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tsisisail · 11 months ago

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oh the way i'd kill for drawtectives x reader headcanons im so curious sahfjkasfj

YESSS YESS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR AN EXCUSE TO DO THIS!

Okay, first and foremost, Rosé!

Rosé, is, of course, incredibly awkward. She flirts via method of tripping over herself to offer you compliments and cheesy pickup lines she doesn’t actually remember that well.

If you have social media she is going to force you to have matching profile photos with her daily rotating otps. Her love language is comparing you to her anime husband/wife of the week.

Rosé is big on compliments, both giving and receiving them. She’s a person who requires a lot of reassurance, and it means a lot to hear she’s loved. At the same time, if she cares about someone as much as she does you, she’s got to tell you every single second of every day. She thinks you’re the hottest thing on Earth and is not going to go a second without reminding you.

She’s a pretty conflict adverse person when it comes to interpersonal relationships, which might cause issues in your relationship. If something makes her unhappy she’ll just kind of bottle it up for fear of upsetting you.

Rosé pretends to think that she thinks romantic gestures are stupid, but in truth if you were to get one of those silly heart chocolate boxes for her she’d melt on the spot. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s a romantic at heart.

When she inevitably introduces you to her best friends, they’re rather skeptical of you considering Rosé has a history of having really bad taste. It takes a while for the Drawtectives to stop giving you side glances, but once Grendan gives your their stamp of approval, York is on board since she’s the best judge of character our of anyone in the group.

Who knows, if things go particularly well, you might have two new boyfriends.

She doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’d use a lot of pet names unless she was trying to be affectionate, in which case she’s only using the most absurd cheesy things. You’re her precious honey angel now, sorry, she doesn’t make the rules. She likes being your girlfriend, and she’ll call you whatever you want her too, but she does default to “partner” regardless of gender.

York is actually aromatic, so any relationship with him will be a bit unconventional. We’ll say for the sake of argument that York is romance neutral.

Immediately: If you do not work out, the chances of York initiating the relationship with you himself is slim to none. But if you do… Ho-boy, you cannot physically stop this man from flirting with you (AKA, pestering you about your arm wrestling prowess.)

You’re gonna have to be very clear with your expectations with him, because he isn’t really going into this with the mindset of exclusivity. Additionally, he is going to introduce you to his best friends immediately and if they don’t like you it’s pretty much over for you. This shouldn’t be something you have to worry about though- any friend of York is a friend of theirs.

York is very nonchalant about the entire experience. He basically treats you identical to the drawtectives except he’ll kiss you sometimes if you ask him to (which isn’t something he’d really be opposed to offering his friends either, you’re pretty much one of them now. Congrats!)

He doesn’t quite get a lot of romantic gestures, relegating things like flowers, weddings, and valentines day as being stupid. In the Northern Tribes you’d just defeat your lover’s worst enemy in combat to earn their favor and that’d be that.

He does, however, love the exchanging of sweets and the physical affection that come with a romantic relationship.

As for labels, York doesn’t really care what you call him or what he calls you. He’s your boyfriend? Cool. He’s your partner? Yeah okay. Your lover? Sure why not. He doesn’t really do pet names, but he will give you a nickname, and it will be a shortened version of your own name.

Grenda is probably going to have the most conventional relationship with you. Out of the bunch she has the most solid grasp on flirting and what healthy romantic relationships look like, so it’s pretty much smooth sailing ahead. (Not specific to romance but Grenda is also the best at giving hugs.)

His love language is definitely quality time, more than anything she just loves being with you. Whether it’s cooking or walking dogs, walking a movie or just sitting next to you in comfortable silence, being around you is just comforting for them.

If there’d be any issue in their relationship, Gma does have the tendency to put her own emotions aside in favor of helping other people in times of difficulty. You sometimes have to remind them that, hey, he doesn’t have to be everyone’s therapist all of the time.

For pet names, I think Grendan would honestly just call you by your name. I can maybe see “honey” or “babe”. If you call her a pet name though they’ll get really sweetly bashful, blushing and going “dawwwww….!” while swatting the air, the whole shebang. Once you start calling him a pet name though there’s no going back, they’ll get sad if you don’t call her that.

.. Okay so I know this was supposed to be Drawtectives headcanons, and Eugene is not a drawtective… But I love him and he’s my fictional husband so we’re doing him anyway!

Eugene, being rather shy and also absurdly wealthy, strikes me as the secret admirer sort. He’d anonymously mail you flowers and such, and then coincidentally go to talk to you the next day to see what you think.

If you reciprocate his feelings, he’s definitely not gonna catch on. Eugene is dense as a brick. You could go up to him and go “yo, let’s date!” and he’d just be like “haha wow you’re so funny!” and them go back to wishing you loved him back. You’re gonna have to be very explicit with his intentions if you want to woo him.

Eugene is very easily flustered, and so he tends to default to gift giving and acts of service as his love language. He’s pretty bad at flirting on purpose, he’ll just turn into a mumbling mess before he gets through the first sentence. Thing is, the emphasis is on the “on purpose.”

Eugene will say the sweetest, flirtiest things.. but he can only do it on accident. If he thinks about what he just said for more than one second he’ll turn bright red and stop talking immediately.

He’s also pretty shy with physical affection of any sort, but does enjoy it if he works up the courage.

Eugene would be pretty shy about pet names, mostly sticking to “my love”, maybe throwing in something like “darling” or “starlight” if he isn’t really thinking about it.

