#babe finally jesus christ..... sorry yall i've fallen down rabbit holes of other hyperfixations and it's been almost three months i feel ba

[paperibbon]

ink stained hand (will you hold it?)

chapter ii: half on purpose i - ii pairing: poly!feysand x reader series sum. A bookseller’s simple life turns upside down when she becomes fast companions of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. When she develops feelings for the most powerful couple in Prythian, how will she get over the golden thread of fate that pulls them ever so far apart? TW: this chapter has themes of assault. please be cautious while reading.

Your walk home that evening was unmemorable, simply because you could not remember it. Your body went through the motions, turning at the correct corners, opening doors and fitting keys in locks, but your mind was elsewhere, flitting through the day like thumbing through a book. 

The High Lady. The High Lord. Your wish. 

The High Lady. The High Lord. Your wish. 

The High Lady. The High Lord. Your wish. 

Like an unending song, you replayed the words you’d said, cringing at yourself, brows pressing together at their reactions. At the High Lord following you to your workplace…

“I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

You jolt forward, snatching the paper from his outstretched fingers as your cheeks blaze with heat. The reaction pulls a chuckle from him, and it rumbles through the air like soft thunder. 

“Thank you!” You squeak, and promptly turn your back to him, crumpling up the flimsy and shoving it deep into your pockets. Reana bows her head, her long hair spilling into her eyes, and he dismisses her with a friendly wave. Her eyes search your face, and without words, you know she’s checking to make sure you’re okay with being alone with him. You aren’t, but you incline your head, and she retreats into the back with another bow of her head.

“It’s no problem.” 

He pauses, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. 

You don’t.

It’s a silent few minutes, the air humid and hot, but you aren’t sure it’s because of the weather anymore. 

“We don’t judge you.” His words make your face crumple with regret. He sounds sincere, but surely, you wouldn’t know if this is just a salve over a disgruntled citizen of their court or a genuine extend of their hand; if this is the High Lord talking to you or just the male behind the title. 

Plastering a neutral expression across your face, you turn to meet him, violet eyes immediately locking onto yours. His hand is outstretched, like he was going to place it on your shoulder, and without a word, he tucks it back into his pockets. The gesture isn’t shamed, isn’t embarrassed or timid. The High Lord simply reads the expression plastered on your face, and understands it, knows it. You aren’t sure if this scares you, or thrills you. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Your words float in the air, and you try to detach your tone. You hope you come off as blase as you’re attempting, but from the faint quirk of his lips downwards, you’re sure you look positively poorly, surely spineless; eager and bright eyed, like a deer with an arrow trained to its eye.

Without another word, he dips his head low, almost like he’s bowing to you, and retreats with a quick turn of his heel. His form is stiff, a learned posture with hands tucked firmly in his pockets and neck straight, but before he disappears around the doorframe, his fingers flick out, long and tan, and it should worry you that you find the action masterfully beautiful. Immediately, a curl of magic tinges the air, and a welcome, cool wind blows your skirts back. The High Lord turns his chin minutely, and you catch a glimpse of his white, white teeth behind the smile, no smirk, he offers you, before disappearing in a thick black fog, leaving behind the deep scent of jasmine.

A shiver running up your back, you unfurl the paper from your pocket, hands fanning out the creases. You trace the familiar words, frown playing on your lips as you turn over the pages, a new script scrawled on the back. 

An address, and the words: See you soon. - F

-

The note gathers dust for days, which turns into weeks. You’d promptly folded it back, and then forced the paper to bend at least three more times before plopping it into your bedside drawer and firmly closing the thing. Your days pass uneventfully. Hot, humid like every other summer day; you work, you walk home, and you almost, almost forget the little folded piece of paper shoved behind socks and scarves. Almost.

Sometimes your hand hovers by the drawer, fingers teasing the handle. The faelight flickers, like it’s breathing with you, a spell cast across your bedroom as you lean towards the allure. You imagine the smell of jasmine, the sea salted air. 

You don’t open the drawer.

-

It’s another hot day in Velaris, your hair laid across your hand as you fan the back of your neck with a paperback. The cover, a muscled female fae holding a wafty human girl in her arms, is ripped and aged in a few places. You’d nicked it from the sale rack, and thumbed through a few racy pages before snorting and deciding it was better used as a fan.

