Hello everyone!! We are very excited to announce that we will be running our own, tumblr-focused Feysand Appreciation week from October 12th - October 18th!
This event is run separately from the Feysand month event that takes place on Instagram and Twitter, as we feel very strongly that there should be an event that celebrates the tumblr community here!
Below, you'll find more info about the event:
Feysand Week 2025 Masterlist
Guidelines
Prompts
Feysand Week 2023 Masterlist
Feysand Month 2022 Masterlist
You can also find the dates for other fandom events at @maased-out!
Thank you so much to everyone who participated in Feysand Week 2025! We are so grateful to everyone who took the time to share their creativity and engage with the week!
We can't wait to see you all next year! 💜
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📝Fics, drabbles, and poetry:
I'm Setting Off, But Not Without My Muse by @honeydewpoppy
Your Ivy Grows and Now I'm Covered in You by @dogsarethebest312
Long Story Short by @reverie-tales
La bohème by @littedidyouknow
you're the only game that i like to lose by @temperedink
wrap around me like a chain, a crown, a vine by @baenakinskywalker
I'll Be Your Father Figure by @the-lonelybarricade
Blindsided by @northisnight
all the stars in the moonlit sky by @astra-aeterna
do I really have to chart the constellations in his eyes by @corruptedclarity
We Don't Love Like Flowers Epilogue by @quantum77-writes
Tale As Old As Time by @amethystficarchive
🎨Art and moodboards
The Night Court by @night-and-stars
Feyre Walking Rhys by @shallyne
Ad Astra by @witchlingsandwyverns
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If we missed one of your contributions, kindly reach out to our event runners!
Event: @officialfeysandweek Feysand Week 2025 Day 7: Family
Tags: Crack, Fluff, Humor, Rhys POV retelling of ACOTAR, Sassy Rhys, Rhys turned into small dragon crow thing that wants to be Feyre's pet and special boy. Feysand Beauty and the Beast AU, Calanmai, Spring Court
CW: Everything in the tags and this is just meant to be a fun, sassy, and cracky rewrite of book one. Amarantha is Amarantha but Feyre doesn't go under the mountain so minimal pain. And Rhys only lightheartedly bashes Tamlin because well they are them.
Link to A03 for easier reading: here
Preview: When Amarantha turns Rhysand into a small, helpless version of his beast form, he flees, right into the arms of his mate. Only to have to bear witness to Tamlin's horrible attempts at getting her to fall in love with him while Rhysand is reduced to Feyre's pet crow. Cauldron help them.
As for what tiny creature Rhys looks like I picture him as a tiny version of this with a lizard/dragon body and about the size of your forearm so do with it what you will and enjoy!
Why yes, that is me getting thrown in the air like a lizard by my suspected mate. How kind of you to notice!
Not quite how I expected meeting her and finding out she wasn’t just flashes of hallucinations from under the mountain or desperate dreams, but then I wasn’t expecting to be turned into … this either.
Fucking Amarantha. That bitch.
Oh, Rhysand! Come here while I test a new spell to tame Tamlin’s beast when he finally joins us. Oh, isn’t that a shame! You’re so cute and tiny and useless now. Hope you can out run the Attor.
Well guess what bitch, I can, even in this form and without my powers. I flew hard and fast over the Wall, the Attor hissing behind me and unable to slip through. Haha.
Of course I hadn’t been paying attention when I barrelled into the hunter who was standing over the corpse of a wolf, smacking into her face as she let out a shriek, grabbing me and flinging me against a tree, which ouch… but also fair.
She was thankfully out of arrows, but she somehow managed to find a large rock in the snow, holding it above me and staring at me in confusion. I gave a pitiful whine, trying to look small and harmless.
Please don’t smash me with a rock. Please don’t smash me with a rock. Please don’t smash me with a rock.
Mother, look at what I was reduced to. The most powerful High Lord in Prythian cowering like an animal. How did Tamlin even stand to live with himself?
“You’re an ugly, pathetic thing. What even are you? A diseased crow? A Fae Lizard? Not enough meat on your bones for even jerky.” The human muttered and I stared up at her, incredibly affronted.
Ugly?!?! Pathetic!?!? I might be in a smaller version of my beast form but I was still Rhysand, the most handsome high lord. And I like to be eaten, but not like that. Poor human must not have good eyes. What a pity for the girl of my dreams to have ruined her eyes with shoddy paints and senses with toxic fumes.
“Go on, get. I’ve had enough bloodshed tonight.” She said, kicking snow at me as I scrambled away and flew up into the tree, watching as she skinned the- oh… that was… one of Tamlin’s sentries. How unfortunate and foolish.
This was how he intended to break the curse? What an idiot. Oh yes, kidnap a human girl and hope she falls in love with me while being imprisoned! Yipee!
She dragged the kill behind her and I followed her, gliding from tree to tree, wondering how I was going to get myself out of this mess.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Oh hello Tamlin. Just as much of a brute as ever I see. Yes, yes, swiping at the poor girl will definitely get her to declare her love for you! It’s your fault you’re in this mess in the first place! Way to wait until the last second to try and save yourself and your court.
It was bad enough I had to watch the girl roll around in the hay with that pathetic village boy and now I have to see this display? And treaty? Oh I bet you think you’re clever.
If only I had been in his shoes and not reduced to Amarantha’s plaything, this would have already been over, but no. And now I’ll have to watch them to see if Tamlin will actually break the spell. Maybe then after he kills Amarantha, I will return to normal. It might just be my only chance.
I darted into the hood of her cloak as she wrapped it around herself and followed Tamlin out into the snow.
And maybe this bravely bold and defiant girl would save us all.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Tamlin is a wonderful host as always and even I wouldn’t mind eating some of this. The girl had yet to say anything to me, despite knowing I was clinging to her back and hiding. When Tamlin offered for her to live elsewhere, I poked her with one of my claws, hoping she would leave.
“And be eaten or attacked? No thank you. And would it not violate your so-called terms of this treaty?” She snarled as Tamlin growled, Lucien staring at them tensely.
On one hand, get him! Bite back against the bastard. On the other, get the fuck out of here so Tamlin doesn’t get his hands on me. I enjoyed her fight, but I could not risk discovery yet.
“This scrawny thing killed Andras? And this is where the magic led you? Mother help us. She will kill us in our sleep. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Lucien said as the girl hissed, hands tightening on her silverware as if she meant to stab them with the fork. I would pay quite handsomely to see that, actually.
“Feyre, will do no such thing, so behave, Lucien.” Tamlin said and Feyre, this stubborn and feisty young mortal that was perhaps my mate, stiffened. Lucien bowed and gave a few false pleasantries before escaping, Tamlin summoning a maid to show Feyre to her room. Feyre refused the maid’s help with the bathroom, locking the door behind her before ripping me off of her back, holding me by the neck.
Normally, I might enjoy this sort of thing from her, but in this form she might try and drown me. Given that I was only roughly the size of her forearm, I wouldn’t be able to put up much of a fight.
“Why have you followed me here? Isn’t this your home? I have no food, and you must not be that injured. Go, now. Or are you some sort of pervert?” Feyre said, dropping me out the window as I gave an affronted hiss, my wings flapping rapidly to keep me aloft.
One, the idea of the Spring Court being my home made me want to vomit. Two, I was trying to save us. And three, stop being so mean to me! My poor feathers are beyond ruffled and this is already embarrassing enough.
If only I had my powers.
I nuzzled her hand, looking up at her with my dazzling violet eyes, letting out a rumbling purr, trying to beseech her.
She gave me an unimpressed look.
Mother save me.
Cassian and Azriel can never know. Those bastards would never let me live it down.
“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you… I am going crazy. This is all too much.” She said, the fight leaving her as her shoulders sagged and she sank to the floor. I gave a mournful coo, licking the tears that fell from her cheeks and curling against her neck.
“Pervert.” She muttered, giving a wet laugh. “But maybe I can actually have a friend in this place. Protect me and don’t try to kill me and I’ll help you.” She finally said and I gave a sharp grin as I felt the embers of bargain magic stirring in my gut.
I will do all that and more, Feyre Darling. I cooed in her mind, watching as a circle of stars appeared on her collarbone and she opened her mouth in a silent scream.
Wait, you can hear me?
“You can talk? What are you?” She hissed, tearing me off her shoulder and shaking me.
Oh the humility.
It must be the bargain magic, but yes, I can talk. Hello Feyre, I am Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. The most handsome and powerful male in all of Prythian I might add, not pathetic or ugly. I’m just in a bit of a situation… I’ve had a spell placed on me. I said, half of me wondering if it was the bargain magic that allowed her to understand me, or if it was Cauldron Fuckery. Either way, go me and suck it TamTam, we must be destined mates. I win again. It’s so good to be me.
“And why did you follow me? Have you imprinted on me, or are you going to bathe in my blood to change back?” She said, squeezing me.
No, Feyre Darling. I would not harm you nor can I with the bargain magic. Look at your breast and think of what you said. I followed you, because you are a fighter and our only hope.
