. Feyre looked away from the blood—from what seemed like a sea of it pooling around her, turning the lush green into crimson—and yet, no matter how far she seemed to avert her gaze, the red found her still. She saw it everywhere now—the grass, the walls of the Cornucopia, the bark of the trees at the edge of the forest. Her own hands, marked by it forever.

The cannon sounded with the first rainfall.

Beside her, Tamlin was panting, those emerald eyes fixed on Brannagh’s dead body. Feyre could see the blood in them now, too. The water would wash it away, she realised, watching as the rain dotted her skin. It would wash it away and make space for more to be spilled.

“Tamlin,” Feyre whispered, the sound drowned out by the howling wind. The rain intensified, accompanied by more thunder, closer and closer with every roar. “Tamlin!”

“We need to take shelter!” he called to her, his hair already wet and clinging to his neck. He motioned to the Cornucopia—and took off.

Feyre had no choice but to run after him, Brannagh’s body discarded for the storm to claim.

“Tamlin,” she tried again once they stood under the silvery roof. Yet another cave of the Capitol’s making.

“The fire isn’t coming,” he said, as if that was the answer she was seeking. “I’m not sure which one of these is worse.”

“Tamlin.”

Finally, finally, Tamlin looked at her, something like a shadow clouding his expression. Feyre exhaled shakily. “What do we do?”

His jaw tightened. “We can’t get out of here. Likely for the next twenty-four hours.”

Feyre couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Tamlin, I’m not talking about—”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” he interrupted, something urgent in his eyes with the question. Something pleading.

He’d just killed Brannagh, Feyre understood. And, if they failed to oppose the Capitol…he’d have to kill her, too. 

She could give him one more minute.

“Okay,” Feyre breathed. “Okay.” She considered. “Since the spring day. But, like you said—we can’t go out.” Not with the storm raging by the minute.

Tamlin swallowed thickly. “I have food,” he said, then reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a shiny, silver box.

Feyre’s shoulders fell. It was decently sized that the two of them could share it, she supposed. “Is that what they’d sent you earlier?”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ve already had some before you found me—I’m sorry I didn’t go wake you. I thought she’d die on her own there.”

Feyre kept her eyes on the box. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Tamlin sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he said, then opened the lid.

The box was filled to the brim with something—fruit, Feyre realised, making out their small, round shapes in the semi-darkness of the Cornucopia. Berries. It wasn’t meat, but it would be enough to hold them over for some time—especially if they’d been sent from—

Feyre blinked.

I had a sister once, you know, Tamlin said, not looking her in the eye as the city lights twinkled in the distance. She died when we were little.

Feyre remembered Tamlin from back home. Tamlin Rosethorn, the florist’s son. They’d never spoken, but ever since she was old enough to roam the District streets, she would see him around, clinging to his mother’s leg. She remembered his brothers, too—older, working their days in the mines or fighting each other in the streets whenever they got the chance.

But a sister…

Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin? Amarantha’s syrupy voice poured into her head.

No. But I do wish there was another solution.

That was the night she’d overheard them after training.

Her name was Dalia, Tamlin had told her minutes after, stumbling over his words. She was a lot like you, I think.

Feyre stopped breathing.

Poor Tamlin, Amarantha had crooned after the interviews. Young love can be so heartbreaking.

Be careful who you trust, Feyre, Rhysand had told her moments later.

One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest, Tamlin’s voice sounded again. And she picked up some nightlock berries.

Don’t let the hunger win.

Feyre swallowed. Hard.

“Tamlin,” she started slowly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What was your sister’s name?”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just…tell me. Please.”

“I…” he hesitated, his stare dropping to the berries, then back to Feyre—then to the berries again. “Lila,” he said slowly. “Her name was Lila.”

Feyre’s chest tightened.

We all have to survive somehow. Her own words, said to Isaac shortly before her life fell apart.

This, apparently, had been Tamlin’s way.

“Wrong answer,” Feyre whispered.

Tamlin took a step back. Then another, until she realised he was not backing away—no, Tamlin was adopting his stance.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Feyre begged, even as she knew he was already lost to her.

Tamlin shook his head. “I really wish you had chosen the berries, Feyre.”

And with that, he reached for his sword.

“There can only be one.”

He betrayed her.

He’d been betraying her since the very beginning.

I’ll always protect you, Feyre. Lie, lie, lie.

She could protect herself.

Ressina’s dagger found its way into her hand naturally—like an extension of her wrist, part of her own flesh.

The world slowed down as Feyre made herself count to three, the rain outside blurry as her vision sharpened on one, singular target with a sword in his hand and pain in his eyes.

One.

Two.

“Three,” Feyre said, then plunged the dagger right into Tamlin’s heart.

***

Rhysand sat on the edge of his bed, unaware of the storm hurling at his windows.

He could only see the storm in the arena, clear on the holo as if it was happening right in front of him. Could only see as Tamlin swayed back into the wall of hardened rain with the knife buried in his chest to the hilt.

He looked at Feyre, mouth agape, as though he would say something—anything. None of it would matter.

His sword fell a second before Tamlin, his body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

He did not move again.

A few feet away, Feyre watched as the last Tribute stilled into nothingness.

