Sweetened Spring Breeze
Feyre x reader
a/n: ty to the anon who asked if I had any wips coming along <3 I started writing this a few months back and had intended to have it ready for pride month but I guess it slipped my mind. Most of it was already written so I had a good base to drop in from 🫶 So here we are, another one for thqc!! (Are they flirting? I can’t tell)
warnings: references to UTM times; spring court vibes; feat. a water wraith; cute Feyre/reader momentss :3
word count: 4,142
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Strands of shade dapple Feyre’s resting body, narrow grass tails swishing their shadows across her cheeks, as if they’re as eager to kiss each freckle as you are.
Her breaths have evened, and though she’s peaceful the bruise-like smudges beneath her eyes tell another story. So you let her rest.
The grassy spot of the day has positioned the two of you near the manor’s border, coinciding with the edge of a great lake whose waters ripple beneath the sweet spring breeze. Lush, verdant grass giving way to ridged reeds and the sharp leaves of typha bordering the glittering grey-green lake. Winds shift in direction, carrying over the soft swishing as water laps against the shore and—how nice it would be to bathe.
Fae complain about the stagnancy under the mountain yet confine themselves within cotton and clothing. It’s barely been a month but your skin needs to breathe, to be relieved of cloying fabric and rustling linen.
Glancing to the nearby trees, Feyre’s usual assortment of sentries are stationed in the shade, keeping cool on the surprisingly balmy day. Should she wake while you’re gone, she won’t be alone and stranded. And you’ll remain within earshot should she wish to call out for you.
Lifting from the blanket, you wade your way through the tall grass, carving out a miniature pathway before pausing at the water’s edge. Waves ripple outwards from the base of plant stems, water-boatmen milling across the surface.
Casting aside your shoes and socks, you gingerly step into the shallows, fingers lifting your skirts so the frilled hem isn’t sodden. It’s deeper than you’d anticipated, though still only reaching your ankles. Sediment stirs between your toes, silt clouding the water as you shift your weight experimentally, relishing in the silken tides of water that swish and swirl across bare skin.
Raising your skirts higher, you wade deeper into the pond, cool, murky water rising up to your shins, over your knees, swallowing the skin at the bottom of your thighs. Skirts are bunched in your hands, rolled, pressed, and crumpled against your stomach. A warm breeze blows, twisting hair from your face, fluttering the cotton around your sleeves, playing with the teasing frills of your dress’ neckline.
Sediment swirls beneath the blue-grey-green surface, and tiny things nip at your calves. Tiny flashes of silver dart about, delivering tiny kisses to the arches of your feet, the swell of your ankle, the back of your knees. Slivers of glittering blue accompany the flashes on occasion, slices of red, and green swirling about as the creatures taste and examine the silt that’s been stirred up, clinging to the hairs on your legs like dust motes.
Further in you wade, the water now clutching at your upper thighs, squeezing at bare flesh. Ripples lap against skin, urging you deeper, to submerge yourself further and drift like a leaf across the surface on your back, pushed along by the breeze until you catch and tangle among the reeds.
Eyes close, and you scent the air. Crisp, and sweet: floral notes blown in from the gardens. The smell of mud and dirt, of algae and damp. Pond water, and the smell of things that are wetter than they should be.
Boney things shackle your ankles with surprising force, and the mud slips beneath your feet.
Water splashes but the noise is muffled as cold water covers your face, wrapping your body and shoulders, soaking your clothes. You hands dart out and you catch hold of something—thin and narrow, but writhing with strength as you right yourself and push from the pond, hauling the grey, slimy thing with you.
It’s an arm.
The hand is skeletal and webbed, fingers tipped with flesh-shredding nails.
You yank it higher, blinking pond water from your eyes as the world comes back into perspective.
Beneath the water it thrashes, a long tail squirming, tossing shovels of water this way and that. The arm is connected to a shoulder, and a head emerges from the waters, it’s features familiar but twisted in a snarling hiss. Black hair is slathered to its scalp and shoulders, fracturing the face with silky black lines, pale-ish lips curled back from pointed, white-yellow teeth.
In your hand its fingers flex, arm tugging in attempts to free itself.
