#The feathered familiar {Rhys}

[misfitsandmischief]

@mymanymerrymuses 

Well this was nerve wracking. Sure the day was nice, great weather, small breeze, clear skies, and yet the boy was still nervous. It could have been the fact that he could count on one hand the amount of times he had managed to successfully fly on his own, it could have been the fact that he still had a charm attached to the dumb broom that forced it to essentially behave and he was terrified that it would fall off. Whatever the reason, he still didn’t enjoy this particular part of River’s work. Why she thought he was ready to make these deliveries on his own was beyond him. 

“Hey, pay attention. If you don’t you’ll fall on your butt again when you land.” 

Okay well, mostly on his own. The dumb crow had been assigned to him in what his sister had hoped would be a comforting gesture. Collin had still not yet seen whether he was being comforted or not, but it’s the thought that counts he supposed.

The little town that was tucked away on the other side of the mountain was easy enough to find, he’d been there a few times before, and despite what the bird had put in his mind he managed a somewhat smooth landing just on the outskirts. The basket of jars that held the salves and ointments he was to deliver was pushed down the length of the broom to rest at the base of its bristles and the handle itself went over his shoulder as he started his trek in to find his clients. 

“You know you aren’t supposed to carry it like that.” The crow, despite complaining about his methods, sat on the bristles behind him, preening his feathers. 

“Yeah, and I thought the silly hat was a bit much, and yet here I am wearing it.” That had been River’s insistence, that he wore the hat. ‘It’s the witches symbol, it’s how we make our presence known.’ Cause the broom and talking bird wouldn’t have been enough...

Honestly his work is easy, quick even, he only has a few houses he has to drop off to today and before he knows it he’s done. It’s when he’s making his slower walk back through town that he notices someone in the market he hadn’t seen the last time. She had to be around his age and yet the girl didn’t seem to be accompanied by anyone herself. 

“What do you think she has?” The crow looks to see where the boy has nodded and tilts his head. 

“Go look, I’m sure the little faun has something nice.” 

It takes a second to register what the bird has said before his eyes widen a little. Faun? 

“How do you-” 

“The ears. They blend in but you can still see them. If you would read the books your sister gives you, you could probably have seen it yourself you know.” 

Yeah, having the bird along is great company. He bobs the broom as he starts to walk, causing the crow to lose his balance momentarily. If the smile on his face is because of that, he won’t say, but the small complaint from his companion did spark a little joy in him. 

As he approaches the girl, his walk slows slightly as he takes in the things she has around her. It almost looks like something he’s seen at home, the little charms that River has made once or twice. Regardless they look really pretty. 

“Excuse me, miss? Can I ask what you have?”

[shadowdaddies]

Omgomg-

Can you do an Az x Summer Court reader with soft, white, feathered wings where she's like cleaning her feathers(a very intimate act) and Az walks in, there's some flustered blushing and whatnot, and then he offers to help and they clean their wings together??

OMG this is so cute I'm cryin 😭 I had so much fun with this, you're the best and ily thank you for the request angel!!!💜

Wings of Desire

Azriel x Reader

Sent on mission by Tarquin to work with the Night Court on joining your armies with the Illyrians, Rhysand had allowed you to visit the camps with his spymaster. After a long day of observing training, the both of you flew to where you would be staying while in Illyria. You followed Azriel, landing in front of a small cabin on the far northern border of Prythian. You weren’t even sure if you were still on the continent anymore, shivering at the cold unlike that which you’d ever experienced.

Born in the Summer Court, the heavy snow during Night Court winters was unfamiliar to you, and made flying difficult. Unlike the Illyrians’ wings, which were bare and ideal for flight in freezing temperatures, the delicate feathers of your bone white wings abhorred the cold. 

The stiffness in your wings spread throughout your body, teeth chattering as you forced your legs through the snow to the open door Azriel held for you, an amused smile playing on his lips. Cauldron, those beautiful lips. Your eyes trailed from those lips, down his body as the spymaster heaved in breaths. You were glad to see you weren’t the only one tired from the flight.

As soon as you made it through the doorway, heat seeped into you, a deep comfort settling over your bones. You turned to Azriel, that same smile tugging at his mouth as he seemingly read your thoughts. “Magic. Rhys keeps the place a comfortable temperature, so it’s warm even in the winter.” Enchanted by the unexpected comforts of the cozy cabin, you walked into the kitchen area, taking in the surroundings. 

All of the walls of the cabin were painted, five sets of eyes lining the hallway at the top of the stairs. You scowled at the silvery eyes that seemed to follow you, wings twitching behind you at the uncomfortable feeling, until you reached a familiar set of hazel eyes at the end. A soft smile graced your features, suddenly feeling safe under the watchful eye of Azriel. 

You turned to question the spymaster about the artwork when a cup of hot chocolate appeared on the counter in front of you. Gasping, you jumped back and collided with the shadowsinger. A rare, soft laugh escaped his lips, and you felt as though you might melt at the sound. Scarred hands gently grabbed your arms, helping stand you upright as he leaned over you and grabbed the cup to place in your hands. “The cabin is sentient, so it will supply you with whatever you ask, within reason. Or whatever it thinks you need... In this case, hot chocolate.” 

You blushed, taking a sip of the warm drink and moaned at the rich taste. Azriel’s eyes were dark as he watched you lick the chocolate from your lips, the spymaster clearing his throat as he quickly looked away from you. Your wings shuddered at his attention, and a wince left you at the movement of the sore muscles beneath. 

Shadows curled around Azriel’s own wings, smokey wisps circling his ear as he studied your feathers. “The house will run a bath for you, so you can clean and warm your wings if you wish. Second door on the left.” Almost too distracted by the alluring darkness swirling in front of you, it took a moment to register what Azriel was saying. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Az,” you murmured, setting down the cup as you turned to make your way upstairs for a much needed bath. 

Entering the room, you found a spacious bed - something unusual in your court, as most there did not have wings. But you supposed it was a necessity with the large Illyrians who often stayed here - Azriel in particular had the largest set of wings you had seen on anyone. 

Stripping down, you padded into the bathroom where dim faelights lit the area. A bath was already filled, lavender aromas drifting from the steamy waters of the tub. You giggled, feeling gleeful as you skipped over to the tub and sank beneath the surface. You let out a quiet moan at the feeling, your tired muscles finally rewarded after a long day.

You looked around the tub, searching for anything to use to clean your wings. Because they were feathers, you had to use a long handle to brush between them when you bathed. As Illyrians had bare wings, you should have assumed that they would not have such difficulty washing their own wings. You huffed out a frustrated breath, attempting to reach over your shoulder in awkward angles to find the remaining dirt and snow that had worked its way in your wings.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door, Azriel calling out to you. “Hey, I felt a tu- I felt like you might need something. Is everything okay in there?” Your eyes welled with frustrated tears, humiliated that the Night Court spymaster should find you like this. “Everything is fine, Az. I’ll be okay.” You choked on the last word, and Azriel swore under his breath as he kicked the door open. 

“Something is wrong. Please tell me how I can help, or I won’t be able to sleep,” he said, looking everywhere around the room except at you. A small laugh escaped you at his attempt at chivalry. “You can look at me, Az. I’m not shy. I just can’t reach the dirt on my wings.” A sniffle sounded through the air as you looked at the shadowsinger, whose gaze was only fixed on your dirty, crumpled wings as you trembled in the tub. He swallowed, more nervous than you had ever seen him as Azriel whispered, “I can help you. If- if that is okay.”

You nodded without hesitation. The social taboos of how intimate touching wings was didn’t matter to you in that moment, as you were desperate for Azriel’s healing touch. The shadowsinger nodded, moving behind the tub as he awkwardly reached towards your wings. “Um, how should I-?” 

You turned around, unable to stop your laughter at the Night Court’s spymaster hunched over the edge of a bathtub. “You can get in, Azriel. No offense, but you could use a bath too,” you teased, wrinkling your nose for dramatic effect. He scoffed, his weight shifting between his feet as he considered. “Okay,” Az murmured, looking at you to turn around before he undressed.

You rolled your eyes at the nearly six hundred year old male’s shyness, but turned around anyway, scooting towards the other end of the tub to make room for him. You silently marveled at how large the bathtub was as well, another luxury you were not used to. Your thoughts were interrupted by the water moving as Azriel silently entered the bath. 

Clearing his throat, he asked, “so, how is the best way to wash them?” You smiled to yourself before handing him a rag. “Just anywhere that you see dirt, if you could use the washcloth or your hands - whatever is easiest - to wipe it away. It usually gets stuck higher up and between feathers.” 

You heard his deep inhale from behind as he brought the washcloth over your wings, biting your lip to keep from moaning at the feeling. After awhile of Azriel using the washcloth, he whispered in a shaky voice, “I think I need to use my hands to get the rest.” You nodded your consent, peeking over your shoulder to see the focused male with his brow furrowed as he lathered soap on his scarred hands. This time when his hands made contact with your wings, you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped you. 

He pulled back quickly, eyes and shadows wildly searching for any sign of harm. “Are you okay? I’m so sor-“ You cut him off with a breathy laugh. “No, Az, it’s fine. They’re just... sensitive. I’m not hurt.” You promised, looking into those hazel eyes as you swore to him. Azriel nodded, continuing his work with even softer care now, you biting your li until it bled to keep your moans from frightening him away. 

“Okay, they’re looking beautiful and pristine as ever,” Azriel announced after awhile, one finger skirting the outside of your right wing as he spoke. You huffed a thank you, both relieved and heartbroken that it was over, when it dawned on you. “Do... you need help with your wings, Azriel?”

It was quiet for a moment, the question weighing heavy in the air before Azriel responded, “yes, I would greatly appreciate that.” The both of you turned around, his broad wings on display for you in the tub as he now faced the other edge. You gently washed his wings - admittedly much easier and faster than your own. He was silent the whole time - except for when you brushed a large vein on his left wing - one groan sounding from him that you kindly ignored. It was an unspoken understanding that neither of you would admit, that Azriel did not need help washing his wings. But something in your chest called you to him, to care for him in the most intimate of ways.

While you dragged it out for as long as you could, the bathwater eventually grew colder and Azriel’s wings could not be much cleaner. The two of you accepted that the moment was over, exiting the bath as you donned your towels. Azriel picked up his leathers, slowly making his way towards the door when you blurted out, “stop.” 

He slowly turned, eyeing you cautiously while you scrambled to find a reason for him to stay. “I - um, I don’t know the area as well as you, obviously... Would you mind staying in here tonight? The bed has plenty of room.” With a deep breath, you admitted, “I would feel safer with you.” Azriel smiled at you, a glowing feeling tugging in your chest at the sight as he made his way towards your bed, settling under the covers.

Part 2 | Part 3

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: eek not a request but an idea that wouldn't leave me alone! thus... we embark on a mulan-esque story that i hope u will enjoy <3 big thank you's to @strangerstilinski who listened and helped immensely as i whittled a hunky idea down to a plot

word count: 2.9k

synopsis: Someone in the Illryians Mountains has been making a name for themselves— a bastard like Azriel and his brothers, ruffling the feathers of a war camp's Lords. But they seem to have no loyalty to the fighting legion, or much to anyone for that matter. fem!reader

— CHAPTER ONE :: STRANGERS

Frost was everywhere.

Despite all the eerie memories that tainted them, the Illyrian Mountains were hauntingly beautiful, even Azriel could admit that.

Pine trees stretched up tall, their timber trunks hidden beneath the snow-leaden branches. It was a sea of swirling frost. Snowflakes eddied down from the frozen sky, a soft blanket of white draped across the landscape.

He was sure that some, maybe the likes of Feyre and her artist's eye, could see that beauty easier than he could.

Beautiful, Azriel thought bitterly, but fucking freezing.

Normally, dealing with the likes of the war camps that riddled these mountains was left to Cassian. He had that raucous, fiery way about him that was far better suited to it. Enough pride to challenge the warriors and more than enough eager attitude to back his taunts if need be.

But Cassian was currently very much occupied— and highly unsuited to crack the whip against some rowdy Illyrians in his current state.

Azriel couldn't help the smile at the thought of when he'd last seen his brother.

Freshly mated Cassian looked as though he had tiny hearts circling around his head at all times. He resembled a puppy following his nose, always that wicked grin on his face as he trailed after Nesta. His adoration was impossible to miss.

Cassian had more than earned the time off. He deserved to celebrate properly, to have a couple weeks with no badgering worries, with no bickering Illyrian warriors to deal with (beyond his usual two).

So, as a mating gift to his brother —and partially to escape a house filled with intolerably mated couples— Azriel had taken over his duty temporarily. To oversee the war camps he detested so much.

Today, he was to investigate the rumoured stirrings amongst the camps and assess the level of threat it posed. More often than not, these sorts of stirrings were simply whispers of rebellion but nothing more.

There was an easy fix; a visit from one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history, or even from Rhys himself. It always made the Illyrians a little nervous and those whispers of a coup would sweep away with the wind in a matter of time.

This time, however, the network of spies that operated under Azriel had not come back spinning such rumours.

Instead, there was talk of Lords with ruffled feathers. Lords with bruised egos due to a single bastard warrior, rising in the ranks and not playing by the rules.

The familiarity of the situation was almost too ironic, Azriel thought. He had half a mind to tell Rhys what he had learned and leave them to it. Cauldron knew these brutal camps needed a bastard to challenge their ways from time to time.

But still, there was always the potential for such a warrior to pose a threat in the future. Azriel could not leave a possible danger to brew. No stone left unturned.

The snow beneath his boots was beginning to melt.

He had been standing in the cold and peering up at the war camp ahead, barely seen through the heavy snow falling, for too long now. Snow was gathering on his wings, tendrils of ice shooting through their sensitive membrane. Find the bastard.

Shaking off the snow, he began to walk.

—

Gods forsaken males and their egos.

The bone in your forearm ached, having taken the brunt of your initial fall in the mud. It's covered in it too, the muck of the ground that always seemed to linger. Always a layer of dirt beneath your fingernails. Truly, one of the many incredible appeals of the Illyrian mountains was never actually being clean.

You'd probably hate it more— if it didn't do such a good job of masking unwanted scents.

But right now with a jagged cut that tears up your left arm, all the way to the elbow, you're cursing the mud. It's likely festering with uncountable grim diseases. You'll have to flush the wound to properly clean it before it begins to heal.

That means water. That means energy that you don't particularly feel like summoning to fetch it. You cast your glance to the window.

Outside, the Mother's Kiss howls loudly.

The southerly chilled wind current that Illyrians don such a precious name is quite fitting for their backward ways — to expect a kiss from your mother to have such a sting on the face.

Tonight, the current seems particularly fierce. The windows of your shelter rattle in warning. A storm had blown through camp rather unexpectedly and you'd caught the worst of it, tangled up in a snarling fest against Brudam.

Brudam, who is responsible for the current state of your arm. Your lip curls at the mere thought of the arrogant male. Your wings bunch up tightly and you huff quietly to nobody.

He'd caught wind of the broth you had made that had filled the stomach of three ravenous bastards in the camp. It had been just enough to keep them on their feet. Tonight, you know that one hot meal might very well be the difference that helps them survive the night.

But Illyrians are a tough breed— and they don't take kindly to people giving handouts, as Brudam had put it.

You preferred the term leveling the playing field.

As if Brudam and his Lord father had ever experienced to ache of starvation. Ever had to sleep in the snow with nothing but their own wings for warmth against a blizzard.

Another deep pain twinges in your arm and you hiss, drawn out of your thoughts. If you have to pick your wins, you can at least admit you're glad he had only found out about the broth— and had seemed none the wiser to the healing tonics you were slipping the freshly-clipped girls.

It ached to see them and their quivering wings. The way the muscles in their backs buckled when they tried to spread their wings, a cut too deep into the wrong nerve. It ached to see it, yes, but beneath that pain was an ocean of bitter and furious fire.

But your righteous anger would not help these girls.

You were not the most proficient healer and the tonics you were attempting... it was hard to say if they would make any difference in saving any females' wings.

You were gathering knowledge as best you could though, scraping together herbs that scarcely grew in the frozen climate. It was a poor imitation of something that might work.

Whether it would be enough... that was up to the Mother. But you had to try.

You assess the wound on your arm once more, wondering about the reserve of water you had in your small hut— whether you could both clean your wound and have enough to hydrate.

Another glance out at the wintry snowscape outside. You grimaced. If you didn't, you would have to bear the blistering chill of the Mother's Kiss to get more.

Weariness weighs on your bones. You hadn't been prepared for the fight, hence your almost embarrassing injury, and it drained you more than you expected.

You stand with a sigh and drag your feet toward the tiny cauldron filled with melted snow collected earlier in the day. It hangs over the fireplace, the embers within long since snuffed out. Your motion stirs them up.

For a moment, you stare into the fireplace. The water in the cauldron shimmers. The shelter creaks around you, bending in the wind.

It's covered in soot, marred by the flames that usually lick it from beneath it. The lip of it, however, is still clean enough to see your own reflection. You peer into it.

And in that reflection, you find a tall figure with massive wings looming above their shoulders standing behind you.

