AN: I can never just write anything short and sweet, can I?

But in celebration of the title reveal of the latest addition to the ACOTAR series, I've written some pre-wedding smut to tide us over till May (my god it feels so far away!).

Mutual masturbation and smut ahead so turn away now if that isn't your cup of tea. Otherwise -

Enjoy!

She is an idiot.

No, wait, scratch that - she is embedded in a Circle of Idiots.

Exhibit A: Mor.

And if she's dropping truth bombs, she might as well add exhibit B to the Idiot Circle: Rhysand.

Because that's what they are, the pair of them. Amren was quick to call them out right from the start -

"That is an idiotic plan," she rasped, her middle and index finger pointed at the two cousins, "and you two are idiots for even suggesting it." She turns to Mor, the instigator of her libido's doom. "They've been accustomed to seeing and sleeping together for a better part of a year now," she sniffs disdainfully, her tone devoid of complete and utter faith when she turns her sharp and critical eyes to Rhysand and says, "You are not going to last the day."

- though, if she's being completely honest, which is the theme she's going with tonight, perhaps there should be an exhibit C in the ring of idiots. Herself. One might even argue that she is the Biggest Idiot of them all.

Cause she's the idiot that agreed to this arrangement in the first place, under the petulant motive of proving Amren wrong of course, but an agreement nonetheless.

"'It's tradition' they said, 'just one day' they said, 'you won't even notice' they said, 'it's just the one night," Feyre mutters in a derisive and acerbic tone, her voice pitched high and nasally so as to mimic what she imagines an idiot would sound like. For a couple of forward-thinking High Fae, Rhys and Mor have been steadfast in upholding traditions when it came to planning the wedding.

She was never one for pomp and circumstance so her approach to this wedding, her real wedding it may be, was very much the same to the first: let someone else make all the decisions. Feyre knows what's in her and Rhysand's heart and that's all that matters to her.

Plus Mor's constant pouting and whinging about how she wasn't there to witness a most important moment in their lives such as joining in matrimony the first time was starting to grate at her nerves, so.

Big wedding it is.

It's not as if she minds. This time, she genuinely wants to share this moment with those she cares about. In fact, it warms her heart to have a group of individuals be so invested in her happiness, so who is she to turn them away?

She can see it in Rhys' eyes too, his desire to share this momentous occasion with this family he's built his whole life around to protecting - she could never deny him anything.

(Nevermind that it gives her endless amusement to see Mor come in and out of the townhouse on a daily basis, her arms laden with a gargantuan binder color coded according to wedding necessities and carrying samples for her mate to peruse and Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in centuries, so deeply ingrained in the wedding planning that he meticulously combed through catalogues of fabric just trying to decide upon the right color palette even if he can't tell hide nor hair what the difference is between eggshell and cream)

(They go with neither by the way. Rather, they settle for a dusty blue and silver motif that they all agreed would look splendid with the backdrop of a winter wedding)

Nor will she deny herself this one part in which she is resolute in accomplishing: selecting her wedding gown - one that will not only send her groom into what she hopes is a frenzy, but one that honestly makes her feel both soft and sexy andproudto be walking down that aisle and towards the one who she's going to spend the rest of her eternity with. Suffice it to say, she is most estatic with her choice.

She should have just ended all wedding-related decision making there.

Except she had to go and give in to Mor's big, round, amber eyes and Rhys' stupid wounded baby Illyrian bat pout, the cousins as opposite as night and day in looks but utterly lethal in adorably pleading expressions - she is ashamed to admit that she was too weak to resist.

Now here she is, flying over Velaris in her skimpy nightgown because, as previously established, she is an idiot who was too antsy to grab anything else to protect her from the unforgiving winter night before taking off in flight from the townhouse and on towards the House of Wind, where Rhysand mournfully informed her (as if any of this was her fault in the first place!) he'd be slumbering that evening.

"Try not to miss me too much, Feyre darling."

What a prick.

(Damn him for being right)

She is freezing by the time she arrives and of fucking course she still hasn't mastered the art of landing and still has no clue (because what is free time, anymore) about wind and direction andtimingthat she ends up tripping on her feet and landing with her limbs sprawled and her face planted firmly onto the rooftop floor.

