#feysand smut

[sweetcarolina-24]

Caught In Between*

Kinktober Day 18: Threesome

Feysand x Reader

kinktober masterlist

This will be a sneak peak for Cherry Blossom changed to second person pov. i need them so bad. This will be pretty short.

cw: sex, ffm threesome, you get the vibe

you're their mates in this

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You moaned as Feyre cupped your breast in her hand. You were slowly grinding on Rhysand's cock, riding him just how he liked.

"You feel so fucking good, y/n," Rhys grunted, his fingers digging into your hips.

You had set a pace with him that felt amazing for both of you.

Desire burned inside of you as Feyre lowered her mouth to your breast, her tongue flicking at your hard nipple.

"Fey," you moaned as she shoved her hand between your legs, rubbing your clit with her nimble fingers.

You whimpered, resting your head on her shoulder as you kept grinding your hips against Rhysand's.

"Doing so good for us, flower," Feyre cooed to you, stroking your hair.

"Thank you, Fey," you slurred, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

"Oh, such good manners," she praised, kisses peppering your face. "Perfect for us."

The words combined with her fingers on your clit and Rhysand's cock inside of you made you reach your high.

Time seemed to slow as you came on the cock that was pulsing inside of you, Feyre's praise cooing in your ear the whole time.

He grunted, spilling inside of you as he watched you fall apart on top of him.

"Thank you," you said breathlessly, closing your eyes as you laid your head back on Feyre's shoulder.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

[tadpolesonalgae]

Feysand x f!reader: All Wrapped in One[*]

A/N: This started as feyre x reader but of course it would end up becoming a poly fic

Warnings: oral (f! Receiving), daemati shenanigans

Word Count: 2,173

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Her hands wrap around your middle, soft lips pressing a greeting kiss to the side of your neck.

The scent of warm spices fill the cozy space, wreaths of evergreen stitched through with sequinned pine cones and glittering red baubles, lines of sparkling tinsel and tinted, warm fae lights glowing about the ceiling’s edge. Mince pies that had been dropped off a day prior by your mate’s sister sit concealed beneath a glass dome, crystallised to look like frost at the base, to keep them fresh as the day they were baked.

“Morning,” she murmurs, nosing at the sensitive skin, pressing a small trail of nips and licks gradually edging toward the neckline of one of her paint-flecked shirts. A thrill tingles down your spine, softening into her arms, quickly forgetting whatever task you had been preoccupying yourself with. “Morning,” you reply, tilting your head slightly to one side, allowing her more access to the pleasurable area.

“You’re up early,” you mumble, shifting to turn in her arms, wanting to see her in that soft sleepy state she’s often wrapped in during the initial hour of waking. She allows it, elegant hands remaining comfortably on your wait, keeping your chest flush to her own, adorned in a deep blue woollen piece, some tiny snowflakes stitched in beautiful silver thread with tiny beads at their centre to appear more festive.

Rosy lips pull into a smile, nose bumping your own, eyes warm with tender adoration. “The bed was cold,” she murmurs, “was wondering where you were.” Her hands pull you a little tighter, and you catch a hint of her scent, warmth fluttering between your thighs. You avert your eyes, hands settling on her shoulders, trying to distract her as a flush begins to rise across your skin. “We should wait until Rhys gets home,” you reason, back curving a little with need, the simple hint of her desire for you enough to have your body reacting with equal want.

She hums absently, eyes dipping to your mouth with interest, clearly not having heard you. Lightly calloused fingertips swipe experimentally across the plushness of your lower lip, eyes flicking to her blue-grey set that are slightly glazed. “Feyre…” you mumble, muffled from her playing with your mouth. “Did you hear me?” You ask, an embarrassed flush settling beneath your skin.

Her eyes clear, sparking with a wicked gleam that has your legs feeling like custard. The edges of her rosy lips quirk, and you feel yourself melting, heat liquefying between your thighs. “Rhys says it’s fine,” she murmurs over your mouth, hands sneaking down over the curve of your hind, cupping and squeezing with appreciation before dropping a little lower. “So long as he gets his share this evening and all tomorrow,” she finishes, smoothly lifting you up onto the counter, a flick of magic clearing the surface so she can perch you atop it, settling between your thighs. A soft sound of surprise spills from your mouth, fingers pressing into the plush wool over her shoulders as she gently pushes your thighs apart.

Of course, Rhys had decided to take a day off from his business as the High Lord, putting aside the work Feyre’s still in the process of learning how to do. Teeth push to the inside of your lip at the thought of having them both around for an entire day—and hopefully more since the festivities have already commenced.

Her mouth settles over yours eagerly, and a quiet moan escapes your chest, her hands now freely roaming across your body, dipping beneath the hem of the paint-splattered shirt. Goosebumps prickle your skin with sensitivity, keyed to her touch as she explores the soft curve of your stomach, slowly making her way higher. When she dips to your neck, you melt like a marshmallow in a hot mug of cocoa, dissolving beneath the tender touch of your mate.

“Feyre…” you moan softly, hands pawing at the thick wool keeping her concealed from you. “Shouldn’t we… We should go somewhere else for this,” you manage to get out between the pleasure of the hot kisses she’s splaying across your throat. She seems intent on taking you right there though, despite being atop a counter in the snugly lit kitchen. “Feyre…” you repeat, hands threading in her hair, legs spreading wider despite trying to pull her away.

“What’s wrong with here?” She asks, encouraging your legs to squeeze her tight, wanting to feel how much you want her. “It’s the kitchen,” you reason quietly, unable to quite look away from her heated blue-grey eyes. “We shouldn’t be doing this in here.” Her gaze pins you with desire, keeping you still as she slowly pushes the hem of her shirt up over your thighs, practically tempting you to try denying her. You tighten around nothing at the actions, feeling how arousal has no doubt begun seeping through your underwear already.

“I think this is the perfect place,” she murmurs, leaning closer, rosy lips brushing your own teasingly, and you’re struck by the desire to have them playing with your breasts, skilful tongue flicking over the peaks of your nipples. “The kitchen is where food gets prepared isn’t it?” She asks lowly, fingers dipping into the band of your underthings, snapping it against your hip, pulling lightly on the string so it drags against your needy clit, lips parting on a silent breath. “And I’m going to spend the day getting you all nice and ready for us to enjoy tonight,” she drawls softly, pushing you back onto the counter, so your spine is laying flat against the cool marble.

It knocks any and all remaining fight from your body, content to let her use and explore to her pleasure. You swallow heavily as she smiles from between your legs, eyes glinting with heat as she slowly drags the cotton up over your stomach to reveal your soaking underwear. The smile widens with hunger, her fingers settling at the apex of your thighs before lightly trailing down, until she reaches the soft dip. Applies a slight pressure, watching as your back arches from the surface, hips shifting as you attempt to squirm lower, to have her fingers inside of you, pulling the sweet, sugar-dusted noises from your lips.

“Do you want me?” She asks teasingly, playing idly with the band of your underwear, dragging the tips of her fingers over your sensitive skin. “Feyre…” you groan, need building to the point of aches between your legs. You don’t know what you’ll do if she’s set her mind on edging you all day. If she decides to keep you from cumming until Rhys gets home… You had been the one to insist on trying to wait.

“Please,” you whine, pushing your legs wider in desperate invitation, nails biting into the softness of your palms. “Want you so badly, please.” Her lips part in a smile, hunger gleaming in blue-grey eyes, lowering between your legs as she takes the band of your underwear in her teeth, fingers hooking over the strings at your hips to help as she drags them down. Starving hunger intensifies in her gaze when she lays sights on your dripping wet heat, tongue swiping out to soothe the sudden dryness of her mouth.

A low curse rasps from her chest before she’s leaning forward, dragging her tongue up your centre, relishing in your taste, memorising the arch of your spine, how happily you put your legs over her shoulders, pressing the cotton-socked soles of your feet lightly against her back, raising your hips. Moans start spilling freely from your lips, enjoying the wet heat of her mouth once it’s sealed over your cunt, tongue swirling and suckling at your aching clit, giving you the attention you’ve been craving ever since she put her hands on you earlier.

A quiet laugh flutters from her lips, and you manage enough strength to push up onto your forearms, weakly peering down at her. “Rhys told you to open wider,” she drawls, and wild heat bursts across your skin. Look away shyly as you push your thighs to settle further apart on your mate’s shoulders, dipping your head at the thought of him watching through feyre’s eyes. What an intimate view he has.

Talons gently graze down your flimsy mental walls, and your back arches as Rhys slips inside your head, able to watch from whichever perspective he’d like.

You’re making concentration rather difficult over here.

A pleasurable shiver spider-walks up your spine at his deep, honeyed voice, roughened with arousal. Teeth push into your lip, desperate to have them both with you.

Feyre said you told it was fine… You send back softly—a little shakily, not entirely used to speaking like this. A low laugh drags through your sensitive shields, talons leisurely gazing inside your mind.

She told me she’d be having you on the kitchen countertop, and to get done with work if I wanted a taste before she tires you out.

Between your thighs, Feyre shoots you a grin, seemingly aware of the conversation going on, and a small moan flutters from your chest. Heat flushes your skin, but you make your reply anyway.

I can’t say I disagree with her…

Within your mind, you feel something shift, as if able to feel the build of his own arousal, awareness spearing directly to you to provide more stimulation.

I really have my hands full between the two of you.

I bet you do, High Lord, Feyre drawls, having joined without you noticing. Her tongue presses at your entrance, and you tighten eagerly, urging her for more.

Rhys groans lowly, and you feel your vision going in and out of focus as his arousal becomes more intense in your mind, the two of them curling together with you, making you dizzy with pleasure. An image appears in your mind, Feyre’s fingers slipping inside you in the same moment and you feel yourself reaching the curve of your high, where you’ll soar a little higher before making the pleasurable free-fall.

The High Lord does indeed have his hands full, one steadily holding the arm of his chair, the other stroking himself firmly, a pearly bead of precum nestled at his tip.

What you wouldn’t give to be on your knees before him—flick your tongue over the moisture there.

Your lips part, back arching as he takes a little of your control, moving your hand to graze across the softness of your stomach, hundreds of tiny muscles fluttering beneath the feather-light touch. His name moans from your lips as he makes you move higher, slipping beneath the hem of the shirt, reaching up to palm your breast, and you know he’s taking in every sensation.

Breaths turn shallow, wild heat bursting through your lower abdomen as Feyre’s fingers touch a spot inside of you, seemingly having been searching for it. Lips part in sheer pleasure as you reach that peak, tipping over the edge while she suckles at your sensitive clit, Rhys directing both your hands to palm your breasts, playing with your nipples as he floods your mind with filthy memories, filling you with touches, and scents, and tastes, utterly overwhelming as you babble.

Toes curl at her back, helping press her deeper to your heat as she continues working you within an inch of your life, fingers grazing those spots teasingly, mouth sealed over your heat so she can focus on your clit, easing you down from the high.

You pant heavily, needing to recover from the sheer intensity they’d put you through, muscles beginning to relax after being pulled taut with pleasure.

There you go. So good for us, aren’t you?

Your back arches at the rough drag of Rhys’ voice within your sensitive mind, tongue swiping over your lower lip. Blue-grey eyes latch on your own as she rises from between your legs, and your mouth has already opened by the time she lays her own atop it. Arousal mixes between you, one of her hands sliding beneath your shirt to graze across your nipple, playing with the sensitive peak.

Better get home soon Rhys, Feyre drawls across the bond, lifting herself up onto the counter in a single swift movement, and you hear him sigh with what you can only imagine is exasperation. A smile spreads across your features at the intimate sound, more than happy to shuffle further up the counter to give her space to move. Licking your lips eagerly as she crawls to settle her thighs either side your head, pulling her underwear to the side.

You two really are something, aren’t you?

As if to prove him right, you hook your arms over her hips, pulling her down onto your mouth while still feeling him in your mind, his arousal already building despite just having been relieved.

Hurry back, you send across softly, lapping at her entrance.

Then you can deal with us.

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general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks

feysand taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza08

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Wicked Games

Assassin!Reader x Poly!Feysand

Author's note: This is my first self-insert and first smut, wanted to try something new for a change. Not proof-read, we die like men.

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This mission was supposed to be simple, quick. In and out, cut and dry, the job coming in like all the others: A manila envelope under your door, no markings, the target and order inside. That was how it had always been, how it always would be, it was the only thing you knew to be true. So how in the Seven Hells had you ended up here? The High Lord leaned against the wall, his well pressed shirt open half way down his chest, the swirl of Illyrian ink in stark contrast to his bronze skin, so casual in the face of what should have been his own demise. Worse, the High Lady, perched atop the desk, her bare legs bouncing against the wood as she kicked her feet almost giddily. Neither of them looked displeased with the fact that you had been sent there to kill them. In fact, you were quite sure the infamous Curse Breaker was laughing at you as you squirmed uncomfortably in your seat. They hadn't even tied you down! It was starting to feel like an insult, they way they'd simply ushered you in here and asked you to sit like you'd come in for a meeting and not for the poison you'd slipped into their wine minutes before.

"It was a valiant effort, really," said Rhysand as he pushed away from the wall and came to stand behind you.

It was impossible not to be aware of the sheer power of him when he was this close. It was like a dropping a stone into a pond, the ripple of star-kissed power brushing steadily against you. You'd been around powerful males your whole life, had been trained to kill many of them, but none had ever felt like this. He was the shadow of a thought in your mind, a brush of darkness against your skin, you could practically taste jasmine and citrus.

Feyre was no better as she placed her elbows on her knees and leaned forward to get a better look at you. The dress she wore was cut low, the neckline plunging towards her midsection, accentuating every curve when she sat like that. Power radiated off her, not just Night, but something other, as if something beyond the power of the High Lords prowled beneath her skin.

"Not many people dare try," she said with a grin. She'd been the one to catch you. It had been a mistake going for her first, you could see that clearly now. The decision to spike their wine and than disguise yourself as their new cupbearer was already a risky move, but you liked to be absolutely sure the job was done, and done right. And Feyre hadn't taken her throne, she had been perched in Rhysand's lap, kissing his neck and whispering in his ear as she drank cup after cup. You'd thought she would be too drunk to notice the change in taste, too caught up in the revelry to even notice that you were not their usual cup bearer. You had been very, very wrong. She hadn't even gone in for a sip, had somehow been using her public display of affection to distract from the fact that she'd slipped right into your mind and seen exactly what you had done. And still, she could have killed you right there, could have summoned water or flames or ice and you'd heard she could do and taken you out in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares. But she'd gotten out of Rhysand's lap, stumbling on heels you thought were too tall for her, and thrown an arm around your shoulder, whispering in your ear that she needed your help finding the bathroom--and knocking the spiked drinks out of your hands in the process. It was very clear to you now that she had never been drunk in the first place.

Neither of them were anything like the report you'd gotten.

"I-" what was there to say? Words felt useless.

Rhysand leaned down, resting the bulk of his weight on the back of the chair, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "So who do I get to thank for sending you?"

You shivered at his proximity, at his warm breath over the shell of your ear. Not many people dared to get this close to you; not many people got the better of you like this either. This was certainly a lot of firsts.

When you gave no response, Feyre said, "Don't be shy."

They were likely to rip the answer right out of your skull with those terrifying daemati powers if you kept your mouth shut, or worse, summon that Shadowsinger you'd seen lurking around the halls earlier. "I don't know."

Rhysand made a disappointed sound from where he still hovered by your ear. You refused to try and turn to look at him, refused to acknowledge that you had even heard him.

Feyre jumped off the top of the desk, her stilettoes clicking against the polished marble floors. "Now, now, don't make this difficult for yourself."

"Your secret is safe with us," Rhysand said mockingly.

"I don't know! I get my orders in the mail. There's never a return address or signature."

"Where's the mail?"

"I burned it."

"Well in that case," his voice was the only warning before you felt something scrape against your mental shields. You tried to throw more walls up as a talon slashed across your mind, but it was not Rhysand that slipped past, but Feyre, quick and quite as the huntress they said she used to be. She laughed as she sprinted through your memories, all attempts at shielding useless as Rhysand kept poking at what little shields you had up to distract you. They were the perfect team, synced to perfection, each move calculated and sharpened.

Feyre stepped into the memory of you opening the envelope as simply as if she had stepped through a doorway. The memory unfolded for her, you saw your own hands break the seal, open the letter, and burn it in a flash, before reality broke back through. You shook your head, fighting the memory away like it was a spot in your eye.

"That handwriting looked familiar, didn't it, Darling," Rhysand purred, the low timber of his voice rumbling in your ear.

"How thoughtful of Keir to give us an Anniversary gift," Feyre returned.

Keir. You only knew the stories about him, what a horrible male he was. You'd been lucky to have not been born in the Court of Nightmares like your mother, had grown up only with the tales of what kind of place this was. Your mother had protected you for as long as she could, but when Amarantha had come, when war bands had fought and bickered over land in the little territory she and your father had managed to make for themselves... well, they were gone and you'd had to find a way to survive, but you hadn't forgotten those stories. Your stomach twisted. This job had never been easy, but it had never been for males like Kier. At least, you'd never thought so.

