Summary - She only wanted one night—no strings, no promises, just a little fun with the pretty girl from the app. But when her date turns out to be Feyre and her husband Rhysand, everything she thought she agreed to spins out of control.
One night becomes something she can't escape, chance encounters, lingering touches, and messages that start to feel like something more.
She keeps running, insisting it's casual—because falling for two people who already belong to each other can only end in heartbreak.
But Feyre paints her into art, Rhys looks at her like she's already his, and suddenly it's not just chemistry anymore.
It's connection. It's terrifying. It's real.
Tags - modern AU, polyamory, emotional tension, accidental love, found connection, fear of falling
Contents -
✴︎ One | A Table for Three | 2.8k words
✴︎ Two | Inescapable | 2.1k words
✴︎ Three | Static in the Air | 2.8k words
✴︎ Four | The Muse | 2.1k words
✴︎ Five | Falling Into Place | 2k words
ACOTAR Masterlist
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This fic was another request and it is on the shorter side because the prompt wasn't very detailed—but I hope it still delivers!
This is the first time EVER since I began writing (about seven/eight years ago) that I'm writing a story with another female as one of the love interests. I just wasn't sure I could ever do it justice, but the request called for it, and I gave it my all. Please be gentle, I've poured my absolute best into this :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
warnings: sex pollen (obviously) (but also not sex pollen specifically bc r gets poked by a thorn instead), f/f/m threesome, piv sex, oral sex (fem!receiving and giving…), fingering, semi dubcon because of the sex pollen but also not idk
word count: 2.8k
a/n: it’s finally here!!!!! enjoy day one everyone xoxo
KINKTOBER MASTERLIST / TAGLIST
“You’re late,” Rhysand calls to you as you shut the doors to his office quickly upon entry.
You expect the High Lord to be angry when you turn around, expect disappointment and annoyance to be written all over his face, but you find none. Rhysand is sitting in the chair behind his desk, one hand wrapped around Feyre’s waist as she sits perched in his lap. Both the High Lord and Lady have looks of concern written across their faces as you step into the room, watching as you catch your breath.
“S—So sorry, High Lord, High Lady.” you stammer out in between deep breaths, making your way over to one of the armchairs facing the desk to sit down quickly, in hopes that it will help your sudden spiked heart rate. “It took me much longer than usual to gather the forage Madja asked for today. And–And my winnows from the forest did not take me as far as I would’ve liked, must’ve been because I skipped lunch.”
“Forages?” Feyre questions, brows raised as her eyes rake over you and land on the bag slung over your shoulder. “For new tonics?”
“She’s had me working on the salve that Cassian had suggested we make, the one made specifically for healing wounds on Illyrian wings that was used centuries ago.” you explain breathlessly, smoothing your palms over the thighs of your skirt to wipe away the sweat accumulating on them. “S–Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so out of breath and–and flustered right now.”
Both the High Lord and Lady give you a kind smile as you speak, but you know them well enough to tell when they’re having a conversation mind-to-mind. A slight smirk plays on Rhysand’s lips as he squeezes his mate’s waist once before she stands to let him up from the chair.
“Come, let’s go sit over here.” he offers, holding out his hand to you as he motions towards the couch near the fireplace on the opposite side of the office. “You’ll be much more comfortable over here and we can talk about that salve before we discuss the needs . Feyre can grab you a glass of water as well.”
You oblige, taking his hand to follow him to the couch. He sits on one side of you while his mate pours a glass of water from the carafe on the table next to you. You take the glass with a wry smile, fighting the shake in your hands as you grasp it tightly.
“So, tell me more about these forages. What were you collecting? I recall Madja saying that it’s a complicated recipe so I’m sure getting everything was not a simple task.” Rhys questions, watching you closely.
“Everything was surprisingly simple to find aside from one lone ingredient, which is probably why it hasn’t been produced en masse for quite a while.” you explain after a long chug of water. “The–The onyx lily. It’s only found in the most secluded region of the Illyrian Steppes, so finding a bush was half the battle. Then the other half was clipping enough of the flowers without getting pricked too many times. Definitely took a nick or two, though.”
Rhys goes still at your words, his smile faltering for half a second before his gaze flickers to his mate. The two are silent for a moment, doing their mind-to-mind talk once again as you finish off your glass of water.
“Y/N–” Feyre starts, reaching out to place her hand on your knee. You nearly jump away from her at the touch, feeling as though your entire body is set ablaze by her fingertips. Your eyes squeeze shut then, shaking your head to snap out of the headspace you’re in right now, the headspace filled with lewd thoughts about your High Lord and Lady just because of a touch to your knee.
“I’m–I’m so sorry, I don’t know–” you stammer, but your voice fails you when Rhys’ hand falls on your other knee, making you involuntarily whine at the touch.
What is going on?
A blush heats your cheeks at the noise that escapes your throat, your eyes wide as you stare at the High Lord desperately.
“You say you were pricked by the onyx lily’s thorns?” he questions and you nod quickly. “The effects of the oil coating on their thorns are very strong, so getting nicked by one causes some very…intense effects.”
“I–I don’t understand. Is it toxic? Am–Am I going to die?” you say, voice shaky as you swallow thickly, hands itching in your lap as your mind races.
“You’re not going to die, but you could become very ill if you don’t address the symptoms as soon as possible.” Feyre begins, “The onyx lily causes you to become more and more aroused until you find some kind of–well–sexual release. Depending on how much of the oil ended up under your skin, it could take multiple times for you to feel better enough to get out of bed. Is there someone we can call for you to help you through this?”
“W–What?” you nearly cry out, eyes wide in disbelief as you look down at the handful of small cuts on the palm of your hand. “Are–Are you saying that I have to find someone to help me cum a bunch of times until I don’t feel like I’m about to have a heart attack anymore?”
“Essentially, yes.” Feyre says with a sympathetic smile, “Do you have anyone in mind? If not, we could call for Cassian or Azriel to see if they would be willing–”
“No!” you interject, shaking your head. As attractive as the High Lord’s best friends may be, you would be too ashamed to force them to do anything of the sorts for you. “I–I don’t have anyone that comes to mind. But, it’s quite–quite alright.” you say in a more calm tone, beginning to stand from your spot in between the two, “I’ll go to the local sex club and find a willing participant there. I’m sure there are plenty of males and females that are into t–this type of thing.”
Before you can stand fully, a large hand grips your bicep to pull you back between them. You look to the High Lord, who’s staring at you cautiously. His hand never leaves your arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the underside of it as Feyre squeezes your knee again.
“You do not have to do any such thing,” Feyre begins, shaking her head as she chooses her next words carefully. “You have two willing participants right here, ready to help you as you need.”
“I–Please don’t feel the need to–”
“Let us help you, darling.” Rhys nearly purrs, head dipped so his lips are closer to your ear, making you shiver at his words.
“I–I can’t, High–”
“We are not your High Lord and Lady right now, darling. Just Rhys and Feyre.” he interjects, hand sliding from your bicep to the small of your back. “It’s alright, I know the dirty thoughts you’ve had about us during our meetings, your thoughts are very loud and you don’t do the best job of keeping them hidden.”
You swallow thickly at his words, frozen in place as your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. Feyre’s hand comes up to stroke your cheek and you involuntarily lean into her hand, becoming increasingly desperate for physical touch.
“It’s okay that you think those things about us, because we’ve also had those thoughts about you, love.” she explains, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to look into her gray eyes. “So, what do you say? Would you like us to help?”
“Yes, please. Please help me.” you plead gently, though you curse yourself internally for answering so quickly and desperately.
Before you can mull over your feelings any more, Feyre’s lips are on yours. A whimper of surprise falls from yours as she pulls you close, fingers carding through your hair gently as Rhys’ hands wander over your stomach and chest before landing on your breasts. You reach your own hands out for the female in front of you, nimble fingers easily finding their way underneath her sweater to trail up her bare stomach. It doesn’t take you long to find her breasts, teasing her nipples as the two of you take turns moaning against each other’s lips.
Desire builds within you quickly as they hold you close, but their touches don’t do anything to stop the throbbing that’s growing between your thighs. You pull away from your heated kiss to see Feyre’s eyes wide with surprise, brow furrowed as she searches your face for any signs of hesitancy.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Rhys asks, lips against the curve of your neck.
“N–Need more, please.” you plead, squeezing your thighs together to gain any type of friction. “I–I feel like I’m going to explode if–if someone doesn’t touch me. Please, I–I need it, please.”
“You have such nice manners, love.” Feyre coos, smoothing your hair down as Rhys chuckles against your skin. “Since you begged so sweetly, I’ll let you choose. Do you want to get off on my tongue or my fingers?”
You open your mouth to speak, but you can’t make up your mind quick enough.
“If you ask nicely, I’m sure she’ll give you both, darling.” Rhys purrs, lifting you into his lap with ease, placing your feet on either side of his knees so your legs are spread wide.
“B–Both, Feyre.” you say quietly, cheeks tinged red from begging, something you’ve never done before. “Can I have–have your fingers and your tongue, please?”
“Of course you can, sweetheart.” she says with a wicked smile, crawling between your legs.
“Can I take your clothes off?” Rhys asks, arms snaking around your waist as you settle into his lap.
You nod quickly but before you can attempt to stand and let him strip you, you look down and realize your clothes have disappeared, along with Feyre’s and Rhysand’s. You and Feyre are only in your panties, Rhys in his boxers, thanks to Rhys’ magic, your clothes folded in a neat pile on his desk.
Feyre wastes no time, climbing the rest of the way up to the apex of your thighs, looking up at you expectantly as she rests eye-level with your throbbing core. You nod wordlessly at her, trying your best to stay still in Rhys’ grasp as she spreads your thighs. Rhys peppers kisses along your shoulder and neck, nipping at the skin occasionally to make you whimper.
A shuddering moan falls from your lips when you feel Feyre’s lips on your clit, pressing light kisses to the sensitive nub to gauge your reaction.
“P–Please, I–I can’t handle teasing right n–now.” you beg, thighs quivering. “I feel like I’m going–going to explode with need already.”
Feyre only smiles up at you then, giving you an understanding nod as her lips continue to work against your clit. Your hips buck against Rhys’ grip as their hands roam your body, a loud whine ripping from your throat when Feyre plunges two fingers into your dripping core.
“Does that feel good, darling?” Rhys teases, one hand resting against your throat as the other pinches your nipple. “My Feyre is wonderful with her mouth, isn’t she?”
You whimper softly as you nod, craning your neck to look up at the High Lord with wide eyes. He smirks down at you for a moment before pulling you into a heated kiss, swallowing your moans as they fall from your lips.
Despite the constant stimulation from Feyre’s tongue and fingers, you still feel like you’re going to implode between the two of them. Sure, it feels so fucking good, better than any sex ever has in the past, you can’t deny that. But your body temperature is still too high, your desire is nowhere near quelled by two fingers.
“R–Rhys.” you say against his lips before pulling away.
“Yes?” he questions, searching your eyes for hesitancy, but only finding fiery desire.
“I need more.” you plead before letting out a low whine, squirming against him when Feyre adds a third finger, pumping into you at a relentless pace. “F–Fuck!”
“Yeah? You’re not satisfied with your High Lady in between your thighs?” he chuckles against your skin, the question making your skin flush with embarrassment. Before you can babble out an explanation, he’s shifting beneath you while nipping at the skin of your neck. “Do you need something larger than her fingers to help you get off?”
“I–I don’t know, yes. I–I think so.” you ramble, unable to think straight as lust clouds your thoughts. “Just–Just need to cum a–a few times, p–please.”
“A few times? So greedy.” Feyre jokes, pulling her fingers from your cunt as you cry out in protest.
It only takes Rhys a moment to pull his hard length from his boxers and line it up with your slick folds, wrapping his free arm around your waist to keep you in place. Feyre continues to lick and bite at your sensitive clit, leaving you a writhing mess in between them.