"Ow," she hisses, rubbing at her nose, "Ow, ow, ow, that fucking hurt!"

She gives herself a few more seconds to wallow in her embarrassment and, not for the first time this evening, she feels relief that no one (particularly Amren, Cassian, Mor and even Azriel) is privy to her humiliation and could therefore never use it against her for a laugh. Cursing, grumbling bitterness about idiots and self-deprecating commentary over with, she dusts herself off from the ground, tucks her wings away and stows into the doors leading to the dining room.

Safely cocooned within the solid walls of her other home, she can focus enough on warming herself up before honing on her hearing.

The House is far from empty so it takes her a moment to sort out the sounds - from Bryaxis in her cage and the priestesses who remain ever diligent in the home's vast library even at odd hours to Cassian's obnoxiously loud snores and Azriel's comparatively soft ones, till she finally locates her mate's room.

She pauses before his door and closes her eyes, tapping into the part of her mind that is linked to him. Rhysand? she whispers, her voice soft as a caress. A nightmare from either of them is, thankfully, far and few in between. Perhaps they will never be fully rid of them, after everything they've endured, but she'll take the good days for when they have them and weather through the rest. She lays a gentle hand against his shield so as not to startle him and tries again. Rhysand.

She knows she's woken him when something in her clicks and their bond vibrates to life, the hum growing louder the more conscious he gets.

Feyre? she detects the yawn in his voice and she smiles. But then she hears him scrambling from the bed, an alarmed what's wrong? ringing in her head and she's quick to assuage him by gripping the knob of the door shut before he can open it.

Nothing's wrong.There's a near imperceptible thud and she senses him sag against the door. She lowers herself to the ground and sits with her back against the wood that separates them. It's the complete opposite, actually. I'm right outside your door.

If that's supposed to be good news, love, your delivery could use some work. Perhaps it would have been for the best if you started with that bit of information? He groans. I feel like you've shaved off ten years of my life in a bad way. You'll be sending me and by extension, yourself, to an early grave.

All the better, my senescent High Lord, she grins. I might actually catch up to you.

My Cauldron Feyre, that was so uncalled for. She can sense his feigned indignation at the mention of his age so she responds with appropriate solemnity.

You're right, she declares but before he can even bask in his triumph she barrels on with, between the two of us you're the bigger child.

Rude.

You love it.

He chuckles. I do, I really do.

When their laughter dies down, a silence wraps around them like a blanket of comfort. Feyre closes her eyes, syncing her breathing to Rhys'. She lays a palm upon the door and the wood is cool. But there's a rustle from his side and it warms beneath her when she feels Rhysand touch a hand on the other side of the wood. She smiles, the connection between them flaring so strong that his hand lands on the exact same spot hers currently resides. She picks at their bond and it's almost as if they've entwined their fingers. She sighs and her breath mists in front of her face, yet underneath her skin remains a warm tingle and it's nice, the quiet between them.

Darling, it's not that I don't love seeing you, but what are you doing here? Even with the distance between them, she could sense his frown. Oh how she could probably spot that frown from a mile away by now. Something's the matter if you've come all this way, in the middle of the night no less. He pauses. You're not. . . you're not having cold feet are you? I mean, I know we're mates and everything. . . He trails off as his amused chuckle drifts into her mind. Though try as he might to hide it, she can still detect the trickle of nervousness underlining his words. She brushes a hand against the wood like she might caress his shoulder or his face.

No, feet is warm and toasty. She frowns when she rubs at her slightly cold toes. Well, figuratively, at least. She sighs. I know we agreed to spend the night apart but. . . she groans. Look, we're all ready mates! Even you have to agree, this is stupid. Not a day has gone by when we haven't seen each other. We've slept together-

-and more.

She nods fervently even if he isn't privy to the sight. Exactly, and more! Pretty much, every night since after the war. One day and night apart should mean nothing. This tradition is nothing! It's a ridiculously upheld ideal of male ownership that is meant to ensure the bride's maidenhood remains pure and intact. She grumbles, and I'm hardly the prime example of 'virginal'.

Rhys snickers. Don't I know it. She thumps her head against the door in annoyance. Is that a complaint? He stops. I thought so, she remarks, her tone dripping with an assuredness only a female can exude when she's fully aware of the control she has over her significant other.

