guys i swear i didnt just fall off and ghost you all.
i went in for a completely routine OB appointment and ended up having my baby! he was so big i had to have a c-section which was the most terrifying experience of my life but the aftermath of it has been the most rewarding thing ever.
i’m still healing and learning my new routine but more updates are soon to come.
please feel free to leave requests in my inbox, been feeling newly creative since being postpartum and writing has been helping combat the possibility of catching the baby blues🩵
hi!! I have this little idea (if you’re okay with that) of reader being cassian or azriel’s sister who has a thing for rhysand, and growing up she would always want to spend time with them but they would always just leave her chasing behind them because they’re doing “boy stuff”. Fast forward, they’re all grown up and Rhysand sees that her friend group treated her badly and they keep making plans without her and he goes all protective over her and realizes he has feelings for her
Background Noise
pairing: rhysand x reader
warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows
—
Solitude and you had become fast friends.
You were used to being left alone.
Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.
They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”
“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.
No one wants to be friends with a dud.
A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.
You learn to adapt.
Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.
“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.
“I’d rather suffer.”
Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”
“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”
Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.
You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.
Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.
The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.
He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”
Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”
“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”
He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”
The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”
“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”
Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.
It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.
Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.
It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”
“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”
Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”
“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”
“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”
His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.
He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.
It doesn’t work.
Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.
“Maybe we should go look for her?”
“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”
Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.
It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.
“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”
You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.
To find safety.
Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”
“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.
It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”
Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.
Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.
The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.
You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.
Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”
They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.
Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.
Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.
He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.
You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.
“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”
“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”
“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”
The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”
“What? No. This is your home.”
“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”
The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.
Confess.
Or watch you flee.
His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”
You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.
He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.
You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.
He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”
“Rhys.”
“I will choose her,” He confesses, his heart pouring out on a platter and seeping into the rug below. “She belongs to me, brother. If you don’t fix this, I will choose her over you.”
AHHHHHHHHHH That story was something else bestie, your SLAYED 💕💕💕💕
Reader is better than me tho because if I found out he slept with Nesta, I would've kicked him to the curb no questions asked
trust me if there wasn’t a mating bond involved in the equation, i swear she would’ve woohoo’d with tarquin on cassian’s bed as revenge.
but for once i didn’t wanna be the vindictive reader and go lower since so many people requested a happy ending and idk how she could’ve come back from getting her cheeks clapped in her exes bed 😬
either way, i’m so happy you enjoyed, hugs n kisses 💋
Will there be a part 3? I need her to wake up in the morning and regret it/make him work for it fr 💕💕💕
love this idea but absolutely not 😭
i fear this may be too angsty for me, i WILL take it too far and all of a sudden we’re hunting down witches deep in the Middle for a spell to break mating bonds then spending the rest of our lives a shell of a human being, destroying love for yourself and any other parties involved.
plus, the majority desired angst to fluff but feel free to let ur imagination roam on how you would’ve liked it to go🩷🩵
Congratulations on being pregnant!! When I was 7 1/2 months pregnant I was literally bedridden because of severe round ligament pain, I could barely walk around the house because it hurt so bad.
So take your time posting, if and when you can get to it. But if you need to focus on the baby we all (or at least I) will understand!!
Hope the rest of your pregnancy and delivery is smooth, safe and as pain free as can be! 💖
ugh don’t even get me started, the back/pelvic pain has been torture!! finding a comfy position is dang near impossible but i only have a few weeks left to go now (currently 33 weeks)
thank you so much for your kind words, understanding and encouragement🥹🩷 hugs, kisses and blessings to you and yours
AHHHH I'm trying to hard to distract myself and keep myself from checking in ;( your writing has me in a choke hold!! Do you have any timeline for when Fool For You pt2 may come out? Or maybe you can post little ideas or snippets you're thinking about having? If this is super annoying plz ignore and take it as a compliment that I can't get your fics out of my brain (I have also caught up on your master list lol). Any way I hope you're having a good day regardless <3
not annoying at all! i’m so happy you’ve been enjoying everything 🥹🩷 part 2 of fool for you is officially out and linked to part 1 or your can find it in the cassian section of my master list. enjoyyy and have a safe night (or morning depending on where ur from)
warnings: angst to fluff, sexual tension, vague smut, swearing, implied substance abuse, implied suicidal ideation, men being dumb but grovelling, not edited so be nice
summary: a part 2 based off this request
—
Food curdles in your stomach, the pallor of your skin a little green when you return to the dining room. The desire for dessert has passed even when you can smell the appealing notes of a warm cinnamon sugar crust under baked red apples.
There are words being spoken, toasts made with heartfelt speeches about your hard work and irreplaceable position in the inner circle. You do your best to appear engaged, smiling when appropriate and nodding in acknowledgment but you can’t stop thinking about Elain’s words—how only a few syllables has sent the entirety of your nervous system into a fritz.
Thankfully, wine is poured in excess and most of your friends are too tipsy to notice your inability to relax into your seat.
The table is cleared shortly after, the group begins to gather around the fireplace, pulling out deck of cards and tossing gold coins in the middle of a table. Boisterous bets are placed, Fey and Rhys whispering promises of personal prizes if one of them wins big.
You use the opening to break away from the chaos, seeking solace on the balcony where the cool breeze carried away the cold sweat breaking out along your forehead.
You barely get ten breaths in before another presence is detected. Their steps are heavy, unguarded; familiar even and once their scent catches in the breeze you don’t even have to turn to know who’s there.
“Was hoping I’d find you alone.”
You hate the way your heart jumps at the sound of his voice. Despising the way you subconsciously straighten the fit of your top or wiping away mascara residue that maybe transferred when rubbing at your face. Either way, your nerves won’t let you mince words. “You need something?”
Cassian doesn’t seem offended by your blunt tone, taking a few steps closer until you can feel his heat radiating at your side. “Just some answers.”
“About what?”
“Come on, are you really going to play dumb about this? I know you can feel it too. I know that you know—I can smell it on you.” You avoid his stare, swallow thickly when he turns to face you head-on. Goosebumps loiter your flesh when he dares to brush away stray hairs that have blown across your cheeks but you recoil when you consider the fact that he’d done that to some other female recently. The hope in his eyes falters at your flinch, defeat coating his tongue. “Just tell me how long you’ve known.”
You shrug, arms crossing over your chest as you will your voice to remain steady—strong. “What’s the point? The bond is a suggestion, not a requirement.”
“Maybe that’s the truth for you but it means so much more to me.”
“Is what you feel supposed to matter to me now?” Strength returns in the shape of anger or maybe even frustration because all of a sudden you’re consumed by it, cadence overtaken by betrayal. “Because, I’ve always considered you before. I loved you, cherished you, remained loyal even before I’d known about any divine connection declaring us equals. But you? You betrayed me. Y-you humiliated me and made me second guess myself—caused me to doubt my worth because you allowed yourself to be distracted by a pretty face and a little power to back it up.” You barely notice the tears streaming down your face, only realizing they’re there when it tickles down the column of your throat. “All I’ve ever done is think about you and look how that ended up for me.” Palms wipe the wetness off your cheeks, nose sniffling away the emotion clogging your sinuses. You turn away, ashamed of the vulnerability that you can’t seem to rid yourself of. “Where is she anyway? I’d assumed the two of you would be fused at the hip given the opportunity to publicly flaunt your union.”
Cassian is quiet. Quiet enough to hear the way he sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, it whistles sharply, evidence of the numerous breaks it’s endured over the decades. “She moved away.” He confesses, using the time to take you in. Your hairs longer, skin more tan; you’ve lost weight, the bones of your hips more prominent than before. He wonders if you worked too hard in attempts to forget him. “She’s with Eris now.”
You can’t contain the laugh you bark out. Hands brace on the balcony rail, head thrown back as they overtake you, shoulders shaking and tears gathering in the corner of your eyes. “You left me for her,” You can barely catch your breath. “—and she left you for another. Gods, karma’s a bitch.”
“He’s her mate.”
“Well, I hope he cherishes her more than you ever bothered to with me.”
That seems to trigger his temper, a fire burning in his eyes when he forces you to face him. A seriousness you never associate with him lives in the lines of his face, it hardens the line of his cheekbones, the set of his lips, accentuating the way he’s lost sleep over imagining this very moment. He supposes this is the best possible outcome, you spitting jabs his way knowing he’ll take it—he’s certainly earned your ire. But the newfound connection that exists between you two makes the feelings amplify tenfold, settling in his bones as if the emotion belongs to him instead. It’s confusing, consuming, exhilarating and a bit exhausting but it’s everything he’d ever prayed for with a female who’d been standing right in front of him this whole damned time. “Look, I get that I hurt you and you have every right to be upset and want to hurt me back but—“
“Hurt me?” You scoff, pretending that his touch doesn’t send electricity buzzing beneath your flesh. That his grip doesn’t have your heart racing and blood pumping a mile a minute. You blame it on the bond the way your body remembers the feel of him manhandling you the way he pleases, positioning you in a way that best suits him. “I’m not hurt anymore, Cassian. I’m mad as Hel.”