The trickle of people is slow moving, regulars stopping in for a cold drink, or a quick purchase, even just to get out of the heat. There’s a family sitting in the reading nook, a large book splayed across the mother’s lap as she reads in low tones to her little one; his eyes are wide and green, freckles dotting his little hooked nose like kisses from the Mother. His father is smiling wide, and you’re taken with the scene. A tableau of peace. 

Your name is called by an unfamiliar voice.

Peace disturbed. 

Your hair drops unceremoniously from your hand, and you turn towards the call, a customer service-esque smile plastered across your cheeks, and it falls in the same instance. 

The female who called your name is severe, her face seemingly carved from perfect stone, and silvery blue eyes meet yours. High cheekbones and golden hair piled in a bun sitting at the back of her head pull her skin taught, making her face that much more violently beautiful. You know her, if not from her infamy, from her inexplicable likeness to the High Lady. 

You slap a smile on your face again, nodding politely. Nesta Archeron makes her way through the stacks of books with light feet and sharp eyes. She takes her time walking to you, gingerly picking up books as she traverses through your store and thumbing through them, before placing them back in their slots. She moves fluidly but surely, like a dancer trapped in the body of a fighter. Why is she here, you ponder, teeth dragging at the inside of your lip. Surely it has something to do with the letter, with your silence. She was a fearsome female, maybe you’d greatly offended the High Lady, and by association, the High Lord. Perhaps she was here to dole out your punishment. Would she take the business out from under you? Cuff you? Imprison you? Or worse, try to talk to you about the letter shoved into the recesses of your nightstand?

Nesta finally stops in front of you, hands clasped loosely together and a small purse swinging from her wrists. Another bag is tucked under her arm, and you catch a whiff of sweet bread as she adjusts it. 

“I’m not here to bother your little corner of the world.” She finally says, voice like the first sip of wine. “I’m simply here to buy a book.”

Her words shock you, but it’s a happy surprise.

“What kind of books do you like?”

Her answering smirk is vicious.

“What’s the filthiest thing you have?”

Her arms are full with your recommendations by the time she’s ringing up, piles of truly horrible romance books with plots that would make nose hairs curl stacked as high as the ceiling. 

You pack them tightly in a large bag, watching her swing the heavy thing onto her other shoulder with absolute ease and nod her head gratefully. She’s every bit the wild sister her reputation bolsters, a beastly flame flickering underneath her skin with every movement, but her eyes are kind when she looks at you. It’s comforting, almost. 

The bell rings softly as she cracks the door open, and you’ve resumed leisurely thumbing through the sale rack when she says your name.

“I’d respond sooner rather than later.” Her voice carries across the shop, and strikes you in the chest squarely. “My sister’s mate is…not a patient one.”

And she’s gone, the door closing firmly behind her.

A note you hadn’t seen before sat on the counter in front of you, on official looking parchment with a thick navy wax seal, the mountains of Velaris ridged into the stamp. 

You shove it into your drawer, the seal unbroken, the letter unread.

-

It’s a dark night, and a long walk to your home. You’d met a friend across the river for dinner, a simple get together and you hadn’t realized how late it had been until you were yawning, eyes drooping as you fought to listen to a story about a recent escapade your friend had endeavored on during a drunken night. You were packing up before you knew it, sent off with a gentle hug, and a promise to see you soon. 

The path you’re currently taking is poorly lit, faelights bobbing teasingly from a few streets over, and cobblestones are loose, your heel catching more often than not. You’re only a few blocks away, you can tell because you’re passing a local pub that signals the fork in the road you diverge on when you’re heading back from work. Only five minutes away at most, but your heel catches in a shallow ditch, and snaps clean off.

“Damn it!” You stumble forward, hands flailing about in front of you as you crash to the ground in a sad, tired little heap. You flip your stinging palms up and groan at the dotting red scrapes that greet you. Not only is your shoe unwearable, you were bleeding all over one of your best dresses. The unfairness of the situation brings the stinging sensation up your arms to your eyes, and you blink rapidly as tears dot your vision, blurring the dark street before you. You will not cry, you vow, closing your hands tightly, and beginning to stumble onto your feet.

“Well, hello, little lady!” A voice calls out from the darkness.

 A group of males are pushing at each other, tumbling out the door of the pub, very obviously drunk. The one who must have called out to you stumbles into the street, the faint glow of the faelight accentuating the shadows of his form. He’s tall, taller than you of course, and more inebriated from the rest, based on the slur of his words and the lax way his limbs move as he nears you, like they’re attached to him by loose thread. There’s no mistaking the dark gleam in his eye as he rakes them up and down your vulnerable form, drinking deeply from the cup in his hand. 