But the smugness fades at his next words.

Say it.

Say what? She plays dumb, despite being armed with the knowledge that she fools no one.

You know what.

No, she insists rather petulantly, I don't.

We've all ready established that we're mates, have we not? Why are you so intent on digging your heels on this one, this time, there's a purr to his voice as he continues, when you're all ready so close to what you want.

He clicks the 't' in 'want' and it drives her mad.

(Though mad with what? Anger or lust, she can't quite decide)

Because, dear mate, she gripes, gritting her teeth, I'm afraid you won't be able to walk down the aisle tomorrow if I inflate that head of yours any further.

Rhys brings a hand to his mouth to contain his tittering. Touched as I am by your concern, my love, he grins, her temper so fervent it's a tangible energy even with the distance between them, it's unnecessary. Your words would be nothing but a soothing comfort to this, how did you phrase it? 'Senescent High Lord'.

Prick.

You know, you really are an artist. You have such colorful ways of telling me you love me.

She growls.

I'm waiting, Feyre, darling. . .

She's willing to sabotage herself by denying it one more time, when an idea strikes her. Her deviousness must bleed through because even Rhys stops his teasing enough to wonder.

I'm sensing. . . things are not about to go my way.

Feyre smirks.

For the record, I can sleep without you. I just don't want to.

He knows he should be happy that she's told him what he's wanted to hear but there's a quiet dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He pouts. There's a but, isn't there?

Feyre's smirk stretches to a near serpentine grin. But since you insisted on this tradition of not seeing each other prior to the wedding, I'll have to insist you close your eyes and keep your hands to yourself for the duration of the night.

Were it not for the bond between them, she'd be afraid she might have put him in a comatose state. But he finally breaks his absurdly long silence.

Oh, he purrs, but you're a cruel, cruel mistress. . .

Except I'm not the one who set the rules, am I, High Lord? She chuckles and she'd be lying if she said it wasn't even just a tad sinister.

(Nevermind that she is sabotaging herself, but what a sweet torture it would be!)

There's a mumble through the door that would be indiscernible to a human, but thanks to her fae hearing, she can clearly make out Rhys' annoyed "I hate myself right now," through the timber entryway. She swallows a laugh.

How will this even work? he grouses. They both stand, facing the door and, unbeknownst to them, both with their arms crossed as they consider the door contemplatively.

Close your eyes, Feyre instructs. Lay down on the bed and close your eyes.

This is utterly ridiculous.

For someone who wears an inordinate amount of black, I should thinkyou'dbe familiar with the color of pots and kettles. . .

In lieu of a response, there's heavy feet and more groaning because, as aforementioned, her mate is an idiot. You are such a child! she chides.

As if to prove her point, he replies with, am not!

She rolls her eyes. Are you even on the bed yet?

Yes.

And your eyes are shut?

A loud sigh. She shakes her head in exasperation.

Yes, my lady.

Then I'm coming in. She turns the doorknob but before she opens it, she reiterates, and keep those eyes closed!

There's a rustle of smooth silk sheets and even from her place opposite the door, she can feel the rotation of his eyeballs. Yes, dear.

The room is void of any fireplace but when she enters, she's immediately enveloped by a wave of warmth. She sighs in contentment. Her gaze is drawn to the dark pile stretched over on one side of the bed.

Rhysand is laid on his stomach with his wings cocooning him as if in a chrysalis. From what she can tell, he is completely bare if the hint of the curve of his backside is any indication. She bites her lip.

Remember, no funny business.

She doesn't know who she's reminding, him or herself. Though she has a feeling she needs it more, the sight of him - long, tattooed and sinewed - draped sinfully amongst the sheets is testing her strength and her willpower.

Idiot, idiot, idiot -the pair of them. It's a chant in her brain that must drift to Rhys because he begins to snicker.

"Shut up," she growls. The bed dips with her weight and she lays on her side, facing Rhysand. He lifts his wing so that she might see him - eyes shut, but lips pursed inwards to, without a doubt, contain his amusement.

Remember, no funny business, he mocks, his quiet laughter unceasing. The muscles of his wings ripple with the movement and she feels her thighs clench.