And I might be totally in love with you and mated to you.
“Pervert.” She muttered, looking down at her collarbone, pulling down her shirt slightly to look at the circle of stars now tattooed just above her left breast. Was that her favorite word? Cute. She’ll fit right in with my family.
“Okay… First sleep… then… I need to figure out what to do with my family… I promised my mother they would be cared for. Crazy crow lizards can be dealt with later.” She mumbled and rude.
I watched her create a trap by her door and settle into bed, haunted. I curled up next to her, bopping her nose with my tail before she huffed and rolled over.
I settled in to watch over and protect this brilliant little fighter, wondering what her plan would be for tomorrow.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your hair is clean? Your hair is clean?!?! By the Cauldron, Tamlin isn’t just bad with females, he’s even more of a moron than I thought.
We’re doomed.
I was curled in a rosebush outside the open window of the dining room, listening to this painfully awful conversation, having slipped out of Feyre’s room as her maid nearly got caught in her contraption.
“What do you want with me? Please, let me go. My family won’t survive without me.” She pleaded and my heart ached for her, for being caught up in this mess of a world.
“I told you, you are free to do as you wish, live where you wish. Your family is alive and well cared for now. Unless you have a husband to return to or some other suitor or lover?” Tamlin hedged. Wow so subtle. You definitely need Lucien as your emissary.
“No… if that’s the case… is there perhaps a nearby cottage I can reside in.” Feyre asked, playing with her knife. Tamlin growled, claws digging into his chair.
“Yes… Lucien will show you to it. It is on the outskirts, formerly our court painter’s cottage before he left us.” Tamlin grit out and I cocked my head as Feyre seemed to brighten slightly. I had seen her painting in my visions… Once I am back to normal, I will buy her all the paint in Prythian. Also, the painter did indeed leave, to Velaris and is settled in the Rainbow. Another victory over Tamlin. To be fair, it’s not hard and I would have left his court too. No one would want to paint that ugly beast.
Perhaps I can inspire Feyre with a few supplies left over.
“But know this, should you cross back over the Wall and leave Prythian, your family will be in danger. Now eat.” Tamlin said and Feyre bared her teeth before slowly digging in.
Fucking bastard.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The cottage did indeed have a few leftover art supplies, Feyre touching them reverently after Lucien said they were hers. I let her have a few moments in her new home, ignoring the ache in my chest as I thought of the cabin in my homeland, and flew to perch on a large canvas. She eyed me warily.
“Was what he said about my family true?” She asked and I hummed.
I would imagine so. Tamlin would have modified their memories and set them up with quite a bit of money. I can check on them, if you’d like? I offered and she gave me a small, relieved smile.
“Please. They mean everything to me.” She said and I bobbed my head.
I understand. I have a family I am eager to get back to as well. Is there anything you would like me to bring you?
“Weapons if you can find them. A bow and a quiver of arrows at least. And some daggers. I imagine you can’t touch ash arrows?” She asked and I shuddered.
I can try to wrap some in cloth and carry them. It may take a few days. Will you be alright until then?
“Yes… thank you, Rhysand.” She said and I wish I could smile and not terrify her in this form.
My pleasure, Feyre Darling. Although, call me Rhys. Rhysand is what my enemies call me, and I hope that we are not enemies.
“No… as long as you don’t violate our bargain, Rhys.” She said and I flew around her head in a circle before headbutting her and flying off, for once, giddy.
She called me Rhys!
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Thank you.” Feyre said when I had returned in a week with the weapons, struggling to drag them through the window, and letting out a panicked shriek as the singular ash arrow I stole nearly became unwrapped. She grabbed it all, giving me a little laugh and patting my head.
“It seems you’re not all that bad.” She said and I was caught between preening and pouting.
Your family thinks that you are caring for a wealthy, sick, old aunt and are currently living in an estate with servants and quite a bit of food. Your father seemed to be walking better and your sisters were clean and happy, I promise.
Feyre’s smile faded and she hugged herself, looking out the window. I nuzzled her cheek, trying to comfort her as best I could with the setting sun.
Damn Amarantha and damn Tamlin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Papa?” Feyre called as she ran out the cottage and I flew after her, biting her nightgown and trying to pull her back.
Feyre darling, that’s not your father. It’s a Puca. Tamlin is doing a shit job patrolling. Come back inside and get your daggers. I urged, flapping my wings with all my might as she froze and the Puca, masquerading as her father turned around with a sickening grin.
She ran back inside, slamming the door, and pressing against it with her dagger, as I brought her another. I curled on her shoulder, poised to attack until we heard Tamlin roar and chase it off. He prowled around the cottage for a few long minutes as I darted into her lap to hide.
“Feyre, are you alright?” He called from outside the door.
“Yes! Thank you! I’m indecent!” Feyre called as Tamlin cleared his throat awkwardly and walked away.
Feyre looked down at me, trying to control her breathing.
“Why do you hide from him if he is a fellow Fae? Is it because he is below you in rank?” She asked and I snorted.
Yes, yes he is.
We don’t get along. I can not trust him. Not after what he did to my family.
My throat was tight with memories and Feyre hugged me to her chest, stroking down my feathery back.
“I’m sorry.” She said.
I am too.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Lucien told me about a creature called the Suriel that would give us answers?” Feyre said, offering me a slice of dried meat that had been delivered to the cottage.
I had to refuse, as much as it killed me. I couldn’t mate her without her knowledge and I had no idea how a mating bond would even work with a human. She shrugged and I inwardly snickered as I felt Tamlin prowling nearby, but too afraid to come to the cottage again after his last horrible attempt at flirting.
Who gives a girl they are courting a sheep?!?
The Suriel can give us answers, but they are nearly impossible to catch. I have tried a few times. I admitted, cursing myself for not thinking of it sooner. I had stolen into Tamlin’s library as he went on a hunt and Lucien took Feyre out and found nothing.
“Well… it can’t hurt to try. I’m not a half bad hunter.” She said and I butted her cheek.
No, you aren’t. We can try. We have to be careful though. Tamlin is hunting a Bogge. A terrible beast.
“Oh? Even you are scared of it?” She teased, stroking my head and I fluffed my feathers.
Wary of it, yes. Scared of it, now. I have far more terrible beasts in my court. It’s a nasty thing, feeding on your fear.
“I see. Alright, I’ll be careful.” Feyre said and I exhaled.
You are not alone anymore. I’m going with you. What did Lucien tell you about trapping it?
As she told me I narrowed my eyes and hissed.
Lucien is full of shit. Go tell Tamlin’s servants you want a fancy new cloak. They’ll give it to you.
“Why?”
Because he’s desperate.
And so was I.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Foolish human… and… High Lord… how interesting… This cloak is pleasing. You may each ask me a question.” The Suriel whispered and I blinked from my perch on Feyre’s shoulder.
I’ll be damned, my girl did it. She has to be my mate.
Will you ask mine first? How do I return to my male form with all of my powers restored?
“This is Rhysand’s question-” Feyre started before the Suriel gave a raspy chuckle.
“I have heard. Love… love is the answer to your problem, High Lord.” The Suriel said and I bit back a hiss, ruffling my wings in agitation.
Great. So helpful.
Feyre looked at me curiously before turning to the Suriel.
“What can be done about the blight that is over Prythian?” Feyre asked and the Suriel paused.
“Interesting you should ask that question… Stay with the High Lord. Together you will make things right against Hybern and-we are not alone, run!” The Suriel said as four naga burst through the brush.
Feyre ran, firing off arrows as I flew forward to claw out the eyes of the naga, pushing her out of the way as a naga tried to pounce on her. I let out a shriek as it grabbed me, raising me to its mouth to bite my head off until Feyre fired the arrow into its mouth and it hissed in pain releasing me. One of my wings had been deeply cut, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. Not with my mate on the line and not without my Illyrian training.
She grabbed me, stuffing me into her shirt as Tamlin roared and tore the head off of one of them.
I made a disgruntled noise but stayed quiet and hidden below her breasts. Definitely not the worst way to go.
Tamlin must have torn the others to shreds because I could feel Feyre shifting and standing.
“I’m alright, thank you.”
“You must stay close to me.” Tamlin blurted out and I rolled my eyes.
You are definitely not the High Lord she should stay with.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Feyre, do not leave your cottage tonight. In fact, you should stay at the manor, where it is safer.” Tamlin said, leaning in the doorway with a sad excuse of a bouquet in his hands that Feyre reluctantly accepted as I hid in the bed.
Go away you brute! We were having lovely painting time!
“Why?” Feyre asked, her adorable brows furrowed.
“It’s a faerie ritual, Calanmai. Fire night. You are not invited.” Tamlin said before shutting the door in her face.
… Tamlin was never breaking that curse.
Feyre looked at me in bewilderment as she tossed the bouquet on the small wooden table, causing me to give a pleased little shimmy of my body as I stretched and flew over to her. She sat down on her painting stool once more, dipping her paintbrush into a beautiful blue as I took my spot on her shoulder, content with watching her.
