#Rhysweek2022

[leiaamidala]

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒕—𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝑬𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍.

 ⊱❊⊰⁣⁣⁣

⁣⁣⁣⤞ art by @lamonyo (💜)

⤞ commissioned by me

⊱❊⊰⁣⁣⁣

Celebrating Rhys Week, Bonds Day. Dedicated to all my Feysand fam. 

Do not repost, please.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Since we know rhys taught feyre I would like a little something where everytime feyre reads a whole paragraph without once faltering rhysand rewards her like y'know what reward 😈

Btw you really are keeping the feysand fandom alive. They less and less talked about in the fandom.

THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT ANON!! My brain worms needed it today. I hope you can excuse that this is unedited and untitled, it's late here and I wasn't expecting to write a full smutshot but here we are. This is set pre-mating bond acceptance cause I wanted to sprinkle in a little bit of angst for ✨fun✨

Rhysweek Day 3 - High Lord

Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.

Feyre frowned at that familiar first sentence of the document Rhys had set on the table in front of her.

“What is this?”

“Practice,” he answered, smirking from where he’d perched one elbow against the table. She’d seen that look on his face too many times for it to invite any measure of comfort.

“I thought we’d finished practicing my writing,” she said, holding up the parchment in protest. “I can read what this says.”

Rhys pushed off the table, faelight glinting off his eyes as he circled around her chair. His fingers trailed over the wooden spindle as he went, brushing ever so softly against her back. “Go on, then.” He tipped his chin towards the page. “Read it.”

Through gritted teeth, Feyre read, “Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.”

She jumped as his voice murmured in her ear,  “I do love to hear you compliment me, Feyre.”

In a winter forest, the soft crack of a branch was enough to send a nest of birds fleeing towards the skies. And apparently in a Night Court library a gentle whisper in her ear was just as effective in setting every winged creature in her stomach into motion.

“As the most handsome High Lord,” he continued, fortunately oblivious to those millions of flapping wings, “I need to make sure that the skills of my Inner Circle are properly honed.”

“Well, I just read it,” she said indignantly. And maybe some of that hostility was directed towards herself. More than she’d like to admit. “So consider it honed.”

“Ah, but I’ve been thinking.”

“—well it sounds like that was your first mistake—”

He pressed a long, elegant finger to her lips, but was otherwise unphased by her interruption. Still smiling with an arrogance that only a High Lord could possess.“You may read just fine in the comforts of my home. But, then, that was never the issue, was it? Cauldron forbid you’re ever put into another stressful situation. Where you need to read quickly. And with accuracy.”

Dread boiled in her stomach. In her mind, she saw those stone tablets and levers. Could still remember how the smooth surface had felt against her palm, how she might as well have been wrapping her fingers around Lucien’s neck, for the way she held his fate in her hands.

“So my question is, Feyre, would you still be able to read these sentences if you were distracted?” He raised a brow, leaning in so close so could taste the mint of the tea leaves he’d been drinking just moments before. “Would you be willing to bet someone’s life on it?”

Feyre glared at that parchment, at the stupid ink scrawled over its surface, and tried to think about anything other than how those spikes had felt descending towards her. How the proximity of the scorching metal had burned her face.

“Just tell me what you want from me,” she said finally, refusing to look into his eye.

Rhysand wasn’t having it. His fingers found her chin and pulled, turning her face until his eyes were boring into her own. She hated when he looked at her like this. Feyre knew her shields were up, and yet he was staring at her like he could see straight through to her soul.

“I want you to answer my question. Would you bet someone’s life on it?”

“No,” she snarled, pushing her face closer. Baring her teeth like a wild animal. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” he said, releasing her. “It means you need to practice.”

“And, what?” He was walking back around her chair now, but she kept her glare trained on his back. Hoping his peaked ears would start burning from the contempt she wished he could feel. “You’re going to chain me up and put me beneath metal spikes?”

Rhys was frowning when he turned around. “We’re going to play a game. A simple one.” He pressed a firm finger to the top of that page, directing her attention back towards the text. “If you can read this page quickly and without stuttering, you’ll get a reward. And if you mess up…” He grinned. “You’ll see what happens.”

“And what’s my reward? Getting to look at your face for five minutes?”

The grin grew wider. More dangerous. “I was thinking I would have you look at something else.”

She swallowed. Tried to pretend that suggestion got lodged in her throat, instead of slipping past like warm silk until it pooled in her stomach. “That sounds more like a punishment.”

“Thanks for the idea,” he crooned, slipping between her chair and the table. “And if that’s your punishment, what would you like your reward to be, hmm?” Rhysand leaned forward, bracing his hands against either arm of her chair. She could smell the wind on him, from wherever he’d been flying that morning. Over the sea, she thought, picking up a hint of salt.

“Would you like to see me on my knees again?” His eyes were burning, and if she stared at them any longer her face would be, too. So she fixed her head towards the corner of the table. A mistake, because a moment later she could feel his lips against her earlobe. “Do you want to know how I’d lick you, Feyre?”

She said nothing. What could she say, that wouldn’t be an outright lie? 

Rhys dropped to the floor before her, so tall he still fell level with her breasts. Feyre didn’t miss the way his eyes wavered there, before flickering up to her face, entirely unashamed.

“Go ahead, Feyre.” He placed a warm hand on her knee. If it was meant to urge her, it was having the opposite effect. “Read the page.”

What would he do, she wondered, if she lit the parchment on fire and refused to participate? His fingers burned her skin, even through the fabric of her loose Night Court trousers. Rhys wouldn’t really make her do anything she didn’t want to do. Not when he had spent so many years under that gods forsaken mountain.

So why was she reaching towards the page? And why were her fingers shaking, like she believed there was actually punishment waiting if she messed up?

… Like she was hoping there would be.

“Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord,” she repeated. 

His hand slid further up her thigh. “Good girl.”

That was nearly enough to make her falter. But she knew his games well enough. She knew that hand was trying to throw her off, especially as he began stroking his thumb against her inner thigh in long, deliberate sweeps.

“So handsome, in fact, that any female should feel Cauldron blessed to be in his presence. And it is only because he is so ma-m-mag—”

The fingers stilled for a moment. Then they dug, just enough to pull her attention back to the male watching her. So she could see the triumph painting his lips as he purred, “I believe the word you’re looking for, Feyre darling, is magnanimous.”

“Prick,” she hissed, throwing the paper down. “You put that in there on purpose!”

“Oh?” The chair scraped over the wooden floor as Rhys pulled it closer, until Feyre was forced to spread her legs wider to accommodate for the large body wedged between them. “And I assume if you ever need to, say, read from a spellbook, its authors will have ensured the words are easy to pronounce?”

“Then teach me spell words,” she growled. “Teach me the Old Language. All you’re trying to do here is—”

The words died on her tongue, shriveling like fruit left too long in the sun. Something had slithered over her ankle, then up, shimming beneath her trousers until it was at the seam of her inner thigh. Not Rhysand’s hands, or any other part of his body. It was just denser than air, and cold. A wisp of darkness, of his magic, snaking beneath her underthings.

“Tell me again what I’m here to do, darling?” His brows were raised, and she might have fallen for his indifference if she didn’t notice the way he was studying her face. Even pulling at the bond of their bargain, like he might uncover a reproach deeper than the mask she wore.

That tendril crept closer. A challenge. A dare.

“You’re here to make my life miserable,” she said.

Soft as breath fogging up a glass, she felt that magic brush over the folds of the most intimate part of her body, continuing its ascent up until it swirled around her clit. Her lips parted, and it was an effort to keep from gasping. Rhysand’s eyes never left her face, marking every exhale that spilled from her lungs.

Then he leaned his face closer, until those perfect lips nearly disappeared between her thighs. She told herself she widened them only so she could keep an eye on Rhys as he took an exaggerated inhale. “You don’t smell miserable, Feyre.”

Pain screamed into her nails as she dug them into the wooden armrests, anything in attempt to distract from the pleasure licking up her spine. Rhysand’s magic continued in slow circles, rubbing just enough to make her squirm.

“You smell like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, smug enough that her cheeks burned with loathing. For him, but quite possibly for herself, as well. “Which is rather magnanimous of me, considering I should be punishing you for messing up.”

“Then punish me.” Those words felt raw as she scraped them out. Maybe it was more anguish than she wanted him to see, and certainly more desperation than she’d ever admit to. Because if it was punishment—if he forced her to enjoy it—then it would be easier for her to pretend she didn’t want this. Want him.