You must have looked surprised because Feyre put two manicured fingers under your chin and tilted your head up to look at you. Something wicked gleamed in those strikingly blue eyes and you quickly blurted, "I swear I didn't know! I needed the money, I didn't know the job was from him."

"We believe you," she said. "But I think you should prove you're worth letting go."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "I'll do anything!"

Rhysand chuckled at that. "Anything?"

The suggestiveness in the question made you shiver, more so when the High Lady broke into a grin. That couldn't be a good sign.

"I want to see Keir sweat a little, don't you dear?" Feyre asked over your head to her mate.

"More than just a little, I should think."

This felt like a fever dream, everything a little distorted and muffled. Perhaps it was. You had hit your head pretty hard on your last mission. How else could you explain what was happening here?

"Stand," Feyre ordered.

You did as you were told, even if you were biting the inside of your cheek.

"So responsive," Rhysand said, more to Feyre than you.

You frowned at that.

Feyre stepped closer to you, settling her hands on your hips. There was no room to twist away as her mate settled in behind you, the heat radiating off him seeping through your shirt. They even moved in perfect sync.

Nowhere to run now.

"You're going to play our favorite game with us."

Game? The reports hadn't said anything about them liking games.

"I don't understand-"

Rhysand cut you off, "Just follow our lead."

Feyre gave your hips a squeeze, "It's fun, trust me."

You didn't know what this had to do about proving you had made a mistake in taking this job, but you didn't know what other choice you had, so you just nodded.

They led you back into the throne room, the night's revelry still in full swing. Near the back, where the tables were still piled high with food, was Keir, the aging steward speaking conspiratorially with some of the other high ranking officials of the Court. Did he know already that you had failed? If he did, he didn't show it. He didn't so much as look up from his conversation.

Something hot twisted in your stomach at the sight of him. How could you have taken a job for a male like him?

Feyre pulled your thoughts away from him as she pulled you over to the dais, where their thrones sat empty. Even though Keir wasn't paying attention, others in the crowd were.

You swallowed thickly as Rhysand slid into his rightful seat, looking every bit the High Lord he was. Feyre didn't resume her seat in his lap, however, this time she perched on the arm rest, and guided you into her former place.

Your cheeks heated, mouth dry as the High Lord looped a strong arm around your waist and positioned you more comfortable on his lap, one long leg slotting between your own.

Feyre chucked at your obvious embarrassment. "Now now, you said you'd do anything." She said into your mind.

You dared a glance at her. This wasn't what you'd meant!

"This game is much more fun if you relax," Rhys purred as he dragged his nose over your throat looking for a place to sink his teeth.

You shivered despite yourself, the warmth of him seeping into you.

Feyre gripped your chin in her hand, forcing your gaze away from where it had wandered into the crowd. Keir still wasn't paying attention, but more and more people were halting their dancing and drinking to leer at this new pet their High Lord and Lady had brought back with them.

"Eyes on us."

Rhysand's hand slid over your hip and down to your thigh. The servant's garb you'd borrowed was a thin pair of pants, and a large, hooded sweater, not the sexy, revealing gown the High Lady donned, but you still couldn't help but feel incredibly vulnerable in this position.

How were you supposed to know what to do? How was this proving you could be trusted not to take another job from Keir? Was that fool even looking this way?

Rhysand nipped at the underside of your jaw and you jumped, thoughts careening away from Keir and whatever he was doing. The High Lord's breath was warm on your neck, each nip he left along your jaw sending shivers down your spine. It was an effort to keep your eyes open, to not immediately tilt your head back against his shoulder and let him explore every inch of you as you submitted fully to him. He could make you, if he wanted, it would be all too easy for him to reach inside your mind and move you however he wanted. You'd be a liar if you said the thought didn't excite you. The thought of handing yourself over to someone with that kind of power, testing to see what they'd do with it was more tempting than you'd ever dare say aloud. And maybe the High Lady had heard those thoughts, because a moment later, she was threading her hands through your hair and tilting your head back to let Rhysand explore further.

You whimpered softly as he ran his tongue over your pulse point and then Feyre was leaning in and nipping at the other side of your neck. It was too much at once, the overwhelming scent and warmth of them had you leaning fully into Rhysand's shoulder, eyes closing. One of their hands slid under your shirt, stroking at your side, you thought it might be Feyre, but didn't dare open your eyes to look, lest this really be a dream and you'd awake alone.

"Good girl," Rhysand praised. Somehow, even in your head his voice was low and husky. His hand slid further up your thigh, testing as he drew closer to your core. The move had you squirming and Feyre responded by dragging her hand from underneath your shirt to hold your hips down. There was no escaping either of them.

You still weren't sure how you ended up in this position, but you no longer cared. All you knew was this, them, and how much more of them you needed. Distantly you wondered if this was some daemati trick, if they had slipped into your mind and convinced you to do this. You decided you didn't care if they had, not as Feyre's lips were on yours, her tongue sliding past your teeth. There wasn't a hint of wine on her lips, despite all you'd seen her drink earlier. How she did that was anyone's guess.

Rhys drew circles on the inside of your thigh with his fingers, teasing you now as he continued to nip at your throat. There'd be marks in the morning, of that you were certain.

Feyre broke apart abruptly, laughing as you chased after her. "I think she likes this game of ours."

"Shall we play some more?"

You could play it all night if they wanted. There was something intoxicating about the two of them that had you desperate for any scrap of affection they could give you.

"Yes!" You said it faster than you intended, a blush creeping it's way back up your cheeks as you realized how pathetic it sounded, especially to two high fae. "Please."

Feyre leaned over you to kiss Rhys this time, intentionally pressing herself forward so her chest brushed up against you. You arched up to press your lips against her collar bones, too scared to go lower. She hummed approvingly into Rhy's mouth and he rewarded you by dragging his hand the rest of the way up your thigh, cupping your core through your pants. You were desperate for friction now, grinding your hips into his palm, even as your lips continued to work of Feyre's collarbones. She smelled so good! Her skin soft under your lips. You wanted the time to run your lips over the smattering of freckles she'd gotten while hunting in the summer time.

Rhys' free hand slid into your hair, pulling tight as he whispered in your ear, "No marks on your High Lady. Not without my permission, understand?"

If you were of any sound mind you might have been tempted to scrape your teeth across her throat, just to see what he would do, but you knew you weren't lucky enough to get away with it after everything that had happened already. "Yes, sir."

His dark laugh rumbled in his chest, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. This was a very dangerous game, far more dangerous than any assassination attempt had ever been. Dangerous, because, for once, you were enjoying it and enjoying anything in this line of work got you in trouble.

Feyre leaned back, out of your reach, and still held by Rhys' arm around your waist, it was impossible to reach out after her. Especially now that the High lord had decided he didn't like the article of clothing between his hand and you, and was reaching for the waistband of your pants.

The blush returned tenfold. This--touching, kissing, in front of all these people was one thing, but that?

The High Lady pouted as she looked at you, her eyes lust-blown, so dark you almost couldn't see the blue. "I think you have too much on."

Before you could contemplate what that meant, she snapped her fingers and your sweater disappeared entirely.

You tried to move to cover yourself, squirming now, and she grabbed your hands with a disapproving tut. "No hiding."

Rhys' hand had slid inside your waistband, so close again your hips rocked forward, searching for him without conscious thought, even as your face heated. There was a fine line between your pleasure and sheer mortification and somehow you were still teetering between the two, torn between wanting more and wanting to sink into the floor and disappear. The crowd was watching, or at least you were pretty sure they were, at this point you were too scared to look and kept your gaze glued to where the High Lord and Lady were touching you.

"So pretty," Feyre hummed as she moved your hands up and around Rhys' neck.

There was no hiding what they were doing to you now. You might have fought them harder if Rhys' hand wasn't finally where you wanted him so desperately, a finger sliding easily into you. Your jaw dropped, a strangled sound coming out of you.

"So wet," he teased, mind to mind. "All this for us, pet?"

Pet. Toy. The High Lord's little play thing. You'd been called worse.

"Yes, sir."

"So well trained, maybe we should keep her," Feyre said as she placed a gentle kiss on your nose.

"Where'd you learn this manners, hmm?" He nipped at your ear as he slid a second finger inside you.

Your eyes rolled back into your head at the stretch, at the way he curled his fingers, hitting all the right spots. Heat coiled in your gut and you found yourself instinctively tightening your hands into the silky strands of his hair.

"Certainly not Keir," Feyre said as she brought her hands to squeeze at your breasts.

You'd had your eyes closed, lost in the bliss of Rhys' ministrations, unprepared for the new sensation of her hands on you, you let out a moan louder than was appropriate for the situation.

"Guess I'm just good at this game," I quipped weakly. The two of them working together like this was becoming overwhelming, you could barely think past the point of contact of with their hands. There was only this and them and the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach. Rhys' pace was quickening. Feyre was playing with the clasp at the center of your bra, toying with it like she was contemplating ripping it off you.

She might have, if someone hadn't cleared their throat at the base of the dais.

"What do you want Keir?" Rhys sneered, the true picture of princely boredom, as if he was not currently holding you at the cusp of an orgasm, as if his mate wasn't leaving hickey's on the exposed skin of your breasts as they spoke.

You'd thought, as you registered Keir's presence that this would be the end of it, that they would stop now that they had his attention, but Rhys was still curling his fingers inside you, stroking relentlessly as Feyre bit and sucked at your sensitive skin. You arched into her, biting down on a moan, this game be damned. Who cared about Keir? About the rest of the court? You needed them to keep touching and kissing you. This was all that mattered.

You were panting as Feyre giggled into your skin. "Doing so good for us."

"Please," you begged, grinding yourself down on Rhys palm. You were so close, just a little more.

"I hate to interrupt," Keir began.

"No you don't," said Feyre. "It's your favorite thing to do."

"But your little toy-"

"Brought us a gift for our anniversary?" Rhys finished for him.

"We know," Feyre added. "It was a really sloppy attempt at a gift."

Keir stammered, none of the words coming out right.

"She needs some training," Rhys said. "A little refining around the edges, but I think this will be a very profitable relationship."

"Just wish we knew who sent her our way," Feyre cooed.

Rhys' free hand hand came up to rest on your throat, just tight enough to make you lean your head back to look at him. The move sent heat straight to your core, your muscle tightening as you whimpered for him. "But we'll get it out of you eventually, won't we, pet?"

Keir was visibly shaking now.

"Mhmm," you whimpered.

"Come on now, where are those pretty little manners you had before?" Rhys teased, his hand suddenly stilling.

The loss of friction was too much, tears welling up in your eyes. "Yes, yes High Lord." You stammered.

His grin was feline as he started moving again, faster this time. Feyre slid behind your mental shield again, this time opening up a door in her own mind to show you what you looked like through her eyes, your pupils blown, your cheeks flushed, lips kiss swollen and red. They'd left little red marks all along your throat and chest. Then she blasted you with an image of what she still wanted you to look like, images of her between your legs, of you taking Rhys in your mouth. You tightened around Rhys' fingers.

"And you would take the word of some-" whatever word he was about to throw at you was suddenly cut off as Rhys removed his ability to speak.

"Careful how you speak, Keir."

The steward's mouth opened and closed as he tried in vain to defend himself.

Rhys waved a hand, "You clearly have nothing useful to say here, you can go." Keir spun like a top, mouth still flapping open and closed like a fish, limbs splayed awkwardly, clearly not in control of his body, until Rhys made him walk half way to the door. Once he'd been released from the High Lord's grip, he stumbled and all but ran for the door.

"Why...?" The rest of the thought eddied from your mind as Rhys curled his fingers, hitting a spot inside you that made stars dance across your vision, your orgasm barreling through you so fast you're sure you screamed their names, but didn't have the presence of mind to hear it for yourself.

"We could kill him now," Feyre said as you slumped back against Rhys' shoulder. "But what fun is that? Why show him the mercy of a quick death when we can have him looking over his shoulder every five minutes, contemplating how to beat us in this wicked little game of ours?"

"I think," Rhys cooed as he placed a gentle kiss on your temple. "That it would be much more fun to eventually turn you on him instead."

You huffed a laugh at that.

Rhys carefully removed his fingers from your core and attempted to bring them to his mouth for a taste, but Feyre beat him to it, sliding his long fingers directly into her mouth, holding eye contact with you the entire time.

You clenched your legs together, wincing at the bit of soreness you felt there.

"Besides," Rhys purred in your ear, right before he shifted you around, settling you chest to chest in his lap. "This game is just getting started, isn't that right, pet?"

[danikamariewrites]

i saw that you said that you would write for feysand 👀

could i possibly request a smutty angst fic with feysand x reader, maybe both rhysand and feyre are trying to get reader’s attention bc reader has been lately ?

p.s. i just have to say that I absolutely love your writing style, your writing always makes my day just a little bit better 🩷

Attention Please (SMUT)

Feysand x reader

A/n: thank you anon, that just made my day better. I hope you love this ❤️

Warnings: smut, threesome

Stirring your cereal while sitting at the kitchen island you scowled at the bowl. You had snuck out of bed early that morning to avoid Feyre and Rhys. You felt like they had been brushing you off lately. Making you feel a little left out of the relationship.

You also felt like their attention had been elsewhere. They had been so busy for a few weeks it was like they had no time for you. Getting their attention was like trying to complete the Blood Rite.

It had bothered you before, but you hadn’t talked about it for the last few weeks like last time. And you promised them you would say something if you were upset.

You heard Feyre’s footsteps approaching. “Good morning love. I missed you when I woke up and you were gone.” She stops behind you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. Letting out a huff you go stiff under her touch. Feyre pulls back slightly, her face set in confusion. “Y/n, what’s wrong?” You push out of your chair, and stomp out of the kitchen. You pass Rhys in the door way. “Morning love, how-“ you bump him with your shoulder and keep walking.

If you had looked back, you would’ve seen Feyre’s hurt expression answering Rhys’ confused posture. They didn’t know what was wrong. Rhys had picked up on you being a little distant lately. And now his suspicions had been confirmed.

You sat in the library all day, engrossed in a book Gwyn had given to you. It was a sweet romance and it made you miss Feyre and Rhys. You had felt them taking turns tapping on your mental shields throughout the day. Rhys almost broke through. You could faintly hear him asking what was wrong, but you pushed him back before he could fully get in your mind.

Your stomach growled. Your hand rests over it, realizing it was late and you hadn't eaten since breakfast. You head down to the kitchen and find Rhys and Feyre sitting at the table, deep in conversation. Rhys spots you in the doorway first. He sits up straight and Feyre follows.

“Hi love.” He says cautiously. You hold yourself, looking down to avoid making eye contact. “Hi.” You walk over to the table taking your usual spot across from Feyre. They both look at you, hopeful you’ll talk about what’s bothering you.

Still avoiding their gaze you decide it’s time to come clean. Keeping in your feelings is hurting you and them. And that doesn’t do anyone any good. “I have been upset for a while. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Feyre leans forward as Rhys asks, “What’s been bothering you love? Please tell us we want to fix it.”

Finally looking at them you say, “I feel like you’ve been brushing me off the last few weeks. It’s felt like I don’t exist to you at times. All I want is your attention and I feel like it’s been a struggle to fight for it.”

You were swallowing back tears at this point because you really didn’t want to admit this next part. But the three of you had made a promise to be honest about your feelings at the start of the relationship. “And…and I’m feeling extra neglected because neither of you have touched me for me two weeks.”

Tears started falling at your admission. Rhys and Feyre quickly scramble to your side of the table to hold you and wipe your tears away. Rhys picks you up and takes you up to the bedroom. Feyre opens the door and Rhys sets you on the bed. Feyre slides in behind you, pulling your back to her chest as you sniffle. She’s hugging you swaying you gently.

Rhys plops down in front of you, a frown on his lips as he wipes away your tears some more. “Y/n, we are so sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. We could tell you a million things, like we’ve been busy or something but there’s no excuse.” Feyre kisses your temple, “please forgive us love?” She asks softly.

You look between the two of them and their apologetic expressions. “Thank you,” you sniffle out. “What can we do to make it up to princess, hmm?” Rhys asks cupping your jaw, running his thumb up and down lightly. “Can we go away for the weekend? Just spend some quality time together, please?” They give you a loving look, embracing you so your squished between them. You let out a small giggle. “We absolutely can.”

For the rest of the week they made sure to pay extra attention to you. Taking their breaks with you, they took you out for a special dinner, and made sure that you slept in the middle of the bed so they could both hold you at night.

At the end of the week you were finally alone in the cabin with them. Warm and cozy and best of all, no work for either of them.

You were currently laying on the couch with Feyre, your head resting on her breasts. Her fingers lazily tracing up and down your neck and shoulder. You let out a content hum, pressing closer to her. “When Rhys comes back we have a surprise for you.” Feyre said in a teasing tone. As your head perks up Rhys walks through the front door.

He sends you two a feline smirk and drops the fire wood by the door. He takes his time strutting over to the couch. Feyre flips you so your back is flush to her chest. Your both wearing one of Rhys’ shirts and yours was currently being pushed up by Feyre. Her hand had wandered from your neck down to your thigh.

Now tracing circles higher and higher up your thigh to the seem of your panties. A soft moan escapes your lips. Rhys takes Feyre’s hand, bringing it to rub against your clothed cunt. You arch your back, whimpering.

