@fuzzballsheltiepants / fuzzballsheltiepants.tumblr.com
“Rhys still knelt, wings drooping across the white sheets, head bowed, his tattoos stark against his golden skin. A dark, fallen prince. The painting flashes into my mind. Flashed - and stayed there, glimmering, before it faded.”
I know I didn’t paint the tattoos, I’m sorry.
this is stunning
Painting in Velaris
As of 4/7/18, that is. I’m terrible at updating.
Nessian: Just assume all of these are at least a little NSFW. This is not the order they were written in, but is the logical order to read them in. On AO3.
Elucien: The third one is NSFW. Slightly interwoven with the Nessian stuff.
Elriel: A different storyline from the Nessian, all from prompts. On AO3.
Lucien/Andras: Depressing. Sorry. (Not Sorry.) On AO3.
Random Feysand, mostly from Kiss prompts:
Self-Employed NSFW…and the only one not from a prompt
The Gift a little fluffy silly thing
Burning Feyre, ready to make a baby
The Name Pregnant Feysand
Elain and Amren (Amrain?) On AO3.
Nessian
Just Once. (Maybe Twice.) NSFW On AO3.
Aedion Prequel (still a WIP)
The Forging of the Wolf: This has canon-typical violence and multiple chapters are NSFW to some degree, and as I write it just keeps getting gayer. There are more specific trigger warnings at the beginnings of the chapters that merit it. On AO3.
Chapter One (trigger warning)
Chapter Five (trigger warning)
Chapter Thirteen (Trigger warning)
Manon On AO3.
Lysaedion On AO3.
Andrew, during The King’s Men. On AO3.
Neil coping with Andrew’s pending graduation and poor communication. Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Andrew decides to get tested. Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Andrew realizes his defenses have been breached. Post-canon by several years. On AO3.
Neil watches Andrew get hit in the head with an exy ball. A traumatic brain injury and recovery ensue.
Back to the Start Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Another update, I’m trying to be more regular with these.
As of 3/24/18, that is. I’m terrible at updating.
Nessian: Just assume all of these are at least a little NSFW. This is not the order they were written in, but is the logical order to read them in. On AO3.
Elucien: The third one is NSFW. Slightly interwoven with the Nessian stuff.
Elriel: A different storyline from the Nessian, all from prompts. On AO3.
Lucien/Andras: Depressing. Sorry. (Not Sorry.) On AO3.
Random Feysand, mostly from Kiss prompts:
Self-Employed NSFW…and the only one not from a prompt
The Gift a little fluffy silly thing
Burning Feyre, ready to make a baby
The Name Pregnant Feysand
Elain and Amren (Amrain?) On AO3.
Nessian
Just Once. (Maybe Twice.) NSFW On AO3.
Aedion Prequel (still a WIP)
The Forging of the Wolf: This has canon-typical violence and multiple chapters are NSFW to some degree, and as I write it just keeps getting gayer. There are more specific trigger warnings at the beginnings of the chapters that merit it. On AO3.
Chapter One (trigger warning)
Chapter Five (trigger warning)
Chapter Thirteen (Trigger warning)
Manon On AO3.
Lysaedion On AO3.
Andrew, during The King’s Men. On AO3.
Neil coping with Andrew’s pending graduation and poor communication. Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Back to the Start Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Just added the most recent All for the Game fic...
As of 4/7/18, that is. I’m terrible at updating.
Nessian: Just assume all of these are at least a little NSFW. This is not the order they were written in, but is the logical order to read them in. On AO3.
Elucien: The third one is NSFW. Slightly interwoven with the Nessian stuff.
Elriel: A different storyline from the Nessian, all from prompts. On AO3.
Lucien/Andras: Depressing. Sorry. (Not Sorry.) On AO3.
Random Feysand, mostly from Kiss prompts:
Self-Employed NSFW…and the only one not from a prompt
The Gift a little fluffy silly thing
Burning Feyre, ready to make a baby
The Name Pregnant Feysand
Elain and Amren (Amrain?) On AO3.
Nessian
Just Once. (Maybe Twice.) NSFW On AO3.
Aedion Prequel (still a WIP)
The Forging of the Wolf: This has canon-typical violence and multiple chapters are NSFW to some degree, and as I write it just keeps getting gayer. There are more specific trigger warnings at the beginnings of the chapters that merit it. On AO3.
Chapter One (trigger warning)
Chapter Five (trigger warning)
Chapter Thirteen (Trigger warning)
Manon On AO3.
Lysaedion On AO3.
Andrew, during The King’s Men. On AO3.
Neil coping with Andrew’s pending graduation and poor communication. Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Andrew decides to get tested. Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Andrew realizes his defenses have been breached. Post-canon by several years. On AO3.
Neil watches Andrew get hit in the head with an exy ball. A traumatic brain injury and recovery ensue.
Back to the Start Post-canon but canon universe. On AO3.
Nessian: Just assume all of these are at least a little NSFW. This is not the order they were written in, but is the logical order to read them in.
Elucien: The third one is NSFW. Slightly interwoven with the Nessian stuff.
Elriel: A different storyline from the Nessian.
Lucien/Andras: Depressing. Sorry. (Not Sorry.)
Random Feysand, mostly from Kiss prompts:
Self-Employed NSFW…and the only one not from a prompt
The Gift a little fluffy silly thing
Burning Feyre, ready to make a baby
The Name Pregnant Feysand
Elain and Amren (Amrain?)
Nessian
Just Once. (Maybe Twice.) NSFW
Aedion Prequel (still a WIP)
The Forging of the Wolf: This has canon-typical violence and multiple chapters are NSFW to some degree, and as I write it just keeps getting gayer. There are more specific trigger warnings at the beginnings of the chapters that merit it.
Chapter One (trigger warning)
Chapter Five (trigger warning)
Chapter Thirteen (Trigger warning)
Lysaedion
Day 09- SCREECH
Feyre’s first trial against the middengard wyrm.