—
Sleep evades you that night, unable to even step foot in the room once shared with a love that has run its course.
The library is a suitable replacement, leather couch baring your weight as the fireplace before it warms you to the bone. One could argue that you were too close, the flames so near it turns your skin red; nose rosy and lips dry but it’s as similar as can be replicated of a large body sharing the sleep space.
It’s not until you’ve sat up, arms stretching and a yawn cutting through the silence do you notice another presence in the space you’ve quietly claimed. “Az?” Shadows perk up at the way you whisper his name, azure eyes parting from the window, away from the city he so valiantly protects.
“You know, you talk in your sleep.”
You nearly trip on the couch leg in your rush to him, arms thrown around his shoulders for a hug. His sentient extensions of him dance through your hair, tickling at your ears fondly like curious little children. “When’d you get in?”
“Early this morning, was waiting for someone to finish their work so I could bring them along for tonight.”
“Bring them along?” Azriel barely acknowledges your Summer acquired pajamas or their skimpiness, his gaze returning to its surveillance of the outdoor surroundings. “You have a girlfriend I don’t know about?”
“I could. You haven’t been around much.” Your lips purse, an apology on the tip of your tongue before Az shrugs off whatever contempt had begun to rear its ugly head. You aren’t offended, certain that his words stemmed more from self-loathing than any real anger directed towards you. He was like that sometimes, envious of the way his family was able to come and go as they please while he was anchored to this Court due to his high profile—his rarity. “I was asked to bring a friend of yours. Though, I suppose it should be me asking if you’ve run off and found new romance given the way they spoke of you the whole way here.”
“Tarquin and I are just friends.”
A smug little smile begins to etch itself in the crease of his mouth—a hint of a dimple dipping against his cheeks. “I never said it was Tarquin.”
“Oh shut up, we’ve gotten close since—“ You scramble for a vague enough word to explain the rift that grew between family after Cassian had left you. After you left everyone without a word. Nothing feasible pops up, gaze drifting off, voice dying out. Arms cross over your chest, that shameful feeling beginning to return but Azriel slays it away before it can really set root.
“I understand.” Frustration is evident in the way his jaw clenches, tendons straining against the delicate skin, pushing against inky tattoos and three day old stubble. “Just hope you don’t think replacing us because of Cassian’s wrongs is the way to go. We’ve missed you around here.”
You nod jerkily, leeching off the warmth he emits and re-familiarizing yourself with the comforting scent he gives off. “That’s…you’re right that’s on me. I was avoiding and took it too far.” You peer up at him, a glossy sheen lining your vision. “Forgive me?”
“I can consider it—if you give me all the details about you and this High Lord you’ve captivated.”
“You’re a glutton for gossip.”
“I’m a spy, I’m collecting valuable intel so don’t leave out a single thing.”
—
An hour later, clothes are changed, hair is done, beds are made and the extravagance of your birthday begins. Rhys insists on a shared breakfast before the group bites into the real meat of the itinerary planned for the day. It’s supposed to be fun, perhaps a little festive at the very least. All that flies out the window, tensions running high the moment Tarquin steps foot through the door, his presence gravitating towards yours like magnets searching for their counterpart.
Cassian hates every second of it.
Tarquin is too familiar, too comfortable; too touchy. He takes it upon himself to fix your plate, pour your wine—no, champagne and orange spritz. Your favorite, he claims. His hands frequent your body, tugging at the hem of your top to examine the Night Court fabrics, adjusting the necklace you wear, flicking at the earrings dangling from your lobes. Mid-conversation he collects a few strands of your hair that keeps falling across your cheek and absently begins braiding—you don’t flinch away. You don’t even so much as miss a beat in your words, body language completely lax as if things like this happens everyday.
“You’re going to lose a molar grinding your teeth like that.”
Cassian can’t even tear his eyes away long enough to spare his brother the time of day. Azriel wouldn’t have known he heard if it weren’t for the way the soldiers stance shifts, adjusts; braces himself before he does something stupid like procure a broad sword and use it to slice Tarquin’s hands clean off. “She tell you if something happened between them?”
“Didn’t mention anything of that nature to me,” Azriel watches too while forking eggs onto his plate, distantly amused at the way the High Lord fawns over you. Showering your work in his Court with compliments, explaining to Rhysand and Feyre how quickly you’ve clicked with the people and wedged your way into the town like a true native. “Either way, it looks like she’s got him wrapped around her finger.”
“I can see that. I don’t like it.”
Azriel shrugs, instigating just a little. “She’s not a kept female, she’s free to do as she pleases. You made sure of that.”
Cassian doesn’t answer right away, every thought formed is laced with violent intent. He imagines murder, pictures homicide; criminal offenses that would surely break out into a war. He pictures Tarquin’s head rolling on the hardwood, blood seeping through that stupidly expensive rug that Rhys had imported from Winter Court a half decade ago.
He barely realizes he’s blatantly staring, mind fixated on pulling out a High Lord’s teeth with his bare hands. Stringing him up by his toes and using his soft underbelly as target practice for his battle axes. Each thought grows more vicious than the next until a familiar feeling penetrates his psyche, talons tapping at the poorly concealed mental shields that loosened in his indulgence of murderous delusions. “Stop staring like that, it’s getting creepy.”
Hazel eyes flicker to Rhys at the head of the table, his grip on his silverware annoyingly posh when spearing through fluffy pancakes and breakfast sausage. “Then make him stop touching her.”
“I don’t recall her making demands like that when you put your paws on another.” His brothers words bite, though Cassian is sure that’s the intent because his shoulders sag like a puppet with their strings cut, spine slumping into his seat as his hypocrisy smacks him clear across the face. “She hurt for you, now it’s your turn to bleed and endure.”
Bleed and endure he does.
Tarquin doesn’t hold back for any male.
He makes it his mission to capture and maintain your attention. Whispering comments in your ear, jokes that make you grin over the rim of your glass; coaxing you out of the shell that heartbreak swept you into.
“We’re excited to have you here,” Mor directs towards your companion, a knowing grin on her mouth. “A little birdy told me how fun you get off faerie wine and tonight we’re all going to Rita’s to celebrate.”
“Rita’s?”
You refill your champagne, shifting slightly in your seat. “It’s a club we frequent—best bar in the city.”
“Not as good as Benny’s, I’m sure.”
You huff out a laugh, it’s not exactly pretty but it’s real and Cassian is forced to set down his glass before it shatters to pieces in his grasp. “I’m not sure anything quite compares to Benny’s.”
Mor’s brows raise, a whiny noise clawing up her throat as she complains about you both and your inside jokes. A blush forms before Tarquin even begins opening his mouth. “Benny’s is our Rita’s, except it has this pole in the middle of the room and past midnight they host challenges to see who’s brave enough to dance on it. Winner gets free drinks for the rest of the night.” His shoulders shake with laughter when your blush grows up your neck, brightening up the point of your ears. “Your emissary has won twice already.”
Laughter ensues, little quips made at your expense but you take it in stride; basking in this one little moment that finally feels like something you remember. Comfort and joy, casual happiness around the people you used to know your place amongst.
It’s a damn shame all that fades when your gaze shifts to your right, catching on the seething Commander who watches you like you’re something he lost—something he wishes to reclaim and obtain.
You physically shake yourself out of that thought. You’ve been fooled once following your feelings and twice burned is too much to comeback from.
Reminding yourself of the pain endured is a never-ending task. Phantom pains live within your body with every step, aches with every movement, only dulled when plied with imported wines and puffs of rolled joints while Mor and Feyre spend countless hours filling your time—refusing to leave you alone long enough for you to get lost in your own mind.
To be fair it works, the sun rising and falling before you can track the hours, minutes, or seconds that pass. Every moment is filled with a plan; shopping, mani-pedi’s, snack boards and gossip while the three of you rustle about newly acquired outfits for the night.
They squeeze you into something tight and shiny, figure glistening in gold with a slit so high up your left leg it broadcasts the cut of your hipbone. You’re forced to forgo underwear, modesty hidden by nothing more than a slip of fabric. The wine makes it difficult to care much. High heels alter your train of thought, more worried about balancing in five inch heels rather than what would happen if a stiff breeze were to show off the naughty bits. Earrings dangle from your lobes, makeup is spread across your eyelids and fanned through your lashes. Gloss is smeared across your lips and the imprint of your mouth stains your wine glass with every sip.