Rhys stops, removing Feyre’s hand completely. You stare up at him and his feline grin turns feral. “Darling, did you tell her we have a surprise for her?” Feyre hums in response, sitting up so you’re still in her lap.

Rhys strips his shirt off and drops to his knees in front of you. The mixed scent of yours and Feyre’s arousal has him groaning. He slowly pulls your panties down, tossing them to the side.

Feyre opens your legs with hers and Rhys grips your thighs with his strong, calloused hands. He kisses up to your sex nipping at your clit causing your hips to buck. He looks up at you through his lashes. “You’ve been such a good girl for us, so patient.” His voice deep and gruff.

“We thought we would reward you. Do you want that baby?” “Yes, please,” you whimper. “Good girl.” Rhys dips his head, connecting his lips to your soaking cunt. You drop your head on Feyre's shoulder moaning at the feeling of Rhys’ tongue exploring you.

He spreads your arousal up to your clit, leaving kitten licks as he moves back down to your entrance. You mewled. Rhys was trying to taste every part of you as you push your hips further into his face. It was like you were his last meal.

This is all you wanted. No distractions and the loves of your life all over you. Only they can pleasure you like this. Only they can pull these moans from your mouth.

Lost in your thoughts, the feeling of Feyre circling your clit brings you back to the present. Your hands fly down to her thighs in a bruising grip and another breathy moan leaves your lips. “Fuck - that feels good. So good. Please, please,” you didn't even know what you were pleading for. You just wanted them to keep making you feel good.

“You’re so perfect princess. Always ready to take both of us.” She moans in your ear as she bites at the shell of it. Feyre speeds up the pace of her fingers. You feel your orgasm approaching, your walls clenching around Rhys’ tongue. You hear him in your mind, “I can feel your close love. Let go, we got you.”

With a few more strokes of Rhys’ tongue and brushes of Feyre’s fingers, you feel the familiar tingling sensation building between your legs. Their names mixed with your moans. You feel a familiar tingling sensation between your legs.

Arching off of Feyre, you come on Rhys’ mouth. Feyre coos at you, rubbing your sides as Rhys places long, slow stripes up your folds.

As the shocks of your climax wear off Rhys runs his hands along your thighs. He pulls his face away, his chin and lips glistening with your release. His feline grin is back, “We're just getting started, love. Do you think you can take more?”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, your eyes half-closed from the pleasure. Feyre smirks at Rhys slowly handing you over to him.

tags: @nyotamalfoy @auggiesolovey @bubybubsters @baybay123455 @msiecrane

[fieldofdaisiies]

Feysand | Let Them Look

type: smutty drabble warning(s): puplic sex, fingering, minors DNI word count: 1,3k words summary: Rhysand has a fantasy that Feyre helps him become reality

-all rights reserved-

A cool breeze dances over her legs, leaving tingles in its wake. She sits atop her mate's lap, the hard ridge of his erection pressing so blissfully into her rear as she leans back, relishing his warmth, his infatuating scent, how his solid, warm chest feels against her back. 

Rhys' voices is like a purr, when he leans in, his damp lips brushing over ear. "I can scent your arousal, darling. Am I getting you so worked up." He kisses the spot below her ear, a short but nevertheless searing kiss, as his broad hand slides over her lower belly, bringing her closer. He helps her hips move back and forth, a little game they have been playing for a few minutes now. Feyre is riding his thigh, her core rubbing against the hard muscles of his thigh with every push and pull Rhys gives her hips. 

Through the bond, Rhys knows that his mate's desire, her lust, is just as acute as his own and he knows that they can go a step further now. "Should we give them a little show?" 

Feyre shudders, her mind running wild at what her mate is insinuating. "Right now?" she asks, her voice nothing but a breathy whispers. Turning her head a little, her cheek brushes against Rhysand's mouth and she can feel the vibrations of his chuckle on her skin. "Yes, right now." He grins as he spreads his fingers, letting the tip of his small finger slide under the thin fabric of her skirt. 

"I know the thought arouses you, darling, of all the people watching us. I can look in your mind, remember?" 

He hums, exhaling a little and his hot breath fans the back of Feyre's neck. "Let them watch while I make you feel good."

His power stretches out a little when Rhysand adjusts Feyre on his lap, spreading her legs wider open, giving him better access to her throbbing core. 

Some of the people among the ones crowded in the throne room in the Hewn City are oblivious to the starting shenanigans of their High Lord and Lady, commencing with their casual chatters as if nothing has changed in the room. But there are others that are looking, watching with an intense gaze as the High Lord spreads his mate's legs, baring her for the whole of the people present. Everyone can see, everyone can watch, what they are doing. Rhysand knows this, can hear and read their filthy thoughts, their jealousy weighing heavily in the air. And the cocky bastard he is from time to time, Rhysand enjoys this to the fullest. Making his people go crazy with jealousy and need.

His hand slides fully beneath Feyre's skirt, until the tips of his fingers are met with the dampness already gathered there. He groans into his mate's neck, loving how she melts in his touch, how her body shudders and goosebumps break out all over her skin. 

"So wet for me, darling," he purrs and his damp lips coast over Feyre's neck in a searing kiss. His other hand slides up her front, cupping her breast in his broad palm, rubbing her gently until he tugs the thin fabric to the side. Rhysand toys with the hardened nipple of her right breast, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, loving how Feyre arches into him, a low and breathy moan parting her lips. 

"Doesn't that make us look—Fuck!" Feyre throws her head back as Rhys parts her with his long fingers, dragging them through her slickness. "Doesn't that what?" he hums against her neck, his tone almost gleeful. 

"Unserious…" Feyre pants, her eyes closing and her jaw clenched. The High Lord dips is middle finger into her, pulling out so he can add a second on, his palm pressing against her clit, adding just a little bit of pressure to double her pleasure. He clicks his tongue, his lips on her ear as his fingers for a V, stretching her a little. 

"Unserious?" Rhys repeats and then chuckles. "Darling, why would you think so?"

Feyre does not know, thinking has become an sheer impossibility and she can't form any coherent thoughts, nor sentences to answer her mate. She only sighs, relaxing against him as she slowly starts to ride his fingers. 

"I don't care what they think. I only want them to know how good I can make my mate feel. How pretty she looks when she comes. How much she loves when I fuck her." The High Lord grins behind his mate, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes as he leans back in his throne, enjoying ever small moment of this public display. 

Him and Feyre have started talking about fantasies; and this particular desire of his, once only possible in his imagination, now becomes reality. It is truly happening, and Rhys can't even put into words how much he loves his mate for it. Feyre is perfect, stunning and the best thing that could have ever happened to him. And when he does not show her with words, he does so with his body. Now with his fingers, working their magic deep inside of her. 

As she sits on his lap, legs spread wide open, her most private parts on full display for everyone, she gives herself fully to her mate, going this step with him, allowing his fantasies to become reality. 

And Feyre, reserved about this idea at first, is enjoying herself to the fullest. This is reckless and wild, and she loves it. Desire starts to cloud her mind, her vision blurry with the heat in her body. The chatter around them is drowned out by the pleasure in her mind and body, making the High Lady of the Night Court only focus on her mate, on his fingers deep inside of her, touching her, rubbing her, his thumb now toying with her clit. His other hand still kneads her breast, bringing out the most pleasure possible. 

"When you come, my darling," Rhys rumbles low in his throat, sending shivers all over Feyre's body. Her eyes are closed now, head tipped back, resting against her mate's shoulder. She sighs when her mate slows the movement of his fingers, working her in long, languid strokes. "Only with my name on your lips."

He curls his fingers so he can brush against that one damnable spot inside of her that makes Feyre squirm, wreath and cry out in pleasure. She is rubbing herself against his growing erection and Rhysand knows, and also makes sure to tell his mate mind-to-mind, that this night is long not over and they will continue this once they are at home. 

The High Lord's hand slides further up on Feyre, moving to the base of her throat so he can curl his fingers around her throat. Rhys adds a bit of pressure as he squeezes, robbing her just as much air to not make it uncomfortable. "I want every person in this room to hear you scream my name. I want them to know who you belong to, how good their High Lord makes his mate feel." 

As he drives his fingers deeper into her, harder and faster, Feyre feels herself clenching around him, release nearing in waves. She rubs against him, rides his fingers, her vision too cloudy to make out if anyone is watching. And, in all honesty, she does not care. The pleasure is too much, satisfaction seeping into every fiber of her, as she gives herself fully to her mate and finally comes with her mate's name, rolling over her lips in a soft cry of pleasure. 