Your heart spasms in shock and you have to swallow your gasp of surprise. Your eyes dart up, frantically hunting for a weapon. You grab the closest object you can, your hand closing around a kitchen fork. And before they get the chance, you twist and lunge, arm raised.

The floorboards groan as your boots slam into them, darting forward to attack. But the male dodges you easily, your strike passing through empty air.

You don't stop, turning and striking for him once again. The male sways back again easily to avoid your swing and you scowl.

Quickly feigning one way, you watch as his hands, weaponless, move to defend his gut — and you change direction, fast. Neck exposed, you snarl as you sink the fork deep into his shoulder.

The male hisses in pain.

You falter for a moment at the noise but it's a mistake. His hands move so fast you barely see them, gripping your wrist that holds the fork and twisting it down to the ground, immobilising you from using it.

You snarl again and tug against him fruitlessly. A swell of panic begins to rise within you as you tug again, again, again. His hold doesn't falter.

"Stop," The male commands you quietly.

This time when you tug, he opens his fingers and you fly back onto your ass, wings flaring out a moment too late to catch yourself.

You expect him to trudge forward, to beat an attack down on you now that you're less defended, but he doesn't move from his spot.

In fact, you realise as you stare at him, cheat heaving, he hasn't attacked you at all.

His weapons, which there are many of them, stay strapped to his side, glittering against the snow's reflected light. You spot the siphon on his hand, a churning sapphire colour — and clock the matching one on his other hand.

This was not just any Illyrian warrior in your home.

Faintly, your panic subsides as you realise that if this male meant to hurt you —to kill you— he very well could have done so by now.

You let your eyes trail up, taking in the face so hidden in shadow, and recognize that the darkness swirling around him is not ordinary shadow.

The revelation has you sitting up a bit straighter, the bindings around your chest pulling tight. You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

What do you say to one of the most powerful Illyrian warriors in history —one who served on Rhysand's inner circle, friend of the High Lord of the Night Court— when you've just stabbed him with a fork?

As if your thought had reminded him, the male —Azriel, you know his name to be— shifts and reaches for the utensil still sticking out of his shoulder. He yanks it out without a noise of complaint.

Then he says, "Considering your choice of weapon, it's no surprise Brudam cut up your arm."

You scowl at him but at a closer look, you can see that his expression isn't condescending. No, with his raised brows, he almost looks... impressed.

"I wasn't expecting visitors." You bite back defensively.

Azriel's eyes dance with amusement. He throws the fork onto your table with a clatter. "That's how you greet visitors?"

"Uninvited ones, yes."

His amusement fades, the planes of his face shadowed and yet still handsome. Like most Illyrians, there's this incomprehensible sense of elegance to him, an alluring pull tied to his very demeanor.

But looking at him now, even in the dimness of your shelter, you could see Azriel went beyond to type of beauty that usual Illyrians had. An unparalleled grace, an unmatched Adonis.

He is the most beautiful male you had ever seen—and you had just stabbed him with a fork.

"Sorry," You mutter eventually when he doesn't say anything.

You shift onto your knees to stand, your hand coming to cup beneath your elbow— the ache of the injury had begun to bleed back in now that you weren't focused on fighting off an intruder.

"You're forgiven." He says. You can see lightly, through the dimming light, the faint blood on his neck you've caused.

"You fight well," He comments, with the air of a compliment. Something like amusement is in his eyes when he says, "Even with your unusual choice of weapon."

You glare at him as you climb to your feet and all but collapse into a chair. You don't even have another to offer to him. Buried beneath your leathers, your chest aches in pain — a reminder that it's been bound for far too long. You ignore it and tilt your chin towards him.

"Why are you here?"

You're actually sure that even if you offered Azriel a chair he wouldn't take it, given how stiffly he stands before you. He takes a moment to answer, his gaze flitting around the small room you both stand in. Calculating, categorizing.

"There were rumours of a warrior turning up trouble here."

He fixes his hazel-eyed gaze on you. You steel yourself beneath it. "A couple days in your camp and it became clear who the outlier was."

A couple days? For some reason, you can't believe that he's been surveying this place without detection from anyone. Another glance at his shadows, the dark masses that hang around his shoulders, and you can believe it a little more.

Besides, it's hardly as though the Lords would deign to tell a bastard like you anything important.

You clench your jaw but don't say anything.

"Brudam mentioned you feeding some warriors." Azriel continues, his tone unreadable. Though something, you couldn't tell what, glittered in his eyes. "Not very in the spirit of Illyrians."

You scowl at him again. Even if he had once faced these conditions before, you wondered if his time away, spent Cauldron knows where, had softened his memory.

"It's not against any law."

"No, it isn't," Azriel says. His eyes narrow. "But making healing tonics without a Healer's jurisdiction and selling them to young females is."

Your heart stops for just a moment. How could he know that? The last batch you had dropped off had been over a month ago.

Without thinking you snarl back, "I'm not selling them, you prick."

Something blooms on Azriel's face, surprise and a hint of smugness.

Your mouth snaps shut as you realise what you've done. You curse yourself. Slumping back in your chair, your wings sag with you and you let them droop onto the floor, uncaring. He could very well be here to kill you, given the knowledge of what you had just admitted.

For a long moment, there's just silence.

You stare at the floor and wonder which version of the High Lord is true; the Court of Nightmares whose power ripples through these camps and keeps them in line. Or the rumours of a softer side, a dreamer.

You wonder, more importantly, which of those this male before you is friends with.

Something in the floor creaks when Azriel finally moves. He crosses the room swiftly to the fireplace and gathers two logs from the stack of firewood beside it, tossing them onto the pile of ash.

You watch, perturbed, as he hunches over the fireplace for a quiet minute— and when he pulls back, a small flame is burning on the wood. It dances on the log, entrancing and amber-coloured.

Heat begins to fill the room. You pick your wings up and stretch them towards it, grateful for how they begin to warm. You hadn't quite realised the extent of your chill until right now.

It's such a kindness that hasn't been shown to you in many years. Surprise and silent gratitude bloom in your chest.

Azriel turns back to face you. You school your surprise away.

"What's your name?" He asks, his voice gruff.

It's been a while since anyone asked that either. Bastard. Mongrel. Imposter. There are a thousand other words that have become your name whilst growing up here.

You can't tell him your name. In the same way you can't tell anyone here your real name without revealing too much about yourself.

So you shorten it and tell him that instead.

Azriel nods. Doesn't repeat it, doesn't blink at your hesitance. Instead, he just says, "Like I said, you fight well. You could be better though."

You frown at the backhanded compliment, something in you sneering at the jab at your fighting skills. Worse, you know he's right.

If you had weapons suited to your size, exercises that focused on your agility more than your brute strength... There's a good reason you have to work twice as hard as every other warrior in camp.

Azriel looks at your arm, no longer bleeding and beginning to stitch itself up. Shit, you really need to clean that first.

"Clean that and get a good night's rest." He orders, not meanly. Then he crosses the space of your shelter in a few paces of his long legs, heading for the door.

"You—" The question dares to come out of you. "You're not going to turn me in?"

Azriel pauses, one hand, one scarred hand you can now see with the fire going, on the door. So, the rumours of that were true.

"No," He says lowly. He sees you staring, and as if on command, the shadows swirling around his shoulders dart down to cover his hands. They and the doorknob in his hand disappear from sight completely.

You evade your eyes back up to his hauntingly beautiful face. His expression is stony, unreadable. He stares at you for a long moment, the dancing fire reflected in his hazel eyes.

"I'm going to train you."

[NEXT PART: ALLIES]

[prythianpages]

Wanna Be Yours | Rhysand x Reader

Rhysand x Reader | When the Night Court and Dawn Court strike a deal, healers in exchange for Illyrian training, you rush at the opportunity to leave your home. You plan to keep a low profile but upon meeting the High Lord of night, your efforts are futile. He takes an instant liking to you and is set on being yours.

warnings: angst, mentions of blood and injury

a/n: This can be read as a stand alone imagine :) but there will be a part two. once again, we have another mini series inspired by a song: I wanna be yours by the Arctic Monkeys. I love when the guy falls in love with the girl first and I feel like it suits Rhys. This takes place before the events of ACOTAR.

The world awakens to a gentle warmth–a tender kiss from dawn. The stars are like a fading dream, bidding their silent farewell and the first tendrils of sunlight emerge, painting the sky in hues of soft pinks and purples. The world seems to hold its breath and so do you.

It’s so beautiful. The way night surrenders to day. The way that no matter how dark it gets, the sun will rise again. It makes you miss home but you don’t miss what waits for you there.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and the world tilts beneath your feet. The edge of the terrace offers a daunting view of the Court of Nightmares–a harsh landscape of rocky mountains that seems to promise a swift but unforgiving descent. A hand grasps your arm, pulling you back from the brink, the force spinning you around until you find sanctuary in a pair of strong arms.

As you lift your head, the world regains its focus, but your breath hitches at the sight before you.

 A man, heartbreakingly handsome, captures your gaze. He has sun-kissed skin and short dark hair, reminiscent of a raven’s feather, that frames features that seem almost too perfect to be real. Yet, it’s his eyes that draw you in–a shade of blue so deep it borders on violet. Flecks of silver dance within those celestial irises, mirroring the stars that had bid their farewell earlier. His gaze is intense, sparkling with an allure that feels both familiar and bewitching.

“Breathe, darling.”

His voice, a velvet symphony, wraps around you like the answer to a question you hadn’t even fathomed to think of yet–a revelation that ignites a feeling you can’t quite discern but it stirs the deepest recesses of your heart. 

Suddenly, you’re pushing away from the male with a deep exhale as a delicate pink that reflects the sky above you flushes your cheeks.

“y/n!”

Your eyes widen at the sound of your name being called.

“y/n.” The male in front of you repeats to himself and you never thought your name would sound so beautiful as it does in this very moment. His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

Alette, your guide, comes into your view. She bends over slightly as her chest heaves and she catches up with her breath. She turns to the male, bowing her head in acknowledgment. “My High Lord.”

All blood drains from your face and your heart skips a beat. High Lord. You just met the High Lord of the Night Court and embarrassingly so. You contemplate whether it’s too late to bow your head or not but the thought of Alette scolding you for not doing it sooner stops you.

“I see you’ve met one of our new healers.” Alette inclines her head toward your sorry state. “I do apologize for her entering your palace without prior clearance.”

Cauldron boil you. You caught a glimpse of him pressing his lips together, as if suppressing something. Perhaps a scowl, frown or smile–you don’t know– because you're swiftly averting your gaze. You’re too scared to move, not wanting to draw more attention to yourself than you already have.

“Forgive me,” you’re saying as you drop to your knees and bow your head. “I didn't mean to trespass. I felt a little suffocated down there and I had no idea this was your home.”

“Where are you from?”

Panic steals your voice and it’s Alette who answers for you.

“She’s one of the few healers that came from Dawn, my High Lord.”

You sense the weight of his gaze upon you, an intensity that envelops you with an almost overwhelming power. Your throat tightens.

“And what of her skill?”

“The best of this year’s cohort.” Alette replies with no hesitation. There’s a subtle fondness in her voice that makes your heart swell with pride. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed.

“You may rise.” It takes a while for you to register that the High Lord is addressing you until Alette is awkwardly clearing her throat. You blink and rise to your feet but keep your gaze low. 

“You’re coming with me.”

You lift your gaze, gaping at his back. Does he—No, there’s no way he can know. The High Lord pauses. 

He turns his head over his shoulder and looks at you in an expectant manner. You look at Alette, who nods her head at you, so hesitantly, you follow after him. Your heart races as you hear him tell Alette to pack your things because you won’t be staying in the Court of Nightmares anymore.

**

Velaris, the city of Starlight, is a breathtaking haven nestled within the Night Court. It’s often referred to as the Court of Dreams. It’s a place of ethereal beauty and enchantment. The stark contrast it presents in comparison to the haunting Court of Nightmares leaves you in awe. 

But what strikes you the most is the High Lord of the Night Court–the master of duality. In Hewn City, where the air is always thick with tension, he wears a cold, stoic mask and every calculated step he takes echoes the weight of his stern authority and great power. This is the High Lord you’ve heard of. So when he told you, you’d be joining him in the city of his private residence, you were terrified.

It was a short lived fear because the High Lord you’ve heard of is not the High Lord you’ve come to know over the past couple of weeks. In Velaris, he sheds the shroud of shadows and reveals a different side to him. A softer side. A leader built from genuine warmth and kindness. 

You’ve come to understand he has a complex role as High Lord of the Night Court. He is a blend that is both harsh and dangerous, yet undeniably beautiful and remarkable, constantly navigating through the delicate balance of power and compassion. 

There is one unchanging thread that weaves through both cities. A thread of charismatic arrogance. He carries it effortlessly, employing it in a charming grace. One that he directs skillfully, particularly, when he turns the full force of his charm on you. You’d be lying if you said you were immune to it.

Upon your arrival, the High Lord–or Rhysand as he prefers you to call him– introduced you to the city’s healer. Madja. Though you’ve undergone extensive training in your home court, it felt little compared to the years of experience Madja carried with her, leading her to take you under her wing as her apprentice. You were a fast learner and given the nature of Azriel’s–Rhysand’s spymaster– and Cassian’s –Rhysand’s general commander– jobs, you had a lot of practice and challenges to hone your skills.

A tired yawn escapes from you as you navigate the halls of the infirmary to Madja’s study with the intention of wishing her a goodnight before retiring to your room. Your stops falter when your ears pick up on the distinct voices of Cassian and Azriel and suddenly you’re wide awake.

“–was ambushed by dark forces–”

“–never seen so much blood–”

“–I should make haste then–”

“–he only wants y/n–”

Shadows slink out from the corners, momentarily dimming the faelight in your hand in a silent greeting. The voices, once animated, hush and then cease altogether. Madja is the first to emerge from the study, with Azriel and Cassian trailing behind.

"The High Lord requests your presence.”

**

Not much can unsettle you, given your role as a healer. You’ve tended to a variety of injuries, seen tremendous amounts of spilled blood and have had to navigate through the sorrow of heartbreaking losses. But this. This feels different. This isn’t just anyone. It’s Rhysand. The male, who despite his shameless flirting, has consistently shown nothing but kindness to you. Though the nature of your relationship is uncertain, the mere thought of him being harmed sends a sharp pang through your chest, an ache that transcends the usual clinical detachment you maintain in your profession.

There’s an urgency in your steps as you approach Rhysand’s weak form on the infirmary bed. His body is extremely pale and shivering. A thick layer of sweat clings to his skin. There’s blood everywhere. On the floor, on the bed. It continues to seep out of the wound at his abdomen.

His lids are heavy, laden with exhaustion but he still manages a weary smile when he spots you. “You’re here,” he breathes in surprise, his words carrying a blend of relief and vulnerability.

“I’m here,” you confirm with a reassuring smile as you brush back the dark tendrils of his hair from his face. Though your touch is gentle, the lines on his face seem to deepen.

The air around you begins to shimmer with a soft, golden light. You cast a keen eye over his abdomen, the golden light dancing around you as you assess the full extent of his injury. The wound is deep and not healing as it should and your nose crinkles as the pungent smell of poison drifts up at you.

Rhysand winces as your healing touch meets his wound. Despite his blood staining your hands, you move with practiced grace, drawing upon the healing energies within you. Each movement is deliberate, an intricate crossing between magic and skill as you strive to counteract the effects of the poison.

Rhysand sucks in a sharp breath. He feels like he is dying but he won’t admit that to you. He doesn’t want to scare you. “It hurts.”

“I know,” you respond, your brows furrowing in concentration. The quicker you work, the less pain he’ll have to endure altogether. “It’s the poison.”

His eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts with agony as you press further into the wound. A strangled whimper escapes from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you frown, halting your movements. You turn your head toward the double doors, where you know Madja waited in her study despite the late hour, in case you required assistance. “Should I go get Madja instead?”

“No,” his hands weakly grasps yours to keep them from leaving him. “I–I’m okay. I only need you.”

You nod and take a deep breath, urging your powers to continue surging through your bones and veins. Charged with vitality, they embody a tender current, eager to breathe life into every fiber of the recipient’s being. You sense the poison recoiling at your touch, prompting another cry from Rhysand. Though you know the poison will put up a painful fight, there’s a sense of relief as you realize it is one you can win.

“It’s going to feel worse before it gets better,” you say, your eyes darting to your makeshift table. “I don’t have anything for you to bite down onto. I’m sorry.”

 “Tell me a story,” he pleads, his voice desperate and raspy. “Anything. Please.”

“Anything?” You say in contemplation, falling into a thoughtful pause as you search your mind for a story to tell.

“When I was a little girl and my parents were separating, my uncle would take me to the countryside,” you begin to share, your voice softening with the weight of the fond memory and in the intimate space between you and Rhysand, a subtle shift occurs. 

“It was my favorite place in all of Dawn. The flowers were always in bloom and the grass was tall and green. We would wake up early to watch the sunrise together. Those were the moments where the world felt so still yet so gentle.”

“One night, as the moon gracefully surrendered its space to the emerging sun, I cried. The realization of the sun and moon being eternal strangers gripped my little heart. The sun, in its golden glory, would never know the tender glow of the moon, and the moon, adorned in silver brilliance, would remain untouched by the sun's warm embrace. It made me sad.”

