#acotar enemies to lovers

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire & Masks Master List

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 1

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 2

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 3

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 4

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 5

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 6

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 7

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 8

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 9

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 10

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 11

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 12

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 13

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 14

A Court of Fire and Masks - Part 15

[bloodyplunder]

The 👑 is a nod to when Rhys said "Tonight, I want you to wear that crown to bed. Only the crown." 😈

Halfway through this sketch I realized that glamours probably don't exhibit any flair. My excuse is just...Eris 🤡✨

(p.s. I can't help but see the Azris like dynamic in C.S. Pacat's Captive Prince. The fact that it's one of Sarah's favourites too, ahh! 🥲🖤)

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales IIII

Summary: Princess!Reader tries to convince her mates to leave the Empire, but they have other ideas.

Content Warnings: Mentions of Slavery/Abuse

Part 1, 2, 3

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Anise is right; I do look like shit. No attempt at washing my face or fixing my hair or changing my clothes changes the sickly color that remains on my skin from the time spent with my head in the toilet. Secluding myself in the house these last couple months have already sapped the color from my cheeks, but today’s events have not helped bring any life back into my features. The dull, lifeless gray of my eyes, the limpness of my hair, the way my dress hangs limp off me… I do not recognize the face in the mirror.

“Anise?” She’s still pacing in my chambers, biting on her weathered thumbnail. Her anxiety makes the vines sprouting from her head grow, leaves and tiny, yellow flowers blossoming as the thick strands slither down her waist. 

“You shouldn’t see them alone,” she persists.

I brush a strand of hair over my yellowing cheek, then push it back behind my ear. I can explain away a bruise. Besides, it is not as if I can expect them to care enough about me to ask how it got there.

I sigh as I push the hair back in front of my face. I do not want to appear weak and frail, not in front of my mates. Not in front of anybody. I need to remain strong.

“Anise,” I try again, turning away from the mirror. There is nothing I can do to change it now, the damage is done and it’s too late in the evening to call for one of my lady’s-in-waiting to come help me fix it. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Get the guard? Yes, a splendid idea!”

I snag her arm as she goes for the door. “No, Anise.”

She huffs her irritation. “You’re being foolish, Little One.”

Probably; she won’t hear that from me though. “I need you to look into something for me and I need you not to tell a soul about it.”

She goes still at that, her emerald eyes widening in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to see if there is passage out of the Empire and into the Wastes through the sea.”

Her bark-like features twist in surprise as I continue. “I need a passage my Father doesn’t know about, and I need it quickly.”

“What have you done?” She whispers. 

“Nothing. Not yet anyway.”

Anise fights her way out of my grip so she can take my face in her hands. “Now you listen to me, child! I have already lost your Mother, do not ask me to sit here and lose you too.”

“It’s not for me.”

Her eyes flick to the door and back. “Them?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“They’re dead men if I don’t,” I say, hoping the heaviness in my voice is enough to keep her from pressing further. I do not have it in me to admit what they are after what I’ve done, not even to her. Her loyalty was always to my Mother first, and I trust her more than anyone, but there are some secrets best kept close to the vest. Maybe she’d never tell anyone, but her mouth wanders sometimes, and if it were to slip… any number of the staff would sell me out to my Father in a heartbeat. I have to be careful. This is all I can tell her for now.

“I don’t like this,” she whispers. “You are entering a dangerous game. If your Father finds out…”

“Don’t let him find out,” I counter, pulling free of her grip. If I linger any longer, I will lose my nerve. I need to see them now.

My hands shake as I open the door. Moonlight spills into the hallway from the high, open windows on either side of me. I’d kept the heavy, silk curtains pushed against the far walls closed for months and months, refusing to accept that time was moving on without me. Anise had opened them this morning, when I’d announced I was finally ready to go out again. She’d hoped the fresh air would be good for me, truth be told, so had I. I didn’t expect so much to change in such a short time frame. 

There are guards on patrol outside the windows. A couple torches had been lit along the path through the gardens, bathing their armored heads and ridiculously large horse hair plumes in an orange glow. As a kid, I’d thought they were monsters when I’d see them in this light, stalking through the palace grounds; maybe I hadn’t been so far off.

Anise trails after me. “I will do it, but you will let me accompany you for this first.”

“No.” I should head out the side door and follow the footpath to the guest house, but I make a show of walking towards the kitchen instead. There is a servant’s passage through the cellar that will keep me out of sight. As far as the guards are concerned, I’m getting a snack in the kitchen with my maid. No one needs to know that I’m meeting the Illyrians. 

“Why are you…” she stops when we come to the kitchen. All the lights are off. The staff asleep earlier than usual so they can, undoubtedly, rise earlier in the morning in order to prepare bigger meals than they’re used to. They have to be in an uproar over the sheer amount of guards they’ll have to feed every day now. The House has not seen much attention in the last couple of months; I certainly wasn’t hosting any parties. 

“Is this a sex thing?”

I am grateful the dark hides the blush working its way up my neck and cheeks. “What!?”

“It’s not like you to sneak around, I’m just wondering if there’s something happening here between you and them?” She is the only other person that knows about the secret passages in the house. Mother had them built as a safety measure against intruders, and promptly found an excuse to execute the architect before he could show Father the plans. There are a number of false doors and hidden hallways throughout the house, a couple of secret exits and a panic room only accessible with a key I keep around my neck at all times. She was as paranoid as my Father, but at least hers had practical applications. And could now serve as a means to move around my house without arousing suspicion. 

“This most definitely is not a sex thing!” I hiss. 

I mean, yes, some sponsors do sleep with their champions. Hels, some sponsors sell their champions for a night of pleasure to the highest bidder. Amarantha and my cousins included. It was an abhorrent practice that I tried not to think about in the past, but the mere suggestion of it has me clenching my fists. Did she truly think I’d stoop to that?

“You’re being strange is all I’m saying,” she returns. 

“I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to insist on hovering, just make it look like we’re in here making a snack, will you?”

“Will you tell me why this is necessary?”

I pry the door that leads down to the cellar open slowly, conscious of how loudly it squeaks and trying to minimize the noise as best I can. “No.”

“Then I’m coming with!”

I slip behind the door and hold it nearly closed as she approaches. “Fine, we’ll talk when I get back. Happy?”

Even in the dark I can see her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Don’t get pregnant.”

“I’m not fucking them!” I hiss as I close the door. She’s impossible! Once she sets her mind on something, she just can’t let it go. At least she doesn’t try to follow me. 

There’s a slim set of stairs that leads down into the cellar lined with fae lights that flicker to life as I descend. Rows of dried meats and herbs hang from the rafters, casting eerie shadows over the shelf lined walls. The cellar is lined with rows of more shelves and barrels of wine, everything cataloged and arranged in alphabetical order. Our steward has always been exceptionally neat, and the concealed door in the backs sits connected to the wall where he keeps all his flour. I will have to remember to sweep the floor upon my return, just in case anything falls from the shelf and gives the door away. 

The door opens by turning one of the panels in the wood in a full circle, disturbing a sack of flour as it swings inward with a groan. The hallway is dark and dusty, a heavy layer of cobwebs disturbed by the door. I haven’t used this tunnel in years. 

I take one of the bobbing fae lights out of its perch on the stairs and carry it with me into the dark, making sure the door closes behind me, just in case any of the guards decide to come do a sweep of the place now that they’ve seen Anise in the kitchen. I can’t be sure of their orders, I have to assume that they will check on everyone in the house if there is the slightest deviation from the routine. Which also means I need to make this quick.

The silence of the tunnel is not good for my nerves, I find myself once again digging my knuckle into the knot in my chest. Without Anise to distract me, I’m once again consumed with the guilt of having to look at them after what I’d done. Not knowing why they’re asking to see me doesn’t help either. 

The tunnel slopes downward, filled with cobwebs and the occasional rat I startle back into holes in the walls. There’s some rain damage along the supports I should really have looked at, but updating these means having to tell someone about them, and that’s not an option. Not unless I wish for Father to find out about it, or worse, be forced into a situation where I have to consider killing an architect after rebuilding it as my Mother had done. There haven’t been any reasons for the tunnels since I was a child, I’ll avoid having to make any decisions on it until I absolutely have to. As long as the roof holds, I can make do.

Mother wanted to ensure that this place had multiple advantages, one of them being strategically placed and concealed vents for both air flow, and espionage. The vent hidden in the garden lets me hear the stomping of boots as the guards pass overhead. Some of them complain about the quiet as they pass each other, but it doesn’t sound like they’re yet suspicious of me moving around the house this late. 

I keep moving, comforted just a little by the fact that I don’t have to worry about dealing with them yet. 

The tunnel curves in a crescent shape to come around the back of the guest house, where there’s a door carefully hidden behind the lararium built for the Mother. The carefully carved statue of our beloved Goddess hides the door, and the altar serves as a deterrent to keep people from looking too close at the seams in the wall. It also hides the vent that lets me hear three, arguing voices, even in hushed tones:

“This is a bad idea, Rhys!” Cassian. 

“It is our only shot,” Rhysand shoots back. 

Their voices are so different: Cassian’s gruff and husky, Rhysand’s smooth and rich. Having them near soothes an anxiousness I didn’t know was inside me, I find myself drawn closer and closer to the door, just for a chance to listen to them speak. I’ve never had something as simple as a voice cause such an intense reaction before. All of this is so new and foreign; it will take some getting used to.

“I don’t care!” Cassian returns, the words sharp as a knife. “I don’t want anything to do with her.”

And just like that, my revelry is broken and that pesky knot in my chest returns. It is an effort to get a deep enough breath in, as if someone had sucker punched me right in the stomach. He really does hate me. It was one thing to think it, but it’s another to hear it so openly. I really have ruined this before it even had a chance to begin.

“She is our only chance,” Azriel chimes in, voice a hissed whisper. He sounds agitated, I can picture him pacing in front of the altar. 

“She’s his daughter! Am I the only one bothered by that?” Cassian protests. 

“That’s exactly why we need her,” Rhysand counters. 

Time slows to a crawl. Need me? Hope is a pesky, irritating, thing that I shove down inside me, even as my body moves to press itself against the door, waiting for them to continue. 

“We can’t trust her.”

“Yes we can,” Azriel retorts. 

I wonder if they can hear my heartbeat stuttering through the door--no matter that it’s waded so I can hear them and they can’t hear me, it’s so loud it still feels like a possibility. 

“What, because your shadows can smell that on her?” Cassian sneers. 

“Because I looked in her head,” Rhysand hisses, his voice rising. 

I know that I have a limited amount of time to do this, but I can’t bring myself to open the door, not with a confession like that. What does he mean he looked in my head?

“She’s terrified of him.”

“She could have fooled me. She didn’t look a bit terrified of branding us.”

“Because she didn’t brand us at all!” Rhysand snarls. “I did.”

“You hit your fucking head harder than I thought.”

“Asking for us to be spared threw Hybern off his game. Whatever plans he has for us got derailed because of her. And we need whatever edge we can get right now. When I slipped into her mind, she was panicking, she couldn’t do it and we would have all been fucked. I moved her hands around that iron, I touched it to your skin. Not her. She was so distraught over it I had to hold her upright the whole way back. Trust me, she liked it as much as you did.”

“But the collar…?” Cassian stammers.

“It dims a lot of my powers, but not all of them. I threw what I had out there. It only works when I’m close. Whatever she felt after we separated, whatever she’s doing now, I can’t get a feel.”

Rhysand was that invisible hand on me? I hadn’t just imagined it? How is that even possible? The twins are Daemati, but even they can’t reach into someone’s head and control them like that, especially with the gorsian chains in the way. At least, they’d never shown me they could. I suppose I’d never thought to ask.

“We have to act fast,” Azriel chimes in. “The quicker we get ahead of this, the more time we have to work around Hybern. Until now, he’s always been one step ahead of us. We’ve been playing his games on his terms. She… changes things.”

Does he know that we’re mates? Could that really mean something to him?

“Why are you so quick to trust her?” Cassian challenges. “Let's say what Rhys saw in her head is even real, because let's face it, she very well could be like the twins and been throwing those things up to see if you’d take the bait, but for the sake of the argument, sure they’re real. So what? What do you think she’s going to do here? Throw in her lot with us and help us overthrow her father?”

“Yes,” Rhysand says, as if it’s just that simple.

They can’t really be serious with this, can they?

“What could she possibly get out of it? She’s a spoiled princess who has not had to feel the effects of this Empire a day in her life! The best of this place has been handed to her and you think she’s just going to give that up to a couple of bastards like us?”

I dig my knuckle into my chest again, trying to ease the tension that feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my skin. 

“You don’t get it,” Azriel hisses. 

“Explain it to me, Az!” Cassian shoots back. “Explain to me how the limited interaction we had convinced you that she’s a good person who would help us for the hell of it?”

“You don’t have to trust her, Cass,” Rhysand interjects. “That doesn’t change the fact that we need her.”

I take my lower lip between my teeth. I’m supposed to be saving them; I’m supposed to be getting them as far away from this place as possible and they want me to what? Overthrow my Father? It’s delusional. No one can outmaneuver him. Mother tried and failed. How many rebels has Amarantha executed? How many slaves have been carted from the far reaches, having been defeated for daring to oppose the Empire? Everyone that has ever gone up against him has lost and paid for it with their lives. I can’t let them do this. It’s suicide!

I get my hand on the hidden lock and turn. It’s my responsibility as a mate to save them from themselves. I have to put this foolish notion to bed. By tomorrow, Anise will have an answer about a way out of here. I just need them to stay put for the night and this mess will be over. 

I get the impression they are not males used to being taken by surprise, if the way they stand their gaping at me is any indication. Dark shadows wreath Azriel’s, still bare, shoulders, curling around his ears like they’re living things whispering in his ear. His scarred hands twitch over his hip, as if he’s reaching for a weapon instinctively, despite there being nothing there. 

Rhysand grins wolfishly as he leans a bruised shoulder against the doorframe, violet eyes once again roving over every inch of me. “Aren’t you full of surprises, Princess?”

“What if we had been indecent?” Cassian retorts.

“You’re barely dressed now,” I blurt before I can stop myself, though it is true. He’s stripped down to his boxers, using what was once a white towel, but it’s now brown, to clean up a gash across his thigh. Judging by the color of the bruising and the still forming scab, the wound is from before the arena. He needs to have it cleaned and looked at by a healer. I should be focusing on that. I should not be focusing on how large his thighs are, or imagining what it might feel like to sit in his lap.

Rhysand’s grin broadens like he can hear my thoughts, and then I remember that he can. 

Shit! I need to focus. I need to put my shields up, just like I do when I’m around the twins. Just because they’re my mates, doesn’t mean they’re incapable of using their abilities on me. Who’s to say, if Rhysand really is powerful enough to move me around like a puppet, even with the collar, that he won’t simply reach in and use me as he sees fit if I don’t cooperate. I don’t know anything about them. I have to be careful.

“We can strip down if you’d like?” He purrs.

“Did you make me come all this way just to harass me, or…?” I let the question hang there so I can give myself an extra second to reinforce my mental shields. 

“Sorry to pull you from your ivory tower,” Cassian snarls.

I instinctively take a step away from him, the venom behind each word enough to make me flinch despite myself. Azriel moves away from where he’s been sitting on the edge of the altar, effectively putting himself between us. “No, we didn’t.”

“Then what do you want?” My shields are in place, but I feel my confidence waning. I thought that this would be easy, that the bond would make everything click into place for us. They could trust me and I could trust them and this thing that tethered us together would put us at an even playing field. But it doesn’t. Our goals are off and I don’t know how to get them even, I don’t know how to get them to listen to me. 

“We want your help,” Rhysand says. 

“We need your help,” Azriel corrects.

I should just tell them that I heard them and skip all the repetitiveness, but there is a piece of me that worries I was naive before, and that they will tell me something different to my face. Maybe I’m the only one who feels the bond and they merely see me as something to be manipulated and used. I have to be sure.

“With what?” I ask.