"Such a good girl, darling," Rhys purrs in his low rumble and black mist wraps around them, carrying them back home to their shared bedroom where a long night awaits them. 

~~~~~~~ tags: @girlinglass999 @autumndreaming7 @brekkershadowsinger @a-frog-with-a-laptop

[gothicbabydollz]

rhysand x reader with wing play and rhys being a sub?

sub!rhys is an inexperienced baby.

You coo softly in the high lord’s ear, whispering gentle praises for taking you so well. His body covers yours, skin pressed against skin, joining in the way only lovers do.

Rhys hasn’t felt this level of intimacy for another in a long while. He began trembling the moment he entered you, hiding his face into your neck and breathing hard, getting used to the feeling of your warm, silky walls wrapped around him. “Just like that, baby,” You had sighed contently when Rhys found the strength to move his hips, rutting against your own in slow, gentle thrusts. “Take what you need.” His cock slides nicely over your inner walls, occasionally finding spots which make you tighten around him. It wouldn’t be enough to send you over the edge. That didn’t matter. Being honest, you took more pleasure in turning Rhys into a whimpering, cunt drunk mess.

Your arms are wrapped around him, holding him as close to you as possible. You explore his body, fingers burying in silky locks, palms sliding and squeezing muscled shoulders, nails gently scraping over warm skin. Rhys purrs, sloppily grinding his hips against yours. You let your fingers wander, trailing down his back, between those large, dark wings draping over you both. Intrigued, your fingertips skim dangerously close. Rhys shudders, muffling a moan into your skin.

“Can I touch you?” Your ask, your voice a soft whisper as you kiss Rhys’s neck. The male curses beneath his breath, bracing himself, allowing him to force more strength into his thrusts. You release a pleasured laugh as his cock hits deeper than before. “Yes,” Rhys groans, “Please. Touch me.”

You do. Your touch explores Rhys’s wings. Learning what spots cause his breath to hitch and hips to stutter. The poor male practically sobbed when you lightly dragged your nails along the membrane. You want to know him better than he does, you want to know how to please him like he deserves.

Rhys reached his climax mere minutes after you began caressing his beautiful wings. His teeth dug into your skin, suppressing the sounds of his high. “There you go, that’s it,” You praised him throughout his climax, contrasting with the way your fingers still skated across his sensitive wings, driving Rhys into overstimulation.

You’re addicted. In need of seeing him lose control a few more times.

[damedechance]

» read on ao3 (1/4) » listen to playlist

Pairing: Feysand

Rating: E (gratuitous smut)

Summary: Feyre Archeron never considered herself to be particularly studious, but that all might have to change when she sets eyes on her new biology professor. Only, he looks strangely familiar. But it's just a coincidence. Isn't it?

read snippet below:

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

intro_to_biology_lec1.pptx

Feyre leaned over and tugged on Lucien’s sleeve. She hissed into his ear, “Who the fuck is that?”

He looked at her, one eyebrow lifted. “Our professor,” he whispered back, voice dripping with condescension.

“No shit,” Feyre said. She let go of his sleeve, and twisted back around in her seat so that she could watch as the professor walked across the stage and back towards the podium, where his bag rested on the floor.

He was their professor, sure, but he definitely wasn’t Professor Suriel. Feyre scrambled for the syllabus she had shoved aside earlier, mind so scrambled that it took her far longer to locate it than it should have. And once she finally did get her hands on it, the pages became crumpled and wrinkled beneath her grip.

She scanned the page, and found the name: Rhysand Sterling, PhD. Associate Professor.

She dropped the paper back down, eyes flicking between the text on the page in front of her and the man on the stage. He was still digging through his bag.

Feyre opened her tablet back up again, and started a blank project.

Beside her, Lucien snorted. “Now you’ll start taking notes?”

Feyre shushed him. “Shut up, I’m trying to pay attention.”

“He isn’t saying anything.” With a final shake of his head, Lucien went back to his laptop, where he had pulled up a window so that he could continue texting Elain while under the guise of taking notes. But who was she to judge? She was doing the same thing.

Instead of jotting down notes, Feyre began to sketch his hands.

The professor muttered from the front of the room, “Hang on, class. It’s here somewhere.”

Something touched the corner of her lip, and Feyre flinched, pulling herself away from Lucien. His hand was still outstretched, and she brought her hand up to cover her mouth.

“What are you doing?” she growled.

“You were drooling,” he said simply, shrugging. He put his hand back down.

“I was not,” Feyre returned indignantly.

“I’ve been looking for…” Professor Sterling trailed off. Clearly, he was preoccupied.

“Definitely were,” Lucien said with a grin.

Feyre shoved him. “Ass–”

“You.”

The professor’s voice was sharper, now. Loud, as he projected it across the lecture hall, and Feyre’s eyes immediately shot up to find that her worst fears were true.

That piercing gaze was focused entirely on her.

[shadowisles-writes]

Mess Is Mine [Feysand]

A/N: Here is my contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023 <3 Thank you to the organizers for putting everything together, I'm excited to see all the content that comes from this event!

Summary: Feyre is running away from an ugly relationship and has only been in her new building for a day when she meets Rhysand in the elevator. The flirting is a welcome distraction, but when the lines begin to blur Feyre finds herself struggling with boundaries she set herself for her new start.

Thank you @popjunkie42-blog for the beta on this fic <3

Word count: 16 116

Chapter 1

When you think of love, do you think of pain? You can tell me what you see I will choose what I believe

Chapter 2

Hold on, my darling This mess was yours Now your mess is mine.

Chapter 3

You’re talking in your sleep, out of time Well, you still make sense to me, your mess is mine

Lyrics are all from Mess Is Mine by Vance Joy

[popjunkie42]

Enchanted, Enthralled

I couldn't help it, Halloween weekend is upon us so I wrote you some smut as a treat.

(This is meant to be 3 chapters but tbh I do not have an ending yet, so please enjoy it as a little one-shot for now!)

Enchanted, Enthralled on A03

On a cold autumn night in Velaris, Feyre comes across a beautiful gift in her studio. But as a painting takes on a terrifying life of its own, Feyre begins to realize that not all is well. The question is: how long will her mate and friends take to notice, and will it be too late?

Or: Vampire!Feyre is let loose on an unsuspecting Rhysand.

Tags and Heads Up: Vampire!Feyre, vampire sex (with blood), dubcon (Feyre is possessed)

@rosanna-writer and @thesistersarcheron peer pressured me (they did not) and thanks to @witch-and-her-witcher and @xtaketwox for brainstorming with me!

Feyre wandered the streets of Velaris, chasing the fading sunlight, her boots crunching on fallen leaves.

The fall night air was chill as it twisted through the streets and snuck beneath her coat, the fabric of her skirts. Above her, the full moon hung low and heavy in the sky, its light shimmering off the cobblestones damp with mist. 

The air around her was full of the scents of autumn, of cider and smoke and mulled wine.

Feyre loved Velaris in the autumn, the brisk cold beaten back by glowing hearths and warm meals at her table. So different from before, when she was hungry, when autumn was the harbinger of winter. Of harsh times and empty pantries.

Or…after that. In endless Spring. Where all was quiet and stagnant, even in ever bloom.

She rounded a corner and took a moment to appreciate the Rainbow, glowing before her under the cold starlight. 

In the evenings, when there wasn’t dinner with the Inner Circle or some formal social event demanding a High Lady, Feyre liked to come to the studio. Knew she would have the place entirely to herself.

The door shut with the ring of a bell and she lit the fae lights in the room, the rest illuminated by the burning night lights of the city street.

The High Lady smiled as she doffed her coat and wandered through the maze of easels covered in the children’s paintings. She pulled off her gloves and scarf and set them gently down on her work bench on the far side of the room.

And paused. The usual mess was here, brushes and new supplies and paperwork and little gifts from the children. Sometimes Ressina teased her for the disorganized piles, but Feyre liked it. This was one of the few places she could spread out and destroy as well as make, without Nuala or Cerridwen or hell, even Rhys sometimes, following after her, picking up.

But what caught her eye was very out of place in the chaos. Atop the desk was a beautifully carved ornate wooden box. Though the wood was polished and immaculate, something about it screamed ancient . 

It was common enough for the children to bring her gifts, and often the parents. But never anything as grandiose as this. 

Patience never much of her strong suit, Feyre flipped the latch and lifted the heavy lid of the small chest until it hung back on its hinges.

No card, no engraving, no initials. Just twelve bottles of vibrant, fresh paint.

A soft smile played on her lips. Perhaps these were from the Continent, or one of the Master’s studios in Day? She was glad she was alone. Whoever had brought this perhaps had a sense of how embarrassed she would be, accepting such a luxurious gift.

The bottle of brilliant blue unscrewed easily and she grabbed a palette knife to mix the heavy pigment back in with the clear binder floating on top.

It was…mesmerizing. Bright and almost glowing. She wondered where they ever found the pigments to make something so otherworldly.

There was a lightness in her chest as she looked at the other bottles, each as vibrant and rich as the first. She had come here to paint, after all.

/|㇏^•ᵥᵥ•^ノ|\

The city streets outside were bursting with life, even in the chill. The sounds of conversation and the clap of shoes against the cobblestones grew as patrons left the latest show out at the theater up the street. Music swelled from the city square just beyond, and street vendors hawked their wares.

But when Feyre painted, it all faded into the background.

For too long, she thought, shaking her head as if from a dream. She arched her back and groaned at the crick forming from her bad posture.

Her brush dunked in the water glass beside her as she rubbed her stiff neck. Had it really been so long? She was mixing the paints, brushing on a tinted under layer, and then…

Finally her eyes returned to her canvas and she gasped.

Sworls of choppy blue, green and white centered the canvas, looking like rippling waves. She could have sworn they moved. And around them, bands and bands of dark black. A frame. A mirror. A door.

She didn’t remember painting a single stroke.

The painting seemed to ripple again, and maybe it was the light but she could have sworn…there was something behind the brush strokes, depths upon hidden depths.

She felt a familiar feeling, a dread in her belly and prickling of her skin. So like those first steps Under the Mountain, tiptoeing and peeking around each corner, knowing something terrible was inevitable around one of them.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

The sounds of the street faded away again as her eyes focused and unfocused. Feyre felt her arm lift, her fingers picking up a brush. As if on its own. She took a dab of paint and the world faded away.

/|㇏^•ᵥᵥ•^ノ|\

The second time, she still didn’t know how long she had been under. Because that’s what it felt like, thrashing under deep waves, being tossed back and forth. And somewhere, deeper still, a voice. Soothing and gentle. Telling her, just let go. 

Sink .

-Darling?

It was the voice of her mate that brought her back with a start.

-What are you up to? I’ll be winnowing back from the camp soon.

-I’ll meet you at home, she quickly sent down the bond.

The painting had changed. Her heart pounded between her ribs.

Looking back at her was a single slitted eye, red as hot coals. 

And she heard it whisper,

Sink .

/|㇏^•ᵥᵥ•^ノ|\

Rhys panted as he rolled his hips upward, the chill night breeze from the cracked window doing little to cool the heat of his skin, dripping with sweat. 

Above him Feyre moaned, her hips grinding against his, her head tilting back to the ceiling with her mouth parted, tasting the air.

Only a single candle lit the room from the bedside table. The cold moonlight cast in, a sharp line through the curtain, the silver light piercing over her neck, her peaked breasts.

Rhys’s eyes were wide. Enchanted . She was so fierce and free tonight, taking everything she wanted. Feyre moved on him, her hand lifting to grasp her breast and he gasped as she clenched tighter around him.

She had been rough tonight, desperate. Throwing him against the wall and ripping away his fine black jacket the moment he stepped into the bedroom. He had barely had time to grin, to tease her for her lascivious hands and lips until he was thrown onto the bed, his clothes roughly stripped from his body.

He gripped her hips, trying to guide his body deeper into her. His pleasure was a wild, feral thing, setting off sparks in his mind the more he felt the wanton drag of his cock through her slick wetness.

Feyre opened her mouth in a gasp as her back arched, the light catching on her pointed canines. Her hands went to cover his on her hips, and he felt her talons growing and scratching against his skin.

Though he was inside her, touching her everywhere, his body only cried out more, more.

Her skin was pale, almost blue in the moonlight, but her body was burning, scorching him under his palms and where they were joined at the hip.

Through his lusty haze, he felt the sudden pangs of a hunger so desperate the breath caught in his throat.

Feyre whimpered, a delicious sound, and leaned forward on her knees to pitch towards him and suckle at the pulse throbbing in his neck.

“Rhys,” she panted. Her voice was deep, desperate. “I’m so hungry.”

He gasped as the feeling struck him down the bond, her aching emptiness traveling through the golden tether between them and gripping his heart.

Between his pleasure he felt the flashes, of a girl starving and cold in the woods, of moldy bread in a dank prison cell. All the times she was alone and he hadn’t been there to provide. It was driving him mad. He felt the urge to let his power rise, to turn back the sun and moon in the sky until he was there every moment she was alone and desperate and surround her with his wings. To place delectable morsels on her waiting tongue, let her suck the taste from his fingers.

That tongue was lapping against his neck, licking off beads of sweat, replaced by the scrape of her teeth, sharp against his skin.

Though she was in his arms, her cunt fluttering around him, his heart was breaking with her hunger, her need. His mate was starving. A primal urge rose within him, to provide, to satiate. 

“Darling ,” he cried, his voice breaking. “What do you need? Tell me,” he pleaded, his arms wrapping around her back, hot and slick with sweat.

She nipped at his neck. “ I’m so hungry,” she said again, nuzzling at his throat.

“Yes, yes,” he cried. As if he could, would ever deny her anything. Certainly not with his cock buried deep inside her and her voice this needy whine. “Take what you need,” he whispered into the dark.

Her body stilled at that and his own cried out at the lack of friction. But he felt her smile against his neck, and then her teeth scraped, and then she was biting, her sharp canines piercing through his flesh to reach his hammering pulse beneath it.

All feeling in his body rushed, like an errant wave, and he came with a hoarse cry as he spilled himself inside of her.

His vision is blurred and his mind is hazy as he comes down from his climax, the thoughts filtering through his mind like wandering clouds across the night sky. Feyre’s mouth is hot against his neck, a heady, burning sensation running down from her lips to his limbs, his body tingling. The feelings down the bond are glowing, warm, thankful. 

Instead of relaxing back into the bed, his body, he feels he’s moving up, and up, floating above the mattress. He feels a drip of something, blood or sweat, escape Feyre’s lips and travel down the muscles of his neck. Her teeth are sharp but her mouth is warm, her tongue dancing over his skin.

And oh, she’s so content. She hums against him, the sound reverberating through his neck to his skull. She’s taking and taking and all he wants is to give her more, to fill her up. She pierced his skin and all his strength, the swirling madness of his darkness rushed out to satiate her need.

She sucks harder and he feels his limbs going loose and light, his whole body weightless and attuned to every place they are connected. He groans with her ecstasy, her joy. Gone is the starving human girl in the forest, bitter and trembling. He is feeding his mate, his Feyre, and here on top of him she is safe and warm.

Just when his body feels like it might sink, might fall through the mattress and into whatever dark earth lies beneath it, she breaks from his neck with a gasp.

Feyre throws her head back towards the ceiling, panting, the moonlight cascading down her body once again. He watches, enraptured, feeling like he’s outside of his body, vaguely charting the dribble of blood dripping from her lips to her chin to her throat, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.

He is so tired now. He files the vision of her blood stained teeth deep within him for another time. All he feels now is her pleased murmurings across the bond. A deep humming contentment in his chest. The male, now content, who dreamt sometimes about that ancient High Lord, dashing his body and blood against the stone streets of Velaris, to keep it safe. 

He groaned as she slipped off of him, but his hands wouldn’t quite work the way he wanted them to. The mattress dipping beside him as she collapsed. She was still breathing heavily, licking her lips. He turned his head and wished she would do the same, needing to drink in more of her.

And finally she did. She looked at him and smiled, a glint in her eyes that was strange but, her smile, that was enough to send a shiver down his body. His eyelids heavy, he smiled back.

“Are you happy, darling?” He whispered.

Safe and warm and fed.

Her smile widened as his eyes slowly drooped. A buzzing in the back of his head was the only thing keeping him from slipping away completely. His mind clung to the feel of her sharp talons, softly scraping against his skin. Drops of blood pooled with her sweat and finally drifted across her collarbone and down her shoulder.

“I’m so happy,” she said, and he fell into the darkness with a soft sigh. “You taste so good, my love.”

[temperedink]

high in the moonlight

Feysand, pure smut, no plot, one-shot, 3K.

For @sjmromanceweek 2024.

Basically if Moonlight by Kali Uchis + Partition by Beyonce had a sexy baby.

The High Lord and High Lady are due for a visit to the Court of Nightmares. They’re getting ready when they get…distracted by each other.

(Spoiler: They ain’t even gonna make it to this club.)

Read on AO3.

Thanks to @popjunkie42 and @bibliophiliaxvignette for brilliant betaing!

This is my first time writing Feysand, and they are my FAVE, so I hope I did them justice!

[sweetcarolina-24]

Punishment*

Kinktober Day 2: Impact Play

Feysand x Reader

kinktober masterlist

A/N: i might struggle with this one. the randomizer chose feysand for this one so wish me luck, yall. 18+

CW: sexual themes, impact play, fingering, punishment

You are mated with Feyre and Rhysand. They have been away for a meeting recently.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Your mates had been away on business for over a week. You had missed them so much that you had hardly left your room.

Rhys had been sending you images of him and Feyre making love every night.

The night before, you hadn't been able to help yourself. You'd slipped your fingers down and rubbed that bundle of nerves until you came.

"Touching yourself with permission, darling?" Rhys had said into your mind.

And now they were coming home, and you were waiting in the bed you all shared, knees pulled to your chest.

The door opened.

You glanced up, seeing the High Lord and Lady in the doorway, Rhys with a disapproving expression stretched across his features.

Feyre pouted when she saw you, she floated over and sat down at your side. She placed her hand on your cheek.

"Are you angry with me, Fey?" you whispered. She hummed and brushed her thumb across your lip.

"Is what Rhys told me true?" she challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Did you touch yourself without permission?"

You looked down at your lap, unable to lie to her. She tutted and shook her head at you.

Rhys approached, tilting your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. With a thought, your clothes were gone. You squealed, your hands covering your chest.

"Nothing we haven't seen before, darling," he teased. You glared at him.

The talons of his powers clawed at your mind. You opened your shields to him and he entered.

He took over your mind, forcing you to turn around for him and get down on all fours. You arched your back under his control, dropped to your forearms, and lifted your ass.

You tried to fight, but you couldn't move. He was inside your head, holding you in place.

"You'll take ten," he decided.

You nodded, knowing it could be much worse. Feyre heatedly slid two fingers inside you. You shuddered and let out a moan.

"Don't make any noise," she cooed, stroking your hair with her other hand.

You bit your lip to keep quiet as her fingers continued to move in and out of you. Rhys was on the other side of you.

You jerked, screaming as you felt the first smack land on your ass. Feyre gripped your hair and yanked your head back.

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" she reminded you. You tried to nod against her grip. "Good." She let go of your hair and you dropped your head.

The second strike landed and you whimpered. Feyre's pace, which she had set with her fingers, stopped. She delivered the third blow herself. You hid your face in the mattress to muffle your sounds.

The fourth slap was also delivered by Feyre, but after the fifth, she returned to sliding her fingers into your core.

The sixth strike was hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. The pain mixed with the pleasure Feyre gave confused and aroused you.

The last four made the tears actually fall. But you managed to hold back your sobs.

"You took it so well," Feyre praised with a smile.

Rhys' talons released your mind, and you sat up immediately, tears streaming down your face. Feyre wiped them away for you.

"We missed you, y/n," Rhys promised you. You glared at him, which made him smile sinfully.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

[tadpolesonalgae]

Dark!Feysand x human!reader: Tag, you’re it - Part 2[***]

A/N: Do you like my cookies? They’re made just for you. A little bit of sugar, but lots of poison, too.

Warnings: noncon, smut, mention of whips, kind of sex-slave things?, mentions of rape, impact play, face-sitting, suffocation, fingering

Word Count: 5,444

Your eyes snap open, instantly scrambling back at the sound of the key in the lock.

The gate swings open, allowing your self-appointed mistress to step inside, her feet silent on the wooden floor, bathed in a thick, dark red rug. Like blood-soaked moss.

The iron bars dig into your spine as you whimper, pushing yourself into the corner, where the metal meets the plaster of the wall. Your legs curl up to your front, arms hugging your knees tight as you try to tuck yourself into a tiny ball.

“Sweetness, stop doing that,” she tuts, standing at the entrance to your cage, situated near the end of their bed. “It’s been weeks. You know we aren’t going to hurt you,” she reasons, arms folding across her chest as she stares down at your cowering form.

Sometimes you’re lucky, and they’ll allow you to stay in your cage as they couple, forcing you to watch as they enjoy one another. Other times, you’re dragged from your confines kicking and screaming, until one of them inevitably takes your mouth for themself.

“If you mean me no harm, let me go,” you rasp, throat still raw from the night before. You’d kicked off just a little too hard, which landed you a night with the High Lord. And Rhysand, plus the chains and whips he’d subjected you to, wasn’t something you wanted to be reacquainted with anytime soon.

Her brow narrows, lips pursing.

Then she’s walking toward you, eating up the distance in a few quick strides, and you press yourself tighter into the corner. Your padded shackles clink as they drag across the rug.

She squats down just a way from you, making you squirm beneath her piercing blue-grey eyes. “What’s this about, hm? You were doing so well,” she muses, peering at you intently. “What happened?”

Fear and anger pump through your blood, hugging yourself tighter. “You murdered by husband, Feyre,” you snap, vision blurring at the memory. “You murdered, and raped, and stole,” you snarl, tears brimming at your lashes as you glare at her.

Her own brows narrow, a mix of pain and fury in her eyes as she stares at you, hard. Then, “your husband, as you call him,” she says icily, “was a rapist. A rapist, and a coward. We saved you from him.”

“But I didn’t need saving! I didn’t want saving!” You cry, nails digging into your knees as you keep yourself balled tight.

“He was ruining you,” she snarls lowly. “He wasn’t good for you. Couldn’t provide for you. He only wanted you so he could have a wife.” She pushes forward then, gripping you by the jaw as your eyes lock with hers, intent and piercing. “A pretty, little trophy. The Mother knows you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. He knew that too,” she growls, lips brushing over your own. “Every damn person could see it. You were too good for him.”

You squirm in her grip, trying to jerk away, but she’s so powerful and strong you can never hope to escape. “I. Love. Him.”

“He’s dead,” she snarls back, pulling you closer. “He is dead, mutilated, and buried. Dumped in the ground for the worms to feed on him. What’s left of him.”

“And I still love him more than you,” you spit back.

You know you’ve found your mark when she goes still, features leeching of colour, turning a ghostly shade of white. Fury glitters in her blue-grey eyes, icy rage surfacing, sealing over.