“Start over,” he said instead. His magic pressed down more firmly. She whimpered, and she swore he shivered at the sound. But the authority in his voice didn’t waver. “Pick up that page and read from the beginning.”

She could have been running out that door, back to her rooms. He would have left her alone, pretended this all had never happened.

And still she reached for that paper and started reading, “Rhysand is the mo-oh!”

If she thought he would play fair, the face buried in her lap was a stark reminder that Rhysand never played fair. And why should he? When she was already melting beneath the heat of his mouth, licking her through her clothes.

Her fingers flew to his hair, tangling in the dark locks. She couldn’t even tell if she was trying to push or pull, but she was able to gasp, “I thought you were supposed to be punishing me.”

“I am,” he said, and then he was tugging at the waistband on her trousers. And maybe she was lifting her hips to help him slide them off. “Unless you mean to say you want this, Feyre?”

The air felt so heavy in that moment, as their eyes met and held. She knew what he was doing, what he was offering her. To have what she wanted, without the stain on her soul of admitting it.

It made her a wretch, and a liar, and a traitor. But the coward in her shook her head.

Rhysand’s eyes went dark, even as his grin widened. “Then remember this—you don’t get to come until you beg for it.”

He yanked her by the thighs, hoisting her practically out of the seat as he buried his face into her cunt, licking up her center with no preamble. Feyre couldn’t resist the moan that escaped, and was grateful it was masked by the sound of Rhysand’s own. He delved his tongue inside her, thrusting like he meant to taste every inch. And meanwhile that tendril of night returned to her clit, just gentle enough to make her ache.

Feyre slung her arm over her mouth so she could bite down, trying to smother every obscene sound for the sake of pretense. 

  Not that Rhys seemed to notice, for the way his eyes had fluttered shut. He licked her the way she’d seen people lick honey, like it was something sweet he wanted to savor on his tongue. But when he thrust at just the right spot, she couldn’t resist the way her hips bucked upwards. Body begging for more, more, more even when she couldn’t bring her lips to say it.

Rhysand’s eyes snapped open. So vividly purple against the haze of desire. He pulled his face away, and she tried not to notice the string of saliva that followed, practically begging to keep them connected.

“Does it still feel like a punishment?” His voice was nearly as rough as the caluses on his hands, scraping along her thighs. He chased away the tendril so he could replace it with his thumb, and fixed her with a cool look as he began to apply more pressure. “Because it doesn’t have to, Feyre. It’s not too late to be good for your High Lord.”

Her toes curled as the pleasure built, until it was nearly unbearable to keep it all contained. Her legs were already shaking from the effort to do so.

“If you want mercy, Feyre, say ‘please let me come, High Lord’.”

“Prick,” she said, though it lost its sting when it tapered off into a whimper.

“Ah.” Rhys flicked his fingers against that hooded bundle of nerves, triggering a burst of razor-edged bliss that had her seeing stars. “Don’t be naughty now, Feyre. I might stop being so… what was the word again?”

Bastard, she thought.

“Go on,” he purred, rubbing her oh so perfectly. “Say it.”

She was so close.

“Magn-ma-ah.”

He pulled his fingers away, cutting off that cresting pleasure before she could fall over the edge. “What was that?”

“Rhys,” she gasped, feeling tears spring to her eyes. 

“You know what to say,” he murmured, ducking his face back between her thighs.

He licked her again, slow and merciless. Feyre keened, and he used his free hand to keep her still.

“Please,” she gasped. “Please, High Lord.”

“Good girl,” he breathed, before plunging his tongue back inside her.

The edge came faster this time, spurred by Rhysand’s fingers and tongue working in tandem. Feyre dug her fingers so hard into his scalp she was certain she must have hurt him, but all she could feel was that blinding pleasure as it peaked.

And like pulling the curtains from a room, light came bursting in, haloing her skin as she came around Rhysand’s tongue. He was groaning, and from the look of reverence that crossed his features, and how he knelt on the ground with his eyes shut, she might have thought he was giving prayer. 

When he pulled away, they were both gasping.

And he smiled. “Shall we practice this again tomorrow?”

[shallyne]

Rhys Week Day 8: Free Day

Birthdays and Cakes

Feyre tried to be as quiet as possible she threw a robe over her nightgown and sneaked out of the bedroom. It was hard enough to wiggle out of Rhys's death grip without waking him up.

She quietly opened the door of Nyx bedroom and looked inside, checking if he still slept. Feyre wasn't surprised when she found him already sitting in his bed, grinning at her. She promised Nyx that they would wake up earlier this morning to bake a cake for Rhys, for his birthday. That's also how she got Nyx to sleep earlier the evening before.

"Good morning, sweetheart." Feyre whispered. He laughed and jumped up, running to Feyre and hugged her legs. She picked him up, peppering his face with kisses. "We have to quiet, okay?" Feyre said. "We don't want to wake Daddy up before we are done, right?"

Nyx nodded. "Can we bake now?"

Feyre smiled. "Yes, we can bake now." He threw his arms around Feyres neck, his wings twitching in excitement. His wings always gave his mood away. Cassian was the first to say he'd train that with him but Feyre thought it was adorable.

She winnowed them down to the kitchen, taking a chair with her free hand and putting it front of the counter. Nyx was already eyeing the ingredients that Nuala and Cerridwen left out for them when she put him on the chair. She pulled out the recipe, that Elain and the shadow twins wrote for her, out of her the pocket of her robe. "Alright." Feyre sighed, taking a bowl and placed it in front of Nyx. She let Nyx pour the ingredients in the bowl that she measured. Cracking the eggs she guided Nyx hands with her own. He always watched wide-eyed and seeing his excitement, Feyre prayed that nothing would go wrong. She couldn't cook and she never tried herself at baking. She was grateful for Elain and the twins that they wrote everything down, step for step.

Nyx complained when she started to mix everything together, wanting to do it himself. She used that time to quickly make Nyx a snack, because she knew that his arms would grow tired soon and she'd take over again.

When he told her that he couldn't mix anymore, she pulled back his chair and gave him his snack. From his spot on the chair he watched as Feyre continued.

"We're baking a cake, Mama!" he said excitedly.

"I know, baby. You did so great, I'm proud of you." she replied. She was sure that Nyx would be sick of hearing that, so often she told him. She couldn't keep herself from telling him, she was incredibly proud of her son and she wished her parents would have told her when she was a child. Or a teenager, Feyre thought back to the years where she went to the woods to hunt. She looked at Nyx, who smiled brightly at what she just told him.

Shortly after, Nuala entered the kitchen. Nyx told her about the cake as Feyre poured the batter into a form. Nuala listened, smiling as he told her everything. Keeping every little detail in.

Feyre looked at the clock. Even if everything went as planned, they were a little behind the time Feyre had planned. She felt Rhys stirring through the bond. It wouldn't be long until he was awake.

"I can take care of that." Nuala said. Feyre nodded, they were as good as done. It was just about baking now and Nuala was about to make breakfast, so she was in the kitchen either way. "Thank you." Feyre said, picking Nyx up again.

"No!" Nyx squirmed.

"Do you not want to wake up Daddy?" Feyre asked. As he frowned up at her, she held back a smirk. She knew waking up Rhys was more important to Nyx than the cake. It was their tradition. Feyre and Nyx woke Rhys up on his birthday and Rhys and Nyx woke up Feyre on her birthday.

They went up again and Feyre already got Nyx ready for the day. She stayed with him as he brushed his teeth and then she brushed his hair and dressed him. He looked adorable in a shirt that was similar to what Rhys was usually wearing.

When she felt Rhys waking up, Feyre went to their bedroom door. "Ready?" she asked Nyx.

"Yes!" he said, already jumping up and down in participation. She opened the door and Nyx was racing inside, climbing on the bed and throwing himself on Rhys.

Rhys made an oof sound and then Nyx yelled "Happy Birthday, Daddy!" her mate chuckled and hugged Nyx. Feyre smiled as she watched her boys. Rhys cuddling Nyx and Nyx babbling and laughing and repeating "Happy Birthday!"

Feyre joined them, sitting on her side of the bed and watching them. Rhys looked up at her, smiling. "Good morning, Feyre darling."

Feyre grinned as she leaned down. "Happy Birthday, my love." she whispered and kissed him. Nyx deemed it too long and squeezed his hand between their faces, breaking them apart. Rhys chuckled when he saw Nyx's frown. Nyx leaned into Feyre and she pulled him on her lap. Rhys took the chance to sit up, leaning against the beds headboard.