All three of you are tipsy by time you saunter down the stairs in a group of clicking heels, girlish giggles and one final smoke puff of mirthroot before you join with the males downstairs.
They serve as perfect bodyguards, holding you upright when your inebriation robs you of your coordination. Grin down at you when words slur together and sentences are abruptly interrupted by laughter. You’re allowed a little recklessness now that you have your family to keep an eye on you but Cassian’s lingers the longest. His hand hovers the closest. His worry festers with every shot taken, concern growing with every misstep and casual bump of your shoulder against his arm. He knows you’ve reached your limit when your foot drags along his calf under the table—an action done purely subconsciously, without thought.
He doesn’t move away. Skin buzzing at the contact.
Azriel spares his brother a look a few hours later before he slinks off into the night, one that screams might as well take the chance before you never have the opportunity again.
You slowly recognize the pattern of your friends filtering off in their own pairs; couples breaking away until it’s just you and the bar. “Can I get—“
“The tab.” A voice rumbles over your own, a small pouch of coins is sifted through and gently tossed over the bar top. It takes a second for your vision to focus long enough to fully put a name to face even if your body recognizes who it is as if it were an extension of yourself. “Come on, sweetheart. Time for bed.”
He expects you to fight him, to shove his hands away given the way your skin usually winces at the mere thought of him. Instead, you sink into his grasp, leeching his warmth, all but forcing him to carry your weight when you mumble something about your feet hurting in your heels.
He indulges you albeit selfishly. Cassian can’t help the way he melts when you drop your head into his shoulder, breath fanning along the length of his neck. Fingers grip onto the fabric of his top and toy with the ends of his hair. “Where are you going?” You slur out, gaze blurry but still cognizant of the route being taken. “The House of Wind is the other way.”
“You haven’t stepped foot in your room at the House. I figured you’d want to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch.”
There’s a brief pause. Your grip shifts on his shoulder. “I didn’t think anyone noticed that.”
Cassian’s lips purse, a sigh deflating the muscled pump of his chest. “I see you.”
A little scoff escapes you, breath tickling at his collarbone. “Yeah, now.”
“You’re drunk, we should wait to talk about this when you’re of sound mind.”
“No,” You shift in his grasp, head perked up as you stare at the side of his face. “We should now before I lose the nerve to say anything at all. I want to know—what do you see in me now that you never saw then?”
In retrospect, you should be alarmed that he knows the exact route to your personal residence. Should be angry that he knows precisely where you keep the spare key and irritation should brew in your belly the way he comfortably maneuvers around the space once inside. “Me leaving had nothing to do with you. Not really.”
“Then just tell me. I deserve the truth—for closure at the very least.”
It’s a struggle to let him go when he crouches down to set you on your couch. He’s on his knees when he answers, fingers undoing the tie of your heels around your ankle. “My whole life has been this never ending story of struggle and pain and hardship. I couldn’t tell you one time growing up where I experienced genuine kindness without the expectation of giving something in return. I can’t recall the softness of a mothers touch or the strength of a fathers love. I don’t know how to be gentle,” His hands shake when he takes your heels to the shoe rack by the door. He moves easily around your kitchen, knows which cabinets to open to procure a glass and is fully aware of where you keep the cold water in the fridge infused with berries and mint. “I was made to pillage and kill and destroy. I barrage my way through towns, scavenge their treasures and burn them to the ground in the name of my High Lord. That’s all I know—death and destruction. Hel, they call me Lord of Bloodshed, it’s engrained in the very marrow of my bones.”
“Cassian.”
“You are nothing like me.” He finally meets your stare, palms flat against cool granite, wings taut at his back. “You are kind, you’re generous; you’re selfless to a fault and I found myself…I found myself running through all the ways that being with me would destroy that part of you. I feared that being with me would snuff your light out.” Something serious fills his iris, burning gold looks at you but see’s right past you. His voice hardens, his shoulders stiffen to a straight line, spine like a metal rod. “Nesta is a cruel female—she is hard edges and clipped responses with words that cut like blades. There was not a loving or nurturing bone in her body. It was harsh and grating like sparring in the desert for days with no water and I got involved with her because I assumed that was all I deserved. Someone who bled and could make me bleed in return.”
It’s a sad realization. A harsh truth. One that makes the liquid courage burning through your veins dissipate like water droplets under the sun. Salty tears well in your eyes without any real reason and you struggle to keep them at bay. Bare toes draw up to the plush couch cushions, knees propping your chin up as your arms wrap around your shins to hide the frantic beat of your heart.
It’s all for naught. You keep forgetting about the divine connection you share with him, so accustomed to it being one sided that you don’t even realize how your shields have crumbled and you’re pushing uncapped emotion down the bond. All that shame and self-deprecation, the hatred and anger, the depression and brokenness you tried to patch up with distance and substances. “Did you—“ You hesitate, suck in a steadying breath. Attempt to appear stronger than you are and his wings drop an inch as he feels everything you do, the way you muster up a crumb of courage and build this armor around you. The selfless way you gentle your tone as to not scare him off in his moment of honesty. “Do you love her?”
“No. I don’t love her.” The answer is immediate, like a band snapping against skin and you don’t detect any lie. For some reason that makes the tears stream down your cheeks even harder, bottom lip wobbling with vulnerability.
“Did you sleep with her?”
Cassian sighs. “Not while we were together.”
“Okay.” You nod to yourself, trying to absorb the information. To close doors whose shadows have haunted you for months. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“That’s it?” He’s bringing you over a glass of water, dress shirt unbuttoned enough to show the planes of his chest and you struggle to not notice. “You don’t have anything else to say?”
“What else matters, Cass? What happened, happened. We both made our choices and I have a contract—I’ll be spending three months in Winter Court once I finish tying up lose ends in Summer, then I’ll be gone another three months in Spring to try and facilitate come semblance of unity between them and us.”
He scoffs at the business-like tone you take, he sits too close on the couch next to you. His thigh covers the length of your bare toes, warmth instantly settling in even if goosebumps liter your skin in direct contradiction. “What else matters? Us, we’re so unfinished. You can’t tell me you expect me to know about our bond and just let you go? To just let Tarquin swoop in and steal you from under my nose? Not a chance. I’d rather die.”
“I almost died.” You pull away from him, forcing distance even if every atom of your being protests against it. “Do you really think this was easy for me? That I just disappeared off to another Court, found some fun little fling and have a hot High Lord to fuck?” A calmer version of yourself would be worried about your volume, concerned about eavesdropping neighbors or bystanders passing the open windows and catching a glimpse of your dirty laundry. You can’t find it in yourself to care when you finally have Cassian’s full attention—now you can unleash every burden he’s cursed you with right back onto him tenfold. That desire only grows when you see the jealous curve of his brow, the grip on his glass that borders on too tight. “He’s not my lover since you’re so concerned. More like a glorified babysitter because the hole you left in my chest couldn’t be filled with any male or the substances they provided —trust me, I tried!”
You don’t mean to laugh, it’s not funny. Nothing about this was funny but the dam has opened and all of its contents spill free without any warning to those in its path.
“He’s my friend.” You spit out, cheeks flushed. “We’ve gotten close, I care for him. Nothing about it has ever been flirtatious or sexual. Are you satisfied now?”
He rises to his full height, two of his strides taking up the space needed to stand before you. “I won’t be satisfied until things between us are good again.”
“You’ll be waiting a while, General. I may be mated to you but I don’t trust you.”
Cassian isn’t deterred in the slightest at the way you snap his rank in his face. He barrels through the distance you try to keep like a bull barraging past red cloth. He walks you into a corner, the bare skin of your back meeting cool drywall. You stare up at him defiantly, not scared by his bulk or brawn. The cloak of his wings blocking out most of the golden light casting through the living space. “But, do you love me?”
“Cassian—“
“I’m a stupid male. I hurt you and I will spend the rest of my miserable existence making it up to you but I have to know.” Knuckles brush the curve of your cheek, thumb grazing over the plush of your mouth and you pray to the Mother above that he doesn’t notice the tremble that ensues from the touch. “You have to tell me—do you love me? Can you still love me despite it all?”
“That depends.”
Cassian presses closer, trapping you against his bulk. You can smell the shampoo he used, the woodsy body wash that lingers on his skin and the cologne that latches onto the fabric of his shirt. “On what?”
“On how serious you plan on taking this. I’ve been burned by you once and while I do believe in forgiveness I don’t believe in being made into a fool while you figure out what you feel you deserve for yourself.” Your voice is but a whisper, eyes scanning the familiar lines of his face until you can’t help but get stuck on the shape of his mouth. The way his tongue darts out to wet them. “I love you but I won’t act on that at the expense of being taken advantage of. I deserve better than that.”