Holy. Crap. This is absolutely fantastic!!
***trigger warnings for rape*** and personal details about my life that I’m uncomfortable sharing but if I don’t ppl will wonder why I have the authority to discuss this.
Thank you for sharing this. I too have been in your shoes, and I was honestly really impressed with how, especially in ACOWAR, SJM has Rhys talk about the rape. I have more thoughts on this, but don’t have my books with me, so I hope I remember to come back to this later.
Please do!! I would love to hear your thoughts.
@my-name-is-fireheart This is very long and could have more potential triggers.
Going through the development of Rhys’ relationship with Feyre, the way he talks about/deals with Amarantha and his situation shifts.
In ACOTAR, he comes to Feyre the night before the third task, wanting “’A moment of peace and quiet…’ I paused. ‘From what?’…He sighed. ‘From this mess.’ I sat up further on my pallet of hay. I’d never seen him so candid. ‘That damned bitch is running me ragged…You hate me. Imagine how you’d feel if I made you serve in my bedroom. I’m High Lord of the Night Court - not her harlot.’” The timing of this is absolutely crucial, in that he knows that in 24 hours either they will all be saved or his doom will be sealed. He is feeling anxious and vulnerable in the moment, and it’s among the most honest he is about it through all three books. Instead of smoothly accepting the title of being her whore, he flat-out denies it and admits for the first time - possibly even to himself - that he is being forced to serve.
The word “whore” implies some form of consent, after all. Sure, it’s sex for money or favors, but the implication is that the person in question is volunteering their body in exchange for a payment of some kind. Rhys did not volunteer for this. He made the decision, once he realized he was going to be trapped and tortured in some fashion, to steer that in the way that would best protect those he valued, but doing the best you can in an impossible situation is not the same as making the choice or providing consent. In ACOMAF, when Feyre first gets to Velaris, she asks him angrily why Rhys didn’t offer Velaris as a refuge, and he replies as follows: “’When Amarantha came,’ he said, his temper slipping the leash a bit as his eyes flashed, ‘I had to make some very hard choices, very quickly.’” He could have fought Amarantha, and died; he could have been restricted as the other High Lords were restricted and been powerless to protect his people; or he could make her believe he was submitting in order to save what mattered most to him.
Later, Rhys shows Feyre Ianthe’s attempt to seduce/sexually assault him, and the intensity of his response. This to me really drove home how intolerable undesired sexual contact is, in general and to Rhys in particular - and therefore how profound the mental torment of being systematically raped for 50 years would have been. Maas could have made the point of Ianthe using sex as a means of domination in a number of other ways, but instead showed Rhys breaking her arm because she touched him without his consent.
A little while later, Rhys tells Feyre for the first time that he has “two kinds o nightmares: the ones where I’m again Amarantha’s whore or my friends are…And the ones where I hear your neck snap and see the light leave your eyes.” The two worst things to him are he or his loved ones being raped, and his mate dying.
Feyre recognizes his emotional trauma, and relates on a very personal level. When she’s beginning to feel the attraction to him, she wonders, “Had he been with anyone since Amarantha? Did he want another person in his bed after Amarantha?” But I don’t think Rhys actually allowed himself to really think about this, feel it, until the Court of Nightmares when he and Feyre got aroused with her in his lap. She panics - but so does he. “Rhys sensed my focus, my fire slip. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, but that mental voice sounded breathless. ‘It means nothing. It’s just your body reacting -’“ He’s talking to her, and also to himself in that moment. He’s way too old and experienced to just be thrown by a turned on girl in his lap, even if she is his mate. After that they get into a rip-roaring fight. Rhys is not able to maintain his strict control over himself, because he has been triggered by the whole thing.
Then, in the inn, he won’t let Feyre touch him even though he’s aroused. He uses the excuse of the room being too small and too public, but she was more than willing to give him a hand job or whatever he wants, and he won’t let her. “I began twisting, reaching for him, needing to just feel him, but he clicked his tongue and pushed himself harder against me, until there was no room for my hand to even slide in. ‘I want to touch you first,’ he said, his voice so guttural I barely recognized it.” By touching her and remaining in control, he took the first steps in being able to enjoy sexual activity again.
You already wrote well about the two of them having sex with her on top, and what that meant. I was particularly touched in that not only is he able to be with the woman he’s genetically driven to bond with, but he’s able to cleanse himself at the same time. But Maas doesn’t make the mistake of having it be a complete purge, now he’s going to be fine, that trauma is never going to come back. He continues to be haunted by it, as again you discussed re: the Mor/Keir thing. After that scene when he tries to tell Mor that he would welcome Amarantha back if she could help them win the war, he confesses to Feyre, “‘If she…’ His swallow was audible. ‘If she showed up at this house…’ I knew who he meant. ‘I would kill her. Without even letting her speak, I would kill her.’” To everyone but Feyre - someone who has gone through the trauma of being trapped and forced to do things she doesn’t want to for the greater good, someone who wanted to die as a result - he maintains the front of being over it, being healed. But he can’t hide it from her, and she does the right thing by supporting him in that.
Throughout ACOWAR, Rhys keeps putting himself at risk, keeps wanting to do everything himself, struggles to let his people do their jobs even. He shows depression throughout the book, as does Feyre, and I don’t believe it’s from killing enemy soldiers or the stress of having to make these major decisions; both of them were forced to do things against their will in an effort to save others. Even his love for Feyre was not enough to get him over his willingness to die (you can’t tell me they couldn’t have gotten some of the other High Lords and Nesta over there and pooled their power), and I can’t help but believe that some of that was due to the aftermath of his trauma.