"Do you want to give it daddy now?" Feyre whispered to Nyx.

"Yes!" he said. Rhys raised an eyebrow in question. Feyre grinned and pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket realm. She gave it Nyx who excitedly gave it Rhys. Nyx had painted his hands and pressed them on the paper a few days ago. He was so happy about the result that he decided it was the gift he wanted to give his father on his birthday. After he painted a rainbow on the paper and Feyre helped him write "Happy Birthday" Nyx gave Feyre the picture to keep it until today.

Rhys smile grew wider as he looked at it. Nyx giggled but suddenly he turned serious. Tugging on Feyres robe. "What is it?" she asked.

"Mama." he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Mama." he repeated, putting a hand on her cheek. Feyre leaned down and he whispered in her ear "The cake."

The cake. Shit. The cake. Fuck. She sat Nyx on Rhys's lap and jumped up. "I'll be back in a minute." she said and hurried out. Ran barefoot down the stairs, to the kitchen. She pushed open the door and almost collided with Nuala. "Sorry." Feyre breathed. "I forgot the cake-" Nuala was here. Of course. She was here and looked after the cake. How could Feyre forget? But it wasn't Nuala who worked on the cake, it was Elain.

Elain who smiled at her. "I'm sorry but I already made the cream. Don't worry I won't be decorating that's your and Nyx' job, I just thought Nyx may lose his patience while smoothing the frosting. It takes a little while."

Feyre let out a relieved breath and hugged her sister. She was surprised for a moment but quickly hugged her back. "Thank you." Feyre said. "I completely forgot until Nyx just reminded me."

Elain giggled. "It's not the first time."

Feyre laughed. "That was one time."

"You burnt soup!" Elain laughed.

Feyre rolled her eyes but echoed her laugh. "And it was the last time I burnt food."

"Today was almost the second time." she said, a smirk on her face.

Feyre snorted. "Shut up." she said, turning around to go to her mate and son again. "Thank you, Lainey."

Elain rolled her eyes at the name but smiled and said. "You're welcome, Fey."

Feyre winnowed into her bedroom again. Rhys and Nyx were laughing when she entered. They both looked up at her at the same time. "Breakfast!" she said, nodding at Nyx. He grinned and crawled to her. She helped him climb from the bed and he took her hand. "Come, daddy!" he said.

He groaned as he stood up. "I'm coming." Feyre took a quick peek out of the window. It was raining. Then her eyes went back to Rhys, who slightly limped. His knee hurt.

"I'm fine." he said when he reached them, kissing Feyres cheek.

"I know you are." Feyre said.

As they walked in the dining room, most of their family was already there. Except Azriel, who followed soon after. Even if Rhys told them that it wasn't necessary, they all hugged him, Cassian picking Rhys up while at it, which made Nyx laugh. Though Amren stayed at her spot and said "Happy Birthday, boy."

The rest of the day was just being around the family. It was nice seeing Rhys so relaxed and Nyx had the time of his life playing with his aunts and uncles. Especially when Cassian started throwing him in the air and catching him. Nyx thought it was hilarious, though Feyres heart stopped everytime he was in the air. But everytime he threw Nyx up, Nyx wings twitched as if he'd try to fly. Rhys looked extremely proud every time that happened. They started teaching him the basics not that long ago and he made great progress.

It wasn't until noon Feyre finally could get ready and dress herself. Making herself presentable.

In the afternoon she sneaked away with Nyx, decorating the cake, finishing it. She let Nyx do it and after she lit the candles, Cassian came in and carried the cake, as Feyre picked up Nyx and held the door open for Cassian.

Rhys smiled when they put the cake down. "Wish!" Nyx said and they all laughed. It took a few seconds until Rhys leaned forward and blew out the candles, then his eyes wandered to Nyx and Feyre. Nyx clapped happily.

Feyre cuddled in beside Rhys, laying her head on his shoulder as Nyx told him about how he made the cake.

I am incredibly grateful to have you. You and Nyx. I love you. He said down the bond.

Feyre smiled. I love you, too.

[rosebudsarts]

Happy Birthday Rhysand ilysm 🖤

Rhys bless everyone

(Pls credit me if you repost)

[achernarlight]

i wonder how feysand would have developed if they grew up together, like imagine feyre being an Illyrian and meeting rhys when they were both kids in training (fuck bigotry in Illyria, sjm never explained that well) and fell in love through the years. Imagine as they start as childhood friends, as they make those children’s jokes about getting married, then it becoming embarrassing as they grow older. Imagine when they are sure of their feelings as teenagers. Or as sure as teenagers can be. I don’t know if it would be one of those cliche things where they don’t want to ruin their friendship, or if they would be so certain they were made for one another that being together was the only possible way they imagined living life.

but that’s just my rambling

[ggiuliass]

Rhys’s power rumbled in the room. “I do not want to be High King. There is no need to discuss it.”

“Yours is a terrible and beautiful power, Rhysand,” Amren said, sighing. “You have three magic blades before you, each a kingmaker in its own right, and yet you would rather share that power. Keep to your borders. Why?”

Rhys demanded, “Why do you want me to turn conqueror?”

Amren shot back, “Why do you shy from the power that is your birthright?”

Amren never says something if she doesn't truly believe it, if she doesn't know it for sure. It's Rhysand birthright to be high king, nonetheless he is the most powerful high lord prythian has ever had.

The cauldron wants him to be high king 👇🏻

“I will not be High King. I will not consider it, not today and not in a century.”

Amren looked to the great sword, still slowly rotating above them. “Then explain to me why, after thousands of years, objects that once crowned and aided the old Fae have returned. The last time a High King ruled Prythian, it was with a magic sword in his hand. Look at that great sword before you, Rhysand, and tell me that it is not a sign from the Cauldron itself.”

Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. “It was a fluke, Amren. Nesta didn’t make it on purpose.”

Amren shook her head, hair swaying. “Nothing is a fluke. The Cauldron’s power flows through Nesta, and could use her as a puppet without her knowledge. It wanted those weapons Made, and thus they were Made. It wanted Rhysand to have them and thus the blacksmith brought them to you. To you, Rhysand, not to Nesta. And do not forget that Nesta herself—and Elain, with whatever powers she has—is here. Feyre is here. All three sisters blessed by fate and gifted with powers to match your own. Feyre alone doubles your strength. Nesta makes you unstoppable. Especially if she were to march into battle wearing the Mask. No enemy could stand against her. She’d slay Beron’s soldiers, then raise them from the dead and turn them on him.”

I think that there's gonna be a point where rhysand has no choice but to be high king. I HOPE SO.

Sarah give us rhysand high king. he would be the one who deserves it, he is the one who has been chosen to be high king.

[booksimpsblog]

[the-lonelybarricade]

No one look at me. This isn't my best but we're being forgiving in the spirit of Rhysweek (and the fact that I started this in earnest at midnight after being sad). Bon Appétit

Rhysweek Day 5: Beast Form

Five Times the Beast Was Subdued (and the One Time It Wasn't)

Words: 2.4k

CW: Monsterfucking, Breeding Kinks

-

The first time Rhysand felt the beast truly stir beneath his skin was the day Pyrthian was released from Under the Mountain.

It was the first time he had seen Feyre in the sunlight.

He had turned to say goodbye to her, and had seen the way her blue-gray eyes glinted with something other than contempt. No one had looked at him that way—like he was something other than a monster—in nearly 50 years.

It was then that their mating bond snapped into place, and the beast had stirred, as if in dissent. Like it wanted to prove her wrong, prove that there was nothing worth considering inside his bleak and hollow chest.

Rhysand had never wanted so fiercely as he had on that veranda, feeling the beast thrash against its cage. Telling him to take Feyre and flee. To claim her, regardless of what she had to say in the matter.

It was why he fled, and it was why he didn’t dare see her for three months.

-

The second time, it had been scratching at the walls for the entire week leading up to Feyre’s wedding day.

Mine, it would whisper into the darkness. When there was nobody but Rhysand to listen.

It raged at the idea that Feyre would be married to someone else. And for that entire week, every time he’d seen flashes of naked golden skin through the bond, he’d been promptly sick over a porcelain bowl.

His skin felt itchy and forgein, only moments away from bursting into the cruel Lord of Nightmares that the rest of the world thought him to be. And who's to say what would have become of him if Feyre did marry Tamlin.

