#feysand drabble

[velidewrites]

Feysand drabble prompt: Rhys gets hurt, Feyre gets a "Who did this to you?" moment

I Belong To No One But You

When the High Lady of the Night Court finds her guest — a stolen groom from Spring — badly injured, she does not hesitate to exact her revenge.

Pairing: Feyre x Rhysand

Word Count: 1300

Warnings: Somewhat graphic depictions of injury

When she returned to the Moonstone Palace, the entire structure reeked of blood.

His blood, she quickly realised, her nostrils flaring—half in alarm, half in anger, already building up in the pit of her stomach. Her long, arched ears perked up, listening out for any signs of struggle. What had he gotten himself into this time? An accident, no doubt, since no one would dare to climb all the way up to the property—her property—especially with the impenetrable wards she’d put up.

Right?

Just to be sure, she would check. He didn’t like her—of that, she was more than certain. She had scented it Under the Mountain, and she’d scented it when she’d ripped him free from Spring. An intense hatred, mixed with terror that made her gut twist back then—until she’d realised it was not her that he feared, but another. Someone she would deal with later.

Unless, of course, it was Tamlin who’d decided to break into her lands, wrapped up in his beast-like fury after she’d taken the human from him. No longer human, she mentally corrected herself. Made.

But Tamlin wouldn’t dare. He was livid, yes, but not stupid. He would sit out the rest of the week in his manor like a patient little pet until she returned his betrothed to him. The fact that she had to return him at all made her stomach clench.

But such was their bargain—one week in the Night Court, one week with her, forever. Truthfully, forever was not enough—would never be enough, not when it meant most of it would belong to another.

That her mate belonged to another.

Rhysand didn’t know. Being Made Under the Mountain had not immediately sharpened his Fae instincts, it seemed. She could tell it that day, the day they’d separated on the balcony under the stars, that he had not felt what she had—a snap of the universe, or perhaps just the two of their souls, as they stood opposite each other with nothing but a golden, gleaming bridge between them.

She’d almost crossed it that day, consequences be damned. The need for him, the need to claim him, had overridden her senses entirely—as though nothing else had existed in that moment but them, but that bridge, tempting her with its eternal light. 

That was the truth, painful but unchanging—Rhysand was her mate. And he did not belong to her—he probably never would—but that didn’t mean Feyre could not belong to him.

It was why she couldn’t simply ignore the tangy scent of his blood, weighing on her tongue. It would have been so easy to just stride past his chambers and move towards her own, wishing their rooms stood closer to each other so that she could at least feel his beating heart and know he was okay. It would have been easy, and at the same time, it would have been the hardest thing she’d ever have to do.

But mate was hurt, his blood the very evidence of his pain, and so she had to see for herself.

The sound of her heart thundering in her chest accompanied her right to the large, ornate doors of polished wood, carved into the moonstone walls. She made herself count to three, then to ten, then finally to fifteen after deciding none of it helped ease her nerves one bit. Why was she nervous? He didn’t know what he was to her, what she was to him. Even if he did, she doubted it would mean anything to him. The thought made her heart pick up its pace even more viciously, as if the very idea thrust it into panic.

Was she supposed to knock, or simply barge in as if she owned the place? Well, she supposed she did—but she liked to think of his quarters here as his own, indulging in the—perhaps delusional—thought that he shared this home with her. Maybe she could call out his name and wait for him to invite her in—but it was too dangerous a tactic, for it would involve having to taste his name as it fell from her lips again. The first time she’d said it—quietly, the sound barely above a breath in the depths of the corridors Under the Mountain—she’d nearly sank to her knees. Rhysand. He tasted like the warmth of a midnight breeze, of the ocean ruffled by its gentle touch. He would fit right in here, Feyre realised, then quickly shut off her imagination before it ran wild with the idea. He would never stay here with her—would never choose such a fate after everything she’d done.

“I can hear you standing outside,” came his voice, still rich and silky even muffled through the walls.

Feyre stopped breathing entirely.

“Are you ever going to come in?” he asked.

No, she wanted to tell him. I can’t be sure of myself when I’m with you. She would do something stupid—like tell him what he was to her. What they were to each other. And then, she would get her heart shattered, irreparably broken so that she wouldn’t even be able to pick up the pieces in her solitude.

Instead, she placed a shaky hand on the handle and opened the door.

The scent of it hit her first—harder now that she was inside. Rhysand was injured, and badly, the crimson liquid sapping through his dark jacket and dripping onto the stone floor in a slow, nearly silent pace. A cut slashed down from his rib—as though whoever had cut him had been aiming to slice his navel, but he’d turned just in time to avoid the impact.

It wasn’t an accident.

Feyre’s tattooed fists tightened at her sides, nails digging into her skin as if to keep her limbs from shaking. It worked, her body freezing into place instead—a lethal kind of stillness she’d only launched into when even in the darkest of nights, her vision was flashing white.

Someone attacked him.

Someone had attacked her mate.

“Who,” she managed to say, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth buried into the inside of her cheek. “Who dared?”

Rhysand’s eyes widened. “How…”

“Who,” she repeated, the words no more now than a snarl. Her magic whirled around her, dark and all-consuming, readying to take her wherever she commanded, to help her exact her vengeance. She only needed the name.

“Feyre,” Rhysand breathed, and Cauldron damn her, hearing her own name on his lips only spurred that primal part inside her that wanted to right all the wrongs they’d done to him.

Her left fist eased, letting her raging blood flow through her once again, and she stepped closed toward him, raising a hand.

Rhysand started, “What are you…”

The question died on his tongue as a shadow curled around her open palm and reached out to him, brushing against his open wound. Violet eyes watched in amazement as the flesh contracted, binding itself back together painlessly with her magic, not a gleam of fear in them—not even for a second. Something deep in her chest purred at that, a sense of self-satisfaction and pride that was so entirely Fae she wanted to let go of her simmering rage only to reach out and touch him again.

But then his eyes flickered back to hers, and she knew he saw it—saw that she would not rest until he gave her what she wanted. Until he let her belong to him, even if he couldn’t belong to her.

“Keir,” he whispered, his palm covering the wound and meeting only smooth, golden-brown skin.

Feyre let her gaze trace the movement for only a moment before she winnowed away.

[shallyne]

Feysand Week Day Six

Whoops, it became slightly longer than intended

It was fucking cold and way too late to be this far out into the steppes but it was important, Rhys had to retrieve the spellbook and the only one who could help them was the Keeper of the Lost. Rhys had never met them himself, they preferred be left alone. Similar like to Weaver they collected things, but the difference was that the Weaver kept things that were given freely while the Keeper of the Lost hoarded things that they found, that were lost, and if Rhys was lucky, they could help find the spellbook that vanished many years ago.

He stepped over tiny piles of junk, confused why they lay outside in the cold. The Keeper of the Lost was usually extremely of its possessions, at least that's what he had heard. It was probably some legend that was much more dramatized than it actually was. "Hello?" he called out at the blue front tmdoor that led into a shed, the paint already chipping. When nononswere came, he pressed down the handle of the door, which opened with a squeak. He closed the door behind him, surprised that the shed wasn't full of trash or little treasures, only an abandoned workbench sat in the corner and a stairway that led downwards. He breathed out, the breath clouding in front of his face through the cold and took the first step, listening if he could make out any noise. Halfway down the stairs he found a lantern, his powers did a quick job of lightning it and he continued his way down. His eyes could adjust better in the dark than a mortal could but he didn't take any chances because he couldn't see fully in the dark and he did not know what he could expect when he reached the room below. Another door, also blue but darker than the one above, greeted him and he quietly opened it, keeping it open as he stepped into the room. "Holy shit," he mumbled to himself. Piles and piles of junk were before him. Old, scrapped metal, bikes, dollhouses, chairs, bikes, wood planks, ship wheels, old clothes, toys, anything actually.

