Chapter Text
I Crave Your Mouth
Pablo Neruda
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair
Silent and starving, I prowl through the
streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,
all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your
lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
It had started off as a particularly bad day.
Of course, if I charted the course of my days by how often my dreams were filled with red hair and sharp nails on my skin, I suppose I could assume I was still in hell.
But with the dawn came other things, sometimes good things, like tea with Mor while she gave her reports, still wiping sleep from her eyes. Sometimes after, we trained with swords together, as facing the hulking killing power of my brothers after 50 years without a sword in my hand seemed too much most days. Mor could slice my arm off all the same, but her merry ministrations helped me through as I charted all my many inadequacies. My footwork was shot to shit, my reaction times stifled. Sometimes when I wasn’t prepared for a blow, I panicked, stumbling back or one time even shoving Mor down with a blast of night. Even in daylight I struggled with the panic, the fear.
But Mor had simply leapt up, bouncing on her toes for a moment like a giddy toddler, and thrust back into a parry. She could take what I needed to throw at her. I felt guilty for how much I needed her.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, next on the schedule for the day was a visit to the Hewn City.
That my beloved Court of Nightmares had escaped the worst of destruction from Amarantha was a sore spot for most of Prythian, I knew. That this horrid place had inspired her, delighted her, was just another stinging bead of pain in the sea of my roiling hatred of her. Under the Mountain I had often thought of Mor, as a child, pale and trapped under Keir’s thumb at her most vulnerable stage of life. That I made Keir forget his own daughter for half a century was a small balm.
Keir had been a regular guest of Amarantha’s sick court. Not confined until Feyre’s arrival, he had arrived relaxed and pampered, surrounded by a retinue of family, a guest of Amarantha. Treating the filthy prison of the mountain like it was a friendly visit between courts. I remembered many nights standing behind Amarantha’s throne, Keir smirking at me, delighting in my servitude.
It was the need to wrest my entire territory back under my control that had led me to the Hewn Court so often after the mountain. But taking my slow time putting Keir back in his place was certainly an added pleasure.
But perhaps transitioning from another underground nightmare straight to the library I was sharing with Feyre wasn’t the wisest of all my choices.
Feyre had been my guest in the Palace for three days now. She hadn’t exactly agreed to the reading and shielding lessons, but was at least tolerating them. And my words on Hybern hovered between us as an unspoken offer: become something more. Become who you need to be. Because war is coming, and no one will be spared.
I had her wedding dress burned.
I hadn’t realized that my darkness had filled so much of the library, that I hadn’t yet put a glamour back on to damper some of my power until Feyre stopped short in the doorway and gasped.
With the flick of my hand the room was filled with sunlight again, and I glamoured to appear a bit less…radiant. A shame, I thought, that I had to worry so much about the damper when my own beauty should be widely appreciated. Especially by my mate
I motioned to Feyre to take a seat beside me at the table.
“Apologies, Feyre. I was just lost in some wonderful thoughts about my next visit to the Spring Court.”
She sat and regarded me with wariness.
“I wish you would stop doing that,” she said, the ire dripping from her voice. So, we would have one of those days.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Tugging on me. Summoning me like it’s some bell you can ring.”
“Fine. Next time I’ll just winnow into your bedroom to ask you to tea.”
More glowering. I smiled at her with a wicked grin, considering the possibilities.
This game, this I could play. Parrying her anger and insults as she scratched at me like a wounded animal. Inciting her to anger in the first place when she needed to be dragged back from the dark precipice she was always eyeing.
What grated me the most was when I heard Tamlin’s words coming out in her voice. I had few illusions that Feyre would be happy to see the bargain called in, but part of me had taken hope from our meeting on the balcony. My dignified departure and subsequent panic at the mating bond aside, I knew we had stood there beside one another, more as equals walking, bloodstained, out of hell.
In my many late nights awake, I pondered over the possibility of what might have happened if I had asked Feyre to play the game with me down there, if I might have trusted her with a little more knowledge and agency over my attempts to keep her alive and fighting.
But who I was down there was not someone who trusted.
I had, admittedly, not really allowed myself to think of Feyre here, as she was before me now. I had intended to release her of our bargain, and then with the mating bond wreaking havoc on me entirely, I had not felt particularly eager to test myself against it and her presence since. In my mind, I considered that maybe I would never see my mate again, or only every decade or so at some odious courtly summons. I did not plot over possibilities and angles with Azriel, did not task Amren to do more than her current curious wandering over the possibilities of Feyre’s Made nature and drops of newly forged power. And I knew why.
Who I was to Feyre was not even close to the worst of myself Under the Mountain, but it often felt so. Sometimes the pervasive, overwhelming love and adoration I felt towards her seemed like a hindrance to my healing as much as those dark days, unfair though the comparison may be. Putting myself back together seemed like a task focused on the High Lord - wrest back power, intimidate, repair, rebuild. None of it was very pleasant, from the violence at the Hewn City to meeting again with the oldest families in Velaris. But it was work, and there was a path, and I threw myself into it fully.
I only allowed myself to think about Feyre at night, alone, often woken by her terrible nightmares, blending into my own, one long horrid story of torture and fear shared between us.