“What is Calanmai?” She asked and I shook my head, distracted by her beauty.
Every court has their own version, but it is a ritual to give back to the land. The High Lord will participate in a Great Rite and it is generally a night of debauchery.
I whispered, curious to her reaction.
She flushed an endearing shade of pink, her freckles near disappearing and I swallowed a coo.
“I… see… he didn’t have to be so rude, but I suppose there is no reason for me to attend.” She said with a heavy swallow. She had been staring at me differently after Tamlin had coerced her into an outing to some glen the other day. I had chosen to sulk in the cottage rather than witness Tamlin’s sad attempts. When she returned, there was a strange knowing light in her eyes that had made me uneasy.
Oh? You don’t want to indulge and enjoy yourself? I prodded in my most sensuous voice, nostrils flaring when I could smell her arousal.
I needed this spell broken, and soon. She was driving me crazy with need and want.
“Pervert.” She muttered, ignoring me and returning to her painting.
And suddenly I couldn’t wait for Calanmai.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
I was foolish, stupid to think that things would not end badly. That we could escape from her.
“I smell a human, Tamlin. I thought you no longer kept human slaves. You know how I feel about humans. And having one so close to your court on Calanmai? Tsk. Tsk.” Amarantha said from outside the cottage as Tamlin gave a pained noise.
“Why are you here?” Tamlin asked and I could see him through the windows as Feyre crouched and drew her ash arrow.
“Tamlin, I’m hurt. Can I not enjoy Calanmai too? My court has been simply dreadful without you and my … pleasure.” Amarantha drawled and I bared my teeth.
I was no longer her whore. I will kill her. I will return to my home. To my family.
And I will bring my mate.
“Leave.” Tamlin growled.
“After I’ve enjoyed myself and after I’ve seen your little human pet. Bring her out.” Amarantha called and the Attor flew in, snatching Feyre up, even as she stabbed him with an ash arrow.
I clawed at the Attor, but it was too late, the Attor dropping Feyre in front of Amarantha and then falling dead behind Feyre. Feyre bared her teeth, dagger in hand as I hovered in front of her, snarling.
“There you are, Rhysand. Be a good boy and come here.” Amarantha cooed and I shrieked as her magic took hold of me, forcing my bones to obey. I flew to her side as Feyre growled.
“Leave him alone.” Feyre hissed and Amarantha’s grin grew sharp and wicked.
“No, he is mine.” She said, scratching under my chin as I tried not to vomit.
I had to protect Feyre.
Tamlin had shifted into his beast form but was ensnared by Amarantha’s magic.
“You are quite the bold girl. Too bad you didn’t break my curse. But, since this is Fire Night, a gift.” Amarantha said before gesturing for her monsters to light the cottage on fire, advancing on Feyre who cried out when she tried to stab Amarantha and have her arm broken by Amarantha’s magic. Tamlin fought against his restraints and I scratched Amarantha’s eye, clawing at her neck.
She shrieked and grabbed me with her magic, hurtling me into the fire, snapping my wings.
“No!” Feyre screamed, running after me as Amarantha cackled.
“The two of you can die together, then.” She said as Feyre tore through the burning cottage to save me.
Feyre knelt by me as I tried to drag myself to her, my feathers on fire.
Go. Save yourself. Run out the back.
“No you idiot! You’re my only friend! I can’t lose you! I love you!” She sobbed, a tear escaping her and landing on my head.
And then… there was the sweet embrace of darkness once more. I felt my powers returning to me as I stood and shielded us with star-flecked darkness, pulling Feyre close to me, noticing that the flames were no longer licking at her body, but a part of her, as bright as starlight.
I carried her out as Amarantha stopped laughing, eyes widening.
“Rhysand-” Amarantha opened her mouth before screaming as I reached and held her mind, making her aware of every body part my shadows tore from her before plunging down her throat and eviscerating her. Feyre watched with contempt before raising a flaming white hand to burn the rest of her.
Tamlin shifted, his mask clattering to the ground as he looked at us in amazement.
It was finally over.
“There you are. I had seen glimpses of who you truly were, but…” Feyre said, cupping my cheek that now beheld skin as I grinned.
“Like what you see, Feyre darling?” I asked and Feyre laughed.
“No, you were much cuter before. I don’t know if I can love this.” She teased and I laughed, headbutting her playfully.
“Your love broke the spell, so no taking it back.” I said and she grinned, still burning brightly, the flames only warming me.
“Fine, fine.” She said and I leaned in close.
“I love you too, Feyre Darling.” I said as her breath hitched and she stared at me with wide, glowing eyes.
I don’t know what the land has made her but I will love her in every form.
I leaned down to kiss her, groaning as the strange magic took hold of us, enveloping us in a rejuvenating warmth. She melded into me, darkness and light as I whisked her away to my cabin to celebrate our own Calanmai.
And yes, she still grabs me frequently.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed some pet Rhys and his commentary! Let me know reactions in the comments and what part was your fav, even if it's emojis or a meme! I love interacting with other fans!! Like and reblogs greatly appreciated!
This was an incredible event and I had so much fun so thank you to everyone!
What if Rhysand never rescued Feyre from her wedding, and she spent 300 years married to Tamlin? What if he finally called in the bargain after Tamlin's death?
I got burnt out on my original @officialfeysandweek plan, but luckily finished this chapter just in time to slip it in. :)
Read the update on AO3
And here's chapter 1 if you want to get caught up!
“I’ve loved Feyre for centuries. She has my complete and utter devotion.”
There's never a convenient time to go into labor, but really? Now? When Rhys has taken Nyx to Illyria for a meeting with Cass and Devlon, and Feyre is waiting in Mor's office in the Hewn City after meeting with newly appointed city officials, and Azriel is somewhere… doing something.
Feyre breathes slowly out through her mouth, resting her hands on her belly. Just a warning cramp, she assures herself. Not true labor. Not yet.
It's not an unfamiliar sensation, the pressure low in her abdomen, but it's still somehow foreign—a feeling that her body could not produce on its own. "Okay, baby," she soothes, looking down at herself. "Just chill for a day or so, please? I need time to prepare and get your daddy back here."
She receives a little fluttery kick in response, higher up towards her ribs than usual.
Higher up. So the little babe has shifted. Ready to emerge. Lovely.
Feyre stares at the desk in front of her, trying to decipher her schedule of meetings and whether or not they can be pushed off. Whether or not they even should be. She waits with equal anticipation for her next meeting and next contraction.
The meeting comes first.
Maybe the baby was just teasing her, a slight shift in position pushing against her pelvic muscles in early preparation for birth.
"Thank you, High Lady," the new minister of housing says as she rises from the chair across from Feyre. "I appreciate your time, and your attention. It has been… many centuries since we have had hope, as a city. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed."
The sentiment nearly brings tears to Feyre's eyes. Yes, she knew she was doing the right thing in trying to help liberate the Hewn City from their cutthroat and dark ways, but to hear that she has made a difference where others hadn't? It tugs at her heartstrings. Her mortal heartstrings. Certainly not a weakness, she thinks with a wry chuckle.
A chuckle that's cut off by a new contraction, and it takes all of her energy to focus on not wincing as she bids goodbye to the slight fae she'd been meeting with.
"Wait—" she calls, just before the door shuts. "Yaslana, would you be a dear and fetch Morrigan for me?"
The fae nods, brows furrowed in concern, before gently shutting the door behind her and leaving Feyre to ride out her contraction.
"You just had to make a dramatic entrance, huh? Am I going to have another little one that takes after Rhys on my hands?"
There's a tinge of exasperation in her voice, but it's tempered by fondness, by love. Being like Rhys really isn't a negative.
For all that he's stubborn and dramatic and a pain in her ass, her mate is also loving and patient and compassionate, sweet and determined and equitable, and thousands of other amazing things that she wouldn't trade for the world.
Even if it means this new babe is trying to force their way out of her at an inopportune time.
"Feyre?" Mor's concerned voice calls out as she gently opens the door. "Yaslana said you asked for me?"
"Yeah. The little one seems to be, ah, attempting to make their debut into the world." Feyre grins as Mor's honey-brown eyes widen almost comically. "Not urgently. And I should be able to finish off my last two meetings today just fine, but, y'know, so you're aware."
"You're starting labor and insisting you can finish your day of work? Cauldron, no wonder you and Rhys were mated."
Yeah, this is why she wanted to tell Mor before anything else. She isn't freaking out, or insisting Feyre rush home. No, she's just gently chastising Feyre for being something of a workaholic.
"So… you just wanted me to know?" Mor checks, stepping into Feyre's space to press a smacking kiss to her cheek. "I'm honored."
"I wanted you to know that I'll be asking you to winnow me home. I don't think I have the focus, and I don't want to risk it."
"Of course, Fey! Just poke at my brain when you're ready to go, okay?"
And she does.
Once she makes it through the last two meetings—only having to grit her teeth and smile through a handful of contractions that are starting to come more consistently—she casts her mind out and gently knocks against Mor's gilded mental walls.
