#mor x reader

The grand hall of the House of Wind buzzed with the energy of the Night Court's elite. Fae from all corners of Prythian had gathered for the solstice celebration, their laughter and clinking glasses filling the air like a symphony of indulgence. You stood near the edge of the crowd, a goblet of rich, spiced wine in your hand, watching Mor across the room. She was radiant as always, her golden hair cascading in loose waves down her back, her crimson gown hugging her curves in a way that made your pulse quicken even from a distance. But tonight, that beauty twisted something sharp in your chest.

Mor leaned against a marble pillar, her laughter ringing out as she conversed with a tall, broad-shouldered male fae. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes gleaming with obvious interest as he bent closer to her, murmuring something that made her tilt her head back and smile—that sensual, effortless smile that drew everyone in like moths to a flame. He was too close, his hand brushing her arm as he gestured animatedly. You knew Mor didn't mean to flirt; it was just who she was, her sensuality spilling over without intent. But watching his fingers linger on her skin, seeing the way his gaze dipped to the swell of her breasts, ignited a fire in your gut. Jealousy, hot and unbidden, coiled tight.

You took a long swig from your goblet, the wine warming your veins, loosening the knot of restraint you'd usually hold. Normally, these moments ended with you pulling her aside for kisses and soft words, her arms wrapping around you until the world faded. But tonight, after your third—or was it fourth?—glass, the idea festered. Why should she get to make you feel this way without consequence? Your eyes scanned the room, landing on a striking female fae nearby, her silver hair shimmering under the starlight illusions dancing across the ceiling. She caught your gaze, her lips curving into an inviting smile, and something reckless sparked in you.

You sauntered over, goblet in hand, letting your hips sway just a bit more than usual. The female's eyes lit up as you approached, and she extended a hand. 'I've been watching you all evening,' she purred, her voice like velvet. “You have the kind of presence that commands attention.”

You laughed, a tipsy sound, and let your fingers trail lightly over her arm as you replied, “Do I? Well, perhaps I should make the most of it then.” You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing hers, close enough that Mor—standing just a few feet away—could see every deliberate move. The female leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered compliments about your eyes, your lips, and you played along, tossing your hair and meeting her gaze with a flirtatious tilt of your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mor's posture stiffen, her golden eyes narrowing as she excused herself from the male and turned fully toward you.

The female's hand found your waist, pulling you into a light dance as the musicians struck up a lively tune. You let her spin you, your laughter mingling with hers, but your focus was on Mor now. Her face was a storm—lips pressed thin, cheeks flushed not with wine but fury. She crossed the room in swift strides, the crowd parting instinctively before her. Before you could react, her hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you from the female's grasp with a force that sent your goblet splashing wine across the floor.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Mor hissed, her voice low and venomous, her grip iron-tight as she dragged you toward the shadowed corridor leading to the private quarters. The female called after you with a confused protest, but Mor ignored her, her other arm snaking around your waist to haul you along.

You stumbled slightly, the wine making your steps unsteady, but the thrill of her jealousy surged through you. “Just having a bit of fun,” you shot back, though your voice wavered under her glare. “Like you were with that male. He was practically drooling over you.”

Mor kicked open the door to your shared bedroom, the heavy oak slamming shut behind you as she shoved you inside. The room was dimly lit by faelight orbs, casting a warm glow over the massive bed draped in silks and furs. She rounded on you, her chest heaving, eyes blazing like molten gold. “Fun? You call flirting with that bitch right in front of me fun? After I've spent the night watching every male—and female—in this hall eye-fucking you without you even noticing?”

You opened your mouth to retort, but she was on you in an instant, her hands fisting in the front of your dress as she backed you against the wall. Her body pressed flush against yours, heat radiating from her skin. “You have no idea how many times I've had to bite my tongue tonight,” she growled, her lips inches from yours. “All those fae circling you like vultures, and you just smile, oblivious. But this? This was deliberate. You wanted me to see.”

Her mouth crashed down on yours then, not gentle like your usual reconciliations, but punishing, her teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp. You tasted the faint tang of blood, but it only fueled the fire between you. Your hands flew to her hair, tugging at the golden strands as you kissed her back fiercely, the jealousy twisting into something raw and desperate.

Mor broke the kiss with a snarl, her hands ripping at the laces of your bodice. “You're mine,” she said, her voice rough as she yanked the fabric down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Her palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into peaks. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to make you moan.”

You arched into her touch, a whimper escaping as she pinched one nipple sharply, sending a jolt straight to your core. “And you're mine,” you managed, your voice breathy. “That male was too close, Mor. You were letting him—”

She silenced you with another bruising kiss, her tongue invading your mouth as her hand slid down your body, bunching up your skirts. “He was nothing,” she muttered against your lips. “A distraction. But you... you think you can tease me like that and walk away unscathed?”

With a swift motion, she spun you around, pressing your chest against the wall. Your hands splayed on the cool stone for balance as she hiked your skirts over your hips, her fingers digging into your ass. You felt her breath hot on your neck as she leaned in. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every other name but mine. Until you beg me to stop—and then beg for more.”

