skye

[luxsky]

“The world,” Aelin said, “will be saved and remade by dreamers.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𖥻 ᭣ hey there! it's brie

ㅤㅤㅤ⚘݄.˚ㅤㅤravenclaw. infj. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤeighteen. cabin 6. ִֶ ☄︎ ࣪

˖ ࣪ ⭒ my requests are currently open. ♡

˖ ࣪ ⭒ my works. about me. about my tumblr.

˖ ࣪ ⭒ do not publish, translate or place my work on another platform without my permission!

[se7entyrell]

gold rush - part 0.5

(dean di laurentis x reader)

A quiet classics major and the most popular hockey player on campus. Told in various parts, both social media and full fic form. Thank you to @theskytraveler for suggesting them both initially in THIS moodboard :)

the profiles

(reader will have various faceclaims of different skin tones and hair types across the fic, and is not described physically in the written aspects)

part 0.5.

add yourself to the taglist for this fic HERE!

next instalment will be a proper one-shot :)

[korn-dawg]

wife!walsh who finds every excuse to have her fingers on your pulse. instead of holding your hand while you’re walking in public, she finds her fingers wrapped around your wrist, two held over your radial pulsation point. when you’re cuddling in bed, her chest is pressed against your back, palm feeling the rhythm of your apical artery pumping.

when you’re making out in the parking lot of PTMC after bringing her coffee halfway through the day, she finds your carotid point and teases you about how fast your heart is going. when she’s prone on the mattress eating you out, her arms wrap around your thighs, middle and ring finger that were just curling against your g-spot minutes ago searching for that heartbeat on your femoral pulse.

of course, whenever you bring it up, she denies it. that’s such a strange habit to have, why would she do that? in reality, though, it grounds her. gives her something to focus on. feeling each beat of blood against the walls of your arteries brings her a certain calm she’d rather not admit out loud.

[mrsmckay]

Hospital Fake-Out (SMAU)

summary: you text your partner that you’re going to the hospital as a joke to see how they’ll react

including: cassie mckay, baran al-hashimi, trinity santos, parker ellis, yolanda garcia, dana evans, jack abbot, frank langdon

a/n: on the poll i did for what smau prompt to do next, this one came in second. i didn’t end up doing the spicy pic one because i came across a couple on my feed that i feel like would be very close to what i would do and i don’t want it do seem like i’m copying other people’s work! here are some that other creators made — #1 #2 #3

[luxsky]

guys how descriptive can an x reader be without becoming an oc? because I have an idea for a reader x rhysand modern au with some social media au bits, and besides the issue of choosing a faceclaim for the social media chapters, I had also built the idea around the concept of the character being an exchange student and being latina (possibly btazilian), but I don't know if that would be too specific to the point of going from reader to oc, so please tell me your opinion

[azrielstherapist]

𝐍𝐨 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮

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

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

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

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

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

Inspired by: "A Girl Like You" by Edwyn Collins Pairing: Rhysand x Y/N

Note: I was listening to this song and I was inspired, so why not. I still don't understand how Tumblr works, so work in progress I guess. This is a draft of the first chapter, Rhysand is introduced in the second chapter, if you guys like it. I'll publish it! Dividers by @aquazero

The wind that rolled down from the Sidra had a bite to it that morning. Not cruel, not winter’s wrath — but sharp enough to slip beneath cloaks and find skin. The kind of wind that reminded you the world moved on, with or without you. The kind that asked whether you’d move with it.

I walked with my hood up and my hands tucked into the sleeves of my coat, eyes on the slick stones of the narrow alleyways that cradled my little shop like a secret. People passed me by with baskets of bread and paper-wrapped flowers. Some nodded, most didn’t. That suited me just fine.

The apothecary sat where it always had, halfway between the river and the square, tucked into a weathered stone building that leaned like it was tired. A faded wooden sign above the door read “The Apothecary” — how original — , but most people just called it the shop with the blue door.

I liked it that way.

The bell above the door gave a single, soft chime when I pushed it open. That sound was mine — I’d chosen it, tuned it, hung it with trembling fingers years ago. Not just to hear when someone entered. But to remind me that this space was real. That I existed, here.

Inside, the warmth was waiting. Not from a fire — I hadn’t lit one yet — but from the walls themselves, from the worn wood shelves and their neat rows of amber bottles, herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, soft powders and dried petals in glass. The scent of bergamot, ash bark, and clove curled in the air like memory.

My fingers moved automatically — unlocking the storeroom, checking the fresh jars from the night before, brushing dust from the counter. It was still early. Velaris hadn’t woken fully yet. That was the way I preferred it: the hush before sound, the stillness before demands.

The city was beautiful, a dream for poets, all marble and starlight, but I had no interest in its art galleries or its floating lanterns — not anymore at least — . Beauty like that had always seemed a little cruel to me. Too fragile. Too easy to break.

I liked the ugly things. Bitter roots. Cracked vials. The stubborn fight of plants that grow in poor soil.

By the second hour, the shop was humming in the soft way it always did. The bell rang, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was Aeluin.

He came every week — a retired cloth-dyer who still carried the scent of ink and wool on his hands.

“Morning, girl,” he said, with a nod and a wheeze. “Same as usual.”

“You sleeping?” I asked, already reaching for the tin with the lavender blend I made just for him. “Or just pretending you are?”

Aeluin gave a dry laugh. “If I was sleeping proper, I wouldn’t be here beggin’ for leaves.”

“You’re not begging. You’re paying,” I said, and wrapped the tin with a strip of linen. “This time, don’t steep it more than five minutes. You overbrew it again, it won’t knock out a field mouse.”

He left a few coppers on the counter — more than I charged — and didn’t wait for change. He never did.

“You should come by the square,” he said before the door closed behind him. “They’ve set up a market for the solstice. Music, food, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t do crowds.”

He gave me a look. Not pity, not judgment. Just… recognition. Then he nodded once and left.

Alone again.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The second bell of the morning came with the scent of wet stone and steel. An Illyrian — tall, broad-shouldered, wings tucked neatly beneath his cloak. Draxen, I remembered. We’d only spoken a few times before.

"You’re up early," he said, pulling his hood back and ruffling damp hair.

I gave a small nod, already reaching for the tincture I guessed he’d come for — something for sore muscles or a bruised rib. "Trouble flying?"

"Trouble sparring," he replied with a grin, eyeing the shelf like he was looking for something else entirely. “Your stuff works better than whatever my partner stashes in his desk.”

“You’re still using it wrong.”

Draxen gave a mock-wounded look. “Can’t I just appreciate your brewing skills without the lecture?”

I let the faintest smile curl the corner of my mouth. “That would be new.”

He leaned against the counter, casual, like someone who didn’t quite know what to do with stillness. “You always this cheery in the morning?”

“You always this nosy for no reason?”

He barked a laugh, genuinely amused. I handed him the small dark-glass bottle, carefully labeled.

"Thanks," he said, slipping it into his jacket. But instead of leaving, he looked around — really looked. At the half-lit corners, the shelves, the care in every label and placement. His gaze was warm, but sharp. The kind that sees more than it should. “You ever think of moving closer to the city center? You’d have more customers.”

I arched a brow. “You want more people to know where I live?”

“Fair enough,” he said, that smirk of his deepening with approval. “Still. You’ve got a talent.”

“I’ve got quiet. That’s enough.”

He lingered, like he wanted to say more, but finally just gave a nod and turned toward the door. The bell jingled behind him, the wind tugging at his cloak as he vanished into the street.

The shop was quite again.

I leaned against the counter and listened to the silence. Not empty, not lonely. Just quiet. And in that quiet, I breathed.

This was my space. My rhythm. My peace.

So when the bell chimed again — softer this time, like a fingertip on glass — I knew before I turned that something was different.

She stepped inside, cloak damp at the edges, the color of the deepest red — a shade that would’ve blended into shadows if not for the sheen of rain on the velvet. Her hair, golden and impossibly bright, fell in a braid over one shoulder, and her expression was open in that diplomatic sort of way — welcoming, unreadable, disarming.

She seems like someone used to being watched.

Not in a vain way — not the kind that demanded attention — but the way people moved when they were accustomed to it. Like she was always bracing for something. Praise or attack, I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t need more than a second to place her. I saw her in the city, everyone knows her.

The Morrigan.

A member of the Night Court.

he High Lord’s third in command.

She didn’t introduce herself, but I didn’t expect her to. Instead, she stepped forward and said, “I was passing by,” voice warm but measured, “and your shop looked… inviting.”

My hands didn’t still over the bundles I was sorting. “It’s open.”

Her eyes moved over the room with genuine interest, not feigned for politeness. “What do you prepare here? Herbs? Brews? Tinctures?”

“All of the above,” I said. “Oils, powders, teas. Salves. Tonics for the body. Others for the mind.”

She nodded, stepping closer — not into my space, but toward a low shelf lined with small dark vials, all unlabeled.

“You work alone?”

I gave her a look. She didn’t press.

After a quiet moment, she turned back to me. “Do you make truth serums?”

The question was clear, but her tone was carefully neutral — too practiced to be idle curiosity. She didn’t say who they wanted the truth from, or why.

“Yes.”

“Subtle ones?”

“Yes.”

Something flickered behind her gaze. Not surprise, but something adjacent. Approval, maybe.

“I need one that doesn’t taste like anything,” she said. “One that doesn’t slow the tongue or dull the mind. One that won’t be noticed until it’s too late.”

I tied off the sprig of dried anise root I was wrapping and finally met her eyes. “How long do you want it to last?”

“A few minutes. Long enough for answers.”

I nodded once, then turned to the back shelves without another word. I didn’t ask who it was for. I didn’t ask why. She didn’t offer.

And that, oddly, felt like an understanding.

I took down two jars — one filled with crushed veritas blossoms, another with pale green thistle seeds. From a third tin, I pulled a small folded parchment containing a fine white powder that shimmered faintly in the light.

I began measuring in silence.

Behind me, the woman wandered, careful not to touch anything. Her gaze moved to the bone charm hanging above the archway — one of the old ones. A ward against liars. She didn’t comment on it.

When I turned back, she was already watching me.

“This won’t compel truth,” I said. “It’ll only lower the resistance to speaking it. The mind will want to keep secrets, but the tongue won’t quite cooperate.”

“That’s all we need.”

I folded the blend into a black wax paper and tied it with string. No label. No instructions. If she needed this, she’d know how to use it.

“Four silvers,” I said.

She paid in silence. Then, without reaching for the bundle yet, she studied me a moment longer. Not rudely. Not with suspicion. Just with… interest.

“Most apothecaries wouldn’t hand this over without a dozen questions.”

“Then most apothecaries waste breath.”

That made her smile — small, almost private.

“I’m Morrigan,” she offered then, with a slight bow of her head.

“I know.”

She paused — not offended, just curious. “And you are?”

“Y/N”

A flicker of recognition, maybe in the name. Maybe not. But she said nothing else. Just tucked the packet into her cloak, nodded once, and turned for the door.

“It suits you.”, then she vanished.

I didn’t answer.

The bell chimed as she left, and the silence folded around me again — but not quite the same silence as before.

Something had shifted.

[surielstea]

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me—attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 11)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: Mentions of barfing.

Word Count: 3989

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

Notes: Sorry I haven't put anything out in a while, I've been mad sick.

_________________________________________

“I still think this is a bad idea,” you whisper-yell as you and your two roommates sneak across the lawn. There’s no need to sneak, really. The Hockey House is packed to the brim with people, some even spilling onto the front lawn of the two-story home. You’re pretty sure they wouldn’t even notice if you walked right through the door and up the stairs to begin your search for their precious trophy. 

Mor and Gwyn halt where they’re pressed against the side of the house to stare at you. You all are dressed in black from head-to-toe, which, in your opinion at least, makes you stand out even more from the plethora of people inside.

“Where’s this sudden conscious coming from?” Gwyn asks. She’s right, even she’s here, though this entire scheme was her idea in the first place. For some reason, she hates everything and anything that has to do with the word hockey, and yet, here she is.

To steal a trophy, your mind supplies. It’s not like she’s here to party.

“Yeah,” Mor tacks on, and it’s difficult not to duck out from under her scrutinizing gaze. “My cousin’s in there and you don’t see me complaining.”

Funny she mentions that, because that’s the exact thing you’re worried about. Running into Rhysand.

“Nothing,” you stammer, trying to console your roommate. “It’s just…we should be cutting Gwyn’s cake right now, not pulling some prank like high schoolers.” At first, the idea of pulling a prank on the hockey team seemed like fun. Now that you’re here and the buzz of the wine you drank has wavered, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. Those hockey boys take their superstitions seriously, you can’t imagine how they’d feel about a trophy disappearing.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you don’t take it out for fear that it might be Rhysand. You can barely believe he called you, flirted with you while his cousin was one room over. He knows that nothing can happen between either of you, it would only spell disaster. Mor would have an aneurism, at the very least.

“Stealing this will taste so much sweeter than cake!” Gwyn insists. She wobbles on her feet and catches herself against the side of the house, waving Mor off when she reaches out a hand to steady the redhead. Gwyn blinks her big cerulean eyes at you in her infamous innocent look. “This is what I want for my birthday, but I won’t force you to join us. We’ll go inside, steal the trophy from right under their noses, and meet you back at the apartment, if you want.”

“No,” you shake your head. Maybe this will be fun. Maybe you can do this for Gwyn and return the trophy before the boy’s notice. Maybe they won’t even notice at all. Yeah, right. “we’ll find it faster if there’s three of us. I’m in.”

Gwyn beams and throws herself into your arms. You stumble, unprepared, but manage to keep the both of you upright with a startled laugh. Mor quickly joins the hug and it takes five minutes for the three of you to stop giggling and get your heads straight.

“Right, so where do we think they’d hide it?” Gwyn asks as the three of you huddle together to form a plan. When you left your apartment, the only idea in motion had been to walk into the house and steal the trophy. You have a feeling it’s going to be a little trickier than that.

You and Gwyn look to Mor who makes a face. “What the hell are you looking at me for? How would I know where it is?”

“He’s your cousin,” you supply and Gwyn nods vehemently.

Mor scoffs. “And? That doesn’t mean I’d know exactly where they’re hiding a giant trophy! I’ve been here the same number of times as you!” She points in your direction. “Do you remember seeing it around?”