“We want Hybern off the throne,” Rhysand explains. He hasn’t left his perch against the wall; though his gaze lingers on me, he gives me space that feels intentional. As if I’m a rabid dog he thinks might bite if it feels cornered. “We think you do too.”

“And why would you think that?” It is only from years of training that my voice doesn’t shake. How can they be so flippant about this? Saying those words out loud is enough to have their heads removed from their shoulders. The thought that any guard walking past might hear has me shaking, yet they don’t even flinch.

“He scares you,” Azriel says. His voice is already a low whisper, but it softens when he looks at me. A tendril of shadows slithers down his leg and across the floor, tentatively drifting across the pale tiles to come poke around at my ankles.

“He scares everybody and for good reason.” I need to keep my original goal in mind here. I’m here to get them out. They need to see the necessity of it. “Do you know how many people are dead because they underestimated him? No one is safe.”

“That’s why he needs to be stopped,” Rhysand presses.

Cassian folds his broad arms over his tattooed chest, frowning, but he doesn’t jump into the conversation. While Rhysand’s gaze is assessing, Cassian’s is cold, unyielding. He’s made up his mind about me. 

The fact that the others haven’t gives me more hope than I know I should have. They will have to leave anyway. I should hope they haven’t felt the bond, hope that it doesn’t convince them to stay. They need to be far, far away. But there is a small, desperate piece of me that clings to it anyway. 

“He can’t be stopped.” I bite back all the bitterness and rage that threatens to escape out of me and try to keep my tone even, unbothered. 

“You stopped him this afternoon,” Azriel counters as his shadow brushes up my calf like a phantom cat. They feel like a slight brush of breath against my skin, gentle and strange and I might giggle against the sensation if I wasn’t so focused on keeping my composure. 

I don’t kick it off either. A broken, desperate piece of me claws after the attention and blatant need for affection like a lifeline. 

“He listened to you,” Rhysand presses, doubling down when he sees me hesitate. Azriel isn’t wrong, though he’s not, technically right either. Still, he sees an opening and he swoops down like a vulture to take it. “No one else has that kind of influence.”

“It was a fluke,” I retort. “He was surprised. That won’t happen again.”

“It will if you keep surprising him,” Rhysand counters. “He has you, and everyone else, in a quaint little box, but if you deviate from the script he’s written for you, you can maneuver him where you want him.”

My hand goes instinctively to my bruised cheek, right as Azriel’s shadow comes slithering up my shoulder. It lets out a soft huffing sound as it follows my wrist to see what my fingers are doing. The shadow still curled around Azriel’s ear hisses softly, like the two are communicating. Maybe they are, given the way his eyes darken. 

“You cannot fight him.” I pull my hand away from my face a little faster than I mean to, and the shadow curls into my palm, inspecting the indents my fingernails had left earlier.  “You might as well quit while you’re ahead.”

“I wouldn’t call this being ahead,” Cassian huffs, turning his wrist to flash the brand I put there.

“I can find passage out of the Empire for you.” We’re going to run out of time if we keep standing here talking in circles. The guard will get curious eventually. They are bound to wonder why the lights are still on and no one is preparing for bed soon. “I should know by morning when it will be here.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t you taken it?” Cassian challenges.

Azriel takes a tentative step towards me. For someone so large, he’s surprisingly quiet on his feet. “I was terrified of my father too,” he says gently.

I can’t help but look at his hands. Had his father done that to him?

“I thought it was normal, how he treated me. I thought everyone was afraid of their father. I didn’t know any better until I got out. Until I met these two jackasses.”

Rhysand snorts a laugh behind him.

Cassian grumbles out a retort that sounds like it’s in another language. 

Azriel stops when he’s only a few inches away from me. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. “Sometimes you just need a little help. We can help each other, like you helped us earlier, right?”

I’ve lived around the ass kissing and political games of the palace long enough to know when someone’s trying to work an angle on me, and this isn’t one of those times. He means it. As hard to imagine that someone his size, someone who just took down a Giant and a bunch of Wargs, even with his wings broken, could be scared of anything, I believe him.

The bond warms, just a little. It’s nice, after years of feeling like no one could hear me when I whispered my complaints, to have a kinship with someone. I cling to that little shred of warmth like it’s a roaring fire amidst a blizzard. How long have I begged the Mother for even a shred of solace like this?

Perhaps that makes me weak. Perhaps I am a fool, but I want this. I want them. 

“A lot of good my help did,” it comes out in a whisper, like it’s dragging itself out of my throat. 

“But it does help,” Rhysand interjects. “Being your champions gives us an excuse to be close, and it gets us into places we couldn’t get before. You give us direct access to your father. That’s all we need.”

Azriel reaches out and brushes that loose strand of hair I’d pushed over my cheek behind my ear, scarred fingers brushing over my jaw with a feather light touch that is not unlike the one his shadow gives me. My whole body trembles all the same. 

“We won’t let anyone hurt you,” he promises.

I am entirely unprepared for that kind of promise. I’m supposed to be protecting them, not the other way around, but I’ve been on my own for awhile now, and I can’t help the way my body leans into that faint brush of his hand over my skin. Am I so starved for affection that even this feels like some grand gesture?

“We’re not asking you to do any fighting. You’re not challenging him.” Rhysand assures. “We merely need you to use these brands to your advantage. Drag us around with you. Show off the prize you’ve claimed like anyone else in the Empire would.”

My stomach twists. 

“Play the games the rest of the court plays, and we will do all the rest,” he assures. 

“I don’t understand how that helps you?” 

“For now, we need to observe his habits. There’s a parade tomorrow, right?”

Shit, I’d forgotten about that! 

“Yes.”

“Take us with you,” Rhysand explains. “Lots of people bring their champions out like bodyguards or trophies, right?”

“Or dogs,” Cassian hisses.

I wince. “Yes.”

“We don’t know much about the city. Just act like you’re showing us off so we can get a look around.”

He makes it sound so simple.

“And then what?”

He shrugs as he finally pushes off the wall. Though the touch had been brief, Azriel hasn’t moved out of my space, and seeing that it hasn’t sent me running, Rhysand takes this as a sign that he can move closer too. He’s just barely shorter than Azriel, and despite the fact that I inherited my Mother’s height, I cannot help but feel small next to them. I don’t think I entirely mind though.

 “Leave the strategies to us. The less you know what we’re doing and when, the safer you are. This is a long game, we have to take it one step at a time.”

“I don’t think you realize how dangerous playing this game with my Father is,” I warn. If anything were to happen to them because I didn’t insist on getting them on that ship in the morning, I’d never forgive myself!

He grins, flecks of starlight glinting in his eyes. He really is the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, even with all the grime and blood on him. Which reminds me, they still haven’t seen the healer. Ember will never let me hear the end of it; I’m surprised she didn’t come with Anise to bust down my door. 

 “Let us do the worrying, Princess.” He’s very confident for someone who had just been thrown into a pit and been forced to fight a bunch of monsters. I hate to admit it, but that confidence worms its way through the bond like a rat chewing through a wall. No matter how hard I try to fight it back, a bit of it hits me anyway. Even without his presence inside my head, I feel safer when he’s near. 

My gaze flicks from him to Azriel for confirmation that this is something they have both agreed on, and he nods reassuringly. 

“You really think you can win?” I ask.

“Darling, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my people,” Rhysand vows. “Whatever it takes to see them free, I will do it.”

So much for me finding a way to get them out of here, they’re pretty determined to stay, influence from the mating bond or not. On one hand, if I do this, I can keep an eye on them; maybe I can find ways to rig another Game, can make sure they have everything they need to survive. On the other hand, this is crazy! We’re talking about taking on Hybern. Take him being my Father out of the question, no one has ever won anything against him, he’s always two steps ahead, always sees the outcome before it happens. 

I take my lower lip between my teeth again. I’m going to need a dark shade of lipstick in the morning to hide all the teeth marks I’ve undoubtedly left in it today. 

“Let’s say I agree, but only on a trial basis,” I begin, trying and failing to organize all my thoughts. The bond pulls me one way and rationale pulls me the other. I cannot find a happy middle ground. “If tomorrow goes poorly, will you get on the boat and leave the Empire behind?”

“Happily,” Cassian huffs.

Rhysand shrugs, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

I have a sinking feeling it’ll be the same answer tomorrow, but I’ll take whatever I can get, as long as it means there’s a shot at keeping them alive.

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Tag List: @sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe , @raisam

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[yearning-for-autumn]

Would That I -- Part 11

A/N: God this took me aaages to get to a point where I liked it. But here we goooo, finally some interaction between reader and Eris! Thank you so much for your support on Part 1, there will be one more part after this. I hope you enjoy! Based on an amazing ask from @fandomsmultiverse who has the best ideas.

Pairing: Eris x Illyrian!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, masturbation (male), oral sex

Word count: 5k

Part 1 Part 3

Were you jealous?

You could have thrown the letter into the fire. There was no need for a signature for you to know exactly who it was from, and you seethed. After he had kissed her neck, Eris had proposed to Nesta. Proposed. And yet here he was, writing letters, crawling back to you. Imagining him on his hands and knees, grovelling, soothed the hurt somewhat.

You re-read the letter again and again, losing yourself in ever worsening fantasies of Eris begging at your feet.

How dare he.

It stung all the more knowing your answer, deep down, was yes. Knowing that when you had locked eyes with your mate—your mate—all you could feel was the cold sting of envy. He was yours. You hated him. You needed him. You wanted him dead.

You crumpled the letter, then unfurled it and put it in a box, kicking it under your bed.

Cauldron damn and burn him.

The next week you received another letter.

Your silence tells me everything, little fox. And here I was thinking that you hated me. Send my regards to Lucien, I hear he has taken to sheltering in your dingy court.

You huffed an angry breath. But you read it over and over, searching for something. Something to be truly mad about. You came up short. Lucien was spending more and more time at the house of wind these days. Avoiding Elain. You had found a firm friendship trying to help him settle more in Velaris. Cauldron knows your brothers weren’t doing enough to help.

You found him in the living room, reading.

“Your brother sends his regards.” You said, watching intently for his reaction. His metal eye whirred as he looked up from his book.

“Hello to you too.” He said after a pause. “Which brother?”

“Eris.”

“Ah.”

You waited for him to say something more, but it never came. You sat down next to him biting your fingernail, debating whether to let him see the letter.

“Read this. Please.” You said, thrusting it into his hands. He read it, looked up at you, then back down at the letter. His lips curled into a grin.

“Oh, he’s practically begging for you.” He said, still grinning. You scoffed and grabbed the letter from his hands.

“He hates me. And I hate him.” You said decidedly. Lucien stifled a laugh with the back of his hand.

“Ok. So he’s writing you letters for you to...burn, I presume? Just to get you all riled up?” He bit his lip when he saw your murderous expression. “My brother wouldn’t be writing to you if he wasn’t interested in you. Rhysand told me about the ball, about how you were staring.”

“He proposed to Nesta that night, not me.” You said.

“Ah, so you are jealous.” Lucien teased. You growled.

“You are not helping.”

“Sorry.” He apologised, though he didn’t look remorseful, “I don’t know what you want me to say. My brother ruined my life, forced me to watch my love be killed and now he’s mated to someone who hates him. Seems like fair retribution. Send him my love of course.”

He was joking, but you saw through his mask of indifference. His unharmed eye revealed much more than you suspected he knew. He was pleading to speak to his brother. Despite your better judgement, you resolved to write Eris back, if only for Lucien’s sake. Excusing yourself to your room, you picked up your pen and paper.

Lucien sends his love in return. In future, if you wish to speak with your brother I suggest you contact him directly.

It disappeared into the ether and you stared at your desk. Another letter landed in front of you before you could get up. You blinked in surprise. You had spent so long hating this male that you had never spoken directly, reports of his cruelty coming second hand, and yet here he was, his handwriting so hurried you could have sworn he was excited you had written back.

Unlike you, Lucien would burn his letters. I will let myself believe Lucien sent his love sincerely, please let him know I wish to see him. I also wish to invite you to dine with me.

Why in all the realms would I dine with you?

You are my mate, are you not? It has snapped for you also. I saw how you stared at the ball. Nesta is a beautiful female, but you should know I am not the unfaithful type.

You have no one to be faithful to.

You wrote back, cruelty flowing onto the paper. It felt good for a moment, before the bond soured it. You stared at the letters piling up with increasing disdain. Who did he think he was, acting as if you were already his. His reply popped onto your desk moments later.

There you are, unfortunately, most correct, little fox.

---

Eris spent the next few days in agony. He had never expected you to write back, but after seeing the hunger in your eyes that night… If there was any chance you had changed your mind about him, he would be in the Night Court in a heartbeat. Rhysand had been keeping all diplomatic matters at arms length, not allowing any visitation into Velaris. Eris was no stranger to the territorial behaviour of a male with a pregnant wife.

On that note, he was supposed to be shopping to find a gift for his nephew today. He whistled for Cheddar, who brought along Lulu, his youngest. Eris rolled his eyes.

“Ok, Lulu can come too if she must. But both of you will have to be on a short lead.” He said, mostly to himself, but Cheddar cocked her head in an inquisitive gesture that made Eris grin, rubbing her head with both hands.

He was in a small toy shop, full of handmade stuffed bears and wooden doll houses, when the letter appeared unceremoniously in his hands. Excusing himself outside, he slunk into a nearby alleyway to read it.

Lucien has agreed to see you.

Was all it read. His heart leapt into his throat. He scribbled a response on a scrap of spare paper in his pocket and it vanished from his hands before he had time to regret it. The response was immediate.

Rhysand will allow you in Velaris for two hours under strict supervision from Lucien. Tomorrow at noon.

Eris tried to catch his breath, not wanting to admit to himself how overjoyed he was that his baby brother wanted to see him. Not only that, but he was granted permission to enter the Night Court, Velaris for that matter, where you would surely be. He pet Lulu gently, grounding himself. Now to think of an excuse as to why he would be absent from Court tomorrow. In the shop, he picked out a soft brown bear with a doe eyed expression, letting himself believe it was because his nephew loved bears, and not because its glossy eyes reminded him of you.

Beron took the lie surprisingly well; any dealings with the Night Court were beneficial to Autumn, which was dangerously close to having few allies in Prythian. Beron liked Kier, and whilst he looked down on them, appreciated the brutality of the Illyrian armies. Night would be a strong ally indeed. If only he knew exactly where their loyalties lay.

Eris laid in bed, the window ajar, unable to sleep, thinking of you. His mind straying to that night in the Hewn City, how you looked in your silken gown, back deliciously low to show off your magnificent wings. You had been downright sinful, and he had had to remind himself to keep his eyes on Nesta, who, whilst stunning, held no candle to you that night. Not to him. He ran a hand down his chest as his cock stirred. 

Memories consumed him. The heat of the ballroom. Trailing his eyes all the way up the slit in your dress, dragging his gaze to the top of your thigh, no panty line visible. His hand grasped his cock through his slacks as he imagined peeling the fabric back to reveal your unclothed cunt, and he squeezed hard as he saw himself drop to his knees.

“No panties?” His voice was husky. You gave a coy smile,

“Wanted you to have me, Eris.” You breathed. “Wanted you to taste how much I need you.”

Unbuttoning his slacks and freeing his cock, Eris hissed as he pumped his already dripping length. Your pussy would make a delectable mess of your thighs, drooling just for him. He licked his lips and fucked his hand harder as he fantasised. Your moans would be music to his ears as he messily ate you out, tongue laving across your swollen clit, sucking and nibbling as your thighs shook with pleasure.

Debauched sounds filled the room, the wet shlick of his cock becoming the squelching wetness of your pussy as he finally sunk his fingers deep inside of you. He wanted your hands in his hair. He wanted to guide you down onto the floor so that he could feast on you properly, drink you down, consume you. You would cry out, just the thought of it had him squeezing the base of his cock to keep from cumming too soon. His hips bucked into his fist at a punishing pace, his eyes screwed shut and head thrown back in pleasure. 