“You do,” His touch wanders lower, grazes down the column of your neck, traces the line of your collarbone, ghosts over the swell of your breasts over the fabric of your dress. Goosebumps raise, a soft gasp pulling free when Cassian drops to his knees before you. “I’ll do whatever it takes to regain your trust. I’ll do anything to earn you back. I’ll swear it, vow it, bargain my life for it—for you.”
Blaming the bond for what you allow next, you can’t help but assist him in tugging the hem of your dress up. He groans when he see’s a lack of undergarments, forehead dropping to your abdomen, nose nudging at the mound of your sex. Your scent evades his senses, grip going feral when he re-familiarizes himself with the shape of your hips, the curve of your thighs, the full slope of your ass. “Cass—“
“You’ve been bare under here all night?”
“Panty lines are tacky.” You pant like a dog in heat, back arching when one leg is quickly lifted and thrown over his shoulder. Painted toes tickle at the leathery texture of his wings, a violent shudder rippling through his body. “Please don’t tease,” One hand braces behind you on the wall, hips bucking forward as you desperately chase the heat of his mouth, melting into the wet kisses he trails up your inner thighs. “Waited too long for this.”
Cassian groans at the implication of no one touching you since the last time he had, some possessive piece of him flaring with pride. Every touch is charged, electrified; zaps of pleasure shooting up your very being when his tongue finally laps at where you need him most. Fingers dig into the thick of his hair, urging him closer, head tipping back when he teases at your clit, fingers prodding at your entrance and filling you full until legs shake and moans spill free like wine poured in a glass.
When it all becomes too much, he bares the brunt of your weight, lifting you as easy as linen, folding you like cloth when you’re carried to the couch and spread out like a freshly prepared feast.
All you can hear is your moans and his groans, the filthy promises he vows to keep while your essence drips down his chin. It glistens in the stubble of his beard, leaks trails down the cut of his chest until your fingers are straining to tug it off of him. You yearn for more, whimpering it out like some helpless animal, pouting when he takes too long to unbutton it so more skin can touch your own. “Missed this,” He confesses, abdomen bare and breeches untied. Two fingers spread you wide for his viewing pleasure, golden irises eating up the flesh you expose when the thin straps of your dress slip away, the swell of your breasts spilling free and nipples perking from the midnight chill. “I missed you. So soft, you know? Always so fucking soft.”
Too bad you want anything but soft. Rising up, this kiss you initiate is everything but delicate, a clash of lips and a battle of tongues; your taste mixing with his own. Teeth bite into the fat of your lip, Cassian’s grip traveling to your neck to tilt you to the side so more teeth can make their mark along the length of your neck, into the dip of your clavicle. Bruises are suckled along your shoulder, down your chest, possessively across your breasts. “Cass please,” You arch into his touch, brows crinkling under the pleasure he sends through your body—through this sacred bond you’d spent so long enduring on your own. Everything is amplified with his own feelings in the mix, desires becomes carnal need, love feels more like obsession, pleasure feels like drowning with no urgency to come up for air. Nails bite into thick muscle, the heels of your feet urging the waistband of his pants down low, low, lower until the turgid length of him is freed and pressing against you. “Need you inside.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you serious about this?” You counter, the head of his cock nudging the slick warmth between your thighs. “About us?”
“Fixing what I broke is a covenant I will keep as long as there is breath in my body.” A gasp releases when thick swirled lines magically ink his flesh, beginning at the base of his heart and ending at his jaw.
A visible brand.
A bargain set in stone.
A promise embedded in the very marrow of his bones and filtering through his bloodstream.
“Whatever it takes, I will do.” Foreheads touch, bodies connect and for once in months you feel full—whole. “I am yours and you are mine.”
y’all are actually rioting in my inbox for part 2 for fool for you. i swear it is still coming but this weekend was my baby shower and i am literally 7 1/2 months pregs. throw a girl a bone please 😭
are we getting a pt2 for fool for you? it’s so good and i’ve been thinking about it since you posted 😭
i’m so happy you enjoyed it! 🥹 and, yes a part 2 is coming really soon! it’s just gonna be really long since it’ll be the final part. im well over halfway through it though so maybe give it a week? and it’ll be up 🩷🩵
warnings: angst, swearing, suicidal ideation, implied torture, reader who comes back wrong
summary: You get sent on a solo mission in place of Azriel. The information is obtained but at a price—a piece of your soul.
Lilithen; fallen from grace.
—
You really can’t fault Mor for trying.
Using you as her personal doll as she sifts through her endless collection of clothes. You truly aren’t sure how she’s managed to fit so many different fabrics into one closet but you wait patiently as she sifts through a slew of options.
Soft silks, breezy linens, warm cashmeres, skin tight leathers and sultry gossamers. “Is this really necessary?”
She barely flicks a glance your way, raising items to your form and making a face before delving back into the endless fray of choices. “Absolutely. Look good, feel good.”
A prominent piece of you yearns to admit that you haven’t felt much of anything lately but refrain in favor of being on the receiving end of yet another pitying look. Instead, you keep your mouth shut, sitting pretty on Mor’s made bed while freshly manicured nails rake through the fluffy fibers of the throw blanket beneath you.
The windows are open, a cool breeze sifting through and caressing over your bare skin, dressed in nothing but your skivvy’s as you wait for Mor to finally decide on something suitable for a night out. She’s already done your hair, spending far too much time carding through thick strands until you’re forced to linger around the house with tissue paper curls pinned to your scalp. You suppose it was worth it, bouncy ringlets now cascade down your shoulders in a way that makes you look more put together. Enhancing makeup makes your eyes pop, accentuates your cheekbones, draws attention to the pretty pout of your mouth until Mor grins with satisfaction.
Your only job is to not fuck it up.
To pass time, you peer up at the stars. Listen to the city come to life as the sun retreats so the moon can have its time to shine. “Here, put this on.”
Under entirely different circumstances, you probably would react differently to the extravagant choice. The dress she’s chose is midnight blue, a corset bodice with intricate lace and beading painting a picture of cloud-like swirls and golden stars scattered about a moody night sky. The curve of two silver half moons cup the fat under your cleavage, the tops hooking just below your collarbones. It’s sexy, eye-catching, a little dangerous but it fits like a damn glove and accentuates the dips and curves of your waist and hips unlike anything you’ve worn before. “One wrong shimmy and I just might flash all of Rita’s.”
“I doubt they’ll mind much.” Black heels with gold bottoms are slid your way, feet eased inside and strap secured around your ankle. A tube of gloss and a spritz of perfume and Mor is urging you towards the front door, past the wards and winnowed to Rita’s where everyone else is already waiting.
You easily ignore the looks you earn upon arrival, as if the crowd can feel the shift that’s taken place—a predator entering the premises with the skin of a sheep on their shoulders.
“Look who showed up!” Cassian’s clearly already a little tipsy, a pitcher of ale clutched in one heavy mitt while the other arm rests along the back of the booth.
“Prison guards finally let me off my leash.” No one comments on the truth of your statement given the fact that the entirety of the Inner Circle had been taking turns watching your every move as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What are we drinking?”
It’s Azriel who slides over something fruity and frozen. “Your usual.”
Peach mix and grenadine, tequila and vodka, a strawberry split in half over a sugar rim. It’s finished all too quickly but you stick to the theme, vodka shots and cranberry juice chasers. Strawberry daiquiri’s and lemon drop martinis. Soon enough it leads you to the dance floor, body moving to the beat and brain effectively turned off while you lose yourself in the music. You’re passed around from Feyre to Mor to Cassian before they’ve broken off to their own couples and you’re left alone in the thick of the crowd.
Shadows curl around your ankle a bit later, their master following close behind and carving a space free for himself. His hands are respectful at first, brushing hair from your face and evaluating your state before easing into the way you playfully tug him in closer. His grip moves down to your hips, turns you around so your back is to his front. Falling into a rhythm with him is as easy as breathing, head tilting back to rest on his chest, exposing your throat and sinking into the smell of his cologne. “I can feel you watching me, you know.”
“We’re worried about you.
“Worried about what? I haven’t done a thing wrong.”
Azriel hums in agreement, the vibrations rumbling along your spine. “No, but you aren’t yourself.”
Shoulders shrug, eyes fluttering closed in your attempts to keep this buzz. To ride this carefree wave of relaxation the liquor provides. “So? I don’t call you out when you come back untethered. I give you space to find your anchor again.”
“You’re not untethered. It’s like you don’t even exist anymore.”
“Maybe, that was just my fate. To disappear.”
You break away from the spymaster, shake off his sticky shadows and part your way through the throng of bodies until you catch sight of curled blonde hair and the drinks she has sitting before her at their booth. “Ready for another?” Mor inquires, a shot already outstretched for the taking.”
“Keep ‘em coming.”