You tighten your arms around yourself, ducking your head low as you haul yourself up. They’re loud, and one of them hooks his arm around his friend’s neck, shoving his legs out from under him and laughing as his drink spills down his front while he crashes to the ground. The group bursts out like a thunderclap, shouldering each other with sick glee, the deep amber liquid trickling through the stones in a river towards your prone form.

“Hello, pretty.” He tries again, words sharp in the silence of the street. Long vowels stretch in his mouth like a snake unfurling its great body in a show of achingly slow anticipation. You dart your eyes around, trying to find the best way of escape, but just like a snake, you know he’s encircling you. He’s found his prey for tonight, and it just happens to be you. 

“Sorry, I’m just trying to get home.” With the confidence of a barn mouse, you tuck your shoulders closer, making a move to step around him, around the rabble of males that as far as you can tell, haven’t taken an interest like this male has, but he’s far quicker than you expect him to be, his hands clamping down on your upper arms like vices. The male is soaked in beer and sweat, and by contact, so are you, the dredges of his cup flickering darkly as he pulls a sip.

You wretch your arm from his grip, darting to the side, but a quick step from him, and you’re blocked again, a smarmy sneer showing you a row of teeth that gleam like knives. The laughter from the group at your back proves you wrong; they’re more than interested. This is their new favorite game. 

“Why’re you tryna leave us, pretty thing?” The male coos down at you, a finger reaching out to push a loose curl from your hair back, to touch your face, to take a hold of your shoulders and throw you to the ground; you don’t know.

Your breath comes quickly, heart thundering in your ears. You don’t know what to do, should you run? Fight back? Scream as loud as possible? Your mouth opens minutely, a small modicum of movement, but the male in front of you catches on, and quick as a whip, his hand starts forward to cover your mouth. 

And then the strangest thing happens.

A body, materializing in front of you, darkness whipping around it like a second coat. It’s almost like the shadows fold around this figure, like a book of black flipping to the bookmarked page. You can’t see the face of your savior, but he’s imposing, a mass of muscle, with an aura that screams danger to the drunk with the sweaty countenance who’s taken to gaping like a fish.

“I suggest,” The great wings on his back splay wide, covering your shrinking form in an obvious display of intimidation. “that you leave the lady alone.” 

The beginnings of apologies pour from the male like slick ooze, like vomit, but the darkness raises a hand and immediately, the stammering figure is taking off, falling to the ground quite a few times before he disappears around the corner. In his retreat, he’d dropped the glass of amber liquid, leaving it to shatter on the pavement, soaking both you, and the figure before you. His friends have high-tailed it down the street, possibly running further than that, chickens with their heads cut off flailing about down the street, and it almost pulls a laugh from you. 

As your savior turns to you, you realize you know his face. The Night Court’s spymaster is devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly stoic, looking at you with a great intensity that almost makes you sweat. Amber eyes like pools of magma flit over you, from your head to your feet and back again, and you fidget under his gaze, fingering a spare thread on your skirt to avoid eye contact.

“You’re alright?” He edges, wings tucking back into his body. Before, a great show of terror, now, trying to make himself smaller in front of you. 

A hum of acknowledgement and a nod. He looks relieved. 

“Thank you.” You can tell you’ve startled him, the faint flicker of confusion across his face. Your words aren’t weak like you’d thought they were, and your hand flies up to cup your throat in disbelief at the finality you find in them. 

He nods, a sharp up-and-down of his head, and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone. The only proof he had ever been standing in front of you is the foamy beer spilled down your front, and the crunch of glass beneath your feet as you trek home. 

The next morning, when you’re stepping out of your doorway to head to work,  something soft crunches beneath your shoes. You bend down, peering at the offending object, and another note is staring right back at you, all pristine and folded with meticulous precision. Picking it up and brushing off the dirt from your shoes from its surface, you sigh unfolding it, curiosity getting the better of you. The scrawl is unfamiliar, and it’s signed with only a letter.

I don’t beg. - R

You fold it neatly, and shove it next to the other ones.

…

It’s another day in the city of Velaris, the sun is high in the sky and you’re traipsing through markets on your beautiful, wonderful day off. A heavy basket is tucked into the crook of your arm, laden with colorful vegetables, fruits, savory breads and baked goods from the various stalls, and you’re on the last item of your grocery list when a delicious smell wafting through the air pulls you towards a bakery. 