Anyway, this is long and I’m tired, but after reading these books I was left with the impression that Maas has an excellent understanding of sexual trauma, as good as her understanding of depression. Those who are victims of sexual assault will deal with it in different ways. I did by telling a few of the wrong people and none of the right ones, then making a series of bad decisions until I finally got help. Then it still took me years before I could have sex with the lights off, and I don’t like being hugged or hemmed in or even really touched by anyone but my husband (and even that took a long time). Rhys deals with it by telling himself it was a choice, that he was making the best of a horrible situation, etc. Language is important. It feels like the word rape somehow lessens you in society, though for me, I needed to own that term, make it my own. However I can fully understand why Rhys wouldn’t want to use it, and why Feyre wouldn’t either. Accepting that you have been helpless is terrifying, and I wonder if part of the nightmare he can’t share, even with Feyre, is his recognition of that. It’s significant that Rhys refuses to look in the Ouroborous, a mirror that shows us what we truly are…
@fuzzballsheltiepants THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS RESPONSE. HONESTLY. You took my rambling meta and came up with so much good textual analysis that I was missing. All of your points really hit home, and have me really convinced that we have not seen the last of Rhysand’s healing arc. He has a long way to go, and in some ways this makes me REALLLY happy we get a novella about Feysand. He deserves it.
I loved that you mention the whole bit in acomaf where he says “It’s just your body reacting.” I think we can take this even further and say that he’s thinking about himself and how he may have reacted to Amarantha. Because there’s that whole notion that it isn’t rape if the victim orgasms or if they are a man, becomes hard. But orgasms can occur during rape, and male rape victims do get hard, but neither of these things signal or equal consent. Because, as Rhysand says, “It’s just your body reacting.” So his response to Feyre is really…really kind and sweet and considerate. He just wants to make sure that she was actually consenting to what happened, not just her body reacting to his. He doesn’t think, at this point, that she *actually* wants him, so he’s trying to assure her that he knows that her body’s reaction to him does not equal her consent. This is such a great moment in acomaf, and such an important message. After reading it like this, I have to agree that Maas does understand sexual trauma—at least in terms of how it has affected me.
“However I can fully understand why Rhys wouldn’t want to use it, and why Feyre wouldn’t either. Accepting that you have been helpless is terrifying, and I wonder if part of the nightmare he can’t share, even with Feyre, is his recognition of that. It’s significant that Rhys refuses to look in the Ouroborous, a mirror that shows us what we truly are…”
This part of your meta just floors me, because not only is this exactly how I feel, but I think it’s 100% how Rhysand feels. And it makes sense. He’s a high lord. The most powerful one. He’s used to being able to do anything wants, escape from any situation, best any enemy. And yet he wasn’t able to escape Amarantha for fifty long years. So obviously these feelings of helplessness that she caused are in direct conflict with pretty much his…entire identity and self worth.
Thank you for responding in such a thoughtful manner—these are exactly the types of conversations I want to be having about the books, and it makes me so happy to see another survivor analyzing Rhysand’s arc. And thank you for speaking a bit about your personal experience, I know it can be difficult.
I’m glad you agree with what I was picking up on! This is a discussion that I believe needs to happen. Being a victim of rape needs to become destigmatized. I do sincerely hope that we will see more of Rhys’ healing process in the future books.
I totally agree with you that when Rhys and Feyre were in the Court of Nightmares that he was taking his own experience and applying to Feyre, making sure that she didn’t feel pressured or guilty for what was happening. It is so hard for people to realize that the body will react in a way even when the mind doesn’t want it to. Much like during an anxiety attack - your mind doesn’t want the anxiety, but man, those adrenal glands release that epinephrine and your heart rate spikes, your breathing goes up, your pupils dilate, your muscles clench, and all of this happens without your control.
Thank you so much for having the courage to bring this up in the first place!
***trigger warnings for rape*** and personal details about my life that I’m uncomfortable sharing but if I don’t ppl will wonder why I have the authority to discuss this.
Thank you for sharing this. I too have been in your shoes, and I was honestly really impressed with how, especially in ACOWAR, SJM has Rhys talk about the rape. I have more thoughts on this, but don’t have my books with me, so I hope I remember to come back to this later.
Please do!! I would love to hear your thoughts.
@my-name-is-fireheart This is very long and could have more potential triggers.
Going through the development of Rhys’ relationship with Feyre, the way he talks about/deals with Amarantha and his situation shifts.
In ACOTAR, he comes to Feyre the night before the third task, wanting “’A moment of peace and quiet...’ I paused. ‘From what?’...He sighed. ‘From this mess.’ I sat up further on my pallet of hay. I’d never seen him so candid. ‘That damned bitch is running me ragged...You hate me. Imagine how you’d feel if I made you serve in my bedroom. I’m High Lord of the Night Court - not her harlot.’” The timing of this is absolutely crucial, in that he knows that in 24 hours either they will all be saved or his doom will be sealed. He is feeling anxious and vulnerable in the moment, and it’s among the most honest he is about it through all three books. Instead of smoothly accepting the title of being her whore, he flat-out denies it and admits for the first time - possibly even to himself - that he is being forced to serve.
The word “whore” implies some form of consent, after all. Sure, it’s sex for money or favors, but the implication is that the person in question is volunteering their body in exchange for a payment of some kind. Rhys did not volunteer for this. He made the decision, once he realized he was going to be trapped and tortured in some fashion, to steer that in the way that would best protect those he valued, but doing the best you can in an impossible situation is not the same as making the choice or providing consent. In ACOMAF, when Feyre first gets to Velaris, she asks him angrily why Rhys didn’t offer Velaris as a refuge, and he replies as follows: “’When Amarantha came,’ he said, his temper slipping the leash a bit as his eyes flashed, ‘I had to make some very hard choices, very quickly.’” He could have fought Amarantha, and died; he could have been restricted as the other High Lords were restricted and been powerless to protect his people; or he could make her believe he was submitting in order to save what mattered most to him.