The bond was thrumming like drums in his chest, heightening every feeling as his thick member pulsed, spurting precum into his hand. It didn’t take long until he growled, his whole body tensing and his cock painting his stomach white with his seed. When he groaned out in pained pleasure, it was your name on his lips.

---

You stood by Lucien’s side, the redhead almost vibrating with nervousness.

“Remind me why I let you talk me into this?” He asked. You smiled gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Because you want to see him. I could tell the moment I gave you that letter. You’re happy he still thinks of you.”

“It’s complicated.” He groused, “We haven’t spoken properly in decades. What if—what if he’s not the male I remember?” You felt your heart break at Lucien’s words, cursing yourself for meddling in his relationships. You just wanted to see him. Once more. To confirm that your hatred was justified. But you pushed that aside, feeling terrible for dragging Lucien into your little game.

“Lucien, he’s your brother. I know you haven’t been feeling so settled here lately, I think seeing him will do you some good.” It was the best you could do, unable to tell him for certain that the Eris you knew was the same doting brother he had told you about. You squeezed his arm and were relieved to feel him relax.

“Will you stay with me, just for a bit?” He asked. You wanted to say no, but you couldn’t, not to Lucien. You smiled at him gently.

“Of course I will. Just don’t expect me to have anything nice to say.” He laughed, but his bright smile faded as he spotted Eris walking up the path, escorted by a deadly looking Azriel. Your breath caught in your chest when you saw your mate, impeccably dressed and ruggedly handsome. Your eyes lingered for a moment too long. Azriel shot you a warning glare, then winnowed away. Eris, finally free of his chaperone, looked at Lucien and you felt nervousness wash down the bond. He dug in his bag and pulled out two small boxes.

“Lucien.” He said.

“Eris.”

“Mother baked apple cinnamon biscuits. They are—were your favourite.” He handed one of the boxes to Lucien, who took it with so much care it could have contained something much more valuable.

Eris turned to you, “I also brought you something.”

Surprised, you were handed a little box of your own. You peeked inside and heat rushed to your cheeks. A small dagger, with jewel encrusted hilt lay on a bed of luxurious velvet. A courting gift. You looked at him incredulously. He was here to see his brother, he hated the very thought of you, why in all the realms was he bringing you courting gifts.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” You frowned, looking down at the dagger as if it had offended you.

“Usually they’re used for stabbing people.” Eris said, with a mask of cool calm betrayed by a tightness in your chest that didn’t belong to you, “But I suppose it would make a pretty kitchen accessory, should you wish.” He quipped. You rolled your eyes.

“I am not a housewife.” You sneered.

“No. That’s not what—” Lucien cleared his throat and saved you from whatever Eris was about to say next.

“Let me show you around Velaris.” He said, diffusing the tension. “It’s not often outsiders are allowed to just waltz in.”

“Of course,” Eris said, “Will you be joining us?” He asked. You shook your head.

“I will spare you the agony, Vanserra.” You turned to leave, but looked back at Lucien, “Do not let him out of your sight. Rhys will have my head if he does anything stupid.”

As soon as you were a few feet away you felt you could breathe easily again. The bond had been simmering, thrilled at your proximity to your mate. It was a constant buzzing and humming in your chest. You were relieved you could no longer feel it, and made sure to send that feeling loud and clear down the connection between you and your mate.

---

In the following three days you received: A small wheel of cheese, a bouquet of marigolds and a pair of amber earrings. Lucien couldn’t stop laughing when he presented you with the cheese, but it had been amazing with some salt and pepper crackers that evening.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt when Lucien came the next day with another box. He was grinning wildly, barely stifling his laughter.

“I think this might be the worst one yet.” He said, thrusting the box into your hands, “Please open it.”

Eris had been sending the gifts through Lucien, and, like the letters, you had been hiding them from the rest of your family. It felt bad, going behind your brothers backs. But they could never find out that Eris was attempting to court you, for his sake and theirs. Lucien and Eris had managed to start talking again, over the constant gifts and letters. As annoying as it was, you were glad some good had come of it. Though he hadn’t been allowed in the Night Court again.

Lucien was practically rocking on his heels. Inside the box was a knitted headband. It was poorly made, full of holes and oddly misshapen. You frowned.

“What is this?” You looked to Lucien for an explanation but he was doubled over. He took a ragged breath.

“I told him not to send it. I told him it was a shit gift.” He managed before he was wheezing with laughter again. You inspected the headband.

“Did...did Eris make this?” Lucien simply nodded through his tears. You blinked.

“I don’t want these gifts. Please tell him to stop wasting his time.” It felt cruel. But your mind flashed to his lips on Nesta’s neck, his emotionless eyes during the battle with Hybern, your cousin's agonising cries when she had returned in Azriel’s arms that fateful night. You balled the cursed thing in your hand and chucked it back in the box. Lucien bit his lip, not finding it quite as funny anymore.

“It’s tradition in the Autumn Court to send things that are useful, as well as just objects of beauty.” He explained. It was clear which one the headband was meant to be.

“I’m Illyrian. Does he really think a bit of cold is going to hurt me? I don’t want any courting gifts, Lucien, regardless of their use.”

“You ate the cheese.” He murmured.

“We all ate the cheese, Lucien.” Was your quick reply.

He had no retort, and you decided that it was for the best. When you returned to your room, you pushed the box under your bed with the rest of the letters and gifts. The marigolds were wilted and dead for lack of sunlight, the earrings never touched. You could feel the mating bond screaming, begging to be heard, but you pushed it back further. This male would not have any part of you. None at all. You would never be his. No matter how much the thought pained you.

---

You were not reciprocating. Eris had spent all night fumbling around with those stupid needles trying to make something you might actually care for, and your response was silence. He thought back to that night. He knew he had not imagined the hunger in your eyes that almost knocked him dead. Yet how had he repaid you? By kissing Nesta. By proposing to Nesta. 

He had fucked up. As if, after everything you already thought about him, you might have given him a chance.

Yet the bond raged so fiercely, he could barely stand to ignore it for even a day before his chest burned so badly he thought he might drown. It would be a fitting way to go, he thought. To be hated so much it killed him. He had done enough to deserve such a fate.

Weeks passed, then months. Rhysand had been kind enough to let him visit Lucien twice more, once ending in a painfully awkward run in with Cassian that had him leaving earlier than intended. Those overgrown bats hovered around him as if he might try stealing you away the longer he spent in the Night Court. He never managed to catch even a glimpse of you. Not with Azriel or Rhys silently staring, or Cassian barging in every few minutes pretending to need something from the room. He was allowed nowhere without Lucien as his chaperone, he could say nothing without it being overheard. So much for bats, they were more like hawks.

He had stopped sending courting gifts. And he had stopped sending letters.

Cheddar lay her head on his lap, and he stroked her soft head gently.

“Am I just a fool, Cheddar?” He asked, knowing she could do nothing more than side-eye him as he spoke. “What good is it, pursuing your mate who hates you and whose brothers want you dead? Should I let this go?”

Cheddar whined, and thumped her tail. Checking the clock Eris found it was almost time for her walk. Eris glanced at the paper laid on his desk, gathering dust for weeks. He sighed. Once more. Once more he would grovel for your attention, to soothe the pain in his chest, the ache in his heart. Then he would let it go.

Let you go.

Forever.

Join me for a walk. I wish to talk. Eris.

He signed his name, the first time he had ever bothered to. Before he had time to overthink it, it vanished from his desk. His hands shook. Seconds passed, minutes turned to half an hour. Then it came. Popping onto the desk unceremoniously. Your response.

Fine. Where should I meet you?

He replied quickly, Cheddar beginning to get restless.

On the border, there is a doorway from Night to Autumn, I will walk you past the wards.

I will be there.

It was now well past when he would have usually taken the dogs out, but they would be walked, this time with his mate in tow. He stood with a shaky breath, and took the leads off the wall. Winnowing with his dogs to the edge of the Court, he steeled himself. He was ready to face you, to face his one chance to change your mind.

---

You stood at the edge of the Autumn Court. You had told no one where you were. Nor had you told anyone who you were with. Rhys would have a fit if he ever found out, Azriel would never speak to you again. Cassian might have allowed you to go, but not without following you and glaring holes through Eris the entire time.

It was safer for Eris on your own.

You heard his dogs first, then his voice calling after them to slow down. A brindle smokehound bounded up to you, its tongue lolling and tail wagging frantically. They were a beautiful breed, and rare, you couldn’t help the warm smile you gave it. It stopped just short of smacking into your legs and you giggled, holding your hand out for it to sniff. It was a few beats ahead of its owner, who was walking slowly with four more dogs waltzing around him, one calmly at his side. You watched as they ran circles around you and Eris as he came to a stop before you. He gave a short whistle and they stopped dead in their tracks, then retreated to his side. You couldn’t help the short burst of arousal you sent down the bond. Eris gave a cocky smile.

“You came.” He said, his smooth voice giving away no emotion, the bond closed off to you.

“I did.” You answered, unable to block your side of the bond quite as effectively.

“Did you receive my gifts?”

“I did.” You repeated. He cleared his throat and shifted on his feet.

“Well, the dogs will be off leash, I hope that’s alright. They’re usually good, but this one might try and go for the squirrels.” He said, pointing to a gorgeous black dog who pressed it’s long nose into Eris’ hand. You gave the pup a small smile.

You walked in silence for a while, both of you unsure of where to start, what to say to mend the fraying thread that connected you. Golden and ruby leaves crunched underfoot, the dogs panting breaths fogged little clouds in the crisp air. It was truly beautiful. You had always felt a sense of calm when Autumn fell over Velaris, but it could not compare to the serenity of the Autumn Court. It felt as though the whole Court was holding its breath, the season of change, never-changing, unending. Eris let you soak it in, watching as you beheld the forest in all its magnificence, not bothering you with conversation.

“You kissed her.” You said finally, breaking the peaceful silence. Eris fiddled with the leash in his hand.

“I had to.”

“Why?” You asked, the question sounding childish as soon as it escaped your lips.

“There were expectations on me that night I don’t expect you to understand.” The bond was still sealed tight from you, he spoke with the emotionless tone of a well-trained courtier.

“Try me.” You pressed.

“I don’t want to.” And perhaps it was the truth, but frustration built the further you walked, the silence dragging out between you uncomfortably. He had invited you here to talk. So talk he would.

You scoffed. The bond buzzing incessantly at your closeness to your mate, finally right where it wanted to be. But all you could focus on were his eyes, his heated gaze, as he had brushed his lips across Nesta’s bare neck.

“No.” You snapped. “You knew I was watching when you claimed my sister. When you proposed to marry her. You have given me no reason to believe you care for me. Never once apologised for what you did to my cousin. How could I ever trust you? That is what you want, is it not?”

He was staring at you now, no longer averting his gaze, amber eyes cold and calculating.

“I had a duty to my father to propose marriage to Nesta, I have no feelings for her, only for you.” Eris said, carefully ignoring any mention of Morrigan.

“You don’t know me. You know nothing about me. Only that we share this bond.” You argued. One of his dogs trotted up to your side and you pet her head to calm yourself. The action grounded you, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Eris, who felt it deep in his chest.

“I know that you seem to care an awful lot about what I did with your sister, yet claim to detest me” He said, dropping the walls he had carefully placed around the bond.

Nerves. Anger. Disappointment.

“I have waited centuries for a mating bond, and will not let your unfortunate Court affiliations bar me from trying, especially not when you show me so clearly your true desires.”

You rounded on him with anger glinting in your eyes.

“You could never be serious, professing my ‘true desires’, if you knew how much I loathed you, Eris Vanserra.”

Hurt. Pain. Despair.

“You are a power hungry brute who as far as I know has a secret thing for Illyrians.”

There was a pregnant pause. Eris stared straight at you with an expression you could not decipher. He was bathed in dappled golden light. He looked ethereal. You couldn’t help the guilt that washed over you, and you knew he felt it too.

Hope.

Something clicked, his expression shifted and he moved towards you with a darkness in his eyes that sent heat rushing to your core. You stepped back until you hit a tree, your back pressed up against it, and you were trapped. He crowded you, so close you could almost taste his spiced perfume.

“Is that what they have told you, little fox?” He asked, his deep voice low and sensual against your ear, “The only Illyrian I have a thing for is you. The moment I saw you swagger into that meeting as if you owned the place, I knew the Mother had made the right choice. She mocks me with your family, but I would risk their disapproval for just a taste of you.” You sucked in a breath, anger quickly replaced with lust as he pressed against you, and you cursed your body for reacting. You knew he could smell your arousal as his cruel grin widened.

“You feel it too, don’t you little fox.” His scent consumed you as he dropped every glamour, the heady rush of his arousal surrounded you like a drug. “That despite everything you think about me, you want me too. You want this.”

There was nowhere to run, with your back firmly pressed against the tree. There was no escape. That would be the lie you kept telling yourself afterwards as you surged up to kiss his lips, no longer able to resist. You took him by surprise, and used your advantage to spin him around, lips still on his, pushing him against the tree. He looked at you with lust blown eyes, throwing his head back, eyes screwed shut as you squeezed him, hard.

“This is mine.” You growled, the jealousy and need you had felt at the ball rushing back full force, “You are mine. From now on if you so much as sniff around another female I will make sure to show you exactly who you belong to.”

He panted, nodding frantically.

“Yes. Please. Please y/n, I need you.”

You fished his cock from his pants, it was wet and throbbing, the length of it in your hand making your pussy clench in need. He hissed at the cold air. You needed him closer. You needed to taste him. Dropping to your knees, you enveloped him in your mouth, his hands flying to your hair.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuckkk.” He groaned. He pulled your hair roughly, and you looked up at him with doe eyes. You wanted it hard, rough. Wanted him to fuck your mouth as if he hated you. He felt it all through the shimmering golden thread and whimpered.

“You’re killing me, Y/n.” He grit out. With a small smile you bobbed your head, experimentally. A burst of salty precum coated your tongue and you swallowed it with a moan. He was hot and pulsing in your mouth, you pushed your head further down until he was at the back of your throat, your nose bumping against his navel, wanting him to feel the contractions as you swallowed around him. Breathing through your nose, you tapped at the back of his legs. you wanted him thrusting into you.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he pulled his hips back, dragging his cock lavishly across your tongue. With a sharp breath he pushed in, and you met his thrust with a bob of your head, knees aching, eyes watering.

He growled, and picked up the pace until he was fucking your face with abandon. His moans and pants sending slick dripping into your panties. Salt was all you could taste as his dick leaked continuously onto your tongue. He was soaking wet, with your spit, with his slick. It was the messiest blowjob you had ever given, and you fucking loved it. The bond hummed in pleasure as you gagged and drooled around him.

“Sweetheart, fuck, I’m close.” He whined, his thrusts growing sloppy as he ground his hips against your face.

“Gods your mouth, your fucking mouth, you’re gonna make me cum.” You laved your tongue over him, his constant stream of words both amusing and arousing you. You pulled off his cock and held your tongue out, looking up at him, hand pumping him roughly.

“I’m, I’m cumming, shit, Sweetheart, fuck.” He came copiously, so much that you choked on it. You swallowed, watching his eyes darken as you licked your lips.

He leaned against the tree, panting, and you sat on your knees.

This was not what you had planned. Not in the slightest. You had come to tell him to fuck off, to let the bond grow cold and stale. And yet you were on your knees in front of him, the taste of him consuming your senses. What had you done? You knew he could feel the growing fear, spreading through your chest like a chill.

“I have to go.” You stood abruptly.

“Don’t—” You didn’t stay to hear what he said next. You ran to the doorway, and didn’t stop running until you had reached your bedroom in the Night Court.

You opened the door. Rhys stood, a murderous look on his face and letters gripped tight in his fist. The scent of Eris was all over you. You had no way to hide it. His eyes darkened, your desk cracked and splintered then misted into thin air.

“Rhys I—” You scrambled for the right words to say as your brother took a heavy step towards you.

“I can explain.”