You think for a moment. No, you don’t remember seeing at the last party you were here for, but you don’t think you’d miss a giant, gleaming trophy, even if you were distracted by Rhys. “No,” you mutter quietly.

Mor crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin haughtily. “Exactly.”

“So, we sneak inside and split up and hopes one of us finds it?” Gwyn asks. She’s not giving up on this easily, that’s for sure. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so hungry for revenge. Maybe if you knew exactly why she disliked the hockey team so much, it’d help psych you up.

“No, we need a better plan than that.” You offer a silent apology. “Who’s the most superstitious?”

“What?”

“Well, if we decide who’s the most superstitious of the group, maybe we can narrow down where the trophy might be,” you explain. “Like, if Rhys is the most superstitious, do you think he would hide it under the kitchen sink or something?”

Mor’s brows furrow as she thinks. Nearby, a boy shouts drunkenly across the lawn. You can’t make out what he says with the way his words slur, but the three of you huddle closer to the house, nonetheless.

“Azriel or Rhys,” Mor decides. “Cassian wouldn’t care about some trophy. He’d mix drinks in it. Which leaves us with Azriel or Rhys.”

And well, that narrows things down a little.

“Where would they hide a trophy like that?” Gwyn asks.

You and Mor exchange a knowing look. “Their room.”

The three of you decide that after you sneak upstairs, Gwyn will keep watch, Mor will snoop through Azriel’s room, and you’ll try and find the trophy in Rhys’ room.

“Why do I have to look in Rhys’ room?” You all but complain. You didn’t like this idea before, but you sure as hell don’t like it now. Snooping through someone’s personal things is so wrong, and the fact that you’re going to be digging around in Rhys’ things, the boy who stirs reluctant feelings in your stomach, your tutor, doesn’t sit well with you.

“Because I can’t look through his things!” Mor protests, then shudders. “What if I find something that changes my perspective on my cousin forever? I spend too many family holidays with him, it’ll be too difficult to avoid eye-contact with him if I saw something weird.”

And yeah, that’s a good point. Maybe for more reasons than one. If you find something that puts you off from Rhysand, it won’t be such a struggle to stay keep away from him like you’re supposed to be doing. Being his tutee will be much easier if every time you see him, you’re thinking about a stiff sock under his bed or a Playboy beneath his mattress.

“Okay,” you nod. “Let’s go.”

Gwyn puts her hand out and looks between you and Mor eagerly. “C’mon. We need a chant.”

You don’t, you really don’t, but you divulge her, anyway. You place your hand on top of hers, and Mor rests hers on top, completing your best friend hand stack. Gwyn bounces her hand up and down. On the third bounce, when you all break and toss your hands in the air in triumph, she cheers, “These hockey boys don’t know what’s coming for them. Revenge is best served over ice!”

Revenge? Who on the hockey team is Gwyn beefing with that she wants to enact revenge on these boys?

Before you can ask, she slips around the side of the house into the darkness of night.

“Shit,” Mor curses, “Let’s go.”

There’s really no need for the three of you to be sneaking at all, but if this is what Gwyn wants for her birthday, then you will deliver.

College students are still elbowing their way inside of the house. The three of you slip into the crowd easily. It takes a few minutes of patience to get through the front door because people keep pausing to greet newcomers, but once inside, your all-black garb really does seem to help you blend in. The lights are dim in the house, and it’s all too easy to wind your way through the living room to make your way to the staircase, clutching tightly to your friends’ hands.

“Duck!” Gwyn yelps and tugs you lower. You don’t question her, ducking deeper into the crowd.

A behemoth of a boy ambles past, like a drunken bigfoot. You’d recognize those broad shoulders and loud voice anywhere. Cassian.

“Who’s up for a game of flip-cup?” He shouts directly over your heads. Thankfully, he’s too busy counting the number of hands that shoot up for a chance to be on his team. You and your friends quickly slither away from him, keeping your heads tightly tucked to your chests. “Shirts vs. skins!”

You roll your eyes at the suggestion in his tone. Then, you wonder if Rhys is playing.

Something hot prickles your gut, but before you can read into the feeling, Gwyn’s leads you further into the wolves’ den.

You straighten your posture as you pass the kitchen, hoping that you’re in the clear, only to catch a glimpse of the other two members of the household you’re attempting to prank tonight.

Your breath catches when you spot Rhys. He stands beside Azriel, the both of them leaning casually against the counter. They look cool. Effortless. They look fucking hot.

Your mouth runs dry. His shirt is tight, stretched across those broad shoulders that are the basis of your dreams. The material stretches across his bicep when he reaches a hand up to brush back the strands of his deep, dark hair. His violet eyes glow, and a dimple indents his cheek when he grins down at the person who stands before him. You follow his line of sight and this time, when you see the petite, pretty brunette that holsters his amusement, your stomach churns violently. It’s definitely jealousy this time.

You clench your jaw and shove the emotion away. You hold no claim on him, nor that you can. He’s Mor’s cousin, you remind yourself vehemently. He’s your tutor.

Neither of those chants does anything to ease the sourness in your stomach.

At least all three boys are occupied. It makes getting up the stairs all that easier. As you ascend, you can’t help but think that maybe you do want to steal this trophy, make their lives a little more vibrant tonight. It’s petty, you think, but you continue anyway.

When the three of you reach the landing, you and your roommates reconvene.

“Any idea whose room belongs to who?” You ask, looking up and down the hall. There are five doors. One has a line of people behind it, so you count that as a bathroom. Maybe another is a closet. You’ll have to look quickly.

“No idea,” Mor shrugs, and glances down the stairs. None of the boys have caught wind of you here yet. Good. “We’ll just have to look.”

“What if their doors are locked?” You wonder and both of your roommate’s stare at you. Shit. None of you had thought about that possibility, and unless Gwyn or Mor secretly know how to pick locks, your prank might be doomed.

“Worry about that if it happens,” Gwyn answers hurriedly and shoos you down the hall. “If you hear a turkey call, the missions been compromised and you need to run. If we get split up, meet at the rendezvous point by one a.m. or the search party will come out.” Rendezvous point being your dorm, search party being whoever makes it to the dorm first.

Turkey call? You share a look with Mor. You’re learning so much about Gwyn tonight.

You split from your friends without another thought. If the three of you pull this off, you’re won’t hesitate to interrogate innocent, little Gwyn about all of the revelations you’ve learned tonight. Apparently, you don’t know your roommate as well as you thought you did.

You rip open the first door you come across. You’re met with a bare ass and the lewd moans of a girl getting her world rocked. The pair don’t even notice you, but you blurt in shock. “Holy shit! I’m sorry!” You gape for a moment longer, truly impressed the kind of leverage the boy draped over her back has in the tight confines of this linen closet. You slam the door shut and stumble to the next room.

Aha! The door is unlocked. You take a quick glance over your shoulder. Gwyn’s attention is on you. She offers you a huge smile and a big thumbs up, then avert her gaze back to the stairs like a rottweiler on duty.

“Please, don’t let anyone be naked in here,” you mutter before slipping inside.

Thankfully, you don’t hear any sex-induced noises. No squeaking of a mattress. No headboard hitting the wall. Just the bass of the music through the floorboards.

You flick on the light after shutting the door. It’s a typical boy’s room, you note as you look around. A bed with navy sheets, surprisingly made. There’s a wooden dresser pushed beneath the three large windows that overlook the small backyard. A closet door hangs ajar near the corner of the room.

You aim for the dresser. There’s a picture frame of the hockey team on top, along with a stack of clothes that hasn’t yet been put away and a few textbooks, but no trophy. Damn.

There’s a small desk that looks like the legs are going to give out if the slightest breeze brushes up against it. A laptop sits shut on top, along with a cup stuffed full of pencils and pens. There’s a notebook flipped open, and you recognize a few words as psychology jargon from some of your classes. Rhys room, you deduce immediately.

“Where are you, where are you…” You mutter. The closet produces no results, either, just perfectly lined up sneakers and a surprising number of suits and dress shirts. On the shelf, there’s an entire bin of beanies, and thrown on the floor in the middle of the closet is a hockey bag. The smell that wafts out of it makes your nose scrunch.

You’re about to dive to the floor and check under the bed. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing in your veins. You don’t have high hopes that the trophy will be stashed under his bed, but you’ll give it a cursory glance before reporting back to Gwyn.

You kneel on the floor and peer under the frame, praying that you don’t find some weird sex toy or something. That’s the last thing you need to be thinking about right now. You hold your breath and open your eyes, exhaling a loud huff of relief when you don’t find any monsters under his bed.

“And just what do you think you’re doing in here?” An all too familiar voice rasps from behind you.

You almost hit your head on the metal bedframe when you jump in surprise. You whip your head around only to see Rhys towering over you. His arms are crossed over his chest and though he’s trying his damned hardest to keep the smirk from breaking out across his lips, you can tell how amused he is by the glittering of his violet eyes.

“Fuck!” You scramble to your feet, dusting your knees off. “You scared me!”

Where the hell was Gwyn with her turkey call? Were you so invested in searching his room that you missed it completely?

“As much as I like the idea of you in my room, darling,” he drawls, and his voice sends shivers down your spine. “When I pictured you in here, you were in my bed, not under it.”

Fuck. Now you’re thinking about being in his bed, too, and that just won’t do.

You swallow harshly. If you rip your gaze away from his hungry eyes, you’ll look directly at said bed. And then you’ll be even more tempted to fall into it, and pull him in behind you.

Stop it right the fuck now.

“I was just, ah,” you scramble for a lie. “Looking for some psych notes.” You wince. It’s not terrible, but there’s no way in hell Rhys is going to believe you. “My test today really got me down. I thought I would start studying for the next one early.”

Rhys quirks a brow. He’ll play along, if that’s what you want. “And you thought I keep my notes under my bed?”

You glance at the floor where you were just face down, ass up, snooping. Your cheeks flare at the thought of him standing right behind you. You must have looked like you were his for the taking.

“I thought I dropped a piece of paper,” you nod solemnly. “Thought I saw it drift right under the bed.”

“And?”

“And what?” you ask, mustering all of the innocence you can.

The corner of Rhys’ mouth tips up and your breath hitches in your chest. Gods, he looks good enough to eat. All you’d have to do is take one step forward and you’d be pressed flush against his front. One step to the side and you’d be falling on his bed, where you really would offer yourself up to him.

Damn the wine you drank.

“And,” Rhys teases. He takes a step closer and you’d move back if you were of sound mind. If your feet weren’t glued to the floorboards. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His breath brushes the tops of your cheeks and your lashes flutter. The warmth of his body floods yours. Your nipples tighten painfully under your shirt. Your chests brush with every sharp inhale you take, but does nothing to help calm your racing heart.

“I, uh,” your gaze flickers to those perfect, pink lips of his. You think they might be your favorite thing about him. How soft yet demanding they felt against yours at the Halloween party. What they look like wrapped around the top of a pen as he studies. Fuck. You want to taste him again, you’ve forgotten what he tastes like. When you drag your gaze back to his violet eyes, you find them teeming with the same pent-up arousal that courses in your veins. “I think I just did.”

You’re not sure who moves first, if you roll up onto your toes or if Rhys ducks down. All you know if the sensation of his mouth crashing against yours in a desperate kiss. Like you’ve gone without for far too long.

This is bad, this is sin, your mind refutes. You’re breaking rule number fucking one!

But your heart tells you to move closer, to press your body flush against his. It’s like you’re in a trance, and you do just that.

Rhys’ fingers thread into the hair at the nape of your neck where he grabs a fistful of hair. You gasp erotically against his mouth and he swallows the sound with a growl that makes the innermost parts of you ache. He guides your head this way and that, and you give into him, allowing him to take you how he wants.

You aren’t taking the time to run your hands up his body to explore like you want to. Nope, your fingers are curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt. You’re unable to move, completely entranced by the feeling of his tongue dipping into your mouth and laving against yours. It’s dominating, it’s sensual, it’s fucking perfect.

“Rhys,” you whine. It’s not a whine for him to stop, like it should be, but a desperate plea for him to keep going. You’ve thought about your kiss with him every night since Halloween. Touched yourself a few times to it as well. This, this is better than what you remember.

He shushes you softly. It sounds like a promise, like you have all the fucking time in the world. And you do, you think. You can’t remember what you were doing before this moment. Don’t even know what you’re going to do after this moment.

Have sex with him, hopefully.

Rhys hand wraps around your hips, then lowers. He grabs a handful of your ass, which spurs you into his arms. You lock your hands around his neck and all but climb into his arms, twining your legs around his trim wait.

“Fuck, darling,” he grunts as your nails scratch his scalp. It feels good, everything you’re doing. He wants you up against the wall, on the bed, bent over the dresser. Hell, he wants to sit you right upon that flimsy desk and fuck into you until it breaks. His teeth scrape against the skin of your neck. “Take your shirt off for me.”

You can’t obey fast enough. Rhys eyes are dark with desire, drinking every inch that you reveal to him like it’s his last meal on earth. Your pussy clenches at the sight and if he doesn’t start touching you, removing more clothes, you think you might just combust.

Like he sees it in your eyes, he slides his hand beneath your bra and cups your breath roughly. You moan, head falling back on your shoulders and he praises gruffly. “That’s it, darling, I’ve got you.”

You can’t even respond. Your brain doesn’t work. Any words you can form get caught in your throat. Rhys dips his head to kiss and suck at the tops of your breasts. He tweaks your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Rhys!” You hiss. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck. He fights against you, and it makes you even hotter. He knows what he’s doing with that mouth, and as nice as it feels on your chest and crawling up the column of your throat, you need his lips pressed against yours right now. “Please!”

“Okay, darling,” he whispers, and latches onto your mouth again.

You melt into him with a noise of pleasure. You grind your hips into his which makes his hands around your waist tighten. You’re lost in the feeling of him, want him to move closer to the bed, to press his tongue right between your thighs and use that very same swirling motion around your clit, you want him to strip bare and press his hot, aching cock right between your—

“Holy fucking shit!” A voice exclaims, ripping through your psyche.

Holy fucking shit. You’re kissing Rhys. Your shirt is off, you’re in his arms, and you’re kissing fucking Rhys.