“My uncle, at first, laughed. He teased me, which made me cry harder. He realized the genuine depth of my sorrow and that’s when he shared something with me,” you continue, a nostalgic smile plays on your lips as you recall the moment. 

Unbeknownst to you, Rhysand’s gaze warms in the gentle embrace of the shared memory. He’s momentarily distracted from the stabbing pain.

"He told me that the moon's glow is but a reflection of the sun's radiance," you explain, the magic of your tale intertwining with the magic of your healing touch. "How beautiful, he said. That the love of the sun for the moon is so pure that he sets down so that people can admire the beauty of her.”

"I was still sad, holding onto that stubborn desire to witness the sun and moon together. That's when my uncle introduced me to the magic of an eclipse—a rare celestial dance where the sun and moon finally come face to face. When the next one arrived, my uncle whisked me back to the countryside to witness it, and for the first time, I felt such overwhelming joy. Tears welled in my eyes but they were tears of happiness. I didn’t know one could cry tears of joy until that moment.”

Still aglow, your hands continue their delicate work. You observe a subtle relaxation manifesting in the features of Rhysand but there’s a weariness that settles over you. You know all traces of the poison are gone because its toxic essence was absorbed by you in your haste to protect him. It takes its toll on you, wearing you down and leaving you feeling slightly unsteady, but all you care about is him.

The gaping wound on his abdomen gradually yields to your skillful touch, and a peaceful serenity settles over his face. His eyes flutter shut, and in the hushed atmosphere, Rhysand's words pierce through, lingering like a delicate whisper in the air.

"I think I might be in love with you." 

The confession tugs at the strings of your heart, urging it to soar, but you swiftly quell the rising emotions. You attribute Rhysand's words to the delirium induced by his pain, knowing he’d forget all about it. You wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot your story as well. You swiftly clean him up and use your magic to replace the bloody sheets with clean ones before taking your leave. Exhaustion tears at your bones and you can only muster a meek smile to Azriel and Cassian, who waited anxiously outside the infirmary doors for an update. You head straight to your room after and collapse onto your bed.

The following night, as you retire to your room from another day of endless work and studying, you find a carefully wrapped gift at your door. There’s no name on it but as you read the note attached, you have an intuitive inkling as to who the thoughtful gifter was. 

To the Sun, in your golden glory, may you always feel such overwhelming joy.

A beautiful embellished trinket box lays beneath the wrapping engraved with two cosmic entities–the sun and the moon. As you open the small keepsake, you're greeted by a soft, ethereal glow that radiates from within. It casts a warm and gentle light and you watch as a projection of the moon and sun dance around you before finally converging into a mesmerizing eclipse. 

**

Rhysand's POV

Like clockwork, Rhysand wakes at the break of dawn with the tendrils of a persistent dream lingering in his mind. A dream that has possessed his nights for weeks. As sleep releases its grasp on his eyes, he reluctantly rises from the bed and decides to get ready for the day, knowing that if he tried, he would not be able to fall back asleep.

He navigates through the familiar halls of the Moonstone palace, mindlessly making his way toward one of the terraces. His steps falter.

There, amidst the soft hues of the awakening city below, stands a feminine silhouette–a vision bathed in the tender light of dawn. You. A sense of cautious curiosity courses through him, eclipsing the remnants of his restless dreams. His gaze lingers on you. There's a nuance in your presence, a fine radiance that hints that you are not from here and though he should be concerned over an unannounced visitor in his home, he can’t bring himself to do so.

 A subtle flutter dances in his chest. He’s speaking before he could even properly think.

“You don’t belong here.”

You startle and lose your footing. You’re about to fall but before gravity claims its toll, he moves with swift determination. He reaches forward and grasps your arm, pulling you from the dangers of the edge of the terrace and into the safety of his arms instead. You lift your head and a gasp escapes your lips. Your eyes widen as they look up into his.

“Breathe, darling.”

His mind is searching yours with a quiet desperation but all you are thinking about is how devastatingly handsome he is. He doesn’t perceive you as a threat. Yet, there’s something hauntingly familiar about you.

He hears a name being called. Yours. And then it hits him like a sudden gust of wind. You’re the girl from his dreams. The one he’s dreamt of nearly every day this week and as he repeats the name, his lips curve up into a smirk.

He found you and realization dawns upon him like the morning sun. You don’t belong here but not because you’re from a different court. It’s because you belong with him.

a/n: this part came out a lot softer than I thought it would. The quote I used about the sun loving the moon so much came from something I saw on pinterest. I am a sucker for the sun and moon and stars lol

[readychilledwine]

Lose You to Love Me

Summary - You had wanted him for years, loved him for centuries, and waited for him to notice you and see you. But all books have to close, even if we don't like the ending.

Warnings - NSFW, oral, pentration, unrequited love/blind lovers, sex as a tool, the infamous solstice night, implied big brother knows/forbidden romance situation,

A/N - our last @azrielappreciationweek post. Some angst, smut, and feels for us to end the week. I will back from vacation tomorrow and cannot wait to see how this piece went over. 💙 ps. My hormones are all over the place, so I may have cried rereading this because it is such a familiar feeling that we all know. Hopefully, I caught all my errors.

You threw the last book into your bag, sighing heavily as it entered the pocket world and disappeared to your new waiting chambers in Winter. 

You had tried to tell Rhysand you were leaving. Tried to talk to him about the position Kal had offered you, when you'd be going, how this was a set in stone for good move. Did your sweet distracted older brother listen, though? No.

He had not bothered listening since Feyre came. Cassian had not bothered since Nesta was made. And Azriel? Well, that was a complicated story of its own. One you tended not to linger long on, even in your own mind.

Simply put, you were no longer needed here. Meanwhile, Kal, his court needed you. It was still recovering from Amarantha's attacks, and your ability to speak to the land and find where darkness was plaguing it would be a boon to him and his efforts. You had agreed with little hesitation, mind completely open to the new beginning he was offering. 

Your only guilt was choosing to run in the middle of the night on Solstice. 

You left your room to leave a note on the table for Rhys, pausing as you almost ran into Azriel. "Sorry-"

He interrupted your thoughts immediately,  cool shadows looking you over. "What's wrong?" Hazel eyes studied you, reopening the doorway to your room and forcing you back inside. "Y/n, what's wrong?" 

You shook your head, moving to embrace him one last time before you left. 

Azriel was still in your arms, one hand on the small of your back as even his breath came to a pause. "Y/n, where are your things? Why is your room empty?" 

"I'm leaving," your voice was muffled into the soft material of his shirt. "I've been telling you for months, Az."

Azriel pulled you back looking down at you in shock. "We thought you were kidding. You can't leave. Theres-" his jaw had a feather twitch as it clenched. "What can I do to make you stay?"

You shook your head again, watching as his face fell and tears lined both of your eyes. 

Something in Azriel changed in that moment, and the next thing you knew, his lips had slammed on yours, a hand tangled into your hair while the other snaked around your waist. He backed you to the bed, lips moving against yours as if he had been hoarding a lifetime of passion. He lowered you gently, immediately studying you and waiting for permission to continue. 

With a shaking breath, you nodded. A soft "please," falling from your lips. He began his assault again, gently this time though, lips moving at a slow pace as he crawled on top of you. You began unbuttoning his shirt, hands sprawling his bare chest once it was exposed, before moving to the back to undo the closures around his wings and take the material off completely. 

His lips moved to your jawline nipping softly at the flesh there and then to your neck. He growled at the soft gasp that left your mouth as he found the spot between your neck and shoulder that made your body tingle and skin ignite in goosebumps.

He took you removing his shirt as permission to remove yours. Then the soft lace bra he paused to admire. "Is this okay," he whispered in your neck. "You would tell me to stop, right?" 

"Yes," it was a breathless answer again, fueling him to grab more of that from you. 

You had wanted this, wanted him, since you were old enough to understand what these feelings were. This was bittersweet. You knew it was him giving one last ditch effort to keep you here. You knew it wasn't more than him caving to what he knew you had always wanted. 

At least in your mind, that's what you believed. For Azriel, this was the crescendo to a long slow dance the two of you had played for centuries now. You were beautiful, kind, loving, and he only had one chance at this, one moment to hold you, he'd take it regardless of those consequences. Regardless of the fist fight he'd have to survive tomorrow, he'd worship you this one night if this was his last chance to do it.

A soft moan left you and your back arched as he began to suck, lick, and gently roll your nipple between his teeth. His hand played with the other breast as he took his time ensuring that your sensitive peak was hardened before switching his mouth to the otherside pulling those same panting moans from you as your own hand tangled back into his silken hair. 

Scarred hands hooked into the waistband of your soft leggings as Azriel released your breast with a soft pop. He looked up at you again, waiting for permission before sliding them down, groaning softly as the soaked lace panties you were wearing. 

"I'd like to believe you wore these just for me," he muttered. 

You whispered back, "How do you know I wasn't?" And something ignited in his eyes. Ripping them off of you while maintaining eye contact and growling in response. He wasted no time, settling between your legs and kissing from inner knee to thigh as he placed your legs over his shoulders. 

That first lick had your head thrown back into the pillows, back arching, and lips parting in shock. Azriel looked up at you through hooded eyes, hazel lost in lust as he savored you, licking through your folds again before nudging that swelling bundle of nerves. Shadows came to your wrists, pulling them above your head and locking your arms there. It left you completely to his mercy. And that was exactly how he needed you. 

He began to alternate between pushing his tongue as deep into you as he could, licking and drinking the nectar flowing from your core to moaning and humming, his lips sucking your clit. 

You were panting, writhing in place, and moaning for him, begging him for more, for everything. "Azriel, please," you cried as his tongue found your entrance again. He took mercy on you then, latching his lips around your clit rolling it below his tongue gently all while a finger began to run through your soaking heat and then pushed in. 

The Silent scream that left your mouth had him doubling his efforts, wanting to hear the real thing fall from your lips as he began searching. A whiny loud moan left your lips when he found his target, that soft silk spot inside of you. He began pulling that single finger in and out, curling it with each thrust as he continued licking at you clit and moaning as your hips began to roll and grind. That second finger had you panting, his name falling again and again as your eyes fluttered shut and back fully arched. You were close, so fucking close and he could tell. "Cum for me. Look at me and cum for me, y/n. Let me see you fall apart." You obeyed without question as he moved to be above you, watching your face as his fingers pulled you apart string by string. His thumb came to your clit, gently circling the nerves, and when you came, you swore you saw the night sky in her entirety. You screamed his name before falling into whine like moans as he kissed you to silence the noises you were making. 

They were for him and him alone tonight. 

He removed his fingers from you, bringing them to your lips and watched under clouded eyes as you licked and sucked them clean. 

It was desperation that had your hands flying to the ties of his pants, eyes locked on his as you got them loose and pulled them down, releasing his heavy hard cock. You began stroking him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you finally felt the weight of him, the softness of him in your hands. Azriel groaned, leaning to grab the headboard above you, lost in the feeling of your smooth hand working him, enjoying the way lust had set in so heavily you dropped all inhibitions for him. His hips began to move in time with your hand. Moaning as he felt his stomach tighten in anticipation. He grabbed your wrist, squeezing it gently to stop you. "Next time," he stated firmly. And guilt set in as you watched him undress fully, there would not be a next time. Your heart could hardly handle this.

You couldn't handle being his flavor of the week, distracting him from his clear wants to be with another. You would take one night, close this chapter, and let go of him, freeing yourself of these unrequited feelings burning inside of you.

He wrapped your legs around his waist lining himself up with your entrance. He pushed in gently, watching your face the entire time as your eyes squeezed shut, breath leaving your lungs. 

You had never felt so full and complete in your life, and you knew deep down you would never feel this again. 

How could you? You were allowing himself to ruin you for any other male, knowing damn well about that string in your chest that never snapped for him. 

Azriel rolled his hips, eyes squeezing shut as your heat swallowed him whole, consuming every inch of him and his soul. You were incomparable and irreplaceable, and his mission set in now. 

Showing you exactly what you meant to him the only way he truly knew how. Gentle kisses came with gentle thrusts, praises whispered in your ear of how much he cared for you, how beautiful you were. Your legs wrapped his waist tighter, hands scratching down his back as those hard deep thrusts hit and filled every inch of you, setting your nerves and body on fire. "Gods I love you," he whispered once he lost himself in bliss. "I love you so fucking much."

And you whispered it back, knowing it was your one chance to tell him. Knowing this was goodbye and tomorrow he'd go back to pursuing Elain. You whispered it over and over, his forehead finding yours as those thrusts picked up pace, hitting that perfect spot every time. "I've always loved you," he whispered. "It's always been you." 

Meaningless words. Words meant to comfort you as if he knew what he was doing. As if he knew the years of tearing yourself apart you had gone through. "I'm right there, baby," he moved to kiss you again, a shadow coming between you to lick at your clit. "Need you to come with me. Need to feel you. Please, y/n," he moaned into your neck. "Please, give me one more baby." 

"Harder," you commanded gently. Needing him to hurt you. "If you want me to come, fuck me harder." 

Legs went from his waist to over his shoulders, allowing him deeper into you, and he began a brutal pace, smirking as you began to shake around him immediately. He had you seeing stars already, that coill tightening over and over like a string waiting to bust. Fingers gently went to a splayed wing, touching the ridge and making Azriel roar as he spilled into you without warning, and triggering your own completion. 

He held you in place, a few sloppy ruts into your seed filled cunt before he pulled out and laid next to you. He pulled your bare body to his, your back meeting his chest. 

Neither of you spoke, words having already been said that you both meant to take to your grave. 

You waited until he fell asleep, kissing him one last time and dressing yourself. You stepped onto the balcony, summoning your wings and wiping the tears that were falling. 

You took off, closing the book of your time in the Night Court as you did along with ending the tragic love story between you and Azriel. 

The next morning, Azriel woke up to an agonizing cry and scream. One he knew belonged to Rhysand. You were gone, your side of the bed empty. He immediately sent shadows to search for you before shielding the scent of sex that lingered on his skin and grabbing his clothing to shift himself to his room.

He had barely pulled pants on before Rhys was at his door, tears streaming as he handed Azriel a note. "Find her. Please find her. Please bring her home. I." Rhys didn't need to explain as Azriel pulled him to his chest. "I can't lose her. Please find her."

And as Azriel held Rhys, he swore on that golden glittering bond he would not stop until he did find you. And he would not stop until you realized those words he whispered to you last night weren't just words. They were his truth.

[thelov3lybookworm]

I Didn't Ask For This (part ten)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Summary: Marriage had always been something sacred to little Y/n, something dream like, where her husband would come and whisk her away to a fairyland. At least, that's what she had always thought.

All her dreams would be shattered.

But maybe she can salvage them?

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: forced marriage, none more that I can think of, so let me know if I need to add anything.

A/n: I really love this chapter. Let's see if you can find the reference I made in here. I honestly make so many references in the fics I write, but no one has noticed them.

Anyways, enjoy!

•○🌑○•

The tension in the air could have been cut by a blunt knife.

The most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian was staring down one of the most feared man in Prythian, the Spymaster of the Night Court.

They were nearly chest to chest, and Y/n feared that if someone didn't step in, this place would be bathed in blood. So she cleared her throat.

Azriel looked at her, brows furrowed.

"I– can we go back? Can you take me back?"

"Sure–" As he began to turn to her, the High Lord's hand shot out, clamping down on his shoulders. Azriel glared at the hand and then it's owner.

"Cassian can take her back. Or if its him you want to go with, please wait for sometime." Rhys glanced at her while saying the second part. "My office. Now." He threw at Azriel before stalking out of the room.

Everyone watched him go, a muscle feathering in Azriel's jaw as he turned to her. "Don't worry about me. I'll be there soon." With that, he turned and followed Rhys.

Y/n's stomach turned as she thought about what could happen to Azriel. The high lord was said to be ruthless and cunning, and even though he hadn't seemed like it when they first met, she didn't know if she could sit still until she was sure that her husband was safe. The urge to follow him and make sure he wouldn't be harmed was overpowering any sense she had, but before she could take a step, Cassian placed a hand on her shoulder.

He tilted his head towards the door, and she nodded. Glancing back one last time to where Azriel had disappeared, she followed Cassian outside.

She stayed quiet the whole time, muttering a thanks to Cassian when they landed before locking herself in her room.

She couldn't stop thinking about Azriel and what he'd done today. Allegedly done today.

She changed into her nightgown, climbing into bed hoping to sleep. Maybe then her mind would stop trying to find some meaning in his actions. Maybe then her heart would stop trying to make her feel things she didn't want to feel.

•○🌑○•

It had been almost more than an hour now, and Y/n couldn't sleep no matter what she did. With a huff of annoyance, she threw the covers aside and stood, stomping to the balcony and leaning against the railing. Her minds inability to just shut the hell up was frustrating.

As her mind drifted through the plethora of thoughts in her head again, she couldn't help but think back to where Azriel might be right now. Was he back yet? He would come to meet her if he was, right?

As soon as she had those thoughts, she heard the familiar scuff of boots coming near, and her chest started loosening. From the sound of it, the door opened and closed behind her, but she didn't turn. She couldn't, because she knew if she did, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and slapping him at the same time. She wondered which she would prefer.