I'm ready to head home whenever you have time.
Within moments, Mor is striding through the door, as if she'd been waiting in the hallway for the summons. She just grins at Feyre and links their arms together before winnowing them to the steps of the River House. "Alright, babes, you know how to find me if you need me. And fucking call if you need anything, okay?"
She laughs. "Okay, I got it!"
"Oh," Mor adds, almost as an afterthought. "Maybe also let your mate and son know that they should come home for this?"
"Cauldron forbid a woman finish her workday," Feyre mutters, shooing her friend away as she waddles into the house. Her lack of an actual answer is part lack of need to answer Mor, part stubborn refusal to listen to her advice.
She'll fetch Rhys and Nyx (and Madja) when her contractions are regular.
Sleep is elusive, but she manages to get a few hours in before her labor begins in earnest. The moon is low in the sky when she's awoken by the most painful cramping yet, the pain radiating from her pelvic muscles all the way to her spine. Still, she doesn't summon her mate or a healer. Not until two more intense contractions, just about five minutes apart, have her groaning softly in pain.
Rhys is too far away for her to reach his mind with any reliability, especially as unfocused from her magic as she is. Instead, she gives a sharp, insistent tug on the mating bond. He'll feel that, and like the worrywart he is, will show up as soon as he can.
'As soon as he can' is, apparently, within two minutes.
Nyx looks disoriented and tired, as if Rhys had simply grabbed him and winnowed with no explanation. (Which, Feyre thinks, is probably exactly what had happened.)
"What's going on?"
His fear and anxiety are palpable, flowing across the bond unchecked.
"I'm in labor," she says softly, trying to calm the frenzied emotions she can feel buffeting her. "It's still early, but this is my second, so it might go a bit fast, and I wanted you here."
"You're having our baby," he breathes, practically launching himself at her to wrap her up in his arms. He holds her as if she's something miraculous; something he can't bear to lose. And it's true, she knows, melting in his arms, ignoring all of the aches and complaints of her body at the awkward angle of the hug. "Gods, you're amazing, darling."
When he finally pulls back—only so she can readjust herself to be more comfortable as she breathes through a contraction—Feyre sees that Nyx has awoken, staring at her with awe in his eyes.
"Nyxie," she calls, reaching out a hand for him to take. His dwarfs hers, clutches her tightly. "My darling baby boy."
"Mom," he says, looking and sounding near tears. "You're gonna have a baby."
"I am."
"I love you so much. And I hope everything goes well. But I really don't want to see your v—"
"Don't feel the need to finish that sentence," Feyre cuts him off with a wan laugh, focusing on the fact that she'd really not hear her son, adult though he is, say 'vagina'. "Yeah. You can go. We'll get you when your little sibling has made their way into the world."
"Thank you," he breathes, squeezing her hand one more time before making a quick exit before he sees 'more than necessary'.
Rhys' deep laugh rumbles from above her, and when she looks up, her mate is gazing at her with mirth sparkling in his eyes. "You don't want to hear him say 'vagina', and yet you beg for my dirty talk where I tell you how you have such a pretty little pu—"
"Rhys!"
The hand she slaps over his mouth doesn't deter him in the slightest. He just slips into the antechamber of her mind to finish the thought: such a pretty little pussy. How your tight, wet cunt takes me so well.
"Seriously?" Feyre can't help but laugh looking up at him, unable to be truly annoyed with his debaucherous flirtation. "When I'm in labor?"
His responding grin is all masculine pride. "Well, darling, they do say that sex can help labor progress faster."
"Insatiable."
"For you? Always." A pregnant pause. "So is that a no to the sex, or—"
"No offense, love, but I really don't want to be fucked right now."
"You don't even want my fingers?"
Well. She might be in a little bit of pain, but that hasn't stopped them before, and… he does have talented hands… "As long as you keep them to the outside."
His satisfied purr rumbles in his chest as he settles in bed beside her, pulling her flush to his side.
She won't give him the pleasure of her confirmation, but she knows that Rhys is aware of how correct he was.
It's mere hours later that Madja is perched between Feyre's spread legs, gently coaxing her to push.
Pain tears through her with the next contraction as she bears down, feeling like she's about to crack open. Tears trace their way down her temples, but she ignores them—just as she's been ignoring Rhys' pleas to let him take her pain away. ("I didn't get to go through this the way I should have been able to with Nyxie," she reminds him. "I want to feel it all. The joy and the pain it took to get there.")
"Almost there," Madja soothes.
Feyre takes a shaky inhale, welcoming the short reprieve from the pain, the promise that the end is in sight. "How soon?"
"Two more should deliver the head, and then you're in the home stretch."
Rhys squeezes her hand as if he's the one who needs the anchor to reality.
Maybe he does. They were all in danger when Nyx was born. Without the fear hanging over their heads, it barely seems real.
"Oh gods," she groans, feeling the onset of the next contraction, her body pushing, working more on instinct than any instructions given to her.
"You're doing so well," Rhys murmurs, voice thick. "My beautiful mate. You're so strong, my love. Just a little more, and you'll be able to hold our baby."
She manages to look over at him and offer a grin that probably comes out as more of a grimace.
There's the familiar pain, accompanied by an exacerbated burning sensation, and—a gasp from Rhys, as he peers down at where she's spread open.
Everything is a blur, then. A wail of an infant, soothing praise and instructions from Madja, a flurry of motion from Rhys. All Feyre knows is the weight of a baby—her baby—on her chest.
"Oh," she breathes, staring down at the miraculous creature on her chest. Still covered in the mess of blood and everything else from birth, eyes squeezed tightly shut and face screwed up as they cry, she thinks they're the most beautiful thing she's ever seen. "Oh, my love, my love."
Feyre maneuvers—maneuvers her, the baby is a girl, she has a daughter—so that she can lay her on her bare chest. So that her daughter can feel her heart beating.
"Baby girl," she breathes in awe. Her amazement is so complete that she can't even wrench her gaze away from the dark-haired infant to watch Rhys cut the cord. All she really notices, outside of the baby, is Rhys coming back to her side, cupping the back of their daughter's head.
"You gave us a beautiful baby girl," Rhys sniffs, burying his face in her hair. "A beautiful baby girl who needs a name."
It's not a name they've discussed, but looking down at her, Feyre just thinks it feels right.
"Selene," she murmurs. "I think she's a Selene."
"Indeed she is," Rhys agrees, cupping a large hand to the back of their daughter's—Selene's—head. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."
Feyre gets the text three weeks later.
I set up a room for next Friday. Maybe we can meet up early at the hotel bar for drinks? xx
Why the fuck does he want to get drinks? Their setup is perfect- casual, anonymous sex. They both gave fake names, Feyre wears a blindfold: it's just no-strings-attached BDSM with another person that values their privacy. So why does he want to meet up now?
She never responds and he doesn’t ask again.
Thankfully, the universe has other plans.
For feysand week day 7! This was such a great event- thanks to the mods for all their hard work! @officialfeysandweek
Summary: When Lord Archeron dies and is survived only by his wife and three daughters, a distant male relative steps in to inherit the estate and the care of the Archeron women.
Happy @officialfeysandweek! This is for Day 7: Family, hope you enjoy!
Read on AO3 or read below on tumblr!
-
The mating frenzy, Feyre later learned it was called, kept them under its thrall for over a week.
"Mother probably thinks I'm dead," Feyre said on the first morning when she didn't wake with the ravenous urge to crawl inside his skin.
Rhysand was curled around her, his wing tucked over them like a blanket. "I don't see a need to correct that assumption."
She threw an elbow into his ribs, which he sustained with a chuckle and an apologetic nip to her ear.
"We're going back," she said sternly. "At least until my sisters are each married."
They'd already discussed his—during what little moments of sanity they had in between incessant bouts of fucking. Feyre thought she might have lost weight from the sheer amount of exercise and how little she'd been eating to replenish her strength. They'd only managed just enough to sustain themselves, only for as long as she could stand not having his cock inside her.
"How about we stay for the social season, have our wedding, and then insist we require a newlywed escape to the countryside, hm?"
Feyre could admit that sounded tempting, especially when Rhysand's hand scraped across the valley of her breast, taking one into his proprietary hold. She shivered as his thumb playfully circled one of her peaked nipples. He had a fixation on them, she noticed—but then again, that fixation seemed to extend to everything when it came to her.
"Your mother will have gotten what she wanted," Rhys added. "Next, she'll be insisting we give her grandchildren. And that is a duty I would be happy to fulfill, and the perfect excuse to retire to a private estate."
"But we won't actually be staying in the mortal lands, will we?"
He dipped his head, trailing kisses from her neck to her shoulder. "I'd like to show you my lands in Prythian, if you'll indulge me. I think you'd love the Night Court."
His voice took on a wistful edge, one that made Feyre's chest ache. Try as she might, she couldn't replicate that feeling about anywhere. No place had ever truly felt like home to her, but she had the sense that wasn't the case for Rhys. He spoke of his homeland, his court, with pride.