And then, she blinked.

The determination Rhys had seen on her face moments prior faded instantly, replaced by a panic so palpable he swore he felt it in his own chest. Her blue-grey eyes went wide, freezing in terror as she waited for Tamlin to rise, to take another breath. Rhysand knew—he remembered. Tamlin was lost.

And Feyre was alone.

Slowly, Feyre took a staggering step forward, her face as though in a haze. Then, she took another—and one more, until she reached Tamlin’s side at last.

Rhysand stood, feet carrying him to the holo as if they could reach her, stopping only when he faced the shimmering blue screen.

The camera zoomed in on its star, close enough to capture the tremor that shook through her body, the wobble of her knees as she realised there was no going back. As she, too, understood, just how alone they were in this world.

Her legs gave out.

Feyre fell to her knees beside Tamlin’s dead body, looked up to the storm-torn sky, and screamed.

Rhysand’s palm found the screen. As if to brush the tears off her face.

I understand, he wanted to say. I understand.

For the first time in ten years, Rhys let himself cry.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @foreverinelysian @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur @to-read-or-to-read @bookish-dream @darling-archeron

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter Twelve

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Masterlist

Find this fic on AO3

A/N: No warnings this chapter. Mentions of violence, maybe?

This one got a little out of hand - we made it to 5.5k words before I had to call it.

Azriel was soft with females. He couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was his mother’s influence, the memory of her suffering at his father’s hands and the scars – both visible and mental – it left on her still. Or perhaps it was the image of Mor sprawled in her bed of leaves and blood, wavering near death, but he did not feel the urge to be needlessly cruel to Aisling.

Azriel didn’t fool himself that she was as good and golden as Mor – few were, especially from the Court of Nightmares – but she was polite to him. In those hours between day and night when their paths crossed he studied her on Rhys’ order, and she studied him right back. At first, he thought she was afraid of the shadows or perhaps sneering about the scars on his hands, but she watched them from the side of her eye even when he wore gloves.

Aisling was waiting for him to hurt her, Azriel had realised very quickly. He remembered her blind panic when he grabbed her as he was saving her, what he thought had been disgust.

Azriel resolved that she would wait a long time. Until he had no other choice, until she gave him no other option. He didn’t need more blood on his hands, more foul dreams to come creeping in some night in a century’s time. He’d had more of late, echoes of violence and misery he’d dealt out before.

Besides, he could see the curiosity in her eyes, and anger. Her courtier’s mask was good, but he had been at this game for centuries and could read fae very well. If she was truly frightened, she wouldn’t look at him at all. She was nervous now, but she wouldn’t remain so. Her eyes were too wide open. She’d grow to be angry when she found her feet.

It was the cycle of every prisoner. Fear was a powerful drug but one that could only hold for so long – the mind couldn’t sustain it. He knew it was in there, had glimpsed it when he explained the palace to her. He mentioned that the windows were warded so she could not fall, scuppering any plans she may have made about leaping. Aisling had only looked at him with a dull sort of disdain. The Darkbringer he interrogated only a few months ago had looked at him in that way. Something about the eyes, flat and dead, as if some candle had been smothered.

Aisling first showed a hint of spark when he arrived one morning before sunrise, stepping out of the shadows in the front hall. It had startled her, and she whirled to face him with wide eyes.

“I did not know Illyrians were capable of winnowing,” she said, looking at his shadows as they slid away from him.

“They aren’t,” he replied. He could probably get her tongue loosened here, now that she was away from Keir and Thanatos. Females in places like the Court of Nightmares always knew more than their keepers wanted them to. “Only me. But it’s not winnowing.”

“Some magic with the shadows?” She guessed, watching the way they altered the natural shadows, darkening and blurring them. His shadows didn’t particularly like her because he didn’t particularly like her, but they enjoyed the darkness she brought with her.

“Perhaps,” he said vaguely, not willing to part with too much of himself. “Can you winnow?”

“Perhaps,” she said, smiling with teeth as she slipped off to her room.

It was after a dark, silent week that she grew less guarded. He didn’t mind spending time here as much as he thought he would – everywhere he went in Velaris he seemed surrounded by mates. Feyre and Rhysand, happy and ever so slightly smug; Cassian and Nesta, aggressively in love and still prone to going at each other in shared spaces. They were so prolific in their fucking that he now held his breath every time he walked through the dining room and dragged his feet as he came around corners.

Although the spaces weren’t really shared anymore, except by technicality: the House was theirs, had been gifted to them. Azriel wasn’t entirely certain where that left him. Not at the River House, with Elain and the dazzling, shameful smell of her haunting the rooms; not at his mother’s house, which he found painful in any sizeable dose.

The palace on a mountaintop in the company of a female who didn’t want to be there either felt like a good temporary measure. Bitter medicine, but effective. He’d been kept busy on the Continent, trying to gather enough leverage to get those archaic fae kingdoms to commit to a treaty by holding something over each of their heads but it was difficult going, requiring weeks of study and survey. Those nights he was back, watching over her as Rhys requested, felt like a quiet, slow sinking into a frigid bath.

