azrielstherapist - Tumblr blog

azrielstherapist · 3 months ago

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Where Wildflowers Don't Grow

Pairings: Reader x Eris; Nesta x Eris

Themes: Friendship and love intertwined; betrayal and heartbreak; healing and self-discovery; the symbolism of seasons as emotional stages (clever right?)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

SPRING

Before the fall. Before the frost. There was us.

We met in the thaw of things.

The snow hadn’t yet melted from the edges of the Windhaven cliffs, but the world had already begun to bloom again when I first found them, Eris, firelight bottled behind unreadable eyes, and Nesta, the storm’s silence made flesh. We were three separate wounds, bruised by different hands, drawn together like the last wildflowers clinging to a cracked valley.

I don’t know who said it first, maybe it was Eris, with a smirk that tried to mask sincerity, or Nesta, when the moonlight softened her edges, but someone said we fit. That there was something divine in the way we just worked.

We didn’t call it healing. That word felt too final. Too neat.

No, what we had was survival turned sanctuary.

Nights spent tangled in blankets at the House of Wind, the three of us talking until the sky bruised with morning. Nesta would read, her voice sharp and lyrical; Eris would pretend not to listen, except he always remembered the lines she lingered on. And I-I would watch them, heart full and aching, and think, This is what it means to belong.

We dreamed out loud. Of a home that was ours. A cottage tucked between hills. A place where the world couldn’t reach us. Nesta would bake, I would plant wildflowers, and Eris, he'd insist on a library, not for reading, but just because he liked the idea of knowing stories lived where we did.

We laughed. Gods, how we laughed.

In that spring, we were whole, even if we were made of shattered things. We were young enough to believe that love could come later. That the ache in our chests didn’t need to be named.

That this was enough.

I remember the day Eris braided flowers into Nesta’s hair, fingers clumsy and lips curved with concentration. She swatted at him, but didn’t pull away. He claimed it was for a bet, but he never told us who he made it with.

I remember the way Nesta curled up beside me one afternoon, head on my lap, eyes closed to the golden light that filtered through the windows. She was humming, some lullaby I didn’t know, and when I reached down to brush hair from her cheek, she sighed like the world had finally let her rest.

I remember Eris handing me a cup of tea with a rare softness in his voice, something low and private, as if he was scared he might wake the ghost inside me. “You haven’t eaten,” he said. “I made this for you.”

I remember thinking I could live a thousand years in these little moments. That this would be enough to fill all the empty parts in me.

We were a constellation built of broken stars. Not perfect, but ours.

We spent one whole day walking through fields of daffodils outside Velaris, daring each other to roll down the hills like children. Nesta refused, naturally, but I caught her smiling when Eris and I tumbled down like fools. I had grass in my hair and bruises on my knees, and it was the happiest I’d felt in years.

He helped me up. His hand lingered. I didn’t think anything of it then.

I didn’t need to.

In spring, we were a promise. Innocent in our damage. Sacred in our closeness.

We didn’t yet know how quickly petals could fall.

SUMMER

We mistook the sun for safety. We mistook the warmth for permanence.

It started with a touch that lingered too long.

A hand at the small of my back, guiding me through a crowded market. Fingers brushing mine as we passed a bottle between us. Eyes that held mine a heartbeat too long, like he was searching for something only I had the answer to.

Eris had always been flame. Controlled. Contained. Too sharp, too clever, too dangerous to hold without getting burned.

But in the summer, he softened for me.

And I let myself believe he always would.

We kissed under starlight the first time, drunk on wine and firelight, laughter spilling from our lips. Nesta had gone to bed early, tired from training, and Eris and I had wandered outside without meaning to.

I don’t remember what we were talking about, only the way he looked at me. Like I was something rare. Like I wasn’t just another broken thing.

He said my name once, quiet and reverent. Then he kissed me like he already knew how it would end.

And I kissed him back like I didn’t care.

It wasn’t secret, not really.

Nesta noticed. Of course she did. But she never said a word, only smiled, that soft, rare kind of smile she saved for the people she trusted.

“I always thought you’d find someone who saw you,” she told me once, curled beside me on the floor of the House of Wind, her fingers absentmindedly combing through my hair. “I’m glad it’s him.”

Her voice held no bitterness. Just quiet joy. That was Nesta, steel and smoke, but when she loved you, it was with all of her. No half-measures.

I never feared her. Never once thought she’d be the one to break me.

She wasn’t.

She just… happened to be there when everything shattered.

Eris and I moved like gravity pulled us closer each day. He wasn’t perfect, he was distant sometimes, moody, always carrying a fire he didn’t quite know how to name, but with me, he tried. He opened. Let me see the boy beneath the flame.

He laughed more. He stayed longer. He let himself be held.

And in those moments, I believed we were safe.

We were still a trio. Still us. We danced in the Summer Solstice together, drunk on golden wine, twirling through faelight with flowers in our hair. Nesta spun me in a circle and I spun her back, both of us shrieking with laughter as Eris watched, bemused and warm.

We had a picnic by the river one afternoon, and I remember thinking: We made it. All those nights we dreamed of peace, this was it. We were living it. No wars. No courtly obligations. No masks.

Just us.

Just love.

In summer, everything felt possible. The nights were long. The sun always came back. We didn’t question the heat.

Not yet.

AUTUMN

He didn’t leave all at once. He unraveled in pieces, and I tried to hold each one.

It began with the silence.

Not a cruel kind. Just… longer pauses between words. Eyes that lingered elsewhere. Nights where he didn’t come home until the fire had long since burned out.

He stopped writing me little notes. Stopped tracing lazy circles on my arm as we lay tangled in bed. He kissed me, still, but not like before. It was habit now. Familiarity. Like saying goodbye without speaking the word.

I told myself it was stress. Politics. Pressure. A phase. I lied to myself because the truth felt colder than the changing wind.

Nesta noticed, of course.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just sat with me more often, her presence a quiet anchor. We shared long walks along the cliffs again, like we used to in spring. She asked how I was sleeping. If I’d eaten. If Eris had said anything.

He hadn’t.

He said less and less each day.

One night, I asked him.

We were sitting on the roof of the House, legs dangling over the edge, the city below lit in dying gold. The air smelled like rain and burnt leaves.

“Are you tired of me?” I asked, the question barely a whisper.

He flinched, barely. But enough.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m tired of everything.”

That hurt more than a no.

We stopped laughing. We stopped planning. The cottage we once dreamed of sat collecting dust in some imaginary field we never visited again.

He’d brush past me now and barely meet my gaze. I’d press my fingers to my chest some nights just to feel the echo of where he used to hold me.

I don’t know when he started confiding in her.

Nesta.

I didn’t even see it at first, because there was no betrayal in her eyes. No flicker of guilt. Just kindness. Familiarity.

And why wouldn’t he talk to her? She understood his shadows better than I ever could. They both had edges made of old fire.

I wanted to be angry. But I wasn’t.

I was just cold.

We walked home together once, the three of us. The leaves crunching under our feet, golden and blood-red. Eris walked between us, hands in his pockets, silent. Nesta told a story about something Cassian had said at training. I laughed too hard. It felt fake.

Eris didn’t laugh at all.

He broke up with me in the garden.

The same garden where I had planted the first wildflowers of spring.

“I think I lost myself,” he said.

I asked if he loved me. He didn’t answer.

I watched him walk away.

Nesta stood at the edge of the garden, not moving, not speaking. Just waiting. I knew she hadn’t asked for this. I knew she never would have taken him from me.

But there she was. And there he went, right to her.

In autumn, everything fades. Not in fire. Not in fury. But in quiet steps away from what used to be.

WINTER

No one tells you grief is not a scream but a silence so deep you start to forget your own name.

They didn’t tell me.

I had to see it, in the way his hand found hers too easily, in the way they looked at each other like I hadn’t just shattered in the space between them.

There was no kiss. No betrayal with lips.

But betrayal doesn’t need skin to touch skin. It only needs a choice.

And they chose each other.

My heartbreak wasn’t one single, clean break, it was slow. First the distance. Then the quiet. Then the way his gaze started slipping past me, as if I was just a shape, not the girl he once called his beginning.

He told me he was sorry. That he didn’t expect it. That it wasn’t about me.

But it’s always about you when you’re the one being left.

Nesta cried when I found out.

Not because she regretted it.

Because she hated that it hurt me.

As if her guilt could bandage the wound she carved open.

She said she didn’t mean for it to happen. That they were just talking. That it was confusing.

But love isn’t math. You don’t accidentally solve for someone else while breaking the person who trusted you with everything.

I left before she could explain again.

There are only so many times you can let someone apologize for setting you on fire.

Eventually, you just have to stop standing in the smoke.

I stopped writing. Stopped showing up. Stopped trying to be okay.

The garden froze. The wildflowers didn’t come back.

Neither did I.

Winter is not rage. It’s not screaming or slamming doors. Winter is what happens after. When no one knocks. When the silence doesn’t ache anymore - it just is.

EARLY SPRING

The first thing to come back is the sound. The birds. The river. Your own breath, no longer caught in your chest.

For months, the world had been hushed.

Grief made everything quiet, too quiet. Like walking through snow, soundless and slow, where even your own footsteps feel wrong.

But this morning, I heard the river again.

The melt had begun. Ice turning to water. Air turning to song. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t turn away from the sound.

I stood by the edge of the bank with the sun on my skin and let it soak in. Let it remind me that I was still here. Still breathing.

And I didn’t miss them.

Not in the way I used to.

The garden hadn’t forgotten me.

It waited, patient as grief. Under the dead leaves and brittle stems, the earth was shifting, softening. Something new was reaching up. Tentative. Pale. Brave.

I knelt with dirty hands and a silent apology, whispering thanks to roots that had survived a season I almost didn’t.

There, in the corner, a wildflower I never planted. Blue. Small. Stubborn.

I laughed. Not loud, not long. But it felt real.

Nesta wrote me again.

This time, I read the letter. It wasn’t an apology. Not really. It was just… honest. She wrote about love and mistakes and the ache of being two people at once: the one who hurt, and the one who didn’t mean to.

She told me she missed me.

And I believe her.

But I still didn’t write back.

Forgiveness is not a door you open for someone else. It’s a window you crack open so you can finally breathe.

And I’m just now learning how to breathe.

Eris… I don’t know what to say about him anymore.

I loved him.

I think he loved me too, in the only way he knew how, which wasn’t enough, not really. Maybe I loved the idea of him more than the man.

Maybe he loved the girl I used to be.

We were trying to fill wounds with one another. That kind of love burns fast and dies hard. No wonder it ended in ash.

There’s no new love. Not yet.

But there is space. And light. And mornings that no longer feel like punishment.

There is music again in my home. Not our songs. Not his. Just mine.

There is tea in the cupboard and an open window in the kitchen.

There is the quiet joy of being alone, and not being lonely.

I’m not healed.

But healing isn’t about becoming who you were before. It’s about choosing who you’ll become after.

And today, I choose me.

A/N: I was listening to Wildflower by Billie Eilish and wondered what the story would be like from the best friend’s point of view. So, here’s that perspective. Thanks for reading. Hope you find some wildflowers among the heartbreak.

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

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No One Like You [Ch.5]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

You, an apothecary in Velaris, isn’t interested in saving anyone, least of all him. You have your own secrets and scars to carry. When your paths cross, something shifts. Something neither of you is ready for.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize, whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: SOOOOOO Chapter 5 served to you guys. I'm still trying to understand which path to take for this series.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pls let me know, it means a lot to me seeing your feedbacks in the comments. <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

The morning clung to me like fog — quiet, cold, unshaken.

Velaris was still in the early light, the kind of stillness that presses soft against the skin, like breath before a kiss. The air smelled like wet stone and river wind, the kind that seeps into your coat no matter how tightly you button it.

I hadn’t really slept. Not in the way that left you rested.

The dream still curled around my spine like smoke, silk turned to chains, whispers to commands. It clung, stubborn and unseen, and no matter how many times I told myself it was just a nightmare, my bones knew better. My ribs ached from the memory of breathing wrong inside it.

I pulled my scarf higher, tugged my sleeves over my hands like armor.

Lord Waffles walked beside me, his little paws silent on the damp cobbles, tail high like a banner of defiance. He hadn’t left me all night. Curled tight at my side, vibrating with purrs like spells meant to ward off monsters.

I don’t know how he knew. But he always knew.

“Thanks for staying,” I murmured to him as we walked. “Even if you drool in your sleep.”

“Mrrrp,” he replied-offended, possibly. Dramatic, definitely.

I gave him a sidelong glance. “That was a compliment.”

He blinked at me, slow and unimpressed.

I smiled despite myself, one of those small, reluctant things that feel borrowed.

The Apothecary waited at the end of the street, shutters closed, ivy twined around the doorframe. The wood was damp under my fingers as I unlocked it, the bell above the door letting out its usual sleepy chime as I stepped inside.

Felt almost like home.

The scent of rosemary and lavender and the old wood of the counter wrapped around me like a welcome. Lord Waffles leapt up to his usual post - a patch of counter worn smooth where the morning sun would soon fall. He circled once, twice, then flopped down like a prince surveying his realm.

“Don’t act like you own the place.”

A flick of the tail.

I lit the hearth. Opened the windows just a crack. My hands moved automatically - setting jars straight, sweeping invisible dust, rearranging the bundles of dried calendula I’d already sorted yesterday.

It was easier to move than to sit still with my thoughts.

The bell above the door gave its usual, cheerful chime. Lord Waffles, curled in his spot near the hearth, flicked his ear but didn’t move.

I looked up, expecting another traveler or an old widow.

Instead, I found familiar amber eyes.

“Back again?” I asked, unable to hide the smile tugging at my lips.

“I told you I would be,” said Mara, the younger female from a few days ago - the one with the limp and the sharp wit. She made her way over with more ease than last time, her walking stick tapping softly on the floor. “Whatever you gave me worked. I slept like the dead and woke up with legs I could actually feel again.”

“I did say it would help.”

“You undersold it. I felt like I could’ve run a mile.”

“Please, don’t do that,” I warned, grinning.

She leaned on the counter and gave Lord Waffles a scratch under the chin. “You’ve got a shadow now.”

“He’s decided I’m his emotional support human.”

Mara snorted. “He’s got good instincts.”

There was a quiet moment - one of those pauses that stretches just long enough to be noticed.

She tilted her head. “You look tired.”

I blinked. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean - It’s just… you always look calm. Even when you’re elbow-deep in someone’s bruised pride or bleeding mess. But today your eyes look like you’ve been somewhere else.”

I hesitated. My fingers trailed absently along the edge of the counter. “Dreams. That’s all.”

“The bad kind?”

I nodded.

Mara looked at me for a moment. Then, softer: “I have them too. You don’t need to tell me, but, I get it.”

I met her eyes. That understanding there, it almost undid me.

She bought a small satchel of tea and left me with a smile that felt like the end of something unfinished.

The rest of the day passed in hums and flickers: a mother with a colicky baby, a scholar with joint pain from too many hours bent over books, a young male who stammered through asking for help with his “night performances” and left bright red, clutching a discreet brown vial.

It was afternoon. When the bell above the door rang softly.

I didn’t look up at first. My hands were wrist-deep in a mortar, grinding dried valerian root into a fine dust. Lord Waffles, currently stationed in a sunlit puddle by the front window, twitched an ear but didn’t move. Not a threat, then. Probably.

“Good morning,” came a voice. Male. Smooth. Slightly accented, not quite Velaris, not quite Day Court either. Something older. Borderland. Familiar.

I glanced up.

He was tall and square-shouldered, the sort of build shaped by years of combat. Weathered skin. A travel-worn cloak still dusted with dry soil. His eyes flicked across the room quickly, assessing. Habits that don’t fade easily.

“Looking for something in particular?” I asked, brushing the fine powder into a jar.