“You think that’s smart?” Rhys worries, waiting for you to walk away again, feet wobbly in your heels. For some reason, he’s unable to shake the instinct of searching for you between the hustle and bustle of bodies. “Plying a ghost with spirits.”
Mor pretends she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Feigns ignorance to her own version of concern towards the situation she’s born and bred. “She’ll be fine, she’s having fun.”
“Danger enjoys fun too, Mor. Are you sure her version of a good time still aligns with ours?”
Tension exists in the line of her shoulders, settles in the delicate curve of her spine. “I guess we’ll just have to wait, watch and find out.”
“Great plan. Doesn’t sound like it’ll go wrong at all.”
Your version of fun ends up meaning to get as drunk as you can manage without toppling over, muttering slurred syllables in the High Lord’s ear about finally feeling full again—not quite whole but somewhat satiated. Something about your vulnerability calls to his magic, lowered your mental shields, luring his abilities to breech the walls of your mind in attempts to glimpse at whatever happened to you to change the female he’d once known.
Too bad the caress of his claws against your lowered barriers causes more harm than good. Drunken hiccups and inebriated giggles abruptly seizes the second he crosses the threshold. You go as still as a board, breath halting and grip tightening in the fabric tailored to his shoulders.
Inside your mind is murky, foggy, a jungle of trees and humid air that makes the hair on the back of Rhys’ neck stand at attention and in the middle of it all is you. Suspended midair by unseen restraints but more alarming than that is the state of you; life is leeched from your skin, eyes half-lidded and gaze distant but a constant stream of silent tears leak from your waterline.
He calls your name, nothing but a whisper but the damage is already done. Something shifts in the trees, crickets and creatures silencing their songs until everything is eerily quiet. “Rhys.” He rushes closer, fully prepared to find a way to get you freed from the restraints but your head shakes in a panic. “You have to get out of my head,” You croak out, eyes wide as saucers. “He says there’s only enough room for one of you in here.”
Nothing, nothing, just marriage of convenience az where it’s obvious you both don’t like each other much, always fighting, constantly butting heads but keep up appearances for the greater good (Rhys demands it so)
But, then you’re doing recon in another Court and some guy is flirting away, shmoozing you and plying you with pretty flowers and trying to show off all the things he can offer you. Azriel appears out of nowhere like some sentient being, wings stiff, posture lethal and gaze murderous; scaring off the male like predators do to anyone who tries to piss on their possessions.
You turn to face him, some snarky quip itching to snap off your tongue but something in his eye makes you pause. He reaches for your left hand, pressing a kiss to the top but his gaze never falters when he questions, “Where the fuck is your ring?”
hi sol coming to u w another cassian request (there’s a serious lack of fics for him it hurts my heart :( )
but i always see this trope done w az where he’s confused between elain and reader, can we do one where cass is confused between nesta and reader? cass and reader have been together for decades, and maybe cassian starts to train nesta and in his fear of actually letting someone love him, he pushes his affections towards nesta because their relationship is difficult and that’s what he knows love to be. that’s what he feels comfortable in so he breaks it off with reader. telling her he think nesta might be his mate.
reader, as devastated as she is lets him go because she knows she and cass are mates, but she takes the approach of “as long as he’s happy i can live with that.” and as time passes cassian realizes like no, this isn’t how love always is. it can be peaceful and light and lovely. and that he and nesta find peace within each others friendship but he knows she isn’t it for him. and then so much groveling. begging on his knees, pleading for his sweat heart to take him back. maybe the bond snaps for him and since reader isn’t used to his knowledge of the bond and him feeling her feelings she accidentally projects all her sorrow down the bond and he takes his time proving that he’s sorry and that he loves you.
Fool For You
pairing: cassian x reader
warnings: angst, swearing, breakup/makeup vibes, possible smut, implied suicidal ideation, implied drug abuse, heavy themes, fluff is sprinkled in there but will be more prominent in part 2 , ugh i fricken love when you guys request the angsty stuff, brings me a special kinda happiness
—
You feel it before you ever see it coming.
This rift that forms, grows; solidifies between you and Cassian.
He doesn’t shuffle in as close at night like he used to, hands gripping at every inch of bared skin as if touch alone would brand his name against the surface. Instead, he sneaks under the covers, freshly showered and hair braided in a way that you’ve never taught him.
You wait for the kiss, the rumble of his voice and the whisper of his breath as lips form the words I love you.
He never says it.
His back faces yours and never once does he reach for you in his slumber. “Is everything alright?” You muster up the bravery to ask the following morning, sheets gripped near your chest like armor as you watch him strap the holsters for his weapons against his back and thighs.
“Fine.”
Even inch of you wants to believe him but his words are short, clipped; utterly uninterested. “Are you sure?”
His mouth purses, parts, closes again as if he’s got something to say but isn’t sure how to word it. “Everything’s alright—just distracted is all.”
Your head nods robotically, hearing but not believing. “You hungry? I can make you something before you go.”
“No need. I have plans.”
He doesn’t stay to watch the way your face falls. Doesn’t linger for a kiss or to brush pillow-mussed hair out of your face. Cassian’s gone before your lungs can even complete the process of a full breath.
You try to brush it off. To busy yourself with fixing the sheets, fluffing pillows and tidying up the space you share. But, instead of finding peace, your cleaning becomes obsessive; reorganizing the closets, shining shoes and sifting through the clutter in bedside drawers.
You don’t even mean to find it—you have no intention of snooping but the folded piece of parchment finds you anyway, catching on the bracelet dangling from your wrist and slicing at the soft skin beneath it. “Ow,” You hiss, inspecting a cut so shallow blood doesn’t even draw. Not until your focus shifts back to the crumpled paper that was shoved in the shadows.
Any comfort you’d accumulated promptly burns to ashes when you read its contents. The hope you’d latched onto smashes like glass, littering the space around you in glittering shards as you read Cassian’s blocky scrawl. It’s filled with confessions of a love not meant for you. Addressed to a name that’s not your own.
You’re not even sure when the tears start, just distantly aware of trails of wetness dampening the slope of your cheeks, traveling down the curve of your chin and neck.
The love note is damn near memorized by time Cassian finds his way back to the room, hours having passed in the blink of an eye and he stands as still as a board when he finds you in a crumpled heap on the floor, paper pinched between your fingers, eyes studying the words as if it’ll change who they’re meant for. He says your name with such caution, clearly expecting you to greet him with anger and malice but that would take up too much energy—energy that had been leached from your bones, leaving behind nothing but the husk of who you’d once been.
“How long?” You finally croak out, voice void and lifeless.
Cassian is too quiet for too long, clearly searching for the right words until the truth takes the reins and spills itself before you. “A few months.”
“A few months.” The way your shoulders cave in is devastating. You look like the sun with no light. A flower with no stem. A bird with no wings. “Then this isn’t just you being overly flirtatious. This is…there’s feelings involved here.”
“I can explain.”
You can’t help but cut him off before he finds some charming way to explain himself out of your ire. Taking the reins of the conversation is all too easy—the power entirely too addicting. “To explain, not apologize.” The breath you take is heavy, settles in your belly like lead. “You’re here to end this?”
Cassian takes a step closer and instinctively you take a step back, arms crossing over your chest in attempts to hold yourself together. “I have to.” It’s then that you pick up on the scent that sticks to him. One you recognize. One that doesn’t belong to you or the bottles of perfume you keep. “I think she could be my mate.”
You can’t work up the nerve to look him in the eye, fearful that the simple act of eye contact would be enough to have the tears bursting free from the dams working overtime to keep the current at bay. A deep breath fills your lungs, spine lengthening as you force strength into the fibers of your tone. “Okay.”
He reaches for you, fingertips millimeters away from brushing the curve of your cheek but you flinch away—creating space. His spine sags with remorse, shoulders set with shame, hand falling limp at his sides with regret pooling at his fingertips and you’ve had enough when hazel irises fill with pity. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be sorry, Cassian.” Your voice breaks, your smile shakes but it still doesn’t rob you of the kindness that drew him in in the first place. “Just be happy.”
—
The shift that follows is immediate, all of his things boxed up and left in front of the door of his old room. You don’t fuss or fight, you don’t even break anything. You just pack it up and return it to its rightful owner.
You remove yourself from family breakfasts and avoid shared dinners like the plague in fears of seeing Cassian flaunt his love with Nesta without a care in the world.
You ignore your found family’s attempts at comfort, brushing off any and all inquiries on how you’re feeling. Turning down invitations for nights out to try to get your mind off things. Shutting down irate rants from your friends as they ramble about all the ways you didn’t deserve this—how they wanted to make it right for you. “Don’t bother,” The words come out so softly, laced with such defeat its devastating.
