My contribution for Day One: Love Languages for @nessianweek 2025. I had trouble choosing just one for each.
Words of affirmation are, admittedly, 100% my personal bias and not based at all on what we see in the books. So help me that woman needs to be told in explicit terms that she is loved and worthy of love. (Credit where credit is due: the quote is from Brennan Lee Mulligan playing Jawbone in Dimension 20's Fantasy High: Sophomore Year!)
Cassian is 100% physical touch and I will die on that hill.
Feyre Archeron, but as Feyre Cursebreaker instead of the High Lady. What if she had to visit the courts to understand and master her powers? Since the whole High King crap didn’t work the first time, Feyre could instead take on the role of keeping peace and balance between the courts, as well as saving and protecting Prythian’s magic (Atla reference). Have Tamlin’s paranoia come true about people coming after her because she possesses the High Lords’ magic. It would add layers of tension and danger to her journey.
It would also be interesting to see each court as equally powerful and none can survive without the others. Imagine the dynamic between Rhysand vs Tamlin, with the Spring Court being such a vital core of Prythian- interconnected with and as necessary as the Night Court.
Feysand, but with Rhys as a morally gray character who cares only about his own gain. The sole reason he kept Feyre alive Under the Mountain was because she was the key to his freedom and nothing more. After Feyre gains power from each High Lord and becomes a symbol of freedom and peace (something similar), Rhys begins to see her as a weapon- a means to make his court the most powerful of them all (he lies to her that he needs her to win the war and save Prythian). But will he stay true to his ambitions when he finds himself falling in love with her? 😏 (They both aren’t aware of the mating bond)
Idk, this is just a fun concept. Let me know what you think.
I‘m too tired to clean and render these, so just accept the smudged version. I still have to design Rhys and I actually want him to to wear ottoman/turkish inspired clothing (and more fairy like), so don’t take this weird- looking top literally. I like how Tamlin turned out though.
Summary: "I've caught you," she said to the creature, proud when her voice didn't tremble. "That means you must grant any wish I desire."
Is that so? A velvet voice whispered in her ear.
Note:
HAPPY SECRET SANTA @shallyne!!! Sorry it took @the-lonelybarricade and myself so long to get it to you BUT that's only because this was a labor of love. And oh, oh (imagine it's italicized) we love you SO much. LB and I have loved and adored you from afar for years, and it's been our greatest pleasure to get to know you and call you a friend.
I hope you love this!!!
@acotargiftexchange | Read on AO3
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Growing up in a village that bordered the Wall between fae and humankind, there were certain practices that became integral to daily life.
Never go out past dark.
Feyre preferred to hunt in the mornings, if she could. She'd fallen into a routine of checking her snares at dawn and resetting any that snapped. If she managed to trap any game, she'd carry it back to her family's cottage and spend the day processing the meat. Otherwise, it was a day of hunting.
Today, it was neither.
The sun was going down, and Feyre was squelching half-melted snow under her threadbare boots as she trudged deeper into the skeletal woods. She would never go out this late if she could help it—no hunter would.
Silver bells jingled from her wrist with every step. She'd needed to trade three rabbit pelts to one of the Children of the Blessed in order to acquire them, and it wasn't lost on her that those pelts could have been exchanged for a decent amount of coin. They could have meant a new pair of boots, or a coat for Elain.
Feyre glared at the streaks of silver glinting in the moonlight. The stories said the bells were necessary to beacon the spirit from its hidden realm. That had better be true, because even if they were made of silver, no villager in their right mind would buy the bells off her once she was done.
If she ever came back.
With the autumn leaves long since fallen, and the first frost come and gone to kill off any plant life that remained, there was nothing to block the moonlight that flooded in overhead, dancing off the wet snow like a trove of diamonds.
The sight would be breathtaking, if it didn't fill her with dread.
Never bask in the full moon's light.
The hunters in the village mentioned that wolves were on the prowl in numbers. On a full moon, no less, Feyre's darting eyes should have been searching for any sign of paw prints in the snow or glowing eyes peering at her from the bushes. Her bow was strung over her back—just in case—but in truth, she would be relieved if all she encountered was a snarling pack of wolves.
Her quarry this night was something far more deadly.
Moving as nimbly and quietly as she could between the trees, Feyre tried not to think of the scene she'd left behind. Elain, eyes glassy with fever, shivering beneath every blanket they owned while Nesta hovered over her, blotting a damp cloth over Elain's forehead. Feyre had met Nesta's weary eyes before she left, had glimpsed the flush crawling over her sister's proud face, and she'd known that by the time she returned, she would find both of her sisters bed-bound.
They were too poor to afford medicine. But even if they weren't, Feyre had watched a similar sickness take their mother, back when their father could pay for the best doctors in the village. There had been no cure their money could buy, at least on this side of the continent.
Feyre couldn't sit back and watch them wither away on their deathbeds. She had worked too tirelessly for too long to keep them alive, to keep them together, to fulfill the promise she had made to her mother all those years ago. If there wasn't a cure in the mortal realm, then she would climb the damned Wall into faerie itself to hunt down a cure.
But according to the stories whispered in the village, she needn't go that far.
Feyre paused as she came across a clearing with a small brook flowing through. A running water source was good. The stories said fresh water was too pure for the spirit to cross. That meant if it all went to shit, she had an escape route. Over the brook and just a half mile north, there was an old hunting cottage she could hole up in until sunrise. The spirit couldn't enter without permission.