“We were friends, Feyre,” you continue on. “You were the closest I have ever been with someone, and now you keep me in a cage.” Her jaw tightens, but she says nothing. Just staring at you with that fury that has nowhere to go. “You can say what you like about him. Keep telling yourself those lies,” you breathe, nails piercing your skin. “Maybe you think he was ruining me, that he was tearing me apart, but you’re the one who caused me to be like this. You. Are. My ruination.”

The smack comes out of nowhere.

One moment you’re staring into her eyes, and the next your head is snapped to the side, cheek stinging with pain. Vision blurs and tears fall, unable to stop them, no matter how hard you try.

“You will either learn to love us,” she grits out, a cold fire burning in her gaze. “Or you will continue on like this. If you’ll be so stubborn as to waste away over that miserable wretch, then so be it. Drown in your grief.” Again she grips your jaw, crescent shapes surely indented in your skin by now. “But don’t come crying to me when you become so damaged even we won’t tolerate it.”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, regret flashes in her eyes. Pain flares in her gaze, and you feel that final thread be snipped off. The final string connecting a woven tapestry, split into two.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes widening. “I didn’t… You know I didn’t mean that…” She cups your cheeks, staring pleadingly. “Sweetness, forgive me.” She presses her forehead to yours, touching you so gently, reverently, as if you really will shatter.

You jerk away, landing a kick to her stomach, but it merely bumps her away a little—always so much stronger than you. “You’re just like him,” you spit, pushing every ounce of betrayal and hurt you can muster into you eyes. “No, worse. This is so much worse than anything Tamlin ever did to you.”

It’s not a physical smack to the face, but it might as well have been.

Her eyes again grow cold at the mention of her past lover, lip curling. “I am nothing like him,” she snarls, gripping your shoulders.

“Aren’t you?” You snap back, kicking off again—you might be able to get through to her. “Keeping me locked up? Trying to make me dependant on you? Taking away my autonomy?” You spit at her, each word seemingly knocking a brick from that wall. “At least he never raped you.”

The final brick falls, but it doesn’t bring the aid you had hoped for. Instead fury crushes down on you, ire blazing in her eyes, hot like steel fresh from a forge.

You’re thrown to the floor, breath knocking from your lungs, air wheezing from your lips as your head hits the rug with too much force. Your eyes fly wide, paralysed as your stomach spasms with the strength of the shove.

“And here I thought a night with Rhys would have fixed that attitude of yours,” she says icily, walking over to your shackled body. “Where did that come from, huh? You were never so easily agitated before.” She stalks over to you, staring down at your winded body, muscles struggling to move. “Maybe we’re being too soft on you,” she muses, making your blood run cold. “Maybe we need to take a rougher, more absolute approach to breaking you in.”

Feyre’s deft fingers fly to the band of her leggings, pushing them down her thighs, over her calves and off her ankles, leaving her in her shirt and underwear. She steps over your head, looking down your body as you attempt to wriggle away. “It seems the only time you’re at all like your old self is when you’ve got something to do with that lovely mouth of yours,” she growls, squatting over you. Even with your human senses, you can scent her arousal from how close she is.

You squirm away, but she drops down, placing her cunt over your mouth, sealing it shut with her weight. “Much better,” she purrs, thighs spreading as she rolls her hips, clit rubbing over your lips. “You’re so much more enjoyable when you’re just a place for my pussy. So well behaved.”

The High Lady’s hands bury in your dress, and you shriek and squirm as she pulls the fabric away, up to your waist, baring you to her. You squeeze your thighs shut in attempts to hide yourself—they didn’t allow you to wear underwear. That would give you too much dignity. They want you ready at any time.

You twist your head to the side but she shifts her hips, squeezing you with her calves to keep you upright, so she can rub and roll over you to her pleasure. “I think you need the fight beaten out of you. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?” Her hand smacks down between your legs, and you scream—with pain and surprise.

Again, you try to squeeze your legs closed, but bands of darkness tug on the shackles attached to your ankles, wrapping up the iron and looping beneath your knees. Forcing your thighs open.

She brings her hand down again, catching your clit beneath bone, and you whimper into her heat. The wet fabric settles over your features, dampening your lips and nose as she grinds onto you, pleasuring herself to your pain. She smacks again, and tears fall.

Feyre doesn’t stop. Spank after spank is landed to your soft, tender sex, until slick is attaching to her fingertips, connecting them to your cunt by thin threads of slippery silver. She snarls with feminine satisfaction, delighting in the way your thighs tremble, how your chest is rapidly rising up and down with your muffled cries. Her middle and forth finger slide down, spreading you wide as she leans down your body, shifting her weight over your face.

The two fingers press to your sopping entrance, before pushing inside, roughly. Sliding up to her knuckles.

She’s pleased when you whimper, nosing at her sopping entrance as you try to squirm away.

“You say you hate us, yet you get this wet from a few harsh touches, sweet thing?” She croons, indulging in the obscene squishing sounds your cunt is making as she slides her fingers in and out. You only whimper, refusing to bow to her will.

Her fingers retract from your cunt, smacking down again, and you scream, jerking violently as the sting lances up your thighs. She lifts up onto her knees, gripping your jaw with the fingers that were just inside of you, arousal smearing your skin. “Come on, sweetness. Tell the truth, for once,” she snarls, lips lifting in a feral grin. “Such a pretty liar.”

Your nose scrunches in distaste, tears rolling back through your hair as she keeps you trapped beneath her cunt, pinned to the rug. “I hate you,” you spit out instead. “I will never love you,” you say, wetness blurring your vision as your chest heaves with sobs.

Her lip pulls back from her teeth as the undersides of her feet slide beneath your head, pulling you up into her cunt as she locks you in, squeezing tight. She releases you long enough for her underwear to vanish, before she’s shoving you back in, wet heat pressing onto you, slicking your mouth and nose.

Again her hand smacks down, and you can’t help the way your lips part in a muffled scream, hands grasping at her as you try to escape, but she pulls you tighter. Can’t breathe.

You sting between your legs, tears spilling as she continues abusing that tender, intimate part of you, pain searing into your tummy as he smacks down on your raw, swollen clit. The world spins a little and you need air, you need to breathe—

Warm, strong hands are pushing her off you, carefully.

You gasp for breath, falling back into the ready arms as cries continue to wrack your body, lungs spasming from the intensity.

Rhysand pulls you to his chest, your back to his front as you shiver and sob, giving you strength to fall into as your own fails you.

Feyre growls in the back of her throat, shifting slowly to face her mate. “Give her to me.”

The words alone drag whimpers from your lips, the little strength you have being used to push yourself back into the male, scrambling into his cruel arms. Arms that are currently holding you so delicately compared to the iron grip she’d just had you in.

You’d always known she was a huntress. Always’d had that slightly wild edge to her, the part that was well-acquainted with cold winters and brutal slaughters. It was different actually facing that part, though. Having it turned on you.

You scramble back further, hands pressing onto the tops of his thighs as you leverage yourself. He’s crouching down, hunching over you possessively. Not quite protective, but not offering you up, either. A strange combination indeed.

Soft, hot lips press to your temple, and you whimper, not having the energy to shift away from him. “I thought she was ours, Feyre, darling,” he purrs, holding you a little tighter to his body. “I’m getting a little jealous over all your time together.”

“Rhys,” she snarls, moving closer.

You snatch your legs in, flinching away from her, curling into the High Lord.

Both of them mark the movement, noting the significance.

You just chose him over her.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you shuffle away from her, burying into Rhysand, burrowing into his warmth and strength. Violet eyes gleam with interest at the pressure you’re creating, as if you want to crawl inside of him, nestle beneath his skin.

“I think you need to calm down,” he says softly but firmly, watching his mate. “You’re scaring her.”

Her brow narrows, but she pauses. “You’re being too soft on her,” she accuses lowly, letters dragging from her tongue. “She’ll never come around if you keep allowing her to sway you like that.” Rhys doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash, hand moving to stroke your hair, as if calming a pet. Strangely, it works.

“You think I’m being soft on her?” He repeats, attention dropping to you, between his thighs. His hand lightly grips your throat, spanning your neck and jaw, allowing him to tip your head back. “Do you think I’m being too soft on you, little lynx?” He asks, violet eyes piercing into your tear-filled ones hungrily.

You shake your head. “No, Rhys,” you whimper, lower lip wobbling, and he feels your heartbeat spike beneath his fingers. He makes a low sound of approval in his throat, eyes flicking back to Feyre’s. “See? So polite,” he drawls, squeezing a little tighter. “So well trained.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Feyre snarls, glowering at the two of you. “If you don’t punish her when she misbehaves, she’ll know she can use that in the future. Are you listening to me?”

His violet eyes have latched onto yours, brows curved upward, expression tired and pleading. He groans in the back of his throat, tightening his hold on you, fingers pressing against your pulse point, pushing tears from the edges of your lashes. “What about you, Feyre, darling?” He asks, gripping your chin so you’re forced to face her. “How would you fair if she gave you those pretty bedroom eyes?”

Blue-grey locks onto your bright, tear-filled gaze and she stiffens.

Rhysand hums. “Thought so.”

Feyre narrows her eyes at her mate. “I don’t like it when she mouths off like that.”

“Well, how about fixing those misconceptions instead of punishing her for them, hm?” He counters, returning to stroking your hair, liking how your sobs subside beneath his touch. “You want to encourage her behaviour?” She snaps irritably, prowling forward a little, making you tense up in his hold.

A low laugh rumbles from his chest at that, but he continues petting you, allowing you to start softening beneath him. “I think our previous method clearly isn’t working. Or rather, it’s worked enough so that now we’re going softer on it, she’ll know the difference. Isn’t that right, little lynx?” You blink bright, gleaming eyes at him, and he smiles.

“If we’re both more gentle with you…would you like that?” He asks, softly stroking your skin. You manage to blink away your tears, getting a hold on your wobbly lower lip. Then you give a near imperceptible dip of your head.

Violet flicks smugly to blue-grey, and you shiver in his arms, wondering what you just signed up for.

“So, we compromise?” She says, drawing your attention to her. “Is that what you want, sweetness? We’ll be more careful with your frail self, and…what? You’ll stop being so difficult?”

“You killed my husband,” you hiss out, weakly. “And you’re upset about me being—”

Faster than you can register, Rhys’ hand has slipped between your thighs. You tense, bracing for another smack that will have a fresh wave of tears surfacing, but instead he softly touches the pad of his finger to your sopping entrance, dragging back up your centre to gently roll over your puffy clit, gliding across the taut bud with ease.

A quiet moan spills from your mouth as you squeeze your eyes shut, toes curling as he plays with you. Heat washes over your body, and you hate how you’re reacting to him. How you’re stumbling straight into his lap.

“We’ll be more careful, and she’ll fall open for us,” Rhysand murmurs, smug grin on his curved lips, enjoying how you’re melting at his fingertips. “Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

You try to think it over. Them being more gentle with you means no more nights with the High Lord and his whips. No more biting and unending pleasure torment. Your eyes flick away, dropping to the rug. What if this is the best deal they’ll offer you? What if this is the best it gets? It seems like a way to escape their torture. At least, in a way.

Rhysand hums with satisfaction as your head dips, shame warming your cheeks—because you’re considering it. Considering bargaining with them.

“Either way,” he drawls, hands sliding beneath your arms, pulling you up with him as he stands. You whimper, the intimate area between your legs aching, vision blurring at the edges. “I think you two should do some making up. Isn’t that right, sweetness?” He grips you tightly as he guides you from the cage, toward their large bed. Fear spikes in your blood, and you try to dig your feet into the ground, attempting to push away from the haunting structure.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the High Lord tuts, stopping behind you. “I thought you were going to be good for us.” Darkness swirls at your feet, humming and lulling, imploring you to follow his movements. Your toes curl, pressing back into him. “This is wrong…” you whimper, trembling beneath his hands.

You try to turn, and he lets you, keeping a light grip on your hips. “This isn’t right, Rhys,” you say softly, peering up at him pleadingly. He takes a step forward, and you obediently yield. Take a subconscious step back. “What isn’t? What are right and wrong, really?” He counters, taking another sweeping step forward, and you’re aware of the bed closing in on you.

“This,” you say, emphasising as you flick your gaze over him. “I don’t—… How else can I make it clear?” You cry. “I don’t want this. Either of you. I never have. Not like this.” The mattress presses against the back of your thighs, and you stiffen. Your time is up.

He takes a final step forward, so you’re tight against him, hips digging into you, chest to chest, craning your neck upward. “I think you’re lying, again.” And with that, he’s grabbing you by the waist, lifting you up and tossing you onto the mattress with terrifying ease. You squirm and scramble but darkness has already constrained you, tying you to their bed as hunger darkens his violet eyes.

“Like I said, I think you two need a little make up session. Get nice and messy,” he purrs, prowling round the bed, only to settle behind you. His arms wrap over your tummy, pulling you back into him, so you can feel the firm hardness of his length. You writhe, attempting to contort away from his dominating hold.

A secret conversation passes between the High Lord and Lady, then she’s slinking forward, pushing your legs open. You whimper, squirming away in fear of what she’s going to do to you. You’re so sore and sensitive…

“Behave,” she snaps, brow narrowing at you in silent reprimand. Rhys snarls in warning, but she snarls back. Blue-grey eyes flick from his in favour of yours, and you shrink away, a whine building in your throat as they pierce into you. “Feyre…” you plead softly. You need her to be gentle, or…

Something in her features softens, and she uses a slight bit less force as she spreads your legs, baring your gleaming heat to her. “Want me to be careful, sweet thing?” She asks lowly, the pads of her fingers pressing into your thighs. Your lower lip wobbles, but you nod, slowly. “Not going to get in my way? Not going to try and stop me?” She drawls, settling comfortably on the bed, mouth prone to attack your clit. You shake your head, muscles tensing the closer she draws.

“No? You’re going to let yourself enjoy it, this time?” She purrs, hot breath brushing over your heat. It’s her own sort of test—to see if you’re really willing to compromise. So you nod, dutifully, praying for forgiveness.

Her eyes spark, locking on yours as she delivers a small lick to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin. Rhys hardens further at your back. “Say it. Tell me you’ll enjoy it. Say how you like it when we do this to you.” Again, there’s a warning growl from Rhys, and your heart drops.

Feyre’s lips quirk, and she moves a little closer to your heat, a wolf circling in on her prey. “Go on,” she goads, “tell me how much you want me.”

“Feyre…” the High Lord warns, her name ripping from the back of his throat. “I thought you wanted us to make up, Rhys,” she snaps, “these are my terms. Either she can accept them, or…” She leans forward, lips latching over your heat so he’s unable to see as her teeth tug on your clit.

You flinch, whimpering, but push your legs wider. “I…” you stammer, softly, hands fisting over your stomach, still slumped against Rhys. “I’ll enjoy it,” you whimper, thighs shaking with the effort of not trying to close them. “I won’t— I won’t try to stop you. And I…” you swallow, arriving upon the hardest part. Tears blur your vision, but you blink them away. “And I like it when you do this to me. I want it.”

Rhys’ hips roll into you, grinding the hardness of his cock into your backside, groaning softly. Feyre’s eyes gleam with delicious satisfaction, removing her teeth from your sensitive skin, licking gently over your slick heat. “That’s better,” she says, kissing your clit softly.

You whimper, trying to ignore your words as they replay in your head, bringing one hand to your mouth, knuckles pressing over your lips. It’s an effort to keep your thighs spread with how sensitive you are, but you don’t have a choice in the matter. She’s lapping and licking, gentle flicks of her tongue sending warm zaps of arousal to your centre.

The High Lord noses your neck, hot lips brushing the sensitive skin as he moans quietly, a lustful exhale of breath. “What lovely things would you say for us, hm?” He asks, canines scraping the shell of your ear. “What sweet sounds could you make?”

You shiver in his arms, sorrowfully tipping your head to the side, giving him unrestricted access to your throat. He takes the offer eagerly, mouth attaching to your smooth skin, already sucking bruises into you, teeth scraping as he searches for a spot he wants to bite. Where he wants to stamp his mark into you, to be seen later. Serving as a reminder.

Feyre shifts, tucking her knees beneath her as she slides her fingers into you, the warm, wet muscle in her mouth swiping over your clit, making you bite back a moan. She suckles the taut bud, soothing the stinging from earlier and you push your teeth into your knuckles.

The High Lord sees, and doesn’t approve.

His hand grips your wrist, pulling it from your mouth as she curls her fingers against a certain spot. A high-pitched whine spills from your lips, and he finally bites down, canines pressing into the soft skin of your throat, printing his mark on you. “Don’t hide those sounds from us,” he scolds, roughly yanking your hand from your mouth.

You attempt to seal your lips, clenching your jaw shut, but they have other plans.

Rhys tugs your dress higher, darkness swirling around your bodice, then it vanishes. You squeal, attempting to cover yourself with your arms. Even now, even after all these times, you hate it. He shoves your hands away, tutting softly, “now, now. You said you’d be good. Or shall I let Feyre have free reign for the night?”

You sob weakly, coil tightening in your belly, resisting the urge to cover yourself, spreading yourself wider in attempts to make up for it. Feyre nips at your clit, and you hiss. The taut bud is sore and swollen, puffy from attention, every flick of her tongue sending sparks burning between your legs.

“Mm sorry…” you manage, opening yourself up to the senses, the pleasure she’s putting into you. “Yeah? You’re sorry for disobeying? For hiding yourself from us?” He purrs beside your ear, hands cupping your breasts as you squirm against him. He groans as your rear presses against his cock, the seam rubbing against him almost painfully. Deliciously so.

You nod, palms settling over his thighs, needing something to hold on to. “Say it,” he groans roughly. “Say how much you like it. How badly you want us to touch you.” Tears spill, rolling down your cheeks from the torrent of emotions they’re subjecting you to.

“Rhys…” you beg desperately. “Rhys, please…” You don’t want to say it. Don’t want to give them another word. Even if they were once your everything. He raises his fingers to your mouth, pushing them onto your tongue firmly, coating them in saliva. “Say it,” he commands softly, stroking the wet muscle. “Say it, or we’ll have to go back to our old methods.”

His wet digits retract from your lips, brushing over your nipples, making them peak, becoming sensitive to the air. You attempt to crane your head back, but are unable to with him so close behind. “Rhys…” you whimper, tears dripping onto your chest, Feyre eagerly suckling your clit, pumping and curling her fingers against spots she shouldn’t know about.

The High Lord tugs on your nipples, making your eyes squeeze shut, spine arching as your rear presses harder onto his cock, straining against the seam of his trousers. “Say it,” he growls, low in his throat, “say you like it. Tell us you want more.” His teeth scrape over the shell of your ear, and you flinch. “And make it believable.”

Feyre’s tongue swipes over your clit, making you squirm against the pleasure, deft fingers dragging in and out, rubbing against your inner walls.

“I…”

The High Lady adds more pressure between your legs, and your muscles go weak, melting into Rhys’ chest as your eyes roll back. Dizzy with warmth. In the back of your mind, you think you can feel his lips lift into a hellish grin, watching from a far corner in your head as one of his hands leaves you, trailing down over your tummy.

Feyre pulls away, a mix of slick and saliva connecting her mouth to your heat as Rhys’ hand takes her place. Her fingers are still pumping and curling, and that heat is still building, and you’re almost entirely relaxed against him.

That is, until he presses the pad of his middle finger hard over the tip of your clit, soreness blaring through your mind.

You squeal, panting and writhing, pushing her fingers deeper into your cunt, letting them touch sensitive, more intimate spots that have small moans spilling breathlessly from you. “Rhys…” you beg, eyes squeezed shut as your nails dig into the muscle of his thighs.

“I’m not stopping until you say it,” he says roughly, slowly oscillating his finger over your clit, the soreness sending blinding white flashing behind your eyelids and your hips buck. Feyre’s free forearm slides over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as you try to roll down onto her fingers.

“Come on,” he goads, amusement lilting his honeyed voice. “Just a few words, and I’ll stop.” The circles tighten, Feyre’s fingers brushing against spots you feel she’s intentionally targeting. “Say it, or I’ll make it worse,” he laughs darkly.

You whimper, mind spinning as you attempt to remember the words he’d ordered you to speak. Struggling to form them on your tongue. Heat builds; the coil tightens. “Rhys…” you moan, hips trying to buck up but she’s keeping you down. All you can do is take them. Every thing they force onto you.

Your lips part, head tipping back as you slide lower down the mattress. “I…I want more,” you whisper, heart splitting as tears drip down your cheeks, wetting your skin. “I—” You cut yourself off with a moan, nails biting harder into Rhys’s thighs and you wonder if he can even feel it. Maybe he enjoys it.

“Come on,” he urges, “just a bit more, then this can all stop.” You don’t want it to stop.

Fuck, you don’t want it to stop.

The realisation slams into you right as Rhys pinches your clit, and the loudest moan yet bursts from your lips. Your hands scramble about, searching for purchase frantically, trying to grip onto something as you feel the wave crest.

“F…Feyre…” you whimper, squirming and writhing. They hold you tighter, restricting your movements and louder sobs spill from your lips. “Please…please, please more.” Rhys’ breath catches and Feyre’s eyes flick to you, each of them memorising the way you move, the desperate jerks as you try to shift how you want.

“That’s it,” the High Lord breathes, letting up on your sensitive clit, only for Feyre to latch on in his stead. “So good. That’s our girl. So well—”

They let you go long enough to move.

You push up and flip over before his hands have your hips in a bruising grip. You cry out from pain but crawl further up his body, arms shooting over his shoulders as you press into him. His violet eyes widen marginally before your mouth opens over his, the echo of pain still reverberating around your thighs.

Feyre reattaches her mouth to your cunt, switching her fingers and her teeth as her tongue pushes against your entrance, thumb pressing into your clit, her nail scraping over the swollen bud. Your nipples graze his chest, and you shatter right then and there—with his fingertips still digging into the softness of your hips.

Your hips wind against her, hands threading in Rhys’ blue-black hair, the thick, silky locks feeling good between your fingers. Your hands fist as you pull him closer, and he groans—a sound deep within his chest. You feel it resonate into your own as his tongue flicks out, stroking over yours as he pushes after you. His canines catch on your lower lip and you moan, sweetly.

You don’t have the time to face what you’ve done as the aftershocks fade, taking the remnants of your strength with them, leaving you with mere scraps of energy.

Arms give out, and you collapse onto him, Rhys lying back on the pillows as he basks in the reassuring weight of your body against his. Quiet pants whisper from your lips as you remain stretched out over the High Lord, void of any clothing, mind still blank from the orgasm.

Feyre presses a kiss to your entrance, before dragging herself away from your heat, trailing a pathway up your spine until she’s draped over you. You feel the full press of her breasts against your back, and subconsciously arch your spine, curving into her shape so you can mould together.

Her lips press to your neck, and a soft sound of pleasure hums from your mouth, a quiet breath of ecstasy.