Rhys attempts to hold you back from seating yourself, but you break free from his grasp enough to fully sheath yourself on his cock without warning. Tears prick your eyes when you do, immediately feeling so fucking full with the tip of his cock pressed against your cervix. You hadn’t even dared to look down at the size of him before sliding onto it, but you can tell now that he’s huge. But the toxins must be doing something insane to your body, because you barely feel the stretch or need time to adjust on his length before beginning to move.
“Gods, good fucking girl.” Rhys coos behind you and you can hear the amazement in his voice as you immediately begin to bounce on his cock. “Taking my cock so well.”
Feyre sits back on her haunches and slides her hand back to your clit, rubbing tight circles around it as you whimper loudly. “Doing so well, love.” she praises, pulling you into a searing kiss.
Before you’re able to deepen the kiss, you feel Rhys move beneath you. He shifts in a way that pushes Feyre’s mouth off of yours, bucking you onto your knees with him still sheathed in you. Somehow, you find yourself on your elbows, ass up on the couch, with Rhys pounding into you and your face between Feyre’s thighs.
The smell of Feyre’s arousal is intoxicating and has you reaching out to pull her underwear off as quickly as possible. Without a word, you lean in to repay the favor she’d given you mere minutes before, lips attaching to her clit as you slide two fingers into her heat with ease.
“F–Fuck, look at that.” Feyre groans, one hand falling to your hair to keep you pressed against her. “You knew exactly what to do without me asking, we might have to keep her, Rhys.”
The male chuckles sensually behind you as you moan into her cunt, feeling your own gushing at the thought of doing this with the couple another time.
“Keep it up and you’ll be able to cum as many times as you’d like tonight, darling.” Rhys suggests while snaking his hand around to circle your clit, continuing to pound into you at a ruthless pace.
“I’m–I’m about to right–right now.” you whine against Feyre as that warm feeling spreads through your core, coil tightening deep in your stomach as Rhys’ tip bullies that perfect spot with every thrust.
“Me–Me too, love.” Feyre whimpers and you feel her tightening around your fingers.
“Cum for me, darlings.” Rhys urges, speaking to both of you as he pushes you into his mate’s core with every pointed thrust. “I’m–fuck–I’ll give you my cum if you cum around my cock.”
Moments later, both you and Feyre are falling apart in a heap of limbs, riding out your highs as Rhys searches for his own behind you. All it takes is one final squeeze around his cock as you and Feyre both whimper his name to make him come undone, pressing his length deep into you as he spills his seed.
The three of you lay there, catching your breaths in a haze for a few moments. Feyre is the first to break the silence when you finally pull your fingers from her core.
“Are you feeling fully cured yet?” she teases between pants, reaching down to stroke your cheek.
“Honestly?” you giggle, a blush spreading over your cheeks as she nods. “I–Not really. I definitely need more.”
Feyre smirks at you devilishly before winking at you, pulling you off of Rhys’ cock, onto her lap and into a deep kiss.
It was that type of nausea that you couldn’t fight, the type that made you resign yourself to the fate of needing to expunge your system.
You were the type that fought hard against throwing up, because why would you let that be easy. But in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to throw up, anything to fix this.
Mother, if you’re listening, you thought, please anything to make this go away.
And so throw up you did.
You really didn’t mean to tug on the bond. it was still so new and you knew for a fact that the High Lord and Lady had better things to be doing, but your eyes were watering and you felt so ill and no one was there to hold your hair or hand or help you and so—
“Sweetheart?” a knock at the door.
You groaned, head still hanging over as you fought another round of nausea. Their presence was the last thing you wanted. Well, maybe not, you wished that someone was here to help you, but you unequivocally did not want them to see you throw up.
You felt their panic at your lack of response before another urgent knock came, “love, what’s wrong? let us in or I’m winnowing.”
You went to respond when that nausea culminated once more, then at the next moment you felt two pairs of hands: one holding your hair and rubbing your back, and the other holding your hand and rubbing your arm.
You whimpered a little, both from the nausea and you didn’t want your mates to see you like this. “Sorry,” you got out.
“None of that now, love,” came Rhysand’s deep timber.
Feyre’s sweet tone followed, “we’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”
Feysand × reader where they wake up really clingy and touchy but reader needs to work and they start begging her to keep in bed on their love bubble 💕😍🎀🥹😘🫶🏾
Yes i am starving for a fluffy love bug silly fic 😞✋🏾
I physically CAN'T stand no more angst, cheating and death tropes, I've cried too much today PLEASE give me treats 😭🙏🏾
You're late for work.
You wake slowly, gradually, for a blissful five seconds until you realize that the sun is far too high in the sky for you to be on time. You're usually up before the sun rises above the Sidra, the view from your office granting you a dazzling display of the river catching its first rays of sun each morning. Now you'll be lucky to see the water wraiths going for their mid-day jaunt through the city.
Luckily for you, you're sleeping with your bosses, so you're probably in the clear.
You feel Rhysand's nose tucked into your neck on your left, and Feyre's squarely nuzzled into your collarbones to your right. Her breath fans down your top, warming your chest and your heart alike, and Rhysand's snore is choppy against your shoulder, his fingers twitching in the fabric of your sleeping pants like he knows you're stirring and is already a half-step ahead to stop you.
You attempt to part with Feyre first, cupping her sleep-flushed face in your palm and nudging it off of your chest. You settle her against the pillow but her brows are already furrowed, and as soon as your fingers part from her cheek she lets out an endearing whine. It's enough to wake Rhysand, who goes alert at the first cry from either of his girls, and in a matter of seconds you've sprung the trap your mates had set for you last night.
"Morning, darling." Rhysand sighs, his voice gravelly with sleep as his arm winds tightly around your waist, dragging you into his chest to smash a kiss against your forehead, "Sleep well?"
"Too well," You squirm in his grip, kissing his chin then attempting to turn over and escape on Feyre's side, "I'm late."
"For what?" Feyre asks, her own voice muted and plaintive as she squeezes her eyes shut like sleep might reclaim her if she just wants it to hard enough, "It's- it's so early in the morning."
"It's not," You eye the sunlight fighting to overpower your drapes, "It's probably close to noon, and I was supposed to start work hours ago."
"Mm-mm," Feyre decides, shaking her head where it lays on the pillow, frizzing her hair and briefly suffocating herself.
"You should call out." Rhysand grunts, thwarting your pathetic escape attempts with yet another arm slung around you, this one worming its way beneath your side to cut off your only hope at freeing yourself, "I've heard your bosses are stunningly benevolent and exceedingly attractive, so I think they'll let you off with only a warning."
It's very hard to resist the way Rhysand's nose burrows into the back of your neck now, his lips ghosting over the nape and the soft hairs there, prone to curling in the heat. Your resolve falters further when Feyre surges herself forwards, bringing the blankets with her to plant herself against your chest. It's hopelessly endearing, her sweet eyes pinched shut against your collarbones as she clings to your body heat, leeching from it like the prettiest parasite you've ever laid eyes on. You can't help but press a kiss to her hairline, your lips meeting smooth skin and soft brown strands of hair, freshly washed the night prior in coconut-smelling shampoo. It's such a comforting scent that you leave your nose there, buried into her scalp as your eyes close of their own accord.
"Please," You make one last-ditch attempt, but even as you do, you melt into the way that Rhysand rubs his thumb over your stomach, the plush skin there that's exposed by the gap in your top and pants. You're settled back down into his arms before you can finish whatever logical argument you'd been about to make, and Feyre's voice is muffled where she murmurs against your chest.
"The books can balance themselves," She huffs, her fingers grabbing greedily at your waist between Rhysand's arms, "We hereby grant you the day off."
Alpha!HighKing+Queen!Feysand x Omega!Tamlin'sDaughter!Reader
C2 | Swept Away | C4 | Chapter Moodboard
Poly!ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist | Series Masterlist | AO3
Summary: Your first night of the courting season goes swimmingly, with your attention caught by a certain couple.
Warnings: Omegaverse, smut, fingering
Words: 4.1k
Author's Note: I am shooketh that I actually finished this chapter in two days (minus today for editing). Cause it's been close to a yeaaaar since I've written for this lol. Pretty coool. I hope you guys like it!! Pleaseee lemme know what you think ☺️
18+ only pls
🩵💜🤍💜🩵
The week passed in a blur of dress fittings and dancing lessons, your mother and Lucien doing everything they could to prepare you for the season. Each night was marked by a dream- one that slipped away the moment you awoke the next morning, leaving you wanting. Though for what, you weren’t entirely sure.
You’d nearly finished the diorama for your High King and Queen, all that was left was to make the cherry blossom trees bloom- you still had yet to decide if you would bloom them before leaving Spring, or if you would wait until presenting the gift as a final flourish.
And now… Now there was only one night’s sleep until you would be introduced to the rest of Prythian, until you would finally taste the air outside of Spring. You were nervous, of course, but the excitement was starting to wash over you.
All of your things were packed. You had five chests full of clothing, your most comforting nesting materials, and the materials for a few of your hobbies to keep you busy in the time that you’re alone, which you would prefer to be very little. After all, this was the first time that you were leaving the familiarity of Spring, the first time that you would meet so many other fae from different courts.
It was difficult, falling asleep. Even with a stuffed wolf tucked to your chest, you tossed and turned for over an hour. You sighed and stared at the moon through the open curtains. Such a beautiful sight, and such beautiful light that radiated from it. Everything looked prettier under the glow of the moon, lit up in silver.
After a few minutes of admiring the night sky, your eyes finally began to feel heavy, a yawn escaping your lips. Slowly, they closed, your mind finally sinking into sleep.
Your eyes opened only briefly before you sank back into your bed. It was extra cozy tonight, warmth soaking into you from both sides, likely from how high you’d built your nest this time.
“Are you awake, darling?” a voice whispered from your right, and you turned your head to see a beautiful female with hypnotizing blue-grey eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she giggled softly.
“Good, we have a few things we want to do to you,” a male said from your left, his lips pressing to your mating gland a moment later. Your breath hitched at the contact and the male chuckled, repeating the action and slinging an arm over your waist to tug you closer. You melted into him, baring your throat further, a low moan leaving you when he scraped his teeth over the same spot.
“Such a pretty noise from our pretty girl,” the female sighed, scootching closer to cage you between herself and the male. Her fingers started drawing absent minded circles on your stomach, the sensation almost ticklish, yet still adding to the growing heat between your thighs.
You were near squirming when the male’s hand slipped beneath your nightgown, a thick finger running through your folds. You could feel his smirk against your skin as he brought the finger to his mouth, licking it clean of your slick. “Such a delicious little omega,” he purred.
“Soon we’ll be able to taste you every day,” the female said with a grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You’ll want for nothing with us, pretty girl.”
Your body shuddered when that finger returned to your folds, gathering a bit of slick before circling your clit. You turned to look at the male, lips parted to say something, though you didn’t know what, when you met his starry violet eyes and nearly stopped breathing. His gaze held you still as he played with your clit, working you towards your peak skillfully.
Teeth scraped gently over your mating gland on the side opposite him, soft moans leaving you as the female alternated between teeth and tongue. Between the two of them, you fell over the edge quickly, moaning into the male’s mouth when he claimed yours in a kiss. A hand turned your head to the other side, plush, hungry lips meeting yours. You melted into the kiss, body boneless between them.
A warm, wet mouth wrapped around one of your nipples just as a finger began to slide into your sex, the fire within you burning bright once more-
You woke with a start, heart racing as you listened to the knocking outside your door. Your room smelled of arousal, your thighs sticky with slick from the dream you’d had, though when you tried to recall it, it only slipped further from your grasp.
“Y/N, meet us downstairs for breakfast please,” your father said through the door.
“Alright, I’ll be down in a few minutes,” you replied, thankful that he didn’t attempt to open your door, instead walking down the hallway towards the dining room.
You practically jumped from your bed and into the bath, desperate to make yourself smell presentable and not like you were about to start your heat. Your hair could wait to be washed until after breakfast, saving you much needed time. After all, you would hate to leave your family waiting long on possibly one of the last mornings you would have breakfast together before you were mated.