Her hand slipped between your thighs from behind, finding you already slick with arousal. Two fingers parted your folds, stroking along your slit before plunging inside without warning. You cried out, your body clenching around the intrusion as she pumped them deep and hard, her thumb pressing against your clit in firm circles. “So wet for me already,” she purred, her free hand sliding up to grip your throat lightly, tilting your head back so she could nip at your earlobe. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, pushing back against her hand, the rhythm building a pressure that made your knees weak. Her fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. She added a third finger, stretching you, the wet sounds of her thrusting filling the room alongside your moans.

But Mor wasn't done. She withdrew her fingers abruptly, leaving you aching and empty, and you whined in protest. “Patience,” she commanded, her voice laced with dark amusement. You heard the rustle of fabric, then felt her press against you—her own arousal evident as she ground her hips forward. She'd shed her undergarments somewhere along the way, and now her bare pussy rubbed against your ass, slick and hot.

She guided you to the bed, shoving you down onto the mattress face-first. You scrambled to your elbows, but she was there, straddling your thighs, her hands pinning your wrists above your head. “Stay,” she ordered, and you obeyed, heart pounding as she positioned herself. Her knees spread your legs wider, and then she was lowering herself, her wet heat sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate grind.

The friction was exquisite—her clit catching on yours with every roll of her hips, her folds parting to envelop you both in slick warmth. You bucked up instinctively, seeking more, and she laughed breathlessly. “Eager little thing. You want me to fuck this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you pleaded, twisting in her grip. “Please, Mor—”

She released your wrists only to grab your hips, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion. Now facing her, you saw the raw possession in her eyes, her hair wild, lips swollen from your kisses. She hooked your legs over her shoulders, folding you nearly in half as she aligned herself again. This time, she rocked forward with purpose, her pussy grinding down hard, clits mashing together in a rhythm that had you both gasping.

“Look at me,” she demanded, her hands braced on either side of your head. You locked eyes, the intensity making your breath hitch as she fucked against you, her movements growing faster, more urgent. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples grazing your skin, and you reached up to pinch one, earning a moan that vibrated through her body into yours.

The pressure built relentlessly, her clit swollen and sensitive against yours, the slick slide turning frantic. “You're going to come for me,” she growled, one hand snaking down to rub your clit directly, fingers slippery with your combined arousal. “Come on my pussy, show me who owns you.”

It hit you like a wave crashing over the Sidra—your body seizing, walls clenching as pleasure ripped through you. You cried her name, nails digging into her thighs, and she followed seconds later, her own orgasm shuddering through her as she ground down one last time, juices mingling in a hot flood.

But Mor didn't stop. Panting, she slid down your body, her mouth latching onto your oversensitive clit without mercy. You jerked, hands fisting the sheets, but she held your hips down, tongue lapping at you greedily. “Not done yet,” she murmured against your flesh, sucking your clit between her lips and flicking it with precise strokes. Her fingers joined again, three this time, thrusting deep while her mouth worked you over.

You were a mess of pleas and moans, the overstimulation bordering on pain but tipping into ecstasy as another climax built. “Mor—fuck, I can't—”

“You can,” she insisted, her voice muffled as she sucked harder, her free hand kneading your breast. The coil snapped again, your release gushing against her tongue, and she drank it down, humming in satisfaction.

Finally, she crawled up, collapsing beside you, both of you slick with sweat and cum. Her arm draped possessively over your waist as she nuzzled your neck. “No more flirting,” she whispered, though her tone held a hint of that earlier fury softened by sated desire.

You turned to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. “No more for you either.”

She chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. But if you ever pull that stunt again...”

It began as any other golden morning in Velaris — sunlight spilling lazily through the gauzy curtains, the distant murmur of the Sidra brushing against the city’s edge, and that warm, comforting scent that always meant home.

You usually slept through all of it.

Mor liked that about you — how peaceful you looked in those quiet dawn hours, tangled in blankets, one arm draped dramatically across the bed as if declaring war on the world for daring to wake.

Except this morning, you weren’t there.

The space beside her was empty. The sheets were cold.

For a moment, Mor lay still, blinking at the absence. Maybe you’d gotten up to grab a drink of water. Maybe you’d gone to open the window. But the apartment was too quiet — the kind of quiet that made her wings twitch.

She sat up slowly, curls falling over her shoulders, and called softly,

“Sweetheart?”

Nothing.

The silence stretched. Then, faintly, came the sound of something clattering in the kitchen.

Mor frowned. You never cooked this early. You never cooked at all before coffee.

She padded barefoot down the hall, still half-smiling, ready to wrap her arms around you and nuzzle your neck while you pretended to protest — “*Mor, I’m trying to— stop— that tickles!*”

But the moment she reached the kitchen doorway, the air changed.

You stood at the counter in one of her shirts, sleeves rolled to your elbows, jaw set, hair pulled back in that messy way she loved — only this time, there was no softness in your expression. Your brow was furrowed, eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a thin line.

The pan hissed on the stove. The scent of eggs and herbs filled the air.

You didn’t even look at her.

“Morning,” Mor said, her voice all honey and sunlight as always.

No answer.

You flipped the eggs. Set the pan down.