With the sheets kicked all the way to the foot of the bed, nothing is left to the imagination. Though she's seen Rhys divested of all clothing (oft her doing) numerous times, the awe at seeing him exposed before her remains unwavering. To this day (and she figures, the rest of their infinite mortality), he remains the most beautiful male she has ever laid eyes on. He is Night Triumphant and it is never more evident as it is now, with the sun sunk low and the darkness wrapped around him and yet, there dwells a certain resplendence to him. His jet-black hair is a halo in the pale moonlight and his golden brown skin stands out against the dark bedding, almost making him glow. He is perfection personified, the scars and tattoos peppering his body only serving to heighten his midnight elegance. She aches to touch him, to melt into his bones till their darkness melds into each other, to have starlight spill into their skin as they join as one and reach the peak of ecstasy together. She aches for him though he is right in front of her.

The bed is gargantuan, they could share it and still have miles of space between them, and there is. But unable to help herself -

She drifts closer.

A thunderous silence creeps into the air as his laughter dies down and she diverts into an untalkative mood. She bridges just another inch of that gap and the scent of her wafts into the air between them. He takes a deep breath at the scent of her, her arousal evident.

And moans.

It's barely an audible resonance but it reverberates through her and right into her very core. The fingers on her right hand, the hand nearest him, clench into the linen beneath her in an effort to keep from making contact and the fabric beneath his hips shifts from her movement. He shudders.

"Feyre," he murmurs, his voice a wisp of air and his fingers twitching towards her own. "Feyre."

His voice drips with unfettered hunger and she's certain that if he were to open his eyes, she would be met with an indigo inferno of lust - the same one blazing in her own. The wing closest to her looms abreast her body and she can feel the heat emanating from it as if it was in direct contact with her flesh. She is a livewire, every muscle, nerve and cell taut in anticipation.

"N-no touching," she gasps when the end of his wing brushes against her calf.

His voice is a hoarse whisper as he declares, "We don't need to touch."

The moment he says it, he sends her an image of him as he is now.

Except this time, his wings are tucked away. He is on his back, the long, silky, steel of his member in his hand as he pleasures himself.

Now, she moans.

And the sound must please him because then he sends one of him planting an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, teeth marking the tendons where her shoulder meets her neck before soothing it with his tongue. The effigy is so powerful that she finds herself arching into the ghost of his touch.

But just as soon, he withdraws the picture from her head and she nearly whimpers at the callousness.

Even with the heavy atmosphere, he finds it in himself to chuckle. She chucks a spare pillow at his head, then laughs when he throws it right back and completely misses her in spite of their proximity. At least she knows his eyes remain shut.

He buries his head in his own pillow to muffle his laugh. . . and to avoid looking at her or admiring the flush of her skin, from her cheeks all the way down to the valley of her freckled chest where he knows the blush ends and, had the situation allowed it, he would follow the rush of blood to suckle at her breasts. He must accidentally send her the vision because Feyre sighs.

"No touching. Each other."

"It's a deal."

As the bargain is struck, a tattoo snakes around her thigh in the same place she sees one seared into his. When her fingers flutter to the ink, she feels the wetness of her thighs where the evidence of her arousal has trickled and she moans.

"What are you doing?" Rhys has tucked his wings away when she looks over at him and, as in the image he first sent, he has his cock in a grip, his hand doing lazy strokes up and down the long length of him. "Paint me a picture, Feyre, darling."

This is new, she thinks. They've talked desire plenty, in and out of bed, before - from harmless flirting to downright filthy. Rhys has a flare for it than her so she is all too happy to let him take the lead more often than not. This time however, the spotlight and the task of getting herself off, is on her.

So many firsts, she contemplates. Good thing she's always up for a challenge.

She breathes in deeply - tries to rationalize that she has no need to be nervous or embarrassed because no matter what happens, Rhysand is stuck with her for her better dirty talking skills or for worse - before releasing it in a shuddering exhale.

"I'm," she gulps. "I'm touching myself."

Rhys moves, close enough that his breath brushes her cheek on every expel of his breath, "where?"

Goosebumps rise on her skin.