Taking a deep breath, Feyre crouched in the center of the clearing and began unfolding a bundle of cloth she'd stashed in her pocket that morning. It was her share of the final loaf of bread. The deep, brutal claws of hunger raked across her stomach at the sight, but she would sacrifice anything she could if it meant her sisters would live another day.
Feyre placed the unravelled cloth atop the pristine snow, wincing at the offering.
Never try to sate the shadow's appetite.
She had no choice. Her family was all she had left. Without them, she had nothing.
Easing into a more comfortable position, Feyre set down her pack and began the careful processing of rigging her snare. Then it was just a matter of crouching behind a cluster of snow-heavy brambles and waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Feyre didn't know how long she sat, completely still, until she gave in to the temptation to wipe her numb fingers over her eyes, brushing away the flakes clinging to her lashes. Long enough for the moon to crest and fall, for the howling wind to dim to a whimper, for silence to stretch and stretch through the woods until it threatened to snap.
It was the snare that snapped first.
Feyre's eyes flew open. She didn't even realize she'd been dozing until she was roused by the unmistakable sound of rope whipping through the air. And then a roar, so mighty and furious that it sent her tumbling backward onto her ass.
Every bone and muscle locked with fear. There was no animal she knew of that could make a noise like that. It certainly wasn't a wolf. Some ancient human instinct begged her to forget about this hare-brained plan and bolt straight for the cabin.
As she slowly eased to her feet, peeking through the dead leaves to see what she had caught, that inner voice became more and more persuasive.
Run, those instincts bleated. Run and run and never look back.
Her fingers trembled as she knocked an arrow on her bow, carefully rising from her hiding place. A pair of bright violet eyes met hers from the center of the clearing. Shadows writhed around the creature, concealing its form, but she could tell it was enormous and so very far from mortal.
"I've caught you," she said to the creature, proud when her voice didn't tremble. "That means you must grant any wish I desire."
Is that so? A velvet voice whispered in her ear. Feyre turned in alarm, but there was nothing there. Laughter echoed in her mind, enveloping her like the frost-bitten air, but this embrace was warm and rich and lulling.
The perfect trap to lure a cold mortal girl.
Free me, the voice crooned. I will grant you this wish.
Feyre narrowed her eyes. "You haven't heard what it is. And how am I to trust that you won't kill me the moment you're free?"
Tell me your wish, then.
She didn't dare lower the bow, though she wasn't certain where to aim through the cloud of shadows that surrounded him. Between his amused eyes seemed best.
"My sisters are sick. Typhus, I think. I want you to cure them and ensure they live long, healthy lives."
And in exchange?
"I'll free you."
What else?
"What else?" Feyre echoed, confused. All the stories said was that the spirit, once trapped, would be required to grant its captor one wish. "What else do you want?"
I've become wounded in your trap. Tend to my injuries, and I will grant your wish.
Feyre didn't know the first thing about tending to a spirit. Did they even have physical bodies? They must do, if she was able to trap one in a snare.
"Show me your true form," she demanded. "What are you hiding behind the shadows?"
Not that it really mattered. She might not know how to aid his wounds, and his form could be utterly repulsive, but she would still agree for the sake of her sisters. The creature must have known, must have been able to read her desperation, and guessed she was in no position to turn him down.
I will show you once you agree to the terms. The contract will be binding, and you and I will each be obligated to fulfill its terms.
"And if I treat your wounds, you'll save my sisters?"
She needed to hear him say it.
The violet eyes gleaming from the shadows seemed to crease, and she could almost imagine the sinister grin hidden beneath the darkness.
I will ensure your sisters live long, healthy lives in exchange for your services.
What more could she ask for? It was better than dying, and she'd walked into the woods believing that was an equally likely outcome.
"Okay," Feyre whispered, feeling she was ringing her death knell. "I agree to your terms."
A gust of wind swept into the clearing as a metallic taste filled her mouth. Feyre squinted, raising a hand to guard her face against the swirling pieces of snow. Under the moonlight, she could just make out the black ink crawling over her frozen fingertips.
"What is this?" She asked, jerking up her sleeve to find that the pattern went on, a delicate pattern of swirling lines and curves that looked, in the darkness, almost like she was wearing a lace glove. "What did you do to me?"
"Where I'm from, it's customary for bargains to be permanently marked upon our flesh."
Feyre was so consumed by her horror over the markings—already imagining the ways that she and her family would be ostracized by the village if they were discovered—that she barely registered the creature had spoken the words aloud, not in her mind. Until she glanced up, finding that the shadows had been brushed away by the wind, and what was left behind was a man.
No. A male. A faerie.
He was grinning. The exact wicked she had been picturing beneath the flurry of shadows, but set in a face she would have never in her wildest dreams imagined. Is it real? She wondered, taking in his strong jaw, his proud nose, his sinful lips. Or was it like using honey to trap a fly, luring victims in with his beautiful face so that he could sink his teeth into them the moment they were near.
That sort of beauty was so unnatural she couldn't help but feel wary of it, taking a step back. His grin widened.
"Come," he beckoned. "Free me from this trap and tell me your name."
"I thought you were a spirit," she said numbly.
The male spread his arms, and darkness began leaking from him like ink in water. "Humans have called me many things in my lifetime."
"But you're a faerie. Aren't you?"
He angled his head, causing a lock of blue-black hair to fall over his forehead. It gleamed like a raven's feathers in the moonlight. "Disappointed?"
Feyre stayed where she was, her body rioting against the idea of moving any closer to him. "Why would you grant my wish if you're a faerie?"