But fortunately that day, he’d heard her begging through the bond.

Help me, help me, help me.

The moment he’d arrived in Spring, in a crash of thunder and a clamor of screams, the beast had looked at Feyre and gone quiet. Content in knowing that she was being taken home.

Mine, it had said, but nothing more.

-

The beast itched every moment Rhysand spent around Feyre, breathing in her scent without tasting it. He felt restless. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. But it stayed in its cage.

Until Keir had said to Feyre in the Court of Nightmares, “You’ll get what’s coming to you, whore.”

Then the beast had snarled. Rhys had felt the shape of it, forming talons around his fingers, manifesting wings at his back. He’d wanted to tear Keir apart with his bare hands for threatening his mate. But the Hewn City was the one place, above all, where Rhys couldn’t let his control slip.

So he’d harnessed that rage until it was something colder, more refined. And Rhysand had smiled as he shattered every bone in Keir’s arm, listening to the beast purr with approval.

-

The fourth time, the beast very nearly escaped.

And Rhysand couldn’t say for certain that it hadn’t.

Hybern’s ravens had broken into the library in the House of Wind. The safe haven that he had created not just for the priestesses, but for himself. The fact that they invaded his home and had threatened the safety of his citizens would have been enough to make him vengeful. But they had threatened his mate.

He had choked on the scent of her fear when he found her fleeing the dark shelves of the library. Rhysand had never known bloodlust like what he’d felt in the pits of that library. His fingers had turned to razor sharp talons, and he’d used them to ribbon their skin like a blade through water. The beast had hummed.

-

Then in the second War with Hybern, Rhysand had become one with the beast entirely.

-

And it had been a good while since he’d last felt the beast tugging at its chains.

There had been occasional moments that piqued its interest, but its attention had always been passive. Happy to observe when it was called to lend a talon, curled up contentedly whenever Rhys was bathed in the scent of his mate.

Feyre had always been the one to rouse it, afterall.

“Please,” Rhysand gasped.

A silken laugh was his answer.

“Feyre.”

“You know what to say.” She smiled at him, the mischief in it so fitting for his Court—their Court. He swore as she slowly ran her tongue under the underside of his cock. Her Court.

His breath was in a race to escape, fleeing his lungs faster than he could grasp for air. “Please,” he said again, hissing as she scraped her nails along his thighs. It wasn’t the pleasure that drove him mad—though as she hollowed her cheeks and took him into her mouth, it very well could have been.

Rhysand barked out another curse, bucking his hips before he could stop himself. The chains around his wrists and ankles rattled in reprimand. Feyre pulled away with a pout on her wet, glistening lips.

He could have died for how badly he wanted to taste them. How much it destroyed him to see that trail of saliva connecting her perfect mouth to the head of his cock. Her arousal was so thick in the air he was practically drowning in it.

Chains rattled again. These ones darker, more ancient. More powerful.

“Let me touch you,” he begged.

A soft hand closed around his shaft, and she held his eyes as she slowly pumped her fist over the length of him. He was practically keening, squirming under that desire to touch, to claim, to taste. It was wrong—so, so wrong. To smell her arousal and not be buried in it, be it his tongue or his fingers or his cock.

She was torturing him with their own mating bond and she knew it.

“Let me—”

“No.”

The authority in her voice was so deliciously sharp. He groaned.

Feyre continued her cruel exploration of his body, running her thumb over his flushed head to spread the arousal beading there. Rhys ached. He was so hard it was painful, but it was the desire that truly ambushed him.

It clawed through his veins, until he was panting, until he was whimpering, until he was releasing a cage he’d long thought empty.

“Oh?” Feyre released his cock to examine the scales crawling over his stomach, unspooling faster than he could contain it. By the time he’d noticed, Feyre had already glided a finger over the ridged skin.

The beast’s collar snapped.

Rhysand snarled, which only made her giggle.

“You wouldn’t be losing control now, would you, Rhysand darling?” Feyre leaned down to swipe her tongue languidly against the head of his purpling cock. The growl in his throat was unbidden, as were the talons manifesting over his fingers. The feathers he could feel unfurling around his neck.

“I’ve never—” he grunted as she swirled her tongue playfully, lifting her eyebrows to prompt him to continue. He thrashed against the chains instinctively. “Feyre, I’ve never—”

“Fucked someone as the beast?” She was staring at his cock so hungrily. “You didn’t tell me this changed, as well.”

And fuck, Rhysand didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. His cock was bigger like this, but in a way he wasn’t certain was inviting. It had turned the color of a moonless night, was now scaled and bulbous. He’d been worried something so beastly looking would intimidate a female.

But Feyre wasn’t just any female. And if he couldn’t see his mate’s hunger in her stunning eyes, he could smell it. Rhys pulled against the restraints again.

“I don’t just want to fuck you,” he said roughly, still drying to fight the last dregs of the beast. Before it took control entirely. He could hear its growl in his voice. “I want to…”

“Go on,” she purred, climbing up his chest.

Nails scraped over his rough, onyx skin. He arched off the bed instinctively, trying to get closer to her touch, fighting to get close enough to take.

“I want to breed you,” he warned. Feyre’s eyes darkened with lust. And he wanted so, so badly to break out of his bonds and flip her over the bed. She buried her fingers in his feathers, and Rhysand practically gnashed his teeth at the feral pleasure. “I want to fill you up until you’re carrying my—”

Anything the beast had to add was smothered by Feyre casually placing her cunt over his mouth. If he had more sense, he’d have laughed at her ingenious way of shutting him up. But Rhysand was too consumed by the taste of her to do more than growl his satisfaction.

He hated that he couldn’t hold her. When Feyre sat on his face, he liked to have his arms wrapped around her thighs, crushing her to his mouth while he played with her clit. It always won him the most exquisite whines.

But now Feyre gripped his head, taking full control in grinding her face against him. Rhysand took what he could get, licking desperately. Like he knew he’d never eat another meal again. His entire body hummed in pleasure, tasting that sweet and salty musk, saying, this is right. This is good. This is where I belong.

She stroked her hand through his feathers, murmuring good boy in a voice so fittingly sweet.

“I’m going to ride you,” she said, as honeyed as her arousal. “And if you’re good and stay still until I come, I’ll take you out of these chains so you can breed me.”

A shudder cascaded down his spine, rippling over his feathers and scales.

“Deal?”

Rhysand grunted in response, still savoring her cunt with every eager stroke of his tongue.

When she lifted off of him, he growled in protest. Feyre tutted. “You agreed to be good.”

She didn’t wait for further protest before she aligned herself over his cock and sunk onto it. All the air punched out of his lungs. She was so tight like this. Clenching almost painfully around the beast’s cock as he stretched her. Rhysand’s head fell back, and his body practically shook with the effort not to thrust upwards. Even the beast, feral as he was, detested the idea of hurting her.

“Fey-ruh,” he panted. The metal of his chains creaked as he dug his talons into them. She was still slowly working herself onto his cock, moving in torturously slow circles as she accommodated to his size.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” She asked, just as breathless. Rhys shut his eyes once he was fully seated, just choking off a roar that surely would have alerted the entire city. But then she began lifting her hips, grinding against him so that her clit rubbed against his pelvis.

She moaned, and he decided he simultaneously loved and hated everything about this. Feyre was exquisite. Face flushed with pleasure, lips parted, backed arched to show off her beautiful breasts. He could drink in the sight and never grow tired. But at the same time he was so damn jealous of his own body. That she was the one pleasuring herself and not him.

Rhysand was starting to feel restless. He wanted so desperately to give. He could be touching that clit right now, spiraling her into pleasure faster than her slow, excruciating ascent.

But then again, that was her aim.

The taunting smile said it all, but so did her diminishing pace.

Feyre paused, leaning down until her breasts were pressed against his chest. He savored the heat of her body, and knew from her small gasp that she must have enjoyed the scrape of scales against her nipples.

She pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. “What if I just laid like this the rest of the night?” She teased. “Just kept you warm inside me?”

It would be wonderful. But only after he’d fucked her senseless.

“Cruel,” he rasped. He groaned as she clenched around him, clearly pleased with her effect.

“I can feel you shaking,” she whispered, skimming her hands over his biceps. “Is that how hard you’re trying not to lose control?”

Rhys gritted his teeth rather than answer.

But his mate was a determined creature. She pressed their noses together, so that he could feel the heat of his breath.

“Go ahead, Rhys.”

