#utm!rhys

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Datura

Summary: This was supposed to be a Rhysand x Reader Calanmai One Shot and boy oh boy did it spiral into a whole, multi chapter AU fic 🤷🏼‍♀️ It’s now a what if Rhys’s mate was someone other than Feyre and they both end up Under the Mountain together fic

Content Warnings: Eventual Smut, Some Suggestiveness because Rhys is here, I mean look at him everyone wants that male; canon typical violence, UTM. Each chapter will have listed content warnings.

Part Two is here

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“Stay inside, away from the windows. Make sure the doors are locked.” It’s the same speech every year, the same frantic, worried rant about staying away from those types of parties and the trouble they could bring. Never mind that you’re an adult, have been for awhile, and are perfectly capable of making the decision on your own and had decided years ago that Calanmai wasn’t really your scene. A party in a library sure, but an outdoor orgy in what was basically the High Lord of Spring’s backyard was about as opposite of you as you could get.

“I’ll be in the attic, organizing my books,” you swear and your uncle’s graying head bobs with a heavy sigh of relief as he shuts the door. Some of the livestock have gone missing--most likely the result of several visiting fae whose scene definitely is Calanmai--but he couldn’t make complaints to the High Lord until he was sure they hadn’t simply wandered out of the padlock on their own. He’s taking all three of the farmhands with him, leaving you alone in the house.

It would be a blissful couple of days. The house quiet. You plan to make tea and practice the new bread recipe you’d found tucked into one of your carefully preserved books from two centuries before. You’ve accumulated quite a collection of things in the years of your uncle’s ceaseless wandering. He’s never stayed anywhere long.

If you could focus on it, that is.

Calanmai might have never been your scene, but it did something to you every year you couldn’t explain. It had started a couple years ago; a strange whispering on the wind at first, a voice begging you to “Come. Come and see.”  The next year, after being ignored the voice had come with phantom drum beats, an echo of the ones that would sometimes crest the hill between your farmhouse and the High Lord’s estate; the voice more urgent, the drum beats like a pulse in your skull. The following year the visions started. You’d go to sleep and find yourself drifting through the air, wings beating above you, shadowy hands holding you as you flew over the bonfires and beating drums, bodies writhing and merging beneath you, before depositing you in the darkness of what you could only describe as some sort of ancient cave. When you’d woken up you found yourself half way up the hill in your sleep clothes, unsure of how you’d even gotten out of the house. You’d never mentioned it to your uncle, he was prone to worry, but it was becoming clearer and clearer every year that there was something out there that wanted you out on Calanmai. True to form, you’d started hearing the drum beats upon waking this morning, their beat a steady pulse in your temples.

Still, whatever beckons, you're not interested in meeting. You’d seen a couple priestesses and gotten a sleeping tonic that would knock you out for the night, all you needed to do was pass the time until nightfall, take the tonic, and in the morning, all would be right again. Never mind the ache in your chest you’d feel in the morning, the blaring loss a living thing in your soul, as if your decision to stay away had torn something apart in you. It was a manageable wound, for your family’s sake. Memories of your parents had been hazy at best, it had always just been you and your mother’s brother. He’d said something had happened in your home court, that he’d had no other choice but to take you and run, never any other details. Your powers were a strange, unmanageable thing that prowled beneath your skin, a restless beast you couldn’t tie to any court to try and figure out where you’d come from. They weren’t seasonal, not ice or flame or wind; you’d imagined as a kid you’d gotten them in the Night Court, the darkness that sometimes sparked from your fingertips unruly enough to make it plausible, but there was nothing definitive. And your parents, for all the good things your uncle said about his sister, had never tried to find you, leaving all questions unanswered. Left you alone with your uncle and your constant moving with his job. He worked hard to make a life for the two of you, you owed it to him to not cause any trouble, to stay inside and cook and read and help him with his trading business as best you could. Whatever it was out there that beckoned, it was not worth seeing the pain on your uncle’s face. He’d escaped something, that much was clear, you would not damn him to something else, even for your own peace of mind.

This year feels different though, and you can’t deny it. The voice more urgent, the drum beats louder. You find yourself rubbing your temples, a headache building, as you try and fail to read the recipe in your hands. The words blur, a swirl of indistinguishable colors and shapes. You pinch you eyes closed, shake your head as if to clear the voice, trying again and again to make the words make sense, but the drums won’t stop beating.

You hurl the book across the room, knocking a picture off the wall, glass shattering on impact.

“Leave me alone!” You hiss at no one, teeth bared. Talons form at your fingertips, dark shadows whispering over your skin.

“Come. Come and see,” begs the voice.

You draw a breath, then another, and another until the shadows disappear and the talons retract. If you blow the roof off the house, like last time, you’ll have to move again. Beyond your uncle’s disappointment there’s the issue of… her. The war bands, the bogge, the Attor, always a threat looming over your travels, pushing you further and further away from busy cities, all enough on their own, but the Blight adds another layer. Your Uncle said the war she helped wage against the humans was devastating, but the one she could bring here? Sometimes you wonder if she’s the reason you move so much, as if your uncle has been trying in vain all these years to escape the war path closing in on Prythian. He’d never dare delve into the Human Lands, but Spring is one of the few places she has yet to ravish. You can’t risk another move.

You focus on controlling your breathing as you sweep up the glass, and leave the picture of you and your uncle on the table. You’ll find a new frame tomorrow, for today, it’s best if you take that sleeping tonic and avoid any further outbursts.

You make quick work of double checking the locks before changing into your sleep clothes and climbing into bed. It’s only just starting to get dark, the last few rays of sunlight fighting to break through your worn curtains. The priestesses didn’t mention how long it would take to work, or how long it would last, but the drums are still so loud, and the voice won’t stop pleading. It’s a nice voice, if your honest, but you can’t go out there. You won’t.

The vial in your hand is cold, the glass pitted like it’s been used before, it’s contents a bright blue color that glitters even in the darkness. You down it in one gulp, the taste like bursting, overripe fruit. The effects are immediate, you’re asleep before your head even hits the pillows.

  The house is strange, twisted; the wooden walls thorny, gnarled like old tree trunks, the wind howling through the gaps of what used to be the windows. Fire light flickers through the gaps, casting shadows across the space as you stumble from the bed, bare legs caught in sheets suddenly made of vines.

It’s wrong, all wrong.

You stumble on legs that don’t quite work right down the stairs, slashing yours hands open on the thorns that had sprouted out of the railing alongside dark, night blooming flowers.

“Come. Come and see.”

The flowers bloom at the sound of the voice, the violets petals glowing in the darkness, leading you like wisps out the front door, now covered in vines and leaves. Disoriented, you follow the flowers out into the night, the stars dazzlingly bright overhead.

The world outside is not the one you know, the rolling hills now scorched and burned, the trees gnarled and twisted. Dark shapes with glowing eyes sit on the dying branches, starring only at you, some growling, others hissing.

There’s a single line of flowers, twisting away from the leering eyes and you race after them.

“Come. Come and see.”

You’re running before you know it, scooping up flowers as you go.

Something behind you still growls, it’s footsteps rattling the ground behind you. No matter where you look, you can’t see it, like it’s wholly veiled in the darkness. It has your heart pounding in your chest, the beat steady like drums. You push yourself faster, following the flowers over the ruined hills.

The flowers lead you into another wooded area, the trees still barely clinging to life here, their fallen leaves crunching under your bare feet. Branches tug at your shift, tearing the thin materiel, clawing at your exposed legs. Still, the thing behind you prowls closer, it’s breath hot as flame as it chases you.

The flowers wind around trees, deeper, deeper, into the dark, the only light the stars and the flowers; it’s your only chance at escaping. You push, going as fast as your legs can carry you, the drum beats of your heart still echoing in your ears. Soon enough the flowers direct you in a straight line, directly into the mouth of a cave. It feels wrong, going into a cave with some sort of beast snapping on your heels but what other choice do you have?

You reach the mouth of the cave, hand brushing the rough rock, gasping for breath. The darkness beyond beckons, “Come. Come and see,” but there are no flowers here. No stars to light the way, only the darkness of night and shadows.

The thing beyond you roars in challenge as you set one foot in…

You jerk awake like your soul is coming back into your body.

Maybe it is, because you’re not in your bed. There’s half a dozen cuts across your bare legs, staining the bottom of your torn shift, mud splattered across your legs. It feels like you’re wading through soup as you assess yourself, your mind muddled, unable to process where you got the glowing, violet flower in your hands. When you finally have the presence of mind to look up, you are in fact starring at the cavernous mouth of a cave you’ve never seen before.

Somewhere in the distance, the drums pound. Firelight dances among the treeline behind you. You’d gotten outside. On Calanmai. The tonic not only failed, it had left you so horribly vulnerable and queasy you were shaking. You need to get back home, back inside where it’s safe.

From somewhere in the shadows of the trees not far from you, a voice says, “I’m pretty sure I saw her go this way!”

Ice shoots through your veins, feet freezing in place.

The flower seems to warm in your hands, as if reminding you it was there, of the dream that had brought you here. You glance at the cave, the darkness beckoning. It might be a safe place to hide, if those voices are in fact looking for you. They are clearly male, and a few of them at that, and alone in a shift on Calanmai…

The cave might be a terrible spot, you’re pretty sure you had heard something about High Lords and caves, specifically on Calanmai, but the drowsy effect of the tonic has not entirely worn off, and with the voice drawing closer you don’t have time to try and remember what it was.