"So many questions." His eyes trailed over her, leisurely. Like a predator sizing up its next meal. "Let's start with one, shall we? Your name?"
She knew better than to tell a faerie her name. "That wasn't part of our bargain."
"Ah," he conceded. An elegant finger pointed at the wire snare, which was rather gruesomely cutting into his leg. "But freeing me was. Come give me a hand, darling. Iron and all of that."
Feyre debated the merits of taking off in the other direction, but she knew that breaking the bargain would be sealing her sister's coffins. Steeling her nerves, she strode closer to the faerie, every warning bell pealing in her mind at the smile that grew on his ruinously handsome face.
Her breath held once she was close enough that he could grab her, if he wanted. Could snap her neck before she even saw it coming. All he did was watch, though, as she lowered herself into a crouch at his feet and, with a quick jerk of an arrowhead, cut him free from the snare.
The faerie sighed with relief and adjusted his fine tunic, so jarringly out of place in the desolate woods. He looked like he was on his way to attend a dinner party hosted by a king. He looked like he was a king, if faeries had such things, but she knew their land was brimming with wealth. Perhaps even their commoners could dress in clothing so fine.
A large, elegant hand swam into her vision. Feyre stared at it in alarm, trying to figure out what he was planning to do before she realized he was offering to help her up. She glared, brushing the snow off her knees as she stood up by herself.
"There's an old hunting cabin that way," she said, pointing north. "Let's go there so I can tend to your wounds."
"Oh no," the faerie said, snaking an arm around her waist. "I would much prefer to be nursed back to health in the comfort of my home."
Feyre fought against his iron-tight grip. "Your home?"
He didn't answer. There was no need. Darkness began swirling around them, roaring as wind and snow began tearing at her clothes.
All he murmured was, hold on, before the Feyre and the world itself vanished into shadow.
She’d expected a dungeon. Something twisted and ugly, something with bars and locks. Even still struggling against his hold, Feyre marvelled at the moonstone and ivory that now flooded her senses. Bright, crisp moonlight flooded through the arches, framed on every side by jagged, snow-capped mountains.
She’d never seen anything so opulent, so lovely, so…so ethereal in her life. All the stories she’d ever heard regarding the fae told of how they lived in the knotted roots of trees, the fetid bogwater that populated their lands, or among the graves and rotting corpses of the freshly dead.
This was nothing like the stories. The male beside her was utterly still, fingers still curled around her like a vice, though he wasn’t dragging her off to drink her blood or make her dance for his guests. Not yet, anyway.
“This way, darling,” he murmured, tugging ever so slightly. Feyre nearly tripped over her own feet, craning her neck to try and look at the gold leaf frescos painted against the ceiling. She had no choice but to follow him further. For her trouble, Feyre was greeted with lush velvet sofas and ornate rugs laid out beside crackling hearths. The walls housed shelves upon shelves of books that must have taken centuries to accumulate. She wished she could read as she admired the gold leaf edging the pages. Some were intricately painted with runes or little dragons while others were bound in leather.
Or…or…”Iron?” she breathed, tugging herself closer toward a book.
A slow smile spread across his lovely features. “You caught me, pet,” he said. Feyre blinked rapidly.
“You…you weren’t trapped?” she heard herself asking, temper rising.
“I’ve been trapped for a very, very long time,” he replied, his voice taking on a sensual quality. “In fact, I think I’ve been waiting for you longer than I knew.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded, wrenching herself from his grasp. “Was this a trick?”
He didn’t seem sorry at all. “Of course it was. Your kind are so skittish, so nervous…so…feral.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” she demanded, temper burning in her throat. He didn’t seem concerned at all, and why should he be? If her understanding was correct, he’d purposefully trapped himself in order to trick her into…into what? Sex? Was this some kind of bragging ritual, then? He got to tell all his faerie friends that he’d been with a pathetic, mewling human? They’d laugh at her, they’d…oh, gods. What would they do to her?
He was creeping closer, violet eyes as sharp as the moonlight pouring in through high, pointed windows.
“How am I looking?” he questioned, his voice strange and breathless. He sounded almost…almost desperate. Feyre didn’t know what to make of that. He looked like he wanted to devour her, a poor omen given the stories of faeries eating humans as part of their summer and winter solstice meals.
Feyre swallowed. There was precious little space between them, now. He radiated warmth and something else, something that quelled her fear. Did he have to be so beautiful? Was that another trick to put her at ease, a glamor that he’d remove once he had her trussed up for the oven? He cocked his head as though listening to her thoughts.
“You want to see me?” he asked, answering that question. Horror replaced her anger. How much could he hear?
“Everything,” he answered with another sensuous grin. “No one has ever asked to see me.”
Feyre didn’t bother to mention that she wasn’t really asking, either. She’d come this far, hadn’t she? Might as well fully damn herself. “Show me, then.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” he teased, reaching out a long finger to stroke her cheek. “You should be.”
“I’m not,” she lied. She was terrified, but not for the reasons he thought.
Ignoring her thoughts, he raised a broad hand and with a wave, revealed himself as he was. Feyre expected feathers, not wings.And certainly not the pointed canines that elongated or the shadowy talons that sprang up between his knuckles.
But his face. Oh. He was so beautiful, even with the monstrous features, that Feyre had to look away. It was like looking head on at the sun, blinding and brilliant. Tears had come to the corners of her eyes, banished as she studied the dark wood flooring beneath her muddy boots.
