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theskyisbrighthere · 3 days

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Through Me (The Flood) - secret baby fic Simon Riley / female reader - 18+ - discussion of postpartum depression, lactation kink.

Orion’s father inserted himself into your life with an authority that, quite frankly, has shocked you.

You expected him to be a dead beat. An absentee. You never really expected to find him in the first place, let alone almost run straight into him on the street.

It was almost like you could feel him on the sidewalk before you saw him. Your body knew, still carried the memories, the imprint of him lingering on your skin, inside you. Orion had his DNA in his veins, and now you had Orion’s in yours.

Shared pieces, twisted together into an imbalanced double helix-

Exposing you for all your transgressions, your failures, your misery.

It’s a special kind of shame, to look your baby’s father in the face and tell him you’re not a good mother to his child. That you’re failing Orion. That you don’t know if you can do it.

The truth is motherhood is not natural or beautiful, like everyone says it is, and it doesn’t come easy, like it seems to do for most. You don’t even feel like you’re bonded to your son, and it’s like you’re a stranger to him. More failure.

They pile advice on top of you in heaps, your mother, your aunts, the friends that have stuck around, sleep when the baby sleeps, let him cry it out, don’t let him cry it out, put him down, pick him up, don’t feed at night, don’t miss a feeding-

All the while, no one shows up. Not truly. They’re here, and there, but your previous fierce independent streak has done you no favors, and no one seems to notice you’re barely holding your head above water. They want to see the baby, hold the baby, cuddle the baby. No one wants to help you wash your milk crusted sheets or clothes, no one wants to pick up your groceries or do your dishes. They want to bring a roast for your fridge, and then they want Orion.

And it’s easy to fake getting by. Struggling but smiling. Motherhood is such a joy. It’s so wonderful. Being a single mom is tough, but worth it. It’s…

It’s so hard.

You don’t have a schedule, a life, a sense of normalcy. Instead of sleeping when Ry does, you cry. You don’t feel like yourself, you don’t know how to do this, you don’t know how you’re even going to make it to the next day sometimes.

And no one really seems to notice you, until Simon shows up.

Simon, who doesn’t seem to care that you’ve tried to assure him you’re fine. Simon, for all intents and purposes, has put a foot down and refused to budge. Simon, who no matter how hard you try to tell him you’re okay, has shouldered his way into your life without a single complaint about the sudden fatherhood thrust upon him.

He’s a stranger, at the end of it all, a man you shared a single night with, a man you know almost nothing about.

Even though that night has always felt like so much more, an impossible connection built in the dark between indecipherable words and whispers.

And now this stranger has planted on himself on the ground in front of you, like a tether to reality. A land line to your sanity. A hand to hold…

A person who sees you.

“I’m right here,” he promised, “I’m going to take care of you.”

He wanted in, and you stopped coming up with reasons or excuses to fend him off. You bent and bent and bent under the pressure of being a mother until you broke-

And he was there.

Someone is calling your name. There’s a gentle hand on your shoulder, and then smoothing over your forehead, fingertips lingering on the apple of your cheek. You blink fuzzily, slowly realizing you must have fallen asleep on the couch. “C’mon mama, let’s get you to bed.” You peer over his shoulder at the kitchen, barely registering how clean it is, the lack of dirty dishes, the empty trash can, the wiped down cabinets and countertops.

“Sorry… I fell asleep. I should’ve-“

“It’s alright, wanted to let you get some rest.” His arms, massive and corded with muscle, slide under your knees and back, and you study his tattoos as intently as you can, for being half asleep. “‘m gonna pick you up.”

“Okay.” You sigh, and his chest vibrates with a low chuckle. It feels safe, you feel nearly relaxed, no fight left in you, all resistance and denial leeched from your bones. “Ry?”

“Fed two hours ago with what you had in the fridge. Still asleep now.” Warmth ghosts atop your head, and you snuggle farther into his chest, unable to help yourself.

“How long was I out?”

“Almost five hours.” You blink, and then, like his words have summoned full body awareness- you wince.

Fuck.

“What is it?” He’s immediately tense, slowly pushing open your bedroom door.

“I’m… sore.” You grimace, trying to keep your chest away from him as he lowers you into bed. “They’re… he usually eats… sooner. They get… too full.” Your face burns, humiliated and awkward. Nothing like telling your very attractive baby daddy that you’re full too of milk. His head cocks.

“Is there a way to fix that?” He’s sitting at your hip, hand casually braced on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles overtop the sheet.

“I could pump but, it really hurts.” Your voice cracks on the admission. You can’t imagine anything you want to do less in this moment, especially with him here. “A warm washcloth usually helps but…”

“I’ll get one.” He tips forward at the waist, and presses a kiss right to your forehead. “Stay put.” You lean back against the pillows, and close your eyes. You hear him the bathroom, tap running, door opening and closing, and then the bed dips. “Can I help you with that?” He points at your t shirt, and you nod. Lifting it over your own head sounds uncomfortable, and you don’t even flinch when his fingers brush your stomach as he peels it up and over.

There’s a moment, a quiet one, where you just stare at each other. His eyebrows crease, dark brown eyes turning soft and sweet, flicking down to your lips and then back up. It’s frighteningly intimate, being so vulnerable, rubbed raw by motherhood and then comforted by the man who gave it to you, and when you look into his eyes, you can feel it all, everything you felt that night, the connection, the desire to know more, feel more, push past everything and dig until your strike true, until you can touch his heart.

Maybe it’s the hormones. The baby. The fact that he’s here, holding you steady, true to his promise.

You loop a forearm over the back of his neck, and tug, jolting him forward, close enough that your noses touch, and his lips graze yours before he pulls back, cradling your face with his free hand. “Want somethin’ mama?”

“Yes.” You whisper. Your breasts ache, but the pain is second to the way you drown in his dark gaze.

“Need you to ask for it, sweet girl.”

“I- I want… to kiss you.” It feels like taking a plunge, ripping a band aid off, and he only smiles at you in return, before leaning in and pressing his mouth to yours.