She was growing restless, he noted; it had been a week, and still Eris had not contacted them. Neither by letter (his bet), nor by burning straight through the wards in a great gout of flame (Cassian’s bet), nor even by sending three dead bats in a box (Rhysand’s).

It infuriated Azriel when he thought about it for too long, made his shadows thrash and writhe, sensing his agitation. He couldn’t imagine having a mate and not giving her everything. Not going out of his mind if she was imprisoned somewhere alone with a dangerous male. What were some odd bits of jewellery, some little trinkets that she had from him? They meant nothing. Eris had left her in a shithole, then held captive.

Azriel had spent centuries wishing for a mate, would have carved out his own kidney to feel the bond snap. It was so typical of Eris to have everything and treat it all like it didn’t matter. Everything was a game to him; his mate simply became part of the game, too.

He studied Aisling as he took a seat at the table, saw her watching him out of the corner of her eye. Why her?

“Did you learn to move silently because you are a spy? Or does it come naturally because you are a shadowsinger?” Aisling asked him as he sat down to take his dinner – her breakfast, he saw.

The room had been rearranged so the dining table was closer to one of the arched windows, the sheer curtains pulled back so the view was unobstructed. The snow blew off the distant mountaintops in gusts, a sight Aisling drank in hungrily Most of the furniture had been rearranged in this fashion – his shadows told him each morning that she was ostensibly reading a novel on a chaise by a window in the study, but she had made scant progress.

“It was part of my training,” Azriel said.

“As a spy,” Aisling surmised, watching the way his shadows ebbed and flowed around him like a cloak. “I thought it to be so. The other one has footsteps like a war-drum.”

Cassian. Azriel quirked his lips up at that – she didn’t know how true it actually was. They put on a performance for the Court, wearing dominance and aggression like armour, but Cassian thundered up and down hallways even in his socks.

“He thinks he’s light-footed,” Azriel said, which made Aisling half-smile.

“For a troll, perhaps,” she said.

“I won’t tell him you compared Illyrians to trolls.”

“I did not make the comparison because he is Illyrian,” Aisling said, cutting her eyes over at him. “I made the comparison because he is ugly.”

Aisling was watching him, gauging his reaction, and as he moved his hand to pick up his fork her eyes snapped to it immediately.

She was testing the limits of her confinement. What she could say, and what she couldn’t; what he’d tolerate. His mouth firmed.

Keir smashing her head into the obsidian table right in front of him. His mother wrapping her broken, crooked fingers around the bars of his cell, pulling him out into the light.

“His mate thinks otherwise,” was all he said, digging into his meal.

-------

Aisling missed Eris. This taciturn male, cold and quiet, made her miss him more.

Half of her wanted to see him just so she could shove the whole mess in his face, make him rue his words. To mock his speaking of safety as if that was ever a thing she had known, let alone held in her hands.

The other half wanted to see him because he was so vibrant that it felt like she came alive just from being near him, the way she had read that the moon was only illuminated by the trailing fingers of the sun.

He had made her cry. That was horrid. It was even more horrid that he had made her laugh. She woke every evening, alternately sick with longing and aching for his touch or furious all over again that he had left her so vulnerable. Sometimes both, at the same time.

Aisling couldn’t entirely relax here. In the City her home was spacious and the halls were airy despite the lack of windows, but they lived on top of each other. Her home alone had a half-dozen servants and more guards. All she had to do was step through her front gate before she’d see someone she knew: someone who recognised her as Aisling their classmate, as Aisling their dance partner, as Aisling the daughter of Fiach, or even just as Lady Aisling, one of the pale, wicked gentry. Her days had been studded with court and business matters and social visits; her nights crowded with dinners and revels.

This palace was empty.

She knew the handmaiden was spying on her – all servants spied, this was to be expected – and she suspected Azriel worked some magic with the shadows, the way he could walk through them. There had been rumours in the City, but no one knew for certain what he could and couldn’t do. Aisling watched him when he was around to try and learn but he gave nothing away.

She had been afraid, at first, but it really did seem as if they intended to do nothing but keep her until… something Eris did, or didn’t do. She was desperate to know what they were demanding of him. But this was a game of faces: she would not ask first because Azriel would be on it like a hound; because he dealt in information and even a hint of interest would make a tasty morsel.

Niamh would love the palace. She would spend hours in that enormous bathtub, peering off the edge of the world. Aisling felt a pang of longing for her friends as she went through her days, drinking in the sight of those distant mountaintops and endless, endless stars. This echoing, vacant palace was lonely.

After a week, the banality of her days had melted away any fear. She had only shown a hint of tooth instead of launching her plate at Azriel every time he came in the room like she wanted to; at first, she settled for creating unpleasant dreams, but he didn’t seem affected. In the end she gave that game up for lack of reaction.

The Lord Steward would have been on her like mushrooms on rot by now. The moonstone palace had plenty of empty rooms where he would have locked her up; a lovely deep bathtub where he would have held her under the water until she could see edge of the paper-thin divide between living and not. She kept toeing the line that she thought would be the one not to cross, but Azriel merely looked at her as if she were a particularly interesting houseplant and carried on.