"Hello?" Rhys called out again. Something crashed from the other side of the room. He winced but stood glued to his spot, listening to the noise. Rustling of paper and scraping of metal sounded, the noise quickly coming closer. Then he heard clanging and scratching, as if something was trying to crawl up the mountain of junk, until he could make out a pale hand on the highest pile. "Hi!" Rhys said, "Are you the Keeper of the Lost?"

A head of golden-brown disheveled hair and a pair of blue-gray eyes peeked over the pile, taking Rhys in. The only sound between them was a sniff and rough voice mumbled, "Night Court." more to itself than him, so Rhys didn't respond. "Who sent you?" it addressed him.

"I'm High Lord Rhysand, I am here to ask for your help. It is urgent." he said, standing straight as the Keeper eyes him warily. It crawled over the pile, and slid down towards him using it as a slide, landing on its back. As it jumped to his feed Rhysand realized this wasn't a creature, it was a girl. She looked young, but appearances didn't say anything in Prythian. The Keeper was centuries old, millenia even in some stories. As she jumped to her feet in one fluid motion, she cackled.

"You don't even deem to knock but instantly ask for a favor. Only a High Lord could be so arrogant." she shook her head, her disheveled hair reaching to her hip in soft waves. She was wearing a baggy jeans overall with a thick, black sweater underneath and leather boots. This deep in winter she should be freezing in that getup but she didn't seem to mind. "Your ilk didn't bother me for a long time. I'll humor you, Rhysand of the Night Court, what is so urgent? And please call me Feyre, I don't like being addressed as the Keeper, I'm so much more."

Rhys cleared his throat, confused about that sudden mood swing but he said, "The spellbook from the King of Hybern has vanished, we need to find it to prevent a war." he told her.

She tilted her head to one side, then to the other, like a confused puppy. Her blue eyes were blazing, "What is your payment?"

"No war in these lands?" Feyre kept quiet at his failed attempt at humor and Rhys retrieved a sack of gold coins, holding it out to her. Feyre laughed out loud, her fangs glinting in the light of the lantern.

"Rhysand of the Night Court," she said, her voice sounding condescending but somehow intrigued at the same time. "" You didn't do your homework, did you? I don't deal in coins, I don't need it." he raised his brows as his gaze wandered to all the junk and Feyre bared her teeth in warning. Fair enough, he supposed that was rude. "I want a memory."

"No." Rhys instantly declined. He knew these tricks. It didn't matter how unimportant the memory seemed, it would change someone irrevocably.

Feyre shrugged. "Then we don't have a deal," she turned around. "Goodbye Rhysand of the Night Court."

He ground his teeth at the dismissal. He watched her as she walked towards another pile, smaller than the one she first slid down. "Something else!" he called after her. "Anything else."

Feyre whirled around, tapping her chin in thought. "How about," she grinned, "A secret."

Rhys swallowed. "Alright," he agreed. "A secret in return for your knowledge."

"A secret of my choice in return for my knowledge." she said, a devilish glint in her eyes. "Is it a bargain?"

"It's a bargain." Rhys replied.

Feyre squealed in delight, skipping over to Rhys, snatching a chair from one of the piles. "Sit down, Rhysand!" she said and Rhysand didn't have a choice but to. The chair squeaked under his weight and he was half afraid it would give in. He almost lost balance, trying to grip something to stabilize himself but Feyre slapped his hand away, "Don't touch my belongings!"

Rhys quickly removed his hand from the pile, mumbling "Gremlin." as Feyre dug her fingers into his hair, her nails burying into his scalp as she hummed. It was a weird feeling. It wasn't as if a Daemati was looking into your head but it felt like someone opened an album full of memories inside your mind and Feyre was skimming through every page. "So many regrets," she murmured to herself. "So much politic, isn't that boring? I don't need that." she kept humming, then suddenly stopped with a gasp. Rhys's eyes widened at the memory she stopped at, the memory he pushed so deep down and tried to forget. Never talked about it in shame. The evening when his mother told him that she would visit a war camp with his sister and Rhys promised them to meet up but he had stayed elsewhere that evening. How he had trusted Tamlin with that information and he had betrayed him return. He had only told one person that he had promised his mother to meet up and that he didn't, his cousin Mor. He hadn't told anyone else, so ashamed that he failed his mother and his little sister so badly, that he couldn't protect them. Save them. Feyre took this memory. His vision blurred bit Feyre didn't seem to know what was going on, so engrossed in taking his secret. "All done!" she retrieved a little book out of her front pocket, opened it to a specific page and showed it to Rhysand, his secret written on that page. "Isn't it pretty?" she patted his shoulder, pocketing the book again.

"The spellbook," she said in thought, sitting on another pile in front of Rhys, locking eyes with him. "A friend of mine told me about it once. I think you heard about it, the Suriel." she sighed, "The Spellbook was retrieved by the mortal queens. It's resting in their castle on the continent, in the highest room of the tower in the north wing. It's protected by wards but your second in command should be able to take them down without a problem." she waved her hand and stood up, walking away from Rhysand. "I'll see you around, Rhysand and please knock the next time you'll visit." she looked over her shoulder. "Which, I suppose, will be very soon."

Rhys didn't have time to answer to Feyre's cryptic exclamation, still feeling numb from the memory. He walked away from Feyre's keep and although he got his answer, more and more questions bubbled up in his mind and they all had to do with the Keeper of the Lost.

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @edgyellie @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25 @tothestarsandwhateverend @aayo-whatt @dreamlandreader @officialfeysandweek2023

[corcracrow]

inspired by the post from @shallyne :)

~Would It Be Insensitive To Say

Get Yourself Together, So I Can Love You~

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Feyre yanked open the door, letting in a blast of cold, damp air, and bolted out into the hurling rain. She’d probably just ruined her very expensive, very soft cashmere cardigan, but somehow she found she didn’t care.

“Feyre— wait!” She barely heard Rhys’ desperate plea over the pouring rain, which would probably turn to sleet soon, and resolutely ignored it, ignored him.

Once again, Rhys had made the stupid, stupid decision to keep secrets. From her. Whom he had promised to always tell the truth, to always show his pain to.

Mother knew that in the past year they’d been dating, she’d shown him hers, had told him every last aching, stinging detail, of her mother’s disappointment, her sisters’ indifference, her father’s detachment.

And once again, he had broken his promise, hiding his own wounds and refusing to let her in. She wasn’t going to take it any longer.

If he wanted to hide himself away, fine. Feyre refused to keep wasting her energy pulling him out of his armour everytime she wanted to have a damn conversation.

She stalked down the sidewalk, thunder rumbling overhead. Rumbling so loudly she didn’t hear Rhys’ pained breaths and splashing footsteps until he was just behind her.

He skidded to stand in front of her, reaching to steady himself on her shoulder.

“Feyre, please. Just listen.”

She shoved her soaked, golden brown hair out of her eyes, brushing his hand off her shoulder in the process.

“Why, Rhys? Why should I listen to you deflect and laugh away my questions, move past our problems like it’s nothing, just so they can rot under the surface and ruin this relationship? Why bother?”

“Feyre, let me explain-“

“Get out of my way, Rhysand,” she growled. Feyre felt wild and out of control, cheeks flushed despite the freezing rain.

Rhys let his hand fall back to his side and stepped back. Feyre pushed past him.

“Please.”

She barely heard his soft whisper over the rain, and did her best to ignore it, to not notice the way his violet eyes softened as she moved past.

“Forget it, Rhys. I’m not going to stick around and watch you destroy yourself while you lock me out of your life.”

Feyre turned away, splashing resolutely down the same sidewalk she had walked up in sunshine just a few hours ago.