"We can go," she said. It was hard to tell if the spark of excitement in her chest belonged to her or her mate, their minds so deeply entwined she sometimes had trouble deciphering where she ended and he began. But Feyre had always been curious about the world that awaited beyond the Wall, and she wouldn't mind seeing it for herself. "But—promise nothing will eat me?"
Rhys gave her a positively wicked grin. "Can I be made an exception?"
She snorted. "As if you could stand to put that tongue away for more than a day."
"I couldn't," he said, emphasizing his point by sliding his tongue under her jaw. "I would miss the taste of you too much."
"You're insatiable."
He didn't deny it. If Rhysand had his way, they would have stayed in the cabin for another week—another month, even—dedicating their time to nothing outside of the pleasures of their flesh.
"There is one benefit to returning to the mortal lands," he mused, tracing an invisible pattern down her arm. Black ink appeared in the wake of his fingers, a design that slowly unraveled itself from her elbow to her fingertips. "I'll get to enjoy my own human wedding."
Feyre pulled her arm away with a gasp. "What did you do to me?"
"It's a bargain tattoo," he answered, daring to let his amusement show. "In the Night Court, bargains are permanently marked upon the flesh. I've had it glamored until now. The same way I hide my wings and ears to look human."
Her initial shock wearing off, Feyre was able to admire the design. From a distance, the tattoo looked like a lace glove, but closer to her face, she could see the intricate depictions of flowers and curves. It was art. Etched into her skin, like smears of charcoal that even her governess couldn't wipe off.
It thrilled her, but there was no chance she would be admitting that to him.
"I'm growing tired of your dramatic reveals, Rhysand." She grumbled. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"
His silence was damning.
Feyre sat up, the warmth and safety of his wing falling away. "Oh my god, there is!"
She watched as he ran a nervous hand through his short, sex-mussed hair while her nerves grew into a tangled mass in her stomach. It had to be truly unspeakable if even Rhysand was having trouble admitting to it.
"Two things," he said finally.
She raised her brows, prompting him to continue.
"The first is the rite—the ritual that will bind your life to mine. I've already begun it without your knowing." Feyre narrowed her eyes. Rhys went on, "It requires mates to exchange their blood during an act of carnal desire. Mine, when you sucked my thumb in the woods. Yours, when I bit you during our frenzy."
Feyre looked down at herself, assessing her body for any change. "So, I'm immortal now?"
"Not yet. The final step is an offering. Similar to how a female must offer food to her mate to accept the mating bond, but this time, the offering is mine. A kernel of my magic." He presented his palm. A glittering teardrop emerged from his skin, rippling with a power that she had to look away from before it seared her eyes. "Once you take this, the threads of our lives will become permanently entwined. When we leave this world…" He swallowed. "We'll leave together."
She thought she understood, then, the magnitude of what he was offering. Not just binding her life to his, but the reverse as well. His powerful, impervious body would forever have a vulnerability in the fragile mortal at his side.
Her eyes began welling with tears. Rhysand's hand was immediately there, chasing them away.
"You're truly willing to take that risk?" She asked him.
"It's no risk. I don't want to live in a world without you," he said fiercely. "Not for a single second."
It wasn't a hard decision to make. Rhys could see the moment she decided, and the smile that spread across his face was one of relief, not fear. It mattered more to him that her life was made longer than that his might be cut short.
No one had ever loved her that much before.
Holding her gaze, Rhysand moved his glowing palm to the space just above her heart. He ducked to kiss her forehead at the same moment the magic made contact, swelling and burning as it wrapped around her heart. She cried out, falling into his arms as he held her, stroking her, murmuring soothing words until the sensation eventually ebbed.
"Do you feel different?" He asked.
Feyre looked down at her body again. Her skin gleamed with a strange light, and her fingers looked longer as she flexed them out along Rhysand's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath. Feeling it in synch with her own. Forevermore.
"A little," she admitted, blinking in the details of him, which were sharper, clearer. "I feel… stronger, I think."
He smiled. "The true test will be another chase through the snow."
Of course he would suggest something so crude. Feyre snorted, but as the hunger swelled in his gaze, she froze. He smelled… She inhaled, registering the scent of citrus and the sea that had always been present, but now with something rich and masculine beneath it. The back of her mouth began watering.
"I—" She had to lick moisture back into his mouth. "I can smell—"
Rhysand chuckled. "You can smell exactly what you do to me," he filled in. Then he shamelessly leaned closer, skimming his nose along her throat to inhale her scent. "And perhaps now you understand why I'm so addicted to you."
If this was akin to what he could sense all along, then perhaps she could forgive him for his multitude of transgressions.
Except—
"What was the second thing?"
She interrupted him moments from sucking her neck between his teeth. "Hmm?"
Feyre shoved his head away, finding with satisfaction that she was strong enough, now, to actually push him off. "You said there were two things you needed to tell me. You only told me one."
"Oh," he said. "Right, of course. Nothing gets past my cunning little mate."
Another beat of silence.
"Rhysand," Feyre warned.
He took her hand in his. "As I tell you this, I want you to remember that our lives are now bound together. If you kill me, you'll also be killing yourself."
Feyre only offered him a hard stare.
Sheepishly, Rhysand told her, "It might have slipped my mind to mention I'm also High Lord of the Night Court."
-
Arhceron Manor was exactly how they left it.
When the carriage pulled up to the flagstone steps, Feyre had the strange sense that she was looking through Rhysand's eyes once again as she stepped out of the carriage to see her mother and sisters waiting, curtsied low to welcome their new Lord home.
But this was not a memory she was reliving. It was a current one. And the new Lord Archeron that stepped out of the carriage did so with Feyre in his hand.
"We're pleased you're home, Lord Archeron," mother said. "Thank you for so diligently looking after my daughter."
Rhysand affectionately chucked his gloved thumb under Feyre's chin. "It was the least I could do to tend to my betrothed through her illness. You're feeling much improved now, aren't you, Feyre?"
She smiled at him, warmed to see the adoration in his eyes and know that not an ounce of it was faked. Her only hope was that he could see her own fondness mirrored back. "I am, thanks to you, my lord."
Mother clapped her hands together. "It's true, then? You've proposed to my youngest daughter, and she's accepted? There will be a wedding?"
Rhysand nodded. "We'd like to honor your mourning period—"
"Oh, posh!" Mother interrupted. "We shouldn't allow death to interfere with young love! We'll begin preparations immediately. I think it would do us all a bit of good to have something positive to focus on."
Dark laughter echoed in the back of her mind. I think she's more excited than you are, Feyre darling.
She hasn't the slightest idea how annoying you can be. I think anyone's excitement would be dulled.
Funny, you didn't seem to find me annoying when you were riding my cock in the carriage.
"That's very considerate of you, Lady Archeron," Rhysand said, acting every bit the respectable gentleman mother assumed he was, even while whispering filth into her daughter's mind. "Now, I do think that Miss Feyre is overdue for some rest after her exhausting journey."
You're a scoundrel, Feyre seethed. Rhys sent her a sideways glance, grinning with his eyes.
"Oh, my darling girl!" Mother exclaimed, coming forward to clap both of Feyre's cheeks between her wrinkly hands. "I am so pleased to see you've recovered. Well done."
It was a curious thing. Feyre knew her mother wouldn't be nearly so pleased by her recovery if she hadn't returned engaged to Rhysand. Before meeting him, that knowledge might have stung her, made her feel that nobody cared whether she lived or died so long as she wasn't a burden.
Now, it was something she could observe as if behind a pane of glass. It made her capable of mustering a smile. Saying, "Thank you, Mother," without feeling bitter.
Because as she walked back into her family manor, she did so with Rhysand by her side.
And Feyre knew she would never feel alone again.
-
Bonus Epilogue
"Mother warned me not to let you in here, you know."
Rhysand slinked around her art studio with feline curiosity, studying each of her pieces with a disciple's rigor, like they might hold some deep secret to the world beneath the lines and shadows, and he was intent on uncovering it.
Even her comment hadn't been enough to throw his concentration. His eyes never left the canvas as he murmured, "Why's that?"
It felt strangely intimate, allowing him in here, watching him examine her work. He'd seen her naked and splayed in a hundred vulnerable positions before him, but none felt quite as bare as this.
Feyre nibbled at her bottom lip. "I think she worried you would find it unbecoming."
Perhaps it was the underlying shame thrumming through the bond that prompted his head to turn. His eyes glittered with mischief. "You know what she would find even more unbecoming?"
When Feyre tilted her head in question, his grin widened.
"If you painted me in the nude."
Even as she sighed, she couldn't hide the smile breaking over her lips. "Very well," she said, prepared to call his bluff as she reached for her brush. "Strip, High Lord."
Fortunately for Feyre, her husband was very good at following orders.
As she turns to face another wall of bucolic artworks, the oak door glides open on freshly oiled hinges, and Mr. Nightingale steps through like a statue coming to life. He takes one look at her, eyes skating up and down her black mourning dress, and shakes his head. Despite herself, Feyre’s breath catches. He’s still the most handsome man she’s ever seen.