Later, Rhys shows Feyre Ianthe’s attempt to seduce/sexually assault him, and the intensity of his response. This to me really drove home how intolerable undesired sexual contact is, in general and to Rhys in particular - and therefore how profound the mental torment of being systematically raped for 50 years would have been. Maas could have made the point of Ianthe using sex as a means of domination in a number of other ways, but instead showed Rhys breaking her arm because she touched him without his consent.
A little while later, Rhys tells Feyre for the first time that he has “two kinds o nightmares: the ones where I’m again Amarantha’s whore or my friends are...And the ones where I hear your neck snap and see the light leave your eyes.” The two worst things to him are he or his loved ones being raped, and his mate dying.
Feyre recognizes his emotional trauma, and relates on a very personal level. When she’s beginning to feel the attraction to him, she wonders, “Had he been with anyone since Amarantha? Did he want another person in his bed after Amarantha?” But I don’t think Rhys actually allowed himself to really think about this, feel it, until the Court of Nightmares when he and Feyre got aroused with her in his lap. She panics - but so does he. “Rhys sensed my focus, my fire slip. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, but that mental voice sounded breathless. ‘It means nothing. It’s just your body reacting -’“ He’s talking to her, and also to himself in that moment. He’s way too old and experienced to just be thrown by a turned on girl in his lap, even if she is his mate. After that they get into a rip-roaring fight. Rhys is not able to maintain his strict control over himself, because he has been triggered by the whole thing.
Then, in the inn, he won’t let Feyre touch him even though he’s aroused. He uses the excuse of the room being too small and too public, but she was more than willing to give him a hand job or whatever he wants, and he won’t let her. “I began twisting, reaching for him, needing to just feel him, but he clicked his tongue and pushed himself harder against me, until there was no room for my hand to even slide in. ‘I want to touch you first,’ he said, his voice so guttural I barely recognized it.” By touching her and remaining in control, he took the first steps in being able to enjoy sexual activity again.
You already wrote well about the two of them having sex with her on top, and what that meant. I was particularly touched in that not only is he able to be with the woman he’s genetically driven to bond with, but he’s able to cleanse himself at the same time. But Maas doesn’t make the mistake of having it be a complete purge, now he’s going to be fine, that trauma is never going to come back. He continues to be haunted by it, as again you discussed re: the Mor/Keir thing. After that scene when he tries to tell Mor that he would welcome Amarantha back if she could help them win the war, he confesses to Feyre, “‘If she...’ His swallow was audible. ‘If she showed up at this house...’ I knew who he meant. ‘I would kill her. Without even letting her speak, I would kill her.’” To everyone but Feyre - someone who has gone through the trauma of being trapped and forced to do things she doesn’t want to for the greater good, someone who wanted to die as a result - he maintains the front of being over it, being healed. But he can’t hide it from her, and she does the right thing by supporting him in that.
Throughout ACOWAR, Rhys keeps putting himself at risk, keeps wanting to do everything himself, struggles to let his people do their jobs even. He shows depression throughout the book, as does Feyre, and I don’t believe it’s from killing enemy soldiers or the stress of having to make these major decisions; both of them were forced to do things against their will in an effort to save others. Even his love for Feyre was not enough to get him over his willingness to die (you can’t tell me they couldn’t have gotten some of the other High Lords and Nesta over there and pooled their power), and I can’t help but believe that some of that was due to the aftermath of his trauma.
Anyway, this is long and I’m tired, but after reading these books I was left with the impression that Maas has an excellent understanding of sexual trauma, as good as her understanding of depression. Those who are victims of sexual assault will deal with it in different ways. I did by telling a few of the wrong people and none of the right ones, then making a series of bad decisions until I finally got help. Then it still took me years before I could have sex with the lights off, and I don’t like being hugged or hemmed in or even really touched by anyone but my husband (and even that took a long time). Rhys deals with it by telling himself it was a choice, that he was making the best of a horrible situation, etc. Language is important. It feels like the word rape somehow lessens you in society, though for me, I needed to own that term, make it my own. However I can fully understand why Rhys wouldn’t want to use it, and why Feyre wouldn’t either. Accepting that you have been helpless is terrifying, and I wonder if part of the nightmare he can’t share, even with Feyre, is his recognition of that. It’s significant that Rhys refuses to look in the Ouroborous, a mirror that shows us what we truly are...
Could you maybe so a wip of Feyre? You don't even have to color it but pls? I just absolutely love your art style and you never do Feyre , so I was just wondering😊
Scrappy Feyre is best Feyre.
The fourth part in my little Elriel collection. See parts 1 2 3 here. @sparkleywonderful this is for you, sorry it’s taken me like three months to get to it!
Elain crossed her fingers anxiously as she lined everyone up before the gate into the walled garden. It had taken her weeks to get everything perfect. Weeks of selecting the right plants, of organizing the layout, of digging and fertilizing, pruning and mulching. Azriel had helped as much as he could, but after he had appeared with the fountain - the crowning glory - she had shooed him out. She had spent nearly every day some variation on filthy and had loved every second of it. Even now she had dirt under her nails from the last minute removal of some recalcitrant weed, and her gown was wet from kneeling on the fountain to feed the multicolored fish now residing in the water, but her heart was full.
“Okay,” she said tremulously as she unlocked the gate, “come on in.”
Rhys entered first, then stopped so abruptly Cassian crashed into his back. The general placed his red-siphoned hands on the High Lord’s shoulders and looked around, mouth agape. Azriel sidled in next to his brothers, brushing arms with Rhys, and Mor froze on her cousin’s other side. Elain turned to Feyre and Nesta squeezing past the males, all three of whom appeared to have turned into statuary, a question in her eyes. Feyre glanced at her mate and shrugged, mouthing silently, “This is amazing.” Nesta said nothing, but her pride shone as she approached and gave Elain a squeeze.