It’s a memory. An explosion. A rush of the last time, the first time, the only time. Ocean water, spring air, woodsmoke under your fingertips. Fragments of a few favorite things, sealed in a kiss. A dizzying ride that sucks you dry, spills your blood into his, twists the two of together until you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to let go.

You almost, almost whine when he pulls away.

“Washcloth is cold.” He murmurs, making his way back to the bathroom and restarting the process. His muscles flex under his t shirt as he turns the sink on and off, wringing the cloth out. You unhook a bra strap, and when he returns to the seat at your hip, you gulp.

“T-thanks.” You reach, but don’t tug it into your grasp. Instead, the side of your arm bumps against the swollen firmness of your breast, and you hiss.

“I’ve got you. Let me help.” He says softly, peeling the fabric away until you’re exposed, darkened nipple straining in the dim light of your bedroom. Fingertips trace barely there touch across your skin, and he whispers reverently. “You feed our baby with these, mama.”

“They hurt.” Your voice trembles, and he nods sympathetically.

“I know.” He presses the cloth to your skin, brow furrowed with concentration. His eyes flick up to yours, and then back down, thumb gently rubbing a semi circle under the curve of your breast. “Feel okay?” His voice is a rasp, and you nod.

“Y-yeah… um-“ you trail off, half wishing you could disappear into this bed. “I need a little bit of pressure, to help… express.” It’s the least sexiest word in the English language, you think. Express.

He palms you, gently, and then squeezes with easy pressure. The sound you make is a half moan, half gasp of pain, and he soothes you. “I know honey, I know. I’m sorry.” You tip your head back, waiting, hoping to feel the slow pulse of relief, the slow give of an ache subsiding. His thumb traces your nipple and then rolls over it, still kneading and pressing with his other fingers and palm, hot cloth starting to turn cool.

And then-

You feel it. Your body catches up to your brain, finally leaking, warmth spilling over his hand, down the front of your bra and belly. “Oh my god.” You moan, and he huffs, still rubbing your nipple in a soothing pattern, gaze locked on your chest.

“Good girl.” He murmurs, and then gives you another squeeze. “Feel good?”

“Yeah.” You tip your head to the side, watching him, tracing his nose, his lips, the shape of his eyes. Your baby’s face, through and through. “So good.” It spills over the back of his fingers and he pulls it away, lifting his thumb to his mouth. His lashes flutter against his cheeks, and a noise rumbles in his chest. “Oh-“ you lose your words. Your thoughts. Your focus. You’re frozen, confused and electric like a live wire.

“Y’taste good mama. Sweet.” You gulp. He ducks his head, brushing his lips against yours briefly before dipping lower, cupping as much of you as he can and swirling his tongue across your nipple, lips closing around it and sucking with a satisfied sigh.

“Si- Simon.” It feels good. It feels wrong, that it feels good, but it does. You’re spilling into his mouth, pain and soreness flitting away by the second, strong arms cradling you close to his body. It’s the first time in a long time, that you’ve felt something, anything, close to desire. Arousal has been fleeting since having a baby, but somehow, fire burns between your legs. He pulls away, nipple popping free, and you sag in the bed. With a smirk, his eyes wander to your other side, the unattended one, heavy and full beneath his gaze.

“I’ll get a new cloth.”

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theskyisbrighthere · 13 days

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 17

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: does anyone mind the slightly longer chapters? I feel like I keep accidentally adding scenes in and I’m not sure if it’s too much? Anyway, regardless of length, I hope you enjoy! 🧡💛

word count: 8,024

-Part 16-

————��—————————————————————————————————————————

“Was that necessary, Mor?”

Neatly groomed brows narrow over hard amber eyes, stood at the edge of the room, still cast in shadow before walking to be stood closer to the bed that’s been pushed so it’s beside the open window.

“Stay out of it, Az,” Mor murmurs, arms folded over her chest, eyes cast downwards. “You should be focusing on getting better.”

Azriel is quiet for a bit, his gaze weighing on her but she makes no move to look at him, a hint of anguish in her normally bright expression. He sighs, shifting against the pillows as he glances out the window, inclining his head a little as a light breeze washes over him, sending silky strands of hair fluttering up from his brow.

“You know she didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says, watching as the clouds shift in composition in the sky, small dots flying in the distance as they arc and dip with the winds. Hazel eyes flick back across the room, but Mor’s head is still lowered, her expression resentful. “You know you were being cruel.”

“And you’re in a position to criticise me?” Mor replies quietly, hard amber piercing into him. “You’re the reason this became such a mess. You should have said something. There’s no way you couldn’t have noticed.”

“I made a mistake,” he concedes reluctantly, holding her gaze.

“You made more than a mistake, Az. Now we’re all hurting because you—”

“Mor,” Azriel interrupts. She stiffens but doesn’t yield, that look of reproach returning to her expression. “You can’t lash out at us whenever you hurt,” he says thickly, still watching her. Silence stretches between them, centuries worth of history pulled taut in the quiet.

“What does Rhys think?” Mor diverts, successfully switching subjects. Azriel sighs, leaning back into the pillow, “about which part?” Mor’s brows narrow a little, “all of it, I suppose.” Azriel’s jaw works, glancing briefly out the window again to peer up into the sky, the winds calling to him and his wings move subtly at his back, repositioning themselves against the large stack of cushions placed to prop him up.

“He’s furious that it got this far,” he replies, features carefully neutral as he answers the question. Amber eyes observe, offered insight through those years of friendship that others might struggle to pick out—the guilt he feels for failing. Not just her, or Mor, but Rhys and Feyre. For inadvertently allowing a situation to unfold where his brother would be forced to remember those months…years of grief after his family was slaughtered. After his sister was murdered. The whole situation is dredging up unwelcome memories, for all of them. They can’t let another one be lost.