While in the bath, you decided to bloom the cherry blossom trees of the diorama when you present the gift to your High King and Queen. You hoped that it would showcase that you’d created the piece yourself, leaving a good impression on them.
Ten minutes was all it took for you to clean and dry yourself, as well as throw on a simple day dress and a pair of flats, and then you were out the door and hurrying down the hallway and staircase. Tamlin, Lilia, and Lucien were seated at the table already, plates still mostly full as they discussed the upcoming season.
“Ah, sweetheart! How are you feeling?” Lilia asked excitedly, practically bouncing in her seat.
“Good, mama. A little nervous, but I’m more excited than anything now,” you said with a grin as you took your seat.
“That’s how I felt before my season, too. I’m certain that you’ll find an alpha quickly,” she tittered, gazing off into space, likely imagining grandchildren. You filled your plate, taking a bite of your pancakes as you watched her drift into fantasy land.
“Don’t feel pressured to choose one this year, Y/N,” Tamlin warned, still sounding like he hated the idea of you going at all.
“I won’t, papa. I’ll make sure that whoever I choose is right for me,” you reassured him, patting his hand gently and giving him a smile. That had his shoulders untensing just a bit, though he still seemed on edge.
Breakfast passed quickly, and the afternoon even faster. Your hair had been washed, dried, and pinned into an elegant bun with sprigs of baby’s breath strewn throughout. Then you’d dressed, that elegant white dress still fitting you perfectly, and a pair of white stilettos of modest height finished the outfit.
Now, you were standing in the foyer, waiting for your mother and father. Your things had been sent ahead with Lucien, who had left early to seek out his mate before the season officially started. All that you had to carry was the diorama you had made, carefully cradled in your arms.
Footsteps sounded behind you and you turned, smiling at the sight of your parents walking hand in hand. Tamlin gently pried the present from your grip, leaving your arms free to embrace Lilia. Two weeks would be the longest you’d ever gone without seeing your mother, and you knew that the separation would be difficult.
“I’ll miss you, my darling daughter,” Lilia said tearily as she pulled back, holding you by the shoulders and meeting your eyes, a solemn look on her face. “Remember what I said about making sure you want someone for who they are, Y/N.”
“I will, mama,” you promised, certain that you would be able to separate their alpha-ness from your own emotions. “Don’t get too bored while I’m gone,” you said with a smile, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy mood.
Lilia chuckled. “I won’t, dear. Don’t give your father too much trouble.”
“I won’t,” you laughed, watching as Tamlin’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Good, he shouldn’t worry about you during the next two weeks. You would be just fine, with all the protections in place.
“I suppose I’ll see you in two weeks,” Lilia said softly.
“See you in two weeks, mama.” You gave her one last squeeze before stepping away and grasping one of your father’s hands. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” your mother said, and in the next moment you were passing through the fabric of the world. When you stopped, you steadied yourself against the unwavering strength of Tamlin. Winnowing always made your head spin for a moment, and when it passed you were standing upright, tugging the diorama back into your hands.
The hall you’d landed in was small, just large enough to fit the twenty or so omegas and their chaperones. As your mother had predicted, most of the other omegas were dressed in extravagant finery, their jewelry glinting in the light. The room was mostly silent, the scent of nerves and excitement weaving through the air as you waited for the ceremony to start.
It only took a few minutes for the double doors to open, a beautiful blonde alpha standing in the doorway.
“Good evening, everyone!” she said brightly, all chatter stopping as people turned to pay attention. “My name is Morrigan, it’s lovely to meet you all. I know you are all wanting to be presented first, but unfortunately there can only be one lucky omega in that position. As is tradition, omegas from the Night Court will be presented first, then Day, Dawn, Winter, and so on. You will all have a moment where the attention is on you, not to worry,” she said when a few omegas groaned. “Now, first to be presented is Jyllian Aran, pleased follow me.”
The omega excitedly bounced to the doors, her chaperone following quickly behind, and the doors shut behind them.
As promised, Spring was the last court to be presented. For over an hour you waited, watching as omega after omega had their name called. You did your best to be patient, but your feet had already begun to ache slightly once the omegas that you recognized from Spring were called. You gave both of them a bright smile as they were led into the main hall, leaving you and your father alone in the now much larger feeling room.
Five minutes passed before Morrigan returned, a smile on her face as she called out your name and beckoned you forward. Tamlin trailed behind you, taking the diorama from your grasp once more so you would be able to curtsy properly.
Your heart was in your throat as you were led to a set of ornate double doors. Morrigan stepped to the side just as the doors opened, revealing the High King and Queen’s court to you for the first time. Polished ebony spread over the entirety of the room, and there were hundreds of fae inside, all of them staring at you. Color rushed to your cheeks at the feeling, amplified when you were introduced by a male standing to your right. You held your head high as you walked in even steps towards the thrones atop a dais at the far end of the room. Behind them were great pillars in the same gleaming ebony, carved with beasts and stretching high into the gloom that hid the ceiling.
Crossing felt like an eternity with all those eyes on you, and time slowed even further when you saw the couple sitting in their thrones.
You could have sworn you recognized their eyes, the star-flecked violet and hypnotizing blue-gray that were trained on you - but that was impossible.
A few steps before you reached the dais, you stopped, dropping into a curtsy and holding the position, your eyes trained on the floor. A minute passed, then another.
“Rise,” the male said coolly. “What an honor it is to finally meet you, Princess of Spring.” Violet eyes flicked to Tamlin, fury burning within them. “Tell me, how old are you?”
“Twenty-four, your majesty,” you said with another curtsy.
“Twenty-four years that Prythian had another princess, and we didn’t know,” the female said, disappointment lacing her words. “Tamlin, I thought we’d overcome our past,” she sighed.
“We have, my Queen,” Tamlin said, inclining his head. “I merely wanted to keep a close eye on her until I deemed her ready for Court.”
“I certainly think she’s ready, don’t you Feyre?” the male asked, eyes roving over you.
“I agree, my love. It would have been a shame for a beauty such as her to miss the courting season for another five years. Now, what have you brought for Rhys and I?” Feyre asked, her eyes glinting with curiosity.
You turned to take the diorama from your father, worried at the look on his face, but you ignored it for the time being, instead turning back to the King and Queen. Feyre beckoned you up the steps of the dais, their scents washing over you as you did. Lilac and pears mixed with citrus and sea made you dizzy with need in an instant, something you hoped they wouldn’t notice. You presented the diorama to her, sending a pulse of your magic out to make the cherry blossoms bloom, tiny petals drifting down to the earth inside.
“Beautiful,” she said, though her eyes were on you. Your cheeks flushed at her compliment, and you curtsied before making your way back down the steps. “Did you make this yourself?”
“Yes, your majesty. I only had help with the glass dome and running water.”
“Tamlin, you should be proud of your daughter. She seems to be quite talented.” You couldn’t help the small smile on your face at Rhys’s compliment.
“Thank you, my King,” Tamlin said, voice strained.
“Now, I believe it is time for the dancing to begin,” Rhys said, already gesturing to the band in one corner of the room to begin playing. Tamlin lead you to the area that the other omegas were waiting before pulling away from you, a tight smile on his lips.
The music began, a beautiful waltz that had you itching with anticipation. Immediately, alphas surged forward from the other side of the room, only a lucky few making it to an omega in time.
A male with russet hair approached you, extending a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Princess. My name is Thorne. Would you care for a dance?”
“I would love to, Thorne,” you said with a bright smile, accepting his hand. He led you to the dance floor where couples were already dancing in time to the music, not wasting a moment to sweep you into his arms. His scent was pleasant enough, a blend of oak and warm vanilla. As he led you around the dance floor, a feeling sank into you.
This was not the alpha for you.
Still, you enjoyed the dance and accepted the coin that he slipped into your hand, then tucked it into the small pouch dangling from your wrist once the music halted.
Another tune started up in the next moment, and another alpha approached you. This one smelled of freshly trimmed grass and rain, and you guessed that he was from Spring. “My name is Soren, it’s wonderful to finally meet you, my Princess. I’d heard tales of your beauty, but they pale in comparison to the real thing,” he said with a grin, contagious enough that you couldn’t help but smile back.
“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Soren. What area of Spring are you from?”
“I come from the town of Oropa, along the eastern coast. I would love to show it to you someday.” The sparkle in his eyes told you he was sincere, though you felt something… off about the invitation.
“That sounds lovely,” you said politely, hoping that the dance would end soon. He seemed nice enough, but the feeling you had told you that he was unlikely to be the alpha for you.
The night went on, with you swept into dance after dance by what felt like every alpha in the room. Your feet grew more sore with each dance, and you wished for a short reprieve to rest them for just a moment. The song you were dancing to with a dark haired female came to an end, and you accepted the coin that she slid into your hand. You turned to leave the floor, hoping to grab a refreshment and sit in one of the many chairs dotting the room, but were stopped by a soft hand grabbing yours.
“Would you honor me with a dance, Princess?” The scent of lilac and pears washed over you before you were able to turn and look at her. Your Queen, Feyre was holding your hand gently, a hopeful smile on her face. The ache in your feet disappeared when you looked at her, those blue-gray eyes holding you captive.
“I would love to, my Queen,” you said softly, curtsying the smallest bit before you let her lead you back to the center of the dance floor. You hardly heard the music as you were wrapped in her presence, following her lead without a hint of nerves. Something about her felt right.
Songs ended and started, and Feyre kept you in her hold. “I don’t believe I’ve told you how beautiful you are, love,” she whispered into your ear during your fifth dance.
Your cheeks flushed scarlet and you mumbled, “I should be the one saying that to you.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” Feyre asked with a beaming smile, one that you couldn’t help but return.
“Yes,” you breathed, delighting at the way her eyes sparkled. Only a few seconds later, the song ended and you came to a stop, pressed closely to Feyre.
“You’re a sweet little omega, aren’t you?” a voice purred from behind you. You turned your head to see Rhys, your King, standing behind you, a hand outstretched. “May I borrow her for a dance or two, my darling?"
Feyre’s chest rumbled for a brief moment before she slowly loosened her hold on you. “I suppose you can, but I expect to have at least one more dance before the night ends. Does that sound nice, love?” Feyre asked you.
“That would be lovely, your majesty,” you said with a curtsy, a heavy blush staining your cheeks.
“Come here,” Rhys demanded, tugging you away from Feyre and into his grasp. His large hand on your waist sent a flash of heat through you, spurred on by the way he pressed you tightly against him. The song started just as you met, and he immediately swept you into the dance. His eyes held yours captive, the stars swirling within them too beautiful to look away from.
With the way he smirked at you, you almost believed that he had heard your thoughts.
“Your court is lovely,” you said, hoping that your voice didn’t sound nearly as breathy as you thought.
“Thank you, darling. I’m looking forward to showing you the even more beautiful parts of our court,” Rhys said with a smile, violet eyes crinkling at the edges.
“More beautiful?” you asked, wondering how something could be prettier than this. The carvings could be terrifying, if you thought yourself in danger, but you found them to be magnificent instead. Such craftsmanship must have taken ages, and you’d only seen the holding room and the throne room so far.
“Yes, darling. The Night Court holds many treasures, and with your arrival it has gained another.” The heat that spread over your cheeks was burning, and you were certain that you were as red as a tomato.
“Thank you, my King,” you said with lowered eyes, suddenly overtaken with how bold he and Feyre were.
The dance ended and you came to a halt, though Rhys kept you close to him, his eyes seeing straight to your soul. Between them and his heavenly citrus and sea scent, you were surprised you were still standing, though you supposed Rhys’s grip on your waist and hand was enough to keep you upright. The next tune started and you began moving again. Your eyes caught on Feyre, sitting on her throne once more, her stunning eyes tracking your and Rhys’s movements whenever you got a glimpse of her.
The ache in your feet had all but disappeared since the two of them had held you captive in their arms, your excitement at how comfortable you felt with them distracting you from the pain.
You couldn’t understand why they didn’t get along with your father.