Feyre swallowed. “My sisters. You promised—”
“It’s already done,” he murmured, hooking a finger beneath his chin. She both wished he’d dull whatever magic now poured out of him and hoped he never did. He was exquisite. She hated him for it. “When they wake in the morning, they’ll find all traces of their illness gone.”
Ferye swallowed. “And…and me?”
That smile was back. “Would you have me return you?”
No. The idea of going back home filled her with dread. She didn’t want to return to starvation any more than she wanted to stay where she was. Something in between—a place that belonged to her, but where she wasn’t required to take care of everyone.
The faerie crept closer still. Their chests were practically touching with only a breath between them. His head was cocked to the side like an animal, wings flared out behind him. Feyre reached out, fingers skimming the sides. She’d expected they’d be cold and maybe a little slimy, but the material was feather soft, coated in a fine layer of hair.
He inhaled sharply, from fear or pain—Feyre couldn’t tell. His eyes had closed, long lashes fluttering against the warm brown of his cheeks. He seemed so human to her right then. It was a mistake to treat him like one, and yet she stroked his wing again.
His hand flew up faster than her eyes could track, fingers ringing around her wrist. “Careful,” he warned. His fangs seemed to gleam in the firelight. So it pained him, then. That was useful to know. Feyre looked up at him, eyes lingering on his mouth though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Tell me your name,” she whispered, certain he wouldn’t. He was going to bargain for something else—her first born, her soul.
A smile bloomed across his face. “Willing to give me your firstborn, are you?”
“No,” she hissed. “What would you even do with a child?”
He seemed to consider that, reaching for her hand to pull her out of that sitting room toward a long, well appointed corridor. “I suppose the child would need a name.”
He couldn’t be serious.
Feyre scowled. “I need to call you something.”
He seemed to agree. “Alright. Call me Rhysand…though my friends call me Rhys.”
“I don’t believe you have friends,” she scoffed. That drew a soft laugh from him.
“No? I’m considered incredibly charming, you know.”
“By whose standards?” she demanded. “Certainly not mine.”
He dropped her hand, closing a door behind them. Feyre blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark. It was only when she heard the lock click. She was in a bedroom. For a moment, Feyre nearly burst out laughing. She’d been expecting a dungeon or worse, and yet he’d taken her to a sleeping chamber.
His sleeping chamber, judging by the rumpled bedclothes and the masculine smell lingering in the air. Clothes were stacked neatly atop a nearby desk while a large, cozy chair held a sheathed sword and several ornate daggers. Shoes were lined neatly along a wall and an ornately embroidered jacket hung on the corner of a mirror. This place was lived in, and he was real. Feyre didn’t know if that made things better or worse.
“I’ve considered your offer,” Rhys murmured from behind her, fingers crawling up her spine. “There is something I would like, and I’ll bargain your firstborn for it.”
Feyre knew what he wanted, and she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t give it to him. He was beautiful, wasn’t he? She’d slept with men for less, hadn’t she? He’d made it clear he had no intention of humiliating her or making a meal out of her. Men were quick, why shouldn’t this faerie be the same?
“I’m not giving you my firstborn,” Feyre hissed, which only seemed to amuse him more.
“Not in exchange for wealth?” he questioned, stepping closer. “Your sister's eternal comfort? Your eternal comfort?”
Feyre narrowed her eyes. “What are you going to do with a human baby?”
His grin widened. “Raise them like my own?”
“Liar.”
“Say yes,” he murmured, lowering his head so his breath fanned over her face. He smelled sweet, and though she wished it wouldn’t, her body reacted to his nearness. “There will be other children.”
There was a trick in his question, but Feyre wasn’t clever enough to suss it out. He was going to make her regret this, judging by the smile on his face. But…but it was one hypothetical child in the future against her sister's comfort. Nesta and Elain could marry well again. Her father would be taken care of. She could leave, if she wanted. See the world like she’d always wanted, make something of herself.
And she needen’t have children ever, if she so chose. Was that the loophole? Feyre couldn’t picture herself as a mother, and Rhys was old. Her lifespan was a breath to him. By the time he remembered to collect, she’d be well past her best years and he’d have given her everything without her having to give him anything at all.
He was still watching, waiting for her to agree. Feyre extended her marked arm, admiring the black whorls that climbed from her fingertips up to her elbow. “Fine.” She’d worry about what she’d agreed to when she was safe and home again.
It never occurred to her that she wasn’t leaving this place. Not once. Not even as Rhys closed the gap between them, cupping her face in his hand. His thumb swept over her bottom lip, parting them ever so slightly. And all the while, his hungry eyes studied her as though he’d never seen anyone or anything quite like her. The attention was strangely flattering rather than horrifying. Even with the shadowy talons and the wings that curved around them both, hiding her from the moonlight outside.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Not really, she wanted to say. It seemed foolish to eat something offered to her by the fae—all the stories warned her not to eat their food or drink from their cups. She was already marked and damned, though, and Feyre hadn’t had a good meal in years.
On a nearby table, framed by two chairs, lay an assortment of meats, cheeses, fruit and nuts. Beside it was an empty goblet and a decanter of wine. It was Rhys who went to it, pouring her a cup before offering her a couple grapes from his hand as though she were a skittish animal. Feyre took them without fear, popping them into her mouth while she tried to settle her racing heart.
The wine was a godsend. Feyre gulped it down like water, taking another glass from him before he stopped her. She would have gladly drunk the whole bottle and passed out in his bed, unconcerned with what he did to her in the haze of it all. He seemed to care, though, which propelled Feyre to reach for another bunch of grapes and offer them to him.