The sign above the door swings on iron hooks, reading “Imogen’s” with a dainty carving of a cake slice topped with swirls of frosting and fruit that you could almost taste. Taking a mental tally of your pocket book, you reason that you have just enough to buy a treat for yourself and the meat taunting you in dark ink on the parchment in your hands. The door is propped ajar with a rusting iron chair, and you edge your body through the opening. The sight that greets you is fogged with the heat of the oven, and it’s almost autumnal in colors. Dark oranges and burgundy reds paint the walls, mismatched mugs dangle under the menu behind the counter, and as you walk further in, thoughtful scrawl on the glass tells you exactly what the pastries laying under it are dusted with, filled with, baked of. Pumpkin pastries, cherry croissants, banana muffins; all lovingly handmade and fresh. 

“Hello, doll. Can I get you anything?” The female behind the counter is smiling with all her pearly white teeth, dark black hair falling in thick curls down her back. The lines on her face tell you that she’s an old fae, much older than you, but she’s dressed in the latest Night Court fashion, a velvet purple caftan with gauzy lavender cutouts that make her attire more appropriate for the colder months, not these heated late summer days. 

“Ah, what’s good?” You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes flitting from the chocolate chip bread slices cut into little rabbit faces to the garlic knots glistening with butter. 

The female hums softly, but her voice doesn’t answer you.

“I’m partial to the honey lavender puffs.” The voice is sweet and saccharine, like a puff of floral perfume, and much too close to your ear. You jump, shoulder coming up to clip the chin of the girl who was leaning over your shoulder, whose cheek slams into your nose. You both fall back from each other, her hand cupping her chin, a steady trail of blood beginning to drip from your nose. 

Imogen, the fae behind the counter, sits both of you down at a booth in the corner, you holding a black handkerchief to your nose, and the female you’d hit holding a bound bag of ice to her chin. You can barely peak at her face from the corner of your eye, chin raised so you don’t drip blood down your shirt (well, more blood than it’s already got on it), but you can tell she’s beautiful even with the bruise blossoming across her jaw. Soft caramel curls, brown sugar glazed eyes; it’s like she belongs in the case behind the counter with her sweet glamor. 

“I’m so sorry.” You say, but with your nose pinched it comes out more like a nasally jumble of sounds. 

“You’re alright.” She replies, and you crane your head to get a better look at her and blink, like her image will dissipate if you try hard enough.

Elain Archeron has her head cocked at you, and you can tell your surprise is written on your face by the way her eyes crinkle with a smile. It’s just a coincidence, you surmise, that you’ve lived your whole life here never having as much as a run in with the High Lord, or his inner circle, but these last few weeks seem…almost staged. You don’t entertain that thought process for very long, actually, drawing the conclusion that this must be one big happenstance. It’s not like you haven’t seen these members of your Court, at least across crowded squares, or celebrations. You’ve even ordered a drink right after Morrigan at a bar once, watched her flounce her way onto the dance floor ahead of you. But these interactions are odd. Odd enough to pull at least some confusion from you.

And this confusion settles in your gut, even as you feel a wet, thick drip of blood pool down your neck.

“Shit.” You right yourself again, pinching a tad harder against your nose to stop the flow of red, folding the damp cloth a different way against your nostrils.

“I’m Elain, by the way.” 

You offer your name, and you catch the little hum of… something that Elain lets out. 

“What?” Your eyebrows knit together, furrowing in confusion at the knowing look on her face. She simply hums again, a low simple tone that sets you on edge, though you know it shouldn’t. Elain Archeron stands with a flourish of her pale blue skirts, and nods to you in parting.

“It was nice to meet you.” She means it, a true smile gracing her lips as she waves in your line of vision, a little too high to be mindless. 

You’re struck by the absence of her smell when she departs, fresh flowers, earthen dirt, and sunshine replaced with the unmistakable smell of powdered sugar and honey. Sniffling sharply, you pull the bloody mess from your nose and look to the table. A box of three honey lavender puffs sits, tied neatly with a gingham blue ribbon, and a note tucked neatly between the box and the bindings. The ribbon covers a majority of the letters, but your eyes catch a swirl of midnight blue ink before you snatch the note and shove it deep in your pocket.

You promise that you’ll clean the handkerchief and bring it back to Imogen, but she lets you know it isn’t even hers. 

On your way home, grocery list abandoned for the day, you unravel the bloodied cloth. It’s simple but elegant, night sky dark with silver etching along the border. However, where you’d imagined there’d be a monogrammed E.A. in the corner, a big, fat R is scrawled elegantly in shifting silver threads that blink like stars.