You take it by its throat, keeping a firm grip on its wrist and pull it further from the water, minimising the splashes sent out by its tail. The creature hisses, and you recognise the small swell of breasts across its torso. Along its ribcage are small, natural serrations, flaring in and out like lengthy nostrils.
Brow furrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity, you examine the creature closely, peering at its face: big black eyes, swollen and round; grey-green skin, like the murk of silt; sharp teeth littering the inside of its mouth; a fish-like nose; long, silky black hair. A faint memory stirs somewhere. You’ve seen this kind of creature before.
It’s free hand claws at your arm, red staining the pale cotton of your now-torn sleeve.
“Release me,” it hisses, eyes wide, teeth bared. “Release me.”
You squeeze its throat in warning. “Was it you who toppled me? Or another like you?”
“Release me,” it hisses again. “These are our waters. You do not belong here.”
“These waters lie in the territory of Spring, don’t they?” You counter, adjusting your hold on its throat, eyes dipping questioningly to its chest before returning to the black, gleaming voids of its eyes. It’s certainly not a high fae female. Or high fae at all, for that matter.
You tilt your head. “Tell me. What are you?”
It hisses again, tail splashing. “You would call us water-wraiths.”
You narrow your eyes. “Are you not water-wraiths?”
It hisses again, the serrations at its sides sputtering, skin quivering. There’s a gargling noise in its throat, and its tail seems to be growing weaker.
Baring your teeth in warning, you drag it to shallower waters. Its nails scrape at the tears in your arm, but fail to do much beyond irritate the wounds.
The water reaches your knees, and you settle atop the creature, keeping it pinned with your weight as you shove its torso beneath the surface. Its body jolts, heaving like it’s gasping for air. Once it has eased itself, you pull its face from the water, hair now clear and swept aside. “Why did you topple me?”
Its features are still twisted, but less so now. Yellowed teeth glitter as they’re bared up at you in something like a grin. “Fish have barely yet returned. All the plumper foods were hunted out of these waters.” Its eyes flash, torso still heaving beneath the water. “You looked like you could fill our stomachs, for a while.”
You let out a snort of laughter, and the creature’s glee seems to fade to anger, tail writhing, trying to buck you off. The mirth fades from your mouth, a cool feeling pooling in your stomach.
“You’re hungry?” You ask. Aware of the changed female resting not too far from here.
“Without food, we do not have the option to reproduce. And our species has been hunted these past fifty years.”
You knew it looked familiar. Amarantha kept a pools full to bursting with them. She liked how their grey bodies thrashed and writhed against one another. The tangles they would weave one another into, bound and trapped by the long locks of silky, black hair.
Sometimes the High Queen would watch as their frenzies took over, turning water to blood as they tore one another apart.
You incline your head. “What food do you eat?”
The creature hisses.
“You can’t be that hungry if you won’t answer me.”
The creature writhes, practically spitting water.
“If you don’t tell me, I can’t find some for you,” you tease, squeezing its throat a bit tighter. “Come on,” you whisper, leaning closer, “I thought you were hungry.”
“And what will you ask for in return?” It hisses, clawing with fresh anger at your arm, scratching down your shoulder. Blood leeks into the pond.
“That you allow me to share your waters, for a start,” you muse. “Let me bathe without trying to sink your teeth into me.”
“Bring a basket of fish, and I will not next time try to eat you.”
“Neither will any others of your kind. Not next time, nor any time following.”
The creature hisses lowly, but it’s stopped writhing as much. “Deal.”
“You will also not lay a violent touch on my lover. I would like to bring her here to bathe alongside me.”
“For two baskets, maybe.”
You pull the creature up from the water, sitting back on where its hips might be were it high fae.
“You will accept a single gutted fish if that is all I am able to find, and you will ne’er lay a violent touch on either me or her for as long as we bathe in waters confined to Spring territory.”
Nails dig themselves deep into the open flesh of your arm, and teeth glitter beneath the sun. “You are lucky my sisters and I haven’t already torn you apart. They watch from deeper waters and would delight in shredding you. Two baskets, fresh fish.”
You tilt your head. Lower your voice. “You are the only creature in this pond today. Your numbers are dwindled, and your bones struggle to be contained. You will accept what I give.”
“I accept,” the creature hisses, “but bring me something.”
“I’m glad we could come to an arrangement,” you say, smiling.
In the distance, you hear a call.