He obeyed instantly, snapping his hips upwards. Feyre gasped, and that was all it took. He began rutting in abandon, caring only about drawing that reaction from his mate. Every small gasp of pleasure, every moan that was his doing. He reveled in it.

Until she was gasping his name, a chant of encouragement. “Rhysand—Rhys, Rhys, Rh-ah!”

Euphoria fluttered down the bond as his mate’s walls began spasming around him. He groaned in a mix of relief and pleasure, the beast inside practically preening at having satisfied his mate. But still prowling. Still hungry.

Feyre lifted herself off his chest so she could untie his binds.

Freedom.

His mate gasped as he grabbed her, flipping her onto her stomach so he could enter her from behind in a single thrust. His body trembled at the loud moan that earned him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he was gasping, thrusting his hips into her with an urgency that had Feyre’s moans slurring into each other. Until all he knew was his mates cries and the sound of wet, slapping skin. “Need to keep you bred full.”

“Yes,” she was saying, muffled in the bedsheets and half lost to the wails of pleasure.

“So pretty,” he said, reaching for her hair. He pulled, not wanting anything to impeded the sounds she was making. “You’re going to look so pretty with a swollen stomach.”

“Rhys.”

“Is this what you want Feyre? To get fucked and bred by a beast?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, yes, ye—”

“Come,” he snarled. “Be a good girl and come on the beast’s cock.”

He could feel her walls fluttering again, could feel his own balls tightening. “You’re mine,” he reminded her, before slamming to the hilt. She screamed as they came together, and his cocked throbbed in relief as he spilled inside his mate.

“And I’m yours,” he added softly, watching the scales slowly ebb back into golden brown skin. He curled his body around her, offering a tender kiss to her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. “So irrevocably and completely yours.”

[the-lonelybarricade]

Maybe for Rhys week could you write about their first night with nyx? Maybe Rhys is trying to let feyre sleep so he does the soothing?

I tried. I don't know anything about babies, so I always really struggle with baby prompts. But here's some fluffy Rhys with baby Nyx

-

Rhysweek Day 4: Illyrian

“With those lungs, he certainly is Illyrian.”

Another bout of wailing pierced the otherwise silent night.

Feyre sighed something unintelligible into her pillow. Rhysand could make out the words Illyrian and baby, though those words were unhelpful in deciding if Feyre was talking about him or their son. Probably both.

In any case, he leaned over to press a tender kiss to her exposed shoulder. Right over one of the many freckles he frequently enjoyed charting with his mouth.

When he was younger, his mother had taught him how to use the stars to navigate. So that if he was ever lost during a midnight flight, he knew how to follow the stars of Ramiel to find his way home. Sometimes, that’s how he felt staring at the constellations on her back. His True North, always guiding him home. Always ensuring there was a home to be guided to.

“I’ve got it, darling,” he murmured, unable to resist a second kiss against another one of those freckles. And then a third.

Nyx’s crying was the only thing preventing him from stealing a fourth.

He pulled the blanket over Feyre’s shoulder, tucking her back into the warmth of his phantom body heat before he walked over to his son’s cradle.

“Shh, I’m here little one,” he cooed, looking down at the small face that was scrunched with discontent. Rhys evaded his son’s flailing fists as he released him from the swaddle of blankets and lifted him carefully out of the cot. “Let’s go on a little walk so that your mother can rest.”

Moonlight flooded in through the open window across the hall, carrying the scent of jasmine from the Sidra. The floorboards creaked beneath their weight, but Rhys could barely hear it beneath the cries of the babe in his arms. He hummed as he rocked his son gently, and by the time he came to the end of the hall the cries had tapered. 

“Seems like all you needed was to stretch your wings,” he whispered. The window sill offered a nice place to perch, and Rhys sat so he could lay the dozing babe against chest. Innocent and haloed in starlight, Nyx looked so out of place against the harsh Illyrian tattoos. “Do you hear your mother’s heartbeat?”

There was, of course, no answer. But Rhys paused like there might be. He rubbed softly in the space between those small wings, watching in awe as they fluttered in response. The softest beats of a miracle.

“I think that our hearts were in sync from the moment the first star shined over Ramiel," he cotinued, because Madja had said it was soothing for the babe to hear his parent's voices. "If there’s anything good beating in my own chest, it was her doing. Her beautiful mortal heart…” Nyx lips parted. His son took such a small breath, and yet Rhysand felt it steal all the air from his lungs. Words suddenly became thicker in his throat. “I suppose you’ll have one of those too. Or at least, I hope you will.”

Rhys couldn’t resist ducking to press a kiss to his son’s head. His scent was so strong this close, and it clawed at Rhysand's chest in a mix of emotions that he would never have enough time to sift through. Even in his immortal lifespan.

He’d forgotten what newborns smelled like. It had been so long since he’d been able to hold one in his arms. Not since…

Suddenly Rhysand’s eyes stung, and rather than venture down the razor edge of that memory, he elected to take another long inhale of his son’s scent. To bask in its meaning.

Nyx smelled of a combination of his parents—of their mating bond. Of their love. And despite all odds, Rhysand was holding the proof of that love in his arms. Fluttering his impossible little wings, beating his remarkable little heart.

A challenge to the Cauldron’s will, just by existing. Rhysand couldn’t help smiling to think that his son was already such a fighter.

Like Feyre. And most certainly like an Illyrian.

[shallyne]

"Rhys - it's too much."

"Not for you. Never for you. He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple." Build a House with a painting studio." He kissed my other temple. "Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two - and for wings." Another kiss, this time to my cheek. "Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren and an enormous dressing room for Mor." I chocked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss on my mouth, lingering and sweet. "Build a house with a nursery, Feyre."

I AM NOT CRYING YOU ARE

Acofas chapter 22

[the-lonelybarricade]

If you're taking prompts. How about Rhys teaching Nyx how to be a proper ruler or to harness his powers? 😊

Thank you for the prompt lovely!! I hope you enjoy this little scene I whipped up during my lunch break!

Rhys Week - Day 2: High King

“As High King, I sentence you with treason against the crown.”

“Treason?” Cassian balked. “That's hardly—”

“Silence,” Nyx roared, fury glinting in his deep blue eyes. He raised his fists into the air. “Any last words?”

A smirk twitched at the corner of Cassian’s lips. “Behind you.”

Nyx turned, just in time to be met with the snowball hurtling through the air. He stumbled backwards as it smashed against his face, appearing momentarily stunned as the ice crystals fluttered away from his chin.

Two deep sets of laughter rumbled through the air, one from Cassian behind the boy and the other from Azriel, who watched in amusement as Nyx shook off the excess snow.

Rhysand could track the very moment the fun transcended into something darker. Nyx wiped his hand across his face, discarding more than just the layer of snow. Something shifted in his eyes as he surveyed his howling uncles. A look that offered enough warning for Rhysand to throw a shield around his brothers, around the cottage, around Nyx himself.

Every snow-built fortress and soldier exploded into a mist of frost, eviscerating their hours of work, along with Azriel and Cassian’s laughter.

The world went so still for a moment. 

Nyx stood at its center, marveling the carnage. Azriel and Cassian watched him warily, faltering somewhere between protecting their nephew and protecting themselves.

Snow crunched underfoot as Rhysand stood from his now demolished cover. He was the first to brave that heart wrenching realization dawning on Nyx’s face.

“Nyx,” Rhysand said softly, crouching before his son.

Tears glistened in his eyes, and he aimed them anywhere but his father’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffed.

“Talk me through what happened.”

His bottom lip began quivering. “I got mad.”

“And then what?” Rhys prompted.

Nyx glanced around at the empty field of snow and let out a wet sob. “Then it all exploded.”

“On the outside, yes,” Rhys murmured. He pressed a hand to his son’s chest. “But you felt it in here first, didn’t you? Felt your magic building up?”

“It happened so quickly,” he said, eyes wide with a fear that Rhys felt like a knife in the gut. “I didn’t—” he sucked in a harsh breath . “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Come here,” Rhys murmured, pulling his son against his chest. Nyx stuffed his face into his father’s shoulder, and like a blockage in a stream being cleared away, the tears began flowing in earnest. Rhysand rocked him gently, giving him a moment to release all that emotion before he gently prompted, “Did you know that sometimes, I’m afraid of my power, too?”

His small voice was muffled against Rhysand’s tunic. “...You are?”