“Just… browsing,” he said, offering a polite smile as he stepped further in. “I heard of this little place from a merchant in the Sidra district. Said the potions here were strong. Real strong.”

I hummed softly. “Word of mouth tends to exaggerate.”

“Not in my experience,” he replied with a grin. “I used to work with healers during the war. Hybern side, but that was a lifetime ago.”

My hand paused. Just for a moment.

“Ah,” I said carefully, and gestured toward the shelf by the far wall. “Salves and pain-relievers there. Sleep aids and memory tonics to your left.”

“Thanks,” he said, wandering over. “Gods, it’s strange being back in this city. Never thought I’d see it again. We weren’t exactly welcome guests, you know?”

I made a small sound in my throat - neither agreement nor denial - and began sealing the jar with more force than necessary.

“Different times, though,” he went on, pulling a bottle from the shelf. “Dark times. I wasn’t proud of everything we did. Served under one of the generals… forget his name. Young bastard. Powerful. Obsessed with control. He had a mate, too. Poor thing. Always quiet. Always scared. Pretty, though. Real pretty.”

I smiled. Thin. Paper-thin. “Repentance is rare. I’m sure the Mother appreciates it.”

He didn’t seem to catch the edge in my voice. Or maybe he did, but chose not to acknowledge it.

“I’ve tried,” he said simply. “Left the army. Spent time in temples, even. Started over. Everyone deserves a second chance, right?”

“Depends what they did with their first.”

He laughed. It was a real laugh, and somehow that made my skin crawl more.

I reached for the slip of parchment to tally the cost of his tincture. “One silver and two coppers.”

He handed them over without argument. “Thanks, miss. May the Cauldron bless your craft.”

I inclined my head, and watched him leave.

Only when the door clicked shut and his footsteps vanished down the cobbled street did I allow myself to breathe again. Lord Waffle stood and padded over, tail swishing.

“I know,” I murmured, sinking onto the stool behind the counter, heart pounding in my throat. “I know.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The rain had started to pour again.

Soft flurries curled across the cobbles like drifting lace, catching in the corners of my windows. I hadn’t moved from behind the counter since the man left. Not really. I’d reorganized a shelf that didn’t need it, steeped herbs I wasn’t low on, and lit a candle whose scent I usually hated.

Lord Waffles sat like a sentry on the sill, gaze fixed beyond the glass.

When the doorbell chimed again, I startled. Too loud. Too soon. I wasn’t ready.

But it was him.

Rhys stepped inside with that same easy grace, eyes sweeping the room before they landed on me.

Something flickered behind his gaze. Not the usual glint of teasing curiosity. This was sharper. Calmer.

“Afternoon,” he said softly, brushing snow from the shoulders of his coat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be open.”

“I’m always open,” I murmured, voice raspier than I liked.

He moved closer, the air shifting gently with the scent of lavender and cedar. “I can come back another time.”

I shook my head. “No. Stay. I…” I hesitated. “I was just about to brew a tea. Do you want some?”

He nodded. “I’d like that.”

Lord Waffles chose that moment to hop off the window and saunter toward Rhys with all the dignity of a miniature king. He sniffed the man’s boots once, then, apparently satisfied, curled up at his feet.

“Is that an endorsement?” Rhys asked, quirking a brow.

I turned toward the back to hide my smile. “He doesn’t do that for just anyone.”

As I poured water into the kettle, I could feel him behind me. Not crowding. Not watching. Just… there. Like a thread anchored to the edge of my ribs.

“What kind of tea?” he asked after a moment.

“Jasmine and mugwort. It calms the mind.”

“For me, or for you?”

My hands paused mid-stir. “Both.”

I didn’t turn. I couldn’t. The walls I’d built were too thin right now , spun glass and dried tears. If I looked at him for too long, I was afraid they’d shatter.

Rhys didn’t push. Just leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise.

“I passed a man outside,” he said after a moment. “Thick coat, scar above his brow. Looked like he’d seen battle.”

I said nothing.

I handed him the cup silently, fingers brushing his just for a second too long. He didn’t flinch. Neither did I.

He took a sip. “Thank you.”

We stood there for a while, in the hush of clinking spoons and crackling wood. Outside, snow piled gently on the sill. Inside, something fragile breathed between us, not quite peace, not quite pain.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, finally. “But I’m here when you do.”

I looked up at him then. Really looked.

His words lingered long after they left his lips.

I’m here when you do.

Kind. Gentle. Dangerous, in how easily they curled around the aching parts of me I thought I’d locked away. My gaze dipped into the shallow swirl of my tea, watching the leaves bloom like secrets I refused to name.

“I appreciate it,” I said softly. “But I don’t think I’m built for unraveling.”

A pause.

“I don’t believe that,” he replied, his voice the warmest thing in the room.

I exhaled through my nose. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The silence between us folded like fabric , soft in places, stiff in others. Tension lived in it, but not the cruel kind. This was patient tension. The sort that didn’t demand. The sort that waited.

Rhys turned his cup in his hand. “You always drink jasmine when something’s on your mind?”

I half-smiled. “When I don’t want to think too much.”

“Ah.” He took another sip. “So… always.”

I almost laughed - almost - but the sound caught somewhere behind my ribs. I watched as Lord Waffles stretched like he’d lived five lifetimes, then clambered onto Rhys’s foot as if claiming it. The cat purred, traitorous and loud.

“I think I’ve been replaced,” I muttered.

“You’ve had a good run,” Rhys said with a grin. “But your position as sole favorite might be in danger.”

I rolled my eyes, gently set my cup down. “You’re not as charming as you think.”

“I’m exactly as charming as I think.”

This time I did laugh. Quiet, real. The sound surprised me. Him too, I think. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched me like I was something rare. Something maybe worth waiting for.

I looked away first.

Rhys’s eyes lingered on me for a moment, his lips curled into a grin that softened the air between us. He reached down, gently scratching Lord Waffles’s chin, making the cat purr.

“What happened to his other eye?” Rhys asked, his voice a touch lighter.

I blinked at the sudden shift, grateful for the change in topic. “He... lost it a while ago.”

“Ah, a tragic backstory.”

I chuckled softly. “Something like that.” I leaned against the doorframe, folding my arms. “He wasn’t always the lord of my life, you know. He had a much more... rebellious start.”

“Rebellious?” Rhys raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

I nodded, the corner of my mouth lifting. “He used to be a wild stray, causing trouble wherever he went. I found him one night, just outside my shop, looking half-starved and too proud for his own good. He tried to steal my lunch, this fish pie I’d been craving all day.”

Rhys laughed.

“I almost tossed him out, but he just stared at me like he was the king of the world.” I smirked. “Eventually, I gave him a little bit of my food, thinking he’d leave. But no. He stayed. And when I tried to shoo him off, he just looked up at me with that one eye of his.” I paused, meeting Rhys’s gaze. “And the next thing I knew, he’d found a way into my life. He didn’t leave.”

“Sounds like he knew exactly what he was doing,” Rhys mused.

“Oh, he did.” I smiled softly, the memory warm but bittersweet. “As for his eye, well… a few months later, I came home to find him tangled up with a pack of wild dogs. He fought them off, but one of them got to him. I nearly lost him, but... well, he’s still here. Proud as ever, even if he’s got that scar.”

I rubbed the back of Lord Waffles’s neck, the cat purring contentedly, as if on cue.

“Brave little guy,” Rhys said with a chuckle, reaching out to give the cat another scratch behind the ears. “Sounds like he has a bit of a story himself.”

“His story is one of survival. And stubbornness,” I said with a fond smile. “I think he was meant to find me, in his own way.”

Rhys's eyes softened, and for a moment, there was a quiet understanding between us, something shared, even though the words weren't there.

“Well, I’m glad he found you,” he said, his voice sincere. “He seems like he’s got the right kind of loyalty.”

I nodded, a lump catching in my throat.

Lord Waffles seemed to sense it, nudging my hand with his head as if telling me to snap out of it.

Rhys’s voice broke through the silence, softer this time, like he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to speak, but couldn’t stop himself.

“I had a pet once,” he said, a distant look in his eyes. “When I was younger. A little creature, about the size of a fox, but with the sweetest nature. It had fur as soft as silk, its ears always perked up when my sister and I played with it.”

I tilted my head. “What happened to it?”

Rhys took a slow breath, his gaze drifting to the floor. “My father… he wasn’t too fond of pets, especially ones that weren’t ‘useful.’ We were too young to understand what we’d done wrong when it happened. We were playing with it one day—just running around the courtyard, and the creature got startled by something, maybe a noise, and ran into the stable. It knocked over a lantern, and the whole thing went up in flames.”

I winced, the weight of his words sinking into me. “Oh, no…”

His jaw tightened, his eyes darker than before. “My father said we needed to ‘discipline’ it. To ‘teach it to listen’ when we called it, so that it wouldn’t make such mistakes. He had me do it.” His voice faltered for a moment before continuing. “I had to take it to the garden and—" He broke off, exhaling.

I could see it then, the boy he had been, the unwillingness to be cruel, yet forced into it by his father’s cruelty.

“Did it... survive?” I asked softly.

Rhys looked up, “No. I... It didn’t survive.”

I couldn’t help but reach out, my hand stretching toward Rhys’s arm as if the warmth of his presence was a thread I could cling to. My fingers brushed against his skin, soft but deliberate. Something about the gesture felt right, even though I hadn’t thought it through.

He flinched at first, a sharp breath escaping him. His body was stiff under my touch, but his gaze was locked on my hand where it rested, as if unsure of how to react. His eyes darkened, something flickering behind them.

I noticed it too late.

His eyes dropped to my wrist, where the bruises, deep purple and angry red, marked my skin. I froze, the air between us thickening as he stared, his brow furrowing. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now, threaded with concern and…anger.

“Y/N,” he said, his gaze flicking back to my face, then back to the bruises. “Did someone hurt you?”

His words cut through me like a blade. My hand, still resting on his arm, pulled back quickly, as if I’d been burned. I was desperate to hide the mark, to erase it from his gaze, and I was too slow in my attempt to cover it.

"I—it's nothing," I said quickly, my voice sharper than I intended, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Just… slipped while carrying something, knocked into a shelf, it’s not a big deal."

He didn’t buy it. I saw it in the flicker of his eyes, the hesitation that tightened the corner of his lips. He opened his mouth, perhaps to ask more, but I cut him off before he could press further.

"I'm fine, really. It’s nothing to worry about," I added, my voice softer this time, trying to convince both of us.

Rhys studied me for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. But then, with a small nod, he seemed to let it go. His eyes lingered on my face, the concern in them still faint, before he glanced away.

“Alright,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I won’t press you for details, but - just know that if you need anything, I’m here.”

I nodded quickly, forcing a smile.

"Thanks," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. “But really, it’s nothing. It’s just a little clumsy moment. I’m used to it.”

He didn’t push further. Instead, Rhys just gave me a soft, understanding smile and let the subject drop, though I could tell he hadn’t forgotten.

“Well…I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time, hm?”

I blinked, realizing that I actually am feeling disappointed. I wanted him to stay.

The shop had grown quieter, the day’s energy beginning to wane. “I suppose so,” I said. “But... I’m glad you stopped by.”

Rhys hesitated at the door, looking back at me with that steady gaze. “You know where to find me, if you need anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, giving him a slight nod.

With a final glance at Lord Waffles, he stepped out, the door clicking softly behind him. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Lord Waffle leaped onto the counter, looking at me expectantly as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Don’t start,” I muttered to him. “Not now.”

But the cat just blinked slowly, his single eye gleaming in the dim light, like he knew more than I cared to admit.

A/N: I kinda feel disappointed. I don't feel really proud abouth this chapter :((

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Note

i never send things on here but i just read “Ma Meilleure Ennemie” and it was one of the most beautifully written things i have ever read. i genuinely teared up! the smut was amazing and fit with the plot so well. let me know when you publish your first novel because i’ll be the first one to buy it!

STOP IT RIGHT NOW, YOU’RE GONNA MAKE ME CRY.

Seriously though, thank you SO much, I was this close to yeeting “Ma Meilleure Ennemie” into the void because I thought the plot was held together with duct tape and sheer delusion.

I was actually super insecure about this one because I thought it didn’t flow that well, so your comment genuinely caught me off guard (in the best way). And the smut? Thank you for saying it worked, I was terrified it was giving "plot? never met her."

As for the novel, let’s just say my career path is probably headed elsewhere, but if I ever get the chance to do something with my chaotic passion for writing… I’ll remember this comment. And you’ll be getting a copy, probably with an unnecessarily dramatic post-it inside.

Thank you again, truly, this meant a lot.

#acomaf #rhysand #azriel smut #acofas #cassian smut #rhysand smut #rhysand x y/n #acosf #acotar #fanfic #people complimenting me #and i don't know how to handle compliments #I'm gonna cry #because I'm on period #and i'm hungry

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Note

THAT was your first time writing smut?? Rookie of the year and immediate hall of fame nomination 😭 But seriously, I loved the switch!reader dynamic, I hardly ever see that so it was fun to read!

THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭 I was genuinely about to delete it and retreat into a cave like a Victorian widow who just wrote something too scandalous for the ton. But now?? I’m printing your comment and framing it.

Mood: saved. Life: changed. Ego: fed. 💅💖

#azriel smut #acomaf #acofas #rhysand #rhysand x y/n #rhysand smut #cassian smut #acosf #fanfic #acotar #acotar smut #smut #azriel angst #light angst #angst with a happy ending #drabble #slow burn

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie

Pairing: Rhysand x Reader

Angst, SMUT [+18] with subplot

Themes: Angst / Bittersweet farewell; Forbidden love; Doomed mates trope; Arranged marriage; Abandonment; Reader's and Rhysand's ancestors being idiots.

TW: Oral sex (on both parts); Thigh riding; Wax play; Light breath play (consensual); Praise kink; Switch!Rhysand; Switch!Reader; Wing stimulation; Not protected penetration (p in v). [I hope I didn't forget anything else]

Inspired by Ma Meilleure Ennemie from the series Arcan, but I kinda went on my own path

https://open.spotify.com/intl-it/track/4lriIG2vNqwDWzOj2I9rtj?si=6ff44d39d476463d

The mountains kept their silence tonight.

Snow pressed itself against the wooden beams of the hidden cabin, a hush blanketing the world outside, as though even the wind did not dare to intrude. I sat by the hearth, the fire crackling low, orange light dancing in the pools of melted wax gathered at the base of the candles scattered across the room.

I hadn’t lit them for him.

That’s what I told myself, again and again, as I waited. That this light, this warmth, was for me - for the girl who would wake tomorrow and wear a stranger’s ring, offer her vows to a noble whose kiss she couldn’t remember, whose eyes never found hers in a crowded room.

But my heart had known he would come.

And when I heard the soft flutter of wings - that unmistakable grace - I didn’t flinch. I only closed my eyes and breathed him in before I even saw him.

Rhysand stepped through the doorway without knocking. As always.

The mountain cabin was too small to pretend we didn’t fill the space just by being in it. Too still to pretend our hearts weren’t beating like war drums. He was dressed in black - of course he was - though he left his leathers undone at the throat, and a few buttons on his coat hung loose, as if he’d left in haste. His hair was damp, snow clinging to his shoulders before melting against the heat of the room.

He looked… tired. Wind-tousled. Beautiful in the way broken things are beautiful, all the more painful because they’re not yours to fix.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

He only stood there, watching me from across the room like he hadn’t already mapped it in his mind, like he hadn’t kissed me against that wall three winters ago and murmured poetry into my skin until my bones went soft.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked finally, his voice a low thrum, too steady for what I knew was behind his eyes.

“No,” I said, more quickly than I meant to.

A breath passed between us.

Then another.

He walked forward, quiet as dusk, and took the chair opposite mine, the one that had once been his. That felt more like his than mine, somehow. His fingers curled over the arms of it, tense.

“I almost didn’t come,” he murmured.