She’d taken only a few steps when she again heard Rhys’ footsteps, and his warm hand caught hers.

“Feyre— I’m sorry. I know we said we wouldn’t lie anymore, and I’m sorry, okay? I just— I don’t want to lose you too.”

Feyre knew what he was referring to. His sister, taken by a terminal illness when she was still young, and his mother, killed in a car accident when Rhys was sixteen.

But he wasn’t sixteen anymore, and though Feyre knew what it was to lose family, she also knew how to move past it, to work through her grief and find joy again. Rhys had helped her do just that, and she’d tried to do the same for him. But—

“I don’t want to lose you either. But pushing me away isn’t the solution, and I’m tired of trying to convince you of that.”

Feyre pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“If you’re not going to make the effort, why should I, Rhys?”

He looked down, the rain running down his tan, carved features and dripping onto his shoes.

“Well?” Feyre waited a beat longer before she turned to go, beginning to shiver. “That’s what I thought.”

Again she made it a few steps before she heard Rhys’ determined voice.

“Because I will.” He said. “I will make the effort.”

She turned once more to face him and crossed her arms stubbornly.

“Why?”

Feyre could feel all the frustration of the past few years boil up then, condensed into that one small word. She wasn’t really asking Rhys. She was asking the world at large. Why her, why would he bother, why should anybody bother to care, why now, when she felt so small and insignificant beneath the freezing, battering rain.

Rhys looked as though he were steeling himself against something painful, something he was frightened of. She hated that look on him, head bowed, letting his midnight hair fall over his eyes.

It wasn’t right.

“Why?” She pressed, shouting now.

He straightened and stepped closer, raising his voice over the rain.

“Because I love you!”

Feyre felt her mouth drop open.

“What did you say,” she breathed.

“Because I love you,” Rhys repeated. “And I was too frightened to tell you, Feyre. In case you didn’t want to stay, in case you saw the worst in me and wished to leave and- I wouldn’t blame you. But you didn’t. You stayed. And I- I don’t deserve you. You’re too good, too strong, you’re unbreakable, and I’m afraid, Feyre, I am so very petrified of losing you and I’m so sorry it came out this way. But now you know, and I understand if you wish to leave—“

“Rhys.”

“Feyre?”

“You idiot.”

Feyre felt a smile unfurl across her face. She was almost certain she was glowing.

“You absolute idiot, Rhysand.”

She let her arms fall to her sides.

“You think I stuck around this long because I like you?”

Feyre took a step forward, then two, then ran into his arms, flinging hers about his neck.

“Prick.” She muttered against his chest. “I love you too.”

And then she kissed him, standing in the rain, and somehow she didn’t feel insignificant anymore. Somehow, the world was opening up, and despite the clouds covering the sky, Feyre was certain she could see the starlight reflected in his eyes.

“Say it again,” she said, pulling back.

Rhys leaned closer ‘til their noses were brushing, his breath fluttering against her cheek.

“I love you, Feyre darling.”

“I love you too, Rhysand.”

Feyre kissed him again, electricity tingling down her spine, before an actual bout of shivers broke the kiss off early.

“I need to dry off.”

Rhys smirked. “I’d be happy to help you, Feyre darling.”

“Oh please. You’re perfectly happy to let me stay soaked.”

Rhys only kissed her again, laughing against her lips.

“Let’s go home, darling.”

[throneofsapphics]

test doll

Feysand x f!Reader

Summary: Feyre and Rhys bring you into their bedroom to help them test out a new toy

Warnings: p/strap in v, smut, minors dni

Word Count: 1610

A/N: just a little feysand smut I found hiding in my drafts.

You stood before them, twisting your hands together. Both were looking at you like they’d like to devour you whole, consume every part of you and leave you a mess behind. In all honesty, that sounded quite nice to you. 

For weeks, the sexual tension had built without either of you acknowledging it. After all, it was a rather taboo subject still, even while becoming more normalized. 

They weren’t looking for a serious relationship, and neither were you but nothing was wrong with a little bit of fun, as long as you had clear boundaries and consistent communication. 

Now that the communication and tough conversation was over, you wanted them in whatever way they’d have you. 

Just as the silence began to grow uncomfortable, you spoke. “Who do I kiss first?” 

Rhys let out a low chuckle as Feyre surged forward, eager. One hand slid around the back of your neck, the other your waist as she tugged you close. You wound your hands around her neck, heads tilting so your lips could meet. At first it was slow, sensuous, and calm but quickly it grew into a flurry of passion, hands roaming and squeezing, exploring and discovering. 

You pulled away for air, both of you laughing softly. Her laughs cut off midway when you laid an open mouth kiss to the spot beneath her ear. 

Head tilted back in a moan, you ran your finger down the column on her neck. 

Then she was gone, replaced by her mate. His kiss was gentle and soft, leaving you aching for more. Pushing forward, you molded your body to his. Heat behind you, his mate pressing against your backside. Rhys kept your lips tracked and locked as she brushed your hair away from your neck, bending to press kisses along the side of your throat. A whimper, as she slid the strap of your dress down, mouth trailing after the fabric. 

More movement. You squealed as your feet left the ground, Rhys tugging you up with one arm the other extend - body squeezed into a vacuum, you winnowed right to his bedroom. 

“Would the stairs have been so difficult?” You huffed, but really you didn’t mind. The sooner you could get them out of their clothes, the happier you would be. 

“There’s a new toy we’ve been wanting to try out,” Feyre said as she slid the other strap down your shoulder, Rhys’s fingers working on the zipper behind him. It was really a five second job, but he kept kissing each inch of skin he exposed. 

“Oh?” The word came out breathier than you intended, borderline a moan. 

“Oh,” she confirmed, mouth curving at the corner into a semi-smirk. “We’d like to try it out with you, if that is alright.” 

Right now, you might’ve agreed to anything. Testing out a new toy with them didn’t seem like much of a burden - actually it might have been a blessing. 

“Yes,” you said enthusiastically. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Rhys took a break and spun you to face him. Feyre stepped around you as well, just as the dress hit the floor, fabric pooling at your feet. Stepping out of it, you kicked it far behind you and frowned. 

“Both of you are wearing far too many clothes.” 

“Patience,” Feyre chided. 

Before you could protest, your bra had disappeared and each took one nipple into their mouths. Only their hands holding onto your body kept you standing. 

Teeth gently scraped, lips closed around, hands squeezed, moans filled the ear - the echoes of their own moans vibrating through your body.

Having their attention, both at one time, was a new kind of heaven you didn’t know existed. 

Strong hands, you opened your eyes and it was your High Lady, throwing you onto the bed. Hitting the silky duvet, your soft laugh died as she tugged you to the edge, hands pressing against the back of your thighs to push them towards your shoulders. Rhys appeared above you and grasped the backs of your knees, essentially folding you in half. Her tongue flicked your clit with the perfect amount of pressure. 

Breath caught, lips dug into teeth, eyes met beautiful blue-gray. 

Rhys tutted, thumb pulling at your lip. “We want to hear you,” he insisted. 

With Feyre’s next touch, you let the soft moan fall from your lips. 

“Beautiful,” you heard Rhys. “Both of you. Gods.” 

You imagined his pleasure, watching his mate eat you out, her ass in the air in front of you 

More pleasing than you could imagine, he spoke into your mind. You jumped. You forgot you’d agreed to that. 

“Don’t scare her,” Feyre lifted her head, your arousal glistening on her lips and chin. You took the chance to tug her up your body, to meet her mouth and taste yourself on her lips. 

Rhys pulled you away before long and you watched as he met his mate’s lips with a ravenous hunger, tongues swirling, teeth nipping, breathing erratic. The thought of him tasting you on her turned you on beyond belief, sending another flood of arousal. 