“And so is your mother.” Rhys soothed a hand over Nyx’s long, dark scruff of hair. He had been growing it out to be more like his uncle Cassian. “And mistakes like this, they are all a part of learning. They remind us why it’s so important to learn control. So that the next time your magic builds up, you can manage it safely.”

Nyx pulled away, tears still shimmering among the constellations in his eyes.

“Remember your lessons?” A tendril of night drifted from Rhysand’s palm, snaking around Nyx’s shoulders. It nudged him affectionately against the cheek. “What’s an example of a safe way to release magic?”

Nyx held out his hand, and that same star-kissed power released from his palm, lifting into the air to twine playfully with Rhysand’s. His heart tugged at the sight.

“You know how it feels now, when your magic needs to be drained. You’ll get better at recognizing it, but now you have an idea of your threshold—and what happens if you go beyond it.” Nyx nodded, absently feeling at his chest. Rhys knew the phantom ache he felt there all too well. “What do you do the next time you feel it building?”

“I release it,” Nyx said, with newfound determination. “So that no one gets hurt.”

Rhys smiled proudly. “That’s right. Now, what do you need to go say to your uncles?”

With a closed fist, Nyx hastily wiped away the remaining tears from his cheeks before marching over to where Azriel and Cassian stood, watching with poorly hidden concern. 

Shoulders set with an earnesty that was entirely Feyre’s doing, Nyx met each of his uncles in the eyes and said sincerely, “I’m sorry for losing control of my magic.”

“Hey, we’re all okay, aren’t we?” Cassian said warmly, clapping an affectionate hand onto Nyx’s shoulder. 

And what else, Nyx? Rhys prompted silently. What else do you have to say to your uncles?

He had circled around, so that he could see the sparkle in his son’s eyes, the mischievous tilt to his lips that felt almost like looking in a mirror. 

“One other thing,” Nyx said to them, sounding much more elevated now that he could see the way Rhysand knelt to the ground and plunged his hand into the cold snow.

Nyx couldn’t help laughing as he said, “Behind you.”

[the-lonelybarricade]

for a future request, on rhys' birthday (set for the end of rhys week), we see grim!rhys get his first every birthday party thrown by the love of his not-life

Happy end of RhysWeek and happy birthday to the most handsome High Lord!! I hope you all enjoy the return of Grim!Rhys for this fun, silly lil oneshot!

RhysWeek Day 7: Free Day - Till Death Do Us Part

Words: 2.2k

-

“I know I haven’t been walking the mortal plane very long, Feyre darling…”

Rhysand’s voice drifted through the speaker of the phone Feyre had set against the counter. Her husband’s smirking face stared up at her from the screen—a picture he’d commandeered her phone in order to take and subsequently assign to his contact, which he’d renamed Most Handsome Husband In All The Realms.

Feyre had told him she hadn’t exactly been to the other realms to verify if that was true. So now it read Most Handsome Grim Reaper Husband. Rhysand assured her there was only one of those, so he was certain to be the most handsome. Meanwhile, her contact was still saved in his phone as Most Beautiful Soul In All the Realms. He insisted he had already done all the fact checking necessary on that statement.

“...but I am fairly certain there’s no such thing as lemon flavored tampons.”

She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh.

“They’re there, Rhys,” she said, forcing an air of exasperation that she thought sounded convincing. “And if you really can’t find them, I’ll take the orange flavored ones.”

“I’ve looked everywhere, darling.” She heard him sigh. “There’s some with yellow boxes, but I’ve read the backs and they don’t say anything about flavoring… I don’t even understand what flavoring would be for?”

Feyre pursed her lips considerately. Then she said, “You know how last month, you drank pineapple juice every morning so that you’d, um, taste better in my mouth?”

“... Yeah?”

“It’s kind of like that.”

“But I like the way you taste already!” He protested.

He sounded so offended that she couldn’t even put any heart into shushing him. “Rhys, people at the store might hear you. Our neighbors could be there.”

“I don’t care if the neighbors know I enjoy eating out my wife,” he said, pointedly loud. Feyre wasn’t even there and could feel her face getting hot. “What I care about, is you putting something in your body to change your already perfect—” he voice scraped on the word—“taste. Especially when tampons can already give you Toxic Shock Syndrome. Do you know that 2-3 people die—”

“Every year, yeah, yeah. It’s a good thing I’m married to the Grim Reaper then.”

He huffed. “If it gives you a UTI, then we can’t have se—”

“Rhsyand,” she said sternly. He immediately stopped talking. “Please, just get me what I asked for.”

“But darl—”

Feyre quickly tapped the red ‘end call’ button, cutting off anything further Rhys had to say about the subject.

She was relieved—for many reasons—that he hadn’t quite gotten into social media. Otherwise he would have undoubtedly given himself some not-so-subtle handle like OfficialGrimReaper and would have already convinced all their friends and family that he was involved in organized crime. But, more importantly, he would have seen the videos making the rounds on tiktok of people asking their partner’s to get them flavored tampons.

And then he would have known she was sending him on a wild goose chase.

If Rhysand wasn’t reaping souls, he was spending every waking moment by her side. Weekends were usually dedicated to cuddling on the sofa and watching the sitcom reruns he found endlessly fascinating. But today, she’d faked a period emergency and had asked him to run to the store. And the donut shop, for cravings. And Starbucks, for an emotional pick-me-up. All in the hopes that it would buy her enough time to get a cake in the oven.

Once it was cooking, she took to tying balloons. Mor had dropped off a box of them—always happy to assist if it meant pulling something over on Rhys. Mor believed the death birthday theme was a play on Rhysand growing older, and had thought it was hilarious. She’d even gotten a little gravestone RIP my youth cake decoration to go along with candles that read LOST COUNT.

Eventually, Feyre was left with a sea of black and gray balloons, and fingers sore from an hour spent twisting elastic around them. She didn’t know how much longer she had until Rhysand gave up trying to please her—which she knew was an extreme last resort for her husband—so she tried to be as quick as possible in assembling the balloons in an arch. Once that was finished, she took the packet of tombstone and skull confetti she’d bought and mixed it in with standard black birthday confetti. She smiled as she sprinkled it over their countertops, thinking Rhysand would enjoy the irony.

Her heart raced, each beat drawing her closer to her husband coming home. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

She was nearly finished decorating by the time the cake timer pinged. She set it on the counter to cool, the ganache ready to pour over as soon as it came to room temperature.

The only thing Feyre had left to do was scatter black flower petals towards the bedroom, where he’d find one of his many gifts waiting for him.

She was almost finished with the final touches. If she could just get the stupid ribbon curl right. She couldn’t find where she’d put the scissors and had decided that a paring knife would surely be just as effective. But now she was on her fifth attempt, and she could feel the time ticking past. Rhys wasn’t stupid. Any minute he’d—

“If you wanted me home sooner, using a phone is just as effective as killing yourself with that knife.”

Feyre shrieked in surprise, whirling around to find Rhys standing at her back. He held two plastic bags in one hand, and a tray of coffee in the other. She tried to ignore the way he’d craned his head over her shoulder, peering at her work in open curiosity.

He held up his cluttered hands when he saw she was still wielding the knife. Feyre didn’t consider how threateningly she was brandishing it until she glanced down and saw it was poised towards his chest.

“Whoa, there darling. Have I driven you so far as murder already?” He clicked his tongue. “I know that one in five murders are committed by the victim’s partner, but… I personally think you’d have a hard time contributing to that statistic.” He leaned into the tip, letting the point indent his shirt. “Sharp things don’t tend to work on me.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “We’ve talked about you sneaking up on me like this.”

“Walking is such a chore,” he complained. He set the plastic bags on the floor so he could carefully maneuver a coffee into her hand, exchanging it for the knife like a hostage negotiator. “And it’s what killed you. Which I supposed worked out well in my favor, but isn’t exactly a glowing endorsement.” He leveled a stare towards the black petals scattered over the bed, and the wrapped present—glaringly devoid of ribbon curls—sitting in its center. “What were you up to, anyhow?”

Oh no. The cake.

“I can’t say yet.” She pursed her lips, looking to the coffee in her hand and the bags on the floor. She could see the box of donuts from her favorite bakery, as well as tampons that were likely not lemon flavored.

Rhys offered her a flat look. “Your bedridden cramps seem remarkably better. The woman at the store laughed when I asked her if they had any lemon flavored tampons.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, this time unable to contain her laugh. “I promise I’ll make it up to you, just…” she glanced around, before pointing to the closet. “Will you wait in there? For like… five minutes?”