You wash it carefully that evening, and when it’s dry, the silver gleaming under the faelight of your home, you shove it, and the letter, into the deep recesses of your nightstand. 

There’s one thing that’s good about the brutal interaction you’d had: the honey lavender puffs are definitely to die for.

-

This is getting ridiculous.

Here you are, dark drink sweating onto the bar top, careful eyes following a friend around the dance floor as she weaves in and out of dancing strangers with ease, a coy little smile playing on her lips as a female seems to say something to her and they delve into a flirty conversation. It’s not like you don’t want to dance or mingle, it’s just that… well, you actually don’t. You’d endeavored on this night out to distract yourself from the odd occurrences you seemed to be tallying up, but your well-meaning friend has a history of distracting herself with the prettiest face in the room when she’s had a glass or two of wine. 

The lights are pulsing an unnatural color, and the bass of whatever music is playing is making your head pound. You peel your eyes away from your friend, who by all accounts has forgotten the reason you’d both come out, and press the damp surface of the glass to your forehead in an attempt to cure the headache brewing to no avail.

“The night is too young to be hungover already, beautiful stranger.” A voice chimes in from your left, and you chuckle despite yourself at the attempt.

“Does that line usually work?” Tilting your head towards the figure, you almost groan at the sight that greets you. The beautiful, blonde Morrigan is leaning temptingly against the bar, arms pushed together in such a way that your gaze is drawn to the low, low cut of her extravagant dress, much better looking than anything that anyone else is wearing, and definitely more flattering than your sleeveless silken slip.

“Hasn’t failed me once.” She waves over the barkeep with a flick of her wrist, red lips turned up in a flirtatious smile as he sets down two startlingly pink drinks that glitter faintly in the low faelight. “Though, from the way you look like you just swallowed a live sardine, maybe I’m about to find out what defeat tastes like.”

She slides over the drink, and takes a sip of her own glass, the stain of her lipstick smudging just that little bit in the corners of her mouth. You hum a little bit, taking your own sip of the glimmering liquid, finding the taste sugary and agreeable, and nod your assent to her. 

Your friend calls your name, and it startles you out whatever this is, her hands warm as they come around your shoulders, a sloppy kiss aimed for your cheek meets the side of your nose. 

“Sorry. Seems like my night is over.” You stand, reaching for your wallet, but Morrigan’s hand is quick to lay atop yours, shaking her head.

“It’s on me.” She promises, waving her fingers at your out-of-her-mind friend, who giggles drunkenly in her direction. Morrigan’s brown eyes aren’t warm per say, but they crackle with amusement, and something else you hadn’t seen before: recognition.

-

Over the next few weeks, it’s like everywhere you turn, another member of the Night Court’s inner circle pops up. 

You bump into Cassian, the High Lord and Lady’s general, on your way to dinner, and he walks you to your destination. Nesta and Elain visit your store the next day, and Elain requests some gardening books delivered to their home. You accidentally spill a glass of wine down Morrigan’s white dress at a bar you dragged another friend to, and she laughs it off, leaning into the arms of a female she was with and flicking her wrist, the stain disappearing. You quite literally run into Azriel on your way to work when you’re running particularly late, and you don’t even realize it was him until hours later.

With every encounter comes a small look, a little comment. Sometimes, another note is left in the palm of your hand, a flower at your doorstep. 

Why make this effort, you wonder for the thousandth time., why care this much about some lowly nothing in their city? You can’t blink and make mountains move, you can’t sneeze and start a forest fire – you’re just you. Is that worth all this?

The last member of the inner circle saunters into your shop, menacing silver eyes sliding over you from head to toe, and she leaves a note on your counter before slinking back out the door with not one word uttered to you. Amren’s presence hovers over the shop the rest of the day.

Enough is enough, you decide, fanning all the letters shoved into your bedside table across your bed, tracing the words with your careful gaze, thumb following the strokes of letter and words. It’s time to meet this head on, you suppose, accept this odd…friendship seems to be the wrong word seeing as you’re not at all interacting with the source of all this. 

Kindness. It’s the word you end on. This is a huge, unforgettable, glaringly large kindness from your High Lord and Lady. They’re making an effort, it’s time you respond in kind.

There’s only one question you unfortunately need to answer – What do you wear to meet your High Lady and High Lord when you’ve ignored them for weeks?