She could feel him coming closer, and she gripped the railing tightly.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked quietly, having stopped a little distance away.

She shook her head. "Did you really do it?"

A pause. "Yes."

She nodded, not knowing what to say to that. He took that as a cue to step forward. She knew he did because one moment her back was cold, and the next, she could feel his body heat through the thin silk of her gown. Suddenly she felt extremely exposed, considering the thing she was wearing barely reached her knee, and it was only held up by thin strings.

She inwardly cursed Nesta for this. Y/n had never worn something like this, and when she and Nesta had started to become friends, Nesta was appaled when she realised Y/n did not sleep half naked.

"Do you have nothing to say to that?" Azriel asked, his body like a furnace behind her.

"What do you want me to say?"

"How– how do you feel about all of this?"

"I don't know..."

"Does it bother you?"

She shook her head. "No, it does not. But what about the women and children?"

"They were evacuated to safety. And your brother, he's here."

At that, she finally turned slightly to look at him. She hadn't even thought of her brother who lived in the camp. She didn't have to worry about Velda as she lived in a different camp.

Azriel towered over her, studying her.

"What?"

"He is living in an inn across the Sidra."

"Really?" When he nodded, relief spread through her. She mumbled a thank you before turning back to the view in front of her.

"Your....your father is alive."

She stiffened. "What?" She whispered.

"He burned in the fire, but I just felt like he didn't suffer enough for his crimes." He stated casually, as if he was telling her about the weather.

She blinked at the night sky before asking the same question again.

"I bought him here. He is where we keep all the prisoners and I... interrogate them. He is badly injured and won't be able to escape. I wanted to ask you before I did anything to him."

She knew exactly what he meant with that.

"What did you want to ask."

"You were the one who suffered from his ministrations. You deserve the right to punish him however you want. You can either let him live, give him a quick death or let me handle him."

"What would letting you handle him entail?"

"I'll go all Spymaster on him. I'll do all the things I do to the prisoners to get information out of them."

She nodded. Thinking for some time, she finally decided. "Then I'll let you handle him."

He was silent for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

His hands landed on either side of her on the railing as he leaned closer. "Thank you." Butterflies erupted in her stomach as he kissed her shoulder before straightening. "Come, you should sleep."

She turned to him, and ignoring her mind, she followed her heart's urge to wrap her arms around her husband. He froze for a moment before wrapping an arm around her shoulder and using the other to cradle the back of her head.

"Thank you. You didn't need to do this." She mumbled against his chest.

"I absolutely did." She pulled back from him. He smiled and kissed her forehead before tugging her back into the room.

As she lay down and he arranged the covers around her, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Azriel? Your father and brothers lived in the camp too. What happened to them?"

He gave her a smile, and honestly she should have been scared of it. But she wasn't, and that scared her more than anything else did.

"They're dead."

"Did you see them?"

"Yes. And it gave me immense satisfaction."

"Wish I could have witnessed it."

He blinked at her, a slow smile spreading on his face. He pushed her hair back from her face as he straightened. "Hmm. Next time I do something like this, I'll make sure to take you with me."

She grinned, just a little bit, shaking her head. He stared at her for a few moments before nodding his head and turning away. "Good night."

She didn't want him to go. Atleast, not yet.

She had only a moment to make her choice, and she did.

Her heart danced with joy while her mind screamed at her that this was a bad idea.

"Azriel." She burst out before she lost her nerve.

He paused, turning back slightly. "Yes?"

"Can you– can you stay?"

He stared at her. "What? You– you want me to stay?"

Instantly, a blush was climbing up her neck. What if he didn't want to stay? She kicked herself mentally. "Only if you wish to–"

"I do." His eyes shone. "Um– do you want me to sleep on the ground? I have no problem with it."

She shook her head. "Stay next to me. Please."

The room was dark, the only light provided by the moonlight filtering in from the doors of the balcony. She almost couldn't see the flush on his neck and face as he rounded the bed, where a few clothes had appeared. He took them and walked into the bathing chamber to change.

When he walked back out he was dressed in loose pants and shirt. He slowly climbed into the bed. He was as stiff as a plank with tension as he lay as far as he could from her.

She smiled and turned on her back. "You can relax you know. You'll never get any sleep if you're that tensed up."

He sighed. "I know."

She bit her lip. "I don't bite...much."

His head whipped to her. And honestly, she agreed. She wasn't bold in any way. She didn't even know where that came from.

"Tell me about something interesting."

"Velaris was built by Rhys's father." He supplied.

"Really? Wasn't he..."

"Cruel? A monster? That he was. But he did build and protect Velaris. The only good thing he did, honestly."

"What was he like?"

Azriel began telling her about the previous High Lord of Night Court, and she listened, her attention rapt. As moments passed, his voice filling the room, he relaxed gradually. He also told her about Cassian's past and his mother.

When he was done, they stayed silent. She processed all the information that had just been dumped on her. She shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"Would you accept an olive branch?" She nodded and he pulled her closer. Now she was as stiff as a board.

"Relax. I don't bite...much." He murmured against her hair.

She sat up abruptly. "Was that a joke Spymaster?"

He grinned, pulling her back to his chest. "Maybe." After a pause, he went on. "Sleep. I won't try anything. No funny business unless you ask for it."

"Shame." She mumbled under her breath.

"Did you say something Y/n?"

Of course the bastard heard her. "No."

"I feel like Nesta is a really bad influence on you."

"Shut up." She shoved his chest lightly. He just kissed her head and wished her a good night.

As she drifted off, she felt safer than she had felt in her whole existence. She knew he would protect her always, no matter what.

And maybe that should have scared her, but it just made her feel warm and happy, making something in her chest sing.

•○🌑○•

Part 11

Taglist: @bubybubsters @maxxieluvs @bubbbllee @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @waytoomanyteenagefeels @tell-me-a-poem @the-lake-is-calling @spaxxxi @japanese-wonderland-blog @valeridarkness @moonlwghts @deadratio @esposadomd @harrystylesfan2686 @missusbarnes-rogers @whatthefuckshappeningrn @hyacinthoideshispanica @historygeekqueen @lizziesfirstwife @nastynesta @aroseinvelaris @nightless @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kodokunarisu-blog @selillusion @eos-princess @moonfawnx @a-court-of-milkandhoney @emilyo-218 @wannabewolf @ailyr92 @chronically-online-cheese @myheartfollower @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @marina468 @menaosama @starryhiraeth @hereticdance @mali22 @valencia-rou @azrielsstarlight @marvelouslovely-barnes @luvmoo @starlight-hope @a-frog-with-a-laptop @fall-myriad @alt-ghost @elleofdragons @ruleroftides @5moremin @stargirl1714 @bunnymallowo @ivy-34 @aria-chikage

[lilac-witch]

If My Wish Came True, It Would've Been You - Azriel x OC

CHAPTER TWO: ONCE UPON A TIME, THE PLANETS AND THE FATES AND ALL THE STARS ALIGNED

word count: 816

synopsis: All it takes is a bit of courage, and a leap of faith, to come one step closer to salvation. Something the Inner Circle are in desperate need of.

warnings: none.

main masterlist | series masterlist

"How sure are we that this is going to work?"

Cassian's words cut through the air like a sharp breeze, breathing new life into the roam. The life being a weeks-old question.

Could they really make the jump to another world.

"There's no telling," Amren stated bluntly. "All we can hope for is that those books haven't been gathering dust in Rhys' library over the centuries for absolutely nothing."

Azriel watched the small female. The way he had watched her for the last fortnight, nose buried in book after book, desperately searching for the answers they so desperately sought. Amren had been nothing short of miraculous, gathering a plethora of possibilities to help them make the journey to Midgard.

"Do you have everything you need?" Rhys asked, his arms folded, shoulders stiff with unreleased tension.

"I believe so," Amren replied, glancing at the stash atop the oak dinner table, including but not limited to an assortment of dried vegetation, bird feathers, odd-coloured liquids and bones from a source Azriel hoped he'd never come to know. "All that's left is to decide which lucky males and females get to cross the boundaries of space and time."

No one moved, and rightfully so. They had no idea what to expect of the world Bryce Quinlan hailed from, other than the atrocities she'd shown them.

"I'll go."

Azriel watched as Cassian's eyes widened in horror at Nesta's statement. His brother shook his head, muttering to his mate under his breath, begging, pleading that she reconsider.

"Enough, Cassian," Nesta snapped, eyes blazing with those all too familiar silver flames. "I said I'm going, and that's final."

Azriel sympathised with his brother. If it were his mate, he would do anything to keep her someplace out of harm's way. But Nesta was not his mate. She was a warrior. A Valkyrie. She would let no male take her power away from her.

"I should go as well," Rhysand breathed, wincing slightly at the thought of having Nesta as a travel companion. "I suggested this plan. It's only fair I present it."

Feyre was easy to read when in the company of friends and family. Her face was an open book. Azriel knew the idea of being separated pained his High Lady, and his High Lord, especially so soon after Nyx's arrival into the family. But Feyre knew what needed to be done to ensure a safe world for their son to grow up in.

The youngest Archeron sister nodded. "I'll stay, ensure the court continues to run smoothly. Cassian should stay as well. We don't want the Illyrian camps to fall into disarray."

Cassian opened his mouth to object, but one scathing look from Rhys had him clamping his jaw shut with a huff. In any other situation, the action might have been funny. But there was nothing funny about potentially bridging the gap between life and death.

Mor was the next to volunteer, saying something about wanting a first-hand glance at what a night out looks like on another planet, but Azriel's mind had wandered elsewhere. He couldn't help but feel like something was edging him to join this 'little' expedition. Like a rope had been tied to his wrist and was tugging him along a path.

Azriel's shadows skittered as he announced his decision. He'd go to Midgard.

"Well if my favourite Night Court duo are going, it must be a sign that I join!"

Azriel cursed under his breath, turning to see Helion waltzing through the entryway. He'd chastise his shadows later for their lack of vigilance.

"What if it's a sign to stay away?" Mor drawled, challenge gleaming in her eyes.

Helion gasped dramatically, a hand finding its way to the centre of his bronzed chest. "Why, Morrigan. You wound me."

Rhys cleared his throat, putting an end to the dramatic skit. "It's settled then. Nesta, Mor, Azriel, Helion, and I will find Bryce Quinlan and the solution to all of our problems."

Rhys turned his gaze to Amren. "Whenever you're prepared."

Azriel took his place beside Rhys, observing the vicious black-haired female drop the various ingredients into a mortar and pestle, grinding the contents into a coarse powder before adding some form of liquid to create an obnoxious yellow paste.

"You'll only need a thumbnail's worth," she said, passing the bowl to each member of their group. "Place it on your tongue, and swallow when you're ready."

The five of them said their goodbyes, heard the silent prayers for safe travels and formed a small circle. One glance around the room could be their undoing, could be the reason their mission failed. One selfish reason to stay and live out their days in as much happiness as possible.

"Well," Mor said, glancing owlishly at the disgusting paste. "We always did say to whatever end."

"To whatever end," they agreed.

And then they took the leap.

Oh my gosh guys, I'm so sorry it's been so long. I've been trying to grapple with an increased workload, and writer's block on top of everything. Thank you for being patient, and I hope you can continue to be. This is a bit of a filler chapter for the next to come, but I hope you enjoy it in any case :)

Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the Tag List!

Tag List: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @talesofadragon

[tadpolesonalgae]

Porcelain Princess—sneak peek

Warnings: dark Rhys, nothing explicit occurs below but the fic in its entirety will contain very dark themes so please be aware of that and take care 🧡💛

Night has begun, but the summer’s sun has yet to entirely yield, some lasting rays warming the tones of the sky, keeping the looming darkness at bay—but not for long. 

“Your father mentioned he would be leaving you for a month, so I had a room prepared for you just in case—a favour for a friend of my father’s,” the High Lord is saying as he twists the handle, opening the door for you, and your body tenses as you slide past him into the bedroom, feeling as he follows after you, stood in the doorway while you walk deeper into the private chambers. Putting some space between you. 