You step into the darkness, praying it isn’t the worst mistake of your life, and the darkness envelopes you like a caress. It’s almost as if it… moves, shadows and night itself twining around your legs, your arms, brushing along your spine with feather light touches. As if darkness is acquainting itself with the feel of you. You shiver, nervous, but the touch is not unwelcome.

Voices sound outside, but they are muffled, veiled.

Another step, then another, the flower still clutched in your hand blooms, glowing a little brighter. The scent of jasmine and citrus flows from it, fills all your senses.

The cave descends, the ground sloping a bit, and then you have to duck to follow the worn path. There should be loose rock along the path, but it is smooth, like sand beneath your bare feet, like someone had come along and swept out the debris. There’s nothing there to hinder your progress towards what you can only assume is the heart of the cave.

Perhaps this is all a part of your strange dream, that would certainly explain the flower, but what other choice do you have no but to keep going? From behind you, those voices from the woods sound again, as if they have stepped into the cave too.

“You’re sure she came in here?”

“Where else would she go out here?”

“Do you think Mistress will let us have a little fun before she gets her hands on her?”

Its that that makes you freeze, all thought eddying from your head.

The flower shrinks in your hand, the light dimming, even as the darkness of the cave twines itself around you, the caress like a cat rubbing against your legs, as if it’s trying to soothe you, calm you. You can’t move.

The sudden shift in the air of the cave is palpable. Goosebumps raise on your arms as the temperature drops, as the darkness deepens.

“What the fuck?” One of the men hisses.

And then the screaming starts, the blood curdling cries rattling the walls.

Still you can’t move, can’t see, can only stand there in the company of the shadow still rubbing soothing circles into your back while the earth trembles and dust rains down from the cave roof.

Just as quickly as the screaming starts, it stops, the only sound know the subtle drip of something wet hitting the floor. Your senses are sharp enough for you to scent the cooper tint of blood in the air, but even your keen senses can’t pick up what caused it. You can’t hear anything either, no footsteps, no fighting. It’s over.

You exhale a shaky breath, hands still trembling around the flower. Until it suddenly dies, the petals falling from your cupped hands. You’re strangely attached to it now, hands scrambling to catch the petals in the dark when that same glow appears around the bend in the cave.

Another flower, a way out!

You step towards it, not stopping to ask yourself why this one is smaller, so far away from the ground. Its not until you’re nearly upon it, nearly slamming into it, that you realize it’s not a flower at all. It doesn’t truly click into place until a firm set of hands grabs hold of you, stopping you from slamming right into the owner of that glowing set of violet eyes.

You might have screamed, were it not for the voice that says, “There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

The world tilts before you as it clicks into place that you know that voice. It’s the one that called you out here.

#rhysand x reader #rhysand x reader smut #acotar #rhys acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar smut #fic series #my fanfic #my writings #utm!rhys #rhysand x reader angst #future hurt/comfort

[the-lonelybarricade]

Ahhhh yeah Rhysand and Feyre do it hot and dirty on Calanmai and then a couple months later Feyre has to confess to tamlin and Lucien about the dark stranger with violet eyes who is now her baby daddy and they’re just like wait WUT?! THAT GUY?!?

This plot has the potential for optimal telenovela levels of drama and I am so here for it 😂

Hear me out: they have filthy sex on Calanmai and Feyre keeps la da deeing her human way through the Spring Court business per usual until Rhys comes back after the Summer Solstice and smells it on her

#The human who was supposed to break Tamlin's curse is now pregnant with his ancient enemy?? #Rhys has to protect a pregnant mate UtM??? #Feyre has to grapple with the fact that her baby daddy is actually in league with the big bad villain she's been warned about??? #PEAK DRAMA

[theladyofbloodshed]

i don't expect everybody in acotar to make good decisions all the time. It's more interesting when they make morally grey choices or make mistakes. My issue is that sjm bends over backwards to explain actually they can never do anything wrong and if anybody was hurt by their actions, they are more evil so it was deserved.

#i'd rather rhys dealt with the fallout of working with amarantha #and making amends rather than woops a secret daemati did it #feyre actually taking accountability for killing andras and the fae UtM #azriel pushing back against rhys and asking why he has to torture #his friends being more vocal about their discomfort with that side of him #nesta not needing to redeem herself every single book because she's obviously evil

[aelingalathyniusrailme]

i’m just really sitting here struggling to understand how some of y’all don’t find rhys hot

like did u read the books

#rhysand #rhys #feysand #feyre archeron #god damn I j read the sexiest utm rhys ever #holy mother of god

[lavendarneverlands]

Theory / Question (cause I adore / cry over it):

Did Feyre finally find the riddle’s answer of “love” only after she hears Rhysand shouting her name? 

#feysand #utm #acotar #sarah j maas #feyre #rhys #a court of thorns and roses #graphic audio book #the real treasure is the friends we made along the way #feyre cursebreaker #high lord of the night court #rhysand #feyre archeron #lord and lady #feyre x rhysand #rhysand x feyre #under the mountain #spoilers #mating bond #soulmates #love true love #high fae #the answer is love #Amarantha #audiobooks #between the lines

[thesistersarcheron]

Halloween WIP Wednesday

A glass casket glittered in a shard of moonlight. A garden of bouquets lay at her feet, and the sickly-sweet scent of rotting flowers hung syrupy thick in the air. Inside, she lay stiff and pale and on display. Buried beneath a mound of white lace, she stared at herself through his eyes, at the corpse that looked like nothing so much as a wilted orchid in a terrarium. Her skin was waxy, her eyes sunken, and garishly pink powder coated her cheeks to give her the cheap illusion of life. And Rhysand was coming to take her.  “Sickening, isn’t it?” Rhysand’s fingers tapped out a quick, irritated rhythm where it lay on her stomach, holding her to him; one dipped beneath the low neckline of her dress, idly stroking at her ribs. “Feyre Cursebreaker, lying in state so the worshipful masses could give thanks from dawn to dusk every day, with the most irritating priestess blowing incense in your face every hour on the hour.” Feyre shouldered the male who still held her, skewered him with a look, and raised her tattooed hand. “The bargain was only for the rest of my life.” Rhys didn’t let go. If anything, his grip on her tightened as he rested his chin on her shoulder. “Tamlin and I didn’t shuffle your corpse around for a week every month, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had to do some good old-fashioned graverobbing to get you, Feyre.” Her spine stiffened and he crooned, “Lucky you.” A blade of darkness sliced through the dimly lit temple. Easy, unhurried steps brought him closer and closer to his mate, and a flick of his fingers banished the offerings that dared to keep them apart. A single thought turned the glass casket into sparkling dust and metal shavings.

#i'm super late to the game but i'm just logging on fr so #feysand #feyre #rhysand #my fics #this halloween we're answering the question of what rhys would do if feyre stayed dead UTM #cw death

[itsthedoodle]

If I Could Hold You For A Minute

Summary:

The thread tying him to her went taut, then glowed. He felt his entire being shatter then reform, his heart beating to the sound of hers, his cells, his nerves, his entire DNA screaming her name, screaming that she was his, only his, his to love and cherish—

He felt the mating bond snap into place with a force that could have rattled the mountain, the stars.

Read on AO3

He stood on the small balcony overlooking the vast expanse of Prythian’s Middle. For fifty years, he had been trapped here. For fifty years he had played his part well, taking on every role he needed to keep his people, his family, and Velaris safe. Rhys took a deep, shuddering breath, quieting his mind for now. There’d be time to process the past five decades when he was home. 

Home. That was a thought he hadn’t let himself have in a very long time. He was looking forward to it, but his return to the Night Court meant he had to say one last goodbye, and the thought of it alone filled him with despair the likes he’d never felt before.

The first hours after Amarantha’s defeat had been chaotic. The Attor was missing, and Jurian’s eye and bone were gone, too. Everyone else had returned to their respective courts, everyone except for him, Feyre, and Tamlin. Rhys knew this wasn’t over, that this was the beginning of something more, something worse than the last fifty years. 

He looked down to see his hands shaking. He’d been shaking for hours now thanks to Feyre unwittingly blasting him with thoughts of Tamlin and everything he had done to her in the privacy of their own room. 

Rhys had thrown up the entire time. 

Logically, he knew he should let her sleep, let her recover from the hellish three months she had just survived. But he couldn’t stay another minute here, each passing second adding to his anxiety. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in around him, like he would never get out, like he would never—

He reached deep inside him, gently tugging at the thread at his middle, not wanting to alarm her, and waited, taking deep breaths as he counted to ten. 

I’m going home, he kept repeating like a prayer, a mantra to help him keep his sanity for a few more minutes, to keep him from breaking down completely. 

At the sound of approaching steps he put his unaffected mask back on. Turning around, he came face to face with the sight of Feyre hissing at the brightness, a hand shielding her eyes. 

That drew a chuckle out of him. She sounded like an angry cat. “I forgot that it’s been a while for you.” 

Feyre silently took in the view, observing the snow capped mountains first, then the foot of the mountain, barren and brown and lifeless. She looked… tired. Spent. Empty. He didn’t understand how Tamlin hadn’t whisked her back to the Spring Court. Feyre didn’t belong here, and after what she’d had to do, what she needed was to be as far away from this place as possible. 

She was looking at him, taking in his wings. Through the gates of her mind, blown wide open as they were, he knew she was taking note of his hands and feet, expecting talons and finding none. 

