#just waiting for feysand to start

[heartless-tate]

Lovers | Feysand X Freader

A/n; based off this request! Tysm for the request, I hope you enjoy! warnings; smut, lil bit of angst?, threesome, p in v, v in ur mouth 😍😍, cussing? Message me if I missed anything guys! Happy reading!

It had been 2 weeks since the night. You had stayed holed up in your apartment. You were embarrassed- or no ashamed? Confused? And bewildered by what had happened. Rhysand had invited you to Rita’s with the inner circle. You had went- enjoyed the night. And then it was time to leave. Everyone went their separate ways, except you. So you ended up on the couch beside Feyre and Rhys, drinking the tea she had made you.

“Thank you Feyre.” You whispered, grasping the hot tea she had made you. She smiled and nodded, keen eyes watching as you sipped on it. She sat down beside you again, closer this time, leaving you almost sandwiched between her and Rhys. You all sat in comfortable silence as you finished your tea. You hadn’t been drinking that night, as you didn’t feel like it. The drink was warm in your body. It relaxed you. You almost didn’t notice Rhysand’s wing brushing closer to your skin. You decided he hadn’t done it on purpose and ignored it. Until you turned your head to Feyre, and her lips were smashing against yours. She was kissing you. Her lips tasted of cherries. She chopped your face gently but firm. What was happening? You waited for Rhys to freak out but before you knew it, you felt his hand on your waist and thighs, his lips meeting your neck. Oh gods. What was happening?

And why did it feel so good? You melted into the kiss before jerking back, gasping for air. They both pulled back. Their eyes were glued to you. Your face was flushed slightly.

“Are you okay with this?” Rhysand purred behind you. You didn’t have time to think before you were nodding.

“Yeah.”

The night was magical. They certainly worked as a pair to make you cum more then once. And by the end of the night, hours later, you laid in their arms. And then in the morning you went home before they woke. You had no words. What were you suppose to say? You had shown them your most vulnerable side. Naked and pleading for them-

And now you didn’t know where any of you stood. You sighed internally. They probably were just trying something new and you were the easiest option. Easy. Easy.? Yeah. That was it. It was a one time fuck. You were just Feyre’s friend and Rhysand’s worker. Nothing more.

That thought shouldn’t of hurt, but it did. You weren’t anything. The urge to dissociate and never speak to them grew stronger. Run away and hide- but you could never escape from two beings so strong. Or would they even care if you left? They had eachother. They didn’t need you. You were a quick fuck.

A knock sounded on your door, distracting you from your thoughts. Who was here? You slowly slid from the bath, the water cold now. You threw on a shirt and made your way to the door. Cassian stood there.

“Hey!” He chirped loudly. His wings were flared slightly. He made note of your appearance. You seemed tired. And stressed.

“Hey Cas?” You said, raising an eyebrow. You leaned against the door frame. Why was he here?

“You haven’t been around in awhile! We were getting worried. You sick or something?” He pried. His eyes scanned your apartment behind you. It was a bit of a mess.

“Oh..yeah. Just haven’t been feeling well I guess.” You lied, knowing he would report back to Rhysand immediately. What we’re you suppose to say? ‘Oh I’m just sad and depressed because I fucked your high lord and high lady!’ Definitely not.

Cassian’s eyebrows furrowed. You did look sick. Your scent was weird too. Whatever you were, it wasn’t happy and healthy. “Have you seen a doctor?” He asked.

“No? I’m fine.” You said, wanting him to leave. He bristled slightly.

“Y/n-“

“I’m fine.” You growled. He sighed. He nodded.

“Okay.” And then he was gone. You felt bad, but you didn’t want to be around anyone right now.

Not even an hour passed before banging at your door started. What the fuck? You quickly approached the door and slammed it open. Before you could get any words out, hands were on your face, inspecting you. Rhysand.

“You’re sick.” He stated. he brushed your hair from your face, holding a hand to your forehead. Cassian snitched. The little fucker. You pulled away harshly, taking a step back.

“I’m fine.” You said for what felt like the millionth time today. He stepped forward with you, eyes narrowed. They searched over you, looking for injuries. He looked back to you. He sniffed the air.

“You smell weird.” He commented. You rolled your eyes.

“Wow thanks.” You said sarcastically. You turned around and walked back into your apartment hoping he’d get the hint and leave. He followed you in. He looked around the apartment.

“Maybe it’s this shithole. The air is musty around here, you should come live in one of our houses.” He purred with a smirk.

“No.”

His smirk dropped. He approached where you stood in the kitchen, his wings crowding the space as he stood behind you. He observed your cooking. “Cauldron. Being sick makes you cranky.” He teased. “If you were sick you should’ve told me. You could’ve come and let me and Feyre care for you.”

You tensed. What was he playing? You focused on the pot of your favorite comfort food. You stepped closer to the stove rather then being near him.

“I’m not sick.” You mumbled, wanting him to leave.

“Hm? Then why do you smell rotten?”

You flinched at his words. You turned around facing him. He was so tall. “Unless you came here for something else other then insulting me with every sentence, I suggest you leave.” You threatened. His eyes widened. His wings spread.

“You’re coming with me.” He declared suddenly. It was your turn to be shocked. “I suggest you start packing.”

Rhysand didn’t give you a choice, joining you in packing a few of your clothes. Why was he doing this?

You currently sat on a couch. The same couch where feyre ate you out. Where Rhysand fingered you. You shook the nasty thoughts away. Easy. You where just an easy fuck. Nothing more. You reminded yourself. Still- you felt a small growing heat in your body.

Feyre and Rhysand sat in front of you on the opposite couch. This was awkward.

“You have two options.” Feyre started.

“You can tell us what’s wrong and why you haven’t gone to a doctor, or you can let us call Madja.” Rhysand finished.

You groaned out loud. “For the last time! I’m fine. I’m not sick.”

Feyre opened her mouth to point out your scent. Rhysand stopped her.

“Then whats wrong?” Rhysand inquired. They both stared at you with big expecting eyes. You definitely weren’t getting out of this.

“I lied. I didn’t want to have to go back to work.” You mumbled. This was humiliating. Feyre quirked a brow. You weren’t the type that was lazy. You always showed up. You were a medicine specialist, and a healer. And also the best poison artist. Everyone in the inner circle loved you so much that you eventually just started being apart of it. And for you not to show up, meant something was wrong. Was it someone? No. You still smelled unhealthy.

“Explain.” Rhysand demanded, adjusting his position.

“I didn’t wanna be around you.” You stated. They both flinched and looked to each other.

“Is this about that night?” Feyre questioned. You stayed silent, not wanting to answer.

“Damnit Rhys I knew we made a mistake not checking in sooner.” Feyre growled quietly. Rhysand sighed, nodding in agreement.

“What?” You asked. What did she mean?

“We’re sorry we didn’t come and check up on you-“ Rhysand started. He sighed again. “I thought it would be best to give you space and let you process things.”

“Process? Process what? It was sex. That was it.” You barked.

Both of their faces dropped. “Just sex..?” Rhysand questioned. Feyre turned back to you. “It wasn’t just sex.” She growled challenging.

The room went silent. Feyre rubbed her temples. Rhysand stood abruptly. You looked up at him as he stepped closer.

“Love. It wasn’t ‘just sex.’ At least, not to us. It was much more. We both have liked, no loved, you for awhile. Ever since you joined the night court. We thought us making love to you made our intentions clear. When you disappeared we assumed you needed space to adjust to having two mates.” Rhysand spoke softly, crouching in front of you.

Oh. Oh. “Mates?!” You whispered. He nodded. Oh mother. Two mates? They were your mates. Your fucking mates. A sense of panic filled your system. They were making love to you and you thought they were just fucking you. Of course you had a small crush on them. Who wouldn’t? But you never saw it going anywhere. But now? Mates. Mates.

You couldn’t help but warm, remembering the night. Remembering had originally made you feel embarrassed. But now? You remembered how gentle and loving they were. The way Rhys pumped himself gently into you, kissing at your neck, with feyre suckling on your swollen clit. Your face heated up at the memory. Talons caressed your mind gently. You quickly shook the thought away, embarrassed at the wet feeling in your panties.

A hand rubbed your knee. Feyre. She was now beside you both. “It’s okay, love. We know it’s a lot to process. But don’t lie about being sick again. It had us worried.” She motioned to your bags beside the couch. Her voice was slightly scolding.

“I..” you paused. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to. Let us in.” Rhysand murmured, two sets of talons gently scratching your mind barriers. You let the barriers down. You felt them both crowding in your mind, searching and going over all your thoughts the pass two weeks. Trying asses how you feel. You felt embarrassed.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of darling.” Feyre **purred in your mind. They looked to each other when they were done.

Rhysand’s hand slowly went higher on your leg. His hand approaching your inner thigh. You squeezed them together instinctively. He smirked.

“You’re not easy. You’re not an experiment. You’re are mate.” He said, loud and clear. Feyre nodded, moving to sit beside you. She brushed your hair behind your ear.

You nodded. “And we can take our time. We don’t have to rush into this. But please, don’t distant yourself away. We’ll wait days to years until your ready to accept our bond.” Feyre whispered.

I want to accept it now. You thought. They both smirked cheekily.

“Words, love.” Rhysand purred, his hands suddenly dipping under your skirt. You felt his fingers brush against your clothed pussy. An embarrassing loud wet noise sounded. His smile grew wider. Feyre snickered.

“I want to-“ you gasped as Feyre’s hands cupped your breast, teasing your nipple slightly. Rhysand took the opportunity to slip your panties aside and trail his fingers through your slick.

“Hm?” Feyre teased.

“I want to accept the bond- now-“ you whispered out, hand clutching at Rhys’s wrist. It did nothing to stop his finger entering your cunt. It was a stretch already. He was big. You only came up to Rhysand’s chest when standing in front of him, and naturally everything on his body was bigger. Feyre ate you out last time to help adjust your body to his cock.

“Good girl.” They said in your mind. The praise triggered a rush of heat to your body again. Feyre’s hands slowly unbuttoned your blouse. She leaned down and licked a stripe in between your breast. Her nails turned to claws as she effortlessly ripped away your bra. Your chest was bare now. Your nipples hardened to the cold air. She leaned down, sucking a nipple into her mouth. You moaned, clenching on Rhysand’s finger. ke knelt between your legs, taking his time in spreading you open. He added another finger.

“She’s so tight.” Rhysand groaned, watching as your cunt clenched down. It was making a lot of noise now. Feyre giggled against your chest, fondling the other.

“And sensitive.” She purred. She flicked your other nipple, causing you to cry out. It hurt, but it felt so good. Rhysand attempted easing another finger in.

“Relax baby, i won’t be able to stuff you full if I can’t get two fingers in.”

You took a deep breath, calming your body. Everything felt so hot. Your breath were coming out in short pants. Feyre moved away, causing you to whine. She giggled again, her claw scraping your head gently. Rhysand’s fingers slowly entered you, pressing against the right spot. A spot you knew your fingers couldn’t even reach. He suddenly jerked away, leaving you empty. You whimpered softly.

He smiled and started removing your skirt and panties. Your panties were soaked. He held on to them a little longer, taking his time in sniffing them lewdly. He set them aside. You were completely bare. They were still clothed. You felt vulnerable and weak around them. And for some reason that made you wetter. You were at their will.

Rhysand’s fingers entered again, setting a much faster pace this time. They pressed into your g-spot everytime they entered. You bit your lip, trying to contain your noises.

Feyre growled warningly, and leaning nipping your cheek. She caught your lips in a rough kiss, hand clasping at your jaw. Her tongue entered your mouth, exploring. It was so stimulating- it was hard to breath but you couldn’t care. Rhysand’s fingers pumping in you, and her tongue in your mouth. Rhysand’s tongue met your clit causing you to gasp. He kitten licked it a few times before pulling back. He was fingering you so aggressively. A third finger went in.

You moaned into Feyre’s mouth as her hand started toying with your breast again. A knot formed in your stomach. They weren’t even touching your clit and yet you were about to cum. Rhysand smirked knowingly. Feyre but your lip, and pulled away. She watched with piercing eyes.

“Look at your pretty pussy baby. It’s so wet. You’re soaking the couch.” She muttered, pulling your chin down to force you to look. Your wetness was all over his hands, practically drowning them. He was watching you. He pumped harder, enjoying the way your cunt squelched with each thrust of his hand. Your thighs clenched together, only his hands stopping them from closing completely. You were so close.

You yelled when his other hand came down against your clit, slapping it roughly. You didn’t have time to process it before you were squirting on his chest. His mouth immediately latched onto you, drinking in your juices greedily. You cried out, squirming, it was too much. Feyre watched with amazement.

“Awe. We have a squirter. You didn’t do that last time, sweetie.” She squealed. Rhysand moaned against your cunt, the vibrations making you whine. He pulled away, petting your inner thigh to soothe you.

“You didn’t have permission to cum yet. You disobeyed. And yet you came just from me slapping your clit. Such a needy slut for us.” He scolded, causing you to look away in embarrassment. You clenched around nothing.

“And she tastes so fucking good.” Rhysand said, swiping his fingers across your cunt before shoving them in Feyre’s mouth. Feyre moaned at the taste, slurping on his fingers loudly. You felt yourself grow wetter at the sight. Rhysand leaned up taking his fingers out and smashing his lips on hers. They made out aggressively, growling and nipping eachother’s lips. You moaned at the sight.

It snapped their attention to you. They broke off the kiss, eyes sliding to your body. Your beautiful body.

“C’mere” Feyre whispered, grabbing you gently and winnowing both you and Rhysand into their room. You landed in the bed. You watched as they undressed quickly, making their way to you. Rhysand approached and dragged you to the edge. He slotted himself in between your legs. His cock was hard and throbbing. It was massive. You wondered how you managed to take it last time. He smiled at your thoughts, petting your thigh softly. Feyre climbed on the bed, straddling your head. Her pussy was glistening and dripping wet.

“Open up darling.” She muttered, lowering herself onto your mouth. You quickly latched on, licking and slurping aggressively against her heat. She tasted so fucking good. Her hips rocked, slowly fucking your face. Her hands found your hair, holding you in place.

Rhysand ran a finger down your lips, watching as you squirmed. He was so hard. Painfully hard. He watched as you desperately slurped on Feyre’s cunt. Like a pathetic little puppy. God. He loved his two lovers so much. He playfully slapped your pussy again, making you whimper against her cunt.

“Shut up. You came without permission, so you don’t get a say in anything else.” Feyre reprimanded, pressing her hips down harder. She watched as you moaned helplessly. Her pussy dripped more juices.

Rhysand rubbed his throbbing tip up and down your slit, lubricating himself. His tongue ran over his lips.

You squeaked when Rhys shoved his long length in, it sliding easily in. It was a tight fit, and heat spread throughout your whole body. It felt like you were on fire. Feyre smirked and continued rutting her pussy on your face, watching as you mouth became a wet mess. She tasted like candy- and fuck it was good. You lapped helplessly on her clit. Rhys’ tip kissed your cervix, pushing. And then he started thrusting. His heavy balls slapped against your ass, creating wet noises.

You couldn’t help your broken moans, suckling on Feyre’s clit, and getting pounded roughly by Rhys. His hand rubbed your thigh, and his other flicked your clit a few times before rubbing it fast. You couldn’t do anything to stop him as you were overcome with an intense amount of pleasure. Feyre grasped your hair tighter, moaning loudly.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum.” She groaned, watching as you whimpered and licked her desperately. She came in your mouth with a low feminine growl, claws scraping your hair. Her release filled your mouth, and you swallowed it obediently. She moved away, kissing you gently. A sharp contrast from her fucking your face. Rhysand pinched your clit, slamming his cock deeper into you. A familiar knot formed in your stomach, making you moan. His hand moved from your thigh, rising to your stomach where he bulged. He was so deep. He pressed onto it roughly, watching as your back arched.“Stupid slut- you enjoy this so much don’t you? Getting fucked by your two mates. Look how deep I am. Gonna fill this tight little cunt up.” Rhysand stuttered out, his moans filling the room. Feyre moved, letting you see the bulge in your stomach that formed with every thrust up. Holy fuck. His other hand started roughly rubbing your clit.

“No-“ you whined out. It was too much. “Can’t!” Rhysand leaned forward, knocking you in a mating press. His hips snapped roughly into yours. He gently kissed you and leaned over to kiss feyre, ignoring your cries. He only went faster, not listening. He pulled away from Feyre. “Rhys- please-“ You screamed. And then the knot snapped, your body shaking vigorously as you came on his dick.

And he didn’t stop. His hips snapped aggressively, heavy balls full of cum. He snickered as you tried squirming away.

“Where you goin’ baby? Not done yet- gonna stuff this pussy full of cum. You want that right?” He purred, lifting your legs on his shoulders. He gently kissed your ankle. Feyre leaned and started biting and nipping your chest. It was too much.

“Y-yes!” You yelled, feeling dumb fucked. His cock dragged along your walls, aggressively hitting the spot that made your toes curl. Your moans came out in broken chants of their names, your eyes rolling in the back of your head.

“Oh cauldron- gonna cum.” He whimpered out, flicking your clit wildly. His cock slammed in one more time, stilling and releasing ropes of hot cum. The feeling brought you to your next release.

The room filled with pants and the smell of sex. Feyre’s hand gently rubbed your stomach, soothing you. She released your nipple and grinned happily. She brushed back a piece of sweaty hair.

“So cute..” she praised. She kissed your cheek. Rhysand slowly pulled out. He patted your thigh gently.

“Did so good baby.” He praised too. Everything was hazy, and spinning. You were blissed out. He smiled and tapped your face a few times.

“You with us?” He muttered. You nodded. He leaned back and slid a finger in your cunt, causing you to gasp. He pulled it out, stringing your juices and his cum. He smirked and licked it off of his finger.

“Ready?” Feyre asked.

“What?” You questioned.

“Oh cmon on. You didn’t seriously think we were done with our little cum dump yet did you?” She laughed. Rhysand grabbed your hips, flipped you around and pulled your ass high in the air. He leaned down and licked a stripe up your cunt.

“No. We’re far from done.” Your mate whispered, diving in.

#azriel #acosf #acotar #imagine #x reader #acotar 5 #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #feyre x reader #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #feyre cursebreaker #feyre x rhysand #pro feyre #rhysand #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhys art #rhysand smut #high lord rhysand #feyre #rhysand and feyre #feyre smut

[danikamariewrites]

I searched for Feysand x reader all over tumblr and you were one of the top creators so I looked around and fell into the rabbit hole of masterlists… I’ve been on your page for hours now and i’m not tired at all.

And I saw your request were open and i’m so happy bc I wanted to ask if i could request feysand x reader where feyre and reader are pregnant at the same time. Like we all know how protective rhys was in the books, now imagine two mates at the same time. Like his instincts wouldn’t let anyone too close to them bc his mates are in vulnerable situations. Maybe someone like Beron or Tamlin jokes around and Rhys doesn’t handle it well or smth plssss🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

Double Trouble

Feysand x reader

A/n: omg thank you 😭😭 I get nervous that I write too much and that ppl will get sick of me lol. So thank you for reading my fics 💕

Warnings: Tamlin being a douche

Rhys has been more paranoid since you and Feyre both started showing. The revelation of both you being pregnant excited and frightened him at the same time. Causing his over protective mate instincts to kick in. The two of you had tried to get him to rest knowing he had a High Lords meeting coming. But the stubborn male insisted he was fine.

A few times when you got up to pee in the middle of the night - a new routine thanks to your pregnancy - you found Rhys wide awake. He would watch over you and Feyre like a hawk until he fell asleep sitting up.

Yesterday Rhys had insisted he could skip the meeting and just stay with the two of you. It was a day long battle for a compromise. “Rhysand. We will be fine here with Amren watching over us and Nyx.” Feyre said sternly as Rhys came to tell you he changed his mind about your plans, again.

He shook his head vehemently, “Nope. I need to be here.” You rubbed at the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut and willing your mate to go away. “What will it take to get you to go to this meeting?” You sighed out.

Feyre perked up, wiggling her fingers, “Oh, I have an idea! What if we come with you. Helion can have a room for us, Cass, Az, and Mor will be there, it’ll be so easy.”

You could tell Rhys was considering it from the pensive look on his face. And he didn’t immediately shut Feyre down.

He nodded, mumbling out ‘I’ll think about it’ before heading back to his office.

You shoot Feyre a knowing look, “You just want those bonbons Helion gets.” “Yes! I’ve been craving them for months. And I want them fresh, not in a box.”

Snuggling up next to your mate on the couch you place a hand on her bump. Feyre does the same to you, resting her forehead against yours. “I don’t blame you,” you giggle out, “I’m happy I get to experience this with you Fey. Even if Rhys is being a mother hen.” She lightly pecked your lips. “Me too y/n/n. I love you”

———

Thankfully Rhys had agreed to you two coming along to the Day Court and you’d spend the night. Winnowing took a lot of energy from you and Feyre, so Rhys was adamant about you two resting as much as possible.

Before leaving you all gave Nyx hugs and kisses. He would stay with Elain and Nesta while you were gone. He hated when you left but enjoyed his time with Aunty Lain.

Winnowing to the Day palace Helion was waiting to greet you. “You’re the first to arrive.” He said cheerfully. The two High Lords shook hands as Helion guided your little group inside. Cassian offered his arm to Feyre while Az offered you his.

“I set up a very comfortable room for you two to relax in. No meeting for you, I’m sure there’s enough stressful things around you these days.” He says, eyeing Rhys. “Thank you Helion.” You say sweetly. “And you got our snack requests?” Feyre asks.

Helion throws his head back, laughing at her blunt question. “Of course I did. You’ll find you are well stocked on any foods your hearts desire.” You and Feyre smile at each other knowing you’re about to have the best snack and relax sesh.

You walked Rhys to the meeting room, like you promised, before leaving him. He takes one of your hands in his, giving you both a loving look. “Do you need anything? What can I do for you before everyone gets here?” “Nothing my love.” Feyre says softly. You bring a hand up to caress his cheek, “We’re just fine baby. You focus, do your thing and help Prythian, yeah?”

He gives you and Feyre a quick kiss before Helion’s personal guard escorts you to your rooms.

Opening the door your senses are overwhelmed by the scent of the sweet treats spread out for you. You and Feyre look at each other licking your lips in excitement. You wasted no time sprawling out on the lounges, digging into whatever was in arms reach.

Hours later Rhys, Cass, Az, and Mor joined you. Rhys was overjoyed to see you two after being separated. “You should’ve seen him when Kal asked where you were. He snarled.” Cassian teases as Rhys nudges his way to sit between you and Feyre. “I did not.”

Mor rushed over to you, lightly placing a hand on each of your bellies. “How are both Mor juniors doing.” You giggle at the blonde, “They have been perfect little angels.”

“No discomfort, extreme fatigue, or -“ “Rhys, we were fine.” Feyre cuts him off. He seems to relax at that. The tension in his shoulders loosening as he bats Mor away so he can feel the babes kick. Rhys lets out a breathy laugh as little feet push against his palms. “Hi angels, did you miss daddy?” Two more kicks in response.

The babes love the sound of Rhys’s voice. Like with Nyx, he talks to them every night. It doesn’t matter if you and Feyre are awake or asleep, he will always make time for the babes.