You rip yourself from Rhys and swing your attention to the door. Dread settles like lead in your veins and you drop your feet to the floor, scrambling to pick up your discarded shirt form the floor.

Gwyn stands in the doorway, struck. Her cerulean eyes are comically wide, which is saying something because she’s always doe-eyed. She sways over the threshold and you hope it’s the lingering wine in her body and not because she just witnessed you all but mauling Mor’s cousin.

Mor.

“Gwyn,” you say desperately, tugging your shirt over your head. She can’t tell Mor, no one can. This will ruin your entire friendship, and you can’t handle that. “It’s not what it looks like, I promise.”

You barely register the affronted noise Rhys makes. You’re struggling with the material of your shirt, and he reaches a hand out to help. You brush him off, making your way to your friend who stares, glossy-eyed at the floor.

“I can’t…” Gwyn trails off. She raises her head and you falter at the hurt look in her eyes. It makes a lump form in your throat. Shit. You’re going to lose both of your best friends in one night.

Except, Gwyn admits, “I don’t feel very good.” She turns back into the hall and proceeds to throw up all over the floor.

_________________________________________

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[avifaunaa]

stars blind [ they fall and leave the sky ] [ pt. 2 ]

Authors Note: I’m so incredibly glad everyone seemed to enjoy the first part of this series! If anyone has requested to be put onto a tag list for this series, I’ll try to remember to add it in. Also to add: apologies for the shorter update -- this is meant to be a bridge between One and Three, so it fills in some gaps.

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART THREE

Pairing: Feyre Archeron x fem!reader x Rhysand / Platonic!Inner Circle x fem!reader

Summary: Feyre and Rhysand find their mating marks that are duplicates to your own — perfect matches — and have a discussion what that means. Amren and Mor make a decision together. Windweaver hides.

Content Warnings: Mating bonds + discussion thereof [ reminder: this is canon in nature, but i take liberties and play around with mating bonds thus deepening the meaning of this AU ], Court politics, mentions of Windweaver’s past trauma that is not directly gone into this chapter, cliffhanger [ sorry ]

Word Count: ~3.7k

You wait in the spacious entry way of the home of Iris — a chirpy blonde High Fae who was incredibly well known for watching children for a fair price while parents worked or tended to other matters.

Mor had been the one to give her a place for you — it was increasingly difficult to get into the daycare and the fact that Mor put in a word for you was a kindness you could never pay back.

You were the last to arrive as you usually were — but Iris never seemed to mind. She understood your position in this new world and was accommodating and it was once more a kindness that you couldn’t afford.

You refused to look at yourself in the large mirror hanging above the entrance to the side. Now that you knew what was engraved into your skin, you would never be able fully hide it. Or escape whatever bond thrummed on the other side.

And yet you felt nothing. Nothing but empty black loneliness when you reached out to where your mother told you mating bonds usually rested in that part of the soul, in that part of the heart, in that part of the mind.

Nothing was there, and that was perhaps the best part of it even when it stung like nettle. It meant that whoever the Cauldron found you worthy to mate with was unaware and uninterested in a bond.

Until they found their own marks, you supposed.

“Here she is!” Iris sang, walking out with Astraea sleeping soundly, drooling on her shoulder.

“Oh, she’s knocked out,” you said with a smile, heart warming soundly at the sight of your daughter. Black hair and pale skin — features of your mother, her eyes belonging to a man long since gone.

“We painted today,” Iris told you as she made the exchange, sliding Astra into your hold. The tiny little thing wrapped arms around your shoulders, snuggling in close and sighing but not waking a second. “Next time you come in I’ll give it to you. Our High Lady will be coming in soon to teach a class.”

“The High Lady?” You didn’t hide your surprise. She hadn’t been seen out since the birth of her son — unless it was to walk through the Rainbow. You knew little around the events of the little one’s birth, other than rumors about wings and pain.

“Oh yes. She decided she’s going to come help out with the children — and bring Nyx, too. He needs socialization with other children his age. But it seems Astra is the closest to it right now.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, a nervous tick unsettling the heart within your chest.

"Oh, that will be wonderful," you say out loud instead of voicing your fears. You had yet to be approached by the High Lord or his Lady about your heritage and Mor and Amren had both been as welcoming as members of the Inner Circle can afford to be to newcomers.

You exchanged a few more pleasantries, your payment is given to Iris, and you are quick to whisk your sleepy daughter off. You are greeted by the chilly air and your scarf does little to keep the bite from your cheeks that comes with the breeze.

The walk to your rented apartment is five minutes from Iris' home and it was nice. You felt like you could easily get everywhere within easy walking distance and not have to use your magic to speed your walking along.

Not that you would have used your magic at all.

You walk up the side stairs on the building, climbing up and up and up until you reach the third floor. Your door was the first on the right and the bulky key was heavy and cold in your jacket's pocket when you pulled it free and pushed it into the key hole, twisting, unlocking, opening.

The apartment was nearly bare. It was furnished with the help of Mor -- thanks to her kindness to you. But it was basic and non-matching. You weren't here all the time -- either you spent time here with your daughter or slept. You preferred to take Astra out to explore the world and enjoy her surroundings while simultaneously exposing her to new things.

Astra's room was the most decorated, the most furnished, and the most cared for. You laid her down in her bed and got her dressed in her pajamas, all the while she hardly woke. She stuffed her thumb in her mouth and sighed as you pulled the covers over her.

You started toward the bathroom, removing earrings and clothes as you went.

That's the mating mark of a High Lord.

You find yourself standing in front of the dingy mirror in the bathroom — which was otherwise beautifully designed. Clean. Better than what you were once used to after Armantha’s takeover.

But when had it appeared? Mating marks were incredibly rare -- to the point that they were often forgotten about in history. They were connected to the more biological parts of Fae -- back when mating was more led by survival and the need to breed. Only those with very old bloodlines had mating marks anymore; bloodlines that predate much of even Old Prythian.

You pushed yourself off the sink, still tracing the outline you found yourself memorizing as you leaned over the tub to get the water started. It felt no different on your skin, had no way of showing itself other than its appearance.

You waited for the water to fill all the way to the top with near boiling heat. You never wanted to touch cold water again — even to drink. You drank it warm or you drank tea. You sank into the tub and shivered as the heat encased your skin and filled all the chilly, empty parts of you.

To have a mark that now only really ran through the lines of High Lords . . . that did not bode well on your end. Mostly because you've seen how angry High Fae males get when females have already been mated once before, but because it would force you to reveal your location to the very people you've been ensuring never find you.

Rhysand was frowning at her, and Feyre did not particularly enjoy it. She was rubbing some cream into her hands and trying to ignore him altogether.

He was all in a fuss lately and as much as she wanted to know what was getting to him this time, she figured he'd tell her if he really wanted to.

She settled under the covers with her book half-opened, getting comfortable against her lower back. After Nyx even with Nesta's wish, she still retained an ache from her pregnancy. It was manageable but not entirely easy to get rid of.

"Feyre, darling," her husband starts, "when did you get that?"

Feyre turns the page of her book before she humors him, tilting her face up. He's sat on the edge of the bed eyeing her, purple eyes twinkling with shock.

"The book?" she asked slyly, shutting it. "Nesta lent it to me. She said--"

Rhysand rolled his eyes. "I do not need to know what sort of filth your sister has you read when I'm not there to chaperone. I can't begin to think."

"It's a female on female romance, with sex."

Rhysand paused, blinked as if shocked, then rubbed his face with his hand. "We will address that at a later time. I have questions I think I will want answers too." He then pointed slightly to her left. "I meant that, just under your ear, of course."

Feyre reached her fingers up to trace under her ear as Rhysand had pointed out to her. She felt nothing but her studded earrings, done sometime after Nyx’s birth. “I don’t feel anything,” she said slowly, raising one of her brows at her mate.

He got to his feet and walked around the side of the bed and held out his palm. “Come with me, darling.”

Feyre hated to get out of bed now that she had gotten comfortable, but she put her book aside anyway and took his hand. He gently tugged her to the mirror on the far corner of the room, twirling her in a circle.

Feyre laughed at him, a bright smile lighting up hear features as he swung her to his front, arms wrapped around her just under her chest. He pressed a warm kiss to her cheek as they locked eyes in the mirror.

“My beautiful Feyre darling,” he said. His gaze was so soft, a rare sight that not many in the lands got to see. He reached up and began moving her hair away from the side of her head he had previously pointed out to her.

“Mm.” She watched him lazily, fingers tracing designs into his arm. She stopped her playing when she noticed what he had initially wanted her to see.

“That’s new,” she said, pulling herself out of his arms so she could lean forward and peer at the twirls and markings that cornered themselves behind her pointed ear. “I don’t think I’ve had that before. Did I?”

He shook his head, rubbing his jawline. “It’s . . . No. It’s an old magic, attached usually to a Fae with an old bloodline when they become mated.”

Feyre stared at him. “Okay,” she said slowly. “But I didn’t get it when we first mated.”

“You wouldn’t have, no,” Rhysand agreed, staring at the mark nervously. “I think . . . Well, I have an idea already on what it could mean and why you have it.”

Feyre turned around and bit her lip, peering at him with just as much nervousness. “I’d love to hear your idea, because if it’s connected to bloodlines that means it’s connected to yours somehow.”

“It connects very old bloodlines, I should say,” he told her, scratching his head as he thought over his words, “From a very old time when we still ran on pure instinct rather than reason. A time where magic was more alive, and it helped us. It would connect bloodlines that were stronger, more resilient.”

Feyre blinked at him. “Are you saying that you’re from one of those lines?”

“All High Lord families are. Many high society families are, actually. It’s how we got as far as we did. The marking wouldn’t have appeared on you initially because you were a human, once, and the old magic that runs in bloodlines like mine is thought by scholars to be being bred out over time.”

Feyre crosses her arms, resisting the urge to reach up and scratch the skin there. It suddenly itched now that she knew she had a shiny new marking there. “That makes sense. So it’s genetic. But it still makes no sense why I have it now.”

“Because I do believe there’s another factor at play.” He folded his hands, rubbing them together and not meeting her eyes.

“Rhys.” She reached her own hand out, hoping her touch soothed him. “Together. We can face whatever this is together — and you can tell me anything.”

“I think we have a third mate out there, somewhere,” he admitted quietly. “This is not a desire I have but a theory. If this potential mate has come into close contact at some point, their scent would have activated the other’s genetic magic in their bloodstream.”

Feyre breathed out through her nostrils, taking in this information carefully. “Old magic that has a play in with genetics. I’m your true mate, but there’s also another one out there for us that shares a bond? Wouldn’t we have known?”

“It’s . . . different with the old magic. It lies dormant,” Rhysand explained as he led his wife back to bed and sat next to her on the mattress. “It only activates when a suitable mate has been scented. Like I said, it ties back to when we were living on baser instincts and our mating bonds were less decided by fate and the Cauldron.”

“So my mating bond to you is different than the mating bond we have with this person?” Feyre clarified, not angry, simply confused.

“In how it is formed carnally only, it will never change my bond with you nor will it make me desire you any less,” Rhysand assured her firmly, cupping her cheek and rubbing the jutted bone, beautiful and perfect in his eyes. “All I know is that we have a third, but because we’ve been out of the public for months . . .”

“It could have been anyone our friends’ scents dragged in,” Feyre finished, understanding. She felt comforted by Rhysand’s words but . . . But now that she allowed the words to fixate in her mind, she couldn’t help but lack anxiety in regard to her stability with Rhysand, only . . . Curiosity. Perhaps a need to understand.

Rhysand smiled sadly. “Yes. And whoever lies on the other end of the bond won’t be able to form a connection to us like we have to one another until we can . . . Consummate the bond, not unless we want to use our Daementi powers on them.”

“Is that more old magic at work?”

Rhysand nodded at her, and Feyre bit her lip. She thought over the entire binder of information Rhysand just threw on top of her. But honestly — thinking it over, it didn’t create an ugly animal of jealousy to think of their unnamed mate with Rhys. Or with her. Or with her and Rhys.

It was a lot, and maybe they needed to sleep a bit over it. To digest what this will mean for them as a couple, and for their dynamic, and for their family.

But Feyre’s gut told her nothing terrible could come from this — not if her mating with Rhysand was anything to go on.

Amren and Mor stared at each other three hours after Windweaver had made a hasty escape from the tavern, leaving them in her dust.

Rita had pretty much closed up around the two of them. She lived upstairs and Mor was someone who was trusted with a key if they stayed longer than Rita stayed open.

It was just them at their table, still sitting in complete silence as though afraid to speak aloud what they had experienced hours ago. What Windweaver had experienced.

“We should tell them,” Amren said for the fifth time as Mor brought the entire bottle of wine to her lips and drank.

“Why? I mean, I agree. Nothing comes from keeping information from our High Lord and Lady,” Mor said, head tilting back over the chair, “But do we want to put this stress on them? They were just discussing coming back out in the world. Feyre wants to take Nyx to meet other kids.”

“She has a mating mark of status. Old status, but status,” Amren ground out, and Mor could almost hear her canines gnashing against her other teeth.

“Yes, this is true.” Mor takes her feet off the table and leans close to Amren. “But do you know what bringing attention to this might mean? What it could do to her?”

Amren spun a ring — one of many and of little value to her, likely from Rhysand back when she was still a darker force much more dangerous than this one — on her index finger, long nail unbreaking against the metal.

“There are consequences to whatever actions we plan to take,” the darker haired female acknowledged begrudgingly. “But I dislike the ones that come with keeping this from Rhysand and Feyre.”

Mor hated to agree, but she couldn’t find it in her to disagree. She wanted Windweaver’s safety put at the top of their to-do list, but they’ll have to find a way to ensure that without keeping their High Lord and Lady in the dark about this.

“Fine,” Mor said, “we’ll bring it up. Tonight?”

Amren stole the bottle from her blonde friend, taking a swig from it. “If the girl’s still awake. She seems to go to bed early these days after the prince was born.”

Mor tapped her fingers along the tabletop. “Fine, tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow,” Amren agreed.

They stayed to finish the bottle, falling into a silence of two respected comrades and friends.

You wake with a gasp as sweat soaked your forehead and dripped down your temples like raindrops.