“What do you want?” she said, and he suspected she hadn’t meant to say it as softly as she had. Flashes of him fighting Amarantha and trying to save her crossed her mind. 

I’d fight everyone to keep you safe, he thought. He kept hearing the cracking sound her neck had made as Amarantha had snapped it, and tried his best not to let his mind linger. He’d known then, what she was, who she was to him. He’d seen and felt it all. The enormity of the situation was one he would analyze in the privacy of his own room. 

“Just to say good-bye. Before your beloved whisks you away forever.”

She wiggled her fingers in front of him. “Not forever,” she said, her voice frostier than the Illyrian camps. “Don’t you get a week every month?”

He forced a smile, gently rustling his wings. “How could I forget?”

She stared at him, analyzed him, then asked “Why?” 

Rhys shrugged. “Because when legends get written, I didn’t want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines. I want my future offspring to know that I was there, and that I fought against her at the end, even if I couldn’t do anything useful. Because,” he said, looking at her beautiful eyes, “I didn’t want you to fight alone. Or die alone.”

A memory flashed, a memory of a faerie bleeding in the foyer. “Thank you.” was all she said.

He grinned at her. “I doubt you’ll be saying that when I take you to the Night Court.” 

She didn’t say anything, opting to turn away from him and take in the view again. Her face remained impassive, empty. Void of any of the emotions she always wore on display. “Are you going to fly home?” she asked. 

Rhys shook his head, laughing softly. How he wished he could fly home. “Unfortunately it would take longer than I can afford.” he said. “Another day, I’ll taste the skies again.”

She glanced at him, at the wings he kept tightly tucked into his body. “You never told me that you loved the wings—or the flying.”

He shrugged. “Everything I love has always had a tendency to be taken from me. I tell very few of the wings. Or the flying.”

He let the silence settle between them, and then curiosity took over. “How does it feel to be a High Fae?” 

She looked out toward the mountains again. “I’m an immortal—who has been mortal. This body…” she looked down at her hands, and he felt the wave of self-loathing and disgust so strongly that it rattled him to his core. He wanted to touch her, hug her, tell her that he understood, he knew what it was to feel both of those things, that it wasn’t her fault, that there hadn’t been another way. She’d been thrust into a situation worse than any of her darkest nightmares, and she’d come out of it alive. 

But at what cost?

“This body is different,” she continued “but this, this is still human.” She said, hand on her chest. “Maybe it always will be. But it would have been easier to live with it…” she swallowed, trying to compose herself. “Easier to live with what I did if my heart had changed, too. Maybe I wouldn’t care so much; maybe I could convince myself their deaths weren’t in vain. Maybe immortality will take that away. I can’t tell whether I want it to.”

He looked at her for a long while, at the girl with the human heart, the pointed ears, the elongated limbs, the ethereal beauty that had been there before and had been amplified so much it took his breath away. He wished he could hold her, if only for a minute, tell her he was sorry for everything she had gone through these past several months. He had tried to keep her alive, but the ordeal had taken a toll on her soul. 

“Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.”

She thought about it for a bit, looked like she wanted to say more, but thought against it and simply nodded. 

Time to go. “Well, good-bye for now.” he said, rolling his neck, already feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. He bowed at his waist, and began to winnow, when he felt it. 

The thread tying him to her went taut, then glowed. He felt his entire being shatter then reform, his heart beating to the sound of hers, his cells, his nerves, his entire DNA screaming her name, screaming that she was his, only his, his to love and cherish—

He felt the mating bond snap into place with a force that could have rattled the mountain, the stars. Felt the force of it sucker punch him so hard he stumbled, stopped breathing altogether. He knew then, he knew he had to get out of here, winnow away, go home, put space between them before he did something stupid. 

He took a step back, his limbs protesting, wanting to stay put, wanting to stay with her, be next to her, his hands a second away from pulling her to him, wrapping her in an embrace, protecting her from everything she had endured. 

She looked at him in confusion and he wanted to laugh, scream, and cry at the same time. 

“What is—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish that sentence as he winnowed away, reappearing in front of the town house. He numbly grabbed the handle and lowered it, opening the door and stepping inside his home for the first time in fifty years. Mor was immediately there, pulling him in an embrace, sobbing as he shook from shock and a million other feelings he was not in the right state of mind to address. 

“Rhys?” Mor asked him cautiously. 

“She’s my mate.” he said, the dam breaking, tears streaking down his face. “She’s my mate, she’s my mate, she’s my mate, and she’s not mine.”

#acotar #rhysand #feysand #feyre archeron #Feyre x rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feysand UtM #feyre x rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #pro feysand #pro Rhys

[acourtofquestions]

Was the blue faerie that lost its wing in A Court of Thorns and Roses actually an Illyrian? … It always breaks my heart when it says “my wings” and makes me think of all the Cassian & Rhys lines on how they’d die for their wings…

and then breaks it a little more because did Rhys have to be a part of that attack? (I don’t think he was, mostly because I don’t think he would; and I think Amarantha would know that). UGH this series always breaks my heart😅😭🖤 *melts down side of wall onto floor* 💀🕯️🤦‍♀️

#A Court of Thorns and Roses #Illyrian #Rhys #UTM #Faerie #Sarah J Maas #Maasverse #ACOTAR #Feyre #ACOMAF #a court of questions

[rosenecklaces]

That show getting canceled saved that blonde woman from so much shit that would had come in her way LMAO In a way I can enjoy to picture her Zionism being even more public bc of the show getting mainstream, but still, thank God it doesn't exist at all

The producers/whorever was the director of it really saw the Problematique approaching – with the weird and out of place sex scenes, Racists Rethorics, the badly represented LGBTQ+ characters, the Alpha Male energy she loves on men and projects in characters that would had NOT sit well considering how shit has been going for feminism this year, "female and male".... trans people/allies/actual feminists trashing her to pieces oh I can see the vision it's so good, the whole damn Pregnancy Plot, Racist Rethorics, extremely badly treated SA trauma, addictions demonized (nesta spiraling), and the whole racist-xenophobic connotations she gives with the Illyrians: Racists Rethorics to the max, and much much more.. – and said "mhmmm you know what... I don't think you want this to go mainstream right now lady" and they where RIGHT

They saved her ass from media trashing actually and now she lives another day...

#acotar rant #acotar #not even getting into the UTM scene vulgarity i can imagine the memes and mockery that would had come from a clip of feyre almost ass naked #on rhys and whole faes around seeing them. Just imagine that happening in a screen in hd...good god #acotar show #s*m #sjm critical #i would had liked lulu being hated internationally for the support in abusers ngl that would had been delectable to watch

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Bruises That Won’t Heal - Black Rose Part 2

Summary: Rhysand returns from Under the Mountain with an announcement that Niamh desperately wishes wasn’t true. Black Rose Part 2, can be read as a standalone but it’s better with Part 1!

Pairing: Rhysand x OC (Niamh, pronounced ‘Neev,’ no physical descriptions)

Warnings: ANGST, allusions to sex, UtM happenings, PTSD, depression, aggressive behavior

Word Count: 3166

A/N: So I wasn’t going to post this but I’m on a hot writing streak right now and have issues with impulse control so here ya go! Also, the title is a lyric from ‘No Surprises’ by Radiohead, which I think goes with the angsty feel of this chapter. Also, did I mention there’s angst ahead? Cuz there is. 

Thank you for reading! Like/Reblog/Comments always appreciated!

Banner by yours truly, dividers by firefly-graphics

Mother above, Niamh thought to herself. 

The chair she sat in became impossibly uncomfortable despite its plushness. Rhys kept talking to the four other members of his inner circle but it sounded far away and dulled, like he was shouting at her from underwater. Her cheeks were hot and all she could hear was her own pulse in her ears. 

“Excuse me,” she said, rising and heading for the nearest balcony. She didn’t notice or care if anyone tried to stop her, she needed air. Rhys paused and she vaguely heard him call her name but she was already out the door, trying to remember how to breathe properly. 

From the balcony she looked out over Velaris sparkling below. The lights started to blur together as tears welled in her eyes. His announcement was a punch in the gut. Her chest felt like it was imploding when a mere twenty-four hours ago it felt like it was full to bursting. Her breathing was shallow, shaking fists shut so tight her nails were cutting into her palms. 

This couldn’t be happening. He had a mate, a gods-be-damned mate! That was what his strange dreams had meant.

She should’ve known. 

How could she have been so naive? 

The wind whipped past her form, invisible hands grabbing at her clothing and hair. For a moment she wished those hands were real, grasping small parts of her and tearing her apart — a thousand different pieces of Niamh drifting through the night sky. That would be preferable to the swirling heartbreak that had found a home in her chest. 

The potted rose bushes on either side of her grew rapidly into a thick hedge behind her, thorns growing sharper, a wall between her and the source of her pain. Braced against the wide railing, she looked down at her ring. 

The ring he’d given her when he promised her forever after she’d abandoned her brother in the Spring Court. With a shaking hand, she slipped the ring off. It was meaningless now, and she wouldn’t be the selfish one who refused to let him be with his mate. 

Even if it felt like her insides were shriveling, wilting, dying within her. 

She placed the ring on the railing, knowing he would find it. Hoping he would understand.

“Niamh?” a male voice called through the hedge. 

Cassian.

“I just need a minute, Cass,” she lied. Though it was a small consolation, she was relieved her voice didn’t break under the weight of a lie. She needed a lot longer than a minute to process exactly what Rhys had said. 