"B-between my legs." She sends him a mental picture of herself in her (and his) favorite red spaghetti-strap nightwear with the black lace trimmings at the mid-thigh length bottom hem and V-cut neckline. His breath catches and a small sound of approval escapes from the base of his throat. In return, he brings back the image of himself kissing her neck, which escalates into him kissing the line of her throat down to her chest, where he pulls on the short nightgown to expose one of her breasts.

"Don't stop," Rhys whispers.

"Alright," she breathes, dipping into her center. She is so slick with desire that her finger slips in with ease. She moans.

"Paint me a picture, Feyre," Rhys insists but he's the one filling her head with vision after vision. In her head, he takes a pert nipple in his mouth and nips on the rosy peak in the way she favors. His teeth on her bosom seems so certain, heat scorching straight to her center at the phantom sensation, that she brings a hand to her breast in reality. She squeezes at the swollen flesh, if only to relieve some sort of pressure, anywhere.

"I love it when you pleasure me with your fingers," she pants, bending a leg to accommodate her pumping her own digits inside her in an unhurried fashion. "I wish it was yours instead of mine right now."

The image in her head shifts. His mouth kisses the span of her chest, tongue tracing constellations on the splatter of freckles there. He lets go of her hem and through the satin cloth of her nightgown, closes his lips around her neglected nipple. One hand is propped to hold him up while the other plays idle circles in the middle of her thigh. She whines and he drifts higher, up to her inner thigh, though still, he remains far from where she wants him and by extension, herself, as she unconsciously mirrors his movements.

"How many fingers, Feyre?" He whispers against the hot flesh of her neck. "One?" As he puts one finger in her mind, she does the same. "Two?"

She shakes her head and he must hear the way her hair rubs frantically against the pillow and he senses her answer.

"Three, is it?" He chuckles, the sound as smooth and as sinful as molten dark chocolate. "My wild, libertine, queen." She notices a movement in the corner of her half-lidded eyes to witness Rhys' increase his pleasure by quickening his actions on his member. She feels her breath catch in her throat. "How wet you must be?"

"I'm dripping onto the sheets," she asserts, her laughter a breathy thing. She has three fingers in her as the Rhys in her head does the same and they simultaneously moan.

"So wet," he coos. "How fast shall I go, my love?" He syncs his movements on his cock to the thrust of his digits in Feyre's wet quim, just as she bends both knees and grinds onto her fingers, matching her speed to his in their shared imagination. "Like that?"

"Yes," she cries, "don't stop." He crooks his fingers in their mutual vagary, his palm sweeping on her clit every time he bears down. "You always know where to touch me."

"Tell me what you want," he begs.

"I want you," she whines, moving her fingers faster. Not enough. "I want your mouth all over me." She doesn't even know who's controlling the fantasy anymore, doesn't even think she cares - apparition Rhys is now kneeling before her. He puts her legs on his shoulders and sucks on her clit as he continues to fuck her with his fingers. The bed, in fantasy and reality, trembles.

She cries out, her hand practically a blur now as she brushes the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. The Rhysand in her head pulls his mouth away and she almost sobs. But then his head bends forward to kiss her, his tongue entering in a hot, wet slide when she gasps in surprise. There is no finesse in the kiss, all tongue battling and teeth clacking, but it is perfect in its desperation, in the unrestrained passion.

Rhys groans as he thrusts into his hand and Feyre's back bows from the bed as she draws closer to completion. She looks over at him and she whimpers at the sight - the clench of his muscles, the sweat gliding down the plains and valleys of his toned body, the way his cock stands, jutting proudly to attention, only serves to fuel her seemingly unquenchable thirst for his sex. His desire leaks at the tip of his cock and she licks her lips.

This time she controls the vision in their minds when she pulls away from the kiss to straddle him, kissing down the length of his body and biting at his obliques the way he likes it, if the way his moan fills the room is any indication. Rhysand's hand moves faster up and down when her intention becomes clear. Day (night?) dream Feyre licks the pearly bead of pre-cum away and it has Rhys thrusting into his hand as she takes him into her mouth.

She hollows her cheeks out as she bobs her head up and down his cock, her hand wrapping around the length of him that her mouth can't reach. He tangles his fingers in her hair and pulls, just enough for a sliver of hurt and the combination of pain and pleasure has Feyre moaning around him. It heightens his pleasure, and he inches that much closer to his orgasm.