And once the topic of her had been breached, once I whispered her name into existence in my dark bedroom, the waves of everything would wash over me. I was not a High Lord wresting back power from his subjects, I was a male, sick and weak in love. It was as if I were under a spell, and the nightly visions of her eyes, her skin, her teeth bared to Amarantha like a hungry wolf, undid me as much as my small victories at court had built me up earlier in the day.
But I couldn’t bring myself to resent these late-night longings. The pain was exquisite in a way so different from the festering anger and shame I felt with memories of Amarantha. I longed and cried and whispered her name to the sky like a fervent prayer. I relived her moments as human, her mind wide open to me, as she poured her hatred and revulsion towards me in waves. I drank up her hatred into my hatred of myself and everything my life had become, now that I knew fully the true monster that lived inside and the terrible places it was willing to wander for survival and safety. Love and hate intertwined so deliciously I would grasp my chest in pain.
And Feyre. Oh, Feyre.
Holding her face in my mind was why I could never resent the sharp pangs in my chest. Mates were equals, on some level, designed for each other. And for all these centuries I had wondered, sometimes bitterly, if my Cauldron-given power was also a sentence, to never be matched with a mate who could equal it. The power was mine but it was nothing I had earned, asked for or perhaps deserved.
But when I met Feyre on Calanmai, disheveled and human and so very breakable, I knew that something precious and wild and powerful had come to Prythian. Even as I wouldn't let myself admit what this path straight to her had meant, how I felt when her grey eyes bore into me, me who had not been seen fully in decades, the High Lord who was powerful but broken and tainted by those years of torture…to be paired with Feyre meant something unexpected and unfathomable was about to be released. Feyre, with her human heart, come to turn Prythian on its head, as if the Cauldron and Mother had simply been waiting for her arrival.
And she did. The human with fire in her veins, Feyre who stormed into Amarantha’s court with nothing but a dagger and some arrows on her back, Feyre who burned and wept and raged and finally washed Prythian clean of the stain of Amarantha with her own blood.
Feyre, who hated me.
But as only those closest around me knew: I was a true romantic at heart. And a pragmatist, to boot. With Feyre here, I would use every resource available to me: my powers, my family, even my very longing for her to attempt to show her who I was and the lengths I would go for her glory, always. Maybe it would all amount to nothing, but in some ways I felt this was the moment my entire life had been leading to: an earnest attempt to have her love me.
But first: reading lessons.
And away from matters of the heart and into those of war: the news earlier this morning about Hybern’s amassed forces were stomach-churning, to say the least. My court needed a viable plan against him. I needed Feyre to show me she would be all right. And I needed a way to get Tamlin’s claws out of her mind, to get her to direct some of that fire back at him, where I suspected it at least partially originated from. If only I could teach her how to use magic to shield her mind against him .
My frustration was mounting. War was on our doorstep and here was Feyre, practically a shimmering Warrior Goddess with power so strong it was slipping out of her body unbidden like the angry barbs from her mouth. And Tamlin had her ignored and wandering the gardens and entertaining his court at parties. Poorly, from what I could gather.
I could be patient, but the game was turning stale, and there was nothing I hated more than a boring game.
I turned my thoughts back to Feyre in front of me, the anger faded from her in front of her next challenge. She held in one hand her assignment for the day, a dense two-paragraph piece of text I had copied from some dusty history book. It wasn’t kind and it wasn’t easy, but I knew Feyre could do it, and I thought perhaps a measurable victory would give her back some confidence. But her eyes had gone dull as they raced over the page, panic and tiredness tugging at her features. And I, a devout student of her face, knew she was slipping back into that dark void inside that seemed to dim her very presence.
No. No .
She spoke and I felt the small crack hovering in her voice, knowing she was working hard to strangle it.
“So is this how my time here will be? Just constant insults and reminders of my inadequacies? Did you really just bring me here to amuse yourself with me and my suffering for seven days?”
I swallowed.
“I am trying to give you opportunities , Feyre,” I hissed out, leaning forward on the table. “I am giving you time, and lessons, and endless faith that you will meet the challenge. I would’ve thought you would appreciate the distraction. If you prefer, I can have you plod sadly through the gardens and make awkward small talk with my courtiers at lunch, since that seems to be all you’re doing in that Spring Court you say you adore so much . Although with your own behavior this week, perhaps we should add courtly manners to our list of lessons.”
Yes, it was going to be a bad day, indeed.
On her face, I could see the split second of her decision. She could break, here, in front of me, or…
In a flash, she had lifted her hand to me. I caught it by the wrist, inches from my face, and if I hadn’t been honed to a sharp edge with my own anger, I might have missed it entirely.
Fear flashed in her eyes for a moment, but it was quickly replaced by her burning rage. Rage that I had gained another point in this game of hatred she was so keen on playing into the ground.
She was angry? Good. So was I.
“You’ll have to do better than that, my darling. You’re only the third person to try and attack me today. And I wouldn’t poison your fine ears with the stories about what I did to the first two in punishment. How do you think I should punish you, Feyre?”
In a second, she was on top of me, the chair shattered and claws digging into my shoulder.
