Soft things Rhys does that send Feyre absolutely feral…
Author's note: my fingers slipped and some of these fell on the spicier side.
Loves to kiss her forehead. Sometimes it’s a quick peck, sometimes he cups her face in his large hands and lingers there for a moment, hums against her skin. Other times he appears at her side and slowly presses multiple soft kisses into the side of her forehead, right by her eye, and she has no idea how something so innocent has her weak with need for him.
Brings her peppermint tea and always puts a little biscuit on the saucer. Serves it to her with a wink and a bow. “My Lady.” She rolls her eyes but she knows he can hear how her heart stutters, sees the smile that lifts the corners of her lips. Thank you, she’ll say into his mind, caressing that solid black wall of adamant. In reply, he’ll stroke a talon sensuously across her own mental shield, sending a shiver down her spine.
Holds her hand everywhere they go. But like, holds it. Consciously. Seeks out her hand immediately no matter where they are or where they’re going. Locks his long fingers through hers, gives her hand a squeeze, periodically brushes his thumb across her knuckle and she feels it everywhere. He only lets go if absolutely necessary (and he deems very few situations absolutely necessary).
Will sleep all night with his arms banded round her. All. Night. Holds on tighter and whimpers if she tries to get up. Actually whimpers. The sound goes straight to her core and she chooses not to reflect too much on what that says about her. She thought sleeping like this would get old fast, that she’d crave her own space, but she doesn’t. In fact, she lives for it—feels safe and cherished and, let's be honest, horny as hell. She struggles to drift off on occasions when she or Rhys have to stay apart.
Every now and then he tugs on the bond for no reason other than to check that she’s there. She can’t explain it, but she knows the difference between him reaching out for a reason and him reaching out just because he loves her. It feels different. A warmth spreads through her from the source of that tug and she’ll suddenly find herself yearning for him. She sends an equivalent wave of warmth back to him and can feel him purr and stretch like a cat.
Praises her form in training (both magic and combat) with “good girl”. She knows that he knows what it does to her—knows he can scent her arousal every time, notices her flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Doesn’t care if there are others around—if anything, he enjoys it. So does she, if she’s honest. She gets him back later on by oh so innocently looking up at him while he’s thrusting into her and asking whether she’s still his good girl? It tips him over the edge instantaneously, spilling into her with a roar loud enough to bring down a mountain.
Leaves her notes when he's away even though he could just speak directly into her mind. Sometimes it's a sweet message to say 'I love you', or 'remember to drink water, darling' or 'if you need to kill anyone today, try not to make a mess'. Other times the note is basically a full-length, totally shameless fanfiction about what he's going to do to her when he returns. There’s always a pen waiting nearby for her to reply, which she is more often than not found holding with trembling fingers and a flushed face. Sometimes she replies and gives as good as she gets, sometimes she merely writes Come home NOW.
Tells her he'll be busy this evening but the plans are actually with her. Delights in surprising her with his presence, especially if she’s already run herself a bath. “I thought you were busy?” she’ll ask, watching as he saunters over to the tub. “I am” he’ll reply, coming to a stop in front of her and dropping to his tattooed knees. “I’m busy doing whatever you’d like me to do, Feyre darling. Where shall I start?” And Cauldron boil her if she doesn’t completely fucking unravel.
In ACOSF it’s mentioned that Feyre is tired all the time because of her pregnancy, but I have this headcanon that Feyre already had a reputation for falling asleep when hanging out with the IC/her chosen family.
Like, she is a known napper. Will take any opportunity to curl up like a cat and doze, no matter which house they’re in. If the appropriate opportunity is there, and it’s just her friends around her, she’ll relish in being lulled to sleep by their chatter, the crackle of a fire, the deep and soothing rumble of Rhys’ voice against her ear if it’s one of the times she falls asleep curled up in his lap, as she is wont to do.
It even happened in Amren’s apartment once when she and the boys got locked into a game Feyre had never heard of before that seemed to go on and on and none of them was prepared to forfeit. Feyre and Mor had lost interest ages ago, opting instead to lounge on a pile of surprisingly soft cushions, drinking, laughing and rolling their eyes at the competitiveness of their friends until the wine made Feyre sleepy and the next thing she knew she was being scooped up into strong arms and carried home, surrounded by the scent of citrus and the sea.
They all tease her for it, but really they all love to see her relax. Even pre-mating bond, one of the first, surest signs the group saw that Feyre was starting to feel more comfortable around them all was when, exhausted after a day of training (combat/self-defence with Cassian and mastering her powers with Rhys) curled up on the sofa, Feyre started to fall sleepy. At first, she fought it, her head nodding suddenly as she realised she was letting her guard down, slipping into unconsciousness. One time, after jolting back into the present when sharing the sofa with Azriel in the small private library in the House of Wind while Rhys and the others debated the pros and cons of different battle strategies against Hybern, the shadowsinger had leaned over, his eyes gentle as he said in a low and calming voice, “You can sleep, Feyre, no one minds.” The words rubbed against a raw spot for her, some residual soreness from never having felt like she could switch off, a tightness in her chest all of a sudden. She’d only been able to blink up at Azriel and nod, puffing out breath as her attention fixed back onto the conversation around her.