This place was boring. They truly didn’t live here. Nobody did – Aisling had explored every room, considered trying to break the enchantments on the locked ones until she remembered the sort of traps and tricks that awaited you if you went lockpicking in the Hewn City. She had broken into her father’s office once and found the threshold enchanted to make everything she touched rot or crumble – food included. After a week she was hungry enough to remember the lesson.

She whiled away time staring at the sky, watching the patterns of the stars, the play of light. It was like drinking water on an empty stomach; it only made her hungrier, more ravenous. She was still training her eyes to accept sunlight by merely burning them until she thought her head would explode, gritting her teeth through the pain and unbearable brightness.

Aisling had been there for nine days when Azriel had crept soundlessly past the study where she had a novel propped in her hand and her eyes on the moon. A lovely waning crescent, sickle-thin, a pure true white.

His shadows darkened the corners of the room unnaturally. Aisling decided she could not bear another silent, dark night.

“Do you play?” Aisling asked, sitting up and gesturing at the board of Three Trolls Tall in the corner. Her father had taught her how, balanced on his knee. She had played countless rounds with Niamh and her other friends; wagering secrets against the females, kisses against the males.

This set was handsome, a carved onyx table with an inlaid marble board. The pieces were silver and gold, their markers inlaid gemstones. Everything here was so pretty, all dreamy marble and moonstone. All the furniture was comfortable and elegant, every view breathtaking.

And they didn’t even live here.

To her surprise Azriel hesitated in the archway, a dark figure against the stark, brilliant white of the palace.

“Please,” she said, though it made her throat burn to say it. He obliged her, coming in to sit at one of the padded chairs by the board. They were cut cleverly to accommodate for wings, a feature she had never thought of.

“Do you wager?” He asked, and she laughed.

Aisling admitted, “I have rather enough gold. I don’t need to play for coin.”

“For questions, then,” he said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the board.

“You would fit in well in the City,” she replied, just to see him frown. She had been wondering when the interrogation would begin anew, now that they had her isolated. She had dealt with his questions once before; another round was nothing. At least here Lord Keir was not looming from the corner, ready to stove in the back of her head. “Fine, for questions. I will truthfully answer one question as you win one game if the same rule governs you, until one of us rises from the table.”

The gossamer thread of the bargain hovered, then settled with a shiver when Azriel nodded.

Azriel let her go first, playing the silver pieces. She played carelessly, making silly mistakes, wanting to suss out her opponent. Azriel was overly defensive, stacking his trolls only in reaction to her own, trying to anticipate traps. She let him bait her and raised her eyebrows when he won.

He regarded her for a long moment, hazel eyes inscrutable. He really was lovely, in a dark, brooding sort of way. The quiet would wear on her, though. She missed Eris’ sharp tongue.

She missed his tongue for a few different reasons, now that she thought of it.

“Keir didn’t want you to say something when we spoke last,” he finally said. “What was it?”

The magic of the bargain hummed between them, compelling her to answer truthfully. The degree of truth, however, was up to her creative interpretation.

“Plenty,” she said, biting her lip to feign reluctance. Perhaps he’d do the entire City a trick and kill Lord Keir. “He likes his secrets and thinks City business ought to be handled by City gentry. Among them was that your spy in the Darkbringers was beaten to death.”

“And his other secrets?” He asked, face as blank and drawn as if it wasn’t news at all. He already knew that, but how could he not?

Aisling shook her head, resetting the board with a wave. “One victory, one question,” she insisted. His hazel eyes narrowed, but he didn’t get up.

She let him win again, firming her mouth into a line. She piled all her trolls doggedly, over-reacting to her previous defeat, an easy pattern for him to disrupt and scatter. She had let her hands linger over pieces, hesitating, second-guessing.

“What did Eris Vanserra give Keir in exchange for-” He cut off, suddenly ducking his head. He didn’t blush, but the thought alone was delightful enough to make her smile.

The torturer and spymaster. Blushing, because he didn’t want to say the word fucking in front of a lady.

“For a consort?” Aisling suggested, unable to help her smile. “I came to his bed willingly.”

That was true, though not the truth he was looking for. She had been miserable when she walked through the door but practically leapt on the bed after a few heated kisses. She still wasn’t sure if it was Eris himself or the bond that had made her act like a slut, rubbing herself on his lap, but she didn’t care. The memory made a flush rise to her cheeks, which Azriel tracked – of course. His eyes narrowed sceptically.

“He’s very handsome,” she said, and smiled toothily again.

Azriel didn’t believe her. Aisling reset the board again. She routed him this time, no mercy, pursuing a straightforward kill while he wasted time setting up obvious traps for her, thinking her a dullard at this game. He was still scowling as she felled his last troll.

“How did you get those scars on your hands?” Aisling asked immediately, wasting no time. He always hid his hands around her; they always twitched under her scrutiny. He hid them instinctively, under the board, and his strange shadows covered him.

She’d made him uncomfortable. Good.

“My half-brothers drenched them in oil and lit them on fire,” he said reluctantly, hazel eyes gone dark. His wings rustled, tucking in tightly behind him. Aisling didn’t have time to get a word out before he had pushed away from the table, rising and stalking from the room.