“Don’t forget,” Azriel speaks up from his spot in an armchair. He’s picking at a bowl of chocolates you hadn’t gotten to yet. “We have dinner in about an hour with everyone.” Rhys wasn’t pleased by the reminder. Something tells you that he was never going to tell you and Feyre about dinner.

Feyre stands, pulling you with her. “We will go get ready then.” She says happily.

You exit the bedroom with a few minutes to spare. Feyre chose a glittering black dress that hung off her shoulders. She decided to leave her crown behind for the night, putting her hair half up with small braids meeting in the middle.

You had decided on a midnight blue dress specked with pearls. The flowing fabric on both your dresses not hiding the fact that you’re pregnant. Rhys eyed the two of with lust sparkling in those iridescent violet irises.

He offers you each an arm to walk down to dinner. Rhys walks at slow pace for the two of you. When Feyre noticed she rolled her eyes and you both pulled him along. When the six of you enter the grand dining room you feel eyes on you. Thankfully not autumn ones. Azriel told you Beron and his court left after the meeting was over. Very typical of Beron to come and complain then leave, making no effort to improve court relations.

Viviane and Thesan shriek in excitement at the sight of you. “Congratulations! How did I not know?” She said excitedly. “When are you due?” Thesan asks immediately after her. The pair continue their onslaught of questions as you answered before the next question came up.

Out of the corner of your eye you could see Tamlin tensing. Clearly unhappy about the topic of conversation. Feyre and Rhys caught on to his unhappiness as well. Feyre tried to change the topic, asking Thesan about how things were going with his lover.

Tamlin and Rhys made uncomfortable eye contact. The males looked like they were about to jump across the table at each other. Rhys pulled your chair closer to him so you’d be away from Tamlin. He was across the table diagonal from you. It’s not like you were that close him but if it made Rhys feel better.

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Tamlin?” Rhys snapped. The High Lord of Spring scoffs, a wicked smirk on his face. “Well I just think it quite odd they’re both pregnant. Why on earth would you want two more.”

Everyone stopped speaking, looking anywhere but at them. Even you and Feyre looked at the table. You could tell she was fuming about Tamlin’s joking tone. “Is that an insult about my son? Or perhaps you’re angry about your situation. If you need to talk about it I’m sure you can find someone who will listen.” Rhys gave him a fake smile and went back to his meal.

Conversation slowly started up again. Tamlin excused himself, only saying goodbye to Helion before stepping out into the hallway to winnow home.

Once back in your rooms for the evening Rhys had you and Feyre cuddled up on either side of him. “Thank you for standing up for our family.” Feyre whispered. “I always will darling. You’re the most important people in the whole world to me.”

You let out a yawn and snuggle close to Rhys. “Let’s get some sleep. This little angel is kicking me for some shut eye.” “This one too.” Feyre yawns out. “Awww, I’m sorry I’m keeping your mommy’s up.” Rhys whispers. He kisses both of your bumps as you drift off.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #feyre acotar #acotar rhysand #rhysand acotar #rhys acotar #feysand x reader #feysand #rhys x feyre x reader #rhysand x reader #rhysand imagine #rhysand #rhys x you #rhys x reader #rhys x feyre #feyre x reader #feyreandrhysand #feyre x you #feyre x rhysand #Feysand x you #poly!feysand x you #poly!feysand x reader #poly!feysand

[throneofsapphics]

Hii can I request a feysand x Reader but reader gets jealous because feyre and rhys keep having silent conversations

left out 

Feysand x Reader

Warnings: jealousy

A/N: thank you for the request!

You weren’t a daemati, and you couldn’t reach out to them and speak to their minds like they could with you and each other. The only time you could speak mind-to-mind is if they initiated it. Maybe it was natural for them to have silent conversations with each other, they had been together for several years before you joined their relationship. 

At first, it didn’t bother you too much, but as the months went on they did it constantly, several times a week at the least. 

Finally, when their eyes started glazing over slightly, you would stand up and leave the room. Maybe it was a bit immature, but you wanted them to figure out the damn problem. If it’s a conversation you weren’t welcome in, you wouldn’t waste time sticking around. They didn’t argue with you the first few times you did it, but after a week as you stood up to leave you found a shield blocking your exit. You took a deep breath, pushing down the bit of anger that was rising in your chest, clenching your fist once before releasing it. 

“What is it?” Rhys said to your back, and you turned to face them. Feyre’s head was tilted, a bit of concern showing on her features. 

“It’s not obvious?” You asked. His eyes darkened and narrowed, Feyre’s features shifted into a frown. They exchanged a glance, and did it again. “That’s it,” you finally snapped. “You’re always doing that with me in the room.” 

Rhys’s lips turned up at the corners, “are you jealous?” You rubbed your hands over your face, and looked up to the ceiling, as if you were praying for some patience. Of course you were - that and a bit hurt. 

Feyre swatted the back of his head. She patted the spot next to her, the one you’d just vacated. On instinct, you found yourself returning, taking up your seat. 

“He means to say, we’re sorry. We didn’t know you felt that way.” 

You murmured a thanks to her, and turned your gaze back to him. “I am jealous,” you admitted, and tapped your fingers against your thighs, trying to get the correct words together. They were patient, and waited for you to speak. “I don’t like being left out. I know you’re probably used to doing it …” you trailed off. 

Rhys had the decency to look slightly apologetic. “I’ll keep you in the loop,” he spoke to your mind, and you figured that's probably the closest to a ‘I’m sorry’ you’d get from him, at least a verbal one. 

#feysand x y/n #feysand x reader #poly!feysand #poly!feysand x y/n #poly!feysand x reader #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #feyre archeron x y/n #feyre archeron x reader #rhysand x y/n #rhysand x reader #rhys x y/n #rhys x reader #acotar drabble

[hellcat8908]

can i please request feysand x reader where she’s super shy and an extreme introvert, she doesn’t talk that much and she often hides behind rhysands or feyres wings when they’re talking to someone/ when reader becomes overwhelmed. They speak mind to mind since they’re mates so they’ll often speak for her, like at restaurants, they know what to get reader. At meetings at hewn city she’s often waiting in their room/stands very far away from the dais, usually with nesta and cassian. Maybe she overhears keir or some lord speak ill about feyre and rhysand and for the first time in readers life she loses it, absolutely cusses him out and at first he doesn’t realize who she is but then he realizes and is forced to do an humilitaing apology to them infront of everyone in the room

Broken Silence Feysand x Reader

WARNINGS: Language and mild violence

You had mostly spent time with Rhys until the bond snapped. You weren't planning on it snapping again with Feyre, but you also weren't complaining as the three of you had become close. In the beginning, you were very shy and took a while to open up not just to them but the rest of the inner circle. Eventually, you became comfortable with all of them, but that was the limit. Whenever you were in groups with people outside the inner circle, you let Feyre and Rhys speak and mingle while rhys either kept you tucked between his wings, or you blended into the background. Feyre often stepped to the side with you to offer you comfort when you became overwhelmed. You always dreaded trips to Hewn City. You either stayed in your room there while Feyre and Rhys held court, or you stayed close to others from the inner circle. This trip wasn't any different, your anxiety already triggering.

"Are you all set?" Rhys asks as he enters the room to check on you, Feyre behind him. "As set as I'll ever be." You respond with picking at your fingers. Feyre gently takes your hands, "It shouldn't be a long trip, just some small business to attend to, and then we'll be done." She tries to ease your mind. Both her and Rhys flood the bond with comfort and reassurance. "Might as well get this over with." You mumble as you follow them out of the bedroom and to the foyer where the rest of the inner circle is waiting. Feyre takes your hand, giving you a gentle squeeze before winnowing to Hewn City with you. Upon arrival, you decide to stay with Azriel and Mor until you can sneak off to the room.

You watch as your mates take their places. Rhys pulling Feyre into his lap, letting her get comfortable. He enjoys having the physical touch of one of his mates to help keep him calm. Feyre typically being the one, but occassionally you when you're need to be close to him is overwhelming. They started going over reports and typical business, as you stood tucked between Mor and Azriel. You kept shifting uncomfortably at the number of people in attendance. Rhys used the bond to tell you that your room was available. Feyre added that Azriel or Mor could escort you if you wanted. You reassured them you were ok. After a while, you decided you had enough and started to make your way to your room, making sure your mates knew where you had disappeared. Although it wouldn't be hard for them to guess.

As you started making your way towards your room, opting to go without an escort, you heard Keir's voice along with one you didn't recognize. You halted and decided to listen when you heard Rhys's name mentioned. "...and the way he flaunts that whore he calls a mate in front of the court. The Illyrian side of him lives up to their reputation." Keir's words sending red hot anger through your veins. You step out from around the corner, "That is no way to talk about your High Lord and Lady! They deserve nothing short of respect for everything they have done. You will be wise to watch your tongue." You said before you could even think. Keir sneers at you, "You must be one of the other brutes whores. Didn't take long for them to get over Mor, I'm sure you won't last much longer before they tire of you." The other man can't contain his laughter as Keir tries to humiliate you. You unleash your anger closing the gap between you and Keir before you're fist connects with his face. "I am y/n! I am the mate of Rhysand and Feyre! You will give us the respect that is due or I will have your tongue so you may never say another vile thing about my family!" You land punch after punch to his face and torso before you feel the worry flooding the bond as Rhys and Feyre realize whats happening.

Within minutes, you see blue siphons before you're pulled off of Keir. Azriel is trying to calm you as Keir is laid out on the floor in front of you. Soon, Feyre wraps her arms around you, pulling you close as Rhys stands behind her, looking you over for injuries. Satisfied when he only finds your injured hand, he asks, "What happened?" Feyre gently strokes your hair as you try to gather your thoughts now that the rage and adrenaline wore off. "He was saying vile things about us and about our family." You say softly before he gently rubs your back. "My nose! She broke my nose!" Keir groans as blood is covering his face. "You're lucky that's all she did." Feyre says. Azriel picks him up before keeping his arms locked behind him, "She got you good. it looks like you're going to have bruises and a black eye." Azriel says, sounding proud.

"Just get me a healer already to fix my nose." Keir demands. "Just what did you say that was worth setting off my mate?" Rhys asks patiently. "We don't have time for this. Get the healer, then I'll tell you." Keir says, sounding annoyed. "No." Rhys responds. "What do you mean no?! My nose is broken and needs to be set." Keir practically yells. "Part of your punishment is no healer, you're nose will remain just like that as a reminder to the consequences of your words. The next will be a public apology to y/n." Rhys says as he tucks you into his side while Feyre stands on the other side of you. "Shall we?" Rhys asks before taking your hand and Feyre the other. Azriel marches Keir behind you. Rhys and Feyre led you to the dias, keeping you between them.

"I believe Keir has something he would like to say." Rhys announces as the attention turns to keir and his bloodied face. "Go to hell." Keir mutters, and in an instant, feels the mental talons of not just Rhys but Feyre as well. "You will apologize or face fatal consequences." Rhys says, allowing the talon to scrape along keirs mind, causing him to flinch. Rhys drops him to his knees and tells him to beg for your forgiveness. "Please forgive me, I'm sorry for my vile words about our High Lord and Lady along with the rest of your court." Keir says. "I don't think he's sorry." Rhys says, "Come on, you can do better than that." Rhys's talon scrapes harder against his mind. "Please, I'm sorry, y/n, I'm so sorry, please forgive me." Keir lets lose a string of apologies for what he said. You finally give a quick nod to Rhys. He turns his attention back to the attendees, "Look upon his face. Let this serve as a reminder that all actions have consequences." Rhys says. "I expect better the next time we visit. Otherwise, the consequences will be more severe." With that, the inner circle gathers and prepares to leave. Once you're out of sight from everyone, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

Upon winnowing home, Rhys leads you to the kitchen when he gently washes your hands. Feyre gives you a soft kiss before leaving you with Rhys. He retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet and motions for you to sit at the table. "I'm sorry, Rhys." You say as you stare blankly at the floor. He gently tilts your chin up so you're looking at him, "You never have to apologize for defending any of us." He says with a warm, reassuring smile. He gently bandages your knuckles. "I think he'll think twice before carelessly opening his mouth again." He says with a smile. He gently kisses your knuckles before putting away the first aid kit. Feyre is in the living room when you decide to join her. "Got room for me?" Rhys says teasingly before you make room for him in the middle. He pulls both of you close to him, keeping an arm around each of you.

"Can we talk about something?" You ask shyly. They both look at you, giving you their full attention. "On the dias tonight..." You start, but Rhys cuts you off. "I'm sorry for putting you in that position, I know how uncomfortable you get." Rhys says softly, regretting forcing you into the spotlight. "Actually, it wasn't that unbearable. I mean, with the two of you there, at least. I kind of want to try it again, maybe start small and build up to being up there with both of you." You say sheepishly, and you take a sudden interest in the hem of your shirt. "Anything you want." Rhys says with a smile. "We'll go at whatever pace you set." Feyre tells you. Your face lights up from their support and your excitement. You snuggle into Rhys' side while holding Feyre's hand. The three of you stay cuddled up together and unwind from the trip until you eventually fall asleep. Rhys stirring shortly after and helping you and Feyre upstairs to bed.

#acotar #sarah j maas #batboys #acotar fanfic #rhysand x reader #feyre x reader #acotar fic #rhysand #feyre archeron #feysand #feysand x reader

[we-were-beautiful]

Unraveled Ends Chapter 1

a/n: Remember How I said I wanted to get the first chapter out the first week of July, well I am nothing but a filthy liar. All my photos for the moodboard/aesthetic come from pinterest. Big Thanks to @curse-bearing-hips and @whisplion for all the help with editing this chapter. That being said we are all still human and there may be some errors and I apologize in advance. Hope y’all enjoy  

Summary: A tailor in the heart of Velaris finds herself mated to the two most powerful fae in Prythian. Unfortunately for her the mating bond only snapped for her, leaving her to question on how to move forward. Should she wait for her mates to feel the bond or should she go ahead and reject it and live with the gaping hole in her heart  

Poly!Feysand x Reader 

Warnings: None but there is angst

WC:2k

Starfall, the busiest time of the year for the city of Velaris. It was a time of year that I both enjoyed and detested. The Palace of Thread and Jewels was always bustling, but during this time of year the workload nearly tripled for the tailors and jewelers. Citizens milled about trying to find the perfect outfit and accessories for the special day. 

The Y/L/N family shop specialized in catering to the elite citizens of the city, having outfitted everyone from the wealthy merchants to the High Lord’s family for many years. It wasn't unusual for high profile clients to come into the shop for a custom outfit. Just last month Morrigan had come in for a custom gown for a dinner that she had. So when the bell on the door rang out as it opened, I braced myself for whoever my next clients were. On my way out of the back, I catch a brief snippet of the conversation happening.

“Cassian, move your ass. We were this close to not being able to get Y/N to make our outfits last year and I refuse to take that chance again.” That was definitely Morrigan. True, by the time the High Lord’s inner circle had made their way to the shop last year, we had nearly had to turn them away.

“Don’t worry Morrigan, you have come early this year so there is no reason to worry. You are at the top of my list this year.” I reassure her as I step into the main room of the shop. Last year… last year Starfall had been hell, the memory of the last time the whole inner circle had been in the shop burned deeply into my memory 

“Ah, Miss L/N we are so sorry to ask this of you. I understand that it is a last minute request, but you are the best tailor in the city.” Rhysand had all but begged. In the end, I agreed as the High Lord had agreed to pay my team and I a hefty sum on top of what their outfits would cost. I had warned him that we would be running on a tight deadline and the outfits most likely would be done right before Starfall. I had had no expectations of ever finding my mate or that I would be blessed with two of them, but fate has a funny way of working.

“So tell me what are you looking for in your outfits for this Starfall?” I had pulled the High Lord and Lady into my office to gauge what the couple desired in their outfits. Feyre started to describe what she had been looking for in her gown; as she speaks, my hand flies across the page, roughly sketching out the dress she describes. I make a few adjustments here and there after she finishes.

“Are there specific pieces of jewelry that you are wanting to showcase with the dress?” I briefly glance up to the mated pair seated across from me. Rhys had draped his arm around Feyre’s shoulders. The perfect image of the happily mated couples that parents tell their babes about.

“No, I am looking more to showcase the dress this time around.” She responds with a kind smile leaning further into her mate. 

“And High Lord, are you wishing to match the High Lady’s dress?”  I address Rhysand for the first time since the two entered.

“Yes I would prefer to match my mate for the evening.” the High Lord's voice is as smooth as a night time breeze.

“Ok so that is doable. We can easily match a suit to the High Lady’s dress.” I begin to ramble as the pencil begins to fly across the page “are there any preferences on colors?” I look up to the two of them. I wish I hadn’t at that moment I felt a snap. Two golden threads tethering me to the beautiful couple sitting in front of me. It’s not hard to figure out that it had only snapped for me and not for the High Lord and Lady. I quickly made sure to adjust my mental shields and my facial expression.

“Is everything alright?” Feyre cocks her head to the side, eying me with a look of concern.

“Yes, sorry. Just lost in thought.” I try to quickly laugh it off. One look on her face tells me that I was not successful in that endeavor. I quickly pass my sketchbook over to the two of them to evaluate the sketches “Now what are your thoughts. We can make some adjustments but given the time constraints we might not be able to do anything overly extravagant.”

The two of them take the book and look over the sketches with wide grins. I took the time to memorize those smiles not knowing if I would be able to see them again.

The two weeks after that fateful meeting had been near torture; to have them so close but yet so far from my grasp. I had tried my best to continue on with life as normal following that fateful meeting, but apparently my shop had pulled off a small miracle for the inner circle and thus they had declared it their place to get clothes. Occasionally I could avoid Feyre and Rhysand, pawning them off to another one of the shop's seamstresses,  but more often than not they insisted I be the one to work with them. It seemed today would be no different as they beeline for me.

“Sweetheart, how are you today?” Ah yes sweetheart, the nickname that Rhys had decided for me. Once he started calling me that Feyre quickly caught on and the two of them refused to call me by anything other than their nickname for me. 

“I am doing well, High Lord, I assume you and Lady Feyre wish to go first for the consultations?” I give them a polite smile. I am met with wide grins from the two of them. 

“Please it’s Rhys, and yes we would like to go first.” He pulls Feyre into his side and places a gentle kiss on the top of her head as I gesture to my office, and am met with an uproar from the rest of the inner circle about favoritism as I tell them to take a seat in the waiting room.

With the exception of a few new bolts of fabric and more sketchbooks sitting on the desk my office hadn’t changed since last Starfall. Two comfortable leather chairs sat in front of the large desk. My well loved chair sat behind it, my favorite shawl draped over the back.

There was one major change in the office. A dress form, with my Starfall gown hanging to it.  Typically I wanted to keep my Starfall gown hidden away until the last minute to surprise everyone, but this year it had come to reside in my office. The dress clung to the form silver fabric flowing to pool on the floor like mercury. Small crystal shards caught the sunlight and reflected small rainbows throughout the room. It was a work of art that I had taken to working on piece by piece in my spare time. It was nearly done. I just had to finish off the sleeves and it would be perfect. I wasn’t the only one who thought this as Feyre walked over to the dress. She reaches out a tattooed hand as if to run her fingers along the fabric before quickly withdrawing her hand.

“Is this dress spoken for? It is beautiful.” She asked, looking back at me and Rhysand as I shut the office door.

“As much as I would love to say that you could take that dress Lady Feyre; that is my gown for Starfall.” I move towards my chair, busying my hands with gathering my supplies needed for a consultation “Normally it stays hidden until the day of but we have been so busy this year; I've been having to work on it little by little and it easiest to do it here in the office.” 

There is a little pout on her face that nearly has me giving it to her  to make her smile again. 

“You will look like one of the stars.” Rhysand jokes as he pulls Feyre into his side. The little jealous spark that begins to burn turns my stomach. I tried to tramp down the jealousy… the envy every time I saw the two of them here in my office or walking around Velaris. Wishing that there would be space for me with the two of them; but who am I to disturb something so beautiful and perfect. They have the perfect life with their beautiful baby and friends, there is no room for me. Our lives are so vastly different from each other so I put on a smile and get to work designing coordinating Starfall outfits for the two of them. By now the two of them know the drill and begin describing what they want in their outfits and I dutifully begin sketching them out. I catch Feyre glancing over at the dress form several times and asking for similar elements in her dress. I oblige her, willing to give the two of them almost anything, just to make them smile.

I work efficiently to try and get the two of them out of my office as  quickly as possible without trying to seem rude. I needed some air away from my two mates and I still had their entire friend group to go through. By the end of the consultation both the High Lord and Lady are pleased with the preliminary designs; they leave my office hand in hand with smiles on their faces. The rest of the inner circle's appointments fly by providing me with a much needed breather, but I am thrown for a loop when I am working with the Shadowsinger.

I had made things for the Illyrian warrior before, but I never noted how observant he was. Working with Azriel had always been a treat. The male favored rather simple but quality garments. Always wanting to blend into the crowd and not stand out, his appointments tended to be rather fast, but today seemed to be different. I could feel his gaze burning into me as I sketched out a new suit for him. I glance up from the paper to meet his hazel gaze. His shadows danced around his shoulders and darted across the room. It wasn’t unusual for them to dance about the room and round me whenever he was in; almost as if they could sense a kindred spirit.  

“You seem…” he paused as if searching for the right words. “Disheartened.”  

I set down the pencil and give him my full attention. 

“I'm fine, Azriel. It's something personal. Nothing that you need to worry about." The lie almost sounds believable, but Azriel sees right through my lie; he raises an eyebrow but does not press the issue; letting me get back to work. Once the two of us are happy with the design we are quick to head out. Before I can open my office door, he gives my shoulder a quick squeeze with his hand.

“Please, If you need help don’t hesitate to reach out.” He gives me a small smile before rejoining his friends in the lobby. 

The Inner circle is quick to thank me before they sweep out of the shop and into the city. I wait a few minutes for them to get further away from the shop before I let the seamstresses know that I am going to head home for the day, feigning a headache. I don’t remember the walk home, the path so burned into my memory that my mind was free to wander as I walked the familiar path to my family's home. It is only when I am here alone do I allow the façade to crumble away. I slump to the floor as I let the tears fall. How could the Mother be so cruel; to give me not just one mate but two, who are so vastly different from me; and for them to have already solidified their bond and start their own family. Rhysand and Feyre deserve the world for all that they have done for Prythian, and here I am just me. How can I even compare to them, let alone ruin the beautiful partnership that they already have? 

Taglist: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @rachelnicolee @goldenmagnolias @jesssicapaniagua @winterrainworld

#acotar x reader #feysand x reader #poly!feysand x reader #poly!feysand #rhys x feyre #rhysand x reader #feyre x reader #feyre archeron #rhysand #rhys acotar #rhys x reader #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf #rhysand x feyre x reader #unraveled ends

[epochofbelief]

Strictly Confidential: A Feysand Modern AU

She's a law student turned confidential informant. He's a federal prosecutor with only one goal: bringing down her boyfriend for illegal activity . . . What could go wrong?

Chapter Two

Masterlist Link

Thanks for your patience, everyone. Here's chapter two! Things are going to start happening very soon. I'm very excited. Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Just a heads up, there were a few who requested to be tagged whose profiles wouldn't let me link them!

PS: Here's the link to the masterlist of one of my other full-length Feysand fics: What to Expect When You're (Not) Expecting

Happy Reading :)

-----

Feyre turned to locate the source of the voice and came face to face with the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

He was tall, taller than Jax, his all-black suit impeccably tailored to the contours of a lean but muscular body. His dark hair matched his suit, and eyes a peculiar shade of blue—almost violet—locked onto Feyre for a moment before the man turned his attention to Jax.