The seconds of silence dragged into minutes, and Elain began shifting from foot to foot, waiting for someone to say something. The movement caught Azriel’s eye and he regained animation, smiling gently at her, reassurance and something else in that perfect face. He gently nudged Rhys, who blinked rapidly and took a step forward, eyes sweeping the concentric rings of plants encompassing the full spectrum of color from white, through yellow, orange, red, purple, and blue. He took Mor’s hand and they walked slowly around the garden, following the stone pavers that ran between the beds, looking carefully at the flowers, the trees in each corner, pausing here and there to smell a blossom. Cassian followed a step behind, one hand still on his brother’s shoulder, and they stopped for a long moment under the trellis that Nesta had helped her build in front of the roses along the back wall. Two of the ancient rose plants had taken quite happily to being trained up the sides of the trellis, and in another year or two they would cover it in blooms. As it was, the three fae standing there, two black heads and a golden one, were art enough for Elain’s eye.
Finally Rhys turned towards the fountain in the center where the sisters were standing and he and Mor walked up the stone aisleway, fingers trailing lightly along the bordering foliage which released a warm green scent in response. When they reached the fountain, he touched the worn stone reverently, and a tear that had been threatening to escape from the first moment tracked down his cheek. “Where did you find this?” he asked hoarsely.
“Azriel brought it,” Elain replied, confused. The shadowsinger at her side looked almost guilty as he met Rhys’ gaze, but there was nothing but love and gratitude shining in those violet eyes.
“I thought it was gone,” the High Lord whispered. Feyre stepped closer at the pain in his voice, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her to him and leaning his cheek on her hair. He looked at Elain and tried to smile. “It was my sister’s favorite, you see. She called it her wishing well, and she used to put a coin in there every time she wanted something. My brothers and I would try to figure out what she wanted so we could get it for her.” He gave a little chuckle, and Cassian’s face flickered into a grin at the memory. “We were wrong about half the time, but that didn’t seem to matter to her, since somehow Mor always managed to appear with the right thing or the right words.” He gave his cousin a watery smile. “After…” His voice broke then, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “After she was killed, I couldn’t bear to even see it. It used to be on the roof of the House of Wind, and I couldn’t…it disappeared, and then I…I missed it. The last part of her… You didn’t just bring me back part of my mother here, you found my sister too.”
Feyre was crying now, and Elain could feel the warm course of her own tears down her face. Nesta was stiff with tension beside her. Elain couldn’t tell if her sister was looking to go to war for her, or worrying about Cassian, who as far as she knew had never been silent for this long. She watched the general as he sat on the edge of the fountain and dipped his fingers into the water, studying the curious fish who came up to investigate. A muscle was flickering in his jaw, and his free hand came up and furtively brushed at his lashes. He looked at Elain over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he said fervently. “This is…this is magic.”
The others nodded, and Nesta went to her mate then, standing behind him without touching him, and the look in his eyes as he turned his face up to hers made Elain tear up again. Azriel came over and offered her his arm, which she took without thinking, relishing in his warm strength. He steered her gently around the garden, asking questions about the different plants, pointing out his favorites. The light chatter eased some of the emotion stifling everyone, and soon the males and Mor were swapping stories of Rhys’ family, cleansing old wounds with laughter and tears. As Cassian was doing a terrible impression of Rhys as a young Illyrian, Elain felt slim arms slip around her waist and Mor whispered in her ear, “You may be a seer, but this is your true power. Loving, bringing people together, healing us…You’re a miracle.” She pressed a kiss to her cheek before walking over to the bench where Rhys and Feyre were sitting, joining in animatedly. Elain looked around, at her sisters and their mates, at vibrant glorious Mor, at Azriel who was gazing back at her. At the family that she had found on the other side of hell. And after all her loss, all her grief, all her fear, she felt nothing now but gratitude.
A dirty little Feysand drabble, inspired by page 558 in ACOMAF when Feyre was sleeping alone in the townhouse, “wishing my hand was his.” The first sentence belongs to SJM. The rest is my own suspicion of what Rhys was doing during that episode.
“When I return, we’re going to that shop across the Sidra and you’re going to try on all those lacy little underthings for me.”
I grinned to myself as I set the pen down and sent the letter winging back through the pocket realm. The image of Feyre stumbling into the banister at the townhouse popped into my mind. I would never tire of that, nor of her flipping me off through the door, knowing I would see. My feisty mate. Glancing at the clock, I groaned, then cursed the Court of Nightmares. It was getting late and I had yet another day of meetings tomorrow before I could return to Velaris.
Settling back onto my pillows, the only thing I could see behind my closed lids was Feyre in that set of red lace, her curves accentuated by the rich color. Damnit. I was never going to get to sleep thinking of that. Thankfully, centuries of dealing with bores and psychopaths had given me excellent control of my mind, and reviewing the meeting with that pompous, sycophantic idiot Keir had selected to be Treasurer was enough to put anyone to sleep. Keir. At least tomorrow’s appointment with him should prove stimulating, especially since his arm was still healing.
Replaying the drone of the Treasurer, I began to drift off when another image intruded abruptly. Feyre, teasing her fingers along the waistband of her silky blue underwear, remembering me doing the same in that frigid inn. I snapped awake, but could still see her in my mind, her knees widening a little as her hand dipped a little farther between her thighs. Well, then…
I sent a different picture to her, of us laying in a flower-filled meadow in the mountains behind the cabin, a warm summer breeze fluttering our hair, my wing arching over her to shield her from the bright sun rather than the cold. She smiled a little at the shift in scenery and settled deeper into the bed at the townhouse. As I remembered the weight of her breast curving beneath my palm, her free hand rose to cup herself, her thumb running over her nipple. Her teeth set in that perfect lower lip, and I thought of the feel of her, slick with desire, when I had traced my finger along her entrance. Her own finger followed my memory, and she curved her hips to allow herself in deeper. The moan she let out reverberated down the bond, and my cock answered, hardening as she plunged her fingers in. I was breathless as she worked herself, able to think only of her tight heat around me, of the feel of that little bead of sensitive tissue rolling under the pad of my finger. Her muscles were taut, feet pressing harder into the mattress, breath coming in short pants when suddenly she cried out my name and went slack as her climax overcame her. She slowly withdrew her hand and rolled onto her side, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.