Dance after dance passed, sometimes with quiet conversation and others with silence as those violet eyes held yours, the world melting away as you stared into their depths.
Soon enough, though, Feyre stole you from his arms with a soft laugh, twirling you before pulling you close once more.
“I hope you’ll save time for us over the next two weeks,” Feyre said. “I know that I would like to spend more time with you, and I’m sure that Rhys feels the same.”
“Of course I will, my Queen,” you said with a smile. And you meant it - they were the only alphas that you had felt truly comfortable with tonight. Not that you wouldn’t give others more chances, seeing as it was unlikely that the King and Queen would choose you as their omega.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Feyre beamed.
The song came to a close and the two of you stopped moving. You expected another song to start up in only a few moments, still held tightly against Feyre.
“Ladies and gentlefae, the night has come to a close. Omegas, please follow Lady Elain to your quarters, and chaperones, follow the General to your own,” Rhys said from atop the dais, his voice booming through the chatter that had started in the silence.
You reluctantly extracted yourself from Feyre, smiling shyly at her. “Have a good night, my Queen,” you said with a curtsy.
“And you as well, darling,” Feyre said, waving her fingers at you as you made your way to where the other omegas had gathered.
Lady Elain led you through the city, going up two flights of stairs and through numerous hallways before coming to a closed set of double doors. They swung open at her presence and she beckoned for everyone to follow her.
Inside was a long hallway, with doors spanning the length in even distances, each with a name painted on its surface. “Find your rooms, dears! Breakfast runs from eight to ten, out the double doors and to the right by one door. If you have trouble finding your way, don’t worry. I will be around, and your chaperones will be able to lead you through the city without issue once you are outside of this hallway.”
Just as your mother had said. You were even more grateful now for the time she had taken to explain the season and its schedule to you.
You found your room easily, the fourth door on the right. Inside were all of your things, waiting to be unpacked. Your energy levels were still high, though you kicked off your shoes before you began putting everything away into the provided closet and drawers.
Once you were done, you flopped onto the bed.
So far, the only alphas you were interested in were the only ones who were off-limits. Even as a Princess, you knew that there was no way you could be claimed by them. They were mates after all, and nothing could get between that.
You let out a heavy sigh before standing once more, ready to take a quick bath and finish your nightly routine. You did just that, stripping out of your dress and setting your coin pouch on your nightstand. You sank into the warmth of the water, enjoying the heat for a few minutes before washing your skin. Once your skin was dry, you wrapped yourself in a towel and began taking down your hair, carefully picking out the sprigs of baby’s breath and placing them into your box of enchanted flowers once more. And finally, your teeth were cleaned and your face was washed.
You slid into a light blue nightgown that reached your knees, then pulled your hair into a lazy braid for the night. The bed was soft as a cloud, supporting you perfectly. With the comfort it brought and your favorite pillow and blanket, you were out like a light.
Summary: after the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court take an interest in the scholar studying within Velaris, your studies swiftly take on a more hands-on approach. They’re more than competent teachers, and you’ve always been top of your class.
a/n: idk how old they are but old enough they both (magically) look like late-forties/early-fifties. We’re not going into it because idk how it works
warnings: age gapppp!, mommy/daddy kink, oral (reader and Feyre receiving), fingering, praise kink, brief spanking, light nipple play
word count: 5,300~
~~~~
Your heart pounds as your door clicks shut at your back.
They’ve been alluding to this for a while…
Heat flushes your skin as you slip out from your dormitory, equal parts excitement and anticipation thrumming in the pit of your stomach as you head out into the night. Seeking the High Lord and Lady of this Court.
————
“What do you think?”
Heat flushes your cheeks as you shift on your feet, half turning to see yourself in the mirror, observing the dark-cherry lace clinging to your hips and breasts. A pink so dark it might be red.
Your fingers dip to the lacy band of the underwear, running over the trimming, hands trailing up over your stomach, exploring how the material fits to the curve of your breasts. Your throat rolls, and you turn, meeting the hungry pairs of eyes licking up every detail of your body. “Do you…like it?”
“Why do you think we picked it out for you?” Rhysand asks, a low drawl in his voice that has you anxious to crawl into his lap already. Curious to know how it will feel, to be on top of him while he’s inside of you. How good it might feel, compared to the press of a tongue, or the curl of fingers.
Teeth push into the inside of your lower lip. “So…you do like it?”
A breath of amusement leaves Feyre’s chest and instantly your eyes are on her, curious, desperate for her approval; her appetite. She takes a measured sip from her glass of wine—a near match to the shade you’re currently wearing for them—before setting it down on the wooden table. “Will you turn for us, sweetness?”
Nerves flutter between your legs, but you take care to keep your balance as you spin, slowly, in place.
Feyre hums, reclining into the rouge fabric of the sofa opposite the crackling fireplace. With age her eyes have become more grey than blue, laugh lines at their edges and curves either side her mouth. Her light brown hair cascades down to her waist, thick and luscious as it’s ever been except now with a bold streak of grey running through the front. An indigo dress wraps her figure, matching the shade she’s painted her lips with, and your cunt tightens around nothing as you imagine waking up tomorrow with her dark lipstick marring your thighs and throat. How easy it would be to keep them to yourself, or peer into the mirror and recall the memories of the previous night.
Feyre’s mouth tugs upward, eyes glinting as heat runs wild beneath your skin, shifting so your thighs brush, anxious to gain some friction as a huff of amusement breathes from her lips. “Careful with slipping away from us like that,” she drawls, shifting on the sofa, recrossing her long legs, indigo fabric fluttering around her ankles. “You never know what we’ll come up with to put inside your pretty head.”
Your throat rolls.
‘Pretty,’ she’d said.
“Come over here, sweetness,” Feyre beckons, “you’re too good to resist, dressed like that, but we’ve one more step planned for you.” You follow obediently, anxious to please them in whatever way you can, but Feyre clicks her tongue and you pause. She’s reaching for something on the table, but she raises a brow, as if disapproving of your behaviour. You blink, peering at her as your fingers wring together.
“Sometimes I think you forget we’re your rulers, sweetness,” Feyre drawls, and needful arousal liquefies between your thighs, desperate for a rule to follow, to prove just how good you’ll be.
Rhysand’s long fingers thread through his wife’s hair, wrapping that beautiful streak of grey between his knuckles as he guides locks over her shoulder. “What your High Lady is saying,” he drawls, violet flicking over to you, “is crawl.”
Oh.
Relief washes down your spine, and you wonder if it shows as you settle to your knees, making your way across the patterned rug cushioning your knees against the hardwood floorboards. Dark mauve lips sharpen at their corners, and a sigh nearly slips from your lungs.
“To Rhys this time,” the High Lady instructs, and you obey without question, coming to a pause between Rhysand’s long legs, settling into a kneeling position. He leans forward, and you lift your chin, inclining into his touch as his fingers slide beneath your jaw, thumb swiping below the curve of your lip. “What colour do you think we should give you?” He murmurs, voice as soft and intimate as a lover’s.
“Whatever colour you like,” you answer mindlessly, peering into the galaxies in his eyes, flecked with starlight. He hums, then darkness is guiding your hands into his, firm and calloused beneath your own, and your insides flutter as he pulls you into his lap, thighs spreading over his hips and pleasure turns molten as you settle your full weight over him, your centre aligned with him.
You’re excited.
You’re impatient.
You want to feel him.
“Over here, sweet girl,” Feyre calls, summoning your attention. In one of her hands is a palette, in the other, a small but sharp, squarish brush. Your hips shift subconsciously over Rhysand’s lap, and your breathing stutters as his broad palms squeeze your waist, admiring the curve of your spine with his fingers.
Your High Lady swipes the brush through a dark pigment that’s only a few shades darker than the cherry tone of the lace. She doesn’t have to issue a single command for you to lean forward, inclining your chin to rest on the tips of her fingers as she begins brushing the pigment to your lips, cold against the heat of your mouth but quick to dry and set.
“Keep still,” Feyre drawls, dragging the flat of the brush over your lower lip. A whine slips free, and your fingers curl around the silver buckle of Rhys’ belt, needing something to do with your hands to keep from touching her. She’s giving you her undivided attention, and unbearable heat is simmering within your body.
You want her sat on top of you again. How she did a few nights ago.
“There you go,” Feyre murmurs, eyes sweeping across your now painted mouth. “So pretty.”
“Mommy…” you beg. Soft breaths pant from your lungs, and you’re not even sure what you’re begging for. Just that you need her. Need them. Need to feel them.
Her dark lips tug upwards, grey-blue eyes sparkling with hunger. “What do you want us to do to you, sweet girl?”
Ruin me.
Her eyes twinkle, and you wonder if she might have somehow heard.
“What I want…” you repeat, breathless. “I… I want both of you… please…” Rhysand chuckles and the sound melts over your pussy, arousal surely wetting the lace with slick. His hands squeeze your waist, bringing your attention to his wicked, violet eyes. “I don’t think you’d be able to handle both of us at the same time,” he murmurs, dark amusement glittering in his gaze. Feyre huffs a laugh at that, leaning forward to brush hair over your shoulder, her fingers snagging on the cherry strap, tipping it down over your arm.
“Greedy thing,” Feyre whispers to you, and heat flushes your skin and you might cry if they don’t touch more of you. Your hips shift, rubbing your centre over the steadily growing erection beneath you.
“I…can I…” you try, but the more you glance between them the more difficult it is to choose.
Rhysand chuckles, laced with dark amusement as he looks over to his wife. “Maybe we should help. We don’t want to overwork that mind of hers.”
Feyre smirks, raising a brow, “what do you suggest?”
The High Lord’s expression had been wicked, and then you’d been lifted from his lap and bent over the arm of the sofa. Soft pants had turned to whimpers as Feyre had shifted along with you, reclining into a pile of pillows as her dress pooled around her waist, legs curving at the knee to spread apart, guiding your head to her cunt so she can watch. Rhysand settles behind you, fingers running up and down the sopping lace, and you whimper as his breath grazes your inner thighs.
Feyre’s fingers slide into your hair, winding it between her digits to keep out of your face as your arms curve beneath her legs, one of your hands splaying across the top of her thigh while the other spreads across her abdomen, needfully toying with the band of black lace preventing you from fully getting your mouth on her.
“Mommy…” you whimper, leaning forward so your lips are pressed against the apex of her thighs, adding a pressure to her clit in the hopes she’ll allow you to taste her. She hums her amusement, and Rhysand pushes his middle and forth finger against your clothed entrance, a startled moan breathing free as you shift your hips, tiptoes barely balancing upon the floor. The High Lord chuckles, before handling your thighs so they’re leveraged atop his shoulders, pushing you further against your High Lady’s cunt.
“Want my underwear gone?” Feyre muses, guiding her hair out of the way with her free hand, inadvertently tugging on your own and pleasure drips from your cunt. You try to nod, and she laughs, inclining her hips to gently rub against the pressure of your mouth. You shiver. “What about how generous Rhys is being? Touching you while you have me, since you’re so greedy?”
You jolt as the heat of the High Lord’s mouth settles behind you, thumb idly stroking your clit while his tongue saturates the dark cherry lace. Your toes curl, anticipation tingling in your lower belly—already you want him to be standing behind you, holding your legs aloft as he pounds into your drooling cunt, forcing you to take every thick inch of him while his wife is stroking her fingers through your hair.
Rhysand pulls your underwear to one side, and your breath catches, waiting with bated breath.
Your High Lady hums, disapproving, and gently tugs on your hair, hips bucking to draw your attention back where it belongs. “Getting distracted already, sweet girl? He’s not even inside of you yet.” She hums, parting her thighs a little wider, “maybe it’s too soon for you to be taking his cock. Should we put it off for another night?”
You whine, fingers stroking back and forth across her abdomen, brushing the roots of the coarse hair flourishing between her legs. She’ll taste divine, once you’re permitted to fully set your mouth on her.
Already you can scent her arousal—heady and dizzying, like an aphrodisiac.
You don’t want it to be put off for another night.