“You’ve been monopolizing Ms. Archeron’s time, Smith,” the man said, arms crossing over his chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric.

“Rhysand,” Jax sneered. “We were just having a friendly conversation.”

The man—Rhysand—raised one dark eyebrow, moving closer. As he stepped into the alcove, the space grew smaller. Like Rhysand's very presence couldn’t possibly be contained by the shadowy corner of the event center.

“Be that as it may,” Rhysand said, stepping up to Feyre’s side and staring down at Jax. “I believe my father is looking for you.”

The blood drained from Jax’s face, his head whipping toward the center part of the room.

“It seemed urgent,” Rhysand drawled, adjusting one of his cuff links. “And we all know how much my father despises being kept waiting.”

Jax turned back around to glare at Rhysand, his eyes flicking back down to Feyre as he inched backward toward the event center. “Until we meet again, Feyre.”

Feyre barely had time to flash him a close-lipped smile before Jax whirled around and bolted out of the alcove.

Feyre swallowed, turning toward her savior, once again struck by his beauty as he gazed at her, his violet blue eyes searching hers.

“I owe you one,” Feyre breathed, leaning back against the wall behind her, partially due to relief at escaping Jax and partially because she needed to put some space between her and the beautiful man standing mere inches away.

Rhysand lifted a shoulder, taking a step back, as if he could sense her need for space. “Jax Smith is . . . Well, let’s just say I eagerly await the day he gives me a reason to report him to the Office of Discipline for an ethical violation.”

“You should’ve given him a few more minutes. He might have gotten there,” Feyre said. Rhysand blinked, and then Feyre clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Oh, my gods. I—I should not have said that.” She muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. Gods, she was stupid. And unprofessional.

But a soft chuckling had Feyre freezing where she stood against the wall, eyes fluttering open.

Rhysand was even more attractive when laughing. His blue eyes twinkled, and he extended a hand in her direction.

“Rhysand Night,” he said, hand warm against Feyre’s as she took it. “United States Attorney for the Eastern District of Erilea.”

“Feyre Archeron,” Feyre said. “I’m a 3L at Prythian Law, but I’ll be starting at Hybern & Night next year.”

Rhysand's brows lifted. "Impressive."

Feyre shrugged. “You said your last name is Night,” she ventured, arms folding across her chest. “But you don't work for Hybern & Night?”

Rhysand ran a hand through his silky hair, fingers slipping through the inky black strands. Feyre's eyes tracked the motion so closely that she almost missed what he said next.

“The ‘Night’ in Hybern & Night is my father, and I suppose my grandfather before him,” he admitted, and Feyre could have sworn his jaw tightened at the words. “But no, I don’t work for his firm. I’m much better suited for federal prosecution.”

Something in his voice told Feyre that wasn’t the sole reason Rhysand had chosen not to follow his family’s legacy. But she didn’t press the issue.

“How long have you worked as a prosecutor?” Feyre asked.

“About five years,” Rhysand said. “I graduated from Prythian Law in 2018 and worked as a state prosecutor for a year before I landed this job.”

Silence fell, and Feyre drained the last bit of wine from her glass. “Well, thanks for your help,” she said, skirting around Rhysand and aiming for bar. Even as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, as if she couldn't resist a final look.

“Please, let me get you another glass of wine,” he said, following behind her. He kept a respectful distance between them as he fell into step at her side.

Feyre shrugged, even as an odd relief swept through her at his continuing presence. “I’m headed that direction anyways.”

But getting across the room proved more cumbersome than Feyre anticipated—it seemed as though everyone knew Rhysand and his reputation. People were either falling over themselves to shake his hand, eager to congratulate him on a recent case he had just won, or they were glaring at him as he passed, muttering to their companions as soon as Rhysand was out of earshot.

But even the ones who didn’t outright glare, even the ones who seemed desperate to speak with him, seemed to approach him with a certain . . . hesitation. Like interacting with Rhysand was a necessary evil, something they were reluctant to do but did anyway. Perhaps because of his father? Or his reputation?

Feyre made a mental note to do some serious LinkedIn stalking later.

While Feyre desperately wanted another glass of wine, walking across the room with Rhysand gave her plenty of opportunity to network, exactly as she had set out to do in the first place. Rhysand was incredibly polite, introducing her to whatever lawyers crossed his path and drawing Feyre into each of the conversations they pulled him into. And even if the person he introduced her to shook her hand and turned back to Rhysand, intent on engaging him in conversation, Rhysand went out of his way to ask Feyre what she thought about the legal issue or topic they were discussing. Feyre felt herself growing more and more impressed, especially when Rhysand turned all the “congratulations” he received away from himself, emphasizing that he couldn’t do anything without his department and the many interns it employed.

So not only was he incredibly polite, but he was gracious and humble as well.

At last, they made it to the bar, and Rhysand procured two more glasses of wine, slipping a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar as he did so.

“Sorry,” he said, as he and Feyre drifted over to the front of the event center, finding a table to stand at as they sipped their wine.

At some point, Feyre couldn't identify when, an unspoken agreement to stick together had formed between them. She had accepted the glass of wine from Rhysand and followed him to this table without question. Like it was them against the room full of ambitious lawyers, desperate to network their way to the top.

“For what?” Feyre asked.

“Dragging you through all that,” he said, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “I’m sure that was more networking than you bargained for.”

Feyre shook her head, hair shifting over her shoulders. “It was entertaining.”

“Oh?” Rhysand raised an eyebrow.

“I enjoyed watching you scare the shit out of everyone,” Feyre said, shocked at her own daring even as the words floated into the air between them.

Rhysand barked a laugh, drawing several gazes, the eyes of those nearest to them widening as the United States Attorney chuckled so freely. “You know what? I enjoyed doing it.”

Rhysand smiled at her, and dammit if Feyre didn’t almost swoon at the sight. She opened her mouth to ask him more about his job, perhaps to start figuring out why he was a prosecutor instead of working at his father’s firm, when her phone vibrated in the pocket of her suit. Sighing, she pulled it out, glancing at image glaring up at her.

TAMLIN SPRING flashed across the cracked screen of her iPhone, a picture of him from one of their initial dates on full display. They’d gone on a hike at the Illyrian mountain range about an hour outside of town, and Feyre had snapped this photo when they’d reached the top of their hiking trail, Tamlin smiling in front of a gorgeous overlook, the mountains tall and green behind him, a sparkling river trailing across the bottom.

Feyre hit the power button, setting the phone face down on the table. “Sorry about that,” she said, shooting Rhysand an apologetic smile. “Where were we?”

But Rhysand had gone still as death, his gaze fixed on her overturned phone.

“Rhysand?” Feyre asked.

He still didn’t answer, his violet blue eyes so wide she could see the whites all the way around his irises. “Is something wrong?”

Rhysand blinked, his shoulders loosening, eyes softening so quickly Feyre almost thought she had imagined his strange behavior. “Who was that?” He asked, sipping casually from his wine, gaze slipping coolly over the room in front of them. As though nothing had happened.

“Um… My boyfriend,” Feyre said, figuring it was a harmless enough question. “He must have forgotten I had this event tonight.”

Typical Tamlin. She had told him she would be busy until at least eight, and he had clearly forgotten, or just didn’t care. Of course, if Feyre called him when he was busy at work, she would hear about it for the next two days, be forced to listen to him complain about her “distracting him” while he was doing business.

“I see,” was all Rhysand said.

Feyre asked Rhysand a few more innocuous questions about his job, how he enjoyed Prythian Law, and whether he had any advice for her. Rhysand was just asking her if she’d had the same Criminal Law professor as he did when he was at Prythian when her phone buzzed again.

And then again.

Feyre picked up her phone, sighing as Tamlin’s image blazed on the screen once more. She shot Rhysand an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to take this. It could be an emergency.”

She didn’t wait for Rhysand to respond, instead stepping a few feet away and picking up as quickly as possible. If he called too many times and she didn’t answer, it was just another reason for him to start a fight.

“Feyre. Where the hell are you?”

Feyre frowned. “I’m at that networking event. Remember?”

A long-suffering sigh. “I had a really bad day at work. Can I pick you up now? Take you home? You’re downtown, aren’t you? Probably just a couple blocks away.”

Tamlin almost sounded frantic, more worry than anger seeping into his voice as his words tripped out one after the other.

“Are you all right? What happened?” Feyre asked, pressing her hand against her free ear to drown out the noise of the event. To her left, Rhysand was tracking her every movement, wine glass forgotten on the table in front of him.

“I’m fine. Just need my girl.”

Feyre bit her lip. If she said no… She would never hear the end of it. And she’d met and spoken to plenty of people tonight, hadn’t she? And Rhysand was an excellent new connection to have. Plus, it had been a long day. A nice, long shower sounded divine…

“Alright,” she relented, telling him the name of the event center she was at. She knew it was only a five minute drive from the apartment she shared with Tamlin, so when she hung up, she hurried back over to Rhysand.

“Is everything alright?” Rhysand asked, his deep voice level, almost calculatingly so.

Feyre shrugged, downing the rest of her wine. “It’ll be fine. My boyfriend is on his way home, and offered to pick me up so I don’t have to walk in the dark to get there. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

If only that had been the real reason Tamlin wanted her to come home. Because it was dark, and getting later, and she would have had to walk home alone in her heels and suit through the city streets if he hadn't called. But the lie slipped easily across her tongue—it was simple enough, really. It wasn't the first time she'd lied about the way her boyfriend treated her, and she knew it wouldn't be the last.

Rhysand nodded. “That’s very kind of him.”

Feyre sighed. “Thank you again, for helping me out back there. And introducing me to all those people. It made the night worth it.”

Rhysand nodded, his expression earnest, although bereft of any of the easy smiles he had flashed at her earlier in the evening. “It was my pleasure, Feyre. Perhaps I’ll run into you at another one of these events.”

“Perhaps,” Feyre said, then stiffened as Tamlin’s truck pulled up in front of the building. “That’s him,” she said, shouldering her purse and backpack. “Thanks again, really. Good luck with everything!”

Feyre allowed herself to look back at the event center only once. Not as she strode back through the entrance, nor as she clicked across the sidewalk to the passenger side of Tamlin’s car. Not even when she opened the door and clambered into the enormous truck.

No, she waited until she was safely behind the tinted windows before her eyes found Rhysand.

He was still standing at the table they shared, wineglass half-empty in front of him, his eyes fixed on Tamlin’s truck with hawklike focus, tracking it until Tamlin turned the corner, leaving the event center, and Rhysand, far behind.

------

Tamlin drove like a maniac through the heart of downtown. Feyre doubted he lifted his foot off the gas until he pulled into the parking garage beneath their building. He was out of the car and halfway to the elevator banks by the time Feyre caught up with him, lugging her bags along with her, trying not to exacerbate the blisters on her heels as she struggled to keep up.

“What’s wrong?” She demanded when they finally made it up to their apartment.

Feyre kicked off her heels, dumping all her bags on the ground. Home.

Now if only she could sleep. But instead, she had forty pages of reading to do for her Environmental Law class, and she had a feeling the next hour would be occupied with comforting Tamlin.

“Just a long, horrible day at work,” Tamlin sighed, striding towards her, his hands wrapping around her waist as he tugged her against him.

Feyre bit her lip as she felt him against her—he was already ready for her. She twined her arms over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his lips.

She knew he loved her, in his own way.

Hadn’t she been the one he called tonight? Wasn't she the one he relied on when things got tough? The one he trusted when times grew more and more trying?

“How are you now?” She breathed as his lips moved against hers, his hands sliding down to her upper thighs. In one swift movement, he had lifted her off the ground and into his arms, pressing her against the wall.

“Better with every passing second,” he growled, lips covering hers once again.

Feyre hummed against him, her lips parting to allow his tongue to sweep in, tracing the seam of her lips before her own tongue tangled with his. Her breaths grew short, and she adjusted herself against him and the wall, Tamlin hissing as she brushed against his hard length. Feyre gasped as he ground against her in return, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back.

It had been a very, very long day, Feyre told herself, as Tamlin carried her through the house and laid her down gently on the bed, with a tenderness he only ever showed when he was touching her. He knew exactly when to be gentle with her, and when to give her everything she wanted. It was a sharp contrast to the dynamic they shared at all other times in their relationship.

But here, in their darkened bedroom, the lights of the city shining in through the wall of windows to Feyre’s left . . . Here, Tamlin knew just where to touch her, how to hold her.

And she was putty in his hands.

---------

Feyre broke her vow.

One week after she met Rhysand, she was still doing the same exact thing.

Waking up, going to school, coming home, going to Crossfit, and spending all of her free time with Tamlin and Lucien, who had been present more frequently than usual the past week. And while having Lucien around usually made things more interesting, and it was lovely to have a buffer between her and Tamlin, Feyre couldn’t help but feel relieved when she waved the pair out the door on Friday morning. They had a last-minute business trip somewhere out west, and would be gone until the early hours of Monday morning.

Feyre was looking forward to spending the entire weekend by herself. She already had everything planned out:

Study for most of the day Friday, then go for a walk in the enormous city park before it got too dark. On her way home, she was going to splurge and order takeout, and then spend the rest of her night on the couch, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a book in the other. An actual novel this time, not one of her textbooks.

So after spending a day in the library, Feyre walked the ten minutes from the Law School over to Sangravah Park, her headphones blasting the Pride and Prejudice (1995) soundtrack at top volume.

The park was lovely this time of year—in late September, the summer heat had finally leached away, but the crispness of autumn hadn’t fully set in. Feyre was perfectly comfortable in a pair of leggings and a long sleeve t-shirt, her golden-brown hair tied back in a high ponytail. She set off on her usual route through Sangravah—a three-mile path that took her through her favorite parts of the park. Past the enormous pond, still covered in lilypads, through an enormous copse of willow trees, and past several of the enormous architectural structures that called the park home: the Prythian Art Museum, a sculpture garden, and an enormous temple-like building that sat in the center of another pond, no way to reach it unless you wanted to swim.

For the first time in a while, Feyre felt like she could relax. She didn’t have to be anywhere, to do anything, at any time. Tamlin was hundreds of miles away and she was at her leisure.

Lost in thought, Feyre was about halfway through her route when a man jogging in the opposite direction clipped her shoulder with his.

Feyre almost went flying, the force of the blow sending her stumbling a few steps off the path.

“My apologies, ma’am,” the man said, striding closer to her. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Feyre cleared her throat, finding her feet and holding back a glare. Best not to anger the strange man in the middle of the park with no one else around. “No worries,” she said, and made to resume her walk.

“Miss?” The man’s voice filtered through her headphones. Feyre turned, settling them around her shoulders.

“Yes?” She asked, hand on hip.

“I’m Special Agent Cassian Claret.” He reached a hand into his pocket, and Feyre stepped back, wondering if she would finally have a reason to use the pepper spray she kept with her on walks precisely for moments like these.

But the man merely pulled out a small leather wallet-thing, flipping it open. “I’m with the FBI. Do you have a few moments to speak with me?”

His introduction finally registered. Special Agent Cassian Claret.

Feyre stared at him, her jaw slackening.

Cassian cleared his throat after several long moments. “Ms. Archeron?”

“How do you know my name?” Feyre asked, backing up further, her hand gripping the pepper spray on her keychain, the bottle suddenly feeling pathetically small as she faced down Cassian, who was simply enormous.

His dark hair fell to just below his ruggedly chiseled chin, a five o’clock shadow already prominent on the lower half of his face. The sweats he wore did nothing to conceal his muscular frame—he was taller and broader than even Tamlin. His hazel eyes tracked her every movement with a laserlike focus.

Feyre’s pepper spray didn’t stand a chance.

“You’re not in trouble,” Cassian said. “I can assure you. I just need to speak with you for a few minutes.”

Feyre stared at him.

“Here. These are my credentials.” He tossed the wallet-like thing at her, and she managed to catch it in her sweaty hands, peering down at the credentials inside. It looked real . . .

“Do you have a business card?” Feyre asked, partially because the man didn’t feel dangerous in the way others she had encountered in the park did, and partially because she had a feeling that if she tried to run, he would have no problem chasing her down and catching her.

Cassian nodded, pulling out a business card and handing it over. Feyre examined it, then pulled out her phone.

Cassian waited, hands clasped behind his back. No one had passed them on the path for a very long time. Was it his doing?

Feyre did a quick Google search for the local FBI office, then called the 24 hour line. Cassian’s forehead creased as she held the phone up to her ear.

Minutes passed. She was placed on hold. Then—

“Prythian County FBI. How can I assist you?”

“Hi,” Feyre said, voice shaking slightly. “I need to verify the identity of an agent.”

She provided Cassian’s name. The woman asked her to ask him for some sort of identification number, which Cassian relayed without protest when Feyre asked. Feyre repeated the number back to the woman, who told her that yes, Feyre was currently speaking with Special Agent Cassian Claret, who was on assignment.

“Thank you,” Feyre said, shutting off her phone.

“Satisfied?” Cassian asked, not a trace of irritation present in his voice.

Feyre swallowed. “Yes. Um. What is this about? What could you possibly want from me?”

“Well, Ms. Archeron. We need your help with a rather sensitive matter. It’s best not discussed here,” Cassian said. “Perhaps we could walk back toward my car?”

“I’m not getting in your car.”

Cassian held up his hands. “That may be your choice. I completely understand your caution. But I think if you see who’s accompanying me, you might feel differently.”

Feyre blinked up at him, returning his wallet and card and falling into step beside him as he turned, leading Feyre back the way she had come.

“Who’s accompanying you?”

As they crested the small hill Feyre had just trekked down, a black car came into view, parked on the street alongside the park. Cassian didn’t answer Feyre’s question as they drew close to the car.

Close enough that when the back window rolled down, Feyre recognized a familiar pair of violet-blue eyes.

“Rhysand,” she breathed.

---------------

Taglist:

@rhysiedarling @shedoessoshedoes @popjunkie42 @adreamof-spring @that-little-red-head @witch-and-her-witcher @cinnamonmelody @muaddib-iswriting @queenofdivas

#acotar #feysand #acomaf #a court of thorns and roses #feyre archeron #feyre x rhysand #rhysand x feyre #modernau #feysand fanfiction #feyre #rhysand #sarah j maas #feyre cursebreaker

[witch-and-her-witcher]

Intermediate

Feysand | T | Corporate Mod AU

1.5k, part 1 (two will be shameless smut), tysm @popjunkie42 for reading this over and joking about excel with me 😘💖

lucien's coffee mug

~☆~

Feyre may have elaborated on her past work history on her application.

“You can't be homeless, you can’t be homeless,” Feyre chants, feeling her breath catching in her throat as her mind works on overdrive to follow anything on the secondary screen with a Youtube video ‘Vlookups For Dummies.’

Alright, she flat out lied.

“‘Intermediate Excel experience’? Great advice, Lucien, fucking inspired — Wait.” Of course, how could she forget? Feyre’s lifeline.

“Prick,” Feyre grumbles. Technically, he did her a favor helping her get this job that she desperately needs to support her true passion, painting, but he’s still way too aware of how good-looking he is and acts too cocky for his own good.

The mahogany door opens and the most beautiful man she has ever seen pokes his head out, silky black locks having no right to fall so seductively over one side of his face.

“How much longer, darling?”

“Oh, not very! Almost done!”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

The door clicks shut and Feyre is as red as the bottom of her knock-off shoes. If it wasn’t mortifying enough she is completely incompetent and slid through the interview by memorizing corporate jargon with Lucien and wearing her best push-up bra, now she has to add looking like a bimbo in front of a man like that.

Rhysand Night, playboy entrepreneur who took his family’s old money and completely flipped the tech world on its head — all to benefit the end user, and not to line his own pockets or that of his shareholders.

Of course, not that he isn’t loaded.

Rhys is the most eligible playboy in Velaris and he tosses his black card around as much as his gleaming, heavily insured smile and perfectly sculpted, heavily tattooed muscles.

The things she would do to get in a room alone with him with as few clothes on as possible.

For her art's sake.

A perfect male specimen to model for her painting didn’t come around every day. Sure, there were plenty of attractive men who came to the studio to pose, but all of them paled in comparison to Rhys Night’s Instagram pics, sailing shirtless on a catamaran on the Adriatian Coast.

What else she’d do with the mental images of his nude body would be between her and her twenty dollar special, jersey cotton sheets.

Damn it, focus!

Feyre squeezes her thighs together to suppress the horny mess she is and begins typing in a flurry.

Heartbeat somewhere in her throat and sweat starting to collect along her hairline, Feyre clumsily clicks around the screen until she’s started a call with Lucien with the mic off and —after first flipping her camera on and nearly screeching at the level of incompetent she is feeling — she gets the two spreadsheets on the screen for Lucien to view.

Another thirty seconds wasted searching for that button, and Lucien is highlighting a cell and beginning the formula when the office door in front of her desk is sliding open again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This time, Rhys doesn’t just poke his head out. Oh, no, ohnonono, the walking sex god is fully out of his office. Sauntering over to her with his hands in his immaculate suit pockets. She can see out of the corner of her eye that Lucien is typing something or other, a question about an array? Jesus Christ, Lucien, as if I know what that word means if I need your help!

No, she’s Feyre Archeron. When her back gets pushed against the wall, she does her best work.

“Sorry to rush you, darling, but I really need that document for this meeting,” Rhys drawls and she can hear late nights with glasses of brandy, lacey red numbers and a thigh tossed casually over his lap in his voice. “Mistakes to call out, asses to chew, and all.”

His steady, clipped footfalls haven’t stopped.

Rhys is coming to her desk.

Fumbling like the ditzy blond men normally take her dishwater hair for —it's really more brown, but the fantasy is what they want— Feyre manages to close out of the Teams call.

The formula is only just started.

Feyre tucks a stray wave behind her ear and smiles cheekily up at the man stealing every bit of oxygen out of the air as he comes around her desk. “You must have slowed up the whole company’s computers with all your work, even mine is lagging.”

The full force of that smile right over her shoulder is too much as Rhys leans back against the wall and looks down at her like the dark fantasy he is. Those blue eyes flash nearly violet as he looks her over, letting his gaze linger on her low neckline.

Shit, she should have worn the push-up bra today.

“In my experience, if the boss shows up, it’ll make the system start working again. Just to make you sweat, you know?”

Can he see how sweaty I am? Oh god.

Feyre forces a laugh, prays it sounds natural and not like she’s losing her absolute mind.

His hands shift in his pocket and it draws her attention.

Being tall, dark and handsome means the first part lines his crotch nearly right up to her eyesight while she’s sitting at her desk. There’s the slightest bulge … Feyre swallows thickly and quickly looks back up, sure she’s blushing enough to hide even her freckles.

Rhys doesn’t catch her gawking. He’s looking at his office and then back to her screen.

God, right, he really needs this sheet.

“Want me to move aside and —”

“No, no, don’t let me micromanage you.” He squints ever so slightly. “What’s that? I haven’t seen that formula before.”

Feyre turns back to her screen and sucks in an inhale, nearly chokes on her own spit, but recovers enough to answer, “Oh, yeah, this. I was trying something new. Trying to impress the boss, y’know?” She laughs uncomfortably.