Your breath catches when you first lay eyes on the interior. With a large bed pushed up against the far wall, wardrobe to its right, desk to its left, a chest at the foot of the bed with familiar patterns burned and carved into the wood, it’s eerily similar to your real bedroom back in your father’s house. The chest is the same. Not to mention the bedsheets are a dusky pink, the wallpaper striped in pale yellow and orange, small floral designs painted into a pattern over the mellow stripes. It’s disturbing—how lovely it would be at home. 

~~~~~~~~

“I would be delighted.” Your tongue is like lead.

Violet eyes twinkle, and the hairs at the nape of your neck rise with apprehension, a sensation of fear teasingly feathering beneath your dress. “Very well, I will collect you in the evening,” he tells you, and you turn rigid when it appears he’s considering touching you, a ponderous look in his gaze as he observes the expanse of your neck, trailing up to your cheek where he comes to a pause. You can imagine how easy it would be for him to graze his fingers against your temple under the guise of smoothing out an errant strand of hair. “I trust you to dress nicely.” 

You swallow the discomfort in your throat as you nod in obedience, seeking to remove him from your temporary chambers as swiftly as possible. There’s no evidence for you to call upon that would prove the warning you heard, everything about the conversation that had passed between you on the surface had been cordial and restrained. And yet you can’t trust his exterior. Even if your instincts repeatedly prickle and curl in his presence, you can’t call on a single memory where there was something obvious amiss. 

And yet your stomach churns at the idea of being so isolated with him, nausea and dizziness rising to your delicate skin in warning. 

You wish you were anywhere else.

[rosanna-writer]

a simple name and everything has changed (4/?)

Summary: we said hello and your eyes look like coming home, Rhys POV chapters Or: Rhys's slow realization that he's mated to Prythian's most chaotic human (and how much he loves her for it Warnings: implied/referenced sexual assault Word Count: ~6k

This is Rhys's POV of chapter 15: even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open, which is the first training session and Feyre's first reading lesson in the library. This version has an additional conversation between Mor and Rhys that Feyre is unaware of in her POV.

You can find it Here on AO3 for below the readmore.

I should have known it was a dream because Amarantha had me pinned to the bed by the wings. I couldn't move without tearing them; as always, she was on top of me and holding me down. One of her hands was wrapped around my throat.

Helpless—I was helpless. The worst part of it all was the knowledge that I wouldn't run, even with nothing stopping me, because I was supposed to be pretending that I liked it.

I could hear my own voice, as if from a long way off, begging her for more. Wanton and eager, covering up my sheer terror at the thought of what she'd do to my family if I weren't convincing enough.

Something tugged at my chest. If I hadn't been pinned, my hand would have flown to my breastbone. The tugging continued, steady and insistent.

There was a thread, something I hadn't noticed before, but I knew with that strange fuzzy logic of dreams, that home was at the other end. Someone was whispering my name. Familiar, but I couldn't quite place it, unless it was…

"Feyre?" I said, snapping awake and sitting up. My hands and feet had shifted into talons, and I forced all signs of my beast form away before I started growing feathers and tearing the bedsheets.

"Just me," she said.

My stomach churned, and I sprinted for the bathroom before I made a bigger mess of things and vomited into her lap. My knees slammed into the tile in front of the toilet, and I heaved.

As my stomach emptied, I was dimly aware of the sound of the cabinet opening and closing and the faucet turning on and off. Once it was over, I sat back and glanced over to see Feyre crouched by my side, holding out a cup of water.

My throat burned from the bile, but I managed to say, "I'm sorry." Feyre just gave me a meaningful look at the water, silently daring me to challenge her.

But I needed it, so I took the cup and downed the whole thing. The cold was soothing, and my mouth tasted a bit less horrible when I finished. I felt a bit more like myself. "Thank you. I didn't mean to wake you," I added, relieved the words came out sounding like speech and not a croak.

I hadn't meant to make this her problem, too. Feyre needed sleep, and I'd had plenty of nightmares even before being trapped Under the Mountain—I should have kept it contained.

And beyond that, I hated anyone seeing me this broken.

There wasn't the slightest bit of pity in Feyre's face as she regarded me. "You'd think the Lord of Nightmares of all people would be able to sleep through the night."

I didn't understand what she meant at first, my sleep-addled mind still moving slow. But then I realized…she was teasing me.

I narrowed my eyes, more out of a desire to cling to my last shreds of dignity than any real annoyance with her. "That's not quite how it works."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to use a sleeping draught like the rest of us."

A sleeping draught wasn't a bad idea. I'd never slept well Under the Mountain, but taking one had been an unacceptable risk then. In Velaris, however...I was safe enough to risk being difficult to rouse for a few hours.

But that was a discussion for another time, so I stood to rinse my mouth out. The nightmare seemed far away now, but the lingering taste of bile in my mouth hadn't faded. "I'll be fine. Go back to bed."

"I can stay."

I wouldn't ask that of Feyre, not when she needed rest, too. As much as I wanted to fall asleep beside her, I wouldn't risk my tossing and turning—or worse, slashing talons—robbing her of any more sleep. Instead, I just brushed a loose lock of her hair back into place and hoped she knew she wasn't unwanted.

"I don't want to disturb you again. Just knowing you're safe and nearby is enough."

But my heart was still hammering in my chest, and the nightmare had left me feeling unsteady. I didn't want to stop touching her. With her hair back in place, I slid my hand to her cheek and just cupped it, stroking her face with my thumb.

Without a word, she rested her hand on top of mine. She studied my face, her blue-grey eyes unnervingly sharp and perceptive as always, that way of seeing through me she had.

I half-expected her to voice some uncomfortable truth, but she just squeezed my hand and said, "Then get some rest."

"I'll try." I wasn't sure I could fall asleep again.

She kissed me, and I forced myself to pull away and let her go. Every instinct of mine was screaming to hold her and bury my face in her hair until her scent chased away every terrible memory from Under the Mountain, but…I couldn't bring myself to. It was bad enough that I'd woken her up.

Feyre deserved better than a sleepless night tending to a mate she hadn't asked for.

I watched her go, then slid back into my own bed once her door was shut behind her. For a while, I just gripped the bond and stared at the ceiling as the last dregs of nausea faded. After fifty years as Amarantha's whore, an empty bed was a blessing, and I could feel that Feyre was safe and sound. That was enough for now.

I wasn't sure what I expected when I went downstairs the next morning, but it wasn't to see Feyre in Illyrian leathers. On some level, I'd known that she'd wear protective gear for training. But she was human, so I hadn't realized she'd choose something made for someone with wings. She looked shockingly at ease in them.

I was wearing the same thing, and I watched her eyes roam up my body, lingering on my thighs. Feyre wasn't subtle. And I liked it when she looked like she was about to pounce on me.

"Morning," she said, clearly trying very hard to keep looking at my face.

On another day, I might have teased her for it—or said to hell with training and spent the morning in bed with her. But I couldn't stop staring. Until recently, I hadn't seen much of Feyre in the sunlight; it brought out the gold in her hair.

"You look like you've worn those all your life," I said.

Feyre shrugged. "They're comfortable."

She took the stairs two at a time without even realizing it, restless since the moment she'd woken up. While I re-cast the glamour to hide her tattoo and our scent, she was practically bouncing on her toes. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way, full of energy in need of burning off.

Gods, I was getting old.

It didn't help that my wing joints practically creaked as I landed atop the House of Wind. Normally, I would have flown all the way up, but it had been a struggle the other day, so I winnowed above the wards and glided down.

Az was already there. He didn't look up or even acknowledge me as he wrapped his hands. I wanted to believe he was merely focused on what he was doing, but…I knew better. The initial relief at having me home again was fading, and now there wasn't much tempering my Inner Circle's fury over being trapped in Velaris for fifty years.

I supposed I deserved that.

Fortunately, we weren't alone for long. I swallowed a growl at the sight of Cassian carrying Feyre. For once, it wasn't my darkness trying to slip its leash, but something far more primal that called for fists, not magic. I pushed it down as best I could, but I still couldn't help but feel relieved by how quickly Feyre hopped to the floor and stepped closer to me.

"Take your time warming up. It's been a while, and that's an injury risk," Cassian said, directing it at Feyre.

I probably needed to hear it too, even if the words were in that stern tone of voice Cassian primarily used with impulsive half-trained recruits. Which, I supposed, Feyre was in a way.

We fell silent as we worked through a warmup. During rare snatches of time alone Under the Mountain, I'd gone through the routine just to feel like myself. There had been some days I'd come close to forgetting I'd ever been a warrior at all—my life before I'd been trapped there sometimes felt like a fever dream or a distant memory.

But today, I was careful, spending the time cataloguing the stiffness and weak points. It was obvious enough I needed to get my strength back, but I was missing mobility and range of motion, too.

I wondered how long it would take for my body to feel like mine again.

When it was done, Azriel pulled Feyre aside to work with her as planned. I unsheathed my sword. Cassian turned to me, and the grin on his face was the same one he'd worn the first time he'd challenged me to a fight and won the shirt off my back.

Some things never changed.

"I meant what I said about not embarrassing you in front of Feyre darling," he said. With an irritated growl, I charged him.

The sparring match quickly devolved from there. I was a Carynthian—trained so thoroughly that fighting came to me as easily as breathing. I knew the steps, how to look for openings and parry attacks, to keep my balance and stand my ground.

But my limbs had never been so…sluggish.

Even when I'd been chained in the mud for weeks, I hadn't lost this much strength. Everything burned. And while my mind fell back on centuries of practice, it still felt like my body was moving through mud. Slow. I was far too slow.

I was breathing hard within minutes, too. Cassian hadn't even broken a sweat; this might as well have been an extended warmup for him. I hated knowing that he was holding back for my benefit, that he was taking his time as a favor to me.

I'd never been so painfully aware of every last bit of strength that bitch had sapped from me over the last fifty years. My dignity had been one thing, but it was far more maddening that an enemy general had rendered me so weak and useless in the end.

She hadn't just used my body as a toy—she'd broken it.

I was damn near gasping when I finally lost my balance, falling on my ass then my ribs, hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Cassian's sword pointed casually at the center of my chest.

He could have done that whenever he wanted. But of course the bastard had waited until Feyre and Azriel were watching to finally end it. The two of them gaped at me as I took Cassian's proffered hand and stood up.

I knew Cassian was just trying to be courteous as he poured me a glass of water and handed it to me, but it took all of my willpower not to glower and snatch it from him. I didn't want pity.

For a while, no one spoke, which was likely for the best. I gulped down the water, hating how much I felt like I needed it. But the summer morning was already warm, and I could feel the sweat forming under my leathers.

Azriel muttered something about needing to go and took off without looking at me. He did, however, give Feyre a polite nod goodbye. I immediately thought back to the memory he'd shown me the day before—Make her happy, Rhys. She deserves it, he'd said.

Az held Feyre in high regard. I wondered if she knew that, too.

I turned my attention back to the task at hand as Cassian said, "While you were gone, I found some more books on human fighting techniques from the war, Feyre."

That was a relief; if I'd been present, it was exactly what I would have asked Cassian to do. And I was pleased he'd been confident enough she'd come back alive to continue researching.

"What did you find?" Feyre said.

"Not as much as I'd like. The mortal slaves that rebelled were the best experts on human-faerie combat. Most of them were illiterate, so not much was written down. But there are a few techniques to avoid being winnowed away if you're grabbed. We can try them today."

Cassian said it without blinking—he must not have known Feyre couldn't read. None of the Inner Circle could have known; it was the only way I could imagine them sending her Under the Mountain illiterate.

I hadn't realized it, either. What did it say that we were all apparently too stupid to notice my mate—the Lady of the Night Court—couldn't read?

Like always, Feyre seemed to be taking it in stride, however. She set down her cup decisively. "Let's go."

"I'll instruct. She'll practice on you," Cassian said, turning to me. His good humor was gone, but I didn't take it personally. As a mated male, I was a safety risk, likely to react on instinct to anyone striking or grabbing Feyre, even during combat training. If I wasn't in such a weakened state, it might have been prudent for me to leave and call in Mor instead.

I nodded, and enough understanding passed between us that Cassian cracked a smile and added, "Alright then, Feyre. Let's see if those bony elbows of yours can rattle Rhys's pea brain around in his skull."

I let myself feel excited to see what Feyre was like in the ring. Under the Mountain, there had been flashes of potential—her stance during the beating in the throne room, her levelheadedness as she fought the Middengard Wyrm, the gods-damned cannon of an arm she'd displayed when she'd thrown that bone-spear. She was all grit and tenacity and good instincts, exactly the sort of things I'd looked for in soldiers I'd trained back when I'd commanded a legion myself.

If she wanted to be properly honed, Feyre could make herself utterly lethal, human or not.

She took direction well, too. I could see it wasn't easy for her—even though she kept her mouth shut, she scowled every time Cassian corrected her form. But she made adjustments and put everything she had behind each strike.

Despite the obvious improvements, anger continued to ripple off her in waves. I kept out of her head—she didn't need a distraction—and I couldn't tell if this was cathartic for her or merely an exercise in frustration.

But when she switched sides and immediately landed a nasty hit to my jaw with her right arm, I understood.

An archer with a strength imbalance—a tale as old as time. If I didn't think she'd murder me on the spot, I would have laughed and taunted her about fighting me one handed.

Her lips twitched upward as I rubbed the already-healing bruise on my face. I'd take a million more hits from her if it made her smile again.

"Feel better?" Cassian said. She nodded. "Good. Now give me ten more just like that."

There was something blessedly normal about serving as Feyre's punching bag and would-be attacker as Cassian ran her through more drills. I liked watching her put her mind to something and work at improving. It made me feel better about…well, everything.

We didn't stay at it much longer, though. There was still work that couldn't be put off, and training ourselves to the point of exhaustion would only be harmful in the long run.

As he pulled on his jacket, Cassian shot me a look I'd become familiar with over the centuries, the one that meant he had something to say mind-to-mind. I rapped a talon against his shields and he let me in immediately.

I hate to ask, but before I go…do you need help getting back down to the street, Rhys?

He was just trying to be practical. It was a valid question, but that didn't make me want to roar in frustration any less.

No. And Feyre doesn't either.

Cassian raised his brows, and there was an edge to his voice when it rang out in my mind again. Did you just make that decision for her?

The implication was clear—that I was getting into the habit of making choices for the people I loved. He wasn't wrong.

Feyre can't read. I'm fixing that today. I pulled out of Cassian's mind before he could argue; I didn't want to turn this into a discussion. He squeezed my shoulder before taking off, as if he were unwilling to leave entirely on bad terms.

If he was angry, he'd get over it.

I turned to Feyre, who wasn't bothering to hide her irritation at being left out of the conversation. "You're coming with me to the library," I said by way of explanation.

The words had clearly come out too harsh. "Is that an order?" she snapped.

It would be if needed. I wasn't above strong-arming Feyre into learning a skill that was necessary for her survival.

But there was no sense in turning this into an argument for no reason, either. "I want you to learn how to read," I said quietly.

Her irritation melted into confusion, and I knew I needed to be forthright with her. My own stupid assumptions had nearly gotten Feyre killed Under the Mountain, and she deserved to know I'd failed her. So I told her about what I'd encouraged Amarantha to plan for the second task, even as my voice shook and tendrils of night leaked from me again.

For a long moment, she said nothing, and my power swirled around around us, then faded. I braced myself for her anger.

But all she said was, "Then I'll start learning today. We won't make the same mistake twice."

"Thank you," I said, reaching for her hand.

I felt better holding onto Feyre. And I'd missed the library. It was small in the grand scheme of things, but I hadn't been able to make myself comfortable in an armchair tucked away in the stacks in so long. This was the most peaceful place I'd ever known.

Yet the bond still seemed to tighten with Feyre's anxiety as we descended the stairs. Perhaps I'd miscalculated—she didn't have a history with this place, and it was underground.

I squeezed her hand, and before I could say anything, she reached for me through the bond and said, I'm fine. I took her at her word.

All things considered, it was probably reckless to allow ourselves to be seen like this. Now that the borders between courts were no longer sealed, the priestesses in Velaris were likely in contact with their sisters elsewhere. We were almost certainly inviting gossip.

I couldn't bring myself to care, though. After everything…I'd more than earned the right to cling to my mate wherever I wanted to. Feyre was mine, and even if the bond itself was a secret, I wanted everyone to know I was hers.

We approached the main desk, and it was good to see that Clotho looked well. I introduced to her to Feyre and explained the favor we needed—thankfully, there was a priestess who'd been a schoolteacher before she'd needed to seek refuge here, and it was no trouble for her to tutor Feyre.

There was a softness in Clotho's eyes I recognized. She took my hand in her own gnarled ones, and I realized that was the gentleness she used with new acolytes who'd just arrived at the library after surviving something horrific.

I hadn't thought I'd ever be on the receiving end of it.

Rumors of what I'd done Under the Mountain had certainly reached Velaris by now. Clotho knew what I'd sacrificed for this city. She wouldn't bring it up directly, but the quiet understanding and compassion was there.

The priestesses in the library had welcomed me as a trustworthy High Lord—a benefactor, really. But now…we shared something.

I didn't have time to dwell on that. Feyre was already being ushered away for her first lesson. There was business to attend to a few floors up, so I climbed the stairs and delighted in how effortless it felt to use magic to shift my leathers into a more formal tunic and pants.

Except for the piles of paper that had grown exponentially larger during my fifty years away, Mor's office in the House of Wind was virtually unchanged. When I'd appointed her my Third, I'd told her to choose any room for a workspace she liked, and Mor had made this one her own over the centuries.

The shelves were stuffed full of atlases—editions with maps of the Night Court that included Velaris—and records of meeting minutes and court budgets and various quarterly reports. The hand-knotted rug and comfortable leather chairs were the same as before, both in shades of red and brown carefully chosen to match the rock of the mountain.

She'd insisted on no windows to prevent surprise visits from any Illyrians. Being unable to see the sky made my chest tighten, but I didn't feel truly anxious in this place, not when it was so obviously Mor's domain.

She was chewing on the end of her pen and frowning at the letter she was drafting, but her head snapped up as I closed the door behind me. Her smile at the sight of me was bright, even if her face was a bit wan. "How was training?" she said.

I dropped into the chair on the other side of her desk. "Excellent," I lied, wings twitching. "Feyre elbowed me in the face several times."