You want to ride him tonight. At least feel his cock inside of you in some manner.
“Please…” you mumble, peering up at her, playing with the black lace. “I want…I want to taste you again…” Feyre laughs, eyes twinkling with pleasure, crinkling at their edges. Her lips smile, skin wrinkling around her dimples, and you’ll cry if she doesn’t give in soon. “Three months ago you would never have said something so dirty,” she muses, fingers stroking through your hair, pulling a whimper from your throat. Rhysand’s tongue licks up your bare centre, and you attempt to shift against him—to no avail.
“Will you beg for me, yet?” Your High Lady wonders. She hardly seems rushed. Her heavy scent of arousal isn’t aligning with the nonchalance of her actions. Surely she must be just as hungry as you…so why insist on playing?
“Please…” you whisper, “please…”
She raises a brow.
“Mommy…”
Her nails scrape teasingly through your hair, your eyes rolling with pleasure. Dark lips sharpen at their corners, and the High Lord’s hands grip your hips, pulling you back to him while your High Lady stretches her legs in the air, balancing her heels on the sofa as she pulls the lace up over her thighs, down over the curve of her knees. Her fingers have already returned to your hair, pulling you to her cunt while her husband effortlessly slides the black underwear over her heels, discarding them on the sofa’s arm before offering the same service to you, though not in completion, only slipping the cherry lace down to your thighs rather than all the way free.
Slick arousal slides across your mouth, tongue splitting upwards between the lips of her labia, centring on her clit with small, soft licks. Feyre moans, once more gathering your hair between her fingers to keep it from your face, her free hand dipping between her thighs so her digits can spread herself apart, hips inclining to smear arousal across your face, eager to mark her territory.
At your back, Rhysand latches his mouth over your heat, thumb oscillating atop your clit, the circles swift and soft from the slick dripping down your centre. Whines build in your chest, and you lick slowly up her cunt, suctioning her clit between your lips, stroking your fingers across her thigh and stomach while the High Lord shifts his grip on you. His mouth removes itself from your cunt, and you’re on the verge of whimpering when he spreads you apart with his own fingers, lubricating the length of his digits before gently working his way inside.
Feyre releases a soft, wanton noise, low and gravel-like as it’s dragged from her throat. “That’s it,” she whispers, laying back atop the pillows, hair splayed over her shoulders, curving around the soft weight of her breasts. Fingers scratch through your hair, and you squeeze around Rhysand’s fingers. “A little firmer…” she breathes.
You obey, legs shaking as the High Lord’s fingers gently push and prod in rhythmic waves, your tongue flattening over your High Lady’s sex, licking upward through her centre, once, twice… She moans, hips rubbing up against your mouth, keeping herself spread apart but you love the feminine scratch of coarse hair against your skin.
A whine slips from your lips as the High Lord continues to work on you while Feyre’s fingers soothe through your hair, your tongue licking and lapping over her. Kissing her clit, suctioning it between your lips, circling the very tip of your tongue around her before returning to her entrance, nose touched to the slight underside of her clit.
“You’re doing so well…” She whispers, eyes fluttering, on the verge of sliding shut. “Just like that…”
Her chest heaves, sucking in a slow breath, hips undulating against your mouth. A series of short, stuttering gasps leave her throat, and her cunt pulses beneath your tongue.
You almost whine, knowing it’s nearly over, pressing flush to her cunt as the orgasm releases through her body, licking eagerly at whatever parts of her you cat get your mouth on.
Once her high has faded to dusk, your High Lady takes some time to ease her breaths, soothing her hot cunt with your tongue, teasingly flicking her hardened clit until she’s softly retaliating by holding your face to her cunt and closing her legs, heels dragging up and over your back until she’s deemed you properly chastised.
“Are you excited, sweet girl?” Feyre asks as her husband eases your feet to the ground, helping you up from where he’d had you bent over the sofa, pulling your underwear up as he goes, allowing the bands to snap back against your hips. Maybe soon he’ll be bending you over more furniture, but those next times he’ll be using his cock instead of his fingers.
Heat warms your cheeks, arousal simmering between your legs as anticipation gathers, anxious to finally feel what he’s like.
“Yes, mommy…” It draws a breathless laugh from her, gathering herself from the sofa and getting to her feet, unclipping her bra as she goes so she’s only left in her black heels and dark mauve lip stain. “Let’s take you to our bedroom then.”
You blink. Most of your explicit activities have either happened here—in this dark alcove of their lounge—or their…kitchen, the first place they’d ever touched you. This is the first time you’ll be sharing their bed.
Rhysand doesn’t give you much of a chance to process, once again taking you by the hips, and lifting you over his shoulder, effortlessly taking you with him as the two make their way to their bedroom.
You wriggle lightly, half from anticipation and half to revel in the strength he possesses to put you over his shoulder. You get what you deserve when a hard spank is landed across your behind, making your thighs press together.
“Why your bedroom, all of a sudden?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady as Rhysand runs his fingers over your clothed sex, as if soothing the damage. “‘All of a sudden’?” The High Lord drawls, hand rubbing across your hind, perhaps considering landing a second spank to your sore skin.
“We’ve never…You’ve never taken me there before.” You point out, eyes straying now to the backs of Feyre’s thighs, the full curve of her calves as they climb the stairs. You wet your lips, tasting the remnants of her arousal.
“This is a special occasion, isn’t it?” Feyre replies, making you shiver as she skates her fingers teasingly up the back of your thigh.
Your pulse spikes as you’re taken into their bedroom, warmly lit with yellow-tinted faelights, linear groupings of them floating around the upper canopy of their large bed. Rhysand pauses at the foot of the mattress and Feyre walks round to his front, two sets of hands clasping your waist. Anticipation simmers in your belly, but your breath hitches as your High Lady hooks her finger beneath the slick gusset or your underwear, pulling it aside. Her breath ghosts across your cunt and your toes curl, keeping so carefully still, praying she’ll do something to you.
A huff of her amusement brushes your inner thigh and you can perfectly picture the smirk on her mouth before she drags the tip of her tongue through your centre, Rhysand settling his palm on the small of your back, keeping you steady.
“I can taste how excited you are…” Feyre murmurs, and your thighs try to rub together. She presses a kiss to your sopping pussy, and you whimper. “Mommy…please… Please, please, please…”
Feyre hums, her amusement clear.
Hands squeeze your waist as you’re ever so gently slid down your High Lord’s front, until your feet are touching the carpeted floor. Feyre presses close to your back, her arms wrapping your waist while your hands find place in the crook of Rhysand’s elbows, his own palms cupping your cheeks. Violet eyes peer down on you, his wife’s head tilting to lean against your own, her fingers ticklishly splayed across your abdomen.
“Are you sure about this?” Rhysand asks, watching intently.
You nod, squeezing him. “I’m sure.”
It’s more like you’re begging than acquiescing.
His thumb brushes across your cheek, and something separate from arousal warms in your stomach. Soft and buttery, hot and molten as it shimmers beneath your skin.
“If you want to stop, you’ll tell us?” It’s supposed to be a question, but from his mouth there’s no mistaking the command. You tilt your head, leaning into his touch, “I said I’m sure.”
Feyre nips at your lobe, hand sliding between your legs and cupping your heat. You flush, about to start begging again but Rhysand commands your attention, shifting your head in his hands. “You’ll tell us.” He repeats, firmly.
A hint of bashfulness peeks her way through the arousal flooding your mind, relaxing beneath his touch. “I’ll tell you,” you murmur, squeezing him again.
Rhysand’s lips tug upwards at their corners, not a full smile, but enough approval to have any doubts dissipating. He leans down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to your mouth. “Good girl.”
A lazy smile curls your lips, entirely relinquishing yourself to them as your hands settle over his, and you watch his eyes mark the difference in size. Feel the evidence of what it does to him as you offer that blissed out look, “yes daddy.”
Feyre tries to muffle her wine-rich laugh, running her fingers over your sex in reward as Rhysand tightens his grip on your jaw, violet eyes glittering as he inclines your head to meet his gaze. “You’re going to be well fucked by the end of tonight,” he growls.
Teeth bite on the interior of your lower lip as he manages to step back from you, removing his clothes while Feyre unclasps your bra, turning you around so she can rid you of your underwear. She settles on the floor, sliding one lacy band over the curve of your knee as she guides your foot into the air, allowing your fingers to slip into her open palm for balance. She places a kiss to the inside of your thigh, her pale eyes filled with hunger and adoration.
You want to feel her presence when you have him.
Want both of them near.
The High Lord has settled himself on the bed, back propped up against cushions and the headboard, a hand squeezing his cock, thumb rubbing in minute circles over the slit in his tip, precum still managing to slip out, drizzling down his underside. That’s going to be inside of you.
Violet eyes glitter, patting the mattress to his side, inviting his wife to accompany.
Feyre’s lips tug upwards, her hand splaying across your lower back as she gently pushes you forward. You need no extra encouragement, climbing onto the bed as soon as you’re able, lifting your knee to land the far side of his hips, straddling his lap, palms resting on his shoulders. Teeth prod into your lower lip as you look down your front, peering at his cock, the hand wrapped around it, pumping slowly. Tiding him over as he waits these last few moments.
Your High Lady settles on the bed, leaning her head on his shoulder. Both Rhysand’s hands settle on your hips, one of Feyre’s stroking against your waist, and your heart pounds. Anticipation, excitement, lust.
“Ready, sweetheart?” Rhysand muses, thumbs swiping across your skin. He shifts his hips, the head of his cock nudging against your clit and you shudder, cunt tightening around nothing. Yet.
You nod, desperate. “Please- hurry up…”
The High Lord lifts a brow and Feyre laughs. You flush. Why are they laughing? You just want to take him inside… To ride him… Why won’t they let you already?
“Did Feyre take away your manners along with your clothes?” Rhysand drawls, and your lower lip curves—stop dragging it out.
“Ask nicely, sweet girl,” Feyre prompts, squeezing your waist.
“Please Mommy…” you beg. “Please Daddy…”
Your arms begin to shake, fingers trailing down Rhys’ chest, down to his stomach. Fingers trembling as you’re held just atop him.
The High Lord’s lips curve, “that’s better.” His grip on you loosens. “Go slowly,” he instructs, then gently, “don’t hurt yourself.”
You shift, breath catching as the tip of his cock slots between your thighs, pressing to the wet dip between your legs. You swallow then try to lower yourself, spreading your knees a little further the deeper he gets. A whine slips from your lips when something hurts, but Rhysand guides you back up, pulling out before letting you try again. You tilt the angle of your hips a little, and this time there’s no pinching pain—just sweet, fulfilling pressure.
The breath is pushed from your lungs as you slide down—not entirely able to sit in his lap yet, but you’re full, and they’ve made it clear you’re not experienced enough to be able to safely push for more.
Still…
Teeth push at your lower lip, settling a little more weight over him.
Your breath catches when a twinge of pain needles deep inside of you, and Rhysand clicks his tongue, pulling you up by a full inch—much further than you need to go—and you whimper.
“What did we say, sweet girl?” Feyre muses, her hand vacating your waist to stroke across your leg, rubbing in wide circles, occasionally dipping to your inner thigh. “This is your first time. We need to be careful until we know how much you can take.”
“But I want to sit down…”
“No,” she soothes, “you’ll hurt yourself.”
Your shoulders slope, but it makes sense.
And a small part of you likes that they’re looking out for you.
“Lift up, sweetheart,” Feyre instructs, and you obey, allowing her to slide a plush pillow atop Rhys’ thighs. “How’s that? Better?”
You try it, and your eyes flutter when you hit your limit, perfectly supported by the cushion.
Your head is swimming, heat simmering beneath your skin, hips shifting of their own accord.
Feyre smiles. “Mhmm? Feeling good now?”
“…Yes- Mommy…” Your eyes are fluttering, unable to keep them fully open. Pleasure wrapping your senses, turning you blind to everything aside from the gentle pressure of his cock filling you up.