It’s Feyre. She’s awake.
“When will you return?” The creature asks, hunger plain in its eyes.
In the distance, Feyre has swayed to her bare feet, breeze plucking at her dress and hair as she casts her gaze about. She won’t be able to see you here hidden in the low-waters, between reeds and typha.
“Food,” it hisses again. “When will you bring me my food?”
You shrug. “Sometime. But maybe you’ll have starved by then, and then I won’t have to bring any food at all,” you laugh.
You swing a leg off of it, setting it free to return to the murk of the pond. It thrashes away in a gust of splashing mud, dragging ripples across the surface as it swims for deeper waters. It circles back, the upper part of its head watching like a grey smudge from a distance, and you narrow your eyes on it, flexing the fingers that had been wrapped around its throat.
“Next time lead with an offer, instead of trying to take what you want by force,” you call.
Feyre calls for you again, the wind carrying the sweet notes of your name in her voice.
You turn and step out of the pond, up into the grass, lifting your arms in the air as you wade back the way you came.
Light, blue-grey eyes widen as they sweep over you, a frown knotting her sweet, expressive brows. You suppose you are a state, drenched head to toe, stinking of pond water and speckled with silt, leaves, and tiny dying creatures that got caught up in the splash of sediment.
Sure enough, her nose twitches as the wind changes, wrinkling faintly before she pushes down on the response.
Feyre remains stood on the blanket, bare-footed, the upper section of her hair swept back from her face, tied in a satiny bow that insists on bothering the sensitive peaks of her ears. She folds her arms across her chest, the short puffs of her sleeves puffing further as they’re stretched, and she leans her weight to one hip. “What happened?”
You tilt your head, a smile coming to your lips. “There’s a pool over there,” you answer, nodding back the way you came. “I wanted to bathe.”
“Weren’t you washed this morning?” She asks, eyeing the murky water dripping from the dirtied cotton. Noting the shredded fabric of your sleeve, the blood staining the fabric.
It’s your turn to furrow your brows. “Were youwashed by someone this morning?”
A small scowl manifests, and she peers at the tasselled edges of the blanket. “I am waited on hand and foot inside those walls.” The little earrings fashioned after purple and white flowers twinkle at her lobes, swaying in the wind.
“You should order them leave you be,” you say, “it’s what-… You have the ability to do so.”
Feyre’s brows deepen in their glare, and those eyes glide over to you.
Your shoulders slump by a fraction. “She’s dead, Feyre,” you state blandly. “You saw it, I saw it. You have some kind of command here, don’t you?” You ask, switching the subject. “Being connected to him.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“So you keep saying…”
“You know less than I do about how these things work. I’m the one living it while you get to lay about all day, doing what you like, thinking what you like, wearing what you like.” There’s anger in her eyes again, a fleeting spark of defiance.
You give her a distrustful look. “You think I’d choose to wear this?”
It’s supposed to bring a smile to her mouth.
Instead she remains obstinate, and angered.
A breath loosens from beneath your lungs, and you make to step forward, reaching to cup her elbow.
Feyre takes a step back. “You’re soaked, and filthy.”
You lift a brow, a retort on your tongue. Then a better idea slinks between your legs, and you turn on your feet, glancing over your shoulder at her as you pull your hair to the side to display the lopsided ties of your dress. “Help me dry?”
Not long ago, her cheeks would have warmed to the taste of strawberries. Her eyes would have widened, and, if you were lucky enough, teasing enough, her scent might have shifted.
Now she watches you, expression dull, that spark snuffed out in the blink of an eye.
But she sighs, and steps forward. Takes ahold of the loose ribbons, beginning to pick at the knots you’d tied when getting dressed that morning. “I should pull these loose and strangle you with them,” she murmurs under her breath. So soft you wouldn’t have heard had she not lifted her chin to whisper them right besides your ear.
A thrill unspools within, and teeth nip across your lower lip.
“Do what you like,” you whisper back. “You’re the one holding my reigns.”
“So you say…”
You frown, making to turn and face her, but she presses one hand to the back of your hip, keeping you in place. You settle for a glance over your shoulder, trying to catch her eye. “What do you mean by that, Feyre.”
“I mean you’ve not yet gotten her out of your system,” she whispers, accompanied by a sharp tug to the ribbons, constricting the waist of your dress—tight.