Taglist:

@anotherbook-obsessedhoe @glitterypirateduck @homeslices @leeknows-wife @cat-or-kitten @macimads @esposadomd @forever-paramore28 @going-through-shit @fabulouslyflamboyant5 @astarlitsoul @crazylokonugget @imagine-that-100 @sorry--for-the-mess @glittervame @the-sweet-psycho @yamburger @bunnyredgirl @historygeekqueen @acourtofbatboydreams @starrystarkey93 @holb32 @iimichie @goldenmagnolias @theravenphoenix26 @63angel @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @walkerchick007

[elenaferndale]

Edit: I just came aware that Illyrians do not have pointy ears!!!! How did I miss it!? The full piece will ofcourse be with the correct ears 🙏

Work in progress!

I've heard other people on here like the idea of Gwynriel happening.

Hope to finish this one during the weekend 🤗

[talesofkai]

to the booklr community,

I am a refugee from booktok, however I am not new to tumblr, I’m new to booklr. Romantasy is my favorite genre, I have completed the Maasverse & I am currently rereading Fourth Wing & Iron Flame for the third time in preparation for Onyx Storm! I prefer hard cover books & clean pages & I love reading with campfire background noise. My favorite tropes are enemies to lovers & forced proximity. My reading goal for 2025 is 42 books! The next series I plan on reading is The Cruel Prince & The Stolen Heir series. I love spice in books but will read books without it too. I HATE spoilers! I will ALWAYS give a spoiler warning in any post I make & I will be careful with what I reblog as well for any friends I make on here. I want to make friends that like reading romantasy and have read books that I have read so that we can giggle and kick our feet together in the DMs while talking about our favorite books and sharing fanart (:

I hope this reaches the right people 🫶🏻

[reiincarnatiion]

shadows of destiny | azriel x reader | part three

summary: azriel jealous and yearning for Y/N

🧚‍♀️

a/n: sorry guys for the long assss wait, ive been on exchange in the uk so i have been busy living life hehe, still here and loving it!! hope you guys like this one, love you all cuties <33 also this isnt proof read so sorry for any mistakes! let me know what you think, i love all of your sweet messages !! eeeeeee

read : [part one] [part two]

-----🩷🧚‍♀️💗------

You woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a parched mouth, confused as to how you had made it to your bed from last night. The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a hazy glow over your room.

Groaning loudly, you cursed as you shifted your weight around, consequently turning your head to come face to face with Lucien's chiseled features, peacefully sleeping next to you. It took you a second to realize he was shirtless as well.

You screamed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

His mechanical eye swirled open, followed by his other. "Tell me we didn't."

"DID what," Lucien murmured, a small smirk gracing his features as he stared up at the ceiling. Amusement danced in his eyes as he stretched languidly against the sheets. His morning rasp tingled inside you and nicked at you annoyingly. This could not have happened. The headache of whatever liquids and maybe even other substances you had consumed yesterday hit you hard, and you fell back to face the ceiling as well, nausea threatening to overwhelm you.

"You little slut, you know what I meant," you groaned, rolling onto your front in a feeble attempt to quell the oncoming headache and urge to vomit.

You felt Lucien shift next to you as well, attempting to detangle himself from the crisp black sheets of your bed. "We must have done it."

"NO Lucien."

"YES."

"NO, I CAN'T-"

"…why not," Lucien breathed out. His demeanor had changed since you last saw him sober; something had happened last night, and you could not remember, but he was acting differently.

"All I am saying is that last night made me realize things about you, Y/N…" he continued, rising from the sheets. You raised your eyes in horror, ready to scream because you did not want to get flashed by fiery dick-

-a pair of orange breeches came into view.

"Oh."

"Upset that we didn't actually sleep together, Y/N?"

An unknown feeling of red-hotness spread throughout your face, turning your cheeks pink. "I hate you, Lucien," you hummed.

"What did you realize, Lucien?"

"That I pretend to not care the way Azriel and Elain make heart eyes at each other, but on the inside, it's like a knife twisting inside me," he deadpanned, and you couldn't help but let out a laugh.

"What???" he groaned, falling down next to you. "Nothing, Luc, I just feel sorry for us, that's all.

~

Azriel sat at the dining table, swirling the black coffee mindlessly. It was 2 pm, and his shadows had begun reporting how the others had finally begun stirring awake after their long night. They had gotten back at 5 am, the sun slowly beginning to peek through the trees and buildings of Velaris, and he had watched from afar as Lucien carried Y/N to her room.

He had not come out afterwards. His shadows had been in an unfamiliar frenzy, yelling to slip through and see what was happening in that bedroom, to investigate how good he gave it to her because Azriel just knew. He knew he could give it to her better.

He clenched his fists at the picture his shadows had painted for him of the events which probably had unfolded in her room. What was it with his sexual urges with Y/N all of a sudden? She was just his friend. She had always just been his friend. Maybe he had had a little crush on her before. Maybe when she would walk into a room and his palms would sweat, he would chastise himself for wearing too many layers. Or how when she used to make his heart beat irregularly, he would tell Rhys about anxiety. It was easier to let them think he had a disorder rather than admit feelings. Because maybe, just maybe he had had slight feelings towards her for centuries. But there was Elain now.

He liked Elain.

"Good Morning Azriel!" a sweet voice chirped, as Elain entered the dining room, a sweet tea held in her perfectly manicured hands. Even after a night out, she looked perfect. Her hair looked freshly blow-dried, and her lips tinted pink, looking fresh and kissable. He smiled gently, and her eyes brightened as she took a seat next to him, murmuring things about last night and how odd it was to see Lucien with Y/N.

"I just don't think he should have danced like that with her, what do you think?" she whispered, her eyes shining.

"I know it was disrespectful to you," Azriel nodded back, looking into her glassy doe eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he felt a sudden burst of movement from his shadows, but the warning wasn't quick enough as two figures walked into the room.

God, she looked horrible.

Elain let out a comical gasp, and the corner of his mouth lifted as Y/N walked into the room, her hair messy and disturbed, like someone had pulled on it, ran their hands through it. Her presence snatched on his gaze, it pulled it towards him, and Azriel found himself unable to look away.

Her eyes lazily dragged over Azriel, raking up his body, and never before had he felt so hot. But he did not break eye contact with her either, he maintained it, willing and daring her to break it first.

Their eyes met in a silent battle of wills, a tension simmering beneath the surface as they sized each other up. It was a fleeting moment, but it spoke volumes, leaving Azriel reeling in its wake.

"Lucien, can we talk?" Elain broke the silence.

Everyone blinked and looked at the innocent girl sitting down. Azriel watched as she looked into Lucien’s eyes, with her innocent look, and he mentally chuckled. She was doing damage control, and it was working because his shadows were reporting the increase in Lucien’s heartbeat.

“Of course,” Lucien whispered and pushed past Y/N, whisking Elain away out of the room.

Charged silence followed. Azriel went back to nursing his coffee which had gone cold now. He felt Y/N scoff and mutter something under her breath which sounded a whole lot like "bitch," as she moved around the place, into the connecting kitchen, trying to will the House to make her a cup of its strongest coffee. They didn’t say a word to each other, but Azriel could feel the tension in the air. He didn’t know where it had formed from, what abyss it had risen from, he just knew there was something that needed to be addressed between them before his head and his heart exploded.

“What was that from last night?” he let out a breath finally, his shadows jittering around the place. He looked up from his swirling black coffee to see Y/N cease her movements in the corner of the kitchen. Her short night dress, barely covering her ass, had ridden up as she had been bent over the kitchen bench. Azriel felt himself stiffen, so he looked away quickly, adjusting himself.

“What do you mean,” she replied, turning around with a neutral expression on her face, guarding her emotions. She carefully padded her way to the table, setting the coffee down and placing herself directly in front of him. Her scent wafted over him, and his jaw ticked, but he didnt show any emotion. His dark eyes bore into hers, his shadows fought to sift over her, wanting to know her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions. Alas, she showed nothing.

“You and Lucien…” he drawled out, pretending to ask nonchalantly.

“We just danced to Azriel, I was really drunk,” she whispered softly, placing her hands together on her lap.

“You emerged from the same room,” he replied calmly.

As she cocked her head to the side, her hair falling onto her face, time seemed to slow down. Her long eyelashes were stunning, and her deep eyes looked at Azriel with something so unsaid, that the raw intensity sent shivers down his spine.

Azriel knew at that moment that he could no longer leave these unanswered feelings of his left hanging. He wasn't a dumb male; if his body was responding to Y/N like this for so long, there was clearly a reason. And it was not a dumb crush.

He had forced himself to believe for so long, that Elain should belong to him. Three brothers for three sisters, that is what he would tell himself.

Yet something had shifted between them two, a subtle undercurrent that left Azriel reeling. It was something deeper, something undeniable. And as he met Y/N's gaze, he knew that he could no longer ignore the pull that drew him to her, the pull of something real, something worth fighting for.

--

taglist : @allyjoe755 @impossibelle @t0uch-starved-h0e @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @marina468 @cassan1306 @mich0731 @bubybubsters @azzydaddy @sunnym1nd @lupinswolfsbanes @tcris2020 @kazbrkker @hungryforbatboys @f4iry-bell @menaosama @kennedy-brooke @dudssebm @written-in-the-stars06 @lahoete @hereticdance @ultrakawaiinerd @nyotamalfoy @topaz125 @fae-glamour-petrichorus @rachelnicolee @wannabewolf @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @dressed-in-prada @5moremin @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @lesliemurillo @feyres-fireheart @positivewitch @quackitysdrugdealer @saltedcoffeescotch @kalulakunundrum @mirandasidefics @crazylokonugget @isa1b2h3 @girl-who-writes-stuff @hayrunnwr @acourtofmoonlightandstars @lucky7rosie @mokanesa

[ennawrite]

rereading the scene of Rhys tormenting Tamlin in ACOFAS is just like…wow…i wish y’all would BANG IT OUT ALREADY ‼️‼️‼️

“I have EVERYTHING and I’m so HAPPY and so ABOVE YOU but I’m gonna come torment you anyway, just because I feel like it and NOT because I’ve secretly been attracted to you for the past four centuries…🙄”

yeah…i bet they’re not the only thing aching to be near his throat 😏

noticing his muscle mass is crazyyyy like this shit is GAY YOUR HONOR!!! 👩‍⚖️

your…mate…who…is…everything…you’ve…WISHED…and…DREAMED…of…and…BEGGED…for…isn’t…ENOUGH??? (he literally just thought that 20 lines earlier btw😭)

ohhh don’t we ALL want feral Tamlin oh brother, back of the line, buddy!!! 😑🫵

I just know Rhys was punchin the fuck out of the air on the way home he wanted to wrestle with that man badddddd

feeling a “hollowness” in the stomach over seeing someone in despair is just the other end of the spectrum for “something glowed in his chest” I’M SORRY I DONT MAKE THE RULES!!!

[emiliamildner]

Dreams and nightmares 🍂✨🌙

I feel like this kinda makes sense even if you don't view this art through a romantic lens (to be clear, I did paint it as 100% romantic). Even if they become friends or less reluctant allies, this could happen. As long as you ignore the starlight placement, of course.

Inspired by ACOTAR series by Sarah J Maas

‼️ DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION!

[sadiegirl2021]

"Life and death and rebirth. Sun and moon and dark. Rot and bloom and bones."

{Elain x Koschei}

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

A Court of Fire and Masks

Eris Vanserra x OC

Chapter 1

Hi friends, I'm going to try and force myself back into long form writing by doing another multi-part fic. This time focused on Eris and an OC to hopefully help me feel a little less stuck following the SJM narrative and allow me to explore the world for myself. I'm going to try my best to stick with storylines and plot points that make sense for the pre-ACOTAR world, but I most definitely will fumble it at some point so please be gentle with me!

Chapter Synopsis:

Penelope enters the glamorous yet treacherous world of Autumn Court life, where appearances are everything, and even the slightest misstep could ruin her families reputation. As the youngest daughter of a noble family, she's expected to smile, nod, and blend in - just like her older sister. But when Penelope's curiosity about inter-court politics leads to a forbidden mention of unrest, she quickly realizes she may not have the weaponry for the brutal battle of social court, especially when she runs up against heir to the court, Eris Vanserra.

Content Warnings:

Emotional manipulation

Verbal and emotional abuse

Power imbalances

Anxiety and panic

Mentions of sexism & misogyny

Dark themes of cruelty

Word Count: 7,992

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was a breathtaking blend of wild, untamed beauty and regal opulence. Towering columns carved from ancient, flame-colored wood supported the vaulted ceiling that arched high above, its beams draped in shimmering golden fabrics that reflected the flickering faelight. The rich scents of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and ripe apples from orchards beyond the terrace doors were carried in on a cool breeze, mingling with the fresh tang of autumn leaves.

High above, chandeliers woven from oak and maple branches stretched across the ceiling, their limbs heavy with clusters of enchanted leaves that glimmered like gemstones - topaz, citrine, amber, and garnet - casting a soft, ethereal glow over the dance floor. Between the branches, flickering lanterns filled with faelight bobbed gently, their flames crackling with hints of green and blue, illuminating the hall in shifting, magical light.

At the far end of the hall, a grand hearth dominated the space, flames roaring within its stone embrace. Crackling logs sent bursts of embers spiraling towards the ceiling before fading into the night air. Above the hearth, a majestic mosaic depicted the Autumn Court’s symbol - a crowned stage wreathed in vines, the gold and green threads catching firelight, making the creature seem almost alive.

Penelope had never witnessed such grandeur before. She had never even stepped foot inside the Autumn Court Manor, only ever glimpsing at its towering presence from the rolling orchards near her family’s estate. But now, as she crossed the threshold of the great oak doors, her breath hitched in awe. Flanked on her left by her sister, with her father leading the group and her mother on his arm, Penelope did her best to not pause and gape at the scene before her.

Persimmon glanced at Penelope from the corner of her eye, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Leaning closer, she whispered, “Close your mouth, you look like a fool.”

Penelope blinked, shaking herself from her trance before narrowing her eyes and shooting her older sister a look of mock disdain. While this was Penelope’s first time stepping inside the Autumn Court Manor, her older sister had been accompanying their parents to court events for the past three years. Persimmon, five years her senior, was the mirror image of their mother. Her mahogany hair was loosely braided into a bun, with delicate tendrils framing her angular face. The golden glow of the faelight caught in her eyes making them shimmer, and a light dusting of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks, giving her a youthful air, despite her maturity.

Persimmon had always been the beauty of the family, and everyone knew it. Penelope had no illusions about that. Their mother, after giving her husband eight daughters with not a single son among them, had devoted herself to raising her girls as the epitome of elegance. Everyone one of them from twenty-seven-year-old Persimmon down to little three-year-old Pansy, was well versed in the arts, music, and literature, as polished in conversation as they were in courtly etiquette. Yet for all their mother’s efforts, the sisters remained just that - sisters. They bickered, needled one another over insecurities, stole clothes and toys, and picked fights over the smallest slights. Beneath the grace and refinement, they we still bound by the chaos of sibling rivalry.

But something had shifted in Persimmon when she turned twenty-two. She had brown into the kind of young lady their mother had always dreamed of - polished, graceful, stunning. And now, as Penelope trailed behind her sister into the ballroom, she couldn’t help but wonder how Persimmon had not yet been propositioned for marriage.

Males on either side of the ballroom couldn’t seem to take their eyes off her. Penelope followed their gazes, watching as they traced the smooth line of her sister’s freckled shoulders, down the subtle curve of her spine, to the daring cut of her maroon, velvet gown. Persimmon was radiant, magnetic. She commanded attention without effort, her every movement poised, every smile calculated.

And Penelope - while beautiful in her own right - knew she could never quite compare. Where Persimmon glowed with an effortless charm, Penelope felt like a shadow, always one step behind her sister’s brilliance.