He raised a brow. “You want me to sit in a closet for five minutes?”

“Five minutes isn’t that bad,” she hedged. “Some people do it for years.”

“It better be a good surprise,” he grumbled, begrudgingly walking over to the door. Obedient to the last, even with a pout on his face. “You know I’m afraid of the dark. I’ll need my pretty wife to kiss it better.”

“I promise I will.” She offered him one right then, just because she adored him. He’d gone to so much effort for her fake period, and she hoped he’d think her surprise was worth it. Once he was inside—comically too tall for the cramped space—she shut the door behind him, throwing in a “no peeking!” before it softly shut.

And then she was racing towards the kitchen, quickly pouring the ganache over the cake. She took her time in piping out in elegant white icing Happy Birthday, Rhysand!

Once she’d added and lit the candles, she called, “Okay, you can come out!”

Rhys appeared immediately on the other side of the counter. She might have been startled again if she hadn’t been expecting it. Instead she beamed at him, arranging the cake so he could see what was written on it.

His eyes went wide.

“Happy birthday to you…” she sang, reading his reaction carefully. The way his eyes kept flickering to the cake, then to her face, and back. “...Happy birthday dear Rhysand. Happy birthday to you.”

“I don’t have a birthday,” he said once she was finished. His frown creased a line beneath his lip. “I was never born.”

Feyre shrugged. “You have a mortal life now so I thought… you should get to have a birthday, too.”

“My mortal life started the day you died.” His brows merged as he tried to make sense of it. “Shouldn’t that be my birthday?”

“Well, that’s technically our wedding anniversary,” she said, shooting him a look that earned her a shameless grin in return. “But I was walking past St. Paul's Cathedral when I died. And you know where I was heading back from?”

His eyes softened. “20 Fenchurch Street. You’d just had lunch there.”

“That’s right.” She smiled. “So I thought your birthday should be on the 20th. And I picked November because… I think being a Scorpio suits you.”

Rhysand’s throat bobbed. He looked back at the cake, and the moisture in his eyes reflected the candles.

“Blow them out,” she whispered. “And when you do, you’re supposed to close your eyes and make a wish.”

“I already have everything I could possibly wish for,” he said. But his eyes still fluttered shut when he leaned over to blow them out.

Part of her wanted to ask what he wished for. If only because she knew it would be something tooth-rotting sweet. Feyre had been falling in love with him so reluctantly in the last year. She hadn’t meant to—she hadn't wanted to—but for her entire life, up until the moment she’d died, Feyre had never known how it felt to be put first by anyone. And now she knew how that felt every waking minute.

So she’d thrown him a surprise birthday in the hopes it would return even a fraction of the love he regularly showed her. And from the way he was staring at the confetti on the table, lips softly parted with awe, she thought that maybe she’d done a good job of it.

“Happy first year of life, Death.”

Rhys laughed. It was a shorter sound than usual. Choked by the unshed tears still glistening in his eyes as he continued to take it all in. The balloons. The flower petals. The writing on the cake.

“Our friends are coming over in a few hours,” she said. “You’re going to get the whole mortal birthday experience. Getting drunk, playing games, complaining about how old you’re getting. All of it.”

He quirked a brow. “And just how old do they think I am?”

“I didn’t say.” She grinned as she looked down at the LOST COUNT candles. “I told them you’re insecure about it.”

Rhysand shook his head, but he was smiling now.

“I was thinking, you might want to open your presents before they come over.” Feyre stepped around the counter, skimming her fingers over the countertop as she went. “They’re not exactly… appropriate.”

“Oh?” Once she was close enough, Rhys caught her by the hips. Impatient to touch her, as always. “Well then perhaps our friends shouldn’t come over at all.”

“Ah, that’s not in the spirit of your birthday,” she teased. “You’ll have to suffer through the very human experience of attending social events when you’d rather be doing something else.”

“Someone else,” he corrected with a sly smile.

Feyre nudged him towards the flower petals. “Behave, birthday boy. Go open your gift.”

The excitement in his eyes as they returned to their bedroom was yet another uniquely human experience she was happy to share with him. That childlike spark of joy that she was only just beginning to experience herself. She felt a share of it, watching his eyes go wide as he pulled away the decorative paper on his presents.

Though Rhysand hadn’t been able to find any flavored tampons, Feyre was pleased to introduce him to other unusual things that humans flavored. And as with any new thing he discovered in the mortal realm, Rhysand was very eager to try it.

[the-lonelybarricade]

We're all onboard with the fact that these Rhysweek fics are fresh off my brain and unedited right? It's midnight here and I want to go to bed, but here's a loose continuation of Can't Keep My Hands to Myself. I know some of us have been wanting Daddy Rhys to return for a long time, he's finally here 😌

(You don't have to read part 1 first, this is literally all porn)

Rhysweek Day 6: Daddy Rhys

Word Count: 2.2k

CW: Daddy Kink, Sugar Daddies, Dom/Sub

-

It’s okay to accept nice things.

It’s okay to accept nice things, especially on your birthday.

It’s okay to accept nice things on your birthday, especially when they are willingly given to you by rich men.

It’s what Feyre told herself as she was led past a concierge, up an elevator, and to the ornate door of a fifth floor, luxury apartment. Hers to use because the man trailing behind her happened to like the way she looked in a dress.

And outside of one.

“Welcome home,” he murmured, once the door shut behind them. He had his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, hooked around two long, elegant fingers that were posed perfectly so that she could imagine another use for them. Rhysand leaned over to latch the door shut, rolled cuffs showing off his golden, muscular forearms with a flourish she might have thought purposeful.

When he turned back to face her, violet eyes sparkling with amusement, she was reminded that everything Rhysand did was purposeful.

They hovered in the entryway, staring at each other until the walls felt tighter.

“Do I get a tour?” She asked lightly.

Rhysand dropped his jacket. She watched it fall into a puddle of fine fabric, and she couldn’t help thinking about all the creases that would mark his once perfectly pressed suit. Was it carelessness?

Her heart hammered, knowing the answer as Rhys prowled closer.

Feyre could imagine it. If he’d gone home alone, he would have hung his suit up carefully. Would have folded his trousers and left them in a press. Unclasped his watch, putting neatly in place by his bedside drawer. He struck her as a man of precision.

And yet the fabric was crumpled. Not in carelessness, not in haste.

In a show of… something else.

“Do you want a tour?” He asked, close enough he could reach forward and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

Did she want a tour? Not particularly. The only place she cared to know the direction to was the bedroom. But she’d be living here now, and she supposed it was polite to take an interest when Rhysand was being so generous in letting her stay.

Eventually she succumbed beneath the weight of his stare. There was so much expectation in his eyes, but she couldn’t decide which answer he was hoping for. “Yes,” she breathed.

Rhysand raised a single brow, stepping closer. Whiskey lingered on his breath, and she could still see the lipstick stains she’d left on his neck in the limo. “It may be your birthday, Feyre, but that’s no reason to forget your manners. Yes, what?”

Please, she thought. But the dark tint in his eyes told her that wasn’t the right answer.

“Yes, daddy.”

His smile bloomed, slow and deadly. As soft as nightshade petals.

Warm hands fell to her hips, and despite the wickedness glinting in his eyes Feyre felt giddy at his silent approval. He slid his palm flat against her back, applying firm enough pleasure to guide her body into an arch. So that she was half leaning backwards, into his hold, and the entire front of her body was pressed against his.

Heat seeped through his dress clothes, and they were cut close enough to his body that she could feel every hard slant and coil of muscle. He wasn’t real, people like this couldn’t be real.

But that was breath tickling her skin, light stubble scratching over her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “How’s this for a tour, Feyre? I’m going to make you come in every single room. And once we’re finished, I’ll let you ride daddy’s cock as a special birthday treat.”

Feyre wanted so desperately to think of something clever to say. Perhaps that a cock hardly qualified as a birthday treat, or how this tour sounded like it was going to be horribly ineffective.

Instead her eyes fell back to that abandoned suit jacket. And her voice wavered, despite her efforts to keep it steady, as she asked, “Does this room count?”

Really, what had she expected from a man like Rhysand? Who communicated through throwing clothes on the ground and buying coffee from the same cafe every day? He seemed to find his actions just as effective as his words.

So when he used his grip on her back to roughly turn her around and push her against the wall, she had her answer. And when he bunched her dress over her hips and yanked her underwear to her knees, he had his answer, too.