Rhys places one hand on the back of her chair and cages her in by placing his other on the desk beside her keyboard. He’s leaning over, spilling the scent of his citrus and sea salt cologne over her and the overwhelming sense of foreboding that she is definitely, irreversibly, about to get shit-canned from this job and single handedly embarrass herself beyond saving in front of the most beautiful fucking guy ever.

“Just do a vlookup, it’ll be faster. No need to impress anyone here, Feyre.”

He knows her name?

Oh god, he knows her name.

Why does it sound so god damn sinful coming off of his tongue?

He has to know what he’s doing to her.

Feyre presses her thighs even harder together, as if that will do anything to help her now. A cold bucket of ice water is all that will do.

“Let me just get rid of this and start again.” Feyre feels her mouth shape the words, feels her hand on her mouse highlight the cell Lucien started the xlookup in, feels her hand shift to her keyboard.

Tap tap tap goes the ‘backspace.’

But nothing happens.

Feyre wants to sink into the ground. Fall through a hole that sends her straight down the twenty floors to the basement, better yet to a pit preferably full of mud to bury herself under.

Rhys makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“Just, let me —”

“Feyre, darling?”

“Y-yes, Mr. Night?”

“What’s your Excel experience level?”

“It’s um, well, it’s. You see. When I said ‘intermediate,’ I meant in like, the functional role I was in before. Which, was, you know, really different and um. So.”

“So … You’ve never opened an Excel document before?”

Feyre is mortified. She is never, ever going to recover from this never-ending moment and it’s all that fucking red headed prick’s fault and her own selfish desire to sleep under a roof.

Since when is being a starved, homeless artist so bad? Builds character.

Feyre shouldn’t have tried to bypass the character building part.

She lifts her chin up and looks sideways at Rhys who is still leaned over her shoulder, dazzling eyes staring at her screen in amusement. His sharp nose turns towards her and suddenly they’re sharing the same breath.

“My, my, what are we going to do about this, darling?”

#when a girl just needs to blow off steam from work this is what she writes #its ridiculous and im laughing so hard #feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre #rhys #lucien #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

Note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @writtenonreceipts! I hope you like this- I tried so hard to give it TOG vibes AND to incorporate nessian and feysand because you said you love them (and I in turn love you).

@acotargiftexchange

Major thanks to @velidewrites and @wilde-knight for the moodboard + beta-ing this fic when I was laying face down in a puddle of my own tears.

--

Prologue: 

“Go,” Feyre whispered, hands pushing against Elain’s back. It was frigid outside, their boots cracking the ice crusted over the cobblestone streets. It should have smelled like pine and snow, should have been utterly silent as everyone waited for the coming Solstice and the gifts that so often accompanied it.

War had shattered the once idyllic peace, inching closer and closer to the capital of Ellesmere until Elain and her family were forced to flee in the night. Just ahead, her mother grasped Nesta’s hand, weaving through alleyways unfamiliar to the ransacking soldiers.

She knew where they were going. They had practiced this before. One more left, ducking beneath a half-ruined awning, and then a sprint to the docks where a ship was waiting. Her father was nowhere to be seen, though Elain supposed he had a head start on them.

“Go,” her mother urged, pushing Nesta, then Elain, and finally Feyre into the little vessel. A man was waiting, hoisting them beneath with hurried, impatient fingers. “Get down—”

A flaming arrow screamed through the night, missing Feyre by mere inches. It took Elain a minute to realize what had happened—the shield that had saved her youngest sister’s life. Their mother stared, blue eyes like glassy mirrors against her ashen face. Golden brown hair graying at the temples was set aflame. Nesta began screaming, the words ringing in Elain’s ears.

“Go,” their mother mouthed, hitting her knees before she pitched forward. Hands pulled the three of them roughly back into the boat as orders were given to pull up the anchor. Was she crying? It seemed as if she must be given how frozen her face felt. 

The world was moving too slow for Elain, making it impossible for her racing thoughts to process. Even as the ship pulled away, dragged by roaring wind, Elain was certain their mother was going to get up. 

She didn’t. 

“Princess,” the captain was yelling at Nesta, unsteady against the choppy northern sea. “Princess, we need—”

Elain never heard what they needed. The wind drowned out the command which Elain didn’t care much about, anyway. Was Nesta Queen, now? The few sailors moving about eyed her fourteen-year-old sister warily and though Elain couldn’t hear what Nesta said, she recognized the sharpness of her eyes. Nesta was used to giving out such commands. Feyre was gripping the railing of their ship, staring at the water below with a hollow gaze. Elain knew what she needed to do—put on a brave face and take Feyre into the interior of the ship where they could get some sleep, if only to forget what was happening to their home.

Everything was going to be okay. They’d get to the safehouse where relatives would be waiting to usher them to safety. Everyone was okay. A healer would attend to their mother who would be bedridden but otherwise safe. 

Deep, deep down Elain knew it was a lie. She needed those lies, at least for now. As the ship rocked, Elain made her way toward Feyre who was still looking outward. The once beautiful city she’d spent her life in was a mere haze of smoke and fire in the distance, half lost to the fog of sea. 

“Feyre,” Elain began, though that was all she was able to say before the ship violently lurched to one side. The gods were moody that night, unwilling to offer safe passage despite the circumstances. Elain lost Feyre, hitting her back against the wet wood so roughly it robbed her of breath. 

Please, she thought just as water rushed over her. It was shockingly cold, leaving her paralyzed like a rag doll, flung from one end to the other. She could hear nothing, could do nothing, utterly helpless to even draw breath though she desperately wanted to.

Get up get up get up! Her mind screamed with panic. Elain did try to grasp at something when the ship tilted sickeningly again, though her fingers were utterly stiff and unwilling to bend. The world was upside down, a swirl of dark hues of navy and gray.

And then it was silent and salt and made entirely of water. Elain’s body constricted, lungs demanding air though none arrived when she opened her mouth. More water, more fear. She could feel nothing, could see nothing. Just a blur of her own hazy fear and the terrible fear she was going to die. 

Elain did try, though it amounted to nothing. There was nothing to cling to, no light to tell her which way was up and which way was down. And as the cold seeped in, somehow driving out the horrible chill, she thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was better to be without fear. 

Maybe this was a mercy.

In the end, it was nothing at all.

[ten years later]

Lucien Vanserra stretched out his legs, neck stiff. “Bastard,” he spat, tossing his sword to the muddy ground beneath him. Behind him, the boisterous laugh of his best friend and second-in-command Jurian followed him out of the training pits.

“You’re a sore loser,” Jurian crooned, likely catching the way Lucien’s fists curled and uncurled. “I have half a mind to tell your father you were bested in training again.”

“And I have half a mind to punch you in the face ahead of Lady Vassa’s visit,” Lucien retorted hotly, wiping the smile off Jurian’s face. “Oh. Did you not hear she was coming to court?”

It was Jurian’s turn to look as though he’d like to hit Lucien. Lucien had intended to tell Jurian though it had slipped his awareness given all the other things happening. Now was as good a time as any, besides. 

“Why?”

“Why do you suppose? Now that mother and father insist I marry, every lord with a daughter under the age of forty will descend upon us hoping to secure a match.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lucien snapped, wiping his sweaty brow against his bare forearm. “And Lady Vassa is hardly on mothers shortlist besides. This little ball of hers is not in good faith.”

“Ah, but it will be one last night of debauchery and fun,” Jurian teased, elbowing Lucien in the ribs. “This is every firstborn son’s duty, is it not? Get married, carry on the family line, etcetera and so forth?”

Lucien’s mood only darkened at the prospect. It wasn’t that he minded the thought of one day having a son, of becoming king and ruling the empire his father had so strategically built. It was the manner in which he was expected to do it. His own father had been allowed to choose his wife, however ill-advised it had been at the time. Lucien had no intention of stealing another man's wife as his father had done, sweeping her away and leaving six furious sons behind.

He merely wanted the ability to say who he wanted when he wanted.

And, perhaps, he was still a little burned by Jesminda’s rather abrupt dismissal of their courtship. She was gone, left to the countryside with her new husband she loved. Lucien told himself he ought to be happy for her. It had been nearly two years since she’d left, married and beaming—practically glowing, now that he thought about it. He’d been too bitter at the time to notice. He didn’t begrudge her that.

Lucien merely wished she had felt that way about him. He was convinced there was no one else in the world for him and perhaps he’d told his mother so drunkenly a few months earlier. If he’d only kept his big mouth shut, he’d have been allowed to carouse as he liked for at least another year.

Possibly two if he was careful about it.

Now he’d be married by solstice—just in time to parade his new wife around the summit in Velaris while making not-so-veiled threats to Archeron, the utter bastard. He was in the process of marrying off his eldest daughter so he, too, might have a successor to the throne, looking west toward Lucien’s half brother which was a threat in and of itself.

Everyone knew the Vanserras would love to see the southern empire laid to ruin. It was important Lucien married more than ever—ideally into a family with deep pockets to fight the war they all knew was coming. Peace was tentative, brokered when the northern royals lost their queen and a princess all in the same day. Ellesmere ceded territory laden with gold, enriching Lucien’s family and in exchange his father returned their remaining two daughters, rescued at sea. 

He still remembered Nesta Archeron. They’d been allowed to live in the palace rather than as prisoners and while Feyre had been mostly mute, glassy eyed and silent, Nesta had raged like a wild animal.

If she still harbored even a lick of resentment, Lucien knew she’d be the driving force behind Eris Vanserra’s throne and her father's bid for revenge. Eris was coming on a diplomatic mission, too, which was the polite way of saying Lucien’s mother was going to throw herself at his feet and hope she forgave her for leaving, while offering up all the same women she was pushing at Lucien, too.

As if Eris were the type for a love match. 

Shaking his head, Lucien pushed through the wooden gate to make his way back toward the city. It was unseasonably hot even for summer, the humidity drawing sweat even when he was sitting in the shade. It was miserable just then, boots hitting the sunstone streets with a loud thwack. Behind them, the sounds of clanging metal and groaning soldiers were half drowned by the cheerful white sands and foaming ocean, while ahead of them the bustling city created a chorus of voices. It was Lucien’s favorite sound. 

And his favorite sight. The looming palace on the hill made of ivory and gold and the multicolored buildings that circled around, built on a sloping mountainside. Purple flowers dotted along spiky grass while towering palm trees occasionally dropped coconuts to the streets. As a child, Lucien had collected them, begging his father to puncture them so he could drink the milk inside as he strutted about, a pretend sword strapped to his hip. 

Now when he stepped onto the main road people lowered their eyes and bowed their heads. He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man they might one day call king. Lucien missed being the former, though—missed the way they’d reach for a strand of his auburn hair or how they’d sneak him little treats when they thought his parents weren’t looking. 

Jurian straightened, his expression shifting from Lucien’s friend to Captain of the Guard. One day Jurian would be his General, but for now, this was enough. Jurian was one of them—just another man from Rhodes who had risen through the ranks while making Lucien feel less isolated when he, too, had been shoved into the army. Everyone else treated Lucien with respect.

Jurian had shoved his face into the dirt.

“There’s a way out of immediate marriage,” Jurian began, reminding Lucien once again why he was both Lucien’s best friend and closest advisor. 

“Go on,” Lucien murmured, inhaling the smell of grilled meat. 

“Velaris is filled with beautiful women. Tell your mother you’re interested in a more political marriage.”

“And when she realizes I’m not interested in a more political marriage?” Lucien asked dryly, trying to think of the last time he’d been inside Velaris. Had he ever? Maybe once when he’d been a boy, the memory eluding him.

“It’ll be winter and half the ladies who visited will be married to other lords. It’s not forever, but maybe another year or two. Nothing will save you from the marriage bed forever.”

“It’s better than anything I considered,” Lucien agreed, dodging a donkey hauling a cart filled with sunmelons. 

“And who knows. Maybe the love of your life is up in the mountains,” Jurian added, elbowing Lucien once again.

“I doubt that,” Lucien grumbled, his thoughts once again turning toward Jesminda. How long before she was pregnant, he wondered? How long before she brought her firstborn to court for his father’s blessing, forcing Lucien to see the man and family she’d wanted over him? 

Why not me?

Knowing full well Jesminda had never wanted to be a princess and had never wanted to be queen. 

He couldn’t shake the thought from his mind even as he entered the opulent palace to a loud argument between two of the philosophers his father insisted be allowed to live at court. Sidestepping them and mumbling a goodbye to Jurian, Lucien took the steps two at a time toward his bedroom. He needed just a little silence and a chance to clear his head. 

Flopping onto his bed, still sticky from heat and sweat, Lucien closed his eyes, intending to find a way through the tangled mess that was his mind.

All he found was sleep.

“Come with me,” Vassa urged, reaching for Elain’s hands. “Please. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—”

“I don’t belong at court,” Elain interrupted, looking up from her book. Vassa plopped beside her, spreading her hands over the cerulean blue of her skirts. “And you’ll have more fun without me.”

“I won’t. I never do,” Vassa protested, pretty face twisted into a scowl. “The prince is a bore and his court is far too self-satisfied to be of any amusement.”

“Stop, you’re making it sound too fun—”

“Come with me anyway. Rhodes is a wonderful city filled with libraries and museums and amusements beyond your wildest imagination. Plus there will be parties and dancing and you love parties and dancing.”

“Yes, and there will be all these well-bred ladies–”

“You’re a well-bred lady, and my sister to boot.”

Elain offered Vassa a look of exasperation. They were sisters in name only, but not by blood. Elain’s family was yet another casualty in the brutality the north inflicted upon them, razing her village to the ground and tossing her body into the western sea. Had she not been found by Lord Koshington, Elain might have succumbed to exposure. Her life before Vassa was lost to her and in some ways, she knew she was quite fortunate. She’d been given the education of a lady and one day a marriage would be arranged on her behalf.

It was far better than whatever she’d been expecting before the raid, she supposed. But just because Lord Koshington had taken her in didn’t make her an actual lady. Elain had never been brave enough to go to court either, choosing to remain behind rather than be reminded of her inadequacies.

She wanted to see it all, if only once. 

“I should stay–”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Please. I’ll do your latin homework for a week if you agree. Or…I’ll give you my gold dress—”

“You wouldn’t,” Elain replied, facing the book in her lap to fully look at Vassa. “You love that gown.”

“I love you more. Is that an agreement, then? You’ll spend a month in Rhodes with me in exchange for my gold dress?”

“And my latin homework. And you’ll work harder on the piano when we return as well. I’m tired of being the only one asked to play when guests come over.”

“Done,” Vassa agreed, blue eyes as bright as the sun itself. “Lucky you agreed because I may have told father this morning you’d agreed to accompany me. We’ll serve as each other's chaperones so he can waste his time droning on and on with the king about politics.”

“Chaperones? Who are you hoping to see?”

Vassa’s bronzed cheeks darkened, her freckles lost beneath the wash of color. Elain forgot her book entirely, surging forward until their faces were mere inches apart. “Tell me his name at once!”

“Swear to keep it between us. I would die if he ever learned the depth of my affection. He thinks I loathe him and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“You’re cruel, Vassa.”

“Men prefer to work for our affection and this man is no different. Worse, I suspect, which is why I like him. The prince’s mother is hoping to match someone with her son but I am far more interested in the Captain of the Guard.”

“Is he handsome?” Elain asked, resting the back of her head against the rough bark of the tree behind her. 

“Terribly handsome. And horribly stupid, but in an endearing sort of way. I’m certain he’s good at many things…just not winning an argument.”

“Well, no one can win an argument against the likes of you,” Elain said with a laugh. “What will the lord say about it?”

Vassa’s smile dipped a bit. “No, I’m sure. He has no title, no money and will always serve the prince. Still. It’s fun to imagine a world in which we could select our own husbands, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Elain admitted. “It seems risky.”

“That’s just what men want you to think. But we’re perfectly capable of knowing our own minds and deciding for ourselves. We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.”

“What are you planning?”

“Me? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of planning or plotting.”

Elain rolled her eyes, wondering for the first time just how much Vassa actually liked this man and how far she might be willing to go. Elain pondered it all evening, wondering if she shouldn’t tell someone that sending the two of them mostly alone to Rhodes was a bad idea.

But Vassa’s words lingered in her mind. 

We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.

Because Vassa was right. She’d been educated within an inch of her life just for men to waltz around her acting as if she were as new as a freshly born baby. Treated as though it were cute she had opinions when she was supposed to be nothing more than ornamentation while Elain brushed it off because what else could she do?

But Vassa was right, just like she always was. They weren’t stupid—men wanted it both ways. They wanted a wife smart enough to one day oversee the education of their sons, but stupid enough they were always the unchallenged authority. It didn’t mean Elain wouldn’t acquiesce when her time came—she had no other option and no other skills but to be married—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help Vassa escape the expectations.

That was what Elain told herself, anyway. And it helped her sleep at night for the following week as preparations were made to leave the idyllic countryside estate they resided on and make their way further south toward the coast. Lord Koschington was still accompanying them and would be the one to introduce Elain to court—as his niece rather than his daughter. That was the more believable lie without besmirching Elain’s reputation right from the start. 

With the gold gown packed in a trunk and the promise of being allowed to coast in her lessons when she returned—assuming Vassa returned with her at all. Elain was dreading the carriage ride not because the journey was long and it was already oppressively hot, even at dawn, but because Lord Koshington loved to hear himself talk.

And in the carriage he had a captive audience. 

For five miserable hours, Vassa and Elain sat straight backed and silent while Lord Koschington droned on and on about King Helion’s feud with the King of the North, Archeron. Elain loathed the name like any good southerner, having learned to fear those silver armored warriors that often ducked across the border to raze whole villages to the ground. 

He had two daughters and Koschington was fascinated with the oldest, said to be unparalleled in her beauty and destined for the prince to the west, Eris Vanserra. For five hours, all he talked about was the disaster it would be if those two territories united and how Lucien would be the last Spell-Cleaver to ever sit on the sunlit throne. It was the sort of conundrum that kept men like Lord Koshington awake at night but to Elain, who couldn’t remember the war and had been living in nothing but peace for the last decade, it felt more like unwarranted anxiety. 

Who cared about a princess’ marriage? Why wouldn’t she marry a prince, besides? Elain had heard rumors that Eris Vanserra was the most handsome prince in the realm, still unmarried as his ancient father crept toward the grave. She imagined there was a line from his bedroom door to the edge of his coast hoping to secure him as a husband.

As for herself, well. She was glad to not be in such a position. Elain didn’t think she cared for that kind of responsibility. 

Eventually, even Lord Koschington was silenced by the heat, sweat sliding down the temples of his face. His once onyx hair was threaded with silver and his face lined with age though he was easily a good-looking man. Elain sometimes wondered why he’d never remarried after the passing of his wife though she’d never had the guts to ask him. That was private—personal. 

He wasn’t her father, either. He’d cared for her, taken her in when that had never been his obligation and treated her as well as his own daughter.

Elain knew better than to upset him. Though he’d never given her a reason to believe otherwise, some part of her suspected that if she acted outside of his will, he might withdraw his support. Better to be above reproach in all things so he felt his investment was worth it. 

Elain had never been more grateful in her life to stumble out of a carriage. At first glance, she saw the women in the capitol wore far fewer layers than they had been out in the country. No laces, no petticoats, no sleeves. Gods above, but Elain was desperate to update her wardrobe with the breezy fabrics and shorter sleeves, even if some part of her felt slightly scandalized by the scooping backs and the clingy bodices. 

She noticed the palace itself next. Set atop a rather steep hill and half-carved into a mountain overlooking the southern sea, the sprawling structure was made of ivory and gold, lined with swaying green palms, while purple flowers dotted against the lawn.

Rows of carriages circled to the front of the drive spilling ladies in all manner of garb toward the towering pillars where they were greeted by an elderly man draped in white. Elain and Vassa both dipped into curtseys when it was their turn as Lord Koshington announced, “My daughters, Vassa and Elain.” Elain’s pulse hammered.

My daughter.

He’d told her she would be introduced as a cousin. Daughter? Blinking rapidly lest she burst into tears, Elain grasped Vassa’s hand so hard she was certain there was no blood flow. Putting aside his kind words and his willingness to pretend she was wholly his, Elain and Vassa stepped into the palace. She’d expected more of the miserable, oppressive heat but somehow it was cool. Not cold, but chilly enough a shiver raced up her spine the moment the air hit her skin. 

They were hardly the most anticipated guests—no royals to greet them, no decadent rooms. Lord Koshington had his own while the girls were given a suite of interconnected bedrooms that were larger than anything Elain had ever seen. Draped in cream and gold, her bedroom had the good fortune of overlooking the sea and the gardens just below. 

Elain was living in a dream.

She didn’t want to wake up.

Nesta Archeron took the spiraling, stone steps two at a time, navy skirts gathered in one hand to keep her from plummeting right back down. Chilly hair nipped at her cheeks, drawing color that wouldn’t otherwise exist. The air itself stung her eyes, making them seem glassy like she’d been crying.

Nesta Archeron never cried. 

Hiding at the top of the tower stood her younger sister Feyre, fingers bright red from the cold. “Have they arrived?” Nesta asked, shouldering beside Feyre to peer out of the little arched window overlooking the whole of the city. 

“There,” Feyre said, nodding toward the black and silver banners marching toward the palace gates. Nesta’s eyes were drawn to the man sitting atop a black steed, his matching cape fluttering in the wind. She couldn’t see him well, but every ounce him screamed warrior king. 

King Rhysand of the East.They called him the King of Nightmares for his reputation for being ruthless—he didn’t kill those who slipped over his border looking to destabilize his regime. Rhysand had them tortured, broke their minds, and sent them back home. 

He was flanked on either side by two men who might have been brothers. The distance obscured their features, though Nesta could make out the broad shoulders and lethal sword hilt of the one on the left and the slimmer build of the one on the right. She supposed the one on the left was the terrifying Lord of Bloodshed, Rhysand’s general, and the other was the torture master himself, Azriel. 

For the first time in living memory, the North was welcoming the East into their borders. Nesta wasn’t foolish enough to think it was mere diplomacy, though she’d already promised the prince of the west her home, her throne, and her body, too, if he returned with a way into the south.

But should he fail, she’d do what her father was hoping and she’d marry Rhysand if he could offer her the revenge she was so desperate for.

Nesta’s nightmares were still plagued of Elain, wide-eyed and shivering as she made her way toward Feyre in the dark. She still dreamt of the ricocheting canon that slammed into their ship and how she and Feyre were whisked into a lifeboat. How they’d been kept political prisoners by Helion himself, their lives used to forge the treaty that now bound both nations.

While Elain had never been found, her body still haunting the sea bed. 

And Nesta might have been able to forgive the death of her mother. But she’d sworn her life to protecting Elain the very night she’d failed. It was the only way to convince Elain to leave.

I’ll protect you. Please. Come with me.

How she’d failed. 

Nesta was old enough to inherit her father’s throne though law dictated she needed a husband and so Nesta had begun a campaign of finding the right man. She didn’t need love—didn’t want love. She wanted vengeance and none of the men at court were equipped to give her that.

Eris Vanserra wanted it nearly as badly as she did, and was just as practical. He’d told her he wasn’t looking for a love match and would look the other way if she chose to take a lover so long as she was discreet about it—and he had no question regarding any future offspring.

Fine.

He would be there now, poking through Helion’s secrets. Looking for weaknesses, mapping out their borders, the walls of Rhodes, and anything else he could glean. Nesta would give him everything, ruining her father’s careful legacy in favor of turning her family into Vanserras, giving her husband total control her territory, her wealth, her armies.