Rhys’s arms wrap around the both of you, making sure you remain tucked between them.

Right where you belong.

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022

Feysand Taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza

[thesistersarcheron]

Pairing: Feysand Rating: E Word Count: ~6.8k Summary: Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him.  He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him. ———Check out Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3 on tumblr, go to my masterlist for more, or read this fic on AO3 here.

A little visual aid, just in case you need it.

“You.” 

The altar might as well have been a monument to Feyre’s humiliation. It loomed large at her back, its very presence taunting her as hot, mortifying tears slipped down her burning cheeks. 

Her flight from the mouth of the cave may have been prompted by no small amount of embarrassment, but once she realized Rhys had given chase, once she’d felt those tendrils of night-kissed power snapping at her heels like hellhounds set loose… Damn her, the dull ache between her legs had strengthened to an insistent throb, and her feet had put on a burst of speed without any input from her furious mind. She had glanced back just once to see if she’d shaken him, and instead found a swath of darkness gaining on her with a grin that said, I’m coming for you.  

The chase devolved into something primal then, driven by an instinct woven into her very being. 

It was as if threads of the same magic that compelled her to go to the mouth of the mines tied themselves around her wrists, her ankles, her waist, some grand, unseen puppeteer guiding her forward. Try as she might, she had not been able to stop running; the thrill of the chase, the fresh heat between her pumping legs, and the last of her lingering anger pushed her on, through sharp corners and up near-vertical climbs.

If he wanted her, truly wanted her, the bastard would have to prove it.

So Feyre let herself drown in instinct and left the beaten path behind. She pushed and climbed and ran until the muscles in her legs screamed with the effort to keep upright and every breath shredded down her throat and into her aching lungs. She was so wet it was distracting, her own arousal slicking her thighs and making her skirts cling to her skin, but she ignored everything and ran. 

She ran until she stumbled into a grotto and nearly dove headfirst into the glassy, mist-veiled lake before skidding to a stop in front of a large slab of smooth obsidian at its center. The sight of it made her pounding heartbeat falter, and she’d been reduced to gaping at it as she gasped for breath.

Although she had never laid eyes on it before, she recognized it all the same.

It was a carved altar housed in the sacred cavern that even she, reckless as she could be, had never dared to track down in the endless labyrinth of the mines. 

And the damn thing had called her here. 

Had called them both here.

A soft thrum of energy from it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, as if in answer to her suspicion.

Damn it all. Damn the High Lord, damn the altar, and damn Fire Night. 

Because in front of her stood Rhysand, stretching out his arms as if he meant to hold her.

Well, some form of Rhysand, at least.

For her High Lord… The High Lord, she thought stubbornly as she swiped at her tears, had been transformed. Entire swaths of his golden-brown skin were covered in rippling scales. His tattooed chest, his muscled shoulders, his thick forearms—all were broader than they had been minutes before, all plated in fine, ebony scales that gleamed in the low light and formed a terrifying, impenetrable layer of armor. Even his feet, if the deadly, clawed things on which he stood could still be called that, were bared and scaled. His violet eyes bore slitted pupils now, too, like some ferocious mountain cat, and they reflected every bit of dim light in the cavern back at her, glowing with an otherworldly light that undoubtedly helped him see with crystal clarity.

In this new skin, he was more than simply a charming prince of the night; he was formed of it. He belonged to it, and it to him. He was the creature that lurked in the shadowy edges of nightmares, waiting in the darkness to devour innocents. 

But he made no move to attack her. No, his glowing eyes were soft and glazed with desire as they locked on hers.

As if in response to her silent scrutiny, he rolled his shoulders, showing off the dark licks of tattoos visible beyond the edges of his scales, curling up his neck and over his biceps. Feyre knew what that ink meant, too: this was a male capable of incredible violence, one who’d done more than survive his Blood Rite. He must have won it to be so heavily marked. 

He was no ordinary male, no ordinary High Lord, no ordinary nightmare.

This was a male to be feared. 

As if he read her mind, he raised the arms he had already held out to her and lifted his hands upright, palms out. They, too, were now tipped in long talons. Even at a distance Feyre could tell each was sharp and strong as any dagger. All the same, he was making a conciliatory gesture with them, as if she were some creature who might spook if he moved too quickly.

Because, yes, he was a beast crafted to devour… but also to protect.

Indeed, the same massive, batlike wings the males who’d led Rhys into the cave bore now protruded from his back. The vicious claws at the tips of those towering limbs nearly scraped the ceiling of the cavern, but instinct pulled at Feyre’s fear of them, tucking it away. It may have been millennia since their people coexisted, but some small voice in the back of her mind recognized that those wings meant safety and protection for her kind.  

Another feline smile curved his mouth. Dangerously sharp, elongated canines glinted behind his lips. 

He sketched a bow. “Me.”

“You…” Feyre rasped, her throat sore. 

She swallowed hard, and trying to remember the outraged tirade she’d been preparing before she saw him.

She couldn’t. 

Behind her, the altar’s pull was insistent, growing stronger, wiping away everything else. He must have been able to sense it too, because his grin grew, and he prowled closer, predatory intent carved into every perfect line of his body. Each footfall made the surface of the lake, glowing like a sea of stars beneath the glittering glowworms and jewels, shiver and ripple outward. 

Feyre edged away. “You’re Illyrian?”

Rhys didn’t deign to respond. He only lifted an inky brow and stretched his wings wider for her perusal, his eyes promising filthy things as they raked down her body once more.

It was a stupid question anyway. Even without the tattoos, without the wings, the entire Night Court knew his mother had been full-blooded Illyrian. She knew he’d commanded a legion of them during the war. Hell, a few of the miners had served alongside the Darkbringers, and she had pressed and pressed them to tell her everything they knew about their prince after the first time she’d ventured high enough to spot him preparing the mines for Fire Night.

So Feyre grit her teeth and pushed on, despite his silence and the magic pulling at her resolve. The look on his face was too smug, too self-assured, as if he’d already won this battle of wills. “Say something.”

“I am Illyrian.” Three short, simple words, spoken in a growling rumble a full register lower than it had been before. All three seemed to take immense effort from him; all three were laced with such hunger that her useless knees weakened again. His outstretched arms flexed, and she thought she caught his quick glance at the scales plating his arm from wrist to elbow before he asked, cocking his head to one side, “Does that change things for you?”

Feyre’s head was shaking before she realized what she was doing. No, no, it didn’t change anything for her. She was still furious at him, at herself. She didn’t want anything to do with him, no matter what sort of faerie blood ran in his veins.

But, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind.

But… if anything, it did feel better to be here with him, knowing that he was one of the ancient protectors of her kind, the High Lord that had drawn such sweet sensations from between her legs before her heart had split in two. She wanted those fingers back inside her, wanted to ride them to completion the way she should have at the mouth of the mines, wanted to trace her fingers along the insides of those wings and see how the silken membranes reflected her glittering skin…

A low groan issued from Rhys’s throat, and he tipped back his head, and Feyre’s eyes followed the tense line of his jaw down his throat. Over the tattoos, over the scales, over the ridged plane of his stomach. Down, down, down she went, daring to follow the arrow carved by the lines of his hips to…

Gods.  

She nearly moaned the word aloud.

The outline of his cock was entirely visible through the thin fabric of his pants. The length she’d felt pressed to her stomach before when he was teasing her against the crates was nothing compared to the thick, insistent bulge that captured her full attention now. She could see every twitch, every vein, the thick line of the head highlighted by a patch of wetness darkening the fine fabric…

She took a step forward.

She wanted him. She wanted him, she wanted him, gods, she wanted him. She wanted to possess every bit of him. She wanted to fall to her knees and open her mouth and taste him on her tongue. She wanted to shove him onto his back and grip his hair so she could hold his mouth to her pussy until she came on his. She wanted to lay herself out on the altar and invite him to fuck her until they were drunk with pleasure, and he was imprinted on her skin. She wanted to be filled, dripping with—

Rhys’s groan turned to a ravenous snarl, and another shudder of power rocked out of him and into the cave.

“Keep thinking like that, darling, and we’ll never make it to the altar.”

Darling. It clicked into place in her mind like a key in a lock.

And just like that, Feyre brushed away the hold the Fire Night magic had on her mind, grasping instead for the fury that had, at some point, faded entirely. She had to clench her fists to distract from the hollow neediness radiating up through her abdomen and used her newfound focus to grasp a burning rope within herself instead. 

She grasped it, holding tight, and hissed, “My name is not darling.”

Rhys tensed.

She shook her head as if she might dislodge more of the feverish lust clouding her mind and whirled, preparing to winnow with her next step—

Shadows exploded into her periphery, and a firm arm caught her around her middle.

“Got you.” That low, beastly voice was a bedroom murmur against the base of her throat. 

“Bastard.” Feyre threw a sharp elbow into his side, ignoring the mind-numbing heat of his breath against her skin.

He caught her arm with a gentle hand. His calloused fingers were rough, but breathtakingly gentle as they curved around her forearm, tracing the length of it down to her wrist.

Slowly, almost… tentatively, in a way that made Feyre’s heart squeeze, he interlaced their fingers.

He lifted her hand until it was mere inches from his face, turning it this way and that. Her mother-of-pearl nails shimmered dimly in the low light. He let out a quiet breath through his nostrils and lifted her wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the veins marbling the sensitive skin on its underside.

“You cruel, wicked thing,” he murmured against her palm, his lips dragging over her skin. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

Every inch of her heated in response, the golden thread tied to her navel pulling to the point of something close to pain. Her skin went taut as she loosed a shaking breath of her own, fury fading again, and the claw-tipped hand grasping her beneath the ribs rose in response. She dared a glance at him; he was watching her face through heavily lidded eyes as he brushed the underside of her breasts through the barely-there bands of silk she wore. She bit her lip as they tightened, her nipples peaking in interest and anticipation. 

“Poor baby High Lord,” she managed to croak, pushing against his arm. “What will you do on Fire Night without an anonymous female to fuck when I leave you all alone here?”

His expression turned fierce. Without any warning, he pulled her back against him, letting her feel his interest—hard and insistent—against her ass as the hot breath fanning over her collar disappeared. 

Wickedly sharp teeth nipped her earlobe before he breathed into it, “Careful, darling. Who said I have any intention of ever letting you go now that I’ve caught you?”

The growing heat between her legs coiled tighter, and chills erupted across her body. 

Rhys, she allowed herself to think, the mental whimper as pathetic as she was desperate.

He groaned again. 

The cavern bled into a splash of color as he spun her in his arms, lifting her off of her feet so quickly that she barely had time to register that they were also stepping back into the whipping wind between spaces in that single movement. She was in the air for only a moment before he deposited her on the cool slab of onyx stone.

He placed a firm hand on either thigh and spread her open. The thumbs spread across the sensitive skin between her legs stroked lazily, possessively. The talons caught, scratching deliciously close to the apex of her thighs, and all the fight went out of her as she canted her hips, seeking more. She would have been ashamed by how easily she capitulated if she didn’t catch the approval that flashed across his face.

But even though his glowing eyes darkened, he didn’t put those hands where she wanted them most. He glanced just once at the soaked silk between her legs, a smirk ghosting over his lips, before stepping into the space he’d created for himself. He lowered his mouth to her neck again, dragging his tongue over her collarbone before latching onto it with those sharp, sharp teeth.

He barely lifted away, barely gave Feyre a moment to swallow the moan building in her throat, before glancing up at her with those bright, starry eyes. 

“What is your name?”

Feyre gulped down a cool lungful of air, feeding the embers of her anger once more. “Fuck you.”

Rhys laughed despite the dark halo of power wreathing his body, his chest shaking against hers until her back arched. She pressed her breasts into that subtle, tantalizing touch. 

“That’s the plan.” If it were any other male, if it were spoken in any other way, Feyre might have rolled her eyes and shoved him off of her. But her High Lord all but growled the words, one of his hands drifting from her thigh to the hard length of his cock. She swallowed, incapable of doing anything but watching as he palmed the head with brazen nonchalance, mesmerized… 

Until he pushed closer, filling the space around her with warmth and scales and that dizzying salt-and-citrus scent until her eyelids fluttered shut against her will. He pressed forward until she had no choice but to lay back on the altar. The damned thing practically purred with its own pleasure as she reached out to either side of the stone and curled her fingers over the edge, clutching until her knuckles went white.

It was that or give into the urge to bury her fingers in his hair. 

But, no, she wasn’t about to give him one bit of pleasure that he didn’t damn well earn first. 

Even her legs burned with the effort not to wrap them around his waist and drag him closer until nothing but those sinfully thin pants and her tissue-paper skirts separated them. Until she could grind herself against that cock and find some sort of relief without giving the presumptuous prick too much pleasure, even if it were a pale imitation of what she truly wanted.

The Mother was nothing if not kind, because in the next moment that thick length was notched against her. He was so hard she could feel his pulse beating between her legs, and the weight of it, the heat—

Her mind went blank.

A talon stroked the length of her throat, right over her own rushing pulse. “What’s your name?”

Feyre turned her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart ached for him, for her prince, her High Lord. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted...

She would not give in.

“Eat my—”

In the next second, his hands gripped her knees with unforgiving strength and pulled. Shock and a healthy dose of fear that she might just plummet off the edge of the altar pulled an undignified squeak out of her, but Rhys stopped when her ass was just at the edge.

He rasped a laugh, and then the only sound in the cavern was their harsh breathing until he all but ordered,

“Open your eyes.”

So Feyre did.

And she watched as the High Lord of the Night Court knelt before her.

Whatever instinctive horror she felt at seeing him kneeling at her feet—between her legs—vanished the moment the wet skirts between her legs fell away into nothing but mist with a snap of his fingers. He gave her no more warning before the broad length of his tongue traced the seam of her dripping pussy in the next heartbeat, opening her to him. She jerked, squeaking again. He only braced a strong hand on either side of her waist as she lurched upright onto her elbows, helping keep her upright.

He feasted on her like a male possessed.

All the while, those starry, glowing eyes peered upward through the darkness, boring into her own. 

It was messy, all lips and tongue and those long, pointed teeth. He licked and licked and licked, driving Feyre out of her head with every pass. He lapped at every bit of her he could find before his tongue—thicker and longer in this massive, half-monstrous form—dipped into her as if he couldn’t get enough. His eyes closed, his brows furrowed, and she whimpered, her own mouth dropping open at the sight of pure, unadulterated ecstasy on his face.

He ate her like he meant to tattoo that pleasure between her legs. Like he got just as much pleasure out of it as she did.

Or more.

Feyre’s limbs went loose and shaky as he pushed out a long, cool breath—all relief and satiated hunger—that tickled her clit. 

He growled in response. The vibration alone dragged her to the very edge of climax. Her legs started to tremble, and he parted from her just long enough so she could see the filthy smirk on his shining lips.

Just long enough so he could reign in some of that arrogant, male pride on his face. Just long enough to glance between her legs at the pussy he’d just eaten like it was his last meal.

His eyes widened, and, despite herself, despite the unsatisfied need burning between her thighs, Feyre tilted her head. As much as she wanted to drag that skilled mouth back to her, to make him finish her, the stunned look on his face was enough to have her smothering a laugh and asking, a shade tartly,

“What? Have you never seen an oread’s cunt before?”

It wasn’t like most other females. That much she knew from sneaking into a niche with a handsome Tartera female when she was young and curious. Their tryst had been brief but enlightening when she reached between the female’s legs and encountered soft folds and silken skin instead of the dips and nooks that resembled nothing more than a rose quartz geode between her legs.

Just as soft and hot and tight, but—in her estimation—far, far prettier than most. She hadn’t done much research outside of that one female lover, and she certainly wasn’t the loveliest nymph in the mines, but an evening with a hand mirror had given her enough confidence to spread her legs wider now.

The obscenity of it all seemed to jar him out of his shock. 

“It’s fucking gorgeous,” was all he said, his voice rough. He drank in the sight of her for another long moment, and Feyre hooked her knees over his shoulders to let him look his fill. His teeth bared, his nostrils flared; when he looked back at her, his eyes were so dark they nearly matched the black power leaking from him in ribbons. “It’s mine.” 

She didn’t have even a second to spare for indignation or fury at such territorial male presumption before he dove back into her like he was starved once more, his lips and tongue finding the bundle of nerves at the top of her sex with ease.

Her head fell back, her arms turning to jelly. The hands at her waist lowered her gently back to the altar and pulled her impossibly closer to his face.

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!” 

Feyre didn’t recognize her own voice, broken and crying out as it was. She didn’t feel the cool stone at her back, the hard edge of it under her fingers. All she knew was the mouth she’d dreamt of for decades sucking at her clit and her Rhys and the gentle darkness brushing up against the edge of what little remained of her mind.

Yours, that darkness confirmed. All yours. Now tell me again, darling: what is your name? 

“Fey—“ 

No! No, she couldn’t tell him. Shouldn’t. She could barely remember why not as his hot tongue speared inside her again, curling upward to press against the spot that ached for it.

Fey, that darkness purred back to her. The mouth at her cunt disappeared, wrenching a desperate sob from her as he dropped a dripping kiss on her belly instead. I don’t think that’s the whole thing, somehow. 

And she realized as his fingers stroked her sides that the darkness wasn’t just darkness. It was his mind, embracing her own as it it were an extension of the hands circling her waist. His mind, because he was a daemati, just as the miner’s rumors claimed. 

He’d even told her as much, hadn’t he? Keep thinking like that, darling, and we’ll never make it to the altar. 

It prowled like a beast at the borders of her consciousness, and through the darkness that accompanied him, she spotted a whipping tail and the maw of a creature much, much larger than the male between her legs.

Pleasure lit her from inside, every inch of her body singing with it, as if he’d flipped some sort of internal switch to reward her for figuring it out. 

Illyrian and a daemati. Does that change things for you? 

Feyre couldn’t think clearly enough to form a coherent reply as she shook her head. All she threw at him instead was,Please, please, please, please, please… 

You don’t have to beg, love, his mind crooned to hers, sweet and soft. The careful pad of a thumb stroked her clit. I’ll never make you beg.  

She begged anyway. Gods, gods, please. 

Just tell me your name, and I’ll give you everything you want. 

She whined. Rhys… 

Not quite. His tongue traced the curve of her stomach, teasing what could be hers if she just— That’s my name. Tell me your name. 

“Rhy-hy-hys!” Her voice was a desperate, panting keen.

One firm hand replaced his mouth on the span of skin between her hipbones, pressing her back into the altar. The pleasure lighting up her mind faded back into something approaching normal, and all that was left was the bulk of him between her legs and the crest of her climax just out of reach.

“Tell me your name,” he ordered, his voice firm. An Illyrian commander’s voice. A High Lord’s voice.

But the clawed beast in her mind he coaxed her tenderly, Please tell me, my darling.  

He laid a kiss on the inside of one thigh. 

My love. 

And then another kiss on the other. 

My mate. 

Every trembling inch of her froze. 

Liar. He was lying.

He couldn’t be her mate. He wasn’t. She didn’t dare to believe it. Mating bonds were the stuff of girlish daydreams, even more ridiculous than a lesser faerie loving a prince from afar and convincing herself he loved her too.

She clutched that disbelief like a lifeline.

Only to have him drag it away.

My mate, he crooned, twining that doubt between those vicious mental talons.

He shredded it with a thought. 

My mate, he said again. This thought, this truth, was so pure it nearly glowed golden, pulling at the cord tied to her. The cord, she realized, that led to him. She felt him smile against her thigh. See, you feel it, too. You are my mate.  

Suddenly, Feyre had the dizzying experience of looking through someone else’s eyes—through Rhys’s eyes, as he projected what he was seeing into her mind. And, fuck, he could see perfectly in this dark cavern. Every line and dimple and marbled vein on her body, the round fullness of her poor, ignored breasts, the teartracks drying on her flushed cheeks, and the bird’s nest of her mussed hair.  

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, he thought of her, all primal need and wine-soaked lust. Mate, mate, mate. His grip on her tightened, and she saw herself again, running from him, fighting him, moaning for him. So headstrong. So perfect. I kneel for no one but you, my mate. 

His mate. They were mates. The cord sang sweetly to her soul in response, strengthening into an unbreakable, adamant bridge binding them the longer she examined it. She held onto that feeling, sighing with relief and joy.

And then she said, “Feyre.” 

My name is Feyre, she told the mind cradling her own with such infinite tenderness.

“Feyre,” he breathed her name like it was a benediction. His voice was so reverent that she peeked open an eye just in time to see him bow his head over her and brush another kiss to her stomach.

Feyre darling. 

“Offer me something to eat, Feyre.” 

“What.” 

That wicked tongue flicked out, the tip catching against her clit with a touch so pointed and teasing it made her entire body tense. His mind drew away from hers, and though she reached for it, he shook her off with painstaking gentleness.

His eyes were dark but clear as he said, “Make me yours, mate.”

Cauldron fucking boil her. 

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat as, at last, Feyre gave into the temptation to sink her hands into his hair. She tilted her hips upward again, aided by his hands.

“Eat me, Rhys.” 

A glance downward revealed his indulgent grin softening into something painfully soft. Good girl. 

And then that final, tenuous glint of clarity disappeared from his eyes, and he bent his head to her. He didn’t bother with filling her with his tongue; he didn’t bother teasing with anymore kitten licks. He simply wrapped his lips around her clit, sucking hard as he lashed at it with his tongue, drinking down every bit of wetness he found as she screamed, the climax he’d already denied her twice overwhelming her in an instant. 

And deep inside of her soul, the final piece of that bridge snapped into place.

Her mouth was moving, her throat working, but she was deaf to it. All she knew was the bond as it opened to reveal a bottomless well of frenzied desire. She needed him like air, like water, needed to possess more, more, more of him. 

Magic sang and snapped and sizzled between them, sweet and sharp as it ricocheted in waves across the lake. Cool droplets of water misted her skin, and the altar pulled the tingling buzz of the orgasm rocking her from her bones, her skin, and into the black stone beneath her. The very mountain seemed to tremble, and Feyre went limp as the last of her strength disappeared.