Wanting her to be right there with him, the vision changes. He pulls her away from him with an agonized keening. But he kneels before her, his head bowed down as if in worship and his eyes roaming over her in barely-concealed reverence. He unfurls his wings and it spans the room, the shadow of it enveloping her and the sight alone almost finishes her, except he lines his cock against her opening and pounds right into her, the length of him buried to the hilt before he pulls out and does it all over again.

She's all out sobbing now, in her head and in actuality. So close is she to that delirious peak when she buries her fingers knuckle-deep and brushes against the spongy flesh directly linked to her orgasm.

Rhys must sense it as well, his hand becoming a blur. "Are you close, my love?"

She shakes her head. "Together," she pants, vision forgotten as she opens her eyes and takes in the glorious sight of her High Lord, cock red and heavy in his hand as he chases his ardor. "We finish together."

"Then come for me, Feyre darling," he commands. "Come."

Unable to deny him anything, she does.

Feyre rubs furiously at her clit to draw out her climax. Rhysand follows her, his desire spilling onto the bedspread between them as he pulls at the skin of his cock, back and forth, the sinful sounds falling from her lips only amplifying his indulgence.

"Fuck," she moans as her toes remain curled and her body shakes in mini-aftershocks from the strength of her orgasm - the sensation almost unbearable as it toes the line of discomfort and fruition. She gradually withdraws from flicking her nub. "Fuck, oh fuck."

Rhys returns to unhurried strokes as he softens, bringing his clean hand over his eyes to avoid taking in the sight of Feyre in post-coital bliss - "Mother save me," he groans to himself - admittedly, one of his favorite sights to see.

"I think we did a thorough job on that front," he quips, despite them not ever having touched that night. He huffs out a laugh. "Best. deal. ever."

She turns to him with an incredulous eyebrow raised though he cannot see it. "Is it now?"

He hums. "Well, at least top 5."

She laughs. "There's a list?"

"Right up there with our very first bargain, our vow to leave this world together, my deal with the Weaver. Then, of course, the one involving Cassian, a feather boa, a discussion on the mating rituals of Middengards and some streaking across the Hewn City. . ."

"What?"

He smirks. "Perhaps I'll tell you some other time. For now," he waves a hand and the temperature in the room drops to a comfortable degree as opposed to the stifling heat it evolved into thanks to their amorous activity. Hearts slow and skins cool as he waves a hand over the pair of them. The evidence of their lovemaking disappears but not even Rhys can dispel the smell of sex in the air nor can he erase the traces of the sticky sweetness of her essence coating her fingers or the pulsing of her swollen slit where the ghost of him remains.

Nonetheless, the summoning of his magic drains the last of his energy reserves and he yawns. She mimics the action, unable to deny the domino effect that the urge to yawn incites, and accompanies it with a stretch before she turns to the side facing Rhys. She tucks one hand under her pillow while the other rests in the minimal space between them. In perfect concurrence, he returns to his initial state of resting on his stomach, one hand underneath his pillow while the other is a hairsbreadth from hers.

"I need my beauty sleep," His voice is a gentle lull, breath all ready slowing to an even, lethargic rhythm. "I'm getting married tomorrow, you know."

She smiles. "I do."

The words must strike a chord in him for she can feel his heart stutter in his chest.

"Till death do us part," he murmurs, "it's a bargain to top all others, wouldn't you agree?"

She doesn't reply and she's of the mind that he doesn't expect one. Not with the way their link twitters with excitement. Even with this unbreakable bond between them that exists firmly amongst most faes, there's a tide of giddiness that washes over her at the prospect of participating in the most human act of joining in matrimony, and her still human heart flutters at the thought of adding another title for the male before her such as husband and one for her such as his wife.

They don't kiss but it's a near thing, with the way their breaths mingle as he breaths out and she breathes in.

"I can't wait to see you tomorrow."

I'll meet you at the end of the aisle is his last promise before sleep takes him.