Feyre hums a laugh, hands moving to your breasts, swiping her thumbs across your nipples. “Our sweet little virgin. So sensitive.” A whimper slips free from your throat—you know it’s affectionate, but a part of you likes that slightly diminutive tone.
“I’m sat on top of him…” you pant, “it doesn’t…count anymore.”
It’s Rhysand’s turn to chuckle, shifting you on his lap, knocking the breath from your lungs with such a small movement. Hot, rough palms grip your waist, lifting you so he can kiss your mouth. “The rule is, sweetheart, you only lose your virginity once you get an orgasm from it,” he drawls, violet eyes latches intently with your own set as he slides you back down, memorising the pleasure that glazes your irises. His cock twitches.
“Struggling, sweetheart?”
A pathetic noise sounds in your throat, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed. It’s too much. How are you supposed to move in a state like this?
The High Lord looks to his wife and they share a knowing glance, lips curving, eyes twinkling.
Feyre moves, and all the strength melts from your body as she swings her knee over Rhys’ legs, her front pressing flush to your back, fine-boned fingers delicately sprawling across your lower tummy, her breath tickling your ear. “Want some help, sweet girl?”
All you manage is a vague nod, spine arching as she cups your breasts, your head falling back onto her shoulder as her hips press against your own, encouraging movement. Between Rhysand’s hot palms and Feyre’s guiding pressure, you begin to find your rhythm. Slow, at first, leisurely and tentative.
Feyre pinches your nipples, plucking them to pull noises from you. “You’re doing so well,” she whispers, dipping her head to press a kiss to your neck. “And this is your first time? You’re a natural sweet girl.”
“…Mommy…Mommy—!” One hand has slipped between your thighs, the pad of her finger settling atop your clit, offering slow, tender circles. You whine, and whimper, squirming from sensitivity.
It’s too much.
“That’s it—you’re taking me so well,” Rhysand praises, and your eyes nearly roll with pleasure, lashes fluttering. “Can you feel me inside of her?” He asks his wife.
“Hmmm? Let’s see…”
Feyre’s palm splays across your lower abdomen and your nipples tighten, cunt pulsing with arousal at the way they touch you. So freely—touching with the knowledge you want them to touch you.
“Lift up a little, sweet girl. Can you do that for me?”
You can’t even muster up a reply anymore, and it’s mostly the two of them that manage to have you raising a few inches on your knees, a breath of Feyre’s laughter ghosting down your front. “There you are…—you should take a look for yourself, sweet thing,” Feyre goads, and you hardly manage to lift your head from her shoulder before one of Rhysand’s hands is vacating your waist to feel where Feyre is, applying further pressure to your abdomen as you sink back down those few inches.
It pulls a laugh from him—low, rough, and strained as he feels how deep his cock is inside of you.
“Come on darling girl,” Feyre whispers, “you want to make daddy feel good don’t you? Move with me. You can do it.” Your High Lady takes a hold of you, helping you rise up and down, moving with you, and every drop is a wave of pleasure on its own, a tingling tension pooling between your thighs, pressure building so swiftly you know it will soon need release.
Rhysand groans, his palm still resting flat against your abdomen, pushing in to better feel the silhouette of him as you sink down. Your lungs are trembling, breath stuttering with every fall, adding a rocking motion with Feyre’s help that has him touching new parts inside of you—parts you like too much, that are hurrying you, and you’re not prepared to tip over that edge.
“Good girl,” Rhysand grits out, hand returning to your hips, adding a rougher force as he handles you to his pleasure. “Good fucking girl.”
Tears prick in your eyes, mouth parting as loud moans break from your chest, pleasure filling your body up from the inside, like a balloon filled to the brim with air pressure finally granted release. Feyre keeps you moving, keeps making it so the head of Rhys’ cock is rubbing against that lovely spot that has you pulsing around him rhythmically, each hit of his cock sending a shockwave of sweet tension ticking through your body, thighs shaking.
The orgasm crescendos, pleasure fluttering around your insides, and your mouth drops open as Rhysand’s brows furrow, his eyes sliding shut, arms loosening their grip as his head leans back against the headboard, release flooding your cunt.
Feyre’s laughter is sweet and sultry, circling your clit as she presses tender kisses to the sensitive length of your throat. Heat is flushing your skin, and you jolt with every passing swipe of your High Lady’s finger, body overstimulated from so much attention.
Rhysand’s fingers thread through your hair, and you’re being dragged to his mouth, his hot lips slanting across your own, and shivers run down your spine as your breasts are pressed flush to his chest, Feyre following close behind as she latches onto your neck, nipping at the skin as she strokes along the curve of your hips.
‘Think you’ll be able to go another round, sweet girl?’ Feyre muses, squeezing your waist.
A whimper slides free from your throat, feeling the twitch of Rhysand’s cock as he hears his wife’s suggestion. His grip falls to your shoulders, and Feyre’s pulling you back to lean against her, giving you time to breathe.
You want to.
You want to go again so badly.
But you’re already so worn out.
You flush, nerves wriggling beneath your skin. “…tomorrow…?”
It’s presumptuous for you to be the one arranging dates, but…if it’s already gone this far…
Feyre kisses the crown of your head, Rhysand’s palms settling flat against your naked waist.
You shift in his lap—you only managed one round, and now you’re about ready to turn in for the night.
“Tomorrow,” Feyre agrees, stroking your arms.
“We’ll see how you feel,” Rhys adds on, drawing your attention. The corners of his mouth flicker with a smile, and your tummy flutters. “Make sure you aren’t sore after tonight. We wouldn’t want our darling girl in any discomfort.”
Feyre nips at the lobe of your ear, tugging gently. “The bath’s ready for you. Head next door and relax for a bit.”
She kisses a spot just below your jaw, “Rhys and I will be through shortly to give you some care.”
Woah, she's back and she's in a new fandom. Watch out! Requests are welcome, I haven't finished ACOSF yet so please no requests with spoilers!
For @springfaaerie
Description: Sold off to be the King of Hybern's mistress, you can't help but long for the type of love Feyre and Rhysand have.
WARNINGS: Implied SA, abuse, biting, ACOMAF Hybern scene so everything that goes with that, lost voice, blood
MASTERLIST
18+ minors DNI
*not my gif*
You stand like a shadow next to the King's throne, one hand on the armrest just like you were told. You don't want to think about what he or his guards would do to you if you disobeyed again.
You try to stop your knees from trembling as the King reaches out his hand, making the poison in the Illyrian's blood spread quicker.
To your slight relief, he is already unconscious on the floor. The other Illyrian isn't facing such luck, crawling toward the Cauldron, his ripped wings dragging on the ground.
The King laughs and pulls you onto his lap, your veins turning to ice. The thin black gown does little to protect your skin from his touch. He bites down on your neck, probably hard enough to draw blood, but its not close to the worst he could be doing.
You keep your attention focused on the people in front of you. Their suffering much greater than yours.
The High Lord of the Night Court has gone pale, watching the King. Feyre, you had heard stories about, keeps her eyes trained on her mate.
For a split second, your heart yearned for a love like theirs. A love you would never get to experience now.
You don't hear the words that are spoken, but you watch as the High Lord and Feyre collapse on the ground, both screaming in agony. The King revels in their pain, almost as if it is driving his pleasure as he places a hand on your breast, not caring about the audience.
But everyone in the room ignores you anyway. Before long, they begin winnowing away. Tamlin and Lucien taking Feyre, the Night Court leaving with the two Made girls, leaving only the High Lord himself left in the throne room.
"I see you found yourself a pet." The High Lord boldly says.
The King leers. "Isn't she a gem?"
Your family sold you off to be the King's mistress, desperate to relieve themselves from poverty and put themselves in Hybern's good graces as your bloodline had been during the War.
Not that it mattered. Your life was over before it started.
"Yes, yes. What's your name?" He asks, meeting your eyes.
"Do not speak to her." The King shoves you off him as he stands. "She speaks to no one but me."
The High Lord glances to you. You nod in confirmation before the King can see.
Suddenly, you feel a strange tingle in your mind.
Did you chose this?
No, you try to say back, not sure if he can hear.
I will be back for you.
And in an instant, he is gone, leaving you reeling.
The King waves his hand to dismiss you. You quickly hurry to your private room in the servant quarters.
💫
A month later, you still repeat the High Lord's words every time you find yourself in the King's bed.
Rhysand, you had eventually learned his name.
You stand at the small sink in your room, tending to yet another wound from the King biting you on your neck, his favorite display of ownership when he needs to make a show of it.
He must have hit a vein, the way the blood continues to drip into the sink despite your attempts to hold it shut.
A hand covers your mouth.
You nearly scream, but at this point, know better. If one of the guards wanted to play with you, it was best just to go along.
But the hand falls away. You turn to face the intruder to find the same violet eyes that haunt your every waking thought.
I'm here to take you away. We only have a few seconds, but I won't do it unless you want me to.
Yes, please. You beg him with your eyes.
He grabs your hand and you feel cold surround you as the world disappears-
💫
And reappears. The first thing that strikes you in the lack of walls. Or windows. A warm breeze shifts through the space despite the snow that trails in with it.
Sitting at the table in front of you is Feyre. Rhysand releases your hand and moves to step next to his mate.
"Hello, again. Now that we can speak freely, I'm Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court."
You want to speak but so much time without use leaves your voice rough.
That's okay. We can hear you in here. A soft, warm, sweet voice. Feyre.
My name is Y/N. That's all you can think to say. Thank you.
"Here, let me help you with your neck." Feyre gently approaches you with a very white towel.
I don't want to stain that, it'll stop soon.
"Nonsense. We have a thousand of these." She presses the towel to your skin and you can feel the blood begin to soak it immediately.
"Would you like something to eat, Y/N?" Rhysand waves his hand and a spread of food appears on the table.
I-
Panic begins to fill your chest. He'll have figured out you're gone by now. Though you're not entirely sure he'd care enough to hunt you down, it's a possibility.
A soothing sensation fills your mind and quiets the thoughts.
"We have eyes on him, we'll know if he even leaves his kingdom. We will protect you here," Rhysand assures you.
Feyre pulls the towel away, the wound finally beginning to clot.
"Th-" you try to clear your throat. "Thank you."
It's weak and quiet but at least you got it out.
"You look tired, little love." Feyre studies your face. "Why don't I show you to your room so you can get some rest?"
stars blind [ they fall and leave the sky ] [ f.a.+r ] [ pt.1 ]
Authors Note: it was going to happen eventually. The only name READER goes by is Windweaver -- otherwise there is no use of a name or Y/N.
Masterlist
PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX
Pairing: Feyre Archeron x Rhysand x Fem!Reader + Platonic!Inner Circle x Fem!Reader
Summary: Feyre and Rhysand have decided to go out after eight months of being reclusive with Nyx. In their absence, it would seem the Inner Circle had kept a well-kept secret at their favorite bar — a new friend and a third mate Feyre and Rhysand never knew they had. But you — who answers to the name Windweaver — have your own secrets behind your innocent smiles and sweet scent.
Content Warnings: Canon in nature but I take liberties and therefor it’s somewhat of an AU because of what I did, a medium to quick-ish burn, Court politics, protective + possessive inner circle [ platonic ], platonic fae family dynamics that I will eventually go into, TAMLIN MENTIONED, foul language, mentions of: death, torture, war -- not graphically described, this is but a set up for the story so Feysand do not meet R yet.
Word Count: ~4.9k
Rhysand was suspicious.
Granted, he was always suspicious and usually had a right to be when considering what sort of ilk he had to tend to in the Court of Nightmares on a regular basis.
His mate was deep in the belief that he was overthinking it — you’re getting permanent worry lines, she had told him over their shared bond — and had tried to ignore his pattering around and restless fidgeting for days.
Nyx was a welcome distraction, of course, especially when Feyre showed him how easily the babe had begun winnowing in small distances before he was walking on two feet. The new skill his son had begun showing made Rhysand alight with pride, and he had to admit to walking around with his chest puffed out for no less than a week until Azriel beat the shit out of him in training.