Her mother and father glided through the crowed with the effortless grace of seasoned courtiers, making their way toward the hearth where the High Lord and his wife sat perched upon dark wooden thrones. The remaining Vanserra brothers flanked them, standing like sentinels on either side. Penelope had heard the rumors - the whispered tales of the slaughter of the two heirs in the Spring Court and Lucien’s swift and disgraceful banishment. The murmurs of treason had spread like wildfire through the nobility, and despite the High Lord’s attempts to project control, the cracks in his family were all too visible.

As they neared, Penelope’s father knelt before the High Lord, bowing low with the kind of practiced deference that only years at court could teach. Her mother followed with an elegant curtsy, her movements precise, every gestured perfectly measured. Behind them, Persimmon stood poised, ready to follow their lead.

“My Lord,” her father began, his tone smooth and professional. “May I present my daughters.” He turned, extending a hand toward them. “Persimmon and Penelope.”

Penelope noticed the sharp, disapproving look her mother shot her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Persimmon already lowering herself into a graceful curtsy, and Penelope hurried to follow suit. Her mother gave her a tight-lipped smile, the kind that barely concealed the reprimand behind it. Penelope’s heart beat a little faster, fearing her misstep, but if she had made an error, the High Family seemed not to notice.

In fact, it seemed the High Lord was barely paying attention at all. His eyes, cold and distant, scanned the crowd with thinly veiled boredom, as though the string of introductions were beneath his notice. The Lady of Autumn sat beside him, her beauty hollowed out by something Penelope couldn’t quite place - her gaze vacant, as though the light behind her eyes had long since dimmed.

Persimmon rose gracefully, offering a polite smile before stepping aside to follow their mother and father to the edge of the room. The next group of guests had already begun their own introductions, descending into bows and curtsies as Penelope and her sister moved aside.

Just a few steps from the long auburn carpet that led to the hearth, Penelope’s mother slipped from her father’s arm and moved swiftly to her side. Without warning, her mother’s hand clamped down on Penelope’s elbow, crimson-painted nails digging into the soft flesh with a precision that felt deliberate. She leaned in close, her voice a low, venomous hiss.

“Do not let me catch you making that same mistake again. Do you understand?”

Penelope bit down a soft groan, her teeth clenched as the sharp nails pierced deeper. Her arm throbbed under the pressure, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “What did I do?” she asked, fighting the wince that threatened to break through.

Persimmon, just ahead, turned slightly, lips parted as she caught sight of the hushed reprimand.

“You will follow your sister’s actions,” her mother hissed, her breath hot against Penelope’s ear. “She she curtsies, you curtsy. You do not speak unless spoken to, and you certainly do not gawk like some common girl seeing court for the first time. Do I make myself clear?”

Penelope tried to pull her arm free, but her mother’s grip was unyielding, nails pressing deeper into her skin like claws. “Yes Mother,” she whispered, the words forced through a clenched jaw.

Her mother gave her no reprieve, turning her sharply to face her head on. Their eyes locked - her mother’s golden-flecked gaze hard and unrelenting, while Penelope’s emerald eyes flashed with a simmering frustration beneath the surface. “Do not embarrass this family, Penelope,” her mother warned, her voice laced with quiet fury.

Only then did her mother release her, pulling her nails from Penelope’s arm with a slow, deliberate motion. She returned to her father’s side, slipping her arm back through as if nothing had happened, her face the perfect picture of poise as he engaged in idle conversation with a passing lord who looked as interchangeable as the rest.

Penelope exhaled slowly, pulling her arm back and straightening the deep velvet blue of her gown. A casual glance down revealed what she had expected - crescent-shaped nail marks glowing red against her skin, though thankfully no blood. There was no evidence of the reprimand beyond the stinging reminder etched into her arm. Though all of the sisters had received similar corrections and her mother’s nail marks were normally present on at least one of the girls at all times.

Persimmon dropped back, stepping in line beside Penelope as their mother and father laughed about something a courtier had said, the sound hollow and devoid of any genuine mirth. “Don’t worry about her,” Persimmon whispered.

Penelope didn’t dare turn her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the conversation unfolding before them - a conversation she had chosen to ignore. But Persimmon continued, her tone laced with quiet reassurance. “She’s always on edge at the start of these things. Just keep your head down and wait until she’s had a few drinks. She’ll ease up.”

A chuckle slipped from Penelope’s lips. “A few, as in one?” she joked under her breath.

It wasn’t uncommon for their mother to have a glass of wine with dinner and appear thoroughly intoxicated before dessert was even on the table. The older sisters had long made light of their mother’s low tolerance for alcohol and her increasing fondness for harder spirits as the evening wore on.

“I don’t even know what I did,” Penelope murmured.

Persimmon shrugged lightly. “Perhaps you breathed wrong. Or maybe the High Lord sniffled and she assumed it was some unspoken displeasure,” she said with a faint smirk. “Don’t think too much about it. It’s not worth your time.”

Penelope’s smile widened, but the humor did little to completely dispel the tension in her chest or ease the continued throbbing on her arm. She glanced at her sister from the corner of her eye, wondering just how many similar lashings she had endured in silence over the years, standing alone with their mother in rooms like this.

Persimmon rarely spoke of the time she spent at court events, even with her sister’s constant prodding. Despite having accompanied their parents for years, she never offered details, never revealed the consistent weight of their mother’s impossible expectations or private humiliations extended into court events.

But now, as they stood side by side, Penelope could sense it - the quiet steel beneath her sister’s polished exterior. Persimmon, for all her grace and poise, had learned long ago how to navigate their mother’s wrath, event if it meant standing in the line of fire.

“Just breathe,” Persimmon added. “By the time the wine hits her, she’ll forget all about it.”

As if on cue, a servant passed by with a tray of sparkling amber wine, and their mother, eyes widening with delight, swiftly plucked a flute for herself. She brought it to her lips immediately, sipping it as though it were a lifeline.

Persimmon, ever observant, snagged two additional flutes and handed one to Penelope. The moment the glass touched her hand, Penelope’s stomach dropped. She watched as Persimmon took a casual sip, unaware of her sister’s growing anxiety, until she turned to see Penelope’s pale face and furrowed her brow.

“What?” Persimmon asked.

Penelope glanced down at the flute, then back up at her sister. Her eyes flicked nervously to their mother, who stood a few feet away, her head thrown back in humorless laughter. “I can’t drink this,” she whispered.

Persimmon raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Mother doesn’t let us drink,” Penelope muttered, her voice barely audible as she watched their mother revel in conversation.

Realization dawned on Persimmon’s face, her concern melting into something closer to amusement. “It’s Court, Pen. It’s expected.” She lifted her glass with a small smile, clinking it gently against her sister’s. “If anything, Mother would be more offended if you didn’t drink the champagne the High Lord has provided.”

Penelope’s heart still thundered in her chest, but she couldn’t help letting out a small, breathy laugh. With hesitation, she tapped the flute against Persimmon’s. Her sister gave her a knowing wink before tipping the glass back, drinking smoothly. Penelope followed, though far less gracefully.

The cool liquid passed over her lips and immediately burned as it slid down her throat. The taste was strange - sharp and biting - though beneath it, she could detect the tartness of apples mingling with something fruitier. But any subtleties in the flavor were lost as her lips curled back involuntarily in a disgusted sneer. She raised her hand to cover her expression, but it was too late.

Persimmon, watching her discomfort, chuckled softly. “You’ll get used to the taste once you’re older,” she teased.

Penelope, still grimacing, muttered, “That’s awful. Like, actually foul.”

Persimmon’s laugh grew a little louder, catching a few passing glances from nearby courtiers. “Stop being a baby and drink it.”

Shaking her head, Penelope tried to will away the lingering fire in her throat before attempting another tiny sip. She choked it back, her face contorting once more, and Persimmon’s laughter only grew.

A soft chime, like the sound of a bell, rang through the ballroom, drawing heads toward the hearth. Persimmon, mid-sip, turned her gaze forward and placed a guiding hand on Penelope’s shoulder, subtly urging her to do the same. The idle chatter faded as the music that had been drifting through the room quieted, leaving only the crackle of the fire in its wake.

The High Lord of Autumn rose from his dark wooden throne with deliberate slowness, his tall frame draped in rich auburn robes embroidered with golden vines that caught the light of the roaring flames behind him. He raised a hand, and the final murmurs died away, the ballroom falling into expectant silence.

“Friends,” Beron Vanserra’s voice rang out, smooth and commanding, almost warm, though the sharp edge of condescension lurked beneath. His amber eyes swept the room, but even as he smiled, there was a cold detachment to his gaze. “Tonight, we gather to celebrate the bounty of this year’s harvest—the fruit of our labor, the strength of our court, and the prosperity of our people under my reign.”

His words echoed through the hall, each syllable dripping with self-assurance. Penelope couldn’t help but notice how deliberately he emphasized “my reign,” a reminder to all present of where the power truly lay. Her eyes flicked to the Lady of Autumn, seated beside him, her expression blank, eyes vacant. Penelope’s mother had once referred to her as the “whore of Autumn,” after rumors of her infidelity had spread like wildfire through the court. But looking at her now—her gaunt frame hollowed by some invisible burden, the joy long drained from her sunken eyes—Penelope struggled to imagine any female bearing the weight of such a life, bound to a male like Beron.

And if the rumors had been true, Penelope shuddered to think what consequences the Lady had faced.

Whatever she had expected of the Lady of Autumn, it wasn’t this lifeless shell of a female before her.

“The orchards have been abundant, the forests generous,” Beron continued, his voice lifting with an artificial warmth. “We stand at the cusp of another prosperous year, and it is thanks to you, my lords and ladies, for your loyalty and devotion. It is your commitment to this Court that ensures our continued strength.”

Nods rippled through the room, nobles murmuring their approval. Penelope glanced around, her gaze wandering across the hearth where the Vanserra sons stood, arms clasped behind their backs, each wearing shades of red and gold like their father. Her eyes caught on Eris, positioned to the right of his mother, his posture stiff and unreadable. His golden eyes flicked toward her, as if sensing her stare. For a heartbeat, their gazes locked before Penelope quickly turned her attention back to the High Lord, her heart racing.

Beron raised his goblet, his eyes gleaming with pride. “To the Autumn Court. May we continue to prosper in the seasons ahead.”

The room echoed with the chorus of “To the Autumn Court,” as nobles lifted their glasses in unison. Penelope hesitated, her fingers tightening around the cool stem of her flute. Persimmon, without missing a beat, raised her glass smoothly beside her. Following suit, Penelope lifted hers, though her arm felt weighted with the gesture.

The High Lord took a long, deliberate sip from his goblet, and the room remained frozen in silence until he lowered it once more. “Let the festivities begin.”

With those words, the tension in the air began to shift, replaced by a low hum of excitement. The music resumed, soft at first, but quickly swelling into a lively melody that filled the hall. Nobles drifted toward the center of the room, forming circles of conversation and slipping into the rhythms of court life. Laughter and murmurs once again buzzed around Penelope, mingling with the clink of glasses and the rustle of silks.

She took a tentative sip of her wine—less hesitant than before—and winced at the biting flavor. Though she tried to suppress her reaction, the liquid still burned, bitter and unfamiliar as it slid down her throat. To her, it tasted like poison.

The court seemed to shift around her, the mood lightening with every sip, every note of music. Servants wove through the crowd with trays of delicacies, while groups of courtiers formed, moving in their own carefully rehearsed circles of influence. Penelope watched as the High Family remained near the hearth, their postures slightly more relaxed, though not a word passed between them. They were poised, as always—each one a reflection of the court and its strength.

As the music swelled, Penelope turned her attention back to her sister Persimmon and at the same moment, a group of courtiers drifted towards them. Penelope recognized them from court gossip that had wandered into their own home: well-dressed, elegantly poised, but with a certain lifelessness that seemed to hover just beneath their curated appearances. Their smiles were sharp, their laughter soft, but lacking any real warmth, and their eyes darted about the room as if constantly calculating who was watching.

One of them, a tall, slender female with cascading golden curls, caught Persimmon’s eye and approached with an almost predatory grace. “Persimmon,” she drawled, her voice syrupy and slow, “it’s been far too long.” She extended a hand, and Persimmon, without missing a beat, accepted it with a smile that mirrors the other female’s in its empty brightness.

“It has, hasn’t it, Leda?” Persimmon replied smoothly, slipping into the conversation as though no time had passed between them. “Though I see you haven’t changed much since I was last here.”

“Nor have you,” Leda said, her eyes narrowing as she looked Persimmon up and down. “Still the picture of elegance, as always.”

The others - two young males and another female - sidled up beside Leda, all sporting the same polished, practiced expressions. Their clothes shimmered in the faelight, meticulously styled and without a threat out of place. Their nodded their agreement, like a well-practiced dance.

“And who’s this?” Leda’s attention shifted to Penelope, her smile as sharp as glass and colder than ice.

Persimmon turned, placing a delicate hand on Penelope’s arm. “This is my younger sister, Penelope,” she said with a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes, “It’s her first time attending Court.”

Penelope felt her stomach tighten. The way Persimmon’s voice shifted - subtly distant, as though she were presenting an object rather than a person - made her feel oddly exposed. But she forced a polite smile nonetheless.

“Ah,” Ledo cooed, her eyes raking over Penelope as she blinked slowly, “a fresh face in Court. How charming.” Though there was more annoyance in her voice than sincerity.

Penelope nodded slightly, unsure of what to say. The group’s eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, their interest as shallow as their smiles. They didn’t seem to care about who she was, only that she was new, someone to briefly size up before moving on.

“Well,” one of the males said, stepping forwards. He had an easy grace about him, though there was something disingenuous about his smile. “We’ll have to show you the ropes. Court can be… overwhelming at first.” His eyes flickered briefly to Persimmon before returning to Penelope. “But I’m sure you’ll learn quickly, especially with someone as well versed as Persimmon to guide you.”

"Yes.” Persimmon replied, her voice hardened and defensive. “Penelope will do just fine.”

The conversation flowed on, effortlessly shallow. Leda and the others, whom introduced themselves but seemed altogether unimportant with Leda around prattled on about the latest court fashions and the influx of imported silks from the Summer Court, their words bright and airy, but devoid of real substance. Persimmon engaged easily, her laugh light and perfectly timed, her expression serene. She slid into this façade that Penelope didn’t recognize with easy, becoming just like them - empty, elegant, untouchable.

Penelope, on the other hand, could feel herself slipping further out of place with every passing second. The laughter that danced around her felt distant, detached, and she struggled to find a foothold in the conversation, unsure whether to nod along or just excuse herself.

It was as though she was on the stage, in a performance she hadn’t rehearsed for.

Leda’s laughter rang out again, bright and hollow, as the group prattled on, dissecting the gown of a noble lady just out of earshot, their voices dripping with bored amusement.

"I mean, really," Leda sighed, waving a dismissive hand in the female's direction, "you’d think she’d know by now that red is a terrible color on her. Not everyone can pull off Autumn Court elegance."

The others chuckled in agreement, their eyes alight with thinly veiled judgment. At Penelope’s side, Persimmon nodded smoothly, slipping into the flow of the conversation with practiced ease. "It’s all about understanding what works for you," she agreed. "Some people just don’t… quite grasp that."

Penelope forced a faint smile, trying to follow along, but the triviality of the conversation left her feeling out of place. Everything they discussed felt so… empty.

Marion, one of the young men, chimed in next. "Speaking of poor decisions," he said with a knowing smirk, "I heard Lady Ilara has been betrothed to some lord from the Spring Court. Can you imagine?"

Leda’s face fell into a mock expression of sadness. "Oh, I know," she drawled, "the poor thing."

Another female in the group added, "I heard she has to go live there. I think I’d rather throw myself off a cliff than live in such a foul place."

Penelope, feeling a stir of interest, finally found her voice. "Have you all heard of the unrest in the Spring Court?" she asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward something real.

The group stilled, the gossipy lightness vanishing as their expressions dimmed. Leda’s gaze flicked toward Penelope, her smile faltering as if she hadn’t quite heard her correctly.