Mor waited. Smiled. “You’re up early, love. Planning to surprise me?”

Still nothing. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.

Her smile faltered slightly. “...Alright. Guess not.”

You grabbed a plate, set it on the counter, and began slicing fruit with slow, surgical precision. Mor leaned against the doorframe, watching.

You moved like someone trying to keep their hands busy, like silence was safer than whatever might come out if you opened your mouth.

She tilted her head. “Did I—”

You opened a cabinet, ignoring her completely.

“Okay,” Mor murmured under her breath, “so she’s mad. Good to know.”

You finished arranging the plate, took a fork, and sat down to eat without so much as a glance in her direction. Mor crossed the kitchen, trying again.

“You didn’t sleep well?”

No reply.

“Bad dream?”

Still nothing.

“You’re doing that thing where you pretend I don’t exist. Which is frankly cruel, considering how adorable I am first thing in the morning.”

You stabbed a piece of fruit.

Mor blinked. “...Is that an orange or my heart?”

Nothing.

Her confusion began shifting into mild panic. You never ignored her this long. Not even after the time she accidentally burned your favorite scarf.

She leaned across the table, chin propped on her hand, studying you with a smile that was trying very hard not to be nervous. “You know, I’ve fought in wars, faced monsters, stared down High Lords — but the scariest thing in this world is this face you’re making right now.”

Your only reaction was the slow, deliberate act of setting down your fork, wiping your hands, and standing. You took your plate to the sink, rinsed it, dried it, and placed it neatly in the cupboard.

Mor’s golden eyes tracked every movement, utterly baffled.

“Sweetheart,” she tried again, more serious now. “Talk to me.”

You turned. Looked at her — really looked — for the first time that morning.

And the glare you gave her was sharp enough to make even the Morrigan flinch.

Then you brushed past her, silent as a shadow.

The smell of your shampoo lingered after you’d gone.

The rest of the morning was torture.

Mor sat in the living room pretending to read, eyes darting to you every few seconds. You cleaned. Not the casual kind of cleaning you usually did while humming. No, this was full-blown declaration of war cleaning.

Shelves reorganized. Floors scrubbed. Windows polished until they gleamed.

At one point, she walked in to find you moving all the cushions on the sofa, rearranging them into perfect alignment.

“You’re— you’re dusting the lamps, sweetheart,” she said weakly.

Silence.

“You hate dusting lamps.”

You kept dusting.

Mor rubbed a hand over her face. “This is it. She’s finally snapped. The House of Wind’s chaos gene finally claimed her soul.”

By midday, she was pacing behind you like a lost puppy while you sorted laundry.

“Okay,” she said aloud, counting on her fingers, “so. Did I forget an anniversary? No, that was last month. Did I say something stupid? Unlikely — I’m charming. Did Cassian say something and you think it came from me? He does that sometimes.”

You folded a towel. Mor leaned closer.

“Blink twice if this is about Cassian.”

You blinked exactly once.

Mor groaned. “Okay, not Cassian. Good. Because I swear, if this is about something he—”

You moved to hang the clothes.

“—or is it Nesta? Did she say something? Because if she did, I can totally—”

You shut the laundry room door in her face.

“—take that as a no,” she mumbled to herself.

By late afternoon, Mor was a wreck.

She’d tried everything — humor, gifts, flattery, food. You’d barely acknowledged her existence. The silence wasn’t loud anymore; it was suffocating.

She even went so far as to pull out a bottle of your favorite wine, setting it on the counter like a peace offering.

You glanced at it, then at her, then went back to cleaning the counter.

Mor nearly screamed.

When you left the kitchen, she flopped dramatically onto the couch, burying her face in a pillow.

“She’s going to kill me,” she muttered. “She’s actually going to kill me and no one’s even going to find my body because she’ll bury it under the floorboards after scrubbing them clean.”

The thought of calling Feyre crossed her mind. For all of half a second.

Then she remembered how you would react if she did that.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “No calling Feyre. No calling anyone. Figure it out, Mor. You’re ancient, gorgeous, clever—”

From down the hall came the faint sound of a door closing.

She sighed, pressing a hand over her heart. “—and completely doomed.”

By the time the sky blushed pink over the mountains, Mor had exhausted her last ounce of patience. She’d given you space. She’d given you silence. And now she was done pretending she wasn’t worried sick.

She approached your bedroom door softly, fingers brushing the handle.

“Y/N?” she called, voice gentler now.

No answer.

She pushed the door open.

You were curled on the bed, facing the window, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. The room was dim — the curtains drawn, the last light of sunset casting golden streaks over the floor.

The sight of you like that — small, quiet, hurt — made Mor’s heart squeeze painfully.

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch you yet. “Sweetheart,” she said softly. “You’ve been ignoring me all day. I don’t know what I did, but please— please talk to me.”

Still no response.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not good at this. You know that, right? Feelings. Apologies. But if I said something—if I forgot something—just tell me. Don’t shut me out like this.”

The sound you made then — a broken, watery sniffle — nearly undid her.

Mor froze. “Hey,” she whispered, voice trembling, “are you crying?”

You turned your head slowly, eyes red, lashes wet.