“I almost didn’t wait.”

His laugh was soft, almost bitter. “You knew I would.”

I nodded. “And you knew I’d wait for you.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me like he always had, like I was the only secret worth keeping. Like he hadn’t watched me be handed away, piece by piece, until nothing of me was mine anymore.

I wondered if he could hear it, the sound of my soul pulling taut, every second stretched too long.

“You look...” He swallowed the word before it fell.

“Like someone else,” I offered.

His eyes found mine, and it was all I could do not to crumble beneath them. “No,” he said. “Like someone trying not to bleed.”

I didn’t look away. “Isn’t that what we’ve always done?”

A silence fell over us again, heavy with things we hadn’t said. Couldn’t say.

The fire cracked, sending sparks skimming across the hearthstone. Outside, the snow whispered against the walls.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. “Do you remember Solstice in Velaris?”

I smiled despite myself. “You mean the one where you stole an entire bottle of red wine from Cassian’s private stash?”

“And you said you’d never tasted anything more vile?”

“You spilled half of it on my dress,” I reminded him.

“I took it off you,” he said, voice low.

“You burned the damn thing in the fireplace.”

“You said it was ruined,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to be sad.”

It shouldn’t have made me ache. But it did, how much of him I still carried in all the quiet corners of myself. How even his worst decisions had been made for me.

I tucked my legs beneath me, the hem of my silk robe brushing the floor. I hadn’t worn it for him either.

And yet…

He stared at it for a moment too long, and when his eyes found mine again, they were darker than before.

“I thought I could do it,” I whispered. “Go through with it. Make peace with the politics of it all. Be… dutiful.”

“And now?”

“I keep hearing you in my head.” My throat tightened. “Saying my name like it meant something.”

He looked away then, just for a moment. Like the weight of it was too much.

His eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes,” I breathed. “I do.”

“I could stop the wedding.”

“You’d start a war.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

That silenced him.

I swallowed. “Don’t you see? We lose either way. This is the only way I can win something. My people stay safe. My family survives. The Night-your Court stays untouched.”

His hands dropped, slow and reluctant. He turned his face from mine, not in shame, but in agony.

“I still remember,” I said softly, fingers grazing the edge of his knuckles, “the first time you told me I was beautiful.”

Rhys chuckled, low and rough, like velvet dragged over stone. “You mean the time you threatened to kick me in the face?”

“You deserved it,” I replied, but I was smiling. “You said I looked like a painting and then stared at my chest for ten solid minutes.”

“That’s not true.” He paused. “It was eight.”

I laughed, the sound breaking free of my chest like a storm cracking sky. It hurt, too. Everything tonight hurt. Even the warmth.

“You had blue paint on your nose,” he murmured, eyes glittering with memory. “You were trying to blend into the mural in the Court of Nightmares, all to avoid your mother’s endless matchmaking.”

I rolled my eyes. “And then you found me. Of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed. “I couldn’t stay away, even then. Even when I didn’t know what the tug in my chest meant.”

My throat tightened.

“I thought you were the most irritating, smug bastard I’d ever met,” I said.

“And you,” he whispered, “were the most breathtaking thing I’d ever seen, like the world had finally given me something too beautiful to deserve, and all I could do was watch and hope you’d let me stay near you.”

Gods, how much I love him.

“You told me you hated art.”

“I lied,” Rhysand murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “I just wanted you to keep talking to me.”

I swallowed hard.

“I still have the little sketch you gave me,” he continued, voice low, reverent. “The one you drew in the corner of my book when you thought I wasn’t looking. You sketched me asleep, and drew a crown of stars on my head.”

My heart stuttered. “I thought you’d thrown it away.”

“Never,” he said, and he meant it.

His thumb brushed my jaw. “Do you remember the first time you touched my wings?”

Heat coiled low in my stomach. I glanced away. “We said we wouldn’t talk about that night.”

“You mean the one where you dared me to race you through the Sidra river canyons and then accidentally fell on top of me while we were both soaking wet, half-naked, and full of wine?”

“You are embellishing.”

Rhys grinned, all teeth and tenderness. “You had your thighs around me, paint smeared down your cheek, and you looked at me like I was your last breath.”

I looked down at my lap, jaw trembling.

“Do you remember what I said?” he asked, voice a whisper.

I nodded. “You told me I was the only person who’d ever made you want to live forever.”

Silence.

It bloomed between us like grief.

“I meant it,” he said. “Every word.”

The candlelight flickered. Shadows danced across his face. And I knew, in that moment, that no matter what waited at dawn — this man would never stop loving me.

Not across time.

Not through marriage.

Not even through death.

I reached for his hand, pressing it to my chest. To the slow, pained rhythm of my heart.

“I used to lie awake at night,” I murmured, “and imagine us. Our home. Somewhere by the sea. A garden. You would fly in, covered in sand, carrying books and sweets and flowers you picked yourself.”

“I’d do that now,” he whispered. “Even now. Even if you only wanted one more day.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

“And you,” he went on, “would paint me, again and again. And I’d ruin your brushes trying to kiss the color from your fingers.”

I laughed, choked and soft.

“You were always so dramatic.”

“I loved you too hard to be anything else.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me one more memory. One that no one else would know.”

Rhysand hesitated, then said, almost shyly: “You once fell asleep on my chest in the Hewn City, and snored so loudly that Keir thought I was summoning a beast.”

I blinked. “I did not snore.”

“Oh, you did. Like a little thunderclap. And I loved every moment of it. I wanted to bottle the sound.” Rhysand said softly. “Because in that moment - gods, in that moment - I believed the world might actually be kind to us.”

I buried my face against his shoulder, laughing through tears. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re unforgettable.”

We sat like that for a long time, surrounded by shadow, wrapped in memory. The past curled around us like a second skin. And in the quiet that followed, there was no war. No marriage. No curse.

Just two people.

A cabin.

A flame.

And all the moments they never got to keep.

“I hate him,” he said.

“I know.”

“I hate that he’ll never know what your skin feels like after you cry. That he’ll never taste the part of your soul that burns when you lie.”

“Stop,” I begged, voice breaking. “Please.”

But he didn’t.

He stepped behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his chest against my spine, the silk of his breath near my neck.

“You were never mine to lose,” he said, just above a whisper. “But I’m going to lose you anyway.”

I turned, slow, until we were face to face.

And then I kissed him.

Soft. Just the brush of my lips on his, a whisper of a thing, trembling and unsure. And when he kissed me back, it was with hunger. A groan caught in his throat as his mouth found mine, opening, deepening. The taste of him was dizzying, night-kissed shadows and the phantom memory of summer wine.

His hands cupped my jaw, reverent and firm, and mine slid beneath his coat, greedy for the feel of him. His chest was hot beneath my palms, hard muscle shifting beneath soft linen.

I pressed my body closer.

“Gods, I missed you,” he rasped, teeth grazing my lower lip. “I dreamt of this.”

My knees gave out as he kissed down my neck, his lips skimming my pulse like a prayer. He caught me easily, one strong arm under my thighs, the other at my back. He carried me to the bed in the corner like I was something breakable.

He set me down gently, too gently.

“I want you rough,” I said, breathless. “But I want to be the one to start.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then hunger.

I reached for him and pulled him down atop me, kissing him hard now, mouths colliding with years of unsaid things. I rolled my hips up against him and moaned at the feel of his thigh between mine, exactly where I needed it.

He stilled, just for a second, as he realized what I was doing.

And then his hands gripped my hips, firmly, possessively, guiding me.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered, voice shaking, “every night. You, riding my thigh, begging me to let you cum—”

“You’re not the only one who’s fantasized,” I said, breathless, as I ground down against the flex of his muscle.

He groaned, deep and low, and his lips found the shell of my ear. “Then show me, darling.”

I sat up slowly, straddling him fully now. I pushed his coat from his shoulders and tugged at the linen shirt underneath, revealing warm, golden skin and that perfect Illyrian strength: sculpted, sweat-sheened, already flushed.

I rocked against him again and gasped. Fuck, that felt good.

Rhysand’s head fell back against the pillows, eyes closing, a low moan escaping as I found a rhythm. His thigh flexed beneath me, giving me just enough pressure, just enough friction. I bit my lip and moved faster, rolling my hips again and again until heat pooled low in my belly.

His hands roamed my waist, my back, my breasts over the shirt, never once taking over. Just offering me the freedom to use him.

“You’re divine,” he murmured. “Watching you like this—”

I kissed his throat. “You feel so good.”

“Fuck, I want to taste you,” he groaned. “But I’ll let you have this first.”

I dragged my nails lightly down his chest, watching his body twitch beneath the touch. And then I reached for the candle.

His eyes snapped open.

“You remember this?” I said, voice low, teasing.

Rhysand swallowed, visibly. “You used to drip wax on my stomach. Just to drive me mad.”

I smiled as I leaned forward and tilted the candle slightly. A single drop landed just above his heart, and he hissed, muscles locking.

His cock jumped beneath his leathers.

“Sensitive,” I murmured, pleased.

“You’re evil,” he rasped, his eyes devouring me. “I forgot how much I liked it.”

I tipped the candle again, a slow trail of wax landing down the line of his stomach, where his shirt had been undone. His chest rose and fell fast now.

Then I unfastened the buttons at his waist.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as I tugged the leathers down, releasing him fully.

Gods above, he was already hard, thick and flushed and leaking. My mouth watered at the sight.

I dipped my head without hesitation, licking a slow stripe from base to tip.

Rhysand’s hand flew to the headboard.

“Fuck—” he gasped.

I closed my lips around the tip, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered. One of his wings twitched, just the slightest movement.

I paused.

And looked up at him.

His eyes burned into mine.

“Touch them,” he whispered, voice almost hoarse. “Please.”

I reached back with my left hand, sliding it up the inner curve of his wing.

His entire body arched. A strangled sound burst from his throat.

I took him deeper.

His hips jerked. One hand fisted in my hair, not guiding, just grounding.

“Stars,” he groaned. “You— I won’t last.”

My fingers dragged softly over the membrane again - another moan.

Then another.

I wrapped my hand around his base and moved in rhythm with my mouth, letting my tongue tease the ridge beneath the head. I dragged my nails lightly down the edge of his wing, and he exploded.

He shouted my name as he came, his entire body seizing, hot pulses flooding my mouth, hips trembling.

I swallowed every drop.

When I looked up, he was staring at me like I was some holy thing.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered. “And I’ll thank you for it.”

I crawled up his body, kissed the hollow of his throat.

“Not done yet,” I said against his skin. “Not even close.”

He laughed, still breathless, and rolled me beneath him.

And just before his mouth captured mine again, he whispered:

“Then burn me, darling. I’m yours.”

His hands were on my ribs, my thighs, my breasts, but it wasn’t hurried. Rhysand touched me like a man memorizing a map he was never allowed to keep.

And maybe he was.

He kissed the center of my chest, just above where my heart thundered in its cage.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered against my skin. “Mark every inch of you with my mouth until your husband-to-be knows he’ll never be enough.”

“Rhys…”

“I know,” he said, eyes on mine. “I know. But just for tonight, let me have you. Let me remember what it’s like to taste you without guilt bleeding through every kiss.”

His mouth descended.

He kissed the underside of my breast, open-mouthed, then dragged his tongue along the curve. I arched. My hands threaded through his hair, tugging gently, not to guide, but to anchor myself. I needed to feel that this was real.

When his lips closed around my nipple, I gasped. His tongue swirled once, twice, before he sucked slow and firm, like he knew it would make my back arch. A sound escaped me, something utterly helpless.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, switching to the other side, kissing a slow path before taking me into his mouth again.

“I can't—” I whimpered. “You're driving me mad—”

“You haven’t even seen mad yet,” he growled.

And then he kissed down. Lower. Past my ribs, my hips.

And when he reached the waistband of my underwear, he paused.

“I want to rip them,” he said, voice dark silk. “Want you to feel how desperately I need you.”

My pulse pounded as he hooked his fingers under the delicate lace, and tore. The sound was obscene. Final.

I gasped at the cold air hitting my heat.

He groaned, like the sight of me bare and slick was enough to ruin him entirely.

“Look at you,” he said, spreading my thighs wider. “Already so wet for me. Gods, I could drown in this.”

He leaned in and licked.

A gasp tore from my throat.

His tongue was divine, slow and teasing at first, licking the length of me, before circling my clit with maddening precision. I writhed, one hand fisting the sheets, the other tangling in his hair.

Then he moaned against me, the sound vibrating through my core.

“I’ve missed this taste,” he said, voice wrecked. “Missed making you fall apart with just my mouth.”

He sucked, and I sobbed. My thighs tried to close, but his strong hands held them open, pinned me down like I was his prey. My hips bucked and he growled, the sound vibrating through me as he flicked his tongue over that spot again, again, again—

“Rhys,” I gasped. “I can’t— I’m—”

“Yes you can,” he said, breath hot. “You will. Let go for me. Cum on my tongue, sweetheart.”

And then he sucked hard and slid one finger inside me, crooked it just right—

I shattered.

White-hot pleasure exploded behind my eyes, my body trembling violently as my climax rolled through me like a tidal wave. I couldn’t even breathe, not with the way his mouth stayed on me, drawing it out, coaxing every last pulse until I was panting and gasping and boneless.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were wet with me. His eyes were near black, dilated and feral.

He kissed my trembling thigh. Then the place just above my mound.

Then my lips.

I could taste myself on his tongue as he kissed me deeply, groaning when I bit his bottom lip.

And then—

“Turn over,” he said, voice low, steady, and full of something that ached.

I moved without thinking, my chest sinking into the blankets, the cool air brushing my bare spine.

He pulled my hips up gently, reverently, like he was positioning something precious. Then he leaned in close, his breath hot against the shell of my ear.

“This is how I want to remember you,” he murmured. “On your knees. Open for me. Letting me show you everything I never got to say.”

His hand slid to the back of my neck, not rough, not harsh. Just firm. Grounding. Possessive in the way only love could be.

A quiet whimper slipped from my lips.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice a thread of silk drawn taut.

“Yes,” I whispered, breaking. “Always.”

“Then tell me,” he breathed. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Please, Rhys,” I gasped. “I want you. I want to feel you - deep, everywhere. I want you to make me forget the world, just for tonight. I want to remember what it means to be yours.”

His cock rubbed between my folds once, teasing, slick with precum and my arousal. I felt the thick head nudge against my entrance—

And he paused.

“Tell me you love me.”

The words shattered something in me.

I turned my face into the pillow, biting back a sob.

“I love you,” I whispered. “I’ve always loved you. Even when it hurt.”

His forehead pressed to the back of my neck.

“I know,” he said.

And then he pushed inside.

“Fucking gods,” he groaned, voice broken at the edges. “You feel like home.”

I could only gasp: the stretch, the fullness, the weight of him… it split me apart and stitched me back together in the same breath.

He didn’t move, just stayed buried deep inside, chest pressed to my back, one arm braced beside my head. I could feel the tremble in his thighs, the restraint in every muscle.

His lips brushed the curve of my ear. “Say it again.”

I swallowed, my heart battering like a bird in a cage. “I love you.”

And then he moved.

One thrust, slow, deep, grinding. I moaned, a high broken sound, and he echoed it with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his soul.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured, dragging out again. “Every night. Every goddamned moment since I let you go.”

He snapped his hips, once, sharp - I cried out.

“Of you under me. Around me. Screaming my name.”

Another thrust, another breathless cry.

“You’re mine,” he growled into my skin, his teeth grazing my shoulder. “Even if I can’t have you. Even if I lose you tomorrow.”

He reached forward, hand wrapping gently, firmly around my throat.

“Say you’re mine,” he whispered, thrusting hard.

I gasped, voice caught, my pulse pounded under his fingers.

“I’m yours,” I choked out. “Always, Rhys, always.”