This head canon is only really applicable to Eugene, but if you were dating him since before the Celestial Spear, then you get to have a dramatic reunion scene accompanied by a dramatic reunion kiss. I like to imagine that “pick up and spin you around” thing.

#drawtectives #eugene finch #eugene drawtectives #rosé drawtectives #york drawtectives #drawtectives grendan #drawtectives headcanons #grendan highforge #gyorik rogdul #we have x reader headcanons #wowza we’re a real fandom now!#sorry this took me so long

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

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The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: WE'RE BACK WITH MORE CHAOS BOIS

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

Chapter 3/10: A Hammer To the Statue of David

They should have slept. Rhys kept glancing at the dark hollows on Feyre’s face, betraying her in spite of the words she forced from behind her teeth. I’m fine, stop staring— Rhys couldn’t help himself. He knew he likely looked no better, forcing himself to follow her further and further into the dark. He kept one hand on the earthen walls, drinking in the loamy scent of the world. What would happen to Spring, he wondered? Would they know it was two humans that had freed them?

Would it stay their hands the next time they crossed paths with one? Or did the fae have short memories? Rhys wondered this endlessly, forcing one foot in front of the other until he slammed into Feyre’s unmoving body. She grunted, hands flung out before her to keep her from hitting the rough, stone-hewn ground with her face at full impact.

The sound was satisfying.

“Do you mind?” she hissed, a mere shadow in the dark. Rhys knew she couldn’t see the grin that spread over his face, even as he feigned innocence.

“I can’t see in the dark, darling.”

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like prick, but straightened herself all the same. The chain attached to his wrist went taut for a moment as if she’d pulled it and Rhys resisted coming any closer. He wasn’t her pet.

“Why did you stop?”

Coming closer, Rhys could see the indecision on Feyre’s face. Their tunnel had branched into two different directions, neither discernable to him. Rhys stepped around her, ducking his head into one and inhaling, and then the other.

Smelled like dirt.

He took pity on Feyre and said, “This way,” before striding with more confidence than he felt.

“Rhys,” she protested, but this time it was him dragging her by that cursed chain. Rhys wouldn’t pretend he didn’t derive more than a little satisfaction from that, either.

“Where are we going?” he asked, scuffing his boot on a protruding rock. Beside him, Feyre’s shoulders seemed to slump a little.

“Autumn, I think.”

“How do you know?” he asked more forcefully than he meant.

Feyre scoffed in the dark. “You knew we were going to Prythian and didn’t look at a map?”

Fair. Rude, but fair he supposed.

“Can we expect…” Another insane Lord, he wanted to say, but that didn’t seem quite right. Feyre seemed genuinely grieved to destroy that beast and Rhys didn’t know how he felt about that, either. Gods, he needed to close his eyes, preferably somewhere he didn’t have to share the same air with Feyre damned Archeron, and try and clear his head.

“I don’t know what to expect of Autumn,” she finally said. Rhys thought of the beasts warning—six other lords.

“Who is the High Lord here?”

Feyre grunted in the dark, her breathing just as labored as his own. The tunnel had begun to climb and Rhys suspected they would be deposited right in the middle of where they needed to be.

“His name is Beron” she finally told him, chewing on the name. There was a mix of emotions Rhys couldn’t quite read, though revulsion seemed to be the strongest. Perhaps, beneath it, was fear? Rhys rubbed at his eyes, sighing loudly.

“Well,” he finally said, forcing himself to continue. “He can’t be any worse than the last.”

“Of course he could be. A lot of things could be worse than that.”

Rhys was too tired to argue.

Feyre reached the rounded wood door first, her fingers curling over the knob. The sight that followed was disorienting. Had they been walking for so long it was now night? Or did time work differently from territory to territory? Feyre’s moon bright eyes blinked, too, drinking in the rustling forest that now surrounded them.

“Maybe we should sleep in here tonight,” she whispered, hesitating just enough to send Rhys plopping to the ground.

“Works for me,” he grunted. Rhys would have done just about anything to rest his eyes. Feyre settled against the wall across from him, gingerly stretching her legs. He rifled through his pack for something to eat, passing her some dried meat and stale bread ruefully.

While he fished around, Feyre tended to the wound on her head, carefully dabbing the blood with a strip of cloth. Using precious water from their canteen, she cleaned it the best she could before leaving it entirely.

“We’ll need more provisions soon,” she said as Rhys ripped a hunk of the well-seasoned deer jerky apart with his teeth. He thought of the Spring village and their argument—well, Rhys thought of Feyre and her pretty, golden brown hair.

He kept his eyes on his hands and reminded himself he didn’t care about her. He was still a man, wasn’t he? It would have been a lie to say he hadn’t noticed she was beautiful. He’d also noticed how annoying she was, and utterly self-satisfied. Rhys looked away, adjusting his back against the stone until he’d found a mostly comfortable position.

There was nothing to say to her that wasn’t cruel, and Rhys needed sleep. Briefly, he wondered if his father had discovered his deception and was apocalyptic with rage or if Rhys was still safe. Well, safe enough. Safe, despite being dragged about on a leash by a woman with a death wish.

Rhys woke with a start to dappled sunlight and the wafting scent of pear. It took him a minute to realize Feyre had her head in his lap, a cloak draped over them both. When had she gotten there?

He was tempted to stand and let her head bounce off the hard, earthen ground. Was he that kind of man? Rhys sighed, and settled for poking her in the cheek instead. And when she didn’t rouse, it gave him a small amount of satisfaction to flick her hard in the nose.