And she’d be the one to drive the blade straight through Helion’s blackened heart.

Rhysand was her backup plan and her father’s first choice. Eris Vanserra was a snake in the grass, untrustworthy and perhaps more damning, a Vanserra. Their family had ruled longer than any other on the continent, with a legacy that predated the oldest written record. 

But for all Eris’ faults, Nesta knew vengeance was personal for him. Helion had stolen his mother away in the night, forced her into marriage, and made her his wife. Those kinds of scars lingered, lasted. Rhysand wasn’t that sort of man from what she’d gathered.

He was a shadowed mystery, his motivations unclear. She didn’t know if he even wanted conquest, or if he was merely interested in seeing her home. She’d sent several letters which he’d returned with short, polite answers. Nothing helpful, no hidden message she could read between the lines. Only a gentleman’s words that were utterly banal and uninteresting to her.

Gentleman be damned.

She needed someone bloodthirsty and cruel.

Beside her, Feyre turned her head, chestnut hair whipping against her face. She knew, even if Nesta had never once explicitly said what she planned. Feyre knew, watchful as she was. Whether she approved or not didn’t matter, though Nesta had never known Feyre to be terribly soft-hearted. And she suspected she carried the same weighty guilt over Elain’s death, held the same deep-seated need to see someone pay for it. 

“We should be ready to greet them,” Nesta said, well aware Feyre would slip up into the rafters to listen without anyone watching.

“You go, then. I have no interest in any more princes or kings,” she replied, blue eyes flashing with defiance. “Nor do I wish to assist father in selling us off like livestock.”

“Not us. Me. You are safe—and once I’m married, you can pick whatever lovely northern gentleman is hounding your steps. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want a husband. We don’t need any of these horrible men to get what we want, Nesta. Take the throne, rewrite the laws—”

“The nobility would revolt. They’d throw me in prison or worse, force a marriage on me, wait until I gave them a son, and then stage some timely yet tragic accident. It’s better to have a say in it. To decide for myself and direct it as best I can.”

“None of them are trustworthy and I fear this king—Rhysand— is the worst of them.”

“Worse than Vanserra?” Nesta replied, genuinely curious which Feyre would prefer ruling their home. 

Feyre glanced back out the window, eyes narrowing. “He looks like a liar.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

Feyre blew out a breath, crossing her arms over the rosy pink dress she wore. Neither of them would acknowledge what they were both thinking—Lord Tamlin Rosewood, who’d asked for Feyre’s hand in marriage and then struck her in a fit of frustration over some problem with the dowry. It had been, he claimed, an accident. 

He had been expelled from court, banished to the countryside and Feyre locked in her room until the bruising on her face faded. Everyone wanted to pretend it had never happened but to Nesta, it merely highlighted that she needed to be the one to secure their family so Feyre could have a small sliver of peace. 

Love was for the lower classes, besides. Perhaps Ferye understood that, now. 

“Come on,” Nesta said, hoping she wouldn’t have to go alone. She would, but she would feel less anxiety if she weren’t by herself. 

For once, Feyre didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps she recognized Nesta’s own vulnerability. Or maybe she wanted to stare the foreign king down with that lethal gaze of hers that made men wither to dust. Nesta thought it would be something to see them cower before her petite sister rethinking whatever strategy she was certain they must have.

The halls were utterly emptied, leaving only the watchful sentries posted by windows and doors, none of whom were allowed to meet their gaze. She still remembered Elain trying so hard to get the ones at the throne room door to smile and how she’d nearly always succeeded.

Feyre and Nesta didn’t bother. 

Their father was waiting, sitting on his icy, iron throne crowned in the blue diamonds that could be found only in the ancient mountains of the Spine, the natural border between their home and Rhysand’s. Nesta wondered if Rhysand would come wearing them, too. Nesta was wearing them around her neck, so heavy it made her spine ache. She’d carefully braided her hair off her face and put on a rather sumptuous, though conservative, gown. 

She was beautiful and she knew it. Nesta also knew that men liked a woman who presented herself well—Eris Vanserra had certainly been taken with her presentation, and she assumed Rhysand would be, too. There was no harm in letting him see what he wanted. A wellbred, obedient wife was the expectation. It wasn’t the reality, but that was a problem for another day. 

Nesta and Feyre took their place on either side of their father, staring across the room lined with nobility as the sounds of heavy footsteps began echoing louder and louder. For one moment, something in Nesta quaked with fear, blood icy as though death itself was making its way for her.

It was only a man—a man she didn’t want, didn’t like, and would never love. Rhysand and his right hands were the only ones who came in, strangely unadorned.

He was, objectively, attractive enough. High cheekbones set in a symmetrical face, with eyes so blue they were nearly violet and dark hair styled to look as though the wind had merely tousled it. A silver circlet of stars adorned his brow and one heavy ring was perched on his middle finger while the rest of him was rather bare in comparison to her father.

He looked like a warrior king in his dark black leathers and the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders. He lacked all the pomp and circumstance Eris had brought with him along with the warmth, too. His whole presence exuded ice and instinctively, Nesta took a step back.

His eyes were on her, and then her father as he swept into a bow. Nesta watched, as he came back up, how his gaze slid to Feyre.

And remained there.

“Rhysand,” her father began, his voice sharp and clear. “I hope the journey didn’t give you too much trouble.”

A cat’s smile slid across his features, eyes flicking back to their father. “None at all.”

Nesta didn’t hear her father’s response, buzzing filling her ears as she took a moment to survey the other men who’d come to join their king. The tallest one had removed the heavy helmet he wore, tucking it beneath one muscular arm and oh, Nesta wished he hadn’t. His face, scarred just at the eyebrow and again across full lips, was perhaps the most beautiful face she’d ever laid eyes on. Not classically, of course—for one, he was far too large. The sconce on the wall across the room was, perhaps, as tall as this man was and the muscle packed on his body spoke to an active life, never mind the twin, curved swords looming over his shoulders.

A light layer of dark stubble graced a perfect jaw while strange, whirling black inked tattoos peeked from beneath the neckline of his armor. She wondered what they meant, what their purpose was. Nesta drank in his slightly crooked nose, likely broken in some battle he’d won and the curved scar across his throat that must have been brutal when he’d first received it. He had his large hands clasped in front of him and when she looked up to take in the color of his eyes—hazel, more green than brown—she found he was grinning at her.

He’d caught her looking at him and wanted her to know it. Nesta immediately looked away, unable to hide the damning flush creeping up her own neck. 

Nesta swore he’d never catch her looking at him again.

Hands in his pockets, Rhys allowed Archeron to show him around the palace. These visits never failed to bore him. Look at this painting, survey my wealth. Did you see my daughters? Aren’t they lovely? 

Usually the answer was covert eyerolls and shared smirks with Cassian and Azriel. Today, though, Rhys felt moody. Unsettled. Disturbed, even, by the younger daughter he hadn’t known existed and hadn’t expected to see. 

Rumors swirled about Nesta Archeron and the possible marriage her father was considering with heir apparent Eris Vanserra. His father was on death’s door and a marriage between North and West almost certainly promised a brutal and bloody war. 

When Helion had learned, he’d sent word to Rhysand. What is going on in the Spine?

Nothing smart. Rhysand intended to do what he did best—lie. Pretend he had interest in Nesta, jerk her around for a year while he drew up marriage contracts that had to be written and rewritten and written again, wasting her time while Eris inevitably moved on to some nice noble in his own court.

And then Rhys could withdraw, free to continue philandering until his advisors put their foot down. His presence was purely nefarious—two months freezing his balls off in the frigid north while Cassian inspected the army and Azriel devoured secrets. 

And yet…and yet. 

Rhysand’s mind slipped toward the younger daughter and those eyes. They looked like the same stars that hung over the Illyrian Mountains, silvery and bright and so very alive. Rhys had spent his entire life gazing up at them—he would have recognized them anywhere. Even in the face of that woman, who spared only a passing glance before she fixed her stare on the wall behind him, clearly underwhelmed by their presence. 

He wanted to talk to her. He’d seen beautiful women before, though perhaps this was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that beauty was often exhausted the moment they opened their mouth to speak to him. 

Easier said than done. Rhys tried, but Nesta Archeron became the ambassador for the Archerons, silently watching him without ever speaking a word. He found that unnerving all through dinner and wasn’t the only one. The moment he, Azriel, and Cassian were locked away in the suite of rooms, Azriel was the first to speak.

“This place feels like a tomb,” he said, looking around the dark interior.

“Why don’t the princesses speak?” Cassian added, pulling open the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the dim light. “Are they allowed?”

“We should have brought Morrigan,” Azriel grumbled, flopping gracelessly onto a floral sofa. 

“She doesn’t deserve the archaic practices of Archeron,” Rhys replied, running a finger over the marble mantle of the fireplace. A thin layer of dust came with it, proving the North rarely hosted guests.

They were far too untrusting.

He supposed he didn’t blame Archeron given the horror of that final invasion. Rhysand couldn’t imagine losing both a wife and a daughter, no matter how, frankly, deserved Rhysand still found the entire thing. After all—Archeron had marched into a neutral city, the third largest in the West, blocked all routes in and out, and burned it entirely to the ground in the matter of a week. 

War was hell and there were no heroes. Helion’s father had retaliated, breaking into the capital city and sacking it over the course of a night. In the aftermath, he’d taken the two surviving daughters hostage and only agreed to return them when a peace treaty had been brokered, redefining old borders and returning both stolen land and land long contested. 

Oh, but it was all such a mess even a decade later. Those wounds had been left to fester and no matter how Rhysand looked at it, he could see no path forward that didn’t explode into utter disaster. Maybe if Lucien Spell-Cleaver married an Archeron they could avoid war, but he’d heard the prince was far too spoiled and sheltered to be offered up like a political pawn.

And having seen Nesta, he doubted she was willing to subject herself to another hurt at the hands of the West. 

“What did you think of Nesta?” Cassian asked, his words carrying a strange ribbon of curiosity. Rhys opened his mouth before closing it again, trying to find words that were both honest without being cruel.

“I doubt a marriage is in our collective futures. Still—maybe she’ll surprise me.”

“With a dagger to your throat,” Azriel commented lightly, causing Cassian to grin at the thought. 

“We don’t need to worry about them other than distracting them. Any one of us can accomplish that,” Rhys declared, wondering why the image of Azriel and Feyre annoyed him so much.

“Let's get what we came for and let’s get out of this miserable city.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Azriel murmured, stretching out his legs. 

“I can already tell you their military is weak in compared to our own,” Cassian half whispered, his gaze sharp. “I’m going to ask to train with them tomorrow—”

“Trotting out the dumb brute act?” Azriel questioned, a gleam in his eyes.

“My favorite,” Cassian agreed. “I just love swinging a sword and no one ever taught me to read.”

“There must be more of them. Up in the mountains?” Azriel suggested, glancing toward the windows. “Archeron wouldn’t be so stupid to leave his entire kingdom undefended just to protect one city.”

“Helion decimated them a decade ago. Men don’t grow up so quickly,” Rhys reminded them both. “The north has gold, and diamonds from the Spine. Vanserra has manpower and a navy none of us could fend off should he bring it to our shores. It makes sense that Nesta would go to Eris first if she lacked manpower.”

“Then why are we here?” Cassian asked, drumming his fingers against his knee. 

“Perhaps Vanserra isn’t sold on the idea?” Rhys suggested, uncertain himself. “Or her father wants to explore all his options? We’re here to prevent another war that would almost certainly drag us into it,” he added, looking at his general and spymaster.

“We’re just waiting out the summer, then?” Azriel questioned.

Rhys nodded. “We can give them all a little taste of what war might mean for them this time.”

Knowing his objective didn’t do much for Rhys’s restless mind, though. While his brothers got ready for the evening, making jokes and generally amused by the entire situation, Rhys slipped from the suite of rooms they shared to walk the halls. It unnerved him how many people were watching under the guise of not watching at all. The sentries and guards never looked at him and he knew his steps would be reported to the king before breakfast.

Getting around undetected was Azriel’s domain. Rhys had never tried, commanded too much attention. He was always the distraction, besides. No one gave Azriel and Cassian much thought, certain he must be the knife in the dark. Slick smiles and double entendre made everyone assume he was far more clever than he was.

Cassian was the dumb brute, Azriel obsessed with cruelty which left Rhys as the one worth watching. He just seemed like a two-faced bastard. And to be fair…he was. But he had help, had chosen his inner circle carefully. 

His feet took him to a set of stone steps that spiraled upward into a tower. It was a decent vantage point over the dreary city. Fog hung like a curtain, floating from the mountains that kept the warmer air Velaris received from reaching them. Rhys heard there were years where Ellesmere experienced nothing but rain every single day.

No wonder they liked war so much. What else was there for them?

At the top of this tower, rather than more oppressive fog, sat the younger princess. Rhys hesitated, drinking in the sight of her propped up in that window, one leg dangling precariously over the edge. Her hair was braided over one shoulder and propped on the wall beside her, a bow with a quiver of arrows. 

Another sentry, far prettier than any of the others he’d seen. Rhys couldn’t help himself, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“Keeping watch?”

She turned her head to look, those starry blue eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she replied, causing Rhys to take a step into the candle lit, chilly room.

“Oh, but you seem like such fine company,” he crooned, holding her gaze. “Maybe you could give me a tour—”

“I’ll leave that to Nesta,” Feyre snapped. It was a dismissal given she turned back to looking out at the city and any rational man would have turned around and left.

But Rhys was famously stupid, if his cousin Mor was to be believed so he came closer, desperate for anything to say to her. He was a fool to have any interest in this woman at all, to want a moment of her time when he’d come here to betray her. 

“Why are you here?” she asked when Rhys couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say.

“I’m looking for a wife, darling,” he heard himself say. Heart thudding, Rhys recalled telling his advisors not a week earlier he had no interest in a wife and to stop pushing him on it. What absurdity to say it while looking at her, knowing damn well she wasn’t for the likes of him.

He barely knew her at all.

“It's strange how many men suddenly find themselves desperate to be married,” Feyre commented, swinging her legs over the edge of the window before righting herself. “We came of age years ago. Surely you’re not interested in women as old as we are.”

“You think me so shallow? I like a conversation partner—”

“You don’t worry we’ve been ruined?”

Oh, what man touched her he wondered? What man would Rhys have to murder? The urge washed over him stronger than any other emotion he’d felt in recent months. It wasn’t that she had potentially been with another man but the defiant way she asked him if that somehow diminished her worth. 

“A lot of things keep me awake at night, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred, taking a measured step toward the princess. “Your activities in the bedroom are not one of them.”

“That’s good, given you’re here to court my sister.”

“I’m here for the princess of the North. You are a princess, are you not?” 

“I am a princess, I live in the North,” she agreed, those eyes of hers flashing. And Rhys knew whatever words came out of her mouth next were about to wreck him. His whole body went tight at the prospect.

“And I will never be your wife,” she added with that same, light tone. “I am not interested in a husband, especially one who looks like he lies as easily as he breathes.”

Rhys flashed a smile. He wanted her. What a revelation. “We’ll see,” he replied as she sauntered past him, shouldering her bow with ease. 

Feyre only shook her head, eyes rolling upward in her skull. “That wasn’t a challenge. You repulse me.”

Rhys only laughed.

They’d see about that, too.

#im gonna upload on a tues/thurs schedule until its done (i only have 5 chapters written) #elucien #feysand #nessian #DID YOU KNOW IT WAS ME OR WAS I SUBTLE?

[stargirlie25]

Me through reading all the ACOTAR books.

ACOTAR: Ew Nesta and Elain are so annoying. This is going to be the best series, Feyre is such a baddie! Awww feylin so cute! DAMN LUCIENNN. I know she ends up with Rhysand but im not vibing with him......how can ACOMAF excuse this?

ACOMAF: Ohk feysands kinda cute but i dont think we can justify all that....Oooooo Cassian and azrielllllll! Awww i hope Mor and Azriel gets a book! *Goes to tiktok and finds out mor is gay* damn Azriel.OMG I LOVE NESTA NOWW PERIOD POP OFF SIS MY QUEENNN. Elain is there too. Ooooo Nessian. Elain and Azriel? I mean as long as its not mor! NAHHH GIRL DONT U DARE BLAME LULU BLAME TAMLIN! OMG ELAIN AND LUCIEN???

ACOWAR: Feyre isnt really feyre-ing any more :(.OH HELL NO SCREW IANTHE NO WAY YOU DID THAT TO MY MANSSS!!! MY POOR LULUUU Why feyre lowkey being such a bitach?

Awww Elucien is so tender! LUCIEN AS A MATE AWWEEEE. Damn Nessian making me sqeual. Lucien went away to find the queen from elains vision! OMG. CASSIAN IS SOOO FINEEEE, elriel is lowkey getting boring....Why is she disrespecting tarquin? He has ALL rights to be upset. Ok tamlin in the HL meeting is being pretty annoying and doing nothing but feyre did nothing as well but NESTA ARCHERON THE WOMAN YOU ARE!!!!! WTHHH HELION AND LUCIEN??????? OMG the war!!! NO THE SURIELLL. THE BONE CARVER NOOOO THE WITCH LADY I FORGOT HER NAME BUT NOOOOOO. THE ELAIN. THE FEYRE. THE NESTA. Omg i have no regrets in my life but this.Damn Nessian ur hurting me. NOOO papa arhceron diedddddddddddd. Damn Ok Elain and Nesta king slayers! Oh rhysand died........i know damn well he gonna come back......´´Be happy feyre´´ bawling. Omggg Lucien was besties with papa archeron???? THE ONLY FATHER FIGURE HE HADDDD DAMN WHY ISNT FEYRE TELLING LUCIEN?? Awww lucien and feyre hug! Cass and feyre are cute but i miss the og´s! Ok girl you flying.

ACOFAS: Snoring. YALL ARE CUTE BUT IM BOREDDD AS HELL. Ok literally no one asked for this Mor pov. Wait why did Elain invite lulu if she is uncomfortable around him? Her power? Elriel kinda gave me brother and sister but i guess elain likes him now.....HI EMERIE IVE HEARD ABT YOUUUUU!!! I just want my girl Nesta, feyre u are not feyreing.

ACOSF: I love nesta so much!!!!!!! Cassian is acting like Rhysands frikcing dog. I hate amren soo much. WHY is Elain acting like shes the victim like nesta told you to leave and now you crying?? Girl you are 23 years old! Ok respect azriel has never disrespected my Nesta. Aw nesta gwyn and emeries friendship is the best one yet!!!!!! Azriel is starting to show an actual personality.....With Gwyn? Okay Gwynriel is so cuteee *sees elucien and gwynriel theories* 100% on board with this!!!!! DAMN the Valkyries! I am so excited for all the other girls to tag along! Just imagine a MOB of nesta gwyn and emerie!!! Eris? HELLL YAHHHHHHH VANSERRAS FOR LIFEEEEEE!!!! YOU ARE TELLING ME CASSIAN DID NOT SAY I LOVE YOU ONCE? Of course nesta lost her powers and she obviously lost them for the sake of the main characters that im bored of :(

ACOA (A court of Azriel): You got her a rose flower......because she likes flowers??? Why is this man so insecure about his hands around her? That cant be right......MISTAKE? THANKYOU RHYSAND FOR STOPPING THIS MADNESS! Wow he just wanted to F**k her and thats it? WTH is Gwyn doing here? Ok creepy Azriel is gone and this new azriel is here? Aweee he is actually kinda cutie now and he is laughing? HE SINGS???? OMG SHE SINGS THO! His shadows singing and dancing with her??? Cuteeeeeee, Ok so he gave the necklace to clotho to give to gwyn, thats cute she does in fact deserve something beautiful like that but why Elains? Ig its the though that counts. SPARKED IN HIS CHEST???? THATS ROWAELIN/NESSIAN LANGUAGE!!!! HOW does her picture it proper?? Glowing and secret? Where the hell did he tuck the image bruhhh?

A thing of secret lovely beauty. AHHHHHHHH clotho and the shadows are team Gwynriel for sure! Gwynriel are sooo mates tho and i hate Elriel with every fiber in my being. How did azriel go from mr. creep to mr. melts my heart?

After finishing: Wow everybody on tiktok are elriels. They are so confident elriel is endgame? Hmmmm but none of their points make sense but i cant explain in a comment section! Maybe Gwynriel and Elucien isnt endgame :(

*Downloads tumblr*

Gwynriel and Eluciens on tumblr have their freaking masters degree DAMN

#pro gwynriel #pro elucien #anti elriel #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #acoa

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (3/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

We're back with our favorite Santa Fae <3 HUGE thank you to @itsthedoodle for continuing to beta my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 Guts and Glory

You can read the third chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

That night turned out to be the longest of Feyre's life. There was barely time for a few hours of fitful sleep; instead, she was rousing newsies and mobilizing them to get the word out about the price increase before morning.

She started with Lucien. Then Bron and Hart and Alis and Les and Davey, newsies who she'd befriended and who'd listen to her. Once they learned that the marching orders came from the High Lady herself, the rest of the newsies of the Rainbow agreed to the strike readily.

And to Feyre's surprise, they also agreed to fan out across the city, spread the news, and cajole the rest of the city's newsies into striking alongside them. They looked to her for direction, and Feyre found herself dividing up the territory among them—Bone and Salt, Thread and Jewels, Hoof and Leaf.

But no one wanted to take the south side of the Sidra. That was Nesta's turf.

Given the choice, Feyre would rather fight a Middengard Wyrm than cross the Sidra for her sister's help. Any other newsie would probably feel the same; the south side fae were big and unflinchingly loyal to Nesta, who ran her side of the city like a well-oiled machine.

Nothing got past Nesta, though. Before Feyre even had the chance to summon up the courage to go see her sister, a note appeared out of thin air and fluttered down into Feyre's hands.

Waiting on proof that you won't fold at the first sign of trouble — N

That wasn't an outright insult, so Feyre supposed that was the best she could have hoped for. Even if it stung. For all her faults, though, Nesta was true to her word. Feyre pocketed the note and didn't bother with a reply; in the morning, she'd prove to her sister that the newsies of the Rainbow weren't backing down.

But it was more than just Nesta who doubted them. The responses came in one by one from the rest of the city, and they were all the same: they'd back up the Rainbow newsies…but only if Nesta did it first.

This would be a test. Feyre was sure of it, all the way down her bones, as the sky lightened in the east and stacks of papers were readied for distribution. For now, the newsies of the Rainbow would be standing alone.

Though on some level she'd expected it, Feyre's heart still sank at the sight of scabs lining up to buy papers to sell that morning. She wasn't the only one—a fight had nearly broken out immediately. Tensions might have boiled over if Feyre hadn't put an arm out to stop a newsie from charging right at them.

"Listen," she said, gentle but firm enough that the unionized newsies quieted as she spoke to the scabs, "I'm sure you were paid handsomely for this. But it isn't right. You've heard how they speak to us—if you ask Pulitzer, we're all gutter rats willing to stab each other in the back. There's no shame in being poor or lesser fae. We all deserve a fair deal. Every single one of us. So, please, I beg you…throw your papers down and join the strike."

By the time she finished speaking, even the fae passing by and going about their business stopped to listen to her. Feyre hoped the churning in her stomach didn't show on her face. For a few long moments, a heavy silence hung over the square.

One by one, the scabs dropped their papers.