When he’d winnowed to the House of Wind, they’d run at each other after the moment of shock. Her broken, joyful cry alerted Mor in the other room. The three of them had collapsed on each other, she and Mor clinging to Rhys and him clinging to them just the same. Tears were shed, happy ones, and Niamh assumed he ducked her kisses because of his urgency to reunite with his family. 

They were all so elated to be together again that the full debrief of his time Under the Mountain was pushed until the next night. They drank and feasted and danced like it was Starfall and they were rowdy hundred-somethings again. Instead of everyone heading to their rooms, they all passed out where they dropped. 

Niamh hadn’t given much thought to his lack of physical affection toward her. He’d placed quick pecks on everyone’s cheeks, hugged each member of his family for minutes at a time (except Amren, who only managed fifteen seconds). 

“Do you, um…do you want me to take you home?” Cass asked quietly. She shut her eyes tight, chest constricting. Of course, he was ducking her affection because he had a mate. The tears leaked down her face and she nodded.

“Yes,” she whispered, remembering that he couldn’t see her through the rose hedge. Black roses. Her favorite.

She receded the hedge with her powers, just as she had built it. Cassian looked at her and she could see the secondhand pain written across his handsome face. It was more sympathetic than pitying, which she was thankful for as she crossed to him. He folded her into a tight embrace and she pressed herself into his leathers. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured to her, rubbing circles on her upper back as she tried to rein in the tears.

From inside the house she could hear Mor calling her name, but she didn’t have the strength to deal with her right now. Sensing this, Cassian lifted her into his arms and, with a gust of wind, lifted them both into the air and flew her home.

Three weeks passed and Niamh hadn’t seen any of the Inner Circle. She put up wards to prevent winnowing into her home and didn’t answer the persistent knocks at the door. She ignored the letters that showed up at least once a day. Even after almost fifty years she knew the handwriting on the envelopes. 

Her time was spent in her rooftop greenhouse, cultivating her various plant species and growing flowers to sell to local florists. It kept her hands and mind busy. Besides, she already knew exactly what Rhys would say to her so why bother reopening the wound? 

She was sitting against the arm of her couch in the living room, a book propped open on her legs when Mor appeared in front of her unlit fireplace. 

“Where the hell have you been?” the blonde goddess demanded, hands on her hips. 

“Huh, my wards must be down.” Niamh looked up from her book and shrugged. “Here.”

“Why haven’t you answered any of Rhys’s letters?” Mor gestured to the coffee table in front of them which was blanketed in the folded parchment. All the seals were intact. 

She turned her attention back to her book, not wanting her friend to see the flash of anguish in her eyes. “I’ve been busy.” 

“Bullshit. Why have you been ignoring us?”

“Because all of you are going to tell me I need to talk to Rhys or read his letters and I don’t want to hear it!” Niamh threw her book aside and rose to her feet, stalking into her kitchen. “He’s mated, Mor. Mated! After I waited for him for fifty years. I know what he’s going to say and I just…don’t see the point. We’re obviously over, I might as well move on.” 

“Honey,” Mor said as she followed her into the kitchen, “Don’t you want some sense of closure? An apology? To let him know how you’re feeling?” 

Niamh filled her kettle and set about making tea. She had to do something with her hands to stop the prickling feeling inside them. “No.” 

“So you’d rather ignore your entire family than have one uncomfortable conversation?” Mor scoffed, indignant. “Real mature, Niamh.” 

Niamh slammed the kettle onto the stove, denting the surface and startling Mor. She knew what Mor said was true — she was being childish by not facing her problems and having the conversation with Rhys. But she couldn’t help it. After fifty years of holding him together in his dreams, he’d come back to her in love with someone else. “Fuck off and let me grieve, Mor.” 

“Is that what you’ve been doing for the last few weeks? Grieving?” She could hear Mor approach, then felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Niamh nodded, not facing the other female. “But we got him back, he came home to us…”

“And immediately broke my heart. I’ve lost him twice now, Mor, and I just…I need time.” 

Mor’s warm hand moved and Mor embraced her from behind, her head coming to rest on Niamh’s shoulder. “Okay, okay. I’ll call off the Illyrians. But can you promise me something?” 

“What?” 

“That you won’t shut yourself off from us like that again. I understand you don’t want to see Rhys, but I miss my best friend.” Mor half-smiled and Niamh promised the two of them would go shopping soon. Satisfied with that promise, Morrigan moved onto lighter topics and sipped the tea Niamh made. 

Despite the undercurrent of despair, it was a pretty pleasant afternoon. 

Mor winnowed back to the House of Wind and found a despondent Rhys sitting in the same chair she’d left him in. Hands white-knuckle grasped in front of him, head bowed to the marble floor, as if he was praying to the Mother. For all she knew, that’s exactly what he was doing. 

He looked up when she entered the room, violet eyes wide and eager. “How’d it go? Is she okay?” 

Mor sighed long and deep, “She’s hurt, Rhys. She needs time.” 

“She’s had three fucking weeks,” he said, standing and beginning to pace. “And she needs more time?” 

“Turn the situation around, Rhys, how do you think you’d feel if you came back and she found her mate while you were…away.” Mor posited. 

The last few weeks had been difficult on her cousin as he resumed his post as High Lord. Long days and nights reacquainting himself with his court, his people, and what issues had arisen in the last fifty years that required his attention had left him exhausted. Today was the first time he’d had a chance to bring up Niamh, mentioning to his cousin that she wasn’t responding to his letters and asking if she’d heard anything from the Spring Court convert. 

Then, upon hearing that no one in the Inner Circle had seen or heard from her, he’d frantically ordered Mor to check up on Niamh and report back. His nerves were frayed from fatigue. Mor could see his mind spinning through every horrible thing that could’ve happened to Niamh, and she had to admit that she was also concerned, so she’d agreed. 

Rhys paused his pacing and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Awful. I’d feel…awful. Crushed. Obliterated.” 

Mor approached her cousin as gently as she’d approached Niamh earlier, like approaching a cornered wildcat. “So maybe ease up on her. She just needs time, okay? She’ll come back, but we need to give her space for now.” 

Rhys’s shoulders slumped when she placed a hand between them. He spun and pulled her close to him, his wet tears dampening the shoulder of her dress. She didn’t mind. 

“I missed her…so much. I survived, clawed my way through every awful thing so I could see her when she dreamwalked to me. She kept me sane, Mor. I owe her everything, and she won’t even be in the same room as me.” 

“She’ll come around,” Mor comforted him. “I know she will.” 

His voice sounded so pained when he said, “I loved her. I…I wanted to marry her.” 

Mor stroked his hair, her own eyes misting over, “I know you did.” 

One Week Later

Simply to torture himself, Rhys found the secret compartment in the headboard of his bed at the townhouse and pulled the velvet box out from inside it. With a deep breath, he opened it. 

The ring inside was slightly worn, but beautiful. He could still remember the day he’d bought it from a jeweler in the Rainbow, practically giddy with excitement to ask Niamh to marry him. A band of intricate silver vines, small clusters of diamonds framed a rare black emerald. 

He’d proposed that night, about twenty years after she became a permanent fixture in his court. They’d never gotten around to the actual marriage ceremony due to one thing or another, High Lord business or her work with his spymaster demanding too much attention to plan a wedding. Hell, forget a wedding, he would’ve happily sworn their vows in front of a city clerk, but for whatever reason they never had.

He’d found the ring on the railing at the House of Wind. While recounting his years under the mountain and revealing the news of his mate, he’d watched Niamh’s expression falter. The light behind her eyes dimmed and she’d drawn into herself before exiting the room. He wanted to go after her, but Amren’s questions had stopped him. A few minutes later, he watched from the balcony as Cassian flew her toward the Rainbow. 

Probably for the best that they’d never married, he thought bitterly. He’d be in an even more impossible situation now. Feyre would still be his mate but he would be married to Niamh. 

Feyre was his mate.

He couldn’t help the tingle of excitement that ran up his spine whenever he thought of her, but it was followed by a sickening wave of nausea that he suspected wouldn’t go away until things were right with Niamh. Whenever that would be. She was stubborn and could hold a grudge, just like her brother.

Her brother, whom his mate was currently planning on marrying. 

“Mother above, what a mess,” he said out loud to no one, falling back on the bed. He raised the ring box above him and snapped it closed. 

He couldn’t do anything about having a mate. Whatever forces of the universe deemed that he belonged with Feyre and nothing could sever that tie. 

But he loved Niamh deeply, truly, and a not-insignificant part of him still did. What was he supposed to do with that love? Especially since the object of that love wouldn't come within a hundred feet of him, wouldn’t respond to the numerous letters he sent, who told Mor that she needed “time.”

And even when “time” was up, what then? They would never be the same. Within the first two weeks of his return, he’d settled back into his friendships with everyone else but Niamh. Cassian’s inappropriate jokes, Azriel’s dark sarcasm, Mor’s sharp tongue, Amren’s deep wisdom, it all came back to him. It all welcomed him home like a warm blanket that, unfortunately, was a few inches too short. 

He needed Niamh’s curios intelligence, her open smile, her quick wit. The way her eyes would light up when he brought her rare seeds or specimens, how her hair would fall in her face while she was deep into research. 

The little noises she made when he kissed her just right. How her body responded so deliciously to him. How safe and loved she’d made him feel all those years when she would visit him in his dreams.