You clutched your chest where the weight you felt in your nightmare had struck you and glanced around you rapidly as the heartbeat in your ears timed with the feeling in your chest.

Enclosed walls, four. A wood flooring with a soft rug in the middle of the room. A soft thick quilt, patched, that you gave birth in and carried your daughter around in for two long years before carting her here in it.

Not in the Spring Court. Away from the sickly smell of fresh flowers in bloom all year around and constant lukewarm weather that was too little for you to feel alive.

It was still dark outside, but you could see the hints of dawn beginning to reveal itself over the horizon. No sun.

Your favorite time of day.

You pushed the sheets and quilt off, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes and sighing shakily as you gazed out the window for a moment to just take in the view.

You eventually got out of bed entirely; if you didn't you were at risk for not getting out at all for the rest of the day. That was not a type of day you could afford to have.

You went to the kitchen and started preparing breakfast for Astra, and while the eggs cooked you got her up. "S'ello Mama," she garbled.

"Hi, baby," you greeted, kissing her forehead and smiling warmly as she stretched her little arms out. She blinked sleepily at you. "Eggs?"

"Eggs," you agreed, holding out your hand in offer. She looked at it with hesitation as she normally did when it came to touch; she was not a child who welcomed it on a normal scale and the first two and a half years of her life play a large role in that.

She finally deemed it acceptable to place her tiny hand in yours and you smile at her, guiding her into the kitchen where smoke was now rising in the pan. "Oh no," Astra dolled.

"Shit." You set her in her chair and race toward the burnt crisps that were once eggs sizzling in the pan. You looked forlornly at the charred bits and dumped them in the sink, and instead turned to your daughter.

"Do you want to go to Caspian's for breakfast, Astra?"

Immediately the little girl's eyes lit up and she attempted to stand in her chair, "Cassie! Cassie," she garbled as you quickly went over to grab her and set her down like she wanted.

"Okay," you laughed quietly. "Lets' get you and myself dressed and we'll go see Cassie."

One hour, a toddler trying not to crawl away from every outfit you picked out, and a faceful of makeup later, you found yourself walking down the street with a babbling Astra in your arms. She was fired up now that you were well and truly on your way to her favorite place to eat.

"Oh, really?" you asked her as you passed the glass displays in the large windows. She then stuck her finger at the particular pastry that was always displayed and remained her tried and true favorite.

You opened the door and pushed your way in, causing the bell above the entrance to ring out your arrival. It was a busier morning than usual -- you tend to come before the rush so that Astra doesn't get overwhelmed, but for some reason today you weren't able to beat such a rush.

You were behind two people; both of them were huddled together and had a small babe between them. A male and female, whispering to the giggling, pudgy faced youngling.

"Windweaver!" Cassie called as she came at a brisk drift out of the kitchen, covered in sugar and flour, "Welcome! And little Astra, too!"

Just as you made to greet her back, you were cut short by the couple turning around and looking you in the eyes.

"Windweaver?" The High Lord of the Night Court repeated softly, tilting his head in interest while his wife narrowed her gaze at you.

TAG LIST: @motorsp0rt , @lifetobeareader , @hjgdhghoe , @mystirica-blog , @skyler129

PART THREE

[avifaunaa]

stars blind [ they fall and leave the sky ]

Authors Note: it was going to happen eventually. The only name READER goes by is Windweaver -- otherwise there is no use of a name or Y/N.

Masterlist

PART TWO |

Pairing: Feyre Archeron x Rhysand x Fem!Reader + Platonic!Inner Circle x Fem!Reader

Summary: Feyre and Rhysand have decided to go out after eight months of being reclusive with Nyx. In their absence, it would seem the Inner Circle had kept a well-kept secret at their favorite bar — a new friend and a third mate Feyre and Rhysand never knew they had. But you — who answers to the name Windweaver — have your own secrets behind your innocent smiles and sweet scent.

Content Warnings: Canon in nature but I take liberties and therefor it’s somewhat of an AU because of what I did, a medium to quick-ish burn, Court politics, protective + possessive inner circle [ platonic ], platonic fae family dynamics that I will eventually go into, TAMLIN MENTIONED, foul language, mentions of: death, torture, war -- not graphically described, this is but a set up for the story so Feysand do not meet R yet.

Word Count: TBA

Rhysand was suspicious.

Granted, he was always suspicious and usually had a right to be when considering what sort of ilk he had to tend to in the Court of Nightmares on a regular basis.

His mate thought he was overthinking it — you’re getting permanent worry lines, she had told him over the mindlink — and had tried to ignore his pattering around and restless fidgeting for days.

Nyx was a welcome distraction, of course, especially when Feyre showed him how easily the babe had begun winnowing in small distances before he was walking on two feet. Rhysand had walked about with his chest puffed out for no less than a week until Azriel beat the shit out of him in training.

In truth, his suspicions lie closer to his own Inner Circle. They were around frequently and Feyre held dinners at their home two times a week that usually ended up with a couple of them spending the night after too many drinks [ Cassian and Nesta, who did not drink much anymore, by default ].

They were less open-mouthed about their drinking exploits when they went out into the Court and dancing. Even Azriel was less chatty about it — and he was not a chatty man by nature.

Dinner was currently underway and Feyre had a babbling Nyx in her lap as she fed him, then herself, then him again. She hummed along to whatever he said to her, because none of it made any sense to one except himself.

Rhysand was nursing a glass of wine and staring at Mor and Amren, and when Amren caught him staring she curled a lip back to reveal her canines. “You better move those eyes before I take them and pin them to my front door.”

Cassian choked on his ham stew, loudly setting down his bowl and wiping his face with the fine napkins.

“Please don’t,” Feyre said, “I like his eyes more than everything else about him.”

“Everything, you say?” Cassian asked wickedly, a feral gleam in his eyes. “That must hurt, Rhysie.”

“Shut up,” Nesta intoned from her spot between him and Azriel as she broke a roll in half and dipped it in her soup, “I don’t want to hear about Rhysand’s cock at dinner.”

“Who said anything about his cock?”

A pause in her dipping, a small reddening of her cheeks, then Nesta continued on with a bored expression as she brought the accurately soaked roll to her lips and bit in, ignoring the bait her mate dangled in front of her.

Rhysand ignored both of them and sipped his wine until Amren returned her gaze back to her High Lord, now irritated in the way he wanted her to be.

“Boy, spit out whatever has ahold of your tongue and your balls before I reach over and take all three for myself,” she warned, setting aside her emptied glass until a bottle floated over lazily to refill it.

Azriel sighed loudly from Nesta’s other end.

“Please don’t,” Feyre repeated as she fed Nyx a spoonful of soup while he reached for the utensil himself. “And also stop threatening one another in front of Nyx. I don’t need him running around next Solstice babbling about Rhysand’s balls.”

Mor was the one to choke on her wine this time, removing the glass and covering her face before anything could spill.

Azriel sighed again while Elaine made it a point to noisily move dishes nearest to her around on the table.

“You’ll forgive me, Feyre, if I’m somewhat irked by your mate’s endless staring,” Amren bit out as she pushed her barely touched food away. Even now she still struggled with eating, even if she had admitted it was fantastic food. Amren was a creature of habit and it was hard when she returned mortal.

“I am concerned my Circle is being tight-lipped about something and I am trying to investigate it,” Rhysand announced to the table before Feyre could stop him.

“So the dramatics were . . .” Nesta waved her fork in his direction, ringed hand glittering in the overhead lighting, “ . . . Just you being you?”

“He’s not normally this awful. He usually just asks us when something is off to him,” Cassian told her, popping an entire roll into his mouth without breaking it apart first.

“I have asked,” Rhysand retorted shortly, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop. “Numerous times. All of you. I have asked if anything of note has been occurring in Court while Feyre and I take our reprieve with Nyx. I’ve gotten no reports other than the usual.”

“That’s because there isn’t anything to report,” Azriel told him slowly, his shadows looking as confused as the Spymaster did. Cassian grunted his agreement around his bread product.

“See?” Feyre gave him one of her reassuring smiles, dimples showing and eyes softening to hide the concern that lay within. “You’re being a hen. Nothing is wrong with our people or our Court. If you’re restless and want to return to your duties entirely, you can just say so.”

Rhysand’s scarred hand dug into the top of the table. His mate couldn’t sense it — and maybe he was being paranoid and he had grown restless in the nesting period he had taken up with Feyre and Nyx.

But his Illyrian hindbrain was nagging at him, warning him that something simply wasn’t entirely in the right place.

“Your father’s ilk haven’t caused ruckus?” he asked Mor carefully as he made an effort to pick at his food.

Mor slowly moved her gaze to Rhysand’s own and he saw an icy fire somewhere in the depths of his cousin’s eyes. “No. The last time they did, I gave him a reminder.”

“They’ve been rather well behaved since then,” Nesta commented lazily, watching her own mate swallow down his third roll and reach to the basket for a fourth.

“Cassian save some for the rest of us,” she scolded, lunging forward to snatch the basket away. “Elaine only made two batches and you’ve nearly had an entire full one by yourself.”

“It’s okay,” her sister said, cheeks pink. “There’s more than enough, I’m sure.”

Cassian held a hand out but Nesta refused to give in, eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re going to regret that much bread tomorrow when we have to be up for training.”

Azriel took the basket and plucked his own roll before passing it down the table out of the Warrior’s reach.

“I hate all of you,” Cassian said as he stared at his soup.

“Duly noted,” the High Lord drawled as he once again cast glances at each of his friends. He decided to do this approach differently, casually asking, “How’s Rita been?”

“Good,” Mor answered immediately. “She’s been busier than normal.”

“Her bar’s picked up even more, has it?”

“That’s wonderful,” Feyre said with a smile as Nyx smashed a tiny chunk of roll on the side of his mouth instead of inside. “I can’t wait to go again. It’s been so long. Soon.”

“Hmm,” Amren simply said, not agreement nor refusal. A very Amren sound but not matching with the too-blank expression she had where normally she held less defenses around the Cricle lately.

Azriel’s attention was suddenly on Elaine, asking about her recipe so that there was truly no way he could be taken from her conversation without being considered rude. Rhysand wanted to strangle him with his own shadows.

You’re being overbearing and I think perhaps it’s time you and I start going back into Court again, Feyre murmured down the bond. He hadn’t even realized she had entered his mind — her being there was like his own thoughts. I’m worried you’re looking for things to be suspicious about so you can have something to do.

Have you seen the paperwork loaded in the office, darling? he returned while he continued inspecting their friends. I have work for months. But this . . . This is different.

Feyre brushed against him internally in an attempt at soothing him -- and perhaps he was a tad more worked up over this perceived secret than he should be. But he did not like it -- not from his Inner Circle, not from his family.

Mor swirled her wine and chewed on her lip. She had one perfectly manicured hand wrapped around her elbow in an effort to make herself seem relaxed and at ease amongst her peers but Rhysand could taste the nervous energy from his cousin.

She was always made up of nervous energy when the time was around for her father and his agreed population to come into the Court -- she could not relax for at least a week after they were gone.

This was different, though.

"There's a new girl at Rita's," More broke out as the wine glass was lifted to her face, unable to cut off her sentence before it spewed out.

Silence fell and Amren simply poured herself more wine. "Here we go."

"So?" Rhysand said, squinting at the blonde. "Rita's employees come and go frequently -- do they not? She offers an easy scheduling system."

Mor did not further elaborate or answer Rhysand's confused question. He sent a look to his mate, who tilted her head in her friend's direction.

"Is this the big secret Rhysand thinks you're keeping from us?" she asked easily, smile rising up to greet their Inner Circle. "If so, please confirm it and put him out of his misery. He doesn't like not being in the know of things."

"Busybody," Amren grumbled, wine now half empty as she closed her eyes as if to go away from this conversation.

"Yes," Azriel said simply. "But she's been around since Nyx's birth. Came out of nowhere."

"Nobody comes out of Nowhere, Az," Rhysand said impatiently, "So I assume she caught interest because she came not from Nowhere but from another Court?"

"Why would that make a stir? We've had many newcomers since we revealed ourselves," Feyre added.

"She's . . . She came from the Spring Court," Azriel confessed. Though his brothers' facial features were unreadable, the tone . . . it failed to hide the sliver of guilt. "I personally looked into her history. She's High Fae and I'm afraid to let you know that she is related to Tamlin through his mother's lineage."

Feyre's eyes shuttered briefly and Rhysand could only feel the shock that struck her. "He never mentioned any family besides . . ." she trailed off, leaving words unsaid but a history known.

Tamlin had only spoken of who he thought brought importance to him directly -- and a girl in which he likely hardly saw growing up? What would have been so important to waste his breath on her to Feyre for?

Even so, Rhysand knew little about Tamlin's mother or her lineage. It does not surprise him he has a cousin or two floating around in the world.

He reached across his bond, grasping the warmth and clutching it so tenderly. Are you okay?

She responded in kind and connected herself to him in order to grant access to her emotions and the ability to comfort her. I am okay, she confirmed, meeting his eyes with stars in the depths, but I want to know more.

He would give her anything she needed -- and if she wanted to know more about the female who shared Tamlin's blood, it would be hers.

"What do you know?" he asked, breaking the silence of his group. He pushed his empty dishes away and prepared to settle in for a long discussion.

Feyre shifted in her seat but only to hand over a squealing Nyx to Elain so that she may take him to play in the gardens before his bath.

"She used political sanctuary to ask for entry," Cassian told him, arms crossed over the table, expression turned serious. "She claims that during the War she was moved from place to place with her mother so that Tamlin couldn't use them to get her father to contribute troops from his house."

Feyre's jaw locked stiff and Rhysand could feel the tight straining in her core. "Where is her family now?" his High Lady questioned calmly.

"Unknown," Azriel answered, "I sought out their location with my Shadows but their House is in shambles -- in name and standing all. There is no sign of Sylinor or his wife and there are no troops bearing their House' crest to be located."

"Sylinor Windweaver?" Rhysand asked, the name drawing familiarity from a time when he was a boy and still shadowed his father, eyes flashing and his wings twitching behind him. "He has not been seen since--"

"A year before Amarantha's fall," Cassian finished. "Believed to have been executed with his family when Tamlin continued to lack . . . obedience."

"So they lived," Feyre said hollowly, eyes drifting toward the windows where the garden was in view. Elain sat with Nyx as he flapped tiny wings and grasped her skirt to draw her attention to him.