“I need to taste you myself,” Rhys said as he pulled away from Feyre hands gently pushing on your shoulders. Taking the hint, you laid back. Feyre’s own lips closed around one of your nipples. 

“Fuck,” you nearly screamed as his teeth dragged across, turning the word into a chant, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

A laugh from Feyre. You didn’t have it in you to be embarrassed right now, instead you embraced the experience and pleasure, embraced the orgasm building, tension building, body tensing, fists balling the sheets. 

“Let go, beautiful,” Feyre whispered in your ear, rolling your nipple between two fingers. A light pinch, the beautiful hint of pain sent you over the edge, tumbling down, down, down. 

Rhys worked you through, as your orgasm slowed he switched to slow licks from base to apex, gently letting you down from your high.

You laid back, eyes closed, breathing deep. 

“Don’t fall asleep on us,” Feyre laughed. 

“Just need a moment,” you mumbled. 

Moments passed, you recovered, planting your palms next to your waist and pushing yourself up. They did have a really nice duvet cover. 

Thank you, you jumped at Rhys’s voice. 

You keep catching me off guard, you accused - not quite used to casting the thought out in your mind. 

Then we’ll work on your awareness another day, it sounded like he was laughing but you understood the entendre, and remember you can tell me to stop anytime, his voice grew more serious. 

It’s alright now, you reassured him.

“Come here,” you heard Feyre and twisted your head to find her - that’s the toy they wanted to experiment with. You slid down the bed, eager. 

She tightened the final strap on the harness, attached with what you guessed was a seven inch dildo. Anticipation and a strange giddiness bubbled inside of you. 

“Lay down and be good for her,” Rhys murmured in your ear, grabbing the back of your neck to guide you down, tugging your thighs to line you up at the edge of the bed. 

Then you had the blessing of watching them. How he instructed her on how to fuck you, the gentle hands adjusting her hips one hands reached over Feyre to add lube, then pressing your thighs back. 

You could admit the first thrust was a tad awkward, but that was to be expected of any new experience, let alone something completely foreign to her like this. 

“Gods you’re fucking me so good,” you moaned as she picked up the pace. Her pace increased, quickly gaining in intensity too. Your body began to rock back and forward with her new pace, your breathing growing more erratic. 

“Touch yourself,” the hint of dominance in your tone had you instinctively reaching for your mouth, swirling your tongue around two fingers before brushing them over your clit. 

The combined sensations drew a loud, borderline obnoxious groan from you. This gave you a completely new sensation, especially as rhys tugged your thighs up slightly, causing Feyre to hit your g-spot over and over again. 

“Oh gods,” your eyes rolled back, the second orgasm flooding through your body. The afterlife had to have something like this, otherwise you’d rather disappear into tiny particles, gone and blown away with the wind. 

Dramatic, a voice, not your own, said. 

The hint of embarrassment somehow turned you on more, increased your arousal, probably left a little wet puddle on the duvet. 

Feyre had paused, but not pulled out yet. You propped yourself up on your elbows, confused. Rhys was now behind her, his own body adjusted and - Feyre fell forward, her body pressed against your, the strap moving inside of you. 

The High Lord was fucking his High Lady, your High Lady was fucking you. 

Head thrown back, you thought you might come just from the idea of that. Not an idea, this was your reality. 

You hissed as they both hit you again, Feyre’s hips flexing weakly, but Rhys driving her further into you. Gods gods gods, you chanted. 

Rhys was speaking to her, his hand gently gripping her throat. You couldn’t hear the words, lost in your own pleasure, Feyre’s hands now squeezing your chest. 

At this point, you were an object, designed and prepared for their own pleasure and fuck if it didn’t feel incredible. 

“Gorgeous,” Rhys murmured, accentuating the word with another thrust, “both of you,” the words were a low, deep purr coming from him. This had to happen again. You’d gladly be their tester for anything, and something told you they had more ideas for you.

[xxvalkyriesxx]

But hear me out:

Nesta is a decorated equestrian, one of the best in the world. She's on top of her game, going to international events and even making the Olympic team earning medals and bringing pride for her country. Being sponsored and making content. Becoming the IT girl in equestrian.

Until she's not.

A major accident happens at a competition, where Nesta is rushed to the hospital waking up nearly a week later to find out her horse didn't survive the fall. Her glimmer of hope dissolves. Spiraling into depression as she drinks, goes to rehab, rinse and repeat.

Her sisters are all that she has left in this world and watch this unfold until they couldn't anymore. Feyre needs to save her big sister before she loses Nesta for good.

In comes the big guns.

Nesta was charged for public intoxication with a possible sentencing but luckily enough her lawyer was able to snag her a better deal. She must complete over 350 hours of community service and the judge so happens to send Nesta to the House of Wind, a non-profit horse ranch offering therapeutic programs for adults.

And the owner of the ranch? Cassian Valyrian. A decorated war hero who has put all of his energy into helping others has met his match as Nesta Archeon is ordered to stay with him until her probation is lifted.

[ninthcircleofprythian]

Scrabble Drabble

Just a quick little drabble based off of this reblog.

Moon Divider can be found here courtesy of @tsunami-of-tears

Also, shout out to @chairofchaos for reminding my that reading glasses exist.

Family game night after weekly dinners tended to get a little contentious. It wasn’t unusual for someone to quit midway through or to accuse another of cheating. It was no different now that Lucien had joined in the weekly tradition with his mate, Elain.

“That’s not a word!” Cassian bellowed from across the table.

“It most certainly is,” Lucien stated calmly as he straightened the wooden letter tiles he had just laid down. “It means to walk a wandering path.”

Rhys’ face screwed up in concentration as he studied the word laid on the board. “I think Cas might be right. I don’t think that’s a word.”

“I don’t think ‘rizz’ is a word either.” Feyre points out. “But we let Cas have that one.”

“Only because he gave a very compelling argument.” Mor smirked from her seat at the end of the table.

Cassian puffed out his chest with a mischievous smile. “Thank you Mor. Plus it had two z’s. It’s the only hope I had to unseat this one as reigning champ.” He shook his thumb toward Lucien.

Elain giggled from her perch on Lucien’s knee. It had been her turn to choose the game this week but she had passed the decision off to Lucien, knowing he loved this game. And she also loved it when he won. 

“It is a word,” he states matter of factly. “I’ll prove it.” 

Suddenly a thick leather bound tome appeared from thin air, making the short drop into Lucien’s open palm. His long fingers began flipping through the pages. Pulling the book from his face with a squint, he patted at his shirt.

“I can’t see withou–”

Elain deftly flipped her hand from her dress pocket, producing a folded pair of reading glasses.

“Ah, thank you my love.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “Here,” he said, pointing to the middle of the page. “It is a word, just like I said. Origination - The Old Language.”

“Now wait a minute, we can’t just use words from another language. That’s definitely cheating.” Cassian whined. 

Lucien set the book down on the table and leaned forward, slipping his hand around Elain’s waist a little tighter as he did, reaching for the paper in the box top.

“According to the rules –”

“It’s another language!” Cas shouted. 

“Give it up Cassian, it’s in the dictionary.” Rhys drawled.

“Yeah, unlike ‘rizz’,” Mor chuckled.

Cas whipped his head around to her. “I thought you were on my side!”

“The rules clearly state - “ Lucien started before being cut off once more. 

“It’s fine. Word accepted.” Rhys waved an impatient hand. “Whose turn is it?”

Elain giggled a little louder this time as she added up the new tally on the scorecard, putting Lucien a good 20 points ahead of the others.

Without a word, Azriel began laying out tiles. One at a time, neatly lined up against Cassian’s previous word. With a sly smile he placed the last tile, an empty rack left in front of him on the table. 

Cassian threw a shocked face toward his brother before stammering, “All seven tiles?! That - It’s not —”

“It is a word.” Lucien stated peering over his glasses, fingers already laid upon the book’s page. 