And it’s true, none of them mind at all. Especially Rhys, whose heart swelled to twice its size the first time she finally actually fell asleep. It had felt like a privilege—a prize, even—to have this beautiful female, his beautiful Mate, raised half feral, forced to hunt her own food from the age of fourteen out of sheer desperation and poverty, forced into so many situations she never should have been in, who rarely knew comfort or quiet or safety, to feel able to drift off to sleep in their presence. To feel safe with them. He’d watched from the armchair opposite Feyre’s as her eyelids grew steadily heavier with sleep, her contributions to the conversation flowing through the room becoming shorter and further apart. He’d watched as she melted into the throw she'd pulled over herself, leaned her head against the winged arm of the chair and slowly, slowly, slowly allowed her eyes to flutter closed. He’d listened as her breathing started to even out and itched to cross the room to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His throat had felt tight, some primal urge to protect his Mate while she slept kicking in so strong that he'd been unable to check the low snarl that had erupted from him when Cassian had roared a laugh at some comment Amren made about Devlon, causing Feyre to jump awake. Cassian had merely leveled a glance at his brother—a look that very clearly said both get a grip and will you just tell her you're in love with her already for cauldron’s sake???
So yes, Feyre is known to nap.
And she starts to take others down with her—most notably Cassian, who despite being one of the most powerful males in Prythian, the General to the High Lord of the Night Court and all that jazz, is, it turns out, utterly defenceless against Feyre’s apparently contagious nap pheromones.
It becomes entirely ordinary for Rhys to find them asleep on the sofa. Sometimes Feyre’s feet are in Cassian’s lap, the book she’d been reading lying open and forgotten on her stomach. Sometimes she’s tucked under one of his enormous arms, drooling on his chest. On a couple of occasions Rhys finds them with Cassian’s head resting on a cushion in Feyre’s lap, her fingers in his hair. Rhys had needed to swallow back an irrational bite of jealousy at that one—of seeing his Mate’s hands in another male’s hair, even when that male was Cassian and he knew full well just how much both of them shared a love language of physical touch that wasn't just reserved for romantic relationships. There always was an easy, trusting energy between them, small gestures of reassurance, of comfort, of platonic and unconditional love. Rhys understands where it comes from with both of them, the past wounds it heals, and he’ll never deny them it.
In the aftermath of the war, opportunities for napping were few and far between, but Feyre would find them where she could. Not least because, no matter how tired she felt by the work she did each day, sleep didn't find her too easily those days, especially when Rhys was often home so late or not at all between visits to the Illyrian mountains or other courts or simply holed up in his study. So on rare occasions where she could relax with her friends and her Mate, the relief and safety she felt would inevitably lead to her snuggling into one of their sides. Cassian and Mor were always most at risk of being nap-trapped by Feyre. Even Azriel had been comfortable letting her doze softly against him, her head lolling against his shoulder from where she sat nestled between him and Mor on the sofa at the townhouse.
But usually it was Rhys she sought out. Or vice versa. If Feyre hadn't already plonked herself into his lap, Rhys would waste no time in drawing her to him, his arms winding around her waist as she settled herself on his thighs. No matter what conversation was going on around them, the two Mates would melt into one another, visibly relaxing to be in contact. Feyre would enjoy listening to the others talk, simply observing the room around her as she soaked up her Mate’s warmth, the rumble of his laugh under her ear, the hum of his power as comforting as a softly crackling fire, warming her body, her soul. She would always end up with her face tucked into Rhys’ neck, her nose pressed against his warm skin, breathing in his scent greedily. Rhys’ fingers would start stroking her arms, her waist, her back. Slow, savouring strokes that she would arch into. Sometimes he would play with her hair, gently weaving the silky strands through his long fingers, teasing out knots, before scratching her scalp and the nape of her neck until she felt boneless. Every now and then he would press a kiss to her temple, her eyebrow, her cheek, her nose. Eventually Feyre’s eyes would drift close—sometimes sooner, sometimes later—her fingers curled into his shirt or jumper or jacket as she drifted off on a night-kissed breeze.