"She fights dirty. If that's all the damage she did, then you got off easy today."

My heart swelled at the obvious pride in Mor's voice. I'd known my family would protect Feyre when I sent her to Velaris after Calanmai, but I hadn't given any thought to whether or not they'd like her. It hadn't mattered then.

And I still didn't know exactly what had transpired between them during the weeks she'd stayed here with them. Amren hadn't wasted time teaching Feyre to shield her mind, so I'd only gotten brief glimpses. I hadn't violated her privacy.

But by the Cauldron was I curious.

"You trained her," I said, doing my best to restrain myself from interrogating Mor about it. Feyre had looked so at ease in the ring with Cassian and Azriel—to a degree I found surprising considering she was wingless, half their size, and had never been a soldier.

"We all did. Don't think we didn't try to talk her out of it." Mor's brown eyes flashed dangerously, daring me to punish her for not stopping Feyre from going Under the Mountain for me.

I was angry with them. The sight of Feyre in that throne room had filled me with more terror than I knew was possible to feel, and my Inner Circle could have prevented it. The only reason I was trying—and honestly, not entirely succeeding—to choke down my rage was that it had been Feyre's choice.

I'd respect Feyre's decisions even if it killed me. Which meant the rest of my court would, too.

That wasn't the conversation I wanted to have, anyway. Not while I was still so raw and feeling sorry for myself because I could barely fly. So I said, "What was she like with you?"

Mor's expression turned thoughtful as she considered the question. I waited.

"Quiet," she said eventually. "Obviously, she's scrappy like Cassian, but she would silently hover on the edge of things, the way Az still does sometimes. It was clear she was worried sick and everything from your end of the bond was eating her alive but Gods, Rhys, she wouldn't even play cards with us, just watched."

I loved Feyre—deeply, completely, desperately. But there was still so much I didn't know about her. A clearer picture was emerging of her life before I'd come into it, and it worried me how isolated she'd been. There didn't seem to be a single person in the mortal lands she was keen on reuniting with.

In some ways, that made her more vulnerable than merely being human did. A girl who came from poverty, who'd spent all her time up a tree or tracking game instead of in school, or at the very least around other people…Tamlin could have manipulated and broken her so easily.

If I wasn't careful, I could hurt her, too.

"She doesn't get along with her family, either. Yesterday, I told her I wasn't keeping her here, but she still didn't want to see them."

Mor let out a single, bitter laugh. "She really is one of us, isn't she?"

"I just hope she feels that way, too." Seeing Feyre in the training ring gave me hope that she did. But I'd also noticed how quiet she'd been at dinner.

"We all see something of ourselves in her, I think. Even Amren—they're both some sort of magical anomaly. This is the healthiest place Feyre could have ended up. So just…give her some time to settle in, alright? You're both lucky to have each other, and everything is going to be fine."

More than anything, I wanted to believe that was true. But it seemed impossible. "She's nineteen," I whispered, almost afraid to say it too loudly.

As a human, that made her an adult, albeit a young one. Capable of making her own choices. Perhaps it was because I hadn't been around mortals in centuries, but that fact was still…difficult to reconcile.

Mor's smile was sad. "It might be better if we don't think too hard about how much she reminds us all of your mother."

I cringed. But at least I wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

Changing the subject probably would have been the wisest course of action, but there were things I needed to say that I only felt safe expressing to Mor. Even if it was uncomfortable. My cousin was the only one who'd understand.

"When I ate those pomegranate seeds," I said quietly, "was I making the same mistakes as my father?"

She leaned back in her chair, considering it. That much, at least, was a relief—if she'd answered too quickly, especially if she said no, I wouldn't have believed she was telling me the truth.

"You didn't have the power to make those kinds of mistakes while you were Under the Mountain. It's too early to tell, I think."

I stared into my lap, unable to look her in the eye as I said, "I'm scared, Mor. She never asked for any of this."

It seemed entirely possible that Feyre would come to resent this life she'd been forced into. Even if she didn't hate me, she hadn't chosen it. That would be enough to make anyone bitter.

As an immortal, so many human experiences were now closed off to her. And at nineteen, when she'd seen so little of the world…

"You're not the only one," Mor said gently. "When she showed up in the townhouse and Amren confirmed her story, I was terrified for you both. Even with a long lifespan, things between her kind and ours…they're never simple."

Mor's gaze had gone distant, as if she were remembering something from long ago. I knew that look; a memory from the war had crept up on her.

I wondered—not for the first time—if contacting Miryam was worth the risk. It seemed possible the only other person who'd been Made immortal knew something that could help us understand the half-bargain inked on Feyre's arm. But a letter could easily fall into the wrong hands…

Mor shook her head as if to clear it. "That's enough of a pity party for today," she said, half to herself. I started to say something, but a too-bright smile appeared on her face as she added, "Even if it might end badly, that hasn't happened yet. You two just about tore each other's clothes off at the dinner table yesterday, so enjoy the blessing while we have the chance."

Wise words. It was still too much to believe the rest of eternity could be like last night—holding Feyre, making her smile, hearing her tell me in no uncertain terms she wanted to fuck me again. But perhaps…perhaps I could believe I'd have that for a little while.

Before everything inevitably came crashing down. Everything I loved had a tendency to be taken from me.

I straightened, trying to ignore the barking pain in my back muscles that had grown unused to supporting wings. There was work to finish—I hadn't actually come here merely to chat. "Thank you. Now what crises have you been handling in my absence?"

Mor had been spending the past few days putting out fires. It was nothing she wasn't capable of; she'd offered to continue with the extra duties to give me a chance to rest, but I couldn't bring myself to take her up on the offer. Returning to the Hewn City drained her. And I needed to feel like the High Lord of the Night Court again, paperwork and all.

We were at it for a while, but eventually I left her office with a stack of reports summarizing changes since I'd been away and a folder full of updated statues that needed signatures. My own office was on this floor, but I wanted the quiet of the library.

And I already missed Feyre.

I found a desk tucked away in the stacks, dug my reading glasses out of a pocket dimension, and got to work, keeping an ear pricked for any signs Feyre finished with her lesson. Before long, a door opened in the distance, and I felt a shift in the bond. I tugged gently on the thread, just enough to call her to me without making it seem urgent and alarming.

She paused and stared at me for a moment, then slid into the seat next to me. Before I had an opportunity to tease her with some comment about being so enamored with my face that she'd stopped in her tracks, she whispered, "Have you always needed those?"

Right. She'd never seen me in reading glasses before. It was easy to forget that there were things she didn't know about me, too.

"Since I was a boy. Don't ask me how many times Cassian broke them when we were younger," I said.

She went quiet for a moment, as if she were considering where that new piece of information fit with the picture of me that was forming in her head. I didn't mind—if she wanted to interrogate me, she could.

Instead, she jerked her head towards the paper in front of me. "What's that?"

"Reports on the status of the Night Court and documents Mor needed me to sign. There's…a lot I missed."

Feyre pulled out work of her own after that, and we lapsed into comfortable silence. It took all my willpower not to peek over her shoulder—I wanted to know what her handwriting looked like. But I could tell this was a sensitive subject; despite ample opportunity to learn before coming Under the Mountain, she hadn't brought it up, and apparently Tamlin had made jokes at her expense.

Eventually, she pushed her scratch paper aside, and I tried not to stare as she lifted her arms above her head and stretched. She was still in her leathers, and her breasts looked incredible when she arched her back.

I'd been productive enough for the morning, I decided.

"Do you need more sentences to practice?" I said, careful not to give away what I was thinking.

"I might."

I jotted a few words down, then slid the paper over to her. "Try reading this, then copy it over."

I watched her nose wrinkle adorably as she sounded out the words. She managed it, though quite slowly. "Rhysand is the most—"

Her expression cycled through several emotions—confusion, surprise, amusement—as she realized what the full sentence was. Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. There were several more, all about how attractive, cunning, and excellent in bed I was. Practically vibrating with anticipation, I waited for Feyre to read them all.

"Are you always this shameless?" she said.

I smiled. "You seem to bring it out in me."

I'd assumed Feyre would say something about the accuracy of the statements I'd just made her read. But no—she balled up the paper and flung it at my head instead.

Truly, it's what I should have expected.

She put enough force behind the throw to knock the glasses off my face, and her aim was impeccable. I laughed; I'd asked for this ,I supposed. Feyre didn't need words to express irritation when brute strength and wickedly accurate hand-eye coordination would do.

Incredibly Illyrian of her, all things considered.

As I picked my glasses up off the floor and slid them back onto my face, a spark of Feyre's happiness lit up the bond for just a moment. I'd gone so long without being playful with anyone; it was another part of me that had atrophied underground, just like my wings. But I'd get it back.

The rest of the day was tranquil. It soothed me all the way down to my soul to spend the afternoon in the library with Feyre, enjoying her quiet companionship as I slowly chipped away at getting my court back in working order. And it was good to see that after training and a reading lesson, she was slowly becoming a stronger, more capable version of herself.

But still, I was utterly worn out by the end of the day. Cassian must have anticipated it—he'd left us with a large container of Illyrian stew, a hearty comfort food that had warmed us up on so many frozen nights. As angry as he was with me, my brother knew there was barely any food in the house, and he'd never quite stopped making sure everyone was fed.

The note scrawled in his messy hand was simple: Even assholes who trap their family in Velaris need to eat. Also, make sure Feyre gets enough protein. Feyre and I both shoveled the food down and went to bed early, the ideal way to cap off a day that had started with the first training session in a long while.

I supposed, however, it couldn't be perfect. I'd barely been asleep for more than a few hours when I woke to the sound of Feyre screaming. She was already halfway to the bathroom when I winnowed to her.

I managed to gently pull her hair back before she started retching. Her heart pounded so loudly I could hear it clearly, even as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Her breathing was shaky as she sat back. I pulled her against my chest and held her, just sitting on the floor with her. Once the nightmare had faded enough that I was sure there wouldn't be another round of vomit, I'd carry her back to bed.

I couldn't stop the nightmares. But now, at least, I could do better than letting her face them with nothing more than a braid and a promise I'd come back.

[lanitalay]

Among Flames and Starlight Chapter 1

a/n: I was going to wait until tomorrow but I just cant so enjoy the first chapter!!

Warnings: none

2.3k words

Other Chapters

Irene opened her eyes to reveal the midnight moon pouring through the frost covered window in the town house. The silver light casted a dim glow across the familiar room. She relished the feel of the sheets and snuggled up even more on the impossibly soft pillow. Keeping her eyes opened, she counted the seconds as they passed by. It was a habit she had picked up as a girl when the war was raging and her parents were at battle. She counted and counted, reminding herself that time was indeed passing, if ever so slowly. Now that the war was long over and her parents long gone she counted to remember them, to ground herself.

Sunrise was a few minutes away so she turned from the window and slowly sat up in bed. She stretched her limbs and cracked her joints before stepping onto the icy morning floor. Winter was at its peak and even with magical temperature control the cold still found a way to creep into the house. Irene looked for her pants, they had been removed from her body first when she entered the room and she could recall them being thrown in the general direction of the door. 

They were hanging on a lounge chair, next to her shirt. She frowns as she sees the slash straight down the middle of the garment. Entitled prick, she thinks but a smirk ghosts her features all the same. The sleeping body still on the bed stirs and grumbles, feeling her absence. 

“You don’t have to leave so early, you know?” Rhys says in a voice muffled by the pillow his face is buried in. 

“Hush, yes I do, Cassian will be here in a few minutes to go train. Plus Victoria and I have a dance lesson right after breakfast, I need to get ready” she slides her arms through the sleeves of her torn shirt and ties a knot to keep her chest from spilling out. 

“I hope you learn some new moves, it will make next time more… interesting” he’s resting on his elbows and he watches her from across the room. 

“You’re unbelievable.” 

“You’re incredibly attractive” she rolls her eyes but he flashes her a smile that completely disarms her. 

“You ruined my shirt.”

“I quite like the new look” he motions for her to return to bed and she can never say no when he looks at her with still sleepy eyes and messy hair. This is her favorite Rhysand, the soft, endearing male he is first thing in the morning. Before his father sees him, before he has to train for an ever impending battle, before he has to mask all of his goodness. So she always says yes to this Rhysand. Irene settles herself on his lap, thighs straddling him. He traces along her collarbones and she shivers at the feather light touch. He’s kissing and nibbling at her neck when she notices the moon is no longer visible through the window. 

“I have to go.” 

“Five more minutes” she chuckles and lifts up from the bed one last time. She pecks his lips and leaves his room. Scurrying down the hall, she arrives as fast as possible to her room, throws her broken shirt into the hearth and lights it. The room is untouched. Last night and pretty much every night this week she had slept in his bed. A necessity, because they had wanted to keep what they did in the cover of night private and Victoria, Rhysand’s sister, spent too much time in this room. 

She would scent him and what they did in an instant.

The shirt turns to ash as the sun begins to rise. 

Irene stays near the fire a while longer before going to the bathing room and getting ready for the day. 

“And one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Again!” the dance teacher ordered. Irene and Victoria twirled around the room with the rest of the class. Weaving through the other dancers and switching partners when the timing was right. They had been taking ballroom dancing classes since they were kids. It was something they both enjoyed equally. Which was rare. Sweat gathered on Irene’s brow but she did not wipe it away for fear of messing up the timing in the most complicated part of the dance. They would separate from their current partners and retrace their steps in a flurry of jumps and twirls until they returned to their original partner. 

Madame Silvie had been drilling them for hours. Irene’s feet hurt from the not yet broken-in shoes she wore. She sighed happily when Victoria handed her a glass of water and chugged it down in one go then said “that was intense.”

Victoria laughed and nodded “but wasn’t it fun?”

“It was the best dance we’ve learned, and I think lover boy over there is counting the days until he can ask you to dance in a real ball” she nods her head towards Neil, a male they had known since childhood. He stood leaning against the other wall, offering Victoria a shy grin. She covered her own smile and turned away from him, “stop that! He probably heard you.”

“It’s fine Vic, we all know Neil is in love with you” her eyes bug and Irene stifles a laugh. 

“Stop!” 

“Alright, alright, I won’t say anything else.” 

“We should go, my mother wanted us home for lunch” the girls picked up the few belongings they had brought to the class and walked back to the town house, flanked by two bodyguards each. 

Celene greets them at the door, her face stern. “Go wash up for lunch” she turns to her daughter and in a low voice warns “your father will be joining us”. 

Irene and Victoria go up the stairs without making a noise and once inside Vic’s room let out the breath they had been holding. 

“If he’s here for lunch and unannounced it can’t be good” the Princess of Night groans. Irene remains silent. 

In her opinion, the High Lord of the Night Court was the most terrifying male in Prythian. 

Cassian sat across from her. Azriel was next to him and Rhysand sat at the other end. Victoria sat next to Irene and on her other side was her mother. The High Lord was at the head of the table. Nearest to him were his mate and heir. Irene did not look up from her plate as she tried to eat. The dryness in her mouth made it impossible to swallow without gulping down water. Through her peripheral vision she saw him cut some meat clean in half. 

A gifted butcher. 

“Vallier” Irene stiffened as he addressed her. The same way he would address her father. 

“My lord” she tried to keep her words steady. But this male had been the reason she had lost everything. 

“The anniversary of your father’s death is coming up, are you planning on doing anything to commemorate?” Tears stung at her eyes. He reminded her every year. 

“I always light a candle for him and those who fell with him, since there is no grave for me to visit.” Her father had died during the war. While he was alive he had been an advisor to the High Lord. When the war between humans and faeries broke out he was ordered to fight, never having wielded a weapon in his life. Her father, Irden Vallier, was a scholar. His mother was a priestess and he had grown up in temples and libraries all over Prythian. He only moved to the Night Court because he fell madly in love with a White Haired Witch from Kovelain, a smokey isle east to the Court of Nightmares. 

He arrived at the mountain court as a scribe, and worked for centuries until he became advisor. By then the witch, Avalon, had given birth to Irene. Avalon was casted out when her coven found out about her pregnancy. It was a disgrace to her bloodline to dilute it with fae blood. Their white hair and silver blood essential in carrying out spells and enchantments. 

Irden died as a footsoldier. He was incinerated alongside everyone else on that battlefield.  That was merciful compared to what happened to Avalon. She had lived in Velaris since giving birth to Irene. When the war began, the High Lord used her knowledge, forcing her to create weapons to defeat Hybern. She was good, possibly too good. When the war ended and the human side won, the High Lord accused her of treason. Executing a witch is impossible, for they are truly immortal, no wound nor poison could kill them. Only the gods decide when a witch’s life is over. So he sentenced her to eternity in the Prison. 

Celene had taken Irene in after both her parents were gone. She was not a true witch and she wasn’t fully fae. If she possessed any magic it had never manifested and she never learned the spells that made her mother so dangerous. 

How easily she could be killed was yet to be determined. 

The High Lord’s voice rattles the table “it’s a fitting tribute” he says coldly and adds “this court has been invited to Adriata. The young High Lord Tarquin will be hosting a grand ball to inaugurate the new docks he built and the trade agreements.” Victoria lights up and turns to Irene “an actual ball!” 

“You know she won't be able to attend, dear” Celene gently reminds her. But her daughter responds with a roll of her eyes and a loud huff “there’s no reason she can’t go.” 

“As the offspring of a traitor she’s not allowed to leave the Night Court” the High Lord interjects. 

“It’s ok Vic, have fun. I have to catch up on some readings anyways” Irene attempts to soothe her friend. 

“She should go, I’ll escort her myself” her heart does a somersault in her chest at what Rhysand says. His father turns to him and raises a sharp brow.

“She’s grown up with us, father. She hasn’t spoken or heard from her mother since the war ended when she was twelve.”

“Father please” Victoria adds her violet eyes wide as she attempts to persuade him. 

“I won’t listen to anymore whining,” he scolds. 

The rest of the meal goes by in silence.

After lunch the High Lord and Celene go to the House of Wind, leaving the heirs and orphans alone in the town house. 