His heart fractured at the reality that he might not get those things back. In all likelihood, he would never see those parts of her again. 

As happy as he was to have found his mate (even if she was engaged to a shitbag), he was equally as devastated to lose Niamh. His own heart was broken, and Niamh didn’t know that. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to see him, but it was taking all of his self-control to stay away. 

A knock sounded at his door and he bid whoever it was to enter. Azriel and Cassian entered the room, but Rhys didn’t move from his splayed-out position on the bed. 

“You okay, boss?” Cassian asked. 

“No,” he answered, “What is it?” 

Azriel approached him and held out a sealed envelope. “It’s from Niamh.” 

Rhys sat bolt upright and snatched the letter from Az’s hands. He recognized her handwriting and the green rose wax seal on the back. 

“Did she say anything to you? Does she want me to respond?” 

Azriel shook his head slightly, “It’s all in the letter. We’ll be outside if you need us.” 

“And by that he means we’ll run to the liquor store so you can drown your sorrows once you’ve finished it,” Cassian joked, earning him a punch in the chest from Azriel as they walked out and shut the door behind them. 

With shaking hands, Rhys broke the seal and extracted the letter. 

‘Rhysand, 

I don’t even know where to begin but Amren said she wouldn’t stop knocking my plants over until I wrote you something, so here I am. 

I’m devastated, Rhys. Like the rug has been pulled out from under me and then a piano was dropped on my head. I’ve been avoiding you because I know what you’ll say. It’s not your fault, you didn’t plan for this to happen, you’re so, so sorry. While I don’t doubt the truth behind these sentiments, actually hearing them from your lips would only serve to devastate me further. 

We just got you back and I’m losing you all over again. Only this time you’ll still be around, deeply in mating-love with someone who isn’t me. When you were gone it was like a part of myself was missing. I searched hundreds of dreams for you, and when I found you I couldn’t bear the waking world. I wanted to live in our dreams forever. I know you did too. Maybe you still do.

Which brings me to my announcement; I’m leaving the Night Court. I’ve taken a job in another court with an old friend. By the time you’re reading this, I’ve already left. Please, Rhys, don’t come looking for me. I am safe.

Just know that I hold no ill feeling toward you or your mate. I love you, Rhys, and I always will. And that’s why it’s better if I leave. You and your mate will have a better start if you have nothing holding you back. 

I wish you all the best, and I hope someday we can meet again as friends. 

All My Love,

Niamh’ 

Rhys was shaking with rage as he finished the letter. He sprang to his feet and rushed downstairs to where his brothers were waiting, each with a drink in hand. Cassian offered him a glass with a generous pour of whiskey in it, but Rhys slapped it away and pinned Cassian to the wall with his forearm on the Illyrian’s windpipe.

“Did you know about this?” he shouted, inches from his brother’s face, pressing his weight onto his brother’s neck. “Did you know she was leaving?” 

“Yes, we did,” Azriel answered calmly from behind him, “She gave us the letter yesterday, then I flew her to the border.” 

Rhys dropped Cassian, who gasped for air. He turned his attention to the shadowsinger, shoulders hunched with tension, fully intending on leveling the spymaster with his bare hands. 

“Rhys, think about this rationally for a second,” Azriel said, holding up his hands. “How is your mate going to react to another female you used to be in love with — betrothed to — hanging around?”

His shoulders sagged. Az had a point. The Mating Bond made both mates possessive to the point of danger, especially in the early days. And Rhys was already keeping Feyre in the dark about more than he’d like. 

“I just…wish I got to say goodbye. It’s like I’ve lost her again.” 

Cassian had poured him a new drink, and Rhys accepted it as he fell back into a plush chair, exhausted and boneless. 

It was the first of many, many drinks that night. And most of the nights to come.

Part 3

#acotar fic #acotar angst #acomaf angst #acomaf fic #rhysand x oc #rhysand x reader #rhys x oc #rhys x reader #rhysand angst #post utm #broken hearts #angst angst baby #inner circle #acotar #acomaf #acowar

[nightlyteaandpaper]

(Spoilers) Better Ways SJM could have had Feysand and not character assassinate Tamlin

I like Tamlin as a character even though I think he and Feyre are two sides of the same coin. I know SJM wants us to like Rhysand over Tamlin, but she did it all wrong. There were several ways she could have accomplished her goal for having Feyre and Rhysand be endgame and have him be a good character.

Option 1:

She could have killed Tamlin off in the first book when he fought ol' girl UTM. This would have allowed Feyre to be High Lady (if they had gotten married in secret under the mountain). Feyre could learn what it is like to run a kingdom and learn to love the people she is ruling over, while also mourning the life she could have had with Tamlin. If SJM wanted to keep Rhysand as the feminist king she wants him to be lauded as (this title is unearned), then we can show all the other High Lords either outright hating on Feyre for being the first High Lady because she's a woman or they could be skeptical of her because "how is this woman a high lady when she was a Human less than three months ago and just moved here six months ago?" And it could come off as sexist but is confusion and a valid critique.

Rhysand could be the only High Lord that has her back and that would make Feyre start seeing him in a different light. Slowly they find out that they have similarities and are outcasts and form a friendship as Rhysand gives her advice on leadership and then have them fall in love with each other. This would also allow them to merge two courts, which would lead the way for the High King plot if Sarah wanted to do that (I highly don't recommend it). Still, it also shows that the NC is not about segregation and racism, and those of a different court and different power are welcomed, which would be a wholly unique situation and cause tons of consequences.

If added dramas want to be in there, Tarquin could be one of the High Lords that is a little skeptical at first but is willing to try everything once and is a helping hand for Feyre and they could almost fall in love...until he reveals that should they marry, they wouldn't have a High Lady. This would not change how Feyre feels about Tarquin as a friend but as a lover. Rhysand being the FeMiNiSt KiNg he is, could be the one that is willing to have a High Lady. This would also not make Feyre an incompetent ruler. Tarquin could also form a friendship with Rhysand like he wanted to, and all three of them would become a powerful force to be reckoned with (and with Tarquin's IC and Rhysand's IC merging, that would be a fierce group of people.)

This also gives Feyre a friend that is not tied to her husband.

Option 2:

The other one is just that Tamlin and Feyre drift apart after UTM and they break up (probably during a fight). Rhysand, still having the bond, could bring Feyre to him so she can have time to figure out what to do and where to go because she is not staying with her ex, and he invites her to say with him until she finds a place to be. Feyre may choose not to, and Rhysand will reveal Valaris to her and set her up with a nice house (because he basically revealed Valaris to her under the assumption she can keep a secret but having no proof.) This can lead to Feyre having her own friends and discovering herself.

We can also have Tamlin being depressed because of the breakup, and when Feyre goes back to the Spring Court to get her stuff, they can have some sort of argument. They hate each other, and Tamlin can even accuse Feyre of cheating on him with Rhysand, and Feyre can assume Tamlin cheated on her with Ianthe (because in the second book, she made it clear that she thought Ianthe and Tamlin could be mates, I don't know why Lucien was her target.) Ianthe may or may not have cheated: if she didn't, then we could have her and Tamlin be mates, and Feyre and Ianthe become friends after a while. If she did, Feyre can punch her in the face when she finds out. But at the end of the trilogy, after Rhysand dies, Feyre could assume Tamlin still hates her for the breakup and won't help her but is surprised when he does. He wants Feyre to be happy, even without him.

This could lead to Feyre forming a (tentative, because he's her ex) friendship with Tamlin or just having political relations with the Spring Court. This will also have her defend him whenever someone talks crazy about him. She will understand that sometimes people's troubles are bigger than any solution a person has. They have to figure it out themselves.

Shit, after my Avatar fanfic, I might write a fanfic for these.

#writing #books & libraries #indie author #fanfiction #fanfic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #Tamlin #feyre deserves better #feyre x tamlin #rhys x feyre #feyre darling #rhysand #feysand #UTM #rhys acotar #feyre archeron #rhysand acotar #tarquin #spring court #summer court #acowar #night court

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Datura Pt 3

Summary: Trapped Under the Mountain you have to decide if it's worth keeping your enemies close.

Content Warnings: Under the Mountain is like a walking trigger warning, but mentions of torture, unnamed character death via the torture; Rhys is an ass but he's a protective ass so we'll allow it.

Author's Note: This part is loooong, needed to set up Part 4 and it made sense in my head to have these bits in one piece before we get to the *cough cough* personal training. Hope you guys enjoy! :)

(Part 1, Part 2)

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There’s no way out.

You bash the only heavy item you can find--a paperweight, tucked into the back of a dust filled drawer--against the air duct, over and over, large chunks of stone flying in every direction, even as the reality of the situation sets in. There are no back doors, no windows, just this slim chance that maybe, maybe you can bash your way out of the rock on sheer force of will.

The paperweights thuds against the stone make your ears ache. Every blow has your shoulder feeling like it might wrench from it’s socket any second, the pain a sharp thrum with every blow, but you can’t stop, if you stop you will think about it and if you start thinking about it, you won’t make it.

The blows land over and over, sometimes you switch arms to try and give yourself a break. You haven’t slept, exhaustion making this tedious, even more so when this escape attempt requires you to balance atop a bedside table that’s seen better days. Chunks of rock fly away from the wall, dust a heavy coat over your skin, your tongue. It’s like swallowing sand.