“He wants to know how Eris even got to her in the first place,” Azriel admits, glancing warily at Mor to gauge her reaction. “You don’t know?” She asks, pushing past the tightness in her throat at the mere mention. But the Shadowsinger shakes his head. “There wasn’t really time to ask,” he supplies quietly. She wasn’t really even in the right mindset to be asked.

“What about Cassian?” Mor queries, but Azriel shakes his head.

“You know I won’t tell you.” Because to know Cassian’s thoughts on the matter would likely be to know Nesta’s, and that isn’t the kind of emotional intimacy any of them would be comfortable with. It’s strange how emotions intermingle like that, how swiftly things can complicate themselves when new figures are added to the equation.

A beat passes, then Mor’s shifting on her feet. “You know, there was a time when we shared everything between us. Wasn’t that easier?” She asks neutrally.

“Mor,” Azriel warns lowly, causing Mor’s upper lit to curl slightly.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Az,” she mutters, resting her full attention on the injured male. “Don’t act like you’re completely blameless.”

“Assigning blame won’t fix anything,” he replies shortly, hazel eyes losing a little of their softness. “I’m sure that narrative suits you well,” Mor counters sharply. “I think you’re glad that I said those things to her so that you have a chance to redeem yourself by condemning me. You’re the one who started this whole mess, so—”

“Mor.”

“Shut up, Az,” Mor hisses, warmth vanishing from her face, eyes hardening as shields rise. “Don’t you dare try and twist what happened. You made mistake after mistake because you were too busy chasing Elain, and too busy ignoring what you didn’t want to acknowledge by hiding behind your work instead. At least I had a damn reason. What was yours?”

Azriel gives nothing away, his expression cold and blank.

“I tried to help her, I reached out my hand and offered her a chance. And she repaid that by going to Eris,” Mor hisses, unable to help the stark pain that bleeds into her fury. “She could have come to any of us. It’s more than we ever had, and yet she ignored it. Then tries to pretend it away? I’m not immune to that. If she can’t even be bothered to care about my pain why should I give a damn about hers?” Mor breathes, eyes feeling hot as the words gush out. “It is nothing compared to what we endured.”

————

You manage a small smile as Madja enters your room, Elain closing the door behind her as she takes a seat at your bedside.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks as she settles in the chair provided for these visits, a kind look on her face that you know you should be grateful for, but it’s difficult to summon anything when you know she can’t do anything. All this is, is documentation. An observation to see what happens to you. Because it’s undeniable something is happening.

You swallow thickly, but nod your head. “Good, for the most part,” you answer, truthfully. “I’m still feeling generally fatigued, but I wouldn’t say it’s particularly interfering with my day? I’ve had some pains in my stomach and back though, but I think they’re just…you know…” Madja raises her brows in question, silently asking you to continue. Heat rises beneath your skin and you avert your gaze, hands wringing together beneath the duvet.

“Would it be more helpful if it were just the two of you?” Elain suggests carefully, and teeth push into your lower lip. Then you give a small dip of your head, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. But she doesn’t seem to mind, telling you’ll she be a few rooms over, and will return once the examination is done. Madja looks patiently at you, a kind expression on her features that soothes you slightly. She’s a healer, surely she’ll have seen and heard worse…

You clear your throat, peering into your lap to avoid looking at her. “I think they might just be…” you trail off, glancing at her then gesturing vaguely to your stomach, hand hovering over your abdomen. There’s nothing impatient in her smile as she speaks, “your cycle?” You snap your eyes away, a flush of mortification rising to your skin, shoulders tightening as you stare into your lap but force yourself to nod.

“It’s perfectly fine to speak about that with me,” Madja says gently, “it’s a normal occurrence with females, there’s no need to be embarrassed about your own body. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You nod again, just to try and appease her, but in truth you’re desperate to escape the subject. “I’m sorry, I just— I find it hard to believe you aren’t…uncomfortable, discussing such topics.”

“Well, I’ve been a healer for most of my centuries in this realm,” she says calmly, and you can imagine that kind expression on her features, peaceful and infinitely patient. “I’ve worked during both wars, not to mention helping with your sister’s pregnancy. There’s very little that could ever cause me discomfort in regards to how the body works, so you don’t have to concern yourself.”

You shift again in the bed, but manage to nod your head. Madja seems to be satisfied with the response, smile broadening, and a slight bit of tension is relieved from your shoulders, breath easing into your lungs. “So you’ve been experiencing some abdominal and back pain?” She questions, and you nod again, feeling a little useless. “Can you describe it to me?” She asks, and you swallow thickly. “I…it’s like a dull ache in my back, near the base of my spine but a bit to the right. Then it’s quite sharp in my…abdomen. It doesn’t happen often, but I thought I should mention it…”

“I don’t think you should be experiencing any pain at all,” Madja replies. “And may I ask when you’re next due for your cycle?” You look away briefly before again meeting her gaze—nothing to be embarrassed about, she’d assured. “In about three months,” you answer quietly.

Madja nods in approval, and you begin to relax back into the pillows. “And have you noticed any bleeding at all?” She asks gently, and you freeze in the bed.

“No,” you answer hurriedly, without thinking, “no. Not from— No.”

“Alright,” she smiles calmingly, “anywhere else? You have some scabs on your hands, isn’t that right?” Your throat rolls but you nod, releasing your tight grip on your nightgown, bringing yourself to raise them from beneath the duvet so she can examine them. “And these bumps,” she inquires, “can you tell me how long those have been there for?” You blink, trying to remember—they’ve been there for months it feels like, but it can’t have been that long, can it? How long has it been since you first told Azriel?

“I think…” you hesitate, unsure of yourself, “maybe a month? Two? They don’t hurt, but they do sometimes…bleed.”

“Okay, would you mind if I had a look at them?” She requests, and you silently offer her your hands for her to take. That tingling warmth feathers beneath your skin, as if the flesh has fallen asleep, and you watch curiously as she probes along your knuckles, examining your palms, grazing your wrists. “And may I look at the area you experienced the pain in?” She asks, and you stiffen but nod. It’ll be the same thing as last time, you hope, and that wasn’t too bad since she had managed to work through the fabric of your night gown. The duvet is rolled back and you sit straighter in the cushions so she’ll have better access.