“I quit!” Cas yelled as he stomped off. “My own family – cheaters.”

[witchlingsandwyverns]

FIRST FANFIC FUCK IT WE BALL SCARED

[slytherhys]

12 Days of Christmas - ACOTAR Edition

This is officially the last chapter of the 12 Days of Christmas series! I want to thank everyone who took a little of their time to read these stories. You guys mean the world to me and I'm so lucky to be able to write to such an amazing fandom. Every comment, every like, every reblog means everything to me and I take your appreciation with me every time I'm writing a new story.

You can also find this series on AO3

12th day of christmas - Christmas Dinner

A Blessing. All of it - Rhysand Drabble

The High Lord of the Night Court wasn’t known to be a very emotional male. He had a reputation all across Prythian, and it certainly wasn’t one that spoke of his sensitivities. He had a role to fill, and he had filled it gladly in order to protect his family. To protect Feyre.

That High Lord, however, was nowhere to be found tonight.

As his inner circle gathered around the dining table, chatting, and eating, Rhysand couldn’t help but feel unfiltered joy settle deep into his bones. Wherever he looked, love and happiness shone as bright as the candles flickering on the table, sending a warm haze all around the living room. The scent of holly and pine was as strong as scent of the meal Elain, Nuala and Cerridwen had so carefully prepared - and not nearly as mouthwatering.

By his side, Feyre sipped her wine as she chatted with Morrigan about her studio, his cousin offering her own advice every once in a while. Azriel, on the other side of the table, seemed too enthralled by whatever Elain was telling him to even notice the smile blooming on his face - a rare sight to see. For her part, Elain seemed just as enchanted. Across from Rhys, Nesta and Amren were engaged in a heated debate about books, Cassian chewing his food and nervously looking on as if prepared to intervene if necessary.

Rhys looked down at the babe drooling all over his shirt, a smile tugging up at his lips. Nyx had crashed only minutes after they had all sat down for dinner, the excitement of his first Solstice too draining for his tiny body. His little first was wrapped around Rhysand's sweater, his covered, little feet kicking him in the stomach every so often, as if Nyx was trying to take flight in his own dreams. Rhys was completely enraptured. Incredulous, too, seemed appropriate, for the truth was that he had lived many, many lives – had known loss, and heartbreak, and pain. But never had he known happiness like this; love like this. He’d never imagined he'd be deserving of it in the first place.

Now, he couldn’t imagine it being any different. Every tortuous road had led him to this table, surrounded by the people he had loved the most. As hard as it had been, they had all found each other – broken and lost – and against all odds they had made a family. A bickering, messy, but true family.

As he rubbed his son’s back, as he felt Feyre’s hand reach out for his under the table, he could feel no regrets - what had made him cold and lethal to the world had been what allowed them all to be here tonight. For that alone, he would not - could not - have changed a thing. No, he simply looked up at the stars and thanked them - tonight, there was no war, no duels, no political scheming. For at least tonight, it was their turn to just be.

And what a blessing that was.

[theladyofdeath]

Hi, maybe I have a prompt for you.

Rhys helps Nyx to get to bed and when Feyre checks on both of them and asks if he is already asleep Nyx lifts his head and says "Yes, sound asleep".

(Story freely invented 🙃)

A/N: To tell you that I love this prompt is an understatement. Please enjoy the fluff!

"Don't wanna go to bed." Nyx sat on the couch with his little arms crossed and his brows drawn low. His frown was fully set, but it didn't stop Rhysand from walking to his son and tossing him over his shoulder, effortlessly.

Feyre chuckled. "It's late, buddy. Me and daddy are going to bed, too."

Rhysand shot her a suggestive look, complete with a brow wiggle and a wink.

"Not tired," Nyx said with a sigh, lying over Rhysand's shoulder like a dead weight. "Hungry."

"You're not hungry," Feyre reassured him. Even though he was a growing toddler, he'd eaten seconds and thirds at dinner, and had an after-bath snack of strawberries, cheese, crackers, and sausage.

"I'm starving!" Nyx protested, but Rhysand was already walking him up the stairs.

"I'll come in a minute after you brush your teeth to tell you goodnight," Feyre promised, as she picked up Nyx's plate up off the coffee table and carried it into the kitchen to wash. Once it was sparkling clean, Feyre made her way upstairs and peeked into Nyx's room.

Rhysand was buttoning up the top of Nyx's pajamas. Nyx still had a frown on his face, but he resigned, accepting his fate. After a hug and a kiss and countless I love you's, Feyre was walking back out of the bedroom, cracking the door closed.

It was just after eight, which meant that she could at least get one more full load of laundry done before she was too tired to do anymore. After grabbing a sorted basket from the master bedroom, Feyre was walking back downstairs to the laundry room, where she moved what was in the washer to the dryer, what was in the dryer to a laundry basket, and what was dirty into the washing machine. She was the only one that did the laundry, after Rhys had turned an entire load of whites to pink with a sneaky red sock. He's claimed that he's learned since then, but one of Feyre's favorite t-shrits had been in that load and she had never forgotten.

After the newly cleaned clothes were folded, Feyre was walking back upstairs to put them away. When she passed by Nyx's room, she could hear Rhysand's voice, low and gentle, reading Goodnight Moon. She waited outside the door for just a minute, listening to his voice, letting it calm her.

From the second that Feyre found out she was pregnant, Rhysand had been an amazing father. He was made for fatherhood.

Feyre carried the laundry basket to the master bedroom and put everything away before stripping off her leggings and sweater, and putting on a nightgown. After cleaning her face and brushing her hair, she was making her way back down the hall.

As she stood outside of Nyx's room, it was silent. She gave it a minute, just to be sure, before pushing open the door. "Is he asleep?" she whispered into the dark.

But then Nyx's head popped up, and with a grin, he said, "Yes, sound asleep."

Unable to help herself, Feyre huffed a laugh and stepped inside. As she approached the little twin bed, she witnessed quite the display. Both boys were under the heap of blankets, but it was Rhysand whose head was against the pillow, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open.

"Daddy was sleepy, mama," Nyx whispered. "Shhh. Don't wake him up."

"I see that," Feyre whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, "but he was supposed to be putting you to sleep, goofball."

Nyx shrugged. "He finished the story and I started patting his back. Then he started snoring."

"Mhmm." Feyre chuckled and leaned over Nyx to brush Rhysand's hair back. "I guess daddy's sharing your bed tonight. Come on. Lay down."

Without a fight, Nyx started getting comfortable, only to stop to kiss Rhysand's forehead. "Night night, daddy."

She swore Rhys smiled in his sleep.

Once Nyx was comfortable, Feyre laid down beside him, barely able to fit on the little bed with all three of them. She patted Nyx's back and sang him a quiet lullaby until he, too, fell asleep.

Not wanting to go to bed alone, Feyre stayed, admiring her two boys, the spitting image of one another, until she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

[corruptedclarity]

May have had an idea for a mad men x ACOTAR crossover fic. Idk. I’m not a creative but I’ve been thinking about how I miss mad men and I want another Feysand AU to sink my teeth into

[starfall-spirit]

Nyx is such a helpful boy

There they were, right where she guessed they’d be, her wonderful mate and four-year-old sprawled out on a sheet of plastic, various brushes scattered around them. “Tomorrow we do Mama’s.”

“Alright, little star. We’ll ask tomorrow.”

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Nyx asked, brow scrunched as he sloppily dragged his paintbrush across Rhys’ tattooed forearm.

“I know she will,” he promised, raising his eyes to where she stood in the doorway. “Won’t you, darling?”

Nyx sprung to his feet, green paint splattering  against Rhys’ shirt as their son flung to brush to the floor and scrambled to Feyre’s side. She suppressed her wince as his paint-covered hands smeared against her skirt. Nothing a little magic couldn’t fix. Hopefully. “Mama, we were painting, see?”