Cassian approaches Irene while everyone else disperses. “He’s a dick, Ire, don’t think of what he said. That’s exactly what he wants.” She runs her hands through her white hair and trying not to cry says “he remembers every year, Cas.” He envelopes her in a giant’s hug. Squeezing tightly. “I can burn the candle with you if you want company this year” Irene shakes her head, “thanks but I don’t think you can sit still for longer than five minutes let alone until an entire candle burns out.” 

“I can try” he nudges her shoulder, trying his best to cheer her up. 

The galloping filled Irene’s ears as she rode her mare across a valley in the outskirts of Velaris. This was the closest thing she could get to flying. Her mother never got the chance to teach her. So she rode across the plains as fast as her horse could take her. A horse that wasn’t really hers. Nothing was. She was a pampered prisoner. Daughter of a traitor and a casualty. Whatever she stood to inherit was taken by the High Lord as reparations for her mother’s crimes. 

She arrived at the abandoned temple she visited each year on this day, walked inside and placed a thick white candle on the altar. With some flint she quickly lit the wick then knelt before it. 

It was a simple ritual. The candle represents the life of the fallen. While it burns the mourner reminisces about the good times and the bad times. The light of the candle along with the memories are supposed to be a guiding light to the souls in the afterworld. It is done with the hope of connecting to a loved one for a moment before they return to the abyss. 

So Irene thought of her father and his scrolls and tomes and quills. She thought of his brown hair and how it had begun to gray at the roots as he got older. How he would wear glasses to read at first but then began to need them at all times. She remembered his voice and the stories he would tell her of the libraries across Pyrthian. He had traveled the realm and she had never been outside of the city limits. 

Night had fallen. The candle nearly burnt out. She recalls the last time she saw him. How his glasses fogged with tears welling up in his eyes. How he knew it would be his doom, his sword too heavy and his reflexes too slow. 

He hugged Irene that day. He kissed Avalon and without another word he went to war. 

The door to her bedroom was cracked when she returned to the townhouse. Rhysand stood by the window that overlooked the garden, waiting. 

“You shouldn’t be here, Rhys” was the only thing she could say, exhausted from the ride and the ritual. 

“I wanted to make sure you were good after today. I forgot it was his anniversary.”

“I’m fine, just tired.” 

“Do you want to sleep in my room?” Yes. She did. She would love nothing more than to crawl into his silky sheets and fall asleep with his arms around her. 

“No, I think I better sleep here tonight” she can’t tell him. Maybe he already knows. What she knew was just a physical release for him was everything for her. 

She had loved him long enough to know he did not feel the same. 

He walks toward her and places a hand on her cheek. Irene doesn’t falter so he concedes. “Alright, see you tomorrow.”

Taglist: @sidthedollface2 @acourtofbatboydreams 

[popjunkie42]

In a glorious creative burst of hyperfocus, I made up for not being able to write all week (stupid work) to writing ALL DAY so now you will be subjected to my new fic.

6200 words of Feyre being a sad, sassy drunk menace Under the Mountain.

It’s snippet Sunday (this is a thing right) so here’s a little bit under the cut. Editing on this one in progress.

@ablogofsapphicpanic @wilde-knight @rosanna-writer @howlingcaptaincommando @gaeleria @thesistersarcheron for you loves

“That’s enough for now,” his voice is calm but commanding.

“I’m hungry,” she protests, matching his tone with her chin held high.

“If you’re sick again, you’ll regret this little feast.”

“And who’s fault is that?” she asks, slipping another chocolate tart past her lips.

This one, another face she’s unsure of. Cold for sure, with something simmering underneath.

“I think the night is at an end,” he croons. “Let’s get you back to your cell.”

Her stomach drops at that, indeed too heavy with the rich fare she’s scarfed in a matter of minutes. She turns to face him fully, his eyes full of judgment.

“No.” she says. But just in case, she tucks the pastry in her hand away, up against her stomach under the low belt of her dress.

Rhys’s eyes are dark and unyielding. But Feyre releases them for a moment, glancing to the throne to see Amarantha, laughing and distracted by the retinue around her. His eyes follow.

And when he looks back, Feyre is gone again, slipping on bare feet through the crowd and towards the hall doors.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. Buried in his brain, the thought slips out, I am High Lord of the Night Court. But he turns his fine shoes towards the door and strides as fast as he dares behind Feyre’s flowing skirt.

He catches up to her in a dark hallway of the mountain, only torches sputtering on the walls giving off any light. She’s come to a crossroads of two diverting paths and paused too long.

“Feyre,” his voice a warning. She whirls to meet him, stumbling only slightly. The wine is wearing off and anger and panic are taking their place as she thinks of stone walls and the endless screams of the tortured and doomed.

He’s on her in a flash, towering over her and so close she gasps. There will be no more games, no temporary moments of escape. Away from the fire, her bare feet are going numb.

Feyre knows she’s swaying, knows her eyes must look wild as her focus goes in and out. Still, she wills herself to stare down the High Lord, refusing to back down until her unsteady body makes her.

“I don’t want to go back there,” she says. Hoping her voice is as steady as her desires.

There’s no smirk left on his face tonight. He cocks his head and lifts a brow, his body as hard and unyielding as the stone at her back. “And where would you like to go then, hm? Back under Amarantha’s eye? Back to the Wyrm pit, perhaps? Or maybe you’d prefer to visit my chambers?” Her face splits into a sneer. “My fireplace is looking rather filthy at the moment.”

She hates him and the cold taunt in his words. Yet still she feels the desperate truth in them. There is nowhere to go. She’s trapped. A prisoner with the barest illusion of movement. Tears prick at her eyes, tears that come so much more freely these nights under the wine, frustrating her to no end. Blinking, she wills them back. Plenty of time later, alone in her cell, to cry without giving Rhysand more ammunition for his arsenal of mocking disdain.

Even in the cold winter woods, starving and shaking, she had been able to move. To wander as she pleased, the paths and hollows as familiar as her family’s faces. And she could stay there, perched in a tree, for as long as it took for her courage to build to face her family again. Hungry, but wild and free.

Feyre swallows the burning lump in her throat and meets his cold eyes again.

“Fine.” Like an extinguished candle, all the fight leaves her at once. She’s tired. It’s cold. All she wants is to lay down, alone, and cry.

Rhysand makes no attempt to move. They stare each other down, the cold pulling the heat from their bodies into the mountain stone.

It’s one of those looks again. The one she’s not sure about. And she’s just drunk enough to ask, “What is that?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Your face. It’s not angry. Or mocking. I…” she falters as more stars emerge in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts his hand to her face. The breath catching in her throat as he pauses for just a moment, and then slides his thumb gently across her bottom lip.

His thumb comes away covered in chocolate mousse. He looks at it for a moment and then brings it to his mouth, licking it clean.

All the breath has left her and she’s frozen, feeling the heat that grows between them even in the cold hall.

He finally looks back at her. “You’ve made a mess of yourself, darling. Let’s get you back.”

[rhaenella]

You & Me - Rhys Montrose x Reader - Part 1

Masterlist | Part 2

Summary: What happens when reader assassin is tasked with killing the possible future mayor of London; Rhys Montrose. Politician by day, Eat the Rich Killer by night. But he isn’t the only person wearing different masks. 

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Violence, murder, immoral sociopathic behaviour, mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse and neglect, (eventual) smut

Word count: 1.4k

A/N at the end.

Song: Royals – Lorde 

Montrose, R. 

The name of your next victim was written in elegant cursive handwriting on a small business card. Your employer had given it to you along with an envelope filled with your payment for the previous job you had just completed. 

The name seemed familiar to you. You briefly glanced up at your employer as you slipped out your phone to quickly look up the name he had provided you with. 

You typed in the name Montrose and within nanoseconds after you hit search, the app showed you thousands of hits on the name. Newspaper articles, clips of talk show appearances, book reviews, both positive and hate tweets (although the former outweighed the latter), and of course many, many pictures of the man. You recognised him instantly.

You raised a single eyebrow inquisitively, once more glancing at your employer. 

“I’m aware that it’s high-profile.”

You scoffed as you scrolled through the many articles. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Your employer cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Can you do it or not?”

“Of course,” you replied nonchalantly.

“Good.”

“But it’s gonna cost you.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else.”

You hummed, locking your phone and placing it in your back pocket. Your employer diverted his eyes, looking nervous? No — stressed — your mind supplied. You smirked inwardly. The man was desperate for this job. 

You’ve done work for him before. Six times, in fact. Two of which had been abroad, including the one you just completed. Your flight back from Toronto had landed just a couple of hours ago. And now here you were once more.

The man had resources and was rich beyond words. He had power. Lots of it. Which incontrovertibly led to him having many enemies. Enemies that he needed to get rid of. Quietly. That’s where you came in. 

But something was different this time. Your employer seemed off, more desperate than you’d ever seen him. Before he was always perfectly in control, never blinking an eye as he provided you with your next assignment or payment. The man was perhaps even more cold blooded than you. And that’s saying something. Nevertheless, he would never get his own hands dirty. 

Your nostrils flared, having had enough of his stalling. 

“Out with it, what is it?” You demanded.

Your employer glanced around before his gaze fixed on an old desk next to a broken window that had been boarded up. He kicked back a broken chair laying askew on the wood-rotten floor. He always preferred to meet in inconspicuous places. And if you might add, downright shitholes. 

He sighed as he cautiously leaned back against the desk, looking back over his shoulder to make sure it would support his weight. He definitely wasn’t overweight. But you were certain that even the weight of a feather could make the desk collapse in on itself. Surprisingly, the desk remained standing after it gave a slight squeaky noise. 

“I need it done within 48 hours.”

You couldn’t stop the bark of a laugh from escaping. The man had gone officially bloody nuts. Who the hell did he think he was? The king of England? In all honesty, he might actually wield more power than the king himself. But all of that was beside the point. 

“48 hours,” you snickered, shaking your head at his ridicule. 

“I know, I know,” he amended. “But I wouldn’t ask this of you if the situation hadn’t been this dire.” 

“Dire or not, the man is currently number one trending on social media. He’s a beloved politician, likely preparing his campaign to become mayor of one of the biggest cities in the world. And you think I can make him disappear without a trace within 48 hours?”

“Yes,” your employer replied. 

If the man and his ideas weren’t as delusional as the present situation would suggest, you would actually take quite a bit of pride in that simple statement. 

“It’s not simply a matter of the public eye. He must have well established security. I need time to figure those details out as well as his schedule.” 

You took a few steps closer, stopping a couple of feet away from your employer. 

“I can get it done, but I need time.”

“I don’t have time,” he all but shouted at you as he got up angrily, his attitude changing rapidly. The man was known for his temper, but you hadn’t witnessed it yourself yet. His control was really severely lacking today. 

“Which means you don’t have time,” he growled. 

The space between you reduced to mere inches but you held your ground. You weren’t afraid of some rich businessman who wasn’t used to being told no. 

You chuckled softly, making his eyes narrow to mere slits. 

“See, the funny thing is. I don’t need to do a thing. I don’t have to accept your ridiculous job offer.” 

A smirk grew on his face and he retreated a few steps. “Oh? But you haven’t heard the full offer yet.” 

Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes. Truly, who the hell did he think he was, playing with you like this? You briefly contemplated killing him on the spot, but really you couldn’t be bothered. 

“I am offering you three times your regular fee.”

Now this — this — made you stop right in your tracks. Yep, it was confirmed. The man was definitely delusional. 

It may have been a cheap trick. Typically the rich social elite — buying their way through life. But damned be all if it wasn’t effective. 

Your employer knew nothing about you, except how to contact you. To give you the time and place for your clandestine meetings. Which means he also didn’t know anything about your personal life and your financial situation. In your line of work, you liked to keep it that way.  

Truth is, you weren’t poor and you weren’t rich. But you needed the money your unorthodox job provided you with. It wasn’t about becoming rich yourself. It wasn’t about gaining status or anything like that. No, the money went straight to your sisters. 

You had two younger sisters who still lived with your mother, a raging and highly unstable alcoholic. You often debated whether to take full custody of your sisters and have them live with you, but you also knew your job came with certain risks and you didn’t want to jeopardise their safety. 

You tried to take as much care of them as you could from the sidelines. Especially since no one else fought for them. Definitely not your father because he had left years ago, claiming he could no longer cope with your mother’s issues. Hell, like you all could?

Your youngest sister, Sadie, had fallen ill two years ago. Mainstream medicine had failed her, so you were now paying for her exclusive medical trials. The good thing was, they were working. Your sister’s health was improving, but she was still nowhere near healthy and being fully cleared by the doctors. She probably never would be as she suffered a rare chronic disease. 

But she was going to school again now. A private school to be exact, same as your other sister, Zoe, who was currently acing her first year at the prestigious Darcy College. You were so proud of both of them, but with the medical bills and their education, you needed the money. 

Which is why your employer’s offer made both your skin crawl but also your heart clench. You needed it. Maybe just as much as he needed this Montrose guy killed. 

You glanced down at your left hand, your sisters’ initials that you had tattooed on your wrist serving as a powerful reminder of what you inevitably had to agree to. A possible suicide mission. Because how were you going to pull this high-profile kill off without being able to actually device a plan in advance? Without getting caught.

And yet you found yourself accepting his offer. 

“Okay.” 

Your employer didn’t look surprised, seemingly confident that money could indeed buy anything. Or anyone. He had been completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. Probably because of your very well practiced poker face that you never let slip. 

“I will do it,” you said. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“Like I said earlier, this is gonna cost you. Not just three, I want five times my regular fee. Take it or leave it.”

He seemed exceptionally pleased with himself as an unsettling smile creeped onto his face. 

“You have a deal.”

Fuck the rich, you thought as you bitterly shook his hand.

–––– 

A/N: sooo this is the first (kinda short, introductory) part of this Rhys x reader fic. The next parts will be longer, don’t worry! Although I’m very busy with work, I will try to stick to my regular posting schedule (Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays) as much as I can. Know that the next few parts have already been drafted and are almost ready to be published :) And boy, it’s going to be a ride. Thank you for reading!!!! 

[jmpeytiaotiao]

Magic Kingdom AU x FOTC

Demon King-Taika: Skilled in illusions and emotional manipulation, also possesses high combat power. King-Rhys : Ruler of the continent, with a mysterious spell to suppress the Demon King. Prince-Jemaine: Endless magical seed, carefree and loves to have fun.

The Demon King wishes to become the king. The King wishes the prince would grow up quickly. The prince wishes to always remain a prince. (I wrote this draft when Bret hadn’t appeared yet.I will add his daily interactions with Jem later and create a portrait of him.) ———————————————————————————————

Jemaine enjoys the carefree freedom of being a prince and finds the tasks assigned by Rhys rather perfunctory, showing no interest in ruling the continent.

For the management test, he uses magical seeds to grow knowledge apples and eats them directly to avoid reciting boring textbooks; for practical exercises, he grows legendary defensive equipment from the seeds, making it impossible for the country’s top warriors to harm him; for the diplomatic ball, he grows flowers that bring joy to everyone just by their scent and places them at the venue to create a harmonious atmosphere.

The King is quite displeased with his child's carefree attitude and often locks Prince Jem in a high tower to keep him away from the land and prevent him from sowing seeds. ____________________________________________________________

Fearing the King of Rhys's mysterious spell, the Demon King does not want to see his hard-earned dark magic go to waste and refuses to allow failure to happen to him. He decides to outsmart the situation, planning to disguise himself as a palace staff member to gather intelligence about the King’s schedule and preferences.

Prince Jem, due to his idleness and lack of focus, often chats with the palace staff and is very familiar with their personal details.

The Demon King, disguised as a knight, prepares to assassinate the King , but Prince Jem notices that the left-handed knight is using his right hand today, leading to the Demon King’s failure; the Demon King then disguises himself as a pastry chef and attempts to poison the dessert, but PrinceJem, who is skipping class, realizes that today’s orange cake actually tastes like oranges, resulting in another failure; the Demon King tries to sneak into the King of Rhys's bedroom disguised as a maid, only to be stopped by PrinceJem, who asks, “Hey... I remember you’re lesbian ... if not, how about we...？” leading to yet another failure for the Demon King... __________________________________________________________

At the end of the month, Rhys begins reviewing the staff's work reports. Upon seeing Prince Jem’s fifty-eight-page detailed account, he notices the hastily scribbled note at the end: “This month,Tai from the coastal wasteland visited the palace thirty-three times. The last time was in the armory, where we had a wonderful chat.” The King immediately becomes furious and summons the prince.

“Lord of the Six Lands, King Rhys Darby, present.” The King checks off a note in his gilded dark red sheepskin notebook with a feather pen. “Golden Seed Boy, Prince Jemaine？”

Prince Jemaine quietly counts the chocolate chips on his cookie.

“Prince Jemaine, are you there？ Jemaine!”

“Ah, present, present... seventeen chocolate chips.”

After marking a perfect check on his notebook, the King stands up and snatches the second cookie Jemaine was counting, solemnly announcing, “Very well, starting today, you need to submit a written application to eat cookies. If not approved, there will be no cookies.”

As Jemaine listens, he slips one hand into his pocket, fiddling with his magic seeds. The King, noticing this, wags his finger, saying：“Don’t even think about using your damned seeds; what you grow can’t possibly taste as good as what the chef makes. You specially grew some for me when you were young, remember? Jemaine, my boy, you need to become a king soon.”

“Uh, are you... very ill？”

“No, I—”

“Never mind, my seeds can’t produce healing potions. Why did you call me here? Is it about the concert？”

“There’s no concert and no performance! Don’t interrupt, Jemaine, that’s rude. About the project, let me see. Project one: clarify why the Demon King is appearing in my palace. This is a serious matter，” the King leans back in his chair.

“Uh, he just shows up, occasionally using magic to turn into your staff and hang around the palace, but he hasn’t done anything harmful. He’s just a handsome guy who easily experiences emotional ups and downs... His mood has improved recently; he’s probably gotten used to me discovering him, I guess.”Jem says.

Jemaine glances at the secretary next to the King, pauses, and continues, “A few days ago, he treated me to champagne and mentioned some management strategies after taking over territories. It sounds effective; he can create a lot of wealth, and he will help me organize a concert, oh, and he wants to hold a nudity festival across the entire continent every year... Hehe.”