“Come on!” You beg the wall. The paperweight shutters, bits of metal cracking, denting. You’ve broken your fingernails, torn apart your knuckles trying to get the hunk of engraved metal to push through the rock. This is your only shot, the door’s bolted from the outside, a guard posted beyond. Rhysand, that bastard, had tossed you into this empty, dust ridden room hours ago. You aren’t entirely sure where you are, the journey over here a blur, glimpsed only in flashes as you’d hung over the male’s shoulder, but that’s irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is getting out, getting free. The air duct is more of a slit, carved into the rock wall that makes up your room, barely enough room for to slide your arm into, but you have to hope it gets wider somewhere. You can’t allow yourself to think about what happens if you can’t climb your way out of the room.

The paperweight lands again and again and again, the rhythm steady, the beat not unlike the drums that had gotten you into this mess in the first place. If you lived through this, you’d never go to another Calanmai celebration again. You take all that anger you feel, the helplessness and confusion of the last twenty four hours and channel it into your arm. The wall shudders, but your elusive powers do not flare behind a few wisps of darkness over your bloody knuckles.

“Break!” You snarl like it can hear you, bend to your desperation.

A few more blows and the only thing that breaks is the paperweight, the hunk of metal cracking into three, small pieces. You stare at it as it slips from your hand, scatters across the rock floor.

You know it can’t see you, but you flash your middle fingers at it. “Useless fucking thing,” you hiss as you climb off the bedside table. The room is larger than you anticipated, a bed in the center, the table next to it with a little lamp; there’s a small bathing room with a copper tub, sink and toilet. It’s not really a cell, it’s technically bigger than your room in the farmhouse, but the locked door reminds you it’s not better by any means. The whole place is dark, carved out of rock in the heart of a mountain, as far as you could tell when they brought you in. It might have made more sense if you were upright, but there’s no use dwelling on that now. Dust covers everything, the sheets, the walls, the floor, disturbed by your footprints, and also the bed that you managed to wiggle behind and push in front of the door. The wood was heavy, it had taken all your strength to push it away from the back wall and across the room. It might not do much, but it will be enough to give anyone pause, at least you hope. It’s better than sitting around waiting for them to come back, at the very least.

You go back to the bathroom, pausing briefly to wash the blood from your hands, then slowly study the place, looking for something you missed the first time around. One door, not even a door to the bathing room to lock yourself in if necessary. No more vents. No windows. No cupboards. Very little places to hide unless you feel like hiding under the bed. You go over the space inch by inch, looking for anything else to use to help dig yourself out, but there’s nothing. Not unless a cheap bar or soap of the moth bitten sheets can be used somehow. The base of the lamp looks heavy, but then you’d be working in the dark and that’s not an option.

You’re about to break down and cry when the door opens. Unhindered, because it doesn’t swing in, it swings out, your idea to block the door absolutely useless. From the darkness of the hallway, Rhys stares at you, then the bed, the wooden frame barely up to his chest.

You flash your middle fingers at him too, teeth pulled back in a snarl. If he tries to come in here you really will rip out his throat. He’d deserve it. Bastard. How could he do this to you?

With a smirk, and the flick of Rhys’s wrist, the bed re-centers itself against the far wall. Not even an inconvenience, he’d moved it like it was no effort at all.

Shit.

“Was that supposed to be a barricade?” The door swings shut behind him, the lock clicking ominously into place in the cavernous space. He’s found a new shirt, the one he’d given you earlier stuffed in the corner where you can’t smell the scent of him any longer.

He seats himself on the edge of your bed, making himself comfortable, eyes darting briefly to the new hole in the wall. “Dare I ask?”

You cross your arms over your chest, still barring your teeth. Perhaps Calanmai had turned you into more animal than girl. “It was like that when I got here.”

“Of course,” he says with a shrug, like he knows it’s useless, that you’ll simply tire yourself out, become easier prey.

“What do you want?” You hiss. He doesn’t seem to notice the venom in your tone, the way you make sure there’s distance between the two of you.

“Can’t I be here to make sure you’re comfortable?” He counters.

“What an excellent host you make,” you snarl. “Will you bathe and tuck me in next?”

His violet gaze rakes slowly over you, assessing the bare expanse of your legs, the tattered, mud stained hem of your shift, barely covering you, the barely there straps clinging for dear life to your dirt stained shoulders. It’s intense, you know many fae would melt under it; you might have too, if things had been different, if the sight of him didn’t make you want to hurl something at his head.

“Darling, I’d lick you clean if you asked,” he says lowly.

“Does that shit usually work for you?” You snap back. He’s infuriating. How could you have kissed him?

He grins as he pushes away from the bed, eyes locked on your lips like he’s thinking about that kiss too. “I don’t usually have to resort to it, my good looks and natural charm do most of the work for me.”

“You have the charm of a viper.”

He huffs a laugh, “Cruel, wicked thing.”

His advances have you backing up, until you stumble right into the wall. The rock bites into your shoulder blades as he halts inches from you, close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your face; smell that citrus and jasmine scent of him. You should push him away, give yourself breathing room, but when he’s this close rational thought eddies from your head.

“What do you want?” You repeat, voice shakier than you intend, trying to remind yourself that you’re angry at him, that you don’t want him anywhere near you. It’s his fault you’re in here.

“Her highness wants you trained,” he says like that’s supposed to mean something to you.

All you can do is stare at him.

“She sent word to your father,” he amends. “He’ll be here in three months time.”

You’re suddenly aware of how loud your own heartbeat is.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me? He never bothered to contact me before.” You’re loosing your edge, mind spinning with all the things you could do to try and put some distance between the two of you.

“It seems your Uncle stole you away in the middle of the night,” Rhys explains. “Hybern has been looking for you since.”

“He’s done a shitty job.”

Rhys shrugs as he reaches out a hand to play with a tendril of your hair, curling it around his slender fingers. A cat playing with it’s food; he has no intention of letting you move away from the wall, trapped between the rock and his chest. “He’s eager to see you again, and Her Highness is eager to prove that you’re useful.”

“Why?” Why does Hybern suddenly care about you? Why does the red head care what you do with your powers? Why is this male touching you still and why are you letting him?

“Hybern’s an opportunist,” he says as he brushes the strand behind your ear. “His plans for Prythian might be closer to reality with the right power behind it.”

None of it makes any sense to you.

Rhys must see that on your face because he says, “Hybern made Amarantha. That might not make sense to you yet, but she is what she is because of him. She knows the best way to solidify her position within the world Hybern intends to create is to hand him a weapon already sharp enough to use.”

“So I’m to be a pawn then?”

He shrugs, the hand still against your temple drifting to brush over your cheek, like he can’t help but touch you. “Or you could also be an opportunist.”

You quirk a brow.

“Hybern might just be your only way out of here, Darling.”

“First off, don’t call me that. Second, what if I don’t?”

“You will.”

You shiver.

 “Training isn’t the choice here. The choice is whether you want to see anyone get hurt to make sure it happens.”

“What are you gonna do, torture me?” You hiss.

He brushes a thumb over your lip, violet eyes trained there like he’s thinking about how they felt against his own earlier. “You have people you care about.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“She’s already given me the order to find your uncle.” His fingers drift lower, until he’s holding your chin between his forefinger and chin. “Where is he?”

“I’ve been with you,” you growl; his words snap you back to reality. He’s the enemy. You do not want to be this close to the enemy. “How would I know?”

“My spies tell me he packed a bag and left after finding you gone? Did you have a meeting place for emergencies?”

“Eat shit,” you snarl.

 Something brushes against you, like a shadow, but it’s not against your skin, it’s against your mind. The sensation cold, foreign. You blink, pull your head out of his grip to shake your head, shake the feeling off, but it lingers, holding on.

“You don’t even have any fucking shields,” he snarls.

The brush against your mind makes you see things, the farmhouse, your own hands kneading bread, it takes longer than it should for you to realize you’re seeing your own memories play out before you.

“What-” a tavern spins into view, the worn sign clear enough in your eyes that you say the name out loud. It’s a little place, not too far from Spring’s borders, close enough to Autumn that you can get there by foot in half a day. Your uncle had shown you the place as a kid, said that if you’d ever gotten separated from him than you were to go there and wait. If he’d returned home and found the house empty, the first place he’d go was there.

The memory fizzles; the shadow recedes.

Reality slams into you, tears falling from your eyes. What did you just do?

Like he can’t help himself, Rhys brushes a tear off your cheek with his knuckle. “We’ll work on shields first.”

He moves to leave, but you grab him by the front of the shirt. “Wait, please… please don’t do this! I’ll do whatever you want, ok? Just, just leave my uncle out of this.”

It is not cruelty on his face, or judgment, it’s a flash of pain before he straightens, face a mask of perfect indifference as he slides his hand over yours. “As I said, Darling, I would consider your options here carefully.” He pulls your hand away, the lock sliding out of the door on a phantom wind, and then he’s gone.

Only when the lock clicks into place again do you allow yourself to crumple to the floor and cry.

There’s a flower on the bedside table when you finally manage to get up off the floor. It’s the same glowing, violet bud that you had seen in your dreams, the one that had led you right into Rhys’s waiting arms. You pick it up gently, starring at the soft petals, so thin you can almost see through it. It’s beautiful and strange all at once.

Then you take it to the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.

No more stupid flowers, or those damn visions, no more chasing flowers through the woods and trusting stupidly handsome males to protect you. Fuck him and these stupid flowers! They’re to blame for all this mess. A mess you were now dragging your uncle into.