“I loved you, godsdammit,” she heard herself sobbing as the final wave of her orgasm ebbed away. She had to drag at his hair, her hips squirming, to draw him away from her too-sensitive pussy. He went with a snarl that went silent when she sobbed again. “I loved you.”

The sound of leather on leather filled her ears as his wings flexed. It was her only warning before he moved, lifting himself off his knees and following the line of her body upward. He laid kisses on her skin as he went, as if he couldn’t help but map each new bit of her he encountered with his tongue.

Once they were face-to-face, Feyre could only blink at him through the blur of tears. She was beyond emotion, beyond pain or relief or joy.

He said nothing, and she choked back another sob. Each had started deep in her chest, clawing up her throat and through her limbs; she still felt the sore, lingering effect of each. 

Without a word, he bent over her, still pinning her hips with that hand on her belly, and the weight of him was a welcome distraction from the painful, cathartic tears wracking her body. 

Feyre loosed her grip on his hair, burying her face in her palms.

A thrum of displeasure shivered down the bond, and then warm, strong fingers curled around her wrists. With painstaking gentleness, Rhys pried her hands away from her face. Feyre only wept harder, unable to contain the emotion shaking apart her entire being.

A quiet, growling hum echoed through the cavern—an upset sound of consideration for a male beyond words. Feyre pulled at his hands, but his grip was unshakable. The hard length of him pressed against her stomach, going utterly ignored, as his lips descended on her cheek and he licked away a tear.

Feyre recoiled, but he followed where she led, tracing the trail left by another tear before capturing her lips with his. A rolling purr pulled from his chest as he kissed her languidly, slowly, sharing the taste of the wine and herself—her pleasure and her tears—with her. It threatened to undo her. Just that small taste of him, of them, was as intoxicating as if she’d been the one to drink the blessed wine.  

He kissed her until the taut bridge between them relaxed. His eyes were half-lidded when he pulled back, looking at her with a single shard of lucidity, more than he’d possessed since she accepted the bond. That look screamed of avarice, but it was not the curious, evaluating stare she was used to seeing on the faces of past lovers. He didn’t look at her like she was a diamond under a loup. She couldn’t see him calculating the price she might fetch at auction in his head. 

No, as he threaded a hand through her hair, tipping her head back so he could watch her lips part for him…

He looked at her like he was upset that she was distressed, as if he had some sort of responsibility to ensure the opposite and had failed. He looked at her as if licking up her tears had been his pleasure—as if he wanted all of her, whether she was crying or kissing him or making him chase her through a cave.

He looked at her like wanted her.

He looked at her like he could love her. 

“My mate. Feyre.” His voice was a quiet rumble, and it was obvious that, though he seemed to be searching for them, no more words would come to the beast claiming him now. 

Feyre let loose a shuddering breath, and his brow furrowed. He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes sliding closed, and then his arms were around her, his wings blotting out the dim light of the glowworms. His hold tightened, as if he felt the jagged edges of Feyre’s collapsing ribcage where they threatened to pierce her heart and meant to piece them back together for her. 

Feyre buried her face in the crook of his neck.

Wind whipped at them again as he pulled them through the world, and then she was on her knees above him, looking down at her mate splayed across the obsidian altar. His wings spread wide, vulnerable, so long they draped over each side and dipped into the lake below. Beneath her, his cock pulsed again against the thin fabric of his pants.

He ignored it and lifted his chin, baring his throat to her. There was nothing but raw trust in his expression.

Her mate. Her prince. Her oblivious, wonderful High Lord.

“Rhysand…” She brushed an errant strand of inky hair off his forehead, tracing a line of scales at his temple. She had never dared to commit his likeness to canvas before, too afraid that she might not fully capture the easy, dangerous grace with which he held himself. If she painted him now, she knew she would have to work with thick daubs of blackest black to craft the gentle ridges and grooves of each individual scale and claw.

She bent over him to press a gentle kiss to his bobbing throat.

He freed one hand from behind her back and snapped his fingers. The scrap of silk around her shoulders—long since pulled askew to bare her breasts by her own writhing—fell into black dust, and Feyre swallowed a starved sound as his pants followed. Nothing but bare skin and scales remained between them. His hands grasped her hips, and her mind emptied as he pulled her down onto the underside of his cock. He dragged himself through the dripping wetness between her legs, a low, feral sound filling the cavern as the blunt head caught on her clit, and all she was and all she knew narrowed into that molten point of contact.

“More.” She was reduced to a writhing, pleading thing above him as she pressed her hands to his chest, steadying herself. She pushed up on her knees, and his grip on her tightened for a heartbeat as if he might refuse to let her go, to let her off his cock, but she gasped, “I need more.” 

But his eyes narrowed, his talons digging into her skin like he wasn’t planning to let go of her any time soon, so she reached down between them. Finally, some small part of her sang as she curled her fingers around him, testing the weight and silken slide of him against her palm. Finally, finally, finally, beat her heart as she notched his tip at her entrance.

A breathless sound as she sank down just an inch. So thick—he was so much thicker than his fingers, his tongue. Every muscle below her navel went taut with anticipation, the magic coating every crevice in the mine singeing her nerves, and Rhys’s head dropped back to the altar beneath with a groan that shook the cavern.

Had he been watching her take him? She hadn’t noticed…

“Mate…” The word was a cautionary rumble beneath her. But when she looked down at Rhys, his eyes were sparkling with amusement, a playful twist to his lips all she needed to lift herself off him and then rock back down again.

And again.

And again.

Rhys moved with her, cupping a breast in one palm and dragging gentle talons across her peaked nipple and the sensitive underside until her legs quaked, pushing himself into a sitting position to drag his teeth along her opposite shoulder until she had to curl her arms around his to keep upright, lowering that mouth to scrape his teeth over her other breast. The world cracked and reformed and cracked again with each touch.

He let her tease, watching with bared teeth and indulgent, half-lidded eyes, and when she was a pliable, shivering mess in his arms, his hands returned to her hips and he thrust upward, spearing her with every inch of his cock.

“Oh!”

“Play later.” 

He set a punishing pace, bearing her entire weight in his palms as he pushed into her. No more games, no more tricks; this was a claiming, frenzied and animalistic and hell-bent. Magic crackled in the air around them, the ripples on the lake’s surface cresting into small waves as the walls of the cavern quaked.

His power was a symphony, swelling to a magnificent crescendo that lit every inch of her on fire, each note snapping against her skin with every wet, slapping thrust into her. Her own magic thrummed in answer each time he hit the sweet spot inside of her.

And then every hair on her arms raised, and a quicksilver thrill shivered down her spine as pure blackness blotted out the dim glow in the cave, obsuring the sparkling stones set into the walls. His eyes were the only two points of light in the darkness, locked on her, and Feyre let her head fall back as they dipped lower, following the bounce of her breasts down, down to the place where they were joined.

Unseen, the rough pads of a pair of fingers found her clit. Feyre’s head fell back, and in the next instant, razor-sharp fangs locked around her rushing pulse.

“…fill you,” he swore, the half-rendered thought clear enough to make her collapse against his chest with sheer need. “Make you mine.” 

The darkness parted like a curtain as the altar came to life again beneath them, drinking deeply from their free-flowing magic. The runes beneath Rhysand flickered to life, silver droplets of magic flowing into them, illuminating each one until the cavern was full of their pure, white light.

“You’re mine,” Feyre moaned back, because he was—hers and beautiful, so damned beautiful, his wings flared wide and his black-and-gold skin glowing in that ethereal light. “Fill me, Rhys.”

He was beautiful, and he was hers, and she was his. 

The hand between her legs faltered, Rhys’s next breath a harsh rasp, but Feyre rocked back into that touch, claiming it for herself as her pleasure crested. Her climax broke over her, seizing control of every wild inch of her body, and she cried out. Rhysand roared, slamming deep as he fell over the edge with her.

Stars wheeled past behind her closed eyelids, the altar transforming into a blinding supernova of color and power and heat beneath them. The bond flared in response, and Feyre felt the altar’s power settle beside it, forged anew into a band of liquid gold that gilded the adamantine bridge binding her to Rhysand. 

Time and space melted away, and Feyre traveled that bridge as her mate held her, his heartbeat hammering beneath her ear. She was distantly aware of lips on her neck, her cheeks, her breasts, her lips. The lull stretched on without end and then heated into that untamed, desperate need for him again, and he laid her out on the altar and took her until she screamed for him. Again and again, the cycle continued, sweet kisses and gentle fingers carding through her hair followed by frenzied coupling and swelling magic, and she floated on the blissful tide of their combined power as it eddied and flowed.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before the magic finally receded enough that Rhys was left dozing, cradling her in his lap, and she felt only smooth, soft skin beneath her hands and the backs of her thighs. Elegant fingers tipped only with neatly trimmed nails curled around her waist, squeezing, and she hummed in response.

Another long, lazy moment passed, and then Rhysand broke the silence. “My darling… I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Feyre blinked her eyes opened, her brow bunching in thought, and—

Oh. Right. She was upset with him, wasn’t she?

“My, my, an apology?” The sleepy, contented mumble against his warm shoulder was all the venom she could muster. “Must be important to rate one from a High Lord.”

She shifted, swinging one leg over his lap to straddle him; instead of the smooth, hard altar beneath her knees, she found silken sheets and a feather-soft mattress. Good. They would need that soft, warm bed for what she wanted next. 

Rhys let out a low sound, desire stirring on his end of the bond once more.

Feyre lowered her head, pulling her teeth along the soft side of his throat. “Make me come again and I’ll forgive you.”

Thank you all so much for your patience with this fic! I hope you enjoyed. 💕 One more chapter to go!

[danikamariewrites]

PLEASE PLEASE poly feysand while Rhys is gone and fem Y/n and Feyre are alone, and their super cuddly and loving with each other. Then they're making out and then they're having sex and Feyre and Y/n send Rhysand the mental images of them being together ajwkwkwkwkwow perhaps I'm ovulating and lusting for Feyre

Mornings Together (SMUT)

Feysand x reader

A/n: this is mostly Feyre x reader lol

Warnings: edging, fingering, and tribbing 18+ plz

You woke up to Feyre lightly playing with your hair and running her thumb across your cheek. As you blinked your eyes open and sweetly smile at your girlfriend. You stretch out your arms and wrap them around her waist, leaning your forehead to rest against hers.

“Good morning baby.” She whispers, leaving a small peck on your lips. You roll over onto your back, holding Feyre to your chest. “Morning. Did Rhys leave already?” Feyre let’s out a hum as she nods lazily.

You give her a small frown. “Aww you miss him already, baby?” You nod against the pillow. “But I still have you .” You wrap your arms around her neck, pulling her to your lips.

When your lips meet in a slow, sensual kiss heat immediately floods your core. Feyre moans into your mouth and gropes your breast, twisting your nipple through your thin nightgown.

Feyre pushes your night gown over your hips, revealing your bare pussy for her. She breaks the kiss leaning back on her knees. “Come on sweet girl, spread your legs for me.”

You let out a small whine and spread your legs for her. Feyre places her hands on your thighs. She squeezes the, and runs her hands up and down the inside of them just grazing over folds. “Fuck,” you breathe out.

She runs a finger through your wet folds and you bite your lip. “So wet. That all for me baby?” You nod vigorously. Feyre keeps collecting your arousal and starts rubbing her fingers against your clit. Just as soon as you were on the edge of release she pulled away.

A desperate groan leaves your lips as you sit up on your elbows. You look at her, a begging look in your eyes. All Feyre did was smirk as she pulled her lacy black nightgown off. “I showed Rhys how desperate our sweet girl was,” She brings her hand up to squeeze your cheeks.

“I thought we could show him what he’s missing.” You smirk back to her, hoping she was showing Rhys. Feyre pushed you back down on the bed taking your hands in hers. She throws her leg around your hip lowering her pussy on yours.

You start bucking your hips begging her to move. “Please Feyre, please please,” you moan. “Aww what a sweet girl saying please.” Before you can beg again Feyre starts grinding against you.

You can’t take your eyes off her gorgeous body. Her tits bouncing with each thrust of her hips. Her head tossed back and lips parted in a silent scream. “Gods, y/n you feel so good baby.” You both moan out at the same time. Both feeling Rhys caressing your mental shields.

A deep laugh echoes in your mind. “Look at my girls. Be good and come for me, both of you.” You grip Feyre’s hand tighter and tighter. Screams sound from both of you as you come together.

As Feyre drops her head against yours your breaths mix. You feel Rhys’s presence disappear as you come down. Tangling your fingers in Feyre’s hair you bring her lips to yours once more. “I love you,” you murmur against her lips.

“I love too baby.” Feyre sits up still straddling you. With a thought your nightgown is gone and that feline smirk is back on her lips. “You have another round in you?”

[fieldofdaisiies]

Feysand | Oh So Sensitive Wings

type: fluff & smut warning(s): suggestive, smut: in p in v, vulgar wording, minors dni!! word count: 2.1k words request: based on the headcanon request that Feyre uses Rhys’s wings for drawing. I would like to dedicate this story to @autumndreaming7 for being such an amazing friend and wonderful person, I hope it brings a little smile to your face💛

read on ao3

- all rights reserved -

Rhys giggles softly— the sound joyful and so very un-High-Lord-like, so pure, so adorable it has Feyre chuckling loudly as a reaction. Her hoarse laugh fills the High Lord’s ears and he revels in it, bliss taking root in his chest and warming him from the inside out. 

“Hold still,” Feyre orders then, flicking her mate’s ear a little. An almost gleeful grin spreads over her face, her eyes aglow with a hint of mischief. She rocks her hips against his front, knees braced on the bed, her brush tightly clasped in her hand. “I am not done yet.”

“I have noticed that, Feyre-darling,” Rhys answers in a low voice, his hands tightly fisting the pillows above him. He groans somewhere deep in his throat when his mate ever so slightly swipes her brush up the base of his wing and fully returns her attention to her work of art.

It is such a gentle sweep and immediately lets Rhysand’s thoughts wander to Feyre's fingers moving up his wing instead of the brush. “Darling,” he purrs, the low rumble reverberating through Feyre. Her toes curl a little and she feels damp heat pool in her core. The High Lady of the Night Court knows that her mate can smell her arousal, but she does not mind, she actually likes it. She has him fully under her mercy, he lets her paint his wings, said he would love to try it and so they ended up in bed, Feyre’s brush attached to his wings, gently sweeping over the sensitive membrane, adding lovely decorations the High Lord. 

Rhysand has to lift his arms, keep them above his head so Feyre has access to all areas of his wings. They originally planned on painting the backside of his wings, but Rhysand said he could then not see the painting himself then and so they opted for the inside. Like with a book, you open it and a whole new world is presented to you. 

“Yes, my love?” Feyre answers, her tone sultry, her voice a breathy whisper in her mate’s ear. “Is that not to your liking?”

Rhysand only chuckles in answer, slowly shakes his head, feeling the cool tip of the in paint covered brush move up his wing. It is close to the sensitive part but still not so close enough that it would arouse him even more — if that was even possible. Every fiber in him is already screaming for his mate, his whole body yearning to be fully consumed by her. But the High Lord of the Night Court knows that his mate is a little tease, knows how much she is enjoying it and so he lets her have her fun, knowing that later it will be him who will enjoy the fun.

With graceful simplicity the brush moves over the leathery membrane of his wing while Feyre is straddling him and Rhys can’t tear his eyes away from his mate. His gaze is constantly glued to her face, those stunning blue eyes, her full lips, the concentrated expression on her face. She is the most beautiful female he has ever seen and still today Rhysand can’t thank the Mother and the Cauldron enough for bringing her into his life. 

His leg jerks up a little, his teeth capturing his lower lip when the tiny, soft tip of the brush ever so slightly grazes the vein leading up to his talon. He groans lowly, and lowers one arm, his hand grabbing Feyre’s hip, finger tips digging into her soft skin. It is the side where Feyre hasn’t painted anything yet, so it is all good — or Rhysand thinks so. His High Lady raises a brow in reprimand, her lips pursed, but her mate’s soothing purr soon makes her lips turn into a small grin. “Darling, that was too close.”

A feline smile plays on her lips when the High Lady raises her brow once again. She leans in a little, her core rubbing against the hard ridge of her mate’s arousal. “I doubt there is too close when it comes to me touching your wings.” Rhysand tightens his grip on her hips, his jaw clenched when he groans once again, his chest rumbling. He finds himself beyond words, because his mate is correct.

It feels like the room is boiling, both their skins hot and tight with the rising desire. Rhys’s heart is beating a little faster then, his palm turning clammy from where it touches his mate’s soft skin. In the room it smells like paint and arousal and he knows he can’t stand it for much longer, wants to be buried deep inside of his mate. 

Mischief is etched into Feyre’s features when she sweeps up her brush and smudges it over her mate’s jaw, chuckling viciously at the blue line grazing his skin. “Unclench your jaw, my love, you will grind your teeth down to nothing.” 

“You cruel, wicked thing,” Rhys answers through gritted teeth, his eyes aglow with desire. And he knows that Feyre’s passion is just as acute as his own. He can practically feel the dampness pooling between her thighs — he can definitely scent it. 

“Stop blabbering and lift your arm again, I can obviously not continue like that, Rhys,” Feyre then orders and only reluctantly the High Lords lifts his hand off her hips and moves his arm backwards, his biceps flexing when he once again grips the pillow underneath his head and then grins. “Well, then, darling, do your worst.”

And Feyre does, setting out again to finish his first wing so she can finally move on to his other, but not before painting a few colour lines onto his solid chest, first using the brush, then her fingers.

Rhysand enjoys the peaceful moment, trying to not let his thoughts wander too far, and just focuses on how happy his mate seems. Nyx is safe with his aunt and uncle, Cass and Nesta, enjoying a lovely day with them, while his parents finally have a little time for themselves. 

“It is coming together beautifully,” Feyre whispers and smiles, her gaze trained on the short white coloured lines she is currently placing on the inside of Rhysand’s second wing. 

A night sky, she had said she wanted to draw, with stars and shooting stars. 

The movements of the brush are all coordinated and gentle, Feyre is fully focused and Rhysand loves nearly nothing more than seeing his mate like that. She is stunning and breathtaking and he desperately wants to move his arm so he can brush the short strand of hair that is toppling over her forehead out of Feyre’s face. But he holds back, knowing if he moved he would smudge the paint and he really does not want to destroy her masterpiece. And so he holds still until Feyre is finished which is not too much time later. She finishes her painting with the biggest grin on her face, her in paint covered hands now resting on her mate’s belly.

There is already a lot of colour there, but Rhys does not mind, he just wants to see what his mate has done. And so Feyre moves off him, shimmies backwards until Rhys has enough space to move of the bed, and he strolls towards the mirror. Feyre stays, kneeling on the bed, her gaze following her mate, momentarily dropping to the very obvious hint of his arousal that shows through his thin sleeping pants. She has to grin to herself. 

Standing in front of mirror in all his powerful glory, Rhysand flares his wings. They look majestic behind his broad shoulders. The High Lord looks at Feyre’s work of art in utter admiration — it is stunning and absolutely artistic. Glancing over his shoulder at his mate, Rhysand immediately gets an idea on how to repay her for it. His gaze lands on her hands braced on the lower bedframe and he knows what he wants to do. “Stay like that, darling. Only lift your butt a little for me.”

From the lower end of the bed you have the perfect view into the mirror and Rhysand thinks that he will enjoy nothing more than watching the masterpiece on his wings while making love to his mate. He raises his brow, smirking a little and sends her a mental image. Feyre understands immediately what he is aiming at. And Gods, she loves the idea already, having craved her mate for the past hours she has been painting his wings.

“You know, I want to reward you for this masterpiece,” Rhys purrs when he climbs onto the bed and moves behind Feyre. He looks at her through the mirror, both their eyes aglow, their skin tingling with anticipation and desire. “I want to show you exactly how much I love it. How proud I am of this masterpiece.” He grins, feline and a little cocky, when his hands slide up Feyre’s outer thighs and he shoves up the shirt she is wearing and thinks that is is very fortunate that she has only been wearing a shirt and underwear this morning.

“Take that off for me, darling, will you?” The shirt is gone in an instant, which leaves Rhys ogling her front through the mirror for a long moment until he gathers his thoughts again. His hand slides up Feyre’s back, over her spin to the nape of her neck and he makes her move so her hands curl around the lower bed frame again and her butt is lifted. His index fingers curl around the hem of her undergarments and pulls them down to her knees, leaving her fully exposed for her mate. Her core is glistening with arousal and Rhys relishes in the sight of her, rosy and wet and just for him. He swallows before sucking his lower lip between his teeth. “You marked me earlier, now I am going to return the favour, Feyre-darling.”

The High Lord flares his wings simultaneously to his hand moving to the front of his slacks and he frees his already rigid and throbbing length. With his one hand he is stroking himself at the same time the index and middle finger of his other hand glide through his mate’s folds, eliciting the most beautiful gasp from her. “More, my darling?” “Always.” Feyre speaks through gritted teeth, her voice close to a hiss. Her knuckles turn white from how tightly she is already holding onto the bed frame. Rhys pushes his fingers into her, preparing her for his cock. “So wet,” he purrs and loves how her walls clench his fingers, how her body shudders and goosebumps appear all over her skin. He makes her come with his fingers once, stroking himself slowly before he removes his fingers and licks them clean, growling deep in his throat at the taste of her — of his mate. 

The High Lord positions the tip of his cock against Feyre’s entrance and slowly pushes in, blissfully stretching her out like it always used to be, and moving into the hilt.

His mate moans, the sound so hoarse and low, Rhys has to call upon all his restraints to not come right at the sound of it. One hand braced on her hip, holding her in place he slowly pulls out until only the tip is in. When he thrusts into her again, his hand brushes up her spin until he can grab the hair at the nape of her neck, his fingers wrapping around some strands of hair, pulling softly. “Lift your gaze, darling. Look at the masterpiece you created.” He grins when Feyre does as told, her gaze not moving to the wings first but to her mate’s eyes.

“You are the masterpiece, Rhys.” It is now Feyre who grins, sincerely and in a way that tells Rhys again how much she loves him. Her eyes are ablaze with passion and desire and for a moment they are the only thing Rhys can look at, holding her gaze through the mirror while he moves into her again. His thrusts are long, almost languid and coordinated, working her softly and making her feel every inch of his proud length until he can no longer hold back. His pace turns faster, the thrusts harder and quicker, making the bed shake and Feyre moan. Her head is thrown back, eyes shut, and her lips part with a cry of pure bliss and pleasure. Satisfaction nears in waves, before it washes over her, makes her clench arounds mates cock. She feels him pulse inside of her and comes with a scream, her mate’s hot seed spurting off her walls when he comes simultaneously, his growl filling the whole room, and making the furniture shake. 

“No, you are the masterpiece, Feyre darling,” he drawls and gives his High Lady’s rear a gentle smack. 