“Can you point out where exactly you were feeling the pain?” She requests, and you gesture to a horizontal strip of skin below your middle. “It was the sharpest here,” you answer, “but I sometimes get a small ache further to the left or right.” Madja doesn’t reply, her expression showing concentration as she moves her hands across your stomach, gently pushing at the parts you’d mentioned as that warmth settles pleasantly into you. You can’t help as your attention drifts to your own hands, how flaky and lumpy they are in comparison to her tender set. It’s so dry, small scabs where blood had leaked from…you wish at least the bleeding didn’t happen. So many pairs of gloves you have to wash repeatedly to make sure there aren’t any stains.

It’s become such a normal part of your life it had slipped your mind that pain shouldn’t be a normal part of it, nor the bleeding.

The bleeding…

A cold feeling washes over you, like you’ve had ice tipped down your spine as you remember the scare you’d experienced in the Autumn Court.

If Madja notices how you’ve frozen, she doesn’t mention it, but a slow feeling of slippery dread unspools in your stomach as you recall the blood you’d noticed when visiting the washroom one morning. You’d thought it was your cycle—the slight pains had added up and the night sweats had made sense—but then nothing had happened and you’d forgotten about that blood.

Nausea churns in your stomach, a district feeling over lightheadedness overcoming you and you force the calm breaths into your lungs…deep, and steady. You choke on saliva and your palm flies over your mouth as you twist your head to the side, coughing.

Madja glances up at you, brows slightly pulled together from concentration. “Have some water—are you remembering to keep yourself hydrated throughout the day?” She asks, handing you the glass that rests by your bedside table. “For the most part,” you answer after taking a few sips. Madja pauses briefly, a look of consideration passing behind her eyes before speaking, “would you mind if I checked your lungs? It’s likely nothing, but might as well be sure since I’m here, don’t you agree?”

You blink at her, looking slightly perplexed but you suppose there’s no harm in it, so you nod your confirmation, handing her back the glass before settling into the cushion. That familiar warmth tingles in your skin as she tentatively lays her fingers just below your collar bones before pressing down a little firmer and making her way from one side to the other. Her features remain set in an expression of concentration and she returns to the tops of your sternum before going a little lower. You tense, but understand she’s performing a medical examination.

“Can you sit upright a little more? I’d like to search a little lower, just by your ribs,” she adds, seeing your startled expression. You nod, understanding, sitting more upright independent of the cushions. “Now if you can raise your arm?” She requests gently and again you follow, raising your left arm so she has access to the side of your ribs. The tingling sensation returns and you think you can feel as it searches through your body, though it doesn’t feel invasive like you had expected.

Madja’s fingers pause, before she’s pressing noticeably firmer and you have to steady yourself so she does upset your balance. The sensation becomes more acute, able to feel as the tingling feeling concentrates near the middle left of your lower ribcage. When she retracts her hands she looks a little confused.

“Is everything okay?” You ask nervously, uneasy by her expression.

“There’s what feels like a small lump connected to the tissue of your left lung,” Madja explains calmly, and you nod your head. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to try and purge it. I haven’t seen it in any other patients, and there’s no reason for it to be there—it isn’t a natural part of your body. Would that be okay?”

You nod your head—if she’s found something wrong with you, that sounds promising…? And if she thinks she can…purge it, that seems even better.

“Alright, if you lean back into the bed to keep your upper body relaxed that would be perfect,” she guides and you settle down. “Okay, I’m going to apply my magic to the growth. You might feel a sudden heat or a ticklish sensation but if you can avoid coughing that would be helpful,” she explains, and tension rises in your chest as she again puts her hands against the side of your ribcage.

Sure enough, a sharp heat fills a spot on your lung, and you press your lips together to prevent from coughing or inhaling suddenly despite the abrupt tickle that’s manifested in your throat, an intense itchiness in your lungs…an itchiness growing in the tips of your fingers…growing hotter…and hotter…beginning to burn, and…

Madja pulls away, a gentle smile on her face, “all done. You did well not to start coughing in the middle there, it helped make the process much easier for me.”

“So, it’s gone?” You ask perplexedly, hand gingerly rising to press into your ribs, testing as you inhale. Sure enough, the tickling feeling has gone, and so has the tightness in your throat, suddenly feeling much clearer. Like when you’d had a cold as a human, feeling the distinct relief once you were able to breathe freely again, having to become reliant on inhaling via your mouth rather than nose. One never appreciates how seamlessly their body works until it’s compromised.

Madja smiles, “it’s gone.”

A hesitant smile makes its way across your mouth, peering down to where you hand is settled.

Maybe it isn’t as bad as you’d been telling yourself.

————

Golden eyes gleam from within the home, the scent of rosemary so familiar emotion swells in your chest.

“Hey, Bas.”

He pauses briefly, and you hesitate, waiting to see what he’ll do. Then he’s shifting in the doorway, opening it wider cautiously as he take you in, taking up most of the entryway. “You’re back…” he greets, but the note of caution in his voice has you hesitating again. But you push a small smile to your mouth, remembering yourself. “I’m back,” you agree, nodding your head slightly, “how… How have you been? Everything okay?”

Bas is silent, simply watching you with an indistinguishable look and you resist the urge to move beneath his attention, instead waiting it out, wondering what he’s thinking.

“Where were you?” He asks, catching you a little off-guard with the question. You hadn’t really considered he might question where you went. “I was… I visited another Court. Temporarily. Just to see more of the world, I guess…” You peer up at him—he isn’t moving from the doorway, remaining blocking it instead of inviting you in like you’d anticipated. Things feel strange, to how you remember them. “Is everything…okay?” You hedge.

“Is everything okay?” He repeats softly, as if to himself. His golden eyes regain awareness, pupils tightening as they look at you. “Why don’t you tell me?”

It’s enough to have you faltering, temporary confidence stumbling as you peer up at him questioningly. “I…what do you mean?” You ask, unsure what he’s asking after.