“I thought our engagement had been called off,” Mr. Nightingale — Rhys — says, voice smooth as silk. He stalks toward her like a cat on the prowl, stopping just short of a respectable distance between an unmarried man and woman. If she reached out, she could touch his jacket.
“That subject is precisely what I came here to talk about.” Feyre swallows, feeling each muscle in her throat contract under his hot gaze. He’s mesmerising, eyes so blue they’re nearly violet. “You see, I disagree.”
words: 2570
rating: m
a/n: for @officialfeysandweek day 7: au. aka, the marrying winterborne au i promised myself i wouldn't write until other projects were finished. (they aren't. oops!) this may expand into two chapters, but no promises, given how busy i've been with work over the past two months. i hope you enjoy!
read on ao3 or under the cut
When Feyre was a child, she thought the richest man in all of England must have been her father. Now, she knows better. Knows who the richest man in all of England is, if the rumors are to be believed. Despite his humble beginnings as the son of Welsh shopkeepers, Rhysand Nightingale is now anything but.
And she’s sitting in his parlor. One of his parlors, anyway. As soon as she stepped foot inside the towering department store and asked to see Mr. Nightingale, Feyre had been carted off away from the main shopping floor, through a series of twisting and turning hallways, until, finally, she was deposited in a plush, if not impersonal, sitting room.
A short, dark-haired woman with piercing eyes said she would go fetch him, but that had been many minutes ago.
It’s perhaps the nicest room Feyre’s ever been in. Dark floors, polished so she can see her reflection, down to the last freckle. Dusty blue striped wallpaper, with an iridescence that catches the light from the roaring fireplace opposite the door — both ornately carved. And that’s to say nothing of the couch, upholstered in a navy velvet that would make for the most luxurious napping spot.
She yawns, as if the sea-and-citrus perfumed air might put her right to sleep.
Coming here was a gamble. Alis, lady’s maid to the Archeron sisters, had said as much. And then the driver had nearly refused to take her here — he hadn’t agreed until she threatened to go on foot.
Covering her mouth to stifle another yawn, Feyre’s hit with the fact that they might have been correct. Mr. Nightingale could very well refuse to see her. If more rumors are to be believed, he could ruin her and have her thrown out into the alley.
Still, something’s been tugging at her ribs since he left last week, leading her here. To him.
To keep from falling asleep, Feyre stands, taking in the artwork on the walls. Landscapes, all perfectly pastoral. The calm skies and rolling hills etched on the canvases make her itch to dip a brush into her oil paints and add clouds. Shadows. Imperfections.
As she turns to face another wall of bucolic artworks, the oak door glides open on freshly oiled hinges, and Mr. Nightingale steps through like a statue coming to life. He takes one look at her, eyes skating up and down her black mourning dress, and shakes his head. Despite herself, Feyre’s breath catches. He’s still the most handsome man she’s ever seen.
“I thought our engagement had been called off,” Mr. Nightingale — Rhys — says, voice smooth as silk. He stalks toward her like a cat on the prowl, stopping just short of a respectable distance between an unmarried man and woman. If she reached out, she could touch his jacket.
“That subject is precisely what I came here to talk about.” Feyre swallows, feeling each muscle in her throat contract under his hot gaze. He’s mesmerising, eyes so blue they’re nearly violet. “You see, I disagree.”
Rhys narrows his eyes. “Has your sister changed her tune? Has Cassian?”
Nesta, the eldest Archeron, was recently married in a chain of events that began with Papa dying and the Archeron estate — and title — being passed to one of Mama’s very distant cousins. Cassian had come to Briarwood Hall with no intention of managing it. Instead, he’d made it clear upon arrival that he wanted to see the whole thing sold off, regardless of the three sisters living there
Were it not for a rather fiery love affair that finally ended in a proposal, Feyre would have been cast out into the wilderness, hunting for her meals rather than enjoying them in the company of her sisters and new brother-in-law.
When Cassian had invited his oldest friend to Briarwood Hall, Rhys was just meant to stay for Christmas. A terrible train accident left him injured and in need of a nurse — a position that Feyre had reluctantly volunteered for. Really, she wanted the quiet time to paint. And, frankly, she’d assumed Rhys would be asleep most of the time.
But he wasn’t. He talked to her. Asked her questions, about growing up wild without a mother, what it had felt like when their father fell into a deep depression that pulled them down with him, and about her paintings — mostly storms and shipwrecks. They spoke for hours, and Feyre learned about his own upbringing in Wales, how his parents had moved to London to open a grocery store — and how his father had turned into a rather wicked man over the course of his lifetime.
High on morphine, Rhys had confessed that he oftentimes worried he might turn into the same sort of bastard his father was.
That’s when Feyre knew she was in trouble. When he’d regained most of his strength, she realized she was in even bigger trouble.
The engagement was actually Cassian’s idea. With little money to save the estate, a prudent marriage to a wealthy gentleman would be just what the Archerons needed. Who better to take one of them on than the man now indebted to Feyre?
Nobody expected that they might actually like one another.
“We haven’t talked about it,” Feyre says. “But I’m sure I’ll be able to convince them of my wishes.” It’s a lie, and not a very good one.
Rhys tilts his head, his mouth curling into a cruel smile. This is why Nesta doesn’t approve. “Not likely, darling. Not after I nearly had my way with you in the library.”
And that.
Feyre’s face goes hot as she remembers that day. How Rhys had asked if she’d ever been kissed before, and how he tutted when she shook her head. How the first press of his lips against hers had been heavenly. Maddening. Shattering.
How easy it had been to lie beneath him as he pressed kisses and promises into the tender skin of her throat, hands moving swiftly beneath her skirts, trying to undo the layers and layers keeping him from her most intimate places.
By the hungry look on Rhys’ face, he must be thinking about the same moment.
Feyre clears her throat. “But Cassian is your best friend. He’ll be on our side, surely.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Rhys says. Cassian knows me better than most anyone, and that’s reason enough to want me kept as far from you as possible.”
“He liked you well enough when he wanted to convince you to marry me for the good of the estate. What could have changed?”
“He realized that I wanted you.” It’s a plain statement — yet it has her stomach going molten.
“Do you still?” Feyre asks. Her corset feels too tight, the room too warm.
“What do you want?” he counters. It’s infuriating, the way he evades questions so easily. Years of business, of climbing to the top, must have made for excellent practice. “You came here unchaperoned, against the wishes of your sisters. Do you want to fall from grace, Feyre?”
Her eyes narrow. If she backs down now, she’ll never get what she wants. “I want you,” she says simply.
“You haven’t the faintest idea what that means.”
“I want to be your wife. I want the life you promised me a week ago.” She takes a step closer, and Rhys’ nostrils flare. “And I know that you want me, too. My family name and the respect that comes from being attached to a family with a title is perhaps the one thing you lack.”
This is her only card to play, and it feels like a low blow. Many gentlemen would be offended, ceasing negotiations — if that’s what this is — altogether. But Feyre’s put the pieces together. Cassian wouldn’t have made the initial offer if there weren’t something in it for Rhys, too.
“Presumptuous,” Rhys starts, eyeing her like she’s his next meal. He pulls back, something like pain flickering across his face before he schools his expression into pure control. With a curt nod, Rhys turns toward the door.
No.
“Wait.” Feyre rushes to the door, pressing her back against it before her better judgement takes over. “Please.”
Rhys lifts an eyebrow in question. “Please what?”
An ill-fated governess had once attempted to mold Feyre into a pretty little thing, ready for tea parties and promenades and, eventually, the marriage market. But then Mama died, the governess was dismissed, and Feyre was left to her own devices.
She grew wild as stinging nettle, frequently covered in paints or charcoal or dirt. Free from corsets and dinner parties and courtship.
Loney.
“My world has been very empty up to this point. As the youngest of three daughters, it was bound to go this way, whether Papa dragged us into ruin or not. You — you’re my chance at a real life.” Feyre breathes deep. “Marry me,” she says, all etiquette thrown into the fire like shreds of parchment.
Another emotion flashes in his eyes — desire? Feyre can’t quite place it. Her mouth opens to make another plea, and —
A hot, insistent mouth covers hers before she can speak. Rhys fits a hand at the nape of her neck, anchoring her exactly where she stands, possessing her in a way nobody ever has before. His fingers on her skin send shivers down her spine, and she presses up, closer. When his tongue slides against hers, Feyre struggles to remember what exactly she came to Nightingale’s for.
Surely this?
Her hands clutch at Rhys’ coat as his mouth makes its way to the shell of her ear. “Want to be my wife, do you? Want me to take you away from that crumbling estate and give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of?” His teeth scrape her earlobe. “I’ll make you a queen, richer than your sisters. Show you pleasure like you’ve never known. Make you mother to my heirs. Do you want that, Feyre, truly?”