He growled and snapped his hips harder, faster, angling just right - and stars bloomed behind my eyes.

“Good girl,” he rasped, tightening just slightly. “Such a good fucking girl.”

I was unraveling again, I could feel it, the heat coiling tight in my belly. But then he pulled out suddenly, leaving me whimpering and empty.

“Turn around,” he ordered. “I want to see your face when I make you cum again.”

I obeyed, dizzy and wrecked. He kissed me hard, filthy, wet, and then sank back in, eyes locked on mine.

His rhythm was slower now, not teasing, but worshipful. Deep, dragging thrusts that hit every nerve ending. I clung to him, nails raking down his back, his shoulders, my thighs wrapped around his hips.

“Touch me,” he rasped, panting.

“I want you to break me.”, he begged.

So I did.

I slid my hands down, fingers trembling, until they brushed the base of those dark, powerful wings. Rhysand shuddered. His eyes rolled back as my hands traced the sensitive membrane, trailing up the curve, fingertips grazing the place he was most vulnerable.

He howled, hips jerking wildly as his thrusts grew erratic.

“That’s it,” I gasped. “Let go. Cum inside me.”

“I’m close,” he groaned, mouth open, chest heaving. “Don’t stop—”

And then I pressed hard at the center joint, and Rhysand shattered.

His entire body bowed, a cry torn from his throat that sounded more like grief than pleasure as he spilled inside me, pulsing hard, wings flaring wide. I held him through it, still stroking, kissing his jaw, his cheek, while his mouth was moaning my name like a litany.

We lay there, tangled and gasping, for what could’ve been minutes or hours.

Rhys’s hand stroked my spine. My fingers traced the curve of his wing, softer now.

He kissed my forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than any court, any law, any future.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks.

“I know,” I said. “That’s what makes this so cruel.”

He didn’t reply. Just pressed his forehead to mine, breathing me in like it was the last time. Because it was.

Then he kissed me, not with hunger, not with fire. But with goodbye in every soft, shattering brush of his lips.

I must have fallen asleep in the silence that followed, lulled by the ache of him, the scent of him still clinging to my skin.

But when I reached for him at dawn, I found only cold sheets.

He was gone.

No note. No sound. No trace.

Just the echo of his name in the hollows of my ribs. Just the ghost of his fingers on my skin.

And the bond - that sacred, fragile thing between us - didn’t break. It simply… quieted. Like a song unfinished. Like breath held forever in the lungs, waiting for a release that would never come.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

The garden was quiet.

Late spring, nearly summer, that liminal time when the world exhales, caught between the bloom and the burn. The breeze danced through the long grass and the open windowpanes, humming a song I no longer dared to name.

A child’s laughter rang out across the stones.

I turned from the window, from memory, and stepped barefoot into the sunlight.

He was sitting cross-legged on the blanket, hair dark and windswept, curls in need of cutting. He had my eyes, but everything else… everything else was him.

That angled jaw. That proud, mischievous mouth. That glint in his gaze when he smiled too wide. The tilt of his head when he listened to the world.

He was five.

His wings wide open. Power thrummed beneath his skin like the ocean beneath ice. And every time he looked at me, I saw the man I couldn’t forget.

“Look, Mama!” he called, holding up a wooden carving. It was crooked and awkward, a winged creature with two too-big eyes and a lopsided grin. “It’s a bat!”

I smiled, though something in my chest cracked.

“It’s perfect,” I said, kneeling beside him. “He looks just like someone I once knew.”

He tilted his head. “Was he a bat?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded, very serious. “Did you like him?”

I froze. Not from the question, but from the knowing way he asked it. That strange, ancient wisdom that sometimes lit his features. As if he carried pieces of a soul too old to belong to a child.

“I did,” I whispered.

“Where is he?”

I didn’t answer. Just looked at the sky.

The wind curled around us. Gentle. Like wings.

He came sometimes, I thought. Not in body, never again. But in dreams. In the way my son’s shadow stretched long at dusk. In the midnight songs the stars sometimes whispered to us, just before I woke.

I loved him. I had let him go.

And still - he was here.

In the small hands that clung to mine.

In the sharp, radiant boy who would one day change the world.

And so I leaned down, kissed my son’s brow, and held him close.

And far above us, in the high stillness of the wind-swept mountain air… I swore I felt someone watching.

A pulse. A tug. A quiet echo of the words we never got to keep.

I love you. Always.

A/N: hope you guys liked it, because I didn't. This is heavily unedited, I didn't have the time to double check it, SORRY!!!!!

If you liked it, let me know <333

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

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The Things We Keep in the Dark

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

One-shot, Smut with little to no plot [18+]

Warnings: knife play, shadow play, oral s*x (on both parts), face riding, not protected penetration (p in v), fighting, dirty talk, Dom!Azriel, Switch!Reader, (if I forgot something, pls let me know).

It always started with a blade.

Tonight was no different, cold steel glinting beneath the moonlight, the dull thud of boots circling on stone, and Azriel’s golden gaze locked on mine like I was prey he’d already chosen but hadn’t yet decided when to devour.

The training ring atop the House of Wind was deserted, the city far below glittering like stars scattered across a velvet cloth. I moved in silence, muscles humming, sweat trailing down my spine as I twisted and swung. He blocked. Pivoted. Parried. Again.

“You’re holding back,” I said, breathless, catching the flat of his dagger with mine.

Azriel didn’t answer. He never did, not unless it mattered.

Instead, his shadows coiled near his shoulders, shifting like a creature half-asleep. Watching. Listening. Waiting for his command.

I shouldn’t have liked the way they watched me.

But I did.

And that was the problem.

“You’re smirking again,” I said, ducking his blade and aiming a low kick. He caught my ankle mid-air.

“I’m not.” His voice was gravel and silk, soft but scraping. He stepped forward, forcing me to hop on one leg unless I wanted to fall on my ass. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m trained to observe. You’re definitely smirking.”

“And I’m trained to lie.”

Something like a laugh caught in my throat, but it didn’t make it out, because suddenly, he yanked my leg higher, and I lost balance. I went down hard, blade clattering from my hand. His knee pinned my thigh, one arm caging my wrists above my head, and gods, he was close. Heat radiated off him, sweat and shadows and the kind of tension that made every part of me tighten.

Azriel’s mouth hovered just inches from mine. He hadn’t smirked, but now, he looked like he wanted to do something far worse.

“Tell me what you see,” he murmured. “Since you’re so observant.”

My chest rose against his. His free hand reached for his dagger, not to threaten, but to lift it. He turned it flat and pressed the side of the blade gently to my collarbone.

I stilled.

The metal was cool against my heated skin, slow as it dragged across the curve of my throat. My pulse jumped, and his eyes locked on the fluttering beat beneath my jaw like he could feel it too. His shadows slithered low, almost possessive, curling around my thigh beneath my leathers.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” he asked, so softly I almost missed it.

“No,” I whispered.

But I didn’t move.

He smiled then, not smirking. Real. Devastating.

“Liar.”

The blade slid down to my sternum, stopping just above the swell of my breasts. No pressure. No pain. Just the unbearable promise of what he could do.

Of what he wanted to.

My breath hitched. His shadows stirred again, brushing the inside of my thigh like a question. I spread my legs just slightly, testing. Daring.

Azriel’s gaze darkened.

And then

— he pulled back.

The dagger vanished into its sheath, his body retreating like nothing had happened. Like my skin wasn’t still tingling, like I wasn’t still wet from the brush of his shadows and the look in his eyes.

He stood, offered me a hand, and said flatly, “We’re done for tonight.”

I didn’t take it. I climbed to my feet on my own, jaw clenched.

“You do that again,” I said, brushing off my pants, “and you better fucking finish it.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes lingered on my mouth for one second too long.

Then he vanished into the night.

Three nights later

I couldn’t sleep.

The House of Wind was quiet, too quiet, and I was too keyed up, every inch of me aching with unburned energy. I’d tried to distract myself. A book, a bath, a bottle of red from the cellar. None of it helped.

All I could think about was the weight of his body, the whisper of steel on skin, the look in his eyes like he wanted to ruin me slow.

So I went to the ring again.

Midnight wind howled over the cliffs, but I didn’t feel cold. I needed to move. To hit something. To—

“You never learn,” a voice murmured behind me.

I turned. He was already there, leaning against the archway like some ancient god sculpted from shadow and silent hunger.

“Neither do you,” I said, heart thudding.

Azriel walked toward me, slow, deliberate. His shadows wrapped around his boots like mist, and I hated how easily they obeyed him. How easily I wanted to.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

“I think you know.”

“I don’t want to train.”

His eyes scanned my body once, lingering at my throat. “Neither do I.”

And then we were on each other.

His hands were on my hips, slamming me against the wall of the ring as his mouth crushed mine. No teasing. No testing. Just teeth and tongue and heat, like he’d been starving for me and I was the only thing that could satisfy it.

I moaned into his mouth, grinding against him, and fuck, he was hard already. I felt it through his leathers, thick and hot and demanding, and my hands fumbled to unbuckle him, desperate and shameless.

Azriel grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the wall.

“Slow,” he growled.

“You’ve made me wait long enough.”

“I’m not rushing this. You want me to use the blade again?”

I shivered.

“Yes.”

His lips curved against my neck. “Then behave.”

He dropped to his knees.

I gasped, grabbing his shoulders as he tugged my leathers down and off, peeling them like a second skin. His shadows slid in to help, teasing over my thighs, brushing my entrance.

When his mouth finally touched me, I nearly screamed.

Azriel ate like he had all the time in the world. Like he was memorizing every tremble, every whimper. His tongue circled, pressed, licked into me slowly, possessively, while his shadows held my legs wide, my arms above my head, keeping me open for him and only him.

“Fuck, Azriel—”

He groaned into me, and the vibration sent stars behind my eyes.

I rode his face like I was drowning and he was air, one hand tangling in his hair as his shadows slipped lower, curling between my ass cheeks and teasing just enough to make me writhe.

My orgasm hit hard, hips jerking, legs shaking. He held me through it, licking me slow as I came down, not stopping until I whined from overstimulation.

Then he stood.

His mouth glistened. His eyes were molten.

“Your turn,” I said hoarsely, sinking to my knees.

I knelt before him, still trembling from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of me, still high on the taste of his shadows dancing over my skin. My legs ached, my throat was dry, but I wanted more. I wanted him.

Azriel stood still, silent as a mountain god, watching me with melted gold eyes. His cock strained against his leathers, thick, leaking just enough that it had left a darkened patch. I reached up, unbuckled his belt with hands steadier than I felt. Each movement slow. Deliberate.

“I’m not breaking,” I whispered.

His head tilted, shadows curling around his shoulders. “You look like you already have.”

I smiled, wicked and slow, as I pushed his leathers down just enough.

His cock sprang free.

Hard. Thick. Veined. Long. So long. The tip was flushed, slick, perfect. My mouth watered.

“I’m going to ruin you,” I said, wrapping one hand around the base, giving him one firm stroke.

Azriel hissed through his teeth. “You can try.”

He didn’t touch me. He let me do what I wanted, which made it worse somehow, the stillness in him coiled like a viper. A male who knew his power and didn’t need to flaunt it.

So I used mine.

I licked the head first - just the tip - teasing my tongue around the slit until I felt him twitch in my palm. Then I licked lower, dragging the flat of my tongue down the underside of his shaft, savoring the weight of it. His cock jumped again, and I smiled against it.

“Stop teasing,” he growled.

But I liked teasing.

I took him into my mouth slowly, inch by inch, until he hit the back of my throat. I gagged a little, swallowed, pushed farther. He grunted, one hand finally tangling in my hair, not forcing, just there. Anchoring.

“You feel- fuck-”

I moaned around him, letting the vibration buzz through his length, and he swore again, this time in Illyrian.

I didn’t stop. I bobbed my head, sucked harder, used my hand where my mouth couldn’t reach, twisting at the base just as I hollowed my cheeks. His hips started to move, just slightly, a shallow thrust that betrayed how close he was to snapping.

“Don’t stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

I didn’t plan to.

But his shadows had other ideas.

They slid behind me, brushing between my thighs, again, teasing my sensitive, still-throbbing core. I gasped, and in doing so, nearly choked on him. Azriel pulled out instantly, hand cupping my cheek.

“You alright?”

I nodded. My eyes were glassy. My lips wet. I had never wanted someone like this, not like a lover, but like a fire I wanted to throw myself into.

“I want more,” I said, licking my lips. “All of it.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter.

And then - he stepped back.

He pulled a small, narrow blade from the sheath at his side. The one he’d pressed to my neck before.

My breath caught.

He walked around me slowly, until he stood behind me. I was still on my knees, bare, flushed, wet.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

I obeyed.

He crouched behind me - close enough to feel the heat of him on my spine. I felt the kiss of the blade first - the flat edge sliding up my back, lifting strands of hair away from my neck. I shivered, but didn’t flinch.

“You trust me?” he asked.

“With the blade?” I said.

“With all of it.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Yes.”

Azriel kissed the back of my neck, just once, and that simple act made me ache.

Then the blade slid forward, tracing my collarbone, down to my sternum.

“I could cut the strings of your soul,” he whispered, “and you’d thank me.”

“I’d beg for it,” I said.

He hissed. “Fucking hells.”

The blade trailed down to my stomach, then lower, a whisper over my hip bone, the curve of my thigh.

Then he flipped it, pressed the hilt between my legs.

I gasped.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Dripping. Just from my shadows and steel.”

I whimpered, grinding against the cool hilt shamelessly.

Azriel’s hand snaked into my hair and pulled my head back gently.

“I want you on my face,” he said. “Now.”

I turned, breath ragged, eyes wide. “You want me to—?”

He was already lying back on the stone, wings spread, cock still hard and glistening against his abdomen.

“Ride my face,” he said. “I want to feel how sweet that cunt is when it’s smothering me.”

Mother Above, I moved.

I climbed over him, straddled his face slowly, and the second his tongue touched me again, I shattered.

He licked me like a starving man, his nose buried in my folds, tongue flicking my clit with practiced precision. I ground down against him, moaning loudly, openly. His hands cupped my ass, guiding me, pressing me harder against his mouth.

The shadows came again, swirling around my nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. I was overstimulated, overwhelmed, undone. My thighs trembled, my head fell back-

I came again. Loud. Wet. Shaking.

Azriel drank every drop.

When I finally collapsed beside him, gasping, he turned his head and said, “You think that was everything?” he asked, voice low and rough.

I smiled, dazed. “You mean you’re not done?”

“Not even close.”

He flipped me onto my stomach in one fluid movement. His cock pressed to my soaked entrance, ready, thick, desperate.

He leaned over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other steady on my hip. His voice was gravel-soft in my ear.

“Tell me you want this. Say yes, and I’ll give you everything.”

I turned my head just enough for our eyes to meet. “I’m yours,” I whispered. “I want you. I need you.”

He slid in slow. Deep. One inch at a time.

And fuck, he was huge.

I arched, groaning, clawing at the stone as he bottomed out.

Azriel leaned over me, mouth at my ear. “Now you’ll feel what my shadows already know.”

Azriel filled me slowly, a deep, grinding thrust that split me open in the most delicious way. I gasped, clutching at the stone floor beneath us, my cheek pressed against the cool surface as his hips met my ass.

“Fuck,” he groaned against my neck. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish. He just growled, low and hoarse, and started to move.

Slow at first. Purposeful.

Each thrust was a stroke of fire, thick and hard and dragging against every nerve inside me. My thighs were already sore, my body slick with sweat, my skin tingling from the memory of his shadows and tongue.

But Azriel wasn’t done with me.

He braced his hand beside my head, his other palm sliding beneath my waist to lift my hips just enough, angling me perfectly. When he thrust in again, I yelped.

“Right there?” he asked, voice rough, amused.

I nodded furiously, barely able to form words. “Don’t stop. Please-”

He didn’t.