“I mean, why did you disappear like that, huh? You just— went. Without telling me where, without telling anyone where, apparently. Do you know how dangerous Prythian can be? Especially for someone like you, and you just decided to leave? What were you thinking?” Bas asks, his patience steadily slipping as he speaks, thoughts pouring from his lips. “Someone like me?” You repeat faintly, pinning him with a look, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re smart. Not strong,” he answers succinctly, but bluntly, “you should know what sort of creatures are out there.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you the night I left,” you counter, a note of disbelief in your voice.

“Because you’re smart,” he repeats as if it’s obvious. “You’re smart, so I assumed you’d make a smart choice. Not just go out into Prythian on a whim. You don’t even know how to fight. Do you understand what could have happened to you?”

“Bas, I’m fine,” you reassure, trying to understand his temper is coming from a place of concern. “I…I went to meet someone. I didn’t just go out into the wilderness, you don’t need to worry,” you explain, knowing it’s best to keep the details vague.

“You know your family came to visit, right?” He asks, again catching you off guard as you stare at him. “No,” you answer, quietly, “I didn’t. Who—… What happened…?” Bas shifts in the doorway, settling to lean against the threshold of the entrance, and a small grain of relief passes through you at the distinctly familiar gesture. “Azriel visited first, and I told him he wouldn’t get anything out of me because I had decided to trust that you knew what you were doing. And you know what he told me?” Bas asks harshly, shaking his head and not waiting for reply. “He told me I was interfering with Court affairs, that withholding information might result in the High Lord personally questioning me. And I still didn’t tell him anything.”

“I…I’m sorry, Bas,” you manage, guilt at last beginning to rise in your chest, head lowering slightly. “I’m…thank you. For trusting me.”

“I’m not done,” Bas says quietly, but firmly, causing you to glance up at him questioningly. “He came back, that time with Mor.” There’s no way for you to conceal the pain and conflict that passes through your expression. Even if you could, even if you knew how to hide your emotions like that, you have the distinct impression he knows you well enough he’d be able to see through it, and the thought is surprisingly uncomfortable for you. Knowing someone so well they could see through your lies…that kind of vulnerability…

“She was the one who convinced me to admit I had no idea where you’d gone. She was clearly worried, and I had to look at her and tell her how you hadn’t trusted me enough to say where you’d be going, but that I had decided to trust you enough that I’d been fine not knowing.” His voice has lowered, becoming rougher, and your shoulder slope with shame. “Can you understand that? To realise you’ve been deceived by someone you cared for like that? To admit that to people who had been smart enough to know better?”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, raising your eyes to meet his, gloved hands wringing together. “I didn’t mean for it to seem like I didn’t trust you. I do.”

“Then where were you?”

You raise your head to look at him, then. Heart sinking because—you can’t tell him. You’re in enough trouble as it is, with Rhys, with Mor, with Azriel. Probably with your sisters too, they just haven’t shown it yet. You can’t cause more problems. More problems for them is more consequences for you, and you have a long list of things to make up for. Dauntingly long. Almost unbearably… “Bas…I…”

“Can’t tell me?” He finishes, his tone telling you it’s exactly what he anticipated.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say softly, holding his gaze imploringly. “You know I trust you. That I’ve told you things I could never—… That I could never tell anyone else…”

“Then why can’t you tell me, huh?” He asks, a touch more gentle, sounding as helpless as you feel.

“Just…I need you to…”

“Trust you?” He scoffs, shoulders jerking in an unnaturally sharp movement.

“You’d made it sound like they didn’t care about you,” he says quietly, and you look at him wearily. “I thought you were on your own, you know.” Like me, is what he leaves out, but you can hear it clear enough. “I have my ma, and you have your sister, but beyond that I thought you had no one but me.” And I had no one but you—again, you can hear those words he’s not saying. “That we were going to be there for each other because we understood what it was like. But they care for you.” A strange sense of shame settles heavily on your shoulders, and your head lowers, but you don’t look away.

“It was obvious,” he murmurs, his brows curving almost imperceptibly, a kernel of pain passing behind sharp golden eyes. He sighs, shaking his head, pushing up from the doorframe and you watch silently as he begins to draw the conversation to a close. “I won’t begrudge you of that. I’m glad you have people. Family. But I…” You lied.

“I don’t—” You say abruptly, rushing into speech, hurting without thought, just needing to explain yourself, even if it opens up something you aren’t ready for. “They don’t,” you breathe. “I—… It might look like they do, you might know they do. Maybe they really, actually do.” You stare up at him, feeling that emptiness lethargically blink itself awake, mouth yawning open in preparation to begin swallowing you down again. Pulling you into that inescapable state of overwhelming darkness. “But I can’t believe it,” you whisper, feeling as your eyes fill with wetness, and something hot spills down your cheek, another following when you blink to clear it away. “I can’t…” you breathe, trailing off. “It doesn’t matter what happens, Bas. I just—…I can’t believe it.”

“And I should believe you?” He asks quietly.

You stare at him helplessly. There’s nothing else you can say. You’ve tried to convince him, you’ve been as honest as you can physically tolerate, and it…it just isn’t enough. You aren’t enough.

Your heart doesn’t plummet like you’ve learned to anticipate. Instead a vague feeling of disappointment calmly soothes your skin, glum pessimism setting in as the high emotions fade into watery greys. Desaturated, and bearable.

“I don’t know what else to say,” you tell him quietly.

“Just tell me the truth,” Bas asks, golden eyes showing his hurt. Another case of betrayal you’ve brought upon yourself.

Would it be unfair to ask his forgiveness?

“I’m sorry,” you give as your answer. There’s nothing else you can say.

Bas’ eyes dull slightly, and you understand how you’ve let him down.

His jaw works, looking away briefly before returning his attention to you. “I’ll see you later.”

————

The wind breezes through you as you walk along the cobbles, the sun long since dipped down beneath the horizon, leaving a chill in the air that manages to sink through the silky orange material of your scarf.