“You stupid bastard !” she hissed at my face. “You don’t get to punish me . Everyone is hurting me, and no one is helping me .”
We both went still at the admission, at her show of force. Despite her tone, it felt like a plea, instead of an insult. Her claws retracted back and we were left with her fingers on my chest.
And there she was, panting and angry on top of me. Her sweet breath against my face and our hips joined together. And Cauldron damn me, but I felt myself harden against her body.
She gasped softly, still blazing fire into my eyes.
And then she kissed me.
It was a hungry, angry kiss. Her body pressed on me harder and I felt her teeth biting at my lower lip. My whole body was suddenly on fire, and I wrapped my arms around her, groaning in her mouth.
Whatever I had done sent Feyre over the edge, as she pulled and tore at my shirt like a hungry animal clawing for my heart. I thought for a moment that I’d gladly shred my entire wardrobe for a chance to have this angry, flailing beast in my lap again.
If I was being honest, I would admit there was a split second of reason. Before I tore off her silky top, before she raked her fingernails over my chest and the beast and the lust took over completely. A split second where I could have wrested control, lifted her off of me and walked out of that room like a smart and responsible High Lord with 500 some odd years of education, training and self-control.
But I didn’t want to.
If Feyre would offer herself to me, I would not deny her. Such powers were not within me, nor part of my nature.
A monster once again.
Once my shirt had been torn to ruins and both our lips were bruised and soft, I decided the shredded chair beneath me would not do, and I lifted Feyre in a smooth motion and placed her on the table, scattering books and pens and paper with a sweep of my arm.
And she turned her wild fingers upon the laces of my pants.
I halted my grinding against her to encourage her work, aware that her soft silk pants were all that remained between myself and my mate. Her soft fingers pulled my hard cock free of my pants as my tongue slipped into her mouth over and over again.
She ran her hand over me once. Twice.
And the pants had to go.
I ripped them free from her, one of her slippers clattering over the carpet in my haste to free her ankles. I pulled back reluctantly from her lips and licked my thumb, then pressed it to her clit working in small circles.
She shuddered.
Deep within me I could feel the beast roaring free. My mate. My mate . Feyre . She was here, naked and pinned beneath me with her hand around my cock, panting for me. All that existed was that sweet friction of her hand, of her hips moving against mine, of the taste of her tongue still filling my mouth.
I hadn’t fucked anyone for pleasure since before the mountain.
Before the thought could overwhelm me, Feyre was guiding me to her entrance, my thumb still working above. I nudged at her softly, the breath going out of me as I felt her wetness waiting for me. And paused.
Her eyes were closed tight, her fingers moved to my arms where I held her torso. They rippled over me, scraping as if she could claw me to her.
“ Just do it ,” she ordered, impatient.
And without a second though, I slipped inside of her.
I tried to be gentle, slow. It wasn’t polite to brag of one’s bountiful gifts, but several centuries of lovers had taught me to take my time at this first meeting.
Too little for Feyre, apparently, who hooked her legs around my waist and pulled me into her deeply. She ground her hips into me, matching my rhythm, allowing me to thrust in and out of her only a little.
She felt exquisite .
She was warm, and wet and fit to me perfectly. Of course her gorgeous cunt would be as beautiful and irresistible as the rest of her. I gripped her hips in my hands roughly and pulled her further onto me as we ground to our pleasure together.
I couldn’t resist leaning down, her peaked breasts rubbing against my chest as she moved, and whispered in her ear:
“Is this what you want, Feyre?”
The blush on her cheeks had spread, to her neck, to her chest.
“ Harder ,” she groaned, her eyes still shut tight.
“Anything for you, darling,” I growled, and began to fuck in earnest.
The table shook and rattled beneath us as I let go of any lingering reason and restraint and slammed my body into hers over and over again. Her moans were delicious and heady, and I had just enough sense left to put up a shield and pray to the Mother that Mor was far, far away from here.
Her sweet gasps and moans were music to my ears, the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I longed to hear her moan my name. It would have kept me going for a decade, at least.
Everything in those moments just felt so complete. So pure. I felt both drunk and more alert than I had ever been. My entire body was filled with her: her scent, her sounds, the feel of her warm soft skin against mine and the pleasure I could feel ratcheting up in her body, building to a beautiful crest. And part of me felt that once we crossed that threshold together I might emerge from the other side a changed male.
I could feel her release nearing, and I renewed my ministrations on her clit, letting my other hand fist gently in her hair as I braced myself beside her head. Her back arched and she clung to my arms as if she would lift herself fully off the table. I felt her body clench and stiffen against mine.
“Yes , Feyre,” I gasped beside her ear. And then she fell over the edge.
Her entire body was humming in that moment, and she let out a gruff, almost surprised cry. And the sight of it, of the flush on her chest turning a deep red, her face contorting with pleasure, was enough to push me to my climax as well.
I nearly collapsed on top of her, gasping her name again and again. Every one of my senses overflowed with her, with Feyre. I was utterly spent and completely in her thrall.
As our pleasure ebbed and our breathing slowed, she opened her eyes underneath me, our faces nearly touching. And, spent on the table, we regarded one another.