In truth his suspicions lie closer to his own Inner Circle. They were around frequently and Feyre held dinners at their home two times a week that usually ended up with a couple of them spending the night after too many drinks [ Cassian and Nesta, who did not drink much anymore, by default ].
They were less open-mouthed about their drinking exploits when they went out into the Court and dancing. Even Azriel was less chatty about it — and he was not a chatty man by nature.
Dinner was currently underway and Feyre had a babbling Nyx in her lap as she fed him, then herself, then him again. She hummed along to whatever he said to her, and though none of it made any sense to one except himself she acted as though it did.
Rhysand was nursing a glass of wine and staring at Mor and Amren with a tick in his jaw.
When Amren caught him staring she curled a lip back to reveal her canines. “You better move those eyes before I take them and pin them to my front door.”
Cassian pulled off keeping a completely blank expression at Amren’s full-hearted threat; but the noise he made inhaling his stew and the clattering of the dishware as he sat it down did nothing to hide his sputtered response.
“Please don’t,” Feyre replied to Amren first, sounding unconcerned, “I like his eyes more than everything else about him.”
His brother perked up.
“Everything, you say?” Cassian asked wickedly, a feral gleam in his eyes. “That must hurt, Rhysie.”
“Shut up,” Nesta intoned from her spot between him and Azriel as she broke a roll in half and dipped it in her soup, “I don’t want to hear about Rhysand’s cock at dinner.”
“Who said anything about his cock?”
A pause in her dipping, a small reddening of her cheeks, then Nesta continued on with a bored expression as she brought the accurately soaked roll to her lips and bit in, ignoring the bait her mate dangled in front of her.
Rhysand ignored both of them and sipped his wine until Amren returned her gaze back to her High Lord, now irritated in the way he wanted her to be.
“Boy you’d best spit out whatever has ahold of your tongue and your balls before I reach over and take all three for myself,” she warned, setting aside her emptied glass until a bottle floated over lazily to refill it.
Her nails tapped ominously on the tabletop as she waited.
Azriel sighed loudly from Nesta’s other side.
“Please don’t,” Feyre repeated as she fed Nyx a spoonful of soup while he reached for the utensil himself. “And also stop threatening one another in front of Nyx. I don’t need him running around next Solstice babbling about Rhysand’s balls.”
Mor had kept blissfully out of it up until now but Rhysand knew it was borrowed time. He heard his cousin garble on her drink before removing the glass and covering her face before anything could spill.
Azriel sighed again while Elaine made it a point to noisily move dishes nearest to her around on the table.
“You’ll forgive me, Feyre, if I’m somewhat irked by your mate’s endless eyeballing,” Amren bit out as she pushed her barely touched food away. Even now she still struggled with eating, even if she had admitted it was fantastic food. Amren was a creature of habit and it was hard when she returned mortal.
Don’t do it.
Rhysand did not startle at her voice. He had become so accustomed to her presence — he knew she was lurking and knew she was listening in on his monologue.
It’s a nice dinner, she continued without much change from her spot, and everyone seems perfectly fine. You’re restless and need your energy redirected.
His darling Feyre; he wished he could have listened to her. He folded his hands in front of him.
“I am concerned my Circle is being tight-lipped about something and I am trying to investigate it,” Rhysand announced to the table before Feyre could stop him.
“So the dramatics were . . .” Nesta waved her fork in his direction, ringed hand glittering in the overhead lighting, “ . . . Just you being you?”
“He’s not normally this awful. He usually just asks us when he needs to talk to us about something,” Cassian told her, popping an entire roll into his mouth without breaking it apart first.
“I have asked,” Rhysand retorted shortly, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop. “Numerous times. All of you. I have asked if anything of note has been occurring in Court while Feyre and I take our reprieve with Nyx. I’ve gotten no reports other than the usual.”
“That’s because there isn’t anything to report,” Azriel told him slowly, his shadows looking as confused as the Spymaster did. Cassian grunted his agreement around his bread product.
“See?” Feyre gave him one of her reassuring smiles, dimples showing and eyes softening to hide the concern that lay within. “You’re being an overly fussy hen. Nothing is wrong with our people or our Court. If you’re restless and want to return to your duties entirely, you can just say so.”
Rhysand’s scarred hand dug into the top of the table. His mate couldn’t sense it — and maybe he was being paranoid and he had grown restless in the nesting period he had taken up with Feyre and Nyx.
But his Illyrian hindbrain was nagging at him, warning him that something simply wasn’t entirely in the right place.
“Your father’s ilk haven’t caused ruckus?” he asked Mor carefully as he made an effort to pick at his food.
Mor slowly moved her gaze to Rhysand’s own and he saw an icy fire somewhere in the depths of his cousin’s eyes. “No. The last time they did, I gave him a reminder.”
“They’ve been rather well behaved since then,” Nesta commented lazily, watching her own mate swallow down his third roll and reach to the basket for a fourth.
“Cassian save some for the rest of us,” she scolded, lunging forward to snatch the basket away. “Elaine only made two batches and you’ve nearly had an entire full one by yourself.”
“It’s okay,” her sister said, cheeks pink. “There’s more than enough, I’m sure.”
Cassian held a hand out but Nesta refused to give in, eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re going to regret that much bread tomorrow when we have to be up for training.”
Azriel took the basket and plucked his own roll before passing it down the table out of the Warrior’s reach.
“I hate all of you,” Cassian said as he stared at his soup.
“Duly noted,” the High Lord drawled as he once again cast glances at each of his friends. He decided to do this approach differently, casually asking, “How’s Rita been?”
“Good,” Mor answered immediately. “She’s been busier than normal.”
“Her bar’s picked up even more, has it?”
“That’s wonderful,” Feyre said with a smile as Nyx smashed a tiny chunk of roll on the side of his mouth instead of inside. “I can’t wait to go again. It’s been so long. Soon.”
“Hmm,” Amren simply said, not agreement nor refusal. A very Amren sound but not matching with the too-blank expression she had where normally she held less defenses around the Cricle lately.
Azriel’s attention was suddenly on Elaine, asking about her recipe so that there was truly no way he could be taken from her conversation without being considered rude. Rhysand wanted to strangle him with his own shadows.
You’re being overbearing and I think perhaps it’s time you and I start going back into Court again, Feyre murmured down the bond. He hadn’t even realized she had entered his mind — her being there was like his own thoughts. I’m worried you’re looking for things to be suspicious about so you can have something to do.
Have you seen the paperwork loaded in the office, darling? he returned while he continued inspecting their friends. I have work for months. But this . . . This is different.
Feyre brushed against him internally in an attempt at soothing him -- and perhaps he was a tad more worked up over this perceived secret than he should be. But he did not like it -- not from his Inner Circle, not from his family.
Mor swirled her wine and chewed on her lip. She had one perfectly manicured hand wrapped around her elbow in an effort to make herself seem relaxed and at ease amongst her peers but Rhysand could taste the nervous energy from his cousin.
She was always made up of nervous energy when the time was around for her father and his agreed population to come into the Court -- she could not relax for at least a week after they were gone.
This was different, though.
"There's a new girl at Rita's," More broke out as the wine glass was lifted to her face, unable to cut off her sentence before it spewed out.
Silence fell and Amren simply poured herself more wine. "Here we go."
"So?" Rhysand said, squinting at the blonde. "Rita's employees come and go frequently -- do they not? She offers an easy scheduling system."
Mor did not further elaborate or answer Rhysand's confused question. He sent a look to his mate, who tilted her head in her friend's direction.
"Is this the big secret Rhysand thinks you're keeping from us?" she asked easily, smile rising up to greet their Inner Circle. "If so, please confirm it and put him out of his misery. He doesn't like not being in the know of things."
"Busybody," Amren grumbled, wine now half empty as she closed her eyes as if to go away from this conversation.
"Yes," Azriel said simply. "But she's been around since Nyx's birth. Came out of nowhere."
"Nobody comes out of Nowhere, Az," Rhysand said impatiently, "So I assume she caught interest because she came not from Nowhere but from another Court?"
"Why would that make a stir? We've had many newcomers since we revealed ourselves," Feyre added.
"She's . . . She came from the Spring Court," Azriel confessed. Though his brothers' facial features were unreadable, the tone . . . it failed to hide the sliver of guilt. "I personally looked into her history. She's High Fae and I'm afraid to let you know that she is related to Tamlin through his mother's lineage."
Feyre's eyes shuttered briefly and Rhysand could only feel the shock that struck her. "He never mentioned any family besides . . ." she trailed off, leaving words unsaid but a history too well known to forget.
Tamlin had only spoken of who he thought brought importance to him directly -- and a girl in which he likely hardly saw growing up? What would have been so important to waste his breath on her to Feyre for?
Even so, Rhysand knew very little about Tamlin's mother or her lineage. It does not surprise him he has a cousin or two floating around in the world.
He reached across his bond, grasping the warmth and clutching it so tenderly. Are you okay?
She responded in kind and connected herself to him in order to grant access to her emotions and the ability to comfort her. I am okay, she confirmed, meeting his eyes with stars in the depths, but I want to know more.
He would give her anything she needed -- and if she wanted to know more about the female who shared Tamlin's blood, it would be hers.
"What do you know?" he asked, breaking the silence of his group. He pushed his empty dishes away and prepared to settle in for a long discussion.
Feyre shifted in her seat but only to hand over a squealing Nyx to Elain so that she may take him to play in the gardens before his bath.
"She used political sanctuary to ask for entry," Cassian told him, arms crossed over the table, expression turned serious. "Her claim to obtain it was that during the War she was moved from place to place with her mother so that Tamlin couldn't use them to get her father to contribute troops from his — their — House."
Interesting. Interesting, indeed.
Feyre's jaw locked stiff and Rhysand could feel the tight straining in her core. "Where is her family now?" his High Lady questioned calmly.
"Unknown," Azriel answered, "I sought out their location with my Shadows but their House is in shambles -- in every sense of the meaning. There is no sign of Sylinor or his wife nor are there regiments bearing their House' crest to be located. It is as if they have vanished.”
"Sylinor Windweaver?" Rhysand repeated the name slowly, tongue rolling as he spoke the name.
It drew familiarity from a time when he was a boy and still shadowed his father, eyes flashing and his wings twitching behind him. "He has not been seen since--"
"A year before Amarantha's fall," Cassian finished. "Believed to have been executed with his family when Tamlin continued to lack . . . obedience."
"So they lived," Feyre guessed hollowly, eyes drifting toward the windows where the garden was in view. Elain sat with Nyx as he flapped tiny wings and grasped her skirt to draw her attention to him.
"It seems so," the Illyrian general agreed while Nesta scratched her chin, almost bored of this entire thing.
"So they escape, hide, and then . . . just disappear?" Feyre asked with an icy spike in the tone of her voice that Rhysand knew to be bordering dangerous.
"A lot of Houses fell in the War, and it is possible that Tamlin somehow helped free the Windweavers and attempted to call in a favor later," Amren reminded Feyre bluntly, but not cruelly, “Remember that Hybern let his soldiers play as they would; this sometimes resulted in . . . very ugly consequences. Families older than your human lands and Houses entirely wiped out in days.”
An uneasy silence fell over the Circle and Feyre had withdrawn into herself considerably. Amren continued:
“The Spring Court relies on House loyalties and the people in Court provided sections of land owned by a House to contribute its' army. Autumn Court runs in a similar fashion."
"Spring Court had the Tithe," Feyre said, frowning as her focus returned to the female, "and also made prominent families take people on their territories as soldiers? Is that who Tamlin had as guards on his estate?"
"Likely not," Rhysand told her as he kept sending a soothing rush down the bond toward her. Anytime Feyre learned a new aspect about the Spring Court, it devastated her a little bit more. "The Fae who were chosen to guard his home were likely high standing families that go back longer generations than most Houses normally would. The Windweavers were an example of that, but they had no son to offer as a guard to Tamlin."
"I see." Feyre clasped her hands in her lap in an effort to cease the trembling that threatened to reveal itself. Not from despair, no, Rhysand could feel anger there. Rage and shock. "So this Fae woman. She comes from one of the prominent Houses? The Windweavers you said?"