The rest of the stacks of papers at the distribution window sat untouched after that. There hadn't been time to make banners or signs, but it was clear enough that the newsies of the Rainbow fully intended to ensure that every single paper went unsold. After all—by the end of the day, they'd be too out of date to be of use, anyway.

By noon, Feyre supposed, the message was received. She was already thinking ahead to votes and negotiations, demands they could make beyond just lowering the price of papers back down to what it had been originally. The strike might actually succeed.

And then a group of High Fae in identical police uniforms rounded the corner, and Feyre's hopes sank all at once. But she didn't panic, just gritted her teeth—she'd vowed to prove to Nesta that they wouldn't fold at the first sign of trouble, and trouble had arrived.

So Feyre marched forward to meet them. Head held high, she returned their stares and didn't bother glancing back to make sure the newsies of the Rainbow followed her.

The cops might have already been reaching for their nightsticks, but Feyre decided to make one attempt at resolving this peaceably. "Good afternoon," she said evenly, letting her voice carry. "Is there—"

But the thwack of a nightstick colliding with a newsie's jaw cut that short.

Feyre's hands curled into fists, her arms moving up to protect her face on instinct. Around her, the square erupted into chaos—shouting and newsies running in all directions. Something struck her in the side. She cried out in pain, too stunned to make herself incorporeal.

She scrambled backwards, glancing around for a flash of Lucien's red hair. If Feyre had to run, she wouldn't leave without him. All around her, newsies were fleeing or being dragged and winnowed away by police.

A shadow fell over the square, cast by a massive wingspan. An Illyrian warrior—what in the bottomless depths of the Cauldron was he doing in Velaris?—landed with his back to her, unsheathing a sword strapped along his spine. His wings flared out as if to shield her.

A vicious growl escaped the Illyrian. "Touch her again and you die," he spat at the cop, and Feyre recognized the voice. Not just any Illyrian warrior— Rhysand.

With a single deft movement of his wrist, Rhys used his sword to knock the nightstick out of the closest policeman's hand. It clattered to the pavement and rolled towards Feyre.

"What are you doing here?" Feyre hissed, picking up the nightstick.

"I told you I'd publicly support a strike, didn't I?"

There was no time to demand an explanation, not when Lucien was still nowhere in sight. Feyre threw herself into the fray. Hands grabbed at her, but she knocked them away with the nightstick before anyone could winnow her.

If they caught her, she'd end up in the Prison. Once, Feyre had nearly found herself trapped on that barren island of rock on the western shore. She wouldn't let it happen today, either.

She called Lucien's name, searching for any sign of him. There was none, but perhaps he'd already gotten to safety…

No, there he was, all the way across the square. Feyre called his name as she launched herself towards him. A cop was charging at Lucien, ready to strike or winnow him away.

Feyre reached for Lucien. So did the cop. But Lucien didn't see—he'd turned his head at the sound of her voice, and the officer was on the side where his missing eye narrowed his field of vision.

And Feyre wasn't fast enough. Her fingers closed around empty air. Lucien was gone.

Not just gone—taken to the Prison, with no hope of escaping that island full of monsters. Feyre choked back a sob.

Something tugged in her chest, urgent and insistent, as Rhys's voice filled her mind. Get. Home. I'm holding them off for you.

Feyre didn't need to be told twice—if she stayed any longer, she'd end up in the Prison, too. She faded until she was little more than a ghost, slipping from shadow to shadow until she was back at her tenement.

The Rainbow's High Lady should have been assessing the damage, getting a count of how many newsies had been arrested, and making sure any injured newsies who'd escaped found a healer. But Feyre was tired.

At at the sight of Lucien's empty bed, she finally let out the sob that she'd held back before running away. She'd never felt like a bigger idiot; going up against Pulitzer had been massively stupid, and now her best friend was paying the price. Dreams of a better world were just that—dreams. Nothing more.

So Feyre lifted the floorboard and gathered what she'd saved of the money Rhysand had tipped her. It was long past time to buy that one-way ticket to the Continent.

***

The force of his father's power knocked through Rhys's mental shields like a battering ram. House of Wind. Now.

Rhys sheathed his sword, glancing around the rapidly-emptying square. Feyre had disappeared safely into the shadows, and his work here was done. But the feral instinct to protect his mate hadn't disappeared with her. Rhys shot into the sky, hoping to clear his head before he misted anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

As he flew, Rhys shifted himself out of his leathers and back into a tunic—whatever explanation he gave his father, it would be better received if he looked less Illyrian. Less like a threat, if he was being honest.

But really, the only thing that would quell his father's anger would be telling him that Feyre was his mate. Rhys refused to take that option; his behavior might be excused as protectiveness typical of a mated male, but that wasn't worth exposing Feyre to pressure to accept the bond. She'd resent him for eternity for that.

So Rhys just steeled himself for whatever punishment his father would mete out. He'd endure anything if it meant Feyre had a choice.

The High Lord was waiting on the balcony of the House of Wind, and even from the sky, Rhys could see darkness swirling around him in furious, pulsing waves. He schooled his expression into careful neutrality as he landed.

"Would you please explain," the High Lord said, the mild words no less an ice-cold threat, "what exactly you were doing attacking a police officer in the middle of Velaris just now?"

"Preventing a bloodbath," Rhys said, just as coolly.

For a moment, night rippled between the High Lord and his heir as they stared each other down. Then Rhys's father turned on his heel and strode back into the House of Wind, clearly expecting Rhys to follow.

He hadn't yielded—Rhys knew this tactic well. He matched his father's long strides and awaited the dressing down that was meant to be overheard,not behind closed doors in the High Lord's study.

"A bloodbath might have been just the thing we needed, but everyone saw you protecting their ringleader. Do you understand the chaos that could cause in Velaris? A direct challenge to my authority, from my own heir. I won't have you starting riots, Rhysand."

Servants and courtiers alike scurried out of the way as they walked. Rhys made sure to keep his head held high.

"What they were doing….it wasn't right, High Lord." His father's title tasted like ash on Rhys's tongue.

" Right doesn't matter, keeping the peace does, especially in Velaris. I have half a mind to send you to Illyria if you're so intent on seeing this city burn to the ground."

Rhys nearly stumbled in shock—sending him to Illyria was the closest his father could manage to banishing him. Perhaps though, he shouldn't have been surprised. If the laws of Prythian had allowed it, Rhys suspected his father would have killed him before Rhys had a chance to ever challenge him for the throne.

"Velaris is my home now."

"You aren't acting like it. Undermine me again and I'll order Devlon to strip you of your rank and put you on border duty in the coldest corner of the Steppes."

A warning was more generous than Rhys had any right to expect. Though in truth, he suspected it wasn't mercy so much as his father's desire to keep a close eye on him that was allowing him to stay in the city for now.

"Thank you, father," he said with a curt nod.

They reached the High Lord's study, and the door slamming in Rhys's face was dismissal enough. That was fine. Feyre was probably off somewhere marshaling the newsies that hadn't been arrested, and Rhys would give her time to handle that before checking to make sure she'd gotten some safely.

Gods, he wanted to see her though.

To pass the time instead, Rhys began making his way down to the library to brood. But the sound of Mor calling his name made him freeze. A faint note of panic in her voice nearly had him reaching for his sword.

"Thank the Mother you're still here. I was just at Ressina's," Mor said.

Rhys stilled. "The theater?"

"There was some artwork I bought from her. And you should go there now because I saw—" Mor cut herself off then glanced around, eyes going wide. Rhys understood; privacy wasn't always a given in the House of Wind. Dropping her voice lower, she added, " You know who is there, talking about leaving for the Continent tonight. Go get her."

Rhys didn't need to be told twice. He set off at a sprint toward the balcony, snapped his wings open, and took to the sky. Once he'd climbed above the wards, he winnowed straight to the theater.

Feyre was alone on stage, painting mountains on a backdrop and looking as peaceful as Rhys had ever seen her. The beauty of it stopped him in his tracks halfway down the center aisle. She'd captured the majesty of the craggy peaks in Illyria—but with a hazy, otherworldly quality as if she'd seen them in a dream.

"What do you want, Rhys?" she said without turning around.

"An explanation."

"Of what? Why the strike was a colossal failure?"

"Of why you're planning on running away."

At that, Feyre spun on her heel, holding the paintbrush as if it were a javelin to throw at him. Her blue-grey eyes flashed as Rhys climbed the stairs to the stage and got closer. "Mother's tits, my best friend got dragged to the Prison today . I'm not putting anyone else at risk."

"I didn't take you for a female who backs down from a challenge."

For a moment, Rhys was sure she was about to strike him. And he probably would have deserved it. Feyre just sighed and went back to her painting.

"I tried sending a note to Lucien," she said quietly, "but he was too beat up to even send an answer back. If he doesn't make it…"

Rhys's eyes drifted to a crumpled piece of paper at her feet. "Then what's that?"

"A message from Nesta, saying next time we can count on the south side newsies. Easy for her to say when there won't be a next time."

It had been a while since Rhys had seen anyone with this sort of bitterness in their voice and defeated slump in their shoulders. He recognized it all the same—from his time in war-camps after lost battles. The drinking and partying that the gossip columns loved to write about so much had been his way of getting sights like that out of his head, to chase away thoughts of what might have happened to soldiers captured by Hybern.

He'd never expected Feyre to look broken that way.. But Rhys had commanded a legion; he knew what to do.

"Get your head on straight, Archeron," he said, a note of command creeping into his voice. Feyre stiffened for a moment, but kept painting. He pressed on. "You're winning, and don't be stupid enough to throw it away now. Pulitzer called on my father for support because you had him scared. And after what happened in the square, all of Velaris knows it. So keep moving forward."

For a long moment, Feyre said nothing, just kept adjusting the shading on one of the mountains. Rhys began to wonder if she was determined to ignore him until he left—she was certainly stubborn enough.

"Why do you care? You're a prince. I don't see why this matters so much to you," she said eventually.

Rhys couldn't tell her that the thought of an ocean between them was already ripping his heart in two. But he didn't have to lie, either.

"Because I'm Illyrian. I spent seven years breaking the news to families that they'd lost a loved one because High Fae bastards like my father think of my mother's people as cannon fodder and nothing more. Most of the newsies are lesser fae, and you can't tell me Pulitzer doesn't see you the same way. There are enough camp-lords who hate my father enough that they'll lend their support if you ask for it, and with Nesta on board, that's a powerful coalition."

Again, Feyre said nothing. But he watched as she dipped a new brush into silvery paint and slowly added three stars atop the mountain in the center of the backdrop. That was answer enough.

She turned and studied him, and Rhys had never felt more exposed than he did under the weight of her gaze. Feyre had a way of seeing right to the center of him, and when she'd drawn his portrait, it was as if she'd reproduced it on newsprint for the whole world to see.

"Does that mean you're in this with me? All the way to the end?"

Not for the first time, Rhys wondered if she knew what they were to each other. There were times—like now—that he felt the bond so acutely that every breath seemed to pull on a cord tied to his ribs. If he were a worse male, he would have slid past her shields to see if her question meant what he suspected.

But that wouldn't change his answer. "You have me. Everything I can give, for as long as you need, Feyre."

She set the paintbrush down. "Then let's get back to work."

#feysand #acotar secret santa #love at first sight's for suckers

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IX: There Can Only Be One

Rhysand remembered the name of every single child the Capitol ever murdered.

The same could not be said for them, of course. Their memory faded as quickly as the funds Panem’s elite poured into the Hunger Games—forgotten as soon as the bloodshed was over. Year after year, Rhys watched as history repeated itself, more innocent blood spilled as the sponsors learned how to get creative.

First, there was all the betting. If there was one thing the Capitol loved almost as much as watching its children die one after another, being right had to be one of them. The endless battle of wits, all done behind the arena’s bloody curtain where the Tributes were nothing but numbers, nothing but pawns the elites forced around their imaginary board. Rhysand had never seen so much money in his life—certainly not before his own Games started. He sometimes wondered just how much of it went out of the Capitol’s pocket just to get him through to the end—right behind that curtain. Right into their laps.

Some people called him lucky to have ended up here. Others—the Victors, mostly—preferred to call him names he’d rather not think about right now. Rhysand, though—he liked to call himself a strategist. Part of something bigger.

After the sponsors poured all their money down the drain, there came the worst part of it all—the waiting. Countless pairs of eyes glued to the holoscreen, either widening in shock as their favoured fell, or narrowing in smugness as they cut down yet another victim of the country sworn to protect them. Each time, Rhysand would etch the victim’s name into his memory, knowing it was already forgotten by their sponsor, the funds already moved to their executioner.

These, Rhysand learned far too late in his life, were the true Hunger Games. The Tributes, their families, their Districts—all meaningless, all mere pawns to satisfy those at the very top. To feed the Capitol, starving for entertainment.

There would come a time when they starved to their deaths—or, better yet, choked on their own greed. It was the only hope he held onto these days. The only thing that kept him going through the past decade.

So Rhysand waited, eyes focused on the holo as he began writing yet another name into the most shielded corner of his heart.

Nuan of District Three must have been one of the cleverest Tributes he’d ever seen. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the wheels of her mind turning. For someone so young, her intelligence and wit had already gained her a sponsor, determined to see the ceremonial crown placed atop her head—to see the gold reflected proudly in her black hair. The man had made sure she’d lasted through the winter day with a coat and the proper tools to light a fire—all proven useless in the end, though, with Nuan figuring out how to keep herself warm hours before the package was delivered. The freshly killed elk’s body heat and warm blood had not been a sight the sponsor particularly enjoyed, but Rhysand watched the entire spectacle with a smile on his face.

That smile was long gone now. Nuan was clever, yes, and she’d managed to make it to the final four—but it was not enough.

It was not nearly enough.

Rhysand, frankly, had no idea how the girl had learned about the coming storm. The sponsor couldn’t have told her—it was against the rules and closely monitored by the Gamemakers—which only meant more credit was due to Nuan’s skills. With the autumn day still around the corner and the spring and summer days seemingly following their old pattern, there were no signs of the coming changes. Only a handful of sponsors had been told of the Prime Gamemaker’s plans to “make things more interesting,” as Eris Vanserra had called it. The fire, he’d said, had been a spectacle, yes—but he hardly enjoyed watching the same show twice, a sentiment the sponsors certainly shared with the final hours of the Games approaching at last.

The wire, Rhys had to admit, was perhaps one of the most brilliant strategies he’d ever witnessed in his ten years of experience. He’d been confused about Nuan’s choice of weaponry ever since he saw her sprinting for it at the Cornucopia—armed only with the long, metal string and a short dagger, Rhys did not anticipate the girl to last this long.

She’d wrapped one end around the bark of an oak tree, the thin cord disappearing in the dried-up grass before dipping into the neighbouring river. It was the perfect trap—if timed correctly. The moment her victim’s foot stepped on the wire—and the lightning struck the tree—would be the moment they drew their last breath. The only thing left for Nuan to do was to hide in the bushes and wait for the storm to come.

It was already too late.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face, her gaze focused on the sky above. The sun was starting to come down, greyish clouds already shielding the arena from its light. Rhys could almost hear the thoughts churning in Nuan’s head—the storm is coming. But Nuan did not—could not—see what Rhys saw.

Brannagh was coming, too.

And she was a lot faster than the storm.

A smirk twisted Brannagh’s dirt-smeared face, unease curling in the pit of Rhys’s stomach at the sight. She looked more like an animal than a girl now, he thought, the urge to kill almost primal as it flashed in her eyes. A predator ready to dig her claws into her prey.

The live footage followed Brannagh’s every step, dreadfully quiet against the sun-scorched soil as she made way for the river. If Nuan stayed hidden well enough, perhaps Brannagh would’ve set up camp nearby—would’ve stayed until the rain started pouring.

But Nuan’s attention remained on the clouds high above, her expression tight with anticipation, and Brannagh…Brannagh moved too silently to make her presence known.

It would take a sound—a single crunch of a twig beneath Nuan’s feet, a rustle of the bushes wrapped around her slim body to let Brannagh know she was not alone in the clearing. Rhys’s heart picked up, thumping loudly against his ribs, as if to yell loud enough for Nuan to heed its warning. If only he could be there, somehow—or send a message, one of those silver parachutes to carry a weapon of more substance than the pathetic knife strapped to Nuan’s boot. The holoscreen separating them reminded Rhys that, just like any other Tribute in the past, Nuan was all on her own.

“Come on,” he murmured, chin propped up in his hand. “Look down.”

“Nervous, Rhysand?”

The voice snapped him back to reality so suddenly he nearly flinched—he certainly would have, had he not gotten used to hearing it almost every night. On the holo, Nuan fidgeted with the spare wire in her hands, as though she, too, heard the syrupy question.

Rhys turned to Amarantha with a lazy wave of his hand. “This has been dragging on too long,” he complained, motioning to the screen. “That District Two girl should just get on with it.”

She took her seat on the couch beside him, the deep maroon of her hair spilling over the back. “So bloodthirsty,” she purred, trailing a long, sharp nail down his shoulder. Before he could stop himself, Rhys shivered, and Amarantha smiled, clearly misinterpreting his reaction.“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see Brannagh move forward,” she added, her gaze flicking to the holo.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rhys asked, letting his own mouth curl in a smile. “The sooner the Games are over, the sooner I have you all to myself again,” he teased, brushing a thumb over her pale hand.

Amarantha did not so much as look in his direction, her focus on Brannagh now as she kneeled by the stream. “That is not what I meant.”

Rhys’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

Her head angled an inch. “Brannagh seems to be awfully determined to get to a favourite of yours,” she mused quietly.

For a moment, Rhysand’s heart stopped beating.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have—she simply couldn’t. She’d shown no apprehension towards him in the lounge the other day—and certainly none in the night that followed—and he’d been so careful, lot more than in the past few years. There was no chance anyone had found out about his meeting with—

Rhysand composed himself quickly.

“Come now, Amarantha,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the cold hand on his arm, willing her eyes back on his own. “You’ve known me long enough now to know I don’t play favourites. Well,” he winked. “Except for one, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed to ease up a little, her lips pursing playfully as she countered, “I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a shameless flirt, Rhysand.” He chuckled, letting Amarantha study his face as she explained, “I meant Feyre Archeron, of course.”

She looked briefly to the live footage, where Nuan finally seemed to have taken notice of the Career a mere few feet away from her.

“Our shining Star of the Capitol,” Amarantha hummed absently.

Rhys forced his gaze away from her face, letting that trained boredom fill his own as he looked to the screen as well. “Feyre Archeron?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly. “I thought she was already dead.”

The words soured in his throat, the strange sense of betrayal they carried making his stomach tighten painfully.

Amarantha hummed again. “Not yet.”

Rhys blinked. Somewhere, in a world far away from this one, Nuan began silently stepping out of the bushes, the wire clenched tightly in her palm as she crept up on the Career. Brannagh would be far gone before the storm even started—she must’ve decided to act now.

“What do you mean?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, her answer knocking nearly all the air from his lungs.

Amarantha blinked, too, her dark eyes flicking back to him as she explained quickly, “I’m only saying if you’re not even half as bloodthirsty as that dirty Career, our lovely Feyre is unlikely to hold her own against such…”

A loud scream sounded from the holo as Nuan fell to the ground, a knife deep in her throat, fresh blood staining the corners of her mouth. Brannagh hunched over the girl, breathing in an out sharply, hand pressed to her side—just below her liver, Rhys realised, where Nuan’s wire had managed to bury itself seconds before her death.

“…talent,” Amarantha finished.

Nuan coughed for the final time, blood gurgling out loud enough for the cameras to hear, before her eyes stilled, a glossy veil falling over her panicked gaze. The cannon boomed, marking the Tribute’s death.

Amarantha sighed, rising from the couch. “And then there were three.”

Rhys forced himself to look up at her and smile. “Shall we watch the finale back at my place?” he asked, his voice dipping suggestively.

She took his jaw in her hand, thumb brushing the crest of his bottom lip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Amarantha teased. “No, I’m afraid I will be watching with Grandfather tonight.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Since when?” he blurted before he could really think the question through.

Her smile faded. “The President values my company, Rhysand.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shifted in his seat. “Of course—that’s not what I—”

Amarantha laughed—a low, raspy sound. “I like watching you squirm,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see me after the ceremony—you can be sure of that.”

Fuck!

He was an idiot—an utter fool for not keeping his cool when it mattered most. This was it—his chance to be there, to get her to take him with her, to finally get to a place where only one person before him had ever managed to get to. 

And Rhys ruined all of it.

She took him by surprise—she’d always stayed with him for the finale, with Hybern preferring his own company as the Games reached their climax. If he’d been smart, Rhys would’ve waited—would’ve fucked her senseless for it if need be, just as he’d done a thousand times before.

He missed his chance.

“I’ll miss you,” he threw in desperately, a pathetic attempt to gain what was already lost.

Amarantha leaned over the couch, the crimson of her lipstick flashing before she captured his mouth with her own, her tongue demanding immediate entry. He let her in, the way he’d always done, responding with the passion he knew would make her seek him out one way or another later—perhaps he’d manage to pull some information out of her, when she was tired and exhausted and naked in his bed.

Her teeth dug into his lip for the final time before she pulled back, a secretive smile playing on her pale features. “I’m sure you will,” Amarantha said. “Until next time.”

With that, she was gone, the door to his room closing with a light click.

Rhys vomited.

***

“Feyre.”

Feyre kept her gaze on the path ahead. She had no interest in stopping—not with the sun minutes away from setting, and certainly not with the fire sure to start within hours. She would not survive the autumn day again, that she was sure of. This—all of it—needed to end.

Now.

“Feyre,” Tamlin pressed behind her, his large hand reaching to capture her own. Even with the summer’s wet heat slipping away, his skin felt clammy against hers. Feyre ignored the feeling. It was nice to feel someone else’s touch, she realised. Especially since she might very well be dead in a matter of hours.

“Stop.”

She did, the new firmness in his tone halting her in her tracks. Tamlin’s face was hard as stone as she faced him, though the look his eyes was enough to betray exhaustion—they’d been walking for two hours now, moving from one corner of the arena to the other, guided by the river’s shimmering stream.

It had flushed out Tarquin’s blood within minutes, but even now, miles away from where they’d left his body, Feyre swore she could see red staining the water. Feyre knew the Capitol’s ship had probably picked him up soon after they’d left the clearing, and yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid image off her mind. Rotting flesh, slowly sinking into the mud or slipping into the river. Limbs caught up in the net—the net meant for her.

How many had already died so that Feyre might live?

She began counting them mentally, averting Tamlin’s searching gaze. The girl from Four, killed by a dagger seconds after they Games had begun—a dagger Ianthe aimed for Feyre’s throat. Devlon, terrible as he might’ve been, caught up in Brannagh’s bloodlust. Even Ianthe, whose bow now lay strapped to Feyre’s back.

Ressina.

Ressina, who would’ve lived had it not been for Feyre trying to play the Capitol’s game. She was good, her mind as sharp as her physical ability. Had it not been for the trap Feyre had set up, Ressina could’ve very well managed to survive until the very end. It could’ve been her friend now marching for the Cornucopia, ready to put an end to all of it.

Instead, it was Feyre, who only got this far because of sheer luck and whatever it was that Tamlin felt for her. She’d kissed him in that clearing, with Tarquin’s body as a witness. They’d barely spoken since then.

Perhaps, just as Feyre did, Tamlin was starting to realise they could not leave the arena the way they were now—hand in hand. Only one would survive.