Her heart dropped. “Oh, gods, baby…”

You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest. “I’m— I’m fine.”

Mor gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re not fine. You’ve been glaring at me for twelve hours.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “You didn’t do anything.”

Mor blinked. “What?”

“It was a dream,” you muttered miserably.

Her brow furrowed. “A… dream?”

You nodded, cheeks heating. “You— you cheated on me.”

Mor stared at you. Blinked once. Then again.

“You’ve been mad at me all day because of a dream?”

You groaned, covering your face. “It felt real, Mor! You were smiling with her and— and touching her—”

Mor’s shock melted into pure amusement. A slow, teasing grin curved her mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, crawling closer until she could brush a strand of hair from your face. “You jealous little thing.”

You swatted at her weakly. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not laughing,” Mor said — though she very obviously was. “I’m—” She caught herself when she saw fresh tears gathering in your eyes. “Hey, hey. I’m sorry. It must’ve been awful.”

You sniffled. “And my period started this morning.”

Mor froze. “Oh. Oh, gods.”

You nodded miserably. “So yes, I hate everything.”

Mor immediately pulled you into her arms, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You poor, tragic creature. Betrayed by your own imagination and your own uterus.”

That earned a shaky laugh from you, muffled against her shoulder.

“Shh,” Mor murmured, rocking you slightly. “I’ve got you. I promise, I’m not going anywhere. Not even in your dreams.”

You exhaled softly, letting yourself melt into her warmth, the scent of citrus and sunlight wrapping around you. “You’re lucky I love you,” you mumbled.

Mor smiled against your hair. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I know.”

And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe it.

The sun filters through the curtains of Mor’s room — gold spilling lazily across the sheets, across you, across the woman who’s trying very hard to breathe under the weight of your body.

Because you haven’t moved.

At all.

Not since you woke up tangled in her arms at dawn and decided, quite firmly, that you weren’t going anywhere.

Mor blinks awake, her hair a golden mess, her voice still rough with sleep. “Good morning, sunshine,” she murmurs softly, smiling when she feels you nuzzle closer into her neck. Her fingers trail down your back, slow, comforting. “You’re warm,” she hums. “And very clingy this morning.”

You don’t answer — only press a little closer, your leg hooking over hers, your face buried against her shoulder.

Mor laughs quietly. “I take it I’m forgiven, then?”

You hum something that might be yes — or maybe just a sleepy sound of protest when she tries to move.

She chuckles again, brushing her lips against your temple. “Sweetheart, I need to get up. Cassian will burn the kitchen down if I don’t—”

You tighten your arms around her waist immediately. “Let him,” you mumble, voice muffled by her skin. “Let him burn it.”

Mor freezes for a heartbeat — then bursts out laughing so loudly the bed shakes. “You’re serious?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at her, hair all messy and expression deadly serious. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Oh, I see,” she teases, brushing a stray lock from your cheek. “So this is punishment now? I survive a day of being ignored, and my reward is you turning into a koala?”

You don’t even deny it. “Exactly,” you mutter, laying your head back down. “You deserve it.”

Mor tries — she really does — to wriggle free. But the second she lifts an inch from the mattress, you make this small, wounded noise that hits her straight in the heart.

She sighs dramatically, falling back beside you. “Alright, fine. I’ll stay. The world can crumble. Cassian can burn the entire House of Wind for all I care.”

You grin against her skin, satisfied.

But after a few minutes, Mor tilts her head toward you again. “You know,” she says softly, “you were scary yesterday. You didn’t talk to me for hours. I almost begged Feyre for help.”

You snort at that, finally peeking up at her. “You deserved it.”

Mor gasps theatrically. “I did not! I was an innocent victim in your dream betrayal!”

“You cheated on me!” you protest, half serious, half joking — though your pout is very real. “In my dream! With some faceless fae!”

Mor bites her lip to stop from laughing. “Sweetheart, I think the real tragedy here is that your imagination doesn’t even let me cheat with someone interesting.”

You gasp, sitting up and crossing your arms, glaring at her in mock outrage. “Oh, so you wanted to cheat with someone interesting?”

Mor’s grin softens. She sits up too, cupping your face in her hands. “Never,” she whispers, kissing your forehead. “In this life or any other, there’s no one but you. Even your dreams can’t convince me otherwise.”

Your heart squeezes — but instead of replying, you push her down again and curl up on top of her chest.

“Still not letting you go,” you murmur stubbornly.

Mor strokes your back, amused and utterly gone for you. “I’m starting to think you mean that literally.”

You nod against her. “You’re mine today. No training, no errands, no nothing. Just me.”

She sighs, but her tone is soft, indulgent. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You hum in satisfaction, tracing lazy circles on her stomach with your finger.

By the time afternoon arrives, Mor has fully accepted her fate.

You follow her everywhere — to the kitchen, to the balcony, even to the library. You cling to her arm while she tries to make tea, standing so close that she can barely move her elbows.

“Sweetheart,” she laughs, trying to reach the kettle, “if you want tea, I kind of need to be able to breathe.”

“You don’t need tea,” you say without looking up, cheek still pressed against her shoulder. “You have me.”