“Yes,” she breathes, feeling completely out of control like that day in the library. Dimly, she’s aware of something hard pressing into her thigh. The room tilts, and all common sense slides out the window. Tentatively, her hips tilt forward against the hardness, and Rhys makes a noise she’s never heard before.
He palms at her breasts through her dress, and when one of his thumbs dips below the neckline and brushes her nipple, her mouth falls open in a soundless cry. “That’s it, darling,” Rhys murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
A knock at the door has him cursing and adjusting himself through his trousers. Feyre smooths her dress, willing her pulse and labored breathing to return to normal — both supremely difficult tasks. Another knock, and Rhys has a murderous glint in his eyes.
“What?” he barks, and in comes the same dark-haired woman from earlier, carrying a tea tray. “I didn’t call for this, Amren.”
“I thought you might need it,” she says dryly. “Since your conversation with the young lady has been taking so long.”
Rhys closes his eyes and sighs. Amren must be his housekeeper, but there aren’t many who would speak to their master this way. Just what sort of household does he keep? “That will be all, Amren.”
“Should I inform Nuala and Cerridwen that we’ll need an extra place set for dinner tonight?”
The clock on the mantle chimes, and he curses again. “Yes, please have them set an extra plate for dinner.”
It’s difficult to tell if the housekeeper looks disappointed or relieved. “Very well, Rhysand.” She leaves with a simple nod, pulling the door shut firmly behind her.
“You mean to keep me here for dinner?” Feyre asks. She sits back down on the couch, eyeing the porcelain tea set on the low table in front of her carefully. The money that must have cost…she shakes her head and begins pouring two cups.
“It hardly seems polite to accept your marriage proposal and then send you home hungry.”
Feyre’s head snaps up, and the delicate china tea cup in front of her promptly overflows. In an instant, Rhys is by her side, taking the tea pot from her hands and setting it down gently. He plucks a handkerchief from an inner pocket in his jacket and dabs up the pool of tea — but she hardly notices any of it.
“You’re saying yes?”
“Technically, I asked you last week, and you said yes.” But he nods, a broad smile blooming across his face.
Feyre touches a hand to her chest, all thoughts of tea service completely forgotten. Dinner, too. “We could make plans to elope tonight. We could take the train to Scotland.”
“Elope?” Rhys shakes his head, inky black hair falling across his eyes in a way that nearly looks boyish. She itches to push it back, out of his face, “I’ll do no such thing.”
“But you’ve been so certain that Cassian and Nesta won’t be persuaded to consent to the marriage.”
“No, I don’t expect their support in the slightest.” Rhys takes the hand at her chest and brings it to his mouth. He presses a kiss to her knuckles. “Still, I’ll have a church wedding or none at all.”
Feyre’s eyes go wide. “Are you that vain?”
“Yes,” he says seriously. “You were right before. I do need your family name. A self-made man is only worth so much in this country, and though I’ve amassed a fortune to rival the palace, you know as well as I do that money means precious little to the peerage in the hands of an outsider. Marrying you in front of the whole world will help a great deal.”
Feyre watches as his thumb works across the back of her hand, lingering on her ring finger. Gentle. Calm. So unlike the man who kissed her mere minutes ago. “I don’t see how you’ll be able to pull that off. Eloping would be far easier, and the end result will be the same: a connection to the Archeron name."
Rhys tucks a lock of hair that’s fallen out of her chignon behind her ear. “People will think that I’ve kidnapped my bride — and as tempting as that is, it’s bad for business.”
She huffs. “Perhaps this would all have been much easier if you actually had compromised me in the library last week. As the words leave her mouth, Feyre remembers all of the times Nesta had told her to hold her tongue, or the times Elain had tried to teach her proper manners after their governess had been dismissed. She drops her gaze to the floor.
That is not how one speaks in front of a gentleman.
“I’m sorry,” she starts. “I didn’t mean…” When she looks up, Rhys has a devilish glint in his eye. Not scandalized in the slightest. It dawns on her that this man will soon be her husband one way or another — and that a typical marriage in a typical household isn’t a remote possibility.
“I think we’ve found our solution, Feyre darling.” He looks as though he’s moments away from pouncing on her, calm from moments ago replaced with what Nesta’s preferred novels would describe as carnal appetite.
Heat rises in her cheeks, pools between her legs, as she makes herself ask, “What?”
With a wicked grin, Rhys tugs her closer so she’s almost in his lap. “I suppose I’ll have to bed you first.”
You know how in Ember's bonus chapter of HOFAS when Amren tells Nesta she's in trouble and she better hope Feyre fucks Rhys about it to save her ass? (I'm paraphrasing, but that was my takeaway.)
Yeah. That.
Thanks to @popjunkie42 for incredible betaing!
Read on AO3.
Rhys knew what was waiting for him when he returned home that morning.
When he had felt the strange power cutting through his wards yesterday, he and Feyre had quickly decided that Rhys would go to the source and Feyre would take Nyx to safety. Feyre was nearly out of his daemati range for most of the night, but he was able to tell her that it was safe enough for them to come back. Nyx was already settled and sleeping, though, so Feyre didn't return home until the morning. After leaving Nyx with the twins, she walked into Rhys's office to find him and Nesta in a screaming match standoff, with Cassian hovering behind them, trying and failing to calm both his High Lord and his mate.
When Rhys explained to Feyre what her fucking sister had done and how she'd put their entire world in peril on the extreme long shot that Bryce Quinlan could defeat the Daglan—Asteri—whatever they were called—Feyre, to his surprise, did not turn on Nesta but started berating him instead.
He would have considered a lot more than exile from the Night Court as a potential punishment had it been anyone else than his wife's sister—Nesta had brazenly broken so many rules, undermined his authority as High Lord, and jeopardized their entire world. As much as he would be forever grateful to Nesta for saving Feyre and Nyx, if she was just going to put them back in danger again, what was the fucking point?
But somehow Feyre didn't see it this way. She simply ordered the three of them back to the House of Wind to report to Bryce's parents that they had their protection for as long as they were there.
"They'll stay up at the House, and you can babysit them until Bryce comes back, if she ever does," Rhys spat out to Nesta.
"Don't talk to my sister like that," Feyre said sharply in his head. "We'll be discussing this when you get back."
“La bohème.”
Feyre couldn’t tell if it was a question or an affirmation. Couldn’t tell if he really knew what this meant or if he was simply repeating a word her artist friends kept saying, over and over.
Didn’t know if even she knew what this meant, exactly.
For her, it was a feeling.
For her, it was a state of mind.
For her, it was this life she was living.
Artistic and free and carefree.
Happy.
Summary: Due to unforeseen circumstances, Rhysand Estrella failed to confess his feelings for Feyre Archeron before it was too late and she was wedded to Tamlin Desrosier.
Wallowing in regret, he writes her a letter only to keep it hidden forever in a place she never will return to, or at least that's what he tells himself.
This is an epistolary fic with a dash of historical romance.
Notes:
For @officialfeysandweek's Day 7 AU/Free Day
Thank you to @thesistersarcheron and @rosanna-writer for the naming guidance.
Fluff and Angst, One Shot
Word Count: 2,443 Read on AO3
May 18th
Feyre Darling,
Regret lies in words unspoken and in actions too late. I find myself suffering from these. What good would it do now for me to tell you I love you? To fight for you—for us—for that chance? When you’re happily married to Tamlin Desrosier? Have I assumed too much by writing down the word ‘happily’? I don't want to believe I have. I want to believe that you are happy because I desperately wish that you were.
You're off on your bridal tour, and here I am drowning my woes by writing to you a letter you will never see nor touch. I must write the same.
For old time's sake, I'm not posting this letter in the mail, but dropping it off at our old hiding spot inside a burrow of a peculiar massive oak tree surrounded by birch trees in the forest along the river that flows free. The Suriel Post, you used to call it. It's the very spot where, as fanciful children, we played pretend, hunting for a mystical creature to answer all our curious questions. We never did get our answers, but I do miss recounting my days to you in a letter and leaving it there for you to find in instances our parents forbade us from seeing each other. Your answering letters were a balm to a boy who missed their dearest friend for life.
Unfortunately, time catches up on all of us, and society forces us to grow up to become the gentleman and lady they expect us to be. No sooner were you under the watchful eye of your finishing governess than I was to attend the Illyrian College. Seeing you became a rarity, and I chastise myself for not remedying that before it was too late and we were at the fringes of each other's lives.
Thus, regret echoes in the chambers of my mind for not writing to you while I was away and not pestering you for your thoughts. I regret not promising to return home to you during breaks, bringing along the brothers I earned during my schooling. I regret not introducing you to them. I regret not stunning them as I reach for you in a celebratory homecoming embrace, but I'm certain Cassian and Azriel would have been delighted by you. I could go on and on. If you ask me for a list of regrets when it comes to me and you, I would gladly oblige. But my dearest friend, would you like to hear my foremost regret? I desperately regret not calling on you on more serious matters of the heart.