She frowned, opening one bleary eye at him. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she realized her position. “You were shivering,” she said defensively, pushing herself up by her palms.

Rhys hummed in agreement. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, darling. Ladies such as yourself clamor to have their face where yours was.”

Her eyes hardened. “Get up.”

He couldn’t help himself. “I’m already there. Why don’t you—”

“Shut up.”

Rhys stood with all the grace he could manage, stretching his sore muscles. Feyre crouched at his feet, rifling through his pack until she procured the last of their jerky. He assumed they’d be walking and eating which suited him just fine. The sooner they got through this, the better. Rhys ripped a chunk of spiced meat with his teeth while Feyre quickly rebraided her tangled hair.

She set a silent, bruising pace. Rhys was flustered, too warm despite the chill of the loamy scented air. Leaves fell round them like confetti, making it impossible for them to creep quietly through the woods. His mind kept returning to Feyre crouching at his feet, her golden brown hair a curled mess down her slim shoulders and how she’d looked up at him with those bright blue eyes.

He couldn’t help the next image, though he wished he’d never allowed it to linger the way it did. Feyre, still on her knees, her full lips curved sensually as she untied his pants. Mouth parting when he sprang free, eyes on his face with a mix of surprise and lust. Tongue out, sliding along the length of him until she sucked him root to tip into her mouth, gagging ever so slightly. He could picture how soft her hair would be tangled between his fingers and how he’d moan, back against one of the trees as he helped guide her into a steady rhythm.

Rhys was grateful when Ferye, her own mind lost to him, eyes glassy and unseeing, stumbled over a rock just as he pictured her swallowing his release. His pants were uncomfortably tight—this was a daydream he had no right indulging in, given how little he cared for her. Feyre looked up at him, eyes narrowed as if she’d guessed what he was thinking. Rhys lowered his own, not bothering to smirk and prove her right. That, he decided, was something best forgotten entirely.

“So,” he managed once his cock had deflated and he could fill his burning lungs again. “How did your sisters come to be here.”

Feyre exhaled. “It’s too long of a story?”

Surrounded by nothing but an endless expanse of jewel bright leaves and trees, Rhys getured outward. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes fell to the iridescent chain holding them together. “Some of it is…personal. I…” Her eyes went glassy again. Rhys felt genuine curiosity as he stared down at her. “I fell in love with the wrong male.”

Rhys couldn’t picture that, though he kept his opinions on Feyre’s emotional capacity to himself. Perhaps she had once been the sort who fell in love easily—vulnerable and soft and sweet, only to be made hard by an unforgiving, cruel lover.

Feyre’s hair seemed to gleam like rich chocolate copper beneath the filtered morning light and when she tilted her face, he swore the freckles dusting her nose were an exact match for the night sky.

“I agreed to marry him before I knew the full scope of…who he was. He could be so loving and kind—but also cruel and capricious in equal measure. It was like walking on eggshells. I never knew who I’d get that day, or what might set him off.”

Rhys’s stomach twisted uncomfortably, his thoughts shifting to his mother and father. How often had she warned a young Rhys to be careful not to upset his father, as he was in one of his moods? The atmosphere in the house would change and everyone could sense it—and his mother always bore the worst of it.

And once it passed, his father would become doting and loving again. He empathized a little with Feyre, who seemed young and likely working through her very first relationship in a place that didn’t prioritize women to begin with, and would have sided with her lover if he wanted to keep her.

“Anyway, I left him. I said it was over and, without a lot of details, he took it poorly. He went to a fae king for assistance and made a deal and when it wasn’t honored properly, my sisters became collateral damage in this war between us.”

“Where is this man?” Rhys questioned. He wanted to know who he was, as well—was it a man he socialized with? Someone he often drank with that had turned around and betrayed a fellow human to the brutal fae?

“Dead,” she said flatly. Rhys didn’t dare ask if she had been the one to kill him. “Magic like the deal he made comes with a price. He wasn’t able to pay it.”

“If he’s dead, aren’t your sisters free?” Rhys asked, unsure how fae magic worked to begin with.

Feyre shook her head. “No.”

Rhys thought of the beast, and her insistence they kill it. He almost demanded to know if this was the price demanded by that king to free her sisters—kill the creatures and her sisters could return to the wall.

But why would a faerie demand the payment of its own kind in blood? And why oblige him at all when they weren’t bound to fae whims, fae laws? She could simply stroll into this Night Court and take her sisters back. Rhys was certain Ferye was keeping secrets from him, had chosen not to divulge the full truth of what had led to him being leashed to her.

Demanding she tell him would only start another fight. He’d keep his eyes open and his wits about him until he’d pieced it together himself. He didn’t trust her even if she was honest—she was little more than a betrayer and a thief.

Trying to untangle the mess unfolding around him rendered Rhys silent. Frustrated, and pulling absently at his wrist without even realizing what he was doing. If he spent too much time looking at his hand and those markings, he got angry all over again. Marked by this place—if he couldn’t remove it, he could never return home.

Agreeing to help her was the worst decision he’d ever made. Rhys thought he would have preferred marriage to someone of his fathers choosing over this adventure. Rhys would have taken a hoard of children over this—inked like one of those faerie loving whores ringing bells all through town.

“Well, well, well,” came an echoing voice. Feyre stilled, looking around the dense trees for the source. Rhys’s heart sped at the mocking sneer carried in that tone and the lilted accent that could only belong to someone of Prythian.