You can’t bring yourself to try and tackle the emotional conflict with Bas yet. You’re drained, and tired from the past months—maybe longer—and you don’t want to put yourself through more self-inflicted sadness. If you really need to release some bottled up emotion, you know you’ll have no choice in escaping it. If you have the option to keep yourself from hurt, you’ll take it. At least for the moment.

Bas had said he’d see you later—you have to trust him. As a friend, as someone who’s been there for you, and you for him—you have to believe you’ll be able to fix this. There’s good in the world, Feyre had told you, you just have to trust that you’ll find it. Even if it’s seemingly alluded you until now, in the moments you’ve needed it most.

A silhouette seems familiar in your peripherals, a distinctly fae sense recognising the shape, or…something, of the figure, and you glance over.

Cassian raises his hand in greeting, his expression clear and untroubled as he walks over to where you’ve paused, wings kept neatly tucked at his back to keep them from bumping into things. “You know, I’ve been told you’re supposed to be staying in bed,” he greets in his deep voice, tone similar to one someone would use when catching another doing something they aren’t supposed to, but considering joining in anyway. It’s very him, in a way.

“I…” you begin, about to mention Bas, but then decide otherwise. “I’m feeling okay today. I thought a walk might be nice. Fresh air’s supposed to be good for you, right?” You ask lightly, volume low. Cassian’s quiet for a beat, unnervingly sharp hazel eyes weighing into you calmly. Then he sighs, shrugging his shoulders a little before shifting on his feet, making to turn around, to lead you somewhere. “I suppose I can’t fault you for keeping things to yourself.”

You watch as he turns, obviously expecting you to go with him, but the moment caught you off guard. “…keeping things to myself…?” You hedge, managing to get your feet moving to walk a little behind him, not particularly wanting to go with him but knowing it would be unreasonable to turn away. Especially after all the trouble you’ve caused—like having such poor control of your—

You halt abruptly, staring up to the cliff-face that contains the House of Wind. Sure enough, even from so far below, you can spot the large break in the rock-face, able to pick out what had been your bedroom, and the sides of the rooms either side of it. You feel as the blood drains from your face, shock icing your body as you’re unable to look away—you caused that. “Something wrong?” Cassian asks, calling back to you a few steps away.

Words have left you, unable to figure out what to say, mind struggling to wrap around all of it. Another thing to make up for, and that one’s pretty big, too…your shoulders slope as you stare at the hole blown out of the rock. The damage you’ve probably caused the interior too… How much will it take to repair that? Isn’t the building itself old? Even to fae standards?

How can you ever make up for something like that?

Cassian walks back over to you when you don’t reply, pausing at your side, hands on his hips as he follows the direction of your gaze. “Pretty impressive,” he says conversationally, “you’ve got a way to go before you can manage an entire building, though.” Then he pats you lightly on the shoulder, wing curving round your body to get your legs moving as you’re pulled away, view with the House broken.

“I—…” you choke out, “did…did I do that?” You manage hoarsely, looking up at him as your feet start moving one in front of the other, subconsciously wary of bumping into his wing. “Sure did. Blew right through that noise cancelling ward Feyre put up,” Cassian answers, keeping his attention ahead as he leads you through the city streets, people automatically making way for the familiar face. “I told her she’d been slacking off in practising her magic,” he murmurs under his breath, but you aren’t paying much attention, too overwhelmed with debt to really engage.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, feet hesitating as they move over the cobbles before stopping firmly, shoulders bunched as you glance up at him. “I’m so— I didn’t mean to make such a mess— I just— I just didn’t— I didn’t know what to do. And I thought he was going to—”

“It’s okay,” Cassian says firmly, standing in front of you so there are less places to look away to. “It’s Rhys’ anyway. You don’t need to apologise to me.”

“But…it was given to you,” you hedge, staring up at him—and if it’s still Rhys’, that’s so much worse. So, so much damage.

“Would you feel better if someone was angry with you?” He asks seriously after a moment of pause. You freeze, startled by the question. “…what?”

“Would it make it easier?” He repeats, watching you solemnly, “if we acted how you’re waiting for us to?”

You stare at him, struggling to pull together a reply, startled from the strange clarity of his questions. Seconds pass and all you can do is look at him, too afraid to answer—not of him, but…something.

Cassian breaks the connection, glancing away, half turning his body to face the direction you’d been walking. “Maybe that question was too much,” he says, almost to himself. He sighs, eyes closing briefly, before he’s glancing at you, wing opening as if to guide you along again. “Come on,” he says, voice having lost that solemnity, back to the familiar timbre, “we’ll be late.”

“Late?” You manage as you somehow get your body to fall into step beside him. “What…where are we going?”

He looks at you strangely, as if the answer’s obvious. “Dinner, of course,” he replies, returning his attention to the streets ahead, sure enough taking the path that will lead directly back to the River House. “They’ll start without us if we aren’t there on time.”

“Dinner?” You ask, feeling lightheaded. Too many new components being dropped on you for you to entirely keep yourself together. You swallow thickly, fumbling for excuses because you can’t do a dinner as you are—not after yesterday. “I’m not feeling too great, actually,” you say hoarsely, “besides, if I eat this late I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it…” you trail off, realising he probably doesn’t want to hear about you throwing up meals every now and again.

“Madja’s told us you need to keep your strength up,” Cassian replies, and you’re unsure if he’s intentionally chosen a counter-argument you’d have trouble escaping or whether it was inadvertent. “Eat what you can—it’s important during recovery, even if it might feel insignificant, or pointless.” You glance at him again, that strange feeling creeping into your chest at his wording—is it some kind of intuition that’s leading him to say these things?

“…Will everyone be there?” You ask quietly, trying to calm yourself as the River House comes into view, not far away now. “Az will probably want to eat in his room,” Cassian answers neutrally after a temporary pause, “but everyone else will. You’ll be sitting besides Elain.” There was no reason to add that on.