“Sore loser,” she told the shadow of the table, just in case it was listening.

-------

Elain had woken up to a watery, early spring dawn, unsure if she was actually awake.

Her dreams had plagued her. They weren’t bad this time, not blood and death, but they were unsettling and increasingly reluctant to let her go. She had dreamt of…

Owls, fighting and tearing at each other’s wings, in the shadow of a great mountain. Dark trees, dark figures, dark sky; no moon at all. A dark so rich and heavy it was like velvet, and she had sunk her hands into it, fighting her way out. It clung to her like cobwebs, and she had woken up fighting with her blankets in the pitch black. Her second sleep was easier, but still she saw strange things, fire and forests, animals and places she didn’t know.

She cried for a few minutes, silently, tears of frustration and shame. Then she got ready for her day, creeping through the quiet house.

Elain had plans this evening. A family dinner, because she was fine and well-adjusted to her new life and could do normal things. And they expected her to be pleasant and helpful and sweet, to do things like help cook for family dinners. And she really, really, did not want anyone to look at her too closely.

She was glad Lucien was gone, off with the human queen and Jurian. Lucien was always looking at her, even when he wasn’t; she could feel his eyes on her as keenly as she felt the heat of the sun. She always knew when he was in Velaris, could tell through some strange faerie intuition.

Elain hated it.

She tried not to think about it as she went through the banal routines of her day: baking in the morning with Cerridwen – Nuala being off somewhere, in her second role as spy which sounded terribly thrilling – then going to the Palaces. Hoof and Leaf first, then Bone and Salt, taking her time.

Beef for dinner. Plus two chickens, just in case someone else showed up.

Her foresight proved helpful when, as she was setting the table, Feyre came bounding in with Nyx in her arms, smiling broadly.

“Azriel’s coming to dinner as well,” she said, and Elain pasted on a rubbery, fake smile at that even as her stomach plummeted. What was wrong with her? Why had she gone from having a fiancée who loved her to having two faerie males, both unable to be in the same room as her?

Dinner began well enough. Azriel picked the furthest possible chair from her, unable to even meet her eye. Elain thought he had been avoiding her, but from the others’ conversations as dinner began, he had just been very busy. Guarding someone.

“How is it going over there? Nuala said you’re all just walking around in the dark. Is she difficult?” Rhys asked.

“She’s harmless,” Azriel said softly. The word set Elain’s skin to prickling. She?

“Nobody from there is harmless,” Mor scoffed. “And his mate? I don’t believe it. They’re very convincing liars.”

“She’s fine,” Azriel insisted, giving Mor a look. “She keeps to herself. We’ve spoken a few times, but she’s aloof.”

“Who is she?” Elain blurted, before she could help it. She frowned at Feyre’s disapproving look.

So what? She wanted to know things, too. She felt like a child sometimes here, cosseted and wrapped up in cotton wool. Maybe if she knew more about what was going on in the world beyond this city, she’d understand her visions better, or at least be able to explain them instead of being left disoriented and frightened.

“A female from the Hewn City,” Rhys explained, smiling kindly at Elain. Nyx cooed at him from across the table, waving a pudgy arm; he was getting better at picking up food and bringing it to his mouth, but it was still a bit of an explosion at times. “It turns out she’s Eris Vanserra’s mate. She’s staying in the moonstone palace.”

“Oh,” Elain said, a little stupidly. “Why? Does she not want to be with him?”

Was there someone else like her? Who didn’t want what had been forced upon them? Elain saw the meaningful, pitying look Feyre and Rhys traded. Feyre was always so annoyed with her that she wasn’t giving Lucien – her friend – even a word, but Elain was just so embarrassed by the whole thing. She didn’t want it.

“We put her there to protect her,” Rhys finally said, overly-gently, as if she were some injured lamb. “From Eris, and from the Court of Nightmares. It’s safer for her there.”

That was a lie. Elain could tell. If he really felt badly for this fae woman, he would have brought her to Velaris, where there were plenty of war refugees – not to mention the priestesses, safe in their library.

“Eris will seek to collect her,” Cassian said. “It will be a problem if we don’t hand her over eventually.”

“That seems unjust,” Elain said suddenly, making everyone turn to look at her in surprise. She had rather surprised herself, to be honest; she hadn’t meant to open her mouth.

“Elain,” Feyre sighed, putting down her fork. “You don’t understand-”

“Understand what? That she’s from that horrible place and her mate is vile? She had no choice in either of those things,” Elain insisted, taken aback by the sudden stab of annoyance she felt about the matter. Almost enough not to notice that the dreaded word fell from her lips like she was one of them. But it was unjust. It bothered Elain and it had taken her only thirty seconds of thinking about it to realise why – how easily it could be her being discussed at the dinner table while she was locked away, instead of this fae woman she didn’t know. Plucked from her home and tossed somewhere else by the whims of some mighty lord, then given to a male she didn’t know because of some predetermined force. Feyre spoke often and at length about how sacred and fulfilling the mating bond was, but here she was, wilfully separating this faerie from her mate and claiming it was for her own protection.

That is you, idiot. The thought dropped into her head fully formed as suddenly and clearly as a Xian gong, and she grabbed the bit between her teeth. It was so unfair.