Rhysand walks in at that very moment, freezes, and then silently turns around, muttering something about newly mated nonsense as he leaves.

Mor loses it, laughing until she has tears in her eyes. You glare at her, but your lips twitch, betraying you.

Later, on the balcony, you end up sitting in her lap, both of you wrapped in a blanket, the sun setting over Velaris. The city glows below — soft lights, the sound of laughter, the smell of jasmine.

Mor rests her chin on your shoulder, voice low. “You know,” she whispers, “if this is what I get after you ignore me for a day, I might start misbehaving more often.”

You turn your head sharply, meeting her mischievous grin with a warning look. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Mor raises her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No betrayal — not even in dreams.”

You nod firmly, then lean forward to kiss her cheek. “Good.”

There’s a long silence after that, comfortable and warm.

Your fingers find hers, intertwining naturally. She looks at you — at the stubborn little crease between your brows, at the softness in your eyes when you think she’s not watching — and she realizes she’s utterly, helplessly gone for you.

Mor brushes her lips against your hair. “You’re impossible,” she whispers.

You smile faintly. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she murmurs with a smirk, “I do.”

You turn in her lap, wrapping your arms around her neck, your voice muffled against her skin. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

And true to your word, you don’t.

When the night finally settles over Velaris, you’re still there — wrapped around her, warm and safe, refusing to give her even an inch of space.

The palm that twines firmly around your waist to your stomach is ice-cold, fingers gently splayed as Feyre lifts her touch higher.

Your throat rolls, pulse spiking as she settles her palm flush to your sternum, between your breasts. Razor-sharp teeth take a small nip at your lobe. “Nosy, little thing?”

You tremble beneath her touch—the entitled crawl of her left arm over your hips, her front pressed tight to your back. Hardly enough room for the clothes between you.

“I wasn’t…” weren’t what?

Amber eyes pin you to the dark wooden floorboards of the old castle, and lightening flashes a monstrous shadow of the blood-clad female across the ground. A crimson tongue laps over bloody lips, teeth still glittering white even beneath their coating of red lacquer.

“Mmm? Something trying to take a peek?” Mor drawls, eyes gleaming as she takes a delicate lick at one of her fingertips. “I thought we told you the western wing was off limits?”

“Funny you say that, Morrigan,” comes a silky voice at your side, “I happen to recall a very similar conversation. One of the first we had, I believe, when you were allowed entrance to our home.” An ice-cold mouth trails down the length of your throat, and fear flutters wildly. “What do you say, little bird? Do you recall?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just panting, stammering breaths.

Blood.

That’s blood, coating the monstrous female before you.

There’s so much of it covering her you almost mistook it for a dress.

Morrigan releases a laugh rippling silver, a pond of pure starlight taking the impact of a heart dropped into its depths. Blood dispersing throughout the previously pure waters. “You’re looking at me like you’re surprised, lamb—are you?”

“You’re- what are you?” The whisper rips from your chest, air shoved from your lungs in a hiss beneath the compressing power of Feyre’s palm.

“The townsfolk call us cursed,” the female answers at your back, molding your body with her own while your eyes remain glued to the blood-drenched woman whose skin you know the taste of.

“I thought-” you choke on your words, chest heaving as Mor flashes a taunting grin, slowly running her tongue over the upper row of gleaming teeth. Your throat rolls. “I thought…because you were women. I didn’t think you were…”

“That we were what, sweet thing?”

“Eating people.”

There’s a pause, then the two females are chiming with laughter, silver bells ringing and Morrigan’s glorious head tips back in mirth, golden hair trailing through that steadily blackening liquid.

“We don’t eat people,” she laughs, as if that’s—as if that’s funny. “We drink their blood. Usually in one go.”

“But we like keeping them around for a while first,” Feyre whispers. “Females taste so much better when they’re relaxed. Their bodies more pliable, too. The blood is always sweeter.”

“We wanted to be patient with you, too, lamb.”

Feyre’s palm slinks higher, fingers crawling towards your throat. Long, black nails grazing your exposed collar bones. “But you’ve ruined it now. And you were coming along so beautifully.” Her mouth descends to a tender point below your jaw, silky hair tickling your skin. “Selfish thing. So thoughtless.”

“Feyre… Feyre, what are you-?”

Teeth graze your flesh, and a small scream becomes trapped beneath your ribs, blood running cold. Your vision blurs, and your tears seem to be the only warmth in the entire castle. Practically scalding as they sear down your cheeks.

“Why… Why would you…?” Trembling fingers manage to wrap her wrists, shaking as your digits interleaf with her own. “I trusted you… You were the home I never…”

“You were surprisingly easy to lure in, I’ll confess,” Morrigan drawls, head tipping lazily to one side. She inclines her chin, then raises one hand to beckon you with her fingers.

You’re almost relived by Feyre’s strength, closing the distance until you’re trapped between your lovers.

“You won’t change your mind now, will you, sweetness?” Mor asks, in a tone far too light for her blood-stained tongue. “You’ll still allow us to taste you, when we please?”

“…Will it…” Breath is trapped in your lungs, pulse fluttering weakly as Feyre’s palm opens over your hip, icy fingers stroking over your upper thigh. You swallow, tears in your eyes. “Will it hurt?”