You can’t manage it, but you can’t figure a way to escape. There’s no out you can find—saying you aren’t hungry, or you’re tired won’t get you out of it, he’s already said to just eat what you can meaning you have to have at least a bite or two. But the idea of sitting with all of them, when everything is still so unclear…You can’t.

The River House looms before you, and you can swear you feel a cold sweat appear on your back, hands turning unnaturally clammy, so accustomed to the skin being dry and flaky that to feel the dampness on your palms has slippery discomfort roiling in your stomach.

Cassian walks up the steps, hand settling on the door, and you watch in motion slower than usual as he begins to turn the handle.

A slight breeze blows, pulling strands of your hair forward, as if trying to push you into the House, and Cassian pauses, door opened only a few inches. Beats pass, but you keep utterly still, both wanting the moment to end but also desiring nothing more than to run from the oncoming meal.

Strangely observant hazel eyes flick over a broad shoulder, meeting your own set and you tense, hairs rising at the nape of your neck, getting that same feeling you’d had when speaking with Rhys, that he can somehow see through you too clearly, like you’re too easy to read. Fearing what he’ll be able to find before you’ve had the chance to discover it. Watching you fumble in the dark for something that was so easy to locate. Struggling with a problem embarrassingly simple to decipher.

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says, holding your gaze. Are you really that easy to see through? But then he continues, and the surrounding world warps a little.

“You have a right to be at that table as much as any of us,” he says, those keen hazel eyes remaining steady. “Keep that in mind, when you go in.”

Then the door’s opening wider, and the smell of a hot meal wafts out into the night. You trail behind him, latch clicking at your back, following as he makes his way to the dining room. He had believed the words he’d told you, that you were deserving of a seat at their table. You can’t really bring yourself to believe it, but his sincerity has shaken your ground a little.

His expression shifts when he rounds a corner, brows rising as his lips part in a broad smile, voices rising in greeting and you can see why Feyre treasures his company. He’s surprisingly gentle, oddly perceptive.

They probably all already knew that, though. It’s your fault for casting roles on them before really even getting to know them, assigning characters after only a handful of proper conversations. If only you’d made the effort to step out of your own little circle, maybe the circumference wouldn’t be as strangling as it’s become.

If you’d stepped out sooner, could you have been first choice?

But, glancing again at Cassian, his profile captured in a look between irritation and affection, turning the corner into the dining room and seeing the scrunch of Feyre’s brow as she replies to whatever he’d said…no. It wouldn’t have mattered.

But it’s not the end of the world that you weren’t made that way.

————

It’s good to see her smiling again, he thinks.

With the past months having been so draining, the symptoms of her restlessness only exacerbated in the last few days given the turmoil they’ve all been thrown into, it’s good to see the light in her eyes gleaming again. More than just good, but there isn’t quite a word right enough to express the soul-deep relief he feels at seeing her smile. A strange conviction that everything will be okay now that she’s on the way better.

Her ears twitch once before she’s shooting him a half-glare, having felt his gaze roaming over her. “Family dinner, Rhys,” she snaps under her breath, but he can see the heat in her eyes, the silent agreement that’s exchanged in the brief moments their gaze locks, and Rhys’ mouth curves suggestively, his brows rising in feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmurs, looking down at his mate with an intensity he knows she adores. And yet she lightly smacks his thigh anyway.

“I’m serious,” Feyre warns, that heat dissipating as Cassian picks a seat at the table, dragging the feet across the floorboards with a grating noise that’s thankfully drowned out by chatter while a smaller figure quietly follows after him, taking one of the two remaining open seats. Unlike Cassian, she lifts her chosen seat from the floor, trying to keep as silent as possible and blend into the background as she sits beside Elain. “Don’t scare her off,” Feyre murmurs under her breath. Rhys hums compliantly, eyes twinkling as he spends a few extra moments looking at his mate. Moments he thinks he might at long last be beginning to lean into.

“Where’s Mor?” Cassian interrupts, and Rhys reluctantly shifts his attention to his brother, who has taken the seat opposite Feyre. He sometimes wonders if Cassian choses moves like this intentionally, whether they’re conscious decisions or whether these actions result from a wish to have his family united. Cassian isn’t like himself or Az, wasn’t taught to conceal his emotions as they were—well, in his own case it was taught. For Az it was a matter of survival.

“Taking supper up to Az,” Nesta’s voice cuts through the previously enjoyable atmosphere, the noise similar to recognising the hiss of steel being drawn within a temple. A few centuries ago, his ears might have twitched at the distinctly unpleasant intrusion, but Cassian’s eyes have already left his own to seek out the icy silver of his mate’s, softened at their edges.

“More than just supper,” Amren comments, one space over to Rhys’ right, sat at a corner seat. “She took an entire bottle of wine with her.” Laughter rises, and Rhys allows his attention to briefly sweep over across the table where the two sisters are involved in conversation, as if there’s no one else to speak with. He supposes one of them might very well believe that, and with a fraction of a thought swiftly removes the precautionary enchantment of the silverware so they won’t vanish if she reaches for them.

At least she’s there, though he’s fairly confident Cassian has something to do with it. Rhys can picture how the light in Feyre’s eyes might flicker learning she had found a way to shut herself away in a house where avoiding others was almost impossible without intent. No amount of luck or coincidence would keep her entirely hidden. Especially over meals.

Violet eyes return to his left, feeling the familiar ease that settles through him at the reminder of Feyre’s presence. A deeply-treasured reprieve from the strain and stress that’s been thriving amongst them as of late.

————

“How was the check-up with Madja, by the way?” Elain asks, using one of the large wooden spoons to shift a few roast potatoes onto her plate.

You nod slightly, lips pressing together in a small smile that you hope is reassuring. “Good, for the most part,” you reply. “I think she still wants to observe what happens for now, but she did…do something, which might have helped?” It reminds you of the lightness in your lungs, the strange openness of your throat and you instinctively take in a deeper breath, basking in that odd clearness. Elain hums in question, silently offering you the spoon for potatoes, but you shake your head politely. “I’m not sure…I don’t think dinner is the best place to discuss those check-ups,” you say quietly, a half-smile on your mouth. Elain’s lips curve, eyes gleaming as she nods in agreement, “you’re probably right.” Then she glances across the table before returning her gaze to yours, a new, preempted question already rising to her mouth. “What are you going to eat?”