"It seems so," the Illyrian general agreed while Nesta scratched her chin, almost bored of this entire thing.

"So they escape, hide, and then . . . just disappear?" Feyre asked with an icy spike in the tone of her voice that Rhysand knew to be bordering dangerous.

"A lot of Houses fell in the War, and it is possible that Tamlin somehow helped free the Windweavers and attempted to call in a favor later," Amren reminded Feyre bluntly. "Hybern let his soldiers play as they would and some families and their titles were entirely wiped out. The Spring Court relies on House loyalties and the people in each section of land owned by a House to contribute its' army. Autumn Court runs in a similar fashion."

"Spring Court had the Tithe," Feyre said, frowning, "and also made prominent families take people on their territories as soldiers? Is that who Tamlin had as guards on his estate?"

"Likely not," Rhysand told her as he kept sending a soothing rush down the bond toward her. Anytime Feyre learned a new aspect about the Spring Court, it devastated her a little bit more. "Those were probably Fae who came from prominent families of those Houses or Fae who had deep loyalties going back to his family."

"I see." Feyre clasped her hands in her lap in an effort to cease the trembling that threatened to reveal itself. Not from despair, no, Rhysand could feel anger there. Rage and shock. "So this Fae woman. She comes from one of the prominent Houses?"

"Yes," Mor confirmed softly, "but her movements have been much the same. She works at Rita's and goes home after her shift. She's quiet and keeps to herself."

"Did she come with anyone else?" Rhysand asked after an uneasy, but thoughtful, silence.

Amren pursed her lips and shot Azriel a sharp look before finishing off the last of her wine.

The Shadowsinger was hesitating even if his usual stillness radiated his confidence and attempt at nonchalance. "Yes, she came with one other. A child."

"A child," Feyre echoed. Her eyes had been ripped away from their son upon hearing this, and now she had her walls stacked as high and as defensed as they could be. Rhysand brushed against them but it would seem this turmoil was his mates' alone. "There weren't . . . the records of refugees . . ."

“Remember how we discussed a way for fleeing Fae to seek asylum and ensuring their tracks would die at our doorstep?” Rhysand asked quietly, eyes focusing on Feyre.

“Yes. It wasn’t really given a solid outline, though,” Feyre murmured, the glittery makeup around her eyes crinkling with her skin as she eyed him. “Unless it did happen and you didn’t tell me.”

The accusation was piercing, but not untrue.

“It was Mor and Nesta’s project. Amren helped. I had little say in it,” Rhysand confessed.

"We do not always mark down on public records the names of our refugees," Mor took over, speaking to Feyre carefully as she leaned forward in the dining chair and intertwining her fingers together. "We put their names on a list only a three others under our Circle can access and then we store that list in the House of Wind. It is still in its’ infancy and has been used only a handful of times with some denied entries, and we have security checks in place to review the applicants. It takes weeks for them to be allowed into the Court with a citizenship if they request a private status in our records."

"It's a fairly new system," Rhysand reiterated to his wife, reaching out to grasp one of her hands. "We implemented it officially near the birth of Nyx -- and I keep intending to inform you of it.”

Feyre could feel his guilt through their mating bond and blew air through her nostrils. She rubbed at her temples and crossed one leg over the other. “No need to keep me out of the loop on account of my maternity situation. From now on, keep me informed on everything.”

“Of course, Lady,” Mor murmured, dipping her chin. Amren followed suit. “It wasn’t kept from you intentionally.”

Feyre offered a small, comforting smile. “I know. But still done nonetheless. I am able to preform my duties just fine these days and welcome it.” Her eyes glanced at Rhysand accusingly, who had the decency to keep his mouth shut.

Rhysand traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip. “It’s so far been a successful operation, darling.”

“Who’s running it right now?”

Nesta held up her chalice. "I am in charge of the refugees for the most part. When I took your old job part of it is included the safety of displaced folk and giving them a voice and resources."

Feyre nodded, satisfied with her sister’s role in this part of their Circle. She opened her shields just a minuscule ule amount, sending Rhysand reassurance but also digging her claws into his wandering mind. We will discuss this later.

Rhysand did not physically react — but it took his entire being not to flinch as she dug in deeper until releasing him.

"So the child is hers?" Feyre questioned, running one of her fingers across the top of Rhysand's palm to self-soothe. He knew her pain from her experience in the Spring Court ran root-deep, before him, before the Cauldron . . . but he wondered why she felt so incensed by the knowledge of this Fae woman.

"We believe so, but she has no record of mating or marriage. The child is no older than three at most and she only provided a name for her," Nesta replied, snatching another roll and ignoring Cassian's outraged yelp.

"Could this child have been apart of why Sylinor moved them around during the War?" Rhysand wondered, still seeking entry into Feyre's mind through the small gap she opened to him. Gentle brushes and wisps of touch against the shields -- but he backed down when no response was given.

"It is possible," Amren said, "but we do not know for sure. We do not ask about her history and she does not offer it. What we have told you is what we know."

"If she is not a threat or in danger of becoming one," Rhysand finally decided after thinking, "then I suggest that we ease off of following her for now. She sought asylum and it was granted. Let us treat her like a guest rather than a suspect."

"As long as Tamlin does not sniff around asking if his missing cousin is hiding here," his Second drawled, leaning her chin on her hand and squinting like a satisfied cat, "then I do not see an issue in that."

"The High Lord has bigger problems internally right now," Azriel said, mostly to himself by the distant musings in the way he spoke. "He has more concerns than one House being lost to him."

"She's blood," Rhysand countered.

"Since when has blood ever mattered to the High Fae until it suited them?" Nesta asked with a twisted, nasty tone -- and she was right.

"Can you send two more Dawning Brightlights to the table in the corner for me, Windy?" Rita asked, breathless and red-cheeked as she spoke loudly over the even louder crowd that took over her bar this night.

It was a typical busy day you supposed -- though you hardly ever found a slow day at Rita's ever since your first shift and she eagerly brought you on when you told her you would take whatever times she wanted you as long as you did not have to do the midnight shifts.

The money was good and the customers were a breed that only an establishment like Rita's could produce. You worried if you went to the bar just a few blocks down, you'd have had your ass grabbed already.

"Of course!" you call back as you crouch under the bar and pull out ingredients for the drinks she needed. A purple sparkly syrup to drizzle into the bottom of the glass, five second pours of the sweet alcohol that had a strange but harmless shimmer to it, and two perfect mint leaves in each glass and you were off. You swept through the packed building, sweeping under extended arms and narrowly avoiding an unwatchful stagger from an unintended shove.

Chairs being pulled out dodged breezily, and echoes of laughter drowning out muffled apologies as you finally reach your destination.

“Here you go, so sorry for the wait!” You flourished the drinks and let them slide across the table to the two patrons. The two fae raised their glasses at you before downing them and going back to their chatting.

You filled ten more drink requests in under thirty minutes while trying to keep up with the food orders. You were tempted to use your abilities to help you carry things — but doing so would cause great ruckus and you were still hiding. Using it would reveal yourself to your old Court.

“Windweaver!” A familiar song like cry echoed as you dropped some fish and chips off at a burly male’s table. “Oh where art thou, Windweaver?”

Your hair was sticky against your scalp and forehead as you ducked under a pair of dancing Fae and popped up to face the source. It was The Morrigan lounging with her feet on a peanut covered table, grinning wickedly while Amren sat across from her and hissed whenever someone nudged her chair when passing.

“Hi, Mor!” you greeted, relieved and anxious at the sight of her. Her and Amren — and Nesta Archeron — had all been vital in getting you settled in Veralis and you were forever in their debt.

But you feared that your connection to them would mean running into the youngest sister of Nesta and the High Lady of Veralis, of the Night Court, Feyre. You heard only from your mother’s maids what your cousin had forced her to go through.

And you did not want to see the look in her eye the way you did Nesta’s when she realizes who you are and what you run from.

It was your ultimate shame and burden to carry being from the Spring Court, but you did not have anywhere else to go that you’d think could truly shield you from your family should they seek you out.

“You stink,” Amren said by way of greeting, narrowing her eyes at you, “of male.”

You spluttered incoherently at her remark, red. “Amren,” Mor crooned, falsely scolding as she smirked in your direction. “Why are you sniffing her way anyway?”

“Can you not tell that the reek is coming from her?” You did not appreciate the way she eyed you distastefully.

“There is no male,” you said, slapping down menus in front of them despite knowing they get the same thing every time. “I have brushed up against many of them while taking care of customers.”

“Did any of them touch you?”

“No?”

Amren arched a brow. “You’re not sure of that, are you, girl?”

Mor also frowned, tapping her fingernails across the menu in an unsettled manner. “If someone touched you, Windy, Rita —“

You sighed. “I don’t think it was intentional, or I would have felt it and known. I always smell when I work these nights, okay? I’m fine.”

Amren did not look ready to release this from her clutches. “It’s not just a brushing of scents that happen like usual. It’s so soaked into you that I’m almost tempted to force Rita to let you off for the night to bathe.”

“Amren.” You imagined yourself rolling your eyes, but feared the consequences of such actions when it came to the Night Court’s feared Second in Command.

Another arch of a sleek brow, eyes cat-like as she drew in on you. Mor stood by and studied the menu as though she planned on changing her meal choice tonight.

“I genuinely,” you began, “have no male in my life — and I believe I would know if one was scenting me.” You rested your hip against the table to try and remove some weight from your ankles and feet. You were sore.

Mor and Amren didn’t seem satisfied despite you speaking the truth, but they did feel content enough to let it go and instead order their usual drink and meals. You swiped their menus under your arm and head back to the bar to put the order in to the kitchen.

The rest of the night slowed down after that odd interaction. You delivered the drinks to Amren and Mor and ignored the way Amren wrinkled her nose at you whenever you approached. You tried not to take it personally, not with Amren.

When it came close to ten in the evening, you started counting your tips as your replacement, Malora, swept in and greeted you cheerfully.

You decided to stop by Amren and Mor’s table one more time and check on them again before you left. You had your apron draped over your arm and your hair pulled up into a high ponytail. “Hey, is there anything else you’d like me to grab you? I’m heading out pretty much now otherwise.”

Amren waves you off as she downs her fifth drink but Mor looked up to give you a response, pauses at something with a flash of alarm in her eye. Her glass slips from her hand and it shatters on the table.

“Morrigan!” Amren snapped, sliding her chair back before the liquid could pour into her lap. “By the Cauldron, usually you don’t get into dropping things until you’re ten drinks in —“

“Amren.”

“What?” she snapped again, eyes shooting up and meeting your confused ones. She then shot a glare at more, followed her eyesight, and she too seemed to freeze briefly.

“Let me get a rag.” You throw your belongings onto the empty chair at the table and quickly walk across the tavern and get behind the bar to dig out a clean rag, maybe three, to help clean the mess.

When you walked back toward them, they were arguing quietly. You strained to listen, but even your Fae ears were weak at hearing after the War.

After everything.

You unfolded one and started laying it across the spilled mess and drifting the glass and alcohol in one direction; away from both of them.

“Girl,” Amren said tightly. You paused and noticed his strained Amren looked, and the way Mor’s body seemed to be alight with nervous energy, “how long has that been there?”

“What?”

A thin, foreboding finger pointed just above your shoulder to the spot where your neck and shoulder met. Concerned by her and Mor’s actions, you reach up to brush your fingers along the skin but find nothing amiss. “What’s there?”

“Do you need a mirror,” Mor asked, but she did not wait for a response as she reached into the small handbag on the back of her chair and pulled one of the fancy little carry on mirror’s you see in boutiques for sale. Too expensive for you to afford.

You lift the mirror until it’s in the line of sight they pointed out, reflecting the offending part of your body. At first you weren’t entirely sure what they were talking about. But then you looked closer and noticed it just creeping out behind your ear. You tilted the mirror up and to the side until it faced the back of your pointed ear and swallowed at what you found.

Outlining the skin that connected your ear to your head was inked and drifted out into swirling mist-like markings until it faded just out of view. Very underwhelming in hindsight, but a shock because you do not remember having this.

“Oh,” you said quietly as you lowered the mirror. Breathed out. Handed the object back to Mor.

The most awkward silence you had ever experienced.

“Oh,” Mor agreed thickly, nails digging into the wood of the table as she met your gaze.

“That’s a mating mark of a High Lord,” Amren said, slow and dark, eyes piercing you as you started backing away, and dug your own nails into your palms. “But which one?”

“I’m not mated,” you spit out, “to anybody.”

“The bond says otherwise.”

You looked at both females, your heart beginning to race in your chest and did the only thing you knew how to do.

You ran.

PART TWO

[thehighladywrites]

Interview me

pairing: ceo!rhysand x secretary bimbo!reader

summary: life is hard and you need a job to stay alive. naturally, you apply at a simple job at a company you know nothing about. Well, except for the fact that your boss is a smokeshow.

warnings: swearing

amara’s note: i’m so fucking hyped for this series guysss i have so many ideas hihihihihihihi

explore azriel’s bimboverse !

explore cassian’s bimboverse !

“Shit, shit, shit—I’m soooo not gonna make it!”

Your heels clacked dramatically against the glossy, stupidly expensive floors of an even more expensive skyscraper. Ugh, why did life have to be so unfair? You were made for luxury, not working, but apparently, rent and shopping sprees didn’t pay for themselves. So, you had reluctantly applied for a simple, cute little job—being the personal secretary for some CEO.

You sprinted toward the elevator, practically flinging yourself inside just as the doors were about to close.

“No—wait! Please hold it!”

A man’s hand shot out, stopping the doors. You stumbled in, panting, before beaming up at him.

“You’re very nice! Thank you, mister!”

You didn’t notice the way his eyes slowly dragged down your body, lingering on your barely-buttoned white blouse and tight little skirt that hugged every curve.

“Yeah, no problem, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with something you were too busy fixing your hair to pick up on. “You work here?”

“Oh, um, not yet! I think I’m actually gonna get fired before I even get hired because I accidentally overslept. My alarm is sooooo weird.” You giggled, fixing a strand of hair.

He chuckled, pressing a button. “What floor?”

“The top one! I’m here to be the CEO’s secretary.”