Feyre presses a kiss to your throat, and Morrigan plies your hands from her lover’s, taking your warm set in her equally-frozen hold. Amber eyes find your own, and once again speech is robbed from you.

“That depends on you, lamb. Are you going to try and fight us?”

You stare at her imploringly, lips quivering. “I don’t want to die.”

“You don’t have to,” Feyre whispers.

“She’s right. You could stay with us.” Mor murmurs.

Your eyes flick between them—try to. Feyre remains out of sight, but you can feel her so clearly. “What-…what do you mean?”

“You could continue with us,” Feyre tempts.

“As our lover,” Mor clarifies, opening your palm in her hand, running her silken tongue up its centre. “It would be the same as before, lamb. Just as gentle; just as tame.”

Besides your ear, Feyre’s lips curl. “Just with a few more bite marks to show for it.”

~~~~

“I need somewhere to stay,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She could’ve stayed with Jurian, Lucien, and Vassa. If she’d needed shelter or company or diplomacy, she could’ve had it there. They would’ve had to welcome her. And she’d told herself she would. That she’d go where she was supposed to, say her piece, pass along Rhys’ message, and stay for as long as it took to figure out what to do about the places still too wary of magic, too scarred from the war to trust the Night Court’s promises.

But her feet had led her here anyway. She’d walked slower the closer she got, like maybe the distance could stretch into a reason not to knock. 

And now you were looking at her like you hadn’t yet decided whether to shut the door or let her in. 

You looked older. Not in a cruel way. Not in a way that made Mor think you’d lost anything. Just… different. A bit harder around the eyes, maybe. The kind of change that happens when ten years stretch longer than you thought they would. When no one comes back. You stood in the doorway wrapped in a silk robe, the tie loose at your waist, collar slipping slightly off one shoulder. Familiar, domestic, bare. It made her throat go tight.

“You think this is a good idea?” you asked finally, voice low and not unkind. 

Mor didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to. 

The house behind you was small and dim and warm. Lived-in. Human. It wasn’t built to hold gods and warriors and memories that had never fully died. 

But still, she stood there. Waiting.

And you didn’t close the door. You stepped aside without a word—just tilted your head slightly, not quite an invitation but not a rejection either. It was enough. 

Mor crossed the threshold like she was breaking a rule. 

The warmth hit her first. The faint smell of woodsmoke and lavender. A quiet hum of something cooking low on the stove. Her eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the smallness of it—the narrow hallway, the sagging couch, the faint indent in the carpet where a rocking chair must’ve once lived. It was the kind of house that didn’t expect guests. The kind of house that had been made to be lived in quietly.

The door closed with a soft click.

Mor hovered near the entryway, not quite sure where to put her hands.

“I was just about to make some tea,” you said, after a moment. “If you’d like some.”

“Oh.” Mor blinked. “Yes, please.”

You moved into the kitchen like you hadn’t been caught off-guard by any of this. Like you hadn’t spent the last ten years not seeing her. The kettle was filled without comment, the clink of metal against porcelain a little too loud in the quiet.

Mor sat at the small kitchen table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It felt like being a guest in someone else’s life—which, of course, she was.

She studied the worn pattern of the tablecloth while you moved around the space with practiced ease. It was strange—familiar and not. Like watching a dream carry on without you.

“How long are you staying?” you asked finally, your back to her. 

Mor hesitated. “A few days. Maybe less. Depends on how things go.”

You hummed. Not agreement, not disbelief—just something to fill the silence. 

“I passed Lucien’s on the way here,” Mor added, too casually. 

“Did you? How is he? And Jurian and Vassa?”

“They seemed well.”

“Good.”

The kettle began to whistle. You turned the stove off and poured the water with steady hands. You set a cup in front of Mor, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the mug like it might give her something to hold onto.

You both sipped in silence for a few minutes.

 It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t hostile either. Just… cautious.

Mor could feel the weight of everything they weren’t saying pressing into the space between them. It sat there on the table, quiet and impossible.

“You look…” Mor started, then trailed off.

You raised an eyebrow, just slightly.

Mor cleared her throat. “You look well.”

A slight smile curved the corner of your mouth. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.”

“You hesitated.”

“I’m just… nervous.”

You finally looked at her then. Direct and level. “Why?”

Mor held your gaze. Swallowed once. “Because I didn’t think you’d let me in.”

You didn’t reply. Just took another sip of tea, eyes unreadable. 

The silence returned, heavier this time. 

And still, neither of you said what you meant to.

“I shouldn’t have come when you were getting ready for bed,” Mor said after a moment, voice too soft.

You blinked. “It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

She looked down into her tea like it might correct her.

You set your cup down gently. “I wasn’t sleeping. Just… hadn’t gotten dressed yet. Didn’t plan on going out today.”

Mor nodded, slow. “Still. I’m sorry.”

She sounded like she meant it. And she probably did. But it wasn’t the kind of sorry you could take seriously, not when it was standing in for so many others.

“It’s just me here,” you said. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

That, at least, was true.

Mor looked around again, like she’d only just registered the quiet of the place. The lack of other voices. The stillness that hadn’t shifted in hours. Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