Daylight breaks through the top of the mountains that border the House of Velaris, but she is gone - the only evidence of her is her lingering scent intoxicating his senses, the slowly fading shape of her in the cooling sheets beside him and the fact that a rather vital piece of his outfit is missing from its place hanging in front of his closet.

By the time Cassian barges into his room, Azriel casually ambling along behind him, he is blessedly dressed and ready to start the day. Rhys bottles the urge to tap into his friends' minds to assess what they know, if they know anything at all. Rather, he appraises them in what he hopes is a blasé manner, one that he is confident he executes when he looks at Cassian and the general appears oblivious to the way Feyre's scent still clings to his bedding, given the way he draws from his everlasting well of energy reserves and expels it by pacing about the chamber in excitement, uncaring of the way his wings seem to leave all his belongings askance.

Az, on the other hand. . . one look at the shadowsinger - his face lighter than he's seen it in ages, his shadows subdued in quiet patience (it's an occurrence that has been making a gradual appearance with every new day, and one he'll attribute to the presence of the middle Archeron sister and the friendship they have forged with each other) - and he's certain he suspects him.

He remains astute as ever, shadows trailing him or not, and Rhysand doesn't know whether to be annoyed or appreciative.

Azriel was not named Spymaster of the Night Court for nothing.

Speaking of, he raises an eyebrow in his direction. The shadowsinger raises one back and accompanies it with a knowing smirk.

"Did you have a good night, Rhysand?"

The High Lord raises a shoulder in feigned detachment. "It was alright."

Cassian stops his dawdling long enough to notice the exchange between them. "I'm missing something here." He narrows his eyes. "What are you two on about?"

Rhysand pats him on the cheek. "Oh nothing," he says, chortling at the way Cassian bats his hand away. "Just that I have somewhere to be. It's an important day, after all."

He steals another glimpse onto his rumpled bed sheets, unable to bring himself to completely eradicate the remaining trace of her visit by making his bed. He's still miffed at having missed her that morning and resists the urge to pout ostensibly. He manages to restrain from contacting her through the bond, though only barely. Strengthening his resolve with an afflicted internal sigh, he erects his shields and absolves himself from her.

He comforts himself with the prospect of reuniting with her soon enough, at the end of the aisle.

Not seconds after his pledge to himself, he unfolds their connection just enough to let one exchange saunter between them.

"Hey," Cassian calls out after his perusal of his wardrobe, an edge of concern to his tone when he inquires, "where's your jacket?"

He grins.

Feyre leaves at the first sign of dawn.

This time, she has the presence of mind to grab one of Rhys'. . .coats before taking flight back to the townhouse.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when she lands, with surprising ease (must be the good night's sleep), in the room she shares with Rhysand, only to be ambushed with a loud, "Are you kidding me?"

Mor stands with her hands on her hips and her feet in a wide stance, as if bracing for battle instead of a berating. A quick perusal of her quarters reveals Nuala and Cerridwen at either side of her vanity, unmoving save for the twitching of their lips that give away their amusement. Amren is curled up in a ball at the foot of the bedspace nearest to Mor, eyes - which were closed in what appeared to be slumber - shooting open.

"Don't kid yourself, Morrigan. You know where she's been."

She rises to a sitting position, paying no mind to the way her short hair sticks out in the back from her prone position (seriously, how long were they waiting?), and sniffs at the air - particularly, at the air around her.

She grins, a triumphant edge to it, and she has a feeling she won't like what comes out of those lips next.

She's right.

"You smell of Rhys."

"For fuck's sake, Feyre, it was one day and one night. One!" The blonde spitfire glares at her. "You couldn't keep it in your pants for that long?"

She can feel a flush creeping up her neck. "Well, technically. . .we did just sleep."

"Nonsense," Amren waves a hand, as if she can physically banish nonsense. "You smell of sex, girl." Her eyes glitter with uninhibited mirth as she smirks and asks in a saccharine tone, "Was it worth your flight of shame?"

"La la la," Mor covers her ears. "Under different circumstances, I would have demanded to know all the juicy details but when it comes to my cousin and my best friend engaging in," she shudders, "sexual activities, then I really don't need to hear it!"

Amren observes the way the red of her cheeks deepen, which only causes her to blush even more furiously, the blood reaching her ears. Amren holds out a hand in front of Mor. "Pay up."