It was no beast who sauntered into view. The man in question looked as if the forest itself had materialized him, made him whole from the leaves and bark and sky itself. Auburn hair the same shade of the treetops was neatly pushed off a face that was both elegant and cruel in equal measure. Amber eyes glittered with amusement as he beheld two humans traipsing through his lands.

It irritated Rhys to see this man drag his eyes up, and then down, Feyre’s form. His smile widened as though her mere presence amused him. Rhys had heard the stories of what fae men liked to do to human females and consciously wedged his body between them, forcing the creature to look at him.

Nobility. Sneering, self-satisfied nobility radiated from every inch of the man before him. Rhys had the same blue blood and felt no fear—though perhaps he should have—when he stared the faerie down. He was a good inch or two taller and Rhys utilized it, crowding closer to keep Feyre from being subjected to its cruel, perverse whims.

“You should know better than to come here,” he said, crossing his arms over an elegant gold and green jacket. “Don’t you know what happens to little humans lost in faerie woods?” “Save it,” Feyre spat, her eyes shining with hatred.

The man clicked his tongue. “So rude. Don’t they teach your sort manners?”

Rhys withdrew his blade, letting the tip hover an inch from the fae’s chest. “Don’t speak to her.”

That smile grew. “Have you come to challenge the High Lord of Autumn? We all felt your actions in Spring.”

Rhys pressed his blade against the man's chest. “You seem easy enough to kill.”

That smile became razor edged. “You should let her talk. Tell him what he’s too stupid to see.”

“He’s not the High Lord,” Feyre ground out.

“Get the pretty female a prize. How clever—”

“Are you going to let us pass?” Feyre interrupted, casually pulling a knife from the baldric across her chest. The faerie cocked his head, eyes tracking that blade with a guarded expression.

“I might be persuaded to offer you safe passage through Autumn. If you do something for me, of course—”

“No deals,” Rhys barked, irritated at how sensual that man watched Feyre. He didn’t trust him. “What do you want?” Feyre asked, obnoxious and difficult to the end.

“There is a curse on this land, too. As you well know,” he added, those eyes sliding down her body again. “A High Lord terrorizes us just as he did in Autumn. Dispatch him for me, and I’ll send you on your merry little way.”

Feyre’s eyes hardened. “You ask too much.”

“Oh, I don’t think I ask enough. What is your death worth, I wonder?” he took a step toward her and Feyre, finally displaying some sense, stumbled back. It made the faerie laugh.

“There’s that famed human courage. Come, now. With your handsome warrior, surely this is an easy feat? One more High Lord in exchange for a little magical assistance to…?”

“Night,” Rhys offered when Feyre pressed her lips together. They were destined to be at odds, too helpful when the other remained silent. The faeries eyes lit up with delight.

“Night? Well, if you plan to face the winged nightmares of that land and the fearsome creature who sits upon their throne, Autumn will be good practice.”

Feyre’s scowl made her usually lovely features ugly in turn. “Is this the only way you’ll let us pass?”

The faerie pretended to think before nodding. “Yes. I think you’re much better sword fodder than myself, pretty as you are. Stay in the nearby village today and rest. See what this curse has done to my people—”

“We don’t care about faerie trash,” Rhys snarled, tired of the monologuing fae.

“No,” he sneered, eyes sweeping over the pair of them with disdain. “I would imagine not. Still, this is the only way you leave Autumn alive. Shall I give you a moment to think it over?”

“Fey–”

“We’ll do it,” Feyre said before Rhysand could stop her. His eyes traveled skyward, fingers clenching to angry fists. He heard the hiss of air escape that fae lord, could all but taste his delight.

“Excellent. Here—a room, on me. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. I hope they teach humans how to read,” he added, drawing Rhys’s attention back to his form. He was grinning sharply, his amusement plain. “Our High Lord is a little less brutish.”

And then, with a snap of cold wind, he was gone. Rhys had to blink his eyes to adjust to the magic, wrinkling his nose against the metallic stench. Only then, alone in a blanket of leaves, did he round on Feyre Archeron.

She was faster. Blade in hand, she pressed one hand to his chest, slamming him so hard against an ancient oak the whole thing shook a rainbow of foliage around them. Rhys bared his teeth as the jagged end of her dagger pressed against his throat. Knee against his balls, Rhys felt as if he was losing his mind. She smelled of pear and lilac and her hair caught copper beneath a soft shaft of sunlight.

Her eyes swore she hated him. “How long will you continue to contradict me?” she demanded.

Despite his pounding heart, Rhys forced himself to relax. “Harder, Feyre darling.” She pulled away with a disgusted sound, sheathing her blade. Rhys could still feel the heat of her body, could still feel the threatening kiss of her knife. He raised his wrist before she could go too far, jerking her roughly with their shared chain that she fell backwards to the ground.

“If you kill me, you’ll be dragging my dead body to your precious sisters,” he snapped, striding toward her to press his booted foot against her stomach. He supposed he was a little angry with her, after all. “Aligning with that faerie was a mistake.”

“I know it was,” she snapped, shoving him off her. “But he wasn’t going to let us through if we didn’t agree. You don’t know how ruthless the Vanserra’s can be.”

“And you do?”

Feyre’s eyes burned like falling stars. “I do.”