“No!” Mor can barely contain her disdain, brows furrowed and lips twisted in a sneer. “This is wrong. What he’s doing—what they’re doing is wrong. You and Cass have loved eachother for decades all for him to throw it away over some cauldron-made floozy? I can’t just sit back and watch that happen.” She’s pacing, heels clacking against the hardwood floors so harshly you’re sure dents begin to mark their way through the shinny finish. “Why are you so damn calm?”
“Because, what’s the point?” You shrug, red wine swirling in your glass. It’s strong, a little bitter but it numbs you so gently, like morphine injected directly into your veins. “How foolish do I already look as the female who feels too much for a male who clearly felt nothing for me. Making a scene about it would just add insult to injury.” Your eyes are distant, fixed on a random spot on the freshly painted walls in the new apartment Rhysand insisted on funding. It’s bare; empty, walls void of character and atmosphere sucked dry of all care. “He thinks she’s his mate Mor. Her. I just don’t understand why he can’t see—“ Your head shakes left to right, chest caving in. Wine quickly fills that chasm, glass refilling every time you reach the bottom.
You don’t even mean to say it really.
Drunk words being sober thoughts and all that.
But, Mor latches onto the unfinished sentence like glue. Eyebrows furrow, pupils expand in confusion before dilating to pinpricks when realization settles in. “Can’t see…that you’re his mate.” Puzzle pieces fuse together, a perfect picture being painted right before her very eyes but the image is distorted; the wrong face on a familiar figure. “There is a bond. You are his mate—he just doesn’t know. You never told him.”
You don’t so much as flinch at her conclusion. Only sigh, prettily painted toes grazing through the fluff of your throw rug. “Doesn’t matter much now.” More wine fills your glass until the decanter runs empty, the corners of your mouth tugging down in a frown. “I don’t think it ever even mattered at all.”
The flowy fabric of Mor’s dress billows as she plops down beside you, weight sinking into the soft cushions of your couch. A fresh bottle appears in her grasp, cork releasing with a pop but this one she doesn’t share, just drinks straight from the source. It’s cradled to her chest, eyes trained on the side of your face, cataloging the lifelessness of your skin, the bags growing under your eyes, the way your cheeks begin to thin out from lack of true sustenance. “Just say something to him.” She urges, her tone pleading; eyes begging. “Say anything. I can’t stand to see you like this.”
“Say what?” Your head falls back in something worse than defeat; something more like acceptance as your neck rests on the lip of the couch. “No bond forces two as one, and he wants her.” Fresh tears gather in your waterline, sliding down your cheeks so silently you barely notice them. “He wants her.”
She says your name, vocalizing the syllables so softly, so full of pity it lurches you from your spot before the sorrow roots you in place.
“You know what, if he’s happy, then I’m ecstatic. I have so much free time now.” Clammy hands wipe against linen sleep shorts as you stand, shifting over to a pile of boxes in the corner. You occupy yourself with unpacking, finding new homes for items collected in another lifetime. “I can pick up a hobby or travel or something—I’ve always loved Summer and I’m sure Rhys could use someone to start mending the rift between the courts. It’ll be like a paid vacation.”
It’s obvious your friend wants to object. Wants to call you out on the avoidance that begins to take place but for some reason she doesn’t bother. Maybe she see’s that you can’t take much more—that the flame of your fight has been snuffed out and you’re barely able to keep the remaining embers alive. Instead, she nods, crossing her legs under her and silently watches the way you convert your emotions into finding the perfect place for pictures and obsessing over which wall best suits a rack full of throw blankets. “How long of a vacation?”
“However long it takes to be able to be in the same room as them without feeling sick to my stomach.”
You say it like a joke but nobody laughs.
—
Turns out, Rhys has a soft spot for broken women. Big brother instincts running on overdrive at the sight of your watery eyes, composure crumpling at a voice that cracks under the weight of the world on your shoulders. One look at your torment and you’ve been granted permission for an all expense paid trip for his favorite —only— emissary. The paperwork is drafted hastily, sent out to neighboring courts before the ink even has the chance to fully dry. A few responses return within the hour, requests granted, a list of stipulations attached and agreed upon before basic necessities are packed away and winnowed off to your first stop before the sun even begins to peak its head above the horizon.
You don’t even linger long enough to say goodbye.
Given the fact that there’s no timeline listed in the fine print of your extended leave, guilt lives in your gut at the abrupt departure but Rhys promises to handle the fallout in your absence and you can’t help but admit the distance is a indescribable relief. Perhaps, it’s the way Summer Court accepts you, although a bit hesitantly at first. Tarquin watches you like a hawk your first few weeks, cataloging your every move until he’s certain you truly are there to rebuild trust instead of being some pretty Night Court spy slinking about in search of their secrets or weaknesses.
Six months pass and instead of hovering out of necessity, he deigns to keep you close by choice; your quarters no more than twenty steps away from his own and filled with radiant opulence. Early mornings are spent with breakfasts shared, treaties discussed, plans made for leisurely strolls through his city until a genuine care is curated for his people and the customs they share. “Do you ever come up for air?” The High Lord muses over his fork, sausage speared through the shiny silver prongs.
Fluffy eggs are piled on jammy toast, crumbs catch on the corner of your mouth but you make sure not a speck stains the packet of papers your free hand holds onto, eyes skimming over trade agreements and a list of needs personally extracted from skilled healers, fresh market mangers and dock workers. Things they require from Night Court that they’ve lived without given the strain. “I can hold my breath for quite some time, you know. Nowhere near the end of my reserves yet.”
It’s a cheeky response. A little dry. Comfort in your environment bleeds through your tone and the High Lord before you grins at your casual banter.
“I can see that,” He shrugs casually, leaning deeper into his chair. Ankles cross under the table, his hair tumbling over the bare chest exposed in his unbuttoned linen top. “I suppose, I’m just worried you’ll burnout if you keep at this pace.”
“The wellbeing of your people is important,” You insist, one hand blindly reaching for a flute of champagne and orange spritz. “They’ve gone without for much too long.”
He hums, nodding softly in agreement. Under the table, his foot nudges your own, forcing your attention to him. “And you? What of your wellbeing?” Your brows furrow in confusion. “You haven’t mentioned a word of your family since the first week you arrived. No letters, no visits—your birthday is tomorrow. Were you planning on going back to celebrate?”
You bristle at the reminder, toast falling back onto to your plate, now forgotten. Champagne is sipped as you struggle to clear the knot beginning to form in your throat, guilt gnawing in your belly, forcing you to acknowledge the radio silence you’ve upheld towards the people you love back home. “How do you know about that?”
“Rhysand sent over a summons for your return for the special occasion.”
You groan, papers abandoned in favor of holding your head in your hands. A tension headache begins to form right between your eyes, vision already going blurry at the irritating thump, thump, thump that takes root beneath the surface.
“Well, some greeting that is.”
You jump at the sound of a familiar voice; it’s melodic, sultry, accompanied by the rhythmic click of high heels against polished floors. Wide eyes catch on the approaching figure clad in red, blonde hair falling down in waves down her shoulders. “Mor? What are you doing here?”
“I’m your summons.” She grins, not-so-subtly taking you in from head to toe. A little pout forms when noticing the weight-loss, the eye bags, the way you’ve let your roots grow out. “Rhys had a feeling you might ignore him if he only sent a letter.” You’re too stunned to stand but it doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest as she continues her appraisal of you, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a hug. One nearly too tight.
Patting the arm around your neck, you shoot daggers at Tarquin but he pointedly ignores it, occupying himself by stuffing his mouth with fresh fruit topped with sweet whipped creams. “How proactive of him.” The words grit out like sand stubbornly stuck inside a shoe. “But, I hadn’t really intended to come back until I finished things here.”
“Boo!” She protests, swiftly snagging the glass of champagne you’d been nursing before her arrival. “If I accepted that answer, you’d never come home!” Mor says it like a joke but you can hear the truth in her words, the concern beginning to bleed into her tone, the desperate way she keeps her hands on your shoulder as if she’s afraid you’re going to disappear without a trace. “Please? It’ll be fun, I promise. I ordered a whole case of that good wine you like and I convinced Az to smuggle an ounce of mirthroot from the dealer he refuses to share with us.” She goes on for a few minutes, words running a mile a minute, more pretty promises spilling free until she see’s your walls begin to crumble.
You hate yourself for it, yet somehow, someway, Mor cons you into returning home for your birthday. The domino effect of your agreement is immediate and overwhelming. You, being dragged away from the table and led to your room so she can riffle through your closet and pick out enough clothes to last you a week. “Mor, I’m only going to be home for the night, two nights max—you’re packing my bag like I’m gearing up for war.”
“Just wanted to make sure you have options.” A white lie that’s easily detected, especially when she spends too much time collecting your usual jewelry from the dish resting on your bedside. “Speaking of options, how often do you and the High Lord of Summer spend breakfasts together?”