"Yes," Mor confirmed softly, "but her movements have been much the same once she was settled. She works at Rita's and goes home after her shift. She's quiet and keeps to herself."
"Did she come with anyone else?" Rhysand asked after an uneasy, but thoughtful, silence.
Amren pursed her lips and shot Azriel a sharp look before finishing off the last of her wine.
The Shadowsinger was hesitating even if his usual stillness radiated his confidence and attempt at nonchalance. "Yes she came with one other. A child."
"A child," Feyre echoed. Her eyes had been ripped away from their son upon hearing this, and now she had her walls stacked as high and as defensed as they could be. Rhysand brushed against them but it would seem this turmoil was his mates' alone. "There weren't . . . the records of refugees . . ."
“Remember how we discussed a way for fleeing Fae to seek asylum and ensuring their tracks would die at our doorstep?” Rhysand asked quietly, eyes focusing on Feyre.
“Yes. It wasn’t really given a solid outline, though,” Feyre murmured, the glittery makeup around her eyes crinkling with her skin as she eyed him. “Unless it did happen and you didn’t tell me.”
The accusation was piercing, but not untrue.
“It was Mor and Nesta’s project. Amren helped. I had little say in it,” Rhysand confessed and hoped that his wife would find the blow less insulting.
Feyre’s nostrils flared but the glance Rhysand received was a promise of a discussion — later, in private.
"We do not always mark down on public records the names of our refugees," Mor took over, speaking to Feyre carefully as she leaned forward in the dining chair and intertwining her fingers together. "We put their names on a list only a three others within our Circle can access and we then store that list in the House of Wind. It is still in its’ infancy and has been used only a handful of times. A few entries have been denied but the ones we have allowed have been a success, and we have security checks in place to review the applicants. It takes weeks for them to be allowed into the Court with a citizenship if they request a private status in our records."
"It's a fairly new system," Rhysand reiterated to his wife, reaching out to grasp one of her hands. "We implemented it officially near the birth of Nyx -- and I keep intending to inform you of it.”
Feyre could feel his guilt through their mating bond and blew air through her nostrils. She rubbed at her temples and crossed one leg over the other. “No need to keep me out of the loop on account of my maternity situation. From now on, keep me informed on everything.”
While she did not sound angry the tone she used with the Circle was sharp, unyielding.
“Of course, Lady,” Mor murmured, dipping her chin. Amren followed suit. “It wasn’t kept from you intentionally.”
Feyre relaxed after a moment. Then she offered both females a small, comforting smile. “I know. But it was still done nonetheless, intentions good or otherwise. I am able to preform my duties just fine these days and welcome it.” Her eyes glanced at Rhysand accusingly, who had the decency to keep his mouth shut.
Rhysand traced the rim of his glass with his fingertip. “It’s so far been a successful operation, darling.”
“Who’s running it right now?”
Nesta held up her chalice. "I am in charge of the refugees for the most part. When I took your old job, part of it included the safety of displaced folk and giving them a voice and resources that they otherwise would have been refused."
Feyre’s eyes sparkled as she nodded, satisfied with her sister’s role in this part of their Circle. She opened her shields just a minuscule amount, sending Rhysand reassurance but also digging her claws into his wandering mind. We will discuss this later.
Rhysand did not physically react — but it took his entire being not to flinch as she dug in deeper until releasing him.
"So this child — it is hers?" Feyre questioned, running one of her fingers across the top of Rhysand's palm to self-soothe. He knew her pain from her experience in the Spring Court ran root-deep, before him, before the Cauldron . . . but he wondered why she felt so incensed by the knowledge of this Fae woman.
"We believe so, but she has no record of mating or marriage. The child is no older than three at most and she only provided a name for her," Nesta replied, snatching another roll and ignoring Cassian's outraged yelp.
"Could this child have been apart of why Sylinor moved them around during the War?" Rhysand wondered, still seeking entry into Feyre's mind through the small gap she opened to him. Gentle brushes and wisps of touch against the shields -- but he backed down when no response was given.
"It is possible," Amren said, "but we do not know for sure. We do not ask about her history when we meet with her and she does not open up about it. What we have told you is what we know."
"If she is not a threat or in danger of becoming one," Rhysand finally decided after thinking, "then I suggest that we ease off of following her for now. She sought asylum and it was granted. Let us treat her like a guest rather than as a suspect."
"As long as Tamlin does not come sniffing around and ask if his missing cousin is hiding here," his Second drawled, leaning her chin on her hand and squinting like a satisfied cat, "then I do not see an issue in that."
"The High Lord has bigger problems internally right now," Azriel said, mostly to himself by the distant musings in the way he spoke. "He has more concerns than one House being lost to him."
"She's blood," Rhysand countered.
"Since when has blood ever mattered to the High Fae until it suited them?" Nesta asked with a twisted, nasty tone -- and she was right.
"Can you send two more Dawning Brightlights to the table in the corner for me, Avian?" Rita asked, breathless and red-cheeked as she spoke loudly over the even louder crowd that took over her bar this night.
It was a typical busy day you supposed -- though you hardly ever found a slow day at Rita's ever since your first shift and she eagerly brought you on when you told her you would take whatever times she wanted you as long as you did not have to do the midnight shifts.
The money was good and the customers were a breed that only an establishment like Rita's could produce. You worried if you went to the bar just a few blocks down, you'd have had your ass grabbed already.
"Of course!" you call back as you crouch under the bar and pull out ingredients for the drinks she needed. A purple sparkly syrup to drizzle into the bottom of the glass, five second pours of the sweet alcohol that had a strange but harmless shimmer to it, and two perfect mint leaves in each glass and you were off. You swept through the packed building, sweeping under extended arms and narrowly avoiding an unwatchful stagger from an unintended shove.
Chairs being pulled out dodged breezily, and echoes of laughter drowning out muffled apologies as you finally reach your destination.
“Here you go, so sorry for the wait!” You flourished the drinks and let them slide across the table to the two patrons. The two fae raised their glasses at you before downing them and going back to their chatting.
You filled ten more drink requests in under thirty minutes while trying to keep up with the food orders. You were tempted to use your abilities to help you carry things — but doing so would cause great ruckus and you were still hiding. Using it would reveal yourself to your old Court.
“Avian!” A familiar song like cry echoed as you dropped some fish and chips off at a burly male’s table. “Oh where art thou, Avian?”
Your hair was sticky against your scalp and forehead as you ducked under a pair of dancing Fae and popped up to face the source. It was The Morrigan lounging with her feet on a peanut covered table, grinning wickedly while Amren sat across from her and hissed whenever someone nudged her chair when passing.
“Hi, Mor!” you greeted, relieved and anxious at the sight of her. Her and Amren — and Nesta Archeron — had all been vital in getting you settled in Veralis and you were forever in their debt.
But you feared that your connection to them would mean running into the youngest sister of Nesta and the High Lady of Velaris, of the Night Court, Feyre. You heard only from your mother’s maids what your cousin had forced her to go through.
And you did not want to see the look in her eye the way you did Nesta’s when she realizes who you are and what you run from.
It was your ultimate shame and burden to carry being from the Spring Court, but you did not have anywhere else to go that you’d think could truly shield you from your family should they seek you out.
“You stink,” Amren said by way of greeting, narrowing her eyes at you, “of male.”
You spluttered incoherently at her remark, red in the face and unsure of how to react.
“Amren,” Mor crooned, falsely scolding as she smirked in your direction. “Why the hell are you sniffing her way anyway?”
“Can you not tell that the reek is coming from her?” The short-haired female hissed, nose wrinkled. You stood there in shock and did not appreciate the way she eyed you distastefully.
“There is no male,” you said once you broke from your stupor, slapping down menus in front of them despite knowing they get the same thing every time. “I have brushed up against many of them while taking care of customers.”
“Did any of them touch you?”
“No?”
Amren arched a brow. “You’re not sure of that, are you, girl?”
Mor also frowned, tapping her fingernails across the menu in an unsettled manner. “If someone touched you, Avian, Rita —“
You sighed. “I don’t think it was intentional, or I would have felt it and known. I always smell when I work these nights, okay? I’m fine.”
Amren did not look ready to release this matter from her clutches. “It’s not just a brushing of scents that happen like usual. It’s so soaked into you that I’m almost tempted to force Rita to let you off for the night to bathe.”
“Amren.” You imagined yourself rolling your eyes, but feared the consequences of such actions when it came to the Night Court’s feared Second in Command.
Another arch of a sleek brow, eyes cat-like as she drew in on you. Mor stood by and studied the menu as though she planned on changing her meal choice tonight.
“I genuinely,” you began, “have no male in my life — and I believe I would know if one was scenting me.” You rested your hip against the table to try and remove some weight from your ankles and feet. You were sore.
Mor and Amren didn’t seem satisfied despite you speaking the truth, but they did feel content enough to let it go and instead order their usual drink and meals. You swiped their menus under your arm and head back to the bar to put the order in to the kitchen.
The rest of the night slowed down after that odd interaction. You delivered the drinks to Amren and Mor and ignored the way Amren wrinkled her nose at you whenever you approached. You tried not to take it personally, not with Amren.
When it came close to ten in the evening, you started counting your tips as your replacement, Malora, swept in and greeted you cheerfully.
You decided to stop by Amren and Mor’s table one more time and check on them again before you left. You had your apron draped over your arm and your hair pulled up into a high ponytail. “Hey, is there anything else you’d like me to grab you? I’m heading out pretty much now otherwise.”
Amren waves you off as she downs her fifth drink but Mor looked up to give you a response, pauses at something with a flash of alarm in her eye. Her glass slips from her hand and it shatters on the table.
“Morrigan!” Amren snapped, sliding her chair back before the liquid could pour into her lap. “By the Cauldron, usually you don’t get into dropping things until you’re ten drinks in —“
“Amren.”
“What?” she snapped again, eyes shooting up and meeting your confused ones. She then shot a glare at more, followed her eyesight, and she too seemed to freeze briefly.
“Let me get a rag.” You throw your belongings onto the empty chair at the table and quickly walk across the tavern and get behind the bar to dig out a clean rag, maybe three, to help clean the mess.
When you walked back toward them, they were arguing quietly. You strained to listen, but even your Fae ears were weak at hearing after the War.
After everything.
You unfolded one and started laying it across the spilled mess and drifting the glass and alcohol in one direction; away from both of them.
“Girl,” Amren said tightly. You paused and noticed his strained Amren looked, and the way Mor’s body seemed to be alight with nervous energy, “how long has that been there?”
“What?”
A thin, foreboding finger pointed just above your shoulder to the spot where your neck and shoulder met. Concerned by her and Mor’s actions, you reach up to brush your fingers along the skin but find nothing amiss. “What’s there?”
“Do you need a mirror,” Mor asked, but she did not wait for a response as she reached into the small handbag on the back of her chair and pulled one of the fancy little carry on mirror’s you see in boutiques for sale. Too expensive for you to afford.
You lift the mirror until it’s in the line of sight they pointed out, reflecting the offending part of your body. At first you weren’t entirely sure what they were talking about. But then you looked closer and noticed it just creeping out behind your ear. You tilted the mirror up and to the side until it faced the back of your pointed ear and swallowed at what you found.
Outlining the skin that connected your ear to your head was inked and drifted out into swirling mist-like markings until it faded just out of view. Very underwhelming in hindsight, but a shock because you do not remember having this.
“Oh,” you said quietly as you lowered the mirror. Breathed out. Handed the object back to Mor.
The most awkward silence you had ever experienced.
“Oh,” Mor agreed thickly, nails digging into the wood of the table as she met your gaze.
“That’s a mating mark of a High Lord,” Amren said, slow and dark, eyes piercing you as you started backing away, and dug your own nails into your palms. “But which one?”
“I’m not mated,” you spit out, “to anybody.”
“The bond says otherwise.”
You looked at both females, your heart beginning to race in your chest and did the only thing you knew how to do.