~~~~~~

tags: @brekkershadowsinger @a-frog-with-a-laptop

[gothicbabydollz]

happy new year my loves

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here’s the feyre drabble ;)

The book you were so immersed within is lifted from your hands and blinking, you look up to find Feyre standing before you. “How’s it going?” you ask, stretching before peaking over her shoulder to find a mostly empty canvas. “What happened to painting?”

Feyre groans, placing her hands on either side of you, leaning against the table you’re propped up on. “I’m distracted.” There’s paint smeared over her face, a sign that she’s been rubbing her chin. She meets your eye, noting your questioning gaze. “By you,” Feyre whispers. Heat courses through from the way she’s staring at you, the way she smiles when your lips part. She leans in, mouth capturing yours. Feyre kisses you so slowly and softly that the feel of her lips linger as she pulls away to find your neck. Lust clouds your mind, the sudden affection heightening your senses. “You’ve been sitting here, looking all pretty and so content in my company,” she nuzzles into your neck, “I can’t think of anything but you.”

Moaning, you reach for her, accidentally pulling strands free from her braid. “What…what can I do to help?” you ask breathlessly, lifting her head so her eyes meet yours. Feyre bites her lip as she thinks, you watch her cheeks flare a light pink and eyes look down. “Touch me,” she huffs a laugh, “Please.”

You find yourself on your knees before Feyre. The room is quiet aside from the sounds of her heavy pants for air, still breathless from when you had her pressed to the table, lips exploring her skin. Now you’re playing coy, hands sliding up her clothed legs while you stare longingly at each other. Tension thick between you. She whimpers when you snap the waistband of her leggings against her skin. “I’m sorry. I know, I know,” You coo, deciding against teasing. You can smell the need flowing through her body. Feyre wants your help, and you’re going to do that for her.

Feyre kicks her leggings and panties aside once you tug them from her body. Your movements are frantic now, showing Feyre your need is a strong as hers. Her thigh finds purchase slung over your shoulder and you giggle before nipping at her soft skin. “How long have you been sitting thinking about me, love?” Her cunt is soaking, arousal glistens her folds, the insides of her thighs. Your mouth waters for a taste. Feyre hums, fingers sliding into your hair. “Since you came in.” She guides your face to her core. You lay kisses along the length of her, inhaling her scent and listening to her sighs of relief. Feyre continues, “I thought about this. Your mouth on me…your tongue,” she moans so sweetly when your tongue swirls her clit in response.

She curses, hips rolling when you continue the action. “Like that- fuck,” You’re suckling softly, tongue swiping back and forth across her sensitive bud. Feyre’s soft, determined moans cause your belly to tighten in arousal. “You’re so good, so good to me. Please don’t stop, I’m not going to last long,” Her words are whimpered out, her thighs already trembling. You moan against her, spurred on by how riled up she became by the mere thought of you pleasuring her.

You devour her cunt as if she’s your last meal. Sucking her throbbing clit until she cries out and sliding your tongue into her hole until you feel her tighten around you. You don’t stop until Feyre has reached her climax. Once…twice…three times. Your jaw aches but she tastes so sweet, sounds so dazed. You’re reluctant to pull away.

“Thank you,” Feyre sighs, after you’ve licked her clean. She looks down at you, a tired expression written across her flushed face. You lean into her palm when she cups your cheek, thumb tracing your wet lips. “My pretty baby,” Feyre lowers herself, straddling your lap, “You’re so good to me.” The warmth of her body seeps into you and you pull her closer as to bask in it. A smirk takes control of your mouth, “I know.” Her responding laugh turns that smirk into a grin. She thumbs your bottom lip, watching you, thinking out loud. “Painting can wait a little while longer.”

Feyre takes yours hands in hers, smiling mischievously as she pushes you back. Lowering you slowly until you’re laying on the floor, arms held above your head. “I want to return the favour.”