His smirk widened, his eyes practically devouring you. “Oh yeah? Lucky guy. He’d be a damn fool not to snatch you up.”

You blinked, confused. “Huh? I mean I haven’t got much experience, not sure he’s be that lucky.”

His creepy grin didn’t falter. “Yeah. Sure that’s what I meant.”

The elevator dinged, and he stepped out onto his floor, but not before leaning in just a little too close.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you around, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and sticky.

The second the doors shut, you frowned to yourself as you went up the floors until a ding took you out of your trance.

A slim, tall, stupidly beautiful redhead stood before you, clutching a neat stack of papers. She looked so put together—her sleek bun, her expensive-looking glasses, her perfectly ironed blouse. Ugh. She totally looked like someone who knew how to do her job.

You, on the other hand, were still reeling from the sheer luxury of this office. The marble floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rich people smell. Was this really where you were going to work? Oh my god.

The redhead cleared her throat, clearly unimpressed with your gawking. “Ms. L/N? Mr. Rhysand is ready for you.”

“Oh! Right! Yeah, of course!” You smoothed down your skirt and stepped forward—business wear was so not your thing. It totally oppressed your usual style and it made you look too corporate-y.

The redhead sighed. “This way.”

You nodded, flashing her a big, dazzling smile as you followed her down the hallway.

“Mr. Rhysand is a very busy man who doesn’t tolerate mistakes. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

She gave you a slow, judgmental once-over before scoffing. “And maybe try dressing like a professional instead of a hooker.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Oh… is this too much?” You glanced down at your outfit, genuinely puzzled. “I thought it was classy. It’s Massimo Dutti.”

The redhead’s expression didn’t change. “Just don’t waste his time,” she muttered before turning on her heel and walking away.

Shrugging, you smoothed down your skirt and took a deep breath before pushing open the office doors. Whatever. You looked cute, and that was what mattered.

You stepped into the office, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Your breath hitched as you took in the sheer luxury of the space—floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the entire wall, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The furniture was sleek, dark, and expensive, the kind you only saw in glossy magazines.

Rhysand stood by the windows, hands in his pockets, suit tailored to perfection. The late afternoon light poured in behind him, casting his tall, broad-shouldered frame in a golden glow. His dark hair was effortlessly tousled, and when he finally turned to look at you, piercing eyes locking onto yours, your stomach did a little flip.

Oh. Oh fuck.

You were pretty sure you forgot how to breathe for a second. He was stupidly handsome. Very young and very attractive. Sure, he looked older than you but still. You had expected a greying man to be the big boss.

“You’re late.”

His voice was smooth and rich—like honey and sin wrapped in silk.

Your lips parted slightly. Right. The interview. Not staring at your ridiculously gorgeous potential boss.

“You’re… young.”

Rhysand’s brow arched. “Excuse me?” His tone was warm, maybe even amused, but his expression remained unreadable.

Your eyes widened. “Oh, I mean—I just—I meant to say there was something wrong with my alarm. I swear I’m not usually late!”

Heat crawled up your neck. His voice alone had you all flustered, and the way he was looking at you? Yeah, this was bad for your focus.

Rhysand hummed, watching you for a moment longer before nodding toward the chair in front of his desk. “Right. Let’s begin.”

He walked over, effortlessly graceful, and leaned against the edge of his desk—half lounging, half scrutinizing as you sat down, smoothing your skirt.

”So,” Rhysand leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his thighs as he studied you. “Tell me why you think you’re the right fit for this position.”

You straightened, flashing him your brightest, most confident smile. ”I’m very organized! And great at, um… scheduling things and answering phones! I’ll do whatever you want and need.”

Rhysand’s lips curled slightly, the hint of a smirk playing at the edges. His violet eyes flickered with something unreadable as he watched you, head tilting just a fraction.

“Whatever I want and need?” His voice was smooth, dangerously amused.

You blinked, nodding obliviously. “Yep! I’m super dedicated. I’ll make your coffee, organize your files, take notes, remind you of meetings—oh! And I’m a great assistant. I’ll be there when ya need me.”

Rhysand let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “That’s good to know.” His gaze swept over you, lingering just long enough to make you squirm before he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest again.

“So, tell me, what do you know about this company?”

Shit. You knew absolutely nothing. His eyes narrowed, clearly seeing right through you. Damn it. You only had one option left. You flashed him a saccharine smile. You’d charm your way out, even if it was tacky.

“I’m sure you’re doing super important work, Mr. CEO. I’m just here to support you in all your very important tasks,” you said, stalling and distracting him with your charm.

Of course, Rhysand saw right through you. He could see right through your game, but he let you believe you were in control. You were quick, clever, and undeniably sweet—something about it intrigued him.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward slightly, clasping his hands together on the desk, and trying to hide the amused smirk that was growing on his face. “You certainly sound like someone who could handle the demands of my busy days.”

Not really. There were at least a hundred more qualified candidates he had interviewed, all more experienced and better suited for the job. But Rhysand wasn’t interested in any of them. He did what he wanted, and right now, what he wanted was you.

His smile softened slightly as he leaned forward again, arms crossed. “You’re hired,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “You start tomorrow.”

You blinked in surprise, but then your smile brightened as you stood to shake his hand. “Thank you! I won’t let you down!”

Rhysand’s grip was firm, his thumb brushing lightly over your wrist. A small, knowing smile curved his lips. “I don’t expect you to. I don’t expect mistakes, nor do I tolerate them.”

There was no malice in his words, just quiet confidence—like he already knew you’d be just fine.

You swallowed, nodding quickly as he slid a sleek manila envelope across the desk, along with a heavy, expensive-looking pen. You hesitated for only a moment before pulling out the papers, scanning through them quickly.

Your breath hitched.

Your eyes widened as you reread the number, making sure you hadn’t misread. That much money—for what? Just following him around, keeping his schedule in check, answering a few calls, and being… supportive?

Woah.

Trying to mask your shock, you steadied your hand and signed where needed before sliding the papers back toward him. You stood, reaching out to shake his hand again, this time with newfound excitement.

Rhysand clasped your hand in his, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary. His smirk deepened slightly. God, he’s enjoy this.

“Welcome to the job.”

[hcneyresources]

         — CHRISTINA NADIN GIF ICONS.

clicking the source link will take you to #88 (80x80) gif icons of model CHRISTINA NADIN from VARIOUS VIDEOS.

all gifs were made by scratch by me; do not edit, repost, or distribute in any gif hunts.   reblog this post if you use these icons. do not use these gifs in any scenarios involving taboo content.

[themaskedgifer]

Dividers -> ok to use, no need to ask, just like or reblog. 👍🏾 Please & thank you.

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 5)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: Mentions of reader's fictional father passing away.

Word Count: 3065

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

Notes: UGH, sorry if this is shit, it doesn't feel right to me rn but i'm powering through.

_________________________________________

“I’m sorry about the other night,” you tell James when your Athletic Training Techniques class breaks to practice wrapping injuries the following Monday morning.

You don’t know why you’re apologizing for Rhysands behavior. He’s the one who should be doing the apologizing, but you can’t help the prickle of guilt that has wedged itself into your chest for the way he treated James when he so rudely interrupted your chat with his teammate at the hockey party you and Mor had attended.

Rhysand had crashed into your conversation like a F5 tornado, his violet eyes set in a glare so harsh you’d think that James Attor was his biggest rival and not one of his teammates. That stormy look on his face had only made you rage in return, utilizing the crackling irritation in your veins and wielding it like lightning, snapping at him for his disrespect.

James’ brows furrow at the pre-wrap you’re applying to his wrist. His tan hand in warm in yours as you keep it steady, and you wonder if all hockey players hands are this calloused.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he says, russet eyes flicking up to meet yours. He swings his legs softly from where he’s perched atop one of the tables. It’s cute, even more so when he shrugs innocently. “That’s captain, you don’t mess with what’s his.”

What’s his? You almost scoff but catch it just in time. “I’m not his,” you respond stiffly.

James’ cheeks turn bright red and for a moment you’re worried you’ve wrapped the athletic tape too tightly but he’s quick to blurt out his response. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to say that he told the entire team to stay away from you because you’re his cousin’s best friend, not because he, like, owns you or anything.”

And well, that’s a lot better than him insinuating that Rhys wants you all to himself, which, the longer you think about it, leaves you with a gooey feeling in the pit of your stomach. One that you’re not sure you should like given the knowledge that he warned his entire team away from you.

Yeah, that thought strikes you just as harsh the second time around, and this time, you latch onto it like a leech.

“He put a teamwide ban on me?” You almost shriek. You knew that he didn’t want you talking to his team, he made that perfectly clear to you the other night, but you had no idea that he talked to the entire damn team about you!

You ignore the glare a crimson haired girl beside you shoots you. Whatever, she should mind her own business and focus on her wrapping because that girl’s arm would be drooping like a limp noodle if it were really injured.

She breaks the stare off first and you go right back to stewing. What the hell? Rhys is acting like a total barbarian over this entire situation. It’s not like you’re related to him for fuck’s sake, you’re an accessory to his cousin, and if you want to shack up with one of his players, you will, because damn his rule. “He can’t do that! I don’t even know most of the team!”

“I think the term he actually used was banished. Or was it forbidden? I can’t remember,” James trails off thoughtfully. All you can do is gape in response, completely frozen at Rhysand’s audacity. When your partner notices the look on your face, he winces. “Maybe you could bring it up with him?”

Damn right you fucking will.

There’s a pinch between James’ brows when you continue your assignment. You’re too lost in your head, brewing over Rhysand and how he forced you to pretend to be his girlfriend the other night and the fact that he told his entire team to keep away from you. It’s embarrassing to say the least.

You’re so stuck in your head that you don’t notice that you’ve pulled the tape too tight around James’ arm. He’s trying to stick a finger under your work, tugging at the bandage to get his blood flowing again. You huff and begin to unwrap, letting the news fall off your shoulders for now with a heavy exhale. “Sorry,” you mutter.

A twinge of guilt hits you. Here you are, dragging poor James into another awkward position that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with his pig-headed captain.

You have half a mind to tug your phone out of your pocket and send chew Rhys out over text. He’d given his number to you after your first tutoring session so that you could set up the next one since you were in much too of a mood after running into Amarantha and giving you the ultimatum that made your view of him go from hot and gentlemanly to hot and an absolute fucking douchebag.

And this has certainly not helped his case.

It doesn’t take long to make up a plan for yourself. You’re going to stay far, far away from the hockey house from now on. You won’t be attending any more games, no matter how much Mor begs. And you’re going to email your psychology professor about finding a replacement tutor.

If Rhysand doesn’t want you around his team, you’ll make sure that the message was well received.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m distracting you,” James says, and before you can respond, he holds a hand up, halting you. It looks silly because his hand is wrapped stiffly with your handiwork, and the both of you crack smiles at the sight.

“How does it feel now?” You ask, examining his arm. It looks good, and as you poke a prod, you think it’s tight enough, but you want a second opinion before your professor comes over to evaluate.

James twists his arm this way and that, tries to bend his wrist to feel the tension. He looks impressed, and a surge of pride overtakes the lingering irritation. “Feels good. You’re a natural at this.”

Your cheeks heat at the compliment. “Thanks, James.”

Professor Maeve makes her rounds, and echoes a job well done when she reaches your table. With a soft smile, she continues to the crimson witch beside you, and you try your very best to keep your face neutral when the professor critiques her work. You tuck your lips carefully between your teeth and switch positions with your partner.

“You know,” James says as he begins wrapping your wrist. “The hockey team’s athletic training student graduated last year and the positions open. I don’t have much sway with the coach, but if you want it, I can put in a good word for you.”

He says it like it’s no big deal. Like you haven’t been banned from interacting with any of the hockey players. Like they haven’t been warned away either.

You stare at James in confusion, until he lifts his head, and you notice the cheeky grin on his face, the glint in his amber eyes. If you’re willing to play with the captain a little bit, he’ll take your side.

And fuck do you want to stick it to Rhys right about now.

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard all week, James.”

“You know it.”

You come out of your psychology quiz feeling light.

You may not have scored a perfect hundred, but you have a feeling that you did a lot better than you have been doing thus far in the semester, and reluctantly, you have Rhysand to thank for it.

The both of you had spent Wednesday night studying in the library. You hadn’t brought up the ban, much too tired to deal with him more than you had to. He’d shot you a look of confusion when you immediately tucked into his notes and study guides without an utterance of a sarcastic remark. It had been the longest day of the semester so far, as you played catch up in psych while he worked on a paper for an astronomy class he was taking as an elective.

You don’t know what surprised you more, that he’s as nearly as good with astronomy from what you’d read of his paper, or how he managed to stay so on top of everything in his life. He’s an excellent student, excelling in all his classes, whilst being caption of the hockey team, and a tutor? You don’t know how he finds the time for all of it, because just the idea of adding anything more into your courseload this semester makes you want to melt into the floor.

But you will be, because you’re determined for the spot as the hockey teams athletic training intern.

Rhysand doesn’t have a clue, and it takes more effort than you thought it would not to blurt it out just to see the look on his face. James has been a tremendous help, setting a meeting time with his coach to meet with you at the beginning of next week. Apparently, coach Devlin cares a lot about his team. He might be harsh on you at first, James had advised, but he’ll warm up to you quickly. I think everyone will.

And well, you didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Hi honey,” your mom greets when you call her on your way back from class. It’s a brisk day on campus, and you’re cuddled in a bright orange sweater because it was the least you could do to celebrate Halloween. Students all around are either dressed to the T or in their normal garb, saving their costumes for when the night falls and they can really show out.

“Hi, mom,” you respond, biting back a laugh at a particularly funny costume. It’s one of those blow-up ones that you’re sure would not be a fan favorite in a lecture of a hundred students. It’s shaped like an alien stealing a poor human, and you’re thankful you don’t have any classes with him because sitting behind that would not be fun.

You wonder if he might be in Rhysand’s astronomy class, and debate snapping a photo to send his way, questioning his stance on aliens.

“How are you? How are classes going?”

“Good, mom, everything’s good,” you say, and it’s almost the truth.

Your mother keeps a very busy schedule and has since you were twelve, when your father suddenly passed. As her way of coping, she threw herself into her work, giving it more than 110%, and in return, she was promoted. Now, she spends most of the year traveling across the country to visit and meet with different suppliers for her company.