Rhys turned away. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Feyre said nothing at all, though Rhys suspected she felt the same. Silence settled heavy and furious around them, which made their walk through the woods all the more terrible. Rhys itched to yell at her, to scream in her face until—until what? The light went out? Until she stopped fighting him and did what he was told? Until he couldn’t tell the difference between himself and his father?

He swallowed, forcing himself to count his breaths. So, she’d tricked him. No one had ever done that before and it wounded him a little. Okay, it wounded him a lot. He’d spent too much time trying to fight her, and not enough time being smart. If he wanted out, he’d need to focus on something other than how much he hated Feyre Archeron.

He did take some comfort in the thought of abandoning her in Prythain. Leave her to the fae she knew so much about—that she’d foolishly made a bargain with in the first place. He didn’t care about the elder Archerons, and at that point in their walk, Rhys was willing to go home, cap in hand, and apologize to his father.

Well.

Almost.

They found the village almost by accident. Rhys expected to find it on the outskirts of the forest, built by a river he swore he heard gushing somewhere in the distance. Instead, the two merely stumbled onto the cobblestone street from the forest itself. Built among the trees, the thatched, pointed rooftops and rambling carriages felt so enchanted that Rhys had to take a step backward. Loamy earth mixed with the scent of hot metal and cooking bread wound around him, threading into his chest where it settled beside his beating heart.

“Come on,” Feyre grumbled, tugging him forward. She didn’t bother concealing the chain between them, which drew more than a few curious looks among the peasants. In some way, he could have been back in his own village. He recognized the nicer, larger homes set slightly apart from the main road. He saw underfed children with big, glazed eyes and men with twisted spines hobbling toward whatever job they’d work until they died.

It was nothing like the village they’d visited in Spring.

What a terrible way to spend immortality, he thought.

Feyre’s expression was hard, likely thinking of her own life back home. She was no stranger to hunger, to the kind of poverty that existed even among the beautiful faeries Rhys detested so much. And though he wanted to hate them, he found himself pitying them, too. They were no better than his own people, who were too exhausted and broken to ever consider revolting.

This was worse, he supposed. At least the Queens who appointed the ruling governors were human. Whatever ruled these people was a monster—enough so that his own son was willing to beg humans to kill him.

No one dared to come close, eyeing the sword over his shoulder and their distinct, human features. Feyre’s eyes swept over them, her lips pressed in a thin line. He understood their wariness of him—he was tall, he was broad, and he was built to slaughter their kind. Feyre was slight and looked, in his opinion, easy to kill.

It was their humanness that bothered him, he realized. They’d checked into the inn Vanserra had promised them while the faerie at the counter tried very hard not to meet their gaze or touch them.

“Filth,” the faerie hissed when Feyre took the key. Feyre winced in response, her shoulders sagging. Rhys reached for a dagger strapped to his thigh and slammed it to the wooden counter in warning. He’d intended to tell that faerie to take their words back, but the creature scuttled out of sight, soaked in fear.

“Coward,” he grumbled, sheathing his blade.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Feyre whispered, turning her back to the crowded room of patrons drinking and eating among the wooden tables and booths.

“They should be grateful we’re here,” he disagreed. “Maybe their lives won’t be so miserable once their monstrous High Lord is dead.”

“Or maybe we trade one monster for another,” she mused, stopping at the door with a silver seven on it.

Rhys had been about to ask her what she knew about the eldest Vanserra when that door swung open.

One bed.

A small bed, the sort that would force the two of them to sleep close. Neither of them moved for a whole moment, both thinking the exact same thing.

“I’ll take the floor,” he told her, not thinking about the chain around his wrist until Feyre raised her arm.

“Like this? All night?”

He opened his mouth to say, better than sleeping beside you. But he remembered how she’d been called filth, how people were too afraid to say it to him, but unafraid to say it to her and he stopped.

“We need to just…” Feyre took a breath. “We need to get used to being close to each other.”

“Great. Shall we bathe then, darling?”

A scowl slid over her features. “We can bathe in the river.”

“And pass up hot water?” he replied, unwilling to let this go. “You can bathe in the river, but I’ll be using soap and maybe even bubbles tonight.”

“You will not—”

“You can sit beside the tub…or climb in with me—”

Feyre shoved him hard in the chest. “You made your point, Rhysand.”

“I’m being serious. You don’t want to sleep next to me without a bath.”

“I don’t want to sleep beside you at all!” she snapped. “Must you make everything so awful?”

“We could have been friends,” he lied, certain Feyre had never had a friend a day in her life. “You’re the one who put a leash on me.”

She had no rebuttal to that.

They came into the room silently, disarming themselves while trying their best to ignore the other. Rhys hadn’t been lying about the bath, hidden behind a door that didn’t lock all the way. Feyre kept her back turned while he stripped to nothing. His armor unclipped easily, but the shirt beneath hung between the chain, which he supposed meant he’d be wearing until he was free of her.

Maybe he’d taunt her with a day of washing it, parading around shirtless just to piss her off. He did groan when he folded his body into the small, claw tub. The hot water was a different sort of magic. Rhys almost felt human again, like his own man as he settled himself beneath the gushing tap. Feyre sat on the floor, wrist propped behind her while she faced the wall so she didn’t have to look at him.

Rhys flicked water at her cheek. “Are you always so serious?”

“What’s the alternative? Cracking jokes while we plan to kill a High Lord?”

“It is a little funny, when you think about it,” Rhys said, back against the cool porcelain. “They hate us and yet they need us.”