I palmed my throbbing cock, waiting for her to return the favor, when I realized she was drifting off to sleep, random images in a dreamscape flitting through her brain. She had no idea I’d been witness to that little event, that I’d been sending her the images in her fantasy. Oh well, I thought, beginning to stroke myself, I’d been doing this for months since Under the Mountain…
A silly little Feysand fluff piece, from the Kiss prompt list #17, where there is a height difference such that one person has to bend down and the other is on tiptoes. Requested by anonymous and @the-bookish-soul. I must admit that this may have been inspired slightly by a situation my husband and I got into (I’m 5′5″ on a good day, he’s 6′3″).
Rhys followed the sound of muttering through the house. Nuala and Cerridwen were standing by the opening into the kitchen looking anxious. A loud crash and a muffled curse made him push past them.
To behold his mate standing on the counter, digging through the top shelf of the highest cupboard, dented cans on the counter and floor around her.
“Feyre, darling, what in the world are you doing?”
She jumped and looked at him guiltily over her shoulder. “Looking for something.”
“I can see that,” he said drily. “What are you looking for?”
“Ummm, I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” Which explained why the wraiths were not helping her.
He stepped further into the kitchen and walked towards her warily, as if she was a spooked horse. “So there’s something I’m not supposed to know about stored in my kitchen?” She nodded, her cheeks flushed; he couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or frustration. “And now you need it but you can’t find it.” Another nod. Judging by all the open cupboard doors, he suspected she had been looking for a while.
“Please, for the love of all that is holy, please let me help you before you kill yourself. Or ruin any more food.”
She looked torn for a moment before giving in and kneeling down on the counter. “So, there’s a box.”
“A box.”
“A blue box. With a ribbon on it.”
“With a ribbon, got it.”
“We put it here a couple of weeks ago, and now I can’t find it.”
He blew out through pursed lips, amusement warring with annoyance at her forcing him to drag this out of her. “Who’s ‘we’, if I dare ask?”
“Me and Nesta.”
Shit. “Can I have, I don’t know, a category for what is in this mystery box?” Feyre’s cheeks were burning red now, and Rhys bit his cheek to keep from laughing at her discomfort. He had a pretty good idea that he knew where this box was and what it contained, but wanted to be sure before he got himself into serious trouble with his mate. And, even worse, his sister-in-law.
“Well….you know it’s Nesta and Cassian’s anniversary tomorrow.”
“Yeeees.…”
The words finally rushed out of her. “So Nesta decided that she wanted to, you know, surprise him. So I took her to that shop you and I like so much and I helped her pick something out, but she decided that we should hide it here because I guess Cassian is like a bloodhound when it comes to fancy underwear, and she swore me to secrecy.”
Rhys nodded thoughtfully. Yes, he knew exactly where the box was, having found it the week before when looking for the backup coffee maker. He had tucked it into Feyre’s closet along with the other boxes from the same shop, hoping she might put the quite daring little number on for him one night. The severity of this mistake would depend entirely on if Feyre would be able to tell which one was which. He also thought he could live without knowing about his brother’s preference for lingerie, but so be it.
“Darling, I know what happened to the box.”
“You do.” She was so cute when she glowered.
“Yes. And I will tell you if you let me help you down from there.”
“Fine.”
He crossed to her. Kneeling as she was on the counter, she was a good head taller than him, and he couldn’t help but grin at the reversal in their usual fortunes. He placed a kiss between her breasts and she swatted at him playfully. Bracing his hands on the counter and tilting his head back, he stretched up to kiss her but couldn’t quite reach. She mock-glared at him but the smile playing on those beautiful lips gave her away. She leaned down and kissed him, and when she made to pull back he put a hand behind her head and pulled her back to him, deepening the kiss. A soft moan escaped her, and she cupped his face in her hands and leaned in further, until suddenly she lost her balance and toppled forward, nearly knocking him on his ass. His arms reflexively wrapped around her, and he managed to safely, if rather awkwardly, swing her to the ground. Not for the first time, he thanked his Illyrian combat training - though he never had predicted it would have saved him from being tackled by his own mate.
“I never knew being tall was so hazardous,” she said with a grin. “Now, where is the damn box?”
“As far as the box goes, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Which do you want first?”
“The good news.”
“The good news is, I found it last week and put it upstairs in your closet, thinking it was yours.”
“Oh, that is good. What’s the bad news?”
“I’m going to make you go through the boxes one by one until you find it, and I may require you to model each piece for me. Except the one in question, of course.”
Feyre grinned wickedly as she slid her arms around his waist, then slid her hands down to cup his rear. “As far as I’m concerned, this is an entirely good news situation.”
Feysand, from an anonymous ask from the Kiss prompt #2, where they kiss while stumbling over furniture before pressing against a wall (yes, a wall). Feyre has made a rather important decision, and Rhys is more than enthusiastic about it.
Feyre picked up her brush and added a dot of dark blue to the canvas, lightly stippling it to blend with the lighter blue of the crest of the wave. She took a step back and frowned; the colors were off, too bright. Painting the ocean in all of its moods was one of her fallbacks when she otherwise lacked inspiration, but today she just couldn’t keep her focus. The cold, raw rain outside that prevented her from painting on the cabin porch was not helping her mood. Nothing would, she knew, until Rhys came home.
He’d been away for a week. It was the longest stretch they’d been parted since she had returned from the Spring Court over five years ago. Five years of traveling, of helping rebuild the world, of sorting out conflicts big and small both in Prythian and on the Continent, and they had never been separated for more than a couple of days. Even though the initial mating frenzy had finally passed, her need for him had never diminished, and right now it seemed stronger than ever. She tapped the rounded end of the paintbrush against her lips. There was something she wanted to tell him, and she didn’t know how he would feel. He had been clear he would welcome children someday, but she wanted that someday to be soon.