Usually, you’re fine with it, because she’s trying her best and you’re in college, but when you do have the rare time off for holidays and breaks, sometimes your schedules don’t quite align.

Which you know is the bad news about to come from the other side of the phone as soon she sighs heavily.

“What is it this time?” You grouse, and the good mood you’d been in after taking your quiz plummets. “No time off for parent’s weekend? No winter break this year?”

She says your name in a scolding manner. There’s a tinge of regret that you know she doesn’t expect you to pick up on, but it’s been the two of you for so long that you don’t even need to see her face to tell that she’s as sad as you are about the news. “It’s not Christmas. It’s Thanksgiving. They’re sending me over to London for a convention. I’d love for you to join me but—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you reply solemnly. “Not enough time off.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. But I promise I’ll see you for winter break. I’ll make it up to you then, and I’ll even pick you up from the airport personally.”

You have no doubt about that. Your mother spoils you, even if she isn’t the one doing the actual shopping. You love that she’s so important to her company and that she adores her job, it’s what you’re striving for too, but sometimes you wish she was around more, to give your life advice and rant to her about boys and class and anything. You spend more time talking to her voicemail than you do her.

“That sounds good.” You swallow around the lump in your throat. Tears sting the back of your eyes because you really were looking forward to seeing your mom. You haven’t seen her in months. She’d been halfway across the world when you left for college, and it had felt weird packing in your empty home and leaving it with one last longing look over your shoulder, with the memories of a happy family growing up there turned silent and eerie. “What do they have you doing instead?” You ask to be polite.

Your phone buzzes in your hand and you pull the device away from your face to check the incoming message. You’re not really paying attention to your mother’s rambling anyway, and all you really want to do is hang up on her for the sour knot she’s unknowingly put in your stomach.

Rhysand: How did it go?

You ignore the warmth that fills your chilled veins at his thoughtfulness. You’d mentioned in passing when your quiz was, and you certainly didn’t expect him to remember this on top of all the other things he has going on in his busy schedule right now.

You: Pretty sure I aced that shit.

His response comes much faster than you expected it to, especially considering you know he’s about to walk into the arena for practice. You wonder if he’s going to dress up for the party at the hockey house Mor is dragging you to, or if he’s going to be sporting something lame like wearing his jersey.

Yes, you told yourself you wouldn’t step foot in that house again, but it’s Halloween, and Mor is way more persuasive than you ever gave her credit for.

Plus, if you’re near Rhysand, it’ll be much easier to get back at him for your ban.

Rhysand: Is that so?

You bite back your amusement, typing a reply.

You: So it may not have been a 100, but I’m pretty sure it was an 85% or higher.

Rhysand: Pretty sure? I guess we’ll have to study harder so next time you’re 100% sure you’ve aced it.

You don’t know why you like the sound of that so much, but his words are encouraging, a nice change from the way your mom’s shouting spills from your speaker, snapping you back to attention.

“Sorry, mom,” you apologize, “I just remembered that I’m late for a study group. I’ll see you for winter break, okay? I love you.”

She makes a noise that’s somewhere halfway between unimpressed and amused. “Okay sweetie. Study up and stay safe tonight, okay? Happy Halloween.”

“Happy Halloween. Bye, mom. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says, and you end the call, refocusing your attention on your phone.

You: Sounds like a plan, cap.

Rhysand: Cap? Not sure I like you calling me that, if I’m being honest.

You: Why? Because I’m not allowed to talk to hockey players? Which, by means that I shouldn’t be talking to you either, right?

You shouldn’t snap, especially since you’re going to have the pleasure of being around him and can chew him out tonight, but you can’t help yourself.

Rhysand: Ugh, I’m never going to live that down, am I?

You: Not a chance.

Rhysand: How about I make it up to you? You’re coming tonight, right?

He replies to his own message before you can even answer.

Rhysand: Of course you are. It’s going to be the hottest party on campus. Why did I bother asking?

You: WOW! This tops the cake on being full of yourself, I think.

You: But if you were wanting to make it up to me…what that might look like?

You don’t realize just how much you look like another one of his simpering conquests until you catch yourself in the reflection of the door to your dorm building. A cheesy smile on your face, head stuck in your phone, oblivious to everything around you.

Jesus, get it together, girl.

You mentally scold yourself, but when your phone buzzes again, all of that is lost to the ether, and you too, diving back into your phone.

Rhysand: It might look long and hard, around eight inches I’d guess.

You choke. Eight inches? There’s no way.

While you work out the schematics of how that works with anyone, Rhysand sends a follow up.

Rhysand: I can tell you’re thinking about it. If you ask nicely, I’d be more than happy to show you. ;)

You can’t help but scoff. Where does he get off? You’d ask, but you know he’d have another cheeky response to the question.

You can’t believe this is how he messages you. This is less than professional, but you have already felt his hard body beneath yours, and how nicely you fit under his arm. It’s not difficult to picture how he might be in bed.

But he’s sworn you off! And now he’s flirting with you like he didn’t enforce those laws when he caught you speaking to James at their last party.

This boy is making your head spin.

You punch the button to call the elevator, mulling over how to respond. Maybe no response is the best response? You can’t help but feel a little fuzzy at his sweet words, and the thought sours when you realize that he’s probably talking to a multitude of women the same way. You’re not sure you want to go to the party anymore by the time you reach your dorm, not even for your revenge, because there’s no way you want to see any other girls draped all over him all night, but when you open your door, you step into chaos.

The chaos being, your roommate Mor with costumes strewn about the living room, with a wild grin on her face and a tired looking Gwyn trying to hide beneath a pile of fabric on the couch.

“Happy Halloween, bitch! It’s party time!”

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[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Obsidian Salt

Summary: A little Witch!Reader x Demon!Rhys AU for my Spooky Season Fic List

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My hands shake around the ancient text, the worn tome heavy and dust laden from years upon years of sitting on a shelf, untouched and forgotten. The old latin script is illegible in places, the ink faded and hidden under unidentifiable stains; the parchment is dog-eared and scribbled in, the margins full of strange, archaic markings I’ve never seen used in our Coven’s rune work. These are not the spells of my ancestors, not the runes my mother and grandmother cast upon the old foundations of our family home. We are a family of witches, dating back beyond the ages of written word; I am supposed to carry on that legacy, but truth be told, I’ve always been terrible at spellwork. My potions are mediocre; powers of persuasion abysmal. I truly am a poor excuse for a witch, and everyone in the coven knows it. Perhaps that is why Sister Ruth chose me to put on a demonstration at the Solstice Festival tomorrow. If I cannot prove my worth, well, maybe it is in the best interest of the coven to throw me out, or worse, make a sacrifice out of me. 

I would not be the first.

I grip the tome a little tighter. I must prove my usefulness. I cannot fail my sisters, or worse, my grandmother.  She raised eight successful witches, it would be to her utter shame to have been my teacher all these years for nothing. 

I draw a shaking breath. These spells are old magic. Dark magic. But I must get good at something quickly, and the gods know I will not get there on any natural talent. Perhaps I don’t need to be a natural. Perhaps I just need to summon something that is. 

On the old wood floor of our basement, I have laid the circle of obsidian salt in three overlapping circles, each etched with runes of chalk for protection. Just in case, I’ve dusted the floor with dried rosemary and anise seeds; an added barrier against whatever evil I might accidentally conjure if this goes wrong. My mother’s amulet feels heavy beneath my sweater, the cold iron biting against my skin as if in warning against what I am about to do.

I take another deep breath and ignore the warning. I must not fail.

The words are clunky, foreign on my tongue, the first couple of tries produces no results at all. Perhaps I really am the worst witch ever!

I grip the tome so tight the spine groans as I try again, slower this time, sounding out each word piece by piece. I will not fail.

The whole basement is lit with candles and as I finish the final words of the spell, the light suddenly snuffs itself out. 

The air in the room drops to near freezing temperatures. My hands so stiff and shaky around the old tome that the book slips from my hands and falls somewhere in the darkness. I make it onto my knees to look for it in a mad scramble before the sound of rushing wind fills the tiny room. It’s so loud I have to cover my ears with my shaking hands. 

In the center of the salt ring, dark shadows begin to slither out from a crack in the floor, hissing like a dozen tiny snakes. 

What have I done?!

I scramble to find the book in the dark, hands tearing over the anise seeds and clumps of rosemary. Perhaps the crushed scent of herbs will be enough to ward off whatever terrible shadow I’ve just called upon!

The temperature of the room continues to drop, lower and lower, even as the screeching wind gets louder and louder. The shadows within the circle grow darker and thicker by the moment, spinning now like a whirlwind. At least the salt holds. 

And then, as quickly as the noise had begun, it suddenly quiets. All the candles light themselves again, allowing me to see where I’d dropped the book: Directly into the circle, having bounced over the line, and it now sits at the feet of the most handsome male I’ve ever seen in my life.

I can do nothing but stare. I had meant to summon some help, the soul of an old mage or a spirit from another world, perhaps, but not… well, whatever he is. He’s definitely alive, his bronze, bair chest rising and falling, making the swirl of dark ink over his skin move in twining patterns. Not a spirit, though I do not know what to make of the great, bat-like wings that sprout from his back, the leathery membrane twitching as he brings them close to his body to avoid the barrier the salt creates. And his eyes! Gods, there like two blazing, violet suns inside the sharp planes of his face. 

“Well isn’t this interesting,” he purrs, voice smooth as velvet.

“Gods, what have I done?” I whisper to no one in particular.

His mouth twists in a devilish grin as he bends down to pick up my tome. From the tips of his fingers come dark claws. A bit of living shadow curls over his wrist, moving like snakes across the worn pages. “No gods here, Darling.”

I, somehow, find it within me to stand, despite my shaking legs. It is still terribly cold in this basement; the source of it seems to be coming from him. “What are you?”

He chuckles as he flips through the pages, claws running affectionately over the runes written in the margins. “Why don’t you come closer and I’ll show you?”

The longer I watch him the more off I realize he is. There are fangs in his mouth, the sharp tips of them glinting in the candlelight. Tiny, glittering drops of starlight glisten in the strands of his raven-black hair. Intertwined within the ink across his chest are smaller versions of the runes written within the pages of the book. 

“I’ll stay right here,” I say.

He sticks out his full lower lip in a pout. “That’s no fun!”

He takes a step closer to the line of salt, testing the barrier with the tip of his boot. At least I managed to summon him half-way decent in a dark, leather pair of pants and boots. I don’t know what I’d do if I had summoned him fully nude. 

My cheeks flush at the thought, drifting down to follow the defined V of his abs, and where his pants slide low on his hips. If he were human I’d climb him like a tree. 

“Don’t tell me you summoned me just to gawk?” He presses. When he catches where my eyes are on his body, he adds, “Although you’re welcome to enjoy the view for as long as you like.”

I let out a huff. “I didn’t summon you for anything! I was trying to talk to the spirits.”

“There’s only one spell that can summon me, and you picked it,” he turns the book to show me the exact page I’d been reading from. “So tell me, what is it you want, Witchling?”

The way he says Witchling makes my skin flush; the heat in his tone enough to make me second guess myself. Why did I think that spell would summon something else? 

Perhaps I am a fool for saying it, but I blurt, “I need help.”

“Do tell,” he purrs.

“I’m supposed to give my coven a display of my magic tomorrow, for the Solstice, and well… I’m kind of the worst witch ever.” 

He glances at the herbs on the floor, and then back up to me. I swear there are actual violet flames moving around within his irises. I don’t know what he is, but I don’t think it’s anything that can help me. But how am I supposed to send him back without the book?

“I meant to summon a spirit to guide me in some quick magic. I didn’t mean to summon, well, whatever you are.”

“I am many things,” he says, walking a slow circle around the barrier, testing it. It’s like watching a recently caged animal at the zoo; he’s testing every point for a weak spot, and if he finds it, he’s using it. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. What do I do if he gets out?

“But you can call me Rhys.”

If there is any heat left in the room, it leaves in a rush. “As in Rhysand? One of the Princes of Hel?”

Rhys drags his claws over the invisible barrier the salt creates and I watch the magic ripple and pulse under those sharp tips. “Perhaps.”

“You need to go back,” I say in panic, even though I know it can’t work that way. I summoned him. I have to be the one to send him back. Without the book, Hel, even with the book, I can’t do anything. 

“Then send me back, Witchling.”

I’m going to have to get my grandmother, and everyone is going to know that not only am I a failure as a witch, but I am a danger to all of us. I can’t even read a spell book right! I summoned a Prince of Hel by accident!

I chew on my thumbnail, pacing now myself around the outside edges of the salt. What do I do? What do I do?

“Oh but you can’t, can you?” He teases, knocking the book against the barrier. “Not without this pretty little thing.”

The dried herbs crunch under my boots as I keep pacing. There are no other tomes like that accessible to me, not without the Elders knowledge. This one had slipped past unnoticed in my grandmother’s grand collection, I had found it by sheer luck. There were no other texts to help me out of this one, and at this rate, even if there was, could I even get it to work?

“So how about we do this my way, hmm?”

A shiver crawls its way up my spine. 

“You break the barrier, and I will help you with your little Solstice tomorrow.”

I finally turn to look at him. “You would do that?”

“After tomorrow night, you can send me back and we can pretend this whole thing was a bad dream.”

Maybe this wasn’t a mistake after all! Maybe I can still turn this around!

“You won’t cause any trouble?” I ask.

He puts a clawed hand over his heart. “I will not cause any trouble.”

“You swear it?”

“I cannot break my word, Darling,” he returns. 

My hands shake. What other choice do I have? “Just until the Solstice passes.”

“I promise you, that is all the time I will need.” I have to admit, his voice is strangely soothing. He does not strike me as some malevolent ruler of darkness at all. 

I grab a broom off the wall. “It’s a bargain then.”

He grins wolfishly the entire time, watching my every step as I approach with the intensity of a wolf stalking a deer. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s only one night, what could one night hurt? With one last shaking breath, I drag the broom through the salt and break the seal.

The book clatters to the floor for a second time tonight, as he lunges forward, a clawed hand wrapping around my neck as his momentum propels me back against the wall. I hit the worn stones so hard dust rains down from the ceiling. 