“Hilarious,” she said dryly.

“Oh, come on,” Rhys tried, sinking lower into the water to soak his hair. “Tell me something you do think is funny.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you wanted to be here so badly to begin with,” Feyre said instead, almost twisting to look at him. She seemed to realize at the last moment that he was naked and in the bath, which was for the best. It had been all fun and games to suggest she sit in here while he bathed, but the reality was Feyre was beautiful.

And Rhys was stupid.

“I preferred the silence, actually–”

“Let me guess,” Feyre pressed, tapping her pointer finger to her chin. “Your father wants you to get married, right? And, stop me if I’m wrong, you’ve decided you’d rather hunt faerie than take a wife.”

“That’s hardly a guess. The whole village has been discussing it,” Rhys snapped, running soap through his hair. “And so what if I don’t want a wife? I don’t imagine you’d enjoy having someone announce you were going to be married, would you? Or just deciding who that person would be without a care about your own feelings?”

“It’s just a little cliched, don’t you think? The handsome lord doesn’t want a wife—”

“Handsome lord?” he interrupted, leaning over the tub so water dripped beside them. Feyre looked up, skittering away when she realized how close his face was. “Tell me more about how good looking I am, darling.”

“Get fucked, Rhysand.”

“Maybe I will,” he said with a smile, settling back into the bath. “We’re in the same bed tonight, after all.”

“I’d rather die.”

He hummed in response.

Hating himself just a little, for liking that Feyre Archeron thought he was handsome.

Rhys did not get fucked that evening. He also just barely got any good sleep. Sharing that small bed was miserable given they had to either face each other or lay on their backs, which wasn’t possible. Rhys couldn’t sleep, thinking Feyre was staring at him. He woke himself up constantly, surprised to find her so close, her nose scrunched from whatever terrible dreams plagued her.

Neither one of them spoke when the sun rose. It was awkward, he thought, and for the first time in his life, Rhys didn’t know what to say to Feyre. He strapped his weapons back to his body before making his way back into the open tavern.

“Eat,” he told her, eyeing the faerie doling out food until he held two plates, along with a decanter of tepid water.

“Rhys,” she murmured, eyes darting around that stifling room nervously.

“It saves us rations,” he said, digging in despite his own concerns about the food. He’d been warned his entire life not to eat the fae’s food, not to drink their wine, and to never trust them.

Too late, he supposed, taking that first bite. He had to suppress a groan. It was good. It was possible Rhys was just starving and exhausted of dried meat and fruit, but fuck that morning meal of sausages and beans and eggs and potatoes was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Feyre inhaled her food like he did, eyes on her cutlery.

She was also the first to rise. “Ready?”

No. Rhys offered her a lazy smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

But he was nervous. They’d just barely escaped Spring. What, he wondered, were the odds they survived six more monsters? Something told him that like the territory from before, the beauty of Autumn was deceptive. At least there were no spring flowers, no pretty people. The exhaustion on the villagers faces mingled with the smell of rotting leaves, prickling over his skin. It was a warning he would have been smart to heed. Walking out of the village felt very much like a death march. Even Feyre was more somber than usual, her fingers constantly reaching for the bow slung over her shoulder as if to reassure herself it was still there.

The red haired bastard was waiting in the same place as before. He didn’t look so slick today. Eyes only for Feyre, his fair skin seemed sallow and there was a fresh bruise darkening one of his sharp cheekbones. Some of his auburn hair was standing askew, which could have been from the blustery wind around them, though Rhys suspected it was from raking his fingers through it nervously.

“Eris,” Feyre said coolly. He nodded, clenching his jaw before plastering a smarmy smirk against his features.

“Sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” Rhys lied. Eris’s amber eyes flicked in his direction. He snapped his fingers, calling up a quiver of arrows.

“Faebane,” he told Feyre, taking a step toward her. Rhys angled his body before her, forcing Eris to hand him the arrows.

“Your dog is protective.”

Rhys only smiled, matching that look on Eris’s face. “Any other words of wisdom for us?”

Eris’s expression turned flat. “Don’t die.”

Rhys turned to hand Feyre the quiver of arrows as Eris lunged, fingers gripping them both. Rhys might have shoved him back, but a rip in the world yanked them both forward. Feyre gasped a moment before crushing blackness threatened to crush them both. He reached for her blindly, drawing her against him.

It was over with a breath, depositing them both before a sprawling estate cut into the hilly landscape. Eris remained on his feet while Feyre and Rhys lay against the dewy grass, Rhys’s arm still flung around her.

“Prick!” Feyre hissed, and Rhys was mostly confident, though not entirely, that she was speaking to Eris.

“I can’t go any further,” he told them, his face leached of all its remaining color. “But Beron is inside. You’ll have to solve his puzzle in order to reach him.”

Rhys rose to his feet, helping Feyre as well.

“I’ll be waiting,” Eris added, some amount of earnestness crossing his features.

“Don’t betray us,” Feyre warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, cursebreaker.”

And then he was gone. Rhys had the sense Eris didn’t go far—he swore he could feel those unnaturally bright eyes watching from the trees in the distance.

“Maybe we should kill him, too,” Rhys grumbled. Feyre was too busy staring at the palace before them, built both long and tall. The gnarled wood made it seem as though it were made of the very forest they’d just been ripped from, though it spidered into nothing at the top, devoid of the vivid colors that might have made it feel alive.