And if they managed to kill the two Tributes left…

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Tamlin said quietly.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Feyre looked up to meet that emerald gaze, now stern with conviction. “The sun is setting,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tamlin agreed.

Feyre sighed. Her answer, apparently, was not good enough. “I’m worried about the fire.” Not entirely a lie—she had been thinking about it just a moment ago.

Tamlin’s shoulders fell a little—as though in relief. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Yes, there is,” Feyre countered. “Once we reach the Cornucopia—”

“We don’t even know if the other Tributes are there,” Tamlin interrupted. “The Games will not end tonight, Feyre. We should find shelter for the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it in the past hour. Feyre’s lips thinned—no matter how many time she’d pressed, Tamlin simply refused to back down. As if he wanted to prolong the Games, for whatever reason. He’d have to kill her eventually, anyway.

Feyre certainly wasn’t going to kill him. She had enough blood on her hands to understand there was no going back.

She could never go home again. How could she? To face Elain, so kind and gentle and good, and expect her to love a murderer? To face Nesta, who valued loyalty above all else, knowing she had watched as Feyre killed the one friend who’d looked out for her? No. Her sisters were lost to her.

Tamlin, at least, would get to go back. It was the one consolation she had left. After everything she’d done, at least she could set things right with him. He protected her—had lied and killed for her out of nothing but the affection in his heart—and he would get to go home because of it. He deserved it. District Twelve deserved it.

If it came down to the two of them at the end, Feyre knew what she’d have to do.

And there was not a shred of regret in her heart because of it.

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s voice, deep and unwavering, sounded again.

“We are so close, Tamlin,” she said, something heavy building up in her chest. “So close.” You could be going home.

Tamlin sighed. “That’s what worries me.” He turned slightly, gaze sliding over the trees around them until they settled at some point far to their right—as though he could see something there. A bird nesting deep between the leaves, a stray squirrel, perhaps, or worse—Brannagh, her favourite dagger already in hand, ready to slice it through their throats.

A split second later, though, Tamlin seemed to relax, powerful shoulders relaxing a little as he reached for her hand, thumb gently swiping over the back of her palm. She couldn’t help but lean into the touch—just how many of them did she have left?

“Tamlin,” she admitted, her voice quieter than a breath lest the Capitol could hear. “I’m scared.”

He squeezed her tightly. “There’s nothing to be scared about,” he told her with a rare smile. “I’ll protect you.”

No, you won’t, Feyre thought, though the words remained silent in the back of her throat. I won’t give you that chance.

He must’ve seen it, then—the pained look twisting her face, the shadows clouding her stare—because his brows knitted slightly, and he straightened. “Feyre,” Tamlin started, “Why—”

His question died with the loud boom of a cannon, so close to the two of them it might as well have been their own deaths it marked.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating entirely, her blood chilling into ice.

“Brannagh?” she dared to ask, the question no more than a whisper.

Tamlin’s eyes widened. “We need to move,” he urged, tugging on the hand she forgot he’d been holding. “Now, Feyre.”

She did not object this time.

They ran back into the forest, far away from the path laid out by the stream, the trees offering shelter from the fading sun. Three—there were three of them left.

The Games were coming to an end.

Feyre could only pray—pray to whoever would listen—that the cannon had been set off for Brannagh, that the girl from Three had somehow managed to kill the Career hell-bent on coming after the two of them. The thought almost made her stumble over her own steps.

Feyre considered the prayer again. Then again. And again.

Perhaps…perhaps this was her solution.

She already knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive—not when Tamlin was still by her side, breathing and in perfect health. She also suspected that if it came down to the two of them, Tamlin would not let her sacrifice herself for him.

Brannagh, though…

Feyre was certain the District Two Tribute shared no such sentiment.

Tamlin could handle her on his own—Feyre had no doubt of that. And Brannagh…Brannagh could handle Feyre.

Feyre swallowed thickly.

Elain, Nesta. I’m so sorry.

“There’s a cave just ahead,” Tamlin said beside her, motioning to the pile of rocks hiding an entry just under an oak tree. “We can wait out the fire there.”

Feyre nodded.

The moment Tamlin fell asleep, she would be gone.

Just as the cave she’d hidden in before, the space was cold and dark, the wet soil clinging to the soles of her boots. Near the entrance, a plush patch of moss laid waiting, the grassy scent mixing with the pungent mud. Feyre coughed once, then twice, earning a concerned look from Tamlin. She shook her head.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “It’s just…the smell.”

Tamlin scrunched his nose—then shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“You should get some rest,” Feyre told him, willing strength into her voice. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s tone invited no argument. “I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but you almost died today. Died, Feyre.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I’ll go out and try to find us some dinner. We’ll need something to hold us over during the fire, won’t we?”

Feyre chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think—”

She didn’t get to finish. Without warning, Tamlin pulled her in to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her as his mouth crashed into her own.

The kiss, unlike the one they’d shared by the river, was quick and chaste—but it was enough for her body to slump a little, exhaustion hitting her all at once. She could wait a little, Feyre decided. The forest was still ripe with prey, and the sun had only just now set. She could sleep—for the final time.

“Wake me up when you’re back,” she told him when he finally pulled back.

Tamlin nodded. “I will.”

And just like that, he left.

***

Ressina’s laughter was warm even underground, the sound echoing through the training ring.

“I’m really trying,” Feyre grumbled.

“Oh, I can tell,” her friend teased, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. “You really showed that dummy, you know.”

Feyre followed her gaze to the back wall—right where the dummy stood proudly, untouched by what seemed like a hundred daggers at its feet.

She sighed deeply.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ressina tried again, stepping in closer to Feyre’s side. “Your stance has improved, but the issue is in your grip. Here,” she instructed, long, slender fingers wrapping around Feyre’s wrist. “Loosen it up a little. Not that much,” she said when the dagger fell flat in Feyre’s hand. “You still need the strength to throw it—but its the flexibility of your wrist that will guide the knife to its aim.”

“Where did you learn all of that, anyway?” Feyre asked her absently, eyes narrowing on the target once again as she adjusted her stance.

“I’ve told you,” Ressina said. “Apple farms.”

Feyre gave her a look.

Ressina chuckled. “You’re clever, Feyre. More clever than you think. Oh, that’s a good thing,” she added at the sight of Feyre’s rising brows, then nodded to the knife in her hand. “Daggers can only get you so far.”

Feyre followed her gaze—then looked to the dummy once again. She made herself count to three, releasing a deep, deep breath with each second until her shoulders steadied, and the knife became as much as an extension of her own hand.

A moment later, the blade lodged itself right in the puppet’s heart.

Feyre turned to Ressina. “I don’t know about that.”

Ressina smiled.

***

Feyre’s eyes shot open.

Propped up on her elbow, she lifted herself off the cold ground, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sound of Ressina’s laughter still rang somewhere in the corners of her mind, the memory, too, like a knife burying itself deep into Feyre’s heart.

She blinked the stinging sensation away, her vision adjusting to the darkness around her. She could just barely make out the moss growing at the cave’s entrance, ruffled slightly by the night’s gentle wind.

It was then that Feyre realised she was alone.

She jolted upright, hand nearly slipping on the wet ground. Just how long had she been asleep?

“Tamlin?” she dared to whisper. Perhaps he was simply keeping watch outside. But no—he’d promised to wake her when he returned. What if…

What if Tamlin was never meaning to come back?

He could’ve planned for his own death the same way she had—the cannon told them Brannagh wasn’t far, after all. What if Tamlin had left for his own death, hoping to spare her from having to kill him at the very end?

“Tamlin,” Feyre tried again, voice growing desperate. She had no doubt there were cameras in the cave somewhere—she didn’t care. Not right now, when she needed to go and find him—needed to try and—

A quiet jingle sounded outside, breaking out of her panic.

She recognised it almost immediately, rising to her feet to meet the parachute outside. Perhaps, for whatever reason, Rhysand had taken pity on her again, and was now sending her some sort of protection from the fire. Or maybe, just maybe, the parachute was meant for Tamlin—and, hearing its gentle call, he was already on his way back to her.

The moment Feyre stepped outside, the parachute landed right in her hands.

Not for Tamlin, then.

The package was smaller than her last—only a small box hung attached to the silver fabric, nearly invisible in the darkness. She couldn’t have been asleep for long, then—the sky seemed nowhere near clearing up, the few stars above her only light as she unscrewed the top.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—a protective balm for her skin, maybe, anything to let her know the wild, ravaging fire would not be how she went out of this world.

Inside laid a neatly rolled piece of paper, the elegant, familiar handwriting no more than five words:

Don’t let the Hunger win.

Feyre read the message again. Then again—and again.

She gave up with the sixth time.

“What does that even mean?” she asked the stars, twinkling playfully in response. Feyre threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, shoving Rhysand’s secretive message into her back pocket.

She needed to find Tamlin—and she needed to do it now.

***

“And you’re certain,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking slightly on the chill, underground air.

“Positive,” Nuala confirmed. “The parachute went out ten minutes ago.” 

He loosed a breath. “Did she already receive ours?” She nodded. “Good. How much until the other?”

She shifted on her feet—a rare sight, and it only made his stomach tighten. If anything went wrong…

“Cerridwen is monitoring the cameras,” Nuala said.

“No names,” Rhys hissed.

“Right,” she scrambled. “Right, of course. I—yes. Tamlin should receive it within minutes.”

Rhysand forced another, frigid breath. “Did she send it personally?”

“She’s not stupid. And, from what you told me, she is occupied.”

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten.

Silence fell, filled by nothing but darkness between the two of them. It seemed that the waning hours of the Games were getting to Rhys, too—and more than he’d anticipated.

“We warned her,” Nuala said quietly—a shred of comfort in a situation like this.

“She won’t understand until she sees what they sent him,” Rhys countered. “And even then—”

“And even then, you’ll have done everything in our power to keep her alive,” Nuala pressed. “The only thing left for us to do is wait.”

The waiting is the worst part, Rhys remembered.

Still, he had no other choice.

It was up to Feyre now.

He could only pray she’d understand.

***

She found Tamlin not even ten minutes later, crouched behind tall bushes, eyes fixed entirely on whatever they were hiding. A sob nearly shook through her body at the sight—he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Feyre approached him silently, her bow strapped securely to her back as she kneeled beside him. “Tam—”

A large hand clamped her mouth shut as Tamlin whipped toward her, his gaze shining with alarm. Feyre’s breath quickened—his reaction could only mean one thing.

They were not alone.

Slowly, Tamlin released her face from his hold, his own finger pressed to his lips tightly, urging her to keep quiet. It was then that Feyre noticed a glimmer of silver near his feet—a piece of familiar fabric abandoned on the grass. Her brow arched in question.

Tamlin shook his head. Fine—he’d tell her later. Whatever it was the sponsors had sent him, it could apparently wait.

Feyre moved in closer toward him, reaching for the thin branches shielding her vision from view. She suppressed a hiss as a sharp pain shot through her finger, tearing the skin open at the tip. Thorns.

Tamlin’s gaze remained focused on the path ahead as she tried again, quietly opening a gap between the leaves to reveal whatever it was that commanded Tamlin’s full attention.

Her heart nearly froze at the sight.

They’d reached the Cornucopia.

She hadn’t seethe horn-like structure since the Games had begun, made of the same metal as the boxes sent from the Capitol and gleaming with its own, humming light. Feyre had forgotten just how large it was—just how much it could hide.

It was Brannagh’s whines that gave her away.

She sat on the east of the horn, back resting against the hardened walls, each one of her breaths falling flat. Feyre’s eyes widened—even the bushes seemed to go lethally still at the sight of the injured Career.

Brannagh’s hand laid pressed to somewhere near her stomach, her clothes bloodied slightly, though Feyre knew her well enough by now to know there was no telling if the blood was truly her own. There was no denying she was injured, though—perhaps injured enough to kill with enough ease.

This ruined her plans a bit.

Tamlin’s hand on her thigh snapped her back to their hiding spot. “We have to kill her,” Tamlin whispered, the sound barely audible on the midnight wind.

Feyre’s heart reset, stumbling over a beat. “Tamlin,” she breathed, “No—wait—”

“There’s no time, Feyre,” he urged. “We have to end this now.”

“Tamlin,” Feyre said, panic rising in her voice, “if we kill Brannagh, we’ll be the only two Tributes left.” She couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t.

Once again, Tamlin’s face became stone. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“No,” she pressed. In the distance, Brannagh whined again—as though in confirmation. Even the wind seemed to pick up, howling somewhere in the distance. Could Feyre truly kill her like this? “There is another way. There has to be,” she said, more to herself now than him. What if—what if they could all get out of there alive. If they stood against the Capitol

“Feyre—”

“We’re not killers, Tamlin,” she pleaded. “We have to try. We can’t let them win.”

Don’t let the hunger win. Was that what Rhysand meant?

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. Those were her own words, weren’t they? Spoken to Ressina shortly before her death. Perhaps that was why she’d dreamt of her earlier—perhaps the dream was her friend’s final message, her final lesson to keep Feyre alive.

She’d written off her death so easily, Feyre thought, a new sense of guilt washing over her at the realisation. She’d promised Elain to survive—she’d promised Ressina to bring the Capitol down after she did.

And Feyre would. She would make the Capitol pay for this—for all of this.

But first, the three of them were getting out of here alive.

Feyre stood abruptly and marched straight for the Cornucopia.

“FEYRE!” Tamlin roared behind her. Too late.

Brannagh, to her credit, shot to her feet instantly, a hiss managing its way past her lips with the movement. Not even her injury, it seemed, managed to keep the cruel smile off her face.

“Twelve,” she greeted, rising to her full height. “I’ve been waiting.” A look past Feyre’s shoulder, where Tamlin’s hurried steps now sounded. “And you’ve brought the traitor, too.”

“How did you know I’d be coming?” Feyre asked, her tone calm to her own surprise.

Brannagh shrugged, face twisting painfully—wrong move. What had the girl from Three done to her? “You’re the Star of the Capitol, aren’t you?” A raspy laugh. “Of course you’d want to have your moment to shine. Sorry to disappoint,” she added, “but even in my state, I can kill you right where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tamlin said behind her.

Brannagh’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Stay out of this, flower boy. This is between us girls.” A smile at Feyre. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Feyre told her.

Now that seemed to throw her off. “What?”

“We can get out of here, Brannagh,” she told her the same thing she’d said to Tamlin. “All three of us—we can go home.”

Brannagh looked as though she’d gone insane.

Still, Feyre continued, “Please—please just hear me out. I know you don’t want this—I know you wouldn’t be this if it weren’t for the Games. We can all get out. If we stand our ground—if we refuse—”

Brannagh erupted in laughter.

The sound quickly turned into a cough—a flat, shuddering sound, her arms wrapping tighter around her sides.

“They got her,” Tamlin murmured, now a mere step behind Feyre. “It’s her liver, I think. Look at her hand.”

“You dumb bitch,” Brannagh laughed, “I knew you were crazy, but this has got to top it all.” Her dark gaze, now clearer than ever before, settled directly on Feyre’s. “You think you have a chance here? You think any of us do? Open your eyes, Twelve,” she hissed. “Only one of us is getting out of here tonight. And that someone is going to be me.”

“You’re dying,” Tamlin pointed out quietly. Somewhere in the distance, the sky rumbled loudly—enough to make all three of them flinch, as if in confirmation of his words. Was that a storm coming? 

It couldn’t be, Feyre thought. Not with the fire a few hours away.

Brannagh tore her gaze off the sky to face them once more. “The Capitol will take care of me the moment you two are dead.”

“You’re a fool if you think the Capitol is ever going to take care of you, Brannagh,” Feyre said.

Brannagh’s eyes widened at that—and, for a split second, Feyre believed they had a chance.

If only.

“I’m no bigger fool than you,” she said, and attacked.

Feyre had no idea how Brannagh managed to launch for her this quickly—or when, exactly, the daggers appeared in her bloodied hands. She could only see the two flashes of silver as the Career swung, inches away from her neck.

Tamlin’s hands on her waist pulled her back with a force so strong Feyre gasped out in surprise. She swayed, heels digging into the ground as she tried to regain her balance, Tamlin’s own weapon already in his hand and charging for his enemy.

Brannagh ducked just in time to avoid his sword slicing her in half, but the move cost her—the strain on her wound made a sharp cry slip past her throat as she fell, back hitting the hard, solid ground. Her scream was cut off as she choked on her own breath, eyes threatening to fall out of their orbits at the impact. Brannagh grasped at the weeds around her, her hands weaponless now with her daggers abandoned from the fall, then choked again as she realised—it was over.

Feyre stepped in closer until her boots covered Brannagh’s blades—better safe than sorry, she told herself. Even disarmed, she was still dangerous.

Tamlin hovered above her, the tip of his own blade pointed at the defeated Career. Brannagh closed her eyes.

“Wait,” Feyre told him. Tamlin’s head whipped toward her.

“What?”

“Brannagh,” she urged, not daring another look at Tamlin. “Please. You have a chance here.”

Lightning tore through the darkness with her words—as if the night sky itself was in agreement.

With her remaining strength, Brannagh shook her head. “Y-you,” she wheezed, body convulsing with the effort, “You don’t mean that, Twelve.”

“We’re more than just numbers, Brannagh,” she told her. The sky rumbled again.

“Go…” Brannagh coughed, “…go fuck yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Tamlin said, hands wrapping tighter around the hilt.

Feyre’s vision flashed with alarm. “Tamlin, wait—”

Brannagh did not get to close her eyes again as Tamlin drove his sword deep into her throat.

Her body slumped against the grass, so small now that the soul was gone from it entirely. Feyre looked away from the blood—from what seemed like a sea of it pooling around her, turning the lush green into crimson—and yet, no matter how far she seemed to avert her gaze, the red found her still. She saw it everywhere now—the grass, the walls of the Cornucopia, the bark of the trees at the edge of the forest. Her own hands, marked by it forever.

The cannon sounded with the first rainfall.

Beside her, Tamlin was panting, those emerald eyes fixed on Brannagh’s dead body. Feyre could see the blood in them now, too. The water would wash it away, she realised, watching as the rain dotted her skin. It would wash it away and make space for more to be spilled.

“Tamlin,” Feyre whispered, the sound drowned out by the howling wind. The rain intensified, accompanied by more thunder, closer and closer with every roar. “Tamlin!”

“We need to take shelter!” he called to her, his hair already wet and clinging to his neck. He motioned to the Cornucopia—and took off.

Feyre had no choice but to run after him, Brannagh’s body discarded for the storm to claim.

“Tamlin,” she tried again once they stood under the silvery roof. Yet another cave of the Capitol’s making.

“The fire isn’t coming,” he said, as if that was the answer she was seeking. “I’m not sure which one of these is worse.”

“Tamlin.”

Finally, finally, Tamlin looked at her, something like a shadow clouding his expression. Feyre exhaled shakily. “What do we do?”

His jaw tightened. “We can’t get out of here. Likely for the next twenty-four hours.”

Feyre couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Tamlin, I’m not talking about—”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” he interrupted, something urgent in his eyes with the question. Something pleading.

He’d just killed Brannagh, Feyre understood. And, if they failed to oppose the Capitol…he’d have to kill her, too. 

She could give him one more minute.

“Okay,” Feyre breathed. “Okay.” She considered. “Since the spring day. But, like you said—we can’t go out.” Not with the storm raging by the minute.

Tamlin swallowed thickly. “I have food,” he said, then reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a shiny, silver box.

Feyre’s shoulders fell. It was decently sized that the two of them could share it, she supposed. “Is that what they’d sent you earlier?”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ve already had some before you found me—I’m sorry I didn’t go wake you. I thought she’d die on her own there.”

Feyre kept her eyes on the box. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Tamlin sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he said, then opened the lid.

The box was filled to the brim with something—fruit, Feyre realised, making out their small, round shapes in the semi-darkness of the Cornucopia. Berries. It wasn’t meat, but it would be enough to hold them over for some time—especially if they’d been sent from—

Feyre blinked.

I had a sister once, you know, Tamlin said, not looking her in the eye as the city lights twinkled in the distance. She died when we were little.

Feyre remembered Tamlin from back home. Tamlin Rosethorn, the florist’s son. They’d never spoken, but ever since she was old enough to roam the District streets, she would see him around, clinging to his mother’s leg. She remembered his brothers, too—older, working their days in the mines or fighting each other in the streets whenever they got the chance.

But a sister…

Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin? Amarantha’s syrupy voice poured into her head.

No. But I do wish there was another solution.

That was the night she’d overheard them after training.

Her name was Dalia, Tamlin had told her minutes after, stumbling over his words. She was a lot like you, I think.

Feyre stopped breathing.

Poor Tamlin, Amarantha had crooned after the interviews. Young love can be so heartbreaking.

Be careful who you trust, Feyre, Rhysand had told her moments later.

One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest, Tamlin’s voice sounded again. And she picked up some nightlock berries.

Don’t let the hunger win.

Feyre swallowed. Hard.

“Tamlin,” she started slowly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What was your sister’s name?”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just…tell me. Please.”

“I…” he hesitated, his stare dropping to the berries, then back to Feyre—then to the berries again. “Lila,” he said slowly. “Her name was Lila.”

Feyre’s chest tightened.

We all have to survive somehow. Her own words, said to Isaac shortly before her life fell apart.

This, apparently, had been Tamlin’s way.

“Wrong answer,” Feyre whispered.

Tamlin took a step back. Then another, until she realised he was not backing away—no, Tamlin was adopting his stance.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Feyre begged, even as she knew he was already lost to her.

Tamlin shook his head. “I really wish you had chosen the berries, Feyre.”

And with that, he reached for his sword.

“There can only be one.”

He betrayed her.

He’d been betraying her since the very beginning.

I’ll always protect you, Feyre. Lie, lie, lie.

She could protect herself.

Ressina’s dagger found its way into her hand naturally—like an extension of her wrist, part of her own flesh.

The world slowed down as Feyre made herself count to three, the rain outside blurry as her vision sharpened on one, singular target with a sword in his hand and pain in his eyes.

One.

Two.

“Three,” Feyre said, then plunged the dagger right into Tamlin’s heart.

***

Rhysand sat on the edge of his bed, unaware of the storm hurling at his windows.

He could only see the storm in the arena, clear on the holo as if it was happening right in front of him. Could only see as Tamlin swayed back into the wall of hardened rain with the knife buried in his chest to the hilt.

He looked at Feyre, mouth agape, as though he would say something—anything. None of it would matter.

His sword fell a second before Tamlin, his body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

He did not move again.

A few feet away, Feyre watched as the last Tribute stilled into nothingness.

And then, she blinked.

The determination Rhys had seen on her face moments prior faded instantly, replaced by a panic so palpable he swore he felt it in his own chest. Her blue-grey eyes went wide, freezing in terror as she waited for Tamlin to rise, to take another breath. Rhysand knew—he remembered. Tamlin was lost.

And Feyre was alone.

Slowly, Feyre took a staggering step forward, her face as though in a haze. Then, she took another—and one more, until she reached Tamlin’s side at last.

Rhysand stood, feet carrying him to the holo as if they could reach her, stopping only when he faced the shimmering blue screen.

The camera zoomed in on its star, close enough to capture the tremor that shook through her body, the wobble of her knees as she realised there was no going back. As she, too, understood, just how alone they were in this world.

Her legs gave out.