He pounded into me with a brutal rhythm, all control gone, shadows writhing around our bodies like living threads of heat and silk. Every sound he made was raw - panting curses, moans that turned into snarls.

I wanted to crawl inside that sound.

His name tore from my throat as his fingers reached around and found my clit, rubbing tight, perfect circles that made my vision blur. The pleasure climbed too fast, unbearable.

“Azriel, I’m- I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Let me feel you.”

I shattered.

Everything went white, the force of it so intense I collapsed beneath him, body convulsing around his cock. My pussy clenched so tight it pulled a broken groan from his lips, and he faltered, losing pace.

He didn’t stop thrusting. If anything, he slammed deeper.

Azriel’s rhythm became frantic, harder, rougher, until I could hear the slap of skin on skin, the wet sounds of my arousal coating him. His breath was ragged at my ear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “So wet. You were made for this. For me.”

He pulled out, just in time, and flipped me again, dragging my legs over his hips as he lined up and slammed back into me from above.

I cried out, overstimulated, sensitive, but hungry for more.

He kissed me, messy, deep, open-mouthed, as he fucked me through my third orgasm. I arched beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

And still, he didn’t stop.

“You’re going to make me cum,” he hissed. “Where do you want it?”

I whimpered, biting his jaw. “Inside.”

His body shuddered.

“Fuck- are you sure?”

“I want to feel it. All of it.”

That did it.

Azriel groaned, long and broken, as he pushed in deep, buried to the hilt, and came. I felt it, hot pulses flooding me, his cock twitching deep inside as his body trembled above mine.

It was devastating. Beautiful.

He stayed there for a long moment, panting against my neck, shadows curling around us both like a blanket. One of his wings draped protectively across my body.

I stroked his hair gently, kissing his temple.

“I didn’t know shadows could be this… tender,” I murmured.

“They’re only tender with those they trust,” he replied, breath warm against my skin.

We lay tangled together, a sweaty, spent mess of limbs and pleasure and silence. His scarred fingers found mine, lacing them together over my stomach.

“You really didn’t hold back,” I said with a breathless laugh.

“I don’t when it matters,” he said simply.

He looked down at me, eyes half-lidded. “You’re not going to walk straight tomorrow.”

I smiled. “Good.”

His shadows hummed in agreement.

After a while, Azriel sat up, muscles rippling as he stretched. He reached for the blade, still gleaming faintly nearby, and sheathed it again with reverence.

“Do you want to go another round,” I asked, voice hoarse, “or are you finally satisfied?”

Azriel gave me a look that made my whole body tighten.

“Not even close.”

And just like that, he pulled me into his arms again, shadows rising like smoke around us.

This time, it was slower. More intimate.

But no less intense.

Because with Azriel, the dark wasn’t something to fear.

It was something to worship.

A/N: My first smut!!! Hope you guys like it, and if you do pls let me know in the comments.

Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

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Masterlist

🫀ANGST 🔥SMUT 🌸FLUFF

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

ACOTAR

One-shots

Rhysand

Ma Meilleure Ennemie 🫀 🔥

Azriel

Never Mine 🫀

The Things We Keep in the Dark 🔥

Cassian

The Night We Met 🫀

Feyre

Nesta

Where Wildflowers Don't Grow [+ Eris] 🫀

Elain

Lucien

Eris

Where Wildflowers Don't Grow [+ Nesta] 🫀

Morrigan

Series

Rhysand

No One Like You Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5 🫀🔥🌸

Azriel

Cassian

Feyre

Nesta

Elain

Lucien

Eris

Morrigan

Requests

Rhysand

Azriel

Cassian

Feyre

Nesta

Elain

Lucien

Eris

Morrigan

THRONE OF GLASS

CRESCENT CITY

THE EMPYREAN (Fourth Wing, Iron Flame, Onyx Storm)

MCU

Dividers by @cafekitsune

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

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The Night We Met

Pairing: Cassian x Reader Setting: Post-War, Velaris & Illyrian Mountains Heavy angst, heartbreak, bittersweet love Trigger Warnings: Emotional trauma, death of mc, grief, implied war violence, s*icide attempt, sensitive topics

They say time softens everything. That even the sharpest pain will dull into something bearable. Survivable. I have survived everything else, war, loss, blood in my mouth, steel in my hands.

But I have not survived you.

Cassian.

I whisper your name into the dark when the silence becomes unbearable. The world moves on. The Night Court rebuilds its walls, plants gardens where there was once ash. Rhysand and Feyre laugh again. Mor dances. Azriel watches with those haunted eyes, but even he lets a smile slip now and then.

They all carry their ghosts.

But I carry you.

Every breath I take feels like blasphemy. Because you should be the one breathing, laughing, flying over the Sidra like you used to with your wings outstretched and the wind shrieking your name.

Instead, I’m here. And you’re not.

It’s cruel, how quiet the house is now.

The firewood still crackles in the hearth because I light it each evening, a pathetic ritual. I half expect you to kick open the door, armor half-off, reeking of wind and sweat and war. You’d smirk, call me sweetheart, wrap those massive arms around me like the world wasn’t ending.

You made me feel like I was the safest place you’d ever been.

And now you’re gone, and I’m the most dangerous place I know.

I can’t walk through the rooms without seeing shadows of you. Your boots are still by the door. Your blade still rests against the mantle. You never came back to sharpen it. The bed dips only on my side. Your pillow hasn’t been moved. I don’t dare touch it. I don’t dare touch anything.

I think if I disturb the space you left, I’ll lose whatever echo of you still lingers here.

I sleep in your shirts. They stopped smelling like you weeks ago.

I wear them anyway.

Because the body forgets, but the soul doesn’t. My soul... oh, Cassian, she’s howling.

The bond is a string frayed to the point of madness. It doesn’t sing anymore. It doesn’t hum or glow or pulse with warmth. It weeps. It begs. It breaks me open with every heartbeat. And sometimes, in the deepest moments of night, I feel a flicker, like a memory or a dream. As if you’re standing behind me, reaching out your hand, trying to call me home.

But there is no home without you.

I had all of you.

And then most of you.

And now none of you.

Everyone tells me how lucky I was to have loved you.

That you died a hero. That you saved lives. That it was a noble death.

What do they know?

What do they know about the way your eyes would flutter shut when I traced the ridge of your wing bones? The way your voice would roughen when you whispered my name against my bare skin? How you held me like you were always afraid to let go, like the world might disappear from under your feet if you loosened your grip even for a moment?

They don’t know that you were mine. Not in some vague, romanticized way, but in the brutal, soul-bonded, fated way. You were stitched into my bones. Into my existence.

And you tore away.

You promised you’d come back.

You said it. The night before the final battle. I remember lying with you in our bed, your armor half-polished on the floor, your hand on my ribs, counting each breath.

“I’ll come back,” you said.

You smiled when you said it.

And I, foolish girl that I was, believed you.

Do you know what it felt like, when I felt the bond snap? When I collapsed in the middle of the battlefield, hands in the mud, screaming for a heartbeat that no longer echoed mine?

They had to drag me off the field. Rhys and Azriel. I clawed at them, hysterical, not even caring that I was bleeding, that my throat was raw from screaming.

You were gone.

And the world kept turning.

It shouldn’t have.

It should’ve cracked open. It should’ve bled. The sun should’ve refused to rise. The Sidra should’ve boiled away.

But it didn’t.

Because the world never cared about us. Not really.

We were just two soldiers who dared to find love in the ruins.

I go to the place where we first met.

Now I stand on that same ridge and beg the Mother to undo it.

To let me go back. Not to kiss you sooner. Not to change your fate.

But to never meet you.

Because if I hadn’t known you, I wouldn’t be this broken thing. This shattered shell of a woman. I wouldn’t wake up screaming your name. I wouldn’t break every time I hear the wind whistle through the trees like your laugh.

If I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t have to live every day as the mate left behind.

It all started with a fight.

Not a grand one. Just a skirmish in the snow, steel clashing, blood hissing against the frost. I was stupid. Young. Trying to prove something to someone long dead. I’d separated from my unit, chasing a scent trail I thought I understood.

It was a trap.

I remember the sharp flare of panic, and then the blur of wings.

You tore through the sky like a storm made flesh. That’s how I saw you first: not as a man, not even as a commander, but as fury. As salvation.

You landed with such force it cracked the ice beneath us. You didn’t look at me at first. Just sliced through the enemy like they were paper dolls. I remember staring at the blood splatter on your cheek. At the quiet rage in your eyes. At the way your blade didn’t tremble. At the way your red stones burned under the snowfall.

I think something in me fell in love with you before you ever spoke a word.

When it was done, when the world quieted, you turned to me.

"You’re not supposed to be here."

That was the first thing you said.

Not Are you hurt? Not What’s your name? Just a quiet, reprimanding growl that made my knees weak.

I told you I didn’t need saving.

You arched a brow. “Is that what that was - bravery?”

“Strategy.”

You laughed, then. This deep, rich thing that settled in my chest like warmth. I hated you for it.

And then I loved you.

It was slow after that.

Letters passed through messengers. Glances held a little too long during training drills. A hand at my lower back when I stumbled, a look across the fire during late-night meetings. It wasn’t just attraction. It was inevitability. Like gravity. Like breath.

You saw through me. Through the anger, the pride, the hunger to be something more than a forgotten girl with a sword. You saw the fractures I didn’t know I had.

And you loved them.

Loved me.

One night, after a battle that nearly cost us both our lives, I found you on the roof of the barracks, knees drawn to your chest, wings outstretched in the starlight.

You didn’t speak when I sat beside you.

You just reached out and took my hand.

I didn’t pull away.

“You’re in my bones now,” you said after a long silence. “Even if the bond wasn’t there... I’d still find you.”

I thought it was a line. Some pretty little Illyrian thing to charm me into your bed.

Then you kissed me, and I knew.

I knew.

The bond clicked into place that night. Quiet, not a thunderclap like they describe in stories. No explosion of stars. Just a quiet knowing. Like an exhale.

You looked at me like I’d given you something sacred.

And I had.

We talked about everything after that. In between battles and bloodshed, we dreamed.

You wanted a house far from the war camps. Something with big windows and space for a garden. “I can’t grow anything,” you’d said once, brushing your thumb across my cheek. “But I like the idea of things blooming around you.”

You wanted children.

Just one, you said at first. Then two. Then as many as I’d let you have.

You talked about flying lessons. About how our daughter would terrify everyone with her temper and our son would be the kind of boy who cried at songs.

I laughed then. I told you that you were dreaming.

But you looked at me with stars in your eyes and said, “Let me.”

We were going to fly to the Summer Court after the war, if they ever let us back there. Swim in clear waters. Make love under golden skies. You promised you’d braid shells into my hair.

You wanted to teach me to bake. Wanted to meet my mother, even though she was long gone. Said you’d find a way, "If there’s an afterlife, I’ll win her over."

You used to hum while sharpening your blade. Just nonsense tunes. I never realized how much I’d miss that sound.

And now...

Now all I have are the dreams. And they taste like ash.

I wake up gasping most nights, the sheets tangled around my legs, sweat clinging to my skin like guilt.

I see your death over and over.

Sometimes I’m there, standing too far away, watching the blade slice through your neck.

Sometimes I’m too late. Holding your broken body in my arms, screaming your name to a sky that doesn’t answer.

And sometimes... sometimes you smile. Just before the light fades. And you whisper I’m sorry.

That’s the one that kills me the most.

Because I should have been there. I should’ve died with you.

You wouldn’t have let me, I know that.

You would’ve fought the gods themselves to keep me breathing.

You said “If I die first, don’t you dare follow me. I’ll drag your ass back.”

But I would’ve gladly followed you into the dark.

I was going to tell you the morning after that last battle.

You came in soaked in blood, half your leathers torn, but smiling like you’d conquered the whole world. I was already up, pacing, hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the tea I’d made. I remember scolding you for being reckless. For fighting like your life didn’t matter.

You laughed. Pulled me into your arms. Whispered, I’m still here, aren’t I?

And I almost said it.

I almost said the words that had been burning a hole in my chest for three days.

But you kissed me, slow and aching, and said you needed a bath and sleep and one night where we didn’t talk about war or death or duty.

So I let it wait.

And in the morning, you were gone.

I was so angry at first.

Not at you. At the world. At the Cauldron. At fate. At myself.

Because I should’ve told you.

I should’ve screamed it at the top of my lungs. I should’ve carved it into your skin so you carried it into battle, you’re going to be a father.

I imagined you in every version of that moment.

Dropping your mug. Laughing so loud the entire war camp would’ve known.

Crying, surely.

Touching my stomach like it was made of starlight.

You would’ve been terrified, of course. You always said you didn’t know how to be gentle, that the world had sharpened your edges too much.

But I did.

I knew you.

I saw how you carried the weight of your soldiers' griefs. How you paused before each order, thinking of the lives behind it. How you slept with a dagger under your pillow and still managed to curl around me like I was the only thing keeping you breathing.

You would’ve been brilliant.

And now...

Now you’re gone.

No one can ask me how I’m doing. No one can touch my stomach with pity in their eyes. No one can say “he would’ve loved this” and mean it like a comfort.

Because it hurts.

It hurts more than anything I’ve ever known.

You never got to speak to them.

Never got to feel them kick.

You’ll never hear them cry, or teach them to fly, or hold them when the nightmares come.

And they’ll never know your laugh. Your voice. The way you hummed when you were nervous. The way you burned toast every single morning.

They’ll never know you.

I thought about ending it.

I won’t pretend I didn’t.

When the darkness got too loud, when the silence of our room felt like a scream, when I couldn’t breathe without tasting your name, I thought about taking the easy way out.

About following you.

And I swear to the Mother, I heard you.

Not your voice. Not words. Just a feeling.

Like a whisper in my blood.

Don’t.

Not a command.

A plea.

And then... I felt it.

A flutter. So small I thought I imagined it.

But then again.

And again.

I pressed my hand to my belly and sank to my knees, sobbing so hard I thought I’d split in half.

Because I couldn’t die.

Not now.

Not with your child still living inside me.

So I go on.

I wake up. I eat. I walk.

I talk to you.

I tell you about the sky. The weather. What the baby craves today. (Peaches, mostly. You’d roll your eyes and say it’s a girl, then spend the next week planning flying lessons.)

I whisper stories into the quiet.

I remind you who I am.

Who we were.

I sing that stupid song you made up. Off-key, because you never could hold a tune, and neither can I.

I think the baby know.

I think some part of them knows you.

There’s a letter I haven’t opened yet.

Azriel brought it to me after the war. Said you’d written it “just in case.” Said you’d made him swear not to give it to me unless you didn’t come back.

It sits on my desk, sealed in red wax. Your handwriting is messy, as always.

I trace the letters sometimes. Try to pretend I can hear you in them.

But I’m not ready.

Not yet.

I want to believe you’re still just... away.

That the war took you for a time, but you’ll come home again. Swing open the door with that wild grin. Sweep me into your arms. Touch my stomach and say, You waited for me?

I want to believe you’re not gone.

But you are.

And I have to live with that.

You’re the first thing I want our child to know.

And the last thing I’ll ever forget.

You gave me everything, my love.

And when you left...

You still gave me something more.

A/N: I was listening to my sad playlist, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron started palying and I thought about writing something.

If you guys like, pls let me know<333

Diciders by @enchanthings

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

Never mine

Pairing: Azriel x Reader Length: 1,953 words Angst Level: 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 (emotional masochists welcome) Trigger Warnings: Emotional neglect, unrequited love, self-abandonment, Azriel/Elain implication, bondlessness, quiet heartbreak

Inspired by 'Cry' by Cigarettes after S*x

I think I always knew he wouldn’t stay.

Maybe not in the beginning, when his touches were soft and his words even softer. When his eyes found mine across a crowded room and something in his expression faltered, like he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to want.

But even then, even in the first gentle tremble of hope — I knew. Azriel doesn’t belong to anyone. Not really.