Rhys wondered if the ankle deep sea of leaves had once belonged to the palace. Feyre took a breath, swallowing hard. Rhys had to stop himself from grabbing her hand, unsure where the urge even came from.

They made their way up a path to a massive, curved door carved with the effigy of a vicious, scaled dragon. Rhys reached for the iron ring, intending to push inside, but the beast blinked open jeweled eyes.

His heart took off in his chest as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It wasn’t real, and yet its fanged mouth opened as the ground beneath them rumbled. Spears in door frame slid forward, glinting under the midmorning sun.

“Don’t move,” Feyre warned, her eyes sliding to their feet. They’d sprung a trap without even meaning to.

“Answer my riddle,” the beast began, those unseeing ruby eyes fixed somehow on both of them at once. “And I shall let you pass.”

The creature did not need to explain what would happen if they failed. Feyre squared her shoulder, chin lifting.

“Tell us.”

“What is always old and sometimes new? Never sad, but sometimes blue. Never empty, but sometimes full? Never pushes, always pull.”Silence settled over them. Rhys glanced at Feyre, who looked up at him. Did she know? How long did they have to answer? He took a breath.

“The moon.”

There was a grinding of stone that did make him reach for her, gripping her wrist as he waited for whatever came next. The spears in the archway retreated back into the wood, and the door creaked open of its own accord.

They both exhaled, swallowing hard.

“Do you think that is the worst of it?” Rhys asked her, certain these little tests would make him insane before they ever found the creature that was waiting for them.

“No,” Feyre whispered, looking around the palace with wonder. Rhys imagined it had once been beautiful. Chandeliers and sconces that had once likely illuminated the palace were unlit and gathering cobwebs. Arching stairs and snaking halls splintered off in new directions, while their shoes betrayed the path they walked from accumulated dust.

He could have spent a week exploring that place and likely never seen everything. Feyre did pause at a portrait of a beautiful, auburn haired woman staring blankly back at them. Rhys thought there was something distinctly sad about her russet colored eyes, though maybe that was his own fear reflected back at him.

“Where are we going?”

“Down, I think,” Feyre murmured, turning from that portrait to another door. Another dragon, another iron ring.

Another puzzle. This time, when ruby bright eyes opened and a mouth filled with sharp teeth opened, Rhys wasn’t so afraid. Even when the ground shook and spikes from the ceiling began to inch themselves lower, he didn’t shrink, if only because neither did Feyre.

Though his heart was still racing. It made it harder to concentrate as that dragon offered to let them pass so long as they solved his riddle.

“This thing, all things devour- birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stone to meal. Slays kings, ruins towns, beats high mountains down.”

Feyre glanced at the spikes overhead. “Time,” she said, clenching her fists at her side.

The spikes retracted and the door opened. He’d expected it to lead them down into a damp dungeon where whatever horror was hopefully chained to a wall and easy to slaughter. He certainly didn’t expect a sun bathed corridor crusted in topaz and emerald. Yellows and orange and green spilled over the buckled floor beneath them, tracing the path of giant, ancient tree roots that had begun to reclaim the palace. Glass from the wall of windows was long gone, allowing the nipping chill to pour around them, enveloping them both like a cloak.

Rhys might have reveled in the chaotic beauty had he not found that weathered pile of bones. Someone had been here before them—and someone had made it just across the long hall before whatever killed them did so with crushing force.

Feyre had seen them, too. Splintered and bleached from years—maybe decades—laying in the sun.

Another door, another dragon with ruby eyes. Rhys’s mouth was dry, his boots mere inches from the bones. Feyre, too, was so, so pale. Like she didn’t expect them to survive this test. Rhys took a breath and waited.

“A thing there is whose voice is one;

Whose feet are four, and two, and three.

So mutable a thing is none,

That moves in earth, and sky, and sea.

When on most feet this thing doth go,

Its strength is weakest and its pace most slow.”

Rhys turned to Feyre, eyes wide as he repeated the words in his head. Ignoring the grinding beneath his feet, Rhys closed his eyes and tried to imagine this creature. To swallow his own nerves and focus on the words.

Feyre screamed. Overhead, ground stone rained down on them, betraying what had happened to the bones at his feet. The ceiling was slowly making its way toward them. Rhys had a vision of their bones laying among the pile, snapped and shattered as a new adventurer, sent by the terrible Vanserra son, came to die just like they did.

“Rhys—” she panted, reciting the riddle to him. Focus, those moonbright eyes demanded. It was hard when he could feel the ceiling brushing his hair, could feel the impending weight of his own death.

“I—”

They were both panicking. Rhys pressed his hand to the ceiling, thinking he could slow it with his own strength. He groaned, knees buckling against the sheer force of that driving wall.

“Four, then two, then three?” he asked her when Feyre grabbed his face.

“Four, two, three. What beast…?” she breathed, clearly counting every animal she knew that might transform itself, hunching like he was as the wall crept closer and closer to the ground. All Rhys could think about was his grandfather, hunched over a cane. As Rhys came to his knees, Feyre’s eyes went wife.

“Humans, it’s human!” she screamed, turning toward that sightless dragon.

The ceiling paused and then, with a scraping sound, began to draw itself back up.

“Oh, thanks the gods,” Feyre whispered, reaching for him to help him to his feet.

He only nodded, swallowing the urge to pull her against him. He just—Rhys just needed to touch someone. It didn’t matter who it was. Feyre was just there. Rhys didn’t, if only because the door swung open and this, he suspected, was their final test.