“You’re so wet,” he said in her ear, almost like an admonishment. Except she couldn’t hear the hum of satisfaction in the back of his throat. “Is this from sucking me off in the limo, Feyre? You like the taste of daddy’s cock that much?”

He groaned, slipping his fingers lazily down her center. Until he teased at her entrance. “No wonder you made such a mess of my thigh.”

“Is that unusual?” Feyre couldn’t help herself from asking, if only to feel better about the way she was pinned to a strange man’s wall. “Are you used to women being dry around you?”

Rhysand chuckled. Deep and dark and scraping. The sound shuddered all the way down her spine, warning her not to push. Begging her to see what happened if she did. “Careful,” he warned. “It would be a shame if our fun was spoiled. Don’t you agree, darling?”

His fingers slipped inside her, hooked just like they’d been around his suit jacket. He massaged them against her walls with a mastery that felt almost cruel, until he was half holding her up from how badly her legs had begun to shake.

She gasped, clawing her fingers into the drywall. She was still feeling sensitive from riding his thigh in the limo. With the way he cupped her, his palm was rubbing against her clit in deliberately slow circles that were driving her mad.

She whimpered as his fingers stilled, and he kept his palm pressed just enough to tease. Feyre squirmed, bucking her hips for better friction, but Rhys clicked his tongue and removed his fingers entirely.

“Behave, Feyre.” he growled. “What do you say if you want to come?”

She pressed her forehead against the wall, feeling the cold plaster cast its blank judgment back at her. “Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?”

“Help me come,” she said, cheeks burning.

A hand snaked up from where he held her hips to suddenly cover her mouth. Feyre was confused for a moment, until Rhysand used his thumb and forefinger to flick her clit. Hard. Enough for a shriek to be muffled into the palm of his hand.

“Only good girls get pleasure,” he said. “Do you want to try again?”

Feyre nodded, wondering what it said about her that she enjoyed this unexpected edge of cruelty. It was almost a relief.

He released his hand so she could speak. And she thought the cool air felt so much less welcoming than his warm hand and the scent of his cologne. She whispered, “Please help me come, daddy.”

“Better,” he hummed, fingers immediately returning to her still throbbing clit, rubbing away the pain. Soothing it with white hot bliss that built so fast—too fast. Her breathing ratcheted, and she could hear the smirk in Rhysand’s voice as he purred, “That’s it, Feyre. Come for daddy.”

Those exquisite fingers rode her through it, working her until it bordered on too much, and she was near crying against the wall. Then, Rhysand swept her into his arms, ignoring the way her breath whooshed in surprise. He carried her into what looked to be the kitchen. All smooth, marble countertops and luxury appliances. But he didn’t stop to show them to her.

Instead he walked straight towards the island in the center and deposited her atop it, so that her knees hung off the end. Her dress was still pulled over her hips, her panties still banded around her knees, and she could see Rhysand’s predatory stare looming over her.

“I’ve wanted to do this from the moment I came into that coffee shop,” he said, running his hands beneath her thighs. He pulled them up as he made his way to her calves, then her ankles, where he laid a delicate kiss on each side. “I’ve been wanting to taste every inch of you.”

His ascent was torturously slow compared to the urgency he’d used in the hallway. His deliciously plush lips trailed over her legs, counting each freckle, stopping at every crevice. When he said every inch, he clearly meant it.

Feyre was beginning to feel impatient by the time he came to her thighs. Rhysand was holding her legs, so the most she could do was buck into the air, silently begging for him to turn his attention to where she desperately needed it.

As some form of acquiesence, he extended his arm to slide a single finger inside of her. But he refused to do anything further, and that only made the ache worse. She whimpered, trying to ride his hand herself if he was insistent on taking so much time.

“Slow down, pretty girl,” he said, swiping his thumb against her oversensitive clit. She gasped at the stab of pleasure, and couldn’t decide if he had done it in mercy or malice. “You’ll find that patience gets rewarded.”

Feyre managed to find enough breath to ask, “And impatience? What does that get?”

Rhysand had gone back to mouthing at her thigh, but his eyes darkened at her question. He pulled away just enough to offer a smirk that dared her to try.

“If it weren’t your birthday, it’d get you something to occupy that sharp tongue of yours.”

Gods, what was wrong with her, that his implication made her stomach flutter? Her walls clenched around his finger, completely giving herself away.

Rhys chuckled, the sound smooth and dark where it glided sensually across her every nerve—so similar in feeling to the scrape of his calluses against her thigh.

“Would you like that, pet? Are you wanting something to choke and whimper against while daddy takes his time savouring you?”

His finger slid out, and Feyre couldn’t help whimpering at the loss. She felt empty, her cunt clenching around nothing while Rhys traveled up her body until her vision was eclipsed by those striking violet eyes.

“All you have to do is ask, Feyre. I would deny my sweet birthday girl nothing.”

Rhys raised his fingers, still slick with her arousal, and brought them to his mouth once more, just like he’d done in the limo. He held her gaze as he slowly ran his tongue over each of them.

“Fucking delicious, Feyre,” he said as he pulled his fingers away. Then he grinned, the same way Lucifer must have moments before he fell. “Do you want a taste, baby?”

Feyre bit her lip in consideration, but caved the moment his fingertips found the plush of her bottom lip. She parted easily for him, and Rhys watched through hooded eyes as he pushed three fingers into her mouth, all the way to his knuckles. She flicked her tongue against them and sucked obediently, if only to see the resulting praise and desire that swirled in Rhysand’s starkissed eyes.

“Such a good girl. That deserves a reward, hmm? But keep sucking for me, darling. And don’t be afraid to moan against them and let daddy know how good he’s making you feel.”

With that, Rhys brought his freehand between her parted legs and plunged two fingers back inside her. The sound of his skin slipping against her arousal was utterly debauched, but Feyre thought it wasn’t nearly so lewd as the sound that escaped her, garbled against his fingers.

He was building her pleasure quickly, seemingly driven by the way Feyre hummed and choked agaist the hand in her mouth, drool dripping from the seam of where her lips enclosed his knuckles.

“Such a beautiful mess like this, Feyre,” he cooed in her ear. “Already wet and drooling and I haven’t even gotten out of my suit yet.”

Feyre was too focused on the building tension in her body to think too closely on his words, already feeling wrecked from everything else he’d done.

She shrieked against his fingers as she felt herself reach the pinnacle, bucking her hips in an involuntary attempt to get closer. Hot ecstasy flashed through her veins, building and building until it was too much. Surely, she could die from this level of intensity?

Her vision swam, and somewhere faraway she felt Rhys press a kiss to her temple and murmur, “That’s it, Feyre. Come for daddy one more time.”

The world fractured, splitting into irreparable shards, taking apart what used to be her life and threading it something entirely new. Foreign, but safe. Like the way Rhys whispered endless praise into her ear, fingers slowing where they circled her clit, guiding her gently down.

“Breathe, Feyre,” he said softly, removing his fingers from her mouth so that she could take a gasping breath, then another one, over and over until the rhythm of her breathing had steadied.

Rhys stared down at her, eyes softened with awe. “How are you feeling, darling?”

“Incredible,” she breathed.

Feyre could hear the smile in his voice as he answered, “Good.”

He helped her off the table, holding her as though he knew how shaky her legs would feel. He was smiling. “There’s just one more room I need to show you."

And she followed Rhysand into the bedroom.

[shallyne]

Rhys Headcanon

Rhys sometimes still has nightmares and he loses his darkness (like the nightmare scene in acomaf) and Feyre wakes him up and he cuddles into her while she tells him stories about the IC, sending him moments of Nyx through the bond or she asks him about positive moments with the IC (snowball fight, Mors drunk stories, Amren beating up Cassian when he makes fun of her) to calm him down. He doesn't let go of Feyre for the rest of the night even when he falls asleep again.

[the-lonelybarricade]

I must be the WORST Feysand shipper because I genuinely had no idea it was Rhys week? Did y'all know about this?? The event seems to be very twitter/instagram focused, but I am going to try and scrape together some content here! There's more on the Feysand_month instagram here if anyone else wants to participate!

[the-lonelybarricade]

Would you consider putting your RhysWeek fics up on AO3? I don't want them to get buried in my Favorites here!

Hello my lovely anon ;) They are now all up on AO3! I meant to do it earlier so I appreciate the reminder!

I have also made a RhysWeek2022 Collection for anyone else who participated that wants to add their works to it! Just thought it'd be neat to have them all in one place!