And I stayed anyway.

Gods, I stayed.

For the quiet moments. For the shadows that curled around me like they recognized something in me that he never dared say aloud. For the nights when he’d fall into bed beside me with a kind of desperation that made it feel like love.

But it wasn’t. Not fully. Not enough.

I started breaking myself the day Feyre found her mate.

The bond had snapped into place so clearly, so impossibly loud, that it left something in my chest hollow and trembling. And then Cassian and Nesta — two storms colliding until they burned each other alive, and still, the bond was there. Tangible. Unshakeable.

But Azriel and I? There was no golden thread tying us together. No glowing tether from his soul to mine.

Just flesh. Just hands. Just stolen moments that didn’t belong to the light of day.

I never told him that I cried the first time he left before sunrise. I watched the sky turn violet, watched the curve where his body used to be cool and empty in my sheets, and I knew — I knew — that I was the only one falling.

I walk past him, toward the open balcony where the wind hiss at my skin.

I closed my eyes. Let the wind tug my hair like fingers that weren’t his. Let it bite my skin harder than he ever did, even in passion.

“If we don’t have a bond... then why does it still feel like I’m yours?”

I think that maybe it started unraveling the night he looked at her like that.

Not in the casual, almost-guilty way he did when he thought no one noticed. No, this was different.

He looked at Elain like the world might end if she looked back.

And she did.

Softly. Sweetly. Like she had no idea she was killing me just by breathing near him.

That was the first time I wondered if maybe we’d only ever been a placeholder. If I was just the shadow Azriel wrapped himself in while he waited for light.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says now, standing in the doorway of my room like he hasn’t already done exactly that.

He always says it like it’s new. Like I haven’t bled out in his arms a hundred times already.

“I’m not Elain,” I whisper, voice brittle.

He freezes. Not because I’ve said something cruel — but because I’ve said something true.

A breath. A beat. A silence full of every word he never said.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice is quiet. So fucking quiet.

“I think you wish I were,” I say. “Or maybe you just wish she were me. Easier. Less complicated. Already loved by everyone.”

He flinches.

Good.

I want it to hurt.

Because I’ve been dying in inches for months while he’s tried to make room in his heart for someone who barely looks at him. For someone who glows while I stay cloaked in shadows he called mine.

“You don’t understand,” he says.

“No,” I snap. “I do. You think she might be your mate. So you stall. You hesitate. You hold back, just in case.”

He doesn’t deny it.

And that’s the worst part.

I laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking in half.

“So what am I, Azriel? Your contingency plan? Your…hole to fill?”

He says nothing.

Just looks at me with that sorrowful, broken stare he always wears when he’s caught between guilt and silence.

“I chose you,” I whisper. “Every fucking time. No bond. No signs. Just love.”

I step closer, trembling. “But you never chose me. Not really. Because somewhere in your heart, you’re still waiting for something else. Someone else.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“It is,” I say, almost choking. “It’s exactly that simple. You don’t love me enough to stop wondering about her. You don’t love me enough to stay.”

His wings twitch. His mouth parts like he wants to argue.

But there’s no lie big enough to fix what he’s broken.

“I wake up alone more nights than not,” I whisper. “And every time you leave, I tell myself you’ll come back differently. That you’ll look at me like I’m it for you. Like I’m worth fighting the bond that never came.”

“I feel things for you,” he says desperately. “Things I don’t understand. But Elain—”

“—isn’t yours,” I cut in. “She never was.”

And still, he says nothing.

Because deep down, I think he knows I’m right. I think he knows that whatever he and Elain are — or aren’t — is just a dream he won’t let go of. A possibility he’s too afraid to shut the door on.

Even if it means letting me walk out instead.

“I can’t keep being your almost,” I murmur, chest splitting. “I’m asking you to stop loving me like this. Like it’s a crime. Like it’s a secret.”

“You act like fate forgot about you,” I say. “But maybe it didn’t. Maybe it gave you me. And you were too busy chasing a golden thread that never snapped to see that you already had a soul beside yours.”

The wind howls.

He doesn’t.

“I’m tired,” I say. “Of begging with my eyes. Of being your secret. Of pretending that this doesn’t kill me a little more every time you leave.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he says, desperate now. “From me. From what I am. I’m not—” He breaks off, his voice jagged. “I’m not him, Y/N. I’m not Rhys. Or Cassian. I don’t know how to love like they do.”

“I never asked you to be anyone else,” I whisper. “I just wanted you to be here. With me. When it mattered.”

And still — still — he does not move.

So I do.

I walk past him, past the bedroom that holds a hundred memories of him reaching for me in the dark but never in the light. I walk past the ghosts of every almost, every maybe, every word he never said.

And I stop at the doorway.

I don’t look back.

I look at him — one last time.

Azriel. Shadowsinger. The male I gave everything to. Who made me believe in love without a bond. Who held me like I was everything and left like I was nothing.

“I would’ve stayed,” I whisper. “Even without the bond. Even without her. I would’ve stayed and loved you until it destroyed me.”

Tears threaten.

But I don’t let them fall.

“You’re the one who walked away.”

And then I do.

I walk.

And he lets me.

Again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Azriel's POV

She glowed tonight.

Not like starlight. Not like Elain.

Like fire.

Like rage and rebirth and someone who survived her own ruin.

She stood in the garden in a midnight-blue dress that clung to her like a second skin, her laughter low and steady as it bloomed from her lips — those same lips I once touched with trembling fingers, too afraid to claim, too selfish to leave.

And I think I forgot how to breathe.

Because she wasn’t looking for me anymore.

Not even a glance.

Not even a flicker of recognition, like the memory of us had finally faded from her bones.

But I remember.

Gods, I remember everything.

The curve of her shoulder under my hand. The way her eyes used to search mine like she was trying to find something that mattered. The way she said my name like it was something safe.

Azriel.

No one has said it like that since.

Not even Elain.

And now—now she belongs to him.

The male at her side watches her the way I never did. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I was too afraid of what it would mean if I let myself need her.

Too afraid that if I chose her without a bond, the Mother would laugh and punish us both. That maybe I was only whole enough to wound.

But he doesn’t look afraid.

He looks like he knows he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

He looked at her the way I never did.

Like she was the answer, not the question.

And it guts me.

Because I could have. Gods, I could have.

I loved her.

I think I always did — in my own broken, hesitant way. But I was too busy listening for something that never came. Waiting for a bond that never snapped. Chasing an if while she was begging me to see the now.

I didn’t choose her.

And by the time I realized she was already mine, she had already learned to stop hoping.

She stopped waiting.

She stopped bleeding for me.

And now she belongs to someone who never made her ask to be chosen.

I don't blame her.

He just saw her — and stayed.

I don’t remember what joy feels like.

Not anymore.

Just the sound of her voice in my memory and the weight of every “almost” I threw away. I can still taste her in the quiet. Still hear her whisper, “Even if there’s no bond… I still choose you.”

And I—fuck—I just stood there.

Waiting for something better.

Something easier.

Something fated.

But fate never showed up.

And now I’m left with silence. With shadows that curl tighter around my ribs because they remember how she used to hold them in her sleep, whispering comfort to the darkness I never learned to live without.

I should’ve loved her better.

I should’ve loved her louder.

Not like a secret. Not like a sin.

But like a prayer.

And now she’s gone.

Not dead.

Worse.

Happy.

With someone who isn't me.

I watch her laugh — soft and warm, her hand brushing his as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She leans into him like home. Like trust.

Like something I could’ve had if I’d just told her what she meant before it was too late.

I don’t sleep anymore.

I just lay in the dark and wonder if she still sleeps on the left side of the bed. If she still hums when she makes tea. If she still cries when it rains — and if now, someone holds her when she does.

I wonder if she still loves me.

And then I pray she doesn’t.

Because it would kill me to think she still does — and stayed away anyway.

I never said I loved her.

Not out loud.

And now it’s all I can think.

Over and over and over again, until it fills the hollowness I carved into myself with silence.

I loved you. I loved you. I loved you. I still love you.

Gods, I’d give anything to go back — to un-say every silence, to un-make every hesitation. To press my hands to her cheeks and say I love you. Stay. It’s you. It’s always been you.

But that moment is dead.

Buried beneath the weight of every day I waited.

Now I’m just the ghost of what she almost had.

And she?

She’s finally free of me.

I think that’s what kills me the most.

She let go.

And I never will.

She left.

Because I made it easy.

A/N: Sooooo what do you guys think of this? I was listening to this song and thought 'Why not'. Hope you guys like it, and if you do, please let me know!

Dividers by @enchanthings-a

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

No One Like You [Ch.4]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize, whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: We're at chapter four. We're starting to see a little in reader's past 👀. Hope you guys like it. I don't know, but TW there's a bad dream.

I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pls let me know, it means a lot to me seeing your feedbacks in the comments. <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

The last light of the shop dimmed as I flipped the wooden sign to Closed, the bell above the door chiming softly behind me. That sound always lingered, like the fading note of something half-remembered.

The scent of herbs still clung to my skin: crushed lavender, sun-dried chamomile, the earthy undertone of moss and bark. It lived in my hair, my fingertips, beneath my nails. I breathed it in like comfort.

I took a moment just to stand in the hush. After a day full of voices, the silence of the apothecary always felt like a soothing balm.

Then I moved, routine tugging at me like a well-worn coat. I wrapped my shawl tight, gathered my satchel, and stepped into the blue hush of evening.

Velaris was quiet tonight. Not the kind of quiet that was empty, but the kind that glowed, a city exhaling as lanterns flickered to life, casting pools of golden light on the cobblestones. A child’s laughter floated up from an alley. A couple passed me, fingers laced together, whispering secrets between smiles.

I walked the familiar path along the river, the Sidra dark and sleek beside me, reflecting the stars like they were watching. The bridge stones were cool underfoot, my boots clicking softly with each step.

The city pulsed gently beneath me, alive.

My house was tucked between two others like it had grown there by accident: ivy curling up its bricks, small windows flickering with warmth. A place that didn’t ask anything of me.

The front door stuck, as it always did. I kicked it. It groaned open with a thud and a breath of warmth-

“Miao.”

A bolt of red fur shot toward me like a shadow with legs, skidding slightly on the floorboards before colliding with my shins. I crouched down, already smiling.

“There you are,” I murmured, scratching under his chin. “Did you miss me, you wicked little goblin?”

The cat, one-eyed, entirely too smug, headbutted my hand with an ungraceful purr.

“I see you didn’t die of starvation while I was gone.” I straightened with a creak of tired knees. “Barely.”

He followed me into the kitchen, tail twitching. Always within reach, always hovering just far enough away to pretend he wasn’t waiting for me.

I tossed my satchel on the chair, washed my hands, rolled up my sleeves, and put a pot on the counter.

“I had a woman ask me today if I was seeing someone,” I told him as I began to chop the vegetables. “Said I looked too happy to be single.”

The knife thudded rhythmically against the board. Onion, carrot, a bit of root vegetable I’d bartered from the market. The smell of garlic warmed the air.

“Imagine,” I muttered. “A woman can’t smile these days without it meaning something.”

“Mrrrow,” came his regal reply, as he leapt onto the counter despite knowing better.

I let him stay.

“He offered me tea,” I admitted. “That’s all. He smiled. Said something clever. That’s not…” I trailed off, chopping some erbs. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

A lie, maybe. One I told myself more than I told him.

Lord Waffles, named during a fever dream and a bottle of cheap wine, blinked his remaining eye at me like I was the foolish one. Maybe I was.

“He just…” I paused, hands stilling. “He makes it quiet. In my head.”

The house felt still. Like it was listening.

I turned the stove on low, letting the soup simmer as I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Lord Waffles settle onto his throne of crumpled tea towels beside the fruit basket. His one eye blinked slowly, like he was too good for this world.

"You wouldn't believe it," I said, reaching up to pin my hair back with fingers still scented of thyme and old pages. "He came to the shop today. Again."

"Mrao."

"Oh, don't start. I know that tone. I’m not waiting for him to show up, if that’s what you’re implying."

"Mrrow."

I narrowed my eyes. “I have better things to do than moon over tall, dark, mysterious strangers with ridiculous cheekbones.”

He licked his paw. Smug little monster.

"And no," I said, chopping more root vegetables than necessary just for something to do, "I didn’t stare. Not that much. A reasonable amount of staring. Normal amounts. Completely normal."

"Miao."

"Excuse me, I was polite. Friendly, even. He was the one who was-" I faltered, stirring the soup a bit too vigorously, "-smirking. Like he knew something."

Lord Waffles gave a pointed flick of his tail and looked away.

I leaned down on the counter to look him in the eye. “Don’t give me that look. You don’t even like strangers. You bit a priestess once.”

He looked deeply unrepentant.

“And another thing,” I said, grabbing a spoon to taste the broth, “he asked for another vial of sleep draught. Said he hasn’t been able to rest in years. But he’s always so composed, so…”

"Mmmroww."

“No, I’m not going to describe him again.”

"Mrp."

I sighed, resting my cheek in my palm. “Fine. Tall. Broad. Voice like midnight velvet. Smiles like he’s only letting you see the corner of it.”

Waffles thumped his tail once on the counter like a judge delivering a final verdict.

“Fine, yes. Handsome. Unreasonably so. Like he was created just to be a problem.”

The cat yawned as if I was boring him.

“I didn’t give him the draught for free, you know.” I straightened. “It was payment. For the tea. And the conversation. That’s all.”

I busied myself ladling soup into a chipped bowl. The cat padded over and rubbed against my ankle, soft and warm and forgiving.

“He left gold,” I muttered after a moment, almost to myself. “More than enough for rent for months. Just… left it there like it was nothing.”

Silence fell, thick as the steam curling from the bowl.

“People don’t do that,” I said softly. “Not unless they want something.”

Lord Waffles hopped off the counter and meowed again. This time, it sounded a little softer. Almost like concern.

I bent down and picked him up, pressing my nose into his fur. “He doesn’t know who I am,” I whispered. “What I’ve done. What I’ve-been through.”

The cat purred, curling against me, warm as a heartbeat.

And in that moment, I was just a woman holding a cat, soup cooling on the table, trying not to fall for the man who smiled like he carried starlight in his pockets.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The silk was cool against my skin. Pale as morning fog, it wrapped around my wrists, then lower, brushing past my thighs like a lover’s fingers. Light. Cool. Gentle as moonlight poured through water. It laced itself around me. Around my ankles.

I didn't flinch. I didn’t fear. The fabric smelled of peach and wild mint, soft and familiar, the kind of scent that lives in memories we don’t know we’ve lost.

I let it pull me under.

Above me, the sky bled shades of rose and gold, dusk and dawn folding into one another, too tender to be real. Somewhere, music played, a haunting melody with no words, like someone humming a lullaby they'd long forgotten.

The wind kissed my bare shoulders. Warm fingers brushed my spine.

And him.

Not his face, not yet. Just the sense of him. Like gravity. Like breath.

He came to stand behind me, his presence wrapping around mine like a second skin. I knew this magic. Knew it like the way you know your own heartbeat, constant and unseen. It curled around my ribs, wrapped around my throat in a whisper, but never tightened.

“You came back,” I murmured. I was smiling.

I should have known.

The silks wound tighter.

Barely. Barely.

But it no longer draped, it held.

My smile twitched.

A lover’s caress turned into something else.

I blinked.

The sky above me flickered, gold bled into grey.

The wind stilled.

“Do you remember what you promised me?” he asked, his voice the same as always: velvet-wrapped honey, smooth enough to slip past your defenses, sweet enough to mask the poison.

I turned my head, but the world blurred. “I… I don’t-”

“You said,” he whispered, “you were mine.”

The silk pulled.

No.

Not silk.

Chains.