“Feeling threatened by the dead?” You murmur back, something syrupy gathering between your thighs.
A breath puffs against the nape of your neck, followed by the hot press of her brow as she leans against you. “Sometimes I think I can still smell her on you,” Feyre whispers.
Your spine goes a little rigid beneath her, body stiffening as her breath ghosts down your back.
Inside your chest, your pulse spikes.
You swallow past the thickness in your throat.
“You’re going to get dirty if you keep leaning on me like that.”
Feyre hums, and her fingers return to work, pulling the ribbons free until the dress slouches around your shoulders, and she’s stepping back and away, leaving your skin cold in spite of the open sun. Swallowing, you turn to face her, allowing the soiled cotton to slide and crumple around your waist, pushing it down over your hips. Leaving it in a pile on the floor, before stepping forward onto the clean blanket.
Feyre averts her eyes. “You should sit down, so the sentries don’t see.”
If they’re half-decent lookouts, they’ll have already seen.
“Come. We should drink,” she says somewhat stiffly, settling to the ground, dress fluttering around her and you follow suit. She pours you a glass from the clear jug, ice still clinking as the water swirls. “There’s cordial too,” she continues. “Want some?”
You look at her, meeting her eyes. “What does it taste like?”
Feyre holds your gaze for a moment, before glancing away. Taking the bottle and pouring a bit into her own glass. “Elderflower,” she answers. “It’s elderflower cordial.”
“May I try some of yours?”
Again, she glances at you. Her eyes dip to your chest, then to your stomach, then back to your eyes. “Sure.”
You lift a brow. “No snappy remark?”
“Can I not have a conversation without there being some unaddressed scoring system occurring in the background?” She asks through gritted teeth.
Something tugs at he edges of your mouth. “Not a fan of games, hm?”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think?” You repeat.
“Yes. What do you think.”
You smirk. “I think you’re a sore loser.”
Dark ire ruptures in the pits of her eyes, and the glass fractures in her hand, barely retaining its shape.
You lean back, propping yourself upon your palms as you look over her. “You’ll end up hurting yourself if you don’t let it out, Feyre,” you tease, watching as icy water leaks out in droplets from between the cracks, blood diluted to a pale pink. “Next time, take it out on someone else.”
The glass smashes in her hand, and she startles out of her fury.
Blood sloshes in her palm, pouring down and splashing on her skirts.
A tinge of fear creeps into her scent.
“I hate this,” she whispers, staring at her hand. “I hate this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.” She pulls her knees to her chest, burying her face in her arms. “I hate this.”
Something cool and slithering stirs in your stomach.
Shifting onto your hands and knees, you crawl forward. Feyre looks as she was in her cell. Curled up and weakened. You reach forward, fingers curling tenderly around the exposed skin of her ankle, gently wrapping. “Feyre…you’re out. You’re not under there anymore.”
“Don’t.” Feyre jolts, kicking away your hand. Breathing hard. “Don’t.”
You tilt your head, peering at her.
She looks away again, forehead resting on her arms.
Then, quietly, “I don’t know what they’ll do to you once our bargain is done.”
You shift on the blanket, moving to sit at her side. Almost touching.
“Want to go hunting?” You ask, “maybe I could come with you this time?”
No response.
“You could show me around the gardens? I haven’t gotten to see them yet,” you murmur.
Her pulse is rapid, blood bouncing through her body, thumping through her throat.
“What about where you lived as a human?” You ask, and her breathing catches. You peer at her sidelong. “You never said much under the mountain. Was is different below the wall?”
Feyre’s quiet for a long while—long enough for her heartbeat to steady, for her breathing to regulate. The tremble in her shoulders subsides, replaced by light shivers as the wind blows beneath a grey sky. Trees whisper, and the grasses sway back and forth. Eventually she looks up, eyes once more grey, and dull. She perches her chin atop her forearms, gazing out across the swirling fields to the frothing woodland beyond.
One of the sentries approaches quietly through the grass.
“My lady, you’ve hurt yourself,” he states.
“It’s fine. The glass broke.”
He shifts uneasily. “I need to take you to see a healer.”
“I do not need a healer,” Feyre murmurs.
“We at least need to clean the blood. Please come with me back to the manor.”