The vision the Bone Carver had given her of their son flashed in her mind again. Her breasts seemed heavier, and strong desire flared through her as she thought about Rhys returning to her. The day after he had left for Miriyam and Drakon’s island, she had decided she was ready to make that vision a reality and had stopped taking the contraceptive brew. The healer had warned her she might have cravings for her mate in a few days as her hormones surged, but she hadn’t expected it to be quite this intense. The clock chimed, and she scowled at it. He should be here already. Turning back to the painting, she spent a while trying to salvage it before giving it up as a bad job. Setting it aside, she cleaned up her paints and brushes, then set dinner in the oven to heat before slumping in one of the kitchen chairs.
Finally, a step sounded on the porch, and the door swung open. His hair and wings were wet, clothes soaked, but his violet eyes went right to her. He was on her before she could even move, palms pressing her cheeks, finger tips tangling in her hair, lips pressed against hers. She opened her mouth to him at his silent demand, and his tongue swept in. One hand wrapped around her waist , the other cupped her rear, and he hoisted her up against him. She pulled back with an involuntary gasp as his clothes soaked through hers, the chill raising goosebumps on her arms. He kissed the tip of her nose in apology and vanished their clothes, then dried himself instantly before pulling her to him again. Evidence of his arousal pressed against her, and she felt herself responding to him as he trailed kisses down her jaw and neck. She half expected him to take her on the table, but instead he lifted her as he returned his mouth to hers and began striding towards the bedroom.
She had forgotten that she had left her shoes and wrap on the floor in a petulant statement about his absence, and he hadn’t taken three steps before he tripped over them and stumbled, ricocheting off the chair and then bumping into the bookcase. The change in momentum brought them to the wall, her back pressed against it, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to keep him there. “Rhys,” she panted, feeling like there was something she was supposed to tell him, but he stopped her with a kiss. He nudged her entrance, growling against her lips at the feel of her, and heat ripped through her as her hands embedded themselves in his hair. His broad hands spread her thighs a little wider and he guided himself into her. She moaned as he filled her, and the sound seemed to unloose whatever restraint he had left. The cabin’s windows rattled with the force of his thrusts, and she knew they wouldn’t last long, that she had been close to climaxing from the first sweep of his tongue in her mouth. She reached a finger out and traced it along one of his wings, which were slightly flared to help him balance, and he shuddered, gasping something that might have been her name. The citrus and salt scent of him, brightened by the rain, heightened her response to him, and she was aware every single point of contact between there bodies, every shared breath. Almost unconsciously she tilted her hips just a little to shift their contact. The slight deepening of penetration was both their undoing, and he roared as he came, slamming into her, the picture on the wall falling off, its glass shattering as she shattered herself.
They sank to the floor, still shivering with the aftermath of their coupling, Rhys vanishing both the glass and his wings as he stretched out on his back, Feyre on top of him. His broad hand rubbed up and down her back, soothing, reassuring them both that they were together again. She felt his lips press against her hair. Something was tickling at her memory, there was something she had needed to tell him… She pushed herself up to look at him.
“Rhys, I didn’t tell you -“
“I know,” he said, gently pushing her hair back and kissing her forehead.
“What do you mean, you know?”
He smiled at her, softly, perfectly, stars in those fathomless eyes. “You’re ready,” he said. “I felt it through the bond the second you decided, and I’ve been going insane this whole past week.” He chuckled, the vibration of it echoing through her body. “I was going to winnow back immediately, but Drakon pointed out that it takes a few days at least for the brew to wear off and that I had promised to stay for at least a week.”
“Stupid Drakon,” Feyre muttered, and Rhys laughed again. His arms tightened around her and she could feel his lips on her hair. “I missed you,” she confessed. “Every minute. I thought it would be easier now that we’ve been mated for a while, but it wasn’t.”
“For me either,” he murmured. “But I’m more than happy to make up for lost time now.” For a few moments they were still, just breathing each other in, savoring their closeness. Though she had a house she loved in Velaris, Rhys was her home. They talked for a while about their week apart, reluctant to even rise from the floor because of the brief separation it would cause. He filled her in on Drakon and Miryam’s family drama, and she told him about Nesta and Cassian’s joking public spat that caused a minor scene when the nearby fae failed to see the humor in it. They talked a little hesitantly about their dream, both knowing it may take a while to become reality. After a while his hands began exploring her again, making light circles with those calloused fingers over her shoulders, then down her back and over her rear. She in turn began tracing his tattoos with her lips and tongue. She could feel him beginning to swell against her leg, and her own body responding, heat pooling in her core. Straddling him, she skimmed her hands up over his muscled chest, then bent down to kiss him when he stopped her, a hand pressed to each side of her ribcage, and sniffed. He sniffed again and then looked at her with concern wrinkling his brow.
“Is something burning?” he asked.
“Shit!” She leaped to her feet and ran to the kitchen. Sure enough, small flames were flickering from the remains of their dinner in the oven, smoke beginning to escape. Swearing, she turned off the oven and made to open it but Rhys grabbed her hand.
“Don’t open the door,” he said, “the fire will get worse with the extra air.” Feyre stared helplessly at the oven as the flames slowly flickered out, Rhys’s arm pressed against hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just forgot about it.”
He turned to her, and it was hunger of a different sort that was smoldering in his expression. “Do you need to eat?” he asked.
“No,” she said breathlessly, “I can wait.” He drew her to him again and bent down to kiss her. They kissed their way slowly across the room and into the bedroom, and as they devoured each other for the second time she decided that he was the only nourishment she really needed.
This is also response to a Kiss prompt ask, #16 for Feysand or Nessian, where a person’s face is scrunched up and the other kisses their forehead/nose/lips. Specifically the requester wanted a pregnancy-related one. Unfortunately, I somehow lost the original ask, so can’t tag you! But @feysandsmut I was thinking of you as I wrote it.