She'd have been rife with indignation at being bet against her abstinance tolerance (which admittedly is at an all-time low. But can she be truly blamed for having quite the libido given the way her mate wins the genetic lottery?), if she wasn't so horribly mortified at being caught out. Seeing as how denying it now would be idiotic (and she's reached her idiotic quota for the month now, she firmly concludes), all she can do is laugh.

She places her hands on either side of her cheeks to cool the burning flesh, though she can't say the same for her exuberance and quite frankly, nor does she want to extinguish it.

Her giggles interrupt the bickering between Mor and Amren and they throw her curious glances.

"I'm getting married today."

She can tell Rhys has placed his shields back on but she finds that she doesn't much mind. Today is her wedding day, and though she and Rhysand have promised themselves to each other in different ways countless times over the course of their time together, there was always an element of uncertainty to the devotion - first because of the distance between them with her as a human and him an immortal, then with her part in breaking Tamlin's curse and, as a result, unwittingly ending up in the wrong court and becoming the bride of Spring. Then when she finally broke free of that, who stood in the way of her happiness but herself? Though she was able to overcome that with the help of her mate and her friends, the threat of war loomed over them - a harbinger of death. Every oath and every declaration of love, however genuine, was nearly always wrapped up in a tentative goodbye.

But this day is theirs to take, no one else's. On this day, they choose to bind themselves to each other regardless of Fate's opinion and that, she finds, makes all the difference.

At her words, all agitation on Mor's face melts away to be replaced with a dazzling smile, one to rival the sun's. Nuala and Cerridwen beam at her too, their shadows withdrawing and their faces pulsating with light in reflection of their joy. Even Amren cracks a grin that widens to the breadth of her cheeks, an expression that used to be a deliberate thing - one that had to be earned or used against her enemies to mock and manipulate, now given freely and without thought.

Elain chooses that moment to burst through the door, her arms bearing a tray full of pastries that she proudly announces are made from scratch by her own hands. Nesta is not far behind, trailing after her with her own tray bursting with fruits. Mor and Amren immediately dig in. Elain urges the shadow sisters to join in and with bashful smiles, they do. Nesta is reticent in her words but her actions speak for her, for she looks softer somehow - the barrier of ice in her eyes thawed to reveal, for once, the true depth of her emotions. She knows because they lock stares and she reads everything her sister cannot say in those blue-gray eyes, a perfect likeness to her own.

And her heart feels full, knowing that she won't just be promising herself to Rhysand - but to all of them, this little makeshift family that they've built together.

If the war was a mural it would be black and white. But the portrait before her is vibrant with color and every smile is a study in life - and there is plenty to smile about on this auspicious day.

I'm going to need that jacket back. Rhysand plucks at their connection, his tone awash with the same titillating flurry humming through her veins. She smothers a laugh. I don't know if you've heard, but there's an esteemed ceremony later in the afternoon that requires elaborate formal wear and it's imperative that I attend.

Is it? She returns coyly. Well, it just so happens that I, too, was invited to the same event.

"They're speaking through the bond," Amren remarks when she chances a glance at Feyre, who remains vigil by the window where she first landed. "You can see it in her eyes."

Mor, who was gorging on a watermelon, throws her hands up in indignation, spraying those near her - namely, Elain and Amren - with juice.

"Seriously?" She groans. "You guys are getting married, you do know that right? You have the rest of your lives for this shit and I ask for one day!" She shakes her head in desolation. "Mother have mercy and save me from insatiable mates." Elain merely laughs delightedly at Mor's antics while Amren glares, flicking at the deluge of watermelon slosh that's managed to spray onto her. Everyone else stares on in merriment.

Feyre pays Mor no mind, knowing it's all in jest, and finally moves from her spot next to the window to graciously accept the pastry Elain offers to her from her outstretched palm. She joins in their mirth.

Maybe we can meet each other there, say, at the end of the aisle? You can't miss it.

She smiles.

I'll be the one dressed in starlight.

AN: I couldn't decide what I wanted Feyre's wedding dress color to be! Silver? Blue? White? Black? So many possibilities so like, I left it open to interpretation haha.

Anyway, come say hi to me on tumblr under the same name! :)