He went so, so still. “For me?” he asked. Feyre only shrugged, though Rhys took them all the same. While he ate, she poured the wine, thinking fair was fair. His trembling fingers brushed her own, a strange reaction for a creature that currently held all the cards. She didn’t care. Feyre let him drink, watching him gulp it down while those predatory eyes tracked her every movement.
“You didn’t need that second bargain,” she said once he finished, watching him just as carefully as he’d been watching her. “I was already here. I would have had to do anything you asked me to.”
“I know,” he replied.
Why, then? Feyre wanted to ask, but fear caught in her throat. There was something she didn’t understand, something happening that he knew and she didn’t. Feyre wanted to untangle it…and she also wanted to touch him. Maybe it was the wine replacing her good sense in her veins, or maybe it was being alone with this creature in the dark. She’d never once considered what it might be like to be with one of these creatures.
Now it was all she could think about.
He sat on the edge of his massive bed, beckoning for her to come to him. The only place to stand was between his powerful thighs. Some part of her balked, while a larger, growing part took a stilted step toward him. That part of her wanted to please him, and Feyre was certain it hadn’t existed before she’d freed him from his trap.
Still, she went to him, allowing his fingers to ghost along the sides of her body. He felt, perhaps for the first time, the rough material of her clothes, snagging in small holes Elain hadn’t been able to repair because she’d been so sick. In other spots, he’d feel the thread, would notice how the fabric cinched inwards noticeably from too many repairs.
Even in the dark, she could see his displeasure. Shadowy talons became real enough to slice like butter through the fabric, leaving her both exposed and with nothing to return in. Feyre gasped as cool, moonlit air caressed her bare body. He’d have to provide her something to wear to return home, though knowing him, and his trickster nature, he was going to make her walk shame-faced and bare chested through her village.
“Better,” he murmured, ignoring her inner turmoil. “Almost perfect.”
Almost? Her indignation was silenced when those long fingers of his reached for the laces of her pants, which were in no better shape than her shirt. Still, they avoided the same fate, presumably because he was deriving pleasure from slowly shimmying them off her hips. Feyre practically squirmed beneath his gaze, waiting for him to burst out laughing. Instead, those same trembling fingers brushed along her ribcage, brows furrowed with unmistakable rage and fury.
He said nothing about it. Instead, he pulled her close enough to taste and pressed his lips to the side of her neck. Oh. Oh. Something unbearably hot bloomed in the middle of her chest, molten gold that robbed her of breath. She sucked in air loudly, chest rising and falling rapidly. In an attempt to settle herself, and humble the creature sitting in front of her, Feyre reached out and ran her finger down the edge of his wing.
He groaned, a hedonistic sound that flooded her with more warmth. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he whispered, arching his neck toward the ceiling. “Don’t stop. Please.”
This wasn’t how she imagined things going. Tentatively, Feyre pressed her fingertips into his firm chest and pushed lightly. He flopped backward with a soft sigh, wings spread around him. It was obscene, the sort of thing priests warned young women about. Demons with the faces of angels, come in the night to defile young women. Wasn’t that exactly what this creature was trying to do?
She’d have been smarter to run, not straddle his chest so she could examine him. His clothes were fine, made of a soft material and embroidered in silver. All of it fit him well, making it easy to see what lay just beneath. Feyre could feel shifting muscle, could sense the power lurking. This was all an illusion. If he wanted, he could pin her beneath him and do whatever he liked.
No, the creature was right where he wanted to be.
Leaning forward, Feyre reached for his wing again, not thinking about where that would place her breasts. He clearly had. Rhys huffed out a warm breath before his fingers came to touch, tentatively at first. Carefully.
And then his mouth latched around one of her nipples. Feyre’s hips canted forward on his clothed chest without meaning to as a bolt of arousal pulsated through her belly. For a moment, Feyre forgot what she was supposed to be doing as her focus narrowed to his tongue on her nipple, laving attention. His hands curled up over his head as though she’d pinned them there and he was simply helpless to resist what she put in front of his face.
She also didn’t care. The wine had loosened her up, made it easier to take what she wanted without subscribing to all the guilt she knew she should feel. Forcing herself to ignore the pleasure, Feyre ran her fingers over his soft wings.
He moaned again, vibrating against her own soft skin. Feyre felt strangely possessive, though she couldn’t say why. Likely a mixture of arousal and sex. She decided not to think about it too much and instead sank her teeth into Rhys’s exposed neck.
Mine, you're mine—
Rhys snarled, hips bucking upward which only caused Feyre’s clumsy teeth to sink deeper into his flesh. Coppery blood flooded her senses as the creature beneath her panted, his erection pressed through his trousers as he tried desperately to rub it against her.
“Is that what you want?” she questioned, bloody lips
In a moment, Feyre was flush on her back and Rhys was hovering over her. His wings fanned around them possessively, blotting out any remaining light. All she could see were his illuminated eyes, brighter than an animal's in the inky dark. Blood spilled from his throat where she’d bitten, staining his tunic a dark maroon.
Pinning her between the mattress and his body with his strong thighs, Rhys made quick work of his jacket and shirt. Feyre watched half lidded as inch after glorious inch of his body was revealed. Blood dripped onto whorling tattoos—a match for the one on her arm.
He’d have to get off her in order to remove his pants, and Feyre couldn’t promise even herself that she wouldn’t bolt for the door. Some unknown emotion was writhing in her gut and crawling up her chest, something that made her feel more animal than person. And the animal within her was a little frightened and looking for a dark, small space to crawl into.