Of course, with Rhys, sometimes the sleepiness ended up being replaced by a stronger need. Touches that started as soothing would become charged with a different energy. His finger would graze the shell of her ear, that sensitive spot under her jawline, the sliver of skin between her top and her pants. Meanwhile, Feyre’s would travel up his chest, intentionally fluttering over his nipples, tracing the lines of his tattoos that licked up to the base of his neck, then tracing back down his chest over his clothes, following the tattoos from memory and knowing that he knew that. Her hand would continue down over the hard plains of his stomach, subtly dipping under his shirt so that her fingers could trace the unholy dips of his muscles which would twitch under her ministrations, and she would feel him harden against her backside. His hand at her waist would begin to journey higher and higher, closer and closer to the swell of her breasts until she was wholly focused on the path he was treading, no longer heavy with sleep, but burning with desire. And if by this point everyone else hadn't already made their excuses, Rhys would make some on their behalf, nuzzling his face into Feyre's neck as he rose lithely from his seat, carrying her with him and sweeping them up to their bedroom.
So yes, Feyre is a known napper. That's why it wasn't at first obvious that there was anything different about her in the early stages of her pregnancy, when her morning sickness was draining her energy so much that the naps were no longer a luxury, but a necessity. The shield Rhys had placed over her to mask her scent—both in agreement that they wanted to wait a little longer to tell everyone—helped to ward off suspicions, but it didn’t last long. It was Azriel, of course, who put two and two together first. He’d already been concerned about his High Lady’s increased tiredness (of course he’d noticed), so when she’d appeared for one of their less frequent flying lessons pale and a little clammy, he’d been unable to stop from commenting. [Reader, in this headcanon, Feyre and Rhys get the happy pregnancy they deserve, with no ill-fitting birth canals and no all-out restrictions on use of magic or energy—like, of course she’s gonna slow down, but not do nothing; she’s a Made warrior, a powerful High Lady, mated to the most powerful High Lord ever and growing their babe…she’s thriving (outside of the morning sickness, ofc)…] She’d insisted she was fine, but her form was way off, and after several suggestions that perhaps they should stop, Az had only just caught her in time as she landed clumsily, hunching over as she hurled up her breakfast. He’d pulled her braided hair out of the line of fire, stroking a soothing hand over her back as he felt Rhys tap against his mental shields, asking if his Mate was ok and ordering him to end their lesson—as if there was any doubt Azriel would have allowed it to continue. No, the High Lord’s spymaster had ignored Feyre’s somewhat weak protests that she was fine to winnow herself back as he gently lifted her into his arms and winnowed them back to the River House himself, where Feyre had fallen asleep on the sofa while Azriel looked through some papers. Occasionally she would shift in her sleep, her hand brushing against her belly and a soft hum escaping her lips. At first he’d wondered if she was feeling nauseous again, but her face was relaxed, no sign of discomfort. If anything she looked…peaceful, happy, glowing. It was Rhys who confirmed Azriel’s growing suspicions. His High Lord had strode into the room, heading straight for Feyre’s now stirring form, falling to his knees before her to press a gentle kiss to her forehead and reverent fingers to her abdomen.
After that, once everyone they loved knew about the babe, Feyre would often wake from her naps to find at least one set of hands against the swell of her belly. Usually it was Rhys, of course, who wasted no moment to worship her body as she grew their son. But often it was Mor and Cassian, who were almost as obsessed with and protective over Feyre and the babe as Rhys, wanting to feel every kick and roll. Azriel would linger nearby, only approaching upon gentle coaxing from Feyre to come and feel, his dark eyes softening as she pressed his scarred hand against her taut skin, feeling the movement beneath. Even Amren seemed softer, albeit eager to remind her to enjoy these naps because sleep will be a thing of the past. To which Feyre would only laugh and say “Isn’t that what you lot are for?”
Fortunately, it turns out that Nyx, just like his mama, bloody loves a nap. The boy will sleep anywhere, and in any of their friends’ arms (usually whoever succeeds in scooping him up first, much to the chagrin of everyone else). But it’s with Feyre who Nyx appears most at peace. Rhys once again finds his heart near bursting from his chest to behold them snoozing on the sofa, in their bed, in the sun on a deckchair in the garden. Snuggled against Feyre’s chest, Nyx will happily nap for hours, waking only to fuss at her engorged breasts until he’s latched on to feed. Rhys really can’t fault him for that, even if he does slightly miss having full time access to his favourite parts of his Mate (look, they’re not really his favourite parts, of course, but, well, also they sort of are). Whenever he can, Rhys joins in their naps, treasuring the peace, the closeness, the safety. If he’s not there at the start, he’ll quietly fold himself into bed behind Feyre, wrapping her and their son up in his arms, curving his wing around both of them. If they’re on the sofa he’ll deftly wedge himself next to them, his heart clenching as two sets of hands reach out to find purchase on his clothes, his skin. Other times he’ll just watch them, feeling an overwhelming sense of belonging—of wonder that this is his life.
So yes, Feyre is a known napper, and may she not be disturbed.