Panic grips me; I have no magic to save me as a real witch ought. He’s taller than I thought he was, towering over me as his grip on me tightens to the point of pain, the tips of his claws leaving indents in my skin.  Rhys chuckles at my plight as he leans down and brushes his lips over mine in the ghost of a kiss. Ice fills my veins at the contact. “Silly little, Witchling, a night is more than enough to make you mine.”

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ok I just saw your Vamp!Rhys brain rot headcanons post and I'm letting you know right now if you do not develop them into full blown chapters for Vamp!Rhys I'll literally sue for emotional damages ok thank you <3

lol I suppose I can make that happen ;)

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Ancient Recipes

The bed is, surprisingly, empty when you awaken, the last rays of evening light filtering in through a crack in the curtains. Your hands brush absently through the cold sheets as if they could tell you where he’d disappeared off to. He’s not usually up this early.

With a yawn, you slide out of bed and yank on one of his discarded shirts, leaving the silky button down open down the middle in a half-hearted attempt at decency before padding off in search of him. 

The library and game room is empty, the curtains pulled tight, the air a little stuffy. You can hear Cassian snoring from behind his closed door and a tendril of shadow still guard’s Azriel’s door handle, telling you that he’s not off with either of them this early.

Eventually, you find yourself wandering down into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty too, but figuring it’s worth a shot. You’re surprised to find Rhys bent over the stove, shirtless, sleep pants slung low over his hips as he carefully chops a mix of vegetables. His ears twitch as you walk towards him, a sure sign that he hears your approach. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he says without turning. You can hear the pout in his voice without seeing the purse of those full lips you love so much.

“Missed you,” you say as you slide your arms around his waist and bury your head between his shoulder blades.

He sets the knife down long enough to run a hand over where yours hold his waist. “I was coming right back.”

You place a kiss against his spine before leaning around him to get a better view of what he’s doing. “I didn’t know you could cook?”

“I am a thousand years old, Darling,” he purrs. “That’s a long time to not learn how to prepare a meal.”

There’s an old, hand written book propped up against the stone wall, the swirling script fading under the cruel hands of time in a language long forgotten. The pages are brittle and yellow now, the date written in the corner nearly illegible. 

“What are you making?”

Skilled hands throw in diced vegetables and dried herbs into a pot simmering with some sort of red sauce. “Something my mother used to make me,” he says softly. “These are her recipes.”

Your chest tightens. He’d told you about the hunters that had killed his mother and sister not long after that night when those hunters had come for you. He’d, understandably, been on edge since, the encounter bringing up a lot of old memories he hadn’t touched. It’s little surprise that he would try and find some solace here.

“Smells good,” you say. 

He twists and pulls you in front of him, so you can watch as he works. “Can’t find all the right ingredients,” he frowns. “Some of these spices have been lost to time. I think these will work instead. Hopefully.”

Rhys dips a wooden spoon into the bubbling liquid and brings it to your lips, “Try this for me?”

You give it a second to cool before taking a taste, the mixture both earthy and spicy, but deliciously warm. “It’s good!”

“Yes, but is it right?” He insists.

You tilt your head up to look at him, brows raised, “How would I know, Rhysand? By the sound of it, most of the things you’re missing were lost to the world before my parents were even born.”

You think if he was capable of it he might have blushed against the mistake. Instead, he kisses the top of your head. “I suppose I could ask Az.” He licks a bit of the mixture, frowning as he goes, before putting the spoon directly back into the pot. Apparently a key ingredient in ancient recipes is a little bit of saliva. 

A moment later, the shadowy vampire emerges, summoned for this oh so important errand. Azriel’s dark hair is sleep tousled, shadows swirling lazily around his bare shoulders. Any other morning with the two males looking like this you would have climbed them like a tree, but this morning is apparently for other things, as Rhys nearly flings the spoon in Azriel’s direction. 

“What am I missing?” He demands.

Az takes a taste and spits it into the sink. “What did you do?!” He all but shoves the two of you out of the way to reach for the spice rack in the cupboards above your head. “Your mother would have beat you with that spoon.”

“I know!” Rhys huffs. “What did I forget?”

Azriel starts opening old jars of dried herbs and adding them into the pot. “Egg and thyme for one thing, dumbass.”

Rhys grabs the book off the counter and looks more closely at the recipe, keeping one arm around your shoulders to have you close even so. “Oh, yeah I did forget the egg.”

Azriel cracks four of them into the mixture, before throwing in more herbs. “You’re cooking it too high too.”

Rhys brushes his lips over your hair. “Wanted to bring it to you in bed before you woke up.”

You twist and lean up on your toes to give him a proper good morning kiss. “I would have loved it anyway.”

“Human taste buds are disgusting,” Azriel huffs.

You hear Cassian’s footsteps before you see the half-awake vampire stumble into the kitchen. “Are we cooking what I think we are?”

“Not if Rhys has anything to do with it,” Azriel huffs.

“It was for Y/N!” Rhys returns. “I didn’t make enough for everyone.”

“But she’s so good at sharing,” Cassian says with a wink, his sleep thick voice enough to make heat pool between your legs. 

Rhys lifts you up and places you on the counter, beside where Azriel still chops more ingredients, so he can kiss you deeper this time. “Mine.” 

“Not with your cooking she’s not,” Azriel quips. 

Cassian tuts as he comes over to Azriel’s other side and dips a finger into the now simmering pot. Azriel smacks his hand with the back of the wooden spoon and Rhys hisses, fangs glinting in the candlelight.

“How are you supposed to take care of the little human if you can’t even cook her a decent meal?” He brings his fingers to his mouth for a taste, then frowns. “Do neither of you own any peppers at all? What is this, baby food?”

“I added the aleppo, just as the recipe said!” Rhys retorts. 

“You definitely didn’t! Your mother never made anything this bland!” Cassian insists.

“I’m following the recipe!”

Azriel snatches the book, scarred hands thumbing quickly through the pages. “I remember it being spicier.”

Rhys frowns. “Maybe we’re thinking of that other recipe she used to make?”

“No that one was for dinner,” Cassian returns. “I definitely remember a spicy breakfast dish. Especially on cold winter mornings.”

“He’s right,” Azriel chimes in, eyes still glued to the pages. 

“I mean, our tastes did change when we turned, maybe we’re the problem?” Cassian asks, running a hand over his face in thought. 

“Your tastes change when you turn?” You ask.

“A little,” Rhys says with a frown, violet eyes on the dish. “Maybe you’re right, Cass. Did you think it was spicy, Darling?” 

“A little,” you reply. “It could use more, I think, but again, I’ve never tried it before so I’m not exactly an expert.”

Cass peers into the pot. “It looks right.”

Azriel sets the book back on the counter with nothing short of reverence. “Guess it is us.”

Rhys’s face falls, it’s like watching him lose a piece of the past. You take his face in your hands and kiss the tip of his nose. “I think any mother would be proud to know that you loved something so much that you put all this effort into sharing it, whether is tastes the same or not.”

His grin is soft, like the kiss he plants on your lips, taking his time to pull out of it.

“Thank you for sharing a piece of you with me,” you say.

Azriel scoops it up into four small portions, the wooden dishes old and reminiscent of a time long passed. Not the formal dining ware they bring out at parties, but a little piece of home that managed to survive the passage of time. 

It’s delicious, Az had been right about needing the egg and thyme, it brings a more rounded flavor to the dish. But it would have been equally fine if Rhys had brought the first attempt to you in bed, simply because he loved you enough to try and make something for you even when he could not fully enjoy it himself. It tastes all the better because it’s something the four of you can share, can make new memories out of. You certainly will not forget it, not even in the coming change of your mortality. 

“Well now you’ve got me curious for what other ancient recipes you’ve been hiding,” you say as the meal comes to a close. 

“You make us sound like we’re old as dirt,” Cassian huffs. 

You wink up at Rhys as he kisses your temple. “A thousand years is a long time. What else can you make for me?”

[throneofsapphics]

Manorian or rowaelin whichever couple you want x reader

Reader ghosts everyone because she’s depressed and doesn’t know how to communicate with her loved ones about it 🫠

a despair so dark light will not reach

Rowaelin x f!Reader

Summary: Rowan and Aelin notice you slipping away from them, and struggle to figuring out how to bring you back

Warnings: depression, negative self talk

Word Count: 1306

A/N: thank you for the request!

“I’m fine,” you insisted, turning back to your book. It was interesting, it was different, it wasn’t this, it wasn’t reality. In between these pages, you could escape to another universe where your problems and realities didn’t exist. 

Aelin sighed, she’d been attempting to get you to talk about what ‘was happening.’ There was nothing. It was nothing. You are nothing, a voice, eerily like your own, said in the back of your mind. 

That’s the truth of the matter, wasn’t it? You didn’t matter. Nothing fucking did. How would you explain that to the two people who love you more than anything else in the world? How the weight on your chest felt so heavy you couldn’t breathe but at the same time you existed in a state of nothingness where not even the brightest light could reach? You’d battled it since childhood, and although you hadn’t lost yet, there was still so much you missed every day. It doesn’t matter, you reminded yourself, I don’t care. 

“Please,” Aelin caught your attention with a gentle hand on your knee. Eyes blinking back into focus, she was ... Aelin was pleading on her knees with you, her hands squeezing each of your knees. “Tell me where you go when you do that. Let me in.” 

When you do what? Space out, you supposed. Pressing your lips tightly together, you debated. The hope in Aelin’s eyes at your pause broke part of you. You couldn’t do it to someone you loved, couldn’t let them in and get a taste of that all consuming despair that threatened to invade and poison all of your surroundings. Just on your own, you felt like the last block of a crumbling barricade against the rushing tide. Eventually, it would overflow but for now you’d do your best to hold it back. 

“Let us in,” Rowan knelt behind her, his own arm reaching over to brush against your shoulder. “Please,” he repeated her word. 

You turned your head away, “I said it’s nothing,” the phrasing had a tad more bite than you intended. They didn’t deserve to be saddled with your inconsequential issues, no matter how much they asked for it. You could handle it on your own, you’d been handling it for years. 

Are you really, thought? The voice said. 

“Then come to breakfast with us. I’ll make sure your favorites are there,” Aelin tried, her voice shaking slightly. You thought you heard her tears. You didn’t look. Couldn’t look. 

“Alright,” you whispered, a soft agreement, knowing you had to give them something or they wouldn’t leave you to your own devices. 

“Alright,” Aelin breathed as if it was a sacred vow, and you hated the relief in her voice. 

It started with the small things. It always did. One missed dinner, nobody remarked on it. Two missed dinners, nobody batted an eye. Three, inquiries about your absence. Four, someone went to look for you. 

Aelin found you sleeping, decided not to disturb you, and made excuses for your absence, that you were ill, not feeling well, overworked. 

It went on like this for months, them making excuses for why you never showed up to meals anymore. 

You never needed an excuse for work, no you were high functioning, and always took care to show up to any mandatory obligations that could have negative professional consequences. 

You thought you had it under control. Really, you were spiraling so far down into a dark place it would take the hottest sun to drag you out of it.

The next morning, you couldn’t get off the couch. They didn’t ‘wake’ you - you were a master at faking sleep - when they snuck past to go to training, maybe they should have. That invisible weight pushed you back two inches for each inch you moved forward, and eventually you gave up. When they came to get you, you feigned sleep. 

It was impossible to hide your insomnia from them, and you knew they wouldn’t interrupt what precious sleep you could get. Often they’d wake to find you asleep in strange places throughout the room, despite starting out in the bed with them. 

That afternoon, Rowan brought a healer. 

“Just figure out what’s wrong,” he said.

‘Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.’ the word echoed like a horrible melody in your mind. 

The healer took your vitals, asked how often you ate, exercised, went outside, how your mood was, if you felt depressed, and a thousand other questions you answered in a monotone voice. 

Maybe you should’ve been honest, but you didn’t want to worry anyone unnecessarily and with Rowan hovering in the corner, you felt you couldn’t really tell them. 

“Your Highness, could you please step out of the room?” The healer asked pleasantly, patting you on the knee. She was older, you could tell even with the Fae’s gift of eternal youth. Slight lines showed in her forehead and around the corners of her eyes. Signs of a happy life. 

Rowan, begrudgingly, left after you mouthed it was fine. 

“Now dearie,” for some reason her voice was soothing rather than irritating, usually you didn’t like names like that, “you can answer my questions honestly. Anything you say won’t go back to them, it’ll stay right between us and we’ll figure it out together.” 

You looked at her, really looked at her and studied her expression. Unwavering. She didn’t flinch at your unabashed stare, didn’t turn away, didn’t so much as twitch. Like she’d been doing this and dealing with these types of situations for centuries. It gave you some hope. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Here’s a start, perhaps there’s nothing wrong with you, just different,” her eyes lightened slightly. Perhaps she felt the weight of an order from her King. Or she genuinely wanted to help you. You didn’t know which thought was you and which was the darkness living inside of you. 

The conversation felt like a steady push and pull, a battle of wills between you and the healer. At the end, the two of you came up with a plan. One small change. Get outside at least once a day, no matter the time of day or if it was just strolling onto your balcony. 

The healer, Elka, was trained as a mind healer too. You felt slightly tricked when she revealed that at the end. 

The people who loved you most thought you were insane. But you supposed the normal healers hadn’t turned up anything and you couldn’t blame them for trying, it was something you would do after all. 

Despite your high hopes after the first session, progress was slow and you felt yourself almost worsening. 

You learned how to portray to the world that you felt alright, but in private ...

The last thing you wanted was to wake them, especially when they had busy and important things to do in the morning. In other words, the last thing you wanted was to burden them. You made your way to the old rooms you used back when you first moved into the castle, and shook the dust off one of the pillows. 

Sliding under the soft slightly stagnant comforter, you curled on your side and hugged your knees to your chest. 

For the first time in months, the true weight of your self-imposed isolation crashed down on you and you tasted the salt of a tear hitting your upper lip. 

You were woken before six in the morning to a slightly angry Fae storming into your room. 

“This is where I draw the line,” he pulled back the comforter and shifted you into his arms, bridal style. “You can sleep in our fucking bathtub if you can fall asleep there,” he pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your forehead, “but I’ll be damned if you sleep in another room again.” 

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