She’d always been that way, though.
“You are what I want,” Rhys told her, licking a path from her throat down to her navel. Feyre writhed beneath him, fingers fisting in the plush fabric blanketing the mattress. He made his way to her hips, betraying what was about to happen.
Feyre was hardly a virgin. She’d had a tumble or two with a local boy—it was more release than emotion. He’d tried this, once. Feyre had found the whole thing awkward and clumsy, her mind unable to focus on anything except how uncomfortable it made her feel as her gaze fixed on the wooden beams of the barn they typically found themselves in.
Rhys growled between her parted thighs. “Stop thinking of other males,” he ordered. Feyre almost laughed. Was the monster jealous? Daring to peer at him, she found those eyes blazing back at her. She swallowed her amusement, eyes fluttering shut.
Oh. He was.
“Open your eyes,” Rhysand barked, his voice rough and angry. Her eyelids fluttered open of their own accord, her entire body apparently primed to do his bidding. Rhys climbed up her body, sharp teeth grazing against her neck. “When you come, you’ll think only of me.”
Feyre shuddered, her body agreeing before her mind could catch up. “Yes,” she panted.
“You’ll come on my fingers,” he whispered, licking the length of her throat all over again. “And on my tongue.” Teeth tugged at her earlobe, even as his free hand continued to toy with her breast. “And then, and only then, you’ll come on my cock.”
Gods above, but she wanted it. Feyre writhed beneath him until his powerful thigh was lodged tightly between her own legs, allowing her to rub herself against him like a cat in heat. As he spoke, one hand slid slowly over her stomach, skimming over the soft thatch of hair between her legs, until they reached her clit. Feyre gasped, arching upward so he could feel the slickness of her cunt.
Rhys moaned, teeth grazing her pulse point. “Oh,” he whispered, the sound strangled and oddly pathetic. Something seemed to snap within him, taking what little sanity was left to him. His mouth slanted over hers, tasting her
The kiss was almost violent in its intensity, claiming her. Branding her. No one had ever kissed her like he was. She could taste his desperation tinged with blood when sharp teeth sank against her bottom lip. Feyre gasped and Rhysands surged forward, tongue invading her mouth just as his fingers were doing between her legs.
He plunged back into her slick body with two fingers instead of one. It wasn’t gentle or particularly nice—but it was good. Gods, but was it good. Feyre squirmed against him, desperate for more. She felt wobbly and needy when that first bolt of pleasure speared through her gut. His hands were everywhere, warm and stroking, tugging and teasing. Too late, she realized whatever strange, shadowy magic he commanded—the very same that coiled tight around her, preventing her from making her escape, was also stroking and kissing against her clit.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper against his lips when he broke the kiss.
“You want this more than I do,” he whispered, sucking a kiss against the pulsepoint of her throat, “and I want you desperately.”
The teasing, licking shadows had returned, rubbing over her without mercy. Feyre was tempted to beg him to stop, though she knew he wouldn’t. Rhysand was going to take what he wanted.
And Feyre wanted him to finish this. Feyre was so achingly, frustratingly close that when he stopped again, her hips jerked against his thigh. He chuckled.
“Messy, darling. Do you need something?”
She could feel her pussy gaping, trying so hard to grip around something— anything that would offer release.
“I need you in me,” she tried, clawing at his shoulders. Rhys didn’t relent, though his body pressed tight against her, acting outside of his accord. Whatever was driving her was driving him, too. For a moment they simply kissed, bodies pressed together. Feyre’s fingers carded through his thick, lush hair, trailing down his neck and to his wings. Anytime she touched, Rhys bucked into her. She wondered if he could finish from just touch alone.
His fingers never stopped their ministrations, though, and neither did his magic. Rhys built Feyre higher and higher, until she couldn’t kiss him, too focused on the pleasure between her legs. His mouth was everywhere—her throat, her earlobe, her breast, until Feyre couldn’t take it anymore. Bowing off the bed with a soft, silent scream, Feyre came all over his pant leg. Rhys, too, was panting like he’d run a marathon, eyes wide and blown out. There was no color to them—only unyielding, unseeing black.
“Gods,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair. “I need you. I need you right now—”
Feyre had hoped that meant he was going to take his pants off and slide himself into her. She felt empty and aching. Instead, when Rhys reached for her, arms tight around her body, he merely dragged her up to his face.
“Need to taste it,” he panted, holding her tightly so she couldn’t escape him. Feyre was still sensitive, unsure if she could finish again. Not that he asked how she felt about it. His tongue was on her in a moment, seemingly to taste every inch of her. Feyre gripped the headboard to keep herself from falling, strangely delighted to find that she could, indeed, go again. It seemed to take no time at all—he was skilled and she was desperate.
“Tell me your name,” he begged, his voice filled with need. Rhys unlaced his pants as he asked, sitting up on his knees like a fallen god. She wanted to do the most obscene things to him right then. Feyre thought she could spend a hundred years with him, and it wouldn’t feel like enough. How strange, given he was trying to keep her captive like a housepet.
“Feyre,” she said, forgetting all the reasons she shouldn’t. Surely he could have just dug around in her head until he found it.
“Feyre,” he breathed, wrapping his arms around her chest to press his cheek between her breasts. “Feyre. My Feyre.”
She hadn’t realized his cock was pressed against her until she felt him push the blunt head into her body. Rhys whimpered, holding pace even as he kept himself wrapped around her. Inch by inch, until he was fully seated within her. Between the thickness of his cock and the heaviness of his body, Feyre could scarcely breathe. A wildfire was burning through her, hollowing her out only to remake her.