The smile on your lips becomes strained, gloved hands shifting in your lap as you keep the orange, silk scarf pulled over your arms to conceal the wretched skin. You wish you’d at least had the chance to change before coming here—your mind will mostly be preoccupied with making sure none of them are forced to see the state beneath the silk. “If I’m honest, I’m not really that hungry…” you hedge, but Elain gives you a look that tells you she won’t stand for it. Although it comes from a place of care and love, you can’t help feeling a little suffocated.

“Just have a couple of bites, okay?” Elain reasons gently, “Madja’s told us it’s good for you to eat, it’ll help you recover.”

“Apparently Madja’s been saying that a lot,” you mutter under your breath.

“Madja’s a highly respected healer,” Amren cuts in from across the table, her eyes sharp as they pierce into you. “If she’s said you should eat, you should eat.”

You aren’t sure if you imagine the way the noise level seems to drop at that, but the familiarly dull pain of humiliation flickers across your chest, ashamed to have sounded so ungrateful. Your head lowers a little, unable to think of a reply as your hands wring together beneath the table, tucked away in your lap.

“Unless you really feel sick,” Elain interjects a little defensively, her hand subconsciously placing itself on your upper arm in what you’re certain she intends to be a comforting gesture—in truth it causes your flesh to ache, but you keep your mouth shut. “I’m sure I can manage a bite or two,” you get out with a small smile and you hate that you know it won’t reach your eyes, so keep your head slightly ducked as you put a few potatoes on your plate. You can come down later, once everyone’s gone to bed if you’re still hungry.

A beat passes, and Elain shifts at your side, a fresh smile on her face, trying to brighten your mood—you dip a little lower at that, that she feels responsible, but if you don’t pull yourself together she’ll keep doing it. “How did you and Cassian bump into one another?” She asks, reaching for something else on the table that you don’t look at. Cassian doesn’t make to answer, so you have to, feeling the distinct weight of the table’s attention. “Just coincidence, I suppose,” you reply, managing a faint smile, keeping your eyes on your plate as you slice one of the roast potatoes in two, steam wafting up from the hot centre.

“Went out for a walk?” Elain asks. There’s an almost unnoticeable tone of relief in the question—you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t as close to her as you are. Is that how easily she can pick out your own thoughts? “Fresh air’s probably good for you, right?” She says smiling, causing your own lips to curve at their edges fondly. “I think so,” you murmur in reply.

“Have you had a chance to read any more books recently? I haven’t seen any in your room…I could get some if you want?” Feyre speaks from across the table, and you bite down on the way you want to shrink into yourself as the conversation is drawn over to you. “I haven’t, and it’s fine, thank you. Have you been painting recently?” You ask, swiftly shutting it down and shifting the conversation back to her, hoping you’ll be left out of it now.

Rhys’s attention flits over her a split second before something passes behind Feyre’s eyes, but she swallows and nods. “There hasn’t been as much time as I’d like, but I’m finding moments,” she answers, but goes no further. You’re glad she’s still getting time to herself in spite of being High Lady and more importantly, a mother. You can’t imagine how difficult it must be if it’s taking up that much of her time…and you probably hadn’t helped…she’s been visiting each day… You should have succeeded.

The passiveness of the thought catches you a little off guard. Since when had thoughts like that become so habitual? So flippant? You spear a piece of potato with your fork, bringing it to your mouth. It was just a fleeting thought, it’s fine. Weird things happen in the mind anyway, as long as you don’t mean it, you’re okay.

“Would you…” Feyre’s asking, “be interested in joining me? We could have an easel set up in your room?”

A part of the potato goes down the wrong way as you hear the question, hand grabbing the napkin as you cover your mouth, coughing. You clear your throat when you’re done, making sure to wipe your lips subtly as you pull the napkin away, sipping on the glass of water to help clear your throat. Once you’ve recovered, you remember her question.

It would be nice. Really nice, actually, but… “it’s fine, please don’t worry. Painting’s your thing, and I think…personal, to you. Besides, I have my books,” you excuse, heart sinking a little, but it’s for the better. She’s already short on time anyway, she needs to keep that for herself, even if you can’t help but want it.

The same look passes behind her eyes, and you now wonder if you can’t figure it out because…because you might no longer know her well enough.

“It’s probably for the better,” Rhys announces, bringing the moment to a swift end, “Feyre’s nude models would probably upset your delicate sensibilities, anyway.”

Your eyes widen and you nearly choke on air as wild, ferocious heat swarms your features, staring ahead, bewildered.

Rhys grins as a fuming Feyre smacks him on the shoulder, indignant rage lighting her eyes. “Lies! All lies,” she snaps, before sparing you a somewhat apologetic glance. “He’s joking, obviously,” she reassures, shooting a glare Rhys’ way at that last part. “His humour’s apparently a few centuries out of date.”

“Speaking of things on the old side,” a golden voice calls from the hallway, parading into the dining room in heels tall and thin enough to potentially run someone through. “Rhys, is there another case of this stuff? Az wants some more.”

The High Lord rolls his eyes, amusement clear, Feyre settling at his side, feigned anger dissipating as if it were never there, her eyes twinkling again.

“We all know you finished off the bottle before you even reached Az’s room,” Amren snipes, thickly-jewelled fingers sparkling as she nurses her own glass, laughter rising from the table.

“Oh, like you’re any better Amren. You could polish off bottles of blood in the time it took me to eat an appetiser,” Mor replies, heels clicking across the floor as she sweeps through the room in a flurry of vibrant red and stunning gold, taking her seat opposite Elain—between Amren and Rhys.

One seat and across from your own position.

The meal fully commencing now all able players are assembled at the table.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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