“I don’t have another room, but would you want the couch?” you asked, not looking at her this time. “It pulls out, if you need it to.”

“I’m fine with just the cushions,” she said quickly. “Really.”

You nodded.

She took another sip of tea, then set it down too carefully. She wasn’t usually like this—overly polite, overly still. There was something about watching her try not to take up space that made your chest ache a little.

“Mor.”

She looked up.

“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed in.”

She didn’t smile. Just breathed a little deeper. “No. You didn’t.”

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

The first night, you gave her a blanket and a pillow and stood awkwardly in the doorway while she arranged herself on the couch. She smiled, polite as ever, and said, “Thank you again. I know this is…” but didn’t finish the sentence.

You nodded and turned off the hallway light.

She slept on her side, one arm folded neatly beneath her head, the other resting over her stomach like it might hold her together. You watched from the shadowed hall for a few seconds longer than you meant to. She looked untouched by sleep—still, dignified, like she hadn’t truly let go.

She didn’t the nights after, either.

She was polite in the mornings, too. Said thank you when you passed her the sugar, thank you when you handed her a towel, thank you like she hadn’t already lived in your space before.

The sound of her footsteps in the hallway never stopped feeling foreign.

Sometimes, when you left your tea steeping too long, you’d turn and find she’d already pulled it from the kettle for you. She’d nod at your half-smile, but never commented. Never asked how you liked it.

She went out during the day. Not long—just a few hours here and there. Said she had meetings with Jurian, or Vassa, or Lucien, depending on the day. Sometimes she came back smelling faintly of pine. Once, her sleeves were dusted with flour, and you didn’t ask.

You didn’t ask what she was really doing, and she didn’t offer.

You tried talking, sometimes.

She’d pass you in the kitchen, or sit at the end of the table while you sorted through dried herbs for a stew, and she’d say something—soft, careful.

“Do you remember that summer we couldn’t keep the windows closed? The fireflies kept—”

“Don’t.”

Always quiet. Never cruel.

But it stopped her just the same. 

She let the memory go. And you sat a little straighter, like not remembering was the only way to survive it. 

The fourth night, you heard her shift on the couch. Just once. A sigh, low and tired, more like a release than frustration. 

You didn’t get up.

But you didn’t sleep for a long while, either.

The fifth morning came too quickly, though neither of you spoke of time passing.

You found her in the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, her small bag open beside her. She folded her clothes with care, like she was afraid to leave a single thing behind.

You lingered in the doorway, hands folded loosely in front of you, not sure how to bridge the silence that had settled between you.

Mor didn’t look up.

“Sorry to impose,” she said finally, voice low and distant—like she was saying goodbye to a stranger instead of someone she once carried inside her.

You nodded once. “Safe travels.”

She closed the bag with a snap, standing slowly, shoulders square but a little hollow.

Without another word, she turned and walked to the door.

The door closed softly behind her.

You stayed where you were, listening to the quiet echo that followed.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

Mor walked.

There wasn’t really a plan—just her feet on the dirt path, the wind soft against her coat, the sun already high and indifferent. She told herself she’d find somewhere to winnow from soon. Somewhere open and quiet. Somewhere that didn’t ache quite so much.

The talks with Lucien, Jurian, and Vassa had gone as well as they could have. Jurian was still smug as ever but at least measured now—his reports on the outer villages were thorough, if a bit theatrical. Vassa was more direct, more fire-eyed than Mor remembered, but willing to listen. Lucien had mostly watched. Said little. He was good at that—reading the shape of a conversation without stepping into it.

They’d talked food distribution. Infrastructure. Winter was coming faster than expected, and some of the farming settlements weren’t prepared. There was still tension between fae territories and human ones, despite Rhys’s best efforts. Too much history. Too many ghosts still walking the fields. Mor had written it all down, the details she’d need to bring back: which routes were breaking down, which towns refused fae aid outright, which leaders were ready to open trade again.

Useful. Important.

But none of it followed her now.

 What did was the last five days.

You’d been careful with each other. Too careful. Polite where you used to be loud. Strained where you used to be effortless. Every word between you weighed, measured, left hanging just a little too long.

It made her ache.

You two used to be—gods, there wasn’t even a word for it.

Not lovers, not exactly. Not always. That had come later, after the affection had grown teeth. After the friendship got too big to be harmless. But before that, you’d been… entwined. A closeness that didn’t need naming. A bond forged in stolen summers and quiet rebellion. You’d had years of each other. Soft ones, sharp ones. You used to dance in the kitchen with no music playing. You used to argue for the sake of arguing, just to watch the other get riled up. You used to share everything—mornings, jokes, beds, silence.

Until you didn’t.

Mor didn’t let herself replay the ending. She never had. All she knew was the aftermath: the silence. The years. The absence stretching longer than either of you thought it would.

And then—this week.

She hadn’t meant to stay so long. Just two nights, maybe three. But five days had slipped by, and somehow she still hadn’t figured out what she was trying to prove by walking through that door.

She paused at the crest of the hill, where the trees thinned and the wind tugged gently at her sleeves.