Shoulders shrug, your ass plopping onto the generous cushion of your mattress. “Everyday.”
A perfectly plucked brow raises. “Oh, really?” A conspiratorial smirk lives in the glossy corners of her mouth. “And does he always arrive at these breakfasts so….scandalously dressed?”
“This is Summer Court if you hadn’t noticed—can you blame the male for showing off a little chest?”
“A little chest?” Mor scoffs, hair flicking off one shoulder. “There’s nothing little about that male, anyone with eyes could get lost in the abs and a v-line peeking through that sorry excuse of a shirt. Don’t even get me started on his piercing.”
Eyes roll, a hint of a blush growing along the curve of your ears. It’d been so long since you’d had anything remotely close to girl-talk. “It’s perfectly normal here for males and females to have their belly’s pierced.”
Breezy pants, skimpy skirts and barely there shirts are robbed from your dresser, neatly folded and stowed away. Dresses with tummy cut-outs and generous necklines, thin tube tops and shorts so small their only purpose is to conceal the naughty bits are waved in the air with a pleased nod. “You’re going to give the boys back home a heart attack when you come through wearing these.”
“I don’t wear them to catch attention, I wear them to work on my tan.”
“And tan you are, one could mistake you for an Illyrian with that hue—it’s pretty. Makes your eyes pop.”
“You know what’ll really make my eyes pop? Some of that mirthroot. Did you bring it with you or was it just a bribe to get me back?” You’re being a brat, you know that. Mor knows that too. Either way, she supplies your needs, procuring a pretty velvet bag and tossing it your way. The scent smacks you in the face the moment you loosen its ties and a giddy little grin smears itself across your face. “Happy birthday to me—have you any clue how hard it is to find a reputable dealer here? Liqour, powder and mushrooms? Easy peasy. Anything else was next to impossible.”
Content with her pickings of your items, Mor leaves them by the door, following your lead to the balcony attached to your chambers. There’s a comfortable seating arrangement, brightly colored flowers blooming in golden pots that soak up sunlight and reflect its beauty. A spiral copper staircase leads directly to a rooftop pool that overlooks Tarquins personal gardens. Birds chirp, fish swim about in man-made ponds and crickets sing their song in the neatly trimmed bushes below. “Since when do you dabble in powder?”
“Since I found out my mate had been cheating on me with another female.”
It’s said so casually Mor freezes in place. Blue eyes slowly flicking over to you but you’re otherwise occupied, fingers breaking up buds, blunt paper unwrapped and catching the ground up plant. Your motions are fluid, practiced; something you seem to do often enough to have it completely rolled and sealed in under forty seconds.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have a problem or anything. Powder didn’t agree with me much.” One hand reaches over and a box of matches and an ash tray is procured from a little nook in the wall by the balcony doors. “Mushrooms were fun at first, until I started hallucinating images of my ex making out with his newest conquest in vivid detail.” The spark of flame to wood is like breathing for the first time again after swimming underwater for hours. Relieving. A saving grace. A life raft in the middle of a turbulent storm. “Liqour was my safest option but after a few times being caught belligerently drunk around town in the dead of the night, Tarquin started following me everywhere I went like he was afraid I was going to take a tumble off the cliffside.” You finally meet her gaze. “That’s why we have breakfast every morning—why we seem so close? He’s babysitting me so I don’t do something stupid to myself.”
Mor’s mouth opens, closes; tears welling up in her waterline. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Legs cross over the other, frame situating itself in the floating wicker chairs cushioned with pillows the shade of teal. “Wouldn’t be great for Court diplomacy if Night’s emissary died on Summer’s turf.” Your shrug on the topic is annoyingly flippant, worryingly detached, painfully numb. “Anyways, how’s home? Anything new?”
She swallows thickly, searching for composure, pushing blonde hair away from her cheeks as the summer breeze shifts through the fabrics of her dress. “It’s really not the same without you there. Things are quiet—tense even. Like a machine trying to move without a vital piece.” Fingers gently pinch around the passed blunt, smoke flowing past her lips when she keeps speaking, eyes memorizing the lush sight of a trim garden, waterfalls and fountains, walkways encrusted with gems that sparkle where the light touches. “You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t write. Didn’t visit. I—we miss you, you know?”
Vision blurring, throat working over the emotion beginning to knot in it, you nod. “I miss me too.” You brush the vulnerability off as quickly as it appeared. “It’s nice to see you though, hadn’t realized how much until you got here.”
To keep your hands busy, you already begin rolling another, opting to let Mor keep the first to herself so you don’t have to keep passing back and forth. So you don’t have to explain why you inhale too hard and hold the smoke in your lungs too long. Why your hands shake or explain your dissociating when the thoughts get too loud.
All you wanted was something to numb the ache beginning to return in your chest.
“Do you know how much longer you’re going to be here?”
“I’m less than two weeks away from completing the re-organization of trade routes. Tolls and taxes have been reviewed, negotiated and signed off on. Just need to cross my t’s and dot my I’s before it’s time for me to move onto the next.”
Mor sits up straight, ash pooling into a little mountain in the tray. “To the next? You won’t be coming home right away?”
Utter silence fills the gaps, fingers fidgeting as you pick at your cuticles until they bleed.
“Are you ever going to come back?”
“We’ll be heading over after we finish these, I reckon.”
You know that’s not what she means.
You don’t look to see the way she deflates, attempts to fight the choice before giving up altogether. Frustration settles between her brows, sticks to the scrunch of her nose and smudges the corners of her mouth. Mor’s next pull is vicious, compulsive; smoke huffing out her nostrils like an angered dragon fighting not to breath fire. “Suppose I’ll just have to cherish you while you last then.”
It hurts. Stabs a sensitive piece of you that lacks proper armor but you take the hit. Eat the injury and take it to the chest like you do all the other punches thrown your way. “Guess so.”
—
The high that permeates through your bloodstream satiates your nerves long enough to muster up the strength to winnow back to the Court that raised you.
Too bad it doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d hoped.
Perhaps it’s the familiarity of this house and the people in it because your throat begins to swell shut when you step through the doors and are bombarded by a flurry of familiar faces.
Feyre is first to snatch you up, slender arms wrapping around your neck like a cobra ready to coil its body around you to keep you rooted in place. Tears wet your bare shoulders as muffled words of relief is breathed into your neck. “You actually came! I was so worried you wouldn’t.”
Rhys has to pull her back, intuitive to the way you try and fail to relax into the embrace. His welcome is far more tame, though the true extent of his emotion lives in his eyes—shown mostly in the way they scan you over, his smile there but weak as what he sees worries him to the bone. Your skin glows from all the sun but your soul withers like flowers who’d forgotten how to bloom. “I trust Tarquin’s been taking good care of you?”
“More than good,” You fix a smile on your face to soothe his concern. “He hovers worse than you do.”
Something in his posture implies he knows more about that than he lets on, hands rustling through your hair like a fond older brother. He memorizes the scrunch of your nose and the girlish way you struggle to get your hair back into place.
The sound of heavy steps forces you to turn, a tether pulling you taut until your eyes meet the ones that haunt your every dream. He’s a little smaller than you remember, hair cut a bit shorter than you used to do it. A braid you never taught him how to do is weaved behind his right ear, dangling like a reminder that another woman’s hands touch what used to belong to you. Cassian’s voice is all but a whisper when he finally works the nerve to use it. “You came back.”
“Didn’t have much choice, Mor wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Her arm wraps around your shoulder, holding you close like she can tell your knees are going weak at the sight of him. “Damn straight.” She pulls you along before you get the idea to retreat and even though you have to pass Cassian to get to your old room, Mor stands as barrier between you and him.
You can’t help the glance over your shoulder, eyes meeting his once more. All he can do is stare, frozen in place; mouth agape as whatever words he’d intended dies in his throat as he looks at you like it’s the first time but you’re already turning the corner before you dare to figure out why.
“Where’s Az?”
“Finishing up some final touches for tomorrow. You’ll see him later.” Excitement bleeds through her every move, the contents of your bag on the bed like a kid sifting through a candy store. “It’ll be really casual tonight, family only—just to catch up. Hope you’re hungry.”
A glass and a half of wine and a blunt later, you are actually quite hungry. Mor forces you into a change of clothes, a comfy tube top and breezy pants that sit low, showing off the shape of your hips and the cute new dermals pierced into the dimples of your back.
It’s the first thing Feyre brings up when you enter the dining room. “Do they hurt?”
More wine is poured, an abundance of food being portioned off and placed before you. “Couldn’t say, I was a little wasted when we got them.”
“We?”
“The High Lord of Summer is incredibly daring off of faerie wine.”