"Unrest?" she repeated, her voice cooling as though she were testing the word. "I’m not sure what you mean."

Penelope’s heart thudded in her chest, but her curiosity urged her on. "I’ve heard there have been problems… discontent among the citizens, and of course the issue with—" she hesitated, not wanting to overstep, but the name slipped out anyway, "Lucien. It seems like there’s some serious trouble brewing."

A brief silence fell over the group, one that felt unnervingly pointed. The easy chatter had evaporated, leaving only the awkward quiet that followed Penelope’s remark.

Leda exchanged a glance with Marion, her painted lips curving into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Oh, darling," she said, her tone dripping with condescending sweetness, "I wouldn’t worry yourself with matters like that. The Spring Court has always been… unpredictable."

"Messy," Marion added with a quiet chuckle. "A place where people don’t know how to control themselves."

Leda’s eyes gleamed with something darker. "Exactly. Whatever trouble Lucien or anyone else there is facing, it has little to do with us. The Spring Court always finds a way to drag itself down."

Their dismissive laughter returned, though this time it felt like a wall, closing Penelope off from the group. It was clear they had no interest in discussing anything deeper—anything that hinted at real tension or court politics. The conversation was already slipping back into its shallow rhythm, as if Penelope’s attempt to engage had never happened. Still, Leda’s gaze lingered on her, sharp and predatory, as though she were sizing Penelope up in a way that made her feel exposed.

Before Penelope could say more, she felt Persimmon’s hand gently press against her arm, her fingers tightening in a subtle warning—a far gentler reminder than the ones from their mother. "Penelope," Persimmon said quietly, her voice smooth and controlled, "why don’t we get some fresh air?"

Penelope blinked, surprised, but the hint of urgency in her sister’s eyes kept her from protesting. Persimmon smiled at the group, offering a graceful nod. "Excuse us for a moment," she said with practiced elegance, her words smoothing over any remaining tension. "I’m feeling a bit warm."

Without waiting for a response, Persimmon guided her sister away from the group, her smile unwavering as they moved toward the open terrace doors.

Once on the terrace, out of earshot of the fae mingling outside, Persimmon finally released Penelope’s arm. The cool night air wrapped around them, and Penelope immediately burst into a flurry of apologies. Persimmon said nothing at first, her hands resting lightly on the stone balcony as she gazed out over the orchards. The sky was a deep, fading purple, the last threads of sunlight stretching over the trees, casting long shadows on the ground. Penelope could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her words tumbling out in a nervous rush.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Penelope started, barely pausing to breathe between her apologies. “I thought since we were at court—”

Persimmon sighed softly, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. As Penelope’s voice wavered with another round of “I’m sorry’s,” Persimmon finally turned and raised a hand to silence her.

"I know," Persimmon murmured, her voice low and calm. "It’s okay."

Penelope’s heart was still beating hard, her throat tight with the fear of having let her older sister down. "I just— I thought since we were at court, we could talk about—"

"Pen," Persimmon cut her off gently, shaking her head as she turned her gaze back to the darkening sky. "Court isn’t real."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and Penelope blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Persimmon’s eyes met hers, and for the first time that evening, Penelope saw a weariness in her sister’s gaze. "Court isn’t the place to talk about things that matter. It’s not a place for honesty. It’s a stage. A place to advertise yourself, to build respect and allies—not to actually be yourself."

Penelope shifted uncomfortably, biting the inside of her cheek. "I know that, but—"

"Do you?" Persimmon interrupted, her voice soft but firm. She took a step toward her, her heels clicking lightly against the stone floor. Persimmon reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Penelope’s face with the kind of gentle affection only an older sister could have. "Look, Pen, our job here isn’t to be ourselves or to care about what’s happening in the other courts. Our job is to make father look respectable. To show off the hard work mother put in training us to be good wives to nobles."

Penelope flinched at the word “wives.” She was only twenty-two, much too young to be thinking about marriage. And besides, Persimmon had been coming to court for years and hadn’t been betrothed yet. A thought nagged at her: If this is what we’re meant to do, then why hasn’t Persimmon found a match? What has she been doing all this time?

Persimmon seemed to read her mind. "We’re here to smile, laugh, look pretty—nothing more. Court is not a place for deep discussions or opinions. We’re not meant to stand out, Pen. Especially not by talking about politics."

Persimmon stepped closer, placing her hands gently on either side of Penelope’s arms, giving her a reassuring but sad smile. "The other fae our age? They don’t care about the world outside this court. All they care about is fashion, gossip, and anything that doesn’t make them uncomfortable. If you bring up real things—like the unrest in the Spring Court or Lucien’s exile—it reminds them that there’s a world beyond their control. And trust me, they don’t want to be reminded of that."

Penelope swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her mistake sinking in. She had wanted to make a meaningful contribution, to engage in a real conversation, but instead she’d alienated herself. "I didn’t mean to make it awkward, I just—"

"I know you didn’t," Persimmon said softly, her hands sliding up to Penelope’s shoulders. "But you have to be careful. You’re new to this. You’re a shiny new toy to them, something to scrutinize, pick apart. You don’t know all the rules yet, and if you make the wrong move, they’ll eat you alive." She squeezed Penelope’s shoulders gently. "Right now, the less you say, the better."

Penelope nodded slowly, though disappointment still lingered in her chest. She had imagined court would be a place where she could contribute, where she could make a difference. But now it felt like all her ideas, all her thoughts, had to be locked away, hidden behind a smile.

Persimmon tilted her head, offering a small, tired smile. "You’ll learn, Pen. Just follow my lead for now, alright?"

Penelope chewed her lower lip, forcing herself to nod, though her heart ached with frustration. Persimmon had spent years learning how to blend into this world, and now Penelope was expected to do the same. But something about it felt wrong—empty, as if they were all performing roles in a play that never ended.

Persimmon glanced back toward the ballroom, where the music and laughter still floated out onto the terrace. Then she looked back at her sister, her expression softening. "Do you want to take a minute? Regroup, then come find me later?"

Penelope bit the inside of her cheek again, feeling the sting of hot tears rising in her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall in front of her sister. She wanted to say something—anything—that would make Persimmon understand how out of place she felt, how wrong it all seemed. But instead, she just nodded.

"Alright," Persimmon said gently, giving her sister’s arm a final squeeze before stepping back. "I’ll be inside. Don’t take too long, okay?"

As Persimmon turned and walked back into the ballroom, Penelope stood alone on the terrace, the weight of the evening pressing down on her. The air was cool, and the sky had darkened to a deep violet, the orchards below cast in shadow. She exhaled slowly, gripping the stone of the balcony until her knuckles turned white.

She had always thought court would be different—that it would be an opportunity to prove herself, to engage with others in ways that mattered. But now, standing here under the vast purple sky, she felt smaller than ever, like a piece on a board she didn’t know how to play.

The cool breeze brushed against Penelope’s exposed skin as she stood on the terrace, gripping the stone railing as though the solidness of it might ground her swirling thoughts. The purple sky deepened into indigo, stars just beginning to blink into view over the orchards, but Penelope found no peace in the tranquility. Persimmon’s words still echoed in her mind. Smile. Laugh. Look pretty. Blend in.

A voice broke the silence.

“Tired of playing the game already?”

Penelope stiffened, her pulse quickening at the sound of the voice behind her. Slowly, she turned, finding Eris Vanserra leaning casually against the archway. The firelight from the ballroom flickered across his sharp features, casting long shadows over his amber eyes, which gleamed with cold amusement. There was a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, but unlike the courtiers inside, there was nothing playful about it. His smile was a weapon, something meant to unnerve.

"Lord Eris," Penelope greeted, her tone polite, though she could hear the slight tremor in her voice. She straightened her posture, forcing herself to stand tall despite the unease crawling up her spine. Keep your composure. Be like Persimmon. The thought was a lifeline.

Eris took a slow step forward, his movements deliberate, as if savoring the space between them. "You’re Persimmon’s sister, aren’t you?" His voice was smooth, almost lazy, yet there was a razor’s edge beneath it. "So well-behaved. So careful." He smirked wider. "It must be exhausting, living in that elegant shadow.”

Penelope swallowed, a forced smile pulling at her lips. "I’m not sure what you mean, my lord."

Oh, I think you do." He closed the distance between them, stopping just a few steps away. His presence was overwhelming, his gaze pinning her in place as though he could see right through her. "I watched that little performance you gave inside," he continued, his voice light but laced with mockery. "You’re trying so hard to blend in. But here’s a little secret for you—" his eyes glinted as he leaned in slightly, "you don’t. You’re not like them."

Penelope’s breath hitched, and her fingers dug into the stone railing. "I really don’t know what you’re talking about," she replied, her voice tighter than before.

Eris chuckled softly, the sound dripping with condescension. "Come now, don’t insult me." He took another step forward, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, his words wrapping around her like a vice. "I’ve seen it in your eyes all night—the frustration, the disgust. You think you’re better than them. Better than all of this."

Penelope’s pulse quickened, her stomach twisting. She fought to keep her expression neutral, her face a mask of calm, but Eris’s words were crawling under her skin, pulling at the fragile control she’d been clinging to since she arrived. "That’s not true," she said, her voice wavering slightly.

Eris tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. "No?" His smile widened as he leaned in closer. "So you enjoy their little games, their gossip? The way they all pretend like they care about anything other than themselves?" His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a whisper. "You don’t think they’ve already labeled you? They’re watching you, waiting for you to slip. And when you do, they’ll tear you apart."

Her chest tightened as his words hit home, poking at her insecurities. She had been trying so hard not to slip, to follow Persimmon’s lead, to be the version of herself that court expected. But Eris was pulling at the cracks, daring her to fall apart.

"I don’t think that," she lied, though her voice was quieter now.

Eris raised a brow, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Then why do you look like you’re about to run?" He took another step closer, his voice soft and taunting. "You can barely stand to be in that room with them, can you? You’re already so tired of pretending, of holding your tongue. And it’s only been an hour." His voice lowered, becoming almost a whisper. “I wonder how much longer you’ll last before you break.”

Her chest tightened as Eris’s words crawled under her skin, picking at the fragile control she’d been clinging to, and had decidedly attempted to continue to cling to all evening. With every word, Eris seemed to pull at the threads of the facade she barely had time to consider, daring her to unravel.

“Why are you doing this?” Penelope asked, her voice cracking just slightly. “What do you want?”

Eris’s smirk widened, and he leaned in so close now that she could feel his breath against her skin. "I’m bored," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "I want to see what happens when someone like you finally breaks. When you stop pretending."

Penelope felt the heat rising in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears. She was trying so hard to keep herself in check, follow Persimmon’s lead to be proper. But now, with Eris needling her, his smug smile pushing at her insecurity, the Penelope from home was working her way back out. And the Penelope behind closed doors didn’t let people step on her.

“I’m not pretending,” she said through clenched teeth.

Eris’s eyes gleamed, his smile sharp and predatory. "Oh, but you are." He took another step, his voice low and taunting. "You’re pretending you belong here. Pretending you’re just like them. But deep down, you know you’re different. That’s why you brought up the Spring Court, isn’t it? You couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to see if they’d care." His smirk widened, his voice a cruel whisper. "Spoiler: they don’t."

Penelope’s chest heaved as anger bubbled up inside of her. “At least I care about something,” she spat, her voice louder now, more raw. “Unlike you. You’re the one who hides behind this mask of royalty. You think if you mock everyone, if you tear them down it makes you stronger? It doesn’t.” She took a step towards the heir to the Autumn Court. “I’ve heard all about you Eris. How you so enjoy tearing females apart piece by piece. Taking them back to your bed so you can have you way with them and then dump them on the lawn like trash. You think that makes you look stronger?” She laughed lightly, “It just makes you look pathetic.”

Eris stilled for a moment, his eyes narrowing, but Penelope had opened the floodgates and she couldn’t stop now.

“You walk around like you own everyone, like you’re one step ahead of all of us, but you’re not,” she continued, her voice trembling with rage. “You’re just as trapped as they are, hiding behind your cruelty because you’re too scared to be anything real.”

Eris’s jaw tightened, the amusement in his eyes darkening to something colder. He stepped event closer, and Penelope could feel the heat radiating off of him, like fire threatening to consume her.

“And what do you think you know about me?” He asked softly, his voice dangerously low. “You think you’ve got it figured out? You think you’ve got me figured out, little girl? You don’t know anything.”

Penelope’s breath caught, but she didn’t back down. “I know enough. Enough to see that you’re just like them, and why wouldn’t you be? When you’re setting the example for everyone else. You act like you’re above it all, but you’re just playing the same game. You’re scared - scared they’ll turn on you like they do with everyone else. The only difference is, if they turn on you, you’ll have no court left to rule.”

For a moment, there was only silence between them, the tension crackling in the air like static. Eris’s amber eyes bored into her emerald, his face inches from hers now, and Penelope’s heart pounded so loudly in her chest she thought it might burst.

Then, slowly, a smile curled on his lips again - colder, sharper than before. “Maybe I am playing the same game,” he murmured, his voice low. “But at least I know the rules.”

Penelope’s breath hitched again, the anger still simmering under her skin. “Then you’re worse than they are.”

Eris let out a soft laugh, stepping back, his gaze never leaving hers. “You’ve got a fire in you. I’ll give you that.” His smile lingered, but there was something more dangerous behind it - something almost hungry. “But be careful, Penelope. That fire will burn you out if you’re not careful.”

She stood there, her chest heaving with the effort of holding herself together. Eris gave her one last look, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, before turning away and disappearing into the crowded ballroom.

The door to the terrace had barely swung shut behind Eris when Penelope felt the weight of what had just happened crash over her. Her chest heaved with the remnants of her anger, her pulse still racing from the confrontation, but now something far colder began creeping into her veins—panic.

What did I just do?

Her hands trembled as she gripped the stone railing again, her knuckles turning white. The chill of the night air that had felt so liberating moments ago now seemed to pierce through her skin, a sharp reminder of the gravity of what had just occurred.

She had spoken to Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, like that. She had stood there, inches from him, and told him he was pathetic, trapped, a coward. Her words echoed in her head, each one louder than the last.

What was I thinking?

She had been caught up in the moment, the heat of his taunts, the way he had pushed her, needled her, dared her to break. And she had broken. She had snapped, spilling all the anger and frustration she had been holding back all evening. But it wasn’t just some courtiers she had lashed out at. It was Eris—the cruel, calculating Eris, who was known for his manipulation, his sharp tongue, his utter lack of mercy.

Penelope swallowed hard, her throat tight as the reality of what she had done settled in. Eris wasn’t just another noble; he was the High Lord’s eldest son, the heir to the Autumn Court. The power he wielded was immense. And she had gone toe to toe with him, throwing insults at him like they were equals—like there wouldn’t be consequences.

There will be consequences.

The thought sent a shudder through her, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm her. What would happen now? What would Eris do to her? To her family? Her parents had worked so hard to maintain their status, to build alliances and keep favor with the court. And now, with a few careless words, she had jeopardized all of it.

Her mind raced, cycling through every possible scenario. Eris wouldn’t let this go. He wasn’t the type to brush off an insult, especially not one hurled at him in such a public way. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the dangerous glint in his eyes as he had watched her unravel. He had seemed amused by it, almost entertained—but there was something darker behind his smile. He hadn’t lashed out at her then, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t later.

Penelope’s breath hitched, her hands trembling more violently now as she stepped back from the railing. Eris was cruel. He could ruin her—ruin her entire family—with a single word. He didn’t even need to lift a finger. One whisper from him in the right ear, and they’d be cast out of court, disgraced, forgotten.

Father. Mother. Persimmon. What have I done?

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unwelcome. She had been so foolish. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have followed Persimmon’s advice—smile, laugh, blend in. But instead, she had let Eris get under her skin, and now she had crossed a line that she couldn’t uncross.