“I see that! You did a beautiful job on Daddy’s tattoo.”

[velidewrites]

Frozen || Feysand Drabble

Let me pull you out of your nightmares.

Word Count: 1310

When Rhys returned from Illyria, the entirety of the second floor hallway was covered by a sheet of ice.

He’d nearly slipped on the stairs earlier, though he played it off as his mind playing tricks on him, worn out after what must have been hours of pointless debate with the winged warlords. Even Cassian, endless in his patience when dealing with their less-than-progressive perspectives, was practically fuming at the end when Devlon suggested a change in Illyria’s governance, going as far as shooting a grimace at his High Lord.

It was late, and Rhysand simply did not care anymore. Devlon was a problem for another day—perhaps when Nesta returned from the mortal lands. He had a feeling having the eldest Archeron at his side would prompt a much more effective conversation.

He should have ended the meeting the moment he’d realised they were going nowhere. It was well past midnight now, and he longed to be in bed with his mate tucked into his arms. She, too, had been overworking herself lately, and he knew the Illyrian conflict was weighing on her heart just as much.

The River House was quiet when he’d entered—Nyx, Cauldron bless him, was as peaceful a newborn as they came, sleeping through the night soundly in the nursery his mother had painted for him. It was Rhys’s favourite room in the house—he would sometimes wander there aimlessly, content to do nothing but sit on the plush carpets they’d ordered from Sangravah and watch the star-flecked walls. Somehow, Feyre had made the paint glisten without using any magic—as though the love she bore for their family had been enough to bring the mural to life. Every time he watched it, it settled something restless within him—something that, less often now that the war was over, would tug at the corner of his mind and whisper this was all a dream. A dream he’d never, ever deserved.

The door to the nursery was the only one that wasn’t coated by frost, the polished wood gleaming under the moonlight that peered through the windows instead. Everything else, though—the doors, the walls, the floor—were scraped by those icy claws, radiating cold. Rhys’s chest tightened—he knew perfectly well what that cold meant.

He’d learned to understand her magic the way he understood her soul—beautiful and entwined with his own the way shadows swirled between the stars. Sometimes, lost in a deep slumber, she would unleash them—velvety tendrils of the night, pooling around their bed. That darkness soothed him—told him she was at peace, her mind drifting calmly into the cloudless sky. At other times, she would burst with sunlight, bright enough to make the darkest of nights appear like daytime. He knew what that light meant, too—her dreams were ones of passion, of deepest, burning desire. On those nights, he’d lean down to brush his lips against her bare shoulder, her neck, her jaw, until they were captured by own, soft lips. On those nights, he drank in her taste like the sweetest nectar, drinking in her scent of lilac and pear as though it were the only air keeping him alive.

There were nights, though, when she engulfed the room in her flames. Real, living flames, licking at their bedframe, their nightstands, threatening to swallow them whole unless appeased by the flick of Rhysand’s own magic. Those flames told him she was angry—that even in her dreams, she sought revenge for everything that had been done to her. To him. To all of them.

He’d wake her up, then, asking for only one thing—to wait for the rising sun, for the clarity it brought as it lifted the misty fog of the night. If she still sought vengeance, even under its light, he would take her wherever she wanted to be—would watch her do what she needed to do, and rage along with her.

Tonight, there was no fire to be seen—and, perhaps for the very first time, Rhysand wished there was. Because he knew what that ice meant, too.

Fear.

Solid and unrelenting, almost impossible to crack. Freezing her heart, her mind, her soul—his soul, too, for they were truly one and the same.

Rhysand practically lunged into the room, the ice nearly yielding under the weight of the darkness gathering at his feet.

It all crashed into him the moment he opened the door.

His breath was knocked out of him, the cold tightening its grip on his lungs. He hadn’t gone into her mind uninvited since he’d taught her how to build her own mental shields—since then, they’d let each other’s thoughts flow down the bond, guided by their love and nothing else. This…this was different. That glaring fear took a brief hold in his chest as Feyre’s nightmares slammed into him, as if they could no longer be contained by her head alone, pushing feelings, images, memories into his.

The screams of twin Ravens, deep beneath the library as a creature of nightmares tore them apart, tore them to nothing. Cassian’s shredded wings as he laid unconscious on the table, his face drained of blood. Elain’s skin, raw and peeling under Hybern’s enchanted chains. Nesta’s head dipping under the murky water of the Cauldron. The Suriel’s body, lifeless and unmoving, Helion’s cloak draped over its form.

Rhysand’s body, colder than the ice around them as Feyre hovered over it, screaming.

Tears poured down her face, so heavy with salt and pain that they all but carved a path into her freckled cheeks. She had never showed him—not that part. Not the raw evidence of her anguish, one she never should have borne. It dripped onto his chest as she pressed her forehead to where his heart laid, soundless, and cried.

In that nightmare, no one appeared at her side, a kernel of light in the open palm of their hand.

Feyre just…kept on crying.

His heart—his real heart, living and breathing—strained inside of him, and even his blood seemed to thicken in his veins. He pushed through the cold, a frigid breeze now howling above her sleeping form, prickling his eyes, his face. He didn’t care—he just needed to get to her, now.

She jerked when his hand laid on her shoulder, warm against her frosted skin. He crawled into the bed, summoning his wings and spreading them wide—wide enough to wrap around her entirely, to shelter her from the wind, its icy needles now shooting into their leathery shield. It didn’t bother him—he barely noticed it, his focus solely on her shivering body, the swirling tattoos on her forearms, as if panicking over the scene playing out before them.

His hand slid to her lower back, pressing her closer into him, letting her bury her face in the crook of his neck—letting her feel the life beating inside him, inside both of them, the life beaming throughout the house they’d built together. He rubbed her back in slow, gentle circles, letting his darkness brush the loose strands of golden-brown hair from her face as he leaned down to graze his lips against her own. 

Her tattoos stopped swirling. The wind dissipated into the midnight air.

Rhys kissed his mate again. Then again. And again—that last kiss longer, deeper, letting his warmth sink into her.

The cold stopped shivering down her spine, and he felt her lean into his touch. He did not stop his hand’s gentle pace on her tense body, or the soft kisses he was now pressing to her freckles, treating each one like a dimming star he needed to pour life into.

He did not stop until her breath settled, and her heartbeat melted into his.

Only then did he finally sleep.

[shallyne]

Feysand Week Day Seven

This is part of my Biscuit Series but you do NOT have to read the rest of the series for that oneshot. It's just a lot of oneshots in a random order

Feyre was stressed. She didn't expect it would be easy to plan a wedding but she wouldn't have expected all the tiny steps in between were very important. One extra step was her own fault because she insisted on having her cat being part of the wedding. Biscuit played a big factor that Feyre and Rhysand even were where they are now. They had grown closer over taking care of Biscuit, they had found her together and Rhys was the only other person who Biscuit trusted as much as she trusted Feyre. Most of the time.

It would be a small party, simple. As much for Feyre's sake as it was for Biscuits sake. Everytime Feyre mentioned that her cat would be a part of her wedding people made this face that told her that they thought she was absolutely weird but Feyre didn't care. Rhys understood and that was all that matters.

Sighing, Feyre pushed the planner to the side and took a look at the color swatches when suddenly a purring sounded from her side. "Oh, hello Biscuit." she said in a baby voice, heaving her on Feyres lap where Biscuit curled together. "That's a surprise, you're not in your hammock." she kissed the top of Biscuit's head quickly before she turned away. She suppressed a laugh at the annoyed look Biscuit threw her. "I ordered cat biscuits for you but don't tell Rhys."

"Don't tell me what?" Rhys asked.