You feel eyes boring holes into the side of your face, hanging onto every word like a fly caught in a trap. Teeth grind auadibly. Strained smiles are carved in the corner of Cassian’s mouth asa you enthusiastically recount your time alongside Tarquin and his people. Nails bite into the palm of his hands beneath a satin table cloth so dark it resembles an abyss.
Everyone’s celebrating, conversations carrying, voices overlapping, laughs bleeding into one another and yet you cant shake the irritating hyperawareness of Cassian’s eyes on your body. Subtly, you search for Nesta, scanning the room for her steely gaze and perpetually elegant updo’s but her presence never appears. You try not to look too far into it, willing your heart not to care at all but the task is a fools arrand.
No matter how many’s attempts made, your line of sight continues to gravitate his way; admiring the line of his shoulders, the width of his chest, the dimples that appears in his cheeks when he submits to the smiles his family draws from him.
You suppose it’s your fault in the end when Cassian mistakes your stare for invitation, his boisterous voice cutting through the clutter of conversation to insert his own inquiries in the mix. “Are you with him?”
Your jaw clenches, lids narrowing. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I think you and I both know exactly why it is my business.”
Instead of taking the bait and outing the mating bond you keep tucked away, you fixate on the soft plush of the rug beneath your toes. Over-analyze the obsidian rimmed crystalware holding specially procured wines. Inspecting the spices used in the roast and mash that used to be your favorite meal but now every bite disintegrates like ash on your tongue.
Fingers itch for a reprieve. A distraction. Another drink. More mirthroot.
A cross fade would ease the tension that lives in your shoulders, setting root in your spine until you sit like a statue in a place that should feel like freedom.
“I’m going to grab more ice, drinks getting warm.”
No one fights you even if they do follow your figure until it disappears into the kitchen. Grounding breaths are taken, hands braced against the countertops as you force your emotions in check, shoving them in a tiny little box so the ache doesn’t render you useless.
The double doors open behind you, a slightly annoyed sigh escaping you. “Mor I—“ Morrigan isn’t the one standing behind you. Elain is, watching you with a knowing look in her doe eyes. “Elain? I’m sorry —“
“You know,” Her soft tone cuts you off in a way that seems more charming than disrespectful. She takes her sweet time putting on her floral mitts before retrieving a fresh tray of baked goods out of the oven. “I dream about you sometimes.” Your jaw clenches, brows scrunching in slight confusion and yet you say nothing. “Of you and your mate.”
Your blood runs cold, heart all but stopping in your chest. “What did you just say?”
warnings: angst, swearing, suicidal ideation, implied torture, reader who comes back wrong
summary: You get sent on a solo mission in place of Azriel. The information is obtained but at a price—a piece of your soul.
Lilithen; fallen from grace.
—
Something is…wrong about you these days.
You can’t quite put your finger on it as you stand in the safety of your bedroom, body bare and on display before a mirror. Everything is in the right place; eyes, nose, mouth. Limbs all properly intact and yet past all that—something is missing that just wasn’t before.
Your heart still beats, though the rhythm isn’t the same.
Thump…thump…thump
The tempo has been altered, twisting the way blood pumps through your veins and adjusts the way signals reach your brain.
It’s concerning to say the least. This void; this chasm that eats away at whatever humanity that once lived within. It robs you of your joy, feeds off the smiles you used to offer freely, consumes the glow that once ebbed across your skin like the suns rays.
This parasite thats taken root inside of you. Siphoning up the parts that made you, you.
You’d like to think no one else notices but that’s a fools dream. One would have to be blind or dumb not to catch the way Rhysand hovers, eyes filled with such gentle love but every word he utters your way is laced with such unconcealed remorse. Regret lives in every hug, bleeds freely with every dinner he hosts, your favorite foods displayed about as if a full belly and overflowing wine goblets would reverse the damage done from the last mission he sent you on.
Simple recon with two clear instructions: retrieve and return.
He should’ve specified return in one piece.
For you had no issues retrieving valuable data, recounting every dangerous creature you’d encountered while passing through the Middle. Detailed descriptions of the unusual magic being used to draw power from such uncharted territory.
It took time, weeks bleeding into months. Reality and imagination meshing into one as the creatures there tormented you for daring to trespass on their territory. Against all odds, vital information is procured but the Middle demands something in return; a price some may call too high—a piece of your soul.
“Not hungry?”
It’s Feyre’s careful cadence that shakes you from your thoughts, her brows furrowed and mouth fixed in a straight line when she catches the way your body freezes. The smile you plaster on your face almost a replica of the one you used to wear except this time your teeth appear too sharp, eyes too vacant. “Just full now, everything was so good. Thank you.”
You’d hardly taken a single bite, fork fooling around with the food on your plate until the piles made alluded to bites taken. If she notices, she doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t have to because Azriel picks up where your High Lady leaves off. “You sure? Elain made your favorite and you haven’t even touched it yet.”
A tray full of freshly baked oatmeal cookies are passed your way, hazel eyes watching you expectantly as if this is a test you need to pass.
Notes of cinnamon and warm oats evades your senses but it doesn’t appeal to you the way it should.
Fine. You’ll bite if it gets everyone off your ass.
Snagging two, you shove basically half of it in your mouth at once, humming enthusiastically to express gratitude over the sugary sweetness. Test completed.
Too bad Azriel doesn’t return the smile. In fact, he seems to grow more tense. (Didn’t your favorites used to be chocolate chip? Ever since he’d met you, you’d cringe at the sight of raisins.)
He brushes it off for now. It doesn’t seize his surveillance though.
After everyone’s retired to bed, doors closed and toes tucked under thick duvets, you slip away as if in a trance. Shadows alert him of your movements, watching from a distance as you walk out the front door in nothing but a nightgown. Bare feet smack against the cobblestone, trotting up the staircase that leads to the roof. Part of him expects you to start training on the mats but you walk right past the rack of practice swords, bypassing punching bags and body dummies in favor of the ledge.
He gets out of bed when shadows report the way you fling yourself on top. Wind rustles through your silky pajamas, picking apart the hairs loosely braided down your back as you peer down below. Az’s heart hammers in his chest as he appears behind you, voice quiet as not to startle and steps cautious in case you did something stupid in retaliation. “What are you doing up there?”
“Just looking.”
Goosebumps prickle at his skin at the vacancy your voice holds. Hairs stand up on his arms, on the back of his neck. A knot forms in his throat as he inches closer, shadows creeping ahead until they grip at your ankles to hold you in place. “Think it’s possible you can look without being on the edge?”
“Could,” You shrug. “Wouldn’t be the same.”
“The same?”
You finally crane your neck to face him and it’s then that he notices the dark circles under your eyes. The dilation of your pupils. “Being up here almost makes me feel something again.”
He struggles to maintain his composure, not to show any emotion other than cool, calm and collected. Maybe, if he can just keep you talking—keep you connected to the present. “What are you missing?”
One hand raises to your chest, head tilting as if tuning in to that off-beat tempo of your beating heart. You listen carefully, patiently but you don’t seem to get what you’re searching for as disappointment etches into the contours of your face. “My soul. I think I lost it.”
—
Things only get worse since that night on the roof.
Azriel hovers like an omen, lingering in the shadows and creeping around corners like he’s just waiting to catch you fixing to hang yourself or slice your throat clean open right in the hallway.
Him being on edge does no good but further elevates everyone else’s worry. Cassian tries to spend more time with you, bringing you along with when he visits the Steepes, assuming that being around all that hate and anger would shake up some sort of emotion within you.
Fear. Irritation. Distaste. Anything.
No luck. War hardened Illyrian’s spew their ire, threatening your safety, your security, your body—your life. None of it even makes a dent in the stony exterior you’ve adopted.
Against better judgement, Cassian pushes harder. Observes intently as you bite the bait and hop into the ring with a male four times your size. Grit lives in this males bones, pumps through his bloodstream, seeps through his pores like rancid sweat. He holds no softness for females or anyone and Cassian hopes such an offputting demeanor lures out the part of you he used to know. The soft, sweet little thing who loved clothes and makeup and fretted over your next hair appointment. The little sister who huffed over chipped polish and aching feet when he forced her to train harder than she liked.
He searches for her but she doesn’t arise.
In her place is more weapon than fae. You fight like you could care less if you died, hands tucked in your pockets as you dance around thrown punches, grinning when a swing misses harsh enough for the wind to whistle in your ears. Cass could swear you let the male get a hit in, fist colliding with your jaw hard enough for skin to split and blood to stain your teeth.
Only then do you retaliate, returning a slurry of well placed hits so swift and lethal the male falls to a heap without you even breaking a sweat. “That’s a shame,” You peer down at him, tone nearly a taunt but General can hear the disappointment you carry. “Thought you’d be sturdier.”