“I think I preferred being hunted by a monster,” he whispered, following her into the open, arching throne room. It had likely once been majestic, a regal seat for the creatures who ruled here. It was a scorched wreckage of melted iron and gold and wood. Fire had so clearly claimed the vast majority of the interior, twisting the throne against a raised, dark platform. Windows had been blasted from their panes, frosted beneath their feet. Rhys was careful to avoid more protruding tree roots as he surveyed the great, cavernous space.

“Rhys,” Feyre whispered, grabbing his wrist. He turned to look, surprised she was touching him, only to find her head tilted toward the ceiling. Dread swept through him as he, too, turned to look.

He should have known.

“RUN!” he ordered, but the door was locked behind them. A bellow of fury betrayed what had happened to the windows, while beating wings blew burning air in their direction. A massive orange and gold dragon was perched among the rafters, watching them with flame red eyes. All those riddles for this? Why not lead with the dragon, which was far more terrifying?

A burst of flame would have taken Feyre out had Rhys not grabbed her around the waist, using his back to shield her frame from the blast. The heat was the worst thing he’d ever felt, burning the back of his neck as they made their way toward the walls. They were going to die, and it wasn’t going to be heroic, or even particularly clean.

It would be fast, though. Eyes smarting against his burning flesh, Rhys drew his sword. Feyre had the arrows Eris had given her. There was more than just faebane laced on the shimmering gold feathers, though Rhys couldn’t say what kind of magic they’d been imbued with.

In that moment, he didn’t care.

“The wings, Feyre, shoot his wings!”

Feyre winced, sending an arrow flying into the air. Faster than his eyes could track, she had embedded one of those ash arrows into the soft leather of the dragon's wings. It roared, sending flame raining back down on them. He needed Feyre to damage that other wing, to bring the beast to the ground where he might embed his sword into its soft underbelly. That was the only reason he covered her with his body again, groaning loudly under the burn against his neck and scalp. Feyre leaned over him once the blast stopped, back pressed to the scorched wall behind them. Red cheeked, Feyre let another arrow fly.

“Get up,” she ordered, though Rhys didn’t particularly want to. Not when he heard the beast roar in pain before slamming so hard to the floor it made his teeth rattle. Feyre had already notched another arrow, holding it against chapped, raw lips as her eyes darted between the High Lord and Rhys.

Terrible, world-ruining laughter erupted from that thing. “Pathetic humans,” he growled, talons ripping into the floor beneath her. The dragon tried—and failed—to lift his terrible, glittering wings and take flight again. Blood dripped around him in viscous black puddles that threatened to turn Rhys’s stomach. It was nothing like the gash on Feyre’s forehead, reopened from their first fight to streak down her face a bright, wet red.

This was twisted, ugly and rotten just like the creature in front of them.

Rhys spun his blade in his hand. At the same time Feyre loosed an arrow into the creatures eye, distracting it just long enough for Rhys to surge forward.

“The neck, you need to—”

“Don’t scream it at me!” Rhys shouted back, well aware she was telling the monster exactly what he meant to do. Feyre unleashed another arrow, hitting the writhing dragon squarely in his smoking snout. Rhys ached, was certain this was the moment he’d be eaten even as he raised his blade. Another arrow hit the beast in the face, splattering Rhys with more of that thick, warm, inky blood. He spat, fingers bruised around the hilt of his blade, and plunged it into the gold scaled neck.

It wouldn’t be enough, though despite Feyre having screamed their plan, he did manage to still the monster just long enough to twist his blade. More blood poured to the floor, drenching him until Rhys was all but coated.

“Keep going!” Feyre screamed from somewhere in the distance. Rhys was only half present, choking in the foul stench of the dying beast. He understood he needed to take the head entirely.

Pulling out his blade, Rhys watched that limp neck flop to the floor, still attached to the High Lord who had once been so wholly unkillable.

Feyre had come into view, another arrow notched on her bow.

“You,” the creature gasped, dull eyes sliding from Rhys to Feyre. “You will not survive this.”

The warning of the first monster settled back in Rhys’s mind.

Two down. Five to go.

With a roar, Rhys brought his sword up over his head, severing the dragon's head from its neck. It was not a clean death. The creature gurgled in pain, choking on its own foul blood before it finally perished. Rhys had to cut through sinew and bone, all of which took an immeasurable amount of strength.

He was exhausted when he managed to pull his blade away, staggering backwards only to nearly slip into more blood.

“I need to get out of here,” Rhys said, certain he’d vomit if he had to breathe in the rotting smell of faerie filth for even another moment. Feyre came with him, slinging her bow over her shoulder with one hand while the other reached for his arm. They came out together—no riddles, no pressing walls or monsters. Just crisp, fresh air and a tingling against his hand that told him the mark that had been inked when he’d killed the beast of spring had expanded.

He’d look at it later.

“I take back what I said,” he groaned, eyes sweeping over the undisturbed landscape.

“About?”

“I think I would like a bath in the river.”

Feyre cracked a smile, the first he’d ever seen. Rhys was given no time to appreciate it, or the fact that, improbably, they were both still alive. Eris Vanserra had materialized before them, crowned in burnished leaves and all but glowing with power.

He smiled, though there was little warmth to his gaze. Rhys was still clutching his bloodied sword in hand, primed to kill this faerie, too.

“Well, well, well,” Eris purred. “Look what you’ve done.”

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #feyre x rhysand #feysand fanfic #sorry this took me so long

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