Feyre looked over her shoulder, where Rhys stood at the counter of the open kitchen and shrugged off his jacket. "That you buttoned your shirt wrong." she told him and the moment it took him to check and realize that Feyre lied, she changed the topic, "How's Naya?"

Rhys sighed, "My mother almost bit my head off when I went into her sewing room because she was working on your dress. Don't worry, I didn't see it, she made sure." he flopped down on the couch beside Feyre, scratching Biscuits between her ears. "She's good, excited for the wedding. So is Selene." Rhys's sister. "And my Father kept asking about wearing a suit."

"You told him no suits, right? Biscuit is afraid of middle aged men in suits!" Feyre said.

"Biscuit is also afraid of peas." Rhys snorted, watching the cat resting on Feyre's lap.

"That's why we won't have any!" she replied, grinning at Rhys.

He rolled his eyes but smirked, "Yes, I told my father about the no-suits rule. Although I can't remember a day in my life when he didn't wear one."

Feyre clicked her pen in thought, careful not to disturb Biscuit, "Maybe it will be fine if he doesn't tug his shirt into his pants and leaves the jacket. We'll have to test that." Feyre made a note on a small piece of paper and tugged it into the planner.

When she looked back at Rhys, he was already watching her with a serene expression. He twirled a strand of hair around his finger. "I can't wait to finally call you my wife, you know that?"

"You already do that." she giggled, taking his hand.

"I can't wait to officially call you my wife." he countered, clearly satisfied with his answer. Feyre leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his lips. He smiled when she pulled back and sighed, "By the way, why did I get an email about an order confirmation from a pet bakery?"

Shit, did she use his email address? Feyre shrugged, "Weird," she only said, going back to planning their wedding.

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @edgyellie @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25 @tothestarsandwhateverend @aayo-whatt @dreamlandreader @officialfeysandweek2023

[throneofsapphics]

Hi I was wondering if I could request either a feysand or rowaelin x reader? About how the reader is insecure and a really nice person and is like friends with everyone. And theres this one toxic friend of hers that like makes her believe that Rowaelin or feysand don't care about her because they don't spend eough time with her. Because feysand or rowaelin are really busy with their duties they don't have time for the reader and are really stresses about something so when the reader asks if they could take a bit of time off to spend time with the reader they snap at her? And you could maybe continue of from their if that okay? Could it have like a fluffy ending?

Sorry if thats too long and I really love your writing by the way !

how long will I bleed

Feysand x Reader 

Summary: Tired of being ignored, reader finally reaches her limit. 

Warnings: anxiety 

A/N: ahh thank you! and please don't be sorry! I haven’t written feysand in a while so I apologize if it's a bit off, thank you for the request :)

“How often do you actually see them?” 

“Every day,” you frowned, not sure where she was going with this. 

“I know, I know. You sleep in their bed.” Their bed? As far as you were concerned, it belonged to all three of you. “How often do they spend time with you, besides what they’re obligated to?” 

Obligated. That didn’t sit right with you, and whether she meant it or not - your friend was striking a deep insecurity, tucked away in your subconscious. 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” she patted a hand on your shoulder, you fought the urge to flinch. Absolutely she meant it that way. “Just something to think about.” Right now, it’s the very last thing you want to think about now. Thankfully, she prattled on about something else. 

-

For a while, you only watched. Observed. After some time passed, you subtly tried to nudge towards spending more time together. But, they were always busy, always tired, always had an obligation. 

Obligations that ranged from formal events in hewn city, to gatherings with some of their friends either here or from other courts. Gatherings you didn’t attend, mainly because you couldn’t tell if you were invited. There was never an explicit, come with us, or we want you there. It started to feel like they didn’t care. 

Actually see them. Obligated. Their bed. The words from your friend echoed like an ugly melody. Each week, she’d bring it up again. Each time, you brushed it off or shut it down. Reducing the time you spent with her would be the smart thing to do, but you couldn’t find it in you to cut her off like that. Even with the subtle digs and harsh comments, she’d been with you since before your relationship with the High Lord and Lady, and ending your friendship felt like breaking away from the past too much. 

It took you a few months to accept that if you wanted it to change, you needed to tell them.

“Do you think we could spend some time together?” you asked over breakfast, pointedly keeping your eyes on your plate. 

“That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?” Rhys sounded vaguely amused. Briefly flicking your eyes to him, the angle of his head told you he was already glancing at the clock. 

“Maybe … maybe we could take a day off together?” You couldn’t remember the last time you spent an entire day together, just the three of you. 

Feyre’s mouth pressed into a tight line, “I don’t think we’ll be able to.” 

“I can work around your schedule,” it would be easy enough for you to get time off from work. 

“We don’t have time to spare,” she snapped. Spare. Feyre didn’t mean it, but it felt like she was calling you a spare. Their second choice, always coming behind compared to the two of them. A small tear welled in the corner of your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, a tad more gently. Rhys glanced at the clock again, then back to Feyre, eyes glazing. 

Lost enough in your own spiral, you didn’t care that they were having a silent conversation in front of you. After a few minutes, they finally deigned to speak aloud. 

“We have to leave for Court business. We’ll be back in a week.” 

“Oh.” How long have they known about this trip? You didn’t want to ask. “Alright,” you finally said, throat bobbing. “When do you go?” 

“In the next few minutes,” Rhys looked distracted. 

Fine, that was fine. At least they told you before they left. 

“I’ll miss you,” you tried. It was like your words floated right over them, only getting a gentle smile from Feyre, your words echoed with little sincerity. Rhys offered you a half-smile, and a gentle caress against your mind. They each kissed you before they left, winnowing on the spot to … they hadn’t even told you where they were going. Maybe your friend was right. If they cared, they would’ve made time for you. 

Nice, you were always nice. That’s how everyone described you - kind, nice, gentle, a variety of synonyms. At this point, nice started to feel another word for pushover. You threw your heart out, only from them to stomp over it, not recognizing the trail of blood in their wake. The worst is, they weren’t doing it on purpose. Crushing you was an unintentional, careless, and passive habit. It was their default. 

This time, they’d pushed you right to the edge, to a place they’d actually have to try to drag you back from. 

A week was more than enough time to move out and crash with your cousin. She didn’t ask too many prying questions, only offered up her home and spare room. 

-

Rhys was excited to see you. He did feel a bit guilty at how they shot down your idea, how they had to leave you with such little notice. Time, that’s all you’d asked for, and they could manage that. If not this month, then the next. Stress had gotten the best of both of them recently, what felt like a thousand different negotiations to go through, a plethora of contracts and trade negotiations to review, left little time to spend with you, beyond the brief moment over breakfast occasionally, or before bed. Until you’d mentioned it, until he had some spare moments to reflect, Rhys didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten. 

He knew something was wrong as soon as they entered the Riverhouse. Your scent was … stale, and faint. Like you hadn’t been here in a week. Maybe you’d gone to stay with your cousin or a friend, a big house can be lonely by yourself. That’s what he probably would’ve done. Rhys tried to extend a mental bridge, to reach your mind, but was greeted with a wall of stone. A wall he’d taught you, designed to keep him out. 

“Can you reach her?” He asked Feyre. 

A few seconds pause. She shook her head. 

Walking through the house, he carefully looked for any signs of distress. Could someone have broken in here and taken you? His mind went to the worst case scenario, heart beginning to race. 

A note, pinned under the salt shaker on their breakfast table. 

I’m tired of being pushed aside.

Sorry to leave like this, but it’s for the best. 

Two lines, not even your name signed at the bottom. A small spot smudged the last word, like a tear had dropped onto it. Hurt, anger, betrayal, fear, and regret flooded him at once. 

-

It was the worst and best week of your life. Worst, because you missed them more than you wanted to, and they kept showing up in your dreams - uninvited. Best, because you finally felt free. With the pressure of a falling relationship gone, you could breathe again. 