What if he tells the High Lord? Beron Vanserra was infamous for his temper, his lack of compassion. If Eris decided to use this to his advantage, to twist it into something worse than it was, her family would be at the mercy of his father’s wrath. Penelope’s stomach churned at the thought. Her father, already cautious and wary of court politics, would be devastated. Persimmon—her perfect, polished sister who had worked so hard to maintain their family’s reputation— and her mother — oh gods. Her mother.

Penelope’s breathing grew ragged, her thoughts spiraling as the full weight of her actions hit her. She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to calm herself, but the panic only intensified. She had stood there, challenging Eris Vanserra, speaking to him like she wasn’t afraid, like she had nothing to lose. But she did. She had everything to lose.

Her head spun with the possibilities, each one worse than the last. What if Eris decided to ruin them out of sheer boredom? What if he spread rumors, twisted the truth, made her out to be some insolent, disrespectful girl who thought she was better than the heir to the Autumn Court? It wouldn’t take much. The court was full of whispers, always hungry for scandal.

Her legs wobbled, and she sank onto the stone bench, her heart pounding in her ears. She had just insulted one of the most dangerous males in the Autumn Court. And the worst part was, she didn’t know what kind of person Eris really was beneath his cruelty. She didn’t know if he would take this as a game, a momentary amusement, or if he would use it as an opportunity to destroy her.

What if this was all a game to him? What if he wanted me to snap? The thought sent another wave of nausea rolling through her. She had walked right into his trap, hadn’t she? He had wanted to see how far he could push her, how long it would take for her to stop pretending, and she had given him exactly what he wanted.

Penelope swallowed, her throat dry. She could still feel the fire of her anger, the way it had erupted out of her, but now all she felt was dread. She had challenged Eris—called him pathetic, weak, a coward. She had seen the way his jaw had tightened, the flash of something dark and dangerous in his eyes when she had said it. And yet he had smiled.

That smile haunted her. What did it mean? Was he impressed? Amused? Or was he simply toying with her before he decided how to retaliate?

She buried her face in her hands, willing herself to breathe. "Stupid," she whispered to herself. "So stupid."

She hadn’t meant to go this far. She hadn’t meant to let her anger take over. But Eris had pushed her, cornered her with his words, and she had reacted. She had wanted to stand up for herself, to prove that she wasn’t just another weak-willed court girl. But now, all she had done was paint a target on her back—and worse, on her family’s.

Penelope wiped her eyes hastily, though her heart continued to pound. She needed to fix this. But how? How did you apologize to someone like Eris? How did you undo the damage when the heir to the Autumn Court could decide your fate with a single word?

A soft breeze swept over the terrace, and Penelope felt the weight of it, the night pressing down on her. There was no taking it back now. She had crossed a line, and Eris was the type of male who didn’t forget.

Master List: A Court of Fire and Masks Master List

[bloodyplunder]

My head canon is that Azriel didn't even whisper into Eris' ear, just licKed it ☠️

(Timevian and Becca-6969 on Reddit have thoroughly hooked me onto this ship 🫠)

[derangedthoughtssideblog]

Am I crazy or is enemies to lovers only good when they're just enemies in canon and lovers in fanon?

It just feels like people writing enemies to lovers in canon don't actually know how to write the enemies part, and it's clear from the start that their characters are going to end up together. They never allow their characters to actually do evil things to each other because they fear the readers won't be able to forgive.

I don't want mild annoyance and teasing and secret crushes. I want full on hatred and attempted murders, is that too much?

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Love and War III

Summary: Trapped within the Illyrian War Camp, Reader must decide the best course of action to get home, even if it means trying to seduce the enemy

Content Warnings: Mentions of Past Abuse, Descriptions of Scars/Blood, Canon Typical Violence; NSFW (a little bit of SMUT, just a tease 😈) at the end.

Previous Chapter/Masterlist

__________________

I can’t sleep.

It’s not because my enemy sleeps with his back to me, inches away, only a couple of furs and pelts between us, though it certainly doesn’t help. All night, staring at the tent wall, the strange patterns etched into the dark leather, the images of my parents, my brother, my people, flash behind my eyes every time I close them. I can hear Tamlin calling me a traitor; hear my parents final, dying screams. They are gone and the male that killed them sleeps inches from me. 

My dagger is next to my boots near the edge of the bed. Several times over the last couple of hours I’ve debated on crawling for it, imagining the heavy feel of it in my palm before I drive it between Rhysand’s shoulder blades and pierce his heart. I have never killed anything but game before, it’s the specifics and all their complications that stop me. What if I miss and he wakes up? What if I manage it but can’t get past the ward, condemning me to the mercy of his entire camp? And worse yet, what if it is not enough for Tamlin to take me back?

I chew my lower lip as I roll over onto my back. I know he would do just about anything to have Rhysand’s head delivered to him on a platter, or at the very least, those great wings to keep as a trophy. But killing a warlord doesn’t remove the threat of his camp, shy of slaughtering every last male, women, and child here, there would always be a chance of retaliation. A new lord would take his place if there was so much as a single survivor, and the bloodshed would start all over again, even if it took a few decades to get to that point.

No, my people deserve peace, to not have to look over their shoulder every day expecting an ambush. I would not live to see any children I might have, grown and subject to the cruelty of this war band. I would not birth anything into a world where my pain could be their own. So killing him is out of the question, at least for now. 

So what can I bring in lew of that? Camp movements? Numbers? Do I try to steal some horses or resort to outright sabotage so that someone else is always to blame when things go wrong? 

My head hurts from all the questions. 

My chest hurts from all the things I know I might have to do. My mother would be ashamed of me. And yet, I hear my father’s voice, telling me to stop being so useless and do something. He tells me I am selfish for hesitating, stupid for not seeing the opportunities in front of me.

I roll over onto my side so I can get another look at the male who claims to be my mate, the male who ruined my life. He’d brought me more food than I’d seen in years last night, had stumbled through the most awkward conversation of my life before offering the whole bed to myself if I was uncomfortable having him near by. An insane notion really, the bed was big enough for us to sleep in without being in arm’s length of each other. Even then, he’d wrapped his wings around himself and slept on the opposite edge, never once rolling any closer, even in sleep. It was an awkward kindness, but a kindness I had not prepared to face. I had spent the better part of the evening with him wondering how I’d deter him from trying to sleep with me, since he’d been so casual with touching me earlier in the day, but it had never come up. Maybe today it would, but for now, he had not entirely made himself as bad as I remembered him to be.

Again, it is my father’s voice in my head, “He’s a male, there’s a clear way to get him to reveal his secrets.” 

He is a dangerously attractive male. I have to admit I’m surprised he has not taken after many of the other warlords and formed a harem of captive brides. Between his power and his looks, he could have had dozens of wives already, yet this tent is void of any feminine objects to imply he’s anything other than single. He would not be hard to seduce, he is already so eager to have me nearby.

I roll over onto my stomach, trying not to huff my annoyance. It is not as if I’m some blushing virgin, I wouldn’t be giving anything over to him that I hadn’t already offered, in secret, to other males. He’d be the most attractive male I’d ever bedded, at that. I shouldn’t need that much convincing, or alcohol, to tumble into the sheets with him. Especially if it means he lets his guard down and tells me something useful. Especially if the distraction keeps him from thinking about asking me to take his mark again. What need for it would there truly be if I’d already surrendered myself to him?

Yet, my stomach rolls at the mere thought of it. Those hands had shed my peoples’, my parents’, blood! In a matter of minutes, those hands had stolen the only security and safety I had ever known, and I haven’t felt a shred of it since, and I was going to let them touch me?

A shiver runs down my spine. No, there has to be another way to get information out of him without trying to seduce him.

I lay there, mind spinning, as soft gray light starts to filter in through the small gap underneath the tent. Rhysand will have to leave me alone in here eventually, I will just have to wait for the right opportunity to start snooping through his stuff and then maybe a better plan will come to me. Perhaps something in one of those stacks of untouched chests in the corner will reveal a weakness I can exploit, some hidden secret I can use to my advantage. I have to hope they hold something, I have little options otherwise.

With that plan in place, I finally close my eyes, and try to let sleep fill the void. No amount of worrying will make him up and leave this early in the morning, there is little else I can do at this moment other than sleep. But it’s not even a full minute after I close my eyes that the tent flap is tossed open, the stiff leather slapping so hard against the wall Rhysand springs up with a dagger in hand, wings flaring behind him, so large they nearly span the expanse of the tent.

“We have a…” I feel eyes on me, over Rhysand’s shoulder, as I sit up, “situation.”

Rhysand lowers the dagger to his side, hand shaking, knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping it. Strange, did he often expect to be attacked in his own tent?

“Ready the men,” he orders and the intruders withdraw before I can get a good look at them.

He smooths a hand through his hair, loose now from the knot it had been tied on, the braided strands drifting over his sharp cheekbones. His wings droop until they’re dusting the floor, like a giant leather cape. “You’ll stay in here,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. Dark circles rim his eyes and I can’t help but wonder if I was the only one drowning in my thoughts last night.

I nod, biting down on my cheek to keep the grin pulling at my lips away. Perhaps the Mother is looking out for me after all! This is just the opportunity I need! “You��” I need to play it safe, sounding too submissive too early might get suspicious. I don’t want him to think I’ve so readily accepted this arrangement, but I don’t want him thinking I’m going to try and run off either. I let the words come out slowly, like I’m unsure to say them. “You don’t want me to come with you, like you said yesterday?”

He rubs a hand over his face as he goes to a chest at the edge of the bed and starts pulling out his fighting leathers. “Not yet, not until you’ve taken my mark and I can guarantee it’ll protect you.”

Shit! I need him to stop thinking so much about that stupid mark.

He peels off his shirt, the early morning light coming through the open door illuminating the swirl of dark ink tattooed across his bare chest. I’d been too panicked about our sleeping arrangements to get a good look at him when he’d changed last night, or else I also would have seen the scar across his side, the four lines like claw marks across his bronze skin. There are other, smaller marks, a burn on his hip, a jagged slash across his collarbone, but none are so pronounced as the claw marks. 

My hand goes instinctively to my own side. I know those claw marks. I know how they scar, because I have the same ones on my side. “Stupid, useless girl!” I know them, because like the voice that keeps ringing in my ears, they came from my father.

I don’t know if that’s a sign of what I need to do, as if, even in death my father’s will is still forcing itself on my life, or some cruel twist, like the matching stars on the back of our hands.

“Are you all right?” Rhysand asks.

By the time I’m able to focus on him again, he’s already laced up his leathers and sheathed that massive sword between his wings. I give myself a little shake, let my hand fall back down into my lap. “Yeah.”

Like last night, he looks like he might say more, but then thinks better of it as he tightens a belt of knives around his waist. “Stay here, you’ll be safe. I’ll be back soon.” And then he’s gone. 

I stare out the empty door long after his large form is no longer visible, sunlight slowly creeping further and further into the tent’s cave-like darkness. No guards. I eventually crawl out from under the mountain of pelts, the lack of heat obvious as a draft of icy wind blows through the open door. I wrap one around my shoulders as I pad, barefoot, over the rug covered floor to the door. The encampment around me still slumbers, no drum beats to be heard this early. Some of the other tents nearby have their doors open, I glimpse a body or two still sleeping in their own fur covered beds. No guards. No horses. Beyond the camp, the mountain walls of this secluded haven are dusted with early morning mist, the path the men had taken out invisible from this angle.

I do not want to trek through those mountains on foot and see just how well the shield holds up, not yet anyway. Holding the fur a little tighter around my shoulders, I turn back to the tent and decide the best place to start snooping is here. The outside world can wait a few more minutes. 

I go to the chest at the end of the bed first. It’s full of more fighting leathers, some worn and battle scarred, some shiny and new; an old pair of boots, some mismatched socks, another cloak and two, pitted daggers, the wyvern carving in the handle worn down from years and years of use. Nothing interesting or useful. I close the lid and head to the table to assess the piles of random collections Rhysand has made. It’s a lot of books on strategy and star-charting, I flip through a couple of them, looking for things written in the margins or scraps of paper tucked within the worn pages, but there is nothing but dust. 

“Come on,” I whisper to myself as I move to the next stack. There’s a book of poetry and things written in Illyrian I can’t read, the only thing in the margins of the old paper is some random swirls and markings that match the tattoos on his chest. If I have to learn Illyrian just to find useful information, I am going to be here for years, and there’s no way I’d make it that long without being forced to take Rhysand’s mark.

The remaining scattered items on the table are trinkets and gloves and a couple scarves with stains that look suspiciously like blood. Not a map or log book among them. Does he not keep records of his fighting men? Does he not chart supply lines and keep tabs on his merchants? 

I rub my temples as I go to the stack of dust covered chests in the corner. This might make it obvious that I was snooping, considering the dust is thick enough to be drawn in, but if he asks, I can lie and say I was looking for extra clothes, considering I’m still wearing the clothes I came in. 

The top chest is filled to the brim with swords and knives, a couple of bows and arrows, and a wicked looking mace. All well polished and cared for, the blades carefully wrapped as not to be damaged in transit. I pull a knife out to examine it, the ruby in the top casting rays of light over the tent walls. It’s an expensive weapon… if I start collecting enough things, could I find a place to barter them and bring the money back to Tam? Mother knows we could use the extra cash for supplies!

I put the blade back. If I start stashing things now, I’ll have nowhere to hide them and nowhere to take them until I can be sure that I can get out of these mountains, but it is comforting to feel like I have options here. The more things I can bring back, the better my chances at appeasing Tamlin are.

I’ve just closed the lid when someone clears their throat behind me and I all but throw the pelt around my shoulders at them in surprise.

“Snooping are we?” Laughs a feminine voice.

I keep a hand pressed to my racing heart, even as I inch over to where I’d left my hunting dagger. “Mother’s tits!”

In the doorway, stands a blonde female, her hair braided and tossed over one, bare shoulder. The strapless red top she wears, made of lace, baring just a strip of midriff and a swirl of ink, disappearing over the hem of a flowing skirt stitched in gold thread, must be expensive. I’ve never seen anything like it in our markets; I’d never dare touch it even if we had. I hate the spike of envy that bubbles up in my chest. I’ve never particularly cared about such things, not when the comparison wasn’t so in my face every moment. How was it fair? These people took so much from us, and yet they faced no punishment, it was starting to feel like they’d been rewarded for it even.

“Don’t worry, I’d snoop too,” she says as she steps in, holding a tray of something steaming that smells divine. “I’m Mor, by the way.”

“Hi,” I’m not totally beyond pleasantries, even if I do feel like biting the next stranger to come marching into my life as if they have free reign. “I’m Y/N.”

“My cousin says you’re his mate, is that true?” She sets the tray down then sits and puts her feet up on the corner of the table, sprinkling mud everywhere. 

“I don’t know,” I admit. I don’t want it to be true, but this is a chance to do something for my people, and I’ll play that part best I can, but it would feel fake if I just suddenly pretended to believe it after my comments on the way here. Better to play it safe.

Mor pats an empty seat next to her in invitation, or perhaps demand, there is a regality to her that doesn’t make me feel I have room to tell her no. I am used to people moving me wherever they see fit, my feet start moving as directed before I can decide that I actually want to. “Show me this scar of yours.”

I sit and offer my hand. Hers are soft as she inspects the eight point scar atop my hand, not a callus to be felt. Definitely some form of royalty. 

“How did you get this?” She asks, turning my hand this way and that to get a better look, as if I’m a piece of meat at the market in need of inspecting. 

I bite my cheek to keep from yanking my hand out of her grip. “I was young and stupid, and my father had sent me out to hunt as a punishment, I stumbled into the Middle, and came across the Weaver. When I tried to escape, she threw a hot poker at me, the end was shaped like a star, I guess. She basically branded me.”

“You fought the Weaver?” A mythical monster, no one really knows where she came from, all we know is she lives in the Middle, in a place where other monsters hunt, in a cottage dripping in dark magic known to lewer in weary travelers, as I had been.

“Fought? Goddess no! Played a very terrifying game of cat and mouse, yes.”

“I’m sure your father was proud of such an accomplishment,” she says as she finally releases my hand and pushes a tray of steaming buns, meats and cheeses, and what looks like tea my way. 