“What did you do to me?” she gasped, but Rhys thrusted, silencing any other questions. For a moment there was no sound save for the slick, obscene slap of skin and their mingled, heavy breathing. They didn’t need words—there was some innate understanding between them. Leave it to her to form some kind of intense attachment with a faerie.
“What did you do to me?” he whispered in response as he pulled himself out of her. She whined, but Rhys flipped her over to her stomach. For one heart wrenching moment, Feyre was certain he wanted to put some distance between them. Instead, he wrapped those strong arms around her, face buried in her hair, as he thrust into her. He was wild, desperate, and untethered. Feyre didn’t think she’d ever been fucked the way he was.
Each slide was better than the last, the position hitting just right while allowing her to rub herself against the blanket. Feyre was going to come for a third time, though somehow it only felt like the first. She still wanted more, even as pleasure built higher and higher. The flames in her chest banked, solidifying into something akin to a cord threaded between each of her ribs. Anchoring her in place, to this man—male—and whatever life might exist between them.
He was chanting something she could only vaguely hear through her own pants and pleasepleaseplease’s—mate, my mate, mine, my mate—
She knew about mates, though right then the words made no sense to her at all. Feyre leaned into how good she felt, how badly she wanted him—needed him—and came with a strangled cry. His teeth sank into her shoulder as he, too, spent himself within her. Feyre pressed her cheek to a satin pillow, reveling in how good it felt to know he needed her just as badly as she needed him.
And she’d gotten to finish three times—Rhys only got once. He collapsed, though he seemed to have enough sense to turn her on her back, even if it meant he had to pull himself out of her. A rush of warmth left her, cleaned up by whatever magic he commanded.
Rhys cuddled her against him, messing with blankets until she was beneath their heavy weight. Draping a leg across his stomach, Feyre traced the outlines of his tattoos with her finger. They weren’t done—she still felt an aching need between her legs, and judging by his cock brushing up against her shin, he felt the same.
“You weren’t really trapped, were you?” she whispered, lips pressed to his neck.
“I told you—I was waiting for you,” he replied, lips buried in her hair.
For a mate. No one had told Feyre humans and faeries could be mates. Perhaps they didn’t know. She’d heard of the concept, of course. Something akin to what humans thought of soul mates, but tangible. Knowable. Feyre pulled at the little cord threaded in her body, causing Rhys to gasp. It was real. He was real.
“When you bargained for my sister's health…and my first born…”
“Humans know what to expect from our kind and I…” he ran a finger along her spine. “I didn’t want to frighten you with the truth.”
I would have done anything you asked me to, he added softly, the words caressing her mind. I still will.
Feyre pressed a kiss to his jaw. She supposed they’d find out how far he was willing to go, in the end. How far she’d go, too.
Dropping the latest Sketch-a-Wish, voted on by my lovely Patreon members for July, featuring Sybil, Rory and the gargoyle from THE KNIGHT AND THE MOTH by Rachel Gillig!
This one is a symbolic interpretation of one of the scenes in the book where Sybil divines for Rory. The gargoyle dragging Sybil down, yet clinging to her desperately because he wishes to escape with her. Rory is gently pulling them both up, away from their old ties to the church, yet not forcing it.
This art has been officially licensed and prints are available in both shops. (link in bio!)
It was super fun to decide which items he was going to have. I knew I had to include the classic items like the ocarina, fairy bottle, heart piece, and rupees. But I think it all came together when I decided to add that ridiculous spinner top from twilight princess :P
It's because I'm never alone. I'm always standing next to you. And you never let me take the full weight of any of it. Ever. I don't know what I'd do without you
Just finished 'A Time Called You.' Cried for an hour. All that history, gone. I'm coping in the only way I know how: a fix-it fanfiction.
The Quietest of Storms [Part 1]
Fate had been especially cruel lately.
She had been spending her last couple of mornings dwelling on a college-aged couple, stealing moments and kisses in a small, cluttered club-room, on the first floor of a campus building. And how that gauzy curtain would dance in an out of frame, alighting on a wind to caress the young girl’s face and make her laugh beneath her lover’s kisses. She spun the red wool between her slim fingers, assessing the youthful two. Images flickered across the innocent scene, of death and blood, of an endless pit of grief, caving in on itself again and again. She felt a tug at the red wool string.
She glanced to her left, where the tugging was coming from. She had spent two days and two nights weaving this yarn into the most delicate pattern. Each knot and tie resting on one another - if you untied one, the rest would come spooling away. That tug came again, and she squinted into the white haze that surrounded her. If she guessed by direction, she assumed it had come from around 2010, perhaps 2011. The tugging became ferocious, and she held fast.
Then the images flickered again. A boy’s face streaked with tears older than his 18 years. A crashing sea. Fate felt something stick in her throat. She looked back towards the tugging.
Perhaps she had been too cruel lately. She loosened her grip on the yarn, and a stitch came unstitched.
The tapestry unspooled in a flash, and the string stole away into the mist.
*
Fate had been especially cruel lately.
Jun-hee raced across the pedestrian walkway, desperately trying to clasp her briefcase closed as the papers for her presentation threatened to decorate the skies of downtown Seoul. Another power-cut, erasing her alarm clock settings, another morning running late when she was presenting first thing. She really needed to get a battery-powered alarm clock. She was the newest intern at the marketing company uptown, and she worried at how well she could impress the executives with such rumpled hair.