What would it have been like to court you, Feyre? Would you have even allowed me to ask the question? I find myself thinking you would have shut me up in the only way you knew how, by calling me a prick in your own affectionate manner.
Yet—
Here we stand on the truth of it. I failed to do any of it, and this letter is a pitiful consolation. You might as well throw your shoe at me, for I shall deserve it, and I’ll take it in view of the fact that I must confess more.
When my school days were behind me and I was in the thick of inheriting the family winery business, no news of changes I missed left me speechless more than what my cousin Morrigan offered. Something cracked inside me when she told me that you were to be married come spring. She spared me most of the details, but she did tell me that your finishing governess, Ianthe Locke, introduced you to your betrothed. I found it odd, but I didn't question it. I knew little of matchmaking, and who was I to interfere?
Until then, I never knew the sheer magnitude of how much you meant to me, for my heart grieved hearing of it, no matter that outwardly, I wished you well. I convinced myself that you were happy and it was for the best that I did not interfere. Friends don't come out confessing their feelings out of the blue, do they?
On the morning of your wedding, I cracked open a case of the family's finest bottles of wine and poured myself a generous glass, intent to drown my sorrows, when my eccentric Aunt Amren stole the glass from me before I could even take a sip. “Go get her, you fool,” she said before whisking away out of sight. Anyone knows if Aunt Amren tells you to do something, you must do it or suffer her wrath. A fool I must be, but I'm not foolish enough to disregard my aunt's wishes. My will to keep still and silent was on the verge of breaking anyway.
I saddled my horse and rode fast and steady to the Church of Prythian.
Darling, I was at the gates, ready to march in to plead my case to you and make a spectacle of myself if I must, when the oddest thing happened. I was stopped in my tracks by none other than Amarantha Thorne. Eyes wild, she stood before me muttering, obscenities about how it was my fault Tamlin wasn't waiting at the altar for her, as if I were solely responsible for why she isn't his bride.
She spoke of mating bonds and faerie curses and different lifetimes that made no sense; I was certain there was truth in the rumors she was sent to the Hybern Asylum. I brushed away her nonsense, and I stepped around her. Alas, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Unguarded and with my back to her, the madwoman shot me with a pistol I didn't know she harbored. A sharp, powerful blow to my left shoulder had me staggering to my knees. Pain throbbed and blood spread on my waistcoat, and I found myself blacking out at the thought of how you would hate to see red on your wedding day.
I awoke a day later, wound patched up and under the care of our family physician, Madja. After an earful of scolding from her regarding dying in circumstances that would break my mother's heart, I came to learn that men loitering at the church’s courtyard had come to my aid and had that lunatic taken care of by authorities. And to my dismay, your wedding went on as planned.
This is my truest confession, Feyre Archeron. I love you, and I failed to ask you to run away with me.
You might shake your head and say I was driven by ill-advised impulse and foolish nostalgia, but had I had time to think things through and make plans that didn't involve me rushing to you on your wedding day, I would still have found myself to be at your mercy, asking you if you bore the same feelings as I do. I would have laid myself bare, telling you what I have dreamed for us and daring you to dream with me. And I would have loved you all the same no matter what choice you made in the end.
As I love you now and as I always will.
My paper is running sparse, and my ink is running dry. I take this time to gaze outside the window of my study, wishing for you upon the stars shining in the night sky.
This may be farewell, but whether we're together or not, may you find life beautiful enough to paint, darling, for I know you're happiest with paint-colored hands.
Yours forevermore,
Rhys
May 25th
Darling,
I have come to the knowledge that servants of the Desrosier Estate were caught in a state of befuddlement upon the return of their master weeks before the expected end of touring and without their newly acquired mistress.
The place is in a disarray.
Where have you gone, Feyre?
June 9th
Rhysand Luna de Noche-Estrella,
Do not lie to me and tell me you hid letters for me in the Suriel Post without any intention of me finding them. I know you better than that. Did you hold on to hope that I might come to read them? Perhaps not this soon, but one day? You know for certain when fights prompting sharp tongues and animosity at home become too unbearable, I come here to find solace among the tree roots.
“Here?” you ask.
Well, yes, I'm writing to you this very moment under the forest canopy as a soothing breeze brushes against my neck, calming my multiplying thoughts. There was no better place to write to you truly than our beloved Suriel Post.
I wonder if you meant this letter to be a lifeline attached to you if I needed saving from my marriage.
There's no need for it. I saved myself with help from new friends.
You see, you were right to find my former finishing governess, Ianthe Locke, odd for matching me with Tamlin Desrosier. Looking back, I should have questioned it myself, but I was too swept away by the romance of a first love.
I’ll tell you when I had discovered the treachery of it all while on our bridal tour.
It was when we had stopped at an inn to rest before making our way to my Aunt Ripleigh's country home that my maid Alis came to my room in a quiet haste, urging me to read a handful of incriminating letters between my new husband and my former governess. How she had gotten hold of them, I didn't know, but I was certain she was taking a risk handing them to me.
What they revealed had me feeling utterly betrayed and heartbroken. Our happiness was a lie.
I was naive, Rhys. I was stupid and naive to think Tamlin loved me for me and that I could trust or rely on him.
The exchange of letters revealed that all this time they were conspiring against me for the large sum of inheritance my Aunt Ripleigh promised me upon my marriage. It is quite fortunate, though, that my aunt had given the condition that I would only earn even a cent of it after the nuptials—if we were to visit her together in person and she gave her approval of the match.
That night as Tamlin slept alone in his room, Alis and I sneaked away, paying a hired coachman with my wedding ring to take us far away from the inn and to her former employer Tarquin Water’s estate in a nearby county.
I was dubious of the choice, but Alis promised me he was a good man who would help us if we explained to him our plight. Right then I had no one else I could trust more than Alis and no other better solution I could offer in my desperation to get away before it was too late. Thankfully, true to her word, Tarquin Waters was indeed kind and had taken us in despite the unusualness of our circumstances. Eventually, I was able to return to my family with his aid, while Alis remained, as he had offered her a permanent place in his household staff.
By now, you would have heard that my petition for annulment was granted by the Church of Prythian. For what even is a marriage made out of fraud? I may be ostracized by society for it, but I'm glad to be free of the ties binding me to him. The manner it came about was so expeditious that my father suspects it came about by someone of great influence and power pulling strings.
Tell me this wasn't your doing, Rhys?
I don't know if I should hate you or love you for that if it was.
As I have been writing to you this letter, I have been avoiding facing the true heart of your letter to me.
You love me, you say? That you came after me?
You were right. You are a prick, but only for the absurd timing of it.
Had not Amarantha Thorne been so peculiar that day and hindered your plans, I would have most certainly thrown not one shoe but both at your head for waiting until my wedding day to confess your feelings for me.
I would never be certain what would have been my choice if you had asked me to run away with you that day, but having loved you all my life as my most cherished friend who understands me like no other, I think I might have possibly dared to run away with you and dream as you do.
Have you been recovering well from your injury? Because I earnestly hope you are, or else I might have to avenge you and pick up my bow and arrow and hunt down the witch. You know I can. If you remember correctly, my aim is quite precise. Remember the days you caught me off guard while I practiced my archery lessons?
Saying this comes out quite bold, but I would do anything for you no matter if you and I are friends or more? I'm still trying to grasp the revelations of your heart and perhaps mine as well.
Rhys, I confess my heart is raw and in the midst of healing, and I don't know where we go from here. Yet hope sparks inside my chest that we’ll find our way.
And so I dare to ask.
Would you care to accompany me to a ball this Summer Solstice taking place in the Waters Beach Estate? Tarquin was so kind as to extend an invitation to me and any guest of my choosing, and frankly I don't know anyone else I would rather enjoy the festivities with than you.
I shall wait for your reply, and if you do reply, keep it brief. I would rather hear the explanation of everything else from your lips in person because then I could look into your eyes and ascertain this isn't all but a hopeless dream.
Love you no matter what comes next,
Feyre
June 10th
Feyre Archeron,
The love of my life. There you are. I have been looking for you.
Indeed, I would love to accompany you to a Summer Solstice Ball at the Waters Beach Estate. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
And darling, believe me, this is nothing but a dream come true.
As you wished, I have kept this letter brief, but when you finish reading this, turn around for me. I'm right here awaiting my chance to tell you everything and anything you need.
Yours and only yours,
Rhys
Notes: Thank you for reading!
Long story short I love you! 🎶
Title is inspired by a Forest Blakk song once again. ❤️
Day 7 of @officialfeysandweek! We made it! Now I need a nap 😅 Prompt: Free Day/AU
This is the one I’m the most nervous for the reception of. Not due to the content but because it’s a somewhat niche trope. But it’s the one I worked the hardest on, so I hope you at least give it a try!
Rating: Teen
Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses
Pairings: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Characters: Rhysand, Feyre Archeron
Warnings: chronic life-threatening illness (cured in the end)
Summary: In another universe, the first thing Rhys did after returning from Under the Mountain was say “She’s my mate.” In this one, the first thing he did was cough up three small leaves.