You might have started to spiral again if there wasn't another flower in the first’s place by the time you step back into the main room. As if the one you’d moved had never been there. You stare at it for a long while, then back at the bathroom, the water still running as the toilet flushes, just to make sure you hadn’t imagined removing the first one.

Groaning, you snatch the second one and toss it down the toilet with the first.

There’s a third as quickly and as soundlessly as the other two had arrived.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” You snatch it off the bedside table and crush it into your hand, the scent of it overwhelming, too strong for any flower not sprouting from the ground to be.

You wipe the remains on the dirty sheets as you sit on the bed, watching the table now, daring a fourth to appear. No one has used the door, the vents aren’t an option, it’s got to be some sort of magic. Unless tables can sprout gardens in this strange mountain dungeon.

As if it knows it’s being watched, no fourth flower appears.

You cross your arms, waiting, challenging it. Minutes tick by. Nothing. Only then do you breath a sigh of relief.

But in the stillness of the room, the lack of entertainment soon becomes suffocating. You try to distract yourself by stripping the sheets off the bed and shaking the dust off of them. You’re obviously going to be sleeping here, might as well make yourself comfortable. But that doesn’t take long.

You push the bed back in front of the door again, it’s failure be damned. At least, if anyone tries to enter while you sleep you'll have a second to get up and move before they get inside.

The bedside table looks lonely without the bed next to it, with a shrug, you decide to move that as well. You’re half way across the room when one of the legs hits a pit in the floor and tips, the lamp bouncing off the floor with a clang that echoes like a death toll in the cavernous space. The movement knocks the slim drawer on the table wide open, a worn book tumbling out across the floor. It definitely hadn't been there earlier when you'd opened it and found the paperweight. The fading title reads Death Gods and Goddesses Through the Ages, in a scrolling font, the author’s name long since legible in the battered leather. There’s less dust on the pages than the rest of the room, like it hasn’t been here quite as long. After collecting the fallen lamp, blissfully not broken, as if is spelled to avoid such things from clumsy creatures like you, and pushing the table against it’s new home on the wall, you sit yourself atop the bed and prop the book open.

The pages are worn, stained, most of the margins filled with hand written notes. A couple of the pages are even book marked.

Long before the first ages of the world, when light was first introduced, the Gods walked the land, unburdened with the weight or mortality. They were before Time. Until the Darkness came and merged with them. Next to the opening paragraph, someone had added the annotation: These are not the same as the Princes from Hel that opened the Portals in the Dark Ages, these are other. Their powers are other.

You shiver and close the book. Who would keep this here?

You draw your fingers over the edges as you process, lip worried between your teeth. It feels like a bad omen, a warning… from the flowers? Your head hurts from all the questions. Are these supposed to be connected? The flowers had led you to the cave, were they leading you to this strange book now too?

You climb under the covers, cold, and then crack the book open again.  

The Darkness took hold, hid Its children in the shadows of the world, rearing its beloved offspring in secret. We did not know to fear them until it was too late. Monsters, they are such terrible monsters. The next note in the margins was a page number that you flipped to, marked with an old slip of paper with swirling marks doodled across it. The High Lords of old consulted with witches and necromancers, priestesses and seers, biding their time, accumulating their knowledge until they were finally able to form a weapon against the Death Gods. At least, that was what they told them. There were those among them who didn’t want the gods removed, they wanted their power to wield, to rule. There’s lists of names, linked in genealogical order of ancient High Lords and bloodlines that had merged with the Death Gods and Goddesses of old. All carefully mapped out. Whoever had owned this book before had done their research, some of the trees branched over onto other pages, the names growing smaller and smaller the longer they went. You don’t have time to read through all of them before the lock on the door groans as it’s moved out of place.

You scramble to hide the book under the mattress before the door opens, though maybe it would have served you just as well as a weapon, because it’s not Rhysand at the door this time.

The soulless black eyes that leer down at you can only belong to the Attor.

It takes seconds for the hulking creature to kick the bed out of the way, the wooden legs screeching as they slash through the rock floor. You don’t even have time to scream, run, as the monster bursts into the room and grabs you by the back of your shift.

“The Queen demands an audience,” it sneers in a voice that sounds like shifting sand.

You flail as it lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing, begging whatever gods can hear you for help. In a rare flare of power, your claws tear through your fingertips, dark, misty power budding in your palms. You claw at the leather hands holding you, slashing over and over again, splattering blood over the walls.

The Attor snarls, tosses you hard into the wall just outside your door. The impact is jarring, black spots swimming across your eyes, all the air leaving your lungs in a rush. You scramble to get onto your feet, legs unsteady, the room spinning. The cavern like tunnel ahead of you flips and doubles.

“Stupid girl!” It snarls as it reaches for the back of your shift again.

You scramble out of reach, legs wobbly, talons scraping across the walls. You make it all of three steps before the Attor grabs you again. If it’s arms aren’t it’s weak spot you need to hit it somewhere else, but it holds you up out of reach, lesson learned. You reach for the walls instead, punching your talons through the rocks, trying to wrench yourself out of it’s grip by finding something to hold on to.

The terrible shrieking sound your claws make against the rock makes the Attor give you a shake that has your brain rattling around in your skull. “Stop that you little pest!”

More spots swim across your vision, hands slipping off the walls. These last twenty-four hours have made you feel more powerless than you have ever felt in your life. What good are these supposed powers beneath your skin if they don’t even work?

The Attor, on lumbering legs, carries you through dark, twisting tunnels. It’s like walking through a maze, the dark stone walls only lit with torches in sparse intervals. There’s no decorations. Little light. And cold, so damn cold.

The Attors claws scrape against the ground as it walks; you recognize the scrapping sound from the cave in Spring. It had been out hunting you too.

“Where are you taking me?” You dare to ask.

It takes a couple more sharp turns, it’s breathing a heavy hiss behind you as it finally brings you to a set of double, stone doors. They’re taller than even the High Lord’s manor, something you imagined you’d see a cave troll bursting out of in one of your books at home. There is something ancient, sacred about the space as the doors swing open on their own. The chamber ahead of you is cavernous, held up by too many carved pillars to count, all depicting different battles across Prythian’s extensive history. It’s the art work you’ve seen replicated in temples and paintings across the Courts, all supposed to be symbolic, holy, but this…

The floors are made of red marble, like a blood stain; fitting because pinned to the walls are bodies, some human, some fae, some other, all disfigured and mutilated. The contents of your stomach rises into your throat.

The cavern is full of fae, some dancing to the low rumble of music coming from the corner, like no one notices the horrors around them.

At the far end of the space sits a dais, the red headed Queen seated atop it. A glittering dress the shade of her hair hugs her form, a single shard of bone dangling from a string around her neck the centerpiece of the plunging neckline. She sips from a golden chalice, a smudge of red lipstick along the glass, her eyes bored as she surveys the party happening around her. There’s a half dressed male sitting at her feet, head in her lap, her clawed nails drifting absently through his pale hair. A cloud of mirthroot smoke circles him, golden eyes glassy like he has no idea where he is. Rhysand leans against the back of the throne, the only one watching the Attor approach at all. Maybe it is normal to see the gangly creature drag people into the throne room, the party goers certainly don’t notice you.

Amarantha, Rhys had called her, only notices you when the Attor all but hurls you at the base of the dais, your body crumbling against the stairs.

“Her Highness,” the Attor sneers.

The Queen’s grin is cruel as she passes her cup to Rhys, who all but tosses it over his shoulder when she’s not looking. “Quiet!” She barks at the musicians, half hidden in an alcove between pillars. Her voice carries through the room like she had screamed it, the echo in the chamber making the floor shake.

All eyes are suddenly on you as you manage to get back on your feet.

“Rhysand tells me you’re willing to cooperate,” Amarantha says.

You’re very aware of the leering eyes of the crowd as they take you in, still wearing nothing but a shift. The crowd doesn’t get too close, but they’re near enough that you hear the whispers, the laughter. It’s an effort just to swallow. “Yes, I did,” you choke out, intentionally not looking at the male.

Amarantha frowns, “What was that, mouse? I can’t hear you.”

Your cheeks heat; your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “Yes, I will cooperate,” you bite out.

“Hybern will be glad to hear it,” she strokes a hand over the male’s temple, leaving faint pink scratches across his pale skin. He’s too high to notice. “It will be a great victory for the Court to have you back and ready to take your rightful place.”

Rightful place your ass. None of this feels real, right. Your rightful place is with your uncle, trying dozens of new jobs every time his trading business slows, learning new things to make the money stretch. The farmhouse was a new project, a new chance at settling down and not having to live on the road like you had for most of your life. That life was the only thing you had ever known. To be here now, hearing all this talk about war and conquest, with this queen and her court, it was like you’d stepped into a strange dream you couldn’t escape. You’d been trying not to think about it, but faced with it now you didn’t know what to do, say. She was starring at you like she was waiting for you to thank her for ripping the ground out from under you.

Amarantha frowns when you don’t say anything, her hand across the male’s forehead stilling, the eye in the ring on her finger swiveling to look right at you as if it’s a living thing.

“Rhysand,” she snaps, “you had a gift for our guest, didn’t you?”

Rhys looks up from his very important business picking lint off his shoulder. “Right, of course, the gift.”  