“A nudity festival? Bad idea. A concert isn’t a good idea either. No concert, I’ll say it again, at least not recently. Finding a venue and audience isn’t easy; I’ve tried many times, so there’s no concert.”

The King slightly turns to inform the secretary, “Notify everyone that tomorrow there will be a brainstorming session about the, um, candid festival.”

After finishing, the King quickly writes down a couple of paragraphs in his notebook. Jemaine leans over the armrest of the chair, trying to see what the King is noting about the candid festival.

Seeing this, the King cautiously uses his elaborate shirt cuffs to block the notebook and glares at Jemaine, “This is the King’s secret notebook; you can only see it once you become a king. Have you decided to become a king?”

“No. I just want to be a prince,” Jemaine replies promptly.

“Then don’t be curious. Now, back to project one, about the Demon King’s disguise; you mean he’s everywhere? Ridiculous. As long as he enters my territory, I’ll be able to detect him. I have the eyes of an eagle, just like I can recognize the sparrow outside isn’t the same one from yesterday. Just like I know you stayed up late talking to yourself again last night.”

“Alright, bird-watching master. Can I leave now? Also, the coastal wasteland where the Demon King is currently living is terrible; it’s worse than my confinement room, even though I have to sleep standing up,” Jemaine shrugs and continues, “The Demon King just wants to rule the continent; it’s nothing serious.”

Before he finishes, the secretary coughs to hide his amusement, and the King nearly jumps out of his seat.

“Get out! You little traitor.”

“OKAY, we are cool.” Jemaine stands up.

“And secretary, if you’re feeling unwell with a cold, take the day off; your eyebrows look like they’re broken. Now everyone go outside.” The King crosses his arms on the table to pin down the notebook, “The King needs to look at tax reports, not plan for the candid festival performance. Everyone out.” _____________________________________________________________

Jemaine and the secretary adjust their expressions and leave the King’s office together. Just before fully closing the door, the King says, “Jemaine, remember, the spell that guarantees the Demon King’s defeat is known only to me. If you’re in danger, I’ll find you immediately.”

The King tells the prince in a rarely low voice. _____________________________________________________________

The sea breeze drifts toward the tower covered in vines, landing in a nearby garden filled with butterflies but absolutely no spiders. Counting the seeds in his palm, Prince Jemaine stands behind the secretary, who is swallowing orange-flavored herbal wine.

“What are you planning to grow with the seeds today?”

“I haven’t decided yet; maybe cookies. I only grew seventeen chocolate chips in yesterday’s cookie, and I want a bit more chocolate.”

“Why not grow chocolate-flavored cookie bars directly?”

“Seems like a good idea, which is why I think it’d be much more fun if you were king. But convincing Rhys... he’s a stubborn person.”

“Hey, my little prince, you’re already doing well enough. Let’s go find some vampires to play with tonight, just like I promised you.” __________________________________________________________

P.S.: Just a brain dump, the beginning of the story. The Demon King’s role is still uncertain; the official version will be added later. (Jem is depicted as a slimmer version of himself in his youth, earlier than FOTC, capturing a sort of trial filming vibe. Rhys is similar to a blend of Murray . Taika resembles the image from FOTC’s manager, Larry.）

（All These texts were translated into English using AI, so there may be some translation issues. Please forgive any mistakes.）

[adelainejdevyn]

What are you reading, Nes?

Beware of the spice in this one🌶

The wooden door of the shack burst open and fell off its hinges. The footsteps echoed across the walls of the old house as a figure stepped inside. The golden light from the lanterns on the street illuminated his body, but left his face in utter darkness. His broad shoulders filled the space, and beyond them Persephone caught a glimpse of his white feathered wings. 

Nesta bit her lip as she read the lines in her newest book titled; Union of Souls. A striking story about a Death God falling in love with a mortal girl and making her his wife and Queen.

She let the book fall on her chest, barely covered by her thin nightgown as she turned her head to look at her own husband; her mate; her Lord of Bloodshed. 

Cassian’s dark hair was gathered in a messy bun, his hazel eyes narrowed behind his wired silver glasses she hadn’t known he needed, while he read a stack of reports in their bed. Nesta’s eyes trailed his nude body, tanned and covered in scars, his giant wings gleaming ebony in the soft firelight of their bedroom. 

She watched as a smile slowly appeared on his face, “What are you reading, Nes?”

Nesta felt herself blush, as she gently set her volume on the nightstand and turned fully to face Cassian. She rested a gentle hand on his stomach.

“Just a romance book,” she said, “for our Valkyrie book club. Gwyn recommended it, actually. She and Azriel have been acting out naughty scenes from the book apparently, it’s the reason they randomly disappear from training.”

Cassian let out a soft laugh as Nesta’s hand trailed lower on his body, he was utterly naked beneath the sheets covering them. Nesta sighed softly as she wrapped her hand around his length; hard and massive, his desire driving her own.

He looked over at her, his eyes traveling from her heated cheeks to the rise and fall of her breasts, his gaze darkening with desire as she pumped him.

“Gods.” he whispered, the reports falling from his fingers as he shot out a hand that encircled hers, not pulling her away but rather guiding their hands together over his hardness, “Gods bless the author of those naughty books you read. They make my life so much more interesting.”

Nesta let out a seductive laugh and licked her lip as she watched his warrior body writhe on their bed, the sheets sliding down his powerful thighs, his cock glistening where their entwined hands touched it.

“Nes.” he rasped as his hands reached for her. Cassian pushed her onto her back, his hands warm and familiar on her body as they trailed from her shoulders down her collarbones and the curves of her breasts. She moaned, her back arching.

“Please,” she begged him, “please, Cassian. It has been so long.”

And it had been. He had left for the Illyrian Mountains after a disruptive meeting in Rhys’ house, and she had been too busy with her Valkyrie training to join him. She had missed him so much. 

“Oh,” she gasped as he guided himself inside of her, she was wet and warm, ready for him. “Cassian, please.”

Nesta always had been wild, where Cassian was concerned, but the combination of the bond between them and his absence drove her even wilder with desire.

Cassian gathered her wrists in his hand above her head and he drove into her. The headboard crashed against the wall with every thrust, but Nesta could not find it in herself to care. 

“That’s it, Nes.” Cassian gasped, “Be a good girl and open those legs for me.”

She blushed at his words, but she was a good girl and did as he commanded. Cassian leaned down and took her mouth in his. Their kiss was so searing and so loving that it made Nesta clench around him as she came. Her back arched off the bed even with her hands restrained in his grip. 

Cassian lost no time in guiding her onto her stomach. Before she was able to catch her breath, she felt his enormous body and his powerful wings on top of her. He gently moved her long hair to one side, and leaned down to kiss her spine as he entered her again.

Nesta let out a cry, more sensitive after her first orgasm. But Cassian's panting in her ear was a familiar melody that she cherished, so she found herself grinding against him, moving against him, even if she was restrained beneath his huge body.

Cassian’s grip on her hair tightened momentarily, and she heard him groan as he spilled inside of her. Nesta let out a satisfied sigh at the familiar feeling of his coming inside her body.

Cassian fell onto the bed next to her, and Nesta was able to turn her head to look at him. His glasses had been knocked askew on his face. His cheeks were heated and his lips swollen from their kissing.

“I love you.” She said. 

Cassian pulled her against him, she laid her head on his chest while he placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

“I love you, sweetheart.” Cassian murmured.

Author’s note: 

Curious to see what Nesta had been reading? Check out my Wattpad page!

[the-lonelybarricade]

What are 1, 2, 4, 5, and 8 from on your top 10 MB moments?

LOL, my top @separatist-apologist moments revisted WITH SOURCES

Ferye stabbing Rhys in the hand, Chapter 1 of The Great War

“I’ll trade you, darling. I’ll answer any question you have if you give me the knife in your hand.”

Feyre hesitated. “Do you swear?”

Rhysand nodded, that lock of dark hair falling against his forehead again. Pressing a golden hand to his heart, he said, “I swear it.”

Quick as a viper, Feyre lunged. Rhysand shouted, unprepared to have the blade of her knife buried in the back of his hand. She’d stabbed with all her pent up fury, all but pinning him to the table by the point of the serrated blade. 

His face was altogether too close when she turned to look at him, those violet eyes blazing with some unreadable emotion. “You never said how I had to return it.”

2. Mr. Fox revealing himself at the altar, Chapter 2 of They Say I Did Something Bad

“Relax,” an all too familiar voice murmured, lips touching hers. She knew that mouth. Elain’s eyes flew open, horror curling through her stomach at the sight of amused russet eyes looking back. He pressed an utterly chaste kiss against her mouth, the sort that would be expected to cement a wedding. 

Elain could barely think as she looked upon his unmasked face. Had he known, she wondered. Panic thundered through her as she drank in his features. His red hair was tied off his face though all she could see in her mind was how it had tumbled over his broad shoulders, obscuring his face from view when he’d settled between her legs. A long scar cut over one of his eyes, hidden the night before in his orange, fox shaped mask. She’d been right to think him handsome—in the daylight and unobscured, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. 

Applause drew Elain back to reality. Lord Vanserra was smiling at her, his amusement practically feline. Brushing his knuckles over her cheek, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking about you, little rose.” She was going to be sick. “You–”

“Smile,” he interrupted, sliding a gloved hand into hers. “Everyone is watching.”

3. Henrietta. Take your pick, but her most recent appearance was in Chapter 1 of Wishing On Dandelions

Lucien could now join her outdoors if he wanted—and he often did, if only to annoy her. Henrietta didn’t like him. Perhaps she remembered how he’d dumped her out here to fend for herself. Maybe he just radiated something the chicken didn’t like. Whatever it was, Henrietta’s feathers would ruffle, flapping as she chased after him and nipping at his ankles until he was far from Elain. Only then would Henrietta waddle back, preening and waiting for Elain to stroke her feathers. 

“She’s a menace!” Lucien snarled one day, watching Elain from the patio, arms crossed over his chest. 

“She’s a gift,” Elain replied, throwing his own words right back into his face.

4. Helion telling the priest Lucien is celibate, Chapter 2 of Slow Daning In A Burning Room

“Nervous?” the bishop, in his arched white hat and flowing robes, cut the most absurd figure in the bright, unseasonably warm day. “It’s not unusual for grooms to be nervous on their wedding day.” “Anxious,” Helion replied in a dead pan while the bishop unlocked the church doors to allow them inside. “He has been waiting for marriage and his wedding night has left him with jitters.”

Lucien choked on the air he breathed. The bishop, too, glanced over at Lucien with a strange frown.

“Well…that is less common but the Lord commands it.”

“He is quite pious and we are very proud of him,” Helion continued, putting a hand on his sons shoulders. 

5. Nudist Rhys begging on his knees, I'll Bet You Think About Me

“Touch yourself,” he rasped. “Show me how you like to be touched.”

“Thinking about touching me?” she tried to tease, though her fingers brushed her swollen clit all the same.

Rhy’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “Open the door, Ferye. Let me show you.”

She was tempted. So tempted her arm jerked without her consent, her body desperate to know what it would feel like to have his big, broad hands on her. 

Feyre dipped two fingers into her body, her stomach flipping when Rhys practically whined at the sight. Coating herself in her slick arousal, she trailed upwards, leaving a glistening path over her stomach as she toyed with her breasts. 

Rhys looked like he was seconds from falling to his knees, to begging and pleading to be let in. 

6. No pants can contain Lucien, Chapter 1 of Wonderland

“Would you put on pants?”

He scoffed. “Pants?”

“Yes,” she murmured, as if he hadn’t seen her staring at his cock. Did she not like it? Lucien frowned.

“Why pants?”

“Um…it’s just…” more red on her pretty, tanned face. “You’re naked.”

“Yes,” he agreed again. 

“The men where I come from wear pants. And a shirt,” she amended hastily. 

“When I shift, my clothes will shred,” he explained with amusement. “There are not enough pants in the world to keep me clothed.”

7. Rhys wanting to get tacos after helping Feyre murder someone, from the very sexy Is There A Word For Bad Miracle?

Rhys. 

Her accomplice. 

“My name is Feyre.”

He nodded. “C’mon. Let’s get some soft tacos. We’ll need an alibi, right? On me.”

Feyre could only nod. “Right.”

Rhys opened her passenger door with a flourish, hand outstretched for her keys. Feyre handed them wordlessly while Rhys jogged around the back of her little coup, slamming the trunk shut. This was where he’d threaten her, she thought with dread. Blackmail—she’d be trapped with another psycho instead of being free.

“So,” he said, circling away from the docks easily. He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the center console. “Are you thinking soft tacos, or—”

8. Bodyguard Lucien calling Elain "Baby" from Chapter 1 of Treacherous

“You need to run,” Lucien told her, looking at the same thing. His hair had come loose from his pony tail, falling in a tangled mass around his face and shoulders.

“You’ll die if I leave you,” she replied, her panic threatening to overwhelm her. “Just stand up—”

“Baby,” he murmured, grabbing her face. “Look at me. You need to run.”

9. Dark Gods Lucien saying "this is hell" from Chapter 2 of I Am Not A Woman I'm A God

“I’m going to fuck every inch of you,” Lucien gasped, his hair creating a curtain between them. “Every inch of skin, every hole.”

She keened, hooking her leg against his ass, dragging him closer the heel of her foot.

“This is hell,” he swore, his clever fingers drawing her higher. She ignored what he said, ignored what he might mean until he reached for her hand. Elain clasped, gasping at the cool metal now pressed against her skin.

10. Feyre and Rhys late to their own wedding from Chapter 2 of Red Earth and Pouring Rain

“Now who is needy?” she whispered when a soft whimper escaped him. Rhys buried his face against the crook of her neck, stroking long and slow. Feyre couldn’t breathe. Pulling his shirt up just enough to dig her nails down his muscled back, Feyre breathed him in, trying to slow the building orgasm pooling in her gut. Feyre had forgotten they were supposed to be getting married right until Rhys, wild and undone in a way she’d never witnessed before, grunted, “We’re going tae be late.”

BOTH bonuses are from They Say I Did Something Bad

Rhys killing Tamlin as a form of proposal - (This was added because I won a bet):

 Lightning cracked over the sky, illuminating the pair as Rhysand’s voice floated towards Lucien, darker than night itself.

“Feyre, darling,” his voice broke, splintering like the lightning around them. Tamlin knelt between the pair, Rhys fistling his hair. “Tell me to kill him.”

Elain admiring her husband's flaccid penis becuase she so rarely sees it that way:

He was half hard, which seemed to be his constant state of being unless he was in deep, troubled sleep. Elain had pulled the blanket back once to look at him, pleased by how soft he’d been. He was so normal that way, as if he had thought that did not revolve around her or being inside her.

Not now. Lucien was watching her study him, halting so he had all his weight on one leg, his cock swinging absurdly between his thighs.

“Stop that,” she complained. “Or I shall get nothing done.”

[jillianglenn]

Sundergarments and Shapewear Solutions.

Summer unders. I cannot overstate the value of a well-placed nipple cover or being able to sit (or stand) comfortably at a hot and humid wedding ceremony without sweat dripping in awkward crevices like your inner thigh. There are indeed quite simple and available solutions to ensure you feel perfect in your killer new dress.

This topic has been covered, to say the least, but I'm looking at it from our post-covid lens (you know the one where we actually just want to be comfortable.) The idea is less about squeezing in to an uncomfortable gown that is too small to begin with, that you didn't get altered (more on that next week), and not eating a single morsel for the entire evening just for the sake of pulling off a 12th century badge of suffocating your organs... 

but rather... 

pulling on a soft cooling pair of boy shorts under your skirt so you can sit comfortably without your legs sweating and having to peel yourself away from the chair. Even better - get this: the evolution of undergarments and shapewear is such that some of these particulars you can just wear around the house and fall asleep in. Yep. They are, like, comfortable and soft. 

After we finished all the design adjustments for our Emerson Jumpsuit - and there were many - we were suddenly intrigued by the versatility of the garment. You could dress this puppy way up or just normal spectactular, and you could wear it all day and into the night. There was something familiar about the one-piece jumpsuit fit and then I realized when I was packing my daughter's swim bag, the familiarity was from childhood when we just threw on our overalls or one piece terry jumpers. Aha moment!

So that all being said, when we design our collections, we take into account whether we would wear the pieces ourselves - two active, professional women with careers and mothers to a collective four kids. Some items are more forgiving than others, but strap and zipper placement, ease through the legs and loose jackets are all part of the mix.

Back to the aha moment, there is huge potential to increase the wearability of your closet just by wearing the right items underneath. Some benefits are obvious: compression and smoothing of your body under your clothes, slimming your figure and reducing wrinkles and folds in your ensemble. Less obvious might be how under-attire protects your prize wardrobe piece from the oils, lotions and perspiration of your skin. As it's the death valley of summer heat while I write this, i'm thinking primarily of dripping sweat and sticky skin mitigation, but I wore a super soft bodysuit in various styles from Everlane during a busy winter travel schedule to the Northeast and it was game-changing. 

Bottom line: there are many winner brands and undergarments in our research. The best, however, are the garments that fit YOUR body best. Try them all. Don't force yourself into something that is too small. Buy several styles in both light and dark colors. 

Specifics that we love & what to wear them with:

Honeylove "Super Powershort." $89

True shapewear but just the right amount of compression and ease with movement. Our more petite models raved about this fit. Pairs well with all dresses and skirts.

Commando "Classic Control High-Waisted Short." $72

Light compression, and we love the range of neutral colors. The raw edge hems are right up our style alley and these shorts stay put. Pairs well with all dresses and skirts.

Commando "Ballet One-Shoulder Bodysuit." $108

Light like a feather, slim and stretchy, not controlling. Great with the Burke Dress, Rhys Tank and Knox Tunic.

Thigh Society "The Staple." $39

One product wonder here, but we wore these all day in our office with a tee. Less compression here, this is for comfort and coverage under really any piece, pants to skirts and dresses. Several lengths available. We tried the staple in several lengths, but more options abound. Side note: I even wore the black pair on a run! Pairs well with all dresses and skirts.

Skims "Fits Everybody One Shoulder Cut-Out Bodysuit." $62

Found this as we were looking for just the right item for our asymmetric Burke Dress and Rhys Tank. Real good. As is the Seamless Sculpt Bandeau. And the Cotton Rib Onesie. No secret Skims is having a moment - yay - but drawback is many items sold out and colors are limited. Pairs well with the asym garments like the Burke Dress, Rhys Tank and Knox Tunic.

Everlane "Cutaway Tank Bodysuit." $40

Supima Cotton, sustainably sourced, soft. So versatile - under a blazer, under anything, visible or not, highly recommend, just wish they had more colors. Available in both bikini and thong. This is a favorite for sure and the item I wore all winter under ever darn thing. Pairs well with suiting sets under the Hollis Blazer with Sloane Pant, Livvy Pant. 

Lululemon Ribbed Nulu Asymmetrical Yoga Bra. $58

Smaller chested winner! Sizing is confusing with this item, helps to start with measuring your band size just below your breasts. Pairs well with the asym garments like the Burke Dress, Rhys Tank and Knox Tunic.

Emily Marie Apparel Power Bra. $28

One-shoulder with removeable pads. We love the inclusive intention behind this brand and this bra works perfect with our asymmetric pieces. Comfy AF! Pairs well with the asym garments like the Burke Dress, Rhys Tank and Knox Tunic.