Her chest was tight. Not from the walking.

She could go back.

The thought surfaced quick and sharp, bright as blood.

She could go back, knock again. Say what she hadn’t. Stay another night. See if the silence would break.

But then the second thought followed, heavier:

It wouldn’t be a kind thing to do.

She’d already imposed once. Five days of shared air and half-formed conversations, and not once had she tried to fix what she’d broken. And what would going back change? You hadn’t asked her to stay. 

And still…

You hadn’t taken a husband. You’d said you lived alone, and Mor had looked—subtly, carefully. There were no signs of someone else. No second mug on the counter. No coat by the door. No trace of another life built in the time since. 

You lived alone. 

But it would be selfish—gods, it would be cruel—to think you’d been waiting. To imagine you hadn’t moved on just because you hadn’t moved out. Mortals didn’t have the luxury of stalling their lives. You wouldn’t have put everything on hold for someone who left the way Mor did. For someone who should never have come back.

Mor closed her eyes.

She would winnow soon.

Really.

But then her hands curled into fists at her sides, and she exhaled once—sharp, through her nose—and said, aloud to no one, “Fuck it.”

She didn’t think. Just reached for the tether of her power and let it snap.

The world blurred, folded in, turned itself inside out.

Mor stumbled as she landed hard, knees buckling slightly, breath caught in her throat like she’d run too far too fast. Her magic flickered beneath her skin—too unsteady, too shaken to sustain the movement. She blinked, winded, and realized—

She was standing just outside the house again.

She hadn’t meant to winnow here. Not exactly.

But the body always remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Her hand was on the knob before she could think better of it.

She didn’t knock.

The door opened easily, the hinges quieter than they had any right to be.

The house was warm. Dim. Still.

She stepped inside and let it shut behind her.

The living room was empty. The kitchen dark.

It didn’t take long to find you. 

Down the hall, second door on the left. It was half-open, a small invitation in Mor’s mind. 

She paused in the doorway. 

You sat at the foot of the bed, wrapped in warm, slanting light. Lingerie dark as ink, lace and silk clinging in ways she’d memorized long ago. Something in her stomach lurched violently. She’d torn one just like it once, on a night she couldn’t think about without tasting blood. A night you’d both sworn to bury.

But here it was. 

Here you were. 

You didn’t look surprised. Only leveled her a steady, devastating look. 

“I thought you’d come back,” you said. 

Her breath caught hard.

Gods.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse a hot, low throb between her thighs. She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting downward—high-cut hips, sheer lace over ribs, the thin straps sharp against your collarbones. Her jaw tightened. 

You tilted your head, a small question, an open door. 

She stepped forward before she knew she’d moved. Hands catching your waist, mouth colliding with yours like it had been held back for a decade. Not gentle. Not careful. 

She kissed you like she was starving—like your mouth might burn out the rot still lodged in her ribs. Her thumbs stroked the edge of lace, slow, claiming, before curling under it. You gasped into her mouth as she pressed you back, half-laughing, half-moan. And then she tore. 

The lace ripped like paper beneath her hands—shoulder straps snapping, fabric parting with a vicious, satisfying sound. She groaned against your skin. 

“I told myself I’d forget this,” she rasped into your neck, breath hot. “I told myself I wouldn’t ever—fuck—”

Her mouth moved everywhere—your throat, your shoulder, the swell of your breast—open, hungry kisses that bordered on desperate. Nails scraping your sides, she shoved the ruined lingerie down your hips, baring you inch by inch. 

You arched into her like no time had passed at all.

She pushed you further up the bed, palms firm under your thighs, following until she was braced over you, hips slotting against yours. 

When her hand slipped between your legs, fingers finding slick heat, she cursed under her breath. Then her kisses trailed lower—over your ribs, your stomach—until her breath skimmed where you needed her most. 

But before she could close her mouth around you—

“I want to taste you too,” you said, voice hoarse.

Mor froze.

Her eyes lifted, wide and wrecked, and then she made a sound—something between a laugh and a groan—as if you’d just unraveled her with those six words alone.

You tugged on her arm. She let you guide her without protest, turning with you, legs tangling, mouths meeting again—messy, teeth and promise—before you shifted. 

Gods.

You both settled, mouths finding each other at once. Her moan tore loose the second your tongue touched her, and in the same instant, she was on you again—hot, restless. 

It was messy. Urgent. Familiar in a way that made your eyes sting.

She tasted like heat and salt and heartbreak. She moved against your mouth like she couldn’t help it, like her body remembered even when her mind begged restraint.

Her tongue worked you open with practiced ease, the flat of it dragging slow and sure as her fingers tightened around your hips. She was cursing into you, gasping against you, devouring you like penance—like maybe if she made you fall apart first, it would mean she was allowed to.

But your mouth was no less intent. You licked into her with purpose—slow when she sped, faster when she faltered—driving her higher with every pass. 

Her thighs trembled against your shoulders. She whined into your cunt when you sucked just right, and the sound punched your orgasm through you—hard, blinding, your hips jerking against her mouth. 

Mor didn’t stop. She licked you through it like she was drinking down something she’d been dying for. And when she came moments later—shaking, breath caught in a strangled cry—you felt the victory in your teeth.