Rhys, Feyre, and Mor were all exchanging looks, and she could just imagine the thoughts flying through their minds to each other – naïve Elain, she doesn’t grasp the politics – but Elain knew she was grasping the politics perfectly well, suddenly and clearly. They’d use this fae woman to make Eris dance the same as they must dangle her over Lucien’s head.

“It’s very delicate,” Mor said, trying to explain. She smiled across the table to Elain, warm and sunny, so comfortable and sure of herself. “The politics are very complicated. We couldn’t leave her in the Hewn City because she could be the key to an alliance between Autumn and the Court of Nightmares, which weakens us. But we can’t just give her to Eris, he’s…”

Mor trailed off, a shadow passing over her face. She bit her lip, suddenly folding her hands together. Elain knew whatever Eris did to Mor was brutal, so brutal that Feyre only hinted at it and nobody ever, ever spoke of it. So brutal that Mor still was frightened of him, five hundred years later. Who could be so horrible that they could leave a shadow over you for five hundred years? Elain couldn’t really conceive of it.

“But if everyone from the Court of Nightmares is evil and wretched, shouldn’t she fit right in with Eris?” Nesta suddenly spoke up, with a particular angle to her stare that Elain recognised with dread. She had felt a dizzying swoop of relief that Nesta interceded on her side – two sisters always had the edge against one, even if the one was a High Lady – that rapidly turned to anxiety when she realised the argument was gathering momentum, growing beyond what she had intended.

Elain remembered, suddenly, that Mor had suggested throwing Nesta into the Hewn City when Nesta had been having her troubles. Nesta obviously remembered it too, if the way she was sizing Mor up across the table was any indication.

Beside Nesta, Cassian sighed and lay a hand on her arm gently.

Elain’s chest clenched when she remembered that she herself also had a part in the hare-brained scheme to get Nesta to seduce Eris. How close Nesta had come to marrying him.

“It’s foolish to let her go to Autumn without trying to benefit from it,” Feyre jumped back in sharply, obviously looking to stop that runaway carriage before it got going. “Why should we give Eris something for nothing?”

“We can’t allow it because the Darkbringers answer to Keir who is – for some reason – swayed by Eris, therefore putting half of your army under Vanserra control,” Amren snapped, always one to cut through a situation.

“Autumn and the Darkbringers together is a sizeable force,” Cassian said gravely, stroking his thumb over Nesta’s arm absently, reassuring himself or her. “Too sizeable. We’d need both Helion and Kallias to counterbalance, if we can only field the Illyrians.”

“Eris is meant to be our ally, though. He’s kept his word thus far,” Rhys mused, and Elain realised that her lovely family dinner had turned into a strategy meeting.

Well, she had started it, she supposed. And they seemed to have forgotten she was here, so she kept a pleasant smile slapped on her face and didn’t say a word in case they suddenly remembered. This was far more interesting than the conversations they usually had with her.

“You’re a fool if you’re going to gamble that much on Eris being truthful,” Amren said, silver eyes flashing, stabbing into her meat with a concerning amount of ferocity.

“Even if he is a reliable ally, what if his mate sways his opinion? He needs us now, but he won’t always. What if the Court of Nightmares exploits that?” Cassian volleyed, tipping his head to Amren.

“I doubt Eris would care about a female’s opinion, even his mate’s. He takes after Beron in most ways,” Rhys mused. Feyre’s eyes grew limpid at that, no doubt thinking of how Rhys listened to her above all. He smirked in return, and Elain tried not to cringe. Cassian met her eyes and mimed gagging, which Elain found funnier than she could say – even if he and Nesta were no better than the High Lord when it came to gratuitous affection.

“Can’t we just – I don’t know – marry her off? To someone else? She’s from the Hewn City, why would one arranged marriage be any different from another to her?” Feyre said, which made Mor look a little scandalised. Elain was brought up short at that. That was a shade ruthless, even for Feyre, but half of the army had to be a sizeable amount. That had to threaten the peace they’d fought so hard for, for Feyre to suggest that. The time of the war was all fuzzy around the edges for Elain, but she could remember the dark army, their camp constantly shrouded by night, their frightening armour and cold eyes. She had tried not to look at them more than she absolutely had to, but her vision-dreams had been full of them.

“Absolutely not,” Rhys said to Feyre immediately. “No. A mating bond trumps a marriage. That would allow Eris to challenge them in a Blood Duel and he would win. If no one is trying to claim her, then he doesn’t even have that as an option.”

“Cassian and Azriel beat him before,” Feyre insisted. “And at that meeting – he’s not that strong.”

Rhys and Amren traded a look, Elain noticed. A quick one, and subtle, but she still saw it.

“He lost that fight intentionally, Feyre,” Cassian said, sounding rather grumpy about it. “He’s going to be a High Lord. There’s not many that can stand against that.”

“Really?” Feyre crinkled her brow at him, her nose scrunching. She looked her age when she did that, Elain thought. She looked almost human again. “But you handed his ass to him.”

“He wanted to strike that deal with Rhys,” Azriel confirmed from his seat in the corner – always, always the one furthest from her now. “It was better for him if you got away.”