Iron slid over skin like snakes waking in a nest. Cold and wrong and real. They crept up my arms, slick and silent, coiling beneath my ribs, weaving into the bones of me. I tugged, gentle at first, then frantic, but they held fast. I could feel the echo of bruises blooming where they kissed too long.

My smile had vanished. My voice with it.

He stepped in front of me now. Not a stranger. Not a lover.

Him.

The one who said he was chosen by fate.

The one who bound me with the one word like it was mercy, not a sentence.

My pulse stuttered. “Stop-please-” I choked, but the words didn’t carry.

"Fate brought us together, little flower. You belong to me."

His hand touched my face. Soft. Almost kind. I flinched.

He only smiled.

“You’re still so beautiful when you beg.”

My knees buckled, but the chains caught me. Held me upright, even as I wanted to vanish, dissolve, scream.

I couldn’t breathe.

My magic was gone, hollowed out. My body, no longer mine.

My voice, useless.

My name, forgotten.

I was his.

I-

Then, something.

A shift.

A scent.

Lavender. Lemon verbena. A touch of cedar.

A laugh, different this time. Not cruel.

Smooth and unhurried, like the sea at night.

Another presence. Not his.

Not his.

I reached toward it with shaking hands. With everything I had.

The chains cracked.

And the dream broke.

I woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart slamming against my ribs. My throat was tight, raw. My nightgown clung to my skin, damp with sweat. The candle had guttered out sometime in the night, the room cloaked in shadow.

I pressed a hand to my chest.

“It was just a dream.”

But my wrists still burned.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

No One Like You [Ch.3]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

You, an apothecary in Velaris, isn’t interested in saving anyone—least of all him. You have your own secrets and scars to carry. When your paths cross, something shifts. Something neither of you is ready for.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize—whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: So here's the third chapter, honestly not fond of it. I didn't know how to make a great conversation between Rhys and Y/N. This feels more like a filler chapter.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, pls let me know. <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

It had been days since I’d last seen him.

Rhys. Just Rhys.

The name curled in my mind like mist, uninvited but not entirely unwelcome. I wasn’t someone easily caught off guard, not by flattery, not by charm, and certainly not by strangers with well-tailored cloaks and a voice like velvet spun in shadow.

And yet…

He lingered, like the smell of smoke long after the flame had vanished.

He lingered in the spaces between things. In the silence of dawn before I opened the shop. In the way my eyes always drifted toward the river, half-expecting someone to be standing there. In the dreams I wasn’t supposed to have anymore, where I didn’t quite see his face, but felt that same pull. That same hush.

He reminded me of something I didn’t know I’d forgotten, something just out of reach, just at the edge of memory. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me. Like he saw through it - through me.

And maybe that’s what unsettled me most.

Because I knew how to hold people at a distance. I was good at it.

Polite smile. Clever words. A well-placed question turned into a deflection.

But Rhys hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t tried to barge his way in, he simply… arrived. Like fog rolling in over still water, inevitable in its quiet persistence.

And it should’ve meant nothing, a stranger at the edge of the woods, a brief encounter, a curious face.

But his voice kept echoing.

Splash.

Cold water dripped down my temples, trailing the curve of my neck before soaking into the collar of my shirt. I stood at the washbasin in the back of the Apothecary, hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, eyes locked on my reflection in the small, clouded mirror above it.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered.

The woman in the mirror raised a brow, unimpressed.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous to be thinking about him this much. I’d met him once. He’d said a few pretty things, wore mystery like a cloak, and smiled like he knew far more than he was letting on.

And apparently, that was all it took to completely short-circuit my common sense.

I shook my head, letting the cool water do what it could to calm whatever this was that had started clawing its way to the surface. Fascination. Curiosity. Stupidity. Pick your poison.

With a long breath, I reached for a towel, patting my face dry and rolling my shoulders back. There were things to be done. Shelves to restock. Deliveries to check. Customers to serve.

I’d kept busy. Customers came and went , a mother with her coughing child, an elderly male in need of a balm for aching joints, a pair of young lovers asking for something “sweetly dangerous.” I gave them licorice with ginseng root and a wink.

The doorbell chimed, soft and familiar. I didn’t look up right away.

“Back so soon?” I called absently, expecting Mrs. Telna, who came in twice a week for lemon balm and a bit of gossip.

But it wasn’t her.

“Not quite,” came a voice far too smooth, too amused.

I turned, and there she stood - Maris, a regular. Towering, fiery red hair pulled into a loose braid, and a knowing smirk already on her face. She stomped the rain off her boots dramatically.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“I missed your money,” I replied sweetly.

She laughed. “Fair. I need something to help with headaches, my mate’s family is visiting.”

“Ah, the real dark magic.” I moved behind the counter, pulling down a small tin of feverfew. “Take a pinch in hot water. Twice a day, or once if you want to stay mildly miserable.”

“I like a little misery,” she winked, passing over a few coins. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Then you’ll love the next customer. I have a feeling they’ll ask for something ridiculous.”

She laughed again, then swept out in a rustle of cloak and sass.

A few more customers came and went, a quiet scholar with ink-stained fingers looking for concentration tea, a teenage fae boy with many freckles and not enough tact who asked if I sold anything to make someone “fall in love, but like, for real.” I handed him mint and told him to brush his teeth first.

By midafternoon, the rain had lightened. I had just finished prepping a bitterroot tonic when the bell rang again. But this time, something in me stilled.

Not the way it did when someone shady walked in. Not the way it did when a storm brewed.

This was… softer. A tug. Like someone had gently hooked a string behind my ribs and pulled.

I turned.

There he was. Standing in the doorway like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.

His eyes found mine immediately, and that grin curled at the corner of his mouth, the kind that said he’d expected to find me here, and was somehow still pleased to have done so.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said. "You mentioned a shop near the river… and I thought I’d see if that was true.."

I crossed my arms, biting back the smile that threatened. “And if it wasn’t?”

He shrugged. “I’d have wandered until I found you anyway.”

Mother Above. He really is dangerous.

I scoffed, turning back to my vials. “Flattery. Dangerous thing, especially around certain brews.”

“Then it’s a good thing I came here for something safer,” he replied, voice smooth as velvet.

I glanced over my shoulder. “And what exactly do you need?”

He leaned casually on the counter, fingers tapping the wood. “A remedy.”

“You’ll have to be more specific. Love potion? Curse antidote? Elixir of eternal charm?”

“No, Neither and don’t need the last one” he said brushing off his cloak.

“Sleep,” he confessed, simply. “Or rather, the lack of it.”

That made me pause. The grin was gone. His voice still held its lightness, but I heard it, the weight beneath. Something old and tired.

“You’ve tried everything?” I asked, already turning to the shelf where I kept the stronger tinctures.

“Everything,” he said. “Even the cabin.”

“Not even that helped?”

He shook his head once. “Quiet doesn’t always mean peace.”

I studied him, the faint lines at the corners of his mouth, the tiredness sitting just beneath his fine, sculpted features.

“I’ll make you something,” I said finally. “Stronger than the usual blends. But it won’t taste like honey and lavender.”

“Wouldn’t trust it if it did,” he murmured.

I turned back to the workbench, letting the familiar rhythm of motion take over, valerian root, crushed gentian, a thread of dreamshade. Behind me, the silence shifted, the kind that meant he was still watching.

“Is this your usual?” he asked. “Late-night brews for sleepless strangers?”

“I prefer to work with plants. They lie less.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like a story.”

“Most things do,” I said, not looking back.

He leaned in, watching me work, voice soft. “You always this generous with your brews?”

“Only for charming strangers with insomnia.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

As I crushed the last of the ingredients, I noticed the way his eyes tracked every motion, not in suspicion, but interest. Like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of me.

“Try this,” I said, handing him a small corked bottle. “One spoonful before sleep. And don’t mix it with wine or reckless decisions.”

“No promises,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over mine as he took it.

Something electric zipped up my arm.

I cleared my throat. “That one’s stronger than usual. It might make you dream.”

His gaze lingered on my face, unreadable. “I haven’t dreamt in a long time.”

I held his stare, then finally said, “Maybe it’s time.”

He slipped the vial into his coat pocket. “You always this poetic?”

“Only when I’m trying to get rid of someone.”

A low laugh escaped him, and he stepped back. “I’ll let you get back to your brews. But I might stop by again. You know, in case I develop a need for… chamomile.”

I gave him a look. “If you come asking for chamomile, I’ll know you’re lying.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll have to be creative.”

A pause.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked, glancing up through his lashes.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Nothing.”

He lifted a brow. “Nothing?”

“You gave me tea,” I said, tilting my head slightly. “And company. Consider it a fair trade.”

He chuckled, a soft, low sound that settled somewhere in my chest. “Dangerous logic. You’ll go out of business if you keep giving away remedies for conversation.”

“I don’t give them to just anyone,” I replied, and he smiled again, that quiet, crooked thing he did that always felt like he was on the verge of saying something else entirely.

“Well, in that case,” he said, stepping back, “I’ll do my best to come up with more ailments. Just to keep the economy alive.”

“Selfless of you.”

He gave a small bow of the head - half-mocking, half-sincere - and left, the shop bell tinkling softly in his wake.

I exhaled, the quiet after his departure pressing gently against the shelves and walls.

Then I turned.

And froze.

There, on the counter where the bottle had been moments ago, lay seven gleaming gold coins. Real ones. The kind stamped with the Night Court’s crest. The kind that could cover my rent for the better part of a year, with enough left for firewood and fresh herbs, too.

I stared at them for a moment, unmoving. Then sighed, brushing my fingers lightly over the closest one.

“You really are dangerous,” I murmured.

The bell above the door chimed again as a new customer entered, and I straightened, slipping the coins into the drawer below with a quiet clink.

Back to work.

But his name lingered in my mind like a half-forgotten melody.

Rhys.

Just Rhys.

And yet - something told me nothing about him was simple.

#acomaf #azriel smut #rhysand #rhysand smut #rhysand x y/n #acosf #cassian smut #acotar #fanfic #acofas #morrigan #throne of glass #rhysand angst #angst #fluff #smut

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

No One Like You [Ch. 2]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize—whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins

Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: So here’s the second chapter. I’m not really proud of it, it’s pretty unedited, and I struggled with how to make them meet 😭😭😭. I have little to no knowledge about herbs and plants (some are totally made up lol), but my sister helped me a bit.

Still I hope you like this and if you do, pls let me know <3

I'll update this in a few days. Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter 1 , Chapter 3

It had been just over a week since Morrigan walked into my apothecary, and walked out with a vial of truth. She hadn’t returned, which, all things considered, meant the serum had likely done what it was meant to do.

I hadn’t thought much about her since.

The mountains were beginning to thaw, the snow melting slowly as spring crept in. I needed to replenish the shop’s stock, and the higher reaches of the peaks always provided what I needed. While many relied on trade and the market, I preferred the solitude of the mountains to gather the herbs and plants I used.

The air was different up here, clean, sharp, and quieter. I knew these trails like the back of my hand. The rock, the lichen, the old, wind-twisted trees, they whispered to me, offering what they had, asking little in return.

By midday, I was well above the tree line, where the wind bit sharper and the air thinned enough to clear the noise from my mind. My satchel was already half-full: small jars tucked neatly inside with sprigs of dried goldberry, folded leaves of mountain sage wrapped in cloth, and a few scraped curls of duskbark, stubborn to harvest, but worth it for its use in calming burns and internal bleeding alike.

I paused at the edge of a ravine, where a cluster of pale-veined roots grew beneath the belly of a stone ledge. Larkspur root, deceptively beautiful, curling like bone around the moss-covered earth. Poisonous if disturbed without care. Deadly if pulled with a gloved hand.

Few knew the trick.

I crouched beside the roots, drew the small vial of condensed moonlight from my belt pouch, and unstoppered it. One drop, that was all it took. As it touched the soil, the light shimmered faintly, seeping into the earth like ink in water.

The roots responded instantly.

They shifted, curling upward, rising as if seeking the moon itself. Slowly, delicately, they pulled free from the ground, leaving the surrounding soil untouched, undisturbed.

I gathered them one by one, wrapping each in oiled parchment before placing them in their jar.

Further up the ridge, where the rock turned to pale granite and the snow melted slower, I found a patch of starfennel, hiding under frost. I used the edge of my blade to chip at the ice and gently free the stems. Starfennel is made for powerful healing tinctures when aged properly.

By the time I reached the uppermost ledge, dusk was stretching its fingers across the sky. I’d just finished collecting a clutch of wintermint bulbs, used to quiet fevers and blunt the edges of grief, when the air changed.

A subtle shift.

I straightened slowly.

That was when I felt it.

Magic. Old, deep-rooted magic.

I turned, following the tug in the air, and that’s when I saw it, tucked between the trees, quiet and forgotten.

A cabin.

It looked... ordinary. Weather-worn wood, a stone chimney, a front step partially covered in pine needles. No smoke curling from the flue. No sound. No visible enchantments. But I could feel them.

The ward wrapped around the structure like a sleeping cat, low and warm, but not inviting.

And yet, I wasn’t turned away. I shouldn’t have been able to get this close. Not without triggering something. But the magic let me through, parting around me without protest. Strange

My instincts whispered that I should walk away. That this was no place for me.

But there was something beneath that magic. Something... familiar. Not in memory, but in feeling. Like a note I couldn't name, but had heard before in a dream.

I stood before the cabin’s door, my breath misting in the air, heart strangely quiet.

I didn’t knock right away.

I simply looked at it, then I lifted my hand.

Just before my knuckles reached the wood-

The door opened.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and my breath caught in my chest before I could stop it.

He was tall, impossibly so, with broad shoulders that filled the doorway and a posture that radiated power. His hair was dark, the color of midnight, falling in soft waves that framed his sharp jawline and high cheekbones. He looked like someone carved from stone, but with a certain fluid grace that only the most dangerous creatures possessed. His eyes, though, they were the most striking feature. Not just a deep, rich blue, almost violet but with flecks of starlight within them, swirling in patterns that seemed to pulse. They held the weight of centuries of experience, and in them, I saw power, but also something… more. A kind of quiet sorrow, almost hidden beneath that cool exterior.

I couldn't look away.

I stumbled back.

I didn’t say anything immediately, my eyes meeting his. There was something sharp in his gaze, something that made me feel…in a way that I didn’t quite understand. His brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features, rightfully so.

But it was the way his eyes widened just the slightest bit when they locked onto mine that made the breath catch in my throat. There was an intensity in that look, like something had just clicked into place.

His clothes were simple, black, fitted, and practical, though they seemed to accentuate the lean muscle that moved beneath them with each subtle shift. He held a leather satchel in one hand, the only indication that he might have been away for a while.

After a beat, he spoke, his voice low but steady. "I didn’t expect company."

"I didn’t expect to be here," I replied honestly.

His lips quirked up slightly in a half-smile, though there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes. "That makes two of us."

The way his eyes never left mine made me uneasy in the best way possible. He didn’t look away, as if he were studying something hidden beneath the surface. But I stood my ground, I didn’t know what had drawn me here, but I also wasn’t about to run away from it now.

He looked down at the satchel in his hand for a moment, then back at me, his gaze lingering. “You’re far from the village. Do you come here often?”

The question seemed innocent enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. More to him.

“I come when I need to,” I answered, choosing to leave it at that. There was no need to explain my business in the mountains, especially not to someone I didn’t know. Not that I owed him anything.

The silence between us stretched again, but this time, it felt different.

His lips tightened slightly. "You didn’t feel the wards," he remarked after a moment, his tone casual but with an edge.

“I didn’t," I admitted. It wasn’t a lie, I hadn’t noticed them until I’d gotten close. Something about this place felt… off, but in a way that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. “Your wards are…strong.”

He gave a slight nod, as though this was something he already knew. "They’re meant to keep out people who don’t belong here."

"And yet I’m still standing on your doorstep," I remarked, raising a brow. My voice was steady, but I could feel the pull of his presence like a magnet. It was an odd thing, unfamiliar but undeniable.