My hand drifts over my scarred side subconsciously, and I do not miss the way her blue eyes track the movement, even as I blurt, “Yeah the beating I got when I got home was a little shorter than usual.”

She drops her legs off the table so she can turn and look at me fully and I wince as I realize my mistake. “My father is like that too,” Mor confesses with startling gentleness.

I’m even more surprised when she reaches out to take my hand, not to inspect this time but to comfort me over our shared past. My chest tightens; a lump forming in my throat. My father was not the worst male in the Grasslands by any means, he kept us all fed and alive, and sheltered for the most part, but he was never kind. 

Mor gives my hand a squeeze. “You are safe here, Y/N. I promise. Rhys won’t give you any trouble.”

I’m supposed to hate her. She is a part of this warband, she answers to Rhysand, she bears his mark--a swirl of stars across her right arm--she is my enemy. I aim to steal all her secrets and use them against her, to take from her all the luxuries my people were never afforded, a life we were never blessed to live. We have nothing! They had everything because they took it. And I wanted to take it from them, from her. So why, when I looked into her eyes did I suddenly feel so godsdamned guilty?

When I don’t say anything, Mor pushes my plate towards me again. “Eat. You’re thin as a board. Then maybe later, I can show you around camp? I’m sure my cousin will give you his tour or whatever, but it’s never the same without a girls’ perspective, right?”

I snag the tea, hoping the heat will burn away the lump still lodged in my throat. Why is she being so nice to me? These people are not supposed to be nice! They’re supposed to be cruel! They’re supposed to be evil, ruthless monsters! 

“That sounds like fun,” I say, the words as bitter as acid. I am a terrible person. She is genuine and kind and going out of her way to be nice to me and I intend to manipulate all of that.

Mor grins as she walks back to the door. “Holler if you need anything, ok? My tent is just down the way.”

“Thanks,” I say as I reach for a warm, sticky bun. It’s so sweet and gooey in the center and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything so good in my life, yet, when I swallow, it might as well be sand. What have I gotten myself into? What kind of monster am I if I do this?

I set the bun back down on the tray and put my head in my hands. If I do this, am I just as bad as Rhysand?

------

Rhysand doesn’t come back until nightfall. Mor had come by hours ago with a tray for dinner, and had stayed for over an hour, talking about a lot of nothing, just to keep me company. I found out that she’s married to someone named Cassian, though she confessed after a bit of wine that Rhysand had orchestrated the union to get her away from her father, and that neither of them cared for each other in that way. It served the both of them to have the title, and while they shared a tent, there was little more than friendship between them. She’s very talkative, even with the smallest bit of wine, not that I minded, after several hours alone with my thoughts, it was nice to have something else to think about other than how I might sell my soul to get out of here. By the time she’d left and I’d made myself comfortable in the massive bed, I could only faintly make out the sounds of hoofbeats in the distance.

I’d be a liar if I said my heart rate doesn’t spike at the sound.

It isn’t like I was still snooping through his stuff--truth be told I’d forgotten there was still stuff to look through--but I sit up in a panic all the same, trying to figure out where I need to be to look the most innocent. Had I left anything out of place? 

I’m about to jump out of bed and double check the locks on the chests when Rhysand stalks back into the tent, completely covered in blood.

I can’t do anything other than stare, unsure if the blood dripping from his hair and down his face is from the gash across his temple or the gore that looks like it had been hurled at the left side of his head, chunks of something clinging to his ear.

There’s a small area behind the bed with a basin of water and some clean towels and he goes right to it, tearing off the leather gauntlets at his wrists and then his very damaged chest piece. Both make a heavy thwack as they hit the rug, a puddle forming beneath them. 

“Are-are you ok?” There are too many questions in my head, this one slips out first as I twist to look at him over the headboard of the bed. 

He winces as he pokes at the cut on his temple, “Fine,” is all I get before he cups water in his hands and does his best to clean the gore off his face. He’s making a mess. I’m tempted to crawl out of bed and throw a towel on the floor to spare the rug from damage, but the shadows that drift from his skin make me think better of it. 

Powers aren’t rare, especially among warlords, most of the fae need them to survive this barbaric society we live in, but I’ve never met anyone with such an obvious manifestation of them. Shadows trail off his shoulders, over his wings, twining around his powerful thighs. I can almost taste the darkness that leaks from him, even with the space between us. It is palpable and tangible and tied to his anger. A button I don’t want to push in any way. I sink a little lower into the mattress, using the headboard as a shield, just in case. 

“What happened?” I ask softly. 

He yanks a towel off the little drying rack next to the basin so hard it snaps like a whip and I flinch a little involuntarily. “We got ambushed.” He wets the towel and starts running it over his hair. When he unties the braids in the back, clumps of gore fall to the floor. “My sentinels spotted some enemy scouts this morning, when we followed them back, they led us right into a trap.”

Please don’t be Tamlin. Please don’t be Tamlin. “Did you find out who it was?”

“I have my suspicions,” he tosses the ruined towel on a floor and reaches for another to wipe off his arms and chest. “But none of them were marked.”

Not typically my brother’s style, but I can’t be totally sure. My anxiety sits like a weight in my stomach. “Any casualties?” 

“None of mine,” he growls. “Just some scrapes. Even unprepared, my men are lethal.”

Not as reassuring as I assume he thinks it is.

“We brought a few survivors back, I’ll know who sent them by morning at the latest.”

If I can get a good look at them, I can know for sure they’re not Tam’s men… “What will you do with them?”

He starts untying the laces of his pants and I hurriedly turn away, a blush creeping up my cheeks. I know he thinks we’re mates, but Cauldron have a little decency!

“Azriel will get the information I need out of them,” he says and I hear the sound of his boots and pants hitting the floor. “And then I will make an example out of them.”

It’s suddenly colder in here than it was a moment ago. I grab a pelt and pull it up to my chin as I draw my knees up to my chest.

There’s a beat, the only sound the scraping of a towel over his skin, and then I’m suddenly very aware of his presence at my back, his shadow looming over me. I sink a little deeper into the mattress, heart in my throat.

“This bothers you?” He asks quietly.

I’m glad there’s a thick layer of wood between us, it means I still have time to reach for my knife. “I-” Mother’s Tits what am I supposed to say?! It’s not like it matters, and maybe I could spin it to fit the narrative I need him to see in me, but the words escape me. No one has ever asked me what I think of the senseless violence that has plagued us since Hybern destroyed the world. Regardless of our boundary lines and markings, we all kill and maim each other to survive; we bleed and die and force others to do the same all for the slightest chance that we might escape that fate one more day. And I hate it! I’ve always hated it. I clung to my parents’ stories of better worlds because I’d wanted so desperately to be in one. 

“I don’t like violence,” I whisper. The first unaltered truth I’ve given him; the only unaltered truth I’ll give him.

He leans against the headboard, the wood groaning beneath his weight. “I don’t either,” Rhysand confesses.

I almost laugh. Death Incarnate hates violence? But when I tilt my head back to look at him, I see the weight of that burden in his eyes. He places his forehead atop his hands, sighing heavily and it’s like I can feel that weight in my chest. 

“I didn’t…” another breath, “I will do what is necessary for my people, no matter what it costs me, but… but it is heavy.”

I know the burden of leading a people is heavy, I have watched it tear Tam apart for decades. My brother had been kind once, had loved and laughed and had stayed up for hours teaching me how to play the fiddle when we were kids. Becoming the leader of our people had taken all those good and kind things and hardened them. The brother I had grown up with and the one I now answered to wouldn’t recognize each other. I hated myself for it, but the empathetic part of me can’t help but wonder if Rhysand had been like that too? Had he been kind and happy before he took over this position? Had becoming a lord stripped him of the things that had made him loveable and turned him into the monster that I knew?

Would being here turn me into a monster I didn’t recognize?

“It must be hard, to carry it alone,” I say slowly, weighing each word like it could be my last. This is a very vulnerable and volatile position to be in. I’m still very aware of the power that drifts off, his still bare, skin. I cannot upset it. But, can I find something useful here?

I’m playing with fire and I can feel it.

“I am used to it,” he replies.

Another beat and then he softly adds, “It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

His response simultaneously makes my heart ache and my mind spin. I hadn’t found anything of use in this tent, despite the hours I’d spent searching, and maybe that was a sign. Maybe there was nothing in this tent, because the information was all contained to one thing: The male standing behind me. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a coincidence that this morning I had been wondering if I should try and seduce him. My assessment about it being easy to do was already confirmed with this conversation, he was vulnerable, now more than ever, all it would take was a push in the right direction…

I push myself back up onto my knees and turn so I can face him. He looks small here, the wet strands of his hair clinging to his face. 

His violet eyes watch my every move like a snake tracking a mouse. 

There’s still a headboard between us. Still time to change my mind. Still time to keep my soul intact. What kind of person am I if I do this? 

I swallow the lump in my throat as I tentatively reach out to take his hand. At least there is no more blood on them. Touching him doesn’t immediately make fire rain down from the heavens so maybe that’s a sign the world won’t totally end if I do this. This male took everything from me, and yet, under his own admission, he’d damn his soul for his people. If a monster could do that, couldn’t I do it for the sake of my people?

“How can I help you?” I ask softly. I hope it sounds convincing, that the shakiness in my voice sounds like a lack of confidence and not because I’m trying not to throw up. This was not the plan this morning! But I’ve gotten nowhere all day and suddenly there’s an opening before me and I have to try and take it, don’t I? It might be my only chance, especially if there is fighting on the horizon. If I can distract him, or figure out who Tam needs to join forces with to finally be rid of Rhysand once and for all, I have to take it. 

His violet eyes widen as they settle on the placement of my hand on top of his, as if he hadn’t thought it possible that I would willingly comfort him. 

Am I doing this too fast?

“If… if this thing between us is real, I want to be useful. I want to be a good mate.” Kill me. Please, put me out of my misery, what in the Seven Hells am I doing?! “Please, show me how I can be a good mate?”

My parents are rolling in their graves.

He moves faster than most fae should be able to, hand sliding out from under mine to reach out and thread into my hair, pulling my body flush against the headboard as his lips meet mine. Cauldron, for a male who looked so awful seconds ago, his lips are sinfully soft. It takes a second for me to even register what I’m doing, and by the time that my brain catches up, he’s sliding his tongue past my teeth and I’m letting him, lips parting, head tilting to give him more access. Having the headboard still between us is both an uncomfortable angle to be at and a relief, because at least I have a little time to accept the fact that I just told Death he could bed me if that would make him feel better.

Tamlin can never find out this is how I saved our people. 

But this is for my people. I can play with fire for them.

There are worse ways to do it, I suppose. He’s certainly not a bad kisser. 

Hell, he’s actually a really, really good kisser, if I let myself stop thinking for two seconds and just relax, I might actually enjoy it.

He pulls away by a mere fraction, forehead resting on mine, chest heaving as he catches his breath. “Distract me?” He asks, voice so low and husky I think he might actually be begging.

I hate to admit it, but I do get a thrill of seeing such a powerful male so desperate in my hands. Of course, I can’t let him know that. “Show me?”

It’s all the prompting he needs to release me long enough to climb into bed. I’d forgotten he was already undressed until he was pulling the blanket off and climbing on top of me, all warm skin and damp hair and more desperate kisses. Large hands slide under my sweater, exploring every inch of me as he continues to kiss me like a man starved.

My reservations begin to slip with each new brush of his callused hands over my skin, trailing higher and higher. It’s been awhile since I’ve taken anyone to bed, even longer since I’d had the time to let anybody explore my body so meticulously. It’s good. My eyes drifting shut, body arching into his touch. I don’t know which of us comes up for air first, or which pulls the other back for more. As easy as it is to end up in this position, I’m surprised how readily I want it, him. Something tugs at the skin beneath my breastbone, like there’s a thread being yanked on, warmth flaring down that little spot, hotter and hotter with each passing second. I don’t have enough time to consider what that is, what it means, before his lips trail down to my neck, teeth scraping my tender flesh.

I instinctively drag a hand through his hair as he nips and bites at my throat, surely leaving marks. If I ever had any intention to push him away, I lose it as his large hand kneads my breast, slender fingers moving to tweak my nipple. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter as a moan slips out of me. 

Aren’t I supposed to be distracting him?

Before I can ask, he’s yanking my worn sweater over my head and tossing it over his shoulder. Those intense violet eyes run over me,  a grin stretching across his handsome features as he gives my breast another squeeze, but the teasing stops when he spots the scar across my abdomen. Or maybe the fact that you can count my ribs. Maybe both. His hands drift lower, methodically, not teasing but studying, like he might crack open my rib cage and dissect whatever is beneath my skin. 

“Who did this to you?” He growls, hand trailing over the scar.

My whole body trembles under his touch, mind reeling as I try to make sense of the sudden shift in tone. I don’t want to talk about this. Not with him. I’d already admitted too much to Mor earlier. We need to get back to the distraction. “Hunting accident,” I lie.

His hand remains over the scar, “Don’t lie.”

This is too intense, I’m too vulnerable in this position, I’ve lost all my power. My head spins, trying to think of something clever, trying to get myself back on track. Why did I think I could do this? Seduction is not my skill set. Outright anything is beyond me. I move behind the scenes, quietly with my head down, I am not anyone’s first line of defense. I’m not even sure I’m the last line of defense.

My heart’s pounding in my chest and I know he can feel it beneath his hand, because his face softens. His free hand comes to brush my cheek, pushing a few wild strands of hair from my face. Now I’m really shaking. This is far, far too intimate. 

“You’re my mate,” he says gently. “I will kill anyone who hurts you.”

I don’t want that kind of power looming over me the rest of my life. I swallow the lump in my throat. “You wanted a distraction. This-”

The tent flap bursts open without warning, a flurry of shadows rushing in. Rhysand barely has time to grab a blanket to cover the both of us before a male steps out of those shadows.

“Azriel!” Rhysand snarls. “This better be fucking important!”

The male stands at the edge of the bed, fighting leathers splattered in blood, his dark hair falling over a set of deep hazel eyes. He spins a bloody dagger between hands scarred beyond repair. “They’ve talked.”

Shit.

Rhysand is still leaning over me, body and wings shielding me from Azriel’s view. “And?”

Hazel eyes flick to me before returning to his lord. “Amarantha.”

I don’t know if I should sigh with relief or not. Tamlin is still safe. My people are still safe. But having Amarantha knocking at the door while I’m trapped inside here is not on my to do list. My whole life we’ve avoided her and Hybern’s forces by not making too big a fuss. If they want some of our territory, we push into another lord’s to make sure there’s space for us without any direct confrontation with her. We keep our heads down. We don’t make deals or bargain with the other more tolerable lord’s for aid. We stay within our own borders and we stay out of her way. But the Illyrians? They pick fights with her. They apparently have no qualms with torturing her men. 

“I’ll be right there,” Rhysand says in dismissal and his shadowy companion disappears as quickly as he came. 

“I have to deal with this,” he sighs, leaning back on his knees.

I’m relieved, I really am. I tried to do this way too quickly. I am relieved.

So why do I feel a knot in my stomach?

Rhysand leans in long enough to press a kiss to my forehead, the move tender and gentle, and nothing like the male that had entered this tent covered in blood just moments ago. It makes my head hurt. I know the kind of male he is. I know the monster that lies behind this pretty package. So why is he pretending to be anything else? Why act like this with me? What game is he playing?

“Maybe we can finish this later?” There’s a hint of teasing there, but it feels more like an apology.

I want a later. I want to feel those full lips on my skin again.

I absolutely don’t want a later. This whole thing is a mistake.

“Yeah,” I saw anyway.

He’s dressed and gone before I can ask myself why I agreed to it again. I put my head in my hands, palms pressed into my eyes. What am I doing here? And why is it starting to feel more complicated than it should be?

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

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[elenaferndale]

Did some slight changes to my Elucien fanart, and added some flower to frame it better in.

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😏 I know something you don’t knoooowww