No mention of Lucien getting away. But he had been there that day, too.

Cassian grinned arrogantly, “Felt fucking good stabbing him, though.”

Mor still looked a little pale, slightly queasy at the conversation. She rose and slipped from the room without another word, though Feyre’s eyes darkened with pain when she watched her go. It must be hard to be caught between friendship and power, Elain thought, watching Feyre waver between going to comfort her friend and staying put to finish the discussion.

“We are reaping what we’ve sown there,” Azriel warned darkly, looking at Rhys. His face hardened, and for a moment he was the High Lord, not her brother-in-law.

“We still owe Eris aid with deposing Beron. We just need to leverage the situation so Eris doesn’t have that hanging over us, and to control the Hewn City,” Rhys said. Azriel angled his head, dark eyes hooded, considering.

“Aisling said that Keir is waning in popularity,” Azriel mused. “It might be time.”

“I’ve promised that to Mor,” Rhys said, mouth a firm line. “I’ve already-”

Feyre caught his hand, and their eyes went distant. She was reassuring him, Elain knew. Elain knew Rhys felt guilty for bargaining away access to Velaris and how it had hurt Mor, even if Mor said she understood.

“Mor makes the decision when Keir dies,” Feyre said finally, speaking for them both. “And if she wants to, she does it herself.”

Azriel inclined his head in understanding, eyes hardening in dark anger. “As you say,” he murmured. “But we will turn Eris against us if we do not handle this correctly. After he collects Aisling and ascends, he will re-shape his alliances to suit his new power. If he thinks he will benefit more from Keir’s favour than ours, then he will become a problem.”

“I told you,” Amren hissed. “You should have killed him outright, let one of the weak brothers take Autumn.”

Rhys’ mouth firmed, violet eyes guttering dark.

“Nothing will threaten us,” he finally said. “We’ll keep Eris on side, and use him to control Keir. Bring Aisling to Velaris, we can use her to bind Eris into another bargain. He still wants to play all sides. We can exploit that.”

Elain thought of her dream, like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t fit together. There had been fire in it, she was sure. Dark forests, dark mountains, no night sky. It was so vague, so unclear. She wanted to be helpful, hearing them talk about strategy, about politics and power. She wanted to have some sort of role or purpose beyond baking bread and gardening. She wanted to sit at the table and have an opinion, too.

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A/N:

Thank you so much for all the kind comments, kudos, and messages! I'll try not to write an essay here, but it really does mean a lot to me to hear that people are enjoying the story. I do think Feyre has a bit of a ruthless streak - remember when she thought about having Rhys mind control her sisters to help convince the queens? I had that in mind when I wrote her here. My read of Feysand is that they're on the side of what's 'right'... up until their family/Velaris is threatened. Then the gloves are off, so to speak. It makes experimenting with them more fun, when you read between the lines in the books and play with the tensions SJM left in their characterisations. Aisling's not meant to be a particularly nice character, either. I wrote a couple of practice scenes early on when I was developing her and the Hewn City - nothing that overly fits into the plot so I cut them, but as people are responding so well to Aisling I'm happy to post if anyone wants to read them. One is a pretty non-con encounter that I liked, but I cut it from the early chapters because I thought it was an extreme introduction to her character and the worldbuilding, and also I was new to the ACOTAR fandom and wasn't sure what the reception would be. But everyone seems down with the dark fics here, so I'm happy to share it if requested.

[sajirah]

Come Away O Human Child

Part Two

This started out as a fun little problematic one-shot that I was supposed to get out of my system in 3k words or less and instead it’s turned into a three parter because it just kept getting longer and longer. Whoops. I was just going to post a really long Part Two, but @rosanna-writer convinced me to split it in half. So you're getting one more chapter after this (unless I really go off the rails and add even more scenes).

Additional Trigger Warnings for this fic: Ritual Sacrifice and Suicidal Ideation/Thoughts

As always, this fic is for the lovely @whatishowedyouinthedark who loves nothing more than to root on every unhinged, problematic thought you have. Now everyone go tell her how hot she is.

Part One can be read on AO3 or here.

Part Two can be read on AO3 or below the cut. Enjoy.

-o0o-

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

He arrived as he did every night, with an arrogant grin, smug in the knowledge that she had once again failed to escape him. Though, this time, he didn’t come alone. A beautiful woman had arrived with him. All alabaster skin and large doe-like eyes that stared so obsequiously up at her as she kneeled at Feyre’s feet.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

She didn’t even have the chance to ask what gift that was before Rhys was pressing a knife into Feyre’s hands. There was no warning. No time to understand what was happening before she felt those now oh so familiar claws close in around her brain and force her hand to slash forward.

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Feyre could only watch in horror as her body, still held fast by those mental talons, was made to lean forward and lick that blood straight from the source as the woman twitched and gasped in her death throes. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

Feyre certainly didn’t feel strong. If anything, she felt ready to shatter at any moment. Willing or not, she was not made for murder. For watching the lifeblood drain out of her victims before lapping it up like wine. There was only so much trauma she could endure.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

-o0o-

Every day was the same.