He didn’t seem offended, though. In fact, his lips quirked up at the corners as if I’d said something amusing, though I didn’t know why it should be. "It seems fate has a way of surprising us," he said with a dry edge to his voice.

I had no answer to that.

"Come in," he said after a long pause, his voice softer now, with an unexpected warmth. "If you’re not in a hurry, you’re welcome to join me. There’s tea inside."

I stood still for a moment, my instincts pulling me in different directions. My mind told me to be cautious, to turn away and leave, to trust nothing about this situation. But there was something in his voice, something that coaxed at my heart, telling me to stay.

The words escaped before I could fully think them through. “You could be dangerous,” I said quietly, my gaze fixed on his.

He tilted his head slightly, as if the idea intrigued him. “True,” he said softly. “But you’re no stranger to danger yourself, are you? I suspect you’re more than capable of defending yourself if it came to that. After all, if my wards let you in, it means you’re supposed to be here, for better or worse.”

“But instead, I’m offering you tea.”. His lips curved into a smirk, and he took a step back from the door, as though offering an invitation. “You don’t have to trust me. But I’d think twice before you turn your back on the chance for a little rest. You’ve been walking for hours.” His eyes briefly flicked to the pack slung over my shoulder, the herbs I’d gathered visible beneath the flap.

I didn’t like the way he seemed to know exactly how long I’d been walking or how tired I was, but I also wasn’t prepared to argue about it. A part of me was strangely willing to see where this moment would lead.

I took a step back, half turning to leave, but something, a whisper deep inside me, held me there. I wasn’t sure what it was, but the urge to move forward felt overwhelming.

I hesitated, my mind screaming at me to walk away, to trust my instincts and leave this cabin, this stranger, behind. But then… my heart, or something deeper within, tugged me forward.

“I still don’t trust you,” I said, my voice quieter now, betraying the uncertainty that had settled in my chest.

A smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can leave if you like, and I won’t force you to stay.”

I looked at him for a long time, his gaze holding mine, unreadable and yet compelling. Something in me told me to listen, to step inside and see where this moment would lead, no matter how much my mind screamed otherwise.

After a long silence, I nodded.

“I’m Y/N,” I said, extending my hand toward him, not expecting much, but then again… I wasn't sure what I expected from someone like him.

He studied my hand for a moment, his gaze drifting over my fingers before his eyes flicked up to meet mine again. His lips curled into a small, knowing smile before he took my hand in his, his grip firm but not overbearing.

"Y/N," he repeated, as though testing the name on his tongue. "It's a pleasure."

His fingers brushed lightly over mine as he released my hand, and his eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity that made my breath catch.

"I’m Rhys," he said then, his voice smooth and even.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

I took the cup from his hand, fingers grazing his, a brief, barely-there touch, but enough to make something spark beneath my skin. I ignored it. Pretended not to notice the way he watched me, like he was trying to read something between my bones.

The tea was warm, laced with something floral, Night Jasmine, my favourite. I took a small sip and set the cup down.

“So,” he said lightly, “you trust strange tea from strange men in strange cabins now?”

I arched a brow, setting the cup down with a soft clink.

“I’ve had worse.”

Rhys let out a low chuckle. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

I didn’t answer. Behind him, something moved. I leaned to the side, trying to get a better look.

The fire in the hearth snapped quietly, tossing sparks, but no wood had been added. A blanket fluffed itself on a nearby chair, settling as if someone had just sat.

My eyes narrowed, looking past his shoulder. “Is your…house doing things?”

He didn’t even turn, unbothered. “It gets impatient when I forget to finish dinner. Or when guests need something and won’t ask.”, “It has moods.”.

“Right.” I raised an eyebrow. “Of course it does.”

Rhys didn’t bother explaining further, just sipped his tea, comfortable in the silence that stretched between us like he lived in it.

“So,” I said, mostly to fill the quiet, “what is it you do when you're not hiding in cabins with temperamental furniture?”

A chuckle slipped out of him — low, quiet, but genuine. “I work with the Inner Circle of the Night Court,” he said, not bothering to dress it up.

I blinked.

I hesitated. “I… met someone from your Circle. About a week ago.”

That got his attention. Not visibly, not really. But something in him stilled, like a cat catching scent. “Did you?”

I nodded.

“Small world,” he murmured.

“Smaller than you’d think.” After a beat, I leaned back in the chair and said, “So you work for the High Lord?”

It came out more as a statement than a question, because it was. I didn’t know what the High Lord looked like. Or what his name was. And something about the man in front of me didn’t quite fit the image I’d imagined.

Rhys nodded, his expression didn’t shift. But there was a pause, just a blink too long.

“And what do you think of him?” he asked casually, watching me closely over the rim of his cup.

I shrugged. “He ended the war. That was what mattered.”

“You don’t sound particularly impressed.”

“I’m not particularly unimpressed either.” I met his gaze. “I didn’t need a hero. Just peace.”

He blinked. Once. Like the answer surprised him, though he hid it well.

There was no reverence in my tone, no disdain. Just a quiet, solid truth. The kind of response that didn’t beg for approval or make room for disappointment.

“I suppose that’s rare,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

I raised a brow. “What is?”

He smiled again, distant, secretive. “Nothing.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, swirling the last of his tea, eyes twinkling.

“So,” he said, “you sneak past wards, trespass into mountain cabins, and refuse to be awed by High Lords. What other crimes should I be aware of?”

I tilted my head. “I also pick flowers where I’m not supposed to, dry them illegally, and sell them under suspiciously aesthetic labels.”

He grinned. “Dangerous, then.”

“Terrifying,” I agreed, sipping my tea.

“I should warn the High Lord. There’s a rogue herbalist running wild in the mountains. Breaking hearts and ward spells.”

“You flatter yourself,” I said, smiling into my cup.

He chuckled at that, then stood and walked toward the counter where the bowl, wooden, deep, and etched with delicate moons, stirred itself atop the countertop, its contents folding in slow circles as if guided by invisible hands.

I watched it for a moment. “Your house cooks too?”

“It does what it pleases,” he said, turning toward me. “A little magic, a little charm. Like its host.”

“Is the charm self-appointed or house-endorsed?”

“Oh, definitely house-endorsed,” he said, placing his hand against the wall. A small flame sparked to life in the hearth in response, crackling warmly. “See? We’re a package deal.”

I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. It felt strange, easy.

Rhys came back, tea refilled in both our cups. He offered mine with a little bow. “To trespassers and criminals.”

“And to charming mountain hermits,” I replied, clinking my cup to his.

He looked over the rim of his cup as he drank. “You think I’m charming.”

“I think you’re something,” I said, setting my cup down. “The verdict’s still out on what.”

His grin widened, sharp and amused. “Let me know when it comes in. I’m dying to hear it.”

I didn’t respond to that. Because the longer I stayed, the quieter something in me became. Not my thoughts, they were loud as ever. It was the rest of me. The part I usually ignored.

Logic told me to leave.

But for once, I didn’t listen to logic.

For once, I stayed.

Chapter 3

#acotar #fanfic #rhysand smut #rhysand x oc #rhysand x reader #rhysand x y/n #azriel smut #cassian smut #rhysand angst #acomaf #acosf #angst #smut #fluff #sub #dom #rhysand #rhysand acotar #morrigan

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azrielstherapist · 4 months ago

Text

No One Like You [Ch. 1]

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: He saved the world. But the cost? A part of himself that he can never get back.

Rhysand returned to Velaris as the hero of Prythian, but the shadows of his past cling to him, leaving him distant, haunted. The world has moved on, but he hasn't.

No one warned you that some connections are inevitable, no matter how much you resist.

In a city where the past is never truly gone, both of you may have more in common than you realize—whether you’re ready to face it or not.

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: I was listening to this song and I was inspired, so why not. I still don't understand how Tumblr works, so work in progress I guess. This is a draft of the first chapter, Rhysand is introduced in the second chapter, if you guys like it. I'll publish it! Dividers by @aquazero

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

The wind that rolled down from the Sidra had a bite to it that morning. Not cruel, not winter’s wrath, but sharp enough to slip beneath cloaks and find skin. The kind of wind that reminded you the world moved on, with or without you. The kind that asked whether you’d move with it.

I walked with my hood up and my hands tucked into the sleeves of my coat, eyes on the slick stones of the narrow alleyways that cradled my little shop like a secret. People passed me by with baskets of bread and paper-wrapped flowers. Some nodded, most didn’t. That suited me just fine.

The apothecary sat where it always had, halfway between the river and the square, tucked into a weathered stone building that leaned like it was tired. A faded wooden sign above the door read “The Apothecary”, how original, but most people just called it the shop with the blue door.

I liked it that way.

The bell above the door gave a single, soft chime when I pushed it open. That sound was mine, I’d chosen it, tuned it, hung it with trembling fingers years ago. Not just to hear when someone entered. But to remind me that this space was real. That I existed, here.

Inside, the warmth was waiting. Not from a fire, I hadn’t lit one yet, but from the walls themselves, from the worn wood shelves and their neat rows of amber bottles, herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, soft powders and dried petals in glass. The scent of bergamot, ash bark, and clove curled in the air like memory.

My fingers moved automatically, unlocking the storeroom, checking the fresh jars from the night before, brushing dust from the counter. It was still early. Velaris hadn’t woken fully yet. That was the way I preferred it: the hush before sound, the stillness before demands.

The city was beautiful, a dream for poets, all marble and starlight, but I had no interest in its art galleries or its floating lanterns, not anymore at least. Beauty like that had always seemed a little cruel to me. Too fragile. Too easy to break.

I liked the ugly things. Bitter roots. Cracked vials. The stubborn fight of plants that grow in poor soil.

By the second hour, the shop was humming in the soft way it always did. The bell rang, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was Aeluin.

He came every week, a retired cloth-dyer who still carried the scent of ink and wool on his hands.

“Morning, girl,” he said, with a nod and a wheeze. “Same as usual.”

“You sleeping?” I asked, already reaching for the tin with the lavender blend I made just for him. “Or just pretending you are?”

Aeluin gave a dry laugh. “If I was sleeping proper, I wouldn’t be here beggin’ for leaves.”

“You’re not begging. You’re paying,” I said, and wrapped the tin with a strip of linen. “This time, don’t steep it more than five minutes. You overbrew it again, it won’t knock out a field mouse.”

He left a few coppers on the counter, more than I charged, and didn’t wait for change. He never did.

“You should come by the square,” he said before the door closed behind him. “They’ve set up a market for the solstice. Music, food, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t do crowds.”

He gave me a look. Not pity, not judgment. Just… recognition. Then he nodded once and left.

Alone again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The second bell of the morning came with the scent of wet stone and steel. An Illyrian, tall, broad-shouldered, wings tucked neatly beneath his cloak. Draxen, I remembered. We’d only spoken a few times before.

"You’re up early," he said, pulling his hood back and ruffling damp hair.

I gave a small nod, already reaching for the tincture I guessed he’d come for, something for sore muscles or a bruised rib. "Trouble flying?"

"Trouble sparring," he replied with a grin, eyeing the shelf like he was looking for something else entirely. “Your stuff works better than whatever my partner stashes in his desk.”

“You’re still using it wrong.”

Draxen gave a mock-wounded look. “Can’t I just appreciate your brewing skills without the lecture?”

I let the faintest smile curl the corner of my mouth. “That would be new.”

He leaned against the counter, casual, like someone who didn’t quite know what to do with stillness. “You always this cheery in the morning?”

“You always this nosy for no reason?”

He barked a laugh, genuinely amused. I handed him the small dark-glass bottle, carefully labeled.

"Thanks," he said, slipping it into his jacket. But instead of leaving, he looked around, really looked. At the half-lit corners, the shelves, the care in every label and placement. His gaze was warm, but sharp. The kind that sees more than it should. “You ever think of moving closer to the city center? You’d have more customers.”

I arched a brow. “You want more people to know where I live?”

“Fair enough,” he said, that smirk of his deepening with approval. “Still. You’ve got a talent.”

“I’ve got quiet. That’s enough.”

He lingered, like he wanted to say more, but finally just gave a nod and turned toward the door. The bell jingled behind him, the wind tugging at his cloak as he vanished into the street.

The shop was quite again.

I leaned against the counter and listened to the silence. Not empty, not lonely. Just quiet. And in that quiet, I breathed.

This was my space. My rhythm. My peace.

So when the bell chimed again, softer this time, like a fingertip on glass, I knew before I turned that something was different.

She stepped inside, cloak damp at the edges, the color of the deepest red, a shade that would’ve blended into shadows if not for the sheen of rain on the velvet. Her hair, golden and impossibly bright, fell in a braid over one shoulder, and her expression was open in that diplomatic sort of way, welcoming, unreadable, disarming.

She seems like someone used to being watched.

Not in a vain way, not the kind that demanded attention, but the way people moved when they were accustomed to it. Like she was always bracing for something. Praise or attack, I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t need more than a second to place her. I saw her in the city, everyone knows her.

The Morrigan.

A member of the Night Court.

he High Lord’s third in command.

She didn’t introduce herself, but I didn’t expect her to. Instead, she stepped forward and said, “I was passing by,” voice warm but measured, “and your shop looked… inviting.”

My hands didn’t still over the bundles I was sorting. “It’s open.”

Her eyes moved over the room with genuine interest, not feigned for politeness. “What do you prepare here? Herbs? Brews? Tinctures?”

“All of the above,” I said. “Oils, powders, teas. Salves. Tonics for the body. Others for the mind.”

She nodded, stepping closer, not into my space, but toward a low shelf lined with small dark vials, all unlabeled.

“You work alone?”

I gave her a look. She didn’t press.

After a quiet moment, she turned back to me. “Do you make truth serums?”

The question was clear, but her tone was carefully neutral, too practiced to be idle curiosity. She didn’t say who they wanted the truth from, or why.

“Yes.”

“Subtle ones?”

“Yes.”

Something flickered behind her gaze. Not surprise, but something adjacent. Approval, maybe.

“I need one that doesn’t taste like anything,” she said. “One that doesn’t slow the tongue or dull the mind. One that won’t be noticed until it’s too late.”

I tied off the sprig of dried anise root I was wrapping and finally met her eyes. “How long do you want it to last?”

“A few minutes. Long enough for answers.”

I nodded once, then turned to the back shelves without another word. I didn’t ask who it was for. I didn’t ask why. She didn’t offer.

And that, oddly, felt like an understanding.

I took down two jars, one filled with crushed veritas blossoms, another with pale green thistle seeds. From a third tin, I pulled a small folded parchment containing a fine white powder that shimmered faintly in the light.

I began measuring in silence.

Behind me, the woman wandered, careful not to touch anything. Her gaze moved to the bone charm hanging above the archway, one of the old ones. A ward against liars. She didn’t comment on it.

When I turned back, she was already watching me.

“This won’t compel truth,” I said. “It’ll only lower the resistance to speaking it. The mind will want to keep secrets, but the tongue won’t quite cooperate.”

“That’s all we need.”

I folded the blend into a black wax paper and tied it with string. No label. No instructions. If she needed this, she’d know how to use it.

“Four silvers,” I said.

She paid in silence. Then, without reaching for the bundle yet, she studied me a moment longer. Not rudely. Not with suspicion. Just with… interest.

“Most apothecaries wouldn’t hand this over without a dozen questions.”

“Then most apothecaries waste breath.”

That made her smile, small, almost private.

“I’m Morrigan,” she offered then, with a slight bow of her head.

“I know.”

She paused, not offended, just curious. “And you are?”

“Y/N”

A flicker of recognition, maybe in the name. Maybe not. But she said nothing else. Just tucked the packet into her cloak, nodded once, and turned for the door.

“It suits you.”, then she vanished.

I didn’t answer.

The bell chimed as she left, and the silence folded around me again, but not quite the same silence as before.

Something had shifted.

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

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