Feyre sighs, and rests her forehead on her arms. She lifts her head to look at the sentry. “Would you bring cloth and bandages out to me? I’m enjoying being…” She pauses, and allows her eyes to turn a bit distant. Then she shakes her head.
The sentry shifts again. “No, of course. I will return to you swiftly. Forgive my lack of compassion.”
Feyre shifts on the blanket. “Would you also return with a fresh dress?”
The sentry glances to where you’re relaxed a little behind Feyre. His lips thin, but he nods, and leaves.
Both of you watch him depart.
You nudge her. “Sneak.”
She doesn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A smile tugs at your lips, peering at her fondly.
“Whatever you say, Feyre,” you murmur to the wind, glancing out across the fields.
“You should cover yourself when he returns. It’s not appropriate for you to be naked.”
“So I’m told.”
Feyre’s teeth grind. “You’re already testing Tamlin’s patience. If he hears about this it will only make things worse.”
You huff a laugh. “And what’s he going to do? Roar at me? Throw me? Hit me?” You turn to look at her—her brows furrowed, mouth parted and lips turned down at their edges. You lean forward, lowering your voice to a whisper. “Would that upset you, Feyre?”
“I wouldn’t like to see someone hurt.”
“You think he would, then?”
A scowl twists her sweet brows. “Do you derive pleasure from being so deceptive?”
“It’s just a bit of fun, Feyre. You need joy to live,” you smile.
“I’m not sure you experience joy like the rest of us.”
“And who is ‘us’, in this instance?” You ask, peering at her. “Humans? Fae?”
“Normal people.” She snaps.
“You think you’re normal?” You laugh. “Nobody else does.”
She looks like she’s about to snap something more but the sentry is returning.
“Fold the blanket over your lap,” Feyre says tightly. “You can cover your chest with your arms.”
“I’m still wet,” you tease, lips curved. “I don’t want to get the fabric dirty.”
“He was looking at you,” she hisses under her breath.
“They all look, Feyre. It doesn’t matter what clothing I wear.”
“I imagine that’s more to do with you being her whore than your clothes.”
“And yet I’ve been at your beck and call since the moment she died and you’ve yet to make a single request of me.” You lift your attention to her watercolour eyes. “I would have thought you’d know better than anyone the kinds of things I can do.”
“I’m a woman. It’s different.” She takes a breath. “I wouldn’t treat someone like that. Look at someone like that.”
A smirk curves your lips, and her eyes flick down. “Not for a lack of want, Feyre.”
“Your bandages, my lady. And a dress for the…” The sentry trails off, unsure of your address.
Feyre shifts, moving to press more firmly against you, slightly shielding you from view. She thanks the sentry, and he deposits a basket of bandages, cloth, and fabric atop the picnic blanket. He gives a slight bow to Feyre, then leaves.
“And if I request that you behave properly while you remain here?” Feyre mutters, reaching for the wicker handle. You shift onto your knees, pulling the folded, ruffled cotton free. Hands brushing in the basket.
“That lack of verbal clarity is what almost cost you your life.”
“Is this more of your ‘fun’?” Feyre murmurs, retrieving a fresh roll of gauze.
“I’m trying to teach you something valuable. Since you’re so inclined to be making bargains left, right, and centre.”
“I’ve not made that many.”
“No? Let’s see…you made one with my lover Amarantha, you made one with me, and…oh! That’s right. One with Rhysand too. The mortal enemy of the male you’re supposed to wed.”
“I was fighting for my life.” She mutters, picking at the gauze with the edge of her nail.
“And you might have to again. So maybe next time you’ll have a better chance of surviving since you did so poorly the first time.”
“Poorly?” Feyre hisses, abandoning the gauze in her lap. “I saved Tamlin. I saved everyone trapped under the mountain. I saved Prythian.”
“You murdered the female who chose me, Feyre.” You tilt your head, and smile. “You murdered some others, too, and got yourself killed. Am I so heartless for wanting to prevent that?”
Her eyes darken, storms gathering across the waters. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“I thought you wanted me on best behaviour,” you whisper, leaving the clean dress discarded, out of sight.
“I should have strangled you with those ribbons,” she hisses softly, at last yanking the roll of bandages free, hardly bothering to clean the slightly-puckered-skin before getting started on the binding.
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