“Where were you!” Na-eun, her college friend, hissed as she slipped into the office. Hun-mee batted her away, patting her hair down and spilling her presentation notes across her desk.
“You have two minutes. And then we’re getting coffee together. I nee-eed to discuss tonight’s plans.”
“Huh? Tonight?” Hun-Mee muttered, gathering her notes. She straightened and took a deep breath.
“You’ll do great, I know you will! Kill it!” Her friend pumped her arm in a show of strength, and grinned big. Jun-hee tried a smile back.
Two hours later, Jun-hee was slumped over the cafeteria table, her friend patting her back.
“Cheer up. At least tonight you’ll be able to soothe yourself with some hot boys.”
Jun-hee squinted up at her. “Hot boys?”
Na-eun slapped the table. “Come on! You agreed. The L Club tonight, remember? Some dancing, some kissing, some going home with-”
“Ugh,” Jun-hee put her face back in her hands. “Not again.”
She had been feeling especially restless lately. Since graduating last summer, they had dove headfirst into the new office life, the reasonable next step in a series of life steps set out ahead of them. To Jun-Hee, it had always been clear: get good grades, go to college, devote one’s life to extracurriculars, stay away from the mess of college romances, get a good job and rise in the ranks. Outside of this narrow staircase, nothing seemed to be of much import. And she had done it. But lately, she had felt more and more…shifty. Like she had missed an essential step. Or like the staircase, spiralling upwards, was starting to sway.
Following Na-eun’s harebrained schemes, which often included boys, or a recreational drug on a Saturday, or some sort of week long retreat or holiday, had momentarily filled those voids. But nothing truly stuck. “You need a boyfriend,” was the most common response amongst friends. But the few times she had attempted to scout and go home with a good boy from the office, or the bar, or a mutual friend at a party, and they had gotten to the point where two people were alone in the dark, kisses and skin, a deep wrongness would rise up within her like the tide. It would stick in her throat until she couldn’t ignore it, could barely speak. She would leave with lacklustre apologies. The last time this happened, she cried so ferociously on the drunken walk home that she was stopped twice by concerned strangers.
The crying was getting worse too. Sad films, watching an old couple hold hands as they walked through the park, if she stayed up too late, if she woke up too early and saw the sunrise. If she visited the beach. The tears would rise up unbidden. If it weren’t for the fact that it were a biological impossibility based on her recent (lack of) activity, she would worry she was pregnant. As it stood, she had booked in for a consultation with a hormonal specialist.
“Letting loose will help.” Na-eun stroked her hair softly, as if petting a dove. “You’ve been so highly-strung lately, I’m worried you’ll get sick.”
Jun-hee took a deep breath, and braved a smile. “I’ll be okay, I’ve just not been getting a lot of sleep lately.” She exhaled. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
*
Fate had been especially cruel lately.
Fate, or the gods, or maybe it was just his own mind. Nam Si-heon had woken for the seventh morning in a row with a head pounding and tears in his eyes, staining his pillow. He shook his head once, twice. The dreams, already fast fading, had left him with a head full of cotton and an aching hole in his chest.
He squinted at the dawn, its pinks and oranges streaking across the wide windows of his bedroom. It softened the white linens and white walls, so much so he could almost convince himself he still walked in dreams. If only. As much as they hurt, the bliss and the beauty of the girl standing before him drew him back to sleep each night. He knew that to look forward to sleeping probably signalled something was off in his waking days, something he should probably be dealing with. Like working fewer hours, or seeing a psychologist, perhaps. By the fifth morning, he had decided that he would take these dreams to a specialist if they hadn’t disappeared in two weeks. They were ruining his focus. He’d find himself zoned out for half an hour, staring at a point on the wall of the small office, or getting overly emotional at a half-baked webtoon submission, usually some silly fluff about a high school romance.
The first night they appeared, he had fallen asleep at his desk. His colleagues had rushed off home come 5:30pm, and he promised he’d soon follow, but upon opening up the latest webtoon submission, found himself drawn into a world of time travel, clocks turning backwards and star-crossed lovers clashing into each other in war-torn Korea. He hadn’t realised three hours had passed until he closed the last page, and stared at his desk, heart-pounding. The rain rushed quietly outside, and the lights above hummed in reproach at having been left on for so long. Si-heon felt his heart thrumming against his ribcage. Some unidentifiable feeling was trying to get out of his chest, and his breathing was quickening. He felt as if he’d forgotten something incredibly important, or he’d missed a step walking downstairs. He put his forehead against the cool table, and realised he was burning up. Forced himself to take some deep breaths to calm down, and closed his eyes against the coolness of the wood. And fell into a dream so real it felt like it was a memory.
Once he woke, with a sore neck and pages stuck to his cheek with drool, the dreams were already spinning away. A girl running in the rain down a tree-lined avenue - he had raced after her. He couldn’t tell if it had been a happy dream or not. She had been laughing, but he had been running after her as if to chase her down. His dream-self knew, as if it were a stated truth, that if he did not close the distance between them soon, she would disappear into the rain. And he couldn’t let her go alone. She didn’t want to be alone, this he knew.
“What the hell?” He rubbed his face, and smoothed down his rumpled hair. “Get a grip, Si-heon.” He continued muttering as he stood and arranged the papers strewn across the table, hoping that a hot shower would rinse away those strange images.
*
a/n: if there are name or continuity mistakes, I'll edit them out later (feel free to comment if you notice one). It's late and I'm still upset at the last episode. Would love to hear what you think.