Anticipation filled you as the week came to the end. Would they try to find you? Would they care enough to? The question you really needed to ask yourself, is if you’d take them back. After their return, you’d learn just how much you meant to them. You’d learn if you truly were the spare. 

Eight days after you left, you dragged yourself out of bed for an early shift, regretting the extra glass of wine you indulged in last night. 

Slipping through the alley, around the back door, you didn’t notice him at first. Fumbling with your keys, you finally managed to slide it into the lock when you heard your name. The voice that had haunted your dreams for the last week.  

A squeak, and keys clattered down on the cobblestone, the sound echoing. Bracing your hand on the door, you took deep breaths to slow your heart, before turning to face him. 

Rhys stood there, looking like he hadn’t slept at all, blue-purple half moons under his eyes, messy hair like he’d been running his hands through it. He raised one hand, a small piece of paper balanced between two fingers. Your note. It was quite brief, but you’d been angry at the time and couldn’t find it in yourself to come up with flowery words. 

“For the best,” he quoted. “Do you really believe that?” 

Oh, that put you right on the defensive. “I said it, didn’t I?” 

The paper vanished, and he tucked his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want it to end like this.” 

It. One tiny word to sum up three years. “But you want it to end?” your voice came out small. 

“No,” he said harshly, closing the space between the two of you. “I don’t.” You didn’t reply. You didn’t know what to say. “When do you get off?” He finally asked. Gentle claws poked at your mind, but you slammed your shields back up. 

“Two,” then your coworker would come take over. 

“We’ll be here,” he reached out, running his thumb over your cheek. It took all of your self control not to lean into the touch. Taking a step back, he winnowed. 

That entire morning and afternoon, you were … off, to say the least. But, work helped relieve some of your anxiety, falling into the monotonous tasks you’d done for years. 

We’ll be here. What did he expect to happen? What did you want to happen? 

By the time two came around, your coworker arrived a few minutes early, you were a ball of anxiety, your entire body tense, heart beating fast, mind swirling. 

“There’s two someones waiting out there for you,” she nudged your shoulder, tilting her chin towards the alley. Giving her a tight smile, you gathered up the rest of your things, to take a few breaths. In and out. You could do this. 

Feyre’s eyes lit up as you swung the door open, excitement tinged with a bit of melancholy. You chose to focus on the excitement. 

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and even with the lingering hint of resentment you felt more loved than you had in months. Part of you recognized that might be a red flag, that even a few hours of attention could have that effect on you, but it was easily brushed aside. 

You were nestled between the two of them, on a bench overlooking the Sidra. Rhys’s hand ran lazy strokes up and down your thigh, Feyre’s arm curled over your shoulders as you leaned into her. Gentle currents rolled back and forth, bouncing off of the stone walls caging in the river, music floating through the streets. Loud enough to hear clearly, but not so loud that it could drown out any conversation. 

“Come home with us,” she said softly. 

A moment of hesitation, but you knew you couldn’t resist. 

“I will.”

[ofduskanddreams]

A Drabble Game, to celebrate 600 followers ♡

NO LONGER ACCEPTING REQUESTS :)

First, let me say how grateful I am for all of you. When I joined the fandom a year and some months ago, I never imagined that I would become part of such a vibrant community. It's been a great time, thank you.

To give something back to all of you, I made this game. The rules are simple:

➀ Choose a Pairing*

Azris ✦ Gwynriel ✦ Nessian ✦ Feysand ✦ Elucien ✦ Gwynlain ✦ Emorie ✦ Morlain ✦ Helion x LoA

*for non-shipping drabbles, feel free to request characters that do not appear on the pairings list but please make sure that at least one of the characters from the pairings above is included in your request. I'm also more than happy to write poly ships involving the characters above—just ask.

➁ Pick a Setting

Canon ⁓ or ⁓ Alternate Universe

AU Options: Modern AU ✦ College AU ✦ Regency AU ✦ Werewolves and/or Vampires AU ✦ A/B/O ✦ Royalty AU (these are just what I feel most comfortable writing on short notice)

➂ Drop your choices in my ask box and include at least a few sentences detailing the request.

Need some inspiration? Check out this masterlist of writing prompts by @creativepromptsforwriting.

Given the occasion, my target length is 600 words for each drabble request that lands in my inbox. For the sake of this game, let's keep things relatively PG-13 in the spice department. Also, I will not be killing any characters (unless you make a very good case for it or it's a canon baddie.) I'll accept requests through Sunday, July 30th and I will begin writing drabbles as soon as requests start coming in :)

Knowing myself, there is a good chance that some of these drabbles will be longer than 600 words but I will attempt to keep myself within the limits I've set. I'll do my best to fulfill every request in roughly the same order I receive them. I look forward to seeing what you guys come up with. Thank you again 💕

[writtenonreceipts]

Are you taking drabble requests? Then num 35. Someone sleepwalks please. Thanks. 🥰

Feel free to ignore, if you're not. 🩷

I always love drabbles and prompts and the likes ❤️❤️

Midnight Walks

It was the cold bed that woke him up in the end. Rhys had gotten so used to the warm body beside him, the scent of honey and lilac, the soft curves--that the absence of it immediately registered in his mind as something is wrong.

He blinked against the darkness of the bedroom, reaching out to the empty space unconsciously. When he finally realized that the other side of the bed was fully empty and she wasn’t there, he was fully awake and out of bed, grabbing his discarded sweats from the floor.

He left the bedroom, tripping lightly over a pair of shoes he’d said he would pick up yesterday. Cursing, Rhys kept moving down the hall towards the kitchen and living room. The apartment was small, easy enough to navigate that it was hard to stay hidden for long.

“Feyre?” he called softly, not wanting to startle her in the late night.

But when he rounded that last corner, he knew the small warning wouldn’t do anything.

She stood in the living room dressed in nothing more than his t-shirt, the hem falling to mid-thigh. Her hair was mussed as it fell down her back, Rhys had taken his time undoing her braid just hours before.

He knew immediately that she wasn’t awake. She had her head tilted at an odd angle and the way she held herself was just slightly unnatural. But it was enough for him to approach cautiously. It wasn’t often that she slept walked, but when she did, Rhys knew there was a reason.

“Feyre,” he said again, just a little louder. When he reached her, he let one hand graze up her arm gently. “Darling?”

Feyre started before slowly blinking her eyes open. The silver light from outside drifted through the window and hit her face just right so her eyes sparked. Finally she focused on him.

“Rhys?” the sleepy sigh tugged at his heartstrings and he rested his other hand along her waist, pulling her closer.

“You were sleepwalking again,” he said. He trailed a finger along the bare skin of her arm and up until he cupped her cheek in his hand. “Was it another dream?”

Feyre hummed and stepped closer to him, one hand pressing against the bare skin of his chest. Immediately, heat sparked and skittered from where she touched. She still radiated heat and warmth despite her wanderings.

When she said nothing and instead dropped her forehead against him. Rhys, wrapped his arms around her. For years he’d marveled at how she always fit so perfectly against him, how perfect her soft curves were and how she could fill out the empty recesses of his heart. He doubted he’d ever tire of it.

“What can I do?” He asked, wasting no time to twine his fingers in her hair.

“Nothing,” she murmured into his chest.

“Alright,” he said. He didn’t want to push her, knew how much the changing season affected her, especially when the weather cooled. How her mind would go back to being a child in a cold home when her father would sit around and do nothing to help his family. How her mind convinced her she was the only one who could fix anything. “Alright.”

Her breath came warm and even, the slight tremble in her body easing. Eventually, Feyre shifted in his arms so she could tighten her hold on him, her cheek pressing against his chest.

“Thank-you,” she said.

Rhys pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Always.”