Wake up alone. Upturn every inch of the palace for an escape. Scream in frustration when she inevitably failed as the sun set. Be made to commit yet another ritual sacrifice. And then become Rhysand’s plaything until dawn.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

Feyre didn’t even know how long she’d been here anymore. She’d tried scratching lines into the wall but Rhysand must’ve noticed because one morning she’d awoken to find them gone. Now any time she tried to scratch another into the wall it would be gone the following day.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Time was beginning to lose all meaning. She saw the sun rise and set every day, but the days themselves were beginning to blur. All of them the same environment. The same horrors and frustrations. And the same man.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

Oh, he was there. If anything, she felt like she couldn’t escape the man half the time. And then, even when he was gone, he was a permanent presence at the edge of her mind. Always listening. Always watching. Always chiming in with mocking advice and observations. Not that there was much to watch. It wasn’t like she had much to do in this godforsaken palace besides wander around aimlessly, hoping a door back home would magically reveal itself.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

The one time she’d tried to bring up seeing someone, anyone, other than him, he’d simply smiled down at her with that now familiar condescending smile of his and Feyre had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

-o0o-

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

She didn’t want to. Sometimes she even tried to resist. But even when he wasn’t taking control of her body like he owned it she still had to wrestle with the pull she felt towards him. That deep-seated need inside herself that told her she can’t live without him. That she needed his touch, his taste, his constant attention just to feel content.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

She never wore anything else these days. Her own clothes had mysteriously disappeared almost the moment she’d awoken in this place and everything else left out for her to wear these days were flimsy gowns and dresses. And no underwear. Probably so nothing would be able to impede his easy access.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

Her skin was fevered. Belly and breasts and face flush against the cool table. She could feel the grain of the wood cut into her cheek as he drove into her with the kind of measured and merciless control that pushed her anger right out of her head.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“Because you were made for me,” he replied to that stray thought before reaching down to slide-slide his fingers over her clitoris. She keened and jerked, the sensation making her writhe on his cock like an animal.

She was beyond words now. She couldn’t have answered him even if she tried. But then, it was clear he didn’t expect her to. This was exactly how he wanted her. Reduced to unintelligible cries and moans and shivers all because of him.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

What she couldn’t say, but knew to be true, was that she wanted that too. For all his faults. Even after he’d caged her inside this palace she still craved his touch. She never felt more alive, more at peace, than when he was rutting into her and she could just…give in.

“Yes!” He hissed in response to her thoughts. His fingers sped up and she felt herself convulse. Impossibly, it felt like his cock had swollen even more inside of her. The idea of her submitting to him exciting him like nothing else.

Her climax hit hard. A symphony of shudders and moans. Her legs kicked out and her toes curled but there was nowhere for her body to go between the table and the heavy thrust of Rhysand’s hips as he came with a groan.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

-o0o-

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

Truthfully, her cycle had always been rather sporadic. After years of poor and infrequent meals and a solid decade of constant stress this was certainly nothing new. But the possibility was still there. After all, she hadn’t exactly been celibate since she’d been here. And she wasn’t completely ignorant. Nesta had been sure to explain where babies came from in very graphic detail when Feyre had come crying to her the first time she’d woken up to blood on her sheets. 

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

You don’t. A traitorous voice whispered at the back of her mind. Because the truth was that she’d need to actually escape first to be able to raise her (hypothetical!) baby in the increasingly barren wasteland that was her home. And thus far her attempts had only resulted in her being made to commit nightly ritual murder and then being fucked so thoroughly she forgot her own name.

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

In an instant, his gaze grew hot and ravenous. She saw then what he envisioned without even needing him to put the image in her head. Her, round with his child. Proud in the knowledge that it was his seed that had made her that way. That it was his child that tied her to him forever.

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

“But those are my favorite parts of you my Darling Feyre,” he crooned, hands threading gently through her hair. “Those hateful little thoughts you think I don’t hear. Your pettiness. Your selfishness. Your shameful need to be touched and loved and told what a good girl you are.”

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

“I know of that secret part of yourself that you ignore. That deep yearning need for a family who loves you. I can give you that. And you know it. You know I would and that’s what scares you the most.”

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Before she could stop herself an image of his beautiful naked body chained to the bed, her riding him with abandon and torturing him mercilessly the way he had tortured her all this time entered her mind.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

-o0o-

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But, true to his word, he mostly just proceeded to lounge around the palace while she went about her usual (always fruitless) search. At one point she found herself investigating a wall she’d passed dozens of times before, wondering if there were some sort of secret door.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

The sound of Rhysand’s voice nearly startled her out of her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised though. He’d made a habit of following her from room to room, smiling slyly at her efforts as if they were the height of hilarity.

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

The rest of her search went much the same. He followed her from room to room like an extraordinarily bothersome shadow, all the while making snide comments about her methods while she valiantly did her best to ignore him. For all the good it did her. It was a lot like trying to ignore a particularly needy cat.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

It was late in the afternoon, nearing sunset when she walked out onto one of the balconies. The same one, in fact, where she had made this disastrous bargain. She stared out at the mountains and trees wistfully, longingly, before her eyes inevitably trailed downwards past the railing.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?