The crowd quiets as he descends from the dais and snaps his fingers. At your feet a male appears, bound and gagged with the dark tendrils of Rhys’ magic. The male looks at you pleadingly and though your heart goes out to his plight, you glance up at the other male in confusion. Are you supposed to know who this is?

“Your uncle’s farm hand,” he says with a grand sweep of his hand, all courtly business.

“Since you couldn’t find the kidnapper,” Amarantha hisses.

Rhys slides his hands in his pockets casually, the picture of bored indifference. But his violet eyes are only on you as he says, “This was the only male waiting for her at the Temple she told me about.”

Temple? Your head spins. You hadn’t shown him a temple.

Amarantha pushes the male in her lap away from her as she climbs down the stairs in heels sharp enough to cut. “A little demonstration is in order, don’t you think?”

Rhys steps a little closer to the bound male, but you can’t help but note that he has now positioned himself between you and where Amarantha is poised at the base of the dais.

The male makes a gasping sound before his eyes glaze over, sweat quickly dotting his forehead. Rhys remains with his hands in his pockets, Amarantha giddy at the sight unfurling before her, and even though neither of them move, it’s clear the male is fighting the invisible grip they have on him. You can’t help but think about what the two of them have already done to you.

“Wait,” you protest. Even if you don’t know this male, you don’t want him to suffer. “I already said I would cooperate, this isn’t necessary!”

The male begins to scream, thrash, and the bands of darkness around his wrists and legs dip into the marble floor, pinning him.

The crowd presses in closer to watch; you hear someone start making bets about how long he’ll last.

“This is a little reminder,” Amarantha coos at you, soft enough that the crowd won’t be able to hear it over the screaming. “Of what will happen if you decide you suddenly don’t want to cooperate with my training regime.”

Blood starts to pool in the corner of the male’s eyes.

You can’t stop yourself from stepping forward and grabbing Rhys’s arm. “Please, stop, I get it ok! Let him go. I will do what you ask.”

But louder than your pleading, Amarantha orders, “If he has nothing to give us, kill him.”

The gag slips from the male’s mouth as he turns to look at you with what looks like his last little bit of strength. “Forgive me, Your Highness.”

The sound of bones snapping fills the chamber; the male gurgles on his own blood, and then he slumps lifelessly to the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks and you yank your hand away from Rhys’s arm, disgusted.

Amarantha waves the Attor over to clean up the mess, even as she says, “You may resume your dancing now.”

As if it never happened, the music starts back up. People start laughing and drinking, the dances not unlike the writhing shapes you had seen in your vision of Calanmai.

She waits until the noise is too loud to be overheard by the crowd to ask, “Did he tell you where her uncle is?”

There’s no chance this stranger knows anything about your uncle. Rhys had lied, but you still find yourself holding your breath, waiting for this to be a trap too. The male certainly acted like he’d known you.

But Rhys says, “I saw a tavern in Winter, I’ll head there-”

“My men will take it from here,” Amarantha interrupts, “I want you here, working on her.”

Rhys bows. “As you wish, My Queen.”

“Escort her back to her room,” Amarantha orders, “I don’t want her back here until we’re sure she can be controlled.”

“Of course,” Rhys moves to take your arm and you duck out of reach.

“I can walk,” you hiss.

He lets his hand fall, slides it back into his pockets.

Amarantha is half way up the dais when she calls back, “I expect quick results.”

He nods in understanding.

“And don’t forget, Rhysand, about the deal you made for this opportunity.”

His eyes darken. “I haven’t.”

As far away from him as you want to be, it’s a relief when he motions for you to move towards the door. The crowd parts for you, some of them outright ignoring you, others leering.

A redheaded male watches the two of you closely, catching Rhys’s eye as you pass.

Rhys snarls something you can’t make out at him.

“Whore,” the other male spits back.

Rhys laughs mirthlessly in response as the doors shut in the other male’s face.

You have questions of course, but the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours weighs so heavily on you, you almost wish it was the Attor carrying you out. Every footstep is heavy.

Rhys doesn’t speak as he leads you through the maze of tunnels. You should be attempting to learn the path, so if you ever do get out you know where you’re going, but it feels like so much effort. What does it matter in the end? You’re stuck here, at the whim of an evil queen and whatever the hell Rhys is, at least until your supposed father gets here and decides to do Mother knows what with you. Any attempts at escaping, at fighting are useless, not when Rhys knows where to look for him. It’s the reminder that he lied that finally makes you look up from where you’ve been following the cracks in the floor.

“Why’d you do it?” You ask softly.

“Do what?” He counters. He sounds as exhausted as you feel.

You watch the way the shadows of the torchlight bath him in half darkness, the glow of his eyes dimmed here. Everything about him feels dim in these halls, like the mountain has stolen something from him.

“That male-”

He halts at a door that must now belong to you and a bit of magic pulls the door open. “She wants you to know what she will do if she even suspects you’re trying to outsmart her.”

“No,” you shudder thinking about what he had done. How could anybody wield powers like that? “No that’s not what I mean.”

Rhys leans against the doorframe and motions you inside. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me then, Darling.”

You stare at him. He seems to be playing a game unto himself. Whatever his motives are, whatever it has to do with you, he’d not about to admit it here in the hall.

You step into the room, head pounding from all the unanswered questions you have.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says as the door begins to close.

You don’t want to see him in the morning. He’s a monster who can rip people’s minds apart with a thought, a monster who somehow lured you out of your home and brought you here to his evil queen, but he’s also the monster keeping your secrets, and in places like this, you might need a monster like that on your side. You won’t trust him, not after what he’d done in the cave, but maybe it’s not trust you need in a place like this. Amarantha demands you learn to use your powers, she never said anything about you using them on her.

“I’m counting down the seconds,” you say dryly.

“Dream of me,” he says sweetly.

The door closes before you can snarl that you’ve dreamed of him enough.

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Tag List: @mariahoedt, @llovelydove, @twsssmlmaa

If anyone else wants to be added to the taglist feel free to let me know :)

#rhysand x reader #rhysand x reader smut #rhysand acotar #acotar fic #acotar smut #fanfic #my writing #datura series #rhysand fanfic #utm!rhys #utm!rhys x reader

[witchothewest]

FYI my therapist’s favorite character is Lucien.

#she just finished acotar #we also talked about the questionable ethics of Rhys utm #she is also a nesta fan #I’m so freaking excited for her to get to acomaf lol #lucien vanserra #acotar

[maimedaffair]

everyone in those books being big beefy guys makes me angry. u know who is not big and beefy ? azriel. rhys. lucien. athletic ? toned ? six packs ? sure. beefy ? no.

#the only beefy ones in my head are tamlin & cassian. #lucien is very astarion coded in my head. azriel is supposed to be like ... black cat hiding in the shadows so he has to be lean and slende #doesnt hAVE to be but in my head yea #rhys was utm for a long ass time. and he ?? doesnt lift a finger to fight most of the time. he spars with the boys but thats like #some of the only time we see him not just flicking a finger to slaughter u know

[highmati]

I also got the feeling that the "found family" in canon never actually felt earned because it's so obvious to me (as someone who hasn't read all of it in its entirety so take this however you may) that everybody in the Inner Circle aren't even good friends to each other. Rhys is absolutely not a good friend to any of them. So I just think that they all need some therapy and to actually acknowledge that they're not this top most echelon of family and friendship and respect and trust.

#( I think it's the most obvious to me with Azriel? Poor guy gets sidelined it feels like SO often. ) #( He's broody and quiet so nothing must be wrong. ) #( I'm sure in the early years the IC /was/ this beautiful little tightknit group of hooligans. ) #( And especially the Bat Boys! ) #( But I imagine UTM timeline and just. Time(TM) has kind of worn on everyone. ) #( Rhys owes everyone an apology and they all need group counseling. Nobody knows how to communicate or regulate their emotions properly. ) #( I'd like to see it happen! )

[thesistersarcheron]

I really want to write an ACOTAR fic where Feyre is born Under the Mountain. The Archerons are lesser nobles and essentially serve as Amarantha's set dressing, so she doesn't have much contact with anyone of importance growing up.

But maybe Amarantha likes taking up the role the meddling matchmaker queen to pass the time. Eventually, she notices this fiery young female on the cusp of her twenties when the Archeron parents fall on hard times and decide to debut their three daughters (and how irresponsible they are to have had not one but three children in Amarantha's prison-court), hoping advantageous marriages will keep the family from complete disgrace.

Finally, finally, Feyre catches Rhys's eye since she's next on Amarantha's chopping block, and he knows.

This female, who mingles with Day and Summer Court rebel sympathizers far too much for his comfort, has never known life beyond this cursed pit in the Middle. She's never seen the stars. She's never felt the wind on her face, in her hair. She's never known the wonders of her home court. She's never known him to be anyone other than Amarantha's whore, the monster who shatters the minds of dozens of children on a whim.

She's reckless and foolish and so brave every time Amarantha trots out another leering Vanserra brother or cruel Court of Nightmares sycophant to torment court her.

And she's his mate, his mate, his mate.

#cue feyre doing something to piss amarantha off and triggering the three trials to save her family's/the rebels' lives #rhys just has to watch in complete horror while he tries to do some damage control so she stops looking at him with such disgust #and then acomaf is just an extended 'a whole new world' sequence where rhys introduces feyre to the wonders of prythian #feyre #rhysand #feyre archeron #feysand #acotar #a court of thorns and roses fic #feyre 100% has a wonky night sky painted on the ceiling of her teeny tiny bedroom utm