Feyre eased herself down onto the couch, then back onto her mound of pillows. It was an effort to lift each leg, but finally she was settled. Rhys watched anxiously, but he knew from experience any attempt to help her earned a snarl. She ran a hand over her belly, back and forth, as her breathing quieted, then turned her face to him.
“I’m officially disgusting,” she said, lips quirked in a half-smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked, wanting to rush to her and take her hand but restraining himself.
“My legs are swollen, I can’t even see my feet, I found a new vein on the top of my belly, and I can’t stop sweating. Plus, I just peed and I’m going to have to again in five minutes.”
“If you can’t see your feet, how do you know your legs are swollen?” he asked innocently. She glared at him in response, a hint of tears in her eyes. He did rise then, and lifted her feet gently while he sat on the couch, then rested them on his lap. They were bare, as the summer heat had officially overwhelmed the city, and he began massaging them gently. As he worked, he ran his eye over her, assessing. Her lovely face was full, flushed. Her lips were a little chapped, and he paused to hand her a glass of water. That glorious golden-brown hair clung to her sweaty neck. Her breasts were full under her loose gown, and the hand resting on that curve of her belly, their baby who was making it his home…”You have never been more beautiful,” he told her earnestly. “New vein, swollen legs, and all.”
She waved a hand ineffectually as if to swat him, but he was out of reach given that she couldn’t bend at all. He dug his clever fingers a little deeper into the arch of her foot then worked forward over the ball, the pressure separating her toes. His other hand began massaging her calf and she moaned a little as she slumped back. Switching to the other foot, he tried to ignore the silky feel of her skin beneath her fingers, the delicate scent of her sweat that somehow managed to be arousing. He knew from the bond between them that she sincerely worried he was repulsed by her, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. He slid a hand gently up the inside of her knee, up to her thigh, and she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes.
“What are you plotting over there?” she asked lazily.
“I’m not plotting anything,” he replied, indignation warring with humor. “I’m just extending my massage.”
She snorted. “You’re going to put me into labor, you know. And we still haven’t even settled on a name.”
“Lucifer.”
“Ugh!” She laughed, nose wrinkled. “Galen.”
He shook his head. “Sebastian.”
“Where the hell do you get these? Kenai.”
“Sounds too feminine.” He pretended to think for a moment, trying to keep from laughing. This had become a daily joke. At least on his part. “Nigel.”
“Do you want him beaten up by all the other Illyrians?” She studied the ceiling for a moment. “Daemon.”
He shuddered, an exaggerated motion to make her laugh. It worked, then she protested, “What’s wrong with Daemon?”
“It sounds too much like Demon, I think we’re putting too much pressure on the poor kid with a name like that.”
They both fell silent for a moment. He supposed they would have to settle on a name, and soon. At least by the child’s third birthday. But Feyre was more relaxed, her legs a little less swollen as he continued to work them. By the Cauldron, he wanted her. It had been weeks since they’d made love, not by his choice, but out of her fear of going into premature labor. The scent of the baby - his baby - entwined with her own drove him mad.
To distract himself, he thought of the situation on the continent. It had been years since the war, but there continued to be pockets of unrest. Generally some over-ambitious Fae deciding they deserved to rule with humans as their subservients, or slaves. Right now, though, Azriel was checking out a report of a human who had decided to begin trafficking other humans. Cassian had wanted to go with him, all bristling aggression when they’d been told, but he and Az had convinced him they needed to gather more information first. Azriel had been given permission both by Rhys and by the territory queen to put down the threat if the situation was dire; otherwise he was to report back and they would all decide what to do. Cassian’s only request being that he be allowed to end the man if it came to that. He smiled a little at the thought of his brothers, Azriel always the cold balance to Cassian’s fire.
“Kastiel,” he said suddenly.
“What?” Feyre murmured, nearly asleep.
“As a name. Kastiel.”
She pursed her lips, thinking about it. “Kastiel,” she sounded out, then smiled, a slow spread of joy across her face. “I like it.”
Her brow furrowed then, almost in pain, and she looked at her belly. He slipped out from under her feet and was at her head in an instant, running a hand across her forehead, pushing her sweaty hair back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, a little breathless. “He decided to do a little dance routine in there.” Her face was still tight, lips pressed together. Through the thin cotton of her gown, they could see a tiny fist or foot pressing through her skin. Her hand moved to press on it, Rhys’s covering hers with his own. He brushed his lips against her crinkled forehead, then dropped a kiss lightly on the tip of her nose.
“I think he likes his new name,” he said, before gently pressing his lips to hers. She reached her free hand up to rest against his cheek and he deepened the kiss. Under their combined hands, he could feel his son moving. Kastiel, ready to dance his way into the world.
I can’t be the only one who has noticed the *ahem* strong parallels between A Court of Mist and Fury and The Black Jewels Trilogy. Since I adore both, I really like noticing the ways in which SJM appears to have been influenced by Anne Bishop’s masterpiece. At the moment, I am taking some comfort in the idea that since Lucivar’s wings were able to be healed after being completely destroyed, perhaps Cassian’s will be as well. They are essentially the same character, after all. And that since Daemon got his happy ending, perhaps Rhysand will as well… A girl can hope, right?
Feyre is Rhysand’s happy ending, right? I kind of assumed their happy ending was a foregone conclusion. I like the idea that Cassian will get a parallel healing(/true love??) as Lucivar! He deserves it~
I hope so! I’m just not ready to take it for granted since we don’t know how SJM ends series yet. But I guess Feyre already had a Jaenelle-like resurrection so maybe they’re safe? And Feyre can use her healing power from Dawn Court to fix Cassian’s wings. Perhaps Nesta is Marian? Though she seems more like Surreal to me. As an aside, Surreal is one of my favorite characters, probably my absolute favorite human at least, from that series.