Feyre fell to her knees beside Tamlin’s dead body, looked up to the storm-torn sky, and screamed.

Rhysand’s palm found the screen. As if to brush the tears off her face.

I understand, he wanted to say. I understand.

For the first time in ten years, Rhys let himself cry.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @foreverinelysian @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur @to-read-or-to-read @bookish-dream @darling-archeron

#NEVER BACK DOWN NEVER WHAT #chapter 9/30 #acotar hunger games au #feysand au #feysand fic #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #feysand #pro feysand #feyre x rhysand #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #rhysand #rhysand acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

[danikamariewrites]

i just read feysand x reader housewife and I’m wondering if i can request a cassian x housewife reader. like imagine being stressed ab work and then you talk to cassian ab it and he says that you shouldnt worry over things like stressful work, and that you should do whatever makes you happy. so like imagine then reader stays at home and foes whatever she wants woth no stress, maybe she has a business that sye runs so she isn’t burnt out like she used to be and it is all in her speed, maybe she loves writing and starts doing it since she didnt have time before. And omg imagine beefy daddy cassian coming home and he’s so big omg and gives her a hug with his ripped juicy arms and he’s just so manly omg🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 sorry if this is confusing i genuinly lost my mind thinking ab this

At Home

Cassian x reader

A/n: @thehighladywrites has inspired me to write this plus I’ve been dreaming of daddy Cass all week so this is a treat for all of us lmao

Warnings: fluff 🤗

Cassian hated how stressed you were about going to work and how tired you were at the end of the day

It killed him to see you like this

Cass didn't want to stress you out by talking about it so he waited until you came to him

You came home early from work in tears, your mascara all smudged and all sniffly

You went right to Cassian's office and he dropped everything he was doing to comfort you

He took you out for a nice dinner that night to finally propose what was on his mind, stay home and let him take care of you

It was a dream of Cassian's to be able to take care of his mate and now he has the chance

Rhys certainly paid Cassian enough

By the time you sit down for dinner you still have a pout on your lips from earlier

After ordering a bottle of wine and your favorite appitizer Cassian reached across the table to hold your hands with his large ones, "Sweetheart, I want to talk to you about something."

You look up at him, hope twinkling in your eyes. "What's up Cass?" you askk quietly

A small smile pulls at his lips. "I hate seeing you this upset. And I know you like working and being independent, but what do you think about quitting and letting me take care of you? Of us."

You thought you were going to break down again. Not trusting your voice you nod as you pull your lips into a tight smile. "Please," you whisper out

Cassian was ecstatic that he could finally take care of everything for you

In bed that night you went over what would happen from here on out. Cassian would pay for everything, even if it was just a fun purchase you wanted. You are free to spend your days however you want. If you want to stay home and do nothing, great!

If you wanted to start training he'd take you with him

If you wanted to pick up a new hobby Cassian would support you

You went to workout/train for a few weeks with Cassian and the Valkyries for a few weeks until it started to not be fun

You were able to grow closer with the rest of the IC now that you stopped working

Feyre and Mor became two of your best friends

You were even invited to join Valkyrie book club which you loved

Reading all of these books inspired you to start writing yourself

At first it was just for fun and you brought it to book club for the girls to read

Then they started encouraging you to write for real and see if you could get published

Cassian fully supports this and loves how creative you've been. It makes him so happy to see you like this

Another perk of staying home is that you get to spend more time with Cassian

You were super attached to him in general

How can you not love that beefy, sweet, tall illyrian he just has so much love to give and you bask in it

If Cass is away at the house of wind for the day you bake his favorite cookies and you started making delicious dinners for you two

Your favorite part of the day is when Cassian comes home

You run to greet him at the door, "Cassie!" "Sweetheart!" he crouches down a little with his arms open waiting for you to throw yourself at him

He hugs you tight to his chest and spins you around, putting you down and kissing you, telling you how much he missed you

When Cass works from home you sit in his office with him, mostly on his lap becuase you two can't stand to not have your hands on each other

You love being wrapped up in his big arms

sometimes you squeeze and poke at his biceps for fun just to see him flex them as a reaction

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #cassian acotar #cassian fanfic #cassian imagine #cassian headcanons #cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian headcanon

[evajackslover]

MY THOUGHTS ON ACOMAF AS A FIRST TIME READER 🌌✨🏔️🌙

**this review will contain spoilers for acotar and acomaf**

my rating: 4.7/5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️💫

spice level: 4/5 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

summary: Feyre has undergone more trials than one human woman can carry in her heart. Though she's now been granted the powers and lifespan of the High Fae, she is haunted by her time Under the Mountain and the terrible deeds she performed to save the lives of Tamlin and his people. As her marriage to Tamlin approaches, Feyre's hollowness and nightmares consume her. She finds herself split into two different one who upholds her bargain with Rhysand, High Lord of the feared Night Court, and one who lives out her life in the Spring Court with Tamlin. While Feyre navigates a dark web of politics, passion, and dazzling power, a greater evil looms. She might just be the key to stopping it, but only if she can harness her harrowing gifts, heal her fractured soul, and decide how she wishes to shape her future-and the future of a world in turmoil.

i finished reading book 2 in the acotar series (a court of mist and fury) a few days ago, and it’s safe to say acomaf is an amazing sequel to the first book!! i absolutely adored how sjm developed the characters and love where book 2 has brought the plot!

here are my thoughts:

- feyre’s character development in book 2 was just *chef’s kiss*! her deal with rhys in acotar was the perfect set up for acomaf because with each visit feyre made to the night court, she slowly begin to heal from her trauma under the mountain. this was a huge contrast from whenever she returned to the spring court; you could tell she immediately began to relapse into a bad mental and physical state, and was clearly feeling trapped.

- this brings me to tamlin… who finally showed us his true colors! i could not STAND how overprotective he was of feyre upon returning from under the mountain. like, i get the guy had some traumatic experiences, but those were no excuse for TRAPPING FEYRE IN THE HOUSE upon so much other physical and emotional abuse! the moment mor came to whisk her away to the night court had to have been one of the best moments of relief in acomaf.

- morrigan!!! i absolutely LOVE her as a character and her relationship with the other members of rhysand’s inner court! i can’t wait for her and feyre to become even closer bffs :)

- cassian and azriel 🥰🥰 my babies protect them at all costs (also am i right in guessing a cassian nesta relationship coming soon?! because i can totally see it!)

- and finally rhysand!! i cannot express how much i love how his story has expanded throughout acomaf; from teaching feyre to read to confessing his undying love to her, he is the most perfect MMC 🥹

i wish i had room to discuss each and every character, but this post has already gotten so long!

my final thoughts: amazing and can’t wait to keep reading! my only complaint is the spice (i prefer slightly less in my books) but i understand that it is not a YA series and the level of spice was to be expected before starting the series! i’m in the middle of acowar right now and can’t wait to continue feyre’s story!

beautifulll feysand art by the lovely jrtart_ on instagram 💓

#rhys acotar #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #acotar #acomaf #sjm universe #sjm books #sjm #sjmaas #sjm fandom #rhysand x feyre #feyre x rhysand #feyre cursebreaker #feyre archeron #rhysand

[rowaelinsdaughter]

FEYSAND'S WEDDING

Hi everybody!!! This is my first time writing something and i couldnt resist it, so i write their wedding based on the new comic. sorry if there is any mistake. I have tried my best, hope you enjoy it

word count: 1025

The sheets hugged Feyre's body, despite what they had to face the next morning, the dream was stronger than the anguish and fear.

She turned her body, seeking Rhys's warmth, reaching out a hand to find it empty, though the place was still warm, it couldn't have been long gone. He got up and searched the room for any sign that he was there. Nothing.

“Rhys, Can I know where you are?"

His only response was a wave of affection down the bond, just as she was about to get up, he appeared from wherever he had been. In his hands was a bluish-white dress, decorated with stars, a veil that reminded her of Starfall. And on top of the pile of cloth, a crown of stars shone with its own light.

She pushed the sheets aside, got up, and walked over to a grinning Rhys.

"Can you tell where you've been? And what is this for?”

It was just at that moment, when she approached him, that she realized that he had also fixed himself. He was wearing his usual black suit with silver embroidery, a few buttons open exposing his tattooed chest, his usual black cape and a crown on top of his arranged hair.

"I need you to put this on," he told her, holding out the clothes for her.

She raised an eyebrow. "And what are we going to do, exactly?" She answered while picking up the clothes.

He just lifted the corner of his lip a little, forming his typical flirtatious smile, and nodded for her to go to the bathroom.

She rolled her eyes and went inside.

The dress was perfect in every sense of the word. Fitting high to her torso and arms, from the waist, the dress cascaded to the floor. She put on a little makeup, put on the veil, some shoes to match the dress and the crown on top. When she finished, she left the bathroom.

Right now Rhys was adjusting his jacket in the mirror. He turned around to look at her and stood where he was. His eyes widened and looked her up and down. One. two. Three times.

He approached her. Reaching up, he brushed his knuckles gently up her cheek, resting his palm on it and brushing his thumb over her cheekbone.

"You are exquisite"

She opened her mouth to answer him and Rhys transported them away.

When the mist of darkness and stars dissipated, she opened his mouth again. They were in a dimly lit temple. Tapestries with the insignia of the Night Court decorated the walls, and a glass window in the ceiling revealed the stars. At the end of the room, a priestess was waiting for them.

Feyre turned to Rhys. "Rhys, what are we doing here?"

He walked over to her, took her hands, and said, “Feyre, darling. You are going to be high lady”.

"What?"

“The priestess will also officiate at our mating bond. She's going to marry us"

"But Rhys…" She swallowed.

“No Feyre, you are perfect for the position. Strong, brave, noble and with a good heart”.

Feyre looked up at him and realized in that moment that she wanted this, he wanted this from the bottom of his heart. He wanted to share with her his territory, his city. He wanted to do everything with her. At that moment all doubts were dispelled and she only had one word on her mind.

Yes.

And as if reading her thoughts, Rhys smiled and, nodding to the priestess, she began:

“We stand here before the stars and the mother's eyes to officiate your wedding and consecrate Feyre Archeron as High Lady of the Night Court. First we will start your wedding. Rhysand, in the mother's eyes, do you accept Feyre Archeron as your mate? Do you agree to take care of her and love her until the mother calls you to meet her?”

Tears filled Rhys's eyes, and in a voice heavy with love, he said, “I accept Feyre Archeron as my mate. I agree to take care of her and love her until the mother calls me."

"Even beyond death, I will love you"

Feyre smiled at that. The priestess turned to her and repeated the same question: “Feyre Archeron, in the eyes of the mother, do you accept Rhysand as your mate? Do you agree to take care of him and love him until the mother calls you to meet her?”

Looking Rhys in the eye, she replied, “I accept Rhysand as my mate. I agree to take care of him and love him, until the mother calls me.”

At this, the bond shone so brightly that even the stars in the sky had nothing to do.

"Now we will swear you in as High Lady."

Rhys took his right hand, and his eyes glittered as if the galaxy had found refuge in them.

“Feyre Archeron, do you swear to protect and care for this territory and its people? Do you swear to love them, respect them and dedicate yourself to it in body and soul?

With a voice charged with emotion, she replied: “I swear to protect and care for this territory and its people. I swear to love them, respect them and dedicate myself to it body and soul.

A silver line formed in Rhys's eyes. Their hands were still linked, and Feyre's eyes sparkled with emotion and love.

"So be it" The priestess took a lasso and tied their hands, a dim light appeared and a tattoo just like the one on her left hand appeared on Feyre's right hand. “You are now bound together, your lives and souls joined in a union of eternal love. May the mother's blessings shine upon you, High Lord and High Lady."

Rhys approached Feyre, raised his hand and caressed her cheek with such tenderness that a tear escaped from her eyes.

"My Feyre, darling..." Rhys started to cry and Feyre caressed his cheek. "I love you"

The hand that held Feyre's cheek moved down to cradle his neck and jaw, and Feyre's hand moved up to his neck and pulled him close, pressing their lips together, sealing a pledge of undying love.

“Even when we are a whisper of existence among the stars”

inspiration: artcraawl comissioned by @yazthebookish

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅 ©𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚 / 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌. 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆.

#acotar #feyre archeron #feyre darling #high lady feyre #rhysand acotar #rhysand #rhys acotar #crying rn #crying sobbing #i love him #i love her #i love them #feysand

[acourtofthought]

This is a weird question but do you really genuinely believe there's no possibility of an elriel book? And if sjm writes them well you'll enjoy reading it ? I don't ship gwynriel or Elriel. Gorgeous Elucien fan arts are what brought me into this fandom and I started the series solely to read their love story. But with all the elriel "confirmations" I can't help but think that elriel is a possibility so I'm trying to mentally prepare myself.

You are so right, there is nothing quite like Elucien fanart in this ACOTAR world and if E/riel were to happen then we lose the beautiful aesthetic of Elucien and gain, once again, another golden-brown haired femaled (often pictured with the dagger she returned without looking back) with a batboy who has Illyrian tattoos.

Would I still read an E/riel book? I would because I really do like Elain's character and I'd like to read her journey regardless of things not turning out the way I had hoped but I'd be devastated over the lost potential of Elucien. SJM has gone out of her way to show us how complimentary they would be together, how Lucien is the only male love interest who has treated her with respect so far, she even painted the picture in our heads of where they'd go on vacation (back before she thought she'd be writing the spin-offs and was more open with what their journey entailed), so it would be difficult to act like those things never mattered.

I never like to say something with absolute conviction as I feel it's inviting karma to say, "well let me just show you how many ways you can be wrong" (😂) but I do feel very strongly that E/riel is not happening. For me the debate is "will Elucien or Gwynriel get the next book" with me leaning in favor of Elucien and E/riel as a possibility makes up a very small percentage of my thoughts.

People are going crazy over her recent interviews. That a journalist writing "Elain and Az" in her article has E/riels claiming that it's SJMs version of a soft launch getting us used to the idea of E/riel. Or even some Gwynriels claiming that because she said she wanted to explore Az more in the future, he's definitely getting the next book though to me it seems she's talking about a later book because she was already drafting the next ACOTAR in September (so wouldn't she have already explored his character?).

But what seems to be her pattern is whenever she has a potential love triangle (ish) situation, she goes quiet.

In TOG, she waited to release an Aelin / Rowan Bonus until after a specific book because she felt the bonus would be too obvious a hint about them ending up together as mates and some still held out hope for Chaol / Celaena and believed Rowan lost his mate.

We have the interview below that shows she kept the possibility of Feysand a secret until after the release of ACOMAF.

She also talks about the things she put in book 3 that she was looking forward to seeing her readers excited over because, once again, it was only her, her editor and a couple of critique partners who knew "all these secrets".

She was giddy to talk about the end of CC2 because it was a secret she had kept for a very long time and told no one about.

So knowing that she does like her secrets, shouldn't the fact that Elain and / or Az are being mentioned in interviews be something that makes others nervous considering Lucien's name is almost never mentioned?

It could just as easily means he's not her focus right now but could it not also mean that she's trying to draw focus away from him so the next book being announced is a surprise?

E/riels and some Gwynriels will claim Lucien is irrelevant, that SF was centered around either E/riel or Az but Tamlin was mentioned in ACOTAR 731 times with Rhys mentioned 232 times yet Feyre ended up with Rhys in the next book. Chaol wasn't even in Empire of Storms yet he got the book after and ended up with Yrene who had never been mentioned by name prior to that.

All this talk about buildup, relevancy to the book that preceeded the new release because of name mentions or how often SJM speaks about someone in interviews as proof of something but those arguments are flimsy because we've seen her do this type of stuff before and she still turned around and surprised the reader.

The Elucien bond was introduced in book 2 and it is not just Elain's bond, it's Lucien's too especially when for him, it's been an even bigger deal because his first love was killed and he spent centuries believing she was his mate. That's an enormously angst-y setup which is the exact sort of a thing an author would want to explore versus the one where Az can't admit to being over Mor while lusting after Elain but not envisioning a future with her while also being jealous of Lucien who has only helped them and somehow turning that into a believable romance.

SJM did not create Lucien in the likeness of Jamie Fraser who she was obsessed with, mate him to Elain who she said shares her energy, only to have them never explore their mating bond which is the most sacred thing to the fae and as of SF, we see that Elain is beginning to embrace some of her fae self.

Elain fighting her pull to Lucien by ignoring him is no different than Nesta fighting her pull to Cassian by pushing him away in the novella but it's clear their story is still waiting to be told.

I find it difficult to believe that SJM had Lucien chased out of his home in book 3, finding a group of friends in the human lands in the novella while the reader knows he's heir to Day and have been waiting for that big reveal, only to then have him showing frustration with his living situation in SF but plans on having him remain in the human lands and the defunct Spring Court for yet another book (which they need as a strong ally) while Az gets his HEA with Elain.

Where Elain and Az spend the next book building up the "Dusk Court" (because that's still a thing going around) when the "Dusk Court" had nothing to do Spring, Tamlin, Koschei, Vassa or Beron as we left off in SF.

Everyone keeps claiming Az and / or Elain are needed to move the plot forward but honestly, Lucien is the one needed to truly move the plot forward and Elain by his side makes the most sense because they as a team have the powers and the connections to make something happen.

Elain is the only one who had visions of the box Koschei hides. She is the one who had visions of Vassa and the other girls trapped at the lake.

Lucien is the only one with real ties (and not just "I spy on you to gather information" ties) to Beron, Spring, the humans (which involves the treaty) and even Koschei considering he was at the lake when Papa Archeron negotiated with him and he is living with the female Koschei is now preparing to call back. He is the "son" of the man with his sights set on the lands of Spring. He is the one who is friends with Tamlin and performed in the Rite last and the NC needs Spring as an ally as well as their army. He is the one who is friends with the humans who are leading an ungoverned land and it is the human lands that Vallahan has their sights set on. "The Queen of Vallahan even asked me what the point of a peace treaty would be when another war, this time against the humans, might redraw the territory lines far below the wall."

Az and Elain would keep the plot in the Night Court outside of him possibly spying elsewhere and didn't we already see him doing that in SF? With Eris also providing them Intel? What is more spying going to do when we already know what Koschei and Berons goals are and the goal is to now stop them.

To me, the only person that is currently in a position to make a real difference at this point is Lucien and the love interest that makes the most sense to help him do these things is Elain.

Lucien has been made an underdog by the IC and I think the fandom has adopted that mentality (they've done the same with Elain).

And it makes me wonder if they are not about to be the best kept secret of all if SJM announces an Elucien book as the next one.

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #anti e/riel #pro lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #lucien and elain #pro elain archeron #elain and lucien #elucien supremacy #lucien vanserra supremacy

[hyacinthoideshispanica]

Oh! A New Years Eve Gwynriel au!

The inner circle hold a huge new years eve party in a rented hall and during the night, Feysand announce they're pregnant and Nessian become engaged. Everyone's super happy and a little drunk, waiting with increasing anticipation for the clock to strike midnight.

Azriel is overjoyed for his brothers, but he's also kind of sad. A new year is just hours away, and his brothers have entered new and exciting chapters in their lives while he's still alone and doing the same things.

From a dark corner, he observes all the party goers, putting names to each face he sees. Even if he doesn't personally know everyone here, like Rhys, he knows who they are, and he idly wonders will be kissing who when the clock strikes midnight.

Suddenly, he notices an unfamiliar flash of red in the crowd and focuses his attention on the girl dancing with carefree passion in the center of everything.

He stares at her, unable to fit a name to her or the dark skinned brunette dancing beside her and Mor. Without any warning, the redhead stops and turns in his direction. Hazel eyes lock with bright teal, Azriel's brow raises questioningly, as if silently asking the girl who she is, and Gwyn flashes him a teasing grin before moving deeper into the crowd.

Azriel follows her, and for the next few hours, a little game of cat and mouse ensues.

Azriel searches for Gwyn in the crowd. They make eye contact, and she'll teasingly gesture for him to come closer before disappearing again.

Azriel will stop by the bar, looking around, and the bartender hands him a drink from, "the cute redhead." The napkin the glass is set on has a little message, "catch me if you can." Grinning like crazy, Azriel downs the drink, stuffs the note in his pocket, and sets off again.

At one point, Azriel feels a tap on his shoulder and turns just in time to see Gwyn turn a corner.

Eventually, Azriel ends up outside on a balcony, thinking his mystery girl left the party. He hadn't been able to find her for the last 20 minutes, so she must not have been enjoying herself as much as he thought.

The countdown starts, and Azriel decides to stay outside and greet the new year on his own. He doesn't particularly want to be surrounded by people kissing and cheering at the moment.

Then he hears someone behind him and turns around to see Gwyn just as everyone else inside is shouting "Three! Two! One!" As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Gwyn pushes up on her toes and kisses Azriel.

Azriel kisses her back without hesitation, and everything that's not her seems to fade away. He doesn't know her name or why she's there, but none of that matters because he's already decided that if she's willing, he will learn everything about her and teach her everything about himself.

However, when Azriel opens his eyes to ask her name, she's already disappearing back inside into the mass of celebrators. He tries to go after he, but it's no use. She's gone, and Azriel feels like he's going to go insane if he can't see her again.

Azriel doesn't sleep. Instead, he pours through the guest book, looking for any name he doesn't recognize and comparing the writing to the note from his pocket, but nothing matches. He goes to Rhys, but Rhys has no idea who Azriel is asking about, and neither does Feyre. He tries Cassian but walks away from that encounter with nothing but a brusied rib from trying to wake his very drunk, passed out, brother. Nesta is far too hungover to deal with this and threatens to castrate Azriel if he so much as whispers to her while she has a headache.

Desperate, Azriel takes to walking around town, hoping to run into her, but the only person he manages to find is Mor. She comments on his apparent lack of sleep, and he explains what he's doing. Mor's eyes light up in recognition, and Azriel demands to know everything she knows. Mor explains that she doesn't know the redhead, but she's very well acquainted with the other mystery girl, Emerie.

Azriel begs Mor for Emerie's number or some other way to contact her, anything if it's means he can find his mysterious redhead. Mor pulls out her phone and calls Emerie.

Mor: Hey Em. No, I didn't forget anything at your place. Just listen, I have my friend here, and apparently, he's like head over heels in love with your friend. So, what was her name again?

Azriel: And number? Or maybe address?

Mor passes along Gwyn's address, and Azriel immediately takes off running down the street.

He ends up on Gwyn's porch, suddenly nervous, wondering if she even wants to see him again or if it was just a silly little game to her. Hands shaking, he prepares to knock, but the door swings open before he can touch it and comes face to face with Gwyn.

There is a brief moment of silence as they look at each other, and then they're kissing and grabbing at one another fiercely. When they finally break apart to catch their breaths. Gwyn giggles and whispers, "Happy New Year, Azriel."

Azriel moves forward, gently pushing Gwyn between the wall and his body and whispers, "I finally caught you, Gwyn." Before kissing her again.

The next day, Azriel takes Gwyn over to the townhouse and is shocked when she hugs Nesta.

Azriel: You know her?

Gwyn: Of course I do. She and Emerie are my best friends. Who do you think invited me to the party?

Azriel, turning to Nesta: You knew who she was the entire time, and instead of telling me, you let me wander the streets for hours?

Nesta: You woke me up at four in the morning while I was hungover. Absolutely, I let you wander the streets!

As always, this prompt is up for grabs.

#acotar #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #gwynriel #gwynriel au #acotar fanfiction #gwynriel prompt #new years eve